Ash and Rowan

A Vampire the Masquerade chronicle

[ash-and-rowan]

One Night in Athens

“I am having second thoughts, Raoul.” Alphonse’s sophisticated Parisian accent modulated oddly with the tones of his fear.

             “Scared? But I know you can be so brave, Alfie. Why ruin our streak?” Raoul’s words had the effect of calming Alphonse, at least superficially. The streets of Krakow, no doubt charming and lined by townhouse gardens in the day time, grew twisting and claustrophobic in the dark. The great beauty of the city had weathered a century of stagnation and royal favor being shown to Warsaw with surprising grace; even so, Alphonse still felt nervous about the task before them that night.

             “Try not to shake in your boots so much, Alfonso. A quien madruga, Dios lo ayuda.” The remark was as bitterly sarcastic as Carlos’ admonishments always were. Before Alphonse could retort, however, the Lasombra held up a fist for silence. “The house is ahead. Tienes la estaca? Raoul?”

             “Obviamente. Alphonse, are you ready? Not having second thoughts?” Raoul turned his shining hazel eyes on Alphonse. The moonlight glinted off that gaze just so, as though there were an explosion of silver flame that flashed briefly within the eye itself.

             “Yes.” Alphonse responded almost without intending to. The house in question, the object of trepidation, rose abruptly from a courtyard that broke the normal flow of this causeway. Its simple construction, timber and cheap masonry, belied its size; it easily dwarfed its nearest neighbors, and the high tower that rose from the back end of the property speared the moon on its conical roof.  Truncated vines hung from the window casements in mock domestic vitality, but even they could not hide the fact that the building was intended for two things: standing tall and imposing over the neighborhood, and keeping potential intruders out.

             To the plan, then. Carlos, all in black riding leathers and brocade, no doubt cut a threatening figure as he seemed to glide across the open yard to the house, his inky black shadow spreading out, around, and over him as he did so. Raoul strolled along as though it were a charming trip to the park; though Alphonse’s gifted eyes strained to see him as he seemed to blend and blur into the ambience of the night.

             For Alphonse’s part, the next step was simple, but to the naked eye so overwhelmingly complex. So, Alphonse stepped. Once; it was enough. And with a twitch of his wrist and the feeling of the power coursing through his veins, distance blurred, and for a moment space stretched taut like a rubber band. When the tension broke, Alphonse stood in the shadow of the second floor’s overhang, staring up at the vines that hung like the broken limbs of penitents from the planter mounted on the window sill. Alphonse felt pity for them; they had been so mistreated, and for what?

             But speed was of essence now. Alphonse spoke to the vines, crooning softly in the language only they knew, and they wove and stretched themselves to form a ladder for his ascent. In short order Alphonse was to the second floor. He took a brief conspiratorial look around for his companions, pushed the window open and stepped inside.

             Immediately Alhponse felt the sensation of standing within the belly of the beast. The old floorboards creaked under unexpected weight, as though in greeting. His momentary fear was not allayed when an inky black claw laid suddenly across his shoulder. Stifling a shout, Alphonse turned to gaze upon the claw’s owner: Carlos.

             “So jumpy, Alphonse. Try to stay focused.” When the Lasombra wished to be silent, he moved with a grace that at all other times would’ve been uncharacteristic. Alphonse silently cursed his nerves for not having adapted to Carlos’ tricks, decades into their partnership. Quickly, he scanned the dingy study for Raoul; nowhere to be seen, as of yet. Not that that was abnormal. As much as he loved to be the center of attention, Raoul’s ability to go unnoticed, even by Alphonse’s keen senses, was disconcerting.

             Carlos had already taken up a position by the door. “Quick and quiet, bookworm. You know the plan.” With a cocked grin, he pushed open the old door and began to wind his way down the curving stairs, reaching the ground floor with a cloak of writhing black shadows behind him. Alphonse followed as quietly as he could, careful of squeaking boards and the poor maintenance of the whole place. They took a left through a disused dining room, and on into the darkened scullery; between two pantries stuffed with goods, they found the lever they had been told about. Carlos gave a nonplussed glance to his Tremere companion, before ratcheting down the lever and watching as a trap door that had been concealed nearby swung open slowly. Just as the ywere about to begin their descent, a loud cackle followed by a scream echoed from down the passage.

             “That was Raoul’s laugh. You don’t think he…?” The trepidation in Alphonse’s voice was obvious.

