One of celebrating the International Women’s Day.

So, the most curious thing happened to me while at work today – I was invited to join by an all-girls group of friends doing what I only can assume where in town for leisure and pleasure. Now, how is this magnificent, you might ask – and you’d be right to do, so, too! However, this was the first time such an offer was given to me in this setting, and I’d like to go on a little bit more over it.

Sparking two conflicting emotions within me, I was forced to choose between my formal professionalism as an employee, and as a woman asked to join friendly enjoyment in general.

I cannot tell if the invitation was a polite courtesy, a way of saying thanks for the aid I already had provided them during their stay, or a sincere offer of potential friendship.

In the end, I chose the former approach and told them that, unfortunately, I had plans for the evening. This was both because it would be the most correct way of approach (to me, at least, I know of others that would jump on the “yes, please” option without as much as a thought), and because I’ve got D&D scheduled to start one hour after I end my shift. I cannot help but wonder if their offer still stands tomorrow, as they’re staying for the weekend.

Totally Sex and the City girl gang vibe from them, too.

Not until steam hits the fan.

I lead a company of Imperial soldiers into the position. Awaiting orders, I tell the men to hunker down and get some rest. One of them, wounded, falls over. Seeing as nobody have any medication to offer him, I let his own take care of him, keeping my scorn silent.

A fellow Astarte approach me, a long-range sniper rifle at his back. The dull grey armor, the weapon of choice, as well as the stalker demeanor marks him instantly in my mind as a Moritat. I’m unfamiliar with his rank, but not the Jovian rune on his shoulder, nor its meaning. Fear, if one could allow oneself to feel such an emotion, creeps up on me. He introduces himself as Sergeant Koskinen, Raven Guard, Silent Shadow Chapter, second battalion, third company, tactical squad. I reply in turn; Centurion Olson of the Emperor’s Children, Gilded Wings Millennial, first battalion, seventh company, assault squad, Righteous Blades member. I am uncertain if this puts me above him in rank or not. Deciding not to make an issue out of it, I follow him. He leads me to four other Astartes, none being a member of either of our own two legion battle-brothers.

Epistolary Nowak – a Librarian – of the Dusk Raiders, Black Saber Cats Chapter, first battalion, second company. No squad mentioned. His blue armor has some extensive scars as well as the Raptor Imperialis painted on his left knee. A true veteran, clearly for all to see. He carries a large tome, bound in black leather, and an axe at his side.

Lieutenant Dubois, Seeker Chapter, first battalion, fifth company, tactical squad. The lack of legion, along with the mysterious sigil on his shoulder can mean only one thing: the dreaded Ghost Legion. Bolter gun, grenades, all standard issue. Somehow, he makes conventional weaponry seem more threatening that it should be. My gut sink as I start to realize why I’m here.

Smith, Corporal of the Iron Hands, Krask Clan, second battalion, ninth company, support squad. He carries an impressive Hellgun, and a bolt pistol. The latter appears to be slightly different from my own, and have probably undergone some testing I don’t have the clearance to know about. Neither do I know of his Clan.

They all wear the Mk. II battle armor, some of them scarred, others not. However, only I carry the golden emblem – not to mention, the regal color purple – of the Emperor on my chest.

A captain of the Luna Wolves is also present. Their Primarch, Horus Lupercal, first of the Emperor’s Sons to return, is a stout ally of my own Legion. Nevertheless, I don’t know this man.

Uncertain, I offer them all the Sign of the Aquila.

The Captain, Ultimate Badass Chapter, third battalion, first company, is Vasquez, and he wears a heavy flamer. He tells us that he has a mission, and that we’re currently the only Astartes available to him outside his own Chapter. A sense of pride spreads around my hearts, despite the burning of uncertainty of the others around me. After this basic information, Captain Vasquez exits the room as he wishes us good hunting, and reminds us to stay frosty. Then Lieutenant Dubois steps forward.

- I don’t care what you know or suspect of me. This is my mission, and you’re all expendable. However, if we work together, we can all come back alive.

