Post by The Mouth on Jul 19, 2014 16:34:49 GMT -8
30 September, 2013
Limerick, Ireland
Clete Dunsirn has done the impossible. He has gotten me an invite and a presentation for my wares at Yuria’s after party. Yuria won’t be there but her merkismaðr, Jarl, will be present. He will be escorting Killian Gooley, formerly MacGooley which indicated that he was related to an Irish chief at one time.
Several out of towners are present; including Pascek’s number two guy, a Brujah named Kyril, a Polish gent from some three hundred years back. Former Archon; rumored to be far too competent to make the other Justicars too happy with his defection.
I have to remember that the invite is for me, solo. So, no back up. Thankfully these guys all play by certain rules; rooting around in someones head at a soiree is a no-no. Doing so outside of an event is completely acceptable.
Time to build trust…
“Mr Phillips, a pleasure!” I’m looking at Ira Macias; the local Malkavian. He is chipper, very 1950’s, horn rim glasses and fedora. His date is a porcelain doll, I know her as his Childe; he embraced her last year about six months before Yuria moved in. Her name is Veronica and she never speaks.
I click my heels and bow. “Herr Macias, I appreciate your invitation. I understand that I am to privately entertain yourself and some other guests this evening.”
“Yes, Mr Phillips, we are looking forward to it, aren’t we, m’dear.” He chucks Vernonica under the chin, her expression unchanging; except her eyes. Something is familiar with her eyes. They view the world with a black hatred, all things including Macias.
Not unusual, and her passivity is well, hard to say for a Malkavian. the very nature of the the Malkavian is their wild card. But who I am here to observe is a certain Gangrel…
And I see him. He is in leathers; pants. Working leathers, canvas and stitched leather panels for durability. No shirt, but a vest. I note he is armed with a long knife; looks like a seax, as well as an axe across his back. He has a naked blade at his side, a viking sword with a stamp on it that says ‘uthe+bert’ which makes it a rare blade indeed.
He is the only one openly carrying a weapon, the four of his childer present are disarmed but provocatively dressed as nude and lightly oiled to highlight their many scars. This also means they are unable to hide their beastial features, which I think is something of the point. Two women, two men. One of the men I note; a bald man, big and muscular. His back is not hairy as much as covered in a silky grey fur; his name is Lister and Heracletus wants to kill him in the worst way.
Lister publicly humiliated Heracletus; took the woman he loved and had ghouled all because she was part of Killian Gooley’s mortal descendants. Lister also killed the Dunsirn he’d given to Gooley to seal their alliance because Dunsirn was embraced a Childe of Gooley’s.
Pretty sure I’m going to have to soften him up; Lister brags about fighting all sorts of ugly things and has the scars to prove it. Except… Almost all his scars are on his flanks and back, very few on the front.
He got more wounds turning his back to the foe than facing them. Tells me a lot.
The two women are twins; even their feral features are in sync, they have eyes an emerald green and slit like a cats. I watch them flex claws back and forth from their finger tips; their backs covered in golden fur leading into tails that twitch back and forth.
The final Child is grossly fat yet light on his feet. He moves within the constrains of his flesh but he has huge muscles moving beneath the sagging flesh; one arm ends in a white paw, his head moves in an ursine fashion; his eyes weak but his hearing and nose are sharp.
They have scars evenly distributed.
“Herr Macias, could I impose on you to introduce me to our host this evening?”
Macias looks afraid for a moment, aware of how thin a line he is dancing on. “Why of course, Mr Phillips. A trivial matter between us?”
I smile thinly. “If that is what you would prefer. I was lead to understand that this was a… Less traditional realm.”
“Ah, a true statement. However, whatever private arrangements…” Ira is wincing a bit; in public the Old Town kindred as they’ve come to be called, are forbidden from accepting favors; they can hold debts on no one as no one will become beholden to another. Something that is applied to all in declaration and only the older inhabitants of Limerick in practice. If I make a stink he will be punished.
“I understand and accept. Please, Herr Macias, at your leisure.”
I give it another hour before Ira swings my way and says, “Third door; left, bring your case.”
The coat room to collect my case; small scratches tell me they tried to pick the locks on it. Good thing those locks are pure bullshit.
The room is a large study; should be nice this is Ira’s house. Apparently the hobby has been to take the other’s havens and turn them into gathering points for the Domain. Everything something to demonstrate superiority and domination.
