and when the supercharged atoms of my body re-materialise, it is into a dead run, chest sawing, heavy soles pounding solid pavement..as though I could outrun destiny..as though I could chase away the demons hammering inside my head, careening like a derailed freight train on an unstoppable path towards self-destruction...tearing through the urban park, the playground and graffitied skatepark abandoned to the night and the hobos and bag-ladies who huddle on benches clutching their brown paper baggies, too drunk to pay attention to the streak of wild-eyed, six foot six behemoth, a killing machine, head to toe in combat leathers and armed to the fucking teeth... running until my muscles ache and my lungs burn in protest... until I'm bent double, hands braced on my knees, stomach knotted and heaving... gloved hand flexing, head whipping round in the direction of a rustle from the bushes, gunning for a fucking fight, nostrils flaring, fangs dropping at the unmistakable scent of another male vampire...melting into the shadows, cloaked by mhis... the scene pulls me up short..judging by the potent cocktail of pheromones leaching out his pores, the civilian male is fresh out of transition, lip-locked with the dark haired human female in a deep, passion laced, tongue-probing kiss..both shirtless in full skin on skin body contact, breasts crushed to the hard wall of his pecs, her manicured hands sliding the jeans down over the sculpted V of his hipbones, painted lips blazing a trail down the smooth planes of defined abs, his face a mask of erotic pleasure, bonding scent roaring into the night air, their gazes locked, a private, intimate connection as she sinks to her knees and.... Fuck!! Pushing a hand through my hair on a growled exhale...my brain trying on the scenario..trying to imagine what that level of intimacy, that relinquishing of control would even feel like...claustrophobic.. fucking terrifying.. nobody's fucking biz what I looked like below the waist.. tightly-controlled, my terms, hard-core, always masked, no mouth to mouth action.. willing bodies subjected to the most profane acts..hard, ground-out erotic couplings devoid of romance...how in fuck was I supposed to do this...sperm donor to a horde of virginal Chosen?...Jesus, was I even capable of getting off from that kind of straight sex?... Could I be trusted not to take out my depraved needs on them? Not to defile their innocence..a sexual deviant..to the fucking core...ghosting away from the scene of the two lovers.. staggering into the Caldwell night, strung out like a high-tension wire, the Primale pendant burning a hole in my pocket... body burning for release... needing to fuck..or fight... something...anything.. just needing to fucking feel something....or nothing at all.....}
*The parchment whispers from my hand in a shush of aggravated paper. Should not be so loud, but in the silence of my sanctuary it is deafening, a slip of the hand spilling the Old Language letters to the floor in a cascade of sheets and splaying innermost thoughts to the ground like a scattering of leaves. Naught but the death of self knowledge readying itself to be welcomed back into the soil of the Chosen and once again become a tree to shelter and protect the old traditions. I am a leaf, fluttering on a waning branch, clinging by mere fibres to the duties of the Chosen, trying to reattach myself to the sense of sisterhood such a holy bond should gift to us. But with every solitary moment passing in this sequestered temple my thoughts drift more from ceremonies, and prayers, the ritual words and rote actions becoming a tangle of woven silk in my head, freeing threads of...unChosenly desires. To be selfless is the most high of virtues,to put the greater good afore oneself. And I find myself sometimes selfish. Keeping myself from the other Chosen, being a sequestered scribe was only in part for the greater good, to record, to display our histories with pride...For me, I wanted to watch. Since young, the glittering crystal bowls fascinated me, portals to a world I could only dream of dreaming of, a place with...colour, though the true meaning of that word can never be described to its fullest, even in the bowls there is a lack of vitality to the images, though they move and speak, they love and laugh and die. My sight isn't oft guided, free to wander over the earth until the Scribe Virgin inquires of me to direct my writings to a certain place. And maybe, though I will admit to none but my own silence, I am hidden here of my own free will warriors to aid the Brothers in their war, to birth more Chosen to our vocations. He is the hope of the entire race...and I want nothing to do with him. Would rather dwell in the maddening seclusion of my temple, the other Chosen long leaving their roles to wait for their chance to serve as his bedmates, than give myself over to a male who is so reluctant to take