Family Heirlooms.

(This next blog will be a joint effort on the part of myself and Noni Boynton, the player of Antonia.  The scene will be continued in the comments section)

I resolved on the way home after the attack that Antonia would never be caught unprepared again.  After checking to make sure she really was ok aside from her bloodied dress, we all got some rest.  The next night, I rose early as I tend to do and opened up an old box, one I hadn't touched in awhile.  Inside the box rested a broad sword I had been given by my sire after I returned home from a very fateful trip to Italy, long long ago.  Spanish steel nearly three and a half feet long, forged in Toledo, Spain.  I ran a whetstone over it a few times, but honestly that was just habit.  The edge was still there, it just needed to remember itself.

It was time to pass it on to a new owner.

I waited for Antonia to get up, readying my own sword while I was waiting for her.  Eventually I heard her stirring.  When she came into the study, I tossed the weapon - in it's sheath - to her.

She caught it.  A good sign.

"When I was officially released by my sire, this was his gift to me.  It's seen me through a number of scrapes, and now I think it's time for me to teach someone else how to use it.  Come with me."

I made my way out to the courtyard.

Blood on the Dance Floor.

Soundtrack: Bring It by Trapt


Bloody hell, what a night.  Not that I have any real reason to complain - I'm still alive and mobile, which is more than four members of the Sabbat can say.

Things started off well enough, at least for Baltimore.  I paid a visit to Salvatore's place before we both set out to the evening's gather, and we squared away our business.  Turns out, I kinda like the big guy.  Very professional and goal-oriented.  I think we'll get on just fine now that I'm back in town.  After our meeting, I went back to the mansion to see to the travel arrangements of Franka, Antonia, and Christina, my new ghoul/blood doll gift from Archon London.  I had intended to make a bit of a mess this evening, so Franka and I decided that the "kids" should stay near her while I did what I do.  Christina was to stay directly beside her the whole night, while Antonia was simply to find one of us if things got hairy.

And wow, did they get hairy fast.

One minute I'm asking questions of newly arrived kindred, being introduced by Franka to the new Toreador primogen, you know, the usual Sheriff type duties.  Next thing I know, someone I can't even remember is running up to me telling me that Antonia was being attacked on the dance floor.

I snapped.

I don't frenzy often, and I think the reason I have the kind of control over my beast that I have is because most of the time, when it wants out, I let it out.  This time was NOT the time to do that though, so I fought down that urge to rip apart anything between me and my childe and instead stomped my way over to the dance floor, eyes black as night and shadows answering my summons.  I get there and find some newcomer ripping a bleeding hole into Antonia.  I didn't even consciously react, I think.  I just willed the shadows to rip that thing apart, and the next thing I was aware of was a pile of ash surrounded by wavering, obedient shadow.  I had enough time to yell at Antonia to get the hell out of there before someone turned out the lights.

This made my night.  No one plays in the shadows better than I do.  Silly Sabbat goons.

Recognizing the inside of a Shroud of Night, I immediately dropped my own Shroud and then summoned up more Arms to defend myself.  I could make out two separate attackers in the Shroud based on movement, sound, impressions against my skin..... it's hard to explain all the little details, but I've been fighting Lasombra for a long time, and I know what to "look" for, even if I can't see a damn thing.  The Arms just feel different than the lick summoning them.

The first one came right at me, assisted by his Arms.  This made him easy to predict and dodge - it's not hard to figure out what's coming next when I can hear you charging at me.  Sidestep, keep arms up, stay low, wait for a chance to counter attack.  I don't think they were expecting my first counter attack to be flaming buckshot that lit up the shroud and caught them both.  I'll need to thank the Prince for that one.  Between that and my own Arms, he went down fairly quickly.  The second one was smarter though.  He managed to catch me with one of his Arms while I was dealing with his friend.

I responded by calling up yet more shadows and, instead of attacking with them, wrapping them around my body.  His attacks were absorbed by them, while I had the chance to figure out exactly where he was in the blackness and pick my shots.  I didn't get much of a chance to play the silent waiting game though.

The words "Fight Sandwich!" filled the Shroud, and I was joined by a tiny red-eyed ball of pointy death named Ylva.  It seems that someone had gotten word to my allies as to what was going on, because as soon as Ylva appeared on one side (well, as soon as her eyes appeared anyway), I heard Cyrus on my right and saw some sort of firey blast, followed by a scream.  I lost a lot of the fight at that moment.  Some people refer to that mental state as No Mind or Auto Pilot, I just call it instinct.  I remember more dodging.  I remember more punching and my Arms doing more damage, and at one point Cyrus and Ylva tearing into yet another target after the gangrel announced that the sandwich had become a pair.  What specifically happened in there?  I doubt I'll ever really know, short of someone dominating my brain and dragging the memories to the front of my consciousness.

What I can tell you is, at the end of the night we were short one Sabbat body.  It seems that someone went upstairs, grabbed one of them, and then took off before I could get everyone back together after the brawl.  Fortunately, a certain someone got me a description and some other good info on who the responsible party was.  You can run, but you can't hide from me, scum.

Antonia's combat training starts tomorrow night.  No one fucks with my childe.  And now Christina is insisting that I listen to some band called Blood on the Dance Floor.  Why do I suspect that I'm going to regret this?

Pointing the Fingers.

soundtrack: This Blood by Black Lab




These past few weeks have been total insanity.  Even Serendipity would agree, I think.  With Ayume and Antonia gone, I took the opportunity to do some research on a few things, and then I headed out into Baltimore to take care of a few more things.  The ladies had the BMW, so I took the Ducati.  Franka hated that thing, but there was just something about a motorcycle that felt right to me.  I come from an era when the most common means of transportation was horseback, and I guess the closest thing to that in these modern nights was my Ducati.



