Heartshot
05-03-06, 02:06 PM
((This is to avoid typing out this monstrosity as a history, since it did well enough the first time. Following this will be a simple, short, easy, normal profile that will be updated each time I level up. I might have had, at most, 100 exp, unless I acquired some from my fight with Thoracis in Serenti. If so, I don't remember.))
My name is Jonathon King, twenty six years old when I was made by Laetitia Lévesque. Sitting there, looking at my slender, tall, form, which I've noticed you've written down as an estimation of 'six feet and four inches tall, and some one hundred and ninety five pounds heavy' have you guessed what I am yet? My eyes are a luminous, catching blue, so bright they are almost jewels. How my hair falls just right, the gloss of it as the lamp light falls on it. My face is fair, the cheekbones high, my smile fetching. Skin, golden in coloration, how I love the sun, yet cold and hard, and I heard you mutter under your breath when you shook my hand that it was almost like 'shaking hands with a marble statue'. And my nails; descending to a direct point, like the claws of an animal, crystalline, though have no trouble slashing flesh, leathers, even bronze. I can even extend them to a total of four inches each, and then retract them. Very handy. Have you guessed my race?
My looks, my blood, vampiric in origin of course, but before that, I was human. I shall get into that later on.
Do not fear, however, I'm not like some of my brethren, who only care for the Blood, and drink indiscriminately. Man, woman child - they care not. But they can all stay in their crypts in Haidia. I drink from the evil doer, the naysayer, who feeds off the downtrodden, or of their own kind feeding off the downtrodden. Angel of Mercy, Jonathon King. Saint Jonathon...
I know with my vampirism, I'm incapable of being canonized as a saint, but I can dream. It's a right left to me.
I have no use for weapons, I leave them for the warriors and their assassins for their squabbles. After all, I don't make it a habit to fight; I've never seen the interior of The Citadel, never set foot in the Theatre of War. I'm a lover, not a fighter baby, but that doesn't mean I'm weak. Mortals and the newly made have come to my house, seeking out Jonathon King to destroy him, or drink his blood. Vampiric blood is a much more preferred treat for us vampires, as we must fight hardily to get it. I've vanquished them all, had the cleaning company mop up the blood, sweep up the ashes. Armor is also another thing I have no love for, but for tight situations, my skin is very thick, about the density of brass, or bronze. Somewhere in between. I know this, because I've tested it.
Some of the little fanged buggers tend to be a little more resilient, and give me more trouble than I'm used to. Due to our weakness of fire, the power of Immolation is a handy one, to use my mind to accelerate the particles in the air, create a strong blaze for some thirty seconds, and poof! it goes out, leaving me with about half my energy left. By this point, I've reduced most of them to black grease, but while it can incinerate flesh and bone, I'm yet incapable of destroying metals, all except tin.
And while I'm perfectly capable of making another vampire, just like me, which would certainly have it's advantages, I know that the vampire's life is a solitary one. The last I made, Marcelet, she sort of chose the Blood, and after only forty years among the undead, walked into the sun and reduced herself to ash. In love of me, she said. I spat on this claim as I cried my heart to the world.
But that's not important yet, and I'm getting ahead of myself.
While I'm not one to travel much from my home in New Creole, or "The Back of Town", as I prefer to call it, on the eastern most portion of Radasanth, where the teens and young adults come for the nightclubs and trendy drinks, if ever I needed to travel, I'll often fly, just to avoid the tedium of walking. Occassionally I'll alternate. It's a wingless flight, unexplained by me yet, or any other of the Blood, at that matter. Most of us, including me, can only peak about twenty feet, and go at a speed of thirty miles per hour. I took a clock with me once, to check the speed. Don't doubt me on this.
What'll keep me off your doorstep? Not too much at all. Most of what you've heard is bullsh!t. I can come in uninvited. I'm unimpeded by crosses, or any other religious symbol, and make myself right at home in the middle of the day. This is what makes me unique amongst my brothers and sisters, who were baptized in the Blood; the sun does not bother, does not make smoke curl from my golden skin, does not reduce me to ash as I'm burnt, screaming in pain. It's a beautiful freedom, really. I'm rather weak to fire though, and take to it like I was made of straw, or dry chords of wood, just like any other vampire. That's the first way of three to kill me, the second includes decapitation, and then piercing the heart.
But this was all drivel, you've come here to learn why I am as I am today. So, sit down. I'll get you a drink.
