Path of the Vampire forum

Bjørn rolled onto his back and stared unseeingly into the darkness. His brain—a biological computer connected to the wireless signals that shrouded the world—hummed to life despite the early hour. Grunting, he rolled onto his side and reached for his phone. It was turned off — as it should be. He tossed it towards his feet and scrubbed at his face, restless.

Rolling onto his back a second time, the telepath held his breath and waited. He waited for something to happen. Nothing did. The seconds stretched into minutes and then they marked the passing of an hour. His eyelids felt heavy but sleep remained elusive. It was unnatural for him to be awake at this hour. As opposed to other vampires Bjørn had no resilience when it came to daylight hours; not in the slightest. Whether he was cursed or everyone else was blessed remained a mystery to this day, and so did the reason sleep continued to evade him as the afternoon trickled by.

That is, until he felt it.

Unlike the pull he felt towards Vathiá, this one did not twinkle. The connection wasn’t disrupted by any radio waves and wireless signals the way they did his tether to the mindscape. This connection ran as deeply as the other — just as intrinsic, but it was unfamiliar. It took many moments of focusing on the link to find its source. It wasn’t anchored to the mind, but within the bloodstream.

The beating of his heart, each beat usually separated by minutes if not hours at a time, increased in frequency as realisation dawned. It’s not possible, Bjørn thought as the oncoming wave peaked and crashed over him. At risk of drowning in it, he shot up into a seated position and inhaled — deep and sharp. The air tasted no different than usual.

When? No, not when. How? There was no way this was possible. The telepath understood what led to this and he hadn’t walked said path. He hadn’t— He never…

Ah! He was dreaming still. This was all just a vivid dream. He’d sooner accept dream-walking as a newfound skill than the reality before him. This circumstance — it was a nightmare. He sought to escape it. He had to wake up. Whatever hazy path a part of his mind had ventured down, he had to reclaim it immediately. He pushed away from the futon and staggered to his feet, clambering into the bathroom. A cold shower would do it. The icy trickle of water would force all of him back to the present; the physical.

Like shards of glass, the streams of water scattered about his form, overwhelming his senses and shutting down his mind. In that moment, the telepath was free from all that bound him beyond the skin he inhabited.

The winter sun still hovered over the horizon outside. Dusk was but a hair’s breadth away, but he was still a serf to torpor, disorientated and tired. The shower helped in regaining some measure of control over himself, but as soon as he began to go through the motions of dressing and seeking out fresh blood, it returned.

[ Hello? ] Bjørn reached out into the ether, seeking the end of the link. Shrouded but distinctively his—somehow—the entity on the other end revealed himself in the form of… Well, there was someone connected to him. How? He had no idea. Why? He had no idea. What? Someone. An unfamiliar presence he could put neither face nor name to.

Whoever this someone was they shared his blood but not his path... They were therefore someone who could be spoken to mind-to-mind but who would be unable to respond in kind. It meant, as was the case with the few telepathically-challenged relations he kept, that Bjørn couldn’t solely reach out in mind if he wanted to connect. He would have to seek the other out physically.

But first, he did what he knew best — he reached out a second time, speaking into the stranger’s mind. This time it was not trepidatious, but determined, words clear and bold: [ You’re not hearing voices. I am speaking into your mind. I’m not going to hurt you, but I have to find you. Stay wherever you are if you’re safe. ] He withdrew, but before severing the link added: [ Please. I only want to help. ]

With that, Bjørn readied himself to leave as soon as the sky turned completely dark. Amidst the usual mix of ammunition and weapons in his backpack, he threw in two sealed blood bags. At least the November air would keep them chilled.

Shouldering on the bag and snatching his phone off the futon, he turned to another set of skills he’d acquired but seldom used. Just inside the door, Bjørn reached into himself and out into the world, following the crumbs the wraith Vadasz had laid out when he first breached the Seeker bridge. I spy with my little eye, he hummed to himself. It didn’t appear as if the connection he shared with his childe would make finding him easier than any other stranger. The telepath hoped that this meant the other had at least found shelter indoors from the sun, else their learning curve would become incredibly steep as the blood bags proved useless.

