Yorick Tsipras
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep
Do not stand at my grave and cry
I am not there, I do not die

Euthanatos | Notoriety 2 | Medium

---

Yorick stiffened a little at Geoffrey's reminder that he was possibly a living anchor. Something about it unsettled him at the same time that it intrigued him. He thought that it ought to only do the former and not the latter. That unraveling this particular mystery was somehow a bit profane. He was already on thin ice with his peers. If any of them ever found out what he was doing - consorting with a vampire -  the accusations would flow quickly and freely.

Still, he had to know. Nine centuries was such a long time but the coincidences had piled up to a degree that they couldn't be ignored. Was he carrying another man’s soul; was it fueling his atman? The kyklos geneseo central to the Euthanatos paradigm clearly allowed for it. Or was he just a long distant descendant of a man who had suffered in way that mirrored his own suffering; some cosmic play repeating through history?

“I didn’t suggest you should reveal yourself. The knowledge might bring something to your heart though.” Something good, maybe. Something that might one day let Geoffrey let go and return to the Wheel.

He shrugged.

“My gods aren’t moral exemplars embodying goodness or righteousness. They embody order, measure, balance, reciprocity, and fate. You don’t ask if a storm is good. You acknowledge its existence, learn about its nature, try to predict its behavior, and respect its power as a matter of survival. The power of a storm can water drought-stricken crops or drown a village, maybe at the same time. So to me, when you ask what god would put their hand to you, many names come to mind. But even the conventional Christian god works in mysterious ways - or so they say.”

Yorick picked his way through the ruins. Everything in this place felt cold and numb. He didn’t know if it was his emotions painting the environment or Geoffrey’s.
   
“I don’t really need to read them to do what I want to try. But if you’re willing, I’d like to. I don’t have anything of my…true parents. No pictures, or writings, or property. I never even tried to look for any other living relatives; I had a new family and that was all that mattered. If he was a distant ancestor, then maybe some knowledge could be brought to my heart, too.”

Rudolph Longstaff aka Abel Beaumarchais
those boon times went bust
my feet of clay, they dried to dust
the red isn't the red we painted
its just rust

Toreador Ancilla | Blush of Health | Enchanting Voice | Deceptive Aura

---

Abel shrugged, projecting nonchalance. Sergine had asked questions, he’d done the courtesy of answering them, and that was that. Whether the questions were a product of genuine curiosity or just steely fact-finding seemed clear to him.

“Mmm. Yes,” he said to the Brujah, pausing momentarily. “As long as you have some,” he encouraged, raising his tiny bottle in a little salute and tossing back the last drops. “Raw-dogging reality, as the kids say, is a tough way to spend eternity. Asceticism...BLEH,” he concluded, visibly shuddering and making a small expression of disgust. “Why not just walk into the sun at that point.”

He stepped back then, hands casually smoothing out the long black wool trench coat. “Well.” The single word was like a bullet, but Abel offered a small smile filled with theatrical warmth, flicking his brilliant green gaze among the gathered Kindred. “It’s been a stimulating evening, but I believe I’ve seen everything of value from this particular exhibition. Besides,” he added, patting the now-empty breast pocket of his coat. “I appear to be out of refreshments.”

The smile widened to a grin. “Geoffrey. You have my number. When the two of you,” he said, idly gesturing between the Gangrel, “have figured out where and when you’re going to beat each other up, do let me know. I’d hate to miss out on anything juicy. Besides, if I’m not there, who’s going to regale the rest of the community with a bardic accounting of the spectacle? I mean...honestly.”

With that, he turned and headed off in an unhurried pace, his booted footsteps lightly thumping against the granite floor.

