First Taste

Arran gently swirled the glass of merlot and breathed deeply of the rich aromas as he the glass to his nose. He'd drunk wine in victory, and wine in celebration. From simple wooden mugs to delicate silver goblets wrought with fine jewels. There was a time when working men and kings enjoyed wine as equally as one satisfied a thirst with water.

The first taste was always the most exquisite, or the most unappealing. And even flying First Class had its limitations. Arran sighed and gently put the glass back on the table. He wiped his crimson lips on the white towelette and carefully folded it down again.

He absent mindedly picked at the various cheeses supplied, and stared out the small window into the darkness. Far below were the waters of the Gulf of Mexico, and the lands of the North American continent. He would Puerto Rico, but it was time to move on once more. You could only teach a person so much, and then they had to be willing to learn.

Patience was a virtue, and Cortez sorely lacked it. In the end he had challenged Arran and been soundly beaten to within an inch his worthless unlife in front of the Clan. Cortez had been declared Clan no more, and once former friends and allies had torn him apart on the reddened sands.

Arran had walked away from it all and ignored the pitiful screams that turned into pathetic gurgling and then finally, thankful silence. Cortez had learnt one final lesson. Pride cometh before a fall.

How many men and vampires had fallen on their swords for pride, arrogance, anger and envy. Even love had the power to kill. Even love.

Arran raised the glass and whispered words in a language that had not been heard by mortal ears for over a millenium. It was a blessing, a homage to those he had known and would come to know.

The wine trickled down the inside of his throat and satisfied nothing.

Still, America was the land of opportunity and it beckoned him to her shore once more. The Clan was as eternal as he was, and it would always welcome a true and loyal son.