• Corner o’ Stories

Posted: **Sat Feb 13, 2010 8:56 am**

Please start up a thread showing evidence of all of this happening on such a regular basis that it can be said to be common Society behaviour.

Posted: **Sat Feb 13, 2010 7:25 pm**

Ben! Behave or I'll get Kelly to burn your dinner.

Kolya, you too or I'll . . .well Natasha can think of something.

Wie, I know you're busy with Nemesis right now, please let us know what's happened when you can.

Posted: **Tue Feb 16, 2010 2:38 pm**

Ben . . . really. Breaking in? beyond the fact that I don’t do that anymore, here are several reasons why I didn’t: 1) Quentin wanted me to “break in” too; in fact, he said he’d leave the door open. Girls sneak into the fraternity house all the time. 2) Please read number one; need I say more? I had repeatedly told him, and others that saw me with him, that I wasn’t that kind of girl, nor was I available for parties. 3) I didn’t want Quentin to think I was making an exception for him.

Anyway.

And thanks, Kelly. Though I’m not quite alone. Not yet, anyway.

I was in Corner o’ Stories once more, at ‘my’ table and just finishing a new sculpture, another wooden bust being formed under the careful ministrations of my carving knife, another face from my dreams. I had just finished my night of singing a few minutes before and now the T.V. was turned on, the football game being interrupted by a news broadcast—it was the eighth day and still the firefighters were battling with the brush.

I was expecting an arrival this time.

“You sang really nice tonight, Eil.”

“Thanks, Quentin,” I smiled, putting my knife away and brushing the shavings away.

However, his praising manner had come to an abrupt halt. “What are those?”

“Faces I’ve been recently dreaming about,” I explained. “I’ve been carving them in my spare time. It helps me think.”

“Uh-huh,” he replied delicately, attempting a diplomatic tone for some reason. “And in your dreams, are they always screaming?”

“Umm . . .” I passed my hand over the face I had been carving absently, and was surprised to find that it indeed, was caught in the action of screaming. It was rather . . . disturbing. The others I had carved were likewise fashioned in a similar matter. And they were very familiar. “No, it’s news to me,” I said awkwardly, and quickly wrapped them in cloth and stuffed them in my bag.

What was I carving? My work was often busts of customers and friends, smiling and posing. But these recent ones were more like decapitated heads screaming in agony and fear, than wooden busts. Perhaps I was working too hard . . .

“Um, well, I got permission from the super for you to see my room,” he coughed, sounding a little remorseful that he had. “Wanna go see my room, still, or do wanna do something else . . .?”

The second half of his question was spoken so quickly I almost missed it.

“I want to help Chaney,” I replied. “Let’s go.”

It had been pretty simple to get into the room Quentin and Chaney had shared, though it had taken time: women weren’t allowed into dorm rooms after hours without the superintendent’s permission. And with Quentin’s full-time classes and job, after hours was the only time he was available to show me around. The visit wouldn’t have taken more than just a few minutes, but I wanted to do this right. That, and not be mistaken for something I’m not.

Quentin told me Chaney had moved all the books of lore—I have yet to know whether they’re “true” books of lore or not—shortly after he had started becoming more difficult to handle.

I verified his words by taking a reading of the room. Chaney’s still a blur, and it felt like I was watching the scene underwater: nearly everything was blurred, and the voices I heard were indecipherable. The action relevant to the situation seemed to revolve mostly around an immense, battered hope chest of sorts at the foot of a perpetually unmade bed. The rough chest was empty now but filled with paraphernalia when Chaney had lived with his roommate. In my Vision, I had seen the blurred figure I presumed was him going back and forth between the chest and a desk occupying the far wall. I managed to See some books in the open chest—old fashioned and without titles, worn, water-stained, and old. They each had an interesting stamp embossed in the middle of their spines, a modified fleur-de-lys of sorts.

At the desk, the blur never quite met up with the litter of papers cluttering the top, drenched with written ink I couldn’t read, composed by a quill pen that seemed to move on its own accord.

