The Masquerade: City of Angels (IC) Always Accepting

[Imperialisium]

OOC

The Masquerade
City of Angels

The Masquerade, the lie, deceit giving humanity a sense of reality. Should it come crashing down, Gehenna will be upon us, for the wrath of mankind shall undo all the labors of our Kindred. Kindred and Kine. Together but forever separate. Cainite and Man. For centuries we have upheld the Masquerade, but now, in this cursed city the façade is in danger. Danger of cracking. The mask is slipping, but can we catch it? The Kindred feud, the Werefolk howl, the Changelings gather, and the Hunters circle...

Sunland, Los Angeles
Night Work
*click-click* A turn of a key, the hum of an engine block coming to life, the slight crackle of tires on pavement. Off in the distance a wolf howled at the moon, up in the forests and hills of the Angeles National Forest, a wilderness circling the concrete jungle. The hills and mountains of the Sierra rose up to the North and East like the enclosing ramparts of an earthly battlement. A heavy beat, the drop of a bass, the headlights flare to life in front of the car. It possessed a sleek, grey, body complete with the symbol of a mustang on the hood. Mach 1 in silver letters was embossed along the back. The vehicle roars louder as it picked up speed. The dark silhouette of the driver shifting into high gear as it rocketed down a dimly lit suburban street. Passing hooded figures, night walkers in fishnets, and gangers prowling their corners. A few casted glances, stares, and more than one cat call as the muscle car sped on by. It was out of place in this decrepit neighborhood of broken dreams and crack filled homes. The driver paid no heed to the pondering's of the squalid, the poor, the wretched. Moving rapidly, taking a left, not stopping at the red an white sign demanding one halt. No, the driver kept going. Paying no heed to the hoots and hollers of a crew walking their territorial beat. Like a pack of dogs scouring their tiny lot of piss filled land for fresh meat. Disgusting creatures. The vehicle kept going, like a galloping steed, its muscles not feeling the strain or tire as it's fuel injected engine burned it's life essence.

I'm giving you a Nightcall, to tell you, how I feel...

A rapid clockwise turn of the wheel. The car drifted gracefully, practiced, the driver no doubt possessed skill at the wheel. He, for it was a male, effortlessly maneuvered their hands from the shifter, pressing the clutch, and cranking the wheel in one smooth movement. The car didn't drop a single degree of speed as it throttled onwards. Down an even more decrepit neighborhood. Past boarded up homes, an office building, and a few shops unglamorously bearing red and white signs on their doors. Foreclosure. The life of this forgotten landscape of ruin and economic downturn long since bled white. Leaving nothing in its past but broken bottles of booze and flea ridden vagabonds lurking in their fallen masonry.

I want to drive you through the night...down the hills...

An intersection. The green lights giving way to a sickly yellow. The car picked up speed. Red like a demons eyes. The car powered through the intersection as another car came in from the right. The second driver, in a brown beat up Cadillac, slammed on his brakes with the screech of metal on worn axles. The mustang deftly swayed left out of the way before straightening out in a fishtail heading straight. Keeping itself on course towards the destination looming at the edge of the block. Amid red and brown brick warehouses pockmarked with broken glass windows. Layers of dust caked them like the linen of the deceased. Broken, laid to rest, to rot on empty streets. The car flexes its metaphorical muscles as the headlights die, relinquishing their clairvoyance, leaving the driver in darkness.

I'd rather tell you something, you, don't want to hear...

The car swerved, the driver cranking the wheel, holding down the clutch, shifting into a lower gear as he rammed through dingy rust laden iron gates. The gates crashed to the cracked pavement with a loud twang of vibrating iron punctuating their rapid fall. Like the slap of flesh on water from a thirty foot drop. Life, where there should not be, yells and shrieks. The driver's window rolled down, and out came an arm bedecked in a fine dark grey suit sleeve. In his hand was a sleek black fire arm. A Heckler & Koch P30L. The driver had crashed into a courtyard, largely empty, with low brick walls just high enough to block direct view from the street. The small warehouse was akin to its ruined cousins lining the street beside and before it. Rapid movement to the left.

I'm gonna' show you where its dark...but has no fear...

The flash of a muzzle, the bark of combustion, and the shrill cry as something squishy crashed to the pavement. The car swerved in a half circle as two more flashes broke the night. Those halo's of light and fire accompanied by the barks of anger. A body, unlike the first which did not bear fangs, crashed as a hole was blasted in its head and heart. Thud, a humanoid figure jumped onto the hood, a shrieking wail of challenge. The car stopped abruptly. The figure gracefully jumped backwards and off of the hood. Only to be met by the steel beast at full throttle. The sickening crunch of bone and skull on pavement followed. A skid, dragging the broken corpse trailing red vitals across the pavement, but now the warehouse was alive. Several figures dashed out of the warehouse. The passenger window rolled down, a longer barrel emerged, an AR-15 blazed away with rounds girded in liturgical script. Downing four of the slower, human moving, figures approaching armed with their own weapons. The driver door opened, the driver rolled out, having expertly throne their car into park amid their dashing maneuvers.

There's something inside you...its hard to explain...they're talkin' about you boy, but you're still the same...there's something inside you, its hard to explain...

Bang-Bang

A blur of movement came to a rapid halt as it sunk to the ground face first. A second appeared to the drivers left. Swinging to the side, knocking the pistol away, and giving a savage kick. Propelling the driver back several feet to roll onto the pavement. The blur didn't stop, the driver rolled to the right, swung up with a low sweeping kick. Catching the blur at the back of the knee. Bringing it down in time with a savage open palm punch to the nose. The crunch of a shattered nasal plate ramming back into the skull, puncturing the frontal lobe of the brain, gore weeping from were the nose had properly been. "AGH!" The driver ducked as a yelling woman with a baseball bat swung wildly. Swinging himself around, grabbing the woman's arm, her brown hair dirty and ill kept whipping around in the still air, her momentum carrying her to the ground in a submission move. Crack. The driver snapped her wrist. Bone and gristle protruding from her ruined forearm. Stomp. The woman was still. "MUTHAFUCKAH!" The driver whipped his head around to catch a wooden board on his shoulder. Dislocating it as he used the momentum of the strike to roll away. Putting precious meters between him and his angry, dark skinned, fanged opponent. The driver, eyes wide, reached behind him as the vampire leapt like a mountain lion on a wounded stag. A smaller pistol, a Beretta 93R, whipped out and flashed a four times. Slowing, arresting, stopping, and finally causing the vampire to fall back in disbelief.

"Courtesy of my master." said the driver between clenched teeth.

Putting the pistol down the driver grabbed his left arm and with a grunt popped it back into place. Rotating it once, twice, three times to be sure the bone nodule was firmly back in its rotator cuff. Picking up the pistol, and the previous P30L, the driver advanced on the warehouse. Kicking open the metal door on rusty, brown, mottled hinges to reveal the horror within. A trio of young women and a Polynesian male, tied to a support beam, slumped in a circle. Their wrists cut and bled dry. On the North wall to the left one could see half a dozen other corpses hooked up to IV's. They'd been drained. The driver whipped to the right as he spotted movement. Bringing up the P30L to chest level and snapping off a round. Clipping a rushing Asian male vampire in the shoulder causing him to turn. A second, more well aimed shot, tore through it's cranium to pulp its brain.

"Oi, who the bloody cocksuckin' fuck do you think ye are?" The Irish accent, Dublin, the driver brought up the P30L. "Hemshaw."

"Ye lad." the tweed coated, brown tie, cigar smoking Irishman grinned. A vampire who smoked cigars, intriguing. "Smoking again Hemshaw." replied the driver. His face a calm mask against the contrast of the situation.

"Old habits die hard John." The Irishman stepped closer, allowing the driver named John, to get a better look at his face. It was pale, with jet black hair that was loosely combed and accordingly wild, his blue eyes shone dull. A vibration in John's pocket caused Hemshaw to chuckle. "That the bitch." A shake of the cigar as he exhaled thick grey smoke. Letting loose ash fall to the ground trialing ember and smoke trails. John hadn't broken eye contact or showed any emotional sign this entire time. He spoke directly, "Clean up."

Hemshaw made an 'O' with his mouth as he paced a couple feet to his left, turning slightly askew from John, raising the cigar up to his mouth and sucking in deep. "Always was a charmer that lass." John gave a slight nod, less of an agreement and more get on with it. "In a rush John? Eh, she keep you on a tight leash does she? That----."

Bang

A human bearing a Glock 18 crumpled from behind Hemshaw, across the room, having entered from a side door. Hemshaw didn't look at all perturbed by this development. He just puffed on his cigar. "So she got you runnin' around LA killin' whoevah she likes, that the ticket, cut some deal with ya?" John returned aim to Hemshaw and shrugged. "Call it what you want Hemshaw. I came here for you."

Hemshaw let out a small laugh, "Eh, ya, fancy that---looks like I'll be taken the rest of my crew to the hereafter am-I-right!"

The sound of car doors outside the warehouse caused John to quickly look back. Hemshaw grimaced as he let his cigar fall to the ground. He rocketed towards John with a cold fury. John's gun barked. Hemshaw bit the bullet straight in the heart. But he kept on coming. John reached for his left sock, and pulled a thin wooden stick, a stake. Plunging it into Hemshaw's chest cavity. Cracking rib and puncturing his aorta. The stake effectively froze Hemshaw in place. The vampires vitae streamed outwards as it slowly bled to death in its own way. "Shame you didn't bend the knee Hemshaw. She gave you a choice." Indeed, Anna since January had been systematically working her way around the Camarilla in Los Angeles, trying to rebuild it with her on top, needless to say it hadn't been exactly a peaceful affair.

John ripped the stake out. Hemshaw slumped to the floor, propping himself up on some broken masonry. He reached into his pocket, not for any weapon or device, but for another cigar; while, with his other hand he pulled out a cutter. Clipping one side his hand slipped. The cutter clacked as it hit the floor. "Be a good lad eh?" John knelt next to the dying, withering, fading vampire. Picking up the cutter he clipped the other end of the cigar. Pulling out a simple steel light he flicked the top open and turned the flint wheel with a rapid thumb movement. "You always loved Cubans, Hemshaw."

"Can ya blame me...eh eck!" Hemshaw coughed up vitae, blood, as he slumped further on the floor. Puffing his last as he withered before John's eyes. The sound of feet outside, John turned around rapidly, to be confronted with one of his master's coterie. An older man wearing carharts and a brown brimmed hat. Several other vampires, ghouls, and affiliated mortals stood behind him.

"Left quite a mess Johnny. Should have waited for us." spoke the older man.

"Yeah well...Hemshaw might have been gone by then." John patted the older man on the shoulder as he walked out. Letting the clean up crew get to work at getting rid of the remains, torching the evidence, and confiscating anything valuable. It was like it never happened, and if some human forensics team could track something, not that anyone calls the police out here anyways, they'd just find some ashes and broken surgical instruments at best.

The Mustang Mach 1 blazed out of the courtyard a minute later...

Anna's Mansion and Clan Tremere Chantry

Hidden Hills, LA County

Anna's residence, her private residence, was as much personal as a front. Located in the luxurious Hidden Hills area just outside of Los Angeles proper. Tucked away from the hub of humanity in Southern California, from the power struggles of the supernatural, but close enough to not distance herself. It was a luxurious modern deco manse of a residence worth over twenty million dollars by current market standing. Paltry in the eyes of the Tremere and the Camarilla as a whole however. It looked the part of a high class socialite for sure. With its manicured lawns, swept walk ways, clear fountains, and full amenities. Guards of humans and ghouls by day, and complimented by vampires and gargoyles by night. Though it was more subtle than the Chantry which was located up the road and further tucked away in the hills and woodlands. A smaller, less ostentatious, private complex. On the surface it seemed insignificant to everything else around it. That was the purpose. To anyone who would see it would glimpse at what it was meant to portray. Averageness in a neighborhood of excess. But to enter it, to pierce the layers upon layers of supernatural and material protections guarding it, to go into its depths one would see the truth. It was the Clan Tremere stronghold in Southern California if not all of California itself.

