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The night started like any other. She woke up in her bed as she’d made sure to tome herself home the night before. She hadn’t had any nightmares, or if she had they hadn’t stayed in her memory long enough for her to remember having them now. She felt mostly rested, a feeling that led her to believe it was more likely the former than the latter.

A quick look to the clock that she kept next to her bed confirmed that it wasn’t quite sunrise yet, but that was nothing new. She would have been more surprised if she had have stayed asleep until sunrise. It was common for her to have half an hour to an hour to wait before it was safe for her to go outside, but there was plenty of things for her to do until that happened – the question was what?

She stayed curled up in her bed for another few minutes before letting out a sigh, throwing the blankets off of herself and swinging her legs off of the side of the bed. She let her legs move back and forth for a little while, allowing the bottoms of her feet just lightly grazing against the fluffy black carpet. The sensation was an odd one; she thought it should tickle, but it didn’t. Nyla tilted her head as she continued the back in forth motion, her features set in deep concentration as she thought about how to describe the feeling of the soft fabric brushing against her skin. It felt almost as if she didn’t even really feel it, like it was just in her head that there was any feeling at all.

The thought left a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach causing her feet to come to a halting stop. The inquisitive expression turned to a much more uneasy one as her darkened eyes became almost fixed on the visual of her feet just barely touching her carpet. She wasn’t alive anymore; it was a fact that she’d long ago had to face. It hadn’t been at her turning or even after her first feeding (or second or third). She had days or weeks, the exact amount of time was lost on her, of time that she just couldn’t even remember. It was why she stayed away from ferals – she assumed that was how she’d looked both times she’d lost herself. The first being just after her turning and the second being a few months after learning about what she was. The thought of her being like that sent tremors through her, so she avoided it like the plague that it was.

The first time the fact had really come full center for her had been the first time she’d come across her reflection after being turned. It was something that most vampires might happen across fairly soon after their turning, but it had actually taken a fair while before Nyla had seen hers. It was a while before she’d had a place of her own in Harper Rock and when she went to her Grand Sire’s place to shower up she did so as quickly as possible and hadn’t exactly lingered. The first time she’d seen it had actually been outside as she’d been passing a body of water. Nothing could have really prepared her to see the truth, though a bit of warning wouldn’t have gone amiss. The sight of her own body decomposing and ruined was not one she’d thought she’d ever have to see. Nothing quite brings the truth of being dead to reality quite like that visual.

The knowledge had started a change in her, even if she hadn’t been aware of it. The knowledge that she wasn’t alive outside of her own mind had been a detrimental discovery. It was something that had her constantly trying to find pieces of her that still at least resembled real humanity and cling to them, force them to grow until she could even occasionally fool herself into the belief that she hadn’t been torn away from that life. That she was still alive. That she was still human.

These moments when the knowledge that any humanity she had was all a façade came roaring to the front of her mind left her feeling cold. Deep down cold that left her almost feeling as if her insides were burning the pain was so strong. She had to move; had to do something, anything to get the ice currently in her veins to turn back into whatever it was supposed to be. The problem was she couldn’t seem to actually move. The ability to jump up off of her bed and go somewhere had completely left her, as if the ice she imagined inside of her was actually there inhibiting the movement. Paralysis. In her mind she knew that all she had to do was just move and she’d be good; just start the movement. That didn’t change the fact that she just couldn’t seem to be able to find the ability to do so.

“No… Snap out of it Ny.” The sentence was more mouthed than said as the words were no louder than a breath as they came out. She closed her eyes again, her mind picturing what she thought she looked like as a wolf based on the bits and pieces she’d managed to see. She wasn’t sure what her exact patterning was, though she’d seen a mixture of wolf like colours in her fur. She thought she possibly had a nice mid length coat, but she hadn’t really paid that much attention to such things the few times she’d shifted into her wolf.

The exact details didn’t really matter as she didn’t really want to shift right then. She wanted what being a wolf made her feel – the power and control. She did her best to think about that, pulling that feeling into herself to try and warm the fictional ice clogging up her system as she tried again to push herself off of the bed. She left her eyes closed, only really knowing she had succeeded by the solid feel of the carpet beneath her feet – a feeling only achieved by the full force of one’s weight being placed on them.

