[b:01ed95fcb9]Throughout the crusades, The european cultures tried to take control of the "holy land" staining desert sand red with the blood of enemy and friend alike. It was a chaotic time, and it was during this time that a previously unknown english nobleman took control over a small city; A second son, and previously landless, Lord Henrick succeeded in taking lands as his own, gaining a measure of wealth he had not previously known.

During this time, his soldiers mingled with the population, and many children, both legitimate, and some illegitimate, were born of mixed blood. Wren was one of the legitimate ones, but his father vanished shortly after he was born, and his mother took ill when he was six. He was an orphan at seven.
----
Nine years later, Wren, at the age of sixteen, found himself running through darkened alleyways in the cold desert night, followed by several nearly exhausted guards, none of whom Wren cared terribly much to deal with up close, as that might involve the removal of his right hand. Lord Henrick might be ruling, but the laws were still in place.

He might have gotten away too, had he not made the wrong turn and smacked directly into a guard who had circled around through another alleyway. At 5'6, Wren found himself staggering backwards, and staring up at the nearly six and a half foot tall brute in front of him. Caught off guard, blood flew from his nose as a fist slammed directly into his face. He recovered quickly as he fell, twisting in the air and reaching down to his boot as he hit the ground, pulling a knife as the guard approached.

A knife that rather easily found its way into the guard's thigh, stunning the brute long enough to let him make another run, this time going straight for a cellar he usually holed up in with Anaya, hoping that they wouldn't catch up with him in a dead run. As he ran, he noted something; sounds of pursuit were lessening, this was a good sign, because with his sharp ears, it meant that his pursuers were fast falling behind, although... he thought he heard a gasp and a cry.

He thought he saw someone move, but dismissing it as his paranoid imagination, he practically dove through the door into the cellar, startling Anaya, and dropping the bag that he had been carrying; filled with stolen breads and fruit, it was how they survived on the day to day basis. Panting, he stood and slammed the cellar doors shut, then moved the table up against it just in case, right before slumping against a wall.

[i:01ed95fcb9]"Wren, you've been hurt, they must've come close to catching you. Stop robbing the same merchant night after night, you're going to get yourself killed,"[/i:01ed95fcb9] She said, taking a rag from a nearby pile and dumping it in a basin of water that was kept nearby, then dabbing it across his face.

Anaya was another orphan, just like him, and they had naturally fallen in together as children; Anaya had always been concerned about Wren, and he had always looked out for the raven haired beauty, even risking his own neck a few times when they had been younger, getting her out of the way of Henrick's pediphile son. Wren smiled, as always when he saw her... and then his smile faded, he heard them again.

The table was an instinct, but a woefully inadequate defense against several large guards in the employ of a furious merchant. Looking at Anaya, he sighed, and pulled the table out of the way, then burst from the cellar and made a mad dash out into the sight of the guards, intending to lead them on as quick a chase as he could. he had the stamina of a prize bull, and the quickness of a hunting cat, but now he had to go slower, to lead them as far from his home as possible before circling around and making a dead run home.

He didn't notice the guard missing, (In truth, though he had taught himself to read, write, and do basic math, he hadn't bothered to count the men chasing him,) and ran like hell. And was promptly lifted up into the air, after running fifteen feet, another large man grabbing hold of him as his fist came around and smacked into the larger man's nose, surprising him enough to put him back on the ground.

And then it happened; it ceased to be a chase, and became a nightmare, guards screamed as... something, lit into them with a speed that defied description, pausing only long enough to strike blow after blow before Wren was again faced with another man as an obstacle. Wren, unarmed, threw as hard a punch as he could manage, only found his fist easily caught in a pale hand.

Unlike the unfortunate guards, Wren didn't have a chance to scream; A hand covered his mouth as he was slammed into the wall, knocking the air from his lungs so that he could not even a muffled scream could issue from the Wren's lips. Then he spoke, [i:01ed95fcb9]"Don't scream, wouldn't want dear little Anaya to come out and see this, would we?" [/i:01ed95fcb9]just before ivory white fangs flashed in cold moonlight, sinking into Wren's neck, and Wren found himself wishing to be anywhere but here, his life being stolen from him by a fiendish stranger. Wren found the world fading away, darkness overtaking him, as he saw a bright white light amidst the blackness.

