I still remember the world
From the eyes of a child…
Slowly those feelings
Were clouded by what I know now…

Memories –

They could be such wonderful things just as much as they could become torturous and repetitive. They could either send a person into euphoria, remembering all that was once overwhelming in delight, or they could come crashing down around them in the never-ending waves of pain that continued to dig through open wounds. They'd been few and far – the good memories, all the while the others were overbearing and would never seem to fade no matter how much she'd tried to fight them; no matter how much she'd lied to herself in an effort to alter them; to get her to believe in something altogether different. Perhaps a lie would help her sleep throughout the rest of her nights into her days. Perhaps that lie would bring her some peace.

If only she could make herself believe in it.

What had been left in the wake of that memory was the shell of a girl that she once was. No more was she the sweet, young woman whom only sought out to make her dreams a reality throughout the demanding world of her father – that girl had been long gone, murdered and her pieces scattered throughout the warm sand of the shore that she'd once been left upon. What had been left behind was a bitter young female intent on causing hell wherever she'd gone. If she had to suffer each and every night in her own personal hell, then she was committed to making others around her feel her pain. Perhaps it had been much to the dismay of her own tutor whom had taken her in – she'd taking a liking to personally torment him with how difficult she'd become. Eventually, she'd assumed, he would leave her just as quick as she once was left – and she was determined to push him as far away as she could.

It only frustrated her further that he continued to stay – and not only that, but doted on her to try and make her as happy as she once was. He should have understood, at least by then, that it was a lost cause.

She could hardly help it. Clara Emerson was once a young girl of privilege, trapped in a society that forced its beliefs and patterns upon her. Had it been up to them, she would have been married to whoever held the best title and whoever could secure a future for herself and her own family. Love was not an option – hell, even friendship was hardly an option. If love did form out of the marriage between the two, it was either out of sheer luck or simply dealing with one another for long enough that something eventually fell into place.

The years had come and gone and Clara had hardly given anyone the time of day. There was no one suitable enough for her; no one that she could share her passions with; share her dreams. She'd wanted to travel the world; wanted to see much of what was out there instead of being locked up as someone's silent wife, reproducing on a whim to keep the family strong and full. She did not want to be trapped in her own hell of a home with a man whom she did not and could not love – a man who would snuff out her dreams the very moment they'd said their vows.

That was not a future that she'd wanted, and Clara had fought it tooth and nail until her father was no longer able to bend to her whims. It was already bad enough that she'd reached 18 and had yet to marry – the people in town had begun to talk and it eventually found its way upon her father's ear. There had been rumors that she must have been barren – that no man had wanted a wife that old, especially one who could not produce the heir to the family. There were also rumors that she'd been mad – lost away in a fantasy world of her books and library – what man would want a woman who sought out more knowledge than he had known himself? Or maybe it was that she was just a rotten female, one who could not keep the company of whichever man sought to have her hand. Regardless of the rumor, regardless of how harsh they could be, her father would soon have none of that nonsense floating around his family name.

It was only a matter of time before her borrowed time would come to an end – she could see him unraveling, coming undone right before her very eyes before he'd lost his patience with her one last time.

"You listen to me, girl. I've given you ample time – I've given you every little thing your heart desires and yet you still do not take a husband. I know you hear them – everyone out there talking about you, talking about me! This cannot go on any longer, Clara. You will allow the Duke to court you come morning, and you will marry him – You have no choice. Do you want to continue destroying our family name? He will be able to provide for you, and in turn, the family will be secure in our own future as well. Do you understand?! "

Clara had understood full well. She'd understood that the world around her was collapsing with each panicked breath that left her chest the moment her father had walked out of that room. She was fully aware of what was to meet her the next morning; of what life was promised should she marry that awful man. She'd nearly felt her heart fall from her chest and onto the floor in front of her as she fought to calm herself from the inevitable fear and panic of what the future held for her. It was nothing that she wanted, and she needed to run – she needed to get far away from it, from her father, from everyone who could say anything about her. Let them talk in her absence, but she would never allow them to say it to her face.

Where has my heart gone?
An uneven trade for the real world
Oh I… I want to go back to
Believing in everything and knowing nothing at all…

It was within that fright and overwhelming anxiety that Clara found herself in her room in an instant, packing whatever she could into a bag. Clothes, jewelry, anything that might hold some sentimental value that she did not want to leave behind. She hadn't a plan or idea in the world what she was doing – all she knew was that she needed to get away, and fast. The quicker she ran, the farther she could get without her father sending someone out to fetch her. She was aware of the dangers of running; of the risk she put herself at – a mere young girl out in the darkness of the night with hardly an idea on how to defend herself, whether it be from creature or man. She'd no idea where she was going or where she was going to end up – she just knew that she needed to vanish..

Little did she know, it really would be the last time she'd spoken to her father or her family.

Her quick steps had led her through the chill of the night under cover of her cloak. She'd ran without taking a break- the loud sounds of her heels echoing against the cobblestone with each hurried step, the only sounds that reached her ears. There were others, eventually tumbling out of the taverns late at night; others who had been left to rot in the alleyways, unable to fend for themselves any longer. There were others who could have seen her as a piece of meat, and perhaps would have gone after her had the drunken few not been around.

Clara had ignored them all.

Her steps had eventually led her to softer ground, soon the calming sounds of the ocean against her ears instead of the offending drunkards and whistles of the night. It was here that she'd finally stopped; finally had taken a breath regardless of the fact that her lungs had felt as if they'd ignited in flames.

It was here that she'd made the worst decision of her life.