It’d only been an hour since the sun had set and he’d already done more than he would on any other night given how tired he felt. When his tracking ability proved useless in the face of his dilemma, he’d reached out to Every. He’d given her no time to talk him down from the mania he’d worked himself into, but her help was proving an invaluable anchor. He focused on the ritual table before him and revisited her words. Her powers had also fallen short of the task at hand, but she hadn’t been a dead-end.

Scrubbing his hands over his face and raking his hair back a smidge too forcefully, the telepath let out a controlled scream. The thought of doing rituals so soon after the raid was daunting. Everything about this situation was daunting, and regardless of how comparatively easy the Call to Blood ritual was supposed to be, his lack of familiarity with it put him on edge. The multiple wounds he’d suffered at the hands of angered fae earlier this week had only just healed; he wasn’t looking forward to the consequences should he fail. Not that he necessarily would fail.

Come on, man, think positive be positive, Bjørn thought to himself, reaching for the tablet where he stored most of his ritual material. The internal monologue did little to ease his anxiety. Centrifugal not centripetal, he annotated in an attempt to redirect his train of thought. By focusing on why he was doing this it’d be perhaps easier to subvert his anxiety. He was anxious, but what about the person he’d somehow lured into vampirism? How anxious were they?

After searching through the inordinate number of pictures he’d taken of Amalea’s grimoire, Bjørn finally found the ritual he was after. Setting the tablet onto a stack of notebooks, he took a deep breath and sought to ground himself. He leaned into the altar, closing his eyes as the stone bit into his palms. He could do this, if not for himself then at least for this childer. The connection flared as if reacting to the thought. He focused on it and allowed the rest to fall away. Releasing the breath from his lungs, Bjørn stepped back from the altar. He summoned the demi-fae in order to begin.

_________________

By the time the telepath retrieved the answer he’d sought, it was late evening. The poison used to seal the barrier had seeped into his fingertips and affected his depth perception. The effects would cease soon enough, but it forced him to make his way across town by way of portals and on foot rather than on his bike. It gave him plenty of time to collect his thoughts, though was not without obstacles. However, killing wayward zombies as he went did wonders for his mood.

Stepping into the building complex he’d traced his blood to, Bjørn took stock of the surrounds. The pull he felt was closer to the surface since completing the ritual, but proximity proved to have no effect on the connection. There was no sensing his blood, and without a familiar aura to track he couldn't discern the direct path to the other. Would that mean his presence wouldn’t be felt by his childer?

As was customary on his days off, the telepath was dressed in military garb from head to toe. With one gun holstered at his ribcage beneath the canvas jacket and the other strapped to his thigh, he was quite the sight. Imposing enough that he wasn’t questioned when he slipped into the building’s lobby after a group of middle-aged men, but sufficiently young in the face to draw their scrutinising gazes. He paid them no mind as he headed for the stairwell, fingers latching onto the backpack strap hanging from his shoulder.

Bjørn steeled himself as he reached the correct door. In most situations he’d take stock of the situation—listen for whatever clues might seep through the walls, but it’d been hours since he’d first reached out and there was no need for ceremony. Whoever was behind that door would have to be dealt with, sooner rather than later. Taking a deep breath and releasing it sharply, he leaned forward and rapped his knuckles against the door — twice. Then, he stepped back and stood tall, one hand tight on the backpack strap at his shoulder while the other hovered just over the gun at his thigh.

The ability to weave a web of lies and lure prey was one he’d mastered months ago. Shortly after parting ways with the German wraith and opening the seeker path, Bjørn had put himself to the test night after night after night. Different audiences and different settings called for different backstories, and though skepticism was on the rise, so too were his abilities. Recently he’d crossed paths with the Spaniard—a wraith who called himself Brujo—sorcerer. In doing so he’d exposed himself to a new approach to the supernatural, furthering his education into the path of mysticism. Now, if Bjørn modulated his voice just right he needn’t put on an act to lure his victims. His prey fell under the spell of his gaze and voice, somnolent and easy to manipulate.

