My Demons and Me

[Azraeth]

October 5th, 2017

It was as if the low-hanging, full and pregnant moon had given up some of its borrowed radiance - he was a streak of paleness in the forest surrounding Harper Rock, near the outskirts of Tomkin. Ahead of him, there was a man racing for his life. This man was panting, lungs burning as sweat poured down his back, chest and legs, and his name was Peter. Peter was better known by the moniker ‘The Redville Ripper’, and shortly after Vampires had become household knowledge, Mr. Redville Ripper had decided it would be a good idea to move to Harper Rock, where any of his crimes might have been blamed on the undead there. And even if the women he cut up didn’t quite look like vampire attacks. Well. Harper Rock was host to a number of issues, like an astronomical crime rate, and numerous wild animal attacks. It was, for lack of a better term, the perfect place for a serial killer to lay down roots.

Of course, Az wasn’t chasing him out of any sense of moral obligation. He wasn’t doing it so that he could save any number of lives. He wasn’t doing it because it was the right thing to do, because justice demanded it. See, Az and Peter had a very similar philosophy. When the Ripper made a kill, he often took some part of his victim, and then he cooked it, and then he ate it. He always selected women who were empowered, only ever went after the ones who were prestigious in their various fields, well-balanced, intelligent. He believed, errantly, that by taking a trophy of their flesh, he was consuming that strength, taking it into himself, and making it part of himself. A psychologist attempting to treat his psychosis might have turned to any number of causes - like his own mother, a drug-addicted prostitute who had never been able to provide a stable home for her son. Azraeth didn’t care about any of that on anything other than on the level of speculative curiosity.

And so they moved across the woods, caught in a dance that was as old as time. Hunter and hunted. Predator and prey. Tables turned. Az himself wore what seemed to be a mask made out of bone. The skull of the wolf’s mouth was wide, and the sharp fangs framed his features. He also wore a leather strap around one thigh, which had attached to it a human tibia, etched with fae language, the etchings darkened with some black pigment, and then set with resin. He also wore a ritual dagger, and what appeared to be a second mask, which rested between his hip and his knee - only instead of a wolf, this mask was that of a deer.

He could almost sense that Peter was beginning to tire, because his running was getting sloppier. He was crunching more through the underbrush. It didn’t help that the Ripper had no clue where he was going. He was, in fact, getting further and further away from the city limits with every step. That posed some minor danger to Az, who ventured closer and closer to the domain of the Fae. The risk of mutilation was worth what he was after though. Thus, with a surge of energy, he overtook the other man, shoving him to the ground. And he stood there over Peter, with his own eyes wide, those serpentine pupils forming narrow slits. He looked painfully inhuman like that, nude and filled with bloodlust. Immediately the Redville Ripper was up on his knees, his hands pressed together, with fingers woven into a prayer formation.

“Please. Please don’t do this. My name is Peter Markov and I have a family. I ha-”

“No you don’t. You don’t even have any pets. Probably because you got tired of cleaning up their corpses.” Az murmured the last part, as Peter crawled closer on his knees. He noticed that the man was sobbing, but there were no actual tears there. And why would there have been? But before it could register in his mind that something was off, Peter had grabbed the ritual dagger, and driven it to the hilt in Azraeth’s abdomen. He was about to yank it back out and repeat, probably intent on stabbing the vampire over and over again. However, Az was a quick learner. He jerked back, taking the blade with him with an animal snarl. He drew the dagger from himself as blood flowed from the open wound and he descended like terror upon the other man. His fingers tangled in hair, and he yanked upwards. He didn’t so much decapitate Peter in one deft stroke as slowly saw a head off, shearing it right from the rest of the body, which fell away. Pain was was forever cemented on those features as bloody hands lifted a head so that he could peer into eyes.

“I offer your body and blood to the moon and ask humbly for my power back. I take your soul as my own and consume it. I eat of you that I may live.”

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[To be Continued]

[Azraeth]

October 8th, 2017

As it turned out, Azraeth needed that little bit of extra power.

