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|Magnus Monroe - Deceased; Former Archbishop of London|
|Topic Started: Monday, 21. February 2011, 21:39 (745 Views)|
|Monroe||Monday, 21. February 2011, 21:39 Post #1|
Player Handle: Loki
Name: Magnus Monroe
Place of birth: Ireland
Age of embrace: 39
Disciplines: Dominate, Obtenebration, Potence
Appearance: Despite his clan handicap, Magnus always appears in impeccable condition. He stands at little fewer than 6ft, average built though gaunt in the face, extremely pale with visible and prominent veins traced all over his body. His body had received the touch of a Tzimisce, and refined in detail, making him appear somewhat younger than the age he was turned. He has long black hair, combed into position every sundown by his ghoul, accompanied with a trimmed beard. His grey eyes are cold and hard, while his mouth seems a fraction too small, as if he never smiles. He is normally seen wearing a black suit, though usually with a contrasting tie, Crombie coat along with leather gloves and snakeskin boots, though he is prone to wear more practical clothing on the front line of a war.
Magnus Monroe was born on the 7th of July, 1777. Truly an auspicious day, or so Samuel Monroe, his father, believed. He was a man of great power and wealth, accruing a small fortune from establishing one of the foremost importing businesses of Dublin along with a family friend, an Englishman Mr. Thomas. It was perhaps because of this reason that he was able to remain true to his faith. Samuel was a Catholic in a Protestant country, where such beliefs were outlawed by the countries very constitution. However, he was rich, well connected and clever enough to fight the system, and win.
Magnus spent most of his life quietly and comfortable in their little manor on the outskirts of Dublin, with private tuition from a servant of Mr. Thomas’ recommended (Since Irish law decreed no catholic may be educated). Magnus had an older brother and sister, Fergus and Lily, but was favourite to father. In fact, with his business to be inherited to his eldest, Samuel had hopes for his youngest to join the church. What little time that was spent not neglecting his family was usually spent with the boy, tutoring and studying, deeply ingraining the religion into his brain more so than any amount of years spent Sunday school would. He was however guilty of bending the truth in order to get his son interested in the religion. The boy enjoyed the idea of a benevolent lord, watching over his family, and would devote his life to a life in the priesthood if it meant long happy lives for his loved ones. Samuel had aspirations for his child...but in Ireland? He wasn’t sure.
Samuel joined an organisation known as the United Irishmen for this very reason, a group that wished for a better future for both Catholics and Protestants, and hoped to achieve an independent democratic republic independent of British rule. Unfortunately, tragedy struck the family before any change. It happened when Magnus was nearly of age, planning to join the seminary, but maturity failed to ease the heartache of the news his mother and sister had been found murdered returning from the city. The grief sparked months of arguments, Magnus having his faith heavily rocked by the events. He turned to his father for advise, but had his questions brushed aside as not understanding. This infuriated the would-be priest, leading to more questions. He had always been aware of the tense situation between Catholics and Protestants, and pondered the idea that his father wasn’t right. Maybe none of them were.
Magnus’ announcement that he no longer had plans on entering the seminary whilst he mulled the issue was met with severe consequences. His father reacted badly; things were said, turning to violence when Magnus argued that there was no evidence or reason to believe. He was essentially ‘kicked out’ of his home, and informed that he would only be allowed to return when he had got past this misguided and rebellious phase of his youth. This of course led to more ill feelings from his Son.
Magnus found the world very different in the city. Harsh, cruel and unfair, he couldn’t help but reject the very idea of there being a God. Perhaps there had been one, and like all creatures, had lived, aged and died. He of course had his own small amount of wealth, but found that the Penal laws forbid him from owning land from his religion. And that wasn’t all. In fact, it was late one night where Magnus was surprised to find a visitor waiting for him at his rented accommodation. He was old, no younger than fifty, but looked much frailer and lifeless than even the starving on the streets. Magnus was even more surprised when he introduced himself as Mr. Frederick Thomas, his father’s business partner.
