"Fitfully, he spoke. As if the world around him was something of a discrepancy. As if he did not belong. I listened to his heart thunder and his breath lightning, spitting words out before his mind could fathom them and in hindsight, know only after-images of regret. I watched him twitch and fidget, not for his lack of experience but because, truly, obviously, honestly...
...He had no other choice."
~Herbert Hemlock, Malkavian Observant~
Elysium.
Like something out of time. Like something out of vastness, where spectacle, wonder and fairy tales exist. Not those dopey, Disney princess things they lay out infront of young mortals, eager for escape. The grimly things that chirp the shadow and the wood and once made grown men and women, hush whisper to their little ones, for fear they might be stolen out from under their sheets in the night.
That is Richtofen Castle. That is the modern re-telling of an ancient thought.
Even now, in it's state of repair. Even now, there is a majesty earned in a parapet or two jutting freely from beyond plastic sheeting and tarps.
Even now there is a menace that threatens in it's shade and shadow, bulky from the reparations and crisp in the parts still holding.
Even now there is a warning to mortals who once sought it out for it's grandeur and promise of a bygone era. Who now stand beyond, mournful of the doors shut and the damage done.
The Night is still here. Monsters still exist. Even if your eyes aren't frightened, your heart remembers the faster beat of our terror.
The guards receive him in sharpness. The castle is not open to the public and yet he comes to the gates and finds the iron. Seeks out the gatehouse and the people who stop him and truly, he seeks them out, rather than pushes past with an expectant air of entitlement. Men with uniforms or men with hidden weaponry or people with the careful sort of scrutiny that actually know what happened here.
He seeks them out, finds the one who speaks first and turns to stare him in the face (not the eyes, because only a lackey stands the gates) and spoke in a calm tone.
"Look at my skin. Listen to my voice. Don't dismiss me. I want to talk to the Throne."
He would wait. He would repeat the message a couple of times. He would answer their questions with some sort of bluntness perhaps not very well known among the Kindred. A direct application of truth that seems patient and dismissive in the telling.
My Name is Gray...
I am here to talk.
I have a baseball bat. That's it. Don't believe me, pat me down.
Yes you can have it. I have a dozen others back home.
You and I both know I don't need a gun.
For a lot of reasons, namely it won't do me any good here.
Let me inside. I want to talk to someone who can talk back.
Wherever they take him. Wherever they go, he goes with a willingness that is comfortable, at ease and seemingly impervious to the thought of traps, interrogations or potential harm. Some might call it naivety.
And those some might be right.
The foremost ghoul that comes survived the siege with less in the way of visible wounds than the castle itself. The most noticeable corresponds in nature to a common Sabbat method of attack: Fire.
Burn scarring behind her ear. A patch that runs the length where wisps of hair that escaped her precise bun of red locks should be. White icing skin gives the hairline an unpredictably jagged border. It disappears down the nape of her neck and under the light off-white blouse she wears beneath a black tweed jacket and pencil skirt. That neck has a pulse and probably tells Grey most of what he needs to know about the woman, but she starts talking back anyway.
"Welcome to Richthofen Castle. My name is Estelle Burnhouse," looking down at the bat and shaking her head, "and that won't be necessary,"continuing where the now-silent gatehouse's attendant left off prior to her arrival.
When Gray asks for a pat down he is obliged by her less-vocal accompaniment. A tall and dark-skinned man with his wavy hair combed and greased back and a stout brunette woman with her hair buzzed short under a black beret.
Uniforms, check. They wear black and the cut and style are homogenous. Hidden weaponry, (maybe) check, and an unhidden armament as well. Sidearms in quick draw holsters and whatever hides in the buttoned leather pouches of their duty rigs. How aware they are of what guest they deal with is anyone's guess, but there are pieces in their ears and the gentleman guard is more polite in his pat down than Grey might be accustomed to when those wielding what they believe is power deal with those of his...
Socioeconomic status.
Or apparent socioeconomic status. Because he is polite about it, focusing on his chest and sides, his ankles and underarms, and their fingers are expert enough they do not need to grope. Know it is counterproductive to a proper search.
