De Vita In Excessum

by DeeLacy

Bryon walks through the rain as he often does, the cold winter rain, along the path he has walked so many times before. Deja vu…

Elizabeth is in her home, compulsively smoothing the furniture and setting pillows to just the right angle, as she waits for Bryon to arrive. There is black drapery over all her furniture, and black veils on the mirrors, mourning for Gregory Dorn. She can’t get his image out of her head. Gone, ash. And Spencer, too, but… Gregory….

The bell rings. "Come in," she calls.

Bryon knocks softly on the door. Elizabeth can hear him at the door, and see the door from where she stands… she estimates where his head is… and projects the thought…. I said, come in.

Bryon opens the door and steps in, not looking at his sire yet but carefully removing his jacket.

"Yes, take that off, you’re dripping," she says.

He hangs his coat on the coat rack and straightens himself. "Hello, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth smiles at him. "Good of you to come. Bryon darling." She smiles, but there is unmistakable tension at the corners of her mouth. She is deeply unhappy… not angry… sorrowful.

Bryon smirks uncomfortably. "Yes, thanks. It’s been a while."

"Come sit… tell me what you’ve been doing all this while," she invites. Bryon looks a bit suspicious, but drifts over to the sofa. He keeps his eyes firmly on her now, whereas before he wouldn’t look at her. Elizabeth sits down next to him and slips her hand into his, giving it a light squeeze. Her other hand rests against the black fabric she’s draped over the sofa, fingers brushing it softly.

"Well… I’ve been running around the city mostly… drinking. I have spoken to the ‘anarchs’ on a couple of occasions…" Bryon is nervous beyond the usual, as he looks down curiously at the black covering the furniture.

"What happened when you met with the anarchs?" Elizabeth asks, scanning Bryon’s surface thoughts as he answers. She sees blood-red rain, and two unfamiliar girls’ faces, one whose name is floating in his thoughts but she can’t quite hear it. She sees the handsome Anarch who has been blood hunted, and his Nosferatu ally.

"They talked a bit about what they had done. About makin’ a stand, the usual. But they did something, it seems." Bryon looks at Elizabeth, at her hair. "How are you?"

Elizabeth shakes her head slightly. "They did something? What do you mean? They’ve done… several things."

"They got Ms. Semingsworth." Bryon swallows once, thinking of the catatonic state the Ventrue primogen has been in ever since she and her ghoul were rescued from their anarch captors.

Elizabeth nods, a lock of hair falling in her eyes. She brushes it aside. "And they caused a havoc in a children’s rest home…." Bryon looked surprised. "You did not hear that? It was in the news… as an incident caused by PCP."

"I don’t think they took credit for that in front of me… I don’t remember at least."

"Ah. And then… they seem to have got… more serious. They captured and destroyed, on camera, two of our clan, and a Ventrue and a Tremere. Did they claim that in front of you?"

Bryon looks confused. "No…" He swallows again, in slow-motion. "No. I… haven’t heard of that."

Elizabeth looks away, feeling almost unable to control her sadness, as she speaks. "They killed Gregory." For a long moment she is lost in thought of her fellow Toreador elder, his deep brown eyes, his beauty, his depthless creative mind; of the love she held for him, unrequited for decades, the memory of their short time of mutual passion so long ago.

Bryon’s fingers twitch. Elizabeth holds perfectly still as red tears slide down her marble cheeks. Bryon blinks rapidly, then takes off his glasses. "I’m really… sorry. I… how?"

"The dawn," whispers Elizabeth.

Bryon sighs, and seems to not know what to do with himself. He looks around, at the floor. Elizabeth stays still… after a few moments her tears dry, leaving a faint red trail on each cheek. "Can I help somehow, maybe? I dunno what else to say." Bryon moves a little closer to her on the couch.

Elizabeth feels his movement, and squeezes his hand again, still held in hers. "You can… if you found out enough to help us against the anarchs?"

Bryon grits his teeth. "I told them what you wanted, what you said."

"And their answer, was clearly, no."

"They’re not going to give up. No."

