Masquerade: Midsummer Nights (Apply in OOC)

[Luminesa]

There was still something haunted in Radcliffe's grey eyes: something caught in tension between revulsion and empathy, unable to flee to the safety of either. He smiled a little at Mikhailov's question. "A condition," he repeated. "All right. I'll consider it. As for the plan: this operation is under VASCU jurisdiction - my arm of the FBI. And I am the ranking VASCU agent on site." Radcliffe took a small cloth from a pocket of his tweed coat, and polished the lenses of his glasses. "Whatever my fellow agents want, they'll do as I say. And besides" - here the agent allowed himself a small smile - "unpopular as I may be, I still doubt any of my colleagues would burn down the funeral home with me inside it."

"So what I need you to do is get me inside the building. Take me to Silvanus. Without security noticing." Radcliffe's fingers tapped the leather of his briefcase thoughtfully. "Just me. If I wanted to get a SWAT team inside, I would be going through the front wall with an armored vehicle and calling in LAPD helicopters. But then a lot of people would die, and I'd like to resolve this without that happening. If I can." Radcliffe glanced thoughtfully across the cell at Mikhailov, and spoke slowly, with obvious care in choosing his words. "Understand, Mister Mikhailov, that I am a law enforcement officer. But the nature of my jurisdiction means that my first responsibility is the protection of the public, not the punishment of the guilty." Radcliffe's gaze was steady. "What happened at the Coven of Purple Hearts - that can't happen again. As long as that is assured, I have some - latitude - in deciding whether or not to make an arrest."

With that, the agent stood. "I have a feeling that that may have answered your condition. But if not, then let's hear it. For obvious reasons, I'd like to do this while we still have the daylight." Radcliffe looked down at the mage. "Will you help us end this without any more bloodshed, Mister Mikhailov? For all our sakes?"

"Would be rather foolish for them to burn their superior to a crisp. Though it's rather hard to see how you're not respectable. You follow the law, you use your abilities for good, and I can't say that you've used cruel and unusual punishment against me..." Mikhailov chuckled. He continued to think for a moment. Silvanus, no matter what, could probably withstand a VASCU onslaught, especially if he could withstand Anna's punishment of a hundred fiery lashes. Yet he did not want to lose his own tenuous standing with Silvanus. He had a chance to do something, anything, but he did not have any plans. Solitary confinement was quite the drug, even if he had only been in the cell for a few hours.

Fortunately, Radcliffe mentioned he would be the only person coming into the building with him. Silvanus could kill the FBI officer without a thought, and even some of his Dolls probably could withstand him. Yet Mikhailov still did not know if Radcliffe being dead would be helpful. After all, even if he was not respected by his fellow agents, he was a good man. His face would be plastered on the news, and Mikhailov would be a wanted man. At the same time, even if Radcliffe was the only man to enter, the rest of the agents would be outside, ready to shoot anything that came out of the building. So Mikhailov could not simply escape through the back-he would be seen and sniped. All he wanted was to reach Silvanus and to maybe get reinforcements of some kind. To that end, he would, unfortunately, have to take a risk. A very dangerous risk.

"...My only condition...is that I need the cuffs to be off when I lead you into the building. I can't open any doors or lead you where you need to go with...these." He demonstrated by holding-up the cumbersome anti-Magic cuffs on his wrists. "I don't have any weapons on me. I have no armor. I'm not even wearing a vest. I just need these off, and I can lead you wherever you want me to go." He gave Radcliffe a blank, earnest expression, leaning forward to show he was being honest. "...Considering he might not even be awake, you could very well try, but if you need to get in during the daytime, I'm your best bet." A weight, a time-bomb, sunk deeper into his stomach, ticking and boiling. Yet he did not reveal his stress. He only hoped that Radcliffe would adhere to his request, and that Silvanus would understand his actions.

[Imperialisium]

Katarina
"I do not know. I just know that there was a battle. An assault by the Vatican's lapdogs on the Progenitor's residence. I cannot tell you more and quite frankly there is not more that I could say." voiced Katarina softly. Katarina got up and walked to a door opposite of Alexei's bed and opened it. Turning around she held a wheelchair. It was finely made with a polished steel frame and black leather seating. She motioned it over to Alexei, and knelt to gently lift up a corner of his bandages, "The ointment is working wonderfully. There will not be an infection so long as it is kept clean. Would you like to go for a cruise around the grounds? No, attempts at escape though or you'll probably confined to an oubliette from one of the towers." Whether that last bit was serious or not was uncertain. But she stood by the wheelchair for him to sit in if he so chose.

Raziyon

Raziyon walked between the two squads of Rothai gathered before one of their number bearing a staff tipped with a gleaming crystalline blade. They were checking, loading, and readying their repeating crossbows while some did sheathed swords and axes. A Rothai hefting a fierce looking battle axe stepped forward and looked at his superior from under his steel helm, "We not bringing the Pope's pet?" Raziyon gave his subordinate a sideways glance, "If we need him Beaufort, we will send for him, but Lady Angelos is smarter than all of us. If she escaped, we will find her, and bring her home." Raziyon was confident in his words that only a seasoned veteran could be. "Reinhardt." The Rothai with the staff and bearing a longsword at his hip nodded. Tapping his staff and mumbling an incantation while holding a vial of vitae. He let a couple drops splash on the ground where they moved of their own accord to form a rune. Immediately, a blueish portal crackling with energy formed in front of the assembled Rothai. Raziyon, Reinhardt, Beaufort then the rest of their troop walked through the portal without word.

John

John took the pistol and nodded to Jonah. They needed to play this smart and not go galivanting off into a probable trap. John instead immediately checked the gun over, magazine, and readied it for firing before flicking the safety back on. He was precise, smooth, and trained in his motions. Stowing the side arm he grunted an affirmative to Jonah on getting the introductions underway. He'd not dealt directly with the Kuei-Jin. So he'd defer to Jonah for this.

Quest: Clan of Madness

The Malkavians would find no opposition until they actually entered the abandoned crypts half hidden by growth in the forested landscape. Forgotten ruins from a past time in the regions history. As the two scouts entered there was silence. One minute passed. Then another, and another after that. It was too long. An amber glow began to manifest from the crypt entrance and rapidly approach. Fire! an explosion, almost like a flamethrower, ripped from the crypt to bathe the surrounding area in fire. A trio of Dolls too close became immolated in the flames. It was so quick and sudden they had no time to cry out as their roasting bodies crumpled into a bubbling, smoldering, still burning flesh heap on the forest ground. Scorching the ground around the crypt entrance. Was it a trap? Was there more? There was no movement at first. Then the solemn groans and shuffling legs of a slow moving group could be heard. As the dim light of the rising moon began to strike the crypt entrance, not that Silvanus or the actual vampires with him needed it to see in the dark, they bore witness to a shambling horde of zombies. The mindless undead, at least thirty strong, in old rags from the Spanish era of California. Came shambling out, their yawning jaws bearing yellow teeth, the roots seen from pulled back, half rotted flesh, their skin stretched like too thin plaster over their skulls. A sickly green hue with gentle wisps of half broken down hair giving a visual texture of steel wool.

Gangrel Meat Factory/ Connor and Group

The ambush of the truck went smoothly. Having waited for the truck to leave the food processing plant was a smart move. It gave them time and went according to plan. As the Garou disposed of the Kindred corpses and began to make ready to leave. The crack of a bolt action rifle cried out. A nearby Garou's neck exploded in a fountain of blood and bone fragments. The shock on it's face was evident as it clutched the wound before slumping to it's knees, gurgling red ichor, eyes wide in shock as his brain registered what had just happened. A second crack and a 7.62 round buried itself in the side of the truck not far from Connor's head. Whether a Gangrel sentry had noticed the truck, heard the crash, or what not could not be gleaned. But what mattered was that the garrison was now outside of the factory and was beginning to light up the Garou in a torrent of 7.62 and 5.56 rounds. Wielding AKs, Mk16s, and M4 carbines fitted with scopes, magnification, for the vampires did not need night vision goggles to see in the dark. The Gangrel began to spray quite liberally magazine after magazine at the Werewolves. Connor was out of time and no doubt the Gangrel had called in reinforcements.

[Luminesa]

Katarina
"I do not know. I just know that there was a battle. An assault by the Vatican's lapdogs on the Progenitor's residence. I cannot tell you more and quite frankly there is not more that I could say." voiced Katarina softly. Katarina got up and walked to a door opposite of Alexei's bed and opened it. Turning around she held a wheelchair. It was finely made with a polished steel frame and black leather seating. She motioned it over to Alexei, and knelt to gently lift up a corner of his bandages, "The ointment is working wonderfully. There will not be an infection so long as it is kept clean. Would you like to go for a cruise around the grounds? No, attempts at escape though or you'll probably confined to an oubliette from one of the towers." Whether that last bit was serious or not was uncertain. But she stood by the wheelchair for him to sit in if he so chose.

Raziyon

Raziyon walked between the two squads of Rothai gathered before one of their number bearing a staff tipped with a gleaming crystalline blade. They were checking, loading, and readying their repeating crossbows while some did sheathed swords and axes. A Rothai hefting a fierce looking battle axe stepped forward and looked at his superior from under his steel helm, "We not bringing the Pope's pet?" Raziyon gave his subordinate a sideways glance, "If we need him Beaufort, we will send for him, but Lady Angelos is smarter than all of us. If she escaped, we will find her, and bring her home." Raziyon was confident in his words that only a seasoned veteran could be. "Reinhardt." The Rothai with the staff and bearing a longsword at his hip nodded. Tapping his staff and mumbling an incantation while holding a vial of vitae. He let a couple drops splash on the ground where they moved of their own accord to form a rune. Immediately, a blueish portal crackling with energy formed in front of the assembled Rothai. Raziyon, Reinhardt, Beaufort then the rest of their troop walked through the portal without word.

John

John took the pistol and nodded to Jonah. They needed to play this smart and not go galivanting off into a probable trap. John instead immediately checked the gun over, magazine, and readied it for firing before flicking the safety back on. He was precise, smooth, and trained in his motions. Stowing the side arm he grunted an affirmative to Jonah on getting the introductions underway. He'd not dealt directly with the Kuei-Jin. So he'd defer to Jonah for this.

Quest: Clan of Madness

The Malkavians would find no opposition until they actually entered the abandoned crypts half hidden by growth in the forested landscape. Forgotten ruins from a past time in the regions history. As the two scouts entered there was silence. One minute passed. Then another, and another after that. It was too long. An amber glow began to manifest from the crypt entrance and rapidly approach. Fire! an explosion, almost like a flamethrower, ripped from the crypt to bathe the surrounding area in fire. A trio of Dolls too close became immolated in the flames. It was so quick and sudden they had no time to cry out as their roasting bodies crumpled into a bubbling, smoldering, still burning flesh heap on the forest ground. Scorching the ground around the crypt entrance. Was it a trap? Was there more? There was no movement at first. Then the solemn groans and shuffling legs of a slow moving group could be heard. As the dim light of the rising moon began to strike the crypt entrance, not that Silvanus or the actual vampires with him needed it to see in the dark, they bore witness to a shambling horde of zombies. The mindless undead, at least thirty strong, in old rags from the Spanish era of California. Came shambling out, their yawning jaws bearing yellow teeth, the roots seen from pulled back, half rotted flesh, their skin stretched like too thin plaster over their skulls. A sickly green hue with gentle wisps of half broken down hair giving a visual texture of steel wool.

