Terrance knew he was late, for the streetlights had come on.

That, and the onset of darkness.

Tugging his mittens on snugly to ensure they would not fall and be lost - mustn’t lose the mittens, mommy would get angry - Terrance turned towards his small home in one of those rare towns not entirely paved over by the encroachment of human progress. He had been playing in the ravine behind his house ever since he returned home from school, innocently humming the songs he learned that day without a bead of sweat shed over concern for the harsh realities of an often deadly world. Just as well, for in the frigid winter, one such droplet would surely freeze to his skin.

"Old McDonald had a farm," he sang loudly, recalling the events of the day. "Ee-I-ee-I-o.."

The Puyallup, swollen still by melted snow from the short heat wave of the previous day, roared onwards along its eternal journey towards the Pacific. The banks of the steep ravine framing the river were treacherous - Terrance had to use both hands to aid his uncertain feet in climbing the slippery ground. A sudden gust of wind almost caused him to lose his balance, but a jutting root was conveniently present just under his hand to stop a deadly fall.

"Ee-I-ee-I-o," Terrance hummed nervously in an attempt to calm his nerves.

Heart pumping like a jackhammer and adrenaline rushing as swiftly as the distant river, Terrance resumed his climb with a little more respect for the hill. His frosted breath obscured the stars for but a moment, the darkness of a sparsely populated area giving the remote beacons of light a chance to shine in the moonless sky. A cry in the distance, likely his mother standing on the porch, calling to him with maternal anxiety crispening her voice.

"I’m coming!" Terrance tried to call, but his voice came out in a sickening gasp as a thump of thrown snow caught him in the chest. He glanced down, then giggled. Someone had thrown a snowball at him.

"Who’s there?" He said quietly, his mother forgotten even as she called frantically to him. Perhaps she had seen what had thrown the snow, perhaps not.

The sound of soft snow crunching under the weight of a heavy boot was just barely heard over the wind, whistling and whining through the trees like a ghost train ferrying the souls of the dead to the world beyond. A shadow moved. It was much larger than any of his friends, Terrance thought, and he peered closer. His hand extended in naive greeting, shivering and jerking under the dim light of the winter sky. The shadow moved again, its own hand rolling outwards from the blackness of nightmare in a grizzly attempt to make contact with an innocent world denied it for centuries.

A spidery claw, fingers obscenely long and reeking of rot.

The vampire grinned.

Terrance’s mouth opened in an ‘O’ of terror, watching the demonic talon move towards his own. He snatched back his hand an instant later, having forgotten about it in his fear, and stumbled backwards.

A mistake.

No convenient root was there to block his fall, treacherous ice covering the smooth grass he rolled down in the summer. This fall would not end so joyfully.

Finally, Terrance screamed, a loud wail which brought his mother running from the porch, the woman’s robe streaming out behind her in the frigid wind, backlit by the porch light, some shimmering apparition come to rescue the six year old from his living nightmare. She wouldn’t arrive in time.

Faster and faster Terrance fell, his wrist exploding in pain and his ribs bruising under constant assault from root and rock. The river approached, mercilessly roaring. The bank descended sharply and Terrance was airborne. His mother watched in horror as her youngest son fell head first into the freezing river.

The icy water raked along his skin like knives, shearing away tender skin and heading directly for the bones beneath. The shock was electric, and Terrance continued to scream even as his lungs filled with freezing water. Swept down river, he simply could not keep his head above the surface. As darkness fell, Terrance wondered how mad his mommy would be - he had lost one of his mittens.

The vampire watched without expression, jaded by its centuries, shambling softly towards the river.

"Ee-I-ee-I-o," Widow hummed.

*       *       *       *       *

ARCHAEOLOGICAL RECOVERY #1647:

DATE: 12-05-2328
LOCATION: ALPHA-TELLUS 443B ('WASHINGTON')
SITE: 24B (‘SEATTLE’)"
SITE HISTORY: IRRADIATED (ca. 2121)
ARTIFACT: #312 - MEMOIRS OF TERRANCE WHIT***E(?)*_
STATUS: BADLY DAMAGED (SEVERE HYDRATION, COMBUSTION, BIODEGRATION)

DATES 01??20?5 SALVAGEABLE:

It was the winter of 2005 when my life tumbled into hell.

My earliest memories are of the cold, the darkness, the chains, the smells, the sounds.

The cold. I was wet and naked, my small body crying out for warmth in the frigid depths of winter. My breath came in short gasps, the freezing air searing my throat as it poured into my lungs.

The darkness. At first, I didn’t know if my eyes were open or closed. I could see nothing, no shadows or hints of light. Was it day? Night? I knew not. I had awakened in hell.

The chains. Covering my body like a second skin, wrapped around hands and feet like hungry snakes, tightening steadily and cutting off what little warmth the heat of my blood provided. Cold stone was behind me, for I was chained to a wall. A dungeon, I thought at the time, thinking back to the fairy tales my father told me by the comforting heat of a roaring fire.

The smells. Fetid, rank odors, rotting sewage and decaying flesh filled the air, almost tangible in their potency. The air didn’t move, never cleared away the stench, which had built up steadily over the years.

The sounds. A steady, echoing dripping filled my ears, almost drowning out the soft trickling of a tiny stream worming its way through the darkness. For hours, in the cold, in the darkness, this was all I heard. Then, something moved, and a voice spoke, rasping in the monstrous harmony of dead leaves crushed underfoot.

"Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani? Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?" The echoing whisper seemed to come from everywhere at once in the darkness, I knew not where the speaker was. I remember it as coming from all sides, every direction.

"The sun," cried the voice. "He wants to remember the sun.. so long it has been," it continued. "More than eight hundred years since he last saw it. Spain. The leaves’ changing colours.."

I tried to call out, but nothing happened. My mouth was taped shut.

"His family," the monster continued, ignoring my pain, speaking as if to a fascinated audience, "highbred Spanish nobility of House DaVarathas would just now be stocking the larders with food for the winter, ordering the servants to fill the woodsheds with fuel for fire.    

"Youngest in a family of three children, his brother and sister filling the positions of heirs to his parents’ fortunes. He, on the other hand," on top of a dry snicker, "was to be left nothing, for in family tradition, the second son was to join the seminary and begin  education as a Catholic priest."

The sound of a passing car tumbled down from the world above, faint snippets of roving lights shining through the grate in the ceiling. I was in.. the sewers? Still, the monster rambled, speaking to itself as much as to me. It was then I heard another rattle of chains to the left of me. Another captive, waking up.

"He did look forward to this noble duty, for he was.. is.. a very  devout Catholic. Sees the hand of God in everything, from the beauty  he was gifted with at birth to the woodlands surrounding his ancient home, teeming with harmonious life. He knew even as early as his tenth year that he was  to serve God to the best of his ability, and looked with anticipation  upon his destiny with each passing day.

"Years passed, his childhood stifled under the religious schooling he received through day and night. He was ordained at the age of twenty-one, and began preaching at the immense Cathedrals of ancient Spain. There, he learned how pervasive the Devil’s hand had become in the world, how sure his grip was strangling all of humanity. The Inquisition was yet to be made formal, however, there were many who sought to destroy the plague of evil ravaging the fair, Christian lands. He was a staunch supporter of this, driving out those demons which hoped to blend in, spreading their corruption like a festering wound hidden beneath the skin’s surface. He saw much, you understand. Much which served only to strengthen his Faith - for without God, none of these hateful creatures could ever be held at bay."

I moved, then, shuffling the chains enough so the monster might know I was conscious. I would have screamed the moment the voice whispered directly into my ear, if only I had a mouth. "Shhhhhhhhh," it said, "listen, listen. The priest sleeps - so little time I have." Then, to itself  as it moved away, a silent plea, "Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?"

Then, silence, for what seemed like an eternity but could never have been more than ten minutes. Then, as suddenly as the monster’s peculiar monologue halted, it began once more.

"For the next fifteen years, he preached to, taught, prayed for and purified the large communities to which he traveled, leading them in the purging of Lucifer's servants. He was never harmed, for his Faith protected him from all evil. Well. Until his Faith lay shattered at his feet like so many shards of broken glass.

The voice faded into a sibilant hiss, and for a brief moment, silence descended once more.

"Porthobos was a very small village outside Castile, a deceptively unassuming town. Who dared to think such a glorious evil had all but wrestled the settlement entirely from God’s loving embrace? Surely, not the priest. Little did he know the terrible secret Porthobos held hidden from prying eyes, that the unassuming castle on that tiny hill was a bastion of pure evil. He taught and prayed, instructing the townspeople on how to lead a Christian life so soon after the Muslims had abandoned these lands."

Even then, I knew that a monster was talking to me, for this demon spoke of times long before I was born. Every demon I’d ever known was embodied by this thing, every monster in the closet made flesh before me. My eyelids began to feel heavy, as the cold was eating into my body.

"On the fifteenth of April in the Year of Our Lord 1210, a woman by the name of Eloise entered town. She was ragged, injured and near death, crawling through the city like an animal. She saw him, and told him in a frantic voice of the horrible demons living in the castle on the hill. Little more than the Hand of God and possessed by His divine holiness, the priest could do nothing but act. That night, he demanded the townspeople hear him....."

The following sentences dissolved into dreams as I lost contact with the waking world, tumbling into a slumber so deep into which even nightmares could not penetrate.

*       *       *       *       *

EVENING, APRIL 15TH, 1210.
PORTHOBOS, SPAIN

 The townspeople gathered around the hastily erected platform in the center of town and fell silent as Father Luciano DaVarathas stood proudly, watching everyone with a gaze steeped in divine superiority. The ruby centered in the silver crucifix he wore around his neck glinted eerily in the light of torches held by many of the citizens.

"The Damned have pervaded even here, my friends," he spoke in eloquent Spanish. "Creatures shunned from the sight of Our Lord, their names stricken from His divine memory, banished to the fires of Hell but hanging tenaciously onto their mortal coil.

"We must strike! Strike these foul demons with the Hammer of God! Strike these fallen angels with Fires of Judgment! Trust ourselves to the Most High, guided only by the Grace of Our Lord! There!" The priest screamed the last, pointing towards the castle, surreally lit by the silver halo of a full moon. "There, the forces of darkness converge in an unholy orgy of evil! There, they spread their corruption to your wives, your children! DARE you let them succeed? DARE you let them steal your families?"

A resounding "NO!" rocked the platform on which the priest stood, pitchforks, scythes and torches raised high over the heads of farmers and craftsmen.

"Then let us go! Let us purge the world of damnation, purify Porthobos of the forces of Lucifer! Lord Raythe de Porthobos will rue the day he dared dip his taloned hand into the wellspring of the Devil!"

