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The Pen is Mightier than the Sword
Patrick

WWXXXIII - Vampire: Wolf Masquerade

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The primogen, Elders of the city did not take long to arrive. Each of them flanked by one or two bodyguards, they rapidly assembled. It seemed that after just half an hour the death of Milosh Maundrell, the previous, Toreador prince, great lover of arts and collector of Picasso paintings, was already public knowledge among the Kindred of Goldendown.

 

Stepping over a torn Picasso painting, the frame shattered next to it, the Ventrue primogen was the first to speak. His voice was somber and measured, as aristocratic as all the stereotypes about clan Ventrue led to believe.

 

"The wretched vampire-hunting Kine dealt our city a great blow today. We, the Elders wish for a rapid succession, to have a new prince as soon as possible. The Masquerade must be upheld and the power vacuum might attract the damned Sabbat. Candidates shall have to prove themselves in the coming days. We shall make our decision after a certain time."

 

The vampires dispersed slowly, leaving alone or in groups of two. The police would arrive soon and they did not want to be around for when they arrived.

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“Such news travel with an astounding speed don’t they”

 

Yes responded the messenger.

 

“hmmpf, so I am required to return immediately….”

 

Yes repeated the messenger.

 

Preparations were made for immediate depart from Prague, destination, Goldendown.

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Andreas was one of those who left the building alone, slowly, pensively. While he wasn't the biggest fan of the Camarilla, he didn't mind them as much as some of the other non-members. Now that the Prince was dead, however, the relative stability they had offered the town would be shattered before the night was over. The Sabbat would surely use the opportunity to try and drive the Cammies out, whereas the latter would not only be fighting the Sabbat, but each other as well.

 

Perhaps the time was right to hand out a carefully measured dose of support in exchange for some favours...

 

With his mind racing, Andreas got into his Mercedes and had his driver drive him off ... the night was young, and there was much to do ...

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Lilah left the building with Francis, her thoughts hidden behind a neutral face. Francis' voice didn't impress more than as a background noise on her mind. Her eyes followed Andreas' Mercedes, and she also registered others of the Kindred leaving. Not two of them took the same route out, and she wondered for a while what other Clans' views would be.

 

Francis' ravings finally surfaced into her conscious mind, and Lilah turned to him.

 

"So, the Prince is dead, the night is young, and the Kindred whispers... "

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"And there's the story, really... spectacular art collection, little pile of ashes." He shrugged, shoving his hands in the pockets of an uncharacteristically clean white blazer. "That's not the way I want to die, Lilah, keep that in mind when you stab me in the back."

 

The scene is this - a man in a white suit walks out of a building next to a woman in much darker colors; his dusty hair is tangled and unkempt, hanging unchecked in his eyes, hers is straight and black, carefully combed into submission. He slouches, she does not. She rolls her eyes.

 

"I'll try and keep it in mind." Lilah has long sinced learned that arguing the point with Francis generally ends in a more confusing place than it started, and so she lets it slide... for now. "How do you want to die, if you don't mind my asking? Not that I'd stab you in the back, just out of curiosity."

 

He thinks about this for a moment, then shrugs again.

 

"Lilah Lestrand... Lie, lalala, and le strand. So a singing liar spinning a web." He shakes his head, grinning with a bit too much tooth to be coincident. "Oh you'd stab me in the back if things were different. And I want to die in the sun, Lilahbelle. I think it'd be very poetic."

 

She gives a small laugh, though it sounds either forced or only barely amused, and he takes this as a cue to continue.

 

"Speaking of which, who do you think killed the Prince?"

 

"I'm sorry? Didn't the Primogen say it was the work of a kine?"

 

"Don't play stupid, Lilahspider." He reaches out, punching her softly in the shoulder. "And don't call them kine, if you want to call a mortal a cow, just say cow. Besides, cows have flat teeth and don't generally actively seek to kill humans... now if some jealous cowboy were to push his boss into an oncoming stampede, they could very easily crush him to death, but the cows wouldn't know or care why he was dead."