Clara hadn't noticed him at first – she'd felt entirely overwhelmed by not only the decision that she'd just made on a whim, but the sudden uncertainty of what was to come. She'd felt the tears pull at the corner of her eyes as she brushed them away fervently. She'd barely felt herself head even closer to the dark waters ahead before her shoes had slipped off and she felt the cold around her feet; felt the water dragging down the edges of her skirts.

It had been his touch that had awoken her from her stupor, the sudden gentle hand against her back almost only there to startle her into the present once more. And oddly enough, she hadn't run – no, she'd done enough running then, Clara realized. Something had kept her planted there, the sand shifting beneath her feet just as each wave came up around her toes. She'd known nothing of the mistakes that she'd already made that night – all of it seemed so very far away just as suddenly as that man had entered into her life.

What had followed still had her questioning its reality centuries down the road. The conversations; the comfort – something about the male had her calm and forgetful of her sudden fears; he made her believe it would all be alright; that her decision to run had not been as much of a mistake as it had been a gift.

Hours had felt like minutes upon that beach – basking in each other's presence, her wonder almost child-like over the man who seemed to want to stay within her company more than any other from the town whom had wanted to court her. Where had he been all of this time she'd been worrying; panicking about the future her father would force upon her? Was he even real – or had this all been a hopeful dream that she'd been thrust into after the exhaustion of her father's revelation?

Words had eventually melted into actions – everything she could have ever hoped for had been there, in him. Perhaps that was why she was able to give herself over so freely – why it hadn't even been a mere doubt in her mind – the passion suddenly between them. She could remember the euphoria, remember the feel of the heat between them, the sand against her skin, the absolute abandon that she'd felt with him all at once – and yet, she also could remember the sudden pain that melted into all of it – and the sudden sense of absolute loneliness and fear once she did awake in someone else's arms.

I still remember the sun
Always warm on my back.
Somehow it seems colder now…

If her tutor had not been around that night, she knew her existence would have been short. Clara would have either died on the beach that night, victim to her own new hunger and the incapability to satiate it the way she needed to. She would have gone back into that down and ripped it apart person by person if she'd been allowed to – until someone had destroyed her just as quickly… But he'd been there for her; there to pick her up and take her in; train her the way she needed to be trained… But it just never was what she'd needed – nothing could fill the ache that she'd always felt lingering in her soul – something had been missing after that night and it was the one thing her tutor could never give her.

-

Clara felt a slow sigh fall from her painted lips as she looked up at the mansion ahead of her. Soft music was already lifting through opened windows and doors and she'd felt her body tense. Another night of endless parties that her tutor had dragged her along to. Perhaps he'd thought the interactions with others would cheer her up. All that these parties had continued to do was remind her of the void within her. No matter how many dances she'd partaken in; no matter how many mindless conversations or glasses of wine to warm her – nothing would put an end to that damned ache within her – no matter how much she'd tried to make others feel it; no matter how much she tried to make them suffer like she had… No one understood.

Her bright green eyes glared upon the offending house as she felt her tutor's arm slip into hers. "Come now, darling. Try to enjoy yourself tonight." His words were soft against her ear, but she hadn't looked at him. She'd merely taken one step in a time as he'd led her to the front doors. "Fuck off..." Clara spoke with a hiss, receiving only a sigh from the man next to her.

She knew it was bound to happen, but her tutor had eventually broken away from her and she was thankful for it. She'd made a beeline to find a glass of wine, weaving through the multiple colors of skirts and suits that had been so happily chattering and dancing away. Masquerades hadn't necessarily been her thing – hell, parties weren't entirely her thing – but at least here she could play the part. Here, she could be whomever she wanted, hiding behind a black mask of lace. There were plenty of strangers here, plenty of people she could manipulate if she'd wanted to – it would be a game of cat and mouse.

As Clara found a glass, she'd lifted the dark liquid to her lips slowly, her steps taking her towards one of the far walls to observe the crowds around her. She'd idly toyed with the emerald silk of her skirts which had only brightened her hazel eyes as they took on the green of the fabric, the beading that lined her corset, before her fingers found their way to the emerald pendant around her neck - a large, uncut stone hanging from a strip of black lace. Why it remained there was truly beyond her; why she hadn't tossed it into the ocean that night was more of a mystery to her than anything. He'd left it for her – the only damn thing she had left of that one night that had changed everything. He'd stolen it all from her; her life, her innocence, her dreams – and left only a god damn necklace in his wake. If she had it her way; if her tutor would cease all of this nonsense in trying to distract her, she would search for him during every waking moment; she would make him fucking pay for the hell that he'd made her live; for the broken promises; for all of the pain he'd caused her.

The frown continued to curl against her lips as she took in the sights and shoved a stray, brown and caramel curl that had fallen from how her hair had been pinned in an elaborate up-do, out of her face. The loud music upon her ears as she'd watched countless bodies swirl and bend to the music in sync. It was going to be one hell of a long night… And she needed to find some form of entertainment should she choose to stay.

Where has my heart gone
Trapped in the eyes of a stranger
Oh I... I want to go back to
Believing in everything.​

@Dylan

The concept of fate is a fickle one. From the very moment a life comes into existence, its path is spontaneous, erratic, and unpredictable. Mortality has few absolutes; a life is created, a life exists, and eventually, a life ends. This is the burden mortality bears upon its shoulders. The very foundation of existence lacks a fundamental purpose. A life which is incapable of deciphering the chaotic inferno that is reality barely exists at all. With a sentient mind, a life can manipulate its existence. Conscience allows one to grasp the fragments of reality, and sculp them into one’s own individual identity. Thus, fate is fluidic in nature. There is no predetermined destiny for any individual life; the only absolutes are its genesis, and its eventual destruction. Thus is the beauty of sentience; ‘Tis the key which opens the mortal mind to possibility.

