#thomas writes

Road: At first, I wanted to give him the Road of the Abyss. On paper, it fits perfectly — secret knowledge, darkness, all of that. But there’s one sin that made me hesitate: expressing reverence for creation. Before his journey into the Abyss, he might have fit that path and surrendered himself fully to the void. But in his current state, after returning, he can’t help but value creation. The Abyss erased almost all of his memories of the real world, so now he clings to small things — blooming flowers, the smell of good food, the sight of beautiful men walking down the street. In that sense, he wants to experience life and be enveloped by it. So it ended up being something almost opposite to his nature, but very close to his humanity. Also, his sire follows that Road. Or followed it? I’m not actually sure what happened to him yet.

I like building characters through contrast — Enoch, with his chthonic nature and appreciation of life, is no exception.

How was he embraced? Did the usual Lasombra “breaking the fledgling to see how they cope” trials happen to him?

This is the hardest question, and unfortunately I can’t answer it fully because it’s part of his personal quest. Due to the Abyss and his prolonged time in it, he lost almost all of his memories. But there are things I’ve managed to piece together during session zero and in discussion with the GM.

His sire, Victorien Loyola, came to him to offer answers — and to listen. At that time, Enoch was in a very unstable mental state, deep in psychosis and obsessed with knowledge beyond human understanding (I’ll elaborate on this in his backstory below). So the offer of answers and more knowledge felt almost like mockery — like tempting an addict.

Victorien appeared to him more than once, not only in his human refuge, but also in cities and places where Enoch fought. Always somewhere at the edge of perception. (Victorien and Raymund(Enoch) himself)

As I mentioned earlier, Enoch’s mind was severely deteriorating due to psychosis. He was doing questionable things and, apparently, his research led him to something… forbidden. Possibly even by Cainite standards. At some point, he remembers engaging in a serious confrontation with his sire — after which… he somehow survived. If we can call it survival in un-life.

When he returned to his former refuge, he found the roof broken open, and inside — a large occult stone, split in half.

As it turned out, Victorien was a vampire scholar researching the history of their kind, and apparently needed an assistant with a similar hunger for knowledge. They traveled through significant cities, took part in excavations, and spent a long time researching. Eventually, they encountered a problem that couldn’t be solved through ordinary means. There is... uhh... a little bit of gay connotation. Art by sturm

Victorien is a very old Lasombra, effectively a Methuselah at this point — around 1400+ years old, though I’m not entirely sure. He is deeply passionate about his field, studying the Abyss, the Umbra, and likely many other things I’m not aware of. (Possibly for the best — for both me and Enoch.)

The “trial” part will come up in later answers so I don’t repeat myself. I hope I can convey my ideas clearly.

Here’s a track I associate with his embrace: https://youtu.be/j9Y5Pds0Ass?si=U1niQMiiE2gLsPo8 before embrace little pic.

And after in long jorney at fucking desert (he hates it, his sire seems like adore it, but... you know. The artefacts and so on. ignore boobs and my ugly trying to figure out how tf muscle work.

Who was he before the embrace? How did he take his new un-life?

This will probably be the longest part.

Short version: — a crusader of the Second Crusade; — a bastard of the Count of Toulouse; — a war criminal; — obsessed with knowledge beyond human comprehension; — arguably… something of a maniac.

Now, the longer version.

Once known as Raymund of Toulouse, he now goes by Enoch.

Raymund was born a bastard to one of the Counts of Toulouse. His father, who fought on the southern borders, saw in his son a chance at redemption — and a way to preserve the family name. His childhood was filled with games, training, and troubadour songs about the heroes of the First Crusade, shaping his dreams of knighthood, glory, and honor.

At thirteen, he was sent east as a squire during the Second Crusade. There, he saw war without illusion: hunger, disease, crushing defeats, and the meaningless deaths of comrades. Years later, he was knighted, but by then his belief in heroism had already collapsed. In its place grew a fierce ambition to claim the throne of Toulouse. Bastard or not, Raymund knew how to make it happen. War is a very convenient tool for removing inconvenient heirs. A few successful gambits, and everything was in place. It’s not a war crime if it’s your hyperfixation.

One night, however, he saw “holy men” assaulting a woman and intervened. He felt no guilt, even after realizing she was Muslim. He let her go — but remembered her face.

On the journey back through the desert to Occitania, his company dwindled: men died from wounds, illness, and sudden attacks. When only a few remained, a group of Arabs approached their campfire one night. Among them, Raymund recognized the woman he had once saved. This time, she saved him. The survivors were led to an oasis, where, in return, they were asked only for a cup of blood each.

There, Raymund witnessed an underground ritual. He didn’t understand it, but for the first time he felt something shift: darkness might not be evil — it might be knowledge. His hunger for power, his ambitions, and court intrigue lost their meaning. Something else took their place: a hunger for hidden knowledge. That thought took root in his mind and became an obsession.

Back home, he began searching for answers. Raymund spent money on rare books and scrolls, supported Cathars and secret scholars, and conducted nightly experiments. Sometimes people died. People tend to die in general — he learned that well during the war.

For seven years, he barely left his home during daylight, building a library and sinking deeper into obsession. Each new text further destabilized his mind and worsened his psychosis. Desperate, he tried to recreate the ritual from the desert, constructing a small sand-filled basin in his tower. And to reach the Abyss… he began feeding it with pure, untouched souls. just silly significant memes that describe him in two pics

What is his attitude to the Abyss? How does he perceive it?

At first, when he entered the Abyss, he was terrified — despite his determination. Over time, after about fifty years there, he seems to have… adapted. In a strange way, it calms him. For him, the Abyss has become something almost familiar. Even though he understands it is destroying him.