One that was promptly seized from him, as blood dripped from a deliberately cut wrist, the droplets falling from the wound into the lifeless Wren's mouth. The world came back to him, the light ripped mournfully from his grasp, leaving his world that of pain and ravenous hunger. No... not hunger; thirst. Life still beat within the veins of the guards, but not for long, as Wren, let free of his sire's grasp, moved in a frenzy to the nearest one, the one he himself had knifed earlier that night, his fangs bared, he bit down into the large man's neck, and proceeded to consume the large man's blood, til only a corpse bereft of life remained of what had once been a human being.

Unsated however, Wren turned upon the next guard, who was just regaining conciousness, only to see white fangs coming towards him, his hands pinned, his struggle breif, only to succumb to the extasy of "the kiss." Wren left that one, likewise, a corpse in his path, however, the rage died within his eyes, and he was stricken with the enormity of what he had just done; he had slain another, drinking the blood from their veins, to sustain himself, and so he wept, turning on his sire, he raged, [i:01ed95fcb9]"What have you done to me?" [/i:01ed95fcb9]came the whisper, laced with a red hot fury that had been previously so very uncommon to the boy.

Considering the clan of his sire, it was not surprising.

[i:01ed95fcb9]"Blame your father, boy, his last request of me was to watch over you. Ironic, don't you think, he make such a request of the vampire that took his life? Yet I honored that, and found in you someone I desired as proper progeny... but save this, for another time, daylight draws near, and you must fear that beyond most other things in this world,[/i:01ed95fcb9]" Came the whispered reply, and then the older vampire was gone.

Wren could only go back into the cellar, and found only the smallest solace in Anaya's arms.[/b:01ed95fcb9]

um...WOW! :shock: Keep going! ::drools:: Let's see where this leads. :D

Two weeks ago, Wren was embraced, turned forever into a creature of the night. This night, he had left Anaya slumbering in her bed, not just to hunt, as he had done regularly, knocking out guards when he went on his trips to steal from the merchants, and feeding from them, but to make a grand theft, the kind that no sane thief ever attempted.

What was the worst that could happen, he could die?

It did not take Wren very long to make his way into Henrick's manor; no, he was too skilled for the guards. Then again, he had come by way of an unexpected route as well. Two days ago, Lexxon, his sire, had shown him a thief's avaricious dream. Blueprints of Henrick's manor. Wren had devised a route that while unpleasant, was rather unlikely to get him caught. Tonight, Wren had crawled through a small hole made for drainage, and up a large pipe, his slight frame having already been strengthened by the expenditure of vitae, he was able to set his feet hard against one side of the pipe, and his back against the other, and climb that way when it became vertical.

When he finally climbed out of the hole that served as a lavatory pushing the wooden seat board out of the way to make room for him to get through, his wrinkled his nose in disgust; crawling through sewage was the best route in terms of low chances of getting caught, and probably the simplest way in, but it was also the foulest, which was why even Lexxon had blanched when Wren had come up with the method of getting in. Wren immediately snuck out of the lavatory, and made a point of avoiding any humans by a long shot, at least... until he found a lone guard, one that was left unconcious and minus some of his vitae in Wren's path.

Shortly after feeding on the hapless guard, he found what he was looking for, the door to Henrick's treasury. Pulling a thin piece of wire from his pocket, he leaned down, and with a couple motions of his wrist, deftly manuevering nimble fingers in the same moment, the simple lock popped open. He did not however, realize that he was apparently, expected. Fortunately, he was not so slow as he once was, and sidestepped the broadsword that swung downwards, in an attempt to shear him in half as he opened the door, then danced backwards, staring at the seven foot tall giant of a man that people knew as Lord Albel Henrick.

Albel Henrick was a man of some reknown, strong and fierce, curious rumors placed him as having not aged in many years, and being very inactive by day, holding curious hours, and now, Wren knew why. Henrick was obviously a vampire, revealed by his smile, normally hidden fangs extended to their full length, nor could any human make such a gouge in stone as Henrick did when Wren had sidestepped his blade, letting it clang off the floor. Wren felt his muscles harden and strengthen as he expended effort to increase his own power, feeling the hunger build within him a bit more as he did.

Henrick was apparently, however, doing the same thing... and faster than Wren could, in spite of his potent blood and ancient sire. A burst of celerity and Wren's knife lashed across Henrick's chest twice... but rather ineffectually; it seemed that they shared at least one gift, both had the discipline of fortitude, allowing them to shrug off even nastier damage.

