All the worlds a stage, I refuse to be a walk on.

NEW NEW NEW

Fri, 29 Oct 2004 02:28:24 GMT

OK, so I started my LJ for a new PC in the upcoming chronicle:

ShadeChronicles

ENJOY!

A final word.

Tue, 26 Oct 2004 14:52:50 GMT

Somewhere it is light, not here. I laugh and I hear it echoed back to me. So this is hell.

I know the others are close. Victoria is here, I can sense it.

I feel a laugh rise and am swallowed by the darkness. Hell.

It was my final act, a failure. They insisted on kneeling, bowing to a God that judged them. A God who had created a flawed world turned them lose in it and expected to be loved for creating the crucible of torture He had devised. I still loathe Him, and laugh at myself, how similar our tendencies are. Alejandro will never know what cold hands were on him all those nights ago, why he suffered so very delightfully. Lessons unheeded.

I have been a coward and a bully, a killer and so many worse things; I accept that. I knew what it meant, even as I denied God I knew this day would come, I feared it, and yet I did it anyway.

Somewhere there is a painting. On it there is a child angel. It is the masterwork of a talented artist, a beast and a pedophile. His name has become a laughing stock, but his skill still shows, would that I could have destroyed that too. From that canvas I stare out, and see the world, and I know what a mockery it is.

I would not live on my knees. I would not die begging that old bastard in heaven to forgive the tendencies He Himself instilled in me. I am His flawed creation; I am the thing which He used to test the worthy, and it makes me feel dirty to know I let Him.

One final act of defiance, that is my only prayer; let me spit in the face of the creator and then I can accept this place. Then I can resign myself to never feeling my beloved daughter’s fangs at my throat again.

For every white flower there is a dark shadow to set it off. I regret nothing.

Mon, 04 Oct 2004 20:38:14 GMT

I HAD IT! The Jacket was in my hands and it slipped away! I’m unsure what it can do, but its power to sway the wearer’s mind is impressive. I know it has almost utter control, and yet I still desire it… the rush of power was ... for once I am at a loss for words. I want it back. I MUST find it. Until them I must be calm, too many balls in the air, I must focus. Overall that is the least disturbing news of the night.

In one night I have been attacked, blinded and staked. My childe has been torpored, and worse yet I find that intolerable brat of Alexandra’s has finally killed her. The conflicting emotions are more than I think I can handle at the moment.

Victoria is doing her best to comfort me; I still await the arrival of my childe’s body… and plans, I must make plans. When I am calm I shall think on it further; for now I think perhaps more than one Kindred’s blood will go into the young Archon tomorrow.

Developments

Fri, 24 Sep 2004 05:20:39 GMT

They’re quiet now. It takes a lot out of us when Julien is active too long, but I think he rests after. I was hoping the new one would help Victoria, but he didn’t; now they have him too. It’s getting harder to make them listen. I don’t know what to do anymore.

It’s getting worse. All of them seem to be becoming things I can’t even reach. They’re monsters. God I want to hide, to get away but I’m trapped here, inside, where I have to watch. Please someone help me.

I don’t know what to do. I’ll concentrate on the painting, it helps to not think of the horrors they make me witness.

Everything seems to be racing towards a cliff. They say the world is ending; I’m almost grateful.

-G

Giacomo’s terror is growing tiresome. He’s weak; if there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s that powerlessness that hovers over him. He doesn’t even realize it’s his creativity that fuels Julien’s work; pathetic.

The latest efforts are quite the stroke of genius. The mirrors worked perfectly. It’s amazing the thrill Julien gets as he slides them beneath the skin, he’s vile at times, but at least he’s honest. After the skin is removed the resulting reflective surfaces exposed sculpt the dermis into a series of shattered planes, the way it interacts with light as she moves is breathtaking.

I have looked into it and it seems several of the new extreme advances I’m working on have been pioneered by mortals. Funny, I’d never realized just how far society has come. Years ago I knew there would be a time when these advanced ideas could take root, but what I can do in a night to a kindred takes years of work on a mortal, perhaps by using the blood I can speed that, the healing powers of ghouls might be useful.

Perhaps I shall ask our third if he is willing to be a subject, a counterpoint to the painting Giacomo is making. I should think on this.

-JB

Such a lovely night; the feel of the blood soaked sheets, among other more ephemeral pleasures, a feast for the senses.

The corpse is still at the side of the bed, perhaps I shall have it disposed of, but as I look at my playmates I think I have other priorities. They do look lovely covered in the blood, a shame it won’t stay fresh.

-J

Art and One Too Many Chefs

Sun, 12 Sep 2004 00:14:49 GMT

The challenge: bring order to the whole.
Through design.
Composition.
Tension.
Balance.
Light.
And harmony.

What are they doing?

Ah’ the way the little bird whimpers and screams so very delightful. I can feel every wince, every twinge. It’s like sex, but so much better. The blood carries the pain, fear, pleasure, so much pleasure. I can taste it as the extra bits fall to the ground, even there scent excites me…

This is obscene, they can’t be? I’m going to be sick… help her

It is much like sculpting really, free the sculpture trapped within the medium. Reveal the musculature in all its scientific wonder. The human machine, it’s so perfect, a masterpiece of design; so much more subtle than the bold lines of a modernist but devoid of the frills of extraneous material, form and function.

Please listen, you have to help her! Someone?! They won’t let me stop it!

I can barely hide my excitement; keep my fangs from tearing out her throat. But that would silence the screams. Such lovely sounds. I want to see how long it will take to whittle her to bone and how long she’d survive the treatment, and yet it would deprive me from doing this to her again and again. Devising new and better ways to make her feel this, it is the only outlet they leave me. I make her mine, with every tear of skin and scrap of flesh, with every clawed caress she is more and more my creature…

OH GOD, MAKE IT STOP!
Oh God, make it stop!
Make it stop!
Please…

Courting Disaster

Fri, 10 Sep 2004 18:17:48 GMT

Victoria has returned, though they have meddled with her mind again. She is more self assured, it’s worrisome. I find myself pondering if I know this new person at all.

