Purpose [private]

[Nishaa]

Purpose.

What was purpose? Simply put it was a reason for being. Nishaa’s purpose was to kill. Even as a human, she had been a killer. Killing her sibling - going into an asylum. To equally end up in Harper Rock where she was embraced by Every to become a vampire. The word, the species were labelled killers. It was fitting her human life had brought her here to this moment - where pearly white fangs were visible. Never leaving. They never retracted.

Yet. As her vampire life bloomed she had been sired into a family that was renowned for killing their own kind. Wrong do-ers. Now, that’s not saying that Nishaa was a goody two shoes abiding by the laws created by the elders many moons ago. Vampires that broken the law had died by her hands. This wasn’t because she believed these vampires deserved it. She got off on the violence. They could have helped an old woman cross the road. She would have killed them. They were all tarred with the same brush in her eyes. She was built to be a bounty hunter for the infamous clan; Tytonidae. She loved it.

Now. Tytonidae were shunned. Vampires hit back at the clan and the walls of the Eyrie had become quiet and in doing so Nishaa had slept so to speak. Died, would probably be a better word.

Fred the mooncalf, well her pet mooncalf. The disfigured being had fascinated her chained up in her cabin for her own amusement. Had been the one to give her the finishing blow, and so she waited in the shadow realm. Days, months, even years slipped by.

Until September 28th 2020.

Movement stirred within her ghostly frame. She clutched at one of the windows and pushed herself through falling onto the hard concrete of Wickbridge. Her face was gaunt and her mane of hair long and wild. Onyx eyes looked around her as she dipped into a nearby alleyway grabbing a homeless man on the way and cut his throat with one single click of her wrist. Her long, sharp nail did the rest. Blood splattered against the wall as she drank deep replenishing some of the fatigue she felt. She stripped the man of his clothes and placed them onto her naked form. She had died so many times she had grown accustomed to killing as soon as she was free from the belly of the realm.

“You taste foul.” She told the motionless corpse on the ground as she fingered her mouth as she smeared the blood on her lips as if it was a ruby red lipstick women would bear on a night on the town. She turned and slipped out onto the street pocketing her hands into a khaki thin jacket. She had zipped it up but the zip revealed the small upper curve of her breast. She needed to get out of sight. She was disgusting, she felt disgusting. Yet, pangs of hunger made her stomach rumble.

“I love you” a woman cooed to a man beside her as they sat at a bench, fingers entwined. “No, I love you more.” The male replied. A lovesick smile painted onto his face. Nishaa rolled her eyes. Love. She had been here before, got that tee and had her heart broken. She wasn’t going down that road again. If anything someone else feeling love and compassion angered her. Marjani had gone. Dead. The link between the two of them had been severed by permanent death. Those feelings came flooding back.

Her fingers wiggled the nails, long and dirty (with crusted blood under them) reached out the couple in a burst of speed. Slicing their necks cleaned. She could hear the gargle of blood in their throats as their life ripped away from them in mere seconds. Nisha sniggered, and began to walk away. In the direction of the Eyrie. Sticking mostly to the shadows. She was no sight. She was ghastly with blood and dirt on her skin, and homeless clothes. She probably stank but she didn’t really have a sense of smell. She longed for a hot shower.

The reality set in though as she walked. She had no one, right? When was the last time she had seen anyone. She had no friends she kept them at an arms length. Sarcasm was her friend, and weapon of choice she pushed people away if anything with it.

She was alone and a feeling of emptiness filled her body. A single tear, rolled down her cheek. Mixing with a crusted droplet of blood. Smooth Nish.

[Claude Lambert]

Change is scary.
Perhaps even more so when it is good for us.

The German had never been comfortable with change. The mere mention of the word caused him anxiety, as it happened. That wasn’t to say that he was simply incapable of adapting when the need arose, but Claude preferred to have a plan for every occasion. He had theorised early in his life that the fear of losing control to changing circumstances was more often born out of a fear of the unknown. It was this fear that was then compounded via catastrophizing; imagining that the worst possible outcome was the only one, an inevitability. Every decent businessman knew that in order to be successful in life, one had to be prepared. One had to be prepared to overcome any given obstacle no matter how far out of the bounds of likelihood they might be. It was no good to be blindsighted; it wouldn’t do to be caught unawares. Thus it was the fear that drove him to find the light in the darkness, a way to unveil a network of paths available to walk rather than taking a leap of faith.