Magnus found him wise to the world, yet free of trouble. To his great relief, the conversations between them were not revolved around his father, but the problems with the world. For many weeks, Mr. Thomas would take time out of his busy schedule to visit young Magnus, even going so far as to offer he stay at his own private estate. He was curious and pleasant company, and eventually Magnus was drawn to asking him of his theological beliefs, mistaking him for a Protestant. He laughed darkly and smiled, and merely stated Religion had its uses.
Frederick informed Magnus of a twisted Penal law that allowed Magnus to take possession of all his father’s assets and worth by converting to the Protestant faith, something that intrigued him. Still, as embittered as he was, he found it difficult to destroy a life, his father’s life, all for revenge. Frederick often brought it up in later conversations, asking him what he felt on the matter, but never pressuring him to actually do it. It wasn’t until nearly a year after his exodus of his family estate that his decision was made...shortly after someone attempted to kill him.
The knife-wielding assailant was identified by Frederick shortly after he was gunned down by one of the many guards on his estate after hearing the commotion of Magnus defend himself. He simply put it “he works for your father” and the moral decision suddenly only had one answer. Frederick made the arrangements of the ceremony of confirmation, and afterwards he would take the young Irishman to his rightfully claimed home. Or at least that is what he said he had planned. Unbeknownst to Magnus, Frederick was a Lasombra, and after years of manipulation and corruption had been manufacturing his childe. He ordered the family home be burnt to the ground, and that Samuel and Fergus Monroe be murdered with the blame to be shifted on the British Government acting against the United Irishmen. The news left Magnus disturbed and shaken, with nothing left to his name but a share in business he knew nothing about. Frederick reassured him, that soon everything would make sense and Magnus would be taken care of. And yet with all that had happened over the years, the death of all his family and an attempt on his life, he started to wonder whether his theory had been incorrect, that there was a terrible God of vengeance raining fire and brimstone upon him and his house for such wickedness. Or someone worse. In the end, he did the only thing he could do. He ran.
It was over fourteen years later that Magnus was stepping off a ship in southern England. He had moved to the British Isles only to find himself in doubt of living. He had abandoned the only person who seemed left to care for him, Frederick, but had left the old man a note stating he was leaving, and thanking him for his hospitality and wise words. Lost and alone, he joined the Royal Military Academy. War with the Republic French loomed over all of Europe, and Magnus decided if he had nothing to live for, he would come face to face with death, and know that if he could find something to die for, he would die with little regret.
But of course, he didn’t die. He spent over a decade as part of a Dragoons unit, watching the terrible things that man was driven to do. Magnus was one of the very few who battled the Napoleonic war start to finish, and was present in Waterloo during the final victory. He was promoted to sergeant for outstand service in Spain, and was to receive further promotion should he wish to remain with the service, which he did. Magnus had been surrounded by friends and comrades, who had spoke their woes with the world, many living more tragic lives than his own. Yet all of them were willing to fight and die for what they thought would mean a better world. The bravery and tenacity of those men had rubbed off on him, and he planned to see out the rest of his life in the service of Britain. At least that is what he hoped, until his gaze fixed upon all too familiar features. The frail old man who had not aged a day beckoned him, a smile creasing his features. His smile did not love or warm though, only satisfied. He had waited a long time, and finally the prodigal son returned.
Despite Frederick’s anguish of his would-be-childes fleeing, he had gained a valuable asset. He had originally hunted Magnus to Britain, had been intrigued to discover that Magnus had joined the military, and decided to simply stop perusing him. He had hoped for a strong childe to help his future plans, and personally knew what war did to the soul. Magnus had flourished into a great man, his siring cleansing him of whatever humanity that was left. They did not return to Ireland, or stay for much longer in Britain. Frederick told his childe that they were to travel to America. Apparently, there had been a bit of trouble.
Magnus had been fully indulged in the nature of his new condition, along with all the political ramifications, history and of course, the violence. Frederick taught him well, and was happy to find that his childe cunning and instinct would allow him to excel in a corrupt world. To say he loved his childe would probably be correct; he cherished his protégé and treated him well, knowing that if there was anyone he could trust it was his student. Recently there had been civil war in the Sabbat, and Frederick had come to lend assistance. However, he found the Purchase Pact and quelling of the uprising, due in great part to the efforts of the Tzimisce clan. A clan that Frederick did not like. Upon arrival to Texas, he became distant with the Sabbat somewhat, having been absent for many years and perhaps because of the presence of the Tzimisce Archbishop Kobal. Magnus on the other hand was encouraged to be involved in their activities, joining a pact, playing and fucking, burning and killing. Un-life was good.
