NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: I would please ask that you have some understanding of the english language, basic grammar, some writing skill, and the intelligence not to god-mod when participating. And yes, before any of you ask, this is a vampire/lycanthrope related roleplay, with 'Masquerade' rules in effect.

Consult the 'Kiss Of Blood' sign-up thread for additonal information if you require it (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=474464). Much praise is due to Tanara for her creation of such a well-thought-out story-line.

For some of you, the character described here will seem somewhat familiar...

It was all about perspective. Was a criminal robbing a bank evil in every single on of his intentions? If the purpose of that robbery was to gather enough funding to pay for a life-saving surgical operation for a loved one, would the robber still be an evil person? Was the hunter of the damned damned himself by his violent actions? If so, then why answer the call to the hunt?

Questions such as these constiuted the bulk of his bleak exsistance. Having nothing left back home but a slew of painful memories and a stack of dusty books, there was no reason to return. His deeds had been the stuff of legend at one time, and songs about his brave battles still lined the interiors of the grade-school choir books and filled the pubs with bloody drinking songs about violence and death.

These days, his exsistance was much quieter, the sharp whisper of the surpressed gunshot replacing the ear-splitting war-cry of his past years. Why he hunted, he had no idea. It seemed the best option for supporting himself, the trophies he collected sold fairly well and kept him supplied with arms, ammunition, and food.
It was instinct, something buried deep in his reptilian nature that drove him to hunt, to stalk, and to kill. There was little pleasure in his work, just the cheap buzz of adrenaline and the pain of wounds both physical and psycological. He'd lived for a very, very long time... Some six hundred years, and killed more than he cared to remember. Their faces haunted him in his dreams from time to time, both the guilty and the innocent he'd been set against...

His tools had changed drastically, becoming smaller and easier to conceal. Gunpowder had changed everything, and with the addition of the silencer, had made some of his tasks that much easier by the fact that he could now pick off a target from up to a mile distant. His longbow had never had that sort of range or effectiveness, no matter how far he drew back the bowstring. It still retained its usefullness, however, when metal firearms would set off metal detectors. Stone-headed arrows still tore through flesh as well as they had back in the bronze age, still retaining their lethal powers some thousand years in the future.

His targets were seldom human, however. No, humans were often allies and treated with the respect due to such a person. While they resembled his prey, even served as the vessel of his quarry's sustenece, they seldom fell within his crosshairs. The methods of hunting were many, as the situations in which he encountered his targets. Fire had always been a very potent weapon against them, and with the advent of the zippo and fossil fuel this weakness was even easier to exploit. Incindiary rounds were also extremely effective. His favorite method, however, came in the more traditional form of staking his victim through the heart with a Blackwood stake. The silver claws secured over his own would have little effect against the kindred, a curious accessory for vampire hunting, if indeed they were his only quarry. Werewolves, or 'Lycans' as they called themselves had a lethal allergy to silver, especially when it got under their skin. The claws accomplished this objective quite well, when combined with his natural agility and the fighting abilities he'd honed to a precise edge over the past six centuries. The barbed claw attatched to his long and dexterous tail was also made from the same substance, serving as a painful whip for those who ventured too close behind him.

In the way of firearms, he commonly used a simple Ruger Mark III with a short fluted heavy barrel, threaded to accept a surpressor. The .22 pistol was silent as the grave, and lethal to whatever he fired it at. Twenty-two rounds in the hot-burning phosporus 'Raufus' type were nearly always lethal against vampires, where the fragmentary silver-tips killed werewolves after a few rounds. The weapon was a back-up, used when nothing else was viable. His clawed guantlets negated the use of the weapon anyway, so a quick-draw would never be effective.

His personal armory contained a wide array of archaic and modern implements of death, including a Blauser R93 Professional Synthetic briefcase rifle in .308 caliber, an Armalite M4-style carbine with flat-top configuration and four-rail free-floating aluminum handguard outfitted with a Trijicon Reflex sight and an ergonomic set of pistol grips, and a variety of exotic pistols like the Steyer M9, Beretta M92FS, CZ2000, SIG P229, and finally a pair of Colt Delta Gold Cup Elites in 10mm automatic. There were others of course, numerous rifles, crossbows, sub-machine-guns, and a few shotguns in his well-stocked arsenal.

Tonight's hunt for kindred called for stealth, forgoing the ineffective silver claws in favor of his Ruger MKIII and an ornately engraved saber from his homeland, forged of mithrill by his own hand and edged in blessed silver. The last item he tucked under his cloak was a brick of C4 plastic explosive complete with electronic detonator and programmable timer. His nightly raids on vampire assets in the region had only made his job easier: They flocked there by the dozens to hunt him in a tense game of cat-and-mouse, wherein the mouse can just as easily turn the cat into a smoldering pile of ashes. The hooded black cloak flowed around him like a liquid shadow as he departed his rooftop safehouse via a window overlooking the alleyway below.

The city of Refrain teemed with vampiric life, so much so that the scent was nearly always on the winds. Instinct had imbuned him with a canine-like sense of smell, able to distinguish vampires and lycans from their human cousins by scent. This was of course, only good for shorter ranges. If long-distance work was called for, or he simply felt like it, he'd need to do some observation before squeezing the trigger, lest he kill an innocent human. It seemed odd to him that the citizens of Faust Requium did not know there were predatory killers in their midst, and therefore required him to hide himself from their watchful eyes lest he become hunted by the police himself. The police often investigated brutal slayings, which he percieved to perpetrated by the vampiric residences of the capitol city. The sheer fact that the victims were drained completely of blood seemed to single out a vampiric suspect, which was enough proof for him to take to the streets that night for his own brand of quiet justice. An eye for an eye, a life for a life. Life in this buisness was cheap, but so was ammunition. He liked to think that his actions kept the universe in balance, and his supernatural prey on edge.

Tension and stress spawned mistakes, and mistakes led to ruin. It was his exact objective. The kindred had begun looking over their shoulders and throwing uneasy glances towards the shadows during their nightly escapades, feeding with one eye open and keeping a hand near whatever weapons most now carried.
There was undoubtedly a large price on his head, a hefty prize big enough to make any young vampire foolish enough to stand and fight whilst his comrades toppled around him, burning alive from the inside out. It had already happened before, last night even during a covert raid on a lycan safehouse located in a meat-packing plant across town. His raids alternated between the two 'races', going seven days a week with occasional alterations to keep them guessing and prevent a union between the two that would ultimately spell his own downfall.

He hit the fire-escape without so much as a clang, bounding to the closest rooftop and sinking in with his claws, grasping the brick as best he could while he hauled himself over the edge of the building to the roof. Traveling above the streets was much easier than having to avoid traffic and human eyes that used them. Luckily, the buildings had been built close enough together to allow him to clear the gaps in a single extended bound. His selected target for the evening was a vampire business, a highly profitable jewelry store located downtown. It was reached easily enough, with an alleyway entrance.