Rudolph Longstaff aka Abel Beaumarchais
those boon times went bust
my feet of clay, they dried to dust
the red isn't the red we painted
its just rust

Toreador Ancilla | Blush of Health | Enchanting Voice | Deceptive Aura

---

He watched something come over Geoffrey. Something about his story had piqued the Gangrel’s interest. What was it, though? Abel suddenly felt a compulsion to find out. Some secret, something juicy. He could feel it in his bones. He amplified his senses and his eyes took on a particular glint under the harsh museum lighting. They almost seemed iridescent; like cut emeralds. Nothing obviously supernatural; just shy of it. Just enough to make someone question.

your eyes go to where you find pleasure...

He suddenly heard a male voice in the background, brief and unfamiliar...it wasn’t one he recognized; wasn’t one of the chit-chatting vampires surrounding the exhibit. Still, Geoffrey held his attention. The Gangrel seemed excited. Agitated or maybe embarrassed. No, he was distressed.

Very curious. Very. “You might be surprised at what I’m capable of digging up,” he said with a sly smile. “I’ve had enough adventures for several lifetimes. But in this case...”

He heard voices again. Like the background noise of a cafe. Or a tavern. Or maybe just a rustic room. Distorted. The smell of rosepetals and lavender. The hairs on his arms pricked up as if drawn against fresh linens. A soft pillow to rest the weary head upon. A fire, close enough to warm, but safely contained, crackling. The two voices became a little clearer, but spoke in Greek. He couldn’t understand the words, but he could spot the sentiment a mile away.

The phantasmal stimuli lasted literally only a second, and he smoothly picked up where he’d left off. “In this case, the adventure took me to London. 1922. An auction from Sotheby, Wilkinson, and Hodge. They’d no idea what they had, and I thought I’d scoop it up in a steal. But there was another buyer. A mysterious proxy. Had to teach them a lesson. In a bidding war, of course. Sent them scurrying off,” he said with a small bit of pride, chuckling again.   

Then he looked back to Sergine. It might have seemed like he hadn’t been paying attention to them, but he’d heard every word they’d said in the cross-chatter and showed he was taking their questions seriously. “It’s digestible because of the blood, yes. Think of the blood like an antihistamine. It keeps the Kindred body from having an allergic reaction and allows our systems to absorb the alcohol and enjoy the experience. It’s really quite harmless. Just for fun. If you drank gallons of it, you might gain enough blood to squelch the Beast’s hunger, but you’d also be passed out drunk.”

Abel grinned. “Well, maybe not you. You’re made of pretty stern stuff, I imagine. I’m sure you could drink me under the table if you put your heart to it. Or just your pinky.”

He also shared Sergine’s interest in whatever these Gangrel were going to do. Bite each other and roll around in the grass like junkyard dogs, or something. Whatever it was, it would be entertaining. "I was just thinking the same thing. If you're not averse to an audience, of course."

As he prepared to leave and watch the spectacle, he left a ghost of a touch on Faith’s elbow. “Je pensais que tu pouvais être seul. On dirait que tu as plus d'amis ici que moi!”

Rudolph Longstaff aka Abel Beaumarchais
mirror mirror
on the wall
don't say it
'cause i know i'm cute

Toreador Ancilla | Blush of Health | Enchanting Voice | Deceptive Aura

---

He smiled when she said she was here. “Good. We can get back to work then. I do have a new ghoul. His name is Mortimer Clay. Marine. Ex-military contractor. He's my head of security. I'll tell him to set up a meeting and let him know to consult with you.” He was still rebuilding his other networks; drugs, supplies, police payouts, informants.

Abel tilted his head. “Do you have any immediate needs? Otherwise I can just owe you for a later time.” They’d been trading favors for years, and had even been partially-bound to each other. Whatever else she might have thought about his trustworthiness, he’d never gone back on his word or failed to pay a debt.

Not yet, anyways.

He listened, folding his arms. “An intern, huh. I’m intrigued. The tone of your voice and look on your face suggests that I should instead be deeply concerned.” He didn’t look concerned, though. He looked curious and amused.

“Do you have somewhere to stay in the city? If not, I can put you up until you get on your feet. If you want to talk privately, we could reconvene at my club. I doubt that particular youngster is going to be coming back anytime soon; she left in something of a huff.”

