VtM:B - a story. Hello, darkness; my old friend.

There is a lot going on these nights. Bits and pieces disappear, reappear and vanish forevermore. Others surface, lingering. The worst parts are those not leaving the shadows.

I drop off Kira at the High Saturday. This would be the last time we saw one another while under these circumstances. I hold her hand the entire way over. At the door, we stop. Before knocking, we look at one another. Then we embrace, as good friends parting for a time. We kiss, as lovers long past. There is a portion of me that does not want to let her go. I crush it without mercy - not only would that breaking the deal, but also act possessive. I refuse to act possessive.

Kira brushes the side of my face, smiling sadly at me. I nod with regret. Together, we knock on the door. It opens. We go inside.

Later, only I emerge. If I could, I would be crying. However, Kindred can only weep blood, and that would danger the Masquerade while in public. From this moment, Kira is no longer my ghoul. She's come into her own. Her voice, speaking my chosen name, whispering. It makes me want to spin around, kick the door open and run to her. I don't. Slowly, very slowly, I walk home. Liana was waiting. Losses are not traded, and special people keep special places in your heart - they cannot be occupied by others.

Pälvi is not there. I have brought my Childe to another apartment. You'd be surprised how many of them I own. Liana sits up, seemingly in relief that I'm back. I hold out my hands, smiling at her, beckoning her over. She comes, loyal and with grace. I do not need to tell her how I feel, as I am certain that she can see it on my face.

A knock on my door interrupts the moment. Mildly miffed, I go to answer, motioning for my Childe to keep out of sight. It is a young man, haggard and with torn clothes. Two short and curved swords are strapped to his back. Without an invitation, he walks in, shielding his eyes. I react by instinct, drawing on my Celerity and grabs him by the scruff of his neck. His skin is cold. With a shiver, the young man looks up at me. There is something in his eyes. Those big, pretty eyes...

Without really knowing why, I close the door - as much by routine as much as not wanting to cause a scene spilling out into the hallway - still holding the young man in a tight grip. He doesn't resist, but throws his gaze to the floor. I cast a glance at Liana, and pride swells within me as I see her baring her fangs, her face a grimace of gruesomeness, hands held in feral claws. My dear Childe, your instincts serve you well. I shake my head so she can see it. Clearly far from eased, she drops the attacking position, merely withdrawing to a guarded state of observation, trusting my judgement. Good. For a brief moment, I remind myself that I must go over the Traditions again.

I lead the young man to the couch, placing him in the middle. I myself sit down in the chair opposite him, giving a few subtle hand signals to Liana, letting her take her place by my left side, but standing, watching, glaring at the young man.

- Who are you, and what are you doing here?

- I'm Kristof. I was told to come.

- Told? By whom?

- The voices said I had to.

Oh. No. No, no, no. This changes what I had assumed would be a light interrogation completely. I can but sense the puzzlement coming from my still displeased Childe, carefully holding herself back from hurling herself at him, letting her inner Beast run free. Not tonight, though. Tonight, carefulness takes president.

- You're a Malkavian.

- Yes. Yes.

The young man - Kristof - twitches, rubbing his hands together nervously. Half of me enjoys watching him squirm, the other is running all the worst case scenarios I can think of at present.

- Where are you from?

- Turkey. 

I lean forward, slightly. If he interprets it as menacing or reassuringly, I cannot tell - but I know that he knows my intent in his mind. Damned Malkavians.

- You're a far way from home, Kristof.

- Home's across the sea.

And there's that dialect placed. Proper English, proper British, proper wherever he originally was from.

- Norfolk, Attleborough. Cannot go back. Can't cross the canal. Came here. Had to. The voices told me to. Nice voices. Helps me. Helps you.

By this point, I can tell without looking that Liana is greatly disturbed. I turn and smile at her, if nothing else to give the illusion of safety.

- You're not helping, Ma...

I snap back at him and jump over with Celerity speed, once more grabbing him by his throat, lifting the young man up, fangs bared, my full Presence activated. He goes limp in my grip. I leer angrily and hiss at him.

- You don't get to mention that name, even if you now know it. I'm Ravna, and Ravna only until I tell you otherwise. One more mistake like that, and I'm tempted to leave you with the Sheriff as a trespasser on my domain. Do I make myself clear?

At the back of my mind, I regret having to do this in front of Liana. Unfortunately, my reaction seems to trigger her own savagery, as I find a secondary set of hands at the young mans neck, holding him aloof alongside me. My fear vanishes and turns to pride - a reaction caused for the second time tonight by her. Good girl.

