Bjorn rolled the microchip back and forth between forefinger and thumb as he listlessly stared overhead, the ceiling a blank canvas across which his mind’s eye projected and read the text on the crownet. Instead of comfort he found a vexation relinquished long ago was once again bubbling toward the surface; an apt metaphor now that he could vividly remember the circumstances of his turning.
He’d never found the woman who’d turned him, had many a times tugged on the bond they’d shared and found instead an unresponsive thread leading to a noticeable absence. Simone Leclaire. She had always been lost to him, so it had felt right to perform the disenthrallment ritual which served to concretise the distance between them. Berserkir. He’d baptised himself and all those who might come after him, should they choose to remain.
Emancipation had been bittersweet. Bitter because it had forced Bjorn to acknowledge the abandonment he felt without any of the resentment as his mind focused on the ritual at hand, and in the absence of that anger he’d instead felt sadness—unwelcome and unwarranted. Sweet because it gave him cause to finally make peace with the many who had failed him and to appreciate those who had helped him get to that point in his journey. He relinquished Altaire and added a degree of much-needed separation between himself and the Grigori.
The Grigori Bloodline. Bjorn seldom thought about it (and it wasn’t hard to ignore its existence with the radio silence) but he retained a vague cognition of it nevertheless, burrowed somewhere distant in his mind. The sudden reappearance of its figureheads was jarring. Their responses to some of the less enthusiastic bloodline members fell short of his expectations... If anything, he found himself digging through years’ worth of memories to remember what Elliot had said about them—about the lack of leadership and accountability, and found the Australian’s words rung true enough.
Their responses stirred something within that he’d not felt in a long time, rekindled logs that’d been left to smoulder and which might have had a chance to fully extinguish if the renewed communication had been more than hot air.
Bjorn closed his eyes and pressed the microchip into his healing palm, disconnecting from the ethereal ethernet (as Connor had so aptly termed it when it’d been first explained to him). The telepath’s actions as a misguided fledgling might have played a role in the eventual fall of the masquerade, but never would he have imagined things would go this way. It wasn’t, after all, all on him. That much he’d learned under Every’s tutelage.
Bjorn pushed himself off the sectional and flicked the microchip into the forge’s embers, indifferent to the chemical smell that permeated the air as the casing burst. It had been his plan to continue rendering weapons tonight, but the itch under his skin begged him to do more than sit around and burnish subpar swords. He took a look at the crafting table, but its siren call was silent tonight, no doubt muted by the sheer number of parts he’d yet to reorganise and which he was eager to part with. He’d posted a note to the crownet, hoping that less experienced crafters who’d derive more pleasure from tinkering with them would come forward to claim them, but he’d gotten no responses.
Deciding to leave, even though Connor was not here to exile him as the human was wont to do, Bjorn cast his mind to the possible places he’d reap the greater benefit from visiting. A glance at the forge gave his musing direction. He’d go somewhere he could collect more pieces to practice on.
He’d never found the woman who’d turned him, had many a times tugged on the bond they’d shared and found instead an unresponsive thread leading to a noticeable absence. Simone Leclaire. She had always been lost to him, so it had felt right to perform the disenthrallment ritual which served to concretise the distance between them. Berserkir. He’d baptised himself and all those who might come after him, should they choose to remain.
Emancipation had been bittersweet. Bitter because it had forced Bjorn to acknowledge the abandonment he felt without any of the resentment as his mind focused on the ritual at hand, and in the absence of that anger he’d instead felt sadness—unwelcome and unwarranted. Sweet because it gave him cause to finally make peace with the many who had failed him and to appreciate those who had helped him get to that point in his journey. He relinquished Altaire and added a degree of much-needed separation between himself and the Grigori.
The Grigori Bloodline. Bjorn seldom thought about it (and it wasn’t hard to ignore its existence with the radio silence) but he retained a vague cognition of it nevertheless, burrowed somewhere distant in his mind. The sudden reappearance of its figureheads was jarring. Their responses to some of the less enthusiastic bloodline members fell short of his expectations... If anything, he found himself digging through years’ worth of memories to remember what Elliot had said about them—about the lack of leadership and accountability, and found the Australian’s words rung true enough.
Their responses stirred something within that he’d not felt in a long time, rekindled logs that’d been left to smoulder and which might have had a chance to fully extinguish if the renewed communication had been more than hot air.
Bjorn closed his eyes and pressed the microchip into his healing palm, disconnecting from the ethereal ethernet (as Connor had so aptly termed it when it’d been first explained to him). The telepath’s actions as a misguided fledgling might have played a role in the eventual fall of the masquerade, but never would he have imagined things would go this way. It wasn’t, after all, all on him. That much he’d learned under Every’s tutelage.
Bjorn pushed himself off the sectional and flicked the microchip into the forge’s embers, indifferent to the chemical smell that permeated the air as the casing burst. It had been his plan to continue rendering weapons tonight, but the itch under his skin begged him to do more than sit around and burnish subpar swords. He took a look at the crafting table, but its siren call was silent tonight, no doubt muted by the sheer number of parts he’d yet to reorganise and which he was eager to part with. He’d posted a note to the crownet, hoping that less experienced crafters who’d derive more pleasure from tinkering with them would come forward to claim them, but he’d gotten no responses.
Deciding to leave, even though Connor was not here to exile him as the human was wont to do, Bjorn cast his mind to the possible places he’d reap the greater benefit from visiting. A glance at the forge gave his musing direction. He’d go somewhere he could collect more pieces to practice on.
