Prelude 2 - The Embrace

[00:00:00] Speaker A: You never forget the kindred are cursed. They feed on the living, burn in the sun, and wrestle for eternity with an alien predator that lives inside their soul. Only the most bizarre and twisted of individuals goes looking for the embrace, unless they have an imperfect understanding of what being a vampire fire means. How, then, did our four friends end up on the wrong end of God's wrath? Let's find out. You're listening to the all night society, an actual play podcast brought to you by Queens court games. Ivy Larue isn't one to share her secrets, possessed of a furtiveness no doubt amplified by her tremere blood. But while Vienna may have fallen, the pyramid still lives in certain chantries. And when the regent asks a question only a fool refuses to answer. [00:01:37] Speaker B: The first time I met one of us, or even someone adjacent, was the night of the welcome social at Cambridge. And before you ask, no, it wasn't Gabrielle, my sire, wouldn't come into the picture for a while yet, even if the whole thing was still her doing. What I wrote off as a chance meeting had actually been planned for quite some time. The social presented a bit of a challenge for me. There I was, in a pub, with all those greater minds, and we were just in a pub, drinking, talking. It was easily the most social interaction I'd had in, I'm not sure, a very long time. And I don't mean to say that I was some kind of socially inept wallflower. No, it was just the first time in literally a decade where I'd been in a room like that, with people like that. And I wasn't being asked to compete for something. No trophies, no accolades, no scholarships, nothing at all at stake. I came around in the end. We played the pub quiz and talked about our undergraduate work and the topics we planned to write our dissertations on. And it would have ended up a perfectly forgettable night, were it not for this short, mousey boy watching me from the bar through thick tortoise shell glasses. This had been going on for most of the night, and every time I caught him, he'd immediately look away, like he'd suddenly become very interested in the contents of his glass, trying so very hard to not draw attention to himself. He was still sitting there when the event officially ended, by himself, as he'd been for the whole night. I just assumed he was nervous. There were a lot of new people, and academia has a way of attracting the shy and awkward type. But, well, the whole event was supposed to be about making new acquaintances. And I'd been doing a pretty good job of playing friendly. Pure ivy so far. So I decided to walk over as things died down, say hello, see if everything was okay. He introduced himself as Aemon and quietly confessed to listening in on a handful of my conversations over the course of the evening. This because he found my presence enchanting, which came out exactly as awkwardly as you might imagine. It's the kind of thing that normally triggers a woman's creeper alarm. But Eamon was so obviously harmless, I asked about his own work inside the department and found he was a doctoral candidate under Dr. Alfred Kensington, the same Dr. Kensington I was hoping to perform my own research under. We ended up closing down the pub, exchanging contact information. As we left, Eamonn and I became friends. I suppose we would meet one another on campus when our schedules crossed, usually in the library, but most of our conversations were by way of long winded email. I'd send him drafts of my recent work. He'd ask for my thoughts on some article or book. It was all very dork formal, but that's really all there was to Aemon. As time went on, though, he became more and more interested in my work, asking more questions, spending more of his own time helping me dig up obscure references. And as the paper neared completion, he introduced me to Dr. Kensington. Now that was something incredible. Dr. Kensington had been mulling around Cambridge for the better part of four decades and had only ever taken on two master's students. It was an unwritten rule in the department. You had to prove yourself through your candidacy exams before you were even allowed to knock on his office door. The idea that I could skip the line, get a head start under this legendary scholar. That was the kind of offer you don't turn down. Eamon pulled me along to a lunch with Dr. Kensington the very next week, and everything fell into a routine, really, after that. Working under Dr. Kensington was rigorous, frantic. The man had this impossible ability to cut through the around a particular thought or theory. Every draft I handed him came back torn to ribbons, just utterly gutted. But amidst all the red ink and curt edits, he'd leave you this polished gem of a good idea that had been hiding in the middle of it all. And that's how my life was supposed to continue, right through my dissertation and thesis defense. Then onto the job market, where the tenure track waited. Except the holiday party happened. It was an annual tradition for Cambridge anthropology, a chance for students to mingle with alumni and for faculty to massage the generosity of potential donors. Men in black tie, women in evening gowns, grand halls, tall ceilings, marble floors. Close your eyes and imagine gala for offensively rich people, and you've probably got the right idea. I was dressed to do my part, spending most of the night chatting with Eamon or listening to Dr. Kensington Pratt along about the achievements of his most senior students to anyone with deep enough pockets to listen. Then I found my attention pulled toward the door. Enter Gabrielle Antonescu, an important donor, Ayman assured me, and close personal friends with Dr. Kensington. Always one to back brilliance she believes in, she was breathtaking. Long red hair in perfectly soft curls that bounced as she strode across the floor, not a strand out of place. She just overwhelmed the room with beauty and confidence and sense of purpose. I honestly can't find the words to describe it fully. And that's saying something. I know a lot of words. She'd already invited herself into our circle by the time I managed to collect myself. I came, too, just as she was taking Dr. Kensington's extended hand. And then her eyes fell upon me. Alfred, this is the one, isn't