Ever since the Longslade incident, things had been...tense. That was a good word for it. There had been people marching in the streets, legislators slinging around terrible ideas, talking about how they might isolate Harper Rock so as to stop the scourge that was vampirism. The whole thing seemed a bit like over-critical histrionics to him, but he also couldn’t fault humanity for its backlash after what had happened. Smaller than the idea of vampires being unable to vote, or being forced to register with second-class citizen identification were the day-to-day troubles that came with having fangs. Like Igor. Igor had been the wraith Az used when he was working with the other Voodoo Dragons to try and penetrate deep into Longslade. Apparently someone had taken note and banished the shade back to the Shadow Realm, which the Mystic had only taken note of right before the full moon, when he was at his weakest.

Only a few days later, he was in the forest once more. Not to hunt down his monthly sacrifice, but because he needed the stillness to concentrate. There was a fire in front of him and it crackled, with large sticks burning away, and a few logs to keep it fed through the night if need be. He could feel the warmth radiating from it, though he took no comfort from the heat. He sat with his eyes closed, and his legs folded under him. He was in a clearing, surrounded by trees, but able to sit on soft grass, His arms lay against his knees and he reached into the metaphysical darkness. He was as a man with his arm shoulder deep in the mud and muck, trying to grasp the fingertips of someone who had been dragged deep.

And he felt something familiar. Something which, when he brushed against it, felt like the strumming of a harp somewhere inside. It resonated with him. So he clasped on as tightly as possible, and yanked it right out of that tar and blackness and death.

His eyes popped open, and he watched as the shadow appeared across from him, the fire still burning between them. It was difficult to make out the distinct features of the being, because it was a phantasm, with flatness to it, though he did note a strong jaw which seemed to come to a sharp point. Perhaps that was caused by facial hair? And speaking of hair, this creature, his new wraith, seemed to have mountains of it in wild curls. The build looked to be undeniably masculine in proportion, but short, standing at no more than maybe five and a half feet in height.

Az smiled, this would do.

“I raise you from the place of darkness, and call you into my service. Your name of obedience shall b-”

He paused when the figure held up three fingers in front of him. They were long and thin.

“What?” Az asked.

“You have three specters around you, hanging closer than a halo.” It said. The language was English, but there was a very thick accent there; vaguely French.

Those dragon eyes widened a fraction.

“And you may call me Charpentier. Jean Charpentier.”

[To be Continued]

[Charpentier (DELETED 9872)]

Am I in the inky darkness of the mariner’s deep? Do I live where no man breathing may go? As I step through the void, will I stumble upon lost ships and great treasures? As I hold my hands in front of me, unsure of every footstep, do I draw closer to the lair of the kraken? Will I find Poseidon’s palace in this chilly, sun forsaken place? Will I find the lost bones of pirates, scattered in the muck and drear? I remember, one of the fleeting flashes of light in my mind, a time when I walked into the waters under the brightness of a full moon. I stood still and felt the tide, watching the plethora of life at that level, the living stars, and the brightly colored, cold scales that brushed against me and swam together like great, monstrous bodies. But this isn’t like that. There is no pull of the water against my skin. There are no little forms fluttering across my flesh. It is cold. It is undeniably and unmistakably cold. But not the chill of winter, rather the frozen terror of isolation.

I have been alone for long enough that the memory of touch has faded, and I wonder if it is real at all. Does it come from sensation I have experienced, or from my dreams? My dreams which are larger than mountains and brighter than the sun upon which I cannot look. Sometimes I feel like there are others near me. Other sparks of life. I reach out to touch them, but they are never there, just echos of sounds.

I am reminded of the story of the spider, weaver of webs and stories, who was born the moment the world began, and who will not die until the very last tale is told. The spider is a dangerous creature, because knowing his intentions is almost impossible. They say it’s because he has eight eyes. You see, some men say they can discern the truth from the windows of the soul, but because the spider has eight eyes, he can tell many different truths at the same time. All of them as valid as the last, but neither of them honest in the of man’s heart. The spider tells near truths, and half truths, so knowing what he wants is its own task. The smart never go near him at all. But see, he tells the most beautiful stories. He recites great epics from memory, and can sing great bard ballads and histories with a voice like nectar.

