Some of my experiences as a Nightwalker are worth sharing; others, however, are not. In the spirit of that motif, I don’t wish to offer encounters that detract from the reason this board was placed here.
Even if, being what I am, everything I do could technically constitute as valid stories for posting.
§
A Perfect Night Interrupted
The evening had gone horribly well; my reconnaissance of another neighborhood had revealed far more than I would have guessed, the night was still on the cusp of youth and still an hour from middle age, previous investigations had proved most fruitful, and the guy trying to snag me was actually cute for once, had the money to make it worthwhile, and tasted great, too.
Some nights are just better than others. However, all nights must come to an end.
As my companion escorted me to his apartment, hiding under fire escapes and awnings, my pace suddenly dropped, the path intruded upon by a trail made faint in the rainfall. It could have just been garbage, but for the milky traces of sulfur, stone, and leather; all wrapped in the strongest scent of all: fear so ripe I clenched my new night’s boyfriend’s arm a little too tightly in my instinctive excitement.
“Mmm, yeah, baby,” he squirmed, his inebriation retarding his sense of touch. “I have beer back at my place . . . did I mention that?”
Yes, he had; on seven separate occasions.
For a moment, my insides warred within me: the necessity for blood and the instinct to fight for my territory conflicted strongly, but moderately. Blood was indeed a requisite for my survival, though could be postponed for a bit, as I had fed the other night. Defending my territory was an instinct, but not mandatory. It could even prove troublesome, should I do so out of pride, rather than need.
My choice made, I continued walking, snuggling close and passing the scent as easily as striding through a spider’s thread. It was one monster, one victim, both ignorable. Should it grow more daring, I’d deal with it then. Conscience was the restraint used by the timid to excuse themselves from acting too boldly.
However, it was not to be.
Holy, holy Father, the voice echoed in my mind as inescapable thoughts. I have done what I can. Now I need Thy help. Send someone, I pray, to find my daughter. Please.
If I could sigh at that moment, I would have.
“Change of plans, Marty,” I glanced up, opening my own senses and sniffing. “You have a choice. Wait for me here and I’ll be back as soon as possible; or, I’ll give you back your money and we’ll get together later, say tomorrow night at eight.”
He whined and complained, of course. They always did when I rescinded my services.
“Refund it is,” I counted out the money he had given me earlier, transferring the bills from my pants to his, along with a kiss and my card. “Look me up next time you’re in my neighborhood; I’ll take you out, free of charge—my treat. Don’t follow me. Mind if I borrow your jacket? Consider it incentive to meet me again.”
My ex stood there, dumbfounded and struck, as I skipped a little too quickly into the nearest alley, shrugging into the light, sleeveless vest that went down to my ankles and pulling the hood over my head. Once the shadows safely had me in their warm embrace, I glanced about, found myself quite divorced from onlookers, and raced up the wall, the prayer still echoing in my mind as I sought out multiple targets at once.
Experiences as a Nightwalker
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Celeste Darken
- Posts: 373
- Joined: Mon Feb 27, 2006 11:23 am
- Location: Inside the Darkness
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Celeste Darken
- Posts: 373
- Joined: Mon Feb 27, 2006 11:23 am
- Location: Inside the Darkness
Virtues of the Father
Thirteen floors passed beneath me; avoiding windows, rain, and fire escapes was likewise a simple matter. I vaulted the lip of the building and waited, crouched in shadow, hands on knees. For a moment, my eyes took in the soft glow of a pair of skylights sharing the illumination from within and the shadowy, hulking form of a rooftop doorway set in a concrete shell, door ajar, like some panting beast trapped in a picture.
Then I smelled the man, his scent odd. He was in good health, although he hadn’t eaten in 24 hours. He had been pacing the rooftop, and his emotions smelled of vexation and desperation. When the man came into my view, I began to understand.
He was a thin man, his facial features thinly sculpted in such a way that not many women would find him physically attractive. Nevertheless, I knew of him; he was a good priest of a Christian denomination I’d never heard of, a humble man who spoke plainly and acted with a single face no matter his surroundings. All the other girls on the streets who knew of him spoke fondly of him, though I had yet to understand why: he never partook of our services.
His name was Brother Isaac Cheviot. His hands were knit together as if in prayer, his chin bowed and his eyes closed. He was dressed all in black, though his wrists and throat were bound in collars of white. Lips moving soundlessly, the man continued to pace back and forth across the roof. Hiding my nature and observing him quietly, I found an odd fascination in the way he was routinely swallowed by the darkness and then branded by the soft, golden glow of the skylight’s gentle illumination.
He was not afraid for himself. He wore no cross.
“Well, preacher,” I kept the volume of my voice down to a soft purr as I stepped from the gloom and into the light; rain pattered against my hood. “You prayed for assistance. Here I am. What are your sorrows?”
