Post by rosenthal on Oct 26, 2010 13:48:43 GMT -5
As a Vampire, one learns very quickly to shun the light, perchance even forget it's existance. Lamenting it more and more each day as the memory of it fades away. Eventually, the realization that it will never come back sinks in becomes accepted, and a peice of you chips away.[/b][/blockquote]
Oddly enough this situation had become reversed for Rosenthal, semi-willing captive of the new kids on the block, the Angels. For within the rotting, stinking, shriek-filled halls of the large castle the Angels call home, there is no light. A sensation that any Vampire, of course, has grown acclimatized too, yet, the sensation was never quite like that of the current. The darkness hid many things unbearable; Vampires dying of wounds or starvation. Tortured individuals echo their pain night and day (not that there's a tangible difference in the deep halls). Death on a frightening scale. And when does this change?
Light.
More correctly, flame. Angels armed with torches frequent the halls, extracting lucky Vampires for feeding and assignment. The light brought hope. The light brought the possibility of another day.
Rosenthal hadn't had too much of a problem with this so far. Lucky enough to be worked from the get-go, his reputation as 'reliable' had become know to enough Angels to keep Rosenthal active and reasonably well fed. This more or less came from his readiness to work, his ability to take command and intiative, and his willingness to communicate with his master(s). Why did Rosenthal have such qualities? Simply put, they took the place of the feelings of hatred held in the heart of his kin. No, Rosenthal didn't exactly like the Angels (it would take quite the masochist), but he respected them highly. Somehow, he figured that the Angels could sense that in him.
Shrill screams of pain had begun to fill his particular corridor of cells, though Rosenthal was truly oblivious to them. A neccisary skill if one wished to retain their sanity. The young Vampire was much, much more concerned with his own activities. At the moment, it was his physical trainging he'd devised for himself. A small peice of fabric, hung upon the rough edges of the wall, served a target for a flurry of boxing-like jabs. He'd float about the cell, careful to always keep his feet moving and his defenses up as he moved. This helped him keep his knuckles in fighting shape, his sense of balance in check, and his strike accuracy very clean. And of course, it just helped to pass the time.
A distraction broke Rosenthal's concentration. Or rather, the distraction. That familiar, ominous red glow that brought a tiny smirk to the Vampires' pale face. From what he could hear over the screams, murmurs and concerned voices that sprung up from around him, it was a single Angel. Fingers flexed slowly. Anticipation was spreading through his body at a very quick pace. If he had a beating heart, it would surely be beating alarming fast.
Rosenthal knew the procedure. He moved to the back of the cell, away from the door, resting his back upon the cold stone of his imprisonment, shuffling his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. This gave him ample time to take in the rare gift of vision, as there was much to take in. The light brought with it a sea of faces, each more alarmed and scared than the next. A sense of shame was brought over Rosenthal each time he had to witness it. Such fear was reserved for figments of nightmares and monsters of legend. Not for Angels. His gaze fell to the floor in mild disgust. Vampires lacked courage; nearly each and everyone one was plagued by unjustifiable selfishness. It was more apparent to him each passing day, but the realization stuck the night of the take-over. It stuck so clearly in his mind. Vampires fleeing in each direction, screaming. Confused. Frightened. Perchance if more had grown a spine and fought back, the night wouldn't have been an utter loss. But alas, it was not so. Cowardice was the theme of the night, spare a valorous few Vampires who did make a stand. Rosenthal being one of them.
Heavy footsteps accompanied by the clanging of metal roused Rosenthal from his quite musing, drawing his gaze level to that of the approaching Angel. His expressionless face slowly panning with the Angels steps, until the steps haulted before him.
"How may I serve?"