FM Challenge: Introduction 3rd Person
Slowly, she opened her eyes, standing almost statuesque, the large brown liquid pools that were her eyes, eyes that could take a man in and hold him, moved slowly from side-to-side, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings.
Stunned, she stood there, her heart beating in her head, a slow throbbing cadence, pounding, pounding so hard she wanted to scream; but the old discipline set in, and she was silent.
Her knees creaked, as she bent down, to pluck away the few strands of grass left uncut around the well-manicured grave. Sinking further, reverently and carefully, she placed her back against the stone cold gray stone marking the last traces of Janna Kalderash.
She leaned back hard against the granite, wishing she could become one with it. A light breeze played with the long mahogany tresses, running her slim long fingers through it, she was confused. She shook her head to gain some sort of clarity. When had it grown so long?
Closing her eyes, she slowed her breathing and remembered …
As her mind drifted back, the laughter of children playing around a campfire, the sounds of a well-tuned violin lulled her with the beloved songs of her childhood. Swept up in the memories of her past, she was there, living it, breathing it, the sights the sounds, the smells, all of the things that made her Janna.
Filled with superstition, curses and a horde of evil creatures, both human and demonic, Janna Kalderash, was the oldest of two daughters, spoiled by her father, doted on by her grandmother, well disciplined, and at times tested by a jealous mother. She was the last of the gadje’s, little did she know that the clan’s fate rested on her young shoulders, Janna was the direct lineage of the old ones, and the new vessel of power, and her mother hated her for that.
She was schooled in clan law never questioning, living for those moments she spent with her beloved grandmother, or taking long adventures out in the pristine Romanian hills. It was from her grandmother, that she first realized just what she could do.
At night, around the glowing fires, the elders told tales of what had been. The most powerful of the four Romany tribes, the Kalderash clan, talented in metallurgy had been sought out for centuries as blacksmiths to kings. Their legendary swords were traded among humans and demons alike.
Janna could remember in minute detail, the night that would forever change the clan, the night when the vampires came to take the Sword of Ainigriv. Hitting her head against the granite, she tried to remember the source of its power, but that part of the memory was stale, lost to her, and she wasn’t sure if it was even important.
The four major clans had met in tribunal: Machavaya, Lovair and Churari had all traveled to Borsa to join with the Kalderash clan in a plan not only of peace, but to determine how to best hide the sword.
With each thread of her memory returning, the throbbing in her head eased, and with each breath, the more alive she became.
In her dreams, she had relived that night, the night Angelus came for the sword. Instead, one of her own lineage had caught his eye, and with that look had sealed her death. As the power of the young most beloved of the clan surged through Angelus’ veins, the clans united to curse Angelus for all time, or so they thought.
The horror of that night, hit Janna so hard she fell forward, her pale, still cold hand grasping her neck.
From the first moment her Uncle Enyos thick Romany accent, recited the too familiar tale, she was filled with the only thing she’d learned, vengeance, retribution and hate for Angelus.
As she grew to adulthood, she wandered out beyond the borders of Borsa, and after her mother died, she had the freedom to explore and she wanted more.
Casting of the mantle of responsibility, she moved to California, attending Berkley, where her differences were, for a while accepted.
Racism, as Janna quickly learned, knows no color, knows no kindness. Her pride at her own Romany heritage became one of silence, as ignorance labeled her a gypsy.
For too long, Janna had suffered the hate of a parent, she vowed she would no longer do so; it wasn’t difficult to become Jenny Calendar.
Fate followed Jenny to her home in Los Angelus, she was happy with the life she was leading, she had a few regrets, the family members she’d left behind, the country she’d loved so much, but the continued lectures about not living up to her potential, kept her away, distant, and she’d hoped invisible.
A knock at the door had changed everything; Enyos had found her, and Jenny learned that try as she might she could never escape her clan.
For centuries, a Kalderash had stayed in the shadows following the cursed Angelus, insuring that he would forever be haunted by the atrocities, he’d once committed and that he would never attain true happiness.
Packing her bags, Jenny followed Angel, the name of the now souled vampire to Sunnydale, California.
It took only an instant for all of the memories to come back to her, filling her up with such vile, she had to stand so she could lean over to retch or attempt to for there was nothing there. The sickness that overtook her abated the hunger she had just begun to feel upon awakening.
To steady herself she placed a hand on the top of her tombstone. Hot salty tears began to flow down her beautiful porcelain cheeks, as she thought of Rupert, of all of her loss.
Her hands flowed over the last resting place of Jenny Calendar, saying goodbye in some odd ritual, the index finger of her right hand tracing the J.
Aware now of the rest of the cemetery, she got her bearings, and walked away.
She would regret forever, not finding Rupert, not going back, but Jenny didn’t go back, she wasn't sure how long she'd been dead, but she was alive and she didn’t know why.
Slowly she opened her eyes, returned to the present, wiped the tears away, and then took the cup cake and blew out the candle, just as she has done every year at this time, when she relives but yet not quite celebrates the day of her awakening.
