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    1. onefatbadger 9 yrs ago

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Cicero part 8: Louis' story: Part 1

Light, how fickle, protector of the living, illuminator of truth but abandons us all at death no matter if you keep moving or not.

Louis Nyctari watched the evening’s rays shine through the cracks in the curtains like deadly golden spears; while many vampires found the sun’s gaze repulsive due to its corrosive nature on their kind, Louis had marveled at its beauty his entire life. Ironically he had never bathed in its warmth being a pure blood vampire; not much interested the Nyctari Lord, he had been rich all his life and therefore nothing material brought him considerable amounts of pleasure. On the other hand this deadly adversary, this antithetical bane that had been present since his birth was the one of the most beautiful and intriguing things he had ever seen.

“What an elusive and torturing pleasure. Life, at its most despotistic, again proves it only becomes more spiteful in age; a vampire…in love with light.”

The tenebrous silhouette stepped into the light, spiting Louis and souring his mood. The figure didn’t show any emotion in his tough, clenched jaw but the trained vampire could see the glimmer of bemusement in his cold eyes. His long coat brushed against the curtains as he slowly walked towards Louis, shifting his weight from his right to left leg leisurely. The stalking jaguar kept his unwavering, unnerving gaze on the old vampire, but to the Lord it was all too familiar, and no longer held the effect it enchanted upon others.

“Oh yes, life at its most malicious, how about a raven in love with a little dove?” Retorted the old vampire, he revealed no emotion either, however the twinkle of humour in his eye mirrored this jaguar perfectly. While Louis Nyctari had the appearance of a strong war-hardened man in his mid-fifties he could remember wars fought between long-past empires; the fall of Kings and Emperors and the destruction of his own slight sanity in the lengthy night-ridden years of his cursed life. “Yes I learnt of your little escapade. You can’t hide all of it under that black hood of yours.”

Cicero might fool the others with that masquerade; but he’s only the old, miserable fool, he really is, to me.

“Do you know the problem with vampires? You’re always looking for secrets and other hidden lies in the dark, and in doing so, miss the truth in the plain light of day.” Cicero walked up to the desk Louis was sat at, towering above the seated Lord.

“What are you doing in Santa Somabra? You’ve killed a Nyctari cousin, stolen a surveillance company and God knows what else you’ve been up to. I’m not going to act against you but I won’t be able to interfere if any of the others find out…you’re playing a dangerous game.”

Cicero turned to gaze out of the window to the astonishment of Louis; he had never known him to break eye contact with his conversational recipient. “After spending my whole life in the dark, it’s time to step out into the light, despite its misgivings this is the only way to live with my destructive state. And for once I’ll know that I’ve actually done something even if it’s the name of some forsaken city.”

Self-sacrifice, it wasn’t the first time Louis had seen him take on an honourable task but what was he taking of? And was he actually talking of sacrifice?

Louis had learnt from a young age that whoever this enigmatic and surreptitious man was, he hid it, beneath a myriad of masks and masquerades; he wasn’t what anyone saw and he was far more and far worse than anyone could imagine…

Light, how beautiful, its eternal presence gave Louis obstacles for the games he played around the huge palace of his home. While many of his father’s friends stared in awe at the golden furnishings, the carved covings and the intricate architraves; Louis found the ways the tiny trickles of daylight seeped into the vampiric refuge a cause for constant wonder. He loved jumping, ducking and running in-between the thin streams of corrosive sunlight which had brought him to his father’s gallery on that fateful day.

His lithe, fast, athletic legs jumped past a pillar of deadly brightness before skidding to a halt by his father’s golden, inlaid, double doors. Inside he could hear the whispers of his father’s councilors as he pressed his ear to the decadent doors. “You could escape, travel to Florence with little Louis; the Nyctari have got an iron grip over their peasants after the plagues they sent among them. Travel through the sewers and catacombs out of the city; then a barge will…” The anxious and vexed advisor was interrupted by the swift and harsh tones of his father that normally signaled instantly to the scared eight year-old that he must be left alone.

“No you don’t understand! My brothers have already been executed by the amassing crowds, if they capture us now they know how to kill us! One slice from those terrible guillotines and we die. After the Bastille was broken into we were left with hardly a slither of a chance. If I left with my son they’d…”

Suddenly the door opened outwards under Louis’ weight causing him to tumble into the room under the worried gaze of the councilors. “Don’t start jumping at shadows Vicomte. Don’t forget we’re the stalking predators of the night." A silky smooth voice condoned the wizened vampire, who had leapt from the boy at his accidental arrival; before turning to the embarrassed child.

She was the most beautiful person he had ever met, with a long mane of crimson curls that jostled around her shoulders as she moved. She wore a black corset that was tied with scarlet cord giving it the appearance of a vicious and bleeding claw wound. A long flowing skirt made of coal coloured silk covered her lower half, and finally to finish off this dark aura, she wore a black silk hood over her head. Her face seemed to have the unnatural elegance of the undead but still held the glint of wondrous life in those large knowing eyes. She smiled playfully at the blushing boy before returning her gaze to his father.

Louis’ heart raced as if he had been cornered by some giant jungle cat as she walked with the accentuated prowl of a stalking jaguar towards the tightly knit circle of advisors. Their eyes did not flicker from her attractive figure as she neared, but it was his father who broke the incredible silence. “Maharet you wish to escape Paris?”

She looked lazily around at the luxurious office before replying in sweet but indifferent tones, “The art and culture of this city was engaging while it lasted, however it seems I have outstayed my welcome and this rabble of revolutionaries bore me.”

Louis’ father nodded before replying in strict serious tones. “Then you will accompany my son out of the city and take him to Florence, I am sure the wealth of culture my cousins provide in Italy will be quite amiable for you.”

She replied quickly and with a hint of humour laced in her lovely tones. “I’m not used to being ordered around but for the sake of the child I will make sure no harm comes to him. I must have the map of the sewer systems however…” She held out her left arm in anticipation; gesturing for the boy without concentration with her right hand.

Reluctantly, Louis’ father handed the secretive and treasured map over. “You will be rewarded, my son is my heir and therefore a Nyctari Prince and next in line to the vampiric French seat of power.”

“Which is slowly disintegrating around us, I notice.” She replied, rapid as a rapier and with the sudden sting of its steel bite.

“Father?” Louis asked slowly and unconfidently.

“I’m sorry Louis, I know you don’t understand but I need you to go to our cousin’s in Italy for a while. Remember you have powerful blood, you are a Vampire Prince don’t let anyone forget that.” He kneeled to face his son speaking in hard but calming tones, easing a little of the stress Louis had felt. Then he rose as quickly as he knelt. “La Purezza del Sangue.” He uttered before being bombarded by the councilor’s mirrored chant; then they strode towards the door.

The exit opened before they could leave and in strode a tall, armoured man; without weapon from a glance and calm as if he had entered his own home. In a flash his father drew his rapier pointing the blade towards the intruder’s chest. Soon Louis realized the eccentricity of the man’s attire; on his chest was a thick cotton jacket with a collar that dramatically sprung up to hide his neck; on one shoulder he wore an enameled silver pauldron with intricate carvings covering it, this was accompanied by the same style silver great helm and gauntlets that protected his entire forearms. He wore a pair of ‘loose slops’ which had been out of fashion since the 1600s, Louis thought; while his footwear consisted of two brown leather boots that folded over themselves in a rugged fashion at the top. A black cloak was attached at one shoulder covering one side of his extraordinary outfit with the golden emblem of a rose stitched faintly into the fine velvet.

“What is your purpose in my house?” Louis’ father’s voice rang throughout the palace, in a controlled but forceful tone.

“I have come for the map of the sewer network so I may escape the city.” The man replied in a tone as forceful as his father’s but without its controlled aspect hinting at a dark malice.

“And what makes you…” His father’s rising anger was cut off by the intruder’s own sharpened fury.

“You are in no position to question me.” He shouted his voice now full of that cold, terrifying fury and malice; suddenly a wave of spine-chilling ecstasy passed through Louis like the high of some incorporeal drug.

