NationStates Jolt Archive

ooc: This RP is closed to those who have not signed up here: http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=548701

ic:

Osius City, CFUS, Present Day 1325 *CMT

The dawn broke over the gleaming spires and skyscrapers of Osius (http://i253.photobucket.com/albums/hh68/DeathToYou_Wee/The_city_of_Dharchonia_by_TateishiE.jpg), making the city sparkle in the sunlight. Downtown, towards the upscale apartments and brownstones, on the roof of a particular brownstone, a redheaded boy greeted the sun jovially. He smiled, an expression rare on his face, but natural at the same time. He wore old-fashioned livery, a tunic and woven trousers, and a gleaming sword with a red stone in the hilt was strapped to his hip. He drew the sword as if it were the natural thing to do and saluted the sun before beginning his morning practice, slashing and defeating imaginary foes. Every morning he did this, Duncan MacAuliffe was reminded of when the enemies hadn't been imaginary.

After a half-hour, the door to the roof opened, and his Family member, Sergei, stood. A tall and brutish Scandinavian, he was actually quite gentle, but loyal to a fault to his Family.

"Master Duncan, it is time," he informed him.

"Yes, I know," Duncan replied, "I'll be right there..." he said, taking one last look at his sword before sheathing it.

He retreated into the house, where he quickly showered and dressed in his favorite royal-blue suit. As he fastened the cumberbunds that featured his Family crest, there was a knock on the door. Entering was Amelie, his former Servant, and now his companion. Though she looked like a teenager, she was already nearing her 300th birthday, an event she detested him to remind her of.

"I asked you to dress nicely," Duncan said, noticing her fishnet stocking, Doc Martins and pleated skirt.

"I did," she protested, "It's a skirt, isn't it?"

Duncan sighed. He bought her countless dresses, but she never wore them...only that punk stuff. And before that it had been rocker, and before that greaser...and then there was her flapper era...

After getting her into a reasonable skirt and blouse, they headed off to the car, a black Mercedes 500 series. Sergei slipped into the driver's seat and they took off for the Council chambers. It was located outside of the city, in what had once been a castle (http://i24.photobucket.com/albums/c8/vonslash/Holidays/Castle-Romania.jpg). The car pulled up and a pair of servants ran up to greet them.

Inside, the Council was convening. They were meeting to introduce several new Family's to the Coven. Duncan greeted Orion and Pharos, the two highest-ranking Councilmen. He looked over at one of the newcomers; Elder Detta. He hardly could be called that, Duncan spat, the insolent pup. He nodded gracefully however, showing the nobility of the blood that flowed within his veins-the blood of the forgotten and noble MacAuliffe Clan.

He hated politics. The root of all evil, to his way of thinking, stemmed from the idiot ideas of men in power. Those same ideas got handed down to people in his line of work, the guys who fought and died because some suit-wearing prick thought his ideas where better. Detta was a good soldier, however. He followed his orders to the letter, and led men where none who started the fighting would themselves dare to go. Vietnam had reinforced his disdain for politics, where the college-educated green officers usually got everyone around them killed. He'd followed the commands of his commanding officer when he agreed with them, but then again he didn't always have that sort of supervision, that was a perk of being a beret in that particular war.

In this case, his commanding officer, if he could call it that, was a twelve-year-old boy. Vendetta sat back in his chair, filling its high back with his broad-shouldered frame as he comtemplated the sort of fucked-up someone had to be to sire a pre-teen. It seemed to him a sick joke. After a moment of deliberation he decided that it wasn't worth thinking about and resigned himself to the cards he'd been dealt.

The near-adolescent across from him wore a finely tailored suit, and Detta couldn't fault him on style. Detta himself wore some slightly baggy khaki pants under a white t-shirt and a loose, unbuttoned white collared dress shirt that barely hid the double-shoulder holster he usually wore, containing a slightly tweaked pair of Colt Delta Elites, a 10mm variant of the classic M1911A1. A black bandanna, now faded to the point that it was almost gray, was tied around his bald head.

The leader of what was probably the smallest of the covens, Vendetta was also the youngest of the so-called 'Elders'. He hadn't even reached the end of his human lifespan yet. He did, however, have more expeirence in modern combat than most of the others, who'd been sired long before the advent of gunpowder. The older ones were traditionalists, preferring swords and the like. Vendetta had killed a lot of people with a knife in his day, around half of his confirmed kills actually, and found it to be more barbaric than any time he'd shot someone. Civilized people didn't hold each other down and drive sharp pieces of steel through each other until the victim quit moving.

Being the head of a small family meant that he was at a disadvantage when it came to numbers and he'd decided that he'd remedy that by evening the odds a little bit. His two escorts were two of the best mercenaries in the business, both came well recommended and both and dealt with his kind before, both professionally and on the business end of a gun.

To his left stood Jackson Davis, a fellow beret and former Ranger bat(talion) war-junkie-turned-gunrunner, and hired because of his close-protection skills. A tall, handsome, powerfully-built monster of a man, Davis was the most visable of his hired help. Today he'd come rather lightly armed, and well-dressed. His tailored suit was cut to accent his beastly frame while still allowing him to hide an MP5K sub-machinegun in a single-point sling under his right arm and a matte-black Beretta M92FS on the same side in an elegant black-leather holster. The suit itself was funeral black, accented with a charcoal gray shirt and ended with a tie that matched the suit in terms of color. He'd chosen it to make a nice first impression on his client's peers, as well as hide the myriad of tattoos he'd collected from his time in the Army. He'd hidden his eyes with a pair of Oakley shades that looked like they'd be more at home over the eyes of the same man as he kicked in doors somewhere hot and sandy, with a much less friendly demenor.

The man on the right was smaller, in terms of muscle mass, than either Vendetta or Davis, but was equally dangerous. Peter Zion was the less-visible of the two hired guns, mainly because his talents lay elsewhere. He was Davis' polar opposite. He didn't kick down doors if he didn't have to, instead preferring to put a single round into his victim's head at long range. He wore a similar suit to Davis, same color at least. The shirt, however, was deep crimson, and again the tie was black. The glasses, however, were of the round-framed variety and didn't quite give him as menacing an appearance as Davis'. He, too, carried a Beretta semi-auto. Zion's piece was matte-stainless in finish, and he had it tucked in his waistband behind a finely-made leather belt in plain sight, showcasing a set of custom-made aluminum grips with a depiction of a Chinese dragon in black against the silvery hue of the metal. This added to his overall non-chalant mannerisum, leaning as he was against the wall behind his employer.

Again, Vendetta threw a glance around the room. The two older guys where there, as well as the 'child prince' and his typical escorts: The big Russian-looking guy that had to be the bodyguard, and the only-slightly older punk-goth girl that followed him around, at least to Vendetta's understanding. Most of his intel had come from second-hand sources, mainly from Zion's little scouting trips around town with a pair of bino's. A rifle scope was useful, yes, but what it was attatched to tended to draw un-needed attention. The thorough sniper had also taken wind and elevation readings in these common areas so he could better prepare to deploy as overwatch another meeting be called in such an area...

"Do we have everybody?"

Vendetta decided to pose a brief question to break the awkward silence, speaking as he adjusted himself in his seat. The response would likely set the tone for the meeting...

Duncan noticed the two staring at him. They were the dogs of the Detta Family, not even turned. The Council would have to agree whether or not to let them stay. He also noticed the bulges underneath their clothing; like all dogs, they had to track in the dirt. Duncan frowned and began to walk over as he heard Vendetta pose his obtuse question. The large hand of Sergei landed on his shoulder, and he looked up. Like all bodyguards, he was determined to keep Duncan safe.

"Sergei , stanna rygg. Jag vill ha att göra med den här*," Duncan said. With a nod, the Scandinavian held back.

"If you wish to keep those arms," Duncan told the armed men, "You will have to leave the premises and wait outside for your Master." He turned to Vendetta, "The Council convenes at its own discretion."

There was the bang of a gavel as Orion and Pharos took up the head seats. As per custom, there was no central seat, indicating that the Councilmembers were equal in stature. With a dismissive shrug, Duncan walked off to his own seat, which was directly to Pharos' left. Amelie and Sergei stood behind the seat, waiting patiently. Amelie bent forward to ask what was wrong, and he commented, "**Jeune pourceau."

"All present, rise and give attention: the Honorable and Supreme Council of the Coven of the North is hereby called to order!" a Speaker said as he stood in the center of the room.


*Sergei, stay back. I will deal with this.

**Young swine.

Nyx watched the powerplay between the two "men" if they could even be called that anymore. The younger one seemed to have all the cards at the moment.
He glanced over at Hoga, noticing how she also stared with her light green eyes at the young man.

"All present, rise and give attention: the Honorable and Supreme Council of the Coven of the North is hereby called to order!"

Nyx slowly rose and turned towards the speaker...

Caked in mud, reeking of the BloodFeast of the previous evening, Teii pulled himself up to a sitting position behind one of the Hell Stones. He was still a bit groggy, but he could hear, quite distinctly, the murmur of voices on the other side of the grove.

"You promised, Gar. Your said you would get me into the city in the morning. Well, it's morning. Why the fuck are we still here?"

Gar the Tender peered at this creature through slitted eyelids. 'Rotten bitch', he thought. Out loud he said, "Listen, Eve, I told you that I would get you into the city. I didn't say when. Cool off. I'm not draggin' a loudmouth like you into the middle of all that shit goin' on there. You'll get us both banished to The Nether."

Eve raised her clawed hand as if to strike him, but caught herself in time. You don't go around beating on The Tender of the Groves of Osius. She placed her hand on his cheek. "Gar, dearest, I have to get into that city, and I have to get there as quickly as possible. The upheavel in the Council will provide me the means to get to the Ring Room. And, my darling, if I can get to the Ring Room, you and I will rule without interference."

"I didn't get to be Tender by listening to every skank Lycan looking to achieve power in the city, Eve. If that's your real name. Now get the fuck outta here and let me think."

Eve stood, rearranged her clothing to cover most of what needed to be covered, threw him a look of hatred that would have melted a glacier, and stalked off through the trees.

Teii smiled and tossed a pebble at Gar. "So, my friend, yet another Lycan falls prey to your charms, eh?"

Gar turned to look, an unamused facial expression upon his visage. "Go fuck yourself, you half-breed piece of shit. Where the hell were you when those fuckin' Elves got here? They ate all the friggin' meat and then took off with our whores."

Teii grinned again. "They didn't take off with ALL the whores, my friend." He gestured over his shoulder and Gar could see what was left of the hooker that had arrived at the Feast with one of the flyers Teii had posted on a telephone pole in Osius.

Now Gar was even more pissed off. "You stupid fuck! What if she were one of the Vampyr Guard placed by the City Leaders to track us down? Did ya ever think of that?"

Teii mused for a second. "Yeah, I did. But I really don't give a shit. She had a mouth that looked like she could suck the chrome off of a bumper hitch. Good enough for me. Besides, we're here and alive, no? What's your problem?"

"My problem is that fuckin' bitch Eve. She's buggin' the hell outta me to sneak her into the City."

Teii said, "So kill her. What's she to you?"

Gar thought for a moment. "Yeah, your'e right. Be right back......."

Nyx watched the powerplay between the two "men" if they could even be called that anymore. The younger one seemed to have all the cards at the moment.
He glanced over at Hoga, noticing how she also stared with her light green eyes at the young man.

"All present, rise and give attention: the Honorable and Supreme Council of the Coven of the North is hereby called to order!"

Nyx slowly rose and turned towards the speaker...

Once everyone had reached their seats, Pharos spoke up, "Be seated."

The Council sat as they were invited and waited for the beginning deliberations.

"Our first order of business, on this the Eighth of November, in the Year of our Lord 2008, is to hear the appeal to the Council concerning the introduction of a new Family. Elder Detta, representing his Family, will now be yielded the floor to commence his plea."

The Council and those in attendance turned to face Detta, whose seat was removed from the circular marble slab of the Council's board.

ooc: sorry, forgot to mention meeting up w/ chaz

ic:

As he answered Amelie, Duncan glanced at two others that were new.

