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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. Create Your Account! If you're already a member, please log in to your account to access all of our features: |
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| [ARCHIVED] - P&P - Prologue; Where it all begins | ||
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| Topic Started: Wednesday, 22. April 2015, 14:04 (2,723 Views) | ||
| Graham Mason | Wednesday, 22. April 2015, 14:04 Post #1 | |
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Steak Tartare (YODO)
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[avatar=http://freshinfos.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/old-tv.jpg][alias=ST]
The group of people was gathered in the parking lot, waiting for something to happen. Some of them had just arrived, some had been waiting for a while. They didn't know each other, and they didn't know what was the nature of their mission. They just knew that they had been selected to become part of a new beginning for the Sabbat in the city of London. A truck arrived, and parked just in front of them. The driver, a small and nervous blonde man, climbed down and opened the trailer, without saying a word. He dragged a wheeled table out. Over the table, there was a small TV, with an old Video player attached to it. He connected the TV and the Video player to a small generator, and turned it all on. When the group of people gathered around the TV, he pressed PLAY. A man in a dark shirt was staring at the camera. He was well groomed, although the background behind him looked nasty and dirty. Some of the people watching the screen knew him already, some didn't. He was Cardinal Almansa, one of the architects of the new Sabbat in Europe. A daring, and fear inducing presence. He spoke, and his gaze pierced all of the people there's souls. The small and nervous man collected the wheeled table with the TV and the Video Player, and made signs to the people there to go inside of the truck, where hard boxes were waiting for them. They were supposed to enter there, and wait until their arrival to London, or to whatever was their destination right now. Inside of the truck, there was a note stuck to the wall:
OOC NOTE
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Oh no! My souffle! "Words", stress level, "MetaMason", "THEVOICEOFREASON" | ||
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| Clover Greene | Wednesday, 22. April 2015, 18:00 Post #2 | |
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Aminal
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Trigger Warning: Violent Thoughts A scantily dressed girl was sitting, cross-legged, on the dusty hood of an old Peugeot 205. From the level of dirt the car had accumulated, the owner seemed to have gone tragically missing. If said owner returned now, however, that would have been most unfortunate - for them. Other brothers and sisters gradually convened within the parking lot, yet the Toreador antitribu did not address them yet - not until she knew for certain why they were here. Despite the lack of words emanating from the girl situated on the dirty car, her appearance itself might portray the forthright presence of depravity. Her white, dirty shirt was loose, covering only one shoulder, and exposing her midriff. The black thigh high stockings were ripped with thousands of cuts, and the frilly mini-skirt did little to conceal her private anatomy, especially due to the position she chose to employ. Despite her positioning and choice of attire, she did not place herself to garner attention. She was a Cainite; blood, gore, and the Demiurge's virtuously unholy work was all that excited her nowanights. Modesty was nonsensical, and she knew that her brothers and sisters would understand this and pay her no great heed. She payed them no great heed, either - except for pighead. Pighead was rocking it. He was a fucking disgusting piece of shit that made her want to barf blood just by looking at his assface, and she loved it. This wasn't some irredeemable Sewer Rat horrendous shit, this was fucking art. She could visualize how his victims felt as he fed on them, and it made her gleeful. Being raped and eaten alive by a porkman would be the height of depravity, especially by one as disgusting as this one. She examined every little puss-filled blister on pighead's face, and every sunken line on his features. His snout was wet and gross, and his eyes would have looked better if they were just gouged out to begin with. It would be euphoric to cut deep gashes in that porkface, fill it with excrement and maggots like a balloon before stitching it right back up and sending it to feed on others. The fear in his victims would have been too great for them to really appreciate the merits of revulsion that this shitstain could cause, but Bambi, on the other hand, could. She would love to be devoured by this shitstain, but then she would lose the Demiurge's gift. The Demiurge had truly blessed this one with a proper face to carry out His work. If only she could be so fortunate... ... A truck snapped her from her reverie. The juicebag seemed to move with purposeful steps. She waited in silence as the man fiddled with the equipment, not particularly invested with the going-ons until the face of Cardinal Almansa appeared on the wee screen of the TV. Her attention spiked, and she now stood upright with an intensity of focus in her eyes.
You and me both, re-playable recording, you and me both. These fucks - they just don't understand that the repeat button is a privilege, not a right. The instructions were quite clear. Despite the gravity, and difficulty, of the task, Bambi's concern gravitated towards one thing: Vaulderie. She needed to feel whole again. The emptiness that the former pack left within her was almost too much to bear. The weight of the mission's danger paled in comparison to the desire for connection. Desire was, after all, what moved the Demiurge's world forward. The juicebox motioned them inside. Fucking wretch, probably had his tongue cut out already. Bambi jumped down from the car's hood, yet she did not progress inside the truck just yet. She would wait and pay careful attention to the actions of her brothers and sisters, heightening her visual prowess in order to ascertain that there weren't any - I dunno, bomb shaped objects - on their person. There were too many of them to focus properly, but alas, until the Vinculum was established, none of them could be trusted, and therefore she did not speak up unless spoken to. Once they've all entered the truck, she would do so as well. [alias=Bambi] [avatar=http://puu.sh/fLlTz/83463e7769.png] |
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| Hannah | Thursday, 23. April 2015, 10:01 Post #3 | |
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Wicked Witch of the West