"They have done too much for forgiveness, now," Elizabeth says. "Too much for amnesty. Too much even for banishment. They will be executed. Two have been already." Bryon nods. Elizabeth continues, "They could have ransomed their captives; they could have tried to use them to win their goals; that was not their desire, was it?"

"I don’t think they care that much. Casualties in the war."

"They were fooling you all along… using you, your idealism." Bryon looks at her as she speaks. "I know you, Bryon. This is not what you would choose. This… slaughter…."

Bryon is silent, staring at her a little. "No. It isn’t. But… there isn’t much of an alternative. The Gangrel want to live in the woods… I don’t want that." He paused. "I’m rambling. I can’t stop them."

"Do you prefer their war to our peace?" Elizabeth asks. Bryon looks up at the ceiling. She continues, "Is it the better alternative?"

"I could say the peace was tyranny and you could say the opposite. Discussion feels futile to me right now. And I say you’re right, so don’t bother. All I can do is try to understand. From one side or the other," Bryon sighs.

"Well, you are right. It is tyranny. The alternative is never-ending bloodshed… the choice is to be ruled, or to die. If one can continue to exist… one can find a space in that existence… goals, meaning… a sense of purpose."

"It’s fucking hard."

"Yes, it is very hard. The alternative is easy… mayhem… bloodshed… spray the streets with red, from kindred and kine alike," Elizabeth says darkly. "That is what these anarchs are doing. You can see that, you must. They are only spreading chaos. They wish freedom, and what do they do with it? Would you have all kindred so?"

"So what do you want me to do?" Bryon leans his head back against the wall. "That’s one of the things I’ve learned, you know, to like the color red."

Elizabeth hears this… thinks of the red rain, and the girl she saw in Bryon’s mind, the one whose name had echoed. "Yes. Who is she, the girl in your thoughts? Have you finally found a replacement for Aela?"

Bryon looks at her with one eye. "What the hell do you mean?"

"You know what I mean, Bryon." Elizabeth focuses her will on him and scans his thoughts again, listening for the name. Bryon does not answer, just stares at her for a few seconds. Elizabeth hears the name she seeks, echoing, this time she grasps the sound. "I should say… you know who I mean. Cynthia… pretty name."

Bryon twitches. "I dunno, they had found her somewhere and she didn’t have anywhere to go." He looks away from Elizabeth. "Yeah. Cynthia."

Elizabeth strokes the exposed side of Bryon’s neck with her thumb as he looks away. She smiles slightly. "So you took the little lost anarch girl under your protection?"

Bryon wants to tell her to shut up. Cynthia. They’d made him embrace her… it was that or let her become Nosferatu. Pretty Cynthia, he couldn’t do that to her…. "Yeah, you could say that."

"Why does talking about her make you so hostile, darling?" Elizabeth can always pick up on such things in his voice, in his posture.

"You sound accusing. Aren’t you?" Bryon ‘s eyes flit back to her.

"Accusing of what? Do you feel guilty for finally getting over that Aela, then?"

Bryon ‘s eyes glaze a little, then he shakes his head sadly. "Getting over Aela, sure. ‘Finally’? It’s only been three months." Ah, Aela… first vampire lover… he would never ‘get over’ her. He promised himself that silently.

"Why do you feel guilty over Cynthia?"

"Never mind." Bryon sighs.

"You don’t want to discuss her. Very well — on one condition. I wish to meet her.
Bring her here tomorrow night."

Bryon stares with open wide eyes at the table before him. "What?"

"You heard me."

He runs a hand over his face. "All right."

Elizabeth smiles slightly, and leans over, kissing his cheek. "Thank you."

Bryon looks at her sideways, shivering a little. He puts his hands on his knees, thinking, looking confused but serious. Elizabeth watches him, looking into his thoughts one more time. What am I gonna tell her… Cynthia. He shakes his head. "All right, all right. Tomorrow?"

Elizabeth touches his chin, turning his face to look into his eyes. Bryon looks into her dark, deep eyes. "Yes, tomorrow," she tells him. He nods. She releases his chin, pulling her hands onto her lap, withdrawing from him slightly. "I’m losing you…. It had to happen. Why so soon, though…? Why…?"