Following the search for contraband Estelle returns to his original statement of purpose.
"The throne?" As if she had been there when he first arrived. But she wasn't. Not physically. The black eye of a camera above must hear as well as it sees.
"That may well lighten Prince Rasmussen's mood, Sir Gray," she says with a finely tuned smile and a nod.
"Please, follow me," into the keep. At its foyer is where the two guards break off.
Past the clear plastic (coated with the dust of construction) obscuring the great hall, down a corridor (past a sitting room and library), and on deeper into the castle down fifteen or so steps (past the kitchen). What might have once been the entrance to a wine cellar is now outfitted with a vault door already swung open.
Past and to the side of this chamber's entrance there stands a wrought iron spike of a similar makeup and coloring to those outside the castle, atop the walls and comprising the gate. Embedded into the stone floor and with a skull on the business end still dripping with dissolving flesh from within and outside it. Something seems to be missing from the gruesome piece... Bugs. None in sight or upon it.
Estelle's pace doesn't slow as they pass what remains of a Nosferatu Elder turned antitribu so how much time Grey takes (or doesn't take) to notice it depends on how far behind he wishes to stray. The chamber is actually a mezzanine overlooking a large cavern cut out of rock.
Their destination sits suspended above. The war room is accessible through a glass-encased catwalk from the mezzanine.
There looks to be a table and chairs and a number of blank-black television screens with that underlying glow telling they are ready for use when prompted.
White painted metal stairways lead to the opening below, where (all similarly white painted) server farms, sealed units shaped like storage containers, lockers, and other structures of less-obvious nature are hung with works of art and laid out beside antique furniture in an eclectic fusion of the modern and far-from-it. Whatever color the Colorado stone should be, the treatment that wards off mildew and moisture leaves it a uniform (you guesses it) white, though the erratic shadows leave it seeming a swirl of muddled grays.
That catwalk is as far as Estelle gets to the war room, and as far as Gray will get without pushing onward. Which would be difficult when a gentleman in a deep navy denim jean shirt, sleeves rolled up, and light khaki trousers fills the walkway.
Estelle's Prince Rasmussen, the younger Brujah can probably guess, the way her stance suddenly becomes deferential. It isn't difficult to imagine many react to the man in such a way. Hale and well over six feet tall, strapping despite the pallor the age of his vampirism have brought to his form. Indeed his Dutch features seem to compliment it. A chiseled jaw, a light five-o'clock shadow, dirty blond hair pushed back with a little length to it. The centerpiece of his face might be its broad and crooked nose if it weren't for his eyes, a forehead thick like a leather catcher's mitt that casting them in a shadowy deep ocean blue thanks to the overhead lighting of the undercastle.
"Sir Gray, allow me to present Prince Helmer Rasmussen, Lord of Richthofen Castle," and then in a change of title, she turns to Helmer. "Master Rasmussen, Sir Gray has requested an audience."
"He has it," the Prince returns and something familiar in the tone must tells Estelle she can leave, because she does. The clack-click-clack of short heels on the smooth granite floor carrying her away as Rasmussen waits for Gray to begin talking to someone who can surely talk back.
Blood spoke louder than words.
He stood on the edge of the gate through the frisking. Gave the bat up without question and when the ghoul stepped forward to claim the spotlight, he dutiful paid her heed. From one lackey to a head lackey. His attention was full, seemingly editing out the presence of the other guards until they stepped back, leaving the ghoul and him to speak.
She repeats his statement of 'The Throne' and he offers a sharp nod of confirmation, only to have it dressed downward, a vague frown clouding mahogany features when she offers a lighter note of mirth about the effort.
He follows in her footsteps, the tour seemingly left to pass them without comment and much of an interruption. There is the briefest of pauses by the head, a recognition of something well outside of the ordinary (because Vaults, Fanciful decorations and parapets among that description) that has him regarding the mauled remains before he continues on in Estelle's wake.
