[color=darkblue:cf0f6662ae][i:cf0f6662ae]In the Suite of the Cascadian Overlook Resort


Kincaid stepped into the darkened room mutely, taking another uneasy glance at his watch. He was easily two minutes late, an infraction that surely would demand a punitive response from his master. He had only been in his recent employers service for two weeks now and had already developed a healthy fear of him, and a love.

It had seemed like a gesture of courtesy and perhaps even affection, when his master had invited him to dine with him. The dinner had been wordless and leaden, but the mere fact that a SERVANT was being called in to feast was enough to lift his sullen heart. They had eaten together for a week, the most delectable of dishes. Cuisines from around the world had been placed before them on that dinner table, and yet his master rarely touched any of it.

What Kincaid hadn't known, and what he would discover all too late, was that the entire time the meals had been laced with his masters blood. Blood! The pork roast, which had seemed a bit rare for his tastes (although he dare not voice such opinions), had been doused in his master's life force. The wine skillfully manipulated to disguise all traces of the bitter tang of vitae.

Kincaid was hopeless now, forced into an eternity of service. He knew his feelings were false, he had figured that out during the first several nights. But it didn't matter. He had slid into his role perfectly. A banker and naturally gifted writer, he had never been offered a complete explanation of why his branch of the bank had been shut down...or just how his master knew he was seeking new employment, even when he himself had barely recovered from the shock.

But as it were, it didn't matter.

"Ah, Kincaid." the voice was exquisite, an army of composers could spend centuries trying and not produce a more melodious and pleasing tune. His master sat at the far end of the room, his figure concealed behind the draping fabrics that arched from the ceiling above. The anxious ghoul took several scanty steps forward, in the vain hope that he might not be heard. The heels of his loafers clacked loudly on the marble floors of the hotel suite, filling him with dread.

Kincaid could not know that it would've made no differance whether he was in the room or a thousand miles away, his master would ALWAYS know. He approached the bed where his employer lay, amid cushions and throw pillows, laid out like a Greek God.

"Kincaid my dear boy...you're late." Kincaid gulped woefully.

"I...I'm sorry Master Venetti...it won't happen again." he offered. His master set down the plate which he had held in his hands and sat forward, the shadows which once concealed his rigid facial features slid away, revealing a handsome, yet aged face.

"I know it won't..." he said, shifting off the bed and slowly making his way around the banister to where the ghoul stood trembling, half out of sheer terror and half out of pure rapture. His lithe body was draped in a cream colored toga, a long robe flowing over his taught shoulders and sweeping the floor behind him. When he moved it gave him a fluid appearance, almost ghost-like.

He moved slowly past his servant, the sweet smell of exotic oils and roses tickling Kincaid's nose. Upon his entering the world of the undead, he had been taught several key points. The bubble that had once been reality had been brutally and mercilessly shattered. His master himself however, stayed a mystery, content apparently to widdle away his nights on his highrise balcony, glancing over artifacts of the past.

Mr. Venetti, as he called himself, was somewhat of a collector of artifacts and antiquities from the glory days of Rome. Some of the pieces revealed their age, yet others look as though they had been in constant use throughout the millenia. The new ghoul didn't understand his purpose, but he wasn't about to pose the question.

"Kincaid....look at this, tell me what you think." Victorrio stood next to a large ornately decorated chest, the lid hanging ajar. As Kincaid moved closer, Victorrio reached into the chest and produced two small figurines.

Kincaid examined the figures for a moment. They were apparently made of ivory and were in the shape of a man and a woman, their faces plain and neutral. From their appendages, long strings draped threatening to touch the floor.

"Puppets sir?" Kincaid asked. Victorrio was visably disappointed. He set them in the ghoul's clammy hands and brushed past him, moving towards the balcony.

"Much more than puppets Kincaid....these miniatures were crafted for me more than two thousand years ago by a then famous Toreador bard." Kincaid nodded, failing to understand the relavence.

"They're very nice Master Venetti." he stated blandly. "Forgive my lack of culture..."

"I did not expect you to posess the faculties required to fully appreciate them Kincaid, so it is no fault of your own. I show them to you as a gift."

"A gift sir?" The ageless vampire plucked the ancient puppets from his hand once again.

"You've no doubt been wondering about your role in my plans...or what my plans are for that matter...." Kincaid said nothing, but merely stood silently. "I'll take your imprudent silence as a sign of agreement."

"Uh..."

"Look out there Kincaid....over that city." he motioned towards the now opened balcony. Thousands of twinkling lights illuminated the landscape. "Millions of mortal souls and hundreds of Kindred corpses, all plotting against each other. All involved in their own schemes to get ahead, to live out their greatest fantasies...a slice of eutopia."

Kincaid felt a wave of nausia sweep over him, but Victorrio only became more aggressive.

"Do you know what it means Kincaid? No, of course not, how could you? You've no grasp of the bigger picture. You're tiny lifespan is but a fleck in the infinate sandstorm of time!"

Kincaid struggled to retain his balance, the world was bogged down with weight. The very air in his lungs felt sodden with an unknown burden.

"I'll tell you what it means Kincaid....NOTHING. Absolutely nothing. Even in immortality, these fools and their power struggles fail to see the full production. Their nightly escapades are mere vignettes in a larger tragedy..."