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[avatar=http://i1296.photobucket.com/albums/ag17/hannahsundling/scene100F_cam04_zps0e2fe3d2.jpg] [alias=Dowd] The Citroen C4 had seen better days. Yesterday in fact, before it met a major asshole at the Total gas station along the highway south from Bordeaux. Dad had gone into the lil' shop, asshole had hopped into the family wagon. Mom and kid had needed a moment before they knew shit was up. Soft lives, dull instincts, it was no great loss. They wailed, fucking high and loud, wouldn't let up. The man in black drove a fist like a wrecking ball into mom's powdery face. Surprise barely registering, something cracked, mom's head snapped back and she slumped into the seat. Twitch, twitch and that was it for mom. Blood ran freely from her nose, setting the mood. Dowd threw the kid a look kid that shut him up in a hurry. The kid only got it a few hours ago, drained like a battery in no time at all. Breakfast of champions. Both bodies were dumped in a container behind a giant Leclerc an hour ago. The interior reeked like killing and the rotting, charnel smell of death and old blood got out the car with him. Content and full, the large bald man closed the car door and sauntered onto the parking lot. There was fuck all here, just another dingy car with a hooch maid as decoration. Looked like the type used to keep a man's plumbing clean. Mean little whore, was the first thing into his mind. The type to leave you half done 'cause her pimp just finished tearing through your jacket and wants to get his hands on the bills you got stuffed in the pants you still got half on. Dowd approached her slowly, game face on. No smiles, no emotions, looking mildly pissed, no cracks, in total fucking control. He had no other anymore. Didn't need another. The beast is what gyrated its ways through those cracks and fuck knew Dowd had a big bitch of a demon inside. Maybe as fucking sordid as the miss here. He grinned an invisible grin. Hookers make the best wives. Too often having dealt with piss-ant moody bastards, they keep their broken hearts to themselves and are used to leave without being told to. The broad man came to halt next to her, wearing black jeans, under a black short-sleeved muscle shirt and black combat boots. Towering over her slight form, the sergeant gave a curt nod and kept silent. No use talking before you knew what's what. Over the next minutes, a score of monsters trickled onto the parking lot. He followed the girl's stare to piggsy, a fierce-looking swine, obviously no stranger to sting of frenzy. Dowd narrowed his eyes at that one. One to be watched for sure. It wouldn't do to be contaminated by another's limp morals. A truck arrived and nothing too soon. The man in black was getting antsy in the middle of a clump of strange Cainites. Real antsy. You never knew. It only took one irritating and willing individual to get people's fangs out and bring the evening down. The longer they were in the dark about what this all was, the more chance of that. The truck driver got out and went round to the back, jumpy, strung out. He quickly did his thing, hauled a TV screen out in front of them, hooked it up and pushed 'Play'. A proper lean-looking gentleperson flicked on. Cardinal Almansa. Dowd knew him by reputation, if not in person and what a reputation it was. He was a hero round this here parts. That's what they call you when you kill so many the word murderer doesn't quite cover it. It made a strange sort of sense to the sergeant. The world skidded to a halt while the man on the TV detailing the deed to be done and lurched back into motion when the mortal shut it down. After the cardinal said his piece, the guy proceeded to try and get them into the truck without looking any in the eye. Good luck there. A breathing body telling these fine folks where to stand was like handing out speeding tickets in the Indy 500. Fucking useless. Black Dowd drew himself up to his full height. He growled low, something between the roar of a full-on charging bear and a slow, lingering thunderclap. I am a fucking fearless example. "Get in," the bald man intoned slowly. With determined long strides, Black Dowd went into the truck first, up the loading ramp. He waded between the boxes, shoving one aside. There was a note stuck to the back. He tore it off and stepped back to the others on the ramp and still outside, scanning the paper. Fuck. "Which ones of you are Barreau and Grath." His deep voice echoing loudly in the bowels of the truck. |
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| There is nothing sadder than seeing dead eyes staring out of a dead man's face, particular when they're still moving ... | ||
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| Leo Fleming | Thursday, 23. April 2015, 11:58 Post #4 | |
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Invisible & Silent
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[avatar=http://s22.postimg.org/hpzgdh1st/c845b8ff3b774df57dee1b997da51fc6.jpg][alias=Angel Reyes] Ángel slid from the garbage container where he had slouched since he arrived an hour ago. A Truck just drove by and some other individuals hovered around. Wearing a faded blue jeans with some rips and combat boots. A loose tankshirt, white with a black skull on it covered his muscular chest. With a grin he rolled his shoulders and patted some imaginary dust from his “new” black biker jacket. The former owner of the cross bike behind the garbage container left the jacket to him with the bike. In exchange Ángel gave him a fast death when draining him. The cashier at the last gas station wasn’t that lucky. This stupid started to scream when the Brujah laughed at him. As if he ever payed for gas… Anyway the cashier called him a dickface and Ángel took this as an inspiration. Mierda… how fast this guy shut up, when he made him swallow his own mortal bit of meat! At least he only wailed a little bit, when Ángel took his fill of blood. The Brujah shoved his hands in his jeanspockets and listened to the guy on the screen. His gaze went over the others around, the tall guy. The… thing? The girl… Then his look went inside the truck, mh… he traveled better and worse than in these boxes. The blond bloodbag hurried to pack the TV away again and Ángel turned towards the girl with a lewd grin. Hey sweety, want to share a box with me for the trip? We could have a little fun. Then the big guy called them in and asked for two names he never heard before. Still his grey eye lay on the girl and waited for her answer. She wasn’t quite his taste, he had a thing for more dark haired women but in the end a hole was a hole… Edited by Leo Fleming, Thursday, 23. April 2015, 18:57.
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| Oliver | Friday, 24. April 2015, 19:01 Post #5 | |
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Dork
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[avatar=http://s26.postimg.org/yl3vug5mx/image.jpg][alias=Ian] There wasn't enough dirt... fuck'n city. He'd been watching them, as they'd made their way in, from behind a couple of bushes, where he'd been sitting with his back to a tree, enjoying the last remnants of his evening meal. When the truck arrived, Ian rose to his feet. He was chewing on something as he made his way into the parking lot, Raz padding along heavily. He stopped close enough to see the T.V. and watched, his hound sitting by his side, taking in the scents around him. The Fiend didn't pay too much attention to the others, his attention not even lingering on pighead - he'd seen worse in his own family. Leering eyes moving back to the screen, under a slightly frowning brow, he continued to chew slowly until the message was over with. Do not fail me. No shit, he thought, spitting out what he'd been chewing - a piece of 'now' bloodless flesh that Raz was quick to snatch up off the ground and swallow. The night was clouded, not much to see of the stars, but he liked the fog. It reminded him of home, on the other side of the Atlantic. The house was empty now, with rotting corpses; but he'd made it out. That was something, he thought as he, too, made his way in the back of the truck. He didn't read the sign, nor talk to anyone. Ian crouched down, grabbing the chain around his hound's neck. To Raz The hound didn't reply, nor did he lick at his master following the telepathic command. He was no pet; he was a beast, trained for the hunt. And as much as he was addicted to Ian's Vitae, and adored his master, he knew his place... and remembered what had happened to the other one. Following that, the Fiend entered the box, sat with his head back against the wood, as his hound lied down before it, and closed his eyes. He was used to hard surfaces, and the box was as comfortable as the floor that he's slept on that day. And anyways, that was the least of his concerns. Edited by Oliver, Friday, 24. April 2015, 19:08.