Gangrel Meat Factory/ Connor and Group

The ambush of the truck went smoothly. Having waited for the truck to leave the food processing plant was a smart move. It gave them time and went according to plan. As the Garou disposed of the Kindred corpses and began to make ready to leave. The crack of a bolt action rifle cried out. A nearby Garou's neck exploded in a fountain of blood and bone fragments. The shock on it's face was evident as it clutched the wound before slumping to it's knees, gurgling red ichor, eyes wide in shock as his brain registered what had just happened. A second crack and a 7.62 round buried itself in the side of the truck not far from Connor's head. Whether a Gangrel sentry had noticed the truck, heard the crash, or what not could not be gleaned. But what mattered was that the garrison was now outside of the factory and was beginning to light up the Garou in a torrent of 7.62 and 5.56 rounds. Wielding AKs, Mk16s, and M4 carbines fitted with scopes, magnification, for the vampires did not need night vision goggles to see in the dark. The Gangrel began to spray quite liberally magazine after magazine at the Werewolves. Connor was out of time and no doubt the Gangrel had called in reinforcements.

The Vatican's Lapdogs. Alexei sucked his breath, and his hands became cold. Maxwell, Reynolds, Hideyoshi, Manning...Arquart... He recalled begging for Anna to spare them, the night she had gone out, in her cold, black armor, and had fought the Jakkers that had gotten out-of-control. She had listened then, at least, but only because she apparently had a connection of sorts with Maxwell. Even as his body felt cold, his chest felt it would burst into flames. Did Maxwell...did he kill her? He guessed she was the only one beside Arquart who could fight her, and given that he had wished to save Alexei at some point, perhaps he still wanted to uphold his part of that promise after all. The fire in his chest traveled up his throat, but Katarina's soothing touch seemed to calm him somehow. She informed him that his wounds were healing, and he nodded.

"...Yes, I...I'll try to keep them clean. But please...don't refer to the Inquisitors that way. Even as Anna has chosen me for...whatever she may...and I have lost my place among them...I shall always be one of them. One of them...has been a father to me. We never got to speak...That was all I wanted..." The fire sped back up to the back of his throat, but he stopped himself. He shook his head, and turned to the wheelchair. Maybe some fresh air would help him to think. Of course, escaping now would be nigh impossible, unless a miracle came upon him. He could always pray. "...I will not try anything. I suppose being wheeled around the grounds is...better than lying in bed..." He tried to get out of the bed, but his leg was still in tremendous pain, and he felt as though someone had touched his skin to hot coals. He grimaced, but managed to flop into the wheelchair, breathing heavily. "...Thank you..." Despite her coldness, she had healed his leg, and he owed her at least a small bit of gratitude. He breathed the words as he could not say much else.

[Reverend Norv]

Radcliffe's gaze was steady and assessing through his old-fashioned glasses, and when Mikhailov's expression turned blank and earnest, one corner of the FBI agent's mouth quirked upward in dry, dark amusement: he was not buying the act. Still, Radcliffe waited for Mikhailov to finish speaking before he replied. The man chose his words carefully, but with the unmistakable tone of a parent who knows exactly what his misbehaving child is trying to hide.

"You must remember, Mister Mikhailov," Radcliffe said gently, "that we are connected now, you and I. I have seen you as fully and completely as anyone ever has. I know perfectly well that if I take those cuffs off, you don't need any weapons or body armor. I know it because you know it - and what you know, I know." Radcliffe sighed slightly. "I also know that you are - unpredictable, even to yourself. Your loyalties are in flux. And if you have access to your powers, you may alert Silvanus the moment we approach. You may do it without even having planned it."

"But," Radcliffe shrugged, "I also know that even in daylight, there is no getting in there without your help, or without a shootout. So I accept your condition." The agent took a high-tech handcuff key from the pocket of his corduroys. "You should know, though, Mister Mikhailov, that I will know if you decide to betray me. I will know it because what you know, I know. And if that happens, I will shoot you in the head before you can even begin to think of a spell." Radcliffe raised his eyebrows, and then bent to unlock Mikhailov's handcuffs; as they fell into Radcliffe's waiting palm, the mage would feel his connection to the Supernal Realm come rushing back. "I hope that doesn't happen, sir," the agent concluded. "But that's fair warning."

"Now," Radcliffe told Mikhailov as he checked his watch, "I need you to wait here. I'll be back inside half an hour. I just need to make my other preparations." The agent picked up his briefcase, and walked quickly to the door. As the guard outside opened the heavy steel portal, Radcliffe glanced back at Mikhailov and offered a single, serious nod. "Thank you," he said softly. Then the door swung shut behind him, and he was gone.

Five minutes later, Radcliffe walked briskly into the FBI armory where Higgins, Graves, Powell, and the others were loading up. He was wearing a plate carrier under his tweed blazer now, and there was an intimidating-looking DP-12 shotgun slung from his shoulder. In his other hand, Radcliffe was carrying a heavy duffel bag, which he placed at the feet of the waiting law enforcement officers.

"All right," the VASCU agent said calmly. "I understand that you are probably feeling in way over your heads." Radcliffe pushed a lock of greying brown hair back off his brow. "That's good. That will keep you humble, and humility will keep you alive. We are all in way over our heads when it comes to this stuff, and we're learning as we go along. But the basic rules still apply. Stick together, watch each other's backs, and we'll be okay."

"Now, here's the plan." Radcliffe fed strange-looking shells into the dual magazines of his shotgun. "The funeral home is highly secured and heavily defended. The prisoner, Konstantin Mikhailov, knows a way inside that won't turn this raid into Waco two-point-oh, right in the middle of Los Angeles. I'm going to go inside with him. I'm going to try to talk the guy responsible for all of this into turning himself in, or at a minimum leaving LA. Old West stuff." A momentary wry smile raced across Radcliffe's face. "Failing that, I guess I'll try to shoot him."

"Now, here is what I need from you guys." Radcliffe used the toe of his shoe to push open the bag that he had placed at Graves' feet. Inside were three distinctly nonstandard weapons, by FBI standards: Milkor multiple-grenade launchers. "I need you on top of the building across the street from the funeral home. If you hear one click on your radios, I want you to unload these onto the funeral home and blow its whole roof to smithereens." Radcliffe's gaze moved steadily from face to face. "We are dealing with vampires here, folks, as hard as that may be to believe. If this goes bad with me inside, the only chance I have of getting out is to expose the whole inside of the building to sunlight as quickly as possible. Best way to do that is to blow off the roof." The VASCU agent shrugged ruefully. "After that, cordon off the site, and arrest anyone who runs out who isn't me. It's not quite our SOPs, but this isn't a standard operation."

"All right." Radcliffe nodded firmly. "We're burning daylight. Let's go get Mikhailov from holding, and get this done." He hefted his shotgun. "Just remember the plan, and we'll all come home alive."

[Finsternia]

Silvanus
Quest: Clan of Madness

A minute passed. Another went by. Three. Four. Five... Silvanus stared at the small opening and focused his sight towards the scouts, trying to connect to their consciousness, before being engulfed by heat. His Auspex retracted back and he hissed as fire erupted out of the grave entrance. Three sentry Dolls were destroyed by the flames and their bodies caught aflame and burned. Shrapnels of fire and scorched rocks tumbled out and red starts to creep into Silvanus' chartreuse green eyes. His fangs lengthen, his nails grew into wicked claws, and his face became almost bestial like, before he sharply turned towards his fellow Malkavians who balked at the flame. Silvanus screamed in a way too shrill for human ears to hear, and the Malkavians snapped out of their stupor.

Silvanus faced the burnt entrance again and he heard the groans. Immediately, bone armor covered his body, and his physique became more monstrous and predatory. It was like as if a Velociraptor and the Xenomorph Queen had a child, with six compound eyes, a fanged maw, a sturdy body covered in bone armor reminiscent of plate mail, powerful legs that could cross a field in a blink of an eye, terrible claws, a pair of leathery wings, and six, segmented tails that seem to look like spines, with each giant razor sharp vertebrae having an armored blood shot eye. His right hand held a mystical sword of bone, curved and cruel, and his other hand is free to tear apart the enemy. Soon the enemy revealed themselves, being shambling corpses reanimated by some sort of necromantic magic. Silvanus, now in his Chiropteran Maurader form, sent psychic signals to his forces.

'ATHANATOS! AIM FOR THEIR HEADS AND FIRE!'

Silent rounds of bullets shot down, piercing through the heads of the shambling undead. Some staggered, some fell as their brain matter were blown off their skulls, yet those who were downed are still twitching to get up. The Dolls suited for close combat engaged melee with their bladed claws and arms. Thirty of these undead, which Silvanus has identified as the Athanatos, are still formidable. Soon, the Elder joined the melee. As soon as he kicked off the dirt, his speed was impossible to follow. Naught but his afterimage is to be observed as his blade sang with sweet melodious slashes, clean cuts that severed head from neck, bisected torsos from hip to shoulder. His free hand grabbed one by the head and crushed its skull with his sheer strength. His spine like tails whirled and cur through the undead. One managed to raise its fist and punch against the Elder head on, but its arm immediately twisted and exploded into bits of rotten flesh and bone, before getting dismembered by Silvanus' swift carnage.

Soon the first line of defense were destroyed and Silvanus had his men take the bodies and set them on fire somewhere safe and hidden. 'Giovanni or Cappadocian... What are you hidding...' The Malkavian Elder assembled his troops to accompany him. Ten Dolls, three of his Ancilla, and himself are going to breech into the crypts. The Dolls would arrange themselves in a circle around and in front of Silvanus and the three Ancilla will stay behind him to secure the back. As soon as they got in, Silvanus' eyes glowed the shine of red, and Auspex and the Eyes of Madness are activated together to find traps and the source of the flame from before and to sense any coming danger.

[Luminesa]

Radcliffe's gaze was steady and assessing through his old-fashioned glasses, and when Mikhailov's expression turned blank and earnest, one corner of the FBI agent's mouth quirked upward in dry, dark amusement: he was not buying the act. Still, Radcliffe waited for Mikhailov to finish speaking before he replied. The man chose his words carefully, but with the unmistakable tone of a parent who knows exactly what his misbehaving child is trying to hide.

"You must remember, Mister Mikhailov," Radcliffe said gently, "that we are connected now, you and I. I have seen you as fully and completely as anyone ever has. I know perfectly well that if I take those cuffs off, you don't need any weapons or body armor. I know it because you know it - and what you know, I know." Radcliffe sighed slightly. "I also know that you are - unpredictable, even to yourself. Your loyalties are in flux. And if you have access to your powers, you may alert Silvanus the moment we approach. You may do it without even having planned it."

