Chapter Text
He needs to get better at trusting his own judgement instead of listening to the voices, because this situation he has found himself in is starting to fit into a troubling pattern of behaviour on his part. Said pattern being him constantly getting into trouble with local Camarilla no matter how many times he moves to a yet different city, different country, different continent, even! Or with the local Anarchs, for that matter, even if they tended to be a bit less judgemental towards him – whether he was hiding his Malkavian lineage or not.
This time, however, he might’ve finally dug himself a grave he won’t be able to crawl out of, as he’s come to realize watching his “sire” dusty remains flicker with flames in the air next to him while Sheriff pulls back his blade.
now you’re done, lad, done for, done done donedonedo-
He struggled, unable to use his dice ring to silence the voices in his current position with hands tied behind his back. He was just glad they haven’t taken the ring so far – not that he would have much use of it after his Final Death, but losing it would hinder his chances of survival in the long run if he somehow survives this night.
He was so naive to think somehow LA would be different from all the other places he wandered into. It didn’t matter who ruled here, which Kindred factions held what kind of power – because his head was the problem, anyway. He was just getting to know some non-hostile vampires, securing a basic haven for himself, learning his surroundings when he stumbled upon that Kindred leading his prey into some hotel room. Normally he wouldn’t pay it any mind, possibly just note that this area might be someone’s hunting grounds already or that there must be a club or a bar nearby with possible suitable subjects to vampiric seduction. But the voices urged him to follow, to look, to do something. He fought them, spinned the ring until it landed on twenty, but then the Voice settled the discussion not in his favour.
WITNESS HIS FAILURE, FIONN. LEARN FROM IT.
So he spied on the Kindred, blending into shadows to watch as from two lovers drunk on excitement, the pair turned into something else. He saw the shine of the sharp teeth sinking into that young man’s neck, unable to recall that feeling in his memories, his own Embrace so blurry and drowned in chaos of long days and nights in the trenches. But then… he heard the heart stop too soon, the breath cut short, something went wrong. Too much drugs? If the boy was high as he seemed before, then the vampire might’ve suffered some side effects from tasting him too many times that night. And the boy might’ve been too weak to endure the process… Whatever the reason, the mortal didn’t rise from the bed with his Sire-to-be, didn’t ascend into the bloodline of Caine. He simply died, instead.
Pádraic wondered what was the lesson in this experience, why did the Voice tell him to witness it. He observed the alarmed Kindred, confused and angry at what has just occurred.
YOU ARE TO BE HIS CHILDE FOR THIS NIGHT. HIS MISSTEP WILL GUIDE YOU TO LINN FÉIC.
So, as that vampire was preparing to dispose of the body, Pádraic entered the room through the window, but before he could speak, someone else broke through the door and soon the was a stake piercing his chest.
And now he was on his need, waiting his turn to be executed in accordance to Camarilla laws he was fully aware of and also fully aware he didn’t really break, but without a real chance to defend himself, he could just witness his upcoming doom while trying to find the Voice among many in his head to look for another clue, while the Prince of LA continued his speech- rip the jester’s throat, boy, soak in his blood and lap it up, feast on him like he dreams of his elder in the box, the box he-
Unable to focus on Prince’s words, he tries to rely on his other senses instead to gather any possibly helpful information. He scans the audience of the Nocturne Theater – sadly he recognized the place from a picture, as he was planning on attending a play here some evening before he got detoured by the voices – and seeks their faces, their reactions and expectations towards this spectacle. Beautiful and concerned red-head, undeniably a Toreador, sitting near a serious looking man in a suit, seemingly bored with this whole occurrence, but he suspected he was actually being discreetly cautious and paid attention to everything that was happening in front of him. A surprisingly well-dressed Nosferatu, whose deformed face somehow rang a bell – a very distant one at that, one resonating with vague memories of crowded dark rooms, air thick with cigarette smoke and a screen with black and white film on display for the much needed joy in the difficult times…
A blonde woman with a calm surface but extremely disturbed insides, he could tell just from a glimpse into her eyes.
she can smell our blood in your veins, she sniffed you out, lad, fuck her upo before she tells those cammy fucks, she wants you to fuck her up, half of her, there’s plenty to share-
Pádraic avoids her gaze as he moves on to the others. On the balcony a bald man with dark round glasses and a coat and… Alright, he’s definitely from the Pyramid, he thought, the voices agreeing via calling the Warlock any possible insult and slur known to them. He avoids his gaze as well.
There’s plenty more Kindred there, but he focuses on a small clique on his left, clearly sticking together with furrowed brows, stormy eyes, tight lips and clenched jaws. Brujas. Probably Anarchs, for some reason attending a Camarilla gathering. The court must be freshly established in the city, then. Makes sense, I’ve heard the Anarchs have driven them out a while ago in California… So if anyone here would oppose Prince’s judgement, that would be-
“This is bullshit!” yelled one of the Brujas, tall and bulky man with short hair, ready to pounce as the man in soldier uniform – different from the one he died and got Embraced in years ago – and a woman with a paddy cap held him back.
A commotion rose in the room, eyes flickering between the Brujah and the Ventrue Prince, sizing them up, considering possible outcomes. Kindred tended to be opportunistic creatures and those in LA clearly didn’t differ much from the others he has met so far.
“Alls I’m saying is he better not do it”, murmured the Brujah as nearly all other Kindred stood up and watched. The Prince scanned the room, clearly weighing his options before he spoke.
“If Mister Rodriguez would let me finish, I’ve decided to let this Kindred live.”
Voices in his head laughed maniacally, drowning the rest of the Ventrue’s speech, as he stared into the floor in disbelief. As he got untied and raised to his feet, he caught a one last glimpse of his saviour, “Mr. Rodriguez”. Their eyes met, and he saw some familiar things in them – the Brujah righteousness, the anger, the pride well covered by rebellious demeanor, but still there after so many years passed since Brujah were the ones to lead both Kindred and Kine into a brighter future. Is he the one to lead me onward? Did the Voice mean to guide me to him?, he wondered.
yes, yes, find him, rile him up, make the brute roar nine times, sink nine claws into your flesh, throw yourself at the Rabble, yes, yes
With his hands finally free, he spinned the ring almost furiously, until, finally – twenty.
THE PATH LIES BEFORE YOU, FIONN.
He needed to find out where it led.