up such a revered mantle that he drowns himself in the rage of a fight and contemplates ridding himself of the world...I have no words. I'd watched, ashamedly, as his conquests ripped through the world, from continent to continent, a killing machine of sharp, cunning intelligence and a lethal hand, no doubt under the Bloodletter's training he had acquired such skills...and his meetings with females...made my skin heat in a flush that was unseemly for one as me, blood sought out in the midst of carnal unities should not be so rousing. I'd watched as my sisters cooed and flocked to prepare for him, like the Dearest Scribe's birds fluttered gracefully to their tree, offering up their beauty to his grace on an altar of of the race. It was a commitment their duty obliged them to enter into and their naivety led them to want. And he wants nothing to do with any of us. Scorning the Dear Virgin's offers, disrespecting her Highness, the Primale set about to ruin himself, running from a panic I dare not look too closely upon, a frantic darkness shadowing his soul and trapping him in a claustrophobic shell of duty. I know it well, that look. The Great Mother told me to watch, to record, to scribe every little detail of everything he did. Why? To tell future generations how reluctant a male of great worth was to save our world. With a wary eye on the bowls, my curiosity locks in to swirling images, the scrolls are once more gathered to aid me, quill flicking perfect characters in a detailed inscription that intertwines the past and the present in a flow of fated decisions. I will be here...until I am called...until I am chosen.*
{Finding no lesser prey on the slick streets of downtown Caldwell, my feet carried me to the familiar hunting ground of ZeroSum. The look from the Moor, I'Am, on the door says it all. Loose. Fucking. Cannon. Grateful for the visceral, thumping soundtrack to quash the lyrics of Five Finger Death Punch's 'Remember Everything' that have dogged me ever since I woke in the penthouse... Despite the ear-bleeding pump and grind heartbeat of the club, the pounding of my shitkickers sets up vibrations, like a Tyrannosaurus fucking Rex, sending the club rats scurrying from the palpable aura of menace. And fuck, if that wasn't exactly what the Brotherhood had become, dinosaurs, a straggle of warriors on the verge of extinction..Feeling the weight of an impassive, gunmetal grey stare.. shooting the androgynous head of security an arctic glare...bored indifference as she unhooks the rope to the VIP section..fuck, what remained of our numbers could fit around this one booth...planting ass into the slice of club real estate the Brotherhood laid claim to, as the cattle market of silicone enhanced tits and ass resume their vulture circling of the bleary eyed, fat walleted punters... I picture each of my Brothers' faces as we've sat around this table gum flapping, mentally striking off the reasons why none made better man-whore material than myself..man, you had to hate the Scribe Virgin's logic...and we would dwindle further..unless some fucker stepped up to the plate as the Chosen's stud to breed a new generation of warriors ... Twining the silk cord of the Primale pendant in gloved fingers, the carved gold catching the light as it twirls... clockwise..anticlockwise Yippeekayay, motherfuckers, guess who just pulled stallion duty...happy fucking birthday to me, true...the shake is back in my hand...I'm coming apart at the fucking seams, leaking the messy, fucked up guts of my life all over Caldwell...thank fuck my Brothers didn't choose tonight for R&R... couldn't look the SOBs in the eye right now..shit if they'd witnessed that dirty old man voyeur routine I just pulled in the park..Jesus..they'd be roasting my balls over that shit for centuries, true...and I needed jeering, bleeding heart spectators to the train-wreck that had become my fucking life like a bullet to the fucking brain right now} <<It's real pretty...who's the lucky girl?>>
*an exhale...not loud at all but weighted with an exhaustion I should not be feeling. My third time this eve checking the glistening bowls, a compulsion, an addiction perhaps. I cannot be faulted. I am under order to watch. I am doing naught wrong, but something brushes my conscience, that this spying upon the warrior, the reluctant Primale, is...improper. My glimpses of his world are dark and tormented, twisted in shadows and written in black ink and blood. It is a mess I cannot comprehend, a spill on the marble of life and he is fighting to clean the growing pool of...what is the word? I know not, a Chosen is not educated in curses and vile vocabulary. Her Highness really turned his world upside down, unleashed a burden of such magnitude, I can fathom not how any male took up the mantle...and this one, this male she chose, is not faring so well with the pressure. The images move as he does, shifting