"But," Radcliffe shrugged, "I also know that even in daylight, there is no getting in there without your help, or without a shootout. So I accept your condition." The agent took a high-tech handcuff key from the pocket of his corduroys. "You should know, though, Mister Mikhailov, that I will know if you decide to betray me. I will know it because what you know, I know. And if that happens, I will shoot you in the head before you can even begin to think of a spell." Radcliffe raised his eyebrows, and then bent to unlock Mikhailov's handcuffs; as they fell into Radcliffe's waiting palm, the mage would feel his connection to the Supernal Realm come rushing back. "I hope that doesn't happen, sir," the agent concluded. "But that's fair warning."

"Now," Radcliffe told Mikhailov as he checked his watch, "I need you to wait here. I'll be back inside half an hour. I just need to make my other preparations." The agent picked up his briefcase, and walked quickly to the door. As the guard outside opened the heavy steel portal, Radcliffe glanced back at Mikhailov and offered a single, serious nod. "Thank you," he said softly. Then the door swung shut behind him, and he was gone.

Five minutes later, Radcliffe walked briskly into the FBI armory where Higgins, Graves, Powell, and the others were loading up. He was wearing a plate carrier under his tweed blazer now, and there was an intimidating-looking DP-12 shotgun slung from his shoulder. In his other hand, Radcliffe was carrying a heavy duffel bag, which he placed at the feet of the waiting law enforcement officers.

"All right," the VASCU agent said calmly. "I understand that you are probably feeling in way over your heads." Radcliffe pushed a lock of greying brown hair back off his brow. "That's good. That will keep you humble, and humility will keep you alive. We are all in way over our heads when it comes to this stuff, and we're learning as we go along. But the basic rules still apply. Stick together, watch each other's backs, and we'll be okay."

"Now, here's the plan." Radcliffe fed strange-looking shells into the dual magazines of his shotgun. "The funeral home is highly secured and heavily defended. The prisoner, Konstantin Mikhailov, knows a way inside that won't turn this raid into Waco two-point-oh, right in the middle of Los Angeles. I'm going to go inside with him. I'm going to try to talk the guy responsible for all of this into turning himself in, or at a minimum leaving LA. Old West stuff." A momentary wry smile raced across Radcliffe's face. "Failing that, I guess I'll try to shoot him."

"Now, here is what I need from you guys." Radcliffe used the toe of his shoe to push open the bag that he had placed at Graves' feet. Inside were three distinctly nonstandard weapons, by FBI standards: Milkor multiple-grenade launchers. "I need you on top of the building across the street from the funeral home. If you hear one click on your radios, I want you to unload these onto the funeral home and blow its whole roof to smithereens." Radcliffe's gaze moved steadily from face to face. "We are dealing with vampires here, folks, as hard as that may be to believe. If this goes bad with me inside, the only chance I have of getting out is to expose the whole inside of the building to sunlight as quickly as possible. Best way to do that is to blow off the roof." The VASCU agent shrugged ruefully. "After that, cordon off the site, and arrest anyone who runs out who isn't me. It's not quite our SOPs, but this isn't a standard operation."

"All right." Radcliffe nodded firmly. "We're burning daylight. Let's go get Mikhailov from holding, and get this done." He hefted his shotgun. "Just remember the plan, and we'll all come home alive."

Radcliffe had seen through Mikhailov’s thought-process without so much as a blink. The Mage wanted to cringe, but he knew that he had allowed Radcliffe to interrogate him, and he had paid the price. The way the agent looked at him was both kind but cold. He was still an agent, and one who would not hesitate to kill him, if he did not aid him in getting into the funeral home. He almost wished he had given his more intimate thoughts to someone else, but he knew he had not had much of a choice in the matter.

“...I should add then that using Spells around normal humans would cause me more harm than it would cause you,” Mikhailov added, as the man reached for a key in his pocket. So he was indeed going to release him. The Mage was a little surprised, but said nothing. Upon feeling the Supernal Realm rush back, he felt as though his soul had re-entered his body. The pulse, the rhythm of magic flowing in his veins, the warmth of light. He took a deep breath, his body ecstatic to be whole again. “...You have...nothing to worry about,” he spoke, more soft and docile than he had intended. He gazed at the agent, and he lingered in the room to say, ‘Thank you’. Something about his sad gaze, which could turn to steel at any moment, held the Mage’s gaze, and he smiled in return. Maybe his mind was still influenced by the timid vision of Radcliffe in his mind. He wished for a moment that the man was not an Agent, but as his mind started to wander, he shook his head and returned his focus to now.

When Radcliffe left the room, Mikhailov knew that he had a limited amount of time to think, if he could now think at all. Thirty minutes. That time could feel like an eternity. The weight of the upcoming raid began to tug on him. Silvanus would not be awake, and so he did not know if Radcliffe would walk right to him and shoot him. No, possibly not. He put his boots on, and stared at the wall. Solitary confinement was such a horrid punishment. He had tried to sleep the first few hours away, but sitting in the trapped silence now was even more dangerous. Even worse, his vision of Alexei was gone.

And anything could happen no matter where he entered the Funeral home. Mikhailov might not have to do anything at all, for Radcliffe to find himself in danger. Yet he did not know. For once, he was uncertain, and he closed his eyes. He thought about praying, something he had not done in many years. None of his ideas for prayers, anyway, were things he wanted answered. Except one. He bowed his head and prayed in Russian, so no passersby would understand what he was saying. God, give me a vision...A glimpse into the eternal. I only wish for the vision I need now, not for the one I need tomorrow. Tomorrow is its own demon...

[Kingdom of Irhk]

Gangrel Meat Factory/ Connor and Group

The ambush of the truck went smoothly. Having waited for the truck to leave the food processing plant was a smart move. It gave them time and went according to plan. As the Garou disposed of the Kindred corpses and began to make ready to leave. The crack of a bolt action rifle cried out. A nearby Garou's neck exploded in a fountain of blood and bone fragments. The shock on it's face was evident as it clutched the wound before slumping to it's knees, gurgling red ichor, eyes wide in shock as his brain registered what had just happened. A second crack and a 7.62 round buried itself in the side of the truck not far from Connor's head. Whether a Gangrel sentry had noticed the truck, heard the crash, or what not could not be gleaned. But what mattered was that the garrison was now outside of the factory and was beginning to light up the Garou in a torrent of 7.62 and 5.56 rounds. Wielding AKs, Mk16s, and M4 carbines fitted with scopes, magnification, for the vampires did not need night vision goggles to see in the dark. The Gangrel began to spray quite liberally magazine after magazine at the Werewolves. Connor was out of time and no doubt the Gangrel had called in reinforcements.

Connor Mac Domhnaill

Luck. The Lady of All Ladies, the cruel damsel that flirted and shoved them away according to her unguessable wishes. As the truck was finally placed back on the road, a bullet crossed the night and found its way to a fellow Garou's head, killing him instantly.

Yet the same Luck who placed a bullet in the Garou's head, decided that another bullet from another weapon wouldn't meet his head. Instead it stopped on the truck, right next to the Garou leader, who quickly shouted at them to take cover.

As the orders were shouted, three Garou entered the front of the truck, slowly speeding it up as the Garou created distance and offered them cover.

"FIANNA! WE GOT WHAT WE WANTED! LET'S GO!"

Connor jumped in the back of the truck, sharing the space with the boxes and spraying fire at the enemy lines as his men changed forms and ran coordinately, away from the enemy fire. As one of the truck's doors were closed, at the last very moment, a wolf jumped at the door, before launching himself inside. Now, once more, the iconic duo was reunited.

Using a small windshield behind the cargo part, the orders were clear. Run away with the truck, before they were surrounded with Gangrel.

[Parcia]

The White Lotus.

With some time for the two to properly feed them selves, they would be summoned by a small women in a Kimono. Waving for him to fallow, they would walk down an ever winding set of halls and corridors that would, some how, lead to a large set of doors. Taking a moment to knock, a old, withered voice answered. "You may enter."

Pushing the impossibly large doors open wide, revealing a large wide open air terrace set in the rear of the White Lotus's pagoda style tower. While the rain had settled down by this point, it still fell in a light sheet. Jonah spoke as the men made there way through the garden that made up the terrace. "Master Wang is a near mythical figure in the Eastern Underground and is the man who put my head back together when I came out of the Fae's realm. Nearing his 70s, he's as fit as you or I and is a great deal more lethal then the two of us combined...I once watched as he confronted and staked a pair of Nosfuratu in a restaurant...with fucking chop sticks."

Giving the darkling a little time to process that information, he continued. "It would be in both of our's best interest to keep his graces as while he does owe me for past deeds, he will not hesitate to tech you our I a lesson if he deems so...Oh, and he's only a regular Human, should have lead with that..." turning a corner they would come to see the elder master sitting in a lotus position, bare foot and bare chested on a silk pillow.

Taking to fallowing custom, Jonah would sink down to his knees and give his former master a deep bow, motioning for John to do the same. Master Wang would be the first to speak. "Tell me young Jonah, who is it you bring before me." Raising from the bow Jonah spoke. "John Korvinus, a darkling changeling and former right hand of the...late Tremer Prince Anasztazia Angelos. He is like I when you found me, a soul adrift in the sea of Chaos."

Master Wang nodded. "I know of the Prince, and of her favored Crow. While I trust your judgment, my student, but I would like to ask as to why this man is worthy of my protection and that of the Kuei-Jin." John would find the grey eyed glare fall on his own.

[Luminesa]

Mikhailov reached first for a shirt, dazed and dizzy, as he awakened in his room. He found something cloth-like on his bed, a white button-down that he dragged off his bedpost and threw over himself. He did not even have the energy to rise, this morning, as a naked arm reached from under warm bedsheets and switched-off his alarm. Five more minutes, he breathed, yet those five minutes would pass as soon as he closed his eyes again. As he knew his efforts were futile, he sat upright and fumbled for the buttons on his shirt. He knew it was somewhat wrinkled, and he would fix that later. After he got his eyes open.

A grey sky met his gaze as he looked out his window. Russia was such a grey place, at least as he remembered most of it. His own apartment was also quite grey. Barren. The word was such an ugly one, and he sighed as he stared at his surroundings. He muttered something under his breath, and then pulled himself out the bed. Onto his feet and into a pair of pants he found. Why he was so unsteady, he was not sure. He looked at the bed behind him-nobody had been in it beside himself. He did not have nightmares, just a dull, deep sleep to kill the pain of yesterday. He pulled the covers off, just to check, and he sighed. He did not realize why he sighed, but knew that he hated how he awakened this morning, shivering and vulnerable.

He had wished for a dream the night before. He could down cheap vodka with his co-workers without breaking a sweat, but dreams and visions to him were sweeter than the alcohol he consumed in seedy Moscow bars. He hated the taste of hollowness that it left in his mouth. At least when he had visions he felt like himself. But something about today had left him more empty than usual. He sat on the side of his bed and ignored the clock ticking to 6:15 AM. Shadows fell through his room, as the sun tried to peek through the cloudy sky, and a single shadow fell over his hand.

