2014.07.03: Brothers and Sisters of the Blood

Brothers and Sisters of the Blood
Two lonely souls find that they have something in common
IC Date	July 3, 2014
IC Time	Night
Players	Lotte, Blackwell
Location	The Crossroads
Spheres	,

The Crossroads - Ground Floor

To the left of the double door entryway is a large mirror in a gilded frame. To the right is a podium manned by an employee who verifies membership via membership cards before admittance. Beyond the doorman's desk an additional fifteen feet of hallway leads to a coat check station and entrance to the main club floor. Perhaps for style, perhaps for privacy, this ten foot wide hall is forested with chains that hang from ceiling to floor in a passable but unavoidable curtain of iron.

The main floor of The Cross Roads is nearly bifurcated into two thirty foot squares by a long wooden table with a half dozen chairs on its north and south sides. This table, a large charred and lacquered redwood plank, provides a place for council and carousal depending on the night. The north side of the room is lit well with bronze wall sconces and a crystal chandelier that cast a nearly golden color on the patrons and functional white padded furniture. The south side, in contrast, is dimly lit by a simple pair of pulsing globes, one red and the other orange, leaving the corners in thick shadow with the more central portions appearing cast in a fire's glow. A bar with an obtuse bend anchors the east side of the room. Behind it there is a small kitchen with a men's room and upward bound stairs to the north, to the south is a ladies' room and stairs leading down.

=================================================================================================================================

Lotte had been at the bar for a long while now. She was staring at the glass before herself, a white liquid held within the fluid smelling of grapes and plums. Her fingers trace small shapes against the condensation, and her head cants to the side as if she were reading them for something. Silent as ever, she bothers no one.

Blackwell returns to the Crossroads, a quaint if faintly pestridan establishment that is often visited by the rabble. Unfortunately, for his own needs, he needs to meet various people who claim neither Rose or Sword for their banner and so, neutral ground is necessitated. With that, the pale-skinned man enters the room with his 'escort' and finds his way to a nearby table, the flickering glow of his eyes nearly dormant as if the candles within them were all but slumbering. The sight of the stripling of a girl, the one who calls herself Lotte, slides along his attention long enough for him to nod to her in between the tape-slide of his walking stick across the cheap floor. "Good evening," he intones once seated.

Pale eyes roll up and note Blackwell only when he addresses her with his greeting. She gives a nod, but her usual warmth is lacking this evening. "Evening, Sir." She finally speaks, her fingers continuing their small art project against sweaty glass.

Blackwell hrms, raising an eyebrow at the lack of warmth of the woman's tone, "...is...everything alright for you this evening? Tell me, Childe, what might I do to remedy it for you?"

"I will admit I'm surprised you show care at all, even if it is probably false." She lifts her eyes once more and ceases the movements of her fingers. Sitting up, she turns to face Blackwell, resting her eyes upon his features, a stoic softness there. "I'm in contemplation is all, Sir. From what I've seen, smiling and greeting others here is just like any other city, especially to members of the Camarilla. No better than ants the rest of us are."

Blackwell asks, "Where is your maker, my childe? Where is the one who made you? Surely he or she explained that those of the blood of the Father care nothing but for themselves and those they hold dear?" The question seems rather polite, if inquisitive. His tone is almost pedagogical, like a professor of Cambridge asking a student something that should be self-evident. "No one, in this city or any other, would care a whit if you were gone...unless you give them reason to. It is, forgive me, the cruel indifference of life that we must all understand and..." he pauses and lets a small grin escape his lips for the double entendre that would follow, "...embrace." For that, turning in his seat just slightly to more easily view the girl, he asks of her, "Have you no one...no Elder nor sponsor here?"

"My father taught me nothing of the sort. As I remember him, he was the Harpy of his association. I was never introduced to them, and left him early on. From what I also understand now, he is ashes and his soul was taken." She doesn't look sad about this what so ever. The more he speaks, she listens, and offers a slow nod in acknowledgement. "I suppose I am simply disappointed. I left my former city and came here upon the suggestion of a friend of mine. Perhaps the times have changed since her time here last, or perhaps she meant somewhere else and my being here is my own folly. No, I have no Elder or sponsor here. I was happy to finally try and introduce myself. Least I can do is be polite and following of the customs, but..." Her slender shoulders bob.

Blackwell hrms and considers the point for a moment. "What is it that you hope to accomplish in this city? Are you here simply because it was the next stop in your journey towards immortality or do you hope for something...more out of your new life?" The question is asked as the pale man leans forward in his chair a bit - eager for an answer.

"A new unlife. I am simply a student and different places offer different slices of information and observation." She swallows hard and considers her drink once more, perhaps for consumption this time around. It remains untouched, however, and her attention returns to Blackwell. "If I need to move on, I shall. For now, I see no reason to. I could set roots down here, but from what I'm hearing already, it seems to be a place that is on sand foundations."

