Vampire The Masquerade RPG
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The Times
The Kindred Chronicle
Key Figures
THE MONSTER OF EALING
Last night, several people reported the sighting of a "screaming red monster" in a quiet neighbourhood of Ealing. After a power shortage in the area, a building caught fire. It was then when, what was described as a "man shaped, footless creature" emerged from the flames, leaping, running, and screaming. One woman has told our reporters that the man had "teeth like a wolf, and the face of the devil". Police officers are still trying to get to the bottom of this; neither the power shortage nor the fire have still been explained. A spokesperson from Scotland Yard has stated that the "so called monster" might be a wounded person, escaping the fire.

TRAGEDY IN TOOLEY STREET
The police has found the bodies of three TFL workers in the construction site at Tooley Street. One of their colleagues raised the alarms last week, when the three workers didn't attend their shifts. The bodies of the men have been found in a deep hole, uncovered by the refurbishment works that are taking place in the area. According to the Police, the bodies were horribly mutilated, which has led to the wildest speculations. The names of the three workers are being kept anonymous, following the wishes of their families.

HOROSCOPE
MARCH 8 - PISCES
You are used to making sacrifices, to prioritising the happiness of others before yours. Even though that is a noble attitude, there are times in life where the only healthy alternative is to embrace your own selfishness and allow yourself some enjoyment. Reserve one hour per day to do something you really like. Treat yourself! Your colour for this month is blue.
Echoes from the past ring back into London. Their intensity increases until they are deafening. What once was a faded memory of a glorious time, now becomes a shocking reality. The consequences of actions taken decades ago ripple into the present, altering the lives of everybody in the City. Unguided and blind, Kindred wander around, trying to make profit out of the reigning chaos.


The appearance of four mysterious figures turned the city upside down. Mistrust and jealousy became the official currency of London. Serpents and fiends rise to power, misdirecting the blaming eyes of the Camarilla towards imaginary enemies. Only those with clear vision and the ability to trust each other strive, while the rest run towards a shallow grave.



Across The Board
Current Chronicle: Dragons and Lions; Pride and Fire
Current Season: Spring
Controlling Sect: Camarilla



Index
Getting Started
General Information
Central London
North London
East London
West London
South London
Miscellaneous
Out of Character


Population: 31

Camarilla
Anarchs
Other
Ventrue: 1
Toreador: 5 (6)
Brujah: 2 (3)
Malkavian: 7
Tremere: 2
Nosferatu: 3
Gangrel: 1
Ventrue: 1
Toreador: 0
Brujah: 2 (3)
Malkavian: 0
Nosferatu: 1
Gangrel: 1
Setites: 5
Sabbat: ???


THE CAMARILLA

Prince

Nobody

Sheriff
Meredith Furlong
Hounds
Robyne Sheridan
Rosella Marie Allain


Keeper of Elysium
Davvad Bisset

Grand Harpy
Catherine Wilke

Primogen
Ventrue: Marcus Antonio Russo
Brujah: Thomas Krusen
Gangrel: Alexa Mallik
Malkavian: Ellora Reese
Tremere: Hannah Sundling
Toreador: Arsenio Pozzi
Nosferatu: Dogan Khojak



ANARCHS

Baron

Khoza

Baronets
Enfield: Leslie
Haringey & Barnet: Clarice Harris
Harrow: Jelena Korolenko

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Welcome To The Night

You find yourself in London on a dreary, foggy night like any other. But what lurks in the shadows is the stuff of fantasies and nightmares, far from mortal reality.

This game uses the cursed and immortal vampiric condition as a backdrop to explore themes of morality, depravity, the human condition, salvation, and personal horror. We are a writing and roleplaying community dedicated to telling complex and engaging stories.

Your fate is your own. Mingle among the ivory-tower elite in the Camarilla, join the fight of the discontented and chaotic Anarch rabble, or set out independently and attempt to survive in London's nighttime underworld. Anything is possible in our World of Darkness.

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Brakes off; Reasons to get a new bike
Topic Started: Wednesday, 10. September 2014, 01:48 (890 Views)
Tsar Ilya the First
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Claiming Tsar
* * * *
Ilya sped up through the streets of Enfield, trying to put his thoughts in order. Finding the main players of London's Anarch community was more challenging than what it seemed at first. He was getting distracted from his business, and his ghoul was giving clear signals of exhaustion. Recruiting somebody new was going to require time and dedication, but he was not planning on investing any of that.

