How I Became a Monster, Volumes 1-3 [ADDED]

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How I Became a Monster, Volumes 1-3 [ADDED]

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How I Became a Monster, Book One
by Neoptolemus

Editor’s Note: The following tale was found as a tattered manuscript
left on the doorstep of a Cyrodiilic publisher. As no names are
mentioned, it cannot be verified as either fact of fiction.

I suppose my troubles began with my expulsion from the Mages’ Guild. Or
did they? It is possible things would have turned out the same no
matter what, but I will never know. Nor do I care, in truth. What use
is it to dwell on might-have-beens? Still, my expulsion seems a
suitable place to begin my tale – an appropriately bad note to start
on. I had been a promising student, and, though young, ascended rapidly
through their ranks. At the tender age of twenty-one I had already
attained the title of Conjurer, outranking men and elves over twice my
age. All agreed that I could look forward to a bright future indeed. It
was no wonder, of course, considering the work I put in. Every hour of
daylight I spent either in the library with my head buried in some
arcane tome, or out in the furthest corner of the university gardens
practicing my spells. That I should become a great wizard was
inevitable, such was my devotion to the craft.

But it was not to be. As is ever the cruel way of fate, my dreams were
shattered. Without warning or reason, I was cast out. Perhaps they
feared me; what I could become. Perhaps they thought my talent
unnatural...unholy, even. Yet the only reasoning they gave was that I
lacked patience and temperance – the two most important virtues to an
Imperial mage. It did not matter that where I lacked patience and
temperance I had ambition and determination to spare. These were not
the virtues of a mage, they said. And so I packed up my few possessions
and left.

For a full day I wandered the streets of the great Imperial City,
pondering my fate. Things appeared grim indeed. The Guild of Mages had
been my only hope in life; I lacked the strength to join the Legion as
my brothers had done, and the humility to serve the Cult of the Divines
alongside my sister. And, as I was of noble blood, the thought of
lowering myself to ‘common’ employment was unthinkable. The day before
my whole life had been spread neatly before me. Today it was gone.

I booked a room at the Dragon’s Wing, a dingy Inn not far from the
University. I had enough money to stay for a few weeks if need be – my
parents sent me a purse full of gold once a month, and as my expenses
were few it had stacked to a small fortune. I thought I might return to
their estate in time, but not yet. I was not ready to face the shame of
telling father of my failures. I would stay in the tavern a while, and
work up the nerve – a grave mistake. Or was it? Maybe it would not have
mattered where I went. I suppose the same fate would have found me
eventually.

That night I attempted to drown my sorrows in liquor, like so many
others do when depression takes hold. And it worked, for a time. After
a few bottles of Flin and a lick of moon sugar I couldn’t care less
what became of me. I could feel nothing, and it felt good. As I sat
there in the tavern, a lone drunk half-slumped across his table, I
noticed a woman in the far corner. There were many people in the tavern
this night – a group of Legionaries telling war stories, a pair of
solemn elven diplomats from Morrowind, a nobleman with a harlot less
than half his age, and commoners of all shapes and creeds, making merry
despite their low-born status. But something about this woman captured
my attention.

A dark hood covered her head, but from what was visible of her angular
face, I could tell she was elven. Wrapped in a long cloak, her body was
slender and lithe – much smaller than the Morrowind diplomats’. She was
a Wood Elf, and I was enchanted. Even as I watched, she turned and
looked straight at me. Her skin seemed a little pale for a Bosmer, but
her green eyes were bright, and her smile brighter still. For a moment
we stared at one another, then the round frame of the barkeep came
between us. He was taking drinks to the soldiers, and when he had
passed, she was gone. I wondered then if I had not imagined her; if she
was nothing more than a hallucination brought on by too much whiskey
and moon sugar. I ordered another bottle, but changed my mind when I
felt how light my purse had become. It was time for bed. I stood
(albeit with difficulty), and stumbled up the stairs to my room. And
there she was. Waiting for me. With a seductive smile, she took my hand
and led me into my room.

In seconds we were on the bed, making passionate love. Had I been
sober, I might have thought it all a little strange. A beautiful elven
girl appears from nowhere, and drags me into my room for a night of
passion. Or maybe I’d have just been grateful. Which I was - very
grateful indeed. Unfortunately, given my intoxication at the time, I
can recall little of what went on. All I remember is that it seemed to
last for hours, and was one of the most wonderful things I have ever
experienced. My only wish is that I had been sober, so I could have
enjoyed it (and remembered) more.

In true story-like fashion, she was gone when I awoke. It was around
midday, and I was naked atop the sheets with a splitting headache, and
pleasant but vague memories of the night before. As I lay there
thinking on how I must have been the luckiest man in all Cyrodiil, I
suddenly noticed that my head was not the only thing that ached. The
right side of my neck was incredibly sore; not with the deep pain of a
strained muscle, but the immediate sting of an open wound. I sat up and
gingerly touched the skin, feeling only a mass of congealed blood. It
was on my pillow as well; a dark stain that would surely raise the ire
of whoever did the Inn’s washing. Leaving my bed, I walked to the tall
mirror to inspect my hurt further. The dried blood concealed the wound
itself, but after a few dabs from a damp washcloth, two round
puncture-marks were revealed, about an inch apart. You, reader, will
already begin to guess at how I came about them, and at the nature of
my mysterious paramour. But I, blinded by my high-born naivety, did
not, fool that I was. Or rather, I pushed the dark suspicions to the
very farthest corner of my mind. Perhaps a rat had bitten me in the
night? Or my elven lover’s nails had broken the skin, as she gripped me
in ecstasy? Settling on the latter explanation, I made ready to descend
for breakfast. When I dressed I wrapped a scarf about my neck to hide
the marks. Given the warm weather it may have looked a little odd, but
it was not unheard of for a scarf to be worn for accessory, as opposed
to practicality.

As it happened, I spent only an hour or so of that day out of doors. I
took my usual morning walk after my meal (though it was afternoon), and
the vigor of my step soon banished the ache in my head. The rest of the
day was spent alone in my room, reading some of the books I had
‘borrowed’ from the Guild before leaving. The following days were
squandered doing the same: reading these texts and bemoaning my lost
future. I will not bore you with the details, and instead skip to the
early morning of the third day, when something truly remarkable
happened.

I awoke with the rising of the sun in intense agony. My face and upper
body burned as if splashed with boiling oil – I had never known such
pain before. As I writhed, I opened my eyes and saw a most curious and
horrifying sight. Looking down, I saw the skin on my naked chest and
arms begin to blacken and crisp, with small wisps of smoke slowly
rising from it. Lifting my hand to my face, I watched it do the same,
before shriveling like the limb of a mummified corpse. Then I realized.
It was the sun! The sun was killing me!