However, it is only in death that a sentient mind can truly achieve enlightenment.

Before… He had lived his life without purpose. A surf in the fields, plowing away at the stony, unforgiving soil of life. There was a family, a dream—--A hope for a better future. However, his goal was not his own. In death, he was given the opportunity to truly experience the life which he rightly deserved; the life promised to all whom thirst for the truth. In death, he found power. That power became his identity. Where once he was a marionette, dancing upon the strings of fate, he was now the puppeteer. The strings which formerly bound him were now clutched firmly between his fingertips. No more would he bend the knee to the absolutes of mortality. His destiny was his own.

Maximillian Parkes was born without the ability to choose. His father, a farmer by trade, was a member of the lowest class in civilized society. A mere peasant by blood, the young boy’s life was predestined. His father, grandfather, and great-grandfather had all lived by the horse and plow, and had done so from the moment their ancestors claimed the land in which their meager home was built upon. As the eldest of six, he was expected to take up the plantation upon his father’s passing, take a wife, father a large family of his own, and pass the trade on to future generations. In spite of the reality which he had been born into, Max was the quiet, intellectual and studious sort; much to his father’s disappointment, his eldest was not the master of sickle and hoe that his younger brothers were. Thus, the boy’s days were filled with back-breaking labor, and the miserable dreams of what his life could have been without his father’s influence.

With every swing of his scythe in the wheat fields, his resentment steadily grew. Every insult, curse, and proclamation of uselessness shouted at his back fueled the churning fire of anger that dwelled within his core. He could not stand to slave away in the fields in this manner any longer. He could not form a livelihood for a family by digging around in grime and stone. For as long as he was forced to beat himself bloody upon his father’s fields, the man would never see him take a wife. Maximillian would have rather seen the barn set ablaze before enslaving a woman to an existence of servitude. Knowing full well he was powerless against the opposition of his father, he resigned himself to his misery; forcing himself to trudge Along in the muck and mire so they could scrape together enough to survive the next winter. It was only upon the harvest season of his nineteenth year when an event occurred which took his life down an unexpected path.

The day was much like any other. The September sun shone with a brilliant shimmering gold, and the harvest season was in full swing. Maximillian’s farm was a flurry of harvesting, storing, and preparing crops for transport to the local markets, and a thick layer of sweat dripped off of his brow as he drove his pitchfork into the massive pile of hay before his weary gaze. The activity, as it usually was, became monotonous and boring rather quickly, and he began to day dream about building his own library before he was shocked back into reality. Sudden, explosive pain jettisoned itself through the young man’s skull as he felt something heavy impact the back of his head, and before he could so much as groan or gasp in surprise, he was being lifted back onto his feet by his disgruntled looking father.

“The wagon’s ready boy, make yourself useful for once in your life. Bring it to Elijah down at the old market. Be sure you don’t come back without every damned penny that old fool has to offer. If you aren’t back by sundown, you can be sure that I’ll skin you alive before I drag you back to your mother for an apology.”

Max knew better than to respond to the man’s provocations. Without wasting a moment of time, he hastily climbed to his feet, dusted himself off, and took off in a dead-man’s sprint toward the barn. As he ran, he didn’t dare spare his father a glance backward, lest another strike from the man’s cudgel be something he looked forward to in his future. His younger brothers had already readied the horses, and Maximillian took full advantage of the fact by hopping aboard the wagon full of crops without breaking his stride. A soft whinney met his ears as he took up the reigns, and with a snap of their leather and a softly spoken command, he was off toward town. It was nary an hour or two’s ride from his homestead, and the young man never hesitated to get out from under his father’s tyrannical rule, even for just a moment. Little did he realize just how unpredictable his journey would prove to be.

The ride along the well-travelled road went without issue. Before the young Max had time to so much as blink, he hastily stabled the horses, shoveled two armfuls of crops out of the wagon, and started to make his rapid trips from the wagon, to Elijah’s storehouse, and back again. After several hours work, he’d finally managed to empty out the whole of the wagon’s contents, and he was free to ready the horses and make his way back toward his home. The sun had began to sink low in the sky, and Maximillian paled slightly as he gave his team a quick snap of the reigns; If he didn’t hurry, he would surely face his father’s wrath upon his arrival. God forbid the man discover that he had somehow torn the canvas on the wagon’s covering whilst he unloaded the goods. He could feel the man’s hunk of oak slamming into his cheek at the mere thought of the nearly invisible gash upon the damned thing. Though before he had time to consider his father’s corporal punishment further, something strange happened.

The horses suddenly reared upward, throwing their hooves toward an invisible assailant in the tree line. They began to cry and scream in abject terror as Maximillian frantically attempted to calm the agitated animals, but they didn’t obey a single of his commands, and outright refused to cooperate whatsoever. The young farmhand noted that this sort of behavior was distinctly unlike the old steeds he’d come to know and love, but deep in his thoughts he knew he hadn’t the time to dwell upon such nonsense. The more the horses kicked and bucked in their harnesses, the more the wagon, and by proxy, Maximillian jolted about the side of the road. Before he could gather his thoughts enough to jump off of the rickety wooden cart, the young man found himself thrown off of his perch and into the tree line. His body came to rest after he slammed head-first into a sturdy looking oak, and he felt bile bubbling in the back of his throat as he attempted to crack his eyelids open. His vision was a haze of stars and light, and the more he attempted to discern any details of his would-be assailant, the more nautious he felt. As suddenly as he was thrown off of the cart, he felt a set of small, cold hands wrap themselves about his collar and yank him back to his feet. Though his vision was starting to clear, the only distinguishing feature Maximillian could lay his eyes upon was the sight of a woman’s long, luxurious brown mane blowing gently in the evening wind. He attempted to blink the stars out of his vision once further, but it was to no avail. He struggled against his unusually strong attacker with all of his strength, but as he began to slip himself out of his captor’s vice-like grasp
, he felt a sharp, burning pain resonate through the length of his body.

