Darien looked up at the sky as he walked down the deserted alley, barely making out the full moon through the grey clouds. It was another dark night, another quite watch, another lonely moment in his life. Although none of this was new to Darien, he couldn't help but feel insecure on such a calm and seemingly harmless evening. He understood that anything could go wrong in an instant, and all he could do was bide his time for such a moment. This was the essence of his existence, the reason he lived, and this wait was for him and him alone. But it was because of this constant anticipation for the unexpected that made him a stranger to the world. There was no room for trust. No room for love or for pain. No room for human life. Yet, Darien had grown accustomed to this too, for he had left his humanity long ago. Besides, what use would he have for such things? He had seen first hand how they interfered with his duty, and his duty was to wait. And wait he did as he turned a corner and emerged onto the barely populated sidewalk of the dark city.
As he continued his long patrol, the breeze gently ruffling the edge of his long, grey trench, he noticed he attracted more eyes than normal. Darien frowned at this as he picked up his pace, stuffing his hands into the coat's pockets. He hadn't changed into his true form, and he had learned to control the peculiar air that used to surround him, so why all the attention? Perhaps something was wrong. Perhaps his wait was over and it was time to complete the rest of his job. Perhaps it was now time for him to fight...
Wait and fight – words that Darien understood well within his limited existence. After all, wasn't he created to do both? Isn't it his responsibility to do both? Aren't these two words the sole force that drive his desire, his need to exist? As Darien perked up his ears, he began to remember other words, words people had called him throughout his simple life. Many had called him their hero, and a few their savior. There were even one or two who had called him a saint, but none of this praise affected Darien in the slightest. He felt that such things were a waist of breath, for he was simply doing what he was created to do, and nothing more.
Darien's thoughts were soon interrupted as his patience was answered. His sensitive ears picked up the faint sound of a girl screaming. From behind is dark shades, Darien's eyes quickly darted from side to side to see if any other had heard this scream as well, for only something inhuman could pick up such a distant sound. Satisfied that he alone heard the call, Darien slipped silently into a nearby alley, throwing off his trench in the process. Hidden in the shadows, he took off his shades, revealing dark slits to no one as he felt the change growing within him. He cried out in pain, which quickly turned into a growl and roar as he shifted into his true form.
Moments later, Darien found himself hopping from rooftop to rooftop with immense speed, the change complete and the night sky now clear. Soon, he jumped from a tall apartment building and landed with a soft thud in a damp alley. A young girl huddled in the corner screamed out at the sight of him, but that wasn't the first that had escaped her. Just a few feet away stood a creature hunched over a man’s neck, most likely the girl's father. There was no doubt that this human was dead, the creature feeding off him, and all that was left was for Darien to protect the girl. But, before he could make his move, the creature began to speak. "Why hello, Darien. It is so good to see you again."
"Vanya..." Darien muttered through a growl, deciding instead to stand his ground. The creature simply smirked as she stood tall, blood barely marking the corner of her lips despite how much had been splatter on the surrounding buildings. Darien could see from the corner of his eye the blood that continued to trickle from the corpse's neck, and an odd yet familiar feeling rose from within. He violently fought to keep it silent, his expression dark and calm as the quite night.
"It's nice to see you remember me," Vanya replied in a low, seductive whisper. Not a second later, she stood at Darien's side, licking clean her long, pointed fangs. She swept back strands of red hair that had fallen from her unkempt bun as she began to circle him.
"How could one forget a creature of darkness..." Darien replied, his body solid and his face expressionless. This was not the first time he had confronted Vanya, his oldest enemy, and it most likely wouldn’t be the last.
Vanya raised a brow. "Oh, of darkness you say? You are no holy creature yourself." Looking over at the terrified girl, the creature gave a small smirk than spat at the ground beside the little human. The girl flinched, making her whimper turn into a small cry as she returned her stare towards her father’s dead figure.
"I am a protector, despite what form I must take to serve my duty..." Darien replied through gritted teeth. He knew that Vanya must pay for the heinous crime she had committed and for the countless others in the past. As he thought about her crimes, his eyes once again drifted towards the small stream of blood from the corpse, the odd sensation pulling at his insides.
