Chapter One:
The count was off and no matter how many times he tried, Hegga couldn't get it to come out right. He slammed the cards down and swore.
"Damn this game! Me wife is goin ta string me by me knock-balls," he looked disgustedly on as the dealer's hands slowly reached across, scraping up copper coins and loose cards alike. Hegga's sorrow deepened as he saw the last of his wages vanish under the 'blue lady' and the 'pimpled choir boy', as if seeing the cards cover the money killed any chance that he could deny the outcome. He looked up into the smirking eyes of the man across him, the dealer, and pointed a finger.
"I don't be knowing how you did it, charlatan, but you cheated me. A pox upon you and yours," he spat, the glob of beer and phlegm landing on a stray card. The dealer, keeping his antagonizing gaze upon the angry patron, picked up the 'bloody swordsman' card and wiped it down the corner of the worn, wooden tabletop and smiled again.
"If the gentleman wishes to protest his losses, he is most welcome to lodge a complaint with the barkeep," he waved his free hand toward the bar where a large, grumpy looking man was busy filling a mug from a barrel. "I am here under his blessing and will, of course, concede to his wisdom," his perfectly straight row of teeth practically gleaming, even in the dim firelight of the main room.
Hagga wanted nothing so badly as to smash the man's antagonizing grin in with his rough and worn fist. He knew he'd get no help from the barkeep as he would get a cut of any action the dealer would bring in that night. Granting refunds would cut into his pocket and essentially meant throwing free money to the wind. As part of the Loose Necks mercenaries, Hagga was used to winning, and when he didn't, violence usually fixed the situation. He began to stand and tossed the old wooden table aside, throwing the losses and deck of cards into the air. The table crashed to the floor, snapping a leg and bringing all the attention of those drinking at the Brown Boar Tavern. The barkeep looked up, the mug threatening to overflow as he watched the scene.
"You'll be givin me coins back, you cheat, or you'll have my boot up yer arse so far you'll be farting toenails the rest of yer days!" Hagga boomed, his fists clenched and raised. One meter from him, the dealer hadn't moved, the same condescending glint in his eye. "Get up you worthless pile of manure! I shovel loads bigger than you every morning before you piss in your pretty brass pot! Stand up I say!" Flecks of spittle burst from his lips with every consonant, landing ungracefully on the dealer's pristine royal blue doublet and trousers. Still the dealer did not move. His smirk dared the drunken gambler on.
No one noticed the two figures slip quickly inside and take up a table by the wall. One a tall man dressed in the cloud grey robes of a holy priest and the shorter man in dirty and wet homespun, tears small and jagged along the sleeves of his shirt and pants. A small puddle gathered at their feet while they sat. The young man leaned close to his companion.
"Some food, Father?"
"I do not hunger. Feed yourself," the voice returned from under a drawn hood.
"But we've traveled for two days and you've not had water nor food. You must be hungry, father. I'll get us some dinner. I still have coins." He produced a few silver coins from a pocket and held them, a faint glint catching what little light there was in the room.
He said quietly, "You would do well to put those out of sight. Take in our bearings, young Shane. Your coins, while enough to buy you dinner and perhaps a room, would prove more than enough to purchase your life among these misanthropes," he gestured slightly with a hand towards the patrons. The scene was still while everyone waited to see whether or not violence would ensue where a moment before a game of cards had been played. Shane noticed the crowd and sheepishly hid his money. The gambler and the dealer continued to stare each other down.
"Well, are you going to strike him or not," the hooded priest spoke up, breaking the silence and turning all the heads for a moment. The priest, however keep a level gaze in Shane's direction. "I am weathered and my associate here is hungry. Either make good on your threat, or remove yourself from the premises so I may get on with my evening."
Hagga turned his attention back to the dealer, "Priest, what I do ain't no concern of yers. This dainty thing here is a cheat and a thief and I mean to take my earnings back from him. If you want to do yer job, father, say a prayer, cause unless he gives me what's mine, I'll beat it out of him."