The town surged forward, myriad angry faces moving towards the very same castle none dared approach only hours ago. As the safety of the town was left behind, the mob fell into eerie silence, watching the barbaric keep loom before them. The wall gates were open, and the townspeople entered the courtyard slowly. The scene revealed by the feeble light of torches renewed the screams, but of terror and revulsion instead of anger and righteousness.

Vlad the Impaler could have learned much from Lord Raythe de Porthobos, but the Nosferatu always had that artistic flair lacked by the Tzimisce. Thousands of wooden spikes, towering twenty feet into the night sky littered the courtyard, each one sporting the bodies of dozens of skewered men, women, children and infants. The bodies outnumbered the  entire population of Porthobos, and there were no towns for miles around.

Where did they come from? What foul army met its death so recently to  leave fresh corpses to decorate the vampire’s haven?

"Do not quail at the sight of the Devil’s handiwork," cried Father DaVarathas, moving his hands in the sign of the cross for a mass blessing of the dead. "The Lord our God will protect us from whatever the fiends can deliver. Have faith, stand tall! We have much to do!"

The mob continued into the fortress, though tentatively, men who hadn’t shed tears since childhood weeping uncontrollably at the sights - and smells - of horrors present only a mile from their homes. A few with torches, acting in rage, set fire to the spikes, feeble flames quelled immediately by the dripping blood. Whispered prayers and wards against evil went generally unheeded, as even the priest had been overtaken with awe as they approached the front gates of the massive keep. They, too, were open.

An impossibly long hallway, slanted downwards, delved into the earth at a steep yet comfortable angle, vanishing into darkness hundreds of feet below. Torches illuminated the corridor, iron sconces holding the burning brands at ten foot intervals along each wall.

Silence from all, as the mob dared not utter a single word lest they attract whatever evil resided here.

The priest took a shuddering step forward, his rich robes casting motes of dust up from the castle floor. The darkness of the hallway loomed before him, a gaping maw into hell itself.

Father DaVarathas stopped suddenly, leaning forward slightly. Something drew his attention, his eyes squinting into the blackness ahead.

He thought he'd seen the darkness lunge forward, matching his approach with one of its own.

The hallway was still, silent.

Father DaVarathas led the townfolk in another step forward, watching the darkness intently.

And when he moved, the darkness followed suit - swallowing the two furthers torches, mere pinpricks of light in the distance.

Father DaVarathas stopped.

Two more torches vanished, hundreds of feet ahead. The darkness was coming for them.

Father Luciano DaVarathas sucked in his breath, hefting the small, silver crucifix and holding it out before him. The mob crowded behind, each hoping to hide behind this icon of purity.

Hundreds of feet down the hall, the torches were winking out at slow yet steady intervals, whatever cloud of darkness swallowing the flames moving towards them at an ever accelerating rate.

Whispered voices floated out of the gathered townspeople on wings of prayer, the weeping having degenerated to almost inaudible sounds. The priest, cross held high, began reciting lines of exorcism. The darkness did not slow.

As the hallway continued to tumble into the abyss which steadily approached,  the stone walls and floor began to tremble. Softly, almost imperceptibly at first, growing in intensity as the shadows drew closer. Father DaVarathas’ prayers grew louder, more urgent, yet they went unheeded.

"Father," a tentative voice whispered from behind the priest. "What..?"

The voice was swallowed as the first of the shrieking reached their ears, one long wail echoing down the hallway from the blackness. Whatever infernal beast resided at its core was calling for their blood, and the priest’s prayers were useless in stopping it.

The shrieking split apart into two distinct sounds as more torches were swallowed, a high pitched whine and a low, guttural hiss.

"It’s.. Him," came a muttered whisper, though the blackness beyond didn’t answer or shed light onto the identity of the villain to which the voice referred. "He’s come.. for us.. why won’t your God turn Him away...?"

Two men in the rear turned and ran, stumbling over each other in their haste to escape. No one in the castle saw the corpses on the spikes come to life, reaching down from their perches like grasping branches to lift each man into the air, passing him onto the next creature in line along the horrific tower.

The cowardly townspeople became the newest additions to the forest in a voluminous spray of blood, bone and screams cut short.

The doors leading out closed swiftly of their own accord, preventing any further escape. Like a bell signaling the approach of fire, the slamming doors tripped the panic button in the minds of everyone standing, save the priest.

Another surge, this time in the direction of the closed doors as men threw themselves in blind fear, bloodying their hands as they clawed in search of escape. Those who fell did not stand again, for they were trampled by the very men they once considered friends. Still, Father DaVarathas stood tall, watching the ensuing blackness and listening, carefully. The shrieks split apart, separating into thousands. The hiss became a roll of flesh as torches only tens of feet away were swallowed in the approaching darkness. Thousands of eyes bounced, bobbed and weaved in the demonic mass, yet none slowed under the sway of the priest’s Faith.

Rats.

Billions of them, filling the entire hall to capacity, scrambling over the bodies of their crushed kin, racing with infernal hatred towards the humans who had dared to invade their domain. A veritable cloud of gnashing teeth, grasping claws and plague ridden fur.

Faith crumbled under such a vision of pure evil, and Father Luciano DaVarathas uttered the words which would become paramount to his existence. Softly, to himself at first, as the cross fell from suddenly gnarled hands, then louder, a mantra through which he sought to gain some measure of comfort.

"Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani? Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?" He called to the rats in Aramaic, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ Father Luciano DaVarathas has embodied his despair, his frustrations and his arrogance in the last words of Jesus Christ on the cross before he bowed his head and died.

