Prologue

When the Fifth Founder is dethroned...

The curtain rises on this opera of tragedy....

Drenched in the Red Ichor.

 Tonight was a night of mutiny, of treason, and of betrayal. The question was, by whom? On this night, a coup d'etat was taking place and Victor Nosfyre was at its head. He walked the length of the staircase on the center turret leading to the throne room. He traced the intricate carvings etched on to the rough stone. The carvings depicted winged beings razing the world as humans despaired around them, caught amidst their strife. “How tacky” he thought.  Around him, the sounds of bloodshed and slaughter could be heard around the capital as the soldiers of line Nosfyre executed the soldiers guarding the castle. He glanced upwards.

Spyre, the heart of Sanctum, was an intimidating collection of towers which carried an alluring beauty to it. It’s architecture was inspired by what was known as then as the Victorian Era in the days before the Great Rift. It was a time from which the Fourth Founder, his mother, held great sentiment for. Beautiful and intricate patterns adorned its walls snaking up to the sharp spires that crowned its roofs. A great many buildings of the same nature clustered to form this behemoth. It was here, that he would apprehend the Fifth. They stepped into the courtyard preceding the throne room.

Around him were his blood kin, loyal to none but he, for he had been the one to Turn them. At least thirty of them. Armored from head to toe, clad in silver-grey metal. Helms that were in the shape of a snarling beast whose mouth enclosed each of their heads. Their eyes, which faintly glowed red, were hidden behind three identical holes forming a triangle. Two sharp and straight horns adorned the foreheads of each of the helmets. The snarling beast was a gargoyle, the symbol of their family. For generations the bloodline of Nosfyre acted as the sentinels for their kin. The watchers above the castles turrets, watching for all who would threaten vampyre kind. In reality, their family served as watchdogs for the Progenitor High Council. It was they who acted as the executioners, the hands that passed judgement on those who would oppose the will of the Council.

Who would have thought that the day would come when that very hand would be used to strike at one of their own.

Flanking his posse was another congregation of similar formation. As he looked to his left he saw a walking of reflection of himself. His twin sister, Victoria was walking with a smile on her face. She too was escorted by blood kin of similar armament. The difference being that the metal had been dyed red, and the horns were curved on the helmets instead of straightened. The current Fifth Throne on the Council and current candidate for the title of Sixth Founder. He knew that his sister had longed to take Sanctum for herself. Today was her chance. Beside her was Carmilla Karnstein, dubbed “The Crimson Queen,” currently Third Throne. “Why the company?” she said as she gestured towards the mob clad in varying shades of silver and red respectively. “They will serve as nothing more than fodder.” She was not wrong. “Consider it as insurance, my lady” came the reply. She scoffed. “Come now Carmilla, I’m sure Victor knows what he is doing” said Lord Byron Ruthven, Sixth Throne. Despite his eyes being hidden behind dark red lenses, he knew that their would be nothing but amusement in them. He was probably glad just to have an excuse to leave Ianthe. She glared at him, “If Victor knew what he was doing we would have no need to be here.” She took no pleasure in what they were about to do, Carmilla was one of the Fifth’s sympathizers and closest friends. Were she not duty-bound it maybe that she would be standing against them instead. To his right at voice said “Silence, both of you.” This startled Victor, for the owner of the voice was not one to speak out much less express anger. He sneaked a glance at Yurian Grey, current Second Throne of the High Council. His mere presence spoke volumes of the gravity of the situation. “He is not to blame for this outcome.” his face remained emotionless. He was the highest ranked Progenitor among them, save for one other, and they were about to face him.

