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| to bathe in the blood of thy enemy; TC | |
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| Topic Started: Thursday, 9. April 2009, 21:50 (115 Views) | |
| Chris Nite | Thursday, 9. April 2009, 21:50 Post #1 |
a twisted artist
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His bones ground, blood still seeped from the wound in his chest, his voice had gained a pained crackle to it as cartilage broken off in the fight with the Brujah still floated about. His appearance was of a man, rightly so, escaped from a brutal attack though he couldn’t help but let a cruel smile flicker across his face with each pained step. The pain kept him vital, let him know that he had survived and made sure that his mind whirred with the final images of the dying piece of meat and her dark saviour faced with her death due to his own incompetent actions. What hadn’t been part of his plan in all of this however was the damage he had suffered, the blood he had spilled that was dark and pure, mixing with the Camarilla dogs and his bitch on his beautiful floor. That had been his prize acquisition but it was compromised now, useless and a waste. The Brujah had a lot to answer for and it was with that snarl that he pounced on a slumbering tramp in an alleyway. He had no time for the pleasure of his usual hunting grounds, the finesse and challenge of finding the victim that could be art and playing until he grew tired and knew they would not be his vision only to destroy their body with his voracious appetite. This time he needed blood to heal and so ripped into the mans throat as if a wild animal, satisfying his lust for blood by letting the arterial spray hit the back of his throat, caking his already filthy body as the force of it could not be contained by his feeding. The man was dead in moments but his blood was enough so that Chris could make headway into finishing the job he had started before the dog and return his body to the perfection his master had created. He bayed for blood, this time not to heal wounds but to wreck revenge on his enemy. As his tribe had done in his life time he was a warrior and it angered him that a sap lecturer content to spend his nights mingling with the cattle had almost bested him. He had been weak and unprepared for the anger that the sight of his work in progress had created, a foolish action that he would never let occur again. He was almost home, the sanctuary of the Sabbat stronghold, his brothers, his kin. He would take comfort in their strength for it was within their ranks that he was strong, his master had taught him well, shown him the true path and he would not deviate from it. The club front would appease him, he would seek out some entertainment later to toy with and test out what he intended on doing to the Brujah once he found and caught him. Firstly, however, he would gain entry from the alleyway and clean himself up. His blood dried slowly but surely, his clothing stiff and uncomfortable, blood flaking from his healing wounds and his smooth skin. It looked like black snow, smelt of death and violence, it made him lick his lips not with hunger but with desire to cause such blood to spill from someone else. Cathartic solution was for a mortal to play with but in his black heart he would want every slice, every piercing of his intended victims skin to be one of the Camarilla that supposedly ruled this city. Slamming the alley door open he strode in before kicking it shut behind him. This had not been a good night and he wanted to make it all better in the only true way that any Sabbat could….by spilling the blood of his enemy. |
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| "TC" | Monday, 13. April 2009, 05:21 Post #2 |
Corpse Fiddler
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In the labyrinth of cold brick, stained concrete and bloodied steel that coils beneath the infamous Démon de Club in Paris' 11ème arrondissement; like the Beast coils in every vampire's cold, undying heart; in one of the small, unfurnished and desolate rooms directly off of the main, winding corridor, a French youth no older than sixteen by the name of Claude Lafargue lies barely conscious, chained and strapped down to a blood-rusted steel gurney beside a metal tray upon which is arranged a massive assortment of cruel, damaged, over-used and never cleaned surgical instruments and various hardware tools. The lad stirs, his eyes flickering open for a moment before the cold, pale light positioned above shining directly into his face causes them to snap shut once again, as he wonders where the fuck he is and what circumstances have brought him here. Feeling constricted, he tries to move, only to find that he is bound completely to this freezing metal slab. The last thing he remembers is sneaking into the Démon nightclub with a few friends and a falsified ID, then visiting the restrooms and being startled by some strange, wet *clicking* sound that seemed to come from the air right behind him, and then... Nothing. A moment of pain, then blackness... Squirming in his binds, he knocks his head against the metal rail along the sides of the cart upon which he lies, and his head buzzes with sharp, shooting pain. Did he hit his head? Black out, then hit his head? Is he in hospital now? Oh no, his parents are simply gonna kill him when they find out where he's been... And why can't he move? But wait, there's that noise again... That horrid, bone-chilling *clacking* that for some reason