Magnus spent years as a pack mate and brother in the sword, but was often called upon by his master for other engagements. One of which was the ghouling of a local land and livestock owner Jonathan Gray and his colleagues, who would be something of a cash cow for the Sabbat. Frederick left the continent, leaving the task to his childe as an attempt to further empower his protégé. Magnus often attended Gray’s gatherings and dinners that would include the echelon of the new world, and more influence to be gained. Despite knowing the significance of the relationships needing to be made, he was more interested in Mrs. Gray. As he would later know her, Amelia.
While Jonathan knew Magnus as a superior, Amelia possessed a fierce and ambitious spirit that impressed the Lasombra. When he offered the ghouling to her, she actually replied that she could not imagine living forever at the lowly status of a cattle rustlers wife. Curiosity tickled, he offered her a more interesting deal. Should her husband and his partners all be killed, most of the estate would pass to her. One by one, Magnus would take them, bring them to her, and then she would kill them. She spent weeks scared and tortured; the days between each kill were full of thought and doubt, and then slowly crept to the dread of the next murder. Magnus was especially unhelpful, sending the authority around to rattle her, and truly pleased that she didn’t crack. Then at last came her husband, who had never been suspicious of her involvement due to her flawless facade. She was worthy, and the blood provided her consideration.
Magnus adored his new childe, so naturally he wanted to introduce her to his little family that was the Sabbat. His sire had been away for some time, and doubt arose if he would ever see the estranged old man again. Magnus had no real desire for power amongst the cattle (and had arranged the murder of those he did have influence over), in fact finding it condescending. He wanted to make more of a contribution to the Sabbat. He was gratefully relieved that his Bishop, a Lasombra named Soto, had his own ghoul with experience in making money. The money was mainly diverted to the Sabbat anyway, so what did it matter who was responsible for bringing it in? Free of such work, he and Amelia lived as pack mates and companions.
Then Frederick came back.
His sires appearance was as unexpected as his behaviour. Magnus had since become Ductus of his pack and assumed that his sire would be proud. However, Frederick showed a new terrifying side of his persona, possessing a profound rage with his childes actions; apparently Jonathan Gray and his colleagues were planned for huge things. Magnus was truly scared, and pleaded for forgiveness. His life. The scolding simmered down eventually, Frederick had regained his warm, comforting facade. He calmed his childe, took his hands and asked him to prove his worth, his devotion and trust in his sire. “I need your help Magnus. To kill Archbishop Kobal.”
Magnus didn’t even attempt to consider what he was hearing, but was stunned with disbelief. It was against Sabbat law and what he considered to be honourable. Frederick dropped his head in disappointment knowing that he would refused, and then Magnus felt his guts wrench at the realisation that the request was sincere, and not a test. More than that, he once again found his teacher falling from grace. “Yes.” The childe managed out. “Yes. Of course. I owe you this existence I...belong to you.”
The old man’s face remained serious, but a glint of pride shone through at his childes loyalty. “Good. Now, let me see this childe of yours.”
Frederick had met Amelia briefly in her mortality, but had taken a shine to her when Magnus reluctantly introduced them. So much so that Amelia’s involvement with the Sabbat became nothing but a memory, her time instead spent in the company of her grandsire. Magnus, on the other hand, was more involved than ever. Frederick had revealed all. The plan was to have the Archbishop assassinated, the deed would not actually be by the Lasombra’s hand, but to draw suspicion to Soto, meaning Kobals strongest successor also is destroyed. Magnus would discover Soto’s “involvement.” He would further claim that Soto had betrayed their sect to the Camarilla, and Frederick would stage an attack with shovelheads, easily defeated due to Magnus’ leadership and cunning. Such a feat would elevate Magnus to a legend in the Sabbat and would surely lead to his ascension of ranks, though the ultimate goal of Prisci could require further work. Frederick sought to not have power, but control the one in power. The very spirit of the Lasombra clan.