[i:789e2a2e72]"I'm a touch surprised you've survived this long, whelp,"[/i:789e2a2e72] Henrick said, as suddenly, his gaze became truly terrifying, causing Wren to avert his eyes, which in turn gave Henrick the opening to bring around the blade of his sword, the edge whistling its way toward's Wren's neck. The whistle probably cost Henrick the victory, because Wren's hearing saved him. He ducked under the blade, and staggered back, turning to see a man rushing him with a spear. Henrick on one side, a fast infantryman on the other, Wren continued expending effort, until finally, his muscles had hardened and strengthened to their absolute limits. And another expenditure of effort drove another burst of celerity, and ripped the spear from the human's hands, knocking him against a wall with a satisfying crunch of bone, just in time to turn and fall backwards, causing the charging figure of Lord Henrick to impale himself on the spear, the large man's momentum snapping the weapon like a twig as he practically flew over Wren.

It had unfortunately for Wren, missed the heart. Henrick got up, turning, everything in the huge vampire's movement spoke of a murderous rage, and Wren, in his battle for survival, had already expended a great deal of the contents of his stomach. Then Albel Henrick made a terrible, terrible mistake. "[i:789e2a2e72]By the way, boy, That girl you live with? A fine specimen, isn't she? I'll have to have her in my bed, and on my table this eve,"[/i:789e2a2e72] Henrick said, not entirely aware of Wren's Brujah heritage, he knew only enough to know about Wren's mortal life, and his present state. Anger welled up in Wren, red hot rage, boiling inside of him, just as Henrick had expected.

However, it was not expected by Henrick when Wren made a lunge, moving faster than Henrick had estimated the boy capable of, indeed; expending effort and blood to improve already impressive quickness, and feeling the gnawing in his stomach, as he slammed what remained of the spear in his hand directly through Henrick's heart, then bit down hard on Henrick's neck, his hand reaching up, and slamming Henrick's face around as he drank. And drank, and drank, Henrick unable to fight back, even as Wren drained him dry and continued to drink, drawing out Henrick's last vestiges of Vigor, only to rise with a scream, invigorated, but still starving as he turned on the human he had knocked out. He leapt upon the guard who had once attempted to protect Albel Henrick, and he fed. Wren was fortunate no other guards came, security in the manor itself was rather low.

The human was fortunate that Wren's stomach filled before the feeding became fatal for him. He was fortunate that Wren had the strength of will to finish out the frenzy, turn, and fill a leather bag he had brought with him with what he had come for; heavy gold coin's from Henrick's Treasury. Wren left the guard, still alive, and Henrick, now no more than a pile of ash and bone fragment, laying upon the floor of Henrick's castle.

It was a short trip home, and a horrid sight when he got there; this was not shaping up to be his night. Three nights previous, Anaya had informed him that she was going have their child, bringing him great joy, for he knew that this would be his only child; as a vampire, he could no longer father children. And now, he saw his sire feeding on Anaya. Again, he felt rage well up in him, and his sire saw him far too late as Wren's foot came up and hammered him squarely in the ribs, not enough to do any real damage, but enough to stop Lexxon from feeding on Anaya any further. A burst of celerity brought out Wren's knife while Lexxon was still surprised and gaining his feet, across Lexxon's throat, forcing the older vampire to expend his own stolen vitae to heal the wound before it spilled even more of the precious blood on the ground.

Before, When Wren had tried to strike Lexxon, Lexxon had been holding all the cards, Wren had been mortal, Lexxon had been expecting it, and had had the advantage of surprise. This time, Wren, though younger, had a slight advantage, because of what had happened with Henrick, Wren was more powerful than Lexxon had expected, and Lexxon's swipe with a sword only served to knock the knife from Wren's grasp, though Wren really no longer cared about the knife, his right fist, still powerful from his battle with Henrick, became more powerful still, returning to the very limits of vampiric strength in mid flight as it hammered into Lexxon's face. Normally, Lexxon might have been able to shrug it off, but off balance, with a brutally overpowered fist slamming into his face? Vampires can normally shrug off blunt trauma... bruises mean very little. Unfortunately for Lexxon, circumstances were not normal at the present moment. His face practically exploded in a shower of blood and the older vampire staggered back, completely off balance as the left fist came around the other side and sent him staggering back and to the floor.

Lexxon tried to get up to flee, but Wren slammed into him, empowered by the blood of one who had formerly been his elder, he was vastly stronger than Lexxon expected, and Wren's fists slammed repeatedly into Lexxon's face, powered by combination of celerity. Lexxon, in a moment of good fortune for himself, tossed his enraged progeny away before Wren could send him clear into torpor (which, with the way Wren's fists had been impacting, had not been far off), and regained his feet as Wren quickly rose, readying for another rush.

