But it was that Thursday that had provided the smile upon his face that week.  Because deep in his cold heart, Simon detested parties. He could enjoy the company and respect the art, but as a whole, there was no real tactical advantage to be gained.  Such events made one soft.  Such events presented too many prying ears and too many unknown variables.  Such events always brought inane banality…and danger.

The young Canadian Daeva.  Kenny, his name.  He was soon drawn into a game for the amusement of the mob…the Harpies swarming in like Birds of Prey.  He understood their necessity.  Their capacity to balance the social dynamics of a given situation.  To serve as arbiters of debt and to check the forces of ego and idiocy.  But Simon smiled and gave a quiet sigh at the spectacle…knowing that it was issued for nothing more than shear entertainment.

The question was simple…which was mightier, the pen or the sword?  And it was there that the Warminister felt obligated to participate.  The die was cast and refusal would merely add fuel to the fire, and the Khaibit was ill-equipped to handle such armaments.  And yet he stood there, seven blades upon his person, gazing at the neonate and his pen.  The scenarios coursed through his brain.  He could simply kill the young Canadian and be branded a monster.  He could beat him into the dirt.  He could break his wrist and remove the pen from his person…

Bring it…

The attack came and Simon shot out his hand, the pen puncturing his arm between the radius and ulna.  In one swift, fluid motion, Simon drew the pen and slammed it into Kenny’s shoulder, shattering his clavicle and nearly forcing the Neonate to the ground.  In less than two seconds it was over, and smiles washed over the audience.  Simon had allowed the young Canadian to save his honor, and he only trusted that his instincts had protected his own. In the aftermath, Simon pondered what they would say, what with their silver tongues and razor words…

The Alder Judex Cassio showed restraint at the impetuousness of the young and foolish bravo. Cassio, despite his usually deranged and violent nature, curbed such appetites in favor of social grace.  The Warminister, despite his title and generally horrendous unthinking butchery, adapted to the situation and utilized the weapons at hand…proving the Neonate’s point…no pun intended…

Simon smiled.  Sooner or later they would stop underestimating him…

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Lorenzo’s gathering was a stark contrast to my own some six months ago.  Cloaked in white and flowers and soft music.  Having spent the past few months in quiet contemplation, in the utter darkness of my home, my return to the Dance was sharp and quick.  I am always struck by the Court of New York City, its amalgam of characters and contrasts.  The reserved Elders having fallen into their routine of power and influence.  The soldiers, serving as the backbone to the city with their ambitions and specific skill-sets.  And then the neonates, full of potential and struggling to survive. 

My arrangement with Felipe has kept the city running for the past year.  He has handled the politics, and I have handled those threats to the city.  In the end, despite his title, I think I got the better part of the deal.  Tonight, the city encountered various dangers, as it always does.  I tasked Mr. Phelps to handle the Church of the New Dawn, which he did with celerity and professionalism.  I asked Viscountess Mirandia to handle the diplomatic envoy to the Hammer Bay.  The diablerist who stowed away on a ship from the Far East was executed. And the annoying zombies which have plagued us…will be dealt with soon enough.

There were of course other occurrences that required my attention.  Scythe has decided to pursue his studies, and thus the city will require a new Sheriff.  Luna, a young Dragon, tried to sneak into the Invictus Gathering.  In the aftermath, I threatened to tear out her lungs and show them to her if she tried something like that again.  And then Abigail drew a sword on Asira, one of our Hounds.  The incident ended without bloodshed, and I reminded my great grand-childe that such actions are unbecoming a Prince.  Rebecca believes I was too hard on her.  I am certain that I wasn’t…for my leniency will cut into her far deeper than my wrath would have.  If she is to survive, she will need to learn how to stand in the face of monsters and madmen.

But the highlight of my night was my conversation with Felipe.  His family believes he is slipping towards his Beast, but they are wrong.  The Hierophant-Prince wears the Beast like an old friend, and I know that he will use it…and not allow it to use him.  I reminded him that every time he is forced to kill…that he must ask himself what it profits him.  It profits him nothing to stay his hand against the likes of criminals or Brood.  It profits him nothing to grant mercy to someone who will simply try to kill him later.  It is a hard world and we are hard creatures, and if utilized correctly, the Beast will protect him and keep him safe…as it has done for me for over four centuries…   

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Act Three

Simon slid the bodybag towards Xavier.  Audra stood between the two brothers, exhausted from the night’s events.  The elder Brother, known as Lucifer, stood in his cut attire and stillness, analyzing the world openly with armored and guarded emotion.  The younger Brother, known as Michael, stood in his ebony, wearing his wrath upon his sleeve and dissecting his heart into stratagems and campaigns of the soul.  Both different sides of the same coin, created from the same blood, with one having escaped the Shadow of the Father…and the other cloaked in it.

“He has not been bound or tampered with,” said Simon.  “And suffered nothing that he cannot recover from.”

Xavier nodded.  "I had no doubt of such, Michael, such things while unfortunate are not necessarily unpredictable.  He will be seen to, as befitting the circumstances."

“You can tell his superiors...those Admired and Respected members of the Dragons who took my request with such care and consideration...that I consider this matter closed.”

Xavier gave the smallest hint of a smile.  “"Those that are aware of your involvement, shall be notified, and I can say with assurity that outside Mr. Ackart they will consider this to be a matter best left unspoken and unmentioned.  As to Mr. Ackart, I can only assume that he is a reasonably intelligent individual who will take this as the lesson that it should be considered.  I will encourage him to think upon these results, and continue upon his path... away from your door."

