Antonio Vega || Original Character || Part 7charitaslamiaJuly 24 2011, 06:04:59 UTC
Prose sample: Unlike smaller parishes in smaller cities and towns, the Cathedral of St. Michael never closed its doors to those seeking the sanctuary of the Lord. Its vaulted ceilings and glittering stained glass depicting the saints were always there, warm and welcoming, promising shelter from the evils that lurked in the shadows. Antonio pushed the large oaken door open slowly, the hush of the chapel within demanding its reverent silence not be shattered by something as finite as a portal, and slipped inside. Immediately, the calm solitude of the Lord washed over him, calming his nerves. He felt the forgiving eyes of Mother Mary upon him, arms outstretched in love and understanding.
Understanding he would need this night. He dipped the first two fingers of his right hand in the holy water waiting at the entrance and crossed himself in reverence, thanking the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit for the strength to deal with the events of the evening. The revelations of…no need to get distracted, Antonio, he chided himself. The Lord will hear.
He made his way quietly past the old woman, Mrs. Carter was her name, who was seated in one of the rear pews. She’d lost her children to hunger in the 40s and now, her only comfort was the church and its promise of Heaven, where she might one day watch them play again. Her heart was pure and soul one of the kindest he’d met in these past decades. He knew her eternal home was with the angels, and it gladdened his heart. His passage was silent and his smiled as he passed her, her head bowed in prayer.
He made his way to the confessional, his haven, where he knew one of his closest friends waited to hear from him. He opened the door, not breaking the silence, and moved inside. He took a seat and laced the fingers on his hands, bowing his head. And waited.
After a few moments, the screen-cover was slid back and he was met with a familiar scent. The smallest of smiles plays at the corners of his mouth. “Good evening, my son.” The voice, as it always was, was gentle, caring, and friendly. It was not the voice of a priest speaking to one of his children. It was the voice of a dear friend.
Still, traditions were in place for a reason. “Forgive me Father,” he began, somber. “For I have sinned. It has been two days since my last confession.” His mind was still reeling from earlier. His…father? Impossible. Improbable, it would seem.
Antonio Vega || Original Character || Part 8charitaslamiaJuly 24 2011, 06:07:16 UTC
“And what, Antonio, do you have to confess?” He voice was patient, kind. A silhouetted hand reached up and pulled back the screen as well, revealing in the confessional window the worried face of Antonio’s dearest friend. Father Jonathan Malcolm, not in the dusk of his life, had come to the Parrish of St. Michael’s as a young lad just out of seminary. Antonio had been at his first mass. John’s had reminded him of his first commissioned design: beautiful and solid, but rough around the edges, much like the man who’d designed it. Antonio watched him grow into a wonderful man, full of love and compassion, and a friend he’d remember for centuries.
Antonio heaved a sigh. Whoever said time was a river, had never had a conversation with a vampire. “I met my father today.” Simple. Direct. To the point. Why mince words when one of the only men in New York who know your situation was sitting within three feet of you?
Father Malcolm’s eyebrows reached for his receding hairline. “Your father? How is that possible, Antonio?”
Pain clenched its clawed hand in his chest. It was the pain of a young boy, the pain of youthful betrayal. Centuries had past, centuries of knowing his father had fallen to the villainy of false accusations and false benediction. Centuries of lies. “It would seem, Father, we have similar hunting habits.” He swallowed, remembering the hunt, eyeing the girl, stalking her, his mouth watering as he imagined his teeth sinking into her flesh, his mouth filling with her sweet life.
“Antonio.” John’s voice was firm, but patient as always. It spoke with the air of someone accustomed to grasping one’s attention.
Antonio blinked. He hadn’t fed, and he was hungry. His father distracted him from a meal, among other things. He hadn’t eaten in nearly six days. He would have to go back out tonight. “Forgive me, my friend. My hunger got the better of me.”
“Of course, Antonio. Continue.”
“Yes.” He took a deep breath, preparing for his tale. It still seemed impossible.
“It sounds ridiculous, but we were stalking the same woman. Our eyes met as we closed in.” He ran a nervous hand back over his hair. “It was as though some great finger had reached down from the heavens and rolled back the hands of time. I remember his so distinctly, John.” His voice trailed off as his mind flew back over the centuries, the memories, the smiles, the laughter, the tears. Everything he’d experienced, all he’s witnessed. His mind returned to Madrid, to studying by candlelight at his father’s side, sharing jokes and discussing politics and women.
