V:tM - BECOMING

Yes, Eric agreed with the creature and Alice... why they were here was the most important question, but asked in a different way...

"More to the point, why us?" he voiced from his seat next to Alice while leaving back. He for one was not surprised by the theatrics or the view or basically anything they encountered beyond the door, it was what he would expect from someone like their host, and he had seen an areal photograph of this place online once...

"You've gathered a bunch of... pawns, and no doubt wish to ask us a favor or perhaps even offer us compensation for something but, and forgive me if I'm presumptuous, you have servants and if you want deniability then..." he gave a pointed look at Deadward. "You only have our words or... a plan to prevent us from talking." Trust no one, the first rule of the game. "You'll forgive me for not wanting to proceed without the reason you sent for us specifically..."

Perfect was to find out exactly who he was rubbing shoulders with, and filthy ones at that.
 
“I’m told my eye for home décor is second to none, my dear Edward,” Rothstein says with a flashing grin, “and that my taste in cocktails is simply to die for.” A subtle emphasis of a specific word is all it takes; Kindred move through a world of veiled threats and barbed compliments, and Rothstein knows that the best method is making them uncertain if his words were even meant to be taken in such a way.

Keep them thinking. Keep them guessing. Keep them on their toes and paying their respects.

Then the dark figure in the immaculate suit, Eric, pipes up with more questions. The suspicious one shows his face at last. Of all the names on his little list of potential candidates, Eric was the one Rothstein was most wary of. Partly due to his sire; a dark reputation naturally follows a vampire so closely tied to the shadows, and combining that with his nature as a Sabbat ship-jumper and you naturally have to be suspicious.

“And why you?” Harry repeats the question, turning to face the Lasombra. “An excellent question. I chose you all, simply put, because you have not been around that long. You are new players to this game, only recently started dancing to this tune that has been playing for far too long. You have not settled into any rhythm yet, or rather… no-one’s managed to attach that many strings yet.” The upbeat, amused tone of Harry’s speech falls away the more he speaks, becoming more animated and serious with each word. “A fresh perspective is needed on this matter. Hence the fresh faces I have assembled tonight.”

He turns back to Eric, smiling again that overly-charming smile. “I trust that answers your query?”
 
Eric answered the baron with a thin smile and nodded knowing anything further he would say would only delay the explanation of what was required of them, then, still playing the part of Alice's confident and more while also knowing full well Rothstien probably knew better he tuned and leaned over close to Alice, hiding his lips just behind her ear.

"Out host talks a lot but says nothing, I'm not surprised. On e thing is clear though he wants pawns. Ones more capable than ghouls and probably wants to cast a few strings of his own. Now smile like I've just explained to you my wildest fantasies for you and I between the sheets..."

He paused allowing her to comply.

"If this is dicey I'm leaving if it pleases our host or not... You'll follow I hope. If not..."

The end of that sentence was left to her imagination.
 
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Big Ben strikes midnight, blasting out the booming tolls to announce to London the beginning of a new day.

Down below, the city’s nightlife is in full swing. Nightclub doors teem with life, pubs and bars are packed to the brim, restaurants and takeaways light up the streets. The night is alive with people flitting to and fro, cars filling the motorways.

All of them ignorant to the threats that walk amongst them.

The night used to be a time of fear and trepidation, a time to circle the wagons, gather around the fire and pray for the sun to rise all the sooner. Once upon a time humanity was distantly aware of the things that lived for the night. Now they don’t even recognise them as they brush shoulders on the street. They pay no heed to the pale-faced stranger with the gym bag slung over his shoulder who passes by them on his way through Camden Town.

His hair is well-groomed, swept across his forehead in that slick, greasy style that was popular several decades previously. A suit can be seen underneath the greatcoat he wears, bearing the hallmarks of clothing tailored on Savile Row. The gym bag is what stands out so much amongst it all, modern polyester with the Nike tick on its side. But not strange enough to elicit more than a passing glance from anyone passing by; probably just a banker or law firm type returning home late from the gym.

If they lock eyes with him, though, they might just catch on to the fact that this isn’t a man at all.

