Post by Shah-Khohr of Ventrue on Sept 6, 2016 16:12:11 GMT -8
August 13, 2016.
Seattle, WA
A palatial manor house
It would have been funny if it wasn't so tense. The beginning of a bad joke, perhaps. What do you get when you mix a Malkavian neonate, a Nosferatu terror, two Ventrue elders, and five Assamite judges?
Shah-Khohr didn't know either, but he was certain it was hilarious.
They sat in the library of the great manor waiting. The Ventrue had had tea brought out, though only he and his childe Strahd were partaking. It must have been a sight for those assembled (even cloaked as practically everyone was with obfuscation). The leader of this merry band wore modern armor that, as he had been told, was originally intended to defuse bombs in. He felt quite secure, though he could barely lift himself from his seat. Stradh by contrast wore shining plate, which would have been anachronistic were it not for the modern metallurgy and cleverly hidden carbon-filament fiber plating. SK sat with his cup, Stradh stood with his. He didn't look nervous, exactly, but he was certainly not well at ease. At his shoulder was a (slightly grinning) black eyed Demir.
Tempest was wearing combat fatigues that accented her figure just enough to be distracting; Whiskey was probably the calmest of those occupying the floor. Both were brandishing some long blades, or would be if their powers to cloud the mind weren't hiding them from view. They were probably crouching behind a sofa or something out of view.
Federico DiPadua and the Malkavian Hound from the East Coast had taken flanking positions by the door. Or, they would have, had they too been visible. Regardless, they had assured the Ventrue that they would secure the door and then disappeared as if they were never there.
Hidden away in the rafters of the vaulted ceiling room were two creatures. One dressed in white with his mask, the other in darker tones. Both might as well have been ghosts. Well armed, ill tempremented ghosts, but ghosts none the less. He could smell the gun oil of the dangerous cannons they aimed at the entry points to the room.
For a while the only sound was the creak of armor and the quiet sipping of tea.
Then there was a distant rumble. It sounded like thunder, but they knew it to be the sound of engines.
All at once the world exploded. An older car rammed through the front wall of the library. At least a dozen bikers were visible outside. The Ventrue hissed at the driver before returning to his tea. The driver clawed at the door in terror and dropped the unlit flare he was about to strike.
Chaos grew to more chaos. A lone cloaked figured entered the room with a menacing glare. The Ventrue hissed at him too before returning to his tea. The fellow fled in a slightly surprised manner before exploding somewhere off in the darkness.
Line after line of unwashed biker crowded into the room, seeming ready for violence.... until the Ventrue politely informed them that they weren't wanted here, and they should go extinguish their flares outside. Out of politeness. They hurried off in a confused, terrified sort of way.
Somewhere in the rafters, the murderers had disappeared, but an article or two of clothing floated down to the floor.
Another tall, and probably important figure entered the room. Only to be hissed at between tea sips. He didn't flee, but did leave politely. Until the terrible Nosferatu Archon got his hands about him.
All through the room, chaos begat chaos and all the while, the Ventrue calmly waited for his actual target to arrive, sipping his tea with growing impatience. And then a bullet tore through the edge of his throat.
"....." he tried to say something in silence before healing the minor wound in irritation. "... Strahd? The door, if you please?"
The muscular, steel clad warrior pulled the car off his wheels and wedged it into the entry it had made, but not before a few more shots got off with some minor effects. The elder Ventrue sighed and resumed sipping his tea.
There was a flurry of movement about the car, and the elder lost view of the fighting. He, to compensate, turned to look out the bay windows angled to the field not obstructed by a car. He saw Tempest... or a blur that was colored as she was at any rate, scooping up a Whiskey and tossing her towards the house. It seemed that the stealthy warrior had been spotted and shot. Before the elder could turn his head to issue more instructions, Strahd exploded from the room like the very wrath of God Himself, barreling towards the building they assumed the incredibly precise shots were coming from. Another Tempest shaped blur. There was an altercation. A bloodied, very slight figure was dragged before the Elder.
Jahin arrived holding a cat of all things and spoke in a hushed series of whispers to Tempest and Whiskey before turning to go.
"Jahin, if you would sap this fellow's will?" the Ventrue asked, trying to place the fellow. The old Assamite looked more annoyed than pleased and growled at the fellow out of earshot before calling over his shoulder to SK, "You owe me a boon."
And with that he was gone. Whiskey and Opelia secured to bikers, such as they were. Apparently they had mangled most of the house and every gas line was leaking into the cavernous (now very windy) room. The old Ventrue just sigh and asked his questions.
"What's your name?"
"Jackson Reeves."
"... Alistor Reeves?"
"Yessir."
"Why are you here?"
"To kill the target."
"And that would be?"
"You sir."