Now came a moment of choice for Wren's sire. Facing his progeny's wrath at this point was suicidal, Wren had come in and taken advantage of momentary weakness, and had apparently grown more powerful all of a sudden. White hot rage was grown at his childe, but he struggled with his beast, and fled. He was saved only by Anaya's groan behind Wren, causing Wren to suddenly turn, look, and literally drop from his frenzy as his sire fled.

That very night, Wren and Anaya left the city where they had been born Using some money from Henrick's treasury to purchase a wagon, covered for desert travel, (and ideal for one in Wren's condition) and set out with a caravan traveling for a ship to England. If Wren had known what a terrible danger they would face in the form of the now raging inquisition, he might not have been so willing to make the trip to England. Then again, if Lexxon had known what a terrible enemy he would make in Wren that night, he would not have been so willing to feed upon Anaya.

[b:789e2a2e72]a passage taken from Wren's journal:[/b:789e2a2e72]

[i:789e2a2e72][b:789e2a2e72]In the year of our lord 1125, on the night of March two and twenty, I realize I made a terrible error in judgement, and for it, nearly lost a piece of my soul. For all that I tried, I could feel no remorse for taking everything... not just blood, not just unlife, but even that which follows. Were it not for my mortal family, I would have. Only Anaya and our unborn child kept me from losing part of what once made me human. I fear that it is only a matter of time. I have however, learned that the Amaranth is a poison to the soul, and to be avoided... and yet... There is such power to be gained from it.

I must never give in to the urge in to the cravings, the demands, of the beast again. I am damned, but that does not mean I will so readily accept it.[/b:789e2a2e72][/i:789e2a2e72]

((Well done indeed! Wren seems quite the character. It'll be nice to see how the Inquisition treats him.

::sighs in blissful satisfaction:: That was well done!

Um....got more?

A week after they had left in the caravan, Wren was very much aware that without the wagon, he was very likely to meet his final death, its cover keeping the sun's harmful rays from his body during the day, he found himself playing sentry at night, especially as of late. A few scouts with the caravan had reported seeing people watching them during the day, and there was a feeling of palpable tension that night. As it were, Wren was worried by matters other than the idea that bandits might be figuring out the best time to assail them, he was worried by his recent lack of opportunity to feed. In the city, he had been able to find an ample supply of vessels to drink from, however, with only a few people here, he wasn't so sure he could risk it. In any case, he was hungry, the gnawing in his gut worsening. He had eyed the horses, but if he injured a horse, then it might slow the caravan.

He couldn't afford that.

Keen eyes watched movement on the sands, movement barely revealed in moonlight; it was amazing how much more one noticed as a vampire, and he almost welcomed the bandits, had Anaya not been in the caravan, he would have welcomed them without misgiving; killing someone who was out to kill you was a simple rule of survival, and his knuckles practically itched with anticipation as they approached.

And the approach got all the faster when he shouted the alarm, and blurred into action, expending blood from his gut to strengthen muscles that had, only a week ago, been put to use against far more powerful opponents, and where he had made slight errors, he had learned.

As a child, Wren had had his fair share of tussles, when you lived on the streets, you had to be willing to fight for everything you had, and Wren had always been very game, never an easy target, tonight was no different, his fist hammering across the jaw of a bandit, knocking him clear to the sand as he spun, the other hand lashing out, he was actually impressed when the bandit ducked under it, and drove a short, curved blade into his stomach. He was also made very angry. The bandit was thrown back as the wound sealed itself and Wren, plunging into frenzy, grabbed ahold of the bandit's sword arm, jerked up, and twisted. A simple manuever that rendered the bandit practically immoble as Wren bore him down to the sand to avoid being spotted by ally and enemy alike, and sank his fangs into flesh, drinking deeply from the bandit, half a moment passing before the bandit stopped struggling, succumbing to the extasy of the kiss, and moments more passing before Wren had forcefully pulled all the blood from his struggling victim's body, leaving it a lifeless husk.

The bandit had tried to kill him, it was a matter of survival, afterall, and he knew that there would be no prisoners taken in this struggle, so, he crawled over to the first bandit, the one he had sent sprawling, and drank deeply, though the man was already dead, his neck having snapped from the powerful blow of Wren's fist, strengthened by vitae, there was sufficient vitae in the corpse that Wren rose with a full stomach, and turned on the next bandit to come his way, a hand coming across the face of this hapless victim as Wren's muscles hardened and strengthened even further as he spent more of the contents of his stomach, pushing himself once more to the limit of vampiric strength as the man's corpse struck cold desert sand.