Our game has a new set of rules, I’ll need to find them, then we can proceed. Sooner or later I’m sure she’ll break. Her husband is still an issue it seems, shame, perhaps Julien was right? It doesn’t matter for now he is a vague annoyance, should he prove more then I will deal with him then.

At least the game serves its function. I am distracted from the mess that court has become. Seeing them all mouths agape, like fish out of water was priceless, but when it falls to me to arrange an escape route? This court is in serious trouble. Even the warehouse was compromised by Kindred fools. I shall have to endeavor to be more circumspect in future, there are too few here with the brains to make safe allies.

Alejandro has potential, of course he is so addled by all this “demon” business even if I had not promised him to Julien and Victoria he would eventually need to be removed, if only to save me from hearing yet more sermons on the good life. Perhaps in a year or two I will give them a chance at him, for now at least he is a pretty diversion.

J.B., what can I say of my childe, still fiery, still arrogant, and now an Archon. In the space of minutes he managed to offend dear Evangelina and her lovely pet. I am pleased. I was worried that his time in the west would have taught him too much of caution and not enough of passion, I was luckily wrong. Julien thinks it has come time to test the boy’s limits. Perhaps he is right. I will think on this. There may be a use for Victoria’s annoyance after all…

Mon, 23 Aug 2004 18:38:35 GMT

The following Section is in an old fashioned Florentine Italian, the page is lined with quick sketches and tiny details of design quickly picked out in ink:

I don’t understand… it makes no sense to me; it’s like I’m watching myself in a mirror played by some actor. It’s been a month now, almost, but they never let me out. James is always so bored he pretends I don’t exist, even if he lets me paint, he won’t admit it’s me. Julian scares me however; he’s a brute, utterly inhuman. I know when he’s thinking things and they scare me too. He makes me paint the horrible things he’s done, everyone thinks they are imaginary, they don’t know the truth, they don’t know what he did to that girl, over and over, and he makes me paint every detail.

I wonder about Victoria, she seems to almost like his cruelty, it’s disgusting, but it’s the only time she smiles. That poor thing must have been shattered by what her Sire did to her. I know what we did back then, but the Malkavian who took the poor thing must have truly been a monster. I’m going to paint her one night I think, the way she was when we met, delicate, innocent of all these crimes she’s seen, I need to think on that.

They were cruel to Roxanne, I of all people know it wasn’t her fault; she was a victim, just like the rest of us, why doesn’t anyone rise above the past? It broke my heart to see her painting in shreds, so much effort and emotion wasted. It was Julian’s idea, but James agreed, he thought it would be appropriate revenge for loosing Victoria, he should know better.

-G

A page later the text is in French, it’s heavily penned, as if the writer was angry and took it out on the paper, other than a few ink blotches it shows no sign of decoration:

That little BITCH! She’s lying, I KNOW SHE”S LYING! The others don’t believe me. Her little trembling lip was OH so convincing. I think not.

So she loves Victoria, she CARES. We can fix that.

As for Victoria, we know where her heart is, and so I take what I want. She doesn’t need it, there’s too much blood to go around anyway isn’t there? She is such a little tramp when it comes to the knife; I hope her husband enjoys the gift I sent him. All that delicious suffering. She hurt us tonight, those memories, she’s too weak to stomach them but I will NOT be the victim of her game.

The others care about her, but they can be forced to my way of thinking. Soon, very soon!

-Julian B.

The final page of the sequence is in James’ normally neat handwriting in the usual English:

Something is wrong, the games have gone on as usual, and yet I feel my control is slipping. I worry that I am not quite myself. There are other pressures I cannot account for. It’s as if my old masks have taken on a life of their own. Disconcerting.

Whatever this may be, it is an amusing chaos. I will need to think on it. The others become quiet unless they are triggered. Perhaps it will be best to determine what does it, I can avoid those situations. Giacomo, a name I haven’t used in centuries now, it’s as if he is all that was ever good in me, and yet all the weakness too, is this the madness Victoria spoke of? As if “good” were something I might aspire to, pure foolishness. Julian however, he is trouble. He seems able to force me into quiet; I become irrational, violent, openly so, I must be careful.

-JB

Cold Comfortings

Fri, 13 Aug 2004 21:16:46 GMT

I find her willfulness amusing still. Victoria was given an option, return, or not, she chose to return, yet she does so with half measures, insisting I summon her. I shall leave her just enough time to make it here, let her race the sun. Amused or not, she shouldn’t know, I think perhaps I shall feign annoyance.

One of these nights I will have to teach her what an order means. This husband of hers encourages her to impudence. I must admit, the look on his face when I kissed her good bye was quite… amusing, as was the flare of jealousy she felt when I approached that blonde at the bar. They are breaking, slowly. I wonder if he realizes how far she betrayed him simply by agreeing to our initial game. Perhaps he has no pride, or perhaps he has other diversions.

This Damien, a unique creature, I wonder if he’s laying plans or simply licking his wounds? Time will tell. I wonder if I should have tricked him into breaching Domain already. Perhaps not, the added stress in her life of serving two masters will force her choice.

I think I have let her see too much of my hand, tonight will be different. I have been emotional, I have been devoted, tonight; I shall be myself.

Musing

Mon, 09 Aug 2004 14:18:23 GMT

This little game enthralls me the more we play. Victoria has proven quite the student, I admire her sire’s work, even as I regret it wasn’t I who finally tracked the bastard down. It would have been such the pleasure to have him at my mercy for that little slight.