Startled, he spun and faced me quickly. Taking in my scarlet corset, jean shorts, and black platform heels, he averted his gaze, centering them on the roof below our feet.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” he seemed to remind himself, bringing his fingers to his pale lips once and dropping them; marshalling his courage, he began his story slowly.
“Ever since my wife died a few months ago, I’ve found my belief in God swelling. My daughter and I have grown very close . . . yet even still, I must leave her on occasion in the hands of friends in order to minister to others of my flock in need. This past Tuesday was one of those days . . . I left her in the care of a good friend while I ministered to a widow. Her tenuous health doesn’t permit children or those in sickness, and my daughter is both.”
His tale abruptly ended when emotion grabbed his words and held them mute in his throat. After a moment of inner wrestling, he continued.
“When I returned, my friend’s apartment was without life. A glass window had been shattered, the place ransacked. My friend was dead. She had been . . .” he paused, the emotions again coiling about his tongue. Through much effort, he continued. ”My Sophia was gone. All that was left was this . . .”
The distraught priest held up a short, yellow ribbon, wrinkled but bright and pretty, even in the gloom. The tip of one end was dipped in fresh blood and was cut at a differing angle to its partner. It exuded a foul stench.
“That blood isn’t an hour old,” I commented, suspecting foul play but holding out my hand. “You’ve called the police?”
“I have,” he handed the article over, his eyes flashing up to mine as I took it and held it to my nose, sniffing and threading away the masking stink to its true scent underneath; I resisted the urge to put the bloodied end into my mouth and suck. “But they are overworked already and have no time for a missing twelve-year-old girl. Besides, I suspect something beyond an ordinary kidnapping . . . creatures of another sort . . . hell’s minions.”
“Why do you believe that?” I asked guardedly.
“The smell of sulfur,” he insisted, then pointed to the blood dampened end of the ribbon. “The police shrugged it off as rotten eggs and wanted to confiscate the entire ribbon, but I begged them to only take half. If I was to lose my daughter before half a year of my wife’s death, I wanted a keepsake to remember them both, as that was Alice’s before. They took the . . . bloodied end, of course. I kept the other half and put it on the nightstand by my bed. That night, I had a dream . . . of a building’s top that I knew held her. The following morning, the blood had returned as you see it.”
With slow care, I returned the ribbon into his safekeeping, the scent strong in my memory and nose, watching him pointedly as he described more of his dream and his take on its meaning. Then I turned around and returned to the shadows’ embrace.
“God bless you,” he offered in parting; the well-wish sent a spasm through my back, causing me to pause on the lip of the building.
Buttoning the loaned jacket’s front, I turned my head to look back at him, my lips working into a smirk he couldn’t see.
Then I leaped off the edge and into the deepening night.
Then I smelled the man, his scent odd. He was in good health, although he hadn’t eaten in 24 hours. He had been pacing the rooftop, and his emotions smelled of vexation and desperation. When the man came into my view, I began to understand.
He was a thin man, his facial features thinly sculpted in such a way that not many women would find him physically attractive. Nevertheless, I knew of him; he was a good priest of a Christian denomination I’d never heard of, a humble man who spoke plainly and acted with a single face no matter his surroundings. All the other girls on the streets who knew of him spoke fondly of him, though I had yet to understand why: he never partook of our services.
His name was Brother Isaac Cheviot. His hands were knit together as if in prayer, his chin bowed and his eyes closed. He was dressed all in black, though his wrists and throat were bound in collars of white. Lips moving soundlessly, the man continued to pace back and forth across the roof. Hiding my nature and observing him quietly, I found an odd fascination in the way he was routinely swallowed by the darkness and then branded by the soft, golden glow of the skylight’s gentle illumination.
He was not afraid for himself. He wore no cross.
“Well, preacher,” I kept the volume of my voice down to a soft purr as I stepped from the gloom and into the light; rain pattered against my hood. “You prayed for assistance. Here I am. What are your sorrows?”
Startled, he spun and faced me quickly. Taking in my scarlet corset, jean shorts, and black platform heels, he averted his gaze, centering them on the roof below our feet.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” he seemed to remind himself, bringing his fingers to his pale lips once and dropping them; marshalling his courage, he began his story slowly.
“Ever since my wife died a few months ago, I’ve found my belief in God swelling. My daughter and I have grown very close . . . yet even still, I must leave her on occasion in the hands of friends in order to minister to others of my flock in need. This past Tuesday was one of those days . . . I left her in the care of a good friend while I ministered to a widow. Her tenuous health doesn’t permit children or those in sickness, and my daughter is both.”
His tale abruptly ended when emotion grabbed his words and held them mute in his throat. After a moment of inner wrestling, he continued.
“When I returned, my friend’s apartment was without life. A glass window had been shattered, the place ransacked. My friend was dead. She had been . . .” he paused, the emotions again coiling about his tongue. Through much effort, he continued. ”My Sophia was gone. All that was left was this . . .”
