Masquerade: Midsummer Nights (Apply in OOC)

[Imperialisium]

Old OOC
New OOC

Summer of 69'

Angel's Point, Midnight

The lights were off, the million fire fly lights of the city before them, stretching too the sea. The sun having dipped below the horizon and its last rays giving an amber glow across the cityscape. The skyline a forming a Van Gogh of pinks and reds as the milky white clouds swam over head in their intricate courses. Formless figure skaters tracing and retracing their old pathways across the heavens. The low hum of a car engine, a 69' Mustang, new, its sleek black frame and brown leather seats without a flick of grit. The radio played a slow jazzy romance track that had recently taken over the airwaves. The male singers verses and smooth guitar coaxed the ears of the duo grappling in the back seat. The swirl of their tongues and noise of their kissing filling the vehicle. The young man laid on top of the smaller, almost petite, female wearing a knee length skirt and black coat. A uniform for the local all girls boarding school. The boy wore a brown leather jacket, plaid shirt, and blue jeans. His neck length long hair and muscled features lent him out to be of the stereotypical jock type figure. The young man's hands slowly worked their way down, cupping and tracing along his partner's delicate frame. Finally vanishing under the hem of her skirt. Immediately her legs tensed and she squeezed them together. An arm shot out to grab his.

"I-I'm not ready Steve." She said softly. He retracted an inch, "What?" His initial surprise turning to frustration as his eyes furrowed. "You told me last time you'd be ready Marsha." He sat back in the leather cushion. Marsha looked down and pulled the hem of her skirt down further. "I'm sorr---."

"Sorry? God. Why are we even out here!" Steve straightened and turned half way away from her. Pulling out a pack of Marlboro reds and in a smooth, practiced, motion he lit the end of the cigarette. Puffing out a cloud of smoke after quickly inhaling. Marsha tried to lean over, he recoiled and gave her a glare, tears welled in her eyes.

Steve and Marsha pitched forward abruptly. The car had moved like something had hit it abruptly. Marsha looked about in shock and grasped the door and seat. Letting out a frightened squeal of a cry. Steven flicked his head from left to right. "What the fuck!" Steve shot out of the car as he flung open the door and stepped out. He walked around to the back of the vehicle. There was no damage. Steve leaned down, were those foot prints by the bumper, he squinted. Marsha looked back just in time to see Steve's body abruptly be propelled forward as a dark shape emerged from behind him. Steve's face smacked the steel bumper once, twice, and three times. His nose breaking. Teeth cracking and breaking. Skull split. Blood pooled from his destroyed face and along the back of the car. The dark shape stood up, grasped Steve's body, and physically threw it. It crashed through the back window. Crumpling head first into the drivers seat and floor. His arms and legs settling grotesquely around and behind him. Showering Marsha in glass fragments. She screamed. Small cuts on her arms and face. She instinctively grabbed the door handle and forgetting that she was leaning so far. She fell out of the vehicle. Letting out a piercing scream as her back hit the brown dirt of the pull off near the asphalt road. Scampering back on her hands and feet she bawled as the dark shape came around the car. The shadow materializing into that of a man in a black jacket and bald head. His eyes glowed a soft red. Fangs resting on his bottom lip.

"Don't worry. I'm going to fuck you first." said the man in a raspy, phlegmy, hoarse voice as he glowered down at her. She continued to crawl back crying, unable to take his eyes off the stranger, her face flush red. The man began to take slow steps. Lanky arms unbuckling his small brown leather belt. The sound of his zipper coming undone.

Blood and gore showered Marsha. The stranger looked down. His stomach sporting a finger sized hole. "In the name of the Father." A third voice came from behind the stranger. The stranger wheeled around and Marsha saw a man dressed in black with a white collar. The man with precision opened and closed the breach of his rifle. A second finger sized hole punched through the strangers neck. "In the name of the Son." said the third man as the stranger staggered back. Nearly falling. Blood splattering onto the ground from the gaping neck wound. A third hole burst from the back of the strangers head. Causing him to sprawl onto his back. "In the name of the Holy Spirit." The third man walked from behind the vehicle and placed a foot on the fanged strangers chest. "Amen," Pulling out a small black book embossed with silver letters the man opened to a seemingly random page.

"Most Glorious Prince of the Heavenly Armies,
Saint Michael the Archangel
defend us in our battle against the principalities and powers,
against the rulers of this world of darkness,
against the spirits of wickedness and high places."

The man threw down the rifle and from his robes he pulled out a wooden stake. "In the name of the Lord. Amen!" The third man plunged the wooden stake into the fanged strangers heart. Who let out an ear splitting wail before being silenced. Stepping back. The third man pulled out a small flask and poured the black viscous liquid over the fanged stranger. Pulling out a lighter he flicked on the pilot light and tossed it onto the corpse. Immediately the body erupted into flame. For the first time Marsha caught a good look at the third man. He wore the collar of a priest. A cross dangling across his chest. A small bible in his left hand. On the right breast of his small black suit their was a small stiched symbol. An eye with rays of light and a sword. The Holy Inquisition.

July, 2017

The 69' Mustang parked out in the front of the small rural home at the edge of the Mojave not only looked out of place. It was compared to the beat up Ford 1970's model red truck next to it. The latter's chassis so beat up a mechanic wouldn't be able to guess the model year without scrutiny. Moving the to the door of the small home. The white paint chipping and cracked. You would esily notice the hinges had been broken by a sudden impact. Walking into the tiny foyer the rugs had been swept aside by sudden foot falls. A table had been overturned. Shattered plates and broken silverware covered the lanoleum floor. The corpse of a middle aged woman with a kitchen knife stuck in her back lay slumped over a ratty, dirty, dark green couch. Several gunshot holes pockmarked the walls. Thud.

The door to the basement crashed open and out stepped a man with raven black hair. Dark eyes. Pale skin. A black armani suit with tapered black dress pants complete with matching shoes stepped out. Dragging a pale man covered in his own blood. He gasped and moaned in agony as the raven haired man hauled him up the small wooden stairs. A ray of light caught the bloody man's arm and he shrieked as it began to steam. The raven haired man kicked open the front door. The ruined door with its already broken hinges from a forced entry now crashed onto the brown, dead, lawn. The raven haired man dragged the groaning man out and once the sunlight touched him he began to wail in utter agony. His skin blackening, blistering, steaming, eventually small flames began to appear on his exposed skin as whatever unnatural power that had kept him alive now vanished. The raven haired man let go and dusted off his hands as he watched his victim turn to a smoldering pile of ash and bone.

Pulling out a small black phone he flipped it open and speed dialed the number zero. Raising it to his ear a man's voice came over the line. "Medorna."

"It's done." replied the raven haired man.

"Good work John. Clean up is on the way. Be like nothing ever happened." replied Medorna. John hung up the phone and looked about the dead lawn. The smoldering ash pile and looked up at the mid day sun. He needed to rest, for he felt that later, the real work would begin.

The 69 Mustang roared to life and rocketed down the grey asphalt road in the direction of the glittering towers and expansive cityscape of the Los Angeles.

Night would be coming soon....

[Luminesa]

Mikhailov

All was cold and quiet. A sort of lifeless life, a greyish-white, had settled in the skies, over the nameless city below. All there seemed to be grey as well. People walked to-and-fro, but without any glitter or life in their eyes. Blank faces on bodies that seemed to move without any thought, without any care or outward urgency. And above everything, a soft rain fell, cool and rhythmic, over everything.

Mikhailov stood somewhere in this vision-there was no telling what specific place this was-on a corner close to a street. He watched as the people walked by, slightly bored. He knew he was in a dream, and he normally looked for something interesting, now, when he dreamed. Even the worst utter terror was more thrilling and pleasurable to him than this. Nevertheless, he had no desire to awaken himself either. He stepped away from the wall, corner, then, and began to investigate.

He walked among the crowds, quietly observing the world around him. All of the normal sounds of a city were seemingly muffled, under the sound of the rain, and yet he could hear them perfectly. Cars honking and rolling by in the streets, the sound of crowds of people walking to their workplaces, and even some chatter on cellphones. None of these things really caught his attention, though he felt this amount of quiet was rather unusual. Was there a reason?

Finally, he stopped near a bus-stop, just to watch the bus come by, and to perhaps look more closely at the people who surrounded him in his dream. Given that he had no umbrella, he was soaked to the skin, and somewhat cold. He closed his eyes and sighed, laughing slightly. Was this the best this dream could offer, a slight discomfort in the form of a downpour?

"...Excuse me..."

A soft, sweet voice spoke from nearby, and suddenly the rain seemed to stop. Mikhailov opened his eyes and looked next to him at the source, and his eyes widened slightly. A tall, slender person with long, silver-white hair, a pale face, and dressed warmly in a blue wool overcoat and winter clothes had come to stand next to him. They had offered their umbrella, and now stood holding it over both of them. "...You are quite thoroughly-soaked...and standing here alone...Are you waiting for someone?..." the person inquired. Judging by their voice alone, they seemed to be female, but one could not be sure from looking at them.

