Masquerade: Teardrops in Winter (Arc 4)(IC)

[Imperialisium]

Home of Graham Norton
US Senator for California
November 3rd, 2023
23:45 Hours

The home of Graham Norton, career politician, was of expected opulence. Insider trading, corruption, fat cat lobbyist pay cheques year after year, pocketed fundraising money, the list went on. The benefits of serving the real electors of the United States Congress, not the people of course, but the conglomerates which long ago established oligarchic control over most vital economic sectors. A gentle breeze wafted through the low woodlands surrounding the estate. For a home just did not do it justice. The Santa Ana mountains enwreathed the home in a quasi-private domain. One would have to hike through miles of woodland hills, tall grass, and thickets to reach the iron fence surrounding the palatial residence. What with its Spanish villa style, colonnades, drive way fountain festooned with eloquent bronze cherubs. Five hundred acres with their own pond, while the rest of the State languished in ever constant water shortages. Not that the rich truly suffered. The cost of this lifestyle was after all pushed to the taxpayer, you and me. Can't say I won't take pleasures from what I'm about to do tonight.

The sound of a popped cork presaged the filling of fine crystal glasses with amber liquid. Laughter, cries of joy, and the smiles of five individuals out on the rear patio. An Olympic sized swimming pool yawned further beyond, half illuminated by the soft orange glow of fine baroque lamps. Needless to say they could not comprehend amid this jovial family celebration that an unannounced guest had posted up in the lower tree branches of a mighty oak tree.

Graham, wife, and kids. Security is quite lax, of course why shouldn't it be, they're all dead anyways. Checking the magazine of his rifle the mysterious man clad in a black bodysuit smiled. Five rounds plus one in the chamber, just in case. Popping the magazine back into the feed the man lowered a set of NVGs over his eyes. Right hand adjusting the magnification and lenses before raising the rifle to sight his targets. The weapon itself was a custom Mk14 Mod 0 Enhanced Marksman Rifle. Typically used by United States Navy SEALs. Though no unit patch adorned the man's outfit. His grip merely tightening around the trigger.

Innie minnie miney...moe. The first round left the chamber mere moments before the second. Precise training and expert marksmanship. Shoot, swivel, shoot, swivel. By the time the Senator comprehended why his children's skulls were opening up like exploded grapefruit the final round was punching its way through his forehead.

A light flicked on inside the estate. Why is nothing ever allowed to be simple. Dropping from the tree, slinging the rifle across his back, the assailant approached stealthily with pistol drawn, other hand holding a long black cylinder to the barrel, quickly and expertly twisting on the suppressor. Moving to the wall of the estate he felt the cool brick on his back. Raising the Five-Seven handgun in ready position he moved to the window. No apparent movement inside. A shadow appeared before it and the assailant readied his handgun. The blind going up to reveal a man in a black suit. Dossier said four man security detail. Bah, Division Six intelligence was just as shit as the military's The assailant stepped into view and squeezed off two rounds. One to the chest, one to the face. The man pitched on his back amid the flicks of broken glass.

Moving to the patio and unceremoniously grabbing a chair the assailant tossed it through the window before leaping through. Rolling and coming up on his haunches. The assailant trained his hand gun at the door. Note to self. Rolling with a rifle on your back is awkward and not nearly as cool as I thought it would be. No sounds or movement. A computer sat at a desk. This was the Senator's home office. Rising and slowly moving to the desk the assailant noticed the computer was on. Jiggling the mouse while raising his NVGs from his face the monitor flashed to life. Revealing a bank account that had received a sizable seven figure amount from some bank account in Eastern Europe. What have we here? Norton, you naughty boy.

Suddenly, the assailant's ear buzzed. <<Agent Fisher, have you acquired access to the computer to confirm wire transfer from Special Target 77? Over>>

<<Confirmed, dispatch.>>

America is sick, infected, and manipulated by forces that should stay in children's fairy tales. War with Iran was the start, a war which has already claimed sixty thousand American lives and collapsed almost all stability in South-Western Asia. Things at home fair little better. But you know what they say. The path to salvation is littered with corpses...or something.

Los Angeles
Sinfire Club

Crash. A pair of bodies slammed through a flashing neon sign decked window out onto the dank cramped street beyond. Onlookers, hookers and drug dealers, shuffled away in a hurry. One of the men rolled to his feet and drew a knife. The other rose with a snarl. Pointed canines in his mouth, bright sneer about his complexion from the surrounding neon signs. "Fresh meat, punk," jeered the fanged man. The raven haired man in the black suit merely cracked his neck before beginning his advance. Saying one word, "Yeah."

The fanged man through a wild punch. The raven haired man dipped, gripped the man's arm, and twisted. Snapping the elbow joint upwards into an awkward break. The fang manned howled more in rage than pain. The knife flashed. One, two, three rapid stabs to the neck and face. The last one embedding the knife into the right eye socket of the fanged man. The man trying to stumble back, only to be around onto his back. A black leather dress shoe stomped down in conjunction with a strong pull. Dislocating the shoulder. Now, the fanged man hollered in pain. Screaming that he would pay whatever outstanding sum he owed to a person named "Anna."

The black suited man knelt down, knee to neck, and looked sternly down at the wounded vampire. "Listen, thin blood, one week or I'll be back to make sure you never see another night."

"Fuck!" stammered the thin blood as the dark suited man slammed his head into the pavement before moving off to meld into the darkness.

Anna's Mansion

"A good night out John?"

The black suited man known as John walked into the foyer of the mansion in a moment of solemn deja vu. The mansion had been rebuilt to exacting specifications. Nothing was out of place or different than its predecessor. John looked up to see Nikolai on the top of the stairs. Gripping the rail lightly. Mouth drawn up in a wide grin.

"Could say that."

"Ahh that's my boy! Did you kill em'?"

"No."

"Aw, let me guess ordered he live? Fucking mud blood's I tell ya. Not even real vampires in my book. Just trumped up Gopniks."

John chuckled at that as he began to ascend the stairs. Nikolai abruptly pointed to the side doors leading to the study. That study. Where so many events had transpired before. Nodding he turned on his heel and gripped the golden handles. Opening them wide as he stepped through. There, silently reading, was a gorgeous woman with electric green eyes. Her midnight black hair done up in a long pony tail. She did not look up as John approached, and knelt, as if in reverence.

"Oh, come now John. You're much too formal."

"Old habits die hard," said John as he slowly rose to his feet. Glancing to the right he locked eyes with another. His own dark brown eyes meeting glossy pickled black. The head of Joaquin Murrietta, pickled and preserved, a treasure retrieved by an ill-begotten Garou lass and her pack. The actual target of the task given to said Garou had remained elusive. But, knowing Garou, they'll sniff him out soon enough. At least they killed the target's number one lackey. A dangerous and sadistic vampire in his own right. The one that had led the forces dressed in Papal livery that had massacred his own Vicar's forces on this very property over three years ago.

John was the first to speak again, "Any news from Morrigan about Houghton?"

"Not a word."

"You trust she is still looking for him? Its been years."

"Morrigan knows that so long as she pursues her target that I will not claim anything from her. Further, she knows I won't touch her little Catholic sex toy either."

Neither remarks phased John who merely nodded. "The Traditions will be observed later tonight?"

"Of course. New vampires, tribute, just like the old days."

The woman shimmered. This was an projection. The real Anna was slumbering in a crypt in the depths of Transylvania. No, this was a projection of Anna's own mind.

Los Angeles Outskirts

A lone motorcycle coursed on the back country roads towards Los Angeles. Curiously, avoiding the main highways and interstates. The motorcycle was lacking in decals but undoubtedly of high quality. Its rider wore all black with a dark helmet. On his back a leather case held something long and narrow. Cranking the throttle the motorcycle roared on. A dim lit gas station lay beyond. Half shrouded by parked cars and leering, sickly, trees. Pulling into the dim lit gas station the rider killed the engine. Turned the key. And swung a leg around to stand with his front facing the gas station doors. Unscrewing the top of his black leather case he let the end dangle. A pair of men emerged from the darkness off to the side. Dressed in what could only be assumed as rural attire. Plaid with torn jeans, brow boots, and trucker hats. They appeared to be talking amongst each other, but really, as the rider knew, looks were deceiving. The stench of a fresh corpse, female, wafted over from the darkness. In the back seat of an old cadillac.

The rider continued with moderate pace, perhaps better phrased as 'calm' footsteps, towards the doors. Opening them softly the rider removed his helmet and placed it in the crook of his arm. Revealing milk white skin and electric green eyes. Dark, midnight black hair, with almost an undertone of blue. Hung in the fluorescent light. The attendant seemed disheveled. Gently placing a can of something which smelled of crimson on the counter. Bud light. It wasn't filled with bud light.

"What -- What can I do for ya, stranger?"

"Murphy still own this place?"

"I -- I'm sorry who?"

"Murphy. He owned this gas station. You seen him?"

"No? Ain't no Murphy around here."

"Then why does it say Murphy's Pit Stop with a picture of Murphy on the wall over there." The rider pointed to a picture frame mounted next to the beer cooler.

"Look man, I just work here."

The rider did not respond as he continued deeper into the gas station. The attendant's mouth slightly agape, nervousness crossing his face, as he began to shuffle forth from behind the counter. "Hey, hey you! You can't go back there."

"Go back where?" said the rider as he stopped but did not look at the attendant. A white sign which read 'Restroom's' in black font over head.

"I...fuck it." The attendant roared and lunged. A flash of silver and the attendant crashed to the tiles. His hands flopping to the floor. Very little blood oozed from the wounds. Curious.

The attendant screamed as in the last instant of unlife left him. His corpse struck by a blade which burned with an inner fire. Glyphs glowing along its glassy surface. The front doors shattered as the two men, or vampires rather, from outside burst in. Seeing their compatriot dead, truly dead, next to the dark clad rider. "Who the bloody hell are you?" The one on the left said with an audible English accent. A British Vampire in Los Angeles?

"It won't matter to you. I am just here to see my Mother," spoke the rider as he turned slowly to reveal elongated canines. His blade erupting with blue-purple fire along its length.

[Morrdh]

Morri

Five years.

Five years she'd spent in this city, half a world away from the deary isles where she was raised. Five years in which she'd rubbed shoulders with those of the night and those of the fae, even saved this city on at least one occasion. Five years in a city that she called home but could never truly be home for her.

Through triumphs and tribulations she'd come to know the city, it's streets and some of it's people quite well. Though being of the Stag, she had acquired many associates amongst the Gnawers and the Walkers of Glass in the form of useful allies and occasionally trusted friends. She'd also trawled through high end galleries in search of artefacts and stalked kindred through the city's dark underbelly.

She'd also had Gaia's blessing of motherhood.

An act to fulfil the ban of the pack's totem in order to appease it had resulted in her being with a child, a blessing that had proven to be little bit of a mixed one. Tasked by the Kindred Eldar Anna, Morri and her pack had been on the cusp of confronting the kindred Houghton when the child had other ideas and decided to make it's entrance into the world, thus allowing the leech to escape. It was something that had smarted Morri ever since and she'd kept a vigilance up for if and when the vampire re-surfaced. The child had largely been in the care of it's father with Morri dividing her time between them and her pack, though she took to watch over her offspring from a distance.

Now in Lupus form, with the liberal use of a gift that allowed her to pass mostly unseen, she sped through the city's nighttime streets. Something made her slow down and pause for a moment, though sniffing the air did not reveal much. Something that occurred that her sixth sense, the so-called 'touch of the fey' as her nan had put it, had picked up on. There was nothing in the immediate vicinity, suggesting something that had happened further afield but still within proximity to the city. Making a gesture as close to shrugging her shoulders that her canine form allowed, Morri resumed her journey.

~ ~ ~

Sometime later she arrived on a street of small houses, located in an atypical neighbourhood full of working families. There were kinfolk here, though they weren't who she'd come here to see. She wondered over to a parked car and concentrated as she stared into the glass of it's window, quickly feeling the sensation of the world slipping sideways as she crossed into the Umbra. True the neighbourhood was considered to be relatively safe territory, Morri had learnt that it paid to be extra careful. Still in Lupus form and still moving largely unseen, she headed inside one of the houses partway along the street where she shifted to Homid form and then stepped back across to the material world.

