Aspasia - ICC 2007 - Vignette #4 - Hisa's Wake
The crowds gathered, more than the Amazon expected. Some for genuine grief, some to curry favor by being seen, others present only from sheer curiosity
She spoke quietly to the side with Jake and Xavier. There were small details to be finalized before the funerary observations could begin.
She was dressed in black, a chiton trimmed with silver. Mourning clothes, made for first for her lover - the one killed at her own hands, now worn for her daughter. The older garments, for the last loss before these were decayed, the fabric falling apart, seam thread dissolved with age.
It had been that long since such a personal loss for the Amazon.
There had been a moment of tension when the Mekhet enmasse revealed themselves, appearing out of shadows in a mass. That was only after Xavier had confirmed with her that he and his were welcomed.
The Invictus, specific Invictus were late. She sent a runner looking for her granddaughter, Sontina. Then, the Amazon turned her back on the crowd, taking these moments to center herself, offering a silent prayer to Hera and Hestia.
Guide my thoughts and my lips this night, Goddesses. Give solace to my daughter, warning those who would harm mine.
Apollo, the god who denies Vyrkolaka the blessings of your light, I ask of you as penitent. Give me grace of speech, and let none doubt my meaning. This is a ritual of healing. To conclude her death and move past the loss. For this, I am your supplicant.
There is a rustle in the crowd. More late arrivals. She ignores them.
A soft gong calls those in attendance to alertness. A caution that the ritual of observation has begun.
By prior agreement, Jake speaks first.
Aspasia looks on him once, from her place to the side. She can see in a flash of memory - a young man, barely a man, with a wicked smile and light fingers.
If not for the fates crossing her path with Hisa’s that summer, it might have been Jake who was her son and not Ebon’s. She does not think Jake knows how close he was to being Gangrel.
He speaks with profound grief and with brevity. The word “betrayer” still firmly written across his forehead. He bore this dictate of covenant rage with dignity, more than any Carthian involved would be able to claim. It made of the punishment an honor.
Jake then yields his place to Xavier. This one is masterful in his manipulation of the crowds.
The Mekhet calls out for all present to declare the names of the lost, the dead other than Hisa, her ward and his assistant.
The names fall slowly at first, like the raindrops of a spring storm. Then, a cascade as kindred seek to out do each other in strength of voice, expression of loss being equal to the volumes spoken.
Unable to resist, the Amazon herself adds to this role call. “Suren Gal.”
Lest Liberty Stone think I forget. The Furies do not compel me to action, but when the time and situation is right, I will act.
Unless another does do first, with success.
His part done, the crowd whipped into a state of emotion generally foreign to the kindred condition, Aspasia then steps forward. And she tells the gathered predators about her lost childe.
I care not if they see the depth of hurt. Let them grieve who cannot feel with the passion of Gangrel’s blood.
Let society know how I loved Her. How her loss has wounded my heart.
Tales fall from Aspasia’s lips, her first sighting of Hisa. Her pride in this child who died a warrior’s death.
Then, in accordance with custom, she acknowledges the part of the Fates.
“In the night they cut the thread of my warrior daughter, Hisa, the fates chose to bring one thought dead back into my house. They give and take in equal measure.”
The Amazon walks over to stand before Charlotte, who has decorated her face and form in the paints of her heritage. The symbols are foreign to Aspasia, but the blue eyes of this childe remain in memory. She offers a flower to Charlotte. “I lost a warrior childe, but my house is not without protection.”
Then, the Amazon’s steps carry to the front line of those seated.
This choice was an easy one. And for those who came to watch the danse unfold in the actions of an admired, it would be read correctly. Others, to dense to see the greater patterns would only guess the surface connection - Invictus for Invictus, as Charlotte was Gangrel for Gangrel.
She extends the flower to a dark-haired woman in the first row, called by most as Dame LaGrange.
Aspasia is not unaware of the conflicts between Invictus and the recent attempts to mar this woman’s reputation in the eyes of her covenant and society as a whole.
Here is as close to a public statement of support that she would offer in the matter.
“My daughter was Invictus, and what she told me of her vision for this covenant was that belonging to kindred of honor.” Aspasia pauses, “You are like her in that. A vowed protector. A warrior in a field of politicians. Most like her in finding honor through service, excepting one. You carry a burden of fulfilling that dream.”
The woman makes no reply, but nods her head in acknowledgement. For an instant, Aspasia captures her gaze.
The Amazon decides that LaGrange was surprised and that the gesture has touched the woman’s soul.
A beginning.
Then, Aspasia turns to the altar. The sword lies there, before flowers, next to a cloth bag. Reverently, she lifts it with cloth covered palms. It remains sheathed, as it has been since it tasted Winterborn’s ashes, half-a-year ago.
“This is the chosen weapon of my childe who is dead. With this in her hands, she fought to the last, defending her ward. Seeking to buy his life, to buy him time, with her own existence. “
She steps closer to the crowd, her beast rolling with anger. There is an almost palpable shift in the energy of the room. Those of Aspasia’s brood feel the anger and the echo of the devastating loss what pulses in her blood.
