This is Jezebel in Hell

From the private journal of Catherine De Volanges

We are all being used and so, it is only in that pile of remorseless excrement that our own ability to use others grows out of, stronger, thanks to the very fertilizer that fed it. And if your elders are of the Tremere, you best cultivate your interests out of their own, allowing the roots of your treachery to curl around their ankles and eventually drop them back into the shit they slung your way.

I am nothing else but a survivor able to weave my wants through their demands. And that is everything.

My world is not simple. It is fraught with unseen malice which floats just below the surface of one’s happiness. It collides not only with ones hopes but rips a hole through the hull of strongest soul to drown one in the coldest gush of reality—theirs. I do not crave power for the sake of power. I actually never have. I crave it for the freedom it promises. Even then I must adapt my definition of freedom for not one of us can ever truly be free. That is simply a fact. Unless you are one of us, you cannot understand the full extent of that assertion, that simple not exaggerated truth.

Those of us who have accepted that thread of knowledge have spun a world within it for ourselves. The rest, perish.

I have survived what would have ended most. And I will continue to do so. I will flourish from the decay of their souls, the waste of their ignorance and the light of their cold indifference.

And when it is too late, when they are lost, they will see…my roots were stronger then theirs.


( What is there to see?  )

Los Angeles, California
mid-2011

This evening

Watch. Wait. Listen, he taught me once. He said, à l’œuvre on reconnaît l’artisan. You can tell an artist by his work. All you had to do was wait. Each brush strokes reveals a master’s hand, so unique that it would point to the creator, himself. But how terrible would that be if they could tell his brushstrokes on the blank canvas of my body? What good could possibly come of it? Sydney was fuming and cussing angrily as he paced in front of me, gesturing wildly with his hands and making empty---or perhaps just foolish—promises.

“It was that bloody cur, wasn’t it?” He paused to look at me. I had no words to give him as I sat propped up against the chair like some unhung painting. “Aidan.” He finished pointing an accusing finger in my direction. My eyes narrowed as I sat straighter in my chair.
“I ought to-“
“And what exactly do you think you know about Aidan?” I hissed lowly, my voice groggy with the exhaustion settling into my body. “Careful where you point fingers, you might find that you will have misplaced them one day.” Quiet in the room. Sydney straightened up adjusting his stance, like a solider that realizes that he is not a general but a private. “Yes, Meh-dem.”
I gingerly picked myself up and shifted to a more comfortable position, grimacing slightly, still half the 'woman' I used to be and almost quite literally at that. “The others have not called yet?”
Sydney shook his head somewhat with reservation. Why the guilt perched on his face like some somber gargoyle? Whatever did you do?
“You have not been called to the Chantry yet, if that’s wot yor askin’.” He held out a hand as if to try to steady me. "Aidan?" I questioned breezily. He shook his head to say that he's heard nothing but lent me his body to steady myself. Ever so loyal, even when the world was coming down. He looked at me strangely, however. His thoughts reeled to the night he found me. Poor Sydney. If I could I would have laughed. That would be hard to forget by oneself but I am not feeling generous tonight. No, I am not feeling much at all. He will have to make due with his Whiskey while I make due with the rust of my soul.

It was then he whispered, “Marc…” My eyes flew to Sydney’s face. “ He…requests your presence in Paris as soon as you as you are well. Sooner, if possible.” My errant Ghoul finished tightly. No. Not if possible. Not sooner. Now. Indeed, it was already too late.

What did you do? I seethed.

I am not certain if I killed him in my rage.


( Painted with cruelty )

[Describe your muse looking at an old photo]

The photo was yellowed, edges drawing together in a finite curl, so much so that my fingers had to smooth it out carefully, each time risking to break off the crust of paper along the side. Pale and ghostly, as if it contained the very soul of the person peering out at me, the photo paper ebbed and ridged into tiny lines, like sand that undulated into snake-like waves when blown by the wind of a tempestuous ocean.

From the yellowed paper a matronly woman looked out at me, stern and unyielding without a smile. Her expression spoke of duty, her entire body taunt with it, forsaking every pleasure, even one of comfort. Hair brushed back into a tight chignon drew her forehead into a smooth canvass, which hid the wrinkles of a life filled with labor. Labor that would not untie the unforgiving corset strangling her waist, making her chest heavy with disproportion as she was, essentially, heavy set. In that way she reminded me of a muddy diamond--resilient, unbreakable, strong, set in her place in society and yet, unpolished and ugly.

Mother.

Well, not my mother, but I kept the photo to remind me that I once had one. Whomever she was, from whatever fertile threshold of dirt she bore me into this world, it reminded me that once, I was mortal.

