#Nathan Lemarc

[psalacanthea]

Time to start prepping to murder my tabletop players! We're working up to a boss battle of epic proportions in our Vampire game tonight.

Having interrupted a blood ritual meant to free the corrupt Order of the Thorned Wreath of New York City from the demands of their vampiric bloodline, the coterie has manufactured the perfect opportunity for not only themselves, but the enemies of the NYC Invictus, a covenant of rigid traditionalists.

The Knights are bound by their very blood to rescue and protect all kindred of the Invictus- especially the young, neonates. Unfortunately that sacred duty clashes with the demands of the leadership in NYC, and the Knights chose to turn their backs on their bloodline instead of their covenant. They abandoned their duty.

When the ritual was interrupted, the consequences of their hubris backfired on every Knight who had joined the ritual, sending all of them into a frenzy and forcing the Invictus leadership to contain and control them no matter the cost, less they break the vampiric veil of secrecy-- the Masquerade.

The coterie has allied with a rebel Invictus faction, led by Lady Hannah Russo (who they don't like). Their allegiance, however, goes not to her but to the Marquess Tabitha 'Tabby' Sangiovanni, a necromancer with a garden of dead wives and a grudge against Lady Hannah's sire, the Barone Russo, an old enemy of one of the coterie's closest friends/lovers, Connor. (well he's also in the coterie but he's adopted).

Also among their allies looking to get a piece of unstable New York City are the anarchists of the Carthian Movement, who have a werewolf named Bob Ham (and his sister Janet Ham), a love for arson, and over a century of defeats at the hand of the well-entrenched elites of the Invictus.

The Carthians are led by Grier, of their own coterie, and some old friends, slasher fanatic (and probably actual serial killer) Nathan LeMarc, his off-again boyfriend/vampire youth pastor Erroll Everhardt Young, and depressed cinephile Owen Jones, who just sort of comes with the package.

Their third ally comes in the form of a splinter sect of the Lancea et Sanctum, the vampire church. The group is basically a cult, led by coterie member Lenore's sadistic, manipulative, eternally bored boyfriend, Lachlan Doyle (aka The Butcher of Boston, aka The Mad Dog of New York, aka the Guy They Probably Wish They Hadn't Befriended).

Having 'risen from his tomb' in Boston (he wasn't there the whole time he was doing other stuff), he has convinced the Church that he has returned to lead them in a holy crusade against the evils of New York.

Lachlan once failed to take New York for the Carthians, the defeat that eventually led him into the arms of the Church, where people question him less. He's got a grudge. And also just really likes killing people.

With these three groups: the rebelling Invictus who want to throw off the old ways of Europe at last, the Carthians who can't feel cool living in Connecticut, and yet another newborn cult of Saint Lachlan Patrick Typasius Doyle, the coterie is in place to confront the leaders of the Invictus as they meet to plan their damage control.

The elders of the New York Invictus are secretive and rarely seen, but with a disaster this monumental, they'll all be gathering. Among them? Coterie enemy number one and their true target, Lysander Priest-- a member of VII, a shadowy faction of vampires with destruction of all Kindred as their aim.

He's obsessed with Lachlan, and his attempts to manipulate him and others to destroy the stability of vampiric society have all failed (mostly), thanks to the coterie.

Now, after all these years, they finally have him cornered.

Hopefully he won't escape...again.

#tabletop things #secutura #Vampire the Requiem #Vampire the Masquerade

[tabletopmayhem]

Errol left the church at half past nine, feeling very little catharsis for his conversations.

The Reverend had been slowly coming around to discussing thornier subjects than mere philosophy and bible study.  It’d been slow progress, but the fact that he was willing to discuss it at all was hopeful.  Optimism aside, Errol had absolutely no faith at all that the Bishop over at the Cathedral would feel the same.  

Well.

Catholicism had given up on him a very long time ago, and unfortunately that was a reality he was left with no choice but to accept.  He was unwelcome.  Not by God, of course, but by those who claimed to be the sole inheritors of His intent.  So it went.

So it always had been.

And so it would be in the future, if no one ever sought change.

Fishing his keys out from the pocket of his jacket, he swung them around with his index finger through the ring, enjoying the jingle.  The night air was sharp, the dusting of snow on the ground crunching under his shoes as he headed across the dark and lonely parking lot, the city spilled out beyond the hill that curved down towards it.  

Every night, the city seemed to get brighter.

“Pretty soon they may banish the stars altogether.”

It wasn’t for himself, but for the presence he could feel lurking around his vehicle at the edge of the lot.  A familiar beastial presence, prickling at his own with its usual goading restlessness.  Sometimes he wondered if the beast truly was only born of the blood, for he could feel much of Nathan in that creature.

“I want to go down and see what Durand is up to.  He said I’m welcome to observe, so I damn well plan to,” a raspy voice replied out of the darkness.

As Errol approached, he could smell the acrid smoke of a cigarette, cutting through the scent of winter.

It was the fifth time in two weeks he’d seen Nathan LeMarc, which was strange.  Usually he saw him once a month, or whenever the Prince summoned everyone to Elysium.  But Nathan kept hovering around lately, as if he needed something– or needed to say something.

“You told me you were done with the sticks.”

“I tell you a lot of things,” Nathan replied in a lazy slur.

He sat on the hood of Errol’s pristine white and chrome Plymouth, elbows on his scraped knees, shoulders hunched, heels braced on the bumper.  He looked like any punk that might hang out at night causing trouble, in the beat up leather jacket, slicked back hair, and blue jeans, but Nathan was anything but.  Those bright blue eyes were a predator’s eyes.  And so was the devilish smile.

Errol was feeling less sanguine.  “I just waxed this thing yesterday.  Washed it myself, too.”

Nathan’s grin only widened.  “It’s just a car.  So, did the Father tell you it’s okay to be gay yet?”

“No,” Errol said, lifting his shoulders in a shrug.  The cigarette was offered to him, and he took it, dropping it on the ground and grinding it out with the toe of his shoe.  “Not in my car.”

“You’ve been doing this for ages.  What are you expecting to get out of it?”

Okay, well, he’d come here looking for a fight.  Apparently.

“I’m not expecting anything.  Am I not allowed hope?” Errol asked, leaning against the hood of the car, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket.  

Nathan scowled, reaching up and slicking back his dark hair before reaching into his leather jacket.  Errol stifled a roll of his eyes as a pack of cigarettes emerged.  