This recognition brought me a surge of strength, and I flung myself
from the bed, rolling onto the floor and away from the sun’s deadly
rays. Instantly the burning stopped, but the ache in my skin remained.
Cowering in the shadows I wept, at the pain in my body and this
terrible turn of fate. I quickly guessed what it was I had become, but
I had to know for sure. Crawling through the shadow cast by my bed, I
reached the mirror and gazed within. Then I saw what I both expected
and dreaded. Nothing. Where my bewildered face should have been there
was nothing – just the reflection of the room behind me. It was true,
then. I was a vampire. I drew the sheet from my bed with my now
claw-like hand, and drew it about my body to shield me from the sun.
Standing, I inched towards the window and pulled the curtain across,
feeling the sun’s fire even through the sheet. Then, weeping without
tears, I lay again on my bed and closed my eyes.

It all fell into place. The Bosmer woman was a vampire, and I in my
drunken state had failed to notice. I then remembered the unnatural
brightness of her eyes, and how cold her body was to touch. Even at the
height of our ecstasy her skin had been as cold as the grave, and when
I pressed myself against her shapely chest I had felt no heartbeat –
only the shudder as she climaxed. Oh what a fool I was.

Clichéd as it may sound, when woke again in the evening I half
believed, half wished it had been a dream. Indeed, when I raised my
hand to my face it was pale as ever – not the charred claw I had seen
hours before. Likewise, the rest of my body looked normal; the skin no
longer resembling overdone steak. But something else was wrong. The sun
had set, and no candle lit my room, yet I could see everything as clear
as day. And my vision was much sharper – I found I was able to study
the pattern on the wings of a mosquito on the ceiling, and read the
fine print of an open book on the far side of the room. Wonderful as
that sounds to you, reader, I was distraught. It did not take me long
to realize also that my other senses were sharper. I could hear
conversations in the tavern below me without even straining my ears,
and could smell the sweat, beer and smoke. And the blood. The sweet
blood coursing through the veins of every man, woman and elf in the
building.

There was one final test. Slowly and deliberately, I ran my tongue
along the inside of my mouth, from one side to the other. And I felt
them – two slender fangs, just like the ones that had punctured my neck
and cursed me to this wretched existence.

A knock on the door startled me out of my wretched musings. It was one
of the serving girls. “Is everything all right, sir?â€Â￾ she asked,
earnestly. “You’ve been shut up in your room all day.â€Â￾

“Yes,â€Â￾ I answered quickly. “Everything’s just fine.â€Â￾ I winced as I
discovered that my new fangs had given me a slight lisp, as if to add
insult to injury.

“Well I’ve brought you some dinner. You’ve not eaten all day, have you?â€Â￾

“No! There’s no need…I am not hungry!â€Â￾ I stammered, but it was too
late. The door opened and she entered. Light spilled into the room
(there was a candle on the dinner tray), and she gave a little gasp
when she saw that I was naked. Fortunately the sheet covered my groin,
yet still she averted her eyes. I could smell the blood rising in her
cheeks as she blushed.

“I am sorry, sir,â€Â￾ she muttered, hastily setting the tray down on the corner table and starting for the door.

“Wait.â€Â￾ I didn’t know then why I stopped her, and there was an awkward
silence as she turned in the doorway to face me. I heard her heartbeat
quicken, and her sweet scent filled my nostrils. I have since learned
that to a vampire, a young maiden is considered a delicacy, and there
is nothing sweeter or more enticing than her aroma – mortals never know
it, as they lack the keen sense of smell to detect it. But to a vampire
it is strong and intoxicating. And here I was, enjoying it for the
first time.

“Come closer,â€Â￾ I said. I smelled fear then, and quickly made amends. “I
mean, could you please bring it to me. The...the meal.â€Â￾ Her fear
lessened, and she did as I asked. “I have been feeling unwell all day,
you see...â€Â￾

“I am sorry to hear that, sir.â€Â￾ As she drew nearer, the odor began to
overwhelm me. I could bear it no longer, and with inhuman speed and
strength, grabbed her as she placed the tray on my bedside table. In a
split second she was in my lap, one hand clamped over her mouth and the
other at the base of her neck. It happened with such speed that my
fangs were breaking her flesh just as the dinner tray clattered to the
floor.

Oh yes, she had certainly brought me a lovely meal.

If I had thought her smell was sweet, her taste was even sweeter. It
was sweeter than the purest moon sugar, but at the same time more tart
than the sourest wine. And a thousand times more satisfying than both.
I could taste her fear and her confusion, her agony and her ecstasy.
Her life, and her grisly death. As I drank I marveled at my newly
imbued physical power. I had grabbed her with greater dexterity than an
acrobat of Valenwood or Elsewyr, and greater strength than a barbarian
of Skyrim or Orsinium. I was death incarnate.

I drained her, but it was not enough. I wanted more, and for a moment
my head swam with red thoughts of wanton murder, and the bloody feast
that would follow. Outside lay a whole city, full of buxom maidens just
like this one. The world was my dinner table.

It was looking into her lifeless eyes that brought me back to the
present. The sudden horror of what I had done flooded my mind, washing
away the blood with guilt and repulsion. A shred of my mortal self
remained, and it was dismayed. I had murdered an innocent young woman,
and feasted on her blood. I was a monster. But the newborn vampire in
me shoved aside all fears and regrets. I was an immortal, and she was
my prey. It was the natural order of things. Yet still there lingered a
certain disgust at what I had done, and what I had become.


What shook me more was the sudden realization of what would happen if
my deed was discovered. I had to leave. Laying the maid’s corpse atop
the bed as if she were sleeping, I shut the door and dressed myself.
Before long they would wonder where she was. Had she told them of her
intent to bring me a meal? Had she been asked to by another? They
likely knew exactly where she was, and I was not about to wait for the
knock at the door. Taking only my clothes and money, I opened the
window and climbed down to the back street below, surefooted as a
spider and just as swift and deadly.

As I walked the streets my senses were assaulted from all sides. As I
passed houses I could hear every conversation within, and smell every
inhabitant. There was no moon, yet I was able to see for miles as
though it were day, and I could taste the breath of everyone who had
walked the street since dawn. It felt as if all my life I had been in a
dream: in a blurred painting of the real world that lacked detail and
substance. That is the only way I can describe it. Now I was free of
the dream. Gone were the vague lines, replaced by images crisp and
sharp. Gone were the dull and washed-out colors – the true world was
far brighter and more beautiful. In undeath, I was more alive than I
had ever been. It was both frightening and exhilarating.