The man who stood before him had been one of his victims.
Familiar face, but still a complete stranger.

Seizing the man up with an unwavering stare, the telepath noticed the unnatural paleness and dark circles about the man’s eyes. So he hadn’t imagined it then... This man walked the path of the killer. It might explain why he seemed unscathed by the days that’d passed since their first meeting. Meeting was putting it mildly.

“No. Not unless you force my hand,” he replied. His gaze flitted to the space over the man’s shoulder. “But even if I do shoot you, you won’t d”—Bjørn paused mid-word, sucking in breath through clenched teeth. His expression shifted: he was visibly displeased with where that sentence had been going. That was because it wasn’t the truth, not the whole truth anyway. It was also a fairly arbitrary place to start.

Cocking his head to the side, he arched both brows. His expression was thoughtful as he studied the man’s face. He concluded that no matter where he started, that very face was going to meet a freight train head-on. At that, Bjørn continued as if he’d never stopped: “—die. Or at least you won’t stay dead if you do die. Though I think we should have this conversation inside…”

Bjørn’s brow furrowed at the mention of visual and auditory hallucinations. There were a great many things the other could be referring to. Some vampires were haunted by lifelike ghosts while others were subjected to the cries of the dead. He never had any of those himself, nor had he met enough people who had to know what to look for or, more importantly, what to do about it. Neither did the telepath know what psychosis meant exactly. It was just as well his brain was linked to the vast pool of information that travelled across wireless signals—the internet never more than a blink away. After a second, he reigned himself back in from the data maelstrom, concluding that psychosis—as defined by google—was as fair way as any to describe what was happening to the man. Just because vampirism was now in the realm of possibility, didn’t mean the general public took to the idea any easily than they would have before.

“The name’s Bjørn,” the vampire introduced himself, stepping through the door.
Voice from my head was a little reductive.
“Who’re you?”

Casting a glance about the place, he took stock of the broken bookshelf. Save for a few words on the spines and covers of dishevelled-looking books strewn about the mess, the apartment revealed very little about the man. Did he even live here? Guess they both would have their fair share of questions, and Bjørn was as determined to get answers as he was to give them.

Folding his 6’3 frame into a dining room chair, the telepath slid his backpack off and set it at his feet. They would probably both need to sit for this conversation. Knees bowed out under the too-small-table, he leaned onto his forearms and interlinked his fingers, surprisingly ready to take on the challenge before him.

Joe, he heard the man say, and committed it to memory. The manifestation of vampirism was revealed to him one symptom at a time. He didn’t respond immediately, sitting completely still under the other’s watchful gaze. How attentive was the killer before him? Could he sense the too-slow beating of Bjørn’s heart? Could he sense, past the mortal aura and healthy complexion, another like himself due to their connection? Did he feel the connection they shared the way Bjørn could? The latter interested the telepath, more so because he’d been denied that experience given Simone’s absence.

“You’re tired during the day because you’re a creature of the night,” he began. His shoulders relaxed as he settled back into the chair, the interlinked fingers gingerly bowing out. “Or rather, you’re a creature of shadows—a vampire—born from the rift that extends beneath this city. Usually an exchange of blood is required between human and vampire to get the process started, but it would seem, somehow,”—his brow furrowed as he interjected—“I’ve yet to figure it out”—he caught the other’s eye—”I turned you into a vampire. So that hunger you’re experiencing? It’s for human blood... How long has it been?”

Just because Bjørn could remember the man’s face didn’t mean he remembered the exact date their paths had crossed. He also didn’t understand why it’d taken this long for him to feel the other’s presence. Leaning to the side, he began fiddling with his backpack single-handedly.