Antonia was, in a lot of ways, exactly what I was hoping to find when I came to Baltimore.  A Lasombra that hadn't been corrupted by sabbat teachings, one that I could teach instead.  My position as Sheriff had given me the ability to spare her existence when we discovered her, and at the time the only reason I had done so was because she knew enough to claim that she was Sabbat, but not enough to know that telling that fact to an Archon on a Camarilla Elysium was an almost guaranteed way to get killed.  It turns out that her sire abandonded her soon after she was embraced.

I hit the accelerator on the bike as I took the winding road that led from the mansion to the city proper.  Speed may kill, but it also lets me think.  I had a lot of thinking to do.

The Sheriff's position itself had come as something of a shock.  One minute, Prince Baltimore was hitting me hard enough to make me wonder how someone had gotten a train into the Elysium, and the next minute he was telling me that I was his new Sheriff.  I didn't have much to complain about in that regard, aside from the fact that everything seemed to be going wrong in this city at once, and we still had no idea what had caused the mass disappearance of the city's former kindred population.  Well, that and the fact that apparently Archon Eden had decided that I was his personal attack dog.

The Ohio trip had turned into a total clusterfuck.  We were sent there, officially, to hunt down and kill an independent Gangrel that had made a habit of embracing kids.  We didn't even make it off the runway we touched down on before things went wrong.  Burning planes, gun fights, dead and captured ghouls, a justicar, and an independent Gangrel that was dead before we got there.  I haven't even begun to figure out what really went on that night, but I needed to, and quickly.  It seems that someone had been watching.

World Nightly News, a tabloid publication, has been a thorn in our side lately.  They've been getting a little bit too close to the truth, and somehow they were able to find out about the airport debacle and report on it. To top that off, some of Chi-Mer's ghouls were now in the custody of the US army, from what I had been told.  None of this was anything resembling good, and of course, since I'm the Sheriff, it's my job to figure out how to set it right.  This was in addition to dealing with the ghost of a nun that possesses true faith and has been haunting our Elysium, figuring out where the hell the local Sabbat were holed up at, teaching Antonia, assisting the Tremere with the rebuilding of both their chancery and their library, and determining exactly what was going on with Testament.  At least the freakish "keeper" had been dealt with.  I think we scared it off rather than actually killing it though.  Hard to say for sure - I'm not exactly an expert on things that bleed ice and light when you open up their belly with a shotgun blast.

Here it is.  Druid Hill, one of the nastier areas of Baltimore.  I was in need of a set of fingerbones, and I figure that the best place to get them would be from someone who was better off dead anyway.  I parked the Ducati somewhere conspicuous but away from police cameras and waited, just out of sight.  I pulled the shadows to me for added concealment.  It didn't take long for the expensive bike to attract the wrong - or right, in this case - kind of attention.  I waited for the crackhead to begin trying to hotwire my motorcycle before I stepped out of the shadows and put a 9mm to his head.  The Lemat was far too unique for a job like this.

"Did you find something you like?"

"Easy man, easy man!!  I was just admiring, you know?  Just admiring the ride, is all!"  He tried to turn his head to face me, but I jammed the barrel of the gun into the back of his skull and he thought better of that.

"And I suppose you were trying to get to the ignition wires so you could admire those too, right?"

"Alright brother, alright!  I'm just out here trying to make some extra money, you know?  A little bit of extra green to feed the kids, right?  You know how it is!"

"More likely you were trying to find the money to feed your addiction."

"Whatever you say man, whatever you say!  Just don't shoot me!  Look, I got a few rocks in my pocket, you can take 'em if you want 'em!"

I reached my free hand into the crackhead's coat pocket and threw the baggie into the nearest sewer in disgust.  "Do you want to get out of this without getting shot?"

"Yeah man!  I'll do anything you want me to, just don't shoot me!"  He had started shaking, but I couldn't tell if it was from fear or withdraw.  Probably both.

"Fine.  Start walking.  If you turn around, I shoot you.  If you don't do exactly what I say, I shoot you."

Wordlessly, the crackhead started walking towards a back alley behind a no-tell motel, out of sight of the main road and the parking lot.  "Put your hands up and stand up against the wall."  He did as he was told while I put the 9mm away and pulled out a plastic baggie and a hatchet.  I took the back end of the hatchet to the back of his skull.  He slumped to the ground, unconscious or dead, I couldn't tell and honestly didn't care.

Back when I was a boy, there was a common punishment for thieves.  I never quite understood why it had been done away with in modern nights... a few minutes later, I put the two severed hands into the plastic baggie and threw the hatchet into the same sewer that I had thrown the bag of crack.  Baltimore City's water usage would wash any traces of blood off of the hatchet, if the cops even bothered to look in a sewer for a weapon that had been used to assault a crackhead, which was doubtful.  I hopped back on the bike and headed towards the Tremere chantry.  The hands, or at least the finger bones, were for them.

And besides that, I wanted to discuss the letter in my pocket with Testament, as well as the symbol that had been burned into my front door.

To Defend a Duchess.

SOUNDTRACK HERE

France, sometime around 1540....

