Back to Vampire PageName: Robert "Reeve" Llewellyn
Status: N.P.C.
Chronicle: Vienna/Vampire
Nature: Architect
Demeanor: Loner
Clan: Caitiff (of Toreador Sire)
Generation: 13th Haven: Music Store Concept: Drifter who wants to settle
ATTRIBUTES:
Physical: Strength-4, Dexterity-3, Stamina-1
Social: Charisma-2, Manipulation-1, Appearance-3
Mental: Perception-4, Intelligence-4, Wits-1
ABILITIES:
Talents: Acting-1, Alertness-1, Brawl-1, Dodge-2, Empathy-3, Streetwise-1
Skills: Drive-1, Etiquette-2, Firearms-2, Melee-3, Music-5, Stealth-1
Knowledge: Computer-1, Linguistics-1, Art History-1, Theatre-1, History-1
DISCIPLINES:
Auspex-3, Celerity-3, Potence-1, Presence-3
Background: Fame-2, Mentor-3, Resources-2
VIRTUES:
Conscience-8
Self-Control-4
Courage-5
Willpower-8
Humanity-8
Blood Pool-10
Appearance:
Apparent Age: 21. Reeve appears as a well dressed, somewhat lanky young man with long black hair and moody dark eyes. His gaunt pale features are obviously resulting from his undead existence but he dresses well enough and has learned enough use of makeup to pass for a typical overworked and sleep deprived student - which is what he likes to pose as.
Prelude: (as follows)
As the lights arose, flooding the immense auditorium, the crowd erupted into a roar of applause, the echoes of which jumped from wall to floor so that the tumult seemed to grow, trapped by the acoustics of the great Musikvereinsgebäude. The main concert hadn't even begun, yet the opening treat of this young American pianist had captured the elusive cultured hearts of the Viennese crowd, who shouted for more, unwilling to yield their enthusiasm until given an encore. Karajan, who was guest conductor, realizing that to begin his own show, he would have yield to this unheard of demand, signalled for the stage master to bring out the pianist who had opened. This night, at least it's beginning's was to belong to the young pianist, a realization that was confirmed as the wavering applause once again exploded when the young lanky man walked back on stage, his unkempt black hair falling back into his eyes.
Karajan motioned for the pianist to begin and as the music started, the crowd's tumult cascaded then fell away into a flood of silence so that as the roar calmed, so the music seemed to be born, beauty and form rising from a dying chaos. The softened discord of Debussy and his Preludes trickled from the piano, rhythms at once abrupt and heartfelt, sad and moving. It was an odd choice, given the Sonata in F that the pianist had opened with. But the Mozart piece had been Karajan's choice, and now given his own voice, the pianist perhaps now revealed his own heart, a harsh wedding of melancholy and exuberance. As the the last notes of the piece fell to silence on stillborn air, Karajan braced his ears for the noisome rebirth of the crowd's approval. It came as a wave of energy that pushed back the silence, a joyous noise that fed on its own amplitude, growing beyond measure. Even the musicians in the pit were on their feet, adding their own voices to the din such that Karajan himself could be seen raising his hands and clap them together, to mark his stamp of official approval. The young pianist, who had been a last minute fill in for Uchida when she had become ill, walked calmly off the stage, as if stunned by his own accomplishment. Karajan marked him with predatory eyes. During the intermission, he would have to get word to the boy's agent, if he had one. Karajan was determined that this new arrival would make his greater debut to the world properly heralded, in the halls of Karajan's own Berliner Philharmoniker.
It took some minutes for the excitement to die down, but Katherine didn't mind. Giancarlo's insistence that they attend the evening concert had brought her a rare gift and she was one of the last to retake her seat. She regretted revealing her enthusiasm to the old Tremere, but the young man had deserved no less and she felt she could not fail him. Giancarlo had long since stopped his applause, as if seeming to disapprove of such uncontrollable emotion, typical of Toreadors, but politely waited for Katherine to take hers before he sat down. He turned to make some cultured and equally empty comment to her, hoping to resume the flow of the conversation that the young man's playing had so abruptly interrupted, but found her intently scanning the program. The young man's name didn't appear on the published glossy pages of the program, but she found it on a paper insert, a hasty photocopy that had probably been added just that day. His name was Robert R. Llewellyn, of Modesto, California. Katherine had been to California many times, but couldn't recall ever visiting a Modesto and she wondered what kind of place it was.