The lock's tumblers feel after a few prods from his expeirenced fingers, the lockpicks having been stolen from a locksmith's van a day or so after he'd arrived in town. They had become an invaluable tool, one he planned to keep after his work in Faust Requium was complete. He entered slowly, his large reptillian feet barely being lifted off the concrete floor to take a step forward. The little Ruger was held low, silencer in place for a stealthy kill. The back-room contained crates of mass-produced jewelry, the kind of cheap stuff sold to the middle-class customers. A small workbench for repairs and custom work stood next to the door to the store proper. Its creaky operation prompted him to slip into the shadows, away from the enlarging cone of light that sprang forth from the maw of the doorway. Through the illumiated portal stepped the owner, a vampire he didn't know by name but must have been fairly old by the look of his metalworking skills. The kindred carried a shotgun, a common Winchester Home Defender he'd probably purchased at the local gun store for protection for who-knew-what. Four sharp hisses spoke to him from the shadows, after which he dropped the weapon and slowly tipped forward with holes in his head and chest spewing putrid white smoke. The Raufus ammunition had done its work well, killing him swiftly by burning away his brain and heart. The shadowy assassin produced the C4 brick from beneath his cloak, attatching the plastic explosive to the gas lines that came in to heat the building. Grasping the pipes firmly, a sharp tug seperated them to allow combustible gas to fill the back-room, the added stink of methane rising in his sensetive nostrils. He keyed the timer for four minutes, allowing time for the gas to build.

The vampiric corpse next to him had already begun to evaporate into dust as he slipped out the way he had come in, taking to the rooftops again to get as far away from the coming explosion as possible...

By his estimation he had roughly one and a half minutes to go before detonation. Vaulting the last rooftop, some four buildings away, he turned to admire his handiwork.

There was a slight chirp as the timer reached zero, followed miliseconds later by a concussive boom that shattered the concrete building like fine china. Broken glass and jagged hunks of concrete rocketed out into the somewhat busy street. Fire lept upward, clawing towards the starry sky in a vain attempt to escape the ruins of the building.

The shockwave's intensity rattled the building he stood atop, cracking the bricks of the adjacent ones. The hunter was thrown backwards, skidding across the rooftop like a flat stone across calm water before nearly going over the edge and entering a seven-story free-fall to the alleyway below. Luckily, he had enough presence of mind to flail outwards with his clawed hands, raking them across the gravel rooftop and finding enough purchase to stop himself seconds before what would have been a lethal drop.

His fingers ached, the once-fine edges of his claws roughened by his most distasteful use of them in the past few seconds. He'd underestimated the power of the explosives when combined with the combustability of natural gas, with somewhat disasterous results. Cars now blocked the street in front of the building, disabled by flying concrete and their drivers wounded by glass shrapnel.

In short, it had not gone as intended. His blow struck for all that was good and holy in the world had also glanced off of that which he was striving to protect.

It brought him back to that same question he'd been asking himself since he'd started hunting all those years ago...

Was he who hunted the damned damned himself?

It was nights like these, the ones where there were few clouds hanging in the sky and the full moon was hidden behind a thin, dark blanket, and one's hair swayed in the cool breeze, that Rourke grew to love. The young vampire, or at least young by the standards of those who hunted in the night, was standing silently on a rooftop, leaning back against a fire escape's railing, lost in the memories of how his nightly existence came to be. The story of his past flashed through his mind like a movie that could never have a happy ending.

It happened about three hundred years ago, or at least that's what Rourke thought, he had stopped counting decades ago. As a boy in 17th century Germany, he lived with an already odd family. His father was a scientist, considered mad by many for his beliefs, and his mother was considered even more insane for tolerating such a man. When Rourke was sixteen, he had fallen very ill to an unknown disease. After two years of staying in bed, he went from bad to worse, and on the verge of death, his parents went to a family friend for aid. The friend had turned out to be a member of the Gangrel Clan, a vampire, named Cylii. While Rourke was unconcious and had no say in the matter, his parents were desperate that their son's existence didn't end altogether, and they had asked Cylii to save their son from a early, more permanent death.

When Rourke awoke the next evening, he felt much stronger than he had ever before. It didn't take long for him to find the marks of what he had become. He learned quickly to avoid the sun at all costs, and couldn't stand his mother's cooking. After two days of his struggling to overcome his vampiric thirst, he and his parents had realized the cost of his dark salvation. At first they tried to satisfy his hunger with raw meat, but it did nothing more for him than a carrot. With no other solution, and after a sorrowful goodbye, Rourke left his home and everything he had ever known for a world that would kill him on sight if it had discovered what he was.

He lived off of the blood of animals at first, just barely getting by but slowly getting weaker and weaker. He soon reached a point where he realized that to survive, he would have to kill a human, and he did. After draining his victim of blood, Rourke had a revelation that he was now on his own in a world where "survival of the fittest" was the only truth.

He adapted well as the world changed with the times. It was years before Rourke realized he could shapeshift into animal form, which made his hunting and blending in a lot easier. Now he had the look of a somewhat normal human who lived the nightlife, wearing a nearly all black outfit, including a trenchcoat and Raybands. After centuries of surviving and wandering, Rourke found himself in a new city, a new hunting ground.

The constant breeze that was blowing seemed to stop, leaving black hair over Rourke's eyes. He cracked his knuckles and stretched before looking up at the sky, estimating where the moon was in the sky. After a moment, he moved his bangs and sniffed the night air before diving over the edge of the rooftop. After shifting into a raven he glided over the crowded city streets, the rush of the hunt pulsing through him...

The night's peaceful meditation was shattered by the distant thump of an explosion. Vendetta knew that noise better than most. He'd been a Beret back in 'Nam, stalking the jungles like a predatory cat. This time around, however, it seemed like his kind were the ones being stalked.

The local government was a puppet, controlled by a system of familiars and ghouls in the upper parts. Hell, the president himself was a ghoul, one he'd watched turned a while back when they'd first taken over Faust Requium. Vendetta had had a large part in the takeover, eliminating most of the state senators to weaken the resolve of the president himself. Now that the bastard was addicted to vamp blood, there was no reason to think that he'd turn on his masters, otherwise it would be Vendetta's job to make sure the only blood the traitor swallowed would be his own after Vendetta cut a gash in his throat.

His appearance was somewhat odd, but not when one considered the fact that he was a Brujah, the unruly clan. For one, the skin on his upper chest, forearms, neck, and upper back were thickly laced with tribal tattoos, ending in screaming skulls on his hands and crawling up the back of his neck to disappear into his closely-cropped hair hidden under a black bandanna. Vendetta was built, with thick arms and a powerful chest. His former special forces status had carried over during his turning, and his services became highly demanded by the Elders, despite the fact that he was basically an infant in vampire years. It had been sometime in 1970 when he'd been turned, the blink of an eye for most of the older vamps lurking in the city, which he typically did the dirty work for.

