Out of the black and into the void. From nothingness he came. Thoughts flickering and whirling all together at once. It was like dying, but in reverse…
     First there were sounds. The constant sound of rain pattering against the world around him. Each droplet joining with its brethren to create a cacophany of sound. A torrent of patters that together threatened to drown out all thoughts within his mind. Dimly below that, he could hear the muted sounds of techno pumping out from somewhere in the void around him. He could hear cars driving by splashing swathes of water aside. He could even hear his breathing, something that struck him as strange because he could not yet feel a thing. No feeling other than a pervading cold numbness. A novocaine body rub type of feeling. Yet, he could not worry. No emotions. No thoughts. He was one with nothingness. Something inside of him knew that this was temporary, and that all could change in an instant.
     Numb skin suddenly began feeling. Tingling electrical jolts crawled all over him as nerves began to turn back on and send their messages out. There was a strange feeling of cold that began to creep into his tingling limbs. Something was about to happen. He could feel energy gather inside of him and concentrate. With a sudden and all pervading snap, all feeling returned. It was like some circuit breaker had suddenly been thrown. He could feel the rain hitting his skin on his face and shoulders. He could feel the rain course over his closed eyes and then down his face like cold tears. He could feel that whatever objects he had his hands wrapped around, they were cold and unyielding. When he tightened his grip there was no give on the objects, yet they felt mysteriously familiar and easy to hold. In other words, he felt too much. His thoughts whirled faster and faster, a cosmic whirly go round that threatened to stop only with a return to the void. He began to let go, and something stopped him. Everything snapped back into focus for a second, and then he began his inventory once more.
     He took a deep breath, feeling the cold air slide down into his chest. He held the breath there for what seemed subjectivly like forever, and then willed it out and away, slightly warmed by his body heat. He could feel the void he had just floated up from disappear from around him. Synapses began to fire in ever increasing rythms. His mind began to form coherent thoughts. Brain cells ran their subroutines and pronounced that all checks were found O.K. Everything was running fine. It was now time to take a look around and see what was going on.
     He opened his eyes. The first sight he saw was the asphalt in front of him, lit by flickering street lights and passing traffic. Took him a whole second to realize that it was nighttime. The blackness had matched the state he had been in so well that for a second it had almost seemed like it was a permanent part of the world around. He let his gaze travel towards boots at the end of leather pants, and began to raise his gaze along what was obviously his body. Eyes slid smoothly upwards cataloging his form. Recording the parts that made him whole. When the tracking eyes reached his hands at the ends of his arms, he had to pause. He was holding onto two very large pistols, and he was clad in leather. Somewhere deep within his mind this struck a tiny chord of memory. The memory dredged up a ghost voice from some as yet unknown person and floated it across his ears from the inside.
     "This is not good," the voice whispered.
     He simply accepted it and looked around.
     His glance slowly slid away from him back to the pavement, and then raised up. He found that in front of him was a midnight black Charger parked against the curb. Even the hubcaps were black chrome. The windows were tinted dark, and the door in front of him was open wide. He was standing outside of the open passenger door. The interior was black leather, and the keys were in the ignition. It looked like midnight formed into a vehicle. It was almost not even recognizable as a car. It did not activate any recognition at all. Probably not his then.
     His gaze travelled up even more, across the street and traffic, to the club forty feet in front of him, A huge black sign proclaiming that the Raven’s Nest was open was blinking neon purple and dark blue. It cast unhealthy light over the people that swarmed below it. The huge entrance to the place was through grand double doors that were almost located perfectly in front of him. A rather large bouncer stood in front of the doors letting in the last of what had probably been a large line that was now only thirteen people long. The huge double doors opened and closed behind each person, as if no-one could enter with company. It seemed as though each person in the crowd was meant to feel like they were alone. In a few seconds the last person had slipped inside. The bouncer stood alone in the night.
     Another deep breath, and he felt his body begin to tense. Dispassionately he realized that something was about to happen. Something that was causing stress to his body. Amazingly he had no clue as to what this feeling meant, and he had no idea what was causing it. It was like the old survival center of his brain had taken control. Fight or flight. Programs that had to be run. Programs that could not be controlled. He stood in the rain holding the weapons and he thought about it.
     Until the vampire stepped out of the club and patted the bouncer on the shoulder.

