Post by queenofroses on Dec 11, 2020 6:04:47 GMT -5
'God himself, perhaps, might have infinite mercy for the follies of man . . . but Mother Nature, knows none. There is no compassion, no benevolence, only the consequences of actions that indiscriminately kill all who would disrespect her. It is almost admirable, her primal elegance in stating that she will not tolerate such trivial insults against her grandeur.'
-Excerpt from Elenora's Journal, April 17th, 1471 AD
Spending time on the open seas, divorced from the creature comforts of her home of Venice, had surely been a frustrating yet enamoring lesson for the Neonate as the small cabin of the Galley, the Rizzo d'Oro, the ship that sometimes, even often, she thought would serve as little more than her open casket, swayed gently in the waves of the Mediterranean Sea. It was little more than deceptive coddling, one that could easily become turbulent and chaotic with little more notice than a wayward breeze that heralded sheer pandemonium in the hours to come. Sometimes, Elenora expected to awaken to find herself miles underneath the waves, though the Maiden ship was of fine construction as she so bravely carried her precious cargo away from Venice, over seas, and to the clutching greed of the merchants of Barcelona. Thankfully, it had been an uneventful trip, though it was not one that would remain that way, as the Giovanni sailors barked their captain's orders to one another, Elenora continued to sit at her small desk, scribbling away ink on the page as she continued to write her own memoirs. There was very little ink left, but with nothing of significance to report, the temporary shortage of supplies was little to fuss over while the quill dug into the parchment.
'-I still find the events surrounding this shipment peculiar. While I am aware of my role here, to satisfy the interests of both Camarilla and Giovanni alike, I find the invitation to accompany my dear companion, Markus Giovanni, an unusual, but surprisingly pleasant experience. The sailors provide a satisfactory herd, though logistically I can still see the cracks of strain upon some of the crewmen as they struggle to uphold, not one, but two Cainites amongst their ranks. Difficult as it might be, for the moment it is still sustainable, if only barely. The tax on their physical strength makes me all the more grateful for my companion's abilities. I, myself, have of course pointed out the strain, and make note of it here to express to my dear colleagues at home when I return. The voyage continues smoothly, and on this date there has yet to be any sign of the pirates that we had been forewarned of.'
Pausing to gather some more ink for her quill, Elenora quietly leans back, her body already used to the constant rocking as she sways along with the waves, an easy way to keep her own balance in the face of such a struggle. She leans back, quietly recalling the events leading up to her exile, no matter how temporary, within this wooden graveyard, bobbling until finally it was reclaimed in the waters beneath them all. She had a mission to fulfill - naturally, there were always strings attached, and an invitation to attend and oversee this expedition came with the expectation that she would provide - her goods, being that of the destruction of the pirates who plundered along this route. There were patterns, and success so often breeds complacency. Six attacks, within two months, along the same route and no other? Reports of shadows bending against their will? Unusual coincidences, when compared to her clan's proclivity for all seaward assaults, and given the Camarilla and Giovanni's . . . silence, on the matter of who the assailant might be, it was likely one of the many irredeemable, rash, and ultimately boorish children who rebelled against their mothers and fathers. Had they so quickly realized that Patricide was a sin? It was a grave one at that . . . pity.
Cainite society was always rife with gossip, such creatures centuries old with little more to do than sit and stew in their boredom were ripe to leap at the opportunity to spread tales and in their mongrel ways, any secret stated to another was nothing more than a secret at all. She knew her mark had heard of her attendance on this shipment after she had spoken of it within an Elysia, no less, and such the trap was set. Conflict was inevitable, the only question was when such a battle might occur. At night, preferably, but at the day they would be at a decisive advantage. The dead did not sleep, and forbidden from rest they would oh so easily overpower the ghouls of the Lasombra Anarch who saw little more than an opportunity to enrich himself on Markus' wealth and her own vitae, and as such was blinded to the true powers at play. It was a pity the Anarchs were so . . . blind, and petulant in their desire to rule but without the patience and attentiveness of their forefathers. Perhaps, they might have had potential, though surely, now it was all but squandered, crushed and shattered, scattered about the rocks like the remaining hull of a doomed vessel as little more than a warning to others.
A heavier squall, one of many but certainly more noticeable, rocked the ship, causing Elenora to quickly grab the ink-well before it spilled and ruined the page she had spent most of the night working on. Quickly plugging it and quenching the flame of her candle with a glass, the Lasombra tilted her head, quietly listening, but finding that she could not hear anything besides the creaking of the ship's hull and the waves that crashed against it, quickly stowed away her work and after brushing her dress, a conservative thing that covered her from neck to ankle, boringly cloistered considering the finery she used to adorn, but in fashion and respectable, she quickly stashed her rosary underneath the folds of her blouse, running hands covered in gloves of fine lace through her raven black curls as she rose. The sea was growing restless, and she could hear nothing, and that . . . silence, that absence, was a dangerous companion when threatened by a known adversary, and she needed to see to know how to respond to whatever cruel fate had been arranged for her.
In the depths of the ship, there was very little light, nearly none as a ship aflame would destroy its own cargo and cost her crew their lives, and even in the bowls of the beast of wood and tar, the wind gusted, falling in that worrisome gap between productively pushing the ship to it's destination and stirring the sea into a fury, now that Eleanora traveled along the side of the ship she could hear the waves crashing against the hull. Either they would now make excellent time to their destination, and be past the danger, or the men would be hurrying to take down the sails as the ship was tossed about on white-tipped waves like a bone torn asunder by feral hounds scrabbling over it. The galley was only crafted a few months back and the timbers are strong, in excellent condition. Grabbing her skirts as not to trip on them as she ascends the staircase to reach the surface, a salty spray came over the rails of the deck, an unsurprising fact as the Lasombra quietly looked over the rail, steadying herself as the gentle rocking of the sea slowly began to become more violent. Grey eyes watch the impending storm with an emotionless face, nearly as if her heart were carved from granate rather than being some beating organ . . . perhaps, there was some sliver of the feeling of a mortal, fragile as they are, but whatever thought might have once existed was as extinguished and silent as her still and frozen heart.
