"Kaleign" Samir Yaksha-Ma Mataji
"He who makes a beast of himself escapes the pain of being a man."

	"Samir, the dark-haired prince.  It was once the gloomy title uttered forth from the parched lips of my many victims before they met each of their demises.  Of course, to some, the word prince would bring to mind a faint-hearted child, perched atop a velvet cushion in some lavishly decorated marble palace.  I assure you, this was not my case.  Although, I was a wealthy heathen, my main source of prosperity being meagre villagers, stripped of their most valued possessions.  Born into a world scarce in affection, I lacked the most important traits known to mortals.  Compassion was foolish, love the greatest downfall of my victims.  My tale is the simple vice of the dark-haired prince. Burn your handkerchief, blink away your glossy eyes, this is no romantic tragedy.  For you, I have heaved up my memories and spat them at your feet.  I tell you of my defeat merely to warn you of my uprising.

	"I was the only son of my three siblings.  The heir to the throne, the man of the house.  Although, you wouldn’t call it a house, or a throne for that matter.  We had no actual dwelling or palace, for our tribe travelled a great deal.  My father, Yaksha, was the most powerful of the immortals, and my mother, Sita, the most beautiful.  My elder sisters were Lamia and Kalika.  Kalika was a petty creature, favoured by few to her dominating and feral twin.  Kalika was more attractive than Lamia, in a domesticated sense, but that was never the appealing fashion among the males of the tribe.  I was never an expected party to join the tribe, and all but Lamia delighted in my birth.  She had been moulded to fit my father’s throne only to be cast aside with my unexpected arrival.  Lamia was a fighter, determined not to let her title slip away so easily, and so we competed.  We were childhood rivals, determined to spite the other and belittle their achievements.  So soon were these heated battles forgotten when we came of age, and our hormonal differences conquered our hate.

	"As I said before, this is a story of vice.  It takes a sharp eye to discern between what is love and what is lust.  The immortals of the eastern tribe brought me up with the idea that there is no such thing as love.  There is lust, there is affection, there is attraction.  Love is only a weapon in disguise of a gift, or so I was taught.  Don’t be fooled, I only seem to be getting off track.  Whether I knew what love was, if it did indeed exist, I know not.  I believed I loved Lamia then, when the screaming redhead was wrenched from my pallid fingers.  I was a boy, then, and surely, after centuries I still am.

	"Soon after Lamia was whisked away, my life as a prince fell to ruin.  What happened in her absence is a gory tale.  It is not fit for one such as yourself.  It is not your concern, and therefore I shall be brief in description.  When Sita left with my two sister’s, Yaksha had also fallen into despair.  He had become dangerously violent, and would surely stop at nothing to fill the ghastly hole that left us in such misery.  Sita was about twice as clever as Yaksha was strong, which is really saying something.  Still, my mother often worried of his power, and thought it’d be best to do him in before any real threat was made.  Of course, killing Yaksha was a grave deed, the sheer outrage of the tribe would see to it that the his murderer would be brutally slaughtered.  Sita knew better than to complete this task herself, not just because she couldn’t handle his physical strength, but because of these deadly consequences.  No assassin in his right mind would take such a job, regardless of Sita’s price.  I highly doubt that over all those years, Sita saw Lamia as anything more than a tool for her dark purposes.

	"And so, I was black-mailed into killing my own father, Lamia’s life at steak.  I loved my father dearly, but I couldn’t stand the gloomy prospect of terminating the possibility of ever seeing my beloved redhead.  It was a brutal killing, and the fact that I was hesitant in doing so made matters more grotesque.  Of course, I could not stay with the tribe after committing such blasphemy, and so I fled.

	"My remaining years were well spent.  Lone immortal, I was my own mentor, needing no such villain to occupy my thoughts or to fulfill my lust.  I wish not to imitate another that has gone before me.  Much I have learned over those long years, spent roaming Europe, snatching souls, dangling my power over the heads of my victims.  I bring that power to the court of the Rubygrail, my purpose none other than to redeem my loss, to continue to assemble my rage as a tool in my vengeance.  My tale is concluded, my heaving over.  I warn you once more, as you wipe off your once shiny black shoes.  Remember this: I tell you of my defeat merely to warn you of my uprising."