“How is your father still alive, Antonio?” John slid easily into his role of guide. Antonio often had to be led through his stories, as he tended to get lost in memories long dead.
Antonio Vega || Original Character || Part 9charitaslamiaJuly 24 2011, 06:09:28 UTC
“Oh, of course.” Antonio returned his attention to his story, to John. “He…he and I made an unspoken agreement to meet in the alley behind the club. I’m still uncertain as to how it was decided upon,” He said, looking a bit confused. “but we did. I made my way to that dark thoroughfare, and he joined me. When I asked how it was possible, he laughed, John.” The pain of a lost little boy filled his eyes.
“He laughed?”
“He laughed.” Emotion gave Antonio’s voice a thick, blanketed quality. “It wasn’t a sweet, mirthful sound, either. It was not the laugh of my father, not the man I recall him to be, in any case. It was filled with arrogance and scorn.” He swallowed the pain that was threatening to choke the words from his throat. His father, the man he’d idolized, had never been the man he’d believed him to be.
“And once he was finished laughing, John, he answered me.”
“Very well, Antonio,” John prodded. “What was his answer for his centuries-long disappearing act?”
Antonio was quiet for a moment, focusing on breathing and calming down. “He said he’d known for weeks that the Inquisition was coming. He fled town to avoid being hunted like a dog.” The statement was laced with hate-filled venom. “When I asked why abandon us to the beasts, he casually replied, ‘too long was a weighed down by the mockery of human life we assumed, my son. I had hoped you would learn your true nature by coming into conflict with those that spurned you.’”
Father Malcolm was quiet for a moment, processing. “You’re saying, then, that your father claims to have abandoned his wife and child so that you might learn what it was to be a vampire?”
“That is what I surmised, yes.” His jaw clenched so hard the joints popped. How dare he…after all this time. Generations! How dare he walk into his town, hunt his people, and not…how could he have been so blind?
“I fail to see how this merits a confession, Antonio.” John’s words were spoken as one speaks to an angered dog, gentle and slow.
The pain of loss mixed with the anguish of youth formed a volatile cocktail in Antonio’s mind. They were creatures of God, just as the humans were. They were all His creatures, His creations. None were to be held in any higher standing than any other. His father’s audacity disgusted him. His disgust wrapped itself around all the pain and youthful helplessness and became a vile seed, a seed that took root in his mind and quickly began to flourish. “Because, my friend, if Santiago de la Florentez does not leave this city tonight, I will rip his throat out.” So vicious was the statement, it could not have been spoken with a human voice.
“And do you regret that sentiment?” John already knew the answer. “Do what you must, my dear friend. What you feel you must. Then, come to me. Go with the Lord’s blessing.”
“I pray,” Antonio said, rising to his feet faster than John’s eyes could follow, “God is as forgiving as you are, my friend.”
Welcome to Pareidolia! Before you can start playing, we'd appreciate if you could first;
✦Fill in the form here to have your character listed on the taken characters. ✦Comment here to receive an apartment&room assignment and see who else you're roomed with! ✦Comment here with any contact information you wish to share with other players. ✦Join modo_pareidolia, parei_ooc and parei_logs.
You can then feel free to introduce yourself and start playing! Have fun!!
Understanding he would need this night. He dipped the first two fingers of his right hand in the holy water waiting at the entrance and crossed himself in reverence, thanking the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit for the strength to deal with the events of the evening. The revelations of…no need to get distracted, Antonio, he chided himself. The Lord will hear.
He made his way quietly past the old woman, Mrs. Carter was her name, who was seated in one of the rear pews. She’d lost her children to hunger in the 40s and now, her only comfort was the church and its promise of Heaven, where she might one day watch them play again. Her heart was pure and soul one of the kindest he’d met in these past decades. He knew her eternal home was with the angels, and it gladdened his heart. His passage was silent and his smiled as he passed her, her head bowed in prayer.
He made his way to the confessional, his haven, where he knew one of his closest friends waited to hear from him. He opened the door, not breaking the silence, and moved inside. He took a seat and laced the fingers on his hands, bowing his head. And waited.
After a few moments, the screen-cover was slid back and he was met with a familiar scent. The smallest of smiles plays at the corners of his mouth. “Good evening, my son.” The voice, as it always was, was gentle, caring, and friendly. It was not the voice of a priest speaking to one of his children. It was the voice of a dear friend.
Still, traditions were in place for a reason. “Forgive me Father,” he began, somber. “For I have sinned. It has been two days since my last confession.” His mind was still reeling from earlier. His…father? Impossible. Improbable, it would seem.
