Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Clades Cruor - fiction.1 chapter 1&2

Clades Cruor

[The term ‘Clades’ is ‘punishment’ in Latin.

The term ‘Cruor’ is ‘blood’ in Latin.

In this story, it’s ‘punished blood’.]

Genres: Fantasy [vampires] & horror

Warning: beware of much blood and gore.

Lance Larerouge was not a normal boy. At the first glance, he looked above average. He had beautiful jet black hair which was swept with a side parting. He had alluring violet blue eyes that enchanted many. Lance also had a dark secret which he, at the age of 12, found out about.

Lance was not human, neither a warlock nor wizard. Instead, he was a mythical creature. He was a vampire.

5 years after he had discovered that he was a vampire, Lance sat in the middle row of the class, near the window. His text book lay open, his elbow resting on the table, his fingers in his hair. The teacher was ranting on and on, much to the dislike of all the students. Lance was the only person who looked focused, who looked like he was paying attention. “Lance,” Eleanor nudged him in the ribs. Lance did not move from his position. Eleanor shook her head. Her short, unkempt hair that fell like curtains covering the side of her face concealed the view of her moving lips. “Lance!” she hissed, nudging him even harder. Lance did not waver. “You lazy pig, wake up!” Eleanor jabbed him in the stomach, hard. His eyelids opened with a gentle flutter and he turned to look at her imperturbably, as though he was awake the whole time and she had just touched him on the shoulder. “Yes, Eleanor?” he asked sweetly, his voice masked in venom only Eleanor could feel. She turned and looked straight ahead, pretending she had not done anything at all. He leaned closer to her ear, his breath warm. “Don’t you wake me up from my beauty sleep again, Eleanor, my friend.” Lance whispered, his viciously enthralling voice wrapping around her like a poisonous snake. Eleanor shivered. Lance was a friend, but if you disturbed him while he was sleeping: doomsday came about a thousand years too early. “Aye aye, captain.”

Lance was no ordinary vampire. He had an astonishing, fearsome power. He was the only Clades Cruor user left in the entire universe. They were a special type of vampires. Clades Cruor was the power that could control blood. In other words, they could control other beings, humans and vampires alike. Clades Cruor was a power that could completely override and take control of anyone’s mind, as long as the Clades Cruor user’s victim was within a 300 meter radius. The knowledge of Clades Cruor powers was now unknown to many vampires. Only four people in the entire world knew of its powers. Lance himself, Nora von Larerouge, Lance’s grandmother, who was married into the Larerouge family. Eleanor Roberts, lance’s friend and a genius who did not use her brains unless she wanted to. Elliot Black, a vampire that was once a Head Butler in the Larerouge family, who fell in love with Marie von Larerouge, Lance’s Mother.

Elliot was a trustworthy man. However, when he overheard the discussion of Clades Cruor and its powers, he dropped to the depths of darkness. Elliot was driven into the path of nasty greed; he became hell bent on conquering the world with Clades Cruor.

Clades Cruor was a gift from god to vampires. The only way one that was not born with the power but desired to attain it was if he or she stabbed the Clades Cruor user with a silver blade and drank the user’s blood with his or her canines. When the power was transferred, the vampire would feel a burning sensation in his or her left eye. When the power was first given to some vampires with a particular type of soul, the word of this power had spread like a wild fire in a dry forest. This became common knowledge to many. The power worked only when the user said, “Clades Cruor,” following with the command. A lot of them had begun obsessing with the wonders of the power. They started hunting down Clades Cruor users that were soon endangered. Alas, only the noble family of Larerouge lasted. As the years sailed past, the power became a rumor that blew in the forlorn wind, fading with every second.

Elliot, one of their butlers, heard the whole conversation and he lusted for power. Lance could never forget the day he made his biggest mistake, and tried to obtain the power by betraying the Larerouge family.

It was a balmy day. After a wonderful tea prepared by the chefs, Marie brought her son to the small art gallery they had, which mostly contained Marie’s works. “Lance, what do you think?” His pretty mother asked, her burnt amber hair flowing down her back like silk. “It’s wonderful, mother.” Lance replied, smiling gently. Lance wanted to scream, scowl, do something else that did not need him to focus on this disgusting woman. His face felt like it was going to crack, but his façade was superb. “You think so?” She asked, looking at the portrait of Nora von Larerouge. Marie von Larerouge had completed the portrait of her mother. “Certainly, Mother. Grand Mother looks brilliant.” Marie beamed at her son. “Thank you, Lance.” Lance bowed to his mother with feigned respect. A moment later, Elliot appeared. “Master Lance, your audience is asked for by Miss Nora.” Lance’s soft face immediately changed upon hearing Elliot’s voice. He looked more brisk and business-like. “Thank you, Elliot. Would you accompany Mother ‘til I return?” Lance asked. Elliot bowed low. “It would be my pleasure.” Lance curved his back smoothly, telling Marie that he wanted to be excused. Lance straightened his back, walking out of the room, a small, gnarled smile playing on his lips.

