Everyone has to learn sometime.
Even the most renowned master of his craft started out as a beginner. There is no better way to become a master than to begin. And then to study an aspect, and practice it, repeating until it is mastered.
After the mistake, I am now beginning again.
I was a master of my trade. Then the mistake happened. I approached my target, and kept watch while sharpening my axe. Unfortunately, I was subconsciously using the shiny blade as a mirror to keep a weather eye behind me as I worked. That trick often works. But it fails badly when stalked by a smart sort of undead that casts no reflection.
I developed the reflective blade primarily for use against simple mortal threats. It worked well for spotting the dire wolf assigned to flush me from my campsite. But then, dire wolves are very much alive. And as the evening demonstrated, also very much mortal. With the element of surprise lost, my sharp and ready axe was sufficient to turn the tide and incidentally provide wolf hides to spare.
But this time, my threat flitted by as a bat, one dark leathery shape lost among many in the bug infested twilight.
The it changed behind me, and sunk in its fangs.
I could do nothing, the paralytic agent in its saliva took effect rapidly.
It drained me nearly dry.
But only nearly.
Then it made me drink of its own blood. Being frozen, I had little choice.
So I was a master hunter of things that went bump in the night.
And now I must learn to be one of those things that go bump in the night.
I am learning that my old diet is insufficient. That will become a problem soon enough, but a bowl of fresh blood drawn from some innocent victim saved me from the need to hunt the first night.
But that can’t last forever.
I’d cry fowl on its means of capturing me, if it weren’t so damned clever. At a stroke, it turned its biggest threat into an ally of sorts. But only of sorts. When I get my hands and fangs on the bastard who did this to me, it will find that I am not that much of an ally.
The bastard abandoned me. In my years of the hunt, I always suspected that would be the way it went. The undead like me don’t enjoy the company of others, except when they are food. I had never managed to witness a conversion until now. I didn’t expect to witness a conversion as the subject.
But one thing has not changed. I am fearless. And now, it would seem that as long as I can find a way to feed occasionally, I have the chance to live (unlive?) forever.
In the meantime, I must learn. I will begin by hunting my first victim soon enough. And then another. And then one more.
I am undead now. Fear me.
The Creativity Oracle 