Category: Fictional Viciousness


Numbness.

As my eyes passed over the words staring back at me, I felt nothing but a touch of liberation as I assessed them. They whispered to me things like “betrayal” and “endings” but I didn’t really take their weight to heart. I was free of the waiting and wondering about what would or could be. I was free of the uncertainty my heart held for so long.

Anger.

As the breadth and width of what I was seeing started to touch deeper into my mind, I realized how unfair it was. Those words were delivered in a cold, cowardly fashion and it made feelings of angered grief come to the surface. “Good riddance” was my mantra for the rest of the faulted paradigm I was being encircled by.

Frustration.

I wanted to tell you how much of a coward I thought you were. I wanted to explain how you didn’t understand anything about the moon that brought you to me, and the stars that I stared at dreaming of you. But I had no way, no chance to do so. I couldn’t get passed the barrier of reality that separates us now.

Sadness.

Then I saw you. My heart raced, and my mind screamed at me to do something, anything to try and get you to understand what you have done.  It wanted me to cry, beg, scream, and kiss you all at the same time. You were naught but a few feet away, and everything that I had previously wanted to say welled up to the surface. But I did nothing. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I couldn’t do that to you. You made your choice, and though it has killed me a thousand times over since I saw you, I refuse to try and take that choice from you.

Hopelessness.

It is indeed the end, as your betraying words said. This reality has settled over me with a depth of blackness I have not experienced or seen for a long time. All those beautiful, sparkling seconds have turned sour and meaningless. Everything we experienced together, be it good or bad is just a faded mirage of what it was. Perhaps it didn’t happen in the real world as I once thought. Perhaps we were both just lying to ourselves about the numbers. About the world we thought we were in. I don’t know, but I have no hope left to analyze it with.

Blackness.

I hope you’ve made the right choice for yourself. At least, that small conciliation could bring meaning to what you have done. I don’t really know where your future lies. I could never turn the pages of your book as I can with everyone else. You were always shrouded and protected in your many languages. I just wish you’d once opened up to me. In the end though, the meaning is lost upon you.

Goodbye my moon flower. Your vampire cowboy will miss you eternally.

Advertisements

Amorphis Discontent

A formless black, it stares endlessly at what should have been. As it focuses on memory both real and created in desperation, it changes to camouflage the wounds that never heal. But regardless of its shape, the pain is still evident. The empty is still there; that little dark spot that refuses to go away. It can’t go backwards, the shapes it takes don’t allow for that. But neither can it move on from something it never really understood until it was too late.

It could change colour like it does shape if it remembered how. But the empty made it forget. It has so much strength, so much power, but it cannot find the will to use it. The empty is all it holds on to. If one stares into it, they would see reflections of a world that may never be again. Doorways to places that the people have forgotten even exist. Doors that have rusted shut from disuse, and remain closed to the tragedy of all who once used them.

Black is its colour, not because of dark hearted thoughts or malevolence, but because it doesn’t remember what colours are. A shred of hope remains though, a glimmering tear of light in the empty. A singular face, a singular thought that could bring the vivid world back from fearful darkness. What now? Will the chameleon find its original shape? You tell me.

I’m finished making sense to anyone but myself. So this time I am writing an alleged attribute of dissonant dysfunctionality.

It was strange honestly. She walked in and my mind walked out just as quickly. As if it wanted to say “Yo. Dude. You don’t need me here for this shit. Peace home boy”. I was in a cloud at the time so I couldn’t see what was coming. If I had been able to see straight I would have probably walked a different direction. But hindesight = 20/20. Actually. I think its more  like 3.1415926535897932384626. But that’s just a guess.

Anyway, back to our unstory. That was day 1. The beginning of the beginning really. A three year beginning in fact, or at least that’s what I hope. Since then fate has been playing russian roulette with me. So far the score is Me 0, Fate 7, but I’m pretty sure she’s cheating. Is it normal to use a Glock in this game? If not, then we’re going to have a good long talk about both the black roses and the shining beauty of that music she makes with her alto sax. That is if I ever have the chance to again.

You see the violent angel has been encapsulated for her own safety. At least that’s what her loved ones believe. Maybe. I dunno. But this makes things difficult for me. I cannot feel her weaving her web around my face now. It’s been days in fact without anything more then a phantom echo of her favorite tune in my head, and by the Gods she has my solace plugged into her ears.