The distraught priest held up a short, yellow ribbon, wrinkled but bright and pretty, even in the gloom. The tip of one end was dipped in fresh blood and was cut at a differing angle to its partner. It exuded a foul stench.
“That blood isn’t an hour old,” I commented, suspecting foul play but holding out my hand. “You’ve called the police?”
“I have,” he handed the article over, his eyes flashing up to mine as I took it and held it to my nose, sniffing and threading away the masking stink to its true scent underneath; I resisted the urge to put the bloodied end into my mouth and suck. “But they are overworked already and have no time for a missing twelve-year-old girl. Besides, I suspect something beyond an ordinary kidnapping . . . creatures of another sort . . . hell’s minions.”
“Why do you believe that?” I asked guardedly.
“The smell of sulfur,” he insisted, then pointed to the blood dampened end of the ribbon. “The police shrugged it off as rotten eggs and wanted to confiscate the entire ribbon, but I begged them to only take half. If I was to lose my daughter before half a year of my wife’s death, I wanted a keepsake to remember them both, as that was Alice’s before. They took the . . . bloodied end, of course. I kept the other half and put it on the nightstand by my bed. That night, I had a dream . . . of a building’s top that I knew held her. The following morning, the blood had returned as you see it.”
With slow care, I returned the ribbon into his safekeeping, the scent strong in my memory and nose, watching him pointedly as he described more of his dream and his take on its meaning. Then I turned around and returned to the shadows’ embrace.
“God bless you,” he offered in parting; the well-wish sent a spasm through my back, causing me to pause on the lip of the building.
Buttoning the loaned jacket’s front, I turned my head to look back at him, my lips working into a smirk he couldn’t see.
Then I leaped off the edge and into the deepening night.
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Celeste Darken
- Posts: 373
- Joined: Mon Feb 27, 2006 11:23 am
- Location: Inside the Darkness
Hanging by a Thread
Brother Cheviot’s described dream building top he was well known to me. Taller than its immediate neighbors, it was the perfect edifice to get a higher view of much of the city, with enough imagination in its design to provide ample concealment for those that wanted to watch the streets while they themselves didn’t wish to be seen. I’d used it many times before.
However, keeping the building between me and the rain, the higher up I scaled, the less fond of the architecture I became. It was one thing to drift among the posse of strategically perched gargoyles, using their ranks as cover to remain hidden while scouting about. It was an entirely different matter when one was searching for a child that was possibly hidden among them, guarded by an unknown assailant.
Fortunately, I had gifts that surpassed mere senses. And opening those senses . . . I could feel other presences near. Altering my route somewhat and crawling along diagonally, a windswept, leathern odor borne of tar, concrete, and malice slapped me in the face; brought alongside it came a strong scent of fear, saliva, perspiration, and capped blood.
They were here; the monster and its victim. I crawled faster.
A particular gargoyle, its long, slender neck reaching horizontally out twelve feet, became my goal, as it was also drenched with the fresh scents of rainfall, monster, and victim. Reaching its base, I looked first to the band of stone, grotesque sentries. It was the perfect spot for an ambush and smelled as though it was being used for such. But time was still filing away, and neither the still figures glaring back at me nor their cloaks of shadow revealed anything to my senses. At the far end of the synthetic precipice, the little figure wept in terror, inciting numerous instincts and feelings within me.
Turning my back to the cluster of stillborn carvings felt like a foolish mistake, but the girl, bound and gagged, begged for my attention as well. Tangled, blonde hair gasped fitfully in the night wind. Blood streaked her ear and neck and tears drained from eyes the color of her father’s; beyond these, fright, wetness, and perhaps a day and a night without food, water, or a bath, she seemed unharmed.
But that could easily change, as she was bent in half, balanced upon her stomach, with head and feet dangling, a wide expanse of nothingness below her. If she struggled too hard, fidgeted, or rolled, the girl would fall, slipping on the damp stone. And there was still an unknown enemy to face.
However, keeping the building between me and the rain, the higher up I scaled, the less fond of the architecture I became. It was one thing to drift among the posse of strategically perched gargoyles, using their ranks as cover to remain hidden while scouting about. It was an entirely different matter when one was searching for a child that was possibly hidden among them, guarded by an unknown assailant.
Fortunately, I had gifts that surpassed mere senses. And opening those senses . . . I could feel other presences near. Altering my route somewhat and crawling along diagonally, a windswept, leathern odor borne of tar, concrete, and malice slapped me in the face; brought alongside it came a strong scent of fear, saliva, perspiration, and capped blood.
They were here; the monster and its victim. I crawled faster.
A particular gargoyle, its long, slender neck reaching horizontally out twelve feet, became my goal, as it was also drenched with the fresh scents of rainfall, monster, and victim. Reaching its base, I looked first to the band of stone, grotesque sentries. It was the perfect spot for an ambush and smelled as though it was being used for such. But time was still filing away, and neither the still figures glaring back at me nor their cloaks of shadow revealed anything to my senses. At the far end of the synthetic precipice, the little figure wept in terror, inciting numerous instincts and feelings within me.