That bike was not the best, obviously, but considering how small most streets were, it was good enough to feel the rush, the speeding sensation, the air against his face... the feeling of danger. That kept him awake and aware, conscious of how real was his situation. He had dreamed about this trip; coming to London, to a whole new place, populated with new people, away from the hell he knew. The only people he missed were his brother and his sister, and he talked to them quite often. However, things were not playing out as he originally planned. He was expecting to find a working system, a group of like minded individuals, a community. Instead, he found loneliness and disarrangement. He found a place where an arrogant Camarilla Prince thought he could waltz in and promise concessions and candy to the supposed rebels. He found a mere collection of individuals who were doomed to become the new shock troopers of the Camarilla against the Sabbat. He never signed up for that. Either there was something else going on below the surface, or things needed to change. How tedious it was to feel himself trapped by the lack of activity and motivation of the locals. He just wanted freedom, how could that come at such a price?

But this whole scenario, this sleepy, half dead dog who didn't react to his constant poking, felt like the dream of a heroin addict. It was soft, like cotton. It was a big pile of slow motion nothing, leading into the nothingness. It wasn't even imaginative. Just... tedious. It stank of irreality. This wasn't real. That sudden realization was a shock to Ilya. How long had he been trapped into this fake memory? Who was the one imposing it to his mind? Was it his sire? Or that Camarilla Prince? As far as Ilya was concerned, he could very well be prisoner in one of the Prince's dungeons, being mindraped night after night. The only way he had to confirm that what he was living was real was breaking the narrative; doing things no mind pusher would imagine. After all, who would make him remember singing the old USSR hymn while driving way too fast?

Ilya's voice rose to the sky. Those who remembered the good old times of Stalin and the gulags froze in their beds, absolutely terrified. Who would make him remember such a nonsensical action? But it wasn't enough. It was never enough. He was always trying to defy the imagination of his storyteller, of he who was telling him a story so he could have something to remember. There were so many things he could do, and one of them seemed more interesting than the rest. Of course, that thing involved hurting himself badly.

He went round a sharp corner, facing a long, straight road. He twisted the handle, and the bike started gaining more and more speed. Time to try his balance. Slowly, carefully, he put one foot on the seat. Then the other. He was crouching there, holding the handle with both hands. He let go of his left hand; after all, a thumbless hand was not that useful. Then he let go of the other one. He stood up, with his arms extended at his sides, like a speeding Jesus Christ in a tacky red Adidas tracksuit. The bike started to shake lightly. He closed his eyes. The shaking got worse. He felt it. The crash was coming. He was going to go down for good. That was going to hurt like a bitch. He decided against it. He jumped.

The fall sounded bad. A less than human crack from his legs echoed through the street. It was supremely painful. A pain like no other he had ever experimented. The bike crashed against a parked car in the distance. Stunned, he dragged his body out of the road. He didn't want to get run by a car now. He had proof. It was for real. He started laughing. Even though it was muffled by the alarm of the car, his laugh could be heard from several blocks away.
Languages:

Russian, Japanese, English, French, Finnish, German

Oleg's Voice

You may know me as Yuri Mikhailov or as Khoza.
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Henry Dawson
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The Only Man Looking Out For You
* * *
It all happened in a flash and rolled in from the distance like a coming storm. Fate, in the form of a reckless motorcyclist. The bike rolled off without it's master and smashed into the parked car, sending bits of metal and plastic flying every which way as the engine died and the bike flipped up into the canopy of the car. Henry, standing not too far from it, was dashed across the face with a chunk of motorbike, one that shredded his precious good looks and snapped his prized aviators in half.

Henry stood there for a moment, blood gushing from the gash on his face. The left lens of his glasses fell off, cracking against the floor below. Red Tracksuit was going to get the shit kicked out of him for this. Marching up the street, Henry slipped out of his jacket and began to unbutton his shirt quickly, before the gentle squirt of blood mucked about the white color. Folding it up around his elbow, he set the clothing on the roof of a car he passed; And soon, he was before Tracksuit.

Fucker ruined my good glasses. Fucker nearly killed me, could have killed god-knows-who. He's probably a vampire. Make the first punch count. He'd rear his right fist back and attempt to deck him, with his practiced brawler's stance. His right hook was a force to be reckoned with; It was a punch that took down "Boss" Finnegan in 1975 and allegedly knocked in one of the teeth of Rory "The Wolf" McLaughlin, an ugly fucker sometime around 1969. Henry hadn't thrown a punch in some time, and unleashing the beast on Tracksuit's face felt so, so good.
Edited by Henry Dawson, Wednesday, 10. September 2014, 02:08.
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Tsar Ilya the First
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* * * *
Both legs fractured. Bones broken in several points. Left arm in rebellion. Probably broken, too. Cuts all over the face and body; the result of rolling lifelessly in the asphalt after jumping from a moving vehicle. He could have really killed himself. Just a stray piece of metal in the right spot, and his head could have been severed off his body. Even with his supernatural resistance, that wasn't the kind of activity that was going to make him stay alive for a long time. Why was Ilya doing this to himself? Wasn't life hard enough to make it even more painful? He crawled with difficulty until he found a spot between two cars. He needed to heal. And he needed a new bike. Damn.

