| Faustus had always been a survivor. He had always managed to survive no matter what; it was a talent that had been honed to perfection throughout his entire life. After Kain’s defeat, Faustus had had two options ahead of him after being captured by the Sarafan: serve the Sarafan Lord by hunting down the vampires of Meridian, gaining power and protection, or have his head cut off and mounted on a pike outside the city walls. Faustus of course had chosen to bend his head to the Sarafan and had prospered from his wise choice. The vampire thought nothing of killing another one of his kind if it meant that he would survive just one more day, he did not care if he betrayed his own if it meant saving his pale skin. In this Dark Age, everyone had to look after him or herself and Faustus had never strayed from that golden rule. Ghosting down the back streets of Smugglers’ Den, the section of Meridian Faustus had received from the Sarafan Lord, he looked upon his subjects and their dealings, pale features barred in a sneer. Faustus taste was impeccable for he was dressed in the height of fashion; a red trenchcoat lined in gold with a silk red sash wrapped about his waist, red trousers, and polished black boots that shone in the faint light. Of course the degenerates and petty crooks of this sector had not been educated in such things, just as they did not know that they were being ruled in the shadows by a vampire. If they had been aware of that information perhaps the smelly peasants would stop their illegal activities and vanish into darkness, but then Faustus would lose his prey. The vampire lord passed by a small group of tattooed thugs beating up on a man on a deserted street, their heavy wooden cudgels stained with blood. Faustus was unconcerned; if they did not become a nuisance to him then he would not trouble them. But of course they were idiots; that was why they were nothing more than petty thieves. “Hey, lookie ‘ere,” one spoke with a heavy accent, showing that he was from the slums of Meridian. “Some rich bugger who probably has more on him that this ‘git. Hey sir, spare some money?” The thugs chuckled and walked menacingly towards Faustus, their clubs raised and malice in their eyes. Their victim on the ground was bloodied but alive, crawled away on hands and knees, glad that someone else had come along to take his punishment. “I suggest that you go off and find someone else to beat for your ale money,” Faustus’ voice remained calm and unemotional as he watched the thugs, five in all, begin to circle him. One of the humans with a dirty eye patch over one eye chuckled, bracing his spiked club in both hands. “Not afraid, eh? Well you soon will be, once we beat some sense into your form. But we might just go easier on ya if you were to hand over all your money now.” Faustus yawned dramatically and looked beyond the gang to another section of Smugglers’ Den. “You are beginning to bore me. I give you one final warning. Leave now or else you will be the one who will regret this confrontation, which you have only yourself to blame.” “Upstart bastard,” another growled from behind Faustus. The human moved quickly despite his bulk, bringing his cudgel down towards Faustus’ head. But the vampire was no longer there and the thug made a startling revelation: one could not live without a throat. Clutching the gaping wound, blood spilling across the cobblestones streets, he collapsed in a pile. The thugs’ friends all charged Faustus at the same time with their weapons raised and words of vengeance spilling from their mouths. Pale lips smiling, Faustus leapt and darted through the group, black claws ripping with ease through the soft and unprotected flesh. The humans cried out and collapsed; one even begged for mercy when he realized what being he was up against. His pleas were silenced as Faustus ripped the thug’s head off from the rest of his body in a smooth motion, drinking the warm blood that spilled out. “Amateurs,” he whispered to himself, wiping the blood off his hands and mouth, continuing on his way and leaving the pile of dead bodies for any looters sulking in the shadows. Faustus absently reflected that perhaps he was losing his edge; it had taken him only the briefest of moments to decimate those thugs but then it was not a fair judgment of his fighting skills clashing against a group of puny humans. He truly hoped that there would be some sort of excitement in Meridian for Faustus to pit his senses against, a vampire spotted along the wharfs or a group of them meeting in supposed seclusion. He needed to hunt; Faustus wanted a challenge from the kin he was destroying to please his Sarafan Lord. Tying his long black hair back into a tail, the vampire continued to prowl the streets of his kingdom. Faustus did not have to wait long for the challenge he had been thinking of. A blood-curling scream split through the air like a sword through flesh. Faustus stopped quickly in his tracks, his black eyes narrowed in concentration to find where the shriek had come from. The scream came once more, two streets down if Faustus’ vampiric senses served him correctly. He swiftly ran down the deserted street, jumping easily enough across a twenty-foot gap with running water below to a dock on the other side, and continued on his way. Ducking underneath an overhang, Faustus