Turning my back to the cluster of stillborn carvings felt like a foolish mistake, but the girl, bound and gagged, begged for my attention as well. Tangled, blonde hair gasped fitfully in the night wind. Blood streaked her ear and neck and tears drained from eyes the color of her father’s; beyond these, fright, wetness, and perhaps a day and a night without food, water, or a bath, she seemed unharmed.
But that could easily change, as she was bent in half, balanced upon her stomach, with head and feet dangling, a wide expanse of nothingness below her. If she struggled too hard, fidgeted, or rolled, the girl would fall, slipping on the damp stone. And there was still an unknown enemy to face.
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Celeste Darken
- Posts: 373
- Joined: Mon Feb 27, 2006 11:23 am
- Location: Inside the Darkness
Freefalling
”Sophia?” I spoke quietly, smoothly. “You may call me Mercy Brown. I’m going to come get you. You’ll be all right.”
Her whimpering quieted to timid breathing. As I approached, crouching, she shook her head feebly. It would have been a simple matter to grab her and run, but such a motion might startle her. Even the slender gargoyle we were situated upon, six inches at its widest, could have been easily traversed standing. But instinct told me to advance cautiously.
A rush of too focused wind came from behind, the smell of concrete and leather advancing with it. Twisting with a hiss, I strafed off to the side, seeing naught but open air. My ex’s jacket fell, its momentum unchanged by the wind. Apparently not very bright, the thing chuckled, bricks scarping each other, and watched the garment’s descent, completely missing me.
My mind had already realigned itself to the sudden, 180 degree shift. My reflexes had guided me to the base along the gargoyle and down. In less than a sundered instant, my feet were underneath the gargoyle and I was standing below, soles pressed to the stony, long necked beast’s, while something watched from above me.
Sophia jerked unnaturally to her knees by invisible means, a plaintive whimper escaping her lips. It was the only thing to escape. I tensed, watching Sophia leave the relative safety of the long necked gargoyle and suspend in midair. A harsh, grating noise spoke in a language I didn’t understand, but sounded like steel being set to flint and scraping across it maliciously. The ignited spark was venomous disdain.
The little girl plummeted.
There wasn’t time to consider whether or not the invisible creature fell with her in an attempt to dash the girl against the unyielding ground. I crouched to add more power, then leaped, joining the preacher’s daughter in a heart-stopping freefall.
Wind shrieked past as I gained on the tumbling Sophia, my face planted to the surging metropolis, my body straight, and my hands clasped behind my back. Sophia spun a few more times before our velocity balanced out. Carefully, I pulled her close as the roofs of the neighboring buildings jettisoned past us. My shoes skimmed the surface of the wall, retarding our descent.
When there were sheer walls between both our sides, I kicked out, breaking our downward momentum and flipping over to land on a section of the building we’d just been falling from. My senses indicated Sophia had fainted some time during our rapid fall. It was just as well. Placing my palm against her forehead, I insured that she would sleep for the rest of the night before freeing her of the bonds and swiftly taking my charge out of the dark and wet.
It was still raining.
Her whimpering quieted to timid breathing. As I approached, crouching, she shook her head feebly. It would have been a simple matter to grab her and run, but such a motion might startle her. Even the slender gargoyle we were situated upon, six inches at its widest, could have been easily traversed standing. But instinct told me to advance cautiously.
A rush of too focused wind came from behind, the smell of concrete and leather advancing with it. Twisting with a hiss, I strafed off to the side, seeing naught but open air. My ex’s jacket fell, its momentum unchanged by the wind. Apparently not very bright, the thing chuckled, bricks scarping each other, and watched the garment’s descent, completely missing me.
My mind had already realigned itself to the sudden, 180 degree shift. My reflexes had guided me to the base along the gargoyle and down. In less than a sundered instant, my feet were underneath the gargoyle and I was standing below, soles pressed to the stony, long necked beast’s, while something watched from above me.
Sophia jerked unnaturally to her knees by invisible means, a plaintive whimper escaping her lips. It was the only thing to escape. I tensed, watching Sophia leave the relative safety of the long necked gargoyle and suspend in midair. A harsh, grating noise spoke in a language I didn’t understand, but sounded like steel being set to flint and scraping across it maliciously. The ignited spark was venomous disdain.
The little girl plummeted.
There wasn’t time to consider whether or not the invisible creature fell with her in an attempt to dash the girl against the unyielding ground. I crouched to add more power, then leaped, joining the preacher’s daughter in a heart-stopping freefall.
Wind shrieked past as I gained on the tumbling Sophia, my face planted to the surging metropolis, my body straight, and my hands clasped behind my back. Sophia spun a few more times before our velocity balanced out. Carefully, I pulled her close as the roofs of the neighboring buildings jettisoned past us. My shoes skimmed the surface of the wall, retarding our descent.
