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My Werewolf Descriptions: It continues!
Topic Started: Aug 16 2007, 10:21 PM (1,046 Views)
+Linden
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awesomesauce
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So, here are two descriptions I did for werewolf characters on Monstergame. I might write out Doctor and Mrs. Aluell if I can ever pound more personality into them.

London Aleull
How wonderful it felt to be free of that awful two-legged prison. “The moon is high, and I am young!” London thought gleefully as she finally ripped the last of her prison’s plaid school uniform away from her flawless, black coat. Claws let go of the soft earth as London threw herself onto her side to roll in the grass. The scent of earth filled her senses and she relaxed knowing she had the whole night to do what she pleased. She wagged her feather duster-like tail while wiggling on her back until the sound of flapping wings caught her attention. London rolled upright with ears perked. Birds? She thought with great interest. She stood.

A light, sinister growl emitted from her chest as London carefully rounded a large rock in front of her. As she moved one padded foot in front of the other, the prey came into view. It was a single crow pecking the ground for fallen seeds. London stooped down into the shadow provided by a willow tree where she would blend easily with her black as pitch coat. Inside she laughed, as it turned looked around. She could see the worried shine placed in its black beady eyes of uncertainty.

A growing energy swelled inside London and adrenalin pumped. Now, Go Now! It urged her. Rip, tear, cut. She felt it hard to restrain her tail from wagging. The crow turned its head and resumed pecking at the ground. With a burst of lightening she dashed at the bird. She saw it gather wind under its feathers and take lift. London leaped in the air with monster jaws open. Her heart raced as she felt the air from the wings beat near her face. Before the bird could flap its wings again, its spine was crack under London’s quick snap of her jaws. She threw the carcass up in the air and caught it quickly by the wing so she could shake it vigorously to make sure it was dead. Once satisfied, London dropped it on the ground and circled it curiously.

Pleased with her self, she picked up the dead bird and trotted where she had come from. A half a mile from where she transformed from was her home, a large mansion that excluded her and her family from others. She ducked underneath the cast-iron gate in a hole that she had made and ran threw the open door.

“Mother and father must both be out. I wonder if Chakor is…” She thought deviously as she padded her way down a hallway up, up the stairs, up another hallway, and left into a bedroom seeing no one on her way. London entered a dark bedroom and snickered, with the bird still in her mouth. “Oh goody. He’s gone….” London thought jumping onto the bed. “Well, I guess Chakor won’t protest if I put this here then.” She placed the carcass on the mattress and pulled the flimsy quilt over the bed to hide it. London jumped off and ran back outside laughing.
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Chakor
It was a lonely night, when I was born. However, not as a human but as a beast known and feared all over the world. I was born a ‘Mai-Coh’, to the Navajo Indians; as a ‘Varulv’ in Norway; ‘Obaraten’, as they say in Russia; and have been called a ‘Layak’ in my travels in Bali. As my caretaker explained, I had become a werewolf.

My ‘turning’ was typical. A werewolf hungry… werewolf eats… werewolf turns victim into werewolf. My caretaker was my creator and I, of course, was the victim. It was only the situation in which was different. Usually the victim is alert and awake when a werewolf tears into their soft flesh (if only for a second before their spirit leaves), unlike a vampire’s whose bite is described as pin pricks when compared to our jaws. However, I was asleep and unconscious. A vegetable lying in a hospital bed. And because so, I don’t have any recollection of my human life – where I came from, who my parents where, how checked into a hospital. And as a young ‘wolf, this disturbed me for the longest time.

“Fortune never smiled upon you.” As my caretaker, named Doctor Aleull, told me in a curt reply when I had probed him about my past. He flipped through a medical clipboard to busy himself while talking. “Your medical files where lost, and the clip board at the foot of your bed was drenched in so much blood it became illegible.”

‘Why me?’ I wanted to ask, ‘Why did you bite me?’ but I knew asking such a question would only give me an answer dipped in poison. I am grateful towards Doctor, though. After I became a ‘wolf, he acknowledged me as vulnerable and decided to support me in his estate. Also, if I wasn’t turned ‘wolf, I would most likely still be lying in a hospital bed wasting my days till I withered away. At least now, I can live again. Even though it wasn’t the life I was originally given.

