En Route
I shall begin this electronic missive by voicing my displeasure at being sent back to the old world mere years after returning to my home in the new one.
I assume that Mendosa may already have mentioned how I voiced my discontent to his face (which I did take pleasure in doing), but I suspect that mentioning it in this communication will make my complaint official. I make no secret of my disdain for the prince of New York - or should I say, Manhattan - and if I'm completely honest, I have more respect for the locals that fought on the streets than the Ventrue administrators who placed one of their own in charge after all was said and done. Still, I prefer the company of antagonistic Camarilla to the clueless or hypocritical Sabbat. That said, I will not allow Mendosa the satisfaction of perishing while on this assignment, regardless of the inconveniences threatened by his masters should I refuse it. Yes, I am aware that making an enemy of the Camarilla as a whole would be more problematic than adding to the frustrations of individual princes. As long as you recognise that I am not a member of the Sabbat, I will meet whatever you choose to throw at me with the vigour typical of any true survivor.
That said, after viewing the material supplied by the Nosferatu, I am interested enough to allow Tomas the "victory" of removing me from his city after his previous and numerous failed attempts. You have precious few Lasombra available to investigate others apparently of our clan, and I assume the likes of Montano or Galeazzo are far too busy for a mere breach of the Masquerade; no doubt it is better to send a Keeper of no political significance to your ongoing sectarian nonsense. As I have told Mendosa, I will have none of it, save to reduce any Tzimisce I come across to ash whenever the opportunity presents itself. I suppose the Camarilla considers that my only good deed, compared to the trouble in Lisbon, Paris and London at, and following, the turn this century... and I assume that Canis Nobile confirmed that I did not in fact steal the sword of Charlemagne, since I have heard nothing more about it. If Paris prefers spouting baseless accusations to justify a blood hunt over actually investigating, as Magnus and I did once he tracked me down, I would take greater issue with Villon and his minions than a wayward Lasombra autarkis.
On the subject of investigation: aside from attempting to hasten my Final Death, I have also been tapped for this task because you desire a pair of eyes at Silas that are not Tremere. The opportunity to humiliate them with a breach of the Masquerade on their doorstep would be secondary to ferreting out any actual secrets you can use against them. If that was your intention, I should inform you that I have not forgotten why they are called Usurpers, nor that you Patricians facilitated their survival despite their crimes. Should I learn anything about the Tremere in Silas, I see no reason to share that information with you. In the past, I would have gladly filled my role in furthering the Cainite jyhad that is part of our curse, delivering Final Death against any I considered an enemy. I did not avoid slaughtering New York's Camarilla hunters because I was trying to get on Mendosa's good side. The fate of the Ravnos has proven that, whatever emnity is involved, Final Death is best avoided... save for those whose founders have already perished.
Do not waste time repeating the Camarilla company line to me. Regardless of my opinion of you Inner Council types, you are not fools. You know what happened and why. You know the threat is real.
In case this device is not already relaying my location, I have reached Europe and will contact you again as I approach my final destination.
Vale sent the message to one of the two numbers that had come with the smartphone, then turned the device off. Perhaps its GPS was still working regardless, but that mattered little compared to knowingly carrying around a device designed to spy on him. Perhaps it had been altered so that he would only think he had turned it off; he did not have the technical knowhow to be sure. Yes, he had learned more about how computers worked since settling in New York, but this was already next generation technology as far as the solitary Lasombra was concerned. The last time he had interacted with a touchscreen, it had been on an ordinary television screen - the old boxy kind, not the flatscreens of today - and it had seemed little more than a novelty. Now, he held in his hand a device that was nothing but screen on one side, and the only keyboard was the one that popped up whenever he tapped the message box.
The phone had been delivered to him by a Nosferatu, not a Ventrue; Vale was fairly sure that it had not been delivered through the Nosferatu. Despite their appearance, he would rather develop contacts with the Sewer Rats than the Blue Bloods... or Patricians, as they had been called in centuries past. He liked to give the impression that he was older than the century he had under his belt. If someone knew too little or too much of him, it would raise troubling questions either way, and troubling his fellow Cainites was one of his reasons for unliving, these nights. Another reason to merely subdue all attackers: one cannot vex a pile of ash.
The Tzimisce were exempt, of course. Fuck the Fiends. In whatever orifices they might have. With a barbaque fork.
Tangents. His mind kept going off on tangents. The city of light was a fitting name for the place of his revelation, but before that, he had performed one of the darkest deeds of his unlife here. Granted, it was the result of a loss of control, provoked by another, who became both victim and tormenter after the act... would he have reached his revelation without it? Regardless, when he wasn't busy doing something, it was easy to become distracted, even this long after the voice in his head had finally been subsumed.
Vale considered the phone in his hand. As the Nosferatu explained its functions, she had mentioned that it contained more technology than it took to send men to the moon. Men did not go to the moon anymore. Once they had set foot upon it for the very first time, the space race was over. Science was the only reason to go back, and that reason soon proved lacking. Mars was the new target, but united nations seemed to lack the impetus of opposing nations locked in a cold war.
Tangents.
Setting the phone on the desk, the Lasombra glanced about the unlit Parisian hotel room with the Night Sight that was particular to his clan, grounding himself in the present before wasting more time in the past. The locals would be upset at his return, but he was now capable of passing through unnoticed. He would spend the day here, feed when evening fell, and continue on his way. For the moment, the Lasombra considered the writing stationary before him. There was another who would be interested in his current circumstances.