"Well," the dealer smugly replied, calmly folding his hands in his lap, "I recall earning the money from your foolish betting. I cannot be expected to repay that which I rightfully earned. If you attempt to physically impose yourself upon me, be warned, simpleton, I've told you already I have the blessing of the barkeep here. You'd regret the results I'm sure."
Hagga took a moment to absorb what the dealer said, a look of confusion on his face. He knew he was being challenged somehow, but some of the words escaped him, too fast. He wasn't a stupid man by any means, simply uneducated, and drunk. If only the rest of the Loose Necks had stayed with him instead of going to the brothel. They'd back him for sure and the blue bonnet in front of him would have folded like Hagga's hands did during the games he'd played.
The hooded priest, still unmoving, said in a voice just loud enough for Shane to hear, "The gambler will regret his decision only a moment when the nobleman draws his dagger. It will be brief." Shane looked back to the irritated drunk, concerned. The priest lowered his head, his left hand rising to his temple.
In a clouded decision of finality, Hagga stepped forward and struck out at the dealer clumsily. The dealer whirled in a flurry of motion, easily dodging backwards from the awkward swing. A glint of metal and the unmistakable sound of a blade keening free from its sheath blended harmoniously with the dealer's quick spin. It took the briefest of moments, but Hagga shrieked backwards, holding his right arm, a red gash dripping along his forearm from his elbow to his wrist. The dealer quickly hopped and lunged. Hagga's shriek cut out with a gurgle and his eyes went wide. He looked from his arm to the hilt of the dagger reaching out of his chest to the dealer's face, frighteningly close to his own, the ever present, antagonizing smirk smiling back.
"There you are, sir, your winnings for the evening," the dealer said to the fading light in Hagga's eyes and the dawning horror on his face. "That dagger, from the Mayor of Asthenia, is worth quite a small fortune. Spend it while you may."
Hagga's reply came as a brief cough of blood and spittle while his eyes rolled slowly back into his head and he fell backwards to the floor with a dull thump. Not a person moved. Shane's mouth gaped open in silent shock. Looking slowly around the tavern, the dealer took two smooth steps to the body and pulled the blade free with a jerk. After wiping the blade on Hagga's vest, he stood and just as quickly as the blade was drawn, it was replaced in some concealed portion of his royal blue doublet.
The priest's fist slammed down on the table and the bar seemed to come back to life. The patrons turned back to their tables and continued to play games, drink, or simply chat. A tavern worker came and dragged the body to the dreary rain outside and would return to wipe the long streak of blood from the floor. The dealer collected his earnings and, knowing he'd likely see little action the rest of the night, divided what he owed to the tavern keep. Looking at his partner, Shane could see the priest's hands shaking and a horrible, agonized look on his shadowed face.
"Father, what's wrong?"
A moment passed while the priest waged mental war with himself. The voices had returned in the days previous and the smell of blood threatened to push him past self control.
"Perhaps I am hungrier than I thought."
"One moment then, Father, I'll order us some food."
"No. I rather don't think I would enjoy the fare they have to offer here. You will stay and eat. I will find another place to feed my appetites," he rose.
"But Father –"
"You will stay, Shane. Keep a watchful eye on the dealer there but do not speak to him. I will return shortly." He said the last with a finality that told Shane there would be no argument. With that, the priest stood and left the building. Shane could hear some muttering that he was likely going to offer a final blessing to the drunken gambler. He wondered.
Since "the night," Shane had wondered just what was happening in his world. Horses eating each other, their flesh dripping from bone, the storm that would never end, merely ebbing back and forth from thunderous maelstrom to the cold drizzle that now fell, even the forest where he'd met the priest seemed to have turned malicious. He shivered and thought to sit right next to the fire to dry himself, but a rough pair of men was busy there risking their fingers to a game of nimblethumbs. Hugging himself, he huddled deeper into his chair and looked for a tavern girl to order from. His eyes met the gaze of the dealer staring at him from the bar.