at his command not mine, as if they too are drawn to observe him...beyond the call of duty...Yes...I watch when I am not called to...an...addiction. Half concentrated on the words filling the parchments, I very nearly miss the curious exchange, the switch in the male’s demeanor. Fire, power, arousal breaking through fight and panic. Over what? A female? A tickle in my throat, the beginning of something primal tamped down and restricted by propriety. She is familiar. He has encountered her before, he knows her, but it is not in relation to him that she stirs in my mind. Something far worse than observing her mating hungers for him coaxes forth memories of blood and violence, dream like, reaching out to touch a strand of images before they slip from my grasp and I am left to release the rasp in my throat on a growl. I do not need a mirror to know my eyes are vivid with emerald light, that they glow with an emotion that isn’t really mine, a strange emotion that warps in the recesses of my knowledge and brings the equivalent of violence to the forefront. I want to...hurt her? For the words that come from her mouth? The blatant invitation? Yes. She threatens to taint the Primale. She is not Chosen, and he belongs to me. We. Us. She cannot touch him. The bowls shimmer as he thinks, the future rippling across the surfaces, ten different endings to this scenario. All he has to do is decide and cement the path. If she touches him...Eyes averted swiftly, the itch in my throat starts its incessant vibrations, the growls tightly restrained and pulling for freedom. I will not watch. I cannot watch.*
{Fists wringing the metal bar, punching down the lever of the fire exit to spill out into the quiet of the alley behind ZeroSum, replacing the air in my lungs, the mingled scents of the club and the female, Caith, with the familiar draw of Turkish tobacco, the hand rolled stuck to my lower lip as I tuck the damp tails of my shirt back into the waistband of my leathers, exhaling a low growl along with the smoke...damn Brother chaser got off on it when I'd forcibly removed her hands from my body, and when I made it crystal clear we weren't playing games, well, gloved hand scrubbing over the souvenir trio of bloody scratches on my neck, shirt cold and wet, plastered to my abs where she'd aimed her drink...I walked away, and didn't look back. Tempting as a hard, rough fuck was right now, and fuck knows the female's aggression baited my dominant instincts, I gave the Scribe Virgin my word, and however screwed in the head, I remained a male of my word. Rough edged, strung out on Goose and a bad case of the frustrates, finding myself trolling for a fight through the concrete labyrinth of Caldwell's backstreets and alleyways, casting angular shadows in the glow of the streetlamps, eventually doubling back through the park, shitkickers picking up a longer stride as I approach the place I'd watched the couple earlier in the night, no fucking jones to revisit that choice episode, true, but the hot metallic scent drifting downwind and setting my fangs on edge is unmistakable.. pushing through into the clearing...mother of FUCK!!... mouth and nose shielded with the back of my hand as my stomach lurches a heave-ho. I recognise the manicured nails... the human female hadn't stood a chance, throat sliced ear to ear in a yawning, macabre smile, twisted limbs, head lolling at an unnatural angle... blood everywhere, blood and the cloying, sickly sweet stench of lesser...dropping down on one knee at the civilian male's side.. face beaten to a dental-records pulp...he'd put up a fight, clearly...jagged defensive wounds scored bone deep across the back of both forearms... but whatever took him down was stronger... belly sliced open throat to groin like a goddamned butchered animal, organs and guts spilling out of the wound in a gaping hot mess.. jerking back on a growled reflex as a hand shoots up to lock around my gloved fist in a desperate, bloody death-grip... wretchedly hanging on to a thread of life, death would be a release for the kid...and fuck if this wasn't some grim metaphor for the mess I was in, for the plight of our race, hunted to the verge of extinction by an ever replenishing source of evil...coming apart at the seams...all the King's horses and all the King's fucking men, true...pretty soon the King will have no men, if you don't man the fuck up, Primale...anger cranking up inside of me to the point of violence, the truth of it hammered home hard, the future of the race spilling out onto the dark patch of grass}