Then, there was darkness.

“Boy…”

Consciousness suddenly returned to Maximillian as he heard a man’s voice echoing through the forest. The sun had long since set, and there wasn’t a trace of the brown-haired vixen whom had knocked him around. But he felt… Strange. He heard the man continue to call out in search of someone, but the sound didn’t quite register in his brain as speech; where the strong, deep voice would’ve once inflicted fear in him, Maximillian was consumed by the strangest sense of urgency. Every ounce of his body was screaming out in lustful desire; though for what, the farmhand was not certain. As if in a trance, he felt himself rise to a standing position, and forced his gaze toward the distant man’s voice. Mindlessly, as if by his body’s own desire, he began to stalk slowly through the trees back toward the scene of his accident. As he approached, an incredibly pungent metallic aroma coated the interior of Maximilian’s nostrils; as the scent registered in his mind, the young man felt the edges of his consciousness begin to darken. His thoughts were sluggish and his emotions started to run rampant—it was as if he couldn’t control his thoughts. He suddenly became distinctly aware of the throbbing ache of hunger within his core as he reached the road, and he froze mid-step as he spotted a man in thick wool trousers searching through the remains of his wagon. The stranger began to angle his head in Max’s direction to speak, but the young farmhand’s body and mind began to act of their own accord as the man’s voice boomed out toward him.

“What do you think yo-“

Before he could finish his angry outburst, Max was upon him like a starved animal. With super-human strength and speed, the farmhand crossed the gap between them in a single bound, leaping directly into the unsuspecting interloper’s chest, hands forward and jaws agape. Driven by the emotionless desire to consume, Maximillian pinned his prey against the bottom of the up-turned wagon and drove one of his knees directly into the man’s stomach. Bones crackled under the ferocious impact of the strike, and before the man could so much as scream in terror, the starved man clamped his jaws around the interloper’s throat and bit down with as much strength as he could muster. Maximillian groaned in exaltation as the man’s sweet, sweet life nectar began to fill him like a balloon, but it seemed that only an instant had passed before the corpse had been sucked completely dry. The farmhand basked in the afterglow if his meal for a brief moment, trying his hardest to milk every last drop out of the man’s corpse; It was then when it occurred to him just what he had done. Sickened and absolutely horrified by his actions, Maximillian stumbled backward slightly, dropping the stranger’s corpse as he back peddled toward the trees on the other side of the road. What… Had he done? He was a damned monster. His back peddling finally brought him against the gnarled surface of an ancient willow tree, and in that moment, the clouds overhead parted to reveal a full moon, red as the blood which he had gorged himself upon. Now scared, shaken, and alone, Maximillian tore his gaze away from the moon and allowed it to return to his fallen prey, only to immediately feel the contents of his stomach churning at the sight he beheld.

Bloodless and decrepit upon the ground lay his father, broken and beaten with the gaze of sheer, unfiltered terror plastered upon his visage.

As Maximillian realized the man’s eyes were squarely fixed upon his own, he couldn’t help but notice an odd feeling of warmth travelling along the length of his spine. Before he knew it, a smile lightly tugged at the corners of his crimson stained cheeks, and his breaths began to become shallow and quick. Finally, a light chuckle began to leak out of his grinning visage, which quickly morphed into a loud, hearty laugh which caused the birds to leap out of their homes in the nearby foliage.

He was free.

#

“Sir?”

It was at that moment that Maximillian realized that he’d been staring out of the nearest window upon the visage of the full moon for an unusually long moment. It was a pleasant memory, to be sure; though not in the way most individuals find a situation pleasant. It wasn’t the events that transpired in which he found so satisfying, but the meaning he was able to derive from the circumstance all these centuries later. It was his transformation that truly allowed him to blossom into the man he was today. If not for that mysterious mop of chocolate colored hair distracting his horses, he would have died centuries earlier.

“Sir, are you feeling well?” The lilting feminine voice queried once further. Maximillian took a moment to finish off his scotch, then ran a hand down the crimson fabric of his tie, smoothing it out against his chest

“My apologies, m’lady. If you could kindly excuse me for a moment, I feel the urge to find another beverage. I’ll return to you before you have time to admire me from afar.” With that being said, Maximillian turned his attention toward the myriad of couples dancing along the floors without giving his feminine company so much as a passing glance. Not wishing to stain his pristine white Armani, he clung to the edges of the room until he managed to find his way to the bar. He tapped his white cane against the floor idly as he approached, and ordered himself three fingers of single malt scotch to enjoy at his leisure. It seemed as though he had a taste for the finer things on this eve, and he would be sure to indulge his desires to the fullest extent possible within this ignorant mass of masked imbeciles. Not a moment after he put his request forward, Maximillian’s emerald eyes twinkled with mirth at the appetizing sight of the caramel-colored spirit. Giving his drink a thoughtful sip, he adjusted his mask into a more comfortable position whilst simultaneously shifting the personally tailored jacket upon his broad shoulders. . Black lace was simple, yet held some sort of deceptive elegance that the tall gentleman couldn’t help but enjoy. Though the concept of the masquerade itself was a bit tacky, he couldn’t help but allow the smallest hint of a smile to stretch across his face. He had the distinct feeling that it was going to be an incredibly interesting night.

