Greetings. My name is Nicholas Hellsinger, though many people call me Nick. Let me just start by saying that I'm a vampire. I'll understand if you put this book down, throw away this manuscript, or close the Browser on that Internet thing I've been hearing about.
As you could probably tell, I'm not your average vampire, namely because I'm more civil than the modern day movies make my kind out to be. I don't possess "magical powers" that can control people or raise the dead. I detest human blood, never taking more than I need and hardly ever from the source. Also, I possess moral goodness. I doubt you would find many vampires like me; in fact I'll bet my next meal that you won't find any other vampires like me. But enough of my chattering. My apologies, I tend to do that a lot. My story is an odd one filled with strangeness, bravery, courage, romance (okay not really romance), and sadness. I write this not for amusement (though if you feel the need to laugh, then by all means, laugh). Nor for financial gain (when you've lived as long as me you no longer find the need for money), but to ensure that the future generations of this world understand that the dead are just as important as the living.
My story begins back in the 1400's in London, England. I was the Third oldest child of four to a high-classed Earl, though I could care less for my family's status. While my elder siblings were busy with their outings and looking down on everyone else, I was sharpening my skill with the sword from the town's blacksmith, Ovan, or wandering around with my dear friend D'Anton, the blacksmith's only son, looking for adventure.
D'Anton was a tall, light built boy with golden brown hair, blue eyes and the attitude of a ten year old, even though were both nearly eighteen. We seemed to always find ourselves in a heap of trouble.
The day started off the same as any other day. I arose near dawn, hours before the rest of the household awoke, and dressed in my regular slacks, shirt, and leather boots. I snuck out of my room, careful not to wake anyone as I passed their rooms in the hallway. Father would have surely given an hour long lecture about the importance of other people privacy, and to disturb it in any way would bring damnation onto that person. That was a conversation I did not want to sit through again. After sneaking out I made my way through the streets to Ovan's house. A few minutes later I was outside knocking on the door.
"Good morn' lad," said Ovan opening the door for me, "You came at a good time, I just finished my masterpiece. Come in and see."
Ovan always seemed to be making a "masterpiece" and was fast to show it off to the nearest person around, which was always me. He had much of the appearance and jolliness of what the children today call Santa Clause, only difference was his balding head.
Ovan's house was the same as ever: the floor was covered in ash, the air smelled like smoke and hot metal, the walls were covered with old and new swords, spears, maces, lances, knives, and shields (all made by Ovan himself), a small round wooden table and chairs sat in a corner by themselves with a lit candle on top. A fireplace at the far end of the room warmed the house. Taking it all in, the effect was almost decorative. I never really understood it but I always felt more at ease when I was here.
Ovan walked to the fireplace and removed a sword from the mantle above it. "Here," he said handing me the sword, "Isn't it a beauty?"
I took the sword and examined it. The blade was much longer than that of a normal sword, the handle was made of solid gold with a lion's head carved on both sides. Inside the lions' moths were ruby stones shaped like flowers, and on the tip of the handle sat a final ruby.