forum

The guild of Vampires was formed as a result of BadValentine’s unexpected initiation into the bloodline of the Vampire.

BadValentine first made her presence known in Age of Conan on Twilight Culture server. There, while still a mortal rogue, she recorded her experiences on a number of scrolls which are now safely stored in the archives of our guild.

BadValentine was primarily active on Twilight server until a vampire’s kiss initiated her into the ‘blood royal’, after which she ascended to the throne of the blood drinker and was hailed as a queen of the damned. Her name, so strange and alien to the Hyborian world, foreshadowed her destiny and serves as a warning to all who might desire the embrace of a Vampire.

This is her story:

Twilight's Dawn - The BadValentine Chronicles (part 1)

I was in my mid twenties when I first arrived in Old Tarantia, and it was only then that I truly realized why so many travellers referred to Aquilonia’s capital as the ‘city of wonders’.
I’d left the horrors of a burning Tortage well behind me and this was my chance to forge a new life away from the small, vice-ridden seaport that had made of me a cold woman, not easily given to the pleasures of the senses.
But upon arrival I was staggered by the beauty of the city’s architecture and I stood spellbound on the docks for what seemed an age.

Seagulls cried out as they circled overhead and the crystal clear ocean lapped lazily against the salt-encrusted wooden hulls of ships moored nearby.
My hand relaxed its grip on the dagger sheathed at my side and I watched as merchants went about their daily business, loading and unloading herbs and spices, fine silks and wooden crates that may have contained anything from bread and cheese to rare gems and coffers of gold.

Folks danced and made merry in the streets not far away and, for a moment, I marvelled at it all, almost forgetting that beyond this apparent haven of safety war raged between the three nations of Aquilonia, Cimmeria and Stygia.

Then I shook myself free of my reverie and made my way swiftly through the winding streets that seduced me in their glory and splendour, until I found myself outside and beyond the sight of those who stood guarding the city walls.

Before I decided whether to make my home in Tarantia, I first wanted to know the lay of the land outside its safe enclosure.
What made me take that particular route into the wild lands I will never know, but I can tell you this, it was a far different story than that of the protected city from which I had just ventured.

Here, I saw the enemy alarmingly close – Cimmerian scouts by the look of it, one of whom was emanating a shadowy magic from the very pores of his body.

It didn’t take the city guards long to become aware of their presence and any threat to Tarantia was swiftly dealt with. I was later to learn that this kind of skirmish was a regular occurrence.

King Conan – a Cimmerian himself – currently sat upon the throne of Aquilonia, and there were many who hoped his presence would serve to unify the people and end the war between nations. However, there were also those who desired the opposite and branded Conan a traitor to his own people.

Keeping my distance I crouched, hidden, waiting to see the final outcome of the clash, but as I did I was beset by a pack of ravaging wolves.
Though my skills were enough to slay two of the relentless creatures, I was momentarily overcome by the sight of a third that must have been the leader.
This creature was different from the two I’d slain. It was a dark beast that seemed half man half demonic wolf – the type of thing I’d only ever heard of in the tales told by travelling storytellers.
Nevertheless, its bloodcurdling howls became screams of shattered teeth and bone as my dagger smashed through its jaw. It slumped against me as it fell to the ground, spewing blood across my face and neck, and its claws raked a deep gash across my breasts.

But that was only the beginning of my troubles, and those wounds were superficial and quick to heal, merely scratching the surface compared to the injuries I would face in the future, bringing with them a pain that would cut deeper than I’d ever known.
Yet despite this, I was to know adventure and marvels beyond that of the average woman or man.

So now we will skip ahead to a point some weeks after the event I have just described, because it was not until I’d secured suitable lodgings and convalesced, that I again chose to venture beyond the city limits.
I’d come to learn that the wild lands were rich in minerals and other resources valuable to the citizens of Tarantia, including herbs that could fetch a decent price if one were brave or foolish enough to risk venturing high into the hills in search of them.

Alas, working as a herb gatherer was to be a short-lived career, because this time my martial skills alone proved insufficient at keeping me from the reaper’s path, and I was soon regretting my choice of profession.

Twilight's Dawn - The BadValentine Chronicles (part 2)

They say the wound that you don’t feel is the one that will kill you. The shaft of the poisoned arrow buried deep in my right thigh had been designed to stay where it was, that was for certain. Pulling it out would have caused the barbed point to rip open my flesh and blood channels from the inside out, with fatal consequences. My life would have been over in moments.