Only when she was sure that she was in fact upright did she reopen her eyes, her body only hesitating a moment longer before she was forcing her legs to move forward – even if it felt like they were full of lead. She didn’t have that far to walk, which was good seeing as how each step seemed to take ten times more effort than usual. The training room wasn’t far from her room thankfully and before long she was standing on the gym matted flooring in front of one of her martial arts dummies.

She had several of them – some were more designed for blade practice, but the one she was in front of now was one that was meant for hand to hand combat practice. Just the familiar sights and smells of the training room had the ice in her veins warming up in anticipation of what that meant. She didn’t care that she was still in her pajamas, not that it mattered seeing as how they were nothing more than a tank top and a pair of shorts anyway.

This particular attire wasn’t the type that she would wear out in public – not anymore at least. Each leg had a jagged raised scar going the entire way around her leg just above the knee from being severed previously, along with two similar looking scars going around her right arm just below her shoulder. Her left arm, while not having a scar from a severing, had a very distinctive claw mark that went from her shoulder until just above her wrist. The scarring had started to appear shortly after she’d sired Pixie and now it seemed new wounds refused to heal properly. She wasn’t sure what to make of it and hadn’t exactly felt like running to ask anyone about it either. It was probably a good thing that she’d yet to be attacked anywhere hard to hide.

She didn’t hesitate any longer, throwing herself into her training and filling the room up with the loud echoing sounds of her flesh coming into contact with the fighting dummy. She lost all concept of time or anything else as she let everything but the soothing burn of her muscles being pushed to their limits and the satisfying auditory consequence of each action.

Long gone are the nights when Zelda wakes up feeling morose and out of place. Sure, she still doesn’t feel as if she’s completely found her feet yet, but when has that ever been the case? She never walked around on two feet anyway, and she was always certain that the metaphor didn’t apply to her at all. Her parents were always telling her that she ‘skates through life’, and they didn’t mean just physically. They referred to her philosophies, to her devil-may-care attitude. They’d given up on trying to tell her to focus, that she needed to plan for her future. Somehow, she’d done just find for herself without any plans, and they figured the best way for her to learn was on her own.

Well, she supposed, they never would have guessed where she’d end up. She still speaks to her parents, every now and again. Always at night time, of course, and never giving away anything about what she has become. They always knew she was a night owl, though, and prone to late night parties and sleeping all day. They have no idea that something is different, and if they have their worries, they’re keeping them to themselves. Which suits Zelda just fine.

No, when once Zelda woke up unsure of where she was or what she would do with her night, she’s taught herself to not be afraid of the things she doesn’t understand, or the things that might occur, but to look forward to them, to embrace them. F. Scott had scared the **** out of her for a few seconds, but now he is invaluable to her. A constant companion, and evidence of an ability that ranks, she thinks, as one of the coolest.

He’s there, waiting for her, when she wakes up. He’s dapper, as per usual, in his suit and with his hair swept in a neat, curled wave to the side. His blue eyes gleam with promised mischief.

”Now now, Scott, you know I don’t like it when you watch me sleep. It’s creepy. And what’s more creepy is if you want to stick around while I get dressed. Go find something to keep yourself occupied for a while?” Zelda says. The wraith shrugs, and drifts out of the room. Zelda waits, to make sure he’s not coming back, before heading to the bathroom. She goes through the exact same motions as she might have when she was human. She wakes up the exact same way as she always did – bright, and full of life and expectations.

She showers, after which she dresses in a short, tanned skirt, which she pulls over a floral blouse. She blow dries her hair, and attacks the frizz with the straightening iron, expertly getting it to cascade over her shoulders in what appears to be a natural wave. Upon her face she applies the smallest amount of make-up, enough to make her lips and eyes stand out. Upon her feet she does not wear sensible boots, like most people might, but instead a pair of sensible boots attached to wheels—her suede skates. It’s as she ties the last bow that Scott wanders back into the room.

