Name: Raziella Dagon
Preferred Name: Razie
Gender: Female
Age: 77 Years
Apparent Age: 18-19 Years
Place of Birth: Damascus, Syria
Species: Vampire
Coven: Tarepha
Appearance:
In life, as well as in death, Raziella has always been almost plain looking. Her face is very rounded, with few angles or sharp lines. Fleshy cheeks do little to detract from this, though, she does have a set of rather endearing dimples in each. Both lips are fairly small, though the bottom is a bit more plump, generally displaying a slight pout. Her eyebrows are very distinct due to their dark color, however, they are kept well shaped and relatively thin. The eyes themselves are almond shaped, with a very slight slant, and are bordered by brown lashes that seem to place more emphasis on the bright, hazel color of her irises. Her hair, keeping with the color trend, is a very dark chocolate brown. It is cut to fall nearly to her shoulders, and constantly retains a very thick and wild looking texture, composed of many soft curls. All of these features combined tend to lend Razie something of a 'girlish charm', and she could be easily be described as somewhat pretty, though she is certainly no stunning beauty.
She has a generally small frame, standing at about 5'4". She is a bit top heavy, with rather large breasts and a longer torso. Unfortunately, her hips have very little definition, though, she is not quite 'stick straight'. Arms and legs are well toned, most likely from a lifetime of hard work, generally allowing her to look very solid and well made, not to mention difficult to knock over, despite her height.
Raziella, more often than not, will be found wearing dark colors, though, not necessarily black. Most of her tops are low cut, or show a significant amount of skin, and she tends to favor rather funky skirts, short, of course, in plaids or other interesting fabrics. Her style might be described as a little punk, a little goth, or just generally misguided. But, she does know what her assets are, and she is rather talented at making sure they are accented to the best degree possible. She enjoys jewelry, specifically diamonds, and will often be seen with a particularly shiny ring or necklace on her person, though, she tries not to be too garish. Most of her other accessorizing is accomplished with fishnet, or interesting tights and stockings.
History:
As recovered from a tape recording discovered at the scene of a homicide. The identity of the speaker is currently unknown.
Feminine voice:
So kid, what's your name?
What, suddenly can't find your words? That's a big change from earlier. You didn't seem to have much trouble running your mouth then. That's the problem with you Americans. You always manage to speak first, and save the thinking for later. Well, don't worry. You're going to have plenty of time for contemplation...
But first, I'm going to answer your question. What, you don't remember? Well, let me remind you. I believe it went something along the lines of...'You stupid Arab cunt, why don't you go back to your own country?'
Oh, you do remember! I thought so. Well, today's your lucky day kid. A lot of people might get worked up over being called an 'Arab cunt', but not me. Civil person that I am, I'm simply going to explain the flaw in your suggestion. To do that, I'm going to have to give you a little background information. It's a somewhat lengthy story, but hey, we've got all night. It isn't like you have any pressing engagements, right? Right.
It all started in Syria, back in 1930. Yeah, I know. A bit before your time, huh? A little girl was born to a Jewish couple living in Damascus. The pair already had a son--older, by five years. Everyday, the Father thanked God that his small family still thrived, for his home land had fallen upon hard times. Especially Damascus, who's walls still bore the memory of bombings and warfare, and had been surrounded by barbed wire. All of this happened, you see, because there was a bit of a conflict over who actually controlled Syria, or who should be allowed to control it. At that moment in time, the French had decided that they were the ones.
All the while, as the conflict raged forward, the little girl--Raziella--continued to grow older alongside her family. Uncertainty hung over all the citizens like a dark shadow, but, eventually they got used to it, going about daily life unless the circumstances demanded otherwise. Little Razie, much more interested in small animals and what scraps of plants she could gather, remained rather oblivious to such 'adult matters' through out her early childhood. However, age banishes ignorance, and so as she grew up, the bleakness of the situation became all the more apparent. A bleakness that did not sit well with her.
Unfortunately for the French, they decided to help the wrong people, and so a group known as the Allies deemed it time to put a stop to their influence in Syria. As a result of this, Raziella found herself trapped in between two opposing sides, and her life began to center around war, and all its little skirmishes and face-offs. It was like a highly elaborate game, one that made playing pieces of people. Terror sparked in everyone, afraid that they might have been placed in the wrong spot. Still, Razie's Father maintained their position, and they continued on in Damascus.
