Saskatoon By Night Spotlight - SIR PETER SOMERSET
 

Good evening ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the very first of Saskatoon by Night's interview column. I am your intrepid reporter, Mark Brunsdon and I thought I would start out this interview with a bang. My first guest is Sir Peter Hamilton Somerset, Venture Primogen and one of the cities most influential and powerful Kindred. I would like to briefly remind all of you gentle readers out there that anything you read in my articles is purely out of character and for your own pleasure. Anything from this article taken out of context will find you flogged, derided and the butt of jokes and nasty comments for weeks afterward. Now then, on with the interview.    Mark Brunsdon: Sir Somerset! Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to speak with me.  Sir Peter: Think nothing of it my boy. If a man in my position can't find a few minutes for the press then there is something deeply wrong.  MB: As many of our loyal readers know, I am a rabid Sean Connery fan and, if you don't mind my saying so, you do sound a great deal like him.  SP: (laughing) I hear that a lot actually. I had the pleasure to meet young Sean when his career was first taking off and he seemed both quite taken with my accent, and with the fact that a member of the aristocracy would refuse to try to conceal his accent. Having no discernable accent was, and still is, a sign of good breeding in Great Britain.  MB: Can we then infer then, that you are of more common birth than you would like us to believe?  SP: Perhaps, but I have had a long time to acquire the land and titles I possess, and after so many decades, the question is rather moot.  MB: Fair enough, on to the meatier questions. Our readers have a fair amount of questions for you Sir Peter. To start things off a little, would you mind telling us a little about yourself?  SP: Very well Mark. Let me see, where to begin? (Sir Peter gets a far off look in his eyes) I was born in a little village in Scotland which has since been absorbed into the city of Aberdeen, in 1813. I was a simple lad ,struggling through a fairly hard life when I was scouted out, or found if you prefer by a servant of Lady Margaret Huntington-Smythe, my sire, as a diamond in the rough if you will, and was added to her already considerable stable. It was rough going at first, after all, how does one reconcile the knowledge that one will never age, grow ill or suffer for long from wounds, ever again.  I was accepted into her cadre of ghouls and was pressed into military service in the field of espionage. The training was difficult, but the fear of failure was great. At that time, to fail as a ghoul was to die, as some of the older Kindred would not dare let anyone with knowledge of them suffer to live. I outshone even the high expectations of my regnant, trainers and colleagues, and attracted the attention of her sire. He was an Archon in training at the time and he started to take an interest in me.  MB: Was it his influence that enabled you to be Embraced?  SP: To this very day I have no idea, but that is probably the case, yes.  MB: Was your Embrace difficult?  SP: I don't remember to tell you the truth. I was speaking with my Sire and her Sire when she ordered me to sleep...when I awoke, I was as you see me now.  MB: Was there any rivalry to speak of between you and any brood mates or ghouls you might have had?  SP: At the beginning, of course. Jealousy for the new baby and all that, but nothing ever happened. My Grandsire took me under his wing almost immediately and sheltered me from the worst of it. None of the younger Kindred and older ghouls were foolish enough to provoke him.  MB: Has the struggle to maintain your humanity been a difficult one under the weight of years?  SP: (pause) At times, yes. I have seen some horrible things in my unlife. I have watched Sabbat duel to the death for the pleasure of the Archons, I have outlived coterie mates and friends. All this can be trying at times. All in all however, the good has outweighed the bad thus far.  MB: I have to ask this question. What brings you to Saskatoon of all places??  SP: I would love to say the scenery or the nightlife, but the fact of the matter is that I am on assignment for my grandsire and his coterie.  MB: His coterie?  SP: OHMSS, On her Majesties Secret Service. They are a group of Archons in service to Mary Tudor. I am their agent in the area.  MB: I see, when you arrived in Saskatoon, did you have any difficulty in finding a haven what with the current housing shortage in town?  SP: Actually, no. Two havens were provided for me upon my arrival in Saskatoon by OHMSS's cover company, Universal Export. Being the CEO of Universal Exports: Saskatoon has its advantages.

