Clawing your way to the top
It was worrying. The Ordo Dracul faced threats and there was only one Sworn of the Axe to counter these threats, to protect the Order and safeguard it’s secrets. And that Axe-Sworn was Headstrong. But lately, what had she accomplished? She’d been defeated by Konstantin, her Priscus, with little effort. She’d witnessed the destructive force of a Kindred that could fold metal with his hands as easily as though it was wet paper. She’d been nearly dispatched by a shapechanger, the werewolf Mateo, in nearly one blow. She was… weak, insufficient.
But, as every Dragon knew, weakness and any limitation at that was a choice. This meant Headstrong had chosen to be weak and insufficient. And that was true. Too long had she been confident in her abilities, settling for merely maintaining her capabilities instead of growing and enhancing herself further. A true Dragon honed herself continuously and she was failing.
I remember my Sire and I’m just like him. Nothing but violence and animal fury within. I remember my mortal ways, so lonely and sad. By now I realize, I have to be relentless to survive. Repress my memories, bury all emotion and thrive.
Even when I first decided to focus on the physical, to protect other Dragons until such a time that they might illuminate the labyrinthine ways of the Great Work for me, I had also decided to do so with dedication. It was time to outgrow my petty desires. Sissyfighting opponents didn’t help the Order, I need to get serious. And that was why I asked Konstantin to tutor me in the ironically protean ways of my unchanging body. There was much to learn but luckily these lessons come quite easily, though hardly naturally, as long as I put my mind, will and vitae towards learning the lesson.
I raise my hand and look at it, slowly turning it.
At first Konstantin had discussed the process it required. Vitae and Beast were to commingle and be forced into the hands, then the fingers and ultimately the nails. I had to envision the desired end result, to predict this limited physical manifestation of the Beast. How would my Beast express itself, given the chance? More prone to denying the Beast than empowering it I started by compelling obedience from just my vitae, something I was very much familiar with.
The first week didn’t result in anything more than, at first, blood seeping from my fingertips and later ruddy and finally crimson nails as I forced the vitae specifically into that portion of my body.
In the second week we sparred, unarmed, and I allowed myself to be surprised by Konstantin who suddenly demonstrated the difference in effectiveness between fists and claws. The feel of claws shredding skin felt different when they had pushed my body beyond the point of relatively harmless damage. This sensation wasn’t unknown to me but being subjected to it again helped shape my understanding of what I was trying to accomplish myself. I watched as the deep cuts and long furrows forced upon my body inevitably spawned the tell-tale black tendrils snaking outward from the injuries. Forcing blood to the wounds I encountered the expected resistance. The sign that these wounds were beyond anything a vampire could safely endure.
But it wasn’t until the third week, however, that I finally came close enough to my Beast to glean it’s essence to the extent required for this metamorphosis. My study saw a sudden and rather dramatic improvement.
My hand, slowly turning back into its starting position, suddenly goes a shade paler as the Vitae already stored there is consumed. Nails sprout into long claws like rotten plants reaching for a dark sun. I look at them again. The claws are reminiscent of aged, bleached bone spines. Tiny fissures run along their cracked, even chipped, length and give them the impression of fragility but I had tested them and found it took a hammer blow backed with supernatural force to break them. A painful but necessary test that reinforced my view of my Beast. Ancient and weathered yet strong and resilient, outdated yet useful. Like the claws themselves the Beast sets me apart from the mortals which I hunt and the mortal I once was.
These claws, like the Beast, mark me as a killer, one step above the fighter I once was. And while I look at these terrible weapons I realize that one step above mortal wasn’t enough, that this was indeed just one step on the path I would go down. I would draw more heavily on the Curse, and keep climbing –or descending– to reach my goal. Weakness was the worst choice.
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