Still, these methods were not for the meek or shallow-minded. It took true perseverance and courage to overcome that initial, and natural, revulsion to change. It also demanded an indigenous sense of self-confidence and humility; in knowing one’s own limits and knowing when to put one’s foot down on the neck of others. Humans, by nature, were inherently selfish, yet they were also inherently eleemosynary. Their people-pleasing natures could often be their downfall as they were easy prey for narcissists. There was real strength to be found in striking the balance, though Claude had found himself unconcerned with the feelings of others. Perhaps it was his nature, or perhaps he had learned to distance himself from their plights so as to guarantee his success. A look into his past and, indeed, his ancestry might reveal a pattern that raised the very likelihood of a combination of the hypotheses because, despite himself, Claude had changed and he had changed, invariably, for the better.

It had been nearly a year since the Blood Thief had crossed paths with the enigmatic Telepath known only as Myk. Their meeting had been zealous; as when the whip-crack of thunder clashes with the steadfast-quiescence of a mountainside. These superpowers were as unrelenting as they were juxtaposed, much like the philosophical paradox of an immovable object meeting with an unstoppable force. Claude had found a willing and reliable supply of blood in Myk; he had also found an unceasing mental and physical combatant. They could bicker and fight about anything and everything. If one were to comment on the colour of the sky, an argument regarding how light bends, and how it’s perceived by one’s optic facilities meaning that nothing was ever truly one colour or another, would undoubtedly follow. It was never clear which one of them would propagate an argument, but the result was generally the same: they nullified one another. There was peace after the storm, and it was the type of calm that neither man was particularly familiar with, yet was something they both secretly yearned for.

While his Vampire companion was hardly the type to surrender to his beckon-call, the blood-letting ritual was one of those rare exchanges that proved mutually gratifying. As a result, Claude no longer needed to hunt to sustain his supernatural strengths. His nightly patrol of Harper Rock’s most obscure and monstrous nesting grounds were now made purely for leisure. Recently, he had been a frequent visitor to Tomkin; a bustling sector far west of the main city. Somehow, Tomkin had managed to encapsulate the typical facilities of an American state such as carnivals, museums, cemeteries and cathedrals, industrial zones, and shopping centres all jammed into the square-footage of but a few football stadiums. At first, Claude had been bedazzled by the sheer number of establishments in the area, but time and habit had dulled its lustre. In an effort to shake up his routine, the Blood Thief had decided to walk the route from the next nearest station, which happened to be in WestWall, because he had a fondness for Thornside Park and many hours to burn.

Autumn had come with regal ease to Harper Rock City, content to arrive with slow grace. Though the first leaves had tumbled to the soil, so rich with rain that it wheezed underfoot, the majority remained emerald green and hung like garlands from their boughs, defying the strengthening wind. The evergreen needles defied autumn's call altogether. They stood bold, imposing in their virescent towers. They breathed in the wind, whispering woodland secrets that perfumed the air with moist bark, loam, and pine. Yet, there was another scent that had caught the German’s attention. The cold, coppery tang trickled down the back of his throat and pawed at his gag reflex. His brow furrowed in his discomfort, his lips forming a pouted line. Claude’s stoic countenance, handsomely dressed in a navy wool overcoat, persisted even as he had approached the source of that all too familiar smell.

The scene was a work inspired by Caravaggio. Two bodies, their limbs twisted and clothes frayed and pulled, lay face-down in the mud and the grass. Their blood pooled lavishly between them, like so much acrylic paint spilled onto an earthy canvas. The park bench behind was a distasteful headstone for their shared grave. And despite their stillness, despite how pitifully short their lives had been, the world carried on. Wind stirred the bristles of grass around them, fireflies hummed as they moved along invisible zip-lines between the trees, and detached leaves tumbled upon them as softly as feathers. Claude breathed a short, sombre sigh as he watched a singular, fat caterpillar crawl between the rusty threads of the female’s hair. Although he was determined not to dwell on it, his reckless brooding had delayed his departure, sending him directly into the path of a soldier.