I walked across the flagstoned courtyard of our "familial" estate, feeling an odd longing for the sensation of sweat that should have been pouring off of my body but otherwise in fine spirits.  My older "brother" Samuel and I had spent the evening sparring with one another, and tonight I had finally managed to defeat him.  I rested my longsword on my shoulder and grinned as Samuel and I exchanged barbs and jokes while he critiqued my form.  The fact that I had bested him tonight did not mean that I had nothing more to learn from him - he had 150 years of experience on me in this matter.  All it meant was that I was a fast learner and, as my sire Lucius had pointed out when I started my training 8 years ago, a "natural talent with a blade".  I had learned a lot over those years, primarily that natural talent was no substitute for hard work and experience, no matter what the person in question was talented at doing.

Besides, if I started to routinely beat Samuel, Lucius would just task Michael with continuing my training.  The only time I had ever seen Michael lose a sword fight was when he sparred against Lucius or our grandsire, Sargon.

We walked into the estate itself, placing our weapons on the racks that held them, and proceeded up a flight of stairs to the hallway that led to our living quarters.  We had both expended a decent amount of vitae tonight and had planned on cleaning up and then going out to the surrounding city to eat.  The hallway was rather dimly lit with candles set into the walls, and it took me a second to realize that one of Lucius's mortal servants had been patiently waiting for us to return from the evenings activities.  He bowed before speaking - which is how I realized he was there.

"Master Tybalt, Lord Cygnus awaits you in his study for a private audience.  He has asked that you attend him immediately after your training has ended for the evening."

I glanced at Samuel, but all I got from the blonde man was a raised, inquisitive eyebrow.  "Best not to keep father waiting.  I suppose our evening on the town will have to be postponed."  I nodded in agreement and, without another word, made my way to Lucius's study.

Upon entry, I noticed that we would not be alone for this meeting.  Stuffed into a small but comfortable corner of the study sat three kindred; Lucius, my grandsire Sargon, and a man I had never met before.  The three all held goblets of red wine in their hands, wine suffused with blood I was sure, and on the table in front of them was a large map.  Sargon said nothing as I entered, he simply cast a disapproving glance towards my dirty attire and sighed, the one habit the tall Bablyonian still held from his mortal days.  I quickened my pace and bowed, waiting to be addressed before rising.

"Please Tybalt, take a seat.  I'm certain that Lord Sargon will forgive me if I give you leave to dispense with formalities this evening."  Those words came as something of a shock to me.  Given that I was adopted into clan Ventrue, still in the middle of my agoge, and considered an unreleased childe, Lucius was usually adamant about making sure I observed every aspect of formality and protocol.  My failure to do so would reflect poorly on him.  Something was definitely afoot.

I sat in the only available seat, a chair directly across from my sire, with Sargon to my left and the strange, dark haired kindred to my right.  "Tybalt, I would like to introduce you to Adriano Genovese, Primogen of Clan Toreador in Sicily and an associate of mine."  The dark haired Toreador smiled and offered me a goblet of wine, which I accepted.  "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Genovese."

"Please, Adriano will do."  He rolled his R, but otherwise there was no accent at all.  I nodded and sipped my blood wine.  "Adriano, then.  I apologize."  What was this?  I was sitting in a private meeting with my sire, the grandsire that had never seemed to approve of me, and a high ranking member of another clan.  I felt like wolf cub staring down three pack alphas.  Adriano chuckled.  "I see what you mean, Lucius.  Polite to a fault.  However, I'd like to make certain that he has a spine underneath that polish before he meets her."

That comment galled me a bit.  I may be young, but I've seen more than some kindred twice my age have, and I was not about to sit by while a Rose casually insinuated that I couldn't deal with a mere woman.  "She must be quite ferocious to elicit such concern from you, Adriano.  Shall I prove my courage to you by hunting down a bar wench?  I imagine it can't be much more difficult than hunting Lasombra."

My retort earned me a quick snort of humor from Sargon, something rare enough that I could count the number of times I had seen it on one hand.  Lucius laughed quietly while Adriano simply grinned.  "Your sire has already informed me of your extracurricular activities, Tybalt.  It's not your courage or combat prowess I question.  Rather, it's the fire in your soul, although I must admit that your response to me does seem promising even if you did misinterpret my concerns.  My childe can be a handful at times."

"Your childe?"

"Yes.  Allow me to explain."  He refilled his goblet - and mine - before continuing.  "My childe, Franka, has managed to garner quite a bit of animosity from the Giovanni in Sicily.  It seems that they intended for her to join their family, rather than the Toreador.  Personally, I find their grievances to be both misplaced and of little consequence.  In fact, I would not even be addressing this issue at all, save for the fact that my old friend Lucius has asked me to accompany him on an..... adventure of sorts," he grinned a very fang-filled grin at this point, one that my sire returned, "and I will not be in Sicily for some time, leaving her without my support.  In addition, I have seen to it that she will be taking my place as Primogen, and not everyone in the clan of the Rose is happy with this arrangement."

I had heard of the Giovanni.  Not only were they a thorn in the side of clan Ventrue's attempts to expand our economic endeavors, but they could also control ghosts, if the rumors were to be believed.  Adriano continued.

"Normally, of course, I have the resources to see to it that my childe would be protected.  However, the Giovanni have already made one attempt on her life with the foul spirits they control, and that attempt left three ghouls and two kindred dead.  That is why I am seeking you specifically, Tybalt."

Was I hearing this correctly?  Adriano's childe had managed to anger the Giovanni enough that their assassination attempt had killed five of her protectors, and somehow I was not only expected to take their place, but this fop actually believed that I would succeed where five others had failed?

"I'm not sure I understand your reasoning, Adriano.  How is it that you believe I am the equivalent to five men?

"Not the equivalent, Tybalt.  More than the equivalent.  You see, I am aware of your particular... blood-borne talents.  You are most unique among the Ventrue."

