The lust for blood lay heavy upon the lips of the fallen saints. It has been ten years since that fateful night; still the thirst has not been quenched. Souls were sold and with the transaction came a curse that would change the course of history. Each day that passes holds them captive as in a prison, until mother night puts the sun to bed and releases them from their cell. When darkness falls upon the land, they are free. Free to take the darkness by the hand and go wheresoever it may take them. By the law of the curse, they are trapped, forced to love the bosom of darkness. For the light brings them sure peril and no end to the pain endured. In the light, judgment beckons them to pay the price of their souls. These are the elders of the vampire tribe.
These are the ones we fear.
The Color of Crimson
CHRISTOPHER BLAKE RANDOLPH
It had been a modest year in that quaint village. If only time stood still, its name would have not been forgotten. How splendidly it used to roll off my lips, and now to my lips it has become a stranger.
Many hours had been spent praying at the mission. The prayer bell often rang during my study time, but my frustrations I kept to myself. Actually, looking back, it was the sound of the bell I had grown fond of; funny, for the fact is that I dreaded it at the time. My heart was lonely in the village; the Lord knows that I felt out of place. It was the Lord who had beckoned me there, so far away, to that mission. It was for this reason that I stayed.