Vampire Story

Hi everyone *glares towards Pip and Raz to ensure they are here*

Basically, this thread was inspired by Raz complaining about the lack of true vampire stories being told to their full potential. Every vampire tale out at the moment seems to be obsessed with making ‘their’ vampires unique or adding some sort of quirk to the traditional vampire tale. We get all this talk about how the old vampire tale is ‘overdone’ or ‘cliche’, but to be honest, I haven’t really seen a traditional vampire story except for Dracula.*

Now, I propose this forum develops a vampire tale (or perhaps a serial?) involving vampires that fulfil many of the old vampire weaknesses and strengths. I was thinking of some sort of multi-generational epic, where a Vampire (not sure whether to name him. I’d prefer to have the Vampire as a mysterious force with no definite origin).

We could have a serialised series of stories written by different authors, set throughout history, with each story thematically linked by having the same primary Vampire in it, as he tries to kill off his ancient foe’s bloodline. We could eventually write in other plotlines as the stories build up (for instance, we remove the concept of a vampire conspiracy. People will find out about vampires, but they are rare and are seen as almost an urban legend, but some factions wish to exploit vampirism, or whatever. I don’t want to compromise what makes a vampire a vampire however. They are monsters. (No good guy vampires who just want to be human. THAT is overdone :P )

Now, as for the Vampire traits which I propose to use:

Aversion to sunlight (but because it weakens them, not kills them)

Aversion and deep disgust for Holy and blessed stuff (not just Christian stuff, but anything faith-related. So say a symbol of devotion to Mars would work or whatever.)

Allergy to silver (Not as crippling as True Blood’s silver weakness, and especially not as bad as Blade’s. Perhaps make silver)

Immense strength. Strength which will be used to its full potential in stories. For instance, think about how hard you could throw things when super strong. Think about what huge weapons they could wield without effort, and so on.)

Immense Speed. Almost fast as sound I’d limit it to imo. Again, used to its full potential.

Vampires don’t need to breathe, do not bleed, but also cannot heal without drinking blood (because they’re dead, and blood is part of the sorcery keeping these inhuman monsters standing).

They are corrupted evil souls, bound to their remains. As long as they endure, the vampire endures. Depending on how seriously you mangle them up, determines how long it’d take them to recover or be revived. Chopping the head off will last for a long while, blasting them to bits potentially kills them permanently. Killing them, burning the body then dumping the ashes into a fast flowing river will ensure the vampire is permanently destroyed.

Shape-shifters. Can turn into bats, wolves , serpents and various other sinister beasts. Staking a vampire in the heart immobilises it, and also prevents it changing form (as you have ‘pinned it down’ to one form as it were...).


Just some of my thoughts. If anyone wishes to write some coolass Vampire fics, I would love for you to add your thoughts to this potential setting.

Oh and also, here is a sample for an opening to the potential serial. Hope you like it guys:

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Vampire story sample:


It began when the sun was finally swallowed by the horizon, and darkness ascended across the sky. The castles high walls echoed with the ringing of the summoning bell; a call to arms for those inside. Those who knew what lurked below the rocky spur upon which the forbidding grey bastion stood. Through the endless sheets of driving rain, the defenders could make out the village, glittering amidst the dull downpour. It was burning already.

Shouts and barked orders passed between the Men at Arms as they ran towards their arrow slits and murder holes, dull burgundy jerkins bearing the proud heraldry of their lord: a golden Lion Rampant, ripping the throat from a bat. Crossbows were hastily wound, and longbows strung, even as the deluge rattled irritatingly across their wide-brimmed helmets.

The Lord and his exotic guests had already warned them what to expect from this new foe. The master had explicitly told them to remain hidden from plain sight until the enemy actually came within forty feet of the fortress walls. It was a bizarre stratagem to be certain, but the defenders were nothing if not loyal to their betters. One of the younger soldiers, clutching a crossbow to his chest, scowled, raising his head above the ramparts for a glimpse of the carnage below.

