Path of the Vampire forum

Date: Unknown
Condition: Unknown

The building before him had been left to decay after the fire. Like so many around it, there was little evidence of what it once was: the street signs were illegible and the road was deserted. The last point, more than the first, was problematic: Wendell was getting peckish, and there weren't any signs of life. Here if anywhere, he had thought, there would be people... they had hidden here during the worst nights, relying on this place to protect them. They never really understood what protection the place afforded, or what they were hiding from, until the hour was too late.

He walked through the gap in the door where a pane of glass used to be. His footsteps crunched loudly on the shattered glass in the lobby, echoing in the nothingness. Familiar. He dragged his boot against the floor to read the faded writing in the tiles and confirm his suspicions.

"Wickbridge Bank"

All things, however unlikely, are inevitable given sufficient time. It was like he had always known it would be. Years, decades, centuries after his turning... Harper Rock would fail. Harper Rock was always a temporary thing: whether through the failure of the Masquerade, or a disease, or the economy, or simply the slow inevitable decay of the human race, there would come a day when Harper Rock would no longer be refuge for vampires. The immortality Harper Rock granted would no longer be boon; if not the cause of their destruction, it might remain a lure for those who still had fear of death. Vampires would have to leave Harper Rock, or stay and become shadows of their former selves, feeding on cockroaches and each other, mixed among the wispy ghosts of numerous human dead.

He looked up at the moon through the hole in the ceiling. Was he still in the Shadow Realm? When you become thought in a place of thought, thought becomes your reality: not unlike a dream. Dreams reflect thought because dreams stem from the individual. Was this a vision brought on by The Stillness? It was just as likely that he slipped into Stillness so long that he had skipped to the inevitable future, and this was real.

As he contemplated the veracity of this existence, he squinted as if looking into the sun -- an unusually human facial movement for Wendell. Truth, like sunlight, was often blinding... and twice as dangerous. The lessons of the Wraith Guides floated together like puzzle pieces, twisting themselves together at dangerous angles, and creating an incomplete frame surrounding an image which was entirely unlike reality.

Shadow Realm... Dream... Future... all of the above.

September 17th, 2012

It had been many months since Wendell journeyed to the south end of Harper Rock. He had once trained tirelessly in the Hunting Ground, improving his aim by shooting bears; now, he was capable of bringing down a Greater Mooncalf by charging at it headlong with a sword. He knew his powers had increased; the tightness of his coat sleeves told him as much. He cared little about it at the moment: it was a means to an end that even he did not fully understand. Today, however, something else held his interest.

Perched on a branch of a tree he had leaped to an hour ago, he watched the behavior of creatures below from thirty feet up. Most curious was the behavior of the vampires and the wolves. The vampires had shown up for the same reason he had: to investigate the wolves. The wolves were not behaving like wolves.

Generally, his Killer nature produced fear in lesser creatures. Walking down the street, cats would dart away from windows, and passing dogs would pull against their leashes in the other direction and whine. Even humans took notice, if only on a primal level: cops often unconsciously checked their weapons when Wendell was nearby, and occasionally attacked out of instinct. If one didn't understand the supernatural, they were jittery around him; end of story.

Or so he thought. At the moment, three wolves were snarling and clawing at his tree as though they intended to climb it. They growled as if he were prey trapped in the tree, rather than predator biding his time. He could smell another supernatural force at work here: it smelled like a rotting pine tree after a spring rain, and it poured off of them like perfume from a bouquet of very angry flowers.

"Fae," he caught himself saying aloud, as if to tempt the real beast to show itself. Here he faced the pawns of an enemy who, by all accounts, hopelessly outmatched vampire-kind. Wendell knew to stay away from the wilderness for prolonged periods, just as they seemed to know to stay away from the city. Were they simply trying to reclaim the Hunting Grounds, or was this their first strike in a larger war? Were they testing the waters? A diversion, perhaps? No, probably nothing so sophisticated.

Wendell drew the pistol from his belt and fired a single round between the eyes of the first wolf, which slumped to the ground, dead. This didn't surprise him: he had been watching others put down the wolves for an hour now, and while their aggression had increased, their physical strength and speed were unchanged, leaving them a nuisance at best. He put down the second with a single shot. That the third continued snarling at him rather than fleeing was evidence that their behavior was altered.