So there I lay, sprawled on a rock overlooking a vast precipice, with no way down other than a straight drop to where tundra mammoths grazed, smaller than ants when seen from this distance. I was trapped. A dozen soldiers of the bandit-king Atzel had tracked me across the wilds, their one purpose being to finish me off. Earlier, they’d done the same to a small tribe whose only mistake had been to seek out more fertile lands for farming. Two of the soldiers, lightly armoured trackers, had travelled at a steady jogging pace and were now almost upon me. Their ten comrades behind them were as yet still insignificant silhouettes in the distant.

I fitted the last bolt to my crossbow and waited. Despite the severity of the injury to my leg I felt only numbness. My vision swam as I aimed at the nearest man. He eyed me warily knowing I still intended to take someone down with me, and he was my choice. But fate, it seemed, would not even allow me this last recompense. Struggling to remain conscious, I felt a sudden pain in my wrist as the crossbow was struck from my hand by the tip of a large spear hurled by the second tracker. Unable to stand, I grasped my dagger and gritted my teeth as the sun-scorched attackers drew their swords and walked the last few paces towards me. My mouth was dry but I still managed to spit at the feet of the nearest as he raised his blade aloft. Then, for a moment, I found the last reserves of strength that I needed for one final act. Despite my bloody condition, I lunged at him with cat-like speed honed by years of training and determination. The look of astonishment on his face when I buried my dagger in his gut was a fine sight to behold for anyone seeking justice.

But although the wound might have resulted in a slow death for him over several days, it wasn’t enough to finish him there and then. He gripped my wrist and with a strength that belied his hungered appearance he easily pushed my hand away. My dagger slipped from the wound in his midsection with a sickening grating sound, as if the blade caught on his rib. He roared with the pain, but still he raised his sword high once more and I watched in disbelief as it suddenly arced down towards me in one swift movement. The bare flesh of my neck would have split apart like overripe fruit, had his sword made contact. But steel met steel with a shrill ring as, from nowhere, another’s blade appeared and stopped the descent of the tracker’s sword, catching it a hairsbreadth from its goal of decapitation. I looked to my side to see a tall heavily armoured figure. His sword was held out in front of him, blocking the tracker’s weapon, and then he turned it aside, skillfully disarming the bewildered man with a circular movement of his blade.

“Your whore of a mother should have taught you better manners,” the stranger said matter-of-factly to my attacker, before running him through. His legs buckled and he fell to the ground, where he joined his luckless companion who was already lying there with an iron throwing-spike in his throat. The stranger paid him no heed now, but looked calmly at the fast-approaching band of men.

I cared not for my own life in that moment, but only for the welfare of the one who had come unseen to my aid. “You have my eternal gratitude,” I said, “but go now before they reach us. To remain here would mean certain death.” I urged him in an exhausted whisper, hardly able to keep myself propped up on my elbow. “There are too many.”

“I’ll stay,” was his resolute reply. His cool blue eyes looked first at me and then back towards the advancing soldiers who had now broken into a charge, “I’m a guardian. It’s what I do,” he added.

With one deft movement, he unbuckled the large shield he carried on his back and held it in front of him, then braced himself for the onslaught with sword in hand. At the last moment, a sudden change of tactics saw him shift his stance, and he met the soldiers with a charge of his own.

I’ve seen hilltop trees uprooted and split asunder by lightning and felt the onslaught of torrential rainstorms of such strength that they batter a person to the ground or sweep them up from the earth into a whirlwind of death. But this stranger, he was like thunder in the form of a man. His battle charge smashed the bodies of the nearest soldiers and sent them flying back into their comrades. Half of them fell to the ground and two of the others who managed to remain on their feet lost their heads to the stranger’s sword after it swept across them in a deadly arc. A third, who was slightly smaller than his companions, lost only the topmost part of his head. For a moment he stood with his eyes rolling upward, as if he was trying to look at his neatly sliced brain, part of which was now splattered on the man beside him. How he managed to remain standing I do not know, but I’ll always remember how he lifted his hands to where the top of his head should have been. A piercing, forlorn scream erupted from his mouth and tears rolled down his cheeks. The look on his face was now like that of a child crying for his parents, while all around him the battle raged.

Meanwhile, the stranger had shifted his stance to a more defensive posture, yet still his deadly blows rained down onto the shocked soldiers. The ones who had been knocked to the ground were now back on their feet and attempting to surround him, but he displayed an amazing agility and kept moving backwards, then to the side, therefore keeping them mainly to the front of him. Spear and sword smashed against his shield, while he blocked and parried repeatedly. Blood was seeping from the shoulder joint in his armour, though it was hard to tell how bad the injury was, and he stood firm against the fury of their onslaught. I tried to reach my dagger, but my body was now overcome by the poison that was coursing through me.

