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Malachai's Hunt
So, Malachai is this new character I have been mentoring and helping along in Bahir'an. After he was very patient this last week, I was able to finally Sire him. Before allowing him to become Embraced fully, I sent him on one final task...to kill his abusive father. Tonight, while I was at work, he sent me this log in a message. It's more of a story really, one I am super impressed and entertained by. I hope you all enjoy.
Malachai scents the air, trying to discern the smells on the wind. He'd been travelling for a few days, trying different town and villages, looking, searching. He had to take breaks of course, so that the madness in the back of his mind didn't take over completely. Once, he'd become so lost in the hunt, he hadn't noticed how far he'd gone down that path until it was almost too late, managing to revert to his normal Atavian form only with a great deal of effort. He was getting close, he knew. If not this village, the next one.
THERE. The scent was feint, but present. Garlic, alcohol, and sweat, the stench of the man he once called father.
A growl almost escaped Malachai's throat, but he managed to keep it contained. it would not do to let himself be found out here as a werewolf. He began to will himself into his normal form, body rippling and popping horribly as the muscles and bones reshaped themselves. The pain of transforming never seemed to lessen with time, but luckily it never grew, either. When his body stopped the rippling, grinding and snapping into place, he straightened, wings shifting to a comfortable position. He runs his hands through his hair, then pulls it back into its customary ponytail. He glances about, making sure with his eyes what his nose told him that no one was about, then spreads his ebon wings and takes to the sky.
From high in the air, no mortal would be able to make him out, his wings blended too well with the sky this time of night. he used that to his advantage, watching the village beneath him with careful observance.
he thinks to himself as he flies over the once-well-known village. He still knew the streets of it well, and the general layout, though he'd never seen it from this point of view before. As he comes closer to where the tavern is, he stops flapping, gliding on silent wings toward the larger building ahead. He dives at the last moment, the pulls up, halting his momentum to drop with careful feet upon the roof. He crawls on feet and hands to above the door where he could observe those entering and leaving the place without easily being spotted.
The minutes become one hour, and then two as he waits, though Malachai barely stirs, save to shift his wings slowly to more comfortable positions. He had been waiting for this time for so long, a bit more would hurt nothing. Finally, his quarry exited on stumbling feet, yelling loudly about prices of ale and the shit quality.
The man was tall, though not as tall as Malachai's 6'4". He had Malachai's nose, though not his chin, which was weak and feeble, covered in the stubble of several days worth of not shaving. He was dressed in simple clothes that were dirty from just as long having not been washed. Though he couldn't smell him from here, Malachai knew the man reeked of garlic, believing the silly myth about it keeping the Consanguine away.
Malachai opens his wings, ready to spring before stopping himself, as if realising what he was about to do.
whispers a voice in the back of his mind.
A smile slowly spreads over Malachai's face, and he settles back, waiting.
-----
Malachai slowly creeps up to the house, taking his time. By now, the man would be just settling into bed. Grabbing a small pebble, Malachai tosses it against a window, the loud *CRACK* resounding through the air. He could hear the man jump up and rush up to the window. Seeing the man's face at that window, Malachai slides his eyelids to half-mast, reducing any glint they would cast from the light in the house. The stygian backs of his wings would hide the rest of his body easily enough, unless the man came outside, which is what he hoped for.
The man shakes his head, and turns to leave the window. Malachai throws another pebble, much harder this time, shattering the window with a sound loud enough that he was glad of the distance between this house and the next.
"What the fuck?!" yells the man within the house and comes belting out of the house just after Malachai takes to the skies again. Malachai flies to the open window as the man rushes about shouting for whoever it is to come out and face him like a man.
thinks Malachai, as he enter the home he had despised for so long.
He swiftly moves to the only lantern in the place, snuffing out the flame and invoking his night vision. He moves back into the corner, waiting for the man to return. After several more moments, he does, a constant stream of threats under his breath the whole time. He didn't even notice that the door had been left open, or that the flame was snuffed. That saddened Malachai somewhat, as it meant he'd have to work harder at getting the man's attention.
-----
Gregori got back into bed, still muttering. Who the fuck had broken his window?! He'd make them pay if he ever found them. Fucking assholes, don't they know how expensive glass windows were? Damn that Malachai for leaving him to wallow in poorcity and squalor. Oh, if only he had the chance to find the wretched little urchin, he'd make him pay dearly for leaving him. How else was he supposed to make gold to afford another window? Blast it all.
He covered up tight, the chill of the night seeping in from the window now, chilling him. He'd have to cover it up tomorrow.
A rending sound split the silence of the night, like cloth splitting down a seem. Gregori sat bolt upright, looking about, as the sound had not come from outside, but in his home. "WHO'S THERE?!" he bellowed, anger and fear flaring at the same time.
A shadow moved in the corner. Tall, hulking, and completely silent. Fear spiked through Gregori again, but he smothered it. He got up, ready to fight. "You that fucker what broke my window?!" he demanded, standing his ground as the shadow moved closer. Wings unfurled, growing from the awkward hump on the figure's back, spreading out and blocking much of Gregori's peripheral vision. "Yes," comes a smooth voice, the sound seething through the air and into his ears. But wait, that voice sounded familiar, like a half-forgotten barsong.
"Who are you?" he said, voice a little softer, but not much. Still a demand, still a yell. The figure moved closer, wings flexing in the light from the windows. "Don't you remember me, *father*?" asked the voice, taunting, as the figure stepped into the light coming from the moon and through the window.
Him. Malachai. But how? Where did the wings come from? Why'd he come back? Didn't matter, he'd returned. Must have known he couldn't survive on his own, the little wretch. Gregori felt his fear slide away from him and the old confidence filling him back up. "Well, you can just replace it, then, boy. Have to work harder for your meals now, cost me a fortune, you have. I'll have you know I won't tolerate any more running off, or I'l-!"
Gregori was on his back, staring at the ceiling with pain in chest before he even knew what had happened.
"Or you'll what, old man?" came the smooth, taunting voice again.
How had he...did the wretch just hit him?! Gregori got to his feet. "How dare you hit me, you little wretch! I'll starve you for a week for tha-!"