“You phrase it like that and you make me feel like a bully.  Relax.  I just hate to see you setting yourself up for failure like this.  They’re not worth your time.”

“I don’t necessarily think it’ll have to be failure.  Nothing is doomed.  Not even us.”

“Just go to church anyways if it means that much to you!  You don’t have to tell them you’re gay.”

“I don’t want to lie.”

Nathan stared at him, and then shook his head, shoving the cigarettes back in his jacket.  “Come on.  Let’s go.  Give me your keys.”

Errol laughed.  “You’re not driving my car.”

“You drive like my grandma.”

“Your grandmother is a skull you keep on a shelf in your basement.”

“And yet…”  Nathan leaned over and snatched the keys out of his hand, practically dislocating his finger in the process.  “Too slow, turtle-boy.”

Errol shook his hand, letting out a long sigh.  “Don’t change the radio.  Why are you so punchy tonight?”

Nathan didn’t say a word as they both swung into the car.  It was a few years old now, but he prided himself that it was nearly the same condition as when he’d driven it off the lot in 57’.  Apart from a small tear in the white leather in the back from Owen, and a small burn from the last time Nathan had promised he wouldn’t smoke in the car.

Having friends could be frustrating.

The engine growled to life, and Nathan hit the gas practically before he’d had the chance to slam the door closed.  Gravel crunched as they headed out and down the hill, towards the lights of Seattle below.  They drove for a while with just the tinny sound of the radio, music spilling out.  When Nathan’s hand went for the dial, Errol silently smacked it away.

Their usual fight.

Once they hit 99 Nathan finally spoke again.  “I hate seeing you get your damned heart broken over and over.  Even if one day they say ‘you can take sacrement even though you’re gay’, they’re never going to accept the rest of you.” 

Errol frowned, surprised by the pessimism.  Nathan was many things, but a pessimist wasn’t one of them, generally.  “And why not?  We never chose this life.  Je pense, donc je suis.  And what I am is a person, just like everyone else.”

“Sure, you might be, but what you am ain’t human,” Nathan countered with a rough chuckle.  “There’s no way they’re going to let a vampire take the ol’ body and blood.”

“You never know until you try.  You spend too much time listening to people who tell you that you’re evil.”

“They're right.  Look at what happened to my whole family, what they did,” Nathan replied sourly.  “Wiped out, because we need to be for the good of everyone.  They unpeopled a whole chunk of Ohio until they were burned out.”

Errol gave him an amused sidelong look.  “They, not you.  I don’t think it’s wrong to acknowledge you need boundaries imposed on you.  You seem to think that accepting that you shouldn’t embrace means that you have to accept everything they say about you, which simply isn’t true.  No, your sire should not have embraced you.  Or any of the other dozens he did.  But he did.  What does that have to do with you?  Absolutely nothing.”

“It has to do with me because it’s what I am.  I’m a damned Locust, it’s in my blood, and my blood is doomed to slaughter.  Aren’t you one of those that believes in original sin?”

“No,” Errol said, intercepting another habitual cigarette that was fished out before Nathan could bring it to his lips, throwing it out his window.  “My boundaries also exist for a reason.  Stop it.  No smoking in the car.”

“Relax, Altar Boy.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Farm Boy.”

“I’ll buy you a dozen pretty cars if I ding it, stop getting your drawers in a twist.  You’re so uptight.”

“If you call me ‘daddy-o’, I’ll throw you off a cliff and mail what lands at the bottom to Jane,” Errol said, letting his arm dangle out of the window.  “Cash on delivery.”

“There’s my boy.”

The heart of the city was approaching, and with it the lights that bathed the pavement in a white glow.  Although he enjoyed driving, the street lights he wasn’t enthralled with.  They made it too hard to see the sky.  Now, a cruise down one of the old highways in the middle of the night, sky overhead and the top down?  That was a drive worth having…for no other reason than to have it.

He watched the lights flicker across his arm like an old movie.  “One day it’ll be nothing but lights.  Well.  I suppose we’ve always been afraid of the dark.”

“Them, not us,” Nathan said, glancing sidelong at him with a feral grin.  “It’s the humans that are scared of the dark.  We are the dark.  That’s why they’re so afraid of us.  That’s why they’ll never accept you.”

“You’re being unkind tonight.”

Nathan’s smile faded, and he jerked his stare forward again, expression turning pensive.  His fingers tapped restlessly on the wheel.  “I just don’t want you hurt.  You’re too good for all of this horseshit.”

“You and your pedestals.  We’re all going to disappoint you one day, and what will you do when you’ve put us up so high?”

“You won’t.”

Erroll turned his attention out the window, having no response that wouldn’t be cruel.  Sometimes he’d forget how young Nathan was, and then he’d go and say things like that.  It was jarring.

If only he could stop seeing nothing but the bad in himself, and the good in everyone else.  Nathan wasn’t stupid– in fact, he was one of the smartest people Errol had ever met, but in a way that was all inborn.  Cleverness, survival instincts, and a lot of charm…but very little introspection.

Errol had been out of the heart of the city for a while, and it was jarring to see what was waiting for him as they reached their destination.  Nathan was looking at him expectantly as he pulled the keys from the ignition, resting an arm atop the wheel and leaning in.  “So…what do ya think?”

The strange skeleton of steel that towered above them was a bizarre thing, with three laddered legs that came up to a point and then flared out to support some sort of saucer.

“What in the name of-”

Nathan grinned.  “It’s Adrien Durand’s.  Six hundred feet tall.  See that round bit?  Going to be a restaurant.  They’re calling it the ‘Space Needle’.”

Mind blank, Errol tried to comprehend the purpose behind such a- “But why?”

“World’s Fair next year.  Ugly thing, isn’t it?  Owen said it’s going to end up looking like a cock, and I can’t say he’s wrong.”

Baffled, he pushed open the door and swung out, closing it on Nathan’s amused cackle.  Shoving his hands in his pockets, he walked down the sidewalk towards the monstrosity, craning his neck up to look at it.  It stood, like some mockery of ancient monoliths, or something from one of Owen’s science fiction movies.

“Are we certain the Ordo Dracul isn’t creating this…thing for some profane ritual?” Errol asked, hearing Nathan prowling up behind him.

An arm slung across his shoulders.  “No, no we’re not.  But Oya looked over all the permits and things, she approved it.”