MP: How has your stay been so far? How long have you been in Saskatchewan?  SP: I have been in this province for just over a year now. So far it has been both interesting and profitable. Yes, I would say, even thought it has had its ups and downs, over all, thus far has been acceptable.  MB: What are your strong points and if we contacted your sire or the Prince of the last domain you hailed from, what would they have to say about you?  SP: Actually, I have letters of reference right here in my briefcase. As for my strong points, I am a capable leader, an exceptional spy, and a patron of the arts.  MB: Er...right. Well, these certainly are impressive. Aside from the Prince of London, England, have you associated with any famous or infamous Kindred?  SP: Yes to both actually. I participated in the hunt for the former Sabbat Prince of Brandon, Lochiver of Cairheim, in which I was able to rub elbow's with many Archons, and I was a member of the coterie known as the Collective. My coterie mates were Sebastian Tastani, hated and feared throughout the country, and Michael Yates, who fell to the Giovanni and his own foolishness. Nevertheless, we were able to totally control the city within two months time.  MB: And what happened to that significant power?  SP: Sebastian was killed by Zillah of Clan Gangrel, a Sabbat sympathizer, and two members of his own clan, and Michael was sold to the Giovanni by Hera El Vienda. If they had listened to me, they would still be alive, and Michael would still be Prince.  MB: What makes you so sure?  SP: (grinning evilly) I am still here am I not? The Collective made many enemies.  MB: Ok...if you could have anything, do anything, or be anything, what would it be?  SP: Hmm...I suppose if I could have anything it would be the resources necessary to contain any breaches of the Masquerade that occur in the city. If I could do anything, it would be to see the sun again. It has been so long.... And if I could be anything. I think I would make a fine Prince. Some day.  MB: Well, Jack Price look out (laughs)  SP: ...  MB: Er...well, do you have any hopes for new Progeny in the future?  SP: Of course, I always look for a way to increase my power, support, and influence over the world. I have two childer now, Martin Hartshorn who is performing very well and Calvin DeForrester who is being formally trained in London.  MB: Since we have already discussed your strengths, what , if any, are your weaknesses?  SP: No Comment.  MB: But surely...  SP: No Comment.  MB: Ok, Are you satisfied with the political structure of the city? Would you like to see anything change?  SP: I would like to see more power in the hands of Clan Ventrue of course, and in my hands in particular, but Jack is a capable leader, and the neonates seem to like him. And so I will support him. For now.  MB: Ok, Sir Peter, thanks for your time, and I have just one last question for you. What do you have planned for the Kindred of Saskatoon in the coming months?  SP: Well Mark, as you no doubt know, I am building a new wing for the hematology department of the University Hospital due to the unfortunate closure of the Red Cross, it will be the new Blood Repository for the Province, and next I will be forming a Rack. I will use the surplus blood from the Repository to fuel the tastes of the Kindred who are members of the new Rack.  MB: Members? Will there be a membership fee?  SP: Certainly Mark, after all the effort I am going through to remove the need to hunt on the streets, thus protecting Kindred from the Inquisition, still strong in this area, and reducing the strain on the populace, I will need some small recompense.  MB: Cool, well...thank you for your time, and I wish you all the best in your endeavors.  SP: Thank you.  MB: Well, I'll see you next issue with another fact-filled interview with one of the Kindred in the city. If you can think of any questions you really want answered just give me a shout and let me know. Ciao for now gang.

Noah thinks for a moment and says : "I haven't had any affairs. Have you, Johnny?"

"I haven't any idea what you mean", Doe stammers quickly.

"How about you, Mr. X?"

Mr. X, who has been distracted by the flashing lights behind the DJ booth shakes his head 'no' and takes a sip of his drink. As he was about to add something else, the door bursts open and in flies one of Mr. X's attendants followed by several darkly clad figures, all dripping wet from a sudden rainshower. Mr. X leans over his moaning helper and says : "Ghoul...stop the rain" (apologies to Creedence Clearwater Revival), pours his drink on the hapless creature, and in his best pseudo-cultured voice states : "Gargoyle...more beer". One of the new arrivals, a tall slender individual twirling a set of drumsticks and wearing a long duster style trenchcoat, strides over, kicks the poor ghoul out of his way, and in a low growl says : "Move it. This table is ours".