it? She purred, lifting my chin with her index finger, and it was all I could do to quiet the sharp gasp she'd pulled from my lips and wonder when my heart would start beating again. The one who authored that delightful piece you sent me, Dr. Kensington replied, but the words were empty, buzzing in my ears. Whatever he'd said, gabrielle seemed satisfied with the response. She released me and even allowed me a few seconds to recognize the rush of hot blood into my cheeks. And then it started. Questions about my research, the underlying theories and prior works, and how I felt it complemented existing scholarship. Every assumption was challenged, every argument dissected. She was sharp and authoritative, charming and brilliant, doting and aware, and I was absolutely enamored. All the while, Dr. Kensington stood there with a steady smile and dollar signs in his eyes, with Eamon by his side, wearing the closest thing to a smirk I'd ever seen grace his lips. When the evening finally drew to a close, Gabrielle extended an invitation dinner at her home in the city. I accepted, of course, assuming she'd offer the same to Eamon or Dr. Kensington at least. But no. She simply clasped her hands around mine and expressed her delight. I asked if she needed my contact information, but she waved the question aside with a tut and a smile. No need, love. I know how to reach you. A letter arrived at my door the following day, sealed with the deep red wax and a geometric stamp inside. A formal invitation to Gabrielle's home the coming weekend, delicately handwritten, and a note expressing her deepest gratitude for the pleasure of my company and intellect. The previous evening. I called Eamon immediately, of course, and it was only as I began to share the details that I realized how nervous I was. He told me to be myself. That's what had drawn her interest in the first place, after all. And he offered small, quiet reassurances. Everyone feels that way when they meet her. But you'll get used to it. And you must, he continued, because she's not one to change projects quickly. None of which made the task feel any easier, of course. In fact, by the time Eamonn ended our call, I realized he'd only given me one piece of actionable advice. Look your best. Ms. Antonescu expects perfection. And I took that advice the evening of the dinner. I took the time to get everything right, my hair straightened just so, my makeup light but flawless, my outfit designer but restrained. I wanted to impress this woman needed to, not for Dr. Kensington and his money, but for myself. After a modest drive, I found myself on her doorstep, my arrival announced by way of heavy iron knocker. Gabrielle answered the door herself and ushered me inside. As expected, the interior was immaculate. The furniture appeared brand new, the rugs freshly laundered, the whole of the place dressed in eduardian decor, and not a single element left out of order. She'd mentioned she only used this home while traveling, but even for a vacation home, it felt too pristine. We arrived in the library. Her collection was magnificent, the contents neatly ordered, spines flush every Tome in its proper place. She motioned me to a tufted sofa and the extravagant spread of cheeses and fruits that waited nearby. I asked if there would be other guests joining us, and she only smiled. No, my dear. Tonight we honor you and your accomplishments, just the two of us. A mind like yours should be celebrated, don't you agree? I couldn't argue. Gabrielle led the conversation, a gentle inquiry into my undergraduate studies, the work that led to my fulbright, and how it had matured under Dr. Kensington's guidance. She listened intently, patiently, but all the while with a lingering air of disappointment. Alfred is committing quite the sin, wasting your talents like this, she'd offer, and when I asked her what she meant, she replied only with a knowing smile. This was the most seen I'd felt in ever. Sure, plenty of people cared about my work, but only insofar as it might benefit them. This woman, she was here for me, talking about my talents with no motive beyond genuine interest. In time, the topics turned personal. She asked how my parents were handling the distance, how they felt about having so remarkable a child studying halfway around the world. So I told her about Connor, about San Antonio and the Fulbright dinner and pictures with John Glenn, about how I'd taken a taxi to the airport, and how I hadn't heard my parents'voices since moving to Cambridge. I tried, really, truly tried, to not sound petulant. But this moment, this, all of it, everything, I couldn't. I felt the frustration rising, ready to boil over, and Gabriel reached out and squeezed my hand. The touch was overwhelming, and I felt myself beginning to tremble. How ignorant of them. She smiled. What a foolish thing to be incapable of recognizing the gem that sparkles. Gabrielle drank deep from the well of my anger, nodding with affirmation as I explained how I had managed, how I had accomplished so much in so short a time, never once cracking under the pressure to live in a world where the concept of time holds no sway over those with the right gifts. She laughed. The conversation paused only long enough to pour me another drink. A strong port. It smelled of chocolate and cherries. What if I told you there was a way to have all of that? She asked. To rise above the stifling crowds of mediocrity immediately and forever? I couldn't help but blurt out my response. Oh, I'd give anything for that. Anything. Gabrielle grinned, and her voice dropped ever so slightly. I thought as much. She came and sat beside me on the sofa. Her voice languid against my ear in time with the slow stroke of her fingers along my arm. Her closeness made it hard to breathe again. We'll do great things together, Ivy Larue. I promise. But first, I need you to die. I noticed the first touch of numbness spreading across my throat and into my face. I lifted my hands, tried to lift my hands, but the movement was sluggish and clumsy. I wanted to speak, but the words refused to come. I turned to Gabrielle with pleading eyes. She took my hands into hers, squeezing gently. I wanted so badly to breathe, but my lungs refused their cooperation. I could only gasp for air that wouldn't come, make demands of a body