Bloodsuckers I
By: Scen
Thread: Iron Writer
Posted: July 09, 2003
Slowly, excrutiatingly so, he opened the door. It creaked as it moved despite his better efforts; he tip-toed inside once the opening afforded him space to do so. His gentle stalking was almost comical; almost as if he were under the impression that any noise he made could have awakened his prey (which it couldn`t). Sweat beaded in the creases on his forehead, wafting up into the air that pleasant and all-too familiar aroma of fear. He seemed to be aglow with fright; one would wonder if this wasn`t his first hunt, his initiating kill. But the manner in which he controlled that fear belied any hint of inexperience; one (who knew what to look for) could tell by looking at him that he`d done this a least twice before, maybe three times. Perhaps the degree with which the dirty business got easier after each kill was so marginal, so miniscule, that the fear lingered on to some extent; perhaps it never really got easier at all, and the fear was always there.
He was handsome enough, for someone of his loathesome profession. His hair was shorn close, and would have been a beautiful flaxen blonde if afforded a chance to grow. His beard stubble was nearly as long as whatever hair was left on his scalp. The man was young, but his face was weathered, scarred. Still, the scars were no detriment to his good looks. They gave him a rugged, masculine quality that was belied now by his trembling trepidation.
He crossed over the cold stone floor, past the faux-stone pillars, toward the dais. He clutched the ankh in his sweaty left hand; his grip on the symbol of faith was white-knuckled, desperate. He muttered a prayer under his breath, and it seemed to strengthen his resolve, though his hold on the holy symbol did not slacken. He walked with renewed purpose as he neared his goal, neared the coffin, but not once did one of his feet come before his left hand, bearing up the ankh, the emblem of Rainere`s protection.
His long coat dragged along on the floor behind him. It might have been more dramatic if the coat had been kicking up clouds of dust in his wake; if perhaps this dungeon in the house upon the hill were a bit more musty and in disrepair, like it would be in those old black and white horror films. But the fact of the matter is this chamber was kept immaculately clean, spotless; utterly boring next to the cinematic representation. That, perhaps, made it a little more unnerving. Or maybe not; I can never tell, really. I make it a point never to even try getting inside my food`s head.
He ascended the steps, taking them one at a time. Whether this was done for fear or ceremony, I couldn`t tell; by that time I was already descending from the ceiling behind him, noiselessly as is my wont. He stood before the coffin, and I behind him, for a good long time. I could see, from where I was, that he was praying and crossing himself and kissing that damnable ankh. Retard.
Finally, he reached forward and laid a hand upon the coffin. My coffin. I`d not normally abide such a thing, but for the dramatic effect of having him open it to find me not within.
It was delectable. He raised the stake, in his right hand, over his head for the strike while he pushed the lid open, still managing to clutch the ankh in the same hand. He gasped; it echoed within my empty crypt, a wonderfully accoustic pleasure that rang in my ears and played a smile across my crimson painted lips. With a hiss, I reached out one of my slender arms and took him by the neck. Knowing that to feed on him here would only invite an attempt to burn the ankh against my flesh, I hurled him in a single fluid motion. He tumbled like a rag doll into one of the pillars, cracking the exterior and revealing, beneath its spackled and stone-like surface, the false plaster beneath. I cringed; I was going to have to get someone out here to fix that.
Fortuitously, the ankh slid well away from my dinner. It skittered across the floor, its perfect silver reflecting the ambient black-lighting that I`d had installed (again, for dramatic effect).
"She-demon," he snarled, defiantly, coming to his feet as I moved closer. "Rainere`s holy flame take you!"
"Rainere," I spat the name, "Stupid, stupid man. Your goddess isn`t even half my age. That her foul icon has any power over me is a miracle itself. How you plan for her to be able to save you now is utterly beyond me."
The hunter fumbled for something in his coat. In retrospect, I probably should have been a little more cautious, inspected exactly what he was doing, maybe broken his arm for good measure. But I was hungry. I lifted the man up by his neck, feeling the weight of him, eying him like the meat-bag he was. That was when he produced a small vial from his coat pocket.
The glass of the vial was thin, like stage glass, and only held a small quantity of liquid. He smashed it against my hand, and my flesh began to burn. Holy water. Blasted boon of that sea-hag Undine... I howled with rage; I had only just been manicured, and I watched now with horror as my deep-burgundy talons withered away, smoldering into pathetic shades of their former polished beauty, like the tines of a plastic fork cast into fire.
Dropping him, as my scalded hand was too pained to keep him suspended by his throat as it had, I watched as he fumbled toward his ankh. I was insane, a changed woman... well, okay, moreso than usual. I seethed and stalked after him, seizing him up by his coat with my good hand and whirling him around to face me. I clawed at him with my still-intact nails, and the force of the blow sent him again into one of the pillars (though with somewhat less detrimental effect to my faux stone treatment). The blood from the claw-wound across his face sent me into a feeding frenzy. He was dazed now, off-balance, and so I lunged for his throat and bit much harder than I usually do. I could feel his larynx shredding under my fangs as I chewed, hear the last whimpering gurgle of protest fizzle somewhere in his windpipe as I thrust my tongue into the wound I`d made, lapping out all the life fluid. He pounded on my back, ineffectually, as his strength began to leave him. He tried to crumple to the floor, in a heap, but I held him up against the pillar and kept draining him. I drew out his torment as long as I could; making sure we both savored our parts in this unholy feeding ritual. His jaw clenched, his lips moved whispering desperate prayers to the heavens, prayers that were given no breath with the invasion of his windpipe.
When I felt sated, I tossed him aside and kicked him. Bitch. I held up my sizzled right hand and sighed.
This was the second hunter this month. Eleventh this year. And there was at least one more that would visit me soon once this one failed to report in, to avenge his death.
That was when I made up my mind. I was going to have to move out of this damn house.
He was handsome enough, for someone of his loathesome profession. His hair was shorn close, and would have been a beautiful flaxen blonde if afforded a chance to grow. His beard stubble was nearly as long as whatever hair was left on his scalp. The man was young, but his face was weathered, scarred. Still, the scars were no detriment to his good looks. They gave him a rugged, masculine quality that was belied now by his trembling trepidation.
He crossed over the cold stone floor, past the faux-stone pillars, toward the dais. He clutched the ankh in his sweaty left hand; his grip on the symbol of faith was white-knuckled, desperate. He muttered a prayer under his breath, and it seemed to strengthen his resolve, though his hold on the holy symbol did not slacken. He walked with renewed purpose as he neared his goal, neared the coffin, but not once did one of his feet come before his left hand, bearing up the ankh, the emblem of Rainere`s protection.
His long coat dragged along on the floor behind him. It might have been more dramatic if the coat had been kicking up clouds of dust in his wake; if perhaps this dungeon in the house upon the hill were a bit more musty and in disrepair, like it would be in those old black and white horror films. But the fact of the matter is this chamber was kept immaculately clean, spotless; utterly boring next to the cinematic representation. That, perhaps, made it a little more unnerving. Or maybe not; I can never tell, really. I make it a point never to even try getting inside my food`s head.
He ascended the steps, taking them one at a time. Whether this was done for fear or ceremony, I couldn`t tell; by that time I was already descending from the ceiling behind him, noiselessly as is my wont. He stood before the coffin, and I behind him, for a good long time. I could see, from where I was, that he was praying and crossing himself and kissing that damnable ankh. Retard.
Finally, he reached forward and laid a hand upon the coffin. My coffin. I`d not normally abide such a thing, but for the dramatic effect of having him open it to find me not within.
It was delectable. He raised the stake, in his right hand, over his head for the strike while he pushed the lid open, still managing to clutch the ankh in the same hand. He gasped; it echoed within my empty crypt, a wonderfully accoustic pleasure that rang in my ears and played a smile across my crimson painted lips. With a hiss, I reached out one of my slender arms and took him by the neck. Knowing that to feed on him here would only invite an attempt to burn the ankh against my flesh, I hurled him in a single fluid motion. He tumbled like a rag doll into one of the pillars, cracking the exterior and revealing, beneath its spackled and stone-like surface, the false plaster beneath. I cringed; I was going to have to get someone out here to fix that.
Fortuitously, the ankh slid well away from my dinner. It skittered across the floor, its perfect silver reflecting the ambient black-lighting that I`d had installed (again, for dramatic effect).
"She-demon," he snarled, defiantly, coming to his feet as I moved closer. "Rainere`s holy flame take you!"
"Rainere," I spat the name, "Stupid, stupid man. Your goddess isn`t even half my age. That her foul icon has any power over me is a miracle itself. How you plan for her to be able to save you now is utterly beyond me."
The hunter fumbled for something in his coat. In retrospect, I probably should have been a little more cautious, inspected exactly what he was doing, maybe broken his arm for good measure. But I was hungry. I lifted the man up by his neck, feeling the weight of him, eying him like the meat-bag he was. That was when he produced a small vial from his coat pocket.
The glass of the vial was thin, like stage glass, and only held a small quantity of liquid. He smashed it against my hand, and my flesh began to burn. Holy water. Blasted boon of that sea-hag Undine... I howled with rage; I had only just been manicured, and I watched now with horror as my deep-burgundy talons withered away, smoldering into pathetic shades of their former polished beauty, like the tines of a plastic fork cast into fire.