 

Lilah appeared to consider this for a moment, then dusted off her arm where Francis had touched her. You never knew what he might have picked up sleeping in a dumpster.

 

"So you're saying you think it was orchestrated by one of the Kindred?"

 

"Very astute, Lilahdeer."

 

He pulled one hand out of his pocket, holding it up to a streetlamp, and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

 

"Down and down the rabbit hole,

And all the walls do shrink,

Scraping, clawing everywhere,

But not a drop to drink."

 

Lilah clapped, and they continued on, across the street.

 

"That's a play on Coleridge, right? Rime of the Ancient Mariner?"

 

"Something like that. Where are we going, by the way? Another mysterious midnight meeting with some mendicant mastermind of mortal manipulation?"

 

Lilah smiled contently, with perhaps a touch of patronizing sympathy.

 

"Very astute, Francis dear."

 

Outwardly, Francis smiled right back. Inwardly, he shrugged and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. There was always fun to be had in the company of Very Educated Individuals.

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While talking to Francis, or to be more exact, listening to him, part of Lilah's mind picked up the raving threads and tried to unravel them. She kept a politely attentive face, quickly checking her companion's aura - a pale flickering of colors, often disturbed by violet streaks. As always... excited, daydreaming, and whatever else ... sometimes I wish Malk's had more distinguishable auras... but then, I wish also they had more distinguishable speech! All this talk about backstabbing... where did it come from?

 

For some seconds she let her heightened senses bring her a picture of the area they were in, being always careful about who might be around observing an innocent pair of friends walking and talking.

 

Francis' question intruded in her assessment of their grounds, and she turned to him. "I'm sorry? Didn't the Primogen say it was the work of a kine?"

 

Who could, indeed? Vampire-hunters might have got a lucky strike... She felt Francis soft punch on her shoulder. What? Cows?

 

"Besides, cows have flat teeth and don't generally actively seek to kill humans... now if some jealous cowboy were to push his boss into an oncoming stampede, they could very easily crush him to death, but the cows wouldn't know or care why he was dead."

 

Lilah paused for a moment, brow furrowed as something in that sentence made deep sense to her. Jealous cowboys... can vampire-hunters have been led to the Prince? She dusted off her arm, wrinkling her nose a bit in disgust. I wish this was one of the times he slept on his loft, not on the dumpsters...

 

"So you're saying you think it was orchestrated by one of the Kindred?"

 

That was a daring thought, but not impossible. Her first thought was of some Sabbat incursion, but she was pretty sure she would have been able to sense something amiss if there had been Sabbat among the killers.

 

But Sabbat could use tools, and they were not fools. There was always the possibility of power struggles. That made as much sense as Sabbat, actually. Of course, kine also had sometimes the willpower to plan and get something like this killing accomplished.

 

No real answers... maybe not even hints. But it's good to have those in mind. Aw, Francis is in one of his poetic nights...

 

She half-recognized the last verses, enough to hazard a guess on the original poem. She clapped softly, smiling to Francis.

 

"That's a play on Coleridge, right? Rime of the Ancient Mariner?"

 

"Something like that. Where are we going, by the way? Another mysterious midnight meeting with some mendicant mastermind of mortal manipulation?"

 

Lilah smiled, not as secret a smile as she wanted to. Francis was as insane as any Malk, maybe more than most; but he was also a better company than she herself expected when she had met him those many years ago. He also used to give food for thought most of times, and that was one of the reasons she didn't mind his company. One other was that he had a perception that still surprised her, and even when he was completely wrong it was good to be kept on tiptoes. Feeling safe had always been the first step into doom.

 

"Very astute, Francis dear."

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Sylas had no need to travel to the Prince's "Royal" apartments. He had known that the Tory was dead before the Elders had. Instead, he stayed below in the sewers, contemplating his next move.

 

"And so... it begins," he wheezed, and began building around him the image of last night's prey. Tall, slender, huge breasts, short red hair, and piercing green eyes.

 

In his guise, he took to the roiling series of tunnels that would lead him above ground.

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The night passed without further incident. Vampires drank the blood of humans, killing some in the process, but that was the way of things.