Vendetta didn't mind the work, he'd always found some sick sadistic pleasure from offing those that needed it. Besides, it was good practice. His preferred method was the use of his pair of Colt Gold Cup Delta Elites, outfitted with match-grade barrels, match-grade triggers, and Hogue-rubber combat grips to give the single-stack frame some meat for his large hands. They were hidden under his usual tattered black leather bomber jacket, held in shoulder holsters until he needed them. Faded tiger-stripe pattern fatigue pants and a nearly-new pair of combat boots completed an outfit that screamed 'Brujah' to nearly anyone who knew what to look for.

Intrigued by the explosion, and knowing he'd be ordered to look into it in a few minutes anyway, he started off in that direction...

Instead of wasting the precious few seconds he had to make his escape, the hunter simply kicked off the wall he was hanging against, managing to latch onto the opposite building's fire-escape and use it to reach the roof.

Once on top, he proceeded to sprint back towards his own safe-house, some four blocks away. The journey was made shorter, however, through the use of the rooftops. His head rang with the titanic blast of his triggered explosion, a disorienting condition he knew wouldn't last long once he threw back some Advil and a shot or two of whatever booze he'd stolen off the convenience store supply truck the week before. It wasn't the most healthy thing for him, but it had to do.

Surviving mostly on supplies stolen in the same fashion as his medical supplies or things bought online via a laptop connected to the internet via a pirated wireless connection, his means weren't extremely lavish. If he was seriously injured, he'd be out of action until the wound healed. That could be weeks to months depending on the injury, and he'd have to rely more on the online purchases, which meant he'd have to make public appearances at the post office to recieve his packages and risk discovery.

None of the above was a particularly attractive option, and he took great care to prevent any such injury from occouring. He resolved mentally to not utilize explosives any further, at least until he'd studied their use a bit more carefully. Guns, projectiles, and edged weapons were something he'd been familair with for some time now, but explosives tended to create a larger hole in the economy and infastructure when used properly. That jewlery store would make a slight dent in the vampiric fund machine, but he'd need to destroy something bigger if he was to make any sort of progress, and not be stuck here for a decade or so.

He would ponder this further, if and when he returned to his lair...

The night air chilled his scaly hide as he ran, his breath coming in raspy snarls as he bounded between buildings, nearly snapping an ankle on a drop he miscalculated. All was well, however, as a impromptu roll took the strain off of the joint and kept him moving forward.

He was taking the long way home this evening, to his rooftop lair. The building was once a service shed, fairly large for its intended purpose. He'd refinished it with such items as a recliner chair, small refriderator, a lamp or two, ragged indoor/outdoor carpeting, a small table and a pair of chairs, and finally he'd actually built a large closet across one wall to contain his multitude of armaments, all of which were neatly displayed via pegboard panels. Ammunition was stacked in crates below the weapons, and a martial-arts-style black-laquered rack held his small selection of melee toys.

The long way would hopefully divert any attention away from his final destination and prevent any would-be attackers from hitting him while he rested, re-fitted, and rearmed for the next night...

Khat winced in sympathetic pain as the scaled Hunter nearly broke an ankle. He knew he probably should not have been out watching the backtrail. But the explosion had been loud enough where he nested this night to wake him and he'd known at once who'd caused the commotion.

He watched carefully for a few minutes longer, hidden in a deep puddle of shadow. No one was following the Argonian, and so Khat slunk away, keeping to the night's darker fringes. He took a different route to the Lair and waited for the Hunter to arrive.

He'd dined earlier from a upscale restraunt's dumpster, and his own pelt sufficed to keep him warm for now. Khat (http://www.atddm.com/khat.htm) could be as patient as a cat staking out a mouse hole. And while the Argonian had been moving with his usual agility, he might sitll have been injured and needing of Khat's help.

Khat owed the Hunter his life several times over, and while there was no formal relationship between them he always managed to find the Hunter and perform such small services as he was capable.

Rourke inhaled deeply and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand as he dropped the now drained corpse to the ground. He leaned back against the alley wall and watched the people move up the street, completely oblivious to what had just happened between vampire and prey in the alley. As he wiped bits of blood and gravel off of his jacket sleeve, an explosion echoed through the night air. Rourke casually dumped the bloodless body that was at his feet into a dumpster and walked out of the alley into the sidewalk.

People were now stopping to look up at a building nearby that now appeared to be a mix of burning inferno and a meteor shower. Bits of rubble fell on the street and cars slammed their breaks to avoid colliding with larger pieces of the building and other cars. A sense of unease swept over Rourke as he watched the scene before him. He turned on his heel and walked quickly away, pushing his way through the growing crowd.

After a few blocks, Rourke slowed his pace. He stopped near a bench and knelt to retighten his boot laces. As he stood and looked up at the sky, he blinked as he could swear that he a shape move between buildings. He stared for another moment before shrugging and walking into an alleyway. He shapeshifted into a black dog and stalked through the dark way between buildings to find a place to rest before the sun rose.

Vendetta arrived at the jewelry store some fifteen minutes after he'd left to travel there. It was a mess, a pile of burning concrete and splintered glass. His personal ID badge identified him as a government agent, giving him good enough reason to draw one of his pistols and stalk slowly into the rubble as the Police and Fire Departments showed up.

He flashed his ID to the cops, prompting them to ask no further questions while he poked about. The explosion seemed to originate from the back room, near the workshop area. Everything seemed to have been virtually incinerated by super-heated exploding gas, preventing him from getting a good idea of what type of explosive, if any, was used without having to do any lab work. He'd leave that for the PD, and have them ship the results to his office. The store was owned by an older vampire, a German silversmith from way back when, predating the American Revolution. He also happened to be one of the more prominent leaders in the secret vampire city council.

His mysterious death would leave ripples of chaos in the massive ocean that was Faust Requium's vampiric government, and hopefully give him a contract to hunt down whatever was hunting his kind...

The simple cell phone sitting on the desk rattled as the vibrate feature kicked on in response to an incoming call. The gloved hand that plucked it from the glossy desk surface slowly brought it upwards, clicking on the speaker-phone feature...

"What?"

The voice was rough, deep, and slightly intimidating to those who responded to such a question...

"When?"

His simple questions bought him vast amounts of information, more so than one would think from the curtness of his manners. S.C.A.R. operatives were never known for their manners. The call was to set up a meeting between his team and the Internal Defense Minister of Faust Requium. They had some sort of supernatural problem, the kind that his people specialized in dealing with. Preparation were already being made. Weapons were being loaded onto a transport helicopter, along with essential supplies like ammunition, night-vision gear, and whatever munitions their little operation would need. The troops had already gathered near the chopper, standing at parade rest in a neat formation some fifty feet from the spinning rotor blades.

