VoidManifesto
Howling Wolf
Where to start?
An old man once said, those who wish to understand the nature of life need to do away with those things keeping them away from death's certainty. Somewhere deep underneath the dirt, the stone and metal, an old vestige of a soul sat on a craggy piece of rock. His skin was tougher than rock itself, but it did not challenge the rocks shape. In front of him, a soft slope of mud lead to an underground River. It's clean blueness and gentle shimmer were the only thing enlightening the cave. For some it might have been little to no illumination, but for him it felt like the lights of the brightest chandelier. If the world might have been able to see him at this very moment, one might wonder whether they'd see a kindred in the body of a man or a man in the body of a kindred. His skin was pail as any other of his kind but different in a way. His naked back and legs were inscribed with names of what one could imagine to be places or people. Long dark hair covered both his cheeks and from the back of his head all the way down to the back of his waist. It was a hindrance, but a well accepted one for him. One he'd grown accustomed to. His physical appearance was that of a muscular, broad shouldered man in his early forties. Covered with hair as he was, the only facial feature one could truly grasp had to be the lush crimson colour of his eyes all but disconnected eyes. It was something very similar to how children like to pretend to be used to fireworks after the second or third time they look at them some times. Specially among boys who reacted fearfully the first time. The old creature was afraid, but this fear was nothing if not an old friend of his. Eternally cursed and yet terrified by the idea of salvation, some might have said. Time flew fast within this old man's cave. Weeks, sometimes months passed without him reacting to anything specific. Simply waiting for his mind to be able to find a way to continue. The continuation of his life or it's last soliloquy? He did not know. Far behind his rock, a tunnel led to another much larger cave. In it, a stench of unknowable human sorrow expanded upon hills and hills of lifeless bones, decomposing flesh and all forms of life that accompanies death. On the very centre of this oval cavern, a tall thin altar like pyramid with a central drainage leading towards the very craggy rock it's lord and master was sitting in. For some mysterious reason, the very smell of death never really crossed the natural arc of the tunnel leading to him. The old being had never specifically decided to block the stench from his chamber, nor did he know how to, but there was an undeniable acknowledgement within himself that he was responsible for it.
One day, unlike many others I assure you, he stood up and moved up and down the slope leading to his beloved flow of water. This was very unlike him, the old being had been capable of staying barely awake with the little blood given to him regularly, which still was more than most kindred used in the first twelve months since their birth. He felt old, decrepit even in his dependence of blood. He'd become either useless or a possible instrument of those aware of his existence. He wanted to feel alive once more, feel the light of day or at the very least grasp at immortality once more as something more than a mere strain to bear. Every step felt as hard as a baby first ones he imagined. Solitude might be an excellent lover, but a destructive one at that. He'd forgotten his original name, so he decided to choose a new one, Philon, the lover (of solitude, in his case). With every step up and down, he remembered forgetting so many things. The fear of not being able to grasp for air, the coldness of winter, the warmth of a lover's eyes. He'd forgotten these for so long, but he understood how far away he was from being able to grasp them again. Life means loss and very few had lost more than Philon had. He who once was famed for his memory have had enough at one point. Due to what, he could not remember, he WOULD NOT remember. There where only two things he truly feared, the river right underneath him and the one piece of memory he simply could not dare to remember. At last, it was this moment who pushed him to the brink. Almost instantly, he slid down into the stream of water and as he did, his skin began to boil into hundreds of spider eggs. His eyes, barely capable of functioning under sunlight almost immediately imploded as he lost awareness of his surroundings for a bit underwater. With one clasp of his left had, he formed a handle within the river bed's unruffled hardness. Knowing how little time he had left, he swam as hard as he could against the flow, back towards his cave, but to no avail. Soon enough the very handle formed by his own strength had become too much of a burden for him to bear. Unwillingly his fingers let go off it surrounded by what he imagined had to be the Webster definition of excruciating pain.