 

It was dawn. On a hill overlooking the town two figures could be seen silhouetted against the rising sun.

 

"It's time," one of the figures said. A female voice, but deep and throaty.

 

"Give it another fifteen minutes. Time for them all to take their daily sleep," replied the other, in a soft, almost sensual male voice.

 

Three hours earlier in the waning hours of the night, when the Kindred still roamed the streets an anonymous note had been slipped inside an anonymous letterbox. It troubled the two figures on the crest of the hill that someone knew where the Society of Leopold had set up in Goldendown. But the fact remained that this someone had given them the location of the Prince the previous night. And this night, the writing on the slip of paper could not have been simpler.

 

Victoria Rowan

24 Westham Road

in the attic

 

A mobile phone rang, and the male figure on the crest of the hill replied.

 

"You're ready? Good. Have the mercenaries also arrived? Tell them to meet us outside 1 Westham Road. We'll move in from there." He replaced the phone in his pocket and then turned to his companion. "Let's go."

 

One might say that disturbing a vampire in its sleep is taking an unfair advantage of circumstances. But then again, when a mortal wants to kill one of the immortal, it is wise to take every possible advantage. Victoria Rowan was unable to put up such a fight as the prince had during the previous night. Still, three of the twelve mercenaries died.

 

"Here's your payment, Mr. Jones." The leader of the mercenaries took the offered suitcase, then looked on in surprise as another bundle of cash was being handed to him. "This is for your silence about what you saw here tonight. I might be calling you again tomorrow."

 

For the three remaining Society of Leopold members it was time to pray. As soon as the mercenaries left, they fell to their knees and thanked their God for the strength he gave them in their continuing struggle against these unnatural creatures.

 

"God! Let faith allow us to cleanse this city of their filth!"

 

OOC: It is now nightphase again. You have 48 hours from the timestamp of this post (knowing that I won't be too punctual with the ends of phases :P) to vote, backstab and decide on who you want to lynch. If anyone wants to make a request that in the eventuality of their death they want to write their own demise, be sure to PM me.

 

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The view from the staircase was amazing, as it always was.

She loved the way the moon shone into the two-story window, the milky way sprawled out around it.

Yet the clouds made her feel bad. Her father's farming wisdoms hadn't missed her.

Views like this made living large worthwhile. Next to some other assorted luxuries.

The sounds drifting up from the lower end of the staircase caused melancholy. The twangy sounds of the harpsichord, replaced in ranks of favour through the years, first by the piano, then by that dreadful piece of machinery. Synthesiser. Bene. Nothing to approach the real thing.

Times only changed for the worst, it seemed.

She loved the fact she'd swayed the girl's choice of instrument.

But after all, she paid for it herself. The poor girl hadn't been able to afford anything real.

The artist's life is a poor one, she says.

Especially when the spark of inspiration is gone.

She would have loved to see where hers might have taken her, had it not been stripped from her with the spark of unlife.

Cursed damnation.

 

Her heels clicked against the stairs as she descended, looking at the musician.

She looked up from her keys, wrapping up the piece in a long minor chord.

"It's a glorious night, don't you think?"

"Mackerel before the moon, trouble will be brewing soon."

"Oh, why always so somber, Francesca dear?"

The way she pronounced that. The way she cast those brilliant blue eyes up from beneath those curls.

So full of hope, nay, faith. Others would call it naïveté. She wouldn't. She loved it. Aspired it, even.

Yet she was hung up on her own paranoia, like near-everyone around her.

Milosh hadn't. Look where it had brought him.

 

"Milosh died, Lizzy."

That wasn't her name, of course. It was her personal pick, the last few decades. As Lisa was before that.

Elisabeth.

So carelessly she changed her name once every while. Disposed and picked up another.

Like old newspapers. Burnt in a barrel. For the kine to warm their hands over.

"Ashes. The kindred will fight over his death. Not his remains. Over the void of his power. Our fellows will stab each other as they vie for his position. The Sabbat will try to force themselves in through the seams. Those we should call brothers of the faith will pick off those who are separated.

Is there a reason why I shouldn't be somber?"