I’m obsessing and this game is more dangerous than I thought. It seems that husband of hers is of some importance. A shame he can’t keep his wife under control, but his failing is my gain in this. It was her choice to play the game, and she knows she may leave whenever she wishes. How pathetic these ties that bind him to an ungrateful beast such as her. I find myself wondering how deep the game runs, what is she sacrificing, and does she even know? Her actions already should be unforgivable; my little ploy, the game, is not the game itself. The damage is already done; he will never trust her again which brings her one step closer to becoming mine, but I must focus on the here and now.

How can I sever that tie? She doubts it already, her willingness to play cat and mouse, hurling herself in the path of danger, is evidence. If it is despair than she will burn out in time, if it is more, then I can turn her. This inner strength MUST be snapped or diverted.

Her passions are still among the darkest I’ve seen outside the family. I find myself regretting losing her, and must force them further I think to find her limit. Her desire for physical pain is obvious; her will to torture other’s minds is clear; yet, how do I push her to break? I must think on this.

Anticipation

Mon, 09 Aug 2004 01:39:48 GMT

The plane has begun to land; we’ll need to hurry to make the loft by nightfall. I can feel my teeth on edge, perhaps it’s the last few nights; I wish I could believe that. Crane said the entire city was on edge, he’s right. I felt myself feeling for my knife even as I snapped at that little Ventrue; I’d almost slipped it into my hand. I’d say it was Alejandro’s new-found religious bent, but I can’t that came later. I grit my teeth whenever I think over the setbacks to my societal control in recent nights, yet that’s not it either, these things happen.

I check my reflection in the rear vanity mirror, flawlessly dressed. I’ve discarded the rumpled shirt for a light-weight white T-shirt and the leather for a more seasonal light raw silk weave in a tan. The whip, my families little inside joke, is on its hook at home, such novelties are not for the world to see.

Something is effecting us, but what? Is it the religious madness in the air, the terror of the populous becoming contagious? It must be.

I return focus to the mirror. My eyes seem different, hard and hungry. I shake it off, there is too much of the beast in them, I force the easy smile, not a hint of fang showing, just a normal man. For the sixth time I readjust the hair in its lose holder, back is severe, but the tumble of curls over one shoulder softens it. A pair of nuns crosses in front of the car and I scowl.

Religion, ever that thing I despised most. God, if there IS such a being, is likely as despotic and self-centered as the rest of us. Yet everyone hangs pretty pictures and well crafted words over him, as if that makes the being that created this disgusting world forgivable. I deny him now and till the end, yet again I find myself holding my tongue on the matter. Religion is AGAIN the word of the final arbiter. I am exhausted living up to this farce.

Ah! Her delicate face is peaking through the crowd. The memories come flooding in and I find myself sifting the ones that come from blood and true experiences carefully. At least our hold over each other is mutual. She knows I love her, but if she falters or fails she knows I’ll enjoy every minute of the painful death she’ll have; I know until the end so will she. If she gains the upper hand I know my ashes will color the sunset. At least there is honesty there, if nowhere else.

Round 1

Sat, 07 Aug 2004 17:28:59 GMT

I find myself tired earlier than usual, perhaps it is the night’s festivities. I look around the mess we made of the loft. That little hell-spawn has gotten the better of me. I can’t help but be amused, even as I wipe the blood from my journal cover I can’t suppress a low chuckle. She would have been a better child, I’m almost sure of it now, but there is no sense mourning the past. There are still possibilities.

The red splatters catch my attention for a moment, they are drying. Small strips of flesh, soon to be ash, scatter from the chair where I attacked her. They form a line all along the way to the couch where she posed for me afterwards. It’s a trail of carnage I can’t tear my gaze away from for the moment. The painting stares out at me, living eyes in a corpse body, torn and shredded, the eyes showing amusement, pleasure and a predatory glint. Bloody tears leak from them. The hand hangs loose, fingers cradling the blade which tore the body, almost languid, almost. Blood trickles down the wrist, running down the blade edge, forming a delicious pool on the hardwood floor.

I know I’m warming to the little bitch, even as I watch her blood dry into the couch, that will be an utter nightmare to clean, there’s a reason I keep servants. Her blood is working that subtle magic in me, as I know mine is in her; she is less willful, more yielding to my little games, but will I be able to get the upper-hand tomorrow? She has grown dangerous, a miscalculation on my part; it won’t happen again. To think that little brat made me lose my temper, I’m almost ashamed; I would be, if it hadn’t lead to such a delightful exchange, the sensation of the knife in my hand still leaves me shuddering.

As I think back over the night I’m sure there’s a way. Those ridiculous tokens she wears, they seem to give her strength. She’s attached to them somehow. I leave instructions; they are to be removed as she sleeps. She will find herself stripped in bed again; perhaps that will teach her humility. I do not value that quality, but for now it will be useful.

All this weak talk of love and devotion, does she know what a joke it is? Can I teach her that such things are a sham, fleeting at best? We shall see.

Morning after

Tue, 27 Jul 2004 18:22:50 GMT

I’m sitting here in the living room of the old house staring at the painting, it has promise, perhaps, but it still doesn’t capture what I want it to. There’s too much artifice and not enough art about it. The glass is perfect, translucent, ever so slightly different in character where the brandy has run above its natural level. The contrast of the course fabric and the smooth skin is striking as I intended. Placing him in that pose, the odalisque, was my little joke of course, a posture reserved for paintings of whores and mistresses.

Alejandro is still dead to the world it seems; leaving with a letter, goache. Perhaps he really is far more the monster than I. I find myself giggling at the thought, so much pretense and so little substance. Ah well what did I expect? He is what I thought, a pretty little boy with very few real scruples left. Alexandra taught him well; if only he saw the truth, how close he is to where she went, it would be ever so much more entertaining. I wonder; he’s so submissive, perhaps it’s his training, maybe something else; where does he really fall?

