Chapter Text
“Be True”
A story in the World of Darkness.
To society, Heddwyn Bleddyn Byrnmor is just a name on a property deed. It was Cadell’s property first. Heddwyn just had to fake his age to make it official. No one needed to know.
It was in remarkably good shape when he first got there after the trek through the woods. The house, the workshop, and the sheds all looked good. Happy for that, he was. Means he didn’t have to work too hard to get it properly liveable.
The property sits on a rare, untouched lake—one of the few still left. Heddwyn intends to keep it that way. Most days, he scours the woods, picking up the garbage careless hikers and teenage partiers leave behind. Sometimes he’ll cut away parasitic vines from trees and other shrubs, as well as taking care of invasive weeds strangling the local fauna.
Today was one such day, meandering through the nearby woods, killing weeds and vines, and picking up what little trash is left. He knows where it is. He doesn’t know how, but he always finds what he’s looking for. As if the forest itself whispers directions into his ear. He’s always loved the sounds of the forest, the running water of creeks, the chirping of-... he freezes as he notices the discrepancy.
The forest holds its breath. No birdsong. No rustling leaves. Just silence—unnatural and wrong. After waiting a moment for any sign of life, yet receiving nothing, he crouches down, beginning to slowly and quietly retreat. As soon as he feels he is a safe enough distance away, he draws his .308 bolt action rifle as he walks back home. He’s not testing his luck today. He pulls back the bolt, double-checking the chamber. A silver bullet gleams in the dim light—just in case.
His mind is as silent and empty as the woods around him as he scans. He has a disadvantage, lacking one-half of his vision. Luckily, his remaining eye sees better now, and what he can see, he can see very well.
His ears detect the snap of a branch, maybe… 30-40 feet out? And then another, but it sounds further. Whatever it is, it’s not coming his way. There are things out there. Big things. He’s never seen them—only heard their heavy steps and found the aftermath they leave behind. That’s enough. He doesn’t need to see them to know they’re real.
He steps onto his property with a sigh—half relief, half uncertainty. He hopes he’s alone. He slings his rifle over his shoulder, steps inside, and shuts the door—pausing for just a second to check behind him. Just to be sure.
He removes his boots, placing them on the shoe rack near the front door. His eyes land on the sliding door to the basement stairwell. A shiver runs down his spine. He’s never gone down there, never needed to. Something about it feels… wrong. Sometimes, he hears things down there. Scratching. Shuffling. Probably just rodents. Probably. He’ll deal with it… eventually.
He then glances behind himself, at a window facing east, out towards the dock and the woods past that. There is nothing to be seen besides the pretty trees. He opens the wall safe near the front door to store his rifle and places the spare ammo he carries inside with it. He turns to the left to go down the hallway towards the kitchen, make himself a snack or something.
He yanks the fridge open, stomach already sinking. Empty. Great. He really should’ve gone hunting yesterday. “Heb ei fai, heb ei eni,” he mutters under his breath—a lesson drilled into him since childhood. ‘Without fault, without birth.’ No one’s perfect, after all.
As he sits in his disappointment, he hears another noise from the basement. He groans. He really, really doesn’t want to do this. But if there’s something down there, he might as well deal with it now. Besides… he could use the meat. He goes upstairs to his bedroom to grab his .22 revolver, before heading back downstairs.
His breath shakes as he exhales. He grips the revolver tighter and forces himself to open the door. A helical staircase spirals downward, rail-less and treacherous, vanishing into darkness. An abyss carved into his own home. He’s nimble, he trusts himself not to fall. He keeps his revolver up, his eye scanning the room, important details outlined in golden hues. As he gets off the stairs, he finds himself staring down a dark hallway, where he can see the barely perceptible form of a door at the very end on the right side.