that felt no obligation to respond. Gabrielle pressed a finger to my lips and leaned close to kiss my forehead. She shushed me gently and brought my head down into her lap. She played with my hair as my heart strained to keep beating, assuring me that there wasn't much time left, that things would be better for me soon, that she had seen me, my passion, my drive. And now I would join her in a world that could make better use of my talents. I could only feel the pain mounting in my chest as my heart struggled against the inevitable. Its beats growing further and further apart. And in that last moment, in the seconds after that last strained pulse, I heard her voice. Don't think of this as the end, darling. This is our beginning. [00:20:22] Speaker A: Joshua Crozier stands out among the benu hakeem, a clan whose roots are worlds apart from the life he once inhabited. With difference comes suspicion, and with suspicion, interrogation. Chicago's ashira might not have official authority over him, but that's still no reason to refuse an elder's summons. [00:20:49] Speaker C: The natural assumption of human beings, all human beings, is that bad things only ever happen to the guy next door. No matter how pessimistic your mindset, whether you realize it or not, you just assume it can't happen to you. Someone else will get sick, someone else will get robbed, someone else will get killed. Statistics don't really help. Doesn't matter how bad the crime is in your neighborhood or how likely you are to die in a car crash. Everyone believes they'll get home safely each night, eat dinner, flip on the local news, and shake their heads at some other guy's misfortune. I wish I still had that luxury. But nope. I'm here a part of all of this because I made the same classic human blunder. Because I only investigated murders, right? I wasn't gonna be the corpse laid out in the coroner's office until nature decided I was good and ready. Sure, I had scares. You can't really be a cop in Boston without someone threatening to do you in. And after all that corruption, tipster business, there were plenty of people ready to join that list. But even after all of that, I never got the mysterious knock on the door, never met the shadowy goon in an alley, never heard the crack of a gunshot from a nearby roof. I was the defier of statistics, not the other guy. Reality bared itself in 1989 utterly without mercy. It must have been early, maybe mid December. It was Isaac's second Christmas. Rachel and I had just put up the tree a day or two before we were deep into the Boston winter. But that house, even with the New England chill outside. Look, I know it sounds cliche, but we were young and in love and starting a family. It was as warm and comforting as any place could be. I'd just come off shift around nine in the evening. Rachel was in the living room. She stood up to welcome me home as I stripped off my winter gear. She asked me to keep it down because Isaac had only just fallen asleep, and it had already been a real ordeal trying to get him to bed. I made this real big show of being quiet, tiptoeing past her with these big exaggerated steps, and I went into her room to change. I was still fumbling with my belt when it all went down. I'd forgotten my gloves at work, and I was trying to retrace my steps through the station, remember where I'd left them when I heard a crash in the front room. I don't know if you've been married or if you've had kids, but I swear it changes your wiring somehow, activates some dormant part of your reptile brain dad reflexes, you know? So I was already halfway out of the bedroom when police brain kicked in. I wanted it to be Rachel dropping some dishes or a car backfiring down the street, but I knew better. I kicked my way into a lot of houses as a cop, I knew that sound. The punch of the knob into a wall, the groan of the door shuddering in its frame. But knowing doesn't really matter, because knowing doesn't make you run any faster. I made it into the living room just in time to see Rachel take the first hit. Might as well have been me taking a bat to the side of the head, considering. Considering my reaction. There's no feeling so gut wrenching, so world rending as watching someone you love crumpled to the ground, no light in their eyes, like she'd just been unplugged. I was stunned. At the academy, they train you to look for details in moments like that. What was the guy wearing? What was his build? Did he have an accent? Did he sound nervous? Calm? But that wasn't happening. I could only see my wife, hear the dead weight as she hit the floor. In that moment I couldn't tell you fuck all about the guy who'd hit her, and I sure as shit didn't notice the other guy, the absolute bear of a man who caught me broadside, knife in his hand. The sheer force of him as he hit me, that would have been more than enough to bowl me over on its own, but the knife sure helped. I was off my feet in an instant, left a writhe on the floor, clutching my wound, too confused and hurt to be much use to anyone. The man standing over me had this expression on his face, something between regret and surprise as he looked down not at me but at his own hands, covered in my blood as they were. Someone else dragged Rachel to lie next to me, and I could only stare at this woman I loved, all bloody hair matted as her lips tried and failed to form words as her brain struggled to keep the signal going. I tried to stand up, and a boot to the chest told me not to try that again. From somewhere a million miles away, I could hear others rifling through our possessions, looking for valuables. I guess I heard one peer into Isaac's room. He always fell asleep to the same kids'music, which carried louder through the open door, and my heart froze. I could feel my body coil like a spring ready to lash out. But then the door closed. Isaac wasn't crying. I guess he managed to sleep through the the burglar made his way through the rest of the house. It only took a couple minutes. Pros aren't really looking to walk off with your tv. They want small valuables. Jewelry, electronics, cameras. Stuff that's easy to move and quick to sell. I thought to myself. Okay, we're almost through this. I started planning every move. How I'd get Rachel into the car, how I'd throw my light on, how I'd get her to