A fresh start.

The oceans clashed and the birds from the receding woods shrieked as they flew by.

A lone tent was in the middle of shore and the woods, blocked from the busy harbor of the seaside city by a large rock.

Inside the tent.

Amidst the searing pain that seemed to possess a power that burned through his veins like a hot brand of metal, Clawe's eyes fluttered open.

The brown old view of a tent was the first thing he saw, the lantern burning softly gave the enclosed place a light. 

He sat up, wiping to a side his scattered, now clean, silver hair. Must have been washed clean when he was in the ocean. 

The clashes of the waters that reach his ears, making him realize he hasn't gone far.

His coat is no more, only his baggy pants remained.

But where is this place?

His eyes moved around. Apart from the lantern, only a leather bag could be seen.

The remaining space of the not so large tent is unoccupied. 

A temporary stay- he guessed.

The early yellow sun casted inwards beyond the small opening of the tent.

(Written and composed by Bright Theophilus)

It's dawn already.

Where am I?

His eyes flashed. 

What am I doing here?

If he could reminisce, he knows that he should be at work now at the fishing dock at the Bahamas, his former place, since it's morning.

But here he is, in the middle of nowhere.

Suddenly, he felt like a huge hammer had struck his head and his face contorted as he palmed his forehead.

Everything came rushing back.

The frenzy. The massacre of the village. The brawl with the vampires. Then to when he fell into the torrents.

Everything came rushing back.

Guilt and terror burned through his system and he almost cried, not again.

His hand touched his abdomen but the deep gash is nowhere to be found. Yet he felt so weak, so drained.

His eyes flashed viciously. He must have been saved by someone, but where is the person?

He subconsciously flexed his fingers, trying to summon his claws.

But nothing came out. 

What?

He tried again and again.

Yet nothing.

What's happening to me?

His fangs too.

Nothing came out as well.

Then it dawned on him. He had fought a coven of vampires, even if he doesn't know how that's possible. And he hadn't fed. He needs to, to recover.

But what's a vampire without his claws and fangs? 

Vulnerable. That's the only word that could picture that very well.

Such a vampire is as open to danger as a snail in the middle of trampling legs.

(Written and composed by Bright Theophilus)

Just then he felt an approaching aura. 

A vampire?

His face turned ugly but he couldn't even move when the figure stopped in front of the tent in a flash.

With a bend, the figure entered the tent and his red rimmed green eyes flashed at him. 

His ecru flowing cloak dragging along his steps.

"Booyah! My man's awake," his voice appeared to be less lethal than his average, sturdy appearance.

"Hello," Clawe managed to mutter, his dead heart banging against his chest and his cold body twitching and getting extra vigilant to sense any form of hostility.

"How are you feeling now, man." The vampire man appeared to be in his late twenties but of course Clawe knows better than to be fooled by a vampire's appearance. 

A vampire may look like a teenager but is actually over a century in age. If he or she feeds very well on fresh blood, the natural reward is immortality.

So to assume the age of a vampire isn't something he can do right now. 

Not like he's even sure this vampire is a friend or enemy yet.

"Where am I?" His voice came in a growl. He needs to affirm that this vampire isn't hostile.

It isn't a joke that he just escaped a coven of vampires.

"You are in New Amsterdam, man."

(New Amsterdam is previous name of New York, US)

"New Amsterdam?!"

"Yup, but you were pretty chicagoed when I saw your body washed up shore. What happened?"

Clawe paused. A mistake here could endanger his life. If he had one.

"Hunters. Was cut all over. But come again, what do you mean by chicagoed?"

"Oh that? Means beaten and wounded. You got that already," the man dropped the bag slung over his shoulder then began to unload what's in it.

Stored blood, in a leather bottle.

That should be for me- thought Clawe.

"You'll need this, man. You must be stressed out. Carribean hunters aren't so cool, every single vampire knows that."

Clawe's face flashed to him. "How did you know that I am from the Caribbean islands?"

"I judged from the flow of the currents and the time it took. And don't forget those Caribbean islands are the nearest to here, the others are too high for the nuts."

"Oh." Clawe responded, barely getting the idea of what he meant by too high for the nuts. 

He took the leather bottle from him. 

Human blood, he sniffed. Gross.

He doesn't feed on human blood most times. But he has little if not no choice now, he's damn weak. With a swallow, he gulped the entire red in the bottle.

"My name's Heald, I am a count from London. I joined the Dutch company coming here, you know, since I'm no human. Staying too long in one location can prove to be disastrous."

Clawe dropped the bottle. Feeling his strength coming back. 

His gaze turned to the man, Heald as he called himself. Not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

"Am Kylian, from the Turks," he lied.

"That's a long way, man," Heald said.

"As you said just now, staying too long in one location can prove to be disastrous."

"Yup, that's right. Welcome to New Amsterdam, Kylian," A broad smile crossed Heald's square face. "Here no Carribean hunters, no sniffing humans, no snitching bitches. Just you, your life, your coven for protection, and your feeding. You'll get addicted to it."

(Written and composed by Bright Theophilus)

"Uhm!" Clawe tried to evade him and his indirect offer to stay.

"Of course you can't go back to the Caribbean islands. The snags there won't welcome you with open hands. You can call this place a safe harbor."

After a bit of contemplation, Clawe nodded. "Okay."

"You wouldn't believe how long I've been waiting for a companion. It's been a lonely ride," Heald looks up and propped his hands on his waist, slightly ruffling his beige cloak then turns to Clawe again. "Get well soon, we are going into the town at dusk. Only came here to hunt."

"Umm" Clawe responded.

Deep within him, he hoped he's not making a mistake. It'll be like falling from a frying pan to a fire.

All he wishes for is rest, after decades of running from death and destruction.

And so his life began as Kylian.

*******