Her identity was unknown; she was a shadow, a ghostly presence, the keeper of the night. And oh, how she frightened the women whose husbands (those unfaithful dogs) fearlessly paraded those midnight roads, confident that no single woman could best them.
But how wrong they were.
How very wrong.
Vivienne was a pretty package waiting to be unwrapped, with silken stockings and ribboned corsets and luscious curls. Beneath the hems of her skirts lay the sharps truths and petty lies. And the lion's den was oh so inviting; no man could resist.
Beckoning, beckoning.
Come closer, cher.
I dare you.
Countless were the dirty fingers that caressed her thighs and filthy were those lips that trailed her breasts with brandy on their teeth. Disgusting. Foul. What pigs. True detriments to society. (If you could call this a society.) And when they turned their backs, expecting release--
Well, she granted it to them with a blade to their bobbing throats and salivating tongues, and ripped the breath from their windpipes in one swipe
bleed my darling, bleed, bleed BLEED
oh, are you done?
what a shame.
qu'est-ce que c'est le point si tu ne HURLEMENT pas?
crie pour moi, mon amour. crie.
et saigner.
She was once called the Scarlet Assassin.
And she earned her name through a hundred corpses.
[ translation: what's the point is you don't SCREAM? cry for me, my love. cry. and bleed. ]