The spider may be ugly himself, but what he crafts, what he waves is beautiful. So people draw close to listen, to hear what he has to say.

And sometimes they leave with the wisdom of his tales. Only to recite those very same words in their own way over and over again. This just makes people want to find the spider all the more. To get close to him. To touch the brilliance of the dreams he brings to life - like Icarus trying to touch the sun. Sometimes they don’t come back at all. Sometimes, when they draw close enough, he takes them. He wraps them up with his sweet crooning, and then he consumes every ounce of them until there’s nothing left.

Of course, I am but a humble man, and I have never claimed to know the pathways of the mortal mind. I asked once, if there was such danger in listening to the stories told by the spider, why a man kept going back to him over and over again. And the man said to me. The tales are about me. He does not use my name, but everything plot he has ever shared has had me at its core. I have learned the lessons he talks about. I have walked the same steps. I have fought the same battles. Would you not want to know how your choices will end up before you make them? Would you not want to hear about your greatness and your mistakes and know, even with your regrets, that things always turn out for the better in the end?

I listened in silence for a long time and then left the man to his choices.

The spider, I suppose, is more alluring than I understand.

And in that darkness, thinking about tangled webs and half truths, I feel a tug at my very being. I think of the tide. I think of ocean pulling at my body. But this is different. This is like a fist yanking at the very core of my being.

Suddenly I am in a forest clearing. I hear the crackle of fire, but I smell no smoke. I can see a pale man with dark hair and bright eyes. I have been ripped out of my solitude and I don’t know whether to celebrate or act with rage. I don’t know anything anymore. He speaks and as he does, I see three figures surrounding him. Each with a hand on his shoulders. I see the shadows of them in his mind, of who once was there. I see them whisper dark things into his ears.

And I think.

This man is a spider, and these are his webs.

I tell him my name and I go to sit before him, the fire between us. Perhaps I will understand when he spins his tale. Perhaps he will eat me alive.

[To be Continued]

[Azraeth]

They sat across from each other, separated by a wall of energy, of light and heat. It was when the spirit spoke once more that Az was reminded of a quote from Friedrich Nietzsche. He stared, his own eyes shaped as an animal’s into the darkness that were Charpentier’s flattened features. As if the wraith was nothing more than the shadow cast from an invisible specter.

“You see before you the past and the future, a circle in time that terrifies you.”

“Not terrifies.” But he paused as he tried to put his thoughts into form.

“What then?” The silhouette was unmoving. Not even his jaw, which might have indicated speech, and the Mystic was left to wonder if perhaps Charpentier was speaking directly into his mind. Or if it was a trick of the eyes. He looked more closely, difficult with the rippling of the flames.

“I think it’s cognitive dissonance.”

There was no response to indicate understanding. “I mean you aren’t what you appear to be.” Wraiths, by and large, as Azraeth had seen them, seemed to be largely devoid of their own personalities. It was as if the time in the Shadow Realm had taken a melon baller to their minds. They had become hollowed out. Even the Wraith Guides, who Az had spoken to in the past had always seemed as if they had been distilled into their own key traits. Like they were just barely interested in what was going on around them, but seemed instead more focused on achieving some sort of goal. Most wraiths were slaves to the Realm. Some to other vampires. And others to the pull of their own desires. In all cases, they were swayed by darkness and lacked a certain autonomy. But the Mystic wasn’t about to say that out loud. That he saw intelligence in the way Charpentier spoke and carried himself. How he spoke in revelation.

“I see.” His voice seemed to soften. “You want to know me?”

The vampire nodded slowly. That was the price of power, he supposed. Familiarity.

“Then share with me the tales of your demons, and in exchange, I will tell you about three of mine.”

There was this feeling in the pit of Az’s stomach, this discomfort that immediately began to swell. He didn’t really want to talk about them because they were always there on the furthest edge of the periphery of his vision, like little black claws digging their way closer. He found that when he ignored them, they had less power over him, and he could just...live his life as normal. It was only when he focused on them that they were able to speak into his skull and that their words had the power to overwhelm him.