”Your sire is in the training room,” he informs Zelda. At first, Zelda offers a shrug. Her sire rarely ever cracks a smile, and so Zelda normally leaves the caravan without saying a word to her, without seeking Nyla out at all. That can’t go on forever, though, and so Zelda heaves a heavy sigh. She’s not in the mood to be depressed, she never is, and hates people who don’t allow themselves a small amount of happiness. May as well give it a crack, though.

She heads for the training room; one would be able to hear her coming from a mile away, the wheels thundering against the floor. When she finds Nyla, she begins circling her sire, the red waves of her hair dancing behind her, in the wind whipped up by her movements. Scott lounges--if a wraith is able to lounge--by the door.

”Who’re you taking your frustration out on, then?” she asks, gesturing to the manikin. ”Don’t they say you have to imagine it’s someone you really want to hurt?” she asks, though she regrets the question as soon as it’s out of her mouth. Worst way to cheer up a depressed person is by asking them about what’s depressing them.

Now that she'd begun she no longer felt as if there was ice in her veins. The transition had been nearly immediate from ice to fire. Unlike before where she found herself unable to move, now she doubted she'd be able to stop even if she wanted to. She didn't even need to put any thought into her movements - her arms and legs moving as if they had a mind of their own. It wasn't long before even the sounds of her hands and feet connecting with the training dummy were completely lost on her as nothing but the sound of the roaring in her ears was registering.

This left her completely unaware to her approaching childe - her presence not truly registering in Nyla's awareness until her Pixie actually spoke. The words registered as Nyla's leg was in the air, mid-way to colliding with its target. The startling effect was immediate as her leg continued its journey as if Pixie had never entered while the rest of Nyla's body moved to turn towards the intrusion. The result? A complete loss of balance that had Nyla twisting and flailing in an attempt to keep herself upright before ultimately failing and landing with a hard 'thud' right onto her ***.

She didn't even move a muscle for a moment. She had no idea what Pixie had said and she wasn't all that sure that she cared, either. Finally, with a creepy slowness she lifted her head up so narrowed dark eyes could lock on her childe's. She didn't growl or glare, though in her current state she completely forgot to hide her fangs - an act that had become as natural as breathing since the night she'd turned Pixie.

Another moment passed before she opened her mouth and then proceeded to shut it with an audible snap without even uttering a word. She let out a breath then before forcing all the muscles in her body to relax and flopping completely backwards onto the training mat, throwing an arm over her eyes as she did so. "You…will be the death of me Childe." She took a deep and overly loud breath in and then quickly released it. She would have responded to the question Pixie had posed to her, except the words themselves hadn't registered, only the sound of words.

The arm she'd thrown over her eyes slowly moved away, though it revealed only closed eyes that she decided not to reopen just yet. "How can I help you, Pixie?" The words were said in a soft and sincere tone, even if she had been annoyed just moments before.

Nyla falls flat on her *** and Zelda cackles in response. Years of training in the Derby circuit have stolen every ounce of compassion from her—at least when regarding people falling over, or having their noses broken, or breaking a limb. These are not fatal injuries. In time, they heal. And thus, the moment that they happen is not cause for despair or judicious worry, but for laughter. The wheels of Zelda’s skates come to a screaming halt at the edge of the training mattress; the way Nyla looks up at her, with black eyes and fangs bared, makes her look like some kind of demon, ready to contort her body in odd ways only so that she could launch at Zelda and tear her throat out.

Seeing as that’s happened once before, and Zelda survived to tell the tale, she’s not exactly worried. She even bares her own fangs, the ones that never go away. She lets loose a small hiss, playful to the last, except that Nyla wouldn’t have noticed. Her sire flops onto her back and covers her face with her arm, blocking out any physical reaction that Zelda might have to the petite blonde. She drops down to her haunches, her knees leaning against the training mattress for support and balance. A derisive scoff breaks from her throat as Nyla finally addresses her properly.