Jarl is here, along with Pascek’s rep Kyril. Lister, a churlish sneer resting upon his face like a peeping tom outside of a women’s shower window. Ira and his Childe are a few seconds behind me, he looking a bit furtive, her with the same passive and serene countenance with the hatred filled eyes.
“Gentlemen and Lady, I am Devon Phillips. It is my honor to show you my art this evening.” I wait for Jarl to nod to continue. I walk to a small table, pull out my phone and open an app. I enter a code, a small piece of euro-pop emits from the interior of the case and the latches pop.
A lovely little bit of bluetooth, rather reasonable all things considered. Of course now I have to make the next locking mechanism a little more devious.
I take out my vessels; a stone jug, a small and complicated looking pump and a glass bottle. I turn on the pump and it starts a gentle shushing noise, almost like a child breathing in it’s sleep.
“Gentlemen and Lady, I will proffer to an art unique to our kind; blood preparation. There is a tale told of the creation of great structures made of marzipan, a paste of almonds and sugar, developed in the Caliphates of the Crusades periods. These structures were often seen as marvels in the Medieval Periods because of the almost alchemical nature of the structure; simple sugar and almonds combined in a paste that one could still eat and build a mosque from.
I do not propose something so extravagant, yet as a Childe I heard tales of chefs who could do wondrous things with Vitae and common blood stock. Using these myths I rendered them to folklore, then to anecdote, to scientific alchemy.
Tonight I shall offer you a selection of something most special, hot, fresh, taken from the vein and put in your cup. I have added a few other items to adjust for a more consistent experience; sandalwood, honey, and the slight hint of zinc that accompanies more common stock. Regardless I can promise that this is, through a process perfected by me, going to be the most astounding sample of vitae that you will have encountered in the last decade from a mortal creature.”
I take out the crystal aperitif glasses, run a glass tube into the stoneware bottle. Blood, viscous and purple-red fills the glasstube and runs through the pump. A small tap on the far end and the blood exits, steaming, hot, rich and heady scents fill the air.
Kindred have so few pleasures that equal the taking of blood; it is beyond sexual release. It is a completeness that fades so quickly… You either fixate on it or deny it but one cannot escape it. And here I go, offering the blood of my grandchildren up on the altar of my Vengeance.
I quickly fill six glasses. The one benefit I have in this little ploy is that the blood is meaningless to me. I get nothing from it; no pleasure, no ecstasy, nothing. Go Ventrue; this little venture depends on it.
I fill all six glasses and pass them out. “Please, enjoy gentleman and lady.” I raise my glass, “To Yuria, may ever she lead in peace and prosperity.”
Jarl’s lips curl in something that might be a smile. He raises his glass and everyone murmurs an affirmative. I drink first, sipping lightly and savoring the powerful intoxicating blood. At least I pretend to very well.
The others sip as well, shock rippling across their faces; except Veronica. But her eyes lose their hate for a moment. Lister for his part tosses the whole thing back, then is disappointed when more does not appear.
“My god, this is a werewolf!” Jarl exclaims.
“Even so, it is so much more, it seems,” Kyril adds in.
I nod. “I have scoured the land for family records, tracing lineages across the globe. It took my years and powerful computers to get as far as I have. I would share my collection methods but…” I offer a brief predatory smile. “That would be telling. I offer a unique service and understandably I cannot tally too long in a given locale.”
“Because?” Ira is sharpish; Dunsirn asked a favor of him to arrange this, and he feels a trap opening beneath his feet.
“Because certain supplies are time sensitive by their nature. Herbs must be freshly gathered, items extracted, and developed. Six months to a year. Also if I stay too much longer than that my rather apolitical nature tends to get on the nerves of the locals.”
“Apolitical?” Kyril tosses in.
“I am a merchant with a non-critical service; I cannot afford to be picky between Anarch, Sabbat, or Camarilla. I follow the Masquerade and the laws of Domain to a fault; I have no interest in progeny. However I will and have defended myself. I recently did so at a rather disastrous event in Liverpool.”
Kyril’s and Jarl’s eyes narrow just ever so much. So, they are on the intel chain for that, eh?
“You killed all those vampires?”
I give a little scornful laugh. “Of course not. Just a few jumped up fledglings who thought I was a different sort of entertainment.”
Ira jumps back in to lighten the mood. “Well, no matter the politics, he has delivered. Do you think we can get another glass?”