Quentin nearly fled my presence when I told him of the books in the chest, the desk, and the writing utensils. You see, the desk was no longer in the room, and the writing implements—the papers, the quill pen, and the big block of wood set at the corner like a paperweight, had all vanished with Chaney . It was understandable though a little sad and frustrating when he didn’t want to hear anything else about what I’d Seen. He suggested that he simply take me out to dinner and then home.

Considering how much the poor guy was going through, I thought it was only fair. Considering I was trying to keep this relationship entirely professional, I chose a restaurant that implied nothing more than a simple eating out with friends. He was very quiet during the meal and would listen to nothing about the case, even had I been inclined to speak of it afterwards. Considering the surrounding area of where I lived, I convinced him to take me only within a couple of blocks away from the churchyard. Even with such a distance between him and the danger, Quentin veered off like he was on a racetrack. I sighed and made my way home. This was last Saturday.

All this happened on Friday. The rest of my weekend was spent with Kolya, trying to identify the fleur-de-lys. It took several days, and I owe him a three-time pass to any restaurant of his choice (he tried some of my cooking, but I think he was being kind when he said he enjoyed my apple turnover).

This Friday I’m going to go to the library where the books came from.

And thanks to you too, Hannah.

Posted: **Tue Feb 16, 2010 5:13 pm**

Eilonwy Solstice wrote:

“Faces I’ve been recently dreaming about,” I explained. “I’ve been carving them in my spare time. It helps me think.”

“Uh-huh,” he replied delicately, attempting a diplomatic tone for some reason. “And in your dreams, are they always screaming?”

“Umm . . .” I passed my hand over the face I had been carving absently, and was surprised to find that it indeed, was caught in the action of screaming. It was rather . . . disturbing. The others I had carved were likewise fashioned in a similar matter. And they were very familiar. “No, it’s news to me,” I said awkwardly, and quickly wrapped them in cloth and stuffed them in my bag.

What was I carving? My work was often busts of customers and friends, smiling and posing. But these recent ones were more like decapitated heads screaming in agony and fear, than wooden busts. Perhaps I was working too hard . . .

Hmmm. So I guess the question remains who has affected your life as much as family and friends and yet in your mind you see them screaming.

Tell me Wie, have you ever had clairvoyant flashes or prophetic dreams?

Posted: **Tue Feb 16, 2010 5:34 pm**

Yes, on occasion.

Posted: **Tue Feb 16, 2010 5:37 pm**

I see.

Interesting.

Posted: **Tue Feb 16, 2010 9:20 pm**

Wie,

If one of those screaming heads was Dad or me, you'd let me know, right?

Posted: **Mon Mar 01, 2010 4:04 pm**

Even though I’ve already talked to her about it and assured her the screaming heads weren’t Ron or Hannah, let me reiterate it for the others: of course I would tell you guys if I was dreaming with enough force to start carving heads out of wood that were screaming.

And . . . well, since this thread was the reason for my silence for some days, I ought to relate what happened at the meeting. It was . . . odd, to say the least. Kolya had been a tremendous help in trying to find out about the books. He had helped me track down the library the books had originated from, gotten me various employee backgrounds, and other such useful details. The cult had borrowed the books from the Grandwalk Library on a number of occasions. A bit of deeper checking on Kolya’s part revealed the eleven previous people which the books had been loaned to: The Clan of Darklight and Rebirth, The Clan of Darklight and Rebirth, The Clan of Darklight and Rebirth, The Clan of Darklight and Rebirth, The Clan of Darklight and Rebirth, and The Clan of Darklight and Rebirth for the first seven; eighthly and beyond, Chaney Vargas, Chaney Vargas, Chaney Vargas, and Chaney Vargas.

The last two times, Chaney Vargas had kept the books too long, but the late fees of the overdue volumes had been paid by The Clan of Darklight and Rebirth. Kolya had managed to buy me a Grandwalk libarary card online and had even reserved for me, once the due date was past, all the books ‘The Clan’ had checked nearly half a year ago. We couldn’t actually verify proof-wise that the Clan—known by a few circles as a humanitarian “yacht club”—was merely a front for “the vampire cult” Quentin had warned me about, but the concept that it was merely a coincidence was laughable. The library manager, Camson Ondirtacher, had been a professional safari hunter and shark diver before breaking both legs in an accident in the jungle, whereupon he had retired to become an archeologist, scholar, and finally, librarian.