Oya, right.  He kept forgetting to call Jane by her new chosen name, which was his fault entirely, but she seemed to have decided he was doing it on purpose.  He’d never been friends with the Prince, not precisely, but they’d not been enemies, either.  She was getting prickly with him as of late, though.

“She should have rejected it on aesthetic grounds, really,” he murmured.

“What are we doing tonight?”

“Oh look,” a voice cut in from the darkness, annoyed and mostly-americanized, with only a hint of the old accent he’d been trying to get rid of.  “If it isn’t the greaser and the beatnik.”

Walking up the sidewalk towards them, hands in the pockets of his long gray coat, the slim, grim figure of Ivanov approached.  The leader of the Ordo Dracul was fairly unassuming, but with a harsh, cold look in his eyes and a beast that spoke of Ventrue strength.  Nathan’s posture stayed relaxed, but Errol couldn’t help drawing himself up.

Nathan’s hand squeezed his shoulder, an attempt at comfort, but he couldn’t stop bristling slightly.

“Just coming to take a look at the progress, Ivan.”  Nathan whistled in admiration, tilting his head back.  “Boy she’s a big one.  Not as big as the Chrysler Building, I’d wager, but not bad!”

“It’s the biggest structure west of the Mississippi,” Ivanov said blankly.  His eyes scanned across both of them, eyeing Errol for a few seconds too long.  Just to make him jumpy, no doubt.

Nathan smiled.  “Wow-ee, imagine that, huh?”

“You’d know that, if you were capable of reading the specifications,”  Ivanov said, standing just below them on the sidewalk.

Fighting back his beast’s sudden surge of anger at the nastiness from the Ventrue, Errol clenched his teeth and fought to keep his face blank.  Ivanov met his eyes, and smiled a small, coldly amused smile.  “A problem?”

“Your manners,” Errol replied, clipped.

“Illiterate Locusts and human-loving fools can win a war, but we shall see if they can hold a city,” Ivanov replied.  “Please step aside so that I might pass.”

Rage was rising, furious and hard.  Well, if he wasn’t going to have any manners… “Perhaps you should-”

“You got it,” Nathan said cheerfully, fingers digging into Errol’s shoulder as he pulled him down and off of the sidewalk, into the street.  The beast snarled, furious with the insults, straining against the leash of self-control as Ivanov walked past them.

“Have a good night, Ivan!”

Ivanov paused briefly, now standing above them on the sidewalk, and fixed Errol with one last look.  “Get a haircut,” he said, clipped, and then continued on his way.  As he disappeared, there was a quietly muttered: ‘Daevas.’.

“Okay, come on,” Nathan said quietly, turning in to face Errol, grabbing him securely by both shoulders and pushing him down the hill.

There was no point fighting it, the closer he was to the fucking Ventrue, the closer his beast would be to losing control.  He walked backwards through decaying leaves and autumn sludge, eyes locked on Nathan, beast snapping at its boundaries.  “Who owns this city?”

“We do.  And we’re going to keep owning it.  They know that, and they know they’re only here because we let them be here.  They hate that, and they’re just trying to get their dignity back.  That’s all this is.  Let it go.  It’s nothing.”

“Jesus had long hair,” Errol muttered, and then abruptly stopped and shrugged, pushing Nathan’s hands off of his shoulders.  “I’m in control, I’m all right.”  Turning away, he paced down, and then turned and came back, raking his hair back with both hands.

Nathan threw up his hands.  “You almost started a fight with an elder!  You gotta stop doing this, Oya’s told you-”

Damn it, why did he have to keep defending this?

When they’d called an end to the war, it was only Nathan’s interference and his friendship with Jane that had let the other covenants stay.  And for that gracious philanthropy, they treated him like trash!  If only the idiot would stand up for himself more!  He let everyone walk all over him, and Jane just allowed it!

Errol cut him off with a slash of his hand through the air.  “Maybe they should have a bit more respect for you, then.  I don’t care what they say about me, but you’re the only reason they’re not dead, and if they really wish for that to no longer be the case, I can certainly-”

His hand was jabbing out again, but it only came into contact with a thin t-shirt as Nathan stepped in against him.

He reached out and grabbed the back of Errol’s neck in a vice grip, pulling their foreheads together.  The contact was grounding, and although the anger of the beast receded, the anger of the man remained.  An old, frustrated anger.

He closed his eyes, exhausted.  “Why do you let them treat you this way?”

“Haven’t I been asking you the same thing tonight?”

“Entirely different things,” Errol denied.

“I am a farm boy who can’t read,” Nathan said, the slur in his voice dripping with fond amusement.  “And I’m a Locust.  A kindred plague.  Embraced by bad blood.  Is me getting mad going to change that?”

Forcing himself to meet Nathan’s eyes, so close that they were burning into him like the heart of a flame, Errol put every ounce of conviction he could into his voice.  “You are not evil.”

Nathan dropped his eyes, smiling with chagrin.  “Then what am I?”

Irritated, he grabbed the idiot by the front of his shirt and dragged him in.  “Too good for these bastards.  Don’t let them drag you down like this.”

Nathan laughed, a little sharp and dismissive, grabbing him by the wrist and shoving him away.  The t-shirt tore, but neither of them let go.  Nathan’s fingers tightened, pressing between the bones of his arm.  “Too good.  Right.  You ever stop to think that maybe it’s you that’s thinking too much of me?  Maybe you’re the one who’s too good.”

“Too good for what?” Errol asked, feeling the evasion– and not for the first time.

He sure as hell knew it wasn’t because he was a man.

“It doesn’t matter,” Nathan muttered, letting go of his wrist.

“Too good for what?” Errol repeated, voice softening.  Usually he’d let him escape, but everyone had their breaking point.  Even him.  “Too good for what, Nathan?”

“Let go of me.”

He released the t-shirt, pressing his palm to Nathan’s chest and shoving him back a full step.  Nathan swayed back, lifting a hand to smooth over his hair.  Head hanging low, he shook it, taking another step back.

“Give me my keys.”

“Come on,” Nathan muttered awkwardly, shoving his hands in his pockets.   “This doesn’t have to be anything.”

“If you say so.  Keys.”

