Augusta Fern's Blog, page 9

...Home Sweet Home.

Back at my haven, one of the last remaining warehouses along The Mississippi River in the old warehouse district of New Orleans. A dilapidated place which is deemed condemned to the populace and scheduled at some point to be remodeled by the city. I extensively cleaned and repaired everything including the elevator. The ride from the first floor to the fifth used to be a long loud one, getting the machine silently operational had been a great chore.

I reached my floor and slide the gate up.
The wide open space is especially beneficial for the upkeep of skill, I do have a small living area to the far, far left of the space. Basic comfort is my preference; I do enjoy television, when I can enjoy television. I suppose it’s my one vanity other than my weapons which I spare no expense. I purchased a 50 inch RCA, LCD 1080i flat screen TV, which is safely bolted to my ceiling, on occasion prior to day-stasis I enjoy watching it in my box.

My box; I do not own a coffin but a large pine box (synonymous with what I would have been buried in once my people started burying their dead, in the time I was turned we burned our dead) equipped with simple pad lock again to be mistaken for a storage compartment, when I am not in it I use it as a coffee table. Inside basic blankets until I utilize it then the blankets I discard outside the box, I have no use for blankets but they come in handy for my ruse. Behind the box, a Victorian couch of bright green crushed velvet, which happen to already be here, as well as a pair of matching chairs, when I claimed the place as my own. There is no kitchen; however I did have a modest bathroom erected at the site of the existing plumbing. A mud room shower with a large drain and an industrial sink. There is also a floor to ceiling mirror I placed in that area; another item found amongst the rubble, it comes in handy when making absolutely certain you’ve washed all the blood off.

I blacked out the large warehouse windows with paint and lined panels to insure I don’t get caught by the breaking dawn. I sectioned off space to where the windows remain open so that during the night I may view the Quarter. I do not keep blood here in case the local police decide to raid these old places for vagrants. If my haven were discovered it would be looked upon as a homeless person’s dwelling. I also keep various weapons needed in my profession, those also kept under lock and key in the depths of the warehouse, an area of the building so intimidating no one dare venture.

It began to get late for me, early for humans. Dawn was approaching and I began the ritual of retiring to my box. I clasped the lock in my hand and put the key in, turned and pop. I removed the blankets and climbed in, lock in hand. The same lock used outside, I used to lock from the inside. During the day hours when we are “sleeping” isn’t a sleeping like humans. Once inside our coffins, mausoleums or boxes we are suspended inside until the sun descends below the Earth, “day-stasis”. I have never been comfortable with the lack of control of myself, although I should be grateful for the time I did have in the sun. Most days I am glad to have experienced the time I‘ve spent roaming this vast Earth, some days I wished my body had been set upon a pyre in the old days, my spirit cast to the stars.

The day wore on and I lay suspended, visions surrounding me, the creature….it’s primitivism and the familiarity, my mind trails before settling on the vision of the woman in the Quarter invoked a world of emotion in me, emotion I spent centuries upon century’s suppressing. My primal instincts rear their ugly head on occasion, the need to destroy. The salacious evil in each of us; we are immortal beauty to destroy mortal beauty. The monster inside hunts her, watching her every movement, tracking her steps, careful to retain her scent before accosting her to belligerently ravage her naked body, restricting her movement, can’t move, and can’t scream. Touching her, smelling her, listlessly searching for the exact point of entry, enjoying every jerk of her delicate body beneath it; the struggle is exhilarating, humorous.

It finds admission, simultaneously raping and sinking it’s teeth into the deliciously opaque flesh, her breast releasing a most delectable flood of crimson into it’s……my mouth, cascading over my tongue, quenching an aggressive thirst….

If ever I had the notion to seek out human companionship I was reminded of the priestess words, echoing in my ears,
“What you are will be a danger, to all who are human.” Crisp and clear as first I heard them, reminding me now, to feign any desire for knowledge of her.
Have I not served? Do I not deserve?
These thoughts, are the thoughts; of a monster.

Entangled in this until the moment of release and I welcome the distraction of freedom; I quickly removed the lock, flinging the lid off it’s hinges. And if the fact that I had to now repair the fucking thing wasn’t exacerbating enough I climbed out breathless, as if the weight of the lid pushing the visions further and deeper, more and more. I emerged slowly, regaining my composure as I had a job for the evening.

