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| Welcome To The Night You find yourself in London on a dreary, foggy night like any other. But what lurks in the shadows is the stuff of fantasies and nightmares, far from mortal reality. This game uses the cursed and immortal vampiric condition as a backdrop to explore themes of morality, depravity, the human condition, salvation, and personal horror. We are a writing and roleplaying community dedicated to telling complex and engaging stories. Your fate is your own. Mingle among the ivory-tower elite in the Camarilla, join the fight of the discontented and chaotic Anarch rabble, or set out independently and attempt to survive in London's nighttime underworld. Anything is possible in our World of Darkness. Create Your Account! If you're already a member, please log in to your account to access all of our features: |
| For I Dipt Into The Future...; Writing Exercise #3 | |
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| Topic Started: Tuesday, 23. July 2013, 03:59 (725 Views) | |
| Caston Kane | Tuesday, 23. July 2013, 03:59 Post #1 |
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Don't Be Jealous.
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No. 3: For I Dipt Into The Future... "For I dipt into the future, as far as human eye could see; Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be." - Lord Alfred Tennyson Prompt: Do one post, however long or short you want, and show us where your character may end up in the future. It could be ten years from now, ten days from now, even a century or two from now! Your choice, your future! Nothing is written in the stars, but let's see one possible future for your character... |
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| Tzippy | Wednesday, 24. July 2013, 02:59 Post #2 |
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Ancilla
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It was raining and it was cold, hardly a surprising thing for London this time of the year. The Savta had her mood swings, of course, but they were predictable ones if you studied the patterns long enough. Sure, there were always the occasional shift in the way of things. London weather though? It stayed more consistent than anything else had in this city. And for Moshe, it was a comfort, the small man letting out a low exhale that was just habit at this point, the biological mechanic long since withered. The feel of rain drops in his curls, sliding over skin normally cool but now like ice. His thoughts felt like ice too, or maybe diamond. Something strong. They had to be. He could not afford to waver or go back on his previous words. Because, in the many long years since, in the many compromises and backslides, this would be one of his Tests. If weakness was present here, he would never survive. Any soft feelings or memories would have to be culled, forgotten. Like Ryan. He ignored the phantom sensation of a lump in his throat. His hands, hidden away in the pockets of his coat, curled into fists. Why had he thought about it? Why? Fuck. Fuck him. He hadn't been strong enough. Neither of them had been. It was better this way. With a soft snarl and that final, fierce justification, he shoved those thoughts away, turning to step into the coffee shop. It was empty, mostly due to his own arrangements though he would not put it past his old friend to make his own manipulations. He steeled himself, only pausing briefly to take in pale hair and pale features and pale eyes, striking against the purple button up that was obviously still a preferred fashion statement after all these years. Moshe shoved aside the memories it inspired with a snort, allowing water to drip from his coat and onto the tile floor as he approached. He wondered if Jhael had dressed that way on purpose, to bring forth that conflict. He wouldn't put it past him. If so, the brat would be sorely disappointed. Moshe would not allow nostalgia to damn him. Not even in this meeting. Jhael had looked up as Moshe stepped through the door, narrowed blue eyes fixed upon him. The taller man nodded curtly, his voice just as terse. "Bishop." Moshe couldn't help a smile then, the crooked cant of the grin revealing one fang. He pulled off his glasses, wiping the rain drops off absently as he replied in a carefully light tone, a flash of satisfaction felt when he saw Jhael's eyes widen minutely. "Primogen. Congratulations on the promotion, by the way. I'm sure Prince Kane was so proud. Probably had a nice little party all for you, hmmm?" His glasses were slid back on carefully. He'd need to adjust them soon. They were starting to fall down his nose. He ignored them for the moment though, approaching the table in a half slouch that he rarely used anymore, hands in pockets. He didn't stop at the chair opposite Jhael, instead halting to the side of the man to study him. "Haven't had much to celebrate though lately, the Camarilla. Unfortunate about Blucher. I'm sure you and Kane mourned the acceptable amount of time over the ashes before falling back into bed?" He couldn't help the tiny flinch at the fist that stopped a fraction from his face. Nor the raspy cackle as he regarded Jhael, now half out of his chair and towering over Moshe despite being hunched from the awkward position. "Fuck, you should see your face... Fucking hilarious...." "I wouldn't push my luck, Klein," the last word was hissed, "You don't think I-" "Don't think you'll what, exactly?," and there was a sudden growl to Moshe's own words, the small man taking a step closer, scarce centimeters separating the two, "You were always more bark than bite, Julian. Always scared of upsetting daddy Blucher. What's changed now that he's gone, huh? Just traded him for Kane, from what I hear. And I hear a lot now." The strands of the weave shuddered, seemingly in response to being acknowledged, and Moshe trembled with them. Dark fingers clasped the sleeve of Jhael's shirt, an conscious mimicry of a night so long ago. A council meeting that had changed everything for both of them. When they both still breathed and blushed and were so fucking ignorant. So fucking stupid. Blind mice scurrying in the dark. "... Jhael, the war is going to flare up again. And if the Archbishop demands it, I will come for you. Just as I'm sure you would do the same, were our roles reversed and Kane beckoned." He looked up, pale eyes wide and seemingly lost for a moment. And then he blinked, the moment passed, expression sharp once again as Jhael answered. "You shouldn't have left. Everything... It could have worked, Kl-... Moshe." His lip curled. "And what? Live within the web of apathy and willful ignorance? Caine is coming. Gehenna. Apocalypse. The End. Whatever. The pieces are moving. I see it. Over and over and over and over again. Different methods. Different events. Different pawns. But it all ends the same way." Moshe finally stepped away, pinching the bridge of his nose. "How could I stay there? Cassandra at best, a jester at worst," and there was that growl again, "With them. With the others... Our packs... They see. And we prepare. And we will be ready. When the Camarilla crumbles and Caine rises." Jhael's lip curled in turn, "Are you so sure they listen to you, Klein? A Lunatic. Don't they chain your kind like dogs, ignore the babblings for the madness they can inflict? Is Bishop a title or a mockery?" And it was Moshe's expression that now went tight with fury, eyes narrowed. Jhael knew him too well. Remembered the old insecurities that he should have put aside long ago but never quite could. "Well, I don't know Jhael. It's probably just as likely as the possibility that all the rest of the Camarilla sees you as Kane's whore who slept his way into a council seat." This time, the punch did land, Moshe tumbling to the floor. A surprised outburst of giggles accompanied the small man sitting up, rubbing his jaw. "Hit a little close to home, kid?" The laughter faded as Moshe realized Jhael was packing his things furiously, muttering as he carded a hand through white blond hair. His brow furrowed. "Hey, where do you think you're going?" "Away from you. I don't even know why I thought talking to you would work, Klein. Nostalgia interfered too much. Fine. Have fun with your little packs. We won't be speaking again like this." Moshe tensed, his mood, always so mercurial these days, darkening. His own pale eyes followed Jhael in his furious movements. The tall man striding for the door before Moshe even had a chance to rise into a crouch. He rubbed his face, hand coming away stained. His voice was soft as he answered. "No.... I suppose we won't be." Jhael paused briefly, hand on the door. There was a slight turn of his head. A glance towards Moshe. He opened his mouth as though to say something but seemed to think better of it. He shook his head, expression unreadable. And then he was gone. Edited by Tzippy, Wednesday, 24. July 2013, 03:02.
