Blood is Life - A Warhammer Vampire Fiction

The castle stood atop a jagged cliff, its ancient stones weathered by centuries of wind and rain. Turrets reached skyward like the outstretched fingers of a long-forgotten titan, their once-majestic spires now weathered and worn. As Atlas's eyes fluttered open, the world greeted him with unfamiliar shadows. He attempted to sit up, but his limbs felt like lead as if he'd been submerged in molten iron. The air carried the taste of ancient secrets, and the silence pressed upon him—an oppressive weight threatening to crush his very soul.

Pale faces leaned over him, their eyes twin moons in the darkness. Fangs protruded from their lips, and their armour bore the scars of countless battles. Undead knights, their loyalty pledged to a coven that thrived on blood and whispered curses.

"Where am I?" Atlas wondered, his mind shrouded in confusion. His memories were shards of glass, fractured and elusive. Though he grasped at facts—the taste of iron, the scent of damp earth—his past remained a void, a chasm devoid of emotions and personal details. The name "Atlas" echoed like a distant bell tolling in the recesses of his mind.

The vampires spoke, their voices like the rustling of moth wings. "Welcome, Atlas," they murmured, venom dripping from their words as schemes and plans for double-crossing already sparked to life in their undead minds. "Our newest kin, forged in the crucible of night. The blood has raised you beyond your birth to stand with the immortals."

Accepting the name they offered, Atlas Von Carstein, he felt the weight of his lineage. A bloodline steeped in darkness, flowing from the very heart of the Old World. The name Von Carstein stirred forgotten memories within him. His sire—a third-generation vampire—had bestowed upon him the gift of immortality, making him a fourth generation in their unholy hierarchy. Descendant of the infamous Vlad Von Carstein, whose legacy was etched in the annals of terror.

As memories flickered, Atlas glimpsed his former life—a life not bound by crypts and coffins. He remembered Earth, a place of sunsets and laughter, where the sky stretched wide and blue. But that life was now but a whisper, a fading echo. He recalled a mundane existence: a desk job, a morning coffee ritual, and a stack of unread novels. Nothing that prepared him for this nightmare. Personal details seemed to have vanished as if erased by mighty existences. He did not know his previous name or feel any attachment to his previous world. It was as if he was watching a movie of someone else's life—interesting but ultimately insignificant.

The hunger clawed at his insides—a primal urge that defied reason. His throat parched, and he longed for sustenance. Blood. The word echoed like a dirge. His eyes wide and fangs ready to drink, with his morals, established in his previous lifetime, firmly suppressed.

"Why am I here?" A part of his brain rebelled, wanting to scream in anger. "Why me?" He had never wished for this fate, yet now he found himself trapped in a foreign world with creatures of nightmares, inhabiting a body that craved fresh blood. Almost worse than the hunger was the thrill of power. It was addictive. He flexed his hand and felt the strength to rend flesh with bare hands. With the last vestiges of his morals, Atlas couldn't help but understand the aloof nature of vampires about death. When one possessed such power, ordinary mortals were no different than ants—there to be caged, played with, and then exterminated at will.

"Vampirism isn't a curse—but a gift…" Dark voices whispered into his mind, quieting those pesky morals that so frequently accompanied humanity.

Then, a sound—a mechanical beep—pierced the silence. It came not from the room or the surrounding vampires, but from within. His now-dead heart leapt in hope. In prayer at the possibility of salvation. He had some familiarity with the world through the game and books in his previous life, and if he had learned one thing it was this—everyone died. There was no immortality and safety, there was only strength; something he sorely lacked.

He needed something to give him a fighting chance where demons roamed and heroes hunted his kind. Where even the world he resided in was fated for destruction by the endless hordes of mad gods.

Then he felt it. It was like a bolt of lightning through his mind, sending shocks of scorching pain before quickly subsiding. Then he felt his consciousness grow.

Atlas's fragmented past surged forth. He recalled the body he'd inherited, memories showing a life of privilege, envy, and betrayal. Born noble, trained in swordsmanship, he'd watched his peers ascend while he languished—a "silk prince" in a world of iron-clad generals.

And then the vampires.

He'd dealt with them, sold out human settlements for power. Crimes piled upon crimes, until they offered him immortality. The stain of his past life—the human stain—was washed away in crimson rivers.

"Atlas Von Carstein," His own voice sounded alien to him as he repeated his new name. His new identity forever casting off what he was before. Looking at the surrounding vampires, including his beautiful maker, he intoned "I rise with the crimson hunger and an eye to drain the world with my fangs."

Atlas took his first steps, baring his fangs towards the human offering, knowing what he had to do. He had to grow strong. Not only to stand against the tides that would destroy this world but for much more urgent requirements. His memories revealed the reason for his dark gift; a war where the vampires needed every fang. A war known in the annals of time as the first vampire war. A war for Vlad Von Carstein, his ancestor, to raise Sylvania's banner above Aldorf.

If he hoped to survive this great battle, which he happened to know the vampires lost, he needed something special. Something inherited from his old world. Something like…

*AI Online.*

*User please enter commands.*

Atlas's fangs caressed the quivering human as he took his place among the vampire coven. A creature reborn in shadows, guided by an AI that defied reason and a world that would become a canvas for his newfound hunger, a playground for the dark impulses he had locked away.

A slight pressure and ruby liquid flowed down his throat quenching his burning hunger as a single thought filled his mind. A thought so powerful it would become his rallying cry for generations.

"Blood is life."