 

"Milosh might have died, and many more may, but we will surface the stronger. We will root out the weak amongst us. The Sabbat around here have never managed to form a unified enough front to do any real damage. The Society will only pick off stragglers. It is the way God has ordained nature works. We are still part of that cycle, you know. No matter how much some may think our status distances us from life, we are still but predators."

"I know. It's just that... Blood is too precious to be shed so carelessly.

Amo? Could you make sure Amanda delivers these letters?"

 

She handed the bundle to Lizzy, lightly hugged and watched as the girl sped off to the staff's quarters.

Twirling the glass in her hand, she took a sip. Oh, how she liked Lizzy's friends.

Young, irony, and just enough alcohol for it to be good.

 

She heard the engine of the SUV out front rev up and drive off as she turned her attention to the harpsichord again.

She might have been horrible, but it eased her mind. And this last decade of practice was bound to pay off some time.

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*ring*

 

*ring*

 

Osidian pictured the old telephone he knew on the far side of the line ringing lowdly on the lobby.

 

"Caine's Chosen" a soft almost whispering woman voice sounded on the other side.

 

"Caine's Chosen, this is Os speaking"

 

"Yes Os, we've been waiting your call..."

 

"Another death!"

 

"Already?" however the woman's voice did not show any surprise

 

"Yes, I don't realize what is actually going on but the rumors were true, P has fallen."

 

*silence*

 

"That suits us in the best way, but..."

 

"Yes but whoever done it is on the hunt again.... or someone else.... some important people have arrived lately, some were already here by the time P died."

 

"You know what to do, don't fail us, Caine's Chosen."

 

"Yes, Caine's Chosen."

 

*hung up*

 

Osidian then sat on the leather couch, pulled a cigar from the Camel pack and lit it mechanically.

 

Hmmm, yes I know what needs to be done but.... this is not going to be easy.

 

Osidian reviewed the meeting the night before, protecting another vampire was also not an easy task and Osidian knew it, it was not the first time. But this time was diferent... he jumped onto his feet with one single movement grabed the trenchcoat and left.

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In the following hours, this letter is left where it in locations where it may be found by all whom it concerns.

In letterboxes, e-mail accounts and dumpsters.

Clean, corporate paper, with a rainbow logo printed on the envelope.

 

Dear shareholder,

 

We have arranged a meeting to discuss replacing our old CEO, who has so unexpectedly passed away.

You are expected in Club Elysium, at 9 PM tomorrow, the 26th of may.

Beverages available at the venue as usual.

For those who are unable to attend, joining in through conference call is possible.

 

For further information, call us at our regular number:

704-867-5309

 

In anticipation of a pleasant evening:

 

Sarah Harpy,

public relations manager of Rainbow Computer Services

Edited by Mardrax

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One of his servants brought the letter to Andreas, who scanned it quickly and and put it with another stack of opened letters. He continued poring over letters, writing replies to some, filing others vertically, for an hour more before looking up. He was getting hungry ...

 

As he did so often when he went feeding on cloudy nights, he left the mansion on foot. He walked a few streets, nodding a good evening to those who were still up at this hour - most of them familiar faces - heading for the streets that were still busy at this time of night. After trying his luck in a few alleys, he found one student who apparently hadn't started partying yet.

 

A gloved hand over a mouth, a whispered threat followed by a very muffled cry of pain. That's all it took, and a few moments later Andreas' hunger was stilled. After closing the wounds, he left the still-unconscious body slumped in the alley and made his way back to his correspondence ...

 

 

OOC : What, no votes yet??

*looks at OOC thread for a list of players*

*rolls some dice*

*waves a few chicken bones*

*rolls some more dice*

*closes his eyes and randomly pushes a button on his numeric keypad*

*discards all the previous results, closes his eyes, and pics the first name they focus on when he opens them again*

 

Merelas, I choose you!

 

There, that should set things rolling ...

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Francis stumbled out of the bar not terribly long after he had gone in. Lilah's meeting, while definitely interesting, had turned out to be quite a downer. Besides, it was too cold in there. You'd think they'd spring a little for some heat, even if the mortals were warm-blooded.

