Ah, the city.
A sea of hazy neon and blinding fluorescent that ebbed and eddied to the heartbeat of millions; you'd charted these waters longer than most your ilk. You'd selected a fine perch tonight, one that loomed above the urban sprawl and was joined by the winged silhouettes of grim-faced gargoyles; stationary creatures that dwelled atop the gothic spires dotting New York City's ever-evolving skyline.
The stone-scaled watchers didn't judge you as a cigarette sparked to life between your lips - your sire, Amket - playfully scolded you for such bad habits, even if your lungs were already 'dead'; he meant no harm. Like you, the weather-worn statues were silent observers of the restless metropolis - unlike you, they couldn't smell it.
The stench of it all was an acquired aroma for sure: the sizzling street food, sloshing pipes of sewage and the venerable scent of sanguine sustenance all blending together. Luckily, with age and experience, discerning between the innumerable odors was reflexive; thank The Old Blood. You'd been alive for the better part of two centuries and fancied the buzz of the city. For the humans that ambled about, life was chaotic and fast paced. For you? It was calm; until it wasn't.
Like an ambulance wailing in the distance, only to grow closer with every passing second, a psychic wail stirred at the corner of your mind. It was subtle at first but quickly rose to a cacophonous crescendo; you cringed and grasped for purchase along the eroded, concrete ledge. Most vampires were psychic creatures by nature. The occasional resonance and coinciding headache minor annoyances at most, but that? You'd never experienced such an agonizing psychic tremor. The pain flared the dulled, offering a moment to concentrate on the intrusion's origin; in a flash it came to you. Amket was in trouble.
It wasn't a long trek to your master's apartment, expediated by frantic leaps from rooftop to rooftop. Amket was an old codger, ancient even, but he possessed a stout heart and indomitable will. His skin was creased and worn, though he'd somehow managed to retain the red-clay complexion of his homeland. A rich bronze. Though the antithesis of what many idealized an Ancient One to be, Amket was of that select few; he was a good man as well. The idea of him in danger made you tremble. He was also your friend.
With a deep breath, you caught yourself as you leapt over the parapet of the building next door. Below, people swarmed around a subway entrance, oblivious to the dark figure moving through their midst. In minutes you arrived at the windowsill of your sire's upscale, Manhattan apartment. You'd once called this place home but, under the current circumstances, this felt like a hostile infiltration.
The front room was empty, plain white walls sparsely decorated with a few mundane looking souvenirs collected through the ages. Amket despised the snobbery of NYC's vampiric elite - of vampiric elite in general - and preferred a simple existence. No velvet curtains or plush furniture, just some random knickknacks; he was indeed of a different stock. There was no trace of his presence save for the faint odor of blood lingering in the air. It was then that you noticed the open window.
You padded across the hardwood floor, careful not to make any noise. It was unlike the reticent old man to let in a draft, even if the cold was no longer a factor for his timeless body; something was definitely amiss. His bedroom door was closed. You approached cautiously, still weary of some silent intruder. A sudden gust of wind caused the curtain to billow outward, revealing the disheveled form of your master.
“Amket!” you called out, rushing forward. The sight was grueling, messy, painful. His body had been torn apart by claws and teeth; most of the remains were strewn about the once ivory bed. It was obvious that he had fought valiantly, but the victor was not Amket. Not anymore. “Master?”
A phlegmy cough that was more blood than mucus escaped the old vampire. “Kas'ver..." It was the nickname he'd given you decades ago, derivative of some long dead tongue; your master's blood resembled blackstrap molasses, viscous with age. "Rest, old friend, I'll..."
Your words trailed off as you saw the rest of the mess; there was nothing to be done. "No... Kas'ver," he sputtered, "seek the others." The last word was barely audible, barely understood. The old vampire's eyes were clouding, the muscles in his face twitching. He was dying. The thought brought you to your knees beside him; a few final moments to say goodbye, one last memory of the man you admired.
"I..." The cryptic message lingered on your mind even as he drew his last breath, even as time came to collect Amket's overdue tithes. As with all vampires, the bloodied Amket rapidly ripened to his appropriate chronological age; all that remained was a dusty pile that curdled with the stagnant pools of inky blood.
News traveled fast, such was the nature of the supernatural community. By the time you returned to your lair, the entire city knew of Amket's passing. To many vampires, the death of an Ancient One was cause for terrible alarm. The probing questions, egregious rumors and general hysteria were enough to make you shudder. The mere fact that Amket was an Ancient One was bad enough, but the details? The corpse was torn to shreds. The Council of Vastrum would convene soon to discuss the matter and your testimony would be at the heart of such torrid affairs. They were bureaucrats before anything else and their scalding line of questions would stand on little more than ceremony; they were most likely delighted by Amket's passing. Your only obsession was catching the bastard that murdered such an esteemed man, and then deciphering his final message: "Seek the others."