The old Vampire Lord looked visibly shocked, something Louis had never seen in his only living parent. “You must be…quite powerful to be able to hide…”

“I don’t have time for your pleasantries, give me the map.” The warrior’s tone showed his insistence as he calmed down from his outburst; he then held out his gauntleted hand for his desired map.

Slowly Maharet took a step forwards, questioning the intruder herself. “Would you accompany the child and myself, Sir Knight.” The crimson lady asked in a courteous, polite and innocent voice as she stepped in his direction with the same stroll of a jungle cat.

“I am no knight, my lady, they are only false protectors of a dead code of chivalry. And why would I take the Vampire into my care?” The cold fury remained but it seemed he reined in his harsh tongue for the lady.

“It seems it isn’t an entirely extinct race, Sir, you honour me with your tamed tongue and a title; will you show the same honour to this child with protection?” She smiled half-playfully and stood hands on hips, one eyebrow arched; her every movement making Louis’ heart flutter.

He knelt, holding his right arm across his chest in salute to the two in silent answer to her question; his eyes cold and unmoving, staring into Louis’ soul.

A beautiful trill of notes escaped her lips like birdsong as Maharet laughed; quickly she returned to the lowered knight. “Well isn’t it lucky Sir, that I have the map.” She told him closely in humoured tones as she brandished the scroll for him to see.

His cold, steady reply parried hers like a rapier’s counter. “Please profane from naming me ‘Sir’, my lady. If you are short of words to name me then you may call me Scipio.” He got to his feet and strode from the room, his long legs carrying him across the office in the space of a few seconds. Maharet walked to the door leisurely as a house cat reluctant to follow its master, before stopping abruptly and turning to the astonished boy.

“Are you coming? It seems without a Knight I’ll need you to protect me.” She said in mock tones, the half-smile shaping her full ruby lips.

“I’m only eight…” Louis replied walking swiftly to the door, taking one last peak behind him at his sorrow filled father.


Little did I know that this was the last time I would see my father…
Cicero: Part 7: Cicero's story

“Signor Verdarrio? Signor Verdarrio, you are needed outside.”

Quick footsteps towards the door; he’s rushing…

…He’s feeling, Oh, so important and full of glee. How petty, he’s such an insignificant worm in all…

Farq hasn’t failed us, we’re pleased, he won’t understand, yet…Verdarrio was the only one paying close enough attention to notice her difference. We’re interested in what part she has to play…

…But is she a liability…

We can’t make out the horse-rider but we’re sure he’s supposed to represent the Duke of Florence from the ‘de’ Medici’ crest…

…Now he was a jouster…

…the clash of steel, smell of the horses, bright midday sun, the hard trodden earth and the hot, ever-moving sand of the arena…

“My lord, a Vincent Forthe has come to meet with you outside; he awaits you in his carriage.”

No reply from Verdarrio, footfall again, Verdarrio must have pushed passed him…

...looking the fool, head held high to meet his doom…

…a brush of air; light, quick steps in…

...ballet pumps, from the scuffed sound they make…

…she twirls with the beauty of the flamenco dancers of my homeland…the summer heat, the pitch darkness of the night at the edges of the light, the crimson swathes of silk, the brown leather and the grey brick, sweat and grime, a desert rose…

…she stands before us, eyes entwined with our own…

…like voids of darkness…

…her silk dress falls about her…

…like a cascading waterfall of tar…her skin is pale...no, tanned, like from our homeland, like…Her face has strong cheekbones…

…no light delicate ones, she’s Italian remember her accent…

…her lips are streaks of crimson blood across her face…

…but, her eyes…

…not voids, a pair of onyxes, cold, hard, unfeeling that matches her Stygian hair…


“The Crow…”

She paused, her tongue is tied, and she’s struggling to keep her confident composure…

…reply, quick and sharp…


“…is as ugly as it is flawed.”

…to stop her discomfort…

…are we romantically involved…?

…only our courtesy and refined nature, we have values…

…she is hilariously hopeless; she’s trying to keep up…

…movement, we hear it in her footfall, she’s changed her stance, more relaxed, because she can see the bemusement in our eyes…


“Crows pick at the dead, ignoring the entire body and acknowledging only the gluttony of the feast.”

Blind…blind to the consequences and the effects of their meal…

…ironic…

…clever, must be northern Italian or from Rome to be educated so well…

…she thinks herself clever, but we lead her down a path in our own little game… she doesn’t like us though, something in her stance and voice…

…there is no love for the wicked…


“But a raven… the dark wings on an ominous wind bringing omens of death and destruction. He circles the corpse and finds the precious, vital organs and in one fell swoop steals them away.”

…she is loud, strong, convincing; caught up in her own argument…

…maybe a little too loud, we wouldn’t want to attract attention…

How ravens are misunderstood everywhere; the Irish believe them the to be harbingers of death, the Norse believe they are the servants of a wise but cruel god, and in the Qur’an they taught Cain how to cover up his murder. Is there no pity for the vagabond bound in black…?

…believes we are naught but a scout, a messenger for a darker master…

…or does she know…?


“And with you shall follow the hordes of hell; I shall rid this city of the likes of you.”

…she whispers…

…finally, at least she’s self aware…

…she stares straight at us…no she glares…

She is relentless, and hates us…

Verdarrio must be dead now, the Nyctari shan’t miss his presence…

…remember our values, our honour…


“Abrenuntias satanae et corpore et animo…”

She glares at us even more condescendingly; change in weight from one foot to the other, her stance is completely hostile…

“Dost thou renounce Satan in body and mind? Do you?! How can you? You denizen of the night, tormentor of the living, bringer of…”

Insolent wretch, what does she know of…

…Wait…

Nights of pain, a lifetime in the night, the torment, the suffering, the sacrifice…hot, wet, thick, sticky, pools of crimson in our hands…

…drive the dagger deep into her armour of confidence…


“What do you know of ravens, little dove? Where is your olive branch in this eternal flood? Do not lecture me on carrion and bird; you mistake the raven as a harbinger. The raven does not call for the wolf, he scares away the crows and the grotesque creatures that feud over the carcass. You do not know the wolf nor even heard his howl!”

Her stance has changed… shock? She doesn’t let it on, she has learnt to stand her ground…

She’s Christian, to blame me of heresy and talk of hell…

Let us preach of the real God…


“Where is your mighty eagle to save this dying corpse? Each day it looks more like a cadaver. You think we scavenging birds are strangers? We do not herald from some other line, we were once the Eagle’s children, painted black in suffering, fear deprivation and torment!”

…stop…

…our eyes flash in anger…

…let our wrath wreak pain upon this naïve girl…!

…leave her be, she holds no power...

…yet…

Farq can keep an eye on her…

Our long strides take us far from her and…a touch…

…warmth, the smell of a garden, the blue sky and the sunlight which brings vibrant contrasting colours that explode in the mind’s eye, a plain brown skirt wavering in the slight breeze, a tied corset with leather strings, a white puffed up blouse with short sleeves, full red lips…

…our arm pulls away viciously as a ferret rips itself from a captor’s grasp…walk away, slowly…the vampires stay seated, unaware of the previous argument… the piano plays deep, quick dramatic tones…

...our hand rested on a cool, smooth, varnished, black piano while vibrations in the wood cry strong powerful notes one after another raising the hairs on our arms…

…Beethoven, Symphony No. 5 in C minor…

…the Nyctari love their Beethoven, they thrive on the melodramatic and think themselves so cultured…

…The music stopped, only the sound of chattering, the clinking of glass and the squeals of concubines can be heard…

…odd…

...the piano plays alone, deep, descending, minor notes that sing from the muffled hammers underneath; the theme is slow but building…

…too subtle for Beethoven, too dark for Mozart, Bach? Not melodic and calculating enough…

Someone walks slowly and purposefully towards us…we step back…she anticipates and grabs my hand…

…a deep red dress, the tapping of shoes, the heat, the sweat…


“Can you tango Signor?”

…a hand at the hip, a hand entwined with hers…

…our hand is placed at her hip, she entwines her hand with our other…we’re in the middle of the ballroom…


“Leave me be Senorita…”

…a smiling, laughing face…

Stay in the now…


“S…M…Miss, I do not have time for games.”

