The smell of the corpses was becoming intolerable. The pile had only grown as he licked his wounds, but that had taken quite some time. “They’ll attract attention right soon. Maybe Lodin’s lapdogs will come poking about. Time to skedaddle!” he had mused while regarding his handiwork. Having gathered together the few belongings that he considered worth keeping encase he needed to split early, he now shouldered the khaki duffel. It’s contents, mainly cash and pawn-able valuables were wrapped in an pilfered shirt to disguise their shape in the bag. Without a second glance to the corpses, he concentrated for a moment and transformed into a misty form, which quickly seeped upwards and through the access pipes, to street level.
Spring of 2013
It was a nearly a week since he had risen. The tangled mass of bodies at the bottom of the ladder was a tribute to how great his thirst had been. While his flesh had begun to heal from the burns, the gouges from their talon were a different story. These would need more time and much blood. The late night sounds of busy taxis, buses, and police cruisers all filtered down to him through the pavement. Thankfully, his chosen lair was deep enough that neither light nor the voices or mortals carried this far.
The ‘CTA Inspected’ sticker that he had placed upon the only door into this access tunnel would discourage any accidental visitors. Deliberate visitors on the other hand wouldn’t be stopped by a sticker. With some of his strength regained, he highly doubted that they would ever have a chance to complain.
He awoke in a blood rage. Rational thought was lost to him, only the press of the earth about him, and the thirst, mattered. Instinctively, he clawed his way to the surface. The hunger rang in his ears, pounding, like the beat of a drum at forced march. He took a shaky step forward, toward the city lights in the distance. As he did so, bits of ash and burnt skin fell from his form. With blood, he would heal.
Another snippet from the in-game past of our Montreal by Night game.
It was the first new moon since the fall equinox, making it a most fitting night. Dark, without sign of gods good will, nor hope for the dawn. Made worse by the wind that howled down the river, bringing with it a chill. The news of the British triumph had made it’s way to the city weeks ago down that same river, but both the chill wind and the news caused one to shiver. Questions of “Am I making the right decision? Will we survive this?” had long been answered for him, or so he thought. Attempting to convince himself, he went over his speech once again “You all know who I am. Not long ago you considered me a deadly foe.” The creak of the rampart door snapped him from his silent rehearsal. Without turning, he knew that it must be his new gift, for no other would intrude upon him this evening. “Yes Truteau?”
Stepping forward and closing the door the ghoul spoke, “Seigneur Prionnsa, I beg your pardon for the interruption. By Mary I do, but you have a visitor who arrived by carriage a few moments ago.”
The Seigneur frowned as he spun around, perhaps more quickly than he would normally, but his nerves were short. “Well, who is it man?”
The ghoul began to stutter, a defect, no doubt a result of the inbreeding that was required to produce such a unique creature. “Seigneur…Prionnsa…I…ah….” With visible effort, the ghoul attempted to compose himself “It is my …my… Lady…my former Lady, Seigneur Prionnsa. She…ah…..wishes…”
Cutting off his servants words, and forcing a calm tone into his own voice, the Prionnsa did his best to conceal his own surprise at the news. “Yes, yes, a word no doubt. Fine, see her in, and offer our best refreshments. I shall join in a moment.”
His mind raced as he thought of meeting with one as old as she. So notorious that her infamy was known in the Camarilla as well as in the Sabatt. “This could bode ill.” he murmured aloud. Forcing blood to his skin, the Prionnsa turns out toward the river again. By letting the chill wind whip across his face, he was able to use it as a catharsis, a focus. “I shall let her wait. Is that not what Mithras told me to do? Let even your betters wait a few moments. So easy to say when you are the ruler of the Baronies of Avalon.” The heat of the blood was wicking from his face as his mind turned again to his speech. “Tonight I stand before you, Brothers and Sisters. I ask you to accept me into your pack. By doing so, you gain both a Brother, and a gift. I bequest upon to you, Brothers and Sisters of Caine, this city.” He paused in his thoughts as a muffled scream came from within his home. “Damn it, the speech is too short, why does she insist that it be so? And now, what is she doing? Will I even have a retainer, but that damn Zantosa left, if I leave her in there.”
His final thoughts before he turned to enter his Fortress, least his lingering cost him more staff were “With no small measure of luck, and with her backing, I shall have a new title by the end of this night.”
So I’ve decided that in order to tempt the players of my Montreal by Night game, I’ll write an occasional quick glimpse into distant happenings from the game world.
Evening of March 3rd, 2003
A man’s voice carries across the theatre. The distinctive lattice like ceiling does not distort the voice of the actor as it fills the room. From the darkness in which he stands on the stage, the suited man’s delivers his lines; “Ah, he serves you well, indeed! He scorns earth’s fare and drinks celestial mead. Poor fool, his fervent drives him far! He half knows his own madness, I’ll be bound. He’d pillage heaven for its brightest star, And earth for every last delight that’s to be found; Not all that’s near nor far Can satisfy a heart so restless and profound.”
From the third row, a patron looks on. A smile has played across his lips all evening, though in fairness it has rarely left of late. Shifting in his seat slightly, he leans in toward his companion and speaks to her “Little fox, are you enjoying the show?” The dazzling woman next to him fidgets with the large pendant that hangs from her necklace. With a distinctly unladylike sigh, she slouches into her seat and faux whispers back “Why do you make me come to these things?” The nearly ever present smile fades from her dates’ face at her words. As he reaches up and slowly slides the fashionably tinted glasses off his face, he contemplates the base components of the woman next to him.
Silently he tallies the benefits that her companionship gives him, and compares them to the minor annoyances, such as this one that try his patience. As he stares upon her, and as the play goes on, the woman tilts her head up a copper lock of hair falls in front of her face, hindering her attempt to glimpses at her date from the edge of her vision. Seeing his grave expression, and piercing look she knows what may be coming she whispers “I’m sorry dearest..” and forces a well trained smile to her lips. Immediately she re-seats herself properly and folds her hands in her lap, showing all proper decorum as she moves. “Of course” the man retorts as he returns the tinted glasses to his face. The smile, perhaps a little more smug than before, creeps back onto his face. Having won the little exchange, his pale hands adjust the opera cane that rests upon his lap.