The task is to rescue a scientist, as well as assassinate a local war leader called Commander Dorn. The scientist, an Agatha Heterodyne, is the main priority, rescued from her current restrictive conditions. Extermination should be the very, very last option taken. Lieutenant Dubois is exceptionally clear on this point. I’m assigned to protect the female human spark of genius. This has me thinking back to the days of my initiation, and the Challenge Trial of Speed. Besting my battle-brother yet to become, I alone now hold a glowing hope within my Chapter. With a silent motion, at touch the hilt of my sword, I reminisce for but a moment. I shall make it so, and tell them with determination in my tone.

Dubois seems pleased, and then carries on refusing us to abide by rank, instead consider us all equal squad mates. Unheard of, I silently rage against this lack of hierarchy, but as my superior, it is his right. Another one of his legion underhanded tactics, I’m certain.

Nowak, forbidden to add this mission in his chronicles, is to be second in command should the need of a command structure to take place during the mission. I can only imagine this infuriates him as much as I already fume within my power armor.

Smith becomes our designated driver – for a small, unmarked civilian craft, suited for stealth and speed only, if even that. This too should be a source of resentment and anger, if I know anything about the Iron Hands. With barely contained sarcasm, Smith asks Dubois if allowed to carry his main weapon, the Hellgun. Surprisingly, Dubois replies that we’ll need all the firepower we can get our hands on. Taking the remark personally, I hold my tongue.

Only Koskinen could potentially be content with this setup. Of course, working within a team goes against the very foundation of a Moritat, so his displeasure for the mission may have preceded all of the rest of us. If he breaks away, I’ll not be the one stopping him.

Dubois ask us if we’re all ready, or need to resupply before heading out. I tap my Palatine Aquila – the very symbol of our Emperor – twice. The dull sound my armored fist makes upon my power armor resonates within me with pride, and potential fear of the others. Nowak closes his black book, locks it and steps out to trust it to Captain Vasquez along with instructions to return it to the Black Saber Cats if he doesn’t return. Smith merely shoulders his Hellgun, as Koskinen utters a single word: “Ready.”

The plan is simple. We’re to head into enemy territory, where I’ll disembark, portraying a single Astarte come to talk with the warlord and offer her the peace of our Emperor. A ruse, as the others would exit unseen and secure the landing place for my swift return – as I am to ask for an inspection of the facilities. My job is to keep the warlord busy until I have eyes on our objective, and then await until a suitable time to either behead the warlord, or hurry the scientist back to our shared civilian craft. I fully expect to die during this mission, and regret that I cannot share any last transmissions.

Our transport is an ugly piece of machinery, outdated by all Imperial standards. If he was not wearing a helmet, I expect Smith to spit in disgust and repulsiveness. Dubois embarks with ease, Koskinen shortly behind him. Sighing silently, I too climb into the machine that will bring me closer to my doom, letting Nowak take his place beside me, having Smith muttering over the shared channel, offering all sorts of Terran curses – some of which I’m unfamiliar with, and grimly offer to repeat if given a chance

.

The flight is long and tedious. As we approach our destination, Koskinen, having stayed silent and strapped in, untangles himself with professionalism and purpose, heading for the door. Placing a hand on my sword, I ask him, loudly, where he’s going. Koskinen merely swings his visor in my direction, making sure I can hear his voice over the engine.

- I move faster on my own.

And with that, he is gone, dropped from the open door. I am quick to slam it shut once more, teeth gritting again. Nowak looks at me, keeping his remarks for himself. I activate our shared channel.

- Dubois, Koskinen just jumped ship.

- All part of the plan, Olson. Worry about your part.

Unsure if I’m to cry or laugh at this, I return to my seat, hearing sniggers across the broadband.

We land, but not without effort, as Smith is telling me what to do over the line continuously, as I am the only one within the cockpit. Another Ghost Legion tactic, I presume. Upon lading, I sigh, unstrap and head to the exit. There, I do my part and emerge in my entire splendor. A gold and purple power armor suit, wearing the mark of our Emperor for all to see. A Terran forged blade, one that I master. The proudness of the moment, of what I am I do not even attempt to hide. Everything speaks to the secret becoming of an ambassador of the Emperor, traveled far without detection.

Commander Dorn is there to greet met me in person. I can’t tell where the woman ends and where the cybernetics start. Tall, sneering, and eager for violence. Not the outright violence, but the sinister one, spent over time, in person, prolonging any release in death. Humanity is better off without her.