The closest torches vanished as the writhing rats smothered them in a hiss of singed fur and blackened bodies. With the force of a tidal wave, the swarm was upon them.

Luciano drowned as he was bitten and slashed, the light of the mortal world fading from him for the last time.

"Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?"

*       *       *       *       *

ARCHAEOLOGICAL RECOVERY #1647:

DATE: 12-05-2328
LOCATION: ALPHA-TELLUS 443B ('WASHINGTON')
SITE: 24B (‘SEATTLE’)"
SITE HISTORY: IRRADIATED (ca. 2121)
ARTIFACT: #312 - MEMOIRS OF TERRANCE WHIT***E(?)*_
STATUS: BADLY DAMAGED (SEVERE HYDRATION, COMBUSTION, BIODEGRATION)

DATES 01??20?5 SALVAGEABLE:

"ELI! ELI! LEMA SABACHTHANI!"

The scream woke me from my deep slumber immediately. It took me a few minutes to recall where I was, before the darkness and the constant dripping returned all of my nightmarish memories.

The demon was screaming the words rhythmically, repetitively, over and over and over and over.

I prayed someone in the world above would hear him.

Then, I remembered we were in the sewers. Hopelessness descended.

My daydreaming.. night dreaming?... was cut short as the monster whispered into my ear, fetid breath curling my nose. I hadn’t noticed he’d stopped screaming.

"You are awake, child. That is good. You are dry, and you are warm. That is good. Listen, now. The priest sleeps, the priest slumbers. Listen.

"He never forgot the rats, child, for they started him on the path to what he has become, the path on which he met me, the path which led to my... birth. What I have become." A raspy, deadly chuckle. I wish to this day I had never heard it. "What I have become.. oh, child. Be glad there is no light.

"He woke much as you did tonight, chained to a wall, shivering, wet, humbled, though in a dungeon well lit by torch light. Wet with his own blood, you see, for the rats were hardly delicate as they dragged him into the pit of the very fortress to which he so arrogantly sought to lay siege."

Silence, for a few moments, before the speech resumed. Chains rattled. The Others had come awake.

"He also never forgot his first meeting with Lord Raythe de Porthobos."

*       *       *       *       *

EARLY MORNING,  APRIL 16TH, 1210.
CASTLE PORTHOBOS, PORTHOBOS

Luciano DaVarathas lay shivering on the filthy ground, priestly vestments tattered and bloodied by the surge of rats which dragged him here. He had been left alone in the dim light of Castle Porthobos’ dungeons, chained to the walls.

He rocked, back and forth, chanting that same Aramaic phrase. A broken man.

He barely noticed the shadow that moved suddenly in the corner of his cell, the stench that wafted into his nostrils, the rustling of cloth on stone as the figure moved towards him.

"Fatherrr...." it drawled, a tongue far too long for speech worming its way obscenely through a hole in the creature’s chin. These were but the least of Lord Raythe’s monstrous deformities.

"Fatherrr...." the creature repeated, slithering forward on spider thin legs, black ichor dripping from his lips and onto the cobblestone floor.

"Fatherrr...." Lord Raythe repeated once more as he kneeled in front of the priest. A monster, shadows of children’s nightmares made flesh. It barely phased Luciano, intent as he was on his mantra.

 Lord Raythe calmly reached out with a taloned hand and slapped the priest across the face hard enough to cause nausea. Another slap, to the other cheek, followed by a deriding laugh from the demon.

"Come now, Father. Turn the other cheek."

As the beating continued mercilessly, Luciano curled into a fetal ball even as he continued the soft whispering. Finally, as if flipping off a light, the priest fell silent. The beating ended.

"Good. Stand."

Father DaVarathas scrambled to his feet and was seized by Lord Raythe’s clawed hands. The man with broken faith was no longer trouble to Lord Raythe, and the Nosferatu Lord buried his wickedly long fangs into the mortals neck.

He drank. Father Luciano DaVarathas died as a servant of God and was reborn a demon of the night.

For the three nights following his Embrace, Luciano was forced to drink of Lord Raythe’s blood. The bond grew with every sunset, until the priest was so under the Nosferatu’s spell that he would have done anything. A thrall, almost completely void of free will.

His first meals consisted of the cold and rotting bodies of the very men he rallied in Porthobos, stiff corpses hacked nearly to pieces by the merciless rats. The priest was the only one to survive - the others had all met grizzly deaths at the hands of the animals. He stayed in the cell for many days, tumbling into unconsciousness with the rise of the sun and awakening as the searing, killing orb dipped beneath the horizon.

The Curse of Clan Nosferatu is deformity, and Father Luciano DaVarathas had yet to undergo what many refer to simply as the Change. As darkness fell on his fifth night of captivity, the once noble, handsome priest felt the first shiver as his skin crawled. Literally.

In the darkness, he didn’t notice the peculiar gray hue which had overtaken his body in the nights following his Embrace. As his skin moved that first night, however, terror struck his heart like ice. Lord Raythe had taken great pleasure in informing Father DaVarathas of his fate and, like a hypochondriac feeling a lump, Luciano was petrified.

The screams echoed throughout the entire fortress as flesh was rended and bones split and writhed. Gaping holes opened along the man’s face, new eyes sprouting out like mushrooms. His jaw caved inwards and became circular, a tiny orifice which opened to unthinkable proportions to feed.