Outside, Vorador quickly looked for the deposited body and found it where he suspected it to be, next to the tavern in a back alley. The Thirst was overwhelming. So much so that Vorador allowed himself only a cursory moment to look for any would be witnesses before draining Hagga's corpse of blood. He could not remember what his life was before his maker, Janos, had brought him to the divine path he now walked, but he couldn't imagine a feeling as powerful, as sensual as feeding. His mind numbed and the nightmare voices receded to fractions of a whisper while he drank in the lifeblood of his victim. Vorador would do anything to keep the maddening voices at bay.
The unfortunate priest that happened to hear Vorador's cries of anger and pain while he was crucified suffered greatly but only briefly after releasing him from the ensorcelled chains that kept him bound in the depths of the Termagant Forest. Vorador had been imprisoned on that spot, with his brother's sword driven through his side, for a century and when the priest had finally freed him, the Thirst had taken control of Vorador. A hundred years it took for a living soul to find him there. And even if fate would lead another living soul there as soon as tomorrow, it would never find a trace of the holy man that, in ignorance of what Vorador truly was, freed the crucified undead.
As the fog of the Thirst cleared and the voices that had plagued him for a century faded, his thoughts returned to the boy, Shane. Though any other of his age would be qualified to be called a man, Shane was different. It was lucky for Shane to have happened upon Vorador when he did, any sooner or later and Vorador would have surely drained him like he had so many others before him. He was crying, Vorador remembered, he was walking in a daze and crying in the rain. He thought it a rather weak and pathetic sight, seeing the boy dribble on as he was.
Vorador had heard the boy's snivelling from far behind him on the road through the Termagant. Taking up a spot high in a tree, he perched and waited. Even he was surprised to see such a torn and ragged excuse of a man trudging down the path. He must have been wandering in the forest for hours upon hours. When the boy stumbled over his own feet and landed face down in a puddle, Vorador thought to simply end the creature's misery, until he sensed something else coming their way, something dark and decayed. He waited. Then it emerged from the darkening wood. The undead horse was unlike anything he'd seen, even in a millennia of sorcery and mysticism.
The man-boy had called it, "Chance," and he cooed it and pleaded with it as if it could understand him. Vorador knew the Thirst well and the beast had it. He could see it in the hollow, sunken eyes. "Chance" would not be hearing any pleas from the boy. "Chance" would only want the boy's crimson blood. The beat-beat-beat of the heart within the flesh was all the creature surely heard and Vorador knew it to be as enslaved to that shadowed, basal rhythm as he knew himself to be. He made a decision then that was at once altruistic and selfish. Just as the creature reared to crush the boy's skull, Vorador leapt down from his treetop vantage with a hiss and drove the priest's cane through "Chance's" neck. The stick slipped easily through pallid skin and decaying flesh with a sloppy, slick noise. Though that did not stop the beast entirely, it did keep it from crushing the boy, who'd quickly crawled back to the base of an old, gnarled pine.
The horse did not seem phased and rushed Vorador, blasting him in the chest with a hoof, sending him five meters through the air to crash into a tree trunk. Were he a living man, his ribcage would have certainly been crushed inward, puncturing lungs and squishing his heart to bursting. Being a vampire, his body was afforded a degree of resilience not normally attributed to the living. The blow was severe enough to leave him tottering on consciousness however and he was unprepared when the horse rushed him again, this time striking him as a bull, full on, head first. He would have surrendered to the inviting tugs of oblivion then had "Chance" the undead workhorse not decided to bite Vorador's shoulder. The sickening crunch of bone along with the pain brought enough rage to Vorador that he willed the strength to grab a hold of the protruding cane and twist. And twist, and twist, until the beast's head tore free of the body. The shriek of the boy and the dying sigh of the undead creature served as Vorador's lullaby.
When he came to, the rain was falling steadier and the horse's rotten body was some distance away. His shoulder had been unnecessarily bandaged and the boy, who introduced himself as Shane, sat a few meters from him. Vorador hadn't realized what he intended to do at this point. Would he feed himself upon this Shane? What if he didn't? What should he say to this Shane? He couldn't tell this person what he was. He doubted this Shane would even know what a vampire is. His kind were myths and legends in places where they regularly fed. Out here beyond most vampyr's reach, not even wives tales were told of the blood drinkers. His pause gave him the answer he was looking for when the boy spoke again.
