The Hunt
1
In the first rays of sun raise creep over the edge of the hills of the surrounding mountain range, where a many of his victim fell into his charming gaze that he used over centuries of his prolonged life, hung a pale figure clinging to life. Dew ran from his pale forehead, on to his roman chiseled face, his tiger stripped mixture of midnight black and hay blonde hair moved as the chill wind blew. As a bead runs off his square jaw, drips onto his battle tattered and torn black robes and crimson undershirt stained that colour by his own blood.
The skillful hands of the cunning Hunter and her Blessed silver daggers given by the Catholic Father that sent to exact His Divine Wrath caused that. That certain hunter has been in his shadows since the spring of the past three years. The salt adding to the irritation, but unable to wipe away the clinging sweat because of the restraints that bound his wrists to the shrine posts, which he was strung to. A second set of chains held his black boots and pants to the lower run, giving his appearance of a human star. A soft trickle of blood ran down his leg and off the boots into a pool that was slowly but continuously growing since the early hours of the night that he was home to.
As the last moments of twilight faded into the glory of the day and light descended the two points of the Shinto shrine and down the upper silver chains twinkled, the shine stung his eyes that had seen the light some centuries prior but now were unaccustomed to its brightness. Flashes of the moment that Fate doomed him screened before his eyes, strung as he was. His ears were filled with the screams of prey filled him, as he waited the first and last sunrise since his transformation. Knowing that none of "his kind" would rescue him and human guards held off any whom might try to alert the authorities to a "hostage situation". Muttering curses from the ages that he was born in and places he traveled through, Vincent spat on the nearest captures' back, before attempting the final and despite try to break the chains. Yet his strength drained from his body as the mystical chains sapped that precious energy and the steady, slow gradual flow of blood leaving his body achieved goal of weakening him to this feeble state of sub-human strength. His thoughts wondered as the last link of the silver chain glitters, back to the killings of thousands of prey that he had committed that last decade, putting his in this retched state.
As the precious blood and power flow from his body, his mind, by some primeval instinct flashes back to the first night of his cursed life and the sorrow that come just prior.
2
The night was unusually cold for the summer on the Mediterranean coast of Italy. Birds chirped from unseen crevices in the marble cliffs that lined the coast of the white sandy beaches, while insects sung their courtship songs that gave the sounds that so many Italians sleep to every night. As he wrapped his summer cloak around his wiry frame, Vincent shivers off the chill and walks down the shoreline, thinking of the night that had just passed. His wife, Jessabelle that was home to her parents, recently, by illness that swept over the known world. By the time he reached her house, from his fishing trip across the gulf, the family was beyond any help and the household boarded within the walls. Thanking God for his life and cursing God for not sparing hers, he refused to attend the funeral and the cleansing of the house by fire. The news of its usage was widespread, for many were coming by ship and coach to see the inspirational ideas that the leaders had concocted to attempt the illness that was so devastating.
As the waves crashed against the shore, Vincent noticed shimmers in the spray on the rocky outcrop. As he allowed the glinting shine draw him to it, he noticed that a silver dagger that showed a broken crucifix and a broken blade cast upon the rock. Here, a corpse floated next to this rock and as the body hits the rocks that it cascades onto, blood flows from the wounds inflicted by the jagged rocks and the slit wound that was on his back. Looking around for a sigh of the assassin on the cliff heights, Vincent noticed that a shadow of a figure standing against the Cliffside. This figure was a broad man who wore a cloak of black leather, his jacket, thought not meant for this area, was crimson and white, though the crimson was overtaking the white as blood seeps into the jacket. His raven hair shifted with the breeze that blew the waves of the sea. As Vincent looks on in awe of this "gentleman", he hears a voice, but not one calling to him from a distance but as one whispering in his ear. This voice matched the distinct accent of this foreigner who appeared to speak fluent Italian.
"This man attempted to end my life," spoke the voice, as the sir pointed towards the floating cooling corpse, as he moving briskly towards Vincent.
"Save your strength, let me help you to the doctor." Vincent hesitantly offered as he thought that this man was not to be trusted.
"Come and help me to my villa just north of here." The shadowy figure suggested. Thinking that this home was just outside the walls of the entire keep safe from this disease of the outside world, started to move slowly towards this "thing" that called itself a "gentleman" but had the appearance of a vagabond.
