Post by The Crimson Reaper on Dec 8, 2013 12:29:42 GMT -5
1...2....3...
His finger traces the rim of a wine glass, going round and round. The glass is perched on the arm of the luxurious high-backed chair Vladimir sits upon. His legs are crossed and he leans his head on his hand, the limb resting on the opposite arm of the throne. His long, claw like fingers painted with blood, curl underneath his chin. His face is creased by a snarl, a look of bored contempt.
-Eight hours earlier...-
The veil of night shades Vladimir's movements between the crowded trees lining the perimiter of the Von Larkman estate. The mansion before him is alive with its inhabitants. Many times before had he scouted this home. Many times before had he counted the occupants: The live-in maid, the Baron Bartholomew Von Larkman, his wife Eleanor, and the two children, Master Samwell and Lady Lucille.
He approaches the side of the mansion, darting between the decorative hedges filling the gardened grounds. The thirst called for him once more, and he eagerly responded. The gleaming eyes narrowed, focusing on the spacious window viewing the family at their dinner. He sits there, watching the scene before him as minutes pass in moments. Contempt swells Vladimir's thoughts, fueling that unholy blood-lust. Soon, they begin excusing themselves from the meal time. Like clockwork, he springs up from his position and begins scaling the side of the house.
Coming naturally to him, he digs his fingers between the small spaces allowing for a grip against the large structure. His form slithers upward and through a window on the second floor. On his previous visits he had been in this room as well. It was the lad's bedroom, young Samwell who was no more than seven. No thought enters the Hemomancer's mind. No thought other than a constant desire....his only desire. Another hour or so passes by, Vladimir clinging to the underside of the child's bed, when the door swings open.
"But I'm not tired!" The whining of the small boy sounds.
"Young masters require their sleep, Sam. Don't you wish to be strong like your father?" Another voice, this time lighter, more feminine chimes in, attempting to quell the resistence of the lad.
"But....I'm not...!"
"No 'buts'. Off with you."
"..Ugh!"
"*Sigh* If I bring you some warm milk, you'll surely go to bed quietly, yes?"
"Okay..."
The sound between the two is like indiscriminate noise shifting in pitch to Vladimir. Only concentrating on their pulse...only listening to their heart beat as he lay in wait. The pitter-patter of footsteps goes off in two directions: one approaches the bed while the other dies away into the distance. Now the pulse grew loud, and the thirst desperate. Now Vladimir could wait no longer, and he lept from underneath the bed, snapping the neck of the child in an instant. It was quick, and the being fell limp in his cold clutches. No blood spilled, he begins a nefarious action, first by splitting open the neck he holds.
'One'
Footsteps began approaching the hall. The maid had arrived with the drink and he had resumed his invisible state, this time situating himself above the doorway, sucked up against the wall and ceiling.
"Sam~! Oh, what did you do to the lights? Are you already asleep?"
"..."
"Samwell~?" She inquires once more, approaching the bed.
"..."
"..Sam?" This time her voice is laced with concern as she furthers her investigation, tugging at the bed sheets. A puddle of blood stains the bed
"SA--" She begins to call out only to be silenced by Vladimir's long claws impaling her from behind, piercing a lung and her heart. She collapses before the boy, the bed, and the Hemomancer.
'Two'
Taking a moment to lick clean his fingers of the precious fluid, he revels in the horrid acts he had just committed, eager for the rest of the family. His hair is in disarray, his posture stooped in a vicious stance as he exits the room and stalks out into the hall. The remaining prey still reside downstairs. Vladimir readies a 'souvenir' he took from the child when approaches the balcony.
Below sits Baron Von Larkman, lazily browsing a book and his wife doing much the same. The fireplace crackles with a vibrant flame. It dances flickering shadows across the parlor. The silence, the peace, the ugly serenity bothers Vladimir, his face curling into a wicked expression, sneering at their utter complacency. Their shared comfort. With this he tosses what he held in his hands. It tumbles about the air, thuds against the hard floor and rolls into their view. They shriek in horror at the head of their youngest child, fumbling in response.
A cackle echoes from the perpetrator before he climbs up and leaps into the confusion and hysteria, landing on the man. Time seems to slow for Vladimir, watching as the baron begins spasming in response to Vladimir's barrage of slashes. The blood explodes outward, cascading across the floor, splashing up and over. The baron is masked in pain and fear and Vladimir's mouth curves into a smile. Eleanor screams in shock, surely beckoning the other child, the girl.
