| (no subject) |
[Jul. 24th, 2006|12:43 pm] |
Bianca has been many things - daughter, sister, lover, wife, murderer, whore, dead, alive...
This was the first time she's been a mother, and she didn't really know what to think about it. In a way, Elshian didn't help, no matter that none of it was her fault. The girl was late and Bianca, sick of waiting and just wanting her body back, had had her neighbors drive her to the Coffs Harbour Hospital and had a Cesarean.
Which most likely she would have had to have had anyway, given the size of her pelvis and Elshian's lateness.
Still.
Bianca, fundamentally, didn't know what to do. Unlike Arithon, who had taken to fatherhood like the metaphorical duck to water. Where Bianca would press her hands to her ears, he would pick up their wailing daughter and rock backwards and forwards gently, humming and signing until Elshie would hiccup and quieten and drink from the offered bottle.
Bianca loved Elshian, but it was so easy to get frustrated, too easy to think back to her own childhood with a beautiful, absent-but-loving mother and an ever-present nurse. For that was Bianca's conception of motherhood, what she had grown up with. Until her mother's death and the move to Florence, of course, but then she was just one of the Solderini children, with her only mother-figure being the aunt who taught her how to mix poisons and charm men.
Nothing in Bianca's background taught her how to deal with five-week-old baby's cries for food. Nothing in Arithon's either, but
It's three in the morning by the time she came back, because it is not fair to leave Arithon to do it all, according to the rules of pride and fairness. And, indeed, sometimes it was almost peaceful, standing in Elshian's room in the dark, listening to the Australian winter rain with her warm daughter in her arms. Sometimes. It was winter, though, and by the time she came back it was three am and she was freezing. Too cold, too tired to sleep and she didn't want to wake him...
But Bianca couldn't help but smile as Arithon's arm slid around her and pulled her close, just as she couldn't help but slowly fall asleep to the sound of his voice. |
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| OOM: Slowtime |
[Apr. 9th, 2006|12:32 pm] |
Bianca, in the bar. Black skirt, but her red blouse is looser then normal - notiacably, really. Still looking chic, just...her waist seems to have vanished.
So, she's at a table, reading an Australian newspaper and picking at some lunch. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 25th, 2006|03:59 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  annoyed | ] |
Bianca has, over the centuries, gotten to know her body very well. The curves of her breats and hips and stomach, the texture of her skin and the way her nearly curly hair falls. As a courtesan, a beautiful girl and then woman amongst many, it was a matter of income and survival. Later, as a vampire, it was about vanity and curiosity on how her body whitened and hardened as the centuries went by.
So, to stand like this and dress in front of the mirror is by now a habit. Vain? A little, but it is fact that Bianca Maria Solderini is a beautiful woman and habit does not vanish. It is comforting, reassuring, and after the stresses of the last couple of months, Bianca is back in front of the mirror.
The weather is getting colder, slowly, and so out come the jeans she hasn't worn in months. They are tight around her hips, but Bianca always did have a habit of wearing her jeans thus.
Never to the point where she can't do the top button up, though. Bianca pauses, and glances down. Take in a deep breath and...
She still can't do the button up. Now, had Bianca been her old mortal self, she would have just muttered about gaining weight again and eaten a bit less. After all, she had a figure that gained weight more easily then it lost. However, she's not her old mortal self. Since becoming human in January, she'd found it hard to eat. Centuries of nothing but blood and the thought of food still made her feel ill. Logically, she should be losing weight, not gaining it.
Now frowning, she turns side-wise to look at her stomach in the mirror. Curved, yes, and that's what had been considered beautiful in the early Renaissance. Her lower stomach had been curved for centuries, frozen in time along with everything else about her, but now? Now it noticeably more rounded. Not by much, but enough to, say, make her jeans too small.