Run…

Dance…

Violins play long drawn sighs complimenting the piano…Suddenly and violently the music changes tempo; violins play high, discordant, jarring melodies which are interwoven in strong fast notes from deep cellos like dark lashes of sound…She pulls us forward step by step, we hear her footfall, purposeful strong strides for elegance and show…

STOP…!

We turn away…she turns it into a spin…the hem of her silk dress brushes my legs…

…our sight caught on eyes like starlight…

…our sight caught on eyes…

...like the night…

…her red dress like a blood stain smeared in the sultry evening’s dim light…

…her black dress…

…like a flowing tenebrous spirit…

…her magnetic touch brings me back to life…

…her magnetic touch…

…brings me back to life…

…we’re too far forwards we’re going to hit a table, we grab her waist…

…we spin her round, her smile radiating through us like rays of the sun, her laughter fills the pavilion…

…we spin her round, her eyes flashing in amusement…

…she smirks at us flirtatiously…

…are we getting romantically involved…?

…no, we’re showing snobbish, stale, old vampires how to dance…

…we push forwards, our shoulders touching, us pushing our weight onto her, advancing as a soldier in war…

…we push forwards, she startles only for a second before shifting her weight backwards and following my footsteps…

…she spins, holding my hand up high, in the middle of the floor, with that playful look of determination upon her face, a moment of ecstasy, a rush of pride, love and adrenaline…

…we grab her hand and spin her, holding her arm above her head…

…6 strides forwards, 8 back, that positions us…

…we are in the middle of the ballroom, the chatting has stopped, movement is minimal, there is almost no sound other than our movement and the music, they are all watching…

…in amazement…told you, vampire’s should learn from their cultural master…

…we smirk...the air rushes past our face, almost in slow motion…

...we move with grace, we move with passion…a moment of ecstasy…

…we grab her legs and pull them around our waist, still spinning and moving our head closer…

…we grab her legs and pull them around our waist, still spinning and moving our head closer…

...a rush of pride, love and adrenaline, we kiss her…

…a rush of pride, love and adrenaline, we kiss her…

…stood still, senses gone…

…what happened…?

…clapping, the smell of sweat and a garden, I pull away to see her dainty cheekbones, delicate nose and tanned skin…

…clapping, the smell of sweat and perfume, I pull away to see a pair of obsidian orbs, a plume of stygian curls…

…you are romantically involved…

…she untangles herself, and puts her cheek to mine, her warm breath on my ear…

…she untangles herself, and puts her cheek to mine, her warm breath on my ear…


“Looking for a desert rose?”

“No soy más que una Rosa del desierto.” She spoke in quick hushed tones before walking away slowly, swaying in playful tones…

…footsteps lead away from us as she leaves us in the middle of the ballroom, her swaying hips given away by the incoherent footfall; the whispered talking and sighs of the onlookers tell us it is all over as we walk out the room slowly…

…how did she know of a desert rose…?

…we’re letting our emotions take over…

…we must find her…

…crying, tears rolling down our face like a stream of warm blood falling from our eyes…

…find her, take her home, and never let her out again….

…we’ll lose ourselves and our way…

…what’s the point in a world without her…?

…it’s not her you fool, look at yourself, you’re going insane...

…when did you forget, we always were…

…hush…

...we walk down the long corridor, looking out into the night, dark minarets and chimneys cover the skyline…

…look at this cadaver, how repulsive, while the…crows fight amongst themselves, the insects squabble and the magpie’s pick at the jewels, we shall wait, we shall turn crow on insect and magpie on crow in a vicious cycle of our own making…doves may flock to heal it but they will only get caught amongst the carcass…let them come, proclaim the word of some false eagle, while they can…the raven shall be patient…
Cicero: Part 6: Farq / Vende’s story (Part 2)

The old sailor felt like he was in the crow’s nest again, the cold night’s wind sweeping in under the thin black hood; instead of a tranquil sea he watched it was a tranquil master, but this time far more intently. Cicero was a master of subversion and revealed only what he needed, this meant he had to keep a constant eye on his subtle patron unlike a plain ocean.

The short, gaunt goblin, Vende or Farq…

…I never remember my new title…

…had stood outside the Vampire’s grand hall in the bitter, crisp night at his master’s command. He did this at every masque watching them all twirl round and round in their long elaborate gowns and dresses dyed in vibrant and opulent colours and patterns; laughing, and sometimes killing.

But they had an obsession with those Venetian masks, why?

The goblin had never understood, Cicero commonly commended him on his sly political dealings but usually berated him for his lack of culture.

What more culture did he need than a few sea shanty’s, a love of rum and the knowledge of every ship and its parts from New York to Tokyo...?

His camera’s were positioned to look through the huge 18th century windows, past the flowing crimson curtains that bequeathed them and survey the hall in all its hedonistic and decadent glory. The wine flowed like a river; the women were marveled, groped and talked at like prize pets; while the remainders spoke of politics, feuds and income in close circles. For a highly sophisticated race of elites, the Nyctari looked oddly like the unruly members of a school playground to the wizened sailor.

All of this was to be expected however, a common occurrence in Farq’s new service to the mysterious Spanish Vampire; it was unlike any sailing job and sometimes he still questioned why he had been chosen for such a trusted and prestigious position, if not the only position in Cicero’s service. What he hadn’t expected was the intervention of the concubine, he had served his new master long enough to know he never met with women.

Why this sudden change then?

Farq had been watching, casually, when Verdarrio and this lady fell over into a tight bundle like a ship ramming an unsuspecting enemy; Cicero’s eyes, body language and movement changed immediately. Farq had learnt to follow the slightest changes in a man, this meant in one of those tavern brawls you could expect what he’d do; with Cicero it was a whole new level of obscurity. He noticed the tiny jittery movements of his fingertips signaling the Spaniards nervousness. When Verdarrio dropped the girl however he saw the flash of three fingers at his side communicating an assassination.

Quite an extreme exercise for a harmless concubine…

Despite his uncertainty, Cicero’s steward pulled out a small cell phone from his pocket and a leather bound fax file; inside he looked at the numbers and picked one which he speedily dialed; as the phone rang he crossed out the number with his left hand, holding the phone with his right. Farq had learnt quickly of this underground world, the rules and codes; assassin’s never kept their numbers and changed phones for every contract, so under his master’s orders he kept his phone book full and updated. Somebody picked up on the other end and Farq spoke rapidly into the mic. “453, 284…grand window, Farq.” He recited each command as he had practiced; coordinates, visual marker, patron. The assassin made no reply and dropped the call immediately. Looking back at the CCTV screen he watched Cicero firstly give the lady his hand before offering his hand to Verdarrio, in his polite and well-mannered stance. His left hand twitched behind his back, at his second courteous gesture giving Farq a vital piece of information.

Cicero wasn’t after the girl, but her violent aggressor.

This made slightly more sense, Farq thought, Verdarrio was an arrogant and snobbish Nyctari cousin who managed to quarrel with Cicero at almost every gathering despite his master’s lack of speech. He was still unsure of the Spaniard's extreme measures, but as sure as the North Star, Farq knew Cicero always understood exactly what he did.

“Whom?” said a dark and silky voice from behind him; without turning around the steward replied.

“Verdarrio Nyctari.” He knew she had gone by the time he turned around to grab the small stool which had been knocked over. He bent over to knock off the leaves, grass and water that had accumulated on the seat then he promptly sat upon it.

Another dead man, Farq shrugged, in Santa Somabra it was as commonplace as waves on a sea. Morality to him was like a spinning compass trying to find north and while Farq knew he was lost on a calamitous sea of criminality, deep in his old bones he knew that this beacon he followed lead North.

