yxurobsession:
{☽} — Oh. She felt the beast within the other. Her nose wrinkled in disdain at this. Her father and the court used to love chasing Lycans and killing them with silver blades and silver arrows. Serana had never taken part in these hunts, her mother had focused her away from it, and on the ability of her magic prowess. Yet, she was different. An elf with the wolf spirit in her, but her scent was mingled with death. This one walked with death by their side. Fangs peered over her lower lip as she drew her lips back in a small smile. The Dread father was only called by so few. This woman was an assassin…
There was a casual shift of stance. Serana looked relaxed despite the fact that her Vampiric instincts told her to kill. Werewolf or not, she was still civil to people. “Hm, two millennia, in fact.” Her smile grew, it could have a bordered on sinister, but it was a pleasant one nonetheless. “The Black Hand, I believe, sent one of their best assassins in skyrim after my father. I do believe he tried to tell that to my father before he was ripped apart…” Teasing? Perhaps.
{S}he found her footing again, regained herself, calmed her mind, emptied her soul--found peace. The veil of uncertainty was torn away by the jaws of the World, her mind no longer clouded by primitive instinct. Vlaya moved to completely face the old vampire, but not without taking a moment to look over this stranger. Old, ageless--even timeless. "Hm, two millennium, in fact." Nevertheless, there was no reason they couldn't be civil with one another. Vlaya made note to try and work on her... for lack of a better word, antisocial behavior. But this woman was.. strange. Forward, pushy? She tried to touch the meaning of her existence, to insult her very being, every fiber. "The Black Hand, I believe, sent one of their best assassins in Skyrim after my father. I do believe he tried to tell that to my father before he was ripped apart…" The pale elf looked onward from the shadows of her hood, eyes dark, black--forged of onyx. Her whetted lips part to speak--whetted by fire, spewing lava from her mouth--words of strength and dominance. She did not demand it but, and yet--in her stature, her presence, it almost commanded it. She speaks, her words are poison. She knew this world, and she had her sources. The Dark Brotherhood was to know everything--it was how they survived all these centuries. "You mock me, vampire. Do as you please," she said. The Bosmer continued on after only the slightest pause. "For you and I are gifted our own faults--mine at the hands of my dead ancestors, and yours at the hands of your merciless and maniacal father--whom, I do believe, was slaughtered by the Dragonborn." And was there not more shame in that?--a man killed by the fates, not a man killed by man. Her hand moved dismissively, her demeanor relaxed and in common idea that they were on friendly terms--somehow. "Ah, but I digress; let us not speak on such sad terms. Wouldn't you agr e e ? "