With predictable Seattle timing, the misty haze in the air was turning into proper rain, no doubt soon to be an Autumn storm.  Errol didn’t bother to close his jacket against it, he just stood there, hand out expectantly.  Nathan stepped back again, and then abruptly started prowling back and forth across the sidewalk and into the street, both hands raking through his hair.  His frustration was palpable, not just in the predatory stalking, but in the uneasiness of the beast.  

They were both on-edge now.

“Keys.”

“Shut up about the fuckin’ keys!”

“Stop me!” Errol suggested, throwing both hands up.  “Please, I’d welcome a punch at this point!”

“You want to fight?  Is that what you want?”  Nathan asked, rounding on him aggressively.

He really had no damned idea what he was doing, did he?  

“Would you stop talking and kiss me already?!”

Errol hadn’t meant to say it, he hadn’t meant to push.  He was well aware that people needed different things, and sometimes an infatuation was only that.  But it had become increasingly clear that Nathan was only worried about being inferior, and that was damn well infuriating.

It could have backfired.

Terribly.

But instead Nathan finally stopped being ridiculous and surged towards him.  His fingers as both hands caught his jaw were a little too tight, a bit too desperate, but it was a welcome discomfort as they finally met in a fierce, almost antagonistic kiss.  It was hard, hungry, but as Errol wrapped his arms around him and banished the space between their bodies, some of that torrid desperation in his lips eased.

The kiss softened and the conflict eased, eventually breaking.

A few small, private seconds passed in the quiet space between them as the rain sheeted down, and then Nathan laughed, awkwardly.

His head thumped forward, landing on Errol’s shoulder.  With a smile, he lifted his arms higher, wrapping them around his shoulders, pulling Nathan in tight.  “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

The response was muffled, tentative.  “You sure?  I’m a mess.  I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re not going to lose me.  I’ll always be your friend, no matter what happens,” Errol reassured him, feeling confident in that.  “Just…try to remember I’m not perfect.  And that you’re not as bad as you think you are.”

“That’s a tall order,” Nathan said, pulling back.  And then he glanced around them and gave a faint curse, abruptly pulling back, hands on Errol’s shoulders.  “Shit!  I’m sorry.  I forget how people can be.”

“It’s late, it’s raining,” Errol assured him, reaching up and taking his hand, but heading back to the car regardless.  Just in case.  There was always a chance someone saw them and called the police.  “I’m well aware of how shameless you are, it’s not a surprise.  Let’s get out of here.”

“You sure?”

The two words were laden with a lot of nuance.  Errol smiled to himself, shaking his head.  It seemed like he was going to have to get it through his thick head somehow.  It might take all night.

“I’m pretty sure I can find a way to convince you that I am.”

#vampire the requiem #secutura #Errol Young #Nathan LeMarc #he's teaching him to read with Tales from the Crypt #it's the only thing he cares about enough to practice on

[ponylamp]

Tonight’s session of our Vampire: The Requiem game began with a frenzy roll because Min,our Mekhet, failed to realize the cupcakes for the herd had caught on fire. One fear frenzy and broken window later we learn that the kitchen wasn’t the only thing on fire tonight.

Lenore got a call from Jonathan, her retainer/employee; someone tried, and failed, to set her club on fire. Connor came back home, grumpy and burnt because someone did successfully set his empty house on fire (the one where Lenore used to stay.) But at least he was able to save the safe with some of his money.

Fire was the theme of the night. This is fine (except, it’s not.)

Min, our hacker spy, determines via video feed and Butcher’s Hook that, unsurprisingly, it is Lenore’s childe Beatriz that has made sure Connor’s house burned down. But Lenore’s club was set on fire by an amateur, probably due to her childe’s bidding.

Beatriz also has cut her hair. To spite Lenore? To piss her off her sire that once loved her curls so much? Lenore is amused at the idea Beatriz would do something to upset her. Suddenly, she begins to be less sensitive about the idea of putting her childe into torpor.

Daevas. Dramatic fucking Daevas.

The coterie decides to head to Lord Nathan Lemarc’s property in Kent; it’s his job to deal with these kinds of problems, after all. Unfortunately it is feeding night for the Nelapsi so they heed his advice and hide in his house until he’s in a state to talk to them. It might be overnight--overday.

Who knows, next session will tell us what happens.

#vampire the requiem #world of darkness #chronicles of darkness #vampire the masquerade #secutura #lenore

[tabletopmayhem]

Happy Valley was burning.

A scream tore through the smoky air, vengeful and furious, as a bloody young woman stalked up the street between flaming suburban houses.  She dragged a mangled golf club, a gash in her neck streaming blood– a bite mark, torn.  Her amber eyes were wild, but dead.

She dragged a body in a hand with torn knuckles, a gangly, inhumanly monstrous man that should have been too large for her, adrenaline and fury keeping her moving.

Behind her, flame and ash.

Ahead of her, darkness.

“You think you can fucking scare me?  Make me feel my own damned mortality?  Fear of death?!”  She shouted it into the darkness ahead, eyes hunting, tongue wetting her cracked lower lip.  “My own brain’s been trying to kill me since I was a damned kid!  So come on!  Come ON!  I’ll kill a dozen of you on the way out and feast in the halls of fucking Valhalla while you’re pissing yourselves in hell!”

In the darkness, the advancing forces had pulled up uncertainly.  Instead of facing a cadre of Invictus troops and the lone Nosferatu they were anticipating, they were confronted with a single, bloody mortal woman and an entire neighborhood on fire.  They all shared an uneasy glance.

The perils of a three-way war.

“The Church got here first,” the leader surmised, a tall and lean young man with slicked-back black hair and the torn remnants of a Misfits t-shirt.  His piercing blue eyes were full of lazy menace, much like his smile.  “Shit.  Is that our target she’s draggin’?”

“Sloppy,” one of the other guerillas muttered disapprovingly.  “The human, Nathan?”

“All the color in her cheek’s from the fire.  She’s almost dead,” Nathan declared, eyeing her with a well-practiced air.  “We don’t need to worry about her, just throw her body in one of the houses to burn.  Looks like the target got a good bite in before she took him out.  Impressive for a human to take out a Nosferatu, even a wounded one.”

“Dave wants to know if he needs to hold off the fire department any longer.”

“Nah, we’ll just grab the target and get out of-”

Owen wasn’t listening any more.

The woman was staggering up the street, pain in her voice, blood starting to flow sluggishly from her wound again.  She didn’t have much left.  But still, she kept coming, a fury and fire in her eyes that he hadn’t seen in a long, long time…

A fury and fire that could only come from someone who understood the very depths of despair and the struggle of eternal sorrow.