He knew.  He knew.  My heart would have skipped a beat, if it was still capable of such a thing.

"The Giovanni's horrid little pets have an abject terror of the darkness that you control, almost similar to the terror we feel when confronted with fire, and for much the same reason.  It is anathema to them, literally capable of undoing their existence.  Between that talent and your more mundane skills, such as what you were practicing earlier, I believe you will be a most excellent escort for Franka in the coming nights while I am away."

My mind was still recovering from the realization that this stranger knew what I was.  "I'm not sure you understand my position within clan Ventrue, Adriano.  I am still undergoing my Agoge, and have not been released.  Would it not be better if you were to seek assistance from a Lasombra in Sicily?"  As much as I hated the idea of suggesting that anyone parlay with those bastards, the truth was that I wouldn't be allowed to do this.  It would violate the laws of our clan.

"If I were to do that, I fear that my childe would fall prey to the same person charged with her protection.  You see, Franka was a duchess in her mortal life, and she still holds most of the perks that such a station entitles her to.  I fear that I would come home to find my childe alive but stripped of all that she has, were I to ask the Keepers for this favor.  I need someone I trust, and I trust your sire.  I am willing to extend that trust to you, based on the fact that you are his childe.  As for your first concern..."

Lucius rose from his seat.  "Tybalt Alonzo Carmichael Cygnus.  I hereby release you from your Agoge and all the constraints that come with it.  From this moment on, you are no longer merely the unreleased childe of Lucius Cygnus.  You are fully recognized as a Ventrue on this night, as witnessed by Sargon, elder of the clan."

Sargon snorted.  I remained silent and stunned.  Released?  Traditionally the Agoge lasted for at least fifty years.  I wasn't even half way through that time period yet.  Sargon looked me in the eyes, and suddenly his raspy voice filled my mind.

This violation of tradition does not mean that you have proven yourself in my eyes, whelp.  I will be watching you long into the future, and I will not hesitate to destroy you if I see so much as a hint that you may disgrace my line.

My mouth went dry.  I drained the goblet.  It didn't help.  Lucius, no doubt aware of what had just happened, refilled it as he spoke.  "I will arrange for a proper reception for your release after you return, but circumstances prevent us from having the time to do so now.  Unfortunately, this means that you will be without many of the resources that newly released Ventrue usually have access to for the time being."  He gripped my shoulder and grinned.  "Tybalt, don't take that to mean that I am displeased with you.  On the contrary, I would never have agreed to this if I didn't think you were ready for such a thing.  Unlike some," he cast a pointed glance at Sargon, who snorted again, "I have never doubted your potential or your worth."

The rest of the evening was a blur of plotting my journey to Sicily and briefing me on the names and importance of various kindred there.  The next night, I found that my belongings had already been packed and a carriage was waiting for me.  As I walked out the gate towards it, I was suddenly aware of Sargon standing in front of me, seemingly appearing out of the night itself.  "Whelp, these are yours now.  Take them."  I found myself staring at two curved, moorish style blades, obviously intended to be used as a pair.

"You may not know it, but I have watched you fight," said that raspy voice of my grandsire.  "You use both hands.  I've seen it.  Now, you will learn to use them both at the same time.  You will fight like I fight, because so few can."

It was the only time Sargon had ever given me anything but disapproval.  Reverently, I took the swords from him.  "I will do as you ask, grandsire.  I will make these a part of me."

"You had better, whelp, because when you return home I'll be waiting to test your skill with them in the courtyard."  He smiled, actually smiled, at me.  "Now, begin your journey, as it will be a long one."

And that is how my sire sent me off to babysit a spoiled Toreador duchess that I wanted nothing to do with, as a favor to one of his coterie mates, without a second thought about my own opinions on the matter.

Well, that escalated quickly...

Theme Music:  Gimme Shelter by The Sisters of Mercy (cover)  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OOl-diNxEys




The first thing I noticed when I walked in was, well.... me.

I've been in more goth clubs than I care to recall.  Travel is definitely part of my job description for Clan Ventrue, and for some horribly cliche reason all the cool leeches hang out in goth clubs.  While it certainly makes the feeding easy (find me a cute little goth girl that doesn't think she wants to be bitten by that guy who just looks so much like Lestat or Blade or Buffy or..... wait, Buffy isn't a vampire, is she?) it tends to all blend together after the 50th or 100th or 500th time.

So you can imagine my surprise when I walk into club Orpheus and there I am, staring back at myself in the mirrors lining the club walls.  I have to admit, most of those in attendance probably had good reason to think I was a Toreador, because I just stood there for I have no idea how long, looking at the impossible reflection of myself that shouldn't be there - and if I do say so myself, I looked damn good for a 500 year old man.  I haven't seen myself since the night of my embrace.  Even recent kine developments like cameras and film rely on some form of reflection to do what they do.

There's a joke in there somewhere, I think.  I'm out of my mind.  I've gone looking to find me.  If I return before I catch up to myself.... yeah yeah, I'm sure the punchline is old and stale for you too.

I did what any self respecting Kindred in that sort of situation would do - I stared at those mirrors like an inbred farmboy the first time he sees a girl that isn't his sister.  Then, just so I could tell Ray that I did it, I fixed my hair.  Because dammit, I could fix my fucking hair.  Then I went to the bar and ordered a drink.