Four new arms tore their way out of Luciano’s ribcage, each with a life of their own, writhing under the same demonic influence which ripped away the man’s humanity.

His knees split, thigh and feet separating into three distinct appendages beneath the knee on each leg. On giant tripods would the priest forever walk.

His fingers elongated, and his entire head collapsed, pushing his brain into odd contortions that realised lightning bolts of searing pain. After eight days of hideous transformations, Luciano DaVarathas was no longer a man, but a monster, cursed to spend his entire life in shadow or disguise. A withered husk, now, the priest curled onto the floor and shivered.

*       *       *       *       *

ARCHAEOLOGICAL RECOVERY #1647:

DATE: 12-05-2328
LOCATION: ALPHA-TELLUS 443B ('WASHINGTON')
SITE: 24B (‘SEATTLE’)"
SITE HISTORY: IRRADIATED (ca. 2121)
ARTIFACT: #312 - MEMOIRS OF TERRANCE WHIT***E(?)*_
STATUS: BADLY DAMAGED (SEVERE HYDRATION, COMBUSTION, BIODEGRATION)

DATES 01??20?5 SALVAGEABLE:

I was awakened by a powerful blow to the temple, blackening my eye and savagely wrenching my spinal cord to near breaking point. You think I exaggerate. I do not.

"You do not sleep when I am here, child. Learn patience, for the night is young. The priest sleeps, but not for long. No, not these nights - not for long, at all."

I fought to scream though I knew it was futile, the tight, painful tape preventing any sound. I settled for stamping my foot on the floor, calling for help as best I could.

The demon laughed.

"For two hundred years, child, he lived in Castle Porthobos. Once the change was complete, he was free to leave the cell - he was, after all, hopelessly blood bound to Lord Raythe and aghast at raising a hand against him. Raids on Porthobos became regular every ten or so years, giving the town a reputation of death, evil and Godlessness. Plague struck in the 14th century, and they watched with glee as hundreds died in bloody eruptions of disease.

"Thirty years after his Embrace, Lord Raythe saw fit to raise him to Seneschal of his domain. He was still his thrall, and hopeless to act in his defiance. I presume he did this to revel in the depths to which the priest had fallen, nearly ruling the same bastion of evil he once hoped to destroy. Throughout his... tenure, he took the same woman who betrayed his master so many nights ago, the escapee who warned him of the evil atop the hill. Then his ghouled slave, she became his childe, as demonic as himself."

Again, that laugh which haunts me to this day.

"He saw before himself an unlife of complete servitude, without free will or prospects of anything outside Castle Porthobos. Little did he know of the dissension between vampires outside, the war against the founders of our clans and the rebellions fought in shadows by night. He never suspected such terrors would land on their doorstep, but land they did, and for this I am thankful.

"The priest was outside, his serpentine tongue languidly savoring the sap  of their courtyard forest...."

I know not how I dropped into unconsciousness, but I did, my head falling forward to rest against my small, six year old chest.

*       *       *       *       *

EARLY MORNING,  JULY 2ND, 1404.
CASTLE PORTHOBOS, PORTHOBOS

The forest of spikes was a remarkable feat of morbid engineering, carefully tended and erected after years of preparation. The carcasses piled upon each stake were animated and preserved by the dark arts of the Necromantic vampires living within the castle, ensuring a defensive measure which was as terrifying as it was deadly.

Luciano DaVarathas walked lithely through the forest, moving on six feet between the towering spikes. Eloise walked beside him, of course, eyes glinting with madness even as she gazed upon the vampire with the same unquestionable love that had been forced upon Luciano by Lord Raythe. The gates were closed, as the Inquisition had reared its ugly head in Spain. Where once the Cainites ruled the countryside with terror, they now had to defend themselves from the hunters and priests who patrolled the lands.

Cursing, screaming and wailing floated over the walls, echoing downwards to be picked up first by Luciano’s sensitive hearing. He glanced up, Eloise forgotten, in the direction of the cries. A low, guttural growl rumbled in his throat. More of the priests, the mortals, seeking to destroy the very monsters they should bow to.

The gates opened slowly, Luciano folding himself into the shadows with practiced efficiency, wrapping darkness around himself and his Ghoul so they would not be seen. Silence fell for a few moments, the only sounds the soft rustling of skewered corpses readying themselves to strike.

Suddenly, a cacophony of hisses and growls shattered the quiet night as the intruders stormed Castle Porthobos. These were not humans, but the very first of what would become the Sabbat in later nights. A pack of Lasombra and Tzimisce, demonic vampires even more malicious than the Nosferatu Lord swarmed into the courtyard unimpeded - Lord Raythe, in his arrogance, opened the gates so they might enter and be taken by the forest. This was not to be the case.

Darkness fell, the potent light of torches vanishing in a demonic shadow conjured by the Keepers. At the same moment, the dreaded Tzimisce grew, twisted and transformed, becoming the very embodiments of the Beasts within. Screaming and calling, eighty vampires ran into the castle, ignoring the grasping corpses like so many feeble brambles, tearing off decaying arms and legs as easily as they were entangled by them.

Luciano began to follow, before he turned back to the woman who had served him so faithfully as a ghoul. In a burst of insight borne from terror, Luciano swiftly drained Eloise of blood and replaced it with his own, Embracing her without pomp or ceremony. He watched as she fed from the corpses mounted on the spikes, sating the Beast which had been released inside of her. Now, of Clan Nosferatu, Eloise would undergo the Change - but not for many days. Tonight, she would be a formidable force against the attackers.