When I took my first breath as a werewolf, I coughed and gagged as I pulled the plastic tubes out of my throat. I remember the dull pain that surrounded my lungs as I withdrew that incredibly large first breath after all the shallow breaths I took during my unconsciousness. I recall my lightheadedness from the blood loss that when unfogged revealed the brightest, distinct clarity that could only be achieved by a werewolf’s bite.

Seven years have gone by since I’ve come to stay at the Aleull estate, an overly large mansion situated on a countryside. Despite their scornful nature, they’ve allowed me to become stronger, learn the customs common to a werewolf, and even travel. All the while putting up with the Aleull’s only child: London. She terrorizes the birds; in fact, there is no bird in a five-mile radius of the house because they fear her ‘Grand, Royal, and Pain-in-the-ass Highness’. Like her seldom-seen mother, she has a nasty attitude that demands obedience or else. However I thank God that she’s still small and easy to lock away in the laundry room, with the high doorknob.
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that was awsome! where did you find those names?
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+Linden
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awesomesauce
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I just googled it. ^_^
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Poor BIRDS!!!!! NOOOOO!!!!!!! London,Posted Image

FEAR THE WRATH OF MY KITTY!!!!! MWHAHAHHAHAA!!!
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lol. I love that!
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Found it in random kitty photos on my gmail account
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lol
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That, that was amazing. I am very impressed. You have a gift.
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+Linden
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Thank you. :)

I'm actually thinking of Doctor and Mrs. Aleull now. Mrs. Aleull seems the hardest to think of, she doesn't even have a first name yet. lol.
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Don't read this! Find my next entry; I rewrote this entirely! kthxbai.
Well, you could read it for kicks if you wanted... but read the rewrite first. It's better, times infinity


Well, I turned out another character for this world of werewolves. Unlike the previous two, this one is set late 1880's and is heavily influenced by A Great and Terrible Beauty and Rebel Angels by Libba Bray.

I do hope you like Sabina. This one took me a while to write because I kept getting sidetracked between Victorian houses, clothes, customs, Beetlejuice, cockney accents, tasting a cedar chest, and more. :D


Sabina Volkov, part 1
The hum of pleasant conversation coupled with the melody of a waltz could be heard from the merry Strudwick household. It was the Strudwick’s annual yuletide ball and their French-styled manor on the outside of London was festooned with the season’s décor. Tinsel, popcorn garlands, gorgeous poinsettias, and timeless evergreens decorated with candles and finished with either a gold star or beautiful angel at the top could be seen through the glass windows of the spacious manor. Every year the Strudwick’s hosted a Christmas ball and every year a more splendid ball could not be asked for.

Inside the majestic ballroom, Sabina Volkov stood among a group of ladies in their finest gowns. She was the tallest in the group; her long graceful neck gave the illusion of showing more peachy flesh than was proper from her shoulder-hugging gown. Her black satin-gloved hands fingered the wood of the onyx lace fan she carried as her unnatural amber eyes scanned the frescos painted on the columns, trying desperately to focus on staying awake. Human females, such a bore.

“Are you enjoying your time in England, Miss. Volkov?” A voice snapped Sabina’s attention back to earth. It was Lady Strudwick’s, who was dressed in a violent color combination of red and green.

“Oh, yes. England is most vonderful country. Vinter is much kinder here; not as cold.” Sabina replies, her accent Russian. A polite smile crossed her face; if one knew Sabina well they would see the indulgence in it. The group of women laughed in their well-to-do manner, a style ingrained at birth, as one, a Miss. Blackwood, touched Sabina’s shoulder.

“Mr. Ainsworth keeps glancing in your direction, Miss. Volkov.” Miss. Blackwood said, slightly nodding to point out Mr. Ainsworth. Sabina followed Miss. Blackwood’s gaze; indeed a man was looking at her. He was in his late twenties dressed in a cerulean vest and black tailcoat. They made eye contact, her amber with his blue, before Sabina threw up her fan and turned back to the ladies.

“Vell, vot about him?” She asked. This could prove to be some fun.

“He’s the Duke of Beaufort’s son.”

“Oh, Miss. Volkov! He’s coming, he’s coming!” Miss. Blackwood said before turning around and striking up a conversation about needlepoint. Sabina fanned herself, acting as if her attention was absorbed in the conversation when Mr. Ainsworth approached. She could scene his presence, smell the aftershave on his skin and the cedar on his clothes.