He poured out the story of his school, tragic really, but I must admit, that look of raw pain is tantalizing. I find myself imagining a hundred little ways to spark that poignant, but ultimately meaningless look on his face. I tried to get it on the canvas; perhaps I will let Evangelina see this one before I ship it to him; she will appreciate it I think.

As I mull over the night I know it was not as bad as I depict it, but with us one wonders what the motives are, what thoughts go unvoiced, it’s an interesting question. I sit here stretching languidly and look over the naked form I’ve painted, perhaps that is more honest than the one I saw upstairs, more vulnerable. Here, barely draped in the stained fabric of the drop cloth he seems less aloof, more common. He’s still the small boy I remember staring out of those eyes; if he only knew.

A simple proposal...

Tue, 20 Jul 2004 16:23:42 GMT

It seems that not only is the Camarilla at a loss, its elders have gone mad! I came quite close to frenzy this night; it is a sensation I am not all together used to. I sat here mouth agape in the most inelegant way as they discussed the viability of culling the human herd. This madness will end with the death of those who cannot adapt. I can see the writing on the wall. Perhaps if they wish to be fools we should aid in their destruction, it will only endear us to the mortals after all. We must draw the line between monsters and those “poor few afflicted with a curse.”

I am not a kind man; I do not “love mankind,” as some pathetic, soft-hearted, fools would claim of themselves. I am a rationalist, a realist. We need them to survive and they need to be brought into believing they need us. It is a simple matter of catering to them until we get the upper hand. Where is the guile we are famed for?

We outlive them, in small numbers we outfight them, we are ever more knowledgeable than they in the workings of their own desires. We have conducted a Masquerade for centuries hiding our existence have we not? Then, where is the difficulty in seeing this new Masquerade is simply a shrouding of our long term intentions. We who may bow tonight will rule them a century hence, benevolently or cruelly as suits us, but totally. We are not going to bequeath the right of toleration to successive generations the way mortals would need to. In a century we same individuals will still be here, we will be the constants in their fleeting lives.

The Justicars are silent, the archons are depressive, the Princes dither this way and that. The world of possibilities that has opened for us is endless, and yet those shrouded by age and fear do not see it. If we used one tenth of our political might we could have laws in a fortnight protecting us. Smith and his hunters would be legally and totally the base murderers they are, no church can stand the light of reason and egalitarian freedom the revolutions of two centuries ago fostered! Would that we had the foresight to crush them then, tonight would be so very different!

I grow so very weary of this foolishness. Victor is silent, Mateo is silent, Mark has withdrawn his support of the sect all together but chooses to hide in older traditions still. The end is going to come while we sit here on our collective asses and bemoan the fortuitous destruction of the greatest obstacle to our own supremacy. If we cannot learn to accept the world it will never accept us, if we cannot learn to change, then we deserve to die.

I for one WILL NOT go quietly.

The end is nigh, do not repent.

Sun, 18 Jul 2004 17:20:17 GMT

I can barely wipe the tears of amusement from my face, they come so quickly. It seems the world finally knows us. Whatever shall we do? It is time to hide. They’ll scramble like lemmings to hurl themselves over the cliffs of obscurity. The image is priceless.

Perhaps I am hysterical? Perhaps, such times of stress do bring out the madness in me, and yet?

Such delicious possibilities! These modern nights, nights of electric flash and fire, nights of decadence and delusion. Never were so many opportunities open to us, and now they fade. I sit before my canvas now and wonder. Will I ever finish this piece or will some hair-brained hunter find me and put out my light. Snuffed, NO! I will not allow it.

If they seek monsters they will find them. Let them chase the Gangrel, the Nosferatu, the Tzimisce to their graves; those malformed relics deserve the end they get. I will not go quietly. I am a Toreador, centuries of moving among them, sharing their pleasures; this is the legacy of my blood: an eternity of manipulation, of playing up to their desires, being their darkest dreams incarnate. I give them what they want, and they seek my death?

How can they still hunt us? We are no worse than they and yet these pathetic religious zealots persist! They kill each other in streets around the world over points of doctrinal etiquette. Had we succeeded in snuffing this pathetic dying ember of faith to begin with there would be no grounds to hunt us, but no, too many of our kind cling to the beliefs of their lives, fools.

If the mortals seek monsters let them find them, and if I should be exposed I will show them what a REAL monster is, what it means to be lover and destroyer. I will give them what they want, what they have always wanted, death. Death that comes with a soft touch and a caress, the kind they beg for.

From Labyrinth

Sarah: Give me the child.
Jareth: Sarah I have been generous till now and I can be cruel.
Sarah: Generous? What have you done that is generous?
Jareth: EVERYTHING! Everything that you wanted I have done. You asked that child be taken. I took him. You cowered before me and I was frightening. I have reordered time. I have turned the world upside down. AND I HAVE DONE IT ALL FOR YOU! I am exhausted from living up to your expectations. Isn't that generous?

Court, yawn

Mon, 12 Jul 2004 19:05:36 GMT

So I find myself sitting in as Primogen, dear Anwar is off doing whatever it is she does when none of us are looking. Perhaps she has some other man stashed that Devin doesn’t know of? It doesn’t really matter, but what delicious gossip it would make, one wonders how a Brujah slighted responds.