I was originally born in the race of humanity on the soils of Lavinia. Mother and father were always ranting like patriots, encouraging me to join the Guard, take apprenticeship under one of the Trade Masters, anything. I was rebellious at a young age, and one night took off into Corone with nothing but about a hundred gold peices. I passed the hustling city of Radasanth, wanting nothing to do with it's glamour, and climbed into the island's mountains, where I met a shepherd named Emmanuel.
This profession was quiet, and peaceful. The sheep were docile, and I barely ever had to watch them. I'd sit on the big granite stone beside the tall Nihon Redwood tree, enjoying it's shade, reading. I read whatever I could, walked down to Radasanth on the weekends to sell the books I had read five or six times to buy more. Jewelry, damascked broadswords and armor, instruments; in the mountains, with the sheep, my shepherd's crook stiing beside me, leaning against the stone, these things diodn't matter. It was just me, Emmanuel, the sheep, and whoever was dancing through the words on the pages.
When I turned twenty one (I had arrived when I was nine), Emmanuel had grown to the golden age of eighty seven, and finally gave into his age, dying peacefully in his cottage, with me beside him, begging him not to go, no, no, don't leave me, It will be just me and the sheep, I love you, you're like my father. But he could not resist the beckoning of death, and I buried him behind the cottage as promised, finding myself left with everything he had had in this world. I stayed on that mountain for another four years, until I began to run out of money to pay the tax collectors.
Shamefully, I began to sell my body to anyone who had the gold for it. I became gigolo, a fact I'm not proud of. But, I made more than enough money to pay the taxes, the mortgage, and though not at peace with my heart, I continued my day job as a shepherd.
And then she came for me.
Through the soulless neon light of New Creole, she walked with a saucy saunter, her leather pants hugging her swaying hips. A pair of plain satin pumps, open toed, were at her feet, and she wore a blouse, the neckline low, almost to the waist. Her cleavage was full, her skin milk white, fair, eyes like amethyst gems, hair luxurious, anatural blue, enhanced by the Blood, something I didn't know yet, the light refracted from the strands in such a catching fashion that everyone on Fraevare Street could not help but watch her, as she approached me.
She took me back to her home, and we made love in her bed. She promised me I could sleep here, leave in the morning. she would cook me breakfast. It was a nice change.
I woke at about three in the morning as she pierced my neck with those fangs. She grasped my head with one hand, slipped her other beneath my back, and pulled me close to her as she drank from my very veins. I was so shocked, I found myself incapable of moving until she had finished, Then pressed my face towards her neck, cutting it with one of her fingernails. She told me to drink, and by that time, weak as I was, I didn't care to resist. I drank as though breaking the circuit, drank as though I meant to kill her, repulsed at first by the taste, then found it tasting sweeter and sweeter, until it came to the point where I thought I wouldn't be able to stop...she pulled away from me and I fell back against the silk encased pillows of her bed, naked, her rich, dark red blood a sticky crimson in my lips.
In moments, I felt a sharp agony in the lungs the heart. I was told it was simply my mortal body dying, and she leaned over me, sliding herms under my shoulders, and knees, carrying me like a lover to her shower. I noticed the gash in her neck had already healed with no visible scarring.
I died my first death in Radasanth, in Laetitia Lévesque's apartment, with the mildly hot water falling on me ash held me, murmuring comforting things in my ear as my heart slowed to a stop, the pain in my lungs increasing as my windpipe locked. My eyes slipped closed as they slid upwards into their sockets.
Radasanth was filled with an electric fire, the neon so vivid in blues and reds and greens, dancing against the blinds, my eyes shot open, my new, vampiric eyes, and I took in the air like it was alcohol, drinking it in readily, smelling upon Laetitia, my creator, stale smoke from cigarettes, alone in her home, the poison scent of gin and tonic, and then kissed her, tasting her skin, so beautiful, gorgeous, my mouth opened wider, my new eyeteeth poised to penetrate her. She pushed me away, a dazzled new born, assaulted by the amazed senses.
I slept with her on her bed during the day, her heavy woolen drapes pulled shut to thwart the great destroyer, the sun, and upon night's dawn, I went up to the mountains, rounded up the sheep, and sold them at the Bazaar. I had taken the deed as well, and sold the cottage, describing it grandly, with a pictaresque view. And dazed by the way everything looked breathtaking, with a heavy amount of gold in my wallet, I returned to Laetitia's apartment.
