"Please...my lord...spare me-ee-ee.." He sobbed, his voice quivering with an intense fear as every single pore on his body expelled a drop of sweat. Dried blood ran rivets across his face and neck- mixed with dirt and perspiration, he smelled like a rotting corpse already. His eyes, once brown, were now bloodshot and glossy with tears as he fell to his knees and placed his forehead to the cold surface. "I...I know I have failed you...but please have mercy, I know not what I've done..."

A suspenseful silence was broken with the sound of boots smacking the ground with each and every step, growing closer and closer until they stood just before the cowering slave. "Oh, but you do...you know exactly what you've done" A deep, penetrating voice answered, the candlelight illuminating a man's face- except he wasn't a man at all. He had thick, golden brown hair which was slicked back and barely touched his broad shoulders. His skin appeared ghostly white and almost pasty...but the single most captivating feature, was his eyes. They were red- no, crimson, and piercing like a dagger. He wore a marble white tunic, the sleeves ruffled with lace, and his midsection tied off with a wide brown belt adorned by a real silver buckle. His outfit concluded with fashionable black trousers and heavy steel-toed boots. He was older, appearing to be in his 40s, but in reality he hadn't aged in over 500 years.

"N-no-ooo...no, I swear, I swear I don't! " The metal shackles around his ankles rattled as he crawled forward and kissed his prosecutors feet, "I would never disobey you, my lord"

The man before him bellowed a loud uproarious laughter before reaching down and grasping the prisoner by his throat, and throwing him in one effortless motion against the chamber wall. "LIAR!..heh, you know, the only thing I enjoy more than killing traitors...is killing liars." His lips curled in a vicious grin, revealing a set of razor sharp fangs protruding from his mouth. Screams echoed off the concrete walls, but no one came...and no one cared. The slaves body crumpled to the ground, void of life, with a wide pointless gaze that often accompanied death.

His killer, Roderick Delacroix, the lord of Dragoncrest, wiped any remaining traces of blood from the corner of his mouth and snapped his fingers- signaling two armored guards to carry the body away. Another figure approached from the darkness- but he had sensed it long ago. Never turning to look or even bat an eye, he addressed this figure with confidence- after all, it was his daughter. "Evangeline, what have I told you about about trying to spy on me?"

"That it won't work?" she answered guiltily, coming slowly into his view, her radiant red hair glowing like fire under the candlelight. "I am sorry, I just wanted to see Father. Why did you kill that human?"

Roderick turned on his heels and placed his hands firmly on his daughter's shoulders, "Well, I think a better question is...why not kill the human? Why spare a life less worthy than mine. My dearest love, you will someday come to see that out of all who inhabit these lands- we, the immortals, are the imperial race. WE shall rule them all. And one day...", he smiled, running the back of his hand across her innocent face, "One day you will rule them too, and I will be so proud of you, Evangeline..do you understand?"

His eyes delved deep into her innocently blue ones, as she nodded and smiled affectionately. She was too young for him to explain how this particular human had escaped, and tried to expose the human trafficking circle. Luckily he was hunted down before he reached any neighboring human village. If they knew what was going on right under their noses, it could cause a backlash so great, anarchy would break loose.

But she was still too young, at only nine years old, she had many years of teaching and understanding to do. "Come along my sweet, it's time for dinner and we have a very special event to attend." Every year, on the mark, the Lord would throw a masquerade ball in his kingdom and invite races from all surrounding lands. It was a bash to remember- though half of the attendees were never heard of again. Some called it, the Masquerade of Death.

Twelve years later, our story begins...

The city of Dragoncrest was alive and bustling with activity, even as the hot sun began to fall behind the mountains to the north. Horses trotted, lamp posts flickered to life, ships docked, stray animals began to dig in dark alleyways for food, and taverns filled with patrons ready to fork over a gold coin for a fresh ale. Dwarves, mages, nymphs, vampires, wizards, hobbits, and the occasional werewolf alike came into town, escorted by the bard who will take you to port for a small fee.

In the center of it all, a brooding castle looked over the wondrous laketown, watching, waiting. It was Delacroix Manor, home to the lands prestigious family and Lord Roderick who ruled with a charming smile and a silver tongue. He sat comfortably in his throne, holding the dripping wrist of a dead woman over his wine glass as it filled with her precious elixir.