Reeve walked off stage, fixing a bland smile on his face, just trying to hold on until he made it back to his dressing room. Odd faces were thrust into his and acclamations in at least three languages showered him, but he didn't care. He felt drained and tired and he would need to rest if he was ever going to finish the night. Once there, he barred the door, ignoring all pleas and exclamations. Pushing aside one of the many bouquets that had been sent for Mitsuoko Uchida, whose illness was responsible for his untimely debut as not only the protege opener from Juiliard, but now the featured pianist as well. Someone had placed a telegram from Mitsuoko wishing him well. It was a very kind gesture and Reeve was glad, feeling so unworthy as he did. Though he knew inwardly that his performance had been flawless and somehow gifted, the perfection of it scared him. It had set a standard that he felt was above him, but that was how he had felt the whole evening. Merciless doubts plagued him about making a fool of himself in front of all of Vienna, and the world.
God, he thought, I only wanted to meet Mitsuoko Uchida, not replace her.
Perhaps tiredness was his ally. He had been so pent up before he went on that finally it had all just released and he found that he didn't care. Disaster or acclaim, he just wanted to get it over with. Then the music had taken a hold of him and everything fell away. The crowd was just a distant roar, like the sounds of traffic in his old studio, a familiar thing that was easy to forget. Only the music lived and all else were echoes of nothing.
No one bothered him in the dressing room. The stage hands were professionals and they knew an artist who needed quiet and solitude when they saw one. When some backstage well wisher or overly eager music admirer approached, they unyieldingly ushered them away to give Reeve his peace. However, the size of the man now confronting Manfred was daunting, even backed up as he was by two other stage hands. The man was at least seven feet tall and had arms as think as Manfred's own muscular legs.
"I want you to give this to the pianist, Herr Llewellyn." He handed Manfred what looked like an invitation that was sealed with a wax seal. The enchantment of perfume wafted into Manfred's nose, but he didn't take the card.
"I'm sorry, but Herr Llewellyn cannot be disturbed until after the concert. If you like, I can take your card and give it to him later." Manfred wasn't sure where he found the courage to say this, but in spite of the hidden menace in the man's eyes, the stage hand stood his ground.
The large man smiled. "Of course I didn't mean for your services to go unrewarded Herren." He reached into his pocket and took out several colourful pieces of paper and handed them to Manfred. "For each of you."
Manfred's eyes just about jumped out. It wasn't as though he handn't been bribed before, but the scale of it staggered him. The large stranger had handed him ten one-thousand schilling notes. Split amongst the three of them, the stranger had handed each of them almost a week's wages, just to deliver a card. Manfred took the proffered card.
"I will see that he gets this, sir," he promised.
The large man's eyes narrowed and gazed into Manfred's. "Be sure that you do." Then he left, disappearing into the shadows, strangely elusive given his size.
Karajan had been Reeve's only visitor, and he too had not stayed long, as if sensing the young man's need for solitude. He only promised that they should talk later after the concert and offered sincere praise that only made Reeve wince inwardly. After the intermission, Reeve, ready to face doom, surrendered himself to his uncaring, almost unliving demeanor as he marched out. As soon as he emerged, a waiting crowd surged forward to embrace, talk or even touch him while several stage hands worked to keep them at bay and clear the way for the stage. One of them, a short stocky blond haired youth, pushed his hand into Reeve's pocket.
"Fur Gluck, mein Herr!" the man said and his face disappeared to help hold back the crowd. Though thinking it odd, Reeve straightened his jacket and forgot all about it as he trod on to where the Concerto No. 21 awaited him.
Later, much later, Reeve had found a obscure Heurigen that was still open and drank one of several in a series of glasses of Heuriger, seeking to drown in it's sweetness the prideful glow he had felt as he made his escape from the concert hall. Every minute or two, a panic arose that it was all a dream, but the glow of the wine softened his mood and it gave him the composure to accept his laurels. Though he had made his escape, running from a bewildered adulating Karajan and cohorts to find a cab, he knew he had succeeded. Even in this obscure tavern, far from the Musikvereinsgebäude, the music minded Viennese were discussing the night's performance, speculating on the origins of the "mystery" pianist who had so won the city's heart and what was more invasive, its curiosity. The music had captured him and carried him on to success and he blessed the Muse for it.
"You didn't accept my invitation," a musical feminine voice accosted him, speaking in a British accented English.
Reeve just about wet his pants as he jumped up. A very elegant and lithe blond woman was addressing him. Her Romanesque styled hair and shimmering evening gown topped by what looked like a white fox stole told him at once that he was in the presence of money. The other tavern guests stared at her also, or at the chauffeured Mercedes that had just pulled up to deliver her. The driver, a huge broad shouldered ogre, squeezed back into the vehicle and drove off, leaving the debutante or whatever she was alone with Reeve.
"Invitation?" Reeve drew a blank.