“Good.  I wouldn't want any kind of Covenant skirmish over two stubborn soldiers.  Over the death of ONE individual.”

"I can give you my word, that of those who heard your request from my lips, none shall consider the results of this evening or those recently passed to be worthy of reprisal or incident.  It shall be as if it never occurred…"

Hours later, Simon sat in utter silence.  Xavier and Audra had taken Brogan’s broken body elsewhere.  Molly lay curled in his lap.  The Warminister had not stirred since their departure, melting into the darkness of his home.  Left alone with his own bleeding thoughts, wrapped tight in a cocoon of rage, the Khaibit reflected on the past few nights with vicious clarity.  The Warminister could hate her for her choice.  He could hate the Dragons for allowing it.  He could hate Brogan for delivering the message.  But it could not alter the simple truth of the matter.  Brigit…his daughter…was gone…

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Act Two

“Is there anything you wish to know?”

Simon was cloaked in utter wrath.  He stood at the center of his home, with Audra at the couch and his guest at the entrance, illuminated only by the luminescent rod Brogan had brought with him.  The Warminister frowned and paused, running the various scenarios in his mind.

“Just one,” responded Simon coldly.  “I would like to know why such admired and respected Elders of your Covenant...men of patience and wisdom...saw fit to end this matter as quickly as they did.  I want to know why my request was denied.  And why no one bothered to hand her a fucking phone.”

"It was by her own request that things be expedited so quickly."

Simon folded his hands into his pockets.  The epic tragedy of the night had finally dawned on him…slicing him to the core.  And his Beast, still raw with pain and hatred, clawed for expression.  “I'll tell you what I told Xavier.  She may have died with honor.  With courage.  She may have, at one time, been a brave member of her Covenant.  But as a daughter...she died a coward.”

“I’m sorry,” said Brogan flatly.

Simon’s eyes, solid black in nature, did not reveal his soul.  Quietly, effortlessly, he tucked away his reason…and loosened his instincts.  Against his absent Sire.  Against the reflection he saw in the mirror.  Against the fleeting memory of bright eyed children.  Against all that…Simon held fast to one last shred of composure.

“Leave my home.  Now.  And if you utter one word...I will kill you where you stand here and now.”

Brogan's eyes instantly snapped from iridescent green to burning yellow in the time it took to blink.  Slowly the emerald bled back in, suppressing the yellow utterly, balancing out Simon’s ebony eyes.  "If I had such an inclination I would have done so over a year ago."

And with that…Simon found the instrument of his satisfaction.  He stepped into darkness and emerged behind the Dragon, drawing his blade and cutting true.  Brogan in turn dodged and weaved, and as each blade struck, the weapon would melt from the bloodletting and be discarded to the floor.  A second weapon would be drawn, and a third, and as Brogan grappled the Khaibit again and again, Simon would simply step sideways into nothingness and emerge with a flanking attack.  The battle became an act of Will, with two patterns of warfare vying for dominance.  It was not a question of terrain, or tactics, or raw experience…but of who’s Will would run out first.

Audra attempted to place herself between the two warriors, but Simon’s Beast raged, and as he emerged a final time from the darkness his blade cut through both friend and foe.  Brogan grappled Simon a final time, and casting aside the danger, the Warminister sunk his fangs into the Dragon’s neck.  As the blood burned his throat like molten metal, the two combatants fell to the floor.  And with a final burst of strength, Simon broke free from his bonds and drew a serrated knife, burying it in Brogan’s eye and forcing him into torpor.

Simon roared, his foe defeated before him.  And as the Beast returned to its lair, Simon turned slowly to gaze upon Audra.  Her dress was stained, but her stamina and composure remained, somehow, unhindered by the horror and rancor of the event.  The look upon her face was not shock or anger or outrage…it was something worse.  It was understanding…having looked into the Abyss of the Warminister and emerged unscathed.  Simon’s sanity flooded back over him, and through scorched vocal cords, he spoke.

“You alright?”

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Act One

Simon sat in utter silence.  Molly was curled in his lap, sleeping soundly for the past few hours.  The Warminister had not stirred since their departure, melting into the darkness of his home.  Left alone with his own bleeding thoughts, wrapped tight in a cocoon of rage, the Khaibit reflected on the past few nights with vicious clarity.  But in the end, Simon’s calculations and stratagems could not alter the simple truth of the matter.  Brigit, his daughter…was gone.  It had begun with a phone call, followed swiftly by a letter.

I have come to understand that my daughter, Devyn, has been taken into custody.  That for allegedly stating that she would leave her Covenant...she was staked and sent to you.  No doubt the Dragons will investigate and examine this matter...for I understand the concepts of loyalty and honor and service.  The Dragons do not like defectors any more than my own Covenant...especially skilled ones such as her.  And thus I will rely on your judgment, brother.  I will trust you to represent my interest in this matter.  And I know you will do the right thing.

My hope is that she will be reprimanded.  My hope is that she will maintain her duties, her consciousness, her very life.  But I shall prepare for the worst.  If it comes to that...then I have one request to make of you.  I want to be there when the ruling is given.  If she is to be locked away, I would ask that her body be given to me...for her Sire is no longer capable of looking after her.  If she is to die...then I would ask for a chance to speak with her beforehand.  If this is done...then I will abide by whatever ruling the Dragons declare, and I will undergo whatever is asked of me to ensure my trust.

