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?
Saturday, March 20, 2010
The Sire
Sebastian Castagna
His blood is certainly not as refined as others, but being born in the Industrial Revolution in New York gave him an upper hand when bound by blood to the Lasombra. His embrace was far quicker than most, a truly rising star of mob cruelty and family rule.
Over the ages, he had many childer, no real ghouls. Like most Lasombra, he hated em. Raids against Camarilla and mortals alike, as well as their general need to carve some of the pie for themselves left him with quite a few dead and passed ghouls. Those were the worst kind. And so, he sought to replenish the stocks. Perhaps he was going about things all wrong. Brawn and brains were difficult to cultivate together, especially with the constant rise of world wars taking the best and brightest from his grasp.
So it was he considered the other sex. And why not? In death, was there really a difference between a dame and a gent? Here he found Charlotte, her uncanny sense of the dead, her training in linguistics, and a possible candidate for something he was loathe to do himself. Become a master of obtenebration.
His intent for this child was simple: use her to learn more of the shadows, destroy his rivals with the knowledge gained, and use her as bait to gain some status with elders.
Thankfully, he was as shallow as living men when it came to the fairer sex...
Charlotte: A Keen Beginning
Who is Charlotte? She is a new character of mine in a Sabbat game. A Lasombra ghoul on the verge of being destroyed by one frigid wench of a potential sire, stolen by a true sire hoping to use her to learn more of Obtenebration without damning himself.
She is Italian-French, born in Queens early in the 20th century. Talented in crafting books and parchment, some needlepoint and tailoring. Gifted with languages. A keen mind at finance. And thoroughly despises anything social beyond what must be done.
This blog will follow her journey, perhaps other characters too.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Fingers tapped ever so softly against the worn upholstery of a wing back chair. The nails were meticulously painted, scarlet hues with a touch of fuchsia in the their depths. The pale skin seemed ever more so as they rapped in time with a haunting melody thrumming through the air. Languidly did Charlotte settle, awaiting her meal. The perfect moment when thrashings became slowed, as water eddied from a retreating tide.
An ancient yet well tended turntable spun a reel from another age. The voice curled about her ears, tempting as the shadows that gathered and moved upon the floor before the chair.
~Heavenly shades of night are falling, It's twilight time...
Out of the mist your voice is calling, It's twilight time...~
A hand broke free, reaching so frantically for something, anything to grasp. Shadows coiled above the hand, as if contemplating the way the fingers bent and twisted in angles. Charlotte merely smiled thinking how strange it should wait.
~When purple colored curtains, Mark the end of the day
I hear you my dear at twilight time~
Mumbled cries tried with extreme effort to escape the smothering dark. It moved as a body under silken sheets, although these shadows were far from simple darkness cast from the lee of some tall structure. They lived, moved, glided as a lover.
"Hush now, I like this part." And so did the shadows fall upon the arm, dragging back within its folds. The chalked pentagram was far from perfect from the tumbling of limbs and hungry tentacles.
~Deepening shadows gather splendor, As day is done
Fingers of night will soon surrender, The setting sun
I count the moments darling, Till you're here with me
Together at last at twilight time~
Violins rose and fell, that velvet voice crooning in time to the girl's slow death. Twisting ever tighter, pulling in a most excruciating knot, did the shadowed thing she summoned take a final embrace of its dancing partner. Oh how the bones shattered, muscles tore, until the woman within became nothing more than marrow and pulp.
~Here in the after-glow of day, We keep our rendez-vous beneath the blue
Here in the sweet and same old way, I fall in love again as I did then~
Raising lazily a flute of fast cooling blood, Charlotte toasted the mass before her simple altar. A chair, her shoes, and those observing eyes of hers. "Ah cheers to you my friend."
~Deep in the dark your kiss will thrill me, Like days of old
Lighting the spark of love that fills me, With dreams untold
Each day I pray for evening just
To be with you~
Yet the shadows seemed to express a likewise interest, rising from their consumed prey. Slinking in a curling that left pieces of cleaned jutting bone in its wake. With a raised brow, she noted this, far different than other evenings.