Lance knocked on his Grandmother’s room’s door. It was quickly opened by a maid. “Is grandmother in?” Lance enquired tartly. She shook her head, looking petrified by his appearance. “Strange. Where’s Grandmother?” he asked, voice harsh. Although the question sounded as though it was rhetorical, the maid opened her mouth to replt, but not a sound came out. She compromised by shaking her head. For a moment, Lance looked annoyed. When the maid blinked, she could solely see indifference. Lance pushed his hands in the pocket of his straight, long coal coloured pants.

He was nearing the art gallery when he heard a scream of anguish. His brain conjured a dozen guesses, one of which was correct, as he deftly bolted into the art gallery.

The sight that he met seemed unreal at first, like a picture that of one taken from a movie; the recently completed portrait of Nora von Larerouge had handprints of scarlet blood. The gallery had an irony stench that smelt heavenly to Lance. Beside the framed picture, Marie was pushed against the wall, her violet eyes without life, and her soft lips apart. The tip of her hair was dipped with thick, ruby-like, congealing liquid. Her chest was stabbed with a silver blade that was covered with her blood. A stream of the crimson fluid trickled down, creating a small pool of blood at her foot. Lance’s eyes scavenged the room quickly, searching for the murderer. His eyes fell upon a man, who was curled into a ball. Elliot’s tainted hands were clutching at his brown hair, soiling it with blood as well. His dry lips moved quickly without a sound. Elliot’s green eyes gleamed with remorse, begging for repentance, dilated with pure terror. Lance did not even think; his body acted with on own accord. He sprinted towards Elliot, face distorted with deep loathing. Grabbing and hauling the poor man to his feet by the collar, Lance roughly pushed Elliot to the wall. “What in the name of devil did you do?” Lance hissed, disdain rising like steam that was emitted from his body. Elliot’s lips trembled silently. Lance punched Elliot’s chin, his eyes filled with menace and intolerance. When Elliot opened his mouth, a tiny vermilion bubbles frothing at the side, and dribble of blood leaked out. The pitiful man stuck his swollen, purplish red tongue out, which was bitten badly. Blood was oozing out from the wound revoltingly. Elliot could only gaze at Lance with sorrowful eyes. “You-!” Lance yelled with impatience, flinging Elliot across the gallery with fueled rage.

Elliot did not move from the spot he landed on. He was like a puppet, lacking survival instincts.

Lance’s fangs had not been retracted, even by the sight of blood. Lance racked his brains for an answer, finally arriving at the most sensible one. He could feel animosity and pleasure pulsing through his body. He could hear his own rush of blood in his ears. His emotions- bitterness mixed with joy, malice blended with delight, the intent of killing accompanied by the eagerness to do it slowly, that would immerse himself in every bit of this sadistic act- pounded like venom that coursed with his blood, which stopped his fangs from being retracted.

“You’d be lucky if I didn’t kill you.” Lance murmured, beside Elliot. “I feel like mangling your body up right now,” he continued, licking his own lips. “I feel like ripping you limb from limb. But, I feel as though sending you to the depths of hell with a completely different look isn’t good enough. Not enough at all.” Lance chuckled.

“Ah, before that, let me tell you why, just why, you didn’t get the power of the king- Clades Cruor. The answer is so simple!” Lance laughed, shoulders shaking.

“She didn’t have it. That insect couldn’t even dream of having it! It was a sacred power she couldn’t wield. Not in a million years. That insect loved worrying herself about me having it. She loved keeping it a secret from me! Even when she kept repeating her motto: Home is a place where secrets dwell not. Home is a place you can truly be yourself, whatever you are, whoever you may be, where ever you came from, what you did is not important. HAH! SECRETS DWELL NOT?!” Lance spat in Elliot’s face, anger rising yet again. “I wonder if she would still say that in MY FACE when I tell her that I know she kept such a dark secret from ME! She intended for me to never learn of Clades Cruor! But no matter, she’s dead. You’re about to die as well,” Lance’s insane grin was again etched upon his features.

What will Lance do to Elliot?[okay, stupid question. Work with me, people, i'm trying my best to promote my cliff hanger which isn't much of a cliff hanger.

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