"A protector, eh?" Vanya said mockingly, also noticing the blood spilling from the man's neck. Instantly, the creature's eyes sparked with realization. "As you wish," Vanya continued. "But can you protect your precious humans from yourself?" And with this question, Vanya kicked up the body with such force and grace that no normal creature could dodge it easily. Yet, Darien managed to step aside quickly enough to narrowly miss the flying body. Another scream echoed from the little girl as the body fell a mere inches away, its bright, crazed eyes looking up at the small figure. Darien turned his head back towards Vanya only to find another smirk beautifully adorning her features. Her smirk soon turned into a hideous grin and then a cackle and Darien questioned her reaction. The body had missed him completely, so why would she have the look of triumph?
Darien's confusion was quickly answered as he felt something warm dripping from his cheeks and mouth. Blood had flung itself from the dead body onto Darien, and the aroma that teased his nose was so overwhelming that he instinctively licked his lips. The sweet taste seemed almost too good to describe, and Vanya's sinister laughter faded into darkness. It had been over a century since Darien had tasted human blood, and he could feel the old thirst rise within him.
"Enjoy your return to sin, Darien," the vampire said before taking to flight. But Darien did not hear Vanya's parting words. His head pounded as the sensation he had been trying to fight for so long finally broke through and spread throughout his body. Everything around him turned black and quite. Nothing mattered now except the need to feed. Soon, he turned his attention to the human in the corner, her cheeks moist with tears. The lycan released a howl towards the bright moon that now appeared red in the sky, then leaped towards his new target...
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
My Writing Place
Shadows flicker across the darkened wall as a cold breeze from the windows dances with the flames of candles scattered throughout the room. Yet, the warmth from a roaring fire counters the breeze, blanketing those who surround it, which number no more than a handful. At first glance, all seems to be silent and still, but a moment of patience makes you realize this to be a lie.
Although it is the dead of night, footsteps, far and few between, can be heard crossing the cobblestone street outside the large, wooden doors. A barmaid, shapely and fatigued, makes her last rounds for the evening, tending to the night's drunken leftovers before her sister starts the next shift. However, not all of the inn's occupants are in a stupor. A tall, slender figure with blackish-blue hair, pointed ears, and narrow green eyes sits in a soft, beaten arm chair before the fire. Her thin, long fingers wrap around tendrils of smoke, infusing them with a hidden power. (Nadia Ardhan, a forsaken drow, calmly awaits her fate, knowing that her past seeks her outside the inn at this very moment.)
Behind her, two dwarves speak in hushed tones beneath their braided hair and braided beards, their stubby hands shooing away the barmaid as she refills their mugs with ale for the fifth time that night. (Borgus and Drugar Phargon, brothers and once princes of Darshall, go over ideas of how they plan to march back to their overthrown kingdom, amassing an army along the way to drive out the dragons once and for all.)
Closer to the main entrance, a bewildered regular tips back his empty mug for the third or fourth time, imagining sweet liquor to be running down his throat. Slamming his mug down in disappointment, he yells harassing remarks at the new barmaid that emerges from the kitchen, demanding a refill that will be denied yet again. "You've had enough, old man! Go home!" she calls back, exasperated, but amused, as she brings a fine elven wine to the drow. (An exiled Templar Knight of Alterone, Khalid Medion now finds himself squandering away what years he has left in a nameless town. Little does he know that his skills will be called upon once again as a new, unforeseen enemy threatens his forgotten home.)
In the shadows of the staircase, a glimpse of a swishing tail can barely be seen as a meerca leans against the wall, arms crossed as she waits for her moment, eyes intently on the innkeeper. (As second-in-command of the infamous Thieves' Guild, Kalianah Quatar counts the minutes before she can finally lay her hands on the innkeeper's safe, which holds more than just gold and silver.)
And far in the back corner, hidden in the shadows of the candles and fireplace and the ignorant minds of the inn's occupants, resides a small, human female. Just-past-shoulder length, dark brown hair frames her pale face as brown eyes seem to study the parchment and the people around her simultaneously. A quill with an endless supply of ink scribbles away, provoked only to stop by the command of the girl, and only when a new idea pops into her mind. She is all seeing, all knowing, of everything that has, are, and will happen. This sacred place of the fantastic, the Inn, is her homestead and source of inspiration, for in it resides the countless tales of old and new and the colorful people they involve. Everyone who enters and leaves this place has a story to tell, whether good or bad, dull or exquisite. The only thing that matters is whether or not there is someone to tell it.