     Derrick Lesales patted his friend and servant Clark Martin on the shoulder as he stepped out of the club for some fresh air. Hah! Now that was a joke. For the last two years he had no need to breathe, and yet a strange craving for cigarettes. At least he was down to a pack a night. Undeath did have some priveleges. He no longer thought of the ciggs as coffin nails. Now they were merely junky sticks.
     After his embrace a few years ago at the hands of a nieve Vamp who was killed by some unknown hunter, he had managed to transform his sleazy strip joint into something even more profitable, and artsy. Catering to the thousands of starved suicide craving young idiots trapped in several outlying small towns, he had created a goth bar to end all goth bars. Leather Dolls, Blood Dolls, Piercers, Artists, and the generally mis-understood alike could all flock to the Raven’s Nest and enjoy a damned good time. With local and famous bands alike playing on the massive arial stage, he had managed to create a wonderful place for those who craved the darker side of life. Not to mention those that lived the darker side of life. Or death as the case might just be.
     He still felt a little like a posuer however, vampires with goth bars were becoming so cliched nowadays. It was time to move on and make something even better. Maybe not as profitable, but much more satisfying to his soul. Although, he sometimes wondered whether or not his was forfiet after his embrace. His breed were artists. They were not artists with soul however. Not the ones he had seen at least.
     Clark Martin had been a ghoul for the vampire owner of the bar for about a month. He liked his job, and loved the women who flocked around him for his position. Lesales gave him the singular honor of picking who got to enter and who had to stay outside and rot. It was an honor that Clark was glad to have. He liked the feeling of power. The supernatural power he also got from Lesales’ blood was an added benefit. Nothing mortal could best him in a fight. His senses were sharpened, and his strength was increased. He was payed, and fed, to do his job. He was the first one to get that something was wrong when the wierdo vaunted over the roof of the car across the street.
     Only a few random cars were coming and going from the street in front of the bar, and he could clearly see the charger and the wierdo across the street in the beginning. The massive downtown buildings across the street loomed up into the sky, and the rain blotted out their topmost stories. The streetlights were all dim around here, and occasionally flickered when it rained, like tonight.
     The flicker of motion from the stranger’s jacket as he cleared at least eight feet to make it over the car roof spun Clark’s head up and over. He spent too much precious time when he actually caught sight of the stranger’s clothing. It momentarily caused him to not notice the twin machine pistols rising up as the stranger sprinted across the street. It was a little too much.
     His eyes flickered upwards in a quick inventory. Leather boots with flashing chains and buckles that pounded against the pavement with each step. Leather pants with buckles and straps that ran up the sides of the legs. Silver belt buckle to a guess what, leather belt. It was too far away to focus on. Mesh shirt that flickered in and out of site as the leather jacket flapped against the airstream. Pale face that he ignored, with short hair that flopped wetly with each long stride.
     Then his brain kicked in and he went for the pistol strapped to his back under his leather jacket. His eyes registered two very ugly stainless steel blue matted machine pistols that were most definitely the most wicked part of the outfit. Ugly long magazines poked out from under the stranger’s hands. Long slim things that held the nine millimeter bullets tight together. Looked like each weapon had around thirty rounds apiece.
     He managed to slide just enough to the right to cover his boss/master when his pistol cleared the belt and he began the short concise arc to bring it up and line it up on the target’s chest. In the one second it had taken all this to happen, the freak had managed to clear the whole road and was merely ten feet away on the wet pavement.
     Lesales felt Clark shift his body in front of him and looked up from his lighter as he brought it to the end of his cig. He had time for a single coherent thought. It was concise and to the point.
     "Whaa?"
     Both pistols roared to life at the same time.

     He saw the gun swing up and around. Registered the fact that the deadly arc would line the weapon up straight with his chest. Realized that the vamp was now protected from fire by the mass of the bodyguard. His body simply forgot to ask permission from his brain and acted. It was the same lack of communication that had caught him with surprise as his body had vaulted the car without direction from the brain. It had to be the vampire. Recognizing the vamp had simply set the whole scene in motion.
     His left boot extended its step out and his right slammed into the wet pavement. He leaned back and shifted his weight downwards so all of a sudden, he was lower and sliding along on the wet pavement. He didn’t even think about squeezing the triggers that his fingers were curled around. The weapons roared to life on their own. It was a mere fraction of a second that they fired, but it was enough to blast ten solid rounds point blank into the chest of the bouncer. Blood and flesh exploded upwards and back as the large pistol in the bouncer’s hand exploded almost in his face. The bullet slid through the air past him harmlessly, but he felt its passing as it streaked by. A few inches more and he would have been gone. Back to the void.
     His body shifted more weight onto the front boot, and he suddenly slid up and underneath the outsretched arms of the bouncer. His arms slid both dark gleaming machine pistols underneath the armpits of the body, and he stood up propping the victim of his first attack upright and standing. The bouncer’s eyes widened in shock, and then the bouncer’s head dropped softly against his shoulder. For a fraction of a second it looked like shadows had suddenly began rippling over the bouncer’s face. His wide gasping mouth and cheeks had gone stark colors, rendering the head an agonized screaming skull. Disturbing to say the least.
     Both weapons wound up pointed at the Vampire, just inches away from it’s body. Dispassionately he felt something inside of him lurch, some errant emotion that sought to surface in his still and calm mind. Some dark lonely beast that wished to rise to the surface. He felt his jaw move and heard his voice come out of his throat. The tones were calm and low. A nice pleasant sounding voice. He had no thought that he wished to communicate. The damned body was working on its own again. For a second he even wondered how he knew Vampires existed. What the heck was happening?
     "Where is Mestarker?" It popped out suprising both him and the creature in front of him. He continued staring calmly at the Vampire, even while a stray thought wondered who Mestarker was.
     "He’s… He’s in the club. Back booth. The corner of the south and east side walls."
     "Thank you."
     The weapons roared again. This time they roared until each weapon stopped with a loud resounding click that seemed to echo from the walls of the buildings around him. The clicks even drowned out the sound of the ever present rain. Vampires were long lived, not immortal. Enough lead would probably kill a God.

