Vorador, the once proud vampire, now a source of entertainment for the vampire hunters that brought destruction on the vampire race, winked and closed his eyes, trying to avoid the light, the same light that once meant life for him, and that now, centuries after his transformation, gave him only pain. Long time has pass since the sunlight could do real harm to him, but it was still unpleasant feeling. Moving his head as far as the guillotine allowed him, the ancient undead tried to ignore the sun. Once, his will was strong enough that he could look into the sun directly, but now only little of the will power was left. 

     “Enjoying the sun, blood sucker?” the voice, fill with contempt and disgust belonged to one of the vampire hunters. A young lad, about twenty three years old. Vorador knew the voice, not from personal meeting though, but from a memory taken from another, a sort time ago, but long from a mortal point of view. As the voice kept babbling Vorador kept his eyes closed and created the plan in his mind, carefully molding 
the plan. 

     Then, without opening his eyes, he attacked.

     “It was in your seven day of life when you last saw her.”
The boy was hardly a worthy opponent. His mother disappeared when he was a child, the hand working of her jealous drunken husband who used the easy excuse of vampires to cover his crime. Ironically enough, ten years ago he met Vorador. The vampire, disgust with the memory he found, and the tainted, full of alcohol blood brought the man to the torture chamber. He screamed for about two score days before a werewolf tore him to pieces. A few word here, a few there, reminding the boy about the blood on his father shirt, about his rage attacks when he was drunk, and how many time he used to be drunk, and also about how nerves he was when a search party went to look after his missing wife. 

     The young man looked at Vorador, his skin white like a corpse, turned around and ran throw the gate. A small, bitter smile crossed Vorador lips for a moment. He won, a worthless victory, one that will not change a thing, but still a victory.

     In war you take every victory you can, no matter how small. That sentence, something a general told him once, surfed to his memory. 

     Fighting to the bitter end, old wolf? Another memory surfed to his mind. 
“No!” He growled, closing his hands into fists, filling his claws burying into his flesh, concentrating on the pain. 

     “The past is much like a zombie, isn’t it?” 

     Vorador opened his eyes, his cat like pupils meeting eyes whithout any trace of colour. The man known as Moebius, once a protector of hope, and now the destroyer of hope stood before Vorador, his figure blocking the sun. 

     “No matter how deep you bury it, it will dig it’s way back to the surface.” The time streaming sorcerer, sand clock on his forehead, his right hand holding a wooden staff, his thin body holding power beyond the understanding of most mortal. Vorador wandered if what happened to the boy Mather wasn’t another of his plan, to plant the seed of hate in the village, so when the time come it will be ready to bloom.

     “The time is close vampire, are you still insist to refuse to talk to me?”

     “Free me from your trap and spell, and I will be happy to talk!” Vorador growled in rage. The accursed mage discover something, maybe from the future, maybe from the past, it didn’t matter, something that not only had the power to drain a vampire physical strength, but also to draine his mana, leaving Vorador unable to either break free or to transform into mist. “Then I’ll be happy to have a long conversation with you.”

     “Still have some anger in you, god of darkness?” Moebius voice, full of derision, laughed at the situation. “The mighty Vorador, slayer of the circle, the one who the defeated Malek, twice, has been captured, by what?” Moebius point at the vampire hunters who were busy celebrtion their victory on the unholy scourge. “A group of puny humans, that the death of their beloved king turned into the perfect weapon against vampires.” Moebius turned his face back to Vorador. “but the time is short now, even for me. Enjoy your last hours of ‘live’, vampire.” And with this words Moebius gave a mocking bow and left, leaving Vorador to the sun. Vorador closed his eyes again, the sun turning his rage into ash. There was very little rage left anyway. Beaten and defeat by those who he considered ships, Vorador was left alone, unable to escape, unable to fight, all that was left for im was to look into his own mind, to remember how he was capture, how came the end to the vampire race.

     To remember, Vorador thought to himself, that all I did for so long. Remembering the glory of battle, of victory.
Remembering how he failed.
     Maybe being a mortal is better. A human king that made a mighty kingdom from a handful of people can die with peace, without thinking about the day his kingdom will become corrupted, or when a civil war will tear it apart. 

     But I lived to see my dream take form, and to see it die, more than once. Misery love company.
     How did I get here? How, from where I started, I ended up here?
     But, from did I start? What was I, so long ago, when war and murder were far away from me, when I was a mortal man, and vampires were an old myth?

     The memories hit him like a crushing wave, sending him back, back into his own mind.

He moved back...

     “It’s not often I see one of our own, especially one as young and foolish as yourself. Nonetheless, drink, drink deep, and indulge your gift.” Vorador waved his hand and the cup slowly levitated to Kain. Kain held the golden cup, looking at the blood in it. Vorador lifted his cup in a greeting gesture and drank. As he felt the hot blood flowing into his mouth he watched Kain. The young vampire looked at the cup with mixed filling. Part of him was full with disgust and fear from the ancient vampire; the other part felt admiration, even jealousy. His human side still trying to stick to his dead past, his vampire side wishing to enjoy the fully of his new self, of his dark gift. 

He moved back...

     Vorador swung his sword and Dumah lifted his long axe to block the hit. The two weapons met in a crushing blow. Only small space of air separating between them, Vorador felt Dumah breath, saw the rage burning in his eyes as if his eyes were windows to the Inferno.
“Tonight you sleep in hell, bloodsucker!”

He moved back...

     “You’ll pay for what you did to my family, Malek, that of the living and that of the unliving!” the words burned in Vorador mind like hellfire as he raised his hand, summoning magical energy, ready to destroy his nemesis once and for all. The paladin, kneel on one knee, too weak from the last attack, unable to do anything to protect himself. 
Just like Vorador was unable to protect his clan. 

Back, back, back, back, so much back from memories he tired to forget to memories he never knew he had… 

     The young baby, only one month old, looked with curious eyes at the black wearing priest. The people of the small village were between the last, if not the only that still worship the twin goddess of the sun and moon. Usually, the priest dressed in white if the child was born in the night under the moon rays, or in golden robe if the child was born in daytime. Only rarely a child was born in a night with no moon. 
     The priest moved his finger slowly over the baby head, using the blood on his finger; he painted a form on the child forehead. To those that were born in night he used milk and painted a small moon, and for those in the day he used honey to make a small sun. 

     The people faith was that a child who was born in a night without a moon would have a future full of darkness and blood. No one really believed in that any more, it’s been more than a hundred years since a child like that was born.
Only the priest knew the true meaning. Ages ago, where the two goddess were known and worship all over the kingdom, a child like this was a prophecy that a terrible death will strike, and that the child will rise to avenge this death.
This child was born for life of pain and blood. 
     The priest looked at the young child and a sad smile crossed his lips. “Enjoy this time of peace,” he said in a soft voice “you won’t have many like this.” Than he return to finish his painting. Slowly but carefully he moved his finger. 
“To this child, who were born in the darkest of all nights, born to pain, born to fight and born to revenge I give this name,” he finished the painting and looked at the child forehead, looked at the small, miniature sword. “To this child, who were born to kill, I give the name, Vorador.”

     And Vorador closed his eyes as the memories explode into his mind, bringing with them pain he tried to bury so long ago…