— Beginnings in Blood †
Colors sprawling across white canvases, hues of saturation curling into textures that build into objects and masterpieces on the walls surrounding him…
…or so he assumes.
Without sight art is just expectation, imagination built from explanation without true perception to lead the way. The pictures on the walls are just ridged portraits. The talented and the untalented all on equal grounds, style and form pointless because visual opinions mean nothing from a blind man.
Sometimes he wonders why he even bothers.
Everything smelled of freshly varnished wood and the comforting, chemical tang of dried paint. Sound was humming about, voices melding into one tone as they whispered observations and blathered on about abstruse meanings. His shoes marked paths as they clipped the polished flooring. His smooth, black cane swinging uselessly from a leather strap at his arm as his other limb rested lightly on the soft, swooping sleeve and shriveled hand of his head servant beside him.
It was now that he remembered why he avoided such places as these.
Though there was a refreshment that filled him from being surrounded by the crisp, new pieces that hung—ready for reaping – on the walls. There was also a sadness that tugged at him—a sadness which ruined all his fun.
Loss is a difficult thing after all, taking far more than its original target. For Tristan, it had taken his sight, but even beyond that it had stolen a part of who he was and who he had been. Portrayable art was something he’d grown up with—something he’d learned to understand, appraise, judge, appreciate, but in one fell swoop it had all been taken away.
He hated that fact, and it was places like these that wouldn’t let him forget.
As he wandered and was lead through crowds and rooms alike, Tristan was beginning to grow tired, the reasons he was there slipping into minuses even with his servant explaining pieces in whispered breaths at his ear. Plus the smell of wood polish was making him grow dizzy. Nothing like making a bad situation worse, he thought ruefully.
It was overwhelming, the stench, like an old woman’s perfume powdering the air as the vampire’s head throbbed with distaste. He was about to lean over to his guide, lips already parted and mind set on words to initialize their escape before another aroma made the excuses die on his tongue, and a thirst claim it instead.
His mouth had gone dry, senses perking as his head swiveled around pointlessly as if to catch the smell better that way.
Blood.
He couldn’t mistake it, and despite reason and gentlemanly expectation, Tristan’s mind and body were now straining to catch the metallic whiff of life once again.
With minimal maneuvering the black haired creature slipped from his servant’s grasp with ease, gliding across the flooring with dutiful purpose and a tap of cane as the savory stench grew more pronounced through the haze of others.
Voices drifted past him, his servant’s soft calls melting into the throng of commotion like cream in coffee as all of it was swiftly ignored by the blind creature. He was on a mission, curiosity piqued and the sudden image of a bloodhound tracking its scent popped into his head causing a mirthless smile to tug at those pleasing lips. Irony at its finest, he concluded.
It didn’t take long for him to find the source of his hunger, the wall before him leaking enchanting fumes like a sea of bloodied roses as his eyes widened and his brow furrowed at the anomaly. What was he missing? He was baffled, confused, sensing things that made no logical sense but that somehow struck a chord deep within him. It was as if he could see the art hanging above, view the beautiful pieces in all their glory, just not with his eyes. It was the stench in the air that painted pictures; smoke screens of intricate design that, no matter if it was purposeful or accidental, caused a deep sense of vindication to rise in the pit of Tristan’s stomach.
This was what art was—this was what he had been missing…what he missed.
Like dusty pieces falling into place, old memories locked together. Nostalgia aching deep in his chest to the point that it pained the dead creature just to breathe. He could feel his feet moving on their own accord, the ghost of a much younger, happier Tristan pulling him closer bit by bit.
Moments later his head servant came stumbling into the room, his withered form pushing past blue-haired creatures sporting drinks and over-dressed gentlemen popping hors d'oeuvres like it was going out of style.
The servant was worried about his master, it was not like Tristan to rush off in such haste without even a warning—at least not this new Tristan. His old master may have, the scent of blood dragging him into the welcoming villainy of the night’s darkness many a time, the sin of possibility irresistible for the brash being he’d come to respect and serve….but not this Tristan, never this “refined” man.
As he rushed into the room he didn’t know what to expect, but as his eyes scanned the creamy faces he finally located the single pale one in the lot; his master by the paintings at the far wall.
After a moment of confusion the head servant moved nearer, slipping into position at the vampire’s side and brushing an arm under the immortal’s pearly fingertips with an expression of concern following.
He was shaking.
“I’ll take them.” Tristan whispered to his right, the fingers of his free hand raising and then outstretching to hesitantly brush the stained canvas with uncharacteristic delicacy before he said it louder. “I’ll take them. The whole collection.” Then after a moment. “…and get me the name and address of this artist.”
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It was a surprisingly easy task to find the creative or devious mind behind those bloody paintings, the man certainly not hiding as the entire world seemed to light up with his name after a little prodding.
Caesar Aiuti.
The crackling of rubber tires over crunching gravel was the first announcement of their arrival, the tread munching on rocks like cereal before all grew quiet with only the soft click of a car door opening to break the calm.
Tristan Anastasie stepped from the vehicle gracefully; his tall form weighed down with black attire as he adjusted the bunched curves of his leather gloves and looked up at the artist’s house with eyes gleaming dangerously.
…if it could be called a house.
It was a shack verging on hovel truly, underbrush and weeds taking over the yard like a victorious army, looting the overall worth of the house coin by coin as Tristan waded through them slowly. The building itself looked stable at least; one positive thing still not outweighing the bad however. Hopefully it will not collapse fully while I’m inside, the aged creature thought to himself. What a way to go that would be.
He smiled to himself, finally reaching the door and gaining a small breath of shade from the descending sun under the tiny lip of roof that extended.
Well here goes nothing.
And the creature knocked thrice on the door—one, two, three…