A/N: I... promise I'm not giving up on Playing With Danger; I just got this little project into my head, and want to work on this. So, this is basically my little speculation on the mysterious circumstances of Casimiro and Finas; who they are, where they came from, how they met, and why they stick together. There are going to be three to four chapters, and will contain violence, blood, some language... actually, you know what? Let's just say I rated this because of Casimiro and leave it at that. That guy's warning enough.
EDIT: HAHAAH, LORE FAIL. Looking through Word of God facts, I found out that Finas didn't have any kids. I could've sworn he said he did have a kid, which is why I added that, but it's been fixed.

Finas had been a simple family man a good fifty years ago; he'd had a beautiful, amazing wife named Rianne, and they had lived in a little house in Bristol. He'd been... a mechanic, or something along those lines; details were a bit fuzzy these days.

It had been a warm autumn night when he was sired by a client of his company. Having called enough times for the employees to know and call her by first name, it was understandably surprising when that sweet old Russian immigrant tossed him into a wall so forcefully that it buckled under his weight and almost drained him of blood before feeding him some of her own. He could just barely recall how wrong it had tasted back then, like an overcooked attempt at making caramel.
He'd woken up, cold and dazed, as she was coaxing a large greyhound down the stairs and into what could only be the basement. She looked over at him when he gave a quiet groan, and smiled in a disturbingly motherly way. "When strongk enough, you drink," she said coaxingly, yanking on the dog's leash and not even blinking as the animal snarled and snapped its jaws at her.
He couldn't, refused throughout the first day, and held back from simply tearing its throat out as it relentlessly lunged and snapped at him, drawing blood from his arm when he got too close. Eventually, the fatigue of the rising sun washed over the both of them, and he slept, curled in a corner far away from his roommate. At the next nightfall, he woke to footsteps coming down the stairs, and he managed to push himself up so that his back was pressed to the cold, brick wall when she looked him over, taking in his bloodshot eyes and unintelligible attempts at speaking. "You are a strong one," she mused, gently taking his arm and pulling him towards the dog. It was curled up, asleep, but still growled as they approached. "Why I made you."
He managed to croak out, dryly, "I'm honored."
She chuckled, releasing him when she was sure he could stand on his own and gesturing to the animal. "Is alright."
He wanted to protest some more, to pull away. But, God, he was so hungry, and so weak, he couldn't help but drop to his knees and drink until he couldn't taste any more blood on his tongue. Immense guilt ran through him as soon as his head had cleared, and he crawled backwards until a good amount of distance was between him and the dog. The crone kneeled down and brushed hair from his eyes. "Good. Gets easier."
He wiped crimson from the corner of his mouth, never taking his eyes off of the corpse he'd made, laid out in front of him. "Please be right," he whispered.

She taught him everything he needed to know about his new life, even though most was common knowledge; things like crosses, sunlight, and stakes were to be avoided, although the last thing could be easily replaced by anything that could stab through his chest and destroy his heart. Vampires were loners by nature, usually only subjecting themselves to castes and clans, but otherwise traveling alone; a good policy, since what was the point of living forever if you could look back on nothing but heartbreak and pain?
Throughout the next few days, she fed him animals, which he only drank from after much assurance that they were strays. And she was right; it did get a lot easier, especially since he started viewing it like he was a regular person hunting deer.
At the beginning of the next week, she took him hunting for the first time. It was nerve-wracking, to say the least, since he had to look completely inconspicuous while trying to decide whose life would be forfeit. He eventually had his first taste of human blood from a con artist of a homeless man, in a dark alley. She nodded at him approvingly when he emerged from the darkness, drawing his sleeve over his mouth nonchalantly. And after that night, he actually started to feel alive - well, as alive as an undead creature could feel.

He had been washing the very few dishes the both of them dirtied when he felt it. A brief flash of white before his eyes, and something snapping in his chest, and he somehow knew that she was gone.
He wasn't really surprised, actually; she had mentioned that vampire hunters had been chasing her for quite some time, and that she couldn't outrun them forever. He set down the now-clean plate and sighed, offering only a second of grievance before turning off the water, grabbing his long, navy blue coat that was draped over the back of a chair and exiting through the back door, leaving everything as it was. He didn't lock the doors, he didn't drain the sink... he just let it be, never looking back.

Rianne was sitting on their bed, eyes red with tired tears as she ran her thumb against the glass that separated her from the picture of him, the one of the only things she had left of him. He knew that because he was watching her from the tree just outside their bedroom window, pressed against the bark for camouflage. He couldn't let her see him yet; it'd be hard to explain why he'd been missing for nearly two weeks and how he'd gotten onto the highest branch of the oak tree without a ladder at the same time. So he watched and waited for an opening.
The second she turned away to go to her vanity mirror, he jumped over to the ledge and carefully climbed through the window, making no sound and feeling only a fraction of comfort at the familiar feel of their shaggy, beige-colored carpet under his boots. He turned to face her back as she reached down into a drawer, and when she looked back up, her eyes locked onto his reflection - or, lack thereof. All she saw was a pile of clothing in the vague shape of a man. She screamed, jolting upwards and spinning around to face him.
He met her gaze evenly, watching her fear morph into confusion. "Finas?" she whispered.
"Hello, Rianne," Finas replied, taking a tentative step forward. When she didn't move, he took that as invitation to come even closer, close enough to touch her auburn hair. "I'm sorry I've been gone."
Rianne just stared, her tense shoulders relaxing just slightly at his touch. "Where have you been?" She said, anger underlying her worry.
He locked his eyes with her, tilting his head so that the light hit them at just the right angle for his newly-red irises to practically glow. "Occupied." He watched her hesitate; lift her hand to put over his and gasp, jerking away like she'd been shocked. "I came to say goodbye, actually."
She shook her head, drawing him close and burying her head into his shoulder. "What happened to you?" she asked, voice muffled by his coat.
"Remember Mrs. Biriukova?" She nodded, then stiffened as realization dawned on her. "You know that I love you." A pause, then he felt her nod again, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and feeling them shake with incoming tears.
"I know." Everything in her voice said she understood, why he couldn't stay, why he came to her. But there was a good moment of time where neither of them said anything, and she just clung to him.
But the longer she held, the more pronounced the scent of her blood became. Sweet, defined, just like her voice when she sang. He'd learn later that this scent was common with artists, especially those with the AB blood type. But he held her, holding back from punishing her for his own decision, and told her to tell the police that he was dead.
She wouldn't let him go, and he was led to their king-sized bed, where he let her fall asleep in his arms for one last time.

Finas left Bristol, never going back and never planning to, and took up residence in a cheap flat in London, taking a job once as a technician. No one ever questioned why he only worked nights, why he was nearly unreachable during the day, or why he never made eye contact. He just simply was, never out of the ordinary.