wounded (c) [past]

[LILLITH MAE VINCIT]

Late at night in the streets of London was typically a frightening place for most people, let alone children. However, Lacey Daniels had been living out here on her own for the past two years. You see, she had a habit of running away from home on occasion, but it was more for the attention of her parents. One specific time she ran away they simply didn't come to find her, so she returned in immature anger only to find the both of them lying a pool of their combined blood. The only thing she could think of was that she was finally free to run away for real this time.

It had been difficult at first, as she was only about 6 years old, but her hungry stomach soon grew dull to the rancid food she had to eat. After all, a hungry belly isn't a picky one. That was two years ago, and now at the still tender age of 8, she knew the city and alleyways like the back of her hand, and found that the park was the best place for her. It was easy to con the muggles out of some of their picnic food, simply acting as though she had lost her parents. All she had to do was pick a spot in the dirt and pretend to cry, waiting for the right people to come by and ask her if she was alright. She would spill various different stories about having ben lost for hours and how she hadn't eaten since breakfast. Every time, whoever happened to have the heart to stop and check on her, could not refuse the girl's pleas for something to eat.

Though it was no longer daylight, and dinner was a bit more difficult to come by than lunch or even breakfast. Not as many people were out after the sun went down, and if they were they never tended to be the type to give free hand-outs. While she had made pacts with a few other homeless people wandering the streets, she knew better than to mooch off of them constantly. After all, they were having just as many issues getting a meal as she was. More often than not, she'd find a way to hide some of her lunch away to save for later, but there were the days when her ploys hadn't received her enough to save.

Today was such a day, and Lacey clutched at her growling stomach while peeking around a corner at a group of drunken blokes. They were laughing and carrying on and having a grand old time while they sucked down one ale after another and tearing into sandwiches purchased at the nearby mart. Just the thought of a sandwich made the young girl's mouth water; the freshly baked bread that held together all of the meat, cheese, lettuce, and tomatoes. She was practically drooling, but knew these weren't the kind individuals who would be willing to give her a free sample. In fact, she knew this from past experience. This particular group had tormented her a while back for trying to guilt something from them.

Well, if she couldn't win them over with her child-like charm, she would just have to steal it. To this day she wasn't exactly the best thief, but her hinger was driving her to desperation. She wanted that sandwich, and she was going to get it no matter what the cost. Keeping an eye on the guys, she waited until the most opportune moment - when one went to take a piss in the alleyway nearby, another went for some more ale, and the third was left by himself. As quietly as possible, she kept to the shadows and snuck around behind him, lifting one of the unguarded sandwiches. Managing to grab it without a sound, she turned around to make her getaway, but the man happened to reach down for his food a bit too soon and noticed that it was gone.

"OI! YOU LITTLE SNEAK THIEF GET BACK HERE!" he shouted at her, which was her cue to run, and run she did. As fast as she could, she tore off down the deserted street, clutching her prize to her chest as she ducked around a corner. She could hear the heavy footsteps right behind her, and she closed her eyes for a brief moment as she turned into the alleyway and ended up jumping over a few trash cans. To her surprise, she landed quite easily, more softly than she knew she should have. Her surprise caused her to pause for a brief moment, just long enough to hear the crash of the trash cans as the man chasing her tripped over them.

There was also a second sound like metal, and when she looked down, she saw a fairly large knife. Apparently the man who was chasing her had pulled it out and planned on taking his food back with more force than was necessary. Fear instantly flooded her eyes as she reached out to grab the weapon before he could. "Give it here you bitch!" he demanded as he reached out and grabber her by the ankle. With a small scream she lashed out at him, only intending to hit him in the head, but instead, the blade of the knife connected with the back of his neck. This was the first time in her two years on the street had brought her this much fear, and she didn't even notice that her tight hold on the knife was heating the metal in the blade.

In a panic, blood splattering all over her hands and ragged clothes, she fought to free herself from the now deceased man's grip. "Geroff!" she half whispered in frustration. She knew she would have to get out of here soon or she would be caught red handed - literally. Just as she was beginning to make her real escape, a whistling sound began to emit from the left pocket of her long overcoat. One of the magical gadgets she had taken from her house when she left - a sneakoscope - was spinning and whistling in there. Instantly she turned to face the main street behind the dead man, holding the knife in a defensive position. It was in her right hand, the blade on the back side of her hand, just as it had been when she stabbed the guy she stole the sandwich from. Her heart was absolutely pounding in fear, and she had no idea how she was going to get out of this.

