Closely fitted black rocks of stone just high into the mists of the Marches. Sleek and smooth, the stones seem more like blocks of onyx now, instead of something more natural as they may have once been.
Hence, this was Asgard, the high world of Norse dreams. Beyond the stone, a flowery landscape wafts a sweet scented season, as if spring eternally expects summer. Asgard's fields resemble smooth green lawns, kept cropped by herds of deep red cows and woolly sheep, and its forests are home to bountiful deer and song birds.
Beyond it all, a large hall opens, vaulted ceilings of shields and beams of spears unfathomable. Valhalla, it was once called, with 540 doors, each allowing 800 great warriors to enter. It is still the grandest keep, a place prepared for those who will do battle at Ragnarok.
A bit way, keen eyes see the clouds open to the hall Valaskjalf, where Hildskjalf rises. Odin's very throne. He is not there now, such the way of many of the Old Ones, who now live in The Marches.
Going onward is simple. A thought, and the mist covers Asgard again, and the bridge Bifrost appears, ready to let traveller pass along.
There are paths of diamonds, of marble, of hematite that radiate outward from a central intersection, if you will, from which all dreamscapes seem to originate. It is, of course, just a matter of perception. Dreams never truly 'begin', just as they never 'end'. They Are. They Have Been. They Will Be.
Imagine it as a compass. Asgard would be North. Tir Na Nog would be East. The Savannah would be South. The West has yet to be given a name. It is the place of All Dreams. Of All Times. Of All Beings. It is the land of the Nightly Journeys...
Colors erupt, blossom a thousand times over, then the colors fall away. Waiting for a dream. Waiting for a purpose. Waiting for You.
Do vampires dream? Certainly. But this one just hasn't done so in a while. But now she is troubled, plagued by a storm brewing. The dark energy within is tightly coiled, ready to spring forth. So far, it's only done so in short bursts. However, her mind has been left splintered, broken, shattered.
So fitting it is that she finds herself in a crossroads here, unsure of where she should be, undecided, uncertain. Perched on top of a large boulder, squatting upon it with her forearms resting upon her knees, shoulders hunched over, Tori peers through mirror-lensed 'specs' at the landscape around her.
Wherever 'here' is, it is still forming. But wherever she will end up, there will be roads leading in every direction with her in the center.
Slowly the precious jewels and stones of the original paths melt away, transforming into muddy, desolate roads. Storm clouds roll over, obscuring the night sky from view. It threatens to rain. But Tori doesn't move.
Thunder and Lightning -- the kind that fill dreams and the minds of poets -- rolls across the entire visible Reality. Cumulus clouds gather. Black, grey, violet. And even as you stand at a crossroads, uncertain, you stand at the intersection between Heaven and Hell. Dream and Nightmare.
Only a sliver of hope separates them...
Blue like the ocean, the clouds above you roil with your own emotion, your own uncertainty, your own insanity. And to the West a land forms. A labyrinth of muddy pathways, leading between thorny hedges. You can see the patterns. Hearts whole. Hearts broken. An otherworldly Villandry.
But even as there are storm clouds, there is also a soothing wind. The presence of those Others who keep you safe upon the material plane. Whatever may be said of them, they surely mean you no harm. That may be felt in the gentleness of the breeze.
Suddenly...
Upon the paths there appear figures, in all manners of dress. Some of them familiar. Some very familiar. They stand as gateways to the paths you may, or may not, choose...
"Alright then," comes the thick English accent -- thicker than it is in the material world...reminiscent of when she was mortal. She stands up on top of the boulder and jumps down to the muddy ground below. Her boots make a squelching sound, but she ignores it.
She glances about, looking at these 'gateways', perhaps unable to see them all at once. With a bit of a shrug, she moves westward and to the closest gateway persona, trying to get a better look. Shoving her hands deep into her long leather trench coat's pockets, she peers through those specs, trying to see better as she gets closer and closer...
He isn't anyone you know. Not that you recognize so intimately. His blood flowed for you one night. Did you kill him? Is this his ghost? Or is he merely a figment. A symbol. "I was hoping you'd come," he says, a smile, full of mortal carelessness, gangliness, but with a spirit's interminable presence and strength.
Nightmares are, for the moment, held at-bay...