Club Morte’. Owned and operated by the most infamous of vampires, Madliene. Said to be the “Mother” of all vampires and as far as research shows, she is older than me. She is my most consistent employer and when she is not in need of my skill in the field I am at her whim, her recent suspicion of unregistered immortals in the area were raised by her minions. Of course she calls me.
The arrival of an Icelandic clan, vampires from the old world, made our Queen especially uneasy. There was speculative talk that the clan met secretively in New Orleans. Her interest in why the group is concealing itself from her embrace is speculative. Knowledge of the clan’s admission into New Orleans was very public, “vampire” public and when in a ruled territory, you must make appearances. They had failed to do so after more than a week inside the city borders. I received files week’s prior, basic knowledge of various vampires in the area that had not registered or treated with the Queen, the Icelandic clan among them.

A dense portion of the contents given to me contained vampires who may or may not carry hostility toward The Queen. The majority of its contents were irrelevant and very few of these vampires still existed. I didn’t know what she was insinuating by providing me with a folder full of useless information. Regardless, I would be in her dwelling soon enough.
I gathered my components for the night’s activities while still in last night’s gear. Vampires don’t sweat; no need to launder clothes, unless you catch a bit of blood, in that scenario there are facilities at Morte’ or I dispose of them, what is the purpose in cleaning blood drenched clothes? I have a simplistic wardrobe, needing much less by way of clothing and at my age I have grown accustom to it. T-shirts and jeans, leather motorcycle jacket (infused with Kevlar), military issue steel toe boots. I’ve spent many a day in full battle gear or some pompous court attire, I truly enjoy this day and age. Men are less interested in frills and thrills of fashion. I pulled my boots on and proceeded to lace them up when I hear a sound in the far distance. I chose this area for its lack of population, so noises are troubling. I decided to quicken my pace getting myself out of my haven for the night, there was no need for bloodshed just yet, still too early. I leapt to the window sill, taking one last glance around the warehouse before jumping five stories below, landing with persistence one moment and then nonchalantly appear among the human populace the next.

The air was sweet and cool, indicating the day was less humid. I enjoyed New Orleans like most vampires. You are never at a loss for familiar company. The culture is rich and human activity is great. Tourism has improved since Katrina and the city was once again ripe with saviors and sinners, angels and demons; us. During the hurricane and the months after, the city was left a depressing wasteland. Even vampires retreated to other areas to avoid the storm and the chaos that followed. Most of the aged, meaning myself and others who have walked this Earth too long, stayed and weathered the storm in hopes of restoring our community. Madliene had also stayed; being a business owner she had more of an obligation to do so.

It didn’t take long for the vampires to return to business and once accomplished some vampire business owners anonymously helped humans return to their day to day. During the night repairs would take place and in the morning hours when the proprietor arrived to his or her business an unexpected surprise await them. That is the spirit of this city, a city we as vampires hope to cherish for the millennia of years ahead of us.

Co-habitation with humans; who are not just food for us, they are an integral part of our society, especially for vampire business. Money, well let’s face it; it makes the world go round. If they do not exist, we do not. We could drink animal blood if we want to take on said animals attributes. Besides, we were human; we must drink human blood to sustain our human façade.

I’m sure animal blood could sustain us, but the eternal satisfaction of thirst cannot be quenched that way. Human blood holds more for us, the experience is unmistakable. Human emotion and fear run at its peak when we feed direct, we feel everything. A vampire can see human memories and feel the emotion inside each memory while feeding. Most are of great fear, some are intensely sexual and on the rare occasion you encounter a human who just wants to die. At one time or another I have had the discomfort, pleasure, and regret of each. I don’t need to feed to feel emotions, I feel them regardless. Vampire and Human alike and they are easy to disregard unless I am inundated.

...The Nightly Grind.

I had risen and gone about the task that afforded my components of battle in the modern age and found myself in the heart of the French Quarter. The day must have been balmy as the evening still sheltered a hint of warmth before the cool breeze of the spring night set in.

I began making my way downriver toward The French Market and Jackson Square, passing Café Du Monde which had died down momentarily. Only a few patrons sat at the green patio table sets blowing powdered sugar on each other, I couldn’t help but smile to myself; first timers. The rich smell of the powdered beignets and café’ au lait lingered in the air as I strolled taking it all in. The flea market stalls had of course been covered for the night, tarps and padlocks lined long tables under the awning that shielded vendors from the brutal humid New Orleans days. I walked the avenue remembering a time so very long ago. As a child I had often accompanied my mother to the village market, the short time I had as a child.

