"You can?t just ?bring in? a Ravnos. If he talked, he?d lie. If we thought he was lying, he?d tell the truth and confuse us. If he got loose anywhere that was our space - trouble. If he got away, or the others heard about it, we?d be swarmed by them. As for ?working? on him, they aren?t?manipulable in the sense you?re used to. Every clan has a weak spot they guard, or a goal they?re after, or a secret you can find out and blackmail them with. But a Ravnos makes the most of his weakness, has no plans, and couldn?t care less who knows what about him. They are the only really unpredictable people, because they are the only ones who make a habit of acting in their own worst interests."
- Calebros the Nosferatu Elder, on Kahlil Ravana; from Clan Novel: Ravnos (White Wolf 1999)
---
It was not uncommon knowledge that Sinjin burned every bridge he walked over, both literally and figuratively, and Peccavi stood as yet another piece of evidence in the litany of his failures, his miseries. Sinjin swayed on his heels, hands jammed stiffly into the pockets of his pants as he looked upon the years-old wreckage of the night club. Once upon a time, this was his elysium -- his little piece of paradise where he sat upon a darkened throne, a young prince watching the politics of the night children dance before him. Now it was a husk, ruined and ravaged of anything of value, from his second floor office to the basement where he did his true work. Nothing had been built over the empty space, nor had the wreck been torn away, left to be aged by time like so much of Rhy?din?s other histories. He had no mind to rebuild it. The Redemption brought him enough income to sustain himself and his hobbies, but certainly not enough to start a new nightclub from scratch. And yet--
He wrinkled his nose and frowned. He didn?t care about the club or the money, or maybe even the elysium itself. What he cared about was the power. He cared about the game. Sinjin inhaled a slow, useless breath, his eyes half-lidded under his sunglasses. Ah, there it was, tugging at him from just underneath his sternum: the unavoidable allure that was a risk. He could see it now, the path laying out before him like a golden road, and his frown ticked up into a cat curl of a smile. All of his journeys began the same way:
A suit like a second skin, dark as night, and a tie around his throat the color of a fresh wound. Hours later from his tour at Peccavi, he was prowling down the street while the lamp light reflected back against his sunglasses. He had learned -- slowly, yes -- that he did not need to begin anew. There was no point in recreating a world that he would likely leave again, abandon to fall apart like a sandcastle on the shore. No: he could simply be the wave that ate another man?s castle.
He craned his head up, looking at the gated entrance to the Rhy?din Historical Works Museum. Though it was after hours, the lights were on inside and two body guards stood at the gate, ushering others in and out. Another man?s elysium. Another man?s castle. Sinjin smiled, swayed on his heels, and oozed like shadow as he walked toward the gate, formulating his plan as he walked. Just another roll of the dice, but this time -- this time, he knew the odds.
He would not be a prince. He would be what he was always meant to be: the beggar king of night.
- Calebros the Nosferatu Elder, on Kahlil Ravana; from Clan Novel: Ravnos (White Wolf 1999)
---
It was not uncommon knowledge that Sinjin burned every bridge he walked over, both literally and figuratively, and Peccavi stood as yet another piece of evidence in the litany of his failures, his miseries. Sinjin swayed on his heels, hands jammed stiffly into the pockets of his pants as he looked upon the years-old wreckage of the night club. Once upon a time, this was his elysium -- his little piece of paradise where he sat upon a darkened throne, a young prince watching the politics of the night children dance before him. Now it was a husk, ruined and ravaged of anything of value, from his second floor office to the basement where he did his true work. Nothing had been built over the empty space, nor had the wreck been torn away, left to be aged by time like so much of Rhy?din?s other histories. He had no mind to rebuild it. The Redemption brought him enough income to sustain himself and his hobbies, but certainly not enough to start a new nightclub from scratch. And yet--
He wrinkled his nose and frowned. He didn?t care about the club or the money, or maybe even the elysium itself. What he cared about was the power. He cared about the game. Sinjin inhaled a slow, useless breath, his eyes half-lidded under his sunglasses. Ah, there it was, tugging at him from just underneath his sternum: the unavoidable allure that was a risk. He could see it now, the path laying out before him like a golden road, and his frown ticked up into a cat curl of a smile. All of his journeys began the same way:
A suit like a second skin, dark as night, and a tie around his throat the color of a fresh wound. Hours later from his tour at Peccavi, he was prowling down the street while the lamp light reflected back against his sunglasses. He had learned -- slowly, yes -- that he did not need to begin anew. There was no point in recreating a world that he would likely leave again, abandon to fall apart like a sandcastle on the shore. No: he could simply be the wave that ate another man?s castle.
He craned his head up, looking at the gated entrance to the Rhy?din Historical Works Museum. Though it was after hours, the lights were on inside and two body guards stood at the gate, ushering others in and out. Another man?s elysium. Another man?s castle. Sinjin smiled, swayed on his heels, and oozed like shadow as he walked toward the gate, formulating his plan as he walked. Just another roll of the dice, but this time -- this time, he knew the odds.
He would not be a prince. He would be what he was always meant to be: the beggar king of night.