“Three stories in exchange for obedience.” He countered.

He couldn’t see it, but he sensed the wraith was amused. “Three stories in exchange for three stories, and perhaps I will aid you in freeing yourself from the nightmares you fear.” There was a pronounced pause, as if the specter was considering something. “Though that gives you the better deal.”

“I could take what I want.” The vampire mused aloud, though it was less designed as a threat and more to see how the spirit would respond.

“I’ve heard those words before. They weren’t true then either.” And that meant it was the vampire’s turn to smile.

The story began.

“Once there was a young but beautiful woman who grew up in a land far away from this one. The place she came from - it was...well it was terrifying really. It was the sort of place where it feels like winter all of the time. Where the land is harsh. Where people are constantly struggling to survive under the thumb of a powerful and elite ruling class.”

“That reeks of normalcy to me.”

Az shot the wraith a look. “Anyway, there wasn’t a lot of food to go around. Her family seemed to get smaller and smaller every day. She lost her mother and father, her siblings, her aunts and all but one uncle. When it was just the two of them, she was in her early twenties and because her uncle was in bad health, the burden of bringing money to their family fell squarely upon her shoulders. She began a life lived at night, wearing clothing that would have made her mother blush, with make-up that aged her and which took away from her appearance rather than adding to it. She gave men some of her time, and they gave her enough money that she was able to support herself and her only living relation. She was smart though, because she never got into addictive substances, and even managed to put away a little bit of cash every week towards the goal of moving herself and her uncle to a different, a better place.

During this time, her uncle urged her every night to find a man across the ocean who could take care of her. He said he knew someone that could help her, and it was better to give herself to one man than to dozens. She didn’t listen though, because she knew that to do so would take away what freedom she was entitled to. Which wasn’t much, mind you. She grew up in a place where talk of liberty had to be done in hushed tones, in whispers, in code. Where discussion of anything except for the values of national pride, and family, and hard work were discouraged with the sternest forms of isolation. She had hope, I suppose.”

“Hope is a broken net in the hands of a starving man. It is what the poor and the shattered, and the lonely look to because it’s the only thing they are allowed.”

Az’s features contorted when he heard that. The cynicism of the statement was ugly. “You think me cruel because I don’t speak in platitudes.”

There was a shake of the vampire’s head, though hesitant.

“Happiness and prosperity are not things which are given to men; they always come with a cost. Hope is a barter’s lie. One can’t pay for a future with hope. The cost is still there. Does that appease you?”

And then a nod. Az decided it was best to continue his story before that line of thought carried. “She was very close to having enough money to do something with her life, when her uncle was suddenly taken from her. He was the last of her family, and to pay for a funeral wiped out everything she had. That was the day she used her uncle’s connection. She used it to find a man in Canada, here in Harper Rock. She moved across the world and promised to be his, if it meant she no longer had to struggle through her life. I guess you are right. Hope doesn’t pay for the future. Anyway, she settled into her new life. She had difficulty learning English, and her husband often kept her inside. She was comfortable in the luxury of her lifestyle, but found herself despondent. You see, she had thought that with no Earthly connections left, it might be easier for her to give herself up. She felt like a pampered pet - given everything she wanted, but still beholden to the whims of someone else.

That is until I clawed my way out of the Shadow Realm. I was searching for a body and her features were very similar to my own.”

“As you are now, or as you were?” The question made gooseflesh rise on Az’s upper arms.

“As I was.” He admitted. To which the specter nodded.

“She was done with life anyway. When I found her, she had just taken enough pills to end an elephant. So I took her body and I wore it as my own.”

“Why do you feel guilty?”

“Because she is always there, reminding me that I took away her choices.”

“Your story leads me to believe she gave them up freely.”

“But someone could have found her, could have saved her. She might be alive today-”

“You are vampire. Do you sit there and propose to me that you have only ever taken three lives to sustain your own?”

“That’s not the point, the point is that.-”

“That when you killed her, you took a little part of her soul. With every suit of flesh you wear, you take a little of them with you.”

“This isn’t what I agreed to.”

“Yes it is. The time has come for my tale now though.”

[To Be Continued]