Vincent came into this man field of direct vision and seemed to become thunderstruck and at a loose for words and emotions. This man, this creature had locked Vincent within his hypnotic power. Vincent's mind clouded like that of a drunkard and his body went limp as cooked pasta. As he fell to the ground, the figure slowly made his way to Vincent, his face contracted with pain and cursing the corpse that now floated in the sea.
Vincent's mind cleared up as this figure lowered towards his neck; he slams his face into its face and drives his fist into the chest as his knee strikes at the abdomen, throwing the dark creature back. As the thing regains its sense, Vincent reaches back for a harder blow that was for its face. Unfortunately, that blow never landed, yet this could have been for the best because the demonic entity that was in the shape of a man had a structure that designed to withstand blunt force trauma and most likely would have shattered Vincent fleshy hand. Seemingly, instantly, Vincent was by the throat and could not breathe.
"You have fight in your soul. You fight not for your own miserable life, but for the vengeance on the magistrate of this small population of hypocrites. Do you want all eternity to reach forth your hand and strike fear into their hearts?" reaching his hand back from Vincent's throat, this apparent God or Devil posed a very curious question.
As Vincent regained his breathe to his lungs and oxygen began to surge back into his body, a very intriguing ideal started to work thought his mind, 'an eternity to strike back at all the people who wronged me and claim the vengeance that I so rightly deserve.' Vincent eyed this character, which seemingly could grant eternal life that not even God, himself since the days of Abraham, would allow, yet wondered what the cost would cost him.
"You have only a few moments to decide, Vincent Raphael Valentino. Dawn is fast approaching."
"What will the vengeance of eternal life cost me?"
"Either death of your life as you knew it, or death of our immortal soul, which will be cursed to join the Father of all Lies. It is destined to join him either way for you pride, vengeance and wrath." The Nightwalker addressed, nervously looking at the water, sensing twilight fading from indigo to a brilliant orange glow of the sun's searing light.
"Fine, but I need to be taught everything you know and more," Demand a defiant Vincent
With that answer he sealed fate to damnation, the Night Watchman of Hades touched the apprentice's shoulder and traveled to the master's Citadel of Night in the Black Forest of Germany under the rule of the 17th century Bishop Georg Bernhard Bilfinger.
The castle was a fortress more than a home, built high above the valley, overlooking the Neckar River, about twenty kilometers west southwest of Rotterburg. The castles fortified with a wall of stone over eleven kilometers in height, and four towers in each corner reaching over twice that. Each one had archers in positioned, facing the hilly terrain surrounding the citadel of darkness. Iron gates open to covered pathway, holes in the roof for tar pits to empty on to approaching enemies, as well as slits in the wall for spearmen to impale victims. This grotesque walkway lead to a torch lit amphitheater filled with centuries of armour, both foreign and native.
As Vincent stared around in awe, he became aware that his host has vanished from his side,
"how rude of him to abandon his quest." Vincent commented as he scales up the grand stairs that divide against the back wall and spread like angelic wings to the first landing of the countless higher landing, taking the left path up. Searching for his host, he notes a small glow of what appears to be a fire, intrigued, he ventures against his better judgment.
A door left ajar, slides open silently, showing a room that must have been the size of his own master bedroom in his own villa back in Italy. Along the windows were black satin curtains, removing the natural glow of the sun. The fireplace crackled from a strange and almost mystical white flame that did not give off any warmth as a normal fire would. Along the walls stood bookshelves upon bookshelves, filled with scrolls and few books, tan hides and stacks of papers made different types of materials. An ebony desk sat in the corner opposite the grand bed, covered with ebony and crimson silk and satin sheets which a maiden of great virtue laid. Vincent slightly embarrassed tries to slip out the door without disturbing the Lady. As he reaches for the door, she stirs, awaking to the dull groan of the wooden door on the hinges, and beckons Vincent to her side as though he were a servant.
"I'm deeply sorry, madam, I didn't mean to awaken you from your slumber. Brought to this castle by a fierce some creature, he claims to be the servant of the Bishop Georg Bernhard Bilfinger. As soon as we arrived, it vanished and left me to investigate this fortress alone.