Here, the commands of captain and crew were audible as the crewmen worked about, tying down what they so needed to weather the coming storm, Markus Giovanni's commands barked from his perch behind the wheel that controlled the rudder of the Maiden Galley. Unlike many of the sailors, he was an old man, perhaps forty, though would he be older before his death Elenora would not be surprised. His clothing was practical in nature, similar to her own in that it was designed of quality materials, and in the most forgivalbe of terms, was fashionable; abit, only for the quality of its craftsmanship. Weathered from decades of life on the open sea his hair grayed even as his face paled from the slowest entropy of death, one that touched all vampires, but despite the chaos of the world around him, he was still calm as he shouted his orders to his crew, a trait of character Elenora found endearing about the man. A single ring adorns his hand, worn on his index finger and one she knew that bore the sigil of his Family and Clan, and had little more meaning than that, excluding the tiny amount of necromantic energy the ring imbued him with. Surely, there were wraiths about her, even if they were not yet viable and had not yet been made manifest, the work of the poltergeists were still apparent to the analytical eye, if one knew were to look for them. A rope becoming done by itself, a barrel pushed under decks, a light, extinguished . . . all explainable, with the right frame of mind.
A civilian on a ship of sailors, and a woman at that, Elenora was often an ignored passenger, though the sailors were still smart enough to realize divinity made manifest, and as such the Lasombra Neonate was given the respect worthy of her station without ever needing to inquire the Captains aid in controlling the . . . occasional unsavory desires of his men. They had learned not to look, much less touch, and most of all, it hadn't cost the lives of one of their own for them to realize that Elenora was not one to tolerate the intrigues of fools, manifested through carnal desire and masculine impotence. As such, besides a single parting gaze from one of the many men before he returned to his duties, the young woman was able to easily glide up the steps, unmoved by the storm and swaying of the ship as she came to rest on the railing besides the captain as she lightly gripped the railing, looking up the heavens so far above their . . . truly, insignificant struggle.
Above, the clouds that had gathered since the setting of the Spring Sun now blotted out the moon and stars in an array of shadows folding into one another as they painted the endless skies like ink spilled and freely running over a blackening page, smothering whatever tiny amounts of natural light might bleed through the cracks and enveloping ship and crew in darkness. Elenora continued to watch the skies above, as the Captain finally commented on her presence, his voice a thick guffaw, amused as he spoke his own mind. "The storm finally roused ya, eh?"
Elenora doesn't bother to look at him, hearing all she needed to know from his tone as she continued to watch the storm clouds loom so far above them . . . "Perhaps it roused my curiosity."
A cautious agreement was no denial, but her response was one of her typical tactful reservation, holding whatever true feelings she might feel tightly to herself, if she even felt anything besides ennui, perhaps. For his part, Markus simply nods as he returns to sailing . . . a moment later, speaking to quench the silence between them that the winds and salt of the waves threatened to fill, had he not raised his own voice. "We'll be out of the storm in no time."
Elenora always found that she heard far more in silence than she ever did by speaking, the longing for companionship a human weakness that was all too easily exploited by those that were no longer mortal. His desire to reassure her was . . . interesting, perhaps, as he did respect her, but her youth often so betrayed her demeanor, as she simply nodded in reply. "Pity . . . it's almost beautiful."
Markus shakes his head, chuckling as he spins the wheel once more and looks over his crew fulfilling their stations as they were so directed, falling lax in his command over them as he was distracted by the Lasombra Antitribu's appearance. "Maybe, until it gets worse and starts chuckin' you around like metal between an 'ammer and anvil."
Elenora simply nods her head, the motion easily lost in the swaying of the storm, as the sound of distant thunder rolls over the waves to greet their ears, the sound causing Elenora's attention to rise as she looked towards the source of the sound, her shifting gaze from the heavens above not unnoticed by Markus, who spoke again. "Storm'll be gettin' worse, you might want to head under 'less you fancy yourself gettin' tossed over."
The Lasombra tilts her head in response to Markus, her stormy gaze staring into him as she allows the expression to say more than she could ever possibly with words, as the Captain shakes his head and sighs a heavy breath, watching the waves as they began to crest higher and higher. "Don't say I didn't warn ya."
"Your consideration is noted, Signor." She replies, remaining where she was as the winds tore at her dress and blew her hair from her face, the rippling of the fabric audible in their close proximity as she watched the storm begin its slow but inevitable climb to a crescendo, the wind so similar to a far more primeval symphony accented by the staccato of thunderclaps that echoed throughout the vast unknown, the rocking of the boat as the wooden timbers groaned beneath the stress of the journey it undertook, but such challenges were little more than ways to test the meddle of Captain, Ship, and Crew, and if it cannot endure such a trivial squall . . . then surely, it does not deserve the mandate it was originally given. There will be much more devious and challenging storms in the time ahead . . .
Elenora continued to observe in silence now as the Captain returns to barking his orders to the crew, listening to the bickering as the band of brothers prepared for the eminent storm, her attention, along with much of the crew's was drawn by the call of whichever youth, that poor soul who was left to the crow's nest during the horrible storm as he shouted with down with a voice carried away by the wind, but still faintly audible. "Ship, Ship to the North-East!"
