Post by The Mouth on Jul 11, 2015 11:34:04 GMT -8
The Mouth was having a rough night.
Over the decades his associations with the criminal element had settled into a more genteel life; less risk and exposure in petty corruption on institutional scales. Crooks, like Kindred, have but one way to ensure contracts are met: Fear.
And fear is created with violence.
The Mouth, over the years, had become a rather non-violent man with a few exceptions - And now it was coming back to haunt him.
"Oh, to be George right now," The Mouth muttered as he limped through the alleys. Behind him were the screams of the unlucky ghouls he'd had to sacrifice for The Plan to succeed. Surprisingly, their deaths weighed on him. But recrimination and doubt slowed a running man down so he put it aside for later.
"Damn Monty Coven, who ever he is!" whispered The Mouth, his beast roiling in anger and shame at having been beaten so soundly by the Terror of London. A creature The Mouth had never met but whose presence was felt throughout the Camarilla Court; dread coating everything like fine ash sticking and gray to every word and movement.
The screams had turned to moans as his pursuers subdued the ghouls killed them with gentle fang instead of fierce claw. Waste not, want not - Sound policy with the Beast's hunger driving the Kindred soul.
The Mouth turned a corner, his hand brushing the brick walls, agony flaring. They'd had a strong one with them who'd managed to get in a 'Brujah Handshake' - Nearly every bone in his hand was broken. Luckily The Mouth had a splint, an ancient mummified hand wrapped in ornate jewelry - A wire worked glove of sorts with rings and moonstones. Electrum and gold, with the mystery of how the ancients were able to smelt platinum because that was used to make a pattern on the rings; it was a pretty bauble.
The hand it was attached to was a bigger prize, presumably it was a mystic mumbo jumbo. Not that The Mouth would know, necessarily, but that is what he was told. So almost certainly a lie. Some dirty rags currently tied it onto The Mouth's wrist so as to immobilize the hand but increasingly that was looking like a risk.
Oh, the Plan, such a sweet sweet Plan. If only he could get to the bus he might be safe. If only.
Behind The Mouth his pursuers howled, loud and shockingly human. Full of blood they raced after The Mouth and The Mouth, hunted again, tried to desperately remember his criminal past.
Over the decades his associations with the criminal element had settled into a more genteel life; less risk and exposure in petty corruption on institutional scales. Crooks, like Kindred, have but one way to ensure contracts are met: Fear.
And fear is created with violence.
The Mouth, over the years, had become a rather non-violent man with a few exceptions - And now it was coming back to haunt him.
"Oh, to be George right now," The Mouth muttered as he limped through the alleys. Behind him were the screams of the unlucky ghouls he'd had to sacrifice for The Plan to succeed. Surprisingly, their deaths weighed on him. But recrimination and doubt slowed a running man down so he put it aside for later.
"Damn Monty Coven, who ever he is!" whispered The Mouth, his beast roiling in anger and shame at having been beaten so soundly by the Terror of London. A creature The Mouth had never met but whose presence was felt throughout the Camarilla Court; dread coating everything like fine ash sticking and gray to every word and movement.
The screams had turned to moans as his pursuers subdued the ghouls killed them with gentle fang instead of fierce claw. Waste not, want not - Sound policy with the Beast's hunger driving the Kindred soul.
The Mouth turned a corner, his hand brushing the brick walls, agony flaring. They'd had a strong one with them who'd managed to get in a 'Brujah Handshake' - Nearly every bone in his hand was broken. Luckily The Mouth had a splint, an ancient mummified hand wrapped in ornate jewelry - A wire worked glove of sorts with rings and moonstones. Electrum and gold, with the mystery of how the ancients were able to smelt platinum because that was used to make a pattern on the rings; it was a pretty bauble.
The hand it was attached to was a bigger prize, presumably it was a mystic mumbo jumbo. Not that The Mouth would know, necessarily, but that is what he was told. So almost certainly a lie. Some dirty rags currently tied it onto The Mouth's wrist so as to immobilize the hand but increasingly that was looking like a risk.
Oh, the Plan, such a sweet sweet Plan. If only he could get to the bus he might be safe. If only.
Behind The Mouth his pursuers howled, loud and shockingly human. Full of blood they raced after The Mouth and The Mouth, hunted again, tried to desperately remember his criminal past.