Still largely unseen, she placed a dog's collar on a table and then secreted herself in a corner to wait and see how long it took for the person she'd come to see realise that she'd arrived.

[Luminesa]

Reeling in the Years

8 AM. The calm, quiet professor entered the classroom as quietly as an owl, his eyes down behind his wire-rimmed glasses. He was dressed comfortably for winter in Los Angeles: an argyle sweater-vest over a cotton dress-shirt, with chestnut slacks and black Oxfords. He gave a sigh as he dropped his bag of books and papers near his desk, and placed his laptop bag on top of his desk. A sip of hot, hazelnut coffee rejuvenated him, and he began to arrange his desk. A syllabus, carefully highlighting assignments and a grading rubric. A list of books the students needed for the semester. Extra note-paper for students who did not have any. He knew that most students brought their Macbooks or Apple iPads to class now, but he could not shake the old-fashioned feeling of occasionally needing to receive assignments in students' atrocious handwriting.

He opened his laptop to check the class list. From a first glance, the silvery locks he moved out of his face made him seem much older than he was. However, he was still a young man, barely thirty. He yawned. Even while he was used to early mornings, he now had a child, and any time he could breathe for himself was a reprieve from the constant go, go, go of having a small daughter. Even so, he had a photo of her on his phone, eating ice cream which was mostly on her face. Her auburn hair and mischievous eyes were a stark contrast to his own appearance, but he loved her anyhow. She's in kindergarten. How has time flown so much?

Another sip of coffee. Twenty students were in this class. Three on a waitlist. At least this class would be one more dedicated to a subtopic he enjoyed: Medieval Literature. The class was not as likely to drop by half before the midterm, and he could sneak the students PDFs of books if they could not afford the books. He had been lucky to get through school with his wealthy uncle pulling some strings. He had not seen him in some time, but every time he saw his face in a mirror, or in the gleam of his phone, he could swear that his eyes were becoming more like his.

At 8:20, the first students walked into the classroom. Mostly still half-asleep, some with coffee or tea in a cup. One student slammed a bag of McDonald's on his desk and started munching, almost as soon as the professor turned to start the class. The smell of the fresh biscuits and hotcakes made his mouth water, as he had only barely managed a bagel with butter as he had rushed out of the house. Yet he simply took another sip of coffee and laughed. "Amir, correct?" The young man turned and nodded, and so the professor smiled.

"Sup," Amir responded with a grin.

"Are you comfortable?" the professor inquired, his polite voice showing a little humor.

"I'd say so, yeah," the student responded, to the smirks and chuckles of his small class.

"...Alright. Just please be careful not to spill anything, as much as I like company I don't presume mice and ants have much to garner from this class."

The student nodded, and the professor turned to click on a PPT on his computer. He then grabbed the syllabi on his desk, and adjusted his glasses. He gave a warm smile to his class, remembering that he had faced much more terrifying things in his past. Vampires, beasts, even demons. This semester should be a cakewalk.

"Good morning, class. My name is Professor Alexei Bancroft, and I look forward to a pleasant semester getting to know all of you."

[Oblivion2]

Jean Luc ’Etienne’ Saint Francis
Outside the Janus Club, North Hollywood
Los Angeles, California
November 4th, 01:25

Los Angeles was dying, one wretched death at a time. You could smell it on the cool air if you took the time and had the predilection to do so; urban stink, rotting garbage, spilt blood, and wretchedly corrupt money. This was the sweet perfume of the Kine so desperate to live their dream that they would whore themselves out for anyone who could even bring them an inkling of the elusive thing. The City of Angels was hardly the only town in America in its long running death throes; the entire beast was ill, and Los Angeles was but a single festering sore on the body of the dying animal and wherever death’s shadow fell, predators would begin to circle. Étienne was just such a creature; his undead gaze had been turned to the city for the better part of the decade until such time the opportunities became too great to ignore, though he was far from the only predator stalking Los Angeles.

The Frenchman had come four years earlier after years of extending small tendrils into the soft underbelly of the City. It had been shockingly easy, purchasing the land from the Kine and developing it into the North Hollywood hotspot that had become known as Janus. Obtaining permission from the City’s Prince had taken longer, and had actually begun fer in advance of his presence in Los Angeles. But the Club, and the few streets surrounding it were his territory now. Territory he had already maimed and killed to maintain. Janus had grown to have a certain reputation in the few years since it had started running. To the Kine it was a curiously intriguing place to meet new and interesting people; modern decor at times fused with traditional sentiments. Statues and paintings dotted alcoves and walls above the VIP booths, modern DJing equipment and sound systems would sometimes be shut off to make way for a piano older than any mortal guest under Janus’ roof, and when the veneer began to bore Étienne, it was given a facelift with dizzying speed.

To those blessed with Unlife or otherwise marked by the supernatural, Janus was something of a sanctuary. When you entered the Club, you were bound by three rules; No Killing on Janus grounds, ask not what they are, and Janus always gets a piece. The first rule was self explanatory; Etienne wanted no one dying on the property, for risk of breaking the Masquerade. Even when he had to take a life, it was always off property. The second rule was more nebulous; when you entered Janus you were expected to don a second face as though you were the two-faced God itself. If the owner didn’t know what you are, how could he be forced to act against you? The same policy applied to the club’s guests; your senses might tell you what you suspect someone to be, but if you did not ask, how could you know? Of course, officially any trespassers into Camarilla territory were dealt with to the exact mandates of the Prince.

Rule number three dealt more with the explicit business of Janus, and Étienne himself. In addition to being a safe haven, it was also where things were traded. Information, services, goods, and sometimes lives. Étienne was a networker of mortals and immortals alike, and a procurer of items. If you did business under his roof, or if you used any of his contacts to do business of your own, Janus always got a piece of the take.

The Master of the Club stood outside the back alleyway, contemplating just how he could advance himself along the winding track of Camarilla society. This wasn’t the first time he had come to a City in order to carve out an important niche for himself, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. The flare of a match illuminated his face before being replaced by the flare and fade of smouldering cigarette embers. Etienne’s hair was a dark blonde approaching brown, thick and wavy and often combed backwards. Expressive eyebrows sat above a strong jawed and honest looking face, but those dark eyes glittered with a feral cunning. You wanted to like him, but you found yourself almost frightened at the concept of disappointing him. Etienne’s visage had not changed in nearly two hundred years, though the names he’d been called by seemed to come and go with the winds. Here in Los Angeles, he had retaken his birth name at last.

“Sir?” A steady voice called as the steel door opened behind him. Étienne had heard his beating heart from the other side. This was Stapes; general manager, occasional confidant, trusted servant, and ghoul. Stapes had been in his service for nearing forty years now, and he held more of Etienne’s secrets than any living creature did. Quiet, dependable, and discrete above all else, Stapes looked like he might have been a grocer in another time, instead he kept the Janus running on the day to day and handled minor disputes. “Oui, Stapes?” Was Etienne’s soft reply, in between long, languid drags on his cigarette.

“The gentleman from last week, the Italian. His payment has been delivered to your office, sir.” The Ghoul explained in a demure tone.

“Ah, very good. And the Macallan?” The vampire asked, his tone silken and smooth despite the smoke in his lungs.

“It arrived this morning sir, while you were asleep. It’s with the other assembled tribute now.” Stapes assured his master in a placating tone. “Everything is being loaded now for transport.” A brief pause in the Ghoul’s words as he weighed loyalty with his blood bound need to serve as capably as possible. “Sir… Are you certain this is wise? You will be offering more tribute than you would other wise need to. Some of these items too are from far before your time here in Los Angeles, items that you need not give up.”

The Frenchman let out a roiling cloud of smoke, blowing it directly up into the air and watching as the late autumn breeze carried the cancerous smog off into the night. Everything he had been planning for most of a century for was coming to a head. He had merely been waiting for an opportunity to make his mark, and now it was here. Now in this dying city he would feast, and be given the chance to carve out something for himself beyond meaningless servitude. A place at the table. “Oui, Stapes. I am very certain this is what I want. At worst, I will be seen as grasping and ambitious. Perhaps even underestimated.” He turned and fixed his servant with a smile so chilling it would have frozen the blood of a lesser being, “And you know how well that goes, don’t you?”

Stapes blanched, the mortal blood draining from his face despite his ghoulish nature and his long years working with his master. “Yes sir, not well at all.” Clearing his throat with a polite cough, the general manager of the Janus continued. “Everything is loading right now in preparation for your meeting. Shall I have a car brought around?”

“Please Stapes.” Etienne said, working his cigarette almost down to the filter now. “The Audi, if you would. I feel like driving myself tonight.”

“A repast before you go? The young man from Colorado is in the building?”

Étienne waved that offer aside, he had fed the night before and hadn’t done anything particularly strenuous since then. No, he needed the edge a little hunger would bring him. When one knelt before royalty, it was more important to be at ones most flexible and ruthless. And if everything he’d read was true… If what he believed was true, he’d need it.

—————————————————————————————————

Anna’s Mansion
Later that evening

The mansion was as intimidating as Etienne remembered. He had only been here once, very briefly to make his case for his land rights and to swear his fealty to the Prince of the city, Anna. Her mind had seemed occupied, for she had barely spoken to him other than to grant him the property that Janus now sat atop. Dressed in a tailored Italian wool jacket and pants of dark charcoal grey, with a waist coat of deep blue, the Ventrue was looking and feeling his best. Stepping out of his car, he handed his keys to a mortal valet, not bothering to threaten about his car and it’s expected state of return; he suspected the young man got it all the time. A sniff about the air confirmed one of the Frenchman’s lingering suspicions; gargoyles on the rooftops. They had a unique scent amongst the bloodlines; typically gangrel-esque with the acrid tang of Tzimisce flesh craft. Even if they were bred rather than created now, the signs still lingered.

In the darkness, Etienne could see the shifting shapes of mortal soldiery as well. The radio chatter sounded distinctly Hungarian, with bursts of Transylvanian accent thrown in every now and again. The Black Legion then, talented soldiers as far as Mortals went. Ruthless too. As he ascended the steps from the drive way to the mansion proper, he wondered just how much they knew about whom they were contracted to protect. Very little, likely. At the top of the steps he was met by a bullish looking man, dressed in an all black ensemble that no doubt had either inspired or been inspired by the mortal film ‘Underworld’. This one was one of the Kindred, for certain, likely one Rothai, the Elder’s personal bodyguard. On a good day, Étienne might be able to fight a few of their lesser number himself, but he had no doubts the closer he got to the inner sanctum the less true that would become. The bodyguard searched him with ruthless professionalism, to which Etienne only grudgingly allowed. When he found his matches and cigarettes, he raised a dark eyebrow at the Ventrue.

“Quoi?” He asked, allowing more of his native quebecois accent to shine through and make him sound more innocent. “I like to indulge. Is that such a bad thing?”

“It is here.” The heavy grumbled, pocketing the items himself. “You’re clean, now.” Etienne allowed himself a very Gallic shrug in response; the sort of shrug that managed to express all manner of emotions and sentiments despite its seemingly vague nature. In this case; Whatever you say, asshole.

Ushered into the foyer, Etienne could see other Rothai milling about the background. They were here watching the other guests; when kindred gathered in any sort of numbers, things could get volatile quickly. Running Janus meant that Étienne knew that better than most. Other immortals had brought their own bodyguard, while Etienne had left much of his staff at the club. Only two of his were here, and they were busy offloading the Tribute intended for the Elder that had been brought out on a separate truck. They would leave once they were done, less the presence of the Caitiff Thinbloods in his employ provoke anyone’s ire. Taking a moment with one of the Ghoul’s in the Prince’s employ, Etienne checked himself in. They would alert their mistress, or more likely some majordomo on her staff, to his presence and have him summoned Into the inner sanctum accordingly. Then and only then would the real test begin.