Dropping him, as my scalded hand was too pained to keep him suspended by his throat as it had, I watched as he fumbled toward his ankh. I was insane, a changed woman... well, okay, moreso than usual. I seethed and stalked after him, seizing him up by his coat with my good hand and whirling him around to face me. I clawed at him with my still-intact nails, and the force of the blow sent him again into one of the pillars (though with somewhat less detrimental effect to my faux stone treatment). The blood from the claw-wound across his face sent me into a feeding frenzy. He was dazed now, off-balance, and so I lunged for his throat and bit much harder than I usually do. I could feel his larynx shredding under my fangs as I chewed, hear the last whimpering gurgle of protest fizzle somewhere in his windpipe as I thrust my tongue into the wound I`d made, lapping out all the life fluid. He pounded on my back, ineffectually, as his strength began to leave him. He tried to crumple to the floor, in a heap, but I held him up against the pillar and kept draining him. I drew out his torment as long as I could; making sure we both savored our parts in this unholy feeding ritual. His jaw clenched, his lips moved whispering desperate prayers to the heavens, prayers that were given no breath with the invasion of his windpipe.
When I felt sated, I tossed him aside and kicked him. Bitch. I held up my sizzled right hand and sighed.
This was the second hunter this month. Eleventh this year. And there was at least one more that would visit me soon once this one failed to report in, to avenge his death.
That was when I made up my mind. I was going to have to move out of this damn house.
Bloodsuckers II
By: Scen
Thread: Iron Writer
Posted: July 09, 2003
Dasro Dorsalfin was a Priman, and a Tasnican. As he often put it, he had a reputation to uphold, an archetype to fill. Dasro`s father was born into the lap of luxury in Prima, moved to Tasnica before his first spawning and made a total killing in the markets of Centwerp. So before he was even born, young master Dorsalfin was set for life. Even so, he always felt that he`d be less than the sum of his parts if he were to do anything other than seek out ways to make even more money.
Dorsalfin was one of the greatest entrepreneurs that modern Tasnica had ever seen. He had gotten into real estate on little more than a hunch just before Tasnica`s great leap into space. The trend was, folk were picking up and leaving the planet to go live among the stars, and that freed up scads and scads of precious turf on good old terra firma to be bought up and traded around. It was a bit of a feeding frenzy at first, as every real estate mogul and his mother dove into the fray. But soon regularity settled in on the market, and the victors, those who were truly vicious and worthy of the prize, rose to the top. It was in this way, through corporate guile and ruthless capitalist conquest, that Dorsalfin, Incorporated became king of the Mana Dimension`s real estate market.
Dasro was by no means married to real estate. He had other projects on the side -- a couple retail stores, a small ad firm, and a classy import auto dealership which was co-owned with a couple of Dasro`s high school chums -- but trading land was master Dorsalfin`s day job, so to speak. He liked to spread his investments around, be versatile in his portfolio; much as he was versatile in his romantic portfolio (with his wife, Helga, and his mistresses Lisa and Jill and Myrtle and Monica and Desiree...). He also hated to be tied down to a desk; within the Quad area, Dasro was his own company`s top salesman. To hear him tell it, there wasn`t a deal he couldn`t close. Of course, owning the company had its own perks; he got to pick and choose the assignments he handled himself, and he often took up the more promising ones. The main reason he didn`t offer an employee of the month award was because he worried he didn`t have enough room in his office for all the placards.
Dorsalfin, Inc. branch offices were to be found all across Tasnica; their signage gracing the front lawns of nearly every terrestrial suburb in the Republic. But it was Dasro`s visit to one of these branch offices, in a small burg nestled at the base of the Mandalan mountains called Barovia, that would utterly change Dasro`s life forever -- for better or for worse, who can say really?
It all started with the call.
Dasro had just left Monica`s posh apartment, and was on his way to have lunch with Lisa when his cell phone rang.
"Das?"
"Hey Rich." the Priman salesman was speeding on the Quadway, in his convertible Arythian, alone in the carpool lane (to skirt the midday Quad traffic). His destination was Enzo`s, a quaint market cafe in downtown Centwerp that Lisa had taken a shying to. He was dressed comfortably, in a sarha short-sleeved button-down, a silver chain strung round his neck, sunglasses, and a gold watch that was worth more than some people`s homes in this big, big Web of Worlds. The car-top was down, jazz blared through his speakers -- it almost made him wish for hair, for the sake of having the wind to whip through it.
Rich, the voice on the other end of the line, was the man that Dasro had put in charge of the office in Barovia -- and then only because he`d been the poor sap that Helga Dorsalfin had decided to sleep with to effect her revenge for her husband`s philandering. Barovia was basically a backwater; there wasn`t much to do there at all, let alone real estate to be sold. The Priman wasn`t even sure why his company had a presence out that far, forgetting all too easily the Imperialist-like expansion that his company underwent during the space boom. Dasro sent the poor bastard there rather than fire him because he was more or less a decent guy; and try as he might to deny it, the ruthless Dasro Dorsalfin didn`t have the heart to fire him. However, Dorsalfin had concocted a scheme to excuse the inexplicable lapse in his viciousness, telling himself that if he ever seriously wanted to unload the old ball and chain, it`d be nice to have Rich available. So no burning that bridge yet, he reasoned.
"We just got a really big call, Das," Rich said, in that wormy, sycophantic tone he`d taken up ever since his affair with Helga had been uncovered. Dasro always derived a sick sort of pleasure from messing around with Rich`s head; making him think the Priman was angrier about the affair than he was. Racial psychology probably had a little bit to do with it; Rich is a Neko, and the two races (that is, Primans and Nekos) aren`t the best of friends, let`s say.
"So handle it," Dasro said. There was a hint of venom in the Priman`s voice just then; and with good reason. He was on his way to spawn furiously with Lisa, a sweet little tart who had been moonlighting as a stripper when she first met the Priman entrepreneur. So part of Dasro (the part that was awfully keen on spawning furiously) was very short on the kind of patience that talking to Rich would demand.
"It`s too big for us," Rich said, "I don`t think anybody here can sell this property."
"Then dump the commission." That advice was most unbecoming of the Priman. But Dasro`s keen mind, clouded even though it was with the desire to spawn furiously with luscious ex-stripper Lisa, could see where Rich was trying to steer the conversation. The Neko wanted Dasro Dorsalfin himself to come down to his little hick nowhere mountain town and do his job for him.
"I think this is right up your alley," the Neko said, confirming Dasro`s suspicions.
"Really?" Dasro said. "Aww, Rich I`m touched." Out of curiosity, he added: "So why don`t you think you can sell this house yourself?"
"You`re not going to believe me if I tell you," Rich said.
Dasro laughed. "Try me, Rich."
"The current owner is supposed to be a vampire."
Dasro didn`t say anything for at least a minute. He wasn`t sure whether to laugh or cuss Rich out for wasting his time (and his cellular minutes).
"Are you fucking serious?" the Priman said, with a laugh (compromising between his two urges).
"You wouldn`t believe how superstitious the people are out here. It`s like walking back in time, I swear to god." That sounded almost like a plea for Dasro to transfer him.
Dasro shouldered his phone as he made the turn onto the offramp. The cafe was about two blocks from the Quadway. The Priman was really fixing on ending this call quickly.
"Tell you what, Rich... I`ll call you back, okay? I`ve got a luncheon with some clients here in Centwerp. You gonna be home later tonight?"
"How late we talking?"
"I dunno. Eleven-ish?"
"Okay, I can do that."
"See ya then." Dasro hung up his phone before the Neko could even respond. He didn`t know quite why he`d told Rich he`d call him back. Was he even really intending to?
He pulled up alongside the curb. A red-vested valet approached him; seeing this, Dasro pocketed his keys.
"I`ll be just a minute," the Priman said, as he folded three Geld-notes into the confused valet`s hand.
With a flourish, the silver-scaled Priman wended his way through the maze of tables. Lovely, raven-haired Lisa sat alone, a plate of scraps sitting in front of her. She smirked in mock-glee as Dasro approached.
"Hey there, sunny-tush," the Priman intoned. He flashed a smile, despite seeing the woman roll her eyes.
"Das, you`re late."
"I know baby. Didja eat?"
"... Yes."
"Good, let`s get going then." Dasro offered her his hand. It was less an expression of chivalry than an effort to speed his mistress out of the all-too-public cafe.
Lisa sighed. She pulled her purse off the back of her chair, slung it over her shoulder and attached herself to the Priman`s arm.
"Where`d you park?" Dasro asked.
"I didn`t. I was dropped. It`s a good thing you showed up this time..."
"Perfect, I`m right in front. Hop in."
In all things, Dasro was fast and efficient (his mistresses will testify to that much). But as the afternoon with Lisa progressed, Dasro found himself lingering, slowing down. Plotting. As he did, Lisa played the part of muse; a vessel into which the Priman poured out his creativity, explored possibilities and ran scenarios through his head.
When it was done, Dasro hardly knew what had hit him (to say nothing of poor, exhausted Lisa). They laid in each others` arms for a good long while, as Dasro gave himself a good internal once-over.
Was he really thinking what he thought he was thinking? Was there, somehow, an opportunity to be made from Rich`s shitty commission?
Dasro sat up in the bed. Lisa, floundering on the edge of unconsciousness, slid out a hand to pull her lover back to her, moaning from someplace under that mass of tangled black hair that she wasn`t ready for him to leave her.
"Hold on, baby," Dasro said, as reassuringly as he could, "I gotta make a call quick."
He searched for his pants, doing his best to discover them without leaving the bed. Finding them, he padded them down and produced his cell phone from somewhere in the midst of their tangled folds.
