Transylvania - Random Tales

A slow crack could be heard through the day. Sharp and terrible. It had happened for three afternoons, but never in the morning. The lake was thawing, sounding no less than the snap and grind of bones below the booted heels of the dark armored warriors or those in the livery of Tzimisce. Endlessly they paced and watched for threats from without. But none came. And as soldiers are wont to do, they looked to each other. The break of ice was quickly replaced by the scarlet ring of steel.

But nothing would stop Emil from his documented journey of supplies used, needs fulfilled, and thoughts on the surrounding area's bounty. He would serve his master in the only way he could. Once, twice, the steel rang out. Raising an eyebrow, he continued his careful penning of tubers unearthed and rushes found in bushes. Writing was a new passion for him. Every single opportunity he had to write such words were a joy. But one he had to hide from the foreigners, especially the priest.

A loud squeal broke through the peace of the room. And the quill jumped. A single drop of precious ink fell on the paper. With quick motions, Emil doused it with thin sawdust and turned to the canopied tent's door. His voice was sure and strong, quickly slicing through the keen thrill of his son in a way that steel rang against steel. "Doriel, son, come away from there. Sit by me awhile."

Eyes far too big and wideset for a normal child's face turned to Emil's. The only son of his loins, marred with the disease of the stunted and simple-minded. He had grown taller, but not by much for his late years. He would never be so large, strong, or fast as the other boys. But his happiness in the dreary lands of Romania was greater than any gift the children of stronger men could give. Emil's hard edges brown eyes warmed as his small son came before his father, bowed faultingly, and took a seat upon a worn old footstool.

"Why hit with swords. I want sword. Be warrior. Fight bad dogs." His words were always direct, even in questions. The stiff-backed seneschal looked to the tent's slit. None were there. Leaning, he lifted his son to his lap and held him.

"I'm sorry, son, but you can't have a sword. It's far too dangerous. Let our masters' sons fight the bad dogs." Emil spoke carefully and slow for his son, hoping he would understand faster. But inevitably, the child did not, requiring many revisions of the same statement. Finally, it ended with, "Someday, Doriel, someday."

The child's eyes widened in happiness and glee, a happiness that would soon end. It didn't matter that his son was healthy. For the past two years, his son aged. Emil did not. At first, he thought it a wonderful blessing to see through Doriel's entire life. Emil was no longer a young man, edging far into old age. And with the blessing from the Lord Stefan, he never would physically see those ages. But now, watching his son try to count his father's fingers, he hated it. He would see his son through his entire life...into his painful death.

With attentive eyes, he watched Doriel. A smudge was under his chin. He cleaned it with his sleeve. A fray began on his trousers. He mended it with thread and needle. These things he could fix, make right. Yet the inevitable pain of Doriel's bones and body, he could not. Emil could never fix his son. God must truly hate him, this land, and the decisions he made.

The tent flap opened with a slapping of leather against canvas. Emil's looked up sharply to see a siloetted figure, manly yet long-haired. Doriel called out loud and happy. "Dain! Dain!" the boy cried. The hulking woman entered wearing mud splattered leathers. Smile warm; eyes frozen.

She opened her arms and accepted the boy who ran into them. Emil's face rose to scarlet, angry and blotchy. How dare this bitch touch his son! This heathen from a strange people. They were related now, in more ways than one. Mordain easily hefted the wait of Doriel on her hip, despite his growth and weight. The power of Stefan's vitae thrumming in her veins as Emil's. Why she cared for the boy, only Emil could wonder. However, he knew it was not true love of a mother for a child, but a competitor against an opponent. Long had they vied against each other for Stefan's regard. And Emil was no longer sure he was winning.

"What do you want, Mordain?"

"The hunt was well. We've brought back meals for two days and more lumber for building. The Castillians are fierce with an ax when bent to it. Far be it from the men of Rustovtich's brood to dirty their hands with such work." She spat on the tapestried ground. Emil tried in vain not to follow the spittle with his eyes. She would only gain pleasure in his distress.

Calmly, Emil took the boy from her arms back into his, laying him down on a small cot for sleeping. "You should not speak so, Mordain." His voice was soft as a breeze, as a whisper between lovers or dustmaids gossiping.

