"Les Egouts du Paradis," that is what I wrote on the vellum, just before sketching out what little I could recall of the sewers of Nice. It was a simple page from my notebook, really, I didn't have time for anything else. Nothing at all. Nothing.
Except, for the chemicals. I owed the idea to Roddy. I had asked the Lasomba what we needed to beat back those tentacles of darkness he's so proud of. Bright light, he'd said, and instantly I recalled that phosphor ignites when exposed to air. But the heat is not all that frightful, nor so bright. Then I recalled, from my studies, that magnesium produced the kind of frightful light I would need.
I had set aside time for testing. The ratios seemed right, but I did not want to risk being made a fool of in front of the future primegen of the Brajhas. He was finally taking me seriously, and I didn't want to ruin it. After this evening's setback, this was my chance to make Harold the hero he needs to be in front of the Prince, and take my dreams of the Congress of the Night a step closer to gestation. But, testing... well, in retrospect, my beefy Anarch delight... I should have tested the damn things, but I was just so elated Harold was trusting me... well, how could I tell him that maps of the sewers of Nice did not exist per se? That the catacombs that I recall might very well be from a time yet to come. He, like you, is such a wonderful brute, how could he truly understand, really? He trusted it and that was all that mattered, really.
And all it took was knowledge no one else had, a sensible plan, and a white-powdered wig.
I'm really impressed and grateful no one looked on the back of the map. I know the Toreador was curious and, having seen my most special sketches and etchings (they inspired her to order Harold to carry off Roddy, so that they might... hmmm, I am not sure what my simple drawings might have inspired her to do... but I must remember to keep an eye on how she influences Harold in the future. If you live, remind me that I might have to kill her to see my vision come to pass). If she looked, she said nothing.
Perhaps it is because the exposed rib cage of a red squirrel does bear a great deal of resemblance to certain aspects of the ancient aqueducts. Oh, the Romans truly understood the organic strength of the arch, but I shan't bore you with that. You want to know how this ghastly situation came about, me sitting on your chest, suckling the blood gently from your neck, letting you feel my warmth as your life force becomes mine. Yes, I am obscured from their view, but are you not so close to death, final death, that you can read my thoughts, my prayers for you?
Oh, yes, I pray for you. I pray that you might have Final Death in ignorance, without the burdens of the full, undiluted truth weighing down upon you. I pray that you live, too, for I like you. No, I really do. Your blood is sweet and full of verve, hard to believe you are French at all. I want you to live. I want you to die. It is confusing, no? But the more I have of you, the more I want of you and the more I take and soon there will be nothing left of you.
And I don't even know you. But have no worries, when I grant you that Final Death, I promise not to swallow what remains of your shriveled, black soul. Perhaps you will return as a lamb, and I can show you what I do.
And perhaps you can return to me after that once again.
It was my fault that things went wrong. They waited for me, for the map. They had no love of me for they know I am Clan Malkavein (wipe that blank look off your face, you knew I was Malkavien the moment our blood met) and they think me insane, and therefore treat me without the proper respect. So, I played their game, dressing as a judge, knowing they must follow me. Who is more foolish? The fool? Or those who follow the fool.
I could have looked for a map at the college, too, now that I think about it. I could have roused Wolfgang from his slumber and forced him to draw a better map than I. But it is past time for recriminations. I simply can not be expected to think of everything.
Once was enough, thank you.
When I returned with the map, we set off. I took them by way of the fish market and I playfully suggested that we take up arms against the Sabbot, using FISH! "Hah! They'd never expect that, would they?!" The fools followed the fool, still, never knowing the fool was no fool at all. I joked on purpose, for I knew we were after Anarchs, not the Sabbot at all.
I brought them to the sewer gate and I was overcome for a moment with a vision of the future. But it was of a far and distant future and I did not think the tale of Albert Spaggiari would find a sympathetic ear among my fellow kindrid. Nor did I wish to speculate on the odds that the map was but a copy of the map I drew for my dear Albert Spaggiari and that it would lead to where a tidy fortune of gold and jems will someday hide from even the cloistered Nosferatu... but that is indeed another story.
I asked George to step forward, for only the Tzimisce was capable of bluffing the Anarchs whose secret base we might be about to breach.
"Georgie isn't here." One of the Ladies said.
In all the excitement, I hadn't noticed. I had the map, the pyrotechnics, and a deliciously flowing black robe. I couldn't think of everything. I must have taken too long and he wandered off. If he'd been here, things would have been different. The gangrel might still be in one piece, for example.
