Pere Cyrille Le Noir

"Death"

Thu, 17 Jun 2004 00:41:18 GMT

Cyrille stood behind the woman. She did not know he existed - she stood at the back of the alleyway, she was to meet someone here - someone she knew. Cyrille knew this because he had followed her. Cyrille had been watching her for some time, watching her go through the movements of drug abuse, of whoring her body out. Cyrille had watched, silent, hidden.

Cyrille considered the lesson he would teach her - he considered what he might learn of Death's design as he watched her soul pour from its husk. Would her soul loose the lesson? Would it forget its place? Would it become trapped in the lands of Shadow? Would that which is Darkness, and Death see his act of faith, and watch on in approval?

A multitude of thoughts crossed Cyrille's mind as he watched her, as he watched her blood rush through her veins, as he watched her breath escape her mouth, pouring smoke into the night sky. He considered his Acolytes, he wondered if their faith was as strong, could be as strong, as his might become.

Most closely of all, Cyrille watched the woman's life run out, and he moved closer still. He raised his hands to the side, preparing for the strike, preparing to teach her the lesson all must learn. The moon ducked behind the clouds, and night truly darkened the alleyway.

Agony.

Blinding, painful, tearing agony.

Cyrille's head was torn backwards, his mouth agape, and the silence of the night was filled with a sound not heard in several hundred years. His back arching, his arms thrown wide, Cyrille scream tore through the night like a jagged blade - never was a more unholy sound heard, Cyrille's mouth locked open, the sound of his scream pouring forth, his milky white eye burst in the socket, pus and matter running down his face, his red eyes bulged from it's socket - Cyrille's scream seemed to pour forth from the very bowels of hell.

His body racked in the throes of a scream of agony - Cyrille mind was razed by agony, it's very core was torn from it's roots and demolished under the burning agony - and Cyrille felt the core - touched by Death, the cold black Abyss being pulled from him, being torn from him as Cyrille felt his name, his soul, his existence being erased.

Cyrille felt his soul being ripped from it's stems along with his mind - his faith boiling in flames, he felt as he - as something inside him, and as something close to him was removed from the book of creation - a part of him knew God's hand was pulling something - pulling him out of life, out of existence - his existence, his mind, his soul, everything - was gone in the fires of faith, the fires of the destruction.

His body racked, his head snapped forward, his hands latched onto the face of the woman before him - the woman froze in horror, screaming with Cyrille in this moment, and Cyrille pushed his thumbs into her eye sockets, squeezing her screaming face, and still screaming, his arms, his hands and his mouth ripped the woman, limb from limb, hair was torn from his skull, her jaw was torn from it's mooring and tossed aside.

The scream, the rending, the blood, the agony went on for an eternity.

And God saw the light, and created Darkness. God heard sound, and created silence.

Darkness and silence washed inward, the scream cut off.

Cyrille knelt in the ruin of the woman's corpse, empty. He felt empty. He felt nothing.

Cyrille had become nothing. Cyrille no longer existed.

What kneeled there in a darkened alleyway, was Dead, it no longer existed in the book of life. It was nameless.

He stood, turning into the Darkness of the alley, numbly stepping over the ruin of the body; he cloaked himself in shadows, and slipped into the night.

(A short time after)
Cyrille no longer considered himself to be Cyrille Le Noir, clan of the Nosferat. No - that creature was destroyed, gone. He had become Death. He was Death, for Death did not exist in the light of life, did not exist within creation, No, Death existed beyond the book of life. Cyrille felt the hole within him, the hole that once contained the will of Death, the heart of Death.

He knelt, praying silently, for his voice was gone, and words needed not be spoken.

He prayed to Death, he prayed to his God Death, to Entropy. He prayed to his God, he begged for understanding - he felt that the burning, the agony - the destruction he had felt was a test of his faith, of his resolve, knowing that he had been tested, knowing he had succeeded, and his faith had not wavered.

He was nameless. He was beyond life. Beyond Death. Erased from Creation. He knew that gifts had been taken from him, but his faith remained. He prayed, assuring, begging, and demanding. And then he began killing.

He pulled them into his shadows, into his sewers. He slaughtered those who crossed his path, silently praying to Death as he did. He released people in the name of his God, to show that his faith, his determination had not faltered. He killed, and he prayed, and then he stopped, and simply walked on. He walked in the sewers, in the shadows, praying.

And as the sun rose, he slipped into the darkness of his haven, kneeling before the blood soaked cross Cyrille collapsed forward, laying prostrate on the bare stone floor - a floor with holes in it caused by rot and age, and he prayed, his hands and face soaked in blood.

Darkness.

Ruminations of Death, part 2

Mon, 31 May 2004 03:10:12 GMT

Cyrille listens, his eyes unmoving, not breathing – for minutes after you finish, the silence is so thick that you can hear the drip of something wet off in the distance, and the pop of the candle wick.

He leans forward, and you detect the fire in the baleful red eye flare but for a moment. You hear the rasping intake of breath he forces through to make his vocal chords work, and as the first syllable leaves his mouth, you feel a rush – an icy cold chill of inhumanity that touches you inner beast, making it stir from it’s slumber…

“You say chaos – a force…” Cyrille sighs, the sound wet and rasping as his speech, he pauses, considering you again.

“It is not quite as you say - while Death is a force, and an Agent of change - some would say the ultimate agent of change; given the information – what little you have seen, I can understand the misunderstanding. Let me explain some core tenants of what Death, and who Death is – more importantly, let me speak on where we – kindred – fit into this.”

Cyrille leans back, and you hear the gurgling intake of breath, as his eyes dim for a second before the torrent of words hits you as you know it will.

“Cain. Our Malkavians, our Elders, and the Sabbat all speak of Cain. The progenitor, some call him. Some worship him as God. Without a doubt, the story of the sacrifice made to God by Cain, and the resulting curse by God is the source of what we are. Kindred.

But like so much, the truth, and the events of that fateful day are blurred. Humans use the tale as a cautionary tale – to better assist children and other humans understand the wills and the ways of a vengeful, wrathful God. Rarely does one as why Cain slew his brother Abel. Rarely, do they ask, truly ask, why Cain was cursed to walk, instead of simply wiped from the books of the world, as God could very well do.

I know the why.

Abel presented a bounty unto the Lord, and the Lord found it good, and Praised Abel”, Cyrille stopped, taking in a deeper wetter breath, he spoke from memory, his head tilted slightly back, his voice unnaturally deep:

“... And the Lord had respect unto Abel and to his offering, but unto Cain and to his offering he had not respect. And Cain was very wroth, and his countenance fell. And the LORD said unto Cain, Why art thou wroth? and why is thy countenance fallen? If thou doest well, shalt thou not be accepted? and if thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door. And unto thee shall be his desire, and thou shalt rule over him. And Cain talked with Abel his brother: and it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel his brother, and slew him. And the LORD said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy brother? And he said, I know not: Am I my brother's keeper? And he said, What hast thou done? the voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground. And now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother's blood from thy hand; When thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto thee her strength; a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth…”

“So you see, the how is stated, but think on this facet – before Cain slew Abel, the power, and the knowledge of Death – true Death, were the sole purview of God. It was God’s place to judge – God’s place to remove, to execute and to control.