After sparing himself another moment to watch the crowd of dancers from the safety of the bar, Maximillian took it upon himself to locate his first round of entertainment for the night. He began to tap his cane lightly along the surface of the floor as he deftly dodged the incoming crowd of party goers. For the first few moments, nothing appeared to catch his eye. There were the usual giggling women of class, the boastful, selfish lot of businessmen, and of course, the attendees whom were already far too deep into their cups for one night. But as he made another tour of the room’s edge on his way back toward the bar, a single woman in particular caught his eye. Her dark, curly hair was styled up in quite the elaborate fashion, and the emerald silks of her dress did much to accentuate the green of her eyes. Though he only was able to glance in her direction from the corner of his vision, it wasn’t her outfit or hair that caught his eye; At least, it wasn’t her dress. It was the unusual nature of the necklace she wore. To him, it seemed familiar, but he couldn’t quite place its origins upon first inspection. Had he spent time in this woman’s company before? Had he seen a similar type of necklace upon another woman in his past? Rather than keep himself locked within his own thoughts for the night, the cane-wielding gentleman took it upon himself to take action. What could one dance possibly hurt? Besides… Curiosity couldn’t kill this cat. After a quick check of the red rose upon his lapel, he continued his casuals tried toward the bar.

Rather than approach her directly with no specific motives, the wealthy entrepreneur within Maximillian’s psyche urged him not to walk in her direction without good reason. He noticed that she had been nursing a drink to herself for quite a while, and concluded that she must have been running low by this point in the night. Regardless, he knew that it would most likely be the best strategy he could come up with on short notice; Other than the direct approach, of course. He paid another short visit to the bar to retrieve a glass of their finest dry red, and then topped off his scotch once further before swallowing his pride and striding across the room toward the woman whom had so curiously captured his attention. As he reached her, he allowed himself a quick bow in her direction before giving her a relaxed smile.

“Good evening, Madame. This one was curious as to whether you would be available for the next dance. In exchange for the finest red at the house’s disposal, of course.” As he spoke, he placed his scotch upon a nearby table before running his fingers through his short, thick black locks. His recent change into a shorter, more utilitarian hair style had been well appreciated by many among the crowd so far. He could only hope that this one wasn’t a fan of men with longer hair.

In all of Maximillians years upon the Earth, he had exchanged pleasantries with thousands of individuals. The man, though he didn’t look the part, had acquired a keen eye for detail that could rival even the most talented of mortal artists; a skill such as that has a variety of uses in a myriad of situations, but is especially useful during casual, nonchalant conversation. To Max, the first impression one gives to someone is potentially the most important step in cementing himself in their mind. In his experience, one only had a small window of opportunity to truly capture their target’s attention. This woman, isolating herself in the corner of the room, gazing into the distance while she swam in the sea of her memories… To the average individual, that window of opportunity; that moment in which her attention could be most easily aroused was virtually non-existent. To Maximillian, on the other hand, everything from the way he walked, to the graceful, melodious tenor of his voice oozed confidence and charisma. With the right tone of voice, the careful choice of one’s words, and the carefree nature of an eagle gliding on the wind, even someone who’s so obviously attempting to shut themselves away from reality can’t help but feel the seeds of intrigue germinate in their mind.

Unlike those thousands of conversations Maximillian had had a part in prior in his life, something about this first impression he was making felt… Off. He was unable to approximate whether it was her actions, his own, or something else entirely, but he was completely positive that this was a situation he did not expect to find himself involved in. Even the masquerade and its mysterious nature is predictable in some sense. Regardless of the masks and their presence, people meet, people pair up, they dance, and they leave in each other’s arms. But the aura which this woman created in his company was different to that of anyone else he’d spoken with throughout the entirety of his lifetime. Even to a man as attentive to detail as Maximillian, this stranger was an enigma. From the very moment she noticed his approach, her eyes had carefully began to appraise his appearance. Under most circumstances, this wouldn’t strike Max as unusual, if not for the look in those flickering hazel eyes as they travelled from the tip of his crown to the toe of his cape—metaphorically, of course. The way her body remained tense, yet only relaxed slightly upon the utterance of his request intrigued him even further, and she held onto her words for long enough to create the briefest of silences; That momentary hesitation was enough of a sign for Maximillian to understand that this woman definitely felt the same odd feeling that currently bubbled in his gut.

"I suppose when a glass of wine is being held for ransom, a girl can't quite refuse, now can she?”

Her voice was soft, barely louder than a whisper, and it carried a rough edge of uneasy chilliness that completely contrasted the statement she had made. When someone speaks in that manner, their tone is often flirtatious; Curious, playful, even anticipatory in its utterance. This woman had absolutely no intention of masking her message. If not for the strange feeling arcing between them, this woman clearly would have had no intention to exchange words with him. It was that, and that alone that motivated Maximillian to pursue the conversation further. The fires of curiosity had been lit within his mind, and he would not rest until those fires were extinguished. With a careful, curious tilt of her masked visage, she placed her empty glass upon the table and spoke further.

"The name's Clara…" She began, tucking a caramel curl behind an ear. “And might I ask of your own, or will you hold that for ransom as well?”

“An intriguing name for an intriguing lady.” Maximillian replied smoothly, his elegant tenor carrying a tinge of curiosity as he spoke. He paused for a moment to lean his cane against the wall, then turned his attention back toward Clara with a fraction of a smile upon his masked visage. “Maximillian. It’s a pleasure, Ms. Clara.” His smile broadened slightly as he finished speaking, and he took a small step closer to her as he graciously extended his left arm, promised glass of wine in hand.

