What could one say, old, ancient, decrepit, yeah any of those words may work to define the man. Tall lean and narrow in shape with a lean figure and a smile that was friendly but seemed to hold a vicious look to it no matter how you sliced it. This of course defined Cane, the atomos, the most basic form of Vampire anyone could get, without him there would be no race, without him there would be nothing. He gave birth to what is the most famous story of the Bible, and moreover was then cursed to walk the Earth devouring what he was guilty of shedding. At first it was easy, you know, kill several people, go about the day like nothing happened, no one could hurt him, fuck he’d LAUGH if anyone tried. With his strength, his speed, his abilities, what could any human hope to do against him? Even with the power of the bullet, there was nothing any pathetic runt of flesh and blood could hope to do, nothing but pray to their God and die.
That was of course until life became life, and his inner human took off, and his children, that he accidently produced, became ravenous whores who whipped whole cities off of maps and decimated civilizations as if they were play things. That was until Dracula came…. Cane could never forget, no, never forgive himself for letting that pumps ass live, well die. In fact watching as Dracula violated the curse of vampirism as power and raw strength, it changed Cane, he’d have to live the rest of his, well eternity doing what he thought to be the right thing. Thus, there it came to be, the lion who acted like a lamp, the tiger who was brought into a cage the killer who wanted to give life.
First came Vincent, a boy of at least eighteen who, like most men, was mature enough to look about twenty one. He was a devout father of three children, two boys and a girl, his wife had just died of illness and he was out late on night, talking to his friends at the local bar. It was London, the fog was dense and the moon high in the air, it was the perfect setting for a scary movie. The scent of fear was no were to be smelt, there was only loud music and dancing. And as he left the club, the scent of alcohol on his cloths, but not his breath, he walked, Bible in hand, like all good preachers. His cross wrapped around his neck as he whistled the good old Hymns of God, and walked slowly in the dark towards his home. When he arrived he saw the horrendous sight. Man feasting on man, blood all on his face, in his mouth, on hic black clothes. That was what he thought, at least, until he received a better look. He had bat wings, his face was disfigured slightly with bones and lbood, and before he could see anything else, there was nothing….
His mind was interrupted, brought back to reality.
His vision blurred a few moments as he reopened his eyes. The room was a plain white, the carpet a pitch black, he had a bed, a TV, and several instruments about his room. Trumpet, Saxophone, Guitar, Trombone, and a Keyboard. A boy who obviously spent some time with the arts. A shiny new laptop lay on his desk across the room from the instruments, it was pushed up against the wall, which was made of glass. A rather dull room except for the contents. The door had knocked, but who could it have been already?
“Vincent, please come you have a visitor.” A motherly voice called calmly. It was his ‘mother’ Aastha, a Indian woman who was converted shortly after him. She was a pretty woman with black hair, tanned skin, and a full skinny curvy body. Her eyebrows were thicker than most American women, but not too bushy. She had a small mole on her right cheek.
As Vincent came walking down the stairs he was easily viewed, his feet first were noticed to being bare, cleanly clipped toenails and well trimmed. Though he walked with grace and complete silence in his steps his posture was just atrocious. His back was curved sharply and his knees were bent, he looked like the worlds largest slouch as he approached her. He dawned blue jeans, hands in pockets, a white t-shirt that was spotless, and messy bed-head hair of choppy black. His eyes had large bags under them as if he never slept much and as he came closer, and straightened his back out it was clear he was at least six feet and three inches tall. “Hello, to what do we owe this delightful visit.” He said, his words, though elegant and sweet, were said in a airy voice that was a whisper just barely heard. His lips were thin and seemed ot curl into his mouth were the red meat was hidden. He was a very strange boy, to say the least.
Aastha, smiling the whole time, spoke with small trinkets of joy. “Why don’t you come in dear?” She asked. “I was just finishing some brownies actually and you are welcome to several.” Her voice radiated like fire, warm, and floating through the air to ones ears. Once there it just tingled a bit and disappeared, making you feel welcomed, her smile was much of the same. The only thing that seemed of was her breathing, she didn’t seem to breath often… strange?
