Clyde Maddick

[Strigus]

Clyde rested his head on Daphne's abdomen as the two of them lay together in bed. He was still not used to his condition, and was having trouble focusing on what she was saying as it competed with the voices that were his new constant companions.

Go out. Hunt. Kill. You're god now.

As they lay together, his sire absent-mindedly played with his hair as she continued to speak. She seemed to have a serious look on her face, from what he could tell, and no doubt was going over something important. The last few nights she had taught him a lot of important things.

Stay. Listen. She likes you.

The voices seemed loud for the moment, but even with his strange new condition he felt a sense of comfort, both from lying with his sire and from the trappings of their domain, and this comfort was enough to slowly quiet the voices. Without the competition, he was able to finally focus on his sire. She had taught him a lot in the last few nights, after all, and the least he could do was pay attention to the potentially life-saving information as she gave it.

"...acceptance. So, tomorrow I'm going to introduce you to Prince Picot, and hopefully he'll permit your presence. He loves artists, so you should be able to impress him. It's really important that you make a good impression, though. I need you to take this seriously. Can you do that for me?"

[Clyde Maddick]

"Yeah I can do that, I'm really trying, but tell me again. What's a, um, Prince?" Clyde asked, "Wait hold on is he, ahh shit, what are we, Malkavian?"

All of this was horrifyingly new to Clyde. How Hilarious that the world of the dead is so like mine, all wrapped up in power and bureaucracy, Clyde thought to himself. Wait, that's not my world anymore. Clyde had to correct himself, making the difference between himself and what he used to be would be crucial to survival now. Clyde couldn't afford to be absentminded about this. Too many things he had taken for granted were now deadly to him. The warmth and dancing of a fire was now a dance of death. The sun shining on his face now meant true death.

He likes art. We like art. Art is good. You should do art. Make him something. Yeah. Build him a thing. Statue. No, painting that's so regal. Yeah he's a prince. No he's crazy. I meant the prince, dummy. Don't you call me dummy, dummy. Make art. You talking to me. No I'm talking to him. Who the prince--

"Shut Up!" Clyde screamed, cutting Daphne off mid reply, again "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to scream. I wasn't talking to you" Clyde stammered, on the verge of tears, looking at the woman who dragged him into the world of the night. He leaned over and kissed her, lips trembling, soft and apologetic.

"I know you love me. I'm trying hard, I promise. I know you're helping me. Can you please say that again? They're loud... They're so loud..."

[Strigus]

Daphne pulled Clyde toward her, setting his head under her chin and crooning, "Shhhh. I know, I know. I wish I could give you more time to settle, but this introduction needs to happen pretty soon. A prince leads a city, and has rights over who can live under his domain. I try to keep to myself, and once he accepts you into the city I don't expect much more trouble, but he does need to accept you. And he's Clan Toreador, not Clan Malkavian, but that's not important right now. What's important is that you think about making a good impression."

[Clyde Maddick]

"Ok, the degenerates, right? You told me about them. Wait, I most definitely shouldn't call him that." Clyde caught himself quickly. Good impression, not nicknames. That's rude. He's like the king of Providence, Rhode Island. Like sucking up to patron, or gallery director. I've done this. I got this! Clyde started to feel better. He had only recently left the art world of the living. He still possessed the talents and tricks of any starving artist.

Good impressions kiddo. Art, friend, it's all about Art. Your mind is God. No problem. Just paint for him. Oh yes. Paint him. Paint the king. The new emperor. Be sure to give him good robes.

"The voices, Daphne, gave me a suggestion. Should I paint something for him? I mean, if he likes art. Or is he the sort of patron who likes artists more than the art they make? Because I know that type. We both know that type."

Clyde, as an artist, had always struggled between creative truth and practical gain. This time, however, it was an issue of life and death, not just money.

"Tell me about the prince. If I am going to make a good impression I need to know more about him. Not good to start a work without knowing about the subject."

[Strigus]

"Well, it's been a long while since I've really talked to him. He liked Dada, back when that was new. What a time the war was," she thought aloud, grinning, but then moved on without elaboration. "He's quite old, so whenever something is genuinely new he's fascinated by it. That's why I sired you too, come to think of it. Make him see what I saw in you, and I'm sure you'll impress him."

