This is where we must part, Wolfgang; I can go no further.
Take this sketch of the demon Vascal and bring it back within the city walls and be sure to give it to Brother Albert, he who's true faith in god is stronger than our faith in science.
I apologize for all that you've been through, my friend. Although our escape from Nice was a good thing, I know you can not fully appreciate how horrible things may have gotten had we stayed at Nice. Oh yes... it could have gotten much, much worse.
Since my dark descent into the horror gripping Nice, I have lost my first childe... yes, I had a childe, I kept him secret from all that knew me that, even you. He was sacrificed for the cause so that others my live... if you could call such a thing as we do living. My other offspring... I had no choice but to give them to the church, hoping that the church would show them more mercy than they ever showed me. I know not their fate, but for their sake, they are as dead to me as I am of them.
As my faith believes me to be. As I believe my own faith to be.
Take this map that I sketched as we traveled forth. These are the stars where the soldiers of the Holy Roman Empire must march towards and these are the rivers that must be forged. A local woodsman can guide them, if needs be, but by all accounts, this is where they were ordered to go in the first place. There should be no trouble in finding the lost Grecian city.
Of course they will believe you; are you not the son of the House of Helsing? You are well off and educated, not given to mindless fear and superstition. They must believe you, for the Anarchs must die.
And, of course... there is the neck wound... do not worry, the bleeding has stopped. I would have bled you more, but you will need to row quite a ways and the smell of blood might have distracted me... I mean, attracted my enemies. Brother Albert will surely purify you as gently as possible, so have no fear. It is for the greater good.
Dawn is but an hour or two away, and I must be away myself, for such is the curse I must bear alone. Do not come ashore until the sun has risen... sleep as much as you can during the day. Buy a horse with the gold I have given you and convince the army to march towards the ruins, please... it is the only chance of redemption that I have.
Godspeed, Wolfgang Van Helsing... may we never meet again.
***
The dead man helps push the stolen boat beyond breaking waves. Wolfgang does not wave. He rows like a man possessed, as if he knows how close he had come to becoming exactly that.
The dead man watches for few moments, contemplating the dreadnaught that is History. He wastes a moment drawing a breath for a sigh that only he can hear.
Venice has won.
If only he could have brought the Congress of the Night to life, he muses, the future would be different. But now it will not. The Anarch movement will give birth to the Sabbat. The Camarilla will generate the Masquerade. The Time of Thin Blood will draw ever closer and without the bread and circuses his cathedral to death would have created... Kindred on both sides will plot deeper and yet somehow, ironically, shallower intrigues.
Still, he had to try and, in truth, the effort did not cost him much. At least, not as much as it cost Louisa, but still it was her time to go. The only truly regrettable thing about her death was that she had died so ugly a death at the hands of such artless Anarchs and the priests. Given a chance to do it all over again, the dead man would have killed her himself so that she would have at least appreciated his artistry one last time.
It cost the choir boy his future, but he hardly had one to begin with and there were more than enough poverty stricken sopranos in Nice as it was. At least he has been blessed with the truth of the world as it is and the truth of the universe at large. Perhaps he would return in a decade or so to see if God's mercy meant the boy would retain those truths or not. Perhaps not, for it was quite hard to be a visionary these days. Take Joan deArc... no, wait... that hasn't happened yet. Or has it?
No matter.
It cost Dante so much more than his life. He'd lost his unlife. Twice. First as himself and then as Karnak... but then the dead man's actions had spared him from the attentions of the Caponotian and from the punishments decreed by Louisa. The real Louisa. If the neonate still walked in the night, the thing that called itself Claude believed the church would remedy that come dawn... if not sooner.
In truth, all it cost him was to act as fop to some, a visionary to others, and a nightmare the sweet screamers in the back of the kitchen, where the hearth was warm and heady with the smells of spices. There the smell of blood would be muted ever so slightly, but enough to quiet the beast long enough to take the proper amount of time to play with his food.