*Sleep is not a place of dreams for this repose, only blood and substituted images, my mind filling in the space of what I could not watch to the point I wonder if I have slept at all. The brain funnels horror into my head, things I have observed swirling to create the nightmare of the unknown. Of course he would have touched her, she was offering paradise to a male who was straddling the gates of a hell. How long, perhaps, until the bowls are safe for my vision? I know not, but they call to me already, singing their liquid songs of resonating crystal, the present drawing me down into watery depths and bidding me observe. Ever obedient, I cannot naysay the command, bare feet silent on brilliant white marble, robes gathered against a chill that is in my mind, the same temperature throughout creating no cause for any cold....but I feel it, the icy shiver rising as I slip warily into the straight backed chair, forcing my lashes to lift on hesitant emerald eyes...What if he is still with her? What if he is tainting himself with her...what if....my thoughts stutter mid question, eyes peeled wide...for there is no beast with two backs upon the surface of the bowl, merely floods of blood, thick, viscous discoloured with various other bodily fluids. My will sharpens, directing the scope of my vision to pull back, to gift me the entirety of the scene in detail. A massacre, a slaughter, members of our race poured out in a park, insides no longer inner, hearts no longer serving their purpose, no beat, no breath, still in gutted death...The warrior is pained. His knees melting into the sludge of the couple's life.. my head bows in silent, rapid prayer, to catch the soul before it truly departs the males form, his body clinging in a last search for living comfort from a male who has never known any, before he is embraced into the Fade by the welcoming arms of our Creator. His light extinguished, folded into the blinding brilliance of Her love, I turn my attention back to the warrior, the Primale, his massive body so small in the spreading pool of death. I would tend the human woman's rites only so far to guide her to her heaven...she could not follow her male. The thought struck a chord of sorrow in a form so used to witnessing the passing of others. To be parted from the one you love, even in a heaven would surely be chaining one in the most hellish of all hells. So torn, he is, rocked back on his haunches, so lost as his thoughts flicker and turn mercurial in diamond eyes...far from this world, I doubt he sees anything, not the shadows closing in as the moon travels her starry palace, not the shudder of abhorrence that nature takes up as pale evil slips through the moon's light his sight turned inward, on whatever demons are dancing through his mind...but there is one so very real and closer, the glimmer of metal rising a warning in my throat that escapes before it can be silenced, breaking the stillness of my sanctuary with fear laced horror as evil makes it's shadow concealed move towards the future of our race....and all I can do is watch. Infuriating. All I can ever do is watch*
{Free hand buried in my hair, yanking hard at the roots. What was my fucking problem? The race was at war, Caldwell the theatre of combat where the Lessening Society were currently kicking our asses. Any fool could do the maths, a handful of Brothers against the rich pickings of human scum the Omega had to draw upon for recruits...even this one civilian death was too fucking many...it was just biology, true. Simple friction, thrust and repeat, thrust and repeat until the male ejaculates, fuck knows I'd done worse shit in the name of the Brotherhood.. being Primale would be a walk in the fucking park.. slamming the door on the inner monologue when the male's glassy eyes lock onto mine, pleading, panic-stricken, drawing on his final breaths
*my heart is a living entity in my throat, pushed up from behind heaving ribs to lodge and restrict, strangling my breaths with an iron fist of terror. By the Dear Virgin Scribe, of all I have observed of his life, his past, his wars, this feeling never gets easier. Watching him...fight. I can almost, almost forget that I am alone in a cave of scrolls and leather bound books, that the light cast up in the bowls is really fluorescent streetlamps and not the glitter of a candle’s flame. The shadows peeking over my shoulders are a cape of darkness...the same cape that caresses the reluctant Primale as he stumbles, a violent slam from a boot sending him reeling into a stutter of motion. Disoriented, off balance, the spawn of evil landing blow after blow, kick after vicious kick to the stunned warrior. Fight, for the love of the Dear Scribe, fight! Blood streams, colouring leather red with heavy saturation, bruising flesh, tearing it with every strike, ripping through the barrier of skin as though the lesser was fighting not only to kill, but to disembowel. To annihilate us all in one fell swoop. For sure we could find another Primale. But none so worthy, none so pure, none of the Scribe Virgin’s own holy blood. None would bear the strength, the power of the race on his shoulders. None would gift the Chosen with great warrior young...He is weaving in the face of chain