Waste
01-17-2009, 03:59 PM
‘He who walks through darkness is’ the writer paused, his quill hovering above the page, ‘He who walks through darkness is’ he shifted his position, tapping the nib of his quill against the parchment, leaving a series of ink blots, he pulled one thin hand through his greasy black hair. How to start a story that would be is life? ‘And unto the darkened steps of hell the mottled beast ensued the’ he screwed up the piece of paper an threw it aside.
He surveyed his desk, lit by a single white candle, a flickering flame sending ghostly shadows from his desk to the wall. The writer stood slowly, his chair protesting as he pushed it back. His quill left more spots of ink as it bounced on the desk when he dropped it. “He who walks through darkness” the writer murmured. “He who walks through darkness.” his accent was thick, he’d apparently once lived in France. He felt a chill enter the room from the open window, the window that hadn’t been open a minute before. “How would a man feel if he had been forever condemned to the darkness? Answer me that,” The writer turned to face the now open window, and the figure that stood in front of it “Answer me that, Vampire.”
The vampire came forward, into the light, his eyes were filled with agony, his body shaking. His fine hair fell past his shoulders but was heavily layered and shaggy to his chin, his face was perfect, pale, with smooth planes leading to high cheek bones and piercing blue eyes, he stood to just below 6 foot.
The writer was familiar with this silver haired vampire but never before had he seen the creature look so shaken, so sad. The vampire put his hand on the desk to support himself, his hungry eyes on the writer, and it was in that moment that the vampires friend knew his fate. Something horrible had befallen this creature of darkness and it was the writer who would pay in blood. He Didn’t bother to try and run, the writer had written many pieces about creatures running from vampires and every time they lost.
“Dante.” the writer whispered. “What happened?” The vampire shook his head, he looked anything but the beautiful creature he usually was, he was obviously grief stricken, and the writer knew why. “Did they find you?” he asked, his voice shaking, of course, why else would Dante have thought to come? “I didn’t have a choice Dante.”
Dante remained silent as he watched the pitiful writer, maybe this was something that would happen in one of his stories. If that was the case then the man knew what would have to happen next. Dante's body shook as he stepped closer, and despite the fact that it would do no good the writer found himself taking a step back.
“You killed my brother.” Dante said quietly, his usually light, caress of a voice now darkened by hate, anger and grief.
“Technically…”
“You told them where we were.” Dante accused. He took a long shuddering breath to calm himself, he wanted to enjoy this. Every moment of it, he could hear the writers heat beat, and he wanted to count every last one. He took another step, backing the writer up against the wall, he put his hands either side of his head.
“I’m sorry Dante.” The writer said quietly, Dante looked confused for a moment, then “HE’S HERE!” Realisation. He heard the rattle as the slayers tried to open the only door to the room, the writer looked a little surprised that the door was locked. He hadn’t locked it, Dante must have before he had made his presence known
Dante growled, he grabbed the mans face “He who walks through darkness, fears nothing” he hissed, raking his nails across the mans cheek, leaving deep gashes. He wouldn’t kill the writer yet, not when he could find another, more peaceful time, then he’d make the pathetic man hurt so much, he’d feel Dante’s pain.
The door was kicked open and two slayers entered, each holding a silver gun. “Where is it?” asked the first, the writer was sitting on the floor, one hand holding his bleeding cheek, his whole body shook. “Where is it?” the slayer asked again.
“Gone.” The writer whispered, “But he’ll be back.”
He surveyed his desk, lit by a single white candle, a flickering flame sending ghostly shadows from his desk to the wall. The writer stood slowly, his chair protesting as he pushed it back. His quill left more spots of ink as it bounced on the desk when he dropped it. “He who walks through darkness” the writer murmured. “He who walks through darkness.” his accent was thick, he’d apparently once lived in France. He felt a chill enter the room from the open window, the window that hadn’t been open a minute before. “How would a man feel if he had been forever condemned to the darkness? Answer me that,” The writer turned to face the now open window, and the figure that stood in front of it “Answer me that, Vampire.”
The vampire came forward, into the light, his eyes were filled with agony, his body shaking. His fine hair fell past his shoulders but was heavily layered and shaggy to his chin, his face was perfect, pale, with smooth planes leading to high cheek bones and piercing blue eyes, he stood to just below 6 foot.
The writer was familiar with this silver haired vampire but never before had he seen the creature look so shaken, so sad. The vampire put his hand on the desk to support himself, his hungry eyes on the writer, and it was in that moment that the vampires friend knew his fate. Something horrible had befallen this creature of darkness and it was the writer who would pay in blood. He Didn’t bother to try and run, the writer had written many pieces about creatures running from vampires and every time they lost.
“Dante.” the writer whispered. “What happened?” The vampire shook his head, he looked anything but the beautiful creature he usually was, he was obviously grief stricken, and the writer knew why. “Did they find you?” he asked, his voice shaking, of course, why else would Dante have thought to come? “I didn’t have a choice Dante.”
Dante remained silent as he watched the pitiful writer, maybe this was something that would happen in one of his stories. If that was the case then the man knew what would have to happen next. Dante's body shook as he stepped closer, and despite the fact that it would do no good the writer found himself taking a step back.
“You killed my brother.” Dante said quietly, his usually light, caress of a voice now darkened by hate, anger and grief.
“Technically…”
“You told them where we were.” Dante accused. He took a long shuddering breath to calm himself, he wanted to enjoy this. Every moment of it, he could hear the writers heat beat, and he wanted to count every last one. He took another step, backing the writer up against the wall, he put his hands either side of his head.
“I’m sorry Dante.” The writer said quietly, Dante looked confused for a moment, then “HE’S HERE!” Realisation. He heard the rattle as the slayers tried to open the only door to the room, the writer looked a little surprised that the door was locked. He hadn’t locked it, Dante must have before he had made his presence known
Dante growled, he grabbed the mans face “He who walks through darkness, fears nothing” he hissed, raking his nails across the mans cheek, leaving deep gashes. He wouldn’t kill the writer yet, not when he could find another, more peaceful time, then he’d make the pathetic man hurt so much, he’d feel Dante’s pain.
The door was kicked open and two slayers entered, each holding a silver gun. “Where is it?” asked the first, the writer was sitting on the floor, one hand holding his bleeding cheek, his whole body shook. “Where is it?” the slayer asked again.
“Gone.” The writer whispered, “But he’ll be back.”