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Below are the 14 most recent journal entries recorded in OWbN Fiction's LiveJournal:

Wednesday, February 15th, 2006
2:29 am
Melinda Lake Fiction - Cupid's Harrows
Title: Cupid's Harrows
Author: Jessica Karels
Characters: Melinda Lake -and alluding to 2 others, who we won't mention here ;)
Where does it fall in OWbN timeline: February 14, 2006
Chronicle of origin: Obsidian Towers

Summary: In the attempt to regain her lost Humanity, Melinda Lake emerges herself into her relationships with others for deeper insight. This fiction looks into her relation with her ghoul (Kevin), as well as the role that two of her allies play in helping her regain her sense of self.

The usual disclaimers apply... OOC consumption only. Those who use the info ICly will get spanked mercilessly by a shirtless, kilt-clad corwyn

Melinda Fic - Cupid's HarrowsCollapse )
Monday, January 23rd, 2006
2:48 pm
I could really use some help developing a background. I only have a page written and was wondering if anyone here would mind pointing me in a direction. Any direction... *sigh*

The story start can be found here…


Many thanks oh writers of fiction!
Friday, April 1st, 2005
8:31 pm
Ando Online Memorium
For those of you who knew and loved Ando probably know about the online memorium I set up for him after his passing. This can be found at http://www.angelfire.com/rpg2/ando/index.html and the message board where all the kind words, venting and thoughts can be found at http://www.b2g2.com/boards/board.cgi?&user=andoboard (or there is a link from the main page for it)

because the message board was getting spammed by some horrid unthoughtful uncaring people who care about nothing more then selling sex on the internet or making a buck regardless to who it might hurt.....

I have deleted the offending posts. I have also changed the options on this board. It is password protected. andoboard is the login and moon97 is the password. Furthermore only posters who are registered will be able to post (there is a link to register on the message board, and no you do not have to provide email or even a real name)....but I do not believe you have to be registered to actually view the posts, but you still have to log in with the login and password I have provided above.

I will spread the word. Thanks to Kayti for bringing the spamming to my attention so I could take it down and fix things.


(cross posted to oneworldbynight, owbnfiction, and my own journal)

Current Mood: discontent
Tuesday, November 2nd, 2004
1:51 am
a begining
The year was 1387, and she woke to a hunger so painful that were she still mortal, one single breath might have been to much to bear. Only centuries of training kept her beast at bay as she lay in the darkness. Her fingers, a deep olive color, clenched and unclenched the soft thin linen that lay beneath her. Her ears soon tuned into the smallest of sounds that surrounded her. Slowly with the care of the ages, she let the world filter into her mind. Somewhere to the right of her there was a soft almost silent sobbing. It was the cry of a child who knew that he was caught within a nightmare. Beside him her servant stood againt a dark wall, waiting to look upon her once more, and for her to finally look back at him again. So loyal and loving was he to her, that he had waited more than a hundred years to see her again, feeding from her, and feeding her in return.

Moments passed and timed almost seemed to slow as she gathered the darkness to her. She slowly opened her eyes and tilted her head towards the muffled sounds. There was only one candle in the room, and the child cringed beneath its light like a kitten to its mother’s teat. She smiled at the image that gave her, her lips cracking from being so long unused. She sat up from her place of rest and the child ceased his stuttered moaning and looked upon her with red eyes and wet cheeks. A smile came to her face, the smile of a lady that has found a lost belonging or a gift unopened. And then she spoke to him in the softest and swetest of tones, “Oh my dear boy, my dear child, your death shall be even more beautiful and more profitable than your life could ever have been.” But as the child did not speak her language, he only cried harder in fear as the shadows closed in about him, as he succumbed to the darkness in her arms.

Current Mood: awake
Friday, September 24th, 2004
8:26 am
is it dead in here, or is it just me?
new fiction I wrote. as I have to get ready for work, ask me for the chronology, and ye shall recieve.

Time marches on....Collapse )
Friday, July 23rd, 2004
12:00 am
here goes nothing...
Here we go....a small writing exercise I did. I did not LJ cut this cause I do not know how. I welcome comments and thoughts.

The Dead Know No End
Sean Farquharson
A Story (more a writing exercise) involving the Schismatic Assamite, Robert Gaunt.
The character is a Philadelphia: Nusquam character, and it would fall around the same time as now.
Slightly alternate timeline- this really did not happen, as the PC is shelved. it’s a writing exercise I did.
I am not in any way challenging OWbN, or white wolf copyrights. This is not being sold or anything.
A bit of violence in the flashback scenes, and some period appropriate (though not PC) thoughts and epithets.
Robert Gaunt- World War One Marine Captain, tactician, judge, visits a nightspot and gets a rude awakening as to the static nature of the Kindred.

