Path of the Vampire forum

“The world has officially gone mad,” the white-haired man groused as he paced.

Blanched grey plumes of smoke twisted out of his nostrils like an ethereal dragon as he breathed, as well as when he occasionally growled. The cigarette was held between two slender fingers, their ends dipped in dark green enamel though it didn’t really hide the blood crusted beneath those nails. His alabaster skin was stained red in patches down his hands and forearms, crumbs that looked like coffee flakes were scattered there too; the evidence of a long and difficult journey present and accounted for. Myk clenched his empty fist, squeezing out the cold that clung at his bare flesh. Even as a Vampire, even riddled with anger, he was tortured by the cold. Still, there was little more that he could do other than scowl to keep the cold at bay. One could suggest that he opted to wear more than a pair of oversized, distended vest tops and fashionably-ripped, skinny jeans, but it wasn’t likely to change his opinion on his wardrobe. Vanity was a far greater concern to the Telepath than a little chill. Besides, if he was really that bothered, he could wrap himself in his own hair; the bone-white tresses were certainly long enough to coil around his entire upper half quite comfortably.

“This is it, you know,” Myk continued, breathing smoke that matched the burn of his voice. “This is the end of all rationality, liberty, and good times. Actually, come to think of it, I guess this year has been a turning point for mankind. Maybe something like the end of the world is upon us. Ragnarok. After all, it has seen the rise of intolerance, the stirring of injustices, and it has lost some of its most beloved stars to cancers, sorrow, war, and disease… Then the UK’s population of working class decided to take a dump on the rug of the world and expects the government to clean it up. They called it a revolution, a two fingered salute to The Man, because they were taking back their country. All that they have revoked is the feeling of charity, the sense of security for being able to walk down a street if you don’t look like a native. And now this shambles in the US… Urg. Seriously. I think I would like to personally put a fork in the eye of those who voted to put a raving lunatic in the seat of power. He should be shot on account of that hairstyle alone, never mind his Stone Age principles and Neanderthal values. I can only imagine there won’t be any time to build the walls when it’s much easier just to press that button on the nuke launch. Don’t have to worry about Vampires at all then…” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and sighed. “Be glad you’re dead, Rutherford.” He glanced at the silhouette of the man who wasn’t there. “You don’t have to suffer any of this nonsense!”

“Perhaps,” the Wraith mused. “Though, I do have to suffer the young master’s tirades when he feels slighted by the world.”

He brought the cigarette to his cherry-stained lips again, took in a long breath, paused, and then casually exhaled a great cloud of smoke. It billowed into the arched stone ceiling like a lost smoke signal – perhaps yet another symbol of a world gone mad.

“Also, it is highly inappropriate for you to be standing in a Cathedral. Let alone smoking in one. Do they not teach manners these days?”

Following a sigh, Myk tossed the remains of his half-smoked cigarette onto the ground. To ensure its death, he stomped on the struggling embers, pressing it down into the flagstone flooring. Grey smoke spewed past the sides of his boot; the very last of the dragons that would rise from that particular fiery birth, but there would always be others. Just as the hissing breath of the dragon’s nursery faded into the echoes of the , another sound, one of thunder, pricked the Telepath’s ears and was followed swiftly by the descent of a million drops of rain.

“Happy?”

Rutherford hummed, but did not sound happy.

“And I don’t see why it is that I can’t stand here,” Myk grumbled. “If my presence alone is enough to offend them, then they deserve to be offended.”

“My, my. The young master is in such a foul mood this evening…”

“Not at all… I think, judging by the amount of people still breathing in this **** hole, that I am in a… fairly OK mood.”

“I would like to remind the young master that it is not particularly healthy to express one’s emotions through eye-gouging.”

Pewter eyes narrowed as Myk leant forward, pressing upon the personal space of the wispy black mass that was the Wraith. “You sound like my father right now and I want to hit you.”

“Is that not the most unfortunate thing of all…”

Myk made a disgusted face and turned away from the stocky black mass, turning his attention to the centre of the room where pews of worried faces were staring at him – some of them without staring. “We should go before they call the police,” Myk declared. “I doubt the reverend is looking in this direction so much just because he fancies the shape of my arse.”