"M'lord, I am sorry to interrupt your dinner, but I have some news you may be very interested in..", an old, shriveled little man announced, coming through the chamber doors in long council robes, only a little longer than his tangly white beard. He was Roderick's personal advocate, and had been for many years. He was a dark mage, capable of dark magic.

"Oh yes, yes, do come in my friend, what news have you for me?" Roderick smiled, tossing aside the woman's corpse without a care and standing to greet his assistant. "I hope it's good, I've had one hell of a day.."

"Well actually, sire, it's about your daughter...the guards checked her quarters and...well, she's gone. Again..that girl needs to be nailed to the floor."

"Don't fret, Evangeline has always had such a free spirit. She will come back, and when she does, make sure you bring her to me. I need to have a talk with my little rogue princess, hmm?" He nodded his head and gestured over to the group of chained women, scantily clad in tattered rags, crying and begging for their pathetic lives. "Come, why don't you join me for tonight's uh...entertainment?"

---

The night sky was dotted with twinkling stars, as she rode down the hill towards the docks. Pulling tightly on the reins, her horse came to stop just before the bard and his taxi. "Good evening, Jacob, think you can give me a lift into town?" Her smile sparkled as she yanked back the hood of her cloak- exposing her red hair, and blue eyes.

"Evangeline! I didn't expect to see you out here. You know I'm always willing to give a pretty lady a lift. Where'd ya get the horse?" Jacob was a mortal, one of the lucky ones that Roderick found a good use for besides slavery. He'd been guarding the docks his entire life, and at 25, he'd seen more kinds of people go in and out of Dragoncrest than any old man who'd lived a full life. His hair was black and greasy, falling to his shoulders, bringing out his peculiar green eyes.

"Oh it's not mine, let's just say I borrowed it?" She smirked, jumping down with ease and sending the horse off in the direction she came with a quick smack to its side. "I was in the forest today, looking for herbs and-"

"You're looking fer trouble is what yer doing, Evangeline. Do you know how dangerous it is out there? And your father...oh, God, your father-"

"Please Jacob, don't be silly. My father would keep me locked up all prim and proper in that castle for the rest of eternity. I for one, am happy taking risks and having adventures. Besides- I wouldn't get to see you if I never went out of town, would I?"

Jacob grinned, shaking his head as they began to float away on his boat. A light fog loomed over the lake, the bright lights of the town flashing through like a signal drawing them near. He looked at her, and she looked onward- the calm waters sloshing up against the sides and pushing them with the beating current, towards the city of Dragoncrest and into a new adventure. The beginning of the unknown.

Whispering trees stood tall, their roots entangling with the moss and stone of the ground below. A subtle breeze was flowing like a slow stream, winding through the fog and mist. An eerie silence filled the air with intense fear and a hair raising chill. The sky was not visible from the ground, obscured by the canopy of the ancient trees. The ground was a mess of rocks and entangled roots, not a single safe path could be found. Everything about the place screamed haunted. Forbidden.

But the young Fellen had no choice.

The small half snowy leopard, half human creature must of only been around eight years old. Yet it was desperately scampering across the forest floor, as if it were being chased by something that would most certainly kill her if she were to slow down. However, there was nothing in sight. Not a single creature could be heard or seen, except for the gasping Fellen. Why the defenceless creature was in such a place was a mystery.

Syra jolted awake with a start.

She gasped for air as she jostled out of her "bed" (a nest of leaves). She'd had a nightmare. Another one. Syra was sheltering in a cave, away from the murderous grasps of other creatures that wanted nothing more but to rip her apart for their own pleasure. Once she'd gulped down the air as if it were water, she slowly crawled over to a small crevice on the wall of her make-do home. Drip, drip, drip. A pool of muddy water rippled as water from the roof of the cave made it's way down to it at a leisurely pace. Syra lapped up the water, gratefully, as if it were holy water from a distant God, high above the sky. She was glad to be alive.

