Post by Lucian Volitare Crimson on May 31, 2016 5:26:45 GMT -5
Demon. Monster. Beast. Abomination. Anomaly. Devil. Creature. Fiend.Unnatural. Spawn. The names may change but the definition remains ever vigilant. The words all mean the same thing. They speak of a being that is not of this world. Something that is different and misunderstood. Benevolent. Powerful. Cunning. Devious. Bloodthirsty. All of these things have served as the name of the members of the Deadulus Clan. An ancient Japanese clan that were seen as the heralds of the devils. Drinkers of the blood of gods, demons and men. Individuals born to only remain separated from all. Existing solely to remain alone.
Enigma.
Beings who feasted on all no matter who they were. Who dared to attack them. Those who fed on the very people that were around them. Apex predators that were outcast. But is that the truth? Maybe they were people that were given an curse that they had no choice but to accept. Maybe that was the only way they could survive. Maybe they are humans that have been tasked with a burden that no other set of people could bare. History is fickle like that. See history only is recorded in the likeness by those that chose which events are the most important. So the waters of history are murky and the depths are far deeper than they may appear.
History. The history of those that I should call family. But where have they been. From the moment of me being left alone in this world the only family that mattered was that of my grandfathers side. The Crimson Family. Who's beginning traces back to the early days of the renaissance. Powerful men and women who wine and dined with the greatest houses of Italy's finest. Who in due time would continue to move eventually toward the west as a new nation would rise up from the fires of war and become a power unknown like any other. A nation that would stretch from sea to sea. And in the birth of this new nation. The crimson family would move its focus to this place. Using the lack of established systems to rise up in the society. Climbing over the aristocrats and the politicians to take footholds and become a family of reverence. Chicago would see the end of an era. A family forced into hiding like little rodents. Almost exterminated by the very vermin they lived among.
By that is no longer who I am. I wish it were. But the power that I once commanded sits beneath my soul. Like a cage fire that radiates heat to the walls of its cell but can not melt them away. On the other side of that wall you may feel the flames but as much as you can feel you can not grasp hold of the fire that lies on the opposite side. I can feel the heat. But its more of an icy chill. A frozen cold embrace. It calls for me. It beckons to hold me in the subzero clutch of its call. Yet there is something stopping me. And for the life of me I can't figure that out!
I can't figure out any of this! My family. My history. My powers. My purpose. My faith. My life. Me. I can't figure none of it out! I am nothing but a mere mortal none with strange feelings! Why must I still feel? Why am I here? Jian told me to figure this out and then maybe I can learn to use the powers given to me to do good. But... All I have known is evil. Darkness. Death. The blood of my foes should be the only nourishment I require but yet.... Here I lie. This damn bottle in my hand. Accursed...Alcohol. But it dulls me. This is the closes I get to not feeling... This is the closes I get to death without actually dying.
I wonder why.. Why do I seem so infatuated with death. Is it because it's all I've ever known? Is it because the only things... The only things that are important to me lie on the other side. This world and these people. I can see it in their eyes when they watch me walk by. The look at me like a leper. Even after helping save them. Even after doing good. They seek to exile me. They desire to kill me just like the beast that actually hunt them. I am no hollow and yet they look at me as one. My powers have disappeared and yet I am still looked at as one of the infected. These sheep. These animals. I deserve to feed on them. All of them would do the same if they were in my shoes. I can guarantee it. It should be my place to take these people for what they are. Food. I should be eating them like morsels of meat. But yet..I can't fathom it. Drinking the blood of another. Sustaining myself on the liquid that brings vitality and in its absence leaves room for the suffocating grip that is death!
I could grip these worms and tear them apart. Watch them wiggle in my palms as they squirm in pain and glorious agony. But yet. That is how I used to be. Before the snake. Before Robert. Before the second Incursion. Before that whole damn KSN. The faces of those who held powers like mine seemed to call out to me. They desired to do good. They felt some sense of higher purpose. They felt some sense of camaraderie. They stood to together to protect those that were weaker than them. They nurtured one another and loved. They could never love me. I am too different even for them. I was born from the bowels of hate. I was born in fear. My father tried to run from his destiny and what he was and even in living a good life he was still gunned down. Not only him but my innocent mother. A woman who loved those around her. The woman who refused to kill anything. A woman of virtue and kindness... and love... peace... joy.. happiness.... An angel in corporeal form. And yet she too would taste the hot lead of bullets that would sing death's song as they flew through the air. The gunshots...an unholy symphony of despair with the sounds of final breaths. The blood splatters serving as elegant paintings to accompany the scene of violence.
I sat there. Clutching a toy hero figurine for comfort. That day the idea of heroes died. In my foolish child ways I had prayed. I prayed for the hero of my imagination to take up on his wings from my hands and save my family from the men of evil. But there was no justice done that day. I took my vengeance! I took the matters into my own hands. I slaughter those men. I sent their car flaming and careening into the sea. I listened to the gurgles of their futile attempts to swim to the surface. I flew away on my wings of black as they died. Heroes died to me that day and yet... I've seen them. I watched them. Men and women willing to risk their lives for the common good. I should feel joy. I should feel peace. My father had been right. There was still good in people and yet... all I feel is an emptiness. I feel the sour taste of guilt and defeat. I have killed and watch others die. I stood by and let people rot. I found my joy in watching others suffer. I found peace in others weakness. Even if it was all for the obtainment of some far sighted and narrow goal that remained ever aloof. As much as I can try to deny it. I understand that I was no better than the very men I looked down upon. I laughed at the pettiness of their actions. I walked among them as if I was the coming of a messiah and for my mistake I was punished. Put into the verge of death.