"A stormy night," what is his name? J. Joe. Joseph! And suddenly as you recognize him, he takes his proper and true form.
A Goth of goths. A member of the goth group the 'Visigoths'. Lead singer. His hair dyed vampire red, no pun intended. His fingernails painted purple. Make-up flawless. Face handsome. And body tall and lean, completely in leather. Even here.
Wherever Here is...
"Ever think about Portland? The Satyricon," he smiles. You were there once. You drank his blood there once. But then he withdraws his smile. "You choose this path... it is the path of the humans you have encountered along your way. Your mortal children and lovers. Your mortal victims. But help you we will... if we may..."
"I think about it," Tori replies flatly about her old home in Oregon. It nearly seems like another lifetime ago to her now. Though she still has one or two ties with the place, for the most part, it's long gone to her. Then again, so are many other places, things and people.
"It was good while it lasted," she adds, pulling a hand out of a pocket to run through her long raven-hued locks. Her head tilts a bit to the side as she regards you. "But, it's been a while." Her last memories of that city are filled with blood and fear. She blinks behind her mirrored shades and draws in a dream-breath.
Trying to glance behind you, she says, "I had no children. Lovers and victims, yes. But I don't know how they can help me." Turning her face back to you, she continues, "It isn't because of a mortal that I'm here." Perhaps you know more than she does. She's new to this. Dreams for her usually aren't so interactive.
"Oh, you had children..." he laughs. He waggles his black eyebrows -- that used to be the color of his hair -- and he pivots, tossing a look over his shoulders. There are mortals there, those that hung on your words, those that you hunted, those that you loved and cared for over the years. When he turns back, they are gone. In a flickering flash...
"Well, this isn't This is Your Life, Victoria Whitethorne. But it was good while it lasted. "Not sure why I'm here, let alone you." Joseph smiles blithely. "I was busy having an existential argument with myself over a breath of the Dragon." And he shrugs.
Overdose. Well, he wasn't the first. He won't be the last.
"Yeah, I know," his hands slide into the pockets of his black leather coat. "You're looking for a way, which way to go. You know... we're all on that path. Maybe you've forgotten that... in your long long years....what it's like to face a cross-roads every day...."
Maybe in another day, she might have laughed. But she's lost her sense of humour recently. Understandable, right? So, all she does is smirk briefly -- and even that is just a hint of itself. But then she looks past you and sees the mortals there. She looks at them all, and shakes her head in disbelief. So many. Too many.
Drawing in a shuddering breath, she looks back at you as you turn back to face her. "I wasn't expecting that, no... I'm just... yeah, I guess I'm lost," she says, concentrating for a moment. The expression on her face turns to one that suggests that she is trying to remember something or figure something out, but that the answer is always just outside of her reach.
With a shrug, she says, "So, if you're here to help me... what are they here for?" She points a thumb over her shoulder at the other 'gateways' that she couldn't see properly... not just yet. If she were to walk over to one, would they materialize as you did?
He turns to look, eyes squinting. "I don't know. I don't know who they are. I know you are here, and I am here. But I have no idea where this Here is. So, who the hell knows. Could be to help. Could be not..."
Even as he could be... or could be not...
& "Maybe if you start with a question. I think that's how these things usually go. If I'm remembering my Anne Rice correctly." He smiles a little. Just a little. "I think the only way you are going to get out of the...crossroads and back onto your highway is by... figuring out what you want. Or what you need."
"Alright...so, I guess I'm going this way for now," Tori murmurs, thrusting her free hand back into a pocket again. It's more or less just something to keep the hands out of the way. Otherwise, she might fidget.
She moves a little toward you and asks, "So, who do I ask? You? Them?" She nods her head toward where she saw the throngs of mortals behind you. "I want to know where I go from here, I guess. What I do next. That sort of thing. Everything's gotten so complicated."
"It's your chessboard, vampire. I'm just a lowly pawn," he drags on. "Maybe you should start with the storm clouds... and work your way from there..."
He, like all Oracles, can only provide information if it is asked for. He cannot volunteer it. The shade of the mortal waits, and while he waits he goes to light a cigarette. Hey, no one said this was a no smoking zone...
Around you, the other paths twist and sparkle. Voices speak your name. Some of the voices are recognizable. Victoria, they say.