"It doesn't matter," she smiled, "May I join you, Mr. Llewellyn?"
"Y'Yesss." Reeve pulled a chair back. His heart was thumping a mile per minute. "Wh'Would you like a drink? Some Heuriger?"
She sat down and shook her head. "Too sweet for me." She motioned for the maitre d'hotel and ordered champagne. Reeve's German wasn't too good, but it sounded like the man was saying he didn't have the brand she wanted. Smiling she pulled out a very large note and handed it to the man, telling him to keep the change. This was followed by some shouting and soon a little minivan was speeding off in the night.
"I'm afraid we'll have to do with water for a while." Her eyes captured Reeve and held him to her. "I loved your music, may I call you Robert?" she said in one breath.
"Call me Reeve," he told her. Only my mother insists on calling me Robert.
She smiled at him, very warmly, Reeve thought. Obviously she had seen the concert, but how she had tracked him to the tavern was anyone's guess. Reeve was surprised that she had gone to the trouble.
She engaged him in pleasant chatter, getting him to reveal something of himself. Reeve was surprised at how easily he talked. Normally, he was very reserved and music was usually his only expression. He talked about his poor upbringing in the slums of Cardiff before his father found a job in the States and they all moved to California. He talked about how a church elder had discovered his talent and had encouraged his very uneducated but musical family to let Reeve follow a musical career, winning a scholarship to the High School of the Performing Arts in Manhatten and then to Juliard. By that time, Reeve was starting to sober. The champagne arrived just in time.
Reeve was just thinking that he didn't know her name while the waiter nervously uncorked the bottle. Reeve tried to glance at it, only catching the name Rothschild. The waiter with ridiculous care opened the bottle and poured two glasses which were also brand new as the man had forgotten to take off the price tags off the bottom. When the maitre d'hotel left, Robert raised his glass of heavy lead crystal and though the woman raised hers, offering him a toast, she only sipped it, which was all she did during the night.
"You don't seem to be drinking much," he later commented.
"You drink for the both of us," she replied, still holding his gaze to her own.
God, she's so beautiful, Reeve thought as he started to pass out. Just as he closed his eyes, he could see the Mercedes pull back up.
When he awoke the next day, he was lying undressed in his bed at the hotel. Flowers and telegrams had been placed all about the room, the soft beauty of the blossoms somehow made garish by the huge arrangements they were found in. The perfume in the room was overwhelming and Reeve desperatly wanted to open a window but feared getting up for the hangover he knew he must have.
The flowers told him the concert wasn't a dream. But the images that captured him the most were those of the blond stranger who he thought he dreamt of, her kisses almost smothering him. Looking down he realized he had a hard on and embarrassed, shuffled off the bed toward the window. Though woozy and feeling a little weak, he had no raging headache, and definitely felt that this was the strangest hangover he had ever had.
Ignoring the bouquets and cards, he dressed for breakfast and, reaching into his coat for his wallet, he found an envelope in place there. It was sealed with wax shaped into some sort of crest. Then he remembered, not only how it had been put into his coat, but later, how the woman had accused him of not accepting her invitation. Though he didn't know how last night had ended, he knew that he definitely wanted more so he tore the envelope open and read the card inside. The scent as he opened it confirmed it was from the elegant blond lady, not so born of dreams as he had feared.
It read in a very stylish handwriting, "Greetings to you dear, Mr Llewellyn. Please accept this invitation at any time to dine with me at my home. Yours, a evermost heartfelt fan, Katherine MacGregor. 931 Königenstrasse. Inside the envelope, something fell onto the floor. It was a ring of dull gold set with two brilliant emeralds. Reeve picked it up and put it on his finger and went out to find the place mentioned in the invitation.
When the cab dropped him off, Reeve could only gaze dumbfounded at the house, though palace seemed a better description. Its front facade suggested 18th century splendor, perhaps from around the time of Napolean. It must be very rare, to have survived the War, Reeve thought.
He went up and rang the bell. The door opened even as the harmonious chimes inside started to end. Reeve hadn't heard them from outside. The huge bulk in the doorway was definitely the chauffeur from last night. Frightened at first, Reeve wasn't sure where to begin.
"Ah, Mr. Llewellyn," the man smiled, "Please come in. Mistress MacGregor has been expecting you."
It turned out that his benefactress wasn't home but that she would return that evening. Reeve's guide, Piotor was his name, showed Reeve to a huge apartment that he could use to freshen up. There was a fully stocked fridge. He was told he could make full use of the phone and television and Piotor left, under the full assumption that Reeve would wait the whole day for MacGregor's return. At first, Reeve bristled at the arrogance to think that he would just waste his whole first day off in Vienna waiting for her. But then, after wandering around looking at the classical and French neo-classical statuary and Italian prints that dotted the walls, Reeve poured himself a glass of Sherry and sat down into a comfortable horsehide chair. Feeling relaxed and strangely very much at home, he called California to tell his mother how the concert had gone.
