Post by The Mouth on Jul 4, 2014 11:25:57 GMT -8
April, 2013 Bristol, England
I kneel before the Baron Casterly, fear a tight ball in my chest, dislocating because a short while ago I would have been sweating, breathing hard, heart pounding as my body prepared to fight or flee. Instead the Beast lurks, a creeping need to attack and dominate or cower and flee itching at my skin. I find myself fidgeting ever so slightly.
My Master, the Casterly Black Knight, so called because he is black and a Knight rather than any mere chess allusion, stands as a dark sylph, ready to advise the Baron on my progress. Selim the Moor as he was known was an oddity among Kindred his age. For one thing the Moor had a sense of humor as black as his skin. I could feel his silent s
mile beaming down on me even as our Lord spoke his disapproval.
"He lacks discipline, Selim."
"He is a warrior of old, my Lord. A fine soldier when directed, a little at ends when not. But his mind is sharp, his solutions are novel..."
"Yes. They certainly are. The Anarchs? Really? I thought I had told you that you were done wth that business Selim."
Eyes downcast I can see little, but I can movements that imply a bow. "It seems to suit him."
"A Casterly suited for the Rabble?"
"A Casterly with his foot in the door, kicking it wider. This is an opportunity, Lord.”
I got the sense this was theatre for my benefit. It is hard to tell with Elders; so far removed from their Humanity with only the only emotions being prompted by urges for survival or dominance. These words had none of that subtle tone the Beast lent to Elders - In fact the argument was old, older than myself…
“That’s what you said about Percival.”
Okay… That had a hint of heat to it, the dry crackle of leaves before the forest fire hits them. The shadow I know as Selim bows, acknowledging the point scored.
“I have trained him Lord, and will continue to train him. The Anarchs were never the ‘Rabble’ you made them to be; otherwise they would not have Elders of their own from that time. Think of them of as a safety valve, Lord, a mechanism by which pressure is let out at regular intervals.”
“Bah. Your talk of machinery as if men could be so simple.”
“I believe you rely on that simplicity in your dealings with the Kine, my Lord.”
Selim may have been overly familiar as Lord Casterly turned to a statue of iron, a sculpture with a blistering hunger to own and consume and dominate its surroundings. Selim doesn’t move; he flows into a kneeling position and just behind his bowed head is the glint of a sword edge. Selim’s sire; a fearsome Arab of an age with the Baron, the Baron’s Queen to check impetuous nature of the Knight.
Fucking chess metaphors. They exist for the old, the lazy, and Hollywood.
Shit. Something gave me away as all three sets of eyes snap to me. I realize my hands had clenched ever so much only because I now relaxed them.
“Look at me, childe.”
The words, all four, said with the voice of a man who has been obeyed for centuries - Who challenged his ilk and those older than he and won - had my head moving up before I knew what I was doing. I added a heavy dose of smooth acceptance to hide my subservience.
The Lord Casterly saw, and allowed me a tiny flicker of his lips to indicate that my attempt had failed on it’s surface. My eyes locked onto his and the sheer force of his will rocked me, hard enough that I physically responded, unaware that my hands had come off the floor until the cold kiss of steel at either side of my neck told me that I had violated protocol. My Lord twitched his pinky and the steel withdrew.
“You are young. Impetuous. You take great risks; but only with yourself and your own capital. I know of your nature, Childe. I must see it proven you have my Vitae in your veins.”
I shiver, shaking, unable to look away, his ice blue eyes devouring any thought I might have, any utterance merely a series of mumbles strung together.
“Fix Ireland, ”
I hear his voice reverberate in my mind, sinking into my bones. This is not Dominate, it is Presence, and I feel tracks of vitae trickling down my cheeks because while I am before him I cannot do as he asks and the agony and ecstacy of being near and needing to please him are causing me pain. Such pain…
He holds my gaze for a moment more, then turns away and glides smoothly to his next task, his Shadow following behind.
Shaking, I stumble to me feet, Selim helping me to my car parked in the courtyard of the estate. I’m 10 miles out when Selim says, “Orange, Low Sky, Kippers.”
Immediately I stop quavering; my sense of self returns, and I replay the last hour of pageantry with cold detachment.