Everybody’s killing everybody else here; father kills son just so he can feel strong again; the poor are stolen from because everyone else is just as fucked; and the aristocrats keep twirlin’ in silk gowns. On this gloomy sea called Santa Somabra, pirates prey on dinghies and fishermen fight over dead, rotting fish while on the galleons they dance; but above em all is an eternally flaming ship. One that eats at itself but will never die, and while many ignore it for another poor soul, others look to it for guidance as they once looked at the stars that were lost so long ago in a smog ridden sky. Cicero commandeers that ship, a glimmer of light on this diabolical sea…
Cicero: Part 5: Verdarrio’s story

Elegance, pose and delicacy were the values and desires of Verdarrio Nyctari; it was the picturesque sights of a woman in pose; the elegant features of the eyes, lips and cheeks and the delicate, dainty fingers which embrace, that allured him. These were the beautiful lineaments of his first love, the daughter of a Nyctari cousin and the church in Siena, her face was long and drawn as if it was carved by the same craftsman who sculpted the exquisite ceiling of the cathedral. Her thin, petite waist was as attractive as the magnificent black and white pillars; so what better place to make love to her than on that ancient altar as she looked upon the exquisite ceiling, and he at the magnificent black and white pillars.

Once upon a time I had been the greatest bladesmith in Italy if not the world, back in my mortality. My rapiers were renowned for their elegance, pose and delicacy as all art should be; elegant in their strength and resplendent design; posed in their balance like a coiled viper and delicate in their flexible and narrow blades. To follow my belief of the metaphysical form of art in all aspects of life, I lived in the rural town of Siena for its natural and simplistic charm, as the romantics said, I lived a life of blissful ignorance which immortality has taken from me.
One fateful day, an affluent Lord from Rome arrived in Siena after hearing tales of the mastery of my blades and asked for a rapier like none other; still just the memory of it makes my hairs stand on end in delight. The blade had five deep fullers to catch blood, the hilt was made from bronze and in the shape of a bat, its fang’s bared in readiness and from its throat it seemed to regurgitate the blade. But the rapier’s most recognizable distinction was the words inscribed into the blade ‘Purezza di Sangue’. At the time I didn’t have any such inkling of what ‘Purity of Blood’ might mean and was even more curious to what the sword’s patron was talking about when he promised me “A reward only dreamt of by King’s and Emperors…”


The strange lord didn’t lie and a week later after the sword’s completion I was given the thing most men had dreamt of since their dawn, immortality. I married the Vampire’s daughter and was accepted into their family with a name befitting my new power, Verdarrio Nyctari.

The beauty and artistic perfection of elegance, delicacy and pose could not be hindered in Verdarrio’s mind but he had never felt such lustful desire’s until the night of the masque; it happened at every full moon and so was not unusual to Verdarrio; however while the other hedonistic Vampire’s found their concubines on this night, Verdarrio could not tear his eyes from the obsidian goddess. She walked into the room like a successful hunter carrying her body like a prize animal with a confident stride and flirtatious smirk. He watched her every minute move, the sway of her limp arms, the rise and fall of her bosom, the tensing of her legs at their connection to the ground. Each feature, each moment, an infinity of divine glory. His transfixed stare was that of a hunting wolf watching an unsuspecting rabbit; he could just imagine the raw pleasure of draining her lifeblood. The room and all its furnishings dissolved into her magnificent body and the violin strings accentuated her every move.

She walked towards Verdarrio, her eyes gazing slightly to his left, they seemed to be set in playful determination on some seemingly intangible goal. Suddenly she stumbled and fell like a deer jumped upon by a wolf, her legs tangling and her arms flailing as she fell into Verdarrio’s grip. The feeling was sublime for a split second, the ecstasy of her touch was like a drug to him. Her tanned arms, soft and delicate in his touch, burned his skin like sunlight, his hands became crimson and enflamed at the touch of her and he fell to his knees in pain as he dropped her. His gasp wasn’t heard above the music but every member of the room looked questioningly at his incorporeal torture. The lady, now on the floor looked around in shock, a frightened doe in the midst of a pack, then a shadow fell across them both blocking the light reflected around the room from the crystal chandeliers.

“Verdarrio, manners maketh man.” A voice said in a cold and harsh tone.

One dares to mock me?

“My lady, a hand?” The goddess took the intruders outstretched hand, grasping it softly as if it were fruit and was pulled to her feet slowly. She had already composed herself, and smiled at him with a hint of pleasure, she took a step towards him putting her arm through his as a gesture of thanks. Her savior ignored this, bending down once again to offer Verdarrio a hand, even behind his silver enameled mask Verdarrio could identify the Outsider. He looked at the out-stretched hand in disgust before lifting himself swiftly to his feet without the intruder’s aid.

“Don’t give me your airs and graces Spaniard, when I ask for pleasantries from a Vampire’s bastard, I’ll make sure to come to you first.” He spat, jealousy already coursing through his veins like poison; then with a disdainful final look he walked to the other side of the shocked ballroom, flicking his hand for the continuation of the entertainment and sat in a chair.

This chair is itchy and uncomfortable, he thought in utter annoyance his mind and eyes still on the girl who feigned her flirtatious countenance, all it had taken was one glance at the terrified prey underneath her masquerade to find her true nature. Now she laid her head upon the broad shoulders of Cicero’s black dinner jacket letting the waterfall of her black hair tumble down his shoulder like the trailing wing of a raven. The bastard still didn’t appear to take notice of the siren seducing him with her pale blue eyes and instead stared at the next painting vaguely.

Through the throng of Vampiric patrons I heard the goddess’s voice like the delicate tap of my hammer on an opulent rapier. “The black raven amongst a gathering of crows, come to pick at the carrion of Santa Somabra.”

The filthy bastard turned at her remark, tilting his head in that annoying way.

“I know of your deceit, Santa Somabra has choked on this smog of corruption for far too long and now you have come to finish the deed.”


This was disrespect, dishonor from a lowly concubine; the Nyctari, a flock of birds? And why Cicero a raven? More like a decrepit, albino crow, a freak of nature.

Verdarrio was incredibly suspicious now, his brow creased in concentration as he critiqued this beauty, she was much more than that now, she was a deadly inquisitor in their ranks, he thought.
She still smiled that sleazy grin but now it looked more repulsed and insulting as if he smelled of something rotten rather than his normal musty aroma. Cicero spoke his soft, unnerving tones in counter play, his eyes beneath the silver mask revealing nothing.

“What do you know of crows and ravens…?”
Maria’s story (Part 1)

Keep looking straight…don’t stare too long…sway your hips…smirk…is there anything I missed?

In Maria’s silver-lined life, she was a confident, alluring, beautiful lady, admired by all and preyed upon by suitors; and in the silver-lined parallel world that seemed to follow her down the corridor in row upon row of ornate mirrors she reflected this goddess of vanity and conviction. Inside she felt as ill-suited as a well-dressed hog waiting to be eaten in this haven of the grandiose, cultured and powerful Nyctari family. Despite the fear of her Vampiric hosts; her wavering confidence and grim determination gave her the strength needed to walk the beautifully decorated, 18th century styled immense hallway. However, Maria could easily see through the deception of the ostentatious, ornately carved golden furnishings that seemed to decorate everything.

What more was this walkway than the massive, gaping throat of some terrible bestial behemoth? And I am willingly walking down it…

She chided herself for her inexplicable fear.

No one in the entire city knows of my presence or importance.

She could hear the distant sound of cackling laughter from the corridor’s end as she drew close to the large golden doors that led to the grand hall; they were carved with the intricate designs of flowers and cherubs as was the fashion of the period. A gaggle of ladies waited in front of the double doors; confident, smiling and giggling away; the only difference between Maria and them was the tumultuous, stormy emotions which crashed at her confidence in her head, telling her to give in.

How could a wild and ravenous beast like the Nyctari family ever be subdued, and for that matter, how could a barbaric and dire fiend such as Santa Somabra be subdued?

Strength, faith, power…

Strength, the measure of our manipulation over others.

Faith, the belief and reliance on an idea.

Power, the intangible currency that the weak and ignorant thrive upon.


For once that night she smiled truly, a warmth softened her face and features as she reaffirmed her own self-control.

The great will conquer because of their strength through cunning, faith through God and power which the weak assign them.

The girls around her now looked silly, disillusioned and foolish; she would become a concubine to wreak havoc in the heart of this Nyctari beast, she would find the city’s dark intruder and she would be victorious.