”You talk at me like you’re centuries old and I’m just some kid,” Zelda says. This is exactly why she assumes she and her sire might never get along—at least, not in the way two friends might. Although Zelda respects Nyla, listens to her, does as she’s told (most of the time) she doesn’t yet consider the woman a friend. Sure, yes, okay, if someone were to ask if she were friends with Nyla, Zelda would say yes. Sure. But a true friend? One who you’d spill your stupidest desires with, who you’d giggle alongside after perving on boys playing hockey in the park, one who you’d invite to that party hosted by that chick you met last week, who’s supposedly an heiress? Not that kind of friend. Nyla is far too serious. And it’s exactly sentences like that which exasperate Zelda.

”The question is, sire-mine, how can I help you. Seriously. You’re in dire need of some help. You’re so ******* bitter and morose all the time. Why don’t you come out and have some fun, hm?” Zelda asks. She’s curious to see whether Nyla will actually comply. She’s curious to see whether, underneath it all, whether Nyla had ever been someone with whom Zelda might have spent her days, laughing and giggling and generally having a good time. Or is this just the person Nyla is, never to change?

At this her eyes opened back up and immediately sought out her childe as she moved to sit up slightly, her arms extended behind her for leverage. A very big part of her wanted to snap out a quick Hell No to that followed by quickly getting back to her work out - but she locked that response down as she studied Pixie. There had been so many words used to describe her as a human but she was sure bitter and morose weren't part of the equation. She knew she wasn't exactly a ball of sunshine and probably not even that great of a sire because of it. So instead, she grit her teeth and let her gaze move from her childe to look down at her current attire.

She was still surprised to see the lack of sweat as she would have been drenched from a work out like that as a human. The thought of course did nothing for her mood. Most girls would have been ecstatic to see the lack of sweat covering their bodies, but for Nyla all it did was remind her that she wasn't human; that she was an undead monster with no real humanity. Moving her eyes away in an attempt to distract herself only served to bring the disfiguring scars she carried to her attention, which actually did calm her slightly.

Realizing this she focused on them for a moment - the way the skin was so far from perfect from being hacked off or clawed or shot at. Sure, it was very not-human how she'd healed herself from the wounds, but the scarring was very much human. She took a breath in, using it to center herself before letting it right back out and bringing her gaze back up to Pixie.

"You want me to go out and have fun?" She hadn't meant for the statement to come out sounding like she thought the idea was completely preposterous. She heard it in her own voice though and it made her cringe, knowing she couldn't take it back and hoping her childe wouldn't dwell on that. It was this hope that had her continuing, not giving Pixie a chance to get a word in after her statement. "What would you like me to go do, Pixie? You want to take me out for the night? Show me what this fun thing is all about?"

It still didn't sound quite right to her ears, but it had been so long since she'd really attempted anything of the sort. She could have tried to explain to her childe why it was that she'd become quite this bad, but even she knew it would sound more like excuses than legitimate reasonings. The blonde had a feeling that it would just make her childe even more determined to get her out into the light. All she could do for now was hope nothing went wrong on this night - that if nothing else she could at least give her Pixie the satisfaction of at least thinking she had brought some fun into her sire's life.

Nyla sits up, and Zelda’s shoulders straighten. She keeps her balance perfectly, her posture like that of an arrogant housecat. She’s not arrogant, though. Not really. Zelda comes across like a queen bee, like a woman who hasn’t a care for anything else but her own vanity. And yes, she is a little vain, but her vanity includes wanting to appear strong, and independent, and utterly capable. Thus, her vanity does not extend to wanting to hide scars, or bruises, or gashes, or any evidence whatsoever that she can take care of herself. With the attire she currently wears, the majority of her own scars are hidden. There are a couple of gunshot scars upon her thighs, and her upper arms, but otherwise she hasn’t yet had the opportunity to gain any more.

The grin on her lips is steadfast and unfaltering. She cocks her head to the side, her gaze unflinching as it sweeps Nyla’s body, from head to toe and back again.

”You make it sound as if this ‘fun thing’ is a conspiracy. Or a myth. Yes, that’s what I’m saying. I’ma take you out, kitty cat. C’mon. I got plenty of clothes that’ll look ******* amazing on that petite little body of yours. We’ll be a couple’a heartbreakers. Make those men realise exactly what they’re missin’,” Zelda says, her grin broadening into a Cheshire-like mischief.