“As you predicted, Ireland, Master.” Immediately I am working on plans, cons, and murders; all steps for me to accomplish my goal in a years time.
“Just as I predicted that I could enhance your ability to provide an appropriate audience.” Selim smirks ever so slightly, as he usually does when getting away with a prank. His crimes are pranks; mine are typically ‘in service to the state’.
“Is he truly that predictable? That is a great vulnerability for someone in his position…” I trail off because Selim is looking sad for a moment, honest to goodness grief lining his face. It passes and shifts to his ‘teaching’ facade, all black planes and deep angles, gravitas made into teak flesh.
“It is true of my sire as well, Francis of Seattle. They become creatures of habits who then seek to have their comforts one of which is to enforce their habits on others. This is the lesson to you this day; habits are a weakness. But in elders they are so powerful over the elder themselves… Well, Elders have the powers to make their habits into an odd sort of strength.”
I ponder his words, run them though my experiences of Elders and conclude that habits in Elders are formed as adaptive survival mechanisms. When they fail is when the habit confronts a new reality or paradigm…
“So the Baron never would believe that someone would attempt to deceive him so minor a fashion as we did this evening?” The implications are staggering, following that through. Exploiting a series of small deceptions to fit the perceptions of the target… I’ve made cons work with less.
“Do not try your ‘con’ on him Francis.” There is a dangerous note in Selim’s voice, one promising a rather definitive termination of our relationship.
Fuck! How do they do that, reading me so well...
“Yes, Master.”
We drive the rest of the way in silence as I ponder Ireland, returning to my East End flat, and not until I enter and see my lab rat that I hit upon a plan. Vengeance, glory, and most of all, deniability...
“Master?”
“Yes Francis?”
“I have considered your teaching this evening, and I do believe I shall apply it to Ireland. That identity you were holding on to as a Release Gift for me, is that still available?”
Sensing an extremely good joke coming Selim just nods, a smirk appearing slowly. Selim thinks I tell the best jokes; I call them ‘plans’.
“Yuria, she is the key, my Master.”
My Master, his eyes widen, and he lets out a solid belly laugh. I am startled for a moment until I realize that for my Master the funniest thing indeed is creative suicide.
‘Mentor’
By Ben Vaughan
I kneel before the Baron Casterly, fear a tight ball in my chest, dislocating because a short while ago I would have been sweating, breathing hard, heart pounding as my body prepared to fight or flee. Instead the Beast lurks, a creeping need to attack and dominate or cower and flee itching at my skin. I find myself fidgeting ever so slightly.
My Master, the Casterly Black Knight, so called because he is black and a Knight rather than any mere chess allusion, stands as a dark sylph, ready to advise the Baron on my progress. Selim the Moor as he was known was an oddity among Kindred his age. For one thing the Moor had a sense of humor as black as his skin. I could feel his silent s
mile beaming down on me even as our Lord spoke his disapproval.
"He lacks discipline, Selim."
"He is a warrior of old, my Lord. A fine soldier when directed, a little at ends when not. But his mind is sharp, his solutions are novel..."
"Yes. They certainly are. The Anarchs? Really? I thought I had told you that you were done wth that business Selim."
Eyes downcast I can see little, but I can movements that imply a bow. "It seems to suit him."
"A Casterly suited for the Rabble?"
"A Casterly with his foot in the door, kicking it wider. This is an opportunity, Lord.”
I got the sense this was theatre for my benefit. It is hard to tell with Elders; so far removed from their Humanity with only the only emotions being prompted by urges for survival or dominance. These words had none of that subtle tone the Beast lent to Elders - In fact the argument was old, older than myself…
“That’s what you said about Percival.”
Okay… That had a hint of heat to it, the dry crackle of leaves before the forest fire hits them. The shadow I know as Selim bows, acknowledging the point scored.
“I have trained him Lord, and will continue to train him. The Anarchs were never the ‘Rabble’ you made them to be; otherwise they would not have Elders of their own from that time. Think of them of as a safety valve, Lord, a mechanism by which pressure is let out at regular intervals.”
“Bah. Your talk of machinery as if men could be so simple.”
“I believe you rely on that simplicity in your dealings with the Kine, my Lord.”