He called me the day they were available, and we made arrangements for me to come and visit.

I climbed the staircase to the library with mixed feelings, my senses strung for an ambush or any other type of aggression; I had, after all, sundered the string of nigh unbroken book checkouts. I wore the Braille amulet that also served as a holy symbol for some reason, kindly given to me by Ben, and now openly displayed at my breast; my left hand rested along the railing while my right hand was behind my back, strangling the silver dagger’s hilt. The figure I sensed behind the doors had a rather impressive will . . . I’d have to actively enter his mind should I wish to read his intentions. However, it didn’t feel right to pry; besides, my ability to sense danger was well-honed. I chose to meet him at two o’clock in the afternoon, the sun shining. Quentin was waiting outside, with instructions to text me every couple of minutes and to call the police if I didn’t respond to one. I half expected to be kidnapped by cultists at any second.

He thought I was crazy.

However, I was not ready for what Mr. Ondirtacher had planned: a warm welcome.

“Welcome, welcome,” the man flung open the doors and took my hand, wringing it in both of his. “You must be Eilonwy Solstice. I’m Camson Ondirtacher, I spoke to you on the phone. How may I be of service to you, young lady?”

A kind, grandfatherly type once highly athletic seeding in his growing age, not at all how I had imagined him. It took me quite by surprise. Nevertheless, I sensed no danger. Yet. I told him haltingly about the books I was interested in, omitting the part about Chaney Vargas and why I was interested in the books. There was no sense in putting him in danger as well. Mr. Ondirtacher eagerly showed me the location of the books. I was rather nervous when they were in a backroom he kept locked, but his friendly manner, willingness to bring them out into an open table where I presumed I could be seen through the large glass windows I had been told about, and his obsequious manner kept my suspicions close, but in check.

Perhaps the cult had some sort of hold over him.

“I’m sorry, one of the books is missing,” he apologized. “The . . . previous borrower never returned it.”

“That’s okay.”

I would make do with these. A simple pass of my fingers convinced me these books were the ones Chaney had indeed borrowed. My psychic skills were honed enough to lead me through to the one he had gone through the second most . . . an immense tome that was, essentially, everything anyone could ever want to know about vampires . . . how they were created; how they could be quelled; strengths; weaknesses; vulnerabilities; immunities; powers; and more; it even had an appendix of known vampires and suspected vampires, and possible sites that might be their lairs. The tome had been written decades before, was self-published by a man that no longer lived, and had been out of print for the better part of two decades. In short, it was something of a collector’s item.

And though it had truth liberally sprinkled throughout, there were also layers of misinformation.

However, I became extremely interested in it for two reasons.

“Miss Solstice, may I ask you some . . . personal questions?” Mr. Ondirtacher asked timidly, interrupting my fingers resting on one page in particular. My psychic reading of the book hadn’t given me everything, but what it had gleaned was vastly important. He had sat across from me the entire time in case I, as a blind woman trying to ‘read’ regular books, needed help.

“That . . . depends,” I answered honestly, guarded. “You can ask me what you will and I promise not to get offended, but I won’t promise to answer them.”

“Of course,” he agreed, and then proceeded to ask his first question. “How many times have you been a vampire?”

Posted: **Mon Mar 01, 2010 4:19 pm**

Well now there's a conversation starter and a half, bit awkward though.

Posted: **Wed Mar 03, 2010 12:04 pm**

Doctor Boggs wrote:Well now there's a conversation starter and a half, bit awkward though.

To say the least, Dr. Boggs. Very awkward. I hope my response dissuaded him from the previous direction of his . . . “attitude.”

“How many times have I been a vampire?” I repeated in shock, almost too appalled to reply to another of Quentin’s texts behind my back. Though not quite; I assured him I was okay.