finally appeared at the opening to the street where the scream had come from. Lanterns had been lit, providing enough light for him to make out two figures in the shadows. One was a young woman and the other form belonged to a vampire. “Come out into the light so I can kill you,” Faustus spoke in a commanding voice. The vampire froze, the young woman also freezing in her struggles as her assailant turned to see the new arrival. Faustus saw the vampire was nothing more than a fledgling, still in his pupating state with the way he shielded away from the lantern’s light. The fledgling bared his teeth at Faustus and without a backwards glance shoved the woman to the ground to turn and meet the challenger. The young vampire’s eyes were narrowed and claws spread wide as it advanced on Faustus, who was standing casually with his arms crossed over his chest and an arrogant look on his face. “You are like me, a creature of the night,” the fledgling hissed. “Come and share in my meal, brother.” The look of scorn that Faustus displayed made the fledgling stop in his tracks; the unholy light in the older vampire’s eyes suddenly making him deathly afraid. “You have no idea who I am, do you? Very well, I shall tell you before I rip your throat out.” Faustus walked towards the fledgling. “My name is Faustus, the shadowy ruler of the Smugglers’ Den, and one of the strongest vampires in all of Nosgoth. I serve the Sarafan Lord and hunt down vampires like you, ones who serve no other purpose than to become my prey and whose allegiance is to the weakling Cabal.” The fledgling hissed. “You cannot be serious; turning against your own kind and serving humans.” “Believe it or not but the outcome will still remain the same; it will be you who shall die tonight.” The fledgling vampire darted forwards with his claws slashing quickly through the air, fangs bared as ferociously as possible. Faustus blocked the first claw swing with his forearm, sidestepped the next swing easily enough and jumped back with the grace he possessed as the fledgling tried to kick out at him. This went on for quite some time; the fledgling would always attack head on, snarling and clawing the air while Faustus would weave from side to side, wearing the young vampire down. Finally the fledgling understood the gravity of his situation as his breaths came in shallow gasps, nearly doubled over from his exertions as he crouched down on the street while keeping his yellow eyes on Faustus. He was being toyed with as a cat toys with a mouse before deciding to kill it. “Now, you have two options.” Faustus spoke low and softly, his voice cruel. Nosgoth’s moon hung high in the dark sky and spread its pale light over the shacks and decrepit houses of Smugglers’ Den, outlining the vampire lord’s form and making it appear he carried with him some sort of hidden power. “Your death can be quick and relatively painless if you quickly tell me where the Cabal is located, or I will torture you until you confess. Might I suggest the former instead of the latter?” The fledgling pulled himself up to his full height, only just coming past Faustus’ chest. “Go to hell, traitor. I will never tell you anything about the Cabal, my lips are sealed shut. I have morals, unlike you. I will never turn on my own kind as you have.” Faustus quirked an eyebrow at the upstart. “If only you knew everything about me. The strongest stand alone,” the vampire lord hissed the last word menacingly. One moment Faustus appeared to stand in front of him and the next he was behind the young fledgling, sinking his claws into the whelp’s flesh. Thrashing like a fish caught on a hook, the young vampire tried to break away from Faustus as he was lifted boldly into the air and hurled towards the water at the ends of the docks. His unnatural screams echoed into the night as the water ate away at the fledgling’s white flesh like acid, the liquid boiling with hot steam rising into the air. Soon all was quiet again in the Smugglers’ Den as if nothing had ever happened. What a disappointment, Faustus thought. He wasn’t even able to touch me, not even able to give me the sport I wanted. His black eyes fell upon the woman’s form in the shadows; he walked over to see if she was alive or had passed from this world to the next. Crouching down next to the woman Faustus saw she was indeed alive and unhurt, her chest rising and falling with each breath. She was dressed as a dancer, her long brown hair done up into a high tail and held in place with a gold circlet intricately designed with dragons. Her clothing was risky to say the least; only a few threads of blue cloth covered her bosom with more gold jewelry covering her exposed midriff and skin. Her blue skirt, which was nearly incandescent, was opened on one side, revealing her pale leg. Jeweled bracelets encircled her wrists and ankles, delicate slippers covering her feet. The dancer’s face was delicately shaped, her lips full and red, nose daintily made, and even her closed eyes were alluring. Faustus found that his breath had caught in his throat and he quickly turned away, coughing slightly. What the hell is the matter with you, Faustus? Just leave her here and continue about your way. ‘Look after yourself, the strong stand alone’ is what you say. The vampire growled at his conscious to be quiet and reached out a hand