When there were sheer walls between both our sides, I kicked out, breaking our downward momentum and flipping over to land on a section of the building we’d just been falling from. My senses indicated Sophia had fainted some time during our rapid fall. It was just as well. Placing my palm against her forehead, I insured that she would sleep for the rest of the night before freeing her of the bonds and swiftly taking my charge out of the dark and wet.
It was still raining.
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Celeste Darken
- Posts: 373
- Joined: Mon Feb 27, 2006 11:23 am
- Location: Inside the Darkness
Epilogue
The apartment’s skylights were still aglow at my return. The slender figure of Brother Cheviot stood routed deep, halfway swallowed in the maw of the concrete shelled beast, his body shaded in gray and twisted in a mute expression of dying anguish. Dancing along the lip of the building’s roof until facing the priest, I advanced, while he talked into a phone, curious with the topic.
“All right, thank you,” he hung up the phone, returning it to his pocket.
Invisible in the black of the night, I waited, curious as he took the steps up, a slow disgorging of prey. He stood watch at the golden doorframe, made whole once more, his features darkened with shadow, but able to be seen by me. He looked fabulously old, the shadows wearing thin lines into a starved face. From the pocket where the phone hid, his fist retreated, the yellow tongue of ribbon drooping out. He reminded me of a portrait of Saint Timothy I had once seen. It could have been interpreted in one of two ways. The first was a dead man at last coming to peace with his tortures.
The second was a man burning in hell for his brethren.
Quietly, I stepped out of the darkness, bearing his daughter’s still form in my arms. The priest’s haunted eyes looked upward, centering on the limp body.
“You’re back,” he nearly croaked, dashing forward and coming to a rest with the girl between us. “Is she . . .?”
“She sleeps,” I knelt as he peeled off a blanket he had tucked about his shoulders to ward off the night chill, wrapping her in its damp folds.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank God.”
“That about covers it,” I nodded.
“Not quite,” Brother Cheviot hefted his daughter into his arms. “Please, come with me. How much is your regular fee?”
I followed out of curiosity. We went down the stairs of the concrete beast, the priest carefully setting Sophia on a worn couch at the bottom and sitting next to her. From the pocket opposite the cell phone, he pulled out a wallet, cracking it open and counting out bills from within. Since he had also asked, I gave him an honest answer. He didn’t wince, merely pulling out the currency and placing it on the edge of the couch. I picked up the money warily, counting it.
“Did you think I did this for money?” I asked, watching him closely.
“No,” he replied. “I just knew you had succeeded. I thought to repay you. I’m sorry if that was offensive.”
“No, it wasn’t,” I replied, studying the money once more before looking at him. “How did you know I’d succeeded?”
In answer, he showed me the ribbon. Both ends were clean and unblemished. I sniffed the tiny stripe of cloth, but could find no trace of blood, fresh or old.
Perplexed but feeling an intruder, I crept up the stairs, closed the door, and watched through the skylights as Brother Cheviot, exhausted, put his daughter to bed and fixed himself a bowl of soup. Finally, I took my prize and jumped, the night swallowing me.
“All right, thank you,” he hung up the phone, returning it to his pocket.
Invisible in the black of the night, I waited, curious as he took the steps up, a slow disgorging of prey. He stood watch at the golden doorframe, made whole once more, his features darkened with shadow, but able to be seen by me. He looked fabulously old, the shadows wearing thin lines into a starved face. From the pocket where the phone hid, his fist retreated, the yellow tongue of ribbon drooping out. He reminded me of a portrait of Saint Timothy I had once seen. It could have been interpreted in one of two ways. The first was a dead man at last coming to peace with his tortures.
The second was a man burning in hell for his brethren.
Quietly, I stepped out of the darkness, bearing his daughter’s still form in my arms. The priest’s haunted eyes looked upward, centering on the limp body.
“You’re back,” he nearly croaked, dashing forward and coming to a rest with the girl between us. “Is she . . .?”
“She sleeps,” I knelt as he peeled off a blanket he had tucked about his shoulders to ward off the night chill, wrapping her in its damp folds.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank God.”
“That about covers it,” I nodded.
“Not quite,” Brother Cheviot hefted his daughter into his arms. “Please, come with me. How much is your regular fee?”
I followed out of curiosity. We went down the stairs of the concrete beast, the priest carefully setting Sophia on a worn couch at the bottom and sitting next to her. From the pocket opposite the cell phone, he pulled out a wallet, cracking it open and counting out bills from within. Since he had also asked, I gave him an honest answer. He didn’t wince, merely pulling out the currency and placing it on the edge of the couch. I picked up the money warily, counting it.
“Did you think I did this for money?” I asked, watching him closely.
“No,” he replied. “I just knew you had succeeded. I thought to repay you. I’m sorry if that was offensive.”
“No, it wasn’t,” I replied, studying the money once more before looking at him. “How did you know I’d succeeded?”
