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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] - Big Bad Voodoo Theater; Mot Khartoum, Moshe Klein, Dr. Katharina Bettina Wilke, Sawyer Flint, Aguirre Efrain Maddox | |
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| Topic Started: Tuesday, 13. August 2013, 19:05 (1,893 Views) | |
| Mot Khartoum | Tuesday, 13. August 2013, 19:05 Post #1 |
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Crazy Old Man
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He heard drums. Low and constant. Each thump, thump, thump clearer to him. Not louder, but sharper, fixing into focus the distant sound. He reached out for the sound, and it reached back. It had a touch without fingers. It was a key to a lock inside his chest, that took him to the soft cushions and soft voices, to the time where his life was whole. The feeling was intoxicating. He kept reaching, until he fell, his feet stuck in black mire. As he struggled to free himself, his restraints became visible. Four pairs of hands, that began to travel to each his limbs. Their strength was overpowering, but he continued to fight it, desperate to reach that sound. One last struggle, and he rose from himself. An after image, or the original, rose from the slavery and stumbled towards the noise, which colored into wild hues of purple and blue so vivid it nearly blinded Mot. Then his pager rung. Mot had a pager, a piece of technology suitably antiquated as the antiquated gentlemen himself. Something given to him by shifty fingers behind plated glass. The vibration disintegrated every visage of the dream, just as the kaleidoscope formed a face, now bleeding out behind the face of vagrancy and quiet. Even his eyeballs were tired, pupils slowly dragging across his disgusting vista of faulty fluorescence and unkempt men. Just one, actually. He looked right back. He was the only one who rode this night train route. A duty he upheld, a promise he swore to someone now dead. “Mister I don’t expect you know where you are, and where you’re headed. Just stay on while it turns ‘round and you’ll find yourself. Fuck ups come in all ages, I guess. Just wasn’t expecting your kind on this ride. Dumb kids, dumber loners, the ones I can’t keep on the train. ‘Cause there’s only one reason you take the old deep south line to its end. And you ain’t going. No one is, least I can help it.” Mot imagined his body old, aching, slow. He rubbed his hands and cracked his neck. He brushed off dust from his pants, little clouds filtering down to the seats below. His eyes flickered at the man here and there, quick glances in darts of his pupils. Living. Older than he was, dirtier than he is, it all said something but like the real words couldn’t be spoken. They had to be seen. Soft breaks, and their eyes matched. The noise filled the space between them, and contacted a current from one to the other, invisible but so heavy. “Guess you aren’t lost. Guess I’m the one looking around for the light, but you broke all the bulbs long ago. Look, mister. Just be careful. Whatever is there now, at that Blue Noire, you won’t find it. You’ll find something that’ll hunt after you. Memories that’ll hunt you and swallow you up. Like all the others I couldn’t keep out, I’ll tell you this. Memories are not an escape. Now go.” Rust struggled to keep the subway doors closed, but the compact air ripped off flakes of red metal and freed the portal open. Mot rose to his feet, and shuffled out from the subway, silent to the gatekeeper, a silence that was heavy in speech as in mind. Leaving the subcar, Mot ascended from the subterana, a little kingdom of graffiti and garbage. Chain link doors yielded to his grip, but as he left Mot could feel another plea for the abortion of his plan. Not from any man, or men, or any form, but in the ambiance of the station. Could he pin it down to one thing? Could he hear the footsteps of all the others before him? Could he hear their laughing voices, sneakers against concrete up and out and into nothing? Mot rose from the underhell and into the bleak space above. Here the mark of humanity was frayed, rusted, and neglected. If London was a body, this was necrotic flesh. Only dimly lit convenience stores catering to those few bodies operating on the fumes of their once full humanity and vigor. They lived, but only as roaches, merely existing until expiration. Mot followed the empty veins of black streets to the source. Chains kept the epicenter of abandon contained, as if the building may one day grow decrepit roots that tunnel towards the living things on London, draining them of their living essence. Mot did not notice the history of chains that covered the gate, old decaying red rubbing against newer stainless steel rungs. A history of warnings, of danger, of desperation failed and lives lost to the past. Mot waited at the gate, marking the time on his pager. The others would arrive soon, he feared trying to near this place alone. For as he waited, silence saturated heavy on his suit, sticking thick to his face, and burrowing deep into his ears. Past the void, so past it his whole strained to reach it, was the sound of drums. A touch that begged to be felt, calling him up to the Blue Noire. Edited by Mot Khartoum, Tuesday, 13. August 2013, 19:06.
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| Aguirre Efrain Maddox | Tuesday, 13. August 2013, 21:48 Post #2 |
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Mouse
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To think that Aguirre Maddox, who (in her own mind) was the least experienced and least physically apt Brujah this side of the Thames, was on her way to a haunted theater would have made those who knew her double take in disbelief. She was on her way to assist the Malkavian primogen, and while assistance wasn't entirely out of her character, ghosts sure were. Being honest with herself, she was wholly surprised that she had been accepted for the job at all. Her participation was mostly for the benefits, of course, but it was also the sate the newborn curiosity created by the note she had read. The voice behind the words had been a notable deciding factor in her decision to offer her limited services at all. The dark haired woman had heard the name 'Khartoum' before, as well as the more unusual tidbits concerning the Lunatic that piqued her interest. He may have been a big wig in the Camarilla, but the way he spoke of the sects and clans made soft ripples throughout the pool of her thoughts. At heart she had always truly been an Anarchist, a view she would still swear on to her dying day, so talk of this neutral space appealed greatly to her. Despite her better judgement and due to his expression on paper, she submitted her name and was taken in to help. So, here she was, hoofing it to the Blue Noire. Blue. Church said blue was lucky; she would consider this coincidence a good omen. Aguirre dressed comfortably, for she didn't know exactly what to expect; loose jeans held up by a studded leather belt would allow her to move comfortably through most spaces, as would her black v-neck, and perhaps the only part of her wardrobe that wasn't specifically for the purpose of business was a hip-length leather jacket which concealed Mathilda in her shoulder holster. Within her pockets were a flask of blood she had paid Frankie out the ass for, as well as a switchblade swiped off a chav in Enfield. Fucking chavs. The GPS on the woman's phone alerted her that her destination was coming up on the right; man, this neighboorhood was as ugly as the warehouse district. Were it daytime, the streets would have been filled with the down-and-out, or with unattended children who played on flea market toys. At this time of night, though, all seemed eerily silent besides her own heavy boot falls and sparse traffic. The theater looked as though it could use quite a lot of TLC, though in her imagination the dejected nature of the structure was torn away and replaced with a classy theater under a dark paint job. The windows weren't broken, the siding was repaired. This place was huge; the Brujah could see why the Malk would invest his time in it. Speak of the devil... Was that him at the gate? Looked like the vague descriptions she'd heard; silvery hair that stood up on end in places, bit of an uneasy air about him. She hoped this wasn't some kind of joke or trap. She hadn't informed anyone, not even Frankie or Damon, of what she would be doing tonight. If she made it out, then would be the time to tell the tale, but if this was a con and she disappeared, they wouldn't hear from her again. Ah, well. No use making them worry in the mean time. Aguirre stepped up to the old man timidly, still not quite sure this was who she was supposed to be meeting. She would never know if she didn't ask, though. Quietly she inquired, "S'cuse me sir, are you Mr. Khartoum?" |
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| Sawyer | Wednesday, 14. August 2013, 03:38 Post #3 |
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Friendly Neighborhood Vampire
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It was a cheap kebab restaurant, almost deserted this time of night, white walls and floors and decorated only with a calendar full of touristy photos of the Bosphorus, flooded with harsh fluorescent light and peach-flavored hookah smoke. In the front booth, a figure was hunched over, hoodie up, some punk boy with a leather jacket and a weird look in his eyes. He'd ordered a Coke to get the owner off his back, but he hadn't even opened it and there didn't seem to be much of a reason for him to be there. He was waiting for something, fixated on the abandoned theater across the street, hypnotized. The owner of the restaurant had heard stories about the place for years, seen other drifters stare at the damn thing like it had all the answers to life's questions. It was no coincidence, he thought, that every other shop on the street was boarded up and vacant. No coincidence that only the shiftiest sort of people walked this street after dark. The Blue Noire had probably been beautiful and grand once, before the paint cracked and the glass shattered and the lights on the marquee burned out. Sawyer could almost imagine the sidewalk covered in a queue of soldiers on leave with wasp-waisted girls on their arms or of elegant socialites all dressed up for the opera. Now, it stood vacant and looming over the dingy neighborhood, empty-eyed and hungry. How the Malkavian had found it, Sawyer couldn't guess; this was hardly a neighborhood for nighttime strolls. The primogen's type had a way of finding trouble, though, and this mission sounded like trouble from the start. He could fill in the blanks about the rest. Sawyer didn't have to wait long for the Malk to show up. Mot Khartoum stuck out, especially in this neighborhood. Hair like a cockatoo sittin' on his head, a gaze that was off somewhere decades away. He kept watching from behind plate glass as the man approached the theater and stopped at its chained entrance, body rigid, eyes wild. Doesn't want to get close when he's alone- can't blame him for that. He wasn't sure if he should venture out to meet him or not. The man seemed transfixed by the theater, and in a wave of uneasiness, Sawyer realized he didn't want to be alone with the guy. He didn't know who else would show their face tonight, who'd be brave or stupid enough to unravel the mystery of this mission. The message the primogen had sent out read like he was looking for folks with a deathwish, wherever they came from and whomever they served. But Sawyer knew the power of a boon owed, protection granted. He knew he needed more friends in this city than enemies. If things went sour with the Prince and the Cam, he needed a hole to crawl into. An escape. A chance. He'd find it here, if he was lucky. He went over a mental inventory of the things he'd brought. A bowie knife, two blood packs. His dad's Browning 1911 pistol. He figured if it was really ghosts they were dealing with, they'd just laugh at the weapons, but it couldn't hurt to come prepared to fight more... solid things. After all, who knew what they were walking into? From the darkness of a sidestreet came a second figure, long-haired and tall, but with a bearing that showed she was just as nervous as he was. Well, if the cavalry was arrivin', he might as well get moving. He left the shop, feeling the eyes of the owner on his back as the bell on the door tinkled goodbye. He dropped his mask fluidly as he crossed the street, his hoodie still up and his face hidden in shadow. No point in keepin' up appearances for this one. They'd see uglier things before the night was over- he was sure of that. Sawyer did get a shock, though, at who his companion turned out to be. "Hi, Aguirre," he said quietly, a note of surprise in his voice. He hadn't expected to see her here, hadn't dropped his mask in front of her before. Had he even mentioned what clan he was? He couldn't remember, and in the face of tonight, it didn't seem to matter much. He directed his attention back to the old man. "And you must be the Primogen, sir. Sawyer Flint, at your service." |