Agh... accursed alcohol.
Enigma.
Beings who feasted on all no matter who they were. Who dared to attack them. Those who fed on the very people that were around them. Apex predators that were outcast. But is that the truth? Maybe they were people that were given an curse that they had no choice but to accept. Maybe that was the only way they could survive. Maybe they are humans that have been tasked with a burden that no other set of people could bare. History is fickle like that. See history only is recorded in the likeness by those that chose which events are the most important. So the waters of history are murky and the depths are far deeper than they may appear.
History. The history of those that I should call family. But where have they been. From the moment of me being left alone in this world the only family that mattered was that of my grandfathers side. The Crimson Family. Who's beginning traces back to the early days of the renaissance. Powerful men and women who wine and dined with the greatest houses of Italy's finest. Who in due time would continue to move eventually toward the west as a new nation would rise up from the fires of war and become a power unknown like any other. A nation that would stretch from sea to sea. And in the birth of this new nation. The crimson family would move its focus to this place. Using the lack of established systems to rise up in the society. Climbing over the aristocrats and the politicians to take footholds and become a family of reverence. Chicago would see the end of an era. A family forced into hiding like little rodents. Almost exterminated by the very vermin they lived among.
By that is no longer who I am. I wish it were. But the power that I once commanded sits beneath my soul. Like a cage fire that radiates heat to the walls of its cell but can not melt them away. On the other side of that wall you may feel the flames but as much as you can feel you can not grasp hold of the fire that lies on the opposite side. I can feel the heat. But its more of an icy chill. A frozen cold embrace. It calls for me. It beckons to hold me in the subzero clutch of its call. Yet there is something stopping me. And for the life of me I can't figure that out!
I can't figure out any of this! My family. My history. My powers. My purpose. My faith. My life. Me. I can't figure none of it out! I am nothing but a mere mortal none with strange feelings! Why must I still feel? Why am I here? Jian told me to figure this out and then maybe I can learn to use the powers given to me to do good. But... All I have known is evil. Darkness. Death. The blood of my foes should be the only nourishment I require but yet.... Here I lie. This damn bottle in my hand. Accursed...Alcohol. But it dulls me. This is the closes I get to not feeling... This is the closes I get to death without actually dying.
I wonder why.. Why do I seem so infatuated with death. Is it because it's all I've ever known? Is it because the only things... The only things that are important to me lie on the other side. This world and these people. I can see it in their eyes when they watch me walk by. The look at me like a leper. Even after helping save them. Even after doing good. They seek to exile me. They desire to kill me just like the beast that actually hunt them. I am no hollow and yet they look at me as one. My powers have disappeared and yet I am still looked at as one of the infected. These sheep. These animals. I deserve to feed on them. All of them would do the same if they were in my shoes. I can guarantee it. It should be my place to take these people for what they are. Food. I should be eating them like morsels of meat. But yet..I can't fathom it. Drinking the blood of another. Sustaining myself on the liquid that brings vitality and in its absence leaves room for the suffocating grip that is death!
I could grip these worms and tear them apart. Watch them wiggle in my palms as they squirm in pain and glorious agony. But yet. That is how I used to be. Before the snake. Before Robert. Before the second Incursion. Before that whole damn KSN. The faces of those who held powers like mine seemed to call out to me. They desired to do good. They felt some sense of higher purpose. They felt some sense of camaraderie. They stood to together to protect those that were weaker than them. They nurtured one another and loved. They could never love me. I am too different even for them. I was born from the bowels of hate. I was born in fear. My father tried to run from his destiny and what he was and even in living a good life he was still gunned down. Not only him but my innocent mother. A woman who loved those around her. The woman who refused to kill anything. A woman of virtue and kindness... and love... peace... joy.. happiness.... An angel in corporeal form. And yet she too would taste the hot lead of bullets that would sing death's song as they flew through the air. The gunshots...an unholy symphony of despair with the sounds of final breaths. The blood splatters serving as elegant paintings to accompany the scene of violence.
I sat there. Clutching a toy hero figurine for comfort. That day the idea of heroes died. In my foolish child ways I had prayed. I prayed for the hero of my imagination to take up on his wings from my hands and save my family from the men of evil. But there was no justice done that day. I took my vengeance! I took the matters into my own hands. I slaughter those men. I sent their car flaming and careening into the sea. I listened to the gurgles of their futile attempts to swim to the surface. I flew away on my wings of black as they died. Heroes died to me that day and yet... I've seen them. I watched them. Men and women willing to risk their lives for the common good. I should feel joy. I should feel peace. My father had been right. There was still good in people and yet... all I feel is an emptiness. I feel the sour taste of guilt and defeat. I have killed and watch others die. I stood by and let people rot. I found my joy in watching others suffer. I found peace in others weakness. Even if it was all for the obtainment of some far sighted and narrow goal that remained ever aloof. As much as I can try to deny it. I understand that I was no better than the very men I looked down upon. I laughed at the pettiness of their actions. I walked among them as if I was the coming of a messiah and for my mistake I was punished. Put into the verge of death.
Agh... accursed alcohol.
WC:1361 GP: 18