Mikhailov seemed more interested in examining the person, and did not immediately respond. This was a dream, after all, if he did not respond, then it would not be of much consequence. He studied the person's shy, inquiring face. They had a kind, patient smile, and unlike the other people of the dream, their blue-grey eyes glittered with light, like fireflies playing on a clear summer day. The sensation was strange, and yet those eyes alone told Mikhailov this was the "something interesting" he was waiting for. He gave his best smile, to disarm the person, and he answered, "Yes...I was waiting for you, actually..."

The person seemed surprised, and blushed. "...Waiting...for me?...Oh dear...Do I have a stalker?..." They laughed at their own statement. They had a very pleasant, tinkling laugh, healthy and yet subtle. "...Well, if you are planning to kidnap me, I certainly hope it is not in broad daylight. I could always hit you with my umbrella as well, good sir!" they joked, wiggling the umbrella above them.

For some reason, Mikhailov laughed along with them. Now he was certain this was a dream-he was actually laughing, enjoying himself, not for any sadistic reason, but because of this person's natural sweetness. They seemed to be the only sunlight in this drab, rainy city. He almost wanted to look and see if flowers had suddenly bloomed around this person's feet. Why were they so cheery, in such a sad little place? "...I have no intentions of doing any such thing...You just seem...different..."

"...Different?...In what way?..." The person stopped giggling, when they sensed the introspection in the Mage's voice. They seemed to understand that Mikhailov was grasping at something from deep inside, and they simply waited patiently.

Mikhailov looked up, and gazed at them. "...Your eyes...They...they almost seem to glitter, in a way...Nobody else here seems to be alive...except you..." he explained.

The person was not sure how to answer to this. They blushed even more brightly, and stared toward the ground. "...Goodness...I...I was not expecting this, I must say!...Ah...I'm only a person holding an umbrella for you...You don't have to...flatter me..." they mumbled, with a nervous giggle.

"...But I'm not flattering you...Have you looked around at everyone else?...They...they all seem...dead..." He nodded to the people walking past them, how they did not even seem to notice the two people talking near them. "...They don't even know we exist..." he explained further.

Slowly, the other person turned and looked around them, a sad and somewhat-nervous expression on their face. They were still blushing, worried that this person they had just covered during a storm was taking a very unnatural interest in them. "...No...I am no different from they...When the bus comes, and I leave...I will probably be just as the rest of them...But that is fine with me...Um...What is your name?..."

"Mikhailov."

"...Mikhailov...have you...ever felt like...you have awakened one morning, after years and years of...wondering...and you have finally realized...you are happy where you are? That you are finally at peace, and nothing can take that away from you?..." When they turned to look back at him, they had a sad, almost-wounded expression, but nothing openly reproachful. They seemed to now be thinking deeply themselves.

Now it was Mikhailov's turn to wonder. Had he ever felt this way? Happy?...Peaceful?...His life had been one he had wrapped utterly in mystery, chasing enigmas that no mortal could ever understand. And yet this one kind, timid individual now asked him a question he had never dared to ask himself.

Was he happy?

"...Have you never been happy, Mikhailov?"

As though awakened from a reverie, the Mage gave eye-contact to the person again, unusually unfocused and uncertain. Had he ever even considered happiness? Perhaps, but never with his own human state. He had wanted heights no human could reach. He had wanted for so long to escape the mortality he found to be so pointless and monotonous. "...Happiness is...not something I have actively considered. Success is what matters to me. I wish to achieve things that will cause me to never be forgotten in the eyes of history," he explained, showing more of his darker, intellectual side.

The other person seemed unfazed. In fact, this answer caused them to have some slight confidence, and their gentle expression seemed to lock into a slightly-hardened version of itself. Tough-but-soft, like porcelain. "...I could not wish for anything further the opposite. Seeking to be known by all the world sounds like such a...lonely existence. Isn't that strange? You can have a room full of people admiring you, loving you, wishing the best for you, maybe even dreaming of meeting you...but you could be entirely lonely. And yet...all it takes to create a world...all it takes to start anew and to build something in your image...is two people..." Now they smiled, and that twinkle returned. "Think about it. All of those people leave, and you are left alone with one...And they step toward you and ask to create another world with you...There is nothing more beautiful than that, I think...Don't you?..."

Mikhailov was so taken-aback by this answer that he was silent. He could not even smile properly, and thus frowned, stunned to silence. He looked around him. The world was also silent, all except for this single person. This one, gentle being, holding an umbrella to keep him dry. "...What are you?..." he finally questioned, in awe.

The person continued to smile, and while the rain made it hard to see, tears started to drop from their eyes. Clear like diamonds, they danced around the brims of his eyes for a moment and then plopped to the sidewalk. "...Come to think of it...I am thinking...I wonder...Have we met somewhere before?...Do you know?...Wouldn't that be odd, if perhaps we've passed somewhere before, and maybe you held an umbrella for me and I never noticed?...Teeheeheehee..." They laughed once again, without bothering to wipe their own tears. "...But...what do you think, Mikhailov? Were we perhaps friends, in another time?...I feel we could make wonderful friends...We are so opposing to each other, and yet...Somehow, we seem to know each other...I wonder if that is why I am suddenly crying..."

Mikhailov watched this person cry, unable to respond in any way that would be meaningful. They were so fragile, if he touched them they might break. Yet they were also impossibly grounded in something he did not understand. This "thing" was their only interest, the one thing that truly brought them to life...

"...Love..."

The Mage gasped, as his question was seemingly answered for him. He turned to the person with the umbrella, and they gazed at him now with innocent affection. "...I beg your pardon?"

"...Yes...I think I may have loved you once...I may have...seen you as someone who put the stars in the sky...where there were none...But now, I cannot say. I cannot remember...Wouldn't that be sad, if it was true?...Oh!" As the bus arrived, they slowly came out of their reverie before Mikhailov could answer. They walked over to the bus, and Mikhailov followed, entranced.

"...But yes...All of that...if it is true, it is from another life...Or perhaps...it was in a book I once read...Or maybe my own dream...Who knows..." They spoke with their back to Mikhailov, wistful and melodic. They folded their umbrella, and they walked over to Mikhailov, embracing him tightly. Mikhailov did not hug back. They wanted to drop everything and for this person to continue talking, and yet their time to talk together was coming to an end. Soon, the dream would be over, and he would slowly forget it.

"...Tell me who you are...If you feel we have met, tell me who you are..."

"...I think you might already know, Mikhailov..." The person let go, and then beamed at them. "...Perhaps we will meet again, and we will be good friends. But until then...I am just like everyone else...And that is...why I am happy...And I hope you shall one day be happy as well..." They then walked up the steps into the bus, and disappeared. The bus closed its doors, and slowly drove away.

The monotony returned, and the rain fell over the Mage again. The entire encounter had lasted maybe for a few minutes, and yet it felt as though it had lasted a year. This gentle, elegant stranger had found him, and had tried to reach him in a way neither of them understood. A truly insane part of Mikhailov wished to chase down the bus, to try and catch the person, and yet he knew this would never work. This dreary world had offered him one and only one light...and now it was gone.

Mikhailov was used to nightmares. He lived with one now, after all, as Silvanus slept a couple of doors away in the "funeral home". Yet this dream was no nightmare, as far as he could tell. In fact, he awakened feeling not terror, but a sort of confused melancholy. The feeling one gets when a good dream, or a fascinating dream, ends. He slowly sat upright in bed, and put on his glasses. He then blinked a little, re-familiarizing himself with his surroundings. Yes, he was definitely in the funeral home, and now morning had come. He heard the soft hum of traffic, beeping horns and growling motors, outside his window. He turned toward the window, but did not look outside. Rather, his mind was still on the strange dream.

The person he had seen-a beautiful, pale individual with long, silver hair and dressed in the blue overcoat-was definitely human. He settled on that fact immediately. They did not cry blood, or any other strange substance. They could see-their sparkling-blue eyes had seemingly contained the entire sky. Yet their nature was one Mikhailov recognized entirely too well. The character he had seen was as timid and mellow as a sparrow. Whatever was the meaning of this strange puzzle, he understood that this dream had to mean something. He and the other person had found each other in a crowd without any sort of compass, and then they had almost been alone, save for the crowds of faceless individuals around them.

...In every timeline I've seen...nothing quite like this...has ever happened to me... he thought, as he got out of the bed and walked to his vanity. He rubbed his temples, and then stared toward his closet. As he thought about what he wanted to wear, he counted the goals he needed to accomplish for the day. He needed to find that book of Silvanus's notes again, and he needed to investigate the Storing Room more. Before he could do either, however, he had set in his mind that he wanted to find that mysterious other person. Perhaps he was truly going insane, looking for a person he had seen in a dream, and considering that he lived with a man who was a Malkavian, perhaps he was not wrong. Yet he knew that he could not rest again until he found this individual. With haste, he dressed himself in a white dress-shirt, his white lab-coat, black slacks and boots, and he pulled his blonde, shoulder-length hair back in a messy ponytail. He stared at himself in the vanity once more, when he was finished, and he sighed, and then chuckled disparagingly at himself, before he headed out the door.