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| Raposa | Wednesday, 14. August 2013, 13:01 Post #4 |
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Walking indifference
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A haunted theatre that needed repopulating after getting the previous occupants out ? Sounded more like a job for some bonebreakers, but then, what were the Tremere if not scientific legbreakers ? Especially when rolling some church owned exorcism team through the building was not really an option, the warlocks were a good call to make. Or even a good call that made itself, if unannounced, like the call on your answering machine from that guy you never really knew you knew until he called and offered you the help for this problem you didn't realize you told him about. Or something like that at least. So she had put her own work at reduced power and seen to what the Custodian allowed her to dog out about handling ghosts, to add to her more general knowledge of the topic. Most of the rituals she knew wouldn't be particularly helpful and the rest... time-consuming. But at least it allowed her to get the drop on the strength and weaknesses of what would be possibly awaiting them there. Which was another problem, because she couldn't estimate what would await them without having been there, and chances were once she was in, there would be only one attempt to get out again. So there would have to be notes she'd have to take with her, abridged versions of the passages she needed, even if abridging them made them even more dangerous to use... A trade-off that had to be made. After these studies and copyworks (most of which had been performed by her ghoul, but still, she had to authorize the copies as suitable, after all), Catherine went to her lab and started accumulating the ressources that would be needed. Calvin had looked at his shopping list somewhat dumbfounded, clearly not sure what the hell even half of that stuff was good for, but then, his knowledge was still developing, no need to burden him with things like that just now. All she had to add was that she needed everything on the list exactly as it was written down there with no substitutions or exceptions. She would leave it his problem as to how he got everything. He had not gotten everything, of course not, some stuff had been too obscure to get, but a solid base was there and it would be possible to work with it. And if not, they'd have to improvise. Hard. These and other thoughts crossed the mind of the Tremere as the car pulled into the road in which their destination was located. A seedy area, not unbecoming of what was about to happen, the state of the buildings in the vicinity and the presence of a run-down kebab... place hinted at how the grandness had left the place, slowly sneaking out of the backdoor, leaving only the pieces to be picked up by those staying behind or those who had come later, never knowing how it had been before, only knowing the here and now. Almost sad, but that was the way it was, so many things humans just decided to forget... That was what set them apart from kindred. The dark green Vauxhall stopped forty feet away from the small group and released its two passengers into the cold night. Catherine had decided to go for practicality today, her dark green turtleneck combined with a pair of jeans and trainers. She wasn't particularly fond of jeans personally, one of those things that had never really caught on with her after the war, but as her usual attire would be too prone to constrict the free movement she would most likely need, practicality had outweighed personal sentiment, even if she wasn't still used to wearing them. While Calvin went for the back seats to retrieve her gear, she approached the group of kindred already standing there with Primogen Khartoum, taking in the view of the theatre as she walked closer without too much hurry. Now in full frontal view, it was not a great difficulty to just ignore the chains and all that raffle and reenvision the theatre as the social place it had once been, booming with lights, and colours, attracting those deeming themselves cultured or those who were just looking for entertainment with what it had in store for them. The bright posters and glowing letters calling out to the people who were either in want or in need of entertainment, attracting their cutriosity and thereby, them. All this was still visible to the trained eye with a bit of imagination, even if the tattered ruins of former greatness were hidden in the shadows, locked away behind chains, scaffolds or simply wooden boards and sheet metal or had ben ripped off or covered in spraypaint... They were still there, wanting to tell their story to one who would listen, waiting for the day they would be freed from their imprisonment, be it for rejuvenation or destruction. Either way, they would not go without presenting themselves to the outsiders one last time, to speak of what this place had once been and what potential was still there, open for using or squandering it. Arriving at the group, the Tremere decided to keep the greeting to a nod directed at the Primogen. Even with not too many kine around she deemed the formal approach too dangerous, especially seeing that if the place lived up to its reputation, the locals would take notice to whoever showed any interest in the place, like they did in this particular moment. So no formality here and now... "Good evening, Mot. An interesting site you have found us there..." She had decided not to go for the formal address. Archon had done so at the meeting and she remembered the Malkavians reaction to it. So first name it was, for now at least. Seeing that she didn't know the others at all, she just let her eyes wander over the small group. Sawyer went into the Nosferatu drawer pretty quickly, but then, that was more or less obvious, so no points there. The only interesting bit was whether the Nosferatu had been roped in by the Malkavian or if they had roped themselves in. The other one was a tougher call, but that only meant it would take longer to figure her out. A little task for the less busy situations, so to speak. Well, by the looks of it, she had just missed the introductions, too bad... But it could be helped, of course. But not necessarily now, after all, they might still be waiting and Calvin hadn't finished unpacking. |
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I have never made but one prayer to God, a very short one: 'O Lord make my enemies ridiculous.' And God granted it. German, French, Latin, Arabic | |
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| Tzippy | Wednesday, 14. August 2013, 20:04 Post #5 |
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Ancilla
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So, that was what Jhael had meant by "Hellraiser shit." Not that he had known what Hellraiser was. Moshe had never been one for horror movies beyond the occasional science fiction thriller or the Blade series. So research had been compiled on the question after Jhael's description and what had been found was far from a comfort. But then again, most of the revelations lately had been of the horrifyingly world shattering category anyway, so he didn't even know why he was even surprised anymore. He still couldn't help the startled squeak though when he first saw Sawyer, pale eyes going wide from under the cover of his jacket's hood. Moshe paused in his approach, hesitating for a moment before swallowing the rush of unease. He'd had two cigarettes on the way over and already he was feeling the urge to have another. But he stomped down the craving with another deep breath. He'd been warned there would be insane shit at some point with this and Jhael, as loathe as he was to admit it, had helped him a great deal just now. At the least, the urge to run wasn't as overwhelming as it could have been had he gone in completely blind, and weighted against the risk of disappointing Alarik again, he found a bit of courage. Enough to keep walking forward. The small man was dressed in a would be casual manner, dark brown leather jacket thrown over an olive t-shirt emblazoned with some sort of logo and well worn jeans. A knife holster had been strapped over his left boot, mostly hidden by his jeans. A battered old backpack was slung over his shoulder, containing a combination of the essentials he had hidden around the office after Alarik had given him this assignment. Notebook, pencils, water, food, flashlight plus back up flashlight and an entire package of extra batteries (because while he might not have been a big fan of horror movies, he was versed in TV tropes enough not to tempt fate), camera, multi-tool, and a few other things had been all carefully packed inside. Thank God for the internet and urban explorer websites, even if he wasn't sure when the duct tape might come in handy. The crayons might be good for marking a path to prevent getting lost though and the thought had convinced him enough to make a side trip along the way to buy some. The hamsa symbol hanging from his neck was merely for his own comfort and a tiny, embarrassingly faint hope that maybe there was something to the ancient protections too. The pewter amulet absently fussed with as he stood there, trying to find the right words to introduce himself to the small group. Particularly when he realized he recognized most of the people there. When had it become such a small world? The familiar and relatively safe presence of Aguirre was enough to calm some of the anxiety at least. "Hullo," was his careful and altogether eloquent greeting, the little man's gaze wandering to study the front of the theater instead of looking at them directly. The man with the big eyes reminded him too much of dreams that he was determined not to think about. So instead, he forced his focus on the Blue Noire. He had tried to do some research on his phone on the train over but had come up frustratingly empty on information. Not even the urban explorer sites had anything to say on it. Which was probably for the best, given what Mr. Khartoum had to say on the subject in his job offer. But it was still terribly bothersome, curiosity gnawing now at Moshe. But he should probably attempt to socialize first. If this was as dangerous as he was afraid it was, it would probably help to try and make friends. He looked back, eyes focused on shoes and shoulders hunched uncomfortably. Nerves thickened his accent a little as he attempted to broach the topic of greetings again. "Hey, Aguirre... Sir. Ma'am. Sir... Hope to be of help, yes?" Edited by Tzippy, Wednesday, 14. August 2013, 20:06.
