Évrard D'Aboville has been the lethal left hand of King Sabien Arceneaux for centuries. Using his deadly skills, he's indiscriminately killed and maimed at his master's behest. He had never once been disobedient. That is until he was asked to kill a...
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Évrard D'Aboville-The Creature
This has been rough on me...The losing part. I am not use to it. I was in the black once more, but I couldn't recall where I'd been nor why I'd returned. Nor the reason behind the hollow sense of loss in my chest. Matter of fact, I had no idea where I was. Was my memory becoming... unreliable?
It occurred to me; it is probably the only thing I have human enough to fail. The only part of me capable of dying. Perhaps it saw too much mileage? Or was it over-usage?
The more I pressed it for information, the more selective it became to the point of it self-cleansing details of what is and is not important. Which I found unfair.
I remembered for example that I'd been married in Avignon, at the very least, four times but nothing of the weddings themselves; not even the honeymoon nor the guests. The brides came in and out of focus like a collage of experience. The details of our romances intermingled and foggy.
Who was it again that wore too much rouge and downed toddies for breakfast? Who was the limping Mistress of Kutuzov, that I stole for my own? I used to kiss one on her navel and she twitched and laughed, then stretched herself a mile-long across ivory sheets. The big bosomed one I named my pot-bellied pig. A little jape between us. She was...They were... I have no total idea.
There are a few time periods in my life that I'm also unable to account for. I have blackout weeks, months, even years normally near intense wars or world traumas. Anywhere death is in abundance; the Civil War, World War II, Vietnam, Desert Storm, both Katrina and 9/11. I lost time.
Where did I go? How did I get there? But, more curious, how did I feed without getting caught? And then there is the Crimson Wilderness a period of time from approximately 1390 to 1518 where I remember nothing. Or so little it may as well be nothing.
Some details were imprinted in my mind like feedings, obviously. But also, miniscule things like every single cobblestone in Bucharest, Romania on the streets that lie between Calea, Victorie and the river Dimbovita. The lovely monochromatic sheet glass of Sainte Chapelle's Cathedral.
