CHAPTER 3 The Origins

The sky was overcast, heavy with dark clouds that threatened to unleash a torrential downpour. The air was thick and humid, carrying the earthy scent of rain and damp soil. As the first drops began to fall, they landed softly on the dusty ground, stirring up a sweet, petrichor fragrance that filled the air. The sound of the rain was a gentle pitter-patter, soon intensifying into a rhythmic drumming on the roofs and cobblestone streets. Amidst this backdrop, a worn and weather-beaten brougham approached a dilapidated old church on the outskirts of the village. The carriage's faded exterior and worn wheels spoke of many journeys taken, its arrival a stark contrast to the rustic charm of the village and the aged church. A figure dressed in somber black emerged from the carriage, their movements deliberate and cautious. With a quick glance around, the figure slipped into the church, their footsteps muffled by the sound of the rain outside. Inside the church, the air was cool and musty, infused with the scent of old wood and aged stone. The vivid smell of the rain seeped through the walls, adding to the sense of isolation. The old church was dimly lit, with the faint light filtering through stained glass windows casting colorful patterns on the stone floor. The air was cool and musty, carrying the scent of age-old wood and damp stone. The church was a testament to another era, with high vaulted ceilings supported by ancient wooden beams that seemed to stretch endlessly into the shadows above. Rows of weathered wooden pews lined the center aisle, their surfaces polished smooth by years of use. Along the walls, faded tapestries and paintings depicted scenes from biblical stories, their colors muted by time but still retaining a sense of grandeur and reverence. Candles flickered in sconces, casting a warm, flickering light that danced across the stone walls. In the front of the church, a weathered stone altar stood, adorned with a simple wooden cross. The altar was flanked by tall candelabras, their candles burning low and casting long shadows in the dim light. Despite its age and wear, the old church exuded a sense of solemnity and peace, its walls echoing with the whispers of prayers and hymns from generations past. It was a place frozen in time, a sanctuary from the outside world where the mysteries of faith and history intertwined. The figure, shrouded in darkness, approached the altar with purposeful steps, their movements swift and silent on the stone floor. As they reached the altar, they paused, their hand hovering over a seemingly inconspicuous spot. With a deft motion, the figure located a hidden lever cleverly disguised within the altar's intricate carvings. Pulling on it, a faint click echoed through the ancient church, barely audible over the sound of the rain outside. To the figure's satisfaction, a section of the stone floor beneath the altar slowly began to descend, revealing a hidden flight of stairs leading downwards into darkness. Without hesitation, the figure descended into the depths below, the stone sliding shut behind them, leaving no trace of their passage. As the figure descended the hidden stairs beneath the altar, a musty, oppressive air enveloped them, thick with the scent of decay and age. The darkness seemed to cling to the walls, pressing in on all sides as they navigated the narrow passageway. With each step, the air grew heavier, carrying a distinct odor of damp earth and stagnant water. It was a smell that spoke of long-forgotten secrets and the passage of time, a scent that seemed to seep into their very bones. After what felt like an eternity, the passageway opened up into a much larger space, the darkness giving way to a dim, flickering light. The figure emerged into a vast underground chamber, its walls lined with ancient stone carvings and symbols. The air here was different, less oppressive than in the narrow passageway, but still carrying a hint of decay. It was a smell that spoke of death and the passage of time, a scent that seemed to linger in the air like a ghostly echo of the past. Despite the darkness and the oppressive atmosphere, the figure pressed on, drawn deeper into the chamber by an unseen force. As the figure ventured further into the underground chamber, the passageway widened, eventually opening up into a vast, cavernous space. The air here was cool and still, carrying a faint echo of whispers that seemed to dance on the edges of perception. As the figure's eyes adjusted to the dim light, they were met with a breathtaking sight. Before them, stretching out into the darkness, stood a crowd of at least three hundred people, their faces illuminated by a lone light flickering from a sconce. The chamber was filled with a palpable sense of anticipation, yet the crowd remained silent, their eyes fixed on the figure standing before them. 'For over a millennia, we have hidden from mankind…' a feminine voice boomed from the shadows, '... At which's time, we've learned to infiltrate and expand our numbers through guile and cunning, undetected and unseen' The shuffle of clothing reverberated in the cavernous space telling of the voice's approach. 'For centuries, we've learned to control the thirst, but some of you have been found wanton in that aspect, yet we have thrived'. 'While you may not know this, I once had a son ––my only begotten, who was slain by a Neanderthal. And all that he had your graceed, lay dead in every parts of the world' 'When I eventually found his grave, I cried the bloody tears, they had dehumanized him. Mankind had dehumanized my son' ––a hint of pain shrouding the tone of the voice. 