Path of the Vampire forum

Tonight the brilliant moon sits proudly in a throne of starlight, illuminating an inconspicuous patch of greenery that shelters - juxtaposed - by steel trees and stone bushes that dominate the urban jungle. The world looks older at night, because everything that makes it magnificent and vibrant in sunlight, becomes as anaemic and tired as old movies when lit by the cold silver glow of the moon and the sickly yellow blush of streetlights. It’s at night when the butterflies become moths.

Baptiste Laurent - or B as he prefers to be known - thinks the nocturnal world is dull and much too quiet. He needs the night to burn neon pink, to taste like cotton candy, and to feel like velvet roses on his cheek. He wants to hear a jangle of voices competing with the twinkle of glass as cocktails are mixed and champagne flutes are raised to celebrate a toast. He wishes to view the complex artistry of human faces twist and bend as emotions stir inside them, wound up like spinning tops by jealousy and posturing. He demands the whisker-curling perfume of a dance club that clings to the clothes like cigarette smoke and pink peppercorns. Tonight, B gets everything he can think of and more as he celebrates his first day in Harper Rock in the velvet bosom of the Rouge Lounge, Elmsworth.

Music fills the air like waves plug holes in beach sand; the sound rushing in and around every person in the room. Some react to the beat with small movements, others continue in chatter, and a few more spill out onto the dancefloor to show off their moves. B nods his head along to the beat because he doesn’t know this song and isn’t all that familiar with industrial metal. He thinks that he could get into this kind of music, though. The aggressive, electronical cries of the guitar float on a deep sea of sonorous vocals and rusty bass notes that are altogether ear-grabbing and discreet. It’s the type of music that B thinks could add a much needed layer of background noise while also being fascinating if paid attention to because he can’t quite make out the lyrics; the vocals are distorted by Auto-Tune to sound like a robotic angel.

The Rouge Lounge is different to any club B has been to before as well – it’s an experience he won’t forget any time soon. With wide open spaces decorated to excess; there is lots of black, gold, and jewel tones of deep, shining emerald and crimson. Delicate lights are strung up along the ceiling edge, giving a soft halo to the room that glints off the cut glass ornaments and crystals that are tastefully strewn about. The dominance of Avant Garde, the sleek curves, faux-antique ornamentation, and retro-style furniture all bear a heavy influence of Marcel Wanders. The bar is easily the centrepiece; the marble horseshoe shape gathers quite a crowd. Along the wall is every colour of the rainbow captured within inverted bottles, glowing sweet like gummy bears. B favours the red one that tastes like strawberry cough syrup; his martini glass is dipped with pink sugar and popping candy.

He’s found a nook along the back wall where he and his agent/friend shoot the breeze and collaborate on future assignments. B’s known Michael Moore for half his life and just around a third of Mike’s, so he trusts him to get the right deals and make the right kind of decisions. It is always Mike’s idea: where to go, what to do, and with whom and why and when. Plus, B doesn’t mind being bossed about because it saves him having to make a decision and think. B knows that alcohol provides another great excuse to avoid thinking and having serious conversations; he’s swallowed down four drinks in an hour as Mike shakes his head and gives him a knowing smile that shows the white flash of teeth. When B gets up to order his fifth drink, however, Mike laughs, plants a bear-sized hand on his shoulder, and tells him to sit while he gets them both some water – maybe a coffee too. B shrinks back into his chair, compliantly.

It’s only minutes before Mike returns with two perfectly white and symmetrical ceramic cups, but, something’s shook the core of B. Something is not right because all of a sudden he feels drunk. The colour washes out of his face and his eyelids droop. Initially, Mike puts it down to drinking too much and too fast, but with B looking more ill as the seconds pass, Mike decides to head outside and hail a cab. There are so many bodies on the dancefloor now that it’s hard to see the ground, but they wind their way through to the brisk air. His body is moving like an uncoiled rope, he walks like the ground is the deck of a storm-tossed boat. Each foot comes to the sidewalk as if the collision of shoe and concrete isn't entirely anticipated and B lurches, stumbles, only to be held up by an arm coiling around his waist. The muscles that tighten around him in waves, fighting gravity, makes a small burp of bile twist up his throat. They pass a line of people queuing for the club, but all B can make out is a blur of colour and movement. He shuts his eyes for a moment and Mike leaves him for only a moment to hail a cab.

Shadow Woman has been so helpful of late since saving me from a collision with Sebastian in the lobby of the Flats. I don't know why I feared her so much, probably an extension of the nightmare my world has become after the Sebastian-created disaster of Dallas and his killing, albeit accidental, of a friend, an innocent. I tried getting this incarnation of me stronger but, failing to meet the schedule I imagined for myself, I ended up hiding away for years and awakening just in time to find he has tracked me here. All those years sleeping when I should have been training and learning. So much waste in my life; time, energy, life itself. .. 'bastian can only be here for one reason and if I want to continue this existence I'm going to need help. Shadow Woman told me... well, told may not be the correct term as her communications just pop into my head... but she suggested I make a thrall or two to scout ahead and do menial stuff. I've always wanted a minion or three and she assures me this method is foolproof, painless and so easy even a mess like me can do it.