And as swiftly as it began, it was over. Lexxon had seen what he wanted to see; the vengeful elder nodded to himself as the bandits in his charge retreated. This time, Wren would die in their encounter, his progeny had gone too far, and this time, Lexxon would have no disadvantages.

[i:712e8c8cc0]"I will kill my traitorous childe with my own hands," [/i:712e8c8cc0]He said, his voice hardly a whisper as he watched his childe from a distance, noting the way Wren's head jerked his way at the sound. Wren took two steps in his direction even, but Anaya's voice called from within the camp, and Wren halted his approach, then turned and headed back to his beloved.

Lexxon raised one delicate eyebrow as he realized that Wren's hearing was considerably sharper than he had expected. Something else to take note of, but something that would be inconsequential. Taking one final look, he strode away from the battlefield to plan his next assault on the caravan.

The next night, Wren's Caravan reached one of the landmarks they were looking for; the ruins of a small, fortified village, it had long been abandoned, destroyed in the crusades, the thick walls provided excellent fortification, and the caravans always made use of that on this route. As the fire lit, and Wren awoke to stare at an only recently blackened sky, senses sharpened by the embrace thought they detected movement in the firelight. For a long moment, he made no pretense of life, no attempt at breathing, as he listened, hearing only the myriad conversation around the camp fire... rough humor, such as jokes about the merchant's daughter, and the soft singing that always accompanied the light of a caravan fire, the simple entertainments of a night on open road.

Taking a moment to "put on the mask of being alive" warming his skin, allowing the deep intake of breathe, though this was only so that the people of the caravan would not be given anymore clues that they held with them a creature of the night, a predator to their kind, he finally rose from his place in the wagon, and climbed out of it, looking over at Anaya, who held her hands in her lap, and grinned at him.

And then all hell broke loose, a scimitar coming from nowhere to lash across his back, though it did no more damage to his undead body than the blade the night previous had, his wound sealing itself swiftly with an expenditure of what flowed through his veins, the full amount he could manage at the same time turning, his fist catching his assailant across the jaw, even as he pulled his knife, slashing a throat as he came up from ducking under a blow that would have taken his head clear off his body.

Then, just barely in time, he caught the blade of a scimitar on his knife, the firelight gleaming off the clashing metal, as Wren found himself staring into the hate filled eyes of his sire, who threw him backwards with a burst of strength, then brought the sword down, in a brutal attempt to split his progeny's head. Wren rolled out of the way, dropping his knife in the process, he cursed as he found his feet only in time to lean in, grab the base of the scimitar blade coming at him with his off hand, and jerk it from his sire's hands, cutting his arm and palm in the process. A swift punch from Lexxon landed across Wren's jaw, sending him sprawling and the scimitar flying. A sharp kick from Lexxon's foot caught Wren in the ribs as he attempted to get up, sending him spinning through the air and into one of the walls; here, Lexxon had made an advantage for himself.

Looking up, Wren saw Anaya crawl under the wagon while the caravan's other defenders worked on fighting off the bandits that Lexxon had employed. Turning his head, he saw Lexxon swiftly approaching, the scimitar again in his hand. Feeling the dull ache in his side that signaled a broken rib, Wren braced himself, and made a desperate move, reaching down and grabbing a handful of sand, he tossed it into Lexxon's eyes as the older vampire approached.

Much to Wren's surprise, it worked; even a vampire would recoil in pain of sand and grit got into their eyes, effectively blinding them. Wren's fist came around, slamming into Lexxon's face, though this time it did relatively little, it caused Lexxon to drop his scimitar and stagger back. Even as Wren's left fist came around for a follow up jab, he felt his ribs snap into place as he expended blood to not only heal himself, but to strengthen his body further, yet still, it again did no signifigant damage.

Finally, his eyes cleared of sand by a combination of his own blinking and Wren's vicious blows, Lexxon could see again, and lashed out at his progeny, catching him across the face, but not with anything near the effect he had before, he saw that set look in Wren's eyes as Wren's hands came together, and as one, came up to strike him on the chin, knocking free a tooth and sending Lexxon backwards. Wren, having reached the very limit of vampiric strength, felt his muscles harden and become like iron as he used the contents of his veins to reinforce his already heroic constitution... and not a moment too soon, for his sire came around with a vicious kick to the face that might have otherwise sent him into torpor, however, as it was, Wren was able to shrug off the vast majority, and grab Lexxon's left arm, then, with his other hand, the right as it came around. Slamming the two arms together as he used even more of what lay in his veins, he wrapped his left arm around them; it would only hold them for a moment, but that was all he needed. Catching the incoming foot with his own, Wren used his now free right hand, and a burst of celerity, to slam his right fist into Lexxon's face twice at full force, then pressed his luck even more, bearing in and ripping across Lexxon's face with his fangs, gouging out one of his eyes, only to have Lexxon finally break free and slam him in the face with an open hand.