“Hmm, perhaps. Lead the way then, young one.”

The Telepath exited the Cathedral with the Wraith in tow. He knew it was probably wise to get as far away from this location as he possibly could, and as quickly as he could, if he wanted to avoid getting shot at again by trigger-happy law enforcers. But the question still remained about how far would be a safe distance from this planet now that the Superpowers of the Earth were about to implode under the weight of their own idiocy. As Myk walked at a hurried pace – and in no particular direction – his gaze travelled upward to the heavens, to the silver slither of the lunar majesty above them. Perhaps they should all travel to the moon for safety. At least the view would be nice, they would get front row seats to watch the Earth burn. Someone could bring popcorn, they could roast marshmallows over an open fire, and it would be peaceful up there. Still, as lovely as his little fantasies were, Myk had to appreciate the fact that they were fantasies. Not even Vampires would be able to survive on the Moon’s surface without spacesuits and what have you. Besides, who in the hell was funding this mass migration?

Ah well.

If Myk couldn’t distract himself with fantasies of going to the Moon, then he would just have to make do with finding something or someone else that was equally fulfilling.

Such a lovely evening, Meara mused as she set up in front of the stairs of a museum that was across the street from an outdoor mall packed with young people out to dinner, commiserating about their neighbor to the south's recent decision. The young redhead had voted absentee, but no one needed to know that. She wasn't really going to be impacted by that for long anyways as she now lived in Canada. No post election moving needed just cause she didn't like the fallout.

The passersby would give the rail thin redhead a passing glance as she got the amplifier plugged into the pick up on her violin. She hummed as she started to tune and noodle around a little to warm up her fingers and hands. Christmas spending money wasn't going to make itself as there was almost nothing left from her salary after she factored on ammunition costs for her rifle and the black market deals that were funding her ritualists' kit. So Meara was back to her old tricks of busking for some pocket change.

While it paid the bills, it also provided a way for Mea to keep her performance skills sharp. She was hoping to finalize a regular gig soon and then start on getting to know the local promoters. If she ever wanted to realize her dream of being a talent agent there was much networking to be had. So she rosined up her bow, and struck up a tune. She went back and forth between covers, show tunes, and original works. Right now she was favoring a piece called Prism, so she started that, getting a little bit of groove in her feet as she glided with the music.

The further the Telepath walked from the Cathedral, the brighter the streets seemed to become. The clouds tugged away from his line of sight, dragging back the rain, but not before he had become drenched through. The rain was beautiful, but rain was water – spritzing water – and this man’s vanity was such that the damp look didn’t really appeal to him. Of course, rain-soaked clothing that clings to the body like a lover has a certain charm to it, but it’s not very comfortable. In the end there was but a single consequence for his bone-white tresses meeting rain; the look of an Old English sheepdog. No, he couldn’t stand it. The Telepath could tolerate the smear of red lipstick, the obverse shadowing of mascara and eye shadow as they leaked over his cheekbones, but the hair was precious. Myk grabbed at the lengths of those skeletal tendrils and tossed them over his left shoulder; all save a long strand that clung to his pale cheek. Myk ignored it. He gave a quick side-glance to his left, then to his right, and with a deep unneeded breath, moved to cross the streets to drier territories.

The rain lightened and eventually stopped as Myk crossed the streets to discover places more worthy of keeping his interest. The ironic thing was that the Telepath was very easily swayed, very easily intrigued, yet seemed to struggle to keep his focus for long. He was a magpie not simply because of his desire to wear to white and black, but also for his incessant curiosity. He moved from points of interest as quickly and flippantly as the bird too; pewter eyes ever vigilant and yet equally blinded by so much to see. Whilst under the shower of rainfall, Myk had barely missed a young man as the mortal ran by holding a newspaper over his head. Myk had been annoyed, yes, and could easily snap the human’s neck for the innocuous intrusion, for the near-miss. Besides that, just for the stupidity of it all, for thinking a bundle of papers would protect him from the rain. In the end, the Telepath decided to overlook the entreaty, but not without it causing his mind to stir up a song, a song he hummed and voiced in parts as the feeling took him. The Toreador song as it was known, or “Votre toast, je peux vous le rendre" composed by Georges Bizet for the Opera Carmen.