"Dearest," he said to her, "Remind me who those two are again."

"The O'Beal/Darkrider Family," she said, having memorized the dossier, "He's Nyx, the Elder. She's...Hoga, the newest member."

"They certainly don't seem to be brutish like these others," he answered, "Perhaps we should greet them once the meeting is adjourned."

Amelie nodded and bit her lip nervously. She could already tell who Duncan liked and didn't like. And he was stubborn, to boot. Whatever happened, she just hoped everything would be all right.

Gar and Teii stood stock still, the shadows rendering them all but invisible. The parties below were discussing the possibility of the addition of a new Family. Of course, they hadn't been invited. They were Stregoi, mixed blood, mixed culture, mixed ancestry. Only pure-blood allowed down there.

Gar was the purest of the two. Mother was Clan DarkWing, Father Feratu. There were no purebred DarkWings left, as they were systematically hunted and killed by their own kindred over two centuries ago. The DarkWing were greatly feared in centuries past due to their being the only Clan who bore the ancient trait of being winged. The DarkWings had ruled the Vampyric Underworld for eons, ruthlessly suppressing any challenge to their authority.

The word went out one moonless night from those whose names will never again be uttered. The word was to eliminate all DarkWings wherever they were to be found. It was done systematically, brutally, with finality. A handful escaped, living in the sewers of the great human cities of Terra. Gar was one of sixteen mixed DarkWing vampyrs left alive.

Teii was actually descended from the Brujah, those hellish, atavistic throwbacks to a time of primeval brutishness. But that side of the family had been conquered by the combined armies of Man and Wolf, with the resultant inter-breeding producing a most fearsome melange of superior intelligence and berserker bestiality. HOMINIS LYCANUS......an outlaw in a world where there was little, if any, law at all.

Teii and Gar had grown up together in the alleys and byways of a half-dozen cities. They had arrived in the Osius environs just two weeks ago by way of Vienna and Paris. They'd heard that the pickings were especially good around there. And now they were being treated to a rare occurance: the creation of a new Vampyr Family.

They looked at each other, silently understanding the other's thoughts. They were simple creatures. All they wanted was a piece of that high-brow vampette down there........

The Vostoks. The number of those who are aware of the existence of their family is likely a hundred of times smaller than the number of people who believe in the existence of the mythical creatures known as vampires. After all, the old Occam Razor would mean that the simple over-exaggeration on the reports of an outbreak of diseases which provoke sensitivity to sunlight and an urge to bite others as main symptoms, back when people were much more ignorant of medicine than in the dawn of science, of the rationalization of exploitation, and of revolution. Perhaps many, if there were enough Vostoks for the word many to make sense, did not believe in the supernatural back when they were still alive, probably claiming judging the so-called supernatural as petty ignorance promoted by bourgeois and elite interests to keep the proletariat and peasantry at bay through terror.

They were wrong, and had a dearly price to pay for their skepticism. Seeing that even among those no longer alive on the traditional sense of the word, vices of the living persisted and proliferated, their family became more and more reclusive, until being nearly entirely forgotten, as after all, they never had any power, any influence or any strength to be reckoned. They were by and far a rogue family, which willingly never joined the reactionary and anachronistic "Council", likely run by descendants of reactionary nobility, the sorts of Vladimir had no wish to relate with.

Alas, Vladimir was rarely, if ever, seen anywhere. Sometimes, himself seemed to be a legend, a myth told to scare children rather than a reality. However, even myths had the right, and sometimes the duty, to see, to observe and watch the unfolding of events that would directly or indirectly affect them, for with knowledge of the right time to do so, sometimes, myths could come out of their hidden existences to become reality.

The crowd of cursed and not-so-cursed ones was perfect for blending in of those who did not call attention, and a simple, plain individual, completely indistinguishable from the average vampire that strode through the massive room and hallways of the castle. He always arrived late for the meetings, when the sun has already set, to listen and observe the motions of gears and puppets into the games of those who ruled the place. Yesterday, he never left the castle, taking advantage of the singular opportunity from a large row that was formed as many people decided to leave at the same moment, and being merely another one, he did what had to be done to allow him to listen to the completeness of the meeting, and spent an entire night inside the castle, hid in cellars, beneath the covers of what he could find to hide. It was an arduous task, that forced him to never lay in rest, or unrest, but soon he saw, into the artificial light of a clock, as the time has come again, for soon morning would come, and he positioned himself, from the neglected areas to a peculiar spot in the entire hall of the meeting, and stood there in wait.

A corner, not a simple corner of the hall, but one which positioning ensured no sunlight would come straight to it, engulfing it, and whatever lied inside it, into the most absolute darkness, which would only be complete with his absolute silence. He had no smell to be tracked either, and thus, his only worry was to avoid making noise, which was by itself a challenging task, considering the amount of time he had to stand still. Fortunately, he was no longer alive to complain about the aches. Unfortunately, he still had a limited patience. To inform to the family of the inner workings of the Council was, at first glance, very important. Maybe the Vostoks have always observed only the unfolding of events, like if waiting for something to happen, or to appear out of somewhere.

In tradition to what he knew about his family, he continued to wait, listening very attentiously to all everyone said across the meeting. Something useful could come from that, and if it did, perhaps he would be able to acquire a more wide view of their family operations, and of their stance regarding the Council. To blew such chance was something that a seasoned man was not prepared to cope with, but to avoid it from happening is something he would be prepared to, and like an invisible probe, he continued with his duties.

ooc: um, vamp, you're kinda nudging away from the nature of vampires within the storyline. also, we don't deal w/ half-breed rivalries etc.

ooc2: the meeting is during the day, btw, approx. 10:00 am

ic:

After getting answers from Amelie, Duncan noticed another new face. How many were there now? he pondered. He knew the Coven of the North was one of the larger Covens, but there were so many to keep track of. Vladimir, he remembered correctly, of the Vastok Family. Duncan knew of his reclusiveness and pondered...wondering why such a clan would want to join with them...

ooc: um, vamp, you're kinda nudging away from the nature of vampires within the storyline. also, we don't deal w/ half-breed rivalries etc.

ooc2: the meeting is during the day, btw, approx. 10:00 am

ic:

After getting answers from Amelie, Duncan noticed another new face. How many were there now? he pondered. He knew the Coven of the North was one of the larger Covens, but there were so many to keep track of. Vladimir, he remembered correctly, of the Vastok Family. Duncan knew of his reclusiveness and pondered...wondering why such a clan would want to join with them...



OOC: Yeah, but that's kind of the point. You guys are doing the pure-blood, traditional vampire thing, and I was thinking to sort of stay on the fringe for a while to see how the storyline goes. Every story needs a wrench thrown into it at one point or another. Not to worry, I'm not going to do anything crazy. Just think of my half-breeds as a point of opposition to the established culture. I'll work them in.

OOC: Yeah, but that's kind of the point. You guys are doing the pure-blood, traditional vampire thing, and I was thinking to sort of stay on the fringe for a while to see how the storyline goes. Every story needs a wrench thrown into it at one point or another. Not to worry, I'm not going to do anything crazy. Just think of my half-breeds as a point of opposition to the established culture. I'll work them in.

ooc: good to hear. I just wish we'd get some responses for now...oh well, it's the weekend, i suppose. btw, who do you mean by "high-brow vampette?"

ic:

Duncan's mentioning of being unarmed applied to all except for one small group; the Guards. They were provided by the host Family, which at this time was Pharos. One of them, a Lucian named Durgo, lifted his nose, sniffing the air. Unlike the stories, Lucians rarely displayed wolfish traits, and Durgo was no exception. His sensitive nose, however, was no myth, and he sensed something...something that didn't belong. As he continued to scan, he noticed it was two somethings. Signaling his comrades, they converged on the Council chamber, ready to protect their charges.

ooc: bumpity...?

ooc: good to hear. I just wish we'd get some responses for now...oh well, it's the weekend, i suppose. btw, who do you mean by "high-brow vampette?"



OOC: Amelie, of course.....

ic:

Duncan's mentioning of being unarmed applied to all except for one small group; the Guards. They were provided by the host Family, which at this time was Pharos. One of them, a Lucian named Durgo, lifted his nose, sniffing the air. Unlike the stories, Lucians rarely displayed wolfish traits, and Durgo was no exception. His sensitive nose, however, was no myth, and he sensed something...something that didn't belong. As he continued to scan, he noticed it was two somethings. Signaling his comrades, they converged on the Council chamber, ready to protect their charges.

.........

ooc: is there a question to that?

ooc: is there a question to that?


ooc: possibly. depends on how we handle the guards and Amelie's response to Gar's unspoken interest.....lol

ooc: good to hear. I just wish we'd get some responses for now...oh well, it's the weekend, i suppose. btw, who do you mean by "high-brow vampette?"

ic:

Duncan's mentioning of being unarmed applied to all except for one small group; the Guards. They were provided by the host Family, which at this time was Pharos. One of them, a Lucian named Durgo, lifted his nose, sniffing the air. Unlike the stories, Lucians rarely displayed wolfish traits, and Durgo was no exception. His sensitive nose, however, was no myth, and he sensed something...something that didn't belong. As he continued to scan, he noticed it was two somethings. Signaling his comrades, they converged on the Council chamber, ready to protect their charges.


Gar could smell Teii's rising excitement. Apparently, so could the guards outside the meeting room. A half-dozen came double-time into the chamber and set up a cordon around the attendees.

The one who looked like it was in charge was squinting with the effort of sniffing out a problem.

'Time to go', thought Gar. He tapped Teii on the forearm and indicated with a jerk of his thumb that they had to hi-tail it out of there. Teii shook his head and pointed down towards the female. His eyes were glazing over and he looked as if he were about to do something very stupid when Gar grabbed him by his collar and forcibly yanked him off of the window ledge and out through the window, free-falling the thirty or so feet to the courtyard where they landed on their feet in a dead-run.

Gar could hear an alarm sounding from inside the compound............

ooc: time to show off an Arcana ^_<

ic:

"Amelie, take my seat," Duncan said, bowing to the Chair before stepping out.

He could see the Guards heading off, chasing the intruders into the night. Duncan squinted, his lip curling in a grimace. Dashing off, he quickly made it to the car and retrieved his sword before heading to cut them off.

Duncan was sure he made an impression as he suddenly appeared in front of the two, barring their way. He kept his sword sheathed, but placed his hand on the hilt menacingly.

"Halt and state your business," Duncan said to the two, wondering who in the hell they were.

ooc: time to show off an Arcana ^_<

ic:

"Amelie, take my seat," Duncan said, bowing to the Chair before stepping out.

He could see the Guards heading off, chasing the intruders into the night. Duncan squinted, his lip curling in a grimace. Dashing off, he quickly made it to the car and retrieved his sword before heading to cut them off.

Duncan was sure he made an impression as he suddenly appeared in front of the two, barring their way. He kept his sword sheathed, but placed his hand on the hilt menacingly.

"Halt and state your business," Duncan said to the two, wondering who in the hell they were.


Gar paused, taking in Duncan with a single glance. "Out of our way, MacAuliffe. We want no trouble with you."

Teii just stood there growling. His Brujah berserker genes were starting to kick in causing him to tremble violently.

"Listen, MacAuliffe. My friend here is getting all worked up and when he gets all worked up, people die. We'll pass for now with the promise that we will contact you in the very near future. Don't worry. I'll arrange it so that you aren't seen in the company of Stregoi." He stepped back, waiting for an answer, hand resting lightly on his battle-knife.

Gar paused, taking in Duncan with a single glance. "Out of our way, MacAuliffe. We want no trouble with you."

Teii just stood there growling. His Brujah berserker genes were starting to kick in causing him to tremble violently.

"Listen, MacAuliffe. My friend here is getting all worked up and when he gets all worked up, people die. We'll pass for now with the promise that we will contact you in the very near future. Don't worry. I'll arrange it so that you aren't seen in the company of Stregoi." He stepped back, waiting for an answer, hand resting lightly on his battle-knife.

"Stregoi?" Duncan asked, bewildered by the admittance. He took his hand off of the hilt. "I'll let you pass...for now. But you seem to have me at a disadvantage, Miss.(?) You seem to know me well, but I have no way to address you. Give me your names and I'll have no quarrel with you."