The buzz-cut youth performed a double-take as he watched the German turn and attempt to walk away from the crime scene. Meanwhile, the German had merely paused in-step after he’d spotted the soldier, those golden orbs discerning the automatic rifle strapped to the man’s chest before they focused on panicked blue eyes hovering above a military-grade respirator. True to form, Claude had always suffered the judgemental gazes of those around him. Whether it was because those people had questioned his competency as a young CEO, or because questioned his commitment as a flexible character, or perhaps even because they questioned his motives as a man who seemed to want to please everyone at a surface level yet ultimately cared only for his own ambitions, feelings, and wants. Leaving his life – or, more to the fact, what was left of it – behind in Hamburg, was a way of leaving behind those questionable stares. Only, now the eyes that watched him from but a short distance away were doing so for an altogether more concerning reason.

“H-hey!” the soldier called as he raised the gun.

The shaken, albeit muffled, words were composed in an accent typical of the central region of Canada, though the garbling pitch suggested that he had been drafted immediately before the journey to Harper Rock. His lack of experience in the field - and of life in general - made the Blood Thief more nervous than if he had been confronted by a hot-blooded veteran of war.

“Officer,” Claude offered as he nimbly raised both hands, palms facing the paling visage of the soldier. “I appreciate how this looks, but I assure you, I am not responsible.”

While it was clear that Claude spoke remarkably good English, there was a hint at least that his British accent was not strictly natural. The crisp and throaty way that his pronunciations coated certain consonants like a candy shell was a whisper of a hint of his true origins. And while it wasn’t immediately apparent that Claude was a German national, it was perhaps easy enough to perceive that he was European, foreign. The soldier jerked his shoulders in response, his gaze drifting between the horrific scene and Claude who appeared much too calm and collected for the situation.

“So what are you doing here then?”

“I was out for a walk--”

“At this time of night? In the pandemic?”

“Is there a curfew I’m not aware of, sir?”

“You’re not even wearing a mask,” the soldier growled. He paused, his eyes squinting. “Show me your ID.”

The finality of that statement caused a slow burn to creep down his chest and settle like a ball in the pit of his stomach.

[Nishaa]

Dark orbs scanned the area around her. She wore a tattered shirt on her shoulders no bottoms revealing the pale flesh of her legs as she could hear noises from behind her. She turned around now her greasy hair looked at the two corpses she had left behind her together on a park bench. She could see someone - her eyesight wasn’t the best right now but she could hear a commotion - voices.

Was that more food for her empty stomach.

She didn’t recognise the other man at first. He was telling the soldier that he was not responsible the coy necromancer smiled as she came back into view. The crusted blood over her made it apparent she was the culprit.

”I am.” She replied to him as she looked over the blood thief. She moved fast. Her dexterity coming in as she moved towards the soldier. He fired his gun at her. She could see the smoke emitting from the barrel as the bullet grazed her shoulder but she didn’t give two ****. The pain didn’t bother her, if anything. She relished in it.

”Stop.” She told the man, as her hands wrapped around his neck. Nails dug into the flesh as she drew blood. She lapped at the blood her nails drew whilst locking eyes with the blood thief. She grinned, pearly white fangs on show as with force she twisted and pulled. The crack of the neck separating from the spine was apparent. She pulled with a tighter tug as the head separated from the flesh. A fountain of blood erupted from the tissue. She smiled as she dropped the head to the ground. Vacant eyes looked up at Nishaa.

”You are welcome.” She told the human. He smelt familiar to her. Memories filled her. He had given her perfume before. She couldn’t remember his name though. She chewed at her bottom lip. She turned and headed to the park bench before sprawling over the dead lovebirds looking up at the night sky.

Her arm lifted to point at them.

”Huh, stars.”