"Why should I fear their reprisal? They are weak and pathetic, skulking in their great castle on a mountain so devoid of trees and life that the gods must smote it with their anger and venom." She gave him a predatory smile. How the brute loved the game. If Emil spoke against her, he would look weak, cowed by a mere woman. If he ignored her jib, she dominated him. And her grasp of language was growing stronger, perhaps from speaking too long with the leader of the Lasombran's men, Leonel.

"Those weaklings as you call them are your betters, saving you from the life of brothel women, plying their trade through the scissoring of their legs. If not for that ridiculous chase, I am sure you might have found yourself adorned with fruit on the Toreador's table."

The motion was fast, attack sound. But it was Emil who struck first, batting away her clumbsy motion fueled by overwrought anger. Mordain was far too easy a target. But she would not always be this way. That alone made Emil cautious.

They stood, staring, hating and evaluating each other over the smallest of motions. Then something in him made Mordain scoff. Turning on her heel, she walked from his tent, more man than woman.

Moving to his chair, he slid to a slow sitting. How had his life come to this meager existance? Could the love of his new wife and his only child compare to the eternity he now realized he faced. Sighing, he closed his eyes.

"At least, I still breath. Damn you, Stefan. Damn you and thank you." With care, he removed a beaten and shiny metal goblet. Placing it on the table, Emil looked at his reflection. With care, he searched his hair for the obvious shine of silver. How little Stefan knew how old Emil was. Opening a chest, he removed the small jar of pulped root and rag he used to cover it with brown. It would be truly unwise for the lord to know the truth. Emil had tasted blood long, long ago. And when it faded, he had taken a wife and had a child.

So long ago, the vampire left that consumed his life. Taken by the small pieces of information he could pass with care. Fate was fickle and terrible. The woman told him long ago he would live a cursed life. As the years past again without marring his face, he knew only too well that she was right.

Emil did not cry. He had no tears left. He simply covered the silver, took up quill, and finished his entry. "Mordain slew deer for two days meals. Lumber arrived for the first house. All is well."

"How has it come to this? The wallow of the pigs is not lower than the threaded tapestries of their lives. So much pain and anger, hatred and need. For the debased ideals of an existance fatted upon the glut and agony of mortals and lessers? So many souls become chattle and scorn. So many words I lead to slaughter and damnation."

The words tumbled free from the pale lips. Each sound round, full, articulate despite the whispering. Hands worn and calloused smoothed the fabric of a borrowed tunic over muscled thighs. There he sat, speaking to no one perhaps but himself.

"I wonder at times, if these fools can understand the prattling of my continued voice. Oh the annoyance of it must do nothing but grate on nerves until frayed beyond repair. How sometimes I wish I could make just one see and understand. I wonder if my fate is so tied to the madness forced upon Cassandra. She spoke her truths, whoring herself to any that would listen."

His eyes glistened in wonder, face animated as a knight's looking upon a blessed virgin. "How pained she must have been, living alone within the nightmare of knowing. And all others, were they not truly the mad ones? Unable to glean the bitter visions spewing from her lips as brandywine?"

Softer he spoke for a single moment. "Am I so enscounced in madness? A world that refuses to listen while I ply it with truth? How fickle is the mistress of the mind? How strange her lack of quality in honor and reproach?"

Silence followed. Then the slight tumbling of rocks and dust. Rubbing his fingers again, Anatole noticed how stained with dust they were. Eternal, constant, consuming. He would never be truly clean. No matter how he washed or toiled upon his appearance, would it matter? Would any consider him anything but mad and ridiculous? "Perhaps I should have been killed? Perhaps I should have slipped upon that final blade, letting my heart beat its last?"

The yawning chasm of darkness at his feet seemed to ask a question. No matter how he felt, he had to answer it. The whispering questions were horrific. And yet, he could not stop talking to it. He knew this hole was not natural. The roof of a long hidden tomb expelled and destroyed from within as if some beast forced its way out into the open sky.

Not but twenty feet above, Anatole could hear the slithering movement of feet on rocks stop. He knew it was one of Rustovitch's children, staring so intently at his head. Oh please! Go away! Save yourself from what still lurks, milord! It is folly and danger! By God, save him lest he come into danger! Hear me oh lord!