- Do I make myself clear?

This time, I speak in a softer voice, lower, dripping violence and superiority. The young man hasty nods his head in a rapid, jerking motion. I look over to Liana, and nods, slower and with more dominance in it. We lower him back down to the ground. Kristof doesn't sit.

- Sit down.

Now he does. An idea forms in my mind.

- Yes.

Damned Malkavians.

- Yes.

Get out of my head.

- I can't. So sorry.

At least don't pick up something important by random.

- You'll see Jürgen again. I'm sure he misses you, too.

I sigh, and head over to the kitchen area, opening the fridge and bring back three bloodpacks with me.

- You must be hungry. My Childe, I'll teach you how to suck the blood without spilling it, along with this stray.

They both appear perplexed.

- Now, the first tear must be carefully done, and it's better to make it small first....

We pass the evening, talking. Liana goes through the emotions: confused, scared, terrified, shaken, infuriated and grudgingly accepting. Myself, I swing between fear and practical matters. Where will he stay? How can I keep two at the same time? Will either of them be at use in Scotland? Questions are asked and answered. Three years this Caitiff traveled across Eastern Europe, being drawn by something he could not explain. The swords - or scimitars, as he calls them - are from a dig site in Turkey, where he, alongside his scholar mother, were on an expedition to uncover something of historical importance. Something rose from that grave. Something they should not have disturbed. Something that he cannot describe or name without shaking. Pity. I don't press the matter tonight.

VtM:B - a story. The Embrace.

We meet at a local hotel – not hers, but selected with purpose on my behalf, unknown to her, of course – in the foyer. It is late, but not too late – and I have already eaten. My cheeks are blushing from the pulsing blood (not my own) as I spot her, having arrived earlier than the set time. Fluttering with emotion, I stride purposefully towards her. She spots me and stands up.

- So, Miss Dumornais, we meet again.

- Thank you, Miss…

I intercept her.

- Please, call me Ravna.

Not my birth name, nor my chosen name, but the name I inherited after death. I’m interested in her reaction. She seems puzzled, but not visibly alarmed or distressed. We shake hands, and sit down, one directly in front of one another.

- I take it you’re not really her, then? Cosplaying? Something like that?

I simply smile. The living, masquerading as a dead author. Oh, how delicious irony can be.

- Something as such, yes.

- Oh.

Oh, indeed. But I don’t tell her that. Instead, ask her about the health of her family, if she is enjoying her stay in Denmark, if the language barrier is hampering when translating one’s work over to English in order to publish it both national and global at the same time (a feat I myself picked up upon when I was sitting where she is now sitting, wearing those elegant shoes and lightly ripped jeans). The conversation seems to be flowing, but I can tell she’s holding back. I don’t quite want to have to rely on Presence as much as I could, so it will have to do without for a little while.

I suggest we take a walk, after insisting on paying for her tea. A comment about how a Frenchwoman shouldn’t indulge in coffee this late, I smile reassuringly and hint that coffee no longer is on my menu, either. This pleases her.

We take a stroll along the dimly lit streets, heading in the general direction of my domain. The conversation travels across topics such as theology, mysticism, the current state of the world, trust and friendship, the loneliness of the craft (writing), the ability to be part of higher society – I notice how this intrigues her slightly – and the fondness of a beautiful city.

The moon raises electric. Somehow, I can feel it above us, hidden behind the city lights. I think of how light pollution causes sea creatures to move towards larger cities as if having the natural instincts in disarray, drawn to the unknown by a purely animal sense. A beautiful, yet tragic fate, much akin to me and my kind.

I ask her if she would like to live forever. Again the puzzlement returns to her face. We stop. The street is empty but for us. I ask her again. The reply is hesitant, as if she’s fumbling through in the dark. Which, to be fair, she is. I take her hand, look into her eyes, but keep myself in check and behave politely, as to not scare her. I ask her what she would sacrifice, in order to be by my side, to live as I live, to be as I am. Almost without thinking, I draw on my Presence. It only occurs to me when I see her widening eyes and slightly gaping mouth. Sighing, silently cursing myself, I lean close and whisper into her ear, five little words.

- I can teach you how.

While still within my grasp, I slip a note in her pocket. On it is a time and place – two nights from now, evening, Solbjerg Graveyard, entrance at the North. It also states that she is to come alone.