“We are to simply let them assail us? Without even returning fire in kind? This is insanity. The village beneath us is at most a mile from us. No man, no bow is strong enough to-“he began, before a black streak struck his head. The arrow struck which such force, it punctured cleanly through his helmet, skull, and out the other side, shallowly embedding itself into the flagstones behind the walls.

“Heads down! ‘Ware the mighty arms of these devils!” a Sergeant at Arms bellowed over the din of the storm, just as more dark speeding shapes sailed through the air at impossible speeds. The master had said the enemy was strong, but to fire from almost a mile’s distance without dropping took impossible force.

The bolts battered the defences over and over, splintering against the stone walls with a relentless clack clack clack.

One of the soldiers gave a startled shriek, as he noticed another black shape amongst the bolts, marginally thicker than the others. A bat. The startled man only managed to half-draw his lance axe, before the bat’s grotesque form rippled and ran like fluid shadow, before solidifying at a vaguely human shape. A blade lashed out, and he was bisected in twain with a single sweep. The beast was quick as mercury, laying into a clustered group of the soldiers with undisguised relish, twin scimitars sweeping around in devastating arcs. Blood splashed and spewed from every direction as bodies were eviscerated with the ease of languid gestures. The strange figure, clad in armour of bone, cackled and howled with infernal glee, licking great fangs clean of torrents of blood as it coated the monster.

The creature grunted in surprise more than pain, as crossbow bolts thudded into its flesh again and again. The other soldiers, regaining their composure, resolved to slay the creature themselves, bellowing all the prayers and holy wards they could think of as they unleashed bolts, threw spears and tossed heavy stones at the creature. The monster simply leapt aside with inhuman agility, his monstrous dive crossing from the walls to the stable buildings in a single mighty bound. It found no purchase on the thatched roof of the wooden building and simply toppled through in a storm of hay and splintered timbers.

The men at arms had little time to surround this foe, as a further volley of speeding arrows impaled a dozen of their number, piercing their bodies with such force they were disembowelled by singular shots. The men wailed in anguish, leaping for cover. This provided ample opportunity for the allies of the first beast to arrive, descending from the blackness on shadowy pinions. They returned to humanoid forms as soon as they reached the battlements. Three figures, clad in chainmail and wolf pelt, screamed into existence before the remaining men at arms, instantly drawing their blades and unfurling their claws. The men lasted scant moments, before their cries turned to strangled gargles as their bodies were ripped asunder gorily. The central monstrous warrior returned his gaze to his prize; the forbidding central keep that formed part of the rearmost tower of the castle. Slowly, the beast removed its hoplite helm, letting the archaic relic fall to the ground with a clang. Beneath the helm his pale head was shaven, black eyes ringed by coiling dark veins that sprawled across his skull like some bizarre and alien map of a language unreadable by man or beast. The creature smiled, pulling back pallid lips over its fearsome mouth full of fangs.

“The den of He Who Hunts. His brother was a fool to dream of this place before I drained him. The line of the huntsmen is close to extinction. I can taste it!” the evident leader of the beasts rumbled, his voice deep as no mortal’s voice could achieve. He gestured lazily towards the keep with his great sword.

The two vampires who flanked him, a hulking brute clad in mail and bearskin and a lithe figure clad in the archaic armour of a Centurion respectively, looked to their leader expectantly. Before he spoke again, he calmly moved his head to one side, a crossbow bolt narrowly whipping past his cheek. He turned his sneering gaze towards the towers which flanked the main keep.

“Clear the walls, and kill everything you find,” he muttered dismissively. He didn’t need to say anything further. His connection to his progeny was deeper than anything vocal. The two creatures nodded without comment, before sprinting into the darkness to fulfil their master’s wishes. Within moments, the echoes of screams could be heard on the wind, a distant accompaniment to this, the Vampire’s final victory.

With a smirk, he leapt from the twenty foot walls with all the grace of a wildcat. The keep was near, but he made sure to keep to the shadows of the buildings that surrounded the keep. He knew the mind of the Hunter’s lineage. He also knew that He Who Hunts had gathered allies, and drawn his fellow mercenary hunters to this place. He probably believed he was luring the Vampire into a trap, the unnatural beast sneered. He could see the strange shapes of bizarre weapons of slaughter through the gaps in the boards which covered the larger windows of the keep. Also, he noticed, a ring of powdered incense had been placed all around the base of the keep, and sigils of faith and vengeance had been carved into the wooden palisades and into the very gate itself.

