Claude's Reign
Louisa is dead. My prince is dead.
And, in all the time that I have known her, I have never taken her portraiture. We are immortal, after all, there always seemed that there would be time. To draw her draped while trying to capture regal nature and fragile aspect... it had always seemed so wrong, so wrong.
Why should I let you live, while my prince lies as dust at the bottom of a well, probably cursing my name until the blighting rays of sunlight finally pressed down upon her? I should have known something was wrong the moment the kitchen staff began to avoid me as if I was the plague incarnate, but even then, would it not have been too late, too late, too late...
Hmmm. Your head should not loll that way.
Damnation, must all that I touch be destroyed? Must I always bear witness to the fragility of nature against the force of History? Must I be the Harbinger of doom to all that I meet?
You must have water. You must have drink. You must awaken, to hear my confusion. My sweet Dante and the ghoul must not, can not, know of my weakness, my failure. There will be time anon to send you onward but I demand you... Listen to my confession!!!
Priest, soldier of god, I baptize you in to MY service with a trip into the river. I break with god and his glory, if he would employ murderers such as you. Inhale deeply the runoff from the streets of Nice, for I have no need of mortal blood tonight. Thresh about all you like, it shall avail you not!
I kill now to only to sate an anger only the devil could know... unless you are willing to listen to my story, now? Nod, if you are willing. Do not simply loll your head! Nod scream, your all seeing god won't be fooled by half measures, so why should I? Shall I make you recant, to spare your life? Was that the generous offer you threw down into the well to comfort my Louisa? Recant and we'll cover the well in darkness so that you may killed at the leisure of your enemies... is this the mercy of god you offered her?
You are but the first, and dawn is coming upon us soon. You must carry my tale back to your superiors, little soldier of god. If you do not listen to me, there will be others, one each night until the message reaches the ears of all three Popes.
Do not roll your eyes like that. You shall live, if you heed my words.
I was once like you, but a scholar of god, not a soldier. This was before knowledge became as if one with sin. Mine was a god of love and mercy, and my savior would not let anyone cast a stone against the village whore, lest they themselves were free of sin. To that end, I've brought a whore here to witness you dark baptismal, she served her purpose, yet she serve it not well at all. I leave her fate to you to decide when my tale is done. I do this to see if my god is your god, or merely a golden calf pretender to the throne.
There... there... that put a little colour back in your cheeks.
Now attend my words, you mad zealot, and I will tell you of the World of Darkness you have transgressed.
There is a treasure in the sewer, none but a precious few can see. It is well guarded and mysterious and protected by my enemies. If you get free, you may wish to descend into the underworld and liberate that thing that gives the Anarchs so much confidence. I know not what it is, but should you survive to speak to your superiors, they might reward you for this information.
I care not, truly, for without my Prince, there is little reason to stay in Nice. Its charm is nothing more than a hollow echo to me now. My dreams and plans as dead at my feet as your comrades in holy arms. Alms? Once I have my vengence upon you and yours I may just raze the city with flames and move on. Perhaps I will surrender to the call of Venice.
Those I thought my enemies may well become my allies.
I have learned much from Dante, but little of Karnek, the man I would have him replace. Already I have begun construction on his masque, a golden face of Grecian beauty adorned with inlaid jewels, where tears would be. The ghoul has been of little help, save for contacts and maintaining the illusion of a Toreador household. Ironic it twas the Lasombra that took Karnak, and it was a Lasombra that helped me escaped. Reginald, his name was. IS. I've lost track of where he is at the moment... I think he is worried I am mad at him for staking me in the hidden passageway.
I am not sure why he is avoiding me. The rat nibbled toes will grow back and it is not like I didn't ask him to stake me if I succumbed to the summons of Dolcea. A man can only resist her for so long, after all. I feel bad I was unable to stake him when he himself succumbed to her siren call.
Oh, but I digress. No doubt these are details they did not teach you in seminary school. Should you survive, you may learn of these things yourself, some day. Should you survive.