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English German Czech Romanian Oliver![]() Otis link - Bright Eyes | ||
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| Iris Jacobsen | Saturday, 25. April 2015, 06:56 Post #6 | |
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Skuld of the North
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Grath reflected on what a sordid fate had become Grath. Porky Pig. Piglet. Wilbur. Babe. Pumbaa. Mr Piggy. Miss Piggy. Plopper. Bebop. Nago. Fluffy. Ham. Hen Wen. Man-Bear-Pig. Pigly. Spanky Ham. Pigman. Pork Chops. Ham Bone. Canadian Bacon. Peameal Bacon. Snotty. Gravy Nose. Poutine Nose. Big Nose. Or for the least creative of the sabbat, Hey Ugly. Grath would rather have liked a reference to Old Major, a character Grath identified with at times, or Snowball, or even Napoleon. It at least implied Grath was intelligent, not a one dimensional sideshow. Hell even the Minotaur, which Grath felt Grath resembled most, was once a man and thought in some way. Grath was here knowing Grath's role. Grath would be Abbot here because Grath had eaten his way into Abbot in the Montreal Slacks, Grath's old pack. [alias=Grath][avatar=http://vignette4.wikia.nocookie.net/sawfilms/images/1/15/Jigsawcecil.jpg] Grath's journey had been quiet, other than the whining of the puppy. The storage compartment of the plane was half full with baggage, a monstrous Noddist and a little puppy. Grath had enjoyed the soft crunch of its little still developing bones. It was distinctly different than a human baby. Less rubbery. The ride out was easy enough. A woman, alone and beautiful had been getting into her car at the airport. She had gone down loopy after seeing Grath. It was a nice enough car, until Grath left it drifting into traffic with a mangled corpse at the wheel. Grath walked the rest of the way to the isolated meeting point. Grath had arrived first... well that wasn't quite true Grath had appeared first. That wasn't quite true. Grath had appeared next to a trunk that shook and growled when Grath sat on it. Grath gave the trunk a wide space between himself and it. As Grath watched member after member arrive. Grath's small beady eyes carefully identified the define motions they all took. How they walked. How they glanced. How every facial expression still could tug at their faces to portray emotion or thought or anything. Garth lacked these things now, but Grath watched and waited for one of them to break the silence. The young girl stared with open disturbing awe that made Grath feel as if Grath's porcine nose was leaking too much bloodsnot, Grath could best describe the substance. Grath's hands fell into Grath's large front pocket of 'extra deep hooded' black hoodie. Grath rocked slightly uncomfortable with the little tart staring. Grath could already see a potential problem with one of the ghouls Grath was importing and this one. A problem Grath would be dealing with right away. When the video played, Grath flipped the journalist notebook from his pocket open, fingers twirling as Grath wrote the transcript of what was said, or at least nearly everything. When the little human, so little and breakable, gestured for them to enter Grath withdrew a long black device that might look slightly like a cattle prod but a bit shorter. Upon closer inspection, of anyone eyeing it carefully, it was a phone, but broken in half and rebuilt to elongate out the speaker and microphone. Grath poked in a password and in a few seconds Grath was making a phone call. Grath simply squeeled in a pig-like manner and hung up. The signal has made, the ghouls were on their way to London. As was Zir Sprinkles who would require careful care to ensure arrival was not scrutinized too much. "Get in." The bald vampire spoke. Real macho, real strong man. Grath had always been physically strong, but only the Sabbat had began to grow his bravado, or strength of character. Grath could work for him, Grath felt his gravitas. Grath followed the soon to be pack wordlessly. "Which ones of you are Barreau and Grath?" Grath raised his normal human hand, the others probably expected hooves, to Grath's name but remained wordless for the moment. Better not put all of Grath's cards on the table until they were a pack. A true family. Grath figured Grath's name would be somewhere. Grath knew Grath's likely role in this investigation, and it suited Grath. Grath could only hope the cardinal had thought as well about a strong ductus and priest. As Grath entered the van Grath dragged in the shaking chest. Edited by Iris Jacobsen, Sunday, 26. April 2015, 19:59.
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| Clover Greene | Sunday, 26. April 2015, 19:34 Post #7 | |
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Aminal
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Her attention was captured by mohawkhead, upon whom she looked at with such nonchalance that you could assume she were still raptured by her pig-induced daydream. She smiled, then laughed, as mohawkhead raised his proposition. Her hand rested tenderly against his chest, right atop where his dead heart would be. When she spoke, she practically moaned her words at him. A deep, sultry québécois tune. "Oh, mon chéri, dere is no pleasure widout blood, and we ave not yet bound ourselves by blood." She reached closer, so she may whisper into his ear. "Soon, my broder, soon." Her brother's desires needed to be protected, given fuel, and released upon the Demiruge's world. He would be rewarded for his passion - for his carnal lust - but, not yet, because his desires did not coincide with hers. To show trust so early was foolish and would go against her teachings. It was use or be used, and she would let herself be used, and she would use in return, but first, she had to ascertain certain factors were true. Moreover, she was not certain that she could stop herself from tearing into his flesh and organs. If she felt inclined by such a prospect, she would not hesitate from doing so. A deep voice called out from within the truck, her old, old name flowed with it. The large egghead inside seemed to be the owner of this voice. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed pighead raise up his arm, yet she dared not look at him. (That ugly fuck was too much of a visual delight.) Instead, she bellowed out in her thick accent. "Barreau ere, andsome." She then proceeded towards egghead, attempting to avoid gazing at pighead in the process. Not many in the Sabbat knew her as "Barreau". The ones up the chain did, yet her olden pack addressed her solely as "Bambi". Her olden pack was probably long gone by now. She hoped one day she could meet their incarnations, just to fuck with them so badly that they'll never make the same mistakes again - low chances of that happening, but a girl could dream. [alias=Bambi] [avatar=http://puu.sh/fLlTz/83463e7769.png] |
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| Franca | Sunday, 26. April 2015, 20:31 Post #8 | |
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A person
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Alice couldn't tell how Little Alice had got there. Puppets and stuff and other puppets and Little Alice with her blood encrusted pigtails. What a nice show. For what little she could bother to follow. Whatever had happened first was part of another dream, and now she was awake in a new dream and another dream... and somehow she was already bored. Little Alice sitting around like another puppet was boring since she was bored. She needed a bit more blood and screams and other screams. And stuff. And she missed it. Damn she missed it. Since her last dream, little Alice had been missing it. The connection, the sweet poison blood link that made all of them one. That made a bit of them a bit like real a bit less puppets. That made the dream fun and real and everything a dream had to be to be worth dreaming. She watched Little Alice who watched the puppets who watched the screen who watched the puppets. Puppets were cold, that was good, that was so much more fun. Even tho. Warm puppets were fun too. They were easy to make scream. But. They were so easily broken. Once broken no more fun. And cold puppets - ohhh their taste so much better like the time she had nomnonomnommed that one with the weird face. Another one here with a weird face. But in a different way. Also... ...also she missed it. The only thing really real. She knew Little Alice missed it in her dream. She watched little Alice who watched to the show on the screen. The story was strange but stories always strange in dreams. And if she had to wake up in that dream...? Than someone would have taken her and told her what to do. It was going to be fun. That was always fun. --- For what others could see, a blood splattered kid was sitting in a corner, grinning with pointy teeth, without even trying to call for their attention. [avatar=http://i80.photobucket.com/albums/j192/viclis/54d67c71-11a0-4165-a9fa-0fa1386c8858_zps33bd8c00.jpg] [alias=ALICE] Edited by Franca, Tuesday, 28. April 2015, 15:43.
