Hmmm...what's good she asks? *sets the glass down and looks over his inventory* Ah! Here we are. *fills a goblet with red liquid...the essence, the stuff of life...vitae* This is your preferred brand is it not? *shows her the bottle* As for what's upstairs, I wouldn't worry too much about that yet. All should become clear soon enough. *smiles*

Deadend

A collection of poetry and prose submitted to VO in 2002.

Imagine that you are a twenty-five-year-old living in New Orleans, called Louis. The date is 1791. You suffer a terrible bereavement due to the untimely death of your brother -- a death for which you blame yourself. You spend nights drinking in New Orleans in a state of near despair. One night, just a few steps from your door, you are attacked by an unknown assailant.

As I silently fold outwards from within the shadows surrounding the Inn, I take an opportunity to sense if anyone is around. Even though it would take the Elders a good couple of minutes or so before they pick up on my presence, I decide to make it a quick check, since there is so much to do, and so little time to do it in. Hopefully I'm not too late.