In any case, he determined, it was best to engage the enemy... learn about them... attempt to discern their intention by forcing them to take the next step before they wanted to. Just like the Blood Thieves... but without the torture phase of the experiment: wolves couldn't tell you anything. They lacked the cognitive ability.

Just like the Blood Thieves then, he corrected himself. And like the Blood Thieves, the solution was clear: counter with overwhelming force.

Thirty feet had become a trivial distance to fall, but it accelerated his mass nicely: nearly 140 kilograms of super-dense vampire bone and muscle. He would hit the ground at almost fifty kilometers per hour with only the one remaining wolf's head to break his fall between boot and earth.

"Three," he said, only a split second before there was a yelp and a sickening pop.

August 18th, 2012

Wendell snapped back into the vacant space behind the eyes of the body he had once occupied, and his mind came immediately back to the moment. His time in the Shadow Realm had been educational, but he had turned his attention in preparation for his return. He had consumed more spirits than he thought might exist, and regained himself almost completely; still, it would be best to avoid a second venture soon after this one... repeated ventures would ruin him irreparably. He had seen it happen before: he had taken part in the Ruining of a vampire essence.

He had imagined various scenarios he might encounter upon his return: an ambush was possible. If he woke and anyone was present, he would depart immediately: it didn't matter who it was... too much could change in a week. More likely, he imagined, he'd awaken in a coffin and have to dig his way out. Child's play for a Killer at full strength, and he even had blood left: the advantage of inflicting a direct death wound himself rather than fighting to death.

Instead, he woke in an unfamiliar place, and alone, laying on a table. He rolled off the table quickly, and reached for his belt: his weapons were still present. Had this been a trap or ambush, he would almost certainly be without weapons. Looking down at the table, he recognized it from the meeting a week ago. All said, he had probably not been moved far: that would explain the smell of solder and plaster in the air. He had just been moved to an apartment, and an incomplete one at that. This was a scenario he had not imagined... that someone would have bothered. The list of those who cared enough to do so was disappointingly short.

Momentarily reprieve, then a dash to the surface: doorway, doorway, portal, doorway, manhole covering... sunlight. He winced in the light, and it reminded him of the question gnawing at whatever sanity he still had. The burning he felt had nothing to do the presence of sunlight, "Daywalker" as he was, but rather (as he saw it) its absence. Another vampire might have basked in the return to the "physical" world, but Wendell simply dropped the lid back into place. First, he needed to feed. Then, he had questions that needed answering.

Some time later...

The Wraith Guide Hantu was not difficult to find: the Guides were like celebrities for vampire paparazzi. Wendell too had reported their locations. Hantu, however, was the first Wraith Guide he could really see since developing that Sight.

"It's you," the Wraith Guide indicated; a presence in his head rather than a voice. "Escaped the Shadow Realm have you?"

"Have I?" Wendell asked.

"Have you?"

There was a long silence. Like all of the other lessons he had received, this was succinct: a single thought to reflect upon which opened up new possibilities. These were possibilities Wendell's voyage to the Shadow Realm had already taught him, but which he felt compelled to hear confirmed out loud. Wendell and the Wraith Guide both knew what the answer was.

"No."

The Guide returned an emotion of mixed amusement and curiosity, as if to say, "A interesting theory. What are you going to do then?"

Wendell smelled the air. Summer was ending. Soon, he would be a one year old vampire. Had no one else come to these conclusions? Found themselves upon this precipice? Did those who think as he did lose their minds to the insanity of it? Or did they instead embrace denial, clinging to the human perceptions and predilections ingrained in their very being? What he was coming to believe, if true, was extremely dangerous. Maybe those others did exist, but did not act out of fear, compassion, or simple decency. Wendell had none of those things to hold him back. Something colder than mere winter approached; it made his hair stand on end.

The wave of curiosity from the Wraith Guide repeated itself: "What will you do?"

Wendell put his hands into his coat pockets and turned to walk the other way.

"What no one else will."

May 2nd, 2012

Disappointment.