Not any more.

Elysian Fields is a few streets away from where he walks, and even from here the sound booming from it drowns out the ambient city noises and the club’s competitors; the sub-bass to some electronic track soaking out into the night air. The suited figure pays it no heed as he crosses the street towards a block of flats, casually pushing open the door with his free hand and entering. The stairwell’s the usual affair of what one would expect from a block of London flats, all peeling paint, unwashed floors and old stone walls. He winds his way up the steps with a casual grace, bag still slung over his shoulder.

As he pushes open the door to a flat on the top floor, he pulls the bag off and swings it onto a table. The flat is one of those trendy one-room affairs, small kitchen set into a corner and the remains of furniture left behind by whoever once stayed here. It’s been abandoned for several months now, if the layer of dust that coats all the surfaces and the smell of mould is anything to go by, but the suited man pays it no heed, focusing his attention on the bag as he un-zips it.

From within he draws a long and sleek matt-black object, checking it over quickly with the practised ease of someone who has performed this action so often it is but muscle memory. Without a word he absently throws the bag away and drags the table to the centre of the room with the item placed upon it, before moving over to the window.

Elysian Fields can be seen in it’s entirety from this height, a brightly lit and vibrating structure of stone and plate glass. The queue to gain entrance is massive now, stretching out onto the next street, but the suited man pays it no mind. His attention is focused upon the private balcony, upon which Harry Rothstein stands before seven seated figures.

It’s all in place. Time to go to work.

The man turns and walks back over to the table, picking up the rifle and beginning to zero his sights.

Tonight one of the Kindred goes to their Final Death.



“I suppose that answers your questions, then,” Harry says as he politely pretends not to notice Eric whispering into the ear of Alice, “Let us get down to the business at hand. I require the services and assistance of individuals such as yourselves because I find myself unable to trust those more established figures in our society. What I ask of you may at times be risky, I will not lie, but the rewards will be to everyone’s benefit. Money. Prestige. Power. All the things newcomers to our little community tend to lack, I can help provide you if you are willing to aid me on this.”

Big promises, admittedly, but such is the way of things; Harry knows he has their attention now, as he pushes away from the railing and swings himself around to lean on his chair. “This city is old, my friends, and our kind have been playing their games here for many centuries. And ancient games means ancient secrets, one of which I have come across. A secret that, simply put, I find most troubli--”

In the distance, two cracks of sound. The next second something slams into the Baron of Camden’s chest, followed immediately by something hitting the back of his head. Without a word, without a cry he topples to the ground, revealing the flames beginning to spread up the back of his suit.

Screams and shouts echo from down below on the streets of Camden Town; the tone has shifted, something has changed.

But the seven vampires seated before the burning baron have little time to take in this sudden turn of events.

The doorway to Rothstein’s hidden balcony smashes open, and two darkly-clad figures come charging through. Their faces are hidden by hoods and scarves but the short blades they carry catch the glint of the balcony’s lights. The one at the front snarls and begins to throw himself down the steps at the group, followed by his companion.

The game has changed.
 
It's surprising what memories the crack of a bullet can bring back.

You can bury instinct. Ignore it. Hide it among sheep with a masked smile sitting at the front of the facade, but it never goes away. All it takes is a off glare. A harsh word. The sharp pang of violence on the pristine canvas of serenity to bring it all bubbling to the surface. Memories of death, reflections of pain, the recall of every moment passed where those before transgressed against you. To a normal man, these thoughts are often overwhelming. Constricting one's very breath from the revelation of natural selection. Petrified in fear as they learn all too late that the weak fall beneath the heels of the strong.

But Edward Hammond was not a man.

As the first chime of the rifle exploded into the evening air, the Nosferatu found his mind once more back in the blistering city scape of Fallujah. He rolled from his spot against the stainless steel chair and hit the ground squarely on instinct. His eyes caught hold of the marksman's target as the round slammed into the Baron's chest, his face sporting a look of unrest through it all. Clever as the wordy bastard was, it had seemed he hadn't planned for every contingency this time. The second bullet made hamburger meat of the Vampire's skull and ash begin to consume the baron's form. As the dead vet watched his potential employer burn, an understanding was had. This wasn't Iraq. This was something else, and that something else just got a lot more complicated.