makes him feel ill, makes his blood run cold, like there's something horrid... Something horrid... Some intangible thing that he can't quite place, but fills him with the strangest of sense of dread; so primal, like the animal instincts all but forgotten by modern man are screaming at him from the recesses of his mind, triggering a natural fight or flight response of which he currently can perform neither act. And then there's the sense that there is some presence in the room with him, from which his lesser self keeps telling him to run. And then, of course, there's the smell. That unmistakable, sickening stench of rot, mingling with the overwhelming raw, coppery odour of fresh gore and blood, with the slight pungent aftertaste of chemicals and disinfectant, which floods his pounding head and swells the back of his neck with the need to retch and gag. “Quoi... ?” He chokes, trying to speak and finding his throat feels cracked and dry. He coughs, and tries again, “Où...--” He cuts himself off as he hears the clicking sound once more, this time sounding more... Excited. Well, it's worth a try... “Pouvez-vous m'aider s'il vous plaît? J'ai soif...” He begs, his voice broken and trembling. “What?” A voice croaks back which sends chills down the boy's spine, sounding as though it had been spoken through more than one throat – all of which happening to have been slit with a jagged steak-knife, “I don't speak French.” Are those words... English? Claude now wishes he'd paid better attention at school. “Je ne comprends pas. Parlez-vous français, s'il vous plaît?” His voice is shaking even more and once more he desperately tries to open his eyes, the thought that he is currently in a hospital seeming less and less likely next to a far more horrible reality, and more and more like some blissful dream... He does his best to look away from the blinding, sterile light shining above him this time, but to no avail as his vision blurs due to his rheumy eyes welling up with tears that begin to flow in force as he starts to sob with his creeping terror. Probably for the best, as if he could see the grinning, mutilated death's head of the demonic Nosferatu standing over him or the things it has done to him, his weakened heart would surely fail... Which, all things considered, perhaps wouldn't be quite so bad given the circumstances. TC stands over the latest victim of his twisted, black experiments and quenchless thirst for secrets in all his vain and vile glory, looking down on his most recent work with a ghastly sense of pride, having successfully proven his latest theory on understanding the physical process of dying. The new powers he has gained from the knowledge he gleaned at the cost of his former skill with dead bodies advance, and he quickly scribbles down his notes in the blood-smeared grimoire filled with his Necromancy as he beholds the corrupted visage of what was only this very evening a young boy visiting the nightclub above, now twisted into a grotesque mockery of an enfeebled old man by the application of his hideous new powers over death. His jagged smile clicks yet again as he snaps shut his notebook, drumming his long, sharp, discoloured talons against the hard cover a few times. Suddenly he gives a start as the ripped, ragged and bloody holes torn on either side of his fleshy skull receive the sound of a loud *bang* of thick, heavy metal striking brick, followed in short by another, more hollow *clang*, both coming from down the corridor outside. He sets down his tome among the heinous, blood-stained implements of pain and death scattered across the small metal table beside his current “work”; a hot flush briefly coming over his wretched, spindly form as he summons his powers of his Clan to enshroud him in shadow, before the Creep gingerly creeps to the metal door of his temporary laboratory and peers out into the dimly lit, shadowed hallway. He spies a Sabbat brother at the other end of the thin valley of brick between them, looking rather ragged and injured himself with his flesh torn, though healing, in several places as drying blood sloughs off of him in blackened flakes. The Necronomist part of his macabre psyche takes a moment to quietly reflect on the state of his soul, which must be empowered with rage within the ebony Cainite warrior despite his evident closeness to death. How it contrarily draws strength from the damage to its physical form, its soul steeled by fury and its own bloodshed. A perfect specimen to study... But no, the Cainite is his equal in the eyes of Caine, and having earned his creation is more than another experiment. Still, he simply must find out the event of brutality that brought those wounds to bear. In due course, the Creep unceremoniously allows his mask of shadow and bent light to slip, given it is not needed in the presence of another of the Sword, and stands before his brother with his teeth chattering a harsh and unwholesome melody. “What happened to you, brother?” TC eagerly inquires, his clawed hands raised to his chest and extended slightly, as though trying to feel the wounds on the fellow Cainite without touching them, as he lurches forward and circles him on thin, elongate legs, moving like one might expect the villain to sneak in a an early, poorly funded silent movie on 8mm film, “You look like you ran afoul of a lawnmower...” He adds, finally coming to a stop before the other Cainite, with his nasty, beady eyes returning to look upon his face. |
"Remember kiddies, it's not paedophilia if you're dead..."