Well, the Allies eventually won their little 'campaign'--no surprise there. Slowly, Syria moved towards independence, and the people of Damascus began to breath and recover. However, France wasn't done with them yet, and a few years later they bombed the city again. Fortunately, there are benefits with having certain people on your side. The British stepped in, and eventually the French agreed to cease their attack and withdraw. And finally, in 1946, Syria announced its full independence.
You'd figure with Syria finally governing itself, the story would end happily, right? Wrong. In 1947, the riots began. Spurred on by anti-Jewish sentiments, Jews were attacked and killed through out the country. An entire community of homes and buildings were burned in Aleppo. The Syrian government, just as malicious, stopped the group from buying property, or having telephone lines. Assets were seized, bank accounts frozen. Alongside these changes, the Arabs increased their harassment. Raziella, no longer a little girl, but an enraged young woman, wanted to stand against the tormentors. But, her Father proved to be a coward, incapable of fighting injustice, and so they fled. It's funny. They had survived several bombings, a war on their front step. And yet, in the end, it took the attack of their fellow Syrians to drive them away.
Well, the family escaped alright. If they'd been caught, they would have died. But, they made it out of Syria alive. Raziella bristled as they left everything behind, but would not disobey her Father. So, arduously, they traveled on to Israel, seeking safe haven. What they found, however, was a disgrace, a mockery of life. Thousands of Jews had fled to Israel before them, and had been housed in tent cities, the Ma'abarot. The conditions of her new life disgusted Raziella. Sharing showers with hundreds of others, scrounging for food and sustenance. No room remained for privacy, or pride. They lived like dirty animals! Why? The fault lay with her Father.
There came a moment when Razie just could not take it any longer. She'd had enough, enough of feeling low and dirty, at the mercy of a coward. One who could not provide for his family. The solution seemed simple, and so taking one of her Father's knives, she slit his throat one night as he slept. The blade sliced through his skin, smooth as silk. Then, turning, she repeated the action on her Mother. She would leave her brother alive, for she felt that he had some sense about him. Besides, what he did with his new freedom really was his own business. The deed done, Raziella simply dropped the knife and walked out of the camp. She did not know where she was going--it didn't matter. As long as it was away from that despicable place.
Over the landscape she trekked, a lonely figure, alone and out of place as she conquered the terrain. But, there was no one around to see her determined progress, unusual as it proved. At least, so she assumed. Time passed--minutes, hours? Impossible to say. Eventually, she discovered that she had company, alerted only by the slightest of sounds. Whoever they were, it didn't matter. She kept going. More seconds slipped by, and it seemed that the other person eventually got impatient, or at least they had finally decided to make contact.
"Where are you going?" Came a voice from the dark. Razie didn't even flinch.
"I don't know." Came her vague, yet firm reply.
"What do you seek?"
"Justice." She answered truthfully, feeling as though the voice were testing her, or perhaps sizing her up.
"What is your name?" More interrogation.
"Does it matter?" This response illicited a chuckle.
"No, I suppose not."
A hand came from out of the darkness, touching her shoulder. She did stop then, and as she did so, the strange voice continued.
"With blood on your hands, and in your thoughts, you seek justice. I shall you give you the means to attain it."
The hand led Razie through the dark, and it seemed as though they walked for the majority of the night. At last, they must have come to some sort of marker, for a passage suddenly opened up from the ground. Inside the passage were stairs, stairs that spiraled down in to the very depths of the earth. Down and down she went, all the muscles in her body beginning to ache and protest the hours of travel. At last, she reached some sort of cavern. Candles sprang to life, apparently of their own accord, revealing a vast earthen room, appearing to have been carved out of the dirt. Shelves of books filled one side of the area, while furniture such as chairs, a table, and a bed took up other portions of it. But, most importantly, in the center of everything stood a man. The man who the voice from the dark no doubt belonged to.
Good story, huh, kid?
Bet you're wondering who exactly this man is. Well, I'll tell you.
He had skin as black as night that seemed to somehow reflect the candle light, giving it a rosy sheen. And though he dressed like the people of the desert, he was clearly not just some eccentric local. He looked to be roughly in his mid-thirties, although, such a detail proved trivial to Razie. She could only think of one thing.
"Justice." She said, forgetting nothing. "You promised me the means to find it."
