Aspasia - ICC 2007 - Vignette #3 - Thursday Night
The crowd was substantial. Jessica, Charlotte, Phineas, Ricky. St. Jimmy of her brood. Others of the clan she counted as allies. Others simply of the blood, ones the Amazon did not know well, or knew from years past.
And then, added to the mix, some of the Crone and the Ordo - not Gangrel - watching from a safe distance.
In the middle of them all, Xeneia and her sire, The Turk. While Xeneia’s sons, Jack and Adam, watched. Actually Jack was pacing.
The man’s composure was sliding away. As the moments of conversation passed he became more and more agitated.
Not to say Aspasia was much calmer. Something of importance was passing here, in this moment and in this place.
He claimed to feel her. Neither her eldest son or daughter could remember Aspasia having embraced Xeneia’s sire, nor could any of her childer have been the sire.
It was getting out of hand.
She grabbed the one knife she had on her this trip - the twin to one that Raven carried - and abruptly stabbed herself in the hand.
Her childer reacted. As did the various grandchilder. As did the Turk.
The blood does not lie. Not about this.
The connection is true. Just muddled.
Then Dusty pulls her aside. He can determine the linkage. She nods.
No childer. But the reverse. The Turk is older even than the Amazon. Not sire.
Maroula’s sire.
And in that moment, the landscape of the clan Gangrel is altered.
Xeneia’s blood is tied, through the Turk.
Confirmation that the Pirate is likewise of Ishan’s begetting. This means that line, - to include Venatrix, are more than clan, they are bloodlinked.
It was already known in the caverns of Aspasia’s memory, that Maroula had one broodmate, the sire of Chrysis. There are several.
Aspasia freezes where she stands.
Xeneia’s blood. Jack.
Jack is of the same house.
The Fates would make of me a lawbreaker. Cursed in the eyes of the gods.
The Turk’s voice is directed at her, pulling the Amazon from her contemplations.
“How many? HOW MANY?” He all but yells, agitated.
Like ants crawling along her skin, she can feel his anger, upheaval, upset. The emotions radiate from Ishan. She imagines this must be what it is like to have the sun burn undead skin.
Much further and his beast will break loose.
“What matter is it to you?” She asks in a cold voice.
“HOW MANY?”
The Turk looks away from her to Xeneia, the edges of his control slipping to Aspasia’s estimation.
“I am Greek. I honor the gods. I have childer equal in number to the Pantheon, but one.” And the moment’s pain is like an arrow in her heart. “Hisa, my warrior daughter perished a year ago. She was dedicated to Artemis.”
“Twelve.” Ishan shudders. “And others?”
“My childer, some have sired. Yes. Each is dear to me.”
Ishan grabs Xeneia’s arm for support. This news seems shocking to him.
Aspasia does not remember who told her. The Turk is Lancea, just like his daughter, X. Just like Bastian. But, unlike the Father General who has almost as large a brood as Aspasia or Exodus - the realization that so many can claim their descent in the blood to him is savaging this Gangrel’s soul.
Lancea are not supposed to share the curse, to embrace. And suddenly, the Turk is like onto Xavier Ellison, to Bastian, to Caderyn. He is a fount of a long and numerous line.
He has sinned.
She has compassion for his pain. The Turk’s faith is different, but no less valid for his soul’s needs. But, she will make no apologies, feel no regrets for her choices, for her childer.
The nights ahead, as the greater danse of the clans and covenants adjusted to this new truth, would prove interesting. And might prove to create more danger for the family. Suddenly, there was power, if he chose to grab at it. Not all will bow to the ties of blood, but enough of the Gangrel feel so - others would start to watch and plan.
At least the Ravenscarred were further removed in direct ties. The two lines would provide balance for each other. Keep power from consolidating in one place. Much as the balance had been between herself and Exodus for so long.
Needing to assess the effect on her personally, on plans and relations, the Amazon wandered into the dark. Not alone but followed at a distance by her brood. Tonight, no one would sleep isolated.
They were not that foolish.
And then, added to the mix, some of the Crone and the Ordo - not Gangrel - watching from a safe distance.
In the middle of them all, Xeneia and her sire, The Turk. While Xeneia’s sons, Jack and Adam, watched. Actually Jack was pacing.
The man’s composure was sliding away. As the moments of conversation passed he became more and more agitated.
Not to say Aspasia was much calmer. Something of importance was passing here, in this moment and in this place.
He claimed to feel her. Neither her eldest son or daughter could remember Aspasia having embraced Xeneia’s sire, nor could any of her childer have been the sire.
It was getting out of hand.
She grabbed the one knife she had on her this trip - the twin to one that Raven carried - and abruptly stabbed herself in the hand.
Her childer reacted. As did the various grandchilder. As did the Turk.
The blood does not lie. Not about this.
The connection is true. Just muddled.
Then Dusty pulls her aside. He can determine the linkage. She nods.
No childer. But the reverse. The Turk is older even than the Amazon. Not sire.
Maroula’s sire.
And in that moment, the landscape of the clan Gangrel is altered.
Xeneia’s blood is tied, through the Turk.
Confirmation that the Pirate is likewise of Ishan’s begetting. This means that line, - to include Venatrix, are more than clan, they are bloodlinked.
It was already known in the caverns of Aspasia’s memory, that Maroula had one broodmate, the sire of Chrysis. There are several.
Aspasia freezes where she stands.
Xeneia’s blood. Jack.
Jack is of the same house.
The Fates would make of me a lawbreaker. Cursed in the eyes of the gods.
The Turk’s voice is directed at her, pulling the Amazon from her contemplations.
“How many? HOW MANY?” He all but yells, agitated.
Like ants crawling along her skin, she can feel his anger, upheaval, upset. The emotions radiate from Ishan. She imagines this must be what it is like to have the sun burn undead skin.
Much further and his beast will break loose.
“What matter is it to you?” She asks in a cold voice.
“HOW MANY?”
The Turk looks away from her to Xeneia, the edges of his control slipping to Aspasia’s estimation.
“I am Greek. I honor the gods. I have childer equal in number to the Pantheon, but one.” And the moment’s pain is like an arrow in her heart. “Hisa, my warrior daughter perished a year ago. She was dedicated to Artemis.”
“Twelve.” Ishan shudders. “And others?”
“My childer, some have sired. Yes. Each is dear to me.”
Ishan grabs Xeneia’s arm for support. This news seems shocking to him.
Aspasia does not remember who told her. The Turk is Lancea, just like his daughter, X. Just like Bastian. But, unlike the Father General who has almost as large a brood as Aspasia or Exodus - the realization that so many can claim their descent in the blood to him is savaging this Gangrel’s soul.
Lancea are not supposed to share the curse, to embrace. And suddenly, the Turk is like onto Xavier Ellison, to Bastian, to Caderyn. He is a fount of a long and numerous line.
He has sinned.
She has compassion for his pain. The Turk’s faith is different, but no less valid for his soul’s needs. But, she will make no apologies, feel no regrets for her choices, for her childer.
The nights ahead, as the greater danse of the clans and covenants adjusted to this new truth, would prove interesting. And might prove to create more danger for the family. Suddenly, there was power, if he chose to grab at it. Not all will bow to the ties of blood, but enough of the Gangrel feel so - others would start to watch and plan.
At least the Ravenscarred were further removed in direct ties. The two lines would provide balance for each other. Keep power from consolidating in one place. Much as the balance had been between herself and Exodus for so long.
Needing to assess the effect on her personally, on plans and relations, the Amazon wandered into the dark. Not alone but followed at a distance by her brood. Tonight, no one would sleep isolated.
They were not that foolish.