Saber de lineas de sangre 344257123-V20-Lore-of-the-Bloodlines-11056187-pdf | Page 30

“A slave is one who waits for someone to free him.”
— Ezra Pound
To Serve and Protect
I am unmoved as my Master brings
the Lamb into his sanctuary. The air
is thick with
transgression. No mortal is ever allowed
this deep into the Chantry. The Lamb
stares into my
face and brushes my cheek with a soft,
warm hand. I am strange statuary to
the poor girl. My
master affords me a nervous glance bef
ore she softly beckons the Lamb to tur
n. My Master
speaks the Words of the Ventrue and the
Lamb soon falls into her arms, dreamin
g. She looks
at me again as she lays the Lamb on
the couch. I am to bring her the Book.
On these nights, when the moon hides itse
lf in shame, dark sorceries emerge from
the shadows.
The children of the dark places wrote ritu
als in these terrible pages, and gave the
Book to my
Master as a curiosity. I can feel the
strange texture of the binding through
my thick hands.
Everything inside the Book is wrong.
I wish I could carry it out of this place,
fly as high as
my wings could carry me and throw it
as far away as possible. But I know
my place. I bring
the Book from its hiding place and offe
r it to my Master on bended knee. My
Master eagerly
scoops it out of my hands and commands
me to bind the Lamb in preparation.
I obey, though
I cannot bring myself to look at my Ma
ster or the Lamb.
My Master slaughtered Lambs on every
night the moon hides its face. Four before
this Lamb, two
more after. Before she read the Book, we
would speak about our years together and
the world outside
the Chantry. Now, she only speaks abo
ut the power she’ll receive in return. I kno
w my Master
believes the lies. When I tried to tell her
the first time, she commanded me to sile
nce. When I tried
to stop her the third time, my blood burned
with the bond she held over me. I watche
d the Knife cut
delicately, fatally into the Lambs. I saw
the blood turn black as she drank it from
symbols carved in
each of the Lambs. I heard the whispers
telling her to do it again, growing louder
each time.
When she takes the Knife out from its
secret place, my blood boils again. Bu
t this time, I
find myself in motion. Not towards my
Master, or the Lamb, but the chair my
Master would
LORE OF THE BLOODLINES
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