The grey fang
The myth of unlimited power brings war in its train as inevitably as clouds announce a storm-
The fade was seen walking around the night. He lived, but it was only a semblance of life. He had died, but he was not dead. Sometimes, when the scars of his former wounds ached and his mind was all of agony, he wished that he had met his final end, deep in the bowels of that horrible night. The world he wandered was named the new world for a reason. And he would never be free, never once would he know the sweet embrace of death, not once. Yet the world was not without mercy. Each day he would be forced to relive the events of his death, to feel the powerful vampire jaws snapping shut. As a repayment for this, he had received a grand gift, if one could all it that.
The fade walked towards his cabin, his hands slowly caressing the wooden frame, like an old friend coming to home for a visit, and he would have bid it enter, but it could not speak. So, he reached for it, instead, with an eagerness that peeled emotion from him, finally opening the door. As he stepped inside his cabin, making a straight path towards the large cracked mirror that hung in the corner of the room. Standing a few inches away, he began to take in the reflection. The once young and tanned frame that had housed his person was gone. The once mutilated neck was now a strong looking and whole, carrying two large scars that had marked predator’s teeth.
His once black hair was now a dark grey and absent of life, it only danced alive in violence of a stormy night. His once tanned frame now pale, the powerful frame of a person in his late twenties. His clothing felt too tight with each intake of breath. His long digits once again showed the dexterity of a young man. He calmly slid his finely tailored coat aside, revealing his powerful hairless chest. His bright green eyes searched the innards of the room whilst sharp elven ears picked up on any sounds the wooden vessel was making, the wood speaking to him in a way that was beyond humans to interpret. He bandaged his hair in place, covered his ears and slid his features back into a large hood, covering his hair and ears –the traits that marked him as something other than human- casting a large shadow over his facial features.
In this age of piracy he had taken on the name of Lancius, privateer on the grey fang. A name that quickly became one of the most wanted men and vessel in the known world. The fang at your throat was a saying these days. If a sailor spotted the grey fang’s flag in the distant, usually it marked their death. Exaggerated of course yet elaborated lies have a way of spreading faster and more efficient than the truth. "I'm here,"
he said softly, almost like whispering to a lover. "I'm waiting once again. Shall we dance once more?"
And it sounded strange, even to himself, because it was an honest plea.
He finally forced himself to steady his resolve and step outside once more, now fully prepared for what was about to happen. Bright emerald eyes stared at the night sky, eyes that had seen too much to belong to his youthful frame. He felt his powerful frame tense up, relax, tense up, relax, it was preparing itself for a fight. He walked down the old oaken stairway, his eyes fixed on thecrew. The way he felt now, his pent up strength, the stamina that would shame an Olympic runner, it was pure power. The power was usually coupled with the unending thirst; the driving force behind his curse and gift
People now flocked to the baner of the Grey Fang, all because of its reputation, and others because of the wraith that haunted it. The grey fang, Death on the seas, The black water, all words to describe him. All words that held power and respect. The respect and fear was the only thing that kept the crew loyal enough to not look into his abnormalities and his enemies afraid. When he started his life on the seas he had already outlived several countries and empires, witnessed things people could only dream off. He was bored and life had grown repetitive. Yet the seas was a new thing to him, it meant opportunity and excitement. He started only with a small boat that he could manage on his own, carrying a sword and a flask of bottled blood. One hundred and sixty nine years later he had grown tired of it all, often forgetting to feed. He simply thought of himself as an almost two hundred years old, an impressive age for a vampire, yet not his actual age. The persona Lancius, privateer, was his latest person.
Blood was everything, it heightened all things worthwhile. Fueled on blood could make the smallest ocean breeze feel like a hurricane, whilst a spark created during swordplay could seem like lightning thrown down by the gods. Blood kept him alive, content and sane. Yet Geölr, Erďr, Titus or Lance as he called himself now a days, kept by a strict moral code, beaten into his head by his father, when he was still living. Blood was sacred and could only be spilled in honourable ways. In his younger days he had no problem keeping himself fed, frequently finding himself in bloody raids and skirmishes, the humans simply loved his elven features. The days of the elven prosecution empire still brought back fond memories to this day, seeing as fresh blood was an almost constant supply. Yet the price of aging or maturing as a creature of the dark was steep. Even a quick glance could now stop a charging man dead in his tracks, instilling fear. People were either too scared to fight him or too smart. He hid his features from the rest of the world, for the elven race was long gone; extinct and forgotten into the world of legend and myths.
He could hear the sea surrounding him, crashing violently left and right, making the wood groan, metal screech and men mutter. He calmly stood at the deck, swaying with the ship in a way that made him perfectly balanced, almost unnaturally so. Salt water was beating against his face, only to be washed away by fresh rain, almost as if they were fighting for supremacy and drowning the living was the battle field. The creature merely smiled and watched as the Grey fang crawled closer to the ship at the horizon, occasionally hearing the roaring explosions of one of the cannons, shooting a round at the vessel for both gauging distance and intimidation.
The creature name Lance merely glanced and began to whisper a tune in his mind, one fitting for what was about to happen.
“Like a wraith on the wind,
He now haunts the sea,
And trembles his foe,
Like a storm on the lee.
With an emerald-cold glare,
And a grin on his lip,
He has darkness on his side,
And resides in death’s grip.
He searches for what he's lost,
And finds reprieve in blood,
For he's both blessed and cursed,
Forever dammed by god.”
He whispered the ending of the tune, sharing it with the wind and the seas, finding a measure of comfort in the words, sheltering his cold heart for a mere fraction in time. He then moved forwards, seeing the enemy ship coming closer and closer in sight, mere minutes away from being boarded by the grey fang. The men and women on the ship would storm and assault the other vessel like ravenous dogs, searching for gold and other loot, yet Lance would be searching for something else, something that would help him on his quest. The captain of this vessel would have something in his possession, a piece of the key that he would need in order to find salvation.