Blackwell nods, approving of the girl's appraisal of the situation. "In deed it is. Only a fool would hope to turn sand into bricks." He sighs audibly and adds, "With the Rose and the Sword ready to strike at each other the moment that this 'truce' keeps them apart has been resolved, I would not doubt that they will be at odds once more." His hands, pale and slender and a bit too long to be normal, rock back and forth on the silver pommel of his walking stick for a moment or two as he considers the words a bit more. "A student...you say? Of what? Oh please say that you aren't attempting to study the history as written by mortal hands. It has been...edited so much that one wonders how they are able to make logical sense."

"As much as I know of both sides, the idea of having 'peace' is absurd. It already feels like a lie, hungry, growling dogs waiting at a line just being kept in place by weak leashes." This actually causes the girl to roll those cornflour blue eyes. She didn't believe the concept for a minute. "Yes, a student. And I do study the lore of us all. However, if you look at this as more so religion instead of history, then logic plays little to no part in this. Mostly all religions are written by the hands of men. The enjoyment is searching for said information that was written by Kindred hands, and perhaps, by one of age that has passed down such words. Seth's children wish to know where they came from, so God came. Kindred wished the same, as all children, so others came. Caine, Lilith, and the theory that we have always been."

Blackwell hrms and nods appraisingly, "So the Mother and Father are not but smoke and the feebled scribblings of ancients who would name their creators?" He shrugs a bit, "In truth I have no idea where we came from, nor do I put much strength behind any of man's religion...or our own. It is, however, an interesting read; much like that of a detective novel whose pages have been scattered about the land in a storm." His too-long fingers gesture about him mimicking the passing flutter of something brushing by him in an imagined wind. Theatrical, if a bit disturbing, as the fingers with their off-yellowed nails return to the top of the walking stick. "I, for my part, have found a few over the years."

"As have I. One such reading was actually a gift. One I did not expect, but did, however, set to change my Unlife." Her hands rest against her lap and she sits in a polite, posture correct fashion. "I do not believe that the writings are just those searching for names, however, that is a possibility. I actively acknowledge Caine as our Fathers' Father, but saying such is a taboo against those of the Camarilla. It also makes those of the Sabbat think you are in their ranks. Disappointment to both, however, is never a joyful experience."

Blackwell smiles thinly and adds, "Blood before Bonds, my dear childe. Brothers before Bones, as my people are often quoted." With the realization that the girl avows to be a Cainite as himself, his entire personality shifts a bit. "You and I have that much in common. Unwelcomed in both for our acknowledgement of the Father but let them have their war." With that he reaches up to his face to stroke some imagined goate in thought. "You are to count yourself as one I would see again, Miss Lotte." The use of the girl's name would seem to be a hint at his approval. No longer just 'childe' or 'girl' but the use of her given name. It would seem that the pale man might have a compassionate side for researchers.

"Wars often drag in others from the outside. Streets run red and usually with a wash of vitae and ashes that comes from neither warring faction." She offers a shrug to this as well, but her expression finally twitches at the shift in Blackwell's words. That smile, as faint and timid as it is, returns upon her full lips. "Thank you. I would enjoy talking about the past with you. Seeing what you believe and what you have found most useful." She pauses then, and offers out her hand as she had nights before. "Sir, allow me to greet you as your sister from the same Father over all. May I have a name to call you by now? May I know your family?"

The white-haired Elder rises from his seat at the table and bows before the girl. Not a nod, not even a courtly bow one might do befor a waltz. This is a bow; humble and honest. With his walking stick raised in one of his outstretched hands and the other raised equally, his pale and slender form is arched like a giant white raptor ready for the first massive pump of his wings to carry him aloft. "I am Lord Thomas Blackwell, Elder of the Nosferatu, Grandson of Caine," the words seem to have an 'echo-like' quality to them as he speaks, as though the were deeper and more resonant than his usual, conversant voice. He doesn't unfurl his banners for just anyone it would seem - and possibly for good reason. "...and I greet you as a Sister of the Blood."

Lotte withdraws her hand once more. Apparently, those in this city find such a greeting old hat, or useless. She smiles, however, her hand returning to her lap and her head bows out of respect to the being before her. "Lord Blackwell, I'm pleased to finally know my Brother and who's son he is. I am Lotte Oswald, Ancillae of the Malkavians, Daughter of Malkav, our Grandfather is one in the same." Saying it in such a way seems to make the girl bounce atop her seat. Such pageantry was fun. Her brows slope then, however, and a worry creeps from her voice. "Do you worry? About the prophecy of your Kin when the end days come?" Was she concerned for him?