Stepping back, Wren gave Lexxon a feral smile, and spat Lexxon's eye and blood directly into Lexxon's face as the older vampire approached. This of course, produced Wren's desired result of sending his sire into a frenzy, and Lexxon made the rush for him. And suddenly went flying as Wren, using his smaller frame to full advantage, suddenly went low, grabbing Lexxon by the crotch with the crushing grip of his right hand, extracting a pained growl, and by the throat a tenth of a second after, and then, lifting and using Lexxon's own momentum to launch the ancient through the air, and directly into the roaring blaze of the campfire, sending embers and ash everywhere, Lexxon howled in fear of his unlife as rotshreck set in, but his howl of fear was replaced by a gurgle of pain a moment later.

A gasp, because, Wren, knowing that the elder wouldn't stay in that blaze for long, had mustered every bit of his courage and rushed into the fire after him, his hand ripping into Lexxon's face and through the other eye, the tips of his fingers going straight through the socket and into the brainpan as he rushed finally through it, his clothes smoking, but not burning as he slammed Lexxon into one of the nearby walls, his furious rush causing the decayed stone to break apart as they went through it. Two fists slammed repeatedly into Lexxon's head as the bandits, seeing this, suddenly lost their desire to fight, and fled into the desert, leaving several of their fallen comrades behind them, and letting the only sound breaking the night's silence be the crunching of the bone in Lexxon's head and face, and the panting of the caravan's defenders.

Finally satisfied, Wren came from around the rubble, men parting around him, some out of respect, others out of fear, having just seen him beat a larger man, as far as they knew, to death with his bare fists, and go through stone (though many made up the excuse that the wall was old and decayed). Wren himself staggered, looking about, the sight of blood on the sand reminding him of the sheer effort that he had just expended in demolishing his own sire, the raging inferno of hunger that now tore at his gut.

It was fortunate that the night's corpses provided him ample opportunity to satiate that hunger.

[b:712e8c8cc0]A passage taken from Wren's journal:[/b:712e8c8cc0]

[i:712e8c8cc0][b:712e8c8cc0]In the year of our lord 1125, on the thirtieth night of march, I defeated my sire, the vile bastard who dared to harm my Anaya, making our home unsafe for us, his corpse whithered in the strangest fashion after I was finished, his broken head and body seeming to have dried and mummified into a husk of the power that he had once seemed to posess beneath my very fists. Surely, I could not have asked for a truer victory. In spite of every advantage in his favor, still it is I who continue to "live" beneath the light of the moon, and he who ends his nights.

Still, I find no satisfaction in the victory itself, only in the thought that he will not plague Anaya, and in the thought that my mortal father, who Lexxon took from me before I ever got the chance to know him, is now avenged.

What drove Lexxon down into the abyss? Was he perhaps a good man, once in an age that is now long passed? I can not say, for I know only what he was when I knew him. A monster, in guise of man.[/b:712e8c8cc0][/i:712e8c8cc0]

Finally, two days after Wren and Lexxon's savage meeting, the caravan reached a port city, though Wren didn't know the name of it, the city was prosperous, considering the times. Taking a breathe as he stepped out of the wagon into the night, he sighed. It was cold out, a cool, salt breeze coming in off the ocean, coupled with the night air of a region that was mostly desert. Fog rose from his mouth as Anaya took up step beside him to book passage on one of the local ships; Commerce was always a boon to the vampire of any day, taking him hundreds of miles over lands he could not have possibly crossed without being torn to pieces by Lycanthropes, or turned to ash by the sun's burning rays.

Wren found the captain and owner of the ship almost intolerable, something about the man made him want to rip his head off of his shoulders, though his manner and dress were both splendid, there was just something he disliked about him.

[i:359a472a60]"Let me introduce you to Bart, my first mate, He doesn't much care for the day mind you, but he is the best man I've ever known in the night," [/i:359a472a60]The captain said, stepping aside to reveal a young man who couldn't be much older than Wren himself was, but the oddest feature about him were his eyes. His eyes most resembled those of a large hunting cat, and were in fact, almost identical to those of a cats, and the man had an inherently predatory look to him.

