Path of the Vampire forum

February 9th, 2013

He had spent most of the night in the abandoned conference room, straining to read the words between the words. His eyes seemed to betray him, and he uncharacteristically lost focus. His watch said it was 3am... he never checked his watch.

He also never just went for walks, but now he found himself in the center of the cavernous main exhibition hall of Groom Center. The recent renovations had cost him dearly, but they would pay off in the future: the Exhibition Hall had been in some disrepair for several years, but now he could make public use of it. These details were important to the final plan. Next, the upper conference rooms and offices needed updating. For now, however, he allowed himself a unique moment of satisfaction in the smell of the new carpet.
He had known another visit from the rhyming man was overdue, but he had hoped for a less conspicuous setting. He turned.

"This is your doing," Wendell said. "It was you in the mirror... in the graveyard... in Black Box... for what purpose?"

The man shook his head. Wendell paused: he could never remember their faces after the Stillness ended. Even now, looking at this man, it was though he were faceless. He knew all he would remember were the eyes: piercing blue and mocking. "You said you were 'the case, the mask, the clock, the key.'" he replied.
Wendell felt an unusual moment of surprise as Chematt's lesson finally made sense. "You're not my dream... you're my Wraith!"

The rhyming man laughed musically. Wendell didn't care for this statement, and he found his footing shift. "What is it that you've been trying to show me then?"
"If you're pretending to be the answer, then what's the question?"

The Rhyming Man simply touched the space where he would have a nose and then walked away. Wendell called after him, trying to command him, but the wraith floated through the doorway and into the lobby... right past a patrolling security guard, to whom the Wraith was apparently invisible.

For the first time in months, Wendell frowned. Inwardly, he told himself that this vision might be more trouble than he was worth. In truth, however, Wendell also knew that the wraith was right: whatever was coming... it was inevitable, and it wasn't just a venture to the Shadow Realm.

It would definitely mean his end.

March 1st, 2013

It shouldn't have surprised him... the way he had perched, watched from the tops of the buildings, stalked in silence. The way he waited... just as he was doing now. It was easy to gain the form of a monster, because he understood the Will it took to be a monster.

When last he had tried to take an animal form, it eluded him: he had focused on beasts, killing machines, creatures of power, something to match the predator within. He had learned much in the past year: perhaps he had pursued the Path of the Shifter with too much zeal. Since then, he had learned the ways of Immortals, Necromancers, Shadows, and Summoners. He had learned that power wasn't always about force, but subtlety; not always about action, but waiting. He had also discovered that much of what he was capable of doing was based on instinct, rather than focus. In other words, he could not become the animal he wanted to be: he had to become the animal he already was.

He had long known, but denied, what this meant: the animal that represented his family... the one over the shield in the foyer, over the tomb in Oldtown.. the symbol of Groom International; emblazoned on the lobby floor... the one that had haunted his dreams since he was a child. Not merely the animal that killed -- predators were common enough -- but the animal who did what he long promised Hantu he would do.

"What no one else will."

Seldom had he hesitated to be anything other than what he was, but now he felt conflict. It was as though he were really two people: the child in the limousine and the hardened father who sat across from him.

"Sometimes things -- horrible things -- need to be done," the vision of his father had said. Despite every attempt to avoid doing so, he had definitely become his father: now he was the doer of horrible things. He already was the Vulture, and he just needed to accept it. Looking down from the top of Groom Tower and threw himself towards the pavement below.

He never hit the ground.

November 24th, 2012

The wispy figure sat alone in the fine restaurant. The candle in the center of the table cast its light through, rather than upon, the once-man's once-features. His hands were folded over what was probably once a mouth, though the fingers themselves blended together. All in all, this looked more like a postmodern sculpture than a man. This was definitely the Shadow Guide.

Wendell had not looked forward to this meeting: many of the worst of their society were Shadows. Still, he needed to progress his training, and he knew that knowing one's enemy was a place to start.

"Hykajae," Wendell said, pulling out the opposite chair and sitting.

"Wendell Groom," the Shadow replied. "Or... that's what you're going by these days?"

