Path of the Vampire forum

Dead wolves cannot mean anything good. Dead, but still alive. As Jesse stalks the halls of the hidden rooms in the catacombs, slaughtering each individual beast as he encounters it, his mind wanders. Although he is physically focused on the tasks at hand, mentally he flicks through the pages of the books of mythology that he had devoured. No, he had not been much of a reader growing up, but had learned to write with grace and eloquence only because, just like a person is judged by what they say, he had always been judged by what he had written, and the way that he had written it. Whenever he had wanted to be understood, he’d had to write.

It was only as he searched for inspiration for his art that he had discovered mythology; that he had sought the library, that he had curled up in a corner to read all about the Ancients, their Gods and their lore. Lore that he himself sought to adopt, in a way; the Norse are often his inspiration. And right now, he thinks of Loki. Of Loki’s offspring. These wolves are almost as if Fenrir and Hel had copulated, and had reproduced. Wicked, vicious wolves that are half dead, half alive. As they snarl and gnash, Jesse is imagining ways in which he can draw them; those heads with dead eyes and rotting flesh, the blood dripping from teeth, that are still white as the day they died.

These animals possess a fury and instinct for violence that the human zombies lack. They are pure hellions, demons, intent on creating death, as well as living in. What drives them? Perhaps in the human zombies there remains the remnants of bitterness, of despair. A lack of enthusiasm that infects the dead creatures that they have become. There is no such bitterness in these wolves. They cling to their instinct now in death, as much as they had in life. Perhaps there is anger, there, as much as animals can possess anger.

Yes, Jesse can see it. These are more alive than they ever were; they cling to what life they have left with savage intensity. When he draws this wolf, he will imbibe within it this same intensity. It will claw from the page with the same vibrancy. A unconscious shout rips from Jesse’s ravaged throat as he dances around the wolf; his feet lift into the air, foot using the wall as surface from which he can launch himself higher into the air. He clutches at the hilt of his sword with two hands, blade pointing earthward. It skewers the creature between the shoulder blades as Jesse lands on top of it. The creature still moves, and Jesse silently grapples with it, finally managing to wrench the head from its body.

Jesse holds the head up in front of him. He examines it. He takes it with him to a guarded corner, where he takes up residence. He is tired, and wants to recharge. He crosses his legs in front of him; he lays his sword on the ground within easy reach, and puts the wolf’s head down nearby. He wipes his grimy hands on the denim of his jeans, cleaning them as much as he can before he retrieves from his messenger back, from amidst all the gathered loot, his sketchpad and pencils. He turns to a clean page – and he begins.

The noise, and the sudden arrival of the woman, doesn’t surprise Jesse. Nor does it particularly bother him. He doesn’t startle easily, and wouldn’t in the middle of raid. Rapid gunfire and shouting is not unexpected in these halls, and especially on this floor. The niche that Jesse had found himself was only slightly out of the way; but everywhere else, the vampires thronged in great multitude. Violence and slaughter is like honey, and the vampires are the bees.

It looks almost as if the woman had not been thrown into the wall, but had instead thrown herself into the wall. Did she think she had the ability to slip through it? As if she were some kind of ghost? Maybe she’d been led to believe that there was a hidden door. There is none. Jesse blinks. At least no one saw, she says. And only when her attention slides over to Jesse does he smirk and give her a small wave. He doesn’t consider himself no one, and at least the woman’s reaction to his presence reassures him that she doesn’t think he’s no one either.

She then greets him in the manner of a shop assistant; as if she’s just been caught in the back room with a customer who has stripped her bare and ravaged her. Fixing her hair, her dress. In the middle of a raid, where violent beasts will rip a person to shreds if they aren’t lucky, and if they are lucky, will spew their gutted internals all over their attacker. Jesse himself is covered in muck and gore. The previously white page, now covered in led, is also covered in smudges of grime. He has no idea why women care so much about appearance.

“No one you need to impress in here,” Jesse says, voice low, and broken, but decipherable. The grin still rests on his lips. He arches a brow as he glances out into the hall, in the general direction he thinks the exit might be.

“I think the door is that way…” he says, pointing with the blunt tip of the pencil.