             “You know him as well as I do. Of course he did.” With a muttered mierda and a roll of his eyes, Carlos’ sabre was drawn and the duo charged through the ill-lit subterranean passage, coming shortly upon the cavernous dwelling of their target.

             Alphonse wondered if the elder Nosferatu had bought up all the land around this old ramshackle place just to keep the local yokels from digging into his basement. The dank smell of the place was little aided by the rotting bones and torn, bloodied clothing that lined the walls. More jarring, however, was the fight that had already begun over the stone sarcophagus that dominated the center of the chamber.

             “You simply must be quicker than that, viejo!” Raoul gave a puckish giggle as the hissing mutant missed his left forearm by centimeters, the distended claws only seeming to sharpen with the creature’s rage.

             “Skurwysyn! Zabije cię!” It was more like a roar than real speech, but even Alphonse’s elementary Polish could grasp the intention. The situation was less than ideal: Raoul, with his gift for vanishing, was distracting the elder, but couldn’t get close enough to plant the stake. Carlos, as menacing as ever, dashed forward and swung with reckless abandon, but the thing only lurched out of the way, barely missing its retaliatory strike thanks to the veil of shadows that cloaked the Lasombra’s movements.

             It had reach. It had speed. It had cunning. Enough to threaten the two old friends working in tandem; not enough to ward off all three. Summoning the geometries and the incantations now so familiar to his mind, Alphonse felt the surge of arcane energy through his blood. Just as the Nosferatu lunged viciously for Carlos’ gut, Alphonse focused his gaze upon the elder.

             A telekinetic grasp seemed at once able to invalidate reach, speed, and cunning. The Nosferatu struggled vainly against invisible fetters in a picture of fury at once horrid and romantic; even more breathtaking was Raoul’s reappearance in the split second afterwards, triumphant glee in his eyes and his bared teeth as the stake at last landed in the left side of the creature’s breast.

             A kind of gasping quiet settled over the trio as the elder slumped to the ground, now ready to meet the sun. Alphonse looked over his friends: unhurt, the both of them. Carlos stooped low as he sheathed his weapon, hauling the gaunt and wiry form of the Nosferatu over one shoulder. “Nice work, Alfonso. If only you were that put together throughout the whole mission.” With a laugh and a swagger in his step, Carlos passed Alphonse and continued on towards the exit passage.

             Alphonse was so busy inventing a clever retort that he didn’t notice Raoul looming over him, beaming, until the Malkavian had begun speaking in a cheery, if somewhat frantic voice. “Call that another one in our streak. You’ve come so far, Alfie.” Before Alphonse could muster the words to express his thanks, he felt a cool hand clasp the side of his neck and then ride up to gently but firmly grasp a handful of his light golden hair. As chill as Raoul’s touch was, his face seemed like the sun to Alphonse; the tension and emotion of the gesture, as well as the words that came next, could’ve set his dead heart aflutter.

             “You are so endlessly fascinating in these things you do. As complex as those tomes you scan so feverishly.” The gentle purr of Raoul’s baritone sent a charge through Alphonse’s veins; the firm hand on his hip and the light tracing of Raoul’s lips and fangs against the side of his neck begged a pathetic whine from his lips.

             “Raoul- it hasn’t even been a week since you last drank. You will- we’ll be-“ The defense was a shadow puppet show; the last gasp of propriety dying in a silent void.

             “I want it. You, and your blood.”

             And before Alphonse could say yes, whatever you want, the world melted into a symphony as Raoul’s fangs found purchase.

[ash-and-rowan]

Moonlight in the Mirror

              Rainy nights in Rowan were a given at this time of year. The healthy showers against the window panes provided a soft, low droning that soothed Heather’s frayed nerves. The house sounded tired as it sighed softly under the deluge; it was a feeling echoed in the Primogen. During the better nights, Heather felt the house as an extension of her person. People moved through its charmingly kept hallways like blood in her veins, and every time the doors opened it was a breath of clean, cold air for her useless lungs. She drummed her fingers on her collarbone as she sat at her mirror, examining the drops that ran down the window more than her own reflection. Of course, on stormy nights, no party could be held in the back gardens; the children would not proclaim their joy to the smiling moon, nor would the musicians be able to fill the hedge rows and the pavilions with their song.