[VLADIMIR LATHAM VINCIT]

people change and promises are broken
clouds can move and skies will be wide open

[/size][/center][/color][/i]

The jagged edge of the sharp knife beckoned him rhythmically, with each calculated step that he took; Latham could feel the vibrations of the shrill screams echo through the canvas of his ears. Music. If there was ever something as serene and relaxing as the breathy screams, the throaty pleas and lastly the beseeching agonizing recital of wanting death pressed against the curvature of their spine; Latham didn’t know of it. All he saw was the beauty of crimson laid out in front of him—he noiselessly withered with the need, the pliable consumption of desire rose within the depths of his heart, and he knew—soon, the time would come when this humble muggle mother would savor once last look at the enchanting world that surrounded her and bid goodbye to everything she loved, leaving behind nothing but the solicit beauty of a rotting corpse. With every severed inch of distance between them, Latham’s anticipation grew dearer, he could practically swim in the haze of fear buried beneath the swell of her eyes; he was mesmerized by the sight she presented. Bound, gagged and forcibly pinned against a metal flat bed, with the slow trickle of blood oozing ever so gently from the quiet streaming wound on her shoulder. She was a sight alright—as beautiful as he could have imagined, reverent in her beauty. At least, the sad tale of her miserable life would have an artistic ending. If Latham was at all equipped with the talent to paint—he would depict her portrait on the canvas of this very room, paint it with the stains of her blood, so that no matter where her soul rested, a part of her would always gracefully linger in the depths of this cold cellar.

Almost at a snail’s pace, Latham anticipatedly moved closer, licking the shell of his dried lips as he watched her from half lidded eyes. A part of him wondered just what it would be like to have her—bury himself deep beneath her hilt as he slit a straight line across the arch of her throat. Latham could just imagine the hot blood splashing against his face as he slowly reached his climax, spilling his hot seed against the slowly chilling corpse of her once living breathing body. The idea alone licked the contours of his mind blissfully, Latham could feel himself stiffening beneath the smooth silk of his trousers, but he held himself back—as much as he wanted to indulge himself. Now was not the time, especially not with a woman who had both a husband and child, as morally incompetent as he presented himself to be, Latham had more values than that. He was born into the throne of a pureblood manor, not to indulge upon the likes of married women, the thought alone made him feel slightly nauseated. Adultery was a sin, and even though the Vincit’s rose from the debauchery filled ashes of sin, there were some boundaries that weren’t meant to be crossed. His father, the ever vile man that he was—enthralled by the idea of killing to survive as much as Latham, had never once laid a hand on anyone else but his mother. And if he closed his eyes—he could still hear her faltering laughs, her pitiful screams, her pleads to stay alive as the eldest Vincit slid a jagged knife slowly inside the valves of her heart. She had been beautiful in life, even more beautiful in death; every time Latham passed by her portrait in the manor—he would revel at a woman so writhingly glorious as his mother had been.

Staring down at the woman again—almost at eyelevel, Latham peered curiously at her. The vain lust that had forsaken him before had been lifted—just one whisper of his mother’s face swimming in the forefront of his eyes had blinded him to this middle aged brunettes beauty. Once again, he was cold, calculating—and the sire of his own desires. Without any more lingering distractions, he glided the knife gently across her bare chest, sliding the sharp tip in a straight line through the valley of her bosom. Latham drew an arch of crimson against her skin—illustrating a cursive “L.V” against the pale white stark of her skin. The brand of his initials were a waterfall of dark red—just looking at his masterpiece made silent tears of joy well up in the pit of his eyes. Countless souls dying for the fate of his cause and Latham had the sincerest pleasure of gently guiding the poor helpless beings to the other side of the veil. Sometimes, he often mistook that as his last remaining grace of humanity. Gradually, after lining her skin with quite a few indentations, Latham finally cut the cord of her life. His large pale hand glided between the open flesh in the valley of her breasts—his head was bowed ins prayer—and one moment of silence later—he ripped the living breathing dying woman into two. The constant spray of velvety red blood against every single niche of his face, somehow—this seemed much better than the figmented fantasy he had before. This was much more real. With a last spasm of raining blood, the woman fell into a soft slumber beneath the safety of his arms, and for the first time that very day, Latham Vincit smiled.