[Finsternia]

Awakening of the Maddened Moon
Los Angeles, Pacific Palisades

As the sun falls to the veil of Great Nyx upon the heavens, the City of Angels remain bright. In fact, its sparkling towers and bustling streets appear the more beautiful and enchanting under the shadow of night. Pedestrians fill the streets, cheerful laughter echo in halls and stores and buildings. A facade of joyousness and merriment paint the canvas of uglyness beneath; the glamour of Hollywood and entertainment hiding the blood, the terror and the insanity underneath.

Moonlight streams down the heavens, pure and resplendent that casts a spotlight upon the impurity of this place. Someplace a man starving and shuddering for warmth gets his muffled cries silenced by clawed hands. In another time and place an unfortunate transaction turns unpleasant, mortals writhing and twisting for freedom but finding their wings clipped and broken. Los Angeles is a den of sin, a place where the missing goes unwept for, a basin of blood and fecal matter mixed into a quagmire of filth. A beautiful land of dreams painted over a nightmare, ruled by invisible dread lords of night, magisters of the Arcana, and blood and flesh of the Moon. By night mortals dream, and their monarchs come out to play.

A soft creaking echoes within a sealed chamber somewhere within a luxurious estate by the sea. A shifting of something that is yet without form unnervingly sloshes within a decadent coffin and soon the cracking, breaking, and realignment of bones ensue. Silence follows the grim orchestra of flesh knitting and piecing itself before a dainty hand pries the container open. Moonlight and white emerges out of the coffin, death in the form of beauty, and the sound of bare feet dances upon marble floor. His hands touch velvet heavy curtains, parting them to grace himself the light of the moon. Chartreuse green eyes open, moonlight staring at moonlight, as a smile graces Silvanus' face. "Ah... Wondrous Selene..."

[Morrdh]

Morri

She caught him when he shambled through still half-sleep, having been awoken by his alarm. Happiest flourished at the reunion, further added to when a sleepy little girl emerged from her own room and cried out in joy at catching sight of a frequently absent parent. Alas, the happiness was fleeting as Morri was soon on her own in the house. Alexei had work, a college professor these days, whilst their daughter Kaya was now attending Kindergarden. Though Morri understood the necessity, she had a mistrust of the US education system and rather preferred Kaya going to school in Ireland or, failing that, Britain. But that would require leaving LA which wasn't feasible for any of them.

But here she was, all on her lonesome and counting the minutes until the others returned. Partially due to an agreement with Alexei and partially to stop herself from going crazy with boredom, Morri busied herself with some housework as well as preparing some food for dinner. It was a weird, almost surreal, sort of normality compared to her life as a Garou facing the Wyrm's lackies and other supernatural foes. In some respects it provided an anchor for her, a sort of bastion of sanity. Yet it made her increasingly torn between trying to have a regular human life and her duty to Gaia and her pack. She hated when she had to leave her little family and her pack respectively, she hoped there wouldn't come a day when she was forced to choose between the two.

Morri had, for intents and purposes, become estranged from her parents some years earlier to protect them from Pentex. Her twin sister Morgana she hadn't seen in an even longer time. She missed them dearly, though her pack had gone some way to filling the family sized hole she had in her life. It sometimes left her feeling conflicted, a feeling made worse by the fact that she felt trapped in a city which she unwillingly been sent to and that she just couldn't up and leave. Though perhaps when her deal with Anna was fulfilled....

[Luminesa]

Morri

She caught him when he shambled through still half-sleep, having been awoken by his alarm. Happiest flourished at the reunion, further added to when a sleepy little girl emerged from her own room and cried out in joy at catching sight of a frequently absent parent. Alas, the happiness was fleeting as Morri was soon on her own in the house. Alexei had work, a college professor these days, whilst their daughter Kaya was now attending Kindergarden. Though Morri understood the necessity, she had a mistrust of the US education system and rather preferred Kaya going to school in Ireland or, failing that, Britain. But that would require leaving LA which wasn't feasible for any of them.

But here she was, all on her lonesome and counting the minutes until the others returned. Partially due to an agreement with Alexei and partially to stop herself from going crazy with boredom, Morri busied herself with some housework as well as preparing some food for dinner. It was a weird, almost surreal, sort of normality compared to her life as a Garou facing the Wyrm's lackies and other supernatural foes. In some respects it provided an anchor for her, a sort of bastion of sanity. Yet it made her increasingly torn between trying to have a regular human life and her duty to Gaia and her pack. She hated when she had to leave her little family and her pack respectively, she hoped there wouldn't come a day when she was forced to choose between the two.

Morri had, for intents and purposes, become estranged from her parents some years earlier to protect them from Pentex. Her twin sister Morgana she hadn't seen in an even longer time. She missed them dearly, though her pack had gone some way to filling the family sized hole she had in her life. It sometimes left her feeling conflicted, a feeling made worse by the fact that she felt trapped in a city which she unwillingly been sent to and that she just couldn't up and leave. Though perhaps when her deal with Anna was fulfilled....

Alexei - Home With the Hearth

Alexei’s first day was not a difficult one, though by the numbness of his hands and the sweat on the back of his neck he never would have guessed how smoothly the day had passed. He had two classes of twenty students. Both classes seemed interested in the books he presented for the course, and they seemed to hold their attention to his presentation. One or two texted on their phones, but he let them be.

In-between classes he had texted Morri to ask about various small things. She kept so many secrets about her family-or, more accurately, they stayed too far away from her, and so he had little he could ask. He could not ask about her work, as he knew what it entailed. That despicable vampire Houghton was still alive, looming over the darkly opulent corners of Beverly Hills. If only he could abandon that part of his life, but he never truly could. His father was still watching over him in Heaven.

So he asked about dinner. He talked about his first day, just a little. He wanted to save some conversation for the dinner table. Bagels and smoothies from college vendors, even at universities like Loyola-Marymount, could not replace a home-cooked meal.

After his last class, he had to grab Kaya from school. As he bundled her into the car and buckled her, he could feel himself smiling. This tiny, small life was his, glad to see him after school. Waiting to talk about her day. “Hello, Kaya, do you wanna tell Daddy about your day at school?” he asked her. Then, when he was driving home in his small, secondhand car, he asked, “Are you excited to see Mommy?”

He of course would be glad to see her as well. As Kaya happily talked, and he nodded, he pondered on the softness of this familial relationship. When he got home to Morri, and moved out of the car to unbuckle Kaya, he was always glad to turn and see Morri’s lovely face and wild red hair. So soft and wavy, he could run his fingers through it for hours. As he held Kaya’s hand in one of his, and his suitcase on another arm, he smiled shyly as he approached the doorway.

[Kingdom of Irhk]

Connor Mac Domhnaill - Four years ago...

Dublin, Ireland – Near the Cann’s Residence

The calm streets near the residence of his fallen friend’s house contrasted well with the chaos he witnessed at LA: the wind that so calmly blew between the leaves also brought the screams of the damned. No one would know that, weeks earlier, Belial almost crossed the boundaries and made his presence known to Earth.

Yet the same wind that brought him memories of peace and memories of anger would also bring him the remembrance that he needed to take those painful steps towards the wooden door he knew so well. No fences or walls existed between him and the house of Ms. Cann, whom he affectionately called “aunt”.

He insisted: he should be the one to explain to Derrick’s mother everything that happened. He should be the one to walk past the door, sit down and tell her that her son wasn’t coming back home. The heavy feet of the Garou warrior slowly took him to the door, where he rang the doorbell. The scene would be comical, if tragedy wasn’t the mother of Connor’s nervousness: the huge man shifted his weight between the legs, as his hands seemed to get tighter and tighter inside his pockets.

Soon as the same feet who brought him there started to have a mind of their own to take him away, the noise of the keys opening the door was heard: in front of him, the old, gentle lady immediately recognized him.

“Connor! It’s been a long time since you came around! You’re all skin and bones... come, come. Don’t you dare to leave this house without eating something!”

Shyly, Connor accepted the invitation, feeling his heart struck by guilt, but also by a pain that even the best of his tribe’s poets couldn’t put into words. To enter Derrick’s house without his friends, a place where he was so alive: in the pictures, the memories, every atom inside that small universe seemed to have his name inscribed upon it. He could barely imagine how he would deliver the news: how is one supposed to say that death came to a loved one? There was no shame in admitting it, of course, but to Connor there was shame in saying it to someone who died in front of him.

As the coffee came – accompanied by a small pile of cookies, courtesy of his “aunt” - Connor allowed himself a final moment of tranquillity. Surprisingly, the gentle, small old lady who brought his comrade to this world, had an inner peace that soothed the giant that stood before her, without saying a single word: her worries were directed towards Connor catching a cold, or if he finally decided to drop the bottle just a little...

Yet the time came. The coffee ended, as did the cookies, and the room itself seemed to get darker. Hugging the mug with both hands, Connor pressed it so hard it almost broke, the anxiety contained within his muscles eager to jump away at the nearest object. Getting a hold of himself, he decided to start telling his story...

“Aunt Maggie, I... I need to tell you something.”

And so he did. He told about the dangers of Los Angeles: a city worthy of a thousand movies by day, and worthy of a thousand cops per street by night. He told her about the Kindred, and how they seemed to crawl out of the walls with powers he couldn’t even start to understand and with her he shared the worries of the young lives that accompanied him... only to finally mention the news he brought heavily at his heart.

“Aunt, Derrick... Derrick was shot. And... And... It was just... there was the noise. The big noise, the one you don’t hear while you are in the heat of the conflict, where your head is so, so far away and...

Behind me, that introspective ‘fuck’ he did. But it sounded... different. Usually, it came before or after a laugh, but this one... it was just this word. When I turned around, there was... blood. Pouring out and out, and we ran trying to bandage it, yet, yet... he didn’t make it. We arrived and he... he was dead. But I looked at his eyes, and they held that... joy he had. And for a moment I thought ‘he just drank too much, he passed out’! But... he didn’t.

We burned his body... there were... Kindred there. Dangerous ones. I watched him die and I watched him burn, and there was no one, no one who could understand anything I had to say. And I had a lot! I had a lot to say! But he, he could... untangle the web of shit I spill out of my stupid mouth, because if I wasn’t so stupid, he would still be here, with us... I killed him, aunt. I took him to his death and in the end, he did it!”

And the rarest scene possible for anyone who knew Connor happened: she watched him cry, silently, as the man who so valiantly fought the cohorts of the Wyrm looked like a fragile child. She slowly rose up from her seat, walking towards two photos, bringing them close to her chest as she sat beside Connor.

“- See, Connor... this is Derrick’s father, in the picture. When we decided to marry, he told me all the truth about the Garou. He told me how you struggled with yourselves, but foremost, how poetic it was... he said that the mission you were born with only made sense for its end. It’s a tragic story, but at our honeymoon, he rented a nice, but suspiciously cheap hotel... when we got there, we discovered that it was right next to a cemetery! Now, can you imagine how it feels like, to be at the happiest day of your life and to celebrate it near a monument to death? I had a terrible day, until he said to me the difference between you and the Kindred.

- And that would be...?

- You don’t cheat death. You understand there is just... one way, one opportunity to enjoy life, to fulfil your wishes. And fatally, being a Fianna certainly had to do with fighting the Wyrm, as you call it, but also about choosing how, where and most importantly, with who you would do it. And of all the options, my child... Derrick decided the best would be alongside you. I know you never heard it, but he trusted you not to do the quiet thing, but the proper thing, the one that would drive people away. You didn’t carry him there. He went, Connor! He went with his own legs and he fought with his own arms! And these young lives you say? They need you, but they need you in your right mind, my boy!

- And... did I ever had a right mind, aunt?

- Within your own boundaries, you did... you didn’t lie. You told every single one of them the truth, didn’t you?

- Yes.

- Then there’s no shame in crying and there’s no shame in feeling pain. I lost a son, yes, yet you lost a brother, Connor. It’s a big, deep pain... It took you courage to come here... his face is all around and you probably remember the first time I caught you drinking here, don’t you?

- Heh...

- You got redder than your hair! But Connor... I lost a son. And I can understand why he died. However, I cannot...”

And for a minute, she stopped, holding Connor’s face in her hands. She needed to feel the weight of his pain, etched into his facial expressions, so her own words could have weight as her eyes teared up.

“You are my son, Connor. And I will not... I will not admit that you think so lowly of yourself like that.”

