To Curse the Night:
A Tale of the Glasgow Kindred
"My kitten walks on velvet feet
And makes no sound at all
And in the doorway nightly sits
To watch the darkness fall
I think he loves the lady, Night
And feels akin to her
Whose footsteps are as still as his
Whose touch as soft as fur" Night, Lois Weakly McKay
The darkness was falling, he thought, standing at the entrance to the Underground, a shimmering convergence of metal and glass, descending into the depths. He drew his hood close, the night enveloping him; embracing him....He was its child, an immortal, a beautiful progeny of shade, the spawn of Caine. He smirked, remembering what he was gave him a certain satisfaction, second only to that of the hunt, to the thrill of the kill, the heart beating against the drain on blood, battling with primordial will to survive, yet so fleeting, so futile.
He licked his lips, the very thought of it making his hunger grow, making the beast within squirm and coil afresh around his heart. He breathed out a non-existent breath, waiting. His contact would be here soon, a bigwig of the Sabbat, the 'Sword of Caine', genocidal madmen on their own little crusade. Still, they could grant power, and power was what he wanted in this city, power over the Camarilla, power over the Primogen and the Prince, his Prince, Chronos. Yes, Chronos De Drakan, mysterious child of clan Tremere had emerged from the shadows, winning over the Cainites here and turning them to his will. An odd one he was, no more a Tremere than he himself were a Nosferatu. Still, it was only natural for him to suspect, Tremere and Brujah had never gotten along, their tempers and talismans clashing over the years in blood feuds and bigotry.
He shuddered against the cold, glancing about himself again. The street was empty, the lights shimmering in their amber and bluish light, tinting the streets with their piercing gaze, like primordial torches of ages he had never known. And then- -He heard something. "What was that?" He spoke aloud, tension flooding his veins, his eyes scanning the night, half expecting some horror to lunge forth and claim him, some Tzimisce beast come to tear his flesh apart, and sculpt it into something more twisted still. Again, noise, shattering the silence of the midnight city, deathly quiet, unusually quiet. "What are you, Goddamnit?" He screamed into the night, whirling around, his eyes seeking the stranger he knew was drawing nearer. "Alexander" It crooned from the darkness, smirking wryly as it watched him. "What are you? Who are you?" He felt his throat tightening, felt a steady pressure and heat burning in his chest, Gehenna was fast approaching, the Final Death looming... "I am your Prince, wretch" Chronos spoke, angered and yet eloquent in his position, delighting as he inflicted pain on this traitor, this recreant who would so brazenly betray him to his enemies. "And you must die, lest your treachery spread and infect more kindred. Fall, and sin no more" He pushed forward, forcing the dread energy of Thaumaturgy through the traitors bones, through his bastard blood, consuming him utterly in the inferno of his rage. And in the half light, his eyes shimmered with hellfire. He chuckled. "Fools are those who oppose me, know thee dark powers that here in Glasgow we shall not take lightly threats to our royal authority" He turned, addressing the empty shadow near him. "How goes the preparations?" "They are almost complete, my Lord" It bowed, coming into corporeal form, a twisted Nosferatu, bent kneed and watching, watching with cold eager eyes, like looking into the eyes of a shark... "Excellent, then soon there shall not be a movement of the Sabbat within this city. They shall die before they cross the threshold of my dominion. Make sure your children keep watch through the night, lest it be your head that rests upon our royal ramparts." Chronos chuckled, turning from the Nosferatu, who bowed and curtsied, fleeing into the shadows... He was alone. "Ah, that this city should be so full of fools!" He gestured madly, his rage pouring forth. "I am cursed to be surrounded by such fools; Camarilla, Sabbat! It makes no difference, they are all cattle, as foolhardy and pathetic as the Kine, before my masters." His eyes blazed with a sinister malignance, balefire alive in his eyes, the very gates of hell reflected in those cold, dead spheres. "I deserve more than to be mere Prince, to have infinite power over a gathering of fools. I deserve better than this world!" He raised his hands, clutching madly at air, his fangs sharp against his lips, his eyes half shut in the delirium of his ranting. "I need power, true power...Ancient power in the blood of most hallowed fathers, those ones corrupted so much that they know not what humanity is, that they exist only as a perversion of decency and reason" He sighed, leaning back against the cool glass of the shelter, watching the stars, the pinpricks of fire licking at the skin of night. "All I need is that power, and I, Chronos De Drakan, child of the Clan Baali, greatest infiltrator ever to set foot on Scottish soil, shall become more than mere prince of Glasgow, I shall become lord and master of this entire damned island..." With that, he faded into the night, leaving nothing to that street but the chill glimmer of his presence, the faint recognition that he had been there...
