Post by Shah-Khohr of Ventrue on Nov 8, 2013 19:10:35 GMT -8
The lab was hot and noisy. Gadgets whirled and spun, mixing this sample with that sample. Recording devices printed their findings in dot matrix, laser printers and enchanted pens. The hive of activity centered around a vial of nearly empty blood so rich as to be black. That blood had cost him dearly, of that there was no mistake. Somewhere in this wide world an elder Fiend thrashed around in torment that some filthy usurper had managed to get his hands on the barest measure of its essence. Essence written with the scientific language of the creature life and the mystical one with its energy. Such an item could be used in half a dozen ways to bend nature to the usurper's will and reach across the world to smite the mighty creature. Instead, this sample was being broken and molested, and the fruits it held would be used to damage the entire clan of the Fiends.
The usurper cackles quietly through teeth gritted while clenching down on a cigarette. So close. The formula was working; the wriggling bits of genetic information were being pinned down like butterflies to a cork-board by a socially awkward teen. The pins in this case were mighty pillars of mystical knowledge, the likes of which Tzimisce itself hadn't fathomed of when it birthed this monstrosity. Throughout the lab, enslaved spirits made minute corrections to the process and mortals shackled with bonds far more potent than steel scurried about the equipment feeding this one or relieving that one.
Ring-ring says something angry and hard sitting on the table next to the screen of the all consuming project. The usurper eyes the thing as one might an uninvited snake at a picnic.
"What?" he asks irritably, trying to remember what the object was.
Ring-ring it says again as if a method of explaining itself for the crude violation of his haven.
The usurper looks at the hard thing and picks it up. This was advanced auspex for this age of ignorance. Crude and vulgar, but cheap now, and accessible without magic. He hated this age of wonders.
"Go for Ricky?" he says cautiously. Had the elder found its missing vitae? Had the Tremere hierarchy figured out what he was about and come to steal his findings and sully his lab? Had Seattle decided to finally unleash their unclean hounds to come crashing into his small piece of sanity? Had the world finally moved on without him?
"Hey, it's Vandal. Um... we won," he says. The words were clear, but the emotion was conflicted.
"Oh?" the usurper asks trying to remember who had been fighting whom.
"Yeah," he said sounding heavy. "Luthias took a hit though. Don't think he's getting up anytime soon. What's the play?"
The usurper was silent for a moment pondering the revelation. He was ambivalent to Luthias. On the one hand, the warrior had given him a thaumaturgical library greater than any he had seen in all his centuries of unlife. But on the other he had destroyed Brunhilde, declared himself Anarch and him his Lord. The scales had been imbalanced to the warrior's favor, then tipped back to something reasonable, but were now approaching unacceptable once more.
"Chief?" he said. It had to be Vandal, the usurper decided. Yes, Vandal. "What's the play?"
"Bring him here. I'll have a gurney waiting in the garage elevator. Strap him in and I'll stitch him up in the lab," he said, still weighing the situation.
"You got it," the voice said and hung up. The plastic box was silent. The usurper set it down before turning back to the computer screen. The calculations were nearly done. Only a few hours now. Just a few hours and the greatest secret of the once mighty Fiends would be laid bare before him.
Ring-ring the box shouted, far too soon for it to be another of the Anarch warriors returning from the field. The usurper shot it a look of death and nearly shot it in truth. In the end, he would not risk the potential damage to his equipment so he placed it to his ear once more.
"Go for Ricky," he says, waves of annoyance radiating from him.
"Baron Richter, it is Hamza," says a crisp, precise voice. Richter ponders a moment before calling the face of the man to memory.
"Oh. Hey. What's up?" the usurper asks, still annoyed.
"Samuel Lechley was injured in the battle," he says. Again, a moment for the lust filled brain to summon the image of Lechley. A warrior. Competent. Zealous. They had worked on more than a few projects in L.A. Yes. A potential problem who would certainly come to judge him once this coveted revelation came to light. Once his experiments were laid bare. Once the world felt him close his fingers about the enemy. Yes.
"I'm sorry to hear that. Look, I'm really busy here..." he says attempting to wriggle out of this conversation.