Bryon bites his lip. She looks at him longingly as he speaks. "I…. You know I care about you. But don’t do that. You know that as well."

"Don’t do… what?"

"Try to make me sorry for you. Because of that. I am sorry. I don’t pity you, but I’m sorry for what’s happened."

"Someday, Bryon… someday… when you sire a Childe… then you’ll know." Elizabeth paused. "I don’t want your pity. Of course."

Bryon shakes his head. "I’m tired of these games." He felt the bond pulling at him, tugging him toward her. He resisted with an effort.

"I’m just… tired. I loved Gregory… for so, so very long. It’s still hard to understand that he is gone, forever… but he is. And you don’t much care. I see that." Elizabeth stands up, off the sofa and walks to the edge of the room, looking into one of the black-mantled mirrors. She stands there, the black gauze making her unable to see her reflection except in the dimmest way… staring into the mirror. She whispers, "you should probably leave, now."

Trying to tell if she can see him approaching in the mirror, Bryon stands and follows her. Elizabeth senses his approach, but doesn’t move.

Bryon puts his hand on her shoulder. She still doesn’t move. Bryon can feel her trembling slightly even though she is very still. "Maybe I wish I did care. Maybe… I wish things were like they used to be."

Elizabeth speaks in a very low voice, the effort to keep her voice even gives her a slight vibrato. "They can always be. No matter how far you go, you can always change your mind and come back to me. It…. The hope gives me something to cherish… now that I’m alone…."

Bryon squeezes her shoulder gently. He looks around at the black surrounding them. "Maybe I should go."

Elizabeth stays still, looking into the darkened mirror. "A lot of maybe’s."

Bryon imagines her for a moment smiling wickedly into the unreflective surface — the longing for her, the love he does not want to feel, is overwhelming. It is so hard to leave. So hard to take his hand from her shoulder and walk away. He sighs, turns around, and walks over to the door to pick up his jacket, still wet. Elizabeth turns to watch him go, looking impassive.

As he touches the doorknob, Bryon says, "I do miss you, you know." He opens the door and steps outside.

"I miss you too," she says as he shuts the door behind him. Elizabeth walks to her bedroom, closes the door, and lies down on the bed, face down. She folds her arms above her head and just lies there, a position that would suffocate a human, face buried in the pillow, but of course she does not have to breathe.

by Brittany Adams

Alexis closed her eyes and laid her head back against the plush seat of her limo as the driver pulled away from her estate. Correction, Bishop Cadaver’s estate. She had just given him the deed to her house and the lands surrounding it as a reward for his years of service as her Templar. She knew that he would make proper use of all of the secrets contained within the mansion. He was Nosferatu and the most loyal of all those that had ever worked for her. She recalled the look in his eyes when she handed him all of the necessary papers and keys. The underlying significance of the act did not escape him. His protestations at her making this journey alone clouded her mind.

"Thisss one will be coming with you, Missstressss."
"Nay, my Shadow. You will be staying here."
"Thisss one will sssend otherssss to follow you."

"Then I will kill them. I must make this journey alone, my Brother. Know that you have never displeased me and that you are a valued member of this Sect. Our Brothers and Sisters would do well to take lessons from you. Your place is here and here you will remain."

She pushed the thoughts of her last conversation with Cadaver from her mind and with a small expenditure of her blood, she wrapped the shadows inside of the limo around her. Now was not the time to dwell upon sentimentalities and emotion. She let the quiet hum of the car engine to lull her into a light, meditative state. As she had done countless times in the recent past, Alexis opened her mind to receive her Inner Voice, the Voice that had guided her through many battles and plots against her enemies and the enemies of her Sect. A soft sigh escaped her as her questing mind was met with silence. She should not have been surprised at the silence, but a part of her had held out some hope that the Voice would be there.