"Along time ago,
my name was not Philon, nor Lisandros, nor ptolemaios. I'd simply been a fisherman. And as a fisherman I lived among the fish, ocean and the sand. I wasn't really a fisherman, but I lived the life of one of my own choosing. I had a wife and men knew me. They knew who I was. I was Felix, I might have been the follower of those I deemed better, but I was happy. I had no need for hiding and I was not afraid of killing nor of siring. My children were fishermen just like me and we all loved each other like any family would. We hunted and were no prey, I was not a man, but I was capable of love beyond anything men will ever be able to grasp. I was no animal, and yet my blood-lust grew beyond that of any living being. When I leaped into the skies, I never once feared the fall, but the day flying would become meaningless. I was no Kindred, nor a vampire, nor a Lamia, I was domus to all but my equals. And nobody was my equal but those of my home, my Rome.”
By the time he woke up, his body lay charred to little more than hardened dust on the shore of an underground lake. He could feel the sunlight gone for the day from the river's reflections. He felt no pain, but he wasn't able to do much more than think. He felt powerless and then asleep. During his dream, there was no desperation, no sadness, rather childlike excitement. For after a long time, he'd remembered something worth living for. He'd broken through the centuries of decadence in his very last moment. There was no dream, no feeling, only the memory of something worth striving for beyond the decadent life of a kindred. An ideal, or maybe a promise. A promise to strive once more for something beyond the hunger, but with the hunger. To strive beyond the power, but with it. To not simply feed from humans, but rather grow beyond them. That was a promise Kindred long forgot, but he'd been able to remember and he would never forget. On the first of April of 2015, he finally woke up. Around next to him, the body of a naked slain man bled next to him. Every drop of blood would have been enough to awaken his power, but an entire body after so long meant he'd regain his shape. Within seconds, his old body rebuild itself. His tattoos, not gone but moved to his legs as four letters SPQR. This time not written in some kind of innate tattoo imprint but rather scars of the brink of bleeding. As he stood up, there was no more weakness in his body. His powers might not have returned, but he felt awoken for the first time in over a millennium. He soon discovered how his food had created an underground caveman society without anyone checking on them. Philon fed on them all, the men, the women, specially the deliciousness of young life. It all felt so enriching for once. Naked, bathed in blood and not fully aware in which part of the cavernous complex he was, he simply followed the rivers direction until his finally reached his old Rock. With what felt like a soft caress, his very hand swiped half of the rock with little to no effort. He might only been asleep for a year or two, but he felt different beyond all his expectations. The light of day was not shimmering down the very river who'd almost killed him. Once again, he jumped in. This time however his body flew against it's flow so powerfully that it's very turned around for a few moments. The watery way went upwards for quite some time but his body did not feel any strain. Air was not one of his needs. Soon enough, he could feel the night's embrace and the moonlight reflecting upon the waters. After one final swipe of his arms, his body flew out a waterfall into a desert cannon in the middle of the desert. He knew this place very well, for it had been his home for several years before he'd decided to isolate himself. Soon enough, he climbed his way up the cannon and ran at a speed little beyond that of an average human towards a rather small pyramid structure made out of red stone. On one side, a massive wood gate he simply broke through with ease. Inside, a large staircase led downward into a larger complex. The complex was empty, but someone clearly kept it clean on a regular basis. Also, some of the furniture and electric ware had been clearly updated. Not actually knowing how to use any of these new tools. Philon moved towards the only apparatus who looked remotely like a telephone. He marked the service number “333” and the soft voice of a young woman immediately appeared from the other side. It took her a moment to grasp where the call came from, but as soon as she saw my old name. She reacted somewhere between terrified and flirty. Philon could not help but grin at the young thing's attention. Silence overcame him, when had it been the last time a woman's reaction had mattered to him. After a minute or so of silence, he simply said. “Yes, it's me. I need you to send someone over here immediately. Also please inform the main branch of my awakening. I will make further arrangements in weeks to come, but that should suffice for now. Thank you.” Philon hung up nonchalantly after that and wondered: “I wonder where could I get some vestments around here...?”