"Rich? Hey yeah, it`s Das. ... Yeah, how about that, my meeting got done early. Say listen, I think I`m gonna come down there to... where ever the hell you are and work with this commission you got. ... Mm? Oh, Barovia, right. I knew that. ... Uh huh. ... So what, did you meet this guy?... Lady, eh?" Dasro spared Lisa a glance; but she was near totally out of it, lost in her reverie. "How fascinating. So she`s the `vampire` then? Did you meet her?... Oh, I see. Well how did you?... a note? Rich, don`t fucking waste my... Well okay, but as long as..." Dasro sighed. He wondered if making the trip out there was even worth it. "Look, Rich, I`ll come out there, but I`m going to have to meet with this lady, and we`re going to have to look at a deed of some kind. And if this thing is bogus, believe me, you are going to hear from me about it... I`ll call you once I`ve worked out the details. Yeah, bye."
Dasro set his phone on the nightstand and crawled back to his slumbering lover. He rested himself on top of her. She smiled and reflexively wrapped her arms around his neck as they fell into a kiss.
Dorsalfin was one of the greatest entrepreneurs that modern Tasnica had ever seen. He had gotten into real estate on little more than a hunch just before Tasnica`s great leap into space. The trend was, folk were picking up and leaving the planet to go live among the stars, and that freed up scads and scads of precious turf on good old terra firma to be bought up and traded around. It was a bit of a feeding frenzy at first, as every real estate mogul and his mother dove into the fray. But soon regularity settled in on the market, and the victors, those who were truly vicious and worthy of the prize, rose to the top. It was in this way, through corporate guile and ruthless capitalist conquest, that Dorsalfin, Incorporated became king of the Mana Dimension`s real estate market.
Dasro was by no means married to real estate. He had other projects on the side -- a couple retail stores, a small ad firm, and a classy import auto dealership which was co-owned with a couple of Dasro`s high school chums -- but trading land was master Dorsalfin`s day job, so to speak. He liked to spread his investments around, be versatile in his portfolio; much as he was versatile in his romantic portfolio (with his wife, Helga, and his mistresses Lisa and Jill and Myrtle and Monica and Desiree...). He also hated to be tied down to a desk; within the Quad area, Dasro was his own company`s top salesman. To hear him tell it, there wasn`t a deal he couldn`t close. Of course, owning the company had its own perks; he got to pick and choose the assignments he handled himself, and he often took up the more promising ones. The main reason he didn`t offer an employee of the month award was because he worried he didn`t have enough room in his office for all the placards.
Dorsalfin, Inc. branch offices were to be found all across Tasnica; their signage gracing the front lawns of nearly every terrestrial suburb in the Republic. But it was Dasro`s visit to one of these branch offices, in a small burg nestled at the base of the Mandalan mountains called Barovia, that would utterly change Dasro`s life forever -- for better or for worse, who can say really?
It all started with the call.
Dasro had just left Monica`s posh apartment, and was on his way to have lunch with Lisa when his cell phone rang.
"Das?"
"Hey Rich." the Priman salesman was speeding on the Quadway, in his convertible Arythian, alone in the carpool lane (to skirt the midday Quad traffic). His destination was Enzo`s, a quaint market cafe in downtown Centwerp that Lisa had taken a shying to. He was dressed comfortably, in a sarha short-sleeved button-down, a silver chain strung round his neck, sunglasses, and a gold watch that was worth more than some people`s homes in this big, big Web of Worlds. The car-top was down, jazz blared through his speakers -- it almost made him wish for hair, for the sake of having the wind to whip through it.
Rich, the voice on the other end of the line, was the man that Dasro had put in charge of the office in Barovia -- and then only because he`d been the poor sap that Helga Dorsalfin had decided to sleep with to effect her revenge for her husband`s philandering. Barovia was basically a backwater; there wasn`t much to do there at all, let alone real estate to be sold. The Priman wasn`t even sure why his company had a presence out that far, forgetting all too easily the Imperialist-like expansion that his company underwent during the space boom. Dasro sent the poor bastard there rather than fire him because he was more or less a decent guy; and try as he might to deny it, the ruthless Dasro Dorsalfin didn`t have the heart to fire him. However, Dorsalfin had concocted a scheme to excuse the inexplicable lapse in his viciousness, telling himself that if he ever seriously wanted to unload the old ball and chain, it`d be nice to have Rich available. So no burning that bridge yet, he reasoned.
"We just got a really big call, Das," Rich said, in that wormy, sycophantic tone he`d taken up ever since his affair with Helga had been uncovered. Dasro always derived a sick sort of pleasure from messing around with Rich`s head; making him think the Priman was angrier about the affair than he was. Racial psychology probably had a little bit to do with it; Rich is a Neko, and the two races (that is, Primans and Nekos) aren`t the best of friends, let`s say.
"So handle it," Dasro said. There was a hint of venom in the Priman`s voice just then; and with good reason. He was on his way to spawn furiously with Lisa, a sweet little tart who had been moonlighting as a stripper when she first met the Priman entrepreneur. So part of Dasro (the part that was awfully keen on spawning furiously) was very short on the kind of patience that talking to Rich would demand.
"It`s too big for us," Rich said, "I don`t think anybody here can sell this property."
"Then dump the commission." That advice was most unbecoming of the Priman. But Dasro`s keen mind, clouded even though it was with the desire to spawn furiously with luscious ex-stripper Lisa, could see where Rich was trying to steer the conversation. The Neko wanted Dasro Dorsalfin himself to come down to his little hick nowhere mountain town and do his job for him.
"I think this is right up your alley," the Neko said, confirming Dasro`s suspicions.
"Really?" Dasro said. "Aww, Rich I`m touched." Out of curiosity, he added: "So why don`t you think you can sell this house yourself?"
"You`re not going to believe me if I tell you," Rich said.
Dasro laughed. "Try me, Rich."
"The current owner is supposed to be a vampire."
Dasro didn`t say anything for at least a minute. He wasn`t sure whether to laugh or cuss Rich out for wasting his time (and his cellular minutes).
"Are you fucking serious?" the Priman said, with a laugh (compromising between his two urges).
"You wouldn`t believe how superstitious the people are out here. It`s like walking back in time, I swear to god." That sounded almost like a plea for Dasro to transfer him.
Dasro shouldered his phone as he made the turn onto the offramp. The cafe was about two blocks from the Quadway. The Priman was really fixing on ending this call quickly.
"Tell you what, Rich... I`ll call you back, okay? I`ve got a luncheon with some clients here in Centwerp. You gonna be home later tonight?"
"How late we talking?"
"I dunno. Eleven-ish?"
"Okay, I can do that."
"See ya then." Dasro hung up his phone before the Neko could even respond. He didn`t know quite why he`d told Rich he`d call him back. Was he even really intending to?
He pulled up alongside the curb. A red-vested valet approached him; seeing this, Dasro pocketed his keys.
"I`ll be just a minute," the Priman said, as he folded three Geld-notes into the confused valet`s hand.
With a flourish, the silver-scaled Priman wended his way through the maze of tables. Lovely, raven-haired Lisa sat alone, a plate of scraps sitting in front of her. She smirked in mock-glee as Dasro approached.
"Hey there, sunny-tush," the Priman intoned. He flashed a smile, despite seeing the woman roll her eyes.
"Das, you`re late."
"I know baby. Didja eat?"
"... Yes."
"Good, let`s get going then." Dasro offered her his hand. It was less an expression of chivalry than an effort to speed his mistress out of the all-too-public cafe.
Lisa sighed. She pulled her purse off the back of her chair, slung it over her shoulder and attached herself to the Priman`s arm.
"Where`d you park?" Dasro asked.
"I didn`t. I was dropped. It`s a good thing you showed up this time..."
"Perfect, I`m right in front. Hop in."
In all things, Dasro was fast and efficient (his mistresses will testify to that much). But as the afternoon with Lisa progressed, Dasro found himself lingering, slowing down. Plotting. As he did, Lisa played the part of muse; a vessel into which the Priman poured out his creativity, explored possibilities and ran scenarios through his head.
When it was done, Dasro hardly knew what had hit him (to say nothing of poor, exhausted Lisa). They laid in each others` arms for a good long while, as Dasro gave himself a good internal once-over.
Was he really thinking what he thought he was thinking? Was there, somehow, an opportunity to be made from Rich`s shitty commission?
Dasro sat up in the bed. Lisa, floundering on the edge of unconsciousness, slid out a hand to pull her lover back to her, moaning from someplace under that mass of tangled black hair that she wasn`t ready for him to leave her.
"Hold on, baby," Dasro said, as reassuringly as he could, "I gotta make a call quick."
He searched for his pants, doing his best to discover them without leaving the bed. Finding them, he padded them down and produced his cell phone from somewhere in the midst of their tangled folds.
"Rich? Hey yeah, it`s Das. ... Yeah, how about that, my meeting got done early. Say listen, I think I`m gonna come down there to... where ever the hell you are and work with this commission you got. ... Mm? Oh, Barovia, right. I knew that. ... Uh huh. ... So what, did you meet this guy?... Lady, eh?" Dasro spared Lisa a glance; but she was near totally out of it, lost in her reverie. "How fascinating. So she`s the `vampire` then? Did you meet her?... Oh, I see. Well how did you?... a note? Rich, don`t fucking waste my... Well okay, but as long as..." Dasro sighed. He wondered if making the trip out there was even worth it. "Look, Rich, I`ll come out there, but I`m going to have to meet with this lady, and we`re going to have to look at a deed of some kind. And if this thing is bogus, believe me, you are going to hear from me about it... I`ll call you once I`ve worked out the details. Yeah, bye."
Dasro set his phone on the nightstand and crawled back to his slumbering lover. He rested himself on top of her. She smiled and reflexively wrapped her arms around his neck as they fell into a kiss.
Bloodsuckers III
By: Scen
Thread: Iron Writer
Posted: July 09, 2003
Normally, Vincent loved travelling by train. There was just something so romantic about it... just something about a train. When he and Ilse were married, they had taken a train to their honeymoon destination on the coast of Pandora.