If it comes down to harsh action, and if I am ignored, if my voice and concern is drowned out by politics, if I am not granted my one request...then I know not what will happen.  I imagine that I will take all of the rage that I held for our absent Sire...all of the hate that I hold for myself for inflicting the same upon my own children...all of the wrath that I have locked away within my frame...and I will seek out some measure of satisfaction.

Xavier’s response was exacting, dissecting the matter in a few short paragraphs.

I do not at present have possession of Ms. Kiley-Cassio, however the inaccuracy of your information is due solely to it's time frame.  I have been asked to steward her form until the leaders of our fellowship can gather and consider the severity of her actions in accordance with pacts laid down to Lord Vladislaus himself.  Were it merely a wayward dragon seeking studies elsewhere, turning down a new path then issues could be resolved without undue strain.  Yet it would appear that such is not the case, and the issue at hand is a grave and severe one indeed.

You are however quite correct in that I will do all I can for the long term health of my covenant, my relations and those who have been considered friend to me for many a year.  I shall work diligently to insure that her life is not considered forfeit by those that may have the capacity to make that decision.  However I can not in good conscience claim that I can control her fate with any sense of assurity.  I will however do as I can.

I have read your words, and will do all that I can to reasonably see your wishes fulfilled.  I make no promises other than that, but know that for the devotion that I have for the blood we share I will act in the fullness of my capacity to bring to bear your wishes in part if not in whole.

Know that what stands before your daughter is not an issue of politics, more so it is an issue of honor, oaths, and duty.  It is an issue of security and dedication to our fellowship and the path we walk that has been passed down for a generation of kindred.  The Dragons honor the decisions made by the individual, but it is equally harsh to those who make the individual choice to dishonor those vows.

 
Be well my kinsman, and know that I have read your words and hold them close to my core.

Despite his elder brother’s words of comfort, Fate would prove to have a sense of irony.  Death itself would not wait for the Elder Khaibit.  With no consideration for the likes of Simon Cassio, or the Dragons entire, or Brigit herself, Death reached up with its hand to expedite the matter…conscripting Brogan Ackart to its service...

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…

For over four hundred years I have worn the same face.  My hands, my look, have remained untouched since my embrace.  But I look into the mirror and I simply do not recognize the man I used to be.  I doubt anyone would.  I have thoughts, concepts, notions and instincts of the young man I was…but no real truth.  I know I wanted to live forever…but only for a little while.  I know I wanted to capture the world and hold it for as long as I could.  Each joy, each pain, each laugh and each experience was new and beautiful.  I would kiss and kill in equal measure.  I was noble and good, an off white knight loosed upon the world…and the guilt kept me sane.  Such was my young requiem.

And then I survived the razor dreams of my long slumber.

My body remembered through scars and tattoos.  My soul remembered through sins and consequences.  But my mind…my mind simply decided to forget the horrors I had inflicted.  I didn’t know who I was.  Or who I was fucking supposed to be.  I had the ability to kill at will, but no moral compass, no history, to guide my choices.  I would start anew time and again.  I would cling to one moment, subtract one false memory, focus on a single thread, give in to one instinct…and in those desperate, bleeding moments I would reach out for someone, anyone, who wasn’t trying to murder me in my sleep.  I would bite my tongue and quell my instincts and mourn for a past that never was.  Filled with wrath I would gaze into that reflection, into those eyes of green and blue, and inflict my wrath upon the world. 

And then…over the past two years…I simply let go.  I have resigned myself to the fact that memories fade for a reason.  That innocence once lost can never be regained.  I am now content with my place in the world, and my role in things to come.  I know the sins that burden my soul but I recognize their worth…for they are a part of me.  It is the simple calculation between the lives I’ve taken, and the lives I’ve saved.  I am a noble monster, neither good nor bad, beyond redemption or mercy or guilt.  Tonight I stand among them but not of them, in a shroud of thoughts which are not their thoughts.  I stand just beyond the board, with War in my right hand and Judgment in the left.  I am the loyal son and father…adorned with mistakes and regrets and countless triumphs.

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As always, I shall write this and keep it with the others.  To present it to you when the time shows itself.  The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of activity.  Several months of preparation and planning were focused into a single event.  Into a single night.  The War against the Brood is over.  United under a single cause and a single banner, we threw down our enemy into the dirt.  Our Butcher’s bill was more than acceptable, roughly six percent.  I mourn the absence of Archon Dante.  He was a student of mine.  But I do not mourn his choice.  I will not spit upon his memory, or his sacrifice.  This was not a Pyrric victory.  This was an orchestrated campaign that resulted in victory.  An extension of my will.  An additional scar, or mark, to remind me of the carnage that I have wrought.  And with the end to this particular chapter…new ones have emerged.

            My childe, Victor Penn, slew the Beast of the Bronx.  In single combat he did what we could not.  And in this moment I was not filled with pride…having put the sword into his hands.  No…I was filled with hope.  Hope that our Family is not truly shattered.  The Prince had asked him what honor, what price, what present he could bestow upon the man who had finally ended this tragic play…who had burnt the theatre to the very ground and pissed in its ashes.   The Prince had asked him this, and Victor had responded with a mere two words.   “Rule Justly.”  That was the moment of my hope and pride and envy.  To look upon Victor and know that some good has come from my blood.  To look upon my creation and know that he was free in all of the ways that you and I are not.  To look upon my childe and realize that the son does indeed become the father. 

