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writing_shadowsI don’t kill unless I need to.
It’s not a matter of mercy or humanity, you understand; it’s a point of pride. Whatever my looks, I have the blood of a Daeva and the Beast roars in me. The Old Man and I don’t agree on much, but we’re both down with the idea that we’re all monsters. High Clan, Low Clan; First Estate or third base (I don’t know): We’re all at the basest level just the same agglomeration of dead meat and fizzing vitae, slogging on in stubborn defiance of the natural order. Whatever our origins – be we the mutant spawn of the Goddess, bastard scions of the sin of Longinus or bearers of the cursed blood of Caine – we are a plague upon the natural order; monsters all, wallowing in our lairs and watching the lights of Heorot with envy and hate.
Sure, the Nosferatu are the obvious monsters, but what’s that in the scheme of things? Ain’t it always the quiet ones you need to watch? The Gangrel? Savages, sure, but what’s that worth? The Requiem isn’t a Party social event, whatever we try to pretend; it’s supernature, red in tooth and claw, and the Gangrel are better equipped to survive it that anyone. It seems some people still insist on judging by the cut of your clothes and the quality – or absence – of your shoes, but line me up against any Gangrel in the Cambridge Court – they’re not what you might call typical, but damn they look good – and see how fashion shapes up as a measure.
If anyone, it’s the ‘High’ Clans who are the real monsters: The Ventrue with their smug superiority and the Daeva with our seething, relentless wanting, and all of us shaping our blood to warp and control the hearts and minds of others. A little light flesh-rending seems positively playful by comparison; coquettish, even.
That’s not an apology for being a Daeva, by the way. It’s not even an apology for being a vampire. I am what I am and I get on with it; I just get a little pissed off when people try to pretend that what I am – what we are – is pretty. Let’s face it; if we weren’t a fucked up bunch of misbegotten beasties, Old Spike would never have had cause to set us on this road to restoration.
But I digress.
I don’t kill unless I need to, but when I need to, I don’t feel bad about it. That’s what I mean about not apologising. I am a vampire, I feed, and sometimes I kill. So it goes. What I don’t do is kill without reason, or for pleasure. That’s the Beast’s urge, and the Beast can fuck off.
Day-to-day hunting is easy: A lightning strike encounter on the edge of a crowd; a brief, intense moment, a touch of anaemia and a splitting hangover the next day are all they have to remember you by. Now, I could take the extra step easily enough; draw my prey away from the crowd with force and fascination, bite hard, drink deep, but I don’t need to. To hold them in the grip of ecstasy while I draw at the well until the pulse slows and the limbs go loose and the body sags heavy in my arms is undeniably a rush, but save at the height of need – before or after a great battle, perhaps – it is pure indulgence, and I reject indulgence.
Well, most of the time.
The temptation is always strong. I am a Daeva and I crave sensation; I crave the power of life and death. That craving twists inside me like a living thing; the most alive part of my dead self. If it wasn’t so damned strong, I doubt I’d bother to fight it so hard, but I’ve always had trouble backing down before the odds. Kaleva knew that; he used that, the cunning old worm.
All those nights of starvation, the pain and frustration, the ice cold river and the white hot flames, all his cruelty and all his games; it was aimed not at burying my Beast, but at stoking it to a fury and might that I could not help but want to fight. In the end, it was the burning desire for blood that made me resolve that I would not seek it, save out of need.
In the end, I reached an accord with myself. I let the Beast play a little, but I keep it on the leash. Blood makes it want to forget that accord, so sometimes when I feed I need to give the leash a tug. Mostly it is satisfied with the rhythm and the fury of combat; lulled by use from the edge of rebellion.
So, although the blood tastes good and the Kiss is exquisite, I maintain control. Sometimes I let myself go more than others, but I don’t kill.
Unless I need to.
It’s not a matter of mercy or humanity, you understand; it’s a point of pride. Whatever my looks, I have the blood of a Daeva and the Beast roars in me. The Old Man and I don’t agree on much, but we’re both down with the idea that we’re all monsters. High Clan, Low Clan; First Estate or third base (I don’t know): We’re all at the basest level just the same agglomeration of dead meat and fizzing vitae, slogging on in stubborn defiance of the natural order. Whatever our origins – be we the mutant spawn of the Goddess, bastard scions of the sin of Longinus or bearers of the cursed blood of Caine – we are a plague upon the natural order; monsters all, wallowing in our lairs and watching the lights of Heorot with envy and hate.
Sure, the Nosferatu are the obvious monsters, but what’s that in the scheme of things? Ain’t it always the quiet ones you need to watch? The Gangrel? Savages, sure, but what’s that worth? The Requiem isn’t a Party social event, whatever we try to pretend; it’s supernature, red in tooth and claw, and the Gangrel are better equipped to survive it that anyone. It seems some people still insist on judging by the cut of your clothes and the quality – or absence – of your shoes, but line me up against any Gangrel in the Cambridge Court – they’re not what you might call typical, but damn they look good – and see how fashion shapes up as a measure.
If anyone, it’s the ‘High’ Clans who are the real monsters: The Ventrue with their smug superiority and the Daeva with our seething, relentless wanting, and all of us shaping our blood to warp and control the hearts and minds of others. A little light flesh-rending seems positively playful by comparison; coquettish, even.
That’s not an apology for being a Daeva, by the way. It’s not even an apology for being a vampire. I am what I am and I get on with it; I just get a little pissed off when people try to pretend that what I am – what we are – is pretty. Let’s face it; if we weren’t a fucked up bunch of misbegotten beasties, Old Spike would never have had cause to set us on this road to restoration.
But I digress.
I don’t kill unless I need to, but when I need to, I don’t feel bad about it. That’s what I mean about not apologising. I am a vampire, I feed, and sometimes I kill. So it goes. What I don’t do is kill without reason, or for pleasure. That’s the Beast’s urge, and the Beast can fuck off.
Day-to-day hunting is easy: A lightning strike encounter on the edge of a crowd; a brief, intense moment, a touch of anaemia and a splitting hangover the next day are all they have to remember you by. Now, I could take the extra step easily enough; draw my prey away from the crowd with force and fascination, bite hard, drink deep, but I don’t need to. To hold them in the grip of ecstasy while I draw at the well until the pulse slows and the limbs go loose and the body sags heavy in my arms is undeniably a rush, but save at the height of need – before or after a great battle, perhaps – it is pure indulgence, and I reject indulgence.
Well, most of the time.
The temptation is always strong. I am a Daeva and I crave sensation; I crave the power of life and death. That craving twists inside me like a living thing; the most alive part of my dead self. If it wasn’t so damned strong, I doubt I’d bother to fight it so hard, but I’ve always had trouble backing down before the odds. Kaleva knew that; he used that, the cunning old worm.
All those nights of starvation, the pain and frustration, the ice cold river and the white hot flames, all his cruelty and all his games; it was aimed not at burying my Beast, but at stoking it to a fury and might that I could not help but want to fight. In the end, it was the burning desire for blood that made me resolve that I would not seek it, save out of need.
In the end, I reached an accord with myself. I let the Beast play a little, but I keep it on the leash. Blood makes it want to forget that accord, so sometimes when I feed I need to give the leash a tug. Mostly it is satisfied with the rhythm and the fury of combat; lulled by use from the edge of rebellion.
So, although the blood tastes good and the Kiss is exquisite, I maintain control. Sometimes I let myself go more than others, but I don’t kill.
Unless I need to.
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