"What's your name, Father?"
There it was. He remembered now that he was dressed in the robe of the holy man that freed him. He laughed inwardly. What a sight it must have been. A true prayer answered, a priest falling from the sky to save the boy from an undead beast of burden. Vorador supposed that in his travels to find his loathsome brother, he'd have to deal with the humans. A disguise would be needed, and he would have to find a way to feed in secret. A priest can have any number of reasons to seek solitude and most people went to extraordinary lengths to avoid a holy man's attention for fear of the clergy's association with death. Yes, being a priest would suffice and he accepted it as a fortuitous happenstance.
Shrugging, Vorador replied, "You may simply call me, Father. Tell me, Shane, why are you out here in this wretched weather all alone with nothing but the cursed farm animals of the land to follow you?"
A burst of lightning flashed followed quickly by a splitting thunderclap, bringing him out of his reverie. The rain hardened and Vorador realized he was sitting in the alley next to Hagga's pale corpse. While the vision would not likely be considered as strange to a passer by, Vorador did not wish to linger. The boy would likely be getting himself into trouble by now. In his travels with Shane, he'd come to understand that much of the boy's inexperience and awkwardness was not his fault but that of his father's. Stories from the boy painted a bleak picture of upbringing and inwardly this provoked feeling within Vorador. He couldn't name it yet, but he was unwilling to give up on it until he'd figured it out. He'd keep Shane along and learn what he could while continuing to look for his brother.
"Mortis," the voice said, putting a name to the deepest hate Vorador had. Looking to the voice, he was not surprised to see the dealer, wearing a dark brown cloak in ornate gold trim. His hood was pulled back, his short, black hair matting in the rain against his face. The dealer continued, "will be most unpleased to hear that his beloved brother has disregarded his blessed and proper station."
"Be so kind as to take me to him and I'll offer him my sincerest apologies," Vorador replied.
The dealer laughed, "You do not need me for that. If you seek your brother, you need only to follow the storm. He'll be expecting you however, by the time you reach him. He grows in strength, Vorador. With each passing day he brings more into himself and when the day of eternal night comes, he'll reward me well for warning him of you."
Just as the words left the dealer's mouth, Vorador was upon him. While he moved quickly in the Brown Boar Tavern against a drunken mercenary, this was something else altogether different. Vorador's speed was mesmerizing, blinding, and in less than a heartbeat, the dealer was held up at arms length.
"I would think it difficult to warn Mortis of my approach with your throat torn out," Vorador threatened, his hood falling back, fangs fully visible in his grim scowl.
The irritating smirk returned, "Tsk, Vorador, such a temper." The dealer's hands reached up to the choking, unyielding grasp Vorador held. The dealer seemed to pull away from it, fading into a green smoke while he did so. Green smoke faded further into mist and then finally into air until Vorador was holding nothing but the brown cloak. Examining the cloak, Vorador cursed himself.
"The gifts are different for us all," he said to himself and to the laughter he imagined was there.
"Shane!"
Startled from his daydream, Shane found himself looking at the face of the priest. A pile of roast had been placed in front of him and next to that, some ale.
"I thought I told you not to speak with that dealer."
"The dealer, Father? I didn't. I just watched him like you told me to. I guess I lost him, I'm sorry. Did he run off?" Shane looked around quickly before his belly forced him to see the plate of food again.
With the patience he was learning that was necessary with Shane, Vorador replied, "It does not matter. Here, you can wear this cloak. It will help keep the rain off of you." Vorador handed Shane the brown cloak and sat across from him.
"Thank you, Father," he placed the cloak to his side and tore a chunk from a roll. "Are you sure you wouldn't like any, Father?"
"No, I couldn't stomach another bite. Eat. We will leave as soon as you've dried yourself."
"We'll not be staying here? Not even for the night? It would be nice to sleep." Shane asked between mouthfuls. There was a twinge of pleading in his voice.
"No. It is too dangerous and starting now, it appears time is working against us. Do not over worry yourself, young Shane. You will have plenty of time to sleep when you are dead."