“This is the chosen weapon that ended the life of her killer. At my hands.”
The woman pauses. “It is not meant for me. It belongs in the care of one who will use it as she did. To the protection of her pledged charges. And as Hisa was Invictus, it should be given into the care of a member of my daughter’s covenant.”
“There is only one worthy to carry Hisa’s sword.”
In silence, Aspasia walks to the left side of the crowd. This is why the ritual had to be held. She extends her arms with the burden laying flat, ready to be taken.
Sonny’s face is one of shock. Her skin pales. But with grace, she nods and gingerly lifts the sword in her palms.
There is a quiet stir among the crowd, as kindred, primarily Invictus who did not know this Gangrel now make a mental note to learn about the lithe, almost fragile looking kindred.
These elements of honor being dispatched, now Aspasia addresses the crowd. She takes the cloth bag from the altar, opens the string-tied end and lifts the bag and it’s contents high before her. She turns it upside down and a hail of grey powder, ashes, spills out to the ground below. Some flecks light dust her bare feet.
“This is what remains of Winterborn, the killer of my daughter. As vowed, before the year was out, I have brought vengeance for her death.” Aspasia spits on the grey ashes below, then she steps on them, symbolically grinding the ashes under her foot.
“He harmed my family. He took from me a childe.” The tone of her voice grows darker, as it grows in volume as well. “For this I took his life.”
“So it will be with any who harm my childer. If you choose to do so, then know this,” She points to the remains now spread with disdain on the ground before the altar, “..this is the end result. If you do not kill me first, then I will hunt you. I will take first the children of your line, and cease with your death.”
She stares across the crowd, willing them to see, to understand - at the last the breaking point has been determined for this woman. She will not suffer such a loss again. Not without raining the fury of a mother’s wrath on her rightful targets.
“I have been called a reasonable woman. The death of one of mine will change that. Do not be the cause of that change.”
Aspasia steps away from the center, from the crowds, shaking with anger and sorrow, contained for a year.
In the silence, at first the assembled kindred are uncertain. Is this all there is?
When it becomes clear that no other speeches are planned, they start to filter out, in large groups, alone, in small clusters of companions. Til, at the last, there remains only a select few.
And the danse immediately draws the Amazon back into the patterns. For upon one piece of news, she frenzies, in the middle of allies and family.
OOC: This entry does not do justice, or even near it - to the RP I experienced that night of ICC. Sean and Chris were awesome. The whole event was something to behold.
She spoke quietly to the side with Jake and Xavier. There were small details to be finalized before the funerary observations could begin.
She was dressed in black, a chiton trimmed with silver. Mourning clothes, made for first for her lover - the one killed at her own hands, now worn for her daughter. The older garments, for the last loss before these were decayed, the fabric falling apart, seam thread dissolved with age.
It had been that long since such a personal loss for the Amazon.
There had been a moment of tension when the Mekhet enmasse revealed themselves, appearing out of shadows in a mass. That was only after Xavier had confirmed with her that he and his were welcomed.
The Invictus, specific Invictus were late. She sent a runner looking for her granddaughter, Sontina. Then, the Amazon turned her back on the crowd, taking these moments to center herself, offering a silent prayer to Hera and Hestia.
Guide my thoughts and my lips this night, Goddesses. Give solace to my daughter, warning those who would harm mine.
Apollo, the god who denies Vyrkolaka the blessings of your light, I ask of you as penitent. Give me grace of speech, and let none doubt my meaning. This is a ritual of healing. To conclude her death and move past the loss. For this, I am your supplicant.
There is a rustle in the crowd. More late arrivals. She ignores them.
A soft gong calls those in attendance to alertness. A caution that the ritual of observation has begun.
By prior agreement, Jake speaks first.
Aspasia looks on him once, from her place to the side. She can see in a flash of memory - a young man, barely a man, with a wicked smile and light fingers.
If not for the fates crossing her path with Hisa’s that summer, it might have been Jake who was her son and not Ebon’s. She does not think Jake knows how close he was to being Gangrel.
He speaks with profound grief and with brevity. The word “betrayer” still firmly written across his forehead. He bore this dictate of covenant rage with dignity, more than any Carthian involved would be able to claim. It made of the punishment an honor.
Jake then yields his place to Xavier. This one is masterful in his manipulation of the crowds.
The Mekhet calls out for all present to declare the names of the lost, the dead other than Hisa, her ward and his assistant.
The names fall slowly at first, like the raindrops of a spring storm. Then, a cascade as kindred seek to out do each other in strength of voice, expression of loss being equal to the volumes spoken.
Unable to resist, the Amazon herself adds to this role call. “Suren Gal.”
Lest Liberty Stone think I forget. The Furies do not compel me to action, but when the time and situation is right, I will act.
Unless another does do first, with success.