Gradually, he wiped the streaming blood off of his face, and the crimson stained clothes lay on a pile against the pale feet of the corpse. The smell of fresh blood licked at the very pours of his skin—and Latham basked in its glory. If there was ever such a thing as the scent amortentia, Latham was sure it would be this. The fine smell of silk clinging to his sweat-washed skin that was laden with the pure sweet smell of blood, he could literally feel his mouth water in lust—such a beautiful scent. A chime rang somewhere faintly from the upstairs bedroom—and Latham sighed faintly in protest, the husband would be home soon—and as much as he fancied another kill, he had sedated himself quite well; and he had no desire to break any one of his most trusted guidelines that Latham had laid out for himself. Four corpses a week. No more, no less. And as much of a sordid man he was, Latham was a traditionalist, through and through. Straightening his cuffs, he bid the nude broken woman a silent goodbye, before walking up the stairs—feeling the sweet smell of the tainted blood leave his nostrils forever more.

As he moved out of the lonely muggle house off on Pierre Street, Latham inhaled the sugary florissant air, after such a divine job, each prickle of the cold night air felt like raining paradise against the flakes of his very skin. He walked silently through the night, no purpose at his wake, save the silent journey to nothingness. There was no inferno raging beneath the heat of his chest—all there was, was the calamity that enveloped him. For once, Latham Vincit was content—content with just enjoying the wondrous world around him—with no spectator watching him, nobody judging him, for these silent few moments, Latham was just another pedestrian, walking sightlessly through the dark mazelike alleyways of muggle London. The pale moonlight glistened the darkened streets and even though the streetlights were out—the vast expanse of the road looked luminous. A faint whistling was heard somewhere off in the corner of the block—but other than that—the strained silence engulfed the neighborhood. Such naïve individuals these muggles were—Latham still didn’t understand them—not even after seven years of carefully studying them. They lived in an unforeseeable routine, abided by the rules set upon them by ignorant parents and blindly they followed the whispers of god. They were ridiculous, seeking reassurance upon an invisible master who didn’t exist—every single murmur of a miracle (caused by wizards) were all credited to an unknown man who was possibly floating in the starry nights.

Latham could understand the easy dislike for them, in fact, he could even sympathize with wizards who were so blindly supporting the Dark Lord. Yet—even after seeing all of this blatant idiocy through the receptors of his own eyes, Latham didn’t understand what the big deal with these non-magic beings were, if chosen, they could be have a much greater purpose, serve as friendly animals to Wizards. Latham sighed daftly into the air—caught up in the haze of his own political alignment, it was foolhardy, there was no use choosing a side over a battle he had no plans taking part in, Latham had his own wars to worry about and as far as he was concerned—the bloody tribulations of the Vincit family held much more importance than some master plan of a filthy half-blood. Just the idea of comparing it in the same league as his own problems was a waste—a sin be befoul the honorable name of Vincit, with that of a mere sadistic monster. His muscular legs glided him further into the depths of unparallel darkness—and Latham made no point in looking around. He knew he could have very well apparated back to the Leaky Cauldron, but—the idea of walking along this sensuous path was much more enthralling to him. The silence alone made all of his penetrating worries about death, wives and children slip away into the darkness. Latham could breathe freely for one tainted moment of his broken life. Before he could admiringly indulge in the silence however, it was shattered into smithereens. A low rumble of disapproval rang through his full lips—and swiftly he turned in his direction, looking for the disturbance. He was enjoying himself, basking upon the reign of the full moon and the cascading enigma of light it provided, but now—it was ruined. Everything came unhinged and his peace had scattered lowly to the ground—blowing into nothing but dust-like tiny fragments.

The earlier euphoria all but disappeared—and now—the rumble of deep rage was bubbling in the deep welt of his veins. Latham was displeased. His feet silently followed the shrill sounds, Latham could vaguely make-out the pitched voice of a girl screaming—and something that sounded like grunting. He sped him—his blood rolling with millions of possibilities; rape, murder, gluttony? they all rang so clearly in his head—and Latham wondered if his night would get just a little bit more interesting. The sole hallucination of his anger fading away into the mist—he followed, intent on watching just how this scenario would play out. Latham had always been a voyageur at heart—it was another one of those flawed pet-peeves of his. He neared the alley way, a cruel smirk lining the crook of his face as he stood in the shadows—watching the build of a fan trip over—what appeared to be his own show. Pathetic. How idiotic were muggle criminals these days? Did they retain no common sense? Being bested by a pathetically fragile little girl—with burning green eyes that Latham could see glimmer from his distance. The man grunted in pain as his knees buckled in the ground—and during that sole minute—the minuscule little shite, picked up the knife the man had dropped. Really, exerting a knife in the presence of a girl who weighed less than fifteen kilos, it was just so disgustingly pathetic. Latham had half the mind to announce his presence upon the scene and gut the man alive for being so unwittingly daft. It was—disgusting. His nostrils flared dramatically, as Latham made to announce his presence, the swell of his cloak flitted in the night air—highlighting his darkened appearance, but before he could take a step towards the little girl—he watched her—as ungraceful as a wingless bird as she accidently slit the man’s throat--- Latham stood there—all movement stilled—his whole body froze with just that poor display of ---art, like he had never seen it before. His heart—was thumping wildly in his chest—as he stared at the thin scrap of meat that stood in the alleyway.