It was dark and cold. Men awake, not wanting to be bayoneted in their sleep, or on watch, waiting for the Huns to come across no man’s land in their Stosstrupp formations. Then we can pick them off by illumination provided by explosions. Every Marine is a rifleman, and the Huns will be moving target practice.

A scream is given, and shots follow it. Huns get into the trenches. Bayonet fighting breaks out, and Captain Robert Gaunt’s hand is warmed by blood running down it from a Hun’s slit throat. Soon it is over, and the Germans are throwing down their weapons hands up.

“Nicht schiessen, nicht schiessen..” one German is saying, eyes wide with fear, at the wild eyed young marine holding a Springfield rifle at his chest. The young man is too tense, too wired up on adrenaline.

The trigger tightens, and two other Marines train their weapons on the German soldier, trying to calm him down. Robert crossed the threshold of the situation and grabbed the Marine’s rifle barrel. The shot echoed and tore through the space, and the thirty caliber bullet buried itself in the mud of the trench wall. Gaunt looked stern, the scars on his face evident and standing out in the faint light of shell bursts.

“Lance Corporal, I expect better from you. Be an example to your fellow men. This German will be a source of intelligence, and help us save other Marine lives. Do you understand me?”

The young man mumbled a reply. “Yes sir.” this was a wise move. It is uncertain if snipers moved up to support the shock troop actions. Here and there, the sounds of Browning Automatic Rifles, and from the British unit a quarter mile away, a Lewis gun drifted over the field.

Robert Gaunt woke up. A familiar weight in his limbs told him he had been reminiscing in his dreams, remembering unpleasant things. Compressing the blood into his limbs, he willed himself to move.

Robert Gaunt, Rafiq, Judge, Child of Haqim. I stand with Al Ashrad in the schism, he told himself in his head, a mantra.

“Good morning Sir.” Kate, his faithful retainer brought in his things. A change of clothes, and his leather belt, and holster. Contained in the holster was a Colt Model 1917 .45 caliber service revolver. In this age of automatic weapons and plastic pistols, some slightly larger than his father's derringer it still felt right. Changing, he decided to do something.

“Kate, I have decided I wish to visit one of these nightclubs frequented by the Children of Seth.”

Kate looked slightly concerned. “Are you sure you wish that?”

Robert gently smiled, intended to disarm her. “I cannot protect that which I do not know. The street element seems to the easiest for the Kindred to abuse.”

With a slight look of concern, Kate watched him go. He left the gun in its place under the seat, ammunition stored in a fales bottom in the console- 8 extra 3 round spring steel clips. 2 of these constituted a full cylinder, and the 230 grain hardball proved itself time and again against ghouls, and Huns. Nail a man anywhere, and he went down. Shot placement determined if he would stay down. He paid, and entered the club.

He remembered everything Kate told him, the bass would boom, so he willed himself to not flash back. It would be dark with intermittent strobing lights. People would look pale, so keep tight lipped. He was thankful his mentor had not taught him Haqim’s Eyes yet. It would hurt to use it here. What he did see shocked him.

In the thumping bass, there was a woman standing atop a bench built into the wall. She wore a slightly shiny top, that exposed far more of her chest than was modest. The skirt was black, and no better, her garters were exposed, showing where they attached to her nylons. The display she was putting on slightly sickened Gaunt. He was certainly going to seek confession with a Kindred priest after this. That is something he must request of his Eldest- the location of a Kindred priest who took confession.

Red shot into Robert’s vision and he willed it down at the sight of a man wearing women’s clothing, passing not three yards in front of him. Did this man not know his own gender?

Once again he repeated his mantra mentally- I will safeguard the Children of Seth from the abuses of the Children of Caine. This is the way of Haqim.

Robert wondered though if this was indeed the way. He had fought, bled, sinned, and killed before this fool’s grandparents were born, and for what? To have this utter moron debauch himself, and deny what made him a man? Perhaps the Herald was indeed the Herald of Haqim. Perhaps to save humanity, other kindred had to die. Thetmes had said “In the end, you must tend to your soul as you see fit.” the sinner will burn in hell if he does not seek penitence, as it is my time to do.

Robert exited the disturbing mortal bacchanal, and headed off to do his blood given duty- judging the children of caine, and safeguarding the mortals. But first, some matters of the soul then the mind had to be handled first. A well informed Judge is an efficient Judge indeed....