The Vampire, in all its countless generations of existence, was nothing if not cautious. He prowled the abandoned buildings and storehouses that littered the courtyard of the keep, his black eyes glittering now with reflected moonlight which shone between the rolling banks of storm clouds.

Suddenly, the stable doors burst open with a roar, splintered wood flying in all directions, as the corpses of blood-drained horse was flung bodily from the structure, before landing with a wet thud upon the cobblestones before the keep’s forbidding arched doorway. This was followed by the sounds of braying horses, the thunder of hooves and the sodden squelch of tearing flesh.

Valstrade. Youngest of his sired brood. The Vampire groaned inwardly at the brashness of the beast.

He himself emerged from the stables, head to foot coated in gore, twin scimitars sheathed at his sides.

“There shall be no scuttling away to hide from us this day father! The Hunters will have to play if they are to escape their torment! Tell him to come out of his hole father! Tell him!” Valstrade bellowed, arms raised in cheerful exaltation.

The bone-armoured figure giggled as he noticed the keep before him. “Does he think mortar and stone shall hold us back my master? He is a foolish mortal!” Valstrade cackled, before he launched himself towards the gate with blistering speed.

~ Have sense you blood-dunk fool! ~ The Vampire exclaimed, his mighty will striking the young Thrall with a force of eons. Yet, this only made Valstrade falter.

The blood-drenched vampire ignored the warnings of his master, and struck his fists against the iron-barred timber frame of the gates. Through the wooden material noticeably flexed beneath the fearsome blow of the inhuman beast, Valstrade seemed to recoil from the wood against his will. The symbols carved into the material itched at his mind and made his long-dead bowels stir with life. For the first time in decades, the undead fiend felt the gnawing pangs of sickness. He stumbled backwards a few paces down the steps before the gate. Suddenly, thick black fluid fell upon him, drooling from between holes in the masonry overhang above the gate.

“Filthy mortal beasts... you thick I can be killed? I will drink deep of your children’s tears before I open them up for my own sport!” Valstrade hissed in hatred as he leapt towards the looming murder holes, talons flexing in eagerness.

It was then that the glowing embers of a dozen burning arrows sailed through the holes, striking the young monster in the shoulders and thighs. The flames met the Greek fire moments later, and the conflagration engulfed Valstrade in a consuming inferno.

The monster toppled from the steps, screeching and howling pitiful screams into the night air, flailing like a man drowning.

~ Come away from their walls you fool! You are weakened. They will destroy you if you stay within sight of them! ~ the elder Vampire informed his wayward Thrall, more with the cruel patronisation of a schools master than any form of concern. He was not a man, and was not beset by man’s pitiful empathy and passion. His only passion was the devouring of the innocent and the undoing of the hunter’s bastard line.

Valstrade still ignored him, consumed by indignant rage more than pain. His hair and flesh were blackened and smoking, lingering embers blazing beneath his flesh yet. His armour had fallen from him, the leather clasps and straps holding it in place burned through with ease. Yet the beast stood before the keep, scimitars drawn, skeletal jaws gibbering wordless curses from his tongue-less mouth. If the fool simply fled, his flesh could recover. Yet hubris, it seems, would be the beast’s undoing. Neither the Vampire nor Valstrade’s siblings in corruption would shed a tear over him. He was nothing but another rival to them.

Valstrade easily dodged the first assault; a screaming silver bolt launched from a ballista perched inside the keep’s upper gallery. He even evaded the first volley of speeding cannonballs as they were fired from snarling blackpowder weapons lurking within. Yet, Valstrade failed to escape the second volley.

The elder Vampire had seen such specialised shot several times before, fired from the gun decks of galleons, for the express purpose of de-masting an opponent’s vessel. Upon the weakened body of Valstrade, the spinning chain shot ripping ripped him into a dozen smouldering lumps of ruined flesh.