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| Leo Fleming | Monday, 27. April 2015, 20:48 Post #9 | |
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Invisible & Silent
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[avatar=http://s24.postimg.org/f3kegfu9x/Angel.jpg][alias=Angel Reyes] Ángel grinned on the answer of the girl and he growled playful when she whispered her promise in his ear. Barreau... maybe he would remember the name in London, maybe not. For sure he would remember the whispered words. Time to settle in, he went over to the truck. Passing Barreau and giving her round bun a slap. Then he grabbed a hold on the side of the truck and swung himself up with a laughter towards the girl. Inside was an ugly beast in front of an already closed box. Joder! You are a nightmare of a dog! Passing it then and placing himself in one of the boxes pulling the cover over it and waiting for the things to come. Edited by Leo Fleming, Saturday, 2. May 2015, 23:30.
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| Hannah | Tuesday, 28. April 2015, 14:01 Post #10 | |
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Wicked Witch of the West
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The group was already kidding around which was a good thing. Energy and shit got channeled in its proper way. The Mohawk could have tried to stomp the girl flat, unable to take 'no' for an answer. Likewise, she could have scrathed his good eye out, maybe torn him to pinky ribbons for disrespecting her business. There was no telling with modern dames. Or maybe she just got off on this sort of thing. The 'lil' vixen seemed like the type to get off regularly. But nah, it's all good. You never knew how the rank would deal. He might've had to step in and take care of business. You gotta be realistic about these things. Now, would it be too much to hope for that the XO's would be good at detecting shit? Help find the London rat what couldn't be bothered to cover his own ass. Sort out which one deserved to sit on the big chair most and put him on it? Dowd never had much luck at anything. But in this here mission, he'd make it so. The world doesn't owe you to give what you expect, the only thing we can do is tear at the damn thing until what's ours comes off. Something his father used to say. He'd give the proceedings a think in the box. The rest of the rank did not yet fill the sergeant with a whole lot of fuzzy feelings. What the fuck do I get the kid for? Am I being punished? Shit. And there was the dog person. Dowd was a dog person. A kindred's truest pal, if done well. Dogs are used to families and grateful for what they get. Cats simply expect to be taken care of and show no evidence of gratitude or loyalty. Dowd didn't like cat people. And this cat was likely Tzimisce. An educated guess on the sergeant's part, on account of Tthe flesh spitting. It was a tell. Mohawk seemed a big and violent, fun-lovin' vato. He could take point. And that was it. The sergeant knew that his instincts in these here matters sucked and they would all turn out different than he thought. But shit, I haven't tasted any of their blood yet. What can you expect. Moving on. Turning towards Barreau, the army vet crumpled the note and threw it at the French girl. "Cardinal says I'm ductus. You're priest and," the sergeant indicated the animal, "you're Abbott. Anything to say on that?" The animal seemed to perk up at this. Good. The boy had taken out a notebook during the video and the sergeant had taken a moment to stifle a grin at the sight of the writing pig. Fucking Disney is fucking with us all. First this. With a loud thunk, the muscular man jumped onto the truck ramp, blocking the way for everyone that wasn't in yet. He bellowed: " Whoever got a problem with us going to London..., handle the good cardinal's business..., and doing it all on my say-so, you speak now!!" and I'll fuck you up. If no one steps up, the newly appointed ductus, flush with responsibility will make a short detour via the human. He'll request the manner in which the cardinal intends to ferry them up north and across the channel. Inside the truck, he will wait until the last of his brothers and sisters have found their way securely into a box, before climbing in one himself. It's gotta be mighty cramped in there for you and the pooch, the sergeant reflected. [avatar=http://i1296.photobucket.com/albums/ag17/hannahsundling/scene100F_cam04_zps0e2fe3d2.jpg] [alias=Dowd] |
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| There is nothing sadder than seeing dead eyes staring out of a dead man's face, particular when they're still moving ... | ||
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| Iris Jacobsen | Wednesday, 29. April 2015, 00:47 Post #11 | |
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Skuld of the North
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Grath looked at the man sizing him up. Likely a bit more strong than Grath. A soldier was in his tone. He might make a decent ductus, only time would tell. The runty girl who had stared at Grath was the priest. In Grath's experience with the Montreal Slacks a priest could be unpredictable. It could not be assessed simply with a look the same way as a respectable ductus. Her words would leave a deep meaning to think on. "you're Abbott. Anything to say on that?" The piggly eyes stared into the kindred addressing him. The voice was deep, sounding oddly like optimus prime, "Grath is good at it... Grath will build an unbreakable haven, Ductus." Once the Ductus finished his words Grath gave the man a nod entered the box nearest to Grath. Once inside Grath shifted a pair of earbuds into the oddly shaped ears. Grath turned on a tourist audio book about the city of London. Listening to it for the second time would give Grath a better knowledge of the terrain. Preparation was oh so important...[alias=Grath][avatar=http://vignette4.wikia.nocookie.net/sawfilms/images/1/15/Jigsawcecil.jpg] Edited by Iris Jacobsen, Wednesday, 29. April 2015, 00:47.