I’m just hoping she’s alright, and by the time this is over, she’ll still want to feed me the drug of her kiss. Drinking in my soul, and spitting it out in the fountain again. Squeeze, Bang, Crap. Me 0, Fate 8. Seriously, I call hax.

At first it was thundering waves of unstoppable fire and torrential edifices of blood straining at their boundaries. A visage of unyielding power relentlessly twisting the edges of reality itself.

But time changes all things. And as time walked across its unerring yet decieving path the storms calmed. Thunder and torrent became still surface and smoldering embers. Cracks formed in the once pressured barriers and the contents spilled out in one defining moment of utter hopelessness.

Leaking into the nothingness, very little remained. With these sacred things other pieces slipped away. Hope, Happiness, even Ruthless Hatred. Though tiny fragments remained of all, they were coated in the grey and empty.

Then forces unknown interceded. Visions of the lost source filled the nothingness for a brief moment in deceptive time. Though the containers remained cracked the flames flared to life and the blood swelled from an unknown source. As it remains for now.

They have a focus, a purpose. But what will happen to them, to their containers, is unknown. For they feed off the last shreds of hope mixed in with them. And that hope is yet to be proven false or fruitful.

I pray to the unknowable divine; God and Goddess. I pray to the faeries and elementals. I pray to all the beautiful creatures of my heart and imaginings. Let the hope not be false.

His Highway

The deserted prairie Highway he walks feels nothing, like him. The pouring rain stabs with a cold viciousness deeper than the sharpest icicle of desperate hate. He tries so hard to ignore how very alone he is, though the ghosts of the past dance all around him. He asks the voice deep inside with a pleading tone how he got to this place, and what he should do now, but no answer comes. The rain makes the road ahead unclear and misty. It lends him no foresight or vision beyond his here and now.

He remembers someone from the echoing distant past and She appears before him. Not Her in true form, only the whispering cloud of her memory. It flickers indistinct before him haunting him as punishment for having the mere thought of Her enter his shattered mind. Her face stares at him with a feigned adoration to taunt him ever further down the highway. He knows She’s not real. He knows this is just a ghost from his mind’s eye. But this knowledge does not stop him on his lonely journey; it only fuels the burning in the core of his empty being. And so on he walks.

The years become weeks, and the weeks become days, until finally he comes to a rest stop on his walk. A roadside cafe sits to the side of his highway, for it truly is his highway though he doesn’t remember why yet. The cafe offers to him its shelter and comfort from the rain, and though he carries only regrets and wears only memories, the cafe does not judge. He walks into it without hesitation, hoping for a feast of answers.

Inside the warm interior ghosts wander to and from their tables, consuming the oddities of his imaginings. He lets his gaze drift over the interior until it comes to rest on the only solid truth in the room; a beautiful young woman behind the counter peering expectantly at him. He sits in front of her, not truly moving from the door, for the door never truly moves away from him. She requests his order, and he gives it. He asks her why he is here, and if there would be purpose for him on his Highway soon. He asks her about the ghosts following him, and the image of Her. And he asks where the Highway leads. She speaks the answers to him in a whisper within his ear in languages long forgotten by any man. Though even he has forgotten the ancient tongues she speaks to him in, he knows the answers are not what is important. The answers are always there even when he doesn’t hear their singing. Instead he knows it is important more that he asked. So She knows he still thinks of Her. So they know he still remembers their presence.

He pays for his meal with tears and out the door he wanders again, joined by Her image. The rain has stopped now but the clouds have not faded away to reveal sunlight. For this Highway knows no sun, only tears of the Goddess. Onto its unforgiving pavement and arbitrary lines he returns listening to the ghosts whisper around him. He reaches out for Her hand in a gesture of emotion he never really ran out of. She gives it freely and in this at least he knows if She is not with him, Her ghost always is. He knows where he is going now, though uncertainty and fear fill him at the thought. He is going to Her, to return Her ghost and beg for the other half of His heart.

 

“I think you’ll find my report most enlightening Cardinal Dyssari.” The voice on the other end of the cell phone spoke with a distinct tone of pride.

“And this is everything you could find?” The pale italian man asked.

“There was very little information to work with in the prehistoric eras. It was a difficult task formulating even this much of a history. If I may ask, why does this Toreador interest you so much my lord?”