I arise the following evening to find myself a crispy critter, caught outside again at sunrise for the third time this week. How does this even happen? Taking time to recover has delayed searching for my first candidate by a couple of days. I find a small, cut-glass vial of clear liquid and a note left by Shadow Woman telling me to take it as it is the key to creating my thrall. It also contains a brief list of bars, clubs, etcetera that may provide a likely servant. I'm already planning what I'm looking for as I hit the elevator button for the lobby.

So many scents on the cool evening air. Torn between anticipation and trepidation I seek reassurance once again.
"This isn't going to really hurt anyone, right? And it's reversible, just temporary mind control? You're sure I have to bite them?"

*Oh, absolutely safe and reversible whenever. All you have to do is drain them then give them the elixir. They'll be up and dying to serve you.*

The first two places are a bust, cheap dives full of old alkies and worn out 'working girls '. It was well into the evening when I found the third one and, guessing from the general apparel of the clientele, it's a goth club. Sweet! Standing across the street I scanned the crowd trying to find a nice selection. The que stretched seemingly forever and the predominantly monochromatic wardrobes of those waiting to get in made it hard to keep track where the prospects were if the line shifted. Grrr! I crossed the street to get a better vantage point just as two men exited, one supported by the other who was having a rather hard time walking. Dressed a bit mainstream, young, strong, very nice to look at... what Judy Tenuta would have made 'furniture'. Bingo!

*This one? He looks broken*
"Nah, he's fine. Just stoned or drunk or something. Can't hold his absinthe maybe. I hope. But he's perfect. " As his friend stepped away to hail a cab I slipped to his side.
"Hey, you ok? You might want to sit down before you fall down. There's a milk crate there in the alleyway if you'd like me to help you there."

B moves without meaning to as if the actions are severed from his thoughts; something cold is latched to his side and as it pulls at him, it draws the heat from him like a leech. His head sways with the rocking of an unseen ocean under his feet and he sees in glimpses and flashes. By the garish yellow light, all features are indiscernible and the colours are muted so he doesn’t get a good look at what’s happening to him. All he knows is, that it’s no longer Mike that’s propped under his arm, holding him up. B unwillingly drifts closer to the cold, wraps his arm around it, and presses his fingers into the arm of the body. The part of his brain that’s still working recognises that he’s possibly in danger; he’s still upright and walking and hugging a stranger, but, there is nothing he can do about it.

B’s eyes roll back into his head, squinting shut. It feels better this way - or maybe it just feels different. Throughout the inky space of his own mind that just stretches on for eternity, B’s heart pounds loudly, echoing in his ears alongside the rumble of smoky voices that are too far away. The floor beneath him is as soft as sponge cake; it yields uncomfortably with every footfall and sends him bouncing back onto the soles of his feet. He stumbles away from the stranger and toward her like a pendulum; her blonde hair tickles his chin like spiderwebs, but he can’t raise a hand to brush them away.

When his eyes open again, it’s darker. He blinks twice in succession and then a third time, but his vision is just the same: there’s the featureless, grey slab of floor beneath him and the repetitive pattern of brick, mortar, and shadow everywhere else. His eyelids are heavy and his body betrays its own survival instincts like a moth feeds its body to a flame. B understands less about the fact that he has been lured to an alleyway by a vampire than he does about why he feels so drunk after just four drinks. He’ll certainly learn at least one of those truths very soon.

The human moves like a poorly manipulated marionette, head and limbs in random jerks as I guide him toward the alley while pulling the shadows close to shield from prying eyes. I peruse his face and see no apparent recognition of his surroundings or situation. Her 'voice' abruptly interrupts my study of his features.

"What are you waiting for? Sunrise?"

"Excuse me if I've never bled someone out before."

"Just get on with it before someone catches you."

A little thrill of panic slides up my spine at her mention of someone being able to see us despite my precautions and I move to his throat to feed.

His body slumps to the pavement as I feel his heart slowing, his breaths becoming farther apart, skin cooling as the blood leaves him. I reach for the vial and open it, pouring it between his lips then stepping back waiting for my first minion to awaken...
And waiting...

Soft, evil laughter begins swelling in my mind, "It's not working. Why the hell isn't it working?"

"Hmm, possibly because it's just tap water? You really are a gullible little fool aren't you? There is only one way to make a thrall and this isn't it. And now you've broken your own rule and murdered an innocent."

I struggle to comprehend what I have done. "No! No, no, no, no, You lied to me. Why? I never did anything to you. Help me!"

"Are you sure about that? It's your mistake, why should I help? It seems you have a choice to make, stand there and watch him die or turn him."

The taunting laugh slowly fades as I make the decision to give him a second chance at existence. But as I do, I feel another vague fear creeping in: do I dare face him, try to mentor him? As if I could. I can't even manage my own survival. He's decidedly better off without my assistance. Faint signs of reanimation flicker across his face.
"Sorry, mon cher. The best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft agley. Please don't hold it against me", I whisper as I slip further into shadow and down the alleyway in search of my sanity.