To Matthias
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IamLEAM1983
- Site Admin
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- Location: Quebec, Canada
To Matthias
How does the Kenning affect you, exactly? If Max Schreck is still around, how does it affect him?
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IamLEAM1983
- Site Admin
- Posts: 3709
- Joined: Tue Jan 08, 2013 4:54 am
- Location: Quebec, Canada
As Matthias
"As with most other bloodlines, the exact circumstances behind my kind's emergence are shrouded in mystery. As much as we have been able to ascertain, the first of us to exhibit the Kenning emerged in Athens. He or she had sought out knowledge above all human decency, and was cursed for their hubris. Our thirst for knowledge has been endless from this day forth, and far outpaces our thirst for blood. If we give in, indescribable joy is ours - all the while Mankind fades away. Those of us who dig too deep and too far come to commit unspeakable acts in the name of their monstrous curiosity, and do so with a scholar's hopeful grin and a gleam of passion.
Max once was a... passion project of mine. A forgotten Slovakian despot with ties to one of the last great Wyrm houses, he once imprisoned what he believed to be a weak and harmless monk. I told him I could give him time enough to research for ways to rip his wife from the clutches of death itself. I did give him eternity, in the end, but failed to do so in time. His wife, Elisabeta, died from pneumonia, heartbreak and terror combined.
Terror and heartbreak I caused.
The search for simples and poultices turned into the pursuit of necromancy, the defilement of dozens of bodies and his gorging upon hundreds of innocent throats - until he had none left. Nobody left, except for the rats skittering between his keep's blackened stones. I'd fled long ago. He barely noticed. He forgot all but the haziest suggestion of his wife's features, could only recall them if fed three young women. Clarity came and left in the same instant - and was always followed by pain.
Alone with his Kenning, Max had no-one to affirm his humanity with. He turned into a feral beast with an eye for the Eldritch and the profane, feeding on his rats' domain until they came to obey him out of sheer terror - until they fled ahead of him in a squeaking mass of red eyes that eventually reached my ears, back in France. Interest in the undead touched my shores, and eventually reached England, where a compatriot of Max's regaled an Irish playwright with tall tales and misremembered historical facts.
Then... World War One and the fall of Germany's Weimar Republic, a decade of refinement and debauchery, the specter of Fascism - and an up-and-coming director with a penchant for tyranny and an obsessive eye for realism. Max was pulled out of the shadows like a fat tick out of a dog's fur, and people now stood ready to disturb his pursuits. You've annoyed him from this day forth, but also proved to be indispensable. He might spit or vituperate, his Kenning no longer is a bottomless pit in which his nights are tossed. That fool Friedrich gave him another neck to latch onto - that of the Septième Art - of cinema itself - and from it he has gorged himself."
Matthias smirks sadly.
"I am a scientist, as I've been since the Enlightenment - and he has become a YouTube-era film critic. He finally found his true perspective on immortality; and found it on celluloid and in 1080p resolution."
Max once was a... passion project of mine. A forgotten Slovakian despot with ties to one of the last great Wyrm houses, he once imprisoned what he believed to be a weak and harmless monk. I told him I could give him time enough to research for ways to rip his wife from the clutches of death itself. I did give him eternity, in the end, but failed to do so in time. His wife, Elisabeta, died from pneumonia, heartbreak and terror combined.
Terror and heartbreak I caused.
The search for simples and poultices turned into the pursuit of necromancy, the defilement of dozens of bodies and his gorging upon hundreds of innocent throats - until he had none left. Nobody left, except for the rats skittering between his keep's blackened stones. I'd fled long ago. He barely noticed. He forgot all but the haziest suggestion of his wife's features, could only recall them if fed three young women. Clarity came and left in the same instant - and was always followed by pain.
Alone with his Kenning, Max had no-one to affirm his humanity with. He turned into a feral beast with an eye for the Eldritch and the profane, feeding on his rats' domain until they came to obey him out of sheer terror - until they fled ahead of him in a squeaking mass of red eyes that eventually reached my ears, back in France. Interest in the undead touched my shores, and eventually reached England, where a compatriot of Max's regaled an Irish playwright with tall tales and misremembered historical facts.
Then... World War One and the fall of Germany's Weimar Republic, a decade of refinement and debauchery, the specter of Fascism - and an up-and-coming director with a penchant for tyranny and an obsessive eye for realism. Max was pulled out of the shadows like a fat tick out of a dog's fur, and people now stood ready to disturb his pursuits. You've annoyed him from this day forth, but also proved to be indispensable. He might spit or vituperate, his Kenning no longer is a bottomless pit in which his nights are tossed. That fool Friedrich gave him another neck to latch onto - that of the Septième Art - of cinema itself - and from it he has gorged himself."
Matthias smirks sadly.
"I am a scientist, as I've been since the Enlightenment - and he has become a YouTube-era film critic. He finally found his true perspective on immortality; and found it on celluloid and in 1080p resolution."