“Mr. Ainsworth, I’m thrilled you could be here tonight,” Lady Strudwick said fondly, “Have you had the honor of meeting Miss. Volkov, the niece of the late Grand Duke of Russia?”

“Unfortunately not.” His gaze traveled to Sabina.

“May I present Miss. Sabina Volkov then. Miss. Volkov, this is Mr. Brion Ainsworth.”

“A pleasure.” She said for formality’s sake as he kissed her glove.

“No, the pleasure is mine.”

Quite.

The music in the room died down and the participants of the waltz bowed to each other. “Miss. Volkov, will you favor me with your hand for the next dance?”

Sabina’s breath caught, she had wanted to escape the night without dancing.

Manners, Sabina, your manners.

It was considered rude to decline a dance.

Well, perhaps one dance wouldn't hurt she decided as she fought the impulsive urge to lick her rosy lips.

“Vith pleasure, sir.”
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Well writen, I think it is incomplete though.

As a note:
“Vell, vot about him?” She asked.
Usualy when the w charater is pernounced as an english v 'him' is pernounced as 'ìm' with a strong 'i' overpowering the h. That's an accent thing though. In Germanic languages vowels are stronger, and consanents harsher; the h is silent many times which makes for the "ì" sound. I could go on for pages about accents.
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Yeah, I'm not done with it. There'll be another part later. Though with the way I'm spacing things out like this, Sabina might get a third part...

I thought that was more of a Cockney accent (the him thing), though. From what I've read on Russian accents, they pronounce almost all their consonants. Thats why their words have way too many consonants in the first place. :P

But yeah, German, (the memories :wacko:) that's typical. Umlauts, never did like them.
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OMFG? She's updated? Holy crap.

Yes, yes. I know, I know.

Basically, I rewrote everything of Sabina's in the first person and continued into the dance. It's more interesting this way. :)
Also, you'll come across a funny little author's note... well, I really had my doubts about that part. But I think it came out decently.

Near the end I got tired. Sabina lost some of her cynicism too soon, without much of a cause, I think. But I'm too tired to change it right now (it's 4:30 am), so I'll do it later and put more importance of the curiosity thing later. It be important.

Rate, Hate, Critique, Comment, Enjoy?



It is a fact babies are born with their eyes open, born ready to absorb the delicacies world has to offer with pleasure – an instinctual curiosity eventually lost when this society presses all perfectly natural emotions into inhibition. I have lived among this society enough to see merry children transform into young sullen ladies and baleful masters, content with lives of needlework and business in drab parlor rooms. So I must remember it is not fair to blame these poor characters when a shred of maid’s gossip falls into a lady’s pretty head or when a gentleman has taken to the bottle more frequently. These parties – this ball – are the only times one sees opportunity to mingle and act in a different accord, albeit Lady Strudwick insists on my being chaperoned.

“Improper for the niece of the Grand Duke”, she said and she personally requested (“a pleasure”, she said as she rang a maid’s bell!) an unremarkable crone from her household to keep an eye on me. At times I cannot believe the gall this woman has; conversely, this would be yet another example of how I must take pains to remember how petty these humans are. But I digress; one simple crone is not entirely difficult to deter, for cyanide goes quite unnoticed in almond tea. I wonder if I took credit for this – or for what I could actually accomplish - would Lady Strudwick still insist upon a chaperone? I think not, but the situation still amuses me.

As the ball went, I held fast to my dance card, reluctant to pencil someone in. It was only to play this charade that I walked out onto the floor with the arm of a colleague of Lady Strudwick’s husband at her suggestion – advertising whom she hosted, the niece of the Grand Duke. He was a plump man with a snub nose and a bald crown. A sheen of sweat glossed the top of his head and a queasy green tinted his skin - I particularly remember garlic on his breath. Otherwise, he struck me as charming. For a frog.

When I returned from the dance, I was swept up into a conversation of women and I settled into an easy rhythm of meaningless ‘hmms’ and ‘ahhs’ when the conversation called for my comment. Only when a woman gently touched my arm did I spring back into the present.

