The Rose Garden

by Milla, Toreador with a Gangrel spirit

I long to smell the scent of fresh oil paint and linen canvases, with a whiff of spring rain on dry soil floating lightly above the mix. I want to feel the bristles of my brush caressing the canvas, to watch another realm reveal itself by my hand. A realm of reflection and truth. Truth can be harsh, beautiful, painful, even disturbing. But it is my truth. A truth without words or the need for explanation, reaching out to find the one soul who resonates with it.

Instead, I find myself in a gallery of modern art. Clinical. Cold. The air feels thick, like a viscous substance pressing against my skin. It’s suffocating. They call it the "Rose Garden." What a name for a place dripping with decadence, false pleasantries, shallow gossip, and veiled manipulation. There is no fragrance of roses in the air, only the synthetic perfumes worn by those pretending to be alive. They hold their crystal glasses filled with lukewarm red liquid, sauntering through the halls of art while their flock drools at a respectful distance in admiration... I never get used to that.

But here I am, playing this nauseating but essential game. And I wonder if they feel the same disgust, the same aversion deep down inside. It is not that I'm appalled by them per se, but by the lack of them. I look at them and I only see their skillfully crafted masks adorned with precious stones and golden filigree, camouflaging the monsters they truly are. But there must be more than the beast hiding behind the façade. Some humanity must still linger in the labyrinth of their Kindred being. I have to believe that.

I wish I could breathe again. Feel my heartbeat slow as I focus on the air filling my lungs and slowly exiting again. I need to be calm and focused now. I need all my willpower to untangle the little bits of knowledge they weave into a tapestry of gossip and pretentious words. There is change in the thick, viscous air I can no longer breathe.

Word is that the Prince is no longer seated on her throne in the Ivory Tower. That she couldn't resist the pull, the beckoning. Whatever that may be. It sounds like she finally followed her instinct, her truth. Not the fabricated doctrine of the Masquerade.

I need to catch the words the roses whisper on the wind. All of them. The cultivated and the wild ones. I need to know if it is possible to let go and just be free. Free of all the masks we have to wear. Free to be who I really am.