"Samuel Lechley has requested I bring him to you. He says you have mastery of something called 'Biothaumaturgy'. He is under the impression that you can heal him and he is willing to compensate you for your time," he says. Clearly, this was one merc talking to another. That was all the usurper was now, after all, right? A hired wand?
The usurper sighs, "Yeah, sure, bring him by. I'll wrap up here and meet you in the lobby."
"We are already here," he says.
"Ah. Fine," he says more than a little annoyed. He hangs up the phone and looks to the computer. "Daedalus, keep this cocksucker computing. I want this shit done by sunset."
True to his word, the Assamite was waiting outside with the body of his fallen comrade. The usurper clicks the button and the door slowly starts spinning.
"Hey," he offers as way of greeting. The dark skinned warrior bows at the waist. "Drop his ass here and strap him down." Annoyance was rich in the usurpers voice. The warrior complied. The usurper pulls a canvas sack over the body's head with a sigh.
"Tremere secrets. You understand," he says.
"He doesn't want that," the warrior comments. The usurper just shrugs and starts to wheel him off.
"Like I give a shit. This'll take awhile; have a seat," he says and clicks a button on the service elevator.
"He requests I accompany him," the warrior says. The usurper rolls his eyes.
"Whatever, just hurry the fuck up. I'm in the middle of shit, ok?"
They enter the elevator and drop to the first level of the basement. Not the labs; the wards would have kept them out. No, this was the guest suites and one of the libraries (also hiding behind wards and security). The usurper wheels them into the middle of the room and turns to regard the warrior. He sighs softly again and pulls a dagger from the depths of his jacket, dark mystical flames leaping from the ancient weapon almost playfully.
The warrior lofts a brow and draws his own sword. The light catches the edge, which is not burning, the usurper notes.
"This is for Ioseph, cocksucker," the usurper says and plunges the dagger down on the helpless figure. In the same instant, the warrior's sword connects heavily with the usurper's shoulder, though finds no purchase. A fragment of the usurper's mind chants Hermetic words and the body dissolves to reappear a dozen steps away safely within one of the numerous wards about the place.
The warrior raises the blade and charges towards the usurper shouting a battle-cry that should have shaken even the heartiest of warriors. The usurper was annoyed.
"Stop," he says and holds up a hand. The warrior's feet stop with crisp accuracy. "Sheath your sword. You will not remember this happening. When you came here, you found the body of Samuel Lechley in your car as ash already. You tested the scene for mystical residue, which you found, implying that there was some sort of curse worked by the Red Lister to slay his enemies even beyond his death. You investigated the area with great pains and consideration, and all evidence led to that conclusion. Collect your colleague's ashes, leave his equipment, and see yourself out."
The warrior nods slowly before turning and collecting the ashes of the once mighty Lechley and turning to go. The usurper watches him go before going himself further into the basement. By now the heavily injured body of Luthias had arrived and was waiting for him. The usurper wheels the gurney slowly through the halls to a room empty of adornment or furnishing. He locks the wheels and regards his guest/hostage.
"This armor will get in the way," he says softly to the helpless relation. "Let me help you."
Carefully, and with no small amount of reverence, the usurper pulls the weapons and defenses from his cousin. It makes a small pile on the floor; weapons and armor and mystically charged items. The body of Luthias was thickly muscled and scarred and lacking symmetry.
"We will get you good as new," the usurper says, climbing atop the gurney and forcing his fingers gently into the flesh of the helpless Tremere. He pulls and smooths and lifts the muscles one by one until they show the white bones beneath. He twists and pulls them aside as well until the still, atrophied heart of the mighty warrior comes into view. The usurper takes a small wooden splinter, smaller than a toothpick, and forces it into the heart. His cousin didn't even make a sound at the subtle betrayal. "Maybe next year."
The flesh is perfectly soothed back into place. To any looking, he might just be laying in torpor. Wards are laid down about the room, one after another. Wards to hide observation. Wards to prevent entry. Wards to prevent leaving. The room was as secure as it could be before the usurper, standing at the doorway turns to leave.
"I do apologize for this," he says softly to the cousin that cannot hear. "You are just... reckless. You have caused strife and killed my brothers. You have torn at my sanctity while trying to build it. And all the while you break the one rule that must be observed; I must be unseen by the Pyramid. You are unable to do that, I think. You will never know what the life of an Anarch is, only the life of Luthias. A very wise man told me once that when a man stopped seeing that he could be wrong, he was no longer worth speaking too. Sleep well."