"Stregoi?" Duncan asked, bewildered by the admittance. He took his hand off of the hilt. "I'll let you pass...for now. But you seem to have me at a disadvantage, Miss.(?) You seem to know me well, but I have no way to address you. Give me your names and I'll have no quarrel with you."


"I am Gar the Tender. My people of old were DarkWing and Feratu. My friend here is Teii, heir to the Wolf Thrones of Acheron. Brujah runs through his veins as does human." He paused. "We are just as dedicated as you pure-bloods to the assimilation of this land. We are not so different." He turned to Teii. "Come on, Teii. We'll come back at a more opportune time and meet with Lord MacAuliffe."

In answer, Teii, now almost fully Lycan, growled and showed his sizable incisors. Dropping to all fours, he bounded off into the thick underbrush.


Aware that the guards were almost upon them, Gar saluted the Arcana and said, "Until next time, m'lord. Perhaps it is time for a new.....different.....vampyr Family." In the blink of an eye, he was gone...........

"Yes, until later...Gar the Tender," Duncan said that name with remembrance. I know that name...

"Master Duncan!" a Guard said as he caught up to where he stood. "Are you all right?"

"Quite fine," Duncan dropped the sword to his side. "Let the Council know that there's nothing wrong...and inform Pharos and Orion that I must speak with them after session."

"Yes, certainly m'lord," the Guard bowed.

Until later...Stregoi...

It is a common misconception that vampires live in dark, dank ruins of castles, rising at night from ancient coffins filled with the soil of their native lands, looking for some type of mammal with which to quench their insatiable thirst.....

Nothing could be further from the truth. Vampires were of the species HOMINIS NOCTURNIS.....Men of the Night. In the old days of the experiment known as the American Republic, there was a curious entity called Hollywood whose job it was to entertain the citizens of that nation. The story-line that they came up with for vampires was quite amusing: stakes in the heart, holy water, garlic, crucifixes, and the like. Let someone drive a stake into the heart of a vampire, all that will happen is that it will get highly annoyed at the ruination of a perfectly good shirt and probably tear the perpetrator limb from limb after sprinkling it with garlic, consuming a portion of it, and then washing it all down with a quart of holy water.

No, Hollywood had it wrong. About the only modicum of truth was the aspect of daylight. Because a vampire's eyes were of a more feral make-up, they preferred an overcast day to a sunny one. But they could move about freely as they wished, whenever and wherever they wished.

They needed nourishment as did any other human species, but they just happened to prefer it raw and freshly killed. And they only ate every four or five days.

As Teii tended the fire, Gar prepared the night's meal, that being a half-dozen rabbits, two large house-cats, and the leg of a homeless woman they had captured just twenty minutes ago.

"OK, bud. Soup's on. Come and get it." Teii strolled over and with relish bit into the calf of the leg, grabbing a rabbit as he chomped and slurped his way through through the meal.

Watching him with varying degrees of alarm and disgust, Gar said, "Y'know, Teii, no matter how many times I watch you eat it never ceases to turn my stomach. 'Aint you got any manners?"

Teii, grinning ear to ear, face and hands covered in blood and rabbit fur, said, "What's the matter, Gar? You think the old lady has a problem with the way I'm eating her leg? Or the rabbit didn't like the way I bit it's head off? C'mon, it's just food! Don't make a big deal outta it. Just eat it!"

"Yeah, I guess you're right." And with that, Gar began neatly slicing thick layers of thigh meat from the leg and cut four legs from one of the cats. "Ah, I like legs! My favorite!"

After the meal, they cleaned up and washed themselves in the river. "Well, that oughta hold us for a few days," said Teii. "Now what are your plans for meeting with the Arcana?"

"I'm actually thinking if it's a wise move. They'll probably try and kill us on sight. No love lost between the pure-bloods and the Stregoi."

Teii said, "True, but that MacAuliffe seemed to be an OK kind of guy. I sort of got the feeling that he wouldn't double-cross us."

"Hmmmm, perhaps. At any rate, I'll get a message to him, and until I hear from him, we can be gathering up as many of our band as possible."

"Yeah, good idea. But that won't be more than a dozen at most."

Gar said, "Better than just the two of us. We have to drive home the point that just because we are of mixed ancestry that we are not of the same mind as them. We just prefer a more casual existence, not so rigidly formal."

Teii laughed. "Yeah, maybe if the Pures pull those sticks outta their collective asses they'll loosen up a little."

Gar grinned. "Maybe, but doubtful. Anyway, the message goes out tomorrow. We'll see what they say."

"What's in the message, Gar."

"Nothing elaborate. Just that we need to meet and discuss things as equals."

"Hmmmf. That'll go over big."

"Maybe. We'll see." Gar finished writing the message on an old piece of dried flesh, slid it into a sturdy leather wallet, and whistled softly. A large raven glided into the fire-light, alighting upon the remnants of the meal. Gar said, "Eat up, my friend, then at dawn take this to the one named MacAuliffe."

The raven stared for a moment, then nodded, after which it began tearing into one of the cats...................

Davis and Zion had exited when their employer had bid them to do so, Davis leaving with Vendetta's pistols stuffed into the rear of his waistband.

The pair watched the events, if they could be called that, unfold with little more than a passing interest, Davis leaning on the side of the blacked-out Mercedes E-Class with a hand in his jacket clutching the grip of the small sub-gun just in case. Zion had seated himself on the trunk, and didn't give the scene a second glance.

The sniper unnerved Davis, but then again snipers were the bane of the light infantryman and the fact that the man didn't so much as blink when whatever the fuck that it was went down made him uneasier still. Their employer seemed like a good enough guy, a former beret from the old days when they let them roam the jungles and do all sorts of 'Apocalypse Now' sort of stuff.

He didn't know about this silent companion but he'd done his homework. Detta was a Brujah, the more combative and rough-edged 'clan' if one could call it that. He never doubted he'd always been passionately against politics, but then again Brujah were supposed to be activists of a sort. The little guy, a boy by most definitions, was a bit of a prick. All things considered, at least. First impressions, however, were everything. Both mercs had worn suits, not at Detta's request either. Davis hated suits with an unnatural passion. As soon as he'd gotten outside he'd loosened the tie and unbuttoned the collar.

Zion, however, didn't seem to mind, but then again the man was smaller than he was in the neck area. He also had the look of a Yakuza gangster despite the fact that he was in fact a white guy from out West. Maybe it was the glasses and the suit, Davis didn't quite know. He just got that impression...

"Great start, eh?"

The sniper simply threw him a sidelong glance before returning his gaze down the street. Apparently he didn't say much...

"Alrighty then..."

Davis returned his own field of view back towards the door, after he'd removed his hand from within his jacket. The little prick had handled whatever it was that had needed handling. Davis began to wonder what was going on within the room now that they'd been ordered to leave. Detta hadn't been happy about giving up his pistols, which Davis had found to be excellently balanced factory-custom pieces. He'd placed them in the front seat of the car, hidden behind the tinted windows.

There was no more French being spoken, thank god. He knew a little, actually. A lot of the older mercs were ex-Foreign Legion hardasses and Davis had done a lot of work in the traditional theaters. He'd done time as a diamond merc in Africa, where most guys got their start. South America had come next, before he'd started his side business in gun-running. Vendetta had been informed of that particular skill, and Davis hoped he'd brought it up with the other Elders. It wouldn't have been a bad way for him to make his bones with the rest of his kind.

In addition to his usual armaments Davis had brought along a few items specifically built to combat that which employed them. In short, stuff that threw large hunks of lead at high speed where extremely effective, particularly the ten-gage shotgun. Judging by Zion's quartet of custom-built long-range engines of bedlam and mayhem, the silent weirdo had also come with a similar mindset...

Within the Meeting Hall, prior to the little interruption...

Vendetta had relinquished his firearms, not happily but he'd still allowed them to leave the room. The older ones tended to forget what it was to be vulnerable, protected as they were within their large mansions behind walls of 'family' members and the illusion of 'honor'. They also didn't have packs of hunters attempting to prey on them like the younger families. That was probably where the sword came into play, a preferred Elder accessory. A 10mm Norma hollow-point, especially in the Winchester Ranger line, did wonders for ending the pursuit of some over-zealous hunter nut-bag who'd gotten it into his mind that attacking a former Green-Beret-turned-vampire was a good idea...

"OK now that we've dispensed with the bullshit can we get the meeting underway?"

He rolled his eyes as one of the guards made a move to rush outside. He found it ironic that just as he'd dismissed his hired help something they'd be useful for had taken place. He'd forgotten how rule-ridden these 'Concils' could be, and that was a reminder why he'd been so fond of the 'Prince' system of the American clans. As long as you kept a low profile and didn't let any humans catch wind of your presence they left you alone for the most part. That didn't seem to be the case here...

After the Meeting, since it's apparently over...

Vendetta sat in the back seat of the Mercedes, shoving his pistols back where they belonged...

"How was the meeting boss?"

It was the big merc, Davis...

"Shitty. Lot of blue-blood-bullshit but that's to be expected..."

"Really?"

"Keep in mind we've got a twelve-year-old on the bench. Back when I was alive I didn't trust a man who didn't drink, cuss, or chase pussy. Still don't..."

The big merc nodded in agreement...

"Gotcha. 'Cause non-drinkers are social outcasts, and guys who don't chase tail are queers. Why not guys with clean verbage?"

"They never really speak their mind. I doubt a boy, no matter what his actual number of years survived, does any of the former..."

Davis barked a short laugh, while Zion remained as silent and stoic as ever...

"What's your story, man?"

The smaller gun-for-hire angled his head slightly from the driver seat to throw a glance into the rear-view mirror...

"Yeah, you. Don't say much do you?"

"I agree with what you said, and don't have anything to add..."

His delivery was as smooth and cool as black ice, but friendly enough to keep from seeming like a haughty asshole...

"Enough said then. I can respect that..."

The ride homeward was a convo between Detta and Davis, mostly war stories and bar talk. The 'Detta Manor', as it was jokingly referred to, was actually a warehouse registered under Vendetta's father's name, Vincent Detta II, and passively fortified with a bit of sheet steel welded around the living areas on the top floor, accessible by the stairs only. The windows, dark and dirty as they were, were reinforced on the inside with chain-link fence welded in place to keep unwanted visitors from smashing through.

Detta's little family all had rooms of their own within, comprised as it was of bikers, runaways, and displaced veterans like himself, they needed little in the way of luxuries. Each small apartment had its own utilities installed and paid for with cash to keep the building inspectors away since the warehouse wasn't zoned for use as a living space...

<snip>

<snip>

ooc: welcome WA, I thought me and vamp were the only ones

ooc2: technically, it wasn't over, but i'll run w/ it

ic:

"And you're sure?" Pharos asked quietly. After the meeting, Duncan had retreated into the waiting rooms of the castle with Pharos and Orion. Orion grumbled.

"They're all but extinct after the Clan Wars," he mentioned. "Why do they come here now? What business could they possibly have?"

"I don't know, Brother," Duncan said, studying the ruby rose embedded in his hilt. "All I know is...they're here. They could have attacked me, but didn't. Of course, I would never fear from a mere Stregoi, but..."

"We will leave this up to you," Pharos said, "For whatever reason, perhaps they have taken to you..."

"Our little diplomat," Orion chuckled, much to the chagrin of Duncan. He cleared his throat and changed the subject, "And what of Detta? His address was obtrusively cut short."

"Should I tend to that as well?" Duncan asked.

"Well, it seems he may like you the least," Pharos mused.

"Exactly, he'll be more honest to me," Duncan theorized. "If I can deal with Saracen armies and Moorish dungeons, I can deal with one reclusive vampire," he said.

Later on...

The Mercedes drove through the seedy area, seemingly out of place next to the warehouse.

"Master, are you sure?" Amelie asked warily. She glanced at the area meekly.

"Yes, Dearest," Duncan answered, "And remember, you don't have to call me Master anymore."

"Yes Master," Amelie answered.