The tables lining the French Market resembled the primitive benches and tables that housed vegetables and loafs of bread for sale, potatoes and herbs, roots and berries. As we walked my mother holding my hand, bending to my level to see my face as she spoke to me, she would take a bit in her hand, hold it out to me to describe to me of the recipes she would create with each item, her smiling face as she recalled the days she could make such meals. I can still recall the smell of her honey blonde hair as it cascaded over me when she leaned down to kiss my cheek. Her smile still so vivid in my mind and the soft touch of her skin interlocked in my fingers.

In that moment the joy of the memory of my mother was interrupted by a speeding tension. The distance between me and the force grew short and before I could turn to strike, it struck. Regaining composure from not only the shock of being surprised by anything, but the knock from where I stood was powerful. I turned to make the gaze of my nemesis; I was overcome with terrible pity at the horribly grotesque creature that stands before me.

My attacker, a tall, rail thin skeleton of a being stared at me with one eye as the other was hideously disfigured and not of the thing’s use, it spoke no words but tilted it’s head as if to engage me, I began to take a step forward when the creature darted into the darkness, I followed it’s appalling scent further into the Quarter, being painstakingly cautious to keep our row out of public view. It stealthily bounded through alleyways and corridors and I had to gain a single step ahead of it to have any chance of reciprocating the pleasure of attack. I slipped up a fire escape and followed it from above, leaping from building to building over Dauphine down to St. Phillips. It turned down Chartres then up Dumaine before doubling back to Royal. It was imperative I make my move before it had the opportunity to take a victim and gain more strength. Time running thin and the pavement in the Quarter getting short as I follow the creature to the river, waiting for the precise moment I leapt from the height down on to its boney hunched back, flattening it and of course I assumed I was successful in yet another easy endeavor. I am wrong.

Unexpectedly I am thrown from the creature’s frame, it hunches into a crouch fleeing over the Moon Walk, and I follow; remaining behind it at a good distance. It would need to feed and only the available prey; back in the Quarter. My scent is stronger than other vampires because of my age. I smell different than the younger ones of my kind. I was sure the creature would know the smell, should it come within a mile of me. I had to conceal my aroma to my best ability if I was to gain ground on it once more; I do this by walking through a group of smokers.

I am undetected as I slowly walk down Wilkinson, making a left onto Decatur, and then up St. Ann I hear the distinct sounds of guttural feeding. Careless, aggressive growling draws me closer and I see the thing gorging on a young male, two spilt coffee cups roll beneath them. I feel a light vibration and back away to stay out of sight/ear shot/scent range… reach into my pocket for my cell; it’s a text from Estella, “coming out?”

I text back, “on ur own tonight.”

Another buzzing sound, no words; merely a frowning face. I click the device off, investigating once more the position of my assailant, he is gone and the young man’s body nowhere to be found.

“Thanks Estella.” I say silently to myself.

However the further I walk, my hunger began to slowly make its self known; I did need to feed for the night as I had not had the opportunity, prior to the attack.

After prowling the art district and then Jackson Square I walked, taking in the night’s sounds and smells. In the distance the distinct sounds of night-owl humans retreating from the bars on Bourbon St, glasses being collected from the patios of restaurants and bags of trash hitting dumpsters. It was closing time for New Orleans and the music of the activity filtered through me.

I continued down the old brick street, my boots slowly becoming the only symphony when my senses flush; the unfamiliar sensation of my blood singing in my veins diverted my attentions, beckoning me like a demonic siren song. I follow the unbridled urge against my better judgment as this hastiness is something I had long overcome in my immortality. I allowed the sorcery to envelop me, curious for it’s meaning. I wasn’t disappointed.
I am quietly engrossed in, engulfed by, mesmerized and absorbed in what my judgment led me to. Not open, but the human tooling around in the light of the distant shop was what attracted me. The few lights that were on inside illuminating her like a heavenly spotlight and as I got closer I deduced the shop to be an art gallery, as the bright colors and smell of fresh paint unmistakably intruded on me; the artist was in residence.