It was empty. Quiet, cold. I dashed through her home, my new speed making it a simple task, and finished in her bedroom, and knew she was gone. But was she dead? I had a feeling that if she was, I'd feel it in my slow beating heart. There was nothing here for me, though, I knew this, and I left, returning to the bazaar, using the money I had gained from my shameful job and selling the sheep and cottage to by myself a cozy town house towards the outskirts of New Creole, fully furnished.
I made this my permanent home, refusing to ever leave it. I suppose deep down, I stay, because I hope that Laetitia will return to visit. I digress, though.
The nightclubs of the city became my favorite 'haunts'. Amongst the pumping music, strobe lights, and bared and peirced bellys, I sought out the scum; the boyfriend who liked to hit, the aging man sittting in the corner, looking for a beautiful boy to rape, then kill, the manipulative bitch. I drank only from the evildoer and still do, as I have said before.
But alas, I was alone.
Until I met Marcelet.
In The Jester's Cap, I saw her first, her blue jeans wonderfully form fitting, sneakers oddly cute, wearing a pale yellow halter. Her chocolate brown hair fell to her shoulder blades, and a smattering of freckles cutely accentuated her perfect nose. She was beautiful, as beautiful as Laetitia, and I got as close to her as I dared.
My sharp eyes managed to pick up a few faint bruises, on her arms. One, still ripe, just m,anaging to hide beneath the halter on her back. Who was striking her? Boyfriend? Mother? 'Friend'? I frew away, infuriated by the harsness of mortals. To strike someone of such beauty was a crime in itself, in my eyes. Waiting at the bar, I continued to watch her until she left, with about five of her friends.
I followed by rooftop, leaping from house to house with little difficulty. One by one, her friends broke off from her, returning to their own households, until she was left to walk alone in the light of the full moon, her arms drawn to her chest protectively, glancing about like a nervous bird. Do not worry, my darling, Saint Jonathon will watch you, protect you.
She turned down Terell Avenue, and I followed, pausing on a rooftop four houses down from the one she entered. I was faced with a dillemma; wait beside her home until the morning rays threatened my existence, or turn away, forget her?
I could not, leapt silently across the shingles until I was looking into a darkened window of her home. I was surprised when a light came to life in that very room, to illuminate something that made me sick to my heart; the girl fighting physically with a bear of a man, bearded, at least forty, screaming at the top of her lungs and shaking her head. He slapped her, hard, ripped off the halter. Through the window, I heard the guttural, sneering word, 'slut', and immediately descended from the rooftop, walked over to the girl's door, found it locked. Not a problem. I twisted, and the lock gave way.
In a second, I was up the stairs, throwing open the door, just as the man was ripping off her form fitting jeans. I crossed the cxarpet with an inhuman speed, my legs fuled further with a fiery hate for this bearded man, reached, grabbed him by the neck, and twisted until I could see on juicy throbbing vein. Sinking my teeth in, I supped on the sweet elixir, drained him until even the heart was dry, and pushed him to the floor.
The terror in her eyes seized me with a desire beyond anything I've felt yet. I realized I was still thirsty. I took the frightened little bird into my, and drank from her. Cutting my wrist with a claw, I offered it to her, as she swooned in my arms. Drinking, that night, another vampire was born into the world.
When she was capable, my fledgling told me that it had been her father I had killed. He had gotten this way after her mother had died, and was so ashamed, did not wanting to Tell anyone what was happening. So then, in this case, what was I? Saint Jonathon, Angel of Mercy, or Jonathon King, Angel of Blood? I wasn't sure, and never would know. Marcelet always seemed miserable over the next forty years, and thus, I was depressed along with her. I had never thought she wanted to die, and such a cruel joke it was when I ran out to embrace her burning body to die with her in the sun, only to discover that I, of all vampires, had no weakness to it's hateful rays!
I purchased a granite crypt and placed it on my property, locked up my townhouse, and climbed into the stone coffin within the crypt, and slipped into a slumber that lasted some few centuries. I know that you could count them with the fingers on both hands.
I'm not positive what woke me up, if anything at all. I simply opened my eyes and pushed aside the heavy stone lid, and walked back into my townhouse. there was nothing truly monumental about my awakening, but there was what I did next - I announced that New Creole was my town. Brothers and sisters of the Blood were welcome, but there meals were to be the scum in the alleys, the prostitutes near death, the pimps, the abusive rapists. If someone were to defy this order, I personally hunted them down, and slew them on my own. Reduced them to ash, gave the others a message.
There's not much else of note I have to say of the past twenty years up to present, aside from the occassional foolish rebel life has been hum-drum and peaceful. I don't much. So then, what are you doing with all this information? Put in the paper. Publish a little novella. I don't care, show me to the world, display me in the flesh as Saint Jonathon, or the vampire, and Angel of Blood.
