Post by Axel Greene on Aug 18, 2015 0:03:10 GMT -8
A palpable aura of anticipation filled the vehicle as it sped down State Route 520. While listening to the conversations in the front of the van, he confirmed his suspicions that this van was less of a van, and more of an unarmored personnel carrier. The radio was tuned to a local FM rock station and begun playing For Whom the Bell Tolls as the van rolled across the floating bridge. He felt a sudden coldness sweep over himself, as if a jolt of electricity now coursed through his subconscious mind.
He felt watched. As if a presence was suddenly close, as if silently judging him on his current, perhaps unwise, course of covert action. At the same time, it's not like he could exactly turn the van around himself, or ask the driver politely. His job what that of a journalist in a combat zone, watch, observe, take pictures if you must, but keep your head down, and don't get caught in the crossfire. After all, mother always said that a dead journalist isn't nearly as entertaining as an alive one... did she actually say that? Oh well, he forgot.
The van came to a halt in an abandoned area, surrounded by trees and several other vehicles. When three of the four people in his van bailed out, he quietly slipped out from behind while the last busily checked their weapon. The smell of unkempt wood crawled into his nostrils and the dark woods obscured his vision. He spotted a few faces that he recognized, the Fangbearer and the Pup that Follows, a Lady of Storms, and most notably, the Prince himself.
The group approached what appeared to be a decaying building of some religious significance, a decaying church perhaps. He gave a slight cringe as he watched the stronger of the group bust the locks and chains securing the door away. As the door opened, he saw nothing but blackness.
An arm hand extended itself, holding the offending weapon towards the groups most generous host. He watched in astonishment as the creature quickly lunged, grasping and taking a chunk out of the Brujah's neck with his mighty fangs, spitting blood and tissue onto the stone floor. Fascinating. Terrifying. In response, the Lady of Storms summoned a powerful shout to the standing army positioned behind her. They were ready to take just as much flesh from the monster that stood before them, and more.
Still, his sight remained on the Brujah, the one who called himself “Stitches”. The gaping fang wound on his neck looked sizable and more than a little painful. However, the wound quickly sealed itself, as a good number of his comrades pulled him away from the front lines.
“COME FORTH, MY CREATIONS! TEND TO ME!!” the creature exclaimed to the dark halls of the building.
Inhuman cries, strong enough to insight terror, answered him. Beasts of flesh and sinew crawled forth from the darkness, forming a line of unbelievable horror directly behind their master. Thoughts of how many countless people this monster slaughtered to assemble these 'machines' flashed through his mind, and for once in his unlife, he actually began to feel sick. He wanted to run, to flee out of this disgusting place.
Then, he realized that he was simply an observer and if anything broke out, the fighting would be left to the cannon fodder in front. He should use this opportunity to learn as much as he could, as his clan's only present representative viewing this monstrosity. If anything happened he could make his escape, he might even become the sole survivor of this tale. A valuable position. A valuable one, indeed.
He smiled and continued to observe silently.
He felt watched. As if a presence was suddenly close, as if silently judging him on his current, perhaps unwise, course of covert action. At the same time, it's not like he could exactly turn the van around himself, or ask the driver politely. His job what that of a journalist in a combat zone, watch, observe, take pictures if you must, but keep your head down, and don't get caught in the crossfire. After all, mother always said that a dead journalist isn't nearly as entertaining as an alive one... did she actually say that? Oh well, he forgot.
The van came to a halt in an abandoned area, surrounded by trees and several other vehicles. When three of the four people in his van bailed out, he quietly slipped out from behind while the last busily checked their weapon. The smell of unkempt wood crawled into his nostrils and the dark woods obscured his vision. He spotted a few faces that he recognized, the Fangbearer and the Pup that Follows, a Lady of Storms, and most notably, the Prince himself.
The group approached what appeared to be a decaying building of some religious significance, a decaying church perhaps. He gave a slight cringe as he watched the stronger of the group bust the locks and chains securing the door away. As the door opened, he saw nothing but blackness.
An arm hand extended itself, holding the offending weapon towards the groups most generous host. He watched in astonishment as the creature quickly lunged, grasping and taking a chunk out of the Brujah's neck with his mighty fangs, spitting blood and tissue onto the stone floor. Fascinating. Terrifying. In response, the Lady of Storms summoned a powerful shout to the standing army positioned behind her. They were ready to take just as much flesh from the monster that stood before them, and more.
Still, his sight remained on the Brujah, the one who called himself “Stitches”. The gaping fang wound on his neck looked sizable and more than a little painful. However, the wound quickly sealed itself, as a good number of his comrades pulled him away from the front lines.
“COME FORTH, MY CREATIONS! TEND TO ME!!” the creature exclaimed to the dark halls of the building.
Inhuman cries, strong enough to insight terror, answered him. Beasts of flesh and sinew crawled forth from the darkness, forming a line of unbelievable horror directly behind their master. Thoughts of how many countless people this monster slaughtered to assemble these 'machines' flashed through his mind, and for once in his unlife, he actually began to feel sick. He wanted to run, to flee out of this disgusting place.
Then, he realized that he was simply an observer and if anything broke out, the fighting would be left to the cannon fodder in front. He should use this opportunity to learn as much as he could, as his clan's only present representative viewing this monstrosity. If anything happened he could make his escape, he might even become the sole survivor of this tale. A valuable position. A valuable one, indeed.
He smiled and continued to observe silently.