The World of Sanguinem Emere

February 9, 2017

“If our death could be indefinitely postponed, we would not go on postponing it, indefinitely…”

– Alan Watts on the Acceptance of Death

8420e02a6f84c794a0e5e1d4d7e9e0a0-2

Sanguinem Emere is a Gaslight Vamp tale, set in a morbid parody of the Victorian era, where light illuminates, and chases not just the darkness away, but the darkness within the hearts of men too. Where daylight subdues the aspect of humanity that sings and dances and avails itself of pleasure in a way that some hearken to aspects of beastliness. New Babylon is just such a city, and is the apex of this tale, this is where the story runs, this is where time stands still for our illuminated characters – a cast of many, drenched suddenly in darkness, and urged to revel.

By day, New Babylon is every town. But, by night, New Babylon is the heart of the world, writhing and pounding with expression, with wants, needs, desires, that cannot be stumped by inhibition.

The Sanguinem Emere Universe began with a small concept of a new model of vampire. A vampire that incorporates the romantic, and the horrific, the wholly evil (by ordinary human standards), with the arisen, a creature that transcends the laws of humanity, as a beast that is both human, and, consequently, more than just mortality. It was not long before that vision morphed into a truth, that the vampire is terrifying, yes, but, also, deeply hypnotic, mesmeric, intended, as the perfect monster, to be seductive, awe-inspiring, and divine. The vampire is humanity, at its most optimal; able to inspire, to create, to mould and fashion, and devise, in a manner that mortal limitations prevent humanity from achieving.

Sanguinem Emere, itself, refers to an exemption of accountability in the eyes of judgement by the validation of birthright, of blood ties. But it is a double-edged sword. It refers, too, to the accountability of one’s blood. The expectations placed on the shoulders of the gens of New Babylon, by the position of their creation, of their relation to a Gens family, to those created in nobility, with a standard to uphold.

It was after the publication of our first two novels (The Key and Bought in Blood – which we have recently chosen to cease publication of) that we were approached by a third party to join our little duo. M, as he likes to call himself, offered an insight, that was so intensely accurate, to that which we wanted to achieve, that, we could not say no.

Really, we couldn’t.

He knew the ebb and flow of our story like a lover, and, he situated it, offered his voice and his time, and his, often, maddening surreal sight; he filtered our work, bringing it to life.

Without M, this would be just a story.

With him, it is a history, an organism of intent. It is the tale of the Gens, through the truthful spyglass. As cold and calculating as one might expect of a millennia-aged creature of darkness. Yet, more loving than its human counterpart, given centuries to perfectly shape its heart.

Or so we are told. Or so we choose to believe.

We have always believed, though some may say, it was phase-like, and due to a lack of discipline, that the vampire, is not true horror because it drinks blood, or even that it kills. Rather, it is horrific, because it is so achingly human. It has been said, that the human mind, is a terrible thing. If that is so, then, the most truly terrifying, of all monsters, is the human monster, with its capability for reason, and opposing blinding irrationality in the face of the most unruly stimulae. There are reams of poetry, prose, and other art, that hint and sing the lament of this fact, throughout the course of human creation.

Sanguinem Emere is no ordinary writing project. It is the culmination of years of devoted hunger for the truth of the vampiric condition. The condition as detailed by so many other authors, and, as detailed, by so much bleeding of the myth into reality. M has transcribed that desire into some semblance of truth, and, we transcribe the rest. It is the project that will stand past death. If truth be told, it is the project that we want to pierce the veil of an end, and continue on, into the annals of history.

It is the promise of immortality.

New Babylon

July 14, 2015

 

Phonographic Journal Transcription #6

‘New Babylon was built on sin’

Recorded: Winter 1880

Transcribed: July 14th 2015

Le_déluge_-_musée_de_beaux_arts_de_Nantes_20091017

The city of New Babylon is built on sin.

The sun seldom bothers itself enough to highlight the dead gardens of the towers of Babylon, but mud and ash were a verdant green at some point, surely…

Daylight in New Babylon blinds the world with its splendour, but it also illuminates the shame in the hearts of those it lights up – forcing her denizens to hide behind refinement and a quickening seen only in beehives and corpses.

But nightfall in New Babylon brings forth the true spirit of the city. Her sins stalk the streets, forcing the mannered indoors. The shroud of night hides all imperfections, just as it hides the true Lords of the city. Those who own its industries, its stone walkways, dives, and pebble beaches; its hawkers, its streetwalkers, and its scandalous gin dens as inhabitants try to escape the drudgery of their existence by staring into the night. The blood of the city is currency, to barter, to purchase, and to lay claim.