Duncan stepped out of the door and into the alleyway. He'd changed from his suit, however, and was wearing a pair of black jeans, a deep blue hoodie and a pair of blue/black DCs. It wasn't exactly what he was comfortable in, but he thought it necessary to show up not as...princely as he usually was. Duncan ascended the stairs carefully, knowing that with those two guards, his arrival was probably detected. He knocked on the reinforced door deliberately, feeling the strength behind the door. Then, he waited...

OOC: I operate on Pacific time these days :) With all that talk of 'The Next Day' I figured we'd just skipped ahead.

IC:

Detta's 'inner sanctum' was most of the upper floor, behind the main door where Davis and Zion both had seperate rooms at offset angles. Vendetta was a slightly paranoid bastard, sleeping within a steel-reinforced warehouse. Davis was closest to the door, and heard the rapping from within his room.

As he approached the door he took a moment to better inspect the modifications. The thing had a solid sheet of steel welded to the back of what was once a simple metal door, and along with that came reinforced heavy-duty hinges and a triple set of deadbolts that interfaced into solid steel around the door-frame. While sturdy, Davis figured he could shoot through it if need be. A small slit in the door composed of a one-way mirror allowed him to see outwards, but it was at the eye level of an average human and he almost overlooked the vertically-challenged Duncan...

"Master Duncan I presume?"

The greeting was delivered with a little sarcasam, but that was to be expected. Davis was a human, a veteran of many battles, and an overall deadly individual to be on the wrong side of. The four sets of vampire fangs strung from a piece of 550 parachute cord hanging above his bathroom mirror reinforced that fact.

He'd answered the door in much less formal attire than he'd attended the conference in. The Beretta, complete with his usual Hogue grip and an extended twenty-round magazine for night-watch duties, was riding this time in a Blackhawk! SERPA thigh rig on his right side, and he had a semi-custom short-barreled M4-style carbine in hand, a potent 6.8mm to provide decent stopping power out of the small barrel with a nice Trijicon Reflex close-combat optic riding on the top rail to make hitting fast-moving targets easier. It too, had the one-point sling. He'd packed twenty-five Hornady-brand TAP loads into the magazine, thinking they'd give him the best combination of penetration against the door and expansion once they penetrated. Sometimes it wasn't enough just to have the right weapon, you had to feed it the right ammo, too.

As Davis opened the door he let it hang, knowing there would be nothing more than a hostile attitude but nothing would come of it. As the door swung open the rest of the sanctum became visible. Stacks of weapons crates marked variously with 'H&K' in blood red, 'Armalite' in blue, and 'Bushmaster' in orange were stacked in the hallways, amongst several that didn't have visible labels.

The door to Zion's room was open, and one could see the man methodically taking apart one of his prized rifles while Perfect Circles 'Counting Bodies Like Sheep To The Rythum of The War Drums' played softly from a pair of ear buds jacked into an iPod. The walls were festooned with ballistics charts in an orderly manner, next to test targets scrawled with pertinent information in Zion's neat but bold handwriting. The bed on the far wall was neatly made, and a closed laptop had been placed on top of it, out of the way.

Peeking into Davis' room would reveal a few centerfold pictures in various states of undress and a large stack of gun magazines (the reading sort). A few carbines stood in a row in a rack against the wall above a desk holding cleaning materials and the MP5K from earlier, disassembled for cleaning and a bit of modification. There was also a laptop of decent manufacture. Davis' bed wasn't in quite the state that Zion's was, probably because he'd been sleeping in it prior to being awoken...

"Come on in, I'll tell Vince you're here..."

Davis led the to the end of the short hallway, knocking on Detta's own heavy door. The vampire answered with a pistol in one hand and a glass of bourbon in the other. The room was larger than either of the mercs' and somehow much more spartan. There was a coat rack next to the door, on which hung the double-shoulder rig Detta kept his 1911's in, a bed in the center of the room against the wall facing inwards towards a large television that was currently playing an episode of 'The Shield'. The desk in the corner contained a powerful desktop PC, a high-end Dell trimmed in silver plastic. A couch and recliner sat at an angle to each other, but still facing the TV...

"Figured I'd see you sooner or later. I'm also guessing you want to talk..."

Vendetta turned away, leaving the door open and walking towards the recliner, which he seated himself in. Setting the glass and pistol down on a nightstand next to the chair, he steepled his fingers, resting his elbows on the arm-rests...

"So? Go ahead and speak your piece. I'll say mine when you're done..."

He was nothing if not respectful, despite his course language on most occasions...

"Am I not even offered a drink?" Duncan asked as he walked in, glancing at the bourbon and pistol. "Would it surprise you to know that I am an occasional drinker? Though I may seem young, I can assure you I'm not..." He looked around a bit more, taking in the armaments. "I find it odd that you're so heavily armed, though with your past, I can assume you have your reasons. A warrior is someone who arrays an arsenal about his home and prays never to use it."

Detta reached downwards next to the recliner, picking up a bottle of Maker's Mark and handed it to Duncan...

"Forgive me, but I'm not in the habit of giving people your size booze. No offense, I realize you're far older than I am but you're also trapped in the body of a little boy..."

The show on the TV screen paused as Detta pressed a button on the remote control...

"Makes conversations a little weird. As for the firepower, it's a little side business Jackson and I have partnered up for. We don't all have old-world money to fall back on..."

There was a sip taken from the glass on the nightstand, and the glass remained in-hand...

"Jack's the big motherfucker that let you in. Pete's the quiet guy with the snappy sense of fashion. I pay these guys to make sure my people are safe and well-trained enough to stay alive. As I'm sure you're aware hunters like to prey on the smaller, younger groups. They've had a tough time so far, however. Hence the guns and the fortifications..."

Another sip, longer this time...

"I can offer a lot in terms of expertise and services. My people downstairs are no strangers to violence either. Most Brujah aren't, but again you know this I'm sure. The stuff in the hallway is but a small sample of the quality of stuff I have stashed down stairs...."

Detta hammered back the rest of the glass before reaching outwards for the bottle he'd handed to Duncan. He only had one glass, but if the guy wanted a drink he could drink from the bottle. Not exactly high-society but Vendetta was sure he knew he was slumming it right now...

Jackson closed the door gently before stepping back into the hallway, and making his way down the length towards his comrade's room...

"Hey! Watch the door for a sec, I'm gonna step outside for a moment..."

Zion nodded quickly, slapping the bolt back into his rifle with a practiced motion before picking up his Beretta and press checking the chamber and giving Jackson a thumbs up. The bigger man nodded in turn before walking down the stairs past the living areas and out into the street. The small rifle was held in hand, but kept low. His wide chest hid it from view from the street, and from the car he was approaching. It had to be Duncan's car, nobody in their right mind would leave a nice car like that sitting out in this part of town at this hour. That also meant it was occupied. He rapped on the window...

"Hey. You guys can pull in the garage if you want..."

Duncan pulled out his cell phone and dialed. "Sergei; Den er i orden. Lita på dem för now." Sergei responded and pulled the car into the garage, keeping it locked to ensure Amelie's safety.

"Thank you," Duncan said to Detta, taking the bottle in his hand and taking a long pull. "You should know that mere alchohol couldn't inebriate Arcana," he said matter-of-factly. "And it is not so much the quantity you can offer us, for I can see it is substantial...but the quality of what you bring us. I understand that you have different views, and we can wholey accept that. This world is chaos enough with human unable to come to agreement; it was the basis for the Clan Wars, you know..." He chose his next words carefully, "You would have a voice in the Council, if accepted, but decisions are made by concensus. "Would you be willing to follow the directives of the Council, even if it went against your ideas?"

After the abrupt ending of the meeting with his fellow vampires, Nyx had retired to the nearest Chazakain embassy, after making sure that Chazaka was running fine in his absence. He sat back in his chair, then summoned Hugo to his room.
"That was a complete waste of time"
"No, we learned a great deal"
"Like?"
"That this council is not without its power plays and its outsiders and we can use this to our advantage, for now i have an assignment for you"
Hugo looked up.
"Yes, your first assignment. I need you to learn more about the outsiders that disrupted the meeting. How you do this is totally up to you"
"You are dismissed" Nyx turned back to the computer....

occ: haven't read the whole of the second page of this yet, so if anything of great importance counteracts this i'll change it.

Detta refilled his glass, before downing half of it again in a single swig. He ignored the comment about the alcohol. Vendetta had stopped drinking to get drunk a long time ago, but bourbon was like fine wine. He drank for the burn and the flavor, and not just the after effects...

"As far as me bringing you anything, we haven't even gotten that far yet. The guns are a side business between myself and Jack, the big motherfucker who let you in here. We don't all have old-world money to fall back on. As far as me offering any of that to you, you'd be paying like the rest of them since I don't see any immediate benefits to joining this council of yours, other than being treated like an outcast and the populace at large does a good enough job of that, thank you..."

Another swig of bourbon...

"As far as quality I can offer, that's an understatement. My hardware is beyond military grade. I've got enough stocked in this warehouse to supply my own little private army, unfortunately I don't have the sort of personnel support networks that I'd need for that sort of thing. For now, I have myself, two high-speed mercs, and about fifteen assorted bikers, runaways, drifters, and vets like me myself, all vamp'd up and lost as Hell. Not exactly the pinnacle of military training and technology but we make due..."

Detta killed the glass for a second time...

"I'm a soldier, been one for many, many years. I follow orders, so long as they don't get my people killed. I did a few tours in 'Nam, and was one of the first Green Berets to stand on Smoke Bomb Hill over in Fort Bragg and join the 10th Special Forces group. As far as quality goes, you aren't finding much better. I couldn't find anything better than those two at the door, the only guys better than them are retired or permanently contracted to be advisors for national defense agencies. As far as training, firepower, and expertise go, you aren't going to find anything above our level of quality..."

He made a move to set the glass down, keeping his hand in place as the glass hit the table...

"I can follow orders. I can do whatever your little vampiric congress asks of me as long as it doesn't endanger my own. If you can live up to that end of the bargain then I can live up to mine. Now hand me that bottle..."

After the abrupt ending of the meeting with his fellow vampires, Nyx had retired to the nearest Chazakain embassy, after making sure that Chazaka was running fine in his absence. He sat back in his chair, then summoned Hugo to his room.
"That was a complete waste of time"
"No, we learned a great deal"
"Like?"
"That this council is not without its power plays and its outsiders and we can use this to our advantage, for now i have an assignment for you"
Hugo looked up.
"Yes, your first assignment. I need you to learn more about the outsiders that disrupted the meeting. How you do this is totally up to you"
"You are dismissed" Nyx turned back to the computer....

occ: haven't read the whole of the second page of this yet, so if anything of great importance counteracts this i'll change it.


ooc: if by "outsiders" you are talking about me, I'll post someting about contacting you and we'll see where it goes.


FUS, have you received the message from the Raven yet?

ooc: well, technically, i have to give it time to avoid time skips etc. i certainly can, but i don't want ppl confused w different times and such. don't worry, i haven't forgotten. i hope to end the 'meeting' in two posts (not that i'm neglecting you WA).

ic:

"Truth be told, most of my money came from investments over a century ago. International Business Machines, General Electric...Boeing; I invested in these when people thought I was crazy," Duncan chuckled. "I lost everything when my Vampirism took hold...did you know? Of all the idiot myths about us, the one about being born on Christmas is correct? I find it ironic now," he chuckled, taking a long pull before handing the bottle back. "You know, the best burboun seemed to be from the 1840s," Duncan commented. "Back to business...The Council itself regulates the actions of all Families involved, and communicates with other Covens to keep diplomatic relations open. Quite simply, we are a congress as you implied. I could give you a history of the creation of the Councils, but it can be a bit boring..."

"As for contribution," Duncan began, "I did not necessarily mean arms or materials. Our Coven is well-armed for attack, though one can never be too careful. What I meant was, what do you personally, not physically, offer to the Coven? From your military record, I can tell you're brave, well-learned in the arts of war and have honed your craft over the decades. But aside from war and conflict, what do you hope to gain?"

Detta stared into the bottle for a moment, pondering. That was a deep question...