It’s like an abusive relationship.

I tend to imagine his Abyss as an endless, lethal, empty cosmos — but one not entirely devoid of light, filled with dead, distant stars. And yet, in the world of the living, it leaves him feeling profoundly alone. He doesn’t know whom to blame: himself for making that choice, his sire, or the Abyss itself — for taking him away from himself, erasing almost all memory of his past, leaving Raymund of Toulouse somewhere behind, traded for the one thing he valued most: knowledge. scene from session 0, where he found out how to escape the abyss. but with... a guest in his sword. Which is... his anchor. Art by sturm again. (He's my GM, btw)

Back to the Trial.

My theory is that Victorien orchestrated it through: — the onset of his psychosis in the desert; — and sending him into the Abyss for fifty years. Not that fifty years is much for a Methuselah — more like putting the kettle on while your childe deals with his issues.

Since his parents are never home these days, the pool has been sitting unused until the water has mostly evaporated. The tiles are cracked and there’s a layer of green scum sitting on the bottom of it. The ugly brown water stains around the sides look like weeping wounds. If his parents had taken the time to go out into the backyard and check on it, they would’ve had it fixed. 

Steve kind of likes the way it looks. Something even uglier happened to Barb there. He sees her at the pool all the time even though he never goes down there. He sees her face from the window. Smiling at her latest report card, shaking her head fondly at him, shyly trying not to stare at that kid from the school band she had a crush on, or teasing Nancy. All of those Barbs are down there and Steve thinks that’s where she’ll be forever. 

There’s no relief for him in the house. It’s haunted by a different type of memory entirely. Everywhere he goes he sees his parents. His father adjusting one of his silk ties in the mirror above the fireplace, his mother’s expensive heels clacking on the polished parquet flooring. He smells his Dad’s cologne in the bathroom, his Mom’s face cream in their bedroom. They’re here, they’re always here and yet they’re never here.

Chicago. New York. Paris. Italy. Japan. He loses track. 

People expect him to hate his parents. To resent how much they’ve been away. But he doesn’t. Not all of the ghosts are bad. No, there are different ghosts that float around the Harrington house. Sometimes a smell or a sound will bring them back. Sometimes unexpectedly. 

Dustin chews on a peppermint when Steve hosts Hellfire. It’s Christmas and Steve’s Dad is dressed in a full Santa outfit although the graying beard hangs loose. He’s giving a hearty ‘ho-ho-ho’ as he hands over a sackfull of toys while his grandmother’s candy cane cookies bake in the oven and his Mom hums her favorite Christmas Carols. 

Eleven’s party poppers to celebrate her birthday.  They’re his party poppers as his Mom arranges paper plates printed with dinosaurs on the massive dining room table. His father wobbles on a ladder as he hangs balloons and streamers. His grandfather picks him up so he can touch the ceiling and pretend he’s flying like Peter Pan. 

Sometimes, Steve haunts himself. When he applies for the job at Family Video or goes to the library to sneak a look at college brochures. He looks up and sees King Steve staring at him in his reflection. Sneering at him. Perfect King Steve in his preppy polo shirts and immaculately ironed chinos. Not a single hair out of place. Underneath those clothes Steve knows his body is perfect too. No scars or blemishes. He doesn’t have to hide in sweaters or layers. 

He looks away when King Steve starts to laugh at him. 

Steve grabs his jacket, suddenly unable to bear being in the house alone any longer. His ghosts try to follow him but he slams the front door on them all. He hurries down the path and out into the street. Shoving his hands deep into the pockets of the thin jacket he strides down the streets. 

For a while, as usual, he feels safe. They can’t get to him here. Not Barb. Not his parents. Not even King Steve who only ever shows up, ironically, in reflections. 

Maybe the ghosts can’t get him. But the demon can. 

Because even in the darkened streets of Hawkins, he’s haunted. And it’s the worst of them all. He would take all of his ghosts combined forever if it could vanish the demon. 

Eddie Munson.

He’s everywhere. His voice. His image. The smell of his body odor as he’s forced to hide from the people who want him dead. He walks beside Steve, but this isn’t the carefree theatrical Eddie who stands on cafeteria tables. 

This Eddie is haunted too.

His Hellfire t-shirt is stained, saturated with the sickly reddish-brown of his spilt blood. Through the tears in his jeans, he can see open wounds. The demon smiles and a cut across his cheek splits open, fresh blood spilling over into his mouth. He grimaces and Steve can smell the acrid stench of vomit. 

Steve runs.

And runs.

 He doesn’t know where he’s going until he almost goes over the edge. He skids in the mud, realizing he’s standing atop the large hill that overlooks the Hawkins Salvage Yard. His heart is pounding wildly in his chest and his limbs feel shaky as he tries to level out his breathing. 

He’s not sure exactly how long he stays there. But it’s long enough that the sun starts to rise. It casts a soothing glow over the piles of discarded cars. The sky lights up with soft pinks and oranges. 

“Huh. I don’t think I knew this part of town existed. It’s beautiful.”

Steve turns around and he’s there. Not King Steve. Not the demon Eddie. The real one. He’s wrapped up in a leather jacket against the early morning breeze. He smiles at Steve and it’s just like the sunrise. It stretches the pink scar across his cheek. 

“Bad night?” Eddie continues as he stands beside Steve and admires the lit up salvage yard below them. 

“Something like that,” Steve answers. He doesn’t talk about the hauntings. Everyone he knows, Eddie included, has their own ghosts to deal with. 

“Yeah, I know about that,” is Eddie’s quiet reply. Steve feels a motion to his left, he looks down and Eddie’s hand is reaching out. He’s wearing all of his favorite silver rings and his black nail polish is chipped.