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| Aguirre Efrain Maddox | Thursday, 8. August 2013, 07:33 Post #3 |
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Mouse
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"You wanna know my problem with you Jyhadist pieces of shit?" Smoke rose slowly into the air before desolate copper-colored eyes, whose gaze was steadily focused upon the bloodied face of the exhausted man tied town to a hard wooden chair. Zip ties restrained the blonde stranger's wrists and ankles so tightly that circulation barely flowed to the smaller extremities. His knuckles had, only an hour earlier, been white with strain; now numb fingers hung limp. His head nodded here and there as he slipped in and out of consciousness. "My problem is that y'all just don't appreciate what eternity has to offer. Y'all run around preachin' and hollarin' about the end bein' nigh. You destroy the livelihood built up by kindred 'cause you just don't see the reasons they built it up in the first place--I mean, what's the point if Caine's gonna rise up and put us all to rest anyway, right?" Her willowy frame rose from the folding chair it had been leaning over the back of, kicking it aside with the emphasis placed on her last word. She dragged unevenly on her cigarette before putting it out on the man's upper thigh; the holes burned through his jeans and into his flesh told of this happening at least a dozen times since being dragged and beaten in the empty warehouse they now occupied. A small whimper escaped his hoarse vocal cords. "So here's what the fuck is gonna happen, ghoul", she gripped a handful of his hair and wrenched his head back, forcing his swollen blue eyes to face her own at full force. "You're gonna tell me where your boss stays, as well as the when and where of his next target. You're gonna be a good little boy, and fill me in on where all those guns he stole from us are stashed. You'll do it, or I won't leave you with a single drop of blood. Kapiche?" Dark hair fell down over her shoulders in coffee-colored waves, face shadowed by the overhead lamp above her. She gripped his already damaged jaw tightly, dribbles of blood squishing out from the sides of his mouth. He had a few teeth missing, but the way it came out, he was probably hemorrhaging from the inside. Tears welled up in the man's eyes, but he kept silent. "You're too quiet for your own damn good, y'know that?" Aguirre sighed heavily. She sat herself in the ghoul's lap, tugging at a red-tinted tuft of stained hair. "This is your fault. You Sabbat shits just don't know when to say 'uncle'." A twisted grin came over her otherwise soft features as she came close to his throat--just enough to hear his heart rate increase--then sunk her teeth into the bruised skin of his neck. It would be a very short time before the life was gone from his eyes; at this point, the Texan let loose a carton of lighter fluid over the corpse and tossed a match. Let the cops think it was a gang crime, or a mafia thing. Kindred throughout the city would know otherwise. The Sabbat would know she was coming. Aguirre left the warehouse smelling like a good old fashioned barbecue. It was the smell of charred flesh, of long pig, as some aboriginal cannibals somewhere called it. She couldn't remember where from; she'd read it in a book years ago. So much had transpired over the last couple decades to take her from the quiet mouse in the corner that she used to be to the hyena she was now. No matter how much life she stole, she remained icy to the touch. Her once warm gaze had shown for the last time maybe seven or eight years back, the last time she saw Church. Damon. Fucking. Church. Everything she knew, she learned from him. He was the only reason she had kept such a strong hold on her humanity after Frankie took off. He had been her mentor, the sole object of her affection, and then he was gone. She could remember the look on he had the last time she saw him, the affirmation in his eyes that confirmed he was getting the hell out of dodge, even when he tried to convince her otherwise. As much as she loathed him for lying to her, hated him for the memories still inked into her skin, she found herself aching to see him. He had been her last friend in the world. Now all she had was Mathilda and a distinct definition of the word 'asshole', and whose picture would be next to it in the dictionary. Shit, it was my fault. It was always my fault. Thinking about the terms under which they parted brought a painful beat back into her heart. She had become a different person entirely than the timid woman he met at the Dream. The fact remained that she missed her boy in blue terribly despite the dark outlook she now had. Thinking this way softened the expression of the Brujah for a moment, but only so far as an upward twitch in the corners of her mouth. Now she walked through the warehouse district, through darkened alleyways, trench coat flowing out behind her. If the Anarchs of the present day didn't know her by name, they certainly knew her for the circle A patches on each elbow of her favorite leather trench; they also knew her for the way her features twisted when she was angry, and to stay the fuck out of the way when she had a job to do. This was yet another thing Damon had done for her--helped her find a purpose, though she was certain it wasn't what her elder had in mind for her. Shame on us for all we have done; All we ever were, just zeros and ones. So she had killed her only known lead; this was certainly a set back, but there would be others. All she had to do was pretend to play nice with the ghoulies in the East, and she would find who and what she was looking for. In the mean time, she would doze through the day.. If she could get past the insomnia. It hadn't allowed her even a moment's peace in weeks, and served to keep her on edge and irritable. The need for a visit from the sand man was evident in the dark circles under her eyes and her slow gait. This observation would probably have been evident to whoever's boot steps fell behind hers. She stopped and turned sharply on her heel, facing the man who followed through the dripping spaces between buildings. A glare lit up in her features as a familiar voice made itself known. "Hey there, sugar." There were others whose steps were not so loud, but she had never known Damon to play hide and seek. Speak of the fucking devil. He must have seen me at the warehouse, she thought, poker face holding as she stared into the tired green orbs of Mr. Church. Such a visit could only mean she was en route to sunrise, especially after killing a ghoul in such a messy way. Masquerade? Pfft. "I was wonderin' when you'd show up to put my ass in the ground. You know I won't throw hands with you, Damon." A smirk crossed her lips. "Tha's good. It would be a moot fuckin' point." "Well, it took you long enough to get here. Been tryin' to get your attention again for a while, boy," she said in a flat tone. She brought her arms out in a welcoming fashion. "Let's get this over with." Edited by Aguirre Efrain Maddox, Thursday, 8. August 2013, 14:10.
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| Caston Kane | Thursday, 5. September 2013, 01:02 Post #4 |
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Don't Be Jealous.