Normally, Bianca would just sigh and mutter and wear something else. But she's been stressed for weeks and moody for only slightly less, so instead of a demure sigh she begins to softly and fluently curse in the gutter Italian of the late fifteenth century. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 24th, 2006|08:56 am] |
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Bianca isn't in Australia, or the House of Arch. Instead, she is walking by the lake in high-heeled boots and a coat. No pearls in her blonde hair, and her head is bowed in thought. Hands in her pockets, and she's not really paying attention. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 19th, 2006|02:14 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | annoyed | ] |
Ramon's been here before, but only once and at night. It's around lunchtime when Bianca opens the door and leads him through, and noticably far more humid then the Bar. Her house, old and large and Victorian, is up the hill a bit. At least this time Ramon will be able to see where he puts his feet?
The path is sandy grass, with logs every metre and a half to try and form some 'steps', and Bianca doesn't even look as she goes up. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 17th, 2006|03:20 pm] |
(She needs to be freed of those rooms for a spell)
Arithon has gone out, to get something to out from the Bar instead of chancing another tree, and Bianca is just a little bit bored. Her cats are in Australia (that's where they tend to stay), and she doesn't feel in the mood to read or quilt. No, instead the beautiful woman trails her fingers over Arithon's desk, her dreamy eyes a little distant.
(Sir, this may come as a rude shock to you, but Bianca, like many woman, already has that habit)
She's had spells like this before, an absent discontenment, not even an unhappiness, just a mood. Bored and tame and Bianca. Beautiful and desired, dressing to please and draw attention - it's all a habit, really, and all habits can get a trifle boring for those who practice them.
(In the guise of a boy, she slips out all the time to make the rounds of the city)
Boring, and what did she do to add some interest? Slowly, Bianca glances around and moves to Arithon's room. Not that she's unhappy, far from it. Just...as calm as she is, there is still a streak of daring in her, still the remains of that spoiled girl-child whose brother's dressed her up in boy's clothes and taught her how to fence. She always made a good boy, really, she thinks as she opens chests and brings out a loose shirt, a doubtet and trousars. Boots? Well, their feet don't really match, so it has to be bare feet.
So, carefully and humming a little, Bianca gets dressed and French braids her long, golden hair away from her face.
(You're the prettiest boy in the Veneto)
She takes a step back, and looks at herself; small breasts bound flat and the curve of her hips hidden in the loose way she's done the doublet, her shapely legs incased in trousars never designed to show off a figure and wealth of hair pulled back and braided, an androgynous but beautiful boy looks back at her. Oval face, oval eyes, and she smiles at the boy in the mirror.
(Bianca as the young nobleman, known to those few mortals who knew us as her own brother)
Softly,
"Hello again, Cristofano." |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 30th, 2006|01:39 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  scared | ] |
Bianca managed to walk to the House of Arch, managed to walk through the painting, for two reasons; she had her pride, and she never let go of Arithon's arm. Inside the House, though, it was different - it was safe, and she knew it. It was safe, so she stumbled and fell to her knees.
She's not crying, not yet, but her breathing is quick and ragged, both with hate and fear.
Mostly fear. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 25th, 2006|04:48 am] |
It's hard, really, trying to settle into a day-time pattern of wakefulness and sleep. No matter that now she can be up during the day, Bianca is still far more used to being up during the night. Add to that the re-emergence of Santino, and more night hours then not, Bianca is wake. After tossing and turning for an hour on one night, the blonde woman sighs, gets up, and pulls on a pair of jeans to go look at the library - hide in books and words, perhaps, or maybe she's just tired of being up and doing nothing.
No one else seems to be up, so she is mildly surprised to find the lights on and Alex looking at some book titles. Where another woman might get flustered at wearing nothing but jeans and a satin nightie, Bianca just shrugs it off. It's not as if she really needs a bra, anyway.
Arithon would have a fit, but that's him and he's not here.
"Good morning, Alex," Bianca says, pleasantly. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 23rd, 2006|10:06 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  loved | ] |
It's a little while later, and Bianca is thankful for the little nicities of being human. Little things, like being able to laze in bed during a winter's day, safe and warm in bed with her husband in a hazy afterglow.
