(Godric’s pacifist nature…)
Godric woke his usual four hours before sunset. He normally cherished the quiet and solitude he found in the late afternoons when those living on his estate were still quietly dead for the day. This was time he could spend researching, thinking, strategizing, reading, tracking his immense wealth, checking up on his multitude of business ventures, whittling (a relaxing, contemplative habit acquired eons ago) his ancient designs…
But not today. This day, he awoke once again filled with the strangest feeling: purpose. He remembered awakening with this same odd feeling the afternoon before, only it was even stronger now. For decades, maybe even centuries, he had been losing interest in his unlife. His nights had slowly slipped into a dull, predictable, numbing routine.
The only recent bright spot had been turning his child Isabel. But at almost a century old now, she no longer required his constant supervision and was in fact his most reliable subordinate.
His position of power brought little but annoyance and boring responsibility, although he had managed to delegate the most irritating duties to his underlings.
Still, he knew he should be enjoying his unlife more than he was. He knew his muted response to things that had once brought him pleasure should have concerned him, but he did not care enough to…care.
Things were sharply different now. Instantly he knew the cause: Cara.
He had managed to learn enough about her during his too-short visit to know that she was quite singular, thoroughly charming, and endlessly inquisitive. Although her life experience could never match his own, her quick intellect was rather impressive. He envisioned himself spending decades talking with her, sharing stories and teaching her from his vast storehouse of experience and knowledge.
He wondered why she was so reluctant to talk about herself, though. She was a uniquely genuine person, yet she dodged, deflected, and diverted his more personal questions with the sheer mastery of a spy.
Naturally this intrigued him even further. He was still faintly amazed that she had finally given him her telephone number…for Isabel, of course. He loved solving a mystery however, and this mystery came in a disarmingly attractive package.
He closed his eyes and relaxed into his soft pillows as he considered her many pleasing attributes: selfless courage, entrancing face, captivating scent, luscious body, quick intelligence, delightful curiosity, charming humor, lively personality, soft, furry voice…
A wry smile grazed his lips as he shook his head. If he did not know full well that such things were nigh on impossible, as well as blatantly dangerous, for his kind, he would almost fear he was falling in love with the human female. He would consider the ramifications of this…slight possibility…at a later time.
He resolutely switched his thoughts to more pressing issues.
Godric regretted being unable to visit with his Cara this new night, but decisions needed to be made and plans needed to be enacted. He would allow Isabel to visit in his stead; she wanted to thank the lovely human herself, as she ought. He would not command her to speak well of him, he smirked to himself, but if complimentary words were spoken on his behalf, he found he would not mind one bit.
Isabel had a soft way about her, but she had an iron fist beneath a velvet glove. He would speak with her, and advise her of what she should discuss with the lovely human. Maybe she might be more forthcoming with information to his child?
He needed Isabel to attempt to bring her closer to his side, and eventually to his estate. He needed to protect her from the unpredictable Weres, but he did not wish to scare her or force her to come to his home unless it became absolutely necessary for her own safety.
He wanted her to come to him of her own free will. He wished he could sit and speak with her again, but he could not do so this night. Frustrating news had been waiting for him upon his return the previous night.
Scott had successfully tracked the escaping Weres to a pack house several blocks away, but when he and several others had returned that next night, they discovered that the pack had completely vacated the residence. This strongly suggested the attack on his child was premeditated, not opportunistic. Weres were not known for intelligent planning; they were much more reactionary. A blown assignment meant they would give into their fear and instinctively scatter.
Weres in general were notoriously vicious, rude, violent, and vindictive. There were actually two kinds of Weres. The majority of them were indeed “filthy” – rude, vicious, irrational, reeking of violence. The rare kind, the kind he himself had employed a few times, were “clean” – more rational, dependable, less…malodorous. However, both breeds were exceptionally strong, aggressive, ruthless fighters.
Godric sighed as he realized that he would have to contact the one “clean” pack he knew. He did not relish this decision. It was not so much that he despised the pack; it was their lack of refinement which irritated him beyond belief. They were a loud, boisterous, obnoxious pack of braggarts with a truly fetid stench. They were much better disciplined (and less malodorous) than the filthy packs, and were just as savage and aggressive in battle.
His child had fought admirably against their attack but they had still incapacitated her. That Cara, a small, weak, inexperienced human female, had managed to kill one of them and completely incapacitate another still amazed him. That two of the Weres had escaped, and knew her scent, infuriated him. This, combined with their unprovoked attack on his child, meant the Weres were dead. It was just a matter of time and method. His eyes burned with a cold, calculating midnight blue.
He was a pacifist by recent choice. A couple centuries ago he had begun re-evaluating his unlife, re-assessing the choices and decisions he made and the resulting consequences. Although he knew why he had made his decisions in the past, he had finally realized that there had to be a better way, a different way of achieving his goals.
During his first few centuries of undeath, feral cruelty, viciousness, and unfettered slaughter were his norm. He reveled in his amazing new strengths and talents, and delighted in the bloodiest of warfare.
After finally killing his Maker, he slowly eased away from such unnecessary brutality. He began to kill more kindly, and less frequently. He chose better whose side he fought for in battles, and instigated fewer wars. For a long while he thought such changes were enough. But he had yet to develop anything near a heart or a conscience.
Still more centuries had to pass until he slowly discovered that being so cold-blooded, so unfeeling and uncaring about the pain and suffering he caused, was no longer…acceptable. He had finally started locating his conscience.
He did not mind living as a pacifist…until someone he cared for was in danger. A ripple slithered down his spine as he instinctively recalled his warrior training. His cold blood warmed and his fangs erupted with the need for vindication as he remembered the terrible wounds inflicted upon his child, his daughter. His hands clinched as his fingers hardened into claws with the memory of her pain and the scent of her spilled blood, yet his heart swelled with understandable pride in her strength in enduring that horrible night. His daughter was made of grace and strength and had an excellent character. He had never once regretted bringing her over.
And those Weres had seen his Cara, and knew her scent.
It was time for war.
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