Post by Amadeo Vittore on May 12, 2005 10:46:20 GMT -8
Tuesday, May 10th, 2005. 10:34 PM
St James Cathedral
Seattle, Washington
Darkness. It was his world, all he knew any more was the comfort of the Abyss. It was the only safe place he knew. There, in the Abyss, when it surrounded him, he knew the kind peace that came only with the taking of a life. He was a killer of men and he dared not try to play himself up as anything more. He was a vampire, no matter what term one used.
The church was cold, dark and empty, just the way Amadeo wanted it. It meant that he was alone. That was his great illusion, that he was alone. That he didn’t need any one. All he truly did was go through the motions, he was a cold, heartless, and powerful elder who needed no one, wanted no one in this world. That was his greatest lie. He sat, in the cold empty darkness which surrounded him in the Cathedral, his ties to the church more than apparent, contemplating his acts, their acts, her act. He’d allowed the blood rage within him to cool. He’d wanted to rend Isaac and Elizabetha limb from limb that night, but he had managed to maintain control.
Over the course of the next several nights, the blood had cooled, he’d locked himself away from the world, remained cloaked in darkness more weighted than the slumber of deep Torpor. This night he had emerged. Had he forgiven them for the insult? No. Would he forget it without some method of reconciliation? Absolutely not. But death for the Seneschal and Prince was not an option. Weakening the Camarilla in order to achieve vengeance was not an option. But there were other methods. But that was not what was on his mind this night. What was on his mind were the words of Scion.
It has become apparent to me, Amadeo, that somewhere within you there is some small measure of honor. But you are too fearful of your master to act on it.
But what was honor to a vampire? Did any of them have honor left after the things that each of them had surly done? They were killers. And those were the most civil of them. Amadeo didn’t want to think about Diablerists, or the rumors he’d heard about experiments performed in the basements of Tzimisce havens or the games that Setites played with mortal emotions. And then there was the Vauldri and the first step down the darker path of the Sabbat. How many had risen from the ground and slaughtered their entire family because the beast took over? No, surly there could be little if any kind of true honor amongst monsters.
The notion wasn’t foreign to them, but it was cast by the wayside in favor of something more tangible. Greed ruled the Kindred heart, Greed and Lust, for wealth, power and control. Boons screamed to them louder than money ever would and blood screamed louder still. And yet something in Scion’s voice, something about his words made Amadeo want to believe that somewhere there was something good in every Kindred, buried, waiting to be released.
“Stop being foolish!” Amadeo chided himself. He was elder and he knew better. There was little need for redemption, only the need to regain ones sense of self should he find himself coming too close to his beast. He’d lost most of what was worth fighting for five centuries ago. Now the only thing he could conceivably fight for was himself and the Camarilla, and not exactly in that order. Self preservation was the hallmark of most creatures and the Kindred were no exception. No, he’d chosen his course of action, and during the investigation he’d even told people to back off before they stepped on some ones toes. Amadeo could do more, but he didn’t want to think about what doing more would cost him. Besides, there was a bigger enigma on his mind that what was left of his tattered honor or how his morals had shifted over five centuries.
Rochelle.
With the Ventrue’s insult, Amadeo’s demeanor had slipped. He’d revealed too much of what was in his dead heart. All the anger was apparent, and perhaps even some of the pain. It had been a moment of weakness that did not wish to repeat. He’d shown the city what was inside of him, that he truly was alone and that meant that the Ventrue had won that battle. Everything with Seattle’s Ventrue had become a battle. He didn’t know whether any one else noticed his demeanor slip, but Rochelle did. But why did she care to know what he felt? She’d already told him that she’d been watching him for the Harpy. Was she hoping for him to slip up? Give her something to gain leverage with the man who she reported to?
Or did she actually care about this man… this creature?
Of course He had told her that nothing was wrong, that he was “As well as can be expected.” It was his attempt to hold his illusion. His attempt to appear stronger and not let the Ventrue know they’d won. He had failed miserably and the more Amadeo thought about it, no matter how much he wanted to trust her, she was Tremere and if any one was foolish enough to trust the Tremere without good reason then they deserved what ever fate they received from the Warlocks schemes.
She was almost perfect. She at least had two of the three precepts of vampirism down. She was beautiful, Most certainly powerful, and Amadeo was certain that it was a safe bet that she could be without remorse when it suited her. But she was still Tremere. They were the Usurper clan, willing to go to any lengths for their own goals.
But then Amadeo and Lille had been friends for at least a century, and she was Tremere. But then again how many favors had been traded between them. Amadeo had proven himself an invaluable resource time and time again for his sharp mind and his amazing affinity for languages, speaking at the very least sixteen languages, including several dead languages. But he’d not proven the same to the Tremere in Seattle and thus he had little reason to trust even one with whom he worked closely.
Amadeo looked to the dome at the center of the chamber, he stared at the mural of angels that flew around night darkened clouds which by day might have been a brilliant ivory and sighed heavily. Then it hit him like a ton of bricks; the realization that in their insults, the Prince and Seneschal had revealed a weakness. Both were younger than Amadeo. Neither of them knew the nights when Brujah, Lasombra and Ventrue were allies, not like Jean, Alixandra and Amadeo did. The Seneschal had revealed a further weakness however: She was methodic and precise. There had to be some kind of protocol and order in her life. Without that order she would be lost to the winds of chaos. Yes, Amadeo had not truly lost because he had learned at least something of his enemies and one such was a weakness.
“Oh what a tangled web we weave…” He mused to himself before he stood and began walking from the Cathedral, gently whistling the tune of Beethoven’s Violin Romance No. 2. The time for hot anger was past, and Vengeance was a dish best served cold.
