Alaric

Alaric Valentine was a shining example of prowess in his home city of Moorholm. Despite him being the younger brother, he excelled in all of his courses and training exercises. As a child of one of the high-ranking families, his expectations were piled high, all of which he either met or, in most cases, exceeded, ever studious.

Which is why when the Order of the Sanguine Rose took up residence in one of the city’s temples, he was first pickings for their recruitment program. Alaric had never heard of this order before, but from the parties and meetings he was forced to attend with his parents, many of the other nobility and high-ranking officials were extremely pleased with the Rose’s presence in the city, and urged him to join.

From what he had heard, the order were a very prestigious group of vampire hunters, but not only that, were dedicated to the cause of not just destroying them as many other organizations were, but finding a permanent cure for vampirism and rehabilitating them.

Intrigued enough, Alaric eventually agreed to attend one of their recruitment try-outs at the behest of one of his fathers’ friends who had close ties to one of the leaders and put in a good word for him.

The Rose were looking for fighters, those skilled in combat enough to know how to be clever in combat to remove an enemy without killing them, and who were cunning with good mental fortitude. All boxes which Alaric ticked, as his swordsmanship was nearly unmatched, and he was praised for his poise and unshakable demeanor.

He passed with flying colors, to no one’s surprise, though one thing he did find odd was that before the assessment began, one member drew blood from him and each of the other individuals there. When he questioned it, the answer he received was to make sure that those within the order were not particularly alluring to vampires, as blood types posed a significant threat to one's safety in dealing with them. Not versed enough in the nature of vampires, Alaric took the statement at face value.

Swiftly afterwards, he was contacted by the Rose with his letter of admittance, the courier for them seeming especially excited about it. He gave Alaric the time with which to arrive, and he gladly agreed. When relaying to his parents, he had never seen them look so proud before.

Alaric Valentine, vampire hunter. He had to admit, it had a nice ring to it.

Upon arriving at the temple, he found that no one else that was there with him during the assessment had come. He was alone in the halls, staring up at the massive stained glass window overhead, sitting in silence for what felt like hours. Had no one else made the cut? Was he truly that skilled enough that he outshined the others? The rest of them seemed just as, if not in some cases, more capable than he was. So where were they?

After a few moments, he was greeted by one of the priests, who offered to bring him into the temple proper. When Alaric questioned where the other recruits were, the priest simply smiled at him and responded…

“You will be more than sufficient.”

His memory went black.

He didn’t know how long it had been when he awoke. It was dark, his eyes straining to make out anything in the dim candlelight, but he soon was able to determine a few shapes. Several members of the Rose stood around him where he was sprawled on the cold stone floor, pouring over what appeared to be some kind of ancient tome.

Alaric tried to sit up, but found that he had been put in chains to keep him down. He yelped, which caused the others to look up at him.

One of them stepped closer, and Alaric could see that in his hands, he held a curved blade with angry, red runes scribed into it. Alaric swallowed hard.

“Stay down. It’ll make this easier for us.”

Another chimed in. “Should we put him out again?”

“No. It needs to be awake. The last one didn’t have enough fight while unconscious.”

Last one? Alaric’s eyes went wide. He pulled on the chains, begging for them to let him go, but his pleas fell on deaf ears.

The order made preparations around him, setting up some kind of ritual, before one of them put a hand to Alaric’s chest and pressed his back against the floor.

“It’s ready.”

The man with the blade approached him, as the other with the hand on his chest moved it to grip at his jaw, quickly forcing his mouth open. The edge of a bowl was placed to his lips, of which he was encouraged to drink from it. The second the contents hit his tongue, he attempted to spit, but without much warning he was pushed down again and the substance forced down his throat.

Blood. Thick, coagulated blood.

And then the most searing pain he had ever felt in his entire life tore through his body.

The knife made contact with his skin, pulling deep, blood gushing from the wound, carving into him like a macabre art piece.

Alaric tried to scream, but felt his throat constricted as viscous blood continued to be poured into him.

He had no idea how long he held on for until he blacked out again.

Opening his eyes again, he found that he was able to see much better than before. In fact, all of his senses seemed… honed. Sharpened to a point. He could hear everything down to the faint dripping of water on the floor seeping down from upstairs, and the chatter of some of the members of the order who stood not far off.

Alaric felt his body heave, he felt sick, like a gnawing hunger gripping at him, so hungry to the point it was painful. Then his tongue found his teeth.

Fangs.

What did they do to him?

“It’s awake.”

One of them strode over to him, and Alaric felt an instinctive growl burn from his throat as he bared his teeth and snapped at the hand that extended towards him. They didn’t care, though, as Alaric quickly found the ends of the chains keeping him in place, and the person fit their hand into his hair and craned his neck back to inspect him.

“Was it a success?” Another asked from behind.

“Close. It seems to have taken, but Noctoptera demands more of this one.”

“What did you do to me?” Alaric croaked.

“Reshaped you. You will be the new fist of the Order, the perfect creation of Noctoptera.”

“It must be hungry.”

“It’s not ready to feed. Prepare the next trial.”

They let go of Alaric, letting his body fall slack against his chains. He could smell their blood pumping in their veins, and he felt that burning hunger in his stomach growing stronger with each second. He felt sick with how badly he wanted to bite into one of them and drink deeply.

He knew what they did, but he refused to believe it.

The process repeated anew.

He lost count of the times, but every time the transformation became more and more painful. His body was no longer his own, the process more and more painful each time, changing him in inhumane and unnatural ways. Alaric felt himself losing grasp on reality, on himself, twisted and warped.

They starved him, and when the gnawing hunger took over, his body contorted, transforming, his bones twisting and muscles tearing as he shifted into an almost bat-like form. Still human, but just barely.

The blood they fed him soon began to grow sweet, and in his clouded and addled mind, he craved it. He needed it. Alaric would pull and strain against the silvered chains that bound him, body heaving as he tried to break free to feed more, to satiate the torturous hunger that plagued him.

Eventually, the Rose began to be more daring in their experiments. Sometimes, very rarely, they would toss some poor soul before him. Alaric felt a horrible guilt each time he gorged on them, feeling them grow cold beneath him.

But he could never stop, no matter how hard he tried.

Such became the routine.

Starve, kill, repeat. Occasionally, they repeated the ritual, but with changes each time, different variables. Refining it.

Everything bled together, in more ways than one. All he knew was this vile repetition. But the Order made one mistake. They failed to account for a single variable, hidden deep within.

They tried upping the dose, tried to push the limits, seeing how far they could even go. It was too much. Enraged, mutated, his body beyond his control, Alaric pulled at his chains, tearing free at last as the power of Noctoptera flooded through him, the stonework that had held his bonds exploding outwards.

And the last thing that Alaric had heard was the voice of his god, filled with a sense of pride. “My last gift to you.”

A spark ignited, and Alaric slipped through the gaps between planes. He awoke with the sun in his face, burning his pallid skin, before quickly escaping far off into the woods of this strange new world.