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| Mot Khartoum | Wednesday, 14. August 2013, 23:48 Post #6 |
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Crazy Old Man
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Ask any man, woman, or child in this decrepit corner of far London why such a prominent area could become so decrepit, and they will all point to the Blue Noire. Only the oldest will know why, or have an idea. People leave every day, driving with what little they could scrape together, escaping the invisible decay that eats away at the street, the buildings, the people. The nearest residentials are still miles away, but the closer you near the Blue Noire the greater the decay. Police stop answering 911 calls, abandoned projects host generations of squatters, and even open skies at midday seem to be gray and lifeless. The rain is heavy and oily, while the snow is gray and slippery. Animals seeking urban refuges are mangy, desperate, and violent to humans and each other, while overhead sickly crows and seagulls peck at rotten garbage and sometimes eachother. With each generation, the wildlife degenerates, mutants both visible and invisible with tumors and insanity. But at the block of the Blue Noire, there is no life. No human, animal, otherwise. Whatever periods of dispersing, neglect, and complete abandonment, they have all passed. Then the animals moved in, and promptly moved out. Nothing living to rot, no carrion to be eaten. Only the weeds, which then too became afflicted with the same strange disease. Each spring they sprouted out in smaller and smaller bounties, sucking dry every tainted nutrient in the ashen soil, once faded green leaves turning sickly yellow and brown as they broke the soil. Then, nothing. No weeds, no crabgrass, no desperate lifeform clinging to the last vestige of habitation. Devoid of life, the Blue Noire stood, fading but standing strong through the ages. Mot didn’t care for its history. Standing there with chains in hands he feared what it had become more than he cared for what it used to be. A theater unlike any other, calling to its stage voices and talents from around the world. Perpetual full houses every night, with performances invoking the most powerful of emotions, stirring deep in the hearts of its audience. But perversion was now its owner, calling to its sight endless grotesque revulsions. Yes, the windows were cracked, shattered completely from the frame in some. But the frame itself had warped, and now was in such formation that was impossible to manufacture, contorted in disgusting angles. What shards of glass refused to release had grown thick layers of moss that soon died to brown, layers of life and finally death until the brown turned to morbid grays and whites. Even the stone, each vertical portion painted with now faded azure seemed to curve and crook the higher it pieced into the heavens, until at the top there seemed to be a stone crown of madness atop the corpse-building. Only the chains, stainless steel and still freshly applied, showed any recent encounter with humanity, but older chains before the newest band all showed remarkably fast decay and oxidation, even for those proofed against it. As Mot placed his hand on the collection of bindings, the oldest bands turned to red dust in his hands, snapping and collapsing, a sound that echoed on for an eternity. Inward there was an echo as well, space where once filled comfortable chaos, and the absence worried Mot. But familiar pistons sputtered out from the dark towards him, leather wrapping them together, that spoke confused comforts to the old Malkavian. "S'cuse me sir, are you Mr. Khartoum?" The lack of life beamed from her face as any light, returning him to the unlife world that still held essence that even this accursed architecture wished to sap from them both. With red still coating his fingers, so eager to cut the flesh and infect his dead veins with tetanus, Mot extended his hand. Her long hair and uneasy stance would be wise to illicit a nervous response. “Here I thought I’d need to play solo down that faded red carpet. Well who knows if its even red now. Yeah, we and I are Mot Khartoum. Malk Primogen. Pretty soon you’ll have a home here. Hope you don’t mind the oblivion, it seems to stick everywhere here. We’ll fix that one the spook leaves. By the way, I don’t suspect you enjoy this end of the vinyl, it’s been playing a sour tune here for longer than I’ve been alive. But, there’s something else about this, hidden beneath the sound. Like... pounding...” The Nosferatu materialized out of the shadows next, cutting his words short. The beggar, in a march that induced pity and fear, perhaps one of the more powerful mental responses Mot had to contend with in his interaction with the other clans. But even the hideous stone he threw into the pond couldn’t smother the ocean tides of wrong rolling out from old Blue. Was it getting louder? Mot hesitated speaking to the Nosferatu, glancing back up past the gate. Was it a sound? A cry? Or... a song? His words were distracted. “Sorry for the disrespect. Probably should be welcoming you to London. Yeah, yeah, I’ll be a hellacious tour guide, do you hear that?” Dead silence was in the air. It smothered the ambience of the night, and it was thickening like molasses. Or was it just Mot? Something this quiet wasn’t unusual, but something was wrapped up in the middle, staining him to hear. Wheels next, with two souls rising from the car and one staying. Mot had his back to the group now, the auditory puzzle nearly consuming all of his attention. He could hear that static drop into the void, electric sizzle lighting the cavern for a moment. “You’re welcome here too, wizard. Sorry, but I. I just. I mean don’t any of you hear. Ah, it’s almost there. What are you?” He leaned into the gate, his face pressed against the metal. Heightened sense struggled to climb the peak, but just then. Thump. Thump. Mot gasped, fingers gripping the gaps in the gate’s ornate design. From his chest. Thump. Thump. One hand trembled free and clung to his suit, dead fingers struggling to find the source of the life within him. Thump. Thu-- then nothing. A flash of color from one of the windows, his eyes turning up in a jolt. They met with another pair, as blue as his own. The distorted visage contained that gaze, and those eyes faded from sight in a soft gale of wind. No one else could know. Just a vision, weirdling stuff. Yeah, nothing. Nothing. Jesus, please let it be nothing, he thought to himself. He turned back, a face that begged to be calm as the last member arrived, the kine from Archon’s political beheading. “Glad to see you, little curious. Glad you all walked here. Not like anyone else walks here, hell my corpse is livelier than this roost. But its the right place for my kind. Yours too, now that you’re here. Don’t know much about haunts, never tangled with them back home or in the London-land. But this one isn’t friendly. I think.” Watch yourself Mot, he cautioned. “I think it may know we are here. Ghost like that has the whole place as its body, eyes and ears windows and gates. But it’s just mean vapor, it’ll throw some china at our faces and hiss out the rafters when we break its anchor. Right, wizard?” He turned back to tear off the chains, one quick motion that rung out into the night ether. The gate slowly rendered open passage, and he stepped into the theaters courtyard. Edited by Mot Khartoum, Thursday, 15. August 2013, 03:32.
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| Aguirre Efrain Maddox | Thursday, 15. August 2013, 03:29 Post #7 |
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Mouse
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The old man had a gaze the likes of which Aguirre had never experienced before. Bright crystal blue eyes that looked right into her nonexistent soul under crow's feet, topped off with the words and the red-dusted hand he offered her; this all came together to create probably the only Malkavian Aguirre had ever dealt directly with, and while using the word 'impressed' might have come off as arrogant, certainly she could say she was in awe. He spoke like all of her favorite books. Aguirre shook his hand without hesitation; she was more than pleased to make his intriguing acquaintance. She might have said something like nice to meet you, or at your service. but she didn't have the chance to before another figure came to join them. She drew her hand back, her own palm now stained with rust, avoiding eye contact with the golden headlights that peered out from under his hood. It was only as he spoke, calling her by name, that she realized who the newcomer was. "Oh, h-hey Sawyer", she stuttered as her copper eyes snapped up and a smile crossed her features. It felt like she was running into him everywhere she went. It would have been fairly obvious that she hadn't seen a Nossie with his mask down before tonight by the tone she initially took upon greeting, but she was definitely pleased to see Mark Twain's best work was involved in this escapade. The next two to arrive--one she knew, one she didn't--would presumably be their brainiacs. They all had a place in this b-rated horror flick, so far as she could tell, besides the wild card that had drawn them all here. The small squeak that escaped her small Israeli friend only served to curl the corners of her lips farther upward, which was quite the feat considering the creepy vibes she felt rolling off the theater. It was true that she was sometimes a blunt object in the face of emotional undertones, but this... Even Aguirre could understand what the suited man had been saying about 'pounding' before. It hit her senses in small waves of unease, her eyes looking over the decrepit structure again distractedly. Being out here gave her that feeling, the really distinct feeling of being watched, though she wasn't sure whose eyes were staring daggers at the group. It made the small hairs on the back of her neck and her arms raise; the Brujah was beginning to feel a lot like a cat with it's tail puffed up in fear. The moment her attention came back around to the others, she was met with what she perceived as a cold gaze, purely analytical. Aguirre had noticed the sounds of the car before, but it was set on the back burner while she contemplated who was glaring out from within their object of focus. Now she knew that the car had carried a fellow, a wizard, as Mister Khartoum called her. The Malkavian was distracted as well--he turned back to the gate, speaking to the old theater like it would give him a clear answer. Aguirre's eyes followed the deceptively frail frame of the man with heightened interest, wondering exactly what was going through his head. He clutched at his chest, a momentary sense of alarm coming over her, as though she were watching Grandpa have a heart attack. It was silly because he was already dead, but she was slightly protective already--of the old man, and his ideals. She might have asked if he was okay, were it not for the fact that he started to speak at them again, explaining in so many words what he felt about the haunt. Whatever spirit was in there sure gave her the willies, so she would take his words of caution seriously. When Mot tore the chains away from the gate, Aguirre shivered, smile completely gone by now--it was like a breath of cold air had gone up the back of her shirt. She placed a tight grip on Sawyer's sleeve with her gaze forward, a look of utter discontent on her soft features. It felt as though the primogen had opened the flood gates and let out something awful, and she didn't want to let go when she followed behind their elder. Concern for the well being of their entire group, especially small human Moshe, filled her, and she shared a desperate wish with him that she wish she hadn't forgotten her cigarettes. Edited by Aguirre Efrain Maddox, Thursday, 15. August 2013, 05:48.
