There is an ill wind tonight; a chill so deep that even I feel it in my vampiric bones. All thoughts of the hunt, and of warm mortal blood, fled me. Rather, I could only stand in the path of the wind, seeking answers to my growing uneasiness. The night refused to reveal its secrets to me, however. All the night would offer to me were thoughts of her…
She is my Queen, my teacher, ma raison d’être. She, who is ancient even to the old, who remembers the days when legions of Roman soldiers covered her beloved homeland. A beauty of unparalleled savagry, I remember every scar, every tribal tattoo that covered her body–the last remaining vestiges of her race and culture. Everyday my heart aches for her, the bond between us unbreakable, as it always is between disciple and sire. Par la lumière pâle de la lune, I hope never to see Morgan’s face again.
Morgan has no passion for the hunt, no patience for seduction. Morgan’s bloodlust leads her to battle; only the blood of a warrior will do for her. She challenges her victims, fights them, then drains them dry when she has defeated them. Not all of her victims are mortals, either. Vampiric enemies are just as likely to become her next feast.
Where there is Morgan, there is war.
None of this was a true answer, only hints and insinuations of what might be. For now I will push down these thoughts; tomorrow I return to the hunt. Still, it is enough to put me on my guard. A vampire that does not listen to their instincts does not last to their next hunt.