CLOSED SIGNUPS Vampire: the Masquerade - Visions

Applo

Beautiful like a Forest Fire
DONATING MEMBER
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Invitation Status
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per week
  2. One post per week
Writing Levels
  1. Intermediate
  2. Adept
  3. Advanced
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Female
Whispers in the Night

Ravnos

“What?”

Pulling her eyes away from the blurred scene, Isabel looked over to the french kindred in the driver's seat. Amélie was staring straight ahead, seemingly not paying her passenger any mind. Mismatched eyes flicked to the radio instead. For a minute or so, the new blood’s full attention was focused on the music coming from the speaker by the thin-blood’s thigh but not once did the familiar yet alien word reach her ears.

What did it even mean anyway? One moment Isabel’s mind had been drifting dangerously back in time to the last time she had been in a car the night before. The next, this strange word seemed to be all she could think about. It filled her mind. Pulled at her. Cleared all other thoughts as thoroughly as Amélie seemed to clear her car of dirt. But why? Even if she had known what the word meant, why had it burrowed its way into her head; it wasn’t like it was her name.

Rubbing her eyes, Isabel tried to replace the errant thought with another more intentional one.

“How did your date go earlier?”

“Fine. He was a good boy.”

The older vampire’s reply was lacking, as always, in both details and context. But she didn’t care. She hadn’t just purged the man’s presence from her car; she’d expelled him entirely from her mind and thoughts.

Just like she’d expelled him right onto the pavement. Generous, no?

“You are thinking of something? Daydreaming?” Isabel’s first inquiry hadn’t gone unnoticed, and Amélie tactfully switched the conversation topic. “Are you nervous, Isabel?”

“Errm…”

The question took the thin-blood by surprise, and she wasn’t quite sure how to answer. She didn’t want to admit to any nerves, lest the french kindred pulled the black Toyota over to the side of the road and told her to walk home. At the same time though, Isabel didn’t want to lie. Amélie was at least as perceptive as Hanna and both always seemed to know when they were not being told the truth. It was time for an unsatisfactory compromise.

“A little I guess. Being around other pe- urm… kine, it makes me edgy. I’m scared that I might lose control and ya know.”

Isabel’s lipped parted and her fangs were exposed for a few seconds before they were hidden away once more and their owner twisted in her seat so she was half slumped against the car door.

“It’s not so bad today cos I urm, yeah I’m not so hungry today. Easier to keep myself together than most of the time.”

It stuck the purple haired kindred at this moment that she wasn’t exactly selling herself. It was time to change the subject before Amélie reached for the blinkers.

“I was just watching the street lights go by and I thought I heard you say something but it must have been the radio I guess.”

"Hm. Well."

Amélie rapped her nails against the steering wheel. Oddly enough, she was smiling. This time it seemed genuine, and for good reason; youthfulness in its best moments always amused her.

"You are still young. Just a baby, really. More time under Hanna’s tutelage will make you a fine enough Kindred...one more in control, so to speak," The older woman mused, her eyes flickering briefly over to Isabel. "You are lucky, no? Most Sires are not so patient. Merde. I can only hope to show you something of value on our night out."

“I’m not sure my mom would say learning how to score drugs is valuable.”

In the pulsing street light, Isabel grinned before settling back into her seat so she was facing straight forwards again.

“I guess I am pretty lucky, yeah. Hanna is so cool about everything when she owes me nothing. Everyone else at the Buzz, Wes, Omar, they are great too. You as well. Thanks again for the clothes last night.”

The grin disappeared and was replaced with a look that much sourer.

“I just wish I could hurry up and get to the place where I don’t need everyone to babys-”

Childer of Ravnos

This time, the strange words made Isabel sit bolt upright, her hand reaching for the stereo dial to crank up the volume. It took ten full seconds of deafening music before the new blood relented to turn down the music and relax back into her seat once again.

“It would be nice to get to the point where I don’t hear voices in my head too.”

"Voices in your head? Child, is this your imaginary friend speaking?"

Amélie Dupuis could never quite be civil for too long. Every word oozed with condescension, and she threw a pointedly matronizing look at her young companion.

"What exactly are you hearing? It's too early in your journey for a touch of madness."

Unless the girl was unknowingly Malkavian. An unfortunate scenario, to be sure. But luckily not for her to deal with.

“I think it’s just like the beast ya know... like it is telling me it is ravenous even though it was just last night that I… Yeah.”

For the first time since getting in Amélie’s car, Isabel regretted doing so. There was a sudden desire welling up from deep within her to be back at the Club. That was where she belonged. Not going out trying to score drugs or some other ridiculous nonsense like that. Maximum Buzz was where she was meant to be.

“Are we nearly there?”

The question was the purple haired kindred attempt to steel herself against the tide of doubt rising against the ramparts of her mind. It didn’t really help.

“I’ve never really seen much of Houston. When I moved here I spent most of my time at home or my job. Since I got bit, it’s been home and Hanna’s place instead.”

"Well, you've probably never seen this side of the city," Amélie stated bluntly.

And truth be told, rarely did she. The decay of the city's dregs was bleeding into their surroundings. Poverty etched itself into the sides of the tiny homes and littered streets, sallowed bricks and debris laying the neighborhood awash in its inferiority. It wasn't a sight that the Tremere particularly cared to see.

Amélie didn't respond to whether or not they were nearly there. Because the answer came naught but a few moments later.

It was a standard bus station. Not terribly large; the short in-roads where busses would come in and out onto the main street numbered three, and skinny fingers of pavement separated the paths. As she slowed to a stop by the curb just off the entry, the vampire watched as a lone bus pulled into its slot, and the passengers spilled onto the concrete, the putrid city lamps washing them of life.

They all looked like Tony. Poor. Decrepit. Haggard. These were the forgotten of the city. Viable prey for the underworld.

The world became abruptly silently as she killed the engine. Bright eyes fixed on the figures milling about ahead.

"Come, Isabel," The Tremere cooed softly, like a siren's song. "Let us see where our quarry strikes."

For where the dealers struck, so, too, would they.​

A collaboration with Kuno
 

Doctor Jax

Lord of the Mice
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Invitation Status
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per week
Online Availability
3PM CST - 9 PM CST
Writing Levels
  1. Intermediate
  2. Adept
  3. Advanced
  4. Adaptable
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Female
  3. No Preferences
Genres
Fantasy, Scifi, Urban Fantasy, Horror
Hanna Wojciek

The "bad part of town" had always been one of her favorite places to be.

That might be the reason why she wasn't exactly anxious near the Ironworks. When she'd first been welcomed into the fold, the waifish vampire had been something of a vagabond with her sire, a Polish man with a pathological distaste for the familiar and the urbane. One of the 'original' Brujah, he had strong opinions, and eventually, it became clear that Hanna did too. It didn't take her long to break from him, the world having changed quite a bit by the time she left him.

In that time, she went from a pack animal to a loner. And when she first came to Houston, the Ironworks and its domains had been her first real hide-out as she strummed music at night, made connections, planned how she was going to transition from traveling musician to one of the landed people. After all, eventually you had to put down roots somewhere. Luckily, she had made friends here well before her split from Stefan.

And so as she walked through the industrial park, leaving her car parked a good distance away, she had no fear. It almost felt like coming back to your hometown after a long time away. It was only every so often that she checked in on the vagrants-- and maybe offered them a better deal in exchange for the place's hard concrete and harsh tin, for seemingly ceaseless dope and endless dreams on a nice bed under the Max.

"Hey, Joey, how's it going?" Hanna asked as she made her way into the Relaxation Room, a familiar haunt for her. Joey - a black man clearly blind by his milky eyes - grunted something unintelligible to her, and she nodded her head.

"Right on. Well, good seein' ya, man."

She journeyed further into the depths, place lit with whatever trash fires people had bothered to cobble together. Fall had bite to it, and while Hanna didn't feel it, she'd put on a jacket anyways to blend in with the crowd.

Now it was just finding someone who very much didn't blend in. Someone looking to obscure themselves from prying eyes. A cooler in her grasp brought some wandering eyes - but nothing for them. No, this was a gift. Well, a gift and a pact.

You're gonna owe me, Nos.

@Radiojelly
 

Radio Jelly

Galactic Gadabout
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Salvatore
October 15th, 1999
Ironco Heavy Industries Warehouse

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sometimes, it was hard to see the stars.

From where Salvatore stood, it felt especially difficult. Houston was too big. Too bright. It’s people didn’t care: they never bothered to look up. Still, it occurred to him that there was a time when he could’ve seen it all clearly from the exact spot where he stood, and--as strange as it was to think it--Salvatore had been alive back then too. For all he knew, perhaps Sal had stood in this precise spot, in that faraway time. Perhaps he had passed through this place, surrounded by nothing but the stillness of the dark, and an unfettered wilderness of marsh and grassland.

It was pointless conjecture, but given everything he’d lost last night, Sal felt he’d earned a little nostalgia. As Salvatore took in the depressing sight of the Ironco warehouse complex, he hoped with all his being he’d still be alive to see this vestige of Houston’s history returned to the earth. The Nosferatu grimaced and grumbled for as long as he felt he could, and then spat a mouthful of grit and rat fur onto the tarmac. It was time to go. Salvatore grasped the bottom of the chain link fence with his one good hand, and wrenched it upward with a little too much force: the beast inside him could smell the multitude of bodies inside, and in moments he could feel that nest of vipers let loose on his insides--their insidious desires like a venom to his conscious.

Still, you didn’t make it as long as Salvatore had without a firm hand. The Nosferatu had tried to hunt in the sewers again on his way over, but he was less lucky than before; he’d managed a rodent or two, but it was hardly enough to compose himself, let alone power any kind of Discipline. Thankfully, Hanna knew her stuff. Ironco was a junkie hangout, and the kind of place Salvatore’s people had reason to pass through from time to time. One could buy more than drugs if they knew how to find the right informants, and not to mention it was a pretty safe place to feed for Kindred looking for a quick rush.

Salvatore stalked the boundaries of the scene; as long as he stayed out of the firelight, he knew he wouldn’t be too closely scrutinized in the yard outside the warehouse. The problem would be inside. There were simply too many eyes, and even if those eyes were dilated and blurry with the kick of the month, someone was bound to realize they were looking at a zombie. Better, then, to find another way. Salvatore moved quickly around the side of the building, further from the burning barrels and huddled vagrants to somewhere he believed he might find an entryway. Hanna was sure to come in the front--she was Brujah afterall, and Kindred who looked human always were too conspicuous in their movement. Certainly, that meant Salvatore needed a good vantage point. Perhaps he could find an exposed air vent? Or, maybe he ought to climb to the ceiling and signal on her approach? What if he made it through one of the shattered windows just high enough to reach the cross beams? Could he-

A voice ripped through Salvatore’s quiet contemplation, instantly riling the creature within him to an unbearable frenzy.

“Hey, you’re’n not s’posed to be back ‘ere.”

If Sal still breathed, he would’ve exhaled. It sounded human enough, and it came from behind him. The Nosferatu froze in place, his skin electric with a mounting anticipation. While every other part of him felt wired, Salvatore’s fangs seemed to descend at a glacial pace, the promise of an easy kill beginning to dawn on the beast within. Salvatore cleared his throat, and tried desperately to keep his voice level despite how taught the muscles in his throat felt.

“Oh?” Sal croaked, “Why’s that, you reckon?”

From behind him, Salvatore could hear a rustling of nylon and polyester, and the telltale zip of a sleeping bag coming undone. Sal shouldn’t have missed him--couldn’t have missed him. Certainly not at a time like this, anyway. Unfortunately, that left only one explanation. The Nosferatu’s expression turned grim, and the Beast within him hissed with insidious satisfaction.

Salvatore hadn’t missed the sleeping bag, but he was losing his grip enough for The Beast to get in the way. Long enough to let it steer him this way. The cowboy felt the urge to spit again, but his throat felt sandpaper-dry now.

“‘Cause I.. Cause I s-sleep ‘ere.” The Kine behind Salvatore paused a moment before erupting into a coughing fit. After a second or two, Sal could hear the drifter pulling the bag more tightly around his body. “T-this’s my spot. Don’t’ve space fer visitors. Go aw-”

The stranger stopped, tried to clear his throat, and once again began to hack and heave from wherever he lay. Sal could hear the frailty on his person, could feel the weakness in his bones. It would be easy. One, Beast-assisted lunge for the man’s neck, and Salvatore could have him drained before the minute was out.