When Reeve, awoke, the sun was almost gone. Katherine was stooped over him, her hair let down to fall as golden curls that tickled his face. Startled, he tried to get up but she pushed him back down into the chair. She was surprisingly strong.
"Hello," she gave him a warm smile and Reeve noted that she was wearing a silk robe that she hadn't even bothered to close. His eyes drifted down and then embarrassed, he looked back up at her.
"I thought we'd finish what we started last night," she told him, sitting in his lap and licking his ears.
"But," he protested, "I don't even know you."
"But I know you," she replied, her voice having grown thick and husky, "I have seen into your soul Reeve Llewellyn, and your music has made me love you. I want you. And I will have you, Reeve. You'll be mine forever."
As her kisses began to swallow him, Reeve fell into a swoon, thinking that he once thought that only Rock stars were treated like this. She was a bit nuts, he thought, but then, who cared? Notes of Debussy, Mozart, Brahms, Chopin and Rachmanninoff faded from his mind until all he could hear was the beating of his own heart.
"This is an outrage!" Giancarlo blasted the young Tremere so that, in fear, the neophyte prostrated himself on the mosaiced floor, not daring to look up. Giancarlo growled at him to get out and the chylde left the room. As Giancarlo fumed, one of the other three seated Tremere who face him ventured to speak.
"I agree my brother, for this Toreador to embrace within our city without our permission is an affront that cannot be tolerated. We must teach her a lesson for if the Tremere rule cannot be acknowledged in the seat of our power, then Princes everywhere will feel free to flaunt us."
Another of the seated Tremere spoke up, folding back her robes to reveal long taloned hands, "I agree with Brother Antonio that this is an affront. But let us not act too hastily. MacGregor is an Archon for the Toreador Justicar. Perhaps we could use this kine as means of bargaining with her for her support in a venture of ours."
"There's no reckoning with that woman," Giancarlo raged, attempting to hide his own jealousy. "Though Toreador come into this city freely to make use of its arts, I have invited her as a Primogen of her clan specifically to negotiate, and now she runs off in a frivolous pursuit, distracted by her jaded lusts. I will not have it," he warned.
"The last of the seated Tremere now spoke. His black bearded countenance stoney and unmoving. "What Brother Sebastian has said is true, though Sister Bernadette has also brought up possibilities." He paused for effect. "What I propose is this. Since MacGregor has not yet completed her embrace, wishing to bond this kine to her, I say that we intervene and complete the Embrace, making him one of our own. Then, if she wishes to complete the bond, she must deal with us, on our own terms. This pianist will be no loss since he knows none of our secrets, and from the sounds of him, would make a poor recruit in any case."
"But, this is unwise," Antonio protested, "This kine is already known around Vienna. His disappearance would endanger the Masquerade. I say we stage an accident. His death, if properly done, would bring this Toreador back to her senses to deal with the business she came here for. And if it appears that it was a true accident, than there would be no blame to us."
"But," Giancarlo pointed out, "knowing Katherine, if she were to find out, and with her powers she might, her rage and influence would do great damage to our schemes. We need her support and I thank our visiting brother, Lazerus here, for suggesting a viable solution."
"Then it is decided," Bernadette concluded. "Who will perform the Embrace? I am willing."
"No," Giancarlo shook his head, "I will. If Katherine MacGregor decides to intervene, we will need to have someone who can match her strength to complete the act."
"Is she that strong?" Lazerus asked.
"Strong enough," Giancarlo replied. Though his countenance showed displeasure, inwardly he smiled. It would feel good to have Catherine MacGregor come to him for a favor and, for once, be obligated to him.
Reeve walked back home the next evening. He was going to have to see a doctor. He was feeling more weak and listless as time went on. The sun, even though masqued behind heavy dark clouds, burned his eyes so he bought a pair of cheap sunglasses which gave him no benefit. Thank God the sun was setting he decided.
Though Catherine had told him to stay, he left, sneaking out past the butler/chauffeur, Piotor. He had a life to get back to and if she wanted to be part of that, he decided, fine. But he wasn't going to allow her to swallow him up into her dreams, no matter how enticing. No, Reeve decided, he was going to call the shots. Stopping along a wall in an alley in the old part of town, he tried to steady himself. I must be crazy, he thought, to skip out on a babe like that. But there was something about her that scared him and he just wanted to run. He could sort it out later, maybe call her up and apologize. Right now he just needed to breathe. That and see a doctor, he decided. Then he passed out, sliding down along the alley.