It isn't until they reach the war-room that Gray turns to scan his surroundings. They light the catwalk and Rasmussen has all the time in the world to step forward and confer briefly with Estelle, an introduction received and provided in kind. The words draw Gray around to regard the man.
"Evenin'." He tugs at the brim of the shallow cap, something one might find doffed on a newsie back in the day, the long-coat with the orange elbow patches, fit with his fists in either pocket, forcing the opening closed, obscuring the dirty white t-shirt and it's vague stains (reds, dark browns and a yellow or two). The boots clung loudly on the catwalk.
The pair can meet eye to eye, give or take a sliver. Gray is tall. Lean. Heavily bearded, enough that much of his face is an obscurity in and of itself.
"I'm here for information and..." A pause. Considering how to phrase what comes next. "...closure. Someone used to work for you. Does work for you. One or the other. She was meant to find me six days ago. She never did."
He sucks in a breath, something reflexive and entirely telling of his lack of years, gaze remaining with the Prince.
"I don't know her name. She was tall. Long dark hair. Hispanic. No accent. About-" He taps his chest, just beneath the beard "-this high."
The question at the end remains unasked, probably because it was obvious. Maybe because it might make a statement, like he was giving out an order.
Where is she?
Helmer looks not only interested, but a bit astounded. Not at all unsettled by whatever development he has pieced together in his head, but surprised nonetheless.
What at has yet to illustrate itself.
The lack of etiquette might get a different reaction in many – if not most – domains. If Denver had a Scourge to go along with its Sheriff, Gray might not have even made it this far.
But if Denver had a different Prince there might not be a castle left for Gray to visit, and the directness of his question – unspoken as it is – snags Helmer's attention before the ensuing description sinks the hook deep and fast.
Enough of the mights and ifs, though, because Rasmussen is speaking again and this time it's in the form of a question.
"Who were you to Claudia?"
Taking a step forward and toward Gray, one arm on the opposite ribcage in a loose fist and the other resting atop, hand touching his chin as he examines the vampire that has come to speak with him. The idea he might be looking for a resemblance between this man and the woman he had described might be laughable, but his eyes dissect the way Gray carries himself with an intense curiosity.
"Help."
Is the first response though the look on those bearded features says that is far from the end of it. He let's his gaze drift slightly, carving of small sections of memories and thought and laying aside the superfluous in favour of what he thinks might be important (as oppsed to what might be simply unpleasant).
"She wanted an eye somewhere safe. Quiet. Out of the eay and unimportant. She said I was s'pose to be a caretaker when that eye didn't work." Pause. Frown. That was 't right. "I looked after what she couldn't watch all the time."
That was better. The frown eased.
"Claudia." First time. He says it and it stays in the air, considered with some distsance. Rasmussen's minor approach is not given anything more than a return of his attention.
"They came for her." A statement and a question. "Came into the Corner looking for her? Or just looking?" Genuine irritation now, borderline anger. The beard puffs out slightly, the jaw clenching below it. Then, as if a returning to a previous thought.
"Who were you to her?" Because a sire is more than a parent. More than a lover. Complexity in that question.
"Her clanmate. Her elder. Her Primogen. Her Prince for a brief moment before her Final Death," neither friend nor lover nor sire included anywhere in his answer. But when Rasmussen gives the title of his station and the subsequent end Claudia met with under the first minutes of his praxis, posed in the context of his own question returned, it rouses a more plainly worn anger in him.
The simmering kind. The kind that is always present like the building pressure below a volcano's hardened surface. Not trembling. Earth-moving and silent before the rain of death. A kind of vengeance. Maybe...
A thirst for it borne out of his own shortcomings in living up to that position.
Or at the loss of a clanmate.
Or at the Sabbat who took her and others.
Or at the same, but for burning Richthofen above.
Helmer has anger in spades and in this moment offers it freely before reigning himself in behind the cage of a smile that is really a snarl before it finds some semblance of real mirth. As proof of what presents itself again becomes his focus.
"She asked, he consented, and she never made any presentation after the fact. How old school of her, keeping you to herself until you were ready to meet the court, or at least I'm sure that would have been her play if Isaac had ever found you, and once he was gone..."