Let me tell you, then, of the wheels your murder of the Prince sent into motion. It was a galla event, for we of the Toreador clan are big on parties and arts. Very big; it is what we live for, if you can call this living.
But WHERE IS LOUISA?
I go to her room and she is not there. The loyal ghouls guarding her chambers tell me she left bearing a note, disguised as if she were a Monk in a very fashionable robe. I can hear the questions from the ballroom below, they all murmur... the very question that I ask is also on their lips, but they are not concerned. The Prince is a Toreador, after all, the phrase "fashionably late" is practically our invention, why would they be worried?
But I know better, for I have had dreams of Nice buried in flames and my dreams are never wrong, just subject to my poor interpretations. More importantly, and more surely, the gala is her annual display of Kindred art and artifacts, perhaps dating back to the nights of Caine. The Louisa I knew would be fussing with every tiny detail, enjoying the manipulation of minutiae as only our kind can.
Louisa' death would surely be the spark that burned the city, if I had to be the one to paint the cityscape in pitch. So, I returned to the party that had yet to fully start, and took aside the Lady Tremere who bravely led my friends beneath the donkey's stall when we first arrived together in the city of Nice separately. I told her of my dreams and my fears and that I knew in my unbeating heart that the Prince was dead.
Well, dead dead. Final death.
You aren't distracted, are you? This is very important. You must listen or I will kill you myself, now, before dawn.
I may have confused her, I am not sure, so I went to investigate some more. Had a Toreador killed her, I'm sure he would have artistically arranged her corpse amidst the items she considered her unlife's work. I looked behind the curtain and did not see her corpse... thus proving once more my theory that Jean Paul the seneschal is not a Toreador at all.
As Jean Paul apologized for the Prince's unexpected lateness, I heard the lie in his voice. Not only was he not sorry that she was late, but he knew she was late in ways no one imagined. No one but I, of course.
I snuck off to his chambers and, without grace or stealth, killed the ghouls guarding the worthy's room. Jean Paul would surely have ghouls loyal to him and no one else, so I did not waste a moment to even pray for their souls. And within the room... was that Louisa tied to the bed?
No, it was that whore you see over there. You can go to her when my tale is told, if you so choose. Attend my tale. Concentrate on my words.
It was clear to me she was to be Jean Paul's alibi, for she knew not how long she had been tied to the bed. I fed her some of my blood and made her more aware of her surroundings. I gnawed at her bonds before I recalled that I had a dagger upon me. Having freed her, I set about causing Jean Paul much harm. I took his hoard of gold and gems and made a pair of bags from his nightshirts, filling each with a measure of his treasure. I told the whore, this bag was for her, and this second bag was for her fellow lady in the Trade, Brigid Fitch. A few drops of my blood in the bag and a few ounces of blood of one of the guards went into the second bag. Now my fate was linked to the Ventrue's fate; she would be forced to prove me innocent to save herself, for I knew that Jean Paul knew that I knew that he was no more Toreador than I, and he would frame me.
Besides, even a Ventrue must surely understand the joke of blood money, yes?
I tossed the guard out the blackened window once the whore left, knowing that the art pieces on the walls of Jean Paul's haven could only be fully appreciated by the light of a raising sun.
I returned downstairs and discovered that Jean Paul had opened the gallery, supposedly on the Prince's say-so. The clever conniver! Well, I supposed that two could play at that game, so I asked if the Prince had spoken to him about my speech, but that cad out-maneuvered me! He had obviously been pretending to be a Toreador longer than I had. Put on the spot, I could only retreat into my guise as a harmless and pleasantly demented Malkavian and stumble my way through a few casual observations that I might have overheard Louisa mention at the last such gathering I attended.
I burrowed a young neonate as a visual aide, but she protested and I was able to use my "confusion" to slip away as if I had forgotten where I was. Instead, I went to investigate further.