Shane gulped.
The count was off and no matter how many times he tried, Hegga couldn't get it to come out right. He slammed the cards down and swore.
"Damn this game! Me wife is goin ta string me by me knock-balls," he looked disgustedly on as the dealer's hands slowly reached across, scraping up copper coins and loose cards alike. Hegga's sorrow deepened as he saw the last of his wages vanish under the 'blue lady' and the 'pimpled choir boy', as if seeing the cards cover the money killed any chance that he could deny the outcome. He looked up into the smirking eyes of the man across him, the dealer, and pointed a finger.
"I don't be knowing how you did it, charlatan, but you cheated me. A pox upon you and yours," he spat, the glob of beer and phlegm landing on a stray card. The dealer, keeping his antagonizing gaze upon the angry patron, picked up the 'bloody swordsman' card and wiped it down the corner of the worn, wooden tabletop and smiled again.
"If the gentleman wishes to protest his losses, he is most welcome to lodge a complaint with the barkeep," he waved his free hand toward the bar where a large, grumpy looking man was busy filling a mug from a barrel. "I am here under his blessing and will, of course, concede to his wisdom," his perfectly straight row of teeth practically gleaming, even in the dim firelight of the main room.
Hagga wanted nothing so badly as to smash the man's antagonizing grin in with his rough and worn fist. He knew he'd get no help from the barkeep as he would get a cut of any action the dealer would bring in that night. Granting refunds would cut into his pocket and essentially meant throwing free money to the wind. As part of the Loose Necks mercenaries, Hagga was used to winning, and when he didn't, violence usually fixed the situation. He began to stand and tossed the old wooden table aside, throwing the losses and deck of cards into the air. The table crashed to the floor, snapping a leg and bringing all the attention of those drinking at the Brown Boar Tavern. The barkeep looked up, the mug threatening to overflow as he watched the scene.
"You'll be givin me coins back, you cheat, or you'll have my boot up yer arse so far you'll be farting toenails the rest of yer days!" Hagga boomed, his fists clenched and raised. One meter from him, the dealer hadn't moved, the same condescending glint in his eye. "Get up you worthless pile of manure! I shovel loads bigger than you every morning before you piss in your pretty brass pot! Stand up I say!" Flecks of spittle burst from his lips with every consonant, landing ungracefully on the dealer's pristine royal blue doublet and trousers. Still the dealer did not move. His smirk dared the drunken gambler on.
No one noticed the two figures slip quickly inside and take up a table by the wall. One a tall man dressed in the cloud grey robes of a holy priest and the shorter man in dirty and wet homespun, tears small and jagged along the sleeves of his shirt and pants. A small puddle gathered at their feet while they sat. The young man leaned close to his companion.
"Some food, Father?"
"I do not hunger. Feed yourself," the voice returned from under a drawn hood.
"But we've traveled for two days and you've not had water nor food. You must be hungry, father. I'll get us some dinner. I still have coins." He produced a few silver coins from a pocket and held them, a faint glint catching what little light there was in the room.
He said quietly, "You would do well to put those out of sight. Take in our bearings, young Shane. Your coins, while enough to buy you dinner and perhaps a room, would prove more than enough to purchase your life among these misanthropes," he gestured slightly with a hand towards the patrons. The scene was still while everyone waited to see whether or not violence would ensue where a moment before a game of cards had been played. Shane noticed the crowd and sheepishly hid his money. The gambler and the dealer continued to stare each other down.
"Well, are you going to strike him or not," the hooded priest spoke up, breaking the silence and turning all the heads for a moment. The priest, however keep a level gaze in Shane's direction. "I am weathered and my associate here is hungry. Either make good on your threat, or remove yourself from the premises so I may get on with my evening."
Hagga turned his attention back to the dealer, "Priest, what I do ain't no concern of yers. This dainty thing here is a cheat and a thief and I mean to take my earnings back from him. If you want to do yer job, father, say a prayer, cause unless he gives me what's mine, I'll beat it out of him."