The Mustang Mach 1 pulled up to the black iron gates of Anna's private residence as the Moon hung high in the night sky. A pair of guards, vampires, watched from the sides as the gates yawned open. A pair of gargoyles, acting the part, sat vigil on their plinths to either side of the black iron gates as they retracted on carefully oiled gears. The muscle car rolled on in towards the back garage. Stepping out of car, fixing the buttons on his three piece suit, John walked into the mansion. He was instantly greeted by Kai Erasmus, a Clan Tremere acolyte and a key administrator of Anna's operation. "John. Another successful hunt I take it?" The pale grey eyed, blonde haired, short and thin vampire smiled. Exposing his pearly white fangs. "Kai." was all John said as he walked on by. Not seeing the look of distaste on the vampires face as he went on his own way.

To enter Anna's residence was to be first confronted by opulence and taste. But let that not deceive you, for she cared for neither things, only appearances. Appearances allowed one to deceive others after all. Appearances are by their nature deceiving. John knew that very well as he passed through the corridors and rooms of the mansion. Crossing paths with all manner of individuals under his dark mistress. Los Angeles was chaotic now, but Anna had managed to instill some semblance of order within the Camarilla, indeed John noted some vampires of other clans presents. No doubt engaging in power play games of favor and constantly trying to belittle their rivals in games of intrigue. Anna's court was not spared the trivialities of such games and backstabbing. John approached a pair of black stained doors featuring two snakes coiling about the frame. A pair of servants opened the doors to reveal a large hall. This is normally where Anna would hold court, a large gallery, cozy with leather upholstered couches and chairs. Modern.

Casting his eyes about the room however he noted Anna was not present among the individuals. The looks he got back where a mixture of wonder, repulsion, confusion, or general disinterest. Behind him he heard a loud step. Looking back he was greeted by a hulking stone giant. A gargoyle. "Brutus." said John with a nod. The gargoyle looked down at him, easily a foot taller than John, and with the strength to rip him limb from limb with ease. Like snapping a twig.

"Juh-ahn." The grating voice of the gargoyle showed a peculiar tone of friendship. John replied, "I am here to see Anna." Brutus closed a stone fist, opened it again, "Uh, yez. Juh-ahn, The Chantry." The gargoyle pointed in the direction of the Chantry. Only a member of Clan Tremere was allowed there, or anyone Anna allowed there for that matter. "Thank You, Brutus." John nodded again and the Gargoyle declined its head in appreciation for the gesture. It stalked off allowing John to exit the gallery. Turning right he moved through the mansion and out a back door, past the pools, down a short few red stone steps. Then up the road he walked. It took a solid ten minutes for him to walk the distance into the cleverly tucked away secondary property.

Her Presence
Arriving past a water fountain in time for a pair of Clan Tremere apprentices to step out of the shadows. "Changeling." voiced one of them. John nodded. The vampires moved to the side allowing John access to the building. Passing through the threshold he entered a dimmer, cozier, book laden library of a building. Indeed, sitting there in the main lobby, not in some study as she was wont to be---was Anna. She flicked her eyes up at John as she put down a treatise on astrophysics. "John. Please sit." Her voice was like the smoothest honey. Soft, gentle, not at all one would think of a Vampiric leader. Her green, emerald, gemstone for eyes was breath taking. Many a mortal and even immortal had been seduced by so much as a stare. Her complexion perfect in its own likeness. Her flesh supple and unmarked by the passage of time. She wore a simple suit and skirt, black, two buttoned doublet over her white dress shirt. A black tie, thin, feminine in cut was tucked in under her doublet.

"May I get you some refreshment. Tea pershaps?" asked Anna as she regarded John. John, who had been walking over, stopped before the black leather chair and simply sat down slowly. His shoulder ached, his body heart, and he was sure to feel all the scrapes in the morning. What he really needed was an ice bath. Followed by a dip in the Jacuzzi back at Anna's residence.

"No thank you Madame." John reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a ring. It belonged to Hemshaw, nabbed by John apparently, proof of his mission accomplished. Anna smiled. "I'm proud of you John." said Anna and John felt a moment of relaxation sweep him. A quick nod of the head was all she needed from him. A man of few words as always. "Take the rest of the night off John. I'll see you soon." Anna's vermillion lips like softest velvet, every syllable perfectly timed and inflected. John let out a small smile as he got up. To head back down the road to his small apartment located on the second floor of Anna's residence....

[The Knockout Gun Gals]

Bel Air, Los Angeles
Jennifer Li-Siung

Jennifer went entirely in her sleep mode as her ghouls tended for her day stuffs. She held the house previously owned by her master and lover who went off before the Bloody New Years ever started, and since he held quite a business here he taught her of how to be a good business person, alongside how to use the powers and how to control your lust. Karen used her connections to dropped-off few blood from the blood bank at the hospital while at the same time working together on the business. The lightly-populated district is a good opportunity to open up businesses that will connected to other districts as well.

Kim, meanwhile, acted as her driver, bodyguard, and occasional tender of the house as well as her few human servants. The night may or may still long, and yet Jennifer didn't quite paid interest on the current politics between Camarilla and Anarchs as well as the others, partly because she didn't hold a high position but also because she isn't quite familiar. She of course knows some people from the Camarilla, but that's it.

She woke up on the very night of the day, feeling a little bit hungry. Opened the fridge, she drank the blood as she looked on her dimly-lit bedroom and her just-opened coffin.

"Perhaps I need in some forms of outing..."

[Nitom]

"My world is grey and dying. The color had drained from it years ago, now all that is left is the crimson stain on my soul." Kegan Kruvok

Los Angeles International Airport
Kegan Kruvok

The plane was completely silent as the passengers of the plane slept after their long flight. There was a slight turbulence as the plane neared the runway. Kegan would open his eyes, looking around at the other passengers aboard the plane. "I guess I'm almost home now." Kegan muttered to himself as he stretched his arms.

After a few moments, the plane would touchdown on the runway. The landing was rougher than most, but it wasn't anything to concern himself with, probably just a new pilot. The plane would eventually come to a stop and the passengers would begin to move off of the plane. One of the flight attendants, a rather good looking blonde woman was saying their usual thanks to the passengers, but Kegan simply ignored her. He wasn't the slightest bit interested. Kegan stepped off the plane and went down to baggage claim. He looked around for a few moments before he finally saw his bag and picked it up off the belt. He then headed for the doors, looking for his car. He finally found his ride, a young man with crisp black hair and green eyes. Kegan would walk towards the car, looking around him occasionally. "Has anything new happened while I was gone?" Kegan asked as he threw his bag in the back seat and hoped into the passenger seat. The man didn't say a word to Kegan as he got in, he just started driving.

The car would go a mile down the road before the driver reached into the back of seat and pulled out a folder with a few pages in it. "This is everything." The man said as he threw it in Kegan lap and kept driving. Kegan would read over everything until they got to their destination, Anna's house. "Well I see that everything is still a shit show. Tell the old man that I need my gear as soon as it gets back. The man then pointed towards the back of the car, while pressing the button to open the truck with his other hand. Kegan would nod to him before setting the folder back on the back seat and getting out.

Once Kegan got his gear from the trunk and his bag from the back seat, he would start walking towards the door of Anna's house. He looked at the guards and handed him his belongings. "I'll be back out soon, just paying my respects." Kegan said as he opened the door and walked inside. As Kegan walked, he looked at the paintings on the walls and every other detail of the house. Things hadn't changed here much since he left, maybe a few new additions to her collection, but nothing major. He finally made it into the main room where Anna sat. "Ma'am, I figured that you'd like to know that I am back in town." Kegan said as he starred into her eyes, waiting for her response.

[Max Empire]

The Century, Max Apostolos' Condo, Century City, LA

Max looked over the Skyscraper plans that had been set before him. The first of a couple of construction projects he had ready. With the majority of the city's Vampires gone, he was ready to spread his wings and redesign the entire LA skyline. The city would look new and unrecognizable, and he had all the resources he needed to make that happen in close proximity around him. ICM Partners, The Creative Artists Agency, The Annenberg Space for Photography, 20th Century Fox and the JR Entertainment Group among investment firms, real estate managers and investment firms, all a viewing distance from his condo, and it was all the talent he needed.

Turning to one of his Thralls and ordering him to fill his schedule, Max made sure to include several press conferences. He was going to revolutionize the art industry and the city. He was going to pool everything he could to the city and change it to whatever his mood and muse felt like at the moment.

But first, he was going to throw a massive Gala in the nearby Toscanova Italian Restaurant to officially announce and give his project a name. Already having organized and sent invitations to every major local politician, artist, businessman and Vampire he knew to be still around and in the city. The night was going to be something nobody would forget. He had used his connections to get famous singers, poets and speakers to attend and perform, Imported expensive wine from Europe and had all the food imported freshly from their sources for the mortals to enjoy. Although he himself loved the taste and had acquired the ability to hold food down for several hours before needing to regurgitate it. He even arranged several conference rooms for the attending Vampires could utilize to feed on the guests away from the rest of the mortals.

Tomorrow was going to be his night. While his longtime acquaintance Anasztazia Angelos saw herself as the LA Camarilla's rightful head, he would show that the mortal city bowed to him, rather than her. Maybe he'd even run for mayor in the coming election in May... Although he wouldn't make any definite decision without first consulting with his inner circle, as well as listening to what Anasztazia herself had to say on the matter. Whatever the case, he needed to look over his outfit for tomorrow again... He just never seemed to be satisfied with the level of perfection he had reached...

[Imperialisium]

Anasztazia Angelos Residence
East Wing Study, First Floor

After having met with John Korvinus and the successful conclusion to his mission Anasztazia had relocated to her private residence were she took to studying reports and more books of a mundane nature for a few hours as the night dragged on. Retreating to the East Wing which had a large expansive study of fine upholstered ottomans, couches, and black leather armchairs in the Victorian style. All for show, Anna could have cared less personally, but many of the Kindred needed an obvious display of majesty. Material appearance was key in society and all the rage in the Mortal viewpoint. She had to play the part of the wealthy socialite to garner respect from the upper strata of society. A cultivation of humanity and personality that in truth was no more truthful than the Masquerade itself. So she sat, as regal as she can be, back straight. Reading a dense volume on molecular chemistry. Humanity had advanced far in the last few decades and she needed to remain on top of her game.

Brutus stalked nearby in the closest corner between two windows. Clan Tremere had suffered much during the Gargoyle Revolt and the danger of them rebelling was a real threat. Anna however had taken a new approach, a more modern approach she coined, as a means of dealing with this. She gave her Gargoyles a modicum of respect and authority in her organization. Brutus enjoyed status not only among the Gargoyles but over the younger Vampires in Anna's territory. Brutus believed the residence was much his territory and responsibility as Anna did. While no doubt quite a few of the Kindred balked at this as nonsense and foolish. It had sown fair results so far. A social experiment at its finest. Brutus had so far shown remarkable loyalty and courage in facing Anna's foes since his creation. The other Gargoyles respected him and followed his directives as a result. This did have the quirk of a few of them, Brutus included, of calling Anna, 'mum'. Though this could be them simply struggling with complex vernacular and attempting to adjust to the modern social lingo. They where not stupid creatures and deadly killers, but they did not share the flair for linguistics their master possessed.

As the Assamite walked in Brutus growled. His growl, from a stone mouth, sounded like the grating of rocks together. Deep, rumbling, and low in tone. Indeed, Kegan had got stares, looks of distaste, even a threats in the form of gestures during his journey through the labyrinthine home. Anna looked up at Kegan with a blank face for a solid minute. Studying him quickly, indeed, Anna needed only that to learn many things from him. Smells determining possible places he had been. Clothing choices, physical appearance, if he had fed recently or not et cetera. A side of her face, beautiful to behold, curled into a small smile. Her voice was the opposite of Brutus. It was calm, sweet like honey cascading onto fine chocolate, smooth like polished marble. "Mr. Kruvok."