Harold, my sheriff friend, took me aside and made it known that I was a suspect in the killing of the Prince. I tried to act surprised, but I rather expected it. I just hadn't expect this courtesy from the Brouja. I told him all I could, including the little detail about the whore. I wasn't going to, mind you, but when one of the guards prodded her into the chamber where we were discussing things, what else could I do.
It was all making me look guilty. Very guilty, indeed.
I trusted Harold. He obviously trusted me enough to give me this warning, so I decided to gamble on his good nature further. "Stake me," I said, "Hide me. Tell Jean Paul I got away and when he says I tried to kill him, you will know that he is lying."
Harold agreed, although I wish he'd given me a moment to finish my next thought, and he staked me where I stood. He hid me in a privy, and there I sat for hours aware that my only alibi was Dante, a man they had all seen greet the sunrise. If it came to that, would I give him up to save my own skin?
When the stake was removed, I stood before Jean Paul and just about every other Kindred in the city. "This wasn't the plan, was it?" I asked Harold calmly. I still trusted him, of course. Harold shook his head, no. This was a new plan, and having been in a state of suspended animation, who was I to judge?
As the self-proclaimed new Prince of Nice accused me of crimes, I noticed that the Sheriff had arranged the Lasombra to stand next to me... and there was no one between me and the door. I half listened as I put the sheriff's plan together... the Capanotion, leaning forward as if to catch Jean Paul's every word, Harold's supposed inattentiveness, and if on clue, Brigid was suddenly thrust into the spotlight as Jean Paul accused her of aiding and abetting me. The poor lady, only then did my ruse become clear to her... to clear herself, she must first clear me of any wrong-doing. She did not return my smile as Jean Paul tore into her.
As those two argued over semantics, I turned to Reginald and asked, very quietly, if the Lasombra wanted to have fun. Everyone always assumes a Malkavian is talking to himself when he whispers, but someone so obviously a spy in the court would only be too happy to help the suspected murderer of Prince Louisa, and with only a nod towards the door, an inky blackness fell upon the large chamber. There was some yelling, and Harold conveniently grabbed the wrong Kindred. I have to commend him for such a marvelous plan.
Once we made our way outside, I directed the Lasombra up to Jean Paul's room, using his inky tentacles to scale the walls of the Chateau. This would be the last place I would look, so it was the first place I went to. We filled our pockets with gold, but I got bored waiting for Jean Paul to come to bed so we could stake him while he slept... of course, neither of us were sure if we could stay awake long enough to do the deed.
I found a secret passageway and followed the staircase down into the sewers. Was Jean Paul really a Nosfuratu? There was no dirt in his room, which suggested that he may well not have been a Tscimzce as I have always suspected. I hate being wrong. Maybe he slept down here in the sewers... his dirt could be in an alcove somewhere around that portion of the sewer... We didn't find such an alcove, mind you... but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist.
Dawn was but a few hours away, and I was unwilling to get caught within the tunnels beneath Nice again, not if Dante was correct about them being in with the Anarchs. That was when I felt the first pull of Dolcea... I resisted, but... well, I had to beg Reggie to stake me to keep from going. I told him, if he were caught, to pretend I made him crazy... to pretend that everyone had turned into snakes in his eyes, but me.
Being staked, hurt. You may discover that for yourself soon.
Now, you should know, you allies have been routed from within our ranks and we have a new Prince and a new Seneschal in Nice. We are immortal, viva unlife! In order to save Brigid, our coterie organized a coup and I was released from the Blood Hunt as if I were a hero. I think the Lasombra did not fair quite as well, but I loved Louisa and he did not.
Ah, but now there is a false dawn upon the city and I must be away and within my haven walls. That thirst you feel is for blood... blood such as still pulses within the breast of that broken whore clinging to hope for a merciful god... or, if you can restrain yourself, you might make it to the doors of your church before the sun breaks over the horizon. I know not how your fellow clergy would receive you in such a state... or what mercies they would see fit to render onto you... but I will give you more choice than you gave my Prince.