A young steward with dark hair and a face of naivety pushed his head through the small gap in the double doors, speaking in hushed ad quick tones. “Your lords await, ladies…” He then departed as quickly as he graced them with his presence; the ladies gathered into a tightly knit circle, pushing through the doors and walking into the huge ballroom with the grace and delicacy of black swans, their coal coloured dresses flowed out behind them like tail feathers. The concubines’ eyes were like onyxes from the mascara that contrasted with the blonde, ginger and brunette curls of their hair.

Time to show them up then…

Maria strode into the spacious hall, alone and vigorous; she quickly placed her obsidian mask over her face, giving her features a twisted and almost demonic look; her flair quickly drew the attention of the entire room as she felt predatory eyes watch her every footfall. The only individual who had not noticed the pitch of her dark hair, her full breasts and her dulcet lips was a shadowed outsider who sipped a glass of wine politely in one corner, admiring the array of art; and it was to him she strode arrogantly across the room.

Power is given to the worthy, strike at the heart of this heretical city and you shall be given the will to...
Cicero part 3: Vende's story (part 1)

How Vende despised the rest of his green, mottled, selfish race; goblins in his mind, fed the capitalist prison which both invigorated and subtly destroyed society. He had never dreamt for great change in his life, but Vende was definitely not stupid and had his priorities and beliefs in check; growing up on a ship had kept him open to diversity from the multi-cultural crew and given him a strong sense of equality. There was no ranking system at sea; every man could die as easily as the next, in a storm, climbing the rigging or almost any job. There was no status, only different uses; a strong, clever and light hearted captain kept the ship in line and the wheel steady; a quick, far sighted and tall Elf kept watch; a deadly, efficient and sly Vampire kept the crew in check and hunted rats beneath deck and an ogre pulled down the sails, tied secure lines and bashed heads together. No one was above another and that was how life should be, or so Vende thought.

This is what invigorated his hate for the thin, gaunt goblin which stood behind the desk, he smiled deceptively as if he knew far more than his guests; he looked down upon Vende’s dark master as an adult patronizingly does to a minor and spoke his name gleefully like he had trapped them in some elaborate trap. Vende didn’t even want to think about the goblin’s ignorance of his own presence, for want of evoking anymore of his own fiery anger; he chided himself silently.

In a politician’s world we must leave emotions by our bed side to fight our enemies with reason and rationality.

On closer inspection, Vende spotted the tell-tale suit of an entrepreneur and pockets filled with sheets of information; in 'Protector' the currency was words; painful, destructive and weakening words. A huge library of gossip, Vende had taught himself long ago that every man had a bane and it was knowledge that could identify it. The question he was asking himself was, how much did they know of Cicero’s efforts and identity? However, far back in the recesses of his mind, a question swirled like a controversial thunderstorm.

Did the clandestine, ancient Nyctari lord actually have a bane?

“Let us not keep Farq waiting, I have heard his notorious impatience is only fractionally greater than his legendary weight.” Cicero retorted in a voice completely devoid of emotion, he gave the goblin that same cold stare he gave every man, woman and child; a stare one could only master with absolute power, Vende imagined. He smiled inwardly, he knew his master could see right through the duplicitous steward’s masquerade.

“Follow me this way…sir.” The goblin said half-submissively without losing any of his confidence; he leapt from his stool behind the desk to reveal his true tiny stature, Vende was sure Cicero had found any other revelations in his calculating head. The steward led them down the office-like corridors painted in darkness by the recent power-cut, Vende could imagine it as the dimly lit passage ways beneath the deck of his old ship, almost feeling the floor sway, he adjusted his legs before quickly adjusting them back, the old sailor had to keep his wits about him in a place like this. Soon the white-washed walls of the traditional office were replaced by a foray of pipes and wires which seemed to cover every inch of the wall; this was where information passed like hidden streams through the passages. A forest of electronic systems surrounded them as they made their way through 'Protector’s' CCTV department consisting of hundreds of employees monitoring the ‘red light district’ in tiny cubicles covered in screens to capture all the clienteles' residences for security purposes…

Obviously…

It seemed the steward had taken them for a long tour as he reasoned there must be a quicker path to their restless master; probably some tactic to unnerve or intimidate his silent guests.

“Do you know what the position of Farq means Mr. Cicero?” The goblin guide questioned through the tapping of keyboards which filled the office with constant noise, his sly, wheezy voice annoying Vende increasingly. The inquired only tilted his head in question, an action so commonplace in his master, he thought Cicero probably did it instinctively.
“Farq is a title that was given to the most cunning and Machiavellian spy in the ‘Goblin thieves’ guild’. The rewarded replaces the title with their own name making them untraceable and legendary. It was awarded centuries ago and is passed down through assassination, that is, the only way to acquire it is to outwit and kill the Farq.” The steward’s smile only grew ever wider as they neared the manager’s room; and for a fraction of a second the sailor gave into the presentation remembering the infamous ‘thieves’ guild’ hidden in the great forests of Russia. Tales had been passed around on ship about the goblin assassins who could crawl on ceilings or walk on water; and spies that were so convincing in act that they could replace your own mother. They had never scared him, only sounding like stories you’d tell your children or joke about with friends; now they seemed a little more real facing the real life Farq but in Vende’s hardened life little frightened him. In fact only one thing had ever scared Vende Barrow.

Cicero…

The goblin opened the door to Farq’s room softly, letting the visitors enter first, gesturing politely towards the dimly lit chamber with a wicked smile, before shutting the door behind him.

“Cicero…what a refined name.” Farq said in his slurred and bored tone.

“I would give you the decency of a reply but I have heard of your disgusting mannerisms and activities and find you wanting in almost every sense of the word ‘dignity’. Would you care to disprove my notions?” His voice was cool, calm and collected with a slow tone that seemed to be perfectly harmless until it was registered as a whole, like the unsuspecting sting of a beautiful lion fish that would shock its victim minutes after first contact.
A vile and annoyed snarl spread across Farq’s face as he turned his chair towards his insulter for the first time. “You walk into my threshold and insult me, now that’s hardly dignifying. I can assure you…Cicero… you do not want to make enemies with me.” He remarked, the laziness and indifference replaced by a strong antipathy, which was only emphasized by the way he almost spat Cicero's name.

“I would hardly call you my enemy that implies you pose a threat. Power is given to the worthy and can be taken by neither a name nor title nor managerial position. Let us dither from petty interactions and talk of your importance.”
The goblin had grown red-faced and angry under the constant, impassive gaze of Cicero causing him to spout spittle from his mouth in numerous attempts to utter a counter.

“I…I…You claim that I hold no power but wish to discuss my importance, doesn’t my importance imply power?” He rebutted in petty defiance.

“I do not own the time to teach such lessons and I believe my advice would fall on uneducated ears as a dog interprets civilization. To be precise I have come to this establishment to take ownership of all its business, assets, information and clientele.”

For a split second, Farq looked flabbergasted by the response; however he quickly retained his calm demeanor before flailing in his chair in outright laughter. Wiping tears welled up in humour from his tiny eyes with his huge, podgy fingers, Farq replied. “And what, makes you think you have any right or even the power to take it from me. It seems to me a dog asks for the ownership of civilization without explanation.”

“Who funds Protector and its equipment?” Cicero replied faster than the swift parry of a rapier.

“Private sponsors of course.” Farq replied with a confidence; neither confusion nor doubt entered his voice.

“I am sure your steward can… enlighten us by providing the name of your most prominent sponsor.” His rapier parried again faster and this time cutting deep into Farq’s confidence.

“Veer, come on!” The goblin steward who seemed instantly flustered, fumbled with his notes looking for the correct one without his prior ease; much to the discomfort of his master.

“Sir, our major sponsor is ‘Night’s Crown’ a new investor he seems to have bought the majority of the sponsorship and therefore owning 80% of the company, they recently bought it from a chain of prostitution houses known as the ‘Purple pillars’.” The steward said with a defiant grin. On the inside, Vende felt slightly sorry for the pair, they still hadn’t worked it out.

“Unless you hand over your company, information, clientele and equipment; I’ll be forced to take my shares of this establishment and stop any further funding.” Cicero replied quickly and sharply his rapier striking centre.
Farq fell silent and still, the steward seemed to mirror him as realization coursed through their brains. If Cicero pulled his support their business would go bankrupt, their clientele would leave them in their inadequacy and their information would become stale and useless with age.