The last thing I heard before I passed out was the thunder of hooves. I looked along the cliff-top and saw a host of mounted warriors with banners flying. The stranger rallied at the sight of the approaching riders, and I noticed the insignia on his shield was the same as that displayed on their banners fluttering in the wind. It was a lion, an Aquilonian lion. I’d heard many tales of the bravery of that guild.

Twilight’s Dawn - The BadValentine Chronicles (part 3)

“She cannot see it,” the young priest said in a low whisper that cut through the silence like the sudden movement of leaves on a tree caught up by a gentle breeze. I knew not to what he referred, for I could clearly perceive a faint silvery-white haze which seemed to be emanating from him, bathing me in a soothing beam of cool energy. He was barely visible in the shadows beyond the torchlight and between the flickering of the flames I could also make out a second figure whose eyes mirrored the firelight in a hypnotic dance of oranges and yellows.

Likewise, his armour was alive with the reflection of burning colour that raced across the curved metal, making invisible leaps from shoulder plate to breast plate and then to his gauntlets, which he casually took off and hung on a rack attached to a thick tent post. His facial features were hidden by the darkness and only the glow of his eyes betrayed his concern as he stared at my bare legs. I looked down and was surprised to see the arrow still embedded in my swollen right thigh. The pain was completely absent and the blood almost congealed.

“Have faith in Mitra,” said the priest as he moved to my side.
It was clear by the intricate design of his pale blue robe that he was Aquilonian. The tent in which I lay was similarly adorned with artistic finery and lion motifs, suggesting I was still in the company of the Aquilonian Lions guild.
“I am blocking your pain with what divine energy I can channel in such an atmosphere as this,” he tried to explain.
“What do you mean? What atmosphere?” I asked, becoming more puzzled each moment due to the grave look on his face.
“He means there is more to this than meets the eye,” said the quiet yet deep voice of the armoured man who stepped forward into the light.

The tone of his words sparked off feelings of uneasiness within me, and I was about to reply when something caught my eye, a reflection in his armour of a dark, crouching figure that seemed to move. Had I really seen it or had it been my imagination distorted by a fevered mind?

There was another movement, again seen through his armour, and I knew then that there really was something there. It was very close to me. I could almost see its form, almost, until the warrior moved once more and countless other images became confused and merged with each other within the metal. My heart was beating faster now.

“What… what was that?” I asked. My trembling voice betrayed the sense of fear that was steadily rising up from deep inside me.
The warrior walked over to a large object concealed by drapery.
“Is that… is that a mirror?” I asked, as my throat began to tighten at the thought of what it might reveal should he uncover it.
“Like I said, there is more here than meets the eye. But you must see it yourself to truly understand.”
The warrior slowly lifted the drapery.
“Prepare yourself,” he said, and for a fleeting moment he looked towards the priest, who simply nodded, resigned it seemed to the inevitability of what he knew must happen, and I peered into the darkness of the mirror.

The darkness stared back at me. Its inhuman eyes were two crimson pinpoints of light that bored viciously into my soul. There was a sense of bulk, yet at the same time sinewy movement as if a thousand black snakes composed its ever-shifting body - a body that was somehow intertwined with my legs. Its cold stare betrayed a sense of terrible intelligence. Whatever this evil was, it was sentient as well.

I was barely able to tear my gaze away, but I had to, if only to look away from the reflection and down at my legs to satisfy myself that the mirror lied. The demon, for that must surely have been its nature, was present only in the mirror. What little relief that gave me was stripped away when suddenly it shifted its position and I felt the weight of its presence between my legs. I was terrified as I watched its mirrored image lean towards the wound in my thigh. A long, black tongue darted out and licked at the flesh around the arrow shaft - and I felt it.

“Get it off me, get it off me!” I screamed. That was when I realized the light from the priest was not only deadening the pain, it was also somehow locking me to the bedding.
“Try not to move, or it may give up the wait and simply kill you,” urged the priest.
“Try not to move? That… that thing… it’s… Get it off me! I beg you!”
“Listen to him,” said the warrior, who was now at my side. His hand rested on my arm, as if trying to offer comfort. “He’s right. If you move too far, the demon may slay you.”
I swallowed hard.
“What… what does it want?”
“It is waiting for us to remove the arrow,” explained the warrior. “But the moment we do that, it will be able to enter the wound.”
“Yes,” said the priest. “Normally, I could draw on the great source that is Mitra and you would be completely healed,” he continued, “but the poison on that arrow is of a rare lotus with inherent magical properties that somehow counteract my divine magic. I am at a loss to know what to do.
“The creature cannot enter you until there is sufficient space in the wound, wet with blood and tainted by the lotus poison. Although invisible to our eyes, the demon has a small amount of physical presence, which it must use to embed itself into your flesh – and with it, its demonic spirit. The lotus poison has provided it with a way in and if we take the arrow out it will force itself into the open wound, become rooted – and then your fate as one possessed will be sealed.
“But if we don’t take it out soon, it will suppurate and fester. Death will come not long after.”