“I truly hate to interrupt your evening, but I couldn’t help but notice the gloomy clouds hovering over this corner of the room. Little did I suspect I’d discover a glistening emerald, all by her lonesome.” What was once a polite smile upon his lips had casually morphed into a more sarcastic one as Max embraced his inner poetic spirit, and with a small, genuine chuckle he offered Clara his right hand.

“I must warn you, I tend to be an absolutely unbearable conversationalist. You best rid yourself of me now before I have the opportunity to bore you to death.” He maintained the slight sarcasm in his voice as he spoke, but paused for a moment as he concluded, waving his left arm toward the couples twirling and whirling on the dance floor before he continued.

“But if you think you can tolerate a stuffy bastard such as myself, I’d be delighted to take you for a spin upon the tiles. A lady like yourself is bound to have an interesting story or two.”

Maximillian observed Clara carefully as she seemed to consider the proposition he’d put forth; from the outside looking in, it seemed as though all of her actions were deliberated in a sea of hesitation and self-doubt. He wasn’t sure as to why a woman such as herself would partake in an activity as social as the masquerade if her sole intentions were to quiver within the embrace of her tortured mind, but the choices that this strange woman had made in order to bring herself to this decision were the least of his concern. The thoughts that consumed his psyche as he watched her gently place her glass of wine beside its empty sibling fixated on the feeling of familiarity he felt toward her. She could certainly be considered attractive by many a man’s standards, but he was sure that the austere aura of nostalgia she exuded far surpassed that of a common fling. If he truly knew this woman as he felt he did, he gathered the distinct impression that the history they shared was far from a comfortable one. Her glimmering pupils remained completely fixated upon him, almost as if she was scrying into the darkest depths of his soul. Combined with the hesitation in her actions, her careful inspection of his appearance indicated that she, too felt the nagging claws of familiarity tearing at her mind. To Max, this interaction had suddenly become far more intricate than a conversation with a masked stranger. It had become increasingly obvious to him, at least, that the dance they would enjoy was more akin to two predators circling one another, doing their best to approximate their adversary’s weaknesses before the first strike. After allowing herself another brief moment to inspect his masked visage, the emerald-clad Clara gingerly slipped her fingers between his own, and allowed him to lead her toward the smooth tiles of the dance floor. As they began their approach, her soft, fragile shell of a voice gently kissed his ears as she responded to his spoken invitation.

“You'd be surprised,” As she spoke, the bemused Maximillian spared Clara a brief glance, and once again found her glittering hazel eyes firmly fixed upon his own dark emeralds. She was clearly devoted to her pursuits as concretely as he was to his own, and an easy going smile fixed itself upon his face as this fact made itself clear to him. This would prove to be a much more interesting evening than he originally anticipated.
“The lonely tend to be that way for their own reasons -- and you'll find that the same tend to have a plethora of stories in their isolation. Something had to be the
cause of their despair, no?” It was easy for Max to accept this statement at face value. Though mysterious in her own ways, it appeared that Clara was capable of brutal, direct honesty—even if phrased in a bit of a roundabout fashion. Under normal circumstances, it was overtly obvious that she had a credible, logical reason for keeping her feelings closed off from the outside world. Otherwise she’d have no reason to waste her evening by isolating herself from the enjoyment of the masquerade. The more this woman spoke, the more intriguing she became to him. As her chilly, delicate tones tickled his ear drums; the aura of familiarity which surrounded her masked features began to overwhelm the foundation of logic and rationality which maintained his calm exterior. As they reached the dance floor, Max hesitated for the briefest moment, and gazed deeply into Clara’s intense, hazel-rimmed pupils in an attempt to decipher who truly hid herself behind the mask of black lace.

"But, prey tell. What makes you think that I’d be willing to share such tales with a stranger?" As she finished speaking, Max capitalized on the opportunity which had been granted to him to gather his thoughts. He took a brief moment to place his hand upon her hip, place his right foot forward, and then began to lead Clara in an elegant, though simple waltz as the band started to play. His form was precise and carefully practiced, and his black and white footwear glimmered with a polished shine as they began to circle toward the center of the floor. Though it could not have been longer than fifteen consecutive seconds of silence on Maximillian’s part, his composure seemed to falter slightly as he took a moment to once again gaze deeply into Clara’s eyes. Though brief, as their eyes met, his own emerald framed pupils burned with raw curiosity and his lust for the truth. As another moment of quiet contemplation passed between them, Maximillian finally seemed to find his voice and respond to her innocent query.

“If I’m being completely honest… I’m not quite sure.” His statement was simple, purely logical, and came directly from his heart. However, he was far from finished speaking. Sparing himself the briefest instant to gaze upon the uncut emerald dangling from her neck, he felt as though he was beginning to connect the dots. For reasons that completely escaped his comprehension, the white-clad gentleman felt strangely sure that the cloak of familiarity which Clara wore resonated from his perception of the stone. It wasn’t the woman who wore it that captured his attention as he strolled along the party’s borders; it was this specific article of clothing. That emerald was sure to have a story, and Maximillion was intent on finding out just what it had to say—and more importantly, what it had to do with him.

“However, from a purely rational standpoint, is it not the intent of the masquerade to shed ourselves of our inhibitions and let caution fly to the wind?” Where Max had began his dance with a respectable amount of distance separating Clara and himself, with his next series of steps, he did his best to close the distance between them a bit more—but in a manner that was more protective than romantic. Rather, as he closed a small increment of the gap separating them, he focused his attention purely on the way the room’s ambient light reflected off of the emerald’s surface as they continued to spin about the floor. He then shifted his attention back toward Clara’s attentive hazel eyes, and spoke once further.

