Of Rituals: Remere.

The moon hangs high above the cathedralesque stone dwelling and the surrounding fuchsia gardens. Tainted by the earth's shadow, a blue light scatters through the arched glass of the atrium and lands upon a seated figure veiled in black, gold, and crimson. Propped open in their left hand is a book bound in aged leather with obsidian pages foiled ‘round the edges, surface adorned in symbols evocative of the ceaseless cycle of life, death, and rebirth.

It was the eve of Samhain—an ideal time for pondering such things. But that did not solve the problem at hand. What ancestors could they revere if they had no memory? Could they simply refer to those that came before? Or, would it be more simple, and more efficient, to release what belonged to the old year in favor of what would come next? Remembrance, release, renewal… They were such broad terms, and yet all carried a meaning that could be interpreted in a myriad of ways.

How irritating.

They purse their lips and gaze upon the cyclical glyphs on the black parchment, a modified ampoule—no longer than a rose and its stem—levitating beneath their opposite hand. The deep red liquid within glistens with circumfluous magick that pulsates without rhyme or reason, as though synchronizing with the thoughts fluttering about Remere’s mind.

Realization comes with delay, after gazing upon a failed composition scattered across the floor. They set their book face down upon the arm of the chair, and the modified ampoule flitters down before landing upon the stone ground with a soft ‘ting’, rolling until it collides with the nearby anthurium planter.

Music was as old as humankind, and vampire kind as well. Perhaps, in place of a physical offering to some unknown force, they could offer something as timeless as those that came before.

The door opens as they kneel, gloved hands scrambling about the discarded pile. Remere had long since lost track of how long the sheet music had been there. A week? A month? The gardens would still bloom, the moon would still hang overhead, and time would still slip through their fingers like sand.

“What are you doing?” The Groundskeeper asks, features obscured by that unnecessarily large brimmed hat of his. They claimed often that it was to protect them from the branches overhead, but Remere knew dedication to glamour when they saw it.

“I am busy,” Remere answers flatly, in disarray as they attempt to salvage the once-abandoned mess of stray parchment before them.

The Groundskeeper's lips upturn into something of a lopsided smile. Footsteps gradually intensify as they approach and kneel beside the master of the house, removing gloves to reveal the translucent mimicry of skin beneath, bone-like structures glowing from within. The phantom conservator picks up the remaining pages with ease, before standing upright and offering Remere a hand.

They take it and rise, the weight of the night still pressing upon them.

“Allow me to assist. It is my duty to do so.”

Remere releases a noise vaguely akin to a whine in protest, brushing nonexistent dust from their skirt.

“I can do it myself. I want to finish this piece before the sun rises. It is more meaningful if I do it tonight.”

The Groundskeeper gazes upon the cello propped dangerously against the arm of the nearby tufted chair, their head turning slowly to gaze upon Remere. There is understanding in the way their mouth shifts, a pursing of lips—a familiarity that was better left unspoken.

“Then I shall listen, and tend to the fuchsia gardens at a later point in time.”

Remere's opposition is immediate: “They are… temperamental. They could die without your diligent hand.”

“An evening unattended will not kill them. Do you question my capabilities?”

A pause, long and heavy. Remere yields, and shakes their head.

“No. I suppose not.” They return to their seat prior, and adjust their posture instinctively: spine tall but not rigid, shoulders relaxed and level.

“Fetch my bow for me.” Remere says, fingers already curling around the fingerboard. “And then we shall see if the night remembers what the day has forgotten.”

𓆩♱𓆪 Birthed in gloom by Rem and Fern.