Inside the castle, anarchy had struck. The swarms of rats were being turned away by the Tzimisce, working in tandem to mesmerize the animals into retreating or hacking them to pieces with Discipline augmented bodies. Castle Porthobos fell quickly, for it was unaccustomed to such a potent assault.

Still, the Nosferatu were nothing if not skilled in concealment, and lurked in the shadows, springing upon the same vampires who were taking the fortress. The Tzimisce, however, were equally skilled in routing out such demons, savagely tearing them to pieces with claws and talons crafted by Vicissitude. The sides were equal, for the Nosferatu were on home territory while the enemy vampires outnumbered them three to one.

As the night raged onwards, Luciano moved through the castle in search of his master, to protect him from the hordes which lay siege to his castle. He never found his sire.

Something struck Luciano from behind, a pull which felt oddly.. familiar, knocking him to the floor. Another twist, this one internal, his mind skittering over glass as it sought to comprehend. No one other than his childe was in the room with him, and she was screaming, maddened voice collapsing into background static as Luciano fought to cope with his runaway mind.

Like a fishing line hooked to his brain with iron, Luciano was lifted to his feet like a puppet, reeled in like a fish, pulled to either side as some enigmatic power grappled with him. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, in a painful spray of blood from nose and mouth, the magic tore free.

The blood bond had been broken, for Lord Raythe de Porthobos lay dead.

Blood bonds of such strength and presence do not break so easily, however:

The deeds the once-priest had committed in his years under the Nosferatu’s spell returned tenfold, crushing his mind with guilt and remorse for the thousands he had killed, the hundreds he had tortured. His mind split to cope with these atrocities as he collapsed onto the cold floor, the pure and innocent priest becoming separate from the horrible monster Luciano had become.

Lurking in the darkness of the priest's mind, scuttling up walls of consciousness like a spider, an evil presence, a dark half bubbled to the surface.

Widow was born.

Both battles waged onwards, the taking of Castle Porthobos by the fledgling Sabbat and the internal war Luciano DaVarathas fought with his malevolent alter ego, Widow. Wrapping himself in his Discipline, Widow became Luciano, Luciano became Widow, Eloise watching as the Nosferatu shifted Masks to match the personality that was foremost in his psyche.

The vampire stopped after a few moments, rising slowly to his feet, visibly garbed in the clothes of a priest. The once demonic visage was clouded with Obfuscate, replaced by a face Eloise easily recognized as Father Luciano DaVarathas.

"My child," he said softly, a very human hand reaching outwards to caress the woman’s cheek. Eloise, feeling the same irresistible, mystical love towards this man as she did the demon, leaned into the priest’s hand. The man continued. "The monster fights, child, working inside as I speak with you. I am Damned, now. You are not. Go, Eloise. I bid you leave me, now." Smiling with the penitent grin of a saint, Father Luciano DaVarathas made the sign of the cross before melting into the darkness.

Eloise searched, but she would not find the priest again for a very, very long time.

*       *       *       *       *

ARCHAEOLOGICAL RECOVERY #1647:

DATE: 12-05-2328
LOCATION: ALPHA-TELLUS 443B ('WASHINGTON')
SITE: 24B (‘SEATTLE’)"
SITE HISTORY: IRRADIATED (ca. 2121)
ARTIFACT: #312 - MEMOIRS OF TERRANCE WHIT***E(?)*_
STATUS: BADLY DAMAGED (SEVERE HYDRATION, COMBUSTION, BIODEGRATION)

DATES 01??20?5 SALVAGEABLE:

I awakened in silence, blessed silence, for the demon was not to be heard in the darkness. I could hear the other prisoners waking beside me, and I stamped my foot three times to get their attention.

Seconds passed, before one responded in like fashion, then another and another.

The sounds continued, and I lost count of the number in this dungeon with me, but more than twenty people were tied to the walls with chains similar to mine. I could hear their breathing, frenzied and filled with terror.

"Shhhh, my children. Be silent, for there is much more to tell." The sibilant hiss of the demon reached my ears from the very depths of the darkness, sound pulled from the abyss.

"The priest escaped that night, roaming the countryside without meaning for many years. The Inquisition flourished while the Sabbat and Camarilla rose to power amongst the Cainites. He wished to repent, for you see, he sought to regain the favor of the God that had forsaken him. He traveled all over Spain, leaving the country in the early 16th century for France and England, praying and teaching by night as a priest.

"He was gripped with terror nightly as he fought me, the demon living  inside. I would win from time to time, reports of the bloody, savage deaths of women and children forcing him to leave each city as quickly as we’d arrived. He always knew Damnation was nearing, but he fought it with every ounce of his being, delaying the inevitable for as long as possible. He always expected his fall to come as I finally destroyed him in some final, internal showdown, crushing his mind in the depths of night. He was only.. partly correct."

*       *       *       *       *

AFTER SUNSET,  SEPTEMBER 12TH, 1524.
TOULOUSE, FRANCE

Luciano DaVarathas had been preaching over the past weeks come nightfall to avid listeners, all too ready to accept God’s teachings while under threat of war to the north. His voice would ring forth to the masses, inciting belief in the Lord, while his eyes scanned the faithful for evidence of the Faithful, those who were not affected by his sense clouding Disciplines and could penetrate the Mask to see the demon underneath. He had been forced to flee cities more than once for these reasons.