“Jonesy?”

“I found her,” he said simply, finding a sudden and profound peace.

Nathan pulled back from his cell phone, glancing up and aside at him.  Their eyes met in the darkness.  “You sure?  This isn’t exactly a time to raise a childe.”

Things he’d thought forgotten with his memories were stirring, knowledge that went deeper than the mind, into the bone and blood.  The call of the Goddess.  “Stormcrows are forged in battle.”

“You better hurry, because she’s bleeding out,” Nathan said bluntly, and then stepped back, lifting a hand.  “All right, fall back.  Jonesy’s got it.”

The rest of the group, Kindred and ghoul alike, stepped back and left him alone.  He stepped out of the darkness, hands in the pockets of his jacket.  No point pushing her.  There was no way she’d survive trying to attack him, even if he didn’t fight back.

Into the firelight he walked, a stooped figure in all black, hands fisted in his pockets.  She paused on catching sight of him, chin lifting defiantly despite the wince of pain it caused her.  He could see the ashen tinge to her dark skin, even highlighted to the flame.  She’d lost a lot of blood, the entire front of her shirt soaked crimson.  

There was a slight sway to her stance, as if she was on the verge of falling.

“He’s not dead.”

She glanced down at the body she was dragging.  “Not breathing.”

“We don’t need to,” Owen replied, reaching down to his hip.  The machete– he’d stolen it from Sandra when she’d refused to come join the war.  Promised to take heads in her honor.

But maybe he’d just been meant to bring it here.

“We,” she laughed, a cackle, a trickle of blood spilling down her neck again.  “Fucking– fangs.  Really?  Really?!  I’ve been waiting so long to die, and this is how you come to me?”  Her voice spilled over the edge of hysteria, weakening with pain, but sharpened by it.

“Are you surprised?” he asked simply.  He tossed the machete, and it clattered onto the asphalt, spinning towards her feet.

The edge gleamed in the fire and moonlight.

She laughed, weak and bitter.  “No.”

“Take off the head.  That’s the way to go and do it.”

She dragged her eyes up from the blade and fixed him with a wary look.  The body thudded to the asphalt, followed by the mangled golf club.  Her bloodied hands flexed, but her eyes never left his face as she slowly crouched down.  Reaching for the machete, she dragged it up off of the ground with a metallic scrape, blade glinting as she tilted it.

“He’s not your friend?”

“Are you going to let him live?” Owen replied, tilting his head towards the body on the ground.

She grabbed the Nosferatu by the hair, knee hitting the pavement so hard that she lilted to the side, nearly falling over.  The tip of the machete braced her, pushed her back upright.  Her eyes never left him.  Good instincts.

“What are you going to do to me if I do?”

Owen shrugged, hands fisting back in his pockets.  “You’re already dead.  He killed you.  Are you going to let him live?”

The machete lifted.

In silence, he watched as she brought it down on that pale and sinewy neck, hacking a bare quarter inch in.  The first strike was weak, but it seemed to spark something inside of her.  The second blow was harder, her exhausted weight leaned onto the blade.  She hacked wildly, the blade retrieved with more struggle each time.  

Flesh parted, but there was no spray of blood, only a gleaming coating of viscous, dark vitae that clung to the blade, oozed from the wound like sap seeping from a burning tree.

The blow that struck head from neck sent her collapsing onto the now-lifeless body, machete falling from her hand.  She held it until the killing blow was delivered.  Good.

Out of the darkness came the murder, croaking calls and the flutter of wings- an omen and a blessing.  The crows would bear witness.  Crouching down, he rested his arms on his knees and stared down at the dying woman, her tawny eyes beginning to fade like an old photograph.

“You are fated to die tonight.  But have heart– you died a warrior.”

“...please,” a death-rattle, a whisper.

It was enough of a response.  “Should you rise, you’ll rise dead, there’s no way to change your fate.  Your blood is already seeping into the ground to rejoin the rivers of the world.  But I can give you new blood.  Cursed blood.  It all depends on if you’re too tired to go on surviving or not.”  He paused, glancing down at his own scarred knuckles, running a thumb over them.  “I wouldn’t blame you.  Are you ready to go?  Say yes and I’ll burn your body myself.  A warrior’s funeral.  Say no and I’ll lead you to a second life.”

There wasn’t long left, but he had to give her the choice.

As his mother had given him, and her mother had given her– his memories were all long gone and faded, and he only knew his own people through legend…but that was enough.  No child of the Morrigan could be forced.  They were chosen.

And the Goddess would not choose the unwilling.

Her lips moved, faintly but no sound came out.  The spark of life sputtering as the fire behind them raged higher.  Owen heard the sirens in the distance, but paid them no heed.  His sisters in arms would keep back the mortals.

“Will you fall?”

It was the faintest whisper of sound, possibly the last breath from dying lungs, but he heard her ‘no’.  

It was enough.

With blinding speed, he picked up the machete and wiped it on his thigh.  Moving her was unwise, so he simply turned her over, body sprawled across that of the headless Nosferatu, her eyes staring up at the clouded, firelit sky.  The crows wheeled overhead, uneasy in the chaos, crowing of death and destruction.

“Your blood joins the great rivers of the world,” he said, slitting the webbing between his thumb and finger, making sure it cut deep.  “Washed clean to flow in the veins of the next soul born into this world.”  

The vitae, sluggish and poisonous, flowed only by his will, held over her cracked and parted lips.  On the edge of death, it dripped into her mouth, sliding down her tongue. He might have thought it a failure, but he could feel the energy draining from him as he gifted his vitae to her, his strength.  His forgotten history.

Drop by drop, it spilled into her, gleaming black in the night.

“You rise in darkness, never again to see the light of day.  But the night is your companion, and you will bear the blood of centuries in your veins.  A gift passed from the Morrigan to the first Mother.  On her wings of darkness you will reach the very sky.”

The sirens were getting louder, and he could feel the impatience of the Beasts behind him, uneasy and concerned about breaking the Masquerade.  Still, Nathan must have been holding them back.  None of them were rude enough to break this moment.

It felt rude to bear the blade now that had been wielded for her first kill, and had given her new life, but she wasn’t in any state to carry it.  So he picked up her over one shoulder, and the machete over the other.  Her body was limp, but as he rose he could feel the faintest pressure of a hand clutching at his back.  