 

A few blocks down he turned down an alley, and knocked over a trash can in passing. The real question wasn't who killed Milosh - if you tried to work backwards through a list of enemies of the Toreador, you'd probably spend the rest of eternity looking. No, the real question was why now? What had triggered the death, and who stood to gain?

 

A small squeaking noise came from inside the overturned can, and Francis paused for a moment, kneeling down and extending a hand. A small brown mouse stepped out onto it, and he raised it to his ear. A few more moments of squeaking, and Francis' face broke into a wide smile. All so simple, when you thought about it.

 

He removed the hand from his ear, holding the mouse up in front of his face by the tail. It squirmed a little, but mice had long since learned not to bite Francis.

 

"Do you know what you are? You are a Very Helpful Mouse. I am in your debt."

 

He raised the mouse over his face, lowering it slowly into his mouth, and held it there for a few moments, considering. He was hungry, after all, but when wasn't he? And the mouse had been helpful. Even now it huddled still, shivering slightly.

 

Francis shrugged and gently lifted the rodent out of his mouth, sitting it back on top of the trash can. There were other mice to catch tonight, mice who had been very UnHelpful Indeed, and slipped through the cracks in their warrens, out into the kitchen, and into the butter, intent on stealing it and carrying the butter back to the warren to split with the other UnHelpful Mice.

 

But then the UnHelpful Mouse had realized something. Why take the butter back and split it with a bunch of rats when it could just stay here and have it all to itself? That would be smarter. Greedier. Disloyal. Antitribu.

 

Oh yes, there was already an UnHelpful Mouse in this butter dish. And it had grown fat enough to eye the owners and wonder can I take the whole kitchen?

 

Francis smiled slightly to himself and wandered down the alley, straightening quickly and looking for all the world like a respectable young man who had not just had a dirty trash mouse in his mouth by the time he reached his apartment building, and picked up the phone.

 

 

OOC: A vote for Mardrax / Francesca - because a Lasombra is a Lasombra is a Lasombra, even if they play in our butter.

Edited by Finnius

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Walking up and down the streets randomly had always helped one to clear his mind. After doing so for a couple of hours and starting to get hungry Osidian reached some odd and inconclusive ideas, something had to be done.

 

Those who remain only in shadow are more dangerous then any others, no matter what clan

 

ooc: votes for Savage Dragon - Simon Hopkins.

 

show yourself and your intentions!!!

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Sylas returned to the outskirts of Goldendown, removed the manhole cover, and climbed back down into the depths. He was satiated, and it was nearly dawn.

 

He woke at sunset the next day, and sent for Natalia. She came quickly.

 

"Report," he ordered gruffly.

 

"Machinations are already beginning. The surface dwellers are shifting blame and maneuvering to fill the power vacuum as we speak. Several of the Camarilla clans have--"

 

"Slow down... Natalia... you speak... too fast," Sylas wheezed.

 

"Apologies, Sylas. Several clans in the Camarilla have kindred coming forward to push their claim. There have been rumors of independent involvment as well, but the Ravnos have been mysteriously silent. Our information also stops when it comes to the Sabbat. They are either not involved, or moving so quietly that we cannot discern their intentions and influence."

 

"I need you to reassign Emily to the Sabbat. Push her contacts. Wring blood from that stone."

 

"Yes, Sylas."

 

"And send a message to the Elders. Tell them that, as always, we have many secrets, some of which involve the Society of Leopold and their sudden burst of kindred knowledge."

 

"At once." She left him on his own to contemplate his next move, the information he had been given, and what he already knew of the other clans. All one could hear was his noisy breath and the trickle of water and filth beside him.

 

After a few moments, he rose, and sent a message to Natalia that he would be out for the evening. "Advice comes from the oddest places."

 

OOC: Vote for Mardrax/Francesca; Lasombra indeed. See below for vote

Edited by Merelas

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Lilah left the pub, surreptitiously looking for Francis and wondering how much he had seen and heard of her conversation. She knew that the Malk would appear not to be paying attention to anything, but somehow he would always have enough to go through his twisted mind and get out again subtly changed, with meanings she would have sensed at the back of her own mind but unable to voice until days had passed.