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| Sawyer | Thursday, 15. August 2013, 04:21 Post #8 |
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Friendly Neighborhood Vampire
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The Malkavian's words gave him a real chill, a finger down his spine, a shudder he couldn't resist. He wondered for a moment if this was all an act on the part of Mot Khartoum; the gloomy-eyed old man blended with the atmosphere flawlessly, seemed determined to scare the pants off of all of them. But Sawyer realized that behind those blue eyes, the primogen was as scared as any of them. He'd seen some shit, something that was shaking him and wouldn't let him go. Sawyer wasn't sure what to do in this situtation, but he had a nasty feeling you couldn't just punch a ghost. He tried to remember his grandsire's fumbling explanations of the various denizens of the world of darkness. "Ghosts. Don't get near 'em. Don't get in their way. They don't even know what they is. Echoes, kiddo. Cut the rope, like lettin' a balloon into the air. Like an anchor sinkin' to the bottom of the sea." A puzzle he didn't have a proper answer to. He hoped his companions were made of strong stuff with quicker minds than him. The Tremere, at least, should know how to deal with this. Shame that one of the incestuous corpse fuckers hadn't turned up; a Giovanni could just speak real pretty to a spirit, please go home and thank you kindly. The kine, though, that was another puzzle. Why'd he come along? Little guy, seemed too green to be here. But considering the world they came from, it was likely there was some fire behind those eyes, some awfulness that had chased him into accepting a place on a suicide mission. Or maybe it was just plain, morbid curiosity. Wasn't everyday you got to tangle with this sort of undead. Thankfully. Mot broke the chair, strode forward, a hunch in his back but no hesitation in his steps. The group followed behind the old man like baby ducks, all in a row and prepping for disaster. If this ghost didn't want them there, it was bound to let them know shortly. Sawyer glanced over at Aguirre, giving her an encouraging smile that he hoped looked legitimate and speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. "Remember, we've gotta be the ones to bash some ghosts' heads together so squishy mage and squishy human don't end up wraith chow. Partners in crime and all that shit. Chin up. Get that Brujah fire goin'." He could only hope that he could summon the same reckless courage. |
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| Raposa | Friday, 16. August 2013, 17:59 Post #9 |
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Walking indifference
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Catherine recognized the last participant of course. Their last meeting had after all been not that long ago and seeing as to what it had entailed, Klein wasn't easy to gloss over, even if one was willing to do so, which she was not. "Evening, Mr Klein. Well so far ?" Looking at the group dynamics going on, it looked like this was going to be an interesting task. As far as she could see, Khartoum had two groups of two people each who knew each other or at least kind of did. Or at least that was the gist of what she could gauge so far. Further clarification depending on continued observation of course. So much for not splitting the party, she thought, slightly amused by the notion this carried with it. Just like in those bad flicks, only that this was a bit more serious and Catherine didn't see herself as final girl material enough that it wouldn't warrant some changes to the script. In theory that was. In practice, it was of course not appropriate to humour this and play the dangers down. Perhaps that was something that might resemble something like... nervousness ? She had prepared as much as feasible and still felt underprepared. That was not a good thing. The fact that she was not letting it on, however, was. There would be enough chaos later on, no need to prepare the seed already after all. As for the remark of the Malkavian... She didn't have the impression they were very welcome here personally, but then, she knew how he had meant it, at least thats what she liked to think. Especially after the Primogen meeting, it wasn't possible to be sure too much, though. having a person as group leader whose every word was a double-edged sword would make things more interesting, but also harder and more dangerous. Another aspect was the distribution of the group along the gradient of 'useful, but unimportant' and 'useful, therefore much important'. Catherine had a rough idea of whom she wanted to put where, but surprises were always an option, so the descision wouldn't be made just yet, the outcome most likely not representative or even necessarily valid, given what she knew about the others at this point. Perhaps introductions were in order ? She pondered whether to keep that step to Mot or waiting for one of the... 'Kids' to come up with it. However, Calvin emerging from behind the car with the equipment disrupted her train of thought. He had loaded himself with everything, although it was rather obvious that the building gave him the chills. He would do his job nonetheless. Carry out his instructions to the letter. He helped her put on the backpack and the pouches, so she could access the most important things quickly. She checked if she could move with the stuff, she could, if of course a bit restricted in her mobility. She felt the side of the backpack until she found the hilt of the long, slender knife strapped there, drawing it and inspecting the glyphs she had added to the blade solely for the purpose of this endeavour. She was curious to see it in action, though, if it became necessary. Upon Mot's question directed at her, she thrusted the weapon back into the scabbard. "Provided we manage to do that, of course, but on principle, that should be it." Just the Malkavian already entering the preimeter wasn't much to her liking. Well, so much for the general plan outline and the meet and greet... "Just a small detail on a sidenote, possibly not as important as I might think, but I still only know half of us... None of you think that might be an obstacle once we're in there ?" she asked in a casual tone. About three minutes into this and she already had a bad feeling about it... Not good at all. |
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I have never made but one prayer to God, a very short one: 'O Lord make my enemies ridiculous.' And God granted it. German, French, Latin, Arabic | |
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| Tzippy | Sunday, 18. August 2013, 23:24 Post #10 |
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Ancilla
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There was another nod of acknowledgement to Catherine's greeting. Moshe remembered her from that council meeting, of course. She had been there waiting alongside the others whose domitors and assorted bosses gathered. For all that had gone on in that insanity of a week, he remembered the woman vividly and so he kept his tone carefully respectful. "Well enough for the circumstances, miss." He glanced up at the ruined theater again, pulling off the hood of his jacket. This place made his teeth itch, a sort of background hum that rattled through his bones and made him cringe. Like a sound either just a little too high or too low for human hearing but still present all around. Mr. Khartoum suddenly tensing like a man about to go into fits made the little man hiss, a sharp inhale of breath between teeth. Something was wrong. Horrible. Off about this place. His hands curled into fists, wide green eyes flashing up to look at Mot's unnerved expression. His lips twisted into a nervous smile at the moniker, his eyes flicking away to watch the window to the upper floors Mr. Khartoum had been so very focused on. Slender fingers grasped at the hamsa hanging from his neck. It had been meant more for his peace of mind, that ancient symbol, but he couldn't help but wonder. The evil eye was inspired by envy and perhaps the dead one here envied those with more freedom than this rotting place it had found itself bound to. He wondered how their spirit or spirits came to be trapped. He knew legends and folklore. The common threads that bound the oldest stories of the walking dead together. The tales that, together with those of blood drinkers and Caine, had arose in Mesopotamia. An unjust death or rage against being forgotten by the living the most common source of unquiet dead. He shivered at recalled stories of Irkalla and Ereshkigal and Nergal and the mad goddess of love and war Ishtar, who had threatened to throw open the gates of Irkalla and unleash the dead upon the living. The stories that were among the first of many. Common threads remembered throughout the most ancient of cultures. How much of it was true and how much the tales of mortals who knew the darkness but could not quite explain it? Moshe glanced over at mention of an anchor, furrowing his brow. In many stories, ghosts tended to be bound to a person, place, or object. Something that kept them in the world of the living. So it made a sort of sense. Still, he wanted to be sure, his voice soft, eyes still on that window. "Break the connection then?" Moshe flinched at the shriek of chains being broken, turning away from the window to the Malkavian. It still threw him, just how terrifyingly strong the vampires could be. He himself had marveled at his own new strength a time or two but he was still nothing compared to them. The Israeli furrowed his brow, glancing between the disappearing Mot and Catherine when she spoke as he drifted closer to Agiurre, trying not to look at Sawyer. He was the weak link here. He wouldn't risk anything by being rash. Edited by Tzippy, Monday, 19. August 2013, 00:01.
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| Mot Khartoum | Sunday, 25. August 2013, 02:58 Post #11 |
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Crazy Old Man
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They should’ve known to turn back when the grass turned to dust at their feet. The courtyard had the skeletons of weeds stained into the concrete, until the soil fell into a barren state to rival deserts of hate and pain. Every plant so hardy and ruthless in survival gave out, and when no root could steal nutrients from one another, a wave of extinction settled over the courtyard. Only grass remained, but in still gray strands. Mot first thought they had petrified somehow, but as his stride crossed them, they broke apart in small plumes of dust. Only silhouettes of grass, preserved around a hollow shell. Time stood still, but an uneasiness about the eternity settled in Mot’s active brain. Others had come here before. Some to break old chains, others to reset them. Add news ones. A cycle of human curiosity over the dead building. From the tags at the subway station to the collection of locks and chains, a cycle of urban explorers and faithful nearby tenants was evident, trespassers breaking the restraints, then disappearing for the tenants to reset the chains once more. But on the inside, there was no footprint, no clue of their activity, no sign of their lives. Only the grass, dust shells mimicking their living hosts. It wasn’t until Mot noticed the dust settling by his shoes did he realize that as he passed through them, the dust was reforming a grass petal. This wasn’t a place trapped in time because of neglect. It was trapped in a freeze frame by intention, by choice. The fritz from Tremere echoed out deep holes in Mot’s mind. It was deepness that he couldn’t settle, a recess that begged to fill with that heartbeat. Just more space-talk, preparation and plans and time to limp when they could just walk in. Mot’s eyes scanned the courtyard, small decrepit statues of cherubim standing, while others had fallen apart. “Any plan we hatch will spoil in that incubator. A ghost don’t care what secrets you have. It can hardly realize what we are. Just intruders, some with a pulse, others not so much.” With a half turn back to face Moshe, Mot smiled at the odd-one out. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll make this group of ours a more perfect union. Who needs a heart anyway? Fill it up with so much, but it’ll be the death of you if you let it.” It rose up from the dead earth, featureless and silent. The clear night overhead began to shift, some stars snuffing out like candles while others shine weirdly in oblong shapes. The moon grew in size exponentially, and warped in the night sky, the center of it fixating behind the Blue Noire, like its crown jewel. Only human in shape, the form began to hover slightly off the ground. The ghost developed shoulders, and slowly hunched over. It was a slow process, and silent. From the blank face a jaw thickened, growing larger and dropping from the face, an open mouth. It tried to speak, but nothing left its mouth. Hands formed, its arms slowly prodding its own face, looking for its voice. But the words would not form, and the jaw ripped off and fell to the ground, with a loud metallic clang. The thick clumpy hands developed into thin delicate fingers, but they became frantic, now searching for its own eyes. Two round pools shone brightly, she clawed her hands into them searching desperately. Bits of metal and concrete fall in small piles below her. With every motion her features develop, only incomplete, sockets without eyes, a missing jaw. Clenching fingers dig into her own stomach, searching madly, she lurches over with what she could only express poorly as pain. Large chunks of scrap metal and other strange metallic scrap fall to the ground, loud and hard. What began as vague humanoid was becoming a grotesque woman, searching for parts of herself that were missing. Where once only a pale nearly invisible layer shone through the odd moonlight, skin was thickening, opaque white at first, then becoming gray in thick splotches like creeping rot. Thick hair was materializing, but then curling up, some of it falling off while some becoming strands of dust that blew away in the wind. At last she clawed for the last place to find what was missing. Thin fingers now razor sharp with red rusty tips lacerated her chest, then stopped short. Gripping it tightly, she pulled it out, rips and tears from inside her loud and quick. Her chest heaved and strained as she pulled it out. Finally it came free, but she stopped, slowed down her movements. Empty sockets stared at the thing, dripping and steaming. Then she looked up. At the group, her gaze full without her eyes. With fingers wrapped around the precious thing, she held it out. Her hands trembled, her arms shook, and at last thick splotches of rot gnawed at the elbows. The arms fell off, and in one quick motion, the spirit hushed out from sight, a quick flash of sickness in color as it flew into an empty window of the Noire. What remained was a statue they had not noticed before, or perhaps one that was not there before. Composed of a collection of scrap metal, concrete, and chunks of strange painted material, it was hard to tell if this effigy was incomplete or made to look as such. She was A hole in her chest was filled with garbage, rotten and decomposed, but still fresh in nausea aroma. Something had left them, but had left a weight in Mot’s mind. This was a heavy house, much heavier than anyone could imagine. Wrapping his thoughts around those images was trying to bottle acidic poison, focusing too long stung at his senses and thinned his breathing. Still, a noise heard only through the mental receptor of a Malkavian ensnared his focus. The chest. Its heart. Full of sickness, literal waste. But he heard that sound, almost felt it again. A heartbeat, where no heartbeat should sound. First, in his undead body, now in a body that was only manufactured, without any organ alive or dead. His legs begged to move, the anxiety felt from the others was muffled out. If it had eyes, wouldn’t it be looking right towards him? If it had hands, wouldn’t they be yearning for his embrace? He neared the statue, the thumping becoming louder, the sound of another’s heartbeat, heard pressed up against a chest. Though her arms were severed he reached out to take them. “Ah, but isn’t she all broken up? Someone ought to put her back together. Sick in the heart, hell she can’t see me. But that’s a fix to be done. Then she’ll be right. Yeah, she’d be al-” They cut him short. One shard severed his middle and forefinger. Another slashed his face, causing him to wince as his back to the group. Brak blood sprayed over the statue, purple essence seeping into the cracks causing more chucks to fall off from her body. The Primogen fell to one knee, shocked at the quickness of the projectiles. There was a pause, then laughter. Dusty, dry laughter. Like the sound of an old engine with the ignition key, heaving gas into ancient chambers to fuel rusted pistons. His stained jacket covered his face, but as he turned back towards them, the Brujah, Nosferatu, Tremere, and Ghoul could see the bone, muscle, and tooth exposed on his left cheek. “Heavy rain’s coming. Run for cover.” The gate behind them closed shut, every one of the chains broken realigning and reforging several times stronger. Moonlight illuminated the sky, but something shone down over them brighter than the moon. It came out like locus. Glass stained, dirty, and in shards. It was covering the sky, almost creating reflections over them. They came raining down, one by one, as the rest covered in the sky. More fragments pummeled them all, Mot dashed towards the door as two more lanced his calf muscles. With all his might and shoulder at the ready he pushed open the door, tumbling in before one large plate had a chance to separate his head from his shoulders. Edited by Mot Khartoum, Sunday, 25. August 2013, 03:14.