How nice, Giancarlo thought, for his chylde to almost come to him. Of course the summoning spell had helped. If Reeve hadn't of been so weak, Giancarlo mused, the kine might have made it. Giancarlo looked down at Reeve's prostrate form with sneering derision. What had MacGregor seen in him, the Tremere wondered. Are quick clever hands really so engaging to women?
Not stopping on ceremony, the old Tremere picked Reeve up and slammed him against the wall, the hard jolt waking the young man up.
Reeve groaned and looked up. "Oh Jesus!" he screamed, seeing Giancarlo bare his fangs. Reeve kicked and punched, all of which did nothing as Giancarlo sank his teeth into Reeve's throat. Reeve screamed at the pain as Giancarlo began to drink in deep heavy draws.
Just then Giancarlo was sent flying, his body landing against a plastic dumpster and knocking it over, spilling paper cartons everywhere. It was Catherine. Her eyes burned red with rage and her own teeth were bared.
Giancarlo sneered. If it was a fight the hag wanted, then she would get more than she bargained for. This was Tremere territory and Giancarlo was in the seat of his power.
Reeve looked up. Blood was flowing from his torn neck but he couldn't move, he was so weak. He could see the dark haired, vampire?, point his hand at Catherine and she sank to her knees, but then a grotesque form began to rise from the very ground. Giancarlo whirled around, but it was too late as the Nosferatu appeared behind him. As the two started to flay Giancarlo, Reeve passed out, unwilling to bear the inhuman scene.
"What do you mean I'm a Vampire!" Reeve screamed. "You're crazy! I'm getting out of here!"
Reeve remembered the words as he spoke them to that torn and mutilated face, even while it healed. Catherine had told him about herself, about him, about what he had become. Even later, when she had healed, and came to seduce him, he rejected her. Only by the blood bond could she force him, but she seemed unwilling to do that. She wanted him to come of his own will and that he would not do. He somehow knew that she had suffered much because of him, but he didn't care. For what she had done to him, he could never forgive her.
She kept him with her for two months, trying to teach him, but he ignored her like a sullen chylde. He would not play his music and only mourned for his familly and the daylight world. Finally, in a rage, she cornered him one night, telling him the ultimate truth of his existence.
"I have risked much for you chylde, but I have a duty to perform. We all do when we bring another into our world. You remember what I have told you of our traditions. The fourth of these says that if you cannot accept what you have become, then you must be destroyed. And I must be the one to do it."
She reached out a hand to touch Reeve's cheek, but he turned away.
"Am I supposed to thank you? I piss on you. I piss on what you've done to me."
Catherine checked her anger. She had made a mistake now, she realized and she would have to correct it. By giving in to her passion, she had robbed the world of a treasure and now, the full meaning of her actions became apparent. In the circles of the Toreador, she would loose much if it became known how she had violated the Tremere province, to embrace a treasure unworthy of her kiss. Sadly, regretably, Reeve would have to be destroyed. Still, she felt she owed him the one last chance.
"I will give you a fortnight, my darling. Think on it well. If you cannot reconcile yourself to our ways, then I shall give you the peace you cry so much for. But remember, they don't play Mozart in Hell."
Turning, she left, her golden hair tied up and caught with a silver web. It was the last time Reeve saw her before he fled. He knew that she would carry out her threat. The look in her eyes told him that she considered him already gone.
In the belly of the Kobe Liberia, Reeve awoke from his sleep, sensing the retreat of day. While the crew worked, Reeve cautiously jumped from shadow to shadow, this time not chasing rats, but looking out over the side rail to the city beyond. It wasn't home, but it would do. Slipping over the side, he dropped. Some of the crew thought they heard someone fall overboard, but looking, could see nothing and no one appeared to be missing. As the Kobe Liberia sped on its way to Norfolk, Reeve swam toward the lights of Baltimore. He swam until wet on the muddy flats, Reeve heard American voices from the dock above. He cried when he heard them, even though their accents were different. He cried, but his tears were red. Ashamed, he wiped his tears from his face, drinking them and the mud of Maryland as a mixture. He was home, but there was no joy, only the same loneliness and fear that he had left behind in Europe. He wasn't human anymore. Like an animal, he stalked the alleyways of the dock, hunting for rats and stray cats. After taking his wretched meal, he sought out shelter in the wet basement of an abandoned warehouse. Gathering refuse and garbage around him, he lost himself imagining of music until day and sleep took him. While he slept, the unseen sun crawled high around above him, torturing his dreams.
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