No Masquerade risk. No witnesses. Just a belly full of Vitae, and enough satisfaction to be free of the searing hunger inside of him. Hell, maybe he’d even get a hit of whatever was sending the poor fellow to an early grave. It almost felt like a fantasy, and yet despite how excruciating the pain inside him was, and as much as an advantage as he’d have going into this meeting on a full stomach, he didn’t move.

It felt stupid in the face of overwhelming hunger, and yet Salvatore could think only about the rules--the old rules--that his people had been made to follow. They had kept off of the homeless and the poor. They had kept off kids, and off of the disabled. It was a little bit of a Nosferatu thing: the clan had a soft spot for rejects and cast-offs. Perhaps more importantly though, was that it had been Salvatore’s thing too, back when he had a clan of his own and the authority to guide them. The bastards took most everything he had, but this? This he'd be giving them.

Salvatore’s hunger flared within him as The Beast sensed his apprehension, but a different fire--the fire of a very old man too stubborn and too sentimental for his own well-being--began to combat it.

“Apologies, sir,” Salvatore said. “I’ll just be outa the way then,”

Sal took a step forward, his muscles straining against their instincts to move in the other direction. Still, Sal managed another step. And then another, and another. It didn’t matter where he was going, so much as it mattered that he kept moving--and move he did. When Salvatore came to again, he was on the very southmost side of the warehouse, staring at the dilapidated brick walls and shattered window frames. Through the caps he could hear muffled conversation, and smell a host of bodies too warm and too alive for him to feel comfortable around.

So, he thought. The roof it is.

Sal grasped a hold of the exposed brick, his near-rabid strength allowing him to easily dig his fingers into the cement and stone. Sal began to climb, and as he did he was careful to avoid the windows, and climb as close to the gutter pipes as he could to mask his form in the dark. With one arm limp in a sling, and with each step an affront to the Beast curling and snapping at his insides, it was a more difficult task than it had any right to be.

Still, eventually Salvatore reached the top, skirting the edge of the skylights just enough to feel comfortable in his stealth. Eventually, he crouched low beside one which had already lost most of its window panes. The Kindred pulled off his hat, and gently hung it on one of the few jagged shards of glass remaining in the frame so that it hung just beneath the ceiling inside.

It was visible, and with Hanna’s sense of smell, he figured she’d notice it eventually. After all, he’d made no move to conceal it. Sal didn’t worry about that part though: even if anyone in this warehouse was sober, people in Houston hardly bothered looking up.
 

Red Thunder

A Warrior in a Garden
Original poster
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per week
  2. One post per week
  3. Slow As Molasses
Writing Levels
  1. Adept
  2. Advanced
  3. Prestige
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Female
  3. Primarily Prefer Male
Genres
Fantasy, SciFi, Modern, Magical
Screenshot_20210805-221137_DuckDuckGo.jpg

October 15, 1999
9:00 pm

∆∆∆
the Maximum Buzz main floor

He was growing hungry, was the gentleman. Prolonged use of most Disciplines was terribly taxing on the stores of blood that Kindred carried in their bodies, but this sweet medley of both Presence and Domination was proving to be a Herculean, and likely Sisyphean, task. A sigh crept through his nostrils, impatient and even angry. This was not the plan.

Movement caught his eye, a movement different from that twisting, swaying, drug and alcohol fueled movement so common in such a place. A larger man, clearly a manager or similar, was speaking to a smaller man through clenched teeth, emphasizing his words with small, precise gestures. The focus of his rebuke was glaring up at him, occasionally giving the larger man a rude gesture before answering back.

Threading the dance floor like a snake, the gentleman approached them, stopping just at the entrance to behind the counter, as was appropriate for a customer.

"Excuse me," he said, giving a polite cough. "It seems my date has, mm, misplaced herself. Wandered off, you might say. Could you fine men allow me a look around in the kitchen and such? I would appreciate it."

∆∆∆
Ironco Heavy Industries Warehouse[/I]

Salvatore's observation was indeed correct: the only up anyone in that warehouse looked to was the next high. And oh, the myriad of ways they sought it. To reach for the high, they stuck an arm. To smell it out, they bumped their nose. To catch it falling from the sky, they opened their mouths. Many drifted within a fog, high above their own frail frames, finding freedom from a dreary, deadend existence.

The Nosferatu, and indeed even his cap, perched high above the huddled masses yearning to break free of their miserable lives, was indeed hidden as completely as though he were Obfuscated. The Brujah most decidedly was not. Not too long after greeting Joey, Hanna was accosted by another familiar face. Manny had been to the Buzz two or three times: once, chasing a hit; afterwards, when Omar had aggressively corrected that misunderstanding, looking to work a few odd hours for spare change. He was a wirey man: strung out, vaguely emaciated, and very jittery.

"H-h-hey, Ms. Wojciek!" He waved hesitantly before dropping his hand to scratch a sore on his face. "I- I, uh. Haven't seen you here in a while! You- uh, you, uh- there anything- can I help you any?"

Clearly against his will, Manny's eyes kept shifting to the ice chest Hanna carried, and he rubbed his hands nervously, as if they ached.

∆∆∆
the Greyhound station - Fannin and Gray

Ermentrude's bones ached. They always did. Sitting. Standing. Shuffling along. Something always hurt. It was like ice had inches its way into her joints, isolating them from whatever ability to heal her body still possessed. The cool humidity of the bus hadn't helped. The hot humidity of the Houston night was just as useless; she was still chill from the erstwhile escort. She pulled her quilt a bit tighter around her meager frame before leaning on her walker and moving on.

A ragged pack of faded yellow was strapped to her waist. Behind the broken zipper was a special treasure. To be sold, they'd said. And Trudy would get to keep the profits. So nice. So generous. It was good product, too. Her fingers trembled at the memory of her hit even as her feet carried her automatically toward the sidewalk.

Unheard by her or by anyone else, the thing that wasn't a man hissed. Beside him, Bobby Jo allowed herself a small chuckle. Both of them had turned at the sound of Amélie's approaching car, and as the two Kindred stepped out from it, they smiled.

"I did not expect the giiiirl," Gerald noted, dragging the last word through grinding teeth. His companion patted his shoulder.

"She did suggest she might come, sugar," Bobby Jo said. "Even if she was supposed to be intercepted at the bar. Ah well; doing that Ventrue's work again, I suppose."

A glance up at Gerald told her that no other words were going to get to him. He was grimacing violently, his teeth bared predatorily. Very well, then. This would soon be over. She placed a hand on Gerald's arm, warning him against striking too soon. Her Obfuscation would need to be dropped at just the right time. Why, outing themselves too early would just be insane. And it was a touch too early for that to happen.
 

Kuno

Django Jane
SITE SUPPORT LEAD
SITE SUPPORT
DONATING MEMBER
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Posting Speed
  1. One post per day
  2. 1-3 posts per week
  3. One post per week
Writing Levels
  1. Intermediate
  2. Adept
  3. Advanced
  4. Prestige
  5. Adaptable
Preferred Character Gender
  1. No Preferences
Genres
Fantasy, Sci fi, Romance, Historical, Modern, Supernatural
Amélie


Fortune always disfavored the poor, it seemed.

"We're too clean for this."

Amélie’s grip on Izzy’s arm was akin to an iron. She had seized hold of the young lady upon exiting the car, and though their looped arms may have appeared a casual link for the two, the strength in the old vampire’s hold showed no indication of letting go anytime soon. She was unduly distrustful of the quiet.

“You and me. I don’t think we look bedraggled enough,” the Tremere continued to her companion, giving her a sidelong glance. “Though darling I must say -”

Here her eyes roved up and down the girl’s body in a coldly appraising manner.

“You are certainly dressed for the part. Come.”

They were just wretches, these mules of the unnatural. They shuffled away from the bus, a haggard, dirty procession of the poorest poor of Houston. As the two vampires approached the bus station, Amélie released her quarry - though a hand remained at the small of her back, as much a guide as it was a reminder.

“Where are the deal-ers?” Amélie sang low, an uncharacteristic cheer in her voice.

Certainly, she did not imagine them to reveal themselves so easily. Vampires thrived in the shadows, and to parlay so boldly in the night over such an illicit drug...truly, those foolish enough had been executed already by their own stupidity. Her eyes lingered on the departing bus passengers, and the fingers at Isabel’s back squeezed lightly.

Was that a touch of encouragement or a threat? The French woman’s smile showed neither.

The parasitic light of the bus station shone fully above them, washing them of color. It deadened the undead woman’s features, shadows forming under her vacant eyes. Unseen by Isabel, the blood collected in the Tremere's body was pooling, coalescing into power.

Call it paranoia, or the trauma of past violent memories. But no one could say Amélie Dupuis, protector of the clan, was a fool to be ambushed. She knew she was being overly cautious; perhaps, too, this was a needless waste of Vitae, something she would scold herself for later…

Still. Still.

Her eyes sharpened like a predator’s. Slowly, as the Auspex honed her vision into a scalpel, cutting away the layers of her view, she panned her head slowly, taking in the entirety of the bus station.

 
Last edited:

Applo

Beautiful like a Forest Fire
DONATING MEMBER
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Invitation Status
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per week
  2. One post per week
Writing Levels
  1. Intermediate
  2. Adept
  3. Advanced
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Female
“Yeah, we are looking for this stuff we heard about.”

Isabel was certain the French kindred’s comment about her looking the part of someone trying to score drugs had been as much an insult as it had been a compliment. She didn’t care. Her and Amelie may have only known each other for a few nights, but Isabel felt certain that getting a sincere compliment out of them would be harder than breaking Wes’s gaze from his own reflection. Besides, Amelie had at least noticed the effort she had made. That was something.

Leaning in towards the vagrants, Isabel lowered her voice to a semi-whisper.

“It looks kinda like black salt or something and gives you real intense dreams or something.”

As she backed away once more, the pressure of Amelie’s hand in the small of her back returned and for a moment, a flicker of annoyance crossed Isabel’s face. She wasn’t a child and Amelie wasn’t her mother.

“If you know where we could buy what we are looking for, I betcha we might forget where we put our change, ya know.”

Smiling the smile of someone with no plans but that of sweet chemical oblivion in their near future, Isabel surreptitiously put a hand behind her back and groped blindly for her friend's hand.

She didn’t need to be held.​
 

Doctor Jax

Lord of the Mice
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Invitation Status
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per week
Online Availability
3PM CST - 9 PM CST
Writing Levels
  1. Intermediate
  2. Adept
  3. Advanced
  4. Adaptable
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Female
  3. No Preferences
Genres
Fantasy, Scifi, Urban Fantasy, Horror
Ugh, Hobos

Hanna walked through the rest of the IronCo warehouse like she’d kicked off her shoes in her own apartment. First things first was to see if she could find Sal -- though she’d probably be talking to old friends in here as well. Wally was a guitar-buddy of hers, a savant with strings, who just couldn’t quite kick the habit with a capital H. He was likewise one of the few who had his own car, and she knew he’d probably want a part or two fixed -- which meant favors.

Oh, in this world, favors were everything. When you had no money, you paid in one of a few ways - body, mind, time, things. These were objects you could trade for goods and services, when your cash could only grab a bagel, a baggie, a pair of socks. If you didn’t do good trade, didn’t cough up, you were ex-communicated from the concrete congregation, so to speak. Word spread.

Not a soul does a thing for you. You’d be the bum of bums.

Like Manny here. A mooch. A kiss-ass.

“ ‘eeeey Manny,” Hanna said with a lazy smile, but her voice was low. She didn’t miss his eyes darting to her cooler. Sorry, Buckwheat, ain’t for you. “Nah, man, I know my way around the place. Like, just here to visit some friends, ya dig?”

Her eyes cast around, before finding the hat left hanging upon the roof. Ah - funny. Used to be a favorite spot for a lot of restless Kindred.

“So if you don’t mind…”

She moved to get around Manny, figuring she’d take the old service ladder on the outside of the building. He was smooth, though, a quick step bringing him preternaturally into her forward path.

“C’mon, Ms. Wojciek! I’ll bet- it’s no troub- I- I can-” The sores on his cheek were turning an angry red, his filthy fingers digging further furrows into his dope or disease wounds that threatened to find the blood beneath. His neck was tense, and his pupils were widening. “Pretty lady like you shouldn’t- that- the box looks heavy, miss.”

Hanna’s cool demeanor only just cracked, revealing a subtle impatience. Her eyes looked Manny in the face, a small sigh escaping her. Mooch of mooches. Push to give a service. Push to get what you needed. Squeaky wheel and all.