We tour the facility. Commander Dorn speaks of grand plans, hinting at potential positions of power for her work, clearly proud of what she’s accomplished. Part of my pity her, as she’s come so far, but fallen equally far away from the Imperial Truth.

The scientists – all locked inside several labs – or more accurately, a single, vast lab-complex, wear collars. Whether it’s the explosion or shocking or the more insidious kind, I can’t tell.

- I have eyes on the objective.

- Standby.

As we’re about to leave, the lab door shuts down. The lights flicker. Several of the scientists cry out in fear, clearly running some form of electrical dependent experiment. I stop and turn to my host.

- What’s the meaning with this?

- Generator must be acting up. Backup will kick in any moment now.

We wait. I move over to the objective, looking at whatever it is she’s working so feverishly on. It appears to be some sort of machine-man interface. Making my presence known to her, she jumps in surprise, having missed me entirely. I kindly ask if I can see the blueprints of her work. Compliant, and willing to share science, she brings the up on the computer next to her. I take the moment to download it all while Commander Dorn, seething orders in a hushed tone, remains distracted.

The lights stop flickering and the door opens. In a single move, I grab the scientist and her collar, dragging her alongside me back to the door, despite her loud disagreement. Commander Dorn rises what I can only assume is an eyebrow as I place the two of them together.

- Demonstrate how to remove the collar without harming the subject.

Commander Dorn, hesitant, waits for an explanation.

- I need to bring one with me back to Terra for further research, and I’d like to know if the process can be done in the field.

This is not a lie on my end, but a careful variation of the truth. The collar, removed and handed to me, remains in my hand.

- East wing, second door. Standby, Olson.

Knowing it’s now or never, I watch as Commander Dorn picks up another collar from her belt, activating it. The scientist bows her head.

Then the door opens. A fully armored and armed fellow battle-brother stands impressive in the doorway, blocking the path. It’s Novak. Taking in the moment, I draw my sword, but before I can engage, Commander Dorn goes down in a flash of sparks. The body, wriggling on the floor, shows no instant signs of life, as the mechanical parts starts shutting down.

- Go!

We make haste back towards the ship. Not seeing anyone, I’m guessing the rest of the squad are keeping the security busy. Upon arrival at the hangar, weapons discharges, small arms and heavier, explains why. Coming from the back, Novak and I rip through the rear guard in silence, save the death gurgles of the dying. The scientist, behind me, seems queasy.

Tearing through the now double fronted guards, we all make it back to the ship, lifting off just as alarms start blaring. Smith punches it, and moves the vessel with a touch of speed I would not have expected it had in it.

I stay close to the scientist, trying to offer her some comfort. Instead, she pukes out all over the deck. In a sign of sympathy, I don’t step away from it.

- Incoming!

The following engagement is short. A few minutes pass.

- Is that Koskinen, chased by heavies?

- Poor man doesn’t stand a chance.

This causes me to enter the cockpit. I draw my bolt pistol and jam the muzzle into the back of Smith’s head.

- You can either pick up Koskinen, or die. Your choice.

Without turning, I address the others.

- We fake a crash, and return by stealth. This way, they won’t be looking for us. The forces hunting Koskinen will repeat our heroism, and cause confusion with the enemy – assuming they’re part of Commander Dorn’s forces. If not, bonus.

There is a lack of response until Dubois half-heartedly agree.

- All right, Olson, we do it your way.

Having all but sealed my fate, this better not blow up in my face.

Taking the ship dangerously close to ground, Dubois and I open the door, almost ripping it away. Debris fly out of the hangar. The scientist, now safely tucked away in the cockpit, would have followed suit. Koskinen, still running, spots us and keeps parallel to our flight. Presented with a bigger target, the heavies focuses their shooting on us instead. One hit rocks the vessel. We’ll have no trouble faking a crash after this.

Smith keeps the pace, and the distance between us and Koskinen melts away in seconds. A grappling hook slams into the hull of the other side of the hangar, and Koskinen, in one swift motion, have himself pulled inside. A clutch. I’d preferred a jump pack myself.

We partly land the vessel inside a nearby factory, crashing through a few outer walls. Clearing out the guards takes less than a minute. The next three minutes we huddle down, keeping the factory workers safe. I’m supposed to take point when we emerge, blending our scientist within the ranks of the others.

