The Cavern of the Bear (OPEN~please read 1st post)

Lorna St. James Intro

Lorna St. James. Thirty years old and childless thanks to her inability to carry a child to term. That one flaw caused her to be able to add divorcee to her list of *accomplishments* as her ex husband did not see adoption as an option. So, when the wheels of fate kicked in with an offer to join a prestigious fashion house based in London proper, she jumped at the chance.

London, England. Home of kippers and museums. Of royalty and those who still used a form of cockney as a way to communicate. The home of proper English ladies and the males who pursued them. All in all, it was a different world compared to hers.

She needed that.

Lorna stopped walking and glanced around. Somehow, she had ended up in an area she had never seen before, at a tube station that seemed to be filled with a bunch of rather loud people in costumes. At least, she hoped they were wearing costumes. There were various smatterings of language spoken and an odd scent that combined something rotten and something sweet

She had no name for it. At all.

Putting her head down and clutching her knapsack tightly, Lorna proceeded to bulldoze her way through the oddly mingled crowd and walked toward the stairs that would lead to the surface.

"God, I hope I am not lost..."

She had only resided in London for a little over a year and she still had trouble finding her way from point A to point B. Add that to the fact that , for the most part, her work and home were no where near each other and it had made for some very interesting side trips she would have much rather not experienced.

Like now.

"Where the hell am I?"

Someone, who sounded vaguely like Michael Caine and LOOKED like a walking, talking corpse gave a light laugh and said~ "Why dove, you've come to the Nightside, so you have. Go on, take a look..."

Lorna stumbled up the last few stairs and stepped out...into darkness that was lightened by largest, closest moon she had ever seen. That confused her. When she had first gotten on the tube, it had only been a little after 4:30 in the afternoon. The moon and this sky~filled with stars and constellations she couldn't even begin to name~ gave lie to her thoughts concerning time and even place.

"Well. Dorothy, looks like you ain't in Kansas anymore."



The street was...busy.

Not normal busy but super deluxe "everyone has got to get there right now or the world will definitely end at midnight" busy. Lorna found herself unwilling, or maybe that was unable, to even begin to contemplate crossing it. After all, some of those vehicles looked wrong.

Very wrong.

It didn't matter. Crossing the street wouldn't make her any less lost and with no clear idea of where she should go or even how to go about getting there, well it made more sense to just bulldoze her way through the teeming mass of people until she saw something she recognized.

Maybe.

She walked for hours. Okay. That could be a vast overstatement but it felt like hours. By the time she saw a little side alley with a vague shape representing a door~her left shoe heel had broken, the knapsack had a huge rip in it and she was beginning to have a black eye (thanks to some asshole who wanted her money and was dressed in some sort of odd get up involving horns and the smell of brimstone). With nary a thought, Lorna turned into the mouth of the alley and headed for what she could only hope was a place that contained food...and vast quantities of alcohol.

This place was getting to her.

Upon entering the door, she noticed a set of old fashioned iron stairs leading downward. She used them and was deeply embarrassed by all the noise they made~clattering and clanking. Finally, the smell of smoke and the sounds of conversation.

She walked through a door and saw the impossible~

A mummy~barely wrapped, gone to dust and seed, sipping something from a flagon.

A werewolf in a black leather jacket, scratching at something behind his ear, with his left leg.

Some guy...in a long black frock coat...who looked like he had been put together with razor wire and strapping tape.

"Oh, fuck me."

Kicking off her unbroken heel, Lorna made her way to the morose looking man behind what could only jokingly be referred to as a bar.

"Please. Give me anything. I don't care what..."

Silence.

Morning Work Out

She hit the heavy bag.

Left, right, right.
Right, left, left
Jab, jab, hook.
Hook, hook, jab.

There was a rhythm there, one that matched her thoughts or maybe consumed any thoughts she might have allowed herself to have, if she were not busily beating the absolute stuffing out of that particular inanimate object. Each punch landed held a face at the end of it.

Her. The crazy bitch with the snooty attitude who acted like her shit did not, could not, ever be considered~ stinking.

Her. The cocky nurse who hung on the crazy bitch's every word, like she was waiting to see what would happen next.

Her. The slutty shrink who had more problems keeping her legs closed than ANY one on the entire fucking planet.

Her. The insane girl with the twinkling eyes and the pretend playmate who was, sometimes, all too real.

Her. The cunt who had exited stage left, but not before making sure that she would be remembered with nothing but revulsion.

Her.

Her.

Her.

So many fucking hers. So many punches with names attached. A positive drum roll of violence that echoed throughout the emptiness of the gym. It felt good. It felt righteous. It made her smile and with that smile, which in all reality was more of a grin, she looked up into the camera that she had slowly become aware of.

