Path of the Vampire forum

There was something almost biblical in his return to consciousness. He’d slept two full days, anchored in his unconscious state with the aid of the needle burrowed beneath a thin layer of gauze. The gauze circled the back of his hand, the pressure of the layers securing its tenuous grasp. By mid-evening of the third day, he woke. His first impression was a vague sense of deja vu, his gaze taking in the unfamiliar surroundings with idle curiosity. Any attempt to commit the details to memory, however, was met with resistance; his thoughts recoiling. There was a curious static to them; a scattered blankness. The fog of the sedative was slow to abate. It would seem his body had reached an impasse; incapable of holding the effects of the sedative at bay. Typically, his metabolism would have dispatched the foreign bodies within a matter of hours, altered cells accelerating to counter the insidious, methodical advance. As it was, it had grown sluggish with blood loss. The end result was a persistent, dull buzz. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. It wasn’t entirely welcome, either.

It was, at best, a necessary evil; it held the pain at bay, though the edges of it were still keen. It was a rusty knife, dulled over the years, still capable of biting into every knot of vertebrae. His gaze followed the coil of tubing that lead from his heavily bandaged wrist to the IV stand tucked into the corner. His fingers flexed, gradually working the tension from the joints. The skin had bruised beneath the needle, taking on a slightly sunken appearance, shading to a mottled pattern of dark plum and sickly greens.

His breathing was even, but shallow; sides expanding gingerly against the brace that sheltered his ribs. Gauze - stained a vibrant shade of red - cushioned the worst of the pressure, an echoing taut feeling matching the one that graced his hip. It would take the better part of a week - perhaps longer - for his body to even begin to knit such extensive damage. The fatigue that settled along every line of him - seeping into his marrow - was, in part, a consequence of his body’s attempt to address the horrors he’d inflicted upon it. He drew in a slow, steadying breath, before the fingers of his left hand lowered to the back of his right hand. He tensed, bracing for the sting even as his fingers curled around the thin body of the needle. The pain would be momentary. Clarity was imperative.

Distantly, as the cage of his fingers tightened in its grip, some miles away - his phone vibrated twice.

Leks, goddamnit.

The screen briefly illuminated with the text message. A pause, and the screen darkened once more, eclipsing both the man’s name and whatever momentary urgency possessed its sender.

His head turned as Baxter spoke, attempting to pinpoint the man’s location. It was too sharp of a gesture, evidenced by the abrupt onset of dizziness. It was disorienting, the way his vision slid sharply out of focus, unable to center on a single point. His senses were anemic; muted to an alarming degree; no more superior than an ordinary human’s. His gaze settled on Baxter as he drew closer, offering a wry smile in response to his words. His stare was level, reflecting a sense of calm assurance that seemed mildly out of place, given the circumstances. It was not unlike the distant stare of a leopard crouched at the edge of a river, faced with the he conundrum of obeying the necessity of its thirst, and the knowledge that beneath the still waters was an equally pale, reptilian stare. “No.” He replied, relenting as Baxter’s fingers curled over his own, easing the tension from them, forcing them to relax from the fist they’d shaped.

“It’s just that I was prepared to accept the consequences.” The decision had been reckless, but calculated. It’s said that a crow can’t be domesticated. But on rare occasions, it may choose to domesticate itself. The brisk sound of latex caught his attention, and with it, the pieces of the puzzle fell neatly into place. The IV feed wasn’t responsible for the overwhelming weakness; the sense of being powerless. Not entirely. It was a potent cocktail of antibiotics and a meager handful of other, less powerful anti-inflammatory agents. It granted a thin sort of mercy, in that it staved off the infection that otherwise would have found a foothold, long before he had the chance to recuperate. It alone wasn’t responsible for suppressing the core of his supernatural nature. For the weakness that coursed through his veins, just present enough to prevent his depleted cells from resisting, instead accepting the mild drowsiness that settled over him like a veil. “Glad to see you’re enjoying yourself,” he said dryly, as Baxter approached once more. His instinct was to flinch away as his fingers settled against the crook of his elbow. The warmth of his skin radiated from the thin latex barrier, fingertips pressing the surface of his skin.

Inexplicably, his fingers curled, nails digging lightly into his palm to create surface tension. The sting of the needle was expected - prompting a low, tense exhale as his fingers gradually unfurled. “I want a cigarette,” he muttered in reply, the words half-exhaled.