A great silence followed the demise of Valstrade. The elder snarled, fangs grating against each other in his rage. Though he cared nothing for Valstrade, it was disgusting to him that any vampire should be laid low by the efforts of mortal men; cowardly weaklings one and all. Still, if Valstrade’s remains could be retrieved, he could still live. The elder Vampire wouldn’t spare a single human. Thus, they could not truly destroy his Thrall.

Slowly, the mocking applause of the Vampire broke the silence.

“I tire of these games, Hunter. Will you come out to face your destiny, or are we to drive you out, like a pack of dogs hunting swine?” the Vampire bellowed across the courtyard dispassionately. There was no reply.

Immediately, the Vampire searched around himself, before grappling with the fallen timber of the stables. Hefting the vast central beam of what had once been the roof of the structure, he tossed the thick wooden log directly towards one of the boarded windows of the keep. The heavy length of wood struck its target like a battering ram, startled screams swiftly following its blistering passage. The barred window was smashed inwards, killing several mortals within. The Vampire could always tell when a man died. His scent, his blood, smelt different upon the wind. Dead blood tasted vile, it lacked the fear and the dread and the loathing which tainted living blood, as it was being drained.

The intoxicating taste of dying blood was all that kept the Vampire from killing all his foes from afar. This did not, happily, apply to architecture, he smirked, letting his will be known to his other thralls. The berserker and the centurion were finishing the last of the garrison force, drinking deep of their vital fluids with glee. At the call of their master, the slavering fiends dropped the limps bodies of their prey, and rushed to surround the keep itself. Plucking cobblestones from the floor of the courthouse grounds, the beast began to hurl the stones at the walls with the force of small mangonels. The barrage lasted hours, each blow pulverising small chunks from the grey walls in puffs of shattered rock dust and powder.

Eventually, the gates began to rumble open. From within, a veritable menagerie of humanity emerged. No two figures were similar, in appearance or armament. Bizarre totems of faith adorned each and every figure, from bone carvings and necklaces, to the distinctive stars of the Israelites and the crucifixes of the Empire’s monolithic faith. The Vampire barred his teeth in disgust at such a display of faith, his natural faithlessness writhing like a serpent around his cold black heart.

The vampires attacked as one, falling upon the hunters from three directions at once. The centurion hacked down a warrior in Byzantine garb with a backhand blow which took the warrior’s head. He managed to rip out the throat of another chanting warrior, who tried to impale him upon a Masai spear. He slew another two, before he began to feel the urge to flinch at the touch of the holy warriors, and fought with a tentative stance, hungry to butcher and feast, yet refusing to allow himself to get too entangled with the repellent figures. The slayers used this to their advantage, closing upon the figure with their lances and prayer books. A gibbering priest kissed a vial of water, before tossing it into the beast’s face. He hissed, ripping away the holy man’s face with almost a reflexive gesture, as he toppled backwards, clutching at his face, which bubbled and fizzed.

The berserker, clad in his barbaric pelt and mail, lay about himself with reckless abandon, cutting down scores of slayers with his two-handed axe. He roared and cursed as he killed, his tongue extended to catch every spilt droplet of blood as it spilled from ruptured bodies. His insane charge was stalled by the swinging of a censor, which struck his chest. Though the blow was weak by mortal standards, it was the moral force behind the blow which staggered the vampiric nightmare, sending him stumbling backwards a few paces. Bullets from slings and short crossbow bolts assailed the stumbling fiend, enraging the Norse abomination further. It was then that a hunter clad in a wicker mask leapt forth, and tossed a dull sphere towards the berserker. Dismissively, the brute batted the orb aside. As it did, the orb shattered under the force, and a cloud of silver dust burst from within. The Norse monster gasped and heaved as the purity of the metal powder burned his flesh, forcing the giant vampire to his knees.

The Elder vampire was like neither of his Thralls. He danced between his foes, gutting and draining each enemy with deft blows of his sword and almost lazy strikes with his claws. Their weapons could barely touch the beast as he wove himself between them with all the immortal grace his dark pact with the nameless one had granted him, so long ago. Already, the bodies piled across the yard, drenching the flagstones with gore.

