Someone had once told Fleck that the moon controlled dreams, or maybe they didn't and she had just imagined it.
There was an ache in her bones that she couldn't shake loose, a deep down tired that left Fleck agitated and angry. One such fit had ended in the devastation of the rat colony that she had so carefully tended.
Fleck had surveyed the destruction- the multitude of tiny furred corpses that had littered the house on Old Hallows Rd- with a look drenched in sadness. She had buried her little charges one by one in the black soil of the back yard and had decided then and there as she brushed her hands off that she didn't want to dream. Maybe anymore, but not for a very long time.
Marie was dead, Abby had said so, had been saying so, and why had it taken so long to stick? Marie was dead. Gran'ma was dead. Not dead like Abby or herself, but dead like the rats had been. It hurt to be awake now and even though the voices tried to comfort her, tried to sway her from her decision, Fleck's mind was already made up.
She needed sleep. She couldn't get that from Abby or Loreck or the ghost of Marie Chalfont. She wouldn't find it in the hollowed out tree that housed the Gangrel, Nikaja. There was only one person who would understand the weight of that need.
Fleck waited until Abby had left for home, frustrated by their visit and reeking of a multitude of copper laced sins, and then she left Room 113 with the Glen in mind. Beyond the beautiful waterfalls, deaf to the dragon song and pixie lights, Fleck marched towards her destination. A sharp hill poured down into a flatter valley littered with tombstones in different stages of dishevel. An old house, brown and bare and standing guard over the Dead Below, watched her with its broken window eyes as the wildling threw the old cellar doors back and disappeared into its basement.
Like a sleepwalker she approached the prone form of The Lady Dozer lying limply on a threadbare couch. Fleck had always found her lovely; had dared to stroke a pale pale arm, grab a lock of raven hair and- when a bad turn was upon her- punch and bite and kick until the ancient meat burst open like the flesh of a rotten apple. Fleck eyed the stake in Dozer's back as she stretched out on the floor beside of her, gripping the hand that hung just inches from her face in her own. With her fingers lacing through Dozer's, Fleck closed her eyes and shushed the voices.
To her surprise, they quickly fell silent. Her fractured mind drifted through an army of thoughts until even the wisps that they became had faded away.
To the moon's credit, Fleck didn't dream, wouldn't dream until she decided otherwise, but at least the pain had stopped and for a little while longer, Fleck could feel like Corrine Ralston again.
There was an ache in her bones that she couldn't shake loose, a deep down tired that left Fleck agitated and angry. One such fit had ended in the devastation of the rat colony that she had so carefully tended.
Fleck had surveyed the destruction- the multitude of tiny furred corpses that had littered the house on Old Hallows Rd- with a look drenched in sadness. She had buried her little charges one by one in the black soil of the back yard and had decided then and there as she brushed her hands off that she didn't want to dream. Maybe anymore, but not for a very long time.
Marie was dead, Abby had said so, had been saying so, and why had it taken so long to stick? Marie was dead. Gran'ma was dead. Not dead like Abby or herself, but dead like the rats had been. It hurt to be awake now and even though the voices tried to comfort her, tried to sway her from her decision, Fleck's mind was already made up.
She needed sleep. She couldn't get that from Abby or Loreck or the ghost of Marie Chalfont. She wouldn't find it in the hollowed out tree that housed the Gangrel, Nikaja. There was only one person who would understand the weight of that need.
Fleck waited until Abby had left for home, frustrated by their visit and reeking of a multitude of copper laced sins, and then she left Room 113 with the Glen in mind. Beyond the beautiful waterfalls, deaf to the dragon song and pixie lights, Fleck marched towards her destination. A sharp hill poured down into a flatter valley littered with tombstones in different stages of dishevel. An old house, brown and bare and standing guard over the Dead Below, watched her with its broken window eyes as the wildling threw the old cellar doors back and disappeared into its basement.
Like a sleepwalker she approached the prone form of The Lady Dozer lying limply on a threadbare couch. Fleck had always found her lovely; had dared to stroke a pale pale arm, grab a lock of raven hair and- when a bad turn was upon her- punch and bite and kick until the ancient meat burst open like the flesh of a rotten apple. Fleck eyed the stake in Dozer's back as she stretched out on the floor beside of her, gripping the hand that hung just inches from her face in her own. With her fingers lacing through Dozer's, Fleck closed her eyes and shushed the voices.
To her surprise, they quickly fell silent. Her fractured mind drifted through an army of thoughts until even the wisps that they became had faded away.
To the moon's credit, Fleck didn't dream, wouldn't dream until she decided otherwise, but at least the pain had stopped and for a little while longer, Fleck could feel like Corrine Ralston again.