With her small hands, she reached for a hug. There was pain inside her as well, yet one that could be healed by healing her deeply wounded son. And yet, the small hands that now were at Connor’s back, made him feel like she could hold the world and a half.

All while gently offering coffee.

Four years later...

Labrador City, Newfoundland and Labrador, Canada

Even if the words of his friends healed his wounds partly, there was still work to do. He needed fresh air, fresh knowledge, to contact other Garou across North America, and to clean his mind of grief. Across the land he travelled once again, but now alone, finding support through work or the Kinfolk, eager to receive a Fianna far away from home.

And it was at a bar, alone and enjoying a drink, that he felt his phone vibrating: a feeling, shooting straight from his gut, one confirmed by the name of the one who sent it.

“Cait.”

He opened the message, hoping it was just another monthly check, yet it was worse...

“Connor. It is a Morri problem.”

A long sigh could be heard across the bar, as Connor got up in a rush. It was the time to return to Los Angeles.

[Luminesa]

Awakening of the Maddened Moon
Los Angeles, Pacific Palisades

As the sun falls to the veil of Great Nyx upon the heavens, the City of Angels remain bright. In fact, its sparkling towers and bustling streets appear the more beautiful and enchanting under the shadow of night. Pedestrians fill the streets, cheerful laughter echo in halls and stores and buildings. A facade of joyousness and merriment paint the canvas of uglyness beneath; the glamour of Hollywood and entertainment hiding the blood, the terror and the insanity underneath.

Moonlight streams down the heavens, pure and resplendent that casts a spotlight upon the impurity of this place. Someplace a man starving and shuddering for warmth gets his muffled cries silenced by clawed hands. In another time and place an unfortunate transaction turns unpleasant, mortals writhing and twisting for freedom but finding their wings clipped and broken. Los Angeles is a den of sin, a place where the missing goes unwept for, a basin of blood and fecal matter mixed into a quagmire of filth. A beautiful land of dreams painted over a nightmare, ruled by invisible dread lords of night, magisters of the Arcana, and blood and flesh of the Moon. By night mortals dream, and their monarchs come out to play.

A soft creaking echoes within a sealed chamber somewhere within a luxurious estate by the sea. A shifting of something that is yet without form unnervingly sloshes within a decadent coffin and soon the cracking, breaking, and realignment of bones ensue. Silence follows the grim orchestra of flesh knitting and piecing itself before a dainty hand pries the container open. Moonlight and white emerges out of the coffin, death in the form of beauty, and the sound of bare feet dances upon marble floor. His hands touch velvet heavy curtains, parting them to grace himself the light of the moon. Chartreuse green eyes open, moonlight staring at moonlight, as a smile graces Silvanus' face. "Ah... Wondrous Selene..."

Mikhailov - Attending to the Moon

Five years. So much had changed, and yet so little. The same city, the violence always coming in small waves and then settling. Anna had kept her moody and overbearing distance. Mikhailov had indeed healed since that night fighting Belial, when he had found himself anew. The echoes of that beautiful hymn still played in his mind at times, a shining moment of bravery and recklessness.The blood that had filled his brain, and then had healed. The organized chaos that had followed in that evening.

Most of all, he had reached a second revelation about who he was, and had survived. He would sacrifice blood and almost his entire life in order to achieve a peace his world had never given him. He could indeed start again.

Radiant Magic flowed through his body frequently, especially when he walked outdoors to run errands. He only thought about that night’s script, after all, when he was not busy. After that evening, Silvanus had gone into torpor to heal, and he had to help Sylvester to run the household while he slept for an uncertain amount of time.

Yet a Second Awakening changed the way he saw the world. Time flowed more smoothly, more quickly. He did not feel the same anxious constraints of others. Time passing, waiting in lines at the grocery stores, arguing with people over the phone. An otherworldly calm blurred the worries of the world around him, and he could feel sunlight underneath his skin. As long as this sensation lasted, he had no reason to feel worried. Silvanus would awaken when he was ready.

Michael still existed, a happy Doll who awaited Mikhailov each time he returned home. The new villa by the sea made for a scenic return, as the Russian Mage seemed to glitter into view from nowhere, under the streetlight that led to the mansion. His eyes were assured, and he always showed Michael a sweet smile. “…Welcome back, Kostya,” the Doll greeted, “did you find the books for Lord Silvanus?”

“Of course I did,” the Mage responded. He smelled seawater and the chill air of winter. Evening had fallen when he had arrived home, and so the glow off the water reflected in his eyes. What a mystifying location Silvanus had picked, but then nobody loved the moonlight more than a Malkavian.

Mikhailov walked toward the door, and Michael’s smile continued to follow him. As he opened the door, however, friction stopped both of them in their tracks. For once, the Mage seemed puzzled. He looked around as he began to hear whispers. The Web. He had now lived in a Malkavian household for so long that he almost knew each individual voice by name.

A stirring, something very powerful…

Waiting, we have been waiting…

Will you approach? Are you afraid?

The Mage felt his heart beat a little faster. He stared in the doorway. Business as usual, at least from what he could see. Sylvester and the other Dolls were all busy, and none stopped to greet him as he took a step inside. And yet his heart continued to stir. Something in the air had changed inside, and he needed to know where.

Michael followed him inside, closing the door behind him. “…It is for you, Kostya,” he suddenly spoke. When the Mage turned his head to listen to him, the Doll continued, “Go see. Go see him. We will still be here when you return.” That royal “we”. Mikhailov still caught a chill at times, but he always accepted Michael as he was. Yet he did not take time to think, as his eyes darted down the hall. Only one place could have caused such a change.

His feet rushed down the hall, tracing steps to a locked chamber in the back of the villa. This room, this sanctuary, was one only Sylvester and he could enter. He bit his thumb and dropped some blood on the doorway, and he was able to enter. He heard cracking and popping from within. The knitting of bones. Such bizarre sounds were not unusual in Silvanus’s household, but in this room…

Mikhailov threw open the door, and the moonlight flooded the room. Standing in front of that light, however, was a figure whose pale, delicate hands caressed the curtains with deliberation. A curtain of silvery hair fell down the slim figure’s back. A perfect porcelain statue, curved with the careful and meticulous love of Michelangelo. The pounding in the Mage’s heart grew to a climax. He did not hear the words the figure spoke. His eyes widened, and he stepped into the room as if he was stepping into a dream. Only by touch would he know if this figure was really him. Even so, he still whispered his name with devotion.

“…Lord Silvanus…welcome back to us.”

[Finsternia]

Awakening of the Maddened Moon
Los Angeles, Pacific Palisades

As the sun falls to the veil of Great Nyx upon the heavens, the City of Angels remain bright. In fact, its sparkling towers and bustling streets appear the more beautiful and enchanting under the shadow of night. Pedestrians fill the streets, cheerful laughter echo in halls and stores and buildings. A facade of joyousness and merriment paint the canvas of uglyness beneath; the glamour of Hollywood and entertainment hiding the blood, the terror and the insanity underneath.

Moonlight streams down the heavens, pure and resplendent that casts a spotlight upon the impurity of this place. Someplace a man starving and shuddering for warmth gets his muffled cries silenced by clawed hands. In another time and place an unfortunate transaction turns unpleasant, mortals writhing and twisting for freedom but finding their wings clipped and broken. Los Angeles is a den of sin, a place where the missing goes unwept for, a basin of blood and fecal matter mixed into a quagmire of filth. A beautiful land of dreams painted over a nightmare, ruled by invisible dread lords of night, magisters of the Arcana, and blood and flesh of the Moon. By night mortals dream, and their monarchs come out to play.

A soft creaking echoes within a sealed chamber somewhere within a luxurious estate by the sea. A shifting of something that is yet without form unnervingly sloshes within a decadent coffin and soon the cracking, breaking, and realignment of bones ensue. Silence follows the grim orchestra of flesh knitting and piecing itself before a dainty hand pries the container open. Moonlight and white emerges out of the coffin, death in the form of beauty, and the sound of bare feet dances upon marble floor. His hands touch velvet heavy curtains, parting them to grace himself the light of the moon. Chartreuse green eyes open, moonlight staring at moonlight, as a smile graces Silvanus' face. "Ah... Wondrous Selene..."

Mikhailov - Attending to the Moon

Five years. So much had changed, and yet so little. The same city, the violence always coming in small waves and then settling. Anna had kept her moody and overbearing distance. Mikhailov had indeed healed since that night fighting Belial, when he had found himself anew. The echoes of that beautiful hymn still played in his mind at times, a shining moment of bravery and recklessness.The blood that had filled his brain, and then had healed. The organized chaos that had followed in that evening.

Most of all, he had reached a second revelation about who he was, and had survived. He would sacrifice blood and almost his entire life in order to achieve a peace his world had never given him. He could indeed start again.

Radiant Magic flowed through his body frequently, especially when he walked outdoors to run errands. He only thought about that night’s script, after all, when he was not busy. After that evening, Silvanus had gone into torpor to heal, and he had to help Sylvester to run the household while he slept for an uncertain amount of time.

Yet a Second Awakening changed the way he saw the world. Time flowed more smoothly, more quickly. He did not feel the same anxious constraints of others. Time passing, waiting in lines at the grocery stores, arguing with people over the phone. An otherworldly calm blurred the worries of the world around him, and he could feel sunlight underneath his skin. As long as this sensation lasted, he had no reason to feel worried. Silvanus would awaken when he was ready.

Michael still existed, a happy Doll who awaited Mikhailov each time he returned home. The new villa by the sea made for a scenic return, as the Russian Mage seemed to glitter into view from nowhere, under the streetlight that led to the mansion. His eyes were assured, and he always showed Michael a sweet smile. “…Welcome back, Kostya,” the Doll greeted, “did you find the books for Lord Silvanus?”

“Of course I did,” the Mage responded. He smelled seawater and the chill air of winter. Evening had fallen when he had arrived home, and so the glow off the water reflected in his eyes. What a mystifying location Silvanus had picked, but then nobody loved the moonlight more than a Malkavian.

Mikhailov walked toward the door, and Michael’s smile continued to follow him. As he opened the door, however, friction stopped both of them in their tracks. For once, the Mage seemed puzzled. He looked around as he began to hear whispers. The Web. He had now lived in a Malkavian household for so long that he almost knew each individual voice by name.

A stirring, something very powerful…

Waiting, we have been waiting…

Will you approach? Are you afraid?

The Mage felt his heart beat a little faster. He stared in the doorway. Business as usual, at least from what he could see. Sylvester and the other Dolls were all busy, and none stopped to greet him as he took a step inside. And yet his heart continued to stir. Something in the air had changed inside, and he needed to know where.

Michael followed him inside, closing the door behind him. “…It is for you, Kostya,” he suddenly spoke. When the Mage turned his head to listen to him, the Doll continued, “Go see. Go see him. We will still be here when you return.” That royal “we”. Mikhailov still caught a chill at times, but he always accepted Michael as he was. Yet he did not take time to think, as his eyes darted down the hall. Only one place could have caused such a change.

His feet rushed down the hall, tracing steps to a locked chamber in the back of the villa. This room, this sanctuary, was one only Sylvester and he could enter. He bit his thumb and dropped some blood on the doorway, and he was able to enter. He heard cracking and popping from within. The knitting of bones. Such bizarre sounds were not unusual in Silvanus’s household, but in this room…

Mikhailov threw open the door, and the moonlight flooded the room. Standing in front of that light, however, was a figure whose pale, delicate hands caressed the curtains with deliberation. A curtain of silvery hair fell down the slim figure’s back. A perfect porcelain statue, curved with the careful and meticulous love of Michelangelo. The pounding in the Mage’s heart grew to a climax. He did not hear the words the figure spoke. His eyes widened, and he stepped into the room as if he was stepping into a dream. Only by touch would he know if this figure was really him. Even so, he still whispered his name with devotion.

“…Lord Silvanus…welcome back to us.”