There's a trick to drinking and enjoying other chemical treats when you're dead.  Normally, we can't enjoy the things that kine take for granted, like good scotch or omlettes or those awful smelling sandwich-burger things from Mc.... something-or-other that Ray is obsessed with.  The trick is to mix in blood.  Kindred vitae will work, but honestly I've found that human blood works better.  It doesn't work with food, but liquids are fair game, and whoever owned this bar was prepared for his guests this evening.  Some local brewery named Yuengling makes a damn fine low-end ale.  It was actually enjoyable to the point that I had four of them as the evening went on.  It works for other things too if you get creative.  I knew an anarch with a severe addiction to suspiciously red colored form of cocaine at one point.... bad times ensued.  He's dead now.

The club was already pretty full when I made my fashionably-late-turned-stupidly-slackjawed arrival, and from what I could tell most of the kindred there were of the young, dumb, and stupid variety.  Franca tells me that I've grown calloused as the decades have dragged on, but at this point in my unlife I have little patience or tolerance for stupidity.  Stupidity causes messes that I invariably end up having to fix.  By the night goddess, sometimes being a halfway competent Kindred is a fucking curse.

The first notable exception I encountered was a female that goes by the name of Zero.  I've gotten pretty good at figuring out a kindred's clan just by watching how they move and interact with those around them, and I had her pegged for an Assamite before we started talking.  Good to know that the old instincts still work.  Zero turned out to be charming, intelligent, witty, and fucking lethal - my preferred type of coterie mate and every warriors favorite type of woman.  Franca is going to love her.  I'll ignore the fact that she likely could have killed 80% of the club's occupants on her own, given enough time.  Pointing such things out is rude and unprofessional, after all.

My conversation with the most dangerous thing I could find on short notice (what?  I get myself into trouble fast.  It's a gift.) was cut short by one of the afore-mentioned young and stupid licks deciding to try to deck another one.  On Elysium.  I saw the fist coming and was preparing to, ahem, discipline it's owner when someone appeared out of freaking nowhere and intercepted the fist midway to it's destination, and then proceeded to explain how doing stupid things can make you dead to the person doing the punching.  As it turns out, the fist interceptor was a Caitiff with more than his fair share of common sense.

Oh, be quiet.  I can hear you already.  "Tybalt, you associate with the clanless?  They're dirty, and they have vampire cooties, and....."

And get your head out of your ass, please.  I've found that the Caitiff are, almost to an individual, competent and capable, and when it comes to having someone at my side who can potentially pull my ass out of a fire, I do not discriminate.  If that bothers you, I suggest living a little.

Where was I before I got cranky?  Oh yeah, Caitiff fist interceptors....

This individual - and by the night goddess I cannot remember his fucking name, and it's driving me crazy - turned out to be extremely pleasant company.  And by "pleasant" I mean not stupid, not boring, and capable of getting things done.  What things?  Don't you worry your pretty little head about that.  Let's just say that he introduced me to other interesting and un-stupid kindred, and I like any lick who can do that sort of thing for me while having enough spare time to intercept fists mid-flight.

The intended victim of said fist was even more interesting, but for very different reasons.  Turns out the poor bastard was a hit-and-run embrace.  His first night of unlife, and he ends up in a club with me.  He had to piss someone off in a past life, because trouble tends to follows me like a lost little puppy that needs to go to the pound for a long nap.  After talking to the kid and a fellow Ventrue who had taken an interest in him, we got him squared away as far as figuring out what sort of blood was in his veins and what the basic rules of our society are.  My family member now has a new protege, it seems.  I'm completely ok with this, because if the kid turns out to be useful he's with us, and if he does something stupid, he's not my problem.  Win-win.

I spent most of the evening with either Zero or the Caitiff my brain refuses to name, dealing with suspicious personages appointing themselves and others to the Princes court and naming themselves as authority figures and other nonsense.  Seriously, I can't imagine what in the Cold Night would possess you to just decide that you are now Sherriff or Prince.  This seems decidedly dangerous to me when you haven't even seen the Prince yet.  Speaking of which....

The Prince never showed up.  Now I understand that this sort of thing is a Prince's perogative under normal circumstances, but really?  You have a city of new kindred and a freaking Archon in attendance, and you decide to skip the meet-and-greet?  Unprofessional.  His Seneschal wasn't even there.  And that's how my evening got interesting....

You see, I was just trying to be helpful.  I was explaining to my new Archon friend (no, that's not really something that exists.  Archons don't have friends) that I thought it was just bad form for the Prince not to show up.  I may have mentioned that the city needed someone on the throne, and if no one else was stepping in to fill the role, I would.  The next thing I am aware of is the fact that I'm staring into the grinning face of a Tremere Archon as he asks me "So, are you officially challenging the Prince for praxis of Baltimore?"

Being the kind of lick that always likes to double down on his mistakes, I told him that yes, I would stand in contention up until the point that the Prince came out of hiding and resumed his rightful place in the city, if that was needed.....

..... fuck me.  Did I just appoint myself Prince?  Wasn't I just saying how very stupid that sort of thing is?

Franca's letter to Tybalt.

Theme music: Alibis by The Birthday Massacre                    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xl-y--1G8Xg




Tybalt,

Hello my love. I miss you greatly. I am sorry to have left you while you were recovering but we needed to secure the businesses. I have not kept you as in the loop as I should have. I apologize. Sometimes I forget that the need to know that everything is okay, outweighs the need to just relax.

Ray says relaxing is not working for you, so I thought you may enjoy a new project. I have been securing hotels up and down the eastern coast. The galleries are doing okay, but the wars did a large amount of damage. The theaters are doing great. Kindred and Kine alike tend to reach for the arts when the world is a bit too scary. The economy isn’t quite as bad as the Kine news reports. At least not as far as I have seen, but maybe I have a bit more experience in customer service than the Kine?

