[identity profile] flamma-lupus.livejournal.com
Not that I'm all inspired or anything..
[Timescale: roughly 1 week after the ratkin attacks start]
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[identity profile] flamma-lupus.livejournal.com
Face is dead, long live….
well.. Face!

It’s an odd feeling being dead, it’s nowhere near as peaceful as you might think, but it can be remarkably informative. Those things that may not have been done were you still around slip past others notice, what people REALLY thought of you comes to the fore.

I’m going to miss James, I liked him. James could sit in the corner of the court and shoot the breeze with the dubious bloodline, not really caring. James could relax and just hold conversations, not having to make sure that not only was nobody sneaking up behind him, but that nobody was storming through the front door. James never had the amusing double standard of being expected as one of the older, stronger court members to throw himself in the way of anything scary, to risk his life night after night, whilst at the same time being frowned and tutted at by the “far more civilized” kindred for being a monster. Without this monster they’d all be dead by now, taken out by Setites or Baali or Sabbat or Anarchs, without this monster a good number of those “civilized kindred” would be civilized piles of ash, nobody seems to understand that sure, there’s been benefit to me for some of the things I’ve done, but the prices I’ve paid have got heavier and heavier, from losing my status to losing my mind, to risking losing my soul…

Yet every night I go out and I fight the fight, because if I don’t no other S O B is gonna do it, they’ll just cower in their corner and hope someone will rescue them.. I wonder how many of them realise just how easily I COULD crush them if that’s truly what I wanted. I wonder how many of them are going to continue pushing me and then be surprised when I finally do snap..

I’ve tried playing their games, the need of the city meant I had to pull out of them and change how I am, and I’ve given a lot for it, I wonder if now isn’t the time to think for me for a change.

I walk quietly through the sewers, where it all began, and I remember the humble beginnings, I remember being sneered at and talked down to for being small and insignificant, for daring to be the only ugly in a court full of pretties… I trudge past the hole where I sacrificed part of my home, and risked my own continued safety to get rid of the locusts. I toss a discarded peach stone at the hole where I hid the litany of blood after walking into a vipers nest of enemies to get it out. I run twisted fingers over the now filthy and fitting repairs from the SECOND time the sewers got exploded. Hell I went toe to toe with the entire sabbat of London to try to reduce the threats to the city… I’d like to see them show such balls.

Things ARE different now… far beyond that I died and came back. I see things differently, I feel things differently, I understand things now in a way I didn’t before. The court buzzes on as though if they play nice and politic at each other enough the world can’t find them, can’t hurt them, but I’m not so naive. There’s bigger and badder than me out there, and it’ll make trouble whether you own one boon or a hundred. I may be wearing the best shoes in the court, but when a vozhd comes through the door that’s the last thing that matters. I wonder how, even with the evidence they’ve seen with their own eyes, they can manage to keep their heads buried so far into the sand they’ll be breathing dirt for months. I’m sick of being treated like a rabid dog because I was the only one who’d be what they needed, being treated like shit off the bottom of their shoes when I could stamp on any one of them without breaking a sweat. I tire of watching them delight in their ignorance and denial of what goes on around them. If they really ran the tight ship they pat themselves on the back for so often, why DID the Thames barrier explode?

By the need of the city I became a monster
By the need of those around me, I changed and gave so much…
To have them either ignore, or sneer at that, is beyond offensive.
You don’t send a soldier to war, then condemn him for fighting.

That debt, is the camarillas, it is the cities, I’ve given and given, and if they’ll think less of me for it, then maybe they’ll respect another way. It sickens me to say it, but maybe Maroc is right after all…

I don’t brush up pretty, no matter how much I obfuscate it, at the core I’m ugly, I’m twisted, I AM a monster… maybe it’s time I’m honest about that, do what I do best…

Begin the second act…
Enter the monster.

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