Adieu.
Louisa is dead. My prince is dead.
And, in all the time that I have known her, I have never taken her portraiture. We are immortal, after all, there always seemed that there would be time. To draw her draped while trying to capture regal nature and fragile aspect... it had always seemed so wrong, so wrong.
Why should I let you live, while my prince lies as dust at the bottom of a well, probably cursing my name until the blighting rays of sunlight finally pressed down upon her? I should have known something was wrong the moment the kitchen staff began to avoid me as if I was the plague incarnate, but even then, would it not have been too late, too late, too late...
Hmmm. Your head should not loll that way.
Damnation, must all that I touch be destroyed? Must I always bear witness to the fragility of nature against the force of History? Must I be the Harbinger of doom to all that I meet?
You must have water. You must have drink. You must awaken, to hear my confusion. My sweet Dante and the ghoul must not, can not, know of my weakness, my failure. There will be time anon to send you onward but I demand you... Listen to my confession!!!
Priest, soldier of god, I baptize you in to MY service with a trip into the river. I break with god and his glory, if he would employ murderers such as you. Inhale deeply the runoff from the streets of Nice, for I have no need of mortal blood tonight. Thresh about all you like, it shall avail you not!
I kill now to only to sate an anger only the devil could know... unless you are willing to listen to my story, now? Nod, if you are willing. Do not simply loll your head! Nod scream, your all seeing god won't be fooled by half measures, so why should I? Shall I make you recant, to spare your life? Was that the generous offer you threw down into the well to comfort my Louisa? Recant and we'll cover the well in darkness so that you may killed at the leisure of your enemies... is this the mercy of god you offered her?
You are but the first, and dawn is coming upon us soon. You must carry my tale back to your superiors, little soldier of god. If you do not listen to me, there will be others, one each night until the message reaches the ears of all three Popes.
Do not roll your eyes like that. You shall live, if you heed my words.
I was once like you, but a scholar of god, not a soldier. This was before knowledge became as if one with sin. Mine was a god of love and mercy, and my savior would not let anyone cast a stone against the village whore, lest they themselves were free of sin. To that end, I've brought a whore here to witness you dark baptismal, she served her purpose, yet she serve it not well at all. I leave her fate to you to decide when my tale is done. I do this to see if my god is your god, or merely a golden calf pretender to the throne.
There... there... that put a little colour back in your cheeks.
Now attend my words, you mad zealot, and I will tell you of the World of Darkness you have transgressed.
There is a treasure in the sewer, none but a precious few can see. It is well guarded and mysterious and protected by my enemies. If you get free, you may wish to descend into the underworld and liberate that thing that gives the Anarchs so much confidence. I know not what it is, but should you survive to speak to your superiors, they might reward you for this information.
I care not, truly, for without my Prince, there is little reason to stay in Nice. Its charm is nothing more than a hollow echo to me now. My dreams and plans as dead at my feet as your comrades in holy arms. Alms? Once I have my vengence upon you and yours I may just raze the city with flames and move on. Perhaps I will surrender to the call of Venice.
Those I thought my enemies may well become my allies.
I have learned much from Dante, but little of Karnek, the man I would have him replace. Already I have begun construction on his masque, a golden face of Grecian beauty adorned with inlaid jewels, where tears would be. The ghoul has been of little help, save for contacts and maintaining the illusion of a Toreador household. Ironic it twas the Lasombra that took Karnak, and it was a Lasombra that helped me escaped. Reginald, his name was. IS. I've lost track of where he is at the moment... I think he is worried I am mad at him for staking me in the hidden passageway.
I am not sure why he is avoiding me. The rat nibbled toes will grow back and it is not like I didn't ask him to stake me if I succumbed to the summons of Dolcea. A man can only resist her for so long, after all. I feel bad I was unable to stake him when he himself succumbed to her siren call.
Oh, but I digress. No doubt these are details they did not teach you in seminary school. Should you survive, you may learn of these things yourself, some day. Should you survive.