            You should also know that I have spoken at length with Cardinal Dirae.  Marcus and I have never been friends…but we are remarkably similar.  We are both men of stern aspect, fatal opinions, and devout righteousness.  In this regard we are also quite predictable…but he and I have always been honest about who and what we are.  We are predators, linked by a single individual.  I may have been her father…but he is her Sire.  My connection to her died the moment she was embraced, and Cardinal Dirae holds the authority here.  She has made her own choices, some of which will result in consequence.  But she at least appears to be happy, and despite her obfuscation, and those whom she has allowed to influence her, it is not my place to educate her.  I am strangely content with this. 

            Alder Bella Evengii has taken your place, and awaits your return.  She will no doubt elect Alder Thetis to the rank of Secondus, and although I do not believe she has earned that right, having been outside of our purview for some time, in the final analysis it will profit me.  Regarding further matters within the First Estate, Mister St. George has utterly failed in his duties and very soon a new Archon will be chosen.  To this I can only smile, having watched his descent mirror my own ascension.  The Court of Albany is suffering from a disastrous alliance on the part of her Prince…but they will soon recover.  The Court of Norwich, and the so-called Midnight Empire, stand upon a blade…and I believe they will see this turn of events for what they are…a chance to prosper.  The alternative would be foolish…and fatal.  And as for myself, I am already working to fill your role as Judex.  Alder De la Torre will serve as my Liege, and thus me and mine shall remain within our Honored House.  Xavier always said that I was a younger version of Miguel…but I am not so sure.  Miguel does not see our familial cause as I do…but I am patient.  In time the relation between Rebecca and I will be repaired, and House Dumah will remain intact.  As will Xavier’s private joke.  Charlie, Danica, Victor, Rebecca, Kato, Shade, Malek, Abigail…we are what we are.  And we shall endure and survive. 

In conclusion…you should know and smile that I shall be hosting the next gathering in New York City.  There I intend to show my Prince, and my fellow citizens, what I am capable of.  I will confound their expectations, and drag the arrogance of children into the light of day. 

Sincerely,

Simon

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Sometimes we choose the path we follow. And sometimes our choices are made for us.

In a small tiled room, deep within his tomb, the Warminister sat in utter silence.  His wrists hung off his knees, his hands broken and shattered with splintered bits of bone piercing his knuckles.  Small rivers of blood trickled down his hands and arms, intertwining with ebony tattoos and forming a small pool on the floor.  Simon’s head hung low, his eyes shut, accompanied only by the echoes of his own thoughts and strategies.  His mind calculated...adding, subtracting, evaluating…wiping away some phantom.  Wiping away sorrow, and anger, and the memory of fallen friends.

The first lesson of warfare is that no matter what their rank, the foremost concern of a warrior is how they will behave at the moment of their death.  Only after having accepted this fact can a warrior truly reach greatness.  The way of the warrior, moment after moment, is the practice of death.  Victory.  Defeat.  These are mere impostors and illusions.  I know death’s secret.  To conquer death, one must become death…one must wield his scythe.  One must fill death’s quota faster than their enemy can, and death will leave them be to do their work.  Death always knows who is going to profit him most…

Others speak for the best in humanity.  I have endured the worst.  I am tainted by blood and rage and death.  That blood and rage and death comprises the armor that will sustain me and those who stand by me through these ordeals to come.  The past is indeed prologue, and the future I behold is war.  War against the Brood.  War against Hammer Bay.  War against those from On High.  This is what I have become…and I make no apologies.  Whatever comes, I and mine will not go like lambs to the slaughter…but like tigers.

And in surviving the meantime, I can only hope that the star-crossed lovers realize the freedom they’ve been granted.  I can only hope that Talbot realizes my actions for what they are.  And I can only hope that the severed branches of my family can, somehow, someday, be mended.

Sometimes we choose the path we follow.  And sometimes our choices are made for us.

And sometimes we have no choice at all.

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“The Journey is never easy, and the path full of hardships, but the rewards are great.”

Simon gazed out the airplane window, resting his head on the thin plastic glass.  Twenty thousand feet below the land was dissected by illuminated lines, slicing the world into shattered pieces.  Scars on the Earth, tread upon by thousands each and every night with little care or conscience.  In his hand he thumbed a thin piece of jade, etched with obsidian and silver in a marriage of Yin and Yang.  He smiled slightly, reflecting on the past few hours.  His conversation with the Shadowdancer had reminded him of his grandchilde…which bled into thoughts of Christian and Dante.  To Ebon and Evelyn.  To Victor…and to Him.  And finally, to the empty realization that there was no such thing as strength.  There were only various levels of weakness…

"I am not a moral man…and I am not beyond the Board.  I am firmly upon it...and I am not sure I could remove myself even if I wanted to.  I am not a force of balance in the universe...it is in my nature to fight.  To protect.  To struggle and to war...and I do not know if I can assist you in balancing the board.  Neither the Covenants, or VII, can be pulled from the Abyss.  This will end in tears..."

Kiyoshi had listened patiently, and responded in kind.  "We all are pawns and pieces in our own way, but we still have free will, thus we can remove ourselves from the game. Whether you are a force of balance or not, is not the question. Do you wish to be, is the one you should be asking."

But Simon knew the answer was a deafening No.  As he had sat and listened to him, the Warminister had realized that the others would never believe him.  They would think Kiyoshi a clone…a husk of VII.  But Simon trusted his instincts…and he knew the truth. 