Court of course was dull, and of course I find the Nosferatu hiding secrets, what a surprise; it’s amazing how simple it is to make a kindred squirm once you know what has discomfited them. He knows something about this absurd “river of evil,” something he refuses to share. All this “prophecy,” how loathsome, to think that in this day and age so many kindred cling to foolish notions, it’s ridiculous. I’d so hoped it would have been a forgotten tendency by now. It seems that the supernatural are ever superstitious, as if the existence of our kind was proof of anything greater instead of irrefutable proof that there IS no higher order. The world is predators and prey, those who are weak and those who use them; there is no goal beyond self-interest, it is the God that moves the wheels of the universe; yet I wax philosophical I suppose.

I find myself thinking more and more on that painting. A subject must be found, but what? I have toyed with the idea of our young seneschal, and with that whore he loves so dearly. Both are perfect examples of what this family represents, cold violence wrapped in beauty; sadly they cling to their illusions, it cheapens the effect. I feel it would be somehow lacking, my mind still stumbles over possibilities as the paints and canvasses litter the loft. Abortive attempts at creativity. Indeed they are better than the work of most other Toreador, I know that, yet they still do not satisfy me. Perhaps something will present itself soon.

A brief letter

Tue, 29 Jun 2004 02:08:32 GMT

Dearest Alexandra,

Or do you truly prefer Monica these nights? I find the image of you as conqueress so much more fitting, yet how can an etymology hold such as you? You never were one to be bound by silly constraints, ever a characteristic I found so very worthy of my undying love.

It has been so long since we’ve spoken, I find myself languishing for pleasant company, although Victor is here he is always entwined in local affairs. I had begun to suspect you had been undone by one or another of your little misadventures in my absence, or at the least had decided to disappear from the world for a time for your own reasons. I must admit my heart did skip a beat, metaphorically of course, when I heard that not only were you still among us, but indeed near at hand.

I have found myself in New York City, such a surprisingly boring place. I think only the light of your presence might illuminate its sullied little corners, yet I learn the rule of Princes has robbed me of that pleasure. And what do I find when I get here? That little Spanish boy you thought had so much promise has raised himself quite far in our nasty bitter little circle. I would say you should be proud, yet I see why he has fallen out of your favor; such petty little concerns he fosters, they are not the sort you would have expected of him I think.

Indeed should we meet, a night that I do hope will come swiftly, I have news of my own for you regarding wayward childer. I think perhaps you will find the tale amusing, if not its current chapter.

Now tell me of this delicious little rumor. Can it be true my lovely that you found your teeth in one of our fellows? The boy was less than forthcoming with details and I’m quite sure you thoroughly scandalized him; I am indeed impressed.

Ah, alas so many questions. I shall await your reply before I ask more.

Yours Forever,
-James Bierne (a.k.a. Julien Bernard, Giacomo Bellini, etc.)

Empty Chairs

Wed, 23 Jun 2004 14:38:10 GMT

It has indeed been an odd night, the banter in the online forum was a pleasant distraction, and yet it leads me to unaccustomed thoughts. It is seldom that I regret the past, and more seldom that I reminisce. There have been so many names over the years, so many masks I’ve worn.

Old friends seem to disappear as time goes on, though friend is such a weak word, better to say my old accomplices, for no doubt should any of us have been shown weak in our resolve we would have been devoured whole.

They asked what it took to hold my interest, and in truth they are right, few Kindred, male or female, have. Of course these young Toreador think of things so differently, as if love were a factor, such childish fancies. Love is a game we play at, no more no less, we are dangerous creatures, and all that prevents us from tearing each others throats out is the uneasy balance of power. Love is just one of the many names for the owning of a soul. So many pathetic fools call it honor, duty, religion, whatever crutch suits their weakness best, but in the end they are giving themselves to some other power.

But the faces of the past do stir some fond memories. In this guise and in my last I saw the potential in JB Kage. Indeed given time he will make a delicious monster, once he removes those last fetters of his old life. After all such constraints are so ill suited to our nature; to be a monster means to destroy, how few understand the beauty in it. It is a freedom from conventional morality, not like the one the Sabbat pay lip service to, but the real thing: to be conscious of the natural will to negate everything and to have the power to do it by one’s own hand.

But that is one face I believe I shall see again. So many others have gone to dust, or are lost among the crowd; new names, new pastimes. I wonder if they still lurk somewhere. There are always dark corners of the world from which to watch the fires burn.

revelations

Mon, 14 Jun 2004 22:37:43 GMT

As they pulled the stake from my chest I couldn’t but gasp in horror, another ruined shirt. One tries so hard.

It had all come out, the secret of my little game. Patronus had of course known the basics, details were never given. For the experiment to work, JB Kage had to remain ignorant at least this long of his true nature, and the nature of his sire.

His response was of course somewhat, shall we say negative. After all a kindred who has been forced to make do for themselves has lost out on quite a bit of the free ride prestige of lineage can afford. Choosing that ridiculous DeNormandie house was perhaps his only mistake. Surely he understands that all of this was for his own good? In less than a century he has climbed higher and further than any neonate has a right to hope for. If he had been ridden down by the duties of his blood than does he really think he’d have made it, tied to a sire’s apron stings? If he does perhaps he needs to work on his ability to see the world around him.

But never the less, it seems I am to be kept close to the family for now. No doubt to “reeducate” me as they so smirkingly put it, as much as to keep me free of the young Princeling’s wrath. I am quite sure Mr. Kage and I have need of many long talks.

Patronus will no doubt be watching me closely, of course the scandal of the embrace will be kept quiet for now, unless JB chooses to accept the mantle of DeLaCroix he so richly deserves. Perhaps the trouble might be worth it in the end?

Tue, 08 Jun 2004 18:07:24 GMT

Senor Alejandro Castillo saw fit to grace us with his musical gifts on the evening of June 5th, 2004. I can say without doubt that his mastery of the technique of song was among the very best I have heard. His range, as well as his timing, was flawless, as befits one of the luminaries of the worthy Apollo Guild. I must say that I was pleasantly surprised that one who I’d assumed had dedicated himself so wholeheartedly to the sword had found time to master the vocal arts.

