The dark streets of Cairo were teeming with life, even after dusk. The only interruption in the usual stream of derelicts, harlots, and outsiders was the presence of the Son of the Dragon. The count passed through the streets, his stride swift and purposeful and his contempt for the people on the streets extending into his aura of malice. As desert winds blew sand and soot across the shadowed streets, the immortal noble parted crowds as he approached, leaving droves of frightened pedestrians in his wake. Brash as he had been in a breathing life he only barely remembered, Dracula barged into an tenement, a sign outside of which proclaimed the building to be a boarding house.
Striding down the unpainted corridors, his pace picked up as he first heard signs of life. The soft sound of shuffling feet lead Dracula to office of the building's owner. He knocked on the door as forcefully as he could without breaking it, and waited for a response. Despite the land lord's haste, he still open his door to an irritated Dracula. The land lord stared at the vampire with a confused expression. A European, let alone one was obviously powerful and wealthy as Dracula, was a rare sight in a run down tenement. A low growl escaped Dracula's lips before he grabbed the man by the throat, lifting him off the ground without any difficulty.
"Tell me, sir," the vampire began with a contemptuous taint in his calm voice, "have you ever rented a room to one Rafik Mrad? Think carefully about your answer, for I have no patience for deception."
"Yes, I have," the landlord said fearfully, "Room twenty, I swear to God that's where he has been staying!"
"Well then, that wasn't so hard, was it? Now all you have to do is give me a key to that apartment," Dracula said, his tone as harsh as ever.
"In the top drawer of my desk. The left side of it!" the man almost pleaded as he raised a shaking hand towards his worn desk. The weight of the count's displeasure had begun to affect his mind.
With the grace of true nobility, Dracula tossed the land lord aside, swooped down upon the desk, and grabbed a ring of keys from the top drawer. As he left the land lord to cower in fear, Dracula gave a quick bow on his way out, as was his habit as a warrior of noble birth. He then stalked up the stairs, towards the room rented by a man known as Rafik Mrad. In the course of his research, the count had learned that a portion of the expedition funding of Dr. Richard Harris, the Englishman murdered mysteriously in a tomb he was excavating, was directed towards renting a room in this house. Further investigation, and no small amount of intimidation, on Dracula's part had yielded the name of a Professor working for the Cairo museum. And the count, desperate as ever to preserve his existence and power, had followed up on this anomaly.
The vampire's brash manner shifted drastically as he approached the door of Professor Mrad. He slide the key into the lock, and turned it slowly, before cautiously entering the apartment. The first thing he noticed was that an unusual amount of wooden bookshelves and what appeared to be large crate were the only furnishings in sight. The entire room was painted in red, although the walls were speckled rather than solidly colored. Dracula's unnatural senses picked up the scent of dust and another sensation that resembled the smell of dead, dried flesh. He scowled as he considered his eerily silent surroundings.
"This nothing more than a hovel," Dracula said under his breath to himself. He walked towards the wall and the strange painting on it, moving stealthily out of reflex. The count's brow furrowed as he began to recognize what he had thought was a laughable attempt at painting for what it was. Hieroglyphs, similar to those the ancient Egyptians used, seemed to be what was covering the walls, save that they seemed to be scrawled hastily and crudely, as though by a mad man. Dracula sniffed the words he could not read, recognizing them as being written in the sweet nectar of blood. He shook his head as his undying thirst was stirred by the scent of spilled blood, forcing himself to continue his search.
The bookshelves it seemed were lined with texts relating to the history of Egypt and surrounding countries, in addition to more esoteric tomes about the occult. Much to Dracula's surprise, the books seemed to have come from across the world. Apparently such things were of special interest to Professor Mrad, clearly confirming the vampire's suspicions that something was amiss.
Having investigated everything else, Dracula made his way over towards the crate, noting that it seemed just large enough to contain a human sized body. The crate's lid had been left on it, and while Dracula considered finding a crowbar, he opted to snarl and tear the lid off with his bare hands. Chuckling as he performed the act, he contemplated how it never failed to amaze him how much power his death granted him. As his fingers punctured and pulled the wooden lid off the crate, a foul stench began leaking out. Dracula continued to force the crate open, hardly breaking a sweat and paying no heed to the stench.
When he had finally forced the lid off, Dracula frowned when all that greeted his efforts was the skull of a jackal, the sun bleached bones covered in the same twisted symbols as the walls.
"Surely that can't be what Mister Mrad wanted to," Dracula began, speaking to himself, before a thick black mist started billowing out of the eyes of the skull.
The count started heading backwards on instinct, but he couldn't move fast enough. The mist began to surround him, and before he could react, the vampire was completely enshrouded in an ever expanding pool of inky darkness. He stumbled towards the door blindly, a fight or flight mentality overtaking him. Then he did something he hadn't done in centuries; he found himself gasping for air. The mist was strangling himself, forcing itself into through his mouth and nose, smothering even his undead and unbreathing body. Every step became a struggle, as the entropic fog encased the dead man, draining his unnatural life force. The strength the count had used to pry open the crate abandoned him, leaving him as weak as a human and coughing violently. As his drained arms finally found the apartment's door, Dracula had to fight to turn the knob.
Dragging himself out of the apartment, the vampire was freed after what had seemed like an eternity of being drained. As the tainted haze cleared, Dracula noticed that something about his static, unliving flesh. He looked down at his hands, eyes widening as he realized that his hands had withered, becoming those of an old human about to die. Peering down at his body, he found that his entire body had been aged by the black mists, corrupting his once beautiful form into that of a gnarled old man, with white hair and a network of wrinkles. The count was not pleased as he staggered away from the boarding house, but inside, he felt a twisted sort of satisfaction. Now he was certain that something had awakened in this wasteland that presented a threat to him, for there was no force on earth that had ever done such harm to him.
