Path of the Vampire forum

There was something about strong alcohol that could not be compared to anything else. Not just the taste, not just the burn, but a variety of things all stacked up together to create a unique experience. As the liquid slid smoothly down Elliot’s throat, he closed his eyes, head falling to the side as he revelled in that unique experience. Every single time, if he closed his eyes and focused on the burn, on the taste as it touched each individual tastebud, it was as if every taste bud held a different memory; every single time that he had had a drink of that particular brand of alcohol, the memory of it fled in a silent, still shiver down his spine. A virulent, and yet harmonious storm sashaying around inside his head, a tornado tunnelling toward his soul.

So many memories. He cherished very single one of them, used them as his inspiration, and drew upon them when he needed strength to go on. Because something he lost that particular strength. Sometimes, the force of this life got the better of him, and he had to rely on those around him to pull him out of the pit that he would dig himself into. He required the memories of a human past to recall who he was, who he should remain. He could never lose touch, never let go of his humanity. If he ever did, he feared what he might become. For all his grand opinions on morality and rightness, he knew exactly what he himself could be capable of.

The storm ceased as the alcohol fizzled and was consumed. Elliot’s eyes blinked open, and Charlotte’s voice swirled around him. He nodded as he focused. His head rolled on his shoulders.

”Maybe we’re old souls, you and I,” he said, lifting his drink in salute. ”And though we will remain looking as we are, our souls will grow old. Very old, if we are careful. And we will not breed – not insomuch as we might have been expected to. And that breeding pool well… some might say it’s a veritable buffet now, mightn’t they?” he asked. Of course, he didn’t dip into that particular buffet himself, of course. But others did, and maybe he was bitter about it. Not that he couldn’t taste the blood of humans anymore, but because he was powerless to stop it – the meaningless death that sometimes resulted from his kin’s need to feed.

Take them out of the breeding pool. It was such an innocent turn of phrase, but it caused a niggling in Elliot’s brain. A niggling that may as well have been the loose rock that began the avalanche; he found himself nodding to Charlie. Yes, of course, people might be idiots but they don’t deserve to die. Of course, yes, he agreed. Wholeheartedly. And yet…

There was that guy, last week. The one that wouldn’t shutup about the pool table – how it was broken, how it wouldn’t release the balls, how the establishment was unworthy, just because of a goddamned broken pool table. Elliot remembered the way he imagined pulling the dagger from his boot, and sliding it, like a hot knife through butter, across the human’s neck. He imagined the hot blood, spurting, spilling over the floor and all the other drunken, slovenly occupants of the bar. How, deep down, he wondered whether he might enjoy watching the guy twitch and die as the blood slowly fled from his body.

And that one woman, perhaps in her later 50s but dressed like she thought she was 20. Fake boobs, fake lips, far too much make-up, maybe even a wig. Racist bigot, spouting religious ******** that Elliot couldn’t abide. He’d imagined smashing the wine bottle he was holding over her head, and stabbing out her eyes with the shards still attached to the neck. And had wondered then, too, whether he might enjoy hearing her scream for mercy.

This was not who he was. Always, he had said, always try to live in other people’s shoes and understand that their views aren’t always the same. That some people are just having a bad day, and they have to be forgiven for their foulness. He didn’t like the images that flashed through his brain. Nor could he stop them.

He frowned. He let the subject drop.

He cleared his throat and took another heavy swig of alcohol.

”I still call my mother every now and again. She is in Australia, though, and is used to me never being home, and never coming back,” he shrugged. ”I know I’ll have to stop, sooner or later but… I don’t see why you can’t. Just… a phone call. Even a simple visit. She doesn’t need to know what you are. If it brings you small peace of mind – just be careful about how you go about it,” he offered.

Elliot wasn’t sure whether Charlotte was really worried about passing out, or whether she was using it as an excuse to run away; the conversation, at the end that, had got quite heavy. It had Elliot frowning, wanting to reach out and comfort the girl in the only way he knew how. With words. He may or may not have been able to think of the right things to say, but he could have tried. He wouldn’t have told her to fight and be strong and do things against her own judgment. That would have been stupid. He knew what Tytonidae were like; he’d seen how they’d affected the people around him. They’d never done anything to him, however; but then he’d never done anything to incur their wrath. Not really.

Sure, he had rebelled in the small ways. Wearing Summer clothes in Winter, for one. Selling blood in a pub where humans frequented. And he would never bat an eyelash to help those who needed it, whether they’d broken the ‘law’ or not. Sure, yes, he believed in the Masquerade insofar as he did not believe in the human race to be understanding and welcoming. He would keep the Masquerade – he would not willingly reveal himself or their kind, only because he thought it would keep those he cared about safe.

But he did not agree with Tytonidae’s tactics. He did not like that they had bullied Charlotte so much that she was afraid to even talk to her own mother. And, that aside, he was sad for her – that her past had occurred in such a way that she felt like she couldn’t. At least Elliot had a buffer. His own mother was used to it. She knew that he liked to travel and that he rarely came home. She would only send people out to look for him, to ask about his whereabouts, if he failed to contact her. To keep her safe, he had to contact her. It kept her at bay. It reminded her that he was alive. It kept her happy – or as happy as a mother could be with an absent son. It was okay, though. She had Richard.

Charlotte ran off and Elliot finished up at the bar. It didn’t take him long. All he had to do to keep himself from passing out and staying there all day was pull the tome from his pocket. And, from the Den, take the portal to the crypt where he would find Pi. And a bed. And comfort, contentment. He hoped that Charlotte would find the same thing when she got home.

And, with that thought in mind, he pulled the tome from his pocket and spoke the words that would take him home.