Current Mood: contemplative
Thursday, June 10th, 2004
5:14 pm
For Jack...
I was invited to write this, as part of a group creating and assembling stories related to Jack Sebastien. The objective: Illustrate how my character was affected by his death.

Warning: For mature audiences only.

Sunrise on the beach...Collapse )

Current Mood: creative
Tuesday, June 8th, 2004
1:27 am
Call for Submissions
(X-Posted to Oneworldbynight)

In the wake of a few big character deaths, a few of us are putting together a "Life and Times" of Jaret DuLac, Jack Sebastian, and Percy Lake.

Something along the lines of what lead to their deaths/disappearances or how it'll affect characters in the aftermath.

Any short fic pieces about any of the three characters is welcome; please email submissions to dybbuk67@yahoo.com

Current Mood: nostalgic
Friday, October 24th, 2003
8:47 am
Why is no one sharing? Here's another from me...
Title: "Requiem for a Dream"
Author(s): Amber Kendel
Characters: Not disclosed (read the summary for further answers to this one)
Where does it fall in OWbN timeline: July, 2003
Chronicle of origin: Within Shadow's Reach - Fargo
Alternate timeline/events?: Nope
Disclaimer: This story doesn't have any WW references in it...so yay me! Other than that, the story has been copyrighted to me, circa July, 2003, and can be verified at my online portfolio here: http://www.writing.com/main/view_item.php?item_id=720751
Warnings: This piece is rated R (18+) for a graphic display of violence. Those who find descriptions of blood to cause you to be sqeamish should not read.
Summary: This was originally an mmn posting by my Malkavian character, which I then turned into a short story, told in the rarely used 2nd person POV. So, the character, when reading it, is you. Hehe. Be warned, my Malkavian is very depraved...

Requiem for a Dream

You wander to your bed, ready for sleep. The day has long since been over, and you are exhausted. You close your eyes and immediately your consciousness fades, replaced with vivid dreams and gut-wrenching nightmares.

A fog drifts through your mind. It gathers substance until it looks like rain clouds, electricity flashing through them at times. A song plays from the fog, and Elvis' sweet dulcet tones can be heard.

"Are you lonesome, tonight, do you miss me, tonight, Are you sorry we drifted apart? Does your memory stray, to a bright sunny day?"

The tune trails off, but a single voice continues whistling the melody. The sound of a carving knife being sharpened on a stone comes through, louder than the whistling, grating on your nerves like nails on chalkboard. A soft feminine laugh replaces the whistling, and the sharpening noise ends.

The fog slowly parts to show an empty cobblestone street with old limestone buildings on each side, looking much like an old-world main street. The cloud covering the moon and the street lamps not working make the night even darker, and though you see no one on the street, you can hear the soft click of slow, purposeful footsteps. It is extremely dark, but for some reason you have no problem seeing the detail of the buildings. They are beautiful, intricately designed, yet simple. For a moment, you are caught up in the detailed stonemasonry of one particular building. A solitary man, young, wearing threadbare clothing, with dark slavic features steps out onto the street from the door of the building you were entranced with, breaking you out of your reverie. The song picks up again.

"Act one was when we met, I loved you at first glance. You read your line so cleverly and never missed a cue. Then came act two, you seemed to change and you acted strange and why I'll never know."

You follow the young man as he heads down the street. He seems to hear the footsteps, and stops, looking around for their source. Seeing nothing, he continues on, at a quicker pace. When the footsteps start again, keeping a match with his own, he turns down an alleyway, breaking out into a run.

"And if you won't come back to me, then make them bring the curtain down."

You enter the alleyway behind the man at a slower pace, and the first thing you notice is the dead end further in, though you know it is still too dark for the young man to see it. You smile, and head in, the sounds of your footsteps echoing from the limestone and back down into the closed in alley. The young man has reached the wall now, and is scrambling, trying to find a way to climb over it. You close in on him, and out of nowhere, your hand appears, grabbing the man's collar and throwing him to the ground easily. You place one foot atop his chest and pin him down effortlessly as you pull your knife from your pocket. You look down at the man and smile, showing him your fangs and winking.

He yells out one word: "Strigoi!" and begins to struggle even harder. You bend down to him, moving to straddle his chest now, still keeping him pinned in place. You hear your own voice telling him to shut up and calm down, and almost immediately, he does. His eyes still look at you, fear evident, and you turn your face away from his, then slide down his body until you are straddling his hips. You bring the knife up, ready to strike at his heart and you sing this time, rather than Elvis, punctuating the verse with downward strokes into the man's torso, blood spurting up with every hit.

