Post by Shah-Khohr of Ventrue on Sept 6, 2016 14:31:37 GMT -8
August 10, 2016.
Seattle, WA
A dirty old junkyard.
It had taken nearly a year. But the trap was built. The trap was baited. It was just...
The boards loomed down on the aged Russian like some prophetic biblical command. They had done work, he and his murderers. They had done so much work.
On this board? Details of the results of negotiations with the moon-beasts (hint: poorly). In Vancouver they had refused to meet, but also hadn't destroyed the diplomat. They had taken information when it was offered, of course. Where this pack resided. Where that pack prefered to feed. It hadn't bought them the good will that the old Russian had hoped for, but at least the Enemy to the North was being slowly weakened, and it was costing them little.
On that board? Details of the technology wizards. Their compliance in the scheme had been... prohibitively expensive. They'd nearly lost the good Mr. Blethen out of the deal. However, they had confirmed a few facts that needed to be confirmed. And there, the small blueprints tacked at the bottom of the board, that was the result. They had called it an 'Interdimensional Weave Gauge and Lock'. What it was promised to do was prevent the Enemy from folding space the way he could and vanishing in fire to appear somewhere else in the same. That had been expensive. Hopefully the infestation stopped soon, otherwise that bill would need to be courted and called sooner rather than later.
On that board? Details of the Raven's Wood Manor in Bellevue. The security that had been added. The policemen who had been temporarily compelled to watch. The dozen and one threads that had pulled ever so subtly to give the illusion that the place was where an Elder might reside. Just enough tells to make it believable, not quite so many to make it seem false.
On that board? The boons to be cashed in to ensure that aid arrived in a timely manner. This Archon. That Justicar. This Prince. That Bishop. A lifetime of debt collected, pooled and slowly, carefully spent. Kindred from no less than six countries were being called upon to aid in this effort. A third of the ruling body of the Camarilla. Collectively, over 10,000 years of hunting brought to bear against a single target with laser precision. The Enemy was hated. The Enemy would know their wrath.
On that board? Every scrap of information that could be found on the Enemy. True birthplace, true birth time, true sire, true time of Embrace. His original birth certificate was pinned to the board (and that little piece of paper had cost a pretty penny to be certain). A copy of the decree that had named the Enemy Anathema. A copy of the statement given by the Tremere listing the stolen artifacts the Enemy was accused of stealing. The list of his crimes. The weight of his sin. There was a single blank spot on the board; the demon who held his soul. That blank spot vexed the old Russian fiercely.
On that board? The movements of the Enemy. His presence in Mexico City, L.A., Vegas, Chicago... gone in an instant from one place to be at another. What he was doing? Unknown. His true Haven? Impossible to say. Where he had squirreled away his occult weaponry? Still a mystery. The picture that it painted was formidable; he had friends from every corner of the world.
On that board? Months of careful manipulation of mortal agents in the Catholic Church. The Franciscan monk whose aura had burned with that blinding white light. The crime scene photos of him laid out in sacrilegious poses. The pamphlets of information that had been secretly ferreted to, not just hunters, but the most zealous hunters that humans might birth. There were rosaries blessed by the pope himself. There was water from the Kirkland Church which burned when taken directly from the fountain. There was a box of bullets with their clever, tiny crosses etched into them, pledged to break the armor of the Infernal that they struck. And the cream floating atop it all was the embarrassingly pink cat collar just long enough to circle about an adult man's throat. It had been pledged to sever the connection between a Profane one and their Patron. (it even had a cute little bell. If the magics didn't work, at least the Enemy would look fabulous)
On that board? The scarce details on other Kindred associations and their assistance to the Hunt. The Mountain had offered up another great mage to help track. The Inquisition had started to blacken his name. There were scraps of notes on his followers, and theories on who he served. There were a dozen languages present in notes detailing this sighting or that sighting. All across the world, even the enemies had started to hate the Enemy.
On that board? That last board? The lynchpin that held all the others in it's orbit? That board detailed the bait for this trap.
Shah-Khohr of Ventrue.
They had traveled deep into Vancouver, the contested city. They had skirmished with werewolves, ghouls and Sabbat. In the end, there had been an honor duel between the hoary old elder and a great broad woman clad from head to two in archaic armor. She had swung a sword that burned with the fire of hatred he only began to understand. Red light had bled from her forehead, casting them all in baleful terror. She had cut him once. His will had driven her from the field. The duel was won. The terms were simple. Have the Enemy come to a specific place at a specific time.
The Enemy was a mighty pillar of the Black Hand. She had bent them to enough of her will to name the Ventrue hated enough that he needed to be ended. In his home of Seattle. And no hand could do this save for the Enemy.
It was either arrogance or courageousness that had driven the Ventrue to place himself on the block. At least that is what others might see. To him, he was simply tired and trusted none other with the task at hand.
The trap was built, preened, maintained, baited and now set.