He tilted his head to the side—as he unabashedly watched her—taking in the dirt of her fingernails—to the raggedly piece of cloth tatted against the frail skin of her bones. She was pathetic—a muggle street hoodlum, but nonetheless—the sole beauty that magnified from the girl pleased him to an extent. He made to approach her again—but a wretched blasting sound of something—that sounded vaguely like a sneakoscope, held him back once more. Latham Vincit was a man who disliked many things—but one thing that completely unnerved him to extremities were loud noises, made by foolish machinery. Latham felt a pinch in his temple—as he screwed his eyes shut together, blocking the horrible sound from reaching his ears. With a thunderous boom, he made his way toward her, the swish of his cloak following the tantalizing step of his every move, the girl stood silent—the heel of her knife pointing in his direction. Latham fought the urge to backhand her—a girl who had just outwitted the laws of physics—didn’t have the ability to hold a knife probably in defense. And the solitary whistling of that blasted device was driving him in the brink of insanity. Latham’s green eyes clouded over hers—a snarl at his wake as he looked down upon the girl—“Turn that blasted thing----“ Latham began, but before he could finish his sentence, his drew his wand—pointing it solely at the little girl—and silently he flicked it in the air. Silence. The booming course of melodical silence licked the shell of his ears—making every single bad thought float away into nothingness. His frame felt lighter—his mind was clearer—and taking a deep inhalation of the air, he re-opened his emerald eyes, taking in the young girl once again. A slow smirk trailed lazily against the side of his aristocratic face as he looked at her pitiful form—the shaking knife in her hand. Latham raised his wand arm once more—giving the girl a rather sinuous look, he trailed the cool piece of wood against the side of her face, digging in to the soft hill of her cheek. He leaned in closer—and he inhaled the scent of her; blood, dirt, sweat—and something so sinisterly sweet it made Latham’s eyes flare in desire—the scent was enchanting Latham—beckoning him closer—calling to him like nothing has ever done before. Latham withdrew his frame just a tiny bit—his eyes hungrily searching her pale face—looking for something—he just didn’t know what. His open fist clenched against his side, but other than that—Latham made no movement of losing control. He drew his face, away from the girls—moving his wand from pressing roughly against her thin cheek—“What’s your name?” Latham didn’t understand what made him ask such a question—in fact, he didn’t even know why he was standing in her presence unable to move on—all he knew was that the girl had somehow baffled him in such a way that Latham couldn’t seem to walk out of her presence without having the vaguest notion of something pulling him back.

TAGGED ! [/color]lillith.
LYRICS ! nothing
WORDS ! 2601
OUTFIT ! LINKAGE!
CREDIT ! MEELA! on CAUTION 2.0![/font][/size]

[LILLITH MAE VINCIT]

Everything had just happened so quickly. The sandwich, the man, the running, jumping into the alleyway, picking up the knife, and finally killing a man. Needless to say the girl was absolutely terrified, though confused as she felt an odd sensation of relief at the man's death at the same time. She had killed him just as her parents had been killed, though not with as much blood. Stumbling a bit as she pulled herself away, the sneakoskope blaring in her pocket, she spun to see where the next threat was. From what her mother had taught her about the device was that it would whistle if someone untrustworthy was around. It hadn't spun for the man as he wasn't necessarily being the one untrustworthy, and her thievery was innocent and not worth setting it off.

The only problems she found with it were in making escapes as those untrustworthy folks could easily track her down just by listening to the awful sound it made. Just to her displeasure, there stood a man in odd clothing - he was looking at her with an odd sort of grin, and she could tell that the sneakoscope was referring to him, especially when he began to yell at her to turn it off. However, instead of finishing his sentence, he reached into his clothing, and Lacey believed for a moment he was reaching for a gun. Too terrified to move she just stood there like a stone only to see something more fearsome than a gun pointed at her. The expression on her face went from frightened to absolutely terrified. She knew the basic idea of a wand, as well as the fact that they were absolutely real.