Well, yes, technically, he's still in one piece, but he had such a wild beauty... he reminded me of Blaze just a bit. Now he looks more like a botched vivisection, but I am getting ahead of myself. Seven of us were going into the tunnels when you interrupted me.
Don't lie to me. You're just stalling, waiting and hoping Harold will notice me sucking the unlife from a clanmate. You shan't be diabolized, what more do you want? Do you want to hear more about our rescue mission or not?
I'm going to tell you, any way.
I was so embarrassed. I was a failure, in front of Harold! I knew he would despise this weakness of mine so. I insisted he go first. Or the Gangrel as I was not fit to lead, and I figured Corky would want to get some exercise before he became one of those origami pieces the Portuguese sailors are so fond of selling.
But I was wrong, for Harold smiled and motioned me forward. I was so worried that I might have forgotten something, I stuttered that something about asking the Nosferatu for permission to hunt in their territory. It would be the right thing to do. And he very patiently gestured again that I should go first.
It was only then I realized the honour he was bestowing upon me! My god, some how Harold still trusted me! Me! The crazy guy in the white wig and black robe! And he wanted me to lead the rescue squad.
You'll laugh yourself to death over this, we followed the map and came not upon the anarchs, but a dress shop.
It occurred to me, at that moment, that perhaps the Anarch's base of operation was from without, not within, with the sewers and tunnels merely providing egress and access and escape and not shelter. The map was useless, I realized, for even if it was accurate, and I had to admit that it was not yet accurate, if it is ever to be accurate, it would be accurate much too late for the poor captured Toreador.
You know, if only I had stopped to figure out what was so special about the missing vampire... One of the "sane" kindred should of thought of that, they think they are so smart. but, oh well, it's too late for that and I'm sure his sire can just make another one.
You know, dawn is a funny thing. It hit us just before we came to the next catacomb. Or what might have been a catacomb... or a crypt. I would have died if it turned out to be another dress shop, let me tell you, my little undead sausage. Half the party just dropped where they stood, but at least they stopped bitching. I can't imagine how much they would have complained if they figured out where they would be sleeping that day.
Harold and I found some alcoves to stack them in before allowing ourselves to sleep.
The kind kindred who live beneath Nice provided us with breakfast, two older gentlemen and a little 8 year old girl, if I'm any judge of human flesh. All three unconscious, blissfully unaware of the fate planned for them. You'll probably be disgusted to know that they survived. Dark Sorrow began to argue almost at once that we should not drink of their blood.
He is still so very mortal deep within his unbeating heart, despite the fact he is an assassin. I think he might even be kin save for the fact that all those who slept, awoke. He lies to hide the truth. If only lies could work such wonders upon my own eyes, I should be a happier man.
The Nosferatu showed up about then, not that showing up is the right phrase, and I spoke to them as I was leading this sad group without question. We Malkavians have a special understanding with the Nosferatu, in any case. We both have truth and knowledge as the guiding lights of our clans. While the Nosferatu envy us the Baptism into the River of Undiluted Truth each Malkavian undergoes upon becoming Kindred, we Malkavians envy the Nosferatu their Innocence and their ability to pick and choose which truths they want to know.
After offering the hospitality of my library haven at the University of Nice in exchange for their knowledge of the goings on beneath the streets, we learned the attackers were using the sewers to enter the walled city from the south-west discharge pipe, not too far from the river. Relatively speaking, of course.
We escaped from the sewers at this point, leaving the two adults and little girl unconscious and unable to defend themselves. My friends consider themselves kind for this act. Have they forgotten how cruel the nights are to the kin? No matter, I fed, and while the night might well have been wasted, I feel that I have bonded more closely with Harold than I might have otherwise.
The gangrel and the assamite stole my robes, and I let them, by the way. The oiled rags and the glass canisters were no great protection from the Scientific forces held within, and I played dumb with them as Harold watched approvingly. Let them blame the Nosferatu for the theft, as if they weren't shadowing our passage above ground as easily as they might have below ground. I know and now the Nosferatu know and knowledge is everything, you poor insensate slab of meat.
I ran ahead to report to the Prince, taking only enough time to dress accordingly and wash the filth from my skin. The Prince must always see me at my best; the Prince must think of me as an artist and academic first, and a Malkavian second. That is why you yet live and why she would surely not begrudge me your soul, should I wish it. But if push comes to diabolization, your soul might not sit well upon my brain and I would be undone.