“You’ll be weak and disoriented for a while.  We’ll go find you someone to eat, it’ll help clear your head,” he told her.  A pair of combatants rushed past them as he walked back to the group, going to gather up the dead Nosferatu.  Not something they could risk the humans seeing.

Nathan was watching him from the darkness, arms folded as he leaned against the van.  As they approached, he tilted his head.  “You sure about this?”

“It wasn’t my choice,” Owen denied.  “It was between her and the Morrigan.  Didn’t you see the crows come?”

“They always come when you call,” Nathan chuckled, ashing his cigarette.

“I didn’t call them.”

Nathan stared at him for a few seconds, and then shook his head and didn’t respond.  Which was what he did every time something happened that he couldn’t explain, just accepted it.  Being a vampire was difficult for a skeptic.  It was better to do things Nathan’s way– just acknowledge that it was strange and move on.

“What’s your girl’s name?”

“I don’t know,” Owen replied, ducking into the van.  He carefully slung her over his shoulder and settled her into the seat, pleased to see the life had returned to her eyes, even if the strength hadn’t to her body.  She was eyeing him in silence, with a mixture of confusion and fear through her tangled, wavy hair.  That’d fade.

He set the bloody machete in her lap.

“What’s your name, daughter?”

There was a faint movement of her mouth, but no sound.

Owen smiled sardonically, feeling a bittersweet humor.  “Remember to breathe.”

Her chest rose, slowly, her voice a faint croak.  Like a crow. “Tai.”

“Tai.  That was a good kill.”

The chaos outside was closed out as Nathan slammed the van door shut, but Owen stayed crouching on the floor, leaning against the front passenger seat.  There was wariness in her eyes now, but that didn’t bother him.  It was natural.

“Daughter?”

“I don’t expect you to call me mother.”

Tai gave him a strange look, despite being barely able to keep her head up.  “You mean father?”

“No,” he said, not bothering to clarify.  “You have a lot to learn.  There’s no rush.  Right now all you need to know is that there are battles to fight.  Against the obsolete aristocracy.  Against the Church.”  He paused, fighting off a grimace.  Surely the Morrigan wouldn’t have…  “You’re not a Christian, are you?”

Her lip curled faintly.  “No.”

“We’ll get along fine,” he said, pushing up to his feet and settling into the other seat as Nathan opened the driver’s door.  “That blade belonged to one of the finest warriors I’ve ever known.  Now it’s yours.  Take good care of it.”

“Stop acting like Sandra’s dead!” Nathan snapped irritably.

“She’s missing the war,” Owen said, crossing his arms over his chest.  It still stung that she’d refused to come.  “She may as well be dead, with no battles to fight.”

“Dumbass.”

“The childe requires feeding.  We need to hunt,” Owen said, ignoring the insult.  He didn’t appreciate Nathan trying to undermine him in front of his daughter.  They were going to have to talk about it.

“There’s an IHOP like six blocks away, it’s still open.”

Great, how fucking inelegant.

“Can’t take her somewhere nice for her first time?”

“Denny’s?  K-Mart parking lot?  We’re in the middle of a goddamned war, we’re not going downtown into unsecured territory.  All we’re holding right now is suburbs and strip malls.”

“Fuck me,”  Owen sighed, reaching up and rubbing his forehead.  “I’m sorry, Tai.”

“I could murder some a Grand Slam,” she said faintly.

Owen and Nathan shared a look in the rearview mirror– at least he assumed they did, considering both of their reflections were blurry.

“Grand Slams are sort of off the menu, but how do you feel about grand-ma?” Nathan asked, humor in his rough gravel of a voice.

Owen cast a sidelong glance at Tai, and was relieved to see her bloodstained lips quirk up into a ghost of a smile.

“Well, she’s gotta go sooner or later, huh?”

The kid was going to be all right.

#owen jones #Nathan Lemarc #Tai Phan #vampire the requiem #secutura #rip sandra #sometimes i can still hear her voice #telling off grier

[tabletopmayhem]

“I'm telling you, for the last time, it's not Welsh.  I can read Welsh.  It's some very early Old Welsh, which is a rather different beast.”

Oya sighed in frustration, leaning back in her seat.  It creaked warningly, and she rose from it just before it collapsed, falling to the ground in pieces as she stared down at the straw-strewn floor of the shed.  The heavy stone coffin dragged into the center of it, was covered in carvings, the inscriptions made shallow and faded by time and wear.

It was quite ancient, unlike any of them.

The light in the ramshackle farm they'd holed up in wasn't the best, but it was merely a temporary stop tonight.  There were more Lancea out there.  If they fled, of course, she would let them flee, but word from the girl serving as her switchboard operator was that the second team was still on the hunt.  If there were any left, they would be found and eradicated.  Or they would find and try to eradicate the Carthians.

Tonight.

“There is some Latin sprinkled in, for when the Romans came, they...”

Patel fell silent in his rambling as she glanced up at him and raised an eyebrow.  His youthful face set into harder lines, and he scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest.  She glanced from him to young Rumiko, and then Cathryn, but both of them simply shook their heads.  A tilt of her head and she turned her attention to Nathan, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest.  She noted with some disapproval that he'd removed his jacket; no doubt tossed it in a dirty corner somewhere again.

When would he stop being such a thorn in her side?

“What?” he asked her, smiling his perpetual smile, forever tinged with a hint of wickedness.  “I can't even read.”

“We need to fix that,” she said, and continued over his loud scoff, “but that isn't important right now.  The Lancea were keeping this in their vault for a reason.  I have no doubt if the Invictus had been there when we breached it we'd be fighting them for it right this very moment.”

“We could have acquired very many other important things,” Patel said, grudgingly, “but we absconded with this.  What are you going to do, hunt for a scholar?”

“You doubt me now, Oresh?  This is what we needed to take,” she told him, fixing him with a stern gaze until he averted his.

“No, forgive me.”

“We could search for the Crones, they've got to be out there somewhere,” Cathryn interjected brusquely, crossing her arms under her chest, scowling at it.  “It's got the Circle's symbol there.”

“And they likely lost it to the Lancea.  Obviously if it was that important to them, they would have tried harder to keep it,” Oya dismissed,  “or brought it with when they fled.  What can you read of the latin at least, Oresh?”