Striding down the unpainted corridors, his pace picked up as he first heard signs of life. The soft sound of shuffling feet lead Dracula to office of the building's owner. He knocked on the door as forcefully as he could without breaking it, and waited for a response. Despite the land lord's haste, he still open his door to an irritated Dracula. The land lord stared at the vampire with a confused expression. A European, let alone one was obviously powerful and wealthy as Dracula, was a rare sight in a run down tenement. A low growl escaped Dracula's lips before he grabbed the man by the throat, lifting him off the ground without any difficulty.
"Tell me, sir," the vampire began with a contemptuous taint in his calm voice, "have you ever rented a room to one Rafik Mrad? Think carefully about your answer, for I have no patience for deception."
"Yes, I have," the landlord said fearfully, "Room twenty, I swear to God that's where he has been staying!"
"Well then, that wasn't so hard, was it? Now all you have to do is give me a key to that apartment," Dracula said, his tone as harsh as ever.
"In the top drawer of my desk. The left side of it!" the man almost pleaded as he raised a shaking hand towards his worn desk. The weight of the count's displeasure had begun to affect his mind.
With the grace of true nobility, Dracula tossed the land lord aside, swooped down upon the desk, and grabbed a ring of keys from the top drawer. As he left the land lord to cower in fear, Dracula gave a quick bow on his way out, as was his habit as a warrior of noble birth. He then stalked up the stairs, towards the room rented by a man known as Rafik Mrad. In the course of his research, the count had learned that a portion of the expedition funding of Dr. Richard Harris, the Englishman murdered mysteriously in a tomb he was excavating, was directed towards renting a room in this house. Further investigation, and no small amount of intimidation, on Dracula's part had yielded the name of a Professor working for the Cairo museum. And the count, desperate as ever to preserve his existence and power, had followed up on this anomaly.
The vampire's brash manner shifted drastically as he approached the door of Professor Mrad. He slide the key into the lock, and turned it slowly, before cautiously entering the apartment. The first thing he noticed was that an unusual amount of wooden bookshelves and what appeared to be large crate were the only furnishings in sight. The entire room was painted in red, although the walls were speckled rather than solidly colored. Dracula's unnatural senses picked up the scent of dust and another sensation that resembled the smell of dead, dried flesh. He scowled as he considered his eerily silent surroundings.
"This nothing more than a hovel," Dracula said under his breath to himself. He walked towards the wall and the strange painting on it, moving stealthily out of reflex. The count's brow furrowed as he began to recognize what he had thought was a laughable attempt at painting for what it was. Hieroglyphs, similar to those the ancient Egyptians used, seemed to be what was covering the walls, save that they seemed to be scrawled hastily and crudely, as though by a mad man. Dracula sniffed the words he could not read, recognizing them as being written in the sweet nectar of blood. He shook his head as his undying thirst was stirred by the scent of spilled blood, forcing himself to continue his search.
The bookshelves it seemed were lined with texts relating to the history of Egypt and surrounding countries, in addition to more esoteric tomes about the occult. Much to Dracula's surprise, the books seemed to have come from across the world. Apparently such things were of special interest to Professor Mrad, clearly confirming the vampire's suspicions that something was amiss.
Having investigated everything else, Dracula made his way over towards the crate, noting that it seemed just large enough to contain a human sized body. The crate's lid had been left on it, and while Dracula considered finding a crowbar, he opted to snarl and tear the lid off with his bare hands. Chuckling as he performed the act, he contemplated how it never failed to amaze him how much power his death granted him. As his fingers punctured and pulled the wooden lid off the crate, a foul stench began leaking out. Dracula continued to force the crate open, hardly breaking a sweat and paying no heed to the stench.
When he had finally forced the lid off, Dracula frowned when all that greeted his efforts was the skull of a jackal, the sun bleached bones covered in the same twisted symbols as the walls.
"Surely that can't be what Mister Mrad wanted to," Dracula began, speaking to himself, before a thick black mist started billowing out of the eyes of the skull.
The count started heading backwards on instinct, but he couldn't move fast enough. The mist began to surround him, and before he could react, the vampire was completely enshrouded in an ever expanding pool of inky darkness. He stumbled towards the door blindly, a fight or flight mentality overtaking him. Then he did something he hadn't done in centuries; he found himself gasping for air. The mist was strangling himself, forcing itself into through his mouth and nose, smothering even his undead and unbreathing body. Every step became a struggle, as the entropic fog encased the dead man, draining his unnatural life force. The strength the count had used to pry open the crate abandoned him, leaving him as weak as a human and coughing violently. As his drained arms finally found the apartment's door, Dracula had to fight to turn the knob.
Dragging himself out of the apartment, the vampire was freed after what had seemed like an eternity of being drained. As the tainted haze cleared, Dracula noticed that something about his static, unliving flesh. He looked down at his hands, eyes widening as he realized that his hands had withered, becoming those of an old human about to die. Peering down at his body, he found that his entire body had been aged by the black mists, corrupting his once beautiful form into that of a gnarled old man, with white hair and a network of wrinkles. The count was not pleased as he staggered away from the boarding house, but inside, he felt a twisted sort of satisfaction. Now he was certain that something had awakened in this wasteland that presented a threat to him, for there was no force on earth that had ever done such harm to him.