I click my heels and pour for everyone again. Lister glowers and sips his glass slower this time, savoring every drop.
“So this isn’t your only offering?” Jarl asks of me. His English is slightly accented but is otherwise solid. Yuria is rumored to speak two languages in public: Nordic and French, neither of which are very modern dialects.
“No, of course not. Artist with a single note to play? Terrible. I have others; I like to select from a given terroir of a region. I went with a higher grade offering tonight to showcase my procurement skills, which I do hope is to your liking.”
“Yes, it is. Ira, I shall have to give a more concrete form of thanks; this Devon Phillips is quite a find.” Jarl is old enough that I have a hard time translating what he is thinking from his body and facial movements.
“But I am afraid I have to test your other reputation; do you think could take Lister in a fight?”
The room goes still. Kindred violence does that and once again I am reminded that vampires like their blood in many different styles and fashions.
“I do not know. Possibly, but not likely. He is a puissant warrior and has many battle scars. I am a mere merchant skilled in the arts of defense and poorly armed in the realm of offense.” I offer a slight bow to Jarl.
He laughs. “A humble Prussian! I never would have thought I’d see the day. Very well. At the new year we shall find you a suitable opponent; we have a little tradition of a Brujah rumble, good natured of course.”
I’d seen a ‘good natured Brujah rumble’. That whole statement is a lie on it’s surface.
“Of course, my Lord.”
“Please, just call me Jarl. We are all equals here in Yuria’s realm.”
Another lie, otherwise it would not be ‘Yuria’s realm’.
“Very well… Jarl.”
“Come then Devon, let us sit, enjoy more of your lovely wares, and we shall tell tales of our exploits and adventures.” Jarl motions to some rather overstuffed easy chairs. Kyril laughs lightly, “Honestly Jarl, you have a sense of the absurd at times.”
I think he was referring to the chairs because Ira, who home this was, suddenly looked very offended, but he covered that up soon enough.
Lister remained standing, as there were only five chairs. That I was sitting and he was not was a deep concern for him. He kept flexing his hands like he wanted to claw something; and looking at me while doing it. I swear, blood bond jealousy might be the one thing that truly keeps Vampires from getting along with one another.
Okay, not the only thing.
“Devon, first and formost, thank you for your draught this evening, it is rare beyond belief.”
“Thank you Jarl, I hope to have the opportunity to serve at your table in the future.”
“In this regard I grant you a boon. I shall tell you one story in answer to a question you might have.”
I ponder it for a moment. “The easy ones are well, easy. I shall ask a more difficult question. What is it that makes the essence of the Gangrel? Is it their disciplines that are so clearly suited for survival, or some aspect of the blood such as that which draws the Beast closer to the surface - No offense meant by that of course, I state a thing as it is. Your brood clearly had such traits on display this evening,” I indicate the naked Lister in the corner, “Or is it in your selections for your childer?”
Jarl stares at me for a long moment. I might have offended him, I might not. But it goes on long enough that the others are getting uncomfortable when Jarl gets out, “Ah, Devon. Nature vs Nuture, an old argument.” He stops to think, licking at a stray drop of errant blood on his glass.
“Truth be told I think it is both. I suspect the founder of our clan selected her Childer for certain traits; hardiness and survival with capacities to survive outside the cities. Yet she was a denzien of the cities herself, the tales say…” Funny how the old can spit out Camarilla heresy with little problem while the Sabbat sermonize endlessly about it.
“A strange contradiction. Myself, I’ve always been with a warrior culture which is not a solider’s culture. That is a thing of the Romans and the Modern Nights. Warriors fight as individuals in a unit, using many of the techniques of a soldier. But only on a small scale; I can tell you from experience that the Vikings were terrible raiders but not nearly as gifted occupiers. They would raze an area and build over the ruins of what they had destroyed or driven the original inhabitants off.
No, I think that most clans have some sort of implicit arrangement, either by the influence of sire to childe back to our Founder or some exertion of the Founder’s will through the bloodlines. Ventrue are hardy, but rarely do they go a viking. Ravnos share most of our gifts but they were more interested in thieving than in surviving. Of all the clans the Gangrel are best suited to living away from man kind but are still dependent on it.”
Our isolation comes from a physical difference, short and sweet. We look other, eventually, and in ways that no Kindred would choose often enough. Ask the Nosferatu how being hideous and physically different has treated them.”