Methodist hospital because it was the closest. Then the guy with the bag looked us over, nodded, and his associates got to work. Rachel died first, and I'm thankful for that. That first crack of the bat, it had knocked her clean out. And with another couple swings, she was gone. At least I hope so. My killer, on the other hand, he was pretty clearly not experienced. The knife was new to his hands, and. Look, I'll leave the details to your imagination, but believe me when I say dying hurt a lot. Your brain shuts down in moments like that. It knows much better than to let you remember that pain. But I saw the crime scene photos after. I know that I struggled. And I know he didn't finish the job. I guess his buddies just got tired of waiting for me to die. So what do you know? I was the other guy. Well, sort of, anyway. The whole other guy story doesn't really account for vampires. I don't remember dying. But I do remember undying. You do, too, I bet. That feeling of being pulled back from the empty void, that tingle in your skin, and how it takes you a few seconds to realize that you're not breathing and your heart doesn't beat. You have to reorient yourself. Let it all fade. Let yourself be born again into the emptiness of a dead body. My eyes snapped open. I was still in the living room, more or less in the same position I'd been left in. My wife was still there at my side, completely motionless, battered nearly beyond recognition. I sat up, ignoring for a moment the fact that it should have hurt like hell but didn't. And moved to cradle her, to hold her just one last time. That's when I noticed the other presence in the room. A man I didn't recognize was sitting in my armchair, as comfortably as if it was his house, his chair, and not mine. He was tall and swarthy, skin a few shades darker than olive, wearing an expensive looking suit, something hand tailored, and a narrow, self satisfied grin. I could see something there in his gaze, something calculating and judgmental, like a cat staring at the bird between its paws. I had many questions. First and foremost, who the fuck was this guy? Followed immediately by why the fuck was he in my house? But he knew what was coming after that. When I smelled it, he was already gesturing past me, over my shoulder. You know it. I know you do. There's no whiff of blood that ever smells quite like the first one, right? 1 second you're lucid, the next you've never wanted anything so bad in your life, and you'll do anything to get it. I can't imagine any brand new lick being able to restrain themselves, but what do I know? Not like my sire was careful. No, he just pointed. As I turned, I saw the man who'd taken a bat to my wife, bound and gagged against my kitchen wall. Looking back, I wonder what happened to the others. But in that exact moment, let's say that matter felt inconsequential. He must have seen something on my face as I approached, crawling across the carpet, on my hands and knees. I'd never heard a man make a so pathetic. His eyes flashed back and forth between myself and the man in my chair. I imagine him pleading, begging, like this stranger might call me off like a dog. He didn't, obviously. He just sat and watched. Of course, what happened next was scripted, intentional. My sire had been exceedingly careful, arranging things just as he wanted to, and played the willing audience as I leapt on the man. I don't remember what happened, not really. I have these little flashes of recollection of blood and bone and tearing and screaming, but I don't think I'd really call that remembering. More like trying to piece together the remnants of a dream. When it was over, I found myself squatting in the center of a bloody splash stone, perched atop most of a human being. I could still taste him on my teeth, thick and coppery. My sawyer rose, his expression a mix of amusement and disgust, and offered his hand, pulling me to my feet. He told me his name, john Thicketts, and that he'd be happy to explain everything that had happened. But first we needed to get moving. I turned toward Rachel, but he grabbed my jaw, forcing my eyes to meet his. He promised me, you can do to all of them, everyone responsible for this, what you've just done to that man. But first, we need to leave. I noticed his accent, though even now I can't place it. Not that it really mattered. I wasn't a hard sell. He made his offer, and I was on board. Without another word, I just nodded and told him there was only one thing I still needed to do. I walked to Isaac's room and stood in the doorway, just watching him sleep. The music was still playing, and he looked so peaceful, so content, so innocent and fragile. I knew better than to pick him up, not because of the blood and gore, but because I knew I wouldn't be able to put him back down. So I just whispered to him, I'm sorry, buddy, and I left. What I was about to do, he could never know. [00:34:38] Speaker A: No nosferatu ever stands entirely alone. Or so the clan's unofficial creed declares. But some stand more alone than others. The silver rats are slow to trust, which means a new arrival like Schmendrick can only share her stories with the magnetic tape whirring through her recorder. [00:35:03] Speaker D: Okay, I think I have this thing set up right. Oh, hang on. Okay, there we go. I think it's working now. I guess we'll see. I've just been thinking back on this a lot and wanted to have some kind of record of it. I guess. I don't know who all would care to hear it that I don't think wants to kill me. And I just. Yeah, okay, I'm talking to myself even more. And. Okay, shut up, schmedric. Here goes. I think everyone's made some kind of decision that changed their lives, right? Not even really something like getting married or having a kid or something like that, but some simple, obvious choice that ended up just butterfly affecting and changing everything. For better or for worse. My decision was going to school, and as you can probably already tell, the reason college changed my life wasn't the same as it is for most people. Most people just get a job and start making the kind of money they couldn't before I became a vampire. Okay, so obviously those things are kind of far apart from each other, and it. And it wasn't like I got drained by some hungry nosferati behind the vetting