But I want royalties.
My name is Jonathon King, twenty six years old when I was made by Laetitia Lévesque. Sitting there, looking at my slender, tall, form, which I've noticed you've written down as an estimation of 'six feet and four inches tall, and some one hundred and ninety five pounds heavy' have you guessed what I am yet? My eyes are a luminous, catching blue, so bright they are almost jewels. How my hair falls just right, the gloss of it as the lamp light falls on it. My face is fair, the cheekbones high, my smile fetching. Skin, golden in coloration, how I love the sun, yet cold and hard, and I heard you mutter under your breath when you shook my hand that it was almost like 'shaking hands with a marble statue'. And my nails; descending to a direct point, like the claws of an animal, crystalline, though have no trouble slashing flesh, leathers, even bronze. I can even extend them to a total of four inches each, and then retract them. Very handy. Have you guessed my race?
My looks, my blood, vampiric in origin of course, but before that, I was human. I shall get into that later on.
Do not fear, however, I'm not like some of my brethren, who only care for the Blood, and drink indiscriminately. Man, woman child - they care not. But they can all stay in their crypts in Haidia. I drink from the evil doer, the naysayer, who feeds off the downtrodden, or of their own kind feeding off the downtrodden. Angel of Mercy, Jonathon King. Saint Jonathon...
I know with my vampirism, I'm incapable of being canonized as a saint, but I can dream. It's a right left to me.
I have no use for weapons, I leave them for the warriors and their assassins for their squabbles. After all, I don't make it a habit to fight; I've never seen the interior of The Citadel, never set foot in the Theatre of War. I'm a lover, not a fighter baby, but that doesn't mean I'm weak. Mortals and the newly made have come to my house, seeking out Jonathon King to destroy him, or drink his blood. Vampiric blood is a much more preferred treat for us vampires, as we must fight hardily to get it. I've vanquished them all, had the cleaning company mop up the blood, sweep up the ashes. Armor is also another thing I have no love for, but for tight situations, my skin is very thick, about the density of brass, or bronze. Somewhere in between. I know this, because I've tested it.
Some of the little fanged buggers tend to be a little more resilient, and give me more trouble than I'm used to. Due to our weakness of fire, the power of Immolation is a handy one, to use my mind to accelerate the particles in the air, create a strong blaze for some thirty seconds, and poof! it goes out, leaving me with about half my energy left. By this point, I've reduced most of them to black grease, but while it can incinerate flesh and bone, I'm yet incapable of destroying metals, all except tin.
And while I'm perfectly capable of making another vampire, just like me, which would certainly have it's advantages, I know that the vampire's life is a solitary one. The last I made, Marcelet, she sort of chose the Blood, and after only forty years among the undead, walked into the sun and reduced herself to ash. In love of me, she said. I spat on this claim as I cried my heart to the world.
But that's not important yet, and I'm getting ahead of myself.
While I'm not one to travel much from my home in New Creole, or "The Back of Town", as I prefer to call it, on the eastern most portion of Radasanth, where the teens and young adults come for the nightclubs and trendy drinks, if ever I needed to travel, I'll often fly, just to avoid the tedium of walking. Occassionally I'll alternate. It's a wingless flight, unexplained by me yet, or any other of the Blood, at that matter. Most of us, including me, can only peak about twenty feet, and go at a speed of thirty miles per hour. I took a clock with me once, to check the speed. Don't doubt me on this.
What'll keep me off your doorstep? Not too much at all. Most of what you've heard is bullsh!t. I can come in uninvited. I'm unimpeded by crosses, or any other religious symbol, and make myself right at home in the middle of the day. This is what makes me unique amongst my brothers and sisters, who were baptized in the Blood; the sun does not bother, does not make smoke curl from my golden skin, does not reduce me to ash as I'm burnt, screaming in pain. It's a beautiful freedom, really. I'm rather weak to fire though, and take to it like I was made of straw, or dry chords of wood, just like any other vampire. That's the first way of three to kill me, the second includes decapitation, and then piercing the heart.
But this was all drivel, you've come here to learn why I am as I am today. So, sit down. I'll get you a drink.
I was originally born in the race of humanity on the soils of Lavinia. Mother and father were always ranting like patriots, encouraging me to join the Guard, take apprenticeship under one of the Trade Masters, anything. I was rebellious at a young age, and one night took off into Corone with nothing but about a hundred gold peices. I passed the hustling city of Radasanth, wanting nothing to do with it's glamour, and climbed into the island's mountains, where I met a shepherd named Emmanuel.