Wendell did not have the prototypical experience of disappointment: he neither felt angry or saddened by what he saw. Instead there was a faint surprise. There was a logical path, and it should be followed. Still, as he looked over the pages of inflammatory remarks, tautological arguments, and broken-records it wasn't the little green lights signalling yet another pointless debate that caused him that hollow feeling of disbelief: it was the grey ones.
The grey dots referring to the ideas that had been abandoned. Through neglect, derailing, or fear that action would have undesirable consequences, ideas fell by the wayside as individuals refused to get off their soapboxes. The logical path was the path of Action, and the CrowNet was not a place of action.

It was really the Elders who were to blame. The Elders had set a precedence of hesitation and reluctance. They remained distant from current events, except to occasionally snarl at each other over the CrowNet. They were too self-important to change their ways, admit fault, or work for another: they demanded control.
That was why, in Wendell's opinion, the Council failed: each Council began with the premise that the Elders would automatically get seats based on no merit but their age. The Elders believed they had the right to rule, though most had done nothing (nothing Wendell had seen) to earn that right or prove themselves capable leaders.
He had once thought that a sufficient threat would shake them into action... but as threats came (like the new "Feral" Vampires in the Quarantine Zone) the Elders did nothing. They did not unify as Wendell thought they might... even though it was the logical thing to do. Wendell had contemplated actually attempting to increase the threat: tear down the walls of the Quarantine Zone and let death run loose in the city... give them a villain to unify against. He had little hope that even this would stir them though: the Elders did not even act independently. They remained despondent husks in the form of men.
So, what did the Elders actually contribute to the city? Nothing. They were men and women whose time and prominence had passed. Locked for 200 years in the Shadow Realm, how could anyone adapt to a modern world? They were now merely relics holding onto the last fistfuls of "secret" information they had; likely because it suggested power that they didn't actually possess. Knowledge which, as Wendell was fast learning, was devoid of practicality and wisdom. Soon, it seemed, there would be no need for their ilk in the modern nights. The Elders were simply the Old Ones, and the time would come when vampires, like other species, abandoned or devoured their Elders. That which did not contribute to the Community would only weigh it down moving forward. Once the Elders were left behind, perhaps progress could be made.
But while the Elders had few who respected them for their age alone, sending one to the Shadow Realm was to throw stones at a hornet's nest. The Elder would not be destroyed, and the political shitstorm that would follow would be counterproductive. Never let a useless man become a martyr... better to just leave the hornet's nest in the tree: buzzing threateningly and doing nothing.

The next step, then, was to create independence from the Elders. He could try to strengthen the Community or shake some individuals into action provided the correct leverage, but until that opportunity presented itself, he had to accept that he was on his own. He would have felt additional disappointment here, but he was really no worse off than he had ever been... a human family that rejected him as a failure, a sire who seemed to act on his behalf for fear or shame, and now a Bloodline that rotted like the swamps behind his father's old cabin. Grigori (like the other Bloodlines) was alive, but stagnant. Vampires crawled out of its womb like mosquitoes and flew away to redder pastures. It was a feature of the terrain that could not be altered without great effort: indestructible, but too weak to build anything upon.
A foundation was primarily ideological, and the ideology of the Bloodlines was one of always watching and never acting. They were content to support the status quo, so long as their own blood did not spill. They shied from confrontation. They shied from action.

Wendell had always considered his loyalty to be one of his only redeeming qualities. He had thought himself a soldier, conscripted into service, but a soldier nonetheless. Now, he saw, he had been a soldier discharged from the field. He was told to sit in the corner and melt down swords into... not even plowshares... plowshares would have suggested the creation of something of meaning. They were just melting down swords.

And an idea began to take shape in his mind... an idea that risked destroying everything he espoused. An idea which risked his one redeeming quality.
He couldn't manipulate the vampire Community any more than he could change the face of a swamp with a shovel: fingers in water and nothing more. One couldn't build anything of lasting meaning on a surface that collapses under any weight. But the swamp does not need to be the foundation, for it too has a foundation: bedrock. Digging down to bedrock risks the swamp, but it is the only way to build something in a swamp that will last. The vampire Community was a useless swamp, but it too had a foundation, and it wasn't the Elders.