*clack*

Anna closed the book she had been reading, placing the tome of molecular chemistry onto the glass coffee table before her, its fine iron legs heavy on the plush carpet imported from the Farsi province of Iran. "Here I had thought you would not be returning to Los Angeles for quite some time. But alas when your plane landed I could not believe it." She knew he was on a plane. Indeed her reach had grown farther than the last time they had spoken, or had she used Thaumaturgy? Clan Tremere, monopolized Thaumaturgy to a relentless degree, if they where not hated for it then they where feared. Wielding the power of blood magic was no small thing after all. Anna sat up abruptly.

"Excuse me I have been so rude. Would you like a refreshment? Fresh clothes perhaps?" She held a hand indicating for him to take a seat. There was no sense of danger in Anna's eyes, for they appeared like those endearing onto an old friend, but Kegan would know that Anna has and can wear many masks. To let your guard down around her was to invite the devil into one's mind, or possibly angel? Such beauty for something given living in the world of unlife. A figure stood off the left, coming from the lobby, it was a Neonate of Anna's. He bore a small embossed envelop bearing the symbol of Clan Toreador. Anna nodded to him quickly and he rapidly approached, depositing the letter before her, the lesser vampire retreated out of sight. Anna scooped up the letter and unceremoniously cracked the seal. Opening it to reveal a letter or invitation rather for a gala to be held tomorrow night it seemed. Toreadors, always the showmen, well this would no doubt be interesting.

Placing the letter back down on the coffee table she glanced up to see John grasp the railing on the second floor. He was looking at the Assamite, Kegan, it seems he and Brutus held a similar caution around the vampire. John eyed Kegan suspiciously, he spent much of his time around the Kindred, he picked up a few things. Spotting trademark differences in Clans and their respective backgrounds. But what was an Assamite doing here he wondered? Better yet what would Kegan think of a Changeling in Anna's employ?

[Nitom]

Kegan kruvok
Anasztazia Angelos Residence
East Wing Study, First Floor

Kegan looked between Anasztazia and her "pets", as he liked to call them. "Ah yes, business went more smoothly than I had anticipated. I thought it was supposed to be hard to complete contracts in Tokyo, but I must have heard wrong." Kegan said with a slight smile. He knew her game all too well. That beautiful face was still intoxicating nonetheless. "Hmmm, I would love a bloody Chivas Regal Bottle 18 if you have it, Lady Angelos."

Kegan would look around for a moment before he noticed her motion towards the chair. "Oh, no thank you. I've been sitting all day so I think that I'll stand for a bit longer." Kegan said as he waited for his drink to get to him. He noticed the lesser vampire bring the letter to Anasztazia, but said nothing of it. If he needed to know about it, then she would tell him.

Kegan suddenly felt a set of eyes burn a hole in the back of his head. Obviously someone was upset that he was here and this time it wasn't those glorified stone paperweights that Anasztazia had for pets. He would slowly turn towards the being that was staring at him from across the way. Kegan studied the man for a moment before speaking. "Is that what I think it is?" Kegan asked, studying the man further. "A fucking changeling." Kegan would pause for a moment before he asked his next question. "What are one of the lost doing here?"

Kegan didn't have anything against changelings themselves, but it was more than unsettling to see one this close to a major seat of power. Kegan only liked power to change hands when he knew all the players involved. Now that a changeling was involved this close to home, it brought unforeseen issues. If this changeling was the least big competent, then Kegan would have to change a few things in his records.

[Ormata]

Arcadia
Marshland Needles

The howling never did stop. In a single stone room, near the heart of the tower where the walls were thickest, the screaming never did stop. In that room were bookshelves, lining the walls, with but a single wall bare. Upon it were weapon racks, wooden things that held the deadliest in the master’s arsenal. He liked killing things. He prepared for it. Near the center of the room was a rug, vast and plush and joyous, and an oaken table. Above the reading man was a lantern, a book in his hand.

The man looked normal enough. Simple enough. Normal enough. His hands were craggy and bitten, as though one worked a lifetime upon vessels, and callouses from ropes shown on those hands. They were nimble, though, handling the page with effortless dexterity. His shirt, a loose affair, hid a musculature born from being on the water, and the man’s hair was the color of bleached sand, white until the white is like a beacon. His eyes were the color of aquamarine and moved across the page like a wave. Fine stubble coated the man’s face, as well, short enough to be a mere fad.

This was the Watcher over the River, though no river could he watch from here.

He turned a page, the sound of water crashing on rocks in his ears. The screaming seemed just outside, and the single door opened. A man peeked-in, though to a degree he wasn’t a man. His smile held that quality of a wolf, a grin that never could cease and ears that never could be still. He held himself with the quality of a hunter, the poise of a spring that would never be released because it could not afford to be released. In being released, it would mean death for the hunter. His eyes were luminous, seeing what things mere humans would never see. For a Changeling, he was also remarkably well-kept and remarkably in good health.

Whisper never did like to harm his soldiers, nor his pets.

“M’lord, another pair of prints have been found, leading out of the Hedge.” The Changeling didn’t raise it’s eyes to meet Whisper’s, instead taking a keen interest in the floor as the Fae kept his eyes on the page.

Pair of prints. Out of the Hedge. The first was a metaphor and the second was a reality; they hadn’t actually found footprints. In all reality, the Changeling must’ve found a trail, as it were. A scent. A lingering thing. That’s what he had them for, after all. The Hedge was his purview and he fully intended to keep it secure, and the Beasts were his loyal dogs. Quite loyal.

Yet this realization brought the Realm to a standstill, everything halted and everything quiet. A particularly shrill scream, more of a shriek, was cut short in the middle of it, simply ended as though broken with a sword. The water, moving and dancing and crashing upon the rocks in the distance, was also cut short. Everything was silent, with only the deep breaths of the Changeling to denote any sort of life in the room. Whisper didn’t breath, one hand closing the book with a sharp crack as the Actor rose.

“To what end?”

“Out of the Hedge. To a gateway.”

So one of them had escaped. That was alright, at least; it was better than a Changeling dieing in the Hedge. It was far better than that. One might think it to be odd, that he was glad such a trespasser did not die, but the Hedge was his. It was his domain and Whisper held the belief that people should only die, in his realm, when he wished it to be so. He wanted a live body to exact vengeance on, not a cold corpse to bury.

“Good. Call your brothers. Have them meet me in the courtyard.”

The Changeling bowed, shoulders deforming ever so slightly and arms elongating ever so, forearms becoming distended and long as though the skin could only stretch so much. With that, it exited, closing the door behind it. There was silence for a moment, before the screaming started again. Whisper rose from his seat, going to the door to open it. A warm breeze, the smell of overripe fruit and jungle thorn, wafted into it, smacking into the Fae as though it were the tide and he the beach. Those were the smells of the Hedge, yet there was another smell. Iron, heavy and tinted and rusted, hung in the air, the smells of flesh rotted hanging there, too.

That was the Hedge, and the Fae made his way to the battlements. About the lower levels of the tower were the Hobgoblins, angry little creatures some say had been distorted and distended by the Hedge, blackened and maddened to the point wherein reason had no meaning aside from copulation and feasting. They assaulted the tower, and from above came the Realm’s denizens. They were neither hero nor soldier, not wraiths and not devils. The denizens looked to be Changelings, yet each one howled and screamed and threw itself at the enemy as though there was nothing left in life. From high battlements Ogres came plummeting down, falling upon the foe and either death or bloodlust took them.

Whisper watched, for a moment, seeing a Wizened dance about one Hobgoblin’s blade, blade whipping-out like a serpent’s tongue as the bastard found a hole in his neck. The Wizened laughed one of those insane laughs, without restrain or end, before another blade found his own neck. Such scenes played-out before him, the Hobgoblins torn asunder by both sheer tenacity and sheer weight of numbers. They were an integral part of the Realm and as such the Realm made them as each died. He neither smiled nor frowned at the scene before him; it was as it was, a fact of life that could not be ignored and could not be halted.

And then he disappeared, another place in the tower holding his Actor. The Fae looked as though he should, nearly, with the stubbe and the hair and the eyes. He was not yet hunting and his faces did not have to be shown without restraint to those who did not deserve to see them. He was at a door, though, and iron door and a hallway. Dim light shone through the slits in the walls, casing shadows of banner onto the ground.

Whisper knocked, and nearly immediately the door cracked open. The face there was something one might expect from a fairy tail; her face was round, with little lithe cheeks that were like gentle hills and skin the color of the clean sky. A scattering of freckles on each cheek was framed by red locks that came-down her shoulder in a braid. For a brief moment the girl’s face was one of surprise, though that quickly turned to one of submission. The Fae took few measures to insure his were physically able, few surgeries as the others did, yet he did take measures to instill loyalty in them and those were, needless to state, quite effective.

“My Lord,” she said, bowing as the door opened a measure more. The girl was dressed in a white dress, simple enough, one which was perhaps just a tad too short. It showed-off the powerful musculature of the leg in such a way that few could, or indeed would, ignore. She was nude underneath. Walking backwards, she allowed him to end into the relatively spartan room.

“Have you been stretching, Genevieve?” He inquired, though the tone suggested something else.

“Yes.”

“Show me, then.”

And so Gene did so, bending forwards so far that one might think she to be a contortionist, swinging her torso down until her hands grasped the ankles and she pulled just a bit farther. Whisper watched, nodding; he did enjoy working with these Fairest. They always could make a little spark happen in the cold hearts. Or inspire lust. One of the unfortunate two.

The Fae approached her, though, one hand against the small of her back and the other placed upon her shoulder. The girl shivered at the touch, the action moving down from her head to toes, a sensual little shake that made suggestions for now and promises for later. He applied pressure, moving her just a bit farther and just a bit more. He quite enjoyed the sight he saw and the soft skin beneath the thin fabric. Quite. She let out a little noise, at once a growl and at once a moan, with no rancor in it. Whisper laughed, a smile coming to his face as he enjoyed watching the inherent reaction in Gene, and it sounded like bells. She laughed in response, a reaction that could not be halted in the slightest as he body writhed in the motion, her entire body set into it. If Whisper’s laugh sounded like bells hers sounded as though the angels themselves had come down for a joke.

“Very good,” he said, hands moving away as he let the girl get back up. Her face was red, so much so that the freckles were lost in that sea of crimson and her hair was a lighter shade than it. Gene could merely smile, deep breaths giving her chest good cause to undulate and Whisper good cause to watch. Life had some bestial pleasures. It was good logic to enjoy them while they lasted. “Thank you, My Lord.”

And he merely smiled, before inquiring “A Hunt approaches. Will you join?” Yet that question wasn’t really a question. The upward tilt to the words that was always there in the question wasn’t there and it was, to simply state, merely a statement.

“I would be honored to.”

“Good. Meet us in the courtyard.”

[Imperialisium]

Anasztazia Angelos Residence
East Wing Study, First Floor

"Hmmm, I would love a bloody Chivas Regal Bottle 18 if you have it, Lady Angelos."


Anna raised a finger and a shadow moved off to the left near the study doors. A servant waiting in a corner had left. No doubt to fetch the bottle for their master's guest. Anna kept her eyes on the Assamite, Kegan, the entire time. Her emerald eyes shining in the room despite the ample lighting which gave a calm, cozy, warm feel to the ambience of the study. The smell of books filled one's nostrils and was punctuated by the burning of incense somewhere else in the mansion. Anna withdrew her hand as Kegan respectfully declined the offer to be seated. "Fair enough Mr. Kruvok." replied Anna while she herself remained seated. Again a shadow to the left and a servant wearing a black suit with coat tails arrived. A silver saucer bearing an iced bottle of Chivas Regal Bottle no.18 in his hands. The man was a ghoul as he came closer. He was not Kindred as the vampires in the room could tell. Placing the saucer tray on the coffee table gently the servant bowed quickly and left.

The Chivas Regal was not like its mortal pair of the same name. It was a purely Kindred concoction of blood flavored to mimic the taste of the Kine's beverage. The human beverage. Anna indicated for Kegan to serve himself he spoke about the Changeling. Anna was silent, her face turning monotone in emotion, her eyes passive. "Mr. Korvinus is an associate of mine, Mr. Kruvok, and I need not remind you that my business is my own."