The Lasombra Antitribu raises a brow, moving to the side of the Galley to look in that direction, a chill suddenly filtering through the air, a sensation that if she was alive, perhaps, would have coaxed a shiver from her, but now she simply could not be bothered. Cresting the waves like an arrow turned by the wind, a ship, its hull in fine repair, even painted black to better blend into the turbulent sea, rowed towards them with a rapid speed, the ship flag-less, though Elenora recognized the similarity to the stories she had gathered from the survivor's of her quarry's raids, the cast away and pulled under the waves by abyssal tendrils to drown in the depths. Her gaze was a calm, dispassionate expression, as she looked over her shoulder to coolly regard the captain who began to order his sailors about to find the spy-glass to identify the ship that had begun to follow them, braving the tempest as they are blinded by the cruel crutches of sin.
Their quarry had taken the bait, swallowed hook, line, and sinker, whole, something that would strangle him, ultimately, but he embraced it oh so willingly. He was brave, perhaps, but the line between heroism and ill-minded suicide was a narrow one, but the gambit was cast, and now so must the game begin, though victory and failure had far greater consequences than the frankly trivial games of her youth. The shouts of the crew and captain relaying orders was so painfully slow for realization, each man a buffer to a greater whole, bound by loyalty . . . perhaps it would be slow enough.
It was fortunate that her companion was able to speak to the dead, and as the misty perspiration of salt began to freeze she could feel the chill of one of the vengeful specters beginning to manifest, whispers carried on the wind that scratched at Elenora's eardrums, tantalizingly audible but impossible to decipher, though its ghostly revelry was interrupted as Markus eyes began to glow an icy blue and he shouted at it, the noise deafened by a clap of thunder, though his words were enough to drive the spirit back into its own dimension, even if they were beyond her own form of perception, the call to battle Elenora couldn't truly be bothered to respond to as the men scrambled about in a struggle that felt . . . beneath her. It was important, but the die was cast, the cards must fall as they may, and so it will be. Moving forward, she returned to be beside Markus, her voice gathering enough force of conviction to be heard over the ruckus, but nothing more. "Ready a volley. A single shot, followed promptly by four more consecutive shots with a five second interval between each other."
Markus did quite a double take as his expression became a quite unflattering form of skeptical as he glowered at her, his attention focused on her with a dangerous amount of ire threatening to spill through as a woman, a woman with very little sea-fairing experience at that, began to give him orders for how to run his ship. "When'd you-" He sighs, cutting himself off, to give a curt dismissal rather than an attack against his ally's character. They were out of range, but even if Elenora was a damningly enigmatic and prideful creature, she didn't make pointless or trivial requests, even if getting her to admit the reasoning of whatever inquiry she made was as difficult as getting a cat to willingly leap into a large pool of water. "Fine."
His voice raised as he shouted out the commands to relay them to the artillery in the bows of the ship. "Ready port-side volley, five shots, consecutive with five second intervals between them."
Elenora watched silently as the order was shouted throughout the ship, and nearly thirty seconds later a reply echoed from the depths, gathering volume until the shout came back from the watcher between decks. "Ready!"
They were loyal, and timely, but such observations were kept to herself as Elenora watched the crew, turning back to brush, now wet from the rain, hair from her face to regard the ship rapidly gaining progress on their ship, though her attention returned to Markus as he gave her a questing glance, and all she could do was give a quite nod as he gave the . . . begrudgingly, satisfying, order that was the inevitable finale of preparation. "Fire!"
Again, the order echoed down the ranks, and one by one the cannons began to fire, the flashes of flame something that made her recoil for a small moment, as heavy clouds of the fog of war were deftly blown away by the turbulent winds of the sea, the sound similar to the crack of the whip of lightening, the tone . . . heavier, deeper, in a way, though that might have simply been due to their proximity to the source of the noise. She knew that the sounds would carry to the ship, even to the deepest parts of it, her own . . . courier pigeon, in a way, perhaps not the most effective method, but arguably the most available to her at this time. The subtlest pangs of worry and doubt began to gnaw at her for a moment as the silence, interrupted only by the howl of the wind and the drizzling rain pattering against the creaking oak of the ship, as well as being empathetic enough to read the dubious condition of Markus' trust in her as no immediate effect of her request is made . . . apparent. Markus returns to ordering his men to reload and prepare for the impending conflict, but Elenora's faith remains as she leaves his side, coming to the back of the ship to watch the approaching ship . . .
In the conflict of sin and virtue, patience was certainly such a divine gift found within the virtuous as the Lasombra Antitribu continues to watch the ship crest the waves in pursuit of her own vessel, having done what she could, and knowing soon would be the curtain's call on this dreary scene, no matter which side the crowd favored. Each moment was torterous, but it was crucial to not show her hand, doubt a weapon easily used against others, and carrying doubt in one's self the equivalent of handing an assassin a poisoned dagger and expecting them not to stab one in the lovely morsel of a target one so willingly gives to them. Her patience would be rewarded, if not she certainly had more avenues to exhaust before admitting to defeat, embarrassing as the situation might become. She would be poised-to be anything less would be a sin against God, her shadow . . . and most importantly herself.
The first sign of anything wrong was a sparking light from the depths of the hull of their predator, a hope-bringing flame bright enough to be seen through the tiniest cracks within the timber, something that rapidly spread upwards and outwards as, even from the distance, an ear-shattering explosion rippled throughout the sea, splitting timber, mast, and hull alike as dense smoke and bits of debris flew from the now-doomed ship, the naked frame and broken spine of the ship aflame as it began to flood with water, a wake forming as the ripples of the explosion jostle their own ship even at this distance. There was hardly any time to react as the aftermath shook them, Elenora's fangs instinctively descending as her beast roils in frustration of being forced to witness such an ignoble end. Behind her, she hears Markus order another to take the wheel of the ship, the older man coming to stand beside her as he watches the sea rapidly swallow the remains of the ruined ship. He does not speak, and surprisingly, Elenora finds herself speaking to break the silence, her gaze still trained on the wreckage, no longer focused on her companion. "What do you know of the sin of Pride?"