“Yes,” Mr. Ondirtacher eagerly affirmed. “We’ve read all about your exploits as Celeste Darken. We were wondering if you would agree to share with us just how you were cured of your vampirism?”

“You’re . . . a member of The Clan of Darklight and Rebirth,” I stated, the emotion draining out of my voice. I stood and slowly backed away, unlocking the silver dagger at my back.

“Actually, I’m the head of the CDR,” he corrected without rancor, keeping pace with my cautious retreat. “And we would be very interested in discussing you’re cure, if you’re willing . . .”

“I’m not,” I snapped. “Vampirism isn’t something that you just shrug in and out of like a coat. It’s a curse. And once you become one . . .” I stopped, struggling for words, struggling for breath, struggling to find an emotion that wasn’t related to disgust and nausea for what he was asking about . . . what his underlying motives must be. Replying to Quentin once more was monstrously annoying. Replying to Quentin once more was refreshingly soothing.

“I’m sorry, I’ve offended you,” Mr. Ondirtacher apologized once more, clearly sincere. “I knew what I was asking for was personal, but . . .”

“It is deeply personal,” I clarified vehemently. “What Celeste did as a vampire . . . what I did . . . the crimes . . . the penance involved . . . you have no idea what stakes are involved, do you?”

“Actually, I think I do,” he replied briskly, his turn to sound affronted. “I’ve read all those books you’ve checked out. Many more. Dracula. Dante’s Inferno.” He listed other books, most of them a little more ‘scholarly.’ “We’re trying to look at it from every light possible. Not only in an academic light, but as an extremist sport light as well . . .”

“There is no light as a vampire,” I censured acerbically, ripping off my glasses and tossing them so hard against the carpeted floor I heard something crack. “This was my price paid to regain my humanity,” I stared blindly in his direction. “This was the least of that price. This is the result of returning back to the Light.”

“But the benefits,” he tried. “The super strength, the agility. Power to control . . .”

“Means nothing to the damned,” I interjected with Everest iciness. “Addicted to blood; loss of agency; always in pain: burning, freezing, writhing, gnashing . . . and that’s just the physical hell gone through. When my Will returned, there was the biting sting of conscience, the constant, allergic bee stings under my skin when I realized what I’d done to others, that in order to ‘live,’ was always at the expense of others.

“And the price to regain my humanity?” I had forgotten my fear and disgust, strode forward and was stabbing him with each word, pounding my finger into his chest in an effort to dissuade his interest. “Buying my sins back in kind and disproportionate to the crime. Paying for each sin individually. With my own blood; my own sweat; my own agony. Shared by none. Felt by me. Each and every wrong I had committed, I repaid to those wronged until they were satisfied. Purgatory like you’ve never dreamed of. And—I—was—lucky. You think, just because you’ve read Dante’s Inferno, you know what hell is? You know nothing of hell; not this kind.”

For five minutes, there was complete silence, broken only by his gourd-tattered breathing.

“Okay,” he asserted almost timidly. “C-could you . . . help us . . . with something else, then?”

I didn’t reply, my mouth set like a petrified tree limb. Quentin texted me, and I replied.

“You s-see . . . Chaney . . .well, he went looking after one of the sites mentioned in the book . . .”

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Ondirtacher gave me my first reason then; that proposed site was the grave of what ancient locals had called a ‘necromancer.’ The cult had sent Chaney there in an effort to learn more about vampires, as a sort of ‘initiation rite’ to become a member of the Clan of Darklight and Rebirth. The ‘rite’ was only supposed to have lasted three days. Chaney had gone missing now for eight. They would have gone to the gravesite themselves, but it was considered a ‘holy’ place to them, to be entered by prospective initiates and the Grand Master. Which couldn’t be bothered by something so trivial as a missing initiate.

I was interested firstly because there was still a chance to help him. I had tried another Clairvoyant reading, and while the images were jumbled and confusing, I saw him in the sunlight. The CDR thought he may be a vampire now, but I didn’t; I was interested because now there were two people asking for my help; because I was relatively close to the site he had disappeared to; and because, what kind of a girl would I be if I turned my back on him now?