Each was clad in black fatigues, boots, balaclava, gloves, and tactical vest. Level III ballistic panels in the vests made them quite resistant to gunfire. Each man, or they appeared to all be male by the muscle structure of their frames, had a handgun holstered on their thigh, some on the left while others on the right. The weapons were Heckler and Koch Mark 23 SOCOM .45 ACP automatics, packing enough stopping power when loaded with Raufus ammunition to kill basically any vampire threat that came their way. Other mission-specfic loads where avaliable in the event that their target wasn't of the vampire persuasion.

Liftoff was in fifteen minutes, with the UH-60 pilot quickly going through his pre-flight check-list.

This would be interesting...

To all the fights I've conquered and behold
The times have changed and I will now move over slowly...
Buy through it all I still feel lost without you.
Hard to find a new soul.
The silence takes its toll.
~Sway Lostprophets

Harfedual was quite old by now, around 8 or 900 years by his own estimation, he decided a while back he'd count only the millenia when he reached them.

His fang jutted out from his lips as he took a slug of a canteen, a dribble of blood rolled down his chin and he mopped it away. He had been given a decent supply of blood by "The regiment" before he had been posted here in some godforsaken out of the way nation where he had little care for the people in it. But it was standard practise now, especially for the Darkened Angels battle-regiment of Midlonia, they sent "envoys" to nations with vampiric activity in them and saw if they were kindred spirits.

Unfortunately the vampires here had a disgusting pungent smell about them, they were two basic, bred from some stock that reeked of an iron tang, he could smell it and taste it upon the air.
Which meant that he had to resort to his other job. Which quite simply meant elimination of such creatures, it was what the Angels wished after all, it was what had to be done, such impurity could not be allowed to exist.

Midlonian Vampires had bred into themselves the ability to mix in well with people, they were calm, cunning, charming even. They had also managed to lose the vile smell of blood, well, the iron in the blood anyway. This city and sections of it reeked horribly of it, why some others hadn't been cleaning up more efficently around here he didn't kno-

The explosion happened a couple of blocks down from his perch on a rooftop, he heard the windows rattle below his perch and a couple of car alarms were set off, he calmly screwed the cap back onto his canteen and fixed it to his belt, he then checked his weapons.

A beautifully crafted blade-pistol, a sword and a gun rolled into one compact package, 25 rounds and a discreet trigger in the grip, useful when needed.

Vampiric Katana, shortened version, a beautifully crafted blade forged by the master-smiths of the regiment, just over three-quarters of a mile of steel hammered to perfection, so perfect that with the correct training one could even deflect bullets, of course only when necessary, the idea was to be too close for them to use a gun effectively to destroy a target.

Glancing away from the weapons he spotted a figure running and jumping from rooftop to rooftop, moving away from the explosion. Everyone else was moving towards it, usual foolishness to get a look and gawp at such a spectacle.

And that tangy smell again, his nose was picking it up from the fleeing figure, he grinned again and ran a hand through his long brown hair. He stood, his leather boots creaking slightly on the stonework as he picked up and sheathed his short-blade on his back, his blade-pistol returned to its leather holster and he began to shadow the figure.

Jumping rooftops and streetways below him with his feline acrobatics Harfedual shadowed easily, the lack of the vile smell also helped him, but he supposed the figures abilities would not be completely ignorant.

The figure eventually dissapeared into a rooftop shed, Harfedual raised an eyebrow, up here on the rooftops you could see everything, and sheds were hardly inconspicous. He doubled back a couple of buildings and lept the streetway, bouncing off of a lampost to boost himself up onto the roof. He rolled with a grunt before bouncing up and recomposing himself for a second, before jogging the last couple of buildings to the rooftop shed.

The smell was quite strong now, he gently unbuckeled his pistol and approached the door, his boots crinking gently on the surface as he moved.

His nightly raid completed without a high degree of detection, the hunter began his ritual of cleaning his equipment. The Ruger was the only thing needing cleaning, however. His saber hadn't tasted blood that evening, so it went uncleaned into the rack, sheathed to protect the blade. The rack contained a pair of nasty-looking katana-like blades, also in the style of his homeland as well as being of his own making. Somewhat shorter than the Japanese style of blade, they remained well-balanced and razor-edged after so many years of use.

The small pistol was easily disassembled, cleaned, and reassembled. The magazine was unloaded, and swapped with a fresh one to retain the life of the magazine spring. While he only bought the best he could afford, he had no idea how long he'd be in-country, or when he might be ambushed. Exchanged for an extremely small pump-action shotgun, the Ruger went back to its space on the pegboard.

Holding only three shells in the tube and one in the chamber, the extra-short pistol-grip pump made an excellent bedside weapon for the close confines of his abode. He'd loaded it with standard 00 buckshot, nine .38 caliber balls per shell. They worked well against basically anything, be it human, kindred, or lycan. Softball-sized holes in the chest were usually hard to regenerate, reguardless of age.

Hidden beneath the overhanging sheets under the bed, the hunter settled in for the rest of the night. As always, he'd keep the super-stubby close at hand...

Khat watched the hunter enter his lair, and grinned in a quick flash of fang. The Argonian was moving too well to have any sort of noteable injury, and thre was not betraying tang of blood from him either. Khat debated making his presence know, and decided against it. If the Hunter followed his customary pattern, he'd be some time cleaning weapons.

Khat left his concealed spot and headed for a near by greasy spoon. He had some 'credit' there. He'd run down a pickpocket and retrieved the owner's stollen wallet. The food wasn't the best, but it was edible. Slipping in through the back door he was greeted with warm if dampish air and head nods from the undocumented workers who made up the cleaning crew. No one hear cared if he was other than human, and he appreciated that. He wouldn't eat rats and mice except as last resort, but he was a good quick hunter of such and that added to the 'credit' he'd built up. The junior cook filled to two go cartons with hearty portions of roast beast, some veggies and tucked in two thick slices of apple pie. She liked stoking his fur, and he always let her, not minding the attention. Something he'd had too seldom in his life.

With a gentle pat of his hand on hers, he twitched his nose at her, thanking her for her kindness then trotted back out into the night.

Soon he was tapping gently on the Hunters door., after making sure no one had paid any attention to his arrival.

Harfedual stopped dead and then turned deftly behind a chimney stack, a creature of some kind, a cat-like creature had appeared from somewhere and was tapping gently on the door to the shed, he peered carefully around the corner and watched for a few moments. The cat-creature was carrying a couple of pails or bags of some sort which gently wiffed of beef. Harefedual shighed, then gently stood from his hiding place, holstering his pistol he took a couple of steps forward, smoothing his leather outfit slightly.

"Hello." he muttered, his voice a hoarse whisper over the night-time air of the city.

Khat's hearing- as good as his distant feline ancestors- had him spinning before the interloper could take more than a couple of steps.

"Hello."

That didn't merit an answer. The bag with its load of hot dinner went sailing directly into the strangers face, splashing over him, and for a second blinding him.

