It would surprise people to know that the ancient world had an ancient world, and so too did the one before that. In the estimated half a million years of humanity’s existence, it barely remembered only a fraction of its own meager existence. And thus, none remembered the empires that once reigned long before the foundations of Byzantium were raised, or the great kingdoms that conquered half the world before the Mesopotamian city states were marshaled by the wise old Gilgamesh. There were entire epochs of collective struggle and renown lost to the great sea of time, or burned away by the ruin of neglect.

      There were, of course, sinister intellects who were guilty of destroying history as well. A desperate attempt to seal their own magnificence by annihilating any memory of anyone else’s. Bad people doing bad things badly was all too common in world history.

      In a way Van Gogh pitied most humans, ignorance was bliss after all, but he also couldn’t blame them for their wanton stupidity. He himself often struggled to remember the world that was, and the stories of the one before that as well. He was born in an age where vampires strode among the cobblestone streets without so much as a glance of suspicion. Back then they were fairly primitive compared to today, most of his kind would never be able to hide their gaunt faces or womanlike hair that reflected the sunlight so greedily. They never had to sand their teeth, or could for that matter, and their bleached white skin was impossible to miss.

      He was born so long ago that he could no longer put a date to it, he had given up trying to remember his actual age. Although he looked no older than 30, Van Gogh could remember where he had been during the great flood that swallowed the world. He was there, on the ivory hills which had been robbed of its trees, to witness the great ark of Noah shut its doors to the world. That was when vampires knew, they were not welcome anymore.

      He survived by strapping himself to a bold slab of beaver wood, the large beam held itself afloat even when the apocalypse devoured all. The greatest surprise was learning that he wasn’t the only of his kind to survive that pivotal moment. It was a sign that maybe, just maybe, they hadn’t been banished after all.

      The message was clear, however, they were not welcome to mix among human society. The Lord of all creation had deemed them worthy enough to survive, which was something at least, but not enough to forgive their intrusion.

      All vampires knew of this story, or at least some version of it, for the survivors of that world could never forget how close they came to extinction. It was for this reason that all of vampire society knew better than to reject the truth, that there was indeed a supreme power in the universe, and He wasn’t to be trifled with. The first few generations following the flood lost the ability to age like their predecessors, no longer would their prodigy challenge the grasping hands of death with ease. After a couple of centuries, they had ceased to age any better than their human counterparts.

      Only the ancients still surviving continued to conquer death or age, although that wasn’t much of a blessing. A timeless existence offered little after a certain point. Boredom, neglect, and eventual surrender was a grim substitute for natural aging. The few that continued to skulk in the worlds endless shadows did their best to keep the old ways true, and teach their progeny not to bother the realms of man.

      This lesson became lost, as all things do, after a certain point. Van Gogh remembered laughing when humans discovered the new world, as if they were discovering this for the first time. And he watched with his brothers and sisters as things started to change.

      The first sign of significant improvement, was when people switched their candles for electrical bulbs. That was when Van Gogh knew that a line had been crossed. Only three other times in his existence had mankind achieved that hurdle, and each was met with imminent disaster. This time he feared it would be the same, only to find himself praying that they weren’t doomed to nuclear annihilation mere decades after.

      But somehow, this time they weren’t given up to a new apocalypse. Mankind recoiled from destruction, and then did something Van Gogh didn’t expect…they settled down. Empires cooled, and worldwide warfare had been averted. He knew this was only a temporary lapse, but he was glad to see humanity arrest themselves from unleashing their destructive might across the world.

      Vampires had been slowly integrating with human cultures for the past few centuries, much to Van Gogh’s dissatisfaction. He feared a grand punishment for them intruding in such a way. Again he was surprised to find no retribution for this.

      The past several decades had kept him engaged and interested more so than any other time in his life, or at least for a long time. Even still he was passionately against vampires so cravenly getting involved with human society, more so out of fear of all the consequences that could ensue.

