Look the Devil in the Eye 3: Stradivari
Dec 14, 2015 12:06:41 GMT -8
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Post by Shah-Khohr of Ventrue on Dec 14, 2015 12:06:41 GMT -8
I remember the feel of Italy throughout the ages. My sire was Italian, you know. Of course you know; he rarely let anyone forget. A short and swarthy fellow, he hailed from the South where customs ran more… terse. I always favored the North. Had I know the wines of Lombardy in life, I surely would have migrated from my chilly home to the lush countryside there. Italy had known a century of peace following one of the most blood civil conflicts in their history. This respite had heightened their artistic renewal… but was leading to stagnation. It wouldn’t see the heights it had seen under Leonardo, but with such a high water mark even the brilliant seem pale.
For my part, I had found position within the Camarilla as a warrior. That was, after all, what my lineage was known for, and I had a fair hand with a blade though I lacked the stomach for the modern approach to shy away from total war. I had been given a respite from duties after a century of dedication, and had elected to tour the homelands of my ancestors. That is to say my Kindred ancestors; my mortal ancestry was either neck deep in Tzar pogroms or slaving in the Promised Land discovering (again) how convincing a liar God had proven to be. Italy was fair, though not the unified state we know now. Milan and Naples and Rome and all the great cities were states to themselves and while the language was similar, it wasn’t universal. Still, a charming place.
Milan had proven to be a welcoming city, and when I left I did so under protest. For those of my educated fellows, it may come as some surprise that a member of the Tower could walk the Italian country-side without fear. That would be because I couldn’t. Part of the thrill of touring the Italian country was how little of it wished me there. Between the Lasombra and the Giovanni, I was on the menu where-ever I went.
Cremona was a small city then. Come to think on it, it remains a small city. It was tucked away in the Lombardy countryside, a hidden jewel that most Kindred had come to ignore. There was a potent Lord there, but few enforcers and so I was able to find respite in the Jewish ghetto with a welcoming family. While seeking understanding one night as they took their final meal of the day, they spoke of a luthier who dwelled not far from their quarter. He was a master beyond comparison, and the wood cried at his caress. Having always suffered from a weakness for the arts, I crept through the city to find his shop and see if the spectacle lived up to the legend.
The windows should have been black and shuttered when I approached, for the sun had set hours before. Instead, I could see candles and oil lamps lighting the room and the long-held note acted as a siren call to lure me in. Only the wealthy could truly afford to burn candles for longer than an hour or so. To have a full shop lit as if it was day was a testament to the owner’s high prices. I peered inside and saw an old man and a young working side by side. Certainly, one was the owner and the other the apprentice, though they bore a striking resemblance. For an hour or more I sat and watched as the two worked tools on wood. They turned it and twisted it and did all manner of things to the seemingly pliant material. I had always been an artist with flesh, but to witness these two was to stand in the true presence of genius. After a time, the older clapped the younger on the back and went up to bed. The younger stayed in the shop for another time, but instead of working his calloused hands on the lathe, he worked them on the strings.
The notes were drawn from the wood as poetry leaves a bard. Each was slow and careful and heart wrenching. I didn’t know the tune, and as I consider this tale, I still don’t, but it brought me to tears watching the youth work bow and finger. It caused reflection and hatred and a deep self-loathing within my breast. I cowered next to the building and stumbled down the alley, but the song followed me as I tried to escape. It brought to mind the image of young lovers dying tragically, or spring leading directly to winter. The song was tragic and low, slow and thoughtful, inescapable as an avalanche. I found my way back to the ghetto, but the music followed. When I rocked myself gently to sleep, shoved between pickling barrels of Atlantic fish in the basement of the home I’d stolen, I thought only of the youth with the violin crying in his hands. Such beauty had to be preserved.
It took only a few nights to arrange what was needed. I commissioned a coffin for travel and a carriage to carry it. We would leave by cover of night, out the Western gate and make for Paris. The youth could find appreciation there. It wouldn’t hurt that my sire and grandsire would be near as well. I had the carriage and coffin painted with a tar the locals made from a birch tree. It smelled unpleasant but was resistant to burning and kept out the light sufficiently. I was still only passable with bending the minds of mortals, so I reinforced the commands with blood before setting off to my task.