"Sure thing Assari, back from touring I see", quips Noah, grabbing his drink and helping Mr. X with his fallen ghoul. "Hope Vinnie B. is taking his Beast Control Pills...maybe he should pass them around the clan". With a smile, Johnathon nervously gathers his assorted papers. They all relocate to another table near the fire exit. After several moments of small talk and general inquiries about life (or was that unlife?), Mr. X queries the rest as to any Clan Pranks that are in the works, and if they're going as planned.

Mr. Doe states, smiling : "I have nothing as such planned, but I'm more than willing to lend any assistance...for a price, of course".

"The only thing I've got going is an old one," Noah mentions, "and that look on Vinnie B's face was priceless. I just wish I had a camera to capture it for posterity. Of course, my other 'gifts' may not have been received well. I wonder if they were all given out? I suspect Jack Price may have been a bit leery getting them to the proper primogen".

Mr. X looks questioningly at Noah and asks : "What were the gifts that were given, and to whom?"

Taking a moment to order a new round of drinks, Noah continues : "Well, I gave the Prince a tankard for his evening pick-me-up of vitae, Clan Toreador received a set of two wine glasses in the finest Malkavian crystal I could find. I figured that as the Seneschal was Toreador, he could share with the Primogen. Clan Tremere was given a game called "Pile-O-Bones", the Ventrue were given a million dollars...in play money...the Gangrel and Nosferatu were given a gag credit card type thingee, as well as a couple of other items to some others, but other than Vinnie, I haven't heard a peep from them".

Mr. X smiles and excuses himself, taking his attache with him. Shortly after his departure, the other clans and their members arrive and discuss the minor business of the night among the various members. Suddenly a person in a red flowing cassock appears and mingles unafraid. Nudging Noah, Johnathon asks "I thought he kicked that habit?"

"Guess not, but at least he can minister to our needs, if it doesn't break a Cardinal rule, that is", Noah replies.

From a large table occupied by Clan Toreador comes a shout. "Does anyone know where Lazarus is, and what's going on?"

"No," shouts Noah, "but you know he'll be fashionably late, as is his custom". Shortly thereafter, Lazarus, escorting Miss Nikki Valentine, arrives, and after a brief conversation with the Harpy, he motions for silence. The Disc Ghoul kills the music and passes the always stylishly dressed Acting Prince a microphone.

Lazarus clears his throat and speaks : "There are many rumours being spread by someone as to my being able to continue to lead this city in the absence of Jack Price. Well, I want to put those slanderous pack of lies to rest right now. If anyone thinks that they could do a better job, step right up here now and try it". There is no movement, and he continues : "I thought not. If that's the case, then everyone enjoy the evening, or what's left of it". There is a subdued murmer as everybody (no relation) debates this latest challenge. Mr. X returns from his sojourn and asks : "what did I miss, anything important?"

"Yeah, I heard someone mention that you were a transvestite daughter of Cacophony, but I pointed out that you're the wrong gender to be one", Noah informs him.

Looking around the room, one sees the Brujah reducing their table to toothpicks, the Gangrel mooning at the bay window, the Toreador competing to see their reflections in the mirrored disco balls, Clan Ventrue yelling 'buy or sell' at each other, the Tremere clustering around the television watching reruns of "Bewitched" and "Sabrina". The Nos...well...being Nos, are in the corner (I guess), and the Malkavians are having a grand time laughing at everyone else, wondering who is truly insane and who isn't. As the hour grows late (or early), the gathering slowly disperses, each heading out to feed or to his or her haven.

FINI

Maybe I don't remember. Maybe I'm watching the wrong movie.

The girl picks her way around the gravestones, through tall grass and weeds. The night is uncomfortably warm and sticky. The girl stops to untangle her long black skirt from a bramble, frowning at the rip that has been made in the lace. Her boots are getting wet from the damp grass. She doesn't realize she's been surrounded until it's too late. The book of bad pretentious poetry falls from her fingers as she is seized and dragged to the ground. She doesn't even have time to scream.