This profession was quiet, and peaceful. The sheep were docile, and I barely ever had to watch them. I'd sit on the big granite stone beside the tall Nihon Redwood tree, enjoying it's shade, reading. I read whatever I could, walked down to Radasanth on the weekends to sell the books I had read five or six times to buy more. Jewelry, damascked broadswords and armor, instruments; in the mountains, with the sheep, my shepherd's crook stiing beside me, leaning against the stone, these things diodn't matter. It was just me, Emmanuel, the sheep, and whoever was dancing through the words on the pages.
When I turned twenty one (I had arrived when I was nine), Emmanuel had grown to the golden age of eighty seven, and finally gave into his age, dying peacefully in his cottage, with me beside him, begging him not to go, no, no, don't leave me, It will be just me and the sheep, I love you, you're like my father. But he could not resist the beckoning of death, and I buried him behind the cottage as promised, finding myself left with everything he had had in this world. I stayed on that mountain for another four years, until I began to run out of money to pay the tax collectors.
Shamefully, I began to sell my body to anyone who had the gold for it. I became gigolo, a fact I'm not proud of. But, I made more than enough money to pay the taxes, the mortgage, and though not at peace with my heart, I continued my day job as a shepherd.
And then she came for me.
Through the soulless neon light of New Creole, she walked with a saucy saunter, her leather pants hugging her swaying hips. A pair of plain satin pumps, open toed, were at her feet, and she wore a blouse, the neckline low, almost to the waist. Her cleavage was full, her skin milk white, fair, eyes like amethyst gems, hair luxurious, anatural blue, enhanced by the Blood, something I didn't know yet, the light refracted from the strands in such a catching fashion that everyone on Fraevare Street could not help but watch her, as she approached me.
She took me back to her home, and we made love in her bed. She promised me I could sleep here, leave in the morning. she would cook me breakfast. It was a nice change.
I woke at about three in the morning as she pierced my neck with those fangs. She grasped my head with one hand, slipped her other beneath my back, and pulled me close to her as she drank from my very veins. I was so shocked, I found myself incapable of moving until she had finished, Then pressed my face towards her neck, cutting it with one of her fingernails. She told me to drink, and by that time, weak as I was, I didn't care to resist. I drank as though breaking the circuit, drank as though I meant to kill her, repulsed at first by the taste, then found it tasting sweeter and sweeter, until it came to the point where I thought I wouldn't be able to stop...she pulled away from me and I fell back against the silk encased pillows of her bed, naked, her rich, dark red blood a sticky crimson in my lips.
In moments, I felt a sharp agony in the lungs the heart. I was told it was simply my mortal body dying, and she leaned over me, sliding herms under my shoulders, and knees, carrying me like a lover to her shower. I noticed the gash in her neck had already healed with no visible scarring.
I died my first death in Radasanth, in Laetitia Lévesque's apartment, with the mildly hot water falling on me ash held me, murmuring comforting things in my ear as my heart slowed to a stop, the pain in my lungs increasing as my windpipe locked. My eyes slipped closed as they slid upwards into their sockets.
Radasanth was filled with an electric fire, the neon so vivid in blues and reds and greens, dancing against the blinds, my eyes shot open, my new, vampiric eyes, and I took in the air like it was alcohol, drinking it in readily, smelling upon Laetitia, my creator, stale smoke from cigarettes, alone in her home, the poison scent of gin and tonic, and then kissed her, tasting her skin, so beautiful, gorgeous, my mouth opened wider, my new eyeteeth poised to penetrate her. She pushed me away, a dazzled new born, assaulted by the amazed senses.
I slept with her on her bed during the day, her heavy woolen drapes pulled shut to thwart the great destroyer, the sun, and upon night's dawn, I went up to the mountains, rounded up the sheep, and sold them at the Bazaar. I had taken the deed as well, and sold the cottage, describing it grandly, with a pictaresque view. And dazed by the way everything looked breathtaking, with a heavy amount of gold in my wallet, I returned to Laetitia's apartment.
It was empty. Quiet, cold. I dashed through her home, my new speed making it a simple task, and finished in her bedroom, and knew she was gone. But was she dead? I had a feeling that if she was, I'd feel it in my slow beating heart. There was nothing here for me, though, I knew this, and I left, returning to the bazaar, using the money I had gained from my shameful job and selling the sheep and cottage to by myself a cozy town house towards the outskirts of New Creole, fully furnished.
