Difference between revisions of "Detroit Musings"
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| − | == | + | ==The Sons of Santos== |
| − | + | Awakening in the utter darkness that is the basement below the former church Club Ishtar came in the moment when my tortured brain had been revisiting the sweating hellish darkness of the Cambodian pit. While my skin was cool, I was covered in a thin sheen of blood, my sheets sticky with the "sweat" of the undead, the curling hunger in my gut a slightly angry pit bull in a cage. I reflexively swung up, the hellish speed I had acquired coming into play, knowing that motion released means freedom...of a sort. I nearly gasped for air, though my dead lungs did not need it. If my heart beat, it would have pounded. | |
| − | + | My Hell has already been visited, and now I carry it with me. My Hell would be that moment of awakening in a pit covered in dirt, guts, blood, and not being able to move. Somewhere not in my head but definitely not outside my consciousness I heard "I never buried anyone alive...that would have been fiiine." in a silky cold southern drawl. My will snapped into place, and I pushed that sadistic prick Balthazar out of my head. I hadn't digested his soul yet...so I needed to keep him out. | |
| − | + | I never reached for a light, my senses became sharper, the plush of the carpet showing indentations of past footsteps. I could smell the barely clean water that came out of Detroit's taps. | |
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Revision as of 09:50, 28 March 2018
The road is never what is seems, and I never seem to wind up where I think I'm going. Travel as a Naga Raja sucks. I hate having to find dead bodies on the road. The meat is always tied to trouble, and there is never time to do a meal justice. I know I will never be a Chef...but I hate gulping bloody flesh like some damn barbaric werewolf.
Not to mention the new personality in my head. Fuck I hate that. Especially a backwards ass Confederate redneck. I thought Son was bad (he was), but Sheriff is an absolute moron. The only thing that kept him from wandering out in the sun one day was his lack of humanity driving him to die before the sun came up. The only upside to his personality is that I can rifle through his memories occasionally to find things out about Chicago...not that he knows much Son didn't, except for things that have happened in the last ten years. Alexis Leblanc must have been really desperate to embrace such an idiot.
That thought leads me to watching my own new Child. She is so sweet and innocent, and here I have her tied up with the Sabbat in the cesspool that is Detroit. I love her like my daughter...and that's just weird, it must be the vaulderie influencing my emotions. That embrace is a weight on my conscience. All I can hope is that I can teach her some tools that will help her not become a complete heathen like the Forsaken.
The fucking Forsaken. What a cluster fuck in cheap suits. It's no wonder that the Sabbat wanted these miscreants to stay in Chicago, out of sight out of mind. I don't think there's a useful part of them or operational intelligence at any level. At best they are shock troops, at worst they are a traveling circus house of clowns.
Cameron is a stooge. He is wrapped up in the idea that he is some sort of leader. He leads Jack and shit, and Jack left town. Bill laughs behind his hand at Cameron, and only complies with his wishes when it would be either fun (which means killing/maiming/tearing things up) or somebody with a brain is watching. Samson likes Cameron and follows him...but I think Samson would follow a German shepherd that barked in a conversational pattern. The shovel heads don't know any better, but I notice that they are listening more to their collective Sires than Cameron. It has also not escaped my notice that Bill seems to be pushing me toward a Monomacy clash with Cameron. I am pretty sure I could kill him, but I don't think it is worth it. That's Cameron I mean...Bill might be something else.
Bill Butler...that creature is more than he lets on. Bill seems to push the others to darker and darker behavior, all the while not really doing much himself. He doesn't seem to have any skills at necromancy like myself, but he definitely at times feels like he is working ritual magic when I'm not looking. I am not sure why my gut tells me that, but it does. His childers behavior when it comes to him is also very disturbing.
Samson is a blood bath waiting to happen. Did I mention that Samson is simple? If there was ever a bad stereotype of a muscle head Samson is it. The problem is he has all the empathy of a blender. Samson needs a keeper, and or someone to teach him some Path of Enlightenment before he goes wight and we have to hunt him down.
I guess fame has it's benefits. The Androgyny has invited us into it's home, which is both refreshing and terrifying.
The Sons of Santos
Awakening in the utter darkness that is the basement below the former church Club Ishtar came in the moment when my tortured brain had been revisiting the sweating hellish darkness of the Cambodian pit. While my skin was cool, I was covered in a thin sheen of blood, my sheets sticky with the "sweat" of the undead, the curling hunger in my gut a slightly angry pit bull in a cage. I reflexively swung up, the hellish speed I had acquired coming into play, knowing that motion released means freedom...of a sort. I nearly gasped for air, though my dead lungs did not need it. If my heart beat, it would have pounded.
My Hell has already been visited, and now I carry it with me. My Hell would be that moment of awakening in a pit covered in dirt, guts, blood, and not being able to move. Somewhere not in my head but definitely not outside my consciousness I heard "I never buried anyone alive...that would have been fiiine." in a silky cold southern drawl. My will snapped into place, and I pushed that sadistic prick Balthazar out of my head. I hadn't digested his soul yet...so I needed to keep him out.
I never reached for a light, my senses became sharper, the plush of the carpet showing indentations of past footsteps. I could smell the barely clean water that came out of Detroit's taps.