But this was wrong. Magnus knew it was wrong.
He spent much of his time building a closer relationship with his packs priest, Curson. The Tzimisce was the childe of Kobal, and to have his trust would be a great boon when the night came. He also became more involved with his Bishop, to understand how he could play him. Destroy his name so utterly that his death would be justifiable. Time slipped by as he planned the event, each day the facade would bear heavy on his soul. He would return to his “family” home on occasion, and be tested by his sires harsh demands, and consoled by his childes sweet words of confidence. When he asked her if it was right, she seemed to meltdown into a scared child. She too knew that Frederick was against everything the Sabbat stood for. They could unite against him; both give their testimony and have this madman executed. With this in mind, Magnus returned to his sect’s sanctuary. The problem with playing such a dangerous game was the chance of losing. Magnus thought of a way to significantly lower that risk.
Frederick could only wait for the right time. Magnus had told him that it would be soon, and even if there was truth in his childes words, he had protected himself. Firstly, there had been Amelia. She had been a most wonderful asset, willingly leaking her sire’s doubts and concocting a cover story should Magnus betray him. In fact, they had between them hatched a conspiracy that it was in fact Magnus who wanted Kobal and Soto dead; their word would surely overrule his. The assassin had been arranged, Frederick had drawn upon the Assamite clan. It seemed the logical choice. The killer had also been informed of the potential change of heart of Magnus, and should he attempt to stop or delay him in anyway, well, Frederick would reimburse him. He had also recruited a dozen soldiers turned enslaved cainites. They were lying in wait in a home nearby, ready to attack on their master’s command.
Then one night, they came; harbingers of the Sabbat descended on the home and took them both away. Frederick had been accused for the murder of Archbishop Kobal who had been found as mere dust some nights before. Every Sabbat in the city gathered for the trial, all crammed into one room and howling for blood. Soto stood at the head of the chaos, judging who would die for this betrayal. Magnus stood cool and confident; for all his sires’ planning, he had been one step ahead.
Fredericks charming and persuasive nature wasn’t allowed to shine, as the chaos of the trial overwhelmed him. He could only be sure that everything he defended himself with was utterly crushed. Amelia put on her finest performance, yet Soto remained unmoved. He couldn’t remember anything, after the hours of interrogation at the hands of Curson, the late Archbishops childe drawing upon his anguish with interesting results. Magnus had thought it more appropriate that the Tzimisce have his retribution. After all, Fredericks dislike for the Tzimisce was well established. It was several nights later, all of which filled with screams, until his true torturer arrived.
Magnus could remember the old face twisted to suit so many emotions, but the Tzimisce’s work had left him almost unrecognisable. And never had he looked so weary and weak. Even so, despite the fact that Curson had removed his tongue some time ago, his eyes still transferred the utter hatred. “Curson is finished with you Sire. The execution will be carried out this evening.” Whatever light was left in Fredericks eyes seemed to extinguish. “First things first.” Magnus struck suddenly and brutally, bludgeoning the old man into a greater mess. “For Amelia. I know when she lies Frederick, I made her!” he added further damage. Amelia had broken his heart by siding against him. “I want to ask you something before then.” He took seat opposite the bound prisoner, pulling it closer to speak in a hushed tone. “I wasn’t willing to betray my Sect Frederick and while I knew you had to be stopped...there was a part of your plan I did find appealing. My ascension.”
Magnus had unknowingly informed Curson of the plot, but emphasised that they could not justify their killings without evidence. So the Tzimisce used his talents with Vicissitude to ‘gather’ this evidence. In reality, he was being played as a fool. Curson on occasion replaced Magnus on his homely visits to witness the plotting himself, and thankfully the home was free of mirrors. He also crafted Magnus into the image of Frederick, so that he could masquerade as the traitor to discover more co-conspirators. In actuality, he met with the Assamite and set a date to strike and to target Soto instead. This also enabled him to approach the enslaved ‘Camarilla’, and tweak the orders. The rest was execution.