But he could not speak it, only answer the questions put forth by the hollow below him. "War. I once thought myself a grand warrior. I romanticized saving my nation and home from the horrors of ancient fueds and invading barbarians. How utterly hollow those hopes and dreams truly were. Nothing of war was as I thought it. And in that battle, oh how I wish now my heart had stopped. Damn the life rudely given. Lord God, forgive your servant for never knowing the error of that most dark wish to live and fight again. How I failed you."

The rumbling of earth tremored into Anatole. It began the previous month through to today, through every ringing step he took on the path from Biztritz to here. And now, it thundered in his bones, threatening to tear him apart. A single tear trembled down his face as he shook in such small motions never to be seen by the naked eye. "Lord, bless and protect...your servant...by God. The agony..."

Anatole felt he would fall into crumbled pieces, as the stones around him. And featherlight, he felt it. With every mote of will, he fought against what he knew came. Lord Marius sought his mind. My Lord, no...no...

Visions filled Anatole, choked him in their hunger. The child sat above him in the coffin promised for his eternal slumber. But what floated and moved around the child, so horrible, was not of heaven's make. Only the cruelty of hell could be this thing.

The child spoke for it, interceding, possessed. "Chosen? Would you be chosen? To carry the words that must be spoken to those who must wake to hear them? I seek the chosen. You are not him. But oh, oh my child, what I could give you. What destiny I could writ on your soul. Flayed and forlorn, you would beg for heaven's mercy and finally mine. But I have not the mercy to give."

Anatole screamed in his tomb. He knew what it sought, but damn if he would let it within his mind. The vision of the throne! He seeks the voice of the ancients. It must not be. Can never be! God! Do not forsake your chosen!

And there he was, Marius. He could feel him digging into his mind. The pillage of his thoughts, the most sacred of memories. How he slathered his dark discontent upon them. I am lost, so lost. Shall nothing remain sacred in this age of devils? Why must I suffer by the hands of the demon's kin?

Anatole expected to die, or perhaps he hoped for it. But what came was hope, aid, and love. Gabriel arose within, the memory of meeting the warrior of the Host. Anatole remembered that day in the church, when he bowed to one knee before his king to war against the heathens. Gabriel had shown through, come before him. He laid his sword upon his shoulders, marking him as his own.

Now he shown strong again. The image, the memory, and then the Angel. The demon and child screamed in hatred, a call of battle. The two gathered in force, his soul the balance of the tithe, of win or loss. Yet, Anatole could not hate Marius. How could the devil's own know the war they fought between them? When he looked upon Anatole, he saw only a low clan Kindred. The Tzimisce lord did not see the gleaming armor, burning sword, or crown of golden thorns.

The battle spiralled into eternity. Yet, when he collapsed, skin warmed as if in the sun's bright rays, Anatole knew so much more. He could speak the language of the child demon. He could hear the words of God. Only he could stop what the Dark One wanted. Salvation would only come through the test of his soul. For he alone could contend with and consume the dark seed that waited for fertile soil. For a singular moment, Anatole saw the unfurling future before his feet. He would have two paths to follow. But each was the same. The choice made long ago, Anatole was never to enter Heaven's gates.

But, oh, how heaven demanded so much more of its chosen. To show true faith, Anatole would face the fires of hell and freely provide for them a home in his heart. The truth burned away the last happy memories of his life. The love of his mother long since passed into shadow. The comraderie of his best friend Beckett. The smile and love of his lady fair, dearest Lucita.

And his pure trust in God.

Rain fell upon Anatole's face, warm and red. Lucita. She cried for him, burying her face in his golden hair. How he wanted to reach out and console her as he had for years and years. But nothing could warm the cold he felt now. And turning from the light, he entered the darkness of torpor.

DA:V Zelios

With careful tending, Zelios laid the lord upon his own bed. The thick pillows covered in the reliefs of Byzantine gardens and Egyptian serpents were a bier fit for kings, though he doubted this lord would realize that bit of knowledge. Gold threaded through the fabric, a maze of filaments holding small gems and bits of ivory in their knots. Upon the golds, emeralds, and russets, the youthful man looked so pale and small.

