Look the Devil in the Eye 2: Hunger
Dec 9, 2015 17:51:59 GMT -8
Barnaby Cuthbert, Klaus von Klempt, and 1 more like this
Post by Shah-Khohr of Ventrue on Dec 9, 2015 17:51:59 GMT -8
I remember clearly the first moment I felt the Hunger. Not hunger. Hunger is something that everything feels. All livings things are familiar with hunger, and so those of us that are formerly living have some empathy for it. The *Hunger*, on the other hand, is something else entirely.
Hunger ends when a creature is satiated. Hunger ends when matters more pressing are presented. Hunger ends when sickness finds you, or work becomes consuming. The Hunger does none of these things. The Hunger is present at all times, in all moments. It is a shared passenger in this experience we ‘live’. It is a constant presence, reminding us that we aren’t what we pretend to be.
I can feel it even now, gnawing inside me. Not at my belly where humans feel it; those organs serve little purpose now. Now the Hunger is everywhere. A dull ache like arthritis. A sharp stabbing like a pulled muscle. The distant yearning of heartache. All these things that once held meaning and individual response are replaced with the Hunger.
My room is littered with whimpering girls in various states of exhaustion. This batch is blonde, but that is incidental. They were gifts from my new friends, recently arrived from the Ukraine. Those two are sisters, awkwardly laying apart from each other, not quite daring to make eye contact. Those two are also sisters, but clinging to one another and crying. These events echo the shame and harm of their childhood. They are the key to a long and powerful future, these shattered mortals. Each button is meticulously slotted into the sewn loop as I stare into the mirror, haunted by only a shadow of remorse. The Hunger is quieter, which allows other things to exist. Remorse and shame are just such things that can exist while it is soft. And yet, even after a veritable buffet, the Hunger is still present. I could squeeze every drop from these pour creatures and the Hunger would still be this soft whisper. That is the wisdom of age for us; the understanding that all the blood in the world won’t stop the yearning for it. I empathize with those wretched souls that frequent AA meetings, or drug abuse victims looking for the strength to live without their vices. It’s said that addiction is never defeated, just temporarily avoided. An addict is always an addict, they just might be clean for the moment. Like a cancer, you’re never ‘healthy’, just in ‘remission’.
Another button joins its fellows.
Those of my Clan are doubly cursed. I would take the rage of the Brujah or the twisted visage of the Nosferatu without question if it meant trading this special quirk of Caine. Certainly, on the surface the Ventrue seem to have skirted the worst of the Clans’ condemnations. They are selective eaters. When put in such simple terms, one can easily see the disdain the other Clans have for our plight. And in honesty, we don’t wish them to know how truly vulnerable we are.
Soon I will leave this room. I will walk down the hall of this decrepit apartment. I will descend the stairs to the street. I will walk to a car. All that time, I will be surrounded by the teaming mass of humanity. The crushing, omniscient organism that we feed on. Of the people I pass, one in a hundred will perhaps quench my thirst. Some, I know will bring me no respite, regardless of how heavily I may need them. Like a sailor stranded on the ocean, I will be surrounded by the element I need to live, and yet partaking will surely kill me. A most sad tale, no? These girls will remember only terror and a man with the devil living in his eyes. Their terror will be a pale shade of my own wretched self, devil or no.
In times of prosperity, like now, we of the Ventrue are trained from a very young age to build a network of humans that will suit our needs. Often times we have many such networks. Always keep our enemies questioning what it is that we survive on. Is it blondes? The wealthy? Servants? Veterans of war? Speckle your herd with false threads that your hunters may follow. Grow your mortal garden as widely as possible. Never let those that would cast you down know your most dark secret.
I lived in Prague once, many centuries ago. I was new to the blood then, and the War was nearing its fevered height. My sire and I had vastly different tastes. He could drink only from warriors. I had a different flavor. Our enemies had watched and followed. They had marked the houses that we visited. While they never approached us directly (my sire was… is… fearsome), they knew where we drew our vitae from. I know not who had watched us or for how long. I know only that one day, several accidents happened across the length of the city. I should be grateful that our enemies were too hurried to employ plague or some other ailment that might have lingered in the blood. Instead, we found ourselves stranded without a supply line, surrounded by humans that couldn’t fit either of our needs. The sea was too salty to support our lives. Then the fires came. We surely would have died if a small branch of some Polish military force hadn’t passed near the edge of the city. The group was full of warriors, which suited my sire’s needs. And those that followed after could suit mine.