machines. No, really. It started with my dad finding out that I was involved in some hacker stuff. I've been through the details before, and really, they aren't that important. Simple version, I just felt like shit. And I knew he wanted me to do something with my life that wouldn't end up with me in federal prison. And I loved my dad a lot. So I took his advice about finding something techie I could do for law enforcement and decided to go to school in New York for digital forensics. My dad was happy with my decision. I get to see my mom more, and I didn't expect it, but my hacker friends online? No, not on the usual hacker sites around those days. It was 1988, but they were super proud and supportive. Everything was pretty great, not going to lie well, everything was great until classes really got going. College is hard. Really hard. I honestly wasn't really prepared for it. I kind of thought with how good I'd gotten with hacking and tracing it would be a breeze. I didn't expect how much discipline it would take. I'd spent my years since high school hacking major tv stations and then getting into some business. I don't want to mention I wasn't used to commitment or discipline. I'd given up on that in high school, and I had to relearn it pretty quick. On top of that, I kind of let my pride get the better of me. My dad pulled some strings to get me hired with NYPD pretty much immediately, even with school just being started. And I took it because obviously I was smart enough and talented enough to pull that off. I hadn't ever backed down from a challenge like that before, and I guess I didn't think about how much stress it would add on top of school. Should have just dropped one or the other, at least for a little bit. But my ego was not going to let that happen. I just let myself get more and more stressed out. Even my hobbies were really just more work at that point. I got back into the less than legal side of hacking, but specifically to track down illicit activity that I could then find at work. Make myself look good, cover for that whole lack of discipline thing. That was really all I had time for, and I was just drowning in all of it. I thought I'd been a wreck at the end of high school, but that was nothing. Look, I know this doesn't sound like it has anything to do with vampires, but stick with me here. I promise it does. That part started when I decided to do some day drinking on the day before my 21st birthday. I was a little bit of a lightweight, and I didn't need to actually drink all that much before I was drunk, but my brain was totally fried with work and school and it was about to be my birthday and I drank. Well, I drank enough to get pretty stupid. See, there was this server I'd found for the late 80s. Its security was tight, like super tight. I'd been poking at it a couple days before and just couldn't get through no matter what I tried. Well, drunk, stupid me decided I had to get into the server because obviously hacking well plastered is a great idea, right? Yeah. Well, long story short, with a bottle of tequila and several hours of cussing at myself, I managed to get in and I was immediately disappointed. The server didn't have anything juicy on it, especially not anything worth the security that had been on this thing. It was just like communications. Pretty badly corrupted and incomplete communications too from what I can tell. It was just people talking about going between cities. Pretty much worthless for me. I couldn't believe I'd put all that time in for that. I'd been downloading the data to a server, obviously one that wasn't in my apartment, just to be safe, but that wasn't anywhere close to what I would have taken to keep them off my trail. I had just enough time to go up and get some water before they found me, if it wasn't completely obvious. By now I had managed to find a temporary shreknet server, some node they'd set up just long enough to accomplish who knows what. I wasn't the first, but I was one of the first. And to be honest, even with what happened after, I'm still kind of proud of that. Anyways, I could see they had run a trace and that had been successful, which meant they knew where I lived. I hadn't ever really had a hack go so wrong for me that I got scared. But man, seeing that I was completely terrified. They'd managed to trace me in like five minutes. Go figure. The first time I stumble onto a nazi server, it happens to be one the whole friggin clan was watching. I realized I was probably no, definitely in danger. I decided to wait until night was falling to run from my apartment, which in hindsight, really dumb move. Not that I could have known that, of course, but looking back it was such a stupid decision. And kind of funny. Also on the list of things I didn't realize, trying to run was totally futile since the people chasing me were predators who could move through the sewers in the shadows. It was terrifying and amazing how quickly the real chase started. Originally I was going to walk to my mom's and hide out there until I could work up the bravery to call the cops, but pretty much as soon as I walked outside I felt a presence like hadn't ever really known what people meant when they said they could feel something watching them. But right then I understood I couldn't see anybody, but I knew they could see me and that they were everywhere. I did my best to follow the instructions my dad had given me once to get away from people following me. But no matter how many random turns I took, no matter how many other pedestrians I walked past, I could still feel someone there. Sometimes I even caught little glimpses of them here and there, but never enough to tell who they were or where they were coming from or what I could even do. The chase kept going and going and I was getting more and more desperate and tired. A couple times I thought I'd finally lost them, only to catch quick glimpse of someone ducking into an alley or something. I knew they were after me and they wanted me and no matter what I did, I couldn't get away. It was almost two in the morning when it finally got to be too much. I've been in a constant chase for like 5 hours and even though I was never directly run down or anything, it was exhausting both physically and mentally. It was exactly 01:34 a.m. When I made that call from the pay