Concentrated emotions led me; through the glass surrounding the exterior sat a woman bent over a desk overflowing with papers. With her head in her left hand and a pen in her right she seemed to be frustrated with what was before her. She was a classic beauty of French Creole features, a hint of Scotch-Irish also lingered in the frame of her face. Her long dark hair had a hint of cherry and flowed down over her shoulder covering her breast. She picked up a mass of it in her hand, grasping it firmly atop her head and appeared to be in deep thought, her brow furrowed and her eyes squinted, I moved closer, as she twisted her pink rose shaped mouth. Her cheekbones accentuated by this conformity; her skin had a glowing smoothness about it, as if a golden aura lay around her. I was taken aback as her eyes burst open, the proverbial light bulb, as if she had finally realized what was eluding her.
I am in overbearing shock; her eyes! They are vibrant green, like soft grass on a rolling hill, moss on the forest floor, like….home.

She shakes her head, closing her eyes to adjust before returning her gaze to the papers in front of her. I attempt to contain myself, jerked out of reverie when she then moved to put the pen down and got up from the desk. She stands tall, stretches, elongating her delicious frame. She then adjusted her man’s white under shirt, that clearly was a favorite as it was nearly a shredded cotton hull that fit her endowments, her nude yet elaborate bra visible through it.

I stared enthralled with the gloriousness before me. I wanted this fantastically beautiful creature, a feeling and notion utterly lost to me at my age. I wanted to do unspeakable and unimaginable acts with her…to her. Finding it difficult not to burst through the glass French window and for the sake of her mortality I began to back away, but I halted my step as she looked in the direction of a flight of stairs. I watched intently as the worn out pair of jeans hugging her curves ascended the narrow flight, the denim littered with paint stains along the backside and hip, where they hung nicely. Just before she disappeared from sight, I felt a hush through my cold heart; bare feet.

The thirst approaches and as I feel my teeth completely run out, as difficult as it was; I forced myself to recoil from the statuesque creature before me. I hadn’t fed on a human since the 80’s following an experience at a local hospital I have difficulty recalling. How I felt after, I can’t forget. The vague details; I have flashes of standing outside the ER of a parish hospital, overcome with anger, guilt, hatred, self-loathing, my whole core ripe with discontent. From that point, even though I have repressed whatever forced this lifestyle change, I refrain from the hunt of a live meal. But her spectacular beauty made me momentarily think otherwise, which slightly sickened me.

I turned to disappear from this place to pick up an appropriate meal, not before telling myself I would return. Upon my departure, I think to myself, “how could someone so young have so much?”
I went to pay an old friend a visit, which I did from time to time when the thirst became too great. Deep in the bayou lived Penelope D’Anjou my connection to the voodoo world, said to be over a hundred years old, she would never admit to this. Her age being her only tool of mystery, for her reputation precedes her. She has copper colored hair and caramel skin which is decorated head to toe in protection tattoos, given to her by her master of the craft when she was a young priestess in Haiti. Her eyes are enormously round and the most beautiful hazel in color. If you met her on the street you would swear she was only 35 or 40 in age.

Upon her arrival to America she gave birth to a daughter and has kept her identity a secret to everyone in her spiritual circle. She visits her daughter occasionally, along with speaking on the telephone but her daughter is never to visit her mother in the bayou, a dangerous place with a plethora of spiritual activity. For years Penelope kept her daughter in the city with her civilized family, as she would describe it, so that her daughter could maintain a fulfilling; life of normality.

The humidity remains a staple in this dank damp area, I hover over the river closing in on the tiny hut nestled along the swamp among the loons and toads, Spanish moss seemed to sweat above me as I made my way. At this hour nature’s creatures of the night were deep in the orchestra of their chirping and cooing songs but as I placed my feet on the dock, creeping toward the hut I began to hear faint traces of conversation. Penelope had guests.

Once I was sure of the departure of her company, I slipped up the twisted staircase of her hut. I reached for the primitive handle of a door and like clockwork Penelope already knew I was here.

“You know where to find it.” She said as the door swung to reveal her sitting before her cards, gathering them together in her caramel hands. I strode past her to the large freezer in the kitchen of her modest abode, ten steps and I was there. It was a small place and why wouldn’t it be? Living alone with occasional visitors provided her privacy and seclusion in the swampy bayou. From where she sat to where I stood a small hallway that would be wider was it not lined with shallow shelves housing all sized jars containing the necessary ingredients for her various rituals, covered to the unknowing by drapos or vodou flags and banners. One sequined drapo depicting the veve or symbol of Loko Atison and a banner reading “Troup Pou Te” in Haitian Creole are easily seen from the front room.

