RP Sample - (I had it lying around, and no use letting it go to waste, eh?

Time had turned the clock so slowly that she had forgotten the hand had stopped. The batteries were long dead, the life torn out of it the same way it was torn from the world she stared down upon. Life no longer lived where it had once prospered, and who would have thought? The cold of the night caressed the skin and sunk into it, piercing icy claws even to the white marrow. Long, slender fingers held the sill of the window, black-painted nails decorating hands as white as the moon that ducked beneath the clouds this night. Who would have guessed that Morrigan Aensland would care enough to stay? Silence answered her scornful smile, painted onto a white face with black lipstick, each curve of her body drawn taut with the strain of standing upon her feet when she wanted to sink, to fall to the floor like a fool human and weep. Emerald hardened at the thought, eyes that had spent so many years staring down from this very window at a carnage she could not prevent. Remeniscent of everything my home stood for that I hated, satirical sneers danced across her lips, revealing polished white fangs. She was so tired of the pervading silence that followed the screams, so floored after everything had gone to pieces.

Her beautiful body had whithered with the stress that had accompanied the fall of Genil, with the disappearance of the first elder she had met. It had not seemed physically possible, that the succubus woman could be made weak, but she was. For all the beauty that would never leave her, her fire had died out. Crystal, perhaps, had run away out of a wish to escape the coming tragedy, but Morrigan speculated it was something else that drove her away--someone else that called to her. She had heard tales of a fox-demon who terrorized the women of the village, had heard the stories concerning Crys and this mysterious creature. She had concluded, however far from the truth, that Crystal had gone to save another soul that was insalvageable. It had been years since it had happened, since the red-headed woman who had found herself inflamed at every little thing the emerald-haired Morrigan had said had put Genil behind her. Perhaps it was irony that all that remained was the one person the founder had least expected to stay around.

It was irony that kept the least responsible tending the flock at the end; it was scorn that made her fight, made her die inside for the freedom of humans she could not fathom caring about. Pride and vanity made her ignorant of the death that clung to her, to this place, as the rubble fell and the stairs chipped away. All that was untouched was her last stronghold--an office that had not even belonged to her. The Palace closed itself, locked itself as if it might save its integrity by sheer will alone. She touched no such lock, for she needn't use the door now that there was naught else to protect. She wore one wing of her two-piece halo, a constant reminder of how she had fought, the other, twin, bloodied stump buried in mounds of green hair.

They had moved in, and they had not been confronted by she. She who was one of them could not turn them away, not without due cause... but then they had flooded in, while at first they had come little by little. Crime began to break out, the other elders had mulled over it, how to stop it, to control it.. some had even taken action. She had taken action. Her claws had scorned her own people, her powers had ripped them apart. She had killed, though she was sworn not to. The others turned their heads as she worked, but in the end it became too overwhelming. They could not say she was wrong, but they could not aid her in what she fought for. It fell. War broke out, a war brewing since the very beginning. Genil was a place that stood for prejudice, they said, but what they really meant was simply that it stood for peace and organized law : something they could not obey.

The people fell, superior power and numbers drove them beneath the soiled dirt with stomping hooves and paws. Few that were not human stood up against them, for to go against one's own kind was a sin, even amongst the demon world. Those that did suffered the worst, dragged beneath the broken bodies to a place where they were brutally tortured and killed. She would have been one of those. Humans fought, those who could hold their own... werewolves rose on both sides, vampires that did not believe in the useless slaughtering of human lives rose up for Genil and were quickly taken. The battle raged for half a year, a short time for most, but so large for so few. The palace was taken, the home was raided and a few elders slaughtered, though Morrigan could not tell which ones, for they were taken back. Perhaps they lived, but it was unlikely. Had she not been down with the people, those commoners, she would have been here when the raiding broke...

She would have died. Died standing here.

Resistance broke, the palace was taken... a few months went on as Genil was purged of anything that was reminiscent of its former life. No longer did any venture into the Palace, the elders had vanished. Captured, killed, or merely run away, they were gone. She had stepped through the rubble that stood between two large doors that hung, the only thing that still pretended to house any pride in what it had been, and had stepped into the home she had once occupied... never again had she stepped out.

All had been ravaged, all except one simple room. An office was left untouched except for a few overturned books. Morrigan placed them back, perfected it.. she stood here now, in her room, her caved-in bed behind her as it held her shelves upon it. The black of her cape danced around her in sheer satin waves, silver streek in her hair where stress and pain had worked its way through her body. Her leather bodysuit covered as little of her as always, purple nylons running from beneath the suit down into the black, knee-high boots. The chilled air brought goosebumps to her pale skin, but they were hardly noticeable.

The sound slipped by her ears, unnoticed in her state of lethargia. Nostalgia pulled at her feet as her own heels clicked out a drumbeat to her own demise while she pulled the velvet of her cloak from the back of the dusty chair and watched her shadow distort her image on the wall. The soft flutter of wings long gone sounded in a nostalgic beat as her heavy cape flew across the chilled air to lay upon her shoulders and she looked into a mirror that broke her face in half, one side distorted into a smile while the other looked like a regal queen who frowned upon everything--and there was nothing but frowning to do. Her ears ignored the footsteps as if they were ghosts until her wearied mind followed the sound that was not made by her own feet. Morrigan was not alone--she watched a shadow cross the doorway.

She would see no more wreckage done, but she had been too far away to catch the intruder on her way in--and it was either a she or a male who wore high pumps. She slipped toward the door with a silence uncanny to her heeled feet and pushed the door open on its old hinges, listening to the sound break the silence of the night, but it was not loud enough to call the descending footsteps back. Morrigan stepped out, across the floor, but not toward the stairs.. She would look down fromt he railing... and then the voice met her.

"@#%$."

That voice was immovable--the one sound that had not faded from her memory. She remembered naught else but that, and she could not believe it. She chanced a look--a peek above the railing as she stared down at a curled body at the foot of the staircase, and long, flowing hair that fell around her as she sat.

"Crystal...?"