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"Escape Velocity" December 14th, 2322 Freighter 101-7 Persephone "In space, no one can hear you scream." - Alien Freighter 101-7 PERSEPHONE AUTO-NAVIGATION ACTIVATED TIME: 0230 HRS SYSTEM STATUS: SLEEP MODE Running Diagnostic Program 12-AF..... ------------------------------------------ REPORT: Life Support Systems..... Online - Power 24%/100 Structural Integrity/PRIMARY HULL..... 100%/100 Structural Integrity/SECONDARY HULL..... 98.7%/100 Sub-light Drive..... Normal (PWR Saving Mode) - Power: 78%/100 FTL Drive..... Offline - Power: 0%/100 Computer Core..... Online - Power: 100%/100 Sensor Pallets (ALL)..... Online - Power: 100%/100 Comm Array..... Online - Power: 100%/100 Stasis System Auto-Diagnostic Activated..... ------------------------------------------- REPORT: Cryogenic Chambers 1-25..... Online - 25/25 Cryogenic Chambers 25-50..... Online - 25/25 Cryogenic Chambers 50-100..... Online - 25/25 Cryogenic Chambers 100-150..... Online - 25/25 Cryogenic Chambers 150-173..... Online - 21/22 Lifesigns..... 172/173 Navigation Control Automatic Update Activated..... ------------------------------------------- REPORT: Speed..... 10798.8 IMP Destination..... Alpha Centauri IV (AUTO-NAV) ETA..... 1 MO, 2 DAY, 6 HRS, 42 MIN, 14 SEC ***Auto-Course Correction*** ***STARBOARD 114 MARK 215 / 3 DEG*** Updated ETA: 1 MO, 2 DAY, 6 HRS, 39 MIN, 9 SEC ------------------------------------------- 'The stars burn throughout eternity, brightly and beautifully; the smoldering beacons of hope and wonder carry within them the soul of the universe, ever changing yet staying the same...' His pen scribbled the words down onto the blank book in his lap as the music filled the room, echoing through the dimly lit metallic corridors. He sat in the plush chair, back slumped in, feet resting on the console in front of him. On occasion, he would look out the thick, transparent glass of the viewport out into the blackness of space and the sea of stars that dotted and twinkled at distances so unimaginably far away yet seen so plainly. He'd hoped to get inspiration from them. He'd never written about the stars before, even though he'd seen them with every day and night that passed. He'd even wanted the music to inspire him, even though he'd heard this movement from Mahler several dozen times over the past several years and felt that there was no more blood he could draw from that particular stone. Still, it had become one of his favorites: the electronic and dance music, the jazz and goth-punk that spoke to him centuries earlier seemed almost irrelevant out here. They were all focused on the human condition - or, at least, the earlthy condition - on things like love, hate, anger, fighting the power, drugs, looking for a party, having sex. This far from Earth, and with no company but his own thoughts for months on end, none of that seemed to matter. So, he took more solace in the instrumental symphonies of antiquity. There was something soothing about them, calming. It helped keep him centered. He couldn't think of any more to write. Writer's block. Again. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose to rub his eyes. A few seconds later, a beeping sound came from the console in front of him, and new lights illuminated the touch screen. He slid his feet back down to the floor and straightened himself out, leaning forward to see what had caused the alert. It was a malfunction in the secondary plasma conduit. The coolant wasn't getting through toward the engineering deck. Rolling his eyes, he set his pen and pad down and tapped the screen. Access SEC-EPS System - Deck 4 - Section 28..... INPUT//CMD: ***Close Conduit*** INPUT//CMD: ***Reroute Plasma -- Forward via Section(s) 27-29*** INPUT//CMD: ***Enable*** The console beeped again, indicating that the route transfer had been successful. REPORT: EPS System..... NORMAL FUNCTION - Power: 100%/100 Caston got up from the chair, picked up his pen and pad, and started walking from the room back out into the corridors. The music still echoed throughout the seemingly empty ship, happily greeting him with highs and lows of sound as the heels of his shoes clicked and clanged against the metallic floor of the long and curved pathways of the interior of the Persephone. He glanced at the display panels that lined the angluar shaped hallways as he passed by them, checking - as he always did when he took this route - to make sure that he didn't see any red indicator lights. Red meant something was malfunctioning. Thankfully, today, it seemed like everything was in proper working order. The Persephone was transferring crew and cargo to the colony on the fourth planet in the Alpha Centauri system, a little under 4.5 light years from Earth, and was entering the final leg of its journey. 4.5 light years was a short distance in spatial terms, and the ship could have probably gotten there within a few hours after it left the docking station orbiting Mars with a few simple jumps of the FTL drive, but that wasn't possible on this particular cargo run. They were transferring scientific and medical equipment that was sensitive to the spatial stress that an FTL jump would make - since a trip to Alpha Centauri would require at least three jumps, that meant they had to get there the old fashioned way: Their cargo would be sealed, minimal power allotted to the FTL drive, and they'd get there at sub-light speed. Which meant a seven month journey. Each member of the Persephone's crew and personnel were put in individual cryogenic stasis chambers that made long voyages easier to handle... Each of them with one exception. Caston. He didn't need to eat. He didn't really even need life-support, so long as the artificial gravity was functioning. All he had to do was extract blood from the crew members in stasis whenever he needed it, which he had to do anyway because it was standard procedure to take routine blood samples during a cryo-voyage to make sure the chambers were keeping the crew healthy as well as alive. For a vampire, one couldn't really imagine a more ideal scenario: As much sustenence as one could want, far enough into space to walk freely about without in front of windows and viewports without fear from burning in sunlight, no real resting schedule that depended on how long night lasted... Out here, night lasted forever. Caston finally reached the CIC - Command In Control. It was the bridge of the ship, the central hub of command and information. A large, circular room with empty chairs at empty consoles, huge master display panels light up along the bulkheads, a 3D holographic display system above the large center console and, right now, deafening silence. Pardon for the various systems beeping ambiently in the background and the low and soft lulling sound of the ship's engines, of course. He took a seat at the communications station, and glanced up at the chronometer on the wall. 5 minutes early for the call. The music reached its counterpoint and he took out his pad and paper to a blank page and started sketching out a drawing. Yes, a career in space was everything a vampire could want. At the same time, it was everything a vampire feared. Loneliness. Emptiness. Monotony. The same routine day in and day out, week after week, month after month, with no one but his own thoughts to keep him company. As he sketched out a clock face on the pad, he thought about the people he wished were around. Centuries ago, Alarik, his lover and Ventrue Prince of London, met his rather unfortunate demise. Caston didn't even want to remember how it happened. So cruel, so unepectedly. As ram rod straight and tight laced as he was, Alarik had a cunning to him that he'd come to admire. So much so that he became the first vampire he bonded with. As the years went on, they grew apart, despite their bond. Their fights became near constant and their bloody courtship became passionless. When Alarik was destroyed, Caston grieved; but he couldn't understand what he was grieving for. His conniving nature led him to succeed him as Prince of London, after a finely woven web of lies took the Seneschal, James Henderson, out of the city. The transfer of power was already complete before the Nosferatu even knew what happened. Constantly at Caston's side was his childe, Jhael, his other lover who had succeeded him in his position as Primogen of the Toreador; much to the chagrin of Armande Roux who believed he'd rightfully earned the position. Caston stopped drawing for a moment to think further on that