-----
Gregori woke up sitting in his chair. What the hell had happened? He didn't remember sleeping, or even sitting in the chair. He tried to rub his eyes, but found his hands were tied to the arms. "WHat the fuck?!" he exclaimed.
"Ah...you've finally woken up." There it was, that smooth voice emanating from just behind him. he tried to turn, but couldn't move far because of his wrists being tied, ankles too, by the feel of it.
"What are you doing, boy, get me out of this!" he yelled.
"No," said Malachai, amusement evident from his tone. Gregori was astounded. He hadn't heard this wretch refuse him in years.
"What do you mean, 'no'? I said get me out of here!"
"*I said no*," came a snarling voice, that sounded almost nothing like the voice he'd previously heard. For the first time, a trickle of fear dripped down Gregori's back.
"Now you listen to me, boy-!" He was abruptly cut off by a blow to the side of his head.
"No, old man. You listen to *me*," said Malachai, voice smooth once more. "If you don't, I'll just keep hitting you. Please, give me a reason, I beg you. I do not mind, and I have all the time in the world."
Gregori was astounded and afraid. This couldn't be Malachai. Malachai was always meek, afraid of him. This...thing was just wearing his skin, or using magic to look like him, sound like him.
"Good boy," came the taunting voice. "It's about time you learned your lessons." The very words he had used on the boy so many times.
"You...you can't be..." said Gregori, fear fully taking him for the first time.
"Can't be what, Gregori?" asked the voice. "Can't be here? Can't be the one in control?" He chuckled, a sound full of dark promises that sent shivers down Gregori's back. "Oh, you'll find I can be both of those things, and much....much more. You see, I've come back to thank you." Those wings came forward on either side of Gregori, looking just like the night sky: the darkest of greys, almost, *almost* black, speckled with random points of white like the stars at midnight on a cloudless night. It made Gregori feel like the Night itself was surrounding him. He closed his eyes.
"What do you mean, boy?" he asked before another blow took him on the side of the head.
"When did I say you could speak, old man? I do not seem to recall...." Gregori thought his son's voice sounded more...cultured. He almost sounded like one of those rich nobles that came through the town sometimes. He didn't dare say anything else, though, he saw stars on that last blow, and fear had crept into his limbs, seemingly, sending shivers through him.
Denial rent it's warming way through him. This couldn't be Malachai, couldn't be happening. Malachai was meek, obedient, did what he was told. This guy had to be an imposter, someone the boy had sent.
"As I said," continued the voice behind him, "I've come back to thank you for all you did. You see, if not for your loving ministrations, I'd've never found my way to my new home." A feathery caress across his cheek made Gregori flinch. A dark, rippling chuckle came from right behind and above him as two hands rested lightly on his shoulders. "Awww, what's the matter, old man? Scared of the one you forced into bed countless times to go make you some money? Why? After all...." the hands shifted, and the voice sounded right in his ear, "I have you to thank for my very life, after all." A chill ran down Gregori's back as he recognized the words he'd thrown at the cowering boy so many times are murmuered into his ears. "So thank you, *father*, for letting me live." The word is almost a loving stroke as a feathery caress once more crosses his cheek.
"You...why are you here?" he asked, his voice shaking.
"Didn't you hear me?" asked Malachai as his hands tightened briefly on his shoulders. "I'm here to thank you, pay you back for all you did for me. As I said, I'd never have found my new home with you."
Confusion crossed Gregori's mind. "New home?" asked Gregori, forgetting himself, "who'd want you in their homes, sullying the-!"
-----
Malachai sighs, disappointed, as the man slouches, unconscious once more. He'd have to work on not hitting quite so hard. "When using Malice," he recites to himself, calmly, "one must be careful not to overuse it or use to little of it. There must be precision, as Malice is usually enacted to push a specific goal or point. Like tailors, we must look carefully on where we sink our needle into, for if done improperly, the product that we end up with could be of poor quality or flimsy."
No matter, the man will wake soon, and he can begin again. But, he could always wake the man up. Malachai pauses for a moment, thinking, considering the options, then nods. He steps back, looking for a hammer in the house, knowing the man kept at least one in the house for home repairs. He might be atrocious at making anything look seemly, but he could plug holes in walls well enough.
Ah! There it was, leaning, handle up, against the far wall. Malachai grabs it and head back to the man, pondering for a moment, then brings down the hammer on the man's left, outside toe, the smallest one. Immediately, Gregori wakes, screaming into the night. Malachai moves back behind the man, knowing that not being able to see him will make Gregori's Fear so much the sharper.
"Shhhh..." he soothes, running a hand over the man's forehead from behind. "It'll pass soon, it's only a small wound." More of his own words thrown back. The screams finally die down, giving way to whimpering cries. "Alright, now...that's enough," Malachai says, patting the man's shoulder. The cries continue. "That's enough, now," he says, more firmly, as if speaking to a stubborn child. The cries continue unheeding. "*I said that's enough!*" snarls, Malachai, slapping the man across the cheek, a tricky thing without being in front of him. The cires finally stop, replaced by hiccuping breaths. "Better...." Malachai coos.
He draws his wings forward again, not quite touch the man in front of him. "Now...where were we...." he pauses. "Ah yes, my new home. I've found refuge in Bloodloch, of course, dear man."
The smell of Fear permeated the air once more. , thought Malachai,
"Yes, the city of the Undead. Few mortals pass through there unheeded and unhindered." He pats the man on the shoulder, hands still resting there.
Through the sharp breaths full of pain, Gregori says, "Y-...your hands...."
"What of them?" asks Malachai, tilting his head even though the man couldn't see him.
"They're...they're cold..."
"Ah, yes, well that's because I'm no longer mortal, old man." The scent of Fear spikes again, and doesn't settle down. Malachai grins, the smell a lovely thing to experience. "Yes, he says, the grin in his voice, "the very thing you fear, is what I've become."
"But....but you're not a...a..." he trails off.
"A what, Gregori?" asks Malachai, almost politely.
"Vampire..." says the man, seemingly clinging to his last hope. "The...garlic-"
"Doesn't work, actually. And no, I'm not a vampire, old man." The man sags in relief, almost. "Not yet, anyway," continues Malachai. The shoulders tense again. "You see, I'm what they call a Nightstalker. A sort of fledgling. Also, I would appreciate you not using the word vampire again, it's such a dirty word." Malachai can't help but smile again, his Sire's words coming back to him. "Vampires are beastial creatures of brute strength and Lust, where I am to become a Consanguine, a noble of the Blood. Remember that word, dear man, Consanguine." He draws it out carefully, making sure to pronounce it perfectly, so there's no mistakes.