"...Only fools follow their dreams, they say...let's see where this one leads..."

St. Monica Catholic Church...

A single person had prayed in the giant, beautiful church all night. Daylight glimmered through the stained glass windows, and by that light one could see the pale, almost-glowing outline of the person's face. Their breathing was near-silent, and as they rose, they seemed almost like a ghost. Indeed, ghosts are usually restless until they break the ties binding them to earth, and something in this person's heart was binding them to someone across town. They frowned, and placed a hand over their heart.

"...I must have fallen asleep..." A soft, melodic whisper floated upward through the church, a tiny sound in the massive building. The voice seemed perturbed, as though something in their sleep had caused them pain. "...Who was that I saw...that place...looked nothing like Los Angeles..." They stared up at the altar, as though they were asking the giant mosaic behind it who they had seen. When they received no answer, they lowered their eyes and made the sign of the cross. They then bowed toward the tabernacle, and turned to go outside...

The sun almost seemed blinding, and the person who walked out the door of St. Monica Catholic Church did their best to keep their head down. They did not like the attention of massive crowds of people, and with their odd appearance, that was not hard to attract. They wrapped their long, knit, cream-colored cardigan around themselves tightly, as though they were cold, and walked toward...somewhere. They did not know where they were quite going, but they knew that they were heading toward somewhere important. The image of the man they had seen-tall, blonde, intellectual-was the only map they had. Some time passed, as they walked along among the bustling crowds, and then they stumbled upon a strange sight.

They had seen this particular funeral home before. Most days, it was merely a very normal fixture in the background of the massive city of LA. So why did they suddenly feel this place was so important? They did not know, but as they saw the place, they knew that their destination was here. Thus they walked across the street, and entered.

The funeral home was not busy, during the daytime. In fact, it almost seemed...asleep. The person's eyes glanced around the antechamber of the building, and then continued onward. They almost felt as though they were in some sort of trance, walking through such a peculiar place. One thing was for certain, the lost person was surprised at how many winding hallways this seemingly-innocuous building hid away, and as they noticed them, they began to wander through the darkened halls. "...Hello?...Is...anyone here?...Is this place closed?..." they muttered. As their question floated through the hall, they took a wrong step at the end of the hallway. Before another second's breath had passed, they had fallen through the floor...

The person's strange habit of wandering into forbidden places had landed them now in a place they had never imagined could exist. When they came to their senses, and examined their surroundings, they saw they were in some sort of...private office. The room was luscious and rich, with dark hues of furniture all around. The desk, the couches, and the rug-all a dark blood-red or black-gave the sensation of being in the dwelling of someone prominent and wealthy. The wanderer shuddered, but their curiosity overwhelmed their human desire to escape. Without another word, they began to step around the room, in awe of the dark beauty around them. Of course, they had no idea they had wandered deep into the lion's jaws, and a few doors away slept the Malkavian Primogen...

[True Christopia]

Silvio 'Arty' Loretta

For the first night in almost eighty years, Silvio left his Beverly Hills home with neither Danny nor Vito in tow. He walked alone, his plaid grey suit matching his pale skin, into the night and into the city. It was the first night in which he'd figured that he no longer cared whether he lived or died. If some descendant of Luciano and his family decided to come and kill him - a chance that was relatively low, all things considered - he'd just let it happen.

Of course, Vito and Danny were too stupid to realise that. They gladly took the oppurtunity to play cards and smoke in his home, living in luxury - not realising that should he die, so too would their supply of Vitae. Idiots. But, then, who were the smart without the dumb?

Stepping into a small, rough bar, Loretta approached the counter to see a perplexed barman "Whiskey." he said plainly. Eyes were on him - it was likely that they didn't often see the suit-wearing type in their bar, but there he was. Not that he cared too much about what they thought. He was one hundred and sixteen years old - he'd stopped caring long ago.

With the whiskey poured into the glass, Loretta slapped down the cash and took a seat. There'd practically been gang wars going on across the city recently, although it was nothing like that of the wars fought in the thirties. Oh, the thirties.

Everything was better in the thirties.

[Luminesa]

Silvio 'Arty' Loretta

For the first night in almost eighty years, Silvio left his Beverly Hills home with neither Danny nor Vito in tow. He walked alone, his plaid grey suit matching his pale skin, into the night and into the city. It was the first night in which he'd figured that he no longer cared whether he lived or died. If some descendant of Luciano and his family decided to come and kill him - a chance that was relatively low, all things considered - he'd just let it happen.

Of course, Vito and Danny were too stupid to realise that. They gladly took the oppurtunity to play cards and smoke in his home, living in luxury - not realising that should he die, so too would their supply of Vitae. Idiots. But, then, who were the smart without the dumb?

Stepping into a small, rough bar, Loretta approached the counter to see a perplexed barman "Whiskey." he said plainly. Eyes were on him - it was likely that they didn't often see the suit-wearing type in their bar, but there he was. Not that he cared too much about what they thought. He was one hundred and sixteen years old - he'd stopped caring long ago.

With the whiskey poured into the glass, Loretta slapped down the cash and took a seat. There'd practically been gang wars going on across the city recently, although it was nothing like that of the wars fought in the thirties. Oh, the thirties.

Everything was better in the thirties.

Mikhailov walked into the small bar and narrowed his eyes. The smell of sweat and wasted alcohol filled the air. A group of men playing pool on another side of the room glared in his direction, as did several other people hanging around and talking loudly. Mikhailov did not look like the type to frequent a bar either, dressed like an intellectual rather than a person who liked to drink. Indeed, he preferred a glass of wine to a tall beer, and hated the smell of the former enough that he struggled to hide his displeasure when it met his nose.

Yet he had a reason for being in the bar. He had been searching the city for the last half-hour, trying to find the mysterious white-haired person from his dream. This man did not have white hair, but being a Mage Mikhailov could sense that this person was...different. With a confident grin, he sauntered toward the bar and sat next to the man in the suit, an outcast joining another outcast.

“Cosmopolitan,” he muttered to the bartender. He could hardly hear himself think, over the music, but he did lean over toward him, so he could give his order. He usually hated vodka, but he would make an exception for the night, if it meant he could get the information he wanted. As soon as he made his order, he turned toward the well-dressed stranger and smiled. “Well, well. Dressed to kill, I see? What’re you doing in a dilapidated bar like this?” he questioned, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

[True Christopia]

Loretta

Loretta turned his head to the new man - he seemed out of place with the way he dressed and looked. Certainly not the type for a bar like the one they were in. His thoughts were cemented when he heard the drink he ordered, although Loretta wasn't the type to judge despite the annoyingly intellectual look the man gave.

WIth the music blaring in their ears, he knew that whatever they said would stay between them, although there wasn't much to say.

Taking another swig of his whiskey before answering, Loretta set down the glass before narrowing his eyes at the newcomer, suspicion heavy in his eyes "I'm here for a goddamn drink - now, If you're a Luciano fuck, just end it already. If you're not, whaddya' want?"

[Luminesa]

Loretta

Loretta turned his head to the new man - he seemed out of place with the way he dressed and looked. Certainly not the type for a bar like the one they were in. His thoughts were cemented when he heard the drink he ordered, although Loretta wasn't the type to judge despite the annoyingly intellectual look the man gave.

WIth the music blaring in their ears, he knew that whatever they said would stay between them, although there wasn't much to say.

Taking another swig of his whiskey before answering, Loretta set down the glass before narrowing his eyes at the newcomer, suspicion heavy in his eyes "I'm here for a goddamn drink - now, If you're a Luciano fuck, just end it already. If you're not, whaddya' want?"

“...‘Luciano’?...You must be mistaken. I don’t have an Italian bone in my body,” he answered, with a smirk. He got his drink and took a sip, before he continued. “...What, with that silk suit I’m sure you could afford to drink anywhere in Los Angeles. Then again, I’m not exactly the bar-hopping type myself. Never could drink beer...or whiskey, oddly enough...Can you imagine that? A Russian who doesn’t drink copious amounts of hard liquor? I suppose I’m an anomaly...” He took another sip, and darted a quick glance over his shoulder as two men started to argue rupturously behind them. He merely chuckled and turned back to his associate.

“...But yes. If you’re a wanted man, I won’t sell you out. Nothing to worry about. Just...interested. You seem like a man with a keen eye for things that...stand-out in the crowd. And I’m not talking about myself. Have you seen any individuals around the city tonight who...might seem a little peculiar?” He wanted to ease into the question, since he was not certain about the man, and did not know if he was an enemy. Apparently some Italian family was out to get him, so he may have been part of some family rivalry that found its way to Los Angeles. Then again, the sharp-dressed man did not seem openly hostile, nor did he seem like the sort of man who would hide his intentions if he wanted to cause Mikhailov harm.