Two hundred meters from the factory and the explosion knocks most of my unshielded to the ground. Standing alone, I keep the vigil and lookout. I know Koskinen is out there, keeping my back safe, while Nowak shields my very core without me knowing about it. We make it to the extraction point. I lose three of my protection unit. Cursing, I swing around, eager to face any enemy pursuing us. Then I’m hit with small arms fire, presenting an excellent target. Loudly yelling for all stragglers to hurry up, I advance. The first enemy: cut in half, never knowing I was even there. The second gets a bolt pistol shot from afar. The third stops, uncertain, turning around and runs for her life, barely succeeding. The fourth falls from a long-range head shot. The fifth and the sixth share a blood spatter. At the time I’m looking for the seventh, a grenade blows eighth and ninth away. I’m guessing this means Dubois made it to the engagement intact.

Then, without warning, Nowak walks into my field of vision. He hold his axe towards the enemies. Tenth, eleventh, twelfth and thirteenth becomes bloody messes from afar, simply tearing apart, all within the span of half a second. I’m beyond impressed, but also terrified.

Fourteenth and fifteenth becomes glowing shades, both falling to the ground. I’m pleased Smith made it out in time as well.

Sixteenth drops to the ground, trying to provide covering fire for himself. It lasts six seconds before Koskinen ends him – another headshot, I imagine.

I turn around and head to the survivors, offering them my words of comfort and safety, making sure they’re out of harm as well as secure. Dubois compliments us across the broadband.

I know reinforcements are coming. I know Captain Vasquez and his men are on their way. And yet, I’m left with a heavy heart, as I know I won’t see this squad ever again. Dubois, Koskinen, Nowak and Smith – forever left to the silent records of war, our glory untold and forever kept hidden.

I won’t disobey the orders, but I won’t keep this victory forgotten. Unfortunately, it must remain a secret.

Save for this record.

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...

VtM:B - a story. Cultural calculated callings.

I return to Copenhagen, only to find my love, my home and my city in disarray.

A note from my Sire, a note from Pälvi, and a note from the Prince. The first is a neat letter within the comfort of an envelope lying just inside the room, having been pushed through the mail slot of the apartment. I know it is from him, as I could recognize that handwriting everywhere. Pälvi, in true non-dramatic fashion, left her message on post-it note stuck to the refrigerator. So human of her. I roll my eyes at it for the lack of dramatic sense. The last one, from Prince Jean-Baptist, rests atop of my coffin. At last, that is a place of importance I would not be able to ignore.
I read them in importance of order - Pälvi, my Sire, and then the Prince.

Palvi's note is short and brief. She's soon to follow a crew to Scotland, as her Sire departs for reasons unknown - or reasons she would not reveal in a note. It includes her lips, bloodied, pressed against the paper. I hold it with both my hands and pushes it towards where my beating heart used to be. Somehow, this mere yellow piece of paper becomes dear to me.

The note from my Sire is equally short - it requests a meeting, in person, at the location of my embrace. Frowning, as our agreement was to return to this spot only on peril of death, I deduct that whatever is happening is beyond serious. Of course, I make a mental note of the elegant paper being used, as well as the red ink, in order to copy the style at a later date.

The last note merely confirms my dread - the Prince thanks me for my successful mission, and asks me to bolster my resolve and gather my allies - war is upon us, and much has changed in my absence. He leaves me with control of an extended domain - should I be able to keep it - and instructions to meet the new Prince as soon as I am able to.

I quickly re-read all the notes in succession, panic rising as I do. Then, without hesitation, I order Kira to go out, find someone beautiful, bring them back here here, and preform whatever sexual act she wishes with a mortal she'd find pleasing - this already narrows the mark down to specifications.

I need time to think, and time to adjust. And I need to not be here when Kira returns.

Instead, I head out, looking for easy prey. Finding it, I have my share of two beautiful young men, a couple, I think, before heading to the point of my embrace.

I do not find my Sire waiting there, nor did I expect him to. I activate the full use of my Auspex. In a corner at the very edge of my sight stands a figure. I use Celerity to spin around and draw a hidden hand gun, aiming at the figure, baring my teeth. With a chuckle, my Sire steps out of the shadows.