Let me tell you, then, of the wheels your murder of the Prince sent into motion. It was a galla event, for we of the Toreador clan are big on parties and arts. Very big; it is what we live for, if you can call this living.
But WHERE IS LOUISA?
I go to her room and she is not there. The loyal ghouls guarding her chambers tell me she left bearing a note, disguised as if she were a Monk in a very fashionable robe. I can hear the questions from the ballroom below, they all murmur... the very question that I ask is also on their lips, but they are not concerned. The Prince is a Toreador, after all, the phrase "fashionably late" is practically our invention, why would they be worried?
But I know better, for I have had dreams of Nice buried in flames and my dreams are never wrong, just subject to my poor interpretations. More importantly, and more surely, the gala is her annual display of Kindred art and artifacts, perhaps dating back to the nights of Caine. The Louisa I knew would be fussing with every tiny detail, enjoying the manipulation of minutiae as only our kind can.
Louisa' death would surely be the spark that burned the city, if I had to be the one to paint the cityscape in pitch. So, I returned to the party that had yet to fully start, and took aside the Lady Tremere who bravely led my friends beneath the donkey's stall when we first arrived together in the city of Nice separately. I told her of my dreams and my fears and that I knew in my unbeating heart that the Prince was dead.
Well, dead dead. Final death.
You aren't distracted, are you? This is very important. You must listen or I will kill you myself, now, before dawn.
I may have confused her, I am not sure, so I went to investigate some more. Had a Toreador killed her, I'm sure he would have artistically arranged her corpse amidst the items she considered her unlife's work. I looked behind the curtain and did not see her corpse... thus proving once more my theory that Jean Paul the seneschal is not a Toreador at all.
As Jean Paul apologized for the Prince's unexpected lateness, I heard the lie in his voice. Not only was he not sorry that she was late, but he knew she was late in ways no one imagined. No one but I, of course.
I snuck off to his chambers and, without grace or stealth, killed the ghouls guarding the worthy's room. Jean Paul would surely have ghouls loyal to him and no one else, so I did not waste a moment to even pray for their souls. And within the room... was that Louisa tied to the bed?
No, it was that whore you see over there. You can go to her when my tale is told, if you so choose. Attend my tale. Concentrate on my words.
It was clear to me she was to be Jean Paul's alibi, for she knew not how long she had been tied to the bed. I fed her some of my blood and made her more aware of her surroundings. I gnawed at her bonds before I recalled that I had a dagger upon me. Having freed her, I set about causing Jean Paul much harm. I took his hoard of gold and gems and made a pair of bags from his nightshirts, filling each with a measure of his treasure. I told the whore, this bag was for her, and this second bag was for her fellow lady in the Trade, Brigid Fitch. A few drops of my blood in the bag and a few ounces of blood of one of the guards went into the second bag. Now my fate was linked to the Ventrue's fate; she would be forced to prove me innocent to save herself, for I knew that Jean Paul knew that I knew that he was no more Toreador than I, and he would frame me.
Besides, even a Ventrue must surely understand the joke of blood money, yes?
I tossed the guard out the blackened window once the whore left, knowing that the art pieces on the walls of Jean Paul's haven could only be fully appreciated by the light of a raising sun.
I returned downstairs and discovered that Jean Paul had opened the gallery, supposedly on the Prince's say-so. The clever conniver! Well, I supposed that two could play at that game, so I asked if the Prince had spoken to him about my speech, but that cad out-maneuvered me! He had obviously been pretending to be a Toreador longer than I had. Put on the spot, I could only retreat into my guise as a harmless and pleasantly demented Malkavian and stumble my way through a few casual observations that I might have overheard Louisa mention at the last such gathering I attended.
I burrowed a young neonate as a visual aide, but she protested and I was able to use my "confusion" to slip away as if I had forgotten where I was. Instead, I went to investigate further.