It was humans. If Wendell was going to change the face of the vampire Community, he needed to start with control of the humans. It was, in his mind, a risky plan that could overplay the hand of the vampire Community, and maybe even burn it to the ground.

At least they'd have a fire for melting down their swords.

October 14th, 2012

He hadn't thought to end up here: he had been investigating Cliff's death. His early searches had been fruitless, so he had turned to Prudence for a lead. Prudence had pointed him to Rossi's Bar, where he overheard a conversation about noises in Honeymead. Perhaps this was where the Europeans had been hiding.

He tore through Honeymead: the Climber's Tavern, the Library (interesting network of portals there), a flower garden under construction... but then he smelled the other vampires, clustered outside an innocuous-looking home at the end of the street. He could hear the noises within: gunfire and... something else. He strained his hearing, and then began filtering out the constants: the traffic of Harper Rock, planes overhead, water rushing through mains... peeling back the layers of sensation... past what seemed to be the hurricane-like noise of bugs breathing and the sound of blades of grass burgeoning through soil, moving earth like bulldozers.

Chanting. Somewhere far beneath him, he thought he heard a woman chanting, and then a guttural roar. A roar he had learned to associate with avoidance. A roar he had yet to defeat: a Fadebeast. He was in past his depth.

Wendell went in anyway.

October 15th, 2012

Twelve minutes in, Wendell had already decided that this was not the place to find answers about Cliff. He persisted anyway: he was tenacious to a fault, but he would always focus on the threat in front of him. At the moment, the threat of zombies pouring out onto the suburbia of Honeymead had to take precedence.

Unconventional tactics were necessary to beat Greater Mooncalves, but this one went down in a hurry. It was the first and only one he needed: he carried its Master's "key" around its neck. No idea why a Necromancer of this power would leave keys with its creations, but access was handed to Wendell on a silver platter. Trap? He had stopped thinking in this manner... there wasn't a soul or soulless husk in Harper Rock clever enough to lay a trap that wouldn't be seen or reported long before it was a hazard.

The "key" was really a small symbol inked on parchment, and it withered and smoldered in his pocket when he walked through the barrier. Here, in a subbasement forty feet below the ground, the smell of sulfur and blood was unmistakable. A Fadebeast crossed beneath him at the foot of the stairs; best to let it pass. There was nothing to gain from weakening himself before a tough fight. Always go for the head.

Perched on a middle stair, he caught the green glow around a corner to the left. He would find the Necromancer -- and who knows what else -- there. Worst she could do was kill him, right? He leaped down the remaining stairs and blurred across the room. The Fadebeasts were faster than a human, but hardly able to match his speed if he had his mind set on the task. The woman was behind some manner of altar, arms raised. Her eyes barely had time to widen before he bounded over the altar and pounced on her, sword first.

And it was over. He didn't allow himself to believe it at first, but the thirty kilogram broadsword pierced cleanly through her chest, and the stone beneath. She must have already been fatally low on blood for the end to have been so easy; she might just as well have been dead before the blow landed. He ripped the sword from her chest and pulled the Talisman from around her neck where the string had been cut by his blade. The Fadebeasts around him seemed to retreat; already melting back into the formless Fadestuff he was learning to manipulate.

She gasped for a breath that wouldn't come. He paused to consider her resolve and apparent ability. She was much younger than he'd imagined; though looks could be deceiving. How had she come to this way of life? What was she trying to accomplish? Why had she been so starved for blood? He would never know the answers to these questions. She was another creature full of potential about to be snuffed out. Soon she would be another pile of ash in another pillar of fire: another arson to cover up another massacre.

Wendell knew that his next words would be the she last would hear in the physical world for a long time -- perhaps, knowing these renegades, forever. The light was fading from her eyes, and she looked up at him expectantly. It was curious that so many other dying men, women and assorted creatures -- Blood Thieves, Hunters, Vampires -- virtually all seemed to have the same look in their eyes in the end. They begged for some last word: something to fuel their need for revenge, to vindicate their cause, or for some knowledge from their executioner as if to answer the question, "Why?"

Wendell had told them all the same thing: exactly what each of them deserved to hear. Exactly what any traitor of the Vampire Race would receive for their efforts.

Nothing.