Only the nights ahead would determine the roles of every one involved. And to that end there were a great many who were involved.
St James Cathedral
Seattle, Washington
Darkness. It was his world, all he knew any more was the comfort of the Abyss. It was the only safe place he knew. There, in the Abyss, when it surrounded him, he knew the kind peace that came only with the taking of a life. He was a killer of men and he dared not try to play himself up as anything more. He was a vampire, no matter what term one used.
The church was cold, dark and empty, just the way Amadeo wanted it. It meant that he was alone. That was his great illusion, that he was alone. That he didn’t need any one. All he truly did was go through the motions, he was a cold, heartless, and powerful elder who needed no one, wanted no one in this world. That was his greatest lie. He sat, in the cold empty darkness which surrounded him in the Cathedral, his ties to the church more than apparent, contemplating his acts, their acts, her act. He’d allowed the blood rage within him to cool. He’d wanted to rend Isaac and Elizabetha limb from limb that night, but he had managed to maintain control.
Over the course of the next several nights, the blood had cooled, he’d locked himself away from the world, remained cloaked in darkness more weighted than the slumber of deep Torpor. This night he had emerged. Had he forgiven them for the insult? No. Would he forget it without some method of reconciliation? Absolutely not. But death for the Seneschal and Prince was not an option. Weakening the Camarilla in order to achieve vengeance was not an option. But there were other methods. But that was not what was on his mind this night. What was on his mind were the words of Scion.
It has become apparent to me, Amadeo, that somewhere within you there is some small measure of honor. But you are too fearful of your master to act on it.
But what was honor to a vampire? Did any of them have honor left after the things that each of them had surly done? They were killers. And those were the most civil of them. Amadeo didn’t want to think about Diablerists, or the rumors he’d heard about experiments performed in the basements of Tzimisce havens or the games that Setites played with mortal emotions. And then there was the Vauldri and the first step down the darker path of the Sabbat. How many had risen from the ground and slaughtered their entire family because the beast took over? No, surly there could be little if any kind of true honor amongst monsters.
The notion wasn’t foreign to them, but it was cast by the wayside in favor of something more tangible. Greed ruled the Kindred heart, Greed and Lust, for wealth, power and control. Boons screamed to them louder than money ever would and blood screamed louder still. And yet something in Scion’s voice, something about his words made Amadeo want to believe that somewhere there was something good in every Kindred, buried, waiting to be released.
“Stop being foolish!” Amadeo chided himself. He was elder and he knew better. There was little need for redemption, only the need to regain ones sense of self should he find himself coming too close to his beast. He’d lost most of what was worth fighting for five centuries ago. Now the only thing he could conceivably fight for was himself and the Camarilla, and not exactly in that order. Self preservation was the hallmark of most creatures and the Kindred were no exception. No, he’d chosen his course of action, and during the investigation he’d even told people to back off before they stepped on some ones toes. Amadeo could do more, but he didn’t want to think about what doing more would cost him. Besides, there was a bigger enigma on his mind that what was left of his tattered honor or how his morals had shifted over five centuries.
Rochelle.
With the Ventrue’s insult, Amadeo’s demeanor had slipped. He’d revealed too much of what was in his dead heart. All the anger was apparent, and perhaps even some of the pain. It had been a moment of weakness that did not wish to repeat. He’d shown the city what was inside of him, that he truly was alone and that meant that the Ventrue had won that battle. Everything with Seattle’s Ventrue had become a battle. He didn’t know whether any one else noticed his demeanor slip, but Rochelle did. But why did she care to know what he felt? She’d already told him that she’d been watching him for the Harpy. Was she hoping for him to slip up? Give her something to gain leverage with the man who she reported to?
Or did she actually care about this man… this creature?
Of course He had told her that nothing was wrong, that he was “As well as can be expected.” It was his attempt to hold his illusion. His attempt to appear stronger and not let the Ventrue know they’d won. He had failed miserably and the more Amadeo thought about it, no matter how much he wanted to trust her, she was Tremere and if any one was foolish enough to trust the Tremere without good reason then they deserved what ever fate they received from the Warlocks schemes.
She was almost perfect. She at least had two of the three precepts of vampirism down. She was beautiful, Most certainly powerful, and Amadeo was certain that it was a safe bet that she could be without remorse when it suited her. But she was still Tremere. They were the Usurper clan, willing to go to any lengths for their own goals.
But then Amadeo and Lille had been friends for at least a century, and she was Tremere. But then again how many favors had been traded between them. Amadeo had proven himself an invaluable resource time and time again for his sharp mind and his amazing affinity for languages, speaking at the very least sixteen languages, including several dead languages. But he’d not proven the same to the Tremere in Seattle and thus he had little reason to trust even one with whom he worked closely.
Amadeo looked to the dome at the center of the chamber, he stared at the mural of angels that flew around night darkened clouds which by day might have been a brilliant ivory and sighed heavily. Then it hit him like a ton of bricks; the realization that in their insults, the Prince and Seneschal had revealed a weakness. Both were younger than Amadeo. Neither of them knew the nights when Brujah, Lasombra and Ventrue were allies, not like Jean, Alixandra and Amadeo did. The Seneschal had revealed a further weakness however: She was methodic and precise. There had to be some kind of protocol and order in her life. Without that order she would be lost to the winds of chaos. Yes, Amadeo had not truly lost because he had learned at least something of his enemies and one such was a weakness.
“Oh what a tangled web we weave…” He mused to himself before he stood and began walking from the Cathedral, gently whistling the tune of Beethoven’s Violin Romance No. 2. The time for hot anger was past, and Vengeance was a dish best served cold.
Only the nights ahead would determine the roles of every one involved. And to that end there were a great many who were involved.