My steps took me back to the university – I sought its library where I,
ever practical, might learn more of my condition. I reached it with
ease, climbing the wall to a window four stories up. I forced it open
and entered (windows of all heights were locked at the university,
preventing delinquent students of Alteration from using their
levitation spells for mischief), smiling as the familiar smell of dusty
books hit my nostrils, only this time with more clarity than ever. I
quickly found the section I sought, and grabbing an armload of likely
looking tomes, sat at one of the desks and began to read. I will not
tell you what I learned there, reading in the dark, my vampire eyes not
missing a single pen stroke. Some of it would bore you, some of it
would intrigue you, and some of it would chill you to the bone, but
there is simply too much to recount. So for the sake of my tale I shall
push on, and tell of the interruption that came a little after
midnight.

As I read an Altmer scholar’s theory on the origins of vampirism, my
keen ears heard footsteps in the hall outside. They were still a long
way off, and I had ample time to hide myself before the door opened.
Imagine my surprise when I saw my old tutor enter – the very man who
had expelled me not a week before. He carried a small candlestick to
light his way, and promptly walked to a shelf and began to browse. I
know not why he was there. Perhaps he could not sleep, and sought
something to read to pass the time. As I watched from the shadows, I
felt a fierce rage boiling inside me. It was his fault. Had I not been
expelled, I would never have been in that tavern. Never have met that
Wood Elf, and never have contracted this disease. Yes, in every book I
read, vampirism was referred to as a disease. Not a gift or even a
curse, but a disease. Before I knew what I was doing my fangs were in
his neck, and his blood was trickling down my throat. He barely had
time to turn, though I liked to fancy he caught a glimpse of my face
before he died.

His blood was much less sweet than the serving girl’s. I could taste
his age – the frailty of his musculature and the weariness of his
limbs; the brittleness of his bones and stiffness of his joints. He
made a far less satisfying meal, but that he should feed me gave a
perverted feeling that justice had been done. His blood drained, I let
the limp body fall to the floor. Having learned all that I wished to
know (and much that I didn’t), I turned to leave the way I had come.
And there she was. The vampire who had given me so much pleasure, and
so much pain.

She gave me that same seductive smile, but it now held a hint of
mocking that had not been there the other night. It spread to a grin,
and her lips parted to reveal the fangs she had so skillfully hidden
from me. Her eyes shone brighter than ever, and as much as I hated her
for what she had done, I wanted nothing more than to make love to her
again, with even more passion than before. She could see the lust in my
eyes, and as she mocked me with her grin I knew I would never
experience that wild pleasure again. Her work was done.

“How did you find me?â€Â￾ I asked, calmly.

“I followed your scent,â€Â￾ she answered, folding her arms. “You fed
tonight. Before him, I mean.â€Â￾ She glanced past me at the crumpled
corpse of my former tutor. “A maiden. I can smell her all over you. Was
she sweet?â€Â￾

I didn’t answer.

“What is the matter, my dark child? Do you not appreciate the gift I have bestowed upon thee?â€Â￾ Again she mocked me.


“You’ve turned me into a monster,â€Â￾ I spat.

“Monster? No.â€Â￾ She laughed, a beautiful sound that made me want her all the more. “I’ve turned you into a God.â€Â￾

“Why me?â€Â￾

“We have eyes in the Guilds, and often prey on their outcasts. We know
all about you, and your talents. I think you will be of great use to
us. Now come with me and meet your new family.â€Â￾

Bowing my head, I followed.
Last edited by Haplo on Tue Jul 18, 2006 1:19 am, edited 6 times in total.
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Post by Haplo »

How I Became a Monster, Book Two
by Neoptolemus

She led me to a distant corner of the city, a place foreign to me, as
I had never ventured far beyond the university. We traveled at great
speed, and while we walked many miles, no fatigue entered my limbs.
Another of vampirism’s boons. We spoke very little on the journey,
though my guide did give me her name. She was called Mirëar, but told
me with a smirk that I might call her Mother if I wished. My refusal
amused her greatly. I did not speak to her again until we reached our
destination. We arrived at a ruined estate, where in the basement of a
crumbling manor house was a tunnel leading into an ancient crypt. A
thousand years ago it had housed the remains of a noble family, but
their bones had long since been cast out; the undead rested there now.
We descended a stone staircase that took us far beneath the hill,
before opening onto a huge antechamber, from which several passageways
branched into the web-like catacombs of the tomb. The air smelled of
death, poorly masked by the sharp scent of exotic oils.

Mirëar introduced me to my new family, or ‘clan’ to use the correct
terminology. The tomb housed approximately two-dozen vampires at any
given time, but aside from those constantly coming and going there were
several who made it their permanent abode. Mirëar was one, and as I
learned, ranked highly among them. She was second only to Hlan the
Black, the lord of our clan. Over two thousand years old, Hlan was
originally from Morrowind; a Dark Elf, and a powerful spellcaster. Half
his unlife he had spent lording over our clan, but it was whispered
that he now wearied of the post. General opinion suggested he would
soon name a successor and retire, and that Mirëar was next in line. I
was briefly introduced to him, and his great age and power were both
immediately apparent. As was his weariness. His pale and heavy-lidded
eyes betrayed all. He said little, but was evidently pleased that I had
come. His smile made me shudder.

The others I met left similarly frightening impressions, though none
held the same gravity as Hlan’s. Murderers of the night…but who was I
to judge? I was one of them now. There were the twins, Claudio and
Claudius. Mirëar told me of their insatiable appetites, and how they
would disappear for days at a time, returning with tales of blood and
debauchery. They were very polite in their greetings, and one would
scarcely have guessed at the depravity that lay behind their boyish
faces. And Calendra; a dark beauty with skin as smooth as the silk from
her native Hammerfell. But she was centuries old – elder to all but
Hlan. Her weapon was her beauty: thousands had died in her arms, many
in greater pleasure than they had ever known before. They called her
‘the Black Widow’, but she was no brooding matron. Quite the opposite -
she seemed spirited indeed for a vampire. Then there was Morran, a
hulking Nord who had once been a Captain in the Legion. Mirëar had
found him on the brink of suicide after the tragic death of his wife,
and convinced him to die a different way. Our strongest warrior, he
would often entertain the clan with tales of past battles and
campaigns. He rarely hunted, instead keeping an Altmer girl to feed on
whom he guarded fiercely. Vampires had died the true death for trying
to taste her. I also met Grell; a squat, goblin-like creature with a
hooked nose and a hideously wide mouth. He gave me a ghoulish smile,
and I saw that he had sharpened every one of his teeth to match his
fangs. Mirëar later explained how he would leap from the shadows onto
his prey, grabbing them with his deceptively strong fingers and biting
out their throats. A very messy eater, by all accounts. Next I was
introduced to Vornus, a Colovian of very few words. Tall, dark and
mysterious, he seemed the most classically vampiric with his flowing
robes and hair, neatly trimmed beard and sunken cheeks. He shared the
tales of his kills with no one, and thus his hunting habits were a
mystery. But Mirëar had once seen him in supplication to Mehrunes Dagon
under a full moon, the naked corpse of a maiden spread across his
knees.