Rudolph Longstaff aka Abel Beaumarchais
those boon times went bust
my feet of clay, they dried to dust
the red isn't the red we painted
its just rust

Toreador Ancilla | Blush of Health | Enchanting Voice | Deceptive Aura

---

Abel held the Baron’s long gaze. “Yes. I’m sure you will.” He found her utterly insincere smile very satisfying. Gumption was admirable. So was control.

Then he nodded once, silently. It was all he could do to telegraph his true position. He didn’t really want the Sabbat to kill or convert the Anarchs. Elysium wasn’t the place to wear one’s heart on one’s sleeve, though. There were spies everywhere. Probably some Obfuscated rat lurking nearby right that moment. 

He opened his arms to gesture idly at Faith. “Le premier est toujours gratuit. Mais certains ne boivent pas, apparemment. Une existence brutale. Imaginez!”

When she scowled at Black Cat, he raised an eyebrow slightly, but said nothing. He was unaware of any bad blood in her history with that Gangrel. Despite being partners with her, she had plenty of secrets from him, and he had entire libraries full from her.

“Last call,” he said with a smirk, opening his trenchcoat to pull out the last bottle to hand it to Faith. Something to soothe whatever impulses she was holding in check.

Rudolph Longstaff aka Abel Beaumarchais
those boon times went bust
my feet of clay, they dried to dust
the red isn't the red we painted
its just rust

Toreador Ancilla | Blush of Health | Enchanting Voice | Deceptive Aura

---

The Toreador’s bright green eyes flicked toward Geoffrey at the mention of khemia - the dark and curious art. Khemet: the black land, so far removed from the red land. Just as his concoction was far removed from its deep red base, the life-blood, the vitae. The others couldn’t begin to guess how much time, effort, and magic had gone into crafting the drink he now shared so freely. All the better.

“Brewing. A timeless craft,” he said, making a subtle redirection masked as agreement.

Now and then, Geoffrey would say something that gave him away. Something that made him seem older than old, beyond even the label of anachronist. Like he understood too much. They were both performing, perhaps, each playing a role. But to what end, he couldn’t say.

A secret worth unraveling.

“Yes,” he said, responding to Dio with a small smile. “Nothing personal. But in that order, hopefully.” The Anarchs might well serve as a speed bump for the Sabbat...a grim early warning. Canaries in the coal mine. That was the value of the Tower, after all, and the Anarchs had walked away from it for freedom. And freedom usually came with a price tag, sometimes in the shape of a toe tag.

The Baron’s refusal surprised him a little, though. He’d taken her for someone more daring, given her swagger. A devil-may-care attitude lost its lustre if the devil showed they actually cared. Maybe their collective friendliness had thrown her off. Maybe it masked something uncertain. Or maybe it was just paranoia. That was baked into Kindred existence.

He let out a soft peal of laughter at the comment about scotch, a sound as smooth as velvet. “I’m sure there’s some at the club. A Macallan. A Lagavulin. Talisker. Glenfiddich. Sometimes it hurts to see them go down the gullets of podcast alphas and crypto bros. Such a waste. Unless, of course, they become the drink.” Abel left an invitation to Dio threaded between the lines. Just obvious enough to be noticed, just subtle enough to be denied. He couldn’t risk being seen as conspiring with the rabble. But. His domain existed because he’d convinced (read: bribed) the Prince of its value: a neutral zone. A buffer. A DMZ. Sans the fences and landmines.

He tossed the wax-sealed bottle to Travis with a practiced grace, the kind that came from years behind a bar. “Cheers, Cat,” he said, lifting a newly opened bottle in a salute to the cowboy and taking a sip. A light buzz helped the evening slide by. Socializing with the city’s other residents was a necessary evil. But still evil. Every one of them had a monster inside that needed silencing.