Wendell already didn't care for the Shadow. Like the Rhyming Man, the Shadow suggested something wrong about his identity. He let the distraction slide. "I've come to learn," he replied.

"Have you?" the Shadow seemed quizzical; perhaps even amused. "I know of your exploits Wendell Groom... I am uncertain you have the capacity to grasp the nature of a True Shadow."

"Is there more than one kind?" Wendell asked.

The Shadow seemed to ignore the question, and gestured to the candle. "Tell me, Wendell Groom... how any amount of darkness may ever overcome this one tiny light?"

Some time later...

Wendell had simply taken the candle with him. Now in his cabin, he stared into the flame, reflecting on the Shadow Guide's parting words.

"The Light is stronger than the Darkness."

It was subtly maddening. Concentrate as he might, he found no way to manipulate the darkness he knew to be all around the cabin. Moving his hand around the tiny flame, he could block the light from traveling, but he had no effect on the light itself. He could certainly snuff the flame itself, but he knew that such simple answers were never the way.

And all the time staring into the light... he found himself drawn further and further into it, like a moth on the path to self-annihilation...

And then the flame was simply gone. He reached into his pocket for the small steel lighter and flicked it open. The wax of the candle had long been spent: hardened into the small dish beneath. Ignoring the loss of the intervening time to The Stillness, he set the lighter down, still burning, to examine the remains of the candle.

No force: wind or pressure or shadow had extinguished this fire... it simply... burned itself out.

And understanding began to creep up on him: one didn't need to defeat the Light... Light was self-defeating. Light needed fuel... darkness simply was. Every flame, every bulb, every last star in the damned sky, would eventually burn itself out... and all that would remain in the end was the perfect blackness. All the shadow needed to do was wait. The small lighter that provided the only illumination in the room certainly held the darkness at bay... but it was slowly dying... and darkness would claim the room soon enough.

The Light was stronger than the Darkness... but only in the moment. The Darkness was enduring and eternal. The trick to being a "True" Shadow, then, was detached patience rather than action. It was the knowledge that the Shadow had already won. It was the very essence of inevitability.

The small lighter flickered and then went out.

December 21, 2012

The GPS in his phone found the coordinates easily enough: she had only told him to go there if he wanted to "make a hit", though she had neglected to mention who he'd be hitting. Still, he was clearly the first to arrive: the small clearing was empty and there were no tracks in the fresh snow. He leaned against a tree and rested his hand heavily on the pommel of the "enchanted" sword.

His thoughts drifted to enchantments... he had long stopped believing in the "supernatural". There were, in his mind, things that could be explained by science, and things that science hadn't dissected yet. The scientific answers interested some, but not him: knowledge, no matter who found it, always found its way into the wrong hands. Even the Masquerade would be breached one day... all his efforts... even this hunt... were merely a stall. Inevitability would catch up to vampires one day; with any luck, it would be far enough in the future that the Community would have had time to unify their strength.

There was a rustling behind him: undoubtedly another hunter. Few wandered out so far in the wilderness, and no one would have teleported a target out here before everyone was in position. Come to think of it... they never teleported anyway out into --

The rustling turned into a crash, and he was off the ground before he could turn a full 180º: hit by something heavier and sharper than an anchor. A massive claw impaled him through the stomach, lifted him in the air above a massive maw, which roared with a terrible rotting stench. Then he was flicked away with a swift motion of the wrist -- like a mere booger -- sliding off the claw and sailing through the air with great enough force to snap through the first tree he impacted and crack the second. The force of the blow would have absolutely liquefied a mere human, but he was held together by Will rather than sinew, so he slid to the ground.

Turning his attention quickly, he felt his jaw swinging loose beneath his skull. Rubbing his chin, he popped it back into place as he looked at the creature moving towards him: this was neither vampire nor animal... this was a Fae. He'd never seen a Fae before: merely fought the wolves. Moreover, he had heard of this one... it had a name: Tizheruk.