“Manny, dude… I think I got it. Cool?” Hanna stated. “Like, don’t push your luck, brother, and we’ll stay groovy. You keep hasslin’, though, and I might have to get kinda pushy with you.”

An unfortunate fact of the underground world. Violence was a universal language. What a shame, then, that Manny was deaf to it.

"No no. Its- ya see, I figured- bit uh help I give you, an- maybe you gotta- this is- uh- it's wearing off, yeah?" Where Violence was, if not a foreign dialect, at least not immediately understood, bribes and 'gifts' universally were. "You're- a hit, Ms. W! I just- maybe I help- helping you- you- you- helping me? Yeah?

His speech was becoming more disconnected as his mannerisms became more manic: the last breath of energy before the plunge into the crash. Manny's legs would not stay still, and he shifted from one to the other rapidly.

Hanna considered him… and the wheels began to turn.

“How’s this…” Hanna drawled. “As it turns out - I do need a favor. Not with this--”

And she held up the cooler, easily.

“--but with some… heh, market research, man. Like, there’s some new dope floating around. Black, like sand, kind of, a downer. You find more out about it, maybe I can hook you up. Course you rat me… I make sure not a single dealer sells to you, again. Capesce?” Hanna bargained. Double-whammy -- get Manny off her case, and maybe do a bit of digging on her own.

There was a pregnant pause. Manny's face loosened, all expression and tightness draining from it rapidly, and his eyes became glassy. Only a tiny twitch in his temple gave any indication that he was trying to force the rusted cogs of his mind to generate any worthwhile thought.

"Downer. Black sand. I- there's been talk." His cognizance had returned, and his eyes shifted back and forth across random points on the floor. "Gonna- gonna find- Barb? Nah- I'll see- Willy? Mayb- Not likely-"

He carried on, frozen in place, as he continued sputtering and muttering to himself. It didn't appear his behavior would change anytime soon.

Hanna stood there, staring. Her eyes moved across his face, searching. Interesting - so the bums were already aware, even a hardcore addict like Manny hearing about it well before she had. That meant it had to have been circulating a while.

Whatever the case, she patted his shoulder, leaving him to muse, as she made her way out a warehouse door to locate the service ladder she wanted. Looping the handle of her cooler over her shoulder, she started up, making her way to her rendezvous with a certain corpse-ish Kindred.


@Red Thunder
 

Red Thunder

A Warrior in a Garden
Original poster
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per week
  2. One post per week
  3. Slow As Molasses
Writing Levels
  1. Adept
  2. Advanced
  3. Prestige
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Female
  3. Primarily Prefer Male
Genres
Fantasy, SciFi, Modern, Magical
Screenshot_20211031-124809_DuckDuckGo.jpg

October 15, 1999
9:30 pm

∆∆∆
Leon's Lounge

"I do not like it any more than you do."

"Doubtful. A Camarilla, and a Witch, no less? I will be the laughing stock of the Anarch community."

Sigurd Erickson sighed, taking a look out the window to the left. Across from him, the picture of measured class, sat Leon. His lips were pursed, and he looked uphappy.

"This is politics, Regent, nothing more. The Sabbat have ever wanted to seize Camarilla ground; how is this anything different?"

"This is intoxicants, Leon. Dru-"

"Drugs have been a staple of the streets since we were first Sired. Don't manufactory morality."

The Tremere Regent's face tightened. No conversation with an Anarch Kindred ever went favorably, particularly when that Anarch was a Baron with something to lose. And he did have something to lose: by associating with either sect, Leon could stand to make enemies of the offended party, earning direct and focused ire and likely bringing down wrath on his establishment and everything he'd worked for.

The question, then: was it all worth losing if it could prevent a bigger but less certain loss?

"He met with her, you know." Sigurd took a different tack, having allowed a heavy pause to linger first. "Liviana has the Prince's cooperation, if not his allegiance."

The only sign of Leon's disapproval was a flare of his nostrils and a small tightening of his lips. So. Camarilla leadership in bed with Sabbat leadership.

"And how long as the drug been on the street?"

"I do not know for certain. My network guesses that it first hit the streets of the world in late July." The Tremere felt his teeth with his tongue contemplatively. "They are rushing it, for it to have already be in Houston."

"For what purpose, though, Sigurd? Why are the Sabbat pushing this so hard?"

A weight, of either memory or pain, settled on Sigurd.

"Tell me, Leon: do you know what happened during the Week of Nightmares?"

∆∆∆
the Maximum Buzz main floor

Omar had been hired by Ms. Wojciek, among other things, for his legendary patience. When your patrons consisted of drunk, high, hormonal, and otherwise inebriated kine, nevermind entitled Kindred, it was a significant boon to have a fair degree of patience. And it had been regularly and generously applied in his career at the Buzz, and he had never once given in to impatience.

There was a first time for everything.

"You are the most arrogant, infantile-"

Before him, standing at a significant height disadvantage, Cut flipped Omar another bird.

"Fuck you, cabrón."

"The mistress-!"

The gentleman coughed again, trying politely to gain their attention. Omar shot a glance to him, gathered himself, and approached. Cut stormed off.

"Ah. A date, you said? Apologies, sir: the back rooms are off limits."

"Oh? Pity. A real pity."

It was, technically speaking, a major breach of protocol to use one's Disciplines within another Kindred's space, particularly when it was public and therefore Elysium. The gentleman applied his Presence to Omar, and heavily. He did not care about societal niceties; he needed to find his prey.

"Better yet," He continued, "tell me: where is the Ravnos girl?"

∆∆∆

the Greyhound station - Fannin and Gray
"Mm? Eh?"

Isabel's question was a knife through the fog of Trudy's mind. She pulled up short, eyes blinking wearily. What had the young thing said? Such a cutie, too. Reminded her of her granddaughter. Did she have a granddaughter? Maybe. It was harder to think than it used to be. Everything was harder than it used to be. Walking. Thinking. Speaking. Eating. Sleeping.

No, wait. The sleeping was easier, actually. So easy, now, to sleep. The weight of exhaustion pressed on the old woman's withered mind, and she longed to go to where everything was easier. To go to her-

"Eh? Dreams? In tents?" Trudy shuffled herself about, eyes narrow as she took a better look at the girl. Yes, very young. Very cute. Was she ever that cute? Maybe, once. A long time ago. Before. "I dunno about tents, sweetie. But d'you mean this?"

Rather trustingly, or maybe foolishly, she pulled a dime bag from her fanny pack. Within was the black sand-like substance of the drug in question. She gave it a small shake.

"New stuff. Good for sleeping, yeah." Trudy looked at Isabel, assessing her. After a moment, she continued. "$20."

The other hobos were dispersing, only a few still remaining, mired in the mazes of their own minds as much as merely uncertain of where to go. Amelié's Auspex picked out each one easily. Indeed, in picked out even the locations of the nearest Greyhound employees by their auras from behind the safety of their walls. Each life cast an aura, like the halos around a fog-drowned streetlight. The practiced Kindred could pick out the minor differences between one life and the next, determining by that aura sex, genetic anscestory, physical details, and the like.

It also worked on Kindred, with experts in the craft being able to tell a Kindred's Clan, Generation, and such details with a glance. It would even work against the camouflage of Obfuscation.

Amelié saw her. A squat woman in a sundress, she stood openly, hands clasped in front of her. She was staring right at Amelié and Izzy. At the Tremere's glance, she did not move. She merely watched, waiting.

To Izzy and Amelié's left, something scraped the asphalt; Auspex's heightened senses allowed her to pick it up. The sound came from behind another bus, but she could still see the aura seeping through.

Both were Kindred.
 
Last edited:
  • Spicy
  • OMG
Reactions: Doctor Jax and Kuno

Kuno

Django Jane
SITE SUPPORT LEAD
SITE SUPPORT
DONATING MEMBER
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Posting Speed
  1. One post per day
  2. 1-3 posts per week
  3. One post per week
Writing Levels
  1. Intermediate
  2. Adept
  3. Advanced
  4. Prestige
  5. Adaptable
Preferred Character Gender
  1. No Preferences
Genres
Fantasy, Sci fi, Romance, Historical, Modern, Supernatural
Amélie


To say Amélie was surprised would have been a gross misinterpretation of the situation. Living a life as fraught as hers had ruined the figurative element for her. Expecting the unexpected - was that not her creed as a killer of Tremere divination? Kindred were worse than the Kine in their wanton deeds; not a single one of them could ever be trusted. Including herself. So was she taken aback at the shrouded guests? No.

But it gave her pause.

For a scant moment, she looked away from the woman ahead. Isabel, the wayward child, had drifted away to speak with a homeless woman freshly arrived. The Tremere’s eyes darted frenetically from her to the hidden woman to the figure obscured to their left. It was searching, that gaze of hers, quietly assessing and gauging the distance. The distance...between her. Her and Isabel. Isabel and the woman. Isabel and the one cloaked in their ridiculous shadows behind the bus. Slowly, Amélie smiled, even as a venomous hiss seeped through her clamped teeth.

She despised liabilities.

“Why, three’s a crowd, I think,” the vampire suddenly exclaimed, returning the squat woman’s unabashed stare. “Heavens. Quite the welcome.”

Amélie made a gesture in the stranger’s direction, her palms open and facing up -- claws pointed ahead. She didn’t seem to care if the human nearby heard or saw this strange encounter. Should she witness anything...well. Amélie wasn’t too concerned with her words being taken seriously by anyone. Or they could just kill her. It didn’t really matter.

“Come. Let’s not stand here on ceremony. I have things to say and do, and I despise this song and dance so accustomed to our kind. Make your move already - do I have a listening ear or not?”


 
Last edited:

Applo

Beautiful like a Forest Fire
DONATING MEMBER
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Invitation Status
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per week
  2. One post per week
Writing Levels
  1. Intermediate
  2. Adept
  3. Advanced
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Female
How were you actually meant to buy drugs? With the little plastic bag all but swinging under her nose, Isabel was suddenly aware that she had no idea what she was meant to do now. Sure, she had seen countless drug deals go down, but they had all been on TV. How much had all those script writers known and how much had they made up. The women in front of her held the very thing the Prince had sent them scurrying around the city to find out about. People had died because of this strange preparation. Isabel didn’t want to blow it now because the most devious thing she had done growing up was creeping downstairs after her parents had gone to sleep to watch X-Files.

“Twenty, um, yeah I can do that.”

As Isabel’s hands dug into pockets, grasping blindly at their contents, the new blood looked around the alley surreptitiously. Her gaze was met by the retreating backs of the bus's other occupants. Nobody seemed all that interested in what was going on. That was good right?”

“Is this ok?”

The money that had emerged in the new blood’s hands was a mixture of crumpled bills that showed how many hands they had passed through with every dog eared corner. To the best of her ability, Isabel tried to fan them out so they could all be seen at once.

"Bit new to this, kid?" The twenty dollars was gone in a flash, snatched away as soon as it was presented. Trudy examined it carefully, holding it up to the thin light of the street lamp. "Word of advice: don't go flashing around green. Getcha dead."

Apparently satisfied with the money's quality, she shoved it down the front of her shirt and proffered the black dust to her buyer.

"All yours. Enjoy while you can."

She revealed slimy, yellow teeth in a ragged smile.

“Urm, Thanks.”

Pushing the little package deep into a pocket, Isabel glanced away from the horrifying grin over a shoulder at her friend; they were talking to someone the new-blood couldn’t quite see from where she stood.

“Hey Am, I got the… erm… stuff. Are we done here?”​
 

Red Thunder

A Warrior in a Garden
Original poster
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per week
  2. One post per week
  3. Slow As Molasses
Writing Levels
  1. Adept
  2. Advanced
  3. Prestige
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Female
  3. Primarily Prefer Male
Genres
Fantasy, SciFi, Modern, Magical
vtm.jpg
The Greyhound Station
"Done? Dearie me. No, sugar. You're not done. Not yet."

The comforting accent of the southern belle was laced with malicious intent. To Isabel's eyes, one moment the space was empty, and the next it was filled. The woman filling it was short, perhaps a bit rotund, her yellow sundress far too cheerful and optimistic for the environment in which they all stood. Her smile stood out prominently beneath cherry red lips, and her canines gleamed viciously. She batted her eyes.

"I've heard of you two. Mm, followed you. You've been somewhat- mm, careless? with your movements. With your- intentions."