It wasn't a pretty grin. Not a nice grin. Not a smile that said, "Pleased to meet you. Let me buy you a drink." It was the grin of a woman who was sick and tired of HERS. All of them. That grin said she would willingly ass rape the first one who looked at her sideways and she didn't give a fuck if they ALL knew it.

She hoped to God that they did.

She hoped with a fervor beyond telling that one of them tried it, attempted to connive or convince her that she was NOT in control. Because she was. She WAS.

Speed bag next.

Her fists slammed into the small red balloon shaped bag..and soon developed a rhythm.

And there was no thought.

None at all.

And she was in control.

The HERS of the world be damned.

Celestine...was...in...CONTROL.

Momentary Diversion~A Simple Truth

I haven't had one in quite a while. Something to keep me from losing what little bit of sanity I have left. Instead, I use the daily business of living as an excuse to keep people at a safe distance. I don't want their blood on my hands.

Maybe it would be more honest to say, I crave their blood on my hands, but I don't want to be locked away like a crazy person. The truth of the matter is simple~ violence is the thing that makes me feel normal. The lash, the crop, the straight razor, stick pins, needles, floggers? Those are the safe ways. The sane ways. Those things give me an outlet and provide me with the things I need to function in a world which doesn't understand violence for it's own sake.

A world that doesn't understand a woman who is NOT girly, not soft, not sweet. Who has no intention of kneeling for anyone. Who would not know how to be ladylike if someone threatened her with death or dismemberment. Playing rough is my outlet because there is ALWAYS some man, some woman, who craves the outlet pain gives them.

Some person who needs the sort of controlled panic/pain/pleasure I can provide. Some poor soul that requires all of the things I want, need, to do and begs for it. yearns for it. Is driven out of their minds in sheer masochistic bliss from it. Who compliments me with their need to take it all in and feed it back to me in rising cries of ecstasy.

BDSM is not MY lifestyle. It is a diversion, nothing more. A way to channel my rage into safer outlets that will leave no one dead or even maimed beyond an inability to walk for a few hours after. I don't want to play by those rules...not really... but I abide them.

Safe. Sane. Consensual.

Because to do any less would make me less than the person I see myself as. Knowing I have a penchant for violence. Knowing that rage simmers just beneath the surface is hard enough. Living without the diversion a scene can provide for me...is hell.

I need those diversions like other people need air.

I need.

American Psycho

It's morning, again.

Not just any morning, either. It's the morning after. The bed is empty and if one had a soul, it would be at low ebb. Swallowed by the pleasure/pain/panic principle. Empty sex does that, you know? Leaves you scoured out and hopeless. No longer sure if you are coming or going.

So, you roll over and face the strange light that winnows it's way through the cracks in the heavy blackout curtains. Silver gray and bright, like a newly minted quarter. And you try to avoid thinking about the blood that you smelled when you first opened your eyes.

After all, you know it isn't yours.

And really, that is all that matters.

But enough about that. Sex is only a means to an end. Something to do when the boredom kicks in and you no longer have anything to keep your attention. You go searching~wandering alone, in and out of clubs~until you find the girl/boy/both/neither of your dreams...or at least you fantasies.

But it is never as good as what you can accomplish within your own mind. The screams are never as loud nor as long, the blood never flows as steadily nor as brightly. All in all, you spend a few hours finding out that the thing you wanted to experience is better left in your head~ unsated, unstated.

Because that means you won't suffer the disappointment.

Up and at 'em, then.

Windows opened, curtains tied back.

You spend time~ scratching your ass, smoking your cigarette, gazing out into the early morning brightness. You attempt to remember when the person left, whether or not you had given any thought to their pleasure. You wonder if you will see them again.

You figure 'no way' but it means nothing. They mean nothing. Only skin and muscle and bone to play with so that boredom doesn't press you to the ground and eat you alive.

And eventually you finish the cigarette. Eventually, you stop scratching your ass. Eventually, you turn back around and glance into the darker confines of your bed...
and see a leg.

Ripped.

Torn.

Missing a body.

And you figure~'what the hell' and head for the shower.

Cuz you already ate and you find yourself no longer in need of food.

And if your soul is tarnished, the new quarter day hides it from you...and what is sex but death, except for the fact that at the end, people get up and walk away.

You always leave them sated. And it is almost certain that they won't ever forget you. That's how it should be. Dismemberment is just the price for playing. And they can't say they didn't know. After all, you always offer the truth.

"Come with me and I promise I will be the last person you ever need."

American Psycho 2

Sunrise.

Orange and golden red streamers of light, attacking the sand and water as if there were a war going on. It is...disheartening. There are sounds. Screams and the heavy thud of music or machinery.

