It is interesting to me what a being over fifteen hundred years old can and cannot remember. Part of the problem, I'm told, is the many years my kind spends in the twisted dreamworld known as torpor. What is “my kind,” you ask? I am a creature of the night that prolongs my existence by draining mortals of their rich, delicious, living blood. I am one of the Kindred, what you might call a vampire. And like all vampires, I once was human, as well.

I do not remember my father at all and have only vague recollections of my mother But that may be because they were killed when I was a small child of about six years. My people were a tribe of Celts that called the forests of Gaul, what is now eastern France, home. Some called us barbarians for our ruthless ways and lack of what they considered culture. Our culture was in the fine workmanship of our blades and the music of our war chants. Our warriors were out on a raid themselves when my village was attacked. They slaughtered everyone they encountered all the way down to my two day old baby brother. Fortunately for the village, two other groups besides the sword-wielders had absented themselves that day. Some of the older members had gone out foraging for summer ripe berries, while the children, myself included, were playing games by the little waterfall some hour's distance away.

It wasn't until nightfall when everyone returned home that we discovered the tragedy. Most families had a surviving parent or at least an aunt or uncle to comfort the distraught children. Not I. My entire family had been gathered at my mother's bedside to fuss over the newborn. I was the last of my clan name. With our resources depleted from the marauders, no one wanted to add a child with no blood ties to their burden. I sat in the dirt, crying softly, until I felt a hand touch my shoulder.

“Mourn well for your lost ones this night. Come sunrise, there will be no more time for tears.” The hand and voice belonged to Keith, our strongest warrior. Some called him Cernnunos incarnate for his uncanny skill with bow and blade. For the next twenty years, he would be the center of my universe.

From the beginning, he was a harsh taskmaster. I cleaned his hut, cooked his meals, mended his clothes, filled his cistern with water, not from the small lake our village rested beside, but from the waterfall I had once played by several miles distant because it tasted fresher. I did the work of a full grown woman, though I was only a child, and I dared not complain. Who else would take me in? At first, it took me all day to complete my chores. But as I grew in size and strength, the took less and less time and I began to look forward to the day when I could once again join my age-mates in play.

That day never came. When he saw that I had idle time, Keith began my training in earnest. He raced me to a certain tree, giving me a head start, and beat me if he caught up to me. Our first sparring lessons were with sticks. He taught me how to move, how to make my “sword” a part of myself. If he was away for a hunt or a raid, I was left with one of the other craftsman to learn what I could about their trade, most often the blacksmith. I never developed the correct feel for working metal, but I did learn how to distinguish a well-crafted blade from its inferior brethren and to keep it sharp and oiled to prevent rust.

I had better luck with bow making and fletching. My nimble fingers were especially adept at wrapping the feathers neatly on the arrowshaft. Once I could hit my target more often than not, Keith started bringing me along on his shorter hunting trips. I learned to move silently through the undergrowth, follow a trail, and remain still for hours in wait for my quarry. The time I was able to sneak close enough to a fawn to tickle its tail is still one of my fondest memories.

From sun-up to sun-down I was constantly engaged in some aspect of training that would make me stronger, faster, smarter, better than my enemies. When I did not meet Keith's standards, which was often enough, I received the back of his hand across my face. If I cried, he only beat me harder. I loathed him at the time, but the warrior was all I had, so I tried my best to please him. Keith was not a truly cruel man. He took no pleasure from giving his harsh discipline. When I did succeed with my task, I received a smile and a soft word of praise. He knew that without any family ties, I would have only myself to rely on and he made sure that I was as sufficient as possible. If his training left me without any compassion for my fellow living things, well at least I was able to survive.

I joined my first raiding party at fourteen. Young, yes, but I was as deadly as any seasoned warrior. Five fully grown men died from my sword that day, and another eight fell from my arrows. Keith was proud and rightfully so. I excelled at killing in a way my comrades, who only practiced a few hours each day, couldn't hope to achieve.

Like any woman of the village, warrior or not, I was expected to bear children and increase our numbers. But because I was a warrior, I was the one who chose my partners. Many would have liked to warm my bed, but there was only one I saw fit to father my children. Equals at last, I took Keith as my lover. My first whelp was born when I was seventeen. I would birth three more in the next six years. I cared not for any of them and gave them all to other women in the village for their rearing. The women were happy to take the children off my hands for it obligated me to share a portion of my hunts with them. This was no hardship on me; it provided an excuse to hunt frequently.

Hunting was my escape from the idleness of the village. I loved roaming the wild forests in my quest for game. The search for traces of animal passage, the long trail that might take hours or days before the quarry was revealed, the tense moment of uncertainty while the arrow flew towards its mark, the thrill of success when the prey went down.....these were the times I lived for.

WARNING!
I am a war monger of the highest order. If you declare on my coven, prepare yourself for a bitter battle and the possibility of defeat.