We retreated, but we lived. And a valuable lesson was learned that night. Always be hunting. Never be content with the size of your Herd. The Hunger is a curse that we all struggle with, but the others will never know just how vicious it bites.
Hunger ends when a creature is satiated. Hunger ends when matters more pressing are presented. Hunger ends when sickness finds you, or work becomes consuming. The Hunger does none of these things. The Hunger is present at all times, in all moments. It is a shared passenger in this experience we ‘live’. It is a constant presence, reminding us that we aren’t what we pretend to be.
I can feel it even now, gnawing inside me. Not at my belly where humans feel it; those organs serve little purpose now. Now the Hunger is everywhere. A dull ache like arthritis. A sharp stabbing like a pulled muscle. The distant yearning of heartache. All these things that once held meaning and individual response are replaced with the Hunger.
My room is littered with whimpering girls in various states of exhaustion. This batch is blonde, but that is incidental. They were gifts from my new friends, recently arrived from the Ukraine. Those two are sisters, awkwardly laying apart from each other, not quite daring to make eye contact. Those two are also sisters, but clinging to one another and crying. These events echo the shame and harm of their childhood. They are the key to a long and powerful future, these shattered mortals. Each button is meticulously slotted into the sewn loop as I stare into the mirror, haunted by only a shadow of remorse. The Hunger is quieter, which allows other things to exist. Remorse and shame are just such things that can exist while it is soft. And yet, even after a veritable buffet, the Hunger is still present. I could squeeze every drop from these pour creatures and the Hunger would still be this soft whisper. That is the wisdom of age for us; the understanding that all the blood in the world won’t stop the yearning for it. I empathize with those wretched souls that frequent AA meetings, or drug abuse victims looking for the strength to live without their vices. It’s said that addiction is never defeated, just temporarily avoided. An addict is always an addict, they just might be clean for the moment. Like a cancer, you’re never ‘healthy’, just in ‘remission’.
Another button joins its fellows.
Those of my Clan are doubly cursed. I would take the rage of the Brujah or the twisted visage of the Nosferatu without question if it meant trading this special quirk of Caine. Certainly, on the surface the Ventrue seem to have skirted the worst of the Clans’ condemnations. They are selective eaters. When put in such simple terms, one can easily see the disdain the other Clans have for our plight. And in honesty, we don’t wish them to know how truly vulnerable we are.
Soon I will leave this room. I will walk down the hall of this decrepit apartment. I will descend the stairs to the street. I will walk to a car. All that time, I will be surrounded by the teaming mass of humanity. The crushing, omniscient organism that we feed on. Of the people I pass, one in a hundred will perhaps quench my thirst. Some, I know will bring me no respite, regardless of how heavily I may need them. Like a sailor stranded on the ocean, I will be surrounded by the element I need to live, and yet partaking will surely kill me. A most sad tale, no? These girls will remember only terror and a man with the devil living in his eyes. Their terror will be a pale shade of my own wretched self, devil or no.
In times of prosperity, like now, we of the Ventrue are trained from a very young age to build a network of humans that will suit our needs. Often times we have many such networks. Always keep our enemies questioning what it is that we survive on. Is it blondes? The wealthy? Servants? Veterans of war? Speckle your herd with false threads that your hunters may follow. Grow your mortal garden as widely as possible. Never let those that would cast you down know your most dark secret.
I lived in Prague once, many centuries ago. I was new to the blood then, and the War was nearing its fevered height. My sire and I had vastly different tastes. He could drink only from warriors. I had a different flavor. Our enemies had watched and followed. They had marked the houses that we visited. While they never approached us directly (my sire was… is… fearsome), they knew where we drew our vitae from. I know not who had watched us or for how long. I know only that one day, several accidents happened across the length of the city. I should be grateful that our enemies were too hurried to employ plague or some other ailment that might have lingered in the blood. Instead, we found ourselves stranded without a supply line, surrounded by humans that couldn’t fit either of our needs. The sea was too salty to support our lives. Then the fires came. We surely would have died if a small branch of some Polish military force hadn’t passed near the edge of the city. The group was full of warriors, which suited my sire’s needs. And those that followed after could suit mine.
We retreated, but we lived. And a valuable lesson was learned that night. Always be hunting. Never be content with the size of your Herd. The Hunger is a curse that we all struggle with, but the others will never know just how vicious it bites.