The step she took forward pressed an unseen weight into the minds of Amelie and Isabel: terror pressed in on their subconscious. It wasn't controlling fear, the fear that spasms your limbs and spurs your mind to desperate self preservation; nor was it paralyzing fear, that seized your limbs in the frozen grip of inevitable ruin, that wracks your heart with the despair that a terrible death is your inevitable fate. No, this fear was small. But it would grow.

"She said that you work for the Prince, mm? Ignorant. Children in the hands of the the wicked bearing treats." Another step, and the budding fear laid down another root. She batted her eyelashes, grin stretching inhumanly. "Anna already paid the price, poor thing. A Malkavian, too. Shame. But all must fall for our purpose.

"And your purpose is the highest yet, dearie." Her gaze turned to Isabel. The fear bloomed as she took a third step. Rather, it it bloomed in Isabel. Amelie's mind was suddenly free, as if a weight had been cast off with great effort. On her chest, the charm flashed a moment of searing heat before fading to dull warmth. The advancing Kindred did not seem to notice. "Ravnos. My my. We haven't seen one of you in- well, months. Interesting, how you survived. Or perhaps your Sire did, and you're just the unfortunate consequence."

Auspex alerted Amelie to a slight noise behind the bus. Behind them, nearest to Isabel, Trudy lay on the ground. Her body lay limply, eyes peeled back as it gazed on something neither Isabel nor Amelie could see. Her mouth worked, spittle leaking as she muttered things silently to herself in her catatonic state.

"You are meant for a great thing, sugar," the Kindred in the sundress said, her tone sickly sweet. "And you will come with us."

Without warning, the bus nearest them was in the air, spinning and tumbling toward them in a cacophonic crash.

Ironco Heavy Industries Warehouse
"M- Ms- Ms Wodjakkkkk!"

Manny, his face now marred with red lines from self-inflicted scratches, looked up to wear Hanna climbed the ladder. His express had now completely devolved into mania, and he could barely hold the uprights for his twitching. Indeed, he jumped up and down, a dog that had completed the task given it.

"I- I- my head brai- the mush. It 'memberzzz! What! What about! The sand! Yeah, they's talking-"

Still rambling, he sprinted off perhaps twenty feet before returning to pace aggressively.

"Ain't just for- miss, it takezzz you! There's- it! Takezz you! Dreeeemzz, yeah?" His hands gestured wildly about his head. Then he halted, as if commanded by some external power. Like a statue, he remained unmoving for five seconds.

"The Malkavians see one another, consciously, Vampire. Not like their usual web of consciousness. It lets them join, channeling vitae en masse. Can you think, Vampire, what the Malkvavians could do with that, if joined with an individual of Purpose? With a survivor of genocide?

"Do you know what they might raise?"

Manny's tone was calm, subdued. Even- mature, deeply mature in a way no Kine or Kindred ever was. As swiftly as it had appeared, it was gone. The addict collapsed, his energy spent as he fell into severe withdrawal. Hanna was again alone, save for the Nosferatu that awaited her above.


Leon's Lounge
Leon did not speak for several minutes. He stared into the hearthfire, expression vacant. Sigurd eyed him but waited. The information was not generally known, though nigh all of Kindred society had felt that something had been off.

"The question, I suppose," Leon finally managed, "is why? Why risk raising an Antediluvian?"

"What is ever the answer, Leon? Power. If they could diablerize Zapathasura himself, they would be nigh as strong as Caine."

"Nonsense," Leon scoffed. "He's dead. Your own Clan took care of that, and by your report!"

"No no; the Mages themselves did. A sect of them." Sigurd shook his head, waving a hand dismissively. "But that it well beside the point. I assure you, they can do it. Indeed, weren't several Giovanni here but a few nights ago, asking after morgues and graveyards?"

Leon did not answer.

"This is Camarilla territory, Baron. Giovanni do not waltz in so openly, not without surety of safety. And Bishop Beatrice Medici-"

"Who?" Leon interjected.

"Apologies: she changed her name a century past in order to better blend with modern society. You know her as Liviana. Anyway, I scryed on her and happened to see her being genuflected to by Washburn himself. With the Sheriff moving against the Nosferatu (no, don't feign ignorance; it is the talk of Kindred Society, and you know it), Houston's secrets are effectively in the Sabbat's hands."

"Liviana, then?"

Sigurd shook his head, puzzlement on his face.

"She is a good candidate, but I don't know for sure. Is Washburn merely playing the fool? He is more crafty than he seems. Is the Sheriff more than the Prince's heavy hand? I do not know."

Again, Leon fell silent. The crackle of wood began to fade. Frowning, he lifted a poker and applied its point to key locations in the woodpile, bringing air and rejuvenation back to the flames.

"We have discussed our liabilities; what are our assets?"

"So you will assis-"

"Do not overreach. I must have adequate information before I make my choice."

"Very well. I will begin with a certain charm given to a certain Tremere..."

@Kuno @Doctor Jax @Applo @Radio Jelly
 
Last edited:
  • Spicy
Reactions: Doctor Jax and Kuno

Kuno

Django Jane
SITE SUPPORT LEAD
SITE SUPPORT
DONATING MEMBER
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Posting Speed
  1. One post per day
  2. 1-3 posts per week
  3. One post per week
Writing Levels
  1. Intermediate
  2. Adept
  3. Advanced
  4. Prestige
  5. Adaptable
Preferred Character Gender
  1. No Preferences
Genres
Fantasy, Sci fi, Romance, Historical, Modern, Supernatural
Amélie


Amélie decided that the fat one would die first.

It was no hard decision. The woman uttered faux pleasantries from between garish lips, and the old Tremere’s face wilted into something decidedly not pleasant. Indeed, the other stomped around her intended purpose noisily, like a cow let loose into a field of daisies. She called them careless; Amélie’s brow canted, a twist coming to her face as the blob of yellow continued.

The incentive for murder came in the foreign touch of another on her psyche. It was small; nearly imperceptible, and had the old woman not been so attuned to her own mind, she could have brushed it away. But it came needling at the edge of her subconscious, a feeling so rarely felt that it gave her pause. The strong, indeed, had no use for what crept so insidiously into her heart: the twinges of fear. The Tremere’s head cocked like a raptor.

"Anna already paid the price, poor thing. A Malkavian, too. Shame.”

Against her will, the fear grew. Images of dismembering the woman threatened to blind her.

Then, suddenly, whether through her own growing hatred or through some other source, the intrusive emotion abruptly left her, even as her enemy’s face grew more smug in her self-assured power. A burst of heat bloomed at her neck; Amélie’s flew to her neck, startled. The charm. Had it…?

Never mind; she didn’t want to think about Sigurd and his apparent favor. Not then. The information streaming from the short one’s mouth was too…telling. Too important. The focus shifted to Isabel easily, both foe and ally regarding the woman with reptile interest, the latter quietly assessing the mention of Ravnos…

They didn’t give either of them much time to process it.

The screech of metal scraping and howling against the pavement came in a sudden roar as a bus came crashing towards them. There was not a second lost to thought, emotion, hesitation; Amélie surged forward, her hands locking around both of Isabel’s arms. As the long dark shape of the bus rolled towards them, screeching in portending doom, the Tremere slung Isabel out of the way as hard as she could, a second’s pause occurring before she threw herself after her.

@Applo

 

Applo

Beautiful like a Forest Fire
DONATING MEMBER
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Invitation Status
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per week
  2. One post per week
Writing Levels
  1. Intermediate
  2. Adept
  3. Advanced
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Female
The mind never remembered the fall or the impact. Oh, the nerves sensed the events and sent their signals to the brain. But the mind, the mind somehow failed to record them. Perhaps the process of falling to the floor simply overwhelmed the brain with more information than it could process. That would certainly be true in the case of Isabel’s mind as the tendrils of the brightly dressed, squat Kindred will wrapped around it and down the new blood spine as she tumbled onto the asphalt.

Opening her eyes to a dark Texas sky was briefly like waking from a nightmare for Isabel. For a few moments her brain reeled as it tried to align the previous reality to the new one it was experiencing while terror surged through the body. Unlike a nightmare though, the terror didn’t subside as the confusion cleared. Looking around at the crumpled bus, wheels hanging lamely in the air as it lay on its side; Amélie crumpled on the floor like a rag doll; the woman with the offensively yellow dress and predatory grin slowly walking towards her.

The movement was instinctive; primitive; primeval. Denim, rubber and flesh scraped over the harsh tarmac as Isabel scrambled backwards. The storm of terror that rolled over her mind was like nothing else the thin-blood had ever experienced, with just one terrible exception. Any concern or even thoughts about Amélie were quashed at their moment of birth. Even the beast, ever aggressive and hungry, cowered from the woman’s gaze. Isabel knew she needed to turn and run. She wanted to run, but somehow, she couldn’t. Like a deer in the headlights, the thin blood couldn’t break her eyes away from the advancing woman. All she could do was slowly slither backwards.

“Get… the hell… away from me!”

The yellow dressed swished in the air as it’s wearer took another step towards Isabel. The smile was unchanged.

“I’m not meant for anything.”

Step

“We we we… just wanted to score ok!”

Step

“I’m not a Ra- Ra- Ra- Ravnos.”

Step

“GET AWAY FROM ME!”​
 
Last edited:
  • Love
Reactions: Doctor Jax

Doctor Jax

Lord of the Mice
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Invitation Status
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per week
Online Availability
3PM CST - 9 PM CST
Writing Levels
  1. Intermediate
  2. Adept
  3. Advanced
  4. Adaptable
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Female
  3. No Preferences
Genres
Fantasy, Scifi, Urban Fantasy, Horror
Warehouse Blues
collab w/ @radiojelly

Hanna stared after the vagrant who had dropped an… admittedly cryptic message to her. She considered following the addict, to maybe search out more answers, but this was neither the place nor the time.

She had a meeting to attend.

The cooler was hefted in her fist as she made her way to the set of safety ladders leading to the top of the warehouse, the bar owner shaking her head. This was not the weirdest meeting she had ever been to — that honor went to a bathhouse in San Francisco, where she met a literal clown amidst a bunch of Turks regarding a drug deal — but it was definitely one of the least unorthodox.

She easily scaled the rungs, the cooler slung over a shoulder. Her eyes darted to the others inside the building. So far no one had noticed her ascent, and she hoped to keep it that way. He had to choose the top of the damn warehouse, didn’t he…?

Nosferatu were awful touchy about being seen. Drama queens.

She finally crawled over the roof, stretching, looking around for her newest business associate.

She didn’t see him–not at first, anyway.

The rooftop of the Iron Co. warehouse was, ostensibly, barren. Besides the open sky-light, and the cowboy hat which dangled precariously from it, there was nothing and nobody that appeared out of place. It was almost a silent place, if not for the low din of chatter and prattle that drifted up and out into the night sky from beneath them.

And then, it wasn’t. Between his hunger, and its Potence, Sal flicked the lid off of Hanna’s cooler with hardly any effort; he apparated besides and ahead of her, striding forward with purpose and vigor. Were it not for the bag of blood pressed viciously against his fangs, he might’ve looked powerful–invincible, even–pacing under the pale moonlight.

Only when the very last of the Vitae passed beyond his lips did Sal begin to calm: the smothering tangle of the Beast whipped and cracked against his ribcage, but seemed to cool and calm under the deluge of fresh sustenance.

As the rising fire within Salvatore came to a steady, quiet burn, the old Nos peeled himself from the shadows and into the moonlight. Sal met Hanna’s gaze, and, with a patently irritated look, he lifted his hat from where it hung, and placed it back on his head. There was a moment of quiet, and though it seemed to actively hurt his feelings, Salvatore did eventually speak.

“Thanks, Miss. I… was gettin’ more than a little peckish pacing ‘round up here. I…”

Salvatore glanced again at the cooler, and then to Hanna. He was old and wise enough to understand what it all meant–that Hanna would even come here at all with bagged Vitae.

“I ‘spose I ought to just get to it. Y’all young folk don’t have much use for it, I reckon, but I owe you for this.”

Salvatore wiggled the now-empty plastic baggie in one hand, before tossing it over his shoulder.

“There’s been a hit-job, Hanna. On me… mostly.” Sal grimaced, his mind momentarily pulled to the feeling of electricity on his flesh–the scent of cooked meat and scorched bone coming to mind for just a single second, before Sal forced it back down..

“Problem is, it’s gonna come for you too. This game the Prince decided you were gonna play? Well, he didn’t tell y’all ‘bout all the players involved…”

Salvatore’s black eyes narrowed under a furrowed brow, and his usually impassive expression contorted with just the barest flicker of fury.