I found Senor Castillo’s choice of song, Into the Fire, from Scarlet Pimpernel, written by Frank Wildhorn, both suitable to the event and in keeping with the rather martial nature the former Primogen, now Seneschal, seems to possess. The piece had a certain optimism I found fully in keeping with appropriate sentiments for the first meeting of a fledgling Prince’s court. Indeed one feels his assumption of a more prominent leadership position within the city was echoed in the song’s call to arms; for that I applaud the decision.

In all I shall say that Senor Castillo performed admirably; I can state he deserves his title with only the smallest overlookable reservation. Indeed it was only by my strength of will that I avoided succumbing to our family’s particular condition long enough to look as closely, as one must, to critique such a work.

My reservation stems from a small flaw in the performance; given the night perhaps, or the odd performance space, Senor Castillo seemed to struggle somewhat finding his emotional mark. He did make effort to connect with his audience directly, smiling in a most appropriate way to his comrades and with a certain mischievous twinkle in his eye reminiscent of the rakes I recall from the courtly period of the song’s setting. His presence however lacked the certain steadfastness the piece suggested; it may be that one so at ease with the subject finds it casual, if so, I may miss the key of such an interpretation.

At any rate, I do indeed recommend that his status of Master be upheld with all good will by the Nemesine and look forward to future work, after all, even a Master has room to grow.

As I set my pen down I wonder, perchance this review might be too scathing? In truth had it been some lesser kindred he'd have likely gotten more acid and less sugar. These games become so utterly difficult when matters of station are considered. Did he really think he would receive a glowing review as emissary of those who seek to undermine both my own and my sire’s guilds? Such a pretty little messenger well deserved his good-natured and oh so cursory spanking before being set on his way home.

Of course we know that I myself have little to no true respect for the dusty rules of this little calcified society in which we live, yet as always it falls upon me to maneuver it as deftly as I may. Status, the cross of our kind, what we revere and must bear through the centuries.

Father, the so very respectable Lord Patronus, saw fit to tax me before the court with a critique of His Misery, Prince Crane. What can be said of one who seems to glower and mope alternately? Perhaps he was meant to be Toreador, except by mistake of embrace. Mind you, one of the sort I never could stomach.

Yet this Ventrue it seems has a low opinion of irreverent party games it seems. Sad really, I had hoped now that we were free of that gloomy LaSombra we'd have a bit of fun at court, like the old days. I do miss the wickedness and wordplay, but kindred these nights have become truly vampiric, sucking the very joy from life and not savoring the sweetest most gentle droplet.

It makes me sad to think that even the most ribald of wits, is lost on them. Ah well, I suppose they are all concerned with these end times they discuss; as if THAT phrase hasn’t been bandied about often enough over the years.

Speaking of atrocious behavior (others of course, my own atrociousness will ever be referenced as humor, by myself at least) This little brat of a Malkavian, Moira, seems to think she is beyond the grip of our society. How lovely a delusion; how fitting one of those of the simple mind might be possessed of it. If it were so easy to throw off the yoke I trust I should be the first in line. At any rate she bares watching, such rabid dogs sadly are seldom breakable to the lap, perhaps she can be trained to yip at mice as befits her?

These evenings do make me ever so cross, perhaps the statement that naught done that eve in the name of politics was worthy of artistic analysis is true, amazing, one wonders if I shall become a prophet concerning this new Princeling’s reign, only time shall tell.

Letters

Mon, 24 May 2004 15:21:33 GMT

So, not only does the damned "Blue Rose" dawdle in replying to me; he mispells my name and gives some clumsy missive about "knowing a little more about me" for Lady Aurora.

Thrilling.

May I say nothing irks me more than one who seeks to do a battle of wits unarmed. Perhaps this little missive will send him scrambling to his library:

Prince Julian-René de Monacco of le Rose bleu,

Think nothing of the delay; I’m quite sure that your duties keep you rather busy. I merely have concerns for the roses of my region. So few can focus on their work as is our way, and in these nights, without such focus, it is a fearsome prospect that we may lose that which makes us “family.” We cannot afford to allow ourselves to drift away from that which we honor, the systems of our small artistic vision.

You wish to know of me, what can be said? I can tell you of my mortal life and formal training, my apprenticeship to Signore Guido Reni in Bologna as a boy. Perhaps we can speak of my years traveling among the courts of Europe as a painter of portraiture. All of that really only brings to mind the fruitlessness of the endeavor, after all the styles of my lifetime were so very trite. And yes, my focus is on the fine arts, as if this little pedigree did not give the truth away.

After Lord Patronus (you may know of him, he is after all the Regional Master Patron here in the North East) took me into our little family, I began to turn my attentions to the study of the history of the world’s great works. I have donated more years than I care to mention to the task, cultivating various resources among the academies over time. Indeed I have played some small roll in certain more modern critical movements, not that the details of my conversation with Mr. Ruskin are pertinent, but it was a brief moment I shall always treasure the memory of.

Indeed I have spent much of my time over the centuries among the mortals, watching as they began to turn the world of Art on its ear and loved every minute of it. The expressionists with their dreams of analyzing color and light, such pretty works for such passionate men, most forget the scandal they were now. I cannot tell you what a joy the cafés of Paris were before the Second War; Cubism, Surrealism, new ways of seeing, or the time I spent in Switzerland during the first debacle. I can assure you the work of the Dada School was so much more amusing when it was coupled with their anti-militaristic zeal. The Abstract Expressionism of the New York School in the middle of the century had such a fire to it, a shame it became so painfully rigid. But I know I am growing tiresome, the musing of one who has seen so very much and waits now for a surprise perhaps.