Cain wished to slay his brother to better gain God’s favor – the first blood sacrifice if you would. However, in doing so – in that singular act, Cain introduced Death into this world, and as the collector of Man’s souls. The Angel of Death was loosed – and Cain had consumed – like Eve had – from the forbidden tree of knowledge.

In that dark – or shining moment – Cain stole the Divine. He reached into the tree of knowledge and ate its blackest of fruits, and in doing so, transferred the Divine into himself. In that act, he woke the Angel who is Death into the world as the reaper of man, while in the same act of sacrifice, stepping to take Death’s place in God’s pantheon.

Cain stole the knowledge of Death from God.”

Cyrille stopped, taking in a breath again, his red eye catching the light of the candle, glinting, he continued.

“God was in a unique position. Death, in its pure form, could exist as an Angel within God’s pantheon – but it was a unique angel, for the force known as Death could also take God’s angels. Death was a force directly and totally under God’s own control, servitor of God – God’s right hand, if you would.

And Cain, in his act, had unknowingly brought the hammer – the fist of God into the world. God could not kill Cain – no, for even in his anger and rage at the act that Cain had committed, God still found love, and mercy, and most of all – God found appreciation in that act of sacrifice that Cain had performed.

So, instead of wiping his beloved Cain from the books of the world – as God would have to do to remove the knowledge of Death from the world – instead God laid a heavy curse onto Cain.”

Cyrille leans forward, almost breathing out the words “...And now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother's blood from thy hand; When thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto thee her strength; a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth.”

He leans back, stopping for a moment to think on his next words, “So you see, God cursed that man which had taken from him the fire, the will of Death, to forever walk the earth. To forever walk as Kindred – the Kindred.

He cursed a man who had would become Death to an eternity without God, or Death – that very thing which he could control, he was denied. Caine was cursed to never know the warm darkness of Death, not its solitude, its release, nor it’s asking love.

No – instead Cain became similar to what we are now – his – how do you say it now - `genetic code` changed, becoming the embodiment of the knowledge he had stolen.

He became the embodiment of a human Death. Kindred, his progeny, became facsimiles of the Divine Death – fangs, forced to kill to exist, God’s Reapers.

Think about it – our entire physiology is designed for one sole purpose – to kill. We are the embodiments of Cain’s sin. Our fangs, our strength, our minds and our age – all portions and chunks of the divine, all above man, but below the Angelic, trapped in between.

We are the creatures of Cain’s brood, part Angelic with the knowledge and the power of Death stolen from God by Cain. Kindred, what we are, are conduits to God himself – we have open to use the power to ascend, to become divine due to what is within us.

Death, you see – is not something to be controlled. It is not something to fear, nor is it a man standing in front of you telling you it is your time to leave this world. It is none of those things that you said.

Death is not a single being, it is a force, and it exists as Entropy as well – not chaos. Death is unavoidable, for while we might share the same curse of Cain – we can die, and we do die, and we will die. We are not Cain who slew Abel – only the inheritors of his divine curse.

Death is not something to be controlled – to control Death is to truly understand and control yourself, and to know – and accept, and follow what you truly are, which is Death. We are both – as we sit here now, true agents of entropy.

The Camarilla’s insistence of humanity and the Sabbat’s insistence of inhumanity are both directly and painfully incorrect. We are beyond that – we are beyond the human concepts of emotion, of love and hate, we are beyond the affairs of humans.

We are Death. God is Death, Death is god.

He stops, leaning back again, the hand with the rosary coming up and touching his mouth lightly, he looks up at you, waiting.

The Ruminations of Death, part 1

Wed, 26 May 2004 01:32:27 GMT

As you follow the directions, it becomes increasingly noticeable that you're pulling away from modern civilization. Your car pulls off of 84, and then off that highway and onto a side road - the pavement gives way to gravel, and the only light comes from your headlights. It takes you two hours to even find the right place, and you have to find it - as the letter said - by the mile marker.

The one with a bloody thumbprint on it.

You turn down the side road - this one doesn't even have gravel. Signs of recent travel and tire-wear are apparent, but have obviously contributed to the degradation of the road. You have to stop the car and get out, because the trail, ensconced in the forest as it is - has become impassable. You shut off the car, and progress on foot.

Your eyes, being heightened as they are notice subtle thing in the night - shadow shapes with no sound, and movements with no seeming cause. Eddy's in the blackness. As you proceed inward, your eyes pick out the shaped of collapsing gravestones, of opened graves and fresh ones closed. They pick out an odd thing - an open sewer grate, leading you to believe that the age of this place is an effect of it's abandonment.

The graves themselves become more prevalent. This entire place must house the bodies of generations of townsfolk from nearby, and rising from this wallowing darkness - reaching up to the bare, grasping branches of the treetops is an old, decrepit church. The building seems to breath malevolence and darkness - the entire thing is hunched like a great beast, it's arms wrapped around the graves in the area.

You move forward, tripping over a grave marker that juts from the ground at an odd angle. Kneeling to examine it, you realize that it was not a marker - not a stained white cross. No. It's a human ribcage. The beast rolls within you and you feel the call of your fading humanity for a moment as you look up again at the church.

You step forward, and as you watch, you can see more of those eddies, more of the dancing shadow-shapes playing in what light your heightened eyes can pick up from the stars and crescent moon.

The light of a single candle blinds you.

The light presses through the grime of one window, the light in and of itself seems to be fighting a loosing battle against the darkness, and you know that it was just lit for you. You move forward, pressing inward to the front doors that resemble the abyss' gaping mouth. You press your hand against the door, and the shriek deafens your sensitive ears for a moment as they push inward.

By the light of the candle that sits on the table in the middle of the room - you can see the moldering and stained pews pushes aside and piled high on either side of the room. You can also see bits of... Things. Things you assume were once living and you can see the accompanying splashes of what is safe to assume is human blood. The shadows shift, hiding the full truth of the spectacle from you.

A shift in the shadows - from the far end of the room, catches your eyes, and looking past the blinding candle, you see a movement in the darkness. No sound reaches your ears, the only thing that tell you that anything moved is the sudden catching of the light the one baleful red eye in that shadow has, and the glint of yellow light from a silver cross handing in that shadow.

And as quickly as the figure is shown, it is gone again. You hear the shuffling - that marked step you know belongs to Cyrille - it comes closer, and into the realm of the candle's light.

He is as you have never seen him. While previously, he might have appeared to be small, and weak - now he seems more so, delicate, frail even, as if he might collapse in on himself and rot away at any moment. So weak-looking, so easy to crush. His rotting, hunched frame is wrapped in a simple black cassock, silver cross wrapped in one mummy-hand. He looks at you, and you know that you see his true face. The light shows his face in full for a moment - a moment that will be burned in your mind forever. His scraggly grey hair hangs in ropey strands; caked blood and pus seem to make it hang off his skull - a skull that seems to be missing patches of skin and scalp exposing weeping bone. His forehead is thankfully bare, but leads to the line of his eyes - one red, glowing as if possessed by the fire of hell itself, and the other seemingly jammed into his eye socket - milky, opaque, pus seeping out around it. His nose went missing some time ago - all that is left is a large gash in his face - and everything below that point is simply bleached, fleshless bone stained with blood.

The smell of death - pure, unbridled essence of decay and death wash over you, and you stop breathing so the smell will stop.

He speaks, in that rasping, gagging voice of his "Welcome... have a seat Mien Herr", he gestures with one hand to the table next to the candle. You move to the chair opposite him, allowing for his shuffling, stumbling step to bring him there, and you both sit.

On the table, the only thing of note is a bible, large, leather-bound and a scalpel - the candle (how fitting) is placed atop the rotting skull of a human, unrecognizable by now.

You sit back in the chair, looking as relaxed as one might.

Cyrille leans back, considering you, he seems to draw inward, as if building up the power, the conviction to say what he is about to - leaning forward so that the light plays from the pus and wet rotting of his face he rasps, "I asked you, Mien Herr - I asked you what you considered Death to be. What you viewed Death as - and what the true nature of Death is. Before we begin, I would like to hear, after what you have seen and know, your answer."

Night Scene

Fri, 26 Mar 2004 14:44:19 GMT

"...Forgive zem fazah - ze know not the glory zat avaits, forgive zem zeir sins but bring forth your judgement..."

The man in the black hood - rosary in hand watched as the couple slammed into each other in the alleyway, a middle aged man with a wedding ring, and a hooker who had seen better days.

Cyrille knew that other kindred would be aroused by this - that other kindred would grasp at the flame of humanity, hoping for fading warmth and be warmed by watching this act. Cyrille simply felt... Nothing.

He watched, and he prayed. He had been doing a lot of that as of late, watching. He sat in the darkness observing humanity, the dead and kindred alike, trying to figure out the key, trying to breach the gap. His experiments grew more arcane - his prayers had become challenges to Death.

Cyrille tilted his head in a manner not quite unlike that of a questioning feline - except that this feline stank of corpse rot, dead flowers and death. He blinked - and blinked out of
existence, forcing his will upon the world - he crept closer - unseen by the carnal couple in front of him.

Introspection. If anyone was listening in on his thoughts - the alien landscape that they are - they would be surprised to find the sheer lack of introspection. Cyrille did not question what he was doing. He did not question the fact his intent was to watch the man strangle the woman, as his case file stated he was fond of - Cyrille did not mind that he would then take the man and study his mind, albeit by slicing open his skull and reading his brain like some would read the tarot.

No - no remorse, no introspection, no questioning. Simple unflinching, unemotional academic consideration of the executions coming.

He was close, so close he could smell the sweat coming from the man's arm pits, he could see the hooker's makeup sliding down her face in the droplets of sweat. The air filled with that excitement humans exude when they are about to climax.

Cyrille could smell it, he could taste it as his tongue flickered out like a snake's tongue, tasting the air, his blood began to heat up within him as he felt Death awaken - even in the dead lands, a hush crept silently as the worlds stilled to watch, the anticipation being sweeter than the purest of adrenaline soaked blood, better than the tangible click felt when pushing life out of a creature.

The man rutting with the woman reared back in orgasm, the moon catching his eyes, glinting off the wetness, and the man's face contorted from that heavenly beauty and into the devil's own henchman. His hands flew up to the hooker's neck and he pressed inward toward her body, grunting, rutting in a much different way.

Cyrille could almost see Death's strings puppeting the man, he yearned to be that puppetmaster, but he pushed the yearning into that place which held and burned away any emotion, he watch as the hooker struggled, as her sex dried up and the smell of sweat and cheap perfume changed to fear and panic. He could see the fear in her eyes, he could smell Death rutting with her, the blood warmed more, the dead lands excited, watching on in anticipation of a new acquisition...

A small scream escaped her, reaching to the sky and into the night asking for help, for assistance, the man's face twisted even more, Death's strings twisting his face into something so very different than God intended. The man's hand squeezed tighter, and there was an audible crunch when her larynx collapsed and she began to wheez in desperation.

Cyrille watched, burning every detail into his memory for later, he readied himself, preparing his mind for that moment, for that flash, for that glimpse of God.

The hooker convulsed in finality, and unflinching, Cyrille watched on in both worlds, captuing the convulsion and Death's hand reaching into the hookers body grasping hold of her soul and tearing it from it's root.

In that moment, the moment of Death's shining moment - Cyrille again knew love, knew God's touch and caress.

And it was over - the hooker's shell was empty, her eyes locked open in fear, the man was backing away, trying to adjust his clothes. Cyrille took a single step, and his mind released the illusion of his non existance. The man's face stopped, deadpan for the moment as his brain raced to explain and comprehend what he saw.

The look on the hooker's face was now not a painting on another person's body for the man. Now it was a mask that grasped his face and had sex with his brain. Cyrille stepped forward once more, his hood pulling backwards in the wind and the moon capturing his face in rotted flesh and bare boned glory. Cyrille raised his hands, grasping the frozen man's face in them he leaned forward - his lipless mouth pressed against the man's and Cyrille sucked inwards as the man began to scream, consuming his fear, consuming the vestiges of Death's embodiment.

The man was still screaming when Cyrille pulled him into the sewer - shortly after that, all that remained was a simpering whimper as the man began to pray under Cyrille's instruction.

All the police found was a dead hooker, and two DNA proofs linking this to the other deaths in the area: the Semen on the hooker, and the pool of urine near the body.

New Beginings

Tue, 23 Mar 2004 16:15:57 GMT

Journal Entry March 22nd, 2003

I awoke this evening to find that Maurice, my guest had passed away some time ago. Apparently I had neglected to tie off the artery that lies between the spine and the heart. I will have to track down another Male, age twenty-five to thirty to start the experiment again. This time, the death should be controlled in a manner that will allow me to capture the exact moment down to what modern science refers to as "the millisecond".

This is much easier with men. Women tend to be less resilient to being skinned in this manner.

I should be able to capture it in the exact moment it takes the soul to enter the lands of the dead, should this human continue to hold dear his ties to his offspring. It should be sufficient enough to hold him. Then I will be able to inquire as to his opinion on the matter before the others take him away, or he figures out what occured. Binding might not be sufficient in this case.

Perhaps I can harvest his face and eyes beforehand.

The wheel turns.

A cold wind bloweth.

Tue, 07 Jan 2003 04:42:27 GMT

Cyrille examined the pile of human skulls piled neatly in the corner, humming to the tune of the opera playing on his record player. He quietly thought of the events of the last evening as he picked out a male skull...

He carried the skull to his "examination room" over to the stone basin, rinsing it in the blood-stained water. He quietly thought about the past evening. There was so much to digest after all, so much learned.

This much he knew, the Nosferatu Primogen was weak willed and too eager to beg favors from the other clans of the city… To eager to grovel and beg for knowledge he should already have. Although, having him so willing to bow and scrape, to beg and plead should work in Cyrille’s favor.

He thought about Matupp, the Primogen. He thought about the fear in Matupp’s eyes, and his sole glowing red eye could be seen to smile. The Nosferatu of New York were all young ones. All recently released seemingly.

He began drying the skull off with a blood soaked rag reciting the names of those he had met, the Seneschal, the Harpy, the Prince. He thought back on the hour and a half wait he had to patiently and silently endure waiting for the Prince to accept introductions.

Watching, he had noticed that the Ventrue seemed quite strong, although their Primogen seemed overly emotional. The Toreador were seemingly next in line for power by sheer number, followed by the Brujah, the Malkavians, then the children of Nosferat. Although, the last two had switched places after Prince Rage had, Well, had meted out a certain amount of "old world" nay Camarilla justice to that pedantic Malkavian Cobblepot. Although, in Cyrille’s most honest of thought, he felt that the Prince had been too kind.

New York, in total, seemed quite full of easily swayed neonates, and very few Ancillae, the warlocks seemed to be power holders, if this continuing presence of this Tess Parker was any indicator. It was really too bad that the other one, Mr. Banks had been infected with some "thin blood disease" if the idiot Matupp were to be believed.

Apparently, Matupp enjoyed a little sniveling relationship with Banks. Something to watch for. While Cyrille sat alone waiting and watching, silently listening... The other Nosferatu ran off to play Brujah, and Matupp walked about sniveling.

How sad really, that his clan should have fallen so far, if what he had encountered and read was to be fully believed.

Cyrille walked over to a simmering pot of black wax he had "heating" he took the little bits of plaster he had prepared and began sealing the holes in the skull.

He continued thinking, concentrating on reading the recorded expressions and "benign" conversations of the gathered kindred of New York. He thought back on his short conversation with Danziger, It was clear the two of them did not wish their more checkered past to become public knowledge. While this might be a card to hold against Danziger, best to move forward as working allies, after all, Danziger is a Prince, and Ancillae, and had shown himself to be quite strong. Yes, better to work with him as an equal.

Yet another gathering passed uneventfully, he sat, and watched, and listened. Apparently while Prince Rage offered stability for New York, and therefore ensured the security of those Kindred of that court… Many were disgusted and displeased by Rage’s actions and methods.

Who were they to question a Prince of the Camarilla? They were nothing, neonates, gossiping whining toreador too caught up in their petty sycophantic whining to see the reality, pedantic Ventrue overly concerned with mortal holdings and counting their money.

They were, however, Camarilla. As Cyrille began pouring the black wax into the last open hole in the skull, he thought that over. His own clan within the region was weak. Further weakened by the lack of a strong leader. Boston was seemingly in shambles, New York, while having a strong Prince, seemed quite torn by the inner and outer conflicts being waged, hunters, Sabbat and Setites.

Cyrille stopped pouring the wax for a moment, pausing to pour in a fairly large amount of oily black ash from the hidden vial within his cross, he emptied the bottle into the skull, again praying to god to give him that understanding he lacked, and the strength and will to continue in these seemingly final nights. Cyrille continued pouring the wax...

Connecticut was his last serious hope to finding a seriously stable domain. He had already heard tales of Maine and Rhode Island. He would have to begin working on Boston, although Maris could not stomach watching Cyrille work, Cyrille knew who pulled that Prince’s strings.

He had had a productive night, as the wax began to harden; he sealed the final hole, and began to etch a cross into the forehead of the skull.

He would have to ask Mr. White to take him someplace special quite soon, he had to pick up a few more instruments if he was going to continue on this path. The Camarilla would become stronger, and in situ, so would he.

How better to serve god, than to consume god’s power? How better to worship death, than to understand death, to exemplify his god in the study of death, to make those who fell beneath him beg and scream for redemption.

Cyrille sighed through his lipless mouth. In any other being, that sigh could be construed as sexual, but in Cyrille, it was the sure sign of another accomplishment… Cyrille lifted the skull, carrying it over to his obsidian table, etched with the swastika of the Third Reich. He sat down, first restarting the strains of the German opera playing on the record player, lighting a single candle beside the new skull.

Tilting his head slightly, Cyrille sat back, regarding the skull, remember the electric thrill of watching Prince Rage execute the criminal, it was heartening to see that the justice so common in the old world was still practiced.

Leaning forward, Cyrille’s single glowing red eye regarded the rictus grin of the skull in front of him...

"Good Evening Monsieur Cobblepot. I hope you find your new accommodations adequate. You see, I do think that Prince Rage, as well as you yourself made a mistake, You both presumed to think that Camarilla justice, nay, God’s Justice ended when you became so much slick ash in Prince Rage’s hands."

"In time, I think you might begin to understand your mistake, and in time, you too, will beg for forgiveness in that final death, as long as god, death, deigns to hear your beleaguered cries for redemption."

"Until then, Monsieur Cobblepot, I do hope you enjoy your new accommodations."

The breeze off the warrens caught the candle, blowing it’s light, altering the shadows so that the horrid grin of a hundred other such skulls hidden in the shadows behind Cyrille’s chair, each containing hardened black wax, prayed over by Cyrille, each containing the ashes of a hundred other dead and gone kindred...

Each skull caught in a scream lasting eternity.

And then the candle is snuffed by the desiccated mummy’s hand of a skeleton wearing a large, silver cross, praying to god.

Meetings... Again

Tue, 31 Dec 2002 05:06:14 GMT

Part 1

Cyrille tapped on the glass separating him and Mr. White, the ghoul on loan from Prince Claudius.

"Herr White... I do believe you may let me out here, I should very much like to walk the rest of the way."

White nodded; surely he would have the rest of the night off until such time as he had to once again pick Cyrille up from the gathering outside of Worcester. Cyrille closed his copy of Gray's Anatomy, the pages marked in his crawling script, notes and slips of parchment containing "additions" being pushed back in.

Cyrille placed the book into the worn leather bag which served as his carry-all. The various medical instruments clinked as he slid the book in next to the leather folder containing notes and other various important things. He waited for White to open his door, forcing his appearance to smooth out, his scent to die down, and his eye to stop glowing...

Cyrille stepped out of the vehicle, straightening his jacket and retrieving his cane and bag, he stepped into the wintry night, quietly pondering how to handle this evening. He had spent the last few nights meditating and praying, asking for a quiet understanding to sooth over the war waging in his mind. So much had changed in these recent nights. Anarchs publicly slandering the seats of Justice, thinking they might hide behind the infernal computer-machines.

Neonates running freely, unchecked. Newly embraced caitiff holding more status than those who had been alive for centuries. So much had changed. Cyrille silently prayed for understanding and guidance from his god. His god who might be jealous of stolen power, but who would willingly accept those sacrifices Cyrille made almost nightly.

Cyrille continued through the night, the gathering place was a home not too far from here. He sighed through a lipless mouth, wondering how tonight might fare. Sabbat? Ignorant neonates? Blatant disregard to standing and station? Who knew? These modern night kindred had much to learn in the art of patience and respect.

He continued the building in sight. He noticed what he assumed a few ghouls guarding the area, but nothing to extreme. In a remote area such as this, fights and conflicts which might break out would not go noticed. A wise choice by Prince Maris, especially in a court full of rash young ones such as this.

Cyrille walked into the gathering unchallenged, he was obviously the first arrival for the evening. How strange, he thought. Perhaps they were all feeding at this very moment. Cyrille took a seat, and pulled out his copy of Gray's again, flipping through it's now blood and ichor stained pages to where he had left off. Times such as this, although required to attend, in order to politic and work on the stability of the sect, took him away from his studies and worship. Most frustratingly, he was also taken away from his comfortable crypt haven, where he had so many wonderful friends, so many wonderful watchers and "loved ones". Did they not understand that he gave them redemption? That he was their sole gateway to god?

Alas, he was sure, from the screams of the one last night that they did not truly appreciate that which he gave them. It was sad really.

Cyrille glanced up; Prince Claudius had just entered with a group of Kindred. Cyrille stood, bowing slightly to Claudius, he allowed Claudius to open by speaking the greeting, and Claudius then turned, and once again, did him the favor of introducing him to the kindred who accompanied him. A Primogen, a high-status kindred... Among others. Cyrille noted each face, each name, and each member's standing, bowing to each and introducing himself properly.

He once again sat, not without some pain. It seemed the weather and damp were getting to his leg. It could be that he had not fed this evening, but there was nothing to help that.

He inquired as to Claudius' health, and complimented him on the good work and bravery of Mr. White. The conversation waxed and waned, each primarily enjoying his or her peace and quiet. Cyrille noted all of the faces he did not recognize, reminding himself to sketch each one, and take notes. While the Kindred face might be modified over time, each Kindred carried his or herself in a certain manner, one might hide one's face, modify it, but the mannerisms might stay the same. It is important to record those with standing and present position holders. It is wise to always remember.

He sat back, and noticed Prince Maris had arrived, standing, he bowed, and stayed standing, joining other kindred awaiting an audience with Prince Maris. He stood next to the new Kindred who had corrected him. Maybe this one showed promise; he seemed to know the protocol quite well.

Cyrille stood, leaning heavily on his cane, again regretting having to leave his haven. There were few kindred here this evening, and at least two other Children of Nosferat. Cyrille had the distinct feeling that the evening would drag on, hopefully some good would come of it.

Prince Maris approached him, he bowed, acquiescing to the requested "private walk" Maris requested. He bowed again, and offered introductions due an Elder and Prince. He offered his service and knowledge to the assistance of the city. He offered his talents, widespread to assist the Camarilla within Boston to the best of his abilities.

Like a hundred times before this, Cyrille was polite, and smooth. Maris seemed quite impressed by the display, welcoming and acknowledging Cyrille. Still, however, Cyrille noted that the Prince seemingly stumbled, and tripped verbally, seemingly having difficulty thinking fast, or making decisions. It is understandable; however, given the problems that Boston is rumored to have suffered.

Maris again, wandered away, seemingly lost. Cyrille again took his seat, thinking quietly about the fact Maris revealed that an elder previously unknown to himself, a Shin, of his clan, was within the city. Maris had indicated to the abrupt gentleman from earlier. Ah well.

Cyrille sat, and soon enough, the other two Nosferatu came to him, and they passed introductions and pleasantries, filling each other in on the business of the clan within the Northeast, enlightening Cyrille as to the current status of New York, including the fact they had had a Caitiff pretender as Primogen! Surely a scandal for the clan, Cyrille hoped it would be kept quiet, and behind closed doors.

Seemingly, the Nosferat of New York, in total, are a fairly fresh crop, as well as most of the Kindred population within the Boston, NY and Connecticut areas. Most intriguing. Now wonder many of the elders had shown exasperation and impatience, even temper when discussing the politics of the Northeast.

A rat. A single rat, its wet red eyes gleaming with the caught light in the room. It squeaked, and Cyrille motioned to Frog and the other Nosferatu. "Follow it", he said simply. It was obviously sent by someone possessing the powers of the Nosferat or the Gangrel. Frog clambered up, tracking the small thing.

Cyrille leaned back, turning back to the other Nosferat who sat nearby, they went back to discussing politics and sect loyalty versus clan loyalty. They both agreed to the core principal, but the young one was more wont to allowing for "clan first" to cloud his vision. Would the young never realize that the Sect could survive without the clan, but the clan could not survive without the sect, especially in these nights of ever thinning blood and video cameras.

Cyrille excused himself for a moment to go over and talk to the new "shin" individual. He attempted to be polite, and introduce himself, Shin told him he knew who he was... and yes, he was a Nosferatu...

He then began to tell Cyrille, Cyrille is outdated, anachronistic... Sloppy. He had invaded Cyrille's warrens, and "played with Cyrille's 'toys'"...

Cyrille stood, a thousand thoughts running through his head. He stopped, pushing them all deep within, where he pushed anything that might provide any sort of emotional response, he did as his beliefs taught him, he pushed them all without stopping down into the pit, where they were torn apart, analyzed, examined and discarded.

He was speaking to an Elder of the Camarilla. An Elder of the Children of Nosferat, while invading his... study area, he also offered to assist Cyrille. Best to simply accept this for now, and await a quiet time to meditate on this matter. Cyrille nodded his acceptance, pushing it all aside for further thought.

Frog had returned, and by his body language, he had found the spy.

It was time to put his skills to work, no?

Gatherings

Tue, 17 Dec 2002 16:35:37 GMT

Cyrille steps out of the shadows, a carved bone mask around his face this time. The scents wafting from him are as always, ones of eternal decay, and again, we see the rats avoid him, and the ghoul shrink away from him. He walks near the car, the ghoul holding open the door, obviously uncomfortable with the duty his regnant has forced him into.

Cyrille glances up, his hands twitching as they do at least this time we can't see his face. "Monsieur White... While I am indebted to your employer for your services, tonight, I have private matters to attend to. We will not be going our usual route. Go here instead" he says, handing White a piece of paper, his voice, as always, rasps... His p's falling through barely recognizable. White nods, simply wishing Cyrille would get in the damned car. So formal, so respectful... yet so cold, so inhuman. White may be asking for a raise soon...

Cyrille favors his right leg as he gets into the car, leaning back into the seat the car is quickly filled with the scent of death, as he lets his powers of disguise fall, he double checks that the black partition between him and the ghoul is secured. Cyrille leans back, an old straight razor with the swastika emblazoned on the bone handle in his hand. He stares into the light gleaming off the blade, his one good eye glaring red in the shadows like a baleful watcher.

He thinks about the steps he has taken recently. Contacting those who he remembers from the past, at least, those that survive still. He thinks about the upcoming meeting with Enlil, and his reintroduction to society. If he still had anything resembling human emotion, he might be apprehensive, but he long ago abandoned that weak path for something so much... More.

He stares into the reflection noting that the cavernous hole of his ruined left eye still seeps that ichor. He wonders idly to himself if it will ever stop. Shrugging slightly, he goes back to his thoughts. Once again, he is building his web, the web that will both feed him the power he needs to hide, and provide the backing behind which he masks his true thoughts and purposes.

Once again, he plays the Jyhad, once again, he does the bidding of those eldest. Once again, he weaves the web around himself so that while he may perform those duties which must be done, his true passions are unquestioned, unthought-of of, and unimportant to all but him. So much to do... So much time.

Patience, he thinks. Patience is the key. It seems given what he has been shown of these modern nights, that humanity, his clan, the sect, nay, everyone had forgotten that patience is the key to so much. There is no reason to move quickly, when one might live and watch, lie in wait, like a snake so to speak. "Ah well" he sighs, picking at the blade of the straight razor.

Enlil. Malkavian elder... No small amount of time had passed since last they spoke. Hopefully, tonight's gathering would go smoothly.

The car stopped, the intercom in the car came on "We are where you requested sir" White said, that annoying fear still in his voice. Cyrille leaned to the side, unlatching the door, quickly, White came around and opened the door for him, he steps out, always favoring the leg.

Cyrille turns to White, White handing him his cane. "I will not require your services for the rest of the night, Herr White. Do as you will, but be at the same place I meet you at nightly at the same time tomorrow evening, no?” White nodded handing Cyrille his "medical bag" he quickly closed the door and reclaimed the driver's seat and began to roll away.

Cyrille stepped into the shadows, and began to wait for Enlil to show. He could not, nay, would not enter this gathering without proper guidance and introductions. Enlil had offered such, therefore, he would wait.

Wait he did. Soon enough for his tastes however, he watched Enlil approach, stepping out of the shadows, his powers of disguise covering his scent, and more... Unlikable attributes, he bowed slightly to Enlil, giving him the greeting he gave all the eldest.

Silently, they walked forward, soon enough, Cyrille felt the alien presence in his mind the Malkavian elder could not resist utilizing his powers of mind speak. Cyrille cleaned the more unhealthy thoughts from his mind, and conversed silently with Enlil as they approached the entrance to the gathering. Immediately accosted by either a ghoul, or an extremely new Brujah, both below esteem, Cyrille simply glared at the sniveling thing until Enlil established that it was an individual assigned by the sheriff to watch the door.

Shrugging, he walked past her. Too bad really. You think they'd have a more esteemed, and rational person watching the entrance. Maybe someone with a bit more power. "Too bad" Cyrille thought to himself, "it makes me question how they run their court; I have not heard good things". Enlil smiled slightly, nodding his ascent.

Surprisingly, yet another of his contacts blasted past him out the door, demanding that Enlil follow him. Ah! Prince Varik Danziger. It had been some time since Cyrille had seen him. He looks a bit worse for the wear, no?

Abandoned, Cyrille shrugged, and began to look about. Soon enough, he was accosted by a short man in a suit. The man began whiningly almost "Have I seen you before?"...

Cyrille considered silently... Is this the sheriff, scourge, seneschal... Maybe a low ranking Primogen or whip... Nay. Given the description he had received of the so-called puppet prince of Boston, Russell Maris, this sniveling creature before him could only be the Prince. Ah well, time to put on his face, so to speak.

Bowing, Cyrille spoke "Good Evening, Herr Prinz Maris. No, you do not know me, and I would not beg your attention except by the proper channels". So many times had he used this line? How many random princes had he accidentally ran into, fearing to be thought a neonate, worse yet a fool neonate, he has to beg for forgiveness...

Russell looked at him "Who are you, what clan?"

Cyrille's one good eye and swollen cavern opened in slight surprise. This does not happen. A prince does not do this sort of thing. I am below esteem, and must follow the protocols!

"I am Father Cyrille the Black, Ancillae, Clan of the Nosferatu, childe of Feoras, childe of..." Russell cut him off "Yeah. Pleased to meet you. You seem to be the only other Nosferatu in the city, so, looks like you’re on your own, pleased to meet you." Cyrille stood there, shocked that a Prince, and Elder, Ventrue Prince of the Camarilla would be so uncouth, so... Rude.

Cyrille stood there... Amazed for the first time in a long, painful time. "Please excuse me Herr Maris, I see that you are troubled, and busy, I may not deign to take any more of your time..." bowing, he backed away as Maris seemingly rushed off.

Most interesting he thought to himself. Most interesting indeed. He stood still, silencing his mind, he listened. He stood there and watched as neonate and elder, elder and Ancillae... As a seeming free for all irregardless of status, irregardless of age and respect occurred. Slowly, it dawned on him that this so-called Camarilla Court was not controlled. A party this might be, but where is the respect, the enlightening debate, the art? The discussion?

Where is the respect, the fear, the death? Do these kindred so cling to their mortal accoutrements so tightly that they cannot even let go of the emotion such things entail?

Sighing in his head, he walked slowly to Claudius, yet another Elder of Clan Ventrue. The introductions past, Cyrille thanked him for the ghoul, and reminded him that he had in fact, registered the boons owed to Claudius. Pleasantries aside, Claudius began to introduce him those as one might have in the days of old.

Claudius introduced him to one of the Princes of Maine, and Alexander Thibodeaux, numerous Primogen, seneschals and sheriffs. Cyrille treated them with the respect due their office, offering to assist in the matters closest to the Camarilla.

Each time, he bowed, each time; he offered a hand in this American tradition. Each time, he offered his age, status, name and clan. Each time he followed all he had learned, all he had known.

Cyrille stood, watching the kindred, listening. Apparently, the Sabbat were up to their childish antics again. Cyrille quietly pondered the state of the world. He quietly thought about the messages from Anarchs... Autarkis and the independents he had received in the past weeks. He thought to himself, and he was... Worried.

For the first time in centuries, Cyrille was at a loss, why are the Anarchs who scream so loud tolerated? Why are the independents tolerated? There is only one sect, the Camarilla. Everything else was simply a matter of splitting hairs. The Anarchs, and the Sabbat openly spoke out against the sect, his sect, they actively worked towards its downfall.

Why do they tolerate these creatures? Why do they tolerate the disrespect of status...? Even some of the Ancillae, and the Elders, the bastions of the Camarilla seemed ignorant of how things should operate... Surely these so called end-times were upon us... Surely.

Back to the present however. Cyrille stood, watching, waiting. He offered his services to Claudius. He offered his services to Prince Maris. He made his offers, and they were ignored. Ah well, such is the whim of the elders, no? Patience, for we have much time to wait, so much time to study.

Ah! There they go at the behest of the Prince. Off they scuttle to destroy the Sabbat threat. Cyrille quietly wonders what would possess them to move in such a direct manner. Would not moving directly against them in such a military action preclude the first tradition? Maybe it is again, a drawback of the human emotions these kindred hold so dear.

Cyrille reaches into his medical bag and pulls out one of these "cell phones". Speaking slowly, and succinctly, he simply states "Come here now, Herr White.". He observes for a few more moments...

Shrugging slightly, Cyrille fades from the room, and wanders a short while to the waiting car. "Herr White... I wish to go into Boston Proper. Drop me off within a half kilometer of a place called "Harvard Square"... White nods, closing the door behind Cyrille; he sprays gravel into the night and begins gagging on the scent of the monster behind him.

They pull up to a curb. Cyrille steps out, and turns to White "I will not need your services for the rest of the night. I suggest you go someplace far from this area for the foreseeable future, Herr White."

Cyrille leans into the shadows, a sewer access point opening for him, he climbs down with some difficulty into the blackness, sniffing slightly, he begins moving towards the sounds of a riot, which carry quite far in these abandoned sewers. Abandoned... He assumes. Enlil has warned him of another... Another Nosferatu possibly that has brought great shame to his clan in the recent past. Ah well. How little they know if they assume he worries about clan "pride". The idea of family first is something that died a long time ago within Cyrille, for his heart is as black, and as cold as stone now, jaded by the years, hardened by belief.

Cyrille believes he has arrived. He positions climbs up, and out of another access point, standing firmly in the shadows, wrapping himself in disbelief and shadow, he observes the chaos.

He smells again the scent of burned flesh, his eye aching as it always does, he looks at the beautiful corpses fallen to the ground all around, such wasted death. He watches the fires, the obviously newly embraced Sabbat jumping and prancing, killing and feeding. He then observes the Camarilla war party begin to unload.

Hmm. Seemingly over 20 of the kindred have come to stop this threat. However, it seems they were wise to at least clean the area out of its kine populace. Score a point in favor of common sense on their part. Or was it them? It could very well be a trap, and if it is, they are already dead. No reconnaissance, no watching, they simply barrel in and begin killing pointlessly, and capturing.

If Cyrille still had lips, he would have smiled then. He watches the death, the mayhem, the chaos. He watches the kindred falls, cut asunder, he watches the blood spray from decapitated bodies... He revels in the destruction silently, watching, his mind recording everything.

Suddenly, turning the corner is one of the Sabbat cretins. The thing is attempting to flee, and it has chosen this alleyway to come down... A poor choice on his part, for now Cyrille is no longer cold. No, for now he is hot, so hot as to be excited. Cyrille steps out still unseen into the creature's path. This one is a male, teenager, running full bore down onto Cyrille, fangs bared, still not seeing the unseen Nosferatu.

Cyrille extends an ungloved skeletal hand, some of the flesh in a state of rot and filth, dropping his illusion, the childe runs straight into the extended hand, Cyrille steps backwards from the force of the blow, but not before pushing his captured magic, his captured will of god, and his hidden power of death onto the poor soul before him.

Cyrille watches absently as a scream dies on the lips of the childe. He watches as the childe's head begins to shrink, wither, his eyes sinking into his skull, skin peeling, lips turning into the lips of the eldest of mummy's. Moaning slightly, the childe collapses the rest of his body soon following the rest.

Again, Cyrille's lipless mouth might have broken into a smile. However, instead, he bends down, grabbing the childe by the hand, he drags him, limping badly, into the sewer. Pulling his bag and cane behind him, Cyrille dumps the childe into the sewer, and slowly follows him down.

What happens next is unimportant. Cyrille drags the creature further and further along the passageways, eventually bringing him past the leaking tunnels, past the open scars in the earth, deeper and deeper... Until finally they reach the hidden crypts that Cyrille calls home.

Cyrille pushes the heavy door closed behind him after dragging the creature behind him. He takes off his hat, his mask, his gloves and his wonderful coat. He sighs, walking over to his old record player, he starts the machine with the crank, and the gentle sounds of yet another lost opera from Germany begin to fill the air. He uses a match to light the fat black and red candles that fill the room, the scent of roses soon joining the cinnamon and decay.

He dons the black robe reeking of death, licking his teeth with his decrepit tongue, he moves towards the moaning creature laying by his door, he bends, painfully dragging him to the... Study room.

Placing the creature in the chair center to the room, Cyrille straps him in with the chain and leather bindings, the opera reaching a crescendo; he reached into the cabinet, pulling out a brand new car battery and jumper cables.

"Ahh, monsieur... You happen to be quite lucky, no? I am going to enlighten you. You are now what are commonly known as a Vampire. You see, there are many of us. We watch the humans, we manipulate them, we cling to their emotional rags, and their ignorant ways as a protection against the long nights."

"We watch you, manipulate you, we are everywhere, and we are every one. However, you are what are known as... Garbage. You see, your sire, some Sabbat individual has abandoned you to the cold, cruel world. What did they do, let you dig your way out a grave, and tell you to destroy? Poor you. How little you know, how little you understand."

"I guess you should pity yourself. You see, you were abandoned, and like a found treasure... I get to keep you."

Cyrille leans down, picking up the jumper cables; he touches them to each other, causing a spark and a crackle.

"You see... The Vampiric or Kindred body is quite resilient to damage, and pain. This allows me to study certain things about kindred anatomy, and anatomy and pain thresholds in great detail. You might think of yourself as a canvas, and me, as Davinci."

Cyrille kneeled in front of the creature, with his right hand he pulled the rusted medical tray over.

"I suggest you begin praying to god, my god, for release. I suggest you beg for enlightenment, and release. I am going to cause you more pain than you have ever experienced, and I am going to bring you to the edge of death, and back again. Each time you will be close to thinking the pain will be over, that soon, everything will stop, and this nightmare will end. You will be wrong, each time."

"Mine is the power of God. Mine is the power of Death. I am death, and I have stolen god's power. You are nothing more than a stepping stone in the pool of ignorance allowing me to the other side, the true understanding of god."

"Pray."

Cyrille leaned forward attaching one end of the jumper cable to the right hand, and then the other to the left. He stepped back, watching the creature moan and jerk, smoke rising from the contacts. Cyrille nodded, and made a note in a small book. He leaned forward, taking off the cables; he sighed, and slapped the creature.

Torpor. So weak. Cyrille leaned forward, his nail cutting into his wrist, letting some of his vitae flow into the creature's mouth. Groggily, the creature shook its head, soon enough it realized the mistake as the decreptified flesh fell from its muscles.

Shaking his finger side to side, Cyrille admonished the creature, leaning over to his medical table; he retrieved his rusted bone saw... He leaned forward, tapping at the chest cavity, tilting his head; he looked at the eyes staring back at him... Full of hate, rage, and pain.

"Now now. The effects of what I did to you earlier may wear off soon... So, I guess I ought to remedy this promptly..."

Cyrille leaned over, retrieving a wicked needle, and plastic thread. Sighing again, he began sewing the creature's mouth shut, then he reached up, pinching the eyelids, he deftly sewed them closed...

"You see, I do not need to see your eyes, or hear your words while I work. I need to figure something out, and you happen to be readily accessible. You can pray in your head though."

Cyrille leaned back, grasping the bone saw. Humming along to the woman's voice coming from his record player, he began cutting and slicing, first, he removes the skin from the chest, making several deft cuts, he peels back the skin and exposes the muscle and bone, to the crescendo of the song, he presses the saw into the ribs, cutting them away...

He notes that the body is most still. Torpor... Again. Such a weak specimen. He grabs a metal straw from the table, pressing it into his wrist, he jabs it through the cheek of the creature, feeding it another small amount of his vitae.

"It is quite good that you do not understand the power of your own vitae. I realize you have gorged previously this evening, so as I keep feeding you bits of mine, you will not mind if I borrow some of yours, no?"

Leaning further forward, Cyrille nips at the neck of the creature, sipping to replace the vitae he has already given the creature. He signs, and goes back to tearing rib from muscle, muscle from skin. He revels in the feel if the sinew, bone and cartilage. He smiles inwardly, pulling the ribcage away from the chest cavity, exposing the heart, and withered dead organs.

"Most intriguing... Even for one so newly embraced as yourself, you still have the withered organs that most of us do. Ahh well..."

Cyrille throws the separated ribcage into a pile in the corner; it joins the other discarded parts of the ones to come before this one. Stepping back, he makes a note in the book, and picks up a wickedly-edged scalpel and a battered Zippo lighter emblazoned with the Nazi swastika, he deftly reaches forward, and cuts the stitches away from the creature's mouth.

"And now, childe, I wish for your screams to join in this little play. I wish to cleanse your soul. I wish to gain a bit more of the power of god. Join in the cries of the thousands before you; let your soul be cleansed in the kiln of pain. I shall show you redemption..."

Hour later, Cyrille steps back and examines the corpse before him, he absently makes a few more notes in the book, wiping his blood and flesh coated hands on the coat he wears, he begins blowing out the candles, one by one, as they go out, we see flashes of what has occurred, the strips of skin spread in a circle, the eyes laying on the table, the chunks of muscle and tendon seemingly chewed on, tasted. A teacup filled with cooling vitae, chunks of bone covered in hair, a bit of grey sponge-like material wiped on a rag...

The music has long since ended, but the cries of that creature still echo. Sighing, Cyrille strips the gore encrusted jacket from himself, and wander to what serves as his bed. As he crawls into the embrace of the skeletons and rotting corpses of his bed, he picks up a worn copy of Gray's Anatomy, flipping to a section, he makes a few notes, closes it, he leans back, pressing his lipless mouth to the head of the rotting corpse of a woman, who seems to have suffered the same fate as the creature just now, Cyrille makes a clicking noise, a kiss you might think... "Good day, my sweets" he says, as he sinks deeper into the pile of bodies and decay.

Tomorrow shall bring yet another full night, no?

OOC

Tue, 17 Dec 2002 14:22:45 GMT

[ooc post]

This journal has now been locked to friends only. If you wish to continue reading what I write here, please contact me.

A Message

Wed, 11 Dec 2002 16:14:12 GMT

Gathered;

I feel compelled as my loyalty to both clan and sect whisper of ghosts
of past, of bonds and boons, and of walls of ivory. I concur with Markov, as
I also concur with those sentiments that have been shown in addition to his
regarding this matter.

When I stood, a bawling babe locked in the dungeons of the Bastille as
the peasants destroyed all that I had worked for, as they burned my beloved
France, destroying that which had stood for decades, that which I had stood
for, for decades; it was the Nosferatu who took me in. It was the Nosferatu
who brought me across to the world of night. The pains of the embrace lasted
for months, and I, like so many, have never truly recovered. The Nosferatu,
those who walk the shadows even the Lasombra fear, were the ones who propped
me up and showed me the way to walk those paths, to feed from the kine.

When again, my beloved France was being decimated by strife and the
blood of Napoleon was called for; many of our kind fled. It was the Ventrue
who assisted me; it was the Ivory Tower who held my arm while my forever
crippled leg shuffled its immortal dance. When I was forced to flee across
the oceans from my beloved France, taking some of the eternal beauty and
knowledge with myself, and build a home in the new world. Traveling oh so
slowly between my beloved Europe and the new world, it was the Tremere, the
Toreador the Ivory Tower, and the Nosferatu who again buoyed me up, and
helped me with that which I needed.

When, in the great wars, I did what I could, it was the Malkavian, the
Toreador, and the Brujah, who assisted me, who worked with me to do what,
was right. The Nosferatu and I walked those shadows we could; by the leave
and the assistance of the Camarilla. When I was attacked by the Sabbat, it
was the Sect and the Clan that came to my assistance.

When I walked the shadows, brokering and assisting those eldest to clan
and sect, it was the Camarilla and the Nosferatu who stayed true to the
course, the traditions, the boons and the debts.

While I walked the shadows, watching, waiting, working, learning and
creating, it was the Sabbat who destroyed the works of the clan and the
sect. It was the Anarchs who stirred the pot of discord. It was the Sabbat
who pounded on the Ivory Tower's walls, demanding the blood of our eldest.
It was the Nosferatu, the Brujah, the Tremere and the Ventrue, and the
Malkavian who stood next to me and fought the waves of freshly embraced
mortals and hideous monsters of the Sabbat.

When standing in court, listening to one of the youngest, listening to
his hypocrisy, his so called "anarchy for sale", I listened as I heard his
Kine philosophy of "freedom for all, and all ideas". I listened as he ranted
and railed, and it was a Nosferatu who stood, and asked him simply "The
ideals of the Sabbat are equal to those of the Camarilla, and your so called
Anarchy?"

The pillars of the Camarilla have stood for ages uncounted. The walls of
the Ivory Tower have weathered storm after storm, both from without, and
within. While clan might not be around to assist you, the sect is. When the
sect is missing, the clan is there, in the shadows.

These so called "pretties" you take so much issue with, have stood with
us against threats from without, and within. They have given us harbor, and
they have offered us peace, security, stability. The unity of the Pillars
and the walls of the Ivory tower are as much of a protector as they are a
home.

So ask yourself, the so called "clan first" mentality you scream, like a
Clanless Anarch arguing his anarchist cause, is as detrimental to the health
of the Nosferatu, and the stability of that which took us in and helped us
when we could not help ourselves as the Sabbat and their war machines.

His Grace Quasimodo, Justicar of the Camarilla, the seat of Justice for
our clan, works to ensure the security and stability of that which has given
us so much, and provides us with that which ensures our continued existence.
He speaks words of truth, and I truly pity those among us who have responded
to his words disrespectfully and brashly.

Think about your ideals; think about that which truly saves you from
that which lurks in our shadow's shadows. Think of the Ivory Tower, its
ramparts extending into the night sky, ensuring the protection of that which
we hold dearest.

For, surely, without the clan, the sect might stand, but without the
sect, and its protection - brotherhood and laws, without its Ivory walls,
the clan might surely flounder.

I am loyal to the Tower in which I live. I am loyal to those brothers in
the clan of Nosferatu, who ensure our continued security and existence
through continued loyalty to the Camarilla.

While I might not actively hunt those who travel our warrens, while I
might not pummel like a Brujah, remember, the Sect, and the Clan have stood
for ages uncounted, and the shadows, the blood, and the life, are forever
long-lived.

Working for the Clan, is working for the Sect. Working for the Sect, is
working for the Clan. The two are forever intertwined.

In quo quis delinquit, in eo de jure est puniendus*

I remain,

Pere Cyrille Le Noir, Father Cyrille The Black

Ancillae of clan Nosferatu
Childer of Feoras

Loyal to The Camarilla

*OOC: Latin - "In whatever thing one offends, in that is he rightfully to be
punished."

Awakening.

Wed, 04 Dec 2002 03:35:28 GMT

I have awoken.

I again, can smell the sweet smell of the flesh, of the burrowing worm and the creep of my god... I have awoken.

Oderint dum metuant

Let them hate me provided they fear me