Tonight, there were none. His gaze picked out something else, however, something far more appealing.

A spanish woman in the back of the crowd, her raven hair falling in moonlit waves to her waist, almond eyes bastions of purity and innocence. Luciano felt something he hadn’t felt in many, many years, and was caught completely off guard.

He felt much of the same towards the late Lord Raythe, though knew the feelings were artificial. These, however, were pure.

After the sermon, Luciano followed the mysterious woman to her home, watched her prepare for sleep and then observed her slumber, all night, neglecting even to feed.

Sleeping in rat infested ghettos and abandoned buildings himself, Luciano continued this practice for many weeks, before finally approaching the woman early one night. He discovered her name to be Lucrezia, a Spanish maiden having fled the country as her father sought her for a planned marriage. This woman deserved not to be viewed under glass, but to roam free, unrestrained. The woman had no idea of the priest’s ulterior motives, believing him to be there to protect her and forgive her sins, turning her onto the path of light.

Luciano fell ever deeply in love with the woman, his vows of chastity the only restraint which held him from eternal Damnation and the victory of Widow. Nights passed, the woman expressing curious concern over his unwillingness to join her by day. He assuaged her concerns by explaining his purpose, to prowl the same environment as the Devil’s servants, routing them out of the darkness in which they were most comfortable.

Widow raged, however, beneath the surface of Luciano’s mind. It saw in this moment a means to an end, a way to finally win the spiritual battle with its pure captor.

Widow raged, and Widow would win.

The night was colder than most, for winter was slowly approaching. Lucrezia met the priest at her home, invited him in, and began innocently informing him of her sins. Luciano never ceased to be amazed at the woman’s purity - her gravest sins were covetous thoughts, and she never acted upon them.

Widow had been strangely silent, building its strength for a final seizing of Luciano’s body.

As the moon rose, as Luciano sat down to dinner, he fell forward, shuddering violently as the monster within burst forth, freeing itself of its shackles and ambushing the priest. He gripped his cross with trembling fingers, praying futilely to God, uttering those words which had become so familiar to him. These would be the last words the priest would ever say for what would seem like an eternity, for as Lucrezia watched in absolute horror, Widow took complete control.

The Mask dropped, and Widow was revealed in all of his monstrous glory, the pure vestments of the priest falling away to tattered rags hanging feebly from a warped, perverted form. Lucrezia fainted without a word, falling forward onto the dinner she had so carefully prepared for the holy man. Widow bent forward, his miniature mouth spiraling open to unbelievable proportions, descending on the woman’s neck and biting in.

Luciano screamed from within his twisted body, but was powerless to stop Widow. He watched the events about to unfold as if in a dream over which he had no control.

Lucrezia died that night, but Widow had planned even more. With a savage gash to his wrist, he fed the woman his own blood, Embracing her as Luciano watched in horror. He knew the price Lucrezia would pay for her eternal life, and knew she could not bear it.

As she fought for consciousness, the Hunger overtook her and she flung herself at Widow, ravenous for his vitae. The elder easily pushed her aside. The woman’s pets fell to her frenzied attacks, drained completely of blood as she sought to sate the Beast within. The moment she calmed, Widow seized her and dragged her into the cellar, tying her up to the wall. There, Widow sat and slept during the day, watching her transformation with glee.

Transform she did, becoming a demon rivaling even Widow’s ugliness.

Her eyes were always glazed over throughout, watching the Change passively as if observing someone else. As it ended, and Widow untied her, she calmly stood and stumbled towards the exit, eyes wavering like a frightened animal.

She turned towards Widow.

"What.. have you done to me?" She drawled, gnashing her fanged maw. "Why..?"

Lurching towards the stairs, she climbed to the landing, snatching an oil lamp from the wall. Her head shook in denial as she spun to regard Widow. "No," she said feebly, "no, no, No, NO, NO!!"

Lucrezia continued to cry out, her screams rebounding off of the cellar walls, bringing citizens from outside running in response to her calls. "NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!!" She raised the oil lamp over her head, and crushed it between two hands, releasing the burning liquid to cover her, continuing to scream as she was engulfed in flames. "NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!!!"

Widow smiled as it watched the corpse of the woman burn steadily, for it had killed two that night. Lucrezia was not the only one to die. Luciano  had vanished, and Widow hoped it was forever.

*       *       *       *       *

ARCHAEOLOGICAL RECOVERY #1647:

DATE: 12-05-2328
LOCATION: ALPHA-TELLUS 443B ('WASHINGTON')
SITE: 24B (‘SEATTLE’)"
SITE HISTORY: IRRADIATED (ca. 2121)
ARTIFACT: #312 - MEMOIRS OF TERRANCE WHIT***E(?)*_
STATUS: BADLY DAMAGED (SEVERE HYDRATION, COMBUSTION, BIODEGRATION)

DATES 01??20?5 SALVAGEABLE:

The thumping of feet beside me snapped me back into reality. I hadn’t fallen asleep, but had sought to escape this hell - if only to the deepest recesses of my mind.

The thumping stopped quickly, and I shivered as I heard the coarse slurping in the darkness. Something.. wet.. spattered upon my clothes, and I cried.

"Thirsty, child? There is much to share."

I dry retched, for I had nothing in my stomach. Widow laughed.

"So, my child. The priest had died, yes? He finally found rest in Damnation? Poetic, don’t you agree?"