An old man once said, those who wish to understand the nature of life need to do away with those things keeping them away from death's certainty. Somewhere deep underneath the dirt, the stone and metal, an old vestige of a soul sat on a craggy piece of rock. His skin was tougher than rock itself, but it did not challenge the rocks shape. In front of him, a soft slope of mud lead to an underground River. It's clean blueness and gentle shimmer were the only thing enlightening the cave. For some it might have been little to no illumination, but for him it felt like the lights of the brightest chandelier. If the world might have been able to see him at this very moment, one might wonder whether they'd see a kindred in the body of a man or a man in the body of a kindred. His skin was pail as any other of his kind but different in a way. His naked back and legs were inscribed with names of what one could imagine to be places or people. Long dark hair covered both his cheeks and from the back of his head all the way down to the back of his waist. It was a hindrance, but a well accepted one for him. One he'd grown accustomed to. His physical appearance was that of a muscular, broad shouldered man in his early forties. Covered with hair as he was, the only facial feature one could truly grasp had to be the lush crimson colour of his eyes all but disconnected eyes. It was something very similar to how children like to pretend to be used to fireworks after the second or third time they look at them some times. Specially among boys who reacted fearfully the first time. The old creature was afraid, but this fear was nothing if not an old friend of his. Eternally cursed and yet terrified by the idea of salvation, some might have said. Time flew fast within this old man's cave. Weeks, sometimes months passed without him reacting to anything specific. Simply waiting for his mind to be able to find a way to continue. The continuation of his life or it's last soliloquy? He did not know. Far behind his rock, a tunnel led to another much larger cave. In it, a stench of unknowable human sorrow expanded upon hills and hills of lifeless bones, decomposing flesh and all forms of life that accompanies death. On the very centre of this oval cavern, a tall thin altar like pyramid with a central drainage leading towards the very craggy rock it's lord and master was sitting in. For some mysterious reason, the very smell of death never really crossed the natural arc of the tunnel leading to him. The old being had never specifically decided to block the stench from his chamber, nor did he know how to, but there was an undeniable acknowledgement within himself that he was responsible for it.
One day, unlike many others I assure you, he stood up and moved up and down the slope leading to his beloved flow of water. This was very unlike him, the old being had been capable of staying barely awake with the little blood given to him regularly, which still was more than most kindred used in the first twelve months since their birth. He felt old, decrepit even in his dependence of blood. He'd become either useless or a possible instrument of those aware of his existence. He wanted to feel alive once more, feel the light of day or at the very least grasp at immortality once more as something more than a mere strain to bear. Every step felt as hard as a baby first ones he imagined. Solitude might be an excellent lover, but a destructive one at that. He'd forgotten his original name, so he decided to choose a new one, Philon, the lover (of solitude, in his case). With every step up and down, he remembered forgetting so many things. The fear of not being able to grasp for air, the coldness of winter, the warmth of a lover's eyes. He'd forgotten these for so long, but he understood how far away he was from being able to grasp them again. Life means loss and very few had lost more than Philon had. He who once was famed for his memory have had enough at one point. Due to what, he could not remember, he WOULD NOT remember. There where only two things he truly feared, the river right underneath him and the one piece of memory he simply could not dare to remember. At last, it was this moment who pushed him to the brink. Almost instantly, he slid down into the stream of water and as he did, his skin began to boil into hundreds of spider eggs. His eyes, barely capable of functioning under sunlight almost immediately imploded as he lost awareness of his surroundings for a bit underwater. With one clasp of his left had, he formed a handle within the river bed's unruffled hardness. Knowing how little time he had left, he swam as hard as he could against the flow, back towards his cave, but to no avail. Soon enough the very handle formed by his own strength had become too much of a burden for him to bear. Unwillingly his fingers let go off it surrounded by what he imagined had to be the Webster definition of excruciating pain.