Lastly I met the ‘cattle’, as they were known. They were the clan’s
slaves; our food, our servants, and our whores – whichever happened to
be needed at the time. A pitiable, sad-eyed lot, to be sure. There was
a sense of utter hopelessness about them, and for my first few days I
could hardly stand to be near them, such was the force of their
depressing aura. They wore enchanted bracers about their wrists that
could not be removed without the key (which Hlan kept about his neck at
all times), and these supposedly prevented them from using magic to
escape. But these were scarcely needed. In their servitude they had
lost all willpower, and no longer had desires of their own. They lacked
the will to disobey, and existed only to serve us. They would not speak
unless spoken to, and nor would they look any member of the clan in the
eye, unless ordered to. We had about ten of each sex; most were human,
but if one felt like a taste of elf, or perchance something more exotic
like orc or khajiit, they could be catered for.

While my description of the place surely horrifies you, reader, to me
it was now home, and it did not take me long to settle in. I was
allotted a small chamber for my own, fully furnished with a four-poster
bed, a tall bookcase and a desk for writing. For a tomb, it was
comfortable indeed. Its vaults were as dry as the bones they once
housed, with no mould or fungi to be seen. No spiders dared take up
residence in the corners, and rats only seldom scuttled along the
floors. It would be fair to say that we lived with as much style as the
nobles who had been interred there before us, and it made me wonder if
things had not turned out for the better. I had a life again. A future.
What could I have achieved in the Mages’ Guild that I could not now
achieve within my clan? The same power and status were again within my
grasp, and this time my ambition and determination would serve me, not
hinder me. Yes, I was a monster, but I knew I would grow accustomed to
the killing.

In that first week I took two lives, not counting those I murdered on
the first night. My third ever victim was a beggar, weak from hunger
and barely more nourishing than a rat. As with the serving girl, I felt
a tinge of mingled guilt and revulsion once the deed was done, but I
reasoned that his existence had been a wretched one anyway, and he was
better off dead. But the fourth…she was much tastier. Calendra led me
to an up-market tavern she often visited, full of plump aristocrats
weighted down with glittering trinkets. We descended on a young couple;
she took the man, I the girl. Shoving all sentiment aside, I drank my
fill, and found her blood to be divine. I could taste her pampering;
the expensive Breton wines, sweetmeats, sugar-laden cakes and tarts,
and the tang of exotic fruits. When I had finished, Calendra gave me a
knowing smile. “I remember my first noble,â€Â￾ she said, wiping the young
man’s blood from her dark lips. “T’was then I knew I was truly dead,
and tasting the fruits of the afterlife.â€Â￾

A fortnight after my birth into darkness, Hlan the Black summoned me to
his chambers. Initially I was nervous indeed, and lingered long in the
hallway outside his quarters before I mustered the courage to enter. I
found his chamber a grand affair, its walls hung with decadent
tapestries and lined with enormous shelves, each sagging under the
weight of a thousand books. Hlan sat in an overstuffed chair, drinking
a glass of blood-laced wine. His smile was welcoming, and his manner
almost grandfatherly, quickly setting me at ease. He was also very
to-the-point. “I asked you here so I might observe you,â€Â￾ he said, after
asking how I was settling in. “To learn what manner of vampire you are.
I wish to…get to know you, as I do with all new-bloods who come with
such…recommendations.â€Â￾ He motioned for me to sit on a wooden stool
opposite his chair.

“Very well, master,â€Â￾ I answered, taking the seat. “What would you know of me?â€Â￾

“Your first kill.â€Â￾ He refilled his wine, adding the thick blood from a
golden pitcher. “I want to know how it made you feel. And do be honest.
There are no right or wrong answers.â€Â￾

“Well…it made me feel good, in the beginning.â€Â￾

The way his eyes lit up unnerved me slightly. “Go on,â€Â￾ he said.

“I enjoyed the taste…and the realization of my power…â€Â￾ I hesitated.

“But?â€Â￾

“But I was horrified when I realized what I had done. It all happened so fast…â€Â￾

“You regretted your decision to kill her?â€Â￾

“Yes…â€Â￾ Again I hesitated. “No. I don’t know that I ever made the decision. It just happened.â€Â￾

“Then you simply weren’t fast enough to make the decision not to kill her?â€Â￾

“I suppose so.â€Â￾

“Her smell overpowered you, and you grabbed her. Your body acted
quicker than your mind, and by the time it had caught up she was
already dead. Am I correct?â€Â￾

“Yes.â€Â￾

“And afterwards, you felt remorse?â€Â￾

“Fleetingly, yes.â€Â￾

“That is very interesting.â€Â￾ The weight of his gaze burned me like the
sun. “And your kills since then. Have they made you feel the same?â€Â￾

“Similar, I suppose. I kill without pause, but something at the back of
my mind knows that what I am doing is abhorrent, even if I can feel no
actual guilt…â€Â￾

“Go on.â€Â￾

“I sometimes find myself wondering why I feel nothing. I am fully aware that I have become a monster, but…â€Â￾

“But being a monster does not seem so terrible?â€Â￾

“No.â€Â￾

Hlan smiled – the same smile that had made me shudder before, but it
had no effect now. “I would now like to share with you a theory of
mine. And please bear in mind that it is only a theory – I have no
solid proof, and I base it all on conjecture. An opinion, if you will,
but an informed one.â€Â￾ He sipped his wine, then set the glass aside. “As
you are surely aware, vampirism is a disease. A disease unlike any
other, it is true, but a disease nonetheless. It places the afflicted
in a curious state halfway between life and death…we are often called
the Undead, but Unliving would fit just as well, for we are no closer
to death than to life. We cannot be truly dead: we do not decompose,
our spirits remain firmly in our bodies, and we are fully sentient. We
even have to feed to sustain ourselves. But we cannot be truly alive:
we do not breathe, our hearts do not beat, and nor do we grow.
Physically, a vampire remains at the age they were when they contracted
the disease for all eternity. As you can see, I was already advanced in
years when I became infected. You on the other hand are lucky, and will
retain your youth forever."