"Truth be told, I have no idea. I'm no longer human. I have little left in terms of pride or beliefs. Those huddled masses downstairs are really what keep me going. They look to me for protection and leadership when the world casts them out for being something most of them didn't even ask to become..."

The bottle was half gone now, and Detta knocked back a portion...

"I've killed men, yes. I've killed a few of our kind, too. There is no glory in it. I guess I seek freedom from what I've become but death is only going to bring that. I don't really know what I hope to gain, other than some peace of mind for those who follow me..."

The bottle was passed back, he was done with it. There was a faint buzzing from somewhere and Vendetta fished an old cellular from his pants pocket...

"Jack says your people are ready when you are, apparently you have other shit to do so I'm not going to keep you..."

A card was exchanged, holding an email address and cellular number...

"I'm always in touch. Call if there's another meeting or you want something a little better than what you've got back at the manor to put holes in your enemies. I personally guarantee you don't have the hardware I've got stashed downstairs..."

Detta motioned towards the door...

"Pete'll show you out..."

The mercenary sniper was standing at the end of the hall, pistol in waistband and staring at the shorter form of Duncan with his cool green eyes...

OOC: Not at all. I'm getting rather bored with the one on one stuff as it is. :)

Detta stared into the bottle for a moment, pondering. That was a deep question...

"Truth be told, I have no idea. I'm no longer human. I have little left in terms of pride or beliefs. Those huddled masses downstairs are really what keep me going. They look to me for protection and leadership when the world casts them out for being something most of them didn't even ask to become..."

The bottle was half gone now, and Detta knocked back a portion...

"I've killed men, yes. I've killed a few of our kind, too. There is no glory in it. I guess I seek freedom from what I've become but death is only going to bring that. I don't really know what I hope to gain, other than some peace of mind for those who follow me..."

The bottle was passed back, he was done with it. There was a faint buzzing from somewhere and Vendetta fished an old cellular from his pants pocket...

"Jack says your people are ready when you are, apparently you have other shit to do so I'm not going to keep you..."

A card was exchanged, holding an email address and cellular number...

"I'm always in touch. Call if there's another meeting or you want something a little better than what you've got back at the manor to put holes in your enemies. I personally guarantee you don't have the hardware I've got stashed downstairs..."

Detta motioned towards the door...

"Pete'll show you out..."

The mercenary sniper was standing at the end of the hall, pistol in waistband and staring at the shorter form of Duncan with his cool green eyes...

OOC: Not at all. I'm getting rather bored with the one on one stuff as it is. :)

Duncan didn't care much for the dismissal, but nodded and let himself be led out. He stopped to give a final statement before departing.

"When I lived in Japan, a Buddhist monk once told me, To tell others that it is not the truth will not do; when your own heart asks, how will you respond?"

He left, and quickly rejoined Amelie and Sergei.

"So...?" Amelie asked.

"He's a young pup," Duncan said with a sigh, "Who doesn't know which direction to go...he's got a compassionate side; otherwise, he'd never help those squatters. I see in him, the finest we can be, and the worst as well."

Once they returned home, Maria, another of their Family, stood waiting for them at the doorstep.

"Duncan, this came for you," she handed over the note.

ooc: lemme know what the note says...

Duncan didn't care much for the dismissal, but nodded and let himself be led out. He stopped to give a final statement before departing.

"When I lived in Japan, a Buddhist monk once told me, To tell others that it is not the truth will not do; when your own heart asks, how will you respond?"

He left, and quickly rejoined Amelie and Sergei.

"So...?" Amelie asked.

"He's a young pup," Duncan said with a sigh, "Who doesn't know which direction to go...he's got a compassionate side; otherwise, he'd never help those squatters. I see in him, the finest we can be, and the worst as well."

Once they returned home, Maria, another of their Family, stood waiting for them at the doorstep.

"Duncan, this came for you," she handed over the note.

ooc: lemme know what the note says...


OOC: FUS check TG

Duncan took the message and retired to the den, leaving the rest of the Family to ponder what it was. He sat down in an antique chair and began to read, his eyes scanning the script over and over as he reread it to retain it in his memory. A Stregoi Family...? Such a thing hadn't existed for centuries. There were still those who hated and distrusted the Stregoi...they wouldn't take kindly to this news.

With a sigh, Duncan went down to the cellar and fetched a bottle of *1945 Mouton-Rothschild. The only time he'd drunk it before was to celebrate the end of the Second World War...and though this was no extraordinary occassion, he had a taste before returning it, hoping that the spirit in which it had been drunk previously would give him insight into what was to come. Duncan locked himself in the study, pouring over his next move.

*A $13,000 bottle.

Gar moved slowly down the Rue Lamartine, thinking about all of the possible outcomes of his note to the Arcana. A bold move on his part, to be sure. Even if the Council conceded to allow a Stregoi Family, it would be years....centuries....before they lost the stigma of a mixed bloodline. But, a trip of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

He was still deep in thought when he rounded a corner and was spotted by "une flick"...a cop. "Vous! Que faites-vous dehors ceci tard? Arretez et identifiez-vous!"

Gar stood perfectly still, instantly aware if there were anyone else in the immediate area. The cop walked quickly towards him, still jabbering away. He stopped in front of the vampire and froze the second he saw the vertical cerise slits that were Gar's pupils. They were the last thing the cop ever saw as Gar almost casually reached out and ripped the cop's throat out in a spray of blood. Gar caught him before he hit the ground and dragged him into a dark alley where he took a taste of the cop's blood. 'Ah, too spicy', he thought. He left the now stiffening corpse for the alley rats and continued his way towards the old manse that served as the Stregoi's home.

As he stepped through the old iron gates, he saw and waved at the guards on either end of the front porch. They were armed with AK-47s and Beretta 9mm handguns.

Passing through the front door, he was greeted by Lilith St. Panterene, known to all as "Myst". "So, m'lord, out for a stroll? I see you had a bit of fun out there!" she said, referring to the blood stains on his clothing.

"Just a nosy cop, chere. What have you been up to?"

"Nothing much, my dear. Doing my nails and wishing we were back in the Carpathians. Not much going on here, eh?" Myst was beautiful in that dangerous way that the French had of looking. Tall, about five-foot ten, hair dyed several shades of blue, blue eyes, deeply tanned, scarlet lips, full figure draped in.....well, not a hell of a lot.

"Soon, my dear", Gar said. As soon as I hear from the Arcana named MacAuliffe we can make our plans one way or the other."

Myst paused a second. "Hmmmm....does he know you true name, m'lord? It might make a difference in the Council's decision, non?"

"No, I don't think so. And it is good that he doesn't. I don't want the entire vampiric world coming down on us because of an ancient ancestral scandal."

Gar's actual name was Garaile de Cyprien. One of his ancestors eleven hundred thirteen years ago made the mistake of kidnapping, raping, and killing a niece of the Emperor Charlemagne, who had always known of the vampiric families and used them in his more stealth-oriented political moves. The Emperor was infuriated and began a purge of the vampires which resulted in Gar's clan being tossed from the ranks of the Council. A short time later, about eight hundred years, all was forgiven, but the clan had become considered Stregoi, and was shunned by the rest of the Familia Vampyra.

For 1800 years the Stregoi remained hidden in the Basque lands south of the French border, becoming actively involved with the Cathari and the Priure de Scion. It was they who brought the Magdalen's family over to Britain, returning only when the Sangraal was safe.

And now they were poised to make a return to the world of the Covens, the Vampiric Families from which they had been estranged for so long.

"No, my dear, it would definately not be to our advantage to be identified as the murderers of Charles the Great's kinfolk. Memories run long in our world, you know."

"Yes, yes they do, m'lord. All the same, the name of the Cypriens is a famous one. Surely one little indiscretion isn't grounds for shunning us anymore, non?"

"Famous? Try 'infamous'. No, we'll keep my name secret for a while yet."

"Very well, m'lord. Have you eaten?"

"Yes, yesterday. Now be a good dear and fetch me a glass of Pouilly-Fuisse and be on your way. I have much to do."

She bridled at being dismissed, but held her tongue. "Yes, m'lord. Right away."

ooc: point of order, you have the time wrong. Charlemagne lived in the 9th century AD, meaning the most would be 1100 yrs or so, not 2613 yrs.

ic:

Duncan put away the bottle after the first glass; it was too fine to drink casually. He picked up a crystal stone from an alabaster case and walked over to a hand-drawn world map on a large oak table. There was a leather cord that the crystal hung on, and Duncan let it hang over the map as he closed his eyes and concentrated. The crystal swung towards Europe, and in a matter of moments it struck the dot for Paris, France.

He was suddenly flooded with a strong of images. He tried to make sense of them:

"...Cyprien..."

Basque lands...

Charlemagne...

"...murderers..."

Duncan fell back from the map, as if a wave of energy had hit him square in the chest. Could it be...? he thought. This revelation would certainly change things. He looked at the map warily, subconsciously thumbing the beads of the rosary in his pocket.

Detta scoffed at the words left to him. He had no use for proverbs, you might as well come out and say what you were going to say, and not twist it into a word puzzle...

"Get that shipment ready to move. Jack should already be on it but see if he needs a hand..."

Within a few minutes Peter was down in the warehouse area proper, assisting Jack with several crates of Romanian-made AK-47's, loading them on an old beater pick-up for transport to a local gang leader. It wasn't the most honorable thing to sell weapons to criminals, but then again money was money, and being a vampire didn't allow him to exactly work a nine-to-five. Mercenary work was out of the question, too. He was needed here.

There were five crates in total, with ten weapons per crate for a total of fifty. Assosciated ammunition, the classic 7.62x39mm WP, had already been stuffed thirty each into three crates of magazines, for a total of one-hundred-fifty magazines, or in other words three per rifle. Detta stood to make a tidy sum from this deal.

Granted, AK's didn't sell for as much as the nicer items in his arsenal, and he didn't sell military-grade hardware to just anyone. Rogue merc outfits were his best customers, some high-end hitmen and personal bodyguards for various crime families were also in that particular bracket.

The high-end stuff was too numerous to mention, but a wide selection of custom-built AR-15-type weapons from various makers, tweaked Hecker and Koch firepower, more FN Herstal guns than there were waffles in FN's home country of Belgium, as wel as some specialty stuff from custom gunsmiths who wished to remain nameless. Most the of the bolt-actions he sold were original PZ (Zion's custom shop) precision nail-drivers, and the vast majority of the AR variants were built by big Jackson. The selection went from thousands of pistols from various makers in all the popular calibers up to shotguns and assault rifles, to machine-guns and heavy anti-material armaments. He also had enough custom accessories to open his own website, anything from broom-handle foregrips to underslung grenade launchers and the latest in holographic CQB optics to full caliber-conversion kits and specialty ammunition for whatever sort of foe ailed you.

Detta also stocked body armor from all the popular manufacturers like Eagle and Pinnacle, and he also kept a wide selection of knives on hand for those who wanted something with a bit more of an edge. If he didn't have it, chances were he could either built it for you or technology didn't yet exsist to produce such a device. He'd personally slapped the shit out of the first idiot to ask him for a plasma cannon. Flamerthrowers, he could procure.

In short, his operation had become a one-stop-shop for anything that ended lives in a ballisitic fashion...

Duncan had retired to reading from an ancient scroll, a copy he'd written himself in the 1800s. As he poured over the volume, a knock on the door roused him.

"Enter," he called.

"It's locked," Amelie replied with a chuckle. He walked over and undid the latch, opening it to reveal his companion, dressed in black PJs with skulls and a matching silk robe. She noticed his weary expression.

"Aww, have you been up all this time?" she asked.

"Yes, these two Families are troubling. One is a young outcast; the other's, ancient outcasts...I've wondered what had happened to the Fool's Heir."

"Y-you mean...?" she asked.

"Yes, but...let's not talk about it, yes? I'm quite tired."

"All right, Dunky," she giggled, wrapping him up in her arms, "I'll make some tea and then we'll go to bed, okay?"