Vincent usually loved just gazing out the window of a train. It seemed the train moved the way it did on purpose; fast enough to get you where you were going, but slow enough so you could watch the beautiful countryside roll on by.
But today, this train ride brought Vincent little comfort. He reached up with his hand and pressed against the silver ankh that hung from his neck. His son was dead, and now, dutiful father that he was, he was travelling to avenge bold Abel`s death.
Vincent was fast advancing in years. He was already in his mid sixties; definitely too many years too old for his line of work. He had been among the first Tasnican devotees of Rainere, but his position with the goddess` priesthood came to an end after his wife had been killed by one of the walking dead.
The establishment didn`t understand what Vincent and his son saw as their calling, the holy work of their goddess. Driven into the arms of vengeance by the loss of beautiful Ilse, Vincent could see little else of Rainere`s teachings but justice; only the holy justice of Rainere`s flaming sword seemed to matter to him now. It was his only creed. And so he was defrocked.
To the mortal establishment of Rainere`s church, Vincent was no longer recognized. But, curiously, Vincent seemed to lose no rapport with the goddess herself. Since then, Vincent and his son, Abel, had lived secret lives as undead slayers; unsanctioned holy warriors fighting their own crusade against evil. Denounced by the church, held suspect by the very people they sought to protect... and feared by the demons they hunted. Their legend grew, and with it their profession. Soon not just former priests, but people from all walks of life, all those who had been victimized by the enemies of all that is holy and good, joined in the great crusade. Theirs was a thankless, dangerous calling.
But it was one that Vincent was damn good at. And after all the years he`d slain the dead, he began to fear that he had come to like his work far too much.
Vincent scratched at the layer of white stubble that clung to the side of his face, as he forced himself to take in the scenery. He had told himself he would not cry, promised that, for Abel`s sake, he would show he was stronger than that.
There was a beast that hunted in Barovia, Vincent had learned. It was a perfect little operation for a vampire: old, isolated mansion on a lonely, desolate mountaintop; quiet, superstitious and defenselss village filled with unwitting prey down in the valley. The first hunter who`d discovered the secret of Barovia spread the word to other hunters before he made his move; fortunate thing, that, for he was torn limb from limb by the monster. Other hunters followed. One after the other, they were murdered by the creature.
Vincent and Abel, seeing the list of dead hunters multiplying unhealthily, decided to take matters into their own hands. And Abel was insistent on facing the beast by himself.
Abel was a good lad. He wouldn`t say as much, but he feared for his father, feared that he was indeed too old for slaying. Abel didn`t want to lose both his parents to the undead. Ironic that now Vincent would bury his son alongside his mother, after he met that very fate.
The old hunter was torn from his thoughts by the opening of his compartment door. He turned and regarded his new company. The man was tall, and of the fishy persuasion. Vincent could never remember what the people were called; some race out of the Dragon Dimension. His scales were shiny and silver, and he dressed in a manner that suggested he was fairly well off: light sarha shirt, pressed white khakis, gold and silver jewelry, fancy leather briefcase.
He shoved his heavy suitcase into the overhead compartment and set his briefcase on the seat opposite Vincent. Only when he was situated did he turn to face the old man.
"Bit crowded today," the fish-man said with a charming smile.
Vincent only grunted. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and turned back to the window.
"Dasro Dorsalfin," the fish-man introduced himself.
Vincent waited a moment, before he obliged the fish-man and extended his hand.
"Vincent Lander," he said.
Dasro sat down, and after a while began to fidget. "So, Lander. What brings you out to Barovia?"
Vincent reached up to scratch at his thinning white hair. He grew it long so that the losses he was taking up top were less noticeable; one of the few displays of vanity that the old hunter afforded himself. "I have... family business to attend to."
Dasro nodded. "I can see that. Can`t hardly fathom why this goddamn train`s so crowded, or why anybody`d want to go to the sticks. Nothing to do there; probably why there`s no airport service anywhere near the place."
Vincent played along with the conversation: "And what do you do, Mister Dorsalfin?"
"I`m in Real Estate," Dasro said. "I wouldn`t be on this damn train unless there were money to be made on the other end. I fucking hate trains -- pardon my language. Far too slow. Give me a Meria-class civillian transport any day."
Vincent chuckled politely. His eyes once again strayed to the window.
"So what kind of `business` are you in, Lander?"
Vincent was beginning to suspect that Dasro loved to hear himself talk.
"I`m a hunter," Vincent answered coyly.
"That a fact? I went hunting once. Safari on the Veldt, years ago. Me and a couple of old college friends; it was a guided safari, of course. What`s to hunt in Barovia?"
Vincent wondered how to answer that. He was never very big on advertising his profession... but even after all these years he had yet to come up with a stock response that would get people to stop prying. Which was why he didn`t like sharing his compartment on the train.
Put to it, he began to think of Abel. An image of his son being torn apart by the same beast that had killed his Ilse flashed before his eyes, and before he knew what he was saying he answered: "A monster."
Dasro arched one of his scaly brows. "Monster hunter, eh? Well good luck. I hear the wilds of Mandala are full of all sorts of nasties."
Vincent`s eyes fell on the fish man. "What`s to sell in Barovia then, Mister Dorsalfin? From what I know of the place, real estate is not a very profitable business out that way."
Dasro smiled. "I`m an entrepreneur, Lander. Real estate is going to make me lots of money in Barovia -- no two ways about it. We are not so different really... I`m a hunter of sorts, too. Only what I hunt is opportunity... and profit."
Vincent nodded, again out of courtesy. But he found he was quite finished with this conversation. Talking to Dasro left a foul taste in Vincent`s mouth; this was the sort of man that made people in the Web hate Tasnicans. He was all the things that were detestable about modern Tasnica. He made Vincent sad and angry at the same time.
"If you`ll excuse me, Mister Dorsalfin, I`m going to go to the diner car. I haven`t yet had lunch."
Dasro nodded. "I`ll keep your compartment nice and cozy for you, Lander. Bring me back some peanuts or something."
"... Right." Vincent slid the compartment door open and then threw it shut behind him.
Vincent usually loved just gazing out the window of a train. It seemed the train moved the way it did on purpose; fast enough to get you where you were going, but slow enough so you could watch the beautiful countryside roll on by.
But today, this train ride brought Vincent little comfort. He reached up with his hand and pressed against the silver ankh that hung from his neck. His son was dead, and now, dutiful father that he was, he was travelling to avenge bold Abel`s death.
Vincent was fast advancing in years. He was already in his mid sixties; definitely too many years too old for his line of work. He had been among the first Tasnican devotees of Rainere, but his position with the goddess` priesthood came to an end after his wife had been killed by one of the walking dead.
The establishment didn`t understand what Vincent and his son saw as their calling, the holy work of their goddess. Driven into the arms of vengeance by the loss of beautiful Ilse, Vincent could see little else of Rainere`s teachings but justice; only the holy justice of Rainere`s flaming sword seemed to matter to him now. It was his only creed. And so he was defrocked.
To the mortal establishment of Rainere`s church, Vincent was no longer recognized. But, curiously, Vincent seemed to lose no rapport with the goddess herself. Since then, Vincent and his son, Abel, had lived secret lives as undead slayers; unsanctioned holy warriors fighting their own crusade against evil. Denounced by the church, held suspect by the very people they sought to protect... and feared by the demons they hunted. Their legend grew, and with it their profession. Soon not just former priests, but people from all walks of life, all those who had been victimized by the enemies of all that is holy and good, joined in the great crusade. Theirs was a thankless, dangerous calling.
But it was one that Vincent was damn good at. And after all the years he`d slain the dead, he began to fear that he had come to like his work far too much.
Vincent scratched at the layer of white stubble that clung to the side of his face, as he forced himself to take in the scenery. He had told himself he would not cry, promised that, for Abel`s sake, he would show he was stronger than that.
There was a beast that hunted in Barovia, Vincent had learned. It was a perfect little operation for a vampire: old, isolated mansion on a lonely, desolate mountaintop; quiet, superstitious and defenselss village filled with unwitting prey down in the valley. The first hunter who`d discovered the secret of Barovia spread the word to other hunters before he made his move; fortunate thing, that, for he was torn limb from limb by the monster. Other hunters followed. One after the other, they were murdered by the creature.
Vincent and Abel, seeing the list of dead hunters multiplying unhealthily, decided to take matters into their own hands. And Abel was insistent on facing the beast by himself.
Abel was a good lad. He wouldn`t say as much, but he feared for his father, feared that he was indeed too old for slaying. Abel didn`t want to lose both his parents to the undead. Ironic that now Vincent would bury his son alongside his mother, after he met that very fate.
The old hunter was torn from his thoughts by the opening of his compartment door. He turned and regarded his new company. The man was tall, and of the fishy persuasion. Vincent could never remember what the people were called; some race out of the Dragon Dimension. His scales were shiny and silver, and he dressed in a manner that suggested he was fairly well off: light sarha shirt, pressed white khakis, gold and silver jewelry, fancy leather briefcase.
He shoved his heavy suitcase into the overhead compartment and set his briefcase on the seat opposite Vincent. Only when he was situated did he turn to face the old man.
"Bit crowded today," the fish-man said with a charming smile.
Vincent only grunted. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and turned back to the window.
"Dasro Dorsalfin," the fish-man introduced himself.
Vincent waited a moment, before he obliged the fish-man and extended his hand.
"Vincent Lander," he said.
Dasro sat down, and after a while began to fidget. "So, Lander. What brings you out to Barovia?"