On the wall a statue of a horned man with fangs sat above a shelf holding a ceremonial drum, the cylindrical body carved and painted to depict a primitive male body with a voodoo doll head, tight animal hide tied to the top for sound. On the opposite wall a large frame holding a tattered blue ceremonial pantsuit, the cloth looked so ragged that if touched the fibers would crumble and turn to dust. Underfoot rugs of all shapes and sizes hid the flooring which no doubt show markings of protection from evil spirits. The kitchen had a small counter space, old gas stove on the end, small steel sink in the middle with a window of the same size directly above. To the left and right of the windows dried herbs and flower suspended upside down. The kitchen counter and cabinets below were battered and few. Beside the freezer stood a hutch with clouded glass doors that seemed to house all her “cooking” items. I opened the deep freezer to fish out a bag of blood. I don’t feed from humans anymore. I do, however require their blood, though not as much as countless others of my kind.

Penelope’s daughter is a nurse at a local hospital (since meeting her by interesting circumstances years ago) she made arrangements to help me keep from having to rely on attacking humans for their blood as I have done for so many years by having blood delivered to her “dying” mother. The hospital is none the wiser, once Penelope’s daughter provided her mother’s medical records and the date of her birth on paper, the records nor Penelope’s daughter would never be questioned. I of course pay the cost of the blood and the shipping charges, even providing Penelope and her daughter some currency for housing it for me. Luckily Penelope already had the freezer; needing facilities for her animals.

I stared at the bag for a moment when I heard her speak again from the front of the dwelling, “You getting’ low.”
“So I noticed.” I said walking by her back to the door. I stopped short. “Do you mind?” I reached into my pocket to fish out the roll of money I had collected over the past week. Jobs are always coming my way. Always. I tossed the roll while peering over my shoulder. She caught it as if it was destine for her hand and smiled at me in return.

...more?

There is something about going into combat with your band of brothers first thing in the early morning; when the blackness of night converts to a grayish blue and watch, as the gray slowly fades away with the arrival of the sun. The morning we slaughtered the men who had ostracized us was a crisp one, the fog hanging heavily on the hill as we exacted our revenge. I can still recall the look on the faces of our former brethren as we crept into their huts; our fierce eyes the last sight the bastards saw as we tore out their throats and drank their blood. Our first kill as vampires would ultimately be the men who, for their own selfish reasons, distorted our human existence.

Once our mission in the village complete we set off on what I thought to be our “path of righteousness”, many, many later years would come to reveal its self to be a path of perplexity.

For many years my brothers and I fought for and with those who were being subjugated and the land they relied on; using these causes to fuel our hunger, not just for battle, but for blood. Today I don’t have any causes that fuel morality and unfortunately I am confident my father would be disappointed in the life I now lead.

I haven’t seen the twins or Keane in decades, breaking from each other after the Second World War. I have to confess that were I to come in contact with them again, I hope it were only Keane. Fallon and Finn I would be content without.

However that is the beginning of my long never ending past, my immortal life has been a series of violent happenings and adventurous endeavors. I have been everywhere and seen almost everything since the Fall of Rome. Fortunate, I have been in this immortality to experience the histories of so many different cultures. I have had many employers over the years in countries so far from my home and on the order I have infiltrated and left my deadly mark, some for royalty and some for the common man. If I were being honest with myself, I would confess I did it all for; myself. As a vampire all you have is yourself and I strategically placed myself in the way of any and all battles, conflicts, wars assisting anyone with the right amount of cause, only collecting coin from those who could afford it and the majority of the time only the privileged forfeited a purse. In this day and age I have not a cause but a price for all, human and vampire alike.

The modern enemy has a more extensive arsenal and it is imperative that I reciprocate, to do so I require payment for each job executed and I am always paid timely and handsomely.

Today I still occasionally work for humans masking myself as what is now referred to as an assassin, never meeting the client, I conduct all business through modern technological devices, the cellular telephone is a marvelous contraption. Prior to these advances I relied on the proverbial “word of mouth” trickling down to a vampire third party, though it’s almost been a thirty years since I worked for humans. For vampires I have no disguise, they are aware of my skill, usually channeling all pertinent information through the Queen, employing me as she see fit. I admit I enjoy the hunt, the strike and the kill of those who are justifiably wrong but the summoning had grown tiresome.

