****************DISCLAIMER********************
This story is based on characters myself and my friends created while playing Vampire and Warewolf over the past 4 years. This story is incredibly long, and I will be adding to it as I find the time to further the story. It contains small crossovers into Dungeons and Dragons, but nothing truly major. The characters belong to me and my friends, but the world they are based in do not. Please R&R.
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For the third time in ten minutes, Ethan checked that his sword was loose in it's sheath. It still was, easily removed if the meeting got out of hand.
There was a whisper of breath on his shoulder, "Sire, is everything ok?"
"Yes, Strahd, it's just fine. A bit nervous, I suppose."
Strahd nodded and stepped back.Ethan glanced at him and was suddenly very jealous of Strahd's silent, stony-faced demeanor. Did anything shake him at all?
Shadow beside him became form, and from it stepped Daedalus. His hideous appearance had long ago ceased to make Ethan retch, but the Nosferatu's tumor-laden and deformed countenance still made Ethan's husk of a stomach turn.
"They approach, Master."
Ethan nodded and took a deep breath, "Here goes nothing."
Blood and fire. Both were everywhere, driving him nearly mad with fear and hunger. Thick, black smoke smeared his eyes, but since he had not breathed in ceveral centuries, he felt no need to cough.He heard cries of anguish that made his already panicked mind even worse. The clanking of metal came closer and the door of the small hut was thrown open. A soldier stood there, swaying from too much drink. He met eyes with Ethan and raised his sword high.
"To hell with you, witch!"
Ethan felt a grim smile play across his features. Dinner was served.
He let his gaze drive deep into the human and grabbed his feeble mind. The command was more than the word he spoke. The soldier felt the need rise from every fiber of his being, and collapsed, sleeping like a child.
Ethan siezed the sleeping form and dragged it past the doorway. He embraced the man, watching the chainmail slide from his neck, watched the pulse of the skin as the blood raced below it, felt his mind become animal, bent close, and drank. Blood became heaven, eating was orgasmic, pleasure was life, even life as a vampire. However, even in pleasure he was careful. He drank only enough to ebb his hunger, incapacitating, but not killing. The blood was needed by another.
"Strahd, come here!"
Strahd padded over silently, hearing his master's strained half-whisper. He crouched, and took in his sire's gaze.
"Are you sure you're done, sire?"
Ethan nodded, "I am. Drink fully, tomorrow night we leave France. It is becoming too dangerous here."
Strahd resisted tearing into the man's throat. Ethan admired his self-control. "Where will we go?"
"I know someone in Asia. I will take you there so you may begin your sword training."
Strahd nodded. He concentrated on the skin before him and began to feed.
"Ethan, are you alright?"
His remembrance was slammed back into the present, and he consumed a long breath, more out of habit than need. "I am fine, Strahd. Simply. . .remembering."
Strahd nodded, and turned back to the doorway. It's hinges creaked with age, and four men stepped in through the blackness. Their manner of dress was liberal to say the least. The foremost one was dressed much as Ethan, a black suit, though no sword was apparent. Ethan was sure, however, that a gun was strapped below the jacket. The other three were attired much more like street-punks, however. Baggy jeans, big t-shirts, and bandannas. And their guns were much more visible.
Ethan stepped forward a few paces, his hand lightly resting on the hilt of his sword. One of the punks took a step beside his master, and Strahd followed suit.
Ethan raised his hand and cocked his head in caution, "Strahd. . ."
The other man made a similar gesture, "Colin. . .please. If it weren't for you and your cohort's complete lack of regard for taste and subtlety, I doubt Ethan would even have his sword, much less feel compelled to use it. All of you put your guns away. There is no threat here."
"Master-" Colin began.
"You'll do as you're told. Now."
Colin threw Strahd an up-turned lip and snorted. His gun was back in it's holster with a blur, and his fellows did likewise.
The man smiled and turned back to Ethan, "Now that we have that out of the way, first let me say thank you for coming."
Ethan nodded, but said nothing.