[Claude Lambert]

Before the German had acquired any chance to make an excuse, feign ignorance, or even consider a means of escape, there was a sudden interruption. Golden orbs flickered to meet the movement and stared, enraptured, as the shadows gave birth to an urban princess. Her hair was the colour of the night’s darkest dream and it slinked down and across her shoulders in a cascade of curls. The depth of that veil intensified her pallid complexion and made her eyes shine like steel discs. Wreathed in rags and painted with the lives of many men, she stepped toward them - barefoot - with a wretched smile upon her lips. The unholy image caused the ball in the pit of Claude’s stomach to swell and he felt the urge to swallow hard against the pressure in his throat. However, it was not for his own safety that he feared what she might do, but for the health and life of the soldier between them.

The mere mortal hadn’t seen her coming. When her croaking voice cut the air as gentle as a serrated blade, that grip hardened on the rifle and he whipped around ferociously. The gun fired on instinct and Claude stepped back as each concussive burst lit up uninhabited space. The soldier was one step behind her each time; his movements robotic as though his body was a collection of tightly coiled springs and machinery rather than an assembly of meat and bone. By comparison, she was as swift and lithe as a prancing doe. She twirled around him, grinning in the smoke, her ambitions pressing closer like the tide encroaches on the shore. The grass slipped beneath her feet as she finally chased him down. Wrapping her hands around his neck, her gaze conspicuously met the German’s in a tremendous clash of wills.

Morbid fascination conquered his own practical advice to leave the scene immediately. Instead, the Blood Thief stayed to watch, expecting her to pop the young man’s windpipe like an overripe tomato. There were few cruel acts that came to mind on such occasions. Those fingers had snapped around the soldier’s neck with the force of a bear trap and Claude presumed that it was the unique combination of shock and pain which had rendered the soldier completely powerless. Which was just as well, really, considering how that assault rifle could have punched several grapefruit-sized holes through her at such close proximity. All the while, she stared at Claude. Her eyes were cold and sparkling with a violet, penetrating gaze that demanded his riposte.

As a frown threatened to mar his stoic visage, the Vampire’s wrists gave a quick twist, and then another, and then a tug. Tendons and muscles snapped in that moment, veins and arteries were ripped apart, and the bones twisted and cracked as she wrenched the man’s head clear of his shoulders. She held the man’s lifeless face up to eye-level as a grim prize. A scarlet smile painted her lips as she inspected it for less than half a second before she tossed it. After that, the amusement appeared to have completely vanished from her and was to be replaced with a child-like curiosity as she inspected the Blood Thief. There was a comment made, a spark of recognition in her eyes, but then she quickly dismissed him.

Claude had watched each moment with a casual flit of the eye, though remained perfectly still otherwise. They traded leers again before she dropped her own body to the ground so unceremoniously. If he had expected her to have any more tact in the wake of such extravagant bloodshed, he’d have certainly been disappointed. It was just as well then that he expected the show to go on as the Vampire proceeded to use the withered lovers as a macabre mattress. The German sighed to himself and once it seemed that the madness had reduced to a workable simmer, he scrutinized his coat for blood spatter. It was a relief to find that no stray drop had stained the navy wool - an emotion that he felt with far more clarity and intensity than any remorse he’d experienced for the woman’s multiple victims.

“Yes, stars…” he murmured in response. His voice was low, silky and yet it rumbled with the promise of something deeply esoteric. “As violent and as beautiful as your kind, no doubt.”

Claude neglected to make mention of his summarising thoughts, however. After all, as glimmeringly beautiful as stars are, that is only a result of their distance. Stars are essentially churning nuclear furnaces, capable of detonations that could level planets. Equally, Vampires were often best appreciated at a distance. As he observed the Vampire he remembered as Nishaa, he determined to keep her at arm’s length.

[Nishaa]

Beautiful.

”Trying to get into my pants there are we Claude?” his name rolled off her tongue in such a way that her head moved from the sky, orbs ripped away from the black and the dotted white blobs of light. To look upon the handsome face that belonged to Claude. She was bantering of course, but unsure if he would cotton on to that fact.

Memories were very slowly coming back together. This child like aura she had before vanished and the old Nishaa was slowly coming back - perhaps it was the blood now pumping through her body that restored her fractured mind.