Lesson learned: never go to a site without asking what the target was. He reached for his sword, slamming his fist into his hip to force it back into its socket first. He drew his sword. Where does one start fighting a twenty foot monstrosity? Probably the throat? As good a plan as any. He leapt.

Fighting a larger creature was a unique experience, and he tried to make use of the advantage of being small. He drove the sword into the monster's throat... three, four, five times... halfway into its neck and into its spine. The Tizheruk reared back, bellowing, and he allowed himself to believe that he had struck a mortal blow: what could bleed in this fashion and survive?

It could, apparently. It plucked Wendell off its chest and flung him away, dragging its nails across his chest on the release: rending his flesh and exposing his organs. He actually drifted seventy or eighty yards above the canopy before coming back down through the branches, breaking numerous shoots, before skidding along the ground and slamming into another tree. He pushed himself to his side, and ripped a long plank of wood that had pierced him clear through his sternum. Another three inches to the left would have pierced his heart... would a wooden stake in the heart destroy him? Collapsing into the leaves, he waited for the Tizheruk to follow. It never came.

An hour later, when he had recovered the Will to hold himself together, he pulled out the phone. Although the screen was all but destroyed, he managed to dial. "It's me," he said. "Yes. No. Better start tracking it again... I want another shot. Okay." He hung up.

A second attempt would be hopeless; he knew this already. Even if he had prepared, he couldn't have destroyed it in single combat. It wouldn't, however, stop him from trying... from learning. Wendell was a predator, but clearly not the greatest. This new data fascinated him... perhaps he wasn't as unwilling to learn as he had thought. With this knowledge came the realization of a new inevitability:

That he would one day be destroyed.

February 1st, 2013

Wendell stood on what was left of the roof of the Abandoned Fire Department. Passing curiosity brought him back to look through his old locker; he found it emptied entirely. It was unsurprising that the valuables had been removed, but that the photographs... even the cheap seashell-magnet souvenirs that held up the photographs had been removed. None of the other lockers were so clean. It was... odd, and yet, he found himself not caring about it.

Instead he found himself on what was left of the roof of the building. The familiarity struck him: not so much the Fire Department, but the similarity between the QZ and the Shadow Realm. Both were decaying... ruined representations of what they were. Above him, the sky was grey from the light pollution, despite the darkness within the high walls. A few particularly bright stars managed to peek through -- a few more than could be seen in the Shadow Realm at least -- tiny lights resilient against the infinite blackness that surrounded them. The brighter they burned... the faster they would go out. Many probably had already: that light just hadn't reached them yet.

He couldn't, for the life of him, fathom the purpose of those lights.

"What are you doing?" a voice asked from behind him.

Wendell had become so accustomed to sudden appearances that he hardly reacted. "Watching the stars die," he said.

"You've been talking with Hykajae."

Wendell nodded and turned. He recognized this Wraith by its description. "Chematt," he said. "Never had a Wraith seek me out."

"Who says I came to you? Perhaps I called you, and you came to me?"

"Did you?"

"Did I?"

The conversation bore echoes of his conversation with Hantu. "It would be useful to know how to call a Wraith," he admitted.

Images appeared in his mind, though he could not yet make sense of him. "You already have a Wraith," Chematt seemed to be saying. "The Path of the Summoner isn't about commanding what isn't to be, it's about finding what already is."

"I'm supposed to believe that Fadebeasts and Spirits are just... everywhere?" he asked.

"If you knew the nature of those things, you wouldn't ask that question." Wendell paused for a long time, and then hopped down from the roof into a pile of bricks below. "And where are you going?" the Wraith hummed after him in his mind.

Wendell began to walk away, resting a hand heavily on his gun. "Hunting."

May 1st, 2013

It didn't add up.

The profit margins for the company were way higher than they should be. Wendell had stared so long at the papers that he swore there were blurry lines in-between the lines he was reading. It was unusual for him to feel any fatigue at all: his vampire form and his advanced practice of working through the days (albeit indoors) meant he could go days, sometimes a week, without any sort of rest. Rest was for muscles that lacked vampyric regeneration and minds that were run on neurotransmitters.