"What's it matter...you're gonna kill me anyway, aren't you? That what you vampires do, ki-!" Using the celerity of his kind, Malachai flits in front of the man, snarling and baring his fangs, showing himself fully for the first time in the light. Gregori visibly pales, and the sharp scent of urine permeates the air.
"I told you*,", Malachai snarls, "*not to USE THAT WORD*." He slaps the man hard enough to send his head spinning to the side with enough force that Malachai heard it crick as it stopped. Gregori turns back and spits, defiantly, at Malachai's face.
Malachai leans back, slowly. he recites internally.
He smiles, using an expression he knew to be truly disturbing. Slowly, he wipes with a single finger the glob of saliva from his cheek, then grabs the man's jaw, wrenching it open and holding him still, holding that finger over his mouth, letting the spittle drip slowly into the man's mouth. "You know, you can continue this petty defiance, or you can simply accept your fate, old man. The choice is yours." He wipes his finger on the man's cheek and lets go his jaw, patting his cheek in a condescending sort of way.
"However first, you may wish to consider where you are. In this place, we are far enough from others so as not to be overheard, no matter the noise. A fact you always reminded me before you decided whoring me out to the town would be more beneficial. No matter your screams, yells, or shouts of defiance, no one will hear." He tilts his head, considering the man carefully. "Or upon hearing...care, I imagine. I doubt you've endeared yourself to the town at large since I've been away, hmm?" Malachai grins upon seeing realisation dawn in the man's eyes, which were not as dark a blue as his own, though just as vivid. "I see...well, I suppose I could just leave you be, since your existence is so miserable."
He pulls a dagger from his belt, a wicked thing sharp enough to slide through flesh as easily as a fish through water. "See this dagger? If you can get it, I'll let you live. If not, I'll kill you." He leans in, slow and deliberate so that he was inches from the man's face, fangs bared in a wicked grin. "And trust me when I say, I'll take my time, old man. I'll savour every scream or cry you make like a drowning man savours water as it quenches his thirst." He steps back.
"You...you mean it?" asks Gergori, desperation in his voice, as well as hope. Ah, hope, exactly what Malachai had been hoping to hear. "I do," he said, seriously, smiling softly. "Get this dagger, and your freedom is yours. You'll of course have to free yourself, I'm not going to to that, but if you can cut yourself free, I will leave you be."
He leans down, wings folding back against himself as he cuts free the man's feet, but not his wrists. He throws the dagger against the far wall, surprising himself when it sinks into the wall, quivering. he muses to himself.
"W-what are you doing? Aren't you gonna untie my hands?" Malachai grins.
"Did you not hear me, old man? You must free yourself." He steps back against the far wall, behind the man once more.
Desperation seems to fill Gregori as he stands up awkwardly, hunched over from the chair still being attached to him. He scuttles sideways toward the dagger like a crab, stopping right before it. He jumps once, twice, trying to lay hands on the hilt, but only managing to cut himself on the bit of blade still sticking out, crying out from the pain and more desperation. He finally leans forward, trying to wrench the thing from the wall with his teeth. Small grunts and sounds of longing come from him, bringing a smile to Malachai's lips. He beings to step forward slowly, not bothering to hide his footsteps.
The acrid scent of Fear fills the room as Gregori hears his footsteps. He redoubles his efforts, finally freeing the dagger and then sitting down on the chair, trying to lean far enough forward to cut the bonds with his mouth. When that fails, he tries passing the dagger to his hand, but his fat stomach prevents enough bending to do that reliably. Malachai begins reaching his wings around the man again, savouring the permeating scent of terror and the soft sounds of panic coming from Gregori. Seeing the wings, Gregori tries to drop the dagger into his hand, but it misses, hitting the floor. Gregori freezes like prey before it's apex predator.
"Such a shame," says Malachai, his voice a soft caress.
THERE. The scent was feint, but present. Garlic, alcohol, and sweat, the stench of the man he once called father.
A growl almost escaped Malachai's throat, but he managed to keep it contained. it would not do to let himself be found out here as a werewolf. He began to will himself into his normal form, body rippling and popping horribly as the muscles and bones reshaped themselves. The pain of transforming never seemed to lessen with time, but luckily it never grew, either. When his body stopped the rippling, grinding and snapping into place, he straightened, wings shifting to a comfortable position. He runs his hands through his hair, then pulls it back into its customary ponytail. He glances about, making sure with his eyes what his nose told him that no one was about, then spreads his ebon wings and takes to the sky.
From high in the air, no mortal would be able to make him out, his wings blended too well with the sky this time of night. he used that to his advantage, watching the village beneath him with careful observance.
he thinks to himself as he flies over the once-well-known village. He still knew the streets of it well, and the general layout, though he'd never seen it from this point of view before. As he comes closer to where the tavern is, he stops flapping, gliding on silent wings toward the larger building ahead. He dives at the last moment, the pulls up, halting his momentum to drop with careful feet upon the roof. He crawls on feet and hands to above the door where he could observe those entering and leaving the place without easily being spotted.
The minutes become one hour, and then two as he waits, though Malachai barely stirs, save to shift his wings slowly to more comfortable positions. He had been waiting for this time for so long, a bit more would hurt nothing. Finally, his quarry exited on stumbling feet, yelling loudly about prices of ale and the shit quality.
The man was tall, though not as tall as Malachai's 6'4". He had Malachai's nose, though not his chin, which was weak and feeble, covered in the stubble of several days worth of not shaving. He was dressed in simple clothes that were dirty from just as long having not been washed. Though he couldn't smell him from here, Malachai knew the man reeked of garlic, believing the silly myth about it keeping the Consanguine away.
Malachai opens his wings, ready to spring before stopping himself, as if realising what he was about to do.
whispers a voice in the back of his mind.
A smile slowly spreads over Malachai's face, and he settles back, waiting.