Two guards awaited them in front of the throne room. Before they could act, Victor lunged first towards the one on the right. He uttered these words in the tongue of the Aboriginals:

“[Nosferatu]”

He felt the familiar sensation of tightness in his mouth as his incisors grew into fangs. His senses sharpened, widening his perception. He could hear the individual heartbeats of each of his men, as well as the two guards stationed in front of the throne room. None from the others within his company but that surprised him none. They were afraid, their hearts sounding like the stampeding feet, yet they stood their ground. Resolute. They knew they would die where they stood but showed no signs of fear. True soldiers, loyal to the very end. “It is unfortunate that they were to die traitors' deaths” thought Victor. He felt as the length of bone in his fingertips grew into long and slender blades while coagulated blood coated its outer layer sharpening it into deadly claws.

The first soldier brandished her halberd, spinning it in an arc to try to catch him in its axis. Smart. Were she to thrust it forward she would have been easily decapitated. If her opponent was anyone but he she might have even dispatched them in that instant. He went over the arc and sliced upwards. He felt as flesh and bone were severed and a spray of blood covered his arm. Before he could finish her off, the guard to his left uttered something in the same language as he had only moments ago and he vaulted backwards. In due time as well for in the place where he stood there were now several stakes dyed in the same red which coated his own claws. Several of his and his sister’s blood kin had brandished their claws as well. They inched towards the guard as if to attack when the doors to the throne room opened.

This was bad. Victor decided that he would at the very least dispatch the guard he had injured before dealing with the Fifth. He rushed her as she laid sprawled on the ground clutching her wound. Aiming for her head, he reared his talons, preparing to swiftly decapitate her. As his claws whistled through the air something came in and struck him with such force that it sent him reeling back.

“That would be quite enough of that”

One foreboding wing, reddish-brown in color, appearing not unlike the leathery wings of a bat, with a single scythe-like claw on the hinge of it, covered Victor’s intended target. “Argus” said the Fifth, “Take her and flee” gesturing to the sprawled figure under his wing. “But Founder-” the guard known as Argus began, “That is an order.” The man stiffened and bowed. Quickly, he rushed to the woman’s side and hoisted her uninjured arm over his shoulders and leapt over the walls that surrounded the courtyard. Two of Victors men made a move to follow them. “No! Don’t!” he tried to warn them. Too late. As the two men were in the air the Fifth was on them. Grabbing both of them by their helms, he dove downwards, effectively killing them as their heads were crushed by the impact and their blood pooled into the cracked cobblestone below. There was a moment of tense silence as the Fifth surveyed the lot of them. “You are here for me are you not?” he smiled.

“Braham Dracul, First Throne and Fifth Founder of Sanctum, you are, by order of the Progenitor High Council you are hereby found guilty for treason against the Council for risking the entirety of Vampyre kind. As such, you are to be apprehended and executed. Effective immediately.” Victor found no joy as he uttered those lines. He and Braham had not always seen eye to eye but they were both there when the Fourth built Sanctum all those years ago. He was perhaps the closest thing Victor would ever have to a brother. The smile faded, “You know as much as I that I would do no such thing.” “The evidence condemns you Bram” said Carmilla. “Do not make this any harder than it has to be.” she stepped forward, “Please.”

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“Is it so wrong to dream?” said the Fifth. He looked towards the ceiling of their little world, his features bathed in the light of the artificial moon. “When an artist looks upon the night sky, all they can ever hope to do is capture but a fragment of its splendor and beauty.” His features had saddened. “And all who gaze at his painting are left with just that, a fragment.” “Our people are in danger, they can no longer live like this, staying depths below the surface when an entire world awaits us, ” “Danger?” asked Victor. “What do yo-...”

“Enough stalling!” said Victoria as a long scarlet talon sneaked from under her sleeve. “Let us end this.” That was the cue for her own entourage to charge at the pale, silver haired man, bathed in moonlight.

And all hell broke loose.