To say he would be amused takes all the nuance out of the emotion he shows. It is like he is trying to find what Claudia saw in this one before deigning to Embrace him. At the same time reveling in the craftiness she had executed in the play of his creation. At the same time finds his own particulars, his own characteristics in Gray that are to his liking, before straightening.
"They came looking to upset her corner," less emphasis on the locale and more on the her it belonged to.
"Did you look after it for her?" His eyebrows rising instead of narrowing those blue pools at the question. Expectant.
"She didn't belong. She knew that. Everytime she visited it was like...Fathers come home. Gifts for the kids. Some good advice. Bit of horseplay-" a sniff of laughter, wiped away by the back of a sleeve "-but only around long enough to remind you that you should miss 'em. Not enough to be a part. Not enough to own."
He clears his throat, fists curling and uncurling in quick measure. Not often enough to vbe a fidget.
More a habit of looseness. A brawler's easing of tension.
"Clanmate. Brujah. She explained that. Clubhouse for the drinkers." He taps the side of his neck. "Dunno what a Primo-thing is. Elder sounds old which means you got cred if Claudia listened." Her name is the only word that seems to carry a harshness, defeating the calm and ponderous quality of his speech.
His jaw clenches again. He stares but doesn't seem present for it. Calculatin or deciding-
"They gon' fucked up then. Come calling when she was there, maybe. Maybe they dig her out. Maybe they go to the dogs. Ain't done that though. Came onto my Corner. With my people 'n my hood. Hurtin' my drink and siblings." A pause. "Took her 'fore I got a name." And suddenly the air is coiled as the two men share a rage both seem understanding of and indulgent in.
"Gonna take my ease with each and every one."
Fingers curl. Uncurl. Another reflexive breath. Another shift of attention.
"Prince. That like Britain or something?"
"We have a number of titles I'm sure you're unfamiliar with, most of them royal or feudal in nature," and the fact that the neonate is forthcoming about what he does and doesn't know seems to spark something in Rasmussen. Something patriarchal and pedagogical that finally causes the anger to subside. "With and within shaping their civilization we've formed our own," referring to the living even as he poses them as Other. A mass to be formed.
"This is our political machine on the provincial level. The foundation of who we are as a Sect alongside our Traditions, our laws, which I hope you are at least familiar with," not pausing for an answer before continuing.
"A Prince holds praxis over a city. It is his domain, though whether it was gained through his own effort or if he is simply a figurehead for other powers dictates the direction of his rule. The Primogen are the representatives of their clan to the Prince and their voice in a city's governance. Again, how loudly that voice speaks depends on a number of factors, but they can again be boiled down to one: Power. The Seneschal acts as the Prince's hand in matters where his own touch is not needed directly. He administers his will and acts on his behalf in that capacity. He is his second in all things - are you familiar with the term? No, duels have been out of style for quite some time," a glance at where the Brujah still wills his chest to move as if it is indicative of his relative youth.
It also serves as a moment for him to look over to see how Gray is absorbing the impromptu lesson.
"The Sheriff, as the term would imply, enforces the laws set by the Prince - through various means, including Final Death and destruction - and defends that domain. The Keeper of Elysium - that is where you stand, this estate and this castle - is the steward of those places where vampires of our Camarilla should be able to come without fear of harm..." He does not mince words. He looks up at the ceiling as if he can see through it.
"But, as you've seen upstairs, that is not always the case. We are remedying that situation," his voice firm in that.
"And finally there is the Scourge, a position I have yet to implement, who patrols for vampires who have not come to do what you now are and those who are enemies of the state. An executioner to the sheriff's investigator," he'd said finally, and looks like he is through. "If a Scourge had stumbled upon you, it might have gotten messy, but I'm not so sure for who," looking Gray over again.
"I've gone on long enough, haven't I?" Shaking his head as if to say he is finished.
