I cannot remember the date or I do not allow myself to, as time stands still for me now but I remember the events as clear as day and recant them for the first time here as some closure to the beginning of this eternal nightmare:
I saw him in the corner with a black haired woman. I knew somehow that this would be the end.
They stood in a circle like moving marble statues. His svelte, gaunt figure ornately dressed as finely as a French clergyman should be. He stood across from another man whose face or stature I can not even guess, save the knowledge of his blood on my petticoat.
I remember the ravenous undulation of the crowd as some of them talked of Monomacy and a champion. I can only guess as to what was what and who was who suffice to say that I was chained down and beaten as a steak awaiting the platter.
I don't remember much but there was much blood. There was a king or a prince or some sort of monarch fighting my valiant Frenchman and he showed neither love of the task nor rapture of it either. It was not until the fighting began that I began to see him take any pleasure in the sordid game.
I make no mistake to call it a game, either, because later in my undead viciousness, I would learn that my maker took pity on me for the first time in his sorry existence and took no joy in that either.
As blood spatter began to hit the wall, the crowd began to growl and I began to feel a growing sense of detachment from myself and everyone I'd ever known. After a while, I began to even fear myself. It was at this moment that I noticed the black haired woman with my French knight eerily staring at me and the confusion of it all made time and relative understanding impossible to follow.
It seemed an eternity in the darkness. As if some cruel spell had overtaken me and I knew no one but sat in the dark room of my own mind alone.
When I came to, the room was drenched in blood and many of the statue people were either gone or in pieces. I could still see one or two people challenging each other to some sort of right of duel. Before not to long, I was being stood over by the black haired woman, my French knight and a third fellow for whom I could gather for all intensive purposes to be Spanish.
"Take her, friend," said the Spaniard.
"With all my pleasure," said the Frenchman.
The woman, who spoke in Greek looked on with sorrow but allowed the Frenchman to bite into me with intense vigor and begin the process of taking my life.
As the light slipped from my eyes and mind, he tossed me to the floor and I sensed the Spaniard leave the room and felt the blood all around me. The Grecian woman looked upon my lifeless body on the floor and began to leave when another figure entered the room.
She was dressed in rags but her figure was as statuesque as a princess and she carried herself in due accord. She looked to the Spaniard and she looked to the Grecian. They spoke but my ears were as lifeless as my body so all I heard was the low droning of my heartbeat.
It was later that Arabella DeGall would recant how she forced the Frenchman to save my life and make me kindred as she was. She would become my confidante, my lover, my savior, my princess but she would never tell me the nature of the one who made me. All she would tell me, from time to time, was that, "god damned James Toulor."
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