“If I might be so bold as to ask, what do you think you know ‘bout the Sabbat in this town?”

Hanna stood just out of view of the skylight, watching intently. Her eyes were dull, far-away for the moment, lost in thought as she chewed her thumbnail— a decidedly human habit. It was in these moments it was clear Hanna was still a Neonate, though an astute and shrewd one. No, hearing that someone put a hit out on Sal only cemented the idea that Washburn had planted them headfirst in his manure pile to go digging for gold.

“Not a whole lot. Been here maybe ten years, so I don’t have a grasp on the politics. Anarchs tend to wanna keep their nose out of the beef, you dig?” Hanna stated. But it seemed she should have paid more attention. “I gather they’re wrapped up in it then. Malkavian who was digging around on the same deal— Anna— she went missing. So you aren’t the only one. What’s their play?”

The addict’s words — no doubt not his own — rang in her head. What did the Sabbat want with the Malkavians? Survivor of genocide…?

As Hanna began to ponder at the meaning of the words, Salvatore resumed his pacing on the rooftop, only this time his movements were languid and carefree in a way more reminiscent of the Sal Hanna had met only a couple nights prior.

“Play?” Sal scoffed, and looked beyond Hanna and out towards the city. He tossed the words around in his mind, trying to step into the Kindred impulse to explain without explaining. It seemed harder than usual, perhaps on account of his injuries and low vitae intake. The more he considered what to say, the more foolish that old song and dance seemed to be to him.

“They came to me after you left, the Sabbat. An envoy, anyhow. Tried to flip me, but I’m undead not insane. Didn’t much care for my answer and, what'cha know? Just as soon as I sent ‘em packing, the Sheriff came knocking.”

Sal waved his still-mangled forearm in front of his face, and turned back to Hanna with a look of mild irritation.

“Lance had it in his head I did some kinda deal with the Necromancers, and he was gonna bring me in for it. Only I ain’t spoken a damn word to a Giovanni in years, let alone shack up one of ‘em. Maybe he was improvising, maybe not.” Sal shrugged his shoulders, and set his sights more firmly upon Hanna, trying as best he could to read her feelings on it all.

“You’d be forgiven for wondering how the hell any of this is your problem. Thing is, this Sabbat Bishop who tried to get me to jump ship has her eyes on you too. You saw her that night, by the water. Schmoozing Washburn. I don’t think you were supposed to, and maybe neither was I.”
Sal tossed his flip phone onto the skylight, where it clattered to a halt some few feet away.

“Losing the Dome stings, but it’s not the end of the world. Losing my whole clan? That one’s harder. Takes years to guide one of those the right kind of way. Should take just as long to break one down…”

“Anyhow. Figured I don’t got many friends left, and if the same people who did me dirty have their sights on your little troupe, maybe that is enough to accelerate our professional relationship.”

“Yeah. I hear that.”

She couldn’t imagine losing a clan. Hell, the thought her own were in danger made her skin itch, and she hadn’t sired any of them. As much as she was a damned creature of the night, there was still that highly human need for companionship.

If they were being targeted by Sabbat forces, and the Camarilla in bed with them, they needed strength in numbers more than anything now. She dug around in her pocket, pulling out a massive ring of keys. She chose one, unmarked, before holding it out to Sal.

“If they’re making a move on all of us, better we kinda circle the wagons. ‘S the key to the basement of the Max, on Gaylord Street. I’m good with you hangin’ there. Got another stray there as well who was loitering about the Dome, so maybe you two can get acquainted. Me… I think I gotta make a few visits. You need it, ask Oscar for it, phone, vitae, a bed, he’ll see you took care of so long as I can manage,” Hanna pledged.

The key seemed heavy in her fingers.

Sal pinched Hanna’s offer between his thumb and forefinger, and plucked it from her grasp. The old Nosferatu was accustomed to sealing the deal with a handshake, but this felt just as–if not more–official. After all, Hanna was literally inviting a vampire in. The thought almost made Sal smile. Still, he was wise enough not to say so.

“When we find out what the hell is going on in this city, and when I find whichever slug-sucker let Lance off his leash, you’ll get it back. ‘Promise.”

Whether or not Hanna believed it, Sal meant it: living out of a neonate Anarch’s basement was certainly a downgrade from Salvatore’s palace on the parkway. Still, he had slept in worse. With that thought in mind, and nothing left that needed saying, the Nosferatu pulled gently on his disciplines, invoking Obfuscate and stepping backwards into the dark.
 

Red Thunder

A Warrior in a Garden
Original poster
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per week
  2. One post per week
  3. Slow As Molasses
Writing Levels
  1. Adept
  2. Advanced
  3. Prestige
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Female
  3. Primarily Prefer Male
Genres
Fantasy, SciFi, Modern, Magical
Screenshot_20211031-124809_DuckDuckGo.jpg

October 15, 1999
9:45 pm

∆∆∆
Leon's Lounge
Leon laughed, dubious.

"Come now: a charm against Dementation? Where-"

"Not Dementation specifically," Sigurd interrupted. "It was also meant to protect against Scrying and other- Anyway, this is irrelevant."

"It is indeed. Particularly in the face of your wanting the Camarilla Princedom."

The Tremere grew quiet but nodded. The Anarch Baron was shrewd. Politicking was par for the course for any Kindred with the longevity to recognize its benefits. Power was, after all, what secured one's survival, and what better way to secure power than to be the one at the helm of the undead ship? Making alliances, enforcing rule of law, driving back your people's enemies. All responsibilities, and privileges, intrinsic to any position of headship.

Leon considered his guest for a long moment. There was much to consider. The Sabbat made for vicious and very often ruthless enemies, so to align with their ideological opponents could very well be suicide, both political and actual. Yet, if the Warlock's claims were true and the Sabbat did seek to bring about the Ravnos progenitor back from destruction, would point would there be in riding the fence?

"I distrust you, Sigurd Erickson. As any Kindred wisely distrusts all other Kindred. Yet I distrust the Sabbath's intentions far more."

Sigurd studied Leon in turn.

"I will not provide further information until-"

"Yes yes," Leon said, waving away the concern. "Allowing the Sabbat to diablerize an Antediluvian would be catastrophic, so I will aid you in preventing this. But I will not aid you in your pursuit of power.

"Now. What structure do you have in place? Surely, you'd not come to me without having taken steps yourself."
Nodding, satisfied, Sigurd replied.
"Scrying will cover the loss of the Nosferatu, as I can only guess they are now firmly in Washburn's and therefore the Sabbat's pocket. Furthermore, the Brujah and Gangrel Clans have chafed under Washburn and his devil-may-care attitude; I've word from their primogens that they will respond well to a former structure, particularly when directed at the Sabbat."

"And what of your knowledge of their movements?"

"It is lacking, sadly, beyond what I have told you." Sigurd shook his head. "Beatrice, Liviana, keeps the movement of her troops well concealed, and my scryers have seen and heard only the faintest rumor."

"So you need information."

"I do. Any help is appreciated."

"Very well. I will begin with this." Shifting, Leon pulled open a drawer and extracted a figurine. It looked to be carved of a dark wood, or it was charred, and it was shaped grotesquely. Its face leered, gaping mouth exposing a large tongue and fangs in an ugly caricature of a vampire. He paused, looking at it impassively, before placing it on the desk toward Sigurd.

"The Giovanni traded me this for access to Glenwood Cemetery. Since its introduction, my own wraths have been particularly quiet; it seems to repel or at least subdue them."

Sigurd did not take it immediately.

"You wish for what in trade?"

"I wish for Peace, and the Sabbat will not provide it to me. Take this and leave me be."

"Very well," Sigurd said. He knew better than to argue the issue or to press for further assistance. Standing, he picked up the totem. "I thank you."

He strode for the door. There was much to do, much to prepare for, and likely little time to do it.

"A bird mentioned," Leon called after him, "that Fort San Jacinto has been under a constant fog recently. Strange weather, for this time of year."

Sigurd stopped in the doorway, considered, gave a head nod, and left.

∆∆∆
outside the Maximum Buzz

So. The Ravnos girl had gone with the Tremere. And if she had not returned immediately, it was unlikely she was in control of their transportation, which meant public, or private via the Tremere.
The gentleman stood on the sidewalk just outside the Maximum Buzz. It was tedious, chasing the Ravnos around. Worth it, to be sure. But tedious. Ah well. Given the circumstances, she would be in good hands. Good hands indeed.

At the crunch of gravel on the concrete, he turned his head. The tattered ball cap was pulled down low over the eyes of the figure approaching, and both hands were shoved deep within pockets. But dangerous, predatory confidence bled from the figure as vitae bled from a Kindred's victim.

"Sheriff," the gentleman acknowledged. "Busy night last night."

Lance Bringham grunted, a non-answer to a non-question. He stood beside the gentleman, staring at the street silently in contemplation.

"He'll likely go underground," he finally said. "Even more than usual."

"Possibly." The gentleman paused. "The girl is with the Tremere woman."

"And the Brujah?"

The gentleman shrugged. He hadn't asked Omar that question, as it seemed- less than relevant. Lance grunted again.

"They will move soon. We're in a dangerous position. If either of them get their hands on-"

"Yes, well, let's make sure they don't, mm?"

The gentleman shot the Sheriff a significant look, as if catching hold of the Ravnos hadn't been his entire job. Sighing, he clasped his hands behind his back and stared at the sky. It was, all things considered, beautiful. Separate and removed from the pettiness and conflict of the world, infinite diamonds dotting an infinite sea of darkness. The city beneath had yet to drift off to sleep, so fluorescent flickers of building lights both exterior and interior seemed to be an imperfect reflection. It was as if mankind longed to live among the dancing lights above but, finding themselves powerless to do so, had constructed for themselves towers of metal and filled them with the dead, steady lamps instead.

"What of the Pyramid?"

Lance looked at the gentleman, eyebrows raised in response. Typically, a Clan's internal politics were private and rarely inquired about by those outside it. Yet these were hardly typical nights.

"It grows stronger," Lance said.

"They will move against the Prince before long."

"A good distraction, then. We must be ready to strike when they do."

There was no response. Lance merely watched the street, brooding. Passersby did not pay them much heed, save for the occasional glance. Hedonism ruled the night, as it so often did, and the horror of the murders in the alley had faded in favor of the fun to be had in the Buzz. There was too much excitement to be had, to notice these two surveying the crowds.

"Beatrice needs a visit, I think." The gentleman smiled, though his calm voice held an edge. "She needs encouragement."

"Fine. I'll check in with Washburn. Report on- things."

"Good. And if either of us see that poor orphan-"

"Capture or kill. I know."

"Excellent."

The gentleman grinned a toothy grin.

∆∆∆
the Greyhound station - Fannin and Gray

Bobby Jo peered down at Isabel, cowering amongst the wreckage. Both she and her friend had dodged Gerald's bus. Well, mostly. There was damage to the Tremere's leg, the pant fabric and skin underneath torn. Was the bone broken?

Perhaps; the muscle certainly was. Bobby Jo smirked; that would take a bit to heal.

"'Not Ravnos'? Dear girl," she cooed as she approached. She had her Clan's Discipline of Dementation cranked up as high as she could push it, driving terror into their minds like spikes. The old kine had already succumbed; she was mindlessly drooling on the ground, sprawled out as her mind meandered through mazes of mad fear. "You are, as best we can tell, the last Ravnos. Thin blood though you are. The Week of Nightmares was rough on everyone"

From the shadows, the hulking grotesque figure of Gerald came loping into view. His flesh protruded in odd unnatural angles, and his knees bent backwards. At the end of long arms, spidery fingers worked. He looked down at them, eyes shining. Ah, that's right; he didn't know the other was Tremere. Best to not mention that to him.

"Let's go, Lunatic," he muttered, his voice gravelly. "The Council-"

"-can wait a few more moments. They gave us little enough to go on, and I'm curious about these two."

"I cannot wait!" Gerald, his Tzimisce figures further twisted by the sallow and inconsistent light of the bus station parking lot, advanced on Isabel, coming to a stop as he towered over her, yellow, hateful eyes peering down. "Time to go, meat."

Crushing Amélie's leg was not all the bus had done. The ruckus of its tumbling had drawn the gaze of several of the hobos as they trailed behind their brethren, and a couple of them screamed at the unnatural sight of Gerald's monstrous form. One clutched his head, the other his heart, and a third merely fled, sprinting away without regard for anything in her path.