I have decided to settle in Baltimore Maryland. I would like you to join me. I was hoping to secure a haven and ease you into things, but it appears there is an important gather being hosted this weekend. This means that you have a week to pack up and get here. Don’t worry about bringing everything, for now we have a row house. Do remember those? Ohio didn’t have many. Anyway, I figured we could house hunt. Remember how we used to look through houses on the computer and dream of how to make them ours? It’s been so long, I thought it would be fun. The architecture here is amazing.

So stop your self-destructive isolation and get your ass out here. I’ll see you in a week. There’s more, but I’ll fill you in when you arrive. There’s a bit more unrest here than in Ohio and I don’t want to take more chances than I already have.

I’ll see you soon my love.
Franca

Some wounds never heal.

Scene 1:  A bad night(mare)
Theme music: Down by The Birthday Massacre      http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vQXlFOyhje4





Fire. Fire is everywhere. The building is engulfed in it. Some of it in normal shades, but far too much of it in that hideous, infernal green. I know what that green means... although some nights I wish I didn't. 

Most of my coterie is now dead or fleeing in frenzy, some disintegrating under the burning green death as they run. The remnants of Daniel's pack are doing the same, until he assumes his war form and terrifies them back into battle. The Tzimice is an effective leader, I'll give the bastard that.

The source of those green flames starts cackling again as the infernalists renew their attack with a new ally - a demon one of them summoned, most likely the fallen Tremere. It doesn't take long to turn the rest of the pack - and my coterie - into ashes and blood, leaving just me and Daniel. And one other.

As Daniel grapples the thing, a thunder crack from half a block away goes off, and the demon's head splatters and disintegrates. Franca. Holy water is hell to work with, but when you put it into hollow bullets, put those bullets into a high-powered sniper rifle, and then give that rifle to a 400 year old toreador that could outshoot most men when she was twelve, it's damn effective. Especially against infernalists. Daniel chuckles as his adversary's head pops, splattering his grotesque form with goo. He growls something, but between the sounds of fighting, his horrid accent, and what his transformation does to that accent, I have no idea what he says. Most likely something appreciative of my Toreador lover's aim. He has been pursuing her since he met her.

Emptying my revolver into the onrushing horde, I flip the selection lever and fire off the single shotgun shell the LeMatt holds before stowing the gun, drawing my blades, and pulling the night to me... becoming one with it. The infernalists have only a second to glimpse my own shadowy war form before I drop the night on their heads, blinding them. Tentacles spring out of the shadows as I wade into the orb, doing a bit of damage before being consumed by the flames.

I'm terrified. As usual. Terror becomes a frigid rage, and I channel that into violence, a brutal and efficient counterpoint to Daniel's messy gorefest. Outside of my black globe of death, I can hear the Tzimice shouting something. I drop the globe, no longer needing it to hide me from the piles of ash I have created, and I see him pointing one disgusting arm at the upper levels. The Tremere is there. And he has a remote in his hand.

The next thing I know, I am falling. The last thing I see is the building falling with me. On to me.




Scene 2:  My inner demons can beat up your furniture
Theme music: One by Filter (cover)                    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xebW97V8iwU






I woke up with a scream. Renard - excuse me, he prefers Ray these nights - is there across the room from me.

"The dreams again, Tybalt?"

I cup my face in my hands, trying to drive it out of my head. The war was hell, but dealing with what came afterwards was worse. Ray knows this. He knows the nightmares well, all of them. Franca left him with me after she and Daniel dug my torpid body out of what should have been my grave. I hate Tzimice, but at least they understand loyalty. Most of the time. I hate infernalists a great deal more - about as much as I hate small, enclosed, burning places.

I nod in reply to Ray and wordlessly get up, grimacing as I do so.  Some wounds never heal, and nightmares are just one special variety of those kind of wounds.

"I need food, and I'm not feeding on you. Not in this condition. I like you."

"I still have the the one we caught two nights ago downstairs, sir."

I nod. I've taken to catching criminals and keeping them around until they aren't breathing anymore. Drug pushers, murderers, rapists, the like. There's no shortage of violent predators in Akron these days. Not after the war destroyed the economy here. It keeps me from doing any harm to the recovering populace - no use accidentally killing off useful members of kine society when I can "accidentally" kill off scum, although if Franca finds out that I'm hunting down armed "meals" in my current condition she's going to read me the riot act. 400 years is a long time to practice the art of womanly fury, and Franca is an undisputed master of it.

I make my way downstairs to the sub basement. The two-legged animal is dozing in his chains, but he wakes up and instantly recoils when he sees me come in. He's frightened of me. He should be. Predators can recognize bigger, nastier predators when they see one, and he has nowhere to run or hide. It's over quickly. I'm not in a good mood, so I don't bother to bite him in a way that would induce bliss - he doesn't deserve it anyway. I simply rip his throat open and drain him as his screams become a wet gurgling, and then silence. Ray has his methods of body disposal, so I don't need to be discrete.

"That's better."

Ray chuckles. It's a side effect of being around me and Franca for so long. Seeing things that would send a normal person into years of therapy just amuse him now, unless those things are happening to someone he cares about. We may be nice monsters, but we're still monsters. Just ask anyone who managed to survive the war, on either side. 

We are all monsters.

I head back upstairs, making small talk with Ray and pausing in the hallway to do my nightly ritual of "fixing" my hair in the mirror. I make a point of it, have for centuries. Just like every other night, I can't see a damn thing in that mirror other than the wall behind me. That's the point after all. What would I be without a sense of humor and the ability to laugh at myself?

