I am in the heart of Nice. It's an ideal place to loiter, taste, smell and look around. Typical Italian market areas, except for the fact the French claim it as theirs. (The Niçois have not yet claimed France, and I sense a reluctance to do so.) It is a genuine walk or climb domain, a maze of winding alleys and very small streets with stairs covered by hanging laundry, by day, or so they tell me.
Clothing hung out to dry at night tend to vanish very quickly, as quickly as hapless Toredors within the darkness of shiftless Lasomba villains.
I followed the inky blackness from Lousia's party into the heart of the city. There are a lot of small restaurants, exotic shops, cafes: all closed this deeply in the night. Were it day time, the roads would be thick with the milling masses at the open air stalls with sausages, cheese, pizzas, fruits confits and broiled sucking pigs, delights I can only dream about in what passes for erotic moments in my undead body.
I could look up and admire facades adorned with "trompe l'oeuil" and frescoes, or linger over the high maison de maitre and picturesque squares, all the while trying to ignore the strange, mingling odours, but there goes the darkness and it is hard to follow such a thing in the inkwell of the night.
At rue Pairoliere, the suspected darkness peels away and gives access to the adorable place Saint-Francois. Every day, a picturesque morning fish market is held here, full of chaos and milling, knives flashing and cleavers chopping, and this has been a good place for a Kindred such as I to sneak in a meal or two before dawn. Two hours before dawn, the area is swept of the harmless and the homeless so they might stagger off before the fishmongers arrive. I have assisted in their relocation from time to time, being careful not to sup from one too deeply or twice. The mark of insanity my overindulgence sets upon the kine would draw too much attention and endanger the Masquerade, so I am careful.
Don't laugh. I can be careful and discreet when it suits my needs.
But I digress. Suffice to say, I am familiar with the area these last two weeks and this makes tracking the kidnapping Kindred a bit easier. Plus my mind is clear, for those that endanger my sponsor endanger my vision. There are four Lasomba and one torpid Toredor. Torpidador? They stop before they go any closer to the Palais de Justice and climb into the sewer.
I said, DO NOT LAUGH! My mind was certainly clear that night and I will show you that clarity by starting with the second gathering.
Of course, it wasn't the second gathering ever in Nice, but the second I was to attend since designing the Library at the university where I had a small crypt-like room all to myself. I had stayed with the Prince only long enough for her to give me leave to pursue inquiries on behalf of my proposed Palais de Congrès Noctem.
For the past two weeks, I have needed to maintain my privacy to pursue my studies of anatomy in any case, to explore Nice more fully, and to seek an apprentice amongst the kine. That my purpose should be threefold pleased me; invoking trinity reminding me of happy days of yore: transcribing His word, rendering art that was but a mere shadow of Divine creation, and keeping my vow of silence, all to give glory to Our Father.
I needed a technically brilliant student of architectural engineering totally lacking in original insight, strength of character, and close friends who might be suspicious of any changes he might undergo. I have narrowed my interest to a handful of candidates, chief among them a young Austrian by the name of Wolfgang van Helsing.
I suppose I will actually have to ghoul him, although I am reluctant for reasons I can not say. I am sure I have done so before, but if I have, where are they now? I will check my sketch book later, for if they are within the pages, I will know what happened to them.
My studies of anatomy have suffered these past two years on the run from the Inquisition. It is interesting to note that the Inquisition pursues me not because they suspect I am a childe of Darkness (In truth, I am the childe of Flint of the Mountains, but that is of no concern to anyone, perhaps not even the mad rat-catcher himself), but that they have pursued me instead thinking that I am either a mad vivisectionist or a godless Augurist.
I have been more careful about who I show my personal portfolio to these days. Nights. I can hardly blame the Inquisitionists for I am a vivisectionist and an Augurist, as well as something the can not possibly truly comprehend. I still do God's work, for God is in the details, they are simply not enlightened enough to know this, the poor fools.