Two rounds, 3 seconds apart. High caliber bolt action rifle, possibly utilizing a bolt action feed.Shooter has fired from an elevated platform along the north horizon. Distance unknown. Threat is still eminent.
Remain low until cover can be acquired.

The ascertation of the situation fell short as the ring of a a door being kicked from it's hinges echoed out onto the balcony. Two men in hoods brandishing short blades burst into the evening air of the patio. This was practiced, and the consideration that all of this was being carried out within the haven of Elysium made it all the more questionable. All the same, the game had once more changed. Cover would have to wait.

Threat evolved, Create weapon.


The hum of the nosferatu's beast buzzed with a sickening sense of glee as Hammond took to his feet, taking in hand the steel outline of a chair in his grasp. It was here that he focused on the hooded man taking the lead, taking into consideration the momentum of his person, the position of his knife and the pattern of his footsteps. Soaking it all in, the nosferatu snarled and engaged the attacker.

Weapon acquired. Target jawline. Apply 100 Kg of force. Execute.


Tightening the grasp on his chairleg, the corpse grinned as he swung his makeshift club in a wide ark. The steel aesthetic rang out as the device was used in a means it was never designed for. The metal twisted and warped around the assassin. Prey would not be so easily picked on this evening.
 
Unlife, just like life, was all about risk management. The stakes were higher, the games longer, and the opponents cleverer. When you are being propositioned for a job and the employer is assassinated in front of you and more move in to finish the job then you know that some risk are not work taking.

As Edward assaulted the attackers Eric's mind turned to survival. He grabbed the edge of the table and threw it aside and then threw himself on Alice pulling her down and behind the overturned furniture. That he hoped would make the sniper choose an easier target.

There was however the matter of the other two. Answers would come but for now...

'Hello old friend, I need you to do something for me.'

He looked at the attackers and took a breath letting it out slowly. There were two attackers... impossible to get them both but one of them was already distracted. He placed his hand on the ground and let the beast stirring in his soul rise closer to the surface.

As Eric's fanged smile looked across to the second attacker a tendril of blackness reached out like a line of black frost creeping along the ground, snaking it's way around chair legs until finally it reached the attacker, then like the kraken breaching the sea to swallow a ship it engulfed him a mass of black arms. spearing around them in a thick cloud.

"We should run."
 
As Edward's improvised armament clangs resoundingly against the side of the first assailant's head Vincent dodges forward with a recently-emptied Martini glass. With a deft motion he shatters the rim of the glass on a nearby table before sweeping it up towards the hooded figure's neck. Still reeling from the chair-blow, he staggers right into the improvised weapon, the glass sinking into his neck.

A high-pitched, pained howl emanates from under the hood and the figure topples to the ground, grasping at his newly-acquired wound.

Sevens reacts as the shots ring out, dropping to his knees behind cover. Nearby the flames spread across Harry Rothstein, engulfing the Baron of Camden. He can barely look over at the scene without his stomach reeling at the sight of the fire: it sets off in him a deep and ancient fear, something powerful and primal that he cannot control. There's nothing to be done for the Baron, now. But the second would-be assassin is very much within stabbing range, and has the advantage of only being surrounded by disturbing black smoke that the Lasombra has summoned up from the night.

Caught between a rock and a hard place, really, but when the hard place is on fucking fire you go for the rock.

Reaching down to his boot, Sevens pulls free a vicious-looking blade, serrated at the top of one side and curved on it's end. He let's out a snarl as he launches himself into the gloom, swinging at what he hopes is his opponent amidst the shroud. The blade swings true, driving into the attacker's side. With a roar Sevens lunges forwards into the figure and pulls the bowie knife free, only to drive it back in again. And again. And again.

The attacker topples backwards and Sevens lands atop him, blade dripping crimson as the figure bleeds out beneath him.


Across the street, the shooter looks on with satisfaction as the Baron of Camden goes up in smoke.

