Hungry for Heaven!

Written on 28 Nov : 21:42

Now Playing: Wake up Hate - Korn

Heavy, the only way to describe the feeling of the air tonight is heavy. A fog, seemingly with the weight of heavy fabric, covered the city. The curtain was actually more water than vapor however suspended in the air, clinging to any surface it comes in contact with. The moon appeared as a multi ringed apparition, distorted through the heavy curtain it seemed as though it was constructed with layers and crowned with many succinct halos. Quite beautiful when considered, it appears to radiate, to pulse far in the distance. At times he feels like it is a heartbeat, the heartbeat of the embraced as well as the damned. It provides a rhythmic beat that drives forward powering their unnatural existence towards some unknown destiny.

Although he knows it is an illusion he is transfixed by the dancing of the aura and the glint of the halo. In the distance he can feel tension, uneasiness, a hint of fear approaching him…..but far upwind. His senses are keen and sharper than a razor’s edge, not relying on sense as humans know; he feels the life force of the object, the very essence of its being. As if a shark drawn to blood, only a minuscule sample of the essence is required to garner his attention, saying that he is attuned to the force is an understatement; he is not attuned as much as he can be perceived as being a part of it. As it draws near the feeling grows stronger and is continually amplified by the rhythmic pulsing of life blood through the victim’s veins. He can tell the rhythm of the beat, can feel the ebb and flow as well as almost indiscriminate rhythmic changes that occur due to the level of stress the victim is feeling. He can almost see the volume of liquid as it moves along predefined travel routes, along the circulatory map taking its precious cargo of energy to its destination then beginning the trip anew. He knows that if he was not hidden he could see the glow of the blood, the life force is coming his direction. He can also feel the quickening within the veins and the increase in the flow, the victim knows something is wrong, something is very, very wrong.

Every step is faster as the tension can be felt in the air; it is almost electric, charged particles streaming from contact to contact. All the while he can also feel the hunger rising, growing ever stronger anticipation being replaced by lust. He has felt the scenario played out many times before. He begins to know the thoughts of the prey, “she knew better than to go to the fraternity house with Gina. I always get stuck having to find my way back home. Scared to death I will never forgive her for making me walk back to the house.”

As a sense of dread begins to permeate the minds of both hunter and prey, he moves. Although her pace has quickened, she begins to gain speed almost exponentially, beginning to break out into a run. He moves silent as the dark as though he is slipping in and out of different dimensional spaces, the anticipation he felt has been totally replaced by lust, by need, by drive. As the fear and lust come closer together in the dimly moonlit theater of mist, what can only be described as pure energy begins to enshroud the air, making hairs stand on end and making the skin feel as if it crawls with vermin. As they approach the crescendo, he reaches out his hand and grasps the neck of the vampire, a split second before it had the woman within it’s grasp.

Leo, his name was Leo, yes he remembers the boy, now he is just an empty vessel devoid of mind and emotion, an unfortunate offing of a turning gone bad. Leo begins to struggle swiping at the arm holding him feeling as tight as a vice around his neck, although his flailing does little to neither lessen the grip nor deter the hunter. Haenous turns to the woman who stands staring in terror and screams at her to “RUN”, wanting her to be to terrified to remember details

As the victim, she is lucky to be able to see the morning sun once again, flees he turns his attentions back to Leo asking, “Why are you on closed ground? You know the edict, the University campus is off line, no hunting may occur here, speak the truth to me wretched one. Why do you hunt here?” No reply was forthcoming from the young one, only malformed words strewn with hisses and continued impotent flailing. “Speak now as it will be your only opportunity.” Yet no explanation comes.

In his mind Haenous knows the answers, he knows the reasonings. There is food here, food a plenty and easily taken. Even in small groups food on these grounds is no match for an immortal, he also knows that the house has gotten careless, Leo is but one example of many, too many of late, too many half hearted turnings resultant in empty headed vessels driven only by hunger and lust. When words issue forth from Leo’s mouth, it takes but a fraction of an instant for Haenous to break the neck of the vampire with a simple twitch of his wrist. Although the vampire feels little pain, he knows what is beginning to transpire, temporarily devoid of body control now that the spinal cord has been severed he knows that his body will not have time to mend prior to Haenous striking the final blow. With abandon Haenous turns the vampires head to one side and sinks his teeth deep, taking in the essence of the creature and draining it of existence.