I linger as I walk down rue Guidaria, a Jewish ghetto within the Christian city and almost as hated as my kind. Our kind. Once I might have spit upon them but now I know they are but simple kine with a slightly different covenant with the same God than I had as a mortal monk. A much more different covenant than I now have with God, and from here the Christian and Jewish covenants hardly seem different at all.
And I have certainly looked inside both and found both remarkably, or not so remarkably, alike. The thumbprint of God can be seen in all his creations, even such as we. Perhaps I will show you sometime, eh?
Rue Guidaria figures prominently in my dreams and I am sure this is where the Palais de Congrès Noctem shall rest, hidden below the maze of cellars, caves and sewers that shall one day be the Jews escape and destruction. Within the lifetime of these cloistered Jews, perhaps a scant score of years from now, when the ghetto shall be locked up at night by thick chains and cruel iron fences, laughably for the protection of the Jews.
In truth, Prince Louisa, or someone very much like her, will allow this for she fancies the Jews as poor, artless people who hardly any one will miss. The Brujah, seeking to expand from the docks, will slip amidst the crafty money-lenders, offering protection and services suited to their physical nature. The Ghetto will become theirs, and it is for this reason I have sought an ally in the late Brujah Elder Bart.
Of course, he wasn't late at the time. Try to keep up, please.
It was clear to me that I was stalling, dallying in the ghetto, pondering what I would say when I got back. Bart was supposed to live and Guy was supposed to achieve final death in saving his Elder's life from a threat I knew nothing of, even in my wildest dreams. Not that I hadn't ever dreamed of Lasomba attacking en masse during a party, I just didn't know how the threat would manifest itself.
I assumed threateningly, of course. In darkness, of course.
When I sensed things going wrong during the battle, I tried to get my friend, Howard to rescue the Brujah primogen. Instead, he merely looked at me like I was crazy and told me I was lucky he didn't kill me where I stood. I knew he was close to blood fury; I simply needed him to do that deep within the darkness. I was so angry, I threw my dagger into the darkness randomly with all my blood accelerated strength.
What a waste.
I charged into the darkness. The darkness receded.
I charged in again. The darkness retreated.
Hmmm. Curious, yes? I obscured myself and stepped into the darkness. The darkness moved away from me. I followed the darkness because it was a curious thing and I recovered my dagger. I crossed over the dead, with absolutely no curiosity over their corpses. I was disappointed in the Brujah and I knew I should not be. The Brujah are predictable in a chaotic sort of way, which serves my purposes well enough, usually.
No, something interfered. Perhaps Guy has been seduced to the dark side. Well, the darker side. It'll come to me eventually.
My biggest fear at the moment, however, was that the Howard might have mistaken my warning and my intent in throwing my dagger into the darkness. Certainly, he wouldn't think a dagger would do his Elder in, but I have taken his measure, he is -- in his undead heart of hearts -- a defender. Better to wait until something else attracts his attention before I reappear.
Sorrow. Sorrow. Sorrow.
Perhaps a mortal, perhaps a mage. Whatever he is, there is a judge beneath his skin and I wonder at that. He is going to introduce me to Garou at some point in the near future, or so he says. It does not feel like something that is going to happen, but perhaps I forget about it in the future, so I can not recall it now.
Or perhaps it is one of those things that must happen first before I can recall it. It is not an uncommon occurrence. In any event, I will distract my Kindred by defending my friend, Sorrow. He was to be watched, as I recall, but as I did not care overly much about him at the time, I did not pay much attention to the details of that "protection" the Prince offered.
As I recall, I was a bit too distracted at the time by my chicken and my new Tzimisce friend who, despite his odd looks, shared not only in my whimsy but the details on how I conducted my own exploration of organic mechanics. He was bemused and curious how much he might learn from such invasive and oft-times fatal deconstructions, as it never has occurred to him that there are things the ease of flesh-crafting might make him overlook. Perhaps we will share notes very soon.