Eyes heavy lidded, tipped in scales of drowsiness by Zelios' powerful words, Lord Stefan of Tzimisce was laid low into the throws of rest and slumber. Desperately he fought for purchase, each fear and emotion winking out as if the sun itself rose in the sky. The sleep of death's respite. He had laiun without his earth the night before. Such a pity, making him such a delectible target for the other powers within the walls of Tihuta Pass. The Mason could not allow this to happen. He was bound by word and honor. None of Tzimisce would fall into the hands of his clan without truly knowing what they faced. He would protect them if they would not protect themselves.

"Zelios," the young man spoke in his tired rich voice, "You are a liar."

Turning his gaze upon the youngling, Zelios shook his stony face, now more insightful and keen than the softness of servitude he displayed every night.

"No, my lord. I am your savior. Sleep and rest. You are safe here." Hands so tender, he touched Stefan's face, closing his eyes. With a slight tug, the thick blankets of the horselords of Arabia were pulled around him. Such wealth of travel and knowledge. How little they truly knew beyond their education by Cappadocian hands. For a moment, he pitied and hated the lord. "What I would have given to learn from such as she. But oh, she knew that hunger. Never be too careful, my lord. Enemies watch and wait, vipers in corners you would not expect to find. And allies, in far stranger places..."

Rising from his bent state, Zelios stood tall. No more stooping or bending while alone, or with the sleeping prince. Behind his masks, worn without the needs of his clan's power, he watched intently the machinations of power. Malachite sighed in intrigue and lust. Yosef paced in distaste and despair. The brothers yawned in boredom. The ladies spoke venom words about those they professed to ally with. The madman slumbered in torpor. The ghosts fluttered through the halls seeking vengeance and play. The sorcerer sought answers through blind eyes. The philosopher sought a path to follow after only glancing down each.

Turning from the sleeping youth, the Mason faced the worktable of thick stone. Upon it lay a thin layer of virgin linen, so fine and pure it glowed in the soft candlelight. Adding coals to a bronze brazier, he warmed his body for the ardous task of his mind and memory. Sitting in his favorite straight-backed chair, he prepared for the work ahead of him by Dipping his hands into a simple bowl of water and speaking soft prayers.

"O Christ our God, in all times and every hour You are worshipped and glorified both in heaven and on earth. You are long-suffering and generous in your mercy and compassion. You love the just and show mercy to the sinner, calling all people to salvation through the promise of blessings to come. Deem, O Lord, at this very hour, to receive our supplications and to direct our lives in the path of your commandments. Sanctify our souls; purify our bodies; set aright our minds; cleanse our thoughts; deliver us from all affliction, trouble and distress; surround us with Your holy angels so that, guided and guarded in their camp, we may attain oneness of faith and the knowledge of Your unspeakable glory. For You are blessed for ever and ever. Amen."

The warming air of the brazier burned away the dripping water from the sharp-edged panes of Zelios's hands. Gray and hard as the Carpathians, the Nosferatu often wondered if some great mind decided his fate in stone. The irony of his change and perfection of forms was not lost on the intellectual of architecture and mystic design. He was purpose given form. But what goal, what desire crafted the change in his body? The curse of Absimiliard took the flesh and forced it into rude pantomines of humanity. Only the Tzimisce were so skilled to mold flesh in accord with darkness' design.

What power could twist the architecture student, the scholar of ancient forms and geomancy into such a paraody of a body but that clan? Yet he knew his blood, his clan, was not so that one of the fiends, but of the monsters. A pact, lost to the ages perhaps or never quit understood. It was the only conclusion he could come to. A Tzimisce Lord and a Nosferatu Rat.

No shiver ran down his spine as he considered the possibility again, one such lord asleep in his own bed. Zelios conquered such fears long ago, in distant lands. Nothing drove anxiety deep in his heart without his terrible logic tearing it to pieces first. If he was human, he would have scoffed and taken a liberal drink of vodka. But that age of his life was long since past. Dust and memory. And these lords, oh how apprehension filled him. Not in the jest of horror but in lack of tolerance. How could they ignore the power of one of their own. How could they allow another of their household to tempt the dark powers, letting them enter his mind as a pasttime or pleasure? Did they not understand what terror wished to suckle upon their bones and blood?

Perhaps, he was listening? Removing the linen from the table, Zielios continued to work the magic of his fingers upon the marble slab. Memory well within of his first great masterpiece. Ceoris. He rebuilt it halls, rooms, and dungeons with terrible precision. Squeals and moans of the twisted stone filtered softly through the room as he worked.