Her eyes flicker to the cigarette... and the flame... And for the first time in a while, she doesn't flinch. In fact, she asks hesitantly, "Hey... you got another one of those?" Tori? Smoking? What's going on? She just needs something... anything... her hand is twitching in her coat pocket. She needs something to do with it. It emerges from her pocket and is held out, as though expecting you to say yes.
Her attention is drawn by the voices, and by the call of her name. "Eh, and would you be offended if I went over to see who that is? I thought I heard my name... I'll be back," she says. Oh, she'll be back to see the mortals. Eventually.
"For you... sure..."
And a clove -- what else? -- is offered to you. And a silver zippo. Actually, it's not silver so much as it is a mirror. "Be careful," Joseph says. "You know... it's easy to get lost. Getting found is harder..." The crowds of mortals disappear, and then so does he.
And beneath your feet, the path you stand upon suddenly joins with another. There is a hooded figure there. Aren't hooded figures in dreams a bad thing? But it looks more like a cloak that is drawn. The man is large. Quite large.
"Thanks," she murmurs, looking at the zippo in her hand. She opens it experimentally, then flicks it, staring at the flame. The cigarette is lit quickly and the flame extinguished. Now, was that so bad? She holds out the zippo, but you're gone even before she can thank you again for the light, or the advice.
"Uh... bye..." she adds with a shrug and looks down at her hand. The lighter is gone. Weird-ass place.
An experimental drag is taken from the clove before she notices the difference in the path. Glancing up, she notices the hooded figure and lets out a startled cry, taking two steps back. Composure thankfully comes quickly before she speaks.
"Whoa. Sorry, you startled me," she says more clearly, lowering her hand with the clove a bit. "So.. who are you?" she asks.
"I am an old man," comes the voice, speaking with the drawl of an old joke. You know the voice like you know yourself. And he speaks from within that hood, not tilting it back. Not letting you see, at least for this moment. But you do not need your eyes. You know him by the size of him. By the sound of him.
There is the smell of blood. Around him, there is a faint whimper of the air, the air that in this realm is cold with the murder he has committed. And the rape. It hums with his contrition. He is a vampire. A vampire seeking redemption. Heaven recognizes he is here. But Hell still calls him by name.
Back to the voice. It is an Aquitaine drawl, that French a seductive slide over tongue and mouth you know too well. That tongue and that mouth that has killed more, taken more than it has ever given.
See, in Heaven, William's soul is tainted. His cloak is black, bloodied, blood gathers on the path beneath his feet. In hell, for him trees blossom and rivers run heavenly clear. Maybe one millennium, after a lot of work, and maybe more than one incarnation, he will have earned his place here. For now, Guillaume d'Angevin is on borrowed time.
"I didn't mean to scare you, Victoria."
There is a visible blink ... it is echoed in her body language, so you don't even have to see past the mirrored specs. Is it really you? How--?
"W-william?" Tori ventures, obviously shaken. Of all people, she did not expect to see you here. Then again, where the hell is here? "Oh... no, it's alright. I'm just trying to figure out where I am.. and where I should be.. Wow... it is really you?" she murmurs in a hushed whisper. The clove is forgotten for now.
She steps forward again, feeling a bit of comfort in that voice. Your appearance is strange to her... unsettling... but your voice calms her and holds her here. If it were anyone else, she might have ran...
"What are you doing here?" she asks.
"Part of me is dead. Part of me is sleeping. Part of me is begging for forgiveness. The usual ritual at noon. I used to have nightmares. I would remember being here." A pause, and he lifts his head. You can see the blue-violet eyes amid the shadows of the cowl. "Or someplace like it. This is just a shade, I understand. I am a figment of my own imagination after a thousand years. I wish I could give you a happy ending, sweet muse of the rose. Unfortunately, I am a Crusader. All I have left is truth."
The vampire's shade inclines his head, but still the cloak does not leave him, still the cowl does not drape back. Mailed hands grip the pommel of a great sword, the sword point is embedded in the marble and stone. It is nearly as tall as he is. He rests his weight against it with all the easy grace that comes from a great deal of practice.
"My soul is lying with its lover on the grassy banks of a clear flowing stream. But a part of me, my guilt, my Truth, my Fate, is projected here. Even as you are. And you. You are looking for him."