Then he saw the man. Someone was coming in his direction. Was it some sort of kind hearted good samaritan? Judging from his looks, that wasn't the case. The man had a cut on his face. Some wandering shard had flown in his direction, and made a number on him. Too bad. No modeling career for the guy. But the sum of the wound and the attitude gave away his nature. A flesh machine would be in shock, maybe crying on the floor; calling an ambulance, that's for sure. Not this one. He was coming towards him, with murderous fury in his eyes. Vampire. Was he going to hit a wounded man on the floor? Seriously? Well... This whole mess was Ilya's fault, and he knew he deserved at least one punch, but he would have loved to be able to stand up and brace for impact before the man wen...

[PUNCH]

That hurt. A lot. The force of the impact dragged Ilya's body a couple of meters backwards. He was properly sitting down in the street now, safe from incoming traffic. What a great citizen. What a fantastic way of protecting someone in need. Thank fucking you. Ilya shook his head, trying to make the birds and the stars stop flying around his head. He mostly succeeded, although some stray Disney like pigeons refused to migrate South. The man was still coming at him. Again? No, sir. One was more than enough. Ilya didn't like to do this, but his choices were quite limited.

[DOMINATE: Command] "Stop!" He hoped the man would get the subtle hint and cease in his hostile advances. At least give him a chance to talk before trying to kill him again.

"You got your punch. Fair and square. Are you really going to kick me again, while I'm lying on the floor? Come on man, there's no need." He massaged his jaw with his only working hand. "You really have a talent for attacking helpless people. Did you train at the hospice?" Why? Why was he provoking that psycho again? It would have been so easy just to appease him... Ilya's death wish was getting worse every day, and it was becoming a real problem.
Languages:

Russian, Japanese, English, French, Finnish, German

Oleg's Voice

You may know me as Yuri Mikhailov or as Khoza.
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Henry Dawson
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The Only Man Looking Out For You
* * *
"I knew you could fuckin' take it. Get up so I can punch you again, you reckless cunt." Henry took Tough Love into account; He wasn't a raging psychopath, as much as the stereotype he felt his Clan suffered. He approached Tracksuit again, grabbing the man by the collar. He'd pull him up to his feet, legs fractured and all. He didn't have so much sympathy, because a biker in an accident didn't pull a Christ pose before jumping off of their bike. This guy had a death wish, and Henry wasn't going to beat him to death to satisfy it.

"Right, I'm not taking you to the hospital. A normal person would hardly be talking right now, so I figgure you've got some fuckin' explaining to do. Do whatever you've got to do to get walking and we're going to go to a pub or some park to have words like men." He rubbed his bloodied knuckles into his palm, his face anything but warm and friendly.


"All right? Bacon will be here about the alarm any minute now, don't need you cocking about like some reckless fuckin' idiot. Furthermore, this is a nice neighborhood, you cunt, people are sleepin' at this hour and have to work tomorrow, you don't have any fuckin' sense about the brits, they're going to be worried about crazies or psychos muckin' about late in the hour. So I suggest is you heal, you go grab your bike and leave payment for that poor girl's car, and you fuckin' follow me or I'm going to make you wish you fuckin' had, savvy?"


Henry quickly gathered his suit and shirt, having spent precious vitae to heal the wound on his face. He'd slip the shirt on and button it up, from bottom to top, and then slip on his jacket. With a scowl, the man flipped his spare aviators from his inner coat pocket and put them on, turning to level a flat, sorely non-amused glare at the risktaker with a death wish.


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Tsar Ilya the First
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* * * *
Motherfucker! That was the word that resonated in Ilya's brain, bouncing in different languages as a tsunami of pain crawled from his legs to his brain. He twisted his right arm around, trying to find something to hold on to. A ledge in the wall. That would suffice. He grabbed it, letting his weight rest there and trying to shake off the brute's hands from his collar.

"Okay, okay. Gimme one second..."

He started healing his legs as fast as he could. He wasn't going to get perfectly well in such a short time; he just needed to be able to walk away from there. He fused the bones poorly, until the joints somehow worked, even if it was sending him a precious bouquet of pain roses every single second. He tested his mobility. Good enough.