"These are the leaders of our coming time? I feel our future's spent ingloriously. You know of what I speak. The madmen fell into the darkness of his spent soul. He has left his mind to wandering after being filled with holy light. Why? What vision did he see that could wrought such change? I believe the Lord Marius may know. His curiosity will be the slow plunder of this house of the Demon Prince. Perhaps he is the link used by the Voice That Tempts. I know not; such things are far more your arena, my friend."

A wall raised between his careful fingers as he spoke in his flat, logical voice. "Yet, I have seen the young koldunic falter in his steps, gripping his head as if caught in delirium. Something terrible has filled this home, tossing it in his magical sight. Yet all of my tests prove nothing untoward has occurred. What could cause the mind's eye of Mikail to fail where my mystical science does not? It is vexing to not have you here, but I understand the needs of court. Perhaps another of your house could entertain these youthful lords and the foreign lady? Yes...perhaps...Sasha."

Falling quiet, he continued to ply his fingers upon the marble, shifting and molding it as if clay. Each brick, each ediface he molded returned him to the place of his first working. Ceoris. And the Tremere. Immediately after his Embrace by his sire, Zelios was entrusted to the sorcerer usurpers. The horrors he witnessed, screams he heard. They haunted his mind and soul, weighing upon him. The memories so chaotic in his dreams were now whole, distinct. The Dracon saw to reopening the experiences for him with the help of his grandchild Mycah. The magics wrought burned deep within him. Those flesh worms wriggling through his hard flesh as if it was the marble now under his fingers. The screams he uttered bringing such sweet smiles to that ancient, as if petting a dog or comforting a child. How it burned still.

Sitting back, panting as if still alive, Zelios felt the memories overwhelm his waking mind. "Ceoris. Marble set with mortor of stone crushed from the Carpathians and quartz from Byzantium. Blood of virgins tempered by their unholy altars. The shining power and horror of it. Hannibal, sire, why would you leave me among them? Were you perhaps so caught by their power and offers? Or perhaps, were you working for the Tzimisce all along? Did the Fiends not believe our minds could be so touched as to remove all remembrance of where I laid those stone bricks?"

Closing his eyes, the Mason fought for purchase against a sea of fear and pain. The tortures of the Tremere forgotten for over a hundred years. Now so fresh as to have been committed yesterday. "Mycah, why have you not responded? I must speak with you. I fear time is no longer with us. One of their kind must know. One must come to realize...the truth..." No words or winds came to Zelios as they had before.

He remained so still as to become stone itself. Thoughts and questions warred in his mind. But the conclusions changed not. One of the young lords must be spoken to and entreated into the alliance. If Rustovitch was the Demon Prince, all were lost.

Whispers of silken movement gave away the waking of the young lord. Moving still and careful, Zelios continued to work on the marble until the proper moment.

"Zelios, where are we?" Stefan spoke. His words were not in fear or anger of what had been done. Simply he wished an explantion of where.

Giving a false start as if caught off guard, the Mason covered his work in the linen. "We are in the safety of my creation. These halls have always been mine alone. My brethren know not of their existance or entrace." Fixing the youngling in his stare, he hardened his face, letting go of the mask he wore for the Rustovitch brood.

"We have much to discuss, Stefan. Of a great many things..."

Pieces of shale and dust slithered under the sandles, making a difficult climb treacherous. Talgier's hands bloodied and broken grasped for any handhold she could gain. The fear pounding as an old woman upon her back. She had to flee what came. Around every rock. Hidden in every shadow. The thunder of it pressed against her.

He was angry. Talgier displeased the lord with her course thoughts. Despite the efforts to be quiet and preen under his care, she held deceit close to her heart. For so long, he wished for a child to grow in her womb. But his deviltry and strangely hissed words on the battlements only convinced her a child would become a plaything of the dark. And now, this very night, she found him gorging upon one of the handmaids.

The ground rumbled from far off lightening strikes. With a yelp, she fell to her back. Tears she did not think remained burned her eyes as she gulped air. A small respite.