before continuing. Armande did earn it. But Caston was much more wild back in those nights, and his appetite for intmacy was only outweighed by his appetite for blood, and Jhael was always his favorite. Then the Kuei Jin came to England in the mid 21st century, and war broke out. Cainite versus Cathayan. The damned versus the damned. Prince Caston had managed to drive them out, but it came at great cost. Soon after, Moshe Klein and his Gehenna cult tried to seize control of the Camarilla's weakened state... They were almost successful, and they almost brought the end upon all of civilization. Kindred and kine alike. He'd never forget the sacrifice that his old friend, Mot Khartoum, made for them all; thanks to him, the world found its unlikely and last-minute savior - and the world more than paid back its gratitude. Well after Caston left London and the Princedom, the humans began their experiments with their new technologies. Great and terrible machines. They fought their wars, but unlike the vampires, after World War III they seemed to get their act together, finally. They began to create more than they destroyed. They built marvellous wonders, faster engines, ships capable of traverse the vacuum of space in mere hours, and colonies on other worlds. As the mortals took their first steps into their greater universe, the vampires slinked even further back into the darkness. As the world got brighter, the shadows in which they resided grew smaller. The Camarilla changed and evolved over time into something that the Archons and Justicars of old would not even recognize today. Even the name, Camarilla, faded into obscurity, left to gather dust in the annals of history. Prince, Primogen... these archaic titles were meaningless anymore. Were they awake to testify to the fact, most of Caston's crewmates would almost certainly say that he was very different from they were; some knew more than others, though no one knew his whole story. There really was little need anymore to keep it a secret, even if it wasn't common knowledge. It had been generations since he'd heard the term 'Masquerade'. After the humans began travelling and living amongst the stars, they discovered that they had bigger fish to fry than the legendary monsters of old. Caston had to agree, and if given a choice between facing the Antediluvians again and the terrible nightmares that Earthers discovered in the blackness of space, he'd pick the former any day. For as much as he'd seen throughout his centuries of existence, nothing in his world could have prepared him for that... The console beeped, Caston once again put his pen and pad down. He tapped the communications panel and the speakers stopped playing the Mahler symphony to receive the transmission. '225-4 Vanguard to 101-7 Persephone...' A man's voice came over the comm, echoing throughout the empty ship. "This is 101-7 Persephone. Right on time, guys," He said, smoothing the wrinkles out of the tight black t-shirt he was wearing. With a push, he rolled himself on his chair over to the operations station, and started to work the controls. "I've got an airlock open for you on Starboard Port C, Vanguard. I'm ready for docking maneuvers over here. Standard approach, smooth and steady." 'We'll make this quick and painless, Persephone. Hard seal in 90 seconds. Vanguard out.' Caston rolled back to the comm station and closed the channel. His eyes drifted down to the paper and the half started sketch of Big Ben in London. He smiled at it for a moment before he closed the cover of the pad. --- The thick door of the airlock at Port C opened just after the Vanguard docked. Through it, four human men in green jackets carried a large metal crate into the corridor and set it down. Caston stood watching, arms folded, wondering what was inside. Another man in the same style jacket carrying a clip board walked on board next and nodded a greeting to him. "Where is everybody?" "Stasis. It's a cryo-run. I'm Caston Kane, chief of operations." He reached out to shake his hand, which the other man did as well. "Lee Foster. You're the only one awake?" "Yep, until we get to Alpha Centauri. We've got another month to go." "That's got to suck," Foster. "Keeping yourself busy?" Caston shrugged. "You might say that," he replied. He eyed the clip board. "That the manifest?" "Yeah, it's all right here," Foster said, handing it to him. "Picked it up at Vega Colony. It's going to A.C. I think." "You think?" The Toreador asked. The human nodded. "Orders were to take it to 101-7 Persephone and your flight plan says that's where you're headed," Foster shrugged. Caston understood. It wasn't unusual for a ship to be listed as a haul's destination. It usually meant that it was supposed to be delivered somewhere else later, or it was meant for someone on board a particular ship. A highly annoying practice. "But we're supposed to be keeping it quiet. Some favor for somebody who knows somebody in the Cargo Authority." Caston flipped through the pages on the clip board with a curious look. "Keep it quiet?" He asked looking up at him. "That's unusual." "Tell me about it." Foster replied, scratching his brow. Caston gestured toward the crate with the clip board. "Mind if I run the numbers, quick?" He asked, stepping over to it. He crouched down and comparied the serial numbers on the forms to the one on the crate. Everything seemed to check out just fine, but there was something odd about this cargo that he couldn't put his finger on. The crate was long, and made from a very thick material. The lid was air tight, clamped shut twice on each side, and a small keypad-activated locking mechanism was centered on the side with a red blinking light. Whatever it was, whoever sent it wanted it very secure. Strangely, it looked like it wasn't designed so much to keep people out of it as it was to keep whatever it was inside. "Those are some heavy duty locks." Caston said rhetorically, signing the form on the clip board. "Any idea what's in it?" He ran his hand along its metal sides. It was cold as ice. Foster shook his head. "No idea," he said, stepping over toward Caston. As the vampire examined the box, trying to decipher some visual clue as to what its contents were, Foster was staring at him intently. "Hey. You're one of them... you know..." He said. The other men looked on curiously. "One of what?" Caston asked him, standing back up and folding his arms. He had an idea as to where this was going. "You know... a nightlighter". Foster spoke the word in a whisper. Nightlighter was slang for someone who spent all of their time in space, and never took a ton of shore leave when they got to whatever planet they were headed to. They were usually pale, some more gaunt than others, and Caston certainly met most of that description. The other freight runners in the Earth Cargo Authority talked about them like they were mysterious living legends. They kept to themselves, and there were all sorts of rumors about them; that they supposedly didn't grow old or get sick, that they didn't eat food, that some of them had 'special powers'... In fact, one of the ways to pass the time on freighters was to talk about alleged nightlighter encounters like mortals did centuries ago about catching fish. These tales were almost always exaggerations and most of the people who said they'd seen a nightlighter were lying. Of the humans that were telling the truth, some talked about them behind their backs, trying to ostracize them from the rest of their crews. Others wanted to know more but most were always afraid to ask. Caston was pretty used to it by now. "And?" He asked him, taking a step forward. "What of it?" Two of the other men laughed to themselves, one appeared as though he didn't want to be there at all and the other looked on in intent interest. "Hey, no disrespect my friend," Foster said, raising up his hands before crossing his arms across his chest. "Just wonderin' if you got any of those... you know... talents we hear about." Caston smirked. "Talents, hm?" "Oh yeah," Foster said. "I bet I can guess your talent, too." "Oh really?" The Toreador asked with sarcastic interest. "And what's that?" Foster grinned, his eyes narrowing. "I bet your talent is... cocksucking." The two other men burst out laughing. The others didn't know how to react. Foster stood his ground, chuckling through his words. "He-ey, I'm serious! Lonely prettyboy all by himself on a ship this big, I bet you'd like some company, wouldn't you?" The other two laughed even harder. Caston just glared at Foster. "I bet you would just love to suck my big... fat... cock." He said. Snapping his head to the left, Caston's eyes locked on to the four Vanguard crewmen by the crate, Presence emanating from his centuries old mind like invisible soundwaves invading their heads, reverberating inside of their skulls. 