"You're green and already I would imagine you have more red under your fingernails than most vampires of this city. From your defense of your corner before and during this siege. You looked after your corner and after yourself, but your dam - our Claudia - is gone. Freed of her beast, her hunger, and the Blood." The way he says it, our, is like he is taking possession of the woman even as he invokes her name. Tying the two Brujah present - one a Prince and one a neonate - together in the name of their departed.
"The war never ends. But it is full and frenzied these nights. The question is simple, the answer yours and infinitely more complex: Will you fight?"
The information isn't so much absorbed as it is stowed. Gray makes no obvious plays at guile or fallacy about his newness and does not seem intent in dissuading Rasmussen of any of his explanation. There seems only two points where his interest perks: mention of the laws and mention of the scourge. Both elements sit on his features for a brief moment before consumption and the remainder of the conversation bleed them out of his face.
There is a grimness that arrives when Rasmussen mentions the possibility of a Scourge finding him. Of the red under his nails and that word again: Vampire. Disquiet. Unsettled.
He says her name again and Gray seems to shrink into his collar. The brim of his hat dips slightly. He thinks-
"She ain't coming back. That's a shame." More in that sentence than it's casual quality suggests. "What she said was simple though. Keep the Corner clean. That's what I do. S'what I'm gonna do by her." He nods and his jaws open, chew the air in a vague yawning motion. Stretching out the last of the tension before meeting Rasmussen's eyes. His answer is plain before he even says the words.
"People been throwing bullets through my windows all these years. Ain't none of 'em still walking I don't want walking. You offering a chance to be one of these suits at the door, nah. Not that. You tell me I get a crack at these monkeys and do right by Her?" He huffs. A laugh. "That's my kind of throne. Gimme the fight."
Rasmussen's face is set and still except for the slightest widening of eyes in pleasure and maybe even a little bit of pride, the kind of revelation that must be deliberate, but is no less effective when wielded by an elder with such presence. It is almost a surrogate for the feeling of the sun peaking behind storm clouds and warming ones face. Like something powerful taking notice.
Which can also be very dangerous.
But at this point in time it probably doesn't feel like that. No, Rasmussen hears his answer and is pleased with it. Only how analytical and mindful might dictate what would have happened should circumstances have developed differently.
But that is hypothetical and this is the present. Rasmussen turns back toward the war room and continues down the glass sheathed corridor back to it. It might seem almost dismissive if he didn't say, “Come with me,” as he begins the short journey.
The tables is large and white, surrounded chairs all pushed in but one that Rasmussen must have been using pulled out. All of a similar postmodern architectural construction: White painted steel and similar in pattern and design to concave slices of a Hoberman sphere, and the table's surface is scribbled with writing in dry erase marker.
Amongst the writings are street names around Union Station with a roughly drawn map, a list of other cities (Wichita, Salt Lake, Las Vegas, Omaha).
Another list of dates and cities (January 19th, 1931 – Henrietta (turned); 1973 – Colorado Springs (lost), 1985 – Cheyenne (lost), 1994 – Grand Junction (lost), 1999 – Omaha (won), 2007 – Santa Fe (lost), 2011 – Amarillo (lost). Beneath are names with X's and O's near them, though the majority have red lines marked through, and one can guess what that means.
The names of light rail stations, bus depots, airports are marked in their various directions on the four points of the compass with numbers near them. Ratios in red: 1/9, 1/3, 1/5, 1/2. Higher ratios marked beside them in green marker. Smaller notes scribbled beside the number, things like... "Attack... Three wounded... Safe passage... Lost supply truck... Four disappearances... Staged ambush..." Peppered across the table and its contents.
Rasmussen is looking at what is both a notepad and map of a battlefield with delineations that are dictated by numbers instead of geography, dates and events instead of cartography.
"Where are you?"
The question is simple. Again. But of course this is just as much a test. It is obvious the way he looks up to examine how Gray takes in the complexities of the chessboard it illustrates.
Yes, Richthofen is on the map, but so are stretches of East Colfax and other thoroughfares of the city. Marked out in lines of passage, along public transportation routes, or simply by landmarks like Brown Palace Hotel, condominiums and apartment towers, and numerous other innocuous locations.