Vincent reached up to scratch at his thinning white hair. He grew it long so that the losses he was taking up top were less noticeable; one of the few displays of vanity that the old hunter afforded himself. "I have... family business to attend to."
Dasro nodded. "I can see that. Can`t hardly fathom why this goddamn train`s so crowded, or why anybody`d want to go to the sticks. Nothing to do there; probably why there`s no airport service anywhere near the place."
Vincent played along with the conversation: "And what do you do, Mister Dorsalfin?"
"I`m in Real Estate," Dasro said. "I wouldn`t be on this damn train unless there were money to be made on the other end. I fucking hate trains -- pardon my language. Far too slow. Give me a Meria-class civillian transport any day."
Vincent chuckled politely. His eyes once again strayed to the window.
"So what kind of `business` are you in, Lander?"
Vincent was beginning to suspect that Dasro loved to hear himself talk.
"I`m a hunter," Vincent answered coyly.
"That a fact? I went hunting once. Safari on the Veldt, years ago. Me and a couple of old college friends; it was a guided safari, of course. What`s to hunt in Barovia?"
Vincent wondered how to answer that. He was never very big on advertising his profession... but even after all these years he had yet to come up with a stock response that would get people to stop prying. Which was why he didn`t like sharing his compartment on the train.
Put to it, he began to think of Abel. An image of his son being torn apart by the same beast that had killed his Ilse flashed before his eyes, and before he knew what he was saying he answered: "A monster."
Dasro arched one of his scaly brows. "Monster hunter, eh? Well good luck. I hear the wilds of Mandala are full of all sorts of nasties."
Vincent`s eyes fell on the fish man. "What`s to sell in Barovia then, Mister Dorsalfin? From what I know of the place, real estate is not a very profitable business out that way."
Dasro smiled. "I`m an entrepreneur, Lander. Real estate is going to make me lots of money in Barovia -- no two ways about it. We are not so different really... I`m a hunter of sorts, too. Only what I hunt is opportunity... and profit."
Vincent nodded, again out of courtesy. But he found he was quite finished with this conversation. Talking to Dasro left a foul taste in Vincent`s mouth; this was the sort of man that made people in the Web hate Tasnicans. He was all the things that were detestable about modern Tasnica. He made Vincent sad and angry at the same time.
"If you`ll excuse me, Mister Dorsalfin, I`m going to go to the diner car. I haven`t yet had lunch."
Dasro nodded. "I`ll keep your compartment nice and cozy for you, Lander. Bring me back some peanuts or something."
"... Right." Vincent slid the compartment door open and then threw it shut behind him.
Bloodsuckers IV
By: Scen
Thread: Iron Writer
Posted: July 09, 2003
Dasro had barely stepped off the train, before someone called his name.
"Dorzalfin," the man said. He was a hulk of a human being, he had to be at least seven feet tall. Gaunt, and scary looking, with sunken eyes and pale, clammy skin. He was dressed as a butler, of sorts; like something from out of a gothic horror picture.
"Yes?" the Priman asked, hefting his suitcase behind him.
"I am from ze du Cire estate." The man`s accent was thick; he was quite obviously a country boy. "I heff come to meet you unt take you to my mistress." The hulking butler forcibly took Dasro`s suitcase.
That would explain it, Dasro thought; this creep was a servant of `the vampire.` The Priman chuckled.
"Okay. Where`s your car?"
The butler motioned toward a drawn horse carriage just off the train platform. Dasro gawked.
"You`re joking. You must be."
"Get in, Dorzalfin," the butler groaned as he hauled himself up into the driver`s seat of the carriage.
Dasro decided that this would be the last time that he left it to Rich to arrange for anything... be they accomodations or meetings with clients. He reluctantly climbed aboard the carriage, and with a sharp cry from the butler the vehicle was off.
Dasro watched outside as the citizens of Barovia gave the carriage a wide berth. They gasped, and crossed themselves, and clung to all sorts of Elementalist icons. The Priman couldn`t help but laugh. This was all just too classic.
The carriage reached the outskirts of town, and onto a rolling (and unpaved) road through the foothills. In the distance, Dasro could see a single, lonely mountain, striking out against the sky just before the majesty of the clustered Mandalan mountain range. At the top of that mountain, Dasro could barely make out the parapets of a very old mansion.
Sweet. It was just like Dasro envisioned it. His palms began to itch, and a grin swam across his face.
When the carriage reached the foot of the mountain, it stopped. Dasro, a bit confused, jumped with fright when the butler forcibly pulled the carriage door open.
"Out, Dorzalfin," the butler commanded, sharply.
The Priman complied, carefully easing his way out of the vehicle. He stopped and looked around; the mountain road lay before them. A high wrought-iron fence and gate stood before the main road, and off to the side of the gate was a decrepit looking livery. The butler lead the horse and carriage into this building, and emerged moments later with three horses.
"Ze carriage cannot make it up ze road," the butler explained, as he fastened Dasro`s luggage to one of the horses. "You vill ride."
"Hell no," Dasro stammered. "Look, if I`d known this was going to be a weekend on the farm, I would have worn jeans or something. But there is no way you are getting me up on that animal with --"
"Ze mistress is quite ze... impatient woman," the butler sneered. "Pray you do not zee her ven she is so... unpleazant." With a motion more agile than Dasro would have given the giant man credit for, the butler swung himself up onto his horse.
Dasro sighed. He used to ride horses when he was a boy -- but that was years ago. And from the look of the mountain, it would be fairly treacherous terrain.
He sought comfort by reminding himself of his brilliant idea, and all the money it would win him, as he carefully climbed up into the saddle.
There were wolves howling in the distance, as evening slowly faded into night. The Priman kept his eyes on the mounted butler in front of him, and held the reins as he remembered learning how. The leather felt unpleasant against Dasro`s sweaty palms; he found himself shifting their position constantly.
If the train ride had had a profusion of scenery, the horse ride was utterly devoid of it. There was nothing growing, nothing living on the mountain. It was all hard stone, with maybe some lichens or mosses here and there. Any trees that Dasro saw on his ride up were years dead; murders of red-eyed ravens peopled their twisting, gnarled branches, cawwing every now and then (for dramatic effect).
A lump formed in the Priman`s throat. He found himself whipping his head at the slightest sound. Through the fear, however, Dasro was overjoyed. The place was perfect. It fit into his plans beautifully, down to the last red-eyed raven.
Three hours of riding put a pain in the Priman`s lower back. He was grateful when the butler halted and swung off his mount in front of the dark, towering estate. It didn`t quite look like a five-star hotel; in fact the house did look to be in something of a state of disrepair -- though the careful observer would note that much of it was crafted intentionally.
The butler tied all three horses to a hitching post and lead Dasro up the grand front steps. After the ride, the poor city-dwelling Dasro didn`t exactly feel up to climbing the front stairs of the vampire`s estate. He took each step carefully, trying to hide his urge to wince.
The butler swung the great front doors open, and motioned for Dasro to come inside.
"Dazro Dorzalfin," he called out, announcing the guest as he moved into another room with the Priman`s bags.
The doors seemed to slam shut behind Dasro of their own accord. When they did, a woman appeared at the top of the stairs.
Her midnight blue-black hair was tied into a bun at the back of her head, with a tassle of free hair dangling down on either side, framing her pale and perfect face. She had high cheek-bones and tiny, delicate almond-shaped eyes that were a lusciously deep chocolate brown, though when the light hit them just so they tinged with some red. Her beckoning red lips curled into a smile as she stalked down the stairs. She was dressed in a strapless black evening gown, which fit her figure tantalizingly. Her hands were covered with elbow-length black gloves -- though her right hand hung at her side, pressed close against her thigh, as it was still in the process of healing.
"You must excuse Gunter," the woman said, as she neared the base of the stairs and came face to face with the Priman. "Good help is so hard to find so far from civilization... but my lifestyle demands I take to such places where I can remain relatively well-hid."
"You must be the vampire," Dasro said.
The woman smiled, conspiratorially. She extended her left hand. "I am Contessa Jasmina du Cire," she said. "You may call me Jazz."
Dasro, with a flourish, kissed the woman`s hand. "Don`t mind if I do."
Jasmina chuckled. "Very bold of you, Mister Dorsalfin. You don`t seem frightened of me at all. I like that."
In truth, Dasro found Jasmina to be the least frightening thing since he arrived in Barovia. "Should I be frightened, Jazz?" He asked her, almost flirtatiously.
Jasmina seemed to be quickly warming to the Priman. With a sultry "hmmm," and a swaying pace backward, she said: "Probably not... I don`t like seafood." The woman cocked her head and smiled. "You are here on business, Mister Dorsalfin?"
"Yes, I am. I`m here to buy your house."
The woman`s smile faded. "Buy?"
"Yes, Jazz. You contacted my company to sell your property, and if I may say so they have -- to me. I want this place. I want it bad."
The woman placed a delicate, gloved finger on her chin, running it along the edges of her full, red lower lip. She opened her mouth in a smile, and Dasro could see the tips of her fangs showing as the crimson velvet curtain of her mouth parted.
"You seem to be begging me to ask you why," Jasmina said. "But I don`t easily fall into such ploys. You may explain, if you wish, but as long as you`re good for the money, and I can unload this place, I don`t particularly care."
Dasro shook his head. "You`re a coy one, but you don`t fool me. You must be curious."
"Maybe a little. But my main concern is leaving Barovia, something I can`t do without selling the house." She eyed Dasro, and then took a step towards him. Dasro usually wasn`t the kind who abided such a forward affront to his personal space, but there was something irresistable about the woman. He knew how dangerous she was, and what she could do to him if she wanted -- he didn`t for a moment buy her "seafood" line, believing that was just evidence of a wit that he frankly found incredibly attractive. And that was the thing, Dasro found himself attracted to this woman, this deadly predator who was nearly as dangerous as he believed himself to be (even if in purely an analagous sense).