[True Christopia]

Loretta

Loretta chuckled softly "I'm not surprised. That hit is at least eighty years old, but I'm not expecting you to believe me. And for 'peculiar' guys, I ain't seen nothin'. I've only just left home." The question was odd indeed, although he didn't care too much. It wasn't his business, that's for sure.

Evidently the kid wasn't with Luciano, although Loretta wouldn't be surprised if the man was dead at that point. Could never be sure in the Family, though. People could want you dead from beyond the grave, and the hit would still go out.

Leaning back in his chair, he downed the last of the whiskey before placing the glass back down.

[Luminesa]

Loretta

Loretta chuckled softly "I'm not surprised. That hit is at least eighty years old, but I'm not expecting you to believe me. And for 'peculiar' guys, I ain't seen nothin'. I've only just left home." The question was odd indeed, although he didn't care too much. It wasn't his business, that's for sure.

Evidently the kid wasn't with Luciano, although Loretta wouldn't be surprised if the man was dead at that point. Could never be sure in the Family, though. People could want you dead from beyond the grave, and the hit would still go out.

Leaning back in his chair, he downed the last of the whiskey before placing the glass back down.

“...Eighty years old?...Well!” Mikhailov’s eyes flowed with interest. Yes, Loretta definitely had the potential to be interesting. His smile grew a little wider. “...Actually...for me, that would not be too hard to believe...After all, I have some stories you probably would not believe yourself...or you might. Who knows...” He watched Loretta down the rest of his drink, and took a sip of his own. He could not exactly break the Masquerade to get a smidge of information, but the man did not look eighty years old. “...Then again, you hardly look eighty, if you don’t mind me saying. But enough of that. My question is not anything threatening. The person I am looking for is probably not a relative of yours. Have you seen a person with...long white hair and blue eyes? An odd description, sure, but I’m sure that’s enough information.”

[Finsternia]

Silvanus

Morning. Many similar words, phrases, sentences, and descriptions that could be given to this simple time. It's when dawn cracks open like an egg, spilling the bright golden yolk that is the sun into the sky. It's when a new day starts and the song birds sing their praises to a new page of their lives. It is when animals, humans, and living creatures that owe their lives to the brilliant fire in the cosmos prowl and rule the lands, waking up from the world of dreams to reenact their desires into reality. It is also when the monsters, the lords of the night, the dear children of darkness and the moon, sleep and hide from their prey lest the tables turn against them. The dark lords and ladies of humanity, their age long predators, the Children of Caine, the Kindred are one of these monsters. Silvanus is one of them, sleeping deep beneath the soil as his vitae laced with the earth beneath his territory. It was a small unremarkable funeral home in one of the similarly unremarkable spots of Los Angeles in Santa Monica. Eerie silence, deathly air, and oppressive ominous aura hung over the place like as if the Malkavian Elder's madness shrouded the area in a noxious gas.

A man with silvery long hair stepped into the funeral home. An ancient will awoke from its slumber, sensing the intruder. All the Malkavians that reside within the funeral home are stowed away as they slept through the day and thus the place is nothing but a desolate wasteland. The paintings that line the walls seem to stare down at the man with contemptuous eyes and when he left their vicinity, those sinister orbs became alight with a tint of green as they followed his direction. Around the corners would be shadows that would dart out of his sight and his footsteps would echo through the hallways, faintly sounding like laughter. A foreboding feeling seems to follow the man as if a hidden jaguar would pounce from the tall grass upon unsuspecting deer. The hallways shifted and turned without the man's knowledge until the warping building brought him into a trap door that is beneath his feet. Darkness consumed his sight and then his senses until nothing is left but shadows that embraced his being and drowning out his consciousness.

When the man came to be, he was in a place not unlike those offices you see royalty or those with wealth reside in. Dark and rich colored mahogany shaped into meticulous and awe inspiring furniture were laid in an almost obsessive manner. Dust is nowhere to be found and the lush red carpet beneath his shoes was without dirt and is soft as a kitten's fur. Blood red curtains were hung on the great windows that was behind the desk, filling the entire room with the gentle light of morning. Rococo bookshelves lined the walls to the left and to the right with books arranged by alphabetical order and by genre. Potted plants also decorated the room and vines where white roses bloomed wrapped around the marble pillars that supported the four corners of the room. Everything was screaming of calmness and serenity except for the tall and imposing chair behind the desk, radiating authority like how a throne would. On the desk was an old vinyl player, currently playing a song of the musician Chopin. The wind outside seem to carry the leaves, their shadows casting silhouettes into the brilliant glare of the windows. It was something out of a fairy tale or a dream of a place of solitude. Until the music suddenly stopped. Static, painful static to the ears, echoed through the room. It went on for awhile before it stopped and the music resumed once again.

The once peaceful and lovely piano playing turned into a painful rage as keys were slammed with the tune of the notes. The man's vision would start to blur and his surroundings decay and vanish as his perception of reality glitched. Everything was spinning, his body turned to static, and time and space stopped making sense. The music, which would have been enjoyable, became like the sound of the Devil. Pain lanced through his body as everything went out of control. The red became a pool of blood, the windows swords piercing through his frail body, the bookshelves turning to spiked walls advancing towards him. His feet slowly sunk deeper and deeper into the red that was once the carpet before everything broke down like pieces of glass.

His senses came back to him. He was in the lobby where he first entered the establishment. Behind the desk was a plump old lady sitting on top of a high stool. She was looking at him with bewilderment as he didn't respond to her inquiries. Her aged white curls were held by a net of shining amethysts and a pair of spectacles hung down on her nose, helping her see through her milky eyes. She raised her hand and adjusted the eyeglasses. "M-My dear... Is something wrong? I've been calling your attention since you've walked in..." There was a sign behind her saying: "Glade's Burial Services". A small name plaque was pinned to her chest. Helena Argent. "Is there something I could help you with?"

[Luminesa]

Silvanus

Morning. Many similar words, phrases, sentences, and descriptions that could be given to this simple time. It's when dawn cracks open like an egg, spilling the bright golden yolk that is the sun into the sky. It's when a new day starts and the song birds sing their praises to a new page of their lives. It is when animals, humans, and living creatures that owe their lives to the brilliant fire in the cosmos prowl and rule the lands, waking up from the world of dreams to reenact their desires into reality. It is also when the monsters, the lords of the night, the dear children of darkness and the moon, sleep and hide from their prey lest the tables turn against them. The dark lords and ladies of humanity, their age long predators, the Children of Caine, the Kindred are one of these monsters. Silvanus is one of them, sleeping deep beneath the soil as his vitae laced with the earth beneath his territory. It was a small unremarkable funeral home in one of the similarly unremarkable spots of Los Angeles in Santa Monica. Eerie silence, deathly air, and oppressive ominous aura hung over the place like as if the Malkavian Elder's madness shrouded the area in a noxious gas.

A man with silvery long hair stepped into the funeral home. An ancient will awoke from its slumber, sensing the intruder. All the Malkavians that reside within the funeral home are stowed away as they slept through the day and thus the place is nothing but a desolate wasteland. The paintings that line the walls seem to stare down at the man with contemptuous eyes and when he left their vicinity, those sinister orbs became alight with a tint of green as they followed his direction. Around the corners would be shadows that would dart out of his sight and his footsteps would echo through the hallways, faintly sounding like laughter. A foreboding feeling seems to follow the man as if a hidden jaguar would pounce from the tall grass upon unsuspecting deer. The hallways shifted and turned without the man's knowledge until the warping building brought him into a trap door that is beneath his feet. Darkness consumed his sight and then his senses until nothing is left but shadows that embraced his being and drowning out his consciousness.

When the man came to be, he was in a place not unlike those offices you see royalty or those with wealth reside in. Dark and rich colored mahogany shaped into meticulous and awe inspiring furniture were laid in an almost obsessive manner. Dust is nowhere to be found and the lush red carpet beneath his shoes was without dirt and is soft as a kitten's fur. Blood red curtains were hung on the great windows that was behind the desk, filling the entire room with the gentle light of morning. Rococo bookshelves lined the walls to the left and to the right with books arranged by alphabetical order and by genre. Potted plants also decorated the room and vines where white roses bloomed wrapped around the marble pillars that supported the four corners of the room. Everything was screaming of calmness and serenity except for the tall and imposing chair behind the desk, radiating authority like how a throne would. On the desk was an old vinyl player, currently playing a song of the musician Chopin. The wind outside seem to carry the leaves, their shadows casting silhouettes into the brilliant glare of the windows. It was something out of a fairy tale or a dream of a place of solitude. Until the music suddenly stopped. Static, painful static to the ears, echoed through the room. It went on for awhile before it stopped and the music resumed once again.