"I thought he would do something like that again. I am Lady Nosferatu Blackrose, daughter of Johann Balthasar Neumann, the architect who designed the Residenz." Nosferatu giggled with glee as Vincent stumbled as he approached the bedside, as the realization of who was talking to him as an old friend.
Nosferatu seemingly unfazed by this continues to move closer to Vincent, allowing the sheets to flow off her and reveal her figure that the black gown of silk tried to hide. Vincent jumps away from the edge of the bed, horrified that the Lady of the Black Forest was advancing on him. As she sits on the edge, Vincent slides towards the wall, touching one of the curtains that shielded the sun's brilliance from the rest of the room. This causes a sliver of light to reach into the darken room, touching Nosferatu hand and the pillow at the head of her bed. Vincent expected to hear the cries of pain and sorrow, but instead heard the girlish laughter of Nosferatu as she stands out of the covers, allowing her full beauty shown as she throws open the curtains.
"You are human? B...but…but your Lord is one of those things, how are you still human?"
"My retainer is Anubis' Guardsmen, but he is under the Bishop's control. Every night that IT is not hunting, the Bishop sends Vladimir here to try to persuade me to change into one of them and become his wife. At first, I thought that you were one of his messengers, under his control, but I see that you are not even a Hell Bringer."
"Do you want to become one of them, someday?"
"Yes, but not by his iron fist of brutality, I want someone to love for all eternity."
Vincent seemed torn by the want to help Nosferatu, but to betray his new master, before he understood everything first would be a waste. Looking into her eyes lovingly, his mind locked and a plan devised. Vincent slept in that bed as the Lady roamed the sun lit citadel, directing maids and servants to clean, dust and polish every surface found.
As night fell over the landscape, Vincent was awakening by light music of an organ drifting throughout the halls from the deepest reaches. Traversing to locate the source of the music that abruptly awoken him from his slumber, he discovered the Phantom of the Night, Vladimir, playing the organ. The room was lines with pipes that lined the walls, running up to the vaulted ceiling and along the rafters. Sensing Vincent approaching, Vladimir stopped his concerto, formally introduced himself to his new "pupil". He stands and bids entry to this newest spawn, and walks to the table in the center of the room. This table was set up like an altar, and the only source of light in the room. The two ebony candles shone their eerie light over a caster and ivory goblet, which sat behind a silver dagger. Its hilt was of a golden dragon of the orient, its mouth open, the blade protruding out like a tongue of death, while the body was encrusted with the finest of jewels and gems, from all parts of the world. The wings were spread to form the hand guard designed to catch an opposing dagger. As Vincent's eyes traveled over the dagger, the hilt seemed to vanish under a pale hand, which allowed only blade and the guard to be visible.
"So you want to be my protégé, you first must shed that mortal coil and don the vial of the Alucard, the oldest of our order," Spoke Vladimir, with a certain form of respect when his voice shivered at the name, Alucard
"So what form of heresy do I have to commit to receive this gift?"
As Vincent spoke the last word, there was a silver flash, as the blade split the wrist of Vladimir wide open. To Vincent's horror, a small fount of black fluid flowed forth from the wound. Small droplets struck the table, issuing a hissing sound and a wisp of smoke that smelt of burnt silk and wood mixed with the pungent yet sweet smell of infected tissue and rotting meat. As the goblet filled, Vincent noted the anguish and pain on Vladimir's face as his tone went from its bone white turning to a gray pasty shade of white ash. Even though Vincent was never in tune with the spiritual energies of the world, he could sense the raw power of this "thing" that stood before him, a wicked smile and a dark glint shining from his black eyes as Vincent reached and firmly grasped the chalice.
"Oh, i forgot to thank you, Vladimir von Stares-allots. We drink to new lives, new wraiths, new loves, and to death of our enemies," spoke Vincent as he returns the dark smug look on Vladimir's face after the comment finally sunk into his ego, and sensed the hesitation in his student's voice at the words of love and death.
As the black draught courses through his body, his breathing stops while his heart and mind starve for the much needed oxygen, his muscles scream for blood as his heart labors to force the foreign sludge the was now being introduced to every cell of his body. Pain surges through the body and overwhelms the brain as instant death from this toxin and reconstruction of every organism within the very cellular structure of the entire body. Agony and anguish force their way out of Vincent's lips as an incessant song of woe.