"Let's get out of here."

Bacon? What the hell was this guy talking about? He surely meant the police. Not a real threat. Also, that whole concept of giving money to the owner of the car, or picking up the pieces of his old bike... It was all neat, tidy and untraceable. Why bother? Why the hell care about the sleeping machines or any of that? Ilya realized his new acquaintance was not only a raging lunatic with a really short fuse, but also a humanity lover and an amateur boy scout. So many virtues reunited in a single individual made him want to run away. But his respect for his own kind made him tolerate the other man's weaknesses and carry on. After all, the guy had witnessed Ilya in one of his worst moments. He started dragging his weight away from the accident.

"Coming or what?"

There was a park a few blocks away, big enough to sit down and have a chat without unwanted ears spying on them.
Languages:

Russian, Japanese, English, French, Finnish, German

Oleg's Voice

You may know me as Yuri Mikhailov or as Khoza.
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Henry Dawson
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The Only Man Looking Out For You
* * *
I hope it hurt, you daft, inconsiderate fuckin' cunt.

"You're fuckin' lucky I'm so kind, mate. Park just a few blocks away, don't need to fuckin' tell me where it is. I know Enfield like the back of my fuckin' tadge, so shut yer fuckin' gob already and try not to look like a fuckin' murder victim more than you already are. I'll meet you there, best hope I'm still a calm and reasonable sort when I get there." He shoved past the guy and marched down the street, his SHAKING hands in his pockets. Gnashing teeth. A screaming, busted face falling under a rapidly descending boot. Teeth being pulled out by the dozens. Bones snapping and being pulled free from sockets. THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS. Think happy thoughts. Hum a song. HUM A HAPPY SONG.

Henry lit his cigar with a loose grip and began to hum Mungo Jerry's "In the Summertime."

Entering the wooded park area, Henry intimidated a businessman out for a late night power walk away from the park for the evening and took a seat on a bench, a lone lamp above him being host to moths and beetles. Henry took a long, slow drag of his cigar and fumed the smoke out of his nose and through his fanged teeth. This newcomer had a lot of fucking explaining to do, and worse yet, his use of the Domination discipline (if that WAS what it was) caused the man's massive, weathered hands to crease back into fists.

The Beast wasn't particularly happy, but Henry was calm; For now.

Edited by Henry Dawson, Thursday, 11. September 2014, 11:59.
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Tsar Ilya the First
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* * * *
Fantastic. A murderous psychopath with a thing for words. Verbosity. Exactly the kind of thing Ilya admired in any creature. But, apparently, he wanted to go by himself, leaving the Russian behind. That was just perfect. Exactly what he needed right now.

"Yeah, you go. I may take a while. Wait for me there."

He seriously considered going back home and forgetting about that weirdo. Just another decision to make. He slowly limped behind the Brujah, dragging his feet a little bit more than necessary. When the other man lit his cigar, Ilya had to look elsewhere to get a grip on his fear. He wasn't going to show such a weakness to that man. The puncher turned the corner. About time. Ilya stopped, turned around, ad walked faster -getting more and more pain in the process- towards the remains of his bike. Sirens were echoing in the distance. He pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen was cracked, but it resisted. His next phone was going to be a Nokia, that's for sure. He texted Rostik, his personal flesh machine.

"Need you to pick me up in about an hour. Check my GPS in the computer, and come to fetch me when I call you."

The ghoul was probably asleep by now, exhausted. He needed a new servant. Soon. The police sirens were getting even closer. He quickly laid on the ground, beside the ruins of his bike. A car stopped beside him. Footsteps getting closer. Two mortals. Ilya opened his eyes. They were a couple of meters away, looking at him with a concerned expression on their faces. Nothing like the Russian Police. These guys were actually worried about him. Impressive. He needed to act fast. He didn't want the psychopath to know what he was doing. He turned his aura into pure beatific charm and expanded it to reach both cops. The look in their eyes changed. They loved him. They instinctively believed he was an angel fallen from heaven who needed their help. One of them motioned towards him. Ilya turned towards the other.

"Sleep." His order penetrated the cop's mind like a hot knife in butter. The man fell asleep, much to the surprise of his partner. He focused on the other one.

"Sit down with me. Stay still. Remember this feeling. Remember the love you feel for me right now. Whenever you hear my voice, you are going to recall this feeling, and you will want to please me. Now, you need to forget that you ever saw me. This conversation will be buried deep in your mind. So deep, you will not be able to remember it, or dream about it. This is what happened: You came here, you found the bike, and a little blonde girl with a German accent. She had a huge rack. You asked her what was her name, and she said 'Anna Blucher'. Then she attacked you and your partner and she ran away. Now, sleep."