John descended a nearby staircase slowly, his steps methodical and paced, gliding over to take position just to the right of Anna. Brutus did not seem at all perturbed by this development, like he was used to it, and resumed his sentry of the room. "Mr. Kruvok, a pleasure." said John flatly. No disrespect in his voice. But it was short, clipped, like he did not want to waste a single word or breath. Anna picked up the invitation and handed it to John who glanced at it before putting it in his suit jacket's inner pocket. His dark grey and black attire matching his raven black hair and dark coal like eyes.

"I trust you are here more than simply to let me know of your return? Perhaps you will be attending the Gala, just announced, and thrown by Mr. Apostolos." Anna's worlds coiled from her tongue eloquently. Every syllable perfectly stressed. Mr. Apostolos was arguably the most influential Toreador this side of the Mississippi River and nominally their head. Nominally. For the Toreador cared little for anything more than art or what took their fancy. Anna continued, "However, should you require lodging I am sure Mr. Korvinus can attend to that." John looked at Anna for a moment before returning his gaze to Kegan and nodded before speaking, flatly once more, "Certainly."

[Ormata]

Arcadia
Marshland Needles

The “Courtyard” was grandiosely named. In reality, it was merely a large, vaulted room near the ground level of the tower, a large gate sitting inside one wall with glyphs and sigils carved into the stone. It was a key position in the defenses of the bastile and, if broken into, would be a death trap few could escape. To state that it was like the beaches of Okinawa would be charitable to the island, as each possible entry point was covered in possible death, from fire to acid to sheer straight-up explosive potential. It’d taken a long time to perform.

The room was filled with soldiers. On one wall was a half-dozen Wizened, short men and women who wouldn’t reach 6’ if they tried yet looked like barrels of muscle and sinew. Biceps bulged underneath loose shirts, the chests covered in a combination of modern and age-old technology. Bulletproof vests covered dirty chainmail and kevlar helmets were on each of their heads. Each of their faces had that sort of blissful look, the kind of look a professional gets when he’s told he’s going home.

They were going home, after all. At least for a little while. Some of them starved for a good, honest-to-god hamburger that wasn’t made with Hobgoblin meat. Some of them prayed for a damn Coors beer; they couldn’t get the normal stuff in Arcadia. It just didn’t exist in any form. They were going home, like for a holiday.

In the Wizened’s hands were rifles and machineguns, weapons that would look at home on the modern battlefield. One even carried an MG 3, a machinegun that spewed-out bullets like there was no tomorrow, and another had a SAW. For the most part, though, they carried rifles, high-caliber weapons that looked to be more works of art then weapons of war. Engravings lined the woodwork on each of them, scenes of hunters and hunts, death and glory. On their waists were weapons long-past in history, swords and long knives, axes and coiled chain. At the sight of their host, they cast an eye to him, nodding in almost perfect unison.

On another wall were the Beasts, the hunters and watchers of Whisper’s forces. Three of them stood, each moving with that idle twitch of the dog awaiting it’s masters beck and call, waiting to be let off that invisible leash that was tight about it’s neck. They were dressed far lighter than the soldiers, chainmail haubergeon about their chest. They, each of them, had a long rifle upon the back, wore naked steel thrust through belts. Their features, while not normal, were quite closer to human than any other Beast. A tail here. Furred feet there. They were, for the most part, normal, though the distended limbs still shown. A back that was too crooked. A mouth that naturally snarled. They grinned at the sight of Whisper, eager to begin the hunt.

Yet these were not the most interesting of all. Two of the tallest people one could ever see, a female and male, stood aside the rest. Their skin was gnarled like tree-trunks, knolls of hardened skin about them, and their arms were just simply massive. They didn’t look like apes, it’s just that, in entirety, the two were massive people, standing ten feet easily. Their faces were marred, scratched and scarred by the thin claws of a feline some time back, and the two’s hair was short. The woman’s curls hung about her head like a forest, framing her hard face like a crown. The man just had a buzzcut and square jaw.

They were, both of the Ogres, dressed in armor the kind one would only ever see in the depths of hell. Heavy plate, brown-tan like that of a tank, turned both into chitinous, almost lobster-like beings, each plate overlapping the next and few holes were left to be seen. Heavy boots clothed their feet and, beside their discarded gear, were two tan great-helms of old. Their gear looked to be just as heavy as they; two M2 heavy machine guns that were modified with stocks. Large box magazines were beside them, a trail of bullets on their belt coming off of the gun.

Yet that wasn’t the most eye-catching thing.

Dressed in full plate, the two moved with the sort of speed one would expect from professional boxers. One would hold-up two hands, palms facing the other, and would receive two punches, and then they would switch roles, the other holding-up two hands to receive the next twin punches from the second, and so on and so forth. They moved with a daring speed, one attempting to trump the other and punch before they were ready, and not a breath could be released in the space of twenty punches. They were punching with force, too. The noise confirmed that.

The woman saw Whisper, standing as he was above them next to a door, and nodded to the man. Her mouth moved, saying something that Whisper knew was the obvious answer, and they both lowered their hands in near perfect unison. Ogres, he thought to himself. They weren’t bad folk, in most situations. Just a bit annoyed. The two of them began to gear-up, box magazines sliding onto the M2s with heavy clicks. The click-clack of the cocking echoed about the room.

He moved past them, past the soldiers, to the Beasts. The one who had come earlier, the man, stood-up from his crouched position, bowing his head ever so at the Fae. Whisper’s face was pensive, a subtle smile that couldn’t be shaken-away, and he spoke with that low voice. “Does the scent still linger?”

“It does, My Lord.”

Whisper nodded in responsive, surveying his men and noting them to ready. Upon the high door was Gene, dressed in what could only be called a tank top for practical purposes and a knee-length skirt. Lithe sandals covered her feet and the braided hair hung loose. About her waist was a belt with a kukri in it’s sheath, and the woman wore little else. She approached the Fae rather quickly, bowing briefly to him.

A soldier screamed-out his orders, the Wizened forming into ragged ranks and the Ogres heaving-up their weaponry. The Beasts jumped to the front, fluid in that beastial, unknowing sort of way that merely occurs with little thought. Gene followed her Keeper to the front ranks, and a mere nod was given.

The door opened and hell was it’s call. The devils on the wall screamed their screams, throwing themselves into combat with such little regard for themselves and the Hobgoblins themselves let-loose a ragged cry. Yet their battle-cry was easy shadowed by the roar from the Ogres.

They let-away no battle-cry, no yells or screams of glee at their quarry. No, they merely brought the butts of their stocks to the shoulder, aiming the massive M2s as though they were hunting rifles, and let-loose with a scream of .50 caliber bullets. The guns roared, discarded cartridges littering the floor, and the Hobgoblins took note. Some brought-up their shields, yet these were cut to splinters as they should. The bullets they used were cold iron and the Hobgoblins, despite being neither Changeling nor Fae, were torn to shreds by it. Some ran for the shrubbery, for the forest and for the Hedge, and these found no refuge there. They were cut-down like dogs.

The two Ogres lowered their rifles, nodding in satisfaction, and the retinue continued to their chosen gateway.

[Shark isle]

Dr. Augustine Smyth walked into his lab with a big grin on his face. The middle-aged scientists had recently heard that one of his research squads had discovered a new artifact. Before walking into the lab where the artifact was contained, Augustine put on his protective gear. The gear was consisted of a yellow hazmat suit and a glass dome which he placed over his head. This dome had two purposes. It protected him from radiation and other harmful effects of old artifacts and allowed him to see and handle Atlantean artifacts without them being destroyed. As he walked in to the lab, he saw three scientists wearing similar clothes looking over the artifact. Augustine then said to the scientists," So boys, what have you figured out so far?" One of the scientists looked up to his boss and said with a british accent" Nothing much. We know it is Atlantean and it is obviously some kind of manuscript. But, we can't translate the language." Augustine nodded and went over to study the manuscript with the other scientists.

Two hours later

Augustine climbed into his car and let out a huff of anger. He had spent over two hours studying that damn piece of paper and he still had nothing to work with. As he drove him he said to himself," The only way to translate that paper is to find a Mage." Augustine suddenly had an idea. If he could not translate the paper himself, He will have one of those Psychics who call themselves mages do it for him. He then grinned as he continued to drive home.

[Nitom]

Kegan kruvok
Anasztazia Angelos Residence
East Wing Study, First Floor

Kegan would take a sip of his drink, taking in the flavor. It had been awhile since he enjoyed a drink in this house, but unfortunately the situation had left a bad taste in his mouth. "Yes Lady Angelos, I shall be attending the gala event. One cannot overlook the benefits that it would bring to my business." Kegan said before turning his eyes towards the changeling and then back to Anasztazia. "However, lodging will not be necessary. I'm confident that I can handle that myself."

Kegan would down the rest of his glass before gently setting it down on the table. "Now if you will excuse me, I must prepare for an extended stay in the city." Kegan said with the most sincere smile he could give. Though the smile wasn't meant for her, but that he was able to work his way out of the unfavorable situation he had found himself in. Kegan then turned around and began to walk towards the door.

As soon as Kegan stepped outside, he would grab his belongings from the guard and begin his walk towards his nearest hideout. While he rarely stayed in the city for long, he thought it best to have several places that he could stay that weren't provided by any of his customers. When he got there, he pulled out a set of keys from the hidden pouch in his bag. After only a few seconds he had the door open and began to make his way inside. The first floor was what any normal human house looked like. It had all the basic furniture with a few paintings on the walls. He didn't have much of a fascination with art, but he could understand why some people liked it.

Kegan would enter his bedroom and go to the closet. He then came to a door at the back of his closet behind a tall dresser. He moved the dresser out of the way and unlocked the pad lock and door lock before opening the door. Kegan smiled as he began walking down the stairs and came to another door with a pad lock. After a few moments, he unlocked the door and walked into a pit black room. He felt over on the wall closest to him and flipped a switch, turning on all of the lights.

The lights were slow to turn on, only going one by one. On the right side wall, there were stacks of refrigerated blood that he gathered from his human targets or any human witnesses when he was out on a job. To the left were his weapons, and straight ahead were "work" clothes. In the center laid a table with a computer and several stacks of papers and folders. He used this to document his work and keep tabs on how things were going for all the major powers.

Kegan walked straight over to his weapons rack and dropped his things on the ground. He began to put up his weapons that he had used on his last job in Tokyo. While he preferred working with a blade, he was decent with firearms and understood that sometimes they were needed to get a job done. Once Kegan was done putting up all of his gear, he made himself a cup of blood coffee and opened up his notes on Anasztazia. "Hopefully I can find something on that changeling." Kegan thought to himself.

[Of the Quendi]

The Blesevin
Of the coast of Los Angeles

It was a beautiful night in California. The stars and the full moon shone brightly their light reflecting in the gentle waves of the Pacific Ocean of the coast of Los Angeles. A few miles of the coast of Malibu, roughly halfway between Simi Valley and Catalina Island, an elegant sailing yacht, the Blesevin, was floating silently. The waters around the luxurious sailing boat were dark but for the reflected lights of stars and moon in the waves. The dark waters hid well a creature that though of a human form swam with a speed and agility that seemed to surpass that of any mortal being. Silently and rapidly the creature circled the yacht closing in on it with each encirclement.

Nearer and nearer to the yacht the swimmer came, its two sailors, a man and a woman, seemingly oblivious to the approach. Closer and closer the creature came, picking up speed along the way, until it could almost reach out and lay a hand on the vessel. Then it pounced. The creature broke through the surface of the water, revealing long slender white limbs and a mane of dark blonde hair, with a great splash, jumping several feet into the air howling wolfishly at the moon. With another great splash the creature fell back into the water before quickly resurfacing. More gracefully the creature, a woman, grabbed onto a ladder leading from the Blesevin into the water, climbing onto the ship.