Markus seemed caught off guard by the question, his answer pleasantly candid as he stroked his beard, truthfully just trying to comprehend what had just happened. "Ah, I know it is an excessive... admiration, of yerself."
Elenora simply responds with a curt nod, the wind continuing to pull her hair behind her in long dark curls of heavy strands, though the young woman was barely satisfied with being given the mere definition of the word, and as such, didn't bother giving him her full attention despite his close proximity to her, instead watching the waves spin about the remains of the destroyed ship. "Of all the cardinal sins, Pride is unique. The others are . . . submission, to our baser, selves, that which we call The Beast. Lust is the endless pursuit of carnal satisfaction, desiring not for love, but for mindless rutting and fucking to drown guilt with pleasure, to use another only to resolve your own hedonistic need. Gluttony stems from hunger, a gnawing and incessant feeling that, it is true, must be sated, but we do not need to engorge ourselves, taking and taking until there is nothing left to feed the needy . . . Greed, much like Lust, is also a Sin of desire, but it is far more, material thing, a desire for wealth, opulence, status, fame, and in chasing after it, in submitting to that wanton requisite, we lose sight of virtue and fall. By allowing the weight of the world to crush us, we fall sway to the siren-song of apathy, who in turn leads us to Sloth, doing nothing, because we feel, nothing. The sun to Sloth's moon, Wrath is the reckless indulgement of anger and hatred, unfortunately common feelings, but often, no, always, it is what is most emotionally satisfying that is the most damning to do when presented with the sensation of rage. In Envy, we find comfort in our own troubles by making our fellows suffer for their accomplishments, dragging them down to our level as we take leisurely delight in the suffering of another, childishly trying to make them understand themselves as we understand them because it brings us pleasure. But Pride . . ."
The Lasombra sighs, shaking her head in a subtle gesture, one that would have been so easily missed if her eloquent description lured the sailor into a fascinated kind of rapture, one that was certainly difficult to break as he remained silent, respectfully so, while the young woman gathered her words. "Pride, is the belief that you are above the consequences of your actions, and that no matter what suffering you inflict on another, that that torment, will not return to visit you one day. Even to the immortal . . . the wages of sin is death. A fact that Acuelo Albinus had sorely forgotten." She nods to the wreckage of the ship as she mentions the name of the former Captain, before she continues. "He believed that the he would never face tribulation, when he sinned against the Divine, but the Devil always collects his due."
Finally, as the depths of the sea greedily swallowed all trace of the unfortunate Galley, the storm pushing Captain, Crew, and Boat down the gullet of the unfathomable deaths, Elenora turned her baleful gaze to Markus, her stormy-grey eyes an abyss just as turbulent as the natural display that surrounded them as far as mortal eyes could see, a powerful sensation that demanded he look away, but entrancing with the siren-call of the void, just so that he could not bring himself to break eye-contact, and in turn he felt the dismal sensation dragging him into the oblivion of surrender, surrender to a being that was as insurmountable and uncontrollable as a storm, and that only be appeasing the primordial force behind the sensation might he be able to survive, the temptation to do so despite whatever risk it might carry to himself. "This battle was over before it even began."
A shiver passes through Markus as he meets her gaze, unsure of what would happen might he look away, as he maintains eye-contact, nodding twice as he swallows, looking upon her as he eventually speaks. "I . . . see."
It was a simple response, perhaps, but she knew he only said what he wanted, and could not bring himself to say what he truly thought in her presence, or conceal the fear that he felt to elect that specific reply in the first place. He knew now, that not only had Elenora immaculately planned the destruction of her adversary and used this mission as nothing more than a means to an end, but that her ruthlessness and cunning knew little bounds, and if she was capable of arranging the destruction of one galley . . . surely, she had planned the destruction of his own should he attempt to betray her, repaying treachery with treachery, as she had just done. For a moment, he looked to her facial expression for any sign of familiarity, any sign of a conscious like his own, but her mask of conviction was a resolute edict, and in searching for the tantalizing connection where there was none to be found, he only further found the polished perfections of sheer inhumanity, devoid of humanity to instead garner the mantle of divinity, an expression so divorced from anything even remotely human that it left him wondering . . . was she an avenging angel, sent to strike down a ship for its sins, or was she a devil, here to drag those who had sinned down to their new hell?
Elenora left him to his revelation, save a small nod, looking away to the storm around them, freeing him from the abyssal revelry of her gaze, a storm that was only a tiny manifestation of nature compared to the force of will held within her mere presence. "I thank you, Signor Giovanni, for the display of fire-works this evening, but I believe it is time for me to retire for the evening. My dress and hair are sopping wet, and I would like some time to rest before I finish writing my report. Have a pleasant evening."
Excusing herself, the vampiress began to walk below deck to return to her quarters, but before she so much as descended from the upper Galley she heard Markus call out from behind her. "Signora di Venezia!"
The call causes her to pause her step, looking back to the man with a soft tilt of her head as she regarded him, pleasantly surprised by the formal greeting, partially amused, even, though she did not reveal it as she quirked a brow, using silence to coax whatever he might wish to say from his lips without giving him a question to guide his thoughts. It was effective as Markus seemed to become almost sheepish, shaking his head before he nodded to her. "Ah . . . good work, good work."
The Lasombra Antitribu allows the faintest of smiles, the first time she had even allowed her lips to move upwards within the entire scene, as she gives him a small nod, echoing what she had already said as she excused herself. He was scared of her capabilities, worried of what she might do, and now, he sought to please her, the flattery pleasant even if it did nothing to change her intentions. "Good evening."
Elenora quietly resumed her departure as she returns to her room, silently playing the night backwards through her mind, thinking of what was said, and what she learned, as well as the Captain she had left behind. He didn't trust her, but it is far easier to use the threat of dire consequence to threaten others into complacency, especially when it was in their own best interest to protect her rather than betray her, then it is to form alliances closer than kinship, and there is little difference between terror and the respect it breeds.