And so I am careful. So very careful. Now... while no one is looking, take my blood... yes, a few drops and I can feel it within you. Replace what I have taken in part. And if you live, I shall find a way to feed you tomorrow night. And the night upon that following day, you shall take of me. You must, for you will be mad otherwise and all alone in enemy hands.
Come back to the Camerilia, you silly bull of a walking corpse, for you can answer the riddle that I have and you taste too good to eat all in one night. Was it the Anarchs who attacked La Chateau truly? Was it the Sabbot instead, and our actions here fortuitous only to the Elders?
My plan was to go to the sewer entrance/exit and await for the next Sabbot fool to come by, to sneak into the city. But as the Prince spoke to Harold and the others, I discovered that Sorrow was now playing house with Lady Fitch's Toreador friend. There was naught I could do but try to rescue my bombs. It would not do for such a pretty Toreador to open the bottles out of curiosity and expose the contents to air? Vampires, in case you did not know, burn real well.
I tossed her room at the inn very well but I did not find the devices. I sample some rose perfumes and some citrus smelling oils, before I recall that it was getting late and when I returned to the castle, I discovered that the Capidocian, Tobias, had returned from where ever he was hiding while I was leading so many to the futile depths.
Tobias... that was the guy that tried to suck all the life out of your fellow brujah anarch. You remember him, don't you? If you survive so long, remind me to tell him the nun really stands out like a sore thumb in Rue Guirdaria. You see, that's why we call it a ghetto... only Jews live there. Nevermind, I am almost sure he knows what he is doing. Almost.
My plan seemed to have mutated somehow and it was with a perverse curiosity that I watched Tobias send an army of mortals to burn out our enemies. He hired enough mortals (lord knows where he got the gold) to endanger the massquerade, but... well, I'm sure you noticed the fire, so he must have done something right.
The rest you know. The gangrel getting folded, spindled, and mutilated. The attack on what must have been your stronghold, where we whipped your ass, although it was hardly my shining moment. I think I fell three times in thirty seconds. And then your attack as we tried to liberate Corky from the huge cairn Harold had created for him. That wasn't nice, at all, you know.
I'll let Harold carry you back. Maybe no one will notice me tending you from the shadows while you heal and then you can be my little special bloodsucking friend. I will be the guardian for your body for three nights and a voice within your skull far longer than that.
You will change or you will die. It's as simple as that.
Except, for the chemicals. I owed the idea to Roddy. I had asked the Lasomba what we needed to beat back those tentacles of darkness he's so proud of. Bright light, he'd said, and instantly I recalled that phosphor ignites when exposed to air. But the heat is not all that frightful, nor so bright. Then I recalled, from my studies, that magnesium produced the kind of frightful light I would need.
I had set aside time for testing. The ratios seemed right, but I did not want to risk being made a fool of in front of the future primegen of the Brajhas. He was finally taking me seriously, and I didn't want to ruin it. After this evening's setback, this was my chance to make Harold the hero he needs to be in front of the Prince, and take my dreams of the Congress of the Night a step closer to gestation. But, testing... well, in retrospect, my beefy Anarch delight... I should have tested the damn things, but I was just so elated Harold was trusting me... well, how could I tell him that maps of the sewers of Nice did not exist per se? That the catacombs that I recall might very well be from a time yet to come. He, like you, is such a wonderful brute, how could he truly understand, really? He trusted it and that was all that mattered, really.
And all it took was knowledge no one else had, a sensible plan, and a white-powdered wig.
I'm really impressed and grateful no one looked on the back of the map. I know the Toreador was curious and, having seen my most special sketches and etchings (they inspired her to order Harold to carry off Roddy, so that they might... hmmm, I am not sure what my simple drawings might have inspired her to do... but I must remember to keep an eye on how she influences Harold in the future. If you live, remind me that I might have to kill her to see my vision come to pass). If she looked, she said nothing.
Perhaps it is because the exposed rib cage of a red squirrel does bear a great deal of resemblance to certain aspects of the ancient aqueducts. Oh, the Romans truly understood the organic strength of the arch, but I shan't bore you with that. You want to know how this ghastly situation came about, me sitting on your chest, suckling the blood gently from your neck, letting you feel my warmth as your life force becomes mine. Yes, I am obscured from their view, but are you not so close to death, final death, that you can read my thoughts, my prayers for you?
