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MathildeMiraBaudelairenevershouldhavelived. That much was sure. Her story was only a series of unfortunate events, one after another. Dying and becoming undead, then dying again? God must have been playing cruel jokes on her.
Her journey into the macabre kicked off with a dubious encounter in the moonlit woods of Washington. A wolf, more enthusiastic than most, decided to test his dental skills on Mathilde's flesh. The venom injected into her veins was like a subscription to an undead lifestyle magazine, complete with tips on how to rock eternal nightwear. Death claimed her, or so it thought. Mathilde, with a pulse on vacation but a vitality on an everlasting spa retreat, tiptoed into the shadowy realm of undeath.
Playing dead became her newfound talent. As the Quileutes bid her adieu, thinking they were the MVPs of a successful funeral, Mathilde slipped away into the night. Guilt hung over her like a mosquito buzzing around a campfire—she had a front-row seat to the transformation of another, an accidental puppet master orchestrating a supernatural puppet show. Carlisle Cullen, a blast from the past, haunted her thoughts like a friendly ghost with a bone to pick. The weight of responsibility nudged her to flee, to evade the revenge-seeking Cullen squad.
Thus, Mathilde's world tour of misadventures commenced, leaving behind a trail of towns and confused locals. In her labyrinth of chaos, she stumbled into the ancient heart of Volterra. The city's stones whispered tales of forgotten centuries, and like a moth with a questionable life choice, Mathilde gravitated toward its welcoming flame.
The Volturi, the royals of the undead, reigned supreme over this shadowy carnival. In the bowels of their majestic castle, Mathilde discovered that Demetri, the Volturi's version of a relentless tracker, was hot on her undead heels. The castle, a giant relic of stone and ancient times, felt like a time capsule where the ghosts of the past threw a never-ending masquerade.
Velvet drapes cascaded like overenthusiastic waterfalls, hiding secrets sewn into the very fabric of time. Torchlight flickered, casting shadows that seemed to dance to an undead beat, as if the castle itself was hosting a rave for souls from centuries past. Mathilde, in her own undead glam, became a mere whisper in the castle's grand chorus.
As she stood amidst the Volturi's grandeur, Mathilde's existence became a chiaroscuro comedy—a delicate tango of light and darkness, of regrets and questionable life choices. In the silence of that eerie castle, the pages of her story continued to unfold, etched with the ink of a life forever bound to the unyielding embrace of the night.
In this supernatural sitcom, Mathilde's narrative played out like a slapstick script, her tale a sitcom unraveling in the corridors of time. Each misstep resonated with the laughter of forgotten epochs, as if the universe itself was sitting in the audience, munching on celestial popcorn, enjoying the cosmic chaos unfold.
In the dimly lit grand hall, Demetri, an odd presence trailing behind Mathilde, guided her through the labyrinthine twists and turns of Volterra. Their journey culminated in a grand chamber, where three imposing thrones loomed over them like ancient sentinels. Behind these regal seats stood a silent assembly of guards, their eyes gleaming with a mixture of authority and ruthlessness. The hushed anticipation in the room was as thick as the velvet drapes that adorned the walls.
As the doors to the throne room creaked open, the trio of Volturi kings emerged, ethereal and otherworldly. Time seemed to bend around them, and though their appearance was striking, it was their unyielding nature that left an indelible mark. Crimson eyes, deadly gazes, and an air of stiffness surrounded Aro, Marcus, and Caius—the architects of the undead realm.
Aro, the apparent leader, broke the oppressive silence with a curious inquiry directed at Demetri. "Now now, Demetri, what have you stumbled upon?" Aro's brow lifted with subtle intrigue. Demetri, in his peculiar monotone, unravelled the tale of encountering Mathilde amidst the town's hustle, prompting a revelation about her not-so-beating heart.
Aro's eyes widened in surprise, a rare occurrence that spoke volumes. "Well, in that case, allow me to introduce myself properly," he declared. "My name is Aro Volturi, this is Marcus and Caius, and, as you've already acquainted yourself, this is Demetri, one of our guards."
Mathilde, feeling the elder vampire's unsettling proximity, gathered her composure and extended her hand. "Mathilde Baudelaire, it's a pleasure," she greeted with a smile. Aro, seizing her hand, closed his eyes. In that moment, an inexplicable sensation surged through her mind, memories flashing like fleeting shadows. As Aro released her, Mathilde staggered backward, the weight of newfound revelations settling upon her undead shoulders.
"Impossible, how absolutely fascinating!" Aro exclaimed, turning his gaze toward his retinue. "A century lived as a vampire and not once has she tasted blood, not once." The abnormality of Mathilde's existence hung in the air, a revelation that set the stage for the unravelling tragedy.
Her night, however, took a malevolent turn. Mathilde, the woman who had resisted the sanguine allure for a century, found herself entangled in a macabre spectacle. The Volturi, arbiters of undead justice, ordered her to partake in the heinous act of murdering an innocent woman, a mandate that went against the very fibres of her being.
As her fangs sank into the woman's neck, the dichotomy of horror and bliss wrestled within her, the taste of blood offering a macabre sense of fulfilment. The brunette recoiled in silent agony, bound by the merciless whims of the Volturi kings. The life she took crumbled to the cold stone floor, and the weight of the act pressed upon her like a thousand haunting whispers.
Amidst the crimson chaos that ensued—vampires indulging in the red elixir from human vessels—Mathilde's senses faltered. The desire for liberation mingled with the anguish of her own actions. Collapsing to her knees, she yearned for an end to the macabre revelry and the release of those ensnared by the monstrous authority.
Unbeknownst to her, a profound transformation unfolded. Heads turned, immobilised by an unseen force, as Aro's eyes fixed on Mathilde. The once azure pools of her eyes now mirrored the deepest shades of crimson. "Fascinating, amazing," Aro murmured, approaching her with an inscrutable expression. Kneeling beside her, he touched her hand—a touch that sealed her fate, the second turn of her unfortunate events, the reason for her impending doom.
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hello everyone, i hope you all are alright. this is the second part of the prologue, the full part of prologue will have only three parts. then i'll drop the first part of the series
thank you all for reading.
please dont be a silent reader, comment ,vote and criticize if you wish.
