What Lies Beneath IC

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  1. I am Inqusitor Kyras and I write this record, as a log of our doings as we perform gods work. May it stand as a witness to our deeds when we are called before the great judge and prove us worthy. It has been a week since we began the slower journey to Barrow, Alaska. All the usual procedures have been put in place and all civilians have been turned away, due in no small part to our influence. We shall be all alone in this place, before we engage the work of the Malleus Maleficarum. We are the Witches Hammer and before our might, all will flee back to shadow.

    To engage me in this work, I have brought a retinue with me. All consisting of either experienced sellswords of which they are a dime a dozen, as well as fresh meat as I do not anticipate this as being little more then a bread run. A few stand out in my mind, those who have some measure of fortitude.

    One of them is the test subject. The Damphir of which there has been so much controversy to allow in our ranks. I have found him a meek person myself, but I suspect this is due to the hostility he rightly deserves among our time. Such monsters in sheeps clothing, in my experience always fall. Its merely a matter of when, not if.

    The other is a random scholar I snatched in case we've need of his skills. Cunning enough I suppose, but his psychic gifts has not earned him the skills greater men have worked towards. Still, there is always need of such folk and we shall see as soon as we land.

    Of the sellswords, I have hired six. Enough and sufficiently so. I have little stomach for such filth but if danger is around, they will be on hand and little will be lost for it.

    I have just had a crew member inform me that we are near. Time I go and inform the lot what exactly, we are up against.

    God give us victory.




    Tai @Michale CS
    Elaine 'Lane' Murphy @Thuro 116 Pendragon
    Ashton Ferris @The Silver Paladin
    'Mysterious Stranger' @Forrest
    Lucifer Anghelscu @Ringmaster


    It had been two weeks since you have all boarded the converted oil tanker and sailed by sea off to Barrow, Alaska. The crew are dour, superstitious to a lot and chosen in particular for their ability to keep their mouth shut. Not really much for conversationalist either, regarding the lot of you cursed for coming to Barrow around this time of month, when the days become endless night and the howl of the arctic winds hold sway over the isolated lands. They are Inuit and perhaps they are right to suspect, but no matter.

    As hand picked members of Inquisitor Kyrus retinue, it is both a great honor and a great responsibility. The world known only in moonlight must remain so, that peace might remain and it is this reason why you are sent to Barrow. Besides the Inquisitor himself and you are the following.

    At least four in the garb of the Executor uniform: all of whom wear the white trim on their sleeves denoting their junior status. While dangerous in their own right, their presence shows that the Inquisitor does not anticipate a major threat. They have mostly chosen rooms around the Inquisitor in the front cabins of the ship.

    Which is what the others are for. Six merc's, all from a variety of backgrounds and some carrying weaponry that is certainly illegal should the mundanes catch us have staked their claim in the ships hold.

    Besides Ashton, there is only one other adept aboard the ship. A woman with an unearthly air, hooded and cloaked who keeps to herself and hasn't been seen since you all boarded the ship. Besides Kyrus, she is the only other highest ranking figure out of all of you.

    And so here you are.

    One last meal in the ships galley as a group. The Executors eat quietly and somberly somewhat in comparison to the more loud and talkative mercs.

    A final supper, before those among you discover what lies beneath....

    @Michale CS @The Silver Paladin @Forrest @Thuro 116 Pendragon
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  2. And here lays Elaina "Lane" Murphy, the past and future cop, soldier, and B.R.P.D. member, now disgraced and refusing to talk about why unless you were a certain undead partner, long since separated.

    Get past that mouthful of a past, and you'd find a grim woman that did her best to hide her true personality behind a joking exterior, something she had picked up from a friend. Of course, this was only if you approached her. Otherwise, she was likely to spend the entire night brooding, staring at her food as she picked at her food, being picky and avoiding the greens. Oh wait, she was totally doing that right now.

    This was another routine assignment from the church, one of an endless series of missions that had started to blend together in a life that had lost its purpose. She had touched on something ancient at the B.R.P.D., and when she had fought back, it had destroyed her life. Some battles couldn't be won she had learned, so in essence, she had given up. Taken the easy work of being... what was she? She wasn't an Executor, at least not one of the Church's. She wasn't a cop, that option had been taken from her too. She was a merc, nothing better than a lowli-...

    Abruptly she stopped and sat up straight, her back like a rod, the posture of a soldier. She wasn't going to sit here in self pity.

    Nah that'd be later, the cynical part of her admitted.

  3. The rest of the mercs were a mixed lot. Among them, a Cheyenne with a flamethrower and a troll with a shotgun. An eclectic mix of those who in the new world, used their powers and modern weaponry in defiance of tradition for a paycheck. Mostly robust types, some even making passes at the few women aboard this ship such as Lane. Lewd and crude, their violence was their selling point and the reason they were involved. As they conversed, Lane would hear the following.

    "Oi. So any idea what we're facing in Alaska that requires an Inquisitor and three, wet-behind-the-ears Executors?"

    "I only have to know one thing....If they burn."

    "Pyromaniac. You got issues, you know that?"

    "Blame the white man, who take all our land. All our corn. And give us nothing but highways, shopping malls-"

    "-White mans beer?" Suggested a witch dryly, one hand spinning her spoon in her coffee without touching it. The pyro looked at his can and shrugged.