If no-one remembers something, did it still happen?

The girl in the cemetery looks up, petrified, as the alien spaceship hovering above her. A beam of achingly bright light suddenly lances out of the craft. Amid a blast of wind so strong that several headstones are toppled, the girl is sucked up into the flying saucer. She is injected with strange alien serums and given strange alien implants that will give her strange alien perceptions and the strange alien ability to cloud the minds of men. The aliens' sun is weaker than Earth's, though, so she must stay out of sunlight or the implants will dissolve. In addition, to keep the biochemical balance between her system and the aliens', she must only obtain nutrition in its most pure form, blood.

If these memories only exist because people agree on them, can we change them? If we all agree to?

The girl is crouched behind a gravestone, her hurried hiding place when her solitude had been interrupted. She watches, horrified yet fascinated, as the new arrivals perform their bloody rite in the light of their bonfire. The tall, strong looking man, conservatively dressed, displaying barely contained brutality. The woman, wild-eyed and laughing as she dares the flames to build the fire higher. The man in black, the leader, calmly watching the other two but letting his rising excitement show. The girl is drawn to them, drawn to the power and freedom they represent. The conversation she overhears, filled with references to horrible deeds and monstrous thoughts, only inflames her. Isn't this what she's been looking for all her young life? She steps forward, eagerly abandoning concealment. The three immediately see that she is really one of them, and bring her joyously into their circle.

Does it matter if people don't agree? Who wins? Does anyone win or does everyone get a consolation prize of memories of their very own? Maybe I'm the only one watching this.

The girl is crouched behind a gravestone, breathing quickly with excitement and anticipation. She has watched them come to the cemetery every night. She know what they are. She knows what they do. She wants to become one of them. She waits until the moment is right. One of them, the woman, is separated from the others, wandering off to look at the moon away from the fire. The girl leaps, overbearing the woman and pinning her to ground. The girl forces her wrist between the woman's teeth, up against the fangs, slitting her own wrist while tearing at the woman's neck with a razor blade clenched in her other hand. Afterwards, the others have to accept that she is now one of them.

I wonder what's been agreed on. I wonder how many times it's changed already. Is that what the voices are trying to say, when they tell me things no-one else can hear? Are they trying to show me that the only thing that matters is where you look from? There are some things I want to change.

The cemetery lies still in the moonlight. The gravestones display their silent testimony, as immobile as the figures perched on top of them. These figures are not angels. Not at all. They watch one grave in particular, an inside-out grave with the body on top. The body does not perceptibly move either, but occasionally a soft gurgle interrupts the tableau of tranquillity. It is the only sound. The first motion might have gone unnoticed, if the watchers had not been so vigilant. The ground underneath the body trembles slightly, as if disturbed from below.

I can't watch from outside any more.

The pain oh the pain starting in the back of my head but spreading white red orange fire through my body and lungs oh no my lungs trying to breathe trying cold fire feeling like i'm being crushed i am being crushed no i am panic panic fear and pain and pressure oldest fear drowning no in dirt feel it gritty between my lips no i'm not dead you can't do this no i'm not dead what have you done what's happening no can't stay like this no can't must get out must twist frantic no squirm some room oh god no not enough try harder try harder come on something gave no i swear i felt it try again no please god there oh something new something else inside me inside my throat pushing me pushing to get out seed of hunger inside my gut exploding like a firework craving surging over fear something snaps can't do anything can't satisfy it push now to get out climb up yes dig out not escaping from but clawing to yes there is something up there that will satisfy yes make it all better yes i can hear it feel it smell it taste it better and better now yes i'm moving up it's getting easier easier all the time yes i can hardly feel see taste the dirt now just raw need driving me so bad so hard yes i hardly notice when i am free and clawing out all i see is the shape lying in front of me yes the shape not moving but still alive oh yes i can hear it hear it now the sound of the pulse of the life of the blood over and over like an ocean i must dive into swallow take it into me that's what i want that's what i need don't even think about how to get it just do it do it do it the first drop the first sip the first drink fills my mouth the ecstasy flooding through me filling me full washing like cool hot warm fuzzy water soothing everything until the bucket is dry the plate is clean the tap is turned off and all that's left is me the real me lucky me alive for the first time ever but i regret, i wish, i wish...