Nosferatu, fearing that Vincent was in grave peril, most likely being tortured by Vladimir (which seemed to be his favorite past time, other than trying to romance her to be his bride), and that he would find out about her plan to eradicate him. Her trusted maids that had not fallen into Vladimir's charm and false promises not to be placed in the "fields of cattle", where many a night Vladimir had gorged himself to disgust. As Nosferatu and her servant round the corner to the hallway of the lowest level, they located the source of the cries that traversed the entire fortress. The open door at the end of the short corridor showed her retainer hovering over Vincent, which was thrashing on the floor, his eyes shining with power that was pulsing even from the entrance. A sigh escaped from her lips as relief washed over her, but it was not silent enough, for Vladimir appeared in behind her.
"Why do you appear so worried?" Vladimir spoke as he attempted, once again, to probe her mind for the truth.
"I …I thought that you were in harm's way, my love." Nosferatu stumbled over the words as she fought off his probing, finally sneering as the last word as though it left a foul taste in her mouth.
"I thought I told you and those incompetent wenches, you call servants, to stay out of this level," growled Vladimir watching as the servant backed away from Nosferatu, who stood defiantly without as much as a shudder from his power that made her skin crawl.
"I will go where ever I feel like in my castle, and I will not be confined to that room, because I will see that you shall not see the next full moon."
"You and what slayer will achieve this little coupe?"
Nosferatu's eyes stared into the doorway and saw right into Vincent's, as though he were standing right in front of her. Vladimir followed her eyes and knew that it was actually possible for the plan to succeed, this new and now powerful foe, which was growing at an unnatural rate far beyond any others of his kind.
As Nosferatu walks away, she looks back. Staring at Vincent, watching him lay on the floor, twitching and shaking, as the toxin reaches equilibrium. She orders her servants to disregard Vladimir and bring Vincent up to her quarters. Sending for the elder of the nearest town who might know how to help Vincent, if he should have any concerns once he awakens, instead of having to go to Vladimir for all his answers.
As Vincent writhes on the floor, memories from his own past plus Vladimir's own past poured into his mind as floodwaters into the narrow Italian streets of his home. Feeling, fearing and sensing the surging force of the beast that was threaten to overtake his consciousness, focuses his mind on the new entities and the voice that seemed to sooth the demon. Using his last ounces of mental strength to control the creature, he latches onto the calming song of the madam. His eyes pulse and strain to keep focus, as he looks out the corridor, his newfound sight locked on to Nosferatu. The beast took complete control of his entire being, and carried him off to some unknown destination. As his last physical thought was that of him lifted up to the first floor, and knew no more.
As the phases of the moon waned from the last quarter to a waning crescent, Vincent awakens. His hunger is to where no food or drink could satisfy. As Vincent wanders the castle, the scent of something sweet and tantalizing, as that of the most prized fragrances in the known world would utilize, wafted from the cellar, the butcher's door left ajar, where the scent was drifting out of.
As Vincent opened the door, the pungent fragrance became as strong as his hunger. As this overwhelming scent floods his senses, his inner demon awakens. This hunger becomes unbearable, uncontrollable, and untamable, as he watched a calf slaughtered for the servants and the Lady Nosferatu. Drops of rubies litter the floor as the butcher's blade slices through the bovine flesh. The pearls of crimson fly through the air, each one's aroma and sparkle catches Vincent's attention as the finest gems of the world used to. Fearing that the beast might seek total control, Vincent fled leaving the butcher in a state of complete bewilderment as he watched this man gapping at an uncooked and bloody calf.
In Vincent's mindless wondering, he stumbled across an elder that gave off the same feeling that Vladimir did, yet he was not fearsome looking or as monstrously hideous. He appeared to be an elderly man of fifty with a long silver beard, flowing gray hair and robes of fine blue silk and a sash of golden imbedded red silk, letting the town know that he was the chief elder and scribe of the area.
"Why does the scent of blood seem to make me into the beast that my heart wants to become," questioned Vincent, seeking answers from the wise elder.
"Out in the fields lay willing "cattle" for your necessity," as the elder sage, who seemed to be extremely knowledgeable about being a Nightwalker, whose characteristics gave him the look of the late and infamous Vladimir the Impeller, Lord of all the Nightwalkers, "feast upon the essences of humanity, become the Master of that should have been here in the first place."