Harold, my sheriff friend, took me aside and made it known that I was a suspect in the killing of the Prince. I tried to act surprised, but I rather expected it. I just hadn't expect this courtesy from the Brouja. I told him all I could, including the little detail about the whore. I wasn't going to, mind you, but when one of the guards prodded her into the chamber where we were discussing things, what else could I do.
It was all making me look guilty. Very guilty, indeed.
I trusted Harold. He obviously trusted me enough to give me this warning, so I decided to gamble on his good nature further. "Stake me," I said, "Hide me. Tell Jean Paul I got away and when he says I tried to kill him, you will know that he is lying."
Harold agreed, although I wish he'd given me a moment to finish my next thought, and he staked me where I stood. He hid me in a privy, and there I sat for hours aware that my only alibi was Dante, a man they had all seen greet the sunrise. If it came to that, would I give him up to save my own skin?
When the stake was removed, I stood before Jean Paul and just about every other Kindred in the city. "This wasn't the plan, was it?" I asked Harold calmly. I still trusted him, of course. Harold shook his head, no. This was a new plan, and having been in a state of suspended animation, who was I to judge?
As the self-proclaimed new Prince of Nice accused me of crimes, I noticed that the Sheriff had arranged the Lasombra to stand next to me... and there was no one between me and the door. I half listened as I put the sheriff's plan together... the Capanotion, leaning forward as if to catch Jean Paul's every word, Harold's supposed inattentiveness, and if on clue, Brigid was suddenly thrust into the spotlight as Jean Paul accused her of aiding and abetting me. The poor lady, only then did my ruse become clear to her... to clear herself, she must first clear me of any wrong-doing. She did not return my smile as Jean Paul tore into her.
As those two argued over semantics, I turned to Reginald and asked, very quietly, if the Lasombra wanted to have fun. Everyone always assumes a Malkavian is talking to himself when he whispers, but someone so obviously a spy in the court would only be too happy to help the suspected murderer of Prince Louisa, and with only a nod towards the door, an inky blackness fell upon the large chamber. There was some yelling, and Harold conveniently grabbed the wrong Kindred. I have to commend him for such a marvelous plan.
Once we made our way outside, I directed the Lasombra up to Jean Paul's room, using his inky tentacles to scale the walls of the Chateau. This would be the last place I would look, so it was the first place I went to. We filled our pockets with gold, but I got bored waiting for Jean Paul to come to bed so we could stake him while he slept... of course, neither of us were sure if we could stay awake long enough to do the deed.
I found a secret passageway and followed the staircase down into the sewers. Was Jean Paul really a Nosfuratu? There was no dirt in his room, which suggested that he may well not have been a Tscimzce as I have always suspected. I hate being wrong. Maybe he slept down here in the sewers... his dirt could be in an alcove somewhere around that portion of the sewer... We didn't find such an alcove, mind you... but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist.
Dawn was but a few hours away, and I was unwilling to get caught within the tunnels beneath Nice again, not if Dante was correct about them being in with the Anarchs. That was when I felt the first pull of Dolcea... I resisted, but... well, I had to beg Reggie to stake me to keep from going. I told him, if he were caught, to pretend I made him crazy... to pretend that everyone had turned into snakes in his eyes, but me.
Being staked, hurt. You may discover that for yourself soon.
Now, you should know, you allies have been routed from within our ranks and we have a new Prince and a new Seneschal in Nice. We are immortal, viva unlife! In order to save Brigid, our coterie organized a coup and I was released from the Blood Hunt as if I were a hero. I think the Lasombra did not fair quite as well, but I loved Louisa and he did not.
Ah, but now there is a false dawn upon the city and I must be away and within my haven walls. That thirst you feel is for blood... blood such as still pulses within the breast of that broken whore clinging to hope for a merciful god... or, if you can restrain yourself, you might make it to the doors of your church before the sun breaks over the horizon. I know not how your fellow clergy would receive you in such a state... or what mercies they would see fit to render onto you... but I will give you more choice than you gave my Prince.
Adieu.