The shop was still well lit when I returned. The old man and the young were there once more, though I caught the retreating backs of two others. Apparently this old fellow either had many sons or many apprentices. I sat and waited, watching the youth and wondering what the Blood would make of him. He was tall for his age and country, taller than the old man and had to stoop to make use of most of the equipment. He was well built, though not overly muscled. I could see even from a distance the rough edges of his hands, though his eyes carried a softness born to those who had never truly known hardship. Again I waited, and again they worked deep into the night. When the old finally retreated for the evening, I listened as they young played a different tune. I counted. I counted until I had reached a number so high that I knew the old fellow must be slumbering in his rooms above with his candles snuffed. When the youth finally put down the instrument to leave for his portion of the home to sleep, I moved towards the door.
It is funny how I can’t tell you what tune was played, but I can tell you precisely the texture of the cold metal handle as it lifted slowly in my hand. The way the wood grated against itself as the bar lifted and the portal was liberated. The youth turned with a questioning eye, his mouth opened to speak some manner of protest.
“Sit and be silent,” I ordered in a soft tone and was pleased to see his confused face nod and settle onto a stool barely tall enough to allow his knees to drop correctly. The door was closed behind us, and I settled across from him. “My name is Shah-Khohr. I have come to kill you.”
I could see emotion war in the youth and I thought back to the others I had brought the gift to, and to my own embrace. My sire had never said a word to me before the kill. He told me after the fact that service as a ghoul often broke the minds in a manner he found distasteful. He bred warriors, and warriors shouldn’t be gelded.
“Do not be troubled,” I said, wishing my Italian was better. “I will give you something to let you live once more. The change will be unpleasant, but you will be stronger for it.”
The youth was still held by my words and I walks around him, settling my hands on his shoulders.
“You’re not a flavor I can enjoy,” he says. “Which will make your passing harder. Instead of bliss, you will feel…”
The blade made a quiet whisper as I dragged it across his throat. I was practiced at this; I had bled hundreds of animals in my mortal years, and hundreds more since. The cut was precise and quick. I’m certain he felt little pain, though it did break my hold of him. He leapt from his seat and careened about the room. He tumbled, hand pressed to the bubbled wound that was his throat. The finger did little to dam his life, and it was only a few minutes before he stumbled and slumped against the wall, looking up at me with questioning eyes. I was empathetic to his plight, and my heart wept for him in a manner he would never truly appreciate.
“Your blood must be purged,” I told him softly, nimbly fastening rope around his ankles before tossing the other end into the rafters. I pulled as he struggled and he left the ground with ease. I pulled until he swayed in the workshop, blood splattering to the floor, wasted. “Now. We must count. Purge the mortal from you to be replaced with something else. Your heart will do most of the work, but your arms, keep them up. No, up.”
I sighed and lifted his wrist up to rest by his side. Above the heart, that was key. And the life drained from him. And the light faded from his eyes. And there, in the cold workshop of his mortal youth, his fragile flame was extinguished.
It is important to count in such times. It is a delicate balance when you embrace one you can’t feed from. So… impersonal. To this day, I believe the creature that would be made here was so violent because I wasn’t able to birth him in a gentler manner. All of my childer that died without the Kiss proved to be monsters. A topic for another time, perhaps.
I released his arms, which hit the stone with a soft thud. My wrist was cut and the black vitae welled to the surface. I had to lift his head to cradle in my lap so that the vile curse would find its way past his throat. For a long moment there as nothing, and I worried that I had counted too long. Then his eyes flew open and he started to thrash in my arms. Stepping away quickly, I lowered him to the floor and watched as he licked his own life from the cold stone. He seemed unsatisfied. I could hardly blame him. In a few moments the workshop was turned about as each bit of his own blood was reclaimed. I marveled at my new childe’s efficiency before finally untying his ankles.
“Come,” I said. “We must leave. Take a single item from this shop to remember from where you came, and then we depart for Paris. We are in the lands of the enemy and they will doubly hunt us for this slight.”