'Terror'. With that one thought, two of them ceased their cruel delight and backed against the bulkhead, trembling. One hid behind another, and the other dropped to his knees on the floor in fear, raising his hands up as though Caston were about to kill him. The Toreador only stood there staring at them, and each one of them broke like children before his eyes. Foster's as well. "Take that to the main hold on Deck 7." He commanded. At first, they didn't react. "Now." He instructed, with unquestionable authority in his voice. Quickly, they grasped the handles on the side of the crate, lifted it, and struggled to hurry with it down the corridor. Caston turned back to Foster, who looked on in disbelief at what he'd just witnessed. The human slowly looked back to the other man. "Abilities like that, you mean?" Caston redirected his Presence toward Foster, and advanced toward him slowly. The human almost tripped over his own feet backing up. When his back was against the bulkhead, he slid himself slowly down it's angled wall, recoiling from him and cowering in fright. "Well look at that," He taunted. "Big boy's not so big anymore, is he?" He crouched down in front of him as tears started to run down Foster's cheeks. The mortal was afraid to close his eyes or look away, but he was also afraid to keep them open. He was frozen and shaking in terror. It made Caston smile. His disciplines had grown quite potent over the years. "After your men are done unloading the haul, I want you all off of my ship," he said, leaning in closer. "And if I ever see your disgusting kine face again, I'll tear it from your skull and wear it as a mask. Understand?" Foster, shaking and sweating bullets, nodded frantically. Caston gave him two light slaps on his cheek and gave him a sickly sweet smile. "Good," he said, standing up. He tore off his copy of the form from the clip board and handed it back toward him. A trembling human hand took it. "It was a pleasure doing business with you." --- It was 2100, and Caston had just put the last relay in place. Laying upon the floor and reaching up into the open access panel, he reactivated the data shunt to the computer core. The indicator lights were green. Good. He slid out and replaced the panel door, and could finally check off the plasma system repairs off of his mental to-do list. It was nearing the time he usually went to rest, which meant it was also time for him to feed. He snapped the handles of the engineering kit shut and picked himself up off of the floor, brushing himself off with his free hand. The stasis bays were one deck above, only a few minutes walk. As he started down the corridor, the silence was deafening and the air had a thickness to it that he couldn't describe. The clicking of his shoes off of the deck plates echoed more than they usually did. At least, to him they did. Everything seemed out of place and eerily quiet, even for a freighter with only one crewmember lurking about. It felt like he was being watched by someone on this empty ship... like he wasn't alone. He looked behind him and saw nothing. He looked back ahead of him and saw nothing. This part of the deck was a corridor with another one running parellel to it, lined with rooms - the four science labs and two medical bays. It was a straight shot to the lift. If someone was here, they didn't have many places to hide. He took one last look around and continued toward the lift... And that's when he heard it. It was the softest of sounds, as though it may not have originated from the deck he was on. It sounded like shuffling. Metal against metal. He spun back around and peered down the length of the hall. Not one thing appeared out of place from where he left it. He let his eyes go into soft focus - Auspex - and looked again. Still, he saw nothing. He blinked a few times and chuckled to himself. 'It's your imagination,' he thought. The crew were in stasis and he watched the cargo team from the Vanguard leave hours earlier. He was the only one aboard that was up and about. He shrugged the thought out of his mind and turned back to walk toward the lift. He rolled his eyes at how ridiculous he had just acted. It was his own fault for not playing the music shipwide like he did earlier that day. Without it there to distract him, every little sound the ship could make would echo. As the old saying went, empty vessels made the loudest noises... The rest of his night passed without incident. Before he knew it, it was 2215 Hours and he was back in front of his viewport, gazing at the stars, still trying to overcome his writer's block from before. Caston was incapable of writing even just one more word. It was as though something was tugging at the back of his mind, trying to take his thoughts elsewhere; but where, he did not know. He'd taken 6 blood samples from the crew an hour earlier, and saved four for testing. The other two, he drank. It wasn't supposed to taste the best, after all they were in cryo, but there was something different about their blood today. A staleness, although it didn't concern him. He chalked it up to the truly bad aftertaste that his earlier encounter with the Vanguard crew, assholes that they were. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. 'Ave Maria' was the selection he'd chosen to help him see the spectacular beauty of space, but it didn't jog his creativity at all. Instead, he chose to let himself enter his own thoughts. He put his hands behind his head, rested his feet up on their usual place atop the console, and let his mind drift and wander. Just under the music, the familiar lull of the engines was particularly soothing, and opening his eyelids for just a peek at the stars had such a charm to it that he was almost instantly relaxed. ...Caston... And the music played... The piano's notes in perfect, beautiful precision... the aria from the voice of a gifted Italian soprano... If he were still human, his heart would have warmed for the moment... ...Casssssstonnnn... The soft ups and downs of the piece were enough to get his imagination going again... it was a favorite piece of his brother Vincent's... Everything was so still... there in the magnificent vastness of the universe... ...CASSSSSTONNNNN. His eyes snapped open and he instantly sat up straight, as if being abruptly awoken from a daydream. He kicked his pad and pen to the floor in the process. His eyes looked directly behind him, toward the door that led to the corridor. He heard his name. He definitely heard his name. It wasn't an actual sound, though. It was more like someone had whispered... no... like someone had hissed his name directly into his mind. He looked back toward the console and tapped at it nervously. Access Internal Sensor Network..... INPUT//CMD: Activity Scan..... REPORT: Lifesigns Detected..... 172/173 One Hundred Seventy Two. The exact number of how many crew members were in stasis. He looked at the screen and tapped it again for more details on the scan. FULL REPORT - INTRNL SCAN 4517 DATE RAN: 14.12.2322 TIME: 2221 HRS DURATION: 0.0021 SECS Lifesigns Detected..... 172/173 LOCATION: Stasis Bay 01, Stasis Bay 02, Stasis Bay 03, Stasis Bay 04, Stasis Bay 05 ***CRYOGENIC CHAMBERS ACTIVATED*** Cryogenic Chambers 1-25..... Online - 25/25, Sealed - 25/25 Cryogenic Chambers 25-50..... Online - 25/25, Sealed - 25/25 Cryogenic Chambers 50-100..... Online - 25/25, Sealed - 25/25 Cryogenic Chambers 100-150..... Online - 25/25, Sealed - 25/25 Cryogenic Chambers 150-173..... Online - 21/22, Sealed - 21/22 ***ONE (1) CRYOGENIC CHAMBER OFFLINE*** Cryogenic Chamber 70-B..... Offline - Power: 0%/100 Crewmember Assigned..... KANE, CASTON EVAN, CHIEF PETTY OFFICER END REPORT Everything appeared normal. The crew were still safely in stasis, all of their tubes were sealed shut and activated, which meant they were in them. The only tube Caston saw that wasn't in use was the one reserved for him, and obviously, he wasn't in it. He didn't generate lifesigns. No Kindred would. Still, he knew that he wasn't imagining it this time... right? That voice in his head sounded so inhuman. It was unlike anything he'd ever heard before. It was calling to him. Everything had been so strange since the Vanguard crew brought that crate aboard. The crate. That was the only thing that made this night different from every night before it. The mysterious box, brought aboard as a "favor" to someone by humans that had no idea what was inside of it. Locked and sealed from the outside not to keep others out, but to keep something in.. He got up and walked across the room to the access panel on the wall and input his personnel code and slid it open. Weapons locker 2-27. He took the side arm and loaded the magazine clip. Stepping toward the doorway that led into the corridor, he took the safety off and pointed it in front of him defiantly and started walking the curvature of the hallway toward the lift. The music that he'd grown fond of playing throughout the ship had changed. 