Step by step, he creeps forward. The air down here is wrong—thick, heavy, humming with something unseen. He glances back. Just in case. Everything in him screams to turn back, to run upstairs and forget this place exists. But he’s come this far. He has to know. He forces his way past the fear and anxiety to reach the end of the hallway. He reaches out a hand to the door and opens it.
No rodents, but there is a bedroom down here. The door is in simply the most awful position, you can’t see what’s on the other side of the door. He pushes into the room gently, checking ALL the corners, looking under every object. There’s a big metal door at the end of the room and he moves towards it, the feeling that something else is in here creeping up his spine and intensifying with every passing second. He would very much like to leave but… he’s this far in, can’t turn around now-
“Hello, little one.” Heddwyn jolts so violently he nearly trips over his own feet. A voice—melodic, feminine—cuts through the silence behind him. He spins, revolver in hand, pulse hammering in his throat. She smirks slightly. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. And if I wanted to… that little thing couldn’t stop me.” Her smile shows sharp teeth, and canines that are FAR too large. “But lucky for you, I have no reason to try.”
“Whoareyouwhyareyouinmybasement?!?!” Heddwyn blurts, words tripping over themselves. His hands tremble, sweat slicking his grip on the revolver. Primal fear coils in his gut as he stumbles back. Her face softens, putting up two placating hands.
“Easy, little one. It’s… a long story, but I’d recognize that scent anywhere. Faint, buried beneath the years… but unmistakable. You’re Cadell’s grandchild, aren’t you? It’s oh so wonderful to finally meet you… I was worried I’d have to send for you myself, somehow.” One of her hands goes over her chest, bowing politely.
“My name is Esmeray. I knew your grandfather well. When you were born, he spoke of you constantly—so proud, so eager. He was overjoyed to be a grandparent. I’ve been taking care of this place since… well, his disappearance.” She keeps a soft, comforting smile on her face.
“W-well… if that’s the case then… w-what… how do you…?” His brain lags, grasping for logic that isn’t there. Heddwyn can’t quite articulate what he wants to ask, but Esmeray seems to get what he’s trying to ask anyway.
“Oh, come now… don’t be shy. I know you saw my fangs. You know what I am.” She tilts her head, voice dipping into something velvety. “If you haven’t guessed yet… vampires are real, darling. And you’re looking at one.” Esmeray speaks in a soft, playfully intimidating tone of voice. She giggles as she can see the gears turning in his head, the shiver running down his spine. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. You won’t be my snack. I’ve learned how to feed most efficiently, that way I’ve survived off the occasional idiot who trespasses at night for… at least a few years.”
“O-okay… that’s uhm… kinda cool, actually. As scary as you are…” Heddwyn mutters out, still looking VERY anxious. Esmeray smirks smugly before it turns into another gentle smile as her nails—almost claws—brush against his cheek, cool as marble. An unnatural tenderness.
“Mmhhm. Thank you, my dear… you look so much like he did at your age. Don’t be scared of me… I’d sooner walk out into the sun than cause you any true harm. Now… it may be a lot, but… I think it’s time you claimed the… heirlooms. Follow me.” She signals him towards the door at the far end of her room. She presses her palm to the door. A pulse ripples outward—silent, unseen, but felt. Metal groans as the seal unlocks, and the door swings open.
Beyond the door, the hallway twists into an L-shape, the air thick with stillness. Esmeray gestures forward with an elegant sweep of her arm. Heddwyn hesitates—just for a second—before stepping into the unknown. He tentatively peeks around the corner, seeing yet another door into another room. This is getting ridiculous. His eye twitches, a deep sigh escaping before he trudges toward the next door. Through the next door, he steps into a library. The air is thick with the scent of aged parchment, dust, and ink—old knowledge, resting in the quiet. His earlier nerves falter, replaced by the spark of curiosity.
His fingers trail over the spines of ancient books, their titles a puzzle. Kindred. Garou. Fae. Legends. Theories. His pulse quickens. He doesn’t know these words, but something deep in his bones tells him—he should. On the far wall, a massive steel safe looms, its surface worn but unyielding. The lock—thick, unbroken—seems almost defiant. Whatever rests inside has stayed hidden for a long, long time.
