Path of the Vampire forum

The end of the cigarette burned orange and red as the paper and tobacco inside turned to ash, little mountains of grey that peeked through a valley of fire. Azraeth could not enjoy the benefits of the herbal ‘remedy’ of course, but the heat of the smoke in his lungs was pleasant, and then there were those Pavlovian responses. Few people knew it, but Az had been a smoker for a long time. Originally, he’d done it in this attempt to be ‘cool’ to fit in with the same group of kids at his school who had shunned him in favor of hanging out with his twin. In life, it had been something of an addiction. And he enjoyed burning plants of many of a variety for the way they could alter his perception, and calm his easily frazzled nerves. Stoner nerd boy had been his social class in high school. Throw in with that a taste for the occult, and you had exactly who Azraeth had been for years.

A boy who loved the idea of fantasy, an escape artist whose enemy was reality.

The scene looked like something out of a Roman orgy. He was naked. There was the body of a woman woven between his legs, and he laid against a pile of bodies, men and ladies who, only an hour or so prior, had all been alive. They were corpses though. There were tarps laid all over the floor of his apartment, and blood had pooled in various places. There were congealing strips of it on his flesh, on his hands, over his arms and down his torso, where the rusty fluid had flowed. The vampire twisted to lay on his front, his arms coming to rest under him so that his elbows could support the weight of his upper body. His back arched naturally and legs folded together at the ankle. His cigarette was removed, dropped into one of the little gathering pockets of fluid before he reached to grab a man’s head, tugging it close to look into his eyes.

There was blood smeared over his mouth and chin. Some of it splattered over one of his serpentine eyes.

“You know, there are public baths, and I know for a fact that most shelters provide at least some soap and other cleaning supplies.” The comment was directed at the smell. Az tended to select his food from the type of people most humans would not miss, like the homeless and criminals. In either case, when he needed to gorge on blood (usually after performing rituals or using his magic extensively), he always dumped their remains into the Quarantine Zone. Nobody went there unless they were crazy, stupid, or a vampire anyway. Certainly nobody went looking for lost loved ones in the ‘Hellmouth’. Even if they did go looking, most would have just chalked the dead bodies up to the unmistakable presence of the zombies. Eventually the corpses would begin to decay and become fodder for fledges to hone their skill on. Ingredients for Azraeth’s ceremonies.

Circle of life, or something like that.

Licking over his lips, he patted the cheek of the head he held in his hand, and then moved to stand so that he could retreat to his bathroom and shower. He left behind the evidence of his misdeeds, and knew that when the water washed away the blood; it would be half forgotten. On his part. Once his home was clean, it would be as if nothing had ever happened.

There were some who would have looked at that and questioned his sanity. Questioned the resolve he felt towards his own self-imposed pacifism. But he never had said he was a vegetarian. That was the mistake a lot of his kind made. They had trouble accepting their nature. And Azraeth did not view food as people. Not really. Maybe there was something broken about that.

Thirty or so minutes later and he had showered, dried his hair, dressed. His suit was monochrome, black on black on black, and he adjusted the tie carefully. His hand then moved so he could pull back the sleeve of his coat and reveal the face of a watch. Time to get a few things done.

He stepped towards his door and was suddenly walking right onto the front step of the Dragomir Temple. The building was vast, a testament to Gothic architecture with its sweeping arches. There were spires, gables and statues of every variety. The glass was stained, and the mason work was both immense and intricate. There were gargoyles that reached up towards heaven, but no crosses. A lot of the residents of Harper Rock considered it to be the city’s very own Notre Dame. It would have served as an excellent tourist attraction, but the irony there was that humans never seemed to step foot inside. Or rarely did for fear of the haunting tales that lay beyond the front gates.


A soft hum, and then the mumbling of lyrics to a song. “Lay your head down, child, I won’t let the boogeyman come.”