He had planned to meet Curson that night, several miles away to ensure their privacy. The communal haven had erupted into madness as the Assamite struck, but the packs moved to their leader’s protection. The Assamite fell as the Sabbat overwhelmed him. Those who moved to aid Kobal found only dust, along with the heavily wounded Magnus. It didn’t look good, but then again it wasn’t supposed to. Even though his innocent pleas were quashed, they did very little in the way of punishment until Curson arrived. Magnus insisted he attempted to stop the assassin, but was ultimately beaten. Curson knew of the plot, and trusted the Lasombra. After all he had tried to stop the whole thing, why would he kill Kobal?
Magnus smiled in triumph. He had briefly made himself the prime suspect only to be exonerated by the enraged childe of the deceased. He had built his image up in the eyes of the Sabbat by first having it crushed. More than that, he had seen the destruction of his sire and a real traitor of the sect, all according to the proper channels. He had refined the Camarilla involvement aspect, just to solidify the death penalty and turn Magnus into a greater hero. He played the part well, acknowledging the failure of saving Kobal, mixed with satisfaction of the well deserved example that would be made of his Sire, humbled by the service he had done. And yet for it all to be so effective, Kobal unfortunately did need to die. What’s more, there had only been one hired knife, who had failed to exterminate Soto. There was no-one else in the room that night. Just him and Kobal.
Magnus smiled triumphantly. “Are you proud of me now, Frederick?”
The old man was dead long before the Cardinal graced the region with his presence. The disturbing breach of security in the region had of course drawn attention, the fear that the Camarilla, or worse the Sabbat itself, aimed to undermine the sword then another rebellion could be stirring. However, he found the situation rather satisfactory, and approved of Soto taking the mantle of Archbishop. Magnus was applauded for his abilities, though there was something in his words that made the Lasombra weary. Could this creature know, so powerful that he could look into his very soul? Whether or not this was so, the Cardinal decided that Magnus should be elsewhere, serving the sword in better ways. Spain in particular had been alarming. “Of course, sir. You honour me with such a task.”
It was years before anyone saw or heard from Magnus Monroe. He assumed the name of Horace Renard to complete the new identity along with his manufactured face. Not that he was a well known individual, especially not in Europe, but it seemed necessary. The Cardinal had asked him to show his resourcefulness and abilities, as well as his devotion. He could remember the conversation about the dark days that were ahead, the turn of the century had given rise to thin blood and caitiffs numbers. It had also given rise to panic and fear, the prophecies of Gehenna seemed to be coming to fruition. If it came they would be ready, and Magnus was required to ensure this. Cults had emerged within the Sabbat, those who sabotage their brothers, cause chaos and panic. Chaos and panic. The old world was rife with it.
After a brief visit to his birthplace, Magnus situated himself in Spain after he found himself adequate servants and let his new life unfold. He posed as Noddist scholar, a feint attempt to draw interest of cultists. In truth, he had never dissected the origin of his kind beyond the basics of a fledgling. His fascination with God no doubt the Cataclyst that propelled him into such deep study. The world around seemed to be crumbling. A war like no other would claim uncountable lives, and you couldn’t get a pint of blood without it being laced with intoxicating drugs or degenerative flu. Magnus would probably count this time as his best spent on this earth. The knowledge and experience was so enlightening, calming and ultimately terrifying, it was his religion in death. It spoke to him, more than he was comfortable with.
There were years of silence before any real success, but one major distraction. He was well known to most of the Sabbat in his travels through his efforts of trying to discover heretics and as a result became well known to the enemy. Magnus had heard but never dealt with the great mortal threat, hunters. His came in the form of Adam Quinn, who nearly succeeded in killing the Lasombra by burning his residence down while he slept. Thankfully his servant’s loyalty drove them to save their master, even though it resulted in many of their deaths. Magnus’ retribution was delayed only by finding who the coward was and how to hurt him. The obvious choice was his family, even if it did require travelling to Britain, and after shovel heading the wife and two sons, the hunter found himself torn to shreds by his loved ones. Magnus naturally assumed that these Childer would all meet a gruesome end, but after killing Quinn he frankly didn’t care.