Settling forward on the edge of her chair, did the kindred regard the creature. A true creation this time, not simply tendrils at her beck and call. Turning her head, so did it seem to turn. Whispering and cooing the ending of the song in time with the record, in devilish harmony to her.
"Together at last at twilight time."
Smiling wide, she rested her manicured fingers upon and within her creation, feeling the abyssal life within it. Success thrilled along her spine as it seemed to embrace and seek to capture that hand of hers, coiling ever stronger.
"Finally. And he said it could not be done. Dear sire, you will never doubt me again."
A slight twinge of pain registered in her eyes as the creation began to suckle and pull at a small wound inflicted upon her hand. Thinnest tendrils of blackness sought to join with her veins, inking her skin in a spidery tattoo from within.
Snarling her lip, she gauged how far to allow this development to roam. Was there something more to the shadow? Could every text she read had some small grain of truth within them? Finishing the flute of blood, she set it aside to slip and slither from her chair. The simply dress she wore gave little opportunity for movement, tight in its 40s flair about her knees if not her hips. And yes, the shadows did indeed seems willing to catch her, writhe and coax her to settle among them. Ever slowly they mummified her.
The record finished its turning, pin rising and moving to another tune of the past, as the Lasombra succumbed to her shadow, seeking the tantalizing whisper within them.
~ @ ~
Slithering tendrils pulled away as petals of a flower opening to the sun. Sections of silk and cotton revealed. What pale flesh could be seen ribboned with shadows, every vein infested with the creation of Charlotte's conjuring. Eyes flickering open seemed as pools of night, as if ink was poured into the sockets.
For long moments, she did not move. Only floated in the whispering existence of that shadowed plane that held her. What secrets curled about her mind held an opiate's touch.
"My dear Sebastian, some eve you must taste this." Her fingers jerked to life, clawing her from the cocoon of her sleeping. The movements were jerky, strange, bringing her on a journey across the room, into the library, and before a set of parchment.
With absolute care, she sought to control her fingers, hold them laced before her. It would not rule her mind, nor her flesh. To allow such was to become not only party to infernalist control, but to accept a defeat for eternity. Nodding as her eyes tilted and watched, thin tendrils of night slithered from the depths of her sleeves to pick up a fountain pen and carefully write a letter.
The control would improve. All in good time.
Journals updated, letters composed, she rose to continue into the night. The covens would be meeting. The eve was auspicious for such things with bright stars and no moon. Perfection for her desires. She would not only join them as a sister, but quietly offer something tantalizing to those that wished to learn more. To bend and drink from her goblet. To welcome the horrors of a shadow's ghouling.
She is Italian-French, born in Queens early in the 20th century. Talented in crafting books and parchment, some needlepoint and tailoring. Gifted with languages. A keen mind at finance. And thoroughly despises anything social beyond what must be done.
This blog will follow her journey, perhaps other characters too.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Fingers tapped ever so softly against the worn upholstery of a wing back chair. The nails were meticulously painted, scarlet hues with a touch of fuchsia in the their depths. The pale skin seemed ever more so as they rapped in time with a haunting melody thrumming through the air. Languidly did Charlotte settle, awaiting her meal. The perfect moment when thrashings became slowed, as water eddied from a retreating tide.
An ancient yet well tended turntable spun a reel from another age. The voice curled about her ears, tempting as the shadows that gathered and moved upon the floor before the chair.
~Heavenly shades of night are falling, It's twilight time...
Out of the mist your voice is calling, It's twilight time...~
A hand broke free, reaching so frantically for something, anything to grasp. Shadows coiled above the hand, as if contemplating the way the fingers bent and twisted in angles. Charlotte merely smiled thinking how strange it should wait.
~When purple colored curtains, Mark the end of the day
I hear you my dear at twilight time~
Mumbled cries tried with extreme effort to escape the smothering dark. It moved as a body under silken sheets, although these shadows were far from simple darkness cast from the lee of some tall structure. They lived, moved, glided as a lover.