He turned away from the desk. Flanking the large window that looked down on the Quarantine Zone were a series of filing cabinets. This was his life, or unlife now... business. His guns and blades were safely tucked away (though never too far from reach), but he had realized that they were virtually useless weapons in a fight against an enemy who wouldn't die. He was playing to have much larger weapons at his disposal now. The ability to assume other identities had allowed him a tighter grasp on the finances of Groom International: he was now acting as several individuals at once. This new position as an Accounts Manager promised to help him conceal some of his activities with the company's funds, but it also posed puzzles like the one he encountered today.

He grabbed the stack of papers and began shuffling through in a more detail-oriented fashion, trying to account for the missing expenses he knew must be there. Was someone else manipulating the company? Part of his mind virtually begged him to let it go -- to find more productive avenues for his time -- but he was having none of it. Pushing that voice aside, he found a document mixed into his paperwork he'd not seen before. Scanning it, his eyes widened slightly.

Someone was manipulating the company: moving resources, opening old facilities... for what purpose, he could not immediately discern. The signatures on the paper would have been a clue, but they were clearly forged.

It was the signature of someone Wendell knew to be long dead.

May 31st, 2013

The longer Wendell spend at Groom Tower, the more he was assured that someone was on to him. It wasn't a creeping paranoia or insecurity -- Wendell did not have those things -- but logic pointed him towards a single conclusion. His papers were disappearing from locked filing cabinets, his Wraith had disappeared inexplicably, and -- more unsettling -- he was slipping into Stillness while working in his office and coming to while stepping off of the elevator at the lobby of Groom Tower. Never before had he taken action during his bouts of Stillness, and so any action, no matter how mundane, should be regarded as a problem that might grow worse.

His mind, however, leaped to the missing documents. None of them were particularly damaging... in fact, he wasn't entirely sure why anyone would take account reports. They were all but useless, accept for the identifiers on the accounts themselves. Equally curious was how they were being removed. It would, he calculated, take a quality thief to break into his office and filing cabinets without leaving a trace; on the other hand, the city was full of vampyric thieves... many of whom had axes to grind, but lacked the strength to swing an ax. Particularly one with the courage to swing at him.

It was a long list to be certain.

Finding himself again in the lobby of Groom Tower, he set about making all the customary checks of the security system, casing the booths at this week's convention for both threats and potential opportunities -- regular business conventions insured that Groom International continued prosperously -- before returning to his office.

If he were capable of being bored, Wendell would have been bored. Although his nights spent hunting had brought no particular pleasure, it had at least represented a challenge. Operating a business in Harper Rock was like maintaining a rock garden... or perhaps playing chess against one. It was all basic math. He had begun to invest money independently after The Directorate failed, and found it to be a very straightforward operation. Unlike a "real" garden with bugs and weeds and weather... the rock garden simply was what one made it: move some sand here, create a new pattern there, and it stays more or less intact until you change it again.

Inwardly, part of him realized that the rock garden analogy for businesses really was an analogy for himself. Without emotions, sickness, aging... it was really Wendell that was unchanging, and not the business itself. Change would be necessary: a rock garden, unlike a real garden, grew nothing and produced nothing. It was the elements of chaos -- the bugs, weeds, and weather -- that allowed evolution. Not that he was about to embrace the weeds of the Community; after all, no one actually tolerates weeds in their garden.

The weather, however, was about to change. His father, Wendell Groom Sr., always complained of a dull ache before inclement weather, and now Wendell felt it as well: like the deep cold he used to get from chopping firewood out at the cabin. The association made him, momentarily, feel human again.

And then, as now, he decided he didn't like such feelings.

August 10th, 2013

The Shadow Realm again.

Wendell took bi-weekly trips to the Shadow Realm, and he had never taken one against his will. Certainly his first journey came in the form of a bullet, but it was a self-delivered bullet, and one that had taught him far more than it had taken from him. In fact, he had kept the bullet; not out of sentiment, of course, but as a reminder.