His smile revealed two rows of white teeth, but, it betrayed more than that. The two top canines were longer than they should have been, and more pointed. Raziella could merely stare for a moment. The man continued to grin.
"Yes, I did. Come here, child, and I will give all."
So, she went to him. It was really as simple as that. With the gentleness of a lover, he took her in to his arms, and put his lips to her throat. And he proceeded to sink those two, long fangs into the vein pulsing just beneath her skin. The pain, at first, came searing and hot. A strange sound roared in her ears, as awareness flooded all of her senses. She muttered something, though she did not know what. Finally, he pulled away, leaving her limp in his arms. She felt so weak, as if all the life were swiftly leaving her body. He whispered a single word in her ear, before pressing his wrist to her mouth.
"Justice."
Yeah, that's right, buddy boy. He was a vampire. A very powerful one. Bet you thought they didn't exist, huh? How wrong you were.
Well, that night Raziella became a vampire also. In the wake of her mortal death came powers and abilities that you couldn't even wrap your thoughts around. Strength, agility, a whole new level of awareness and perception. From that moment on, she referred to the man as 'Father', for he had sired her, and had now stepped up to fulfill the role of parent like her mortal Father, the stupid bastard, had never been capable of. Likewise, he called her only 'Daughter', and began to instruct her on the ways of her new life.
Those first years were all about learning. When she did not sleep, she read or studied the many books and manuscripts found in the cavern. When she did not study, she hunted with her Father, preying upon the remaining Jews of the Ma'abarot. Eventually the tent cities became actual settlements, gaining new people, and retaining many of the old. As a result of this, her hunting ground broadened. Her Father taught her different techniques, strategies on how to use her new abilities. She did not have his talent for mind reading, but there were other things that she proved good at, such as scaling walls, that she soon used to her advantage. Alongside these lessons on vampirism, he taught her languages, history--anything that appeared important.
They went on in that way for about two decades, before Father decided it was time for his daughter to see the outside world, and continue her training. So they left their earth home behind, and departed from Israel for good.
Having thought Father quite isolated from the rest of the vampire population, Razie was therefor surprised upon their arrival in the city of London, when she learned that they would be staying with some 'friends'. These friends turned out to be an actual vampiric couple, who Father had known before his exploits led him into Israel. Having received word of his new fledgling some fifteen years prior, they had immediately agreed to assist with her 'training' when the time came, and later sent instructions to visit them at the bustling center of England, where they had but recently built their new home as the city continued to recover from its own bombings during World War II. So, Father had brought his daughter to be instructed with the assistance of his trusted extended family. Raziella had never dreamed of such lessons.
At first, they tested her, the vampire couple, the two of them together. Nights would be spent in the bedroom, trying out positions and tools. During those times they used her body, and used it hard, issuing punishments that she could never have imagined. All manners of torture, designed to mix and mingle with the sexual urges. Their knives, and their finger nails marked her skin, always delving deeper. There was no place left sacred. Ropes, lengths of cloth, anything that could be tied and manipulated drove the breath from her lungs, or forced her body in to unnatural angles. And for all they tried to break her, for all they tried to drive the will power and the resistance from her spirit, they could not. She simply refused to be dominated. Instead, their ministrations had the opposite effect, feeding a hatred deep within her, until she burned to use them as they had ill-used her, until her greatest desire was to see others writhe, bleed, and scream in agony.
Well, whatever test she had been given in those first months, she seemed to pass. At last the rape and the torture ceased, and Raziella was allowed time for contemplation. But, not too long, for she must be taught the craft, the art--not of submission, but of complete and utter domination. It was Father himself who supervised her first session. They brought to her a beautiful young mortal, his body strong, defined by toned muscle. Fire burned in his eyes, eyes she would never forget, for they marked the beginning of her journey. Father instructed her to use what she had learned from her encounters with his friends. Razie took her time, playing with him, slowly ravaging his body with the edge of a knife, or a controlled swipe of sharp finger nails. For a long while, he refused to scream, though she could tell that the control cost him dearly. But, eventually, his will power disappeared beneath her cruel blade, and he screamed, and pleaded, as she used him to her satisfaction. When she finally ended his pathetic life, there was barely anything left of the rebellious youth who had originally stood before her. She stared in to his eyes, now dull and glazed over, before ripping out his heart.