-----
Malachai slowly creeps up to the house, taking his time. By now, the man would be just settling into bed. Grabbing a small pebble, Malachai tosses it against a window, the loud *CRACK* resounding through the air. He could hear the man jump up and rush up to the window. Seeing the man's face at that window, Malachai slides his eyelids to half-mast, reducing any glint they would cast from the light in the house. The stygian backs of his wings would hide the rest of his body easily enough, unless the man came outside, which is what he hoped for.
The man shakes his head, and turns to leave the window. Malachai throws another pebble, much harder this time, shattering the window with a sound loud enough that he was glad of the distance between this house and the next.
"What the fuck?!" yells the man within the house and comes belting out of the house just after Malachai takes to the skies again. Malachai flies to the open window as the man rushes about shouting for whoever it is to come out and face him like a man.
thinks Malachai, as he enter the home he had despised for so long.
He swiftly moves to the only lantern in the place, snuffing out the flame and invoking his night vision. He moves back into the corner, waiting for the man to return. After several more moments, he does, a constant stream of threats under his breath the whole time. He didn't even notice that the door had been left open, or that the flame was snuffed. That saddened Malachai somewhat, as it meant he'd have to work harder at getting the man's attention.
-----
Gregori got back into bed, still muttering. Who the fuck had broken his window?! He'd make them pay if he ever found them. Fucking assholes, don't they know how expensive glass windows were? Damn that Malachai for leaving him to wallow in poorcity and squalor. Oh, if only he had the chance to find the wretched little urchin, he'd make him pay dearly for leaving him. How else was he supposed to make gold to afford another window? Blast it all.
He covered up tight, the chill of the night seeping in from the window now, chilling him. He'd have to cover it up tomorrow.
A rending sound split the silence of the night, like cloth splitting down a seem. Gregori sat bolt upright, looking about, as the sound had not come from outside, but in his home. "WHO'S THERE?!" he bellowed, anger and fear flaring at the same time.
A shadow moved in the corner. Tall, hulking, and completely silent. Fear spiked through Gregori again, but he smothered it. He got up, ready to fight. "You that fucker what broke my window?!" he demanded, standing his ground as the shadow moved closer. Wings unfurled, growing from the awkward hump on the figure's back, spreading out and blocking much of Gregori's peripheral vision. "Yes," comes a smooth voice, the sound seething through the air and into his ears. But wait, that voice sounded familiar, like a half-forgotten barsong.
"Who are you?" he said, voice a little softer, but not much. Still a demand, still a yell. The figure moved closer, wings flexing in the light from the windows. "Don't you remember me, *father*?" asked the voice, taunting, as the figure stepped into the light coming from the moon and through the window.
Him. Malachai. But how? Where did the wings come from? Why'd he come back? Didn't matter, he'd returned. Must have known he couldn't survive on his own, the little wretch. Gregori felt his fear slide away from him and the old confidence filling him back up. "Well, you can just replace it, then, boy. Have to work harder for your meals now, cost me a fortune, you have. I'll have you know I won't tolerate any more running off, or I'l-!"
Gregori was on his back, staring at the ceiling with pain in chest before he even knew what had happened.
"Or you'll what, old man?" came the smooth, taunting voice again.
How had he...did the wretch just hit him?! Gregori got to his feet. "How dare you hit me, you little wretch! I'll starve you for a week for tha-!"
-----
Gregori woke up sitting in his chair. What the hell had happened? He didn't remember sleeping, or even sitting in the chair. He tried to rub his eyes, but found his hands were tied to the arms. "WHat the fuck?!" he exclaimed.
"Ah...you've finally woken up." There it was, that smooth voice emanating from just behind him. he tried to turn, but couldn't move far because of his wrists being tied, ankles too, by the feel of it.
"What are you doing, boy, get me out of this!" he yelled.
"No," said Malachai, amusement evident from his tone. Gregori was astounded. He hadn't heard this wretch refuse him in years.
"What do you mean, 'no'? I said get me out of here!"
"*I said no*," came a snarling voice, that sounded almost nothing like the voice he'd previously heard. For the first time, a trickle of fear dripped down Gregori's back.
"Now you listen to me, boy-!" He was abruptly cut off by a blow to the side of his head.
"No, old man. You listen to *me*," said Malachai, voice smooth once more. "If you don't, I'll just keep hitting you. Please, give me a reason, I beg you. I do not mind, and I have all the time in the world."
Gregori was astounded and afraid. This couldn't be Malachai. Malachai was always meek, afraid of him. This...thing was just wearing his skin, or using magic to look like him, sound like him.
"Good boy," came the taunting voice. "It's about time you learned your lessons." The very words he had used on the boy so many times.
"You...you can't be..." said Gregori, fear fully taking him for the first time.
"Can't be what, Gregori?" asked the voice. "Can't be here? Can't be the one in control?" He chuckled, a sound full of dark promises that sent shivers down Gregori's back. "Oh, you'll find I can be both of those things, and much....much more. You see, I've come back to thank you." Those wings came forward on either side of Gregori, looking just like the night sky: the darkest of greys, almost, *almost* black, speckled with random points of white like the stars at midnight on a cloudless night. It made Gregori feel like the Night itself was surrounding him. He closed his eyes.
"What do you mean, boy?" he asked before another blow took him on the side of the head.
"When did I say you could speak, old man? I do not seem to recall...." Gregori thought his son's voice sounded more...cultured. He almost sounded like one of those rich nobles that came through the town sometimes. He didn't dare say anything else, though, he saw stars on that last blow, and fear had crept into his limbs, seemingly, sending shivers through him.
Denial rent it's warming way through him. This couldn't be Malachai, couldn't be happening. Malachai was meek, obedient, did what he was told. This guy had to be an imposter, someone the boy had sent.
"As I said," continued the voice behind him, "I've come back to thank you for all you did. You see, if not for your loving ministrations, I'd've never found my way to my new home." A feathery caress across his cheek made Gregori flinch. A dark, rippling chuckle came from right behind and above him as two hands rested lightly on his shoulders. "Awww, what's the matter, old man? Scared of the one you forced into bed countless times to go make you some money? Why? After all...." the hands shifted, and the voice sounded right in his ear, "I have you to thank for my very life, after all." A chill ran down Gregori's back as he recognized the words he'd thrown at the cowering boy so many times are murmuered into his ears. "So thank you, *father*, for letting me live." The word is almost a loving stroke as a feathery caress once more crosses his cheek.