The Masquerade, carefully managed by the Camarilla, was broken. The sight of the unnatural, whether it be the use of an obvious Discipline or the feeding on kine or the presence of such a one as a Tzimisce or a Nosferatu, cracked the fragile psyche of nearly all kine that suffered it. They'd spread word, and quickly. Perhaps the rumor would not take hold as well, nor spread so fast, given its source in the gutter trash. Yet, the right ears always listened to even them, and the Hunters may be among them.

As yet, there was one immediate danger: the Sabbat. Amélie lay with a torn leg, a parting gift from the bus for tossing aside Isabel first. For her part, the Thin Blood was beginning to suffer the artificial throes of utter fear, and she lay cowering.

∆∆∆
Glenwood Cemetery

Despite being nearly if not quite central to Houston's metropolitan middle, Glenwood Cemetery stood apart. A quiet deeper than silence hung over the blocks of granite that stood sentinel within. Thin, low trees overhung the walking paths within, tracing the rising and falling levels in green highlights. Beneath, edging the walkways, ground level flora flourished, thriving on the nutrients provided them by the cemetery's permanent tenants. It was a balance of life and death, the latter upholding the former in the circle of natural existence.

The Necromancers worked wordlessly. One kept watch, and he pulled his black coat closer. His fellows dug quickly, speed paramount. They should have been here yesterday, but they'd been- intercepted. An idiot kine wearing a silver badge and a stupid felt hat. Questions about a murder. Hah! As if they could be so careless as to allow a body to go to waste, or to allow signs of their work to remain.
His partners struck wood. Muttering commands amongst themselves, they cleared around the casket until they could access the lid. Grunting, they opened it.

The Giovanni Clan had but one interest in this box: the bones. There was little left otherwise; clothing and flesh had rotted away decades ago. Pushing aside the rusting saber that lay across the corpse, they removed the skeleton.

It was important, that their corpse had ties to the land. Important, for their rituals. Important, to raise the dead in a place they belonged before forcing a foreign spirit into the body.

The bones secure within a crate, they swiftly returned the earth to its place. As they moved, so did the clouds, parting from where they had obscured the moon. The lookout frowned and urged his fellows to move faster.

The moonlight fell softly across the headstone: Anson Jones, last President of Texas.
 
  • Spicy
Reactions: Kuno

Kuno

Django Jane
SITE SUPPORT LEAD
SITE SUPPORT
DONATING MEMBER
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Posting Speed
  1. One post per day
  2. 1-3 posts per week
  3. One post per week
Writing Levels
  1. Intermediate
  2. Adept
  3. Advanced
  4. Prestige
  5. Adaptable
Preferred Character Gender
  1. No Preferences
Genres
Fantasy, Sci fi, Romance, Historical, Modern, Supernatural
Immortal Combat



Once upon a time, when the speakeasies called like a siren and black eyed susans had dotted the roads like snowflakes on sun-parched orphans, Amélie had felt the warm tenderness of youth. Youth was fresh and poignant; youth was a cold glass of water in the summer heat, the shiver of satin shifting over naked skin by the river on the grass. Youth was laughter and love and happiness and beauty; youth was life, even if it came as a cowering fear that rooted you to the spot in the eye of a storm. Izzy shook with it: youth, and all its lovely traits. Unmoving and unblinking, the young girl cowered as her much older companion stared emptily ahead, her deadened eyes bearing the wear of age.

The old country boys used to call it playing possum. It was grotesque, really; the Tremere’s muscles had been forced to go so slack that spittle emptied freely from the corner of her mouth. She hadn’t been able to quite capture the look of madness that surely one affected as such should have had. The right leg certainly helped her image; it was for a certainty broken, if not crushed, by the momentum of the bus. The Tremere had laid where she had fallen, content to lie in wait, and the yellow woman was assured of her faux victory. People so indebted to their own hubris and stupidity tended to talk so much more; as the blob spoke, Amélie listened. And watched. Neither the woman or her disfigured Tzimisce friend so much as bothered to glance behind themselves at the Tremere just within reach.

That was the problem with youth sometimes. They lacked proper discernment.

"Time to go, meat." A long leg came into view.

What a pity they didn’t know her.

Vitae gathered within, but not to her injured leg. As they had once plunged into an eye socket, Amélie’s claws sank deep into the freak show’s muscle as she grabbed hold of his right leg with alarming speed. She could feel the gathered blood pooled within every inch of him, no doubt a boon to him.

His blood would be her bitch.

Like the scorching desert, the temperature within his body skyrocketed.

Gerald's eyes widened in recognition only a moment before the Discipline took effect. Cauldron of Blood, as the Tremere Clan called the fifth level of the Thaumaturgical Path of Blood, was as vicious as it was sudden. Gerald's precious vitae, the weapon of every Kindred, was turned suddenly against him. Not quite like to fire, his boiling blood nevertheless began to tear quite effectively at his insides. Opening a fang-filled maw, he wailed in agony, writhing.

The cry took shape, twisting in his mouth until it formed a single word.

"WAAAAAARLOOOOOOCK!

Like a switchblade, a bony spike lanced its way out from Gerald's palm. Vicissitude, the Discipline of Flesh Crafting, was as hideous as the Tzimisce themselves: wicked and lethal and grotesque. Still screaming, fighting against the Rötschrek, Gerald rammed the spike down, aiming for Amélie's head.

Bobby Jo stopped her advance on Isabel, eyebrows raised as she watched the sudden counter by the Tremere. Perhaps she should have warned Gerald after all. Or perhaps not. He would fight the more fiercely now, permitting-

"Our friends seem to be having a private discussion, my dear; let's have one ourselves." She squatted down, a sickly sweet lemon to sour Isabel's night, and her smile was just as nasty. "I promise to be gentle."

Her hand extended, like the claw of a vulture in spite of its girth, and wrapped about Isabel's arm.

Instinctively the thin blood gingerly flinched away from the grip, but it is impossible to flinch out of a mannacle, even one made of twisted flesh and bone.

"Tsk," Bobby Jo chided, smile and words somehow more predatory than the monster Amélie faced. "I said that I'd be gentle, and I will. But your cooperation isn't strictly necessary."

Green and gray eyes flicked back and forth in their sockets. The smothering, suffocating fear and the vice-like grip on her arm ended any hope of escape. Isabel wanted to call out, but who to? Amélie was fighting with the nausea-inducing shape changer and the hobo that had poured off of the bus had vanished into the Texan night. Now the thin blood’s gaze desperately hunted for anyone. A reverler, a driver, a cop, the stupid hat wearing ranger, Sheriff Bingham, Wes, Hanna. Every crevice of the night was hurriedly searched for a source of help, all the while, fear pressing tighter and tighter upon the young kindred.

A light chuckle rang across the street. Isabel’s head twisted towards the sound in a flash only to be met by the sight of an empty street. She knew that laugh somehow. It was so familiar and yet Isabel could not picture to whom it belonged. Her mind was so clouded with fear and now a sudden wave of fatigue that thoughts were hard to marshal but she was certain that laughter meant safety. She had to find its owner.

“Are you looking for me?”

Once more a small chuckle filled the air. This time though, it came from behind Isabel and was followed by a dry, grating, rasping sound. An awkward twist against suddenly tired muscles revealed the source of the laughter was the silhouette of a woman no bigger than Isabel, leaning against one of the street’s lamp posts.

“Well, I guess you guys found me.”

The figure shifted now, stepping forwards from their perch and into the light, dragging the baseball bat at their side over the asphalt. It wasn’t the weapon though that spurred Isabel on to keep fighting her captor's grip and her own body's growing fatigue. It was the silver hair that hung out from a hood that hung too low. Isabel had only seen that on one person before. It was her, the woman who patrolled that strange forest and beat back the beast.

“I think it is time for you guys to leave.”

The baseball bat was raised up until it pointed directly at Bobby Jo. A thin smile inched its way across the tight skin of Isabel’s face. She didn’t know how this woman was here, it only mattered that they were.

Away from Isabel, the fray between Tremere and Tzimisce continued.

The burn of Amélie's gaze could have seared flesh. She released his leg in time to roll away, his spear piercing the ground a mere moment later. Gritting her teeth, the old woman forced herself onto her knees, ignoring the pain of her broken leg.

Disgusting creatures, the Tzimisce were. Disgusting both in their appearance and their wounded prides. The rage-filled contempt she held for them showed in the curl of her lip. Without letup, the cauldron of blood continued, and she forced her wounded leg to straighten as she watched her opponent writhe in pain.

It wouldn’t last forever, not without focused effort on the Tremere’s part. Gerald turned his gaze to Amelie, eyes blazing with his internal fight against Rötschrek and his hatred of her kind. His bone spear had shattered on impact with the asphalt. Fangs grit, he stood, body quaking from the Thaumaturgical effects.

“Underhanded. Treacherous. Vile.” His voice was low but shook, as if containing great rage. What remained of his arm bone slithered back into his skin. As it did, his other arm began rippling, shifting and expanding, splitting skin as muscle upon muscle generated beneath. “You- ugh- your whole Clan- I’ll kill you!

Arm grown to three times the size of a full grown man’s thigh, Gerald sped forward, aiming a blow at Amelie’s chest.

Bobby Jo’s attention was rather occupied by the newcomer. Her eyebrow were lifted, less in surprise and more in curiosity.

“Oh? You are a sneaky one. And brave.” She snorted, the wheeze of air escaping a punctured tire. “No no, not brave. You, sugar, are an idiot.”

One hand still gripping Isabel’s arm, Bobby Jo extracted a pistol from her person, leveled it at the white haired girl, and fired.

Isabel flinched at that gun shot, her eyes shutting as entirely human instincts of self preservation took over. It wasn’t until she heard the now familiar chuckle over the ringing in her ears and the sound of the fight going on behind her that the new blood looked up. The woman was standing a few feet to the left of where Isabel had last seen them, apparently unharmed.

“I told you to run.”

Once again the woman leveled their bat towards Isabel and Bobby Jo. This time though, Isabel experienced a moment of clarity through the fog of fear and exhaustion that filled her mind. The woman wasn’t talking to the other kindred. They were talking to her. Mismatched eyes flicked from the silver haired figure to the kindred at Isabel’s side. Bobby Jo was focused on the strange woman, not her captive. All that stood between Isabel and freedom was the hand clasped around her wrist. For a moment, the thin blood couldn’t help but wonder if her captor had ever really fought with a sibling.

In one sudden lunge, Isabel rushed forwards and sunk her teeth into Bobby Jo’s wrist, biting down with all the force she and the beast could muster. At the same, the new blood's free arm and legs flailed madly at the body of her captor.

Amélie watched the girl from the corner of her eye. She still wanted the fat one dead; the order in which she died, however, wasn't quite shaping up how she wanted it to be.

Frankenstein's monster was putting a monkey wrench in things.

She was grinning wildly, almost maniacally, as he ran towards her. Was that excitement in her eyes? The thrill of the kill was close, and the Beast roared within as she narrowly side-stepped the mutated arm…only to cinch her arm around it in a steel grip. Still she smiled as she locked eyes with him.

Hell burned like the fire that raged within him. He was going down with her.

Gerald, already barely classified as human anymore, smiled broadly in spite of the pain. In spite of the steady dwindling of his vitae. His head split at the center point, gaping maw revealing unending rows of razor teeth. He loosed a guttural laugh. This Warlock thought to match strength? With him? The agony he could not shake was a stimulant, giving him sharpened awareness.

"YES! YES! YOU WILL DIE YOUR FINAL DEATH, WARLOCK!" Setting his feet, he leapt forward, bringing his massive arm below him as he did. The purpose was evident: crush Amélie beneath his weight. "I WILL DRAIN YOU! YOUR SOUL WILL BE MINE!"

Diablere was an unforgivable sin in Camarilla society. To subsume not only the vitae of another Kindred but the soul itself was seen as barbaric and monstrous, a harsh severing of what remained of a Vampire's humanity. The Sabbat didn't care about the societal niceties of such things, of course. When possible, they embraced it, for consuming a Kindred's soul, particularly when that soul was older than yours, granted power and effectively made you older yourself, in terms of power output. It was a temptation few Sabbat Kindred could resist.

The taste of Kindred vitae was, fortunately, not intoxicating to Isabel; that Clan curse belonged to others. But it was good, better than any blood she'd had thus far. And far more satisfying to her undead palette.