              It was sad. Sadder than it had any right to be. Sadder than the fugue that settled around her shoulders and over the top of her head, like an ill-fitting cloak. Somewhere inside, Heather reached to pull away that curtain, but it suffocated her, drowning her in its dizzying silence. Heather had had spells of disorientation as a young woman; vertigo, and the frequent sensation of being lost in places very familiar. The soaring ceilings of the house did not aid in that respect. When it was first completed, and father assigned Heather the highest room in the whole of the estate, she often had terrors that she would begin to fall straight upwards just as the walls of the room stretched higher and higher, until she at last crashed into the ceiling ingloriously and abruptly.

              Those terrors were no longer with her; spending a century and a half in one place tended to dismiss the mysterious and uncomfortable about it. Even so, now more than ever, Heather felt the crushing weight of two life times on her back, and untold centuries to go. At last she turned her gaze to the mirror, and comforted some small, vain part of herself that she did not, would not look her age. It was the same part of herself that so often pined for her first love, and that clung to the heavy fog in her mind more viciously than any other. Heather wondered if it was right to call it a part of her, as it certainly never acted in accordance with her own desires.

              It was a casualty of a night long gone by. A night which followed a day when she had woken up early, and dressed herself all in black. None of the servants had had the words; only one in attendance at the wake that evening did. “My condolences, my lady. To think that, on the very summit of fortune and success, both should- should be taken from you. I can see that they were the core of you; they formed the steady ground on which your life was built, and the secure walls that kept you safe and whole. What will you do without them?”

              It was a question Heather had asked herself to the point of nausea over the past three days, each time searching for answers with more and more panic. She had not been able to produce any, and now, when the young man who’d just arrived in town asked her, she was no more eloquent than she had been. Through a veil of tears and black gauze she asked him his thoughts for the first, accursed time. He was a Spanish nobleman, he had told her, a regular peninsulare- worldly, traveled, wise beyond his years. All the things Heather was not.

              “Don’t think of it; life is too full to be experienced only after the fact. Think of the moment, and how you wish to fit within it.”

              He was full of little poeticisms, and had an easy humor. By their fourth night, she caught herself subconsciously emulating his speech. His musings and aphorisms came to her in dreams and as she busied herself with the upkeep of the home. “The match is promising,” said the miners’ wives and the millers’ wives and the fishermen’s wives. “The match is good.” What match? Were they being matched? Who had matched them?

              It felt less like a pairing and more like an assumption. It would have been incorrect to say they fit together; rather, she fit into him. What scandal there might have been stood on shaky ground, and those who would gossip seemed to change their mind within the night.

              Heather tried not to comment on his habits. She did not know why she never saw him during the day. He never produced an excuse, and apparently never felt that one was needed. She did not ask him why he never touched the dinners or the fine wine, or how he kept that healthy glow at times and at others he was as cold as the night rain that poured in sheets against the roof. She did not understand why, when they had begun to share a bed, he left each morning in the predawn. Though others told her she had caught him and that she should be proud, she knew she never had more in her grasp than the very edges of him, whatever truth that formed his core flitting through her fingers like so much sand.

              The confusion grew heavier, the fog denser as she pushed forward in her memories of that time. Inevitably, the ghost-like trail she followed through her mind became a wall. Even when she beat her fists against that barrier between herself and him, she ended up in choked sobs and lost in the space of her mind that he had carved out for himself and then left vacant.

              She regarded herself in the mirror; or what had been herself, one hundred and fifty years ago. What will you do without him, her reflection asked. You were once complete, and now you are empty. What will you do?

              And for the second time in her long, strange life, Heather could not produce an answer.

[ash-and-rowan]

Coming to Terms: Part the Third

             The woods echoed with wind and the quiet sounds of the camp, a lonely concert of two that barely broke the tense silence of the night. The creaking lodge shifted uneasily each time someone entered, making the whole place seem wary and territorial like a street hound. Or at least that was how it felt to Hypatia of Sarmada, who had just finished relocating the last of her files to the interior office. Separated from the wider microcosm of Old Bill’s Tackle Shop and Bar by an old ‘Employees Only’ sign and her own reputation, the inquisitor at last took a moment to turn her thoughts inward. The travel to these woods had been brief, but arduous as ever. She did not savor being so far from the heart of the Sabbat; her instincts told her that she would be of more use elsewhere, but she had been brought to the city on a task decades in the making.

             Her silent reverie was interrupted by a knock on the door, the sound of which reverberated through the cramped office, with its four ungainly, rotting desks and piles and piles of tax documents and manifests. Had she been living, she might have taken in an exasperated breath; as is, she only turned her gaze icily towards the door. Hypatia’s sight and hearing were formidable enough to afford her a picture of the person on the other end of that door.