And the image returned. The lord so beautiful as to make angels sing, held the maid in a crushing grip against him. His mouth locked to her throat that moaned in a thrashing of eager passion. A long hand danced along the handmaid's bared breast through the torn garments. And there, in answer to the last shivering quake of the girl's spent love was a line of pooling red...which he languidly licked with a forked tongue.

Vampire. The images and fears. The parties of her father and their secret benefactor. A history of wealth and prestige all manifested for some ancient lord's designs. It all made such a terrible sense. And now, gripping her slowly swelling belly, she feared the worst. This child was not only his...but the begotten of hell.

Bells tolled in the distance. The people were being roused. Perhaps by her father, worried for his daughter. But Talgier knew the truth. The sky was quickly becoming the sickly pale of dawn. And he could not follow in mornings wake.

A slow crack could be heard through the day. Sharp and terrible. It had happened for three afternoons, but never in the morning. The lake was thawing, sounding no less than the snap and grind of bones below the booted heels of the dark armored warriors or those in the livery of Tzimisce. Endlessly they paced and watched for threats from without. But none came. And as soldiers are wont to do, they looked to each other. The break of ice was quickly replaced by the scarlet ring of steel.

But nothing would stop Emil from his documented journey of supplies used, needs fulfilled, and thoughts on the surrounding area's bounty. He would serve his master in the only way he could. Once, twice, the steel rang out. Raising an eyebrow, he continued his careful penning of tubers unearthed and rushes found in bushes. Writing was a new passion for him. Every single opportunity he had to write such words were a joy. But one he had to hide from the foreigners, especially the priest.

A loud squeal broke through the peace of the room. And the quill jumped. A single drop of precious ink fell on the paper. With quick motions, Emil doused it with thin sawdust and turned to the canopied tent's door. His voice was sure and strong, quickly slicing through the keen thrill of his son in a way that steel rang against steel. "Doriel, son, come away from there. Sit by me awhile."

Eyes far too big and wideset for a normal child's face turned to Emil's. The only son of his loins, marred with the disease of the stunted and simple-minded. He had grown taller, but not by much for his late years. He would never be so large, strong, or fast as the other boys. But his happiness in the dreary lands of Romania was greater than any gift the children of stronger men could give. Emil's hard edges brown eyes warmed as his small son came before his father, bowed faultingly, and took a seat upon a worn old footstool.

"Why hit with swords. I want sword. Be warrior. Fight bad dogs." His words were always direct, even in questions. The stiff-backed seneschal looked to the tent's slit. None were there. Leaning, he lifted his son to his lap and held him.

"I'm sorry, son, but you can't have a sword. It's far too dangerous. Let our masters' sons fight the bad dogs." Emil spoke carefully and slow for his son, hoping he would understand faster. But inevitably, the child did not, requiring many revisions of the same statement. Finally, it ended with, "Someday, Doriel, someday."

The child's eyes widened in happiness and glee, a happiness that would soon end. It didn't matter that his son was healthy. For the past two years, his son aged. Emil did not. At first, he thought it a wonderful blessing to see through Doriel's entire life. Emil was no longer a young man, edging far into old age. And with the blessing from the Lord Stefan, he never would physically see those ages. But now, watching his son try to count his father's fingers, he hated it. He would see his son through his entire life...into his painful death.

With attentive eyes, he watched Doriel. A smudge was under his chin. He cleaned it with his sleeve. A fray began on his trousers. He mended it with thread and needle. These things he could fix, make right. Yet the inevitable pain of Doriel's bones and body, he could not. Emil could never fix his son. God must truly hate him, this land, and the decisions he made.

The tent flap opened with a slapping of leather against canvas. Emil's looked up sharply to see a siloetted figure, manly yet long-haired. Doriel called out loud and happy. "Dain! Dain!" the boy cried. The hulking woman entered wearing mud splattered leathers. Smile warm; eyes frozen.

She opened her arms and accepted the boy who ran into them. Emil's face rose to scarlet, angry and blotchy. How dare this bitch touch his son! This heathen from a strange people. They were related now, in more ways than one. Mordain easily hefted the wait of Doriel on her hip, despite his growth and weight. The power of Stefan's vitae thrumming in her veins as Emil's. Why she cared for the boy, only Emil could wonder. However, he knew it was not true love of a mother for a child, but a competitor against an opponent. Long had they vied against each other for Stefan's regard. And Emil was no longer sure he was winning.