The once peaceful and lovely piano playing turned into a painful rage as keys were slammed with the tune of the notes. The man's vision would start to blur and his surroundings decay and vanish as his perception of reality glitched. Everything was spinning, his body turned to static, and time and space stopped making sense. The music, which would have been enjoyable, became like the sound of the Devil. Pain lanced through his body as everything went out of control. The red became a pool of blood, the windows swords piercing through his frail body, the bookshelves turning to spiked walls advancing towards him. His feet slowly sunk deeper and deeper into the red that was once the carpet before everything broke down like pieces of glass.

His senses came back to him. He was in the lobby where he first entered the establishment. Behind the desk was a plump old lady sitting on top of a high stool. She was looking at him with bewilderment as he didn't respond to her inquiries. Her aged white curls were held by a net of shining amethysts and a pair of spectacles hung down on her nose, helping her see through her milky eyes. She raised her hand and adjusted the eyeglasses. "M-My dear... Is something wrong? I've been calling your attention since you've walked in..." There was a sign behind her saying: "Glade's Burial Services". A small name plaque was pinned to her chest. Helena Argent. "Is there something I could help you with?"

The room was truly beautiful, and as the man moved away from the bookshelf and looked around the rest of the room, they could not keep from being entranced. Such a majestic place...but...who does it belong to?... he questioned. He continued to walk around the room without making a sound, until his attention turned toward the record player, which was playing a Chopin record in the background. Peaceful, gentle, and melancholy, like a rainy afternoon. The intruder felt something move in his heart. Normally the music was just music, but for some reason now a strange magic laced the music as it floated around him. He felt himself being taken elsewhere...

Yet, Silvanus did not seek to entertain his guest, but rather himself, as usual. The relaxing tune gradually descended into static, and the man’s eyes opened wider with confusion as the static became more and more deafening. His head felt like lead, and he tried to approach the record player to perhaps fix the contraption. As went to do so, however, the static turned into a terrible new song, a demented version of the lovely Chopin piece. The song was painful and erratic, lacking in any sort of harmony or direction. The man was horrified, and backed away. He knew at this point that the record-and the rest of the room around the record-was not normal.

...What...What is...happening?! he questioned, as he covered his ears and moved away. Yet the sound pervaded the room at this point, and the beauty of the rest of the room now also began to shrink away. The intruder’s vision twisted and turned, until everything in the room became a belligerent, an opponent in a terrible battle. The carpet beneath his feet became a pool of blood, in which he found himself sinking. He gasped, and tried to pull himself out of the hole. The windows inexplicably broke around him, during the struggle, and the shards flew at the man. Before he could even defend himself, he found himself suddenly stabbed-through by thousands of shards of glass. “Gah!” he exclaimed in pain. Knowing now that the room around him was morbidly unusual, he responded with the unusual once again. The man closed his eyes, gritting his teeth against the pain, and began to pray...

The Lord is my Shepherd, there is nothing that I lack...
He commands me to lie down in green pastures, He leads me by quiet waters, He restores my soul...

The bookshelves had turned into ghastly monsters, and roared as they approached the man, who now stood praying with his eyes closed in the middle of the room. As they got closer, they seemed as bewildered by his response as anyone might be, but they did not stop their assault. The music still suffocated every other noise in the room, and so the strange person’s prayer remained soundless and strained...

He guides me in the path of righteousness for His name’s sake.
Even though I walk through the valley of the Shadow of Death...

As he mouthed the words of the familiar song, something seemed to form between his clasped hands. A glimmer of light. Perhaps the sparkle was all part of the illusion, a mockery of the man as he clung to his Faith...yet the bookshelves that now stood in front of him almost seemed afraid. Nevertheless, they continued to charge, but they never reached their target.

The man opened his eyes and exhaled sharply. The horrid music was gone. Quiet, and the occasional sound of traffic, re-entered his mind. He blinked, and examined his surroundings. He was back in the main antechamber of the funeral home, away from that wicked battleground of a room in the back. Yet as he examined himself, he saw that his bloody wounds from the window-shards were gone. He felt no physical pain. He frowned, and then faced the woman who was calling his name.

A kind, elderly-looking woman was watching him with care, calling to him and asking him if he was alright. He turned to face her, and then approached her at the front desk. She seemed innocent-enough. Yet he had a feeling that nothing in this place was innocent. He knew what he had seen and felt in that back room, and he knew that he had been awake and not dreaming. Yet his wounds were gone, and here was this sweet old woman... ...I never saw her when I entered...and I called to anyone who could be listening, in this place...It was silent...until I found that room...Something is deeply wrong... he concluded. Despite his concerns, he smiled at the old lady. His smile was polite and unassuming, like the rest of him.

“...Hello, Ms. Argent...I...believe I managed to get myself lost...I do not usually frequent this side of town, actually...But my entire morning has been quite strange, I guess...” he explained, his voice timid and light. “...I...felt myself almost pulled here...by some unseen force...I do not have any relatives to bury, however, so that is not a concern. Yet...” He put a hand on the desk, and unwittingly the light that had appeared in his hands during his prayer flew away. Ms. Argent would have seen it, almost like a butterfly as it floated in front of her. The man who had summoned it, however, paid it little mind. “...For some reason...when I was walking in this place...I...felt for some reason that...something is here...and I’m supposed to wait for it...” He looked in her eyes. They were milky-white, and unseeing. Or so he initially thought. She was looking right at him, and her unblinking gaze was unnerving. She almost seemed to look through him even, as though she knew him. ...Who is she?...And...what is this place?...

[True Christopia]

Loretta

Loretta chuckled softly "I'm not surprised. That hit is at least eighty years old, but I'm not expecting you to believe me. And for 'peculiar' guys, I ain't seen nothin'. I've only just left home." The question was odd indeed, although he didn't care too much. It wasn't his business, that's for sure.

Evidently the kid wasn't with Luciano, although Loretta wouldn't be surprised if the man was dead at that point. Could never be sure in the Family, though. People could want you dead from beyond the grave, and the hit would still go out.

Leaning back in his chair, he downed the last of the whiskey before placing the glass back down.

“...Eighty years old?...Well!” Mikhailov’s eyes flowed with interest. Yes, Loretta definitely had the potential to be interesting. His smile grew a little wider. “...Actually...for me, that would not be too hard to believe...After all, I have some stories you probably would not believe yourself...or you might. Who knows...” He watched Loretta down the rest of his drink, and took a sip of his own. He could not exactly break the Masquerade to get a smidge of information, but the man did not look eighty years old. “...Then again, you hardly look eighty, if you don’t mind me saying. But enough of that. My question is not anything threatening. The person I am looking for is probably not a relative of yours. Have you seen a person with...long white hair and blue eyes? An odd description, sure, but I’m sure that’s enough information.”

Loretta

Loretta shrugged. The opinions of a Russian mattered little to him, although his words intrigued him a little - he believed him? Could, perhaps, he be similar to him? Seemingly immortal? "No, that might be because I'm not eighty - I'm one hundred and sixteen - and if you believe that, you're either an idiot or somebody with a lotta' answers."

"Long white hair and blue eyes?" questioned Loretta, "No, he's definitely not a relative of mine. Now, if I still had Vito..." he trailed off, shaking his head "No, I don't know him - sorry, kid. Why you lookin' for a guy with white hair and blue eyes? Sounds like a bit of a pansy to me, given the description. What'd he do, dye it?"

[Luminesa]

“...Eighty years old?...Well!” Mikhailov’s eyes flowed with interest. Yes, Loretta definitely had the potential to be interesting. His smile grew a little wider. “...Actually...for me, that would not be too hard to believe...After all, I have some stories you probably would not believe yourself...or you might. Who knows...” He watched Loretta down the rest of his drink, and took a sip of his own. He could not exactly break the Masquerade to get a smidge of information, but the man did not look eighty years old. “...Then again, you hardly look eighty, if you don’t mind me saying. But enough of that. My question is not anything threatening. The person I am looking for is probably not a relative of yours. Have you seen a person with...long white hair and blue eyes? An odd description, sure, but I’m sure that’s enough information.”

Loretta

Loretta shrugged. The opinions of a Russian mattered little to him, although his words intrigued him a little - he believed him? Could, perhaps, he be similar to him? Seemingly immortal? "No, that might be because I'm not eighty - I'm one hundred and sixteen - and if you believe that, you're either an idiot or somebody with a lotta' answers."

"Long white hair and blue eyes?" questioned Loretta, "No, he's definitely not a relative of mine. Now, if I still had Vito..." he trailed off, shaking his head "No, I don't know him - sorry, kid. Why you lookin' for a guy with white hair and blue eyes? Sounds like a bit of a pansy to me, given the description. What'd he do, dye it?"

So he was not human. A vampire, or another Mage perhaps. Definitely not a Garou. Mikhailov chuckled, and finished his drink, before he turned back to Loretta. “Interesting. You look good for 116, I should say. I’m not exactly normal myself. I actually turned 80 this year. Birthday is January 1st, 1937. So I’m just a little younger than you, but that shouldn’t be much of a concern. When you’re basically immortal, age really is only a number,” he implied.