Jarl pauses, then goes to a minute, he is clearly lost in something.
“We fight because we are best suited to do so, more than the Brujah even, sorry Kyril. We destroy in seconds; Brujah battles tend to be a little more extravagant. We are tough and we can always summon allies or blood when needed. Once upon a time there were High Clans and Low Clans; Gangrel were of the low. So were the Tremere, funnily enough. They didn’t really get their image made over until the mid-19th century.
But they feared us in our hordes; first with the Germans, then the Slavs and Bulgars - In my youth we encountered Gangrel who had ridden with the Franks when they were an angry and hungry tribe who then grew fat and slow on Roman riches.” Jarl laughs, “It was always the way. Lean and mean then conquest of a settled peoples. Next thing we knew in two generations our tribes went from 1 percenter bikers to accountants.”
“So, you think the gangrel are following a subconscious predilection cast upon them by your bloodline Founder?” Ira drops in.
“Certainly. Everything else I think is on us; the dislike of civilization was largely due that civilization had all the stuff worth stealing and we could never understand how they got all that stuff in the first place. Our gods favored us, but the farmers and the cities always had fatter cows, fatter purses, and fatter women. And they were cowards to boot! Somehow, every time we conquered, our people were swallowed whole. Not to mention that the Vampires that lived in an area knew it better than we did; many a dark deed was done as soon as new King was crowned.
“It is disturbing to think that our Elders could so influence us from the ancient past; yet a comfort too. It means that when I select for an Embrace I let my instincts guide me; never panic or whim; I feel the call to Embrace and I pick my target with those same instincts. If it works, excellent. If not, a quick matter to reclaim the blood. Somewhat enjoyable too!”
Ira, Kyril, and Jarl laugh. I smile and chuckle politely. Lister grimaces with fear. Elders going to be Elders.
“Let me turn it back on you, Mr. Phillips. Tell me what you see the essence of the Gangrel. You’re a travelled man; clearly you’ve encountered a decent smattering of Gangrel and other clans.”
All eyes are on me. I look at the blood congealing on my glass and ponder my response.
“The Gangrel as individuals can be anyone or anything. While reasonably true of most clans it is more of a truism in the modern Gangrel. You will find modern barbarians; bikers and drug cartel smugglers. But you will find intellectuals who drew a joker while on a camping trip, environmentalists, titans of industry that are holdovers from the great extraction processes in Eastern Europe… Where ever you find Gangrel you find them surviving and struggling in ways that the Toreador and Ventrue don’t. They have no concealment, no social abilities like Presence or Dominate. No perception; on their own a Gangrel can exist in a concrete jungle as an isolated unit or in the heart of the vast forests and plains for short periods. But they must do so without the aid of human allies or supernatural perception.
This makes them insular, they perceive their environment through the lense of their extended eye and ears are animals, that they are exceptionally lethal at a relatively young age, and that they are hardy enough to take most of what life can dish to them. Frankly, in my travels I envy them and their native abilities and the culture that comes with it.”
I cannot state in a positive or negative manor; most Clans are of that way with me. But despite their diversity the thing Gangrel are most of all are explorers. They take risks that others eschew because they are, by their Disciplines, tuned to do so. This makes them unique, outside of the Lasombra, from other Kindred.”
“Outside of the Lasombra?” Kyril asks.
“Yes. I have heard tales that they often hear a calling for the sea. Not a very secure occupation.”
“So, Mr. Phillips, you see as a clan of risk takers?” Jarl is not indicating how he took my analysis.
“No, I see them as being able to survive those risks and because they lack other tools that encourage a softer path they exploit the roads less often traveled. They succeed because they have the means to do so, a Gangrel can find asymmetrical paths to power that a Ventrue or Toreador would find too risky.”
“And you are not a Gangrel yourself Mr. Phillips?”
“No, Mr. Kyril. I am not, but I do believe my business prospects would be simpler.”
“Well, Gentleman,” Ira jumps in. “A pleasant evening. Do you have any more of the lovely vintage, Mr. Phillips?”
“Alas, my process limits the amount I can prepare at a time. But if I know how many to serve ahead of time I can make arrangements.”
Jarl looks at me, his eyes dark, cold. “We shall have you back, Mr. Phillips. We have a little get together around the New Year. We will need something… festive.”
“I look forward to it Jarl.”
