Geoffrey Wodeward


To all things housed in her silence

Nature offers a violence

---

Geoffrey turned his head to watch the scene with a flinty look on his face. It wasn't quite anger or outrage, but something that stirred him anyways.

"In my warmer days, our lord was called to war and took his household with him." On the opposite side of the dark forest, the faint shadows of whatever conflict of the time. A castle under prolonged siege; an archer aiming an arrow through a narrow slat at an enemy beyond; getting him straight through the visor of his helmet and through the eye. Returning to a field camp with a few rabbits and other small game animals strung together. Picking up a sword off a corpse in a field of corpses and walking away with it slung over his shoulder. The scenes weren't as brilliant and charged; eroded around the edges from time, far more distant in memory.

"My younger brother, Henry, wanted very much to go with me, but he was too young. We left him behind with our father to watch the land." He turned his head to look. Half at Yorick, half over his shoulder.

"You seem to be about his age, there."

The shadow that followed them on the road didn't take full shape. A ghostly outline of a memory: a younger brother who'd idolized an elder one, who'd wanted to emulate him, follow in his footsteps. It followed at a pace for awhile, then stopped to watch them go ahead without him. Faded into the distance as they gort closer to the town until he finally disappeared.

"So did we." Another easy parallel; whatever his people were observed their own Masquerade, their own secrecy.  "Easiest to survive that way, not being known." Perhaps human wizards had learned the same bitter lessons as vampires had. Perhaps it was something else.

"You get used to it." He hunched forward on the horse, looking forward again. "You can get used to anything. Certainly, it's a curse, but it's not all misery. It doesn't have to be." He didn't elaborate, but the dreamscape took on the qualities of his thoughts to some degree. The stars shining just slightly brighter, the forest dark and terrifying, but full of adventure and potential to the daring.

"Tis. A month's travel over land once you get across the Channel by boat. Longer if you can't go by day." " He confirmed; the distance from his corner in the west of England where he'd lived and expected to die to the primeval forest on the opposite side of the continent. In a time when many people didn't go so far from their homes at all.

The gates opened for them. The scene in front of them flickered and warped, as if it couldn't decide which of two things it wanted to be. A bustling medieval castle town, mostly asleep by night save a few watchmen and the light from a tavern. Or a burned-out ruin of what was once a bustling medieval castle town. Ashes and cinders on the breeze, the smell of burned flesh and char and smoke in the air.

"Did you still think you might need something of his?" Geoffrey asked. Surveying the town a moment before urging the horse forward.

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!”

---

Clara's befuddlement is obvious as she looks down at the bottle. She looks back up at Alice and scans her face for any sign that she's changed in the hundred thirty, hundred forty years since they'd last seen each other. They'd been Embraced around the same time, struggling through a rapidly-changing world that even seasoned Kindred weren't able to cope with. It had been scary and it had been fun and it had all been so new. It strikes her that the Brujah probably wasn't missing the full century she was; she must be one tough customer indeed.

"Oh, these are Balmains..." French. Back in the day, that alone would've marked her as impossibly duded up. A village in upstate New York would've sent out search parties to rescue their missing idiot. The stitching under her breast pocket reads 'VERSACE' so that might preempt further inquiries as to her wardrobe, which on the aggregate costs about as much as a reasonably late-model used car, even if from a distance she wouldn't stand out from a crowd of farm-workers. "Goose, I ain't thought about that in decades. They sure din't expect the 'sister-wives from Alberta' to have Schofields and street howitzers in their steamer trunk, did they?"

It's surreal, but she might even remember it more clearly than Faith. She's only got a good forty or so years of memory as a Kindred, with a big black pit cut into the middle of it that hurts her emotionally and mentally to try and peer into. Nothing good happened to her then, not even in the prison of her torporous mind.

The Toreador flicks a wary glance toward the two Gangrel, then her big green eyes are fixed back onto her old... what, friend? Were they? They coulda been, but it's hard to say now. "Do we... should we hug?" The same thought worming through her mind. Can't underestimate another predator, even one you sorta know from back in the day. Or one like Sergine, a valuable colleague who's saved her sorry unlife multiple times by this point. "Are you just passin' through, or fit to stick around a while?"

