zg_shadows | Oh what a perfect place... (Reply)

As my flesh slowly knits closed over deep burns, and the charring slowly fades, as the pain dulls from my senses, I dream.

The Archbishops letter of apology for his failures and lack of respect is curt, but civilized, I would expect nothing less from one so noble, the congratulation seems almost sincere, but that’s a matter for another night.

I walk slowly to the roof of the building, already starting to savour the view I know I will behold, the schlacta step aside to make way for me, I may only be small but they’ve learned the pain that comes from contact, and they have learned not to underestimate me.

I step onto the roof, the gravel crunching underfoot, and inhale deeply, I relish the smell of the vitae, and step forward once more, off the gravel and onto the softer covering of the roof. It squeals in pain, the only reason I left its vocal chords in, the sound of victory, that I know I must make the most of whilst I can enjoy it. I take particular care in ensuring I step on every organ as I make my way across the roof, it’s not a difficult task, they are quite openly exposed, but it’s slippery and I don’t wish to fall. It’ll never infiltrate another esbat, or attack my brothers and sisters. It’ll die knowing agony in ways it never comprehended before.

I look down over the edge of the building, at my collection.
The film star, blood eagled and riddled with dark iron spikes, his blood dribbling slowly down and staining the bricks. In other worlds his noble bearing crushed by the knowledge of his defeat. Pinned to the wall with the bones of my prize.
The doctor, kept alive but delirious from our treatment, too insane to even know what he is, to be kept until we can be sure he can be killed for eternity.
And my biggest prize, still sleeping…

I call one of the schlacta over with a feeding tube, a face that once was considered “perfect, it not hugely pretty” looks on with loyal but dead eyes. It tries to speak but having two tongues its words are blurred beyond comprehension, I find satisfaction in making it turn in a clumsy pirouette so I can see my handiwork as first Jade Allen, then Firinne Devon, sister to a traitor, appear before my eyes, the seam between the two is perfect and invisible even to my trained eye, it truly is a masterpiece.

I take the tube, reaching over the edge of the building and let it trail down to the funnel crafted from its jawbone, there only to allow sustainance in, but no words out. I run my wrist over my fang, and allow a little of my precious vitae to course down the tube, healing it up once enough is spent, whilst the virus is gone now there’s no reason to be wasteful.
It runs rapidly down the tube, gravity pulling it down and into the throat and system of my prize, who starts slowly to stir, head rolling and fingers twitching but unable to move from being crafted into the wall itself.

I step back to take in the view, first looking south across the river, picking out the buildings I know from our time huddling like scared children, under onslaught from one and all. I turn and look north towards Camden, where Le Regain can be as “alternative” and argumentative as they want, let them deal with punks and skinheads and Goths, I look further to the north, to the heath, now a salted, silvered wasteland, I let spirit run through my eyes and stretch my senses to what they call “the umbra” and take quiet pleasure in the silence and emptiness there, nothing left of worth.

I look down into the courtyard, where the hounds are being taken out to be fed, the lead hound still worries me a little, it’s perfectly loyal, and highly competent, but I still can’t decide if the horns detract from the aesthetics or not, many nights I’ve found myself going to the pens with the intent of removing them, only to find I like the reminder they provide of the victories of the Sword of Caine, I think Vykos will appreciate Londons gift.

To the east, dawn starts to break, I calmly walk back to my office, enjoying the last squeals I will hear this night as I walk, and I turn on the monitor on my desk. I steel my will to maintain my consciousness so I can relish my last moments of victory as I watch the light slowly inch closer and closer to my prize.

As the rays reach it, the camera zooms in on its face, and I see the defeat in Matana’s eyes. The suns light covers him, there is brief flame, then ash, and he is gone. As I watch the now unsupported film star fall to the courtyard below, I find myself in my last moments of wakefulness hoping none of the hounds swallow the spikes, but that’s an issue for tomorrow, at least they will be well fed.

Their baying and howling is the last thing I hear as I drift into slumber…
Or is that noise me?