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The rain was falling heavily on the mountain top, thunder threatening to rip the skies apart as the lightning set the clouds ablaze. Large droplets of water bore shallow holes into the earth as they pelted against and saturated the man who sat stoic in his silence amid the chaos. He had invoked the dark spirits with his sacrifice and he was not going to show any fear as they displayed their strength; their rage made plainly clear as thunder roared and echoed like war drums across the blackened sky. The spirits were not happy to be pulled from their slumber, wrestled to this realm by the man of power. The forces raged with their displeasure but the shaman simply sat, secure in the knowledge that this battle was his to win. The shaman had performed this ritual many times and he would not be swayed or deterred by this tantrum.

Wakiza removed the dagger from the heart of the hiker he had offered as sacrifice, making a deep gash through the man's throat and began the chant, begging the spirits for a vision. As the pool of blood slowly began to float and disappear into the void the raging storm slowly, reluctantly began to subside. The shaman smeared some of the blood on his face before lifting his arms to heavens in prayer; a bolt of lightning ripped through the clouds striking the shaman, lifting him several feet from the ground. His eyes turned as black as coal when the spirits took him into his vision, leaving his body like a contorted, stringless marionette.

The mortal realm around him faded away, to be replaced by lands the shaman did not recognize. All around him were desert sands and scattered forests, but not far off in the distance sat a thriving city of stone with great pyramid temples that reached into the skies. Though the spirits did not guide him with words he felt himself pulled towards this foreign city. Walking through the cobbled streets Wakiza reveled what lay before him; this tribe adorning themselves with vibrant colours in both clothing and paint. Thriving markets peddling all manner of fruits, vegetables, and meats were all around him but he was a ghost to these people. But all of this only served to confuse the traveling shaman; the spirits had always guided him to power, gave him greater strength to better protect his people, not lead him to the lands of foreign tribes.

His confusion only increased when the scene changed; he suddenly stood atop the great temple, the air filled with the sounds of drums and chanting. Wakiza watched as two men wearing the skins of the jaguar led a bound man up to a waiting priest several feet from where he now stood. The captive did not struggle as he was forced to a stone slab nor did he make a sound as the priest carved into his chest and removed the still beating heart, leaving the shaman to stare in amazement as the blood rushed down the priests arms, dripping to collect with the blood now staining the great temple.

Again the scene changed; the peaceful city was now being consumed in flame. The shaman attempted to flee but the spirits forced his body to remain motionless. All around him lay the bodies of the fallen: men, women, children all lay dead around him. The smell of gunpowder, flame, and death was overwhelming; the sounds of screams, gasps and gurgles of those not yet dead, and gunfire ripping through the once bustling streets. A group of men wearing the armour of the conquistadors charged more of the jaguar warriors and suddenly Wakiza became aware; the dark spirits were showing him the massacre of the Aztec people!
"Why are you showing this to me?!" the shaman called out, knowing there would be no response.

As he watched the death and destruction he was struck by a sudden, sharp pain that forced him to his knees. The city still burned, the putrid smell of death still haunted his nostrils but there was no longer anyone fighting, no more bodies around him. But through the flame came a single black silhouette, the figure slowly making it's way towards the kneeling shaman; for the first time in his life Wakiza felt a surge of pure terror, he wanted to flee but could not move, he wanted to scream but he had no voice. When at last the figure was upon him, obviously seeing the shaman clearly, he said nothing, he simply stared at him. Wakiza had no doubt this man was a warrior; he too wore the skins of the jaguar but also carried a large shield of obsidian though there was something unique in him, a leg of pure smoke. The shaman felt the figure, drenched in blood and fiercer than any man he had ever seen, stare into his very soul!

Instantly he was pulled from the vision, trembling as he re-entered the mortal realm. Wakiza laid, his entire body still trembling, on the wet stone mount he had summoned the spirits. The vision still unclear in its meaning but he knew something was coming and he would be waiting. Using the dagger he cut a piece of flesh from the hikers belly, consuming it raw, as he collected himself to rest in silent meditation.