"Well," the dealer smugly replied, calmly folding his hands in his lap, "I recall earning the money from your foolish betting. I cannot be expected to repay that which I rightfully earned. If you attempt to physically impose yourself upon me, be warned, simpleton, I've told you already I have the blessing of the barkeep here. You'd regret the results I'm sure."
Hagga took a moment to absorb what the dealer said, a look of confusion on his face. He knew he was being challenged somehow, but some of the words escaped him, too fast. He wasn't a stupid man by any means, simply uneducated, and drunk. If only the rest of the Loose Necks had stayed with him instead of going to the brothel. They'd back him for sure and the blue bonnet in front of him would have folded like Hagga's hands did during the games he'd played.
The hooded priest, still unmoving, said in a voice just loud enough for Shane to hear, "The gambler will regret his decision only a moment when the nobleman draws his dagger. It will be brief." Shane looked back to the irritated drunk, concerned. The priest lowered his head, his left hand rising to his temple.
In a clouded decision of finality, Hagga stepped forward and struck out at the dealer clumsily. The dealer whirled in a flurry of motion, easily dodging backwards from the awkward swing. A glint of metal and the unmistakable sound of a blade keening free from its sheath blended harmoniously with the dealer's quick spin. It took the briefest of moments, but Hagga shrieked backwards, holding his right arm, a red gash dripping along his forearm from his elbow to his wrist. The dealer quickly hopped and lunged. Hagga's shriek cut out with a gurgle and his eyes went wide. He looked from his arm to the hilt of the dagger reaching out of his chest to the dealer's face, frighteningly close to his own, the ever present, antagonizing smirk smiling back.
"There you are, sir, your winnings for the evening," the dealer said to the fading light in Hagga's eyes and the dawning horror on his face. "That dagger, from the Mayor of Asthenia, is worth quite a small fortune. Spend it while you may."
Hagga's reply came as a brief cough of blood and spittle while his eyes rolled slowly back into his head and he fell backwards to the floor with a dull thump. Not a person moved. Shane's mouth gaped open in silent shock. Looking slowly around the tavern, the dealer took two smooth steps to the body and pulled the blade free with a jerk. After wiping the blade on Hagga's vest, he stood and just as quickly as the blade was drawn, it was replaced in some concealed portion of his royal blue doublet.
The priest's fist slammed down on the table and the bar seemed to come back to life. The patrons turned back to their tables and continued to play games, drink, or simply chat. A tavern worker came and dragged the body to the dreary rain outside and would return to wipe the long streak of blood from the floor. The dealer collected his earnings and, knowing he'd likely see little action the rest of the night, divided what he owed to the tavern keep. Looking at his partner, Shane could see the priest's hands shaking and a horrible, agonized look on his shadowed face.
"Father, what's wrong?"
A moment passed while the priest waged mental war with himself. The voices had returned in the days previous and the smell of blood threatened to push him past self control.
"Perhaps I am hungrier than I thought."
"One moment then, Father, I'll order us some food."
"No. I rather don't think I would enjoy the fare they have to offer here. You will stay and eat. I will find another place to feed my appetites," he rose.
"But Father –"
"You will stay, Shane. Keep a watchful eye on the dealer there but do not speak to him. I will return shortly." He said the last with a finality that told Shane there would be no argument. With that, the priest stood and left the building. Shane could hear some muttering that he was likely going to offer a final blessing to the drunken gambler. He wondered.
Since "the night," Shane had wondered just what was happening in his world. Horses eating each other, their flesh dripping from bone, the storm that would never end, merely ebbing back and forth from thunderous maelstrom to the cold drizzle that now fell, even the forest where he'd met the priest seemed to have turned malicious. He shivered and thought to sit right next to the fire to dry himself, but a rough pair of men was busy there risking their fingers to a game of nimblethumbs. Hugging himself, he huddled deeper into his chair and looked for a tavern girl to order from. His eyes met the gaze of the dealer staring at him from the bar.
