I am afraid of the Chaos. We are not the brutal hunters that vampires are. We do not steal the flame, slaughter and feast upon it, but nourish it, harvesting it as it grows, tending it, nurturing it, like a brilliant wild flower without whose fragrance we cannot survive. But it is a wild thing, and it bears thorns which tear at our souls, too. Like a flame, it burns within us as we suckle upon its nectar, and over millenia, the loneliness of our journey seems impossible to bear. Solitude is our way, for if we were to join hands together in the madness, the flames would consume us utterly. I believe there is a way that we may unite, but I fear I will surely wither into oblivion before I find a kindred spirit whose passion may dance with my own. Oblivion calls to me, lulling me into sleep. It whispers "Mortality" and drains the color from my dreams. Its lies are like heroin. Its promise numbs my soul. I shiver as the Chaos fires dwindle. I drift away, shrouded in spreading cobwebs of ethereal ice.