A man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it.
George Moore
Pray that your loneliness may spur you into finding something to live for, great enough to die for.
Dag Hammarskjold
Far across the city, the wanderer sat, watching the passing traffic, a snails crawl at that time of night, a slow murmur of chaos, in a place of sanctity and order. He sat atop the building, gazing out at this city, a proud city, built by men of vision. He had not seen its like for many years. He was Gunther Dorn, a warrior of clan Gangrel, a wanderer by nature, seeking balance with his inner demons, wrestling with the beast...He sighed, it had been an age since he had tasted the temptations of blood, centuries since he had drank from mortal vessels. He had slumbered, and he had wandered. And now he was home, Scotland, where he had spent his early years, his mortal years, his first few immortal years, tinged with sadness and the dark decades of being hunted. He looked out into the night, the eternal mother that had cradled him from his birth into death and darkness, to these nights of immortal longing, and smiled. It was time to make his mark on the world once again. He rose, still and silent, like a statue silhouetted against the night, the moonlight surrounding him in an eerie glow, as he leapt down from his pedestal, leaving the pinnacle to descend into the labyrinth depths of the city. It was time....Oh yes, it was time...
A Tale of the Glasgow Kindred
"My kitten walks on velvet feet
And makes no sound at all
And in the doorway nightly sits
To watch the darkness fall
I think he loves the lady, Night
And feels akin to her
Whose footsteps are as still as his
Whose touch as soft as fur" Night, Lois Weakly McKay
The darkness was falling, he thought, standing at the entrance to the Underground, a shimmering convergence of metal and glass, descending into the depths. He drew his hood close, the night enveloping him; embracing him....He was its child, an immortal, a beautiful progeny of shade, the spawn of Caine. He smirked, remembering what he was gave him a certain satisfaction, second only to that of the hunt, to the thrill of the kill, the heart beating against the drain on blood, battling with primordial will to survive, yet so fleeting, so futile.
He licked his lips, the very thought of it making his hunger grow, making the beast within squirm and coil afresh around his heart. He breathed out a non-existent breath, waiting. His contact would be here soon, a bigwig of the Sabbat, the 'Sword of Caine', genocidal madmen on their own little crusade. Still, they could grant power, and power was what he wanted in this city, power over the Camarilla, power over the Primogen and the Prince, his Prince, Chronos. Yes, Chronos De Drakan, mysterious child of clan Tremere had emerged from the shadows, winning over the Cainites here and turning them to his will. An odd one he was, no more a Tremere than he himself were a Nosferatu. Still, it was only natural for him to suspect, Tremere and Brujah had never gotten along, their tempers and talismans clashing over the years in blood feuds and bigotry.