The lights are turned off and the door is closed, bolted and sealed.
His work bubbled on during his absence. Humans, spirits and ghouls toiled over the equipment and the blood spattered and boiled. As he settled back into station he noticed a small flickering on the screen flashing the word 'Compiled'. Unneeded breath caught in his throat and he clicked the icon. After a second a beautiful equation rolled across the screen. It was glorious and perfect. The very series of numbers that would enslave this new life-form to his will. There are times, at a moment of epiphany when the artist says 'It was all so simple'. This was not such a time. Never in a hundred lifetimes would it have occurred to the usurper on how to create such a thing, such was it's glory. And now it was his.
He looked up to see the workers of his lab staring at him. He realized that he was laughing. Great, loud bouts of laughter erupting from him with complete abandon. And he simply didn't care. Not at all. Not a little. It was done, his key to the enemy, and he felt for the first time in god only knew how long.
"Process that formula," he directs the small owl. "Send it to the manufacturing station."
We need a test subject, dumbass; and I'm way too pretty. the small owl glares at him, feathers ruffling.
"We have one," he says, tossing his clothing aside as he scrambled to the station. "Me."
The owl just regarded him like he was mad. Which, in honesty, he was. Than it shruged and told the computers to synthesize a small sample of the formula. Again the machines spun and whirled and before long a clear bluish liquid dripped down from one of the glass apparatus into a vial.
"To success," the usurper says and toasts the room before kicking the fluid back and promptly falling unconscious.
Something chirping woke him years later. He felt heavy. His skin itched. His bones itched. The unnecessary bits of his innards itched. Parts of him weren't right. Parts of him were so much... righter. When he drew in breath, it felt as if the whole of him breathed. He was the same, but different; terribly different. He pulled himself to his feet to see the security lights flashing the presence of visitors.
The lab assistants had gone to bed. The ghouls had locked themselves in their rooms. The spirits cowered and watched him from their corners. He blinked slowly.
"Who's at the door," he asked, his voice hoarse and his mouth raw.
Someone named Giles and a woman, the knowledgeable owl said. Shall I turn them away?
The usurper barked a laugh. "If only we could."
He pulls a lab-coat on and staggers towards the door. When they came into view, waiting in his lobby beyond his first measures of security as if to say they could do as they wished, he offered them each a smile. Giles looked bored. The childe of Meerlinda looked annoyed.
"We come with a message," said the woman. "From Meerlinda."
"May her name be forever written amongst the stars," the usurper muttered.
"She knows that you have the one called Luthias in your care. She also knows you have not healed him as was expected. Very good; she is pleased. You should know that he has been declared Rogue by the council," she says looking somewhat smug.
"Rogue," the usurper said, rolling the word in his mouth. Shit. The one word every Tremere dreaded seeing before their own. He had drawn political pressure down, the eyes of the Camarilla AND been declared rogue. Great.
"She also says," said the greasy sounding Aster. "That one should never neglect an opportunity for one to improve their generation."
The usurper nods. That sounded nothing like Meerlinda, actually, but would these guys lie to him?
"We are to leave here with him," she said again. "And we have been authorized to release to you the books you requested if the entirety of his ashes are imparted to us."
The usurper nods again, slowly. There wasn't a way out of this. Had he time, he could build a double. Enchant ashes to read as him. Filter blood into another or give Luthias a new Name. But there was no time.
They regarded him impatiently.
He nodded and turned to leave, somewhere between deliriously victorious and abjectly defeated. He walked to the elevator and then through his lab in silence. He unsealed the door and entered the room of his former superior and current subordinate. There was no time. But truthfully, had there been time, would this scenario play out any differently? The world was different, he could feel it. The life within him, now enslaved to serve the usurper rather than its maker was ticking and stirring and grumbling.
Stagnation is death it whispered in the chorus voice sounding equal parts pained and pleasured. To evolve, you must put aside these nagging troubles of humans. To evolve, you must be the greatest predator...