Tizoc, known in Harper Rock as Ambrose, stood silently at the edge of the city watching the storm light up the sky. Jose had tried to explain to him in some modern speak what caused lightning and thunder but it had fallen on deaf ears. Ambrose knew the gods demanded sacrifice, they were angered perhaps at Tizoc’s lack of efficiency in bringing them more followers. Tezcatlipoca had thrust him back into the world for a purpose and having sired but three childer, Ambrose has not been holding up his end of the bargain. That being said in this strange new world it was difficult to locate those of the blood and there were many new dangers like the cameras Jose had shown him that could be used to show humans things they should not know. Turnings took more planning and more than a bit of luck to ensure they wouldn’t bring hunters down on vampire kinds collective heads.

Still, most of his brood had the blood of the soil of this land within their veins, some of them muted by interbreeding with the pale faced conquerors, the unworthy heirs of the Americas. There were some natives to be found. In a pinch he could even turn Jose though he had other plans for his unwitting thrall. The turns back toward the concrete jungle and begins to walk. He passes by the University, barely sparing a thought for the young men and women who cross his path. Tonight his focus is on something Jose has spoken of. What they call a reservation. He feels drawn toward it and has learned to trust his instincts when they tug at him. There is a faint image in his mind but he can almost feel it solidifying more and more with each step.

The vampire has always functioned on on intuition. He acts as the earthly enforcer of the will of unknowable and unseen deities, how could he not? He interprets their will as best he can when they make it known to him. Tonight feels that way. He is being guided. There is not enough information yet for him to discern what intent the Smoking Mirror may have for him but he feels the god’s hand in the night air, the rain, hears his voice in the shattering bursts of thunder that break the melancoly drumming of the droplets of water pelting the street.

That guidance, those signs, they will not be ignored.

As he made his way through the city, almost oblivious to the people around him a vision begins to form, hazy and smoky at first, nothing he can get a hold of. Slowly it begins to build within his mind, becomes more substantial as it takes shape. He can tell a little. more with every step forward. A man. A religious or spiritual man like himself. There is fear, perhaps more than fear, horror, terror. The taste of raw flesh fills Ambrose’s mouth suddenly. Fat and muscle, the belly perhaps, maybe the thigh..

He quickens his pace as he walks through a crowd he does not even see.

For days the shaman continued his meditations; the dark brown skin baked in the sun, his body parched from dehydration, aches and weakness setting in from his hunger but he would not break from his purpose. After seven days of isolation he made his way back to the small village. Very few rushed to great Wakiza, for though he was well respected he was also feared; he practiced magics shunned by the elders, dealing with the blood of men and communing with spirits of both light and darkness.

The image of the Aztec warrior still burned fresh in his mind, though it was an obscure vision the spirits would not have bothered taking him on that quest if it had been meaningless. Inside his own cabin he burned the ceremonial incense; taking one of the rabbits he kept caged for both food and divination, he broke the creatures neck with a quick twist and removed the organs, letting the bowls fall to a tray he had lain out before him. He sat quietly for several minutes as he studied what the spirits would reveal; again only vague clues came to him. Power radiated from what he could seel a quest would soon be set upon him, but the spirits were firm in holding their proverbial tongue and he knew not to push for what they wanted to keep hidden. He poured the organs into his pot of stew, grabbing his pipe he stepped outside to enjoy the cool breeze.

Night set upon the small village, children continued to run around and play as the women prepared the communal dinner. Life on the reservation was a very tight knit community, the men hunting and farming, the women cooking and cleaning, Wakiza was a man of the spirits and he lived to guide these wonderful people. They would come to him for advice, when they fell ill he would do his best to heal them, and when someone died he was there to guide their spirits to the great beyond. He knew long ago these lands nurtured his people and they took care of the land in return, they were not bound to this tiny reservation that the white man had lied, stolen, and killed for, giving this land to his people where the stone cold gaze of the very men that caused the downfall of his people. Mount Rushmore looked more like a tyrannical reminder of pain and sorrow than anything remotely close to pride and patriotism.

A commotion stirred Wakiza from his daydream, he had not even realized the darkness had fallen and the meal was close to being finished; but it was not food, drink, song, or dance that was the source, no, a stranger had entered his village and his people were giving this man a warm reception. The shaman got to his feet to greet the newcomer as well but something strange followed this man. Without warning the winds began to gust, not in any way disturbing, but the spirits were certainly speaking; the air around them growing colder, the man was something the spirits seemed to want Wakiza to know.