”What is worthy in your eyes?” asked the fellow Shadowdancer.

“My loyalty was without question.  I asked, and I did.  It was that simple.  But overtime I came to recognize the corruption you spoke of earlier.  I began to question that service.  Service to a Family that was, at times, hypocritical.  That did not act on the ideals that they claimed to have.  Service to a Prince, and a City...that did not respect the blood that was shed and spilled in their name.  Individuals who fell victim to their own vanity.  Who took pleasure in the pain of others...who took pride in such acts.  Individuals who did not understand honor and nobility and sacrifice...”

In Simon’s own heart he realized how hollow his own words had been.  The Warminister was also hypocritical at times.  He too had taken pleasure in the murder of others.  Taken trophies and etched them into his very flesh.  But Simon held an unwavering understanding of Right and Wrong.  Not of Good and Evil, but of Just and Unjust.  It was not that he lacked ideals and nobility and honor…it was that he had discarded those notions for what was often…too often…required.  He had absolved his guilt in horrific acts…sacrificed a piece of his soul so that others need not...

Kiyoshi nodded.  “So you understand, and yet you are not sure about making the final step.  The striping away of all that you where, and move to become what you will…”

“So long as I hold onto the will to do what must be done...so long as I am still able to protect me and mine...so long as I recognize the man I see in the mirror...I have no fear of that final step.  Wherever it may take me.”

“Are you ready to leave your covenant, and join the unaligned?”

Simon knew the answer was a deafening No. 

But hours later on the plane, he clung to the lingering question of Why… 

Current Location: Home
Current Mood: ...

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A sealed glass jar slid across the oak coffee table.  Within it was a pile of ash, especially brittle and shattered, a soft blue tint echoing in the pitch of darkness.  Executing a series of slow moves without thought or doubt, Simon removed his blades, placing them on the table as well.  The last weapon set there was a thin obsidian dagger, landing parallel to the jar.  In silence, without a sigh or a word or a tear, the Warminister leaned back on the couch, sinking into its frame in utter desolation.

Here I stand
For my Family Entire
For my City of Lost Children
For my Righteous Unconquered

For Myself

Ebon and Evelyn were murdered.  Cornell was assassinated.  Cade was dead.  Innana was defeated.  Victoria was gone, her color and position on the board remaining illusive.  And Kiyoshi, the innocent shadowdancer, had walked the path chosen for him.  Kiyoshi, from the Japanese word meaning “purity,” anchor to Cade, Samurai by birth, Ronin in death.  Simon had spoken to the man in his final hours…a man devoted to service.  And when the world asked for his life, Kiyoshi gave it without hesitation or doubt.  One had to admire his sense of purpose and dedication. 

I am not the butcher, but the Blade.
Not the combatant, but the Command.
Not the Soldier, but the Soul.

For I am the Old Wolf
In the fields of steel
The Wounded Tiger
In the jungles of stone

Finally, the Warminister leaned forward, gazing down at a sheet of paper.  Without actually touching it, Simon pulled on the shadows, and wrote down three names.  The first was the Anglicized form of an Irish word, derived from the Gaelic translation for “war.”  The second was the Welsh word for “battle king.”  And the third was the name of the tenth month of the old Roman calendar.

Armed with patience and fortitude
I shall honor my name
And pray for a good death

First there would be a long overdue talk with Thomas.  Then the gathering.  Then the funeral.  Then to Japan.  And then a return to the board.  But for now…the world held its breath.  In expectation, in transition, the world was waiting for the revelation to come.  On the right was the war of principalities and powers.  On the left was that of chaos and despair.  And the future lay ahead, waiting to be born out of Bethlehem, born into uncertainty and pain.

I shall listen to the Thunder
And realize the Storm
This I serve
This I swear

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“JFK,” commanded the Warminister. 

Simon entered the taxi, sliding across the black leather seats.  He stared out the window as the driver pressed ahead in silence, with no questions or banter for his passenger.  As they crossed over the bridge, Simon’s gaze fell not to the Brooklyn skyline, or the full moon overhead, but to his hands.  They were rather small, etched with scars and tailored in tattoos.  Countless and bloody lamentations had run through his fingers…enough to pass from one forgotten history into another.  And in the back of his mind Simon recalled old journals that revealed an Italian boy in a French orphanage.  The boy was weak, preyed upon, and beaten on a weekly basis.  In latter years he learned to stand on his own two feet…and as a man, when he rushed ahead like Galahad to save some child from torture, the Prophet would place his hand upon his shoulder.

“If you intervene, he will not learn.  And the defeats he suffers in the future will be all the more bitter.”

Just as he had learned to stand on his own two feet, so would they.  They would learn soon enough that the city did not need Simon Caias Cassio.  As individuals, the Court of New York City were relatively decent and capable.  As a social machine, however, they were nothing more than children with an absent father.  With vanities that outweighed loyalties…with no respect for sacrifices made.  Drunk on decadence and flesh, they would demand court jesters and laugh and smile and fuck and dance...all in the guise of the mob as the Lions fed on Christians.

Simon had taken the first step.  The first chain had been broken, but he remained a Minister of War.  Not one of forces and arms and borders…but of an evolving spiritual conflict.  After intelligence had been gathered…after She made her first move…the lines would be drawn and the game would be set.  The Khaibit was armed with the swords in his hands…but others were armed with swords of the heart and mind.  That is why he knew that they had to survive the coming Thunder.  Simon and others like him would not allow themselves to go like lambs to the slaughter.  When they went…they would fall as tigers, defending those armed with hearts and minds.  It wasn’t martyrdom or fatalism.  It was their duty, their service, and above all…it was their choice.