The first of many a death tonight, he's fairly certain.

No time to admire his handiwork, though; he's already packing up and getting ready to move. His shots were not just intended to end the un-life of Harry Rothstein: they were a signal, and those waiting for it will already be on the move.

Tonight, Camden Town burns.
 
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The assailants were dead and except for the sniper the coast was clear. Eric took stock of the situation quickly. Their potential benefactor was dead and someone was obviously willing to tie up loose ends so tonight Camden town was the wrong place to be... The most dangerous part of getting away would be betting to the "storeroom" door under the nose of the sniper, then it would be simple to rejoin the party before news spread, make his was down among the humans and slip out.

"Alice, we need to get out of here." he said again before rising and pulling her up with him by the arm. No shot, though the sniper should be more interested in those who were easier targets... heading for the door might draw attention but there was nothing for it, he was already pulling Alice along. There was no way the girl was getting out of his sights tonight. "I have a car and a safe place... We'll give the day in there."
 

Dinner on the balcony had been compromised and as the night continued to play out, Ed had a feeling that they were about to get fronted with the bill.

The baron wasn't some two bit nobody in the city, he was a mover. Being in the same location during the time of the monster's death didn't bode well. It wouldn't take much to pin the event on their heads, as the underworld tended to be a cut throat game of he said she said. If a voice with some backing decided to pin the murder on the neonates, it wouldn't take much for the accusation to hold. Sniper or no if they left the roof before getting some angle of lead, they'd be doing it without a pot to piss in. You don't run from fuckers like this. People that acted on this level of magnitude often did it with decades of planning behind them.

Edward wrapped his ash drenched fingers around his assailant's still bleeding throat and dragged him over to the still burning remains of the Baron. He was silhouetting himself, but that was nothing new. They weren't the targets in this shindig, of that Ed was willing to put money on. If they had been, It would have been them as the ash piles along with Count Chocula. Taking a firm grip of the assassin by the back of his collar, Ed tore the mask from the opponent's face and interlocked his fingers through the man's hair. Placing his attacker in front of him and the flames, Deadward leaned him within kissing distance of the dancing embers. "Alright fuckface..." the nosferatu began as his voice growled in time with the burning ash beneath his enemy's face, "Your buddy just made swiss out of a potential business prospect and that's not something I take kindly to. Now... You have ten seconds. You're going to tell me everything starting with who the fuck sent you... Or I'm going teach you Grandma's famous K-bob recipe starting with your mug."

The Nosferatu didn't seem to waste any time. "Ten, nine, eight, seven, six..."
 
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As Eric begins to pull Alice towards the exit, a crimson-stained bowie knife snaps out to block his path. Gore slings off the blade and spatters against one of the metal tables of Rothstein's hidden balcony.
“D'you know,” Sevens growling voice intones, “I reckon the lady's actually capable of displayin' some fackin' independent thought, rather than jus' havin' a prick like you haul her around all night.” The Brujah moves from the corpse he has just created, keeping low still in case of more shooting, but nonetheless positioning himself between the duo and the door. “And jus' a quick thought for you, 'fore you go running off down the stairs to that shiny little four-by-four or whatever the fack cunt-mobile it is you drive.”

He motions with the blade to the body lying nearby, then to the building. “You honestly think they're jus' gonna send a pair of hoodies to kill a fackin' Baron? I'll bet my bike there's gonna be dozens of these cunts running about in there, and a weasily little fackin' Cammie like you'll make for great target practice for 'em. So if you fancy runnin' off an' playin' lone wolf, be my bloody guest. But Alice can make that choice for 'erself, and you might wanna consider the old saying about there being safety in numbers.”


-

Before Edward can reach six, a giggle begins to escape from the lips of the would-be killer.

It's small at first, just a little titter as his face is pressed up right against the flame. The angle that he's being held at has made the hood slide back down to show his face, revealing a young, starved face and a mop of straggly blonde hair. He looks like a man who's not eaten in weeks, and dirt is spattered all over his features. His eyes, once a vibrant blue, are now feverish and bloodshot, empty but for the look of mad desperation written across them.