The Shadow Realm was a twisted hellscape. Even with his familiarity, the place was virtually impossible to navigate. At times, he would walk three blocks to find himself exactly where he just was. Were he capable of frustration, he'd have found it maddening; in the absence of frustration, however, it brought to mind questions of non-Euclidean dimensionality. This in itself should have been maddening, because he hadn't the faintest idea what non-Euclidean dimensionality was. He was, in his mind, just having a "Physics Day". Knowledge came and went with little rhyme or reason... being Wendell, it was just another question without an answer.

The entire Shadow Realm itself, however, was a question without an answer. Most of his journeys yielded nothing directly: the apocalyptic world was arcane and enigmatical. He spent his time looking -- if such a thing could be done in the Shadow Realm -- for answers. The Veil Tear was real enough certainly but, like gravity, only its effects could be seen: the thing itself was invisible. Unable to bring scientific equipment into the Shadow Realm, he had to rely on observation, and even his keenly honed vampire mind and senses were unable to see a singular force or phenomenon he would classify as being the Tear.

Being able to locate and identify the Tear would help him with two projects. The first project was to confirm or refute the ravings of Eskoph. The Wraith itself had been useless in producing credible information... even when he set more charismatic people than himself to the task of interrogation. Lack of fact generally pointed to greater falsehoods, but this likelihood did not dissuade Wendell from continuing his investigation: the consequences if Eskoph was right (however unlikely that was) simply outweighed the time he spent.

Wendell had long looked for allies and colleagues to help with this investigation, and found none willing or interested. Everyone was too set in their beliefs: either that Eskoph was right and no evidence was needed, or that Eskoph lied and there was no evidence to be found. Wendell clung to no one ideology personally: if tomorrow the Crow were shown false and everything Eskoph said was proven... he would simply accept that he had been wrong and help the Community as best he could provided the new data. He didn't have an ego to bruise, or a sense of shame that would prevent him from accepting his wrongness. On the contrary, he faintly hoped he was wrong.

If he was wrong, then he could move forward with his second project. Perhaps it was premature to consider, but if there was a specific Tear, and if that Tear was not immutable -- if that Tear could be altered or widened -- it opened up new possibilities. He wasn't sure why a Fae would want to open the Tear: by all accounts, it would exterminate all life... even the Fae... but what could be assumed of a mind alien as theirs? Eskoph, again, was useless in this regard... as useless as the other Wraith Guides and the Elders at least.

But, no, widening the Tear wasn't Wendell's goal. Wendell's purpose was far more sinister. He had off-handedly remarked about it on the CrowNet in the hopes someone with a similar idea would make themselves known to him -- that they could pool their resources -- but he had had no such luck. And he dare not reveal his purpose too publicly lest others, with their various selfish goals, try to hinder him.

Wendell hoped to find evidence that Eskoph was right because if the Veil Tear could be opened, then perhaps it could also be closed.

June 18th, 2013

It shouldn't have come to this, but his investigations had reached a dead end. Now, Charles Wabash walked purposely up to the office of Vincent Groom: it was time to get answers. Wendell had assumed Wabash's identity for a few months now: a single, unassuming Accounts Manager. He spent a few days using the security system to record himself a persona... the footage acted as his focus for the Shifter abilities he had learned. Charles, the real Charles, was dead of course. Wendell had been uncharacteristically uneasy about killing the man... perhaps he had overestimated Charles' colleagues or the complexity of a human life. In fact, it seemed all too easy to replace a human, switch to the night shift, and create excuses for why he couldn't attend this or that social function.

Sitting across the table from his mortal brother was easy too. Remembering to call him "sir" was a bit more difficult. He explained the discrepancies in the numbers, the unmarked accounts, as much as he could without revealing his purpose. At the end, Vincent simply stared at him. He wondered inwardly whether he had overplayed his hand; if he had, killing his brother here would be messy. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the Wraith behind him, shaking his head... he took it as a sign to withhold violence a few moments longer.

"Well Charles," Vincent started. "I'm not an accountant, but it seems like you're not taking into account the Biomedical Division."

