Chop Wood, Carry Water

This is fan created fiction about a character in a Werewolf: the Apocalypse live action role playing game run by Mind's Eye Society. If you are a fellow player, please remember that anything you read here is considered out of character knowledge. If you are a lawyer, please don't sue me; I'm not making any money off of this and it's just for fun.

Chop Wood, Carry Water

by Simon W

Inge peered carefully around as she stood outside near the little cabin that was her new home. She'd come outside for some air under the moonlight. After years of relative obscurity she was taking her place once again in a sept but she found herself craving time to herself. And so she took it in the cool of the evening. Storms had rolled through the mountains earlier and there was enough moisture left so that every surface was covered in silvery dew.

It was time to reassess what she was doing now that she was settled. She was reminded of an old phrase her mother used to say, "chop wood, carry water". As a child she hadn't understood what it meant really. She'd only really learned what value was in it after that terrible day when Dagmar and her pack had gone to fight and only Dagmar had returned. Dagmar hadn't really been completely alright since. Inge still didn't know exactly what had happened and she wouldn't ask the only person who could tell her. Some wounds didn't heal, even after eight years.

In the first terrible days after it happened Inge had been completely overwhelmed with all of the questions, the what-ifs, and worries of the future. But she had people who needed her to be present, to be functional. So while Dagmar wandered to the mountains to grieve, Inge was left to tend to the day to day duties of mother, kin, and healer. She'd focused on each task as it lay before her slowly working her way through the years.

Of course she still missed Gunther. He had been a good mate to her and a good father to their children. But he had also been a warrior for Gaia and, as all Fenrir expected to, he had paid the price of death to defend Her. Inge truly hoped that his death had been an honorable one and that he'd slain those that were harming Gaia before he succumbed.

But now the figurative wood had all been chopped and the water carried. Heinrik, Lars, and Karl had mates and households of their own now. Sigrid was in training to become a warrior in her father's footsteps. Inge had come to the Sept of the Desert Wind to continue her care-giving, only for her sister now instead of her children. It wasn't going to be enough. Inge could feel it in her bones. And she didn't like this feeling of having no clear task before her. She had become dependent on the clear boundaries of her world. Things were shifting now and undefined.

Inge sighed. She gave one last look up to the sky, to see Luna's bright face. And then she went inside to busy herself and try not to think about what was missing in her life.

Cold Comfort

This is fan created fiction about a character in a Vampire: The Masquerade live action role playing game run by Mind's Eye Society. If you are a fellow player, please remember that anything you read here is considered out of character knowledge. If you are a lawyer, please don't sue me; I'm not making any money off of this and it's just for fun.

Cold Comfort
by Simon W

Marianne stared at the note. It was written in a spare hand, as though the writer were more used to taking research notes than penning long letters. Or maybe she only thought it looked that way because she knew who wrote it. It occurred to her that it had been several decades since she had seen this handwriting. So much of the communication in recent nights was typed that hand written notes happened rarely. She wasn't old enough to really miss such things and moan for a past that no longer existed like some Elders she knew. It was just an observation.

It was also a lie.

Well... maybe not.

Right now she wasn't thinking about the past that no longer existed so much as she was thinking about a past and future that might have been had things not gone very, very differently.

The noise was absolutely horrific. Acolyte Dashwood hadn't even realized that the wards could be that loud. But then, she'd also never experienced a bunch of angry Kindred trying to break into the Chantry before. From the reactions of everyone around her, this was entirely unexpected. Something crashed behind her and she could feel some sort of magical discharge. She ducked instinctively, not wanting to get hit by whatever it was. She'd learned the hard way that magic discharge from careless Apprentices hurt, a lot. 

She headed to the lab to make sure the Professor wasn't still there. She didn't think he'd be foolish enough to not leave but one never knew how much he was paying attention to the outside world when he was in the middle of his research. Granted, could anyone NOT pay attention to these terrible sounds? Above the screeching of the wards now there was a giant, nearly feral sounding yelling. The crowd of Kindred had breached the walls and they were angry.

No one was in the lab, thank goodness! Acolyte Dashwood wondered where to go next. Nothing was orderly or sensible right now. There was an evacuation plan, of course, but no one was actually following it that she could see. As she made her way through the chaos she finally found the Professor. A tall man with a blonde crew cut and a scar on the back of his neck was advancing on him.

"Hey!" shouted Marianne. "Hey, blondie!" That caught his attention. He turned around. Marianne casually raised her middle finger in an insulting way. He took the bait, and started coming toward her. "Run, Professor," she shouted as she ran away from the Kindred now chasing her. 

And thus Marianne's life as a Brujah instead of a Tremere began. She had had many decades to try and reconcile herself to the fact that this was the case and she had even found things to value about her clan. If she were very honest her personality was more suited to who she was than to who she could have been. But it was still a sore spot.

And the letter writer knew that! So sending her a note to A. Dashwood was hurtful, cruel, vindictive, and rude. She'd cried over that note for the better part of the evening.

Toward dawn a thought occurred to her. Why would he want to hurt her feelings so much? Maybe... just maybe... he wasn't as immune to emotions as she believed.

It was cold comfort but for now she would take it.