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silva_writer Silva

Between the stars, the vampire Lenore remember the unfair fate of a old friend.


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Heretic

Vienna, 1850

Under the silver moonlight she raised the blue orbs to the sparkling constellations. These adorned the darkness with their luminous dots in that cold and melancholy night. Her golden hair was ruffled by the icy breeze of the winds that heralded winter. Driven by her thoughts, Lenore remembered her travels in Greece, the motherland of knowledge, where curiosity led men to look at the stars. From her castle window, she wondered where all that wisdom had gone when the dark ages covered Europe.



Rome, 1600

Near twilight, the flame-consuming cries of agony reached her ears. A monk who betrayed the faith and the Church. There was the sinner, a black-haired man tied to a stake. His blasphemies could not be heard any more, as the people around him raised their fists and spat out their unforgivable sins before him. "Son of Satan! Witcher!"

Giordano Bruno committed the sin of thinking beyond the dogmas that surrounded him. He was guilty of gazing at the stars and imagining the immensity of the cosmos, where an infinite number of worlds waited to be discovered.

Under a black hood in the crowd, Lenore was sorry to witness the execution of the sentence. She shared with Bruno the observation of the unknown and the longing to understand what was beyond comprehension. She promised herself not to interfere in societies over the millennia, maybe she was taking on human habits and that was dangerous. After all, her species had their blood as a subsistence. Living in the shadows, not taking sides and resigning any kind of bond with men for the sake of survival. Like the monk, Lenore broke her vows.

Curiosity took her down twisted and fascinating paths, though she knew the consequences would come sooner or later. More than blood, she loved knowledge and courted culture. She heard the heartbeat around her, felt the blood flowing through the veins of those proud clerics who promoted nothing but fear and ignorance. Supporting her thirst, the blonde quickly disappeared into the crowd of accusers, leaving the square with bitter regret.

...

While sipping wine on that soft bed, the old priest looked forward to the beauty that he would enjoy his sacred manhood that night. Certainly the brothel offered a good use for the indulgences that he loved so much. The clinking of the coins was the softest praise in her ears. The cleric smirked when he saw a curvy figure approaching in the darkness. Undressed, a young blonde woman reclined on him, entranced by the whore's sweeping beauty. She kissed his neck, and the old man shuddered, but the moment of pleasure ceased when his throat was pierced by the girl's canines. The sheets soon took on shades of red as he writhed with each bite. The last thing he saw was the scarlet smile of the woman who killed him.

In the weeks that followed, a legend began to circulate in Rome. In conversation circles, everyone mentioned that the city was under a curse, a demonic creature that killed holy men. Reports of attacks on parishes and cathedrals were recurrent. However, no one could say who or what shed the blood of God's chosen ones.


"It is proof that an inferior mind wants to think like the masses or like the majority, just because the majority is the majority. The truth does not change because it is, or is not, believed by a majority of people."

Giordano Bruno

31 Mai 2021 12:44:43 0 Rapport Incorporer Suivre l’histoire
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