"I see. And how long have you been hunting?"
"Two months, sir."
"And who gave you this order?"
He shrugged.
"Where is Dylan Bruce?"
He shrugged and looked lost. The elder sighed in vexation. Time to look at the situation tactically.
Dylan was prideful, but not foolish. He would be close. Close enough to watch. Close enough to enter when the moment for victory was right. He was probably just a few minutes away. But which direction...?
His contemplation was broken by Demir.
"Say that again?"
"Dylan is rumored to have corrupted the Mark, yes?" he asked in his broken english.
"Yes, obviously, what of it?" SK retorted, having spent most of his patience earlier in the evening.
"For him to have corrupted the Mark, he must have interacted with it somehow. He must have used his own magics upon those magics. Strands lead to strands, and all webs leave a mark," the Assamite said with a slow smile, partially concealed by the luxurious beard that he kept long even in a modern city.
"You're saying that you can use this pawn to find Dylan?"
"Perhaps."
"Stop talking. Do it. Now."
SK pulled a map from his pocket and reviewed the borders of his domain and protectorate. The most tactical positions... Demir mumbled something over water or blood or some arcane regent, it was hard to follow. And then he was whispering.
"He is fleeing the city, but in no hurry. He seems disappointed rather than worried," a course was plotted and they were almost flying in pursuit.
There was no illusion here; Shah-Khohr of Ventrue would be victorious this night or dead shortly after. The wealth he had spent to lay this trap couldn't be maintained. The scene was left in the care of the Hounds and Archons to handle, and the remainder of the party gave chase on vengeful wings.
Their car overtook the Profane one shortly before the bridge. They collided with one another. They both exploded in fire. Green, horrible fire. Dylan himself stumbled from the wreckage seeming genuinely confused before the stake blossomed in his chest with a victorious noise from Tempest. Strahd subdued the ghoul driving with a single forceful blow.
And then the cute little collar with the bell and plastic spikes went around the Profane's throat... and it sizzled and merged with flesh and he was Profane no longer.
Shah-Khohr stood over his quarry and seemed pleased.
"Put that in my trunk," he said while pulling out his phone and calling an old friend. "Emma? I need you to secure a body for me and then see to it's transportation to London. Tonight. Dylan Bruce.... I have a major boon from you that says you will assist in this matter. Twenty minutes? Very good..."
He regards his team in a pleased manner. "Take when you will from him. He'll be gone in a few hours. And someone call Blethen to cover up this mess."
Seattle, WA
A palatial manor house
It would have been funny if it wasn't so tense. The beginning of a bad joke, perhaps. What do you get when you mix a Malkavian neonate, a Nosferatu terror, two Ventrue elders, and five Assamite judges?
Shah-Khohr didn't know either, but he was certain it was hilarious.
They sat in the library of the great manor waiting. The Ventrue had had tea brought out, though only he and his childe Strahd were partaking. It must have been a sight for those assembled (even cloaked as practically everyone was with obfuscation). The leader of this merry band wore modern armor that, as he had been told, was originally intended to defuse bombs in. He felt quite secure, though he could barely lift himself from his seat. Stradh by contrast wore shining plate, which would have been anachronistic were it not for the modern metallurgy and cleverly hidden carbon-filament fiber plating. SK sat with his cup, Stradh stood with his. He didn't look nervous, exactly, but he was certainly not well at ease. At his shoulder was a (slightly grinning) black eyed Demir.
Tempest was wearing combat fatigues that accented her figure just enough to be distracting; Whiskey was probably the calmest of those occupying the floor. Both were brandishing some long blades, or would be if their powers to cloud the mind weren't hiding them from view. They were probably crouching behind a sofa or something out of view.
Federico DiPadua and the Malkavian Hound from the East Coast had taken flanking positions by the door. Or, they would have, had they too been visible. Regardless, they had assured the Ventrue that they would secure the door and then disappeared as if they were never there.
Hidden away in the rafters of the vaulted ceiling room were two creatures. One dressed in white with his mask, the other in darker tones. Both might as well have been ghosts. Well armed, ill tempremented ghosts, but ghosts none the less. He could smell the gun oil of the dangerous cannons they aimed at the entry points to the room.
For a while the only sound was the creak of armor and the quiet sipping of tea.
Then there was a distant rumble. It sounded like thunder, but they knew it to be the sound of engines.
All at once the world exploded. An older car rammed through the front wall of the library. At least a dozen bikers were visible outside. The Ventrue hissed at the driver before returning to his tea. The driver clawed at the door in terror and dropped the unlit flare he was about to strike.
Chaos grew to more chaos. A lone cloaked figured entered the room with a menacing glare. The Ventrue hissed at him too before returning to his tea. The fellow fled in a slightly surprised manner before exploding somewhere off in the darkness.