While I don’t think it appropriate to think of Victor Lazlo as a saint, I do wonder what he would do. And for some reason, I don’t think he would turn his back on someone who needs our aid simply because they were annoying or provoked us.

And the second reason I was interested? One of the proposed vampires, and a potential site for his lair. His entry in the book was bold and large in my mind’s eyes, though unfinished; his background written in thick, flowing script that warned readers of his bloodlust and cunning; the author made out this vampire’s exploits to be almost legendary in their unique applications of evil.

Khavik.

Posted: **Wed Mar 03, 2010 12:11 pm**

Eilonwy Solstice wrote:“There is no light as a vampire,” I censured acerbically, ripping off my glasses and tossing them so hard against the carpeted floor I heard something crack. “This was my price paid to regain my humanity,” I stared blindly in his direction. “This was the least of that price. This is the result of returning back to the Light.”
[/color]

Sounds like it wasn't the only price, either. Physical or otherwise.

You okay, Miss Solstice? Do you need a hand?

Posted: **Fri Mar 05, 2010 6:22 pm**

Wie, as soon as I can make sure Hannah is safe I'm coming over there. We'll use whatever is left when we're through to find Khavik.

Posted: **Mon Mar 15, 2010 3:14 pm**

Wie, first of all, if you need assistance, please just let me know. I'm still helping out with Hannah and Mr. Caliburn at the moment but I owe you, big time.

I also had a question. Have your dreams or nightmares about those men stopped?

Posted: **Wed Mar 24, 2010 4:29 pm**

Nemesis wrote:Wie, first of all, if you need assistance, please just let me know. I'm still helping out with Hannah and Mr. Caliburn at the moment but I owe you, big time.

I also had a question. Have your dreams or nightmares about those men stopped?

Well . . . yes . . . and no. Sorry, I’ll try to clarify: the dreams where the heads are screaming have “stopped,” but only because they’ve also changed. Beforehand, I would see them, attached to their bodies as anyone else would be, sitting at various places. Eventually, my dream would get a “close up,” you could say. Initially, I would see their backs. Then, they would grow larger in my dream, and as they would rotate toward my mind’s eyes, the background, already blurry, would fade out to black. By the time their face would be toward me, they would abruptly begin screaming as if in agony, and the background around them would suddenly flare up with jagged streaks of vermilion and heliotrope, bleeding up and down like rain against windows. I would sense a vaguely familiar presence, as if they were watching with me, or right behind me. Before my mind’s eyes could focus anywhere else, I would wake up.

Then, the week of the eighth starting Monday, and following through a string on Tuesday, Wednesday, and finally Thursday, all the dreams changed.

This time, I distinctly dreamed they were in bars, taverns. Surrounded by other people, some animated, others clearly drunk. The focus shifted, and all the people dissipated, colors running into each other until they coalesced into nothingness. Soon, only one of the figures remained, one of the heads I’d been dreaming about and carving. Behind him, the door remained and opened. A tall woman entered, beautiful and terrible all at once. Her features shifted endlessly, and though she seemed excessively familiar to me, the familiarity theme had played itself out constantly in these dreams so I simply took it for what it was and filed it away for later. A sense of déjà vu, perhaps, maybe something from my . . . past lives . . . trying to tell me something?

She walked inside and probably got a few heads turning with the . . . outfit . . . she wore. Not that she paid them any heed, and not that anything of the sort was revealed to me. She had her eyes on one man alone . . . the man that had been screaming in my dreams for many nights. I heard nothing, but her body language was coy . . . seductive. Soon, the dream resumed its “regular” course: the background, including the familiar woman, faded away; though this fade out was different, more subtle. The background that arose from the blackness was filled with groggy colors, swirling like the porous clouds found in lava lamps. Instead of screaming, the face would grow slack, drowsy, and slurred. A feeling of overwhelming, chained shackles drew over the entire feeling, and it was with great effort that I remained . . . awake. I know how bizarre that sounds, especially in a “dream,” but that was the impression. The face would slur indecipherable words, drool, mumble, and moan. Then a slight pressure against my forehead, and all would go black as abruptly as a page torn, followed by a pine of thunder and an engulfing impression of satisfaction, hatred, anger, guilt, and remorse.