He headed southeast toward River Rock, where probing wants brought him to rows and rows of unguarded offices, commercial buildings, shops, restaurants, and cafes. As he passed under a countless number of streetlamps, he came to realise that being picky with what he wanted to do tonight wasn’t exactly an option. The streets were damn near empty, save for a few homeless shrews sheltered beneath cardboard boxes. They made him feel uncomfortable, judged, so his pace quickened. He was still singing his little song; the chorus in particular repeating disproportionately as though his mind was a broken disc, spinning haphazardly on an equally uneven turntable. By about the sixth repetition of the chorus, featuring way too many Toreadors, the Wraith was about ready to snap his charge’s neck for peace and quiet. As Rutherford was about to vehemently instruct the Telepath to cease his rendition, a new melody invaded their bubble and Myk ceased without being asked.

At first, it was difficult to distinguish whether the music they were hearing was simply a recording or a live performance. Myk decided that he would go and find out. The closer the Telepath drew, the more he could perceive. He immediately recognised that the sound was in fact streaming live right from the strings of a violin, and that the player was quite the talented musician. The song itself was not one he recognised, and judging by its allegretto pace and infectious beat, he presumed that it was probably a modern ensemble. In saying that, however, certain parts of the melody reminded him of that 1990s hit, The Fifth Element, when Diva Plavalaguna – the gentle blue Xenomorth – was performing her Opera. Other parts of the melody invariably reminded Myk of Final Fantasy – proof that the Telepath spent far too much time indoors playing video games and watching Sci-Fi. And while Myk was appreciative of the arts, he was nowhere near to being an aficionado – he could just about sing never mind play an instrument. So, he decided to join the small crowd around the violinist; standing a body away from the very back of the crowd.

Mea could perform most of her set with her eyes closed, but it was important for her to keep them opened as she turned on her toes to the beat of her music so she didn't run into any one. The crowd was growing sizable, so she was planning to take a break after this song and meander through the crowd. Many people always had questions for the redhead, so she often took time to oblige the crowd or let little kids get a feel for the instrument in her hands.

"Going to take a break for a little. Feel free to come up if you want to know more." She stated before moving to stand next to her open case on the ground that had a lovely little collection of money in it as people milled around. As she glanced about, Mea noticed a ghostly pale man with equally as pale of hair. It looked like he had been caught in the earlier rain shower with how his makeup appeared to go this way and that. Then it dawned on her that she knew that guy from the Murder Mystery Ball. Alex had talked about him too. But what brought him by to see her, she wasn't exactly sure.

Mea gave the man a sheepish wave and grin as she made eye contact. She wasn't sure he would remember her, but it was worth a shot. Their interactions, while brief, were enjoyable and she hoped he'd come and chat for a little or awhile.

They had been stood for two minutes in that crowd, unmoving and unfeeling – a pillar and his shadow. While the crowd seemed quite enthused by the young lady’s performance, watching her prance across the damp ground like a spring doe, his features had whispered of no superior emotion. Sometimes Myk simply forgot to feel and sometimes he simply forgot to express such feelings. So there were times when his features looked painted on. With his skin being as perfect and timeless as porcelain, his movements slow and subtle to the point of not appearing visible at all, it was easy to associate him with the lifeless, unnatural qualities of a doll. You’d be surprised how little you needed to move when you needn’t breathe, blink, or swallow. Yet, once the music came to its natural conclusion with all the triumph and surprise as summer bursting out of the chills of spring, Myk broke from his silent, still pose and began to applaud too.

“Is this a familiar melody?” the Wraith chirped after a few moments of applause from the audience and his charge.

Myk shrugged a shoulder, pewter eyes still set-ahead on the performance. “Not to me,” he declared quite matter-of-factly. “But who knows about the others. They seem to have enjoyed it. As have I. What about you?” he asked, turning his head to the shadow beside him and causing long strands of white hair to pepper his shoulder.

Rutherford hummed to himself as if deliberating between cheese and wine. “No,” he decided.