His part done, the crowd whipped into a state of emotion generally foreign to the kindred condition, Aspasia then steps forward. And she tells the gathered predators about her lost childe.
I care not if they see the depth of hurt. Let them grieve who cannot feel with the passion of Gangrel’s blood.
Let society know how I loved Her. How her loss has wounded my heart.
Tales fall from Aspasia’s lips, her first sighting of Hisa. Her pride in this child who died a warrior’s death.
Then, in accordance with custom, she acknowledges the part of the Fates.
“In the night they cut the thread of my warrior daughter, Hisa, the fates chose to bring one thought dead back into my house. They give and take in equal measure.”
The Amazon walks over to stand before Charlotte, who has decorated her face and form in the paints of her heritage. The symbols are foreign to Aspasia, but the blue eyes of this childe remain in memory. She offers a flower to Charlotte. “I lost a warrior childe, but my house is not without protection.”
Then, the Amazon’s steps carry to the front line of those seated.
This choice was an easy one. And for those who came to watch the danse unfold in the actions of an admired, it would be read correctly. Others, to dense to see the greater patterns would only guess the surface connection - Invictus for Invictus, as Charlotte was Gangrel for Gangrel.
She extends the flower to a dark-haired woman in the first row, called by most as Dame LaGrange.
Aspasia is not unaware of the conflicts between Invictus and the recent attempts to mar this woman’s reputation in the eyes of her covenant and society as a whole.
Here is as close to a public statement of support that she would offer in the matter.
“My daughter was Invictus, and what she told me of her vision for this covenant was that belonging to kindred of honor.” Aspasia pauses, “You are like her in that. A vowed protector. A warrior in a field of politicians. Most like her in finding honor through service, excepting one. You carry a burden of fulfilling that dream.”
The woman makes no reply, but nods her head in acknowledgement. For an instant, Aspasia captures her gaze.
The Amazon decides that LaGrange was surprised and that the gesture has touched the woman’s soul.
A beginning.
Then, Aspasia turns to the altar. The sword lies there, before flowers, next to a cloth bag. Reverently, she lifts it with cloth covered palms. It remains sheathed, as it has been since it tasted Winterborn’s ashes, half-a-year ago.
“This is the chosen weapon of my childe who is dead. With this in her hands, she fought to the last, defending her ward. Seeking to buy his life, to buy him time, with her own existence. “
She steps closer to the crowd, her beast rolling with anger. There is an almost palpable shift in the energy of the room. Those of Aspasia’s brood feel the anger and the echo of the devastating loss what pulses in her blood.
“This is the chosen weapon that ended the life of her killer. At my hands.”
The woman pauses. “It is not meant for me. It belongs in the care of one who will use it as she did. To the protection of her pledged charges. And as Hisa was Invictus, it should be given into the care of a member of my daughter’s covenant.”
“There is only one worthy to carry Hisa’s sword.”
In silence, Aspasia walks to the left side of the crowd. This is why the ritual had to be held. She extends her arms with the burden laying flat, ready to be taken.
Sonny’s face is one of shock. Her skin pales. But with grace, she nods and gingerly lifts the sword in her palms.
There is a quiet stir among the crowd, as kindred, primarily Invictus who did not know this Gangrel now make a mental note to learn about the lithe, almost fragile looking kindred.
These elements of honor being dispatched, now Aspasia addresses the crowd. She takes the cloth bag from the altar, opens the string-tied end and lifts the bag and it’s contents high before her. She turns it upside down and a hail of grey powder, ashes, spills out to the ground below. Some flecks light dust her bare feet.
“This is what remains of Winterborn, the killer of my daughter. As vowed, before the year was out, I have brought vengeance for her death.” Aspasia spits on the grey ashes below, then she steps on them, symbolically grinding the ashes under her foot.
“He harmed my family. He took from me a childe.” The tone of her voice grows darker, as it grows in volume as well. “For this I took his life.”
“So it will be with any who harm my childer. If you choose to do so, then know this,” She points to the remains now spread with disdain on the ground before the altar, “..this is the end result. If you do not kill me first, then I will hunt you. I will take first the children of your line, and cease with your death.”
She stares across the crowd, willing them to see, to understand - at the last the breaking point has been determined for this woman. She will not suffer such a loss again. Not without raining the fury of a mother’s wrath on her rightful targets.
“I have been called a reasonable woman. The death of one of mine will change that. Do not be the cause of that change.”
Aspasia steps away from the center, from the crowds, shaking with anger and sorrow, contained for a year.
In the silence, at first the assembled kindred are uncertain. Is this all there is?
When it becomes clear that no other speeches are planned, they start to filter out, in large groups, alone, in small clusters of companions. Til, at the last, there remains only a select few.
And the danse immediately draws the Amazon back into the patterns. For upon one piece of news, she frenzies, in the middle of allies and family.
OOC: This entry does not do justice, or even near it - to the RP I experienced that night of ICC. Sean and Chris were awesome. The whole event was something to behold.