The Warminister couldn't help but laugh.

Current Mood: cold

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There is no one defining moment…and nothing is what it appears.  There is no grand arena.  No last stand.  There are no stalwart heroes or noble Princes.  No friends worth dying for.  Not anymore…

How did it come to this?

My entire being is tainted by centuries of warfare.  Focused on all that pertains to broil and battle and little else.  I am a barbarian, with little mercy or care left within my being.  With nothing but my children, a few scarce Family, and the memory of atrocities executed on behalf King and Country.  But the board has shifted.  I have gazed upon my Family, my city, my friends, and with each passing moon I have found fewer and fewer reasons to serve them.  And the truth of things now bleeds itself dry...lost in the gray of uncertainty.  I don’t know what a friend looks like.  And lies and truths that come from the lips of my Family all appear to be the same.  In many ways it is utterly beyond me. 

Warfare isn’t about strategy.  It isn’t about executing a series of pre-written moves.  It isn’t about arms or numbers or luck. It isn’t even about being able to adapt and evolve and roll with the changing dynamic of conflict.   It’s about having the will to do what must be done…to force the enemy to go where you want them to go.  To move as you choose.  Warfare is about deception…and control.  And we are being deceived and controlled by a threat that can and has killed on a whim, unfettered and untouched by our efforts.  We are utterly helpless against them.  And if the Prophet is right…then perhaps it is for the best.  The others will cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war…but it is the only the illusion of war. 

A woman is dead.  A woman I did not have a chance to know.  And in the final analysis I could do nothing to stop them.  More will die…and I am not strong enough or wise enough to prevent it.  Here in the shadow of the mountain, I am utter helpless.

One last battle for King and Country.  And then I begin my sojourn.  My ascension…I shall walk away and attempt to have my life actually mean something in the Doomsday that is to come…

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“Find the smallest thing you do actually care for.  Nurture it, and let it grow. The smallest seed can bear fruit…”

Like a scalpel, the pencil cut across the page in one fluid line of chaos, branding the sketch in a whirlwind.  The depiction beneath it, that of a young man, was super-imposed by the charcoal maelstrom.  Alone in the pitch of darkness, Simon then took the piece of paper and squeezed it into a tight ball, releasing the tiniest scream as it shifted from a near two dimension object into that of a jagged three-dimensional ball.  The Warminister made his toss and the paper ball shot across the room, ricocheting off the edge of the waist-bin and joining its fallen comrades.  The Khaibit then drew a new and clean sheet of paper, and began again.

“You will hear its words, only now they will not be whispers…but it will not say anything that you do not already know.”

As his idle hands worked the page, Simon’s mind reflected back to the event with deadly vividness.  The candles that lit the room.  The burning incense.  Venatrix in the corner.  Sylas standing, his voice and tone devoid of anger or pride, reciting his incantation.  The man that sat before Simon, a veteran from the Middle-Eastern conflict.  A puppet for this ritual…bearing the same name as the Warminister himself.  In oil and in blood…the Beast had spoken, and Simon’s soul was filled with a rush of memories and feeling that immediately filled his hallow, empty core.  Staring across at the man in front of him, tears pushing against the back of his eyes, Simon heard a voice that echoed his own.  Fear and regret and doubt had peeled away the armor, and Simon cut his heart on jagged shards as he passed through the Looking Glass.

What had occurred that night could never be translated in mere words.  But within a brief few minutes, a contained scene in a simple eternity, Simon heard the truth…

At its conclusion, Simon had shaken the Beast’s hand, declaring their spiritual war…and the memories and feeling were carved out once again, replaced by rage and pain.

“Bright eyes…”

“You have a simple choice before you, little girl.  You can grip onto the past and track me down…and take your vengeance out on me some night…years from now.  Or…you can join me.  You can walk away from this so-called life of yours.  You can let go of the past…of the illusions that have brought you here to this place.  And I will be your father…and teach you a loyalty that will warm you for the rest of your days…a blanket made of duty and service.  The choice is yours…Charlie Pomeroy.” 

“There is no void in you, Simon.  Sometimes we forget that the face in the mirror is blurred, but the man behind it is not.”

"But you have more than what you believe yourself to possess.  You have my respect, Simon. And my trust.  And that is not a thing lightly given."

"You would ask that we understand you. You ask for us to let you live as you please, to go to hell the way you want to. You ask us to have an appreciation for what you are and what you do...everything about you whether you believe it or not is pure emotion. White hot fire.  White hot fire balanced with cold, strategic analysis.  I can not even imagine what you could be capable of in your passion and your fury…especially when you know what you are doing."

"I serve because if I do not... I will loose myself to the hunt, and become a draugr.  But you serve them because you loved them, at one point or another, even though now there is nothing but an echo, a reason to your rhyme."

In the dark and safety of the Warminister’s home, the light outline slowly took shape on the page.  First the circle that would represent the head.  Then the single line to represent the spinal column, intersected by the line of the collar bone.  Next came the eyes, and nose and lips…the hollow echo of a man starting to take shape…

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I don't feel nothin’ anymore.  And if I do...if I start to...I can't protect them.

…

“Do you wish to quarrel with me, Simon Caias Cassio?”