With a roar the Fifth sprouted another wing, with the same scythe-like claw. Seemingly, as if in the blink in the eye, he was in the midst of them. He spun with careless grace as his wings slashed through the air, cutting both of Viktor’s arms. Before his severed limbs even hit the ground, Bram thrust his fist through the middle of Viktor’s ribcage holding his spine and threw him sideways. As he flew through the air, Victoria stepped aside to dodge her brother and yelled at their soldiers “Encircle him!” Viktor broke the columns of the courtyard’s right corridor before hitting the wall which fell apart under the force of the Fifth’s throw. He slid to the ground, arms lost and back snapped in half. He saw as Braham, arm drenched in his blood, discarded the piece of his spine that he had ripped out, tossing it aside casually. He was always careful not to kill Viktor, even when they were both children. When they fought he would injure him enough just so he could not fight back. “Bastard,” he thought.

When the soldiers of Nosfyre encircled Braham they lunged towards him as a single unit. Again his wings cleaved in an arc as he spun, the scythe-like claws on his wings cutting through the first line of soldiers, both pointed clockwise. The first soldier to be even be within range of the target was swiftly decapitated with a single wave of the Fifth’s hand, fingers outstretched as if to mimic a blade. The rest that evaded his scythes were not so lucky as to be granted the mercy of a clean death. The Fifth lunged towards the closest soldier, all while his wing cleaved through his companions closest to him, and sunk his own fangs into the poor man’s neck and bit off his windpipe. As he spit out the red mass of tissue and muscle another soldier charged towards him. He attempted to cut off the Fifths head to render him immobile. Attempted to. With a roar, he slashed his claws upwards while the Fifth stepped aside with ease. As the soldier was still roaring, the Fifth plunged his left hand into the soldier’s mouth swiftly in and out. As his hand went out, so did the soldier’s upper teeth and everything above it. As the man fell,  his tongue lolled to the side covering the mass that was his teeth while blood poured out of the orifice that remained. The carnage that ensued was both savage and beautiful. The Fifth wasted no time as he swiftly culled the bloodkin of Nosfyre.

The other Progenitors could no longer sit idly by as their former compatriot continued his rampage through the rest of the soldiers. Lord Ruthven was the first to act. He invoked his own bloodrite:

“[Aubrey’s Lament]”

Red tendrils snaked down his arm, intertwining around each other, forming a hilt of sorts. At the end of the hilt, the tendrils snaked around, suspended in the air, weaving each other into the features of a woman. When the tendrils had finished several horns, like spider legs, sprouted out of the woman’s ears to form a handguard for the grotesque weapon. The tendrils began flowing upwards from the supposed face of the woman in what might have been hair. It kept flowing until it touched the ground. When the last strand of “hair” formed the woman opened her mouth and screamed. If Viktor had still possesed arms he would have used his hands to cover both ears. As the woman screamed she opened her eyes. Though there was nothing behind her closed eyes Viktor could have sworn that the woman’s eyes were filled with anger and sorrow. As she screamed her features contorted in rage, as if that of someone who was betrayed and lied to. The tendrils that made up her hair began to reverberate in a flurry. Each tendril lashing out with a bladed edge. Aubrey’s Lament, the sword of a thousand blades. Lord Ruthven cracked his weapon like a whip and swung it towards the Fifth. As if sensing this, the Fifth vaulted backwards. As he was in the midst of the soldiers several of them were caught in the path of the Progenitor's weapon. For a moment they were still, after which they began to fall apart. One fell to his knees as his legs severed, his head toppling off as his body hit the ground. Another had her body cleaved diagonally, a cut slicing her torso from her left shoulder to her right hip, another separating her left knee from her leg. As she fell all that was left standing was what remained of her right foot. The entirety of the corridor and the columns behind them collapsed onto them the resulting debris being composed of concrete and severed appendages with blood trickling down the rocks.