 

It's really fun how a Malk's mind works... or at least this Malk's mind.

 

For the same reason, Lilah liked to be sure where Francis went after every shared evening, specially now with the Prince dead.

 

I wouldn't put beyond him to see, ponder, do something and just as gleefully shrug it off and go back to his dumpster as if he has done nothing of consequence.

 

Yes, she was quite sure that there was much more behind Malks than they showed. Insane, without any doubt - but not stupid in any way. Insanity could be indeed more useful than full reasoning some times.

 

 

Lilah finally found Francis on his loft. He was putting down the phone when she entered unceremoniously, and he smiled at her. And some minutes later, he was telling her about Unhelpful Mice.

 

She listened carefully but her face just showed a polite, half-bored countenance. And later, going to her own haven, she kept pondering about all the information she had gotten.

 

Francesca San Giovetto... antitribu, and LaSombra... and also Caitiff. Powerful. Suspicious. That certainly makes sense.

 

Of course, Francis is a raving mad...

 

She went over the list of other Kin she had been keeping an eye on. She remembered quite clearly one of them - the angry neonate, who seemed still rather lost among the Kin. But would he do it? Not for power but for... something else? A kind of vengeance? He's new enough that those feelings might still intrude...

 

But soon she shook her head, sighing inwardly. Nothing made sense, but in a way they made sense as a whole. The Prince was dead, and struggle was easily foretold. And they were not known for working together.

 

 

=======

OOC: Vote for Savage/Simon .

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Sylas re-entered the sewers, sat down, and wheezed for a few moments before sending for Natalia.

 

"After conversing with some associates, I have reversed my decision. Re-assign Emily to her old post."

 

Confused, Natalia nodded, and left to do his bidding.

 

We will see where conformism gets me... he thought.

 

OOC: Change vote to Savage/Simon

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Tracy West was an accountant at the newest hotshot lawyer in town. He was young, successful and she loved him. He loved her back and employed her. It was 4 am and she was just returning home from a hot night out with him. Being tired, she took a short cut through the park, estimating she could gain three minutes of sleep with it.

 

For Simon Hopkins, hungrily waiting in the shadow of the bushes next to the small duck pond, she was the perfect victim. He snuck behind her and with a sudden movement snapped her neck back and dug his fangs in. He didn't even hear the soft footsteps behind him as he feeded in the shadow of a century old oak tree. He didn't see the ancient katana rise and fall, biting deep into his back. While Simon struggled against his attackers and felt his strength wane, he realised that he would never be prince of Goldendown. He had probably been too young anyway.

 

OOC: Savage Dragon - Simon Hopkins has been lynched. Roles aren't revealed this game. :P

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And in the day, what dreamings come?

What heat-sparked riot fills the mind,

Of sleeping, slothful, sinful synapses,

Near to bursting with delight?

The same dreams come by day or night,

We are but records, life's relapses,

And somewhere someone's losing time,

As dreams descend, ascends the sun.

 

Francis shot up in his cool, dark apartment in the middle of the day, and looked about himself. Daytime shadows were always so much more frightening than the night ones... at least in the dark it was easy to spot where the light was coming from.

 

He stumbled out onto the floor, crawling under the window, even though it was securely covered in heavy curtains which had been painstakingly nailed to the floor, walls, and windowframe, then glued around the corners. One could never be too sure.

 

The phone was ringing. It was always ringing, somewhere. He took a moment to wet his mouth before picking up.

 

"Who is it?"

 

The next few moments went by in silence, as the news that Simon Hopkins had been found dead was relayed, then he hung up without so much as a how-do-you-do.

 

Fools. Fools.

 

Nothing to be done about it now, anyway... and sometimes foolery was the right thing. Still, Brujah were easy enough to miss, if you didn't know them too well, and Francis hadn't known Simon at all, really.