Never questioning how or why she came back, she knew there was a reason; after all she was the last gadje.
Stunned, she stood there, her heart beating in her head, a slow throbbing cadence, pounding, pounding so hard she wanted to scream; but the old discipline set in, and she was silent.
Her knees creaked, as she bent down, to pluck away the few strands of grass left uncut around the well-manicured grave. Sinking further, reverently and carefully, she placed her back against the stone cold gray stone marking the last traces of Janna Kalderash.
She leaned back hard against the granite, wishing she could become one with it. A light breeze played with the long mahogany tresses, running her slim long fingers through it, she was confused. She shook her head to gain some sort of clarity. When had it grown so long?
Closing her eyes, she slowed her breathing and remembered …
As her mind drifted back, the laughter of children playing around a campfire, the sounds of a well-tuned violin lulled her with the beloved songs of her childhood. Swept up in the memories of her past, she was there, living it, breathing it, the sights the sounds, the smells, all of the things that made her Janna.
Filled with superstition, curses and a horde of evil creatures, both human and demonic, Janna Kalderash, was the oldest of two daughters, spoiled by her father, doted on by her grandmother, well disciplined, and at times tested by a jealous mother. She was the last of the gadje’s, little did she know that the clan’s fate rested on her young shoulders, Janna was the direct lineage of the old ones, and the new vessel of power, and her mother hated her for that.
She was schooled in clan law never questioning, living for those moments she spent with her beloved grandmother, or taking long adventures out in the pristine Romanian hills. It was from her grandmother, that she first realized just what she could do.
At night, around the glowing fires, the elders told tales of what had been. The most powerful of the four Romany tribes, the Kalderash clan, talented in metallurgy had been sought out for centuries as blacksmiths to kings. Their legendary swords were traded among humans and demons alike.
Janna could remember in minute detail, the night that would forever change the clan, the night when the vampires came to take the Sword of Ainigriv. Hitting her head against the granite, she tried to remember the source of its power, but that part of the memory was stale, lost to her, and she wasn’t sure if it was even important.
The four major clans had met in tribunal: Machavaya, Lovair and Churari had all traveled to Borsa to join with the Kalderash clan in a plan not only of peace, but to determine how to best hide the sword.
With each thread of her memory returning, the throbbing in her head eased, and with each breath, the more alive she became.
In her dreams, she had relived that night, the night Angelus came for the sword. Instead, one of her own lineage had caught his eye, and with that look had sealed her death. As the power of the young most beloved of the clan surged through Angelus’ veins, the clans united to curse Angelus for all time, or so they thought.
The horror of that night, hit Janna so hard she fell forward, her pale, still cold hand grasping her neck.
From the first moment her Uncle Enyos thick Romany accent, recited the too familiar tale, she was filled with the only thing she’d learned, vengeance, retribution and hate for Angelus.
As she grew to adulthood, she wandered out beyond the borders of Borsa, and after her mother died, she had the freedom to explore and she wanted more.
Casting of the mantle of responsibility, she moved to California, attending Berkley, where her differences were, for a while accepted.
Racism, as Janna quickly learned, knows no color, knows no kindness. Her pride at her own Romany heritage became one of silence, as ignorance labeled her a gypsy.
For too long, Janna had suffered the hate of a parent, she vowed she would no longer do so; it wasn’t difficult to become Jenny Calendar.
Fate followed Jenny to her home in Los Angelus, she was happy with the life she was leading, she had a few regrets, the family members she’d left behind, the country she’d loved so much, but the continued lectures about not living up to her potential, kept her away, distant, and she’d hoped invisible.
A knock at the door had changed everything; Enyos had found her, and Jenny learned that try as she might she could never escape her clan.
For centuries, a Kalderash had stayed in the shadows following the cursed Angelus, insuring that he would forever be haunted by the atrocities, he’d once committed and that he would never attain true happiness.
Packing her bags, Jenny followed Angel, the name of the now souled vampire to Sunnydale, California.
It took only an instant for all of the memories to come back to her, filling her up with such vile, she had to stand so she could lean over to retch or attempt to for there was nothing there. The sickness that overtook her abated the hunger she had just begun to feel upon awakening.
To steady herself she placed a hand on the top of her tombstone. Hot salty tears began to flow down her beautiful porcelain cheeks, as she thought of Rupert, of all of her loss.
Her hands flowed over the last resting place of Jenny Calendar, saying goodbye in some odd ritual, the index finger of her right hand tracing the J.
Aware now of the rest of the cemetery, she got her bearings, and walked away.
She would regret forever, not finding Rupert, not going back, but Jenny didn’t go back, she wasn't sure how long she'd been dead, but she was alive and she didn’t know why.
Slowly she opened her eyes, returned to the present, wiped the tears away, and then took the cup cake and blew out the candle, just as she has done every year at this time, when she relives but yet not quite celebrates the day of her awakening.
Never questioning how or why she came back, she knew there was a reason; after all she was the last gadje.