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| Aguirre Efrain Maddox | Monday, 26. August 2013, 17:32 Post #12 |
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Mouse
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There were condemned, abandoned properties--and then there was the Blue Noire. Upon entering the courtyard, they were greeted with nothing but stagnant waste and death. The give of the grass beneath her boot falls made defined crunch sounds, like fallen leaves in Autumn. The look of the place in general came off as quite sinister, and those creepy statues of creatures with many heads and even more wings didn't help that feeling at all. The Tremere mentioned that they had forgotten introductions, but with the distraction presented by the intimidating structure, she would be far more focused on that than anything else. Besides, were it not for the fact that Sawyer and Moshe knew her, she wouldn't have given her name to any of them anyway. This was a job, not a social gathering. Moshe started to meander his way closer to the Brujah, and while she did notice his small form start to zoom into her periphery, she was also somewhat preoccupied trying to take in motivational words uttered to her by her fellow Southerner. Brujah fire? Yeah, she had that. She also had a whole lot of human fear to smother it out. Still, she tried to imagine that small flicker of flame maintained like a pilot light inside her, because she knew that if she gave over to cowardice, it would surely end in a bad way. She wasn't particularly significant when in comparison to the brains of the operation, maybe not so clever as Mr. Khartoum or Sawyer, but the man power she presented was hopefully useful. Besides, Aguirre's gut told her than neither she nor the rest of the party could afford screw ups on this outing. She broke away from her Nosferatu counterpart and moved forward to come a little closer to the Malkavian as he spoke. After all, he was the leader in this, and his insight was more than a little valuable. She regretted the decision to advance as soon as a figure started to form before them, though. This was something the likes of which Aguirre had never seen before, and her eyes widened with fascination and muted fright. The poor woman just couldn't seem to keep a hold on her insides--but in fact, she dug into herself, and it looked more like she was trying to tear them apart. What's more, what she left behind after her empty sockets set on them and she disappeared reeked of something as dead as she was. There was a hole in the chest cavity that seemed to be stuffed with something, the worst smell coming from just that. Aguirre squinted to peer into it while he Primogen went forward to observe the humanoid figure, something akin to compassion in his voice--until he reached out, having two fingers taken clean off by a sharp piece of old glass. He fell to his knee and Aguirre edged forward with the intention of helping her elder up, and might have stopped short when she saw his lacerated face; however, the announcement of 'heavy rain' fell on her ears. Heavy rain? Oh, fuck. As soon as he told them to run, she felt her scalp split apart in the back of her head. The glass wizzed by and shattered behind her, taking a length of her hair with it. Vitae oozed out of the cut, highlighting the burning sensation around the opening. It took another shard slicing down through her jacket and blowing a significant passage her lower arm for her to really get moving, a few feet behind Mot as he tumbled his way in through the doors. At this point, it was like running through a swarm of acute insects, bits of dirt stained glass leaving nicks across her face. More sliced through her baggy jeans to pierce her legs, and one piece came down as if it were following a target, burrowing into her shoulder to grind against her clavicle, pain shooting through her senses. She narrowly missed the same guillotine of glass as it came down between herself and the Malkavian, shattering before her. Besides nearly tripping over Mot as she leaped over him coming through the door, there was a momentary sense of relief--except when she realized she had been so focused on getting away from the storm that she had forgotten about the rest of their party. The damage might have been a whole lot worse were it not for her somewhat heavy clothes and the distance between herself and the door, but what about those who were farther back? Hopefully they made it in before they were ripped to shreds. Edited by Aguirre Efrain Maddox, Monday, 26. August 2013, 17:48.
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| Sawyer | Tuesday, 27. August 2013, 02:37 Post #13 |
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Friendly Neighborhood Vampire
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"Heavy rain's coming. Run for cover." The sound of Mot's voice was like a crack of thunder, breaking the awful trance the ghost of the Blue Noir had stunned the party into. An electric shock ran down Sawyer's spine as the world shattered and fell apart. And wide-eyed, he looked up. It wasn't pain that hit him, not quite. Something electric, something wrong. He could see it before he felt it, and then he saw nothing. Too late, his right eye screwed shut, a blinding, maddening jolt of something running through him. You fuckin' idiot what have you done, you can't fix it now, fuckin' hell, what have you done- The statue, the awful assemblage of broken parts, loomed over him like some uncaring god. And he could've sworn that at that moment, her ruined and incomplete face spread into a cruel, insane smile of satisfaction. He bared his teeth, snarling at her out of instinct. Gasping in shock, Sawyer stumbled forward blindly, feeling nothing as the glass rained down. Run. He said to run. The beast roared inside his skull, banging on the edges of his mind and begging for relief, clawing against his barely-conscious mind. No. You can't come out, you can't, please, no. Just leave me alone. Just a little farther. I'll fix this, I swear, I can put it back together, I can, I swear, please - He barreled his way into the theater, shoulders shaking. Faces and figures swam at the edges of his vision, blurred and meaningless. His enormous left eye rolled frantically, trying to process the sights around it, trying to make up for its ruined twin. Sawyer lifted a trembling, clawed hand to his right eye, felt the protrusion of glass from between tight lids. Felt something warm and wet seeping out, something dark and thick and sticky, something that was not blood. And all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put it back together again. A twisted, mad laugh escaped from his throat, a tortured sob. He whirled around, searching frantically for the stoic Malkavian, fangs bared and face set into a gruesome mask of rage. The cocakatoo crest of white hair came into his line of sight, and like a bull charging at a crimson flag, he pointed a damning finger at the primogen. "A plan," Sawyer said softly, an edge of hysteria in his voice. "A plan would've been real fuckin' great!" |
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| Tzippy | Tuesday, 27. August 2013, 08:10 Post #14 |
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Ancilla
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Moshe had frozen up upon first stepping into the courtyard, lingering behind and to the right of Aguirre, hair standing up on the back of his neck and arms. He honestly wouldn't have been surprised if the curls on his head were standing on end too. God, this place was wrong. The living embodiment of the sickly sweet smell that lingered around the room of someone ill. Threatening to suffocate with its cloying aroma of death and decay. Dead weeds crunched his boots as he reassured himself, forcing himself to move, a weak grin that seemed more a grimace flashed in response to Mot's own smile. That stench, if it was a stench and not a product of senses prone to fall to mental tricks, was likely radiating from the building. Rotten foundations and furniture left to fall apart. Wait.... The moon was wrong. It shouldn't be a full moon. Not tonight. Moshe paused, looking up with a furrowed brow and then blinking several times as the sky shifted. He stumbled at the swooping sensation of vertigo as the stars twisted and tilted crazily, his eyes tricking him into dizziness, mind confused and certain that it was the ground that pitched under his feet. He managed to keep his balance, tearing his gaze away from the moon that hovered like a single great eye over the theater. He opened his mouth. To yell? To warn? To curse? To quite possibly get sick on Aguirre's shoes? The words died in his throat, a raspy gasp escaping instead at the thing that crawled out of the earth. A shade at odds with the reality of the plane it found itself on. Tearing itself away from whatever inbetween realm it had hidden itself in, assembling and then disassembling before reassembling again. All muted, though Moshe cringed a few times as though flinching at the imagined clatter of rusted metal. And he remembered Ishtar, the mad goddess of war and passion. Her threat against the Gatekeeper. The words were murmured, a quiet cadence that seemed a prayer. "I will bring up the dead to eat the living. And the dead will outnumber the living." The first recording of the undead and their hatred for the living. And this thing clawing out of dead dirt and dead stone and dead everything... And then suddenly, it... she was gone. Eldritch light snuffed out like a candle. Moshe gasped for breath, rubbing his chest to ease the knot of stunned panic. In her place was a statue that reminded him of those little creations of scrape metal. Garbage reclaimed for a new purpose. He cautiously approached, reaching for his phone to take quick pictures of it as Mot studied the creation. He didn't dare trust his eyes alone. Not after the display the sky had decided to put on. So he settled into the comfortingly familiar mindset of a researcher. Document everything. Even the tiniest clue could reveal so much. The flash of movement from the corner of his eye had him hastily pocketing the phone, turning to see what was going on as Mot fell to his knees. Moonlight flashed again, across something he couldn't catch sight of quick enough to decipher. Black fluids sprayed, splattering his jacket. His eyes went wide with horror at the catastrophic damage done. What?... And then red blood rose in a fine mist as a piece of glass flew past, laying open the skin along a cheek bone. The cut was shallow but enough to shock him into movement, instinctively scrambling after the taller Malkavian, sprinting past Aguirre and Sawyer. For a little mortal, Moshe could be quick if sufficiently motivated and right now, he was very much motivated, hood thrown up hastily to protect him from the storm of glass, whipping around them like a flock of angry little birds. He tumbled past the broken open door as Mot broke it open, having to stop himself from crashing into the old man's back. He spun on his heel, looking for the others. There was Aguirre and.... "Oh, shit," he murmured, looking up into Sawyer's face, staring at the glass that protruded from his right eye. He was only spared sickness due to the sense of numbed shock. Edited by Tzippy, Tuesday, 27. August 2013, 08:12.