You have her undivided attention as she takes all of this in. Nightmares. Ah. I'm dreaming. Something clicks. It makes sense (sort of) now. Or... is it somewhere in between? Possibly. Thinking too hard about it makes the space between her temples throb, so she stops.
"Part of you is stuck here? Oh... how awful.." she murmurs gently, sympathetically. Her head shakes briefly. Her gaze travels down to the mailed hands... to the sword.. and down the blade to the stone beneath. Such an imposing figure. She's never seen this William.
Then you are saying something about your soul with its lover... and your Truth/Fate being here... and her being here, looking for... for...
Her head snaps up as she realizes what you are saying. Pain slashes across her expression and she grasps the sides of her head. "No..." she murmurs weakly, as though fighting something off. For a brief moment, her visage flickers to something else... a wild, insane version of herself. Her mouth grimaces horribly and her face contorts violently as she drops to her knees.
Then she is herself again. "Calm... calm..." she's murmuring. Even here, she is having difficulty dealing with His Death. She's gasping for air she doesn't need.
"You are right. It was too sudden. Too soon. Too abrupt with no answers," she manages to say, looking back up at you.
Her hands have lowered to her knees, the cigarette's smoke curling lazily about her, as though unaware of what just happened. Slumping her shoulders, she forces herself to say, "I have to know." What happened.
"It is as it is," awful or no. And is it awful? Maybe not. But it is what it is. He cannot take it for granted, he cannot argue about it. Dark eyes take in your sympathy, with understanding and a portion of amusement. Someone is pitying me? Me of all people? How endearing.
"Truth is a ...touchy subject," William murmurs. "The mind and heart yearn for it, and yet it can shatter you in an instant as if you were nothing but thin Murano glass. I know. I have sought the Truth of things, like quests for holy grails. You will know. You will not be comforted. But this should not deter you from seeking it."
He makes no move as you splinter, turning into shards like the very glass he mentioned, as you go to your knees. This William does not lower to help you. He merely waits for you to finish and to listen. Ah, the temperament of the vampire. For that is what he is. Fate bound to be here. Destiny bound to be here if he is to seek redemption. "Death is always too sudden and too soon, even if one is 100 years old. Though we may live many lifetimes, each one comes with all the newness and ...precious worth of the very first. Those of us," meaning you and him specifically, "...who live many lifetimes in the space of one... have the hardest time of all. Mortals... are like trees. Natural. We are not, and we get bogged down in our supernaturality. Our immortality. It was never meant to be this way."
She remains on her knees, almost seeming to forget she was there in the first place. Looking up at you towering over her, for a moment, she feels scared. Though of what, she's not certain.
"Even now, his absence is tearing me apart. I can feel it. I know it. But I can't seem to do anything about it. I don't know how many shards there are, but I fear it will take some time to pub them all back together again." All the king's horses and all the king's men...
There's another flinch in her expression, but it passes more quickly this time. Answers are too important. She can't lose it. Not now. Not yet.
"It is true, what you say... but that doesn't dismiss the fact that I need to know what happened. But it's not the lack of this knowledge that's causing the problem... she--I felt his... departure." She? Did she slip? She's nearly talking in third-person? A sign of the shards?
A piece of her died with Darius, and she knows it. Maybe her shards don't, but this Tori does. He died and took a piece of her soul with him. The price of the Bond, perhaps? Maybe she's not truly seeking him out as much as she's seeking herself.
"If I were to lose my Aithlen," who the hell is that? "I would surely be shaken to my core. I cannot speak of the breaking of the bond. The ... sudden silence. I can only imagine it. Imagine the ...unimaginable. I would step in to sunlight to be honest. Without him... I would have no place in the world, nor would the world have need of me." William leans his weight upon the great sword once more, leaning in toward you. For a time he is silent. His mailed hands move, curling and uncurling, as if stretching his fingers after having gripped the sword for so long.
"In your heart, you know," he says quietly. "And you can find him. You travel the silver chord to find his resting place. You can do it. You found my Aithlen for me... and you found him in that Otherplace. Lingering by that stream, I mentioned. Darius' physical existence, as you knew it, is gone. But he has not been obliterated. Only God can do this."