So much so that I no longer researched the tasks, verifying that my Queen wasn’t sending me on fool errands as I had in the past. Now, I just, do as I am told, is the best way to describe the current impression of my life and the mundane lethargy of it. My foes, in this day and age, are no match for my ancient intelligence and honed skill, it’s almost effortless.

My current location is New Orleans, LA, a southeastern city in Louisiana. Founded in 1718 and named for Philippe d’Orleans, the Duke of Orleans, Regent of France. A travel agent would describe it as a unique city, inhabited by a plethora of cross-culture and multilingual heritage. A place famous for not only its cuisine and music; but festivals of all kinds; Mardi Gras and Jazz Fest are the most popular.

Then there is our world, here in this fair city lies the underworld, of blood and sex and death, silent to the majority of the human populace; a world where we, as beautiful creatures of the night, seduce and feed on or enjoy sexual gratification from humans. It is a direct explanation, but a truthful one.
New Orleans is also a hotspot for Vodou or Voodoo, though it is seen as more of a tourist attraction these days, it is in fact very real and still seriously practiced within the city. When Napoleon sold the territory to the United States it broke the immigration barrier allowing an influx of many different races to settle in the area. With them came their culture, religions and heritage making New Orleans a rapidly growing and richly diverse place, a Mecca for the strange and unusual.

The surge of vampire activity in the city has been rampant for some time now and as my current employer resides within the city, I have remained here. Although it’s been some time since I ventured out of New Orleans, but the job is what it is and I go or stay where I am needed.

A Taste of Cian

Dew from the ground under my hands was nothing like it had ever felt before, slimy and cold seemed to almost seep in, the tingling burned my palms, through to the bone, I quickly put them as close to my face as I could but the excruciating sun penetrated my eyes yielding me from examining them.

My attentions were quickly diverted to the aroma of morning, a magnificent bouquet in my senses for I didn’t just smell, I could taste the moisture swirling about me, feel the tiny droplets of condensation gather in my hand. My ears so pristine I could hear the deer and hares racing through the forest and I could see more than a mile before me; but the lust for blood was the most powerful sense of all.

“Keane……..Finn………FALLON!!!!” I scream, my throat parched yet burned as my own voice a terrible drum rattling my head. But they are gone.

“Maggie” I whisper, before sulking to the damp forest floor.

I stagger to my feet feeling as if I had engaged in the game of drink the night before. Taking in the exquisiteness of my surroundings I noticed on the moss covered tree stump, beside a large bundle of herbs, a stone bowl with a shallow black liquid sitting on top of a piece of parchment. The note read:

Each drink from the bowl.
A pinch before sunset.
Your sister is safe.
Leave now.

The note signed with an elaborate “G”.
With nowhere to go, my sister opted to stay with the priestess. Since she had not invoked the evil as my brethren and I, she was safe. I was advised by the priestess to sever contact with my sister, knowing what I am could place Maggie in grave danger. I follow the parchment’s directions and left the area with the herbs from the priestess, still no sign of my brothers. The herb, if eaten before sunset would prevent me from burning come sunrise. It grew among the Liverwort, Primrose and Hard Ferns, vast in the forests and glens of Dalry and to continue my human routine I used the plant relentlessly; one of a many regrets I have of this immortal life.

With it I am a stealth creature during the day and night, a luxury I wish I had today, for without it I am subjected to day-stasis. Even now I don’t recall the name of our saving grace herb but I will never forget what it looked like. A muted aquamarine, in color, hints of orange and purple, a lush little bundle of saving grace. The genus became extinct in the late 1800’s plunging us into the life of night and almost a hundred years later; we lost touch with each other.
I make the trek back to the outskirts of my village home, stopping at the makeshift camp; I duck to enter the primitively erected shelter when I hear the distant snap of twigs and familiar scents, I turn, crouched for attack when the familiar smells reveal themselves, the faces of my brothers, Keane, Finn and Fallon greeted me. They look like my brothers, but don’t. Their skin is cold as well is my own, their eyes are more vibrant than I have ever seen and the small cracks and wrinkles in their skin had filled. I, like them, longed to gaze upon our enhanced appearance. Quietly we celebrated the unprecedented force we now possessed, before methodically exacting our revenge.