Functioning was no longer an option, Kincaid grasped onto the bannister for a moment before falling to his knees. His innards felt as if they would explode at any moment. Victorrio swept his hair back out of his eyes, calming himself. He moved towards his immobile servant.

"In the end my dear Kincaid, they are no more than mere puppets." he tossed the relics onto the bed. "Simple toys to be manipulated for the greater end. And that.....is what you are my boy. A puppet. You have no choice...you can either fall victim to time and the will of others, or you can follow me and see the end result of this satire of an existance."

Kincaid felt the cold, lifeless hand of his master grip his shoulder. He looked up and saw Victorrio's figure silouhetted against the moon. For the first time he saw the creature for what it really was. Inhuman. Victorrio's empty gaze was instinctive and predatory, sterling blue eyes nearly transparent, displaying an empty space that should contain a soul. He was an empty husk, the weight of millinea of blood long since sapping his mortality. He had survived his mortal death, and even in undeath had outwitted, outmaneuvered, or simply over-powered his opponents. All to become this.

"I can't remember how many I've killed Kincaid." his voice was calm, almost reminiscant. "Thousands....who knows? Countless more will die before....." he stopped and stared at his ghoul silently for a moment. Kincaid prayed for death. The vampire handed the ghoul a glass of vitae and moved away. "Feast my servant, and clean yourself up, we have work to do."

As Kincaid gorged himself on the sweet, potent vitae, Victorrio Venetti moved onto the balcony, basking in the same moonlight he had for eons...[/color:cf0f6662ae][/i:cf0f6662ae]

(( Some nice stuff man :) ))

Eugene stepped back into the lamplight, the tattoo's etched over nearly every curve of his muscular torso. The room was almost completely pitch black, aside from the wavering halo of lamplight that hung above the table. Atop the table, Eugene quickly began rummaging through the assorted plastic bags, seperating them into neat piles.

"Eugene..." the deep voice emerged from the darkness surrounding the table, the large dominant face of Tom Brown coming into sight.

"Lil' Gene mothaf*cka!" Eugene spat, visibly irritated that Tom had once again resorted to using his natural name.

"N*gga shut the f*ck up!" Tom growled, "Is dis sh*t ready or not?" he motioned towards the product that lay spread across the table.

"Yeah n*gga it's ready. Time to make some bank!" Lil' Gene replied, stacking the final bag on one of the piles. Crouching low, he produced several multicolored backpacks from beneath the table. They wore their age poorly, but would suffice for their service. "Call them n*ggaz in."

Tom smiled, his teeth sparkling in the lamplight, the prospect of probable money spread across his face. He straightened out his heavy jacket as he crossed the unlit room towards the staircase. They had conducted most of their "business" in the basement area of an old YMCA for years. Once the neighborhood went under, the Y shut down, and opened itself to a host of new, less reputable, trades.

Taking the steps two at a time, he climbed the rickedy staircase opening the door.

"Aiight y'all..." he said, turning around and jogging down the staircase. Below, Lil' Gene heard the tromping of several pairs of feet and turned to greet them, several full backpacks gripped in both his hands. Tom joined him at his side, helping him with the bags. The three new faces appeared, their eyes wide and mouths agape.

"Sh*t," Gene said, looking between the three pushers, "what da f*ck's wrong with y'all?" the basement was suddenly filled with sound as several more footsteps assaulted the stairs. The figures, concealed by the darkness of the room, did not complete their treck down the stairs, instead heaving themselves over the railing and landing neatly between the pushers and their perspective suppliers.

"Mothaf*cka...." Tom gasped, dropping the bags and throwing himself backwards. His compatriot watched in agonizing horror as Tom dropped the backpacks and wrenched a pistol from the confines of his jacket. The three figures, two of which were apparently wearing all black suits and sunglasses, remained silent. The middle figure, a slightly balding man in a white shirt and jeans, disappeared into the shadows of the room.

Tom fired erratically, the gun lighting up the room in short bursts. Shrieking and cowering next to the stairway, the three pushers threw themselves onto the ground, terrified at impending death.

"TOM WATCH OUT!!!" Gene cried, his heart dropping. The balding man appeared behind Tom, who held the gun shakily in the opposite direction. The man, whose body was dwarfed by Tom's larger frame, gripped an old helium tank in both hands, weilding it with apparent ease. As the unfortuneate drug dealer turned turned Gene's warning, the helium tank SPACKED across the head, spilling the contents of his skull across the floor.

The slight man grinned wickedly in the dim light, his white shirt now streaked with deep blood and brain matter.

"Jesus Christ...did you hear that sh*t?" the man smiled, his face shining with minute red drops. "Sounded like a fist going through jello didn't it?"

"W..wha.....w....y..." Gene stammered, his heart pounding in his chest. Tripping over his own baggy jeans, he stumbled backwards, falling against the old card table. The table toppled over, one of it's edges smacking the light bulb overhead as it fell. Gene sprawled to the floor, landing on his back and watching in terror as the man loomed over him, the tank still shimmering with Tom's blood in his hands. The man adressed the pushers, who were well out of Gene's sight.

"My name's Kincaid. You work for me now, you'll be pushin my sh*t!" as Tom's trembling hands searched the floor for anything, Kincaid spied one of the open satchels. "Heroin? Jesus, where did a lowlife sh*t like you get your hands on that? No matter."

He raised the tank once more, and the sickening splatter flesh and bone giving way resonated through the basement for what seemed like forever....