Patel sighed and turned his attention back to the stone, smoothing his hands over it. She examined the carvings herself, more curious about the symbology than the language itself.  The inscriptions were down the center of the long, deep sarcophagus, framed by a decorative border.  At the top, a bird of some sort, wings spread wide; it was faded more than the rest, having been quite intricate once.  At the foot, the symbol of the Circle of the Crones, an old, more simple version.

“It is difficult to say.  Daughter of, here.  Daughter of however one pronounces that, I suppose.  Something something arise...it's just the random word here and there.   I see nothing that looks like a curse, but that doesn't mean it isn't warded by some ritual of the Crones, they have some very strange ways.”

“Let's just open it already,” Cathryn said, nodding at Oya.  “It's probably an elder.  They're not going to be doing much of anything blood-starved, even if they were to awaken.”

“We don't need elders,”  Nathan declared sourly.  “What good have they done us so far?”

“We might not need them, but we need bodies for this fight,” Cathryn argued, crossing her arms over her chest.  “This is a body.  Don't be foolish out of principle.”

“I agree. Nathan, I chose this for a reason.  Please, have faith in me,” she said, and his expression instantly softened.  They shared a smile, and he finally nodded his head to her.  Oya returned it, and then glanced back to the others.  “Go outside and tell our people to be on guard, then, you two.  Better safe than sorry.  Have Errol close to hand.  We should be prepared for brute force as well as negotiation.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Cathryn went and held the door for Rumiko, who glanced back at her sire once before departing.  Patel nodded, and she returned it and disappeared into the night.  Although she would never say it, that loyalty bothered Oya some.  Rumiko was loyal to her sire, not the Movement, not to Oya herself.  Either would have been more acceptable.

But Oresh was loyal, which she should remember.

“I would prefer it if all of you let me do this, we don't know what could happen.”

“Not leaving you, let's just wake the geezer,” Nathan denied instantly, a sentiment Patel quietly echoed, minus the odd slang.

“We must be prepared for the fact that they may not even speak English.  If that's the case we'll have to hope they are nonviolent,” Oya said, examining the stone sarcophagus with some curiosity.  She was not afraid.  Not of what lie within, or what possible traps might be upon it; for she had been led to it, and was meant to be here.

The stars had brought her to this moment, and whoever, or whatever was in this coffin would help her defeat the remnants of the Lancea.  No good came from the church.  If they wished to survive in the future she was building, they would submit and change, or they would die.

“Open it,” she demanded, turning back for the collapsed remnants of the chair, ripping a leg from it.  Enough of a point.  “And then step back. If there is anything to contend with inside, I shall contend with it.”

They knew better than to argue, each going for an end of the heavy stone to lift, and remove.  It scraped, slow and noisy, dust sifting to the ground as it was levered to the side.  She stepped forward as the low light flickered across it, banishing darkness that had been lingering within for perhaps centuries, or more.  The face within, skin drawn so tight to the bone that it might be a mummified corpse, was marred by that to be near unrecognizable in feature.  

Hard to put humanity to such a rictus.

The clothing had decayed to nearly nothing, and when she glanced up to Oresh, he seemed as puzzled as she.  “Daughter?”  she inquired simply.

“I read what I read,” he retorted sourly, “it lacks context, it could speak of his sire or progenitor.”

“A fair point,” she allowed, examining the ceremonial-seeming stake driven into his chest, pierced through leathery hide and doubtless also a withered heart within.  A beautiful thing, the stake was smooth and intricate, carved with sinuous designs much like the faded blue-inked tattoos marred by the shrinking of his fleshless skin.  His head was attached.  Still able to be woken, if they removed the stake that kept him in torpor.  Blood-starved, however, he would certainly be.

“Not a bad looking guy for a corpse,” Nathan said, raking back his hair with a dusty hand, and then grinning at the slightly-aghast look she gave him. “What?  Got more tattoos than a sailor, though.”

“Those are most certainly Celtic of some sort.  Old, very old,” Patel said, glancing up into her face.  “I don't know if he'll be of any use at all.  He's more than likely going to immediately lose his mind to hunger.”

“We need to try. Not simply because we might need him, but...because he might need us,” she said, setting her unnecessary makeshift stake aside and reaching for the ancient, well-polished one piercing his chest. “Please, both of you, trust me.”

She knew that they would.

After all, she had saved them as well.

“G'wan, y'bespawlin' drate-poke, come at me agin, will ya?  Take your leasins an' begone afore me ire be tempted!”

The door thumped heavily, Errol grunting and digging in his heels as it scraped a half inch.  Nathan gave him a reassuring smile, but his own was heavily strained, awkward.  Walking over, he lent his own strength, leaning a shoulder against it and flashing a grin.  It got him a clear of the throat and averted eyes.  Errol was shy, but he couldn't blame a guy for taking advantage of the situation.

It'd been a boring few weeks apart from the murder.

“I still have no idea what he's saying,” Nathan confided, glancing back over at Oya, “but it's English.”

“I wouldn't call this English,” Patel said with open disapproval.  “It's some bizarre conglomeration of nonsense and comprehensible language in an abominable accent.  It's like a drunk Welshman learned English from an even drunker Yorkshireman.”

“Well, we can't all sound like posh colonizers, can we?”

“A bit rich coming from a Frenchman who can't speak French.”

“I'm American, kiddo,” Nathan snorted.

“How much blood did you leave in there?”

“Half a crate of bottles, it's all we had left from the hospital raid,” Nathan said, turning to thump his back against the door instead, digging his bare feet into the dirt outside the door.  Oya stared at his feet in disapproval, and he hid a smile from her.  “Hopefully not enough to make him strong enough to...”

The sound of glass shattering made him wince, though she kept her own composure.  The hand below his against the door curled in, fingers digging, and he briefly turned her attention to Errol's face in inquiry.  His face was tight, unreadable, and fixed on Oya; but then again it always was.

“He's a Gangrel, ma'am.”

“We should have left less blood,” she sighed.  “Oh, I wish he would have listened to me...”

“He'll be fine, let him work it out,” Nathan said with a strained shrug, barely moving against the door.  “He's just been woke up from a very long sl-”

Another bottle shattered, and Oya sighed again, pausing in her pacing.  She looked distressed.  The expression tugged on his heartstrings.  She cared so much about this sort of thing, and he felt bad that it hadn't gone well this time.  Maybe it still could.

Maybe he could help.