'There and then, I had cursed mankind…' a pause, then voice continued; 'I cursed Mankind with the curse of pain, pain they had made me endure, now heaped upon them tenfold.' 'My Son, Count Ivan Vladimir Dracula Inpranka, had shown resilience even in the face of death, it was after, his blood wept up to me, I learned that the fatal blow came from none other than a Neanderthal. The wild dog..' The voice materialized into a woman, stunningly beautiful with clear blue eyes that gleamed like the skies after a storm. She stepped into the light, revealing her attire, a gown of dark velvet that draped elegantly over her slender frame and cupped bust. The dress was intricately adorned with lace and embroidery, the fabric rich and opulent, hinting at a bygone era of elegance and refinement. Her lips were full and sensual, painted a deep crimson that stood out against her pale skin. Her figure was graceful, her movements fluid and mesmerizing. Yet, despite her outward beauty, there was a palpable aura of decay and death that clung to her, a scent that wafted from her like a dark, haunting melody. And as she approached, her abnormally long teeth slowly retracted, disappearing into her mouth. 'Since then..', she continued, '.. I've your graceed one other, my heartbeat; the one in whose veins my blood flows. Step forward Camilla'. *** She had left her carriage behind, telling her coachman she would walk the remainder of the way, needing the solitude to prepare herself for the emotional visit ahead. Occasionally, she looked back, sometimes even doubling back to see if she was being tailed. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the street as people hurried home, their day's work done. Shops were closing, their shutters creaking shut, while the tavern ahead —her destination, seemed to beckon with a welcoming light, a refuge in the gathering darkness. As she approached the tavern, its quaint facade came into view, the smell of ale and hearth wafting from its open door. She quickened her pace, eager to see her father, the Viscount, who had grown increasingly paranoid and had chosen to stay here, under the care of the matron. He had sworn her to be vigilant, to ensure she was not followed whenever she visited. The street was now quieter, the last remnants of daylight fading into dusk, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. She could hear the clinking of glasses and murmurs of conversation from inside the tavern, a comforting sound amidst the encroaching night. 'Ooy, more ale for mi glass, will ya!' a drunken patron at the furtherest part of the tavern yelled, slamming the base of his tankard drunkenly on the table.' Pulling her shawl closely, she wended her way through a flight of stairs up to the living area of the tavern. As she entered her father's room, she was struck by the stark contrast between the humble surroundings of the tavern and the exquisite nature of the room. For a third-rate building, her father's accommodations were surprisingly luxurious. The room was adorned with rich tapestries depicting scenes of grandeur, and the furniture, though old, was of high quality, crafted from rich, dark wood. A large, ornate bed dominated the room, its curtains drawn back to reveal crisp, white linens. A small fireplace crackled softly, casting a warm glow over the room and dispelling the chill of the evening air. Her father's figure, however, paled in comparison to the opulence of the room. He lay in the bed, looking gaunt and frail, his once-strong frame now weakened by his deteriorating health. His face lit up with a weak smile as he saw her, and he reached out a trembling hand, beckoning her to come closer. She approached him, her heart heavy at the sight of his frailty. She took his hand in hers, noting how it seemed to tremble with the effort. His eyes, once sharp and piercing, now held a distant, weary look. 'Father,' she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. 'I have come as you asked.' He smiled weakly, his grip tightening slightly on her hand. 'Thank you, my dear,' he rasped. 'I had to be sure... had to be sure you weren't followed.' She nodded, her eyes filling with tears. 'I understand, father. I took every precaution.' He nodded, his gaze drifting to the window where the last light of the day was fading. 'Good, good,' he murmured. 'I am... I am glad to see you, one last time.' She squeezed his hand gently, fighting back her emotions. 'Father, please... don't speak like that. You will get better, I know it.' But even as she said the words, she knew they were empty. The ravages of his illness were evident, and she could see the truth in his eyes. He was fading, slipping away from her, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. 'My child, I know you have so many questions to ask me, and in due course, I shall answer them', he paused trying to catch his breath. 'Father…', she whispered, leaning towards him, '... Don't exert yourself and expend your energy' she added placing her palm on his chest, as though to ease his breathing. 'So much to say, so little time', he wheezed as spittle dribbled down the side of his mouth. 'Father, no, please don't,' she begged, exasperated, as she dabbed at the entirety of the spittle, which had formed a small pool around the base of his gaunt cheek in the bed. 'My child, it's time you learnt about our origins' He wheezed, his body spasming violently from the throaty cough '.. even if it's all I do before I expire'