“Now, little—oh, oops! Did I startle you again? I’m sorrryyy!” Her voice purrs right behind him. Heddwyn practically levitates, his heart hammering. How does she move like that? No footsteps. No sound. Just… there. “You startle so easily, little one. It’s almost endearing. Your grandfather really should have convinced your parents to allow him to at least introduce you to his, to OUR world.” She says ‘parents’ with a tight smile, but her fingers twitch—just for a moment—before she smooths out her expression. Even through the forced sweetness, the venom lingers.
“...I detect distaste. Dare I ask why?” I tilt my head, her hands clench into fists as a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes manifests on her face. “Mmmm, no! You don’t!” She speaks with false energy, I guess she’s trying to seem calm and friendly. I don’t press further.
“Anyway! Here…” Esmeray reaches into her pocket, drawing out an old iron key. Its weight is surprising, its edges worn smooth by time. She presses it into his palm, fingers curling gently over his. “Unlock the safe, my dear. It’s time you claimed what’s rightfully yours.”
He looks up into her eyes, seeing a mix of encouragement and anxiety in their depths. He turns back to the safe, looking at that lock, the old and faithful guard of what’s inside. He nods to himself, steadying his breath. The lock is cold in his grasp, metal worn smooth by age and time. He slides the key in—click. The sound is softer than expected, almost reluctant, as if the lock had been waiting for him specifically. He turns to look at Esmeray—except there’s no one there. Not a single sound, not a whisper of movement, just empty space where she stood a second ago. Just once, he’d like to see her leave.
“She’s gonna scare the hell out of me again in a few minutes, I can tell. Oh well. Fy enw i ydyd Heddwyn, and I am very afraid.” He says in a sarcastic voice, before taking the lock off, setting it aside, and opening the safe’s doors…
A burst of light erupts from the safe—blinding, golden, searing through the dark like the sun had forced its way inside. For a brief second, shadows stretch wildly against the walls before the glow vanishes, leaving only the dim, normal light of the library.
“Well, that’s why she left the room.” Heddwyn groans while blinking away the temporary blindness. He rubs his eyes one last time before looking at the inside of the safe. In the center is some kind of… muzzleloading rifle? A highly neat coat of some kind, and a belt with a holster that contains… a SICK looking revolver, as well as a trench knife of some kind on the opposite side.
“Whoa…” He barely breathes the word, eyes tracing over the weapons. The craftsmanship, the history, the sheer weight of it all—it’s not just cool. It’s a piece of his past, waiting for him to claim it. He slips the coat on, the fabric heavy but comfortable, fitting almost too perfectly—like it had been waiting for him. “Hm. Nice.” He feels something against his waist on either side, and he reaches in to feel around for what it is… are those… built in holsters? He pulls one of the holstered weapons out, finding… a flintlock pistol. An OLD one, pre-revolution old. “Sick.”
Hr grabs the leather belt thing and clips it over his own. He reaches into the holster on it to find a revolver, ornate and painted in black, gold, and a deep blood red. He turns the revolver in his hands, the metal smooth, the weight perfect. Gold, black, and deep blood-red paint weave together in an intricate design—but it’s the engravings that steal his breath. Bane'r Blaidd. Byrnmor. His name, his bloodline, etched into the steel.
“Sut wyt ti, hyfryd?” He says to himself. His eye catches a shadow moving, and he whips around. “Not this time.” He states firmly to a now playfully pouting Esmeray.
Esmeray clutches her chest as if wounded. “Ohhh, my poor heart! Denied the sight of your adorable little terror-stricken face? This is so unfair! I had at least two weeks of fun planned!”
He smirks, adjusting his new coat. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll find plenty of ways to mess with me. I just saw that one coming.” He consoles her in kind, before looking back at all his new things. “Say, what is all this anyway?”