- Ravna, you mistrusting creature. It's good to see you.
- Jürgen. The pleasure would be mine, had I had fair warning.
- Time is short, and there is much to discuss. I wish I could have sheltered you more, but from now on, you must earn to stand alone. Come, my Childe. Walk with me.

We walk. We talk. We make due. After what can only be described as a mind altering experience, we depart. I know in my heart that I will not see my Sire ever again. But what he leaves me marks my destiny and changes my long term goals.

The next night, the night was young, and so felt I. Now an established player in the lower parts of the Camarilla, the increase in power and status was significant considering my previous role. Fresh blood - literary, in my case - being pumped into the organization. I felt it pounding in my veins. No wonder the rush of youth sweeping through my limbs made me giddy with anticipation: I was going to treat myself to a public book reading.

If you, like so many other uncultivated beings, have never been to a book reading before, then allow me to explain. A new book is published. A bookstore signals that someone, either the author or a professional, will be there at a singular or multiple dates, with the promise of reading parts of the new book. It is, of course, a way of getting people to buy said book. Tonight, at a small library in the Amager East district (not my home turf), the author Liana Dumornais would read from her most recent novel: Still Water Bridge Falling - or L'Eau Douce, Pont qui s'écroule, as the original French wording was. The title alone had entranced me, and for some reason I simply knew that I had to be there.

The locale was classy and proper traditional; lots of dark wood, lazy curtains of heavy fabric, and rows upon rows of books. A small plateau elevated the reader above the ranks of listeners, all bundled together in line and fine, the proper orderly fashion. The light, dimmed to provide atmosphere, except for a small lamp residing on a small wooden table next to a chair with a tall back, also made out of wood. Hushed voices buzzing with emotion, expectation and education - I felt right at home, taking a seat in the middle of the listeners. A more cautionary vampire would favor the back, or one of the edges for a potential hasted retreat, but the art of hiding within plain sight is lost on so many these nights.

Not wanting to impose my will or mood on the rest of my household, I had left Kira with permission of visiting Alexandra, the red wearing Tremere necromancer enthusiast, while Pälvi was establishing a secondary strike team - she had already requested Rhys. I knew that she was going away, and asked if she and I could have a night alone before she left. Smiling, she told me she already had made arrangements. Licking my lips involuntarily, I was brought back to the present. The audience was taking their seats. The ambient noises quiet down. It was time.

Then the author stepped up, and I was enthralled. Enthralled, before she even spoke. This was no ordinary mortal. This one was special.

I'm sad to say that I recall little of the reading itself - all too soon there was applause and everybody rising to their feet in either to head to the cashier with a signed copy of the book, or in order to approach the author with praise and congratulations. I, alas, remained seated, stunned. Never before had I felt the clan curse strike me so profoundly, nor with such impact. Slowly, I rose to my feet, absentmindedly brushing the wrinkles from my dress. With purpose and determination I too approached the small flock of humans obscuring my view of the author. Another vampire would have forcefully made way between the Kine, but I needed time to collect myself. Thankfully, I was able to pass it off as being starstruck. And then, at long last, it became my turn. Hastely grabbing her hand, I offered the proper French kissing (upon her cheek, of course), drawing on my Presence. I insist that we meet in private before she leaves the city. And in a daring, possible Masquerade breaking and potential stupid move, I reveal to her my name - the name of my mortal self, the successful writer. It stings not getting recognition, yet I know she'll do a background search on me. No matter what information she uncovers, and despite what theory she'll make concerning my death, I have answers at the ready...

"Damen i baren."

Translation: the woman in the bar, the female bartender, she tending the bar (you get the gist of it).

Such a small phrase, and yet, so meaningful, accepting and wonderful in creating what essentially caused happiness and joy. Random bits of observations from strangers and using correct pronoun – nothing more, nothing less. And still it means so much more than I’ll be able to convey into a display of gratitude and thank this stranger for.

Sometimes, all it takes is seeing something true and say so out loud. Thank you, random stranger, for making the world of this being better and putting a genuine smile on her face.

Poor gullet

I’m sitting in a chair wearing black underwear
Uniform and the rest hang with the vest
No small feat to suck at such a teat
And the cat forever dry named after Fry
Possessing credibility such as responsibility
The woman of law faced down her garden maw
But stay awhile and harken to the larks softly darken
A song at last best played in the past

Leaves beyond the house starts getting douse
Mince the hen without the mouse den
Look past the fedora and spot what belongs to Pandora
Boxed and sliced as sure as heisted
We stumble inside to fetch in infinite stretch
Warning signs in red screaming of wandering undead
Undead, undead, we walk the night in fright
Undead, undead, the poem ends in vain

Full blood moon.