Khat followed it up with his own snarlling leap that took him full force onto the intruder. He may only have weighed a hundred pounds but momentum was the biggest factor as the impact bowled the leather clad man backwards.

Harefudal snarled as the food hit him, he was then bowled over by a mass of fur, the sheer momentum brought him to the ground, with a kick his threw the cat-creature off of him and he rolled the side as it repounced, he kicked himself up and drew out his blade-pistol and shortened Katana. One he levelled at the creature a few metres away, the sword he brought up to a ready position.

He stared at the creature which had hesitated for a moment at the sight of the barrel protuding from the short-blade.

"I wasn't aware that those inferior blood-suckers had managed to get other types of creatures under their control." he spoke calmly and flatly, a chimney blocking his view of the shed door, some gravy of some sort smeared partly across his face and in his shoulder-length hair.
"Evidently you're just as stupid as those others, attacking someone with no clear intent to do harm, but I suppose such stupidity is still in your feeble mind, huh bloodsucker? Though you nearly had me fooled, the lack of the scent from you made me think you might be approachable. A mistake on my part it seems." he sighed and peered directly into the creature's eyes.

"Your freind though, he reeks of that smell, its a smell that only really happens when you stay near to them for amounts of time, or you're one of them. I'm merely wondering which it is, your simple beastial action merely points me towards elimination of another repungent, inferior creature which preys on the weak. But I might give you the dignity of explaining yourself before your end blood-sucker." he mouth quirked into a slight smile, but not enough to reveal any teeth.

But I might give you the dignity of explaining yourself before your end blood-sucker."

Khatt looked at the intruder with both eyebrows raised. "Me? A vamp?" The mere notion was so absolutely outrageous that he couldn't help but chuckle. He managed to keep it inward, but his small frame shook with the force of his silent laughter.

"Little..f..ffish..ishess! You think ..." He managed to get out between stiffled gasps of hilliarity that he finally manged to get under control. His long tail still curled in loops however

"You can't smell a damn thing right and you don't smell human either." He sniffed the air "You have blood on you, so who's the blood sucker?" His voice carried a low warning growl to it.

He wasn't faster than a speeding bullet but his reactions were faster than most any one elses, though this one wasn't too mired in mollasses. Khatt could leap nearly three times his own length with no strain and he was prepareing to do so as he spoke. This was definitely something for the Hunter to deal with.

Harefudal simply sidestepped the pouncing attack, he'd fought worse, back in the 1940's he'd fought Freestian Vampires (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=476572) for goodness sake, some dratted little moggy was hardly going to best him, he swung his blade around, just clipping the meat of the creatures legs as it soared past. The leather of his shoulder was torn away slightly He then backflipped, fired a few shots from his blade-pistol to simply drive the creature back slightly, when he was balanced on the very edge of the building, the moon striking down on his back, both blades lowered slightly, himself crouched in a ready position.

"Unlike the filth here I tend to drink blood out of this." he patted his canteen on a belt to his side using his blade-pistol, which made a gentle hollow clang.

"I have no such need to suck people dry to satisfy something as simple as bloodlust. I am not quite the regular vampire, but that repungent smell coming from that hut makes the resident smell just like them, but its an older smell, ingraned in the wood, and very probably the person who's responsible for it. One of two conclusions then. Either he is a vamp, or a hunter, if he is a hunter then I wish to, how to put it, liase with him in removing this curse on this city. If he is a vamp, then I will destroy him, just like the others I killed off. It seems however, you're a very paranoid creature, and a decent enough warrior, certainly different to the slow and witless creatures I've been up against so far, this creature I followed also, seems the same, but merely attacking me and that smell appears to have dulled my sense of judgment."
He straightened up and sheathed his pistol again, and then took the short-katana into a two handed stance.

"Tell me, how do you expect this to end?" he questioned as he began to pace along the edge. "I can assure you, I have around 700 years of combat experience, I am older than my country of origin and have served proudly in my regiment for 500 years. I merely wish to talk rather than play with you. Call it a Parley?" he looked at the creature.

"To start with, I am Harefudal Nochiuss, and you are?" he gave a slight bow, before placing the Katana tip down on the concrete and motioning to the creature.

OOC: sorry to call wounds, but combat is kinda hard, slow and silly when theres two, also, sorry for the thread blag, but it kinda explains what my boys n gals in black are capable of. :)

OOC: I take extreme exception to being called a "dratted little moggy" Khatt, when he has a chance to get really clean is welll...yeah he is little, and he is kinda fluffy haired..so...sheesh...oh well...
AH! here we go - Khatt wasn't planning on pouncing again, he was going to leap for cover, but this works, no harm done.

Khatt felt slight cuts at the back of his thighs, but his thick, silky slick fur had blunted most of the blow.

The strange form of vampire was good, very fast and was definitely not acting like those Khatt was accustomed to. He just hoped the Hunter would make his move soon, while Khatt provided distraction. He didn't dare risk a glance over towards the Lair.

"To start with, I am Harefudal Nochiuss, and you are?"

"How I think it's going to end is that you are going to get blown away, but certainly not by me. I have no idea how old I am, and I have no idea of my country of origin. You can call me Khatt.

OOC: Just kinda reflecting his mindset, he's fought 12 foot tall psuedo-dragons that weigh over half a ton, this is agile, but kinda boring in his eyes, not meant to be offensive, I wont make such a reference again, sorry.

IC:
Harefudal bowed again. "A pleasure to meet so agile a warrior as you, Khatt."

He sighed and peered behind him at the cityscape, and then at the shed, whos resident still hadn't made a move yet.
"I wonder whats keeping your freind? I was expecting your hunter to appear guns blazing, or explosives as I saw his handywork earlier tonight, quite an effective way of doing things I must say, much quicker than my own methods."

OOC: LOL I should have made it clearer that I was teasing. No apology needed.

The rattling commotion and voices outside of his homestead roused the lone hunter from his light doze. Like liquid shadow, he was out from under the bed and in the weapons' closet, trading the super-stubby for one of his personal favorites: A Smith and Wesson 500 magnum. The weapon was nearly five pounds, with a five-inch weighted barrel and a trigger set to break at less than three pounds. On the way to the door he snagged one of the stakes he commonly carried, the Blackwood type from his homeland.

Carefully, he moved to the door before violently shoving his way through it with his shoulder. Holding the massive revolver in a two-handed traditional Weaver stance, the red-ramp front sight was quickly aligned with the largest of the intruders...

"I would begin explaining myself... Now..."

The smaller, furrier creature was familiar, Khatt, he believed it was called. The last time they'd met was in Grayrock, the capitol city of his homeland, back when he was still trying to keep the modernization from going through. He'd utterly failed in that reguard, but pockets of resistance still lingered in the swamps of Black Marsh, making it Hell for government troops to drive them out.