"You...why are you here?" he asked, his voice shaking.
"Didn't you hear me?" asked Malachai as his hands tightened briefly on his shoulders. "I'm here to thank you, pay you back for all you did for me. As I said, I'd never have found my new home with you."
Confusion crossed Gregori's mind. "New home?" asked Gregori, forgetting himself, "who'd want you in their homes, sullying the-!"
-----
Malachai sighs, disappointed, as the man slouches, unconscious once more. He'd have to work on not hitting quite so hard. "When using Malice," he recites to himself, calmly, "one must be careful not to overuse it or use to little of it. There must be precision, as Malice is usually enacted to push a specific goal or point. Like tailors, we must look carefully on where we sink our needle into, for if done improperly, the product that we end up with could be of poor quality or flimsy."
No matter, the man will wake soon, and he can begin again. But, he could always wake the man up. Malachai pauses for a moment, thinking, considering the options, then nods. He steps back, looking for a hammer in the house, knowing the man kept at least one in the house for home repairs. He might be atrocious at making anything look seemly, but he could plug holes in walls well enough.
Ah! There it was, leaning, handle up, against the far wall. Malachai grabs it and head back to the man, pondering for a moment, then brings down the hammer on the man's left, outside toe, the smallest one. Immediately, Gregori wakes, screaming into the night. Malachai moves back behind the man, knowing that not being able to see him will make Gregori's Fear so much the sharper.
"Shhhh..." he soothes, running a hand over the man's forehead from behind. "It'll pass soon, it's only a small wound." More of his own words thrown back. The screams finally die down, giving way to whimpering cries. "Alright, now...that's enough," Malachai says, patting the man's shoulder. The cries continue. "That's enough, now," he says, more firmly, as if speaking to a stubborn child. The cries continue unheeding. "*I said that's enough!*" snarls, Malachai, slapping the man across the cheek, a tricky thing without being in front of him. The cires finally stop, replaced by hiccuping breaths. "Better...." Malachai coos.
He draws his wings forward again, not quite touch the man in front of him. "Now...where were we...." he pauses. "Ah yes, my new home. I've found refuge in Bloodloch, of course, dear man."
The smell of Fear permeated the air once more. , thought Malachai,
"Yes, the city of the Undead. Few mortals pass through there unheeded and unhindered." He pats the man on the shoulder, hands still resting there.
Through the sharp breaths full of pain, Gregori says, "Y-...your hands...."
"What of them?" asks Malachai, tilting his head even though the man couldn't see him.
"They're...they're cold..."
"Ah, yes, well that's because I'm no longer mortal, old man." The scent of Fear spikes again, and doesn't settle down. Malachai grins, the smell a lovely thing to experience. "Yes, he says, the grin in his voice, "the very thing you fear, is what I've become."
"But....but you're not a...a..." he trails off.
"A what, Gregori?" asks Malachai, almost politely.
"Vampire..." says the man, seemingly clinging to his last hope. "The...garlic-"
"Doesn't work, actually. And no, I'm not a vampire, old man." The man sags in relief, almost. "Not yet, anyway," continues Malachai. The shoulders tense again. "You see, I'm what they call a Nightstalker. A sort of fledgling. Also, I would appreciate you not using the word vampire again, it's such a dirty word." Malachai can't help but smile again, his Sire's words coming back to him. "Vampires are beastial creatures of brute strength and Lust, where I am to become a Consanguine, a noble of the Blood. Remember that word, dear man, Consanguine." He draws it out carefully, making sure to pronounce it perfectly, so there's no mistakes.
"What's it matter...you're gonna kill me anyway, aren't you? That what you vampires do, ki-!" Using the celerity of his kind, Malachai flits in front of the man, snarling and baring his fangs, showing himself fully for the first time in the light. Gregori visibly pales, and the sharp scent of urine permeates the air.
"I told you*,", Malachai snarls, "*not to USE THAT WORD*." He slaps the man hard enough to send his head spinning to the side with enough force that Malachai heard it crick as it stopped. Gregori turns back and spits, defiantly, at Malachai's face.
Malachai leans back, slowly. he recites internally.
He smiles, using an expression he knew to be truly disturbing. Slowly, he wipes with a single finger the glob of saliva from his cheek, then grabs the man's jaw, wrenching it open and holding him still, holding that finger over his mouth, letting the spittle drip slowly into the man's mouth. "You know, you can continue this petty defiance, or you can simply accept your fate, old man. The choice is yours." He wipes his finger on the man's cheek and lets go his jaw, patting his cheek in a condescending sort of way.
"However first, you may wish to consider where you are. In this place, we are far enough from others so as not to be overheard, no matter the noise. A fact you always reminded me before you decided whoring me out to the town would be more beneficial. No matter your screams, yells, or shouts of defiance, no one will hear." He tilts his head, considering the man carefully. "Or upon hearing...care, I imagine. I doubt you've endeared yourself to the town at large since I've been away, hmm?" Malachai grins upon seeing realisation dawn in the man's eyes, which were not as dark a blue as his own, though just as vivid. "I see...well, I suppose I could just leave you be, since your existence is so miserable."
He pulls a dagger from his belt, a wicked thing sharp enough to slide through flesh as easily as a fish through water. "See this dagger? If you can get it, I'll let you live. If not, I'll kill you." He leans in, slow and deliberate so that he was inches from the man's face, fangs bared in a wicked grin. "And trust me when I say, I'll take my time, old man. I'll savour every scream or cry you make like a drowning man savours water as it quenches his thirst." He steps back.
"You...you mean it?" asks Gergori, desperation in his voice, as well as hope. Ah, hope, exactly what Malachai had been hoping to hear. "I do," he said, seriously, smiling softly. "Get this dagger, and your freedom is yours. You'll of course have to free yourself, I'm not going to to that, but if you can cut yourself free, I will leave you be."
He leans down, wings folding back against himself as he cuts free the man's feet, but not his wrists. He throws the dagger against the far wall, surprising himself when it sinks into the wall, quivering. he muses to himself.
"W-what are you doing? Aren't you gonna untie my hands?" Malachai grins.