phone would have been way smarter for me to call 911, but I wasn't thinking straight and ended up just calling my dad. I just wanted security and safety and nobody had made me feel secure like my dad had. But he was in Chicago and for all my crying and blubbering, he couldn't actually do anything. I knew he couldn't, but he stayed calm and collected just like I knew he would as he told me to call 911 and get somewhere populated. Just hearing him so calm and concerned, that was enough to make me feel better. This wasn't great, but it would be okay. And of course that was right when they made their move. I was so tired and scared. Brain clogged from the panic and the crying. I had no chance of fighting them off. Before I even had a chance to figure out what was happening, they threw a bag over my head and threw me into the back of a van that was just sitting there waiting. They didn't bother tying my hands. That's how small of a threat I was to them. Have you ever been like completely helpless and sure that something horrible was about to happen to you? It's the worst feeling in the world and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I cried, I begged. I told them I was sorry about the server, and I would never look into it again if they just let me go. Nobody responded to me. I just sat in the back of the van, staring to the pitch darkness of a burlap sack, and cried. I had no idea how long the drive was, but it felt like hours. Eventually, though, I felt the van stop and hands that felt wrong in some way I couldn't quite define what took hold of me started dragging me away. I'd like to say that I gave him a hell of a time with it, kicking and screaming and whatever else, but I didn't. I was just too exhausted, and the drive had given me more than enough time to realize that it was over anyway. I figured I might as well preserve at least some of the dignity I still had. The image of a calm, stoic scarlet bravely accepting her death was more appealing than one crying and begging and making a mess of the whole thing. They finally stopped and sat me down a lot less roughly than I would have expected for people about to kill me, and after a moment of silence, one of them removed the sack from my head and I got my first good look at my captors. Most people who see a Nosferatu are already vampires, and some of them, being hideous monsters isn't all that weird. Probably the first time I saw a Nosferatu was one right up in my face, yanking a bag off my head. And oh yeah, also, I was certain they were about to murder me. This was literal horror movie stuff, and I guess I made some sort of or something, because the one in my face laughed at me. I recognized the sort of room I was in. It was a dingy old subway office, one that didn't look like it had been used in a long time. The desk was all rusty and falling apart, and the light overhead flickered rapidly, seeming like it was going to blow out at any moment. There were three of them in the room, all looking down at me, and as I sat and watched, they all debated on what to do with their captive. The one who pulled the bag off my head was in favor of killing me. They'd apparently already smashed my drive in my server, and he wanted to make sure my silence was guaranteed. The other two wanted to make me into a ghoul, and since I had no idea what that was at the time, that sounded a whole lot worse than dying to me. They argued back and forth for a while, a long while, but then mentioned how dawn was on the way, and without any more acknowledgement of me, the three monsters left the room. I heard a lock turn, and I was alone, shut in that tiny, dirty closet. Of course, I immediately started trying to escape. There were no windows, so that was a bust. I didn't have anything I could use to smash the metal door. There was an air vent near the ceiling, and after I pushed the old desk to that wall, I spent at least an hour trying to get into it. But it was no use. The screws were locked down with rust and grime, and the only tools I had were my fingers, which quickly became chewed up by me trying to unscrew them. I'm sure I had tetanus or something. By the point I realized it was no use, that I was just going to have to wait. So I sat up against the wall and did that. Waited. I don't remember falling asleep, but I do remember waking up to the sound of the door unlocking. I got up on my feet just in time to see a woman walk in, her features twisted in much the same way as the men I had seen before, her wide, toad like mouth smiling widely as her watery eyes took me in. She told me her name was Lady Green and that she was here to talk to me for a while. I didn't see much other option, so I did that. It was interesting, I guess. Of course I was scared and confused, but something about the way she talked with me kind of drew me out of that shell. She was reassuring and kind, despite her looks, and we ended up talking about everything. Living in Chicago, where she was apparently also from computer stuff, our lives, I learned a lot about Lady Green and I told her pretty much everything about me. It was nice, and it almost made me forget that she was probably going to murder me. For a while anyway. I remember her sighing and saying, you're in trouble, scarlet, and I just laughed and said, no shit, which made her laugh, too, and in some messed up way I thought she was nice, you know, because we were bonding, she talked me through what had happened, told me that I'd found shreknet, that I wasn't supposed to know about her kind. I don't think she used the word vampire back then, all that stuff. And after that she gave me a choice. Option one was to let her turn me into one of them. She acknowledged that the appearance was unfortunate, but told me that I could live forever, have all kinds of crazy powers. All the vampire advertising stuff I'm sure a lot of sires tell people they want to turn, and then sat there looking at me. I asked what option two was. She stiffened a little bit and told me straight up dying without coming back, just dying, full stop. To tell you the truth, I had considered it. For a minute there, it seemed like it might be easier somehow, like turning into one of them. I'd have my family to worry about and ghost and school and all those other things, but I was also afraid to die. Even if I had tried