Fallen 001: A Tainted Beginning

Note from Tom:

Hi all.

This post is something a bit different. Some of you may recognize it—it's the opening scene of a short story I wrote for a LitRPG anthology a while back—now, I'm thinking of reviving it and running with it (developing it into a full novel). The story has potential, I think.

As for why I'm doing this... This is strictly a side project and won't replace the Grand Game in the list of priorities. However, I do feel the need to write something different, if only sporadically.

Some of you are probably wondering why I haven't picked Dragon Mage or Gods' Game for my side project. Both those are still up for consideration. However, they require significantly more work to resume than a story that's still 'new'—if that makes sense.

As a sidenote, I have another half-dozen stories that I've started and stopped over the last few years, most between 5k and 50k words, so be warned, there's no guarantee I'll finish the story below any time soon.

With all that said, if you read the chapter below, I'll be interested in hearing your comments!

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SOMEWHERE IN KEL

Thump… thump…

My eyes slid open. Something had awoken me from the half-sleep that seemed my perpetual state these days.

Thump… thump… thump…

There it went again. It was the beat of a heart—a human one, I guessed—made faint by distance, but approaching ever closer. 

I had a visitor.

That in itself was a surprise. I’d been tossed in the prison’s dank depths weeks ago—or was it months?—and in all that time, no one, not a single guard, had bothered to check on me.

Have the Gifted finally decided to see me staked and burned? Or do they believe I’ve rotted away and sent someone to fetch the corpse?

I didn’t care much either way. Anything was better than the pseudo-life to which I had been sentenced. Even death. 

Feeling more alert by the second, I tracked the approaching lifesign. It pulsed steadily, something I’d come to believe meant a fit and healthy individual, but I couldn’t be certain. The creature I’d become was still a stranger to me. I was sure, though, that my visitor was alone. 

It doesn’t matter who it is or how strong they are. This is the chance I’ve been waiting for. If I’m quick, I can—

Words burned themselves across my mind.

It was a message from Scales. Leaving off my racing thoughts, I turned my attention inward to see what the god had to say. 

Warning, Gifted. You must feed within ten minutes or risk triggering a blood craze.

My lips turned down sourly. Scales’ warning was timely. In my excitement over the visitor, I’d almost forgotten about the blood craving. The hunger for blood was the bane of my new existence, and even after all this time, I often forgot its harsh demands. 

The creature I had become had to drink fresh blood every six hours. 

Or else.

I rose shakily to my feet. There was no ignoring the blood craze. I’d experienced it once. Only once. That one time had been enough to make me wish never to feel its effects again. Tuning out the heartbeat of the approaching human, I searched beneath its resounding echo for much quieter lifesigns. 

Namely, the rapid thump of little rat hearts.

The creatures infested the prison, and as unappealing as the thought of feeding on a rodent was, the vermin were the only thing keeping me alive and the craze at bay.

It took a moment of intense concentration to locate the nearest clump of the creatures. They were in their usual spot at the far end of the level. After weeks of being preyed on, the little pests knew better than to loiter near me. Slipping out of my cell, I tiptoed silently towards the nest.

I was the only prisoner in the section. In fact, the entire level was buried many floors deep in the prison complex and far from any other occupied level, which was why I was sure my visitor—whoever it was—could only be here for me. 

Being the sole prisoner in the section had its advantages. My jailors had seen no reason to lock my cell door, giving me free run of the entire area and, more importantly, access to the rats. 

Drawing closer to the creatures, I slowed my steps further and dropped into a half-crouch. Heightened hearing and an unhealthy sensitivity to heartbeats were not the only gifts of my new existence. I could also see perfectly in the dark. 

It made hunting the rats almost too easy.

Setting my sights on one of the little critters, I lunged. Sensing death approaching, the rat squeaked and attempted to flee. But even before my turning, I’d always been quick, and the rodent stood no chance.

My left hand flashed out and closed fast around the fat little body. Bringing the creature close, I wrapped my right hand around its neck and twisted sharply.

You have killed a rat. This creature contains no essence for your Mark to siphon. 

Ignoring Scales’ message, I sliced open the rodent’s torso with filthy fingernails sharpened for just this purpose. Hurrying now—the blood had to be consumed fresh—I shoved my face into the creature’s exposed innards and began to drink.

Your craving for blood has been sated. Time before you must feed again: six hours.

For the next few seconds, I lost myself in bliss. Say what you would of my new existence, the taste of blood was always intoxicating. 

The first few days after my turning, I’d barely been able to stop myself from going on a rampage. The urge to sate my blood hunger and to drain every rat in sight had been nearly irresistible. But it was not for nothing that I’d been labeled ‘pigheaded,’ ‘obstinate,’ and ‘stubborn’—all epithets which I bore proudly, mind you—by the disciples who had the misfortune to be appointed as my trainers in my former life.

I hated being pushed around. By anyone. Even my own body.

My mulishness had stood me in good stead in the early days, and now, weeks later, I could easily—well, almost easily—ignore the desire to feed except when it became life-threatening. 

That, though, didn’t make the act of drinking when I finally did indulge any less enjoyable.

I wonder what Disciple Agnar and Haimen would make of me now, I mused as I savored the feel of the thick warm blood sliding down my throat. They’re probably cursing the day, they ever— 

“Scales above!” someone exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

My head jerking upward, I whipped around.

✵ ✵ ✵

A man stood before me. The visitor.

How did I forget about him?

It was the blood craving that was to blame, of course. I knew that. But then again, I’d also know what effect it would have on me. Sloppy, Mace, I thought sourly. Very sloppy. 

My carelessness had cost me the element of surprise and possibly my only chance of escape. Dropping the rat, I let my hands hang loose and readied myself. Perhaps I could yet salvage something from the encounter.

“Are you him?” the stranger asked. “The one they call Macerio?”

I was, but no one called me that. I was Mace, both to my friends and foes. Whoever my visitor was, he was no former acquaintance—which was the only thing stilling my impulse to attack. 

Well, not the only thing. 

The visitor defied my expectations in other ways too. For one, he was no guard—he had neither arms nor armor. And for another, he bore none of the telltale tattoos of a Gifted. 

Which meant no magic either.

Who is this fool to enter here alone? And without so much as a sword! Does he fear what I am so little?

Not responding to the stranger’s question, I scrutinized him intently. The man was thin with little muscle on his frame. He was well-dressed in expensively tailored clothes that were definitely out of place in the squalid prison. His gray-speckled hair fell artfully to his shoulders in a manner that would prove bothersome in a fight. Rings decorated his hands, and a chain of office hung around his neck. 

A noble then. 

But what was a nobleman doing in the prison? Alone to boot, and treading where even the guards feared to venture?

Stranger still, the visitor carried no torch. Yet as evinced by his earlier comment, it was obvious he had no trouble seeing in the lightless prison. I eyed his beringed hands again. One of those jeweled monstrosities had to hold an enchantment. And perhaps more than one.

One for darkvision. Others for… protection? But regardless of their purpose, enchantments were normally reserved for the Gift’s exclusive use. 

Yet again, I scanned my guest. And yet again, I failed to spot any distinctive markings. 

He’s definitely not a Gifted. But he’s not just any noble either. 

The silence had drawn out, and my visitor began to shift uncomfortably. “Are you the Cursed?”

My jaws tightened at the familiar—and hated—epithet, but still I said nothing. Cursed is what they called one such as me: a Gifted whose talents had been tainted by Chaos. 

“By Scales’ hairy arse!” the noble swore foully. 

My brows rose at the unexpected crassness. The obscenity didn’t seem to fit with the rest of my visitor’s refined demeanor. It’s the fear talking. Perhaps, he is not such a fool after all.

“Why won’t you bloody answer me?” the nobleman continued. “Are you Macerio the vampire?”

I stayed silent.

“The fallen one? The Cursed fool? Do any of these sound familiar?”

“W-who… a-are you?” I rasped finally. 

My body was weak and malnourished, and getting the words out was a struggle. The rats may have kept me alive, but a steady diet of the critters had done nothing to maintain my strength. 

Why bother with rats anymore? The question slipped in through my defenses unnoticed. There’s a healthy full-grown human standing right in front of you. Play this right, and you can feed off him for days. Weeks even.

I took a half step forward before I realized what I was about. 

Gritting my teeth, I banished the errant thoughts. It was the blood craving speaking, egging me down a path from which there was no coming back. Pulling back was not easy, but I was not about to fall to temptation so easily. So far, I’d managed to avoid feeding on humans, and I was not about to begin now.

“I’m Count Esteban,” my visitor replied blithely—either oblivious or uncaring of how close he’d come to dying. “And I’m here to help you.” 

The ridiculousness of his statement caught me off-guard, and I couldn’t help but chuckle. “R-really? And how are you going to do that?”

“Are you he?” Esteban asked, ignoring my own question. “Are you Macerio?”

“Call me Mace,” I said indifferently. “And how did you get here? Who let you in?”

“The guards did. I had to—” 

I laughed hollowly, cutting him off. “You expect me to believe the guards and their Gifted bosses just allowed you to waltz in here?” Deciding the noble was of no immediate threat, I began to lick my fingers clean, meticulously searching out every spot of blood.

Esteban looked away, his face turning an unhealthy shade, but he didn’t comment on what I was doing. “Of course, they didn’t,” he replied, his words coming a little too fast. “I had to bribe the warden to let me in.”

He’s scared, I thought. Or disgusted. Or both. But he’s doing his best not to show it. Why the count would bother to hide his revulsion I couldn’t say, but I’ll admit, it raised my impression of him up a notch.

Esteban shot me a quick look. “As for the Gifted, they have forgotten all about you.”

I snorted, unconvinced. Saying nothing, I sucked on the ends of my fingers while I inspected my fingernails. Once the blood dried, it was nearly impossible to get out. And while I could do nothing about my tattered clothes, blackened feet, and grimy hair, I did what I could to keep my own person free of blood. Spotting a dark speck of blood, I resumed sucking.

“Goddamn!” Esteban yelped finally. “Take this. Please!” 

Raising my head, I stared at him. 

Esteban had stretched out his arm, and at the end of it was a stark-white handkerchief.

I stared at the thing—gloriously clean and free of blood—and for a moment, I was torn between crying and frowning. There had been days in the not-so-distant-past when I would’ve killed for such a gift. And what I won’t do for a bath. Or a—

Shuddering, I wrenched my spiraling thoughts to a halt. Let’s not go down this path again, Mace. The last time was bad enough. 

Settling on a frown, I reached out and took the offered item. “Thank you,” I whispered softly as I wiped away the little blood that remained. 

“You’re welcome,” Esteban said, the words sounding heartfelt. 

Folding the handkerchief carefully, I tucked it away in the only pocket I had that was still not torn. It was a precious gift, but it would not stop me from doing what needed doing. 

“Now tell me why you are here,” I said, turning back to Esteban. “And why I shouldn’t kill you.”