He shuddered against the cold, glancing about himself again. The street was empty, the lights shimmering in their amber and bluish light, tinting the streets with their piercing gaze, like primordial torches of ages he had never known. And then- -He heard something. "What was that?" He spoke aloud, tension flooding his veins, his eyes scanning the night, half expecting some horror to lunge forth and claim him, some Tzimisce beast come to tear his flesh apart, and sculpt it into something more twisted still. Again, noise, shattering the silence of the midnight city, deathly quiet, unusually quiet. "What are you, Goddamnit?" He screamed into the night, whirling around, his eyes seeking the stranger he knew was drawing nearer. "Alexander" It crooned from the darkness, smirking wryly as it watched him. "What are you? Who are you?" He felt his throat tightening, felt a steady pressure and heat burning in his chest, Gehenna was fast approaching, the Final Death looming... "I am your Prince, wretch" Chronos spoke, angered and yet eloquent in his position, delighting as he inflicted pain on this traitor, this recreant who would so brazenly betray him to his enemies. "And you must die, lest your treachery spread and infect more kindred. Fall, and sin no more" He pushed forward, forcing the dread energy of Thaumaturgy through the traitors bones, through his bastard blood, consuming him utterly in the inferno of his rage. And in the half light, his eyes shimmered with hellfire. He chuckled. "Fools are those who oppose me, know thee dark powers that here in Glasgow we shall not take lightly threats to our royal authority" He turned, addressing the empty shadow near him. "How goes the preparations?" "They are almost complete, my Lord" It bowed, coming into corporeal form, a twisted Nosferatu, bent kneed and watching, watching with cold eager eyes, like looking into the eyes of a shark... "Excellent, then soon there shall not be a movement of the Sabbat within this city. They shall die before they cross the threshold of my dominion. Make sure your children keep watch through the night, lest it be your head that rests upon our royal ramparts." Chronos chuckled, turning from the Nosferatu, who bowed and curtsied, fleeing into the shadows... He was alone. "Ah, that this city should be so full of fools!" He gestured madly, his rage pouring forth. "I am cursed to be surrounded by such fools; Camarilla, Sabbat! It makes no difference, they are all cattle, as foolhardy and pathetic as the Kine, before my masters." His eyes blazed with a sinister malignance, balefire alive in his eyes, the very gates of hell reflected in those cold, dead spheres. "I deserve more than to be mere Prince, to have infinite power over a gathering of fools. I deserve better than this world!" He raised his hands, clutching madly at air, his fangs sharp against his lips, his eyes half shut in the delirium of his ranting. "I need power, true power...Ancient power in the blood of most hallowed fathers, those ones corrupted so much that they know not what humanity is, that they exist only as a perversion of decency and reason" He sighed, leaning back against the cool glass of the shelter, watching the stars, the pinpricks of fire licking at the skin of night. "All I need is that power, and I, Chronos De Drakan, child of the Clan Baali, greatest infiltrator ever to set foot on Scottish soil, shall become more than mere prince of Glasgow, I shall become lord and master of this entire damned island..." With that, he faded into the night, leaving nothing to that street but the chill glimmer of his presence, the faint recognition that he had been there...
A man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it.
George Moore
Pray that your loneliness may spur you into finding something to live for, great enough to die for.
Dag Hammarskjold
Far across the city, the wanderer sat, watching the passing traffic, a snails crawl at that time of night, a slow murmur of chaos, in a place of sanctity and order. He sat atop the building, gazing out at this city, a proud city, built by men of vision. He had not seen its like for many years. He was Gunther Dorn, a warrior of clan Gangrel, a wanderer by nature, seeking balance with his inner demons, wrestling with the beast...He sighed, it had been an age since he had tasted the temptations of blood, centuries since he had drank from mortal vessels. He had slumbered, and he had wandered. And now he was home, Scotland, where he had spent his early years, his mortal years, his first few immortal years, tinged with sadness and the dark decades of being hunted. He looked out into the night, the eternal mother that had cradled him from his birth into death and darkness, to these nights of immortal longing, and smiled. It was time to make his mark on the world once again. He rose, still and silent, like a statue silhouetted against the night, the moonlight surrounding him in an eerie glow, as he leapt down from his pedestal, leaving the pinnacle to descend into the labyrinth depths of the city. It was time....Oh yes, it was time...