Shadows and silence endemic of the dark and elusive rotund tunnels beneath the city, accessible at the shore city cliffs, the megalithic city above obtains much of the water in whichever condition for utilization, cleaning it and pumping it into the inland leaving a massive cliff when the waters recede. The smattering wake bashes the low shore and the tide tears down the sand until each city's shore becomes bluff, where old drainage tunnels protrude and jetty from the open face of tall cities and taller ledges. In the low tide, the shores stretch into the receding ocean toward Atlantis along the shore to other newer coastal cities, but in this city the pipes, ragged and jagged and many of the sorts. Only one week ago, a young man became victim to a brooding vampire, a languished and voiceless old silk whom fatefully died by the hands of vampire hunters in the dark catacombs, leaving the boy behind lost and alone. The young boy upon learning his condition ignores rationality in the deafening thirst and preys upon a coward boy of the under caste, a nomad vagabond cast asunder the city and its moral construct never more to be seen again.
With woe alas, he would avoid and starve of they that resemble him and instead feed on the varmints that the outcasts do not eat, scurrying both the racing rodents are rare. Painstakingly he fights his hunger and blinding visage of eternity giving carnage to fate, laying in the murky waters a blood junkie, in the dark ends of the pipes near their openings at the lingering ocean, waiting for hunger to consume him or for the waging daylight to burn him alive. Restless and dreaming, terror causing spastic contortions and horrible dreams, causes insufferable nightmare in the unsavory rivulet shadowed and vulnerable. The gerent darkness stares upon the boy, watching with eminent intrigue, waiting for the descendants of the devil to interrupt the gleaning, to murder in the steam and shrill at sign of first victim, with raucous whispers that bellow into the darkening wind as they scurry rapaciously abscond to clamor and witness the fascination.
“…Is it dead…?”
“…Is it sleeping…?”
“…Who is it…?”
“…It's a feeder...”
“…Our lord Darkness…”
“…You can’t play god...”
“…It needs to be saved...”
“…We must feed…!”
“…Not as yet...”
Footsteps in the puddles of the distance of those that laugh stolidly and run to harm intently, the tunnels fill of steam and dark shadows are the senescence of a bygone era, urchin counterculture criminals, dressed in rags and chains stolen from latched doors and cages, approach the lowly vampire seeking to impale beggars that moil in filth. The shadows squelch and tear the marauders into the wall one truculent and swift the other, listless energy fighting the chasm that is the creeping death. The scathing darkness destroys their very essence as the other creatures of the shadows, too far to feast, with ancillary lament cry into the abysmal empty dark.
The cries wake the creature and it looks to the wall with a perplexed expression, the surface has no inconsistencies except a veil of blood pouring down the wall. It wakes a sullen quiescence, moaning from the healing scars and disparate tunnel and stares into memory as the shadow monsters scurry behind barely noticeable in the blood’s reflective surface. The alleviating scent of blood’s cryptic allure drags him in haptic crawl through gloomed shade to serve as sepulcher fount. Putting hands together forward then in motion filling them with the blood and drinking it canny in thoughts and apprehension, sating thirst onset from second birth and buried in silence.