     Both doors swung wide letting loose the roaring techno music that had for so long been trying to escape. Waves of sound blasted out as the massive speakers hanging from every conceivable fixture jumped and twisted vainly to dance. Sound waves were causing drinks to ripple and splash on the massive black laquered bar off to the northern wall, just to his right. His ears shrieked and shriveled from shock. His senses almost fled again, but that same something that had grabbed him from the void earlier snapped and everything dimmed slightly. Just enough so he could take it.
     Bodies writhed and jumped. Lights flashed and pulsed. People sighed and slipped under the overload of stimulus. All that he could see and hear were snapshots of reality. Dead ahead of him a pretty bald girl was bouncing up and down writhing with each pulse. Every strobe like flicker caught her in another pose. Whether she was up in the air with her arms flying out wide, or crouching down low shaking her head from side to side he found her strangely alluring. For a second there she was all young and edible, the next the shifting shadow illusions were back and she was transformed into a gross marrionete leaping to some invisible master jerking her strings. She now resembled a dead meat puppet being jerked back and forth. He forced his eyes away.
     Strange scents assaulted him as he carved his way into the dance floor. Clove cigarettes. Pot. Perfumes and colognes. Sweat and pheromes. It all blended together to form a map of locations. Each person contributed to the mass miasma of smells and sounds. Sometimes his senses fooled him, giving just the barest hint of rot in the room. Like the dancers were all dying one by one.
     The dancers hugged tight against him. Hands reached out and dragged silently and softly against his jacket and legs as he slid easily through the crowd. Fingers reached out to touch the drops of water that were now beading upon him. One daring pale hand emerged to stroke a wet lock of hair that dangled down his right cheek. He ignored everything. His body focused on heading to the center, and then carving back and to the left. It didn’t surprise him that the body had a purpose. He just wished that he knew what the hell was happening. Everything was playing past like a surreal film to him.
     Another snapshot of life revealed two young girls clad only in black leather jackets and mini skirts rubbing tight against each other. The flickering strobes would alternately reveal the curve of a breast, or the whole young body of one of the girls as they whirled around letting the jacket fronts open wide with spins and jumps. Another feeling lurched inside of him, but this was nowhere near as powerful as the one before. This was more like the beast was merely rattling the cage to let its jailor know it was still there, lurking in the dark and just waiting for the chance to get out. Their eyes began flickering red as if their souls were burning embers, and another whisper of a thought hissed by.
     "Oblivion is strong here," whispered from the darkness. He wondered what the hell that meant. It was enough to make him begin concentrating. Whatever oblivion was, he didn’t want to meet it yet.
     He continued on through the wasteland of souls. Pierced tounges wagged out trying to taste the air. Eyes flickered and winked as lasers flashed over them. Half lidded eyes looked deep into his seeking for something, Some primal need or want that should be satisfied now.
     He carved his way left. Bodies parted around him. It was as though the whole dance floor was alive. He was the invader into a host body, and it didn’t want him to contact anymore parts. He was death, and the creature desired nothing but life. Life only to experience sensation. He was anathema. He was calm. He was the peace of the void. It was as though the creature desired, yet hated him. The people parted, yet bits and pieces reached out to carress him as he slid through. Gods, it would have to be a Goth crowd.
     He reached the center of the dance floor. Lasers flickered overhead. Floating on a massive plexiglass stage a mere ten feet above the loaded dance floor was the band. Synthesizers, speakers, and the band members were traced in lines of blood red fire. Beams of light carressed them, visible in the smoke packed atmosphere of the dance floor. Looking up he could see that the girl working one bank of electronic equipment was wearing a skirt, and that she had no panties. He admired the twisted genius who had designed this place of hell. Here was a club that he could get into.
     Surrounding the stage was the overhead balcony. People slammed against the bars at the edges. People held shouted conversations, or gave themselves over to the music. Here was another extension of the creature that surrounded him. Briefly he mused that it might be the music that was the actual soul of the creature. Or was it the need? The passions that drove the creature. Which was master? Need or music?
     He caught sight of the edge of the dance floor. Steps led up from a little wall into the dimly shadowed regions of the tables and booths. Waiters and waitresses alike were passing among the dark shadows, proferring drinks or other substances.
     Fog swirled around his boots as he stepped up and out of the dance floor. Two couples writhing against one another, men and women alike caring neither who nor what their partners were, parted before him unconsciously. They spun apart just far enough to let him slide out and plant his boots solidly on the last step, then they swung back together and began groping and caressing anew. A sytlish entrance into the back gallery of souls.
     The second his boots touched the black carpet in the sitting area, the music changed perceptivly. The beat quickened. Vocals suddenly began to sing. A dark gritty voice began yelling out in german. His eyebrow raised for just a second as he realized he understood every word, fluently. Another bit of information he had not noticed. It was just starting to dawn on him that maybe he should inventory himself. Did he even know his own name?
     As he passed a couple of tables he realized that he did not in fact know his own name. He had been running on instinct. He had merely been a vessel for the void. It had never occurred to him that there might be something wrong with the state he was in. A perfect state of peace, a profound calm that ruled everything and made all else meaningless.
     He felt his first solid emotion. Fright. When it hit he felt like he had suddenly lost something very dear. Fright and sadness. And then, only sadness. Dammit he had been so calm!