The giggle becomes a chuckle, rasping and crazed.

The chuckle grows and grows, until it's a crescendo of insane laughter. As Edward holds his face up against the flames the man is howling with maniacal mirth, driven to hysterics by a joke he and he alone knows the punchline to.

And he shows no signs of stopping.
 
There Alice was, ready to hear what might be at the very least an interesting bit of vampiric gossip, then the next moment shots and flames. Before she had time to react Eric had her down on the ground, as a pair of thugs came out to finish cleaning up. Instead the other vampires who had been sitting at the table with them and the now flambé baron did the cleaning. One dead, one nearly so, and Eric more then a bit interested in high tailing it off the roof. Not that she could blame him, but that wasn't a solution.

It seemed Sevens agreed, or at the very least wanted to know where all the witnesses to this disaster were. She'd worry about his true motives later. Fact were what needed and thankfully one of their assailants was not yet a pile of dust!

Eric may or may not have been stronger then her, but he was momentarily distracted by Sevens, which gave Alice a chance to take her arm back. As she did so she heard the disturbing laughter from their would be killer and looked over. She wasn't sure she was right and without so much as an 'Excuse me Gentlemen,' she walked over to the flames, as disturbing as that was and took a better look at the vampire.

"Flip, the hell?" Alice's voice betrayed her disbelief at what she was being confronted with. Absently she put her hand in her jacket pocket, clutching the contents in her hand. "This isn't right," she said half to herself then she looked at Deadward. "Something is very not right here."
 
Vincent set down his improvised weapon a moment and surveyed the scene before him. How had it come to this? One minute he was enjoying cocktails and listening to a business proposition from one of the city's high rollers, the next he's lacing open hoods with a shard of fine crystal.
Vincent's nostrils flared as his eyes narrowed on the surviving attacker.

This one smells of the grave, he thought to himself as he moved toward the man, taking hold of his hand he inspected the dirt under his finger nails. "This is curious."

Vincent took a cloth napkin from one of the tables and wiped his hands, before folding his arms pensively. He hesitated for a moment before speaking, "I've heard whispers of kindred who bury their childer, starving them of blood until they go mad from the beast. The process is said to 'break the shackles of humanity' and leave them truly free from their mortal lives. I'm wondering if that is what happened to our friend here."
 
Stopped by a bloody blade and now with Alice escaped his grasp he watched her move ignoring the arrogant dog who assumed Eric hadn't though his escape through.

"Idiots." he spat. "There is only one true way to escape humanity." That was of course to become one with the beast, not succumb to it. "I still think that getting out of there is a good idea, if I'm allowed to voice my humble opinion." this was said at Stevens. "If you want to tag along, which would be wise since there is no point in sitting here waiting for more to arrive, then you're more than welcome until the edge of Camden. All I care about right now is getting Alice to safety..." and getting her alone. "Safe to assume everyone has a kennel to crawl back to, or a hole?"

His eyes drifted back to Alice as he moves away from the meathead. If he wasn't so arrogant he might make a good decoy...
 
Of all the deaders in London, this was not the crew to get shacked up in a blame game with the death of a Baron hanging in the balance. It was clear as day that any one of these folk would sell out their own mothers if it prospected the notion of a passing meal. Then again, the consideration that the attack had come and gone and yet everyone was still standing might have said something about the group's constitution. Here was to hoping if anything else. With a open shot in an urban area with a rather staunch law base against firearms, Ed had a feeling it wouldn't be long before more official types found their way onto the balcony. Much as he hated to admit it, the stiff was right. The lot of them had to vacate asap. "We're all standing on the murder site of one of the most important men in the city." The walking corpse began scanning for an alternative exit that might keep them out of the prying eyes of the club. If they were lucky the ear splitting music of the floor below would give them a little time. "Even if the folk that decide to come up here are on the up and up, I don't want to stick around for the flavor of questions they'd have to ask. I don't know about you all, but a bunch of neonates with connection to an assassination? Evidence or no, it's easier to burn us out of principal and ask questions later. Right now, we're all looking down on a high profile corpse and we have shit for an alibi. Do the math."