With all the restraint I can muster, I leave her with a cab that will take her back to her hotel. Now I have preparations to make.

The following night passes uneventful. There are some reports of unrest along the lower ranks, but I pay it no mind. Pälvi comments on my absentmindedness before handling what must be done.

Then the second night comes, and I watch from the shadows. Kira hangs back from across the street, but with a good vantage point. If she’s against this or not, I cannot tell – nor did I ask. Soon, she’ll be a vampire herself, but not of my making. Alexandra, the Tremere Blood Magician, had expressed wishes to tighten the bonds between our clans. I suspect that my quickly elevated status had much to do with the offering, but I had discussed it at length with Kira in private and arrived to a common understanding. While both were saddened to no longer be living together, our connection would not be broken off so easily. Suddenly, the thought of this being one of our last nights out alone sting my mind. However, having a loyal and proven Tremere on my personal strike team seems like a fitting exchange.

Time passes. Part of me hopes that she will not show up. That would, of course, trigger the necessary elements I hoped to avoid, events I had put in motion myself. No regrets. Mortal coil is not for the undead. Suffering is not everlasting, nor the fleeting feeling of euphoria.

At what seems as an eternity, she arrives. I can sense her, smell her, and taste her. I know not if this is a product of Auspex or my imagination. Something to test out later, for certain.

Once more I approach her from a position of power. Liana Dumornais, author, reader, intellectual and companion to be. She sees me, waves and stride to meet me halfway. From behind, Kira sneaks closer, unseen, unknown, and under the cover of my Presence. Liana does not see the syringe until it is far too late and Kira has emptied half of it into her neck. She stops, surprised. A hand goes to her throat. The look she gives me is fearful and trusting at the same time. I scoop her up before she falls, unconscious and limp. Kira helps me. Together, we swaddle and swing, playing once more the part of the drunkards heading home from a party with too many drinks.

Home, I place her on the couch. I tell Kira to stay in the kitchen and have something to eat, or order takeout, if that would be more to her liking. Informing her that this would be one of the last mortal meals she can have, I offer no limits in price range. With a curtsy (Oh, how I’m going to miss her doing that!) she leaves me alone with the mortal.

The toxin wears off quickly. Liana groans and awakes, slowly. I sit opposite her, regally, legs lightly crossed, hands on the edges of the arm rests. I let her wake. If there is fear in her eyes, I see past it.

- I would like, if I may, to offer you a choice of some importance. A strange journey, if you’d agree to my terms.

My words cut into the core of her. The serenity and seriousness of dramatic importance is not lost upon her. Good.

- You can leave here, unharmed, untouched, and wake up in your bed, thinking this was simply a mistake. Or, you can stay, and become more than you’d ever imagined.

I pause for dramatic effect.

- There are conditions, of course, and rules that must be obeyed. Sadly, I cannot reveal everything to you until you have made your choice. For you see, I too, must abide by traditions and regulations. Law is what keeps us alive and keeps the chaos at bay.

Another dramatic pause.

- What I can tell you is that I would like for you to stay. I will not force you to, or stop you if you’d prefer to leave. The choice is yours and yours alone.

I lean forward and look at her. She does not recoil, but doesn’t lean forward either. I take this as a good sign.

- Stay with me. Please.

I notably withhold any form of Presence. This is her choice and hers alone. I will not taint or muddy it, even if I silently scream on the inside.

Moments pass.

- Yes.

I can barely keep my composure together. I hope she does not notice. I rise, walk around the small table that separates us, and sit down next to her. Gently, I slide a hand up her arm, letting it rest on her shoulder for a brief moment.

- This is your last chance. After this, there is no going back.

Liana nods.

I bare my fangs as my hand grips her neck, but gently, push her head to one side, brushing her hair away with my other hand. I would want this moment to be of significance, but I cannot resist much longer – the Beast is howling and clawing and biting and struggling stronger under the surface than I have felt in ages. I feed. What Liana experience is washed away, all but for a mild concern in the back of my mind. Then, as she approaches the threshold of death, I rip open a small vein, putting my wrist to her lips. Droplets fall into her mouth. Then, all too soon, a sucking notion can be felt, weak at first, then stronger and stronger. As the blood leaves me, her hands rise to grasp me, hold my wrist to her lips, instinctual and with force. Knowing not just how much blood is required, I allow her to drain a good portion from me, but as dizziness starts to curve the corners of the room into roundness I withdraw from her. She sinks back into my lap, and I stroke her hair, observing. Having never seen an Embrace this close before, I try to memorize some of the effects my mind to write down later, but I’m afraid that most of it would be far from scientific in nature. A stray thought occurs, and I consider being present for another Embrace, but impartial to the act, and merely the observer. However, the intimate nature of the event would require a vampire I trust implicitly, as well as a consenting mortal. A girl can hope, though.

