Iliad Murdoch - Lust
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Iliad Murdoch listened intently to the sound of the woman’s voice. As a Daeva, he could appreciate the beauty of it, the passion that she projected into her role. To be entirely truthful, it was the first part of the performance that had stirred anything in his long-dead heart. The others, well, they were passable at best, but they would never go far beyond the amateur stage. This one, however, had talent. Had passion! Had something that made her stand out enough in the crowd that even the elder, lost in his own thoughts, took notice. The barest hint of a smile crept onto his face - entirely inappropriate, considering the sorrowful nature of the woman’s song, and for that he chided himself - but he could not help but smile. At last, something that was worth the ticket price, something that would justify the applause he would bestow upon this otherwise motley troupe simply for the sake of being polite.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Iliad hadn’t noticed the woman to his right. In fact, as his mind stirred, distracted now, he recalled that she hadn’t been there in the first place. A late arrival, perhaps? “Yes, it is, she has real… passion, real emotion that she pours into her song,” he answered, stealing a glance at this new woman. A hint of displeasure crossed his face, both because this woman had distracted him from the first (and thus far, only) good part of the show, and also because she was rude enough to actually speak during the performance. His Spina blood flashed hot for a moment, but his strength of will kept it in check.
“I was worried I’d never find another person that actually admires this sort of thing in Riverside.” The woman’s voice was low, almost conspiratorial. “I’m Amy.” Iliad’s smile widened slightly, as he knew this was the polite thing to do. “Mister Samuel Hendricks,” he replied, offering her his hand. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Iliad, alone in his study, continued what he’d been doing the last few hours - penning a letter to Amy. He read it over, face impassive, and crossed out a word here, added something there. This was, of course, only a draft, for it simply wouldn’t do to send his new acquaintance a letter that didn’t reflect the time and energy one should put into a proper letter. Briefly, his mind wandered, and he found himself in a state of loathing, bordering on absolute hatred, as he thought of the more modern forms of communication so prevalent these days. Cellular phones, text messaging, and e-mail - it had virtually destroyed the art of letter writing. The whole point of writing a letter wasn’t to communicate quickly, it was to communicate everything one had to say, to pass the time, to show the amount of thought and effort one was willing to put into communication with another - a definite sign of respect. His Spina blood stirred as he mulled it over, but he kept himself in check, a little shake of the head that none would witness betraying his frustration with the whole thing.
Undaunted, he continued on with the draft of the letter he’d soon mail to Amy, which reflected on the opera they had enjoyed together and made clear his desire to indulge in some other form entertainment - or leisure - that was likewise grounded in high culture. He thought to himself about the unexpected arrival of Amy into his life, and where exactly it might lead. The sinful desire to have another childe, one that appreciates things that he did, briefly crossed his mind… but was just as quickly discarded. He was a devout follower of the Centurion, and such things were not looked kindly upon by the Testament. In all truth, what he was doing even now was not looked kindly upon by the Testament, and he realized that he might need to speak with the Bishop regarding some measure of confession and penance, but so too did he realize that one cannot ignore the nature of the blood entirely for the trappings of faith. “We all sin, every last one of us. We are sin incarnate, perhaps? Regardless, after dealing with so many boorish Kindred these past few months, I’m willing to pay the price, if only for a short while, given the alternative is to perhaps lose my temper with one of these crude fellows in Elysium.” Another shake of his head made clear his distaste, and he looked back to the paper, continuing to make his revisions…
Monday, October 8, 2007
Iliad could barely contain his delight. The fact that Amy had actually written back to him - that she actually wrote a letter, rather than calling him at the phone number he had provided, just in case, was a bit of a thrill to him. How often did this sort of thing happen in this day and age? Not often, unless one was dealing with especially worthwhile elements of humanity, or perhaps with Kindred that knew the importance of such things - rare as they were, these nights - and paid one-another the appropriate courtesy. As Iliad read the letter, he found a wave of satisfaction washing over him. She was, indeed, interested in meeting again, this time at a restaurant that would have a live music - not the trashy sort one might expect in a bar, but the more refined kind one might find in a restaurant that was actually worth patronizing.