There is a rumble of thunder. On cue. William smirks. "I thought I was chosen by God. That's... not ... exactly what happened. Still... God, the Creator of This and Us All... is the only one who can obliterate matter. Your Darius has merely become something else."
On the subject of suicide, she murmurs, "I tried. I was going to let myself bleed and expire. Maybe I'd sleep for a long time. Maybe I'd just end. But people stopped me. I haven't decided if that's good or not yet." There's a slight smirk at that.
Suddenly, she looks around and realizes she's still on her knees. Pulling herself up to her feet and taking another drag off of the clove cigarette (how the hell it's still lit is beyond her), she glances at you again.
"You know... it's not easy. And yeah, I know... nothing worth something is easy. I don't think I'm strong enough yet, though. Not yet. It's difficult. I'm going to need help. But I don't know who to ask for that kind of help," the once-Goth Diva comments with a shrug.
She pulls off her shades with her free hand and rubs at her eyes. The eyes that look back at you once she is finished might shock someone not stuck in this plane. Does it shock you?
One is crystal blue, as you know her eyes to be. The other is storm-cloud grey. One pupil is large, the other is small. The shades go back on -- now you know why she's wearing them.
Aithlen... by that stream in that Otherplace. Oh. You mean Ian. Nodding, she murmurs, "You needed help. So I helped. Now, I need someone to do that for me. Not necessarily find him... but to find me."
"Suicide doesn't work. Besides, you would have to figure out a way to cut off your own head. Bleeding yourself dry will just give you a massive headache whenever you wake up," comes the languid baritone, that elongation of his words that usually comes when he is being droll.
He is not shocked by your eye color. He understands it. He was there when your eyes first changed. You are split. Divided. Sorrow and grief; anger and denial. Strength and Weakness. Life and Death. You are split down the middle. Twain in two. And yet you are a half, as you say, seeking a whole.
The bloodied cloak drapes over his enormous form, and blood at his feet drips scarlet over the metal of his sword. "You will have help. You have help now. I feel an air of sanctuary around you. You will find the resolution in your heart to stand. Or... if you do not... you will stand in the sunlight and fly with the birds at noon. I cannot tell you which it shall be. That is not for me to say. What is... is that You Are. And you will find help. Darius cared for you. His last moment was lived for you. Even as the first cry from my wife's throat as she was being strangled by Clan Ventrue... was my name. It did not bring me solace," a smile, "... for many years. But ... I am at last content. I took away the love that was Then. I found another Love. A love of lifetimes. I am bound to speak the Truth, so hear the Truth. If you persevere, thus it shall be for you."
Lowering her head like a little girl who's gotten caught with her hand in the cookie jar, Tori murmurs, "I know it doesn't work. It was stupid. But, hey, it was night-time... I didn't have the luxury of sunlight..." Another weak attempt at humour. Glancing up at you with a sigh, she merely nods.
You are right. You are always right. It's a good thing she knows you because anyone else would likely just boot her in the ass and tell her to have a nice day. Anyone else in the community might not care.
But obviously, there are those who do, or she would be in a worse state. The sanctuary you sense.. that wouldn't be there, would it?
"Well, thanks. I hear your Truth, but I can only speak for this shard. I... it will take time for the rest of me to hear it."
The cigarette is slipped between her lips and left there to dangle. Time to move on, perhaps. She's gotten your Message, now she needs to continue on...somewhere, right? On her search. There's a little salute from one hand as the other disappears within a pocket. What would your physical form say if he saw her with a clove fag, to use the British word, dangling between her lips like that? There's another shrug of her shoulders as she looks about, as though she's unsure where to go from here... but at least she got a little bit out of this trip.
He finally moves. He has been a mountain for a seeming eternity, but he moves again. A large arm lifts, hand leaving his sword to gesture outward. "Be careful of this path. For in searching, one never knows what one may find. But know that your friends will be with you in your waking world." Here. Well, Here is an altogether different matter. You may be on your own.
The Crusader's shadow-self steps aside, blood pooling beneath his feet, dripping from his arms as he gestures. "...A word to the wise. Remember your name. Remember who you are. It is ... too easy, all too easy to forget, Victoria Whitethorne."
Do not, above all, lose yourself...
Posted by Criseyde at June 24, 2003 03:43 AM