"Hush now, I like this part." And so did the shadows fall upon the arm, dragging back within its folds. The chalked pentagram was far from perfect from the tumbling of limbs and hungry tentacles.
~Deepening shadows gather splendor, As day is done
Fingers of night will soon surrender, The setting sun
I count the moments darling, Till you're here with me
Together at last at twilight time~
Violins rose and fell, that velvet voice crooning in time to the girl's slow death. Twisting ever tighter, pulling in a most excruciating knot, did the shadowed thing she summoned take a final embrace of its dancing partner. Oh how the bones shattered, muscles tore, until the woman within became nothing more than marrow and pulp.
~Here in the after-glow of day, We keep our rendez-vous beneath the blue
Here in the sweet and same old way, I fall in love again as I did then~
Raising lazily a flute of fast cooling blood, Charlotte toasted the mass before her simple altar. A chair, her shoes, and those observing eyes of hers. "Ah cheers to you my friend."
~Deep in the dark your kiss will thrill me, Like days of old
Lighting the spark of love that fills me, With dreams untold
Each day I pray for evening just
To be with you~
Yet the shadows seemed to express a likewise interest, rising from their consumed prey. Slinking in a curling that left pieces of cleaned jutting bone in its wake. With a raised brow, she noted this, far different than other evenings.
Settling forward on the edge of her chair, did the kindred regard the creature. A true creation this time, not simply tendrils at her beck and call. Turning her head, so did it seem to turn. Whispering and cooing the ending of the song in time with the record, in devilish harmony to her.
"Together at last at twilight time."
Smiling wide, she rested her manicured fingers upon and within her creation, feeling the abyssal life within it. Success thrilled along her spine as it seemed to embrace and seek to capture that hand of hers, coiling ever stronger.
"Finally. And he said it could not be done. Dear sire, you will never doubt me again."
A slight twinge of pain registered in her eyes as the creation began to suckle and pull at a small wound inflicted upon her hand. Thinnest tendrils of blackness sought to join with her veins, inking her skin in a spidery tattoo from within.
Snarling her lip, she gauged how far to allow this development to roam. Was there something more to the shadow? Could every text she read had some small grain of truth within them? Finishing the flute of blood, she set it aside to slip and slither from her chair. The simply dress she wore gave little opportunity for movement, tight in its 40s flair about her knees if not her hips. And yes, the shadows did indeed seems willing to catch her, writhe and coax her to settle among them. Ever slowly they mummified her.
The record finished its turning, pin rising and moving to another tune of the past, as the Lasombra succumbed to her shadow, seeking the tantalizing whisper within them.
~ @ ~
Slithering tendrils pulled away as petals of a flower opening to the sun. Sections of silk and cotton revealed. What pale flesh could be seen ribboned with shadows, every vein infested with the creation of Charlotte's conjuring. Eyes flickering open seemed as pools of night, as if ink was poured into the sockets.
For long moments, she did not move. Only floated in the whispering existence of that shadowed plane that held her. What secrets curled about her mind held an opiate's touch.
"My dear Sebastian, some eve you must taste this." Her fingers jerked to life, clawing her from the cocoon of her sleeping. The movements were jerky, strange, bringing her on a journey across the room, into the library, and before a set of parchment.
With absolute care, she sought to control her fingers, hold them laced before her. It would not rule her mind, nor her flesh. To allow such was to become not only party to infernalist control, but to accept a defeat for eternity. Nodding as her eyes tilted and watched, thin tendrils of night slithered from the depths of her sleeves to pick up a fountain pen and carefully write a letter.
The control would improve. All in good time.
Journals updated, letters composed, she rose to continue into the night. The covens would be meeting. The eve was auspicious for such things with bright stars and no moon. Perfection for her desires. She would not only join them as a sister, but quietly offer something tantalizing to those that wished to learn more. To bend and drink from her goblet. To welcome the horrors of a shadow's ghouling.
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