P. 1
Night Air

Night Air

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Published by Blechman Shay

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Published by: Blechman Shay on Feb 15, 2012
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02/15/2012

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~~~ The cool night air hits your skin, as it brushes through the dead hairs on your arm

you begin to stir from your day slumber. As you begin to shack off the death that falls upon you with the rising of every sun, you clear your eyes and begin to take in your surroundings. It is then with much Alacrity you realize where you are. As the sounds of soldiers yelling and clanging of great war machines echoes through the night, you know the Romans have finally broken through the wall of Carthage. The night has come, and this is your final stand. As you exit the basement of the humble house you had slept in during your most vulnerable time. You take one step and feel the sticky red ichor that lines the streets. As you realize the romans have already begun their slaughter of the home you love so dearly, you search frantically for your fellow Cainites. All you can do is hope, that you are not the last. You make your way through the city in chaos, slaughtering roman solider and cainite alike, you about collapse to your knees knowing this is the end. Then, out of the chill of the night your salvation is heard. It is her! Calling upon the precious vitae in your veins you try to move faster than you have ever moved before. You know that if you can reach her, she will give you all the salvation you seek. As you round the street corner to the city square you see her in all her glory. Clad in armor and her hair tied up ever so neatly your savior bends knees with each shout of her voice. With each swing of her mighty bronze sword the earth trembles. The very sight of her brings you to weep. Even though in your heart, you know you all are truly doomed, at least she stands with all of you still. Even at the end. As you are swept up in her glory and following every command she gives, you know it is his fault. You knew it from the day he arrived. Why she fell in love with him, you will never know. Though perhaps it is not entirely his fault after all. Perhaps he truly is sincere. Surely he could have fled at any moment. Instead he stands by her side, ever the loyal lover it would appear. The hours go on; the fighting is brutal and desperate. Even she knows the fight is lost. Now the Romans have the last of you encircled. You look to your savior for words of encouragement. That you will die knowing you stayed true to your heart. And indeed her last words are inspiring, but even she can’t fully hide the fear in her eyes. You all know this is the end. The leaders of the Roman Cainites crest the hill. Smiles of victory and satisfaction cross their face, they are so close you can feel it. The strong woman, whom you believed in, whom you have followed all this time, she turns and bids you all good bye, even now she apologies for failing you all. The last time you see her, she is clutching her lover tightly, and him her. They begin to sink into the ground, as much of the rest of the remaining army does. You know that while the battle might be lost, the war, perhaps it can eventually be won in time. You are after all, immortal. You feel the earth begin to consume you, its warm embrace keeping you safe. You can only imagine what the bloated vile romans are doing to your beloved city.

For a time it is black, blacker then you could ever conceive. Perhaps this is what hell is like, devoid of all the warmth of the gods love. You feel an eternity pass. Trapped forever in that moment. The fall of the only thing you ever loved. The weight of the sorrow carries in your heart as time passes. As you relive each moment you wonder what difference you could have made. Just as you feel as though you can take no more, you hear a voice in the distance. It is far to humble to hear at first. Murmuring at best, whispers as if those treading know what they have stumbled upon. Then silence. As your heart begins to hang heavy, having hoped your resurrection had come at last, you simply begin to return to your state of normalcy. That’s when you hear it. A piercing scream. The Howl of Death. It strikes and assaults all your senses. It pierces your very soul. You move to scream as you realize the source of the despair. Your savior has been slain. After all these years, she has finally been brought low. As you rage against your tomb, trying to release yourself from your prison you know you will go mad. Your bonds will not let go, you are as helpless as the day the romans came. Even with all your might it’s no hope, that’s when the dirt begins to move on its own. You can feel it being thrown aside above you. You wonder, and hope, that perhaps the killers have come for you finally. Perhaps some young Cainite discovered the truth and has come to claim ancient vitae. A warmness of your own demise begins to fill you, an end to it all. Perhaps you will rejoin your lady once again. At the very least, hell can be no worse then what you have already endured. As the final patch of dirt clears your face and you smile knowing the end has come, you look up to not see your slayers. Instead you are greeted by him. Her lover, he has dug you free. He offers you a hand and leans in with a stern look upon his face and blood tears in his eyes. “Come Maharbal, I have risen. And we shall have our revenge.” ~~~ =FLASH= The night sky scorched with factory smoke and gaslight. The stench of poor sanitation, too many people packed into tenements. The smell of charcoal, foundries and mills blending with the overall stench, morphing into a charnel pit of burning bodies, of burning cities. A Cloaked Figure walks unseen through the streets, through streets which seem to shift from location to location: here an ancient city, there a feudal village, elsewhere a modern American suburb. It walks with steady slowness, keeping the rhythm with a steady TAP-TAP-TAP of Its scythe as It leads a translucent, spectral ox-cart behind It. Your heart beats to the rhythm of Its tapping as the image slowly begins to fade and shift...