I felt faint and had I not already been lying down I would have dropped to the ground in that moment as the dim light of consciousness in my mind momentarily died out.
As I lay there, the priest looked at the warrior with a furrowed brow.
“There is but one hope, I fear,” said the priest.
The warrior raised an eyebrow slightly and looked back at the priest.
“Go on,” the warrior said.
“Only a Stygian versed in the dark arts could appease this demon. I fear if I were to burn it myself with divine fire, I would end up killing her too, so closely are they bound together. We must send to the enemy for aid!”
“A Stygian? By the gods you will damn us all,” replied the warrior with a vexed look upon his face.
“It is her only chance.”
“But I cannot ask any of my men to willingly approach the Stygians for such help. They are more likely to slit our throats than aid us. For are we not their sworn enemy?”
The priest nodded, then said: “There are guilds who have formed alliances with the peoples of all three cultures. There and only there lies any chance of her salvation. If we do not try to help her, she is doomed.”

I could hardly hear their conversation for the pounding of my heart in my ears. The warrior nodded, thoughtfully, then spoke to me.
“We are honour-bound to aid a fellow Aquilonian. I shall see to it that a Stygian is brought to this camp before the second sunrise,” he said. Then he covered the mirror back up. "You can count on us," he added. Then he left the tent.

Twilight’s Dawn - The BadValentine Chronicles (part 4)

By his nature Altaier the Cimmerian was a conqueror. It was in his blood. Even his name was a derivative of the Cimmerian phrase ‘taieron’ meaning ‘to overpower the malevolent’.

As a child, Altaier had watched a shamanistic tribal ritual in which a blue-green energy had spiraled out of control and struck a nearby tree, blasting timber in every direction. The shape of the charred branch that landed at his feet reminded him of the sigils used by the nature mystics of his race. Altaier had drawn the bear shamans’ attention to his find, and they’d treated it with the utmost seriousness, telling him that not only was its resemblance to a two-handed sword meaningful in that it was symbolic of martial strength and the ability to overcome obstacles, there was the added significance of a secondary symbol where the pommel would have been, had it been real, a swirl that looped back on itself representing eternity or the concept of many numbers. According to tradition, the combination of the two symbols gave rise to a third interpretation: ‘one who overcomes the many’ – a conqueror.

Years later, the wooden sword of a child had been replaced by the two-handed sword of a man. The expertly crafted weapon had been a gift from his lord as acknowledgement for his service to the guild known as Strength In Numbers. The name had drawn him, like destiny’s clarion call, and by deed in battle he’d risen in the ranks to become an officer. Countless enemies had been swept aside by the advancing tide of the men under his command, purging the land of evil as they saw it. In a world where disputes were tested by the truth of a blade, the steel of his sword brought protection to the needy and punishment to the unjust. Woe unto those who stood in his way as an enemy. Loyalty to the guild was all, which meant standing in unity in service to one another.

It was dusk and Altaier was deep in thought. He removed his blue-plumed helmet to wipe the sweat from his bald, suntanned head. Memories of his childhood were once again flooding back. It was becoming an all-too-common occurrence, as if unseen voices were whispering to him, reminding him of a time before he’d known the harsh reality of the battlefield. Yet, even as a child he’d understood that the bitter taste of death was never far away – a sharp contrast to the sweetness of the milk from his mother’s bosom.

For a moment, his mind rested on recollections of his childhood friend, a Cimmerian called Zecht. They’d been so alike they were often mistaken for brothers. Altaier’s knuckles went white as he unconsciously tightened his grip on the handle of his sword. His mind’s eye focused on the day the river had flooded and burst its banks. His memory retold of the moment his fingers had gripped Zecht’s own hand, as they'd struggled to keep their heads above the swirling water. Coughing and spluttering, Altaier had somehow managed to lock his arm around the exposed roots of a riverside tree and with his other hand he’d fought with all of his will to pull his friend to safety. But the current had been too strong and the boys tired quickly. Their hands slipped in a moment that lasted an age. Then they were no longer touching. Their eyes had met for one last time, and the look on Zecht’s face became etched in his memory forever. Zecht had been trying to say something to him in that moment. He’d been pleading with him and then his demeanour suddenly changed and it was as if he was saying “It’s alright, it’s alright my friend, my brother.” It was as if there was no danger and they were simply running across the mountain range as they had always done, laughing and screaming with delight as they chopped at rocky outcrops with their makeshift swords, pretending the evils of the world cowered before their might. Then the terror of the moment was once again upon him.
“Swim!” Altaier had cried. “Please… swim!” But the water had taken Zecht away, swiftly drawing him down into its churning depths.