The youth was confused and on the verge of tears. I can remember clearly the red glint of tears in his eyes, the first and last time I saw such feelings from him. He clutched a pristine instrument to his chest and stumbled after me into the cold night. It would be a long, cold journey to the French countryside. It was on that trip I told him of his death and his debt. In Paris, he was hailed as a prodigy, at least until my sire took him from my Agoge and into his own.
A tale for another time, perhaps.
For my part, I had found position within the Camarilla as a warrior. That was, after all, what my lineage was known for, and I had a fair hand with a blade though I lacked the stomach for the modern approach to shy away from total war. I had been given a respite from duties after a century of dedication, and had elected to tour the homelands of my ancestors. That is to say my Kindred ancestors; my mortal ancestry was either neck deep in Tzar pogroms or slaving in the Promised Land discovering (again) how convincing a liar God had proven to be. Italy was fair, though not the unified state we know now. Milan and Naples and Rome and all the great cities were states to themselves and while the language was similar, it wasn’t universal. Still, a charming place.
Milan had proven to be a welcoming city, and when I left I did so under protest. For those of my educated fellows, it may come as some surprise that a member of the Tower could walk the Italian country-side without fear. That would be because I couldn’t. Part of the thrill of touring the Italian country was how little of it wished me there. Between the Lasombra and the Giovanni, I was on the menu where-ever I went.
Cremona was a small city then. Come to think on it, it remains a small city. It was tucked away in the Lombardy countryside, a hidden jewel that most Kindred had come to ignore. There was a potent Lord there, but few enforcers and so I was able to find respite in the Jewish ghetto with a welcoming family. While seeking understanding one night as they took their final meal of the day, they spoke of a luthier who dwelled not far from their quarter. He was a master beyond comparison, and the wood cried at his caress. Having always suffered from a weakness for the arts, I crept through the city to find his shop and see if the spectacle lived up to the legend.
The windows should have been black and shuttered when I approached, for the sun had set hours before. Instead, I could see candles and oil lamps lighting the room and the long-held note acted as a siren call to lure me in. Only the wealthy could truly afford to burn candles for longer than an hour or so. To have a full shop lit as if it was day was a testament to the owner’s high prices. I peered inside and saw an old man and a young working side by side. Certainly, one was the owner and the other the apprentice, though they bore a striking resemblance. For an hour or more I sat and watched as the two worked tools on wood. They turned it and twisted it and did all manner of things to the seemingly pliant material. I had always been an artist with flesh, but to witness these two was to stand in the true presence of genius. After a time, the older clapped the younger on the back and went up to bed. The younger stayed in the shop for another time, but instead of working his calloused hands on the lathe, he worked them on the strings.
The notes were drawn from the wood as poetry leaves a bard. Each was slow and careful and heart wrenching. I didn’t know the tune, and as I consider this tale, I still don’t, but it brought me to tears watching the youth work bow and finger. It caused reflection and hatred and a deep self-loathing within my breast. I cowered next to the building and stumbled down the alley, but the song followed me as I tried to escape. It brought to mind the image of young lovers dying tragically, or spring leading directly to winter. The song was tragic and low, slow and thoughtful, inescapable as an avalanche. I found my way back to the ghetto, but the music followed. When I rocked myself gently to sleep, shoved between pickling barrels of Atlantic fish in the basement of the home I’d stolen, I thought only of the youth with the violin crying in his hands. Such beauty had to be preserved.
It took only a few nights to arrange what was needed. I commissioned a coffin for travel and a carriage to carry it. We would leave by cover of night, out the Western gate and make for Paris. The youth could find appreciation there. It wouldn’t hurt that my sire and grandsire would be near as well. I had the carriage and coffin painted with a tar the locals made from a birch tree. It smelled unpleasant but was resistant to burning and kept out the light sufficiently. I was still only passable with bending the minds of mortals, so I reinforced the commands with blood before setting off to my task.