 

Francis crawled back into bed slowly, laboriously, and lay there on his back with his eyes open. He drifted downwards, into the spiral blackness of sleep, and watched the ceiling tiles crawl over each other, shifting and coalescing into patterns of absolute truth as the rats whispered in the walls.

 

Lilah would already know, of course. Everyone would, soon enough, if they didn't already. One murder always follows another, bad things and good each come in threes.

 

Three good murders, three bad ones. Six dead in all. Which had Simon been? No use worrying about it. No use losing sleep if Simon was one of the good murders.

 

Francis lost some all the same, just in case.

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Osidan received the news of Simon Hopkins demisse with no surprise. Still despite day was up, work had to be done and Osidian lowered himself into the labirinthic Goldendown sewage system.

Edited by Mithrandin

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"Sylas!"

 

He woke suddenly, to Natalia's call. Reflexively, he faded into the shadows and masked his breathing. "Sylas, it's Natalia. Someone has breached quadrant four."

 

"Kindred or Kine?" he asked, glimmering back into view.

 

"We're not sure. The Nosferatu that reported fled before he identified it. He can't obfuscate very well, and of course the outsider won't know the sewers as well as we do, but--"

 

"I'll go. Where in the quadrant?"

 

"Elijah saw him near the Bowl. No telling where he's gotten himself lost to now."

 

"Right. I'll be back soon... either satiated or wiser." at that, he faded from view again, and advanced to the described location. Soon enough he came across the intruder, and watched for a while.

 

Eventually, remaining hidden by virtue of obfuscate, he called out to the newcomer. This breached his cover, but he was gone back into the shadow quickly enough.

 

"Who are you?"

 

As the intruder's attention was pulled to the place from whence the sound came, he moved across the "ditch" and called again. "Why have you come?"

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"Who I am and my bussiness concerns me and my employer" Osidian responded in a rather harshly mode, irritated with the fact he did not went unnoticed and probably had also been followed.

 

"I seem to have missed a turn somewhere along my way" which was for the better, how long have I been followed??'...

 

"And who may you be?" Must be one of those Nosferatu's I heard control the sewer system, but just a guard?

Edited by Mithrandin

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Let's see if I can play many parts. The kindred'll think he's surrounded, Sylas thought.

 

"Caution gets as caution gives, stranger, but you have entered our realm. Not many Camarilla would blame us for drinking your blood at the intrusion."

 

Sylas moved silently again, this time masking his voice with Obfuscate. "We'll ask once more--who are you, and why are you here? Remember that you're on our turf, kindred."

 

With one last vocal shift to a voice he knew well (Natalia's), Sylas called, "Last chance. And remember when contemplating your answer that the sewers are kinder to those that know them."

 

Sylas moved once more so that he couldn't be targeted based on where his had come from, and waited for a reply.

Edited by Merelas

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Hmmm, there seems to be more than one...

 

Fortunatelly, one would not go into the sewet lightly and much less unprepared, Osidian knew he could always make his way back, making a good use of his Celerity discilple, he manages to quickly move away from the guards and lost himself a bit more around the sewer system.

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Father Jones shot another glance at the note deposited in their letterbox a few hours earlier.

 

Sylas,

Marker's Avenue.

Down the sewer grating in front of the Sweet Tooth bakery,

 

"One of those awful Nosferatu?" one of his companions asked.

 

"Those are the ones, who live in the sewers. Tell the mercenaries to meet us in front of the bakery," he commanded his follower. "Oh and tell them to bring gasmasks. You never know what you'll find in the sewers."

 

The yellow sun barely managed to peak through the thick grey clouds and a fine mist had settled on the town since early morning. Not many people saw the priest, two civilian clothed men, a woman and a dozen fully armed mercenaries stop in front of the bakery. And even those who saw did not attribute much importance to it.

 

Natalia almost immediately noticed the breach in their system at the Marker's Avenue bakery sewer grating, close to where Sylas was. She called out to another of her companions.

 

"It's probably just some repairmen, but check it out. Best be sure."

 

By the time the young Nosferatu got there, all that was left of Silas was a pile of ashes. The two bodies and numerous bullet marks in the wall where evidence to the fact that he had not gone down without a fight.

 

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