Silvanus - Asylum for Malkav's Brood
Los Angeles, Pacific Palisades

Time means nothing when it does not flow for you. Time held meaning for many mortals and supernaturals. Time meant life and existence for humans, time meant power for the Wise, time meant duty for Luna's little helpers. For ones that are older, who continue to sail the tides of time without drowning to its currents, time becomes paper. A paper to write on: achievements held over dozens of years and plans and schemes that will blossom twenty chapters later into the future. Time becomes nothing but a tool, unlike the unstoppable force that mortals came to fear for their ignorance.

Five years is short. Some may argue it is a long period of time. Five years is enough to bear a child, raise it, and create a family. Five years is enough to strike a career, to become proficient in your chosen art and path, and strike gold with your newfound capabilities. But sometimes five years is too long. It is too long of a time to wrestle with grief, with pain and self conflict that continues to eat at your heart for every passing day. Five years is too much for a hunter and their prey, dancing underneath moonlight and daylight at each others' tail. But sometimes five years can simply be a waiting time. Lives bargained into a machine, fueled by blood and flesh to manufacture an army. Five years under wraps and cold stone didn't stop the Old Camarilla. From far away a sleeping beauty commanded her forces and pulled strings, reclaiming territory. And close by the sleeping moon shone its light on the city as green chartreuse eyes passed on to many; some aware and some are not as some force, someone, watched and took the reins.

Soldiers and fun little toys were forged for five years, smelted by hands and vile sorcery and delivered for their intended recipient. Despite being asleep, Silvanus has far reach. The old ones sleep but do not truly slumber, and sometimes some dream and in those dreams they reach out with their clawed hands and fanged teeth. The same clawed hands touched glass, caressing the smooth cold pane. The blonde haired Mage sees him stare out into the night sky, silent for a moment.

"Selene, cold Goddess, vain Muse..."

"Are you watching? Are you watching in the sky?"

"How many did you take away?"

"Did the sleeping shepherds entice your light on us?"

Soft whispers flow into Mikhailov's ears, a few voices from the aether calling out to an old Goddess of the Moon. It wasn't a cacophony but rather an audience asking for answers towards a silent Muse. Footsteps, perhaps two to three sets of it, echo just outside of the former sealed room. "Ah... Finally." A voice calls outside, gruff but level headed, as three persons step inside. "I have been waiting for people to dress me." Mikhailov sees Sylvester step inside, the head Doll looking much different than he did five years ago. The Doll was a perfect mirror of the Elder once, but perhaps by Silvanus' fancy he cut his hair short and kept it silver with age. Five years passed but it looked like twenty as the Doll aged into a midlife crisis. His eyes are an iridescent green as the Elder speaks through him, and two younger and nervous Malkavians flank him.

Silvanus sits down on a beautifully furnished chair as Sylvester walks to the wardrobes, retrieving articles of clothing with utmost precision. The Doll and the Malkavians dressed him as he sat still like a porcelain mannequin. White upon white covered his deathly pale skin until the trio finishes putting on a red tie upon his neck. The Malkavians bowed and excused themselves as Sylvester retrieves a comb, brushing his silver hair like spinning the threads of Fate. Soft brushing and only the breathing of Sylvester and Mikhailov could be heard within the room, until finally the dread lord's lips opened. "What's with that manner of speech and look, Kostya? Have we not spoke enough through many mediums?" The vampire lord grins as he initiates friendly banter with his precious little pet.

[Luminesa]

Mikhailov - Stars and Moons

Such beautiful hands. Cold on cold, they touched glass and wavered there, as Silvanus seemed to ponder the passage of time. No breath fogged the window, so Mikhailov could see his beautiful face in the window’s reflection. Those thoughtful, distant eyes, he wanted to kiss them. In fact, he wanted to close the distance and to embrace Silvanus as he was. Yet something told him to wait. So he stood, breathless and numb, until Sylvester scoot his way past him and began to dress Silvanus.

The Malkavian loved his white. He sat in a lounge chair, aware that he was undressed, and his personal butler dressed him in ivory. As if driven to sudden motion, Mikhailov joined to help him. He found accessories that the vampire loved. An ivory rose brooch, some cuff links. He would have felt like a fool if he did not do something, but he struggled to walk the distance. When he did, he took deep, agonized breaths.

A brush floated through Silvanus’s hair. Soft, glistening moonlight. The Russian mage fastened the brooch to the Malkavian’s suit, and then gazed into his eyes. His breathing had become softer, as if he had remembered that he could breathe. “…I…missed you, Lord Silvanus. Ah…your face, your form…it’s…different, hearing you through the Web…and through the Dolls…” He forgot that Sylvester was still present, but he doubted that he would care.

His hands, where were his hands? Mikhailov looked down. His hand was still on Silvanus’s chest, his fingers around the fabric brooch. The vampire had no heartbeat, why did his hand linger? Soft, so delicate, so smooth…The Mage’s face was warm, and he could not identify why his throat had become so hoarse. “…Seeing you is…what I have waited for…” he whispered.

[Finsternia]

Silvanus - Dread Moonlight
Los Angeles, Pacific Palisades, Demesne of the Malkavian Primogen

Unblinking eyes stare back at Mikhailov's desperate blues, small orbs of quivering sky that overflow with worship and obsession. Silvanus liked those eyes. If only he could pluck them out and display them as jewels. Perhaps upon his fingers on golden rings, or embedded within brooches or lockets as beautiful amulets. A pristine hand touches Mikhailov's face, cold and hard and cruel despite the softness of its touch. He caresses without thought, distant chartreuse eyes watching for the reactions of an animal to his touch.

"How pitiful..."

"If only you know how desperate you appear now..."

"It is soooo... delicious. So close to tears."

"A desperate little man..."

Phantom chuckles and giggles whisper into his ear as unseen audiences watch as if this is a sick comedy. How laughable it was indeed for him to cling to this unfeeling monster, captivated by his beauty and entranced by the beautiful terror in silver and white seated before him. "But that is alright, good enough for you, isn't it?" Two voices answer the doubts that knock and bang in his head as the Elder and his Doll respond at the same time. "Haven't you already had your fill with my butler? So many Dolls and yet you are insatiable... Kneel."

The vampire crosses his legs and offers his right hand for Mikhailov to kiss. Jewelled rings deck his scarred hands, stone stars glimmering as the moonlight outside hits and reflects upon them. As he waits for Mikhailov to revere him, to lay kisses of devotion upon his hand, the Lord of Clan Malkavian continues to speak. "I wish to take a stroll through town... So many sights and pleasures to be had this evening! It has been quite awhile since I've stepped outside for a walk... and I have many places I wish to visit... Accompany me, my faithful hound... I wish to pay a visit to certain interests." A beautiful smile blossoms upon his face, beautiful but scarred eternally, but the glimmer in his eyes hold nothing of beauty nor goodwill.

[Luminesa]

Silvanus - Dread Moonlight
Los Angeles, Pacific Palisades, Demesne of the Malkavian Primogen

Unblinking eyes stare back at Mikhailov's desperate blues, small orbs of quivering sky that overflow with worship and obsession. Silvanus liked those eyes. If only he could pluck them out and display them as jewels. Perhaps upon his fingers on golden rings, or embedded within brooches or lockets as beautiful amulets. A pristine hand touches Mikhailov's face, cold and hard and cruel despite the softness of its touch. He caresses without thought, distant chartreuse eyes watching for the reactions of an animal to his touch.

"How pitiful..."

"If only you know how desperate you appear now..."

"It is soooo... delicious. So close to tears."

"A desperate little man..."

Phantom chuckles and giggles whisper into his ear as unseen audiences watch as if this is a sick comedy. How laughable it was indeed for him to cling to this unfeeling monster, captivated by his beauty and entranced by the beautiful terror in silver and white seated before him. "But that is alright, good enough for you, isn't it?" Two voices answer the doubts that knock and bang in his head as the Elder and his Doll respond at the same time. "Haven't you already had your fill with my butler? So many Dolls and yet you are insatiable... Kneel."

The vampire crosses his legs and offers his right hand for Mikhailov to kiss. Jewelled rings deck his scarred hands, stone stars glimmering as the moonlight outside hits and reflects upon them. As he waits for Mikhailov to revere him, to lay kisses of devotion upon his hand, the Lord of Clan Malkavian continues to speak. "I wish to take a stroll through town... So many sights and pleasures to be had this evening! It has been quite awhile since I've stepped outside for a walk... and I have many places I wish to visit... Accompany me, my faithful hound... I wish to pay a visit to certain interests." A beautiful smile blossoms upon his face, beautiful but scarred eternally, but the glimmer in his eyes hold nothing of beauty nor goodwill.

Mikhailov - The Coldest Second

A touch poked and pried its way through the air tingling around the Mage, before it settled and rested on his cheek. Silvanus had a way of making others feel both beautiful and helplessly inferior. Mikhailov, even with his new strength as an Archmage, felt his knees failing him. Even before the Malkavian had asked him to kneel, he could feel the carpet press under his knees. His face grew warmer, his blush a stark contrast to Silvanus’s hand.

“…I…I suppose I sound rather pathetic, yes…but I did…need to see you…” He kissed his hand gratefully, the cold skin pleasant to the touch. Every slow, steady motion felt like veneration of a relic. That tiny hymn he had sang in defiance of Belial had been a large worship, a defiance of a hateful demon. Yet the small kisses were small worships, not of a god but of the man to whom Mikhailov had devoted his life. A bleeding brain or not, he always came back to him. He gave his hand one long kiss, trying to hold to his senses and dignity.

Silvanus spoke to him, and he lifted his head. The Malkavian wanted to walk through town with him. Of course, he would have an ulterior motive. Perhaps he wanted to visit some associates and make sure no rats had bothered the structure of his Clan. Their little gnawing teeth and sniffly noses bothered both the Malkavian and the Mage, as if their hearts and minds had grotesquely stitched themselves together over time. Mikhailov gave an eager grin.

“Of course. Los Angeles is still as busy as ever. It would be good to check the city for any new sights and disturbances. After all, your eyes are better than mine…”

The smile that unfolded on the Malkavian’s face made Mikhailov forget what he wanted to say next. Such an elegant smile, something out of a painting. All of the mystery of Mona Lisa’s smile, but all of the lusciousness of the royal portrait of Madame de Montespan and her coquettish, knowing smile. The Mage felt himself gasp in silence, trying to grasp at sanity. He seemed to clutch at darkness…until he realized his eyes were closed, and his lips were on the Malkavian’s.

He let go quickly, knowing he could risk a slap or a rebuke. Silvanus was not like Anna, who had silently allowed Alexei’s kiss in front of a crowd, even as she would have harmed him if not for the fight that had occurred. Mikhailov could finally feel his face again, and it was a bright red. His eyes were wide, and he did not know if he should grin or not. Unable to consider his next action, he lowered his eyes and kneeled again.

[Finsternia]

Silvanus - Moonlit Reunion
Los Angeles, Pacific Palisades, Demesne of the Malkavian Primogen

Long moments of silence followed Mikhailov's transgression. Chartreuse orbs affix their unblinking gaze upon him, silent and judging and thinking. The lips that he kissed seconds ago have not let go of their smile. Silvanus regards him with silent thoughts, though the thoughts of other phantom beings speak loudly in his ear.

"How rude..."

"Rude... rude... rude..."

"Crass!"

"Such imprudence! Kissing perfection without thought!"

"Do you think you are worthy of a kiss, oh desperate little man?"

Mikhailov hears the shifting of clothes as Silvanus crosses over his other leg and conveniently rests the heel of his left shoe upon his head, forcing him to bow lower. The Elder Malkavian's eyes squint with satisfaction at the sight. Golden hair, a golden crown, bowed low before silver moon. "Thank you for your utmost devotion..." Mikhailov could barely hear the soft laughter that follows, which tugs at his heart strings. Shame and recognition, embarrassment and jubilation, both continue to rage in his heart and mind as he feels sickly green bear down upon his soul. "But come now, dear hound..."