      The day that vampires declared their existence, Van Gogh was speechless. He protested to the high ones daily, only to be met with grave faces and mute tongues. It was hard to blame them, for one cannot retract such a revelation.

      And then the world shook.

      Once again Van Gogh felt the cool balm of vindication weighing on his mind as he saw the punishment they would all have to receive. Mankind was rejecting them, and soon they would all have to pay for intruding on their lives.

      Van Gogh wanted to think of better times, times long forgotten. There was once a city known as Ialas which would be lost to the flood, afterwards it would be replaced by a newer city known as Uruk.

      The people of Ialas were master artisans in their day, and very close to learning the secrets of electricity. The problem was their passions to worship a certain deity that enjoyed the suffering of children. Van Gogh had forgotten the name of the dark statue bathed in blood that had been erected at the center of the wheel shaped city, and he had no interest in trying to re-learn it. At that time, he had tried to settle down in a tavern of all places. It was on the eve of the great flood, so his vampirism was no mystery to anyone, and provided an aura of fear and respect.

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      The vampire hunters of that time only sought vampires of terrible renown, blights upon the innocent or leaders of the armies of the dead. A simple vampire serving drinks in a tavern was of no concern to them, and of absolutely no interest. He even remembered a time when he served a ragtag group of vampire hunters in his tavern, and offered insight on how to slay some of his cruel brethren.

      During that time there were several brands of vampire, and they were graded by the hunter clans based on their threat level. Van Gogh was rated a simple copper rank, meaning he was of no threat and possibly even a benefit to gather knowledge. Silver and Ocher ranks were subscribed to those of particularly nasty habits, but unlikely to be of severe threat. Only the hunter squires wasted their time on them, and it was common for silver ranked vampires to be imprisoned for some years rather than killed. Scarlet and Vermilion grade vampires were the real threat, and prone to outbursts of their own supremacy. Petty kingdoms were raised in their names with their banners made up of human flesh, and their armies were often populated with the recently deceased.

      Humans would never forget the stain of this terror, it would long be reflected in their very psyche’s and replicated in their nightmares. Even now, when no one could remember a city named Ialas or the dreadful vampire lords that threatened its borders, the concept of zombies and skeletal horses carrying vampire lords in dark black armor decorated mankind’s imaginations.

      Every once in a while Van Gogh would entertain some of mankind’s reflections of these times, times of which they had no actual memory of, only phantoms of dreams. He read the stories of Nosferatu, the tales of Dracula, and laughed when he watching the outbursts of TV series featuring walking corpses. No matter how hard they tried, they could never capture how truly awful the real past was.

      Van Gogh smiled as a memory, long forgotten until then, flashed in his mind. Mankind would be surprised to learn that there was indeed a zombie apocalypse. It happened so long ago he himself only recalled slivers of it.

      He decided it was best not to think on that, times so long forgotten even he couldn’t remember them were best left alone. His mind drifted back to the times of Ialac, it was where he first met Da Vinci, they were all still using their original names back then. At that time, Da Vinci was a spirited youthful vampire who could still gaze at the world with wonder. It was hard seeing him now so…anxious and bitter.

      Van Gogh was older in millennia than his counterpart, but the scar of time still weighed on them both. He envied the vampires of today, they didn’t have to worry about the struggle of outliving the world around them.

      At least one thing never bored him, In his long years of existence, Van Gogh had never lost his appreciation for beautiful women. The one in front of him was no exception.

      Kamillah Crimsonfire was a creature of many remarkable features, subtlety wasn’t one of them. The young woman had a sweet face, there was a fierceness in her eyes and a beautiful symmetry to her cheeks. Her oval face comforted a cute chin and a narrow pair of lips. Her body could’ve been a sculpture in womanly perfection, she was forged with an ample set of breasts and wide hips. Her thighs were muscular, and so too was her back and shoulders, but she appeared more lean and slender than athletic. Her purple eyes were a rarity in todays era, although vampires of the distant past held reverence for those of their kind that had them.