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| Clover Greene | Wednesday, 29. April 2015, 20:24 Post #12 | |
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Aminal
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She caught the crumpled paper with ease, and after straightening it out, simply began to stare. It wasn't a very intense stare - not the kind she gave to pighead - but one could see that the Rose antitribu was thoroughly invested with the written words. After several seconds of silence, a sadistic smile began to creep up on her features, and soon, she began to laugh softly to herself. To allow an Albigensian to be Priest was not unheard of. Those stories, however, were best left undisclosed. This station served her purposes well. She needed to indoctrinate her brothers and sisters into the elation of their corporeally divine nature. This would allow her to exercise her teachings upon them. Together, they would be the Demiruge's jailers. "The Jailers", would that be their pack name? No, that was fucking lame. There'd be time for such decisions on the road. First, she needed to unite them through Unholy Communion. There was much to do, and a fair amount of time to think things through. "Seems 'andsome is ride." She smiled, shrugging her shoulders as if this piece of news was treated with indifference. The paper was crumpled again, before having its existence hid within her brassiere, just to be safe that no non-Sabbat eyes would identify its contents. This was also a test, to see which one of them would want to ascertain that what Dowd and her proclaimed was true, and not a fabricated lie. It was always good to know who the skeptics were. With that out of the way, Bambi made her way towards the bloody little girl. If allowed, she would guide the girl towards the truck, and help her understand that she needed to go in a box. It was something about the little girl's bloody grin and detached gaze that made Bambi believe that her thoughts might not have been fully with them - call it an Auspex thing. If she was wrong, she would simply leave her alone. Regardless, they weren't a pack yet, but if she was gonna be a Priest to these wide assortment of the Demiurge's archonic creatures, she might as well get to know their limitations. With much planning to be done, the Pervert entered her box once everyone - besides Dowd - was inside. [alias=Bambi] [avatar=http://puu.sh/fLlTz/83463e7769.png] Edited by Clover Greene, Wednesday, 29. April 2015, 20:25.
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| Oliver | Thursday, 30. April 2015, 01:29 Post #13 | |
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Dork
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[avatar=http://s26.postimg.org/yl3vug5mx/image.jpg][alias=Ian] Ian remained with his head against the box, his eyes closed. He'd gotten in when told, and now... Now, he listened. "Joder! You are a nightmare of a dog!" He gave a grin at that, teeth still stained with blood. Fuckin' right. "Cardinal says I'm ductus..." Hell, he'd already figured that. Fucker had the right attitude... Mohawk talked too much, girl sounded like a fuckin' retard, pig was alright, and the kid... who the fuck turns a kid! "Whoever got a problem with us going to London..., handle the good cardinal's business..., and doing it all on my say-so, you speak now!!" He was almost hoping for one of those fuckers to say that they did, and grinned again at the thought, pulling a small plastic bag form the front pocket of his jeans, grabbing some flesh from it, and bringing it to his mouth. Not too long after, he heard lids of boxes falling down as everyone shut up. At fuckin' last. Edited by Oliver, Thursday, 30. April 2015, 01:29.
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English German Czech Romanian Oliver![]() Otis link - Bright Eyes | ||
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| Franca | Thursday, 30. April 2015, 15:41 Post #14 | |
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A person
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Alice had seen Alice in boxes when she was with her pack. Pack was a good thing so boxes were too. But there were not pack mates, only puppets, their blood didn't dream all with one voice and make it real. Alice would have bit the scantly clad puppet if she had been there, but she wasn't there, she was looking Alice walking under the puppet's directions and listening her singing a nursery rhyme, one about ten little Bishops being slaugheter one by one until there was none. Alice looked Alice settle into the box and then she was there, she was dreaming she was Little Alice in the box and all those puppets, were they family, were they not family? They spoke like Sabbat but none of them were Mistress Eve and the blood wasn't being the blood as she knew the blood and the pack and the family........... She peeped out of the box, she looked at them with her EYES OF CHAOS, and hopefully Little Alice would have awoken another layer in her dream. [avatar=http://i80.photobucket.com/albums/j192/viclis/54d67c71-11a0-4165-a9fa-0fa1386c8858_zps33bd8c00.jpg] [alias=ALICE] |
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| Clover Greene | Thursday, 30. April 2015, 19:30 Post #15 | |
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Aminal
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Seven hours elapsed since they had left Bayonne by truck. It had taken them that much time to arrive in Granville, Manche, in north-western France. Throughout this time, the members of the soon-to-be pack were given almost no opportunity to socialize among each other. There was a reason for this, and the reason was simple: the rituals that defined their camaraderie had not taken place yet. Any words spoken now ran the risk of creating adversity within the pack before the pack could have the opportunity of being officially established. In other words, speech was silver, giant boxes that contained them from fucking up were gold. By the time the truck had parked at the harbour of Granville, the time was 06:30 A.M., and the dawn had lulled them into peaceful death. Nobody had disturbed them from their boxes during this time, and the little angels (of the Demiurge) shared a refreshing, dreamless day together. After each accursed sunfall, there must always be a nightrise. They had traveled a very substantial distance, and they were drawing ever closer to that city. They were predators, and they were slowly approaching their prey. Two men - one slim, one plump - waited for them at the harbour of Granville. They would continue the blonde man's duty - a fact which seemed to come as a relief for the blonde man. There was still worry present in his eyes, but now they also displayed something else: impatience. Restlessness was catching up to him, and the stress of driving them around had roused his desperation to poison his composure. He had served his purpose well - it would be up to the Cainites whether he would live to serve another night, or whether the Sabbat of the area would require a new toy. A private ferry carried them off the coast of Normandy, France, and towards the Bailiwick of Jersey. Like the rest of the Channel Islands, the island of Jersey was under Crown dependency, and it was on this specific island that preparations would be made for their arrival in England. Before they could continue onward, something very vital had to be instituted. The Vaulderie was the Sabbat's divine grace, and proof of their superiority over lesser creatures. No other beings except the Sabbat could understand just how incredible it felt - how liberating it could be. The Vinculum paved the