“...Ngh...why am I wasting so much time...I have work to do today...” Mikhailov rose to his feet and went through the motions of his morning routine. As he washed his face in the bathroom and brushed his teeth, he peeked down at his wrists. Four pink lines, jagged and heavy, on each wrist. They had been healing, but slowly. Four he could add to his total, if the other faded lines on his arms could show. He spit his toothpaste and sighed. Drinking and cutting did not work, and dreams escaped him. Nothing filled him with any sort of feeling, any sort of relief. He wished he could fall back into bed and never wake-up, but he was meant to continue living for some reason.

Just as he finished getting ready, he went to grab his suitcase, and he looked on his nightstand. A tiny gold ring sat on the stand, looking back at him, gleaming. The once-joyful symbol, now a constant reminder of the reason for his emptiness. He walked toward the ring, and held it in his hand. If only he could give it to someone else, and lose his burden forever, but nobody would understand, he reasoned. Nobody would understand but him. Mikhailov slipped the ring back on his own finger, and stared at it. He then grabbed his gloves, the white gloves he wore as a habit and as a part of his work, and he pulled them over his hands, hiding the ring from everyone but himself. He then took his suitcase and walked out into the bleak morning, alone.

Sitting in an equally bleak prison-cell, Mikhailov awakened from the sudden vision, and realized he had been given a memory instead of a dream. He recalled that day, and he exhaled slowly, as though he feared he might panic, even if he was not the kind to panic. He cradled his left hand in his right, feeling the ring around his ring finger. An unconscious motion, one he never did with anyone watching. Yet now he knew Radcliffe had seen the same vision, and Silvanus knew his very soul. He sighed. Today would be the end of the past, he had decided. Today he would start again. Whether those words meant hope or despair all depended on the next several hours.

[Fascist Republic Of Bermuda]

-snip-

“Shit…” Higgins remarked, shaking his head, “Maybe the vamp’ll have a few ounces on him, I can haul him in for possession…” He had elected to wield an LWRC M6A2 carbine, having pulled on a vest with “DEA” clearly marked on it. Graves rolled her eyes at Higgins’ talking.

“Grenade launchers? That’s some serious ordnance…” Powell spoke up quietly, setting aside his Benelli M4 shotgun for a minute to pick up one of the Mikors and marvel at it.

“Right. Senior Agent Higgins, Sergeant Powell, take one each. I’ll take the third,” Graves took control of the situation quickly, directing her little cohort around. She nodded to the idea of putting them on a roof. “Alright, sounds like a plan. I’ll have some sharpshooters on other roofs to watch for runners. But let me get something clear, Agent Ratcliffe. If something goes wrong, the second that roof goes down, we’re going in. These people are responsible for a string of murders and crimes across this city, and when your cowboy play doesn’t work out we’re going to do this the hard way. If that’s clear, Agent, I've got nothing else to say.”

“Alright, team, saddle up, let's bust some bloodsuckers,” Higgins announced, putting on the duffel bag and grabbing his carbine as the SWAT team readied themselves.

[Reverend Norv]

Steve Radcliffe did not look like a hard man. He carried himself modestly. He didn't take up too much space. His clothes were worn and old-fashioned and stuffy. His glasses gave him an owlish mien, and he parted his hair with no gel, so it had a tendency to fall over his forehead in a soft wave.

And so Samantha Graves had every reason to be surprised by the steel in Radcliffe's voice when the older agent turned to her and spoke. "No," Radcliffe said flatly. "It's clear, but it's not going to happen." He shook his head. "The string of murders and crimes these folks committed? That's exactly what makes this a VASCU case. Under the Serial Crimes Act of 1953, the Vanguard Serial Crimes Unit can assert exclusive jurisdiction over cases involving three or more deaths in rapid succession." Radcliffe didn't raise his voice, but his tone brooked no argument. "That is precisely what I'm doing now. You are under my command, agent. If you can't abide it, then you don't have to come."

"You need to understand that I have reasons for what I'm doing." Radcliffe's tone softened slightly. "If you blow the roof off, anything inside there will have to flee the building, like maggots exposed to sunlight. If you are not in position to intercept the suspects, then they will escape into the city and cause untold damage. That's why I need you to hold position, and not to come charging into the building. You are the only thing standing between LA and God only knows how many monsters." The VASCU agent inclined his head. "And I also need you to understand, Agent Graves, that I will not always have the time to explain my reasoning like this. I need to know that you'll follow orders. Don't follow where I'm going if you can't make that commitment."

"So make your decision, but make it fast." Radcliffe checked his watch, and then hefted his DP-12. "I'm going to get the prisoner. I'll meet you at the raid site. If you're coming." The agent shrugged slightly, and a small rueful smile crossed his face. "For what it's worth, I hope you do."

* * *

It was about half past three in the afternoon when the federal taskforce invisibly descended on the funeral home. They showed up in unmarked cars, and parked a few blocks away, and moved to their positions in plainclothes. Graves, Higgins, and Powell ascended a fire escape to the roof of a seven-floor apartment building that overlooked the funeral home from across the street; sharpshooters, their rifles concealed in golf bags and guitar cases, took up positions atop several other buildings.

Steve Radcliffe parked his battered Chevy Impala on the far side of the apartment building, out of sight of the funeral home itself. He wore his plate carrier under his tweed blazer, and his advanced shotgun was in a large leather overnight bag at his side. Radcliffe pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. There was a studied looseness to his movements, the calm precision of a man accustomed to channeling and harnessing the discombobulating throb of adrenaline.

Radcliffe glanced at Mikhailov, who sat in the Chevy's passenger seat beside him. He glanced down at the ring on the Russian's finger, and then back at Mikhailov's face. Radcliffe's eyes were soft and sad, and the understanding in his look made any words redundant.

"Okay." The agent swung open his door and got out of his car, the sturdy leather bag dangling from one hand. He squinted up at the sun, still fiercely bright and hot in the cloudless California sky, and nodded. Then he tapped his earpiece. "Radio check. Graves, Higgins, please confirm. Remember: if you hear one click on this frequency, do what we discussed."

After a moment, Radcliffe looked back across the roof of the car at his companion. "Well, Mister Mikhailov, here we are. You and I need to go in there undetected, bypassing any defenses. That's the only way we end this without anyone getting killed." Radcliffe offered Mikhailov a respectful nod. "I'll follow your lead."

[Imperialisium]

Vaeghorod

Katarina rolled Alexei out of the building were he had been given medical attention and out into the courtyard. A pair of Gargoyles looked at the duo but otherwise paid them no heed. Letting Katarina wheel him about under an archway and down a side path onto a ramp. Moving him up to a section of the walls were he could get an excellent moonlit view of the valley, river, and other sections of the fortress. "Breathtaking, isn't it." mused Katarina. The moonlight was so clear and bright as it bathed the valley, mountains, and dense black forest encompassing the fortress with pale white light. The lanterns of human and ghoul servant abodes or workshops were lit while anywhere vampires more or less stayed were at best lit by torches if nothing at all. A squadron of bats flew over head and down towards the valley.

Gangrel Meet Processing Plant

As the truck sped away the Gangrel continued to spray magazine after magazine into the truck and at the rapidly retreating Garou. Yet, it kept on going. The Gangrel leader at the factory hollered and one of his compatriots hefted and set up a bipod. Slotting an M-107 material rifle and loaded a magazine of Raufoss Mk211 ammo. "Can you hit them?" said the Gangrel leader. His compatriot did not respond and merely looked down the 8x scope. Tracking the truck along the road as it sped away. The Gangrel fired twice in rapid succession. The first round tore through to the cab and crashed through the windshield. The second round struck the truck as it turned to make the corner in the road. Smashing through one of the doors and exiting the cab from the back and cutting through the transport container. Missed Connor both times.

"ugh..."A sickly moan as Derrick clutched his stomach. Slouching slowly to the ground as blood ran in crimson rivers down him into a rapidly expanding pool on the floor of the container truck. One of the rounds had struck him in the abdomen, severed his spinal column, and left a crater of a wound in his back as it continued on its course. Derrick would see red rapidly enclosing around his vision, Connor's face turning to horror at realization of what had occurred, and the warmth of his own vital fluids spilling out of him. His strength ebbing with every second as his eyes became heavy to lift open. Every blink was strenuous. Derrick Cann would die in the back of that transport truck at exactly 10:37PM, Pacific Standard Time.

Clan of Madness Questline

The source of the flame would actually be a magical glyph that slowly smoldered as it disappeared. Evidently, a one shot trap, all the while the traps would be seen by Silvanus disciplines as he advanced deeper in to the crypt with his Clan members and attendant dolls. Maneuvering around the traps or neatly disabling them which were all mundane ones. Bear traps, spikes, and trap floors. More likely to ward off human intruders than vampires.

As they wound deeper into the crypt they would see the usual rows of tombs and alcoves with skeletonal remains. No, doubt this site hadn't been disturbed in some time. Mainly, as Silvanus could surmise by the incredible layer of dust and debris literring every body, tomb, and alcove along with kicking up absolute grey mist with their foot falls on the rocky, uneven, floor. Eventually, they found themselves before a large circular chamber with a dais in the center. A tomb lay upon it. Open.

A terrifying screech, like a wild banshee mixed with a cat hissing, came from all sides. A ghostly shape wound into view. A Spectre. The invisible wail disappeared. Only to be replaced by a gnarled, waxen fleshed hand, that would grasp the rim of the open tomb. Hauling itself up was a figure in the tangled remnants of a priests robes. Blackened with dirt and age. His cap moldy and half in ruin. Its toothy maw below its eyeless sockets craned as if mouthing words. Immediately, the bodies in the crypts and alcoves began to stir. Rising from their resting places to launch themselves on the Primogen, dolls, and ancilla. All the while the embodied Spectre climbed out of the tomb and bore a gnarled staff with an upside down cross upon it. A sickly orange glow began to eminate from it. Fire. A stream of fire shot forth to bathe a pair of dolls in its flames. Their deaths and the abrupt showing of fire like that causing one of the ancilla to begin to flee in terror back the way they came.

Los Angeles

The Camarilla prides itself on being civil and polite. Allowing a Kindred society to form. A society of Vampires organized along lines of tradition and acknowledgement of your elders place above you. A hierarchy to keep the radical elements in line and allow Cainites to survive in these increasingly troubled times. Knowing full well what the revelation of their existence would cause in the teeming masses of Humanity. However, they were not above petty conflicts and the abrupt loss of a Prince, especially one that kept the rivalries of the various clan Primogen at a steady calm, was a recipe for unbridled internecine warfare. Normally, the Primogen would just elect from among their number or by simply who was eldest. Yet, in a situation were none of them liked each other. It was a matter of seizing power for yourself...

Beneath the Hyperion Water Treatment Plant

Bulehard, Primogen of the Nosferatu in Los Angeles, dropped the drained corpse of a local man. His latest meal. The rest of Clan Nosferatu gathered in the sewers and platforms of the treatment facility. "The other Clans will take what is rightfully ours should we do nothing!" Bulehard shouted to his compatriots, some his childer and grand childer, "But we will not let that happen! Not tonight! We bled driving the Sabbat from this city. We fought the war in the subterranean filth while our Camarilla allies fight in the moonlight. By virtue of our sacrifices we won this city!"