He woke up the other cop, and repeated the operation. Then he searched their pockets, looking for cash, or anything valuable. He got eighty pounds in the process. After that, he wrote down the names of the cops in his phone, and took their phone numbers. He even managed to find their personal and their home numbers poking around. All in all, it was a successful operation. He pulled the plates from his bike, and walked as fast as he could towards the park. By the time the cops woke up, he was long gone.

The pain made it difficult for him to move faster, but he did a good time anyway. He decided to go to meet the savage beast who attacked him before. It was better than nothing, for such a stupid night. But he wouldn't give up his name so easily. He knew the effect that his surname could have in some Brujah, specially those who were old enough to remember, and who had been in contact with the Russian Brujah community. He couldn't risk ruining his own reputation so quickly. He got to the park some minutes later, still carrying the plates on his right hand. Damn. The psychopath was still smoking that cigar. He sat down in the bench putting some distance between them. He dropped the plates beside him.

"Sorry for the delay; needed to make sure nobody would trace the bike to me. Yuri Mikhailov, pleased to meet you." He didn't offer him his hand, or even look at him. He was just sitting there, with his dead eyes focused on the horizon, as if he was thinking about something else.

NOTE
Languages:

Russian, Japanese, English, French, Finnish, German

Oleg's Voice

You may know me as Yuri Mikhailov or as Khoza.
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Henry Dawson
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The Only Man Looking Out For You
* * *
"Not a problem, Ai' wos' sittin' 'ere on my Jack Jones and then you show up." He took a drag from his cigar and continued to hum quietly to himself, his bloodshot eyes hidden behind his aviator glasses. "...As expected." He spoke with an exhale, a fog of smoke escaping from his lips. He took the cigar from his mouth and dabbed the ash out. "So, you're a maniac. Why'd you jump off of a bike in the middle of a speed session? You get a spider in your ass?" He glanced over, unimpressed with the man's 'dead, dreary, off-in-the-distance' psychopathy that Henry had seen all too often before.

"You can cut the shit out and look at me when I'm talking to you, mate. It's only proper. I mean, here I am, takin' time out of my day of whorin' and drinkin' and savin' yer ass from the hunters and god-knows-what that see a man walk away from a motorcycle crash. I think for the better part of it, mate, you owe me one." He cranked up his Presence.

"Answers, mostly. That which I can't ascertain from leavin' me ring imprint in yer boat. I'm all for keepin' this civil, Comrade, but what happens next is entirely up to you." Another slow drag from his cigar. He tapped the ash away and exhaled smoke from his nose like fuckin' Smaug himself.

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Tsar Ilya the First
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* * * *
So, he was facing a bleeding heart. A brute with a kind soul. A mortal lover. His attitude was all too related to his flesh machine past; the speech, the demeanor, the smoking... That guy hadn't embraced yet his true nature. He needed fifty or sixty years more, or some serious shit happening around him, to realize that all of that flashy behavior was just unproductive. He quietly ignored the guy's question regarding his motorbike stunt. Then he was asked for some hearty eye contact. That was not happening, no sir.

Thinking about it, the guy wasn't necessarily bad. Maybe a bit uninformed and raw, a little too attached to the world of the flesh machines, but he could be some sort of diamond in the rough. If only he could stop messing around with that cigar... What kind of enjoyment could a Vampire get out of putting fire so close to his face? Nasty dangerous habit. But he still wanted eye contact, and he considered it 'fair'. There was something terribly wrong about that. Ilya tried to be as warm as possible when talking to the other man.

"Eye contact is not a sign of respect; it's a sign of submission. Cammie Princes and old fucks established that social code ages ago, in order to have all the youngsters ready and able to be mind fucked. I don't look at people's eyes unless I want to mind fuck them, which is something I'd rather not do. Anyway, if I wanted to mind fuck you, at least I would have brought you a box of chocolates." Maybe using mortal analogies the communication was going to be easier. What Ilya was not going to do was adopting physical mannerisms to smooth things out. All that display of facial expressions, arms movements and general body language was not something he was even going to consider. He was just sitting down in the only position that would not make pain make him want to kill himself every second.

"Judging from the looks and the general 'Out of the rebel factory' attitude, I'm going to risk it and assume you are not one of Blucher's friends. I certainly hope you are not, for what is worth. Not new in town, I guess, at least not as new as I am. Which means that either you are part of this mess that dares considering itself a 'Community' in North London, or you are just a stray visitor who is trying, as much as I am, to give the whole thing a chance. Or at least trying to assess if there's a 'thing' to give a chance to, or just a disarranged collection of spare individuals, living under the collective lie of being part of the same 'movement'. Now, if you are so concerned about 'proper', at the very least you could give me a name."