Her bright green eyes were as wide as saucers now, fixed intently on the wand, while the rest of her body shook from head to toe. No matter how much she willed herself to stop showing this blatant sign of weakness, she simply couldn't help it - nor could she will her legs to move in order to get her out of a possibly terrible predicament. She could feel the tears of desperation welling up in her eyes. It was very possible that she could die right here and now, and no one would be able to tell why. Not only that, but they would also be able to tell that she was Lacey Daniels, the missing girl from the double murder of two years ago. If there was one thing she didn't want, it was to be returned to that stupid family, dead or alive.

Sure returning dead could serve as some kind of message for those who were so unkind to her amongst her relatives, but that wasn't the way she wanted to return. Her preferred way was to get revenge. Granted, she had no idea exactly how she was going to do that just yet, but she was sure that she would think of a way at some point - she still had the rest of her life ahead of her - or so she did. With this wand pointed at her, this life may very well end in just a few moments.

Before she knew it, he had descended upon her, his wand tip on her cheek. Her eyes grew even wider at the close proximity to this obviously dangerous man. He was absolutely terrifying enough to look at, let alone to be threatened by. Her only reaction was to gulp down a small bit of saliva as her mouth and throat were getting dryer by the second. By now her muscles were convulsing so quickly in the heightened fear that she could feel her jaw quivering as well, and she did her best to keep her teeth from shattering. In fact, all she could do to try and keep a hold of herself was to clench her eyes shut and simply not look at the man while focusing all of her attention on her own actions.

She could feel his hot breath on her face, the cool yet smooth feel of the wood against her cheek, and the slight spark of the power that emanated from the tip. It was definitely a genuine wand, and even though he wasn't casting a spell, he still had some sort of intentions pouring into the magical core that sent small shocks of pain through her nervous system. The pain seemed to be just enough to help her regain control of her body because the moment he asked her what her name was, she finally felt as though she was able to move.

There was an explosive sound that echoed through the alley as she was pushed away from the magical source. It seemed as though her heightened feelings of fear had finally kicked in and sent her flying away from the man. To her surprise, she landed gently on her feet and was able to continue running almost immediately. Thinking of nothing else but escaping, she tore off down the alley and turned down the first intersection. Weaving her way through the back streets that had made her home for the past 2 years, she was confident in her ability to lose him on foot, especially since she seemed to be running a great deal faster than her normal run.

Breathing heavily, she kept her quick pace as she turned corner after corner, trying to make her path as confusing to follow as humanly possible. Now that she had begun to run, she had it set in her mind that she was not going to die today - not now - not before she could find a way to take revenge on her father's family for being cruel to her directly, and not before taking revenge on the wizard family that had ignored her for her entire life simply because her mother was a squib. So what if her mother couldn't do magic? Wasn't family supposed to be more important than that?

However, she may be a bit of a hipocrite at this as she was not distraught in the least at her parents' deaths. In fact, she thought they had gotten what they deserved for being so bitter - a trait that they had passed on to her, if not just her mother. She had seen how happy the two of them were, and only ever wanted to be included, but the only way she seemed to be able to get attention was to act out, break things, and run away. Yes, the adrenaline had brought all of her strengths to the surface, and she was determined to not give up this fight, though it now seemed as though she had really lost that wizard back there. Perhaps there was a bit of magic in her yet, and as she began to feel more confident about her escape, she slowed her pace to a stop.

Breathing heavily still, she gasped for air as she gazed at her hands. Her mother may have been a squib, but it was beginning to look as though the magic had only skipped a generation - or perhaps she had inherited some dormant magic from her father's side? Hell it could even be any combination of the two, combined power from unknown sources - what sort of possibilities could this give her? Maybe she could learn to control it and steal from those punks a lot easier, or even from a real deli, and get what she really wants instead of picking from what someone else chose. The possibilities were phenomenal, and all she would need was a bit of practice.

Oh this would be so wonderful - and the perfect way to show up her wizarding grandparents. Daughter of a disowned Squib showing up on their doorstep to award them with her mother's hateful thoughts and despicable plans to get back at them. Then she would get back at her cousins who teased her for being different and 'weird' for all the things that went wrong when she was around. The anger bubbled up inside the girl as she began to forget all of her fear - it was being replaced with thoughts of so many possibilities, and no one could take that from her, not even a full grown wizard. She only wished that she had noticed her gift sooner, perhaps life would have been a bit more bearable with her mother, maybe even hopeful. She already was taught various things about the wizarding world, so just imagine what her mother would have taught her if she had known the abilities that Lacey possessed.