They began to appear seconds later as some of the hard won blood he’d consumed shortly before began to drip over the altar at the head of the building. First one spirit, and then the next. There were five or six of them to add to the throng of dead whose souls inhabited the keep. Beneath the church there were catacombs that had once been tombs.

The last ghost to arrive bore the same face as the head Azraeth had held earlier in the evening. He didn’t look happy to see the Mystic. None of them did. They were all caught in that moment of terror. The infestation of paranormal activity was a feast for some of his kind. More than that, he felt there was power in it. “Welcome to the Temple.” He said to them all, though the words carried and may have been heard by onlookers.

He had worn many faces, and that evening he was a guide. Like the faerie lights written about in myth and legend, he was a will-o-wisp. He was something bright and tempting, that could lead to enthrallment and eternal loss of self. But he was a creature of the grave, and so there was that dynamic, that dichotomy found between the natural world and the darkness that animated him. He was a step outside of real, a hop and skip towards some beautiful and deadly fantasy. He was the promise of death undone, and a dream composed of cryptic prophecy that could lead to nothing to ruin, both of those things, and all of the above at once.

Curiosity killed the cat. “I hope you’re not disappointed. It’s not nearly so mystical as it all sounds. Really, it’s even a bit dreary.” He said as he continued down the stone steps. One hand grasped his coat, his fingertips brushing over buttons, as the other slid underneath so that he could find the hidden sheath that always contained one of his favored weapons; the ceremonial dagger. With metal that curved back and forth, and script etched into the surface in a long dead language, the edge was sharp enough to split hair. It wasn’t particularly long, but it could draw blood with barely a knick. It wasn’t obvious from behind, but the specters that called the crypt beneath the church their home, they knew Az’s intentions. He could indeed share the secrets of his kind, but boys in coffins didn’t tell tales.

At the base of the stairs there was one large chamber that had been converted into a meeting spot of sorts. Az was of the opinion that the décor needed to be updated, but that was pretty low on his to do list. There were other necessities, like a library office, and Circe – the most favored of his creations. Magog was a creature of silence who moved like the winding of a river. She was like the man whose soul she supposedly shared – a creature of life and death poured into the same cast. Because, you see, snakes represented rebirth. With each time they shed their skin, they were made new and fresh. Az, being a mystic, identified with that. But they were also venomous.

She wound around Andrew’s leg first, ascending his body with lax movement that said she had no particular urge to get anywhere quickly. Around his thigh and then narrow waist. She was long enough that one might have guessed her to be old. And she ended up wrapped around a neck – not constricting, because that wasn’t her nature. She laid there across shoulders with her tongue darting into the air.

“You see, I am a vampire. I think our community settled on that term because it was the easiest way to describe what we do. Who we are. When you pass over into the darkness, where we play, you gain the gift of unfaltering life, but at the same time – you lose everything that you were. The afterlife is all around you. There are spirits that roam the streets, seen only by a few, and then there are those who have faded into nothing but dissipate energy. For us, for my kind, when our bodies die, we pass into this land of shadows. Because we come from the shadows, you see.” He half turned, and was ready to pull the dagger from his coat. He was going to cleanly slice a throat and be done with it, but Magog lay there. She saw something in Andrew, and had given him her favor. Seer of omens, soothsayer, Azraeth let his hand fall away at the sight. It was as if she said to him: This one. This one is chosen. He is to be protected, cherished, loved.

He stood there for a moment, unsure what to do with the weight of the new development bearing down on his shoulders.

“We return through the veil that separates this world and that. Tell me, Andreas, have you ever felt safe in the knowledge that you are eternal? I think that’s something only a few people ever feel. Great men who invent things that change the world, warlords who consume vast lands, men who amass fame, fortune, respect. But those men are never truly immortal – theirs is a legacy of blood that becomes more shallow with each passing generation.” He took a step closer so that he could lift his hand. The pad of his thumb brushed delicately over the scales of his serpent, and then lifted so that they could draw down over jaw, ending with a faint tap right at the tip of a chin.

“Do you feel safe, Andreas?”