Gangrel
By Ben Vaughan
Limerick, Ireland
Clete Dunsirn has done the impossible. He has gotten me an invite and a presentation for my wares at Yuria’s after party. Yuria won’t be there but her merkismaðr, Jarl, will be present. He will be escorting Killian Gooley, formerly MacGooley which indicated that he was related to an Irish chief at one time.
Several out of towners are present; including Pascek’s number two guy, a Brujah named Kyril, a Polish gent from some three hundred years back. Former Archon; rumored to be far too competent to make the other Justicars too happy with his defection.
I have to remember that the invite is for me, solo. So, no back up. Thankfully these guys all play by certain rules; rooting around in someones head at a soiree is a no-no. Doing so outside of an event is completely acceptable.
Time to build trust…
“Mr Phillips, a pleasure!” I’m looking at Ira Macias; the local Malkavian. He is chipper, very 1950’s, horn rim glasses and fedora. His date is a porcelain doll, I know her as his Childe; he embraced her last year about six months before Yuria moved in. Her name is Veronica and she never speaks.
I click my heels and bow. “Herr Macias, I appreciate your invitation. I understand that I am to privately entertain yourself and some other guests this evening.”
“Yes, Mr Phillips, we are looking forward to it, aren’t we, m’dear.” He chucks Vernonica under the chin, her expression unchanging; except her eyes. Something is familiar with her eyes. They view the world with a black hatred, all things including Macias.
Not unusual, and her passivity is well, hard to say for a Malkavian. the very nature of the the Malkavian is their wild card. But who I am here to observe is a certain Gangrel…
And I see him. He is in leathers; pants. Working leathers, canvas and stitched leather panels for durability. No shirt, but a vest. I note he is armed with a long knife; looks like a seax, as well as an axe across his back. He has a naked blade at his side, a viking sword with a stamp on it that says ‘uthe+bert’ which makes it a rare blade indeed.
He is the only one openly carrying a weapon, the four of his childer present are disarmed but provocatively dressed as nude and lightly oiled to highlight their many scars. This also means they are unable to hide their beastial features, which I think is something of the point. Two women, two men. One of the men I note; a bald man, big and muscular. His back is not hairy as much as covered in a silky grey fur; his name is Lister and Heracletus wants to kill him in the worst way.
Lister publicly humiliated Heracletus; took the woman he loved and had ghouled all because she was part of Killian Gooley’s mortal descendants. Lister also killed the Dunsirn he’d given to Gooley to seal their alliance because Dunsirn was embraced a Childe of Gooley’s.
Pretty sure I’m going to have to soften him up; Lister brags about fighting all sorts of ugly things and has the scars to prove it. Except… Almost all his scars are on his flanks and back, very few on the front.
He got more wounds turning his back to the foe than facing them. Tells me a lot.
The two women are twins; even their feral features are in sync, they have eyes an emerald green and slit like a cats. I watch them flex claws back and forth from their finger tips; their backs covered in golden fur leading into tails that twitch back and forth.
The final Child is grossly fat yet light on his feet. He moves within the constrains of his flesh but he has huge muscles moving beneath the sagging flesh; one arm ends in a white paw, his head moves in an ursine fashion; his eyes weak but his hearing and nose are sharp.
They have scars evenly distributed.
“Herr Macias, could I impose on you to introduce me to our host this evening?”
Macias looks afraid for a moment, aware of how thin a line he is dancing on. “Why of course, Mr Phillips. A trivial matter between us?”
I smile thinly. “If that is what you would prefer. I was lead to understand that this was a… Less traditional realm.”
“Ah, a true statement. However, whatever private arrangements…” Ira is wincing a bit; in public the Old Town kindred as they’ve come to be called, are forbidden from accepting favors; they can hold debts on no one as no one will become beholden to another. Something that is applied to all in declaration and only the older inhabitants of Limerick in practice. If I make a stink he will be punished.
“I understand and accept. Please, Herr Macias, at your leisure.”
I give it another hour before Ira swings my way and says, “Third door; left, bring your case.”
The coat room to collect my case; small scratches tell me they tried to pick the locks on it. Good thing those locks are pure bullshit.
The room is a large study; should be nice this is Ira’s house. Apparently the hobby has been to take the other’s havens and turn them into gathering points for the Domain. Everything something to demonstrate superiority and domination.