             Four-armed; self-assured; Tzimisce. Hypatia steadied herself, hands flat on the desk, before circling to take a seat in the rickety office chair, folding her right leg precisely over the left. She adjusted her glasses before calling out, “You may enter.”

             A hoot from outside preceded the opening door by a half second. “May I, may I indeed, madame Hypatia.” Raymond sauntered into the room with a characteristic if somewhat muted flourish, his six limbs at one kinetic and subdued in their movements. His bony white face housed two coal black eyes, which looked down on seated Hypatia with an expression between sneer and sympathy.

             “How was your trip?” The Tzimisce’s voice purred almost across octaves, from the lilting tone of his speech to the sonorous sound of his chest.

             “It was short and hectic enough, Raymond. You have been here long enough to set up another laboratory.” Hypatia pushed her glasses up on to her nose, choosing to ignore the Tzimisce’s frivolity for the moment.

             “Yes, I have!” the Progenitor mused.

             “It was not a question. You have.”

             “Ah… I forgot your particular mode of conversation, Hypatia. You’ll have to forgive me.” He snickered and shoved two hands into his pockets, the other two staying up in a boyish shrug.

             “I don’t see how that can be. It’s the one thing people notice about me most.”

             “Not the striking architecture of your high cheekbones? The way your mousse brown and golden hair, catching the dappled moonlight, weaves a tapestry of rich hues which cascades down your thin shoulders to frame the masterwork of your neck?”

             “I am also having difficulty parsing what possible reason I could have to forgive you.” Hypatia absentmindedly began to gather her hair in her hands, pulling it back into the familiar high ponytail which suited her in professional engagements.

             “Because we have to work together, inquisitor. Cohesion is key!” Raymond mimicked the hair-pulling, sweeping his long, shining black locks over each shoulder.

             “I am still not sure that our goals are compatible, Raymond. I am still not sure that Stjepan should have invited you.” The pronouncement was delivered without a tinge of the anger Hypatia felt at that moment, though the Ventrue knew Raymond would be able to sense it easily enough.

             “I’m the only one who knows Konstantin.”

             “And how do we know he is even here?”

             “We don’t. But his handiwork is.” Raymond strode forward slowly, placing one of his lower hands on the desk. “We needn’t fight, Hypatia. The past is in the past.”

             “Perhaps you have lost nothing of worth, Raymond, but do not think that I have forgotten your complicity in his crimes.”

             “Complicity! His! I am ever the innocent victim-bystander awaiting your deepest and most probing questions, inquisitor. Such a shame that you did not see fit to ask any pertinent questions when they might have mattered.”

             “Fine. Be as glib as you like. We both know the truth.” Hypatia’s reply came through slightly gritted teeth, and her gaze cast outwards, either in a memory or as the result of some new party entering the Tackle shop.

             “I admire your tenacity in seeking to find the truth, inquisitor. It is something that I, as a scientist, share. I wonder, what do you do with the truth when you have it? You’ve developed some other purpose for it than as a bludgeon by now, yes?”

             “Leave my office, Raymond. I do not have to listen you.”

The Tzimisce let loose a sigh, melodramatic and exultant, from between his thin lips. “Listening is what you do best, Hypatia. Or so I’ve been told.” Raymond regarded the spot on the wall where Hypatia’s gaze was locked, as though trying to track whatever could be more interesting than himself. After a pause of moments, he nodded slowly, dragging his hand from the desk. “Very well, Hypatia. Do let me know if you have any questions. Or if you’d like to talk.”

             “Raymond.”

             “Yes?” The Tsimizce broke from his departure for a moment, brushing sable hair behind his ear.

             “They will come unharmed. You will take only what you need.”

             “Of course I will.”

             “It was not a question.”

             The lodge, its adjoining cabins, every pack member and priest there seemed to feel the woods breathe at that moment; perhaps a sigh of relief, or perhaps a gasp in mounting dread. Whether it was resolve or apprehension that ruled the packs there assembled, once thing was certain: the Sabbat had come to terms.

[ash-and-rowan]

An Eternity in a Moment

[Chupacabra sets off on a quest to hunt down Vladimir’s lost ghoul, Sabrina. On the way, she’s beset by dark riders in the night sky, who catch up to her and claim they’re going to execute her for adultery and murder. When she argues, her long-dead husband, Cornelius, appears to send her to Hell personally.]