If she had known about being a future witch, maybe she would have been home schooled by her mother rather than sent to the public muggle schools that her father insisted upon in the event that she turned out the same as her mother. It had always been so infuriating since her cousins attended the same school. 'Oh won't it be great to have Liam and Charlotte there to guide her?' her father had insisted. Oh her cousins did some guiding alright - they guided their little groups of friends to pick on the younger Lacey so as to be able to pass it off as some other kids picking on her. The more she complained to her parents, the worse the teasing became, and so she eventually just stopped tattling to her mother and father.

Yes, this could possibly be the best thing to ever happen to her, albeit the fact that she was covered in blood.

[VLADIMIR LATHAM VINCIT]

people change and promises are broken
clouds can move and skies will be wide open

[/size][/center][/color][/i]

The swift wind of the night blew past him silently, stroking the fair bit of muscles on his arms, before sliding beneath the pallor of his lean chest. He stood there at his full height of two meters, gazing down upon the little girl, who looked scared beyond her wits. Latham still did not know whether he had intentions of hurting her or not, all he knew was—at the moment, he wanted to study her; lean in and catch the scent of her essence. He peered down at her, closing the distance between them, feeling the shaking weight of her barely in grasp knife prod against the center of his chest. It felt good, the sharp edge of the knife brought him back to so many good memories, back when he wasn’t as skilled as he used to be, where every cut, stab, and bruise felt like a soft murmuring prayer. Latham had always believed in the fine art of masochism yet, during the line in which he grew up in, men weren’t allowed to have such fickle fantasies. He pushed his weight closer against her, feeling that slow smooth trail of the knife digging into his chest. The sharp twist of pain felt like the touch of an angel, Latham glorified in it—it was beautiful. His mind reeled slowly, like the soft strewn pages in a book as he surveyed her, without the least bit of harshness embedded in his unsympathetic eyes, Latham didn’t make any move to hurt her, in fact, he had even lowered his wand. Perhaps, the moment his attention waned he’d kill her, but as of this very moment she was safe.

Latham wanted her carefully, his green eyes basking in her innocence, watching the tremble of trepidation slide down her spine, the soft peaks of tears sliding down the course of her cheeks. He failed to comprehend just why the girl was frightened, he had not so much as touched her—and Latham Vincit wasn’t a man known for his mercy. Latham stepped closer, seemingly unaware that he was violating certain acts of personal space—it didn’t occur to him that one shouldn’t get this close. If he closed his eyes, he could practically hear her screaming heart, feel her soft breath in the air, in fact, he could even smell the sweet earthy scent of her skin. Even the possible long days without bathing—hadn’t extinguished the natural sweetness of her scent, Latham could nearly feel the faint traces of it tantalizing his nostrils. There were no pressing thoughts mingling in his head, only the constant notion that he wasn’t killing her yet. Time stood still around them—and Latham saw no point in speeding up the process, in fact—as far as he was concerned, time could stand still, it wouldn’t matter to him, as long as his mind could unveil the mere mystery of this girl. It somehow felt as if he had seen her before—or seen something like her. Latham’s memory was almost eidetic, once he had seen something, he never forgot, perhaps it was a talent or just another one of those Vincit traits he had inherited, but he knew well that if he had known this girl, he would have certainly remembered her. Every single crevice of her strewn pale skin was worth remembering and though she was far more younger than he’d liked, Latham couldn’t help but want to see her insides.

A gradual smirk tainted the arch of his sharp features, making him seem almost maniacal as he peered down at the girl, but before Latham could lift her chin up—to force her to answer his question, there was a rather jolted explosion, which hurled Latham back a few inches. A hiss of fury rattled through the hollows of his lungs as he looked around for the girl—and when his emerald eyes landed upon the little runt, she was already too far. She was running—seemingly running—and as far as Latham knew, there was no probably way that a mere child—a muggle child at that would be able to run that fast… unless… Latham walked silently behind the elusively dotting figure of the girl. He made no move to speed up his lengthening walk, in fact, his features were all but relaxed as he tried to contemplate this rather new information. What were the odds that he had run into a witch—a supposed witch in the alley. It was possible that Latham felt the stream of her magic from their mere connection before. Maybe that was way he had forsakenly left her untouched, the mystery of her had been plaguing her mind—and now that Latham had unmasked the veil of her ambiguity, there was no reason not to kill her. Maybe, if he was hungry in another aspect of the word—he might even engage her. Latham had no morals and even if he did, those ethics were stopped at people in his status, he had no qualms on whether or not he wanted to extend the courtesy to her. Latham walked—silently, watching the figure of the girl disappear behind the block—he swiftly rolled his eyes. It amused him that she thought she could escape the trenches of his throne with the mere notion of running with her hind legs.