Yet, the Vampire cared not for each hunter he slew. They were immaterial and playfully easy for him to unmake and devour. It was the man who stood upon steps before the gates who he had come to murder.

The man wore armour plated with silver, and etched with passages of holy writ and endless symbols of the cross. Even his overlying tabard bore the deep crimson cross. His shield was polished to perfection, like a vast mirrored slab. The short polaxe clasped in his other hand was well known to the ancient Vampire. The diamond-hard weapon had killed many of his Thralls, and injured more than once. He grimaced at the recollection as he squared up to the armoured man, who stood almost as tall as himself.

“In the name of Christ, I will undo your evils, demon of hell! In the name of Saint Michael, I shall cast ye bodily into the pit, as Satan was cast unto the inferno! Return to your devil!” the figure spat from beneath a heavy visor.

“Satan? I am far older than your fearful little faith, huntsman. I have conversed with older, fouler things than you could imagine. You have slain others of my kind, and perhaps beasts similar to I in aspect, but divergent in their whims and weaknesses, but you have never faced me, and I will never die. I am Vampire; I am singular and forever. I persist! Your fathers had more sense that you boy. It is almost a shame to slay you before I can break you. Your brother was far more obliging...”

The silver armoured warrior shuddered. Though the Vampire could not see his face, he knew from experience what the Hunter’s face would look like; a mask of ugly mortal wrath. As fleeting and paltry as all man’s emotions. The Vampire smiled, revealing his monstrous fangs once more.

“My brother died defying you. If I am to fall in the same manner, then so be it,” the Hunter growled.

“Your brother died for nothing. There is no great plan or life ever after this one, you simple whelp. He died, as you shall, and as all your ancestors did. Your future ends here,” the beast cackled, looking around at the piles of broken hunters, and at his own crippled thralls, who thrashed and hissed miserable complaints as they writhed on the ground pathetically.

The Vampire’s first strike was precise and utterly lethal. Like some singing comet, he raised his great sword and lunged forwards, faster than the eye could follow. The armoured hunter barely had chance to raise his shield or polearm. The two handed sword plunged through his plated armour as if it were simply not there, exploding from the back of the human warrior in a torrent of thick crimson viscera. The force of the blow knocked the shield from his hand in an instant, sending it skittering behind him. The strike had lasted barely two seconds. Yet, the Vampire, in his desire to end his opponent once and for all, had made a rare error of judgement. He had gotten too close. Far too close.

Even as he coughed up blood and his vision swam, the vampire hunter thoughtlessly grasped the Vampire as he drove the sword deep inside him. His gauntlets closed around the shoulders of the beast, the pure metal instantly reacting to the presence of elemental evil.

The Vampire’s black eyes widened fractionally, just as the silver visor of the hunter connected with his pallid features once, twice, and a third time. Each blow seared the beast as surely as a torrent of flame would, and as hard as a hammer blow. If the Vampire’s blood had been living, it would have streamed from his features like a babbling brook. Instead, a dirty black stain smeared the visor of the man, as the dark veins of the Vampire’s visage had burst violently.

Despite the awesome strength of the unnatural monster, the symbols of piety sapped his strength, and the silver seared his flesh. With all his remaining might, he twisted the sword in the man’s chest, licking his sallow lips with his black tongue as the wheezing human coughed out his blood, splashing through his visor.

“There is nothing for you! You will forever die! Only I am forever!” hissed the Vampire hatefully.

The Hunter’s mangled visor eventually came loose, and the two enemies looked upon each other. Much to the Vampire’s detestation, the man smiled through bloodied teeth. But what was worse was that the face which grinned defiantly at him was not He Who Hunts. No, the Vampire knew his face, and those of every previous member of that vile dynasty.

“The line of Hunter lives on!” the dying man laughed bitterly, even as the furious Vampire ripped him open with his sword, sending the bisected pieces in two opposite directions.

He howled in rage, a deep and terrible rage, dark and eternal as only the fury of an immortal could be. The brother must have lied, the beast considered as it licked the fresh gore from his hands. They were devious! Why did they always escape?

“Have we succeeded, Father-dearest?” the Centurion beast asked, its face a scorched mask.