She knew why she heard nothing, although she would never admit it out loud. She had failed one too many times. Failure was never an option for Contessa Alexis Narciano Dread. Until the past couple of years, she had always succeeded at everything she set out to do. She had rid herself of her mortal family and attained control of all of their businesses, amassing a great fortune in the process. She had led numerous War Parties in her native Italy and gained a lot of territory for the Sabbat. Her fellow vampires in the United States feared and respected her, as they should one who had attained the rank of Archbishop.

But now she was no longer an Archbishop. In a fit of insane anger, the Cardinal had stripped all Sabbat in her region of their titles, and then disappeared. Now, she was no longer a great leader of the Sabbat, and now she must atone for her alleged failure.

The car came to a stop at a private airport on the outskirts of the city and she slowly got out after the driver opened her door. She stood there for a moment as he got her luggage and took it to the plane that waited for her. She had an appointment to keep, and to be late to this particular meeting would bring about a slow, painful death.

Alexis held her long, black cloak around her as a stiff, cold wind blew through the night and she walked toward the plane. She spoke to no one as she glided across the blacktop, resembling the shadows she commands with the ease and skill of one who has seen what feels like an eternity of nights. She boarded the plane and after a few whispered instructions to her personal servant waiting there, she removed her cloak and took a seat. She stared out the window in silence as the plane began its ascent into the midnight sky, and her mind raced with plans and strategies for her upcoming meeting. She sat in the same position until she saw the eastern sky lightening, then moved to a specially prepared room on the plane and fell into a deep, restless sleep.

The plane touched down in Madrid at around 9pm the next night. Alexis was very careful in her preparations for her meeting, meticulously planning everything she would say and do, even what to wear. She sat before the mirror on her vanity as the maid did her hair and makeup, appearing to be totally unaffected by her lack of reflection. She rose from the table to dress, and her eyes fell upon her weapons which laid on the bed next to her gown. She had been ordered not to wear any weapons to this meeting, and she would not refuse the order. She touched the platinum and onyx scarab brooch on the table and a slight smile flickered across her crimson-painted lips. She hadn’t made it this far in her unlife by being stupid. His Excellency had said nothing about decorative "ornaments".

Two hours later, she emerged from the plane, dressed in a conservative, high-necked and long-sleeved black gown with her brooch pinned to it above her heart and her black cloak. She pulled the hood up to protect her hair from the wind as she walked down the stairs with her maid following her. She was met at the bottom of the stairs by two men wearing dark suits. They each grabbed one of her arms, and Alexis frowned slightly under her hood, thinking that Archbishop Moncada was sparing no expense to ensure her arrival at this meeting.

The men escorted Alexis, her maid following behind, to a waiting Rolls Royce out in the parking lot. She sat uncomfortably between the two men in the back seat, bristling at the feel of their guns pressing through their jackets and into her sides. She maintained her composure with cool emotionlessness, not speaking as the car made its way through the city that was a major seat of power within the Sabbat. She had made this journey a few times before since being inducted into the Les Amies Noir to sit as judge upon the infamous blood courts. However, this trip was to be very different, and unlike the past ones, she did not look forward to it.

The car stopped in front of a palatial mansion on the edge of Madrid, and once again, Alexis’ guards took up their positions on each side of her and held her arms as they escorted her up to the house. She was ushered into a large office as her maid was taken to what would be Alexis’ suite during her brief stay. Seated behind the desk was an imposing and obviously powerful figure; Archbishop Moncada.

The Archbishop rose at her entrance and stepped around his desk. He bowed, then took her hand and kissed it. "It’s a pleasure to see you again, Contessa. I regret that it must be under such unfortunate circumstances."

Alexis nodded respectfully, her back stiffening at the inference to her reason for being here. "I wish I could return the sentiment in kind, Your Excellency."

Moncada looked at her for a moment, then nodded before returning to his desk chair. "Understood, M’lady. I’ll do all that I can to make this go as swiftly as possible." He noticed the slight tensing of her muscles and looked at her for a long moment before speaking again. "You and I have had many talks right here in this office, Alexis. I ask you now, just between you and me, are these allegations true?"

Alexis squared her shoulders and looked him right in the eye, replying without hesitation. "No, Your Excellency, they are not."