way for vampires to escape the shackles of their forefathers. Soon, the Asfalt Aminals would be blessed with this Communion, as well. Soon, they would become a pack. Setting anchor close to the harbour of Gorey, the Cainites were now allowed to witness the location of their inception. The village of Gorey was a fragile little thing, but oh so precious in its deliverance of affluence and style. Perhaps the most striking landmark of this sparsely populated town was Gorey Castle. Gorey Castle was once a defensive implement situated on a prominent hill; now, it was a tourist attraction. Within the darkness of the night, however, the castle was abandoned save for two night guards stationed at the castle’s modernized gates. Whilst the mortal wretches at the pack's command busied themselves with the preparations for their voyage across the English Channel, the archonic beings would extend their shadowy tendrils around the vulnerable neck of Gorey village, and watch as it writhes at their touch. Before such jolly frolicking, however, something stood in the way of them and the shore: the pitch black water of the night. For the sake of security, their ferry could not have been easily moored into the harbor without attracting unnecessary attention. All Cainites had a choice. They could either join the mortals on their little dinghy, or they could display their racial superiority by diving into the water. Cainites required no breath, felt no cold, and feared no darkness. If they did not know how to swim, they could just as easily drop to the bottom of the shallow seabed, and walk their way forward. It was proof of their monstrosity, and of their divinity. A third option involved spending an entire night and day upon the ferry. That, however, meant that the Cainite would not have the opportunity to partake in the pack's first esbat, nor would they be given the opportunity to feed. All Cainites were to gather upon the sandy beach of Gorey village. There, they would settle on their tasks for the rituals to come. If there were Cainites who did not attend the beach gathering - either by dinghy or by swimming -, those Cainites had failed the pack, and were expected to be admonished heavily for it by the rest. Eyes of Chaos Reading on Bambi Bambi was impatient. She needed to have the pieces fall into their place, yet she could not allow herself to rush. This was something she desired to savour for a lengthier period of time. She did not drain the blonde man, yet she did not care if someone else did or didn't. On the way to Jersey island, she had informed the rest of the pack that they were to call her "Bambi". If someone laughed or had an attitude with regards to her name, she did not care for their opinion. When it was settled that they would meet on the shore, she dived in almost immediately; throughout the entire swim, she remained underwater and hidden from view. Once the rest of the pack arrived, she consulted with the soon-to-be Ductus in a whispered tone that couldn't carry over to the others unless their senses were enhanced. "We should... find a place to stay. I want to... borrow a few things for the Vaulderie from the local church, but we should complete a Harvest... for the Blood Feast to follow..." Her lungs were still filled with sea water, thus her speech was somewhat gargled. [alias=Bambi] [avatar=http://puu.sh/fLlTz/83463e7769.png] |
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| Leo Fleming | Saturday, 2. May 2015, 23:34 Post #16 | |
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Invisible & Silent
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[avatar=http://s24.postimg.org/f3kegfu9x/Angel.jpg][alias=Angel Reyes] Trigger Violence Edited by Leo Fleming, Wednesday, 10. June 2015, 15:59.
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| Iris Jacobsen | Sunday, 3. May 2015, 02:13 Post #17 | |
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Skuld of the North
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Trigger warning Grath rose from Grath's coffin among the others. Grath's guts were sated from the meal the previous night, but lesser beings would die tonight regardless. Assessing the situation of crossing the distance, Grath began to strip. Two simple goals could be achieved in this. First it would advertise to the group Grath was not a frenzy hungry creature, and other than Grath's head and a hairy torso Grath was a markless very muscular man. The other would be Grath's lack of concern with the world of mortal laws and dynamics. Grath cared nothing of debauched orgies and the like, Grath was a true noddist, a scholar. The condition of nudity was irrelevant, and as Grath approached with rippling muscles toward the humans, the intimidation was palpable to any who watched. The voice was cold and deep."Meat. Your job is to transport Grath's belongings across water in your little boat. They will be kept clean and held as sacred objects to you dirty humans. I hope you have plastic available because if a drop of water falls on them Grath will know, and then Grath will make a point of breaking every bone in your body before Grath allows you to die. You have two hundred and six bones. It will take Grath weeks to finish snapping the small ones. Think on this carefully with every oar stroke." The display would also help establish how well Grath worked with human filth, but that would be irrelevant as soon as Grath began managing the meat in London. A nod given to any other members of Caine's blood that remained as Grath began to sprout black feathers across Grath's body. Shrinking in size, and after about ten seconds of gruesome form changing Grath was in raven form, jet black eyes regarded the mortals. The caw from the Raven's mouth sounded slightly like the words "Stroke, Stroke, Stroke!" The Raven took off and very quickly made its way to the island, a nice tailwind pushing it along. Likely first to arrive it circled castle getting the lay of the land and observing the two guards at the gate of the castle. Nothing but weakness to guard a place of such potential importance. A few more flaps and it looked at the architecture. Well built. Solid, and a possible good site for tonight's festivities. Grath would suggest it to the bald one and the girl whore. After a few more wheeling circles he looking at the site of their beach landing area, he decided to get some clothing. The guards never saw the monster coming. The slightly shorter of the two took a knockout punch to his skull. The taller had a claw shoved directly into his eye sockets. Grath put on the clothes of the taller guard, the arms of the shirt tearing a bit under Grath's muscles, and hefted the other man over Grath's shoulder. Dragging the stripped guard and carrying the unconscious companion toward the castle Grath left the dead guard in some bushes. Grath took the unconscious one into the castle making a few potential preparations of Grath's own. Spoiler: click to toggle New clothes worn, bodies secure, and time to spare Grath transformed again and flew to the beach landing site and began to meditate. Once the others finally arrived Grath would greet each with a polite nod and then close Grath's eyes and then go back to concentration. Once the boat arrived Grath would determine the fate of the humans. Of course Grath could have taken Grath's clothes with Grath in the transformation. It was important these mortal filth realized their fate was dependent on any Cainite's whim. Grath sat, awaiting the words of the bald man to the group.[alias=Grath][avatar=http://vignette4.wikia.nocookie.net/sawfilms/images/1/15/Jigsawcecil.jpg] Edited by Iris Jacobsen, Sunday, 3. May 2015, 02:15.