Haunted by that image, there had been many nights when Altaier had awoken, trying to fight back the memories and willing himself to believe that Zecht had somehow survived – survived and triumphed over every obstacle that a lone defenceless child would have met with in the days, weeks and years beyond that fateful day. Even now, by some miracle Zecht could be out there, perhaps living a life of glory in some fine Cimmerian guild. Altaier snorted and spat in the dust. No, life was as merciless as his god was cruel. What need would Crom have for a lone child to survive such an ordeal, when others throughout the land were dying by the hundreds every day? Still, nothing was impossible he liked to suppose. For a brief moment he allowed himself to believe the mounted warrior in the distance was Zecht. Then he stood. That was no Cimmerian, it was an Aquilonian outrider.
“Sound your horn,” Altaier commanded his lookout, who was now stood by his side, quick to carry out his orders. “We have a visitor and he may not be alone.”

Twilight’s Dawn - The BadValentine Chronicles (part 5)

I lay exposed but for a thin length of silk that I wore as an undergarment. My dress had been hitched up to enable the priest access to my thigh wound and in my restless sleep it had ridden higher. The material had become sodden in my fevered state and it stuck to my skin as I pulled it down to preserve my dignity. I was overcome with despair.

The sensation of the demon’s weight on my legs was still present, yet I could not see it, nor could I escape it. I drifted in and out of consciousness, dimly aware of voices outside the tent.
A guard stood at the entrance, eyeing me uneasily. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and then stood bolt upright as I suddenly gasped. Something was happening. No longer, it seemed, was the demon content to sit at the wound in my thigh, it had grown stronger feeding on my blood and was now moving.

I gasped again as it crawled to the top of my legs, feeling its full weight bearing down on me, as if a large animal was intent on crushing me before it dined on my soft flesh. Its limbs were painful and heavy as it clambered across my stomach until it sat perched on my belly and across my chest, crushing my breasts. I struggled to breathe, let alone cry out.
I could feel its hot breath on my face as it leaned forward, tasting the air with its darting tongue.
Although I couldn’t see it, I knew its every move. It lowered its head even more, until its jaws were at the side of my head, its snout touching my ear.

“We… are… Shades… of… Set,” it hissed, speaking in low guttural tones mingled with ancient Stygian dialect. “Your kind… we… detest, and by our venom… you will be cleansed.”
I could hear it as much in my mind as in my ear, as if its words were seeping into me, tainting my thoughts. I could still hear its command as it moved its head again and closed its jaws over my mouth. Its teeth dug into my cheeks and my chin, and they were angled in such a way that as it opened its jaws wider, my mouth was also forced open, locked into the posture of a voiceless scream.
“Break… the… arrow… or die!” it hissed in my mind. Then it thrust its long venom-coated tongue down my throat.

My insides were on fire. The venom felt as if it was stripping my flesh from the inside out. Yet I could make no sound other than a whimper.
My wide, rolling eyes locked onto those of the guard at the entrance, but all he could see was my body writhing and bucking furiously against thin air. For a moment, he debated whether to raise the alarm, having already watched my fever-induced restlessness as I slept. But he realized this time it was different. I was awake, yet I appeared to be in the grip of a terrible nightmare.

After what seemed like an eternity he stepped closer, while the beast bore down on me, burning me and demanding only one thing. “Break the arrow… and live!”
The pain was unbearable. Tears streamed down my face and I felt as if I was suffocating.
My hand was on the shaft of the arrow before I realised what I was doing, and I snapped it below the feathered fletching. The demon thrust its tongue in further and now my lungs were burning. Delirious, I pushed the arrow deeper into my thigh until its barbed point emerged out of the other side in a spray of blood. My mind cried out in agony as I grasped the tip with my other hand and pulled it all the way through, then let it drop to the floor. A fountain of blood splashed the face of the guard who had drawn close, astonished at what he was seeing. He stumbled back, calling out in alarm.
Then, there was silence. The flow of blood from the wound in my leg had suddenly ceased, and I sat up.