     What else had he forgotten? Hell, what else did he even know? Was he even thinking as per say? What was he even doing? Here he was, a mere observer stuck within his body as it led the way. A calm observer here to merely witness events as they unfolded before him. Whatever was wrong with him, it ceased suddenly to bother him. Find Mestarkes echoes through his head. At last! Something that he and his runaway body can agree upon. A common goal! He ponders this as he sidesteps people and walks towards the back corner. The only doubt that mars his new calmness is this. Is it really his goal?
     People around him give quick furtive glances. They take in the outfit, and the way that the body moves. Calm strides reminiscent of a cat in the jungle. It is apparent to one and all that here is a person within his own element. Mind and body in harmony. If only they knew the truth.
     Observers look at the face. A clinical photo would show nothing of the animation that it is displaying. Not winningly handsom. Not ugly. A perfect average of features. Half shadowed eyes. Full lips. Regular nose. Stringy wet hair that falls only to the bottom of the jawline. Rivulets of water that run from the eyes down the cheeks like tears. A calm composure that draws all of these disjointed parts together and welds them into a whole. A face that strikes all who view it as a face belonging to a saint. A wiseman. A person who has conviction and a goal. An angel. A devil… Something that absoultely refuses to blink at all. Most people are disturbed by this at a subconscious level.
     Lovers merely go through a catalog of requirements for attraction. Pierced ear. Pale hands with strangely colored fingernails. The hint of a scar starting at the small patch of skin near the collarbone that looks like it continues back over the shoulder. Eyes that know too much. A projection of style, like some energy field that armors and protects the wearer. Nipple ring that winks from under the mesh shirt. Muscles that are more pronounced in the dim lighting. Creamy milky skin.
     Hunters look at the features and check them against a whole different list. Pale skin. Unblinking eyes. Strange aura of grey that flickers and twists around the stranger. Flickers of emotion that tremble and surface before diving back into the grey fog of energy. Something never seen before, but not exactly what they are looking for. Something that registers as different to supernatural senses. But not something that registers as a kindred soul. Eyes that blaze even to regular senses, but rage to other less recognized senses. Eyes that take all the emotions that fail to show in the aura around, and project them from the twin blazing suns in the face. To heightened senses they look like eyes of liquid gold. Flaming gold.
     He feels those looks. Out of his peripheral vision he notes each and every person that gives him one of those looks. Like they’re scanning his soul for impurities. Like they wish to bore deep within his mind and pillage and burn until it snaps apart. Some part of him recognizes those glances for what they are. Predators evaluating how high on the food chain this new specimen might be. Looking either for prey, or for danger. There are no friendly quick glances from these. Just long penetrating stares.
     He is now only twenty feet or so from the shadowy back booths where he is told that Mestarkes is. It suddenly occurrs to him to once more wonder who this Mestarkes is. Friend? Enemy? There is another twisting stomach dropping feeling inside. The mere thought of Mestarkes causes the beasts inside to test their cages. Until he gets a solid emotion though, he cannot identify the name or face. He has no clue as to what Mestarkes means to him. However he realizes that the two machine pistols strapped to his back under the jacket, and the long blades hidden in the sleeves might not mean that Mestarkes is going to get a hallmark card from him.
     The music gets even more frantic. Dancers are caught up in the music. They whirl and twist in every tightening and speedy arcs. They are reaching the point of the energy curve. The creature is about to experience an epiphany, and die into its many parts.
     The beat picks up even more, affecting even his strange blood. He can feel energy gather deep within his muscles. He feels strength flood his being. His hands flex and stretch as power floods the muscles and tendons. He almost fancies that he can feel his nails stretch. The beast gleefully rattles its cage and finds a weak spot. Emotions come flooding up.
     Anger. No, beyond anger. A rage that builds up and up ever higher. A roaring bonfire of agony and hurt so primitive that it shouts out for revenge to the bloody moon high overhead. A passion so consuming that all thoughts and musings he has are swept aside before it.
     Those that see the emotions surface and boil suddenly feel like hot metal whips have been applied to their souls. They rip their gazes away. One woman almost faints from emotional overload. Her primitive fight or flight reflex has been stunned into insensitivity. The hunters in the area feel old forgotten fears surface and rage loose for a second.
     One vampire sitting at a table with his legs up in the air almost goes into flight from the shear force of emotions that radiate from the stranger. It is like being next to fire. A fire that burns like the sun’s rays to undead skin. Vampires have one non-hunger instinct. When near sun or fires, the few true banes of their existances, their fight or flight instinct kicks into super high gears. No-one ever said that the undead were rational people. The thought of losing their immortality makes them run. It is a weakness.
     Then the rage becomes even hotter. Everything grinds to a halt in an instant. Behind his eyes he feels as if a nuclear device erupts. Everything is driven away as the single driving passion erupts outwards and burns the world around.
     It is rage so hot that it passes through the other side.
     Unknowingly everyone around relaxes as his features return to the calm visage they were before. The transformation is so quick that they are unknowingly calmed back to their previous thoughts. They have never experienced shear hate so strong that it turns into calm.
     It’s like the old saying about tough people. Pull a gun on someone. Average people react with disbelief and then fright. Some react with pleading or begging. Some react stoicly. Some react with anger. Then, there are those few that just remain calm. Even worse, there are those that remain calm and smile. Worse than that, there are the true few who will stay calm, smile, and walk forward until the barrel is pressed right over their heart beating within their chests.
     He goes beyond that scale. Although he did smile…