“Before his untimely death, the Grand Duke lent us his niece for the season. Despite the unfortunate circumstances, it has been an absolute pleasure to host such a refined lady,” I heard Lady Strudwick’s voice say to the group of four other women. I smiled warmly at her words, knowing she had rehearsed her lines earlier in the day.

“I am touched, Lady Strundwick,” I spoke keeping my voice pleasant, knowing all too well the Grand Duke had little say in my being here today.

“Are you enjoying your time in England, Miss. Volkov?” another woman piped up, Miss. Blackwood, “It’s a quite shame you could not be here for the more temperate months.”

“Oh, yes indeed. England is a most vonderful country. Vinter is much kinder here – not as cold.” I heard my Russian accent slip but let it go for the benefit of charm. The group of women laughed in their well-to-do manner, a style ingrained at birth, as Miss. Blackwood fell into a fit of aggravated fan-waving.

“Oh dear, oh dear.” She mumbled, her face flushed. The group of women encircled their friend, concerned not for their friend but for what she saw.

“What is it Myrtle?” A third woman, Mrs. Stevens, asked earnestly.

“I-It’s Mr. Ainsworth!” Miss. Blackwood squeaked and Mrs. Stevens groaned. Similarly, the tight circle of women loosed.

“Oh, not him again, Myrtle. I thought you had put him past you.”

“And I have. It’s not me, Catherine Stevens.”

“Would have fooled me,” Catherine muttered.

Miss. Blackwood shot her an icy glare and went on, “It appears Miss. Volkov has caught his eye!” Her voice went back up in pitch, excited again. I threw my black fan up suddenly uncomfortable that somebody was watching me.

“Vhat?” I hissed, staggered.

“Mr. Ainsworth – he’s been staring.”

“Vell, vho is he?” I tried to control my fan, waving it gently as if to get a breeze instead of the wall of wood and lace I instinctively threw up. However, controlling my accent would take more time.

“He is nobody, Miss. Volkov,” Mrs. Stevens huffed, “a sickening man.”

“He is the Duke of Beauford’s son!” Lady Strundwick gasped, shocked a guest of hers would slander another’s name, “A proud stock too.”

“But he has such a vile interest,” she responded with a slight shudder.

Miss. Blackwood flushed and squeaked again, “Oh goodness, he’s walking over!”

“Poise, Catherine!”

I peaked over my black lace fan with a gold trim. Indeed, a man was making his way from the other side of the room; his wore a cerulean vest and a black tailcoat. He was well polished, so I thought, according to this society’s rules. It was hard to fathom why Mrs. Stevens detested him when appearance is what they cared about. I connected with his determined, blue gaze – he made no attempt at discretion. His destination was surely our little group.

“Ah! Mr. Ainsworth, I’m thrilled you could be here tonight,” Lady Strundwick said as if she had caught him walking by, “Have you had the honor of meeting Miss. Volkov, the niece of the late Grand Duke of Russia?”

“Unfortunately, I have not,” He turned his attention to me.

“May I present Miss. Sabina Volkov then. Miss. Volkov, this is Mr. Brion Ainsworth.” I bowed my head as was polite. I could smell the faint scent of iron from under the skin and the scent of cedar from his clothes that it blended with. The one thing I appreciated was this society’s lack of overpowering perfumes and colognes, it always allowed for one’s personal scent to come through. Mr. Ainsworth’s was nice.

“A pleasure, Mr. Ainsworth,” I said, my voice under better control as he kissed my gloved hand. I heard Mrs. Stevens huff.

“I am quite positive the pleasure is all mine,” his tone was attentive. If he heard Mrs. Stevens’ display of disapproval he did not show it.

The music in the room died down and the participants of the quadrille bowed to each other. “Miss. Volkov, will you favor me with your hand for the next dance?”

I glanced at my almost empty dance card, sullen that I couldn’t find an appropriate excuse – I had danced once before, proving I could nor could I decline because I wasn’t formally introduced.

“Why, you certainly may,” I said, faking surprise and forcing a smile. At least he’s more pleasant to look at – and smell – than that toad of a man from earlier, I told myself.

[[A/N: Warning, I have neither a clue how to write this nor do I have any knowledge about dancing - besides boogying in my room. So you’ve had fair warning if your eyes bleed.]]