=FLASH= The blood and heat and madness of battle after battle. Horrifying sights and sounds as Jerusalem fell. Atrocities, committed by Kindred and Kine alike, the echoing screams of women and children who were granted nothing resembling quarter or mercy. Madness, pure and nearly excruciating in its intensity, permeates every fiber of your being. You feel the cold desert nights, taste the coppery tang of blood in the air, smell the burning sacked cities, and for a brief moment you stand with the swarm of Brethren who hurried to the Holy Land to answer the Call in the aftershock of the madness there. The smell of the burning bodies and burning homes lingers in your nostrils. A visored Knight tastes the senselessness of the violence and, for the first time, feels nothing. He butchers another silently unyielding woman and dreams of... =FLASH= A gray city sprawls far beyond its famed seven hills. Its once inspirational beauty is buried beneath the grime of centuries of corruption and madness, the blood of all-too-brief Emperors and the Sacrificial Nameless alike. You watch through sad eyes as a madman plays a joyful melody on his fiddle while the flames break across the cityscape. You marvel briefly that the destruction brings a beauty to the city which hasn’t been seen in ages. A veiled Woman in archaic finery stares through the scene playing itself out before her, the Present and Future layering themselves on top of one another while she remembers the Past... =FLASH= A small family of Brethren make plaintive entreaties to their long-forgotten gods and to their Progenitors as they are led to sacrificial fires. Survivors dragging themselves across the desert screaming without end. A Lord’s request for wise counsel; a Wise Woman’s intense response. The Lifeblood of Sires pouring over the lips of their Childer; the flesh of Childer feeling soft and pliant on the teeth of their Sires. Carnage. Flames. Destruction. The joy of chaos emanating from a Man who walks unmolested through the streets of the besieged city, bringing the fires of passion to all whom He passes. The scrape of nails in the dark and a soft keening in the back of the throat echo throughout every passage of your mind. ~~~ A nondescript man is walking with you across the desert toward a city. The city is carved from the very rock. YOu have a desire to make him happy, to obey him. He is everything to you. He is the center of your world, he is the reason you wake up each night/day, he is the very next thing to a God.

"[Your Name], our plans are coming to fruition. In just a few short nights we will open the portal and our Master will be with us." The man walks with you for miles, for hours. As you walk you are joined by all those of the blood. He comes to a well. The smell of blood and filth and death wafts up from it and it is such a beautiful aroma. It is the smell you associate with your Master, with all of the Children. It is the scent of your embrace/turning. You are chanting in a language so old that it does not have a name. The non descrpt man is sacrificing one hundred children, each by hand and in turn. As he does so he calls out "Master, we open the door for you." You are sitting in your Haven and he is standing over you. "You will help me to open the door. Our Master will come to us and we shall destroy those who oppose us. You will serve in the choir and shall sing his prasies." You wake up in a cold sweat, soaked and sticking to your bedding.You are overcome by a feeling of apprehension and fear mingled with a glorious rapture unlike any you have ever experienced. ~~~ You’re standing in the choir singing praises to Ba’al. The Non-descript man stands at the altar, naked and covered in blood. The mewling infant is raised high above his head, held by its neck. He brings the knife across its throat, its warm blood falling down onto him and onto the dais upon which he stands. As the blood spills you feel the power of the child’s life fill the room and then you hear the wet thud as its body falls onto the pile at the man’s feet. He calls out to Ba’al with you, joining the chant for the hundredth time. His voice blends with your own and with the other voices in the choir. You wake up and smell the dust and blood from the chamber. You feel fatigued from the hours, no, the days of chanting. You taste the blood of infants on your tongue.

~~~

You awaken in the middle of the temple. You know that if you’re late for the ritual He will eat your soul and that will be pleasant compared to what the Master will do to you if this fails.

You’re running down a sandstone corridor not even having bothered to dress. You arrive and He is already at the altar. The knife is falling toward the breast of the newborn as it lies there mewling loudly.

The infant is suddenly silent as the smell of fresh blood fills the cavern. You no longer need to feed as the scent of the infant’s blood fills you. It fills you like food once did, leaving you no longer starving, like water in the desert and air in your lungs. You are ALIVE!

And then you die again. The memory of that life pushing you forward knowing that when you open the gate and the Master comes through that you will live again and become one with your Dark Lord.

~~~

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