Introduction:
A thick haze of ash and smoke rose skyward, the dull amber of flames lapping at the edges of a crimson sky; all was quiet now, save for the constant crackling and snapping of the raging fires – the last of the screams having been swallowed into the night, the few faint murmurs that remained drowned in the burning wreckage. A solitary figure – cloaked, hooded, mounted atop a horse a few shades darker than the surrounding night – might be made out in the haze, traversing the crooked lane leading from the vanishing remnants of what must have once been a small farmstead.
The horse and figure alike come to a halt in the muddy yard just before what remains of a small porch; a shattered door leans crazily upon twisted hinges, the handle wrenched from the wood itself in a show of some obscene strength. Glass litters the lawn, thousands of tiny pinpoints distorting and twisting the flames in an ugly reflection of blood and and fear and pain. A wretched figure huddles before the ruined building, head tilting up in a mixture of fright and detached curiosity, just in time to see the mounted figure swing slowly from the saddle, cloak and coat alike swirling in the sudden movement as booted feet land with a wet splatter on the sodden dirt Slow, measured strides. The soft crunch and crackling of breaking glass, the squelch of blood and innards as he steps deliberately through the mangled remains of an inert figure sprawled between the two of them. Another step, another, then he halts.
“Rise” The voice is cold, spoken as a command that brooks no objections; the bloodless lips break into a fanged smile as the figure responds almost at once – a sickeningly long tongue flicks out once, like a snake's. He draws a deep breath. Smells her – smells the stench, the blood – but perhaps most beautiful of all, the fear; that most exquisite of human emotions.
There is a pause here, a silence – and then, just as he reaches wordlessly toward the figure, hand extending claw-like toward her neck, tongue creeping out, inching slowly, slowly toward its prey... there is the whirring whistle of something else, something unexpected. His whole form twitches, blinks to the side in a rush – almost too late; there follows a rending growl of pain as one hand reaches toward the silver-tipped bolt that suddenly sprouts from his left shoulder. With a crazed smile, he grabs the cursed head, pulls the thing free in one motion, growling again as the tear of sinew and tissue is followed by the steady pulse of blood and sizzling of burning flesh. In the same instant his other hand is upon his sword, a swift kick sending the hapless woman crumpling into a heap against the door, and then a single leap back into the saddle of the horse.
The chilling sound of laughter in the distance comes trickling down from just beyond the eves of the nearby wood; a few faint words caught on the wind: “Coward... Coward!”
Let them taunt. The time was not yet ripe. And his rage at being caught in such a time too great to control. He clenched his teeth and spat and clenched his teeth again. Spurred the horse onward, plunging wildly into the darkness. His hunger would have to be satisfied elsewhere that night.
Name: Lucius Blake
Age: Turned in his mid twenties, at some point in the early dark ages.
Species: Vampire
Gender: Male
Human Appearance: Tall and gaunt, the ancient paths of many immortal years written into the cold blue of his eyes, he retains a reservedly modest appearance in dress and taste. His bearing imperious, the contrast between pale skin and dark hair – long, though kempt – imparts the severity typical of his kind.
Beast Appearance: A hideous creature of mottled reds and browns; clawed feet and a barbed tail lend an almost reptilian appearance to this monstrosity – the skin is pebbly in texture, blotched here and there with leprous discoulorations or the trailing gouges of ancient wounds long since healed. While the torso is largely humanoid, the leathery expanse of bat-like wings and fanged maw would swiftly end all comparisons to anything vaguely human.
Personality: A mixture of facades, Lucius is rumoured even amongst his own kind to be a strangely twisted example of Vampiric immorality and hedonistic tendencies. Whilst managing to maintain the facade of a wealthy – if reclusive and faintly eccentric landowner – Lucius' nightly forays into the darker side of his nature reveal a creature who has long since lost sight of any shred of his own humanity.
Brief History:
At the early beginnings of his distant past Lucius lived as the bastard son of a minor noble of the decaying Roman Empire; his time as a human was to be only short lived, and though he himself cannot seem to remember the events of his turning – either that, or he simply refuses to speak of it – his memory of the many centuries since have remained almost untouched despite the years between. While his early years as a vampire were marked with the savage debaucheries of a beast unrestrained, his tastes – even if retaining their gruesome flavour – gradually receded to more of a pastime and less of a livelihood.
Preferring to dwell on the edge of most significant events rather than ever playing any central role, Lucius evaded much of the Church's scrutiny despite engaging in some of the more heinous crimes of the dark past – ever ready to allow others to slip and somehow take the blame for his own actions, his name remained largely unknown to the hunters of the time – save perhaps as an enigmatic shadow, the elusive disease that seemed to shift and flow with he change in time, sweeping through Europe as whim and fancy took him, before finally fading into quiet obscurity in the New World just as the Church finally disbanded the last of the Hunters and turned a blind eye to the creatures of the night.
But wheels are turning again, and for Lucius the glories of the past are only ever a moment's thought away – age and time have not rendered him complacent, and those urges of his youth were merely repressed, but never extinguished. Perhaps the thrill of the hunt awaits once more.