      She was zipping up her skin tight jumpsuit, its dark leather clung to her skin with relish.

      Don’t ever let it be said that vampire’s don’t live up to the stereotype that they look damn good in leather, Van Gogh couldn’t help but think to himself.

      Vampire’s were lucky in that their skin didn’t sweat the same as a normal person. They could handle the extreme temperatures without becoming soaked in sweat. This made them more prone to heat strokes in extreme temperatures, but also less likely to suffer from dehydration. It was a very small genetic quirk that somehow lasted through the ages. This small trait was convenient for when Kamillah zipped up the leather jerkin over the skin tight body suit and then put on a vest with a gun holster around her shoulders.

      There were some who considered it a kinky fetish, but for Kamillah her body glove was a necessity rather than source of pleasure. Her voluptuous form filled out the compact jumpsuit nicely, making her appear like some sort of seductress in an adult masquerade. Van Gogh entertained the idea of seeing her in one of those, with a ball gag in her mouth.

      He knew very little about the young woman, although she had connections to some very prominent clans. Her last name, Crimsonfire, was a new clan name, and thus it shouldn’t have any say with the high ones. But somehow, this lowly little vampire, had been invited to the sanctuary, and spoken to…Him.

      Even Van Gogh hadn’t had the privilege of speaking to Him in a long time, a thousand years or so at least. The fact this creature was allowed to stand in the same chamber as Him sent shivers down his spine.

      “Are you done?” He asked Kamillah. He did the best he could to hide his jealousy. Since time memorial, women had always taken their time when preparing themselves. Van Gogh and Da Vinci had already put on their uniforms, and concealed all their gear. They were ready for war, should it come to it. But Kamillah was still adorning herself. Her leather boots ran the length of her legs, and she took her time lacing the strings.

      “Don’t be hasty,” Kamillah responded sourly. Once she was finished putting on her boots, she put on a matching set of gloves and finally put on her jacket.

      They were thirty minutes behind schedule when she was finally finished.

      “All this trouble to outwit a cult, what was the point after wasting so much time?” Van Gogh sighed. It felt good to finally stand up and stretch his arms.

      “Are we finally ready?” This time it was Da Vinci’s time to voice a complaint. He emerged from the adjacent room in fully uniform, his hair combed back to appear the perfect gentleman. His hands were still shaking, Van Gogh wondered if he had eaten today.

      Kamillah strode over to a large metal suitcase sitting on the dining table. She opened it to reveal a collection of firearms. There were two Beretta, model 92 FS, a snub-nosed revolver, a large 1911 semi-automatic with .45 caliber clips, and a pair of S&W Shields with 9mm barrels. There was also a single rifle, a custom Wylde .223 AR model with several adjoining clips. Last, but not least, was a grenade launcher, with a dozen canisters.

      Van Gogh had his own suit case, and kept a thick barreled pistol under his coat. He wasn’t sure what Da Vinci had currently concealed, although it was likely he had a collection of daggers on his person.

      The odds that they would need any of these weapons was minimal, but the cult they were pursuing was known to get a bit…reckless when plans fell apart. The way he saw it, they had only a short window to capture and relocate the extremists before things got out of hand. If they failed…he suspected they would all pay a heavy price.

      Van Gogh watched as Kamillah weighed her options, eventually she had chosen the snub-nosed revolver for her ankle holster, and then one of the Beretta’s for her vest. Watching her take her precious time in decided was agonizing.

      “Are you ready?” Van Gogh asked her a second time.

      Kamillah shot him a passive glance, clearly enjoying how she could annoy him. “Fine, lets get into position.” Her heaving breasts bounced with each step as she walked toward the front door. The leather of her body suit clung so tightly to her chest that a pair of stark nipples had become visible. It was enough to make Van Gogh struggle as his pants suddenly grew tighter around his groin.

      Van Gogh let out a slow breath, “About f—king time.”