My name is Cian, pronounced (KANE).

Vampire (vam’pir) n. 1. In folk tales, a dead body that moves about at night, sucking the blood of sleeping persons. Rest assured, you don’t have to be asleep to sustain a vampire attack, it fact we prefer live prey, the hunt is a primal, exotic force within us. 2. A person who gets things from others in a wicked or evil way. I have to agree with this one, but we aren’t “people”. We haven’t been people in a VERY long time.

I myself have been so since the fall of the Roman Empire. I am of course fast, and strong beyond human comprehension, a firm handshake from me and forget about ever using that hand again.

As vampires we are, at first, extremely attractive to humans, their downfall considering what attracts them turns out to be a malicious, calculating bastard of a monster set out to torture, rape and kill. Although our initial beauty is not our only means of coercion, we also possess the ability to “control” humans though hypnotism with the inflection of the color of our eyes; seen to humans as dark at first slowly becoming lighter drawing the prey in, some vampires are able to use touch. We are also blessed with individual “gifts”, abilities all our own that are dynamically enhanced. For some it’s a skill possessed in life that crosses over to immortality for others it’s a newly acquired ability.
Immortality is a loaded word. We can survive gunshots, stab wounds, explosions and disease; however we cannot endure decapitation, fire or sun light. Ultra-violet light can injure and prolong us, but it will not kill us. Our blood quickly heals mortal wounds and if preformed correctly can make another of our kind, among many other abilities and details. However, because of the way I was created; I am unable to make another. What you learn from movies and books isn’t all Hollywood glitz and glamour, besides the ridiculous; no reflection, fear of crucifixes, holy water. I have often thought that one of our kind was influencing Tinsel town.

My human life at the time of my birth was a typical one. In a small hut on the vast rolling green hills of what would become Edinburgh, Scotland I am born to a proud, masculine Votadini warrior who was also chief of our small Brythonic tribe. My father a stalwart oak tree of a man who commanded attention where ever he roam, proved to be a firm but fair ruler. My mother was a soothsayer and what is considered today a doctor. She was kind, compassionate and warm, a quiet demonstrative woman. Well respected in our community, she had been the village mid-wife prior to my father taking her as his wife, upon the marriage her status among the people was a welcome one. I also had a younger sister by eleven years, Maggie. A sweet, innocent girl, just making her way in her life, at fifteen a girl of our village would soon marry and I would be kidding myself if I didn’t admit to wanting to slit the throat of every male youth that came courting. My kin were considered the most ancient civilization to settle the land or so I would later research and learn.

The expectation of my mortal life was to be a great warrior, succeeding my father as head elder. Rule, marry, make children, and then die. Trained from the time I was six years old, my father taught me to wield a sword protecting our land and the people of our village from Roman invasion. My father taught me to care for the pain of others, to never forget that being a warrior meant rising above yourself to protect those who are not able to protect themselves, what’s the line from “Spiderman”, “With great power comes great responsibility”? Basic principles for a future leader.

I lived my life as a proud son and soldier going to battle at a moment’s notice. My father was considered a king among our civilization, revered for his length of time in power, by some. No other chief or king had survived as long as my father and to others among the village it was a frustrating factor.
I was sixteen when I began to hear the rumblings from up and coming males, how my father had selfishly preserved the title for himself and his lineage. Seemed to me, even at that time it wasn’t a title he wished to preserve, but his own life. By the time I was twenty six my father was hideously mutinied upon, ownership of the title extinguished along with his and my mother’s lives. I, along with my younger sister and three of my brothers in arms, Keane, Fallon and Finn, escaped the fray; making camp just outside the lines of village territory.
Keane was not a man of great stature or status, in our village his father was a well known drunk. Once a great man; Keane’s father had fallen on hard times and he wasn’t the only one to suffer the effects. His mother eventually left our village, taking his younger brother and sister. Keane stood around 5 foot 11 and of stout build, he had had knotted sandy blonde hair, dreadlocks as they are called today and they hung past his shoulders baring certain trinkets he collected from his victims in battle. Keane’s eyes were steel gray blue and if you stood next to him by the sea, there wasn’t much difference between the two shades of blue.

