The Ravenblack Grimoire

The city is balmy this time of year. The days are long and warm. The winter chill appears to have basically lifted and it seems to be daylight longer and longer into the night time hours. The grass is greener this time of year, and if you walk in the sun, there are flowers blooming and buds on the trees. A great deal of life stirring in this city of vampires and demonic creatures. This city primarily of the undead.

The war has ended and things are rather serene. A few vampires yelling about this or that, trying yet again to make people aware of their greatness that apparently STILL is only apparent to them and the few that allow them their time.

To some it may be sickening, but even before the sun rises, the birds are singing and the scent of the blooming flowers drifts upon the air. There is no way around the fact that summertime is approaching.

So things, they are reviving and coming alive to a new world. For many a leaf, a flower, a baby bird, they are experiencing this city, this world and this life for the first time, as our immortal and ancient souls scour it for food, many of us not even noticing, appreciating or even many times liking the sparkling new essence of renewal that surrounds us.

Amongst this change, is a phenomena that never ceases to amaze me. No matter the season, no matter the time, the same pathetic and repulsive acts continue. It is an act of shameful cowardice, and quantifies the very being (or lack of) in a vampire. What is this act you say?

Downtown, once you have passed the old dry creek bed, which many of us used as our water source back in the day before the underground plumbing. If you walk along Larch you will pass The Capadocian Castle... and though many will argue in the end, if Capadocian was a great vampire or if he was not, no one can deny the greatness of his estate. Nothing about summer nears the ancient and decrepit place, the trees remain barren, the grass remains brown and you never see birds flittering about upon his grounds... NEVER.

Directly across from this dark and gloomy compound there stands the graveyard. Pristine the graveyard remains, at all times. Black crows line the trees as visitors walk through in silence paying their respects. But there is another culprit there as well. who is this culprit you ask? it is the cowering, hiding sloth that has run to the graveyard in an attempt to avoid reprisals from a vampire or clan they have wronged.

Unable to behave properly in the city, these vampires usually strike fist, landing some HolyWater or GarlicSpray upon the head of the unsuspecting for something as petty as robbery. Only to find that the one they attacked THIS time is backed by a clan that has every intention of killing them for it. First they threaten, usually claiming to have some power with some non existing clan, then they taunt, then they plead, then they whine, then they head for the graveyard.

For me, my clan and my alliance. Running to the graveyard seals ones fate in the end. If there ever was any doubt about the ensuing zero (not that there ever really is). The act of such cowardice, swiftly seals the deal. The red wax is stamped with a great H and there is no turning back.

I do not understand it, I shall never understand it. But it is an ongoing process that never alters, even as this city rebounds into life and the warm summer breeze renewal