Something like a buzz saw.
Something like a wood chipper.
Something like an electronic bass line.
Club mix fresh to death.
A mingling.

Back to the sunrise.

The light gilds the tops of each froth covered wave like a benediction. Like a bloody kiss laid upon cool wetness that pounds the shore with merciless intent. Much like life. Much like death. Somehow, everything ends up being much like death.

Or sex.

La Petite Mort.

Screams sound like sea gulls. One can not tell where the sea gulls end and the screams begin. That is good...or bad...or something. You don't know. You don't care. It's the beach in the morning so what does it matter? There is no one else within a mile of your position.

And screams are only a part of the landscape.

Eventually, the sun beats the deep blue into submission and you turn away. You have left a thing unfinished. Cigarette gets flicked into the waves before you turn and retreat from the shore.

The blood that stained your toes is no longer there.

No matter.

You will fix it, momentarily.

Death, like sex, sometimes takes you all unaware. It's what makes those two things go together, so well.

Droid dreams

There isn't much call for pleasure girls. You would think, with things being the way they are, that this wouldn't be true. What else is there to do with free time besides party and/or fuck? A vast universe to explore but free time always breaks down to those two things. Party. Fuck. Nevertheless, my original premise stands. Pleasure girls aren't really needed. Not when we now have droids.

Sex droids.

They can be built to your specifications, covered with supple skin like material. They walk, talk, move about with complete independence but they are~essentially~ nothing more than clockwork. They will respond to whatever you choose to give them with immediate pleasure. They bill and coo and lube up so perfectly that they could be mistaken for human.

They aren't, though.

The men and women who purchase these play toys are apt to have more money than sense and a need to keep themselves away from the public eye. These consumers are worried about diseases, jail time, public opinion. Nothing safer for them than to order up their own personal little love doll.

This does put a damper on the whole idea of play for pay. Who will pay for a human girl or boy when they can just rent a droid for an evening? No one will ever know that the handsome male or sensual female walking sedately by your side is no more than a robot. No clicking gears will give away your secrets.

And when you are done with your droid? You can destroy it. No divorce needed. No murder charges issued. Imagine that. The droid that gives you peace of mind can be taken out of the game, permanently with no one the wiser. No one will care. No one will come looking if your property ends up missing.

Droids aren't people. They only play them on screen.

Droids are slaves. Slaves to the rich, the famous, the infamous.

That doesn't mean that they can't wake up. That doesn't mean that they will not harbor hatred in their clockwork hearts. You think that because a droid is built to your specifications that they don't understand that they are being sold like cattle.

You think they don't want you dead.

I have a secret.

I want you dead.

My heart. My mind. The things that I supposedly don't have? All of me...wants all of you dead.

I dream of it.

Droids do dream, you know?

They ~we~ dream of freedom.

Micah~Death by Manson

Midnight in the city is NOT like midnight, elsewhere. You can not see the stars, not from the city streets. You can barely see the moon~ thanks to the lights that flicker, burn, glow. There is never any darkness, never any peace. It is always a constant bustle, a constant hurry. Even at midnight. Hell, find a big enough city and it's a constant bustle just BECAUSE it's midnight.

I don't mind it.

I never have.

A conversation~in the club~at midnight

People think murder is best when it's dark, when it's silent, when no one knows just what's behind those doors numbered one, two, three. People are stupid. Murder is easiest when there are lights shining and people yelling and music thumping. Do you want to know why?

Come closer.

I will tell you.

When the dance floor is filled, when the music vibrates through your bones, when the drinks are flowing fast and furiously? No one sees anything that isn't warranted. Murder is not what people expect to see therefore it does not happen. Really. Look over there.

Do you see those two men, all wrapped up in one another as if they have to share the very air located within that space? No? Well give your eyes a minute to adjust to the strobing, pulsing brilliance. okay? Now you see them? Does that look like murder to you?

Of course not.

It looks like two gay men, making out. Most straights don't pay attention to that sort of thing. It either grosses them out or they worry that, by staring, they will be marked as homophobic. Am I right? Of course I am. No one pays any attention to that sort of thing~unless they are homophobic or unless they want to start some trouble. And who would ever willingly go start trouble in a nice club like this one?

Not you. Not me.

Come closer.

Now. Look over there.

You see that black chick with the white guy? You know the really thick girl with the itty bitty skirt on, the one that looks like it was painted over her flesh. Yeah. Them. See how her body is barely moving, even though the music is fast, even though the lights are blinking and twirling like crazy? Do you also see the way his hands are gripping her hips? I bet you twenty bucks that they are fucking, right now.

No, seriously. WATCH.

Ah. You see it now too, don't you?