"You bitch!" The scream came almost immediately, Bobby Jo cursing her predator at the same moment that Gerald taunted his prey. Without hesitation, she turned the pistol to Izzy's head. Four shots of five chambers remained, and the woman began to place them neatly into the Thin-Blood's cranium. "Let! Go!"

Shock had loosened her fingers, and nothing save Izzy's latching onto the wrist kept her in place as the first two bullets ripped through her gray matter.

 

Kuno

Django Jane
SITE SUPPORT LEAD
SITE SUPPORT
DONATING MEMBER
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Posting Speed
  1. One post per day
  2. 1-3 posts per week
  3. One post per week
Writing Levels
  1. Intermediate
  2. Adept
  3. Advanced
  4. Prestige
  5. Adaptable
Preferred Character Gender
  1. No Preferences
Genres
Fantasy, Sci fi, Romance, Historical, Modern, Supernatural
(cont.)



Metal did not tear through Amélie's skull, but the crushing weight upon her snapped her to sudden awareness like the crack of gunfire. Baleful, her silver eyes shone up at her attacker with unnerving focus, her body all but obscured with his mutated arm. Tzimisce and their hideous transformations; charlatans among the strong, decrepit among gods. The fate of her young charge momentarily dismissed, the woman's claws dug into the man's skin, pushing back with some force…but not enough to force him off entirely. It wouldn't matter soon.

The heat suddenly left Gerald's insides. The reprieve was short-lived; nary a moment sooner, the same blood that scalded and burned from within began to escape through the pores of his skin. A bloody, winding procession, the cells coalesced and pulled away, seeking out the Tremere beneath him.

For her part, Isabel once again experienced the feeling that some strange thief had plundered her memory and left behind only disjointed chunks of time. There had been a plan, then euphoric ecstasy and finally, mind splitting pain. Those few splinters of the past were all the young kindred had to explain as to why she suddenly found herself flat on the tarmac staring up at the nightsky framing Bobby Jo's contorted countenance.

The moment of confused wonder lasted only as long as a kine's heartbeat. Like moths to a flame, Isabel's vision swung, almost magnetically towards the barrel pointed at her. Recognition flashed across the young blood's face before being quickly chased away by unadulterated fear. Self preservation drove a hand towards the side arm just as a third sharp crack rolled across the scene. A fine wet spray hit Isabel's face.

Seeing stars through the back of her hand was as oddly beautiful to the purple haired kindred as the vision was brief. Syrupy thick blood ouseing into the gap occluded the light of distant suns before falling in a single fat drop onto its former owners forehead.

Isabel screamed.

It was a scream of fear; a scream of pain; of anger and hated. It was the scream of a thousand strangled screams erupting in an instant. The silence of the night had long been shattered, but Isabel's scream tore at the night an ear drums with unmatched ferrocity.

The social niceties of conversation had utterly evaporated. Bobby Jo's expression was as furious as Isabel's was terrified. She had expected resistance, but not like this. Not from a damned Thin-blood. She was supposed to be new, only a few nights old! She should be frightened of every shadow, every echo, in these Final Nights.

The .38 Special had proven useless. It was, after all, nothing more than fast moving blunt force, and what did that matter much to a Kindred except a few pints of blood to heal? No, this would take better, more delicate forms of submission. The Thin-blood had released her wrist to scream, so Bobby Jo stood, tossing aside the gun as she did in frustration.

"Time for a sleep, sweetie."

The comment was vile, sweetness turned to putrid vomit. Heavily, like a smothering blanket that arrested movement and entrapped the limbs, an inability to make her body respond settled over Isabel. Her brain was being shut off from her limbs, a cage closing over her mind, entrapping it in a comatose state. She had moments.

Gerald was in a similar state. Leaning forward heavily onto Amélie's form, crushing her beneath his enlarged arm, his mocking laughter turned first to relief and then to frustrated fury. Not only did this Warlock turn his own blood against him, but she further mocked him by stealing it! He began to lose control of his limbs as the hunger of a vampire began to overtake him. The Beast was roaring at the cage, bellowing to be free, to feed. But more than to feed: to escape. The threat of torpor hovered over his mind; he would be utterly vulnerable in that state.

He stood, scrambling away in an awkward crab-crawl as he backed away from her. Yet their connection remained as a steady flow of his vitae, still warm from Amélie's earlier Discipline, slithered its way across the asphalt and onto, and then into, the Tremere's skin.

The first Isabel knew of Bobby Jo's strange new spell was when her scream was silenced as if someone had pressed pause on her vocal cords like they were a Sony Walkman. Her limbs quickly followed suit, falling to the ground, limp and effectively lifeless, leaving the thin blood like discarded ragdoll at the older kindred's feet. Even focusing all her mental energy on trying to push herself away from her attacker resulted in nothing more than Isabel's foot twitching sporadically. In their sockets the thin blood's eyes swiveled frantically as in a search for escape or rescue from the prison of her body.

"Hey, fuckface. You're forgetting about someone."

The silver haired woman swaggered into view. The thing that caught Isabel's attention was how the baseball bat twirled at their side. It spun in exactly the same way her brothers always had every time he had stepped up to bat in gym class.

"Sorry, did you think you scared me?"

Something else came into view behind Bobby Jo. Slowly, deliberately, Amélie approached the squat woman, each dragging, limping step heavy on the marred pavement. Her eyes burned like coals; they had fixated on the other, wholly ignoring the misshapen monster behind her. Indeed, the only link between them remained the trail of blood that continued to be drained from his body, his power bleeding quickly into hers. Something shifted in her crushed knee: the healed patella.

Amélie looked at Isabel on the ground. Then she looked at the white haired interloper. Then Bobby Jo.

A pop of bone came from her injured leg. The ankle straightened.

"You can release her. Or I can…by taking your fucking head."

Bobby Jo looked from the stranger to Amélie then back again. The predatory look was gone. She was in a corner now, with little in the way of help, which lay on the ground behind the Tremere, struggling against the Beast and Rötschrek. He pounded the asphalt, his blows growing weaker, as he fought to severe the stream of blood, to no avail. Her own vitae was getting a bit sparse, and the hunger pangs were whispering in her own head now. Champion of the Sabbat cause, she certainly was, but she was no zealot. She would not sacrifice her Unlife for this wild hare the higher ups chased.

"Oh, very well," she cooed.

Immediately, the disconnection growing in Isabel's mind vanished. Her self-awareness spread back through her body, and it was her own again.

Bobby Jo smiled disarmingly and sat on the ground.

"Yes, you got me. Dear, dear Gerald is worthless, I'm gathering. So I suppose I'm at your mercy. Whatever that means to Camarilla." She ran her finger across the asphalt, absentmindedly dragging it through the pool of Isabel's blood and brain matter. Frowning, her attention drawn to the mess, she cleaned her finger on her skirt. "Now what?"

Crack!

The whistle of air ended at Bobby Jo's left ear as suddenly, viciously, Amélie’s newly healed foot smashed against her head.

"Are you able to stand?" The Tremere asked Isabel not a beat later, strangely detached from her earlier brutality. "If not, lie still. I will…"

Her eyes surveyed the scene around: the Tzimisce writhing against the ground, the yellowed prey before her, Isabel with her head wounds. The French woman's lips pursed.

"...clean up this mess."

“I think I can…”

Down on the road, Isabel tentatively flexed her fingers. Sensation had rushed back to her limbs in an instant, but still her extremities felt almost detached and alien in a weird way. Her whole body felt like a dead arm.

“I’m… I’m good.”

The journey from the floor to her feet was not a smoothe one for the thin-blood, full of false starts and stumbles. As well as the strange feeling in her limbs, pain, fear and revolting hunger made it hard to focus on the simplest of thoughts. When she did finally make it to her feet, Isabel's arms were crossed tightly across her torso as her eyes surveyed the scene in front of her, flicking between Amélie, the silver haired woman and her former tormentors.

“What do we do now?”

The question was aimed at the french kindred, but still, Isabel’s gaze flicked towards the strange women, only to be met by an empty street.

“Wha- Where did she go?”

“Who cares?” her companion replied dismissively. “Come; we must go. We can take our friends with us.”

The word friends dripped from her mouth in a venomous sneer.

Their ‘friends’ awaited them with trepidation. Gerald was still dragging himself backwards, the asphalt stained with red beneath him, as if the action was scraping the very skin from his body. His movement was lurching, lethargic, his monstrous arm now a hindrance instead of the boon it was intended to be, to say nothing of the now nearly empty stores of vitae. He was given over entirely to Rötschrek, his Kindred instinct focused wholly on retreat and preservation. If the Tremere continued to drain his blood, he’d be in torpor in less than five minutes. His head turned, eyes searching for his ally to provide aid.

Bobby Jo was gone. After Amélie had put her foot to the Sabbat’s head, she’d remained on the ground, unmoving in the puddle of Isabel’s brain matter and blood. Sometime during Amélie and Isabel’s conversation, Bobby Jo had vanished, blood-soaked dress and all, her supposed friend left to feel the brunt of the Camarilla’s wrath. Gerald could only gurgle and moan in fright and despair.

 

Doctor Jax

Lord of the Mice
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Invitation Status
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per week
Online Availability
3PM CST - 9 PM CST
Writing Levels
  1. Intermediate
  2. Adept
  3. Advanced
  4. Adaptable
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Female
  3. No Preferences
Genres
Fantasy, Scifi, Urban Fantasy, Horror
A Visit To Leon’s Lounge

Sigurd had given Leon much to consider. The Sabbat were attempting to raise an Antediluvian. The Camarilla, or at least the Tremere, were looking as if they would go to war with the Sabbat over it. As usual, the Anarchs watched from the middle, desperate to avoid any conflict for the sake of neutrality but unwilling to be tread upon. The threat of the Ravnos Sire was greater than the threat of Sabbat response, but that didn't mean he liked it.

Politicking was such a bore.

Marcus emerged from the shadows, though doubtless Sigurd had known he was there. He looked a bit worse for the wear, and any other night, Leon would have chided the ghoul viciously about cleanliness and leaving filth and blood all over his office. But the news Marcus had brought superseded that concern.

"Not looking forward to the Lounge becoming Amityville again, sir." Marcus strode over to stand in front of Leon's desk. "Sure was nice, having that ghost-whatever around."

"'Totem'," Leon said. "And yes, the spirits will become more active. A small price to pay, I think."

"What did you get outta that?"

"Information, for one. A currency of far more value than most give it. From that- well. We will see."

"Huh." Marcus shrugged before gesturing over his shoulder toward the door. "Mind if I get cleaned up? It was only a Thin-blood, but it still messed me up pretty good."

"Ah. Yes. And I'm sure you want a 'top-off' first?"

Marcus' eyes lit up, the ghoulish hunger for his Master's blood awakening.

Fifteen minutes later, Marcus was back on the main floor. It was a slow night for the bar, and no one had come through the door in some hours. So he leaned against the countertop, eyeing the TV screen in the corner as he flipped through channels absentmindedly.

The figure who walked in next had already been there the night before. Hanna was a waifish silhouette in the door momentarily, before walking to Marcus, recognizing the doorman from the previous night. She strode up, leaning against the wood.

"Hey, kiddo. Where's the Main Man? He hanging around? I wanted to let him know the newspaper is hot off the presses, and right here," Hanna asked. Her fingernails clicked against the surface, pounding out a rhythm that belied some anxiety.

Marcus started, his attention suddenly shifting from the television to the visitor. He fumbled with the TVremote briefly before setting it down and putting on his best professional airs.

"Welcome to the Lounge! What can-" He blinked, pausing a moment to actually see who'd come to visit. "Oh! Ms. Hanna, yeah? Didn't expect you back so quick. Guess you liked this old place, huh?

"So, uh." His eyes flicked to the space about the Brujah, seeking something. Or someone. "No friends tonight?"

Hanna's eyes lazily tracked the reflections of ceiling fans across the surface of the table, mind elsewhere. Marcus' question took a moment to process, liquid gold finally flowing upwards to meet his gaze. A slow and lazy smile spread like an oil slick on wet pavement.

"No, none of my friends with me tonight. And especially not Princely friends. If you dig my meaning," she answered back, chewing over what she could say to Leon.

"Of course! I mean, uh-" His tone dropped conspiratorially. "Yeah, I follow. Too busy to chill tonight? I get it. Lots to do in H-Town. Places to be. People to see.

"'Cept here. C'mon."