This he will miss most of all from his time in Nice. Oh, there will be other kitchens, but the smell of cooking food was always his weakness, even when he was a fat monk with a beating heart. When he was lean and wild- eyed and still in the habit of breathing, he missed the scent of the kitchen most of all. Whatever one might say of Louisa, she knew how to keep a proper kitchen.
It was about time to return to Paris and forget about future visions. If Charles the Good hadn't forgotten his enlightenment by this point in time, he would do so soon. And then he could turn his attention back to that very annoying chess game.
But dawn was but an hour or so away and it was now time to let the earth swallow his body. There would be time enough to build bridges to the future tomorrow night. Claude lay upon the ground and stared up at the stars, willing for the ground to swallow him whole, to absorb his very being as if he were but a drop of rain.
Or blood.
Hmmmmm.
The ground ignored him.
Claude frowned.
He was positive his sire, Flint, had taught him how to merge with the ground within hours of bringing him across. How else had he survived living on the side of a mountain? In the wild? Of course... Claude had to reluctantly admit, he could not recall the name of the mountain, either.
Ohhhh... maybe this was why his mind was obsessing with recalling the glyphs of the Philosopher's Stone. Did a part of his Malkavian infused grey matter know he would need this talent? Were the glyphs that poured out of his hands, first in charcoal and then in blood, a cry of warning to remind him that he had forgotten A Very Important Thing?
Claude inhaled and exhaled, and felt extremely stupid for doing so... Claude rearranged himself more comfortably upon the ground and stared up at the stars, willing for the ground to swallow him whole, to absorb his very being as if he were but a drop of rain.
Or of blood.
Damn. He was hungry. Perhaps that was the problem.
Claude stood up, brushed himself off and began walking west. God would provide, he knew; the Almighty had so far, hadn't he?
Just before dawn, God provided Claude with cave a local cheese maker had furnished with crates and sundry tools. Claude liked the way it smelled and he liked the way the goat herder tasted, and he fell asleep with the Shepard in his arms in a pit in the back of the cave, telling the old man tales of a land not yet discovered as he shivered in his death throes...
Take this sketch of the demon Vascal and bring it back within the city walls and be sure to give it to Brother Albert, he who's true faith in god is stronger than our faith in science.
I apologize for all that you've been through, my friend. Although our escape from Nice was a good thing, I know you can not fully appreciate how horrible things may have gotten had we stayed at Nice. Oh yes... it could have gotten much, much worse.
Since my dark descent into the horror gripping Nice, I have lost my first childe... yes, I had a childe, I kept him secret from all that knew me that, even you. He was sacrificed for the cause so that others my live... if you could call such a thing as we do living. My other offspring... I had no choice but to give them to the church, hoping that the church would show them more mercy than they ever showed me. I know not their fate, but for their sake, they are as dead to me as I am of them.
As my faith believes me to be. As I believe my own faith to be.
Take this map that I sketched as we traveled forth. These are the stars where the soldiers of the Holy Roman Empire must march towards and these are the rivers that must be forged. A local woodsman can guide them, if needs be, but by all accounts, this is where they were ordered to go in the first place. There should be no trouble in finding the lost Grecian city.
Of course they will believe you; are you not the son of the House of Helsing? You are well off and educated, not given to mindless fear and superstition. They must believe you, for the Anarchs must die.
And, of course... there is the neck wound... do not worry, the bleeding has stopped. I would have bled you more, but you will need to row quite a ways and the smell of blood might have distracted me... I mean, attracted my enemies. Brother Albert will surely purify you as gently as possible, so have no fear. It is for the greater good.
Dawn is but an hour or two away, and I must be away myself, for such is the curse I must bear alone. Do not come ashore until the sun has risen... sleep as much as you can during the day. Buy a horse with the gold I have given you and convince the army to march towards the ruins, please... it is the only chance of redemption that I have.
Godspeed, Wolfgang Van Helsing... may we never meet again.
***
The dead man helps push the stolen boat beyond breaking waves. Wolfgang does not wave. He rows like a man possessed, as if he knows how close he had come to becoming exactly that.
The dead man watches for few moments, contemplating the dreadnaught that is History. He wastes a moment drawing a breath for a sigh that only he can hear.
Venice has won.
If only he could have brought the Congress of the Night to life, he muses, the future would be different. But now it will not. The Anarch movement will give birth to the Sabbat. The Camarilla will generate the Masquerade. The Time of Thin Blood will draw ever closer and without the bread and circuses his cathedral to death would have created... Kindred on both sides will plot deeper and yet somehow, ironically, shallower intrigues.
Still, he had to try and, in truth, the effort did not cost him much. At least, not as much as it cost Louisa, but still it was her time to go. The only truly regrettable thing about her death was that she had died so ugly a death at the hands of such artless Anarchs and the priests. Given a chance to do it all over again, the dead man would have killed her himself so that she would have at least appreciated his artistry one last time.
It cost the choir boy his future, but he hardly had one to begin with and there were more than enough poverty stricken sopranos in Nice as it was. At least he has been blessed with the truth of the world as it is and the truth of the universe at large. Perhaps he would return in a decade or so to see if God's mercy meant the boy would retain those truths or not. Perhaps not, for it was quite hard to be a visionary these days. Take Joan deArc... no, wait... that hasn't happened yet. Or has it?
No matter.
It cost Dante so much more than his life. He'd lost his unlife. Twice. First as himself and then as Karnak... but then the dead man's actions had spared him from the attentions of the Caponotian and from the punishments decreed by Louisa. The real Louisa. If the neonate still walked in the night, the thing that called itself Claude believed the church would remedy that come dawn... if not sooner.
In truth, all it cost him was to act as fop to some, a visionary to others, and a nightmare the sweet screamers in the back of the kitchen, where the hearth was warm and heady with the smells of spices. There the smell of blood would be muted ever so slightly, but enough to quiet the beast long enough to take the proper amount of time to play with his food.
This he will miss most of all from his time in Nice. Oh, there will be other kitchens, but the smell of cooking food was always his weakness, even when he was a fat monk with a beating heart. When he was lean and wild- eyed and still in the habit of breathing, he missed the scent of the kitchen most of all. Whatever one might say of Louisa, she knew how to keep a proper kitchen.
It was about time to return to Paris and forget about future visions. If Charles the Good hadn't forgotten his enlightenment by this point in time, he would do so soon. And then he could turn his attention back to that very annoying chess game.
But dawn was but an hour or so away and it was now time to let the earth swallow his body. There would be time enough to build bridges to the future tomorrow night. Claude lay upon the ground and stared up at the stars, willing for the ground to swallow him whole, to absorb his very being as if he were but a drop of rain.
Or blood.
Hmmmmm.
The ground ignored him.
Claude frowned.
He was positive his sire, Flint, had taught him how to merge with the ground within hours of bringing him across. How else had he survived living on the side of a mountain? In the wild? Of course... Claude had to reluctantly admit, he could not recall the name of the mountain, either.
Ohhhh... maybe this was why his mind was obsessing with recalling the glyphs of the Philosopher's Stone. Did a part of his Malkavian infused grey matter know he would need this talent? Were the glyphs that poured out of his hands, first in charcoal and then in blood, a cry of warning to remind him that he had forgotten A Very Important Thing?
Claude inhaled and exhaled, and felt extremely stupid for doing so... Claude rearranged himself more comfortably upon the ground and stared up at the stars, willing for the ground to swallow him whole, to absorb his very being as if he were but a drop of rain.
Or of blood.
Damn. He was hungry. Perhaps that was the problem.
Claude stood up, brushed himself off and began walking west. God would provide, he knew; the Almighty had so far, hadn't he?
Just before dawn, God provided Claude with cave a local cheese maker had furnished with crates and sundry tools. Claude liked the way it smelled and he liked the way the goat herder tasted, and he fell asleep with the Shepard in his arms in a pit in the back of the cave, telling the old man tales of a land not yet discovered as he shivered in his death throes...