Duncan nodded, watching as she bounded for the kitchen to make the tea. He always made of show of hating that nickname, and her somewhat over-affectionate ways, but the truth was that he enjoyed it tremendously. With a sigh, Duncan retired to his room, dressing in his own silk pajama's enscripted with a rose on the breast pocket flanked by two wyverns. As he was finishing up, Amelie knocked on his door and he called her in, opening the door for her.

"Here," she handed him a cup from the tray, taking her own as she set it down. Amelie walked over to sit on his lap as he sat in an armchair. "Is it really so bad?" she asked, stroking his hair. She kissed him on the cheek, and again on the lips. "Master?"

"Really, I'm fine," he smiled, returning her kiss. "You take such good care of me, after all."

There was another knock on the door, and Duncan reluctantly summoned the intruder. Amelie was quick to move off of his lap, sipping her tea demurely on his bed.

"Duncan," Maria said, "Allí libelo informar ese él está vendiendo arma hasta criminales."

He sighed, "There's always something with this man...I'll look into it."

The three of them rode along on the arms deal, Jack packing his custom-built 6.8mm close-combat powerhouse, Peter again only armed with his handgun and one of his tack-drivers, and Detta had included a nice Mossberg 500 door-breaching shotgun.

They dropped Zion four blocks from the designated deal zone, where he posted himself up on a rooftop and began to unpack his rifle. He'd brought the Walther, one of his favorites, along for tonight, a lot of guys at closer ranges. He'd be doing overwatch while the other two did the dirty work up close and personal.

Slowly he settled into the prone, flipping out the bipod and getting a feel for the rooftop and the wind from his position. It was sort of like shooting from a helicopter. The windage outside the rotors was different than when the bullet initially left the barrel. Updrafts from inbetween the buildings could ruin your shot.

The heavier bullet would counteract that to an extent, but his 6.5mm Creedmoor was truly wind-defying in terms of ballistics. Zion began noting his points of reference as the pick-up pulled up and Jackson got out, his micro-death-machine hidden to a degree under a Carhart jacket. Detta didn't bother to try and hide the stubby shotgun.

The leader was a black guy, decked out in the finest of urban wear with a pistol, Glock-type from Zion's POV, tucked in his waistband. 'Mexican Carry' if you will. A rare smile cracked behind the Nightforce scope at his own joke as he tugged the charging handle back and released it to chamber one of his handloaded .308 match-grades.

The leader called on two of his boys to hand Detta a briefcase filled with cash before Detta handed him the keys. The group parted ways as the thugs piled into the truck and the vamp and the merc began to walk away from the scene of the deal. The black Mercedes pulled up with one of Detta's vamp lieutenants at the wheel, a runaway-turned-drifter chica who called herself 'Anarchy'. They'd pick him up where they dropped him off. As the two others got into the nicer car and began to drive off.

That was Zion's cue. Exhale. Focus on the crosshairs, not the target. Initial take-up on the trigger was around four pounds, let-off at around two. Zion felt the slack in the trigger give way to the stiffer but snappier two pound death-squeeze. Crosshairs quartered the leader's head perfectly, and Zion applied the slow, steady crush on his tuned trigger to squeeze off a single precise round.

The crack of the shot was auidble for a good distance, but one guy never heard it. The custom-built copper-jacketed frangible round flew through the open plate glass window in the center rear of the pickup and entered the guy's head just above the base of the skull, the round itself coming apart into millions of tiny particles, that like razor blades made a gooey mess of the brain matter within the skull as the man slumped forward without an exit wound or even a projectile in his dome. Zion quickly unloaded his rifle and broke it back down, pausing long enough to watch the pickup erupt in a firey ball of orange and red. Detta was no fool. Guys like that were power-hungry. They'd find him and try to take their cut of his operation, and he didn't want that. AK-47's were easy enough to find. Most of his were shipped back from SOF forces in the Middle East from captured arms caches.

They'd rigged the old truck with a nice Composition 4 shaped charge around the gas tank and fuel lines, complete with an old-school cell-phone detonator. Davis' skills were a little more modern than his employer, and he'd already done this dance in Afghanistan a few times before.

Zion boarded the Mercedes a minute later and they sped off away from the burning wreckage back to the warehouse. 'For debrief and cocktails' as Jackson put it...

Before going to bed, Duncan fished for the e-mail address he'd been given and wrote up a message.

Sir,
I believe there are pressing matters to be addressed between us. Would you be able to meet me this Sunday? I will be attending Mass at St. Jerome's Cathedral. You do not have to attend, but there is a fine cafe down the block from there. Meet me at 2:00 pm if you can. I will even treat you to an '86 Mouton Rothschild if you'd like.

In continued amity,
Duncan, 3rd Duke of Morrentonshire

About three-quarters up the face of Mt. Stitov, there hung, as if in space, an old monastery once inhabited by the Carthusian monks of St. Vladmirov. They were long gone, victims of the Black Plague centuries ago. Now the place was occupied by creatures that called themselves 'Les Lab Rats Eternal'. They were vampires who in a previous life were scientists and lab technicians. The monastery had been outfitted with the latest state-of-the-art goodies and toys that would make any egg-head, human or vampire, drool with joy. Gar had issued orders for all efforts to be focussed on the aquisition of laboratory equipment. The Stregoi had responded with an unbridled enthusiasm that surprised Gar. In less than six months, labs and storage warehouses in six nations were to find themselves short of equipment that they knew had been there only a short while ago. The FBI and Interpol had been notified, but of course, very few had come close to discovering what, or who, had happened to the equipment. And those few had proved to be a rather delicious feast.

The Direktor of the lab was none other than the old...the very old... man who had caused all the ruckus back in the day with the abduction of Charles Magnus' niece.
Lord Baron Ghislan Nandin du Roche was approaching his sixteenth century of life as a vampire and was just getting started. The experiments he'd been conducting over the past eighty-odd years were starting to bear fruit. Along the way, he had discovered the cures for cancer, diabetes, and schizophrenia which were going to be used as a platform for the acceptance of the Undead into the unsuspecting world.. But his greatest achievement was about to be revealed.

The security manager saw him scurrying down the main hall. "Lord Direktor, may I have a word?"

Ghislan glanced at the manager with an air of distraction. "Yes, yes, what is it now, Hans?" The man was a nuisance, but a necessary one. Nothing and no one had ever caught a whiff of what was going on here.

"M'lord Direktor, are you aware that the day after tomorrow is the day of the High King's arrival?"

"Yes, so? What has that to do with me?"

Hans rolled his eyes. "M'Lord. It is fitting that you be on hand to greet His Majesty. King Garaile is most anxious to hear your report."

"Yes, I'm sure he is. Very well, arrange whatever it is you people arrange. I'll be there."

"Yes, sir. And, sir, about that............Thing......."

With an exasperated sigh, he said, "He is not a thing, Hans, but a person. A person who has evolved from one stage of existence to another. All will be made clear in two days time."

"But, Lord Direktor, he ate another horse. That's three this month alone. His Majesty will be....perturbed."

"I'll handle that young pup, Hans. Do not concern yourself." With that, he turned and continued down the hall.

'Damned egg-heads', Hans thought.................

Detta did his usual checking of the email inbox before he retired for the night. Not surprisingly there was a message from Duncan, and he was pretty sure he knew why. The whole issue of him selling weapons to gang-bangers had probably pissed him off. He wasn't surprised that it did, but then again he really didn't care. The prick was dead anyway, all of them were actually. Forty pounds of C4 had that effect on people, especially in close proximity.

He did, however, give the man (or whatever he was) the professional courtesy of reading his message. It was as he expected. There was a meeting proposed, and he'd need to accept. It was the professional thing to do. He'd hammer out the protective issues with his boys tomorrow, but for now he began whacking out a reply...

'I don't do the mass thing. Will meet you at the proposed location at the agreed time.'

He didn't bother with the courtesy crap. It was an email message, nothing more. Detta sent the thing and then promptly logged off before heading to bed...

"Duncan...?" Amelie cooed as she entered his room. The stately and noble youth was sprawled across his bed, covers tossled carelessly, his red hair sticking out from the covers and the pillow on his head. Stifling a giggle, Amelie walked forward and removed the pillow and covers as she bent down and kissed him. "Wake up Master..." she whispered.

"Hrm...?" Duncan blinked. He smiled when he noticed Amelie, kissing her cheek, "Good morning, Dearest," he said as he sat up. She looked away, biting her lip. "Is there something the matter?"

"Yes and no," she replied, handing him a printed out page. "You got a reply, though I must say, it's rather terse."

"It's fine," Duncan said as he read it, "Straight and to the point," he smiled. "I still sense some hostility remains...whether at me or somewhere else I do not know..."

"Oh, and Maria has another intelligence report," Amelie informed him, "It's about the Stregoi."

"I don't know which is more bothersome," Duncan chuckled as he stood up to get ready for what was appearing to be a long day.

Vendetta set out early that morning to get ready for the meeting. The bistro was a fairly open location, and that made protection issues that much easier. They'd had Zion scale the nearby church steeple into the bell-tower with a pair of massive ear protectors. He'd set up 'Judas', perhaps his best distance rifle, but it things went south with anything he'd need the extra punch to knock it down and the fifty would shatter the supports of the tower from the sheer recoil and concussive forces involved with touching one of those off.

He watched through the scope as Detta arrived with Jackson in tow, who peeled off and positioned himself about fifteen feet away dressed differently than he usually did, but watching his charge closely. Detta himself was also dressed differently. A leather jacket hid his pistols this time, and he'd replaced the bandanna with a rather nice driving cap matching the jacket.

Zion positioned himself in the shadows of the tower, hidden within the darkness and his muzzle positioned so that he was for all intents and purposes invisible to anyone not packing a set of thermal-detection binos. The wind has a slight easternly blow of around two miles per hour, which meant at these ranges with the power of the .338 Lapua Magnum it might as well have not been blowing at all.

The sniper raised his eye from the scope, scanning the area. That Duncan guy was supposed to arrive and meet with Detta, but that was after mass in the building he was positioned in. It gave him a nice field of view of surrounding buildings as well as two approaches into the bistro's general area.

Detta leaned back in his chair, adjusting his dark sunglasses. He hated the daytime...

"In nomine Patri, et Fili, et Spiritus Sancti," Duncan returned as they recitated the Lord's Prayer. What he liked about the cathedral was that it still held Mass in Latin. For someone who had heard it that way for over 600 years, the modern Mass seemed impious.

As Mass ended, he walked with Amelie down to the cafe he had invited Detta. There was something not right, and he glanced around, his eyes swiveling as he kept his head straight. Like a bolt, he recognized a presence, turning to whisper to Amelie:

"Font pas sembler , mais il y a quelqu'un dans les sonnette tour," he informed her. She nodded calmly, and they continued their walk. Duncan noticed Detta immediately in his leather jacket.

"Bonjour," Duncan greeted Detta kindly. "This is Amelie, my aide-d-campe as it were. How are you this afternoon?"

Detta nodded as politely as possible. A rather old-fashioned type of guy, he treated women with as much respect as they were due. Jack grinned slightly. He'd caught a little of what Duncan had said, but through lip-reading, like he'd had to do during night ops. While he spoke a little French, it was mostly related to combat, and the word for 'Tower'. It was an obvious spot for a sniper to position himself, and perhaps they'd made a mistake showing their hand a little too soon.

Either way, he didn't care. The little guy couldn't move faster than mach 2, and therefore he couldn't dodge a bullet if it came to that. Zion probably had him and his pretty little friend in sight. As far as close protection went, it would be Jack's duty to watch Detta, while Pete made sure nothing came screaming down the street guns-a-blazing...

"You wanted to talk to me? I'm wondering why you couldn't send it to me in the email you arranged this meeting through..."

Detta didn't seem happy that he had to meet people for a conversation out in public, he wasn't exactly fond of most of the populace, or humans period for that matter present company excluded. He angled his head to stare at the odd couple over the rims of his aviator shades...

"Perhaps you'd like to take a seat instead of standing there looking suspicious?"

Jack took a sip of his coffee, an item he'd thought he'd need to complete his disguise as a patron, his powerful physique allowing him to hide the small MP5K under his suede jacket with relative ease. It was the same set-up he'd worn to that ill-fated meeting. The Mercedes was parked nearby, and within he'd stashed a paratrooper-styled FAL, with a shorter barrel and a folding stock, and topped it with Trijicon's .308-tuned ACOG with a golden chevron reticle, but that was just in case. He doubted he'd need it.

