Rough Draft
Jul. 24th, 2009 08:31 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aidan_vilandrie“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Against the ridges of his mouth his tongue ticked. If a sound could have a name, this would be called disappointment. In his hand he held a camera. “My, my, you have been a busy little bee, haven’t you?” Over and over he pressed a button on the digital camera that sent his eyes spiraling through a diabolical display. One of his own making. As each image changed the light reflected eerily against the pallor of his skin.
“What am I to do with you?” He chided as his fingers painfully cupped the young vampires face, slowly shaking it from side to side with each word, his nails biting half moon marks into his skin. Aidan held the tone of a father saddened by his sons actions. Such trechery among their kind was to be expected, however. Quite the hypocrite he was, the visionary did not find fault in his own actions, yet those of young Marcel elicited a violent reaction within him. There was an undercurrent of malice in his words but it was cleverly masked by a soft, unassuming voice and eyes that matched. He was a master of his art. His medium, lies.
Playfully the Nikon was tapped against his captive’s forehead. The fear that whipped across the camera owner’s face was nearly too much for a man who teetered on the fence of black and gray. Smash him like a bug or let him linger at deaths door until he truly understood pain? “Do know, as you meet your final death, this was a difficult decision for me to make.” Never did he raise his voice or lose the strange calm that had the power to drive the most collected to madness. Pieces of the incriminating camera scattered across the floor as it was dropped to the ground and smashed beneath the heel of his boot. “But, you have seen too much.”
In the candle lit darkness a single sharp blade caught the light. The orange flames bounced against the surface and back down at the trembling, bound man. Against the ropes that bound him his chest rose in fast breaths, shaking the stone platform. Eyes as round and shiny as dinner plates stared up at his captor; back and forth he shook his head as if the pleading in his panicked eyes would help. From under his shaking body a puddle of blood seeped toward the edges of the table. Rivulets began to run over the edges, plopping like heavy drops of rain against the floor. Leaning in closer, his fingers still curled around the butt of the knife plunged deep in the chest of the spy, Aidan’s voice cracked growing sharp and jagged like shards of ice. “I will not be the wrung in the ladder you step upon to get ahead.” Was that not the desire of all Tremere? Advancement? Marcel was no different, none of them were, it was their nature. His mistake was the stepping stone he had chosen to build his path upon.
From the hole in his chest thin, black cracks in his skin began to appear. Like infant snakes emerging from the pit of their birth the cracks grew into deep bleeding, crevices, spreading like the roots of a tree across his body. Of course the poison could have been placed in a beautifully etched wine carafe and delivered to into his hands. From across the room he would have watched with a glimmer of devilish delight in his eyes as a glass was poured and drawn past his lips. The very thought of it made him smile in remembrance. However, there were some things that needed a more personal touch. If only to make a point.
Turning away from the decaying body Aidan gathered the leather satchel from the desk and slung it over his body. Into a large suitcase he placed a stack of carefully wrapped books. It was of great concern to him that those books made it to the United States in tact. From cover to cover he knew the text, each and every word, and the lines of the detailed drawings. Yet there was something about the feel of the leather binding and the tang of the old paper that he takes pleasure in.
“What am I to do with you?” He chided as his fingers painfully cupped the young vampires face, slowly shaking it from side to side with each word, his nails biting half moon marks into his skin. Aidan held the tone of a father saddened by his sons actions. Such trechery among their kind was to be expected, however. Quite the hypocrite he was, the visionary did not find fault in his own actions, yet those of young Marcel elicited a violent reaction within him. There was an undercurrent of malice in his words but it was cleverly masked by a soft, unassuming voice and eyes that matched. He was a master of his art. His medium, lies.
Playfully the Nikon was tapped against his captive’s forehead. The fear that whipped across the camera owner’s face was nearly too much for a man who teetered on the fence of black and gray. Smash him like a bug or let him linger at deaths door until he truly understood pain? “Do know, as you meet your final death, this was a difficult decision for me to make.” Never did he raise his voice or lose the strange calm that had the power to drive the most collected to madness. Pieces of the incriminating camera scattered across the floor as it was dropped to the ground and smashed beneath the heel of his boot. “But, you have seen too much.”
In the candle lit darkness a single sharp blade caught the light. The orange flames bounced against the surface and back down at the trembling, bound man. Against the ropes that bound him his chest rose in fast breaths, shaking the stone platform. Eyes as round and shiny as dinner plates stared up at his captor; back and forth he shook his head as if the pleading in his panicked eyes would help. From under his shaking body a puddle of blood seeped toward the edges of the table. Rivulets began to run over the edges, plopping like heavy drops of rain against the floor. Leaning in closer, his fingers still curled around the butt of the knife plunged deep in the chest of the spy, Aidan’s voice cracked growing sharp and jagged like shards of ice. “I will not be the wrung in the ladder you step upon to get ahead.” Was that not the desire of all Tremere? Advancement? Marcel was no different, none of them were, it was their nature. His mistake was the stepping stone he had chosen to build his path upon.
From the hole in his chest thin, black cracks in his skin began to appear. Like infant snakes emerging from the pit of their birth the cracks grew into deep bleeding, crevices, spreading like the roots of a tree across his body. Of course the poison could have been placed in a beautifully etched wine carafe and delivered to into his hands. From across the room he would have watched with a glimmer of devilish delight in his eyes as a glass was poured and drawn past his lips. The very thought of it made him smile in remembrance. However, there were some things that needed a more personal touch. If only to make a point.
Turning away from the decaying body Aidan gathered the leather satchel from the desk and slung it over his body. Into a large suitcase he placed a stack of carefully wrapped books. It was of great concern to him that those books made it to the United States in tact. From cover to cover he knew the text, each and every word, and the lines of the detailed drawings. Yet there was something about the feel of the leather binding and the tang of the old paper that he takes pleasure in.