Once more, the seemingly lifeless body stirs. Liana opens her eyes. I continue to stroke her hair as I smile down at her.

- Welcome to the real world.

A D&D party made entirely for my own amusement.

The room was dimly lit. Nine figures stood surrounding what can only be described as an altar of sorts. Red, dripping, and shaped like a grotesque claw sprung from the very ground. It was oozing menace.

The first one, a female Tiefling, barely out of her teens, seemed nervous. Her name, known to all, was Naphi. The fresh recruit, just off the streets, picked up and brought in solemnly for her devilish bloodline. In this group, she was assigned the bottom rank. A ragged look haunted her clothing. Daggers, lots of them, hung in her belt, and one would suspect that she had others hidden away on her body, too.

The second one, a large red female Dragonborn, wearing no form of armor or weaponry, just plain clothes, worn from travel, stood tall and at ease, familiar with the ceremony. A relaxed demeanor, as a predator awaiting the prey, skillful without boasting, marked her prim physical form. Her name was Kocoria Kaldar, and she was not from these lands, but a valued member of the group, and trusted, none the less.

The third, a being of what could almost be described as living fire, was wearing chain mail and multiple weapons - metal only - visibly. He was a male Fire Genasi with the name Scoria, and his form made it difficult to look at him for too long. The sly grin told the others that he was aware - and enjoyed - this fact greatly.

The fourth, a Human female, clad in religious vestments with infernal runes written upon it, stood rank and at attention, eagerness and expectations shining through her eyes. A familiar, a small, orange imp, perched on one of her shoulders, glaring gleefully at those present with yellow, hateful eyes. The woman seemed utterly undisturbed by this. Her name, Talzurlien Truthgust, was no laughing matter.

The fifth, a Goliath clad in full plate mail with a large, sinister looking greataxe complimented with bloodstains at his back, had a peculiar glint in his eyes. His name was Vagal Inulaga, but known only as "Masterfrighter" to the others - all except one. The man reeked of an obvious want for gold and gems - preferably rubies - left unsatisfied.

The sixth, a clean shaven male Hill Dwarf, wearing armor of red scales and with a warhammer at his side, was Thomand. A number of strange and colorful tattoos marked his dark tanned and sun kissed skin - what was shown, for his face was hidden beneath a feathered tribal mask. His bulging muscles were shivering with intensity.

The seventh, a female Tabaxi, also had a familiar, but not on her shoulder. Hidden beneath her expensive clothing was a spider that was not really a spider, staying still as only a spider can be. The tail, lazily swinging back and forth, did not hamper the elegant outfit. Known to most of the group as Hidden Treasure, only two knew her true name: Cloaking Dagger. Unsurprisingly, she wore a dagger, but surprisingly, it was not cloaked. Her spellbook, however, was just as well hidden as her familiar. A small crystal, glowing with a dull blood red hue, can be seen hanging around her neck in a thin golden necklace.

The eight, a male Rock Gnome, obviously the smallest of the group, had a redwood lute swung across his back. His frown of disdain and disappointment was aimed at the Tiefling. His clothing, sturdy and without tear, was still nothing out of the ordinary. His cold, piercing eyes of pale hellfire only complimented his hard mouth. His name was Corlin, and he was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted - when he wanted it.

The ninth, a female Half-Elf, had her intelligent eyes sweeping across the other eight, looking at each and every one, hands held out to the side and slightly upwards, as if the master of the ceremony. Dressed in common clothes, nothing marked her as the undisputed leader of the group. But she was. Her name, Pristine, was given to her by hopeful parents that had not survived in order to fully learn of the fall of their daughter. Authority and magic were seeting from her. She, and she alone, knew all their secrets. Bound by bonds and wrought by dark deeds, their united prisms cast the true color of the realms below.

Just as Asmodeus sat on the throne in the Ninth Hell, so too did Pristine control this infernal cult. And their patron, in more ways than one, was the Archduke Mammon. Nine senior members in a strict hierarchy above the secret cult. Now, the summoning was about to begin...