He listened as Loretta tried to wrack his brains for the memory of a person who matched Mikhailov’s description. The Mage’s eyes narrowed with curiosity as the immortal mentioned a “Vito”, but that information did not seem very important. “You might be surprised...or perhaps not...at the odd appearances of some of the people in this city. But anyway, I...don’t have many other descriptors for the person. No name, nothing but a face. Rather unfortunate. But they...might be important...for personal reasons. As for you! Mage? Kindred? I’m a Mage myself.” He decided to change the subject, deciding that even if Loretta had no information that he could use, he could prove a useful ally.

[True Christopia]

Loretta

Silvio, for the first time in his life, was completely dumbfounded. What was he talking about? Immortality? Mages? Kindred? What the hell were those? Well, of course, he'd heard of a mage before - but surely, they weren't real - were they? Turning his body to fully face the man - who had just claimed he was immortal - he was speechless for a few moments, before finding his words "What - a mage? What the hell's a 'Kindred'?"

Then, he figured the kid could just be playing a prank on him - in which case Loretta added "Look, Kid - if you're pulling my leg, I'm not in the damn mood. Ain't no such thing as a damn mage - no, ain't no such thing." He wasn't about to be taken for a fool by some pansy Russian ordering a cosmopolitan, that was for sure.

[Luminesa]

Loretta

Silvio, for the first time in his life, was completely dumbfounded. What was he talking about? Immortality? Mages? Kindred? What the hell were those? Well, of course, he'd heard of a mage before - but surely, they weren't real - were they? Turning his body to fully face the man - who had just claimed he was immortal - he was speechless for a few moments, before finding his words "What - a mage? What the hell's a 'Kindred'?"

Then, he figured the kid could just be playing a prank on him - in which case Loretta added "Look, Kid - if you're pulling my leg, I'm not in the damn mood. Ain't no such thing as a damn mage - no, ain't no such thing." He wasn't about to be taken for a fool by some pansy Russian ordering a cosmopolitan, that was for sure.

“Hm?...You just told me you’re 116 years old. Surely that means you’re one or the other...” Mikhailov answered, his eyes becoming dark for a moment. Did this man really not know who he was? Perhaps he was some sort of loner, one who had never learned the in’s and out’s of the Magical World. His eyes lightened again, as though his anxious thought had passed from his mind, and he relaxed once again. “...How strange. You know nothing about a hidden world that is right in your grasp...and you look so shocked...to hear someone else could possibly be immortal...”

He leaned dangerously close to Loretta’s face, and a cold grin crossed his face. Partially, he did not want one of the nearby patrons, or the bartender, to hear them, and partially because he was more than confident in his ability to hold Loretta’s attention by the throat. “...There are more of us than you think...and you don’t look like a lying man, either...so perhaps I could show you?...I can assure you, I am capable of doing more than merely pulling your leg. But only...if you’re willing.” Of course, if Loretta was actually lying, he always had his trusty Makarov in his pocket.

[True Christopia]

Loretta

Loretta squinted at the man - could he trust him? Then again, was he bothered enough should the man actually be out to kill him? Loretta no longer had anything to lose, so he let out a long sigh and shrugged "If you don't think I'm a lying man, you need to brush up on your history, kid. But, whatever. Come on, show me."

Sliding out of his seat, he waited for the man to lead - maybe he would actually herald some action in his life again, perhaps give him some answers. Like why he was so compelled to drink the blood of another man, or why he no longer needed to eat.

[Luminesa]

Loretta

Loretta squinted at the man - could he trust him? Then again, was he bothered enough should the man actually be out to kill him? Loretta no longer had anything to lose, so he let out a long sigh and shrugged "If you don't think I'm a lying man, you need to brush up on your history, kid. But, whatever. Come on, show me."

Sliding out of his seat, he waited for the man to lead - maybe he would actually herald some action in his life again, perhaps give him some answers. Like why he was so compelled to drink the blood of another man, or why he no longer needed to eat.

Mikhailov left a tip for the bartender, and then turned back toward his new companion. “Excellent. By the way, my name is Konstantin Mikhailov. You may call me Dr. Mikhailov, or Mikhailov. Whichever you prefer. You can tell me your name while we’re leaving this vile place,” he introduced himself. He had forgotten to do so, in his excitement to find another immortal. He then took Loretta’s arm and hurried through the bar with him. A fight had broken-out in the corner, near one of the bathrooms, and the volume was unbearable.

When they got outside, Mikhailov sighed with relief. He hoped he would not have to go back into another place like that anytime soon. As he glanced back for a moment, he muttered, “Perhaps we can meet at a much more...appropriate locale next time...somewhere where the patrons are not vomiting their insides from drinking copious amounts of beer.” He then smiled at Loretta, and nodded. “I’ll take you where you need to go, for answers. Though I’ll be happy to answer anything about the unknown you do not understand. Of course, we must be careful talking about these things out in the open,” he explained softly. He looked around at the crowds of people passing them, and motioned for Loretta to walk with him.

“Come. Tell me about yourself. And what are you doing here in Los Angeles not knowing anything about what you are?...This is a dangerous city for those without any knowledge...and that deadly confusion in your eyes. Surely you must have some questions...otherwise you would not be letting a stranger lead you around...” His voice was low and melodious, as he read the face of the hardened mobster next to him. “...And...What is your name? I do not believe you have introduced yourself to me.”

[True Christopia]

Loretta

"Nice t'meet you, the name's Silvio Loretta." he explained "But you can call be Arty, if you want. It's what the Family called me - the mob. Cosa Nostra, Our Thing. Whatever the hell you want to call it. I hear people call it the Mafia these days. Pretty sure I got whacked in 31', but not the normal way. Got bit by some freak, and turns out that makes me a freak too. Guy couldn't tell me what the hell he did, since I'd shot him seven times. Whaddya' know? Been in hiding ever since, although I can probably say the hit is a bit out of date."

Loretta kept pace with the Russian, intrigued to finally learn about what he actually was "L.A. seemed like a good spot to get outta' the way. Get a nice place in Beverly Hills, maybe start a clean business - the easy life, y'know? Now, I'm mostly bored. Nothing to do in this damn town when you're clean."

Then, he turned his head to face Mikhailov "So, what am I? Dracula, or something? Since you seem to know,"

[Luminesa]

Loretta

"Nice t'meet you, the name's Silvio Loretta." he explained "But you can call be Arty, if you want. It's what the Family called me - the mob. Cosa Nostra, Our Thing. Whatever the hell you want to call it. I hear people call it the Mafia these days. Pretty sure I got whacked in 31', but not the normal way. Got bit by some freak, and turns out that makes me a freak too. Guy couldn't tell me what the hell he did, since I'd shot him seven times. Whaddya' know? Been in hiding ever since, although I can probably say the hit is a bit out of date."

Loretta kept pace with the Russian, intrigued to finally learn about what he actually was "L.A. seemed like a good spot to get outta' the way. Get a nice place in Beverly Hills, maybe start a clean business - the easy life, y'know? Now, I'm mostly bored. Nothing to do in this damn town when you're clean."

Then, he turned his head to face Mikhailov "So, what am I? Dracula, or something? Since you seem to know,"

Mikhailov smirked, as Loretta explained his story. No wonder he did not know anything about what he was-he had unwittingly killed his Sire in understandable terror. So he was definitely a vampire, though what clan was uncertain. “...It appears you are indeed a Kindred. Like Dracula. Though you and Dracula would not be the same breed...Some say he was a Nosterafu, a rather hideous beast. Some say he was a Toreador...a romancer and a lover of beauty...nobody knows for certain. But yes. You are indeed an immortal, and I would imagine you have power you have not yet discovered, even...but that depends on the type of vampire you are...”

As they crossed a sidewalk, Mikhailov examined Loretta’s face. He definitely was not a Nosterafu. He had a stony, cool expression, without any softness, but full of a repressed wonder. He did not trust others, and yet he was following Mikhailov around. He had been a recluse for decades, but seemed to be sane. “...Tell me about your passions. The things that interest you the most. Where were you the night you were...Embraced?...Or turned, as a better word,” he questioned.

[True Christopia]

Loretta

Nosferatu... Toreador - it sounded a lot like a fancy version of the mob. You're in for life, evidently. He posed the question "So, it's a bit like the mob, then? You taken in and you're in for life, part of a certain family. That it?" Then, he began to talk about power - yes, that he liked. He liked it very much. He wouldn't mind being in a position of power once again.

Where was he the night he was turned? Not a hard question - he would never forget it. He smiled "The art gallery." he answered "Was my last stop on the way out of the city, but it seems I got 'turned' there, seein' as the guy bit me and made me into this thing. Art's one of my big passions, kept me in my head for all these years. You can thing of a lot of things as art, you can. Like power. In my prime, I was runnin' the D'Aquila family, even though I wasn't the boss." he let out a slight chuckle "You get into the right position and you can run the Family like a puppet show, trust me."

"Damn Luciano took that away from me, though eh? Took out Masseria and the dirty sneak took power for himself, and boom - there went the D'Aquila family. As much as I hate his guts, gotta respect the guy's audacity."