'Ave Maria' had ended, and had switched to another random track in the classical database. It was an unsettling score, filled with clamoring instruments and clashing voices that seemed to harmonize with the voice in his mind - that venomous siren's call that was drawing him closer and closer to the main cargo hold on Deck 7. At first glance, all of Caston's actions were his own, but he couldn't help but wonder if what he was doing wasn't being influenced by something greater than himself; something more powerful than he could ever possibly conceive. As his footsteps took him nearer to the lift, he could feel the invisible tentacles of a dark presence - blacker than the vacuum of space itself - seemingly wrapping itself around him, pulling him forward. The closer he got, the less he wanted to go. In fact, he wanted to run back the way he came. But he couldn't. His body was no longer only under his control. When the lift's doors opened, he stepped inside, barely able to hear the sound of them closing behind him. A thousand voices filled his mind's ears and a thousand faces with a thousand names filled his mind's eye. He covered his ears, even though it was a futile reaction. His face pained in the agony as it seemed every sense in his body was overwhelmed. He dropped the side arm to the floor, and struggled to reach toward the side of the lift, groping the wall until he touched the screen to take him to Deck 7. The voices reached their crescendo, all of them shouting the same thing... ...Release me! ...Release me! ...RELEASE ME!!!!! ........The doors slid open in front of him. Caston stood straight and tall, his unmoving eyes looking directly forward, his hands dead at his side. The voices in his mind were screaming all at once, but it only registered as white noise. He took slow steps forward toward the main hold. There were no thoughts, no emotions, no feeling at all that he could sense. He simply let his body be pulled along. He felt no pain, he felt no need to fight what was happening to him, and any thought of protest was drowned in the chorus of voices in his head. As he traversed the long angular corridor toward his final destination, he was nothing more than a puppet, controlled by the strings of his master. He entered the main cargo hold and walked past the crates of supplies the Persephone was to deliver to Alpha Centauri in small, slow steps. It called out to him - even among the blackness of space, it sent for him. Everything in his life as a mortal all those years ago to the centuries he walked the Earth and beyond as an immortal led him to this moment. Even his own name foreshadowed this, his ultimate fate. Those stories he'd always dismissed as nonsense, foretelling the end, were all true. Caston Kane, of Clan Toreador, the liberated atheist that he was, was stepping closer to the moment that had been predestined since the dawn of civilization; the fate he could not escape. His hand hovered over the crate, its darkness reaching him and grasping his arm with its invisible pull. It emanated power. It reeked of death. As his body innately began undoing each clamp, one by one, the white noise in his brain became a high pitched tone that came from seemingly everywhere. After the last clamp, he instinctively knew the code for the keypad, and his mindless body did not hestitate to comply with the darkness' demand to enter it. 1123-6536-5321. The coordinates to Earth. The light on the keypad turned from red to green, and the locks clicked in release. He stood in front of the metal crate, a mere marionette to the power within it, his dead body only a shell. His dead fingers lifted the lid up, and opened the box like the coffin that it was. As the smokey, stale air escaped from it, he beheld the rotting corpse inside. Its frail bones were exposed and darkened with age. Its ancient hair was brittle and thin. Its organs oozed black blood from open sores and its muscles contracted with immortalized unlife. Its fangs were preserved, and as sharp as they'd always been throughout the millenia, and its skull so twisted that it looked like the truest face of evil. Its head turned toward him, looking straight through him through, though it had no eyes within its sunken sockets. It opened its ancient jaw, the smell of festering rot filling the air in the hold, and it screamed. Oh, it screamed. It screamed the loudest cry to have ever been heard, and it did so in absolute silence. In Caston's mind, it reverberated, and vibrated every bone, every muscle, every cell in his undead body. He squinted his eyes as he looked at it and screamed as well: He screamed the most blood curdling scream he'd ever emitted. His fingers clenched as his voice took on the most unholiest of tones. His wasn't the only voice crying out through his mouth. RELEASE ME! RELEASE ME! RELEASE ME!!! In one swift motion, Caston's mindless form lurched down and bit the organ that once comprised this creature's neck, black vitae seeping from the wound, and he drank; he drank as the creature's cries echoed throughout the hold, throughout the ship, throughout the stars. He took the blackness within himself, the most ancient and vile of powers. He swallowed every drop of the icy, obsidian liquid that he could draw. The voices in his mind were louder than ever before, and as Caston broke away from the bite, his body bent backward, arching his back as he looked upward, and he cried out one last time... --- The lights were dim aboard the Persephone. The cryo chambers were broken, opened; and from them, pools of blood and the stench of rotting flesh was abound. The corpses of the crew were scattered on every deck of the ship. Some tried to run. Others tried to hide. A few tried to fight. They all met their ends, their bodies ripped to shreds and their pieces strewn all throughout the ship. Blood splattered and dripped across the viewports and windows, the crimson smears obscuring the view of the stars. The freighter never made it to Alpha Centauri. It had a new destination. In CIC, in dead silence, he sat at the helm, always staring directly forward through the main viewer, his hands working the consoles as if he did not control them. His once beautiful form had changed: His pale white, alabaster skin had grown purple veins along His temples, His neck, His chest and his arms. Dark circles had formed underneath His eyes. The pupils and whites of His eyes no longer existed as they once did, replaced by nothing but pure blackness. Blood stained His lips and mouth red. His body itself was colder than frozen ice. Whomever He once was no longer existed and never would again. The Kindred of England had stopped Armageddon once before. As humanity progressed toward the sun, they retreated back into their shadows, safe that they averted their own undoing. They were wrong. It was always meant to happen. It must happen. Gehenna would come, just as it was foretold that it would, on no other schedule but its own. And He would be its harbinger. His black eyes looked straight ahead, as they always did, toward the viewport as the ship neared its destination. They stared at the blue, terraquious globe with its pearly moon, as night had just fallen over Europe. Kane was finally returning, and like the myths of antiquity, the chariot of Persephone was carrying Hades himself toward the cities and gardens of Earth. From this night forward, Kindred and Kine alike would suffer Him... and all the powers of Hell. "Death, Destruction, Ruin and Decay; The worst is Death, and Death shall have his day." - William Shakespeare |
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-------------------------------------- Caston's Battle Music ![]() English Spanish American Sign Language | |
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| Espen Schroeder | Sunday, 22. September 2013, 00:49 Post #5 |