The soft sound of cloth against concrete rustled in the background as the monster approached. "You are the only one left, my child. I fear my hunger is .. difficult to sate. You are good, quiet. Yes, you will live," it said finally, as if only deciding at that moment. "If you listen."

I listened.

"With Luciano dead, my child, I left France to find the same Lasombra Sabbat pack that had liberated me from my sire. They accepted me, surprisingly, for the Sabbat are notorious for their distrust of Elders. They had suffered grievous casualties, however, and were happy to count me among them as an ally.

"Perhaps the word of Eloise, my childe, who I found running with the pack after her liberation from Castle Porthobos, aided with my acceptance.

"Why did I join them, you may ask - well, should you regain your lips. I had lived in darkness for as long as I can remember, lurking in the blackest depths of Luciano’s mind. I was hungry for.. companionship with those who shared my peculiar disposition for monstrosity.

"The New World beckoned, my child! An untamed land without the Camarilla influence which had so perverted the Old World. Alongside my pack, we traveled to what would become the United States of America. The city of St. Augustine, to be precise, in fledgling Florida. For years I prowled the nights there, becoming a Templar of the Archbishop. I served.. yes, served.. for seven decades, my child, becoming something of a legend among the Sabbat - seventy years is long, indeed, to survive in such a dangerous occupation.

"I was foolish, however. I had heard rumors of a deadly group of hunters to the north and, with Eloise, traveled to retrieve the head of the cadre’s leader. My child, I carry with me but one fault - I  always underestimate the cattle."

*       *       *       *       *

MIDNIGHT,  MARCH 1ST, 1598.
FORT McDOUGLAS, NEW BRUNSWICK, CANADA

Eloise and Widow entered the fort softly, sliding through the blackness in search of the hunters they had traveled so far to find. It didn’t take them long; in the tradition of the time, the hunters were very public about their endeavors. Widow, the shadows wrapped around him like a cloak, overheard their planning and followed them into the cabin in which they were staying.

Widow and Eloise would strike it that night, alone, unsupported. Widow would spend the next two hundred years paying the price.

The last of the cabin’s lights went out at midnight as the four soldiers and the priest retired for the night, each sleeping in separate rooms. Widow and Eloise entered quietly.

Pitch blackness greeted their eyes and absolute silence greeted their ears. They had to navigate carefully, lest a bumped table or chair give away their positions. Eloise stole into the first of the hunter’s chambers, dispatching him swiftly in a messy though quiet shower of vitae. Widow took the second, draining the woman of blood and leaving her to die.

The third hunter did not go so well.

A scream shattered the night as Widow’s blow only succeeded in breaking the man’s ankle - an ancient trick, sleep with your feet on the pillow so a nightly assassin would fail to kill.

The others awoke immediately, storming the hallway with screams. Eloise melted into the darkness. Widow chose to fight, savagely ripping out the throat of the one who screamed and making the final soldier’s head a stranger to its body before either could react.

The fifth, was the priest. Widow came upon him in the hallway, and stopped dead. It.. felt something.

It wasn’t Faith, but something else. Something inside. Something it remembered.            

Luciano.

*       *       *       *       *

ARCHAEOLOGICAL RECOVERY #1647:

DATE: 12-05-2328
LOCATION: ALPHA-TELLUS 443B ('WASHINGTON')
SITE: 24B (‘SEATTLE’)"
SITE HISTORY: IRRADIATED (ca. 2121)
ARTIFACT: #312 - MEMOIRS OF TERRANCE WHIT***E(?)*_
STATUS: BADLY DAMAGED (SEVERE HYDRATION, COMBUSTION, BIODEGRATION)

DATES 01??20?5 SALVAGEABLE:

Another scream rent the night, one of rage and anger coming from the mouth of the beast that had imprisoned me. "I was so close.. so.. fucking close.. he let him go, the hunter, fleeing into the darkness. For seventy years he’d planned the attack, the regaining of his mind, feigning death so I would grow.. complacent.     

"He tricked me once, but soon I will be victorious once more." A cackle, the monster turning away from me. "Soon, very soon."            

I heard a quick rustle as Widow spun back to face me. "He left the Sabbat, joined the Camarilla. A wise move, I concede, for a wolf among the sheep is better than one without.        

"A test, after centuries of service to that sect. A tiny town in the south, one Santo Domini where no one wanted to travel. Four hundred years after Luciano’s return, he was made Primogen - Nosferatu Primogen - of Santo Domini.

 I was starving, and nearly dying from thirst. I had been chained to the wall, freezing, for five days without food or drink. I knew the end was near, and longed for the blessed warmth an eternity of slumber would bring.

"So, child. My story nears its end. There were nights, nights to  remember, when the priest weakened and I won. The .. death of the Archbishop .. such powerful blood." He giggles, like a child recalling a fond memory. "The priest was hardpressed to explain such an event." He hesitates, as if thinking of something. "So, yes, you could say it was I who drove him here."

Another giggle.

"Do you want your lips back?"

I nodded, stamping my feet, praying it would hear me in the blackness.

The demon whispered, and I felt hands on my face, wrenching the tape away and returning speech to my cracked lips. I tried to scream, wanted to scream, SHOULD have screamed! But the demon’s wrist choked off any sound I could make. In my surprise, I didn’t realize I was drinking the demon's blood until it was late. Far too late...

I felt the pull Widow had described so well, the eternal feeling of love and hate which balanced so perfectly yet was completely irresistible. I nodded dumbly as the monster forbade me to speak.

I could only hope that I would be released when the priest awoke.