Her eyes light up suddenly, like she was waiting for him to ask that. “Well, for starters, that coat was worn by however-many-greats ago grandfather Cadfael when he first emigrated to the Americas from Wales in hm… think it was 1752? 53? Somewhere around there.” She helps smooth our and fully fit the coat onto my shoulders. “And the flintlocks are his as well, but the in-sewed holsters for them are a modification done by his son, Cadwaladr. The rifle is a Hawken Plains Rifle, that was first possessed by another however-many-great grandfather of yours, Eurig, in… 1835, I’d say.” I feel the rifle rest on my shoulder. “The revolver is a custom 1851 Colt Navy Revolver, commissioned by Eurig for his youngest son, Glyn. Another relative, Haul, got that trench knife, the Mark 1 1918, during his service in the Marines during the first world war. The blade has since been replaces with silver, same with the very tip of the knuckles of the brass knuckle grip. And… that’s my infodump about your new things done!” She drops all this information on an actually very interested Heddwyn.
“This is… this is incredible, but… why now?” He swallows, glancing back at the weapons, the coat, the name engraved on the revolver. “What exactly am I supposed to do with them?” Heddywn asks, a tad bit confused. Esmeray looks all too happy to tell him.
Esmeray grins, eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Follow me, my dear. You’re about to understand everything.” She hums, leading him out of the room, through the L-shaped hallway, her room, and then into the hallway LEADING to her room. She has him walk to the end of it, before she disappears into the darkness at the opposite end of the room that contains the stairs.
“Heddwyn Byrnmor.” Her voice is steady, like the tolling of a bell. “Your ancestors were legendary hunters. Guardians. Protectors. When the supernatural threatened their homes, their cities, their kin… they answered. For centuries, your bloodline has fought in the shadows—against Kindred, against Garou, against horrors that should not exist. They were warriors. And now, you must decide if you will follow in their footsteps. Most of my kind are not like me. They are manipulative, murderous, and would only see you as a weak little snack to be feasted on and left for the vultures. And now… it is your turn to pick up those weapons and hunt those which would disturb your life, or the lives of other innocent people.” Her voice carries through the dark, smooth as silk, sharp as a knife. He squints, barely able to see her now. The way the shadows curl around her makes his skin prickle, like something ancient is watching him from the abyss. “And for that… I must test your readiness. Don’t worry. You won’t kill me. But act as if I intend to kill you.”
Then she growls. Low, deep, something that ignites a fear older than thought. His breath hitches—his body knows before his mind does. Predator. She lunges, launching herself at him. Time fractures. His body moves on instinct, fingers curling around cold steel before his mind catches up. The revolver—his hand knows it, even if he doesn’t remember learning. He fires. The shot cracks like thunder in the enclosed space, the recoil biting into his palm. Esmeray jerks mid-air, her momentum faltering—but only for a moment. He cocks the hammer as he dives backward, firing another shot at her. She moves. Faster than he can track, faster than he can breathe—his revolver clatters away, and suddenly he’s on the ground. Claws slash downward—too fast, too close—!
They stop. A hair’s breadth from his throat. Her look softening. He begins to think once more.
She smirks, tilting her head. “Gotchya, darling~” The purr in her voice is smug, her fangs just barely peeking out as she leans closer. “I do so love watching you squirm.”
“Damnit…” His breath is ragged, his hands shaking as he glares at the ceiling. “Two shots. That’s it. And—” He swallows. He didn’t even make her flinch. Heddwyn speaks in a self-deprecating whimper, before she shushes him.
“Oh, my sweet boy…” She chuckles, soft and knowing. “You truly have no idea what we Kindred are capable of, do you?” She sits on her heels beside him. “That was a spectacular show. Most wouldn’t have fired at all, you know.” Her voice is warm now, lacking its usual teasing edge. “Even trained hunters hesitate. You? You fired twice. No training, no preparation… and you still tried.” She presses a cool hand to his forehead, smiling. “You weren’t meant to win, darling. But you were meant to fight.”