“Clearly, you have to be interested in my words to some extent. Otherwise, I’m sure you could have continued on with your night unabashed. As you say, the lonely tend to have a reason to be so—if you’re reason is as logical as I imagine it must be, it must have taken a great deal of curiosity to indulge a stranger such as myself to a dance. Perhaps it’s a confidant in which you seek?”

When one is bestowed the gift of undeath, they are quick to discover that their near-limitless span of life provides them access to the universe’s most valuable and finite resource. It is the bane of the mortal mind, and what brings demise even to the most powerful of men. Without the limits of mortality shackling the sentient mind, the time in which one is given allows them to acquire a great variety of skills. Some choose to hone the strength of their bodies, and others thrive with their increased perception and reaction time. Maximillian, on the other hand, most greatly values the time he was granted to educate himself in the finer aspects of life as he had once known it. Throughout the centuries, he found himself at odds with adversaries both cunning and powerful, and was certainly no stranger to the likes of a dual of wits. However, never in even his extended lifespan did he consider that one could leave him so easily starved of the words which he valued as his greatest of strengths. As he expected, his dance with Clara had only just begun, and he found himself lost within the hidden meaning of her cryptic replies. She was equally as skilled in the art of verbal confrontation as he, if not more so, and he was completely aware of it. As he awaited her response, he fixed his emerald gaze firmly upon her masked features.

As their dance continued and the distance between them narrowed, the tone of their conversation took a decidedly intriguing turn as Clara’s soft, delicate tones drifted into Max’s ears. The close proximity of their bodies created an illusion of intimacy as they exchanged words, and to the masked dancers adjacent, they must have truly appeared lost in the other’s company. The reality of their exchange was far from intimate, and Clara’s words eloquently severed the strands of his narrative with every syllable she pronounced. As effective as his words were in arousing her curiosity, she saw through their smokescreen as clearly as if she was gazing upon the stars through a telescope. In her own words, she was far from typical. It was that alone that aroused his attention so acutely. This masquerade was a playground; every dress, every piece of jewelry, every curvaceous and voluptuous form awaiting a man’s company was completely within his grasp. Yet, his curiosity, his incessant drive to acquire truth placed him at the mercy of this emerald herald. The smile which blossomed so unexpectedly upon her face after she spoke her truth was one of victorious anticipation. She knew full well that the words within her mind would seal his fate before he could so much as muster a viable response, and with that she layed her accusation between them for them both to bare witness to. Truly, what was it that he was looking for? Every last instinct within him screamed that exposing his intent was a poor choice in judgment, but for the first time in one hundred and fifty years, Maximillian ignored the subconscious cries of warning which flooded his brain. If this Clara was truly as intriguing as originally thought, it would take far more than an honest declaration on the part of a stranger to send her back into the realm of obscurity.

“Perhaps,” He began, narrowing the distance which separated them even further. His hand, once modestly placed upon her hip, now slid carefully into the small of her back as the tension between them rose to a boiling point. His eyes locked gazes with hers, and he felt the soft tingle of electricity bouncing along the length of his spine as he leaned his masked face ever so slightly toward hers. What was once a modest distance between them was now but a few inches of open air, and Maximillian’s tone was significantly softer than it was prior; and within it, it held an unbridled an unexplainable passion which hung upon his every word.

“Perhaps my curiosity has, for once in my life, taken a hold of my body. Perhaps when I first laid my eyes upon you from afar, I was ensnared by the aura of emotion which you wore as a cloak. Perhaps, even in this moment, I cannot help but feel as though our eyes have met in darker days than this one. But above all else…” He paused for a moment, pulling away from her slightly as he did so. For the briefest instant, Maximillian’s eyes fell into a fog of distant memory; her voice, her figure, and her very aura felt so familiar, and yet her identity completely eluded him. Who was this strange woman who had entranced him so? As suddenly as he drifted off, his awareness returned to him, and he turned his attention back toward Clara’s emerald pendant.

“Perhaps I’ve been consumed by the madness of uncertainty which plagues my mind in your presence. One could spend eons chipping away at the castle which surrounds your inner-most thoughts, but this man prefers a more... Direct approach.” As the last sentence left his lips, he couldn’t help but allow the corners of his lips to rise in a fraction of a smile. His gaze remained firmly fixed with hers, and he narrowed the distance between them even further, leaving only an inch or two between them as their dance continued.

“What say you now, Ms. Clara? Have I ignited that same curiosity within your soul, or shall I leave you to your loneliness?”

As the duo continued to step and twirl amongst the sea of color that was the dance floor, the tension which had so steadily grew in intensity throughout the length of their interaction seemed to falter slightly with the admittance of Maximillian’s curiosity. Where Clara had kept him at arm’s length but a few moments prior, they now found themselves a mere breath’s distance from one another as the band transitioned into another song. Fortunately for the white-clad gentleman, the song’s tempo and harmony melodiously flowed into one another without pause, and his simple, elegant footwork could persist at the same pace. Max was far too consumed by his circumstances to busy himself with the likes of a complicated style of dance; he was far more interested in discovering just where it was that he had met this intriguing specimen. His life was long and his experiences varied, but the feeling which Clara evoked within him was unique enough that he was sure it had formed some sort of lasting impression. Though she did not look more than eighteen, Max was intimately familiar with the concept of deceptive appearances. Most place him within the range of his early twenties, but only a select few individuals were aware of the truth behind his carefully crafted illusion. However, regardless of the amount of effort he put toward recalling the face which dwelled beneath her mask, his mind inevitably found itself incapable of recalling any appearance that could be connected to Clara’s soft, chilly voice. As he carefully pondered their situation, Clara’s diminutive voice breached the silence which had connected the gap separating them. Her glimmering, hazel-framed pupils met his own once further, and her words were met with a surprised chuckle on the part of Maximillian; he certainly didn’t strike her as the type to have a sense of humor that went beyond the level of dismissive sarcasm.