[Clyde Maddick]

Thirty minutes later Clyde found himself sitting on a stool in the middle of Daphne's studio, just adjacent to her room. He noticed that she had a large amount of space that belonged to her in this apartment complex. It was practically half a floor to itself near the very top of the building. At the moment Clyde was forbidden from opening any blinds at all. His sense of time and daylight was not yet practiced enough for Daphne's liking. She was very concerned that Clyde may lose himself in his art only to be burned to death by an open window at the unexpected breaking of the dawn.

So it was that Clyde sat in a dark room, surrounded by a multitude of art supplies, wondering how in the royal fuck he was supposed to impress a person he knew nothing about in order to even be allowed to exist within providence city limits. The bluster and confidence he had felt less than an hour ago had disappeared. The voices were being entirely unhelpful. They muttered about tuna fish, how tasty it was, and how disappointingly bloodless it seemed to be when taken out of supermarket packaging.

Maybe it's a metaphor? Clyde mused. Most of the time they give me too many ideas, and now, the fucking minute I need some fucking inspiration, they talk about fucking tuna. I don't even really like tuna. Why do my voices like tuna when I don't even like it? God, I feel like a fish on a hook. I bit just once and now I'm here. Pulled out of the water and thrown into a world of predators. 

--See, we do help--

Clyde picked up his brush and got to work on his next piece, something to impress a prince.

SPOILER: Click to show

Do you want me to describe the artwork here or should I reveal it once I am actually presenting it to the prince? (for dramatic purposes)

[Strigus]

Daphne's caution seemed wise. Just as Clyde felt himself getting into a groove and was handing the finer details of his piece, she rolled from the bed and approached him. He had sworn it had only been a few hours, but this clearly meant the full night had passed. Approaching from behind, she put a hand on his shoulder and said, "I'm going to get ready. Make sure you're all set to leave when I am. We'd hate to leave the Prince waiting." Making his last finishing touches to the piece and whatever preparations he needed himself, the two set off not too long after.

---

The pair arrived at a grandiose neoclassical museum, where Daphne gave a knock and, despite being well after hours, the large doors opened for them despite no one being present to do so. Once inside, Daphne motioned to some chairs where she, Clyde, and the artwork waited. The voices were refreshingly quiet, and so the time passed comfortably until a massive man arrived to collect them. He was dressed in modern military fatigues, but the large sword on his back hinted at a more advanced age. Most of his nose was missing, in the path of a large scar running across his face. "Daphne. He's your pick?" the man said with a flat tone.

"He is, Harris." Daphne didn't normally reply in so straightforward a manner. Whether this had to do with Harris or with court in general was yet to be seen.

Motioning for them to follow, Harris abruptly turned around and walked into the main hall of the museum. An exhibit on Ancient Egypt was apparently the main exhibit, and sitting amongst it was a man in an all white suit with a white rose pinned to his lapel. To his right, a bald yet androgynous figure stood wrapped what looked like a robe homemade out of sackcloth. The madness network immediately clued Clyde in that whoever that was, they belonged to Clan Malkavian. To his left, a scantily clad woman sat, leaning into his throne. She had a collar the was chained at some point behind the throne, but didn't seem to mind, her eyes opening only long enough to register Clyde's approach.

Once they had approached the throne, Harris announced in a much louder but equally emotionless voice, "Clyde Maddick, Childe of Daphne Ohlwright of Clan Malkavian. Present yourself to the Court of Prince Jacob Picot." The Prince himself simply watched with a bored expression.

[Clyde Maddick]

Clyde stepped forward only slightly, his canvas, and an easel to display his art with, underneath his left arm. He bowed, flourishing his right hand in a circular motion towards his stomach, then righted himself and looked around anxiously. He had never had to bow to anybody in a serious way before--god are we mocking him? that was a shitty bow-- Shut up. Clyde willed the voices silent, and proceeded to take in the surrounding room. Vampires seemed to be an odd sort. He did sort of dig the burlap style though. The look grew on him the more he viewed it. The chained woman seemed rather tacky though. Clyde wondered what kind of relationship existed there. The voices offered plenty of ideas before he forced them silent again. He was starting to get good at this game.