Deadward's gaze took hold of Alice as her response caught his ear. Flip she said. Did she call the rabid remains of the man by name? If so, it was more something you'd call a dog than a productive member of society. Then again, considering the mental state of the git, it wouldn't be terribly out of the question to find fleas on the bugger. "This cat a friend of yours?" the nosferatu questioned, raising a brow that scrunched up the blackened skin of the vampire's forehead in a less than appealing manner.
 
Alice shook her head, looking at the suit next to her. "Not his sire, that much I can tell you. His behavior is not what it was before so something of what you are saying might be true." Alice then took a step back looking at the deranged vampire. "If he has been driven mad, I doubt there is a solution for him. Not without time, which we do not have."

"I hate to agree with Eric, but all they did was create a throw away." Then her mouth made a small o shape. "Let's get out of here," her voice filled with new steel. "I think there is only one thing left to do with my so called friend, if you would like to take care of it?" She was looking at the Nos holding the other vampire.
 
Deadward gave a shrug, not entirely expecting such a request to stem from it's source. The old hell hath no fury cliche rang in the nosferatu's head as he glanced back to the cackling kindred beneath. A creature likely starved dry and broken from all sense of sanity and rational. Too long consumed by the beast within, the figure broke out in maddened laughter in the face of an inevitable end.

Considering the context, there were worse ways to go. If anything no one could fault the bastard for being colorful.

Deadward took one final look at the creature he was about to kill, a harken back to a time where mortality had so much more meaning. As a deployed man, he struggled for a while on the morality of ending life. A construct defined by some as holy and by others as squandered. In a sense, the choice to live was the single most intimant descision a person could make. In making it for someone else, you cross a line that connects you to that being. A line that never feels trivial. It's quite possible that in different circumstances, things might have been different.

It didn't change anything though. This was nothing personal. Deadward's eyes narrowed to the memory and smashed the beast's face into the flames with the heel of his boot.
 
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Sevens swings about to face Vincent, a look of incredulity on his face. “There's no fackin' way, mate. No fackin' way. Even that lot ain't batshit crazy enough to pull somethin' like this.” He's trying to sound certain, but there's a note to his voice that suggests he has his concerns about the whole thing. Any further words he has to add are cut short by Edward slamming his foot down onto the now pitiful Flip's face, driving him into the flames.

Alice's old friend screams once, a short and despairing howl intercut with pained laughter... and then a terrible silence hangs over the rooftop. For a moment, no-one says anything; all eyes are affixed upon the corpse that is rapidly shifting to ash. Features that were once so permanent and unique burn away, along with his clothes.

Were once there was Flip, now there is but ash.

A sobering reminder of the fate that awaits all Kindred.

Movement nearby snaps the group back to the situation at hand, as the seventh vampire summoned here tonight by the recently deceased Baron emerges from behind a table. The once immaculate hair is now flustered and spread across his face, but Ren Wakahisa still maintains the decorum and dignity one could expect only from a Ventrue.
“I believe the gentleman makes a compelling argument,” he says with a fluid motion of his arm towards Eric, “we should leave this place. It seems the shooter has moved on for now, so this is an opportunity if ever there was one.”
“...alright,” Sevens agrees after a moment, “we go together. Me an' gorgeous over there,” he nods to Edward with a brief flash of a grin, “we go first.” He points to Vincent next. “You handled yourself pretty well in that little scrap as well, so you watch our backs in case anythin' tries to sneak up on us. Rest of you stay in the middle an' try not to do anythin' stupid. I get the feeling we ain't out of this yet.”



Downstairs on the main floor of Elysian Fields is almost the antithesis to the chaos and confusion of Rothstein's hidden balcony. None down here know of the creatures that lurk upstairs. Not a single person present is aware of the murder that has taken place. Nor do they know of the deal that fate has just sealed for them, and the price they will pay for coming here tonight.