The guard stood motionless, hardly registering the sound of footsteps behind him as three more guards rushed in, swords drawn. They stared at me as I slowly turned my head and returned their gaze.
My soulless, gleaming black eyes were the vision of a nightmare, and the alien words that issued from my mouth were not my own.
“We... are... Shades of Set,” I hissed, “and we... are... your death!”

Twilight’s Dawn - The BadValentine Chronicles (part 6)

I fought the demon inside me with all of my might, but I was slowly being suffocated. The light of consciousness that I perceived to be my inner self was almost extinguished and had that happened I would have been lost. My body would have become an empty shell – animated only by the dark spirit that had forced its way in and made of me its gruesome plaything.

It relished its position, I was conscious enough to realise that. I could feel its hellish passion, its hatred for humankind and its unquenchable desire to kill – no, not just kill, to devour.
It was a consumer of souls, feeding on our fears. It could never be satiated. Its beating heart was the endless toll of hell’s bells and its lifeblood was the relentless flow of human suffering in a sea of crimson blood.

I was powerless as it moved my lips, uttering words of depravity that sullied the very air around. It moved my body like a marionette, causing me to rise up on my feet to stand before the assembled guards who stood agape.
A thin trickle of blood poured from my nose down the front of my body, and the sound of my words was like a multitude of voices – haunting echoes of long lost souls speaking as one. I realised then, the demon was a living prison, a hell formed of its own being, imprisoning its victims in the timeless abyss of its own mind. It was a psychic quicksand from which I could not escape. The more I struggled the deeper I sank until my mind knew only the torture of endless misery. Eternity stretched out in every direction, an endless age of torment that contained a black pit in which I was skewered upon the spikes of demonic loathing.

“Die!” I cursed, in a near-deafening whisper. The very atmosphere around me flayed the skin of those who stood close to me. They dropped their weapons as agony racked their bodies, and their screams brought others running.
In the chaos that ensued, one man stood strong while all others dropped to their knees. His blistering skin crackled in an unseen fire as the demonic spirit within me sought to strip his flesh from the bone.
“I know you, demon,” he seemed to growl.

He was one Stygian amid a camp of Aquilonian foes, yet he was aiding rather than fighting them. I looked behind him to the entrance of the tent and saw the Mitran priest sending forth healing energies that seemed to rouse his fallen comrades. They backed off as the Stygian continued to address the demon inside me.

“Nadracht! Nostra faeratuu!” the Stygian commanded.
The air became clammy, oppressive, akin to the feeling in the atmosphere heralding the onset of a thunderstorm. And the demon was silenced.
I could feel it, as if it was frozen in my mind, and suddenly I was myself again, fully conscious and in control of my own body, though feeling as if I’d been hit on the head by a mace.

“Mitra be praised,” said the priest whom having healed the guards was now at my side offering gentle support.
“I think not,” replied the Stygian mage in a clear Aquilonian tongue, as if it was his native language, “But I believe the danger has passed – for the moment.”
“Then I shall allow her to live,” came the voice of the guardian who, earlier, had promised to return with help.
He lowered his sword from the nape of my neck and stepped into the light. Nobody had seen him enter, let alone make his way stealthily to the one position where it seemed a soldier was safe from the demon’s wrath.
Immediately, the guards stood to attention and saluted. Duskmourne, their Grand Commander, returned their salutation with a nod.

“Stand at ease, men,” Duskmourne said.
I never did find out how he managed to secure help from the Stygian mage. All I know is that he approached a multi-cultured guild, words were said and agreements were made.
However, it became clear the Lions commander had reason to save me beyond that of his code of honour heralding him as a protector of lone Aquilonians.
“You are not the first to suffer the obsession of a dark entity such as that which now sleeps within you,” Duskmourne explained to me. “Reports confirm there is a plague, consisting of such demons as the one we have just seen, sweeping the land at this time, preying on the wounded and bringing darkness and death to all living things. Your situation provided an opportunity to capture and interrogate one of these creatures. But we were too late. The demon became too strong and all we have succeeded in doing is bind it to its own oblivion. Had we been but a few moments later than this, even that would have been impossible and I would have been forced to kill you.”

I looked at the Stygian, who was nodding in confirmation.
“Yes, he is right. You are not free of the creature. It is bound to you in a dimension that lies close to dream. I know not what your fate shall be, only that for the present moment you are no threat to your countrymen.”
Duskmourne nodded. “Now, we must make haste and fight these things at their source. Right now, we must gather our intelligence. I want to know everything about those Stygians we only ever hear of in whispers on the lips of the dying.”
“Shades of Set,” I said, more as an affirmation than a question.
“Yes,” replied Duskmourne, his countenance darkening at the very mention of their name.