Oh, yes, I pray for you. I pray that you might have Final Death in ignorance, without the burdens of the full, undiluted truth weighing down upon you. I pray that you live, too, for I like you. No, I really do. Your blood is sweet and full of verve, hard to believe you are French at all. I want you to live. I want you to die. It is confusing, no? But the more I have of you, the more I want of you and the more I take and soon there will be nothing left of you.
And I don't even know you. But have no worries, when I grant you that Final Death, I promise not to swallow what remains of your shriveled, black soul. Perhaps you will return as a lamb, and I can show you what I do.
And perhaps you can return to me after that once again.
It was my fault that things went wrong. They waited for me, for the map. They had no love of me for they know I am Clan Malkavein (wipe that blank look off your face, you knew I was Malkavien the moment our blood met) and they think me insane, and therefore treat me without the proper respect. So, I played their game, dressing as a judge, knowing they must follow me. Who is more foolish? The fool? Or those who follow the fool.
I could have looked for a map at the college, too, now that I think about it. I could have roused Wolfgang from his slumber and forced him to draw a better map than I. But it is past time for recriminations. I simply can not be expected to think of everything.
Once was enough, thank you.
When I returned with the map, we set off. I took them by way of the fish market and I playfully suggested that we take up arms against the Sabbot, using FISH! "Hah! They'd never expect that, would they?!" The fools followed the fool, still, never knowing the fool was no fool at all. I joked on purpose, for I knew we were after Anarchs, not the Sabbot at all.
I brought them to the sewer gate and I was overcome for a moment with a vision of the future. But it was of a far and distant future and I did not think the tale of Albert Spaggiari would find a sympathetic ear among my fellow kindrid. Nor did I wish to speculate on the odds that the map was but a copy of the map I drew for my dear Albert Spaggiari and that it would lead to where a tidy fortune of gold and jems will someday hide from even the cloistered Nosferatu... but that is indeed another story.
I asked George to step forward, for only the Tzimisce was capable of bluffing the Anarchs whose secret base we might be about to breach.
"Georgie isn't here." One of the Ladies said.
In all the excitement, I hadn't noticed. I had the map, the pyrotechnics, and a deliciously flowing black robe. I couldn't think of everything. I must have taken too long and he wandered off. If he'd been here, things would have been different. The gangrel might still be in one piece, for example.
Well, yes, technically, he's still in one piece, but he had such a wild beauty... he reminded me of Blaze just a bit. Now he looks more like a botched vivisection, but I am getting ahead of myself. Seven of us were going into the tunnels when you interrupted me.
Don't lie to me. You're just stalling, waiting and hoping Harold will notice me sucking the unlife from a clanmate. You shan't be diabolized, what more do you want? Do you want to hear more about our rescue mission or not?
I'm going to tell you, any way.
I was so embarrassed. I was a failure, in front of Harold! I knew he would despise this weakness of mine so. I insisted he go first. Or the Gangrel as I was not fit to lead, and I figured Corky would want to get some exercise before he became one of those origami pieces the Portuguese sailors are so fond of selling.
But I was wrong, for Harold smiled and motioned me forward. I was so worried that I might have forgotten something, I stuttered that something about asking the Nosferatu for permission to hunt in their territory. It would be the right thing to do. And he very patiently gestured again that I should go first.
It was only then I realized the honour he was bestowing upon me! My god, some how Harold still trusted me! Me! The crazy guy in the white wig and black robe! And he wanted me to lead the rescue squad.
You'll laugh yourself to death over this, we followed the map and came not upon the anarchs, but a dress shop.
It occurred to me, at that moment, that perhaps the Anarch's base of operation was from without, not within, with the sewers and tunnels merely providing egress and access and escape and not shelter. The map was useless, I realized, for even if it was accurate, and I had to admit that it was not yet accurate, if it is ever to be accurate, it would be accurate much too late for the poor captured Toreador.
You know, if only I had stopped to figure out what was so special about the missing vampire... One of the "sane" kindred should of thought of that, they think they are so smart. but, oh well, it's too late for that and I'm sure his sire can just make another one.
You know, dawn is a funny thing. It hit us just before we came to the next catacomb. Or what might have been a catacomb... or a crypt. I would have died if it turned out to be another dress shop, let me tell you, my little undead sausage. Half the party just dropped where they stood, but at least they stopped bitching. I can't imagine how much they would have complained if they figured out where they would be sleeping that day.
Harold and I found some alcoves to stack them in before allowing ourselves to sleep.