"I guess we had much less than a year," he says softly, stroking the fellow's face. "I do apologize for this; a guest should never be treated so poorly."
The usurper lowered his lips to the throat of the warrior. His fangs slid through the flesh with ease. The cool, delicious blood was pulled to him. Without a heart to beat and push the victim's blood, the process was a struggle. A terrible struggle. Not unexpected, but awe inspiring and horrifying nonetheless.
It is in the nature of an usurper to usurp after all.
The usurper cackles quietly through teeth gritted while clenching down on a cigarette. So close. The formula was working; the wriggling bits of genetic information were being pinned down like butterflies to a cork-board by a socially awkward teen. The pins in this case were mighty pillars of mystical knowledge, the likes of which Tzimisce itself hadn't fathomed of when it birthed this monstrosity. Throughout the lab, enslaved spirits made minute corrections to the process and mortals shackled with bonds far more potent than steel scurried about the equipment feeding this one or relieving that one.
Ring-ring says something angry and hard sitting on the table next to the screen of the all consuming project. The usurper eyes the thing as one might an uninvited snake at a picnic.
"What?" he asks irritably, trying to remember what the object was.
Ring-ring it says again as if a method of explaining itself for the crude violation of his haven.
The usurper looks at the hard thing and picks it up. This was advanced auspex for this age of ignorance. Crude and vulgar, but cheap now, and accessible without magic. He hated this age of wonders.
"Go for Ricky?" he says cautiously. Had the elder found its missing vitae? Had the Tremere hierarchy figured out what he was about and come to steal his findings and sully his lab? Had Seattle decided to finally unleash their unclean hounds to come crashing into his small piece of sanity? Had the world finally moved on without him?
"Hey, it's Vandal. Um... we won," he says. The words were clear, but the emotion was conflicted.
"Oh?" the usurper asks trying to remember who had been fighting whom.
"Yeah," he said sounding heavy. "Luthias took a hit though. Don't think he's getting up anytime soon. What's the play?"
The usurper was silent for a moment pondering the revelation. He was ambivalent to Luthias. On the one hand, the warrior had given him a thaumaturgical library greater than any he had seen in all his centuries of unlife. But on the other he had destroyed Brunhilde, declared himself Anarch and him his Lord. The scales had been imbalanced to the warrior's favor, then tipped back to something reasonable, but were now approaching unacceptable once more.
"Chief?" he said. It had to be Vandal, the usurper decided. Yes, Vandal. "What's the play?"
"Bring him here. I'll have a gurney waiting in the garage elevator. Strap him in and I'll stitch him up in the lab," he said, still weighing the situation.
"You got it," the voice said and hung up. The plastic box was silent. The usurper set it down before turning back to the computer screen. The calculations were nearly done. Only a few hours now. Just a few hours and the greatest secret of the once mighty Fiends would be laid bare before him.
Ring-ring the box shouted, far too soon for it to be another of the Anarch warriors returning from the field. The usurper shot it a look of death and nearly shot it in truth. In the end, he would not risk the potential damage to his equipment so he placed it to his ear once more.
"Go for Ricky," he says, waves of annoyance radiating from him.
"Baron Richter, it is Hamza," says a crisp, precise voice. Richter ponders a moment before calling the face of the man to memory.
"Oh. Hey. What's up?" the usurper asks, still annoyed.
"Samuel Lechley was injured in the battle," he says. Again, a moment for the lust filled brain to summon the image of Lechley. A warrior. Competent. Zealous. They had worked on more than a few projects in L.A. Yes. A potential problem who would certainly come to judge him once this coveted revelation came to light. Once his experiments were laid bare. Once the world felt him close his fingers about the enemy. Yes.
"I'm sorry to hear that. Look, I'm really busy here..." he says attempting to wriggle out of this conversation.
"Samuel Lechley has requested I bring him to you. He says you have mastery of something called 'Biothaumaturgy'. He is under the impression that you can heal him and he is willing to compensate you for your time," he says. Clearly, this was one merc talking to another. That was all the usurper was now, after all, right? A hired wand?
The usurper sighs, "Yeah, sure, bring him by. I'll wrap up here and meet you in the lobby."
"We are already here," he says.