Twilight’s Dawn - The BadValentine Chronicles (part 7)

I laughed. I was insane. I was sure of it. Who wouldn’t have been? I’d shared my body with a demon.
What is it about the sound of laughter that reveals the true state of the soul? I didn’t know the answer, but I knew the sound of despair and no amount of laughter could disguise it. Rather, my spontaneous expression of mirth revealed the true horror of my condition with greater clarity.

One cannot know coldness in its fullness without first having known heat, and I knew that coldness now. I knew it as fear and terror, just as once - an age ago - I’d known hope and happiness.
It was the chill that raced up my spine and made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end; it was the numbness in my spirit that froze me to the spot, preventing me from running; it was the icy expanse of my soul, a blizzard that blinded me to everything but despair.
Yes, I’d shared my body with a demon and now I felt an absurd intimacy that was beyond anything I’d ever experienced with any lover.
This was not a relationship in any normal sense of the word. It was one born of madness. How else could I have reacted to such an endless assault?

I’d had ‘encounters’ throughout my life that I did not even consider to be relationships. When asked, I’d simply retorted: “I’m just using you.” The truth always hurt.
It was always the case, especially if I’d started to feel emotionally attached. Hurt them with words then leave them before they could hurt me. So I used them, just as they would have used me.
But this was infinitely different. I’d shared my body with a demon – and it was still there, inside me.
It had taken me against my will, invaded me in a way I’d never thought possible. It had used me so completely.
Now it slumbered in some sort of hypnotic coma, but it was still inside me, locked into me. I was its prison, yet I was also the one who would never be free.

Rain beat down in torrents, plastering my clothes to my body like a second skin. Duskmourne had given me safe passage to Tarantia and now I wandered the streets as if in a dream, returning to the temple of Mitra each night to sleep under the benevolent eye of the god, protected by his priests.
Except, that is, for the past few nights when I could find no peace in those hallowed halls.
My mind was restless and I’d taken to wandering the streets as if somehow such a simple act would help me walk away from my troubles.

The face of Tarantia at night was that of a different creature compared to her countenance during the day. From sunrise to sunset she was maternal in so many ways: she was indeed protective of her children. The city’s numerous storehouses ensured an abundance of food was readily available should a harsh winter set in, or drought wither the crops of neighbouring farms, and her dwellings housed several thousand Aquilonians, most contributing to the upkeep of the city in one way or another.
As a seaport, Tarantia was ever host to merchants and travellers from far off lands, and because of this I moved relatively unnoticed through the throng.

Tonight, however, my sodden clothing accentuated the curves of my body and that was enough to turn the heads of several men standing under a canopy outside a tavern.
I was indifferent to their wolf-whistles and their invitations to join them out of the rain. In fact I hardly noticed them at all.
For them I was a vision of ‘Tarantia at night’ – the dark, seductive side, full of mystery and forbidden promise.

I continued on until I reached the Avenue of Lions. The streets were shrouded in shadows and presently I found myself standing in the darkness beside a low wall.
My gaze was drawn to a high balcony on a building opposite. Two floor-to-ceiling windows had been left open and long net curtains hung heavily in the rain that had now all but stopped.
From my present position the interior appeared to be in total darkness. As I strained to see, I became aware that someone was there. I did not so much as see them, rather I felt them, and the sensation sent a chill up my spine.
What bewitchment was this? It was slowly dawning on me that for some time now a voice had been whispering “Come to me... come to me.” Yet I’d heard no words.

I felt compelled to climb the wall and within moments I was crouching on the balcony peering into the semi-darkness.
“Come to me,” the silent room seemed to whisper through echoes too hushed to be heard by human ears. “Come to me my love.”
Was I hallucinating? I did not think so because this call into the night was accompanied by emotions so strong they were almost tangible. I felt a profound sadness yet at the same time a renewed hope – for what, I didn’t know. It was as if a lost love had returned, promising to mend my broken heart, even my broken soul – and I could not resist.

Serenaded by moonlight I stepped over the threshold into a large darkened room. The sense of presence that had been so strong, so demanding, suddenly vanished and I was startled by its sudden absence. There was no voice, no magic and nobody to be seen.
A moth fluttered through a beam of silvery light as my eyes adjusted and took in the scene before me. I could see all the trappings of a bedchamber, including an ornate dressing table. I gently traced my fingers across a jewel-backed hairbrush which, like everything else, was covered in a thick layer of dust, as if nothing had been disturbed for months.
The large central bed was adorned with velvet draperies, exquisitely embroidered and totally shrouding the bed itself. I cautiously walked around to the other side, where the elegant fabric had been pulled aside, and there I beheld a scene of tragedy.