So Dasro did nothing, didn`t shirk away, barely even moved as Jazz traced a finger along his shoulder, toward his chest, and up his throat. He disguised, as best he could, the shiver that involuntarily shook through him, and the aching in his loins that Jasmina du Cire was quite adept at invoking.
Jasmina smiled and licked her lips. It wasn`t hunger she was feeling; she could almost smell the desire on this fish-man from the city. On some level he wanted her, and that in turn aroused Jasmina something terrible. But if there was one thing a life of centuries could teach you, it was how to control some of the more carnal desires of human passion.
"Tell me then," she whispered, locking eyes with Dasro. "Tell me why you want my house... so badly."
Dasro smiled. "It`s a simple plan, really." The tension subsided as the Priman`s mind began to recall the details of his plan. "A village full of country bumpkins who don`t realize how stupid they are, convinced that they`re living in the hunting ground of a vampire. If the vampire leaves, and they don`t know it, they hold onto that fear. So they won`t know any better when I start showing up on their doorstep, ready to sell them vampire insurance. Maybe I`ll even get into peddling vampire wards and other such trinkets. All of it worthless, of course -- but that`s the beauty of the plan. You won`t be around to feed anymore, and it works as long as Barovia doesn`t know as much. In my line of work, one must strike while the iron is hot."
Jasmina seemed utterly taken by the idea. She did all she could to keep from cackling, but she did find herself edging closer to the Priman, on the verge of pressing herself up against him.
"Now it`s your turn," Dasro said, smiling as he pulled back from Jasmina ever so slightly, stringing the way he did with all his mistresses, "Why are you so eager to get rid of these... prime hunting grounds?"
Jasmina batted her eyes coyly. "Maybe I thought it was time to move on... let another hunter work the neighborhood. Seems I couldn`t have selected a better replacement if I tried."
Dasro scoffed. "That`s a bit harsh. I`m a businessman, not a blood sucker."
"Dorzalfin," the man said. He was a hulk of a human being, he had to be at least seven feet tall. Gaunt, and scary looking, with sunken eyes and pale, clammy skin. He was dressed as a butler, of sorts; like something from out of a gothic horror picture.
"Yes?" the Priman asked, hefting his suitcase behind him.
"I am from ze du Cire estate." The man`s accent was thick; he was quite obviously a country boy. "I heff come to meet you unt take you to my mistress." The hulking butler forcibly took Dasro`s suitcase.
That would explain it, Dasro thought; this creep was a servant of `the vampire.` The Priman chuckled.
"Okay. Where`s your car?"
The butler motioned toward a drawn horse carriage just off the train platform. Dasro gawked.
"You`re joking. You must be."
"Get in, Dorzalfin," the butler groaned as he hauled himself up into the driver`s seat of the carriage.
Dasro decided that this would be the last time that he left it to Rich to arrange for anything... be they accomodations or meetings with clients. He reluctantly climbed aboard the carriage, and with a sharp cry from the butler the vehicle was off.
Dasro watched outside as the citizens of Barovia gave the carriage a wide berth. They gasped, and crossed themselves, and clung to all sorts of Elementalist icons. The Priman couldn`t help but laugh. This was all just too classic.
The carriage reached the outskirts of town, and onto a rolling (and unpaved) road through the foothills. In the distance, Dasro could see a single, lonely mountain, striking out against the sky just before the majesty of the clustered Mandalan mountain range. At the top of that mountain, Dasro could barely make out the parapets of a very old mansion.
Sweet. It was just like Dasro envisioned it. His palms began to itch, and a grin swam across his face.
When the carriage reached the foot of the mountain, it stopped. Dasro, a bit confused, jumped with fright when the butler forcibly pulled the carriage door open.
"Out, Dorzalfin," the butler commanded, sharply.
The Priman complied, carefully easing his way out of the vehicle. He stopped and looked around; the mountain road lay before them. A high wrought-iron fence and gate stood before the main road, and off to the side of the gate was a decrepit looking livery. The butler lead the horse and carriage into this building, and emerged moments later with three horses.
"Ze carriage cannot make it up ze road," the butler explained, as he fastened Dasro`s luggage to one of the horses. "You vill ride."
"Hell no," Dasro stammered. "Look, if I`d known this was going to be a weekend on the farm, I would have worn jeans or something. But there is no way you are getting me up on that animal with --"
"Ze mistress is quite ze... impatient woman," the butler sneered. "Pray you do not zee her ven she is so... unpleazant." With a motion more agile than Dasro would have given the giant man credit for, the butler swung himself up onto his horse.
Dasro sighed. He used to ride horses when he was a boy -- but that was years ago. And from the look of the mountain, it would be fairly treacherous terrain.
He sought comfort by reminding himself of his brilliant idea, and all the money it would win him, as he carefully climbed up into the saddle.
There were wolves howling in the distance, as evening slowly faded into night. The Priman kept his eyes on the mounted butler in front of him, and held the reins as he remembered learning how. The leather felt unpleasant against Dasro`s sweaty palms; he found himself shifting their position constantly.
If the train ride had had a profusion of scenery, the horse ride was utterly devoid of it. There was nothing growing, nothing living on the mountain. It was all hard stone, with maybe some lichens or mosses here and there. Any trees that Dasro saw on his ride up were years dead; murders of red-eyed ravens peopled their twisting, gnarled branches, cawwing every now and then (for dramatic effect).
A lump formed in the Priman`s throat. He found himself whipping his head at the slightest sound. Through the fear, however, Dasro was overjoyed. The place was perfect. It fit into his plans beautifully, down to the last red-eyed raven.
Three hours of riding put a pain in the Priman`s lower back. He was grateful when the butler halted and swung off his mount in front of the dark, towering estate. It didn`t quite look like a five-star hotel; in fact the house did look to be in something of a state of disrepair -- though the careful observer would note that much of it was crafted intentionally.
The butler tied all three horses to a hitching post and lead Dasro up the grand front steps. After the ride, the poor city-dwelling Dasro didn`t exactly feel up to climbing the front stairs of the vampire`s estate. He took each step carefully, trying to hide his urge to wince.
The butler swung the great front doors open, and motioned for Dasro to come inside.
"Dazro Dorzalfin," he called out, announcing the guest as he moved into another room with the Priman`s bags.
The doors seemed to slam shut behind Dasro of their own accord. When they did, a woman appeared at the top of the stairs.
Her midnight blue-black hair was tied into a bun at the back of her head, with a tassle of free hair dangling down on either side, framing her pale and perfect face. She had high cheek-bones and tiny, delicate almond-shaped eyes that were a lusciously deep chocolate brown, though when the light hit them just so they tinged with some red. Her beckoning red lips curled into a smile as she stalked down the stairs. She was dressed in a strapless black evening gown, which fit her figure tantalizingly. Her hands were covered with elbow-length black gloves -- though her right hand hung at her side, pressed close against her thigh, as it was still in the process of healing.
"You must excuse Gunter," the woman said, as she neared the base of the stairs and came face to face with the Priman. "Good help is so hard to find so far from civilization... but my lifestyle demands I take to such places where I can remain relatively well-hid."
"You must be the vampire," Dasro said.
The woman smiled, conspiratorially. She extended her left hand. "I am Contessa Jasmina du Cire," she said. "You may call me Jazz."
Dasro, with a flourish, kissed the woman`s hand. "Don`t mind if I do."
Jasmina chuckled. "Very bold of you, Mister Dorsalfin. You don`t seem frightened of me at all. I like that."
In truth, Dasro found Jasmina to be the least frightening thing since he arrived in Barovia. "Should I be frightened, Jazz?" He asked her, almost flirtatiously.
Jasmina seemed to be quickly warming to the Priman. With a sultry "hmmm," and a swaying pace backward, she said: "Probably not... I don`t like seafood." The woman cocked her head and smiled. "You are here on business, Mister Dorsalfin?"
"Yes, I am. I`m here to buy your house."
The woman`s smile faded. "Buy?"
"Yes, Jazz. You contacted my company to sell your property, and if I may say so they have -- to me. I want this place. I want it bad."
The woman placed a delicate, gloved finger on her chin, running it along the edges of her full, red lower lip. She opened her mouth in a smile, and Dasro could see the tips of her fangs showing as the crimson velvet curtain of her mouth parted.
"You seem to be begging me to ask you why," Jasmina said. "But I don`t easily fall into such ploys. You may explain, if you wish, but as long as you`re good for the money, and I can unload this place, I don`t particularly care."
Dasro shook his head. "You`re a coy one, but you don`t fool me. You must be curious."
"Maybe a little. But my main concern is leaving Barovia, something I can`t do without selling the house." She eyed Dasro, and then took a step towards him. Dasro usually wasn`t the kind who abided such a forward affront to his personal space, but there was something irresistable about the woman. He knew how dangerous she was, and what she could do to him if she wanted -- he didn`t for a moment buy her "seafood" line, believing that was just evidence of a wit that he frankly found incredibly attractive. And that was the thing, Dasro found himself attracted to this woman, this deadly predator who was nearly as dangerous as he believed himself to be (even if in purely an analagous sense).
So Dasro did nothing, didn`t shirk away, barely even moved as Jazz traced a finger along his shoulder, toward his chest, and up his throat. He disguised, as best he could, the shiver that involuntarily shook through him, and the aching in his loins that Jasmina du Cire was quite adept at invoking.