"Is your heart filled with pain? Shall I come back again? Tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight?"

The man is dying quickly, blood flowing freely from multiple stab wounds, and you bring the soaked knife close to your face. The smell of blood is everywhere, and you begin to get very excited. The knife gleams as the clouds shift and a sliver of moonlight hits the bloody blade. Amidst the splatter, you can see the reflection of your eyes. Cold dead orbs, no emotion whatsoever hidden inside them. You close them and shiver with passion as you bring the blade to your tongue, licking off the moist redness caught there, before leaning down and placing your head against the man's chest. The blood still flows, and you lap at it like a cat for some time. Your hair becomes matted, and your body is stained red as you lay there until the very last beat of the man's heart. Finally, you rise from his form, noting how quickly it has chilled, and move away.

The scene pans outward, and again the alleyway is completely empty, save the cooling corpse, and only the echoing of footsteps can be heard. Your voice whistles the melody of the Elvis song as you walk away once more.

The clouds of fog begin to close in on the scene, obscuring it from view. The very last moment before the fog closes in completely, you hear your own voice sing out loudly, happily, and crudely.

"So tell me, are you lonesome tonight?"

You wake in a cold sweat with a start, the song on your lips and echoing through your mind. You race through the vision, so crystal clear for a dream. Was it a dream? Reality is blurred as you lay back, bringing your hands to your face as you begin to sob. A sweet copper smell invades your senses, and you open your eyes only to see the red on your hands.

Everything fades to black.
Thursday, October 9th, 2003
12:16 pm
Seems quiet, so I'll add!
Here is a preface bit to a story I was writing about my last (now dead) character in OWbN, a Toreador named Malia DeCordova. I don't expect many people to remember her, never mind be able to use any information IC-ly, so it's all good. *grin*

Title: "When it All Began"
Author(s): Amber Kendel
Characters: Malia DeCordova and her sire, Leonardo Dali
Where does it fall in OWbN timeline: January, 2001
Chronicle of origin: Winnipeg by Night (at the time, it was Centre of the Chaos)
Alternate timeline/events?: Pre-entrance to OWbN of the character, actually (background story).
Disclaimer: This story is set in White Wolf's World of Darkness (tm), however I am not challenging WW copyright in anyway. The characters are my own, and the story is copywrited to me (circa 2002) via my online portfolio (you can see this story in it at http://www.writing.com/main/view_item.php?item_id=461913 )
Warnings: This story is PG-13, suitable for everyone here, I believe...if I post another, that's where we get into the NC-17 for violence *grin*.
Summary: After 25 years under the accounting, a childe is pushed out of the house by her sire, and is forced to enter the world on her own for the first time.

    When it All Began
by: Amber Kendel

“No” She whimpered uselessly as she fell to her knees and began to softly weep. “Please, don’t make me…I don’t want to leave…” Her voice trailed off in a harsh, emotionally wrought whisper, and she moved her hands to wrap around the legs of his trousers.

Seemingly unaffected he sighed and gently moved his hand to the crown of her head to smooth down her glistening shoulder length auburn hair, pulling her into a subservient embrace as she continued to kneel in front of him. “I am afraid you must.” He said in a soft but strong voice. “You have been with me too long already. It is time for you to leave…to experience life on your own. For over a quarter of a century we have been together. If you have not learned what you need to know by now, you never will. Move on.”

She turned her face up to him, honest red tears streaming down her cheeks. “But I love you…you are all I have known…you are my Sire, my lover, my friend…how could I leave you?”

Perhaps because he was truly moved, or perhaps because he wanted to play with her one more time, he lifted her from her knees to stand in front of him, arms still wrapped around her body, and kissed her slowly on the lips before moving to kiss away her tears.

“You will leave because you love me, because you know it is for the best.” A small smile formed on his perfect red lips and he pulled her head to his muscular chest, holding her close to him one last time. “Think of all the men yet untried. Think of all the people who you will be able to crush with your skills and your wit! You will do well on your own…ah my haughty Malia…how I love you.” After a moment’s realization of the words that had passed through his lips which he had sworn he would never say again, he pushed her away, somewhat violently. She stumbled backwards, struggling to remain on her feet as he spoke again. “I cannot spoon feed you any more. You are no longer a neonate that should be begging to lap at my heels. Now go.” He spoke roughly as he turned to leave the room. She tried to follow him, but he moved with a preternatural speed that was greater than her own, and within a blink of the eye, he was gone from her sight.