Okay, if the man wanted information, he had some information now. Ilya was becoming too trusting, and that wasn't a good sign. Revealing himself as an Anarch, a newcomer and as someone so critical with the current state of affairs in such a short time was... being too trusting. He hoped the guy was worth that trust. And that he would throw away the damn cigar.
Languages:

Russian, Japanese, English, French, Finnish, German

Oleg's Voice

You may know me as Yuri Mikhailov or as Khoza.
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Henry Dawson
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The Only Man Looking Out For You
* * *

Henry took a long drag of his cigar then stamped it out in his boot. Tapping the ash away, he stowed it away in a little baggy and stored it away inside of his jacket. He slowly stood and and tried to channel his mentors from Los Angeles. "Blucher may be the Prince, but I'm the motherfuckin' King. Henry Dawson. I'm a friend of yours if you're a friend of mine, mate, and if I had my way, it wouldn't just be one small neighborhood our people had control of. In fact, London is too small for my tastes."

Henry paced away and turned to face his Russian companion, cracking a grin. "No more mind fucks. From now on we should talk with the straight and narrow, just words and fists like men. If you're after the same thing I'm after, mate, then that fuckin' Kraut is going to be in for some Bad News. I've already sent in a pre-presentation form.. let me think." He pinched his crooked nose with a ringed finger and thumb briefly. "Oh right. Eat Me, Cunts, red marker, very Rose if you fuckin' catch me drift."

"I say we should expand our community somewhat. We should immediately try to proverbially fuck the Prince in the arse before we set our eyes on the fuckin' zealots, if they're even in this city." He missed his oral fixation. He loved his cigar. It was a habit he picked up in life, and made worse by a friend in Los Angeles. Fuckin' ell. He rolled his tongue against the inside of his teeth but it wasn't the same.

"This city seems too quiet. We need noise, we need a rave, we need to gather all the fuckers who count their lot with us and see what we're working with, if need be. We both are smart, we both have ideas, so we need to put our heads together and figgur' som'thin' out." He paced back and forth. "My house is right up the Camarilla's arse in South London. I'm gonna need a better place to stay in the future, but I can stay there as long as I keep m' head down."






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Tsar Ilya the First
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Claiming Tsar
* * * *
The psycho was up and walking, starting an epic speech about friendship and new alliances. Ilya let him talk. Friendship was not a bad concept, not at all, and alliances were necessary. At least, he was not smoking anymore. Still, Ilya was not looking at his eyes. Dawson was obviously ambitious, and he was already talking about expanding further away from London. Not bad, for a daydream, but London seemed fucked up enough as it was right now. Quite a lot of work to do, before focusing on the rest of the country. Although there were parts of the country, around London, that held very important assets. Every option needed to be weighted carefully, and Ilya was still not convinced that Henry was one to weight options.

He was awfully proud of his little stunt against the Prince. Sending an artsy mock presentation letter. Nothing wrong there; some pranking was always healthy. Ilya himself was considering preparing a dignifying prank to let Mr. Blucher know that there were some new problems in town. But his strategic point of view didn't fully recommended that course of action yet. For the first time since they met, Ilya smiled. It was a weird gesture in his face, a shape that was out of place there, under those cold, dead eyes. It was just a movement of his mouth, no other part of his face or body went with it. A disconnected attempt at faking some long lost contact with the world of expressive creatures.

"You are right. This town is too silent. I'm under the impression that those who should be fighting the good fight are just too comfortable, too worried about losing the little they have, and that they'd rather deal with snakes than facing the problem headfirst. As far as I know, they suffer from a long lasting lack of leadership, or of perceived leadership. A year or more hiding in their little convenient caves and prying to the god of capes not to crush them. Not that I'm all for being blunt, direct and aggressive, but if you want to stand your ground, you need to be up in your feet, not crawling like a slug."

Ilya crossed his arms behind his head and looked to the sky, thinking. Henry was making some valid points, but Ilya feared the other man was affected by the same crippling weakness he was: disinformation. They just didn't know enough of what was going on.

"All together, you say? No. Putting too many troublemakers in the same room will only make... trouble. I already met one of them at that casino in Enfield, the Dream, and had an interesting phone conversation with another. I'm slowly trying to get to meet them, and feel their inclinations and wishes. This town is really unwelcoming for new troopers like you and me. That needs to change. The only way of keeping Mr. Blucher at bay is having an army. And there's no way of getting an army in this political scenario. For starters, you need to move out of South London, or make the best out of it. You can gather info on them, try to recruit some of their sorry asses to come up here and live a free life, or get the fuck away from their territory before they come knocking at your door, asking you to pay your taxes. Don't give them reasons to fuck you up. Breaking their traditions is a strong enough reason. When we decide to break them, we'll do it big time, not just renting a damn room."