Outside, Vorador quickly looked for the deposited body and found it where he suspected it to be, next to the tavern in a back alley. The Thirst was overwhelming. So much so that Vorador allowed himself only a cursory moment to look for any would be witnesses before draining Hagga's corpse of blood. He could not remember what his life was before his maker, Janos, had brought him to the divine path he now walked, but he couldn't imagine a feeling as powerful, as sensual as feeding. His mind numbed and the nightmare voices receded to fractions of a whisper while he drank in the lifeblood of his victim. Vorador would do anything to keep the maddening voices at bay.
The unfortunate priest that happened to hear Vorador's cries of anger and pain while he was crucified suffered greatly but only briefly after releasing him from the ensorcelled chains that kept him bound in the depths of the Termagant Forest. Vorador had been imprisoned on that spot, with his brother's sword driven through his side, for a century and when the priest had finally freed him, the Thirst had taken control of Vorador. A hundred years it took for a living soul to find him there. And even if fate would lead another living soul there as soon as tomorrow, it would never find a trace of the holy man that, in ignorance of what Vorador truly was, freed the crucified undead.
As the fog of the Thirst cleared and the voices that had plagued him for a century faded, his thoughts returned to the boy, Shane. Though any other of his age would be qualified to be called a man, Shane was different. It was lucky for Shane to have happened upon Vorador when he did, any sooner or later and Vorador would have surely drained him like he had so many others before him. He was crying, Vorador remembered, he was walking in a daze and crying in the rain. He thought it a rather weak and pathetic sight, seeing the boy dribble on as he was.
Vorador had heard the boy's snivelling from far behind him on the road through the Termagant. Taking up a spot high in a tree, he perched and waited. Even he was surprised to see such a torn and ragged excuse of a man trudging down the path. He must have been wandering in the forest for hours upon hours. When the boy stumbled over his own feet and landed face down in a puddle, Vorador thought to simply end the creature's misery, until he sensed something else coming their way, something dark and decayed. He waited. Then it emerged from the darkening wood. The undead horse was unlike anything he'd seen, even in a millennia of sorcery and mysticism.
The man-boy had called it, "Chance," and he cooed it and pleaded with it as if it could understand him. Vorador knew the Thirst well and the beast had it. He could see it in the hollow, sunken eyes. "Chance" would not be hearing any pleas from the boy. "Chance" would only want the boy's crimson blood. The beat-beat-beat of the heart within the flesh was all the creature surely heard and Vorador knew it to be as enslaved to that shadowed, basal rhythm as he knew himself to be. He made a decision then that was at once altruistic and selfish. Just as the creature reared to crush the boy's skull, Vorador leapt down from his treetop vantage with a hiss and drove the priest's cane through "Chance's" neck. The stick slipped easily through pallid skin and decaying flesh with a sloppy, slick noise. Though that did not stop the beast entirely, it did keep it from crushing the boy, who'd quickly crawled back to the base of an old, gnarled pine.
The horse did not seem phased and rushed Vorador, blasting him in the chest with a hoof, sending him five meters through the air to crash into a tree trunk. Were he a living man, his ribcage would have certainly been crushed inward, puncturing lungs and squishing his heart to bursting. Being a vampire, his body was afforded a degree of resilience not normally attributed to the living. The blow was severe enough to leave him tottering on consciousness however and he was unprepared when the horse rushed him again, this time striking him as a bull, full on, head first. He would have surrendered to the inviting tugs of oblivion then had "Chance" the undead workhorse not decided to bite Vorador's shoulder. The sickening crunch of bone along with the pain brought enough rage to Vorador that he willed the strength to grab a hold of the protruding cane and twist. And twist, and twist, until the beast's head tore free of the body. The shriek of the boy and the dying sigh of the undead creature served as Vorador's lullaby.
When he came to, the rain was falling steadier and the horse's rotten body was some distance away. His shoulder had been unnecessarily bandaged and the boy, who introduced himself as Shane, sat a few meters from him. Vorador hadn't realized what he intended to do at this point. Would he feed himself upon this Shane? What if he didn't? What should he say to this Shane? He couldn't tell this person what he was. He doubted this Shane would even know what a vampire is. His kind were myths and legends in places where they regularly fed. Out here beyond most vampyr's reach, not even wives tales were told of the blood drinkers. His pause gave him the answer he was looking for when the boy spoke again.