The Mage feels the vampire's shoe leave his head. Its weight wasn't heavy, but it felt like the severe power behind that action and the weight of its intention was suffocating. He belongs to this moonlit madman, of eyes of emerald and sickness, for better or for worse. "We both know you hunger for that." An errant whisper hushes at his right ear, phantom fingers touch his neck where a collar is affixed beneath his clothes. The sensations abruptly stop when he hears the violent ripping of flesh and bone as if it was paper. Mikhailov witnesses Silvanus tearing his Doll's right arm with apparent ease, like a child plucking petals off a rose. His graceful touch twists and melts flesh and bone alike, and the arm transforms into a cane of artistic value; its length carved with nonsensical swirls and dents that would only make sense to a Malkavian mystic or a sorcerer with the audacity to decipher the hazardous memetic inscriptions. The head of the cane is polished into a figure of a miniature skull, smooth and masterfully carved. Sylvester barely made a sound as he lowered his head as his master reshaped his limb for his own purposes. But it shouldn't be a part of Mikhailov's worries. He could already hear the sound of knitting bone and flesh. "Come... We have a dinner to attend to."

The Brancroft-O'Malley Household

Chartreuse green eyes peer out of a speeding Countach, into dozens upon dozens of night lights. They look like fireflies to Silvanus. Mortal night lights no longer carry terrible pain and fear that fire invokes, but a smile plays upon his lips. Centuries ago he remembers how he'd cry and rage at the sight of flame and the touch of fire. "How pitiful..." He whispers in antiquated Greek to no one as Sylvester drives them through the busy streets of Los Angeles. His eyes watch the fleeting lives of those that crawl within his territory and this city he lives in. Green eyes follow the movements of crowds, his iridescent glare piercing through the boring and dull minds of pedestrians that come by his field of view.

How boring. Indeed how boring. Fleeting lives ought to be more colorful. Colors and paints lose their hue and vibrancy through time but these tides of garbage shaped like hairless monkeys bore Silvanus. His hand touches the window pane as he stares out. Only a couple of those minds burn with colorful light in his vision. "My creations are far more beautiful..." The car slows down as soon as it reaches its destination. A suburb in Los Angeles, and a specific house currently alight with people within. Sylvester comes out of the driver's seat in order to open the door for the Primogen. Silvanus steps out, dressed in all white except his tie, in an expensive three piece suit and a gentleman's cane. He doesn't bother to look behind him if Mikhailov is following him. A good and loyal dog always follows its owner. As such Sylvester walks ahead of his master in order to ring the bell and knock the door, alerting the couple within. Alexei feels a familiar dread and recognition well within him despite not knowing his guest, and Morri feels palpable danger, the scent of blood and barely audible whispers in the air. What greets them beyond the foyer is a trio of men: an older man with short greying hair and a blonde haired man attending a familiar figure in white and resplendent in moonlight. "...Am I invited for dinner?"

[Luminesa]

Mikhailov - Undying Silver

The kiss lingered on Mikhailov’s lips, as if he had just kissed a perfect statue made of bitter ice. He heard the angry whispers from Silvanus’s associated, but paid them no mind. He knelt as he was commanded, and he kept his eyes closed. He paid a high price for this love he had chosen, a mad love. A dark love, in which the Mage’s agreement to humiliation followed with a soft laugh. Delicate chamber music to his ears.

Thank you for your devotion.

He would kiss him a thousand times to hear such words again. And indeed, a sensation behind his neck, a gentle touch, almost prompted him to lift his head to give a longing smile. Yet before he could lose himself in his rapturous thoughts, the Malkavian called him to a mission. He only passingly noticed the Malkavian tear the arm off a Doll, until he noted that the Doll was Sylvester. The loyal and skillful butler was still just that-a Doll. Made from skin and bones unknown, molded to reflect Silvanus’s own appearance, but still just his Doll. Sylvester said nothing, he did not even flinch. The Mage forgot that the Dolls did not feel or care about pain. Once again, Michael’s sweet countenance came to mind.

“…A dinner. Well, good thing I’m dressed for the occasion.” The Mage acted as though the ecstasy and horror he had just endured was nothing, and he adjusted his tie. They would have more moments together, he was sure. Before the sun rose, perhaps he would have a chance to try again. And Sylvester was alive. His arm reformed, he acted as though all was well. Life was always malleable for Silvanus.

He smoothed his clothes and followed the Malkavian to his Lamborghini outside, and got in the car opposite of him. Both of them had the same cool smile, as if the Mage now unconsciously reflected Silvanus’s mannerisms. Not being under Anna’s Blood Bond was a freeing sensation, as he could now fully mold himself to his beloved Malkavian.

“To dinner we go then…” he whispered, as the car sped away.

Alexei - Who’s Coming for Dinner?

Alexei, on the other hand, did not experience many ecstasies or abnormal sensations in his current life. On occasion, he had dreams. A music box sang a mournful tune. A vicious woman in black and a graceful Inquisitor danced their fatal waltz. His father spoke his last words. The bishop on his disfigured, metal crucifix. Yet these dreams did not come every night, and he was grateful. He needed to keep his energy toward his family and career.

The Masquerade would return when it was ready. And indeed, tonight, it did.

As he walked to the door and opened it, a sports car sped to his driveway and halted, smooth like fire. An intruder? He whirled around, trying to remember where he kept his weapons nowadays. “…Kaya, love, go inside the house with Mommy, Daddy will be right behind you.” He hushed the child inside, and he stood outside the doorway. Even if Morri could fight, and could fight better than him, this house was his and he needed to stand firm between his home and his family.

Yet out of the car came at least two faces he recognized. He saw Mikhailov, whom he had seen on occasion now as their lives had slightly diverged. The Mage had been busy handling Malkavian and Mage affairs. Yet he had a twinkling look in his eyes and a knowing grin as he faced Alexei. In front of him, however, stood the real surprise. Alexei’s graceful, deadly uncle smiled at his nephew with that cold, unchanging expression. “…Silvanus?” Unlike Mikhailov, Alexei spoke the name from calm surprise, not lusty desire.

Deciding to go to him rather than allow him to move closer to Morri without warning, he closed the distance and stood a few inches away from his dear Uncle. “…I suppose I was not expecting you tonight, Uncle. What brings the sudden visit? Do you need something from me?” His voice was not judging or angry, but he was concerned as to how he would react to his nephew’s child. After all, even if she appeared and acted human, her mother was a Garou. Yet he hoped in the depths of his heart that Silvanus might perhaps be kind for the evening.

[Morrdh]

Morri

Morri's sixth sense had hardly failed her in the past and now, as she was preparing to dish dinner, a feeling of dread and unease ran up her spine. Outwardly she maintained a calm face and busied herself with setting out some plates, though she remained alert for warnings from the guardian spirits set to watch over the neighbouring kinfolk families. It soon became clear where the threat was headed and she let out a growl when the car pulled up outside, she was ready to shift forms but Alexei forestalled her by ushering Kaya in for the child's safety.

"Go and sit at the table, dinner's almost ready." Morri instructed her young daughter, giving a reassuring smile. Though as she started food onto the plates, she strained her ears to try and catch what was happening outside. Despite the maelstrom of dread poised in the front garden, things seemed to be...cordial but with a faint underscore of tension.

[Finsternia]

Silvanus - Undying Lord
Los Angeles, Brancroft-O'Malley Household

Sylvester the Doll steps to the side and back of the Malkavian Primogen, his head bowed low as the old vampire surveys the land. A simple home amidst copy pasted layouts of houses. As bland and boring as any 21st century subdivision planning could ever spit out of the drawing table. Nevertheless, a simple start is no less than any starting line. His eyes wander towards many of these concrete structures, green malevolence piercing through walls and into the quivering and fleeting lives hidden behind such flimsy architecture. How interesting are the colors that splatter and paint upon the boring grey and mutedness of this land. Crawling Kine consorting with unsavory beasts in his opinion. Alexei sees his ancestor's nose crinkle at the thought. 'Bothersome beasts...'

His chartreuse eyes find Alexei once more, their glare softened by the moonlight above. "...Is that how you greet your dear Uncle after all these years? How indifferent and cold... Did you not miss me after all these years? Or was it good riddance, young man? You haven't even written me a single letter." Crisp footsteps and the thumping of a cane move closer to Alexei as the Malkavian walks up to him. "The miracle of life has graced you and yet you haven't told me a single thing... It was difficult to procure a gift at such short notice... Why don't you introduce me to your daughter and your wife? We have not had the pleasure of meeting as of yet." A smile graces Silvanus' face but it only serves to make his beautiful countenance cold and sharp, as his eyes pierce through Alexei's being as if saying "I know everything you've been hiding."

[Luminesa]

Silvanus - Undying Lord
Los Angeles, Brancroft-O'Malley Household

Sylvester the Doll steps to the side and back of the Malkavian Primogen, his head bowed low as the old vampire surveys the land. A simple home amidst copy pasted layouts of houses. As bland and boring as any 21st century subdivision planning could ever spit out of the drawing table. Nevertheless, a simple start is no less than any starting line. His eyes wander towards many of these concrete structures, green malevolence piercing through walls and into the quivering and fleeting lives hidden behind such flimsy architecture. How interesting are the colors that splatter and paint upon the boring grey and mutedness of this land. Crawling Kine consorting with unsavory beasts in his opinion. Alexei sees his ancestor's nose crinkle at the thought. 'Bothersome beasts...'

His chartreuse eyes find Alexei once more, their glare softened by the moonlight above. "...Is that how you greet your dear Uncle after all these years? How indifferent and cold... Did you not miss me after all these years? Or was it good riddance, young man? You haven't even written me a single letter." Crisp footsteps and the thumping of a cane move closer to Alexei as the Malkavian walks up to him. "The miracle of life has graced you and yet you haven't told me a single thing... It was difficult to procure a gift at such short notice... Why don't you introduce me to your daughter and your wife? We have not had the pleasure of meeting as of yet." A smile graces Silvanus' face but it only serves to make his beautiful countenance cold and sharp, as his eyes pierce through Alexei's being as if saying "I know everything you've been hiding."

Alexei - Family Tradition

“Kostya told me you were…in Torpor. Which would heavily impede normal communication with a family member in said condition…” Alexei stared back at his uncle, keeping his calm in the face of uncertainty. He had no way of telling what Silvanus was planning to do with him and his family. However, given he had just awakened, perhaps he would not be looking to cause catastrophic damage. He had not arrived with an open bloodthirst, but Alexei knew that more dwelled beneath the surface of those moonlit eyes.

He turned and looked inside, and then back to Silvanus. He and Morri had talked about the Malkavian, but not often. He had a hard time describing their relationship, though not for a lack of thinking. They were indeed family, and he could not pick his family. He sighed. “While this is quite the short notice, I think it’s proper for family to associate. But my daughter is five and does not understand the Masquerade. Please…all I ask is that you be kind to her. And to Morri,” he explained. He continued to stand his ground, but he did fear for Kaya. He did not want her to learn about the Masquerade the way he did.

“Whatever you choose to do elsewhere after that…I have no control over the matter. But this evening, I’m home with my family for once. And that does indeed include you.”

[Imperialisium]

Jean Luc ’Etienne’ Saint Francis
Outside the Janus Club, North Hollywood
Los Angeles, California
November 4th, 01:25

Los Angeles was dying, one wretched death at a time. You could smell it on the cool air if you took the time and had the predilection to do so; urban stink, rotting garbage, spilt blood, and wretchedly corrupt money. This was the sweet perfume of the Kine so desperate to live their dream that they would whore themselves out for anyone who could even bring them an inkling of the elusive thing. The City of Angels was hardly the only town in America in its long running death throes; the entire beast was ill, and Los Angeles was but a single festering sore on the body of the dying animal and wherever death’s shadow fell, predators would begin to circle. Étienne was just such a creature; his undead gaze had been turned to the city for the better part of the decade until such time the opportunities became too great to ignore, though he was far from the only predator stalking Los Angeles.

The Frenchman had come four years earlier after years of extending small tendrils into the soft underbelly of the City. It had been shockingly easy, purchasing the land from the Kine and developing it into the North Hollywood hotspot that had become known as Janus. Obtaining permission from the City’s Prince had taken longer, and had actually begun fer in advance of his presence in Los Angeles. But the Club, and the few streets surrounding it were his territory now. Territory he had already maimed and killed to maintain. Janus had grown to have a certain reputation in the few years since it had started running. To the Kine it was a curiously intriguing place to meet new and interesting people; modern decor at times fused with traditional sentiments. Statues and paintings dotted alcoves and walls above the VIP booths, modern DJing equipment and sound systems would sometimes be shut off to make way for a piano older than any mortal guest under Janus’ roof, and when the veneer began to bore Étienne, it was given a facelift with dizzying speed.