In answer, he showed me the ribbon. Both ends were clean and unblemished. I sniffed the tiny stripe of cloth, but could find no trace of blood, fresh or old.
Perplexed but feeling an intruder, I crept up the stairs, closed the door, and watched through the skylights as Brother Cheviot, exhausted, put his daughter to bed and fixed himself a bowl of soup. Finally, I took my prize and jumped, the night swallowing me.
Last edited by Celeste Darken on Wed Sep 05, 2012 10:28 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Cybermancer
- Posts: 1071
- Joined: Fri Jan 20, 2006 10:41 am
- Contact:
Re: Experiences as a Nightwalker
Interesting story.
If it's true. Could just be a ploy to garner sympathy though.
What really calls the lie to this story is that you're supposedly out in the rain.
It's commonly accepted amongst many vampire hunters I know that a vampire can be destroyed by any source of running water. From rain to water guns. How prey tell do you explain that?
If it's true. Could just be a ploy to garner sympathy though.
What really calls the lie to this story is that you're supposedly out in the rain.
It's commonly accepted amongst many vampire hunters I know that a vampire can be destroyed by any source of running water. From rain to water guns. How prey tell do you explain that?
This account used to belong to someone else. Now it's mine. My first post on this board begins here.
"The strong polish their fangs,
While the weak polish their wisdom."
"The strong polish their fangs,
While the weak polish their wisdom."
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Celeste Darken
- Posts: 373
- Joined: Mon Feb 27, 2006 11:23 am
- Location: Inside the Darkness
It could very well be a ploy, Cybermancer
Cybermancer wrote:Interesting story.
If it's true. Could just be a ploy to garner sympathy though.
What really calls the lie to this story is that you're supposedly out in the rain.
It's commonly accepted amongst many vampire hunters I know that a vampire can be destroyed by any source of running water. From rain to water guns. How prey tell do you explain that?
Yes, it’s true that it is indeed, a commonly accepted belief that rain destroys us. Just as it was a commonly held belief that the earth was flat. But humanity knows better now, doesn’t it?
Mostly.
How do I explain it? I don’t.
Re: Experiences as a Nightwalker
What I found of interest is that you "heard" the man's prayer.
Dose this sort of thing, hearing thoughts from a distance, happen often?
Dose this sort of thing, hearing thoughts from a distance, happen often?
"In interiore homine habitat Veritas."
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Celeste Darken
- Posts: 373
- Joined: Mon Feb 27, 2006 11:23 am
- Location: Inside the Darkness
No, it isn’t a common occurrence at all for me . . . .
FriarJohn wrote:What I found of interest is that you "heard" the man's prayer.
Dose this sort of thing, hearing thoughts from a distance, happen often?
From my own experience, no; it hasn’t happened at all before.
Re: Experiences as a Nightwalker
Interesting.
I take it you suffer from the ordinary reactions to Holy objects?
As I have said, there is no such thing as an absolutely unsaveable sentient being, at least from the POV of soteriology. Also the Divine can use what ever tools come to hand. I'm willing to hear more.
I take it you suffer from the ordinary reactions to Holy objects?
As I have said, there is no such thing as an absolutely unsaveable sentient being, at least from the POV of soteriology. Also the Divine can use what ever tools come to hand. I'm willing to hear more.
"In interiore homine habitat Veritas."
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Cybermancer
- Posts: 1071
- Joined: Fri Jan 20, 2006 10:41 am
- Contact:
Re: Experiences as a Nightwalker
Only those who want to be saved, can be.
This account used to belong to someone else. Now it's mine. My first post on this board begins here.
"The strong polish their fangs,
While the weak polish their wisdom."
"The strong polish their fangs,
While the weak polish their wisdom."
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Celeste Darken
- Posts: 373
- Joined: Mon Feb 27, 2006 11:23 am
- Location: Inside the Darkness
Junkyard Space
Another chapter is due. My nights have not been spent in idleness.
I left the nightclub, and the alternative atmosphere within its walls, in a cheerful mood; sated in more ways than one. The night’s darkness was dimly lit by the waxing moon’s sliver as I walked under it, an eyelid drawing backward. The thin white eye in the blackness would be setting in just a few hours, but I didn’t mind. Vividly ablaze full moon or tightly sealed and newly born, it made no difference to me: the night was one of my truest allies, a lover who never betrayed and would accept my other paramours with graceful assent.
Dressed provocatively in heels, cutoff shorts, and spaghetti-strap shirt only slightly hidden by the short jacket, I expected to be approached by the three men as I crossed the street and skirted around another corner. They were stationed at one of the final streetlights in the city, huddled underneath its golden skirts as little boys about a campfire. Relaxed with hands at my sides, I spotted my destination some twenty yards away: a small shop, bedecked in shadows, its walls fashioned of tin and paperboard signs. The voluminous smells it exuded was somewhat masked by the tire banked junkyard behind it. At the top in blocky, washed out yellow letters outlined in navy blue, the sign read, Druselle’s Pawnshop.