July 10th, 2012

(2) The four specimens must be tested in accordance with the procedures set out in paragraphs 1616.5(a) and (b) and subparagraphs 1616.5(c)(1) to (3) of Standard FF5-74 of the United States Consumer Product Safety Commission...

Wendell flipped back to the U.S. document to confirm his suspicions: correct again. More than the environmental regulations in front of him, he was interested by the amount of information he was able to retain. He had never applied his vampire intellect to a problem like this. His eyes and mind had yet to tire as they would have in his human state; he didn't even need to stop to use the restroom. As such, Wendell could devour entire libraries of information if he set his mind to it. He knew that the material was needlessly dry and complicated -- that most vampires would be frustrated or bored by it -- but devoid of the desire to pursue something more interesting (devoid of curiosity was more like it) it was just another task that needed doing. His mind, no longer inhibited by the spongy mess of a brain long-decayed, operated more like a computer now than a chemical reaction: he retained information by Willing to do so. It made him wonder...

A thumping noise pulled him from the Stillness; the episodes had slowed somewhat as he began concentrating on projects, but they always seemed to return when he let his mind wander. The thumping noise, he quickly realized, was not an actual auditory stimulus. Instead, it was like that unpleasant jolt that would awaken him as he was drifting asleep (back when he required sleep). Still, perhaps instinctively, he looked towards the old chest he had pulled out of the water at the Abandoned Docks. It sat on the coffee table, waiting impatiently. He couldn't yet put to words what he had to do, but he knew that he still had a long way to go before it was possible. He needed to keep training, keep progressing, keep building... and none of that would be done if he let himself drift into the Stillness.

Once he had scraped away the ice and barnacles of the chest, he saw that it was crafted of some obsidian-like material. Impenetrable and immutable, even after untold decades or centuries in the water. He didn't need to understand it to be able to work towards a goal with it. Struck by the coalescence of the two seemingly-unrelated thought processes, he wrote "Project: Black Box" across the top of the page he was working on.

"Soon," he said aloud, despite the fact that no one else was in the cabin. The chest, or perhaps what was inside it, seemed silent again.

Date: October 7th, 2012

According to the scoreboard, Wendell was up in the rankings by several strikes. Earlier that evening, he had purchased a wooden sword for the purpose of fighting in a tournament beneath the Morgue. The "weapon" was little more than a child's toy, but it forced him to practice restraint: the sword could snap from the force of his swing alone. He needed that restraint when he dealt with humans. Long ago, he realized that if he sliced men in half across the pelvis, some coroner was going get wise on the physics and come to the conclusion that (unless the sword was attached to a low-flying jet) something merited an investigation.

Perhaps, because his mind was set to violence, Wendell had begun shaving down the wooden sword with his knife. Impulsive behaviors were uncommon for him, but he found himself chipping at the toy semi-consciously regardless.

In addition to restraint, however, he got to see a number of techniques and fighting styles; things he could pass on in the Dojo, provided he ever found the time to start working there. He had never had the opportunity to study these techniques in the heat of a skirmish or raid, but here he could really stop and get lost in the educational experience.

Someone else, in a chair across the ring from him, also seemed to be just as attentive: a figure Wendell knew, but he could not name. Someone from his human life, perhaps? As Wendell's attention wavered between the figure and the fight, he became more certain of the familiarity. He stood and made his way around the ring, wooden sword in hand.

When he came around, he found himself facing a mirror above a table: much like the antique sitting in the entryway of the house where he had grown up. On the table, there appeared to be some sort of bowl. As he approached to investigate, he noticed a more interesting phenomena: a figure in the mirror.

Not accustomed to seeing anything in the mirror, he checked behind him: no one there to reflect. As he approached, he saw a familiar face. Not his own: that would have been impossible, but someone else mimicking his actions perfectly. Blood ran down the figure's face like tears, along its arms, and onto its hands. Wendell reached out to touch the surface of the mirror, and the figure did the same, running their fingers along opposite sides of the glass.

When Wendell withdrew his hand, the streaks of bloody fingerprints remained on the inside surface of the mirror.