"What's your name, Father?"
There it was. He remembered now that he was dressed in the robe of the holy man that freed him. He laughed inwardly. What a sight it must have been. A true prayer answered, a priest falling from the sky to save the boy from an undead beast of burden. Vorador supposed that in his travels to find his loathsome brother, he'd have to deal with the humans. A disguise would be needed, and he would have to find a way to feed in secret. A priest can have any number of reasons to seek solitude and most people went to extraordinary lengths to avoid a holy man's attention for fear of the clergy's association with death. Yes, being a priest would suffice and he accepted it as a fortuitous happenstance.
Shrugging, Vorador replied, "You may simply call me, Father. Tell me, Shane, why are you out here in this wretched weather all alone with nothing but the cursed farm animals of the land to follow you?"
A burst of lightning flashed followed quickly by a splitting thunderclap, bringing him out of his reverie. The rain hardened and Vorador realized he was sitting in the alley next to Hagga's pale corpse. While the vision would not likely be considered as strange to a passer by, Vorador did not wish to linger. The boy would likely be getting himself into trouble by now. In his travels with Shane, he'd come to understand that much of the boy's inexperience and awkwardness was not his fault but that of his father's. Stories from the boy painted a bleak picture of upbringing and inwardly this provoked feeling within Vorador. He couldn't name it yet, but he was unwilling to give up on it until he'd figured it out. He'd keep Shane along and learn what he could while continuing to look for his brother.
"Mortis," the voice said, putting a name to the deepest hate Vorador had. Looking to the voice, he was not surprised to see the dealer, wearing a dark brown cloak in ornate gold trim. His hood was pulled back, his short, black hair matting in the rain against his face. The dealer continued, "will be most unpleased to hear that his beloved brother has disregarded his blessed and proper station."
"Be so kind as to take me to him and I'll offer him my sincerest apologies," Vorador replied.
The dealer laughed, "You do not need me for that. If you seek your brother, you need only to follow the storm. He'll be expecting you however, by the time you reach him. He grows in strength, Vorador. With each passing day he brings more into himself and when the day of eternal night comes, he'll reward me well for warning him of you."
Just as the words left the dealer's mouth, Vorador was upon him. While he moved quickly in the Brown Boar Tavern against a drunken mercenary, this was something else altogether different. Vorador's speed was mesmerizing, blinding, and in less than a heartbeat, the dealer was held up at arms length.
"I would think it difficult to warn Mortis of my approach with your throat torn out," Vorador threatened, his hood falling back, fangs fully visible in his grim scowl.
The irritating smirk returned, "Tsk, Vorador, such a temper." The dealer's hands reached up to the choking, unyielding grasp Vorador held. The dealer seemed to pull away from it, fading into a green smoke while he did so. Green smoke faded further into mist and then finally into air until Vorador was holding nothing but the brown cloak. Examining the cloak, Vorador cursed himself.
"The gifts are different for us all," he said to himself and to the laughter he imagined was there.
"Shane!"
Startled from his daydream, Shane found himself looking at the face of the priest. A pile of roast had been placed in front of him and next to that, some ale.
"I thought I told you not to speak with that dealer."
"The dealer, Father? I didn't. I just watched him like you told me to. I guess I lost him, I'm sorry. Did he run off?" Shane looked around quickly before his belly forced him to see the plate of food again.
With the patience he was learning that was necessary with Shane, Vorador replied, "It does not matter. Here, you can wear this cloak. It will help keep the rain off of you." Vorador handed Shane the brown cloak and sat across from him.
"Thank you, Father," he placed the cloak to his side and tore a chunk from a roll. "Are you sure you wouldn't like any, Father?"
"No, I couldn't stomach another bite. Eat. We will leave as soon as you've dried yourself."
"We'll not be staying here? Not even for the night? It would be nice to sleep." Shane asked between mouthfuls. There was a twinge of pleading in his voice.
"No. It is too dangerous and starting now, it appears time is working against us. Do not over worry yourself, young Shane. You will have plenty of time to sleep when you are dead."
Shane gulped.