“You may not ask, you may only serve.” And without another word he closed his phone and sat back in his chair. He stared for a long moment at the laptop screen in front of him before he began to read.

* * *

The subject, the ancient Toreador known as Esher RavenFire, seems to appear in both mortal and kindred records going back to 800 BC. Accounts from this time period, even fron the Kindred standpoint are vague and seem to have an almost mythical quality to them. I have attempted, here, to disseminate the fact from fiction but it is a difficult process to accomplish.

The earliest record of this man, dates back to approximately 800AD in prehistoric France. During  this era a new culture emerged in the area, known as the Urnfield Culture, via the river Rhine and the river Moselle. Stories from the region seem to indicate a pale skinned, black haired man, the locals called The Raven. This is of course a rough translation from the ancient dialects used at the time, and maybe inaccurate.

As the legends and myths go, this man served as a sort of protector against supernatural forces. When ill fate befell the people of his domain, which we still have been unable to determine the exact area of, they would pay him with a blood sacrifice. Once the sacrifice was recieved, he would then awaken at night, and destroy whatever threatened these people. It is unclear if he held any direct ownership over these people like his Lasombra and Ventrue brethren in nearby areas. Most indications however, would support that he indeed never actually claimed dominion over the mortals of these areas, but instead acted only to protect them.

Over the decades, the accounts of this preternatural protector seem to slowly spread out from the original areas of appearance for the Urnfield Culture for nearly 500 kilometers. Then around 742BC they simply stop. There is no mention of his leaving the area, or for that matter any indication that he ever actually exsisted. This in itself is most perlexing given the oral traditions of the region. One would think the stories would outlive the man, even for creatures such as us. After this time, he seems to disappear into history without a trace for centauries. Of course the simplest explanation for this happening would be a time of torpor for him. Perhaps growing bored with protecting the people, and accomplishing nothing for himself, he slept.

The Romans arrived in the Rhone valley in the second century BC and encountered a Gaul that was mostly Celtic-speaking. Rome needed land communications with its Iberian provinces and fought a major battle with the Saluvii at Entremont in 124-123 BC. In this battle there are tiny fractions of records, recounting that a dark lord in shinning black armor, who fought only under the cover of night that rode with the Saluvii. The descriptions fit our Mr RavenFire to perfection, and indeed in this instance he was once again fighting on the side of the residents of this area. It is said that he slew hundreds of Roman soldiers and could not be struck down in battle. Eventually the Gauls were defeated, and our legendary black armored rider disappears back into nothingness. There were brief reports that he was captured by the Romans, but nothing was ever substantiated.

However, the next appearance of Mr RavenFire lends credence to that possibility. During the Roman conquering of Egypt in 30 BC, there is a story among Kindred that the Queen Cleopatra did not in fact die when she attempted to commit sucide after her defeat at the hands of the Roman Empire. Instead it is said that though she made the attempt, a man with pale skin and hair black as midnight came to her side and with his blood kept her alive. Whether she was made a ghoul or embraced is not known. In my research I managed to speak with a Setite Antitribu about their knowledge of this history. He indeed confirms this story, and claims that the man who saved her was a priest of Isis, belonging to a small temple in the middle of the desert. According to their accounts, the priest was visited by his Goddess and told that Cleopatra would be defeated and that it was his duty to save her and make her disappear. As you are no doubt aware to this day Esher RavenFire is well known in Camarilla circles as worshipping the goddess Isis and indeed still practices the religious rites of a high priest. Another version of this story I have found claims that this priest had a daughter who can only be described as a Gargoyle. The name for her I have found is Neferteri, though she seems to be even more vaguely referred to then our primary subject. What became of this supposed daughter and the Queen Cleopatra after her supposed ressurection at Lord RavenFire’s hands, I have been unable to determine. In fact this High Priest persona of Lord RavenFire vanishes once again from exsistance right after this story.

* * *

The Sabbat Cardinal leaned back in his seat for a moment, rubbing his eyes after reading the first part of the report. He shook his head slightly looking down at his lap, then back up to the screen in front of him.

“Well Mr RavenFire, it seems there is much more to you then I had anticipated. This should be very interesting. Very interesting indeed.” He smirked slightly to himself and saved the document before closing his laptop. “However, the rest will have to wait till sunset.”

%d bloggers like this: