An uncanny sense seems to itch awake the longer I glance upon the tomes. To call these books would be rather rude. With extreme care, I need to not just catalogue these pieces, but glean their knowledge. Commit them to memory. Document every page perfectly for all time. Perhaps working with the computers and scanners could help towards this. I have a basic knowledge of such things. But it seems moving to such a medium may be worth it.
More importantly, I must retain control over the tomes. Geraldo will want them. Perhaps they were written by the same hand as the tome Tatters has. Perhaps I should recreate these works using my own ink and pages.
Perhaps I should close this journal and begin taking true notes, true dictation. The library will be mine. And no one elses.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Influencing images
Charlotte, dear Charlotte. She's caught between the 40s and the Victorian. Here are more images that remind me of her.
Journal: Home away from home...
Journal: After the cathedral within a church.
My mind is caught by a song. One as old as dust on a child's toy left in the attic. Despite my best efforts to continue with my routines, I find myself tossing aside book and book in this destitute library. How many journals I set before the mad and insane, forcing them to write while their brains mired in hallucinations.
The few worthy books offer nothing as well. No touch upon the images I witnessed. And yet Geraldo seemed to have truths in his own. Damn him. Damn them all for knowing. But I must put aside the anger and seek the chill truth. I am young and need a better resource.
Sumerian. Mesopotamian. An area I have not studied at length. Of if they but wandered from Italy! Then I would have such a wealth of knowledge! I believe I shall visit the university. Certainly something lies there for these pages? These rituals?
And yet...why not just return? Seek that spiral staircase? I never feared before, why should I now? The mystery lies within the twisting of a ritual. The nituku or what ever it was. Would this presence seek Victor now? Was it the blood it required, or the mind within? The dreams? The others never ponder such intricacies.
I will return. Soon.
My mind is caught by a song. One as old as dust on a child's toy left in the attic. Despite my best efforts to continue with my routines, I find myself tossing aside book and book in this destitute library. How many journals I set before the mad and insane, forcing them to write while their brains mired in hallucinations.
The few worthy books offer nothing as well. No touch upon the images I witnessed. And yet Geraldo seemed to have truths in his own. Damn him. Damn them all for knowing. But I must put aside the anger and seek the chill truth. I am young and need a better resource.
Sumerian. Mesopotamian. An area I have not studied at length. Of if they but wandered from Italy! Then I would have such a wealth of knowledge! I believe I shall visit the university. Certainly something lies there for these pages? These rituals?
And yet...why not just return? Seek that spiral staircase? I never feared before, why should I now? The mystery lies within the twisting of a ritual. The nituku or what ever it was. Would this presence seek Victor now? Was it the blood it required, or the mind within? The dreams? The others never ponder such intricacies.
I will return. Soon.
Journal: The Calling Sea
The eve has been ever long, filled with the usual dregs of our pack's calling. Such a simple piece of work to stop a train, made all the more confounding as the compartments remained bare. And those Camarilla sent along side seemed to arrive in a more mundane fashion elsewhere. A traipsing of calls and the usual folk led us to learn...our fair city has uninvited guests.
Yet their targets so simple to the others, tickle at some thoughts in my head. I hear Sebastian's constant jawing of plans within plans. He never underestimated the Camarilla, teaching me what he could of their numbers and behaviors. They must seek something far different if Geraldo has come into play. If nothing else, perhaps my warnings will gain me admittance at later times.
For now, I have left the others far earlier than usual. I dined, bathed, and read what I could before boredom set in. Off to this bed then, where I hope to sleep.
I lie upon the sheets of cotton, washed and rubbed until worn over so many washboards, so many machine cycles. And yet they feel so very course. Sleep will come soon, forced so rudely upon my mind and body. That little death brought by the sun.
And yet, I recline and hope it will come ever so slowly, creep upon me as if I forgot what true rest was. So when I wake, the night seems but an eyeblink. I could never be so lucky. Seeking sleep, I hold fast my eyelids, spiral my mind over old stories, random images, even movies of Bogart watched with my mother a lifetime ago.
Thunder growls through the world. I missed the lightening as I waited for sleep. The dark night seems to have swallowed stars, threatening an icy rain. The clouds so far above feel closer. Without sensing my own movements, I stand at the sash, tossing it aside to rattle and pull the latches of windows blackened and locked. My fangs prick my lips from the exertion. My body pulls too strongly, making the metal hinges squeal. How I try to keep out the day, yet I miss my skies, limitless and freeing.
Poets speak of nights such as these. Old ships in the harbor. Dashing highwaymen come round. The damsel so deeply in distress. A simpler time I could only wish for, no longer dream of. Sebastian robbed me of such a child's fantasy. Birds will die this night, seeking a bevy of worms only to fly among the bolts that seek and sizzle their feathers. An explosion of their life as a child's breaking free the binding of a feather pillow in play.
I had a pet bird once. Singing sweetly. I should have another. But they fear, always crying and thrashing when I grow close. They break their tiny bodies, hearts thudding to an intense stop. Their mournful cries sought by the willow trees I imagine surrounding my home. But this is not the south. Nor is it Queens with its jungle of concert hymns.
In the dark waters beyond, fishermen wait out the storm. I should do the same.
Strangely, I fantasize of my sire in these moments. And Geraldo in his mansion. Why? Perhaps a part of me still lingers in the house of my birth. It is a dream I hope for as I shove closed the windows, dig nails and screws back into the woodwork and plaster. I miss the skies, but now, with the calling of mist and shade, I do not have to.
Closing my eyes, I fall back into the not so comfortable sheets, tendrils of night consuming my vision. Now if only I could sleep.
Yet their targets so simple to the others, tickle at some thoughts in my head. I hear Sebastian's constant jawing of plans within plans. He never underestimated the Camarilla, teaching me what he could of their numbers and behaviors. They must seek something far different if Geraldo has come into play. If nothing else, perhaps my warnings will gain me admittance at later times.
For now, I have left the others far earlier than usual. I dined, bathed, and read what I could before boredom set in. Off to this bed then, where I hope to sleep.
I lie upon the sheets of cotton, washed and rubbed until worn over so many washboards, so many machine cycles. And yet they feel so very course. Sleep will come soon, forced so rudely upon my mind and body. That little death brought by the sun.
And yet, I recline and hope it will come ever so slowly, creep upon me as if I forgot what true rest was. So when I wake, the night seems but an eyeblink. I could never be so lucky. Seeking sleep, I hold fast my eyelids, spiral my mind over old stories, random images, even movies of Bogart watched with my mother a lifetime ago.
Thunder growls through the world. I missed the lightening as I waited for sleep. The dark night seems to have swallowed stars, threatening an icy rain. The clouds so far above feel closer. Without sensing my own movements, I stand at the sash, tossing it aside to rattle and pull the latches of windows blackened and locked. My fangs prick my lips from the exertion. My body pulls too strongly, making the metal hinges squeal. How I try to keep out the day, yet I miss my skies, limitless and freeing.
Poets speak of nights such as these. Old ships in the harbor. Dashing highwaymen come round. The damsel so deeply in distress. A simpler time I could only wish for, no longer dream of. Sebastian robbed me of such a child's fantasy. Birds will die this night, seeking a bevy of worms only to fly among the bolts that seek and sizzle their feathers. An explosion of their life as a child's breaking free the binding of a feather pillow in play.
I had a pet bird once. Singing sweetly. I should have another. But they fear, always crying and thrashing when I grow close. They break their tiny bodies, hearts thudding to an intense stop. Their mournful cries sought by the willow trees I imagine surrounding my home. But this is not the south. Nor is it Queens with its jungle of concert hymns.
In the dark waters beyond, fishermen wait out the storm. I should do the same.
Strangely, I fantasize of my sire in these moments. And Geraldo in his mansion. Why? Perhaps a part of me still lingers in the house of my birth. It is a dream I hope for as I shove closed the windows, dig nails and screws back into the woodwork and plaster. I miss the skies, but now, with the calling of mist and shade, I do not have to.
Closing my eyes, I fall back into the not so comfortable sheets, tendrils of night consuming my vision. Now if only I could sleep.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Ritual: Tome of Obsidian
Deep in her heart, Charlotte is truly an adventurous librarian. Her home is an Italian affair, though many assume it is Victorian, that she has opened the entire back room to the second floor, losing two bedrooms from above to make a two story library. If anyone needed to find her, this is where she would be.
Throughout the library are strange books settled among the usual old tomes. Novels sitting next to occult tomes of witches burned at the stake. Journals of french courtesans next to notes by Agrippa. A worktable sits to the side with a mix of gardening pots and plants, along with tools for crafting books.
Of these are a set of materials soon to become tomes. They will radiate a terrible sense of biting cold. The pages will be dove gray, like roiling clouds ever slowly shifting. Inky black writing of ink gained from the condensed essence of shadow fiends summoned from the abyss spiders these pages.
Usage?
Throughout the library are strange books settled among the usual old tomes. Novels sitting next to occult tomes of witches burned at the stake. Journals of french courtesans next to notes by Agrippa. A worktable sits to the side with a mix of gardening pots and plants, along with tools for crafting books.
Of these are a set of materials soon to become tomes. They will radiate a terrible sense of biting cold. The pages will be dove gray, like roiling clouds ever slowly shifting. Inky black writing of ink gained from the condensed essence of shadow fiends summoned from the abyss spiders these pages.
- Cover:
- Ink: Condensed boiled down shadow fiends, degrades if in direct, pure light
- Stylus: whittled bone
Usage?
Sunday, March 21, 2010
The Shadows that Bind
Ritualism and Obtenebration
Obtenebration is more than mere shadow-play. It is a window to the Abyss itself, that great and terrible unknown that lies at the center of all things. The Abyss gnaws at the heart of the underworld and the doubt in every question never answered. It is present in the absence of light and lurks in every shadow. Ghosts rightly fear its hunger, but they do not understand it. Demons call it Hell, and they only begin to comprehend. No Lasombra knows where it comes from or its purpose or even the purpose of its strange denizens, but the clan's mystics know the Abyss is the ultimate source of their power. So the mystics vainly pry into the dark places in search of secrets ad answers and perhaps more question. For these driven souls, conventional Obtenebration is only the beginning.
~ Vampire: The Dark Ages, High Clans
Rituals were once held in power during the Dark Ages. Mechanics and rituals are available in the Dark Ages books. I will be playing with some ideas around these rituals here.
The Shadow of Hands That Serve (1) - Summon small creatures from the Abyss. Crush and extinguish a candle (take 1 agg). Rotschreck check (dif 4). Maintain control, roll Int + Occult (dif 6). Black blood falls to become tendrils of shadows, opening a gateway to the abyss, oozing in a birth of a shadowed thing. <- Updated version in Sabbat guide.
The Heart That Beats in Silence (2) - Higher version of Shadow of Hands That Serve
Transubstantiation of Essence (2) - Healing increased by cursing own blood with shadow. Devote a full turn to meditating, 1 Willpower and roll Sta + Occult (dif 8). Botch take an agg. Every success, spend one blood to heal two levels of bash/lethal. Side effect, when feeding the Abyss consumes the blood until it has taken twice the number of health levels healed. The taint of the abyss never leaves the body., leaving vitae darkened.
Drinking the Blood of Ahriman (3)
Calling the Hungry Shade (3)
Reflections of Hollow Revelation (4)
Whispers in the Dark (5)
Into the Chasm (6)
Evocation of the Oubliette (7)
Cry That Slays Light (8)
Obtenebration is more than mere shadow-play. It is a window to the Abyss itself, that great and terrible unknown that lies at the center of all things. The Abyss gnaws at the heart of the underworld and the doubt in every question never answered. It is present in the absence of light and lurks in every shadow. Ghosts rightly fear its hunger, but they do not understand it. Demons call it Hell, and they only begin to comprehend. No Lasombra knows where it comes from or its purpose or even the purpose of its strange denizens, but the clan's mystics know the Abyss is the ultimate source of their power. So the mystics vainly pry into the dark places in search of secrets ad answers and perhaps more question. For these driven souls, conventional Obtenebration is only the beginning.~ Vampire: The Dark Ages, High Clans
Rituals were once held in power during the Dark Ages. Mechanics and rituals are available in the Dark Ages books. I will be playing with some ideas around these rituals here.
Dark Ages Rituals
Note: Rituals require a specialization of Occult (Abyss Mysticism).
High Clans book, pg 176
Pierce the Mask (1) - Resolve the mystic's eyes to the primordial darkness even as they forsake light. Shadow Play, gather shadows into a sphere, gaze into it and roll Perc. + Occult (dif 8). Sucess perm gain merit Darksight, botch Darksight as a flaw. Dangerous, permanent damage.Note: Rituals require a specialization of Occult (Abyss Mysticism).
High Clans book, pg 176
The Shadow of Hands That Serve (1) - Summon small creatures from the Abyss. Crush and extinguish a candle (take 1 agg). Rotschreck check (dif 4). Maintain control, roll Int + Occult (dif 6). Black blood falls to become tendrils of shadows, opening a gateway to the abyss, oozing in a birth of a shadowed thing. <- Updated version in Sabbat guide.
The Heart That Beats in Silence (2) - Higher version of Shadow of Hands That Serve
Transubstantiation of Essence (2) - Healing increased by cursing own blood with shadow. Devote a full turn to meditating, 1 Willpower and roll Sta + Occult (dif 8). Botch take an agg. Every success, spend one blood to heal two levels of bash/lethal. Side effect, when feeding the Abyss consumes the blood until it has taken twice the number of health levels healed. The taint of the abyss never leaves the body., leaving vitae darkened.
Drinking the Blood of Ahriman (3)
Calling the Hungry Shade (3)
Reflections of Hollow Revelation (4)
Whispers in the Dark (5)
Into the Chasm (6)
Evocation of the Oubliette (7)
Cry That Slays Light (8)
Horizon anyone?
Where IS Charlotte going?
Will she dive back into politics? Maybe. Currently, I am feeling her out. Sabbat is new, and so is the clan. But I want to take her more into the darker side of ritualism. Perhaps even delve ever deeper into the shadow and her path of the night to learn from others, and pursue a form of religion from it.
While in the home of her sire, she steeped herself in the shadows, wandering into a rather different world of politics. For years, she had learned how to traverse kindred society in the realm of ghouls. Those that walked these paths held a varied reverence. Money and blood became less important as the secret name of a thing, the tome locked in a safe, a parchment written by a madman controlled by something he summoned and fell to.
Sebastian uses reverse psychology, veiled information, not so hidden secrets, and at times domination (discipline) to provide direction to Charlotte. She will walk the paths he will not, to bring him back every scrap of information and experience to gain true power in the Lasombran world. The Sabbat is a playground, but he has his sights much higher. Are those choices his own? He believes so. Much the same way that Charlotte believes in her own. All are puppets on a stage.
What she seeks now?
Charlotte cares not for something altruistic. Knowledge and experience can lead far, but she is young. Her blood is thin. With too visible a move or word, others will learn her true intentions. Even have such desires with so fragile an understanding of disciplines, an elder could crack open her thoughts and rape the motivations from her.
Will this stop her? Oh no. But she does remain cautious and hidden in her own calculated way.
Will she dive back into politics? Maybe. Currently, I am feeling her out. Sabbat is new, and so is the clan. But I want to take her more into the darker side of ritualism. Perhaps even delve ever deeper into the shadow and her path of the night to learn from others, and pursue a form of religion from it.
While in the home of her sire, she steeped herself in the shadows, wandering into a rather different world of politics. For years, she had learned how to traverse kindred society in the realm of ghouls. Those that walked these paths held a varied reverence. Money and blood became less important as the secret name of a thing, the tome locked in a safe, a parchment written by a madman controlled by something he summoned and fell to.
Sebastian uses reverse psychology, veiled information, not so hidden secrets, and at times domination (discipline) to provide direction to Charlotte. She will walk the paths he will not, to bring him back every scrap of information and experience to gain true power in the Lasombran world. The Sabbat is a playground, but he has his sights much higher. Are those choices his own? He believes so. Much the same way that Charlotte believes in her own. All are puppets on a stage.
What she seeks now?
Charlotte cares not for something altruistic. Knowledge and experience can lead far, but she is young. Her blood is thin. With too visible a move or word, others will learn her true intentions. Even have such desires with so fragile an understanding of disciplines, an elder could crack open her thoughts and rape the motivations from her.
Will this stop her? Oh no. But she does remain cautious and hidden in her own calculated way.
- Master of Shadows - Obtenebration high as it will go
- Master of Rituals - Create rituals for Obtenebration, or regain ones from the Dark Ages
- Shadow Servant - Create and keep a servant made of shade
- Seek a Mentor - Perhaps begin a covenant of Obtenebrasts, work with Geraldo perhaps
- Tomes - Create tomes that connect or whisper from the shadows/abyss
- Library - Continue building her library
- Noddists - Perhaps dip further into noddist belief?
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