Well, I've decided to take some "time off" as it were from regular posting so I can do some plotting. I've been trying out the Stephen King writing method for some time (come up with a few events and charcters, and just start writing) and I'll admit it has turned up some suprises in the story for me, but its just not passing muster. I know I can tell better stories then this, even if I can't write them that well. So I'm going to go off with my notebook and work on the plots of a few of my short stories and two of my main stories. With any luck I'll have a post soon.

Thanks for your patience.

The Alchemist

The Drewcifer will now attempt some comedy.
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Wendell hated his name. In fact, he told everyone he met that his name was Chris. To him, Chris seemed like a much simpler, stronger, more American name. But no matter how many people called him Chris, one thing never changed.

Deep down inside, he was still a Wendell. Wendells were meek, wimpy, and British. Wendells were prey animals. This might not have been a problem had this particular Wendell not, in fact, been a predator.

You see Wendell was a vampire. A vampire who, each night, upon waking, screamed at the top of his lungs.

Wendell was both claustrophobic and nyctophobic, meaning he feared both tight spaces and the dark. This made a coffin a very uncomfortable place for him. Each morning his housekeeper watched him fall asleep, then gently closed the lid of the coffin.

Wendell's condition had instilled an intense fear of the sun (heliophobia). As a result, Wendell went to bed very early each night. And Wendell often went to bed hungry.

Wendell did not like drinking blood. He had been assured time and time again by his bevy of beautiful mortal concubines that the act was, indeed, very pleasurable for them.

Wendell found it icky.

Technically Wendell shared the concubines with his roommates, Jeff and His Dark Eminence the Dread Prince of the Night Markomanius Necrosian (whom everyone just called 'Mark').

No one in the house called Wendell "Chris."

Erick sat upon a horse at the top of a hill covered in trees, his face shadowed by the cowl drawn up over his head. He wore a thick wool cloak, once red but now faded to a rusty color. Beneath it the steel rings of his mail shirt glinted in the faint sunlight filtering down through the trees. His heavy leather gloves gripped the reigns tightly, and his scuffed leather boots rested upon his saddle’s stirrups.

After taking a look around Erick kicked his horse into a trot and started toward the next hill.

Aleksey’s message had come to him late at night as he had lain next to his camp fire, trying to sleep. He’d ridden hard the next day to close the distance, hoping Aleksey and Jacob were still alive.

The snow crunched beneath him as his horse mounted the next hill. At the top the walls of Shelborne Castle could be seen, the great wooden gate standing ajar, and Erick gently urged his horse towards it.

After passing through the gate Erick stopped his horse for a moment and surveyed the area. Other then the howling wind, the castle was eerily silent. Snow floated on the wind and the ragged Shelborne banners on either side of the door flapped lazily in the breeze. To Erick’s surprise the doors to the castle opened and Aleksey came out, his clothes were ragged, and dark with dried blood in places.

Erick jumped down off his horse and ran to him.

“Aleksey, are you alright? Where is Jacob?”

Aleksey was quiet for a moment, he looked tired.

“The wolves took him last night. There was nothing I could do.”

The older man’s stern mask wavered, and a tear ran down his cheek.

“Nothing I could do.”