And then I’d awake. One by one, I’ve had these dreams, and then they’ve ended. First, they came and came like reruns. But once these different ones have shown themselves to me, they’ve ended, and I haven’t dreamed of the faces since. One by one, the faces have ended. I haven’t dreamed of them since . . . I haven’t dreamed of anything since.

Guys, I’ve had dreams, and I’ve had clairvoyant insights.

These were clairvoyant insights. One way I know the difference between clairvoyant insights and actual dreams is my inability to “do” anything during a clairvoyant insight, another is that I’m never “there” inside them; just listening as one would listen on the radio, or in sighted people’s cases, watching on the television screen. Unfortunately, I don’t know whether these insights were past, present, or future.

Posted: **Wed Mar 24, 2010 4:55 pm**

I must say, there is some truly fascinating imagery in your description, Ms. Solstice.

Are all your dreams so colorful and vivid?

Your mention of past lives in connection to this strange woman who is familiar makes me wonder, is there a possible connection to the individual who has hijacked the old Celeste account? I only make the suggestion as it is a person who is both strange and familiar to you, yes? She is apparently unknown to you yet knew enough of you to hijack the old account. The connection seems logical from an outside perspective.

I am no expert on clairvoyant visions although Cybermancer has a theory that he has worked on with both his God-father and older sister. Basically the theory suggests that neither time nor space exist between dreams. And that dreams can touch each other without boundries that would normally hamper us. Even those dreams from our own future may be touched and therefore glimpsed. Both the philosophy and the math behind it are beyond my current comprehension although I do work at improving my understanding. I hope I have been able to relate the matter in a way that can be understood.

Posted: **Thu Mar 25, 2010 2:30 pm**

Somebody really ought to compile notes on Khavik to aid in his capture or destruction. Ideally he should be returned to a human state and then made to repay society for his crimes. Of course this is not an ideal world so a less than ideal solution will have to be found. But collecting information and seperating out rumor and falsehood would be a good start.

It would seem, Miss Solstice that your life is intertwined with his. At the very least, he seems to be your personal 'bad penny' appearing over and over again.

As to these other dreams you've been having... it's an interesting mystery and hopefully someone will take up that task of investigating it. The imagery is not entirely clear as is often the case in these situations. Nor do I have the intuition required to solve this riddle at this time. I'll keep my eyes open for additional clues or correlating data.

Posted: **Fri Mar 26, 2010 11:59 am**

Khavik is as slippery as a greased up lake eel. He has only existed this long because he is a crafty one. He likes to stir the pot every so often and then run for his life when the heat comes after him.

Personally, anyone of us can take him out now that I think about it, he's just your typical coward wannbe comic book villain that has never accomlished much more than irratating the hell out of us, tormenting Wie & Ron, and making a general nusance out of himself.

At least that looser has the common sense to stay the hell out of Cypress Cove. :lol:

Posted: **Fri Mar 26, 2010 3:47 pm**

Holister wrote:At least that looser has the common sense to stay the hell out of Cypress Cove.

Are you sure?

Posted: **Fri Mar 26, 2010 4:11 pm**

If he did, he'ld be a pile of ash blowin' in the wind right now.

Posted: **Fri Mar 26, 2010 9:51 pm**

I have a plan.

Posted: **Sat Mar 27, 2010 6:06 am**

Is there any way I can help? I'm no fighter but I'm good with computers and making stuff. And I still have that account that Nemesis opened for me. I know she said I could have the rest of it but I think she'd rather it went to helping you.

Posted: **Wed Mar 31, 2010 1:37 pm**

Now that I actually feel comfortable enough to write long drafts again . . . I plan to do so. My apologies for the length of silence on my part in this. Robyn, I’m beyond discounting any theory at this point. It’s a possibility. And thanks for your offer, Technocrat. I think much of the happenings with me and my family are somehow connected. So now, my visit to the site . . . .