It was impossible to know if Ilya was pissed off, amused or just completely detached of what he was saying.
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Henry Dawson
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""All together, you say? No. Putting too many troublemakers in the same room will only make... trouble. I already met one of them at that casino in Enfield, the Dream, and had an interesting phone conversation with another. I'm slowly trying to get to meet them, and feel their inclinations and wishes. This town is really unwelcoming for new troopers like you and me. That needs to change. The only way of keeping Mr. Blucher at bay is having an army. And there's no way of getting an army in this political scenario. For starters, you need to move out of South London, or make the best out of it. You can gather info on them, try to recruit some of their sorry asses to come up here and live a free life, or get the fuck away from their territory before they come knocking at your door, asking you to pay your taxes. Don't give them reasons to fuck you up. Breaking their traditions is a strong enough reason. When we decide to break them, we'll do it big time, not just renting a damn room."




Henry pushed his glasses up his nose. "There's a wasteland outside of the city, an old fighting pit that I got into back in m' fightin' days. May be a fuckin' strip mall at this point, may just be a grassy field, but we should hold a meeting there with whatever of our allies we can gather there within the week's end. Get a sense of the situation as a whole, talk to them en masse, find out who's been talkin' to that cunt Blucher and decide where to go from there. You and I, joint leaders, mate."

"Leaders.." He let out a growling "Yeah..." with a nod after some thought. "Yeah, joint leaders. You can be Baron, I'll be the fuckin' Warlord. We can fuckin' whip these fuckers into shape, no more fuckin' lying about. London's always been a cam city, but who says it fuckin' has to be?""
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Tsar Ilya the First
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Ilya frowned. Henry was surely passionate about all of this, and certainly a very trusting individual. There were ways of channeling such passion. What worried Ilya was his ambition. People who were both passionate and ambitious were, in his experience, either terribly dangerous or incredibly beneficial for the whole community. The last guy he knew who fit that description, the Gangrel Sir Hewson, made his family travel all the way to Kazakhstan, only to end up being murdered by Ilya and his brother in a fit of rationalized paranoia.

"Mr. Dawson, I think we should not, under any circumstance, call a meet of all people who consider themselves 'Anarch' in the same place at the same time. I'd rather meet them one by one, and test the waters at a reasonable pace. I'm not talking about stay still and do nothing; but I know people tend to be territorial. Nobody likes feeling pushed. The main questions here are: Who do you know? Where have you been? What do you know about the recent events? Only by pooling our information we may get a clear picture of what we are facing, and make some decisions. Do you know what I mean? Now, let's start from the beginning: what have you done since arriving to London?"

Ilya raised his head and looked straight into Henry's eyes, for the first time in the conversation. His eyes were empty marbles, cold dead balls, animated by some supernatural energy. Those eyes revealed clearly that Ilya was little more than a corpse, preserved in time through some strange powers, moving and giving the resemblance of thinking and feeling, but a corpse nevertheless. Any resemblance with an actual living being was purely coincidental.
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Henry Dawson
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What HAVE I done since arrivin' in London?

Memories briefly flash back. A fat lady in a leather biker jacket. Fangs in the neck. A warehouse. A Vespa.
"I don' know shit. I know the fucker who owns the Hospitality Club, and I don't know anybody in Britian. Furthermore, I've been to the Hospitality Club and my usual hunting grounds. I've wiped my ass with a presentation form and wrote a mean message. Not a whole lot, mate. I've only been here for a week or so." Henry shrugged. His eyes conveyed something Illya's didn't- Humanity. He showed concern as he spoke, he frequently smiled as he spoke and cursed like a sailor, although his flesh was pale. "We shou- I should meet some of the other Anarchs. If you meet some, send them my way, or give them my contact."

He stepped over, removing a Nokia phone (you know, the cheap kind that's nearly indestructible?). "For the sake o' security, I'm Mr. Phinneas Blacke, Bookshop owner. It's complicated." He grumbled, handing the phone over. Zero contacts, a pixel background of a rainbow or some shit, and faintly glowing buttons in a black carapace. "You can just add your own or whatever I can use to contact you there. We need to build up a network, as you said, and I tend to get ahead of m'self."