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Blue Blood Rebel
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Espen looked over at the woman beside her, not sure what to make of her expressions. It still surprised the Ventrue that her adopted childe could evolve to be so much like her in their years together, sure she had lost some of her child like fascination, but they'd lost many things since London. The decision to leave London had been beyond difficult for her young childe, having found her best friend in a Texan Anarch - for the life of her, Espen couldn't recall the woman's name, only the kind face and the familiar southern accent - but when the heat had come down on the Anarchs in London 73 years ago Espen had ensured that the punk was taken care of. They'd began a move much like the blonde's youth, and as she had traveled with Tanner on his business and his adventures, Frankie followed her through hers. However, it had carried on longer than the Ventrue had expected. She knew that confidence was an issue for Frankie, but she'd expected 20 years, much like her own time spent with her sire, would rectify the issue and she'd been gone after that time, leaving Espen once again alone. Instead, though...she stayed. The Brujah evolved into someone a bit more professional and although she still was an avid participate in her running activities and had spent countless hours pounding the punching bag at various gyms, she wasn't nearly as much of a punk kid anymore. The tall mohawk had been exchanged for a faux hawk that still had the iconic bright pink highlights, but the sides of her head were her natural dirty blonde coloring, having returned after sometime. Her torn and ratty everyday clothes exchanged for nice jeans, dress shirts, and fitted jackets. Espen, herself hadn't changed much in appearance, but in this moment she felt...different. It was probably simply the situation she was in. For 47 years she had traveled with Frankie through good and bad, but on a lazy night in Florence relaxing after long days of business negotiations, her phone had rang out a song she hadn't heard in a long time. She stared at the phone for a long time before Frankie came in smirk wide as she picked up the phone and pushed herself up to sit on the stone counter tops, joking before answering the call, "Don't tell me you're getting vampire Alzheimer's over there old lady." Frankie laughed and rose the phone to her ear, "This is Espen Dresner's phone, she's a bit busy at the moment, can I take a message?" "Tell her John Tanner called, I've got important business with her." "Tanner?!" Frankie nearly yelped and Espen stared back and shrugged as Frankie avidly gestured at her trying to ask why in the hell she'd let her answer the phone. "Yes...have we met?" "No...no, no. Not yet, at least. My name's Frankie. Espen...you uh adopted her, right, and when my sire abandoned me, she adopted me." There was an awkward silence and then the deep voice asked with a smile hidden amongst the gruffness of his voice, "Is she actually busy, or did she just know it was me and not answer right away?" "The latter." "Put her on please." The blonde took the phone from her childe's hand and smiled giving a small thank you as she raised it to her ear, "It's good to hear from you Tanner...I thought for sure you'd died, it's been so long since you last called." They talked candidly for a moment until Espen frowned and looked at Frankie as she put the cellphone on speaker and set it between them, "I've put you on speaker, Tanner...why did you call besides just to check in?" He chuckled and gave a low sigh, "I understand if you're not comfortable bringing your kid or our Kitten into this Cub, but I need a hand." "What kind of hand?" "New York City." Espen stiffened and Frankie met her eyes and asked, "What's in New York City?...Besides you know Espen's cold hard bitch of a sire?" "I'm organizing an overthrow of the NYC Camarilla, I've got a lot of friends from New York and a lot more that are being slowly pushed out of their homes. Fortunately for us, the Camarilla in New York are mostly Torries, lot more interested in their art galleries up that way I guess, and so far their hierarchy hasn't put half as much into ingraining themselves into the city's woodwork as Camarilla in other major cities have. If we can get enough Anarchs organized to take the fight to the Camarilla, defeat them, and then establish ourselves permanently in the city, we can make New York City an Anarch Free State." He paused and asked softly, "So what do you think Cub? How would you feel about going home?" Espen thought about it for a second and then nodded, "Let's do it." He laughed and Frankie grinned at the blonde across from her. Espen smiled, "You said you're leading it, hm?" "Yeah?" He said a bit confused and then groaned, "You want something don't you?" "Finances and investments." "That's...fine...you're good with that shit, sure, knock yourself out." "And - " "And?!" "Frankie." The Brujah looked up surprised and cocked her head. "I want her in charge of weapons and gang activities." "What am I gonna do then?" "You're the charismatic one, Tanner. Perhaps you should just be Baron and deal with the people problems and leave the rest to Frankie and I." "Kid." "Yeah?" Frankie asked. "How old are you?" "67." "How long have you been with Espen? And how much experience do you have this stuff?" "She took me in and started instructing me a few months after I was embraced for 46, 47 years. I've been involved in it running weapons and drugs, making contacts, leading small gangs, since I was 16." "I trust Espen's judgement then. I need you two in New York as soon as possible. Where are you right now?" "Florence, Italy. I'll book a flight back as soon as possible." It had taken a long time to establish themselves as permanently as possible in New York City and when it was over and finished with Espen began to pull in funds to supply the Anarchs and Frankie started to work her way into the human gangs. Tanner took hold of the State and with the help of his childe and grandchilde, they held it within their grasp for 26 years, but one thing that continued to evade them was the Mysterious Ms. Kingsley. Tonight though in this very room Espen stood before her true sire. Frankie straddling a chair, her arms resting on the back of it with a cigarette hanging from her lips, lazily smoking it before she passed it to it's rightful owner, the charming man standing beside her with a satisfied grin as he watched his adopted childe confront the woman that had so carelessly tied their fates together without thoughts of the consequences. Tanner smiled and shrugged off his jacket and hung it like a mantle on Frankie's shoulders, "Good work, kid. Take care of that for me, will you?" Frankie was surprised to see him remove the jacket, it was a staple of his look and she was even more surprised as the weight of the jacket was settled on her shoulder's as a mark of his approval. "Thanks, Tanner." He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and looked at the slumped over shape of the woman before them, "She hasn't change much has she?" Espen frowned and whispered back without looking away from her, "She's not nearly as mysterious or beautiful as I remember..." He shrugged and part an arm around her shoulders turning his head to focus on her as he spoke, "You were young then, Espen. You made a mistake, a selfish and foolish mistake, but now?" He squeezed her shoulders, "Now you've made up for that mistake, you've made a life for yourself and the people around you, including Beth. This woman? She's never atoned for, or even recognized, her mistakes, so now is the time that you showed Alexandra Kingsley the mistakes she made and teach her her lesson." Espen nodded and shrugged off her jacket leaving only a gray button up shirt and a pair of black slacks over black boots. She removed her gloves and tucked them in her pocket and then crouched down in front of the chair. Hazel eyes stared back at her and the blonde head rose slowly, challenging the gray eyes that were examining the features of her face, "I remember you. Another one with bad blood. Were you the stupid one or the one cracked open when I embraced you?" Espen didn't answer the question, only stood and looked over at Frankie, "Hang her up. I'll enjoy watching our new punching bag get broken in." She grabbed her jacket, "Maybe you can give me a few lessons in the coming months." Edited by Espen Schroeder, Sunday, 24. November 2013, 20:56.