Wren sighed, and paid the captain with a fair portion of what they had left, causing the captain to treat them all to dinner. As Anaya and the good captain ate, Wren paid careful attention to "Bart" and took a note that he wasn't touching the squid and fish in front of him, (not that many might have blamed him,) then took note that Bart was trying to keep just as thorough an eye on him.

Finally, Anaya finished eating, and they took a polite bow, and retired to their quarters on the ship early... at least, Anaya did, Wren went out onto deck to keep an eye on the docks for a potential prospect, knowing that at sea, he might not get many meals, so best to go on a full stomach.

[i:359a472a60]"I'm surprised someone in your condition is willing to make his living on the ocean," [/i:359a472a60]Wren said, stopping Bart in his tracks, the gangrel not knowing Wren, had no idea just how sharp Wren's hearing was; the gangrel filed that bit of information away, then approached cautiously, his whisper like a desert breeze "[i:359a472a60]And I'm surprised someone in your condition traveled across a desert, and is now making way across an ocean, bit of trouble nipping at your heels?"[/i:359a472a60]

Wren almost slapped a hand to his forehead as he listened to the gangrel, he wasn't uneducated about their kind, and as such, was understandably cautious about him. Still, this was a dance, though not so developed in these times, some still preferred that the teeming masses of humanity not notice the blood drinking monsters in their midst.

If the cat hisses, the mouse knows it is there, and runs.

In the moment that the two predators were speaking, a bit of movement caught Wren's attention, and he turned his head, noting a dock fight, two sailors drunkenly going at it, tearing into each other in their full fury. Wren leaned back and watched a bit, judging the skill of the two fighters. The one was a larger, stronger specimen, but the other one was the better fighter, evading and then coming in with punches and kicks that made the larger man stagger back. Finally, the smaller man had the larger unbalanced, and leveled off a punch that sent the big man sprawling.

While the smaller man panted however, his victory a foregone conclusion at this point, the large man grabbed a tool that the had fallen near, a gaff hook, came up, and brought it around, the makeshift weapon sinking into the side of the smaller man's head with a sickening crunch of bone, blood seeping around the weapon as the larger man backed away, realizing what he had done to the other man in the heat of the moment.

And the man ran from the scene of his crime, while Wren leapt from the boat, even as Bart jumped as well, stalking after the running man. Wren on the other hand, preferred the still warm corpse, and drank his fill from it, though had the man been alive, it would have been survivable for him, even as Bart came back, retracting talons and wiping blood off his hands. At Wren's questioning look, the gangrel looked back at Wren and grinned.

[i:359a472a60]"Protean," [/i:359a472a60]He said, as they both climbed back aboard the boat.

Day came all too soon, and with the dawn, the ship departed for the ocean, carrying not one, but two vampires in its lightless holds.

The first week of their voyage was relatively calm, however, as they neared england, there was a growing unease about sails on the horizon that had been shadowing them for a while now, and as dusk settled that night, the sails behind them suddenly grew rapidly closer, and as the captain looked upon the narrow hulled ship fast approaching them, he swore softly, knowing the turkish pirates for what they were, he called to arms.

When Wren came up on deck, he was most disconcerted to see the hulls scrape together, and watch men come aboard. Turning his head sharply as Anaya poked her head from out from the door to the lower deck, he yelled, "Stay below!" And moved to intercept the first ocean born brigand that came his way with a swipe of his fist, his knuckles smashing across the man's face viciously; though Wren was not extraordinarily strong on his own, the punch was solidly placed, impacting with the man's temple and applying the full force available to those knuckles at the moment, the single blow sending the swarthy turk to the deck, completely incapacitated for the moment, even as he was forced to duck under a curved sword that would have decapitated him.

Reaching in as he ducked, he grabbed the offending pirate by the crotch, and clamped his right hand down on his hard, extracting a cry of pain, then yanked up, sending the man up and backwards, only to fall holding his groin as Wren aimed a vicious stomp down onto the man's face, crushing tooth and nose alike, then moved on to where Bart, a sword in hand, was being fought into a corner.

One of Bart's opponents was ripped backwards, and in a show of blood reinforced strength, went skidding across the floor, causing another of Bart's assailants to be taken off guard, distracted as he was by Wren's sudden onslaught on his comrade.

His blood graced Bart's sword in the next moment, and a burst of celerity sent Wren tearing through his companions, one powerful strike of the hand missing, but the other hand met the sickening crunch of bone, sending another of Bart's assailants to the deck, giving just about every pirate who saw this reason for a moment's pause.