"I have reviewed your proposal and agree with you. Something must be done about the Sabbat threat. Myself and the other Justicars have collected as many volunteers as we could muster and have decided to implement you as Prince of Los Angeles. Those we have brought together will assist you in overthrowing-"
"Excuse me, Prince of Los Angeles? I was simply hoping for action, I don't want leadership."
The man shrugged, "You have it nonetheless. It was your proposal, so you will lead them."
Ethan's mouth was drier than usual, and he forced himself to swallow. He had avoided being a leader most of his life, even though he had some talent with it. He was simply tired of the Sabbat cutting into his business in Nevada, and so had asked the Justicars to do something. But him as Prince was not at all what he had in mind.
"Good luck, Ethan, you will need it. You will meet with your advisors tomorrow evening, here. We have obtained a representative from each of the Camarilla's clans to serve as your primogen. You will invade Los Angeles and destroy as many of them as possible. The Justicars have arranged a riot to help keep the Masquerade in place, but still do be careful of hunters. They have a nasty little way of showing up at the wrong times."
"I am aware of the dangers of hunters, Michael." iMuch more aware than you./I
Michael nodded, "I'm sure. All of those who survived the Burning Times are. Good luck, Ethan."
Ethan simply nodded and watched him leave. At the mention of the Inquisition, Colin gave Ethan a look that was somewhere between fear and respect. Ethan would have noted it if the floor had not gained so much of his immeadiate attention.
"Sire?"
Ethan revived himself from dark thoughts and considered his charge for a moment. Strahd's face was unreadable to everyone. Everyone but Ethan, at least. And his stony mask was even more stony than usual. Tension was in every line of his face.
"Sire, we should go. . ."
"Yes, we should. Daedalus, let's get out of here."
Daedalus appeared again beside him and took his friend's arm. Such gestures had been lost over the past several centuries they had known each other, but were still ingrained in both of them. Regality and honor had died long ago, at least the way they knew it. But in private moments with them, it was resurrected from it's dark grave and shone onto their cold hearts. As they walked away, Strahd wondered just how old they both were.
The ground slammed into him, at least that's the way his fractured mind and body percieved it. He could not have hit something that hard on his own, it had to have hit him. Or maybe it had help.
"Get up, leech!"
The fury rose in him again, giving him new strength. He used the placement of his hands to throw himself backwards, his feet aimed at his opponent's chest. No human could have made that move. And no human could have avoided it.
There was a blur of movement beside him, barely perceptable to his degrading senses. The blur became solid, and his opponent was there, watching him slam into the far wall, his creative attack failing miserably.
He laughed.
It was mocking, cruel. It shook him to be laughed at in such a way. His rage boiled over into frenzy. He hated being laughed at.
A redness simmered at the edge of his vision, clouding his perception, darkening his mind, and feeding his infinite anger. He saw the smile on his opponent's face and felt his blood get even hotter, his rage grow larger. He struck again and again, not knowing and not caring which blows struck, what kind of damage he was doing. Hours seemed to pass, but there was no ending to it. Blow after blow landed. Finally, the redness dimmed, and fatigue grabbed him. He collapsed to his knees and his eyes fell downward. He felt his forehead rest against something cold and supple. He smelled leather, and realized they were the boots of his opponent.
"Stand up, Strahd"
Strahd craned his neck upwards and met the gaze of the small Asian man in front of him. His arms were folded across his chest, his gaze unreadable. Strahd put his palm on the floor to steady himself as he slowly stood.
"How. . .many. . .got through. . ."
"None. Your attack was slow and so it failed. Ethan was right in bringing you here. I will teach you to live. You have much will, but little skill."
"But you moved. . .so fast. . ."
The old man's eyes narrowed, "That is simply the Discipline of Celerity. It is in your blood as much as mine. In time you will learn to call upon it in need."
Strahd warily nodded his head. The man regarded him for a few more moments, then spun on his heel and began to exit the room.
"Come, Strahd. It is time for us to hunt."