"Did you not hear me, old man? You must free yourself." He steps back against the far wall, behind the man once more.
Desperation seems to fill Gregori as he stands up awkwardly, hunched over from the chair still being attached to him. He scuttles sideways toward the dagger like a crab, stopping right before it. He jumps once, twice, trying to lay hands on the hilt, but only managing to cut himself on the bit of blade still sticking out, crying out from the pain and more desperation. He finally leans forward, trying to wrench the thing from the wall with his teeth. Small grunts and sounds of longing come from him, bringing a smile to Malachai's lips. He beings to step forward slowly, not bothering to hide his footsteps.
The acrid scent of Fear fills the room as Gregori hears his footsteps. He redoubles his efforts, finally freeing the dagger and then sitting down on the chair, trying to lean far enough forward to cut the bonds with his mouth. When that fails, he tries passing the dagger to his hand, but his fat stomach prevents enough bending to do that reliably. Malachai begins reaching his wings around the man again, savouring the permeating scent of terror and the soft sounds of panic coming from Gregori. Seeing the wings, Gregori tries to drop the dagger into his hand, but it misses, hitting the floor. Gregori freezes like prey before it's apex predator.
"Such a shame," says Malachai, his voice a soft caress.
"Hell hath no hold on a warrior’s mind, see how the snow has made each of us blind. Vibrant colors spray from new dead, staining the earth such a beautiful red."
4
Comments
But seriously, there's a lot I'd do to dress that up and make it better, so I'm gonna go over it a bit and then write it down in a book, in the game.
-----
I scented the air, trying to discern the smells on the wind. I'd been travelling for a few days, trying different town and villages, looking, searching. I had to take breaks of course, so that the madness in the back of my mind didn't take over completely. Once, I'd become so lost in the hunt, I hadn't noticed how far I'd gone down that path until it was almost too late, managing to revert to my normal Atavian form only with a great deal of effort. I was getting close, I knew. If not this village, the next one.
THERE. The scent was feint, but present. Garlic, alcohol, and sweat, mixed in with the natural stench of the man I once called "father".
A growl almost escaped my throat, but I managed to keep it contained. It would not do to let myself be found out here as a werewolf. I began to will myself into my normal form, body rippling and popping horribly as the muscles and bones reshaped themselves. The pain of transforming never seemed to lessen with time, but luckily it never grew, either. When my body stopped the rippling, grinding and snapping into place, I straightened, wings shifting to a comfortable position. I ran my hands through my hair, then pulled it back into its customary ponytail. I glanced about, making sure with my eyes what my lupine nose had already told me: that no one was about. Then, I spread my ebon wings and took to the sky.
From high in the air, no mortal would be able to make me out, my wings blended too well with the sky this time of night. I used that to my advantage, watching the village beneath me with careful observance.
He'll be at the tavern, likely, I thought to myself as I flew over the once-well-known village. I still knew the streets of it well, and the general layout, though I'd never seen it from this point of view before. As I came closer to where the tavern was, I stopped flapping, gliding on silent wings toward the larger building ahead. I dove at the last moment, the pulled up, halting my momentum to drop with careful feet upon the roof. I crawled on feet and hands to above the door where I could observe those entering and leaving the place without easily being spotted.
The minutes become one hour, and then two as I waited, though I barely stirred, save to shift my wings slowly to more a comfortable position. I had been waiting for this time for so long, a bit more would hurt nothing. Finally, my quarry exited on stumbling feet, yelling loudly about prices of ale and the shit quality.
The usual rants.
The man was tall, though not as tall as my 6'4". He had my nose, though not my chin; his was weak and feeble, covered in the stubble of several days worth of not shaving. He was dressed in simple clothes of brown and green that were dirty from just as long having not been washed as he was left unshaven. Though I couldn't smell him from here, I knew the man reeked of garlic, believing the silly myth about it keeping the Consanguine away.
I opened my wings, ready to spring....before stopping myself.
Not yet. This is not something to be done and over with, whispers a voice in the back of my mind. Enjoy it, draw it out, savour it. Visit Malice upon him, and let him know the cold caress of Fear.
A smile slowly spread over my face, and I settled back, waiting.
-----
I slowly crept up to the house, taking my time. By now, the man would be just settling into bed. Grabbing a small pebble, I tossed it against a window, the loud *CRACK* resounding through the air. I could hear the man jump up and rush up to the window. Seeing the man's face at that window, I slid my eyelids to half-mast, reducing any glint they would cast from the light in the house, not that he'd notice anyway. The stygian backs of my wings would hide the rest of my body easily enough, unless the man came outside, which is what I hoped for.
The man shook his head, and turns to leave the window. I threw another pebble, much harder this time, shattering the window with a sound loud enough that I was glad of the distance between this house and the next.
"What the fuck?!" yelled the man within the house and came belting out of the house just after I took to the skies again. I flew to the door, opening it as the man rushed about shouting for whoever it is to come out and face him like a man.
But I am no man, I thought, as I entered the home I had despised for so long, leaving the door open. I am much more than that, now.
I swiftly moved to the only lantern in the place, snuffing out the flame and invoking my night vision. I moved back into a corner, waiting for the man to return. After several more moments, he does, a constant stream of threats under his breath the whole time through his heavy breathing. He didn't even notice that the door had been left open, or that the flame was snuffed. That saddened me somewhat, as it meant I'd have to work harder at getting the man's attention.
-----
Gregori got back into bed, still muttering. Who the fuck had broken his window?! He'd make them pay if he ever found them. Fucking assholes, don't they know how expensive glass windows were? Damn that Malachai for leaving him to wallow in poorness and squalor. Oh, if only he had the chance to find the wretched little urchin, he'd make him pay dearly for leaving him. How else was he supposed to make gold to afford another window? Blast it all.
He covered up tight, the cold of the night seeping in from the window now, chilling him. He'd have to cover it up tomorrow.
A rending sound split the silence of the night, like cloth splitting down a seem. Gregori sat bolt upright, looking about, as the sound had not come from outside, but from within his home. "WHO'S THERE?!" he bellowed, anger and fear flaring at the same time.