Yes, I realize I am a bit distracted. Ah, yes.
I had a plan and a back-up plan. If the Sorrow thing did not unearth something interesting, I could turn the focus on Georgie. After all, he could be the other Tzimisce and who would know but a Toreador obsessed with who wore what to a gathering? Not I. Certainly.
That made me think about the ugliness the Sabbat might be inflicting upon the poor male Tornovaries. Not that I don't think the average Toreador could use more ugliness in their life, but my Prince is a Toreador and my sponsor as well. There can be favours exchanged later, perhaps, as her clan is important to her. Even the least of the Toreadors surely did not deserve to die in a sewer, although the irony would have a certain flair.
I interrupted a scene and said my piece about Sorrow's protection. Did the Nosferati abandon him? Did he kill them off? Damn me for my drama, for the point was not only moot, but the plot was moot as well. I might have well demanded to know where the Prince was during the battle, for all were distracted by my friend, Georgie, who seemed a little... drunk? No... happy. Satiated: YES!
There was a husk in front of him. Oh, yes. He had been naughty, but suddenly, I knew what to do, for I didn't want my prince and my circle of friends at odds.
I told my Prince about the Sabbath and the missing Toreador going down the drain. I told them how much we needed Georgie because he looked very much like the other who had fallen (and Georgie was kind enough to change his face so as not to make a liar out of me).
The plan?... well, there was no plan... things were a little confused. Or perhaps that was just me. They all insisted that it should be me who went first, obsufisiticated. I tried to explain that the second I moved the sewer cover I would be seen! But they would not listen to reason: that it was Geogie who should go first.
At least, not until it was someone else's idea. Funny thing that. I must gather their trust some how for surely fate would not have thrown us altogether without a reason. To that end, I told them I knew the sewers of France like the back of my hand. Technically speaking, of course, this wasn't QUITE France; not in the hearts of its people and the heart is where the ultimate truth lies.
Of course, if the Ultimate Truth is going to lie why should any of us attempt honesty in the first place? Tell me that.
Besides, the sewers of Nice are but the innards, the intestines and bowels of the city. These are things I know. The next few hours should be interesting.
Clothing hung out to dry at night tend to vanish very quickly, as quickly as hapless Toredors within the darkness of shiftless Lasomba villains.
I followed the inky blackness from Lousia's party into the heart of the city. There are a lot of small restaurants, exotic shops, cafes: all closed this deeply in the night. Were it day time, the roads would be thick with the milling masses at the open air stalls with sausages, cheese, pizzas, fruits confits and broiled sucking pigs, delights I can only dream about in what passes for erotic moments in my undead body.
I could look up and admire facades adorned with "trompe l'oeuil" and frescoes, or linger over the high maison de maitre and picturesque squares, all the while trying to ignore the strange, mingling odours, but there goes the darkness and it is hard to follow such a thing in the inkwell of the night.
At rue Pairoliere, the suspected darkness peels away and gives access to the adorable place Saint-Francois. Every day, a picturesque morning fish market is held here, full of chaos and milling, knives flashing and cleavers chopping, and this has been a good place for a Kindred such as I to sneak in a meal or two before dawn. Two hours before dawn, the area is swept of the harmless and the homeless so they might stagger off before the fishmongers arrive. I have assisted in their relocation from time to time, being careful not to sup from one too deeply or twice. The mark of insanity my overindulgence sets upon the kine would draw too much attention and endanger the Masquerade, so I am careful.
Don't laugh. I can be careful and discreet when it suits my needs.
But I digress. Suffice to say, I am familiar with the area these last two weeks and this makes tracking the kidnapping Kindred a bit easier. Plus my mind is clear, for those that endanger my sponsor endanger my vision. There are four Lasomba and one torpid Toredor. Torpidador? They stop before they go any closer to the Palais de Justice and climb into the sewer.
I said, DO NOT LAUGH! My mind was certainly clear that night and I will show you that clarity by starting with the second gathering.
