And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over
Seafever - John Masefield


Daedalus sat, his back against the wall as he squinted at the latest part of his composition. He had chewed over this for some time, it was the final act of the novel, introducing a new character perspective to finish upon. It had seemed so simple, back when he had first considered the idea. The hard part, he had said, was done. He knew how the story would end, all he had to do was tell it from an outside perspective. The external observation of the conclusion of his tale.

So why was it so damn hard to get it right?

"Hmrghp" grunted the Nosferatu to himself. Only in writing did he feel free, able to express himself completely. He savored it, deep down. It was the last fraction of Man still left in an otherwise empty shell. With a sigh, the Morlock went over the piece once more
*****

Turn 11 - A Shallow Grave

No one would have doubted his ability to reign had he never been emperor.
The Annals - Tacitus

My blade deftly sheared the ribcage of my would-be murderer, who henceforth ceased his presence among the living to join his two fallen compatriots. Their lifeblood trickled between the cracks in the cobblestone before pooling with that of my charge. The rain swept the crimson mass into the gutter. Death was known as the great equalizer for a reason. My failure to guard this cretin was of little importance to me. The man, said to be the richest in Rome, had breathed his last surrounded by those he had oppressed in life, and now his corpse lay without favour or fury among them, a macabre monument to the depreciating value of humanity.

Cornelius Aurous had climbed the political ladder at an impressive speed, though his demise was even faster. His ousting was merely the most recent of a series of political purges. His guile had earned him many enemies, not least the three who lay cold and unmoving at my feet.

The rain grew heavy on my coat, so I left the scene as it lay. The Night-Watch would stumble upon it soon enough and I had no desire to be dragged before a court. I walked swiftly through the dark back-alleys of outer Rome, the sudden downpour having extinguished the torches which lined the streets. It would be best not to linger here.

My lodgings were modest, and with the pay I had received from Aurous I could have afforded much better. Yet there was something I liked about The Slaughtered Lamb. Perhaps it was the honesty inherent in such a place. No need to scan the shadowy corners of the inn for pickpockets, cutthroats or other unsavoury sorts. The cutthroat sat next to you, downing his ale with gay abandon. The pick-pocket spent the day’s earnings with one of the harlots in the backroom. Nobody bothered to hide behind gilded vizards.

Stout, the innkeeper, was more a brother to me than a merchant. He was a good listener, and I told him of my most recent job and its speedy demise. He nodded glumly; his guttural voice reflecting my own thoughts.
“A shame you only received a fourth of your payment upfront, you could have lived like a king with that sum.”

“That’s certainly true, though I cannot help but feel like a Praetorian with the way it turned out. Perhaps they are looking for new recruits?”

His laugh was hollow and wet, but something in it touched me, and I smiled in return. I mentioned my plans to leave the city and travel for a bit, to get back in touch with my roots so to speak. Once again he nodded, and a sage expression crossed his face. He directed me to a patron who sat next to the third window from the door. I thanked him, both for the lodgings and the information, paid my tab, and proceeded to the stranger’s table.

He introduced himself as Derenthar, of the Tiarnash tribe. He was a Fur Trader from Gaul, in Rome to sell the excess furs from his tribe, and to acquire much needed supplies, such as ironwork and medicinal herbs which could not be acquired in surrounding regions. He would be making a return trip in a day or so, and suggested that I join up as a caravan guard. Once again Stout had proven that he knew me far better than I knew myself. Even if I had had a destination in mind it would have cost me a large portion of my wealth to transit by coach or caravan. Why pay to arrive at a destination, when someone is prepared to pay you to do just that? I agreed to Derenthar’s proposition, and informed him of my lodgings. The sooner we left the better.



I awoke early, and was glad that I was not greeted with the head-pain that normally followed a night of inebriation. I dressed, pulling on my weathered leather tunic. I noticed an unfamiliar cut on the left shoulder; the leather had managed to deflect a glancing blow, likely saving me from weeks of agony as the wound slowly healed. Reflecting on the battle, I realised I had not bothered to clean the blood off my blade. Cursing my own stupidity, I drew and inspected the sword.

My father claimed that the blade was a family heirloom, having been wielded long before we became one of the ’domesticated tribes’. I doubted the validity of the claim; few swords can survive a year of wear and tear, let alone decades. Even if it were ancient, parts would have had to have been replaced often enough that little, if any, of the original blade would have survived at all. Regardless, it was more than suitable for my purpose. It would take a month of polishing to restore that which a few hours of negligence had caused.

I packed what little I had into a brown sack, said my goodbyes to Stout and the few patrons I had befriended, and left The Slaughtered Lamb for the last time

*****

It worked, sure enough, but something felt...off. It was a feeling he hoped would leave him. He had to get this book finished, before the world of colors faded entirely. There was no time left to ponder synonyms, no time to re-write or condense. His fellow Kindred may have all of eternity, but for him the apocalypse was nigh.