"Hello," Clyde began, "As he said my name is Clyde Maddick. To get to the point, I would very much like to be allowed to exist within your city. I am to understand that I need to display that I will either be of use, or of no hassle to you and the workings of the city. I would like to be the former, Mr., or should I say prince, Picot." Clyde began to unfold his easel and unwrap his painting. This is just like giving a pitch to a skeptical patron. Throw them a little off guard, but make them see that you see them as special and important, a step above the rest. And let them know they still have power.

"I understand that you are very busy, Prince Picot, and I also understand that I am very... sudden. Oftentimes, when I was working on commission, I would ask my patrons what kind of piece they wanted to see. Oftentimes they were looking for something to mount on the wall or put on display in some certain type of style. My true love is sculpture, but to make rent you have to do what people want. I will admit that I asked Daphne about you, Prince Picot. I at first thought about doing something regarding your experiences and tastes, to treat you as a patron. But to be honest that seemed like a really kiss-ass way of going about it. If you wanted a commission of something you could have it, no problem I'm willing to bet. And here I come, getting in the way of your business, only to give you something I think you would like? Honestly that might be even more disrespectful. So I decided to paint you something new, something you haven't seen before. I have painted me. I'm supposed to be presenting myself aren't I?" And with that Clyde unveiled his painting. 

The image was a painting of an underwater scene, with what seemed like moonlight coming down from the surface above. At the center of the scene floated Clyde, naked in the water, hair wild and flowing, impaled through the neck with a giant metal fishing hook attached to a chain that lead up to the surface above. The bubbles at the top of the painting were textured in a way that it was clear Clyde had just been thrown in, not caught, but bait. Compared to the rest of the space in the piece though, Clyde himself, thrashing, and bleeding in the turbulent, bubble filled water, did not take up much of the image. Most of the image consisted of fish of all sorts coming from all sides and all perspectives towards Clyde. Halibut, Salmon, Sharks, Anglerfish, Koi, you name it, all of them similar in one regard. All of them had long pointy vampiric fangs. 

Should one stare at the image of terror, blood, adrenaline, and lonely panic for long enough, one would begin to notice that they seemed to be swimming with the school of murderous fish. The viewer was not outside of the experience, interacting from afar, but instead a visceral part of it by force of perspective. This portrait was at the same time how Clyde felt, and how he imagined his very specific audience to view him.

Clyde paused for only a few seconds after his reveal and said quietly to all in the echoing room, "I am at your mercy."

[Strigus]

There was an uncomfortably long silence as Prince Picot observed the piece from his seat. Then he rose slowly, taking deliberate steps toward the painting in a needlessly dramatic fashion, before staring at it up close. His stone face broke into a slight smile for a moment, as he pulled a lighter out of his pocket and set the piece aflame.

"You amuse me, Mr. Maddick. And you may not realize it, but you just saved your own life. Almost a touch of a divine hand in it," he said, looking meaningfully at the vampire in the sackcloth. Pacing back and forth between the throne and the burning painting, he continued, "You see, I've had conflicting advice, and you've allowed me to fulfill both. I'm not sure if your sire mentioned this, but she never got my permission to embrace you. You have no right to exist. My pet Chastity," he motioned to the leashed woman, "wanted to pull you into the sun and watch you burn. Normally I'd concur, but the Seer saw something in you, and is always right."

"Our blessing is also our curse," the bald figure in sackcloth said in a monotone. "My visions are not some gift that is 'always right' without careful interpretation. Just as Daphne's impulsiveness is not a mess to be cleaned. It led to this childe, after all, and he shall give you what you seek."

"Yes, well, at any rate, I've set you aflame, so Chastity is satisfied. And I'll now allow you to survive long enough to fulfill your fate, so the Seer will be satisfied. Everyone here has there role, and everyone fits it so very neatly. A blessing and a curse, as seems to be the theme of the night. Indeed, the theme of our existence. I've been alive for a very, very long time, Mr. Maddick. I used to be shocked and awed and inspired, but now everything is so... reductive. Predictable. Simple. And I'm not just talking about art, either. Society at large, and each clan within it, all follow patterns that become clearer and clearer. Even betrayal loses it's kick.

"The Malkavians have been the one exception. Divinely inspired. And now that there's an artist among their midst... As I said, Mr. Maddick, you amuse me. Now I want you to excite me."

[Clyde Maddick]

Clyde recoiled instinctively from the fire, trying his best to muster courage and listen to the monologue stream from the prince's mouth. He listened intently, but as he did his mood began to sour from uncertainty into distaste.