While in Spain he noted the dire political situation of both Kine and Cainite in turmoil, and decided it best to play his hand. He embraced several and preached to them the word of the Saints of Sovereign Blood, a holy order that he had dreamt up. An order that wished understanding and reasoning with the antediluvians, though essentially could be broken down to seek mercy from their wrath through submission. He sent these messengers across the nation, to secretly seek followers to this cause. If discovered he would be killed, and the option of fleeing and once again becoming Magnus Monroe was unacceptable. That implied failure. Things remained quiet as far as assassination attempts went, though many of the fledglings never returned. The Spanish Civil War was the beginning of things to come, and the widespread destruction and suspicion placed even the Cainites in danger. Magnus was not truly bothered by the battles and destruction; he had after all been a military man. If anything he was fascinated at the evolution of weapons since his time. Eventually, things became too inconvenient to live in a heavily shelled area, so it was most fortunate when he was approached by a Spaniard, who extended the greetings of his master, Septima Cortez, who invited Magnus to stay at her home in the country, a small castle away from the war. It seemed word of his false church had reached the right ears.
Cortez was an intriguing woman who had a similar vision of how their kind could survive the coming extinction. She knew many like minded people, who like her agreed that the antediluvians would look down favourably on those who aided their resurrections. With that in mind, they had moved to do so. Plagues, war, creating scores of thin bloods, anything that had been thought to foretell any prophecy of doom. She too was a scholar of sorts, and had heard his name from an associate in France. She believed that he was one of the few who were required to survive, as well as a sympathetic member who would join the cause. He ignored the temptation to kill her there and then, wore his best smile and gracefully accepted.
There were few in her home, but she said there was more. It allowed him to get closer to her, assuming that she held some power within the group. It was clear that she was not the mastermind. “You shall meet Yaotl soon; he arrives a month or two from now.” She stated one night. “He has personally seen to the delivery of the sarcophagus.” Her eyes widened a little, the realisation at the slip. Not her fault, Magnus could make people feel at ease when he wanted to. He enquired as to what the sarcophagus was, but she showed restraint. It wasn’t for her to say, or perhaps she truly didn’t know. Magnus attempted to rouse the Sabbat to aid him in crushing this faction, but the communal haven had been levelled by bombing. He was alone in the matter.
He tried every avenue to open Septima up, but when even becoming her love failed, she outlived her usefulness. He purged the castle of those who had strayed from the Sabbat long before the one called Yaotl arrived. In the current climate, it proved almost too easy to acquire a small arsenal of mines and a rifle. Attacking the convoy consisting of a German truck and two APC’s proved much more difficult. Even when the mines detonated and the shots were fired, Yaotl proved to be the leader of the group due to his alpha male nature. In fact, if the brute hadn’t managed to detonate so many anti-personnel mines, he would likely have been the victor. Magnus found it difficult that such a beast would bow down before their destruction than fight against it. It proved the fear of Gehenna could make even the strongest crumble.
Only after the war did he return to America and the Sabbat, the Cardinal of Western Europe came himself to collect the tomb. Magnus was praised for his efforts, but whom or what was in the sarcophagus never came to be publicly known. He assumes that it wasn’t one of the antediluvians, but nevertheless the elders of the Sabbat seemed pleased with the results. There was no rest for the wicked though, and once again Magnus found himself relocated to London. The Camarillas strong presence here had been weakened by the blitz, and it was now or never for the Sabbat to re-establish themselves. Magnus was now a Bishop of the city, and for years acted in the capacity of a retired veteran, passing on what he knew to those who would use it and overseeing the packs. It was a comfortable position, and Magnus, having spent year’s seperated from his brothers, became infamous for his games that tested the qualities looked for in Cainites. As well as causing problems for the Camarilla. He also became renowned for hosting Sermons of Caine, spreading his dark religion and enlightening the souls of his younger brethren.