She sighed complacently a smile on her face. Few things beat a skinny dip at night Geneviève D'Agneau de Morangias Richecour thought. Stepping on to the deck of her vessel the vampire was greeted by her faithful valet Yann de Nant. The butler, a fifty-some year serious man with a receding hairline and a permanently stoic demeanor, held out a bathrobe, taking good care not to look at his mistresses naked form. "A pleasant swim ma'am?" He inquired in heavily accented english as he helped Geneviève put on her robe. She purred in delight at the feel of the warm silken robe against her cold pale flesh. "Very pleasant indeed de Nant." She declared.

The third person on the yacht, Jenny de Nant, approached the vampire and the valet with a towel. She promptly began to dry the shoulder length hair of her vampiric mistress. Geneviève sat down on a reclining chair, allowing her lady's maid to dry her hair and pamper her after her swim. From the sundeck of her yacht Geneviève had a spectacular view of El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles de Porciúncula, or as the bloody yanks called it; Los Angeles. The Breton vampire had to concede that the sight of the city at night was spectacular. The lights the skyline of downtown Los Angeles in front of the San Gabriel mountains made for a beautiful vista. It was only when one got close that the real Los Angeles, the City of Angeles as the linguistically challenged Yankees had misinterpreted the name of their second greatest city, would reveal itself in all its pathetic degradation.

Geneviève never liked the place. Crowded, congested and polluted Los Angeles was a city built of broken dreams and failed promises. The city was a global magnet for people aspiring to become actors and actresses, believing themselves the next Clark Gable or Marilyn Monroe when in reality they where all too often just talentless freeloaders running away from whatever sad sob stories had driven them to acting in the first place. It was pathetic. Even several miles from the beaches of the city Geneviève could practically smell the desperation of the huddled masses seeking to make it in the city of angels. Well either that or the pollution, it could be difficult to tell apart.

The once upon a time desperately aspiring actress Jenny de Nant finished drying Geneviève's hair. "Would that be all ma'am?" The woman asked in the unmistakable accent of a yankee. Geneviève nodded slowly without taking her eyes of the city. "Yes thank you mrs. de Nant. Please let Mr. de Nant know I wish to return to the city." Geneviève said, her stomach growling. For all it vices Geneviève had made Los Angeles her primary home for a reason. So many people without roots and without a place of belonging desperately flooding the city translated into one prized quality for the city. An inexhaustible food supply. Eyeing the city with equal parts contempt and desire a smile appeared on Geneviève's face as she contemplated all her feeding options. Even Los Angeles had its bright side.

[Imperialisium]

Anasztazia Angelos, File, Assamite Records

As Kegan opened up the file, which itself was rather lengthy, however not nearly as one might think given the subject. Camarilla, let alone Assamite records of even those personally compiled, were scant and often contradictory in regards to the particular person known as Anasztazia Angelos. So as he opened the file and took a quick look at some recent photos, themselves a couple years old, and notes he got to the crux of the topic.

Full Name: Unknown
Current Alias: Anasztazia Angelos
Past Aliases: Anna Komnene? (Not verified), Anna Angelid (Fourth Crusade Era), Elizabeta Bathory (Possible if not childe)
Close Associates: Subject has had numerous associations past and present, of which the exact measure is often contradictory or few in detail, however she has been close to several European Monarchs of the past. Notably Matthias Corvinus of Hungary, Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden, Maximilian I of Austria, and Czar Peter I of Russia. Possible records retrieved from a Clan Ventrue ruin in Western Turkey portents to a Kindred of strikingly similar appearance to have been operating with Emperor Basil I of the Byzantine Empire as earliest known date.
Clan: Tremere? (Possibly predates clan)
Sire: Unknown
Childe: Various, see appendix

Biography: The subject known as Anasztazia Angelos can be accurately, even then it should be noted as not one hundred percent accurate, traced back to the 11th Century AD. Presumably to Human parents somewhere within the Byzantine Empire or Carpathian Mountains in what was once Ruthenia. Certain records point to her of being possible Tzimisce in origins, however, these have since been viewed as false or incorrect documents and since no longer held as relevant. Whatever the possible origin, two things are almost certain, she became a member of Clan Tremere early on and was undoubtedly at least in part the figure now known as Anna Komnene.

The subject, like numerous others, kept her true nature secret. Maintaining a guise before the time of the Camarilla and the Masquerade was beholden to so many Kindred. By the 13th Century she is generally held to assume the guise of a member of the Angelid family in Constantinople. However, she fled as the Fourth Crusade sacked the city and fractured the Byzantine Empire. Fleeing to Nicaea and taking up position within the court of the Laskarids until at least the mid-13th Century when she left the region for presumably Italy. The following centuries, indeed even after the formation of the Camarilla, Anna stayed low with periods of activity permeating the years. Forming relations with the Toreadors and Ventrue of Italy whom fostered the Renaissance. Even attending the Florentine School, albeit discretely, and supposedly was a close associate of Leonardo Da Vinci and Raphael. Anna also influenced events of The Hundred Year's War by supposedly counseling Joan of Arc, and possibly betraying her to the Burgundians later on for some unknown purpose, possibly due to the lack of payment for possible Thaumaturgical assistance rendered during the Siege of Orleans.

Next Anna purportedly worked with Gustavus Adolphus during the Thirty Years War until Clan Tremere switched sides during the Battle of Lutzen, killing the King, and exiting the conflict as a whole following this debacle. But, curiously enough, the subject seems to hold Gustavus in high esteem judging by information gleaned from a former Ghoul in the year 1704 during an Assamite operation in Thebes, Greece. Possibly indicating Clan Tremere was not indeed the betrayers at Lutzen. Moving into the Early Modern Era the subjects activities became increasingly muddled. Acting rather independent from the Clan Tremere as a whole, rather uncharacteristic for their kind, and moving about European capitals in Western Europe before relocating to New York before the First World War broke out. Thus she was saved from the slaughter in Europe while making her way about to Los Angeles by the end of the 20th Century.

Due to the subjects implied age, there is a bit of an oddity present, for the Clan Tremere are notoriously organized pyramidally to such a degree that is unheard of in other Clans. In Los Angeles she acts as much a Clan Tremere Regent would, directly overseeing, administrating and coordinating Clan Tremere activities. However, given her age and degree of Thaumaturgical mastery which according to 19th Century annals fetched from an abandoned convent in Spain, we can assume she is higher on the hierarchical scale. A Lord or possibly a Pontifex, however some within the Camarilla no doubt believe her to be a Councilor.

Curious enough, few in person accounts of her have managed to be compiled even by the Camarilla, the most recent of which was an Assamite raid conducted in the Mountains of Norway. Several Assamites led by Habn Q'Hassim (Sorcerer) managed to gain entry to a Clan Tremere location (though given the architecture the structure was predicted to have been created sometime during the 600's) in an isolated part of central Norway. Managing to infiltrate without tripping any possible arcane or mundane defenses left behind until they reached a central room. There they where beset on all sides by Gargoyles, Ghouls, and Clan Tremere kindred. Video footage from Q'hassim's party used to document all they found spotted Anna directing the ambush. Leading to slaughter of the Assamites. The video itself managed somehow to enter Camarilla records, but was pilfered by Assamite agents, from a Camarilla cache in Brussels.

As the file came to a close Kegan would find almost nothing on John Korvinus.

[Nitom]

Kegan Kruvok
Los Angelos Hideout

"Nothing..... absolutely nothing." Kegan said to himself calmly. He would sit there in silence for a moment, thinking. Anger began to take over. "How is there nothing?! Not even one helpful fucking hint!" Kegan yelled as he slammed the file onto his desk. He then bounced out of his seat and began to pace the room. Moments later he would pull out his phone and began looking through his contacts. He would stop at the name "Victor". He clicked to call. The phone would ring for a moment before it finally picked up.

"Hello?"

"Victor, it's me. I need a favor."

"Like Prague?"

"No, I got shot in Prague if you don't remember."

"Then what do you need?"

"I need info on a guy that's recently gotten close to Lady Angelos. Keep it clean like Munich."

"Alright, but all my guys are busy. I'll point you to the people, but you're doing the heavy lifting."

"Don't I always?"

After that, Kegan ended the call. He didn't like relying on others for info, needless to say he hardly ever had a need for it, but this was different. Kegan turned to his weapons cage, looking at what he had. "I guess I'm back in business already." Kegan said with a slight smile. He would open the locks and clear some space on his table before placing a bag onto it and putting some of his gear in it.

[Ormata]

Arcadia
The Hedge

The Hedge was green. People liked to call forests pulsing or living, but those forests had nothing on the Hedge. The Black Forest lived, but everything was just green. The creepers in the Hedge were massive, nearly thick vines, and the trees stood up like spires into the heavens. Heck, the veins of the trees were bulging, bigger than a person’s torso.

Whisper’s group marched through it, through the foliage and mountainous bushes. The path was fairly clear, though either side was covered by brambles and thick brush. Vines hung above them, little shards of light piercing through the foliage onto the ground. It was nearly quiet, the only sounds nearby being the crunch of leaves between booted feet and the light breathing of the soldiers. In the distance were the sounds of howls, wolfish and long and piercing. These put the soldiers at-ease, oddly enough; it never was the predators who screamed their presence that got you. It was the silent ones. It was the motionless ones. The loud ones would be stupid to try.

Then they moved.

The Hobgoblins came out of nowhere, moving out of the bush and sharp brambles as though they were ghosts. They didn’t howl, didn’t scream, and didn’t roar any cries. Just as they did so, a volley of arrows came through the brush, zipping like angry hornets. Whisper reacted nearly immediately, hand raised as a barrier of brief energy flared-up on either sides of the column, white blasting through the forest like twin floodlights. Then the Hobgoblins did scream, some throwing a hand up to shield themselves from it and others merely seeing the light, merely being blinded. Battle was joined.

In an instant, the ogres threw-down their guns. One of them took a hobgoblin’s head, grabbing it by the face, palm smothering it, before smashing the creature into the viney ground. Blood and skull fragments littered the green. The other took a more simply route, drawing what could be considered a two-handed blade and wielding it like a scythe, cutting-down the creatures.

The soldiers, the Wizened, they held their ground, firing almost en-masse into the brush with automatic weapons. It was at point-black range, the blood splatter from their victims staining their own gear. A few of them drew blades, holding their ground and treating it almost like a textbook against the hobgoblins, dancing-about them.

The beasts, to their credit, did not hold their ground, jumping at the hobgoblins and meeting them in mid-air. One of them, a girl who looked somewhere between her thirties and fifties whose hair cascaded like a black cloak behind her, met a hobgoblin with her teeth, ripping-apart it’s throat as she used him as leverage, swinging-about into a full-on two-leg kick into the head of another goblin. The animal jerked, falling backwards with a head that was nearly backwards and a neck that no longer connected. Another drew his blade, cutting the throat of a hobgoblin in a thin slice as blood poured from the wound like a waterfall, staining the creature’s skin red. Another took the route of breaking arms at the joint, leaving mewling bodies scatter the floor to be crushed underfoot.

Yet, as all this barbarity occurred, there was a small spark of generous grace in it’s midst. Gene, in her dress, moved among the hobgoblins like oily smoke. A hobgoblin would swing his blade at her stomach and she, in return, would bend so far backwards that it nearly looked as though her spine would never recover. Then her leg would shoot upwards, like a piston, revealing both a generous amount of flesh and connecting with the goblin’s chin with a satisfying, crisp sound, the creature unable to ever look downwards again. And then she moved-on. She moved with a dancer’s grace, no, a goddess’s grace, slipping between them and behind them and, even when she was in front of them, never seeming to be quite there.

Gene’s face was contorted into the face of a woman unable to be disgusted, a face that was in bliss. Her face was that of a lover in the midst of a haze, the face of an artist after a beautiful painting is produced, a face of excess and ecstasy and satisfaction all in the same time. She was, in a word, happy, though it was so much more than that. It was her life’s training realized, a moment wherein a professional may do their work and have it seen by the world, and she was happy. Ecstatic. Fulfilled.

And as all this occurred, Whisper moved with a brutish force. A hobgoblin attempted to take his head off with a violent swing, and the Fae blocked it with his hand, one on the hob’s hands as he brushed it aside with the strength a hobgoblin simply didn’t have. The other hand shot-out, grasping the creature’s neck and raising him up by it. It gurgled, choking, before realizing what was happening.