I made this my permanent home, refusing to ever leave it. I suppose deep down, I stay, because I hope that Laetitia will return to visit. I digress, though.
The nightclubs of the city became my favorite 'haunts'. Amongst the pumping music, strobe lights, and bared and peirced bellys, I sought out the scum; the boyfriend who liked to hit, the aging man sittting in the corner, looking for a beautiful boy to rape, then kill, the manipulative bitch. I drank only from the evildoer and still do, as I have said before.
But alas, I was alone.
Until I met Marcelet.
In The Jester's Cap, I saw her first, her blue jeans wonderfully form fitting, sneakers oddly cute, wearing a pale yellow halter. Her chocolate brown hair fell to her shoulder blades, and a smattering of freckles cutely accentuated her perfect nose. She was beautiful, as beautiful as Laetitia, and I got as close to her as I dared.
My sharp eyes managed to pick up a few faint bruises, on her arms. One, still ripe, just m,anaging to hide beneath the halter on her back. Who was striking her? Boyfriend? Mother? 'Friend'? I frew away, infuriated by the harsness of mortals. To strike someone of such beauty was a crime in itself, in my eyes. Waiting at the bar, I continued to watch her until she left, with about five of her friends.
I followed by rooftop, leaping from house to house with little difficulty. One by one, her friends broke off from her, returning to their own households, until she was left to walk alone in the light of the full moon, her arms drawn to her chest protectively, glancing about like a nervous bird. Do not worry, my darling, Saint Jonathon will watch you, protect you.
She turned down Terell Avenue, and I followed, pausing on a rooftop four houses down from the one she entered. I was faced with a dillemma; wait beside her home until the morning rays threatened my existence, or turn away, forget her?
I could not, leapt silently across the shingles until I was looking into a darkened window of her home. I was surprised when a light came to life in that very room, to illuminate something that made me sick to my heart; the girl fighting physically with a bear of a man, bearded, at least forty, screaming at the top of her lungs and shaking her head. He slapped her, hard, ripped off the halter. Through the window, I heard the guttural, sneering word, 'slut', and immediately descended from the rooftop, walked over to the girl's door, found it locked. Not a problem. I twisted, and the lock gave way.
In a second, I was up the stairs, throwing open the door, just as the man was ripping off her form fitting jeans. I crossed the cxarpet with an inhuman speed, my legs fuled further with a fiery hate for this bearded man, reached, grabbed him by the neck, and twisted until I could see on juicy throbbing vein. Sinking my teeth in, I supped on the sweet elixir, drained him until even the heart was dry, and pushed him to the floor.
The terror in her eyes seized me with a desire beyond anything I've felt yet. I realized I was still thirsty. I took the frightened little bird into my, and drank from her. Cutting my wrist with a claw, I offered it to her, as she swooned in my arms. Drinking, that night, another vampire was born into the world.
When she was capable, my fledgling told me that it had been her father I had killed. He had gotten this way after her mother had died, and was so ashamed, did not wanting to Tell anyone what was happening. So then, in this case, what was I? Saint Jonathon, Angel of Mercy, or Jonathon King, Angel of Blood? I wasn't sure, and never would know. Marcelet always seemed miserable over the next forty years, and thus, I was depressed along with her. I had never thought she wanted to die, and such a cruel joke it was when I ran out to embrace her burning body to die with her in the sun, only to discover that I, of all vampires, had no weakness to it's hateful rays!
I purchased a granite crypt and placed it on my property, locked up my townhouse, and climbed into the stone coffin within the crypt, and slipped into a slumber that lasted some few centuries. I know that you could count them with the fingers on both hands.
I'm not positive what woke me up, if anything at all. I simply opened my eyes and pushed aside the heavy stone lid, and walked back into my townhouse. there was nothing truly monumental about my awakening, but there was what I did next - I announced that New Creole was my town. Brothers and sisters of the Blood were welcome, but there meals were to be the scum in the alleys, the prostitutes near death, the pimps, the abusive rapists. If someone were to defy this order, I personally hunted them down, and slew them on my own. Reduced them to ash, gave the others a message.
There's not much else of note I have to say of the past twenty years up to present, aside from the occassional foolish rebel life has been hum-drum and peaceful. I don't much. So then, what are you doing with all this information? Put in the paper. Publish a little novella. I don't care, show me to the world, display me in the flesh as Saint Jonathon, or the vampire, and Angel of Blood.
But I want royalties.