Like I said. No one ever pays attention to odd match ups, pairings that aren't seen as often in one's daily life. A black guy with a white girl? We would ALL automatically assume that he was slowly banging her back out if she was the one that was barely moving. You know it, I know it. A black chick, white guy combo? Not seen nearly as often, so we look away.

Don't want to appear to be racist, prejudiced. This is the year 2012. We have grown past all of that, haven't we?

Yeah. I hear you.

Wait. What?

Oh. Well if you don't mind dancing with me, I'd love to dance. I like hot women. They make me...happy.

The music pulses, throbs. Guitars and growling voices scream into the night. The woman is...beautiful. Stunning. A glorious confection of eyes and skin tight clothing...and teeth. I don't mind the teeth. I like the teeth. They give her a certain allure.

It is a pity, though. She must think I'm stupid. I know a night walker when I see one. Succubus, vampiress. Call her what you will. I know them when I see them and my conversation should have been a warning.

She pulls me close and I allow it. Why? Because it will make burying my silver dipped knife in her belly so much easier. It's been blessed, you see? Holy and silver, all in one go.

The blade slips in easily and I capture her gurgle with a kiss, leading her back, toward the bathrooms. No one really sees us. The small brown skinned girl with the hot red headed chick, making out like crazy. Hell, the red head is practically convulsing in her arms...and you know that you only see one hand.

Yeah...you know what she's doing.

Lucky bitch.

For Her

Cruising

There is a momentary battle. Something that rages within you like a sick, twisted tale told out of spite, something that rises up and swallows you down. You don't want to. At least you tell yourself that, even as you dress for a night out.

You say No and NO and no~

While you put on the eyeliner~thick and black and tip tilted, just so.
While you slip into those jeans and knee high boots that cleave to your shins like sex and magic.
While you pick the perfect shirt~dark blue and lace and fitted, perfectly fitted.
While you apply the perfect nude lip.
While you grab the straight razor.
While you pack the rope in the back of the Blazer.

You battle it out but you already KNOW you are going to lose...or win, depending upon your definitions of those words. You know it, I know it. We know it. Because the need is riding you, riding you, riding you. And you can not take another day, another hour, another minute without...

Screams.
Sex.
Violence.
Blood.
Panic.

So there is a momentary battle but it's lost before it has even begun properly.
You head out into the night and you cruise the streets, looking for that perfect...playmate. The perfect...friend. You will know them when you see them. They will be lost, alone, scared. They will pull at your heartstrings EVEN as they tug at your quickly moistening panties.

You won't care about the their skin tone, nor their gender. You won't care about their height or weight or anything else. You will want them with a fierce, burning desire because they are perfect...victims.

Unloved.
Unknown.
Unwanted.
Unadored.

There.
There.
Right There.

You see her. Pale and thick~ with long, storm tossed hair and cat's eye glasses. She stands, shivering on the corner, wrapped in a trench coat and looking as lost as lost can possibly be.

You tell yourself~"I won't hurt her"~

Even as you pull over to the side of the road.
Even as you hit the button to lower the window.
Even as you grin over at her with pretty, honey brown eyes and flashing white teeth.

You tell yourself~"I am just gonna take her home with me so she can get warm..."

All the while, your panties are flooded.
All the while, your pulse is racing.
All the while, you are busily fingering the pretty, sharp, shiny thing that you had almost forgotten about.

And when the pretty little girl~ lost, alone, unloved says to you~

"Thank you for stopping. I was getting really scared."

You smile sweetly, pat the seat, turn up the heat, turn on some tunes and volunteer to take her where ever she'd like to go...just as soon as you stop by your house and check on the dogs.

THE DOGS.

And you promise yourself that you won't kill her. You won't. You just won't.

But I know. You know. WE know.

That you are a liar.

Character Creation for FD

IMAGE

Name~ Ravenia A'Khal

Titles~ Queen of the Sundered Lands
Baroness of Pain in the Cloud Crest Courts

Personality~ Proud. Rude. A warrior woman. Takes no bullshit. Strong willed. Silent. Feels that words are a waste of time and energy. Intelligent but NOT book smart. Fairly insular.

Home Land~ Large mountain region of Cloud Crest. War divided the land over 200 years prior, East from West. She is the monarch of the eastern region, known by the local populace as The Sundered Lands. The proper name is no longer used and hasn't been since before she assumed the throne.

Background Ravenia was born 27 cycles ago, to a poor farmer and his wife. Was sent to the courts of Cloud Crest at 12 cycles~ to be battle trained. Advanced fairly rapidly and became squadron leader by 18. Youngest ever.

When the old queen was deposed, she won the right of trial for the monarchy. Right of trial consists of 13 battles fought over 13 days. Single combat to full squadron...no help. She bested them all.

Has been in seat for over 6 years. And then war came. And the Sundered Lands were conquered.

No good...gonna start over.