In front of me sits a piece of bone, an old battle trophy. If it were put
into sunlight it would undoubtedly undergo a reaction that is not entirely
chemical, yet not entirely mystical, and burst into flames. For a number of
reasons, one of them that there is the very real possibility of this same
fate befalling my entire body if I were to brazenly attempt such a feat,
the bone stays where it is, protected by windowless walls and, usually, a
box and a drawer. On occasions such as this I take it out, stare at it and
rub my fingers along the curved surface to the sharp terminus where a very
familiar blade did its work one bloody night. It's a small piece of the arm
- the ulna, I believe - of a particular foe and it holds more memories than
would normally be credited to such a bodily remnant... unless one were a
Giovanni, I suppose.
All the same, it remains just a bone. Inanimate, thankfully.
Some people tell me it is made up of molecules, atoms, electrons and so
forth. I tell them that that is nice, but it's still a bone. They tell me
about calcium, carbon and all the other wonderful little names that they
have to try and pin down reality using the smallest pins they can
manufacture. It's understandable that they want to cover everything with
labels, it's human nature to attempt to limit pieces of existence by boxing
them away in easily identifiable intellectual compartments. There has
always been jargon, and sometimes it has made life easier, but too often it
is the domain of poseurs who think to raise themselves above others. As if
regurgitation truly made anything of anyone or anything.. If I really
wanted to, I could give them the name for the object in question in
approximately six different languages, but it wouldn't change a thing;
words are merely an agreed upon manner of description, after all, they
don't have the power to change the reality... unless one were a Tremere,
perhaps.
Contrary to the opinion of some, who have cast aspersions on my long term
dealings with that particular Clan, the bone remains a bone no matter how
often I mutter my own 'magical' word at it. Just as well - some could
testify to the fact that if all I passed by whilst muttering that word was
to alter into it there would be a veritable flood. Still, it would be nice
once in a while.
The remains of a vampire who has met the final death may seem a strange
aid to meditation, but as the years, and then centuries, pass it can become
difficult to access certain pathways of the mind without such keys. So much
clutter gathers that eventually even the most harebrained or hardy of
individuals must tidy up, placing stacks of information, teetering towers
of past happenings and lessons inside the equivalent of closets and bureaus
rather than continuing to have them easily at hand in a thin layer on the
carpet surrounding the desk. Once the original compartment is opened other
doors may be led to by association, and not of necessity the same ones each
time. There is, however, always the thread that leads back, no matter how
twisted it may be, a skein passing within key holes and under cracks,
through the spines of gigantic books to remind again of the beginning, the
physical self; the hand holding and eyes looking at that piece of bone...
attracted, subsumed almost, in the act. Captured in a universe of one's own
making - truly a self indulgent activity that should most likely be left to
those that excel at such things, our near cousins, Arikel's brood.
Merely bringing the will to bear breaks the mood, or does it only shift
the focus? Now that the feel of flesh is upon me rather than thoughts alone
that ancient battle brings itself to my recollection and I taste the salt
air of yesterage as I do that of the now. One is less tainted, to be sure,
or is that merely the sparkle left on a time never to be visited, and thus
fond memory disproved, again? When the world was so very much younger...
Ah, but it was a good fight. I catch myself - woolgathering is an easy trap
for the elderly to saunter into all unknowing, but at least I balance it
with some action, I tell myself. Excuses, excuses. Next I'll be blaming my
deeds on the lead of the majority - another pitfall of the lazy mind and
slack will. Harpies' pawns. Shameful, old man. Enough. Move.
Back in the box, back in the drawer, turn the key. Above decks the night
is waiting. Time for play.