Did she consider him that impotent, that he couldn’t catch her? Sure, he could strain himself and chase behind the girl, but what would be the use of such an aggravating initiative, when he could as easily apparent in front of the girl and knock her off her course just as easily. Latham drew up her picture, so clearly embedded in the thrones of her mind, those enchanting eyes, the rose of her cheeks, the smudged dirt lined against the softness of her skin—it all came back as clearly as if she was just there and before he could dwell on her any longer, Latham felt the base of his lungs contrasting, the tubes of a rubber hole sucking him dry—and the transparent weight of the world was upon him—but before he could will the pressure of apparition away, he landed on his feet, his green eyes taking in the empty streets, save one special girl who had her back to him. As stealthily as he could, Latham moved behind her, catching the whiff of her familiar scent once more—drowning himself in the smell. He moved so quietly, no one without his very own perception would be able to notice him. The girl’s flat chest was heaving unceremoniously in the air; her soft muddy blond hair clung to the droplets of sweat on her face and there was the barest trace of a smile lingering on the curve of her lips. Latham was tempted to slice them away, feel the heat of blood spewing from the open wounds of her lips—while he lapped the crimson streaked blood up with vehemence.

Maybe, he there was a small part of him that would have let her go, if she hadn’t been foolish enough to tempt him by running away—the girl had decided her own fate, first by purposefully ignoring his question and the second was daring to run away from a man of his caliber. He glided behind her, pressing his frame against the small of her back—his hand automatically sliding in the dirt welled tresses of her hair. Latham took a firm grip in his palm, pulling her head back just enough so that she could gaze up at his face and look at death right in the eye. He was offering her a great service, it wasn’t many times that Latham actually allowed them to see his face, so close, so intimate, though with her, Latham wanted her to see him. See the claimer of her life, her soul, her destroyer looking down at him with his mocking green eyes that were filled with some vaguest notion of emotion that Latham knew nothing about. His fingers curled around the small circumference of her neck—and without the merest trace of hesitation, Latham applied the merest haze of pressure, which he knew would animatedly keep any child in place. Latham leaned down close, the heat of his lips almost touching the bridge of her nose as he spoke once more.

“Do I have to repeat myself again?” his voice was a seductive whisper, almost as if he was reciting a prayer, his lips merely brushed against the side of her own, before he pulled back. It was only fair that he offered her the tiniest bit of kindness before he ended her life and send her spiraling forward beyond that veil of no return. Latham said nothing, for a long while as he kept her in place, his free hand (that was not tousled inside her hair any longer) roamed the length of her arm, softly tracing the outer edges of her skin. There was a tiny desire to taste her skin, but Latham held himself back. He had long ago trained himself to not act on sexual impulses, though, why he was doing it for this mere mudblood child, he didn’t know. Something about her held him back—kept him at bay and if he was going to kill her now—he’d offer her the chance of going silently. Latham inhaled the whiff of her breath, his arm circling around her waist—pulling her body closer to his—almost in a lover’s embrace, though it was anything but. The jade hue of his eyes held hers one last time, before he whispered against her dirt matted cheek. “Any last words, mudblood?” his voice was hoarse, his eyes low and aching with the desire to squeeze the life out of her. The fingers that were clasped around her throat itched for the chance to show its true strength, but Latham only loosened his grip, giving her one last chance to speak. He did not want her to die, without having heard her voice.

TAGGED ! [/color]lillith.
LYRICS ! nothing
WORDS ! 1684
OUTFIT ! LINKAGE!
CREDIT ! MEELA! on CAUTION 2.0![/font][/size]

[LILLITH MAE VINCIT]

Heart - pounding. Breath - ragged. Muscles - heavy. Everything about Lacey in this moment screamed exhaustion, but she was still excited. She had just killed a man - albeit accidentally, but she had killed him nonetheless. Not only that, but she seemed to have escaped a second danger, one that had been alerted to her by the sneakoscope that she had taken from her childhood home upon her departure a mere two years ago. She had hated and despised her family for making her an outcast - it was all their fault. It was the Collins' fault for disowning their daughter for being a squib, and the Daniels' fault for being so cruel to her.