Nyla seems reluctant to move. There’s a tone to her voice that indicates her disbelief that Zelda could succeed in her endeavour. Zelda is not disheartened, however. Instead, she sees that particular reluctant tone as a challenge. She will succeed, even if she has to threaten Nyla. Yes, she hates how protective Nyla is. She hasn’t told Nyla, but she’s saving money to buy her own apartment. But that does not mean she’ll spend any less time around her sire, or seek her out. But on one condition…

And that condition will start to be met tonight, whether Nyla likes it or not. Zelda stands, surprisingly stealthily given that her feet are not solid, but are instead on wheels. She holds out a hand to her sire—an invitation, if Nyla will accept it.

The wince that overtook her facial expression at Pixie's last sentence was quick and potent. If that was Pixie's intent than the girl was going to have another thing coming. Nyla had no intention of even flirting with the possibility. This didn't mean she wasn't going to humor her childe for the evening, but it didn't help her feel any more comfortable about giving in.

The thought of not only being out but being out in clothes that aren't even hers only adds gasoline to the fire in her stomach. She has no idea what Pixie will try to put her in and she has a feeling it will leave her needing to come up with some sort of revenge for it later. None of that mattered right this second, though.

The moment her childe's hand was outstretched Nyla was reaching forward to take it, not that she really needed it to lift herself up. In the end she would give her childe whatever she felt she needed, which at the moment seemed to be this for some unknown reason. Besides, if Pixie was going to be out it wouldn't hurt for her to be there as well. Just in case. Right?

"So this I a make-over too is it?" She couldn't stop the corner of her lip from tugging up in the smallest of smiles. Even if she was nervous and pretty sure the night was going to end with her causing some sort of violence she was still rather amused at the whole thing. "Might as well lead the way then." Any hesitation had left her tone by now, fully replaced by her amusement. She doubted Pixie realized that as a human she'd never been able to leave the house unless she was done up to perfection. She hadn't been allowed to stay at home and read when she could have been out socializing with potential suitors like a proper lady. She could deal with whatever Pixie threw at her.

Zelda can’t quite figure Nyla out. When she speaks, there’s clear amusement in her tone. Where previously there was reluctance, now there’s willingness. The blonde doesn’t hesitate to take Zelda’s hand. It’s probably a combination of Nyla weighing less than a feather, and the fact that Zelda now is host to a preternatural strength, but it takes very little effort to get the blonde up and onto her feet.

If Zelda were at all privy to the thoughts running through Nyla’s head, she might have corrected her sire. Zelda has no intention of paying any attention to the men they might encounter. She has no intention of flirting with them, no intention of even feeding on them, if it can be helped. She meant exactly what she said when she mentioned they’d find out exactly what they were missing. Meaning, they wouldn’t even have a chance with two hot women who have no interest in them whatsoever.

Sure, Zelda likes a good fling, when she can get one. But she is no romantic. She does not believe in soul mates, and nor does she believe she needs a man to make her happy. She likes men for the pleasure that they can give her, on occasion, but there’s nothing they can do that she can’t achieve on her own. They’re useless toys, and now that she’s a vampire and she cannot procreate, the need for a man has been completely obliterated.

She shrugs her shoulders as she leads her sire out of the training room.

”A make-over is a bit too harsh a concept, I think. A make-over normally requires that the subject be a complete baboon beforehand. And you’re not. You just need some cleaning up,” Zelda says, grin steadfast upon her face. The wheels of her skates thunder against the floor as she passes by her wraith. She throws him a wink.

”No watching now, Scottie. That would be bad, creepy wraith behaviour,” she says. The wraith gives a flourish of a bow and retains an equally mischievous wink, but he does not his acquiescence.

”Would prefer you don’t call me Scottie, dearest. I am not my daughter.” There is only a hint of sadness in his ghostly voice. Maybe when one is dead, one is devoid of the emotions one might have if alive. Or perhaps F. Scott has just come to terms with the fact that he lived a full and healthy life, as did his wife and child, and that there is nothing to be sad about, with lives well lived.