Reluctantly, Carmilla joined the fray. She whispered in the same tongue of Old:

“Come to me, my [Lovely Laura]”

She began to cry. Only in place of tears, it was blood. Blood, so dark it was almost black, began to streak down her cheeks. As these tears fell, the black liquid pooled at her feet into a large, opaque puddle. The surface of the liquid began to ripple as a single hand began to emerge. It’s fingers were long and slender. The hand, outstretched began to pull itself out of the puddle. With it followed the figure of a beautiful young girl. Her features, delicate and ethereal. Eyes like opals, the same almost-black red as Carmilla’s tears. This contrasted by pale, stark white skin. Her hair was the same hue as her flesh and flowed as if submerged in water. As did her white dress. The girl stepped out of the puddle and screeched. Rushing through the air towards the Fifth. As she did, several other hands grabbed the air, outstretched and several figures identical to the first began to emerge. Screeching in a cacophony that sung of nothing but sorrow and inspired no other emotion save for fear. As Lord Ruthven clashed with the Fifth, Carmilla’s legion of wraiths began to rush him. The Fifth’s right wing began to bubble. From it, several red feathers began to float upward. The Fifth cloaked himself with the other wing as Lord Ruthven unrelentingly slashed at him, slicing the wing apart almost as fast as it reformed. Each of these feathers seemed to remain frozen in the air for a moment before straightening into a sharpened edge and launching itself towards the onslaught of white figures and Lord Ruthven. The feathers tore through most of the little girls, as their bodies fell they splattered onto the ground and painted it in the same black liquid from which they were borne. Some of the same liquid fell nearby the Fifth. Before he could gasp “No!” several pale hands emerged and grabbed his leg. His right wing sliced downwards, severing his leg as the places where the slender and delicate hands touched began to harden and crack. It was only a second but a second was all it took, as Lord Ruthven lashed out, his blades sliced off the Fifth’s left wing, an arm, and most of his remaining leg. Blood sprayed from the wounds  and stained the throne room doors as the Fifth cried out.

Propping himself himself up with his remaining wing and arm he looked at his once allies and whispered. “Please. Don’t.” Victoria walked up to him swiped her talon across his mouth, severing his lower jaw and cutting several teeth. “Yurian!” she said. Yurian Grey stepped forward and looked straight into Victoria’s eyes “Never, presume to order me.” Victoria had felt many things in her long life and in that instant she felt something she had not felt in a long time. Fear. She looked away “Tsk.” Yurian Grey approached the hunched figure and said:

“In [The Picture of Dorian Grey] what do you see?”

As he did so Braham Dracul began to scream, a guttural and primal scream. He screamed as he felt what little muscle was left of him began to tear, sinew by sinew, as the blood that ran in his veins was being forcibly pulled out. From every orifice and open wound it flowed out. In places where blood could no longer flow, it ripped through his flesh until it could free itself. As it left Braham it flowed into Yurian Grey’s hand as a red orb, suspended just above his palm, still flowing. When the last drop had left his body the pale man aged, his face crumpling on itself, his eyes rolling back and shriveling, his teeth decayed and fell out of his gums which now had the texture of papyrus. His last wing began to melt and dissolve into a pool of blood. By the end what was left was a grotesque mess that rivalled the remains of the soldiers who were killed.  By this time Viktor had reformed enough to make his way towards his arms. “Victoria Nosfyre, Fifth Throne, step forward." Yurian gestured Victoria to kneel. "I, as the Second Throne and First Gifted, bestow upon you the title Sixth Founder of Sanctum.” As he spoke the orb of blood moved, as if having a life of its own and flowed towards his sister. It began to enter her through her eyes, her nose and her mouth. Viktor watched as his sister arched her back, arms splayed out and face flushed as new power and knowledge flowed into her. When the last of it had entered her, Victoria bared her fangs at the ceiling of their little world in what was both a grimace and a macabre smile. Drunk on her bloody coronation. She began to laugh. Pure unadulterated joy washed over her. Her laugh being the only sound to be heard that night.

As Viktor surveyed the damage and reattached his arms, he pulled out what the Fifth had lodged into his chest cavity,

A small metal cylinder with the inscription, “To Victor, brother and friend.”

~END~