Vlad finishes Bartholomew, slamming his head into the wood floor until his skull caves. Still crouched over the man, Vladimir turns slightly to face the lady of the house, extending a gorey arm as he does so. She convulses, as a torrent of blood rips out from her skin. The tides of blood gather around Vladimir's hand in a ball as he manipulates it, still howling with a maddening laughter. He then disperses it in a shower.
'Three, four'
Lucille appears in a flurry at the entrance from another room, taking a moment for the events to register. Gasping, screaming. She turns to run but like lightening, the monster is upon her. She struggles, tossing out whatever kicks or punches she could but he proves overbearing.
"Come, my dear! Experience my 'Sweet Death'!" With that, Vladimir turns the girl over, tearing her dress from her form. He repositions himself on top of the blossoming female who looks to be a mere 17 or 18. She sobs, tears mixing with blood in a sick brew. A beginning thrust plucks the flower of her youth, and he pushes down on Lucille.
Soon his pace quickens, his thrusts becoming worse, more brutal. Faster, faster! He feels the pulse of life flowing through him and he nears. The claws sink into the alabaster limbs he pinned to the floor, drawing blood as he watches the innocence drain from her pretty face. Every drop of beauty is twisted into its ugliest, most tragic shadow. At the climax, he focuses on her life force, sapping its energy. His release begets hers, and Vladimir unleashes the bestial degeneracy of the moment, causing her heart to explode within her chest.
His breathing is rapid but starts to slow. The demon basks in the horrible glory of its conquest, leaning back and drinking in the flavor of death its caused.
'Five'
-Present..-
1...2...3...
Vladimir continues to ring his finger around the rim of the glass, again and again as he had been for the past few hours. For now the thirst is sated and he, bored.
..4...
The events that transpired that night replays in his mind, like a film. He watches it, dissatisfied. He rises from his seat, letting the glass shatter upon the ground. The clacking of his boots against the hard wood floor resounds as he steps over his mess, the bodies piled around him in a sick circle of worship.
'Dawn is coming...'
..5
His finger traces the rim of a wine glass, going round and round. The glass is perched on the arm of the luxurious high-backed chair Vladimir sits upon. His legs are crossed and he leans his head on his hand, the limb resting on the opposite arm of the throne. His long, claw like fingers painted with blood, curl underneath his chin. His face is creased by a snarl, a look of bored contempt.
-Eight hours earlier...-
The veil of night shades Vladimir's movements between the crowded trees lining the perimiter of the Von Larkman estate. The mansion before him is alive with its inhabitants. Many times before had he scouted this home. Many times before had he counted the occupants: The live-in maid, the Baron Bartholomew Von Larkman, his wife Eleanor, and the two children, Master Samwell and Lady Lucille.
He approaches the side of the mansion, darting between the decorative hedges filling the gardened grounds. The thirst called for him once more, and he eagerly responded. The gleaming eyes narrowed, focusing on the spacious window viewing the family at their dinner. He sits there, watching the scene before him as minutes pass in moments. Contempt swells Vladimir's thoughts, fueling that unholy blood-lust. Soon, they begin excusing themselves from the meal time. Like clockwork, he springs up from his position and begins scaling the side of the house.
Coming naturally to him, he digs his fingers between the small spaces allowing for a grip against the large structure. His form slithers upward and through a window on the second floor. On his previous visits he had been in this room as well. It was the lad's bedroom, young Samwell who was no more than seven. No thought enters the Hemomancer's mind. No thought other than a constant desire....his only desire. Another hour or so passes by, Vladimir clinging to the underside of the child's bed, when the door swings open.
"But I'm not tired!" The whining of the small boy sounds.
"Young masters require their sleep, Sam. Don't you wish to be strong like your father?" Another voice, this time lighter, more feminine chimes in, attempting to quell the resistence of the lad.
"But....I'm not...!"
"No 'buts'. Off with you."
"..Ugh!"
"*Sigh* If I bring you some warm milk, you'll surely go to bed quietly, yes?"
"Okay..."