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| Oliver | Sunday, 3. May 2015, 19:23 Post #18 | |
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Dork
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[avatar=http://s26.postimg.org/yl3vug5mx/image.jpg][alias=Ian] When he reached the shore, he was wet. Ian didn't like wet. He didn't like kids either, not the small kind. So he spent a good deal of time scanning along the shore, until he found a small house with a light inside, and an old woman sitting in a rocking chair, before the fire. Perfect, he thought, going around to the side. Breaking into the woman's bedroom didn't take long. With as little noise as possible, he made his way inside; and, under the cover, found a lamp that he turned on. Everything was neatly placed, handmade cushions and comforters, memories of a lifetime. And pictures. Ian picked up one of the portraits. It was that of a teenager, in what appeared to be in her grandmother's arms. He grinned, leering eyes studying the picture attentively, and made his way to the dresser, raising his eyes to the mirror. They'd had one, back home. The others had all been broken. For good reasons. And as he looked into the glass, and alternatively at the picture, Ian's trait began to change into those of the girl on the picture... Blond hair replacing the darker ones; bone structure becoming thinner, the traits delicate and the skin of the face taking on a tan; sickly amber eyes mutating to a pale blue-green. And the Tzimisce smiled. Raz remained outside, waiting. He knew the drill. Ian let his bag fall and took off his wet clothes, now working on his body, to sculpt it in what appeared to be a petite woman, with nice peach sized breasts. He took a moment to admire his work, before turning towards the door. Without bothering to dress, he made his way out, and silently, listening to the crackling of the fire, found the old woman. She was dozing off on her chair, a pair of knitting needles on her lap, stuck into some kind of red sweater that she'd been making. Ian came to stand before her and brought both hands down on the arms of her rocking chair, giving it a swing back to wake her up. Coming to with a start, she looked at what indeed happened to be her 'granddaughter' and, confused by the fogs of sleep, her face took on an expression of surprise, mixed with some joy. She didn't seem sure of what to think of seeing her naked, and was still trying to calm her old heart. "Sarah? ...are you alright, dear? When did you get here... and why are you not wearing any clothes?" she asked, moving to put her knitting away, with the intention of getting off the chair and help her 'grandaughter'. Another grin came over Ian's borrowed features, as one hand came off the arm of the chair, and seized the knitting from her. In one sudden movement, he drove them through her hand to pin it to her leg, where it now rested. The scream filled the Fiend with a rush that stirred both of his Beasts, Raz's howling audible outside. Keeping his hand on the needle, he pushed it deeper into the leg, producing more of the sweet lamentations, and brought his face closer to the woman's, his fangs extending. "Mornin' gran!" his voice rasped in her face, his bad breath making her try and recoil in her pain. But there was nowhere to go... The screams continued as the clothes were torn from old woman; as she was laid out on the floor; and as chunks of her well-aged body, blood filled flesh, were cut up for later use with a sharp hunting knife. She fell silent when Ian fed from her, her agonizing pain soon dissipating under the pleasure of the Kiss - but the Fiend didn't let her enjoy that very long. Just enough to sate his thirst. When he was done, he let in Raz, and allowed his hound to devour what was rest of the woman. His pack had been soaked; but, apart from his sketching pad, anything in there could not be ruined by water. And it was to more screams, as Raz fed, that Ian cut what flesh he'd taken into smaller pieces and put it all in ziplock bags. When all was done, a quick search of the house yielded men clothes - form a deceased husband, probably. Ian took what he needed, changed, and packed more in case his pack mates should need them. That was his job. To take care of that kind of stuff. Make sure they were all dry, went in the right direction, sniffed out enemies, and didn't walk into some fuckin' trap. His pack on one shoulder, another large bag on the other, his own identity back, he left the house and returned to the beach where the others waited, Raz padding along. When he arrived, he eyed everyone, noticed pig in uniform, and went to sit not too far from him, dropping the bag. "Clothes and shit in there," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. In the bag were men and women's clothes, shoes, and towels. Edited by Oliver, Sunday, 3. May 2015, 19:29.
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English German Czech Romanian Oliver![]() Otis link - Bright Eyes | ||
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| Franca | Monday, 4. May 2015, 11:31 Post #19 | |
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A person
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Sand, water, Bambi, puppets, PIECES OF PUPPETS, and something... something familiar. Is Bambi a puppet, a big or a small puppet or a fawn or a reindeer? Is the sand wet with water wet with what? Alice jumped into the dark water and let her sink to the bottom. Going by human-like means not even an option. Why ever? Why ever. She sunk down and down and down, water surrounded Little Alice and Alice waches and laughs. A thousand unlives reflected in every wave. But how much is one thousand? More or less than zero? Alice walked on the bottom and Alice inspired water in her dead lungs and Alice rejoiced because that wasn't all like other puppets. Blood. Blood to be burnt to get stronger. Blood to be brunt to get hungrier. Blood fuelling her strenght her hunger they were both the same. Alice emerged on the beach, a beach like the beach where Bambi had been on a beech. Water had washed away the blood from her hair and clothes and the effort had washed the other blood away from her veins. The craving, the familiar craving. One to enjoy, not to restrain EVER, for no reason. Hunger is what makes you stronger than the other puppets the sweet broken screamboxes the tasty things. A puppet. THE SMELL OF BLOOD. A PUPPEt who loOKed like a big puPPET COMES CLOSER ALL SMELLING LIKE TASTY BLOOD. "Hey kid, are you lost? Are you oka-? -Alice's teeth are already ripping him to shreds and sating Little Alice's thirst. It screams, it doesn't scream enough, Little Alice screams because the noise reosunds in her dream. The Beast is with her and Little Alice is the Beast. Are other puppets those she's sating herself on now? How many are one two three? More or less than one thousand? Alice lies on the bloody sand. Is she going to wake up in a different dream? [avatar=http://i80.photobucket.com/albums/j192/viclis/54d67c71-11a0-4165-a9fa-0fa1386c8858_zps33bd8c00.jpg] [alias=ALICE] |
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| Hannah | Wednesday, 6. May 2015, 00:39 Post #20 | |
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Wicked Witch of the West