He can’t tell whether that makes him feel better or terrified. His throat is dry. “If you’re that strong… how am I supposed to stand against that?” His fingers twitch at his sides, itching for a weapon that suddenly feels useless.
“Well, training with me for one. As well as experience and not biting off more than you can chew. Besides, you won’t be fighting me. The Kindred out here are mostly runaways—weaklings hiding from the real power in the cities. Probably Sabbat fanatics, Anarch rebels, or some Brujah with more brawn than brains. Maybe a feral Gangrel or two.”
Heddwyn stares at her. “That sure was a lot of words, and I understood exactly none of them.”
“Oh, right.” She chuckles. “Those are vampire clans. The Sabbat? Think vampire extremists. They hate hiding, treat humans like cattle, and want full dominion over the world. Anarchs? Rebellious little shits who hate the vampire government—the Camarilla. And the Brujah?” She smirks. “Well, they’re very good at punching things. The Gangrel? More beast than vampire, really.” She waves a hand. “You’ll figure it out in time. I’ll make you read, don’t worry.” Esmeray explains. Heddwyn's stomach growls.
A sudden ache twists in his gut, sharp enough to steal his breath. His body reminds him, all at once, that it needs something. “Sorry, but… I need to go hunting.” His voice is quiet, almost distracted. “I’m starving.” He gets to his feet, looking down at her. She quickly swallows her worry.
Her lips press together for a moment, like she’s holding something back. “Okay, Heddwyn.” She tilts her head, voice soft. “Be safe, alright?”
He offers her a small smile. “I’m always safe, Esmeray.” He turns toward the stairs. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
She watches him go, fingers curling at her sides. Gods, she hopes he's right.
***
The deer barely hears the gunshot. A clean shot, straight through the heart. It collapses mid-step, kicking once before going still. Heddwyn exhales, lowering Bane’r Blaidd. A good kill.
He keeps Bane'r Blaidd in one hand as he lugs the deer over his shoulder. He navigates back through the woods, over small hills, creeks, and trees with symbols carved in them from centuries ago.
Sunset bleeds across the treetops, dragging long shadows through the woods. Heddwyn quickens his pace. The air feels thicker now, heavier, like the forest is watching him. A branch cracks somewhere behind him—too deliberate to be the wind. He grips Bane’r Blaidd tighter and keeps moving.
As anxiety inducing as the walk is, he again manages to make it to his property with no incidents.
He skins the deer, hanging it up in a shed while he prepares the smoker. As he strikes the match, movement catches his eye. Three men step from the tree line, their suits too crisp for the wilderness. Something about them feels off—too still, too composed. Their smiles don’t quite reach their eyes.
“Who are you? Why are you on my property?” Heddwyn asks suspiciously, his eye narrowing.
“Heddwyn Byrnmor, correct?” The man’s voice is smooth, practiced, like he’s reading from a script. “We represent Ardus Enterprises. We’d like to purchase your property for an operation here. How does… ten million sound?”
Heddwyn stiffens. He doesn’t just hate the voice—he hates the certainty in it, like the man already knows the answer.
“Not for sale. This place is important to me.” Heddwyn states firmly, leveling them.
“15 million.” The other man offers.
Something prickles at the edge of his vision. His eye sharpens, the world shifting—there. Dark shapes outlined in gold, crouched low among the trees, their movements too controlled for hunters. His grip tightens.
“Not. For. Sale.” Heddwyn states again as darkness envelops the woods. One of the men sighs.
“Shame. Didn't have to end this way.” He says, before reaching towards his waist. Time warps. The men’s heads light up in his vision—two red X’s hovering over their foreheads. His arms move on instinct, drawing both flintlocks before they can even blink. The twin cracks of gunfire shatter the air.