Iliad spent the next few hours penning a response, wondering to himself if he was being entirely too forward. His blood was largely neutral on the issue, the Daeva in him warring with the Spina, and he resolved to press onward as a result. After he’d finished, and mailed, his missive, he began to look for something appropriate to wear, and some suitable flowers to convey the appropriate message. His mind raced again, wondering how unlikely it was that this woman might have any inclination of something so delightfully old as the flower code, but just the same, he decided it might be worth the effort, and even if the impact of it was lost on her, it might not be lost on some other Unconquered that was, even now, perhaps angling for a possible ghoul. Having selected what he felt was an appropriate wardrobe, Iliad began to tend to his other arrangements, a thinly concealed sense of excitement guiding him through the rest of the night…
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Iliad awoke, a thin sheet of blood-sweat upon his brow. He’d been having a day-mare, one that left him more than a little flustered. He was in a grave - his mortal grave - sealed away, pounding on his coffin, demanding to be let out, pleading, eventually howling and screaming in rage and fear, the beast rising to the fore. Only the grave wasn’t entirely his own - instead of his name, a key had been etched into the stone - and this terrified him all the more, causing him to pound furiously on the wood that had trapped him, left him a prisoner for all eternity. His shrieks of anger and fear carried far and wide, and eventually escaped his own mouth in that brief, first moment of waking. The thought of being trapped in his own grave was a terrifying thing to him - though little more than an urban legend among most Kindred - but he nonetheless found it disconcerting. Shaking his head, he worked to clean himself off and make himself presentable for his nightly hunt. The image lingered, as did the fear of being buried alive, trapped forever, but he gradually pushed it out of his mind as the all-consuming desire for blood began to color his thoughts. By the time he left his estate, he had all but forgotten the dream entirely.
Friday, October 12, 2007
The restaurant was just as nice as Amy had promised it would be. The rich red cloth contrasted nicely with the stark white and gold accents, the music was indeed refreshing and refined, and the food… well, that was a different matter, but only due to the fact that Iliad had been dead far too long to ever have an interest in mortal food. He’d called upon his blood to keep it down, as it was only polite to do so (that, and it helped to maintain the Masquerade), and he imagined the taste would probably dance across any mortal palate, but to his, it was all rotten, all horrible. Nothing satisfied anymore… nothing but the blood. The blood was everything.
Be that as it may, his conversation with Amy was also quite stimulating, and he was enjoying it immensely. She was telling him about herself - how she worked as, of all things, a library, and whatnot. He wasn’t paying attention to the conversation so much, though he was paying attention on some level, and was instead much more focused on how she was saying things, her body language, and everything else. He was sizing Amy up, judging her, and finding himself able to appreciate her, a rather important thing considering the typical care he had for the average mortal.
The waiter came by again - from an entirely different angle, as he’d been doing the entire night - to present them with some ice cream to cleanse their palates in anticipation of the next course. Both Iliad and Amy acquiesced, and the waiter disappeared, heading towards the kitchen. Iliad noticed a small bit of what looked like dust falling out of the waiter’s menu, and raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. To do so would be more than a little rude, though he might very well let it be reflected in the tip. Iliad’s mind, focused on the dust, began to notice it in a few other places as well, around the table. His eyebrow cocked up another notch, and as he looked around the place, he realized the music had stopped, and the other patrons were gone. “Strange,” he muttered, almost to himself, “but I think it might be getting rather late.” Amy checked her watch, and nodded in agreement. “We’ll go after this course. The duck sounds absolutely delightful.”
The waiter came out, depositing a try on the table, and pulled the metal top away, revealing not a duck, but a letter. Iliad, somewhat alarmed, reached for the letter, and plucked it off the dish. Amy tilted her head, staring at it. “What does it say?” Iliad read the letter, a definite frown crossing his face. “It says that ‘they’ are terribly sorry to have deceived me so, but that such was necessary to further their own work. It also apologizes for missing duck.” He looked back up, to see Amy walking away. “I apologize too, Mister Hendricks, but you must understand that I had little choice in the matter. At least now, they’ll tell me where my son is.” A single tear ran down her face as she turned and began to walk away, the clicking of her heels leading her out of the restaurant. Iliad, his Spina blood boiling at the betrayal and the insults he had just received, shot to his feet… and was, immediately, shot back down. He collapsed on the floor, rooted to his chair, a sense of panic overtaking him. He could see the dust on the ground, glowing, pulsing almost… and he realized, now that he could see each pile, that the points formed a pentagram on the floor. Fear began to overtake him as masked men emerged from the restaurant’s many doors, each picking up a handful of the dust only to throw it on him a moment later. “Bind the dead with the dust of the grave, to take away the life blood gave.” The repeated it, almost like a mantra, and when they had each thrown a pinch of the dust on him, they lifted the chair, put a bag over his head, and began to carry him away. He tried to call upon his blood to escape, to take the form of mist, to awe them with his terrible majesty, but nothing worked. Alone, in the darkness, he felt himself rooted down, almost paralyzed, being carried away…
(End Scene)
I would like to thank Dave for running this awesome scene, and look forward to what happens next.