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| Raposa | Tuesday, 27. August 2013, 15:20 Post #15 |
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Walking indifference
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No introductions then, very well. Catherine was pretty certain that those two would resent being called 'you there' for the time being, possibly also making meaningful communication in the building difficult to some xtent, but pushing the matter while the others were obviously dying to get inside wouldn't serve the purpose. She'd save another try for when they had managed to get in. What ever haunted the place would be listening, but hey, what could it do, right ? She was already looking forward to this... Feling a pang of light annoyance, she motioned to Calvin to retreat to the car. He was under standing orders to wait for them here and hold the fort to pick up the survivors. He had objected to this drastic formulation, of course, but not too long. She watched him get into the car and resuming his outpost duty. No, having him inside would be no good, it might become messy and she wouldn't want to risk him getting in over his head on stuff he wouldn't comprehend fully. She turned around, not seeing him waving them off or noticing his silent wishes for good luck, for his master, of course, but also for the others. So she followed the group with brisk steps, eyeing the premises they had just entered sceptically... The telltale signs were there and they were strong at this place. The plants only a shallow reflection that only a passing glance would be able to mistake for life, not unlike most members of the group that added even more death to this place upon their entrance alone. The statues were another thing to focus her attention at. If the Malkavian was right, the first attempt to driv them out would come soon. The question wasn't whether it would, the question was when, more specifically... from where ? The statues were one possible source of trouble, the ground another, but most likely, it would of course come from the building they were walking towards at this very moment... Expecting the worst, but not even having a slightst hint of what that 'worst' might possibly entail, limiting whatever was in front of them to the worst they could imagine and still underestimating things. No, this would not be a cakewalk. The smell of rot and decay added to the general atmosphere. Still eyeing the courtyard for anything that was out of place even in ths circumstances, a sudden movement caught her eye. She looked closer, keping her hand from going for the blade as it almost automatically had. She was unwilling to jump the gun here and was proven right, as it was only a shifting shadow. Although at this time and with the currnt lighting, it shouldn't be moving at all ! Getting her attention back to the group, sh saw the figure that had appeared in front of the Malkavian Primogen... Contact ! This was either quite good or pretty bad and she didn't think there was too much goodness in this place, at least from there perspective. Novertheless, it was an attempt to communicate something to them, although she wasn't sure what it was. A warning ? A hint ? A message ? A combination of those ? She would have to ponder this, but not now. If it was something of use she wouldn't waste time being able to be spent on getting the exact sequence of things into her mind for pondering over things that might be considered secondary. Then, the ghost left and left a strange statue behind for them. She saw the Malkavian approaching the thing and then... a thought crossed her mind. No, not a thought, a memory... There was this voice in her head, suddenly, a thin voice, a childs voice. 'Won't jumping down onto those people be terribly dangerous, Dad ?' the voice asked. 'Aren't you afraid at all ?' It took her a while to recall this tidbit, to recognize the voice as the one of her eight year old self during what came out to be her fathers last evening with the family... 'Why should I be ?', her dads voice or at least what she imagined he sounded after more than 70 years responded after a laugh. 'Im a doctor, they will not shoot at me. They're not allowed to, so Im safe, don't worry, Catherine... Besides, you know us adults...' Her recollection broke off just before the crucial part. She knew that this recollection was most likely herself desperately trying to make her aware of something she had forgotten or overlooked. She saw Mot fall down to one knee. This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all ! her thoughts racing she could almost physically feel that crucial bit dancing around her, escaping her grasp as soon as she thought she had gotten it finally. Mot turned back towards them, his face sliced open. Th sight mad clear that something bad was about to happen or was already happening. Finally relinquishing circling the thought that eluded her and had made her miss the Primogens words, She heard the gat shut, however. She saw the others looking up, so she did too. She saw the moon was much too large than it would ever be. She saw the stars twinkling down at them in an unnormal manner, adding light, but also something else to the scene. And she saw all those other things twinkling down at them while making their way down. And so the tidbit came to her mind finally, the voice sounding in her ears again. 'We don't look at the sky if we don't have to. They won't see us coming... And even if they do, they won't be able to do much about us at that point...By then, we will already have won the day.' The Tremere's eyes widened as she took in the full implications of the situation. She saw the others starting to run one by one, looking at the distanc they would have to get through to avoid being cut into ribbons. The mortal whizzed past her, and only by then did she notice something was off. Looking down she spotted a big long shard of glass had lodged into her hand, the ring finger only attached to the rest of the hand by a few strings of dead cartilage. It was a curious thing to see. Although she was used enough to pain, but it was the complete absence of it that amazed her, although she quickly reminded herself that this hand was only a dead attachment to her body, its nerves dead even before she had been turned. Of course she wouldn't feel anything ! The sharp sensation of something burrowing inside her neck returned her to the situation at hand in time to feel another small shard slicing its way over her forehead. She needed to act, and she needed to act now ! The backpack came to her attention... it might be usable as a shield to prevent the most grieveous bodily harm, even if that meant its contetn had to suffer. On the other hand, those contents wouldn't be of use to the others without her. She was sure with the right preparation she could bridge the distance and get the backpack to safety with a well-aimed throw. Another piece hit her, taking off the finger and taking the tip of another one. She incrased her movement speed and ran towards the house, feeling the projectiles hit the backpack, piercing it and using the momentum they had left to burrow into her back. She needed to run faster than this ! She raised her arms to protect her head and ran faster. She thought about burning some blood to make it there even faster than this, but dismissd the thought. The reserves in the backpack were limitd and rationed, she wouldn't risk this at this point. The faint sound of clicking and crunching glass and metal reached her ear as the first splinters tore through some of the containers inside the backpack. A shard tore through her forearm, then another, then another. A small amount of blood trickled onto her face, before some bigger pieces of stained glass reached it, big enough that the top of the backpack and her forearms were not able to take away all their momentum. The pain of the pieces cutting into her face and the smaller things still biting into her skin urgd her on, towards the house. The first of the others just crossed the threshold before something not unlike a guillotine missed them, although barely. Glass embedded itself into her legs, slicing through her trousers, the shards in the ground stabbing through the soles of her feet, making it even more painful and arduous to move on, but she kept on going, gritting her teeth and trying to shut out the most vile pain. She would make it to this house, not because her body was able to carry her there, but because she willed it. She kept reminding herself that the flesh was weak, it was easy to damage and it would try to make her succumb to the sensation to make her stop. But she would not do it. She would not allow it. The will was what counted and the will would keep her functioning. Nothing more, nothing less. And was all that mattered now. Shattering th large obstacle that had almost beheaded two of them with the force of her growing anger, she pressed on, as another small piece made its way across her face once more with the sharp pain following before she entered the building herself, meeting the rest of the group. Finally taking down the arms she noticed that she had been lucky indeed, even if she wasn't able to open her right eye. Her right forearm had taken most of the immediate damage. There was not much left of it to speak of... The ringfinger was gone, as was the tip of the pinky and about half of the middle finger. She noticed a hole in the palm as well. Her left was in a better shape, it also had lots of quite nasty cuts, but none that hindered it from working properly and the fingers were intact. Luckily... She would tend to the rest later, but at least she would be able to function in the meantim, which was most important. In any case, the remains of the turtleneck covered most of the damage and a proper assessent would have to wait as she heard the Nosferatu laugh and then pointing a finger at the Primogen, adressing him. "A plan... A plan would've been real fuckin' great!" She had almost seen it coming and there they were. Just great ! Especially this kid mouthing off despit not having come up with a plan either. Catherine forced herself to restrain her urges and feelings that had made themselves prominent and return to calmness before putting the backpack onto the floor audibly. "Funny, I don't remember you bothering to come up with one." she said, just a hint of amusement colouring her voice as she pointed the fact out. "I don't think that puts you into a position to point fingers at people, what do you think ? I'd say we make sure we prepare a safe room and see what equipment and limbs we have left, before we start squealing 'Im not as guilty of bungling this as you' bullshit at each other. Or we simply cut that pointless crap of whos guilty of what and start working with some group effort. As I have already kind of mentioned, knowing who is who and is able to do what might help, but if you there" She pointed at Aguirre. "and you there" the pointed at Sawyer. "Are fine with going as 'you there' for the rest of this thing, we can leave it at that, of course. Wouldn't help much, though, I guess." Whatever floats your boat, or as those kids nowadays used to say. She looked around to see whether this room would make for a suitable safe room, eyeing the furniture critically. |
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I have never made but one prayer to God, a very short one: 'O Lord make my enemies ridiculous.' And God granted it. German, French, Latin, Arabic | |
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| Mot Khartoum | Wednesday, 4. September 2013, 03:37 Post #16 |
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Crazy Old Man
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His weaknesses were too human, if only at first. His theaters were decrepit as the one he dived into, and the walls barely kept out that awful banging, the battering rams forcing their way through. His fields were dead grass under molten rock. His waters were poison acid that ate the flesh until the bone. Every shelter was assaulted, one after the other, his mind racing to find safety. Until one room remained, sterile horror. But through fluorescent lights its black vomit pooled, suffocating the bulbs and shattering the glass. In that wheelchair Mot Khartoum was aware in all vampiric clarity, stuck out of place in his own mental prison, an actor breaking the fourth wall, as every wall seeped out that awful obsidian liqueur. It pooled at his feet, dissolving the wheelchair into nothing. He fell, mouth filling with the sludge. It pulled his body down, forcing his head under, unable to breathe. As if he had to breathe, he struggled to find a way to fight back. The walls ripped open, and the black soup flushed him out. He fell again, free falling endlessly. He could only feel his image blur, his form stutter and flicker out. Only before he felt himself become nothing at all, did the blood screaming out a million cries, cries of Malkav’s children, or was it Malkav himself. Ten million images, ten million memories, and ten billion emotions ran through him with the explosive power of a derailed freight train. His brain exploded, only for the peices to grow strange parts and burn up in the engulfing flames of ecstasy and insanity. It was enough for the black poison to leave, but as the spirit of his clan departed, he heard its voice, soft and sweet but behind it a form ageless and hideous. “What are you, corpse all walking and talking? Only one real man in your bunch but I want to digest you most of all. I want to smash your head open and eat all your piñata candy. Peel back your face. I’ve already started with that, haven’t I?” Soot and ash would have tasted awful regardless of their mixture had Mot been able to taste them. A pile of small rubble settled in his mouth, agape and unconscious, drooling corpse saliva into rotten carpet. Dim dust from moonlight wiggling through wormholes danced along the fresh flesh wound across his face. It would be more than a moment before he knew just how awful soot and ash tasted mixed together, but as he did his eyes slowly took in the lack of light in their interior decrepit sanctuary. Well, that is to say, his one good eye. Oh, if he could feel pain, if he could know the millions of nerves, their dead cells begging to torture him. Broken glass, bits of concrete, and whatever sharp unfriendly bit strewn across the floor grumbled against his hands as he dragged his arms up to his front. Pushing himself up off the ground, he found himself deprived of certain digits. Well he could still count to eight, and the unfamiliar gap between such familiar places helped sharpen his senses quicker than usual. As he rose, his head hit rotten wood of a balcony, a small parade of termite corpses piddling out into his face. It wasn’t until he tried to brush them off, and again deprived of fingers so important. Staring through the gap, Mot finally let out a scream of frustration. “Oh. I gesh it. Yeah. I shreally gesh it. I really phucking gesh it! I goh it, esh on the tis of my tshounge. Oh wait a minute, my tshounges gone, sho long with my phushing fingers! My fing… oh my goshp. My fashe. Christsh…” His exposed cheek left his chin dripping with more spit from speech, and his words were sloppy even with the best attempts at pronication. A bit of blood mixed up the soot, and with one poor spit, Mot cleaned most of his mouth, a droplet of funk and vitae sinking into ancient wood. With due time Mot raised himself up, and assessed the damage. The little Brujah that could wasn’t much worse for wear, but the small stained glass peaking out of her shoulder was an eye catcher. He could only nod at her, too embarrassed and disabled to speak for her safety. A furious Nossie had words to say, but only a few came out. Plans, plans, he thought. Plan the whole world away, but risk needs to be taken. Well, that would be something he would say, probably long those lines. But his tongue was busy trying to slip out his jaw, and his hands were digit deprived. He just showed the Nossie his wounds and shrugged. Little mortal Moshe was still ticking fine, no glass broke up his fragile gears. Mot tried to turn away from him, at least only showing his good side. Now he really had a good side, at least he could look pretty in pictures now. Radio buzz Tremere looked like the only one who got such a bad beating like Mot. Maybe worse, she wouldn’t let them see her sway when she meant to stand. But all those wizards keep stoic like its their job or something, can’t start giggling at the Royal Guards when they’re missing parts. He took a deep breath, as if gaining air for some prep talk. But nothing come out. Just a long sigh. Maybe he forgot just how mortal his immortal body was, but standing there missing more pieces than an abused jigsaw puzzle he could only well up a tear in his bad eye. Oh, wait. No that wasn’t a tear. Just a ripped vein that had decided to bleed right then, a small stream piddling down his face, across the chasm of open muscle and teeth. “Now whatsh?” Edited by Mot Khartoum, Wednesday, 4. September 2013, 03:37.
