shavona

"the widow"--lady josephine decordova--rose to prominence as a nightlife performer in the late eighties.

they graced the stages of atlanta as their brooding 1910-20's vamp-inspired persona, and were beloved by their local scene. their sleepy eyes and natural grace, so reminiscent of the seductive silent film stars of a bygone era, captivated their audience and fellow performers alike.

it was after one evening's theatric performance of "gloomy sunday" that lady josephine stepped backstage to find a gift left in their dressing room.

a vintage hand mirror, tied with a note from an admirer.

the second time, a beautiful lace mourning veil.

the third, a bottle of red wine.

lady josephine felt their heart constrict, touched by such thoughtful gestures. they turned over the note tied around the neck of the bottle, which read:

"Dearest Josephine,
I know it all too well--that gnawing ache of loneliness.
If you would allow it . . . I would like to share this bottle with you."

deeply moved--and unable to resist the allure of a mysterious admirer--josephine showed up to the address written.

the person that awaited them was unlike any other they'd seen before.

her cheekbones were prominent to an impossible degree, her ears lengthened and pinched into points, strange markings carved into her skin, breathtaking and alien at once.

she spoke gently as she poured josephine's glass, charmed by their curiosity. she promised that she could show them the true art of transformation, that she wanted nothing more than to share it with them, but that they would have to give up their old life in return.

josephine, spellbound, went willingly.

atlanta drag star lady josephine decordova was never seen again.

never again would they drape seductively across the stages that felt like home. never again would their fingertips brush the warm hands of those who reached out to tip them. it was the turn of the 90's, and their beloved community feared the worst. visibility could be a dangerous thing, after all.

as their scene moved on without them, the artist once known as josephine slowly came to terms with their new reality, reconstructing their identity to detach themself from their previous mortal life.

their sire taught them how to transform themself, guided their hands as they twisted and sculpted their own flesh, using their body as a canvas. slowly they learned to test the limits of their newly undead form.

it was agonizing, yet meditative, and more rewarding than anything they'd ever known. the chest they'd always wanted, the curves they never had . . . as their fingers worked and their thoughts swam with purpose, their new name came to them at last. a true name, not a persona, but one that felt like home to them--shavona.

as months went by shavona found that the relationship formed with their sire wasn't what it seemed. while shavona sought companionship, it had become clear that their sire merely saw them as a protégé.

even when expressing pride in their abilities, her manner was detached. her cold lack of response to their affection pained them. shavona felt the heartbreak as if they were still human, but how could they fault her?

she had given them the gift she promised, and nothing more.

when shavona stepped out from under their sire's wing to find their place in kindred society, they saw her same inhuman beauty mirrored in every kindred they met.

the vampiric condition in all its forms was utterly enchanting to them. even the nosferatu--each twisted by their unique curse--were divine in shavona's eyes.

a new hunger arose in them--to see everything, to know everything, admiring undead bodies and fangs like an artist trying to ascertain another's technique. they were a tzimisce with a toreador soul.

and their obsession only deepened when they discovered a secret taste for vitae.

shavona began collecting work from kindred artists, building a gallery of macabre beauty that reflected the unique experiences of the undead. they filled their haven with sculptures and paintings that depicted emotions no human could ever know.

they found their passion for performing again, this time for audiences of inhuman eyes.

their performance style became darker, more evocative. they delighted in their reveals, drinking in the awe as they opened their corset to reveal impossible anatomy--their open, exposed ribcage, their waist shaved down to the vertebrae.

shavona is never more content than when winding down after a number, tasting the vitae of beautiful kindred in private.

it's an existence that some would describe as hedonistic--but why should they be held to human morals and expectations? it could certainly be worse when one considers the reputation of their clan.

and none can deny that they're peaceful for a tzimisce--
desiring little more out of unlife than to surround themself with art and kindred who can appreciate their vision.

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♫ : battle-axe

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