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'Bambi... Ba'ambi ... Bam'bi...' The sergeant found his mouth unsuited to form the word, it being more used to barking and biting. Dainty Disney words did not get out over much. He felt ridiculous. He felt like a clown. Far better to just yell 'Barreau', it rolled off the tongue proper, packed a punch if you put your cords into it. However, the sergeant was mindful of his underlings, respectful of his fellow officers as long as they fulfilled their duties and refrained from irritating shit. Like losing sight of the objective,... or losing sight of the fucking point, their raison d'etre as freedom loving beings, as it be-fucking-hooves upstanding Sabbat. These should be kept to a minimum. Last was pissing him off beyond what was reasonably acceptable. There should be none of that. Full stop. And so he'd refer to the French girl in her little princess-way. Whatever floats her boat. "There go my people, I must find out where they are going so I can lead them." --Alexandre Auguste Ledru-Rollin-- The line was bullshit. He had no idea why it suddenly up and announced itself in his mind. It very much was the other way around and he lived by the reverse. The sergeant was a well-read man. He read books.Time enough to get educated while paying back his debt to society. A man should always strive to improve himself and now he was a fucking intellectual menace. This night, it seemed, the still-to-be-consecrated pack had fallen prey to group think, herd behavior. The last dead body splashed merrily into the water, leaving inky black circles in the icy water, said body having potentially subverted its will to that that of the greater collective. That was not a great thing. Unless orders had been given which they hadn't. He himself did no such thing, for one he was a seasoned passenger of little dinghies as they had carried his combat-ready ass to all kinds of places. The sergeant made it a point to do his level best to consider real freedoms wherever they could found, like the freedom of the opinion of others and follow through. The big man was not a subtle thing. Determined, with a face that broadcast this fuck had no sense of humor, he placed one meaty fist on the side of the boat and hopped in. The little craft rocked violently almost tilting over. "I'm steering." The kids were being bitches, so he told them so. They hesitated to let the bald man at the engine even though he was big enough they should know fucking better. Fuck's sake. Give a kid one nut hair and he thinks he owns the world. "Move. Get in my way whilst I'm walking one more time and I'll cut your fucking nuts off." People sometimes just didn't get the simple goddamn truth. "I'm sure the orders would ..." the mortal stammered. He had obviously not encountered this situation before so it fell to the sergeant to light the way. "There is no order in this, son. If there was order, I'd fucking know. Ask me how I'd know." "How ... how would you know?" It was starting to sink in that he was trying to bullshit a 7 foot war hero child of the fucking dark and boxing enthusiast, crazy enough to seriously consider heading this raggedy bunch including a munching dog lover, a doe-eyed Parisienne or worse, a pig, queer bait embraced with a suspicious hairdo and a little girl. "Because I'm the fucking sergeant, if there was any around, it'd be because I fucking gave it." The sergeant proceeded to punch him in the stomach, gently because the sergeant understood subtlety. No-balls caught the hint and moved over. Dowd took the helm and steered the vehicle to the sandy Gorey beach in no time. Arriving more or less in time with the others, he moved to the dripping Bambi, counting 1, 2, 3, making sure none of them had lost their way wading across the fucking seabed. All were accounted for. The little ray of sunshine was far away to the south, laying down in the sand next to a dead guy. "We should... find a place to stay. I want to... borrow a few things for the Vaulderie from the local church, but we should complete a Harvest... for the Blood Feast to follow..." Bambi gurgled. Shit. His sister in blood was one hot ass chick. Had a bit of wet dog about her at the moment, but still hot as fuck. If she wasn't about to become his second, he might have to get her number, so the sergeant was thinking. The fact that his dangly bits had ceased operating years ago, but his lizard brain hadn't yet caught on, was not one that filled the sergeant with any measure of pride. Hopefully, time would take care of it and a few more years would purge the dregs of lust that occasionally welled up from his balls. He pushed the thought aside. Shit was expected from him. Looking down, his nigh black stare bore into the woman's large eyeballs. "We should get a Vaulderie organized as soon as possible before the proverbial shit hits the proverbial fan. We'll go into the village and look for the church. On the way, we can gather whatever kine we encounter. A minimum of 6, no more than 10. We can always get back to the ferry to spend the day. But I'm inclined to the start our bloody rise to glory at the castle." He yelled. Clear, loud, effortlessly thundering above the surf. The sergeant motioned for them to come and gather round. Reyes already had a bag with him and so did Grath. The punk Tzimisce likewise looked hale and reddish and the kid had had hers. This would not do, not one bit. Un-fucking-acceptable. Just a night ago they had all stood there accepting his authority. And now, already, their inner demons were shouting down their greater angels. He blamed himself. He had been rusty, lazy, had not put fucking duty front of center of his being. Shit got through that way. The sergeant had neglected giving any orders. No don't go off half-cocked and eat the first fucking thing you find. No nothing. He had figured it could wait. He'd lead with velvet-shod iron fist as soon as they set foot in England. The pack-to-be filed around him, some of them reeking of fresh blood. The sergeant found himself peckish and could do with a person himself. His back ramrod straight, the sergeant addressed the rank. "Alright, gents. Tonight, we stand in the silence before the motherfucking storm. Shit did not yet get real and we find ourselves with out guard down. I realize I would be a poor excuse for a ductus if I denied you the world's pleasures. I realize any happy soldier of the Sword of Caine from time to time has to plant his fangs nice and deep-like. Only tonight, I find 4 of you went ahead, on your own, jeopardizing the Cardinal's mission, fucking drawing attention when I did not give the clear for drawing fucking attention. Know that I blame myself and you are not at fault. You have ignored no orders, broken no laws. That being said. Next time I will take the ear of whichever fucking animal thinks the pack is there to pick your burning ass out of the fire when needed and for the rest can go ahead on his lonesome. I will take the ear of any prancing fuck that refuses to exercise his goddamn common sense." The sergeant looked each individual in the eye, ready to come down like a ton of bricks on whoever mouthed off first. It paid to know in advance who'd be defiant, who needed wall-to-wall counseling. Better to have it out here, and deal with it, instead of in London, elbow-deep in shit, trying to keep away the flames from their brothers' backs. His eyes lingered on the kid. The knee-high was the most likely not to grasp the gravity of the situation, not to mention some of the big words. The sprite's thousand-yard stare send a chill up the sergeant's spine. It was fucking disconcerting. He figured he'd have to plant one of his leather personnel carriers in her face before long. Make an impression. First order, to Bambi. "You stay with the kid. Make sure she understands the situation." The woman was the most likely to possess the lion's share of whatever ruin of a nurturing instinct still lingered in the pack. Shit. They needed a vaulderie, keep a lid on it. ASAP That said, the sergeant switched out of platoon daddy. "Gents. 2 Things. The priest here informed me she needs to gear up before we are able to pass the bloody cup. She informed me she needs to gear up in a church. We will find us a church. Bambi, Alice and myself will cover that end. Ian, Reyes and the Abbott will proceed into the village. For the feast afterwards, we need bags. You will collect them, alive. Do not gather more than what you can take. Go nuts, pig out, but don't stay in one place too long and don't duke it out with any law you might encounter. You see any, you leave them the fuck alone and you haul ass. You will get no more than 10 bags, but not less than 6. We all need 1 at least. Rendez-vous at the castle main entrance in 45 minutes. Do not be fucking late." The sergeant looked around. Which one of these sons of bitches had got his cheap-ass wrist watch clogged traversing the fucking ocean? "Questions?" [avatar=http://i1296.photobucket.com/albums/ag17/hannahsundling/scene100F_cam04_zps0e2fe3d2.jpg] [alias=Dowd] |
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| There is nothing sadder than seeing dead eyes staring out of a dead man's face, particular when they're still moving ... | ||
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1:57 AM Jul 11