So it began. There were many more sessions like the first, where she explored techniques of her craft. Ropes, chain, gags, clamps, you name it. As she grew more experienced, Father would join her from time to time, and they would share a mortal between them, before coupling savagely, covering themselves in the creature's blood. They loved each other, a love only made deeper by the beautiful acts they shared. There's was a connection beyond that any mortal father and daughter could claim. No, their bond transcended everything, a perfect meeting of desire and willpower. Nothing like it existed.
You still with me, kid? I can tell all this talk of dominance and submission isn't quite your thing. What, you never got in to your local S&M scene? Well, whatever. It doesn't matter. The story is almost over anyway.
Father and daughter eventually left England. The year was 1989, in fact. I remember it well. They hopped on a plane to the Americas, a place neither had ever been before. They'd just heard about it, seen pictures, etc. Well, it seemed like a whole new playground to Razie. Hollywood was their destination, with its palm trees, big houses, and studios. That first day, they stayed in a hotel room. Real nice place. Couldn't get up to much there though. Didn't want to be too loud and draw negative attention. So, during the night it was just the two of them, and they coupled long and hard, with an urgency that Raziella had never felt before. She had no idea why, but that time, it was different.
Daylight came soon enough, and she fell in to an impenetrable sleep, unsuspecting. The next evening when she rose, she found the other side of the bed to be empty. Father was nowhere in sight. Well, that wasn't so unusual, in itself. What set the situation apart was the scrap of paper that lay on his pillow, pure and white, with only a single word scrawled upon it in Father's hand writing. Still, Razie had to read it several times before she could comprehend what it said.
'Justice.'
Father had left. She didn't understand. Was he testing her? Was she being punished for something? But, why would Father do that? She loved him! Crazed and confused, she prowled the streets of Hollywood, interrupting some of the night life as she searched for him. But, he was nowhere to be found. Days passed, slowly turning in to months. Most of this period she spent on the street, for she had no money for an apartment or to stay in a hotel suite. Father had always handled the finances. And as time moved past her, a seed of doubt took root in her heart. Had all of it been a lie, nothing but a carefully planned charade designed to, well, what? Destroy her? Teach her a lesson? Was it nothing more than a game?
Eventually, the truth dawned on her. All those years ago, Father had plucked her out of the desert, fresh from killing her parents, and promised her justice. Well, she had found it. Not justice for her oppressors all those years ago, for the prejudiced bastards who had forced her family out of Syria. Raziella had murdered her Father, exactly forty years ago. And now the Father had destroyed his daughter.
It ate at her soul, or at least what was left of it. What was she supposed to do? Alone, homeless, devastated--even her anger had fled from her. She was nothing but an empty shell. She was nothing.
She was nothing.
So, she sought out those who would treat her as the nothing that she was. Turned to those who would use her own craft against her--other vampires. They weren't so hard to find. All it took was stepping inside of a club, biding her time. Soon enough, she was taken in by her first master. With nothing else to lose, Razie did something that she had never done before: she submitted. And she screamed, wept, begged, pleaded--never for the torture to stop, but to be used harder, to be violated and humiliated. Well, she got her wish, from one immortal after another.
Seven years is a long time to be used, even for an immortal. But, in it, Razie found something of a healing that she never imagined possible. So, one day she simply decided she was tired of being another's plaything. She had had enough, and wanted a life back, or something like it. Easiest decision she'd made, just getting up, walking out, and leaving Hollywood behind. She traveled to Las Vegas first, and spent a few months there, living off of stolen money. But, she didn't care much for all the hard lights and loud people. Though, it did help remind her of human nature, and all its faults. Because, lets face it kid, people are assholes.
Anyway, she got tired of Vegas quickly enough. While in a bar one night, she heard of a place, some city up in Canada. Sounded like a real trip. So, she decided to go. Booking a ticket was easy enough, and she was soon on a plane to Demaitre. Not a bad flight, really. Of course, some idiot kid had to ruin her night by running his mouth almost as soon as she arrived. Clearly, he needed to learn a thing or two, so, she took it upon herself to teach him. How generous.
So, how did you like the story kid? Interesting shit, huh? Figure out the answer to your question? ....Of course.
Well, let me tell you then. I am Raziella. And I've got no country to go back to. Instead, I think I'll stick around this one for awhile, and teach little fuckers like you some manners. After all, that's justice.
End recording.