“What if I say no…” Farq said in cold fury, defiance sewn into his face like a new mask.

“Then the police will come into contact with some incriminating information about you and your dealings. Last time I checked aiding illegal gangs is against the law.”

The defiance fled from Farq’s huge crumpling face, his eyes pleading and searching for some kind of hidden savior in the room; his leisurely pace and bored tone was gone, and replaced by a stuttering mess of anxiousness. “But, but, but…”

“Well, this concludes my visit…” Cicero turned to leave before remembering a final command and turned to the terror filled goblin. “I so rudely forgot to introduce my dear friend, ‘Farq’...” He spoke in his calm tone but with a glimmer of retribution in his penetrating gaze, as he gestured towards Vende.

“Take control and report back to me as soon as possible, we have work to be done…” He muttered to his small goblin companion and then left abruptly.

Vende pulled out a large revolver from his inside pocket and quickly shot Farq in the neck.

A life on a dangerous sea had taught me that when you have to tie a knot, make sure you do it the first time…

Blood poured from the bulging flab of rippled flesh Farq called a neck, he didn’t even have time to scream; and then another smoking hole erupted from the steward’s chest. He looked down towards the wound in a sullen, melancholy way before tripping over his legs and falling onto his back; there he lay unmoving and dead like his swollen master.

Cicero muttered a phrase as he stepped out into the night air. “Abrenuntias satanae et corpore et animo…”
Cicero: Part 2: Veer's story

Figures and estimates raced through Veer’s mind as he entered Farq’s office, the market on ‘Demon Blood’ had just skyrocketed to over 115%, we needed to sell our stocks as soon as possible! The evidence and information needed by the ‘Rotfaces’ had just been destroyed; if they weren’t willing to pay the price they wouldn’t own the prize.

He looked up from his notes; his brow furrowed in deep concentration, to find Farq leant across his chair like a cat stretched out on his favorite rug. The black leather back of his chair faced him, revealing only the rippled layers of flesh which made up his arms. The gorged manager made no attempt to neither greet his steward nor even accept his presence in the room; never diverging his eyes from the hundreds of TV screens that were constantly ran by a back-up generator. Not even the recent power cut had depraved him of his obsessive lifestyle. These screens were placed in a large semi-sphere around his control chair; the only light came from these constant windows of electronic life, hiding the tangle of wires that spread across the floor, ceiling and walls like a messy mass of webs.

The small goblin steward slowly shuffled around the chair to enter his master’s line of sight; he watched as sweat and grease slide down his huge unnatural belly, only adding to Veer's discomfort.

“Sir I have some information.” He muttered quietly through the thick silence of the room which felt as heavy as the sickening heat that Farq kept his room in. Only silence answered Veer’s question, in a market of powerful information, the great only expected the best. Veer’s half-hearted intervention wouldn’t spark any interest in his employer.
“Two mercenaries were killed last evening while hunting down a snatcher.” Veer muttered in a hurried, stuttering tone as if each word was stumbling over the last in an attempt to escape from his tiny mouth. The goblin behemoth’s small, inset, beady eyes didn’t dither from the television screens as he greedily devoured the scenes reflected in his pupils.

“Four fathers, three daughters, eight sons and a parrot were killed last night.” This he said in his resigned, lazy and indifferent tone as if he were letting out a drawn out sigh.

“But sir…” Veer replied quickly and carefully before being cut off by his obese master.

“Get some more mercenaries for the whore house, use CCTV footage to find the snatcher and kill the bastard. Do I really have to teach you how to do your job, Dop?”

Dop being the name of the last steward, Farq doesn’t know and doesn’t care…

“The ‘Rotfaces’ didn’t buy the information did they? I knew they wouldn’t, the price was too high…knowledge is power and power is worth so much these days.” Farq guessed in his same lazy tone, he often rambled on about the importance of information, in his younger days he was apparently a great spy-master however food and wine had turned his mind to saw dust; all that was left was a broken and slothful reminder of a past glory.

“Sir, what I really wanted to tell you is…” The steward’s outpour of words was interrupted once again, a normal occurrence but one that filled Veer with loathing.

“Leave me be Dop.”

“The two mercenaries were killed by an individual of ‘High Interest’.” Veer almost shouted in exertion, the sentence being uttered in little over a couple of seconds. The silence of the room suddenly grew deeper and anything that the manager had been doing before stopped immediately. His attention was captured.

The goblin drew out a remote control from his jacket’s pocket with practiced ease, flicking one of Farq’s central TV screens to a Police record. The record was almost empty but for a few reports and an alias.

“Cicero…” Farq said in that lazy, drawn out voice, now tinged with a hint of curiosity.

“An outsider, accepted into all Nyctari meetings of importance, snatched a whore just to speak Spanish and share a rooftop sunset, killed two mercenaries single handedly and sent their bodies back to their families…with considerable amounts of money.” Veer replied a small but growing, grin of pride crept across his face like a devious and sly spider.

And this spider has a fat, juicy fly caught in his web.

“Odd…” The hint of curiosity fading from Farq’s voice as he spoke in leisurely tones.

The fly has untangled himself from this web of interest, what he doesn’t suspect is a multi-layered trap.

Farq kept his level of indifference and disinterest, “Make sure you gather info on him, send me the details, I’m sure some third rate villain will want his story…”

“Unfortunately, we have very limited video of the man, we have not been able to trace him to any sort of accommodation and he only appeared at all in the last few months. A ghost…”

Caught…

Farq’s eyesbrows had lifted and his very presence seemed to shift uncomfortably in his chair however it wasn’t a shuffle of trepidation, rather of nervous excitement. A voyage into a sea Farq’s weathered sea galley hadn’t experienced in a very long time, discovery. “A ghost, hmm…” He stroked his chin, the first time he had moved his arms today, Veer guessed. “What breed of outsider is it?”

Veer raised his notes in swift and readied movements, already he had accounted for his master’s questioning. “I accumulated some rumours and suggestions from various sources and compiled their notes into a list of likely races from highest to lowest claimed. My figures point towards Vampire, then in descending order, Undead, Elf and finally Mermaid.”

“Mermaid...? Actually don’t answer that, I can’t believe I let myself forget that the majority of the population are bumbling fools. I would like to keep an eye on Mr… Cicero; as long as he’s in the ‘red light district’ we can track him with Protector’s network of cameras.”

“Sir, shall I make contact with any of the other networks for additional information?” Veer intervened meekly before being shunned by his manager who now spoke with a faster and more fluid cadence.

“No we don’t want to alert anyone else on this individual, we have found a diamond in the rough.” He smiled with an almost unnaturally sized grin for his flabby face that turned his mouth into a sea of creases surrounding a disgusting yellow toothed smile. Veer could almost taste his master’s self satisfaction and he hated it, never did he recognize any of his employee’s work in his schemes; to him it was all a decadent and hedonistic game, while for most everyone else it was their livelihood.

“Of course sir.” He replied submissively, bowing and leaving the grotty chamber behind him.

A bell called through the silence, beckoning the steward to the front desk of the establishment. Quickly the small, lithe goblin ran smoothly and efficiently, following the instinctual steps he took every day to reach the reception in the fastest manner. Arriving politely and on time, the goblin nodded his head towards the customer in silent greet and trilled his usual phrase. “Welcome to Protector, the finest security establishment in the district…” however his list of titles finished there as he finally spotted his guest, causing him to stop in astonishment and interest at the same time. The man who stood before him was tall by human standards, around six feet, a trench coat sat comfortably on his shoulders with the collar pulled up against some intangible rain. His face was shrouded by a thin, light silk black hood, but underneath its dark veil his eyes bored into Veer’s like a lighthouse’s remote warning; cold and distant. Veer smiled through rows of needles in his calculating and duplicitous way, identifying the visitors instantly.