A chorus of cheers and affirmative snarls from the various Nosferatu. Each one more ghastly than the last. "Clan Malkavian has headed to one of the National Forests, as to why I do not care beyond that they are leaving the city, which gives us respite from them. Gangrel will not move into the urban landscape save in large numbers! The Toreadors and Ventrue are weak in number. Only Brujah stands in our way of dominating the city proper! Come with me!" Bulehard wiped excess blood off his face with a devilish grin and led the Clan deeper into the sewers. They would assault the Brujah whose base of operations was a selection of projects in Inglewood.

Inglewood

Curiously, enough, the Brujah were not in Inglewood. No, free from Prince Angelos reining them in about retaking Chinatown which they had lost to the Kuei-Jin in the late 90's. An unofficial peace that Angelos had maintained for whatever reason, was no in the eyes of Terrance Manning, null and void. So as the Nosferatu emerged to assault the projects. They would be met by only a handful of ghouls and fledgling Brujah. All of which would fall in a grisly display of ripped entrails, torn limbs, or when attempting to flee on a street be grabbed from a manhole cover and dragged into the depths of the sewers.

No, the majority of Clan Brujah had called in old favors and marshalled to converge on Chinatown from all sides. Arriving in the garb of LAPD officers and vans. Mostly, some came dressed in their usual punk style clouds, gang tattoos, and rode in old trucks or cars.

Chinatown
John

This was an ironic reversal of the events earlier this Summer when John had brought Jonah before Prince Angelos. "No one saw Prince Angelos die. Should I die she would not overlook that lightly. She had prevented the Camarilla from trying to retake Chinatown thus far, killing me or otherwise me vanishing in the company of Jonah who she undoubtedly could figure out his connections, would mean war. Thats not something either of--."

Krk-fleck

John pushed Jonah to the ground abruptly as an explosion went off in the room. Someone with a grenade launcher had popped one into the tower from over the terrace walls. The debris shot out in the direction of Master Wang, Jonah, and John. Another grenade fell and burst in th garden. Destroyed a patch of vegetation. Clink-clink-clink. Shouts and a sudden torrent of gunfire sounded from several directions of the Kuei-Jin held building. A white gas came out of three containers hurled over the walls. Filling the garden with noxious tear gas. John covered his mouth and drew his side arm. Readying the pistol he turned quickly and fired two rounds. Pulling head shots at two LAPD dressed men bursting through the terrace doors. Falling to the floor, unmoving, clearly not vampires.

The White Lotus

The doors to the White Lotus had been busted open by a battering ram. Flashbangs thrown in along with a couple fragmentation grenades. Terrence Manning led Clan Brujah into the Lotus while his lieutenants assaulted other Kuei-Jin locations in Chinatown. The Brujah were infamous brawlers and wasted no opportunity in going in close with the defending Kuei-jin and any human allies in the vicinity. The walls, floor, and ceiling would become gradually covered in arterial blood spray as the fighting seesawed around the establishment.

The Brujah cared little for finesse though. Content to blow holes in walls and did not have any qualms with murdering any civilians caught in the crossfire. At least, those of Manning's brood cared not for such trivial things like avoiding civilian losses. A geisha ran from a room down a hallway. Manning just raised a pistol and blew her brains over a pair of heavy doors. Pushing them open he would see Jonah, John, and Master Wang.

"What a happy reunion we have here. I was so worried that you two had died in the Prince's mansion." said Manning with sarcasm. A pair of Brujah neonates came up behind Manning and he waived them off. They moved back into the building to continue fighting the defenders.

An explosion blew out a sizable chunk of windows and wooden framing on the Northern side of the gardens terrace walls. "Gas. Very dangerous with bullets flying around amirite." said Manning with a smirk. Cracking his knuckles the vampire elder took a few more steps into the Garden. Turning his head idly he looked at the two bodies of dressed in the livery of the LAPD.

"You know killing cops is a felony right?" Noticing John's pistol was aimed at Manning. Manning walked slowly, casually, in a semicircle causing John to pivot to keep aiming at Manning. The Brujah Primogen seemed like he could care less about the battle raging around them. Looking at Jonah and Wang he spoke, giving a friendly wave, "Hey, Big Guy. Didn't see your cute girlfriend anywhere in there. Hope she made it out ok. Is that your Grandpa?"

Bang

Master Wang froze, looking down at the center of his chest as his chest began to spout a trickle of red. John looked back quickly then at Manning between gritted teeth as the elderly Master Wang slumped to his knees looking up at Jonah.

"Oops? Finger slipped." John fired three times. All would have been fatal with two the heart and one to the head but Manning seemed to just side step them. Celerity. John began to back up and didn't look at Jonah as he spoke, "Grab him we got to go!"

The battle continued to rage around them as bodies of Kuei-jin, Brujah, Ghoul, and Human began to pile up by the dozen throughout the White Lotus and other locations around Chinatown.

Silvanus' Funeral Parlor

The FBI team outside would not suffer any ill effects. Quite frankly it seemed like a lot of gear and weaponry for a funeral parlor, which, made a feeling of overkill prominent among them. But to VASCU they knew it was possibly not enough for what they could face. Behind Radcliffe and Mikhailov the other agents of VASCU formed up.

Silvanus had centered the Parlor's defenses around a dementation charm. Initially, they would suffer from failed spatial recognition or at least trouble focusing on staying cohesive. The VASCU agents would loose their spacing but not quite each other as time wore on. Despite the entrance to and grounds of the Parlor being normal. The foyer normal. The initial rooms normal. The feeling of dread and loss of spatial recognition would way heavily the more Mikhailov led them deeper into the Parlor. Further, Silvanus had placed explosive dolls in some of the support beams of the building and walls of the basement. Additionally, while there was little evidence of anything abnormal. There would be some bits of blood spattered clothes in a laundry room should VASCU find it. The blood belonging to a half dozen missing persons.

Yet, to VASCU the real prizes would be in the basement were some old musty tomes of vicissitude would be sitting on a work bench. Forgotten or simply believed to be useless to regular Humans and not needing be hid nor removed.

[Parcia]

The White Lotus
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KtMnDmuhKQs
He caught his master and Cradle him in his arms.

"Master Wang..." The Old man spat up some blood. "No, hush, fucking figures the one to do me in is the pussy footed blood sucker who lacks any semblance of honor...My Son, Jonah...remember what I taught you, pass your teaching on to that youngling, bring her up right..." He coughed again, and continued. "And my Son...Tígāo dìyù."

Setting his master down slowly, he sat his arms on the old mans chest and for the first time in 70 years, he shed a tear.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AkD6GxKY5z0

"Master Wu-Long Wang was a near Mythical man, a mere man capable of so much...so many. He put my head back together, taught me everything I know...this man was more a father to me then my own father was." Standing up slowly, he went on. "You know, he once staked a pair of Gangreal with a pair of...mother...fucking...Chopsticks!" With this last work Jonah Slaid turned to manning, drawing his .454 in a smooth motion that seemed a bit too fast for an ogre his size to pull off and pulling the trigger 12 times to empty the magazine, his face being one of a stony mask of pure, unfiltered focus, though it could be said one could see the fires of hell raging in his eyes.

He purposely spaced the shots out 4-5 inches to the left and right, letting the hefty recoil make his muzzle sway just enough to allow for more then a few shots would hit their target. Drawing his .44, leveled it on the man again and emptied another 6 .44 Hallow points at the Elder before ducking behind the cover of a nearby garden wall.

Quickly, the Changeling reloaded his .454 and his revolver. "Crow! Cross fire!"

Inside

Jennifer sat in the corner of her's and Jonah's room, aiming his massive shotgun at the door and bracing it's butt on the wall behind her. She had his .45 loaded and tucked in to her waist line and had rather quickly put on a spare Kevlar vest he had given her earlier after leaving with the other man. She could hear Gunshots and screams and it wouldn't be too far to say that she was scared.

[Luminesa]

Alexei

The cold mist that surrounded the mountain had first greeted Alexei in a cruel, intimidating way, when he had first arrived at Vaeghorod. Now, as the mist fell over his wounded body and face, a strange, ethereal sensation fell over him. Indeed, he felt already that he was in another world, but perhaps the taste of his deep, residual sadness and weariness made the soft chill a welcome feeling. Even more mystifying, the fog glowed against the moonlight, and gave the impression that countless lost souls were rising together from the verdant mountainside. Who knew what wars and what gory battles had been fought on these same grounds. The stories these daunting mountains held.

Katarina, fortunately, was gentle with her patient, as she wheeled him across the courtyard for him to look at the world below. Upon looking down at the haunted scenery, he felt his entire body gasp as he exhaled from his lungs, almost as though his own ghost was leaving his body in that moment. He had never seen anything so ominous, or so beautiful. He could feel the light of the moon reflecting off his face, off his eyes, his tired body, Katarina's beautiful face behind him, and off the world below, draping everything in a bright, celestial glow. The moonlight seemed to make the jagged edges and vast valleys of darkness look eerier, but also softer. Taking-in the world that he could see, he blinked. "...When I was little...I sometimes asked my mother what Europe was like...she lived in Moscow for much of her life, before I was born..." He did not know why he was telling Katarina his thoughts. Perhaps he needed to find a way to fill the majestic silence, to communicate the thoughts bundling in his mind, to keep from going insane. "...She often said parts of it were quite beautiful...but the world was often quite...depressing. Grey. Morose...for the less fortunate...But she never traveled too much into the mountains...She never quite had the money, though she studied abroad for one semester...and she saw them from a distance..."

He shifted and re-positioned himself in his chair, trying to stay comfortable. "...And my father was from Boston...lovely, I've heard...but...not many mountains...just lots of skyscrapers...churches...lots of old churches...and it just stares over the Atlantic...He used to say it was like staring into eternity...Now he is in Heaven...I wonder...what staring into that eternity is like..." He took a breath of cold air, and shivered. "...But now I've seen the mountains myself...Heh...just like that speech...I've been to the mountaintop now...and looking from up here...far away from the world...everything seems so distant...and peaceful..." Peace...that's all I want...That is all...I have ever wanted... he thought. He did not cry, as his soul was swept in the wind and he felt comfortably cold. He wondered, in the bottom of his heart, if maybe Anna did remember his dream and how he desired peace, and brought him here to let him know that peace just once.

[Luminesa]

Sitting in the personal car of a VASCU agent was a strange feeling. Mikhailov sat almost a little too stiff in the car, shoulders up and back straight as Radcliffe started the car. The man was being friendly, almost a little too friendly, to allow Mikhailov to ride with him in his own car. Yet the Mage figured he wanted to keep an eye on him, which was fair. The other FBI agents would be much less agreeable and cooperative with him, as they seemed more willing to break laws and to run headfirst into trouble when they smelled it.

Slowly he relaxed, as the car-ride would take a little time, and Radcliffe was not intending him any harm at the moment. At least Mikhailov was no longer in a cell, in solitary confinement. Now he did not feel the suffocation of forced loneliness. He could breathe. He could think. He tried to plan how they would enter the funeral home. Occasionally, his eyes looked to Radcliffe, as he knew that whatever he thought, the agent would know. They would not exactly have to speak anything for them to communicate. How ironic, for all the people I’ve known in my life and I’m now intimately connected with an American agent... He let a smile and a chuckle escape him. At least the laugh allowed for some of his tension to lift.