Of Course I am abreast of the more contemporary trends. As many know I have a penchant for the new. Perhaps after all these years I am jaded by the rehashing of ideas? I found the Post-Modern Movement vaguely amusing, the recombining of older styles so irreverently. I must admit it does give me a thrill to thumb my nose at the more calcified among the art-world. But then that leaves us in this amorphous contemporary miasma, a time without direction, troublesome to me at least.

At any rate, if you wish to know more I’m sure we can find time to discuss it. I suppose we can delve into the beliefs of Formalism, a movement close to my heart, Structuralist or Post-Structuralist schools of thought? If you are more traditional the merits of Historicism and its more modern descendents are not lost on me; after all, we of all creatures can so vividly recall the milieu which spawned the movements that are so much history to others?

Sincerely,

James Bierne, de La Croix

On the town

Tue, 18 May 2004 20:31:23 GMT

I’m sitting in the gallery/coffee bar, pretending to sip some overdone herbal tea. The stuff smells like potpourri, disgusting. I relax slightly, the comforting sound of mortal conversation washing over me. So few times do I get to enjoy human company, they’re so much more vibrant than our kind

I see the young artistic types come and go, they amuse me. They all think they’re so new, so ground-breaking. Maybe that’s what I miss, that enthusiasm and conviction of youth? I feel it rumble in my stomach; I should find a snack. It’s not so difficult to separate the ones who care from the ones who are just putting on a show, the stock brokers in weekend wear. In my case, its necessity.

I casually walk into the display space, conscientiously leaving the tea behind, grateful for the excuse. Most of it is trite, uninspired, all very well executed, but none of it stunning. I sigh, so much for hope.

A young man stands critiquing the work to what I can only assume is a close friend, she’s hanging on his words, adorable. Potential perhaps? I wonder.

He eyes me briefly. One of those, of course, why not.

I walk closer and hear the usual stock commentary based on a Freudian interpretation of Marxist themes, lovely, if he could squeeze Derrida in there he’d be an utter cliché. I yawn and look at the girl.

Attractive, yes, but why on earth is she listening to him? Is she that vapid?

She hazards a comment on the use of line and the Zen-like style of the overarching composition and how the more baroque touches of the repeated secondary motif muddle the work. I smile, he ignores her flippantly suggesting her attention to the painterly qualities undermines the overall effect in a post-modernist critical sense. The disdain for her “art-school” background is obvious, ah of course he must be one of the Columbia undergrads, they have a way about them.

I smile to her and interrupt. He looks like I dropped a brick on his foot. “You’re right dear. Nice to see your looking at the piece and not a text book.” I turn my smile at him, letting that predatory edge creep in.

He scoffs.

I offer her my hand, “I’d love to see some of your work dear?” I suggest.

I let the charm flood out. Her hesitation dissolves.

He’s standing slack jawed as I smile over my shoulder at him. “Really,” I drawl, “speechless? How novel. Close your mouth before someone takes you up on the offer.”

becalmed

Thu, 06 May 2004 15:34:17 GMT

I tell Winston to keep the door closed and leave me be, my mood has gone foul of a sudden. Perhaps it is this damned necessity of the masquerade carried to the utmost margin of paranoia? I’m tired of keeping myself like some pathetic towered princes in a fairy story.

My only interaction has been with the Roses over the computer and for the most part they’ve proved as engaging as I remember, which is to say almost as plain as a blank canvas. I swear the whole of the Clan has become shy, or worse obsessed with this secret society to the point of becoming a bore.

I was informed our “beloved Clan-Head” has outlawed Salons until the Fall. Lovely, it seems that not only are we denied venturing into the public, but we are denied the company of our peers, and indeed I use the word loosely. It’s a shame really, I found myself throwing that damned knife over and over at a spot on the wall for an hour just out of utter boredom. Pathetic.

No wonder we seem to all be obsessed with fighting these nights; they’ve left us nothing else! I should have left them to their own devices until this all blew over.

The only party I’ve heard of is in Maine. Of all places MAINE! Desse’s little trollop of a childer Doyle will be sending work there. It’s tempting to go just to lambaste it.

I’m not sure if my pettiness outweighs my desire to avoid this court of Prince Bone in the region. From what I hear his entertainments are for more advanced tastes; as intriguing as that sounds I doubt I’ll investigate, discretion being the better part of something or another.

I contemplated painting tonight, thus the knife throwing. As often as I try it I find my work sinks to lower levels of triteness. The pigments are sitting mixed and now drying, the canvas had been stretched and set on the easel before I dashed it to pieces after my fourth pathetic attempt at composing the scene. The frustration of trying makes it that much worse. Nothing inspires me, nothing at all.

I’ve decided to rearrange the furniture, perhaps there’s something to this Feng Shui, but somehow I doubt it. My mind is preoccupied I suppose. Where are all the Roses I knew? The ones with quick wits and something to show for their lives, other than a body count.

This city is useless. This time is dreadful. I swear if I don’t find an outlet soon I shall scream.

I’m resolved to go out, there must be SOMETHING to see, something to do; even if it’s to find some mortal cat’s paw to amuse me for a few hours.

Rogues Gallery

Mon, 03 May 2004 14:50:02 GMT

I’ve been pondering my impressions of the city. One must keep their thoughts in order, particularly given the chaos which seems to abound in this little court. Oddly I find that so few of them make any real impression, satisfied with ghosting along quietly, tragic waste of immortality to be honest. Perhaps they have become too accustomed to the masquerade, or perhaps they are simply that maudlin.

At any rate the rogues gallery is as follows, thought indeed that does a disservice to rogues, they are after all memorable.