Once I had agreed to helping out, Mr. Ondirtacher had promised to give me whatever information I wanted in their possession. He had picked up my glasses and given them back to me, and we had proceeded from there to discuss plans. After texting Quentin to let him know I was all right and he could go home—he thought I was insane, of course, but he didn’t argue the matter and left without a return text message—Mr. Ondirtacher and I decided on the next logical course of action: going to the site where Chaney was last seen.

Since initiated members of the CDR weren’t allowed at the site anymore, Mr. Ondirtacher suggested I take one of the newest members as my guide, supposedly because they would have the best memory of the place. The newest recruit, Jeneca, was an impressionable girl of 21, timid and curious all at once, and was in distinct awe over my . . . “condition,” treating in a way that bordered upon heroine worship—something I was not used to nor liked.

Originally, I had imagined up a lone tomb of sorts hidden within the lonely solace of the abandoned hills away from city light and prying eyes. Well, you can imagine my surprise when Jeneca took my hand and got off the bus, in the middle of the city. Jeneca was apparently dressed in regular clothes, for we moved through the throngs of people with difficulty. However, the crowds began thinning when we reached our destination: a museum of ancient artifacts.

It took far longer than I expected or desired to get through to see the site. Firstly, because the manager mistook me, being with Jeneca, as a new recruit for the CDR, something I didn’t want to incorporate. Jeneca seemed to take this refusal as a personal insult; nevertheless, she asked the manager for a few allowances on my part on account of my blindness. About an hour later, Jeneca led the way again, taking the tips of my fingers as though risking some sort of contamination. I knew we had reached the place when she released the light touch she had on my fingers and gently pushed the small of my back, taking a step back as I took a step forward. Picturing a gaping, black slash of an entryway, I entered.

Instantly, I was assaulted with a focused deluge of mental energy. My defenses snapping in place before it had found its target, I twitched minutely and withstood the lengthy torrent. It only took a few seconds to realize it wasn’t an attack, per se, but a telepathic projection . . . a powerful one. Gingerly, I lowered my defenses.

WHY DO YOU NOT HEED US!? the voices railed against my psyche in tones that likened fingernails against a chalkboard into something desirable by comparison. LISTEN TO OUR WISDOM AND ACKNOWLEDGE OUR AUTHORITY!

Where is Chaney Vargas? I asked mentally, not so much in words as in feelings. I do not listen to your authority because I do not bow to your cause.

YOU WILL LISTEN TO WHAT WE HAVE TO SAY! the battle of wills began. YOU WILL BOW TO THE KNOWLEDGE OF THE DEAD!

I would rather not go into the specifics of the spirits’ twisted philosophy, philosophy I was intimately familiar with already but had to endure for hours on end as I asked and received questions in turn. The intensity of the interaction, coupled with my careful walking about the room in order to get a feel for its dimensions and aura, had me sobbing for breath, sweating a rain storm, and leaning heavily on the massively oblong, excessively scrolled brick in the exact center—a tomb, coffin, or sarcophagus. Working a circumference about it while bearing the brunt of the spirits’ gnashing shrieks, sharper than serrated knives, I found out the tomb felt similar to Egyptian design, but had just enough differences in their likenesses to allow one unlearned in archeology to differentiate between the two. At the far back of the room—the head of the coffin-box—there was a large alcove of sorts, within which were placed large stones at either side, almost like a nightstand at each side of the giant case. Cautiously feeling with my fingers, there was a large row of books, tomes placed there at the far side—replicas?—and one of those books on the odd bookcase, whether real or simple copies, was missing.

As was the face mask of the figure carved on top of the coffin-box, as evidenced by the smooth lines all around the body as opposed to the rough, indented face. Placing one shaking hand on the missing face and the other where the book should have been, I not only kept my mental defenses down, but further Opened myself, reached out to taste the textures underneath my trembling fingers, and drank in the images that hurled the spirits’ wailing aside like a train smashing past a car stuck on the tracks.