With this fact in mind, another line is jotted down, but barely completed as an elf bursts through the front doors, bruised and bloodied. "Orcs!" he cries. "They've charged past the western sentinels and are about to ransack the town!" He collapses to his knees, sodden blond hair attempting to strangle him into submission. The innkeeper and help take the weak and distraught elf closer to the fireplace, where the drow shoots him a look of disgust. The coming onslaught begins to filter through the town as the doors slam shut and several, now awaken and disheveled, occupants march down the stairs. And through all the rising commotion and eventual chaos, a small smirk rises to the surface on the lips of the small girl in her dark corner.
Although it is the dead of night, footsteps, far and few between, can be heard crossing the cobblestone street outside the large, wooden doors. A barmaid, shapely and fatigued, makes her last rounds for the evening, tending to the night's drunken leftovers before her sister starts the next shift. However, not all of the inn's occupants are in a stupor. A tall, slender figure with blackish-blue hair, pointed ears, and narrow green eyes sits in a soft, beaten arm chair before the fire. Her thin, long fingers wrap around tendrils of smoke, infusing them with a hidden power. (Nadia Ardhan, a forsaken drow, calmly awaits her fate, knowing that her past seeks her outside the inn at this very moment.)
Behind her, two dwarves speak in hushed tones beneath their braided hair and braided beards, their stubby hands shooing away the barmaid as she refills their mugs with ale for the fifth time that night. (Borgus and Drugar Phargon, brothers and once princes of Darshall, go over ideas of how they plan to march back to their overthrown kingdom, amassing an army along the way to drive out the dragons once and for all.)
Closer to the main entrance, a bewildered regular tips back his empty mug for the third or fourth time, imagining sweet liquor to be running down his throat. Slamming his mug down in disappointment, he yells harassing remarks at the new barmaid that emerges from the kitchen, demanding a refill that will be denied yet again. "You've had enough, old man! Go home!" she calls back, exasperated, but amused, as she brings a fine elven wine to the drow. (An exiled Templar Knight of Alterone, Khalid Medion now finds himself squandering away what years he has left in a nameless town. Little does he know that his skills will be called upon once again as a new, unforeseen enemy threatens his forgotten home.)
In the shadows of the staircase, a glimpse of a swishing tail can barely be seen as a meerca leans against the wall, arms crossed as she waits for her moment, eyes intently on the innkeeper. (As second-in-command of the infamous Thieves' Guild, Kalianah Quatar counts the minutes before she can finally lay her hands on the innkeeper's safe, which holds more than just gold and silver.)
And far in the back corner, hidden in the shadows of the candles and fireplace and the ignorant minds of the inn's occupants, resides a small, human female. Just-past-shoulder length, dark brown hair frames her pale face as brown eyes seem to study the parchment and the people around her simultaneously. A quill with an endless supply of ink scribbles away, provoked only to stop by the command of the girl, and only when a new idea pops into her mind. She is all seeing, all knowing, of everything that has, are, and will happen. This sacred place of the fantastic, the Inn, is her homestead and source of inspiration, for in it resides the countless tales of old and new and the colorful people they involve. Everyone who enters and leaves this place has a story to tell, whether good or bad, dull or exquisite. The only thing that matters is whether or not there is someone to tell it.
With this fact in mind, another line is jotted down, but barely completed as an elf bursts through the front doors, bruised and bloodied. "Orcs!" he cries. "They've charged past the western sentinels and are about to ransack the town!" He collapses to his knees, sodden blond hair attempting to strangle him into submission. The innkeeper and help take the weak and distraught elf closer to the fireplace, where the drow shoots him a look of disgust. The coming onslaught begins to filter through the town as the doors slam shut and several, now awaken and disheveled, occupants march down the stairs. And through all the rising commotion and eventual chaos, a small smirk rises to the surface on the lips of the small girl in her dark corner.
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