A shadow moved in the corner. Tall, hulking, and completely silent. Fear spiked through Gregori again, but he smothered it. He got up, ready to fight. "You that fucker what broke my window?!" he demanded, standing his ground as the shadow moved closer. Wings unfurled, growing from the awkward hump on the figure's back, spreading out and blocking much of Gregori's peripheral vision. "Yes," came a smooth voice, the sound seething through the air and into his ears. But wait, that voice sounded familiar, like a half-forgotten barsong.
"Who the hell are you?!" he shouted, voice a little softer, but not much. The figure moved closer, wings flexing in the light from the windows. "Don't you remember me, father?" asked the voice, taunting, as the figure stepped into the light coming from the moon and through the window.
Him. Malachai. But how? Where did the wings come from? Why'd he come back? Didn't matter, he'd returned. Must have known he couldn't survive on his own, the little wretch. Gregori felt his fear slide away from him and the old confidence filling him back up. "Well, you can just replace it, then, boy. Have to work harder for your meals now, cost me a fortune, you have. I'll have you know I won't tolerate any more running off, or I'l-!"
Gregori was on his back, staring at the ceiling with pain in chest before he even knew what had happened.
"Or you'll what, old man?" came the smooth, taunting voice again.
How had he...did the urchin just punch him?! Gregori got to his feet. "How dare you hit me, you little wretch! I'll starve you for a week for tha-!"
-----
Gregori woke up sitting in his chair. What the hell had happened? He didn't remember sleeping, or even sitting in the chair. He tried to rub his eyes, but found his hands were tied to the arms of the chair at the wrists. "What the fuck?!" he exclaimed.
"Ah...you've finally woken up." There it was, that smooth voice emanating from just behind him. He tried to turn, but couldn't move far because of his wrists being tied. Ankles too, by the feel of it.
"What are you doing, boy, get me out of this!" he yelled.
"No," said Malachai, amusement evident from his tone. Gregori was astounded. He hadn't heard this wretch refuse him in years.
"What do you mean, 'no'? I said get me out of here!"
"I said no," came a snarling voice, that sounded almost nothing like the voice he'd previously heard. For the first time, a trickle of fear dripped down Gregori's back.
"Now you listen to me, boy-!" He was abruptly cut off by a blow to the side of his head.
"No, old man. You listen to me," said Malachai, voice smooth once more. "If you don't, I'll just keep hitting you. Please, give me a reason, I beg you. I do not mind, and I have all the time in the world."
Gregori was astounded and afraid. This couldn't be Malachai. He was always meek, afraid of him. This imposter was just wearing an illusion to look like him, sound like him.
"Good boy," came the taunting voice. "It's about time you learned your lessons." The very words he had used on the boy so many times.
"You...you can't be..." said Gregori, fear fully taking him for the first time.
"Can't be what, old man?" asked the voice. "Can't be here? Can't be the one in control?" He chuckled, a sound full of dark promises that sent shivers down Gregori's back. "Oh, you'll find I can be both of those things, and much....much more. You see, I've come back to thank you." Those wings came forward on either side of Gregori, looking just like the night sky: the darkest of greys, almost, almost black, speckled with random points of white like the stars at midnight with no clouds. It made Gregori feel like the Night itself was surrounding him. He closed his eyes, unsettled by the thought.
"What do you mean, boy?" he asked out of habit before another blow took him on the side of the head.
"When did I say you could speak, old man? I do not seem to recall...." Gregori thought his son's voice sounded more...cultured beneath the amusement. He almost sounded like one of those rich nobles that came through the town sometimes. He didn't dare say anything else, though, he had seen stars on that last blow, and fear had crept into his limbs now, seemingly, sending shivers through him.
Denial rent it's warming way through him once more. This couldn't be Malachai, couldn't be happening. Malachai was submissive, obedient, did what he was told. This guy had to be an imposter, someone the boy had sent.
"As I said," continued the voice behind him, "I've come back to thank you for all you did for me. You see, if not for your loving ministrations, I'd've never found my way to my new home." A feathery caress across his cheek made Gregori flinch, but he kept his eyes shut tight. A dark, rippling chuckle came from right behind and above him as two hands rested lightly on his shoulders. "Awww, what's the matter, old man? Scared of the one you forced into bed countless times to go make you some money? Why? After all...." the hands shifted, and the voice sounded right in his ear, "I have you to thank for my very life, after all." A chill ran down Gregori's back as he recognized more of the words he'd thrown at the cowering boy so many times, murmured into his ears. "So thank you, father, for letting me live." The word is almost a loving stroke as a feathery caress once more crossed his cheek.
"You...why are you here?" he asked, his voice shaking.
"Didn't you hear me?" asked Malachai as his hands tightened briefly on his shoulders. "I'm here to thank you, pay you back for all you did for me. As I said, I'd never have found my new home with you."
Confusion crossed Gregori's mind. "New home?" asked Gregori, forgetting himself out of surprise, "who'd want you in their homes, sullying the-!"
-----
I sighed, disappointed, as the man slouched, unconscious once more. I'd have to work on not hitting quite so hard. "When using Malice," I recited to myself, calmly, "one must be careful not to overuse it or use to little of it. There must be precision, as Malice is usually enacted to push a specific goal or point. Like tailors, we must look carefully on where we sink our needle into, for if done improperly, the product that we end up with could be of poor quality or flimsy."
No matter, the man would wake soon, and I could begin again. But, I could always wake the man up. I paused for a moment, thinking, considering the options, then nodded. I stepped back, looking for a hammer in the house, knowing the man kept at least one in the home for repairs. He might be atrocious at making anything look seemly, but he could plug holes in walls well enough.
Ah! There it was, leaning, handle up, against the far wall. I grabbed it and headed back to the man, pondering for a moment, then brought down the hammer on the man's left, outside toe, the smallest one. Immediately, Gregori awoke, screaming into the night. I moved back behind the man, knowing that not being able to see me would make Gregori's Fear so much the sharper.
"Shhhh..." I soothed, running a hand over the man's forehead from behind. "It'll pass soon, it's only a small wound." More of his own words thrown back. The screams finally died down, giving way to whimpering cries after several moments. "Alright, now...that's enough," I said, patting the man's shoulder. The cries continued. "That's enough, now," I said, more firmly, as if speaking to a stubborn child. The cries continued, unheeding. "I said that's enough!" I snarled, slapping the man across the cheek, a tricky thing without being in front of him. The cries finally stopped, replaced by hiccuping breaths. "Better...." I cooed.