A man, long dead by all appearances, lay on his back with an ornate dagger in his chest. His skin was tight to the bone, as if all underlying fat and muscle had somehow mysteriously atrophied.
Long black hair framed his broad skeletal features and for a moment I tried to imagine what he would have looked like when alive.
My eyes were once again drawn to the dagger and I found myself wondering if he had been the victim of a professional assassin.
The dagger was slim and well crafted and of the type a woman would use. Perhaps his wife, or lover, had slain him while he slept.
Then I noticed the blade of the dagger was engraved with what looked like the image of entwined serpents. I grasped the handle and pulled the blade out of the corpse with the intention of studying the full design.
However, the moment the blade was removed, the voice returned, echoing more strongly in the depths of my mind.
Had my demon awakened? A chill coursed through my body at the thought of such an eventuality.
The sense of presence became immediate and a feeling of deep sorrow threatened to overwhelm me once more.

In that moment, I moved as if in a dream. I sat on the edge of the bed then slipped my arm under the mysteriously dried out corpse, pulled the man to me and cradled his head to my bosom.
I mourned him as if he had been my husband. The sorrow I was acting out felt completely real, and it was only my own small voice at the back of my mind that cried a warning – that I was deluded, bewitched, and that I was once again in great danger.
But the warning went unheeded and I followed my heart. I bent my head down to his, to cradle him closer, and I wept a stream of tears for the life that had been lost.
Closing my eyes I nestled his head against my neck, desiring his kisses that in life would have been tender and warm and full of love for me.
There was nothing I could do now to break the enchantment that held sway over me, and there was nothing I could do to avoid the sharp sting that brought with it wave after wave of ecstasy as his elongated canine teeth bit deep into my soft neck.

Twilight’s Dawn - The BadValentine Chronicles (part 8)

He drank my blood in long, slow draughts and my heartbeat raced like the wings of a startled dove careering upwards to the heavens. My back arched in an ecstasy of pain as his vampiric fangs bit deep into my neck, causing my lifeblood to gush incessantly into his waiting mouth.

He was savage in his method, yet still his embrace was like the gentle caress of a lover and I abandoned myself to his every whim.

I was awash with blood. It streamed down my neck, across my bare shoulders and followed the channel of my cleavage, drenching the lace-up front of my russet dress before spreading across the soft fabric in all directions.

My blood also trickled down the backs of my arms and my limp hands, before dripping from my fingertips like crimson raindrops.

By now, his features had changed. The flesh and muscle beneath his skin had resumed their former state. No longer did he look like a skeleton painted with a thin film of skin. Never had I seen anyone look so alive, so vibrant, for he glowed with the subtlest of reds as his whole body blushed.

His muscles thickened and his heartbeat became strong – while my own pulse weakened with every passing moment until it had virtually ceased.

My eyelids gently closed and I passed into a dream in which I lay in a vast field of poppies swaying lazily in the breeze. The sunlit sky seared my eyes and I could feel an inner fire raging, as if my whole body was about to burst into flame. I was in a furnace and death was but an instant away.

My heart bled and I opened my mouth to cry out, but found myself screaming through long, razor sharp teeth. For the briefest of moments I had become that which was killing me – a creature of the shadows; a vampire – and that is how I would die, blasted to ash by sunlight.

Yet in that final moment the demon within me awoke. The nightmare that I’d carried sleeping inside me, possessing me, awoke in my dream and through its own infernal power it resisted the burning – and in so doing it protected me. No longer did the sun scorch my flesh. It became like frost in the air, vivid and vitalising yet chilling all the same.

Then the dream passed away and I awoke to find myself locked in the vampire’s embrace, and this time I was returning his dark kiss.

My soft, full lips were clamped to his neck, concealing the gash that I’d ripped open with my own teeth.

He gave of himself willingly and my strength returned, until I felt more alive than I had ever known. My senses became razor sharp and my capacity to experience the world was enhanced by an ever present sense of rapture.

I drank him in many times that night, and likewise he fed repeatedly from me. His vampiric nature was now also mine and somehow, in some mysterious way, something of the demon that I’d carried within me had also become his. Little did we realize that the latter quality, if that is what one might call it, enabled him for the first time to walk the world of humans in daylight as well as in the darkness of the night.

Days later when the gift became more apparent, I watched this Black Knight, as I came to know him, don his dark armour, then he stood on the balcony to watch the sun rise in the east for the first time in over 200 years.