     You could not say that Mestarkes had lived for over three hundred years. That would not be truly representative of Mestarkes’s achievments. It would be nicer, and safer, to say that Mestarkes had ruled for over three hundred years. It is simply the truth.
     Even here in his favorite booth surrounded by a few lackeys it is evident that he was in absolute utter control. It only takes the observer a second to watch the interactions to realize that all actions, nay all thoughts, are cleared by him.
     He has his back against the wall where he feels safe. On one level of thought he is ordering his childe Victor Davros to check out the stranger walking towards his table. Verbally he is arguing the relative merrit of one of the new schools of thought about hunting. Some of the younger newer generations want blood and lots of it now. The old ones continue to make each feeding special. Something that happens between lovers, not between the farmer and the sheep. That is just fucking. Youngsters fuck. Old ones love to death.
     Mestarkes recently finished coming into power. His rival was, usurped. Which is the kind word for being fucking mauled and crucified onto a church to wait for the sun to rise and burn away the evidence. Mestarkes has been Usurping for over three centuries. He is one of the oldest ones. Little does he know though, he is about to learn a lesson in ursurping.

     When he sees the bastard memories flood him. Visions of a girl called Elizabeth. A girl he loved. A girl that was wrenched from his life. A girl that was killed by Mestarkes.
     His hate is so hot that Mestarkes feels it from ten feet away.
     All he knows is this. Mestarkes seduced Elizabeth from him. Mestarkes killed Elizabeth. Mestarkes had Elizabeth betray him. Mestarkes then had Elizabeth kill him. He realizes for a clear nanosecond that he now no longer cares why he is here. He is simply glad that he is here.

     Shit happens folks, and it happens hard.

     The knives slipped out into his hand. The music swelled. The rage exploded. And he finally found out that he was a painter. His favorite color, crimson. His canvas, every fucking thing around him. Flickerflash, and the dance began.

Loosely Based in the White Wolf Vampire world...
Loosely...

---

---

---