"So…as well as placing us in this ‘state’, the disease has several
other symptoms you will have no doubt discovered. Firstly, it enhances
almost every aspect of our physicality. It makes us stronger, faster,
and more aware of what goes on in the world around us. These are the
benefits, and while they are sweet, they come at great cost. No more
can we walk beneath the light of the sun, and no more will the food we
enjoyed as mortals sustain us – we need blood; preferably humanoid. We
can survive on animal blood if need drives us, but no vampire wants to
drink it. It is the blood of men and mer we thirst for. Nothing else
will bring true satisfaction. And unfortunately, the need is not only
physical. This bloodlust also affects the mind, altering the way we
think. We find ourselves doing things we would never have been able to
do before…thinking thoughts that would previously have been
inconceivable to us. For example, murder ceases to be a crime. It
becomes a way of life...a method of feeding our hunger. Death ceases to
be mourned, and causing pain ceases to bring guilt. Generally
speaking.â€Â￾

He paused, and tilted his head to regard me a moment before continuing.
“The curious thing is that these alterations to our thought processes
occur on many different levels. That is, the minds of some are altered
more than others. Why, in the most extreme cases, the mind is
essentially destroyed. These vampires retain nothing of who they were –
their intellect, their experience, their knowledge. All is wiped clean.
They become animals: bestial slaves to blood, possessing little more
understanding or control than a rabid dog. But do not worry,
new-blood.â€Â￾ He smiled, sensing my fear of becoming such a creature. “It
will not happen to you. The change is generally instant – they are
ruined from the beginning. These are the Wild Vampires, who roam the
night feeding on whatever they can. They have no clans: no clan would
accept them. They often live alone, though some band together to hunt
in packs like wolves. Maddened things. Most sane vampires hate them,
and kill them on sight. Thus they are rarely found where the clans
hunt, and seek refuge in the wilderness, living like rats in caves and
burrows.â€Â￾

“What makes them this way, master?â€Â￾ I asked.

“Well, this is where the conjecture begins.â€Â￾ Again he smiled. “Some say
it depends wholly on who they contracted the disease from. On the
vampire who bit them – their age and power, or the ‘strength’ of their
bloodline. For example, a vampire who contracted the disease from
myself would by that logic, be of a more stable mind than one sired by
a new-blood like yourself.â€Â￾

“But you do not believe this?â€Â￾

“I do not. Why, Mirëar is still reckoned young among us, yet I detect
no madness in you. No. I believe it depends entirely on the individual.
Or more precisely, who they were before contracting the disease. I
believe it is the level on which the mortal mind is able to resist
corruption that determines the resulting vampire. Their strength of
mind in life, if you will. Their willpower.â€Â￾

I nodded, beginning to understand.

“When the weak-minded are infected, the disease dominates them, and
destroys them. These are our Wild Vampires. Bloodlust incarnate –
vampirism in its purest form, unhindered by thought, reasoning,
morality or logic. On the other hand, we of stronger mind retain at
least some of these things. That you and I are able to have this
discussion shows we have retained our intellect and reasoning. But try
having a conversation like this with Grell.â€Â￾

I laughed, as did he.

“The disease has much more of a hold over his mind, because his will
was never as strong as ours. Do you understand? It is the strength of
the disease’s grip on the mind that determines our nature. And
ironically, the lesser the vampirism’s hold, the greater the vampire.
For the red thirst only clouds the mind, and thus we who can resist its
call are far more dangerous than the fools who follow it blindly. We
can think, while they can only act.â€Â￾

“But why do you assume it has any less of a hold on me than the
others?â€Â￾ I wondered. “You said it yourself: I could not stop myself
from killing that girl.â€Â￾

“Perhaps not. But the horror you felt when the deed was done, and the
way you now ask yourself why you cannot feel: that shows me you have
retained your notions of morality. I am not saying you have a
conscience – far from it. But the disease has spared your memory of it.
You are a vampire who still has most of his mind, new-blood. Do you
know how rare you are?â€Â￾

I did not know what to say.

Hlan picked up his goblet and drank the last of his wine. “Now leave
me,â€Â￾ he said, quite abruptly. “I will summon you again in due course,
but do not wait for the call. It may be a long time in coming.â€Â￾

I left his chamber with an odd feeling. Now there was no doubt: I had
fallen on my feet with no less grace than a Khajiit. My expulsion from
the Mages’ Guild felt like it had happened in another lifetime, and in
a twisted way it had. My future was with the clan now. Hlan was my
master, and seemed to see great potential in me – I was somehow
superior to the others.

I was special.

His summons was indeed a long time in coming. It must have been a month
at least. In the meantime, I began to adjust to life as a vampire. I
would hunt twice a week, as did most of the clan members. The cattle
sustained us on our nights indoors, though I found them a poor
substitute for a kill. I liked to drain my prey of every drop, but
taking too much from the cattle was forbidden. They were too valuable
to risk killing them, even if they were generally treated like dirt.
Slaves were hard to come by, and had to be smuggled in from Morrowind;
the Empire’s only province where the practice of slavery was not
outlawed. Thus I was always left unsatisfied. Compare it to being
offered a thimble of wine while the bottle is withheld. Still, we could
not kill every night. Even the great Imperial City could not sustain a
population of vampires stealing its citizens after every sunset. Too
many murders would have the Legions hunting us down, and while we were
stronger than any mortal soldier, they were numerous, and their
Battlemages could conjure fire that meant instant death for any
vampire. So I grew accustomed to taking most of my blood from the
cattle.

My favorite was a red-haired Breton girl (I say girl, though she was a
year or two older than myself) called Elise. At least, that had been
her name, she said. Now, like the others, she was a nameless slave. Her
past life mattered as little as my own. Still, I always called her
Elise, though not in front of the other vampires. They would have
viewed it as a sign of weakness. Elise was my favored consort, and
spent many days (day of course being a vampire’s time for resting) in
my arms, her slender body warming my cold, dead flesh. That is, when
she was not with Claudio, who also enjoyed her company. But he was
cruel to her; she frequently came to me after sharing his bed with
ghastly wounds in forbidden places. I would always use what knowledge I
had of restorative magicks to heal her, but in truth it was not her
flesh that needed healing. Inside she was dead – more so than any
vampire. Servitude had broken her spirit, and destroyed her beyond the
point of return. Even so, she still clearly remembered her old life,
and I would often ask her to tell me of it while we lay together.
Sometimes the tears would stream down her face as she spoke in a rare
show of emotion. I enjoyed watching her cry – not out of sadistic
pleasure, but because it showed that some part of her could still feel.
In time I think I came to love her, in a perverted fashion. Or rather,
the memory of my former self fell in love with the young, care-free
maiden she would describe to me. She said a similar thing herself one
morning, as I planted gentle kisses on her bleeding neck. That she
wondered what might have happened had we met under different
circumstances. The cold, detached manner in which she said it nearly
made me weep.