As soon as Zelda reaches her bedroom she attacks her closet; she is a veritable cyclone of cloth and colour, as she tries to find the perfect thing.

She wasn't sure how to take her childe's words or what to say. It wasn't as if she thought she was ugly or anything like that that had her staying in or spending her time doing less than lady like things. She didn't dress all prim and proper because she didn't want to. She'd had to do that all of her human life and she'd hated every minute of it. She loved the freedom of jeans and pajamas and sneakers. She wouldn't deprive her childe of something that she'd given to her parents. It didn't seem right. Especially where Pixie was only asking for a night where her parents had wanted her whole life.

"Whatever you say, childe-mine." The words were quiet, barely louder than the thunder of her childe's roller blades. She'd say she hated them, but she'd be lying. It was a familiar sound that she'd begun to count on hearing every now and then. It had become almost soothing, though she had a feeling saying as much to Pixie would do her little good. They all said she was smothering and over protective. Maybe she was. She wasn't about to change how much she cared and she doubted she could change how she reacted to it. She wasn't sure how others did it - saw their childer bleeding on their floors without wanting to lock them up until they got better. She had taken something from Pixie; the life she had meant to have. How could she not be overprotective of the bond she had forced on her?

She shook herself out of her musings as she entered her childe's room - an action she hadn't done since its completion. She didn't look around much, as she wasn't all that concerned with her childe's day to day activities unless they put her in danger. She trusted her childe, though that didn't make her any less protective of her welfare. Not wanting to stand around all awkwardly, Nyla made her way over to Pixie's bed and hopped up onto the foot of it, crossing her legs beneath her as she did so.

Watching her childe go through her wardrobe like she was was hardly reassuring, but she did her best not to articulate this. She didn't want to sit there not saying a thing either, though - as it was only making her more uncomfortable and awkward feeling at the prospect of tonight. "Did you have a place in mind?" It wasn't much of a conversation starter, but she was sure Pixie was way too caught up in creating a clothing storm to reply too much anyway.

Zelda isn’t in the habit of trying to turn others into echoes of herself. She knows that she and Nyla aren’t the same, and that the majority of the clothes in her closet aren’t going to suit Nyla. There is one dress, however, one dress that Zelda had bought not long ago on a whim. A dress that she hadn’t tried on, on account of the shop was about to close. A cream white silky thing that she’d tried on when she got home, only to realise it didn’t suit her at all. She’d dropped the thing into the back of her closet. It still had the tag and everything.

”Nope, no place in mind,” Zelda says as she reaches into the recesses, knowing exactly where the dress was even if she couldn’t see it properly. She knew she’d laid her fingers upon it as soon as she touched it. The material was thick and heavy; precious, even. She’s almost completely giddy as she pulls it out, shaking it free of creases and holding it up in front and to the side of Nyla. Yes! Yes, she can already see it. She can already see how much like a Goddess her sire will look if dressed in this simple garment.

”I like to just be spontaneous. We’ll find somewhere. But try this on first. Please?” she asks, giving the dress another small, anticipatory shake. She could already imagine the finished product, but she needed Nyla to agree, first. Thus far, her sire hadn’t been at all unwilling, and so Zelda has high hopes.

She has no intention of torturing Nyla. Every now and again Zelda catches a glimpse of a rare Nyla smile, and in that smile she can see a woman with whom she might be able to get along with. All she wants to do is prove to Nyla that she is perfectly able to have some fun. And in the process, maybe, prove to her that she, Zelda, is quite able to take care of herself. That she does not hate Nyla for what she has done; that the night of the siring is all but forgotten.

Zelda does not dwell in the past. She doesn’t even really look to the future. She doesn’t have any long-term goals, nor has she ever. She prefers only to take life as it is given to her, and to make the best of it. Silver lining abound in Zelda’s mind, and she knows that there’s plenty of fun two healthy young women can have out on the town together, with no one else dictating what they can and cannot do.

The grin that she gives to Nyla is broad and enthusiastic. By the end of the night, she hopes to have Nyla grinning in the exact same way.