Now that it seemed that the Collins blood within her veins was boiling over in magic, she knew that she would be able to take her revenge. All she needed to do was practice and she would be able to show her cousins her true abilities, and make them regret al the trouble they caused her. Not only that but she could then show her grandparents, aunts and uncles just what they threw away by throwing out their own daughter, their sister. The thought of finding the one who killed her parents, however, was not on her mind, for she disliked those two just as much as the rest of that stupid family. What with her mother teaching her nothing but hatred towards her own family, and her father shoving belief after belief down her throat since she could walk and talk. She really had to thank whoever set her free, for she had no idea what she would have done had she discovered her powers within their midst.

Instead, here she stood, in awe of her own powers, in the middle of an alley. However, her revelation was to be short-lived. Being so young, she never truly grasped the complex ways in which apparition worked. In her mind, you had to specifically picture a place you had been before - that one could not simply appear anywhere he or she pleased as a new visit. The thought of one using an individual appearance as a focal point for apparition was completely out of her comprehension, so the hand that grabbed her hair came as a complete surprise. The pain was immediate as the hand pulled her up to her tippy toes through shere brute strength. A small scream reverberated from her young throat before it was cut off by the second hand.

The large, rough hand of a male that was much older than she was now cutting off her air supply. The glee and confidence the girl had only moments ago had now vanished to be replaced with pure shock, fear and confusion. How had he found her so easily, and so quickly? She shuddered as the hand that had been grasping her long and matted hair now ran itself over her skin. She couldn't tell you what she felt, as the simple thought of it confused her so. It could possibly be compared to being tickled - part of her liked the way it felt, whatever chemicals it sent to the brain to cause pleasure, while at the same time she wanted it to stop , though for completely different reasons than being tickled. After all, the only reason to want someone to stop tickling you is because you end up laughing so hard it hurts - this time, however, it was because she knew it was wrong - that this man should not be touching her in such a manner.

A small whimper escaped her partially closed vocal chords as she gasped for air. She was going to die here. There was no way she could escape a fully grown wizard, though why a wizard would want to kill her in the first place was a mystery to her as well. With her air supply running low, she kicked herself mentally for not grabbing something from her mother's magical stores of trinkets that would protect her. Instead she was here, held so uncomfortably by this man who obviously wanted to do her harm, listening to his ragged voice breathing into her ear. It was about then that she remembered that he had asked her what her name was earlier. She had been much too frightened at the time to have given the question any mind, but now that he was loosening his grip on her throat, she had a slightly clearer head. That clear head, however, was only short lived as being called a mudblood fully registered in her brain - having caught up with all of the comments being said.

In the blink of an eye she was fighting again, having taken insult from being called such a disgusting name. "WHO ARE YOU CALLING A MUDBLOOD YOU BASTARD!" she shouted as loud as her raspy little throat could muster after having been almost completely strangled only moments ago, coughing and wheezing now that she was putting out a bit more effort than she really should be. "SINCE WHEN DOES HAVING A SQUIB MOTHER MAKE YOU A MUDBLOOD!? SHE MAY NOT HAVE HAD A WAND OR WENT TO HOGWARTS BUT SHE STILL KNEW PLENTY ABOUT MAGIC!"

Her fingers were up at her throat, trying to loosen the fingers that had a grip on her. If only she could get hold of just one. Try as she might, however, his grip was much too strong, and somewhere between that explosion of magic back there and her running down the alley, she had lost the knife. The only thing she had left was the sneakoscope, so she reached into her pocket, grabbed it out, and began hitting it against the man's fingers that were still around her throat. She did her best to make sure that the pointed tip that made it spin like a top was pointed inward, not even thinking about the danger if he let go while she was in mid swing. No, all she cared about was getting him to let go. So what if he had asked her what her name was, she wasn't about to give it to someone who had just insulted her beyond all reason. No, she would continue hitting his hand with the sneakoscope, and kicking him with her feet.

Right now, nothing mattered. She didn't care if he was a fully grown wizard. She didn's care if she were about to die right here and now. All she cared about was proving that she was above a stupid mudblood. If this man was going to kill her, she wasn't going to go down without a fight. As she fought, her mind went to the four houses of hogwarts that her mother had spoken of, with particular emphasis of the brave and noble house of Godric Gryffindor. No, he wouldn't go down without a fight, not the founder who's house symbol was a lion. Yes, Lacey now viewed herself as a lioness released from her cage. For so many years she had been the wild child, desperate for attention, always running about, and running away.