The elder Vampire replied with a single sweep of his blade, which took the beast’s head from its body.

“No, we did not. Skallig, destroy this place. Burn every artefact. Dawn is coming soon, so make haste. We will be weaker by the break of the day. I do not wish to face any militia rabbles before I have had a chance to regain my strength,” the Vampire commanded, his face a cold mask.

The berserker nodded. “What of my brothers?”

The Vampire turned and shrugged. “Burn them too, and scatter the ash. I don’t need them anymore. I do detest rivals. I can simply turn more mortals once I locate the Hunter’s line once again. It is a trifling matter,” the Vampire rumbled dispassionately, turning from Skallig. He paused, and turned back to the hulking leech.

“Oh yes, and should you attempt to depose me, many have tried before. Their ashes litter the deep places of this earth. Remember that,” he added with a mirthless smirk, before he disappeared into shadow once more.




*( I understand there haven’t been any truly consistent portrayals of vampires either, but you know what I mean... :P )

I'd stress that they're preadtors and carnivores. But they don't just hunt via traditional means, they have appeal, sexual appeal on their side. Like a venus flytrap entices a fly, so too can a vampire use it's allure to ensnare folk. Though when their blood is up (pardon the pun) they can act like starved dogs and just be monstrous and bestial in their fury.

Their motivations should be too feed, when they're comfortable they'll play with their food like a cat will for it's own amusement. When they're hard done by in a new place, feeling stressed they'll not be after such cruel amusement. I'd not have them as evil, merely motivated by desires not of man. They desire only to kill people, it's what drives them and it's not evil it's what they're like.

I'm digging it. Except the 'not evil' part...

A cat playing with a mouse isn't evil, well it is by the traditional sense of human morality. The Vampire wouldn't think itself evil. It's just has the instinctual urge to make the women love it, and long to be fed from. It isn't a concious act of cruelty it's just the natural way of things for the Vampire.

Animals play fight, play hunt when they're not hungry, Vampires will play and their playing will be sick and sadistic to the onlookers but it'll be akin to an animal playing, honing it's skills and it's instincts ready for the serious business of the hunt.

Least that's where I'm at. So long as they're sexually charged predators I'm cool. (Obviously some vampires are more venus fly trap and others are more lone wolf in nature, they're not all everything).

Oh I understand you. Yeah these points should be emphasised yep.


Sexually charged beasts.



However,the primary vampire sort of is going to be evil, even by the standards of the other vampires.



Also, I like the idea that vampires remain in small numbers because they sometimes bump off their competition. Also, I think the blood kiss should be the standard you get drained by a vamp, who then gives you some of their blood to turn you.


However, I like the idea that vamp blood is permanently congealed and dead, black and thick like tar. Makes them creepy and horrid.

Awesome, LL, I'm totally connecting with what you're trying to do here.

What is your stance on things like garlic and mirrors? (don't think you mentioned them).

I'm leaning towards taking a modern slant, perhaps WWI or the Cold War.

Then again, I'd also like to do some vamp action in the British Empire era, vamps in the Crimea would be fun.

I definitely like the idea of following bloodlines through history, I think this could work quite well.

no reflections imo, and they don't like to eat garlic. But garlic won't blow them up or anything silly.


Empire-era vampires sound brilliant to me. somewhat like dracula, but not really. It could work.

Cool idea LL, I've got an idea for a semi-western one.

Brilliant LL! I'd personally love to take on modern era, probably because that's where I feel so many oportunities have been missed, if it isn't already taken of course!

I'd take vampires in the future? Or none at all.

Though a world war 2 vampire could be interesting, the war would provide an opportunity to be less secretive in their actions (vampires should fear the mob) and allow the vampires to grow somewhat cocky.

What would be the ethnicity of the main vamp? I assume he is to have an influence over the stories, though perhaps not named and our vamps will have a relationship with him (perhaps enemies, children, brothers, friends) and his existence would aid link the stories (as well as any thematic trends we wish to follow up on).

I probably won't write anything though, just demand my vision is made real by you lot.