His mind recoiled, and he stepped back. The figure in the mirror did not recoil, but looked down to the bowl on the table. Hesitating, Wendell reached out and took the bowl; the figure did the same. Wendell quickly realized it was not a bowl: two holes, and an uneven surface... he was looking at the inside of a mask. He slowly turned the mask to reveal the individual it was meant to represent and, startled, immediately looked to the figure in the mirror for an answer.

It was his face.

"Digo, you're up!" the voice repeated, and there was a shove on his shoulder.

He shook off the Stillness. The panic faded as quickly as the details of the figure's face, despite trying to hold onto both. As he stood, he looked to the toy in his hand. By the looks of it, he had been whittling away for an hour, and failed to create a sharp edge. Instead, the wooden sword now had a curved blade, complete with grooves and markings he couldn't identify: a bokken.

As he climbed up into the ring for the final round, he looked to where the other figure had been and saw only an empty chair.

Date: November 1st, 2012

It was the majority of a family: a mother, two daughters, and a son. Their bodies were strewn across the house; each bitten and mauled. He'd received the call from the Black Box Office and arrived on the scene in the Black Box van. He wished he had brought the truck.

The officer outside was relatively compliant. Word of the unusual behavior in the Quarantine Zone was spreading, and the incidents of zombies (mostly summoned) outside the QZ fueled their fear. Wendell had disguised himself in the hazmat mask, and while it didn't prevent the cop from feeling the primal fear almost all humans felt when they encountered the Killer, he was likely to attribute the discomfort to the threat of an unknown pandemic that a thick concrete wall wasn't likely to protect them against.

"Think it's the husband?" the Officer asked. There clearly was a man of the family, at least according to the photographs. The gun locker of the house had been emptied, but bullets didn't kill this family: it was clearly a vampire... and a sloppy one at that. He remembered the unquenchable thirst... how many households had he left like this in the early months of frenzy?

The fact that the husband was not among the bodies suggested something about the youth of this vampire: driven out by a common human with (by the looks of the damage to the walls) a shotgun. "Threaten a man's Legacy, and he becomes a Force of Nature," he heard his father say; he shook off the intruding memory.

"Definitely," Wendell said, his deep voice muted somewhat by the mask. "Keep your men out; will let you know when clear."

The cop was not pleased, but also unwilling to risk his health in dangerous times. As he walked down the porch stairs, Wendell surveyed the damage again. One man knew what had happened here; he had acted as best he could to protect his family and himself. Now that he family was gone, protecting himself was no longer on the man's mind. Wendell knew this, because he had been this man before.

"A man defending his home is hard to beat," his father had said. "But the only thing more dangerous than a man protecting his Legacy is one who has lost it, and who has nothing else to lose. He stops trying to protect a Legacy, and starts trying to avenge it. When you take away a man's Legacy, then he becomes something else."

"He becomes a Force of Will," Wendell echoed aloud.

September 1st, 2012

"Necuratism." It had a name. The Elders had been reluctant to discuss feeding on vampire blood other than to say it was forbidden. Despite their outspokenness about the practice, none had taken measurable action against these "Necurats"... even the ones who publicly admitted to being such. Useless. One more thing the Elders failed to follow through on.

Still, studies of physics and mathematics had once been considered blasphemous... perhaps Necuratism had a place in a more enlightened vampire society? It had been on Wendell's mind for some time now, brought to the forefront by recent events. There was power to be gained, and power was useful. The mantle of power could be taken up with good intentions. The Community had threats which were best met as Wendell met everything else: with overwhelming force.

Still, the pursuit of power was a practice in corruption, regardless of intentions. Knights of old claimed power to protect their people but, in doing so, they set themselves above their charges; this was doubly true when nobility was not earned. If he became a Necurat, by whose authority but his own did he take up the mantle of power? The Community had no recognized authority. It would be self-righteous to claim such authority for oneself, and such a decision would be evidence of a corrupted mind or one too weak to resist future corruption.
As with the Blood Thieves, it was a life choice to pursue power; those kind of choices suggested character flaws that could not be reconciled with a unified vampire Community. To be a Necurat, one had to actively decide that their progression of power was insufficient. They had to harbor a desire to possess power greater than their neighbors. Ethically, Necuratism was a choice to attempt to set oneself above one's kin.