Yet as he thought about getting into Silvanus’s home, he knew the horrors Radcliffe would possibly see. The Dolls...the Storage Room...that awful tub with whatever substance continually floated in it. The surgical room...He wondered how Radcliffe would respond to Mikhailov, once he knew about all of these things. And that was without considering that Silvanus might have other traps set for trespassers. And I am sure I am considered a trespasser now...heh... His second chuckle was marked not by joking irony, but by that gnawing agony that continued to eat through his chest. Even if he survived and managed to protect Silvanus somehow, the chances that he would ever be back in the Malkavian’s good graces were slim. For protecting Silvanus’s home, he would be considered a traitor. The understanding hurt him more than he thought it would, and the small smile fell off his face.

As he let this thought pass, more silent seconds passed. While they were looking to park, Mikhailov caught Radcliffe looking at him. Specifically, at his ring. He almost jolted to try and hide his hand, but he knew such a motion would be useless, and would only reinforce what the agent already knew. He had shared the memory of Mikhailov’s drab, nondescript morning in Moscow, and thus had experienced his pain. The Mage looked at his face, however, and saw kind understanding in his eyes. He remembered how in the club, he had shot the vampire dancer who had commented on his ring in such a mocking tone. Radcliffe did not mock him, however. He gave a calm, caring gaze, and the Mage returned his stare with a quiet, mournful look. The light took forever, but Mikhailov did not even notice it.

The car eventually parked in front of an apartment, a little ways from the funeral home, and Mikhailov pulled his remaining Makarov from his coat-pocket. He lowered his eyes as he loaded it, and then looked to Radcliffe. As he got out the car and adjusted his clothes, he nodded to the VASCU agent. “...Alright. If you are following my lead...then we enter through the front. As foolish as that may seem, the front is safer than the back. I know where everything is, tell me what you want to find. If we need additional firepower, I have that. Including, though this probably will not do much for now, the .22 I lied about not having on my person. I can't say where it is right now, but I won't be using that for immediate combat," he explained, allowing himself another wry grin, before the grin dissipated and he got back to business. "But many of the things you will see...are things you will not be able to fight. Only things you will be able to endure...” He walked through the front door, holding the door for Radcliffe, and he closed it behind them.

Inside, the funeral home was too quiet. Silvanus’s presence was nowhere to be felt, and the Dolls seemed to be mostly gone. Mikhailov only became more anxious as he noted the lack of activity even in the parlor. In the meantime, the aura of death radiated from around him, and he shuddered. Even if Silvanus was not present, his wrath still remained. Despair began to seep through the gaping holes in Mikhailov’s chest. The chance existed that they could die, and horribly so. They needed a backup plan. Mikhailov turned to Radcliffe, and took a deep breath. He had dragged this man into this awful situation, and now...now, for some reason...he wanted for him to survive. And to not become a vegetable from the Malkavian’s Dementation.

The stillness shook the Mage inside, and he turned to look at Radcliffe. He approached the agent slowly, carefully, and stopped in front of him with his nose inches in front of his face. “...If...for any reason...we need to leave...at all, no matter where we are...I need you to close your eyes. That’s the only thing I can ask. Using any kinds of firearms to stop what may be below...may be impossible, depending on what we find. Close your eyes, don’t look toward me, and I will get us both out. It...will be a risk to myself...possibly...but it will save you at least. If you trust me or don’t...say it now. Nobody is here to listen but you and I...” He whispered his instructions, as though he expected that Silvanus might hear him. “...And if you do not trust me, what must I do now to gain your trust?...”

[Imperialisium]

The White Lotus
John

Jonah did not need to tell John twice as the Changeling dove and rolled behind a shrub. Moving to get behind a stone bench. A round pocked the ground next to John's feet. Manning had missed, possibly on purpose to toy, a deafening torrent of shells cascaded from Jonah's own gun. Expertly, spacing the shots and spread of his barrage. They hit. At least they should have had Manning not jumped, somersaulted, and landed back in the same spot. His Celerity had allowed him to see Jonah fire in slower motion, reducing the Ogre's smooth and calculating spray of bullets into a clunky series of movements and trigger pulls, allowing Manning just enough time to evade the rounds. As Jonah slid into cover Manning fired a couple rounds in his general direction. Making sure they land close enough to keep the Ogre's head down but not to hit.

Manning casually walked forward, pistol raised, occasionally taking a snipe at John or Jonah from behind their cover. The smaller Changeling slithering expertly behind a stone bench and reaching a hand over to fire three rounds over the stone lip. The bullets would have struck as well had Manning used Celerity again to move just ahead of the rounds. Reaching Master Wang's body Manning didn't even look down as he mag dumped the rest of his rounds into the elderly man's face. Destroying his skull into bony fragments. Manning didn't even offer a facial expression or look at the mythical martial artist. The Brujah Elder simply didn't care and made a point on showing it.

It was then John rose up and fired five more rounds in rapid succession. He was aiming a sixth when a part of the wall behind them exploding as a Brujah ancilla and Kuei-jin grappled with each other. The Brujah snapped the Kuei-jins neck just before John pumped two rounds. One in the skull and one in the heart. If that didn't kill the Brujah it at least knocked it out of the fight. John dumped the rest of his mag into the ancilla to be sure before expertly reloading. Still crouched from behind cover.

"We have to get out of here!" shouted John as he lunged through the hole the dueling Kuei-jin and Brujah had made. Landing roughly on the debris strewn floor of the half destroyed hallway. Swiftly rising despite the pain of his injury and shot more rounds from behind cover at Manning. The Brujah Elder dove, rolled, ducked and crouched behind a low garden wall.

"Ya' know you Changelings got some spunk. I like it." yelled Manning with a grin.

Jen

Jennifer indeed would hear the carnage in the building around her. Screams, shouts, and torrents of gunfire as the Kuei-jin and Brujah turned the White Lotus complex into a miniature Stalingrad of close quarters urban warfare. Thud. Something hit the door. A katana stabbed through the wood with considerable force before withdrawing while a heavy object slid to the floor. A pool of red fluid slowly expanded under the door and into the room. A second thud and a crack as the door came off the hinges. A body dressed in LAPD SWAT fatigues slumped prone into the room. A masked LAPD uniform wearing man with an assault rifle entered the room. Whether Jen's finger slipped or instinct she pulled the trigger. Crack! The SWAT garbed man was struck by the full force of the shotgun blast and slammed against the far wall. His body and Kevlar vest peppered with pellets.

[Parcia]

The White Lotus.

Jonah didn't flinch as he slid in to cover, automatically topping off both weapons his mind raced over possibilities. He analyzed the situation quickly, his foe could dodge bullets by virtue, yet was an Elder Brujah, meaning he was more of a hothead then Jonah...Jonah new the White Lotus like the back of his hand, his foe did not.

All he needed to do was to distract him. Taking a quick peak around, he caught a glimpse of the grounds around him before ducking a few more toying shots from the Vampire. "Crow, stay inside, get Jennifer, get her out of here!"

Jonah stood up and peppered his foe's cover with .454 rounds, the large bullets blowing up bits of his cover and sending fragments of dust and clay in to the air, leading to a cloud forming. Earning two shots to the chest for this, he went down hard, not before firing off another volley of rounds at the various sprinkler heads the dotted the courtyard and surrounding garden. Wheezing, he beat his chest twice and got the adrenaline pumping as the rounds fell off his hard vest.

With the heads demolished, the pressurized water began to spew through out the courtyard and nary 20 yards in to the sky, causing a rather large torrent of rain to coat the courtyard as a whole. Reloading his guns, he spoke from behind his cover. "You know, for a coward, your not to bad of a fight, reminds me of this Brujah I met in Fortuna, big, bulky fucker, I'd say from right around your generation...He put up a good fight, though in the end, he showed his true colors, cried like a fucking pussy as I ripped off his fucking limbs."


Jennifer.

She yelped and if not by pure instinct, racked the shotgun again and leveled it on the second man. Aiming center mass, she fired and felt the recoil and was pushed back. The Brujah was crater, leaving him near death against the wall. She felt the pain of the recoil, as well as the growing pain of a rifle round through her side. Dropping to the floor, she crawled over to the gasping Kindred and shakily drew her pistol. Grabbing him by the color of his vest, he stared in to his eyes for a moment, leveling the .45 on the undead before something in her snapped. Setting the side arm down, she looked him dead in the eyes, his scared look meeting something dark, something primal in her own.

With a hiss, she opened her maw like a cobra and sunk her teeth in to his neck, thrashing a little bit like a lioness does with her prey. She drank him down, all of him, every last drop of blood until not a single sliver of life remained in the poor kindred.

Shaking, she let go of her prey with a gasp and let loose a banshee screech. A spray of bullets down the hall brought her back to the present as she snapped her head in the direction of the assaulting troops. Using the corpse of the Brujah as cover, she returned fire long enough to suppress them, then dove for the shotgun. Taking it up, she made for the attached bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her. The pain in her shoulder was gone, and while she didn't check, it felt like the bullet wound in her side was dulling.

[Imperialisium]

John

John didn't reply to Jonah, merely acknowledging what he heard and racing into the compound that was gradually being ruined around them. Sprinting down a hallway John ducked a katana from a Kuei-jin who clearly did not know who he was. John paid no heed and only looked back when he rounded the corner. Only then did he spare a glance back as he moved down a second hallway. Stepping through a hole in the wall with corpses on either side John realized he was in the hallway leading back out to the garden. At least he knew his way back now. Moving forward in pursuit of his charge he moved down the hall until he saw the door were Jennifer had been staying busted down. A body dead from shotgun slugs at close range opposite. Another slumped over the threshold. Neither of them Jennifers. Moving into the hallways he spun around as he saw Jennifer with the shotgun.

"Jennifer, its me John, we have to go now!" Checking his ammunition John looked down the hallways as the sounds of battle erupted sporadically around them.

Manning vs Slaid

"Yeah well, you win some you lose some, Mister Slaid." Manning peered behind his cover at the water display that Jonah had caused. "Didn't know you were into setting the mood so spectacularly," jested Manning as he peered at Jonah's cover. Terrence Manning leapt, using his Potence, and soared forward, with his free hand he gave a push motion. It was a combination of Relentless Pursuit and The Gentle Rebuke. Both skills at the pinnacle of his Potence ability. The first allowed him to leap large distances while the second allowed him to telekinetically push a person. Not enough to harm but it would disrupt Jonah's aim. His goal was to close the distance with Jonah, evidently, he was growing bored of this banter.

Ruins of Anna's Mansion

The temperature dropped around the ruins of the mansion as a blue light flashed open to reveal a portal. Stepping through, Raziyon led his two squadrons of Rothai onto the grounds, now partially covered in quickly melting frost as the portal snapped out of existence behind them. "Search the ruins and grounds for any signs. Make sure to check the Chantry as well." The Rothai dispersed around to search in teams of two. Moving into the ruins, to the chantry, and combing the grounds. It took about twenty minutes for the Rothai to gather again. "No signs inside of the chantry or mansion of Lady Angelos. However, there is a blood trail leading into the woods and tire marks leading away into the forest along the dirt paths. But the tread marks count for two vehicles, can't tell if ours or not." spoke one of the Rothai.