How to describe the changing of a Name? It’s an odd thing to be sure. Whisper’s face elongated, his mouth opening in a wolfish smile as white teeth rotted away from blocks, turning long and slender and somehow cruel in their bent. The flesh of his cheeks turned sour, from tanned flesh to rotted yellow to diseased black before falling-off in flakes. Horns grew from his head, the nubs first pressing against dead skin before breaking-through in pustules, the fluid scattered across the ground. Whisper’s legs turned to those of a stag, hooved and bent, and yet all this was not what the hobgoblin was concerned with. He didn’t notice the tanned flesh turning into paper and nail on the Fae’s waist, no, his attention was turned to more pressing matters.

It was the claws. His hands turned from calloused things, those of a well-worn grandfather, to that of an animal. The bones became long and boney and the nails thick and long, sharp talons that could rip flesh. The skin turned away and instead of a hand of a man the hobgoblin felt the claws of an eagle. He squired, eyes bulging in fear at what had occurred before him, and rivulets of blood began to lazily flow through Whisper’s claws.

Whisper moved-in, like a creature taking it’s bite, head turned to the side and mouth scraping the hobgoblin’s face. He screamed until his skull was smashed-in from the canines. Oh, did he scream.

By the time the battle was over, each of Whisper’s had been bloodied, though none of it was their own. Most hung-about like shades, head and eyes alert yet bodies saying that they were glad it was over. Few enjoyed the march through the Hedge, though one such person was in front of them. Gene straddled the corpse, laughing as though one had just been told a good joke at the costume party and everyone was standing-about with champagne. It was the kind of laugh that just was, echoing through the air. Her hands played at the corpse’s chest as though he was a boyfriend, her hands stroking about the well-defined pectorals, tracing the lines of the musculature. The corpse had no head, the intestines drooling blood onto the grass, teeth-marks from one of the beasts on the skin.

Whisper approached, jaw still locked into that wolfish smile as blood dripped from long teeth. Gene looked up, and her face went from that of a playful woman to the face of a child, features curious and pleading, eyes nearly wide and mouth drawn tight. He smiled a bit more, leaning down, and a long talon reached to the stump of the dead body. Tracing about the torn flesh, he brought-up a blood-stained nail, and offered it to Gene as one would a finger covered in chocolate. Her reaction was one of instant surrender, mouth opening and letting the talon in, and she sucked the blood off of it, cutting her own tongue in the process. Already coagulating blood mixed with her own and the dancer shivered, a rolling motion that traveled all across her body. Drawing back his talon, which perhaps was a bit more bloody than it had entered, Whisper smiled at the sight in front of him, Gene’s eyes closed as blood swirled in her mouth before opening them and giving a sinful smile.

And so, they marched through the Hedge. No-more trouble was given after that sight had been seen.

They arrived at the gateway with some speed; the Hedge was a miserable child at times, yet this time it had given a boon. A gate that was ten miles away moved a good deal closer, and they stood-about it, putting Masks on carefully. The Ogres turned into two large linebackers who looked like they’d been kicked-out of the leagues, muscles bulging even under the loose coats they wore. Their guns turned into golf-bags, large and teeming with metal rods. The Wizened turned into the rest of the football team, short yet stout as though they were attempting a dwarf imitation, and each of them had a backpack on. The beasts were much the same. Gene, however, put-on the guise of a normally young girl, skintight, black leggings and a gray hoodie. Whisper, meanwhile, turned back to his Watcher over the River, muzzle turning to face and claws turning to hands, antlers falling to the ground in puffs of smoke.

And so, they entered the real world.

[Ormata]

USA
Los Angeles, California

They exited through a window of a fire escape.

It was crowded, damn so, as they each shuffled out onto the metal bars as quickly as was all possible. The Wizened immediately produced a long line of knotted rope, one of them securing it to a rail as they slid down. The Ogres, metal straining underneath big boots, instead simply jumped from the railing, the metal shifting a good quarter foot as they left it, landing with the sound of hammers against bedsheets, the noise dulled despite there being dents in the concrete. Magic was useful for many things. The beasts took a different route, jumping onto the side of the next apartment before jumping downwards. Gene jumped down, the same way as the Ogres, yet she landed with far more grace compared to them.

A breeze blew back, into the opening, and Whisper heard a noise. Feet on carpet. The squeaking of a bed as the springs relaxed. The flutter of bed sheets He turned, and before him was a kid. She couldn’t have been more than eight, dressed in little pajamas, with dark skin and dark hair and too-wide eyes as though the girl just couldn’t believe what was in front of her. Old men didn’t stand in windows, crouched there. That was more than odd.

She opened her mouth, ready to call for mom, call for dad, and Whisper’s eyes widened too. He didn’t want an issue, not right now, not because some human child had made the human authorities come for him. That’d bring unnecessary complications to something that could be far, far easier. One hand raised, and he snapped, and the little girl opened her mouth. She didn’t say anything, though, not a squeak and not a peep. He made a rolling motion, fingers rippling towards him like the waves of the ocean, and the little girl walked towards him jerkily, legs moving with almost robotic autonomy. He needed her near him to do this; no trails, no breadcrumbs, no witnesses.

She paused, right next to the window, and Whisper passed a hand over her forehead, mumbling a word, and the girl’s eyes shut closed like iron clasps. She very nearly fell, legs buckling from underneath, and Whisper slowly made his way into the room, careful to not disturb the ground or creak the floor. That would prove unfortunate, too. He picked her up, gently, and carried the girl over to her bed, laying her there. Simply leaving her, asleep and on the ground, that would provide suspicion. Mysterious events attracted unwanted attention, too.

And so, Whisper exited, jumping from the fire escape and landing with not a sound. One of the Wizened looked up, the rest of them already on the ground, and whispered a word. The rope uncoiled itself from the metal, falling down as he caught it, wrapping it back up and putting the length away. One of them looked at him, her features Indian, with dark hair and dark skin and hawkish features.

“How long’s it been since you were here again, Fritz?”

“Long time,” he replied, a Frankfurter accent there, “Was ‘36, last time, I think. Something like that.” His face was far more European, with a brown moustache that covered his upper lip. He looked-about pensively, nodding to himself as his hands worked the rope. “Not much has changed here. Smells different, though.”

“Shut up, both of you. We can reminisce about the days of ye olde times later,” snapped another as she checked her ‘backpack’, before getting back up from her crouched pose. “Everyone’s accounted for, m’lord.”

“Good. Hannah. Frederick. Kingston.” The three looked-up at him, their eyes down each way of the alleyway as they watched for potential prey. Each of their movements were somehow furtive, like animals caged and ready to go, to hunt, to be free and be wild and be one with their environment. This wasn’t nature, but it felt close to it. The city pulsed with that same vibrancy they knew, the same energy that was in the forest. “Find him and return to the others.”

“But we’re hungry,” replied the red-hair, Kingston. “Might we have a bite on the way?” His eyes spoke of very, very cruel things, of little things and big things. He said hunger like it was more than food, said bite like it was more than a meal. For a Beast, perhaps it was more. It was a confirmation of one’s connection with nature, a confirmation that the link was still there, that it was still viable and joyful and it was a confirmation of the power granted by that link. It was dominance and fury and spite, all in one, and each of them loved it for being that thing. Hannah, the black-haired woman, echoed, “A bite,” biting her lips to suppress a mewl like a cat.

Whisper considered it. On one hand, unwanted attention was a rude thing to bring to a city. On the other hand, if they killed those humans who were...useless to society, who wouldn’t be missed, who had little in the way of worth and little stake in society...perhaps it might be alright. If his Beasts were hungry, eventually that hunger could overtake them. He did not want beasts on the loose, killing random people in full view of the world. That would make the trail go sour, go cold, go dead. Distracted pets were poor hunters, after all.

“Very well. Just a bite.” He rumbled the words, before addressing one of the Wizened. “Go to a inn. Take residence there.” Then the Fae disappeared, leaving them to move-out, the Beasts splitting-off from the main group.

“I smell him. He smells sweet,” said Frederick, nose raised into the air like a wolf. He licked his lips, a quick gesture. “Do you suppose we’ll be allowed to eat him, later-on?”

“Doubtful. He doesn’t like skeleton reminders, remember? Prefers live ones to be in the cages. Like that one elderly crone we caught.” Kingston was irritable, one ear twitching.

Hannah laughed at this, the image of that old woman being brought-forth from the depths of her mind. That woman had, indeed, been old; she’d tried to run-through the Hedge and nearly was about to be eaten by Hobgoblins before one of Whisper’s patrols had found her. He had taken care to break those crooked bones slowly, before leaving her in a hanging cage in front of the gates. They’d had a good decrease in trespassers after that. She’d remembered the old woman to have been a brewer of some repute.

“True, true, true,” the lady said, wiping away a tear, and they continued to go through the city, eventually leading to a bad part of the city. It was dark, dark by a good bit, and the cowards were coming-out. The criminals were walking, some of them being more calm about it, looking into cars to try to see if there was anything worth stealing and trying to see if there were any cars worth stealing. Some of them stood at the corner, the weather temperate enough to allow the prostitutes to come and try their trade. In an alleyway, though, one such prospective was not having such good luck. The first thing Hannah heard was an argument, and she paused, her eyes narrowing as she saw the events unfolding before her. A girl, dressed in a black dress with pumps and heavy makeup, stood against a wall, five individuals scattered about her and one with his hand against the wall, right next to her head. He was smiling.

“Look, baby, it’s not like I’m asking much. Just a half-hour so we can get to know one-another.”

“Yeah, right, that’s what you said last time. Full price.”

“Look, baby.” The man’s words got tighter as he spoke with some deliberate pauses. “Either you help me out of some nice little things will happen to you.” One of the others played-around with the zipper of his crotch as a hint to her, grinning a stupid, wide grin, and the man placed his hand right onto the girl’s hair, pinning her to it even more so. She was scared. “This way or the hard way, honey.”

“Look,” was Hannah’s reaction. “Dinner.” The other two chuckled.

They approached the group, faces pensive. The gang reacted accordingly, each one turning to face them as a very awkward thing happened. Gangs weren’t used to people walking right-up to them. The elderly knew better, the young adults knew better, and the kids were scolded enough by those two groups to at least know they’d gain a spanking by doing such a stupid thing. These people looked like they should be smart enough to steer-clear or, if their conscience was so irritable, to simply call the police. They didn’t look to be the types to walk-up to gang. There was a moment of silence as each one of them considered what the heck was going-on, before it was broken by the man next to the wall, with the girl. Her eyes widened.

“The hell do you want, then? Fuck off.”

“The kid’s got a mouth on him,” said Kingston, licking his lips again. He smelled the air, nodding to himself. “Kid’s got a mouth on him,” he repeated, smiling a little grin. Hannah shook her head, frowning as she considered the prey. The farthest one to the back was biggest, and that meant more meat, but he had too much muscle and sinew on him. The girl looked to be the better option. “I don’t know. Doesn’t take a genius to say poor words.”

“Hey, shut the fu-” he nearly replied, before being cut off.

“Shut it. Sheep don’t talk.” Commanded Frederick, shaking his head. “You should know that, sheep.” The gang moved, almost as one, each one looking to the other to see if he was moving too. Knives got drawn, though they were hesitant to draw their guns. The cops came quickly and they still wanted the prostitute to play with. They didn’t want noise and knives were a better way of doing that.

The first one lunged, knife outwards as his whole body went into it, and Hannah lunged-out herself, sidestepping the knife by mere inches as her face went for his neck. She bit, a quick bite that was like the motion of a seabird catching it’s fish, darting in and out and dancing back. The man dropped his knife, hands shooting up to his neck to try to stem the flow as he gurgled. The other gang members paused, eyes wide too now as they tried to figure out what the hell kind of freaks they were fighting.

“Be careful, sister,” said Kingston, as he moved crouched, “you don’t want to get blood on your clothes.”