Zion had centered his crosshairs briefly over Duncan's small head to make sure he had a positive ID before lifting his eye from the scope and resuming his scan of the streets.

Detta took a sip of his own beverage, a Dos Equis beer in a frosty bottle. The concept of a religious day didn't register with him apparently, nor the fact that it was also fairly early in the day...

Detta nodded as politely as possible. A rather old-fashioned type of guy, he treated women with as much respect as they were due. Jack grinned slightly. He'd caught a little of what Duncan had said, but through lip-reading, like he'd had to do during night ops. While he spoke a little French, it was mostly related to combat, and the word for 'Tower'. It was an obvious spot for a sniper to position himself, and perhaps they'd made a mistake showing their hand a little too soon.

Either way, he didn't care. The little guy couldn't move faster than mach 2, and therefore he couldn't dodge a bullet if it came to that. Zion probably had him and his pretty little friend in sight. As far as close protection went, it would be Jack's duty to watch Detta, while Pete made sure nothing came screaming down the street guns-a-blazing...

"You wanted to talk to me? I'm wondering why you couldn't send it to me in the email you arranged this meeting through..."

Detta didn't seem happy that he had to meet people for a conversation out in public, he wasn't exactly fond of most of the populace, or humans period for that matter present company excluded. He angled his head to stare at the odd couple over the rims of his aviator shades...

"Perhaps you'd like to take a seat instead of standing there looking suspicious?"

Jack took a sip of his coffee, an item he'd thought he'd need to complete his disguise as a patron, his powerful physique allowing him to hide the small MP5K under his suede jacket with relative ease. It was the same set-up he'd worn to that ill-fated meeting. The Mercedes was parked nearby, and within he'd stashed a paratrooper-styled FAL, with a shorter barrel and a folding stock, and topped it with Trijicon's .308-tuned ACOG with a golden chevron reticle, but that was just in case. He doubted he'd need it.

Zion had centered his crosshairs briefly over Duncan's small head to make sure he had a positive ID before lifting his eye from the scope and resuming his scan of the streets.

Detta took a sip of his own beverage, a Dos Equis beer in a frosty bottle. The concept of a religious day didn't register with him apparently, nor the fact that it was also fairly early in the day...

ooc: you don't get the idea of arcana, do you...? ^_<

"It is better to sit and speak to a person plainly," Duncan explained, pulling out Amelie's chair for her before seating himself. "You can get something from meeting in person that correspondence, or a phone call, cannot give you." Amelie turned to whisper something to Duncan, and he nodded approval.

"Excuse me," she nodded as she stood, and Duncan stood in turn when she left. Amelie walked over to the counter to order their drinks.

"Now then," Duncan said calmly, "As a rule, we have strict controls over interaction with humans." He looked around where they sat, "This is fine, because unless we decided to feed right here, no one would suspect us from anyone else...but to actively delve into human activities; wars and the like, is strictly forbidden. Know that these rules aren't meant out of frivolous or unfound reasons. I myself fought in two Crusades, the French Revolution, the American Civil War to name a few. But it was decided that to contribute to continued violence among Man was not in the interests of our species. Now, I know that you use these sales for income, and I can admire your entrepreneur skills, but I wonder if I may talk you into a different line of work...

Duncan sat there, trying to see if his words had at least touched something in that gruff exterior. He looked over Detta's shoulder and towards the tower, "Would you at least tell your friends to not point their weapons at me? I have no wish to harm you...I had hoped you would know that by now..."

Cole chuckled to himself as he though of the machinations these two had gone through to make themselves appear normal. If the humans around them only knew.....

From a vantage point behind and above to the left of the casually conversing vampires, Simeon Cole could see not only the big guy, MacAuliffe, and the girl, but the sniper in the tower as well. The fool thought he was being so secretive. Little did he know that if he showed any intent of pulling that trigger, his head would be ripped from his neck in a millisecond.

Speaking into his sleeve, Simeon said, "OK, people. All players have been located, zoned, and identified with a blue-heat signature. Tower units, on your toes. This could still go either way."

A burst of static. "Cole, why don't I just get rid of this guy and not worry about what he may or may not do?"

"Simply because, T-1, that's not the way Gar wants it. So shut up and pay attention."

Simeon Cole was young, but extremely adept at his job. Before Gar turned him, he was a Spec-Ops infiltrator for the South African Commando Task Force, AFRIK. He'd had twenty-two kills before Gar ended his streak and put him to work for the Stregoi.

Cole was a Zulu by birth, very dark of skin. He moved like a panther: quickly and without sound. His squad consisted of two others, equally skilled in the art of silent death. Marcus, the blade-man, could decapitate a man in three seconds flat and leave nothing behind but a lot of blood. Etienne, nick-named 'Sylent Rayne', was the sniper. Over sixty kills, most never hearing the gunshot that killed them.

Marcus was inches away from the sniper in the tower. The lout was not at all aware that his death was so close.


"OK. On my mark....NOW!"

All three were in synch, ready for the kill order............................

ooc: i know i didn' describe Duncan's dress, but he's wearing his signature blue suit and had a blue laquer walking stick

ooc2: i have a char named etienne! cool...

ic:

Duncan sat up, his ears perked upwards.

"Whatever happens, be rational," he said to Detta. With that, he stood up straight, tapping his walking stick against the ground hard. Those around didn't notice, but for Duncan, the whole world had become silent and still. His eyes were glowing a deep blue, lighting the world before him in a way that was hard to describe. He built up his strength and launched himself into the air. The first one he thwarted was in the tower. Duncan seemed like a blur as he blocked the attack, grabbing the assailant by the neck.

He perched on the top of the steeple, the world suddenly regaining its' momentum, time returning to normal.

"Who are you?! How dare you bring violence in the face of the Council!"

"Shit! Marcus, what the fuck just happened?"

Marcus, ever the calm one,said, "Not a hell of a lot, chief. The Arcana was down there one second and the next he was up here with the sniper in his hands. And it looks like he's about to drop the asshole off the steeple."

Cole thought for a moment. "Do you think he's seen you?"

"Dunno, chief. But what difference would that make? It looks like he's gonna do what ever the fuck he wants to do with the sniper."

"OK, just let the scene play itself out. Don't interfere unless you are attacked."

"Gotcha, chief."

"Rayne, you got the sniper locked?"

"You betcha, chief. Just say when."

"Count to twenty, Rayne. If Duncan 'aint let go of him by then, put a round in the sniper's head."

"You got it, boss. What're you gonna be doing?"

Cole didn't answer. He was headed towards Amelie...............

Duncan let go of the first man, hooking his clothes on the stone crucifix on the steeple. He let himself drop, the world itself returning to the null he had created. He landed, cracking the cement of the sidewalk as he headed towards the second of the three he'd spotted. Duncan made another leap, snatching the rifle from Rayne, breaking it in his grip as he caught him by the scruff of the neck.

"Now," Duncan said, time returning once again, "How 'bout one of you talk?"

OOC: And you don't seem to understand the concept of ballistics, personal protection protocol, or even physics for that matter... ;)

I'm also amazed you can find a man, lying still, in the prone, in the shadows of a bell-tower with his weapon well back from the edge. Thermals are ineffective during the day because of the sun. It tends to heat stuff like stone and roofing materials up and otherwise confound your technological advantage. No matter, the sniper in the bell tower is a fairly old trick, but your view from the ground in rather limited if we're talking a true cathedral-style church here.

Since there are two snipers in play here, it might be useful to explain which one you're doing what to so I can react accordingly. If Duncan has already handled the situation through his Superman speed then so be it. These are the reactions as portrayed at normal human speed, and if the targets have already been moved by the time they react that's fine with me. I did, however, think it was common RP courtesy to allow the victim a chance to react unless it was useless extras being acted on.

Just a thought, since I'm a bit confused at this point.

IC:

If you did something long enough it became second nature. In the game of the sniper, it was a combination of watching your ass, and watching your dick, to use an industry term. The ass-watching was usually done by your spotter, packing something that spit lead a lot faster than your bolt-action. In Zion's case it was through a highly developed sense of smell, at least in this instance. Watching your dick was done with your own eyes, watching the surrounding area for lens flares and other such instances of a counter-sniper.

Zion picked up on two different cues. The lens flare was a good one, his own Nightforce had a nice anti-reflective coating, and the other guy's didn't. Lower-left, with the sun in his eyes since Zion had plotted his hide to have the sun at his back. The second cue was a new scent in the air, amidst the dust of the bell-tower. Zulus smelled different, especially when he knew he'd been alone in the tower a moment earlier. You could mask your footsteps and hide your self from sight, but there was almost nothing you could do to hide your scent, especially if you were a Zulu tribesman who'd just scaled a bell-tower. Your sweat simply smelled different than that of a white guy from the mid-west.

Slowly, Zion's left hand closed around the grip of the Beretta lying in front of him, before suddenly rolling over out of the line of sight from the ground and bringing the pistol to bear on the attacker behind him. It was nearly impossible to decapitate him from this angle, especially after the sniper launched a kick aimed at the groin from his back as his sights aligned on the man's chest. The most the machete-wielder would catch would be a pair of rounds to the cardiac triangle since he'd have to entirely change his stance to do anything more than swipe at his victim. His finger tensed against the heavy double-action first-shot pull on the Italian semi-auto, bringing the hammer back past half-cock and staging it for a nice controlled pair. His heartbeat never seemed to increase.

Davis made the attacker closest to him as the man closed in on Duncan's aide. Detta was already up and moving, closing the distance with his own supernatural speed. He'd left his pistols hidden for now, and hoped Davis would keep the little sub-gun hidden, too. Detta got within arm's reach of Cole, and calmly tapped him on the shoulder. Jackson stood back a few paces, ready to spray him with a controlled burst of 9mm's should the situation get out of hand...

Duncan let go of the first man, hooking his clothes on the stone crucifix on the steeple. He let himself drop, the world itself returning to the null he had created. He landed, cracking the cement of the sidewalk as he headed towards the second of the three he'd spotted. Duncan made another leap, snatching the rifle from Rayne, breaking it in his grip as he caught him by the scruff of the neck.

"Now," Duncan said, time returning once again, "How 'bout one of you talk?"


Rayne didn't say a word. Within two seconds, he had six inches of his Kabar lodged in the upper thigh of whoever it was had a hold on him. With a vicious twist of the knife, the intruder groaned and lost it's grip on the sniper....

Duncan growled, very uncharacteristic of him. He wretched the blade out of his thigh, throwing it away as he dove for the sniper again, gripping him by the throat. A slight change in Duncan's physiology, aside from the glowing eyes, had caused claws to extend from his fingers. The ends cut into the neck of the intruder.

"It'll take more than that to hurt me, Stregoi," Duncan hissed.

OOC: And you don't seem to understand the concept of ballistics, personal protection protocol, or even physics for that matter... ;)

I'm also amazed you can find a man, lying still, in the prone, in the shadows of a bell-tower with his weapon well back from the edge. Thermals are ineffective during the day because of the sun. It tends to heat stuff like stone and roofing materials up and otherwise confound your technological advantage. No matter, the sniper in the bell tower is a fairly old trick, but your view from the ground in rather limited if we're talking a true cathedral-style church here.

Since there are two snipers in play here, it might be useful to explain which one you're doing what to so I can react accordingly. If Duncan has already handled the situation through his Superman speed then so be it. These are the reactions as portrayed at normal human speed, and if the targets have already been moved by the time they react that's fine with me. I did, however, think it was common RP courtesy to allow the victim a chance to react unless it was useless extras being acted on.