[Luminesa]

Loretta

Nosferatu... Toreador - it sounded a lot like a fancy version of the mob. You're in for life, evidently. He posed the question "So, it's a bit like the mob, then? You taken in and you're in for life, part of a certain family. That it?" Then, he began to talk about power - yes, that he liked. He liked it very much. He wouldn't mind being in a position of power once again.

Where was he the night he was turned? Not a hard question - he would never forget it. He smiled "The art gallery." he answered "Was my last stop on the way out of the city, but it seems I got 'turned' there, seein' as the guy bit me and made me into this thing. Art's one of my big passions, kept me in my head for all these years. You can thing of a lot of things as art, you can. Like power. In my prime, I was runnin' the D'Aquila family, even though I wasn't the boss." he let out a slight chuckle "You get into the right position and you can run the Family like a puppet show, trust me."

"Damn Luciano took that away from me, though eh? Took out Masseria and the dirty sneak took power for himself, and boom - there went the D'Aquila family. As much as I hate his guts, gotta respect the guy's audacity."

Mikhailov nodded with understanding. He knew now to which clan Loretta belonged. “It’s something like the mob, yes. You’ll fit right in. You have all the powerful mob families of Italy, you have the many clans of Kindred. Given your love of the arts, it seems you are a Toreador. Your Sire, or the person who turned you, was probably also a Toreador,” he explained. He then pointed to himself, “While I am a Mage and not a human, my love of knowledge means I would probably be best suited as a Tremere. A clan of knowledge-seekers and magic-users. Of course, you don’t get to choose your clan. Whoever Embraces you, you are a member of their family for life. Their ‘childe’, as they might say.”

The talk of power, however, grappled Mikhailov’s attention. Knowledge and power, yin and yang. He watched Loretta’s eyes glitter as he talked of his old life. Thus they had an interest in common-taking as much power as they could. As much control as they could. By any means necessary. “Ah yes, I was in a position of power once myself. A card-carrying Communist. In fact, I was a member of the Soviet government, during its prime. It’s fun to watch paranoia spread like wildfire among the mindless masses, just by wavering your finger over a couple of buttons. I’m sure you’d agree, wouldn’t you?” He turned and smiled with a hint of nostalgia at his companion.

[True Christopia]

Loretta

Taking in the information, he had a smile on his face. He was finally getting answers, after all these years. Finally.

Loretta squinted for a moment at the man beside him "You were a commie?" he asked, a hint of disdain in his voice, but it was quickly washed away "Not that I care that much. Not like the Mob's much different. So, what - I'm a vampire - can I turn into a bat, then? That one'a my powers?"

Then, he followed it with another question "You gonna show me or what? You still haven't exactly proven anything, you could just be chattin' shit."

[Luminesa]

Loretta

Taking in the information, he had a smile on his face. He was finally getting answers, after all these years. Finally.

Loretta squinted for a moment at the man beside him "You were a commie?" he asked, a hint of disdain in his voice, but it was quickly washed away "Not that I care that much. Not like the Mob's much different. So, what - I'm a vampire - can I turn into a bat, then? That one'a my powers?"

Then, he followed it with another question "You gonna show me or what? You still haven't exactly proven anything, you could just be chattin' shit."

“Economics don’t necessarily mean much to me. Whether I get what I want by communism or by a monarchy, the end is all I have in mind. Besides, either way, a selective few end-up with all of the power in the end. Most people do not survive the tide of history, unless they get that rare power. Even if you were to achieve perfect peace, most of those who achieved that peace would merely pass away. I’m sure you and I can agree on that, yes?” he questioned, the light in his eyes low and ominous-a worldly light. “But you’re right. I should demonstrate a little of my power, otherwise this entire excursion is probably a waste of time, hm? Just have to be careful-normal people cannot know what we are...”

He walked into an alley, expecting for his companion to follow. He turned to face Loretta, extended his arm, and held open his hand to him. However, he did not take his companion’s hand. Rather, an orb of light began to glow in his hand, and out of that orb came a single shard of light. “...Before you dismiss it as a mere parlor trick...watch carefully,” he muttered. His own eyes changed colors, from a crystal-blue to a dazzling, opal-like hue. The shard floated out of his hand, and exploded like shrapnel around the Mage and the mobster. Out of the broken shards which floated around them, several copies of Mikhailov stepped through, and all faced the vampire with the same opal-like eyes. One of them stepped forward, smirking confidently. “Light has no form. No volume. No shape. Therefore, it can take any form, or any vessel. It can move through dimensions, through space and time. It bends, but never breaks. And I am light.”

He waved his hand toward the clones of himself, which stood obediently behind him. “I was in that body a moment ago, correct?” He pointed to the clone holding the original orb of light. “...Now I’m here. And then...” He backed away, and he then he and several other clones of himself shattered into light once again, all except for the clone holding the orb. The shattered light fled back into the orb, which then formed into a dazzling, ivory sword with a gold-tipped blade. He clenched it, and then aimed it at Loretta’s throat as a demonstration. “...I’m here. Do you understand?” He leaned his arms on the pommel of his blade, and grinned at the man in front of him once again. “...I have ascended a typical physical form. And yet at the same time, I occupy a typical physical form...or perhaps...one that is typical for a human much younger than myself...but now you know. I am a Disciple of Knowledge. But enough about me.”

After a moment, he stood upright, and the sword dissipated in his hand. “...You have the normal rules of a vampire, yes. Sunlight is anathema, transformation, blood-sucking...but that’s not the fun part. You are a Toreador. A lover and manipulator of beauty. You can make yourself as beautiful as you please for others, for whoever you want. Should you want a lover, simply appear to them and they will be enraptured by you. You can sway the crowds to love you, to follow your every command. You can move faster than the human eye. No mortal could catch you in any crime. You can hide yourself among humans and do as you please. Sounds just like the life you thought you had lost, hm?” He chuckled. “...Love is such a fickle, foolish thing. It immobilizes otherwise sane people, causes them to lose themselves for another, and then you are able to do as you wish. They will never leave you, even if you break them...and that power is in your hands...” he whispered, as though he was telling Loretta a deadly secret.

[Finsternia]

Silvanus

The speck of light flew right in front of Helena's face, shining on her wrinkled worried face. Before the old woman could discover the supernatural occurence, her frame glitched like as if the pixels that made her body was corrupted. The surroundings shifted abruptly, streaks of color breaking out and turning into sharp spikes, black streaking through the light as if the void shattered open to swallow it. That brief second of distortion vanished as it appeared. Helena continued her movements like nothing happened, tilting her head to the right to hear what the man has to say. "It seems like you're tired dear... Would you mind to take some rest in here? Our funeral home is always lonely, except for the dead... Come, I'll show you to the kitchens." The old woman smiled and slowly descended the attached wooden stairs to her high stool. She seems so frail to behold, her knees aching to plant her feet down on the steps. She landed down with a muffled groan, possibly from the strain to her back and hips. "Sidney... Wake up, boy... Bring me to the kitchens..." A low whine sounded from behind the counter and as Helena left the reception area, there was a lean and fierce looking doberman that accompanied her by her side. Its fur was glossy and black as night and its ears are perky for any sign of threat. It eyed Alexei with suspicion before his owner placed a hand on his head, patting him. "Come now... No need to be all angry to our guest..." The dog bumped its head on the elderly woman's hand as a sign of affection and led her to the room where the kitchen is. Yet before it left, when it turned, there was a small glimpse of bright green at the edge of its eye that is almost unnoticeable. It was like the hint of the scales of an emerald snake hiding within tall green grass to lure its prey in.

The kind old woman led the young man into a small room. It was your typical kitchen and dining room combo, with the tables and chairs as the main highlight and the kitchen at the back. "Please, sit down dear..." Helena slowly walked towards the fridge and grabbed around for a plate of a dozen cookies and a cold bottle of milk. She first placed the foodstuff on the table before getting on the chair with some difficulty. "Please help yourself, my dear... I'm sorry if it is cold but these are what I made for my grandson this morning and I can't really cook anything without his help..." The old woman clasped her hands in front of her, her blurry eyes looking at the plate of cookies. "Perhaps you are here for him? This place has been an old family business and only recently has my grandson took us to better heights... This place is just a branch that he left for me since he knew that I loved the work alongside with this place... He is still out for his job but he'll be back by the evening..." She adjusted her glasses and looked at the white haired man. "You... You look like him... You look like my little Sylvester..."