“Oh, please. If one of us is more messy it’s you,” she shot-back, flashing him a knowing smile. One time he had been so messy it was almost as though he had taken a bath in the stuff; to be fair that person had taken a long, long time to die. They’d struggled a lot, during that period, and he’d still be unexperienced.

And then the Beasts moved with that predatory waltz, dancing their way between knife and blade and hand, moving just out of reach before bolting-out with their mere hands. Sometimes the marks that were left were playful, little smacks that broke bones and bruised skin purple. Other times those blows snapped the neck of the man, scratching at his throat to leave wounds that left the Adam’s Apple nearly fully exposed. In the space of a few frenzied seconds, perhaps even fifteen, the six were on the ground, one of them moaning softly as he clutched his broken leg, the foot facing the other way. He didn’t have the breath to speak.

Frederick passed him, casually bringing-down a shoe onto his throat with such force that the blood splattered across the sole, and the corpse twitched it’s last.

The prostitute, during this entire time, had not moved, standing there with a face of shock. She was scared; that much was plain. Scared so much that the muscles of her face had frozen and turned cold. Hannah regarded her like a buyer regards a horse, walking up to her before taking a finger, playfully checking her teeth before crouching-down, reaching up the skirt to feel the flesh there, to see how tender it was. The Beast nodded appreciatively, and the girl didn’t move an inch.

“Got the cutlery,” Hannah called to Kingston, and the man produced a series of sterling silver knives.

By the time the police would come, it would be a very, very dead corpse.

[Luminesa]

The Woods of Arcadia, Near the Sea

In the beginning, people told each other stories. These stories were the tales that built the world, for many ancient peoples. The primitive peoples would look up at the sun, and call it the chariot of the gods. They saw the moon, and they saw the gentle compassion of the goddesses. The stars were the angels, the messengers of the gods, the watchmen in the night. They looked at the ocean, and they saw the end of the world. So this is where Endymion lived, according to the tale.

The End of the World.

To this creature, the Truth was in these stories. And the Truth was what you made it in these stories. All of them pointed to something fantastical living beyond human comprehension. The wonder and the beauty of every human heart. Yet, to Endymion, it also revealed their sins. The darkness, the blank spaces between their words, revealed their fear, their confusion, their need to grasp at anything that could give them safety. He enjoyed reading between these blank spaces, which, by themselves, were boring. Only by entering the cave did one find the gems, so to speak.

Yet the gems were on the other side of Arcadia. The invisible barrier between humanity and the Fae, another blank space. He longed to cross it, to study the beings that made his existence so interesting. Yet if he remained there for too long, he would lose his form. His magic would be eroded. So he had to spellunk in a different way, by bringing the cavern to himself.

He sat in a dark, throne-room-like space, vast and overshadowed by the verdant forestry around him, and rocked gently by the soft waves rippling not too far from his home. His form was not entirely visible, but he seemed to be a very graceful, intimidating being. His very silhouette gave him the appearance of something otherworldly, something that was not meant to be seen. All was mostly silent here, as he sat on his "throne" in the room, and a smaller, much quicker silhouette entered the room.

"...State your purpose?" Endymion spoke slowly, and softly, as he noticed the smaller being in the room.

"I seek for the audience of 'The Gentle Night'..." The voice was that of a young girl, teenaged, and a little nervous. She bowed gracefully, and then she stood and looked at him.

"...Paoine?" He spoke with what seemed to be a hint of surprise, at the formality of his young guest. He laughed softly, charmed by her words. "You know you do not have to address me by my title, dear. That is your privilege as my daughter. Are you afraid of me, perhaps?" he inquired.

"No, Father...I...was worried that you were busy..."

Endymion smiled. "'Busy' is a term that is only necessary for people who are bound by time, sweetheart. I am bound by no such concept. So do not worry. I am always here to speak to you, or to your sisters. Did they send you to speak to me, my little sweet-pea?"

Paione blushed at the endearing term. She blinked, and looked away. "...Y-Yes..."

"Then perhaps they are the ones who are afraid? How amusing. I suppose I may have been too harsh with them, the last time we spoke...Tell me, what do you need of me?"

"...You have said that you would like to study the humans more closely," she replied, "and so...I offered...in their place...to go to Earth and to bring one to you...A human who has wondered about the Fae, and who has discovered their existence..."

This brought a twinkle to the eye of the fae. He laughed again, and then stood. Floating down from his throne, he landed gently in front of her. "...Very good. Though it seems your siblings have put you to the task? Are you certain that you do not want to call for one of them to go in your place?"

"...No, Father..." She looked up at him with a serene determination, and an undoubtable eagerness to please. "...I will go wherever you send me...I will do whatever you ask...I am your child as well, after all."

"Well, now, there is no doubt of that, is there?" Endymion encouraged her, before teasing her short, bouncy hair with a finger. "...My little sweet-pea is all-grown-up...I remember when you were just born, in fact...I could hold you in my hand. I cannot do that now, can I?" he mused, before giving her a kiss on her forehead. "...Go forth, Child of Endymion. The story has beckoned us forward, to write another page in our tale, and it calls for you now."

"...Y-Yes, Father...thank you..." Paione smiled up at her father lovingly, and then she backed away and seemed to disappear in the shadows, like the faint flicker of a candle.

Endymion then stood in the empty room, alone, but he was not saddened at all by his apparent loneliness. He had eternity. Eternity was a good friend, one that opened him to things he could never know as a mortal, and that allowed him to find beauty in everything.

Even sin.

[Luminesa]

"Sometimes I feel that I don't have a partner...
Sometimes I feel that my only friend...
Is the city I live in, the City of Angels...
Lonely as I am, together we cry..."

Trinity's iPod blasted the chill, familiar rock song in her ears, as she walked downtown through LA. She kept her eyes forward, as she looked for the bookstore. She had a specific book she wanted to buy, and then when she came home with the book she had to go shopping for her mom. That was the trade-off: she could do what she wanted, as long as she did the chores and helped with the groceries for the family. Trinity was fine with this. Balance was good. Balance was what she wanted. She wanted to get her life in order, before she went to college. Before that, even, there were ACTs she also had to take, during the summer. So she had plenty that she needed to do, before she was ready to go.

"I walk through the streets 'cause she's my companion...
I walk through the Hills 'cause she knows who I am...
She sees my good deeds, and she kisses the wind and...
'I never worry,' now that is a lie..."

High school had been rough on Trinity. She had not fit with the girls, she had never been popular, and she generally felt misunderstood by her teachers. When she expressed her interest in medicine, their eyes lit-up and they immediately showed interest. "Fantastic," they would say, "you'll make a great doctor! You're so smart!" She appreciated this, though the 'nerd' label often earned her teases from other people. While she learned not to care about the other girls after a while, early in her high school years this had caused her some strife. Yet then she would mention her interest in music. "Cool," the teachers would say, "that's really interesting." When she would mention that she might want to study music as well, she was met with nods and faked smiles. There was no money in music, unless she got lucky.

"I don't ever wanna feel...like I did that day,
Take me to the place I love...take me all the way...
I don't ever wanna feel...like I did that day,
Take me to the place I love...take me all the way...

So she was caught between two loves, which for the most part did not match each other. Even after learning to not care about what people thought of her, her senior year of high school came and went, and she was still uncertain as to what she wanted to do. So she decided to take the year off to discover herself. Were there other things that she could focus on? Was she perhaps too narrow-minded as to her career? Maybe she had devoted so much time to those things, she had forgotten to take time to get to know herself. High school was a draining experience, being constantly caught between trying to please other people and trying to be herself. Now, she wished she had not tried so hard to fit in. There was no fitting in, anyway, only tearing yourself apart for the enjoyment of other kids. All that was needed for such a circus was the money and the peanuts.

"Under the bridge downtown...is where I drew some blood!
Under the bridge downtown...I could not get enough!
Under the bridge downtown...forgot about my love!
Under the bridge downtown...I gave my love away!"

As she was thinking and listening to music, a horrid stench met her nose. It was a wet, heavy smell, like something rotting. She smelled it from far away, as she was walking down the sidewalk close to the bookstore. Her eyes widened, and she took out her headphones and covered her nose. "...What the heck?" she muttered. She continued walking, but the stench only got stronger. As she walked, she eventually came to an alley, and she made the mistake of looking inside.

There was the body.

She should have run. Her heart was pounding cracks in her ribs, as though she had been running all morning. Yet her morbid curiosity and terror overtook her, and like a fly drawn to a lamp she walked over to the corpse. The remains looked to be those of a woman, but they had been cut-open so much that it was hard to tell. Fresh blood and flesh was everywhere, dumped like trash in the back of the dark pathway. The remains of a torn black dress laid around in shreds. Trinity immediately suspected this was a rape-murder situation, and she whipped out her phone, almost too scared to speak.

"...9-911?...Please, this is an emergency...th-there's a dead body down the street from...Th-The Last Bookstore?...Spring St...Oh God, there's blood everywhere...Oh my God..." she whispered, unable to contain her terror. She was also beginning to notice the other bodies, and she felt she was going to vomit. They were all badly-beaten, and one of them even had their throat crushed. "...Actually...th-there's...more than one...six bodies...Oh God...Oh Jesus...Oh God..." she was nearly panicking, and so she slowly backed away to keep from vomiting. A serial murderer was on the loose, and she was right near his last spot of attack.

[Fascist Republic Of Bermuda]

Downtown Los Angeles

I'm getting too old for this shit.

That was the first thought that crossed Hank Baker's mind as he stepped out of the squad car. The second he lay eyes on the scene he knew it was bad. An alleyway, pretty standard setting for a murder. But six bodies, that was new. A mass murder, plain and simple. Yellow police tape surrounded the crime scene. Policemen patrolled the area. One stood with a camera, taking photos of the crime scene.

"Agent!" An LAPD Sergeant hurried over to meet the FBI agent, snapping off a quick salute. Baker returned the salute, an ancient habit from his time in the Marines that he had never gotten out of. They exchanged salutes, Hank got out his wallet and presented his badge. "Hank Baker, FBI," he said mechanically. "Sir, Sergeant Sam Powell, LAPD. Captain Gardner sends his regards, sir, I'm to be your... uh... aide, I guess? It's a mess, sir, I can tell yo-" "Powell, Agent Baker can see that!" Another FBI agent, Drew Emerson, a young, ambitious man in his early 30s, remarked, stepping out of the squad car behind the one Baker got out of, "I could see it as soon as we pulled up!" Baker pinched his nose. "Sergeant, this is Agent Emerson," as if on cue the younger agent presented his own badge, "My... partner." "Yep, I'm stuck with grandpa!" "Emerson, we've been over this, I'm the one stuck with you. Now can it, both of you." "Yes, sir!" Powell said. Emerson huffed and leaned back against the squad car Hank had rode in.

Baker ducked under the police tape. Powell was right, it was indeed a mess. Blood was everywhere, he spied out 5 bodies, male. A few scattered weapons, knives and guns. Most of them really could have seen better days, bones evidently broken, necks snapped. One of them was missing a visible throat, judging by the sheer amount of blood around it most likely because it had been stomped in. And the 6th body... Hank Baker had seen a lot of dead bodies in his day, but this one was something new. It was clear where sections of the flesh had been literally carved away, with great care to avoid certain parts. The EMTs came forward with a stretcher and bodybag. Baker held up a hand, approached and crouched beside the body. It was... well, it had been a woman. It was pretty clear what had happened. "Sir, we have the girl who called 911," Powell said, walking up to Baker. Emerson took one look at the body of the woman, held his hand over his mouth, and staggered away to vomit. Baker himself was feeling a little green in the face. He'd seen a lot of shit, bodies charred by napalm, prostitutes raped and then stabbed with a bayonet, mass graves, soldiers blasted by landmines, murders, kidnappings, and rapes of all sorts of varieties, but this was something else. "Powell," Baker said, rubbing his chin. "Yes, sir?" Powell asked, trying not to stare at the body. "Those cuts look damn near professional. I'll leave the ins and outs to the coroner, but I believe our friend is a professional at this." "Hannibal fucking Lector..." Emerson muttered, reappearing, wiping his mouth with his suit sleeve for lack of a better place, "He cut her open and fucking ate her, I'm telling you!" "Regardless if he's a cannibal, it would seem our suspect is either a trained melee fighter," Baker said, twisting to stare at the male bodies, "Or he has a few friends." Powell nodded silently, staring at the massacre.