As he drinks, Leo’s physical body turns to ashes. Haenous can feel the energy as it charges through his body, the power that surges within him as he feeds. Near the end his crystal blue eyes turn black, black as night, black in total not even the whites of his eyes escape the shroud. Within the space of a moment, Leo has ceased to exist, no longer is he dead nor undead, he is just gone…..

The Haenous One

Haenous

Written on 28 Jun : 00:27

Now Playing: nymphetamine - Cradle of Filth

His connection to the kindred is both strong and at the same time devious. Owing a blood debt to Tacitus Nocture, he is restrained from fully exacting his purpose in un-death; the demise of the kindred, the demise of yet even his kind. He is known as one of the VII, kindred by blood, an aberration in mind. The very core of his being pulses with the desire, or better yet; need, to exact a type of revenge on all kindred, revenge for being embraced, revenge for being borne.

The exact nature of the blood debt owed by him to Tacitus is known only to
Tacitus and himself. Some have speculated; those who are in leadership and know of his nature, that Tacitus had performed some type of enchantment or ritual exacting this devotion, others have hypothesized that at some point, Tacitus saved his life. Although it is only known by the two with whom it bears, elders throughout the domains with knowledge are deeply concerned regarding this arrangement. Many both dwelling within this domain and just passing through are employed as spies and watchers of this bargain, reporting back to their masters any piece of news that seems pertinent.

During his torpor, Tacitus need not worry about being slain, he knows the fear and respect other elders give to this relationship. They believe that a move against Tacitus would result in immediate reprisal by Haenous, by the VII. Given that they do not know the details of the bargain, he feels safe in the shadow provided by their ignorance, although knowing the conditions of the treatise; he is not always altogether comfortable in this relationship.

This is not to say that plots are not borne and that plans are not made for the purposes of unseating or usurping the power of Tacitus’ domain. It is only to say that none has ever come close to fruition, nor have many ever even been taken further than the beginnings of a plan. Mysteriously, those who would plot such action, disappear, they become part of the nether. No one knows for sure but all believe that Haenous exacts a heavy toll on those that bear such desires; neither does anyone understand how he learns of such plans nor why he continues to maintain such a vigil for the likes of the elder.

According to what is known Haenous is approximately 1,000 years old and has never slept. Never appearing to suffer from lack of extended sleep, never succumbing to the maladies and conditions of frenzy that other kindred are exposed, he seems only to exist in a quiet controlled frame of mind. Legend places his time of embrace/birth somewhere around 1010 a.d. No one knows from whence he came, neither bloodline nor heritage past the mystery of his alleged place with the VII. He is a weapon and combat master unequalled in known history, all who know his name fear him and what he represents. He has been the backbone of power supporting Tacitus’ domain for several centuries. Once committed to a prey he is singular in focus and relentless in pursuit.

In years past, a mercenary team of kindred were tasked with bringing him down. Although several survived the initial encounter, most did not. Those that did survive soon wished they would have perished in the initial melee, as Haenous painstakingly stalked, tortured and slay each and every kindred having participated in the hunting party. By the end of that particular hunt, Haenous had even drawn from the cursed hindered the names of the elders whom had set them on the course to kill him. It is said that no kindred in time suffered as much in death as Belarin Pallor and Sed Kellin. Some say he subsued them and burned them into the nether, inch by inch with small ultraviolet flashlights, extending the torture to cover weeks at a time and allowing time for damage tissue to begin to repair prior to continuing his deed.
To those who interact with him inside the compound he is neither friend nor foe. He may smile as he approaches, however one is left with the sense that they do not know whether the smile is meant in kinship or as a harbinger of things to come which he would enjoy and they most certainly would not.

Generally, he keeps to himself and is emotionless in feature. However, on certain nights, if you can spend some time alone with him in the garden he will fill you with amazement and wonder reliving the tales of the past as no other can. Speaking with a low deep voice that at times is barely audible his accounts of kindred past can mesmerize, time seems to stop and almost reverse back to the point in time that is central to his narrative.

Curse of Job

Written on 27 Mar : 21:50

Now Playing: Whiskey in the morning - Buck Cherry

Almost a month has gone by. Haven't even left my apartment in the last 3 weeks, I have no idea what is wrong with me. Feels like the worst case of the flu I have ever had but at the same time I keep having strange hallucinations. It appears as thoough my body parts are changing, but when I wake up they look normal. I must have a fever that is dangerously close to fatal.

Chicago isnt turning out like I thought it would, I lost my job with the bureau as of today. They left a message on the machine a few days ago, giving me three days to report in. No way I could have gone down there in this condition. They would think I was on dope and commit me to a psycho ward. There was even a call from my old chief in D.C. he had heard the news, had gotten the word that I had lost it. Told him I was bitten by a dog and now was some type of agoraphobic. I am screwed up that is true, but I dont have a phobia.....something is very, very wrong.

