Straude 1

It happened every night. With an unheard, somber sigh, the brilliant crimson sun retreated past the battlefield horizon, sliding down into it's catatonic disappearing act. And, as if it spent the toilsome day waiting patiently, Night appears. Night is not slow in it's appearance as the Day is. Rather, Night hastily swallows the sky, cramming every last bit of light down it's endless, greedy throat. As the last beam weakly descends into it's own oblivion, Night smugly coughs up the remains, spattering the digested light across the now-ebony sky in an alluring pattern of drops and smears. 1

There is also a brief in between for both Shifts, Dusk and Dawn. You can't notice them, no one ever has and will, for the instant that the first beam of pure morning light pierces the blanket of Night's gloom, or the first winding tendril of dark begins to suffocate the sun into submission, their is a minuscule flash, an unheard and invisible explosion as the eon old struggle begins again. The dawning Night produces a black flash, a halo of smoky filth and essence the bursts outward joyously as the day releases it from it's hidden confines. 2

The breaking day, rather, appears to be a form of a vacuum, ingesting the foremost layer of darkness as a black hole does a miscreant star. Removing bit by bit of Night, gaining more and more pulling strength the more it swallows. They are interesting sights to view, if you have roughly three hundred years to spare.3

The amount of light is not all that changes with the shift. During the Day, the diurnal reign. Those that feed on the Light, the natural and pure run freely, their sacred Star leaving them feeling safe and comforted to go about their regular life-pattern, be it the job and stress of mankind, or the hunt and fuck of the dwindling animal kingdom, they all rely on their light to successfully cope with the tasks of the day. Without it, they would drown in their misery, angst and confusion, unsure of what to do in their ill-timed darkness.4

The night kind is the opposite, the rumored and feared. They slink out of their caves, their burrows and nests as the Sun has passed from sight to flourish on the absence of teeming life the Day brings with it. They prefer the echoing silence, the mist and cold that rises again with Night. They are the creatures that mankind has for so long come to fear and abhor, with no reason except for the fact that they cannot clearly see them. These creatures are the quick bump in your peripheral vision when you step outside at night. They are the screeching howl that rouses you from your near-sleep and drag their unseen claws across your quaking flesh. You fear them because they are what you have grown to avoid.5

The night and day are the constants, the only reliable change throughout time the I have been able to record and rely on. The inhabitants have changed. The day kind have grown weaker, simpering and whining as they slowly destroy their world with what they find to be "necessary", spewing forth noxious gasses and liquids to further their financial success and power. The night kind have grown meeker, more discreet, almost tame at this point. No longer do you hear housewives whisper of stolen children, of mysterious marks burned onto their doors. The trails of blood and strange scents have lone since faded away, and even know I miss those reminders of the Cycle. Life and Death, Day and Night, they will remain with me as the dwellers of both night and day fall inwards on themselves.6

I have seen both kinds, I have seen all of both kinds. For nearly seven hundred years now, I have hid from, hunted and killed members of both the day and night dwellers. You are doubtlessly assuming at this point that I am another "vampire", some hideously romantic killer dragged from a dusty Rice paperback. I am not one of your myths, I am not something you can read of in a magazine or book, or find pictures of from the latest movie. I was not told what I am when I was given my task, I was only told what I would need and how and where I could find it. They told me the rules, and they told me how to control "him", my significant other, smoldering somewhere down in the pit of my stomach even as I ramble this to you. I was told to watch, nothing in particular, only to watch. I was also told to remember, and remember I have. I remember the feel of the boots on my feet as I took my first step on this now seemingly pointless task. I remember the exact image of the sun rising and falling on the first new day of every year I have stepped through, and how each time I see that sight, I behold a little less beauty, and a little more fear.7

I am not writing this to be remembered, or as a warning for who may find it. I am writing this to amuse myself. Don't get your hopes up, I am not some lost, forgotten messiah. I am bored. That is all.  For so long, my mind has been my slate, my method of recording and recalling, that it is actually refreshing to be able to view my thoughts in words, instead of mine, or "his" voice prattling in my head. You can only think something over so many times before the train wears the tracks away. I may do some reminiscing, I may just record significant events, sights, sounds or thoughts as they occur to me. I'm not really sure how this is going to start, or end. But I will know when it does.8

x9