Of course, it wasn't the second gathering ever in Nice, but the second I was to attend since designing the Library at the university where I had a small crypt-like room all to myself. I had stayed with the Prince only long enough for her to give me leave to pursue inquiries on behalf of my proposed Palais de Congrès Noctem.
For the past two weeks, I have needed to maintain my privacy to pursue my studies of anatomy in any case, to explore Nice more fully, and to seek an apprentice amongst the kine. That my purpose should be threefold pleased me; invoking trinity reminding me of happy days of yore: transcribing His word, rendering art that was but a mere shadow of Divine creation, and keeping my vow of silence, all to give glory to Our Father.
I needed a technically brilliant student of architectural engineering totally lacking in original insight, strength of character, and close friends who might be suspicious of any changes he might undergo. I have narrowed my interest to a handful of candidates, chief among them a young Austrian by the name of Wolfgang van Helsing.
I suppose I will actually have to ghoul him, although I am reluctant for reasons I can not say. I am sure I have done so before, but if I have, where are they now? I will check my sketch book later, for if they are within the pages, I will know what happened to them.
My studies of anatomy have suffered these past two years on the run from the Inquisition. It is interesting to note that the Inquisition pursues me not because they suspect I am a childe of Darkness (In truth, I am the childe of Flint of the Mountains, but that is of no concern to anyone, perhaps not even the mad rat-catcher himself), but that they have pursued me instead thinking that I am either a mad vivisectionist or a godless Augurist.
I have been more careful about who I show my personal portfolio to these days. Nights. I can hardly blame the Inquisitionists for I am a vivisectionist and an Augurist, as well as something the can not possibly truly comprehend. I still do God's work, for God is in the details, they are simply not enlightened enough to know this, the poor fools.
I linger as I walk down rue Guidaria, a Jewish ghetto within the Christian city and almost as hated as my kind. Our kind. Once I might have spit upon them but now I know they are but simple kine with a slightly different covenant with the same God than I had as a mortal monk. A much more different covenant than I now have with God, and from here the Christian and Jewish covenants hardly seem different at all.
And I have certainly looked inside both and found both remarkably, or not so remarkably, alike. The thumbprint of God can be seen in all his creations, even such as we. Perhaps I will show you sometime, eh?
Rue Guidaria figures prominently in my dreams and I am sure this is where the Palais de Congrès Noctem shall rest, hidden below the maze of cellars, caves and sewers that shall one day be the Jews escape and destruction. Within the lifetime of these cloistered Jews, perhaps a scant score of years from now, when the ghetto shall be locked up at night by thick chains and cruel iron fences, laughably for the protection of the Jews.
In truth, Prince Louisa, or someone very much like her, will allow this for she fancies the Jews as poor, artless people who hardly any one will miss. The Brujah, seeking to expand from the docks, will slip amidst the crafty money-lenders, offering protection and services suited to their physical nature. The Ghetto will become theirs, and it is for this reason I have sought an ally in the late Brujah Elder Bart.
Of course, he wasn't late at the time. Try to keep up, please.
It was clear to me that I was stalling, dallying in the ghetto, pondering what I would say when I got back. Bart was supposed to live and Guy was supposed to achieve final death in saving his Elder's life from a threat I knew nothing of, even in my wildest dreams. Not that I hadn't ever dreamed of Lasomba attacking en masse during a party, I just didn't know how the threat would manifest itself.
I assumed threateningly, of course. In darkness, of course.
When I sensed things going wrong during the battle, I tried to get my friend, Howard to rescue the Brujah primogen. Instead, he merely looked at me like I was crazy and told me I was lucky he didn't kill me where I stood. I knew he was close to blood fury; I simply needed him to do that deep within the darkness. I was so angry, I threw my dagger into the darkness randomly with all my blood accelerated strength.
What a waste.
I charged into the darkness. The darkness receded.
I charged in again. The darkness retreated.
