toreador antitribu

The woman strode down the night streets, her tall heels clicking against pavement. Her white dress hovered perilously over the ground behind her, clinging close to the impossible hourglass figure that was the handiwork of one of her compatriots. Only the occasional human could see her, pathetic vagrants. Cattle. That's right, she thought. Stare and cluck like the hens you are, cowering in fear from the beautiful soft-furred fox that walks among you. She made sure they could feel her Presence, not worrying about the drain of blood it drew from her. The fear that flooded those wide, stupid eyes was more than worth the cost.

Unlife wasn't something to while away in self-loathing and misery, she thought. When she could stride free, queen of the night streets, mortals bowing at her feet and freely offering their necks, their vitae for just a glimpse of the beauty that she could make of herself, who on Earth would try to hide that? Who would give up the chance to express themselves beyond what any mortal could, and have an eternity to perfect their arts? Denying that raw emotional force that slept underneath their skin, tamping it down instead of letting it live and breathe? Pathetic cowards. She would not allow herself to live in such fear. The night was hers, and hers alone. And anyone that would try to stop her would die by the Sword.