“Mr. Cicero, how can Protector help you on this fine day…?”
SANTA SOMABRA POLICE RECORDS

ID NO. 07514631831
LAST NAME: UNKNOWN
FIRST NAME: UNKNOWN
OTHER OR PREFERRED NAME(S): CICERO
DATE OF BIRTH: UNKNOWN
SEX: MALE
RACE: UNKNOWN
HEIGHT: UNKNOWN
WEIGHT: UNKNOWN
HAIR COLOUR: BLONDE
EYE COLOUR: GREEN/BLUE
SSN: UNKNOWN
BIRTH STATE/COUNTRY: UNKNOWN
CITY: SANTA SOMABRA
STATE: CALIFORNIA [SORRY GUYS, BEST GUESS?]
AGE: UNKNOWN
SCAR MARKS: NONE
SKIN TONE: MID-EUROPEAN TAN
MILITARY SERVICE: UNKNOWN
ADDRESS: NYCTARI DISTRICTS
KNOWN ALIAS: CICERO

ADDITIONAL DATA:

REPORT #547: 25/4/15 INTOXICATED CITIZENS (NAMELY OGRES) FOUND RIOTING IN THE NYCTARI DISTRICTS, AN UNIDENTIFIED INDIVIDUAL WAS SEEN FLEETING OVER THE ROOFTOPS, AFTER A SMALL CHASE THE SUBJECT ESCAPED. WITNESSES DESCRIBE THE SUBJECT AS A 'TANNED' VAMPIRE WITH THE VISUAL APPEARANCE OF AN OLDER ADOLESCENT, AROUND 17-18 YEARS OF AGE. DUE TO THE UNRELIABILITY OF THE WITNESSES AND THE OBVIOUS CLASH OF INFORMATION WITH A 'TANNED' VAMPIRE, THE POLICE DEPARTMENT HAVE WITHHELD ANY INFORMATION FROM EFFECTING THE SUBJECT'S RECORDS.

REPORT #236: 13/2/15 POLICE AGENT WORKING COVERTLY INSIDE THE NYCTARI FACTION REPORTS AN OUTSIDER. THE INDIVIDUAL IS ACCEPTED AND INVITED TO ALL MEETINGS OF THE UTMOST IMPORTANCE AND SECRECY. THE REPORT DESCRIBES THE SUBJECT AS A MID-EUROPEAN TANNED ADOLESCENT MOST LIKELY 17-18 YEARS OF AGE, WITH HAIR COLOUR RANGING FROM DARK BLONDE TO LIGHT BROWN AND EYE COLOUR RANGING FROM BLUE TO GREEN. THE INDIVIDUAL IS DESCRIBED AS QUITE MELLOW AND DEPRESSIVE IN MOOD WITH A RELUCTANCE TO UTTER ALMOST ANY WORDS WITHOUT NEED; THE ORIGIN AND HISTORY OF THE SUBJECT, OR ANY OTHER CONTEXTUAL INFORMATION, SEEMS TO HAVE ALLUDED THE AGENT LEAVING HIM A CITIZEN OF HIGH INTEREST WITHIN THE POLICE DEPARTMENT.

REPORT #227: 5/1/15 UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS TO RADIO TOWER 54; ADOLESCENT, MID-EUROPEAN INDIVIDUAL SEEN AT THE TOP OF A RADIO TOWER SURVEYING THE LANDSCAPE AT 6:30PM, FOUND BY GUARD AND QUESTIONED ON HIS PURPOSE OR AUTHORISATION. SUBJECT DIDN'T REPLY LEAVING THE VICINITY IN A MATTER OF SECONDS; GUARD WAS INDIFFERENT AND UNABLE TO HINDER HIS ESCAPE.

END OF REPORT
Cicero part 1: Todd's story

“Bucket, you got eyes on the snatch-snatcher?” his radio buzzed. Todd held down the mic button before quietly replying.
“Eyes on the prize; wait for my command.”
Todd had seen snatchers before, dirty buggers, why did they have to go and steal the whores, why couldn’t they just leave them in the building. He had seen many snatchers before, some far too awful to recall, those who tied up their victims or murdered them in their basements, sadist pricks. These thoughts and others had raced through Todd Reddan’s mind that morning while he collected his equipment and necked down the last of his store of whisky in drunken preparation for his desperate, dark work. What he hadn’t expected was the incident unfolding through his magnified lens; or rather the lack of an incident; the snatcher and the whore were perched on the edge of a rooftop surveying the landscape. Todd opened his left eye keeping the right one pressed against the scope, and looked out over the myriad of rooftops that crowned the city like a giant intricate labyrinth. The setting sun covered the city’s crown in a layer of golden light which receded slowly with its descent through the sky; and the distant noises of life blurred into a background buzz making the entire scene reek of tranquility and calmness. It unnerved Todd, why would a snatcher come out here? Something’s gotta be wrong. From his vantage point in a small crevice a few rooftops back he could see and faintly hear the prostitute talk in rapid, smooth tones, her tongue rolling over each sound making an almost rhythmic and musical stream of words.
“Bucket, you gonna go for the lucky bucket ricochet or are you gonna just sit there gawping?” He heard an ugly snigger and a deep unintelligent laugh through the buzzing radio before he pressed the mic button down firmly.
“Snatcher’s facin’ forwards; get into position and wait for my command.”
Todd almost felt sorry for the thief, from his stature and height behind that huge cloak he only looked 17 or 18. A brown leather trench coat covered him from his neck to his feet, leaving no trace for any memorable clothing or racial features, he would be completely unrecognizable but for a black silk hood which covered his head. An odd marker and a sign of descent or wealth he was sure. Unfortunately in Todd’s line of work morality didn’t hold much importance; a mercenary’s values were killing, taking or protecting whoever or whatever the employer wanted. In this instance it was Marv Deign the owner of ‘Deign’s Divine Dicking’ a subtle name for a subtle man; it was their job to hunt down any of the clients who ran off with Mr. Deign’s whores and kill them.
While he didn’t care much for what the whore was saying he was a little unnerved by the quietness and wanted all the information he could get.
“Skeever what’s she sayin’.”
“Dunno Bucket, it’s some different language…wait a sec, Reggie says it’s Spanish.”
Throughout the entire incident Todd kept his eye on the snatcher, the first rule of sharpshooting he had ever been taught is always keep your eye on the target. Now he took a proper look over the thief in search of any weapons he could be hiding, however despite the huge trench coat he couldn’t see any signs of a weapon secreted into the folds of his cloak nor could he see any sort of defensive items in his lap. The kid was either really naïve or really clever, and Todd had no idea how it could be the second.
“Bucket let me pass you to Reggie he’s translating for you…” Todd placed the radio nearer to his ear in the pause that followed, while always keeping his eagle eye on the target.
When the radio buzzed into life again he caught Reggie in the middle of a sentence with his loud Latin voice booming through the speaker causing the startled Todd to remove it from his ear.
“…so special about rooftops? Are you just gonna sit there? I literally haven’t taken off one item of clothing? You really don’t say much for a vampire do you?”
The thief had just sat there unmoving and unresponsive to any of the whore’s questions until her last utterance when he turned his head towards her, inclining it to one side in silent question.
“Oh I knew, you’ve got ancient eyes, my mother told me that a person’s eyes are the windows to the soul…”
A sudden pause intercepted Reggie’s translation and the radio made indiscernible noises as it seemed to be passed between Reggie and Skeever. Suddenly Skeever shouted down the radio in immediate and hurried tones.
“Bucket! The kid’s a vampire!” Skeever had a habit of saying…no, shouting the obvious.
“We get loads of Vampiric kids everyday thinking that just from their newfound fangs they can get away with anything. We got a job to do, kill the fucker and get the girl.” Todd replied in a calm, resigned tone.
In an instant the girl was grabbed by the 6ft mountain of South American muscle the team liked to call Reggie; and the unmoving thief was held at gunpoint by a thin, lithe Skeever who hopped from foot to foot in excitement. Skeever placed the cap on the mic button with his left hand keeping Todd’s radio buzzing with live feed.
“Get up slowly and turn around to face me, you fuckin’ snatch-snatcher!” Skeever’s voice was sharp and cruel through the speaker and immediately afterwards the prostitute’s smooth tones intervened in fast and scared screams.
“POR FAVOR, POR FAVOUR, QUE NO ES MI CULPA, ME DIJO QUE LO SIGUIERA A CABO, NO ME MATES!” Tears streamed down her Spanish, tanned face; she looked only 18, young and beautiful, now turned into a frightening ghoul by the black running mascara shadowing her eyes and cheeks. Her captor turned to her calmly and spoke in a soft, mellow voice with the same fluid language.
“Y pense que nuestra relacion profunda sobreviviria nuestra terrible experiencia actual, gracias por su intento mas honorable para salvarme.”
“SHUT UP YOU SCUM! Now get on your knees.” Skeever replied in his insulting nasal voice.
The thief turned slowly towards his oppressor his face, a mask of little emotion, “Please leave me be gentlemen, I wish you no harm, I apologetically return to you the lady and I shall leave you.” He spoke in a sincere tone boring into Skeever’s eyes like they were a pair of rare jewels.
“No one’s goin’ anywhere, get on your knees!” Skeever shouted, his eyes flaring in anger at the man’s ignorance of his apparent danger.
“Please take this peaceful solution, do not harm this beautiful young lady and we will never cross paths again.” The Vampire implored with eyes, his body had not changed; with his arms firmly at his sides, only his tiny facial differences had to communicate the man’s emotions.
Rather than showing any sign of submission Skeever spat in the poor man’s face before telling him in a low, cruel voice.”How about you get on your knees and rather than shoot you, I’m gonna beat you to death. Then afterwards, me and my friend Reggie here, are gonna fuck your ‘lady’ bloody.”
Cold fury shaped the Vampire’s face instantly, his jaw clenched and his eyes portrayed a dark flame, like nothing Todd had ever seen. “Abrenuntias satanae et corpore et animo” He muttered, struggling visibly not to go into some blinding rage.
“What you calling for your mother?” Skeever said in a comical, mimicking manner.
“No I’m creating excuses.”
“What?” He called out bluntly with a gawping mouth filling the majority of his face.
“To inflict Inferno on your senses.” The man lashed out in the blink of an eye punching the skinny mercenary in the throat and leaving him writhing in pain on the ground, whimpering as his neck twitched.
“You fuckin’…Snatcher….I’m gonna claw your eyes out.” He sobbed, pointing at him accusingly, the gun he once held thrown across the rooftop.
“YOU SPEAK TO A LORD AMONGST MEN, DO NOT PRESUME POWER SCUM, YOU CANNOT TAKE POWER IT IS GIVEN TO THE WORTHY, LEAVE NOW OR FACE THE WRATH OF INFERNO.” The Vampire proclaimed his voice a low and deep utterance articulated in the most complete fashion.
“Oh, you’re a vampire lord... and I’m a harpy…everyone knows Vampire lords only reveal their true identity…to the dead.” Skeever gasped between twinges of pain.
Reggie stood there astonished, his arms had lost their titanic grip on the girl, but she stood their equally surprised; Todd on the other hand had watched the entire thing frozen in amazement and even now down the magnified lens the events unfolding seemed like some kind of twisted film rather than the truth.
The Vampire grabbed Skeever by the throat making him gurgle in pain at his throttling grip; he wriggled like a fish caught on a line. “You made a fatal mistake in that poor excuse of a sentence, you claim that you aren’t a dead man.” His face grew taut and pale in readiness for his next cruel act.
Bang. A loud cracking sound of a shot rebounded off the rooftops penetrating the scene’s calmness. In bracing himself for the shot Todd shut his eyes for a split second, in which he heard another shot and a body slump to the floor.
When he found the scene down his scope again; the white trail of his tracer round flew just over the Vampire’s shoulder, DAMN IT I MISSED WE’RE GONNA DIE! Todd’s heart started to race as he saw the slumped dead body of Reggie on the floor next to a whimpering prostitute. Skeever still struggled in the thief’s clutch, as he looked down in horror at his fallen teammate; in another instant his legs were torn off by a hooked arm that seemed to appear from nowhere. The ripped and shredded remains of his thighs started to flood the floor with blood as he tried to stand; he screamed out his lungs in horror and tried to run but only seemed to fall onto his belly into a puddle of his own blood. The grown man’s screams brought Todd to the present and his left hand started to fumble with the lock and load system to ready another shot for the rifle. His hands didn’t seem his own as he tried to complete a simple action of cocking the rifle but he couldn’t push the bolt back in. Keep your eye on the target, Todd told himself as he watched the vampire slowly bend over to whisper in Skeever’s ear. Muffled by the blood pooling around Skeever’s body, the radio only just picked up the Vampire’s farewell. “Fly little harpy, fly…”
SANTA SOMABRA POLICE RECORDS