The kind kindred who live beneath Nice provided us with breakfast, two older gentlemen and a little 8 year old girl, if I'm any judge of human flesh. All three unconscious, blissfully unaware of the fate planned for them. You'll probably be disgusted to know that they survived. Dark Sorrow began to argue almost at once that we should not drink of their blood.
He is still so very mortal deep within his unbeating heart, despite the fact he is an assassin. I think he might even be kin save for the fact that all those who slept, awoke. He lies to hide the truth. If only lies could work such wonders upon my own eyes, I should be a happier man.
The Nosferatu showed up about then, not that showing up is the right phrase, and I spoke to them as I was leading this sad group without question. We Malkavians have a special understanding with the Nosferatu, in any case. We both have truth and knowledge as the guiding lights of our clans. While the Nosferatu envy us the Baptism into the River of Undiluted Truth each Malkavian undergoes upon becoming Kindred, we Malkavians envy the Nosferatu their Innocence and their ability to pick and choose which truths they want to know.
After offering the hospitality of my library haven at the University of Nice in exchange for their knowledge of the goings on beneath the streets, we learned the attackers were using the sewers to enter the walled city from the south-west discharge pipe, not too far from the river. Relatively speaking, of course.
We escaped from the sewers at this point, leaving the two adults and little girl unconscious and unable to defend themselves. My friends consider themselves kind for this act. Have they forgotten how cruel the nights are to the kin? No matter, I fed, and while the night might well have been wasted, I feel that I have bonded more closely with Harold than I might have otherwise.
The gangrel and the assamite stole my robes, and I let them, by the way. The oiled rags and the glass canisters were no great protection from the Scientific forces held within, and I played dumb with them as Harold watched approvingly. Let them blame the Nosferatu for the theft, as if they weren't shadowing our passage above ground as easily as they might have below ground. I know and now the Nosferatu know and knowledge is everything, you poor insensate slab of meat.
I ran ahead to report to the Prince, taking only enough time to dress accordingly and wash the filth from my skin. The Prince must always see me at my best; the Prince must think of me as an artist and academic first, and a Malkavian second. That is why you yet live and why she would surely not begrudge me your soul, should I wish it. But if push comes to diabolization, your soul might not sit well upon my brain and I would be undone.
And so I am careful. So very careful. Now... while no one is looking, take my blood... yes, a few drops and I can feel it within you. Replace what I have taken in part. And if you live, I shall find a way to feed you tomorrow night. And the night upon that following day, you shall take of me. You must, for you will be mad otherwise and all alone in enemy hands.
Come back to the Camerilia, you silly bull of a walking corpse, for you can answer the riddle that I have and you taste too good to eat all in one night. Was it the Anarchs who attacked La Chateau truly? Was it the Sabbot instead, and our actions here fortuitous only to the Elders?
My plan was to go to the sewer entrance/exit and await for the next Sabbot fool to come by, to sneak into the city. But as the Prince spoke to Harold and the others, I discovered that Sorrow was now playing house with Lady Fitch's Toreador friend. There was naught I could do but try to rescue my bombs. It would not do for such a pretty Toreador to open the bottles out of curiosity and expose the contents to air? Vampires, in case you did not know, burn real well.
I tossed her room at the inn very well but I did not find the devices. I sample some rose perfumes and some citrus smelling oils, before I recall that it was getting late and when I returned to the castle, I discovered that the Capidocian, Tobias, had returned from where ever he was hiding while I was leading so many to the futile depths.
Tobias... that was the guy that tried to suck all the life out of your fellow brujah anarch. You remember him, don't you? If you survive so long, remind me to tell him the nun really stands out like a sore thumb in Rue Guirdaria. You see, that's why we call it a ghetto... only Jews live there. Nevermind, I am almost sure he knows what he is doing. Almost.
My plan seemed to have mutated somehow and it was with a perverse curiosity that I watched Tobias send an army of mortals to burn out our enemies. He hired enough mortals (lord knows where he got the gold) to endanger the massquerade, but... well, I'm sure you noticed the fire, so he must have done something right.
The rest you know. The gangrel getting folded, spindled, and mutilated. The attack on what must have been your stronghold, where we whipped your ass, although it was hardly my shining moment. I think I fell three times in thirty seconds. And then your attack as we tried to liberate Corky from the huge cairn Harold had created for him. That wasn't nice, at all, you know.
I'll let Harold carry you back. Maybe no one will notice me tending you from the shadows while you heal and then you can be my little special bloodsucking friend. I will be the guardian for your body for three nights and a voice within your skull far longer than that.
You will change or you will die. It's as simple as that.