Pisha,
I have been all but commanded to investigate Silas University in Styria, Austria. Their English website boasts the most comprehensive occult research program in the world, but seems perfectly normal otherwise. Despite my decades of research across much of Europe, I have never heard of the place, and no one I have spoken to is even aware of it. At first I suspected that the Tremere had performed some sort of obfuscation ritual, but the internet-inclined among the Nosferatu have been poking about the place online for a while.
A journalism student has recently been uploading videos to the Silas ethernet - which I gather is a local network rather than a worldwide one - concerning her missing roommate, among others. In the process, she seems to have accumulated video evidence of her new vampire roommate.
The Camarilla are predictably concerned. Blood in the fridge, nocturnal behaviour, preternatural strength, and the ability to set an offensive musical record on fire without even conjuring a handful of the stuff and throwing it. There is some contradictory behaviour, such as a lack of rotschreck in regard to sunlight or fire, and the consumption of chocolate foodstuffs... though I have learned that, on very rare occasions, a Cainite can retain the ability enjoy mortal food and keep it down for a whole evening. After my experiences with the Kuei-Jin, I am fascinated by these contradictions and willing to investigate for my own reasons; the latest of which is the vampire roommate's capability for Tenebrous Form.
I presume the Ventrue are more interested in digging up some fresh dirt on the Tremere than enforcing the Masquerade, and they sent me so that if the effort leads to my permanent demise, they still accomplish something. I intend to disappoint them on both counts, but given the technology of today, ethernet videos can become internet videos, which can become "viral" videos. We share an interest in maintaining the Camarilla's Masquerade as well as the occult. I would appreciate any information you can share.
I know my messenger is unconventional even among such supernatural creatures ourselves, but it is efficient. It will remain in your presence without betraying its own, until you have written your response. When you are alone, place it on a table or other surface and speak aloud that it is your response to me. When it is consequently enveloped in darkness (pun intended) and disappears, be assured that it will be in my hands in due course.
I hope your own work is proving fruitful.
Vale.
"Decius," the Lasombra spoke as he folded the letter and slid it into an envelope.
In response, a darker shadow above the hotel room's door began to roil, then slid across the ceiling and down the wall against which the desk was placed. Once it was level with Vale's face, it coiled around itself, swirling slowly, akin to a rotating hypnotic image. Its master stared into it, picturing the subject of conversation. "You remember the Nagaraja named Pisha."
A voice no more substantial than a breeze whispered, "The flesheater."
"Yes," the Lasombra confirmed, holding his letter before the swirling shadow. "This is my message to her. Take it. Find her through the Abyss. Deliver it to her when she is alone. Remain in her presence, hidden, until she has prepared her response. When she tells you that it is ready, take it and bring it to me."
Instead of taking the envelope, another whisper. "Alone..."
Vale raised an eyebrow at the entity's confusion. "Clarify."
"She is not alone."
It took only a moment to guess that it meant Pisha had not been alone during their meetings. Vale had rarely bothered with vocal conversation with previous Abyssal entities that he had drawn into his service, usually relying on a kind of telepathy unique to the fragmented intelligences that drifted through the shadow realm. Experience had taught him that a combination of mental and vocal communication worked best once t he had drawn them out of the Abyss and into his service. This one was intelligent and diligent enough for Vale's liking, but for some reason it had little concept of the passage of time. "Define," he commanded.
"Empty."
"Of?"
"Blood."
Of course. The Nagaraja were necromancers. "Dead. Deceased. A ghost."
"Yes."
"How many?"
"One."
"Always the same one?"
"Yes."
"Was it aware of you during our meetings?"
The spiralling pattern slowed. "Perhaps," it decided.
Vale smiled slightly. "It likely assists her, as you assist me. If it is just the two of them, you may show yourself to deliver my message, and retrieve hers. When you find her, approach from a distance; if the ghost becomes aware of you, it will warn her. When you return to me, tell me whether or not it does so. But remember, this is secondary to delivering my message to her, and her response to me."
"Understood."
The Lasombra held the envelope up once again, and this time the swirling darkness reached out from the wall like a horizontal whirpool and swallowed the message. The shape suddenly slammed flat against the wall again, and Vale could almost see it protruding into the shadow realm of the Abyss before it left his sight completely, leaving only the ordinary absence of light draped across the wall.
Morning approached Paris. If Pisha was still somewhere in the Americas, she would probably receive his missive before the dawn reached her. Here and now, Vale could feel the sunrise tugging at his senses, threatening the lethargy that always followed. He stood, picked up the smartphone and pocketed it before moving into the bathroom. The mirror over the sink refused to acknowledge his existence as he passed it and stepped into the bathtub.
He stared into the open plughole as he concentrated. As he did, veins of utter darkness began to grow from the soles of his boots, climbing ever upward over his clothes, the fabric seemingly falling away to reveal nothing but more darkness underneath. The dark veins reached Vale's neck and continued across his face unabated, flesh cracking and crumbling, the darkness welling up from behind his eyes until nothing human was left.
Vale's Tenebrous Form collapsed and slithered down the plughole, stretching string-like along the pipes like a tapeworm settling in copper intestines to sleep the day away.