"Yes, Sensei."
This story is based on characters myself and my friends created while playing Vampire and Warewolf over the past 4 years. This story is incredibly long, and I will be adding to it as I find the time to further the story. It contains small crossovers into Dungeons and Dragons, but nothing truly major. The characters belong to me and my friends, but the world they are based in do not. Please R&R.
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For the third time in ten minutes, Ethan checked that his sword was loose in it's sheath. It still was, easily removed if the meeting got out of hand.
There was a whisper of breath on his shoulder, "Sire, is everything ok?"
"Yes, Strahd, it's just fine. A bit nervous, I suppose."
Strahd nodded and stepped back.Ethan glanced at him and was suddenly very jealous of Strahd's silent, stony-faced demeanor. Did anything shake him at all?
Shadow beside him became form, and from it stepped Daedalus. His hideous appearance had long ago ceased to make Ethan retch, but the Nosferatu's tumor-laden and deformed countenance still made Ethan's husk of a stomach turn.
"They approach, Master."
Ethan nodded and took a deep breath, "Here goes nothing."
Blood and fire. Both were everywhere, driving him nearly mad with fear and hunger. Thick, black smoke smeared his eyes, but since he had not breathed in ceveral centuries, he felt no need to cough.He heard cries of anguish that made his already panicked mind even worse. The clanking of metal came closer and the door of the small hut was thrown open. A soldier stood there, swaying from too much drink. He met eyes with Ethan and raised his sword high.
"To hell with you, witch!"
Ethan felt a grim smile play across his features. Dinner was served.
He let his gaze drive deep into the human and grabbed his feeble mind. The command was more than the word he spoke. The soldier felt the need rise from every fiber of his being, and collapsed, sleeping like a child.
Ethan siezed the sleeping form and dragged it past the doorway. He embraced the man, watching the chainmail slide from his neck, watched the pulse of the skin as the blood raced below it, felt his mind become animal, bent close, and drank. Blood became heaven, eating was orgasmic, pleasure was life, even life as a vampire. However, even in pleasure he was careful. He drank only enough to ebb his hunger, incapacitating, but not killing. The blood was needed by another.
"Strahd, come here!"
Strahd padded over silently, hearing his master's strained half-whisper. He crouched, and took in his sire's gaze.
"Are you sure you're done, sire?"
Ethan nodded, "I am. Drink fully, tomorrow night we leave France. It is becoming too dangerous here."
Strahd resisted tearing into the man's throat. Ethan admired his self-control. "Where will we go?"
"I know someone in Asia. I will take you there so you may begin your sword training."
Strahd nodded. He concentrated on the skin before him and began to feed.
"Ethan, are you alright?"
His remembrance was slammed back into the present, and he consumed a long breath, more out of habit than need. "I am fine, Strahd. Simply. . .remembering."
Strahd nodded, and turned back to the doorway. It's hinges creaked with age, and four men stepped in through the blackness. Their manner of dress was liberal to say the least. The foremost one was dressed much as Ethan, a black suit, though no sword was apparent. Ethan was sure, however, that a gun was strapped below the jacket. The other three were attired much more like street-punks, however. Baggy jeans, big t-shirts, and bandannas. And their guns were much more visible.
Ethan stepped forward a few paces, his hand lightly resting on the hilt of his sword. One of the punks took a step beside his master, and Strahd followed suit.
Ethan raised his hand and cocked his head in caution, "Strahd. . ."
The other man made a similar gesture, "Colin. . .please. If it weren't for you and your cohort's complete lack of regard for taste and subtlety, I doubt Ethan would even have his sword, much less feel compelled to use it. All of you put your guns away. There is no threat here."
"Master-" Colin began.
"You'll do as you're told. Now."
Colin threw Strahd an up-turned lip and snorted. His gun was back in it's holster with a blur, and his fellows did likewise.
The man smiled and turned back to Ethan, "Now that we have that out of the way, first let me say thank you for coming."
Ethan nodded, but said nothing.