"What do you want, Mordain?"

"The hunt was well. We've brought back meals for two days and more lumber for building. The Castillians are fierce with an ax when bent to it. Far be it from the men of Rustovtich's brood to dirty their hands with such work." She spat on the tapestried ground. Emil tried in vain not to follow the spittle with his eyes. She would only gain pleasure in his distress.

Calmly, Emil took the boy from her arms back into his, laying him down on a small cot for sleeping. "You should not speak so, Mordain." His voice was soft as a breeze, as a whisper between lovers or dustmaids gossiping.

"Why should I fear their reprisal? They are weak and pathetic, skulking in their great castle on a mountain so devoid of trees and life that the gods must smote it with their anger and venom." She gave him a predatory smile. How the brute loved the game. If Emil spoke against her, he would look weak, cowed by a mere woman. If he ignored her jib, she dominated him. And her grasp of language was growing stronger, perhaps from speaking too long with the leader of the Lasombran's men, Leonel.

"Those weaklings as you call them are your betters, saving you from the life of brothel women, plying their trade through the scissoring of their legs. If not for that ridiculous chase, I am sure you might have found yourself adorned with fruit on the Toreador's table."

The motion was fast, attack sound. But it was Emil who struck first, batting away her clumbsy motion fueled by overwrought anger. Mordain was far too easy a target. But she would not always be this way. That alone made Emil cautious.

They stood, staring, hating and evaluating each other over the smallest of motions. Then something in him made Mordain scoff. Turning on her heel, she walked from his tent, more man than woman.

Moving to his chair, he slid to a slow sitting. How had his life come to this meager existance? Could the love of his new wife and his only child compare to the eternity he now realized he faced. Sighing, he closed his eyes.

"At least, I still breath. Damn you, Stefan. Damn you and thank you." With care, he removed a beaten and shiny metal goblet. Placing it on the table, Emil looked at his reflection. With care, he searched his hair for the obvious shine of silver. How little Stefan knew how old Emil was. Opening a chest, he removed the small jar of pulped root and rag he used to cover it with brown. It would be truly unwise for the lord to know the truth. Emil had tasted blood long, long ago. And when it faded, he had taken a wife and had a child.

So long ago, the vampire left that consumed his life. Taken by the small pieces of information he could pass with care. Fate was fickle and terrible. The woman told him long ago he would live a cursed life. As the years past again without marring his face, he knew only too well that she was right.

Emil did not cry. He had no tears left. He simply covered the silver, took up quill, and finished his entry. "Mordain slew deer for two days meals. Lumber arrived for the first house. All is well."

ghoul Talgier
Pieces of shale and dust slithered under the sandles, making a difficult climb treacherous. Talgier's hands bloodied and broken grasped for any handhold she could gain. The fear pounding as an old woman upon her back. She had to flee what came. Around every rock. Hidden in every shadow. The thunder of it pressed against her.

He was angry. Talgier displeased the lord with her course thoughts. Despite the efforts to be quiet and preen under his care, she held deceit close to her heart. For so long, he wished for a child to grow in her womb. But his deviltry and strangely hissed words on the battlements only convinced her a child would become a plaything of the dark. And now, this very night, she found him gorging upon one of the handmaids.

The ground rumbled from far off lightening strikes. With a yelp, she fell to her back. Tears she did not think remained burned her eyes as she gulped air. A small respite.

And the image returned. The lord so beautiful as to make angels sing, held the maid in a crushing grip against him. His mouth locked to her throat that moaned in a thrashing of eager passion. A long hand danced along the handmaid's bared breast through the torn garments. And there, in answer to the last shivering quake of the girl's spent love was a line of pooling red...which he languidly licked with a forked tongue.

Vampire. The images and fears. The parties of her father and their secret benefactor. A history of wealth and prestige all manifested for some ancient lord's designs. It all made such a terrible sense. And now, gripping her slowly swelling belly, she feared the worst. This child was not only his...but the begotten of hell.

Bells tolled in the distance. The people were being roused. Perhaps by her father, worried for his daughter. But Talgier knew the truth. The sky was quickly becoming the sickly pale of dawn. And he could not follow in mornings wake.