”Not at all.  But if it meant my Family being safe, I'd say let me get a step ladder and we'd have a go at it.”

“You must always ask yourself if what you do tonight is what you did the night before and if it is not, then you must ask why. If you take nothing away from this then I ask that you take this with you: Each night when you wake take the time to sit and think about what you do. When you come home and lay down to rest, think about what you have done. Do the two match? Are you doing what you say you do? If you are not, then you must reflect on why.”

…

“But you have lost many childer of late, and I wanted to give you the opportunity to grow comfortable with the notion of losing one more, should Victor act on his threats.”

…

“We've fought together.  And you've done a lot for me and mine.  And that's why you're walking out of here.  I...understand the inclination.  And the desire for solitude.  My one question is this: What happens when she tries again?” 

“She will die.  This was the last warning, Simon.  She should not try again.”

“That's fine.  But if she dies, so do you.  So long as we understand each other.”

“I have never not understood you, Simon.”

…

“Because there will be a time very soon when some of the business from Tampa explodes…and your nephew is not helping things.”

“What CAN you tell me?”

“That there are people that will kill him if things don't change.”

“Unconquered or Movement?”

“Both.”

…

“You look like your mother.  But you have my eyes.”

“I am unsure on how to react to this, to be honest, Alder Cassio.”

“Are you here to harm me?”

“No.”

“Then I don't know how you should be reacting either.  According to your experience and character, I imagine.”

“I am quite sure you would not want me to react according to my experience and character. They aren't pleasant ones...”

“Who made you?”

“Why is it important?”

“I'm asking.”

She told him.  There was a pause.

“You're shorter now," she said.  "But the hands are mostly the same....as is the smile.”

…

“I'm not going anywhere.”

“You say that... but I don’t see or hear it.  Do I doubt that you would protect me?  No.  You always have.  But I think I expected more than you were able to give.”

…

“From this moment forward every choice you make determines who you will become.  You are the only person who can decide who that will be.  Simply redefine what your service will be.”

…

Because there are still people who need killin’.  And the thunder still portends along the horizon.

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Michael Cassio: Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial. My reputation, Iago, my reputation!

In the dark, Simon leaned back in his chair as he read the missive.  A thin smile grew across his face as he read the Invictus proclamation.  The list of supporters for the motion was as foreign as it was unsurprising.  In the same fashion as his pedigree, Simon couldn't have cared less.  He was what he was…with or without the blessing of the First Estate.  In terms of the Unconquered, Simon felt like an old gunfighter from the West.  Devoid of real power or followers; feared and bound to a code of conduct that no one believed in; waiting for some young and lucky pup to stand up and gut him.  But Simon’s smile evolved into a deep and resonating laughter.      

Iago: As I am an honest man, I thought you had received some bodily wound; there is more sense in that than in reputation. Reputation is an idle and most false imposition: oft got without merit, and lost without deserving: you have lost no reputation at all, unless you repute yourself such a loser…

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"You have a unique distinction amongst my childer.  You are the only one who understands absolutely nothing of the Choice, and who has disappointed me to such a degree that I wish I had never given you vitae.”

Simon stood in a room he had not seen in almost five hundred years.  He saw an envelope that he had thought destroyed, burned at his own hand.  The identity of man he had thought murdered.  The history of a bloodline…he had all but abandoned.

"His daughter still lives.  Find her."

Pain and regret spilled into anger and contempt.  And the Beast roared and screamed and tried to swallow the Warminister’s sliver of Hope.

…

"Regret is wasteful, Cassio, the province of the weak."

Simon remained in the room, flanked by the four. 

"Q and Underwood are twice the men you are.  And weighing that against the life of my son...I didn't hesitate."

…

"Because when it comes down to it...my Family and friends are all that I have left.  And all that I am truly willing to die for.  Don't misunderstand me.  My intentions are not noble.  I fight to ensure that my Family and Friends are protected from harm.  I have and will kill for them.  Covenants and Domains be damned.  What do I have left, Prince St.George?  The Compact?  My Sire?  My Covenant?  My soul?  Just my purpose. And the man standing beside me."

"Despite what has transpired here, Simon, I am not angry with you. You are a father, and a soldier. You saw your child in peril, and a battle that you believed could be won. I could not expect you to act other than you did. Underwood, Q and the ghoul...they had other options."

"They saw the same war I did, Prince St. George.  Q and Rainmaker hate the Treasure as much as I do.  They lost a liege lord.  I have lost a son.  And no childe of Venatrix can ever be called weak...or fearful."

…

"Simon, the Compact was a ruse from its inception. It was designed to fail, though not quite in the way that it has."

"I don't believe that you saw it that way, Sir.  And your son has certain opinions on regret."

"It was intended to put me in a position wherein I could sweep aside all opposition and claim praxis over the night in its entirety, and destroy all that disagreed. Does that sound like the design of a just man to you?"

"There will always be another Simon Cassio.  But there is only one Cynric St.George."

"There, we disagree, Simon.  I have been a petty would-be tyrant, a man aspiring to play upon a stage that he did not understand, until now.  I was foolish, Simon, and arrogant beyond my means."

"Arrogant to believe that we are more then merely playing out our roles?"

"Arrogant believe that the night could be conquered by such as what I am, rather than what I must become."

"Once upon a time I offered to teach your son how to fight legends.  I can help make you become one…"

…

"But you have more than what you believe yourself to possess.  You have my respect, Simon. And my trust.  And that is not a thing lightly given."