After all, it was better to be feared . . .
. . . than it was to be loved.
Why else would God command mankind, those He called His kin, His children, those who He had made in His own image . . . to fear, Him?
-Excerpt from Elenora's Journal, April 17th, 1471 AD
Spending time on the open seas, divorced from the creature comforts of her home of Venice, had surely been a frustrating yet enamoring lesson for the Neonate as the small cabin of the Galley, the Rizzo d'Oro, the ship that sometimes, even often, she thought would serve as little more than her open casket, swayed gently in the waves of the Mediterranean Sea. It was little more than deceptive coddling, one that could easily become turbulent and chaotic with little more notice than a wayward breeze that heralded sheer pandemonium in the hours to come. Sometimes, Elenora expected to awaken to find herself miles underneath the waves, though the Maiden ship was of fine construction as she so bravely carried her precious cargo away from Venice, over seas, and to the clutching greed of the merchants of Barcelona. Thankfully, it had been an uneventful trip, though it was not one that would remain that way, as the Giovanni sailors barked their captain's orders to one another, Elenora continued to sit at her small desk, scribbling away ink on the page as she continued to write her own memoirs. There was very little ink left, but with nothing of significance to report, the temporary shortage of supplies was little to fuss over while the quill dug into the parchment.
'-I still find the events surrounding this shipment peculiar. While I am aware of my role here, to satisfy the interests of both Camarilla and Giovanni alike, I find the invitation to accompany my dear companion, Markus Giovanni, an unusual, but surprisingly pleasant experience. The sailors provide a satisfactory herd, though logistically I can still see the cracks of strain upon some of the crewmen as they struggle to uphold, not one, but two Cainites amongst their ranks. Difficult as it might be, for the moment it is still sustainable, if only barely. The tax on their physical strength makes me all the more grateful for my companion's abilities. I, myself, have of course pointed out the strain, and make note of it here to express to my dear colleagues at home when I return. The voyage continues smoothly, and on this date there has yet to be any sign of the pirates that we had been forewarned of.'
Pausing to gather some more ink for her quill, Elenora quietly leans back, her body already used to the constant rocking as she sways along with the waves, an easy way to keep her own balance in the face of such a struggle. She leans back, quietly recalling the events leading up to her exile, no matter how temporary, within this wooden graveyard, bobbling until finally it was reclaimed in the waters beneath them all. She had a mission to fulfill - naturally, there were always strings attached, and an invitation to attend and oversee this expedition came with the expectation that she would provide - her goods, being that of the destruction of the pirates who plundered along this route. There were patterns, and success so often breeds complacency. Six attacks, within two months, along the same route and no other? Reports of shadows bending against their will? Unusual coincidences, when compared to her clan's proclivity for all seaward assaults, and given the Camarilla and Giovanni's . . . silence, on the matter of who the assailant might be, it was likely one of the many irredeemable, rash, and ultimately boorish children who rebelled against their mothers and fathers. Had they so quickly realized that Patricide was a sin? It was a grave one at that . . . pity.
Cainite society was always rife with gossip, such creatures centuries old with little more to do than sit and stew in their boredom were ripe to leap at the opportunity to spread tales and in their mongrel ways, any secret stated to another was nothing more than a secret at all. She knew her mark had heard of her attendance on this shipment after she had spoken of it within an Elysia, no less, and such the trap was set. Conflict was inevitable, the only question was when such a battle might occur. At night, preferably, but at the day they would be at a decisive advantage. The dead did not sleep, and forbidden from rest they would oh so easily overpower the ghouls of the Lasombra Anarch who saw little more than an opportunity to enrich himself on Markus' wealth and her own vitae, and as such was blinded to the true powers at play. It was a pity the Anarchs were so . . . blind, and petulant in their desire to rule but without the patience and attentiveness of their forefathers. Perhaps, they might have had potential, though surely, now it was all but squandered, crushed and shattered, scattered about the rocks like the remaining hull of a doomed vessel as little more than a warning to others.
A heavier squall, one of many but certainly more noticeable, rocked the ship, causing Elenora to quickly grab the ink-well before it spilled and ruined the page she had spent most of the night working on. Quickly plugging it and quenching the flame of her candle with a glass, the Lasombra tilted her head, quietly listening, but finding that she could not hear anything besides the creaking of the ship's hull and the waves that crashed against it, quickly stowed away her work and after brushing her dress, a conservative thing that covered her from neck to ankle, boringly cloistered considering the finery she used to adorn, but in fashion and respectable, she quickly stashed her rosary underneath the folds of her blouse, running hands covered in gloves of fine lace through her raven black curls as she rose. The sea was growing restless, and she could hear nothing, and that . . . silence, that absence, was a dangerous companion when threatened by a known adversary, and she needed to see to know how to respond to whatever cruel fate had been arranged for her.
In the depths of the ship, there was very little light, nearly none as a ship aflame would destroy its own cargo and cost her crew their lives, and even in the bowls of the beast of wood and tar, the wind gusted, falling in that worrisome gap between productively pushing the ship to it's destination and stirring the sea into a fury, now that Eleanora traveled along the side of the ship she could hear the waves crashing against the hull. Either they would now make excellent time to their destination, and be past the danger, or the men would be hurrying to take down the sails as the ship was tossed about on white-tipped waves like a bone torn asunder by feral hounds scrabbling over it. The galley was only crafted a few months back and the timbers are strong, in excellent condition. Grabbing her skirts as not to trip on them as she ascends the staircase to reach the surface, a salty spray came over the rails of the deck, an unsurprising fact as the Lasombra quietly looked over the rail, steadying herself as the gentle rocking of the sea slowly began to become more violent. Grey eyes watch the impending storm with an emotionless face, nearly as if her heart were carved from granate rather than being some beating organ . . . perhaps, there was some sliver of the feeling of a mortal, fragile as they are, but whatever thought might have once existed was as extinguished and silent as her still and frozen heart.