[ash-and-rowan]

Coming to Terms, Part the First

 The edifice of the airport sat heavily on the darkened plain, its ever-glowing interior casting light outwards in a hopeless attempt to breach the starless darkness. Stjepan pulled the old Ford into the nearest parking lot, giving a look at once conspiratorial and amused to Damion and Carla. The former grinned back; the latter tightened her grip on the rifle.

              Cold as it was on the tarmac, Stjepan felt best with his feet on the ground and the night wind at his back. Though he pressed on seemingly alone, Stjepan knew his pack was at his side in the shadows; they were never far off, no matter what outlandish task was required. And the task of tonight seemed decidedly more innocuous than the battles and raids they had come to expect.

              The plane sat, inconspicuously enough, next to the area of the terminal with a large sign marked ‘C13.’ Its metallic white exterior shone dully in the yellow light thrown off by the outdoor lamps, parallel paint trails of blue and silver roughly bisecting it horizontally. Most everyone had gotten off; all that was left was to collect the luggage.

              It even struck Stjepan as odd. Most kindred preferred to travel by ship, if possible, or in a private jet; yet the flight had been public, and the one they had come to meet had spent it enclosed in the cargo bay of the 747. The few workers clustered around hardly noticed Stjepan’s approach; that was to plan. When the long, black, unmarked wooden box was pulled from the interior, ready to be hauled off to the nearest conveyor belt, Stjepan moved into action. He stepped out of the shadows, and with a whistle all eyes were on him.

              In the next second, something came over the workers gathered there; while before them was a young man, head shaven and in baggy winter clothing, what they saw was a saint. Around his head the swore they saw a halo of golden light, and in his friendly smile they began to know a touch of divine love. To see the security tapes, they helped this young man and his compatriots load the box into a baggage cart and breeze off in the direction of the parking lot. The workers, sadly, were all dismissed the next afternoon; they never knew that kind of grace again.

              Stjepan, Damion, and Carla waited until they were back at the hangout to awaken their guest. The music was turned low; new bloods were beat into line, and Damion donned his makeshift priest’s raiment. By the time Stjepan worked open the box, all in attendance were wearing smiles, genuine or not.

              Two deathly pale hands gripped one edge of the box; two more gripped the reverse side. With an inhale of breath and a groan, an elegant, four-armed Tzimisce pulled himself from the fine layer of dirt that covered the bottom of the container, his eyebrows rising underneath the crest of flesh that topped his forehead.

              “Stjepan!” Came the ecstatic, lilting greeting, followed by a languid leap from the box and a kiss on each cheek. “How are you, my charming friend?” A tittering laugh and an eager-eyed gaze around the room followed.

              “As well as ever, Progenitor, if not better for your company. This is the pack; we’ve all been dying to meet you.”

              “I hope not literally! Ash is so much less interesting than pumping blood and strong bodies, don’t we all agree?”

              Scattered laughter and agreement, some more out of protocol than amusement, drifted up from the pack there assembled. Stjepan’s grin, at least, was genuine. With a subtle motion of hand and head, Stjepan indicated the way towards his office.

              “Care to chat, Raymond?”

              “Well, what else are we here for?” A purr slipped past the Tzimisce’s thin lips as the pair stalked towards the darkened hallway. Inside the office, a single desk lamp kept a ring of burning light on stacks and stacks of papers, a laptop, and more than one bag of blood.

              “Your organizational skills, Stjepan, have not gotten any better since when last we met.”

              “Cleanliness is next to Godliness. I still have quite a way to go.” A pregnant pause filled the air, just briefly, before the question came, “Listen, Raymond. You know why I asked you here. You’ve come. There’s one thing I need to know. Why did you come?”

              “Why?” Another chuckle, followed by a smile baring long, thin, pointed teeth, a mouth full of needles. “Progress, as ever, drives me onwards, Stjepan. And if what I have heard about- these Kindred- is true, they represent a great leap forward for all of us.”

              “And this has nothing to do with revenge? Not expecting any old grudges to be settled?”

              Another pause, and a small sigh. “If the opportunity presents itself, I go for the throat. But it will have to be a very good opportunity.”

              “Then I shall see about providing you one.”

              The Kine nearby did not know the deal concluded in the cold dark that night. But they would soon know, as would faraway Rowan, what bloody glory happens when the Sabbat come to terms.

[ash-and-rowan]

A Leather-Bound Diary

[An old diary bound in faded red leather sits open on a table. The pages are yellowed and cracked, the ink is all but faded in some places. Droplets of blood mark the later entries, browned and splotched and old. The first page reads in scrawling script: Hal Bitsuie.]

[demonhimbo]