Awesome, pure awesome. I really liked this mate, a epic idea! I did have several ideas, all of which have already been mentioned however :lol:

I do have one for WW2 and a Western one, although the latter would be slightly more complicated for me as I have far less knowledge of that period. Wouldn't this be best suited as a group story however?

I will throw in my gauntlet to write something, if you would want me that is :)

I do have one question: Would the same characters have to be used in each story? Im not sure I would enjoy writing for someone else's character see, and I have my own cool Vamp character which has been itching to have been wrote for since I started reading over Fantasy Vampire Counts!

No, you can have different characters in it. Just try to tie it into other people's stories. Oh and don't make your vampires good please. Morally ambiguous I could go for, but no self-hating emo-vamps allowed! :D

Keep to the abilities list also.


Oh and this is sort of a GS. However, we each have individual stories (posted here) which would form a sort of anthology. I could then tie them all together with the the original vampire plot.



P.s: I wish to add 'the ability to turn into mist/smoke' to the abilities list (but only for truly old and powerful vamps)

I see you tired of your original attempt at sci-fi vampires LL :). Anyhow, as Pip said, I do like what you're trying to do here, especially the 'over history' part of the narrative, which has some excellent opportunities for exploration of contemporary issues.* Am I right in assuming that this might be at least partially inspired (or fuelled) by your recent reading of a Dracula tale? I remember you said you particularly liked how the contemporary setting appears in the work.

*Perhaps one of our guys infiltrates a suffragette movement - lots of lovely female necks. Maybe one of them works at a coalface, luring young pit boys away into the dark tunnels of the mine. Spring-Heeled Jack and other such Victorian nicknames.

Yes indeed GR. I was in part inspired by 'Dracula the Un-dead', which showed a very detailed grasp of the history of the setting's time period.

Also, this was in opposition to the current rash of vampire tales and stories recently which try to modify the vampire concept and hijack it for their own ends. They create entirely new blood-drinking fiends then use the term vampire to fob us off into thinking they are the aforementioned beasties.

I want to reinstate the true monster vamps.


Also, spring-heeled jack is another great idea. There are literally thousands of idea which could be followed up. For instance, Rome. The gladiatorial arenas. Vamps in the sunlight would be weak, and thus we could see captured oens forced to fight against humans at midday and such. Medieval tales as with my sample above are always great.

Right then. I call dibs on a modern-day Vampire, hunting amongst towers of steel and glass. And yes, I will make it cruel and monstrous... this is me, after all....

I have every faith in you capacity for nightmarish mosnters Ra... ;)

I already called "dibs", but perhaps if we agree a different location for each of our stories it wouldn't be a problem to have two different takes on the modern era? It's a big world afterall.

Ok new rule: no dibbing! :P

*grumbles*

OK then, I suppose I can restrict myself to just modern-day London. I live and work there, so I'm somewhat attached to the place.

(;))

A shotgun makes a very distinctive sound when it is cocked. Though few people may have heard it in real life, the sheer popularity of the weapon in the media meant that the vast majority of people could identify the weapon through that noise alone. As a result, it could be considered a weapon of intimidation as much as destruction, which made it an eternal favourite of the criminal element of many societies.

“Alright, mate, hands in the air.”

The man with the gun was a rather excellent example of that criminal element. Scruffy, dirty, and clad in a battered old overcoat, there was precious little about him that looked even remotely trustworthy. The pinched, rat-like face hardly helped matters, or the gleaming shotgun that he held in gloved hands.

“The moon is rather nice tonight, wouldn't you agree?”

The man that he was accosting, here on this quiet old backstreet of London, was almost his complete opposite. Impeccably dressed in a tailored suit of dark red over a white silk shirt, he practically screamed wealth, if not necessarily taste. There was even a stylish wooden walking stick held loosely in one gloved hand, and a fedora neatly perched upon his head. In short, he looked like exactly the sort of man who had no business walking down a quiet backstreet of a major city at night.

“You what?”