"Ah. Fine," he says more than a little annoyed. He hangs up the phone and looks to the computer. "Daedalus, keep this cocksucker computing. I want this shit done by sunset."
True to his word, the Assamite was waiting outside with the body of his fallen comrade. The usurper clicks the button and the door slowly starts spinning.
"Hey," he offers as way of greeting. The dark skinned warrior bows at the waist. "Drop his ass here and strap him down." Annoyance was rich in the usurpers voice. The warrior complied. The usurper pulls a canvas sack over the body's head with a sigh.
"Tremere secrets. You understand," he says.
"He doesn't want that," the warrior comments. The usurper just shrugs and starts to wheel him off.
"Like I give a shit. This'll take awhile; have a seat," he says and clicks a button on the service elevator.
"He requests I accompany him," the warrior says. The usurper rolls his eyes.
"Whatever, just hurry the fuck up. I'm in the middle of shit, ok?"
They enter the elevator and drop to the first level of the basement. Not the labs; the wards would have kept them out. No, this was the guest suites and one of the libraries (also hiding behind wards and security). The usurper wheels them into the middle of the room and turns to regard the warrior. He sighs softly again and pulls a dagger from the depths of his jacket, dark mystical flames leaping from the ancient weapon almost playfully.
The warrior lofts a brow and draws his own sword. The light catches the edge, which is not burning, the usurper notes.
"This is for Ioseph, cocksucker," the usurper says and plunges the dagger down on the helpless figure. In the same instant, the warrior's sword connects heavily with the usurper's shoulder, though finds no purchase. A fragment of the usurper's mind chants Hermetic words and the body dissolves to reappear a dozen steps away safely within one of the numerous wards about the place.
The warrior raises the blade and charges towards the usurper shouting a battle-cry that should have shaken even the heartiest of warriors. The usurper was annoyed.
"Stop," he says and holds up a hand. The warrior's feet stop with crisp accuracy. "Sheath your sword. You will not remember this happening. When you came here, you found the body of Samuel Lechley in your car as ash already. You tested the scene for mystical residue, which you found, implying that there was some sort of curse worked by the Red Lister to slay his enemies even beyond his death. You investigated the area with great pains and consideration, and all evidence led to that conclusion. Collect your colleague's ashes, leave his equipment, and see yourself out."
The warrior nods slowly before turning and collecting the ashes of the once mighty Lechley and turning to go. The usurper watches him go before going himself further into the basement. By now the heavily injured body of Luthias had arrived and was waiting for him. The usurper wheels the gurney slowly through the halls to a room empty of adornment or furnishing. He locks the wheels and regards his guest/hostage.
"This armor will get in the way," he says softly to the helpless relation. "Let me help you."
Carefully, and with no small amount of reverence, the usurper pulls the weapons and defenses from his cousin. It makes a small pile on the floor; weapons and armor and mystically charged items. The body of Luthias was thickly muscled and scarred and lacking symmetry.
"We will get you good as new," the usurper says, climbing atop the gurney and forcing his fingers gently into the flesh of the helpless Tremere. He pulls and smooths and lifts the muscles one by one until they show the white bones beneath. He twists and pulls them aside as well until the still, atrophied heart of the mighty warrior comes into view. The usurper takes a small wooden splinter, smaller than a toothpick, and forces it into the heart. His cousin didn't even make a sound at the subtle betrayal. "Maybe next year."
The flesh is perfectly soothed back into place. To any looking, he might just be laying in torpor. Wards are laid down about the room, one after another. Wards to hide observation. Wards to prevent entry. Wards to prevent leaving. The room was as secure as it could be before the usurper, standing at the doorway turns to leave.
"I do apologize for this," he says softly to the cousin that cannot hear. "You are just... reckless. You have caused strife and killed my brothers. You have torn at my sanctity while trying to build it. And all the while you break the one rule that must be observed; I must be unseen by the Pyramid. You are unable to do that, I think. You will never know what the life of an Anarch is, only the life of Luthias. A very wise man told me once that when a man stopped seeing that he could be wrong, he was no longer worth speaking too. Sleep well."
The lights are turned off and the door is closed, bolted and sealed.