Jasmina smiled and licked her lips. It wasn`t hunger she was feeling; she could almost smell the desire on this fish-man from the city. On some level he wanted her, and that in turn aroused Jasmina something terrible. But if there was one thing a life of centuries could teach you, it was how to control some of the more carnal desires of human passion.
"Tell me then," she whispered, locking eyes with Dasro. "Tell me why you want my house... so badly."
Dasro smiled. "It`s a simple plan, really." The tension subsided as the Priman`s mind began to recall the details of his plan. "A village full of country bumpkins who don`t realize how stupid they are, convinced that they`re living in the hunting ground of a vampire. If the vampire leaves, and they don`t know it, they hold onto that fear. So they won`t know any better when I start showing up on their doorstep, ready to sell them vampire insurance. Maybe I`ll even get into peddling vampire wards and other such trinkets. All of it worthless, of course -- but that`s the beauty of the plan. You won`t be around to feed anymore, and it works as long as Barovia doesn`t know as much. In my line of work, one must strike while the iron is hot."
Jasmina seemed utterly taken by the idea. She did all she could to keep from cackling, but she did find herself edging closer to the Priman, on the verge of pressing herself up against him.
"Now it`s your turn," Dasro said, smiling as he pulled back from Jasmina ever so slightly, stringing the way he did with all his mistresses, "Why are you so eager to get rid of these... prime hunting grounds?"
Jasmina batted her eyes coyly. "Maybe I thought it was time to move on... let another hunter work the neighborhood. Seems I couldn`t have selected a better replacement if I tried."
Dasro scoffed. "That`s a bit harsh. I`m a businessman, not a blood sucker."
Bloodsuckers V
By: Scen
Thread: Iron Writer
Posted: July 09, 2003
That was when the doors burst open. Standing there before the grand archway of what once were a pair of superiorly-crafted heavy oaken doors was Vincent Lander, a spent pneumatic battering ram in his hands.
He tossed the device to the side and drew a silver ankh from one of the pockets of his long coat. Jasmina backed away with a hiss.
"... Meet the reason I`m moving," the woman said, as she began to retreat up the stairs. Her dress did nothing but impede the effort; she stumbled as she fled.
"Lander?" Dasro said, recalling his travelling companion from the train. He began to recall flashes of their conversation, and then smiled with recognition. "Wow. A vampire slayer. This just gets better and better."
"Shut up," Vincent spat, as he moved toward the stairs, "I`ll deal with you later... you`re nearly as bad as the bitch is."
"A-huh. Sounds like someone was eavesdropping. How much did you hear?"
"Enough." Vincent narrowed his eyes. "You`re really a sick man, you know that? You`re even a worse waste of flesh than I thought you were when we met."
Dasro smiled. "I`ll let that one slide, for now. You know, I bet there`s not much money in hunting vampires, is there? How on earth do you make ends meet?"
The slayer turned and stared at the Priman. "... do you think I do what I do for money!?"
"No, no obviously not. What a silly notion... I mean, just look at you. But I digress. Lander, you`re lucky you walked in when you did. I think there might actually be a place for you in my grand plan."
Jasmina laughed wickedly. "He`s right, Dorsalfin. You are a sick man." She tore at her evening gown and doffed her stilletto heels. Before Vincent knew it, the vampire was off like a dart, tearing up the stairs and heading into a door on the far side of the gallery.
Vincent snarled. He drew a gun of some sort from his coat and began to rush up the stairs after her. Dasro gave chase.
"You`re not even going to hear my offer?" the Priman asked.
"Will you just go away!?" Vincent called behind him, as he kicked down the door Jasmina had fled into.
"I never walk away from a deal," Dasro responded, following Vincent into the darkness. "You don`t seem to realize how well we`d work together as a team -- we could sell your services along with the vampire insurance. Do you have any idea how lucrative that would be?"
A roar came from some dark corner of the room as the slayer and the Priman came bursting in, and two pairs of strong arms latched around Vincent. The slayer cried and fought, throwing fists and kicks into the darkness, but to no avail. Dasro, instinctively, hit the lightswitch on the wall.
The butler, Gunter, and another creature whose flesh was a sickly green in color, had grappled around Vincent and were pulling him to the ground. The green creature, dressed in a uniform similar to Gunter`s (although somewhat in tatters) was chewing on the slayer`s leg.
Dasro`s eyes scanned the room. It was another priceless display of a horror movie staple: the armory. Suits of armor (which had obviously been given rust treatment) and weapons (likewise "antiqued") decorated the drab blue-panelled walls, along with portraits of Tasnican nobility, replete with excessive facial hair and outdated clothes.
Dasro, as he said, wasn`t one to walk away from a deal. Nor was he one to leave a deal to be eaten by a vampire`s minions. The Priman hefted up a mace from the wall, reeling at first because it was heavier than he expected it to be. With a cry, and a good deal more bravery than he believed he was capable of, he brought the weapon down hard onto the green creature`s skull.
The creature`s head collapsed with a satisfyingly sick crunch. Its limbs began to gyrate, spastically clawing for the attacker who had so grievously injured it. But within a moment the creature slumped under its own weight and released Vincent.
Freed from the gnawing creature`s grasp, and taking advantage of Gunter`s surprise at there now being two opponents to grapple with, the slayer pressed the barrel of his gun against the butler`s chest and fired. A pulse of white hot light shot clean through the man, and he gurgled and choked as he fell backward, sputtering blood from every orifice.
As Gunter fell aside, Vincent turned and ran. The next chamber was a drawing room, with no exits save a window that was open. The wind was rushing through the drapes, making them dance, as if taunting Vincent`s tardiness. He gasped and shut his eyes.
"... I`m sorry, Abel... Ilse... I`m sorry..."
The Priman walked in slowly behind him, but the old man`s hunter`s instincts caught the sounds of his creeping. He whirled around and leveled his gun at Dasro.
Dasro faltered, but then after a moment raised his arms above his head. "You`re welcome," the Priman said, as he dropped the goo-encrusted mace to the floor.
"Spare me," Vincent said, "I doubt you did that out of the goodness of your cold, fishy heart."
Dasro smiled. "Maybe not. But you`re too late, you know. Jazz`s probably miles from here by now... turned into a bat, or a crow, or whatever, and gone into the mists."
"Yeah. I figured." the gun remained level with Dasro.
The Priman began to sweat. "Lander..."
"Shut up," Vincent said. He exhaled, and looked down at his feet for a moment. Then he locked eyes with the Priman again. "She killed my son."
Dasro did his best to feign sympathy. In truth he had no conception for what such a loss would mean to a man. "I`m... sorry, Lander..."
"And you helped her escape. Part of me wants to kill you knowing that much... but I`ve never taken a life in all my years and I don`t plan to start now..."
Vincent seemed to be mulling some things over. He shook his head, and then lowered the gun.
"Go," he said. "Leave, before I change my mind."
Dasro backed away. He turned and began to walk back through the armory, past the oozing corpses of Gunter and his slimy friend. He had just begun to realize that the deal with Jasmina was probably off, and without Lander`s complicity the plan to sell "vampire insurance" probably wouldn`t work out. Because there was always a risk that Lander would leak the truth and spoil the operation.
Still, Dasro began to wonder if it really would have been worth it anyway; if the money he`d squeeze out of that sleepy little village would even have made it worth the amount of time he`d invest into pitching his "services." But then, he wasn`t thinking like a rational businessman. He was thinking like a beast with a hunger, a creature not unlike Jasmina. He was a shark who`d caught the scent of blood on the water, and was momentarily crazed, not knowing how much actual meat there was to be had.
A sharp pain struck Dasro in the back, as he was musing. It spread from behind him to deep inside his chest, and then errupted with a sensation that was at once warm and cold. He lurched, and felt a line of blood course up his throat and explode over his lip, trailing, dribbling down onto the front of his sarha shirt.
"I changed my mind," came Vincent`s voice from behind him. He twisted the knife, and Dasro felt himself scream.
The slayer kicked the Priman in the back, wrenching him off the long-bladed weapon and into the far wall. He landed with a thud and tried to pick himself up, but every motion seemed to bring him pain. He felt his lungs filling up with his own blood, which he coughed up violently, spraying the walls and floor. As his strength left him, Dasro gurgled and slid down the wall, clawing desperately to stay standing. Words tried to form themselves on his lips, but there was too much blood for him to be intelligible; he simply sputtered futilely.
"Fitting," Vincent said, standing over Dasro, "That your end should come from a stab in the back. Now the world is safe from you... one less bloodsucker to victimize the people." He spat on Dasro`s writhing body as he tossed the knife aside.
Before the slayer left, he flicked off the light switch, leaving Dasro Dorsalfin to bleed to death in the darkness.
He tossed the device to the side and drew a silver ankh from one of the pockets of his long coat. Jasmina backed away with a hiss.
"... Meet the reason I`m moving," the woman said, as she began to retreat up the stairs. Her dress did nothing but impede the effort; she stumbled as she fled.
"Lander?" Dasro said, recalling his travelling companion from the train. He began to recall flashes of their conversation, and then smiled with recognition. "Wow. A vampire slayer. This just gets better and better."
"Shut up," Vincent spat, as he moved toward the stairs, "I`ll deal with you later... you`re nearly as bad as the bitch is."
"A-huh. Sounds like someone was eavesdropping. How much did you hear?"
"Enough." Vincent narrowed his eyes. "You`re really a sick man, you know that? You`re even a worse waste of flesh than I thought you were when we met."
Dasro smiled. "I`ll let that one slide, for now. You know, I bet there`s not much money in hunting vampires, is there? How on earth do you make ends meet?"
The slayer turned and stared at the Priman. "... do you think I do what I do for money!?"
