The Broken

The night is colder than the news tells, filled with the old shadows and older bones as the Lone bird stalks the road. Overhead the crows and ravens follow, hopping and gliding from roofs and powerlines, keeping pace with their caretaker as he travels home after another showing at the never ending line of pageantry.

Yet another has come forth to plea their case for a childer or introduce their neonates for the society to recognize. Yet another body to the ever pregnant clans of the present. Overflowing with their members and never having to wonder what it is like to be a part of something more rare and almost extinct.

They do not have to watch their families dwindle and rest on the word of self-appointed kings to allow them to try and grow their ranks. They only have to face a no and pout that they were denied while their clans trip over each other with how many there are.

Spoiled the lot of them.

It has become clear as the purest crystal that his and his lone childer are nothing more than vanity pieces. Something to point at and say how wonderous it is to have such old and rare blood call their city home. Arent we special for having them here while all other cities are filled with the standard stock.

They have no plans to allow his clan to grow or prosper. They will throw their pity and faux wonderment at his feet as if trying placate them into compliance and accepting their lot. They deny the need for new members for his own cause while allowing the ones that turned his people into the nearly-extinct walk freely.

Yet, that isnt the only murderers they let walk like so, seeing how close they keep the slayers of Saulot close to hip. From all his travels and studies of the new clan ways, he has come to the conclusion of such.

The Anarchs are lawless children that run about screaming for change while doing nothing more. They yell and complain, spilling their venom on the streets and any written word they can access, but have no follow through other than cheap tricks and cruel set ups to cause riots. Yet their words hold truths and the causes have more weight. They foght against a stagnant force that doesnt allow for any growth of person and people. They have the spirit and passion for it, yet they are dismissed until others are forced to pay attention.

The Sabbat conduct themselves as Crusade for the word of Caine. They see their power and believe themselves evolved, better than where once they came from. They see fit to treat and kill humans, kine, as livestock for their amusement. The earth is theirs to inherit, regardless of the sun robbed from them by a bias god. They play the monsters because to them there was never a time they were human. Be the Beast that lives under the skin and you will forever be free.

The Tower are built on the need to keep their humanity. Hide from the world while pretending to be the Human they came from. They try to conduct themselves as needed and gentle, play to the audience that they are compassionate and fair. A last bastion of order in a world besieged. Yet when faced with the victims of the old crimes, they hide behind their deals and walls. They rather shake the hand of the Betraying party than see justice served for the wronged. They would sooner throw the Human away and disguise their deaths than allow true closure for the families left behind. The Tower is built on self-preservation and cowards, all designed to appear gallant and righteous.

The Independents are likely the freest of us all. They are not tied to another of the others, left to their own devices as long as they are quiet or well hidden in cases. Allowed to emerge themselves into the world at their own pace, find their place and how to keep themselves safe. Freer, yes, yet they lack structure and support. If they are in danger they have no one else to fall back on, they have no Tower to hide in, no Sword to direct, no Riot to get lost in. You are left to find a way out by either your knowledge of your surroundings or the help of what contacts you could have made. Their freedom comes with risk, if they deem it reasonable is the personal question of each that live like such.

He reaches his home, a quaint cottage-like place that during any other time of year would have flowers spilling over the gardens. A stark contrast to the man of winter winds and icy nights, yet the perfect compliment to his Wife. Pushing through the door and venturing to his study buried deep under the floor, he pulls out his journal and inkwell.

Four circles, with a single strength and weakness written in each, he continues his notes on the four sects of the modern Kindred. Lines that loop and connect each other like a web, bring the picture to light in his mind.

'Has the power, yet afraid to change
Has the will for change, yet has no power
Has the strong fellowships, yet clouded in their own lust
Has the freedom, yet no structure to build protect it'

Setting the pen down, he sits heavily in his seat feeling drained and old. His spirit is heavy, the ghosts of past locked and mourning their lost lives, the structures of clans old and new presented before him.

The people are scattered, fractured and aimless. They pull at the world's threads in every which way, tearing it apart in their pursuits of some unknown end. They refuse to see or believe in a time of Unity. They will pull and tear until the earth split and what laid dormant and buried spills over. The end will come not from what was written and what is preached.

To his eyes, the end comes when the broken clans finally rip the world apart.