Breath of Ache (part three)
Jillian Bell

"Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been;
I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell;
Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea-shell
Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between;
Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen
Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell
Is now a shaken shadow intolerable,
Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen.
Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart
One moment through thy soul the soft surprise
of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs, -
Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart
Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart
Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes."

-Dante Gabriel Rossetti, "A Superscription"
 
He crab-crawled backward into the hallway, staring and gasping and stuttering, and stopped only when he hit the opposite wall with a soft thud.

The third woman, now fully within his range of vision, wrinkled her nose. "He didn't die in here, did he?"

"This is where his body was found", whispered the older woman as her clipboard clattered to the floor.

"Isn't that a pity?" He twisted around, but could see no one else in the hall. He did hear the slightest breath of laughter, though, right next to his ear. The entire left side of his face went numb. "And you missed the white light, too. What a shame". He began to shake; he clutched his elbows and drew his knees up into his chest. "I have a fun game we could play, Paul. It's called Oblivion".

The first thing he'd done was tear up the deep purple shag carpet that grew along the halls and bedroom. Hardwood floors were refinished, baseboards were replaced and repainted, and doors were rehinged and rehung. The entrance to his apartment was private, the owners of the building having commissioned the servants' staircase be extended from a corner of the kitchen to an inconspicuous side door. Although it was lit poorly, he had completely redone his entry and main hall, including painstakingly painting the stairway to give it the appearance of ancient mahogany. He had several old pieces of furniture that had been gifts from his family as they moved from their homes into condominiums, including a roll-top desk, a chestnut hall tree, and an ebony night stand with clawed feet that his grandfather made for his grandmother when his father was born. It lived beside his bed.

Bit by bit he ripped down the molding from the walls and door frames and replace it with authentic hand-carved moldings rescued from the houses of the rich and hopeful for whom he was little more than a moderately paid slave. Over the past few years, he had managed to change his slightly run-down apartment into a respectable and warm domicile. Paul spent most of his time in his bedroom, which also doubled as his study. He had built shelves for his drawing supplies, nestled just above his drafting table, and long into the night, he could be found there, hunched over his work, scribbling and erasing lines, arcs, and legend across draft after draft of oversized blueprints.

This was the only place he truly felt safe, free of the wandering stares and judgements of the mass public. He felt the disinterest of the rest of society all too acutely. He did not enjoy his work; he suffered for it. Paul's vision and the product he was expected to create did not often coincide. In his 'study', he could create the domus of a King, sculpt a cathedral, or build a cottage out from the side of a hill. Here he was not criticized, the lines not judged, his integrity left intact. When he was home, he was here in his bedroom-cum-study, hunched over the drafting table. He worked practically all of the time, until he met Rachel.

He found her unadorned, pretentious and drinking flavoured coffee at a local café. She was reading something by Sartre, but he suspected that was just for show. She was the typical student-type, dressed in neutral shades that flowed around her. "What are you drinking?" he'd asked. She raised her eyebrows at him over her book and pointedly lit a cigarette, exhaling deeply in his direction. He couldn't remember what he'd said to get her to talk to him. She became his salvation, his sanctuary against the floods of people who could share neither his vision nor his passion. He told her that he hated most people and what they believed in. He told her everything and let himself bleed into her in the half-light of evening as they lay together naked on his bed.

She always had some kind of inexplicable faith or hope in something she could never prove, and when he'd talk of how horrible people were or how monstrous society had become, she would listen silently until he was done, and then she would disagree for hours at a time. She talked of good deeds and how charity and love must mean something in a world of beings who were basically the same.

"How can you say that?" he'd asked her, "How can you say that we're the same? Most of the people out there don't think. They don't question. They don't care. I'm not like that...you're not like that."

She sighed and her eyes began to water. "You'll never understand, because you haven't any hope".

"How can I have hope when all I see is misery?"

"Do you really believe that?"