For Clyde, at this moment, came to the realization that he really didn't like the Camarilla. While being allowed to live, the notion that a man he had never met had the right to light him ablaze was... unsettling. The right to exist, in Clyde's mind, rested in the fact of existence itself. It was not a right that could be retracted after the fact. The idea that this man, and the establishment he represented, had the right to kill Clyde, for no fault of his own, was baffling to him. But who in their right mind would argue about rights with the person holding a gun to their head? Not Clyde, certainly.

"Excitement? Does this have something to do with my 'Fate?' Clearly there's a secret here that I'm not in on. I'm happy to help in any way, if it means not becoming like my effigy, there." Clyde remarked, looking down at the puddle of melted paint and ash, the scent of burnt acrylic in the air. "Though, I suppose if it's fate, what choice do I have. What's my task, Prince?"

--you ask too many questions--talk less kiddo--he means business--

[Strigus]

"I am graciously overlooking this breach of the Third Tradition. In exchange, I want you to clean up a breach of the Fifth. Your Sire has familiarized you with the cornerstones of Kindred society, I trust?

"We have reason to believe a thin-blood fled Boston and has taken up residence here. As a fellow neonate who hasn't been officially welcomed into our city, you should be able to build a rapport with her. I want you to find her, and turn her into an art piece to decorate these halls as a warning to any other Kindred who might consider disregarding our traditions. Are your skills up to this task?"

[Clyde Maddick]

"Well, that's a way of putting it." Clyde remarked, slightly taken aback by the wanton disinterest in the destruction of another kindred. Not only that, but Clyde was to be the executioner. "I'll help you out. I have some questions first though. Do you have any idea where I should start looking? Or is inspiration going to have to come to me?"

--befriend her--build a rapport--just to kill her--that's vampires for you--killing our own kind aimlessly--wow are we still human--you even got a gun clyde--or are you going to use us--wow--that's sick clyde--we're all a little crazy--but you would turn the key--you would open her mind--make her suffer like you sick fuck--why are we even listening to this sociopath--why does he get to tell us what to do--clyde you motherfucker you should be killing him--no that's suicide--besides bdsm girl over there looks tough--so clyde--yeah clyde--whatcha gonna do clyde--eat--or be eaten--

"I'm not much of a fighter, Prince Picot," Clyde continued, after a long pause. "Please excuse me, the peanut gallery had some commentary," Clyde joked, pointing at his head. " Like I was saying, not much of a fighter, but I could convince her that unlife is just as meaningless as regular life. I have ways. Regarding the um... art piece you are commissioning, it seems; is that just your way of saying 'kill her', or do you really want something interesting done with, the remains?"

[Strigus]

"I'm quite serious about the art. It seems only appropriate to make use of your skills. As for the thin-blood, her name is Sarah White." Picot spoke in a matter-of-fact, almost bored manner, before motioning to the Seer, who, with eyes closed, continued.

"I see water. She likes the water. The river. And there are trees. She likes the cool wind rustling their leaves. A warehouse, by the river. She feels safe there. She's not alone. Other Cainites, perhaps? I can't see. Boxes, crates. Shipping. Broken windows. Yellow door." Suddenly the Seer's eyes opened, before finishing, "That is what I see. You'll find her there. A final piece of advice: Trust the voices. We Malkavians are blessed, not cursed, and the voices know things we cannot. Embrace what you have become."

[Clyde Maddick]

"Thank you, Prince Picot, I'll get right on that." With that Clyde bowed and asked, "Is it appropriate if I take my leave now?" His eyes darted across the room. The four individuals other than his sire all seemed dangerous and uncaring, all except the one in the rags. It seemed as if this odd seer was the closest thing to family other than Daphne that Clyde had right now. Even with that knowledge Clyde hardly felt safe in his presence. These were all hounds, and they were all hungry. Alpha was trying to show him his place.

[Strigus]

Picot gave a dismissive hand, Harris, the brutish bodyguard took a step forward to usher the pair out, though it was quite unnecessary as Daphne, who had been uncharacteristically quiet had already risen to leave. Once out of the museum, the pair walked in silence for a moment before she remarked, "That went well. Picot can be incredibly harsh, but believe it or not, he likes you."