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| Chris Nite | Thursday, 16. April 2009, 07:59 Post #3 |
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a twisted artist
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He was brought from his solitary thoughts of bloody revenge to the reality of his location and the cainite before him. A brother that his sire would have been fascinated by and by the same tact Chris was also. Nosferatu were a clan that inherently created a sensation of disgust in Toreador but not for Chris, he saw the beauty in their twisted countenance, the taint that their blood gave to their form until they were a step beyond the mortal body they had once been. He knew this brother, TC was his name, though he had not met him other than fleeting glances in the corridor until this night. His face twisted in death was a wonder to behold, a sculpting of bone and flesh that Chris could only imagine was possible by his own hand. He had seen some strange anomalies created by the Nosferatu blood, TC’s was a bloody marvel; a terrifying vision that Chris had no doubt would make any mortal quake to see as their last vision before death. Adrenaline soaked blood...such a pleasure to taste. “My Brother, an honour to see you though I hate that you see me in this state. I have succumbed to the weakness of pride and underestimated the ferocity of my enemy’s attack. A Camarilla dog that ruined my art and made attempt to spill my blood in its entirety.” He sighed and disposed of the ruined shirt, using it to brush the drying blood from his ebony flesh. “Such a pity for the art had the making to become the vision my master had once proclaimed to me, a bloodied angel that would have been a treasure to have played with.” He did smile as he remembered the choice he had left the dog with and a slow chuckle finally crept in. “You would have been so joyous to have seen his face though...his precious juice bag broken by his own hands, injured beyond repair by mine leaving him with the choice to pursue me or to save her. The dogs are nothing if not predictable are they not?” His knuckles cracked, and as he twisted his neck the repairs to his throat seemed to click into play with a crunch and a grind of the bones. “I will not be so foolhardy to think that a god damned Brujah will best me next time, his thin blood will spill and this time he will not have any element of surprise.” He stretched as he looked at the Nosferatu, a comfotable silence between them as he finished his angry tirade, he paused however tilting his head to listen to the muffled sounds coming from a room much further down the corridor. It was, he believed, the room he had once taken to his art in the hectic annuls of the Sabbat stronghold. Needless to say the environment had not been condusive to his success and so abandoned he had attempted nothing further there, perferring to use it as a place for him to reside away from the stench of the cattle, comfortable with the surroundings of Cainites and their lives. The moans and wimpers intrigued him, a soft and appealling music puntucated by sobs that could only come from a mortal. His imagination was captured, what delights could have caused such sounds, and he almost absentmindedly moved forward the light above causing a riot of shadows from the scarification that covered his naked back. "Such delight....." He murmored to himself momentarily forgetting the brother that had greeted him instead walking up to the door way to look in. "Oh my..." He chuckled, his newly repaired voice box resonating with the deep purr as he looked at the scene that assualted his senses letting them flicker with the discraction of such entertainment. "Someone has been having fun." The restrained figure, unable to move any limb rolled his head from side to side with such lacklustre, he appeared to be elderly Chris would estimate some 80 years old though he had not aged well and could easily be older. To end such a life on the table of a Cainite was a horrific end indeed but it made Chris' dark heart swell with pleasure at the sight. The restraints had destroyed his thin, withered skin leaving marks red raw, the damage to his head made Chris purr with pleasure, the sight of the deep red against the mottled liver spotted skin. There was a dichotomy however, one that pleased Chris' eye with it's twisted nature for hanging from his body, oversized and damaged from something, perhaps the predecessors abduction were what could only be described as gang banger or clubbing clothes. The low slung jeans were over sized to the point that were the old man to stand up they would fall from his withered frame, the belt ornament only and something that would look out of place on someone older than 25 let alone 65. The t-shirt was emblazoned with some logo from some popular DJ or band, Chris neither knew nor cared for what he savoured was the look of an old man, with a hair cut that with his grey and white hair looked insane and clothing that would suit the club they were hidden below. Without intending the Cainite who had done this had created the beginnings of art that Chris could only hope to achieve. His mind whirred, ideas stirring on his next project, his bloody angel forgotten like so many before. The only thing that niggled in the back of his mind was the red desire for revenge but now purely because his blood had been spilt by a Camarilla, nothing else mattered. "It this delight yours my brother?" Chris finally turned to look at TC in all his grotesque glory. |
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8:27 PM Nov 28