[Luminesa]

Silvanus

The speck of light flew right in front of Helena's face, shining on her wrinkled worried face. Before the old woman could discover the supernatural occurence, her frame glitched like as if the pixels that made her body was corrupted. The surroundings shifted abruptly, streaks of color breaking out and turning into sharp spikes, black streaking through the light as if the void shattered open to swallow it. That brief second of distortion vanished as it appeared. Helena continued her movements like nothing happened, tilting her head to the right to hear what the man has to say. "It seems like you're tired dear... Would you mind to take some rest in here? Our funeral home is always lonely, except for the dead... Come, I'll show you to the kitchens." The old woman smiled and slowly descended the attached wooden stairs to her high stool. She seems so frail to behold, her knees aching to plant her feet down on the steps. She landed down with a muffled groan, possibly from the strain to her back and hips. "Sidney... Wake up, boy... Bring me to the kitchens..." A low whine sounded from behind the counter and as Helena left the reception area, there was a lean and fierce looking doberman that accompanied her by her side. Its fur was glossy and black as night and its ears are perky for any sign of threat. It eyed Alexei with suspicion before his owner placed a hand on his head, patting him. "Come now... No need to be all angry to our guest..." The dog bumped its head on the elderly woman's hand as a sign of affection and led her to the room where the kitchen is. Yet before it left, when it turned, there was a small glimpse of bright green at the edge of its eye that is almost unnoticeable. It was like the hint of the scales of an emerald snake hiding within tall green grass to lure its prey in.

The kind old woman led the young man into a small room. It was your typical kitchen and dining room combo, with the tables and chairs as the main highlight and the kitchen at the back. "Please, sit down dear..." Helena slowly walked towards the fridge and grabbed around for a plate of a dozen cookies and a cold bottle of milk. She first placed the foodstuff on the table before getting on the chair with some difficulty. "Please help yourself, my dear... I'm sorry if it is cold but these are what I made for my grandson this morning and I can't really cook anything without his help..." The old woman clasped her hands in front of her, her blurry eyes looking at the plate of cookies. "Perhaps you are here for him? This place has been an old family business and only recently has my grandson took us to better heights... This place is just a branch that he left for me since he knew that I loved the work alongside with this place... He is still out for his job but he'll be back by the evening..." She adjusted her glasses and looked at the white haired man. "You... You look like him... You look like my little Sylvester..."

The man glanced toward the little old woman’s glasses, as the light from his hand glitched and was swallowed by darkness. He wondered if perhaps he was tired. He had not slept all night, after all. Yet something about the room still seemed wrong. Some static he could not identify filled the air for a moment, until the old woman called her dog. A long, lean Doberman appeared, yet another surprise. ...A guard dog that did not hear me at all?...He looks healthy, too...was I simply too far away to be heard?... he questioned. He looked at the dog’s eyes and noticed the hint of green light, strange and alien against the typical brown-eyed glare of a Doberman. ...Those eyes...that’s not...healthy at all...What is this place?...

As though to answer his question, whispers began to play in his mind:

“He doesn’t remember. Poor thing...”

“He looks so lost...”

“Come to us, child...we remember you...”

The voices pierced him with their familiarity. They sounded deep, and drawled alluringly toward him from...somewhere. ...Am I going insane?...Or...perhaps...is this place...more important than I remember?...I only hope it is not the former... he thought. Regardless of his fears, he followed the woman where she led him. She herself seemed harmless, and based on her rickety movements, she never could have moved toward him with any meaningful speed. Perhaps that was why he had not seen her before, he reasoned. Yet his stomach was still unsettled, and he still felt a thin static in the air around them. At one point, their walking led to a small kitchen, in which Helena invited him to sit and to relax.

“...Ahh...do you...need my help with...” He watched her walk toward the refrigerator, and worried that she might fall and hurt herself. Yet she got what she needed without any help, and made her way over to the table by which the man was standing. She brought him a bottle of milk and a plate of cookies, seemingly home-made. “...Oh!...Thank you,” he thanked her softly. He looked down toward the cookies, and picked one up. He paused for a second before eating, however, as something came to his mind. An old memory trying to creep into his thoughts. He saw a tiny child, one that looked much like him, standing in a tall, dark doorway...

“You look like my little Sylvester...” Helena’s words woke him up from his reverie, and he blinked. “...Hm?...Oh!...” He blushed and looked down toward his plate. Given his strange appearance, he had never been compared to anyone before. He could not think of anyone else his age with long, wavy, silver hair and blue eyes. Yet before he could give-up, a face did appear in his mind’s eye for a moment. A pale face like his own, with electric-green eyes, an impish smile, and long, straight white hair...He almost seemed to remember this “Sylvester”, and his eyes showed a wink of recognition. ...No...why can’t I remember...and...why am I...recalling...this face?...Have I been here before?... he thought, with some slight frustration.

When he could not put a name with the face, he sighed, and took a bite out of the cookie. He then downed it with a little bit of the milk, realizing that they both tasted funny. Maybe that was just a result of the cold. “...Thank you, Ms. Argent...I...am not sure who I am looking for, actually...It’s strange...I-I...saw him in a dream...” he explained, his eyes becoming cloudy and thoughtful as he spoke. “...I am sure...there are plenty of people in Los Angeles with a blonde ponytail and blue eyes...but I...saw a man in my dream who fit that description...I do not know, however...why that dream has led me here...Sylvester does not sound as though...he is the person I saw...but I cannot be sure. My dreams...have all been bizarre recently...” He paused as another thought took him in a different direction. “...Ms. Argent...have you ever felt as though...someone is seeking for you?...Not on the phone or at home, but...the feeling that a person...you do not know...wishes to see you somehow?...” he inquired.

[Imperialisium]

Tremere Chantry

The Tremere chantry was a rather unassuming, dark, and plain building situated approximately one kilometer away from Anna's Residence. The Residence, 66 Bedlam Street, sat along a winding road in Hidden Hills. A very affluent neighborhood nestled in the Western hills outside of Los Angeles proper. Malibu and the sea lay to their immediate South. Los Angeles dominated the East. To the North and West lay the Inland Empire of California. The Residence itself was a modern building, erected during the early 2000's and displayed opulent wealth in spades. From its marbled floors and imported furniture from some of the best designers in America and Europe. It easily spoke to a person whose income eclipsed seven figures. The Chantry in comparison was rather dark and brooding. It's stone facing more reminiscent to Neo-Gothic architecture popularized in the United States during the Victorian Era. The grey stone outer walls formed a rectangular building sitting North-South with its main doors facing squarely West. It's windows hard ornate iron facades covering them in the shapes of roses. It was a three story structure and not a candle flickered in any of its windows. The physical address listed it was 99 Bedlam Street. But despite it's well kept lawns and surrounded by tall redwood trees it remained a dark and seemingly abandoned place.

However, if one where to venture into the building they would find both a hidden staircase and an elevator leading to three sub levels. The first floor was rather plainly furnished and featured an expansive library that reached up to the second floor. The top floor featured numerous bed rooms and an expansive balcony. The first sub level once you ventured down would see several rooms reminiscent to labs. High tech communications suites and plenty of storage place while connecting to a subterranean garage. The entrance to this exiting to a small road winding into the hills. Moving down onto the second level you would find a second library. But this one was smaller and the books seemingly of a more arcane nature. Tables and chairs surrounded pentagramic wards carved elegantly into the stone floors. Numerous alchemical flasks full of various colored fluids compliment shelves of ingredients pertaining to the most exotic of nature.

Finally descending even further one would find private chambers. A bedroom, foyer, and all manner of accountrements one would need to live comfortable. In an annex opposite the bedroom sat a coffin. Black. Numerous gold inlays in flowing script of a long forgotten language wound along its smooth lacquered panels.

*pat pat pat pat*

The pat of souled feet hitting the smooth flagstones suddenly died as they hit the carpeted flooring of the underground apartment rooms. The man, suited, with pale skin paused at the threshold to the annex with the coffin. Flames sprung in the holders along the walls and desk situated in the corner. A small plain iron chandelier hanging from a ceiling mount flared to life. Its electrical lighting adding a yellow haze to the orange-yellow flickers of the candlelight. The man stiffened his back and looked as if at attention. The coffin lid slid slowly and gracefull to the side. Touching the carpeted floor without so much as a sound. A slender hand grasped the lip of the coffin. A woman briskly, gracefully, flashed from the coffin to the lip of it. Her slender feet standing on the lip of the coffin. Arms at her sides. She had not even bent her torso t to get up. As if some mysterious power had hoisted her up and then verticle for her to stand on the lip of the coffin. She gazed gaily at the man for a moment. Her flowing white night gown draped about her.

"Kai. It is early. Speak." Her words were like honey. But with the authority of a mountain. She raised her right hand to her face as if scrutinizing her nails. The man in the suit bowed lightly to the woman and began to speak, "John has returned. Mission accomplished as usual. The rogues have been dealt with. Jakkar and his Ventrue do remain at large but have not made any moves against you. The Primogen have a few petitions on offices needing to be filled. I have deposited them onto your desk back at your Residence for your official purview."

The woman looked at Kai. "Most excellent. Jakkar will be dealt with in time. He will submit or perish it makes no difference. Do you have anything else to report?" Kai bowed again, "No my Prince," and he turned on his heels. Stepping with measured precision out of the room and up the staircase. The woman lowered her hand and gracefully stepped onto the carpet. She had a city to run and appointments to keep after all.