To those blessed with Unlife or otherwise marked by the supernatural, Janus was something of a sanctuary. When you entered the Club, you were bound by three rules; No Killing on Janus grounds, ask not what they are, and Janus always gets a piece. The first rule was self explanatory; Etienne wanted no one dying on the property, for risk of breaking the Masquerade. Even when he had to take a life, it was always off property. The second rule was more nebulous; when you entered Janus you were expected to don a second face as though you were the two-faced God itself. If the owner didn’t know what you are, how could he be forced to act against you? The same policy applied to the club’s guests; your senses might tell you what you suspect someone to be, but if you did not ask, how could you know? Of course, officially any trespassers into Camarilla territory were dealt with to the exact mandates of the Prince.

Rule number three dealt more with the explicit business of Janus, and Étienne himself. In addition to being a safe haven, it was also where things were traded. Information, services, goods, and sometimes lives. Étienne was a networker of mortals and immortals alike, and a procurer of items. If you did business under his roof, or if you used any of his contacts to do business of your own, Janus always got a piece of the take.

The Master of the Club stood outside the back alleyway, contemplating just how he could advance himself along the winding track of Camarilla society. This wasn’t the first time he had come to a City in order to carve out an important niche for himself, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. The flare of a match illuminated his face before being replaced by the flare and fade of smouldering cigarette embers. Etienne’s hair was a dark blonde approaching brown, thick and wavy and often combed backwards. Expressive eyebrows sat above a strong jawed and honest looking face, but those dark eyes glittered with a feral cunning. You wanted to like him, but you found yourself almost frightened at the concept of disappointing him. Etienne’s visage had not changed in nearly two hundred years, though the names he’d been called by seemed to come and go with the winds. Here in Los Angeles, he had retaken his birth name at last.

“Sir?” A steady voice called as the steel door opened behind him. Étienne had heard his beating heart from the other side. This was Stapes; general manager, occasional confidant, trusted servant, and ghoul. Stapes had been in his service for nearing forty years now, and he held more of Etienne’s secrets than any living creature did. Quiet, dependable, and discrete above all else, Stapes looked like he might have been a grocer in another time, instead he kept the Janus running on the day to day and handled minor disputes. “Oui, Stapes?” Was Etienne’s soft reply, in between long, languid drags on his cigarette.

“The gentleman from last week, the Italian. His payment has been delivered to your office, sir.” The Ghoul explained in a demure tone.

“Ah, very good. And the Macallan?” The vampire asked, his tone silken and smooth despite the smoke in his lungs.

“It arrived this morning sir, while you were asleep. It’s with the other assembled tribute now.” Stapes assured his master in a placating tone. “Everything is being loaded now for transport.” A brief pause in the Ghoul’s words as he weighed loyalty with his blood bound need to serve as capably as possible. “Sir… Are you certain this is wise? You will be offering more tribute than you would other wise need to. Some of these items too are from far before your time here in Los Angeles, items that you need not give up.”

The Frenchman let out a roiling cloud of smoke, blowing it directly up into the air and watching as the late autumn breeze carried the cancerous smog off into the night. Everything he had been planning for most of a century for was coming to a head. He had merely been waiting for an opportunity to make his mark, and now it was here. Now in this dying city he would feast, and be given the chance to carve out something for himself beyond meaningless servitude. A place at the table. “Oui, Stapes. I am very certain this is what I want. At worst, I will be seen as grasping and ambitious. Perhaps even underestimated.” He turned and fixed his servant with a smile so chilling it would have frozen the blood of a lesser being, “And you know how well that goes, don’t you?”

Stapes blanched, the mortal blood draining from his face despite his ghoulish nature and his long years working with his master. “Yes sir, not well at all.” Clearing his throat with a polite cough, the general manager of the Janus continued. “Everything is loading right now in preparation for your meeting. Shall I have a car brought around?”

“Please Stapes.” Etienne said, working his cigarette almost down to the filter now. “The Audi, if you would. I feel like driving myself tonight.”

“A repast before you go? The young man from Colorado is in the building?”

Étienne waved that offer aside, he had fed the night before and hadn’t done anything particularly strenuous since then. No, he needed the edge a little hunger would bring him. When one knelt before royalty, it was more important to be at ones most flexible and ruthless. And if everything he’d read was true… If what he believed was true, he’d need it.

—————————————————————————————————

Anna’s Mansion
Later that evening

The mansion was as intimidating as Etienne remembered. He had only been here once, very briefly to make his case for his land rights and to swear his fealty to the Prince of the city, Anna. Her mind had seemed occupied, for she had barely spoken to him other than to grant him the property that Janus now sat atop. Dressed in a tailored Italian wool jacket and pants of dark charcoal grey, with a waist coat of deep blue, the Ventrue was looking and feeling his best. Stepping out of his car, he handed his keys to a mortal valet, not bothering to threaten about his car and it’s expected state of return; he suspected the young man got it all the time. A sniff about the air confirmed one of the Frenchman’s lingering suspicions; gargoyles on the rooftops. They had a unique scent amongst the bloodlines; typically gangrel-esque with the acrid tang of Tzimisce flesh craft. Even if they were bred rather than created now, the signs still lingered.

In the darkness, Etienne could see the shifting shapes of mortal soldiery as well. The radio chatter sounded distinctly Hungarian, with bursts of Transylvanian accent thrown in every now and again. The Black Legion then, talented soldiers as far as Mortals went. Ruthless too. As he ascended the steps from the drive way to the mansion proper, he wondered just how much they knew about whom they were contracted to protect. Very little, likely. At the top of the steps he was met by a bullish looking man, dressed in an all black ensemble that no doubt had either inspired or been inspired by the mortal film ‘Underworld’. This one was one of the Kindred, for certain, likely one Rothai, the Elder’s personal bodyguard. On a good day, Étienne might be able to fight a few of their lesser number himself, but he had no doubts the closer he got to the inner sanctum the less true that would become. The bodyguard searched him with ruthless professionalism, to which Etienne only grudgingly allowed. When he found his matches and cigarettes, he raised a dark eyebrow at the Ventrue.

“Quoi?” He asked, allowing more of his native quebecois accent to shine through and make him sound more innocent. “I like to indulge. Is that such a bad thing?”

“It is here.” The heavy grumbled, pocketing the items himself. “You’re clean, now.” Etienne allowed himself a very Gallic shrug in response; the sort of shrug that managed to express all manner of emotions and sentiments despite its seemingly vague nature. In this case; Whatever you say, asshole.

Ushered into the foyer, Etienne could see other Rothai milling about the background. They were here watching the other guests; when kindred gathered in any sort of numbers, things could get volatile quickly. Running Janus meant that Étienne knew that better than most. Other immortals had brought their own bodyguard, while Etienne had left much of his staff at the club. Only two of his were here, and they were busy offloading the Tribute intended for the Elder that had been brought out on a separate truck. They would leave once they were done, less the presence of the Caitiff Thinbloods in his employ provoke anyone’s ire. Taking a moment with one of the Ghoul’s in the Prince’s employ, Etienne checked himself in. They would alert their mistress, or more likely some majordomo on her staff, to his presence and have him summoned Into the inner sanctum accordingly. Then and only then would the real test begin.

Anna's Mansion
November 4th

The person who retrieved Etienne was none other than a youth. A young girl of approximately fourteen, maybe fifteen, years of age. Her pale skin and short pixie black hair gave her a modern scene vibe. Something Etienne, as a club owner in Los Angeles, would be well aware. However, there was something about the girl which belied this apparent extreme of youth. Yes, there it is, the way her blood flowed in her veins. She was a Revenant. A Revenant from no doubt an entire bred line of Revenants that operated loyally as servants for their vampiric master. "My Master bids thee welcome. You and your," she glanced in the direction of Thinbloods outside for a moment, "staff." She finished that with a touch of effort. Yes, thin bloods, caitiff to boot, were not necessarily the most well received in Kindred society. She turned politely, "If you would follow me, just yourself, the employees you've brought will have to wait in the foyer, should they choose to enter."

Leading the way and not checking to see if Etienne was following, which of course he would be, she pushed open a set of doors to reveal a long gallery. Tables, chairs, and a raised dais to one side were a beautiful woman with raven black hair touched with blue sat. Her electric green eyes shown in the darkness while rose red lips lay with mute expression. Her hands clutched the arms of her plain throne. A pair of Rothai bearing halberds, in full livery, stood at the base of the dais. A further two guarded the interior by the doors while another four were about the gallery.

The gallery itself was full of milling about, socializing, vampires. In one corner lurked Bulehard, the Nosferatu Elder, with his ilk. Some surviving Ventrue and Toreadors discussing or possible flirting for one couldn't be sure. A couple Gangrel off to the side. With all the rest from Tremere to Brujah in between.

The Revenant child led Etienne forth, more than one pair of eyes watching him pass, as he was brought to within a few feet of the dais first step. Within a swinging blow's length from either Rothai and their halberds.

"I present Jean Luc Saint Francis, also going by the name of Etienne for short."

The young girl bowed before backing away. Anna's eyes flicked to Etienne. Boring into his own, into his skull, as if to peer into his very unlife powered brain. "I take it Janus is doing well? You are aware of the observances being conducted for this night?" She beckoned him to begin rolling off with the formalities. Tribute, any new kindred to be presented, concerns, a modern meeting of Prince and denizen of the former's territory was much more abridged than what it had been several centuries prior.

[Finsternia]

Silvanus - Family Drama
Los Angeles, Brancroft-O'Malley Household

The Malkavian Elder's eyes scan Alexei. The not so subtle shakes and flinches, the quivering of his lips, his rattling fingers clenched behind fists. Alexei sees a frown on Silvanus' face as the vampire stares him down. Five years without correspondence. With his eyes from beyond dream and sleep he watched, waited, and observed. He watched this couple forced by fate and circumstance create a child, keeping a tiny candle aflame and alive in calm seas. The storm of Belial has passed, the thunder has quieted, and the raging winds were soothed. These poor little children adrift at sea, in a makeshift raft keeping themselves alive with a candle so feeble yet so bright. Alexei could have had said something about this new life. Silvanus quite adored children. Not for their innocence or any reason that includes the love of parenthood. They are beautiful little candles untainted by gray slate of mundane mortal life. They are feeble, fragile.

"...You speak of me as if I am without manners. As long as you've trained your dog not to bark nor bite the wrong tree... We won't have any problems." Silvanus lifts Alexei's chin with a pointer finger, his frown transforming into a gentle smile. He sees how time ravaged Alexei. Soft edges become sharper with time, whereareas what was once sharp became dull. Hints of wrinkles appear on his forehead as he scrunches his face in confusion and fear. "...You've become soft and dull... Is professorship really that difficult? Time isn't always gentle with its flow on you Kine..." He squints his eye in distaste at the word before letting Alexei go. He taps his cane on the ground and offers his arm to him. "Do please escort me in and introduce me to your family, Alexei. I would like to meet your beloved wife and daughter."

[Oblivion2]

Anna's Mansion
November 4th

The person who retrieved Etienne was none other than a youth. A young girl of approximately fourteen, maybe fifteen, years of age. Her pale skin and short pixie black hair gave her a modern scene vibe. Something Etienne, as a club owner in Los Angeles, would be well aware. However, there was something about the girl which belied this apparent extreme of youth. Yes, there it is, the way her blood flowed in her veins. She was a Revenant. A Revenant from no doubt an entire bred line of Revenants that operated loyally as servants for their vampiric master. "My Master bids thee welcome. You and your," she glanced in the direction of Thinbloods outside for a moment, "staff." She finished that with a touch of effort. Yes, thin bloods, caitiff to boot, were not necessarily the most well received in Kindred society. She turned politely, "If you would follow me, just yourself, the employees you've brought will have to wait in the foyer, should they choose to enter."