((Sorry if it's bad quality, It's late over here))

Sometimes I want to die. I want to end it all, but then I just sit there and look back on my life. Then I realize that men such as me don't deserve what they want. That is why I kill

Red. The word had followed him for all his life. First simply a vague color on his hand as he slew bandits in The Badlands. Second a name. Third a joke, but fourth, and most importantly, a memory.
300 years is a long time to keep a memory and yet Krow retained it. The image of blood. Blood. Such a simple word, yet it holds such power in this realm. Power that could be harnessed of course. Nothing like the power of the body of the mind. Blood holds the power of idea, which in itself is the strongest power. Men can trap power of the body with the power of the mind and the power of the mind can be halted by the power of the body. However, you can make men weep and kiss your feet with the power of idea. On the other side, the power of idea could make men stand strong at your side.
Not surprisingly, few understand the power of idea. Most immortals fail to grasp it and even fewer mortals. Men who understand the power of idea are men who have power. Roderick for example, knew the power of idea. To run a human-trafficking group while still remaining in the favor of many men is hard thing to do, and even Krow couldn't do it. Though maybe he could. The Badlands had spoiled such power for him, well at least for now. Memories fade and The Badlands would fade as well.
"All things fall Jackal. All things fall. Remember that if you want to survive."
The words he spoke to tribesman long ago.
This thought process sent Krow into a swirling mesh of ideas and memory that most people encounter at one time or another. Crushed dreams, forgotten friends, unspeakable cruelties. These are the things that we remember when we encounter this state of mind. Krow fell into the Badlands as many men do, though their Badlands are normally metaphorical. His however, were entirely real.

Sand shifts under the beasts feet. His head is spinning and he has yet to grasp the true nature of the place he is in and he won't for years to come. Unimagined power rests within him, restless and yet still unheard. But wait, watch as he stops and stares. As he attempts to figure out the true name of this place. But no, he is far too naive. Now he continues walking, and walking, almost endlessly. The sand moves and slides under him and his few, small transportations, only send him into the same rolling, shifting sand. He walks, day and night, not needing food or drink, sleep or rest. These things do not bother one who is not really alive.
Weeks go by, the creature learns of the sun and moon and comes to learn that he prefers the dark, and thus prefers the moon. Looking back, this isn't a very surprising fact. He is a demon, and demons tend to prefer darkness, yet, at the time, he found it strange. He found the moving of these solar objects strange and glorious.
But soon, this waking dream comes to an end, and the beast is encounters his first taste of the world.
20 men, all carrying swords or spears.
They are tribesmen, all they know is how to kill and steal.
But they make two mistakes. First, the beast has nothing of value. Second, he is a demon. Immortal.
The first fall quickly. The demon swipes, quickly and easily, and the man's head flies off.
The second is grabbed and thrown, his ribs breaking easily and his skull cracking against a rock.
The third is lifted up and with a growl, the beast rips his arm off.
The rest is a slaughter. Blood showers the sand and the cries of dying men echo around the desert.
This was the beginning.
Or maybe the end.

Krow is driven from his thoughts so suddenly and abruptly that he snarls and swipes, mimicking the motion of his first kill.
But no one is there. It is only him.
He stands and smooths his white hair and starts to walk out the door.
But something is wrong. His feet shake and he finds it hard to stand. He turns and looks in a mirror.
His eyes are yellow, and horns protrude from his head. Claws sprout from his hands.
Krow closes his eyes and slowly breaths. In, out. In, out. In, out. Three times.
When he opens his eyes his eyes are red, only white hair comes from his head and his hands are well, hands.
Krow exits the room, and walks into the bar.

The room is loud. People scurry around serving drinks and others "entertain" customers. Soon the nightly auction will be held and his workers will be sold to the highest bidder. Lust is such an easy way to make profit. People fight and bicker over one night of pleasure. All slaves of their desires, these men are not powerful. All who come to Krow's bar, or should I say, Vlad's bar, are those who do not understand the power of idea. Because of this, instead of controlling it, it controls them.
Men have become indebted because of this bar and many more will.
At this thought, a smile crosses Krow's face and he enters the real world again.

“Okay, maybe this time, if it’s not heated then- Ow, damnit!” These were the choice words of a rather disgruntled chemist after once again, screwing up another caustic mixture and resulting in another chemical burn on his hand. Victor sighed and hefted his fuming mixing pot, walked over to the window of his barely rented room, and opened it and poured the reeking mixture out, not really taking into consideration that someone might be walking past at that time. He didn’t really stop to check, as he immediately closed the window, set the pot down, and slumped down and slowly slid down the wall. After hitting the floor, and squirming a bit to get comfortable, he blankly stares at the wall, and tries to recall how many times he’s repeated this exact situation.

This was probably the third, possibly even the fourth time this had had happened. By now, Victor had little to no motivation for continuing. He’s lost track of time, he hasn’t slept in days, and he is in danger of being evicted. Victor quietly mumbles to himself while lying face-down on the wooden floor, occasionally blowing at errant dust-bunnies and bits of hair. He barely even noticed that he’s being slowly lulled to sleep by both the feeling of failure, and the noxious fumes in the room.