"We check the blood trail first." said Raziyon.

"It tasted different. Changeling perhaps." continued the Rothai reporting.

"Most likely the two we received a report from back in Vaeghorod of being in our Lord's employ. Possibly with her now." Raziyon broke into a trot with the Rothai in tow as they made to follow the trail once it was located again. The dried up blood signaled some one had been wounded grievously and the Rothai could track it standing and running expertly. Moving through the trees at prodigious speed despite in full plate armor and bearing weaponry. Eventually arriving to another road that crisscrossed the wounds in the affluent outskirts of Los Angeles.

"Tire marks for a sports vehicle. Jonah Slaid was reported to have a GTX." Raziyon's eyes squinted as if in thought. One of the Changelings must have made it out alive it seems. "We go with stealth once we reach the mortals urban dwellings." Raziyon and the Rothai set off again, closing in on the outer districts of the city in the general direction of Chinatown. Tracking the course Jonah Slaid took. The Rothai expertly, even in armor, moving from shadow to shadow. Roof top to roof top even. They were professional trackers and hunters. Warriors expert in not only open combat but guerrilla warfare it seems. Handpicked by Lady Angelos herself from the best and brightest of her House's warrior echelons.

[Parcia]

Manning VS Slaid.

The force did knock him back, staggering him a few feet back. Dropping his guns, He reached behind him and drew his blade. Flicking his wrist, he embedded in the dirt next to him, placing it there for later use. "Alright then youngblood, you want to throws hands, then lets fucking throw hands!"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vkOJ9uNj9EY

Stepping over the half wall, he bared his teeth and set in to a fighting stance. Flashing a smile, "I'm going to fuck you worse then the Ventrue did At motherfucking Carthage!" He would going to beat the Revenge out of this Vampire or die trying. He set his feet out at shoulder width, leaned a little bit forward and set both hands up in front of him, one held back and tense, the other held forward and loose, just like Master Wang had taught him.

Jennifer.

With the fight occurring around her, she nearly jumped at the sound of John, but made the effort to lug the heavy shotgun with her, stopping only to clumsily slip on a LAPD SWAT Kevlar vest in an attempt to prevent another gunshot wound. She caught up to him and spoke as they made their way through the winding halls of the White Lotus. "W-who the fuck are these guys, and were is Jonah!?"

[Luminesa]

Augustine Maxwell

A Mad God. God. "You are no God," said Maxwell in defiance. "There is only one God and you are not him. You, like him," Maxwell gestured to Endymion, "Are but infernal creatures not worthy of God's green Earth." Maxwell felt a tremor of courage in his heart as he stared at the Pit Master in stalwart rebellion to what he was seeing before him. He'd faced down the supernatural for most of his life. This was no different and he was not going to back down now. He did not expect redemption, after all, he was a sinner, and every drop of blood spilled from good Catholic men at that accursed Vampire witches mansion was on his hand. In a way, Maxwell had made his peace a mere second ago that if he was going to endure whatever penance that awaited him. Whether it be here before these accursed creatures of in some fiery pit. He was ready.

Redwood National Forest

"Susan do not go too far!" shouted the young eight-year girl named Susan's mother. The young girl chimed her bicycle bell twice and kept going with a smile on her face. Gently peddling down the dirt trail and looking at the majestic redwood trees. Rounding a corner to be out of sight from her parents walking behind her she stopped. Someone was standing in the middle of the dirt path. An odd-looking person with a green-brown hood, trousers, leather vambraces, and calf-high boots, a belt wound around their belt as they swept back their green cape. The figure in the odd clothing turned around to look at the child, revealing pointed ears barely visible under the hood, a black mask covered their lower face but two pearly blue sapphire eyes regarded the child.

"Woah!" said Susan as the child's mind raced to try and comprehend what she was seeing. The strange figure, lithe in form, pulled a horn from its belt and blew three quick notes. Immediately, from seemingly nowhere, on the right side of the trail, a column of rapidly moving creatures moved across to vanish into the forest behind a slight incline in the forest. Figures in neat rows armed in plate armor, spear, sword, and bow with beautiful bright banners. Interspersed were fast flowing rows of darker haired, ranger like individuals, similar to the figure before the child. Leaping from the boughs to come to vanish like their foot slogging compatriots. They were all fast of foot and swift. Then the child's eyes widened as it saw tall lumbering ogre like figures swaying across the trail quickly. The figure gave the child a wink and raced off into the woods.

Panting the parent's of Susan came into view," Sue we told you not to peddle to far ahead! Wha--whats wrong!"

"You didn't hear it! The horn thingy!"

"What horn...like an air horn? Hun there wasn't any bad weather today right?" the mother looked at the father worriedly. The father nodded in the negative before kneeling down to his daughter, "Sue I think we should pick another movie than rewatching Frozen for the tenth time tonight? Ok?"

"But I saw--."

"Just shapes in the forest dear. Come on it's getting to dark out here and we need to get back to our camper." said the father as he turned the girl on her bike around. The trio heading off the way they came.

Vaeghorod

Alexei would awaken to Katarina sitting next to him. Peering at him curiously. His leg hurt but not so bad. He would see looking down that they had removed his clothes and bandaged him up. Applying a soothing, antibacterial, ointment to his wounds that smelled of juniper. A heavy blanket lay over him and a soft pillow below his head. "New clothes will be provided for you. I have a tailor working on it. Are you hungry? thirsty?" said Katarina with a smile as she proffered him a tray with water in a decanter and steak with green pees on the side. Mushroom and a sauce drizzled on the top. "The mortals here say the chefs do great. So I can imagine it tastes good." continued Katarina. She was so different than Raziyon. Cainite's like Humans had various personalities it seems. Raziyon would have broken Alexei's neck without so much as a second glance. Katarina, however, seemed to regard Alexei with at least an innocent curiosity. But how far did that extent? After all, she was a vampire, she fed on human blood. How innocent could she possibly be?

John

John awoke groggily on a soft, plush, couch. His whole body ached and his abdomin burned with pain with every slight shuffle of his body. It hurt to breathe. The inhaling and exhaling causing his Lungs to push on the wound below them. Yet, he was alive. Looking at his left arm an IV hooked up to a blood bag and a second too a nutrient pouch. He was getting a jerryrigged blood transfusion and nutrient feed. Better than dragging himself bloody through the forest at night. So he wasn't complaining.

Then he remembered what occurred. What day was it? What hour was it? John swung himself to a sitting position. Clutching his abdomin as it flared in protest to his abrupt movement. He leaned back in the couch and sighed.

Endymion turned from the Pit Master and smiled at Maxwell. The insult that he was a demon or a “mad god” rolled off his shoulders, and while he did not step any closer, he only chuckled. “...Oh dear, that is not the case...no, I have brought you here to give you a place of comfort, at least for a time. You see, Augustine Maxwell, I have no ability to judge you or to even cause you torment. My realm, unlike his,” he explained, eyeing the Pit Master for a moment before looking back to him, “is a place of peace. A place of beauty. Far removed from the depths of Hell which might be the realm of some uncouth and cruel demon...”

At that moment, Endymion did take a risk, and stepped just a foot closer. He knew that Maxwell was brave and devout, and had a weapon which could destroy him. Yet at the same time, he found Maxwell’s bravery and devotion to be charming. “...I can see that your soul is one that has been marred by tragedy, but is also...beautiful. You are a courageous man, Maxwell, and if I were your Judge I would be pleased with you. Many who are cowards strive to come here, to destroy the good I have created, to bring the ruin of this sanctuary. Yet you are here because I wished to give you...some reprieve. And I will protect you from him, and his wicked games, if you will allow me.” He once again looked to the Pit Master, his eyes cold and striking at his adversary. He could not fight a Ferryman, but another Fae he would fight if he needed to defend his realm.

Maxwell, in the meantime, would not feel fear but a soothing sensation. The way the water of the ocean rippled, the way the cool breeze shifted through the afternoon sky, the warmth of this strange world all would have an effect on the Inquisitor’s created body, and on his soul. He would feel that Endymion did wish to protect him, and was offering that protection. The Fae’s voice was like a harp, pleasant and chiming in his ears. His offer was genuine, though whether or not he felt more compassionate or more affectionate for Maxwell was anyone’s guess.

[New Minahasa]

Richie Rain

A disheveled man in a suit is sat on an office chair overlooking the city from the penthouse floor of a condo, dozens of stories high up, with his hands tied behind him and his ankles glued together. A mix of fear and confusion crosses his face as another man in a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up and face concealed behind a golden menpo, stares him down from a much favorable position - untied - while two burly men stand guard. "The Eng Family Benevolent Association does not like any delays, Mr. Chu, you do know that, right?," the masked man remarks. "What the hell is this, Rain? Explain yourself! You dare have me restrained with cuffs and ropes like an animal?!" Mr. Chu seems rather displeased with his current situation, ranting off in a mix of Cantonese and Mandarin at his counterpart. Mr. Rain only shakes his head in disappointment, feet slowly kicking into motion as he approaches the rigid Mr. Chu. "That wasn't the answer I wanted," Rain retorts as his hand moves to remove the menpo in a dramatical way, revealing a grinning row of shark-like teeth at his counterpart.

It pounces forward and gnashes at his throat, Mr Chu's agonizing screams a vain as they're muffled from the thick layers of concrete that filter any loud sound inside. In a feat of strength his head is yanked away after enough of the meat and bones are chewed off, and like a grisly trophy held above the headless body. Rain flicks his fingers to the bodyguards. "Have this head sent to any associates of Mr. Chu. Let them know that such is the cruel fate to those who -don't- pay their debts," he voices out in Mandarin, a commanding tone. "And get a maid to clean up all the fucking here. Sheesh, guy just had to make a mess." His own remark causes him to chuckle in manic excitement. The door to the penthouse opens as a maid is followed by a young female secretary into the expansive room, the secretary looking somewhat a bit shocked at the gruesome sight of blood and a torn head, although the ghouled maid only keeps her head down and proceeds with cleaning up the floors.

"Always the show-off," the young female remarks, face hidden underneath a mask similar to that of Rain's. "What do you want, Meilan?" Rain says in a gruffy tone, throwing her a glance while he adjusts the cuffs of his shirt, a few droplets of crimsom stains visible on it. "I need some of your time, it's important, you'll like it. Your room?" Rain nods his head in response, snapping his fingers and pointing to a guard. "You, go take care of the body. Burn it to ashes, melt it off with acid, dump it in the ocean, I don't care. Just get it done." Then he proceeds upstairs, to the second level of the penthouse, and into his personal bedroom. "The Prince is dead, we just got the info. Well, -rumored- to be dead, but her mansion's burned to the dirt, and the entire Camarilla structure just fell apart." Silence. There's a moment when that expression of disbelief flashes on Rain's face, that gradually turns into childlike joy. "Brilliant!," he clasps both palms together as a rows of fanged teeth are exposed. "Our operations will be hindered no longer. The Primogens will soon start clawing at each other's face and, if they don't, we'll make sure that they do. In the mean-time, spread the word. Tell the rest to prepare. It won't be long before our crusade for this city begins; the first true bastion of the Tal'mahe'Ra, can you believe that?" The woman bows her head in respects. "And I yearn for that day to finally arrive, Mr. Rain."