    "Yeah, when you all pack up and leave you can leave us the Budweiser breweries."

    "Interesting though." The witch muttered as she glanced over the table at the others in the galley before suddenly smirking.

    "Especially that one....And that one."

    Among the Executor's, sat one who seemed to have finished eating. Pale and with red eyes that glowed dimly as he read from a military brand scriptures. The other was some kind of librarian type as he peered over notes. The troll chuckled.

    "The first is cute I grant you, but he's an Executor. Sooner cuddle up with a Ghoul. And the other I'd be surprised if he actually knows what to do with a woman if he had one."

    Red eyes flicked up, the conversation seemingly reaching the priest before he closed his book. Rising up, ignoring his comrades questions of where he was going, he crossed over to the merc table before taking a seat to their surprise. Once there, he took out his book and opened it again.

    ".....Carry on."

    The Indian suddenly froze.

    "....Well fuck me sideways, if it isn't the Stoker boy!"

    The pyromaniac indian laughed as smirking, the executor lowered his book.

    "Hello Uncle."


    The mercs looked back and forth in bewilderment as the indian laughed.

    "Not really, but close. He's a Stoker boy. Raised on the ranch by the 'Bloody Rain' herself. I knew him from a Wendigo patch my stupid nephews poked around in. Boy, what the fuck did you do to yourself?!"

    "I joined the priesthood."

    "You look like shit."

    The indian said flatly before nudging Lane.

    "Oi, girl! Tell my stupid nephew he looks like shit! Where's your hat?!"

    @Thuro 116 Pendragon @The Silver Paladin @Forrest
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  4. These people were interrupting her brooding. They would pay.

    But all dourness aside, she was surprised to see the priest. Most vampires she knew were not the type to wear the cloth. The only good vampire she'd ever known wasn't even a true vampire, instead some sort of psuedo snake man with mysterious origins and an aversion to the twilight films. The others that she had met had either been like animals, or lost without their own pain and anger and seeking to make others pay.

    She frowned at the hat remark, but decided to let it slide. Who knows with this group.

    Looking at the vampire and the loud Native American, Lane's mask slipped into place, and she smirked before boldly announcing. "He's not trying to drink my blood. I don't care how he looks."

    Which was a bit of a lie since, admittedly, the vampire glamour thing did work on her too. Luckily for her, she knew what it was, and ignored it.

    Still though, she looked at him with forced amusement twinkling dully in her eyes. "You're not going to try and drink my blood, right?"

  5. Had the red-eyed executioner knew what she was thinking, he would have been simultaneously depressed and embarrassed.

    He wished he had Glamour, perhaps it would have made him easier to identify the vampire type that sired him; a question that plagued him to this day. At any rate, at the question he flushed regardless and scratched the side of his nose before speaking.

    "Not unless you offer?"

    The native american roared with laughter and as soon as the boys brain caught up, he realized why.


    Right. He cleared his throat, ignoring the good natured jeers as he extended a hand for Lana to shake.

    "I'm Father Lucifer. You've met my uncle, presumably his ill-begotten friends."

    The troll snickered and the witch winked if looked at, going back to her coffee.

    @Thuro 116 Pendragon
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  6. If Lane had been able to read Lucifer's thoughts in turn, she would have been even more depressed and embarrassed. If this vampire didn't have any sort of ability to glamour, then that meant she found him attractive for more natural reasons, and that would have been a crushing weight considering her and her ex were the recurrence of Nastaya and Dunai, two lovers with a fate similar to Romeo and Juliet, one to kill the other then kill themselves in grief.

    Good thing Lane had decided not to fall on her sword when it had come to a head with him.

    When he made the quip about her offering, she just raised an eyebrow, simply because it reminded her of all those awful young adult novels with vampire/human pairings and then they magically fell in love across species and then of course all of them had to have the vampires drink the human's blood like some sort of stupid Twilight fanfiction.

    Joshua, the aforementioned snake-vampire, actually kept a fire going in the fireplace 24/7 so that he could toss these books in there the moment he got his hands on them.

    She was getting caught up in her vampire phobia again. Which she was trying to work on, though it wasn't as bad as having to meet priests named Mathias :|.

    Lane jerked her thumb sideways and pointed at the Native American. “If it comes to it, drink his.”

    Then, covering her mouth with a single well calloused hand, she let out a small laugh laugh at his embarrassment, having the good grace to pretend it was a cough instead.

    Reaching out with her other hand, she shook his hand, her grip stronger than you'd find from most women. She was kind of a girl that never grew out of being a tomboy, and instead had become a hardass, softened somewhat by time.

    My name's Lane. Just Lane.” Then she looked at the odd collection of merc's that sat beside her and the Executor. “You mean, Moe, Curly, Larry and Torchie? Yeah I've me-...” Lane hesitated for a moment, suddenly realizing that was exactly the kind of quip that Jack would have made before what had happened at the B.R.P.D.. Glancing down at her still mostly uneaten food, averting her gaze from the red eyed priest's, she continued in a much more subdued tone. “Yeah. I've met them. Fun bunch.”

    Lane had shut down again, just when she'd been starting to open up just the tiniest bit too. Though she'd refused to see any shrinks at the B.R.P.D. or any other supernatural organization about it, and doubly so any mortal shrinks for obvious reasons, she was suffering from PTSD and wouldn't acknowledge it. Iron breaks harder than anything else.

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