"No, no obviously not. What a silly notion... I mean, just look at you. But I digress. Lander, you`re lucky you walked in when you did. I think there might actually be a place for you in my grand plan."
Jasmina laughed wickedly. "He`s right, Dorsalfin. You are a sick man." She tore at her evening gown and doffed her stilletto heels. Before Vincent knew it, the vampire was off like a dart, tearing up the stairs and heading into a door on the far side of the gallery.
Vincent snarled. He drew a gun of some sort from his coat and began to rush up the stairs after her. Dasro gave chase.
"You`re not even going to hear my offer?" the Priman asked.
"Will you just go away!?" Vincent called behind him, as he kicked down the door Jasmina had fled into.
"I never walk away from a deal," Dasro responded, following Vincent into the darkness. "You don`t seem to realize how well we`d work together as a team -- we could sell your services along with the vampire insurance. Do you have any idea how lucrative that would be?"
A roar came from some dark corner of the room as the slayer and the Priman came bursting in, and two pairs of strong arms latched around Vincent. The slayer cried and fought, throwing fists and kicks into the darkness, but to no avail. Dasro, instinctively, hit the lightswitch on the wall.
The butler, Gunter, and another creature whose flesh was a sickly green in color, had grappled around Vincent and were pulling him to the ground. The green creature, dressed in a uniform similar to Gunter`s (although somewhat in tatters) was chewing on the slayer`s leg.
Dasro`s eyes scanned the room. It was another priceless display of a horror movie staple: the armory. Suits of armor (which had obviously been given rust treatment) and weapons (likewise "antiqued") decorated the drab blue-panelled walls, along with portraits of Tasnican nobility, replete with excessive facial hair and outdated clothes.
Dasro, as he said, wasn`t one to walk away from a deal. Nor was he one to leave a deal to be eaten by a vampire`s minions. The Priman hefted up a mace from the wall, reeling at first because it was heavier than he expected it to be. With a cry, and a good deal more bravery than he believed he was capable of, he brought the weapon down hard onto the green creature`s skull.
The creature`s head collapsed with a satisfyingly sick crunch. Its limbs began to gyrate, spastically clawing for the attacker who had so grievously injured it. But within a moment the creature slumped under its own weight and released Vincent.
Freed from the gnawing creature`s grasp, and taking advantage of Gunter`s surprise at there now being two opponents to grapple with, the slayer pressed the barrel of his gun against the butler`s chest and fired. A pulse of white hot light shot clean through the man, and he gurgled and choked as he fell backward, sputtering blood from every orifice.
As Gunter fell aside, Vincent turned and ran. The next chamber was a drawing room, with no exits save a window that was open. The wind was rushing through the drapes, making them dance, as if taunting Vincent`s tardiness. He gasped and shut his eyes.
"... I`m sorry, Abel... Ilse... I`m sorry..."
The Priman walked in slowly behind him, but the old man`s hunter`s instincts caught the sounds of his creeping. He whirled around and leveled his gun at Dasro.
Dasro faltered, but then after a moment raised his arms above his head. "You`re welcome," the Priman said, as he dropped the goo-encrusted mace to the floor.
"Spare me," Vincent said, "I doubt you did that out of the goodness of your cold, fishy heart."
Dasro smiled. "Maybe not. But you`re too late, you know. Jazz`s probably miles from here by now... turned into a bat, or a crow, or whatever, and gone into the mists."
"Yeah. I figured." the gun remained level with Dasro.
The Priman began to sweat. "Lander..."
"Shut up," Vincent said. He exhaled, and looked down at his feet for a moment. Then he locked eyes with the Priman again. "She killed my son."
Dasro did his best to feign sympathy. In truth he had no conception for what such a loss would mean to a man. "I`m... sorry, Lander..."
"And you helped her escape. Part of me wants to kill you knowing that much... but I`ve never taken a life in all my years and I don`t plan to start now..."
Vincent seemed to be mulling some things over. He shook his head, and then lowered the gun.
"Go," he said. "Leave, before I change my mind."
Dasro backed away. He turned and began to walk back through the armory, past the oozing corpses of Gunter and his slimy friend. He had just begun to realize that the deal with Jasmina was probably off, and without Lander`s complicity the plan to sell "vampire insurance" probably wouldn`t work out. Because there was always a risk that Lander would leak the truth and spoil the operation.
Still, Dasro began to wonder if it really would have been worth it anyway; if the money he`d squeeze out of that sleepy little village would even have made it worth the amount of time he`d invest into pitching his "services." But then, he wasn`t thinking like a rational businessman. He was thinking like a beast with a hunger, a creature not unlike Jasmina. He was a shark who`d caught the scent of blood on the water, and was momentarily crazed, not knowing how much actual meat there was to be had.
A sharp pain struck Dasro in the back, as he was musing. It spread from behind him to deep inside his chest, and then errupted with a sensation that was at once warm and cold. He lurched, and felt a line of blood course up his throat and explode over his lip, trailing, dribbling down onto the front of his sarha shirt.
"I changed my mind," came Vincent`s voice from behind him. He twisted the knife, and Dasro felt himself scream.
The slayer kicked the Priman in the back, wrenching him off the long-bladed weapon and into the far wall. He landed with a thud and tried to pick himself up, but every motion seemed to bring him pain. He felt his lungs filling up with his own blood, which he coughed up violently, spraying the walls and floor. As his strength left him, Dasro gurgled and slid down the wall, clawing desperately to stay standing. Words tried to form themselves on his lips, but there was too much blood for him to be intelligible; he simply sputtered futilely.
"Fitting," Vincent said, standing over Dasro, "That your end should come from a stab in the back. Now the world is safe from you... one less bloodsucker to victimize the people." He spat on Dasro`s writhing body as he tossed the knife aside.
Before the slayer left, he flicked off the light switch, leaving Dasro Dorsalfin to bleed to death in the darkness.
Bloodsuckers VI
By: Scen
Thread: Iron Writer
Posted: July 09, 2003
I didn`t wait long before I crept back into the house.
The slayer had gone, convinced that I had fled. But I could not just leave without my prize.
There was something about the Priman that I could not put my finger on... something indescribable. I felt as if I had found a kindred spirit, for the first time in centuries. I felt that there was the possibility, with him, that I would not have to be alone anymore.
All these years, these dark, bloody years, I have hunted to sate my hunger. That hunger has been my only companion, and the respite it gives me from the pain of my condition, the pain of my loneliness, is as fleeting as anything else we consume when we eat.
Dasro was dying when I found him... apparently the hunter couldn`t leave my home without slaying something. He`d taken out Gunter and Heinrich as well... the poor half-living beasts.
I lifted his cold, bloody body in my arms. In the moonlight from the window, his silver scales shone beautifully. I never imagined I could find something so inhuman so beautiful... but then, I had lost my own humanity long ago. Maybe it was fitting that the man I`d fall in love with was as monstrous on the outside as I had become on the inside.
Goosebumps raced across my arms as he coughed and spat up his own blood. The hunger. The blood coated his lips in thick, bubbling sheets. The hunger, and then the lust. Succumbing, I bent forward and kissed him, playing my tongue within his mouth and gently sipping away the blood he was losing.
Barely conscious, Dasro returned my affections. He weakly placed one of his hands on the back of my neck, pulling me closer, and his lips trembled softly.
I had never kissed a man so tenderly, so passionately, in nearly six hundred years. It was bliss; despite myself I began to cry.
I pulled away and stroked the side of Dasro`s face. His eyes looked up into mine imploringly.
"J... Jazz..." he managed.
I felt my fangs extend. Dasro wouldn`t last much longer. If I was going to turn him, it had to be now.
"In time you will forgive me," I told him. "You will have no other choice. We were meant for each other."
The glinting of his silvery flesh in the moonlight was the last thing I saw before I buried my teeth in my lover`s neck, and made him mine for all the ages.
The slayer had gone, convinced that I had fled. But I could not just leave without my prize.
There was something about the Priman that I could not put my finger on... something indescribable. I felt as if I had found a kindred spirit, for the first time in centuries. I felt that there was the possibility, with him, that I would not have to be alone anymore.
All these years, these dark, bloody years, I have hunted to sate my hunger. That hunger has been my only companion, and the respite it gives me from the pain of my condition, the pain of my loneliness, is as fleeting as anything else we consume when we eat.
Dasro was dying when I found him... apparently the hunter couldn`t leave my home without slaying something. He`d taken out Gunter and Heinrich as well... the poor half-living beasts.
I lifted his cold, bloody body in my arms. In the moonlight from the window, his silver scales shone beautifully. I never imagined I could find something so inhuman so beautiful... but then, I had lost my own humanity long ago. Maybe it was fitting that the man I`d fall in love with was as monstrous on the outside as I had become on the inside.
Goosebumps raced across my arms as he coughed and spat up his own blood. The hunger. The blood coated his lips in thick, bubbling sheets. The hunger, and then the lust. Succumbing, I bent forward and kissed him, playing my tongue within his mouth and gently sipping away the blood he was losing.
Barely conscious, Dasro returned my affections. He weakly placed one of his hands on the back of my neck, pulling me closer, and his lips trembled softly.
I had never kissed a man so tenderly, so passionately, in nearly six hundred years. It was bliss; despite myself I began to cry.
I pulled away and stroked the side of Dasro`s face. His eyes looked up into mine imploringly.
"J... Jazz..." he managed.
I felt my fangs extend. Dasro wouldn`t last much longer. If I was going to turn him, it had to be now.
"In time you will forgive me," I told him. "You will have no other choice. We were meant for each other."
The glinting of his silvery flesh in the moonlight was the last thing I saw before I buried my teeth in my lover`s neck, and made him mine for all the ages.