After another brief instant of comfortable silence passed between them, another unexpected smile worked its way onto what was visible of his dance partner’s features. The simple gesture seemed to brighten her disposition significantly, but only for a moment. As she continued speaking, her already small and light voice quieted even further, and Max couldn’t entirely prevent a sly grin that found its way onto his masked visage. It was no small feat for her to admit something to a stranger, especially something so strange as the tether of familiarity which had suddenly bound them together. However, as if suddenly realizing just what it was that she was saying, her voice returned to its former volume as she quickly dismissed his small victory. From the few moments Max had spent alongside the mysterious Clara, it was easy to conclude that she did not take kindly to the interest others seemed to have in her. If not for their mutual feelings of passing familiarity with one another, he was sure that their conversation would have ended long ago. Regardless, he resigned himself to learning the truth. He had already come this far in this little time; what could he possibly have to lose? Her declarations, though less outright hostile than they were previously, still struck Max as very defensive. Though he had made a good start, he would have to continue navigating the waters carefully if he was to truly discover the truth behind her mask.

“I must say, I’m surprised in my own right. It is not a common occurrence for someone to make me consider my own words so carefully in passing conversation.” He paused for a moment to flash a bright, relaxed smile, and remained silent briefly as his eyes fell upon Clara’s tightly pursed lips. It was evident that they were both deep within the realms of thought, doing their best to discover the true identity of the person standing before them, but they had reached an impassable point of discussion. In a place as public as this, there was only so much that could be said of his past, let alone to a stranger. He was sure that the truth behind his attraction to her was locked within her necklace, and he inevitably swallowed his inhibitions and continued speaking in a relaxed, quiet tenor. There was only one way to solve the intricate equation which had drafted itself before their green hued gazes, and it was with action.

“It was the stone upon your necklace that first ignited the fires of curiosity in my mind. Oddly enough, from the very moment I laid my eyes upon it, I haven’t been able to keep my mind off of you.” He paused briefly as he watched a delicate brown curl fall onto Clara’s masked features, and as it did so, he was struck with an incredibly strong sense of déjà vu. At some point in his life, he had experienced this exact same moment to some degree. He was sure that several details weren’t matching up in his brain, but suddenly, he felt as though the puzzle pieces were starting to work themselves into the proper place in his mind. What was visible of his features suddenly became void of the emotion he’d displayed previously as he became lost in thoughts of the past. The feeling of the sea foam drizzling against his brow, the pungent, salty odor of the ocean’s waves cascading across a moonlit beach, the passionate heat of flesh meeting flesh, and most of all, the shine of an uncut emerald glimmering upon bare skin in the crescent moon’s glow. It was the first jewel he’d ever had the fortune to call his own. Though he knew he wouldn’t be able to afford it, he had to have it—and damned be the consequences of splurging on such a frivolous commodity. As sudden as the brief memory overcame him, his senses finally returned. Without realizing, he had subconsciously taken a large step backward in the process of his recollection. He was starting to remember, but the dance of wits and platitudes would no longer prove itself sufficient to jog his memory. As he cleared his throat and returned his gaze to Clara’s eyes, he realized that he had drifted off into the haze of his thoughts for far longer than he intended. He pulled away from her slightly and looked off into the crowd of suits and gowns which coated the floor’s tiles; who was she, and why was she evoking these feelings and memories which had remained dormant within him for so long? He considered his next plan of action for an instant as he returned his emerald gaze to her masked visage, then finally broke the silence which had spawned between them. It was better to end this charade before it became too complicated. The memories she awakened within his psyche were restored alongside feelings of longing, desperation, and regret, and those were three feelings which the elegantly dressed gentleman did not find himself comfortable feeling so suddenly. It was time to rid himself of the problem he had created before it seriously affected him.

“Please forgive me, Clara. I did not wish to forget my manners in such a way. I must apologize for inconveniencing you on this eve, but if you could kindly excuse me, I believe I have taken enough of your valuable time. Thank you for the dance.” With that being said, Max didn’t spare his former dance partner so much as a glance backward as he quickly made his way back toward the table which contained their beverages. He quickly took up his cane and scotch, and then began to escort himself to the nearest exit, all the while ignoring the strange glances of the passerby as his exposed features knit themselves into twisted embroidery of irritation and confusion. As he made his way out of the masquerade’s main event, he lightly tapped his cane against the floor as he traversed the elegantly arranged hallways of their host’s manor. It was a luxurious abode to be sure, but the elegance of the furnishings did little to comfort the unease in Maximillian’s mind. In time, he eventually found his way to the outside world, and sighed in relief as the chilly mountain air washed over him. He quickly stomached what remained of his scotch, then carelessly shattered the empty glass on the concrete of the manor’s exterior. Manners were the least of his concerns at the moment. He took a moment to dig through his jacket and withdrew a cigarette and a lighter, inhaling sharply upon the mentholated tube of tobacco as his thoughts wandered back to Clara. He wasn’t sure she would follow him, but if she did, he wasn’t quite sure what he would say to her next. To have conducted their interaction with such ease and confidence, only to suddenly bolt from his conquest altogether was distinctly unlike him. He could only wonder how Clara had reacted to the display. It was for that reason and that reason alone that his mask remained upon his face as he smoked his cigarette, attempting to figure out whether or not his curiosity was worth his trouble. Only time could tell, he supposed.