In amongst them is another predator, one not privy to the inner machinations occurring upstairs. This one is called Jerimia, and at present he's having his ear talked off by his rather adorable but not overly interesting blood doll Maggie. The decibels that the club's speakers are currently pounding out make for a welcome distraction from her insightful discussion about who her mate Trisha got off with last night, as do the faces of the crowd. Since his arrival in London Jerimia has met but a few of his fellow Kindred, and only then when he presented himself at the court of the Prince as custom dictates. Since then, London's vampire society seemed content to let the new arrival find his bearings.

But that hasn't stopped him from keeping a wary eye for others like him.

Which is why the group that's just entered Elysian Fields catches his eye immediately.

They're decked out in leather and all manner of strange attire, but given the clientèle of this venue they don't stand out too much. What stands out are the objects strapped to them. Glinting from the lights of Elysian Fields, heavy-set and sharp weaponry. Perhaps they're props, or someone's idea of a joke. But Jerimia can see that security are obviously locking onto the same thing, and are beginning to converge on the five figures.

But Jerimia knows something that security doesn't. He knew it the minute he laid eyes on them.

Those are not kine.

Those are Kindred.


Upstairs, the survivors of the attack that claimed Harry Rothstein's life make their way down the steps that lead to the private function room. An eerie silence hangs in the stairwell; Rothstein spared no expense on sound-proofing, but right now a bit of noise from the club downstairs might be a welcome return to normality.

And at the entrance to the function room, something is beginning leak out from under the doorframe.

Something sticky. Something sticky and coloured a deep and terrible crimson...
 
Probably armed Kindred? Something must be going on upstairs.

As curious as he was, pursuing didn't seem like very useful action. Temporarily, Jeremia Stokes chose to ignore the group that looked to be overtaken by security. No creature should explore while having such a strong, internal feeling. Not to mention it may not even be his business.

Hunger

It had been a bit since he tasted the blood of another being. He had kept it off, for a while, and was able to more or less keep his cool. With a sweet treat so close, there was no reason to go searching. Maggie spoke just enough to keep his attention...and become his person of interest for a small snack. It always helped that she stopped talking whenever he actually took charge and lusted after that form. Fortunately, this creature still a tight enough grip on his former self that taking too much blood wasn't really an issue. At least, that was the theory.

She was in the middle of a sentence. His fingers traveled gently down her arm. Vampire or not, Jeremia always thought himself to be a romantic. The traveling New York native would interject those tones into his feedings, if he damn well felt like it. These little rituals had no need to be so barbaric. Which is mostly why Maggie giggled and offered herself. "Feeling hungry, Mr. Stokes?" A dimpled smile was the only response given. Teeth dug into her skin, taking the succulent nectar from adorable Maggie. With each piercing beat, more was taken.

So...so good.
 
Alice would morn in her own way in her own place at her own time. For now there was only survival. Quickly she headed to the stairs behind Sevens and the Nos. There was no need for discussion or debate, Sevens was right, this wasn't over yet. Their decent was agonizingly slow in Alice's mind even if rationally she knew it was taking as long as to be expected. She just wanted to no longer be on edge, even while knowing she would be for some time even if they started to mingle with their kind once more.

It was when Sevens was almost to the door that she saw it, being higher up on the stairs and able to look over his and Edward's shoulders. "What the...? Is that what I think.... No, we need a new plan!" New? Did they even have a plan? Alice Head was cranked to look at the floor then she looked over at Eric. This was much bigger then any of them and Alice was starting to think they had been lucky to have been with the Baron after all.
 
Eric was silently fuming, He should not have come and his only thoughts were of getting out of here and damn the rest of these neophites. Heading down felt good, the sniper would have seen him but might not know who he was. Getting the fuck out and never thinking of this mess again... but then again...

"What?" he asked sharply half turning to Alice, but as he did so something caught his eye...

He scowled and instated an iron grip of Alice's arm.

"Looks like they sent more than two broken corpses to tie up loose ends." he remarked pulling his old friend close to him. "What do you think the odds are they plan to burn this place to the ground with everyone in it? It's what I would do." there was a grin directed forwards, at if the thought of fire consuming this place, wiping the slate clean and erasing the events of tonight gave him pleasure. Also if he were him he'd fill the room with blackness and make for the exit... he just needed his chance.