Here, the commands of captain and crew were audible as the crewmen worked about, tying down what they so needed to weather the coming storm, Markus Giovanni's commands barked from his perch behind the wheel that controlled the rudder of the Maiden Galley. Unlike many of the sailors, he was an old man, perhaps forty, though would he be older before his death Elenora would not be surprised. His clothing was practical in nature, similar to her own in that it was designed of quality materials, and in the most forgivalbe of terms, was fashionable; abit, only for the quality of its craftsmanship. Weathered from decades of life on the open sea his hair grayed even as his face paled from the slowest entropy of death, one that touched all vampires, but despite the chaos of the world around him, he was still calm as he shouted his orders to his crew, a trait of character Elenora found endearing about the man. A single ring adorns his hand, worn on his index finger and one she knew that bore the sigil of his Family and Clan, and had little more meaning than that, excluding the tiny amount of necromantic energy the ring imbued him with. Surely, there were wraiths about her, even if they were not yet viable and had not yet been made manifest, the work of the poltergeists were still apparent to the analytical eye, if one knew were to look for them. A rope becoming done by itself, a barrel pushed under decks, a light, extinguished . . . all explainable, with the right frame of mind.
A civilian on a ship of sailors, and a woman at that, Elenora was often an ignored passenger, though the sailors were still smart enough to realize divinity made manifest, and as such the Lasombra Neonate was given the respect worthy of her station without ever needing to inquire the Captains aid in controlling the . . . occasional unsavory desires of his men. They had learned not to look, much less touch, and most of all, it hadn't cost the lives of one of their own for them to realize that Elenora was not one to tolerate the intrigues of fools, manifested through carnal desire and masculine impotence. As such, besides a single parting gaze from one of the many men before he returned to his duties, the young woman was able to easily glide up the steps, unmoved by the storm and swaying of the ship as she came to rest on the railing besides the captain as she lightly gripped the railing, looking up the heavens so far above their . . . truly, insignificant struggle.
Above, the clouds that had gathered since the setting of the Spring Sun now blotted out the moon and stars in an array of shadows folding into one another as they painted the endless skies like ink spilled and freely running over a blackening page, smothering whatever tiny amounts of natural light might bleed through the cracks and enveloping ship and crew in darkness. Elenora continued to watch the skies above, as the Captain finally commented on her presence, his voice a thick guffaw, amused as he spoke his own mind. "The storm finally roused ya, eh?"
Elenora doesn't bother to look at him, hearing all she needed to know from his tone as she continued to watch the storm clouds loom so far above them . . . "Perhaps it roused my curiosity."
A cautious agreement was no denial, but her response was one of her typical tactful reservation, holding whatever true feelings she might feel tightly to herself, if she even felt anything besides ennui, perhaps. For his part, Markus simply nods as he returns to sailing . . . a moment later, speaking to quench the silence between them that the winds and salt of the waves threatened to fill, had he not raised his own voice. "We'll be out of the storm in no time."
Elenora always found that she heard far more in silence than she ever did by speaking, the longing for companionship a human weakness that was all too easily exploited by those that were no longer mortal. His desire to reassure her was . . . interesting, perhaps, as he did respect her, but her youth often so betrayed her demeanor, as she simply nodded in reply. "Pity . . . it's almost beautiful."
Markus shakes his head, chuckling as he spins the wheel once more and looks over his crew fulfilling their stations as they were so directed, falling lax in his command over them as he was distracted by the Lasombra Antitribu's appearance. "Maybe, until it gets worse and starts chuckin' you around like metal between an 'ammer and anvil."
Elenora simply nods her head, the motion easily lost in the swaying of the storm, as the sound of distant thunder rolls over the waves to greet their ears, the sound causing Elenora's attention to rise as she looked towards the source of the sound, her shifting gaze from the heavens above not unnoticed by Markus, who spoke again. "Storm'll be gettin' worse, you might want to head under 'less you fancy yourself gettin' tossed over."
The Lasombra tilts her head in response to Markus, her stormy gaze staring into him as she allows the expression to say more than she could ever possibly with words, as the Captain shakes his head and sighs a heavy breath, watching the waves as they began to crest higher and higher. "Don't say I didn't warn ya."
"Your consideration is noted, Signor." She replies, remaining where she was as the winds tore at her dress and blew her hair from her face, the rippling of the fabric audible in their close proximity as she watched the storm begin its slow but inevitable climb to a crescendo, the wind so similar to a far more primeval symphony accented by the staccato of thunderclaps that echoed throughout the vast unknown, the rocking of the boat as the wooden timbers groaned beneath the stress of the journey it undertook, but such challenges were little more than ways to test the meddle of Captain, Ship, and Crew, and if it cannot endure such a trivial squall . . . then surely, it does not deserve the mandate it was originally given. There will be much more devious and challenging storms in the time ahead . . .
Elenora continued to observe in silence now as the Captain returns to barking his orders to the crew, listening to the bickering as the band of brothers prepared for the eminent storm, her attention, along with much of the crew's was drawn by the call of whichever youth, that poor soul who was left to the crow's nest during the horrible storm as he shouted with down with a voice carried away by the wind, but still faintly audible. "Ship, Ship to the North-East!"
The Lasombra Antitribu raises a brow, moving to the side of the Galley to look in that direction, a chill suddenly filtering through the air, a sensation that if she was alive, perhaps, would have coaxed a shiver from her, but now she simply could not be bothered. Cresting the waves like an arrow turned by the wind, a ship, its hull in fine repair, even painted black to better blend into the turbulent sea, rowed towards them with a rapid speed, the ship flag-less, though Elenora recognized the similarity to the stories she had gathered from the survivor's of her quarry's raids, the cast away and pulled under the waves by abyssal tendrils to drown in the depths. Her gaze was a calm, dispassionate expression, as she looked over her shoulder to coolly regard the captain who began to order his sailors about to find the spy-glass to identify the ship that had begun to follow them, braving the tempest as they are blinded by the cruel crutches of sin.