He bowed has he held out his hand for mine. I accepted graciously in a short curtsy and was led deeper into the ballroom. We spun into position. I felt his hand on the middle of my back before we clasped hands, my black glove cupped in his porcelain hand. I only had a second to register the warmth of his hands before the orchestra sounded to life with a waltz and sent the circle of dancers into motion.

As was expected, I followed and nearly effortless at that – I could match Mr. Ainsworth’s lithe stride with ease as we flowed through the course of the circle. [[Insert awesome metaphor here]] Coupled with the lissome movements and the gentle pull of muscles, my body yearned for the broad stretch associated with running. I suddenly wished for the tempo to pick up to satisfy this craving – I knew I could easily go faster but could he? I went to glance at his face when the crowd behind us caught my eye instead. I immediately scowled – I remember it wouldn’t do to lead.

“Tut, what’s an ugly expression doing on a face as pretty as yours?”

I turned my gaze to Mr. Ainsworth – my face wiped clean, startled. Even as he talked he kept time perfectly.

“Pardon me, I was just reminded of how awfully boring this waltz gets,”

“Oh. Well, you’ll have your chance for a change now,” he said, regret tinted his voice, “we’re switching.”

Just as I had started to enjoy the fluidity at which we moved at, he spun me off to the man on the left. I was disappointed to find myself now dancing with a man shorter than myself. The transition wasn’t smooth either as I relearned the new stride of my partner. My legs protested at the shallow steps I took to dance gracefully with this man.

I turned my attention to Mr. Ainsworth. His face intent on the dance as his blue-eyed gaze traveled off the top of his partner’s head. It surprised me to recognize I felt apologetic for my comment – I hadn’t meant he was boring me at all. On the contrary, dancing with him was the closest thing to freedom I had tonight. I sincerely wanted to go back.

I found myself counting the steps until I would be delivered back to my original partner – it couldn’t come soon enough. In my impatiens, I relinquished myself from my partner with zeal throwing him off balance. I ended back in Mr. Ainsworth’s arms with an honest smile.

“Welcome back,” he said, slightly taken back by my change of mood.

“Good to be back,” I admitted, my first truth of the night. My body had no problem slipping back into the familiar stride.

He had a slight bend in his nose that halved his beardless, pale face. His light brown hair was cut cleanly and coiffed back. I met his cool blue eyes with my warm amber; a strange light from behind his eyes ensnared me. Mesmerized, I tried weakly to identify the glow in his eyes. It was vaguely familiar but not like anything I had seen in a long time. The light was gentle but inspective as it swept across my face. When I recognized he was searching for something, it struck me. The light was curiosity.

I was suddenly thunderstruck and I faltered in my last few steps of dancing. An ideal I had so surely believed in was blasted to bits in five minutes of dancing by one courtier – the shallowest sort of all. A man of mystery, I thought and as a result, my own curiosity spiked. It confused me as to how Mrs. Stevens could find fault with the epitome of the aristocracy – surely he was. By all standards he was a well-bred, finely dressed, and elegant gentleman. Miss. Blackwood was right to harbor admiration for him. The portrait of nobility, indeed – no, only the portrait, I decided. No real aristocrat would have the genuine interest that bounced behind his irises.
Edited by Linden, Aug 3 2009, 01:46 AM.
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Well Linden... A couple pointers. In popper dance frame, as seen in waltzes and foxtrots and the like, the leaders right hand is not at mid-back. It's higher up, just below the shoulder blade. That arm supports the lady's arm. The frame as you described it is the sign of a sloppy and inexperienced dancer. Waltz is about perfection, the frame must be picture perfect or the grace is lost. A smooth aristocrat like the one in the scene would have popper frame.

Moving on, I am left to wonder why you had your dancers change partners during the same dance. In the waltz i have done (which is not as extensive as my salsa and foxtrot exploits) I've never seen a partner switch during a dance. It would have to be carefully choreographed to work at all... Waltz travels... Perhaps the song should end to allow the switch to be a little less strange. I'm not a waltz expert though.

Other than that, pretty good. Nice character you introduced. You did a good job leaving his intentions and whatnot to the mind of the reader for the time being. It added some tension to the story. The Russian accent got a little awkward at "Vhat? Vho" I don't think there should be a v on who, but that's probably just me.

Keep writing.
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