Because this area of the forum is woefully underappreciated.
Apologies for the apparently poor formatting, can't do it properly with ease on the forum.


It was dark as he awoke, sore head resting uncomfortably on a hard stone surface. He tried to remember where he was, but as the unfamiliarity of the stone surface seemed to dig into his back and a strange claustrophobic experience manifested himself, he began to take deep, panicked breaths, and tried to sit up, yet found himself unable to move.

"Don't try to move just yet. Be calm." A voice spoke from the darkness, but he couldn't discern it's source. Instead, he attempted to analyze it, as he had been taught to by... who? He couldn't recall. Focus on the voice. "The blood will eventually spread to your muscles..." it was male, and very deep. It echoed, and hurt his ears. "...but that will take time. I know you have questions, but you have to be patient for now." Despite the deep nature of the voice, it was strangely soft, as a father's voice when adressing a son. He tried to speak, but only a hoarse hiss escaped his throat, which seemed dry. Drier than it had ever been. He was so thirsty. And suddenly, as he lay mouth agape trying to force out his voice, a liquid was poured upon his lips. Not much, but as he weakly licked his lips, he felt a taste unlike any he had experienced before. The liquid was warm, and rather thick, but the taste spoke of the finest wine, of the freshest spring water, of the most exquisite drug potions from the mysterious West, and he found he could once more move, though barely. He felt numb, and after coughing carefully, he attempted speech.

"Tell me..." the words barely seemed audible "...where I am."

"I suppose that is the usual question. Know that for now, it is irrelevant. Do you remember anything?"

He replied, his voice stronger now, "Tell me where I am. What have you done with me?" He tried to rise again, but waves of agony racked his body.

The voice chuckled softly. "I have given you life anew. Freed you from the grip of death. Know that you are now immortal!" As the voice spoke, he tried to recall what had happened. Everything seemed hazy, like a dream slowly slipping from your memory. He remembered knives, and masked faces standing over him, bloodstains covering black clothing. He remembered fighting, he remembered dark masks following him as he fled through a black forest, he remembered falling, and then nothing.

"Why can I not see?"

He could almost hear the other's condescending smile. "Open your eyes."
Embarassed and angered, he did so, and found himself staring at darkness. He knew it was darkness, but he could still *see*. He saw a grey stone ceiling. He saw grey cobwebs in the corners. He saw a grey man standing over him.

"Hello there, deadling."

"Who are you?" His voice seemed to have returned fully, and he slowly sat up, ignoring the intense pain coursing through him.

"My name, though unimportant, is Alair. You will refer to me as 'master'. Do you remember your own name?"

"Lazarey." Alair stepped back as he slowly stood up and looked around what appeared to be a crypt. He was lying in an empty stone coffin, of which there were apparently several, though he imagined none of the other occupants were as lively as he. Stepping out of the coffin, he regarded his grey benefactor. He was tall, bald and heavily muscled. The muscles seemed strangely accentuated, as if his skin barely covered them. In places, there almost seemed to be no skin at all. He wore a fine black vest and loose-fitting leather leggings. An ornate dagger rested in a sheath in his belt. Lazarey quickly examined himself, finding his sword still at his hip, and knife-holes still in his shirt, though the wounds seemed to have healed completely. "So what, exactly, have you done to me? You mentioned immortality, I can only assume this is a rather poor jest."

"On the contrary, dear Lazarey, you have been most graciously blessed. I have bestowed upon you the Gift. You may be more familiar with it as vampirism. Here," he reached down into a cloth sack resting on the floor, and pulled out a frayed tome. "this book contains all you need to know, and more. My own master wrote it prior to bestowing the Gift upon me. You do know how to read, yes?"

Taking the book without comment, Lazarey glanced at the first page. The writing was cramped and annoying to read. It was written in a language familiar to him, though in an archaic dialect.

"Come, we must be away. You shall have time enough to read it later. I am afraid I was not very cautious when I brought your corpse here, and a number of your assassins saw me. They will undoubtedly hunt us here, and attempt to end the 'curse' of my existence." He snorted, and picked up his pack.

They spoke little as they briskly ascended stairs leading out of the crypt, which appeared to be more like a series of catacombs, presumably underneath the city Lazarey had called his home. Traversing endless corridoors lined with bones, he read passages out of the book Alair had given him. It quickly became apparent he, and likely most mortals, had an almost entirely erroneous view of vampires. He was somewhat surprised at his dismay upon reading newly reborn vampires weren't physically any stronger, nor indeed any different at all, from what they had been in life, save for an altered metabolism, which was the reason for the blood hunger. "Where are we going?"

"The vampire capital, Ilar-ghon." He laid a hand upon his pouch. "I need to deliver an item to the king. Should we get separated on they way, simply keep heading east until you see mountains, and head towards the highest one. We shall meet there. Travel light, but not in the light."

Smiling at his own wit, he never saw Lazarey draw his sword and impale him.