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Mr. Dawson was making more sense now. Ilya felt some rush as if, for the first time since his arrival to London, things were moving in a positive direction. Creating a Network. That was a really interesting concept, a whole philosophy. Probably without even noticing it, Henry had just given Ilya the key he was missing to understand what was needed in this stagnant Anarch movement of London.

"That's fantastic. This is my phone number, write it down: 07 XXX XXX XXX. Also, my main email: yuri@khozaltd.ru. Go to The Dream, up in Enfield. Here's the address..." He wrote down The Dream's address for Henry. "If you take a look around, you'll find a couple of notes there: one from the Prince and another one from another member of our community. Call her. Don't tell her you know me yet. And do yourself a favor: don't let her know that you sent any letters to the Prince. These Anarchs are very conservative, and they are scared of pissing off the competent authorities. Pretend to be a good boy scout, and to be interested in the community. If you have ties anywhere else, that may help. For now... It will be better if our cooperation remains a secret. This way, if anyone tries to double cross you or me, we'll have an ace up our sleeve."

He seemed incredibly more enthusiastic, even alive, when he was thinking strategy. It was as if his whole life was made for these moments. His whole body was, all of a sudden, expressive. Not in a human way, but expressive nevertheless.

"I met another one, a Gangrel girl. She was in the forests to the East. She doesn't seem to be very involved with the local community. I'm still not sure that's really such a bad thing. So far I've met those three. Tell me, how was your experience at that Hospitality Club? Were they approachable?"

He wrote down Henry's contact info in his phone, an obviously tweaked Samsung, with some scratches on its surface. It was a miracle it had survived the fall from the bike.
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Henry Dawson
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"The Bartender at the Hospitality Club's a cunt. He wouldn't help me out in the least and would much rather play bartender than get his feet dirty. Fuckin' cunt." He hissed under his breath. "He went feral on me and seems to be wearing his big boy pants but I've seen men harder than him. Don't go there unless you want to fuckin' play pretend." He crossed his arms and took the information back from Yuri, the items stowed away into his jacket. "Yeah, mate, secret, cooperation, all that shit. I'll go to the dream and call you soon." He shot a hand out.

"We can make this city a better one. We have to try. My sire died to make this city a better place and I'll be damned if I don't try to avenge him somehow, mate. Humans, kindred, this city could be better for both of them, we don't need fuckin' presentation forms and fuckin' security cameras everywhere hardlined into the Prince's fuckin' wank room."

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Tsar Ilya the First
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The information regarding the Hospitality Club was certainly distressing. Out of two official 'Anarch' venues in North London, one was nearly empty, and the other one was guarded by a rather unwelcoming character. Was the name of the club just an irony? Ilya needed to know more about that. It was important. But pressuring Dawson into talking things further was not going to be productive. At the very least, this was a fantastic excuse to start working on his online pet project. Later...

"If what you are saying is true, and I believe it is, this city is even less habitable than what I originally thought. Action is required. We'll have to be smart about it. I'll meet up with this Anarch lady from the Dream in a couple of days. I'll give you the necessary intel so you don't go unprepared, don't worry."

Ilya closed his eyes. His mental energy focused on his flesh machine. His aura became a whip, a really long one, flailing in the air, looking for its target. A couple of miles North, in the Fortress, it found Rostik. Just a tap, a gentle slap in his face, and he was already jogging towards the van.

"I'm going to need an email address. Phones are fine and all, but we'll need more than that if we want to get properly organized. I'll send you a link with some instructions in the next few days. Follow them carefully, please."

He stood up and shook the other man's hand. An alliance between two wildly different forces had been forged. Only time would tell if that alliance was going to last, or if it was going to become another distant reflection of Caine and Abel's story, as it often happened with Vampires.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Dawson. We'll keep in touch." He sat down again, pulled the phone out of his pocket, and he started checking out documents, calmly ignoring the other man's presence.
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Henry Dawson
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"My email address is annabellebeekeeper@aol.com."

He shook Illya's hand and sent the man on his way. Henry cracked a wide, fanged grin. All of this was coming together, it seemed. There was much work to be done. He lit his cigar and took a long, slow drag, and exhaled the smoke into the dim light of the park's walkway lights. He'd shove his hands into his pockets and walk in the opposite direction, further into the park and into the night.

Briefly, he paused at the curb on the other side of the park, and taking a sit down, he took in the smells and sounds of the city he'd been away from for so long. So much was different now, so much was still the same. The man grasped his cigar between his fingers and flicked it at the side of a passing car, a streak of ashes and embers wafting a trail through the mid-evening air.


Edited by Henry Dawson, Saturday, 27. September 2014, 21:22.
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