Oh, and how familiar it is, this land of broken statues, dead deities, and ruined towers, in dead bleached of rose and ivy. Yes, some of the place names have been changed, but New Babylon is every town. Some of the players took new monikers, but they have all been the lonely inebriate in the bar, they have been the nude woman, combing her flaxen locks with the shutters wide open onto the night, and they have been the deplorably depraved, chasing the child into the darkness, and the arms of sickness and death.

New Babylon is the shade of every city.

Jung said, there is a shadow in each man; In New Babylon, these prehistoric sins walk among us. When the gas lamps are lit, the Gentes are real; Shadows made flesh. They wear the same skin as yours, and speak in low, lulling whispers. They thirst for the sin, and the light. They dance with you and laugh and sing, and kill you sweetly with a soft touch, or a gentle murmur.

The city of New Babylon knows sin.
It has sinned.

Her Darling Morgan

July 2, 2015

Phonographic Journal Transcription #2

‘Her Darling Morgan’

Recorded: Winter 1880

Transcribed: July 4th 2015

 

Why does D’Asur fascinate me so? Is that self-same ratlike scurrying?

Or its oddly hypnotic refusal to accept defeat?

Scurrying, no, not like rats, like spiders, like the spiders that adorn their crest. Spider beasts. And we all know the eldest has an affinity for such, and an affinity for the motherhood of a spider. She likes to call herself Saskia, Saskia Vuersord. Her real name, as most, might be lost to the ages, but, we call her, the venator, the hunter, the assassin.

There have been reports of her crawling up walls and hanging, in corners, like a monstrous glimpse of one phobic’s nightmare. Surely she has her genitor’s depth of unnerving power. I wonder, does she call him father?

But the Venator has her secrets, even if they are not secret at all, she has her children, so many children, little urchins, all female, scurrying the streets for her, her little spiderlings, telling her secrets, that she may find one amongst them that she deems worthy to receive her gift. One that she might take into the long night with her, lay with in the dark and alter, create, mould into her own image. One would think that a child of such power, such age, would know the truth of the world. No matter how the gens would like their progeny to change for them, they might never do so, in all probability, she never will.

I wonder why then, does Vuersord revert back to her … Morgans? And what is it in that name that gives her such hesitation? Her latest little lover has balked against the moniker. It seems she will not accept her new mother’s demands.

I do not foresee see her lasting long in this life.

The Manor’s End

July 2, 2015

Phonographic Journal Transcription #1

‘The Manor’s End’

Recorded: Winter 1880

Transcribed: July 2nd 2015

 

The Glass Manor has been the home to the Gens D’Asur since the day of its inception. Whether it was ever built or not is a matter to be debated. It is more likely that, Ashur De Babylonia thought it into being, and, so it was.

Vast, expansive, opulent, its halls more dayrooms, and garden atriums than classically baroque, or medieval. Ashur fashioned The Glass Manor after the homes of his youth, or so he claims, or so his children claim. Not a soul has seen Ashur De Babylonia since New Babylon cursed his name and the name of his family. Not since the night the City rose up to defy him, and his brazen betrayal.

It was the missive that did it. Intercepted by Anatole’s men, that De Babylonia claimed rights by birth. Rights that, the seneschal would never dream of seeing brought to fruition. Rights that stood between the youth-cursed gens and her genitor’s throne. By rights of birth, or so he says, or so his children says – De Babylonia has always been a mystery. Is he the shadow that once haunted men’s waking nightmares, that flitted just past the fires of night, that stalked homes, slipped beside beds and caressed sleeping cheeks?

Did Ashur De Babylonia, lonely, curious, form of himself a human body, did he slip amongst the men from his shadowy domain, defended from the light by flesh and blood? Was he the first, or one of the many  progressive shadows to place themselves amidst the warmth of the herd and, speak, laugh, arrange his faux features into a mirror image of their own?

Who can say. None but him, and, with the exception of a smile, a wistful longing, he has said nothing. Oh, but his children say.

Rights by birth.

That the true founder of New Babylon was reaching to take back his city, by rights of birth. That he would have them rise, his innocents, his children, the unclaimed, the unwanted, the lost gens that filtered (and still do) through the city streets, strays not yet hounded by the madness of Fenrir’s xenophobic fear of gens without family.

Sanguinem Emere, we say, when we want what we want. Sanguinem Emere, let those with no familial bonds, no relation, no ties and stays be purged. They threaten that which we hold dear. If the calf strays too far from its mother’s side, it must be culled, it must be cut down.

And in that way, De Babylonia, strayed too far. He and his young, ventured away from the strictures of law, and were … culled. And the City saw that it was good. What is left, lies, so they say, in a tomb, where not even his children may find him. So they say.

But De Babylonia’s legacy is long, and D’Asur long for their former glory, like rats gnawing at the skirting boards.