When Hlan’s summons came, it was not for another philosophical
discussion. He had a task for me, and thus began a series of duties I
carried out for the clan. A theft or an extortion here, a kidnapping or
an assassination there. Everything I did without question, and in
reward, Hlan would tutor me in wizardry. He showed me ways to improve
upon what spells I already knew, as well as a myriad of new ones. I
learned how to summon Daedric servants – powerful demigods from
Oblivion, and how to raise the dead as mindless slaves. He taught me
how to resist the elemental powers, including fire – ever the bane of
we vampires, and how to master them for use against my foes. He taught
me how to diminish my opponents’ strengths and magnify their
weaknesses: how to make the strong frail, the agile clumsy, and the
courageous craven. Under Hlan’s tutelage I learned everything the Guild
had withheld from me. Things they feared would make me too powerful,
and I laughed at their failure.

It was around this time that I detected a growing enmity towards me
from Mirëar. At first I noticed her speaking to me less and less, until
we never spoke at all unless I was the one to initiate conversation.
Then it grew to venomous looks, and from there to outright hostility,
borne of a seething hatred. The others noticed it as well, and would
occasionally comment. “Don’t mind her,â€Â￾ Morran said to me one evening.
“She’s jealous because Hlan’s found a new pet.â€Â￾ And I didn’t mind,
because it didn’t matter. My desires for her had long since been put to
rest. It turned out she preferred the company her own sex anyway, and
habitually shared her room with a Khajiit vampire named An’kha. Born
under a waxing Secunda and a new Masser, she was an Ohmes-Raht,
resembling a Bosmer maiden herself but for the whiskers and tail.
Racial enemies in life, lovers in undeath. Would it surprise you,
reader, if I said that the thought of them together excited me?

One night, Mirëar and I were both summoned to our lord’s chamber. By
this time I had been with the clan for well over a year, and was in
high standing despite my age. Just like before, and yet, completely
different. “My lieutenants,â€Â￾ Hlan said as we entered, smiling broadly.
It was the first time he had ever referred to us as such, and I
instantly knew something was afoot. “You are surely wondering why I
have called you here, so I will not waste your time. I want to tell you
of my vision. A vision that you two will be instrumental in bringing to
fruition.â€Â￾

“What vision, my lord?â€Â￾ Mirëar asked. “What are you planning?â€Â￾

“My sweet Mirëar,â€Â￾ he said, “we are going to rule the city.â€Â￾
Last edited by Haplo on Sat Feb 04, 2006 4:43 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Haplo
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How I Became a Monster, Book Three

“Rule the city, my lord?â€Â￾ I interjected. “What do you mean?â€Â￾


Hlan leaned back in his chair, and his ancient face creased in a
child-like grin. “Well I do not mean it literally, of course,â€Â￾ he said
with a dry cackle that reminded me of rustling papers. “Fear not, young
one. I have no lofty ambitions to topple the Emperor and rule in his
stead. He can keep his throne and his power – or what is left of it in
this day and age. No, it is of a different kind of power that I speak;
the power of freedom. The freedom to leave this grave whenever the sun
sets and to hunt wherever we wish. To drink our fill every night and
never need rely on the thin, tasteless blood of our cattle ever again.
Can you imagine how strong we would then become?â€Â￾

“B-but the Legions, my lord,â€Â￾ protested Mirëar. “They will hunt us down
if we grow too bold...if we kill too many. Is there not a delicate
balance? To disrupt it–â€Â￾

“I know of the balance, Mirëar,â€Â￾ Hlan said, slowly, deliberately, and
with a tone suggesting that any further interruption would be unwise.
“And we are not going to disrupt it at all. There is no need, for there
is another way. Think on this, my dear: what if the number of vampires
in this city was reduced to a mere quarter of what it is now? Then,
would not each remaining vampire be able to increase his kills
four-fold without upsetting the balance?â€Â￾

Mirëar and I looked at each other, and for the first time in many weeks
there was understanding in the place of hostility. Hlan the Black’s
grand designs were suddenly clear to us.

“As you both know, there are four vampire clans here in the Imperial
City. Each hunts its own quarter, and every vampire knows that the
penalty for straying but a few inches inside a rival clan’s territory
is death. It is the way of things. Thus we are confined to our quarter,
and forced to take care that we do not over-hunt our grounds. So we
each kill once, sometimes twice a week, ever mindful of the balance,
and fearful of upsetting it.â€Â￾ He directed a pointed look at Mirëar.
“Again, it is the way of things, and has been since long before I
crossed the Velothi Mountains and first looked upon this land with
mortal eyes. But very soon, all is going to change. And I see in your
eyes that you now know what I will ask of you.â€Â￾

“Nothing less than the complete annihilation of our rival clans,â€Â￾ Mirëar said, a poorly masked excitement in her words.

“Precisely.â€Â￾

Many hours of the following days and nights were then spent in Hlan’s
chambers, plotting our ascension to dominance. Hlan had decided that
the best strategy would be to somehow hit the main strongholds of each
clan in a series of lightning raids within the space of a few days.
This would leave only the smaller, tributary lairs dotted around the
city, which would then easily fall one by one to our might. Stealth and
secrecy would be our allies: our clan was no larger than any of the
others and there was no guarantee of success if we chose the path of
open war. Conventional attacks would only bring casualties we could ill
afford; there were three main lairs to conquer, and even minimal losses
in one attack would leave us undermanned for the next. Secrecy was
crucial; each clan had to be removed without alerting the others to our
designs. Were they to ally against us, everything would fall apart. But
Hlan the Black knew this well, and had planned accordingly. As it
happened, we were able to wipe out the first two clans without even
having to fight.

His first plan was pure genius in its simplicity and effectiveness. In
the dead of night, Mirëar and Calendra stole into the manor of a
high-ranking officer of the Legion (a man of considerable influence),
and murdered his young daughter, the apple of his eye. Naturally
mortified, the officer was quick to act when we sent him details of the
vampires who had killed her and where they might be found. The reprisal
was swift and brutal, and that night we all drank to the health of our
unwitting allies: the Imperial Legion.

The destruction of our second foe required slightly more effort on our
part, but in theory was equal in terms of brilliance and ease of
enactment. As well as possessing an incredible knowledge of wizardry,
Hlan was a proficient alchemist, able to brew tonics with extraordinary
properties from the most mundane of vegetables and minerals. For this
occasion he concocted a liquid that masked our scents, making us
undetectable even to the keen noses of our own kind. This allowed us to
venture deep into the territory of our enemies, right to the doorstep
of their hideaway. These particular vampires evidently thought
themselves above skulking about in tombs and had made their home in a
ramshackle tavern in the slums. This night we found them in drunken
revelry, and no one noticed when we doused the old wooden building with
lamp oil and set it alight. The resulting blaze was spectacular, and
the red glow could be seen from all corners of the city.