A bullet from one of the men in the forest grazes Heddwyn's arm. He unslings the Hawken Rifle, taking aim and firing. He hears an impact and the sound of a body falling to the forest floor.
He takes cover, unholstering Bane’r Blaidd. He has… 6 shots, and there are four of them now. He fires two shots randomly in their general direction. A bullet hits a plank of wood of a nearby shed, a piece of wood shrapnel scratching his cheek. He waits a moment longer before diving out to the side, firing at any movement he sees. He hits all of them. 2 die on the spot, 2 run, but he knows at least one of those 2 is mortally wounded. He holsters Bane’r Blaidd…
A ragged cry splits the air. Heddwyn twists—too slow. The man is already there, wild-eyed, a hatchet gleaming in his grip. He raises his hands out of instinct—useless. The axe comes down, aimed straight for his skull—
There’s a blur of motion, and suddenly, the man is gone. No—he’s there, but Esmeray is on top of him, her claws pinning him down. He opens his mouth to scream—she rips into his throat before he can. Blood splashes across her face as she tears deeper, ripping flesh, devouring him alive. The wet sound of it churns Heddwyn’s stomach.
When she finishes, the man is torn to ribbons, brutalized, eviscerated. She rises slowly, licking the blood from her lips. “Are you alright, darling?” Her voice is soft, but the red staining her mouth makes it feel wrong. Heddwyn doesn’t answer. His body reacts before his mind can stop it—he steps back. “I-I know that wasn't pretty, but p-please don't be afraid of me…” She pleads softly.
“Kinda hard not to be…” His voice is barely above a whisper. His body betrays him—muscles stiff, heart hammering, the instinct to run screaming at him.
He tries to meet her gaze but can’t. The blood on her lips, the glint of her fangs, the way she tore through that man like he was nothing—the image won’t leave his head. Even if he knows she’d never hurt him.
“A-alright… let me get you p-patched up…” She smiles, trying to seem less scary. Blood coats her teeth. It only makes him more uncomfortable, but he lets her lead him inside.
She carefully wraps the gauze around his arm, but her eyes keep flicking to the cut on his cheek. She bites her lip.
“You know, uhm… vampire saliva heals small wounds…”
He barely has time to process before her fingers thread into his hair, tilting his face toward her. Her tongue brushes over the scratch—too slow, too deliberate. Heddwyn tenses, his breath hitching.
She pulls away fast, her face burning. He touches his cheek, still feeling the warmth of her tongue. They both avoid eye contact.
“T-thanks…” Heddwyn manages to stammer out. “Anyway… those guys, who were they?”
“Ardus Enterprises. Subsidiary of Pentex. Vile, tainted servants of the Wyrm. Intent on the corruption of the Earth, to hasten the end of times, the end of humanity and the rest of everything on the planet. Them being here… is not a good sign. And this incident will surely rile them up.” Esmeray sighs, looking focused.
“Yeah… this has a lot of implications. None of them are good. Well… I suppose my first hunts won't be for the supernatural, but instead for evil corporate bastards.” Heddwyn grimaces.
“So it would seem.” Esmeray responds in the same tone…
Dawn breaks, but the air feels wrong.
Heddwyn watches from the tree line as the first helicopter cuts across the sky, its blades slicing through the morning silence. Then another. And another. They circle like vultures before descending into a distant clearing.
Then comes the rumble—engines growling from deep within the forest. The ground trembles beneath his boots. Heavy machinery. Dozens of vehicles. Maybe more. He squints, but he doesn’t need to see the logos to know who they belong to.
Pentex has arrived.
Heddwyn lifts his rifle, the weight of it familiar. He watches the helicopters vanish behind the tree line. The first shot hasn’t been fired yet. But it will be. Soon.
He cocks the hammer back, the click echoing in the silent woods.
“Pleidiol Wyf i'm Gwlad.”