"The what?" Wendell/Charles asked. He was so surprised to hear the words that the illusion nearly failed: his voice slipped a full octave, and he coughed unconvincingly. "Sorry... the what?" he asked in a much more human tone.

"Groom Biomedical?" Vincent replied. "Gah... Charles! It's the center of the company! How do you not know this?"

None of this made sense to Wendell: Groom Industries made weapons, and Groom International was a division specialized in communications technology founded to support those weapons. Unless... "Are we making biological weapons?" he asked conspiratorially.

Vincent sputtered. "Bio... Biological weapons!? What's wrong with you? We don't make weapons!"

Wendell blinked. "We don't what!?" he asked. His voice rarely possessed any inflection at all, and though he could somewhat fake it through the illusions of the Shifter Bridge, this was genuine shock. Immediately after the question, he realized that he had definitely outed himself. He was torn between killing Vincent and fleeing, or staying and getting more information. He opted to stay.

"Groom Industries hasn't made weapons since the nineties," he said. "We ousted Wendell Sr., and took the company in a new direction... don't you remember?"

His mind flashed back to the night he'd ducked into the conference room to avoid Vincent: half-read headlines he hadn't paid attention to.

1990: The New Direction of Groom...

He sat down slowly. Vincent came to his side. Rather than outraged, he seemed sympathetic; his brother always was a sap. "Hey, look... I think you need some time off. I'll ask Nancy to copy the files on Biomedical for you. I hope it refreshes your memory."

Was he really going to just walk away from this? Inwardly, he was both suspicious and resentful. Perhaps he had also overestimated his brother: the man clearly had no instinct for business or self-preservation. Wendell would need to take over soon, before this company sank under his brother's incompetence... but not today. After Vincent paged his secretary, Wendell used his Allurist powers to blast his brother's mind and disorient him. The Confusion would make it more difficult to recall the details of the conversation later... better to take precautions, even with a soul as trusting as Vincent. Taking the files, he returned to his office.

He would not be taking any time off. In fact, he was never more sure of the amount and urgency of the work that lie ahead.

September 1st, 2013

In this event, Wendell was merely a cog in a larger plan. Instinct, rather than fact, told him this, but he did not recoil from it as most other vampires would. This was a step toward a greater destiny. It was a stone to set in the path, and when setting a stone, one does not move the stone alone: gravity does some of the work too. This is where he found himself... subject to gravity, just before the end.

It had taken over a year, but he finally felt confident that he had the knowledge and skill to make this work. With uncharacteristic care and reverence, he had returned to the case that he had drawn out of the river eighteen months ago. The case was made of a black material that he couldn't identify, bearing resemblance to the substance of the Shadow Realm -- if there were such a thing. Inside, however, was the real prize: four bars of brilliant silver metal with a set of blue etchings which seemed to glow faintly.

This had once been a weapon; melted down for reasons unknown and cast away. Part of him wondered if what he sought to accomplish here wasn't the very thing that a previous generation had hoped to forestall. He wasn't, however, working entirely of his own Will here. He perceived that the metal itself still had a mind: it was slumbering now, but beginning to stir, and it wanted to be a weapon again. So it would be.

He had gathered tools, but drawn no plans. This was a weapon that would take its own form. Unlike his other creations that had been extensions of himself, this weapon would be its own thing, and they would come to share a common destiny. This thing already knew its purpose: it had once been a weapon. Like Wendell himself, though, it had to die a death so that it could be reborn with greater power.

He removed the bars and placed them into the smelter. The old sword groaned uncomfortably, but accepted the fire as part of the process: change was often painful. As the metal melted, it seemed to glow faintly of its own accord: not red, but blue.

He would remake this weapon... not into the sword that it probably once was, but into a more modern killing machine. Reflecting on the recent developments in Harper Rock, and his own trajectory into business. Most of his weapons were stashed safely away, but they would be needed again. Conflict was brewing beneath the surface: weapons, like Wendell, had an instinct for predicting the weather. His trajectory into business was necessary and useful... but he was ultimately a projectile. Try as he might, war was the ground beneath his feet, and he would return to it unfailingly.

All things were subject to gravity.