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| Aguirre Efrain Maddox | Friday, 6. September 2013, 00:53 Post #17 |
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Mouse
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This searing pain in her shoulder was bad, but as the rest of the party behind she, Moshe and Mot, barreled in, she realized it could have been much worse. At least she still had two functioning eyes, what room did she have to complain? She and Moshe had turned out decently, and she was really quite impressed with how quickly the little guy could book it out of a bad situation. Hopefully if he had to be embraced, he would be embraced into a clan that could make use of such speed. Knowing him, he'd even come prepared with an updated tetanus shot, but that was just her assumption. Aguirre turned her attention to the small but ragged crater in her arm. The glass was still lodged in, and far enough was it that she would have to wait for it to heal somewhat before digging it out. She still had a blade shaped protrusion sticking out of her, though, and started to wrap fingers around it to pull it out until she was interrupted by a flinch as the Primogen burst with chagrin at the situation through many missing parts. Jesus, he looked like a horror movie. Once he finally realized the futility in attempting to speak under the circumstances, giving her a nod, she let her posture relax again and gripped the bloody splinter and tore at it until it came out of it's temporary sheath. She let it fall to her feet and shatter. Sawyer released a sob, sounding as though he were on the border of howling with pain. The look of him and the way he pointed a claw at Mot gave her an idea of just how upset he was, and she shrunk in stature slightly at the thought of him with that thing in his eye socket throughout this very long night. It even made her cringe to consider it, quietly empathizing with his agony in her mouse-like state. She was able to look over the Tremere again while Sawyer shouted about a plan, cool and collected despite a tattered limb and the droplets of blood down her face, and gave everyone a little piece of her mind. The brujah pulled out her flask, unscrewing the lid and giving it a good swig before receiving a point from the frighteningly calm woman and nearly choking on the viscous fluid going down her throat. She straightened up and wiped her mouth, saying in an intimidated manner, "I'm Aguirre, h-he's Sawyer." Her copper eyes were wide with confusion of what had just happened. She listened to the woman; obviously, this woman had her shit together, more than the rest of them probably. Aguirre made a line for the Malkavian after at least part of the information asked was delivered. She placed her flask in Mot's good hand; the old man couldn't help them if they couldn't understand the already frazzled words he spoke, and he seemed to have a connection with the theater that none of the others shared. It wasn't just concern for his safety anymore, but also out of necessity, that she sacrificed her precious reserves. After all, she had almost no real use to this job, as she was quickly realizing. It was very unlikely that whatever they would face from here on out would be something she could take care of with brute force. The woman dug her phone out of her pocket, switching it to the flashlight app that had helped to guide her out of the tunnels beneath Camden. She shone it around the foyer, walking it's perimeter to look for any possible rooms they could put to use as a safe area, per the suggestion of the Tremere. It would be best to find such a place before another round of shit hitting the fan. "Now whatsh?" "I say we listen to the lady who knows what the fuck she's doing", Aguirre offered meekly, glancing back at Catherine. At least the simpler statements that came from the Primogen's damaged features were coherent. The gaping wound in her shoulder had started to mend, albeit slowly, and her light appeared on the floor before them as she looked above them all to the balcony Mot had knocked his noggin against.She shined the light upward to gauge the height of the ceiling; it wasn't unlikely at this point that the damn thing would collapse in on them, not if they were already being fired on with bits of the building's infrastructure. Edited by Aguirre Efrain Maddox, Tuesday, 10. September 2013, 21:29.
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| Sawyer | Saturday, 7. September 2013, 09:31 Post #18 |
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Friendly Neighborhood Vampire
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One piece. Hell, he was still in one piece, and that was more than he could say for the rest of the group. Gus Fring over there with his nightmare face, looking more Nosferatu than Sawyer was. Ice Queen with her cold blue eyes, unflinching as blood ran down her arm in thick, black rivulets. Luckily Moshe and Aguirre seemed fine, if bloody and shaken. At least those two still had all their fingers... He flinched under the Tremere's tirade like a kicked dog. It was good that Aguirre managed to throw out both of their names; words seemed to have deserted him entirely. She was right, he knew; it didn't do any good to throw blame around, lashing out at the only people who could get him through this night intact. He was acting like a spoiled kid with a boo-boo, whining and crying like it made an ounce of difference. Shame flooded him more than pain then, shame at being not only an idiot, but a pussy to boot. Unwilling to say much of anything in his own defense, he instead took a seat in a low, brocaded armchair. Its upholstery had once been beautifully embroided, but today it bore the scars of cigarette burns and loose stuffing. It was a miracle any of the foyer's furniture was more or less intact, but like the theater's exterior, the insides gave the impression of departed grandeur, of a lovely past peeled away and discarded. He ran a finger over the leg of the chair, traced the tendrils of a carved vine, tips grazing over chipped paint and splinters. What next? Surely there was something they could do other than stumble through like sitting ducks, obliviously throwing themselves into whatever trap the ghost could torture them with. "Can't we just... talk to it?," he mumbled wearily, an abused, hopeful edge hidden somewhere inside his voice. "Hell, it's... she's dead, and we're dead, and that's gotta be a start. There's gotta be some common ground there... right?" His mamaw had been fond of saying that it was better to keep your mouth shut and risk being thought of as an idiot than to open it and remove all doubt. With that in mind, Sawyer shut the hell up, well aware that his suggestion was soft-hearted bullshit. Whatever the Blue Noire's restless inhabitant was, he doubted she was very keen on conversation. And besides, her interest seemed to lie on Mot himself, not on the rag-tag group that followed at his heels. Why would she care about some bumbling Nossie that fancied himself a diplomat? With a groan, he brought his hand to his right eye, still seeping that dark, sticky fluid. He didn't want to think about that, didn't want to think of the ruinous pit that was surely underneath his lid. Slowly, teeth gritted in pain, he extracted the glass that had speared him, opening up anew the bits of his eye that had managed to knit themselves together. The pain was too white-hot to see through, scorching his eyes, leaving him blind and stupid and pathetic as a mewling kitten. When it was out, he dropped the vicious sliver to the floor, letting it sit in a dark puddle of blood and vitreous humor, and sank back into the chair in a miserable pile. It's your own fuckin' faut, Flint, he silently berated himself, wincing. It oughta hurt. You make that kind of dumbass mistake again in here, and it'll be more than your eye that you lose. The eye began to seep even more black bile, but by this point, he couldn't bring himself to care much. Concentrating, he directed his blood flow to it best he could- he didn't have the time or the blood to fix the eye properly, so for now, he'd only seal up the wound and hope for the best. He gave Aguirre a weak, tired smile as he stood back up; her face was illuminated only by the glow of her cell phone's screen, looking so hollow and drawn in the faint light. "I... reckon we oughta listen to the doctor, too," he said very quietly, echoing Aguirre's statement. What good would it do to charge into this headless and planless? Sure as hell hadn't worked out in their favor the first time around... |
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| Raposa | Sunday, 8. September 2013, 04:25 Post #19 |
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Walking indifference
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Catherine had found herself a place to sit and now started to probe the not as superficial wounds for remaining pieces of glass. She was not too keen on carrying those around with her, basically giving their adversary more ammo to use that could deal damage from the very first moment of their next encounter. ~clink~ The one still in her neck was the first to be pulled out with her fingers protected by her handkerchief. After shortly looking at it, she simply dropped it onto the floor, still stained with the dark blood it had drawn, leaving it in a small puddle on the floor. Getting out the others would be more tricky, but some reconstructive effort would need to be done. So she concentrated on her right arm for now, rolling up the sleeve and having a close inspection of what was left of her appendage before starting to pry the shards out one by one, adding more glass and more small puddles to the already present one. Compared to the wounds they made most of the pieces were small, so getting them was not an easy thing, but luckily there was almost no pain involved for her. At least at the moment. ~clink~ A smaller piece of glass, almost triangular, but with serrated edges was dropped by her hand. "In my opinion, the welcome showed that talking may be worth a try, but not too much should be expected to come from it. If this particular thing is only after things to humiliate, kill and play with, it can only be bargained with from a position of strength." ~clink~ A long pointy one was pulled from a hole just below the elbow carefully, before shattering upon impact in front of the Tremere's feet. "Provided this is the case, we need to find something that is important enough for the ghost to put us into said position. The problem is, it might really be anything, possibly something from its former life, but not limited to it. Maybe even something that would be beneath notice under normal circumstance. In the worst case, this means searching the whole building with the finest comb at our disposal." ~clink~ Another almost daggerlike shard with jagged edges and a dark colour came to light before joining its relatives on the ground unceremoniously. "For the quick approach, it would mean seeing what can be collected about the entity to identify it and see if there is a special connection to this building and what nature said connection is of." She extracted another one from her arm, this time from her upper arm. There was a visible difference in the way it was extracted, as Catherine pulled it out much slower and more careful, her face betraying the first signs of pain and discomfort as this one was ot bigger, but clearly more painful to remove. Therefore she refrained from speaking up for the time being and occupied herself with getting the splinter out as comfortable as possible, which was not much. ~clink~ Finally it found its way to the others as well, but the mess their collective effort had done was hard to ignore. She was effectively missing three fingers and the palm had also been severely damaged, not to speak of the deep cuts that made up most of her lower arm and allowed a look at bone and cartilage though the gaps where skin and dead flesh had given way to the forces that had hurled the glass at them. There was not much to be done with it... The damage was severe and for most of what was about to come, the