Just a thought, since I'm a bit confused at this point.

ooc: I think we all have to remember that this is a vampire thread. I don't know about you, but in my world, vampires are capable of much more than humans. This includes just about anything up to and including the bending of the laws of physics as well as slipping into time warps.
My sniper is the one watching the 1st sniper, who is watching Duncan. The 1st sniper is yours, WA. Also, the Zulu (Cole) is not the 2nd sniper (mine). He is on the ground headed for Amelie to cover her from whatever because Duncan is presently otherwise occupied. The 2nd sniper (Rayne) is there to provide protection to the Arcana should it be necessary. So, what you are 'smelling' is Rayne.
And since the laws of physics are subject to manipulation by vampires (among others), they can see, sense,and otherwise become aware of all kinds of things regardless of structure, weather, or whatever.
Perhaps we need to define what vampires can and cannot do so as to maintain a modicum of sanity in this thread, but my thought is that "if it's plausible, it's feasible."

IC:

If you did something long enough it became second nature. In the game of the sniper, it was a combination of watching your ass, and watching your dick, to use an industry term. The ass-watching was usually done by your spotter, packing something that spit lead a lot faster than your bolt-action. In Zion's case it was through a highly developed sense of smell, at least in this instance. Watching your dick was done with your own eyes, watching the surrounding area for lens flares and other such instances of a counter-sniper.

Zion picked up on two different cues. The lens flare was a good one, his own Nightforce had a nice anti-reflective coating, and the other guy's didn't. Lower-left, with the sun in his eyes since Zion had plotted his hide to have the sun at his back. The second cue was a new scent in the air, amidst the dust of the bell-tower. Zulus smelled different, especially when he knew he'd been alone in the tower a moment earlier. You could mask your footsteps and hide your self from sight, but there was almost nothing you could do to hide your scent, especially if you were a Zulu tribesman who'd just scaled a bell-tower. Your sweat simply smelled different than that of a white guy from the mid-west.

Slowly, Zion's left hand closed around the grip of the Beretta lying in front of him, before suddenly rolling over out of the line of sight from the ground and bringing the pistol to bear on the attacker behind him. It was nearly impossible to decapitate him from this angle, especially after the sniper launched a kick aimed at the groin from his back as his sights aligned on the man's chest. The most the machete-wielder would catch would be a pair of rounds to the cardiac triangle since he'd have to entirely change his stance to do anything more than swipe at his victim. His finger tensed against the heavy double-action first-shot pull on the Italian semi-auto, bringing the hammer back past half-cock and staging it for a nice controlled pair. His heartbeat never seemed to increase.

Davis made the attacker closest to him as the man closed in on Duncan's aide. Detta was already up and moving, closing the distance with his own supernatural speed. He'd left his pistols hidden for now, and hoped Davis would keep the little sub-gun hidden, too. Detta got within arm's reach of Cole, and calmly tapped him on the shoulder. Jackson stood back a few paces, ready to spray him with a controlled burst of 9mm's should the situation get out of hand...
....

Duncan growled, very uncharacteristic of him. He wretched the blade out of his thigh, throwing it away as he dove for the sniper again, gripping him by the throat. A slight change in Duncan's physiology, aside from the glowing eyes, had caused claws to extend from his fingers. The ends cut into the neck of the intruder.

"It'll take more than that to hurt me, Stregoi," Duncan hissed.


Rayne managed, despite a half-dozen talons lodged in his throat, to say, "Poros het nither zitntio, sohuil." Which roughly translates to "I'm on your side, asshole."

But that didn't stop him from flipping his attacker backwards over his head as they both crashed through the window to the ground below, smashing a couple of tables and chairs to pieces.

ooc: i think he means, these are his reactions, but since duncan is taking care of your guys (really didn't wanna reveal the Arcana yet...) you can disregard. but, common courtesy in rping is to give others leeway in reacting to your assault. you give the action (ie. "pulls the trigger") and they supply the reaction (ie. "...ducks and bullet hits him in the shoulder...")

"You have funny way of showing it," Duncan growled in return as he shook off dust and rubble. Still with the walking stick in one hand, he struck it on the ground again. Time stood still again as he spun to deliver a devastating kick.

ooc: i think he means, these are his reactions, but since duncan is taking care of your guys (really didn't wanna reveal the Arcana yet...) you can disregard. but, common courtesy in rping is to give others leeway in reacting to your assault. you give the action (ie. "pulls the trigger") and they supply the reaction (ie. "...ducks and bullet hits him in the shoulder...")


ooc: I agree. But I didn't do anything to have to warn him about. I was waiting for him to act, and then my response would be based on that. He could have taken a shot at you, or not. The next scene was up to him.

ooc: i was just about to suggest that. also, if you don't mind, could you tg me the reason they're attacking?

"You have funny way of showing it," Duncan growled in return as he shook off dust and rubble. Still with the walking stick in one hand, he struck it on the ground again. Time stood still again as he spun to deliver a devastating kick.


Humans were scattering right and left. They didn't know what the hell was happening, but they knew that they didn't want any part of it.

Rayne had had enough. Rolling away from the Arcana's kick, he stood to his feet in the eerily silent void that Duncan had created. He pointed at him and with a 'palms-up' gesture, waited for the Arcana to respond.

ooc: i was just about to suggest that. also, if you don't mind, could you tg me the reason they're attacking?

check TG in 3 minutes

ooc: tg-ed back

OOC: Despite my requests, this shit still makes no sense. I'm out of here guys, characters and all. Just continue on like I was never in the picture. I don't roll with godmodders, and this just isn't fun anymore.

Your extremely loose description of 'Arcana' seems to be some sort of an ace up your sleeve, so you can pull out a given ability at will to get yourself out of a tricky situation with minimal effort. That, however, makes for a boring RP. Arcana (Derived from the word 'Arcane'), by definition, refers to the use of magic (Arcane = magic). Vampires are not by nature magical creatures like elves and whatnot, they're a highly developed form of the undead, and that's why they feed on blood. If they had magical abilities they'd be a 'Liche' apparently. I had my friend Tarlachia explain it to me (as a region we've done a lot of vampire-based RP's), they're just faster than humans, sort of how a bullet from a firearm is much faster than a fastball thrown from a mound. Both are fast, but one has a lot more speed. He was thinking 'Arcana', if you're going to use the word, would in this case describe basic vampire abilities like shapeshifting, telekinetics (in the 'Assington Vampires' RP's at least).

If Duncan can move twice the speed of sound he'd probably level the area with a sonic-boom induced shockwave and deafen everyone around him, similar to a fighter jet. Not subtle. Reacting to a sniper's bullet is also out of the question. The stimulus (the boom) reaches the ears after the bullet as already struck its target since it does move at Mach 2 (or faster, I haven't chronographed a .338 Lapua Magnum in a while, but the bullet travels fast enough to visibly split the air around it and almost ignore wind shifts). Hence, you have no time to react since the bullet has already hit you by the time the report of the rifle that fired it reaches your ears, especially at these shorter distances.

You also haven't really described any real weaknesses your special breed of vampire has. Decapitation, obviously, but with the speed you describe here Duncan can basically teleport and otherwise defy physics, so that's not really a weakness but something thrown out there for the hell of it.

RP'ing with powerful characters is fun sometimes, but it's never fun to RP with an invincible character who can teleport around and can apparently see into the future, detecting his foes with zero effort on the part of the guy describing his actions. I chose to RP with humans for a greater challenge on my part. Granted, they're excellent at what they do, but they don't shoot one-hole groups with a pistol from 300 meters or perform at levels above what guys with their background would be expected to do.

There was a sniper in the tower for protective purposes, what Blackwater calls a 'Defensive Sharpshooter'. He provides what's called 'Overwatch' for the close protection element (Jackson Davis), feeding him information on suspicious targets but also able to put one down if the CPE isn't going to be able to react in time. I don't know if either of you have ever looked down a rifle-scope, but it's otherwise impossible to indentify the person you're looking at unless you actually put them in your crosshairs for a moment. Basic weapon handling procedures, and basic long-distance rifle marksmanship for that matter, dictate you leave your finger off the trigger until you're ready to kill whatever it is you're looking at in your crosshairs. Thus, Duncan was in no danger of getting a ride on the bullet train to Hell unless he suddenly whipped a pistol from under his coat and pointed it at Vendetta. I doubt he'd do that, given his characteristics so far, so that made him pretty safe.

The concept of the sniper isn't to kill from long range, but rather to act as a scout, relaying information back to his superiors. The shooting portion is there to make sure he has some means of defending himself from a larger force, slowing them down through fear as he makes his escape. He doesn't stick around to waste the entire platoon unless that's his mission, and if that was the case then there would be more than one sniper/spotter team, or they'd simply send a platoon of infantry to do the deed.

Now that I've explained why I'm leaving, I'm actually leaving.

Good luck with this thread.

ooc: really sorry to hear that, WA. Although, in the sign-up, I did say that the vampires in this rp would not follow the normal conventions of previous stories, meaning that i had taken the concept and defined it specifically into defined parameters, where 'arcane' powers are used by the higher order and whatnot. I never planned for this to follow any of the conventional definitions of vampires.

May I also say that your extensive use of military jargon made it unclear. I don't know anything about sniper/scouts or Blackwater (from what I've heard, I don't wanna). So when I read that a sniper was looking at Duncan through his crosshairs, of course I thought he was going to be attacked.

Well, I hope Chaz will return, and if not, me and Vhammpyr seem to be having a good time. Good luck in the future.

The Watchman was dozing when the pair crashed through the cafe window. "Shitfire! All units to the village square! We have a situation! No interference!"

He trained the hi-powered binocs on the two combatants just in time to see them disappear. 'Bastard playing with that stick again', he thought. He couldn't see his Watchmen, but he knew that they were there.

His commpin crackled. "Uh, sir, we've got a guy hanging from the steeple. Assume it's the sniper."

"He won't be there long, Watchman. He'll break free and head for the ground in a hurry. Keep an eye on the black one. He's making a beeline for the woman."

"Yeah, and Big Guy is after the black one. Orders?"



"Observe and record, Watchman. We're in no danger. Just watch and record."

"Aye sir. Watch and record."

This was becoming most interesting. A vampire Family head and a gun-runner making nice when a renegade mongrel bloodsucker and two buddies show up mucking up the whole scene. He always tried hard to see all of the vamps as equals, that is, lower than dirt, but those crossbreeds were especially irksome to him. And they wanted equal treatment from all the vamps? That Gar had a set of balls on him, to be sure.

The Arcana and the halfbreed sniper hadn't reappeared. "Fuckers...OK Watchmen, sit tight. This may get even uglier in the next few minutes."

Affirmatives from all.

'Now we sit and wait', he thought.

Humans were scattering right and left. They didn't know what the hell was happening, but they knew that they didn't want any part of it.

Rayne had had enough. Rolling away from the Arcana's kick, he stood to his feet in the eerily silent void that Duncan had created. He pointed at him and with a 'palms-up' gesture, waited for the Arcana to respond.


ooc: Arcana...respondez, s'il vous plait....

Humans were scattering right and left. They didn't know what the hell was happening, but they knew that they didn't want any part of it.

Rayne had had enough. Rolling away from the Arcana's kick, he stood to his feet in the eerily silent void that Duncan had created. He pointed at him and with a 'palms-up' gesture, waited for the Arcana to respond.

ooc: not sure i wanna continue this. i did god-mod a bit...let's pretend duncan just moved incredibly fast; the 'blueworld/bullet-time' will be a 'sealed' power or something, ok?

ic:

Duncan, now moving at his regular pace, rested his hand on the top of his walking stick. He flicked a catch where the silver handle connected and showed the first half-inch of a concealed blade.

"Speak now, who are you and what do you want?"

ooc2: i basically follow the anime rule that blade > gun.

occ I'm still here, not really anywhere to interpret and post and i'm afraid i've not been paying enough attention to this thread.

IC
Hugo
After gaining her first mission from her blood-master, Hugo was excited for the first time since her turning. My first mission she thought

two days later
My first mission Hugo thought as she trugged through the street, she had yet to find any clues about the outsiders, in fact it seemed that they had disappeared after their brief stunt during the meeting...

Nyx
Had not been setting on his hands while hugo was searching for the outsiders, he had contacted the remaining members of his 'clan' informing of the events during the meeting and how no official word had arrived if they had been accepted.
"Yes, I know we didn't get the needed information, but if you'd just shh i'd tell you about the others requesting admission into the council..."