Or is a blood full moon? I don’t know; here are some tunes.

What is true is that the moon is a mysterious mistress, and that I shall be observing her rise come the evening in all her splendor atop of the castle mountain.

Mirosh Glotsk

Allow me to tell you about a character of mine. Now, you might ask, what sort of character, what universe, what faction and several other questions that would help you come to grips just where this character “belong”, per say (as I am full aware that I have a LOT of different ones in oh so many settings). But hold your horses and make still your swift fingers on the keyboard – I will tell this tale and answer what I can to the best of my abilities.

This is a character I’ve made for the D&D fifth edition. It is not one I’ve played, and therefore I’m able to give a presentation of (my played D&D characters will remain a mystery if you’re not part of the group – sorry about that, folk). Mind you, this is simply backstory for now, and one I highly intend to actually play sometime in the future as I find both the character and the character concept intriguing.

Her name is Mirosh Glotsk and she’s a Half-Orc Monk. Granted, not your most typical combination, but wait – it gets stranger: she’s also born to nobility (background). Maybe it’s best I start diving into the story already…

Imagine a kingdom/queendom akin to the medieval setting with lots of nobles in their castles all over the countryside. Now, picture the neighboring nation being one of Orcs. In the D&D setting, Orcs aren’t made of the same cloth as those roaming in the works of Tolkien, but they’re rather nasty, none the less – and warmongering runs in their blood. So, naturally, at one time, an army of Orcs struck out and started doing what Orcs (no matter their universe or setting) tend to do best: causing serious unrest and concern for all the other direct and semi-direct parties involved. This, however, did not sit well with one of the nobles in this land, so he gathered his own army and headed out to meet the roaming ravages. There was battle, stalemate and death. Wanting not to spend (all) the lives of those in his own little slice of the kingdom/queendom, Vervem Glotsk rode out and cast a challenge for the Orc war leader: a duel, just the two of them. If the war leader won, he would have his army stand down and give the Orcs free passage to pillage and plunder and produce pain in the populace. But if he won, the Orc army was to retreat back where it came from. Surprisingly, or maybe not, the war leader, Milvi the Gruesome, came forth and accepted these terms.

The duel was legendary, but scarce of details. The noble Vervem Glotsk, being a Shadow Sorcerer of high might and arcane power, battled at a distance and kept taking the few hits that he could. The war leader Milvi the Gruesome, a Storm Herald Barbarian, fought with the fierceness of nature and the bloodlust of her kind, striking true and hard.

And then it was over. Who had won is hazy, and best glossed over for the sake of the story.

Still, here is where it gets interesting: after this duel, the two, Vervem and Milvi, decided to marry. Why remains to speculation this day.

Years passed, and their union produced two children: Mirosh and Ronuz Glotsk, Half-Orcs through and through. What I can mention is that the older son, Bibrar Glotsk, a Paladin, did not look kindly upon his new siblings. He then decided to take up the Oath of the Crown and travel the country, helping those in need. Milvi, restless in the court of Vervem, took Ronuz and told the rest of her family that she’d make a proper Orc out of him. Vervem agreed, but wanted Mirosh to stay and learn the art of ruling. Secretly, he hoped for either child to harbor magic akin to his, but alas, he was sorely disappointed: Ronuz took up the charge of command while in the Orc horde as Milvi the Gruesome’s second, proving himself to be a Fighter and a Champion, while Mirosh only showed some proficiency with the shortsword –but did not squabble Vervem’s lessons and the responsibility those with noble blood must adhere to.

However, there was many a mystic in the court of Vervem Glotsk: Warlocks, Sorcerers, Wizards and other practitioners of not always above the board dark arts. Here, a man of wisdom and discipline stayed for a while. Mirosh became infatuated with this close to holy man, and Vervem allowed his daughter to train in the ways of the Monk.

More years passed. Mirosh looked out from a window, inspecting the fields and lands surrounding Vervem’s castle. It was time to explore and travel, to better understand how the world worked.

Que session zero…