From SuspireWiki
Prelude to the Beginning
He tapped on the colorless glass between the rows of robbery bars while walking through the grimy streets of the forgotten areas of town. His eyes were dark, much like his skintone, and those few in tattered clothing that saw him quickly found themselves edging further away into the darkness, as if they could somehow move away from a creature of the darkness itself.
While he walked, he watched his skewed reflection out of the corner of his eye, mostly watching for the appearance of other skewed reflections behind him. It'd become a commonplace occurance to watch for the inevitable hammer that would fall when others learned of his awakening. He puzzled on why it had not come for hours each night.
It'd been two months since he was pulled out of the earth by his captors, rather.. ex-captors, and it'd been two months since he had the feelings of blood shackles upon his wrists. They fed him their vitae while he was in the grips of a most violent period of torpor, hoping that this blood slavery alone would keep him from unleashing his violence upon them when he awoke to their care. Perhaps even they had intended to make a convert of him? It was no matter. Though it was perhaps the most agonizing thing to him, he struggled and managed to fight against the pull of a Vinculum to kill both of his captors. A feat, some would say, that only someone strong of faith and will could pull off.
Vashan stopped at a small storefront dedicated to bail money which also functioned as a hotspot for exotic animal trading and looked in at the sad looking animals inside. As his presence became more clear to the creatures inside, the entire place erupted with angry animals snarling and hissing, pacing their cages and some even trying to attack the sides of them to get away. He watched them until a concerned and angered thug came from the back to see what the problem was. Seeing Vashan there, he immediately made overtures of violence if the man didn't vacate the area post-haste.
He continued on his walk, his thoughts filled with the curious contingency of how man so closely resembles animals at time. The thug's methods were no different than the animals he was keeping for sale. Vampires closely resemble animals as well. His thoughts trail off to the night of the dual murder upon his awakening, and he nods to himself, as if to confirm what he already knew all along. Had vampires no animal in them, he would still be the slave to the Sanctified.
The beast is no curse, rather it is a gift from the Gods who brought us about by their incestuous affairs, semen and blood mixing and comingling in the darkest places of the world, from which we were born of - like every other creature in the world. The beast keeps us still, whether we like it's influence or not. It is a gift, albeit admittedly a scarily two-sided gift, and should be appreciated as such. No other gift was bestowed by those of wisdom to any other creature. No... vampires were truly distinct. We have two sides, two very distinct and opposing sides, and without both, we are simply waiting for our extinction.
The man stops and looks over his shoulder. He nods again. He is glad for his beast, as he is glad for his man side.
He continues walking, now having picked up the blood scent of the man that follows him. He must have freshly fed, a sign of the intent he has. One never stalks another vampire after freshly feeding unless one has intentions to use that vitae gained in violent intent and purpose. His footfalls don't accelerate or drop in pacing, but he does turn from the street he is on. The sidestreet he chooses is dark, dank and narrow, perfect to remain away from eyes that should not See. He takes his wrist to his mouth, and teeth meant not for chewing but for piercing and tearing, open a wound in his wrist and hand. He begins to bleed.
While the entire affair takes no longer than ten seconds, Vashan's concentration on his own thoughts is shaken. Vashan is the better fighter, but with Krivda on his side, he is above potent, he is death. He does not stop, though, for he does not believe that those who attack the sons and daughters of the Old Gods can ever be turned to fellowship, or become followers of a kind. His blade strikes true, slicked with the vitae of a lineage created by the Gods themselves, and his shadowy tail is severed from the lands. The Old Gods will replace him in time, when the congealed blood finds its way into the heart of a cousin. Vashan does not give final rites; he turns and walks back out into the street, his shirt bloodied at the cuff, but no less worse for wear.
That was the hammer? Perhaps. He shakes his head, slowly, disgustedly. Why send a neonate to deal with me? Perhaps a test, which would mean that the others who set him up to test are not far behind. It would be a foolish test though... His phone buzzes at his side, only his ghoul has the number dialed. Rather than answer, he turns on the phone and listens in silence. He doesn't hear breathing. The dual silence continues for long moments before a voice on the other end speaks. It tells him that the Prince has chosen to blood hunt Vashan. Vashan does not answer, and the line goes dead. That explains the random attack.
It is funny in a way, how shortly things can change. Two months pass of nothing more than short glances and scowls, or outright avoidance from those of Society (not just the Invictus, mind you) and one night for no apparent reason, you find yourself bloodhunted. Blood Hunted. It's a stupid term, if one thinks of it. They hunt my blood, it is true, but my blood courses with the gift of the Gods, and there is no one in this city that can wield it like I do. If they spill my blood, they will only empower me, so let them come. I will feast on their vitae before sending them to meet the Old Gods who fuck and fight and rape and burn and conquer each other endlessly, where they can await their judgement like those who came before them and wasted their gift.
On the other hand, the Old Gods will not protect me from a mob of zealots, who's misguided faith in a Man-come-messiah gives them their own brand of potent, yet stolen from the bosom of the Baba Yaga herself, gifts to wield against me and theirs is honed with the ages of forced inquisition. Such thievery is an insult, but that does not change the fact that they are potent with it, and deadly. They would not put me under for a third time and hope that the Vinculum would keep me tame.
No. It is time to go.
The man turns, walking to the west, towards the airport and the plethora of rental car lots. He is not hungry, thanks to the neonate who tried to claim his blood, and what he has in his system will sustain him for now and nights to come. While he walks, he ponders the plans of the Gods and wonders how he, a creation of the Old Gods, could ever become as strong as they have become. He wonders how many times he would have to spread his infertile semen to make life anew, or how many foes he would have to choke on his vitae before he were able to turn it to acid as a God would to smite his foes.
He laughs, once, breaking the mask of his stony countenance. He knows that it will take a very long time, and if he does not accept the tribulation that comes with it, he will never be a titan. He will always be an "almost".