Line after line of unwashed biker crowded into the room, seeming ready for violence.... until the Ventrue politely informed them that they weren't wanted here, and they should go extinguish their flares outside. Out of politeness. They hurried off in a confused, terrified sort of way.
Somewhere in the rafters, the murderers had disappeared, but an article or two of clothing floated down to the floor.
Another tall, and probably important figure entered the room. Only to be hissed at between tea sips. He didn't flee, but did leave politely. Until the terrible Nosferatu Archon got his hands about him.
All through the room, chaos begat chaos and all the while, the Ventrue calmly waited for his actual target to arrive, sipping his tea with growing impatience. And then a bullet tore through the edge of his throat.
"....." he tried to say something in silence before healing the minor wound in irritation. "... Strahd? The door, if you please?"
The muscular, steel clad warrior pulled the car off his wheels and wedged it into the entry it had made, but not before a few more shots got off with some minor effects. The elder Ventrue sighed and resumed sipping his tea.
There was a flurry of movement about the car, and the elder lost view of the fighting. He, to compensate, turned to look out the bay windows angled to the field not obstructed by a car. He saw Tempest... or a blur that was colored as she was at any rate, scooping up a Whiskey and tossing her towards the house. It seemed that the stealthy warrior had been spotted and shot. Before the elder could turn his head to issue more instructions, Strahd exploded from the room like the very wrath of God Himself, barreling towards the building they assumed the incredibly precise shots were coming from. Another Tempest shaped blur. There was an altercation. A bloodied, very slight figure was dragged before the Elder.
Jahin arrived holding a cat of all things and spoke in a hushed series of whispers to Tempest and Whiskey before turning to go.
"Jahin, if you would sap this fellow's will?" the Ventrue asked, trying to place the fellow. The old Assamite looked more annoyed than pleased and growled at the fellow out of earshot before calling over his shoulder to SK, "You owe me a boon."
And with that he was gone. Whiskey and Opelia secured to bikers, such as they were. Apparently they had mangled most of the house and every gas line was leaking into the cavernous (now very windy) room. The old Ventrue just sigh and asked his questions.
"What's your name?"
"Jackson Reeves."
"... Alistor Reeves?"
"Yessir."
"Why are you here?"
"To kill the target."
"And that would be?"
"You sir."
"I see. And how long have you been hunting?"
"Two months, sir."
"And who gave you this order?"
He shrugged.
"Where is Dylan Bruce?"
He shrugged and looked lost. The elder sighed in vexation. Time to look at the situation tactically.
Dylan was prideful, but not foolish. He would be close. Close enough to watch. Close enough to enter when the moment for victory was right. He was probably just a few minutes away. But which direction...?
His contemplation was broken by Demir.
"Say that again?"
"Dylan is rumored to have corrupted the Mark, yes?" he asked in his broken english.
"Yes, obviously, what of it?" SK retorted, having spent most of his patience earlier in the evening.
"For him to have corrupted the Mark, he must have interacted with it somehow. He must have used his own magics upon those magics. Strands lead to strands, and all webs leave a mark," the Assamite said with a slow smile, partially concealed by the luxurious beard that he kept long even in a modern city.
"You're saying that you can use this pawn to find Dylan?"
"Perhaps."
"Stop talking. Do it. Now."
SK pulled a map from his pocket and reviewed the borders of his domain and protectorate. The most tactical positions... Demir mumbled something over water or blood or some arcane regent, it was hard to follow. And then he was whispering.
"He is fleeing the city, but in no hurry. He seems disappointed rather than worried," a course was plotted and they were almost flying in pursuit.
There was no illusion here; Shah-Khohr of Ventrue would be victorious this night or dead shortly after. The wealth he had spent to lay this trap couldn't be maintained. The scene was left in the care of the Hounds and Archons to handle, and the remainder of the party gave chase on vengeful wings.
Their car overtook the Profane one shortly before the bridge. They collided with one another. They both exploded in fire. Green, horrible fire. Dylan himself stumbled from the wreckage seeming genuinely confused before the stake blossomed in his chest with a victorious noise from Tempest. Strahd subdued the ghoul driving with a single forceful blow.
And then the cute little collar with the bell and plastic spikes went around the Profane's throat... and it sizzled and merged with flesh and he was Profane no longer.
Shah-Khohr stood over his quarry and seemed pleased.
"Put that in my trunk," he said while pulling out his phone and calling an old friend. "Emma? I need you to secure a body for me and then see to it's transportation to London. Tonight. Dylan Bruce.... I have a major boon from you that says you will assist in this matter. Twenty minutes? Very good..."
He regards his team in a pleased manner. "Take when you will from him. He'll be gone in a few hours. And someone call Blethen to cover up this mess."