Gesturing Hanna forward, Marcus circled about the bar top and led her through a door marked 'Employees Only'. The Lounge was not terribly expansive. A short walk and Marcus opened another door, this one a touch more refined in its quality. Smiling, he stepped back. Within, Leon sat behind his desk, bent over a handful of papers. At the sound of Hanna's arrival, he looked up, filed the papers into a folder, and slid them out of sight into a drawer.

"Ah. Ms. Kowalczyk."

"Ms. Kowalczyk's my mom, Leon. Call me Hanna," she mildly jabbed as she gestured to a seat for herself, taking it. Her eyes tracked to the door.

"You're not, like… entertaining anybody, right?" Hanna asked, a veiled question packaged in a polite deference: did she need to watch what she said.

Her eyes were unreadable, but it was evident something was on her mind, anyway you cut it.

"I am not." Her implication was understood. Leon smiled politely and folded his hands on his desk. Marcus closed the door behind Hanna, retreating to the bar in the unlikely arrival of patrons. Now they were alone, Leon inclined his head. "What do you need?"

"Don't need anything, but more like… finding safety in numbers, man. Shit hit the fan," Hanna said softly. "Dunno if you heard, but the Nos got cleaned out. Things are getting mighty freaky out there these Nights, like…. Mondo-weird. Had an addict babble at me for the H, you know the usual, and then suddenly…"

What was it he had said to her? She knew she was beginning to babble herself, but it was in these moments she was slowly realizing just how far in over her head she was.

"…he was coherent. Said something to the tune of the Malkavians being able to see each other, channel vitae in a group, and what they could 'raise' that way, with a survivor of a genocide. That sound… familiar to you?"

Hanna raised an eyebrow, leaning against the bar.

"Oh, and somebody got murdered by my bar."

Leon's face remained passive, the practiced control of a politician. Yet to Hanna's eyes, there was a flicker of movement around his.

"Murders are routine, my dear. Houston is a violent city, and I'm afraid such a place as yours is a beacon for the strung out looking to kill to secure their next high.

"But the 'survivor of genocide'. That is somewhat less routine." He leaned back, the chair creaking in response. A howl, just beyond the range of even their undead hearing, rose from nothing. Leon flared his nose but otherwise did not act. "This July past- did you experience anything … strange or odd? Out of the usual?"

Hanna's slim fingers drummed the bar, eyebrows drawing together at the seemingly out of the blue question.

"Hell yeah, brother. Chakras were, like… completely outta whack. Started dreaming again, and I haven't done that in an age, but not the sweet kind. Nightmares, man. Totally freaky," she said, rapping the bar top. "Stuff about a cannibal Goya style, like, full on Kronos and his kids style. I figured it was cuz they had a special on about that famous painting with PBS… Why?"

"Uh, no. Bob Ross had nothing to do with this."

From his desk drawer, Leon extracted a short stack of newspapers. Most were in foreign languages, with the majority in a southeast Asian script. The pictures in these, Indian by the look of it, were somewhat more legible: fear was evident even through the vague forms in the photos. People fled, mouths gaping in primal terror, as a shadowy figure reached for them, a blackness in the middle of its head deeper even than the rest of it. Even through the paper, it seemed a ravenous pit, sucking all life and light into it. It took effort to move one's eyes away. Other pictures depicted less clear scenes: smaller, more organized crowds surrounding the shadow; a beam of blinding whiteness encompassing everyone; a huge pile of ash.

"These are the last copies of a Bangladesh newspaper; the others were destroyed in order to uphold the Masquerade. I've come by them through great effort and expense. They show Zapathasura, the progenitor of Clan Ravnos, in his rampage, as well as the attempts at fighting back against him. His awakening caused psychic ripples throughout the world, and we of the supernatural persuasion were affected most severely; hence your nightmares. His eventual Final Death caused nearly all Ravnos to go mad with frenzy, leading to a sort of genocide against them; again, for the sake of the Masquerade. Nearly all were destroyed, leaving them functionally extinct."

He gave Hanna a significant look.

"I wonder if that report is true."

Hanna took the newspapers with something like reverence. She'd been a vampire nearly a quarter of a century, but there were times even she forgot the depth of the supernatural world. Her eyes tracked over the figure in the newspaper, its emaciated figure, its ravenous aura.

"So this is our genocide. But who is our survivor? And who the hell wants to raise a progenitor?" Hanna muttered.

She needed to talk with Izzy and Amelie. A cell phone materialized in her hand, fingers flying across the keys.

Kiddos where r u now? U cool?

"That is the question, isn't it?"

But Leon did not say more. He only watched her in anticipation, eyes curious.

"Yeah, no kidding," Hanna muttered, putting her phone away in her purse. It looked like she wasn't getting answers tonight. "Thanks man. Figured you should know. I'll catch you on the flipside."

She needed to go make sure nobody had burnt down her bar.
 

Kuno

Django Jane
SITE SUPPORT LEAD
SITE SUPPORT
DONATING MEMBER
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Posting Speed
  1. One post per day
  2. 1-3 posts per week
  3. One post per week
Writing Levels
  1. Intermediate
  2. Adept
  3. Advanced
  4. Prestige
  5. Adaptable
Preferred Character Gender
  1. No Preferences
Genres
Fantasy, Sci fi, Romance, Historical, Modern, Supernatural
Amélie


How quickly the weak fled once becoming prey. The yellow woman had inexplicably gone, vanished in the lapse of her scrutiny. Amélie looked at Isabel, her brow canting. She wanted to go after her; alas, what was more important? Preserving their identities and making do with the Tzimisce, an equally viable source of information? Or risking it all by hunting down the fat one and putting two bullets in her equally fat skull in a show of poetic justice?

The answer was obvious.

Unfortunately.

"That bitch." She said, though with considerable absence of bite. Truth be told, she couldn't blame her for running; she'd had no intention of bringing her back alive save to beat the ever living shit out of her. Physical combat was one thing; rifling around in her head like a kid playing in the sandbox was another beast entirely. Amélie had boundaries, she'd have you know.

The placebo effect of a cigarette tended to take off the edge. Amélie took the necessary steps and stood in quiet contemplation a moment, the smoke enveloping her face as she exhaled softly.

"Alright. Alright." She glanced at Isabel, then back to Tzimisce. Another huff of her cigarette, and another two-fold look. "Ok."

They needed to get out of there. The Elephant Man would have to hunker down in the trunk; there was no way she was propping that freak show up in her backseat, waiting the scare the living daylights out of a passing driver who happened to look just a little too closely. The Tremere cracked her knuckles as she approached the still man in quick strides. He was on the verge of Torpor; one glance at his face confirmed as such, and Amélie grunted as she pulled him up into a sitting position by his enlarged arm. Tensing, she threw his bigger arm around her neck before rising, her newly healed leg straining under the weight.

Merde, the bastard was heavy.

"Isabel, take off your, say, pun- eh, pantalones-"

There was an angry click of her tongue.

"Your shirt. Before you enter car. You're covered in your own blood."

Just then, something buzzed in her back pocket. But it did not register with the Tremere. A more pressing matter was on her mind...or should she say, back. As fast she could, Amélie strode towards her car, her hapless victim dragging along behind her.

@Applo

 
Last edited:
  • Nice Execution!
Reactions: Red Thunder

Red Thunder

A Warrior in a Garden
Original poster
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per week
  2. One post per week
  3. Slow As Molasses
Writing Levels
  1. Adept
  2. Advanced
  3. Prestige
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Female
  3. Primarily Prefer Male
Genres
Fantasy, SciFi, Modern, Magical
Screenshot_20211031-124809_DuckDuckGo.jpg

October 16, 1999

∆∆∆
Houston

Car rides. Text messages. Phone calls.

Meetings.

This night, as all nights, stayed busy, full of the business of amusement, the business of distraction, and the business of purpose. Isabel, Amélie, and Hanna had significant news to share betwixt themselves. And share they did, as rats in the maze might share information leading to an escape. Perhaps not everything; it would not do to divulge all their carefully earned secrets to one another, and information is perhaps even a greater tender than vitae. And the quicker one got to the cheese, the more one had their fill.

Hopefully, it would not be poisoned.

Through their crates, prisons necessitated by the immortality they all so revealed in, a fortress against the rising of the dawn, each Kindred felt the Sun lift his face above the horizon, a slow deadly heat to sear unliving flesh from ashen bone. The Void took their minds as their bodies died with the day. Yet just as it did, one last thought breached each psyche, a thought not their own. It felt forced in, driven by a rapidly extinguished, desperate strength.

He rises tomorrow with the moon.

The voice turned to mad ranting and babbling before fading to nothing beneath the oppressive weight of unconsciousness.

The dirty streets of Houston were laced with a different kind of Deep Sleep. It had become in a fair short time something of a sensation among those inclined. In back alleys, in apartment buildings little better than ruins, in hovels made of cardboard, the transients drifted in the hazy purgatory of the new black drug. It was, after all, better than their existence. Nor was that angle restricted to the living: Kindred of many Clans found their own reasons for snorting it, or better, drinking those kine who had themselves partaken. It affected the older generations, typically; the younger had yet to really face the ennui of perpetual, unchanging existence. And so, with Daylight blasting down its hateful radiation upon the Earth, many Kindred slept fitfully, wandering the halls of nothingness even as they tried to shake the feeling of not being alone.

October 16, 1999
8:00pm

∆∆∆
Fort San Jacinto Historic Point

A foghorn sounded over the still waters near the ruins of Fort San Jacinto. Little remained of the 1897 structure; the hurricane of 1900 had effectively wiped it off the map. A section of seawall protected the shore from the tide, and the circular concrete base of a World War II era gun emplacement stood watch over the entrance to Galveston Bay.

The gentleman, hands clasped behind his back, hair combed perfectly, stood just off the sandy beach, watching the ocean lap the low stone storm wall. He felt the Rötschreck flare within him, though he suppressed it. The Ocean was a thing of immensity, a thing even more ancient than the Clans. Only the Antediluvians were older, though perhaps they were not greater. The thirteenth had survived one great flood; what would happen to their progeny, if the waters should rise again?

"When do we start?"

The gentleman turned at the low voice. He smiled.

"Ah. Mister Giovanni. A pleasure." He bowed his head in greeting before turning to look about them. The night was still young, and a small number of kine still lingered, splashing in the saltwater or building sand forts in poor reflection of the very one that had stood here. The gentleman indicated them with a tilt of his head. "Hm, give it another hour, perhaps two. I would like privacy."

Giovanni snorted. There were ways of driving them away, the humans. What did they matter? But no: chaos would disturb their rituals, and after all, the Masquerade had its uses.

"Fine," he said before turning away to stalk back to his car: a late model Oldsmobile meticulously cared for. Within were several of his Clan, as well as their prize from the night prior.

The gentleman didn't watch him go. The kine were irrelevant; he needed Bringham to do his job first, and Giovanni didn't need to know that. Meanwhile, he would do his own work.

Ravnos, he called again. Vitae burned hot within him as he channeled his Discipline of Dominate. He closed his eyes. Childer of Ravnos. Come. Reunite with your Clan.

∆∆∆
The Maximum Buzz

Omar frowned at the phone. The call had been short and abrupt. And disappointing. To make matters worse, Cut strolled into the office, something clenched in his hand.

"The fuck'sa matter with you?"

Summoning every ounce of respect and fear he had for Ms. Hanna, Omar closed his eyes and pushed down his fury.

"Saturdays, Madame brings in live music; it's our busiest night of the week, and the customers enjoy the change. That," he said, lip curling in a sneer, "was the ghoul 'manager' for 'Demons Straight Massive 4'. Apparently, those Malkavians are not waking. Which means no entertainment."

Cut furrowed his brow, clearly not following much of what was said. Omar cursed internally; of course the Thin Blood was uneducated on things. Not that it mattered; the fool had no business knowing.

"I need to go notify Ms. Hanna."

"You do that, O. Meanwhile," Cut opened his hand and shook a small bag in demonstration. It had perhaps a half gram of a fine, black dust. "I'm gonna fly. I'll be in the basement."

With a flick of a bird in farewell, he disappeared, leaving Omar to his work. He sighed; this would not be taken well.

∆∆∆

Technically, it could still be 9/3 somewhere.

I appreciate the patience, as ever. Y'all are welcome to have flashbacks or discuss what your characters might've talked about the night prior during your meeting, as well as setting your characters up wherever for the start of the night. @Applo , Izzy will as before feel the call of the gentleman.

Thanks, and let me know if you have questions!
 
  • Bucket of Rainbows
Reactions: Applo