[Finsternia]

Silvanus
Quest: Clan of Madness

The watchful, multiple compound eyes of the transformed Elder saw through the paltry traps. What could have been deterent against the proding eyes of mortals were nothing but sticking eyesores against Silvanus' vision. The party moved forward, dismantling the traps that littered the tunnel until they've arrived at the main chamber.

Coffins littered the chamber, like multiple pews and benches in a church that are waiting for their patrons to come worship with the leading priest. In Silvanus' vision, reality seem to shudder, stutter, and quake, like a faulty VCR tape playing a static video. By each coffin stand worshippers with no faces yet their faces without features. Each static click seem to distort their presence. At the head there was an altar, manned by a priest in dusty and old clothes. Their hands are clasped in a prayer, both holding onto a staff of ceremonial use. Upon the table is a brazier, alight with flame, and its fire is reflected by the metal of the cross upon the staff.

Reality overlapped as the Spectre rose with the priest's cry, and the dead rose from their coffins as did the faithful screeched with baneful accusation of unfaithlessness. Silvanus howled and roared in a monstrous fashion, a scream of wrath from a strained beast, and his wings flapped to bring him into the air. The Spectre thought itself to have the element of surprise but the Elder saw through it, and becane a blur as Silvanus divebombed right beside the entity before the flames bathed his initial position. The two Dolls that perished died with their forms melted together as they formed into spiked human shields to protect their compatriots. Silvanus' shriek sent a portion of the living dead against one another, their eyes burning with the same mad color of green that Silvanus had. The Dolls moved into position to destroy the infighting dead, and the remaining two ancilla and two Dolls walked up, on guard, to join their Elder upon the dais.

As the Elder landed beside the Spectre, the flames caught his attention and seemingly his spine tentacular tails writhed with aggression, its vertebral black eyes shifted with anger towards the Spectre... and then towards the staff and then towards the coffin. Four of the tentacles slammed down with deadly force, crushing the coffin, before Silvanus' free hand grabbed the staff. His hand bled fast, covering the staff from where his hand held it until a drop of vitae plopped on the floor, his blood hissing as its acidic properties started its work. Silvanus stared down upon the vacuous eyes of the Spectre before screaming. The drop of vitae evaporated into a soft, faint mist of pinkish red which pulsed with faint blood magic and the Elder sent psychic shockwaves that conveyed his will for this Spectre to banish, causing his blood upon the staff to enact his will and breaking the Spectre's link to the material world.

[Imperialisium]

Quest: Clan of Madness

The Spectre kept the bath of fire spewing from the staff. Even as Silvanus crushed the coffin and grabbed the staff. The Spectre angled it down and bathed part of Silvanus in fire. Yet, the Spectre was suddenly silenced as the staff snapped in two. Weakened by the acid on the aged wood it finally succumbed. Its break signaled the end of the fetter and with the spectre vanishing the zombies collapsed in a heap. No longer under the Spectre's power. But Silvanus was injured, fire burnt some of his tentacles, shoulder, and torso. He would need to put them out lest it spread and force him into Torpor. But probably the most annoying aspect would be the time to heal and the vitae he would need to consume to replace his strength.

However, in a hollow, hidden within the bottom of the coffin now crushed open. There would be a small book. Its pages largely ruined yet with Auspex one could feel the psychic imprint of its owner. Possibly the priest before he perished and became a Spectre? One could not be certain. But touching it would yield visions of the Shakespeare Bridge in Los Angeles. Based in the dim light of an eclipse and a yawning black gate way. Tendrils of dread spewing forth as something dark and fundamentally hungry came into being onto the Earth. Another clue, a location, another lead.

Augustine Maxwell

"I will not allow but tolerate hellspawn." spat Maxwell at Endymion’s feet. "Until I can find my way to Heaven or Hell." Maxwell knew Endymion was probably some demon sent by God to test him. Neither of them were gods or angels. Just twisted eldritch abominations he would not hesitate in destroying in a heart beat. Even if it doomed him to this place of deceit and temptation for all eternity. Such could be his purgatory.

Manning vs Slaid

"I like your style." said Manning. Terrence Manning, Brujah, Primogen, originally from West Africa and only in North America by cause of a long ago slave ship. Cracked his knuckles before letting the gun hand idly in his hand. Precious seconds flitted past. Manning whipped the gun using Celerity. The butt smacking against Slaid's guarding hands. That was not the real strike. The actual strike came from a savage heel kick which struck Jonah in the lower leg. Crunch. Fibia fracture. Manning spun into a boxing guard position and delivered a swift jab at Slaid's face. Not a full commitment but to test the Changeling's reaction time. Manning at least was taking the melee more seriously.

John

John shuffled Jennifer along onto a side street. The sounds of gunfire and rushing crowds away from the fighting could be seen. Down the street a block away in another section of Chinatown. One could barely see the lights of other SWAT vehicles and more gunfire. The Brujah was evidently not holding back in hitting other parts of the Kuei-jins operations in Chinatown. "Come on get in." said John as Jennifer pulled out Jonah's keys and hopped into the passenger seat of the GTX. John made to get in and paused. Something white had caught his eye. He focused on it. A snowflake. Holding out a hand a second snowflake hit his palm. Then another. The temperature in the area had dropped suddenly and precipitously.

[Parcia]

Manning Vs Slaid, Brawl of the century.

The Tibia Fracture was not anticipated and some what impressive, so much so Jonah felt a pang of respect for him to be able to do so. He angled his tense hand and intercepted the Brujah's jab, catching his wrist as it went by and turning, leaving his side on to Manning as he brought his other fist, having been knocked lower and away by his pistol, come up from below and impact the Kindred's elbow. With a sicking crack he destroyed the Vampires elbow joint. While still being this close, he brought his own elbow up and slammed it in to he Vampire's Nose, aiming to break it as well.

Lastly, he let go of the limp am and landed a second strike with an open palm, aiming more disrupt his balance then to do damage. Bringing his hands back to their guard stance, he kept his broken leg up front drinking in the pain it offered and using it to keep his own senses sharp and alert. "Brujah, masters of Bar fights and street brawls, but lacking any actual skills beyond being annoying fucking pissants."

"Celerity wont save you here boy, and I reckon your burning through you Vitae awfully fast, better make it count before you run dry."


Jennifer.

She climbed in and threw her seat belt on, clutching the shotgun in her hands. "What are you waiting on, lets-...is that snow?"

[Imperialisium]

John

"Yeah, snow, and that means we have to go now." said John as he floored the GTX. Sending it speeding down the road. Jerking the wheel he turned, somehow not flipping it but lifting up two tires in the process, into a back alley. Speeding towards the interstate.

Manning vs Slaid

Manning shuffled back a couple paces, managing to slither his way out of Jonah's reach for a moment, and regained his composure. Smiled. Then straightened his back and let out a small chuckle. "Think I need Disciples?" Manning jolted forth, side stepped, batted Slaid's guard down with his broken arm like a swift club, and kicked Jonah's broken leg. The Ogre collapsed onto his knee. Grasping a counter blow with one hand Manning twisted. Snapping the tendons in Jonah's fist before twirling behind the ogre and open palming both sides of his head. Jonah would be discombobulated now. Vision splitting and ears ringing. Wise to say the savage punch to the side that ruptured his spleen was unforeseen at that moment. Manning stepped away, disheveled, and signed.

"You nearly had me there. You're good you know that. Probably would have killed me if you didn't try to overcompensate all the time." Manning idly picked up the Kukri. "Nice knife. Think I'll fuck your fledgling bitches cunt with it when I'm done. Call it even for breaking my nose."

See, Jonah was tough as nails, but Changelings still had a human physiology. Just tweaked and mutated in certain ways by the effects of Arcadia. Broken bone was serious but depending on what it was an expert fighter like Jonah could overcome it. A ruptured spleen on the other hand, which was now filling Jonah's abdomen with blood similar to tossing mentos in a coke bottle, was not. It was an injury that unless treated would kill him quickly. Not even his tweaked, strengthened, Ogre physiology would save him from that.

"Fuck, I'm thirsty. Haven't had a fight this good since the Civil War!" Manning grasped Jonah and swung his skull down brutally. Breaking Slaid's nose, knocking out his front teeth, and shattering his left cheekbone. The ogre hit the ground with a thud.

"Now I do admit. While you're dying, which you are, I did cheat a little with that punch to your spleen. Little discipline use there." smirked Manning. "Well, at least you don't have to see the lads and I rape the fuck out of your girl." Raising the kukri, Manning stabbed down, intending to bury it to the haft in Jonah's skull.

clink

The Kukri never landed and in fact spun away to the back of Jonah. Jonah would look up to see a plate armor wearing man holding a longsword to Manning's throat. The man had a distinct Eastern European accent and spoke with authority. Steps behind Jonah signaled others approached. Indeed, heavily armored arms grasped Jonah and hoisted him up. Carrying him and placing him down on a small canvass tarpaulin. A fourth armored figure knelt down, "Castellan, he has suffered a rupture to the spleen. He will die unless we evacuate him out of here immediately."

Manning growled, "Who the fuck---."

"I need the Changeling alive, Elder, Prince Angelos business." replied Raziyon curtly. Manning's eyes widened, "The Prince is alive!?" Raziyon's didn't move a single facial muscle. "Should there be any reason not to suspect so? Perhaps I should drag you back home in chains?"

Under normal circumstances Manning probably would have contested this. But had narrowly avoided getting killed by Jonah, and needed vitae, not to mention the Ogre had inflicted wounds that would take a few days minimum to recover from. It was infuriating for the Brujah as he backed away.

"Fine. Give my best to Prince Angelos...wherever, she may be."

Raziyon sheathed his blade with expert precision and made a hand signal to his subordinates. The last thing Jonah would see is a couple dozen armored figures descending from the demolished rooftops and entering a single shimmering object he soon vanished through. Only to reappear in some stone courtyard with various architecture and dark foliage and flowers abounding. Would have been beautiful in the sunlight or even moonlight. Had a cloud not covered it.

A needle was pressed into Jonah's side and all went back.

Vaeghorod
Jonah would awaken strapped to a gurney, at a 45 degree angle so he could see forward, and an IV bag in his arm. Bruised, battered, but alive.

"Ah the beast awakens." a familiar Russian voice. Nikolai Samerikov came into view. "The Rothai found you in pretty bad shape my friend. Though, I think you would have came out on top. Probably had some trick up your sleeve I suspect eh?" Nikolai held up some vodka, "Good stuff. Not that shitty piss water the American's make." Nikolai let Jonah have a few sips before putting it down next to him. "The straps are a precaution. We've already had one guest attempt to leave unannounced. But we need to know all you know in regards to what happened when the Prince disappeared. John and your fledgling are still missing. The Rothai went back to Los Angeles after dropping you off here though in hopes of new leads. But if there is anything you recall then please tell me. Sooner we get you patched up the quicker we can go get John and Jennifer, da?"