It was a good way to make certain that I never took immortality for granted.

I do not attach myself to anything enough to miss it. It would be seen as too much a weakness in my avenue of work. And clan. They would use that against me for their benefit and I am hardly anxious to provide them with more ammunition.

The snow sets on branches and you know it is winter. The cold, it bites into your skin and the frost feels familiar as it settles a thin layer of ice over your world and you know it is winter. Everything is colored in a uniform shade of white. It's death. When the air turns crisp and yet unforgiving, you know it is winter. But when you are Tremere. It is always winter.

And I have always hated the cold.

Maybe it is time to turn up the heat.

The moment I stepped off the private jet, I felt alive again. A surge of life, like electricity, buzzed through my spine and as the limo rolled down the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. And at the thousands of lights lining the rue as it led to the Arc de Triomphe, I felt tears spring to my eyes from a happiness that I had left here when I was instructed to go to America. Only Sydney would share in my private moment, mesmerized as well by the intoxicating song of of the city, my city, Paris. Unlike what I would have you believe, I have very few attachments in my unlife, there is nothing I truly need from this material world, if I were to speak honestly, but this city…yes, this city, it is as much a life force to me as is the vitae I consume. Sydney chuckles when I tell him that I could be a better monster here, as this place brightens up my disposition considerably. It is like taking the waters--cleansing and soothing. "Arrêté. Arrêté!" I demand of the driver, getting out in the middle of the street to walk. Sydney trails behind me slowly, hands in pocket, watching the transformation of the woman in front of him. The laurels of hidden sadness fall away, a genuine smile beams somewhere from within her soul. Genuine. At home. At peace. My arms lightly sway at my sides, splayed open to feel the caress of the breeze. Quickly, I dab away the tinted tear from the corner of my mind. Concentrated happiness.

But then Sydney sees my arms drop back to my sides like lead weights. Turning over my shoulder to him, he sees hard eyes and understands them. I closed myself off from feeling anything. "We must hurry. There is work to do and we haven't much time."

( Deception and Salvation )

You cannot walk away from love. But you can run away from yourself once you have destroyed every last vestige of love that you had. Aidan would say that you can replace it with hate, a stronger emotion, more potent and useful, like a poison that turns your soul black. I would have liked to say that no one had control over me then, but that would pride clouding over the truth. Aidan had control over me, Marc had even more and both them wished for the Catherine that had been turned--cold, calculating. I, however, always wondered whether there was even anything else other then that Catherine, twisted through a prism of black glass, a vestige of everything that could have been decent in society's wide definition of it, but was not--ever--for as far back as I can remember. I came to believe that some people were just born evil. He made me believe it, but whereas everyone else hated me for it or channeled my energy for their ends-ends they could not themselves fathom to accomplish-only he understood it and nurtured it like a wild orchid. Ah, the men in my life and unlife. Mmmm. With him, I felt that it was alright to be myself. But his price is so high. Still, I wonder, will I end up paying it to have even the darkest light shine onto me? I dare not tell him that his pursuits frighten me. A tout prix, he says. A tout prix. I know that we will lose. That I will lose him. He who is brother, father, lover, friend, mentor, enemy, to me. And then what? Then what? Then the world truly ends. The last somber refrain in an opera that only I can hear. Then I would have completely lost myself for I doubt that Marc will have the patience to save me from myself. Forget those that cross my path.There are few men that truly accepted me, even less whom I respected. Most of them are dead now, or I, dead to them, so I believe.

( Run like wild horses )

Aidan mun and I have decided to collaborate on a fiction piece together for the music album challenge. We are actually starting off with one of the bonus songs by Muse called Space Dementia (horrible sound. You lose so much of the background). Should you feel so inclined to follow along, please feel free to click here. This story is set five years after the start of the French Revolution (and Catherine's embrace as it were) in Aidan's chateau in Burgundy, France.

Summery: Catherine, an apprentice in the Tremere pyramid, has been tasked to spy on Aidan Vilandrie--a Tremere (?) magus with whom it was arranged would mentor Catherine--to determine whether his loyalty to the Tremere is waning. Having observed more than she could imagine, her own loyalties to her Sire and her mentor are tested, an event that sets the course of her future.

H8 (hate) - is the one for me
it gives me all I need
and helps me co-exist
with the chill

You make me sick
Because I adore you so
I love all the dirty tricks
And twisted games you play
on me

Space dementia in your eyes and
Peace will arise
And tear us apart
And make us meaningless again

You'll make us wanna die
I'd cut your name in my heart
We'll destroy this world for you
I know you want me to
Feel your pain