Dark Destinies- Clare Siobhan (Fanfiction) Magical Generation

Chapter Seventeen- Paint

We read fairytales of all kinds of creatures. Some are majestic, you almost wish they were real. Some you fear; they live under your bed. You pray they are only a nightmare; a myth. 

Leprechauns are always fun to read about. Painting them is even more exciting: all the rainbows surrounding them. I've never seen either, but the colours giving me the chance to create patterns and explore what I imagine. There are no limits.

Mermaids are trickier. I am not sure how I feel about a half-fish half-human, it sounds almost as if they are trapped in the ocean, not that it's trapping. I've read that the ocean is larger than the land will ever be, not that I've seen any of those either.

Witches are intriguing, though I'll never truly know. My sources are limited on them for obvious reasons. Vampires are their natural enemies, as creatures of the darkness. And I, as daughter of noble blood, could never be in the light to begin with. But are they really as dangerous as my people say they are? So powerful, legend has it that a single witch managed to manipulate an entire magical world. It took another witch to take her down. And this is not the first time either. Time and time again, vampires were forced into the dark because of a single Spellcaster's blinding light.

We may be the ones drinking blood, but could it be that they are the true blood-thirsters?

A steady hand leads the brush to gently caress the large white canvas. Varied strokes of soft grazes and spiked stabs embody the image. Her blaring red eyes drift between the painting and the open book. 

Dead skin sewed together by magic like a spider spinning silk, a creature of the dark. 

Ryder's eyes spectate the peachy skin on the white canvas; a skin colour and texture she could only imagine: flesh full of life. She let's out a chuckled huff, as if the oblivious author of this book knew what it was like to have dead skin, or dead at all. The living dead? The girl pulls her hand out and inspects her own transparent skin. It's a canvas in itself for the smudges of paint. Her eyes drag back to the book's scribbles.

Black clothes like that of the ashes her victims became.

Shimmering onyx stares back at her, the beetle-like diamonds on the woman's breast shining with an intelligent twinkle. She smirks, not seeing death in the dark garments, but power.

White hair as cold as the dead winter it represented. A symbol of death; unnatural life.

Leaning closer, the thin brush strokes of white are like lightning strikes on the canvas, yet elegant like curtains defining the woman's face.

Eyes of vengeance, they watch as creatures become victims, victims become corpses. Centuries of red having decayed into pink, tired of the Villareal's own brutality.

The pink that stares back at her is like torn rose-petals. The lighting in the image brightens them with the shading, but they are missing something. As the girl tilts her head to the side, she nods a final time before decisively putting down the brush. Bringing her hand up to her mouth, Ryder finds a pure spot, unattacked by her painting's colour.

Bearing her fangs, she feels a sharp edge dig into her skin. It cracks from the careful pressure, streaming blood down her arm. Catching the beads with her other hand, she finds a cloth to wipe the excess and looks down at it. The red stains appear to glow with the golden shards in them, like an entire treasure hidden away in her very body. This was clearly not normal blood, she knew that. The colour and radiance is nothing like the blood she drinks. The sparkles in them flicker in the candlelight, almost speaking in mystical swirls.