::The War of Revelations::
Chapter 1: The Shadow Rising.Location: Cavalleria Manner
Date: Janurary 12th, 2013.
The storm is chaos.
Israel stands on a second floor balcony of an old plantation style mansion house on the southern exposure of the house, staring into the oncoming storm. The wind carried with it the salty twinge given to it as it caresses against the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico, carrying its salty sweetness across the bayou city. For hours now, the storm had been lingering on the horizon, nestled against the landmasses of Louisiana and Texas, as though deciding upon which land mass to fall as is common with storms in the seas. Whispers of nature’s fury, born in a form lesser than hurricane or tropical depression whispers against his skin as he turns, damp droplets falling against the exposed flesh of his forearms and his face. The rest of his slender form wrapped in cool, black silk. A step towards the house, away from the balcony, and he stops, turning his head just slightly to cast a glance from the corner of his eye to the woman sharing his balcony.
She was young, slender. Honey blonde hair cascading down shoulders caressed by simple, white cotton. His dress shirt hung around him heavily, buttoned down the front, formed over large ample bosom, against slender hips, and stopped to reveal the slender, sleek smoothness of smooth, alabaster skin. Israel held a hand out towards the woman, a silent beckoning for her to accompany him inside. His fingers were long, stretching out towards her in opening gesture. In the darkness of the clouded night, the pale flesh of his fingers didn’t seem to out of place, as silvery moon light danced upon newly formed droplets of water against his flesh. She didn’t look his way, simply stared out towards the distant gulf as though ensnared by siren’s song.
“You had better come inside,” Israel whispered, as he stepped up behind her, his voice a deep calm. Strong arms snaked around her upper torso, his left just beneath her breasts while his right, angled down across her stomach, and for a moment, she simply slumped back against him. She was starting to wear, the night, his presence, growing to much for her, and thus his interest in her, slipping as well. She spoke, words that he hadn’t heard, whispering on the same wind that carried to his nostrils the smell of sweet, spiced blood. The night was one perfect for this…. The contentment, the soft atmosphere, the caress of cool wind against skin heated by the passing day, while the damp humidity reigns. She is beautiful, as he whispering against her ear, a poem:
Love is not love
Which alters when it alternation finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
Slowly, he gathers the locks of blonde spun hair, cascading them over the right shoulder, to reveal her slender neck. Gentle, his lips kiss upon the skin, lingering against the slender muscle. This arouses his ladies’ attention, who with gentle laugh and coy innocence, turns amongst his clinging hands, pulling tight the thin gown of cotton, pulling it further up slender thigh. Her fingers to his head, to lift up his face, to gaze into his cold, deep blue eyes. As he stares back into hers, he wonders what it is she finds in them….a mistaken hunger, or a desire for that which she’s never known. Regardless, she smiles, speechless as he lowers his head back, this time towards her throat, her eyes closing slowly in anticipation of the blissful touch of his lips against her throat.
Her green eyes fly open, confusion and fear flooding into them, mixed with sharp pain. Her muscles tighten against him, as she tries in vain to push him away, to separate herself, only to find that his arms coil is too strong for her to break. Her sweetness, like spun sugar from the wine flooding her system, spikes with the fear, as realization settles in that nightmares and monsters do exist, and she is meant to die in one’s arms this night. Then, as though through weakness or acceptance that she is powerless to resist, she slumps against him, forcing him to tangle his fingers in her hair, to pull back her head, while slowly lowering her to the floor.
Lightening flashes, thunder sounding the freedom of the soul, and it begins to rain…
Ten minutes passes, and Israel steps into the mansion’s downstairs parlor. A crimson robe covering his black, silk clad body. His lips stained red from the force of his exhilarations, bruised from the struggle, alive with fresh blood. Cold eyes stare towards the fireless hearth, as the sounds of rain falling against one of several large windows in the room is enough to draw his attention away from the chill, but just for a moment. He listens in private as he does in public, as though expecting attack… especially after a feeding. The soul is angry, recently wronged… the demon could be very newly made, and blinded by rage to attack, even in a private setting where death would be permanent, meaningless… In public, death was never permanent. There was always another sinner in which to hide.. Another host in which to dwell; given the state of the human population these days. So attacks usually came with an audience… another blemish on society… where demons fell to rise again, and his brothers to their eternal sleep… for them, in private or in public, there was no rising after death…
Yet around him the silence was so still, the cold seemed to just sit against his dampened skin. The robe did little to warm against the wet fabric, yet as he moved to toss a log in the hearth, to join the already half burned logs of the old, brick pit, he felt the presence of eyes crawling across his back, a familiar caress, weighing, stoic. A presence has swept over him, one familiar and yet unfelt for a long time.
“I did not know you had awakened…”