A much less pleasant monster, that's what. Night goddess forbid, I might even become rude, and we can't have that, now can we?

I've been slowly recovering since that night, both physically and mentally. Torpor does horrible things to a kindred's body, even more so when its assisted by an infernalist's dying curse. I've done a good job of recovering from that nuisance. It's the mental scars I'm still recovering from.

I head back into the room I was sleeping in and get dressed, then flop down on a couch and snatch a cigar from the humidor Franca had installed for me here. Puffing away in silence while Ray fixes my hair for real, I finally get the courage to ask someone - anyone - the question that has been plaguing me since I arose from the rubble two years ago.

"Ray, have I been wrong all this time? Were we any different?"

The ghoul looks at me for a long, long time before answering me.

"Christ, Ty. Did you really just ask me that?"

My only reply is another smoke ring from my cigar.

"I'm assuming that you're referring to the rest of your..... to the Lasombra."

I nod. Ray knows better than to refer to them as my clan. I've been Ventrue literally since the night of my embrace.

He smiles a sad smile. Ray is more than just a ghoul. He's a confidant. A friend. Probably one of the reasons I haven't fallen to the beast yet, along with Franca. "Honestly Tybalt, I've watched your kind for a long time now. This may not be what you want to hear, but-"

"What I want to hear is honesty, Renard." My voice comes out harsher than I intend. Mentally I chastise myself for taking out my burden on him. He doesn't deserve it.

"Alright then. You weren't wrong for a long time, Tybalt. Not until you decided that they were all the same. I watched you make that switch, from hunting what you knew were abominations to hunting anything that shared the same blood with you, simply because of that blood. It turned you into someone I didn't like. In some ways, it turned you into one of them, because of how you started to think. I know that it hurt Franca to watch it happen, and I'm pretty sure it caused a lot of the self-loathing you've been wallowing in recently."

I arched an eyebrow at him. "Self loathing?"

He arched one back. "Don't act like you don't know, Ty. You've been wrestling with all of this since we pulled you out of that building, and it's because of that Tzimice that helped us. You were forced to face the fact that maybe not all of them were purely evil, and that revelation took your black-and-white world view and turned it inside out. Franca left because she knew you had to figure this out for yourself."

I said nothing again. Eventually, the cigar went out. Ray got up and made his way to the door. "When you're done processing all of that, she sent you a letter. I'll be waiting for you in the study." I nodded at him as he left, lost in my own thoughts. I'd spent almost my entire existence hunting down the monsters that created me. No remorse, no pity. It had gotten me far in the Ventrue and the Camarilla both, and Franca had been there for most of it. She had to have seen this coming, and yet I didn't even know where she had gone.

The war had proven only one thing to me - that in the end, both the Camarilla and the Sabbat were victims of the same mistakes and flaws at their core. Both used their neonates as cannon fodder, they just covered up the truth with different shades of lies. What would have become of those neonates, had they been able to plot a different course? Would they still be monsters, violent and twisted and hateful?

Would I still be a monster?

It was a thought that shook me to my unliving core. The beast inside recoiled and then reared up, lashing out at the unwelcome harshness of truth. Half an hour later, I came back to myself. My room was a study in forceful dis-assembly of household furnishings, and I had splinters in my feet from broken wood. Leave it to me to forget to put my shoes on before a frenzy. Plucking them from my soles and putting the misplaced shoes on, I hit the intercom button.

"Ray? I'm done. You can release the lock on the door now."

A second later the bedroom door emitted a soft click, and I made my way down to the study. Ray was waiting with a letter and two glasses of wine - chardonay for him, blood infused merlot for me. I took the glass with a surprisingly steady hand, sat down, and got right to the point.

"Do you think there is any hope for them?"

"The Lasombra?" He answered me in Spanish. Apparently I had switched languages again without realizing it. I do that sometimes, an odd habit from 500 years of being around. I made a mental point to switch back to English and continued.

"Not just the Lasombra. Them, the Ventrue.... all of us."

He looked me in the eyes, a bold thing to do when conversing with a creature like me. "In my short time, I've known exalted and lofty pillars of the Camarilla to commit the most vile act one of your kind can do to another, simply out of boredom. I've seen anarchs defend a burning hospital against impossible odds from two warring factions that both outnumbered them by the hundreds, because they believed it was the right thing to do. I've seen a Tzimice pull a torpid enemy from the rubble of a burning building beside a Camarilla Toreador, simply because of his honor as a warrior. And I've watched a Lasombra.... accept it, that's what you are, Tybalt... seek out and destroy the foulest things the world has to offer, seeking some sort of redemption he denies he's even looking for, for sins no one but himself thinks he's committed. I've seen two undead predators display centuries of devotion to one another, and I've seen rank neonates publicly torture rivals and ghouls like me to death for their own amusement, or because they were told that was how things were done. At the end of the day, I've come to the conclusion that it all depends on two things - the desire to rise above what you are, and the guidance to pursue that goal. In that regard, kindred are no different from the people they feed on."

I drained my glass and lit a cigarette, digesting those words.

"You should read this letter, Ty. It sounds important."

In my bout of introspective navel-gazing, I had completely forgotten about Franca's letter. I took it from his hands, unable to hide the smile on my face even if I wanted to. The contents were surprising, to say the least. "Baltimore? She went to Baltimore? Why?" I knew why, of course. The letter explained that fairly clearly, but still.... Baltimore?

Tucking the letter away, I started making travel arrangements. While doing so, I made a decision. Perhaps it was time for me to leave the past behind me. Maybe - one at a time at first, and only if they were willing, I could guide the new Kings on a path that would make them worthy of the title. And maybe I could even overcome my own demons and give some guidance to my wayward, long denied bloodmates - and become my Brothers' Keeper.