Smiling, I crossed the final street and sashayed on over. Of course, the men saw me with my easy, unconcerned walk and imbedded themselves in my path. It would have been a simple matter to avoid them, but I was in a playful mood.
“Boys,” I grinned, winking and stopping coquettishly, striking a pose.
For the briefest of moments, the hesitated, unnerved, perhaps, by my overt show of nonchalance. They were all large, one too handsome to waste a life outside of the movies or modeling for dolls, another too mouthwatering to ignore. The third was forgettable and simply took up space; he wouldn’t be missed.
“Where’s a tender thing like you going off in such a hurry?” The Ken Doll movie star asked, his eyes scrubbing me over.
“There,” I said easily, flicking my chin past them. “I have business with your old lady.”
“Don’t think so, kitten,” Ken Doll flashed a grin, while the two behind him fitted their hands with brass knuckles and chains. “Come and play with us, instead.”
“Okay,” I shrugged coyly out of my jacket. “I’ll see her after you guys.”
Snarling bestially, Ken Doll charged.
I would have sighed if able, instead turning to the side and holding out my elbow. The cute lummox crashed into it with enough force to spit blood onto my face. Spinning so my back was flat to his impressive chest, I launched my fist into his jaw, catching his neck as he fell backward, and lastly threw him over my shoulder and onto his back, twenty feet away.
Mouthwatering and Forgettable ran toward me in a predictable and boring line. I leaped up, spun, and landed backward, latching onto Mouthwatering’s shoulders, swinging over him and smashing my heel into Forgettable’s face. A crack that wasn’t my shoes giving way was accompanied by him being thrown back. Landing with facile grace onto my feet, I gently kicked Mouthwatering’s legs out so he dropped to his knees, hugged him, and then kissed the side of his neck, my fangs penetrating his jugular.
He moaned, his thrashing lessening as I fed noisily.
My eyes glanced up as Ken Doll got shakily to his feet. White-faced and alarmed, he ran away.
Mouthwatering dropped with a dazed groan as I released him. Then, wiping the blood prickling the skin on my forehead and nose, I licked my palm clean and tilted my head, curious, interested, and amused. But I let Ken Doll go, watching him flee, marking his path and scent.
Then I picked up my jacket and strolled into the pawnshop.
I left the nightclub, and the alternative atmosphere within its walls, in a cheerful mood; sated in more ways than one. The night’s darkness was dimly lit by the waxing moon’s sliver as I walked under it, an eyelid drawing backward. The thin white eye in the blackness would be setting in just a few hours, but I didn’t mind. Vividly ablaze full moon or tightly sealed and newly born, it made no difference to me: the night was one of my truest allies, a lover who never betrayed and would accept my other paramours with graceful assent.
Dressed provocatively in heels, cutoff shorts, and spaghetti-strap shirt only slightly hidden by the short jacket, I expected to be approached by the three men as I crossed the street and skirted around another corner. They were stationed at one of the final streetlights in the city, huddled underneath its golden skirts as little boys about a campfire. Relaxed with hands at my sides, I spotted my destination some twenty yards away: a small shop, bedecked in shadows, its walls fashioned of tin and paperboard signs. The voluminous smells it exuded was somewhat masked by the tire banked junkyard behind it. At the top in blocky, washed out yellow letters outlined in navy blue, the sign read, Druselle’s Pawnshop.
Smiling, I crossed the final street and sashayed on over. Of course, the men saw me with my easy, unconcerned walk and imbedded themselves in my path. It would have been a simple matter to avoid them, but I was in a playful mood.
“Boys,” I grinned, winking and stopping coquettishly, striking a pose.
For the briefest of moments, the hesitated, unnerved, perhaps, by my overt show of nonchalance. They were all large, one too handsome to waste a life outside of the movies or modeling for dolls, another too mouthwatering to ignore. The third was forgettable and simply took up space; he wouldn’t be missed.
“Where’s a tender thing like you going off in such a hurry?” The Ken Doll movie star asked, his eyes scrubbing me over.
“There,” I said easily, flicking my chin past them. “I have business with your old lady.”
“Don’t think so, kitten,” Ken Doll flashed a grin, while the two behind him fitted their hands with brass knuckles and chains. “Come and play with us, instead.”
“Okay,” I shrugged coyly out of my jacket. “I’ll see her after you guys.”
Snarling bestially, Ken Doll charged.
I would have sighed if able, instead turning to the side and holding out my elbow. The cute lummox crashed into it with enough force to spit blood onto my face. Spinning so my back was flat to his impressive chest, I launched my fist into his jaw, catching his neck as he fell backward, and lastly threw him over my shoulder and onto his back, twenty feet away.
Mouthwatering and Forgettable ran toward me in a predictable and boring line. I leaped up, spun, and landed backward, latching onto Mouthwatering’s shoulders, swinging over him and smashing my heel into Forgettable’s face. A crack that wasn’t my shoes giving way was accompanied by him being thrown back. Landing with facile grace onto my feet, I gently kicked Mouthwatering’s legs out so he dropped to his knees, hugged him, and then kissed the side of his neck, my fangs penetrating his jugular.