continued presence of the remains of the limb was more of a liability really, as it would no longer be able to servfe as a meatshield of sorts and its use had been limited from the start. She did not like the implication of this, but it was the most fitting, if perhaps also most painful solution at hand. "Unfortunately, there is only so much time for this, because I wouldn't bet my existance that I would be able to wake before the current occupant is ready to wreak havoc with my body while Im still asleep. So its safe to assume we have the remainder of this night to make sure we either get the ghost or at last what is left of ourselves out before the sun rises lest we quite likely face very final consequences that need no further explanation." Catherine intended to passed the ball on to the others again and be able to concentrate on what was about to be done. She rolled her sleeve up further, and took another look at the mess. Luckily she was unable to get sick of this stuff, but she was still somewhat hesistant. Could she do it ? It was not the first time that she was expecting something to hurt immensely,but this time, it was not brought by others and the fact that she was in control could hamper her efforts of quick clean work as much as her basic anatomy knowledge. Another look towards the others steeled her resolve again. No weakness in front of those people ! That was her intent and her duty, regardless of what toll it would tak on her to keep the facade up. She turned the chair around, tunring the back to the group and drawing the slender, slightly curved blade from its sheath. She reminded herself that it was all damage control. She had done pretty harsh stuff before, she would do it again, so she could do this as well. She put the sheath betwen her teeth and started the grisly work. The first cut only roughly went around the limb, cutting through the skin and partly cut deep into the flesh above the elbow. The pain was considerable as it flared up, especially as she had to concentrate on the procedure and was unable to divert any attention off it. The small trickles of blood that came through the cuts reminded her that this most likely meant that her emergency reserve wouldn't last as long as she had hoped and her emergency emergency reserve... Well, was basically present on two legs and would have to be fought over as soon as push came to shove... Indeed the human was the weakest link here in more than one respect. Her teeth digging into the leather of the scabbard, she forced herself to remain as quiet as possible, trying mostly successful not to let a whimper escape her throat. Shortly pausing to gather some inner reserves, she lead the blade back to the task and started the arduous process of making her way through muscles and cartilage, simply gritting her teeth and working down to the bone as fast as she could. Soon she heard the sound of the first tooth giving way under the pressure, cracking due to the sheer force with which she was forcing them onto each other as she half-cut, half-hacked through the tissue, wracked with the pain this resulted in. The first beads of bloody sweat appeared on her forehead as she found herself considereing to stop what she was doing, give in to the desire to end the agony and simply accept the inconvenience that would be a small price, a laughably and neglectable price as long as the pain would stop. And it could any moment, she just needed to yield and will it, and it would be over ! She could almost taste the sweet feeling of getting back into a comfortable state of being, but now that she was at it, she remembered herself that she would have to go through with it now, now that the work was almost done. So she continud her effort, the first crimson tears appearing in her eyes as the knife continued to carve into her, feeling not lik the sharp tool it was but more like a rusty, blunted piece of metal that simply was intent to cause as much discomfort at possible, tearing and rending at her flesh rather than cutting through it. She imagined this was what flouric acid must feel like on skin contact. She had of course learned that it was dangerous and even got to har the horror stories of how it went straight to the bone, the pain being so immense that not even morphine would help. At this point, she could to some point imagine what it would have to feel like. Suddenly, there was a scratching sound and the blade in her hand glided over some hard surface and she could feel the scratching as she had finally endured enough to make it. She sucked in the stale air of the room as she prepared to use up even more of the precious little blood that was left in her body to finish the procedure swiftly and as painless as possible, even if the cuts were still echoing their jagging and burning sensation through the dead nerves, channeling directly into her mind, as she remembered the occasions she had been subjected to things that she would normally never have compared with something 'simple' and 'quick' like this. A muffled sound of anguish was all that preceded the final act, as the blood-fueled fist with the pommel of the dagger as point came down on the bared bone and broke it with a dull, sickening crunch that Catherine was sure she would not forget anytime soon. She didn't pay any heed to the remains of her lower arm falling to the floor. She did not notice how it rapidly decayed as the ages she had been carrying it with her took its toll and time finally caught up with it, getting its due on this part of the vampire and claiming the years that had been stolen by the embrace decades earlier. The limb on the floor quickly withered and rotted, the sking getting pale and wrinkly before falling off, the muscles and cartilage aging in fast forward accordingly, the flesh changing its hue of colour, bloating and then withering in the span of seconds before all that was left was dust and a few bones lying in it. Still, the Tremere did not take note on this memento mori, the reminder of her own impermanence. She simply remained in the seat, eyes closed and felt the pain ebb off slowly, her mind regaining focus for the here and now, feeling the weakness, the shameful fragility pass as its advances had been rejected once more, if for an exorbitant cost... She would need blood soon, she felt it, felt the desire to simply drain Blüchers feeble toy and tear her way through every single one of the fools that would dare to stand in her way. Even their blood would be welcome if Klein proved to be insufficient. Three against one was not the most favourable disposition, but she would be able to manage, if she played her cards right... The Nossie first, then the Loon, the girl and then, when all obstacles were out of the way, Klein. Once she had sated her thirst, she would be focused enough to be able to find a way to dal with the puny ghost, show him who was boss and why the Tremere were rightfully feared ! The location would even take the blame and no one would be able to prove that she had played a key role in it. And to add the final layer of sweetness, Klein would be eliminated as a possible witness to be against her. All it took was the disappearance of those four and the more immediate problems were solved ! She wondered what Klein might taste like, what his reaction would be, the sweet expression of horror on his face when the fact that the Princes authority wouldn't protect him and his weak and pitiable existance was about to end for the sake of allowing Catherine to function, the prospect of his blood quenching the burning thirst inside her and the feeable and doomed attempts to prevent the inevitable... So easy ! The Tremere could almost feel the blood gushing down her throat and it made her antsy in anticipation. She felt her fangs already lengthening to the nails of her remaining hand scratching over the wood of the chair as her preys' nails would scratch over the floor soon enough, their screams and laments unheard and unnoticed. And yet, simple and easy as it seemed, it was not allowed to happen ! Almost agonisingly slowly, reason worked its way back into her mind, pushing the urges back into the corner they usually inhabited. She still waited a while simply to get some sort of hold on herself not to jump at the others, before she extended a trembling hand to one of the pouches that were lying next to the chair and got a small metal box out of it. Opening the box, she quickly got overwhelmed by the hunger and downed almost the whole content of it, small little mints before calling the phrase to mind that would release the blood stored in there small things, finally resting her head on the back of the chair with eyes closed as the delicious rush of vitae reviving her dried veins came over her. As the feeling wore off, she remembered that there were still others present. "So..." she adressed those others, those she had regarded as mere food moments ago with a weak voice that clarly bore witness to the struggle and stress its owner had been subjected to. "What... do we... know... so far ?" |
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I have never made but one prayer to God, a very short one: 'O Lord make my enemies ridiculous.' And God granted it. German, French, Latin, Arabic | |
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| Tzippy | Saturday, 14. September 2013, 15:02 Post #20 |
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Ancilla
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Perhaps it was survival instinct that prompted him to keep his distance from the others, perhaps discomfort at the sight of gruesome injuries that made him reel, eyes starting to water in sympathy at the sight of the glass in Sawyer's eye. In any case, he stepped away, slinging his pack off his shoulder as he started to look through the contents. The hands free flashlight came out first, batteries checked and straps adjusted to fit over his head. Perhaps the night walkers could see in this dim lighting with just the moon for company but he was still only human. The headlamp was slipped on and flicked on. Several items slipped into his pockets to be within easy reach. Lastly came the digital camera with its own strap. That, he slipped over his neck, coat unzipped and adjusted to better protect the delicate piece of equipment. With that, Moshe started to quietly explore, hovering around the edges of the group, taking care to always stay within sight, if not necessarily within reach. He'd been around an upset, hungry vampire once before and he had no intention of being any more tempting a morsel than strictly necessary. His camera was up, taking pictures of anything remotely interesting looking. They didn't need his input. In fact, it probably would be dangerous to even act like he did. At least around the older woman. It was best to stay on the sidelines, to hover quietly in the background as he always had before. He would do what he could to contribute without stepping over the line to nuisance. He fussed quietly with the hamsa amulet hanging from his neck in thought, biting his lip nervously. A tearing sound had him quickly looking back at the group. In the dim lighting, his face paled several shades, ashen under the freckles. He stared for a few moments in shock at Catherine seemingly calmly sawing through his own limb. He tore his gaze away, stumbling to get back to his self appointed task. The sudden burst of movement and several quick steps had him bumping into the similarly prowling Aguirre. There was a grunt and a very soft curse, Moshe looking up in surprise to the taller woman. He hadn't realized she'd stepped away from the group as well and he was already on edge, twitching away from her. "S-sorry. I did not see you," he muttered, eyes flicking back again to the other three. The hunched up Sawyer and the looming Mot with a familiar name. And Catherine, still cutting away calmly, though thankfully he could not see the results of her work from this angle. He twitched again at the dull thud of a discarded limb hitting the floor, expression forced into neutrality as the witch raised her voice in question. |
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1:57 AM Jul 11