The Archbishop steepled his fingers in front of him and tapped them against his chin as he met her gaze and considered her answer. "Very well. Your tribunal starts tomorrow night."

by Jason Yates

Pale mountains shifted in the darkness in a quiet earthquake, water rippled around her as she rose. Her flesh was luminous in the odd light, seeming to glow from within, but on closer inspection, it was more likely because of an odd fungus that grew on it, making the surface of her skin appear greasy and vaguely cheese-like. The stench was amazing, the stench of the sewer, that luminous fungus, of whatever horror that nestled and grew in her prodigious folds, in her gently shifting waves of fat.

She brought her thick hand to her face, touching it softly with nails the color of black and green marble. Her hair hung in greasy tufts from her head, it hung over her face like black straw, shielding her features, drifting across her face as if to hide her one beauty, her strange lavender eyes, that glowed from the rolls of noxious meat that formedher face. Those eyes spoke of a woman that was beautiful once, a kind woman perhaps, a good woman. Her hand traced the lines of her face until they came to her thin, liver colored lips, and they parted, revealing three teeth, and only three teeth, long, needlelike, two on the top, one dead center in the bottom.

"Maiandra," he whispered.

Her eyes didn’t shift his way as she absently sluiced the filth from her flesh, for a vague moment ashamed of her ugliness, but she was Nosferatu, and she knew, her ugliness was her shield, and her shield was strong. 

"What?" She asked, moving slowly across the chamber she nested in to the small collection of personal objects she kept on the ledge. She picked the silver mirror up, even older than her, and peered into it, absorbing the odd joy her hideous smile gave her.

"Custus wants to see you," the boy said. She would always call him ‘boy’ though he was the better part of a century old. "He misses you."

"You keep coming, Chibam, and you keep asking, and I keep saying no. Why?"

The child-thing smiled, his emaciated hand slowly caressing the centipede that crawled over his pale, narrow chest. It was huge, over two feet long, its hard black segmented carapace glittered like a string of ebony pearls, its many feet like tiny blood red spikes as they undulated over his skin. It sank its mandibles into Chibam’s shoulder and began to draw sustenance. It was his, and its poison could kill a large man in seconds. "He asks. I do as he says."

"And why won’t he come?" She turned to look at him, and he looked into her lavender eyes with pleasure. He realized they were the first beautiful things he’d seen in over a month. Their world was steeped in ugliness, that was how it should be. His oddly huge, hairless head tilted slightly on his terribly thin neck, and he smiled his many toothed smile at her.

"You said you didn’t want to see him. He honors that request. But he hopes you’ll change your mind, of course. Love amongst the uglies is a rare thing, sweetie. You should treasure it."

She looked away, looking again into the mirror. "No, Chibam. Don’t come here to ask me that question again."

He nodded. He would never understand her anger. Custus had given her a great gift. She had fallen in love with his illusion, the false face he wore to please those around him, and when she discovered his horrible truth, she wanted to flee, but he gave her the gift anyway. He embraced her, taking away her beauty but pledging to love her anyway, as she would learn to love him.

But she did love him, and that was the pain. They had been apart these decades, one loving the other, but unwilling to show it. She would not forgive him. She no longer hated him, she no longer lamented her lost beauty, but he had condemned her to an eternity of this ugliness, and she would condemn him to an eternity without her. It was a small punishment, but one at least she could enforce.

Chibam shuffled away, extricating the centipede’s mandibles from his flesh and moving it around his waist, like a belt. It dug in with its sharp feet, burrowing into the cool dampness of his dead flesh.

She watched him go and smiled. It would be time to feed soon, she must do so before Custus left the sewers, so that they couldn’t meet by chance. She would not allow him to see her, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave the city, to leave his presence, because of that useless amputated love.

She dropped the mirror in the water, perhaps to find it later, perhaps not. She did this often, but always ended up scrabbling for it on her hands and knees later. It was the mirror he had used to reveal her new face, as her flesh bloated and her teeth fell from her mouth. "You’ll get used to it," he said. "You’ll come to love it."