Then there were the logistics of the thing. Necuratists set themselves above "standard" vampires and a Society of Necuratists was impossible without "lesser" vampires to feed them. Even if they engaged in blood potency practices of Necromancy, they would always need to stand on the shoulders of their food. As they continued the practice, the gap between their strength and the strength of their food would grow. How long before they could simply take what they wanted and stopped paying for it? Exactly like the Blood Thieves, but with a far more dangerous template to work from.
And they would. Those who pursue power inevitably attempt to pursue greater power: those who cannot find satisfaction with their lot will always continue to take from others. Especially where power may lead to madness. All scenarios suggested Necurats would inevitably turn to aggressive collection. Humans had once aggressively collected from wild beasts, and then beasts were domesticated. How long before vampires domesticated humans? How long before Necurats domesticated both?

Hopeless, if not for their destruction: the only confirmed Necurat still hadn't returned. To Wendell, this was proof that Necurats would not without some monumental act: a creature like Emanuel would not remain in the Shadow Realm by choice. That destruction was inevitable given sufficient time... even his own venture to the Shadow Realm was no exception. Inevitability would catch them all... Necurat and Vampire alike. Some sooner than others. Necuratism, therefore, meant an inevitable, permanent, trip to the Shadow Realm where no power could be gained.

"Well?" the creature behind him asked. Wendell was shaken from his visions... or perhaps cast back into them... it was difficult to tell these days. It (not she -- monsters neither needed nor deserved gender) was still chained to the steel pole. Wendell pushed the Necurat's forehead back and drew his blade unceremoniously across the exposed throat. As the creature sputtered, spat, and yowled, Wendell -- with just as little protocol -- plunged the blade into the Necurat's heart.

"Release me, and I'll tell you everything you want to know. I will give you power of Necuratism." the creature had said several minutes earlier. That Wendell had bound it up instead of killing it revealed the temptation the offer had posed, but Wendell realized now that he already knew everything he needed to know. Like all his other enemies, speaking to them was a waste of time.

Traitors to the vampire race. There was nothing that could have been offered to stay his hand; Wendell was irreproachable and ruthless. When these creatures crossed his path, as this one had, he would send them to the permanent Nothingness they deserved.

In the meantime, actively hunting them would be an act of redundancy: logic dictated that Necurats were all already doomed anyway... no one escapes inevitability.

November 8th, 2012

When the Courier knocked, Wendell unlocked the door of the Black Box office and passed him the large duffle. Stored correctly, those chemicals were safe (though still extremely illegal) to transport. The Couriers working for the Moonlight Auction Warehouse, which Wendell had taken to calling the "Maw", didn't seem to mind. The Courier passed him an envelope thick with cash, and began to give some prepared statement about how so-and-so would appreciate his business.

Wendell closed the door in his face without counting the money. He neither cared nor wanted to know who had purchased the equipment. The resources, however, were always short... he was certainly never strapped for cash, but the Plans were expensive to implement. Expensive plans took time. Even if he was immortal... even if he had eternity, and even if he no longer experienced frustration, there was a sense of urgency at the back of his mind. Then, the voice came.
Wendell turned, the pistol already in his hand; he had thought he was alone in the office, and yet he saw a man working in the lab. He lacked the sense of trepidation that might have led him to do anything but walk through the double doors.
"Who are you?" he demanded, already unconsciously aware that the gun would be completely ineffectual. There were several moments of silence; he eventually just holstered the weapon.
Wendell squinted as a vague sense of recognition washed over him. "You."
Wendell winced: an unusually human behavior for him. "Am I not a Warsmith?" he asked. "All else is lost." Even to him, his reply seemed strange.

The figure simply stepped aside, and Wendell stepped forward to look at what it had been working on. "Improbable," he said after a long pause.

A knock on the door roused Wendell from the Stillness. He unlocked the door of the Black Box office and passed the courier a large duffle. The Courier passed him an envelope thick with cash, and began to give some prepared statement about how so-and-so would appreciate his business. Wendell waited calmly for the Courier to finish before nodding and closing the door. He walked back to the lab and found it vacant.

He stared long and hard at the metal lab table, struggling to recreate the vision, but seeing only the image of the fluorescent light through the space where his reflection should be.