Leading the way and not checking to see if Etienne was following, which of course he would be, she pushed open a set of doors to reveal a long gallery. Tables, chairs, and a raised dais to one side were a beautiful woman with raven black hair touched with blue sat. Her electric green eyes shown in the darkness while rose red lips lay with mute expression. Her hands clutched the arms of her plain throne. A pair of Rothai bearing halberds, in full livery, stood at the base of the dais. A further two guarded the interior by the doors while another four were about the gallery.

The gallery itself was full of milling about, socializing, vampires. In one corner lurked Bulehard, the Nosferatu Elder, with his ilk. Some surviving Ventrue and Toreadors discussing or possible flirting for one couldn't be sure. A couple Gangrel off to the side. With all the rest from Tremere to Brujah in between.

The Revenant child led Etienne forth, more than one pair of eyes watching him pass, as he was brought to within a few feet of the dais first step. Within a swinging blow's length from either Rothai and their halberds.

"I present Jean Luc Saint Francis, also going by the name of Etienne for short."

The young girl bowed before backing away. Anna's eyes flicked to Etienne. Boring into his own, into his skull, as if to peer into his very unlife powered brain. "I take it Janus is doing well? You are aware of the observances being conducted for this night?" She beckoned him to begin rolling off with the formalities. Tribute, any new kindred to be presented, concerns, a modern meeting of Prince and denizen of the former's territory was much more abridged than what it had been several centuries prior.

As Etienne was presented before the court and the Prince, Étienne dipped down onto a single knee and bowed his head briefly in a show of submission. Often times a deep bow on the waist was enough to satisfy a Prince of a City. But this particular prince was a recent victor of what essentially amounted to a war, with a deep and rich history. History needed to be respected, and so Etienne respected its embodiment. Getting back to his feet, the Ventrue allowed a richness to pervade his tone, so that all in the Court might hear its timbre. Older than more than a few of the Kindred here, this was his opportunity to make an impression in many a collective mind.

“Oui, mademoiselle.” Etienne answers warmly, “Many things flow from the Janua unto me; mortal currencies, precious metals, artifacts, information. I am humbled to have had the opportunity to settle here as I have, for it has taken many life times to assemble the network required to make such a thing possible. So it is tonight that I wish to share with you, my benefactor, the fruits of these good fortunes as the bonds of my fealty require and as I feel I personally owe to you for this opportunity.”

Turning to a lesser servant, the French Vampire smiled his most charming smile and asked, “If you would please, retrieve the items that have no doubt been laid aside in an adjacent chamber?” The servant, seemingly hypnotized by the attention paid him, scurried off to do as he was bid.

“I hope you will find my Tribute to be to your taste and of appropriate quality, My Prince.” He says as the side doors open and a small gaggle of servants hauls Etienne’s treasures inside. “To begin, a small chest of Silver coinage dating back to approximately two hundred and one years before the death of Jesus Christ. These coins bear the face of one Hannibal Barcid and the sigils of the city of Carthage. One of the last minted sets of coins to come from the Silver mines of Hispanic during the Second Punic War. Lost to the ages, and recently found buried in a Mediterranean cavern. It’s worth is not in the silver itself, but in the legacy of the coinage and the conflict between its minter and greatest rival.”

A servant holds up a small relinquary cylinder, inside appear to be a pair of sun bleached bones, no bigger than the joint of a finger. “Knuckle bones from the left hand of Saint John the Baptist, recovered at great cost in Bulgaria before my fealty to you.” The Ventrue allows himself a brief smile, “I need not remind you of the history behind such an item. Ah, and there we have The Storm on the Sea of Galilee by Rembrandt. Stolen in 1990 and recovered by an associate of mine just this last year. I had also hoped to recover The Concert by Vermeer along with it, but C’est la vie, no?”

“A small jade sculpture of an Eastern Dragon, circa second century China. A bust of Julius Caesar, dating to the same period in Rome, that one has an interesting story if you wish to hear it later. There are some other bits and baubles in there, but perhaps the most curious and the most useless is a bottle of The Macallan Valerio Adami, a Scotch Whiskey dating back to 1926. I was fortunate enough to be in Britain at the time, and even then a glass of this whiskey was supposed to be worth it’s weight in Gold. Though of course, it cannot match the Kiss, it’s flavour notes were subtle and well crafted enough to have left an impression with me almost a century later. This is one of the twelve last bottles in existence, unopened and acquired from a private collection for a small favour in the early two thousands. And as always, I offer you the services of myself and the networks of The Janus. These gifts I give freely unto you, without let or lien, to do with as you desire. It is my hope that we may continue our relationship as we have these past few years, and that my service to you shall only continue to be of use.”

Bowing less steeply this time the suited Kindred seemed more to resemble an old world noble; he had put everything he had into this final act of courtly respect and the gesture showed all the dignity, chivalry, and charm that the Ventrue seemed to possess. A glimpse into how things once were, and how the Ventrue had come to be the leading Clan of the Camarilla all those centuries ago.

[Luminesa]

Silvanus - Family Drama
Los Angeles, Brancroft-O'Malley Household

The Malkavian Elder's eyes scan Alexei. The not so subtle shakes and flinches, the quivering of his lips, his rattling fingers clenched behind fists. Alexei sees a frown on Silvanus' face as the vampire stares him down. Five years without correspondence. With his eyes from beyond dream and sleep he watched, waited, and observed. He watched this couple forced by fate and circumstance create a child, keeping a tiny candle aflame and alive in calm seas. The storm of Belial has passed, the thunder has quieted, and the raging winds were soothed. These poor little children adrift at sea, in a makeshift raft keeping themselves alive with a candle so feeble yet so bright. Alexei could have had said something about this new life. Silvanus quite adored children. Not for their innocence or any reason that includes the love of parenthood. They are beautiful little candles untainted by gray slate of mundane mortal life. They are feeble, fragile.

"...You speak of me as if I am without manners. As long as you've trained your dog not to bark nor bite the wrong tree... We won't have any problems." Silvanus lifts Alexei's chin with a pointer finger, his frown transforming into a gentle smile. He sees how time ravaged Alexei. Soft edges become sharper with time, whereareas what was once sharp became dull. Hints of wrinkles appear on his forehead as he scrunches his face in confusion and fear. "...You've become soft and dull... Is professorship really that difficult? Time isn't always gentle with its flow on you Kine..." He squints his eye in distaste at the word before letting Alexei go. He taps his cane on the ground and offers his arm to him. "Do please escort me in and introduce me to your family, Alexei. I would like to meet your beloved wife and daughter."

Alexei - A Need for Peace

“…I…that’s not what I meant, Uncle…of course you have manners…” Alexei suddenly seemed to drop a little of his guard, as he heard the hurt in Silvanus’s voice. Of course, calling his daughter a “dog” made him uncomfortable, but he was only using a metaphor. “…I simply want my family…all of us…to have a peaceful evening. I’ll…”

Silvanus interrupted by talking about his professorship, wondering if Alexei was struggling with his new work. The former Inquisitor shook his head. “…It’s…not difficult, Uncle. It’s what I wanted to do. And you paid for my education, so…thank you.” Paying dues and being polite were a part of making Silvanus happy, and keeping the madness at bay. He remembered being a teenager and not understanding his fits, his sudden changes in personality, how softness became harshness in moments. He had learned from the tender age of sixteen that the Malkavian lord was happiest when he received mild-mannered respect.

“…Now…I’m sure I have a decent red wine inside. If both of you will follow me…I’ll grab some extra chairs and get everyone settled…” He only noted Mikhailov for a moment. Morri and Mikhailov had only met once, and they had only heard each other’s voices in the church during the fight with Belial. That fight still echoed in his mind, but he could rest assured of one thing. If Silvanus was in his home, no enemies would dare come and try to hurt Morri or Kaya.

Slowly, he led them both to the door, and he opened it. “Morri? Kaya? We have company for the evening!” he called. He made eye contact with his beloved as he held the door for Silvanus and Mikhailov to enter. It’s going to be okay, his eyes explained, it’s just dinner. We’ll be okay.

[Morrdh]

Morri

“Morri? Kaya? We have company for the evening!” Alexei called out as he re-entered the house with a trio of people in tow, though she didn't buy into the look of reassurance that Alexei gave. She gave a look back that said I'm ready to start ripping heads off whilst out loud she asked. "...Guests?"

"Ye..." Said Morri when she saw Mikhailov enter. "Ye were at the church...five years ago..."

Though when Silvanus entered, Morri tensed up and it took great effort on her part to not instantly shift forms at eyeing eyes on the Kindred. She forced a smile and said, with a little bit of a growl creeping into her voice. "Who's this?"

At the table Kaya sit with the look of a child unsure of what was going on and whether or not the strangers could be trusted, her eyes darted back and forth between her mother and father looking for reassurance from both.

[Luminesa]

Morri

“Morri? Kaya? We have company for the evening!” Alexei called out as he re-entered the house with a trio of people in tow, though she didn't buy into the look of reassurance that Alexei gave. She gave a look back that said I'm ready to start ripping heads off whilst out loud she asked. "...Guests?"

"Ye..." Said Morri when she saw Mikhailov enter. "Ye were at the church...five years ago..."

Though when Silvanus entered, Morri tensed up and it took great effort on her part to not instantly shift forms at eyeing eyes on the Kindred. She forced a smile and said, with a little bit of a growl creeping into her voice. "Who's this?"

At the table Kaya sit with the look of a child unsure of what was going on and whether or not the strangers could be trusted, her eyes darted back and forth between her mother and father looking for reassurance from both.

Alexei and Mikhailov - Dangerous Company

Alexei walked into the kitchen and looked at his lover and child. Poor Kaya had no idea what was happening around her, and she was very nervous. Small children, Kinfolk or not, instinctually know when their parents are stressed or tense, and both of Kaya's parents were staring back toward the doorway. Her father wanted to make sure that Silvanus and Mikhailov behaved, but he knew that he could only control so much of their behavior. In the meantime, her mother was ready to fight if Alexei did not explain the sudden guests.

"Why hello, I indeed was at the church...Though we didn't exactly get much of a chance to talk," Mikhailov spoke, for the first time since he had piled into the limousine and then had arrived at Alexei's house. He smiled at his dear friend, who was still not calm enough to speak to him.

"Ah, Morri, dear...This is Mikhailov, as you remember from the church...and this is my Uncle, Silvanus," Alexei responded. He nodded to his Uncle, and indeed Morri would notice several similarities between the two men. Pale skin, silvery hair that flowed down their backs, slim forms and elegant features. The only differences were in height, voice, and in the distinct auras of both men. Whereas Alexei was gentle and caring toward Morri and Kaya, Silvanus had a chilly air about him. He did not seem as maddening and suffocating as he did five years ago, but his power was still palpable. "They have arrived with some short notice, but...I believe it's good for Kaya to meet some of her family. Just for an evening."

He wished he could use telepathy in that moment, as he was still nervous about how Morri and Silvanus would interact. He did not wish for his family to fight each other, and so he had to be careful to try and keep the peace. As soon as he made the introductions, he went to find two bottles of alcohol. Wine, since Kaya did not need to see her mother and uncle drunk on whiskey. He put them on the table, and made sure to grab a chair on the other side of Kaya. "Please, come in! Ah, Morri, what's for dinner, dear?" He walked over to her and put a quick, reassuring kiss on her cheek.

[Morrdh]

"Why hello, I indeed was at the church...Though we didn't exactly get much of a chance to talk," Mikhailov spoke, for the first time since he had piled into the limousine and then had arrived at Alexei's house.

"That we didn't." Agreed Morri, who added after Alexei had spoken. "Tis taken five years, but now I finally have a name ta go with ya face."

Morri made a sour face when Silvanus was introduced, it was clear that she wasn't at all pleased with him being there. She then sighed and stated. "Bad 'nuff with Anna's deal hanging over me head, but fer family's sake....fine. Long as he doesn't try anything."

"As fer dinner." She continued. "Was lucky 'nuff ta get some meat, so figured I'd try doing a stew."

Kaya, who had been intently watching the new arrivals, ventured a question or two in her little voice. "Are they new uncles? Have they brought presents?"