The guide the Keepers never had.



Scene 3:  ...... and hell is coming with me.
Theme music:  Shine Down by Godsmack                         http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XXvUg4bo0qM




A few nights later, arrangements had been made. It was going to take some time to transfer funds, investments, controlling interests in stocks.... all that menial paperwork that resulted in my having the money to do the things I do, but I had enough liquid capital - also known in modern parlance as cold, hard cash - to make it for a few weeks until all the paper trails found their ways to the right hands. Unlike a normal, mortal financial predator, I couldn't have things like mutual funds, stocks, savings accounts, and the like in my name. I had to use proxies and false identities. Why?

Go try to find my birth certificate or social security number. I'll even let you cheat and use that googly thing that Franca is so fond of, if you want. I suspect it won't help you much, because neither of those things exist. A birth certificate citing my D.O.B. as "sometime in 1503" would be a pretty big breach of the masquerade after all, not to mention the headaches and ulcers that sort of vagueness would cause to all those paper pushers.

I might have had an ulcer once, judging by what I've been told they feel like. But that was a long time ago. There are perks to being what I am, and a lack of ulcers is one of them I suppose.

Franca and I generally prefer to travel via private jets with special accommodations for those of us with, shall we say, severe allergies to sunlight, but she hadn't had the time to set up the proper connections in Baltimore yet to make sure my arrival would be overlooked by airport security. The last thing I needed was an overzealous TSA employee pulling me aside because of a troubling lack of body temperature and some very strange cargo, so Renard - dammit, Ray - and I would be taking shifts driving a semi we acquired a few years back. He would take the daylight hours while I slept in the conveniently lightproofed trailer, and I would take over after sunset, giving him a chance to sleep. I wouldn't be able to take all of our possessions, but what we couldn't fit into the trailer could be picked up later on. I packed what was important - my weapons (making sure that we had all of the properly forged permits and licenses for them up in the cab, just in case Ray or I got pulled over by a state trooper or some other form of nonsense happened), my gunsmithing tools and equipment, several changes of clothing for a variety of occasions, a selection of the best cigars and cigarettes in the mansion as well as several of the rarer vintages of alcohol, (One does not simply abandon a bottle of scotch given to you by Mr. Johnathan Walker the year he opened his distillery. That would be a crime.) my training equipment, and box after box of books, scrolls, parchments, notes, supplies, and research equipment. What sort of books and research equipment? All kinds, everything from Shakespeare and Plato to treatises on kindred physiology to dusty old tomes concerning the theoretical and practical similarities and differences between Thaumaturgy and Abyss Mysticism, along with grimoires and tutorials on those subjects. I've been gathering those writings for almost as long as I've been drinking blood, and a good many of them are older than I am, whether they are the original documents or copies of the originals I had made before trading the originals to the Tremere for yet more old, arcane occult texts or the odd bit of teaching and instruction. Irreplaceable, in any case. Hell, I even have one of Benjamin Franklin's personal handwritten journals in there, and let me tell you - that was an interesting read. Mr. Franklin was what the modern kids would call a freak. I'm fairly certain that journal could make a Toreador Antitribu blush.

We also had a decent sized refridgeration unit stocked with quantities of my and Franca's blood. Renard - dammit all to hell, RAY - had been with us for a long time, passed between me and Franca through the years as time, travel, and torpor allowed, and in the event that neither one of us were able to give him the vitae he needed, that was his emergency backup supply.

I kept my LeMat on me, loaded with silver rounds just like Ray's 1911 was. Even though we were taking the turnpike for most of the trip, it still passed through the Appalachian mountains, and that sounded like prime territory for a lupine ambush to me. I hadn't done anything in particular to piss any lupines off, but that didn't seem to matter to a majority of them. Franca had some sort of weird respect for the fuzzy death machines, probably something she picked up from her Gangrel friends out west. Now understand, I don't personally have anything against them myself, but I do make it a point to take issue with any being that decides it wants to rip my face off just because I exist. Call it professional paranoia, but I happen to like my face. Or at least I think I do.... I haven't seen it in a few hundred years, so I suppose I could be wrong.

Between hunting, sorting, boxing, and loading, packing up the trailer took two nights. It's times like this that I wish I had created a childe, if for no other reason just to share the work load. However, I decided long, long ago that me siring another was a bad idea. I may be undead, but I'm fairly certain that being the progenitor of a secret bloodline of "Ventrue" that all suspiciously have the abilities and weaknesses of the Lasombra would be enough to give even me a stress headache. I can just hear the conversation in my head now.... "Spies? No, Lord Hardestadt, they aren't spies. They're our new secret weapon against the Lasombra, and none of them even have any identity issues, I promise!"

I believe that would be the point in which I would be Vigorously... how do the young ones phrase it? "Bitch Slapped"? Yes, that's it. I believe that would be when I got Vigorously bitch slapped through the nearest wall. Or maybe the furthest one... Lord Hardestadt does like to make a dramatic point from time to time. But I digress...

Two nights later, the trailer was packed, the mansion was locked down, and we were on the road to Baltimore. The trip was blessedly uneventful - perhaps the Night Goddess decided to give me some time to think. Or maybe she was playing a practical joke on me, because the line of thought I was having would have seemed ludicrous to me at any time in the past.

A childe. Perhaps that was the answer, or at least part of it. A Lasombra that could be guided the right way, and in turn go on to be an example to the others. An example of a new way of unlife.

Now.... how the hell would I go about broaching this topic with Franca?