Recent content by Maveriel Valthoras

Taunting. Watching this man watch her, feel his gaze bite her eyes like his teeth might if they gave way to her skin. It was a haunting thought, ever since she had first met him, to the moment she had bedded him. The night they met in that tavern, O how her heart had burned like the fire in her...

When morning came, Mave struggled to come awake. Her mind was troubled. Starlight was in her vision; stars so far from home. You could see them on a clear sky in an open plain or beneath the canopy of the woodland. All the same, you could know one twinkle from another if you had the skill, and...

Was there pleasure in this for her? Perhaps. To know how much his thirst burned within this sunlit forest even amid those shadows. Was it punishment for the crimes he had committed in his old life? Perhaps not. A repentant man, vampire or otherwise, did he deserve a second chance in this life...

Strange, the things you remember… She thought as she walked across the land. Grass stretched upward toward her shins, tall enough for her fingers to curl within, long enough to bend as they did. Leaves blew in the wind, fallen from treetops further above, as crown after crown of sylvan royalty...

Mindless passion. Yes. That’s what this is. Yet wasn’t it so much more? Maveriel Valthoras had long since learned to swing the sword, with indifference as much as passion, to sever life from death in an instant. Yet she had also learned to kiss the lips, and that passion was different. Like...

Lost in thought. Memories just go on and on. In retrospect, yes, who would know of Mave’s home? Lithrim was but a plain village in comparison to the greater depths of the forest. In elven realms gilded, wherein the canopy of Falwood’s trees becomes its own crown, hers was a settlement surrounded...

Two women in a chamber. Simply. No more or less at this moment. If much and more in the sense of their individual nature. They may drink their fill of tea but, ever the warrior, ever the wanderer, they both knew that they would eventually leave these ruins and go forth. Whether to explore and...

Man. Woman. Vampire. Elf. Both beings knew age in their own ways as the tree knew its own roots, as the leaves of its branches may wither away, only to be regrown between the seasons. As spring turned to summer, summer turned to autumn, autumn turned to winter. However, somewhere in between...

Mave took the cup to her hands in quiet, nodding her thanks, letting the heat from within emanate into her grip as the scent of earthen remembrance permeated her presence. It made sense, given her woodland environment she was born in, though this tea was borne with the incense of stone as much...

So, this was not Sara’s home per se but a dwelling place. That did make sense. Yet Mave could not recollect any mention of this civilization; the ruins of a great nation where Sara's remnants lived, in a sense, though such were semantics, for these walls were silent except for the two of them...

The moment Sara spoke, Mave just sat there, quiet as ever, face frozen neither in terror nor in a grimace. However, those words struck close to home, as if she had been thinking them forever only to hear them out loud by another. A dream. She had said that only a moment ago, in jest as much as...

In the cold, in the ruins, in an instant there was warmth, for the fireplace was lit by the fingers of an elven companion. Two elves. Two women in a chamber. They didn’t know each other but already they were learning, discovering, as much by words as by movements. Magic was something that...

Bed. Breakfast. At this tavern that had become their bed and breakfast, Maveriel Valthoras had awoken in bed, as lazy as a lioness under the canopy beneath a sunlit welkin, if with renewed energy; with the quiet vigor of a hundred suns whose brightness knew no end. Yet endless wasn’t her...

It was a fair answer. Whether Mave had actually expected a response that would give everything away, that would ascertain the true extent of this warrior elf’s endeavor and the end of her adventure, well, maybe in the end her question was more rhetorical. For Maveriel Valthoras, however, no...

Sára'úri. Sára for short. The name flowed as it curled off the proverbial tip of Maveriel’s tongue, like liquid lyrics in a song, and such a comparison wasn’t wrong; elven names were ever those of grace. Though there’s no grace in this place. Only death. Only darkness. Forgiveness? In a sense...