"Of course." He leaned back against the wall and stared at her. "The reason why we're so miserable is because we all want to be different. No two people are the same, because everything they experience is the result, ultimately, of subjectivity. What good is hope in a world where no one can ever see eye-to-eye? What good is hope when there's nothing we can hope for that is common among us?"

He saw a tear slip down her cheek, and she made no attempt to brush it away. Her answer was soft, barely audible. "We all die, Paul. In death, we are all equal; we are all the same".

He never understood how equality in death was something to hope for, but it was a concept important to Rachel, so he tried to appreciate it. What it boiled down to was that they had vastly different views of life and what was important in it, which eventually drove them apart.

He thought of that conversation now, curled into a foetal ball in the hall of what was once his haven. He felt only coldness. He wondered when he would wake. He tried thinking of how long he'd been asleep.

"In death, we are all equal" hissed the hated voice beside him, laughing. "Do you want to see? How much do you cherish vision?"

Paul shuddered and wished he could feel something other than cold. "I cherish nothing".

Laughing harder, his formless companion encouraged him : "Wonderful! Less work for me. Just hold on to feeling nothing, Paul, and we're well on our way." He felt the icy touch of hands on his face, holding either side of his head. He closed his eyes and whimpered softly. He wondered where Rachel was. "Long gone. She only did you because you were the thing to do. You know she lived from moment to moment, and you were nothing more than a burp on her romantic time line. She's gone on to bigger and better men." He felt suddenly quite small; he felt he was falling, tumbling down through memory and into himself.

The walls of his home were gone, in fact, his entire home was nowhere to be seen. He saw shapeless grey vapors forming eddies and pools all around him. They had no form, no substance, only shades of grey. He reached out with his right hand into the murk, and colourless shadows wound around and through each other, not displaced by his movement, but adjusting for it. He heard muted percussive sounds, as if through fathoms of ocean brine. A grey and emaciated hand appeared through the swirling clouds around him. He felt it clench his wrist and start to pull.

He pulled back. Feeling opposition, the hand released its grip on him and disappeared once again into flowing shapeless shades of grey. Though still muted, the percussive noises he'd heard before seemed louder, and he thought he could make out voices somewhere in the gloom around him. For the first time since he remembered waking up in the desolate ghost of his apartment, he was terribly afraid.

The sound of thick fabric being torn compelled him to spin, searching behind him for the source of the noise. As he twisted, weightless, the mists spiraled and flowed. Nothing resisted his movement, and he kept spinning, tumbling out of control but contained inside the bowels of cloudy shadows. He tried to right himself, but hadn't any clue which way was down. Trying to remember basic physics, he attempted to counter his own inertia.

Paul had no concept of time, nor of its passing. He felt he'd been spinning for hours, possibly days. The movement of miasmas confused him; he might still be tumbling, but he might have eventually come to rest. Again he heard the ripping fabric sound, but it was much louder now, painful to hear. He thought he called out, but he couldn't be sure. The tearing noise grew louder still - it was deafening. Pressing his hands to his ears and clamping his eyes closed, he felt tears wet his face. He knew his voice was lost in the roar, but he screamed anyway, giving form to his fear. Then, abruptly, his voice was the only sound there was.

He felt dry, caked soil under his knees.

A whisper of wind caught his hair, blowing grains of dirt in his face.

He heard voices, people murmuring together.

The scent of dust and dry, stale air tickled his throat.

"It's over", he gasped, collapsing on the cracked ground. Clawing the earth around him, he moaned and sobbed, letting teardrops stain his cheeks.

Someone wrenched his arms and clamped cold metal bracelets around his wrists. He was hauled to his feet by the manacles as he opened his eyes. As far as he could see was blighted land, choked of all moisture and scarred with cracked soil. Around his feet, bits of the grey gas he'd been suspended in drained into crevices in the earth, and underneath was a woven leathery material. It withered and blew away as the mist trickled into the ground. The figure in front of him clamped large chains to his manacles.

Paul stammered and stared dumbly at his chains and at his captor.

"You've been harvested. Fall in." The top-heavy man in an ancient tattered suit jerked at Paul's chains and began trudging across the parched landscape. His face still wet with tears, Paul followed obediently, relieved that at last there was something tangible before him.