Reply
Antonio heaved a sigh. Whoever said time was a river, had never had a conversation with a vampire. “I met my father today.” Simple. Direct. To the point. Why mince words when one of the only men in New York who know your situation was sitting within three feet of you?
Father Malcolm’s eyebrows reached for his receding hairline. “Your father? How is that possible, Antonio?”
Pain clenched its clawed hand in his chest. It was the pain of a young boy, the pain of youthful betrayal. Centuries had past, centuries of knowing his father had fallen to the villainy of false accusations and false benediction. Centuries of lies. “It would seem, Father, we have similar hunting habits.” He swallowed, remembering the hunt, eyeing the girl, stalking her, his mouth watering as he imagined his teeth sinking into her flesh, his mouth filling with her sweet life.
“Antonio.” John’s voice was firm, but patient as always. It spoke with the air of someone accustomed to grasping one’s attention.
Antonio blinked. He hadn’t fed, and he was hungry. His father distracted him from a meal, among other things. He hadn’t eaten in nearly six days. He would have to go back out tonight. “Forgive me, my friend. My hunger got the better of me.”
“Of course, Antonio. Continue.”
“Yes.” He took a deep breath, preparing for his tale. It still seemed impossible.
“It sounds ridiculous, but we were stalking the same woman. Our eyes met as we closed in.” He ran a nervous hand back over his hair. “It was as though some great finger had reached down from the heavens and rolled back the hands of time. I remember his so distinctly, John.” His voice trailed off as his mind flew back over the centuries, the memories, the smiles, the laughter, the tears. Everything he’d experienced, all he’s witnessed. His mind returned to Madrid, to studying by candlelight at his father’s side, sharing jokes and discussing politics and women.
“How is your father still alive, Antonio?” John slid easily into his role of guide. Antonio often had to be led through his stories, as he tended to get lost in memories long dead.
Reply
“He laughed?”
“He laughed.” Emotion gave Antonio’s voice a thick, blanketed quality. “It wasn’t a sweet, mirthful sound, either. It was not the laugh of my father, not the man I recall him to be, in any case. It was filled with arrogance and scorn.” He swallowed the pain that was threatening to choke the words from his throat. His father, the man he’d idolized, had never been the man he’d believed him to be.
“And once he was finished laughing, John, he answered me.”
“Very well, Antonio,” John prodded. “What was his answer for his centuries-long disappearing act?”
Antonio was quiet for a moment, focusing on breathing and calming down. “He said he’d known for weeks that the Inquisition was coming. He fled town to avoid being hunted like a dog.” The statement was laced with hate-filled venom. “When I asked why abandon us to the beasts, he casually replied, ‘too long was a weighed down by the mockery of human life we assumed, my son. I had hoped you would learn your true nature by coming into conflict with those that spurned you.’”
Father Malcolm was quiet for a moment, processing. “You’re saying, then, that your father claims to have abandoned his wife and child so that you might learn what it was to be a vampire?”
“That is what I surmised, yes.” His jaw clenched so hard the joints popped. How dare he…after all this time. Generations! How dare he walk into his town, hunt his people, and not…how could he have been so blind?
“I fail to see how this merits a confession, Antonio.” John’s words were spoken as one speaks to an angered dog, gentle and slow.
The pain of loss mixed with the anguish of youth formed a volatile cocktail in Antonio’s mind. They were creatures of God, just as the humans were. They were all His creatures, His creations. None were to be held in any higher standing than any other. His father’s audacity disgusted him. His disgust wrapped itself around all the pain and youthful helplessness and became a vile seed, a seed that took root in his mind and quickly began to flourish. “Because, my friend, if Santiago de la Florentez does not leave this city tonight, I will rip his throat out.” So vicious was the statement, it could not have been spoken with a human voice.
“And do you regret that sentiment?” John already knew the answer. “Do what you must, my dear friend. What you feel you must. Then, come to me. Go with the Lord’s blessing.”
“I pray,” Antonio said, rising to his feet faster than John’s eyes could follow, “God is as forgiving as you are, my friend.”
Reply
✦Fill in the form here to have your character listed on the taken characters.
✦Comment here to receive an apartment&room assignment and see who else you're roomed with!
✦Comment here with any contact information you wish to share with other players.
✦Join modo_pareidolia, parei_ooc and parei_logs.
You can then feel free to introduce yourself and start playing! Have fun!!
Game opens after 7 more applications.
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment