@marakama
The whispers crowded in his ears like a cloud of black birds, all wings, all talons. Wherever he went, there was no silence. The minds of mortals raked through his own like fingers through fine sand. Suspended above the din, the voices of his followers sparked and burst. They called to one another. They rambled. They prayed. He listened to them all, a priest hearing endless confessions. He could have closed his mind to the world and gotten peace, of course, but what use was peace?
His fangs crushed the throat. Sharp heat filled his mouth and he greedily gulped it down. He drank in the dying cry, the cardiac arrest. Then he dropped the woman into the lazy black current of the Tiber. Something had changed. He felt first a ripple of confusion, then curiosity. Then fear. Bare feet came running. He felt their silent tremors in the ground, racing towards him. The Coven Master lifted his head, a dark tongue licking the last of blood from his lips. He held still, attentively scanning the dark maze of winding alleyways and towering palazzi. Then the young blood drinker broke away from the shadows.
She was a big-eyed beautiful little thing, barely a year in the Blood. Her whispers were very loud now. She spoke quickly, excitedly, the way a child confided in a parent. With a caress to her dirty cheek, Santino sent her scurrying on her way. The orders were clear: A stranger had come to Rome. The young ones were to return to the catacombs. The oldest should stay nearby and wait for instructions. Strangers were no novelty, not in Rome. But history had taught him well. He would not endanger his Children needlessly.
His heart beat in his throat as he made his way to Castel Sant’Angelo. She had described to him a picture of strength and prowess, a heretic display of finery and luxury. That did not shock him as it shocked her. He had seen the likes of such creatures before. He had slain ancient Marius. Little could shock him now. But it was always exciting, a break of the monotony, when a new face arrived. Ah, but there he was.
Santino was not sure what or who he had expected. The piazza was nearly deserted and the drunkards and thieves did not garner his attention. Instead his eyes fell upon the vampire who was about to turn the corner into a smaller side street. He was a vision. Despite the symptoms of his condition, he was clearly of darker complexion. His thick hair rounded in a full beard that was no longer in style here, but once would have been the cause of great envy. His dress, too, was not quite in touch with common habits, but it suited him well. The world was ever growing, ever populating, and Santino could not have even guessed at what region this creature hailed from. He had never once left Italy, himself.
“Welcome,” Santino’s voice was a low hum in his chest, a full sound that suited his native Italian very well. It seemed as though his words were solely designed for the other man’s ears. No one else took any note of them. “It has been some time since we were allowed to greet a newcomer in our city.”