Blackwell shakes his head, a few stray white hairs falling to his face and brushed back behind a pointed ear before he retakes his seat. It would seem that standing is something that he prefers not to do for long periods of time. "No no...Sister. Our Brothers have long-since come to grips with our own fate. Some would seek to dig themselves deep into the earth and wait out the final nights in solitude. Others would breed like rats, hoping that their brood would protect them. Others still, like myself, have understood that if such a night is to come - then we are powerless to stop it." His tone would seem rather non-challante about the whole deal but not so much so as to be flippant about it. "All we can do is to make the journey ever so much more meaningful than the destination."

Lotte nods, remaining silent as ever while listening to his thoughts made vocal. "I see," perhaps she actually did. "I suppose I have a silly notion regarding the end. I have told another that I wish to live my life as best I can, and as much like Caine as I am able. I hope, that when he returns, and calls us to his throne, that I will have his blessing, even just a nod or smile, before he reclaims my blood into himself." The idea of a final death was a fear of most of the Undead, but the tiny thing sitting upon her bar stool seems almost content with the idea of having it done at the hands of the First. "So few take those of my Family seriously. For that alone, I thank you from the depths of my soul, Brother."

"You have my attention now, Miss Oswald," he uses her family name now that he knows it, "...and my friendship such as it may be. Let none cross your path without due cause and I shall know of it." He smiles wickedly, his teeth only partially visible for a second before his lips curl together to conceal them. "I would hope to thank the Father for his many gifts. So few appreciate what we have been given and think only of their own selves. I believe," he speaks the word and then pauses as though it's not a phrase that he utters often, "...that when that night comes, the selfish shall simply end without a word. We, the followers of his Blood, may hope, at least, for an audience."

"I never considered myself worthy enough for such a thing. His audience. Any note of my worth to him? I will fall willingly under his fangs." She offers almost as if it were a dream of hers. She even smiles, the swooning fantasy of a young fanatic. "Perhaps he will keep us with him. Perhaps we will stand against the coming waters of the Mother's return. Who can say, really." She eyes his table and then gathers her wine and joins him. On his level, looking into his face. "I cannot offer much because I have no position within this city, but should you need of me, ask and I shall be there." There's that warmth, finally returning. "May I ask you about something? That woman, the Assamite, Faqirah. Why did you prod at her so? It reminded me of a child with a stick outside of a beasts cage. She offered to 'teach' me at some location later. I'm afraid I will not be going, but I didn't understand her meaning. But you, you seemed to take great interest in her."

Blackwell offers, "The Swords have their daggers. To ignore how sharp they are is to court your own final death. To realize this and to acknowledge it, publicly, is to say to the blade - I know you are sharp but you have no need to cut me." His reasons might be a bit rambled but only partially. "She and I...are loyal to our own causes. Such loyalty comes with a price. We should never be so similar that we would forget that, but neither would we forget that, in the end, we have no hate for each other."

"Such forces could be made with those that think alike if only 'causes' were placed aside. We are Beasts, and bred from Humans. That ability for true peace is beyond us, I fear." A deep sigh passes through her lips, and finally, she takes up her glass and sips from the sweet, chilled liquid within it. "She told me the name of your friend, Jax I believe? Mister Arec was trying to allow me to introduce myself, but that did not go over well. You were there, I need not tell you." She takes another sip and leans against the table in a conversational, casual manner. Her elbows settle there, and the flute rests between her delicate hands. "Surprises are a beautiful thing. I'm glad you were one of them, Brother. At the start, all I saw was the Camarilla. Cookie Cutter and the same story, just in another location."

Blackwell smiles wickedly once more, "Oh...my dear sister of the Blood...surely you know that we are more than a pretty cover on a shelf, yes?" He stands as if preparing to leave and smooths his jacket a bit while walking down the isle beside his table with the tell-tale click-drag of his walking stick. "It is always the forgotten tome, weathered and worn beyond the brightness of youth that gathers our attentions, yes? What value is there for gilded fittings upon a cover that has seen its share of dawnings. We are each a journal of our master's work, yes?" With that, he extends his hand - yes his hand - to the woman as if begging her to place hers in his before he leaves, "It has been a -pleasure- to make your acquaintance Miss Oswald, but I fear I must depart and attend to another errand this night."

Lotte stands once he does. A frown on her features as she listens to him, and knows he's leaving. She looks genuinely sad about this, pouting even. She offers her hand, linking the pair together with a silken touch. "I understand." She does, but that doesn't mean it's a happy thing. She doesn't make a comment toward his original question and perhaps, she doesn't need to. "I shared in that pleasure, Brother. I hope to meet with you again. Do you need my number or a way of contacting me?"

Blackwell shakes his head, "No my dear. Should I have need of contacting you...you will know it." Yes, he has to chuckle a bit. Its that evil villain chuckle that has become so cliche but somehow he carries it off. It must be the pale skin, white hair and glowing eyes - those always help.