The third lair was a crypt, much like our own. By this stage some of
our stronger vampires were itching for a plain old fight. Morran in
particular was keen to demonstrate his capacity as a military
commander, so Hlan allowed him to organize and lead an attack. Stealth
and deception had done their work, now was the time for brute force.
The entire clan was readied for battle, we even called upon those who
dwelt in other parts of our quarter of the city yet still acknowledged
Hlan as their lord. Only the great leader himself stayed behind,
stating he was ‘too old for such things’. A mighty host of vampiric
warriors, we must have been a spectacle indeed as we swept across the
city under the full moon, silently leaping from rooftop to rooftop far
above the oblivious city guard. Ironically, the journey took longer
than the fight itself. They had smelled us coming and hastily organized
a resistance, but we fell upon them with such force that the defenders
were swept away like tears in the rain. We flooded into the crypt,
rushed through the passageways in a torrent of blood, and killed them
all. Each vampire did his or her part, but the victory was Morran’s – a
full third of those killed must have fallen to his claymore. I fought
at his side, and watching him reminded me of the workers on my old
estate cutting grain in the fields. Such was the ease with which he
felled them.

Once it was over we all spent a long moment in silence, looking upon
our gruesome handiwork. With this victory, we were now the dominant
clan in Cyrodiil. From now on, whenever night fell, we ruled the city.
New hunting grounds were open to us, and the restriction to one kill a
week was a thing of the past. The implications left us speechless. It
was Mirëar who ended the silence with a cheer, and before long the
entire crypt filled with a triumphant roar. But it had not come without
cost – Vornus and Claudio had died the true death, along with several
new-bloods. One of the few times I ever saw Elise smile was when I
returned from the battle and told of her abuser’s end.

All day and night were then spent in celebration. We had brought home
the cattle of the enemy as our plunder, and there was blood for all.
The slaves were given wine to drink themselves into a stupor, and we
vampires fed from them and became intoxicated ourselves. Every chin
dripped red, and spirits were high. It was an hour before sunrise that
a slave called me away from the festivities with the message that Hlan
wished for an audience. Our master had not taken part in the
celebration, though none but I seemed to think it strange.


A burning smell met my nostrils as I entered his chamber, and I found
him bent over his alchemy table, watching a strange liquid bubble
furiously in his retort. Not looking up, he motioned for me to
approach, before pouring the solution into a beaker. He then sprinkled
a pinch of crystalline granules from his mortar and pestle into the
mix, causing the liquid to churn even more violently than before. With
a satisfied smile, he set the beaker on the table and at last met my
curious gaze.

“It is the cure, my friend,â€Â￾ he said, his eyes gleaming.


“The cure, Master?â€Â￾

“For vampirism.â€Â￾

My own eyes widened, and I looked upon the now calm liquid with awe. “Then it exists. Where did you learn of this? When?â€Â￾

“Of course it exists. Why, this is but one of several. And I have known
of it for many years. A thousand, to be exact. The recipe was passed
down to me by my master when he named me as his successor. It is a
tradition of our clan that when a master wishes to retire, he may take
the cure and live out the rest of his days as a mortal. The knowledge
of its concoction is then given to the heir, so he or she may do the
same when the time comes. As far as I know, it is a custom unique to
our clan alone. In most vampiric societies the master is whoever killed
the last one, by honorable duel or murder, but we have always done
things differently. Though in time this clan might have adopted that
practice... she has waited long for me to step down. You know of whom I
speak.â€Â￾

“I do not understand, Master. We are eternal. Why should a vampire lord
ever wish to retire, when he could potentially rule his clan until the
end of time?â€Â￾

“No, you do not understand.â€Â￾ Hlan laughed, amusedly, not unkindly. “In
some ways we are eternal, yes. Unless killed, a vampire can exist
forever if he wills it. Our body will never age, our limbs will never
tire, and time will not scathe us. Alas, the mind is not also spared
from those things. I have lived the lives of twenty men, my friend. Two
thousand years! Is it any wonder that I now grow bored with this
existence, such as it is?â€Â￾

“But your grand vision...it has become reality. You are the Night Lord of Cyrodiil.â€Â￾

“That I am. But I feel nothing.â€Â￾ The ancient elf gave a hefty sigh, and
sank into his grand oak chair. Before me there was no ‘Night Lord’, but
a tired old mer who had cheated fate for too long and could run no
further. “My ‘vision’ was no more than a last-ditch attempt to bring
new amusement to a wearying mind. I thought it would revive my failing
will, but it has not. Men and elves are simply not meant to live this
long. I see now that there is method in the madness of the gods. That
fate is not cruel at all, and that age and death are gifts, not
punishments. But as vampires we deny ourselves those gifts, unnaturally
clinging to life far longer than we ought, and for what? Living forever
seems attractive indeed to a mortal, but what is the reality? We live
in a tomb, caged until sunset, when we come out of our hiding places to
feed on the living like parasites. You say you do not understand, but
you will in time. You will come to realize what it truly is to be a
vampire. We are parasites. To the rest of the world we are
killers...monsters...animals. Even I, Night Lord of Cyrodiil,â€Â￾ his
smile was sardonic as he uttered his newly given title, “am nothing but
a beastmaster. Listen to them,â€Â￾ he sneered, pausing to hear the drunken
laughter that echoed down the hall. “What honor is there in being the
master of that rabble?â€Â￾

“I see now that I made a grave error all those centuries ago,â€Â￾ Hlan
continued. “Willfully I let the vampire’s bite go untreated, and
willfully I fell into darkness. Lured by dreams of power and
immortality, I embraced the curse. Yes, I got everything I ever
wanted...or thought I wanted. But now, as I sit here in my old age, I
think of what I have missed, and what I have denied myself. I realize
how much I miss the ability to feel...love, fear, joy and sadness. The
warmth of the glorious sun on my face. Oh how I miss the sun...two
thousand years since I last watched it rise! I can scarcely recall what
it was like.â€Â￾ He smiled, sadly, but with a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
“So I have made up my mind. I will take the cure, and you will replace
me as master of the clan. As Night Lord of Cyrodiil.â€Â￾

I knew it was coming. Through the whole speech I waited for those
words, yet I still questioned them when they came. “Why not Mirëar? She
has desired it longer than I.â€Â￾

“That she has. But I would not trust her to lead flies to a corpse, let
alone my clan. Foolish girl...she should have known that if I had
deemed her a suitable successor I would have named her as such long
before now. I have looked to my retirement for many years, but until
your arrival I saw no shoulders fit to take my burden. All this past
year I have groomed you to replace me...surely you can see that?â€Â￾

“And what of Morran? He is a proven leader.â€Â￾

“Morran is a soldier. He may have no equal when it comes to leading men
into battle, but those are not the skills required to rule a vampire
clan. Besides, he would not wish for my post. However he will make an
excellent second-in-command, should you need one. He respects you and
will be a loyal lieutenant.â€Â￾

I nodded.