Pirates know when to beat a strategic retreat, and now was that time. Those remaining aboard turned tail and headed back to their own ship, cutting the lines on their boarding hooks as they went, though some few fell to the blades of the ships defenders as they routed, the ship veering away. Seeing his enemies run, the instinctive creature within Wren urged pursuit, urged him to hunt and give chase, but the reasoning mind that Wren posessed kept him back, despite the violent impulses roiling within him. He shuddered just a touch before things settled down inside of him.

Then he turned to Bart and nodded, before rifling through the pockets of the pirates left aboard the ship. Money was never something to just leave behind, afterall.

[b:359a472a60]A passage taken from Wren's journal:[/b:359a472a60]

[i:359a472a60][b:359a472a60]In the year of our lord 1125, in the six and tenth night of april, we finally reached England. We were assailed by pirates, but this only served to provide myself, and my newfound aquaintance among the gangrel, with a source of sustenance that we might otherwise have been without. I have discovered that, despite our differences, and especially in spite of our similarities, Bart is admirable company.

As it were, England seems less than hospitable, and I find the weather to be vastly different than that of my birthplace. It is, for starters, much cooler, almost to the point of being cold, though I find myself noticing such things considerably less, but the most notable difference is the rain. Does it ever stop raining here? Anaya says that it rained the entire day as we neared the port, and it is raining even now in the night.

However, I get the distinct feeling that much is amiss here, aside from the weather, and fear for Anaya and my unborn child's safety. The frightening thing is, I fear for them not just from others.... but I fear the potential danger that I myself represent to them as well.[/b:359a472a60][/i:359a472a60]

As it turned out, there was much amiss for Wren to be uneasy about. Men of the church came and went, and the town where they had put to port, in spite of commerce, was remarkably uneasy, due to the harsh rulership of the local lord, a vicious feud with a neighboring province, and overtaxation. This last was particularly bad, because while the wealthy men such as ship owners were given breaks to keep the money coming into the port, others were taxed all the more. As a result, the treasuries of the local lord grew, and the city suffered.

Wren was most interested in the feud however, and did a little investigation. Many of the city's soldiers, those employed by the local lord, were poorly paid conscripts, brought into service by the local lord, a very young, but very vigorous baron of the family Coldhill. His feud had come about due to his infringement on both the territory and the trade of the neighboring lord, who though more generous to his people, was relatively minor in comparison to the Coldhill family at the time.

Wren and Anaya traveled overland, along with several merchandisers, heading to the neighboring province, where Wren sought an audience with Baron Thomas, which, using the force of personality given him by one of his disciplines, presence, he was able to awe the clerk into arranging an immediate audience.

He kept it in effect as he was escorted into Thomas's presence.

[i:727d63b830]"I am Wren Ashley, recently of the arab lands, however, let me get straight to the point,"[/i:727d63b830] He said, [i:727d63b830]"Lord Thomas, might I inquire as to why you have made no move against Coldhill?" [/i:727d63b830]It was an honest question, considering the tension and minor border skirmishes between the two, and Thomas's defensive position that had been taken in the feud. It had been very fortunate that no such skirmish had found them during their travel.

Thomas was visibly impressed by the bold question on the part of the youth before him. There was pride in the young man's stature, and there was a certain something about him, something that drew instant respect, it was as though the entire room had centered around him from the moment he had walked in.

[i:727d63b830]"It is for political reasons, as well as military. If I were to make open war, I would find myself outnumbered, and the chaos would draw the king's attention, as well, Coldhill has influence with the inquisition, I can ill afford an open battle with him at this time," [/i:727d63b830]Thomas replied.

Wren smiled inwardly, this was working out far more easily than he had suspected, [i:727d63b830]"Sir, if you please, perhaps I can be of assistance. The fortifications at Coldhill's capitol are very strong, and with their fair garrison, could hold for a very long time, if you do not get past them, which is what I suspect makes your task even more difficult. However, if perhaps another entrance were found into the castle, you would be able to take it with a small number of troops," [/i:727d63b830]He said as a thoughtful look crossed Thomas's face. The man was buying it almost too easily, judging by the look on his face, but there would be one more question, that much, anyone could have told you.

[i:727d63b830]"And what do you get out of this, then?" [/i:727d63b830]Thomas asked Wren, leaning forward in his chair, [i:727d63b830]"What does Wren Ashley get out of the fall of Coldhill, you are a foreigner, so I doubt this is without motive," [/i:727d63b830]He asked, the question stated with a decidedly skeptical tone in his voice. He knew that this Ashley was probably little better than most theives, more than likely a charlatan if he asked for a payment up front.