It wasn’t until the seventies that his patience had finally run out. The Archbishop Rhadeil, who proved to be a great man, was not a great leader. The Sabbat continued to struggle for survival in a Camarilla country, and Magnus had seen enough of his brothers’ die for nothing. Magnus used the techniques he had seen in the war, known as terror bombing, to strike down the Camarilla. Explosives rocked London, from hospitals to homes; it wasn’t a concern to Magnus who would get hurt as long as the Camarilla was amongst them. His coup de grace was the discovery and firebombing of the Elysium, causing destruction amongst the Camarilla and Anarchs ranks. When the keeper of Elysium retaliated, she was never heard from again. Magnus pressed his attacks further, proceeding to the upper echelons of the cities Camarilla. He was responsible for the death of the Ventrue Primogen, nearly shattering the masquerade as he publicly decapitated the mongrel. His tactics were effective yet brash, and he had not anticipated the consequences.
The Camarilla struck with full force, making a final push to remove the Sabbat threat. The Sheriff and a small army slaughtered Rhadeil, eradicated those they could find and caused the stragglers to flee or remain hidden and isolated. Magnus was one of those who remained, determined that it was not defeat. His unwillingness to submit led to a long campaign of power gathering and recruitment. He took control of businessmen and crime lords, filling the coffers for the coming war and likewise sought to undermine those in the control of the Camarilla. Through various agents, he owned property throughout the east end of London where he planned to fortify the Sabbat position. He even had the Hackney Empire closed for his own personal use. The only time he left was to reach out for aid from his American allies, a cause which many accepted. Even so, Magnus personally paid a visit to Rikers Island, the prison of the most violent and crazed of New York. The warden was a mere mortal after all, and the Lasombra was able to “negotiate” dozens of their releases. He could only imagine the damage an army of psychopaths could wreak.
In 2009, the campaign began. East London was populated more with Anarchs than Camarilla, but it was a stepping stone. The massacre spared only those who would convert to the sword, which many did after seeing the death of their Baron. The counter-attack came as swift as it had those years before, but this time it was the Camarilla who was driven from the Sabbat domain. The east was converted to his designs, those not under his influence were ultimately just food. For example, the residence of Barking, what was now the frontline of the war, had been the sustenance for his blood bath, his ascension to Archbishop.
The Sheriff was next to fall, Magnus patiently awaiting and goading him to make his move. With the dramatic increase in crime and murders in the east, the Camarilla could not afford to simply let the Sabbat reside. Unfortunately it meant entering the belly of the beast, and had not anticipated such a force. The Sheriff and his men were softened by sniper fire, trapped from retreating by an overturned petroleum lorry that spread fire all around. Then the packs descended, literally tearing the Camarilla to pieces before they became nothing but dust. Magnus, having set the trap, let his brethren do what they pleased. He had larger concerns.
Having sent all that he could afford against the Sabbat, the Prince now found himself vulnerable and paranoid. The slight flicker of a shadow was almost too much to bear the longer and longer this silence had lasted. He had no idea whether his champion would return victorious or lay defeated, but eventually he couldn’t wait here, in a mortal ran office. He called his security and informed them they would be leaving for his Haven, a place more secretive and better protected. Descending into the underground car park, the six remaining Kindred moved as a formation around their Prince for protection. It didn’t matter when the car door was opened. It was nothing like a movie, no roaring inferno spouting from the nether of the vehicle. It was an explosive, pure and simple, and those who were not destroyed by the blast found themselves hurled across the room, accompanied by chunks of the structure, and some with less limbs. The Prince lay slumped against a wall, attempting to perceive the darkness that the explosion had brought on. Though his ears rang with the explosion, the occasional scream penetrated the air, louder than any explosion. They’re here. he thought. No, he didn’t think it, he knew.
He could do little but lie in wait and trace the route of the assailant. He moved from place to place, the lightest crunch of debris underfoot giving his position before the whistle of a blade slice through the air, and the ‘thunk’ into flesh and bone. Eventually, the footsteps drew closer and closer, stopping in front of him but still he could see nothing. He screamed for help, but before he could complete his first word his neck was locked in a vice grip. “Save what little time you have left for prayer maggot.” The voice growled only inches from his face. “God’s the only fucking chance you have.”
After reigning as the Archbishop of London for over thirty years, Monroe was killed and diablorized by the soon to be Sheriff known as 'The Nagaraja.'
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