Moving, beyond kissing his shoulder every now and then, seems really too much effort. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 23rd, 2006|12:49 am] |
It is funny, the things that get remembered. A documentary on the Borgia pope’s mistress; Bianca had been a girl – seventeen when France invaded in 1494, only a little younger then the wide-eyed, innocent-faced and manipulative Guilia.
The girl on the screen had smiled, climbed onto the table, and held out her foot for Alexander VI to kiss for the price of a ring (her leg was a bishopric for her brother, any higher and the price was the kingdom of heaven).
Bianca watched, and Bianca remembered.
She remembered walking on a table, standing on the centre and performing a drunken, Renaissance striptease for the price of an amber necklace. A touch, a kiss, a caressing hand running down her breast – all had their price, and all had paid.
She remembered, Marius had once paid a tear-shaped pearl as the price for her tears and confession. She remembered, Martino had paid with his life for the guilt and blood he had caused her.
Courtesan…prostitute. Just a question of how much the price was.
She remembered, Amadeo had never paid the price for tearing her dress and searching for comfort (and sex, he was only…sixteen? after all) and she remembered, Arithon had never been aware that there was a price.
Well. Maybe there wasn’t, anymore. Maybe.
But she watched the girl on the screen, and remembered the giddy, drunken feeling of power at making powerful men pay their dignity just for a kiss with a knowing amusement more then a little tinged with regret. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 19th, 2006|01:52 pm] |
|
placeholder - Bianca leads Svava out of the boat-house. Mid-morning, warm and humid but overcast. Her old, two story+attic house is up a bit on the hill, and the beach stretches away to the right. It's a small cove, not that many houses but a few. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 15th, 2006|01:07 pm] |
It's the middle of the day, and Bianca is, it should be said, dressed - jeans and jumper and her wealth of blonde hair tied back into a plait. She is also, however, lying on her bed in the House of Arch, watching Arithon sleep.
And trying not to wake him. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 12th, 2006|11:14 am] |
It is strange, being able to walk out in the sun. It is even stranger having to put on a coat and scarf and boots for warmth instead of blending it.
And yet, there Bianca is. Walking outside in the sun, under the winter snow with a dreamy smile on her face.
She will never get used to the sun. Never. |
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| Owl to Tom |
[Jan. 9th, 2006|03:21 pm] |
Tom Riddle,
Alanna suggested I tell you this, and I think it is a good idea if I do. Sadly, I still get lost in your House, so this is the easiest way. I need to warn you about a possible threat in the Milliways, one which may affect your two children. You see, there is another vampire from my world in the bar, called Claudia. She was made when she was quite young, I would say six at the very oldest. She is, however, a vampire and a hunter, and I would be very wary of her. I am human now, so sadly the only thing I have against her is words, but considering your children, I thought I better warn you in case she talks to them and they consider her just a girl.
I'll be happy to answer any questions to the best of my ability,
Bianca Solderini |
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| Italy, 1944 |
[Jan. 6th, 2006|03:11 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | angry | ] |
Venice hadn't been bombed so far, maybe not never. Hard to have tanks, with the canals, but, still.
The world is at war, and even one of its most beautiful cities will shows the signs and scorch-marks. Italy had declared war on her former ally, Germany. And Hitler had not been amused. Allies and Nazis, fighting through out her home. Her home? Yes, she remembers it. Florence and Venice and oh, just Italy!
Though it wasn't one country when she was young, she remembers. She thinks, sometime when there was the sun and her brothers were laughing. She can't really remember her name, not anymore. Bianca Bianca Maria Biancafiore Blanche white, white, white like how her skin used to be.
She knows WHAT she is; vampire.
And she knows that this place, this city, is her home. Hers.