Selim may have been overly familiar as Lord Casterly turned to a statue of iron, a sculpture with a blistering hunger to own and consume and dominate its surroundings. Selim doesn’t move; he flows into a kneeling position and just behind his bowed head is the glint of a sword edge. Selim’s sire; a fearsome Arab of an age with the Baron, the Baron’s Queen to check impetuous nature of the Knight.
Fucking chess metaphors. They exist for the old, the lazy, and Hollywood.
Shit. Something gave me away as all three sets of eyes snap to me. I realize my hands had clenched ever so much only because I now relaxed them.
“Look at me, childe.”
The words, all four, said with the voice of a man who has been obeyed for centuries - Who challenged his ilk and those older than he and won - had my head moving up before I knew what I was doing. I added a heavy dose of smooth acceptance to hide my subservience.
The Lord Casterly saw, and allowed me a tiny flicker of his lips to indicate that my attempt had failed on it’s surface. My eyes locked onto his and the sheer force of his will rocked me, hard enough that I physically responded, unaware that my hands had come off the floor until the cold kiss of steel at either side of my neck told me that I had violated protocol. My Lord twitched his pinky and the steel withdrew.
“You are young. Impetuous. You take great risks; but only with yourself and your own capital. I know of your nature, Childe. I must see it proven you have my Vitae in your veins.”
I shiver, shaking, unable to look away, his ice blue eyes devouring any thought I might have, any utterance merely a series of mumbles strung together.
“Fix Ireland, ”
I hear his voice reverberate in my mind, sinking into my bones. This is not Dominate, it is Presence, and I feel tracks of vitae trickling down my cheeks because while I am before him I cannot do as he asks and the agony and ecstacy of being near and needing to please him are causing me pain. Such pain…
He holds my gaze for a moment more, then turns away and glides smoothly to his next task, his Shadow following behind.
Shaking, I stumble to me feet, Selim helping me to my car parked in the courtyard of the estate. I’m 10 miles out when Selim says, “Orange, Low Sky, Kippers.”
Immediately I stop quavering; my sense of self returns, and I replay the last hour of pageantry with cold detachment.
“As you predicted, Ireland, Master.” Immediately I am working on plans, cons, and murders; all steps for me to accomplish my goal in a years time.
“Just as I predicted that I could enhance your ability to provide an appropriate audience.” Selim smirks ever so slightly, as he usually does when getting away with a prank. His crimes are pranks; mine are typically ‘in service to the state’.
“Is he truly that predictable? That is a great vulnerability for someone in his position…” I trail off because Selim is looking sad for a moment, honest to goodness grief lining his face. It passes and shifts to his ‘teaching’ facade, all black planes and deep angles, gravitas made into teak flesh.
“It is true of my sire as well, Francis of Seattle. They become creatures of habits who then seek to have their comforts one of which is to enforce their habits on others. This is the lesson to you this day; habits are a weakness. But in elders they are so powerful over the elder themselves… Well, Elders have the powers to make their habits into an odd sort of strength.”
I ponder his words, run them though my experiences of Elders and conclude that habits in Elders are formed as adaptive survival mechanisms. When they fail is when the habit confronts a new reality or paradigm…
“So the Baron never would believe that someone would attempt to deceive him so minor a fashion as we did this evening?” The implications are staggering, following that through. Exploiting a series of small deceptions to fit the perceptions of the target… I’ve made cons work with less.
“Do not try your ‘con’ on him Francis.” There is a dangerous note in Selim’s voice, one promising a rather definitive termination of our relationship.
Fuck! How do they do that, reading me so well...
“Yes, Master.”
We drive the rest of the way in silence as I ponder Ireland, returning to my East End flat, and not until I enter and see my lab rat that I hit upon a plan. Vengeance, glory, and most of all, deniability...
“Master?”
“Yes Francis?”
“I have considered your teaching this evening, and I do believe I shall apply it to Ireland. That identity you were holding on to as a Release Gift for me, is that still available?”
Sensing an extremely good joke coming Selim just nods, a smirk appearing slowly. Selim thinks I tell the best jokes; I call them ‘plans’.
“Yuria, she is the key, my Master.”
My Master, his eyes widen, and he lets out a solid belly laugh. I am startled for a moment until I realize that for my Master the funniest thing indeed is creative suicide.
‘Mentor’
By Ben Vaughan