The mugger was rather surprised, to say the least. This was far from the first rich kid he'd confronted on a cold night like this, but the reaction was certainly a new one. Most of them went along with it quietly, barely controlling the desire to piss themselves in fear, or else complied with a sense of affronted dignity. This one, however, wasn't even looking at the gun in his hands. Instead, he was just standing there, head tilted back to look up at the pale white orb of the moon, only just visible over the constant glowing of the street lamps. The moonlight reflected off of the highly polished lenses he wore, until his eyes were nothing more than a pair of gleaming orbs set in the darkness of his face.

“Luna, child, Luna! The maiden of the dark sky, staring at us lowly fools with lidded eyes as we scamper and caper for her amusement. She laughs at us all, I think, though softly, and from behind a delicate hand like a proper lady. I wonder.... but I am getting sidetracked, and I do apologise. I believe you were attempting to mug me. Would you like to continue?”

For one brief moment, the mugger was nearly overcome with a feeling of deep unease, a small voice that whispered in the back of his mind and told him to run like hell. Then the comforting weight of the gun in his hands reasserted itself, and the whimpering voice retreated to the dark place it occupied in the back of his mind. He raised the weapon and tried to inject a little snarl into his voice.

“Damn right I would. I want whatever cash you have in those lovely big pockets of yours, and you are going to be a nice little fellow and hand it over without a fuss. And that hat.”

The red figure seemed to freeze for a moment. “My.... hat? You want my hat?” his voice was refined and proper, each word and pause pronounced precisely with the faintest hint of amusement behind it.

“That's what I said, weren't it? Now hand it over.”

“No. No, no and thrice no, that simply will not do. The money is but a a trifling problem, but I am afraid that I simply cannot allow you to have my hat.”

The thug racked the shotgun in a meaningful fashion. “You like it more than breathing, mate?”

The scarlet figure cocked its head to one side, as though seriously considering the question. For the briefest moment the lenses were no longer reflecting the white glow of the moon and the entire face was shrouded in darkness, as though nothing more than a shadow wore the ostentatious clothing. The effect was somewhat disconcerting, and the thug had to stifle the urge to gulp.

“You know, all things considered, I believe I do. Honestly, breathing is rather overrated as an attribute, and many men could improve the world immeasurably if they simply.... stopped.” The tone of the man's voice remained steady, and he didn't move so much as a muscle, but even so there was something undeniably threatening about that last sentence. The thug decided then and there that it wasn't worth waiting around to find out how much further the insanity of the man in front of him went. He pulled the trigger.

There was a sharp, high-pitched whistling sound, followed by a dull cracking. Slowly, the shotgun fell from nerveless fingers, and dull eyes turned to the chest. The elegant wooden walking cane protruded from between the ribs like a javelin, and slowly the stained white shirt began to turn a beautiful crimson colour. The thug fell to his knees, and as his vision rapidly darkened, he got his first proper look at the face of the man who had killed him.

Beneath the shadows of the hat, the face was extraordinarily pale, almost like marble. A man could be forgiven for thinking that it had been sculpted rather than grown, especially when the glasses were carefully removed to reveal a pair of obsidian orbs in place of normal eyes. The thug's eyes rolled back into his head and his last breath left his lungs with a soft sigh.

“Should have listened to the voices, broken man. They were telling you to stay away from old Thane, but you just wouldn't listen. No one ever listens to the voices.”

The vampire straightened up, pulling the cane free with a soft squelching noise. He nodded to the corpse, and then strolled away down the street, idly turning the blood-stained wood over and over in his gloved hands.

ooh now I reall, really loved that Ra honestly! The dialogue of Thane was brilliant, in particular the speech about breathing. I also loved the descriptions of his flesh being like sculpted marble.

Also, the hints to a potential past for this figure are tantalising. I wonder, was he once an actual historicla Thane, before turning? Nice name choice anyway.

I have no idea :lol:

I just picked the name because I thought it sounded nice. Backstory is currently fluid. Which means I'll work it out later.

Hmm, this is interesting. I'm now tempted to write a short about Will from the Irregulars.

Perhaps his time in Venice in the early 1800s, methinks.

Also, I enjoyed that story Maugan, especially the rather eccentric, intellectual and slightly worrying character of Thane. A good a reminder as any as to why I read your stuff.