to pretend before that I wouldn't be. Hell, the whole chase had made it clear to me how not ready to die I was. So I mustered up all the fake bravery I had left to offer and smirked. Aw, man. Well, that sucks. Guess I'll take option one, then. Lady green smiled. A hideous wide mouthed smiled, pulled me close, and let her bite do the rest. [00:51:02] Speaker A: Rebecca Mitchell lives through tales of ages past where legends, personal and otherwise, allow her to connect with the people, places, and things that define her history. Other kindred are loathed to expose their past, lest another turn those details into weapons. But Rebecca comes from far away and long ago. What does she have to fear? [00:51:29] Speaker E: You know, Silas never gave me a straight answer as to why he picked me. I've come to understand among our kind that it is generally not a spur of the moment decision brought on by a feeling of pity or benevolence. Seemed almost ritual in my case. Lots of asking about permission to be given. I asked him, of course, over the years, though, I was always given a sideways answer. He lived through the worst, and that strength would be wasted in death. Sure, that's as good a reason as any to take on Achill death, but I wasn't the only one to survive great adversity. Any number of our tribe could claim the same. But Silas decided I would be the one given immortality. Don't take this to mean that I think unkindly of the man. Our relationship was better than that of most sires with their progeny. If the tales I've heard from Elysium are true, he never led me wrong or gave me a sour word without cause. I trusted the man completely. Never made him any less infuriating, though he had to have been watching me before the storm. It'd take more than luck to stumble across the perfect candidate for the embrace, and Silas was never one to leave fate to chance. But I should explain how it happened before I ponder an old man's reasons for bringing me back from death. It was spring, and with spring came the rain. You've lived in Chicago a while. Yeah, longer than I have, anyway. Then you know how temperamental the weather here can be. Wind threatens to send you off your feet. The ground becomes an icy trap, just waiting for the unsteady to tread upon it. Wandering Chicago in the winter might be a risk to your health, but believe me, I'd rather trek a hundred miles through a Chicago January than half that in the desert during a rainstorm. Now, just because I was born in the middle of a burning pit of sand doesn't mean a little drizzle is enough to send me cowering like a child. It never rains a little in the desert. Skies are either dry or bursting. Nothing in between. The earth is dry and coarse. Anything more than a trickle of water will fill it like a sponge. And spring the hat gene, are rarely the amount the ground can handle. Floods are dangerously common, and if you're wandering the land when the rains have come, every step requires the greatest care. Unless you sink into a muddy pit or find yourself in a dry riverbed when the waters rush in, I would never willingly walk out into that danger, not without good reason to risk life and limb. The spring floods had damaged my grandmother's pasture, though, and her flock now ran loose into the raging storm. Mind you, those sheep were our livelihood. Losing them to the storm or the colonizers, who were more than willing to claim our herds would have devastated us. So, in a home with elders too frail and children too young to traverse the dangers of the desert alone, who else could retrieve something of such value? I can't recall. The last person I spoke to before I went out to seek our flock might have been one of my younger sisters, wanting to know where I was going, if there would be presents when I returned. I wish I could remember that last moment with them now. Silly perhaps, considering I've no doubt outlived them and how their children's children would react to a visit from a relative who vanished two centuries ago. Now, I knew this lamb well. I spent my childhood herding those sheep, finding their lambs and all manner of bushes and caves, even cliffs, depending on where the ewes had wandered. If you intend to shepherd creatures so flighty a sheep, you'd better know the places they get off to during a storm, though that's an entirely different matter. Not only did I have to keep my eyes open for the flock in any strays, but also for all the normal hazards of my surroundings. Flashes of lightning and the deafening thrum of rain did little to aid in either case. Eventually, there came the bleeding of very wet and very hungry sheep. Meant with much relief on my end, I had plotted through nearly 3 miles of churned, unstable earth, all the while soaked to the bone and waving a lantern about like a mad woman. As is their nature, they were quick to follow after being plied with feed and a little arm waving. Sheep are far simpler than folks imagine, even more so than the comparisons members of our society could imply. Even facing the impressive slog of a near flooded pasture, herding them didn't require much effort or attention until one broke from the herd. A lamb. Fragile little thing that could have been more than a few days old. Now, a lost lamb is to be expected when shepherding. No season goes by without the jaws of a coyote or nature's will taking its toll on your herd. But here, now, after fighting with every ounce of my spirit to see this animal return to us, I had not craved this tempest to return with only a fraction of my family's wealth. So I went in after it. I ran blindly into the storm, grasping wildly for that lamb. Didn't realize my foot had been caught in a root. Not immediately, not until the sound of splintered bone reached my ears. I screamed out into the wailing winds, my anguish swallowed by the storm. I must have fallen, rolled down into that riverbed. It was already bubbling into a thick mud when I landed. My injury left me helpless as its banks began to swell. The pain and water were soon to choke away my consciousness, but not before I spied a flash of gray white on the opposite bank. A tiny, trembling little lamb. I don't know how long I was carried or where I washed up, only that when I did finally open my eyes, the sun had barely crept into the sky, stating the retreating clouds