However, I do have a feeling of anticipation, like something big is on the horizon, maybe I am crazy. Maybe I have totally went wacko, whatever it is man I just don't know. Something big is coming though, I can feel it. Feel it like it is pulsing through my veins.

Swallowing Colors from the Sounds I See

Written on 09 Mar : 21:52

Now Playing: Half-Light - Indrid Cold

I shake myself awake, my head feeling like it is being alternatively driven on each side by alternating sledge hammers. What a night, and what a trip, biggest damn dog I ever saw. Must have been hungry too, wanted to take a taste of my hide for sure. Sitting on the edge of the bed I notice that the light filtering into the room seems excessively bright, I mean only slivers of light make their way around the slats in the blinds, yet I feel as if I am staring into the sun. Seems like I am still a little screwed up from the pain killers the doc made me take last night. I could swear that I was hearing voices before I finally dropped off to sleep last night. The trip to the ER was a crazy thing too, with all the man down talk out over the radio’s and the hubbub with the shots fired, by the time we made it to the Hospital it was evident they were primed and ready to handle a sucking chest wound instead of just cleaning up a nasty dog bite and giving me a shot of concentrated antibiotics to stem any infection. I hope they have some luck finding that dog today, as I don’t really relish the thought of going through rabies therapy.

Man it sounds like the world is on fire today, crazy neighbor down the hall must have the volume of his TV up all the way. Son of a @#$!% must be deaf. Looking down, Cameron notices something amiss, his bandages look dry. Curious he unwraps his arm and takes a look at the wound. Man this thing looks like it has almost healed, I thought it would still be open and draining this morning, instead it looks like it has been scabbed over for a week. Doc must have given me some good stuff, amazing what drugs can do these days. Slowly Cameron makes his way around the house and gets cleaned up to go to the office. Even though they told him to take a few days, and his head is splitting, he resigns with a sigh that he has nothing else to do. If I stay around here this morning I’m gonna end up going down the hall and ripping that guys throat out, deaf man watching the “price is right” killed by rogue FBI agent, I can see the headlines now.

Making my way to the office I can't seem to shake this nervous enery, this feeling that I am tetering on the edge. They got me all jacked up on this dope and it is screwing with my senses they feel ultra sensitive one second, I can almost taste the color of the red car in front of me, and cold dead the next. It's a good thing I have my guns strapped in the holsters and my seatbelt across my chest because I would have already dusted 5 guys while in a fit of road rage because they are driving like, well like chicagoan's drive. Gonna call the hospital when i get to work see if they can mellow me out a bit.

As I arrive in the office I find that I am descending down the dark spiral at an ever increasing rapid pace. Almost told one of the doormen to !@#$ off because he asked to see my ID, and angrily barked "what's good about it" to everyone that said good afternoon to me as I made my way to the hole in the back of the room I call an office. My anxiety is at a fever pitch as I sit down in my chair, I feel as if I am trembling all over, not from weakness, not from fear, but out of pure rage. I feel as if every muscle in my body is so bloated with blood that the very core of my limbs seems to pulse with each heartbeat. I have never felt this way before, ever.

Apparently word worked it's way up a couple of floors and before I can get on the phone to the doctor, my supervising agent walks in my door. I explode in a rage, "NICE !@#$ING KNOCK, JERK!" as I feel myself rising out of my chair, obviously on my way to teach him some manners. The sheer shock to my system of my actions is enough to give me pause, pause to regain a modicum of control and at least stem the tide of fury enough to stop my momentum. As he backs towards the door, he timidly asks if I feel OK and suggests, I mean really suggests that I call it a day and see the DOC. As he hurriedly leaves my office he says "in fact take a week." Maybe not so bad of an idea, maybe all of the change lately stacked on top of the dog incident has taken a toll on my system. A little overloaded, I have been feeling the stress of the move, been alone in this new city, my new home. Maybe time to adjust a bit. As I get up to leave, I remind myself that I didn't call the Doc. Well !@#$ him anyways..............

Nice Doggie

Written on 01 Mar : 22:53

Now Playing: Ayria - Cutting

Been here since just before dark; nada, nothing, not a thing happening. Bored stiff I think I will have to poke myself in the eye to stay awake. Sitting in a government issue Chevy down the street from a dark warehouse, time seems only to creep, every second seeming to take minutes.