“No…” She moaned softly to herself. “No, no, no, no, no!” Each syllable became louder and louder until she was yelling out every one. She dropped to her knees once more, and the tears that had never stopped flowed faster now. A name, screamed out in agony escaped her lips, sounding almost insane in its timbre. “Leo!” She collapsed in a broken heap on the floor, legs tucked back, stomach pushed to the ground, arms covering her head. Her crimson tears spilt down her perfect white cheeks, falling into a puddle on the expensive plush beige carpeting beneath her. Her words dissolved into nothing more than muffled pleas for his return.

When the day broke, she was left frozen in the same position in the room that had been theirs. Her daytime dreams began, and memories of him dominated everything else. She dreamt of her first nights after the change, his hands wiping the sweat off her brow as her mortal body died. She dreamt of the first time he allowed her to hunt with him, the thrill and exhilaration she had felt, the sweet taste of mortal vitae on her tongue, hot and pulsing as she swallowed it straight from the vessel. She dreamt of his face, smiling as he watched over her, pleased that his young one could kill so easily. She dreamt of his lessons on the traditions of their kind. She dreamt of the time he had taught her the effective ways to hunt mortals for sustenance without getting caught. The times he had shown her how to unlock the powers of her blood to read minds, turn men into slathering fools vying for her attention and move at speeds faster than anyone could dream possible. She dreamt of the intoxicating taste of his blood, the blood that she knew bound her to him with feelings of love. A myriad of images swam through her head, and twenty five years of her unlife flashed through her dreams. They settled finally on the time just before that day and the moment when he had come to her in their bedroom for what she thought would be another lesson in seduction. The moment he had left her so unexpectedly on her own. In her dream when she had called out for his return, he came back and soothed her with whispers of love…

Eventually, the evening set again and the night began anew. She awoke; dried blood caked on her face. She opened her eyes to find the room had been cleared of all its trappings while she had slept. The bed they had shared, her vanity table, all the trinkets they had collected together over the years, gone. The only things that remained were she, two well-packed suitcases and a brown manila envelope. Without having to open them, she knew what they would contain. Her favorite pieces from her wardrobe, her flight tickets to a new city, and enough money to keep her going on her own for a year or so if she spent it wisely – about three months if she spent it in her normal fashion. The dream, she mused to herself, was over.

Feeling resigned to her fate; she doggedly rose to her feet. Wiping her cheeks clean and smoothing out her dress, she looked around for the servants that would normally have picked up her bags for her but found none. With a new determination she moved to the bags and picked them up herself. The weight was more than she was used to, but she managed somehow, and with head held high she walked out of the now empty house she had known for so long, leaving the front door wide open in her wake.
Friday, September 26th, 2003
6:05 pm
Last of 4 pieces, see first for disclaimers
The second, cooler, part of Reflections...
Again, for those just joining in, scroll down to part 1 of this 4-part post to see the info/disclaimer. Stupid LJ wouldn't let me post the entire super-novel in one post...

Reflections, Part 2Collapse )
6:03 pm
Bits of the second story
And now the second story, which runs parallel to the first

Reflections by David DalkeCollapse )
6:01 pm
Another bit
Fiat Lux, part 2Collapse )

This is the cool part...
6:00 pm
Two Stories, in bits and pieces
Title(s): Reflections and Fiat Lux

Author(s): Jessica Karels and David Dalke

Characters: Dr. Julia April Harkness, aka "Pantheon"; and Roger Smith

Where does it fall in OWbN timeline: Late February, 2003

Chronicle of origin: Obsidian Towers when this happened, but the PC's have since become a part of Within Shadows Reach (Fargo)

Disclaimer: (gets slightly heated at the end) Not challenging WW copyrights. Dave posted these stories to various lists right after we made them. This story has been edited from it's original format in order to get rid of information that could potentially be used ICly against a PC that is neither of the main characters. Dave's cool with me posting the content in this and so am I, as there's nothing either of us consider overly sensitive in the stories (So Smith and Harkness live in houses and have ghouls with names, big whoop!). And no, we did not create this story with the intent of turning around and crying "metagame" against anyone who may have come up with the information in this story ICly. :P

Warnings: This is a story of love gone wrong in the vampire world. If you hate "vampire romance" personal-horror style, leave now. There's no sex, but there's a lot of angst.

Summary: A quarrel between two star-crossed, mutually bound lovers. One a Lasombra who has just achieved Princedom, one a Malkavian who is overly tied to her Humanity.

Fiat Lux by Jessica KarelsCollapse )
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