Jarl is here, along with Pascek’s rep Kyril. Lister, a churlish sneer resting upon his face like a peeping tom outside of a women’s shower window. Ira and his Childe are a few seconds behind me, he looking a bit furtive, her with the same passive and serene countenance with the hatred filled eyes.
“Gentlemen and Lady, I am Devon Phillips. It is my honor to show you my art this evening.” I wait for Jarl to nod to continue. I walk to a small table, pull out my phone and open an app. I enter a code, a small piece of euro-pop emits from the interior of the case and the latches pop.
A lovely little bit of bluetooth, rather reasonable all things considered. Of course now I have to make the next locking mechanism a little more devious.
I take out my vessels; a stone jug, a small and complicated looking pump and a glass bottle. I turn on the pump and it starts a gentle shushing noise, almost like a child breathing in it’s sleep.
“Gentlemen and Lady, I will proffer to an art unique to our kind; blood preparation. There is a tale told of the creation of great structures made of marzipan, a paste of almonds and sugar, developed in the Caliphates of the Crusades periods. These structures were often seen as marvels in the Medieval Periods because of the almost alchemical nature of the structure; simple sugar and almonds combined in a paste that one could still eat and build a mosque from.
I do not propose something so extravagant, yet as a Childe I heard tales of chefs who could do wondrous things with Vitae and common blood stock. Using these myths I rendered them to folklore, then to anecdote, to scientific alchemy.
Tonight I shall offer you a selection of something most special, hot, fresh, taken from the vein and put in your cup. I have added a few other items to adjust for a more consistent experience; sandalwood, honey, and the slight hint of zinc that accompanies more common stock. Regardless I can promise that this is, through a process perfected by me, going to be the most astounding sample of vitae that you will have encountered in the last decade from a mortal creature.”
I take out the crystal aperitif glasses, run a glass tube into the stoneware bottle. Blood, viscous and purple-red fills the glasstube and runs through the pump. A small tap on the far end and the blood exits, steaming, hot, rich and heady scents fill the air.
Kindred have so few pleasures that equal the taking of blood; it is beyond sexual release. It is a completeness that fades so quickly… You either fixate on it or deny it but one cannot escape it. And here I go, offering the blood of my grandchildren up on the altar of my Vengeance.
I quickly fill six glasses. The one benefit I have in this little ploy is that the blood is meaningless to me. I get nothing from it; no pleasure, no ecstasy, nothing. Go Ventrue; this little venture depends on it.
I fill all six glasses and pass them out. “Please, enjoy gentleman and lady.” I raise my glass, “To Yuria, may ever she lead in peace and prosperity.”
Jarl’s lips curl in something that might be a smile. He raises his glass and everyone murmurs an affirmative. I drink first, sipping lightly and savoring the powerful intoxicating blood. At least I pretend to very well.
The others sip as well, shock rippling across their faces; except Veronica. But her eyes lose their hate for a moment. Lister for his part tosses the whole thing back, then is disappointed when more does not appear.
“My god, this is a werewolf!” Jarl exclaims.
“Even so, it is so much more, it seems,” Kyril adds in.
I nod. “I have scoured the land for family records, tracing lineages across the globe. It took my years and powerful computers to get as far as I have. I would share my collection methods but…” I offer a brief predatory smile. “That would be telling. I offer a unique service and understandably I cannot tally too long in a given locale.”
“Because?” Ira is sharpish; Dunsirn asked a favor of him to arrange this, and he feels a trap opening beneath his feet.
“Because certain supplies are time sensitive by their nature. Herbs must be freshly gathered, items extracted, and developed. Six months to a year. Also if I stay too much longer than that my rather apolitical nature tends to get on the nerves of the locals.”
“Apolitical?” Kyril tosses in.
“I am a merchant with a non-critical service; I cannot afford to be picky between Anarch, Sabbat, or Camarilla. I follow the Masquerade and the laws of Domain to a fault; I have no interest in progeny. However I will and have defended myself. I recently did so at a rather disastrous event in Liverpool.”
Kyril’s and Jarl’s eyes narrow just ever so much. So, they are on the intel chain for that, eh?
“You killed all those vampires?”
I give a little scornful laugh. “Of course not. Just a few jumped up fledglings who thought I was a different sort of entertainment.”
Ira jumps back in to lighten the mood. “Well, no matter the politics, he has delivered. Do you think we can get another glass?”