I drew my wings forward again, not quite touching the man in front of me. "Now...where were we...." I paused. "Ah yes, my new home. I've found refuge in Bloodloch, of course, dear man."
The smell of Fear permeated the air once more, sickly sweet and bringing a smile to my lips. Good, I thought, he knows the name.
"Yes, the city of the Undead. Few mortals pass through there unheeded and unhindered." I patted the man on the shoulder once more, hands still resting there.
Through the sharp breaths full of pain from his foot, Gregori said, "Y-...your hands...."
"What of them?" I asked, tilting my head even though the man couldn't see me.
"They're...they're cold..."
"Ah, yes. Well, that's because I'm no longer mortal, old man." The scent of Fear spiked again, and doesn't settle down this time. I grinned, the smell a lovely thing to experience. "Yes," I said, the grin in my voice, "the very thing you fear is what I've become."
"But....but you're not a...a..." he trails off.
"A what, Gregori?" I asked, almost politely.
"Vampire..." said the man, seemingly clinging to his last hope. "The...garlic-"
"Doesn't work, actually. And no, I'm not a vampire, old man." The man sags in relief, almost. "Not yet, anyway," I continued. The shoulders tensed again. "You see, I'm what they call a Nightstalker. A sort of fledgling. Also, I would appreciate you not using the word 'vampire' again, it's such a dirty word." I can't help but smile again, my Sire's words coming back to me. "Vampires are bestial creatures of brute strength and Lust, where I am to become a Consanguine, a noble of the Blood. Remember that word, dear man. Consanguine." I drew it out carefully, making sure to pronounce it perfectly, so there was no mistaking me.
"What's it matter...you're gonna kill me anyway, aren't you? That what you vampires do, ki-!" Using the celerity of my kind, I flitted in front of the man, snarling and baring my fangs, showing myself fully for the first time in the light of the windows for what I was. Gregori visibly paled, and the sharp scent of urine permeated the air.
"I told you,", I snarled, "not to USE THAT WORD." I slapped the man hard enough to send his head spinning to the side with enough force that I heard it crick as it stopped. Gregori turned back and spat, defiantly, at my face.
I leaned back, slowly. One of the strongest obstacles we are bound to face in our victims is their will, I recited internally. Some will have soft wills, malleable and easily broken and made to understand. Many more, most will be stubborn and set in their ways. They have the ones they call an 'iron will'. Given enough time, they will crack from pressure, but the easiest way to get around their iron armour is the subtle touch of despair. I narrowed my eyes, pondering. One of the cruellest, most disparaging things you can do to a man is to give him hope, and then take it back away. It breaks him, and teaches him not to reach for hope again.
I smiled, using an expression I knew to be truly disturbing. Slowly, I wiped with a single finger the glob of saliva from my cheek, then grabbed the man's jaw, wrenching it open and holding him still, holding that finger over his mouth, letting the spittle drip slowly back into the man's mouth. "You know, you can continue this petty defiance, or you can simply accept your fate, old man. The choice is yours." I wiped my finger on the man's cheek and let go his jaw, patting his cheek in a condescending sort of way.
"However first, you may wish to consider where you are. In this place, we are far enough from others so as not to be overheard, no matter the noise. A fact you always reminded me before you decided whoring me out to the town would be more beneficial. No matter your screams, yells, or shouts of defiance, no one will hear." I tilted my head, considering the man carefully. "Or upon hearing...care, I imagine. I doubt you've endeared yourself to the town at large since I've been away, hmm?" I grinned wickedly upon seeing realisation dawn in the man's eyes, which were not as dark a blue as my own, though just as vivid. "I see...well, I suppose I could just leave you be, since your existence is so miserable."
I pulled a dagger from my belt, a wicked thing sharp enough to slide through flesh as easily as a fish through water. "See this dagger? If you can get it and free yourself, I'll let you live. If not, I'll kill you." I leaned in, slow and deliberate so that I was inches from the man's face, fangs bared in that wicked grin. "And trust me when I say, I'll take my time, old man. I'll savour every scream or cry you make like a drowning man savours water as it quenches his thirst." I stepped back, noting the trembling in the man's limbs all over.
"You...you mean it?" asked Gregori, desperation in his voice, as well as hope. Ah, hope, exactly what I had been hoping to hear. "I do," I said, seriously, smiling softly. "Get this dagger, and your freedom is yours. You'll of course have to free yourself, I'm not going to to that, but if you can cut yourself free, I will leave you be."
I leaned down, wings folding back against myself as I cut free the man's feet, but not his wrists. I threw the dagger against the far wall, surprising myself when it sank deep into the wall, quivering. Perhaps I should take that up as a hobby... I mused to myself.
"W-what are you doing? Aren't you gonna untie my hands?"
I grinned. "Did you not hear me, old man? You must free yourself." I stepped back against the far wall, behind the man once more.
Desperation seemed to fill Gregori as he stood up awkwardly, hunched over from the chair still being attached to him. He scuttled sideways toward the dagger like a crab, stopping right before it. He jumps once, twice, trying to lay hands on the hilt, but only managing to cut himself on the bit of blade still sticking out, crying out from the pain and more desperation. The lovely scent of blood filled the air, sweetened by the fear there already. He finally leans forward, trying to wrench the thing from the wall with his teeth. Small grunts and sounds of longing came from him, bringing a smile to my lips. I began to step forward slowly, not bothering to hide my footsteps.
The acrid scent of Fear fills the room much more sharply as Gregori hears my footsteps. He redoubled his efforts, finally freeing the dagger and then sitting down on the chair, trying to lean far enough forward to cut the bonds with his mouth. The angle made this impossible, so he tried passing the dagger to his hand, however his fat stomach prevents enough bending to do that reliably. I began reaching my wings around the man again, savouring the permeating scent of terror and the soft sounds of panic coming from Gregori. Seeing the wings, he tried to drop the dagger into his hand, but it misses, hitting the arm of the chair before clattering loudly to the floor. Gregori froze like prey before it's apex predator.
In a voice as smooth and soft as velvet on naked flesh, I murmured, as if to a lover, "Such a shame...."