ID NO. 07514631831
LAST NAME: UNKNOWN
FIRST NAME: UNKNOWN
OTHER OR PREFERRED NAME(S): CICERO
DATE OF BIRTH: UNKNOWN
SEX: MALE
RACE: UNKNOWN
HEIGHT: UNKNOWN
WEIGHT: UNKNOWN
HAIR COLOUR: BLONDE
EYE COLOUR: GREEN/BLUE
SSN: UNKNOWN
BIRTH STATE/COUNTRY: UNKNOWN
CITY: SANTA SOMABRA
STATE: CALIFORNIA [SORRY GUYS, BEST GUESS?]
AGE: UNKNOWN
SCAR MARKS: NONE
SKIN TONE: MID-EUROPEAN TAN
MILITARY SERVICE: UNKNOWN
ADDRESS: NYCTARI DISTRICTS
KNOWN ALIAS: CICERO

ADDITIONAL DATA:

REPORT #547: 25/4/15 INTOXICATED CITIZENS (NAMELY OGRES) FOUND RIOTING IN THE NYCTARI DISTRICTS, AN UNIDENTIFIED INDIVIDUAL WAS SEEN FLEETING OVER THE ROOFTOPS, AFTER A SMALL CHASE THE SUBJECT ESCAPED. WITNESSES DESCRIBE THE SUBJECT AS A 'TANNED' VAMPIRE WITH THE VISUAL APPEARANCE OF AN OLDER ADOLESCENT, AROUND 17-18 YEARS OF AGE. DUE TO THE UNRELIABILITY OF THE WITNESSES AND THE OBVIOUS CLASH OF INFORMATION WITH A 'TANNED' VAMPIRE, THE POLICE DEPARTMENT HAVE WITHHELD ANY INFORMATION FROM EFFECTING THE SUBJECT'S RECORDS.

REPORT #236: 13/2/15 POLICE AGENT WORKING COVERTLY INSIDE THE NYCTARI FACTION REPORTS AN OUTSIDER. THE INDIVIDUAL IS ACCEPTED AND INVITED TO ALL MEETINGS OF THE UTMOST IMPORTANCE AND SECRECY. THE REPORT DESCRIBES THE SUBJECT AS A MID-EUROPEAN TANNED ADOLESCENT MOST LIKELY 17-18 YEARS OF AGE, WITH HAIR COLOUR RANGING FROM DARK BLONDE TO LIGHT BROWN AND EYE COLOUR RANGING FROM BLUE TO GREEN. THE INDIVIDUAL IS DESCRIBED AS QUITE MELLOW AND DEPRESSIVE IN MOOD WITH A RELUCTANCE TO UTTER ALMOST ANY WORDS WITHOUT NEED; THE ORIGIN AND HISTORY OF THE SUBJECT, OR ANY OTHER CONTEXTUAL INFORMATION, SEEMS TO HAVE ALLUDED THE AGENT LEAVING HIM A CITIZEN OF HIGH INTEREST WITHIN THE POLICE DEPARTMENT.

REPORT #227: 5/1/15 UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS TO RADIO TOWER 54; ADOLESCENT, MID-EUROPEAN INDIVIDUAL SEEN AT THE TOP OF A RADIO TOWER SURVEYING THE LANDSCAPE AT 6:30PM, FOUND BY GUARD AND QUESTIONED ON HIS PURPOSE OR AUTHORISATION. SUBJECT DIDN'T REPLY LEAVING THE VICINITY IN A MATTER OF SECONDS; GUARD WAS INDIFFERENT AND UNABLE TO HINDER HIS ESCAPE.

END OF REPORT
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