"Along time ago,
my name was not Philon, nor Lisandros, nor ptolemaios. I'd simply been a fisherman. And as a fisherman I lived among the fish, ocean and the sand. I wasn't really a fisherman, but I lived the life of one of my own choosing. I had a wife and men knew me. They knew who I was. I was Felix, I might have been the follower of those I deemed better, but I was happy. I had no need for hiding and I was not afraid of killing nor of siring. My children were fishermen just like me and we all loved each other like any family would. We hunted and were no prey, I was not a man, but I was capable of love beyond anything men will ever be able to grasp. I was no animal, and yet my blood-lust grew beyond that of any living being. When I leaped into the skies, I never once feared the fall, but the day flying would become meaningless. I was no Kindred, nor a vampire, nor a Lamia, I was domus to all but my equals. And nobody was my equal but those of my home, my Rome.”
By the time he woke up, his body lay charred to little more than hardened dust on the shore of an underground lake. He could feel the sunlight gone for the day from the river's reflections. He felt no pain, but he wasn't able to do much more than think. He felt powerless and then asleep. During his dream, there was no desperation, no sadness, rather childlike excitement. For after a long time, he'd remembered something worth living for. He'd broken through the centuries of decadence in his very last moment. There was no dream, no feeling, only the memory of something worth striving for beyond the decadent life of a kindred. An ideal, or maybe a promise. A promise to strive once more for something beyond the hunger, but with the hunger. To strive beyond the power, but with it. To not simply feed from humans, but rather grow beyond them. That was a promise Kindred long forgot, but he'd been able to remember and he would never forget. On the first of April of 2015, he finally woke up. Around next to him, the body of a naked slain man bled next to him. Every drop of blood would have been enough to awaken his power, but an entire body after so long meant he'd regain his shape. Within seconds, his old body rebuild itself. His tattoos, not gone but moved to his legs as four letters SPQR. This time not written in some kind of innate tattoo imprint but rather scars of the brink of bleeding. As he stood up, there was no more weakness in his body. His powers might not have returned, but he felt awoken for the first time in over a millennium. He soon discovered how his food had created an underground caveman society without anyone checking on them. Philon fed on them all, the men, the women, specially the deliciousness of young life. It all felt so enriching for once. Naked, bathed in blood and not fully aware in which part of the cavernous complex he was, he simply followed the rivers direction until his finally reached his old Rock. With what felt like a soft caress, his very hand swiped half of the rock with little to no effort. He might only been asleep for a year or two, but he felt different beyond all his expectations. The light of day was not shimmering down the very river who'd almost killed him. Once again, he jumped in. This time however his body flew against it's flow so powerfully that it's very turned around for a few moments. The watery way went upwards for quite some time but his body did not feel any strain. Air was not one of his needs. Soon enough, he could feel the night's embrace and the moonlight reflecting upon the waters. After one final swipe of his arms, his body flew out a waterfall into a desert cannon in the middle of the desert. He knew this place very well, for it had been his home for several years before he'd decided to isolate himself. Soon enough, he climbed his way up the cannon and ran at a speed little beyond that of an average human towards a rather small pyramid structure made out of red stone. On one side, a massive wood gate he simply broke through with ease. Inside, a large staircase led downward into a larger complex. The complex was empty, but someone clearly kept it clean on a regular basis. Also, some of the furniture and electric ware had been clearly updated. Not actually knowing how to use any of these new tools. Philon moved towards the only apparatus who looked remotely like a telephone. He marked the service number “333” and the soft voice of a young woman immediately appeared from the other side. It took her a moment to grasp where the call came from, but as soon as she saw my old name. She reacted somewhere between terrified and flirty. Philon could not help but grin at the young thing's attention. Silence overcame him, when had it been the last time a woman's reaction had mattered to him. After a minute or so of silence, he simply said. “Yes, it's me. I need you to send someone over here immediately. Also please inform the main branch of my awakening. I will make further arrangements in weeks to come, but that should suffice for now. Thank you.” Philon hung up nonchalantly after that and wondered: “I wonder where could I get some vestments around here...?”