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![]() "If the day ever comes when you're tempted to sell me out, remember this: Whatever their price, I'll beat it. I like living." -- Tyrion Lannister Espen: #6699CC - Beth: #CC0099 | |
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| Ronnie | Friday, 1. November 2013, 12:26 Post #6 |
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Ancilla
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It was fatal that I fell for that Ventrue. Jeremy. I knew it was gonna hurt if I fall for Jeremy. And it did. And yet, I couldn´t stop going there and having sex with him. Although it hurt so much knowing the whole time that for him I was just some additional fun. "I really like you a lot" is all I ever got to hear from Jeremy. No "I love you." I had to live with it that he liked me and desired me but not more than that. I was the sparrow in his hand, but he would have prefered the pigeon on the roof. Jhael, not Dove. Dove is a different matter. It´s just a proverb I´m talking about. It hurt even more when I found that letter. A crumpled letter it was that I found on the floor of Jeremy´s flat. Curiosity killed the cat, people say. My curiosity killed my hope. I was somehow hoping that one day Jeremy might love me and forget about Max. But that letter destroyed all of those hopes. It was a letter Jeremy had written to Jhael, confessing his love. Damn, so his heart was doubly occupied, by Max but obviously even more so by Jhael. There was so much longing in that letter, and some talk about kisses and a date they have had. So Jhael was a slut indeed. Sounded as if they´d had a hot date, and since then Jeremy had kept longing for Jhael. Obviously Jeremy had never sent that letter to Jhael. Jeremy wouldn´t ever write such a letter to me. If I stopped visiting him, surely he wouldn´t suffer a lot. So why didn´t I simply quit? Instead I even brought him together with Jhael. I wanted Jeremy´s dreams to come true, so I did everything to make them true. The letter reavealed that Jeremy was suffering so much because Jhael loved two other men more than him - the prince and Caston, the Toreador primogen. So I got them out the way. I was a clever boy. I told Max, that Jeremy was used and abused by the prince and by Caston, too. Max believed me and was furious. He came up with a devilish plan, and I helped him with it. Nobody doubted that Max was trustworthy when he came to London for a visit. After a while he was welcomed to settle down permantly. He won the trust of the prince and of Caston, too. But then Max staked them. And made sure that nobody noticed that it was him who´d done it. The disappearance led to a lot of frantic searching first. But we made it look as if the two lovers had run off together, to live somewhere anonymously. In reality the two were laying staked in Max´s cellar, but nobody suspected him. You might be surprised how quickly those two were replaced and forgotten. It was Henderson who became new Prince. I was happy with that, I had liked him from the start a lot better than Mr. Blücher. That Mr. Blücher sent me to get a sackful of Sabbat heads, that sealed his fate. He didn´t mind at all to send me on a kamikaze mission, so I didn´t care a damn to get him out the way. Caston deserved it, too, but not quite as much. Jhael has told us a lot about them by now, and I am so much surprised that he could love such bastards. That they have used and abused Jeremy, that wasn´t true, but that they have used and abused Jhael, that certainly was true. Not that I liked Jhael, how could I like somebody whom I envied so much. Of course I didn´t envy him for the sadistic punisments by the former wicked prince. But I envied him for the love that Jeremy has been feeling for him. And that limited my empathy for Jhael a lot. But to know how Mr. Blücher had treated Jhael, that put my bad conscience about ending his active unlife down to zero. Sometimes I even go down into the cellar to have a look at him laying there, and then I smile. Because now he can´t hurt anybody any more. And guess what, Jeremy had managed to become the new domitor of Jhael. We stayed in London until all that hassle about the vanished prince was forgotten. Then I left London, and after a while Jeremy, Jhael and Max followed. In the meantime I had managed to find the perfect island for us. No other kindred were there. So I have made Jeremy´s dreams come true. We´re living on a little island now, and here we can walk hand in hand. Jhael is a vampire, too, by now. He was embraced by Jeremy, of course. So that was a forbidden embrace. That bonds the two of them even more closely together. One night Jhael told Jeremy that he couldn´t stand it any longer that Jeremy had two more lovers besides him: Max and me. And guess what, in that moment Jeremy dropped us both. So now Jeremy is happy, and it was all my doing. And I? Well, even for me there was some happyness finally. After Max and I were dropped by Jeremy, Max and I got together. Since then I don´t even envy Jhael any more, luckily. Two happy gay couples on an island, sounds great, doesn´t it? And what makes our little commune even better is that Dove has joined us, too. He´s the best friend I can imagine. Jeremy, Jhael and Dove don´t know anything about Max´s and my literal "Leichen im Keller" (that´s a German phrase and means "corpses in the cellar"), Mr. Blücher and Caston Kane. Even Jhael has almost forgotten all about them by now, and I´ll make sure it stays that way. |
Bad boy Ronnie, Pictures of Ronnie![]() English German | |
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3:26 PM Jul 11