“Faith...Everett, I believe?” he said to the newest arrival, punctuating that with the briefest of winks and flicking his tongue over his teeth. He gestured idly at the gathered individuals in turn to bring Faith up to speed. “Sergine, fellow Brujah; Geoffrey and Black Cat, of clan Gangrel; myself, Abel, of prestigious Toreador blood; and agent provocateur Dio, of...well. La ​famille Mystérieuse.”

He wasn’t sure whose blood ran in the Baron’s veins, but he would have guessed Brujah or Malkav. The former, because it was obvious. The latter, because some kind of mental illness was required, after all, to not only openly join the anarchy but try to lead it. He could only imagine it was like trying to lead a pile of raccoons.

Rudolph Longstaff aka Abel Beaumarchais
those boon times went bust
my feet of clay, they dried to dust
the red isn't the red we painted
its just rust

Toreador Ancilla | Blush of Health | Enchanting Voice | Deceptive Aura

---

He let out a little chuckle at Geoffrey’s unintended joke. “I think we both know that I am.” Nasty.

“Jackson, huh? So Lodin actually bit the dust. I don’t know that I would have put money on Jackson to succeed him. Meh.” He shrugged. “Occasionally I ship something to the area, but I haven’t been back since ‘93. Discretion being the better part of valor, and all that. I floored it out of there and never looked in the rear-view mirror.”

One domain was pretty much like the next. He didn’t maintain any illusions of sentimentality or loyalty to any of the places he’d lived throughout the years.

Abel nodded at Sergine’s polite refusal, but didn’t linger on it. They’d exchanged polite introductions and that was fine.

Instead, he pulled another mini-bar bottle from his trench coat pocket and held it up to Dio. “How about you? Curious?” he asked, tilting the bottle back and forth slightly so that the amber liquid caught in the focused lighting of the exhibit room. “With us being next-door neighbors and all, I feel like some hospitality is warranted on my part. At the risk of being unfashionable,” he added, clearly not that terribly worried about the prospect of his social standing being damaged through association with the Anarch leader.

Sergine’s laser inquiry about Clearwater got a tag-on from Abel. “Yes, do tell. Brave soldiers out there on the front lines.” That pile of angry, wide-eyed ragamuffins was basically standing directly between him and the shovelheads the Brujah was just talking about. By that logic he had a vested interest in their continued existence.

Rudolph Longstaff aka Abel Beaumarchais
those boon times went bust
my feet of clay, they dried to dust
the red isn't the red we painted
its just rust

Toreador Ancilla | Blush of Health | Enchanting Voice | Deceptive Aura

---

Exhibit: The Etruscans - A Mysterious Italian People

Abel was mid-sip when the voice spoke up from behind him. Despite the fact that he knew others were around, he hadn’t noticed the other man’s approach. He almost spilled his drink.  Turning, he stared for just a second, but then laughed when he recognized the figure. “Hell has nothing to do with it, despite all evidence to the contrary.”

With his free hand, he reached out to grasp Geoffrey's, and gave it a brisk brief shake. Civility to keep the beast at bay.

“This is the part where you say, ‘it's good to see you’, and I return with, ‘it's good to be seen’,” he said with a grin, squinting slightly and running a hand over his closely-shorn scalp.

“You're not here to deliver more torture p orn, I hope. If so, please return to sender.” A casual joke to reference their first meeting. Throwing crass humor at genuine trauma, as if to defiantly deny it any purchase.

He followed that with a reference to the last time he'd seen the man, making an exaggerated glance behind the Gangrel. “No lupines nipping at your heels, either…?”

Abel opened one side of his trenchcoat like a stereotypical street-seller of stolen goods. Or flasher. “It's a bit dry in here tonight." The interior pocket held a line of small bottles sticking out just past the lining.  "Thirsty?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows and chuckling. Then he snatched one of the bottles and held it out; a mini-bar sized glass vessel containing an amber liquid.

His emerald gaze flicked to the approaching figure. “You seem to have brought a plus-one to this impromptu party. Maybe I should set up a bar.”