When he had reached his height, he had been assassinated. As his head was removed from his body, an overwhelming rage ripped his soul apart. He swore in his heart that he will have his revenge.
While his head was transported far in the south and his body awoken, he woke. Not with consciousness but with rage. He remembered who he was only after all of those who wronged him were no more. He awoke in the middle of a field, surrounded by bodies drained of blood. Yet, even in that state, he could recognize the faces. And could sigh in relief.
"Only those who deserved it..."
No innocents were slain. And even though those were not all the dead left in his rampage, somewhere inside he knew that he had not slain any other than those who have been his enemies.
Alone, he left. He tried to find a place to stay, but wherever he went, only screams and horror surrounded him. So he had no choice but to retreat from any village and hide from any human. It was against his cod to kill innocent. As such, as long as they did not attack him with ill intent, he did not attack back.
"Ugh..."
Yet he had an insatiable thirst. And no matter how much water he drank, it would not go away.
"Mama, mama!"
As a young child passed him one afternoon in the forest, he felt a sudden rush of thirst. His blood, so young and fresh, filled his nostrils. He felt so disgusted by himself he almost threw up. But his stomach was empty. He rushed into the forest and reached a stream. And for the first time looked at himself.
He knew that it was him because of the position and because no one was around. Not because he recognized himself. Red eyes like the depth of hell, and red marks like lightning around his eyes that made him think of tears in a weird way. He had celebrated his 45th year not too long ago yet...
"No, that's impossible," his voice sounded strange. Hid appearance was strange. Yet, his skin was paler and so smooth as if he was no more than twenty.
He raised his hands and looked at them with more care. They were, indeed paler, and smother. Like a young one's hands... More like a dead young one's hands.
"Peace." He commanded and forced himself to sit down. And think.
The sun was already going down. The snow had started to fade, spring was coming. His energy was raising once more with the nightfall.
His name was Vlad. He had been a ruler and a prince. And he had been assassinated. He remembered clearly the cut of the blade. Not a chill ran through him. Somehow, he came back to life. And avenged himself. Yet, not all of his enemies were dead. Since he roamed once more, Vlad realized that he was no longer a human but something more.
Something vengeful, that thirsted for blood.