The shop was still well lit when I returned. The old man and the young were there once more, though I caught the retreating backs of two others. Apparently this old fellow either had many sons or many apprentices. I sat and waited, watching the youth and wondering what the Blood would make of him. He was tall for his age and country, taller than the old man and had to stoop to make use of most of the equipment. He was well built, though not overly muscled. I could see even from a distance the rough edges of his hands, though his eyes carried a softness born to those who had never truly known hardship. Again I waited, and again they worked deep into the night. When the old finally retreated for the evening, I listened as they young played a different tune. I counted. I counted until I had reached a number so high that I knew the old fellow must be slumbering in his rooms above with his candles snuffed. When the youth finally put down the instrument to leave for his portion of the home to sleep, I moved towards the door.
It is funny how I can’t tell you what tune was played, but I can tell you precisely the texture of the cold metal handle as it lifted slowly in my hand. The way the wood grated against itself as the bar lifted and the portal was liberated. The youth turned with a questioning eye, his mouth opened to speak some manner of protest.
“Sit and be silent,” I ordered in a soft tone and was pleased to see his confused face nod and settle onto a stool barely tall enough to allow his knees to drop correctly. The door was closed behind us, and I settled across from him. “My name is Shah-Khohr. I have come to kill you.”
I could see emotion war in the youth and I thought back to the others I had brought the gift to, and to my own embrace. My sire had never said a word to me before the kill. He told me after the fact that service as a ghoul often broke the minds in a manner he found distasteful. He bred warriors, and warriors shouldn’t be gelded.
“Do not be troubled,” I said, wishing my Italian was better. “I will give you something to let you live once more. The change will be unpleasant, but you will be stronger for it.”
The youth was still held by my words and I walks around him, settling my hands on his shoulders.
“You’re not a flavor I can enjoy,” he says. “Which will make your passing harder. Instead of bliss, you will feel…”
The blade made a quiet whisper as I dragged it across his throat. I was practiced at this; I had bled hundreds of animals in my mortal years, and hundreds more since. The cut was precise and quick. I’m certain he felt little pain, though it did break my hold of him. He leapt from his seat and careened about the room. He tumbled, hand pressed to the bubbled wound that was his throat. The finger did little to dam his life, and it was only a few minutes before he stumbled and slumped against the wall, looking up at me with questioning eyes. I was empathetic to his plight, and my heart wept for him in a manner he would never truly appreciate.
“Your blood must be purged,” I told him softly, nimbly fastening rope around his ankles before tossing the other end into the rafters. I pulled as he struggled and he left the ground with ease. I pulled until he swayed in the workshop, blood splattering to the floor, wasted. “Now. We must count. Purge the mortal from you to be replaced with something else. Your heart will do most of the work, but your arms, keep them up. No, up.”
I sighed and lifted his wrist up to rest by his side. Above the heart, that was key. And the life drained from him. And the light faded from his eyes. And there, in the cold workshop of his mortal youth, his fragile flame was extinguished.
It is important to count in such times. It is a delicate balance when you embrace one you can’t feed from. So… impersonal. To this day, I believe the creature that would be made here was so violent because I wasn’t able to birth him in a gentler manner. All of my childer that died without the Kiss proved to be monsters. A topic for another time, perhaps.
I released his arms, which hit the stone with a soft thud. My wrist was cut and the black vitae welled to the surface. I had to lift his head to cradle in my lap so that the vile curse would find its way past his throat. For a long moment there as nothing, and I worried that I had counted too long. Then his eyes flew open and he started to thrash in my arms. Stepping away quickly, I lowered him to the floor and watched as he licked his own life from the cold stone. He seemed unsatisfied. I could hardly blame him. In a few moments the workshop was turned about as each bit of his own blood was reclaimed. I marveled at my new childe’s efficiency before finally untying his ankles.
“Come,” I said. “We must leave. Take a single item from this shop to remember from where you came, and then we depart for Paris. We are in the lands of the enemy and they will doubly hunt us for this slight.”
The youth was confused and on the verge of tears. I can remember clearly the red glint of tears in his eyes, the first and last time I saw such feelings from him. He clutched a pristine instrument to his chest and stumbled after me into the cold night. It would be a long, cold journey to the French countryside. It was on that trip I told him of his death and his debt. In Paris, he was hailed as a prodigy, at least until my sire took him from my Agoge and into his own.
A tale for another time, perhaps.