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The basement was cold, damp, and smelled of dirt and stale air.
Hold up beneath a local inn, Quinlan had instructed his sizable group to rest for the day, planning to feed at sunset before intercepting the horde of unclean they had come to eradicate.
Far in the back, beyond where staff members readily ventured, the floor was littered with warm bodies curled in to fetal positions. They twitched and grunted in their dreamless slumber. Few stood along the sides, alert, cycling through watch periods. The Born himself had just finished resting, and stood against his post at the entrance. His gaze swept along the strigoi, clad in dark leather armor, which not only served to protect but made it easier for them to blend with the civilian humans.
This was to be his seventh exercise since joining the Ancients of North America. With each mission, Quinlan gained experience, was was slowly (very slowly) becoming more adept at leading groups of alcolades. However, there were still more challenges, more lessons to be learned.
Over the past few hours, Quintus had become increasingly more aware of an individual vampire who appeared to be studying him. The only one who dared let his gaze linger for long. One of the newer additions to his group, selected for this particular mission for a reason not disclosed to the dhamphir. At first, Quinlan thought that perhaps the strigoi was just particularly thirsty, scenting the heady air laced with human pheromones, but- yes. It was, as subtley as it could, examining Quinlan in pieces. It's gaze lingered on his face, his smooth neck and the lines of his double-hinged jaw, the intact cartilage of his nares and ears. From it's animalistic crouch, it seemed to compare the dhamphir's at-ease posture.
Vampires, by nature, were not much for socialization.Communication was telepathic and, more often than not built on shared sensory perception, a great buzzing hive-mind with the strain master at it’s core.
Quinlan knew not this vampire’s name, if he had one. The only information he had was that in life he had been male and that he was particularly adept at one-handed weapons. As far as assessment went for his current team, the half-breed was far behind his usual schedule. The news of this outbreak had come rather quickly, and required timely response. Which meant lots of travel by moonlight, and very few opportunities to assess the five new strigoi- something Quinlan would probably come to regret later.
As a man, this vampire might have been . Could have been old, but Quinlan guessed he had turned young based on the width of his shoulders. Now, of course, his body had changed; he was far enough in to this life to have a milky translucence to the skin over each bony prominence. Probably a decent fighter, by the scarring on his trunk. The ancients rarely supplemented Quinlan with an inexperienced youth.
For that matter, the Ancients had their own manner of hand-selecting the ones they turned. Any not up to par either found different use or were eliminated. Furthermore, though each Ancient had different ways of rearing their "children," Quintus had come to realize that while the so-called Master preferred to keep most of his spawn in a drone-like state, the other Originals seemed to prefer leaving their offspring with some semblance of a personality.
Such as this Curious One.
You are the Halfling they speak so highly of.
Aah, the nerve of this one. Tonight Quinlan had very little interest in small talk. He allowed a soft growl to ripple up his throat in confirmation, but otherwise held still. Either the newcomer was not interpreting his body language correctly, or he was refusing to acknowledge Quinlan’s reluctance.
We were told many stories about your skill in combat.
All good things, I hope.
A grunt, and the male tilted his head in animal interest, studying the gladiator before him. He cycled air through his nasal passages, taking in Quinlan’s scent, mapping his heat. Your appearance… dhamphir. Mannerisms, even.
You have never met one of the Born, then. Q’s instincts were raging, saying, "be cautious." This was going somewhere; something was on the horizon. There was a point.
Oh, I have. Like all vampires, and compared to the humans Quinlan had become accustomed to, the tone was infuriatingly bland. Disinterested. Why even hold a conversation? Every one unique. Different parts human and Sire.
Is there a particular reason we are discussing Born phenomena?
The soldier appeared almost thoughtful. Then, loftily, I had a wife.
The gladiator’s breath caught. He went still as the other continued.
I no longer understand. I remember... I do not miss her. But, He straightened from the slight crouch, But I remember. So many aspects of my life used to revolve around something so meaningless.
There was no way Quinlan could directly answer without damning himself. Return to your post.
It is a weakness.
A ripple of white-hot heat surged through Quinlan's spine then, burning dark embers in his chest. His throat worked, and though he kept his jaw clamped, his stinger emerged just a fraction, scratching against the underside of his tongue. Awareness; there seemed to be so many staring at him by now. But he knew- there were really only three. Three of the Ancients whose protégé stood before him now, watching. Listening. Unwavering.
He knew better. He saw the bait, and his mind commanded him not to rise to the challenge. However, the freshly shattered fragments of his heart twisted with a sickening surge of pain. Pulling an air of authority, Quinlan stepped forth, do not make assumptions based on something you readily admit you no longer possess.
The vampire’s second life was coming dangerously close to a cliff’s edge, but he did not seem to care. Surely, you had to have known. Her mortality was a clear sign of futility.
Mortality- yes, of course Quinlan had known. Had prepared himself, committed the sound of her laughter and scent of her hair to memory. Foolish, to think something so fragile could be maintained in the face of the corruption which followed him everywhere, biting his ankles.
The strigoi continued, Your grief is clouding your judgment. It will put the assignment at risk.
In a flurry of movement, Quinlan had his long fingers locked around the leathery skin of the strigoi’s neck. He shoved the creature up against the wall, heard the satisfying thud as he made contact with enough force to break bones.
You will silence yourself, Quinlan commanded. Now.
But the vampire was completely unperturbed by this display. Appeared bent on his own self-destruction. His monotonous tone never shifted toward any hint of the emotional spectrum. Skilled as you may be in war… you have a weakness. Love blinds you. It will cost us.
Quinlan rattled his stinger against his hard palate, fingers squeezing further in to this soft fleshy neck, and of course that did nothing to stop the words.
Abomination, the voice in his head rattled, a dry scraping sound, you possess exactly that which makes those foolish mortals crumble before us.
The feeling of his blade tunneling through the vampire’s skull was remarkably satisfying. Just like that, Quinlan felt the flare of anger subside, retreating behind the same cold emptiness lying heavy on his chest. Much like his thirst, he found himself satiated, but not cured.
He indicated the remaining crowd with a curt flick of his jaw, indicating the lifeless husk at his feet. Are there any others who would like to comment?
He was met with silence. Then, from the crowd came another strigoi, much more slight, walking with familiar grace. It’s head tilted up, and Quinlan beheld the eyes of the ancient whose acolyte he had just put to rest. There were no words, only mutual understanding. Later, Quinan would be punished for his actions. Feeling a familiar piercing pain in his chest, a single thought rose to the surface just before he was able to suppress it, to turn and mobilize the nineteen remaining strigoi.
They could break his body to the tattered remains it had been, cast him to the raging fires of death, and he would welcome the pain for it's distraction.