When he was upon the man, seeing the stranger clearly, something immediately stuck out. His skin was the same as the Aztecs from his vision and an aura of great strength and power surrounded him.
"Come stranger, allow me to speak with you a moment" his words warm and welcoming as he led him to his cabin. Stepping inside he was quick to shut the door for privacy; he poured a glass of water, offering one to his guest before pouring one for himself. "Please, have a seat my friend, we have much to discuss" Wakiza smiled warmly before lighting his pipe, offering this to his guest as well. He stared into the man's eyes and though he could not place what made this man special, had no idea where the power that echoed from him came from one word sprang into his mind, something that did not quite make sense to the shaman and again he smiled "what brings you to my village night walker?"

The human had drawn him here, invited him in, the human offered him a seat and called him night walker. Obviously he was the shaman of this village, this reservation but there was something different. The scent of blood was in the air. Ambrose considers searching the man's thoughts as he silently reaches out and takes the proffered pipe. He raises it in salutation and inhales deeply. The smoke rolls over his tongue, drawn down his throat and into dead and useless lungs. A deep draw of the pipe and he hands it back, holding it as though a revered weapon with both arms outstretched. He says nothing for a moment and allows the smoke to roll back out of his nostrils and mouth, savoring the feel of it rolling past his lips. He decides not to read the man's memories, instead allowing for a natural flow of conversation for the time being.

Curiously he looks the shaman over, the man seeming to have known of the elder vampire's impending arrival and asks him, "You have shed the blood of man. If you had eternity to gain what you wished, how much blood would you spill for the secrets of this world?"

Though soaked from the storm, water dripping from his clothing and hair Ambrose shows no sign of discomfort. He is intent on Wakiza to the exclusion of all else.

As much as it takes, he remembers telling Eztli when the same question was posed to him four centuries again.

"How much blood would you consume if you could drain away the life of your enemies?"

As much as it takes, he had answered.

Ambrose watches the shaman quietly after posing the two questions. Tezcatlipoca has drawn him here for a reason and Ambrose believes he knows what that reason is...

He would almost stake his eternity that the man's answers will match his own.

The strangers questions did not at all seem strange to the shaman; he took a slow puff from his pipe before answering.

"I have shed the blood of many men my friend. The spirits guide me the more I spill, for all of the knowledge they can give I would spill as much as it takes." A small fire slowly began to stir inside the shamans gut, this man subtly seemed less like a man the more he looked at him. Whether this was a strong spirit or even a demon, the shaman felt no fear, again offering him the pipe.

The second question carried a little more weight. "My people were, as you are aware, butchered by invaders to our lands. I would spill as much of theirs as it takes to see justice." He sat forward slightly "tell me stranger, what has brought you here?" The question carrying only his curiosity.

Reaching out Ambrose takes the pipe, watching Wakiza's face. He sees a dawning of understanding within his eyes but no fear. This was a good omen. A very good omen. taking a long drag from the pipe Ambrose considers his move. Sometimes subtlety works best with people. Others do not need the truth veiled in illusion and to be direct only helps.

"I can not tell you. I can only show you. It is a long story and I do not have the words to do it justice. Memories are better than words sometimes. It all comes down to blood. It always comes down to blood in the end. It is the chain that binds us and our link to the beyond. It is life. It is everything. Even the gods draw their power from it."

He hands the pipe back slowly. "Would you like to see what brought me here shaman?"

The shaman reclined in his chair, setting his pipe on the table. His eyes closed as he contemplated the words of this stranger, looking for any guidance the spirits may offer. The vision that tore through him on the mountain top burned his eyes, as they slowly opened the warrior with the smokey leg seemed to linger where his guest was seated.

With a small nod of his answered "whatever you wish to show me brother, the spirits do not push me away. I wish to see these things, to gain the knowledge and the power to bring pride back to my people" that small tremor of fear he felt that night the world had burned around him. Though the shaman wanted to ask this nightwalker if the vision made sense to him, now was not the time for such small questions. Taking one last puff from the pipe he leaned forward, ready for what his guest was to show him.