She didn’t believe him, she didn’t accept it. Of course, he was right, she did learn to enjoy it as he did, with that odd lust for the grotesque, that freakish need to shock and horrify. She liked it more than the false airs of life, of the tight corsets, the high collars, the stiff rules and silly manners. Those things were gone now, she was simply who she was, but she had made a vow and she would keep it. He would not touch her again, he would not see her again, he would never again peer into the eyes he had valued so much.

She moved from her chamber, her bulk now lost to human sight, and drifted down the pathways of darkness with only her glowing skin to light her way.

by MillieCat

I remember running through the trees, trying to keep up with the sparrows. My mother laughed and smiled in the shade of the mountain. They said the animals loved me, but especially the sparrows. Such delightful creatures they are, so happy and carefree. I seemed that way, to the others at least. I did not let the tribe see me at the other times, running off to the caves to plan and brood about being more, doing more. Our lives are good, mostly. But yet, sometimes there is cold, sickness, and hunger even in this wonderful area. I cry with the howling of the wolves, and the sparrows stop their singing when I do.

I come down from the mountain, my young form shaking from the fifteen days that I had spent up there without food, and with very little water: Another cleansing, which I had through the years managed to pass off as getting in touch with my spirit totem. As I descend to the valley, I smell smoke. "Another summer forest fire," I think unconcernedly to myself. Then, I see the source.

"No!!!" I scream, and the forest silences. My village is burned to the ground, blackened in a circle that no natural occurrence could possibly have done. The air is thick with the foul, putrid stench of burned flesh. Dry heaves from my empty stomach force me to my knees. I look up, eyes watering, and vow vengeance, removing my clothing and covering myself with the ash of my village and friends. All hunger and thirst forgotten, I use my skills to find the direction of the enemy’s retreat, and follow.

The trail leads up a crest of a mountain that I visit less often. I arrive at the mouth of a cave that I had visited twice before. Even my fury and rage can not keep me from collapsing just inside its mouth. I fade with the last hint of day.

"Ah, Little Sparrow, it seems you were spared." It is the most soothing voice that I have ever heard, coming from within the cave. "Fret not, I have… taken care of some of the fiends that did this to your tribe. They were starving savages, but tried to make it look like the white man did the ravaging.

"How do I know it was not you who did this?" I say with hate of anything with the gall to outlive my tribe. Long past reason I am, as I squint at the shadowy form in the cave.

"Come now, do I sound like someone who would do that?" he queries with ultimate suave, and just a hint of goading.

"How do you know my name?" I ask, not really caring in my delirium.

"I have lived here for a very, very long time, and I have watched you much. I, too, sing with the animals." With that, he begins to whistle a tune that is almost indiscernible from an actual sparrow’s song. Soon enough, sparrows appear, and sing with him. My rage turns to awe as my eyes close. I am swept away by the singing. In moments, with the sparrows still lulling me, he speaks again. "You are near death. As you are now, you cannot fulfill your vow. You will die, Little Sparrow, with no retribution to those that caused this. I can give you a gift that will enable you to continue for as long as you are careful. But, the gift comes with a price."

"I will pay any price," I whisper, my consciousness and life slipping away. He steps out of the shadow of the cave into the full moon light. Even in my waning state, I manage a gasp. He is hideous, a monster beyond monsters. How could such a voice and song come from so a vile beast? "Will I be able to summon the sparrows, too?" I utter with resolve not to go into heaving fits, yet again.

He smiles a terrifying parody of a smile. "Yes, Little Sparrow, that and more for a very, very long time."

Afterward:
So long ago that was, when the white man first started to come to this land. The white man, heh, not really that many around here, sometimes. Quite amusing, actually. I remember my journey to Oklahoma, when they moved all of the so-called "Red Faces" there. Such a tragedy they are, always drunk and out of touch with their totems. Even this city has more spirit force. That, and there are not as many of those damned Lupines that hate me just for being what I am. And, this city with all of its underground havens and vitae supply tends to grow on you after about seventy years or so. And my true tribe is here. My tribe of the cursed, and I am its chief. And rats are almost as friendly as sparrows…