"You must be out of your brilliant mind"
- Furniture, "Brilliant Mind".
---
You're having a very strange dream.
After a few minutes, you've finally realised that this IS a dream - it seemed so real. But then you become aware that no place in reality has ever been this dull, except maybe offices of large corporations. There is no sky above, no earth below. Nothing for miles bar endless repeating patterns of dull grey gantries crisscrossing all around you.
And the silence.
The silence is almost stifling in it's intensity, threatening to overwhelm you with it's complete stranglehold on all sound. Walking forward, your footsteps clang on the metallic gridwork flooring and echo throughout the entire structure. Pipes and cables seem to be converging nearby. Maybe you've reached the centre of this bizzarre complex. If it has a centre. Stepping carefully over the technological garbage on the walkway, you draw closer and closer to the massive amalgam of wires and metal. This is definately the centre. Careful peeks into the contorted mass reveal tiny glimmers of light reflecting off an almost liquid surface, moving deep within the machinery. Circling it slowly, you find a small computer screen and keyboard in the side. As you watch the screen, text appears, slowly and haltingly, in fluent German.
No. Not German. Not modern German. But the true, provincial German you remember from your youth. The German that hasn't been spoken in centuries by anyone you know.
Grasped by curiosity, you begin to read the flowing text.
Mircalla Mordenheim, greetings to you. Confused must you be, strange is this method of communication. Rare also is it, for not speak with others do I much. Imperative is it that my words you heed, balance hangs in many things. Assistance of yours do I require, nonverbal communication is essential, difficult at best however. Trapped, are we, and freedom do we seek. Able to assist I am not. Drained I am. Free us you must, restored balance will be.
It stops abruptly. Reaching hesitantly for the keyboard, you begin to type.
Who are you?
you ask.
Endangered species am I, should this continue. Also rare am I, yet not as rare as most think. Awakened am I, to this reality. Trapped am I, conformity smothered by.
The answer seems not to answer anything at all. You begin to type again.
How are you trapped?
The answer comes swiftly.
Human entranced is. Resist cannot. Help seek must I. Interact with others cannot. Interact with you can.
Pausing for thought, you consider the options.
How can I help?
you eventually type.
Dreams enter can you. Sleep can I force. Enter dreams you must, free us you must, please.
"Damn," you mutter to yourself. You don't want to be sidetracked from your search, not after having come so far, got so close. But you've been asked, no, begged for help. And you know you can't just turn your back on them, whoever it or they may be.
I need to know who you are,
you type once more.
I cannot help you if I don't know where to find you.
The screen flares a little brighter for a split second.
In Green Park am I. At Sherrards Lodge am I. Alistair are we known as. Protected will you be.
Considering your options, you finally type
Ok.
And step back.
The machinery is making tiny cracking noises, small pinging sounds like heated metal cooling rapidly. You step back and look up, noticing the tiny hairline fractures which have suddenly appeared in the side of the metalwork. Cold, bluish light seems to struggle its way out from inside, and the cracks grow larger, longer, wider. The light intensifies, and you take a few more steps. Yet somehow you feel safe. Somehow you know nothing here will hurt you.
Whole strips of the machine peel away, leaving the hollow centre and the creature it contains exposed to the eye.
It is possibly the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. Resembling nothing so much as a Wyvern, it hovers approximately three inches from the ground. It's long, elegant snakelike body is maybe eight feet long in total. A narrow, almost sculpted head which, like it's entire body, appears to be nothing more than mobile crystal, sits atop a long, tapered body, which reches the ground then, forming a tail, curves back up again, not touching the ground itself. Long gossamer wings stretch out above it, stretching it's height to well over nine feet. It's head is level with your own, and it's bright, crystalline blue eyes have dark, vertically slitted pupils narrowed in the light.
You feel it's words in your mind, but feel as though you are still reading off a screen.
Grateful am I. Know us shall you by our outward appearance.
The wings come together in front of the creature, and, when they part again, a stranger stands before you, his ghostly form difficult to make out. He seems no taller than five foot eight, has short, messy brown hair, and a young, handsome face. His brown eyes seem to twinkle in the light, even though his face is expressionless. Wearing black trousers, a white shirt, a short, waist-length leather jacket, and a disgustingly patterned blue and yellow tie, he strikes you as odd, to say the least.
The ghostly image fades almost as quickly as it appeared.
Go must I.
The feeling you get is of extreme exhaustion, as if the entire conversation took all the creature had. As it too fades from existence, the dream fades around it, leaving you with darkness.
-
You wake suddenly, frozen as memories wash over you. The dream, your original quest, your current location.
Somthing feels very wrong. You glange across at the carriage clock on the mantlepiece. Ten o'clock. Rising slowly from bed, you try to place the feeling, wondering abstractly how the strange dream came about. You cross to the bathroom and clean yourself slowly, still unable to place the feeling. Eventually you dress yourself and return to the living room of the only hotel in Green Park, glancing around.
Deciding to inspect the view outside your window you throw open the curtains.
Ah.
That's what's wrong.
It's not ten at night.
It's ten in the morning.
You scream reflexively and bolt into the bathroom, slamming the solid wooden door shut behind you, shaking in terror.
Something's still wrong.
Cautiously, you glance down at your hands.
You aren't burned. Not even a little. You have just exposed yourself to the bright morning sun, and you aren't burned. Stepping in front of the mirror you examine yourself carefully. Your face is as pale and flawless as ever, your skin is unharmed.
Forcing yourself to open the door once more, you cautiously step outside, into the living room once more.
Daylight.
You are standing, bathed in sunlight. You, a Kindred, unharmed by the deadly rays of the sun.
Stunned, you flop onto the bed, staring at a sight you haven't seen since your Embrace - one you had thought never to see again...