So, there she is - a short figure, dressed in rough trousars and jacket, like so many other Italians now. Pistol through her belt, rifle in her small hands, but with pearls braided through her hair. That does not change, and it is one aspect of her self that she clings to. It looks odd, with dirt on her face and pearls in her golden hair, but...
That is Bianca, even if she hardly remembers her name. Bianca of Florence, then Bianca of Venice.
And this is her city.
So when she senses another mind, like hers, she tilts her head and listens. Old mind, darkness and blood and fire and forgotten prayers...she stills, and then runs on silent feet through the streets and buildings. She pauses at a second story balcony, drops into a soldier's crouch, takes aim and fires at the dark figure on the opposite side of the canal.
Aims and fires? At his head.
And she's always had good aim.
[ooc: warning, graphic violence] |
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| Italy, 1927 |
[Jan. 6th, 2006|02:15 pm] |
Lets say the setting is Italy. This tells us a lot – it is after unification, it is when Italians are now Italians instead of Venetians, Florentines or Roman. Late 19th century, the entirety of the twentieth.
It is when Italy is rich and powerful, so under the rule of Mussolini. Venice, sometime in the 1920s, and a young woman is sitting at a café on a summer’s night, watching the canals. She looks human, her skin is a dark, dark gold after all. Human and young and beautiful. Botticelli’s Venus, in bobbed hair and a simple white dress.
Her coffee is warm, but untouched. Possibly because she is watching the boats.
Possibly.
It is as she is watching, though, that something unusual happens. Not…not unexpected, certainly not at her age, but…unusual.
She meets eyes with another of her kind.
Vampire, the populace now calls them. More elegant then Blood Drinker, she thought when she first heard it.
He is standing on the other side of the canal. She has a sense of darkness, dark hair, dark eyes, dark past with blood and fire and the troubles of a mind re-seeking his centuries-lost faith and place in the world.
What he gets from her mind, she neither knows nor cares.
Red blood, red fire, red hair…some interest stirs, but is killed by her own mind.
Leave, she says silently, leave here now. I do not care for your company.
The blonde vampire turns away, studies something else. She doesn’t look back, but if she did, he would be gone. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 6th, 2006|11:09 am] |
This is how mortals see, everything dim and dark. As if looking through water, and that water is murky and clouded with ink.
This is how mortals hear, everything indistinct and filtered through air and space. She thinks, if she wasn’t a witch when human, if she still didn’t have some form of telepathy, that she will go mad being unable to hear properly.
(properly? This is proper hearing – before, all those centuries before, were just preternatural, extraordinary)
This is how mortals feel, the sensations distant, as if she was wrapped in layers and layers of fabric. This is how they move, slowly and heavily, with actual weight behind the movements and why does her body ache so?
This is how they eat, this is how they sleep, this is how…
Bianca shuts her mind off from that with a shudder, and just concentrates on walking on the heavy, ever-changing sand of her beach. Down, down, to where the sand is wet and clings to her feet, to where the early morning waves lap at her legs. It’s cold, so cold, but still the now-human woman (too old to be ‘young’, though she looks it; as always, she looks so young, barely twenty-two) has a feel of discontent – the sensation is distant, muffled, though her feet are going numb. She’ll head back later, back to the bar after…
After this.
After the sky lightens from black to dark blue to blue-grey to white to yellow…
After, for the first time in five hundred years, Bianca stands at the water’s edge and watches the sun rise. |
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| OOM: |
[Jan. 3rd, 2006|12:20 am] |
There was, Bianca had decided long ago, only one real problem in living in Australia. It isn’t the lack of hunting, or the distance from everywhere and everyone she knows. No, it’s the heat of summer.
And the bushfire season that comes with it.
Still, as she is reasonably certain her house won’t burn down in her absence, the blonde vampire is indulging in some escapism by talking a midnight walk along the lake.
In nothing but high-heeled boots, a black skirt, and a white blouse turned up mid lower arm.
The living dead, after all, don’t feel the cold as keenly as mortals. And she needs to think. Oh, yes, how she needs to think. |
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