[i]Sometimes I want to die. I want to end it all, but then I just sit there and look back on my life. Then I realize that men such as me don't deserve what they want. That is why I kill [/i]

Red. The word had followed him for all his life. First simply a vague color on his hand as he slew bandits in The Badlands. Second a name. Third a joke, but fourth, and most importantly, a memory.
300 years is a long time to keep a memory and yet Krow retained it. The image of blood. Blood. Such a simple word, yet it holds such power in this realm. Power that could be harnessed of course. Nothing like the power of the body of the mind. Blood holds the power of idea, which in itself is the strongest power. Men can trap power of the body with the power of the mind and the power of the mind can be halted by the power of the body. However, you can make men weep and kiss your feet with the power of idea. On the other side, the power of idea could make men stand strong at your side. 
Not surprisingly, few understand the power of idea. Most immortals fail to grasp it and even fewer mortals. Men who understand the power of idea are men who have power. Roderick for example, knew the power of idea. To run a human-trafficking group while still remaining in the favor of many men is hard thing to do, and even Krow couldn't do it. Though maybe he could. The Badlands had spoiled such power for him, well at least for now. Memories fade and The Badlands would fade as well. 
[b]"All things fall Jackal. All things fall. Remember that if you want to survive."[/b]
The words he spoke to tribesman long ago. 
This thought process sent Krow into a swirling mesh of ideas and memory that most people encounter at one time or another. Crushed dreams, forgotten friends, unspeakable cruelties. These are the things that we remember when we encounter this state of mind. Krow fell into the Badlands as many men do, though their Badlands are normally metaphorical. His however, were entirely real.

Sand shifts under the beasts feet. His head is spinning and he has yet to grasp the true nature of the place he is in and he won't for years to come. Unimagined power rests within him, restless and yet still unheard. But wait, watch as he stops and stares. As he attempts to figure out the true name of this place. But no, he is far too naive. Now he continues walking, and walking, almost endlessly. The sand moves and slides under him and his few, small transportations, only send him into the same rolling, shifting sand. He walks, day and night, not needing food or drink, sleep or rest. These things do not bother one who is not really alive.
Weeks go by, the creature learns of the sun and moon and comes to learn that he prefers the dark, and thus prefers the moon. Looking back, this isn't a very surprising fact. He is a demon, and demons tend to prefer darkness, yet, at the time, he found it strange. He found the moving of these solar objects strange and glorious.
But soon, this waking dream comes to an end, and the beast is encounters his first taste of the world.
20 men, all carrying swords or spears.
They are tribesmen, all they know is how to kill and steal.
But they make two mistakes. First, the beast has nothing of value. Second, he is a demon. Immortal.
The first fall quickly. The demon swipes, quickly and easily, and the man's head flies off.
The second is grabbed and thrown, his ribs breaking easily and his skull cracking against a rock.
The third is lifted up and with a growl, the beast rips his arm off.
The rest is a slaughter. Blood showers the sand and the cries of dying men echo around the desert.
This was the beginning.
Or maybe the end.

Krow is driven from his thoughts so suddenly and abruptly that he snarls and swipes, mimicking the motion of his first kill.
But no one is there. It is only him.
He stands and smooths his white hair and starts to walk out the door.
But something is wrong. His feet shake and he finds it hard to stand. He turns and looks in a mirror.
His eyes are yellow, and horns protrude from his head. Claws sprout from his hands.
Krow closes his eyes and slowly breaths. In, out. In, out. In, out. Three times.
When he opens his eyes his eyes are red, only white hair comes from his head and his hands are well, hands.
Krow exits the room, and walks into the bar.

The room is loud. People scurry around serving drinks and others "entertain" customers. Soon the nightly auction will be held and his workers will be sold to the highest bidder. Lust is such an easy way to make profit. People fight and bicker over one night of pleasure. All slaves of their desires, these men are not powerful. All who come to Krow's bar, or should I say, Vlad's bar, are those who do not understand the power of idea. Because of this, instead of controlling it, it controls them.
Men have become indebted because of this bar and many more will.
At this thought, a smile crosses Krow's face and he enters the real world again.