The sound between the two is like indiscriminate noise shifting in pitch to Vladimir. Only concentrating on their pulse...only listening to their heart beat as he lay in wait. The pitter-patter of footsteps goes off in two directions: one approaches the bed while the other dies away into the distance. Now the pulse grew loud, and the thirst desperate. Now Vladimir could wait no longer, and he lept from underneath the bed, snapping the neck of the child in an instant. It was quick, and the being fell limp in his cold clutches. No blood spilled, he begins a nefarious action, first by splitting open the neck he holds.
'One'
Footsteps began approaching the hall. The maid had arrived with the drink and he had resumed his invisible state, this time situating himself above the doorway, sucked up against the wall and ceiling.
"Sam~! Oh, what did you do to the lights? Are you already asleep?"
"..."
"Samwell~?" She inquires once more, approaching the bed.
"..."
"..Sam?" This time her voice is laced with concern as she furthers her investigation, tugging at the bed sheets. A puddle of blood stains the bed
"SA--" She begins to call out only to be silenced by Vladimir's long claws impaling her from behind, piercing a lung and her heart. She collapses before the boy, the bed, and the Hemomancer.
'Two'
Taking a moment to lick clean his fingers of the precious fluid, he revels in the horrid acts he had just committed, eager for the rest of the family. His hair is in disarray, his posture stooped in a vicious stance as he exits the room and stalks out into the hall. The remaining prey still reside downstairs. Vladimir readies a 'souvenir' he took from the child when approaches the balcony.
Below sits Baron Von Larkman, lazily browsing a book and his wife doing much the same. The fireplace crackles with a vibrant flame. It dances flickering shadows across the parlor. The silence, the peace, the ugly serenity bothers Vladimir, his face curling into a wicked expression, sneering at their utter complacency. Their shared comfort. With this he tosses what he held in his hands. It tumbles about the air, thuds against the hard floor and rolls into their view. They shriek in horror at the head of their youngest child, fumbling in response.
A cackle echoes from the perpetrator before he climbs up and leaps into the confusion and hysteria, landing on the man. Time seems to slow for Vladimir, watching as the baron begins spasming in response to Vladimir's barrage of slashes. The blood explodes outward, cascading across the floor, splashing up and over. The baron is masked in pain and fear and Vladimir's mouth curves into a smile. Eleanor screams in shock, surely beckoning the other child, the girl.
Vlad finishes Bartholomew, slamming his head into the wood floor until his skull caves. Still crouched over the man, Vladimir turns slightly to face the lady of the house, extending a gorey arm as he does so. She convulses, as a torrent of blood rips out from her skin. The tides of blood gather around Vladimir's hand in a ball as he manipulates it, still howling with a maddening laughter. He then disperses it in a shower.
'Three, four'
Lucille appears in a flurry at the entrance from another room, taking a moment for the events to register. Gasping, screaming. She turns to run but like lightening, the monster is upon her. She struggles, tossing out whatever kicks or punches she could but he proves overbearing.
"Come, my dear! Experience my 'Sweet Death'!" With that, Vladimir turns the girl over, tearing her dress from her form. He repositions himself on top of the blossoming female who looks to be a mere 17 or 18. She sobs, tears mixing with blood in a sick brew. A beginning thrust plucks the flower of her youth, and he pushes down on Lucille.
Soon his pace quickens, his thrusts becoming worse, more brutal. Faster, faster! He feels the pulse of life flowing through him and he nears. The claws sink into the alabaster limbs he pinned to the floor, drawing blood as he watches the innocence drain from her pretty face. Every drop of beauty is twisted into its ugliest, most tragic shadow. At the climax, he focuses on her life force, sapping its energy. His release begets hers, and Vladimir unleashes the bestial degeneracy of the moment, causing her heart to explode within her chest.
His breathing is rapid but starts to slow. The demon basks in the horrible glory of its conquest, leaning back and drinking in the flavor of death its caused.
'Five'
-Present..-
1...2...3...
Vladimir continues to ring his finger around the rim of the glass, again and again as he had been for the past few hours. For now the thirst is sated and he, bored.
..4...
The events that transpired that night replays in his mind, like a film. He watches it, dissatisfied. He rises from his seat, letting the glass shatter upon the ground. The clacking of his boots against the hard wood floor resounds as he steps over his mess, the bodies piled around him in a sick circle of worship.
'Dawn is coming...'
..5