Their quarry had taken the bait, swallowed hook, line, and sinker, whole, something that would strangle him, ultimately, but he embraced it oh so willingly. He was brave, perhaps, but the line between heroism and ill-minded suicide was a narrow one, but the gambit was cast, and now so must the game begin, though victory and failure had far greater consequences than the frankly trivial games of her youth. The shouts of the crew and captain relaying orders was so painfully slow for realization, each man a buffer to a greater whole, bound by loyalty . . . perhaps it would be slow enough.
It was fortunate that her companion was able to speak to the dead, and as the misty perspiration of salt began to freeze she could feel the chill of one of the vengeful specters beginning to manifest, whispers carried on the wind that scratched at Elenora's eardrums, tantalizingly audible but impossible to decipher, though its ghostly revelry was interrupted as Markus eyes began to glow an icy blue and he shouted at it, the noise deafened by a clap of thunder, though his words were enough to drive the spirit back into its own dimension, even if they were beyond her own form of perception, the call to battle Elenora couldn't truly be bothered to respond to as the men scrambled about in a struggle that felt . . . beneath her. It was important, but the die was cast, the cards must fall as they may, and so it will be. Moving forward, she returned to be beside Markus, her voice gathering enough force of conviction to be heard over the ruckus, but nothing more. "Ready a volley. A single shot, followed promptly by four more consecutive shots with a five second interval between each other."
Markus did quite a double take as his expression became a quite unflattering form of skeptical as he glowered at her, his attention focused on her with a dangerous amount of ire threatening to spill through as a woman, a woman with very little sea-fairing experience at that, began to give him orders for how to run his ship. "When'd you-" He sighs, cutting himself off, to give a curt dismissal rather than an attack against his ally's character. They were out of range, but even if Elenora was a damningly enigmatic and prideful creature, she didn't make pointless or trivial requests, even if getting her to admit the reasoning of whatever inquiry she made was as difficult as getting a cat to willingly leap into a large pool of water. "Fine."
His voice raised as he shouted out the commands to relay them to the artillery in the bows of the ship. "Ready port-side volley, five shots, consecutive with five second intervals between them."
Elenora watched silently as the order was shouted throughout the ship, and nearly thirty seconds later a reply echoed from the depths, gathering volume until the shout came back from the watcher between decks. "Ready!"
They were loyal, and timely, but such observations were kept to herself as Elenora watched the crew, turning back to brush, now wet from the rain, hair from her face to regard the ship rapidly gaining progress on their ship, though her attention returned to Markus as he gave her a questing glance, and all she could do was give a quite nod as he gave the . . . begrudgingly, satisfying, order that was the inevitable finale of preparation. "Fire!"
Again, the order echoed down the ranks, and one by one the cannons began to fire, the flashes of flame something that made her recoil for a small moment, as heavy clouds of the fog of war were deftly blown away by the turbulent winds of the sea, the sound similar to the crack of the whip of lightening, the tone . . . heavier, deeper, in a way, though that might have simply been due to their proximity to the source of the noise. She knew that the sounds would carry to the ship, even to the deepest parts of it, her own . . . courier pigeon, in a way, perhaps not the most effective method, but arguably the most available to her at this time. The subtlest pangs of worry and doubt began to gnaw at her for a moment as the silence, interrupted only by the howl of the wind and the drizzling rain pattering against the creaking oak of the ship, as well as being empathetic enough to read the dubious condition of Markus' trust in her as no immediate effect of her request is made . . . apparent. Markus returns to ordering his men to reload and prepare for the impending conflict, but Elenora's faith remains as she leaves his side, coming to the back of the ship to watch the approaching ship . . .
In the conflict of sin and virtue, patience was certainly such a divine gift found within the virtuous as the Lasombra Antitribu continues to watch the ship crest the waves in pursuit of her own vessel, having done what she could, and knowing soon would be the curtain's call on this dreary scene, no matter which side the crowd favored. Each moment was torterous, but it was crucial to not show her hand, doubt a weapon easily used against others, and carrying doubt in one's self the equivalent of handing an assassin a poisoned dagger and expecting them not to stab one in the lovely morsel of a target one so willingly gives to them. Her patience would be rewarded, if not she certainly had more avenues to exhaust before admitting to defeat, embarrassing as the situation might become. She would be poised-to be anything less would be a sin against God, her shadow . . . and most importantly herself.
The first sign of anything wrong was a sparking light from the depths of the hull of their predator, a hope-bringing flame bright enough to be seen through the tiniest cracks within the timber, something that rapidly spread upwards and outwards as, even from the distance, an ear-shattering explosion rippled throughout the sea, splitting timber, mast, and hull alike as dense smoke and bits of debris flew from the now-doomed ship, the naked frame and broken spine of the ship aflame as it began to flood with water, a wake forming as the ripples of the explosion jostle their own ship even at this distance. There was hardly any time to react as the aftermath shook them, Elenora's fangs instinctively descending as her beast roils in frustration of being forced to witness such an ignoble end. Behind her, she hears Markus order another to take the wheel of the ship, the older man coming to stand beside her as he watches the sea rapidly swallow the remains of the ruined ship. He does not speak, and surprisingly, Elenora finds herself speaking to break the silence, her gaze still trained on the wreckage, no longer focused on her companion. "What do you know of the sin of Pride?"
Markus seemed caught off guard by the question, his answer pleasantly candid as he stroked his beard, truthfully just trying to comprehend what had just happened. "Ah, I know it is an excessive... admiration, of yerself."