Hlan stood, returned to his alchemy table (soon to be mine), and poured
the precious cure into a flask. Slipping it into a leather satchel, he
slung the strap across his shoulder, and wrapped a great burgundy cloak
about his skeletal frame. “The sun will rise soon, and I will not miss
it for the world. The formula for the cure is on a parchment between
volumes six and seven of the Atmoran Prophecies. Good luck to you,
Master. May you enjoy the seat of power more than I did.â€Â￾


“Farewell, Hlan.â€Â￾ It was all I could muster.

With that same grandfatherly smile he had welcomed me with at our first
meeting, Hlan the Black surrendered his mantle to me and returned to
the land of the living.

I watched him leave, then sat in the old chair, laying my arms across
the rests as though it were a throne – in a way I suppose it was. Then
it all began to sink in. This was it. A year ago, I was an outcast from
the Mages Guild, wandering the streets of the Imperial City in a state
of despair. Now I was a vampire lord...the only vampire lord in the
entire city. But did I celebrate? Did I rush out to declare my
ascension to my new subjects? Did I so much as open a bottle of wine?
No, I did none of those things. I will not lie to you, reader, and say
that this was not what I wanted, and nor will I say that it was
unexpected. I knew Hlan was grooming me as his apprentice, and the
notion that I would some day lead the clan had always thrilled me. But
Hlan’s final speech shook me to my very core. His words gnawed at me,
and made me question even my place in the world. Was I parasite or
predator? Royalty, or ringleader? I cannot say how many hours I sat in
Hlan’s old chair, wallowing in melancholy, and wrestling with my own
notions of who I was and what I wanted in life. It was well past
nightfall when I was interrupted by the intrusion of the last person I
wanted to see: Mirëar.

When she saw me sitting in that chair, she knew at once what had
transpired. Her beautiful face twisted to a grotesque mask of horror,
envy and hatred. An’kha, her feline lover, was with her, though she
seemed more frightened of Mirëar’s reaction than anything else. “You
son of a two-drake whore,â€Â￾ the wood elf hissed.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, mother,â€Â￾ I retorted.

“For a hundred years I have waited to sit in that chair,â€Â￾ she
continued, ignoring my counter. “Only to be usurped by a new-blood? I
should have killed you that night in the tavern! That seat should be
mine! It will be mine!â€Â￾ With a scream, she drew a silver dagger and
leapt towards me. Behind her, An’kha did the same.

Agile though they were, in their haste the twain failed to take my
abilities as a mage into account. With a wave of my hand and a brief
incantation, a jet of pure magical energy shot from my fingers and
consumed them both. When the smoke had cleared, there was nothing left
but a layer of ash spread across the floor, and two twisted daggers,
melted by the intense heat. This was not what I had wanted, but that
which I had grappled with from dawn till dusk was suddenly clear to me,
and I knew what I had to do. Hlan the Black told me I would come to
understand in time, but as it happened, the understanding came far
sooner than either of us would have expected.

I walked to the far bookshelf and parted volumes six and seven of the
Atmoran Prophecies. There it was: the yellowed slip of parchment that
was to be my salvation. The ingredients were all there, left over from
Hlan’s final brew, and after following the clear and simple
instructions I held the cure for vampirism in my hands. I know many of
you will now wonder what those ingredients were, but I will not give
them here. There are some secrets best kept as such for the good of
all.

Once the cure was made, I put the parchment back in its place between
the volumes. The next master would find it and the tradition would
continue. This done, and the cure in a flask tucked safely into my coat
pocket, I walked out of the chamber for the last time. But there was
still one thing I had to do.

I found Elise on my bed, sound asleep. I sat on the edge and lightly
stroked her auburn hair. She always had a wonderful calm about her when
sleeping, and one would not have guessed that she was a vampire’s
blood-slave by looking at her. My touch woke her, and she smiled at me.
She sat up, the sheets falling away to reveal her naked body, and
thinking it was time for feeding, tilted her head back to offer me her
pale neck. I shook my head, and instead gently drew her towards me. We
shared a lovers’ kiss, and then I broke her neck.

Some of you will no doubt think this act monstrous, but I reasoned that
it was the humane thing to do. I could not take her with me, yet nor
would I leave her with the clan where I could not protect her. But I
knew in my heart that the true Elise had died long ago, and I took
comfort in knowing that her broken spirit would be healed of all hurts
in the afterlife.

Covering her body with a sheet, I fled the lair without looking back.
Once again I found myself on the streets in exile, my future uncertain.
But in my pocket was hope, and shortly before daybreak I climbed to the
balcony of a manor that commanded a wide view of the eastern horizon.
Just as the pink glow of dawn appeared behind the clouds, I drank the
potion and was a man again. My mortality restored, I beheld the
glorious sun and wept at its beauty.

A full year has now passed since that night. The night I was given the
world, and threw it all away. I wish I could tell you that I have lived
blissfully ever since, but that would be a lie. Since drinking that
vile brew and curing my ‘disease’, my life has become a living hell.
For along with the return of my mortality came the return of my
conscience, and thus began a ceaseless torment for my untold crimes. I
now feel the sorrow and guilt of every life I took, and it overwhelms
me. Every time I close my eyes I see the faces of the serving girl, the
beggars, the noblewomen, Mirëar and An’kha, and my beloved Elise. I
cannot sleep without suffering horrendous nightmares, made all the
worse by the knowledge that they are not dreams at all but memories.
The Flin and moon sugar help numb the pain somewhat, but I now find
myself addicted to both. I can now see the true benefits of being
unable to feel, but there is no going back, nor would I really want to,
given the chance. I do not know what became of my clan, though I assume
it fell into chaos when the upper echelon dissipated. Perhaps the other
clans rose again from the ashes of defeat and the balance of power has
been restored, or maybe a strong leader took command and their
dominance continues even now. I do not know, and I do not care.

I know there are others: former vampires, cured of the disease and now
living ‘normal’ mortal lives. I wonder how they do it. I wonder how
they can live with themselves – with the guilt of having caused so much
pain and suffering. I wonder if returning to the light was as painful
for Hlan as it has been for me. But then, he had many years for which
to prepare himself. I did not.

I sit here now in the same room of that same tavern where this all
began, writing my memoirs in the dim light of a sputtering candle. My
eyes are red from lack of sleep, and my frame is frail and sickly from
abuse of narcotics. Tomorrow I plan to throw myself into the waters of
Nibenay and end my miserable existence. But I shall die knowing my life
and death have not all been for naught. For in committing myself to
text, I will now continue to live in the minds of all who read these
volumes. I will achieve a different kind of immortality: a nobler
kind...a literary kind. It amuses me to think that I will now live
forever as the protagonist of a tragic story. The story of how I became
a monster.
Locked