After seemingly an instant, Victor suddenly wakes with a coughing fit. The entire room smelled like death. He immediately tried to get up, but the candle lighting his room had gone out long ago, and has left him groping around and bumping into furniture in the darkness. After a bit of struggling, he manages to reach the window, and force it open. He instinctively shields his eyes from the impending retinal destruction from the light, only to be greeted by a starry night. Grimacing at the sight of another wasted day, he reflexively muttered to himself a string of colorful words mostly revolving around buggery. It’s going to be another long night, isn’t it?

Caleb rowed into town, unladen with cargo of the interesting sort, just some boring fruits and vegetables from the enchanted forest, coin only REALLY came when he did something at least halfway interesting. He mused to himself of the clatter of gold pieces made against themselves, the way they rolled and spun against flat surfaces. Coin had the way of bringing out the true nature of things, Caleb mused, place it on a table and if it wasn't flat it would roll, show a creature a large amount of money and suddenly his true colors came to the surface. Everybody their prices, Caleb had figured out a long time ago, his were just advertised, perhaps not efficiently enough. And here he was again, back at his original problem. "Nothing to do about it I suppose" Caleb said to himself as he shrugged and sat down, letting his boat gently float into place in the docks. He sighed as he played with one of his last remaining pocket change, spinning it around his fingers over and over.

After running a few errands in town, Caleb made his way down the streets of Dragoncrest, scanning the side streets and alleyways for any sign of anyone who might need his, special services, or who might be in extreme need of some weird fruit and meat gathered from the enchanted forest. He was pondering his bad luck when, out of nowhere, a stream of strange colored liquid fell in a large amount and coagulated into a puddle in front of him. He looked up, but the person who had poured it had apparently already left. Caleb Shrugged his shoulders and moved on thinking to himself of how strange coincidences and happenstances could put the spring back into ones step, the strange experience having lifted his spirits, Caleb headed for the local Tavern, maybe he'd have enough to buy himself some company, he for sure had enough for a drink, and sometimes, in this town, that was all someone needed to get by, just enough.

Arriving at the tavern, Finally, Caleb made his way to the bar and ordered a drink for himself, and then turned around to watch the merchandise. Most of which Caleb had found himself. The owner of the bar, Vlad, was a bloodsucker, and as a rule Caleb distrusted bloodsuckers, they lived too long, a man needed the fear of death to make him not only appreciate the finer things of life, but also to keep ones humanity, If one could live forever, as the Immortal races could, than one began to see things differently, there was no need to leave a legacy, no need to really worry about things like money, except that maybe owning things provided some enjoyment, but eventually that would fade as well, or so Caleb Imagined. Despite his inherent distrust of the bloodsucking, pale, other fanged race, Caleb had a grudging respect for several of them, One of them being Roderick, the other being Vlad, he had accomplished so much, and yet he still knew the value of things, even if every time he looked at Caleb he got that glint in his eye that made Caleb's, darker, animal side, almost come to the surface.

A tattered leather cloak hung from a rock that jutted out of the caves wall. Shivering, Syra's feeble paws grabbed the cloak and she soon concealed her body underneath what was left of it. She kissed the razor-sharp fang that was tied to her necklace before quickly covering her face with the cloak. As if in prayer, she bowed her head and allowed the shadows to place a veil over her face. Like an old woman, she hobbled out of her cave and said farewell. A silver gleam and rocks tumbled down and crashed over the caves entrance, locking her and others out forever more. No evidence.

Tweet, tweet, tweet

A sparrow chirped a happy melody as it hopped about a moss covered rock. Swan song... Syra thought as she licked her dry, cracked lips with delight. Something silver glinted as she raised her paw from underneath her coat. Emitting a scraping sound, three thick metallic claws extended from her knuckles as she eyed the sparrow with hunger painted across her face. Fast as lightning, she pivoted on her right foot while swinging her left leg into the air, allowing her to spin as she fully took off. Streaks of silver spun and the innocent sparrow soon found itself neatly sliced like posh, elegant meal, if it wasn't raw, fit for a king. Quite a show as well. It was training. Sadly, the meal was not as elegant and showy as the feast, which was no more in a matter of wild seconds. Syra was left on the floor, wild eyed but a little less starved.

((I just wrote a paragraph about hunting and eating. I'm going to get lunch))