linked assaults, slashing attacks that snap ribs and fracture bones. I am choking on my terror, begging him to fight....and then my prayers are answered. Her Highness' intervention or his brain clearing off the force of the kicks, I know not but the battle is not so one sided anymore and crimson is not the only colour painting the ground in macabre designs. A beautiful predator like the big cats that prowled the jungles, brutal and feral as he tears a sanguinary scene throughout the park. He is violence in motion, war and death in the form of a male as he stalks the lesser, such power, such fluid lethality in the cords of muscle lining his body, a weaving, slightly off kilter defensive offense parrying cracking slams of the chain and vicious kicks, returning the pain tenfold unto the revolting frame that wears evil like an inky skin. And while I admire and assess the battle honed skills that turn him to a creature of violent efficiency, the fear pulses around my breath, tightening the column of my throat until I hiccup air. The less pleasant half of a primal dichotomy. I could watch him fight forever...and yet I detest when anyone fights him. The merest show of his blood on an enemy blade turns my veins to lines of anger and my heart to a drumbeat of horror and panic. I am praying, offering up no real praises just demanding the fight does not go the way I fear, the two matched, brutal, relentless, bloodthirsty...but only one has the force of a chain at his side, the evil resolve to destroy our hope...the darkness sometimes beats back the light, shadows occupy and as the chain whips out on a vicious swinging lash, my eyes are locked to the scenes before me....watching the shadows move into position to take out our light*
{With the adrenaline of battle saturating my body, I am beyond pain, each blow an endorphin rush that merely cranks up the savage rage transforming my body into an instinctive fighting machine, my heart merely the pump fuelling the onslaught of punishing blows delivered to the lesser's body, a chaotic blur of fists and boots and slashing steel, until he swings the chain again, the familiar droning whine of metal slicing through air, only this time my gloved hand whips out to catch it mid-arc, yanking it free of the slayer's grip, one jagged end curled into my lead-lined fist, wrist snapped back, whipping out a precision lash that sees the razor-edged links winding around the the Lesser's throat in an ever-tightening ligature, chalky hands at its throat, fighting strangulation, the advantage seized, one heavy shitkicker cracking a kneecap, slamming the fucker sunny side down, knees punching between its shoulder blades, massive arms pretzeled, torquing until I feel the satisfying give of sockets popping and the slayer sings out his blood curdling screams of agony yanking a fistful of that chalky white hair, cracking the SOBs skull off the pavement like a fucking egg, over and over until the black brain matter splatters the ground, a tarry inkblot spreading on the ground. I could keep it alive, keep it feeling pain for eternity..that was the thing with these undead, soulless stinking fucks..you could incapacitate them, but they still wouldn't die, they kept on thinking, feeling ..until someone put them out of their misery... and that was the difference between us and them, we understood mercy, deep down, I hoped I had a soul...the blade plunged between the lesser's shoulder blades, punched deep with a hard twist and the park lights up bright as fucking day, that one action nailing any lingering doubts I had about becoming Primale. We would win this fucking war and if that meant breeding an army of cursed and glowing warriors to unleash on these motherfuckers, then so fucking be it. True.............}
*it was done....the light filled the bowls, flashing over their surfaces as evil gave out in a blast of purity. The decision has been made. The Directrix soon would call upon my sisters to tell what I already know, the future shifting in watery crystal to realign and show new paths...there were always branches, no one future was set solidly in stone. Free will makes it fluent, always in flux, I could see a single person's life in a million different ways, from birth to death, immeasurable ways to live, to die...all based on how you thought how you chose to walk your present....and as the happy delight of my sisters filters through the walls, the bowls are only filled with white, blinding, pure...I cant see him now. My vision has been revoked for the time, Her Highness gifting her only son some measure of privacy as the mantle settles heavy across his broad shoulders. The Primale will change everything...and I will stay hidden behind my sanctuary doors, making sure that something stays the same. The present, however in flux, needs to be recorded. That will never change.*
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