A figure, blood-red with a golden face. Dark, cavernous halls with mystical spells etched in crimson ink carved throughout. A naked body spread-eagled amidst a table of light illuminating the darkness. A tall hill standing stark and black against the horizon, bright beacons of fire trailing toward it. a dank plain of dull brown earth, people with skeletal grey trees clawing up at the remorseless, blank sky. A black field, planted with white stars and a giant, silver disk. A giant, loathsome shape rises up, covering the light and darkening the black field. A thousand and one impressions and feelings to go along with these images. Killing; hate; anger; vice; insanity; cruelty. And so much more. Malice; avarice; despair; edacity. There were more. Murder; envy. More. Death; immorality; eroticism. Others come in waves. Revenge; indolence; pestilence.

My will was exhausted as the images drained away in my mind’s eyes. The spirits began their obscene mantras anew once my mind was free. But I was tired, so tired; sore, aching, uncomfortable, and in no mood to banter with them.

BLOOD IS THE LIFE! DRINK DEEP OF DESPAIR, KISS THE FACE OF—!

Goodbye.

My defense slammed into place, cutting off their insanity. Fully aware of my surroundings once more, I found myself kneeling in fatigue upon the coffin-box, my pose almost as if I was in the attitude of praying upon an altar. But I was not praying. Not to them. Not to It. Never again. I was through with that stain.

The manager stuttered and mumbled when I ponderously climbed to my feet with weary disregard, using the coffin-box to facilitate my shredded balance.

“D-d-d-d-d-d-don’t . . . t-t-t-t-t-t-touch . . . uhhh . . . v-v-v-very va-v-v-v-valuable . . .”

I faltered, smacking my hip painfully against the coffin-box. Pushing away and staggering into the wall, something fell to the stone floor and broke. Ignoring it—they could bill me later—I strode out of the tomb with dazed conviction and held out my hand.

Maybe you guys can make sense about what I . . . felt . . . where I couldn’t? New perspectives could help in this. I felt there was something far more to this “tomb,” but the spirits’ screaming and their aftereffects, the recent events, and the discomfort I feel at the boards have had some rather . . . disconcerting effects on me, as of late.

Posted: **Wed Mar 31, 2010 1:48 pm**

What happens to the souls of the people who become vampires?

Posted: **Wed Mar 31, 2010 2:07 pm**

Robyn wrote:What happens to the souls of the people who become vampires?

A question I’ve been asking myself for countless years . . .

Posted: **Wed Mar 31, 2010 2:33 pm**

Ms. Solstice, I belive I may be able to assist you.

At the very least, I can offer you an alternative approach to finding and destroying Khavik.

Posted: **Wed Mar 31, 2010 4:10 pm**

Eilonwy Solstice wrote:
Robyn wrote:What happens to the souls of the people who become vampires?

A question I’ve been asking myself for countless years . . .

It is the first time I have heard or thought about the question, to be honest. I do not know of any investigation into this matter that might be helpful.

Posted: **Wed Mar 31, 2010 4:14 pm**

I would like to think they are repressed deep with the body of the victim.

Posted: **Wed Mar 31, 2010 4:17 pm**

Holister wrote:I would like to think they are repressed deep with the body of the victim.

As comforting a thought as that may be, it doesn't really help them if it isn't the case.

This is an intriguing question and worthy of investigation.

Posted: **Wed Mar 31, 2010 4:30 pm**

Its better than just thinkin' that their soul ceases to exist after gettin' turned. That would just be, well, wrong.

Posted: **Wed Mar 31, 2010 4:45 pm**

I doubt that is the case (that they cease to exist) although I have no evidence to support the doubt.

I have always assumed that when the person died, their soul went on to whatever awaited them. Then the body was filled with the essence of evil... or perhaps some sort of spirtual vacuum is created instead... either way, I realize that I was merely making an assumption before.

My experience has taught me that it is better to base one's thoughts on available evidence rather than what one finds to be comforting. The more I consider this, the more I wonder how it might be investigated?

Corner o’ Stories

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Yes, on occasion.

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My Past Lives Known to Others . . .

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Clairvoyant Dreams?

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Voices of Evil

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A question I’ve been asking myself for countless years . . .

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Re: A question I’ve been asking myself for countless years . . .

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