to shake the young woman. “Wake up.” The dancer’s eyes opened slowly; her irises were a beautiful leaf green colour. She stared up at the night sky for a few moments then her gaze fell on Faustus who was looking back at her with concern. Moving faster than Faustus thought she could, the dancer quickly stood and crouched in the corner of the dark street, hands wrapped around her shaking body. “Please don’t hurt me! Take my gold and jewelry but do not hurt me! I beg of you!” Faustus raised his hands towards her to show he was unarmed. “No, you misunderstand. I saved you from being killed by a vampire that was attacking you. I have no intention of harming someone like you, my dear.” He could see that she did not believe him. Faustus backed up a few steps so she could see he truly did not pose a threat to her safety. “A vampire? Here in the Smugglers’ Den?” “Yes. If I had not passed along when I did then most likely you would be dead right now.” Faustus maintained a neutral statement. She could not see him clearly from the shadows and tentatively stepped forwards to get a better look at her savior. Faustus moved backwards so that he remained in the shadows. Thankfully she had been unconscious and oblivious to the fight about her; had the dancer known what Faustus really was she might faint once again. “Can I not look upon the face of my hero,” she said, tilting her head to one side. One side of Faustus, the cautious side, screamed for him to turn and just melt into the night and have nothing more to do with this human. But another side kept on pestering him to step forward and reveal himself. In the end the cautious side won out as it always did, the ruthlessness and distance that had kept him alive. “No.” The dancer’s face fell and instantly Faustus felt bad for saying what had to be said for some strange reason he could not fathom. “Not even a name?” He shook his head. “All the same, I shall tell you mine. I am Shana, a gypsy dancer that has worked at the tavern ‘The Red Rose’. To show my appreciation for what you have done for me, please take this.” The dancer unwound a light blue veil around her arms and pressed it into Faustus’ hands, a faint smile on her lips. “Good night, my hero.” Shana turned about gracefully and walked around the corner of the street and vanished from Faustus’ view. The vampire stared dumbfounded at the cloth, his mind trying to understand what had just happened in the few moments that had passed. She had called him a hero; Faustus felt himself far from that. But the way Shana said that word; for a few moments Faustus felt himself feel like a hero as he had once been whilst serving in Kain’s army. She had given him a happiness he had been found wanting ever since he…could remember. Shana, he mused silently. Shana, a beautiful name for a beautiful woman. Faustus felt his breath come just a bit faster as he tucked the veil inside his shirt to protect it from the Den’s harmful elements; he closed his eyes for a few moments to try and calm himself down. Just what in the name of Nosgoth’s moon was happening to him? On a sudden urge Faustus glided quickly to the street’s opening, looking for Shana. He could make her out easily enough in the darkness, walking quickly down the decrepit street with her head down, ignoring the catcalls and appreciative whistles she received from men lounging in doorways. Faustus gripped the edge of the building next to him with one hand, his sharp claws making marks in the black stone. He did not want Shana to be accosted again by such ruffians and quickly made up his mind to shadow her back to her home; an unknown bodyguard in the night. People who would of come up to Shana, drunks and the cult members of the underworld, were stopped when they saw the icy look in Faustus’ eyes and the way he stepped about them; they fled back to their hovels quickly enough. Shana was oblivious to her protector as she walked down one of the better-lit streets of Smugglers’ Den and finally entered into a three-storied edifice that did not seem as runned down as the others. The vampire lord gave a sigh of relief and caught himself for doing so. What had happened to taking care of oneself, the strong stand alone? Why had he done what he had just done? Faustus took out the veil and brought it up to his face; he could smell Shana’s perfume in the cloth. It immediately invoked her very image into his mind. Perhaps I am acting like this because she is one of the very few people who have actually thanked me for an otherwise ungrateful job, Faustus tried to reason with himself. Whatever material the cloth was made of it felt soft to the touch; someone of great skill had obviously crafted it and must of meant a lot to Shana; it must of meant even more handing it over to Faustus. She had given the vampire a feeling that he found to his liking, a feeling he wished to experience again. As Faustus faded away into the blackness to continue his rounds of the Smugglers’ Den, he surprised himself by thinking that he would be able to see Shana again soon. He wanted to find a way to give her back the same pleasure that she had given him in those few moments, if only he knew how. Faustus vowed he would indeed find a way. - To be continued - |
| "Gypsy & The Warrior" Chapter 1 by Demon Hunter Anamae |
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