The blow hit Simon harder than any physical wound he had suffered in centuries.  It was the shock and awe of witnessing a True Prince.  A True Father.  A Just man…however illusive his motives might be.  Simon remembered why he had been so taken in by the Dream…and why the Dream would remain after all the cities had been ground to dust.  The Warminister had to look at this man and ask: how is it that you are not my Sire?  How is it that your Dream failed?

Going into this, Simon had been prepared.  To succeed, and lead the call to war…or to fail…and show Cynric just how far they had fallen.  Because if you are going to do something so unbelievably stupid…you might as well make certain that it is Right.  Simon did not believe he had made a mistake.  He had taken action to save Victor…and with luck his son was merely in the Treasure’s thrall.  But Simon had misjudged a great many people.  A new series of doors had opened for him, and a lingering sensation that his story had just begun.  That the abstract amalgam that was Simon Caias Cassio could be controlled.

…

"There will always be a place for us, we are not meant to last forever, like some."

Simon nodded, and for a moment…he thought of his son.

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“What will you tell God when you are face to face with Him?  Will you tell him that you are blameless?  That you did this wrong or that because you were commanded to?  What will you tell Him, Simon?”

I cannot recall who asked me that question.  Perhaps my Sire, or Walsingham, or the Priest at the orphanage.  But after nearly half a millennia I have come to this time and place in utter desolation.  I no longer recognize the shadowed face I see in the mirror.  It is an abstraction, a fabrication, an illusory façade.  Although I can wear my mask and smile and dance and laugh and fuck and cry…I am not what I am.  My honor, my conscience, my pity, my personal hopes and dreams vanished long ago.  I have no more barriers to cross.  All that I had in common with the vicious and the evil, all the lives I have taken and the havoc I have wrought, my utter indifference toward the world, I have now surpassed.  I now cling to only a few bare truths.  No one is safe.  Love cannot be trusted.  Fathers eat their young.  God is a bastard from on high.  And I remain utterly blameless.  I have been allowed this place in the world.  The wounded Tiger.  The old Wolf.  The Rook upon the Board.  Is evil something you are, or something you do?  My pain is constant and jagged.  I live only to protect my family and what few friends I have, so that they may continue to play the roles of tyrants and despots, of whores and housewives, of would be heroes.  Beyond them…I do not seek a better life for anyone.  And when my pain extends beyond my grasp, inflicted upon others with no one left unscathed…I will not shed a single tear.  I wonder if I am even capable of such a thing.  After all this…I know that I will be utterly forgotten.  And that this confession will mean nothing.  When I am face to face with God…I will smile.  And before the Fall I will tell him that I am blameless.

I will tell him that I was framed.

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The hard steel door opened, revealing the small tiled room.  The perfect, windowless square tomb was illuminated by a single light bulb that hung from the ceiling.  On the floor was a drain, and curled in a corner was Larz, clothed in jeans and a bloody T-shirt.  Piercings detailed his face and ears, and his ringed fingers hugged his torso.  Simon stepped into the room, slowly setting down his gear before closing the door behind him.  The Warminister was dressed down in black boots and jeans, devoid  of a shirt, various tattoos swarming his stomach and chest and arms.  He sat down on the opposite side of the small room and lit a cigarette.  Taking his time, the smoke hovered outside his lips for a moment before being dragged inside his lungs, only to slowly seep out his nostrils like a hungry dragon.

“Believe it or not,” began Simon softly.  “I’m not very good at this sort of thing.  I’ve seen plenty of professionals, though.  In my day all you needed was a stiletto and a torch.  Then they got all fancy…the rack.  The iron maiden.  I mean Fuck…look what I have to work with here…”

Simon gently kicked a small bucket with his boot.  Inside was a rather large family of flesh-eating maggots.  Next to the bucket was a smaller drum of old rusty nails.  Besides that, a hammer.  A hand-held drill.  A stack of sandpaper squares.  A scalpel.  A pair of pliers.  A spoon.  A hack-saw.  A bundle of razor wire.  A strange device with two serrated prongs.  And a box full of medical blood packets. 

Simon took a long drag off his cigarette, inching a little closer towards Larz.  The room cascaded into pitch darkness.  “Now…I took out one of Cody Scott’s coteries.  And I took out one of the ones from Dancing Johnny.  And then I took out one of yours…and I realize that Scott made you and that one of his boys probably made Dancing Johnny…but what I want to know…is where I can find this cat.  Scott.  Where can I find…your Sire.  Now if you tell me…I’ll make this quick.  But if you don’t…if you get all Deer Hunter on me…then I promise you a night that you won’t live long enough to never forget…”

Hours passed.  

Toes and knees had been shattered.  Skin had been flayed.  Nails had been inserted between bones and stretched skin.  Fingernails had been torn and collected in a small pile.  Grooves had been carved, filled with maggots who, over several hours, had eaten their way to the bone.  When Larz had pulls against his restraints, the razor wire had cut off his left hand at the wrist.  His eyes had been removed.  His nose.  His penis had been torn and splattered against the wall, tied loosely to his balls.  And throughout the ordeal...in the dark...Simon had never stopped talking.  In the end, Simon had sawed through Larz’s throat, past trachea and veins and muscle straight down to the bone.  A quiet moment passed.  Simon sat there against the wall, covered in blood and ash, smoking a cigarette and licking his fingers.  The Brood had been defiant to the end…never once revealing his Sire’s location. 

The Warminister did not smile.

But his Beast did.

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