"I have reviewed your proposal and agree with you. Something must be done about the Sabbat threat. Myself and the other Justicars have collected as many volunteers as we could muster and have decided to implement you as Prince of Los Angeles. Those we have brought together will assist you in overthrowing-"
"Excuse me, Prince of Los Angeles? I was simply hoping for action, I don't want leadership."
The man shrugged, "You have it nonetheless. It was your proposal, so you will lead them."
Ethan's mouth was drier than usual, and he forced himself to swallow. He had avoided being a leader most of his life, even though he had some talent with it. He was simply tired of the Sabbat cutting into his business in Nevada, and so had asked the Justicars to do something. But him as Prince was not at all what he had in mind.
"Good luck, Ethan, you will need it. You will meet with your advisors tomorrow evening, here. We have obtained a representative from each of the Camarilla's clans to serve as your primogen. You will invade Los Angeles and destroy as many of them as possible. The Justicars have arranged a riot to help keep the Masquerade in place, but still do be careful of hunters. They have a nasty little way of showing up at the wrong times."
"I am aware of the dangers of hunters, Michael." iMuch more aware than you./I
Michael nodded, "I'm sure. All of those who survived the Burning Times are. Good luck, Ethan."
Ethan simply nodded and watched him leave. At the mention of the Inquisition, Colin gave Ethan a look that was somewhere between fear and respect. Ethan would have noted it if the floor had not gained so much of his immeadiate attention.
"Sire?"
Ethan revived himself from dark thoughts and considered his charge for a moment. Strahd's face was unreadable to everyone. Everyone but Ethan, at least. And his stony mask was even more stony than usual. Tension was in every line of his face.
"Sire, we should go. . ."
"Yes, we should. Daedalus, let's get out of here."
Daedalus appeared again beside him and took his friend's arm. Such gestures had been lost over the past several centuries they had known each other, but were still ingrained in both of them. Regality and honor had died long ago, at least the way they knew it. But in private moments with them, it was resurrected from it's dark grave and shone onto their cold hearts. As they walked away, Strahd wondered just how old they both were.
The ground slammed into him, at least that's the way his fractured mind and body percieved it. He could not have hit something that hard on his own, it had to have hit him. Or maybe it had help.
"Get up, leech!"
The fury rose in him again, giving him new strength. He used the placement of his hands to throw himself backwards, his feet aimed at his opponent's chest. No human could have made that move. And no human could have avoided it.
There was a blur of movement beside him, barely perceptable to his degrading senses. The blur became solid, and his opponent was there, watching him slam into the far wall, his creative attack failing miserably.
He laughed.
It was mocking, cruel. It shook him to be laughed at in such a way. His rage boiled over into frenzy. He hated being laughed at.
A redness simmered at the edge of his vision, clouding his perception, darkening his mind, and feeding his infinite anger. He saw the smile on his opponent's face and felt his blood get even hotter, his rage grow larger. He struck again and again, not knowing and not caring which blows struck, what kind of damage he was doing. Hours seemed to pass, but there was no ending to it. Blow after blow landed. Finally, the redness dimmed, and fatigue grabbed him. He collapsed to his knees and his eyes fell downward. He felt his forehead rest against something cold and supple. He smelled leather, and realized they were the boots of his opponent.
"Stand up, Strahd"
Strahd craned his neck upwards and met the gaze of the small Asian man in front of him. His arms were folded across his chest, his gaze unreadable. Strahd put his palm on the floor to steady himself as he slowly stood.
"How. . .many. . .got through. . ."
"None. Your attack was slow and so it failed. Ethan was right in bringing you here. I will teach you to live. You have much will, but little skill."
"But you moved. . .so fast. . ."
The old man's eyes narrowed, "That is simply the Discipline of Celerity. It is in your blood as much as mine. In time you will learn to call upon it in need."
Strahd warily nodded his head. The man regarded him for a few more moments, then spun on his heel and began to exit the room.
"Come, Strahd. It is time for us to hunt."
"Yes, Sensei."