On my free time, I enjoy to write. Been doing it since I was 17 years old and though I have some professional training, my writing will always be freeform. I can’t help it though that doesn’t give away that I have always looked up some of the great authors of the world.
As it is though, a lot of my creativity comes from these stories I make. Again, been doing it for decades now. But the one thing I do know that it has given me, the inspiration and drive to learn more.
Now enjoy a small snippet of a story I’ve had the pleasure of writing over the years about Gerallt Myrddin. Be mindful though, it is purely fanfiction. I’m a RPG White Wolf nerd. >,>
There was no manner to hide his feelings, that of his curiosity or his irritation, when he saw no reason behind disguising such a thing. He was honest about it, if only for that moment, knowing there was little honesty for a Tremere to hold. There was no false illusion that he wasn’t to be trusted simply for the society of kindred which gave him his unlife. But there was no trick for the Tremere to play, no alternative motive to hide, where truth had already been shown in the short moments of the masquerade. She had the right thought. Why? Why had he dared so much to keep her from harm?
Never had he cared before when he had always been indifferent to all but that of his own goals. Selfish to his own means but there was no denying that the Tremere was the puppet to the agenda that was all Tremere. Clan first, Camarilla second - wasn’t it always to be? But everyone was a liar; him the most of all.
His attention, like a sharp knife, seemed to cut the room the moment she spoke up about the help of hypothesis. There was a slight give of surprise there, one answered with the intrigued arch of his brow as he listened to her. She was playing a dangerous game and she didn’t even realize it when, for that moment, she was to have the Tremere's true and honest attention.
“One must weed out falsehood from truth but must also ward himself from the obvious fact. There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.” A statement he lived by and given there more honestly than he offered most. And why offer anything to this strange fae?
She had surprised him and very few have the luxury of that.
Surprise indeed when he straightened with Mrs. Potts’s voice, feeling his fingers stiffen at the ghoul’s interruption as he glanced towards her. Would it not be better to have the elderly woman within that presence than to be away? Yet, he seemed bothered by it. And certainly so when both fae and ghoul was to converse. He became their subject.
“Yolanda.” He spoke the ghoul’s name with every intention of seeing her silenced. The conversation continued. “Yolanda.” Her name again, more firmly, when it was a face of near disbelief that found a hand coming down onto the table top. “Mrs. Potts, that is quite enough.” And found the room, for that quick moment, at an utter silence until the caretaker and ghoul’s departure. He would speak to Yolanda at another point about, but this wasn’t that time. Not when that direct gaze turned back to his guest and found the clatter of broken porcelain.
He went to speak, the knot of annoyance there in his brow and forehead, when it was the fae’s apology and claim of that shattered piece which saw the Tremere silenced. Not once did he allow his eyes to leave the motion of her fingers but without blinking, he found his tea cup with no damage. He had that tea set for nearly three centuries now. But his concern wasn’t the chipped porcelain in the manner he watched which mended the damage. So intently so that it was only with her comment and the sound of that chair moving in her means to stand which drew his attention away, even when a part of his mind remained in wanting to study the ability she had shown.
“I am quite…”, well. The sentence didn’t finish though, not in the backstep he did in the turn of his body that found the collision of the top of his thighs against the table as he realized her intention too late. He found himself trapped, even there as he went to claim her wrists. It did nothing for the manner his muscles reacted to the light touches and the brush of skin. His stomach muscles tightened under the dance of her touch, bared there for all the see in what was the small story of his flesh. He needed no fire to experience Rötschreck when the touch of a woman had him near fleeing that very spot. If he could. The slight skip of his weight to the table was truth enough to his comfort level to being so intimately close with this woman.
A part of his mind fought against another. It was cold logic, however, which won out. His hold about her wrists ceased, settling there - however rigidly - against the table with the turn of his gaze over her shoulder.
He wasn’t to block her out though, not in the whisper of her voice nor the warmth of her breath that had him attempting to shut her out visibly. He closed his eyes as his palms curled over the edge of the table and found himself thankful for the lack of oxygen needed within his lungs. There was no rapid rise and fall to his chest as one would find in his state, fighting that which tempted and pained him at once. It was that song, however, which found the slow ebb of that stiffness. It was that enchanting tune which found his attention open to her. The melody danced across the air but he could not deny the manner it flowed through him, ringing of familiarity. He was bewitched by it. So much that he never realized the manner those canines retracted in the way he relaxed there against the table and her.
Opening his eyes, he turned in time to the gift of a feathered kiss across his jaw. What tension there had been, it had momentarily ghosted away, leaving him merely staring in the awe and soft gratification of her words. It humbled him.
“You’re welcome.” He said deep and true, the weight of those words more than she might realize. But such a moment wasn’t to remain when attention turned to the ever growing sound there in his ears. Her heart beat.