I click my heels and pour for everyone again. Lister glowers and sips his glass slower this time, savoring every drop.
“So this isn’t your only offering?” Jarl asks of me. His English is slightly accented but is otherwise solid. Yuria is rumored to speak two languages in public: Nordic and French, neither of which are very modern dialects.
“No, of course not. Artist with a single note to play? Terrible. I have others; I like to select from a given terroir of a region. I went with a higher grade offering tonight to showcase my procurement skills, which I do hope is to your liking.”
“Yes, it is. Ira, I shall have to give a more concrete form of thanks; this Devon Phillips is quite a find.” Jarl is old enough that I have a hard time translating what he is thinking from his body and facial movements.
“But I am afraid I have to test your other reputation; do you think could take Lister in a fight?”
The room goes still. Kindred violence does that and once again I am reminded that vampires like their blood in many different styles and fashions.
“I do not know. Possibly, but not likely. He is a puissant warrior and has many battle scars. I am a mere merchant skilled in the arts of defense and poorly armed in the realm of offense.” I offer a slight bow to Jarl.
He laughs. “A humble Prussian! I never would have thought I’d see the day. Very well. At the new year we shall find you a suitable opponent; we have a little tradition of a Brujah rumble, good natured of course.”
I’d seen a ‘good natured Brujah rumble’. That whole statement is a lie on it’s surface.
“Of course, my Lord.”
“Please, just call me Jarl. We are all equals here in Yuria’s realm.”
Another lie, otherwise it would not be ‘Yuria’s realm’.
“Very well… Jarl.”
“Come then Devon, let us sit, enjoy more of your lovely wares, and we shall tell tales of our exploits and adventures.” Jarl motions to some rather overstuffed easy chairs. Kyril laughs lightly, “Honestly Jarl, you have a sense of the absurd at times.”
I think he was referring to the chairs because Ira, who home this was, suddenly looked very offended, but he covered that up soon enough.
Lister remained standing, as there were only five chairs. That I was sitting and he was not was a deep concern for him. He kept flexing his hands like he wanted to claw something; and looking at me while doing it. I swear, blood bond jealousy might be the one thing that truly keeps Vampires from getting along with one another.
Okay, not the only thing.
“Devon, first and formost, thank you for your draught this evening, it is rare beyond belief.”
“Thank you Jarl, I hope to have the opportunity to serve at your table in the future.”
“In this regard I grant you a boon. I shall tell you one story in answer to a question you might have.”
I ponder it for a moment. “The easy ones are well, easy. I shall ask a more difficult question. What is it that makes the essence of the Gangrel? Is it their disciplines that are so clearly suited for survival, or some aspect of the blood such as that which draws the Beast closer to the surface - No offense meant by that of course, I state a thing as it is. Your brood clearly had such traits on display this evening,” I indicate the naked Lister in the corner, “Or is it in your selections for your childer?”
Jarl stares at me for a long moment. I might have offended him, I might not. But it goes on long enough that the others are getting uncomfortable when Jarl gets out, “Ah, Devon. Nature vs Nuture, an old argument.” He stops to think, licking at a stray drop of errant blood on his glass.
“Truth be told I think it is both. I suspect the founder of our clan selected her Childer for certain traits; hardiness and survival with capacities to survive outside the cities. Yet she was a denzien of the cities herself, the tales say…” Funny how the old can spit out Camarilla heresy with little problem while the Sabbat sermonize endlessly about it.
“A strange contradiction. Myself, I’ve always been with a warrior culture which is not a solider’s culture. That is a thing of the Romans and the Modern Nights. Warriors fight as individuals in a unit, using many of the techniques of a soldier. But only on a small scale; I can tell you from experience that the Vikings were terrible raiders but not nearly as gifted occupiers. They would raze an area and build over the ruins of what they had destroyed or driven the original inhabitants off.
No, I think that most clans have some sort of implicit arrangement, either by the influence of sire to childe back to our Founder or some exertion of the Founder’s will through the bloodlines. Ventrue are hardy, but rarely do they go a viking. Ravnos share most of our gifts but they were more interested in thieving than in surviving. Of all the clans the Gangrel are best suited to living away from man kind but are still dependent on it.”
Our isolation comes from a physical difference, short and sweet. We look other, eventually, and in ways that no Kindred would choose often enough. Ask the Nosferatu how being hideous and physically different has treated them.”