Elenora simply responds with a curt nod, the wind continuing to pull her hair behind her in long dark curls of heavy strands, though the young woman was barely satisfied with being given the mere definition of the word, and as such, didn't bother giving him her full attention despite his close proximity to her, instead watching the waves spin about the remains of the destroyed ship. "Of all the cardinal sins, Pride is unique. The others are . . . submission, to our baser, selves, that which we call The Beast. Lust is the endless pursuit of carnal satisfaction, desiring not for love, but for mindless rutting and fucking to drown guilt with pleasure, to use another only to resolve your own hedonistic need. Gluttony stems from hunger, a gnawing and incessant feeling that, it is true, must be sated, but we do not need to engorge ourselves, taking and taking until there is nothing left to feed the needy . . . Greed, much like Lust, is also a Sin of desire, but it is far more, material thing, a desire for wealth, opulence, status, fame, and in chasing after it, in submitting to that wanton requisite, we lose sight of virtue and fall. By allowing the weight of the world to crush us, we fall sway to the siren-song of apathy, who in turn leads us to Sloth, doing nothing, because we feel, nothing. The sun to Sloth's moon, Wrath is the reckless indulgement of anger and hatred, unfortunately common feelings, but often, no, always, it is what is most emotionally satisfying that is the most damning to do when presented with the sensation of rage. In Envy, we find comfort in our own troubles by making our fellows suffer for their accomplishments, dragging them down to our level as we take leisurely delight in the suffering of another, childishly trying to make them understand themselves as we understand them because it brings us pleasure. But Pride . . ."
The Lasombra sighs, shaking her head in a subtle gesture, one that would have been so easily missed if her eloquent description lured the sailor into a fascinated kind of rapture, one that was certainly difficult to break as he remained silent, respectfully so, while the young woman gathered her words. "Pride, is the belief that you are above the consequences of your actions, and that no matter what suffering you inflict on another, that that torment, will not return to visit you one day. Even to the immortal . . . the wages of sin is death. A fact that Acuelo Albinus had sorely forgotten." She nods to the wreckage of the ship as she mentions the name of the former Captain, before she continues. "He believed that the he would never face tribulation, when he sinned against the Divine, but the Devil always collects his due."
Finally, as the depths of the sea greedily swallowed all trace of the unfortunate Galley, the storm pushing Captain, Crew, and Boat down the gullet of the unfathomable deaths, Elenora turned her baleful gaze to Markus, her stormy-grey eyes an abyss just as turbulent as the natural display that surrounded them as far as mortal eyes could see, a powerful sensation that demanded he look away, but entrancing with the siren-call of the void, just so that he could not bring himself to break eye-contact, and in turn he felt the dismal sensation dragging him into the oblivion of surrender, surrender to a being that was as insurmountable and uncontrollable as a storm, and that only be appeasing the primordial force behind the sensation might he be able to survive, the temptation to do so despite whatever risk it might carry to himself. "This battle was over before it even began."
A shiver passes through Markus as he meets her gaze, unsure of what would happen might he look away, as he maintains eye-contact, nodding twice as he swallows, looking upon her as he eventually speaks. "I . . . see."
It was a simple response, perhaps, but she knew he only said what he wanted, and could not bring himself to say what he truly thought in her presence, or conceal the fear that he felt to elect that specific reply in the first place. He knew now, that not only had Elenora immaculately planned the destruction of her adversary and used this mission as nothing more than a means to an end, but that her ruthlessness and cunning knew little bounds, and if she was capable of arranging the destruction of one galley . . . surely, she had planned the destruction of his own should he attempt to betray her, repaying treachery with treachery, as she had just done. For a moment, he looked to her facial expression for any sign of familiarity, any sign of a conscious like his own, but her mask of conviction was a resolute edict, and in searching for the tantalizing connection where there was none to be found, he only further found the polished perfections of sheer inhumanity, devoid of humanity to instead garner the mantle of divinity, an expression so divorced from anything even remotely human that it left him wondering . . . was she an avenging angel, sent to strike down a ship for its sins, or was she a devil, here to drag those who had sinned down to their new hell?
Elenora left him to his revelation, save a small nod, looking away to the storm around them, freeing him from the abyssal revelry of her gaze, a storm that was only a tiny manifestation of nature compared to the force of will held within her mere presence. "I thank you, Signor Giovanni, for the display of fire-works this evening, but I believe it is time for me to retire for the evening. My dress and hair are sopping wet, and I would like some time to rest before I finish writing my report. Have a pleasant evening."
Excusing herself, the vampiress began to walk below deck to return to her quarters, but before she so much as descended from the upper Galley she heard Markus call out from behind her. "Signora di Venezia!"
The call causes her to pause her step, looking back to the man with a soft tilt of her head as she regarded him, pleasantly surprised by the formal greeting, partially amused, even, though she did not reveal it as she quirked a brow, using silence to coax whatever he might wish to say from his lips without giving him a question to guide his thoughts. It was effective as Markus seemed to become almost sheepish, shaking his head before he nodded to her. "Ah . . . good work, good work."
The Lasombra Antitribu allows the faintest of smiles, the first time she had even allowed her lips to move upwards within the entire scene, as she gives him a small nod, echoing what she had already said as she excused herself. He was scared of her capabilities, worried of what she might do, and now, he sought to please her, the flattery pleasant even if it did nothing to change her intentions. "Good evening."
Elenora quietly resumed her departure as she returns to her room, silently playing the night backwards through her mind, thinking of what was said, and what she learned, as well as the Captain she had left behind. He didn't trust her, but it is far easier to use the threat of dire consequence to threaten others into complacency, especially when it was in their own best interest to protect her rather than betray her, then it is to form alliances closer than kinship, and there is little difference between terror and the respect it breeds.
After all, it was better to be feared . . .
. . . than it was to be loved.
Why else would God command mankind, those He called His kin, His children, those who He had made in His own image . . . to fear, Him?