”These two were confessing their love for each other it was sickening to watch.” she swivelled slightly and got up from where she rested and stood up bare feet against the solid mud and grass as they mixed together. Senses slowly came back piece by piece. Smell, touch, taste.

She was admitting to the fact that she had been the one the kill the couple. She was certain Claude had already put that puzzle together considering she was at the scene, and her admittance of guilt to the soldier.

She slowly moved towards the blood theif her footsteps were silent as she walked but the grass around her became brown, blades of grass had no life in them as whatever she touched died as if she was sucking the life right out of them and replenishing her own.

Memories of blackness filled her mind as for a moment she grew unsteady on her feet and a rogue hand went to her head. She was remembering the void that she had just crawled out of. The shadow realm when out of it always tethered itself to its victims clinging to them for all their worth.

Within that brief moment she had managed to close the lid of that. Her composure regained and she stood straight again - she had closed the gap between herself and Claude by half and had haltered she dared not go any further. She felt out of control, misplaced and her hunger was not in check. She would break the human if she let herself go from her mental restraints.

Would that be a bad thing?
Yes her insides told her. It would be bad.

Memories and sensations filled her again, but this one was much more manageable she could remember someone feeding off of her. She couldn’t remember if she had allowed Claude to feed off her, and absorb her power or if it had been Paige a long ago ex, the memories were still jumbled but they were coming together slowly embroiding together like a blanket given as a present usually at Christmas. She would remember them slowly. She had to patience.

Nishaa was not known for her patience.
She was rash, and closed off.

Those onyx orbs looked back up at Claude’s face again. Those eyes of hers were remembering him, absorbing every scar and freckle so it was burned on her memories.

[Claude Lambert]

“I hadn’t considered it an option,” the German said with a natural warmth to his deep, resonating voice. “Though I’d be delighted to know if it was.”

His smile was wry, yet sweet and made his golden eyes glimmer. He watched Nishaa like a good-natured hawk; a visage of handsomeness disguising cold and brutal instinct that was so easy to forget in the face of such natural splendour. He didn’t comment on her mention of the lovers; how they’d made her sick in such a way that required her to cruelly dismember them. Such things were unpleasant points of conversation at any rate. Besides, their style of communication was a much lighter affair - as vapid and contrived as exchanging perspectives on the weather. As he recalled, speaking to Nishaa required a great deal of patience, appeasement, and gentle movements. Like charming a snake, one false move on his part and she’d strike before she quickly made her escape. Claude hadn’t any intention of ending up like one of those bloodied lovers or the soldier, who’d sunk into the grass like a mass of great rocks, so he was determined to play the perfect companion tonight.

As Nishaa approached him, Claude stood his ground. Never in the history of mankind had it been wise to back away from a predator, and yet it wasn’t mortal fear that guided his movements. He no longer counted himself as a sheep amongst the wolves, but rather a bigger, hungrier wolf hiding amongst the pack. Vampires were advantageous allies and infuriating enemies, and Claude knew which one he would prefer out of the two. In the current climate of the world’s politics, their kind had much more to fear than he did. Each day that the prey rise up and confront their predator is a chance for evolution on both sides. It was the natural race for superiority and survival and yet, both Vampires and Humans were paralysed by their hubris. They couldn’t envision a world in which they didn’t rule indiscriminately and it made them lazy and weak.

The Blood Thief hadn’t expected a physical display of frailty from Nishaa, but he supposed that there was a first time for everything as the woman staggered. Naturally, he didn’t rush to her aid. As it happened, he hadn’t budged even a milimetre by the time she’d composed herself. He made the effort to slip his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and tilted his head a few degrees to the right. The expression on his face was like that of a concerned labrador, albeit watered down to the point that it was appropriate for their relationship. They were not too familiar to warrant any extreme concern and yet he knew the woman well enough to know that caring too little or too much would stoke the fires of frustration within her. As he barely felt any form of emotion, such an expression and the accompanying tender tone of voice, was drawn from memory.

“Are you quite well?” he asked. “Whether you prefer it or not, we should go somewhere less public. Lest we have an encounter with this man’s friends.”