The night is quiet, almost too quiet. There is no movement, none at all. The streets are bathed in a light covering of fog. The haze making the lights in the distance appear fuzzy and distorted. Wondering if our tip was right. Have to find out what nark got his fix money for this one and get a refund. Hang on a sec....car.......OK buddy maybe your dope was worth it after all. We shall see shortly, if the warehouse is full of stolen trucking shipments your high will have been justified.

As the car stops in front of the warehouse, a dark figure emerges and approaches the door. Swiftly he unlocks the door and enters the building. I step on the brake pedal to signal my backup (local PD) and they begin to ease into position as I get out of the car and make my way towards the front of the warehouse. No windows to see out of, this will be an easy take down. One perp, no warning, 20 cops and one G-man. After we are in position, a rather large cop dressed in half of his riot gear, bangs on the door. "This is the police.....One Warning, come out with your hands behind your head. You have 5 seconds to reply." 5..4..3..2..1. No response, gonna have to do this the hard way. I give the signal and boom the door explodes inward, battered by the heavy ram wielded by two other officers. A flood of cops race into the building and it is over within seconds. The perp, Jake Mason, evidently not concerned was standing by a doorway to a small office. No resistance was offered other than the original lack of response. Pay dirt, all the trucking shipments are still on pallets haven't even been stripped yet. As the police go about their duties, Mr. Mason is on his way to a night in the slammer, other officers are busy tagging the stolen merchandise and arranging for its removal and safekeeping. I decide to poke around a bit.

I start in the small office. Nothing of note really, a few recent copies of playboy, a couple of unopened packages of cigarettes, a case of diet coke in a small office refrigerator in the corner, and the usual accoutrements that one would expect in such an office. In the trash can is a wadded up piece of paper with a few names written on it, not really in any arranged order they look like various scribbles and jottings. One name however, does stand out. Prince Maxwell.

Jotting the name on an empty sheet of paper, I call in an officer to tag and bag the piece of paper. While I have heard the name I haven't been in town that long, gonna go to the car and pull up any info the central systems have on this dude. Out the door the air seems heavier, and this night is creeping me out. The moon although present keeps being shrouded by moving clouds and man it is too quiet out here. As I pass the corner of the building next to where my car is parked I catch a glimpse of movement in my peripheral vision. Turning to face the empty lot I do not see anything.

Slowly out of the darkness a shape begins to form...What the hell is that, it looks like a dog, but the thing is massive. Slowly and without apparent fear it continues to approach, a low growl can now be heard slicing its way through the heavy air. Its eyes are locked onto mine. I have never seen a mutt as large and as black as this one. Drops of saliva drip from it’s fangs as it continues its targeted stalk. I am frozen in horror, so shaken that I do not even think about my holstered pistols. The eyes seem……different, seem full of intent, almost knowing. Before I can even scream the low growl becomes a guttural scream as the massive mutt tears into a straight run and he is on me in a heartbeat…..Next thing I know is I am awakened, several cops are tending to me and several others are fanned out around me, weapons drawn. My left forearm is shredded and I ask the flatfoot what happened. He tells me that a pack of dogs had attacked me, pack of strays; things get brave when they live on the streets, brave and hungry. He tells me that I am lucky they were coming out of the warehouse about the time I hit the ground, they got off a few shots but don’t think they hit anything…..As they pick me up one officer is already wrapping my arm in bandages he has retrieved from a cruiser nearby, another is informing the hospital of our impending arrival while another is mumbling to himself about never seeing such weird behavior out of street mutts. I know one thing, that was no displaced suburbanite “rover” or “rex” that paralyzed me with his stare. I don’t know what it was, but it was not just another street mutt.

More than a feeling

Written on 28 Feb : 00:45

Now Playing: Korn - Wake Up Hate

Something has been wrong as of late, I don't seem to feel like myself. Sleep seems to evade my grasp and I tend to lose it lately over nothing. I guess the move has affected me somewhat, I mean I love this city. I haven't seen much of it yet as work has been crazy, however, there is something more. I guess I am just stressed out...Hanh on a sec {muffled} WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT!!!...garbled text...I DON'T CARE AN ASSIGNMENT IS AN ASSIGNMENT!!........{normal voice} See what was that reaction all about....I mean just a simple question regarding our workload, and I blow my top. Guess the bureau is taking more out of me than I realize.....

Hopefully, it will change soon, I'll get more settled, things will iron out. I need to work on this anger management issue though, everyone is gonna hate me before too long. May be getting a cold too, feel kinda achy all over. We'll better get going, long day of work ahead, this one ought to be fun too. Nighttime stakeout, watch the baddies even though they don't know we are watching, then take em down. Hope I get a chance to bust some heads....See there goes the anger management alarm again......