Alejandro Castilllo, save us from warriador! He claims his talent is his voice, yet the more I interact with him the more I’m sure his true passion is bloodshed. He seems ever willing to be hip-deep in the stuff. I’m told Countess Bathory felt it preserved her looks, perhaps he takes a page from her book. Quite the exquisite angel of death really, but such a shame to waste so much effort on work better reserved for Brujah.

As for Brujah, I’m told this Devin character is in charge of that questionable family. I’ve yet to hear to words from the man, I suppose I should be thankful, Brujah do tend to go on forever if you let them think you care about whatever subject they choose to babble on. He seems to be harsh on his people, amusing to see a tyrant from a clan that claims it values freedom, ah hypocrisy thy name is power.

The subject of the Brujah always calls to mind the Ventrue; what can be said of a clan of upright, uptight and thoroughly boring financiers. Their money is good, but their conversation is lacking. I’ve met one, this Hagen character who fancies himself an officianado; yet one can’t shake the feeling his idea of art is to find the perfect Rembrant to match his couch.

Now as for art, this Anwar, odd to speak to at the very least. At first I thought her truly spineless; playing slave girl to a Brujah never rates high in my book of merits. It seems she does indeed have wit, buried somewhere under that veneer of subservience, butI do so hate to have to ask her for her insults. It’s like fencing with sheathed swords, one wonders where the point is.

Now I suppose I should comment on the officers of the court, but as yet all I know of is the imperial Sheriff, he’s quiet, the kind of quiet one uses to intend menace. Perhaps he’s simply dull witted and someone informed him it might be better to not open his mouth and let us all know.

Maxwell, that timid little Harpy seems to be put out that Papa took his place as official voice of scandal in the city. One wonders how he finds the backbone to speak up. A Marquis he claims among his lineage, Armatage; a charming little group, if one enjoys the company of those who faint at the site of blood. I myself am not the sort to seek a fight, I have better uses of my time and no intention of cutting my brief spell upon this earth short. To be brief I am a coward, yet at least I do the title justice; I am a champion of cowardice, why hide it behind lofty ideals?

Ah such is the brief acquaintance and impressions of recent events, I will have to find out more I suppose, I have no intention of seeking power, but it might be best to know who is.

Joys of court

Sun, 02 May 2004 17:32:19 GMT

I do dislike it when the city decides to go off and commit massacre’s it is such a damper on the night. I of course made sure I was busy when the time to leave came. Lord Patronus was kind enough to set me as guard upon one of his more personal possessions. The fact that it was attached to a Brujah made it somewhat tricky mind you, but it was easy enough to keep an eye.

Castillo seems to relish these little outings, one imagines he fills his picnic basket with landmines. I swear he must be a Brujah. The way his eyes light up when the chance to kill comes up, it’s most pathetic, if it wasn’t so disturbing it would be laughable. He looks like a puppy being given a bone.

Court was, as usual, a festival of boredom; there were refreshments on hand but as always the sour mood precluded their enjoyment. Intrigue, whispering and gossip seemed to be the order of the day. So seldom does anything really interesting occur. Its always a matter of who hates who and what petty squabble will erupt into an all out war.

It seems our Prince was not quite himself, meaning I have no idea who he was, but at least two others were sure he was some form of impostor. Odd but this impostor “stepped down.” Whoever is playing this game has made a tricky move, one wonders if they thought it out. I’m fairly certain that the Prince still lives, Father never would have been so nonchalant about the situation if he’d fallen, at least I think he wouldn’t, his mood has been so very foul these last few weeks.

More importantly, speaking politically it seems that Prince Parker has decided to include New York City in her new imperium. Now we have a Prince that set the Primogen’s teeth on edge, amusing though that is, I’m certain that sooner or later it will mean trouble.

The joys of civilized society, I do wish I’d stayed away at times, but it seems my time for rest is over. I really must keep a closer eye on that wayward one. I hear he’s gotten into all sorts of mischief.

Joys of polite conversatiion

Mon, 26 Apr 2004 17:51:22 GMT

At least there were refreshments. I wish I could say that Papa’s little party was the hit of the season, but that would tell you too much about the overwhelming boredom of the past few weeks. It seems the Northeast is almost as mired in the usual political and militaristic doldrums as the rest of the country. It’s enough to make me want to cry.

Lucky me, the joy of babysitting the unwanted while everyone of import is off playing Errol Flynn. I suppose I should be grateful, but how does one entertain fools? First to mind is the Tremere with the sense of a radish, which may be unkind to radishes as they tend to keep their heads below ground and not make a spectacle of themselves. He had his pet Ravnos with him, aren’t they supposed to be dead? Perhaps someone should let him know; his habit of existing is annoying. It seems this Ravnos had for a time masqueraded as one of the Roses; how such things happen I have no idea. Besides the comic relief it seemed we had a New York Venture who thought himself a Patron; his money I’d of course accept, as for his advice, I think not. When will they learn that money is not the root of wisdom? Now there was of course a Brujah in the discussion, never a surprise to see one chime in when there is an argument to be had, there may have been two, it’s a chore enough to listen to them, let alone to tell them apart..

The vintages here are up to Papas usual standards, but even infusions of pure adrenaline did nothing to energize the mood. Conversation was indeed intense, yet if I have to go over these petty theocentric issues once more I’ll scream.

“What is the nature of Evil?” May as well ask what is the nature of the Tooth Fairy. Why on earth Kindred feel the need to cling to these outmoded precepts of a divinely ordained code of behavior I have no idea. God is dead, or haven’t they heard?

At any rate, before I left I was given a little loan for my training with Castillo. If the Primogen is intent on teaching me swordplay perhaps it’s time to let him know there are a few tricks up everyone’s sleeve? It’s been ages since I had to flail about with a sharp bit of metal; I suppose given Grandmother’s insistence there is no escaping it now.

At any rate, I shall have to find myself a suitable haven. Perhaps something with a view.