---

Travis nodded to the other Gangrel, an acceptance of the friendly challenge that most other's probably didn't even catch. He was keen on the idea himself, and before the night was through they would come to an understanding of where there stood. It's the way. "Yessir" he says simply, turning his attention back to Abel for a moment as the Toreador prattles on about his brewed concoction.

He's listening intently as Abel explains a bit of the process, and the lore, behind the brewed beverage he is so proud of. He pulls the bottle back out of his hat and takes a quick swig, once again careful not to reveal too much of his mouth. He licks his lips then looks back to the Toreador. "you did good" He offers, corking the bottle and placing it back in his hat.

Travis took the chance to clap Dio on the back as they exit the circle, in much the same way as she did him earlier. "night" He says, then glances at Faith as she gets close enough to tip his hat down, if the bottle had fallen out he might not have been as friendly about her touching his hat, but she was playing nice, and he would too. "be that as it may... it weren't nothin personal" He says, in earnest.

He steps back a bit when Clara enters, there was something familiar about her. She reminded him of a shooter in the Buffalo Bills Wild West Show, the show he was aspiring to join before he took a turn and started robbing trains. She was real friendly with Faith, and that gave him reason to step aside and let the women talk amongst themselves.

Travis glances around the room; the Toreador and the scarface Brujah are talking about the brew, Annie Oakley and Calamity Jane are about to play catch up, so that left him and Geoffrey. "My dance card's empty, let's say we take this outside Wodeward?" He says with a mischievous look. "Gentleman's choice; pistols, knives, or bare knuckle"

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 glanced sideways at Sergine and their sudden question. They had the seeming of a sentry, or maybe a hawk. Watching, watching. After having fallen silent, though, it struck him as a somewhat suspicious segue, but maybe they were just idly curious. He didn’t want to unduly offend them, so he answered.  “Well, as I mentioned earlier, it’s beer.”

For a moment, it looked as though he was going to leave it at that. But then he became something of a barker. “Specially-formulated, of course, to be tolerated by the Kindred digestive system, but following a lot of the conventional processes of brewing - with a splash of a special ingredient. WINK,” he said, the ingredient in question being obvious.

“Perhaps you’re familiar with the art of blood preparation? For anyone who isn’t,” he spoke to the group, “blood culinarians turn blood into a digestible food product, and blood brewers turn it into a different kind of drink. I’ve dabbled with the former - some unfortunate attempts at flan - but the latter is where my heart lies. I didn’t originate the practice, of course, but I have done considerable research on the work of other pioneers from different clans. I mean, we can all agree that drinking blood is fantastic. Blah, blah, blah. But.” He raised a finger with a modicum of excitement. “What if it could be better?”

He shrugged. “After decades of the same kinds of feeding experiences, sometimes our kind get bored. Ask a Ventrue, right? Night in, night out, for years and years, same old same old. Kindred sometimes want to experience something nourishing but also different. Something that challenges the palate. Something a little bougie. That reawakens our sense of novelty or strikes nostalgia. It’s incredible the number of simple things one misses after just a couple of decades.”

Abel continued, thankfully not needing to even take a breath. “I have found recipes and references authored throughout time for this kind of drink in piles of languages including Quechua. That one was from who I think was a Malkavian who made a drink blending blood with fermented cassava root. Apparently, it only works if the cassava is processed manually in the mouths of kine, their saliva being the fermenting agent. When finished, though, it ends up tasting like buttermilk. Ugh - I wish I could get my hands on him! Unfortunately, he met the Final Death in 1969 and I haven’t been able to find any more of his writings.

“The recipe I’m currently using is adapted with a Nordic flair,” he said, gesturing with his hand, “from the earliest written record I’ve found on the topic. I traced the authorship back to another Toreador in eastern Europe, living in some dreadful Tzimisce’s domain right around the time the Inquisition was starting to fire up. Pre-Convention of Thorns, of course. It was obviously already an old draft, packed inside a box full of other correspondence found - as the legend goes - in a secret cellar beneath a burned-out herbalist’s shop. It was called the ‘Barbarian’s Drink’. Which makes me think the Toreador in question was Greek, because - as I’m sure you all know - they didn’t really love beer. Wine-drinkers. Another clue: it was written in Greek,” he joked, chuckling.