He moaned, his thrashing lessening as I fed noisily.
My eyes glanced up as Ken Doll got shakily to his feet. White-faced and alarmed, he ran away.
Mouthwatering dropped with a dazed groan as I released him. Then, wiping the blood prickling the skin on my forehead and nose, I licked my palm clean and tilted my head, curious, interested, and amused. But I let Ken Doll go, watching him flee, marking his path and scent.
Then I picked up my jacket and strolled into the pawnshop.
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Cybermancer
- Posts: 1071
- Joined: Fri Jan 20, 2006 10:41 am
- Contact:
Re: Experiences as a Nightwalker
It sounds to me as though what you meant is that you let 'Ken Doll' go for now.
This account used to belong to someone else. Now it's mine. My first post on this board begins here.
"The strong polish their fangs,
While the weak polish their wisdom."
"The strong polish their fangs,
While the weak polish their wisdom."
Re: Experiences as a Nightwalker
Maybe she just wants to be best friends?
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Celeste Darken
- Posts: 373
- Joined: Mon Feb 27, 2006 11:23 am
- Location: Inside the Darkness
Druselle’s Apothecary
Cybermancer wrote:It sounds to me as though what you meant is that you let 'Ken Doll' go for now.
That’s one way to look at it, I suppose.
Daichan wrote:Maybe she just wants to be best friends?
At least there are some among you who see the absurdity of such a notion . . . but, no. Befriending him was not a part of my plans.
A low keen wailed as I opened and shut the door, fashioning a wind that swept across my skin improperly. It felt warm to me, although it might have had other effects on mortals. The keen drawled into the slow echo of a piano key, although the door, and the tiny bell fixed overhead, had stilled several seconds ago. When the noise fell silent, I stepped forward disturbing the mist that curled about my ankles little.
Sights and scents had assailed me before entering, but, stopping in the middle of the tiny shop, they struck with greater force. Faint illumination for the shop came from a moonlike orb wedged into a niche at the far wall. Clusters of various herbs hung from the ceiling by twine. Lidded jars stacked along shelves muted otherwise pungent smells. A brace of throwing knives were nestled in a leather sheet on the wall. Charms and bracelets glimmered unnaturally behind a glass box pressed to an immaculately empty counter.
“Druselle’s . . . ‘Pawnshop,’ hm?” I smirked.
“For discerning customers only,” the owner shuffled from behind the counter to greet me; a small woman with tarry coils for hair, lead-gray skin, and a mixture of hard and soft qualities, she fit the shop perfectly. “I hope my boys didn’t offend you too much?”
“They’ll survive,” I nodded. “If you take them to the hospital. The pretty one ran away.”
She waggled her fingers dismissively. “I can get others. What can I do for you, Lady of the Evening Star?”
Firstly, we took a few minutes for small talk; I didn’t like the news. Other business pressing, I steered the conversation toward my reason for coming, reaching into my inner jacket pocket, and unfolding a piece of paper with information I’d copied from memory.
“Which of these targets should I strike first?”
With my permission, she took the paper back behind the counter, donned a pair of spectacles, and perused my handwriting through the aid of a candle with a black flame when lit.
“Who is the client?” she asked, a hint of discomfort lining her tone.
“That is irrelevant,” I suggested. “And unnecessary for you to know.”
“Of course,” she apologized. “What do you wish to accomplish by striking these targets?”
“To give them a rather . . . bloody nose,” I grinned, baring my fangs. “Or to simply tear it off completely.”
“Then I would hit . . . here, here, and here, in this order,” she scrawled her opinions, again with my blessing, using what looked like a sharpened finger bone as a quill pen.
“Very good,” I nodded, glancing over, but not taking, the parchment. “Your payment for services rendered tonight, Druselle. And a little extra for old times’ sake.”
Her eyes gleamed a lusty scarlet when I held out the sealed packets from my other inner jacket pocket. She took them and stashed them away for later use. The older-looking woman was still eyeing the parchment when I had reached the door, my hand pausing atop the door handle.
“Oh, and Druselle?” I offered in parting. “This little exchange need only concern us, hm? You know, just between us girls.”
Nodding somberly, she pricked the corner of the parchment with her finger bone and held it to the candle. The flames were dark purple as the parchment burned to cinders. Satisfied, I walked through the door, my cheerful mood vanished.
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freerunner92
- Posts: 27
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2012 9:34 am
Re: Experiences as a Nightwalker
Oh c'mon. You applaud when my dad gets cut down in the street yet you let a bloodsucker run around loose?
What's up with you folks.
What's up with you folks.
Re: Experiences as a Nightwalker
Peter,
go for a run, we'll talk when you get back.
go for a run, we'll talk when you get back.
I will be who I chose to be.