The other creature, however, stank of vampire and appeared armed. Some sort of pistol-like firearm and a short sword. Neither worried him. At this range he wouldn't miss, and with the .500 magnum cartridge he was using packing three-times the muzzle energy of a .44 magnum, he would most certainly cripple, if not outright destroy, whatever he shot it at.

He lacked his cloak, it was still hanging on a peg near the door and swaying gently in the night breeze. Clad only in a pair of black fatigue-style pants, he looked somewhat odd. Firstly, his entire body seemed to be covered in scales the color of charcoal, which dimly reflected the city lights in the areas that weren't marred by scars. His eyes were the hue of molten gold, bisected by black slit pupils. The overall look of his physique spoke of an aquatic origin, with a pair of ear-fins arching backward, one on each side of his head. His tail looked to be nearly five feet long, strong and dexterous, and tipped with something small and hooked.

The muscle-structure spoke of a life of combat and hardship, sinew readily visible on his bare arms and chest. He stood much like a human would, but the lizard-like shape of his skull and jaw making confusion between the two nearly impossible. At this range, it is also obvious that his fingers and toes end in claws, and that the toes only number three per foot, like most lizard species.

The eyes dart between the pair before him, alternately looking for more surprises and keeping tabs on the unexpected guests in front of him...

Vendetta's romp through the city had turned up nothing to the tune of intel, meaning that he still didn't know what the hell he was up against. From what he'd seen, however, the bastard knew how to use his explosives, as well as where to plant them and how much was needed...

'Must be military-trained... Civilians can teach themselves to shoot, but explosives expeirence is limited to the field...'

The vampire drew one of his sidearms, a venerable Colt Gold Cup Delta Elite, from its shoulder holster before ejecting the magazine. Good. The faint glimmer of the silver from the top round meant that he'd loaded the proper rounds for this evening's hunt. He felt reasonably sure that his target would be a Lycan, and the silver would come in handy. The round already in the chamber was silver like its brothers in the magazine, he could almost hear it begging to be shot forth to kill something...

Or maybe that was his own twisted mind...

Harefudal kept his sword tip down and on the concrete, his pistol holstered.
"Oh my, an argonian! I haven't seen any of your kind for years." he smiled and quirked his head to the side.
"I'll re-introduce myself, I am Harefudal and you are a vampire hunter, an argonian one no less, and you smell ever so slightly of these feeble creatures here." he lifted the sword up, lent it on his shoulder and walked slowly backwards and forwards.

"Very well, I shall explain myself." he turned and looked.
"As you realise, I am a vampire, one of the undead, a child of the night, but as you no doubt also tell by that perceptive nose of yours, my scent is faint. But all around me, us, is the smell of an ironish tang, and that," he placed the sword down and stood, "that is the smell of lesser beings, less refined and poorly bred, they feed on people to death, so, for now, my dear hunter, our aims converge." he smiled again.

"Basically I want to help you remove this blight, and rather permenantly, good enough explanation? You dont exactly have an ability to contract porphyria hemophelia after all." he bowed.

The Hunter nodded... While his particular breed was immune to the base disease of vampirisum, the more common breeds where still susceptable. He'd slain a few Argonian vampires in his time...

"Indeed. Your assistance would be most welcome, if not nessesary if I wish to move on in my crusade anytime within this century..."

The scent was truly different, like the smell of fresh blood compared to the stink the dried. He lowered the large revolver, but still kept it within range of a quick shot should this new ally prove to be false...

"Both of you, come inside... We'll talk further where we have a much smaller chance of being disturbed..."

Out in the distance, across the tops of the other skyscrapers, similar sheds stood next to air conditioning units and roof access stairwells. To the untrained eye, his hideout was invisible, hidden in plain sight...

The non-directional thundering of the UH-60's rotors roared overhead as it sped towards the meeting point designated by the Faust Requium government...

Khatt ducked agilely past the Argonian, though he was small enough to scarce need to duck, and found a place to sit on the floor. He'd apologise for having wasted the dinner he'd meant as a gift later.

Harefudal moved in and sat down on a stool, he glanced around at the weaponry in the shed, apparently impressed, he set his own short-katana and blade-pistol down on the table and took out his canteen again, he was infact sweating ever so slightly.
"Excuse me a moment." he muttered and took a hefty slug on his canteen, not stopping until the bottle was drained, he then wiped some of the blood from his lips.
"I'm bred sort of from the Cyrodillic strain of vampires, except where I come from we're slightly more refined, controlled bloodlust for a start, and we dont feed on the living unless they're willing, otherwise we rely on the compulsary blood donations to keep us going, which was the contents of the canteen, better than me snacking on your freind, hmm?" he chuckled and smiled at Khatt, evidently meaning it was only a joke. He clapped his hands together.

"So, how long have you been fighting here then? It certainly seems long enough for you to also pick up that same faint rusty tang as they have, have to admit, I rather foolishly thought you were one of them."

Rourke shot to his feet angrily and burst out of the dumpster he had used as shelter. He pulled out a long, curved dagger and scanned the dark alley for what had awoken him. His eyes narrowed as he saw a druggy leaned back against the dumpster, completely oblivious the vampire that had jumped from the metal box to land easily on the ground.

After a quick sniff, Rourke could tell that this man's blood was far too tainted to even consider drinking. He stalked casually but quietly to the man and stepped to stand directly in front of him.

"Evening," he said quietly.

"What the...who the... Who the fuck are you man?!" The druggy stepped back against the dumpster and dropped his needle.

Avoiding the temptation to say, 'I'm your worst nightmare,' Rourke simply glared. "I am the one your sorry ass just woke up."

"Huh? What? Woke you up? Man, I didn't do nothin', I don't want no trouble!" The druggy's eyes went wide as he caught sight of the blade.

"Too late." Rourke slashed the man's throat and wiped the blade on his sleeve to tuck it away in one motion. He turned and walked away from the alley to leave the man's soon-to-be lifeless body near the dumpster. He felt no remorse, that feeling had died long ago.

Rourke glanced at the rolex on his wrist and grinned as he looked at the sky. "I got time."

The distant whump of the UH-60 slowed, then ceased entirely. The craft had set down in an abandoned parking lot in a rather shady part of town. Soldiers quickly moved from within the vehicle, setting up a perimeter around the helicopter.

Each carried a Heckler and Koch UMP-45 submachinegun, a versitle combination of firepower and stopping power useful in their line of work. The sheer mass of a forty-five caliber round striking a target, no matter the supernatural breed, typically tore a large hole in the target and knocked it to the ground, where it could be staked/burned/beheaded/riddled and thus eliminated entirely.

They'd come prepared for basically anything, equipped with specialized ammunition, high-powered weapons, razor-edged swords and knives, flamethrowers, and most exotically a few specialized crossbows that fired super-heated bolts designed to impale and burn a vampiric target at the same time. As strange as it was, it worked fairly well when employed properly.