red. When I chanced a breath. Water came rushing up from my lungs before I could fill my chest with air, and only after a few soaked and soggy gasps did my senses begin to return. My first thought was to look to my ankle. It was a twisted horror, wrenched at an unnatural angle, swollen with a blossoming bruise and unbearable pain. But I was alive. There was breath in my lungs and my heart yet beat. I had been given the chance to live, and I was going to take it. With no notion of where to go, I dragged myself to my feet. If you'd asked me, I wouldn't consider a woman with barely more than 20 years under her belt limping along on a shattered ankle, an obvious candidate for immortality. But for the gangrel to survive such an ordeal is a virtue, one worth granting their blood for. That's why Silas found me three nights after the flood. Dehydrated, injured, but still fighting to live, or too stubborn to give into death, as he would have put it. He appeared out of the darkness, a hard, weathered denay man in his late 40s, with slick black hair. His voice was coarse and quiet and. Elders, you've been in a rough way, haven't you? It was blunt, upsetting even. You stumble across someone barely clinging to life, and your first words are, yikes, you look rough. The silence of my reply came from more than a dry throat, believe me. But this man was not dissuaded. He would stay each night until the sky began to turn light and vanish, until the sun set in you and he could resume his speeches. They always began on the same note. You've already shown the best traditions of our people. The ability to survive, a willingness to sacrifice for your clan. Our ancestors would be proud. Exaltations of my grit and perseverance, of how lesser people would have already succumbed. He said that strength need not be wasted in death. Could not be wasted in death when our people face the greed of settlers, the threat of famine and disease, and the beasts that stalk the dark. He told me of his true nature, of vampires, of clans that were not my own or anyone else's, of strange and evil things that walked beyond the realm of our legends, of the umbra and the worm. It was terrifying. The dene do not speak of the dead, let alone to them. And silas made no effort to soften the horrible truths of his condition. The hunger, the beast. He recognized that he was an abomination to our people, but also considered himself their guardian against the dark. And night after night, he worked to convince me to become the same before the desert claimed my body for itself. You might think me daft, needing to be convinced of the merits of eternal life and the powers of the blood, but this was no idle decision. Silas sought to deny me the joy of returning to my ancestors, of being dead, but not with them. I would become profane, a night thing like those my masani had taught me to fear as a child. But Silas was not the creature whose eyes shone in the quiet of a moonless night. And he spoke truthfully of the threats to my family, to our people. On the third night, when my body no longer had strength enough to deny my demise, Silas fed me the blood that would med my wounds and took my throat between his jaws. I woke alone in a crevice different from a hollow I had crawled into what seemed only hours before. I rose, expecting the same screaming pain in my ankle, but found instead I could stride with graceful ease from the nook where I'd rested. My senses were overwhelmed. So much was different. I could peer beyond the veil of a moonless night and behold the desert landscape with clarity. Hear the sound of a hare plodding through a distant bush and the deafening worm and owl's wings somewhere far above me. How ironic that being dead felt so alive. But this elation was short lived. Perhaps not all of our kind remember the embrace, but we do remember that first hunger clawing thing in your stomach that commands you forward. A collision of instinct and desire that demands to be fated. It cares little for the distances you must travel or the name of the vessel you find. I followed it first to a stream, but neither the water nor the animals who wandered near it held any appeal to this thing that snarls beneath your ribs. I soon discovered what this call was for. I followed the scent through rocks and scrub until I caught sight of the small splatters that glistened under the moonlight. The trail led me to a young man and the deep wound in his thigh. He couldn't have been more than 20, maybe younger, dressed in the oversized uniform of a fort soldier. He must have been separated from his patrol. He was far too green to be on a lone journey this late at night. But the particulars of his misfortune mattered little. His veins coursed with the life I needed to silence the yowling in my bones. I couldn't stop myself. I understand now the force that compelled me to pounce upon that boy. But in that moment, it was mere predatory instinct that buried my teeth in his throat. He never had the chance to struggle, merely falling limp as the life squeezed from him like a water skin. It wasn't until I raised my mouth from his neck that I realized what I'd done. The husk that remained was a mangled mess, his face frozen in an expression of pure human terror. He was dead. I had killed him, drained him. Clarity came. I felt the still warm blood on my chin, heavy as it dripped and splattered onto the cold ground. The urge was gone. It no longer nod, but curled, content in the back of my mind. Finally, satiated, revulsion took its place. This was monstrous. I was the monster. And were it not for the beast's intense fear of the sun, I might have simply waited for it to rise and claim me. But again, I survived. Silas returned to me several nights later, his eyes heavy with the knowledge of what I had done. This is only the first of your trials, Hal Chinning. Remember this feeling, this guilt when the next comes. Wield it to resist the worst of your impulses. Now come. We have much to do. [01:05:44] Speaker A: You've been listening to the all night society, an actual play podcast brought to you by Queens court games. If you enjoyed your stay, be sure to subscribe on your favorite podcast app for more content, including exclusive art and audio. Follow us on Facebook or Instagram. Queens court games or on Twitter at Queenscorp rpg.