Pedigree

Cameron Brooks

Written on 24 Feb : 22:23

Now Playing: Ad Vitam Aeternam - Picture of Dorian Gray

Born Cameron Alexander Brooks, in September of 1966, a child of the age of Aquarius, to John Alexander Brooks, and Mary Elaine Dodson-Brooks, he was ready to make his mark upon this world. Never provided with the upper-hand, he scrapped for every inch of “territory” he gained. His family was poor, very poor in the early days, both parents unskilled, his father picking up work wherever he could find it, loading trucks, shoveling waste, etc., his mother worked off and on as a waitress, between pregnancies. Soon their family numbered Seven. Dad, Mom, Cameron, Brother Samuel, sisters Jennifer and Julie, little brother Jake and baby sister Lisa. John Brooks had been able to pick up work in a factory cleaning up and such and had parlayed that into a position on the factory floor as an apprentice machinist. While work was still hard and days were long, at least some steady money was coming into the household.
Prior to his teens, his family, struggling to stay on an even keel, embraced further disaster. Living in the Central Plains, the advent of Tornados is commonplace. However, on May 3, 1974, an F-5 level tornado hammered its way through his hometown leaving everything in ruin. Although the family was sheltered within a dark and musty cellar, everything but the clothes on their backs was gone. Living essentially as refugees they were able to find temporary shelter off and on with differing relatives, however it was several years of long days before they were able to establish a household again.
During his teenage years, his life took a different turn, due to illnesses of his parents, he became the man of the household. Working in a mill after school to make money, he barely had time to sleep as he had to care for his parents needs upon arriving home. School became his only solace. He had thought of dropping out, to work full time and care for his parents better. However, his sisters did well at caring for them, and after Samuel started working at the mill things were a little better. The fall of his senior year, all of the tumult cumulated abruptly with first the death of his father, and second the death of his mother six weeks later. Authorities took control of the home situation and since Cameron was still yet under 18, his brothers and sisters were remanded to custody of several relatives. Cameron, stayed with an older cousin until he graduated and looking for any means of escape, enlisted in the military.
At 6’3” and lean (nights of hard work in the mill had chiseled Cameron’s features), even though he had never played sports, Cameron found out that he was very athletic and physically inclined. Immediately, his drill sergeants noticed his physical prowess, especially his dexterity and balance. Cameron was asked and pursued training within the special forces. The elite battle machine of the United States Army Special Forces unit. Nicknamed, “Primal Fury”, his unit was especially noted for their toughness and aggressiveness. Trained for geurilla warfare, the military had taken this young man from a boy and turned him into a killing machine.
Following his release from service, he enrolled in a local university to pursue further education on the government’s dime (GI Bill), he pursued an arts degree in sociology and humanities. Upon graduation, he talked to some recruiters from the FBI at a college Job Fair. Although not that excited regarding the prospect of returning to the employ of the government, the job held possibilities and flirted an air of danger and excitement he had not known since leaving the service. Following the application process and a few interviews, Cameron was on his way to Quantico, VA for formal agent’s training.
Years of living a life he did not choose while growing up, coupled with military training directly after that served him well giving him a focus that many of his peers did not have at the academy. He excelled in the classwork and performed even better in the field and regarding physical events. Graduating the academy was a proud event for him, although many had relatives in attendance his celebration was contained to himself.
Following graduation he was stationed in Washington D.C., effectively the cesspool of North America, dealing with drug enforcement agents and working on cases of murder and organized crime activity. He saw the hard side of life that he never knew existed, as bad as his own past he believed had been, he now witnessed with revulsion of just how bad he could have had it. After several years at that station, he put in for a transfer to the Midwest, now approaching 40 he received the assignment and welcomed the change of environment. Although Chicago is no town of angels, surely an experienced agent would not be relegated to working the mire.
He was both excited and nervous working his first white collar crime case, a stock scheme unwound, with hundreds of unwitting “investors” losing their life’s savings. This was a case he could sink his teeth into, a case where he could possibly do good further than just punishment of the immediate offenders. He garnered a great sense of well being, of self and of pride in that first assignment. Hopefully, the rest will continue the good streak. But hope in a big city is a dangerous jewel, an asset in the open ready to be snatched at a moments notice. So would it be with Cameron, thinking his brightest days lay before him, he could not begin to imagine the horrors he was about to encounter.