A scathing, short chuckle burbled out of Myk. “You do surprise me…”

“Hmm. But suppose my very bland and predictable nature has its uses. Does it not?”

“How do you mean?” Myk asked, canting his head toward the Wraith and yet keeping his eyes on the young violinist.

“Well, it gives the young master a backdrop from which to shine all the brighter.”

At first, the Telepath thought he was hearing things. Rutherford certainly wasn’t the type to hand out compliments – least of all to him. So his hands dropped at his side, his lower jaw became slack as his brow tightened, and he looked directly into the “face” of the black mist.

“What?” Myk gasped.

Yet it appeared the Wraith had no intention of repeating itself. Instead, Rutherford seemed to flicker to the right, bending away from him like a black flame caught in a breeze.

“Oh,” Rutherford crooned. “I do believe your young friend requires your attention.”

Myk’s cherry-stained lips pulled into a line, but he was beyond the will to fight. He might have bothered to pursue the matter if it had even the slightest chance of resulting in anything endearing. Instead, he supposed that Rutherford was simply being sarcastic, taking another jab at how utterly ostentatious Myk was because apparently being remotely fun or different constituted criminality. Sometimes Rutherford offered challenging and interesting dialogue, debates, and opportunities to dissect philosophies and at other times, Myk was reminded as to why normal people annoyed him so damn much. They always seemed just so very… frightened all the time. Frightened to think, terrified to act, and certainly too damn petrified to align themselves with a dangerous ideal and accept the consequences. They were fragile things, he thought. Like little birds you could crush between your human jaws. But he lacked the hunger tonight, couldn’t be bothered with engaging in another predictable conversation with the Wraith. Instead, his focus wandered to the violinist who had indeed been waving and smiling at him.

“Do I… know her?” Myk asked, leaning his head again toward the shadow. Not wanting to be rude – of course – he returned the violinist’s smile and wave.

“The young master has met this one before, yes. Quite recently in fact. Though I suspect you were inebriated and as such do not recall the events.”

“I…” But all dismissals, objections, and reprieves died on his tongue. “Yes. Probably. So I will be in need of more of a cue to remember her.”

“My, my. Now that is a shame.”

And while the Wraith did not possess a face, Myk could tell Rutherford was grinning from ear to ear.

“You tart,” the Telepath groused.

The Wraith laughed. “Good luck, young master. I suspect you will need it.”

Since it appeared that Rutherford was unwilling to help, Myk would have to play pretend he knew the girl until his memory was jogged. There was something familiar about her though, something that made him feel an ounce sentimental and therefore confident that it wouldn’t take him too long to figure it out. Now, there was a chance that Rutherford had been full of it, that the Wraith was taking advantage of Myk’s poor memory and spotty focus. Yet, Myk felt something was definitely familiar about her. It was as though she was a friend of a friend, or closer – a relative to a friend. There was more that drove him to her than some frail obligation to appease social mechanisms like returning a wave. The white-haired man who sported dresses, costumes, and make-up as freely and as regularly as the waves of the ocean crash upon a shore does not concern himself with social obligations. No. And by now he was more fascinated by the prospect of figuring out who the musician was, that he couldn’t just duck his head and disappear.

Myk approached the violinist, sweeping through the departing crowd like the first frost of the year. While some people had given him a wide birth, and some gave him looks of curiosity and some disgust, Myk had walked past them with a crooked smile and clear pewter eyes. His sights were set on the petite female beside the violin case. She herself was so delicate and ornate in design that she could stand as a proud doppelganger to her instrument. The maple-richness of her hair, and the way it curled about her, would rival the sensual curves of any Stradivarius too. It was only as he drew closer that he noticed the colour of her eyes, the soft peachy tones of her skin, and the composition of her features. Recollection came slowly, like a creeping cloud. It shadowed many of his thoughts, allowing his mind to calm and reflect on what remained. He remembered seeing that same meek face before. Though, as quiet as the violinist looked, she clearly wasn’t afraid to charge toward the front of a crowd and lead.

“Well hello,” Myk said with a soft voice. “I was just passing by when I heard your performance. Truly, you are a captivating young woman. Where did you learn to play like that?”