The brothers; Finn and Fallon were identical twins, tall and lanky, 6 foot 7 at least, with long bone-straight brown hair, each man’s head displayed sporadic braids littering its mass. The twins had dark green eyes with yellow barbs around the pupils, which even in mortal life were fierce to behold, but they had baby faces, giving them a unique appearance. We all dressed very similarly and simplistically, lightweight clothes under hide armor and various straps fastening our weapons to our bodies. We may have looked the same, but we were far from it. While the twins were bloodthirsty, even in life, Keane and I shared a desire for peace. The twin’s father, prior to his own death, chief of defenses in our village taught his sons to revel in the kill, my father and theirs had many a conflict but mutual respect for one another. Fallon’s instrument of death was a Morning Star; a club with a spiked ball on the top. He notched the instrument after each kill. Fallon’s Morning Star was overly full by the time the turn of the century rolled around, instead of notches the man had X’s up and down the shaft, the numbers doubling and tripling over the years.

Finn specialized in hand to hand combat, never using a weapon. In battles, before we were cast out, Finn would be mocked for his lack of arsenal on the battlefield, soon proving his worth. Finn’s kill marks began at his shoulders. Saying his own body was his weapon, he privately notched his skin after battle, calling it a meditation of sorts.

The morning after the mutiny, we left our makeshift camp in heading on foot across the countryside to what is now called Dalry, North Ayrshire in the Garnock Valley of Scotland. The journey was hard and not having the luxury of at least one horse was difficult for my sister, not being trained as we were to trek long ranges. She slowed us and by the time we reached the tiny hut in the forest; Maggie was being carried by Keane. Keane always had a fondness for Maggie as his own sister who was around her age had been taken from this life too young. The hut belonged to a well known and feared priestess.

I along with my brothers and sister were accepted into the home of the priestess a little more than seventy miles from our home. She heard quite quickly of the upheaval and grave condition we came to her in. After taking in all she had heard, it was apparent that we were no longer welcome in our own village. The priestess gave us shelter and food but I could sense she had a strange air about her. She was a beautiful young woman, looking no older than twenty one. Her ice blue eyes peeked through ash-blonde hair that waved around her face as she moved. Her tattered clothes hung off her young body and this caught the attention of the twins. She was barefoot and remained so, even when out in the forest. With disapproving glances from me and Keane the brothers ceased their stares of the young woman.

Over a hot meal the woman listened to our plight and offered a solution. Her dialect was thicker than ours but we had little difficulty understanding her proposal. After we were fed my sister and I went for a walk to discuss our delicate situation. I explained to her the priestess’s solution and after hurtful words were exchanged we finally agreed. Once my sister fell asleep, the woman explained the process of what we were to undergo, including that our appearance would remain for eternity should we wish it. I cut my hair and shaved to resemble the Romans. Keane agreed and did his best to remove the dreadlocks, cutting his hair to shoulder length and being that he barely shaved, kept his scruff. The twins; arrogant as they were, remained as they were.
The young woman carried a stone bowl as she led us out of the hut and into the woods, bending ever so often to pick a flower or dig up a root. About a hundred and fifty feet from her hut we came upon a secluded area; in the shape of a perfect circle the ground and forest floor had been cleared and a large tree stump sat directly center. The woman positioned us in a five point star inside the circle, placed the bowl carefully on the tree stump and dumped her forest finds inside. She reached under her dress, presented a vial of dark liquid, whispering something indiscernible into it and poured it on top of the greenery. She waved one of her delicate hands over the bowl as four separate smoke trails began to rise from it. She reached under her dress a final time revealing an ornate dagger; the smoke hovered over each of our heads as the woman took each of our hands and drew blood.

As the dagger collected the blood the smoke lingering overhead violently entered our bodies. The woman placed herself as the top point of the star pattern, which was just off center, raised her hands to the sky and began chanting it again. Her eyes became cloudy at first then fierce as the ice blue encased a red center. A great wind blew through and her hair was shoved backward to reveal a demonic face with a mouth full of sharp glittering teeth. The volume of her chanting increased momentarily and the four of us dropped to our knees, suddenly her chanting stopped. What followed was more excruciating than any battle wound. My bones felt as if they were breaking, my insides seized and my head pounded; blackness consumed me. We woke in the morning; our senses more acute than ever before. It was time.

Revelations of Cian