Pages from the Journal of Decimus Cassius Scipio, Page Four

September 11, 2010

I don’t understand where my life went. I wanted to be Seneschal. Plan Grand Elysium, discuss current affairs with my clients, be a respected member of my community.

I don’t even have time to eat. My people are dying. We’re squatting in tunnels like rats while my home burns above us. Baron Theta speaks to me like a child. And my childe is hurting, and he needs me. And I am impotent to help him. I should be home, talking him through this. Instead he sits in a state of madness and paralysis, surrounded by no one who can help him understand what is happening to him.

I have a son who needs his father. And I’m not even allowed the time to tell him it will be alright.

My life is an unending nightmare of gods and monsters, blood and death. I joined the Invictus to serve a higher ideal. I joined the Methuselahs to protect the Invictus from outside forces it was not equipped to defend itself from. Where are the peaceful nights of my youth? Where are the rituals that appeased the gods, allowing us the beauty of debate, the serenity of the dance, the intricacy of the political machine?

All is chaos and fire and war. My life is a nightmare. I am in torpor, and I have not woken up. There is no other excuse for my life.

Viscount Valens must be in worse shape than myself. Even I felt foolish, stumbling through my own first test. At least I didn’t have Theta dragging me along, condemning my ideas and forcing me to walk along his path. It was unjust. Her test has been robbed from her, and I doubt she feels she has proven herself worthy of the honor of joining us.

Maybe because the Methuselahs don’t want her. If so, it was cruelly done. I owe her more than that. It’s alright. This is probably a torpor nightmare. If so, maybe that didn’t actually happen to her. It would explain my torture at the hands of The Gift of Isis, Isadora. Torture always happens in torpor dreams.

I don’t know. I stopped being able to tell when I am awake and when I am sleeping. Maybe I have it backwards. Maybe I awoke to a pleasant conversation with Marquise Stephanie Narcissa for a brief moment before plunging back into the nightmares. Maybe my dreams would be a welcome reprieve from what I face in waking hours. I do not know.

I’m tired. I feel ill. My estate is in disrepair, and I sleep in filth alongside a childe who is denied the comfort of a parent. Torpor would be easier than this. Death would as well.

Assuming I’m awake, or that our strange vision had truth to it, maybe I will die to stop this. It is, after all, what I asked of God. A new curse, a new death, to rise above my current station. It did not happen in my test. Maybe the test is bleeding out into the world. Maybe this is my test.

Or maybe, just maybe, God has decided I’m not allowed to continue living.

I’m frightened, and alone. And above all, I despise what my life has become. At this point, death might just be a welcome reprieve from this nightmare.



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