Tizoc stands then and makes his way to Wakiza. He places a hand on the shamans forehead, slips it down slowly to close and cover his eyes and gtjers his memories. His mortality, his childhood, his history and his siring. The Spaniards taking, raping, destroying the culture of his ancestors. The bloodline's secret war culminating in Tizoc being the sole survivor.

His flight through southern American states from his native Mexico and up the eastern seaboard before men hung steel from the skies to make what we now take for granted. The meeting of friends, enemies, visions, sacrifices and most of all the blood. Blood spraying superimposed over all of it, the scent of the viscous coppery liquid filling Wazika's nostrils, the feel and taste of it flowing down his throat. The slickness or the liquid as it thickens on his skin.

He sees Tizoc in his Aztec garb, a jaguar skull covering half his face, smoke surrounding him as he screams out words to a strange beast trapped within a circle of blopd as it strains to lash out at him. Flowers amd incense tinged with that coppery scent fill the air... the priest holding up a still beating heart as a body twitches before him, bringing it to his mouth and biting down, draining the fluid from within.

The face of a Mexican woman shifts and warps, distorting into another in a background of flmes and blood and both remain superimposed and screaming. It feels as though the ash thrown up Into the air will choke Wakiza, feels as though It fills his lungs. The smell of smoke and blood become nearly overpowering and then vanishes.

The hunters, guns blazing, swords flashing in the sunlight as Tizoc fights back, flesh charring inder the gaze of the sun god, his own lord, the god of the night sky powerless to help and then after wht seems an eternity of bleakness, living shadows and silence...

Rebirth. The expulsion from monochromatic grey nothingness into the modern world. The events at the factory, siring his new brood, flashes of their own pffspring. Blood. More blood. Vega, Kika, Machk... death and rebirth. Through all of it a jaguar watches from the night sky.

Everything Tizoc has lived through flashes through Wakiza's mind and once complete, once the last of the memories shows Tizoc placing his hand over the shamans eyes it stops. The hand withdraws. The scent, taste, feel, sounds and sights of blood and death disappear instantly leaving only the shamans own home before him as it was.

"You must die to be reborn. You must become one with the spirits to truly understand them."

Tizoc watches Wakiza quietly and awaits his reaction.

The darkness seemed to engulf the visitor as he rose to his feet, the spirits, particularly those that Wakiza communed with the most, were especially drawn to this man. They hovered about him like moths to a flame, drawing Wakiza's attention and focus all the more on the nightwalker. Though the man's touch was gentle his hands felt as though they were made of ice, but before he could even think to question this his mind began to blur. The young shaman's mind burned as the images of his vision flashed before his eyes. The pain, the destruction, it threatened to overwhelm him; his heart wept in silence at the chaos, even as his nostrils and lungs burned with the ash and smoke, the taste and sensation of blood filling his mouth and throat. Wakiza felt himself, distantly, fall to his knees, all he could feel was the pain and hatred of Tizoc, a name that had seared itself into his brain.

Slowy the vision passed, the world crashing down hard around the kneeling shaman. "What are you?" his voice like a scratchy echo whispered by another, the taste of blood still heavy in his mouth. Wakiza slowly opened his eyes, having become the solid white ovals as though the spirits had possessed him, lifting them to stare deep into the eyes of the man "Tizoc." He was unsure why he said the name, it was the only word he could think of. Eyes that carried so much weight from all that he had experienced, eyes full of so much power from all that he become.

Wakiza reached up to take the man's wrists "death is only a journey brother" there was no fear to be found in the shaman's face or voice "if I must die to become so much more then this is my fate and I will not fear what is to come."

The vampire nods at the shamans words.

"Then we shall embark on this journey."

Ambrose is pleased with the man's choice. After showing him what he had there were only two ways this meeting could have turned out. One would be with a new childe at his side, the other with the shaman laying broken and drained in the wake of the elder's passing. He knew too much to be left alive, too much to remain mortal.

Ambrose reaches to the small of his back and withdraws his obsidian dagger. The black stone catches the reflection of the light, gleaming as he holds it by it's bone handle. He stands and motions for Wakiza to join him, showing him the blade. "It will hurt, you will likely scream. We should go somewhere away from your tribe. This will likely be the last time you see them. Make your peace with this life shaman and then we will go to the hunting grounds."