His work bubbled on during his absence. Humans, spirits and ghouls toiled over the equipment and the blood spattered and boiled. As he settled back into station he noticed a small flickering on the screen flashing the word 'Compiled'. Unneeded breath caught in his throat and he clicked the icon. After a second a beautiful equation rolled across the screen. It was glorious and perfect. The very series of numbers that would enslave this new life-form to his will. There are times, at a moment of epiphany when the artist says 'It was all so simple'. This was not such a time. Never in a hundred lifetimes would it have occurred to the usurper on how to create such a thing, such was it's glory. And now it was his.
He looked up to see the workers of his lab staring at him. He realized that he was laughing. Great, loud bouts of laughter erupting from him with complete abandon. And he simply didn't care. Not at all. Not a little. It was done, his key to the enemy, and he felt for the first time in god only knew how long.
"Process that formula," he directs the small owl. "Send it to the manufacturing station."
We need a test subject, dumbass; and I'm way too pretty. the small owl glares at him, feathers ruffling.
"We have one," he says, tossing his clothing aside as he scrambled to the station. "Me."
The owl just regarded him like he was mad. Which, in honesty, he was. Than it shruged and told the computers to synthesize a small sample of the formula. Again the machines spun and whirled and before long a clear bluish liquid dripped down from one of the glass apparatus into a vial.
"To success," the usurper says and toasts the room before kicking the fluid back and promptly falling unconscious.
Something chirping woke him years later. He felt heavy. His skin itched. His bones itched. The unnecessary bits of his innards itched. Parts of him weren't right. Parts of him were so much... righter. When he drew in breath, it felt as if the whole of him breathed. He was the same, but different; terribly different. He pulled himself to his feet to see the security lights flashing the presence of visitors.
The lab assistants had gone to bed. The ghouls had locked themselves in their rooms. The spirits cowered and watched him from their corners. He blinked slowly.
"Who's at the door," he asked, his voice hoarse and his mouth raw.
Someone named Giles and a woman, the knowledgeable owl said. Shall I turn them away?
The usurper barked a laugh. "If only we could."
He pulls a lab-coat on and staggers towards the door. When they came into view, waiting in his lobby beyond his first measures of security as if to say they could do as they wished, he offered them each a smile. Giles looked bored. The childe of Meerlinda looked annoyed.
"We come with a message," said the woman. "From Meerlinda."
"May her name be forever written amongst the stars," the usurper muttered.
"She knows that you have the one called Luthias in your care. She also knows you have not healed him as was expected. Very good; she is pleased. You should know that he has been declared Rogue by the council," she says looking somewhat smug.
"Rogue," the usurper said, rolling the word in his mouth. Shit. The one word every Tremere dreaded seeing before their own. He had drawn political pressure down, the eyes of the Camarilla AND been declared rogue. Great.
"She also says," said the greasy sounding Aster. "That one should never neglect an opportunity for one to improve their generation."
The usurper nods. That sounded nothing like Meerlinda, actually, but would these guys lie to him?
"We are to leave here with him," she said again. "And we have been authorized to release to you the books you requested if the entirety of his ashes are imparted to us."
The usurper nods again, slowly. There wasn't a way out of this. Had he time, he could build a double. Enchant ashes to read as him. Filter blood into another or give Luthias a new Name. But there was no time.
They regarded him impatiently.
He nodded and turned to leave, somewhere between deliriously victorious and abjectly defeated. He walked to the elevator and then through his lab in silence. He unsealed the door and entered the room of his former superior and current subordinate. There was no time. But truthfully, had there been time, would this scenario play out any differently? The world was different, he could feel it. The life within him, now enslaved to serve the usurper rather than its maker was ticking and stirring and grumbling.
Stagnation is death it whispered in the chorus voice sounding equal parts pained and pleasured. To evolve, you must put aside these nagging troubles of humans. To evolve, you must be the greatest predator...
"I guess we had much less than a year," he says softly, stroking the fellow's face. "I do apologize for this; a guest should never be treated so poorly."
The usurper lowered his lips to the throat of the warrior. His fangs slid through the flesh with ease. The cool, delicious blood was pulled to him. Without a heart to beat and push the victim's blood, the process was a struggle. A terrible struggle. Not unexpected, but awe inspiring and horrifying nonetheless.
It is in the nature of an usurper to usurp after all.