Jarl pauses, then goes to a minute, he is clearly lost in something.
“We fight because we are best suited to do so, more than the Brujah even, sorry Kyril. We destroy in seconds; Brujah battles tend to be a little more extravagant. We are tough and we can always summon allies or blood when needed. Once upon a time there were High Clans and Low Clans; Gangrel were of the low. So were the Tremere, funnily enough. They didn’t really get their image made over until the mid-19th century.
But they feared us in our hordes; first with the Germans, then the Slavs and Bulgars - In my youth we encountered Gangrel who had ridden with the Franks when they were an angry and hungry tribe who then grew fat and slow on Roman riches.” Jarl laughs, “It was always the way. Lean and mean then conquest of a settled peoples. Next thing we knew in two generations our tribes went from 1 percenter bikers to accountants.”
“So, you think the gangrel are following a subconscious predilection cast upon them by your bloodline Founder?” Ira drops in.
“Certainly. Everything else I think is on us; the dislike of civilization was largely due that civilization had all the stuff worth stealing and we could never understand how they got all that stuff in the first place. Our gods favored us, but the farmers and the cities always had fatter cows, fatter purses, and fatter women. And they were cowards to boot! Somehow, every time we conquered, our people were swallowed whole. Not to mention that the Vampires that lived in an area knew it better than we did; many a dark deed was done as soon as new King was crowned.
“It is disturbing to think that our Elders could so influence us from the ancient past; yet a comfort too. It means that when I select for an Embrace I let my instincts guide me; never panic or whim; I feel the call to Embrace and I pick my target with those same instincts. If it works, excellent. If not, a quick matter to reclaim the blood. Somewhat enjoyable too!”
Ira, Kyril, and Jarl laugh. I smile and chuckle politely. Lister grimaces with fear. Elders going to be Elders.
“Let me turn it back on you, Mr. Phillips. Tell me what you see the essence of the Gangrel. You’re a travelled man; clearly you’ve encountered a decent smattering of Gangrel and other clans.”
All eyes are on me. I look at the blood congealing on my glass and ponder my response.
“The Gangrel as individuals can be anyone or anything. While reasonably true of most clans it is more of a truism in the modern Gangrel. You will find modern barbarians; bikers and drug cartel smugglers. But you will find intellectuals who drew a joker while on a camping trip, environmentalists, titans of industry that are holdovers from the great extraction processes in Eastern Europe… Where ever you find Gangrel you find them surviving and struggling in ways that the Toreador and Ventrue don’t. They have no concealment, no social abilities like Presence or Dominate. No perception; on their own a Gangrel can exist in a concrete jungle as an isolated unit or in the heart of the vast forests and plains for short periods. But they must do so without the aid of human allies or supernatural perception.
This makes them insular, they perceive their environment through the lense of their extended eye and ears are animals, that they are exceptionally lethal at a relatively young age, and that they are hardy enough to take most of what life can dish to them. Frankly, in my travels I envy them and their native abilities and the culture that comes with it.”
I cannot state in a positive or negative manor; most Clans are of that way with me. But despite their diversity the thing Gangrel are most of all are explorers. They take risks that others eschew because they are, by their Disciplines, tuned to do so. This makes them unique, outside of the Lasombra, from other Kindred.”
“Outside of the Lasombra?” Kyril asks.
“Yes. I have heard tales that they often hear a calling for the sea. Not a very secure occupation.”
“So, Mr. Phillips, you see as a clan of risk takers?” Jarl is not indicating how he took my analysis.
“No, I see them as being able to survive those risks and because they lack other tools that encourage a softer path they exploit the roads less often traveled. They succeed because they have the means to do so, a Gangrel can find asymmetrical paths to power that a Ventrue or Toreador would find too risky.”
“And you are not a Gangrel yourself Mr. Phillips?”
“No, Mr. Kyril. I am not, but I do believe my business prospects would be simpler.”
“Well, Gentleman,” Ira jumps in. “A pleasant evening. Do you have any more of the lovely vintage, Mr. Phillips?”
“Alas, my process limits the amount I can prepare at a time. But if I know how many to serve ahead of time I can make arrangements.”
Jarl looks at me, his eyes dark, cold. “We shall have you back, Mr. Phillips. We have a little get together around the New Year. We will need something… festive.”
“I look forward to it Jarl.”
Gangrel
By Ben Vaughan