“I think that was all of the bottles?  Maybe at least that means he'll calm...”

Cathryn's words were interrupted by a shattering crash from the opposite side of the shed.  By the time the mortal posted on that side shouted, Nathan was already off like a shot, leaving the rest of them behind.  Now here was something he could do.

Skidding around the corner, his bare feet sliding across the dirt, he saw the figure in the distance between the slender lines of fruit trees.  Already a decent head start, but luckily he was fast.  Forging into the orchard, Nathan bolted after the escaping elder.  No way he was going to let Oya torture herself over letting him escape.

He might be fast, but Nathan was faster.

It was easier to run with bare feet, pounding across the ground, keeping him steady when he found half a rotting apple underfoot, rolling and sliding. He skidded for a moment and then caught himself on a tree, only a split second.  Not enough to break his line of sight.

He was making progress, the figure flickering through slim shadows and sharp moonlight shining between the trees.  It might be dizzying, confusing, for anyone with lesser eyesight and less practice.  If there was one thing Nathan was good at, it was chasing people.

Especially naked people.

Difficult to fight the urge to scare him a little, it set off all the instincts.  The beast was lurking, hungry for not just hunting, but screaming, terror, blood.  This wasn't for it, though, and it'd have to be content with just this.  For now.

The shadow dodged to the side when he got too close, something flung back that thudded off his shoulder, startling him into a brief pause.  An apple. Fighting back a laugh, he bolted again, calling out mockingly, “fruit?  Sorry, mister, you'll have to do better than th-”

The fist to his face took him down, hard enough that he heard the tree he slammed into crack.  It was his skull that cracked next, hitting the ground so hard he could have sworn he heard his brain rattling like dry peas in a tin can.  No time to fuss, though, because the shadow was on him, hands on his throat, spitting in his face.

“Y'rapkapelt gauvey, 'll smash y'gob!”

“I don't know what that is, but it's probably true,” he wheezed around the hands crushing his windpipe, any further words cut off by a gurgle.

There was nothing for it to slam a fist into his face, shaking the Gangrel loose and knocking him back.  The impact hit hard, like brick hitting stone, and he felt something crack.  Rather than let him gain back the ground, Nathan threw himself forward, ignoring the shattered bone in his hand as he swung again, slamming the elder onto the ground and pinning one arm under a knee.  

The strike hit the ground as his opponent dodged his head to the side, and as the moon broke through the clouds and their stares met.  

“Wow, you have really nice eyes.”

Apparently it was just a moment on his end, though, because that got him a fist to the face, smashing his nose into a pulp.

Fair enough, time to dance.

Bracing himself for a slew of broken bones until the others arrived, he threw himself into the fray.  He might be a lot of things, but scared of a fight wasn’t one of them.

“You could have been killed!  You could have been...augh!”

Oya paced away, throwing up her hands.  Nathan was half considering pushing up to go after her when she came storming back and slapped him across the face.  It didn't hurt any more than his face already hurt, but he grimaced anyways, feeling the sting of disappointment.  She immediately turned and stomped away again, and he idly examined his broken jaw, forcing it back into place as it healed.

“It's fine, we came to an agreement.  Worked things out like men.  Right John?”

“Ioan, y'addled gobshite.”

“Yeah, I can't say that,” Nathan admitted, wincing as it got him a punch in the shoulder that wasn't pulled in the least, making him slump to the side.  “Ow-owh owwww, fella!  Go easy on a guy.”

“Pissbaby. Gie you a raddlin'.”

“I don't have time for this...this...nonsense!”

“Soun' like ket. What y'even sayin'?  Invictus shite.”

Nathan immediately stifled a snort, though it probably wouldn't make it out of his smashed nose even if he hadn't.  Warily he watched Oya's back as she drew herself up straight, chin lifting.  She turned, slowly, dark eyes full of fire as she stared down Ioan, lips a thin line.

“We are not Invictus,” she said slowly and with brittle enunciation.

“Oh.  Thet's all right 'en.”

“It is?” Nathan asked dubiously, and got a shrug in return.  “Oh.  Fair.”

“Do you have a problem with the Invictus?” Oya inquired, still stiffly.

Ioan considered that, reaching over and abruptly jerking on Nathan's nose.  With a yelp he cringed forward, feeling the sickening crunch of things being pulled back into place.  He immediately lifted a hand to Oya despite the pain, feeling her beast bristle protectively.  Blinking, his vision swimming back together from its fractured state, Nathan lifted his head and prodded his nose.

“You're good at that, fella, thanks.”

“I asked,” Oya snapped, “if you have an issue with the Invictus.”

“Oh.  Aye.”

“Well.  Then I suppose it's a good thing we didn't leave you to be found by them. I'd think you'd find some gratitude for that, perhaps?”

“Wha'?” Ioan asked, glancing from Oya to Nathan.

“She wants to know if you want to hit people with us.”

He lifted a fist in explanation, Ioan glancing from him, and then back to Oya again.  His face, long and still a bit hollow from being underfed, was a bit ghoulish, but surprisingly calm.  Beating the stuffing out of Nathan seemed to have helped him, at least a bit.  

Ioan sniffed, crossed his arms over his chest, and nodded his head.  “Oh. Battle, is it?”

“Against the Lancea Sanctum,” Oya agreed simply.

Ioan's face hardened, arms tightening over his tattooed chest.  He pressed his lips together and nodded his head slowly, long hair swaying as he looked from Oya to Nathan, and then back again.  Twisting his mouth to the side, he flopped back against the wall and let out an explosive sigh.  

“I like killin' Christians.”

“Then I guess you came to the right place,” Nathan said, turning his attention to Oya.  He wasn't sure why she looked a bit uneasy for a moment, and he flashed her a smile until she turned her attention back to him.  “I guess you were right.  Again.  You always are.”

That seemed to work, her expression relaxed and she inclined her head to him.  “I suppose I was.”  Confidence lifted her chin again, much to his relief, and she turned her attention back to Ioan.  “Well.  The stars brought us together, Ioan, as I predicted.  Fate may have a sense of humor, but it has not let me down yet.  Welcome to the Carthian Movement, for however long you choose to join us.”

“Wha'?”

Nathan stifled a smile as Oya sighed, lifting a hand to her forehead wearily.

“...Never mind.”

#owen jones #vampire the requiem #NPC writings #Prince Oya #Nathan Lemarc #Oresh Patel