All they had to do now was wait for their contact from the government. The commander, a powerfully-built man with a nasty scar running across his right eye and down into his shirt collar, wrinkled his nose at the overall smell of the city. It smelled faintly of blood. The sheer fact that he, a human, could smell it spoke clearly about the inhabitants: Vampires. Strangely, they weren't the targets this time around, but instead the employers. The commander dressed indentically to his troops, minus the full bird of a colonel on his lapels in subdued black. A sheathed longsword hung on his right hip, below a powerful Magnum Research Incorporated Desert Eagle, in .357 magnum caliber. Of course, he also had the conversion systems for the more powerful .44 magnum and .50 Action Express calibers as well, should the situation dictate it. Since he usually fired it single-handed, however, the .357 combined with the weight of the heavy pistol made it more than manageable for rapid shots. He'd also included a Red-Dot combat optic with the conversion kits, perfect for close-quarter combat.

The initial team consisted of sixteen men, with many more in reserve should the situation dictate it...

The Hunter seated himself on the bed, laying the large revolver down next to him, within easy reach...

"I don't really know. Some several months maybe? It seems, and I believe you will agree, that once you get as old as I am, weeks and months tend to blur together, stretch into years, and eventually an entire decade slips by without you realizing it..."

He pauses for a moment, his eyes seemingly lost in reflection for a moment before he snaps back into focus...

"What about yourself? I find it odd that you hunt your own kind, but seeing as humans, Argonians, and whatever other kinds of sentient beings kill their own kind, it seems less odd..."

The thoughts that swam through his mind covered every possible conclusion, from personal sport to some form of ritualistic genocide. His personal motivation fell somewhere in between. Back in his homeland, the government maintained several secret services, one of which being the 'Order of the Silver Claw', comprised of Argonian children born under the Argonian birthsign of the 'Ritual', a particular formation of stars. While he didn't fall under this particular sect, he'd been part of the 'Shadowscale' service, again being manned by Argonians born under the sign of the 'Shadow'.

Since his exile some five-hundred-some-odd years ago, he'd needed direction in his life, and had found it through a particular book he'd never read before. This unusual book was the Christian Bible. Finding a strange connection with the story of Caine and Able. Since then, he'd moved in the shadows, using his training for some higher purpose. Typically, those Shadowscales who survived their term of service to the Argonian government went into service as assassins for hire, and while he still used his talents in that capacity from time to time, it was only in times of dire need...

Vendetta appeared silently from the shadows near the parking lot, slipping towards the soldiers and flashing his government ID to get them to lower their weapons, which he knew would probably tear him apart in a flash of incindiary gunfire...

"Which one of you is Colonel Syn?"

The commander stepped forward, exposing some of his facial features under an overhanging streetlight...

"That'd be me. I take it you're 'Vendetta'?"

It was a redundant question that he already knew the answer to. He'd been provided with a photograph of the vampiric operative his team would be working with, which he'd had his team memorize to lessen the chance that their ally catch a round or two on accident. The clothing and tattoo description was dead-on as well. He was also packing some heat by the look of things, and that people in his line of government work typically didn't go around unarmed...

The vampiric operative nodded...

"Yeah, that's me..."

Vendetta stepped closer to the Colonel, standing out of arm's reach and outside of the streetlight's glowing halo...

"We need you and your people to track down and kill whatever's been doing the same to us for the past few months. By the look of things, it's well-trained, well-armed, and definitely not human. The scattered reports we're gathered mention a tail in some cases. About an hour ago it blew up a jewelry store that was a front for one of our older members, right after he snuffed the poor bastard. The local PD has come up with a few possible explosive substances, but all are military-grade plastic compounds that are a bitch to get ahold of outside of the black market. You've been given access to anything you need, from computer databanks to personnel..."

Vendetta handed Syn a manilla folder containing some enlarged photographs of their target as well as a sheet of paper containing access codes and login accounts for various information databanks the Faust Requium government controlled...

"And one last thing..."

He paused for a moment to let the information set in...

"I go with you, and make sure you and you're boys don't get trigger-happy and start making this mystery terrorist's work any easier by capping any of our vampiric citizens. I realize that's what you people do, but not on my watch, in my country..."

Harefudal smiled a little.
"I cant tell you everything, of course." he smiled and crossed his legs before rests his hands on his knees.
"Basically I come from somewhere where my kind is sort of tolerated, simply because we aid a national body, our prescence has been secret for quite a while, but we're still there. We have some of our kind sent out to roam and seek out similar to us, similar I mean in the way we act and work, not feeding off of the innocent and unwilling, not killing unless absolutely necessary."

He sighed and closed his eyes as if in thought, he then murmered

"If they prove to be dangerous to the greater kind, of my kind, your kind, any-kind of living, sentient creature, where they maim and kill without hesitation, then I am to do my sworn duty. Cleanse."

He breathed deeply before continuing his murmuring.
"My apologies for not being as completely fluid and talkative as I first appeared, combat for long amounts of time, and sheer boredom in waiting drains alot of energy from my kind, and today I've done both. Just need to allow my little drink to take effect."

He breathed deeply for a few minute or so before opening his eyes and looking at the Argonian.
"Yes, decades, centuries in my case, I actually forget how old I currently am, when I was 500 I chose to count every century as a birthday, by 600 I decided millenia, still waiting on that first millenia" he smiled a little before stretching his legs back out.

The Hunter nodded slowly from his position on the bed...

"Perhaps an alliance would be beneficial. The sound of rotors moving overhead concerns me... It would seem that professional help as been enlisted to remove me from this nation by force..."

The golden eyes fall on Khat...

"Perhaps you would like to be of greater service to us? I would like to know who these new hunters are, if any, and who they are working for..."

The Hunter rises from the bed, walking over to a battered backpack sitting on a low table in the corner...

"Here, this contains a few maps I've collected from tourist offices across the city, as well as the remainder of my surivival rations..."

He had one last item for Khat. Opening the armory closet, the Hunter withdrew a matte-black M92FS Beretta, a fine 9mm semi-automatic. His other hand clutched a trio of magazines, each holding fifteen rounds...

"This might come in handy as well..."

The firearm and the ammunition went into the backpack, which he set down next to Khat on the cold concrete floor...

Khatt had listened to the two quietly, prefering to let the Hunter draw the newcomer forth.

"Perhaps you would like to be of greater service to us? I would like to know who these new hunters are, if any, and who they are working for..."

Khatt nodded vigorously, as he bounced to his feet. He was only semiliterate, having only himself to teach him to read, but he was good with maps. He took the back pack, but pulled out the survival rations and laid them back on the table.

"Thank you but finding food is easy here. They throw much away, wasteful." Indeed he'd eaten better here than most of the places he'd lived. His fur had a healthy shine to it for once, and was far cleaner than the Hunter might remember it as being.

"I'll be back soon." Khatt promised and ghosted out of the shack. He'd heard the chopper come in and had mentally plotted where it had touched down.

