Immortal, or close enough as makes no difference, there is plenty to glory
in. Starlit, lamp lit, the glistening tarmac of the street before me leads
ever on to realms of possibility I grin to in welcoming. The world is
our... my oyster if need be, so long as certain toes are not stepped upon.
Idiot rambling of lesser kin fades beneath the immediacy of something
resembling a life. Let them whine. May the questions of fools, the self
aggrandisement of 'intellectual' bullies and the pointless inadequacies of
imbeciles fade into the abyss from which they were spawned. Why is it that
they cannot get over their shields, seeking to colour dream as truth,
madness as freedom and silence as wisdom? Pride, of course; how very
unique. Get away children, you amuse very little. How better by far to
walk, dance and skip the streets of my own fair city. If one does not
belong one merely lacks the will to make oneself belong... or more. Suffer
the weak not at all. Puny souls. Try for better next time on the wheel.
Once there was another, or others, but that is a time long past. Now
there is little but the purpose and the self. As the years have become
centuries this duality has merged in ways that it is best not to consider
deeply - lest truths be found that bear little resemblance to those that
are sought. Some might call this avoidance a sign of weakness, an inability
to contend with the facts as they are; it is of no moment. Whether it be
for the better or not, all of the fading and twisting of memory is not by
choice - though it cannot touch me in other ways, time garners this much of
a victory.
Slapping gently against my hip, quite out of proportion with the speed I
take, the weight of the unseen scabbard and sword feels like a part of me
as much as anything else. It is not necessary to bring it into play just
yet. However, as always, force will be met with force. If my methods of
word and, granted, small intimidation are not sufficient to bring about a
swift conclusion to the night's activities, then it may be otherwise.
"No," I say, appearing behind them like something that always existed in
the wall opposite that they hold the whimpering cur against. "No, you will
not."
Scents rise from them, undead as they are, and, not for the first time, I
wonder if this is how it is for my comrade. Hormones fall into disuse and
are not replenished the further we travel on from our mortal states, but
there are ways and means of tasting the effects of the mind, the emotion,
on the body. Fear and surprise. Probably I see it all too clearly in their
eyes as well, but I am learning, always learning. It is best to not limit
oneself any more than one can avoid. It is best that thought not rule, nor
emotion sway, yet something of both endow the whole that perception broaden
properly.
They respond with vulgarities and action. Perhaps they think me some rogue
Nosferatu given over to tenderness of the heart, for surely they can see
little to nothing of my features. Truly, it does not matter. Labyrinth
dwellers, rat callers, keepers of the everwhere, they are second family to
me. There is no master that guides them and thus I am more than happy to
add something to their stocks within the sadly political world that even
these anarchistic reprobates think themselves apart from despite the
attitudes their actions scream to the contrary.
Stone hard flesh is the best they manage. What few blows I allow to land
are admirable yet still laughable, considering. Beneath a wrecking ball
stone crumbles and falls, dropping in jagged, painful fragments to the
ground. Under the attack of a babe an adult cannot help but be amused. A
zephyr is as likely to move me.
Winds come in to the city from the south west this night, blowing strong
and pushing the heat of the past week from memory with chilly fingers. With
them patters of rain add to the feeling that autumn is at last full upon
us; that the glorious Indian summer finally fades. To many it would be an
opportune time for staying indoors and listening to the elements battering
against glass, wood and stone - leisurely and self indulgent - but to I and
my companion quite the opposite appeals. Change in large things tends to
filter down, one might say. There is an undercurrent of vitality in the
city tonight which we intend to make use of as we may, or be made use of
by, my friend mutters below his breath in that self deprecating manner of
his. Though a power in his own right, and more of one than he prefers to be
aware, he continues to insist on allowing the whims of fate to push him
where they may. I suspect he has deep seated plans that even I am not aware
of, having been present at some particularly peculiar meetings with him.
His masks are manifold, collections of past and future and never-will-be
that few see more than one or two of, but I know him better than most.
There is but one who is somehow more brother to him than, I, who has stuck
by him for century upon century. I do not understand it, or like it, but
accept it as something that is. Jealousy has never become me. Greater sins
are mine to pursue.
Go away. Your blood does not excite me; your mind does little but bore me.
You are pawn, you are dross made into better than you or those you report
to can conceive for the present or perhaps forever. Go.
Two streets over the particular thump of a song that has caught my
attention this whole time draws me to it, past the dupe - unknowing in his
animalistic flight - to stand outside the club from which it extends its
solicitous tendrils. Yes, passing between the inadequate bulks warding the
entrance would be easy enough, but that would be avoiding invitation at its
most basic level. I am not a thief... at the moment. The booty I seek here
is not one that can be spirited away particularly , unless I remove the
entire sound system as well as the compact disc. I've tried it before, but
the particular resonations of a building are more difficult to reproduce
than I can be bothered emulating.
All too soon it's over. Stench of bodies and perfumes, gabble of voices
seeking petty triumphs, idiot flesh take over from the music's purity,
ignored until now. Why can't they just die? It's not as if there's that
much longer before finality overcomes them; I see Death's shadow above them
all. It rather stales the possible palate. So many possibilities left
undone, I walk out onto the street, screaming masquerading as music blaring
out behind me.
Back and back. The unwieldy storehouse that remains to me sets forth
snippets as we step forth into the drizzly night air. Caught somewhere
between the activities of bygone days and the remembrance of present time,
my senses register the moisture but pay it little heed. To one such as I
this a degree of dampening matters as little as being immersed in a London
pea souper or the veriest depths of the ocean. London was... amusing.
Boddington's, then Guinness, then other tastes of olden times. Not as
pallid as that available in too many places. Not the full richness of
blood, either, to be so gauche as to actually mention that we are limited
to sup upon such fare. It's the madness that keeps us undead, after all.
Bollocks. 'Tis the sense of fun that allows us to be more alive than
others, but 'tis best not to push things into the realms of the
pretentious. The cycle yet remains. Merely wandering off with the U-lock
doesn't change matters as greatly as some might consider the case.
For no reason that I can discern a fellow patron moves faster than can be
allowed, battering at me in a flurry of fists. Could it be my smile of
contempt at his lineage and, more so, pride in it, I wonder as he breaches
certain precepts yet again and brings forth a pistol - a coward's weapon -
to release a close volley of shots at me. Metal and bone fly in arcs that,
despite having their own elegance, could well cause problems, as arm and
sword act as one to splatter the fool's armament and arm across a
worryingly wide area. It's immediate, gratifying, but hardly worth the
trouble of the clean up. Responsibilities. At least some things suck up the
blood.
We had set out to do our duty, as I was made for and my comrade was
enthused towards by my, sometimes sly, I admit, inducements. My partners
have ever been kept well in hand. The assassin is a warming heat.
I need a drink. At home. Buggeration. There's nowhere for a quiet wander
any more. Damn and curse the cities, saviours of us all.