Hmmm. Curious, yes? I obscured myself and stepped into the darkness. The darkness moved away from me. I followed the darkness because it was a curious thing and I recovered my dagger. I crossed over the dead, with absolutely no curiosity over their corpses. I was disappointed in the Brujah and I knew I should not be. The Brujah are predictable in a chaotic sort of way, which serves my purposes well enough, usually.
No, something interfered. Perhaps Guy has been seduced to the dark side. Well, the darker side. It'll come to me eventually.
My biggest fear at the moment, however, was that the Howard might have mistaken my warning and my intent in throwing my dagger into the darkness. Certainly, he wouldn't think a dagger would do his Elder in, but I have taken his measure, he is -- in his undead heart of hearts -- a defender. Better to wait until something else attracts his attention before I reappear.
Sorrow. Sorrow. Sorrow.
Perhaps a mortal, perhaps a mage. Whatever he is, there is a judge beneath his skin and I wonder at that. He is going to introduce me to Garou at some point in the near future, or so he says. It does not feel like something that is going to happen, but perhaps I forget about it in the future, so I can not recall it now.
Or perhaps it is one of those things that must happen first before I can recall it. It is not an uncommon occurrence. In any event, I will distract my Kindred by defending my friend, Sorrow. He was to be watched, as I recall, but as I did not care overly much about him at the time, I did not pay much attention to the details of that "protection" the Prince offered.
As I recall, I was a bit too distracted at the time by my chicken and my new Tzimisce friend who, despite his odd looks, shared not only in my whimsy but the details on how I conducted my own exploration of organic mechanics. He was bemused and curious how much he might learn from such invasive and oft-times fatal deconstructions, as it never has occurred to him that there are things the ease of flesh-crafting might make him overlook. Perhaps we will share notes very soon.
Yes, I realize I am a bit distracted. Ah, yes.
I had a plan and a back-up plan. If the Sorrow thing did not unearth something interesting, I could turn the focus on Georgie. After all, he could be the other Tzimisce and who would know but a Toreador obsessed with who wore what to a gathering? Not I. Certainly.
That made me think about the ugliness the Sabbat might be inflicting upon the poor male Tornovaries. Not that I don't think the average Toreador could use more ugliness in their life, but my Prince is a Toreador and my sponsor as well. There can be favours exchanged later, perhaps, as her clan is important to her. Even the least of the Toreadors surely did not deserve to die in a sewer, although the irony would have a certain flair.
I interrupted a scene and said my piece about Sorrow's protection. Did the Nosferati abandon him? Did he kill them off? Damn me for my drama, for the point was not only moot, but the plot was moot as well. I might have well demanded to know where the Prince was during the battle, for all were distracted by my friend, Georgie, who seemed a little... drunk? No... happy. Satiated: YES!
There was a husk in front of him. Oh, yes. He had been naughty, but suddenly, I knew what to do, for I didn't want my prince and my circle of friends at odds.
I told my Prince about the Sabbath and the missing Toreador going down the drain. I told them how much we needed Georgie because he looked very much like the other who had fallen (and Georgie was kind enough to change his face so as not to make a liar out of me).
The plan?... well, there was no plan... things were a little confused. Or perhaps that was just me. They all insisted that it should be me who went first, obsufisiticated. I tried to explain that the second I moved the sewer cover I would be seen! But they would not listen to reason: that it was Geogie who should go first.
At least, not until it was someone else's idea. Funny thing that. I must gather their trust some how for surely fate would not have thrown us altogether without a reason. To that end, I told them I knew the sewers of France like the back of my hand. Technically speaking, of course, this wasn't QUITE France; not in the hearts of its people and the heart is where the ultimate truth lies.
Of course, if the Ultimate Truth is going to lie why should any of us attempt honesty in the first place? Tell me that.
Besides, the sewers of Nice are but the innards, the intestines and bowels of the city. These are things I know. The next few hours should be interesting.