He headed that way across the roof tops, moving silently on thickly padded rear paws.

Harefudal watched Khatt leave before opening his mouth out into a yawn and stretching his arms like a feline, the stool creaked a little and rocked up off of one of the legs.

"I suppose it wouldn't harm too much to tell you a little more." he sighed as he picked up his katana by the blade and balanced it on his finger and smiled.

"I come from the Nation of the Dove. Within it, 500 years ago it used to be many split kingdoms, but that half a millenia ago that all stopped and the nine kingdoms that had brutalized the land became one, their flag was stained blood red as a result of the death and destruction, but on it was sown a dove in the hope of peace." he smiled and wondered if the Argonian would guess or not, if not then he wouldn't think of it.

"But a breed of people had grown within it during that age of strife and misery, that was my breed. They had aided each of the nine kingdoms in their own way, in the hope of bringing unity, for as long as it didn't function superstition was rife, and usually the blame was pointed at my breed. Helping each one in turn never worked, so, in the interests of my people, and the people of that fair isle, we picked one of the kingdoms and aided it to total victory. It was a proud day for us then as it finally meant respite. Our memory nearly totally faded, being only used as scary stories to tell the children. We refined ourselves more and more until those who used to hunt us in superstition lost track of their trade. We settled down into a comfortable life, bred and lived happily as subjects." he smiled again as he placed the sword gently down and tilted his head in thought.

"Then one day, a call came from a man named Heruss. He was one of my kin, he asked for all those who had been at the uniting of the Kingdom of "The Dark Angelic Blood" to come to him at a military encampment. There he asked for those who wished to aid the people again to take up a call. Those who did were issued with one of these." he pulled an Ankh out of one of his pockets and handed it over to the Hunter, it was dull blackened iron with a dove symbol at the cross bar, one arm had a D and the other had an A.

"We are the Darkened Angels." he smiled lovingly at an Ankh. "And for these past 400 years we have helped out nation to glory, with only one true blight under the influence of darker powers." his face snarled and darkened slightly at the mention of an issue he'd probably want to skim over.

"There are a certain number of us only 800 strong in the regiment, the rest of the kin, those who are not part of the Angelic Regiment, usually stay to a small island to the north of the Greater Isle. A small place where we ourselves stay when not at work in the great scheme of things. Its quite nice there." he then smiled again and chuckled.

"I suppose it strikes you as strange or as a trick for such a creature to speak of a good life and peacful lives of a Vampire, hmm?" he shook his head.

"My kind is probably unlike most you have seen, certainly not like those you have fought to say the least, its strangely calming that isle. The calm togetherness atmosphere of Vampire and human alike, very special."

He snapped out of his reviere a little and looked at the Hunter with a stern expression on his face.
"Did you say professional help?"
His face then split into an infections grin and he chuckled.
"So! The sport is smarter and better than originally thought."

Colonel Syn's eyes narrowed, his brow wrinkling under his graying black hair...

"Whatever. Just get your ass in the chopper. We're about to drop a few teams off across the rooftops to get a little searching done before daybreak..."

The Colonel spun his arm around his head, signaling for his troops to mount up for the second time that night. They'd be spending the rest of the operation split up into teams of four, for a total of four teams. As the chopper spun up they re-armed, some equipping themselves with SPAS-12 shotguns, others with scoped flat-top M468-style weapons, Barrett's latest rifle design in 6.8mm SPC. Basically a .270, the weapon packed double the stopping power of a .223 round, like that fired from the M16-style weapons.

About every four blocks, a team would fast-rope from the chopper, scattering as the craft moved forward again. This went on for about an hour before every team was situated. Colonel Syn remained with the chopper, and with Vendetta, made up a fifth team of four. The craft would remain in a secure hangar at the national airport, under guard from additional SCAR personnel and FR military forces...

The second team had deployed some five buildings away from the Hunter's dwelling, unknown to the soldiers themselves...

The Hunter's golden eyes narrowed slightly...

"The 'Sport' as you call it should not be underestimated... I myself have almost died at the hands of a similar group. They do not have the overconfidence that blinds kindred to the true dangers, often they are alert and over-estimate their prey and compensate through over-kill..."

He rose slowly, handing the Ankh back to his new ally and grabbing the revolver with his other hand, walking towards the weapons closet. The revolver went back into its designated peg arrangement, exchanged for a rather old-looking M1911 with worn black grips featuring half-wrap Pachymar finger-grooves. Not surprisingly, it was loaded with a round in the chamber...

"My name is Whiptail, by the way... It will be an honor hunting with you..."

Khatt watched the second team team being dropped, saw them beginning their sweep.

Quickly he ducked behind another small air exchange unit, then took a deep breath. The soldiers were too close to be ignored. Carefully he retraced his stepd keeping the many roof top structures between hims and them. Moving as silently as a wraith he made it unseen to the door ans slipped inside.

"They are coming, sweeper team over the rooftops. They'll be here very soon, dropped no more than five buildings away."

"Ah, so the sport comes looking, hm, sooner than expected."
He shrugged indifferently and picked up his two weapons. sliding the bottom half of his blade pistol out to check the clip, nodding with satisfaction he slides it back in.

"You know, aside from being an Argonian you have said very little of your past Whiptail." he muttered a little as he checked his blade and sheathed it.

"But that can wait, the sport seeks us. I expect they'll be well armed as you said, but nothing tends to beat several centuries of experience. Well, in my experience anyway." He reached the door and pushed it open slightly before looking back over his shoulder.
"Shall we?" he asked with a quirk of a smile on his lips.

The lead man on team two brought his left hand up in a closed fist, and the others ceased all forward movement. The quick series of hand-signals translated to 'I see a building, eyes open for movement'.

Two men circled left while the other two circled right. The team carried one each of the SPAS-12 and the M468, with the other two carrying the potent UMP 45's. The leader moved with extreme grace, and was built somewhat smaller than the other three. Across his back was a finely-made katana, a handy tool for both close combat and the all-important decapitation that usually rendered anything, supernatural or not, incapable of continuing the fight. The tag on his uniform read 'RONIN', with a cluster of chevrons on his right sleeve that identified him as a master sergeant.

Clearly, this wasn't his actual name. The SCAR program was secret enough not to allow actual names to be used during the course of an operation. Ronin's troops also had nicknames in place of their actual last names, and while being something of a morale booster for the troops, it also maintained operational security.

They stacked up against the shack's only door, the first man bringing his SPAS-12 shotgun snugly into his shoulder, while MSG Ronin stood directly opposite, ready with a fragmentation grenade for the initial entry. He'd follow behind the last man, with his UMP at the ready.

Ronin cocked his leg in preparation for the door-breeching kick...

A burst of large-caliber pistol-fire splintered the door, fired from Whiptail's 1911 before he dove out the opposite window towards the back of the shack...