Hank Baker stood up, motioning for the EMTs to take the body away. Even the EMTs were looking sick as they loaded the body in the bodybag. "So where's the caller?" "Over here, sir." Powell lead the way, to a hysterical young woman and a hapless officer trying to comfort her. "Ma'am, ma'am, please, calm down, it's alright," the officer tried. "Rodriguez," Powell said, "FBI's here, you can stop now." The officer nodded and stepped back. Baker flashed his badge. "Special Agent-in-Charge Hank Baker, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Calm down, take a deep breath. Let's take this from the top. What's your name? You're not under arrest, you just might be a witness for when we send whoever did this to jail."

[Luminesa]

Downtown Los Angeles

I'm getting too old for this shit.

That was the first thought that crossed Hank Baker's mind as he stepped out of the squad car. The second he lay eyes on the scene he knew it was bad. An alleyway, pretty standard setting for a murder. But six bodies, that was new. A mass murder, plain and simple. Yellow police tape surrounded the crime scene. Policemen patrolled the area. One stood with a camera, taking photos of the crime scene.

"Agent!" An LAPD Sergeant hurried over to meet the FBI agent, snapping off a quick salute. Baker returned the salute, an ancient habit from his time in the Marines that he had never gotten out of. They exchanged salutes, Hank got out his wallet and presented his badge. "Hank Baker, FBI," he said mechanically. "Sir, Sergeant Sam Powell, LAPD. Captain Gardner sends his regards, sir, I'm to be your... uh... aide, I guess? It's a mess, sir, I can tell yo-" "Powell, Agent Baker can see that!" Another FBI agent, Drew Emerson, a young, ambitious man in his early 30s, remarked, stepping out of the squad car behind the one Baker got out of, "I could see it as soon as we pulled up!" Baker pinched his nose. "Sergeant, this is Agent Emerson," as if on cue the younger agent presented his own badge, "My... partner." "Yep, I'm stuck with grandpa!" "Emerson, we've been over this, I'm the one stuck with you. Now can it, both of you." "Yes, sir!" Powell said. Emerson huffed and leaned back against the squad car Hank had rode in.

Baker ducked under the police tape. Powell was right, it was indeed a mess. Blood was everywhere, he spied out 5 bodies, male. A few scattered weapons, knives and guns. Most of them really could have seen better days, bones evidently broken, necks snapped. One of them was missing a visible throat, judging by the sheer amount of blood around it most likely because it had been stomped in. And the 6th body... Hank Baker had seen a lot of dead bodies in his day, but this one was something new. It was clear where sections of the flesh had been literally carved away, with great care to avoid certain parts. The EMTs came forward with a stretcher and bodybag. Baker held up a hand, approached and crouched beside the body. It was... well, it had been a woman. It was pretty clear what had happened. "Sir, we have the girl who called 911," Powell said, walking up to Baker. Emerson took one look at the body of the woman, held his hand over his mouth, and staggered away to vomit. Baker himself was feeling a little green in the face. He'd seen a lot of shit, bodies charred by napalm, prostitutes raped and then stabbed with a bayonet, mass graves, soldiers blasted by landmines, murders, kidnappings, and rapes of all sorts of varieties, but this was something else. "Powell," Baker said, rubbing his chin. "Yes, sir?" Powell asked, trying not to stare at the body. "Those cuts look damn near professional. I'll leave the ins and outs to the coroner, but I believe our friend is a professional at this." "Hannibal fucking Lector..." Emerson muttered, reappearing, wiping his mouth with his suit sleeve for lack of a better place, "He cut her open and fucking ate her, I'm telling you!" "Regardless if he's a cannibal, it would seem our suspect is either a trained melee fighter," Baker said, twisting to stare at the male bodies, "Or he has a few friends." Powell nodded silently, staring at the massacre.

Hank Baker stood up, motioning for the EMTs to take the body away. Even the EMTs were looking sick as they loaded the body in the bodybag. "So where's the caller?" "Over here, sir." Powell lead the way, to a hysterical young woman and a hapless officer trying to comfort her. "Ma'am, ma'am, please, calm down, it's alright," the officer tried. "Rodriguez," Powell said, "FBI's here, you can stop now." The officer nodded and stepped back. Baker flashed his badge. "Special Agent-in-Charge Hank Baker, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Calm down, take a deep breath. Let's take this from the top. What's your name? You're not under arrest, you just might be a witness for when we send whoever did this to jail."

Trinity took deep breaths, trying to calm herself. She shook her head repeatedly, and continued to cover her nose to avoid the stench. "...It's so awful...God, it's so awful...Who could do such a thing...and why?!...Augh, it reeks so hard...oh my gosh, it's everywhere..." She was pouring-out whatever words she could find, to make sense of the situation. Nothing about this grisly murder made any sense. It was so random, and done in broad daylight it seemed. All the bodies were freshly-destroyed. The killer-or killers-was still on the loose. When she saw the FBI agent, however, she decided to try and regain her composure. She indeed took a deep breath before she continued. "...U-Um...T-Trini...Trinity Miles...a-and...I-I don't know anything...I-I just stumbled here...Aaaaagh..." She had never wanted to be at home more than she did now.

Meanwhile, down the street, a young, fairy-like girl had just popped into existence in the human world, and she too was watching the awful happening. Paione, the youngest of Endymion's daughters, and arguably his favorite. Too any general onlooker, she looked like a normal girl, if perhaps slightly strange. Her airy, indigo, chiffon blouse and long white skirt made her look like she was air underneath her clothes. Her short, bobbed-blonde hair floated around her face, as a light breeze blew, and her powder-blue eyes twinkled with curiosity as she slowly approached the crime-scene. She did not ask any questions, and merely watched for anyone who might interest her father.

[Ormata]

USA
Los Angeles, California

Whisper had a cigarette in his mouth.

He was waiting for the Beasts to come. For them to send for him. For them to move and track and find the bastard. Life was boring on Earth and was, frankly, a cruelty. Reality dislikes Fae, chews them up and spits them out in chunks. The precise specifics weren’t quite known to most, though Whisper had some guess on why, but essentially it was a purging. It was a mix of detoxing, like with human bodies, and a mix of radiation poisoning. Whisper could feel the tendrils of reality, curling about his feet and curling about his heart, constricting and poisoning and cutting. It wasn’t pleasant, but then again neither was the trip back to Arcadia.

The Fae was at a cafe. If there was something that he had a small taste for, it was coffee. Humans brewed the stuff and the beans simply had trouble growing in Arcadia. You could make false copies, but Whisper preferred the real stuff. The fakes were close, but they don’t completely do it. Besides, humans had found such curious ways to mix and mash it. Drinking the stuff was awkward, though it was no-less as poisonous as drinking air. He slipped at it, feeling the granules of liquid scratch against taste buds and the hot water like acid against his throat. It was a masochistic pain, to a degree.

His face wasn’t normal. No Fae’s ever was.

It was a mixture to a degree. Whisper had the eyes of a Maiden in Fall, bright eyes the color of falling leaves, shifting like ocean water from red to yellow to orange and back again, the type of color you would see if all the trees of Autumn were cut-up and mixed in a bowl before being poured-out like liquid mercury, and they were as piercing as Winter’s ice. Whisper’s hair was a coal-black, straight and long against his neck, hugging his shoulders and draped like a curtain across his back. His nose was that of a prizefighter, crooked and broken with a deep scar across the top of it. His cheeks were the gentle slope of the lady librarian, plump and full with the quality that simply makes you wish to pinch them. His chin was sharp. His lips were tight.

This was the Lord of Needles, the embodiment of Changelings’ suffering at the Marshland Needles, and he wore a suit.

A child stared at him, a kid who was still in the stroller, and Whisper returned the smile, one half having neat, white teeth, the type of teeth you saw only with politicians. The other half were rotted away to stumps, brown and yellow and green. His cigarette was tucked between two such stumps. The kid’s eyes widened, and Whisper chuckled his little chuckle, taking another sip.

[Luminesa]

USA
Los Angeles, California

Whisper had a cigarette in his mouth.

He was waiting for the Beasts to come. For them to send for him. For them to move and track and find the bastard. Life was boring on Earth and was, frankly, a cruelty. Reality dislikes Fae, chews them up and spits them out in chunks. The precise specifics weren’t quite known to most, though Whisper had some guess on why, but essentially it was a purging. It was a mix of detoxing, like with human bodies, and a mix of radiation poisoning. Whisper could feel the tendrils of reality, curling about his feet and curling about his heart, constricting and poisoning and cutting. It wasn’t pleasant, but then again neither was the trip back to Arcadia.

The Fae was at a cafe. If there was something that he had a small taste for, it was coffee. Humans brewed the stuff and the beans simply had trouble growing in Arcadia. You could make false copies, but Whisper preferred the real stuff. The fakes were close, but they don’t completely do it. Besides, humans had found such curious ways to mix and mash it. Drinking the stuff was awkward, though it was no-less as poisonous as drinking air. He slipped at it, feeling the granules of liquid scratch against taste buds and the hot water like acid against his throat. It was a masochistic pain, to a degree.

His face wasn’t normal. No Fae’s ever was.

It was a mixture to a degree. Whisper had the eyes of a Maiden in Fall, bright eyes the color of falling leaves, shifting like ocean water from red to yellow to orange and back again, the type of color you would see if all the trees of Autumn were cut-up and mixed in a bowl before being poured-out like liquid mercury, and they were as piercing as Winter’s ice. Whisper’s hair was a coal-black, straight and long against his neck, hugging his shoulders and draped like a curtain across his back. His nose was that of a prizefighter, crooked and broken with a deep scar across the top of it. His cheeks were the gentle slope of the lady librarian, plump and full with the quality that simply makes you wish to pinch them. His chin was sharp. His lips were tight.

This was the Lord of Needles, the embodiment of Changelings’ suffering at the Marshland Needles, and he wore a suit.

A child stared at him, a kid who was still in the stroller, and Whisper returned the smile, one half having neat, white teeth, the type of teeth you saw only with politicians. The other half were rotted away to stumps, brown and yellow and green. His cigarette was tucked between two such stumps. The kid’s eyes widened, and Whisper chuckled his little chuckle, taking another sip.

Paione wanted to go investigate the murders, as her father would want her to, but as she noticed something else. Her eyes widened, and she whirled around, her long skirt twirling around her small figure as she did so. She looked around, nervously, until she sensed where her fear was coming from. Another Fae was in the area. She had never seen other Fae, since they were so rare and preferred to keep to their own domains. However, as she noticed the strange man in the cafe, her curiosity overtook her, and she walked toward the shop.

The little bell rang, as she opened the door, and she immediately hopped in place. Human-noises were so strange and sharp to her, not at all like the songs of the forest and the ripples of the sea that she was used to hearing. She shivered, closed the door carefully behind her, and looked around. The shop was mostly empty, save for a few people hanging around inside. Uncertain of what she was supposed to do in such a place, she took a few steps and began to look around. People gave her looks, and she hid her face from them. They seemed so cold and uncaring, unlike the looks her father gave her. She shivered, and groaned lightly under her breath, like the sad whining of a lost puppy.

Then she saw him. Whisper. She recognized him as the Fae the moment she laid eyes on him. Her eyes got big, and she stiffened in front of him. "...Ah..." she whispered, trying to come up with words to say. She had no words, however, and so she merely curtsied and ducked her large, doe-like eyes. She only hoped he would not hurt her, and that her father was somehow watching. When she finished her curtsy, she stood tall-though just a little less than five feet-and she stared at him with wonder and fear.

[Ormata]

USA
Los Angeles, California

She entered and Whisper recognized her. The girl was one of his...well, to call him a rival would be to call Endymion nothing; every Fae was rival to every other Fae. That was how life worked. It was sometimes friendly. It was sometimes hateful. It was always for keeps. The Immortal Game was immortal for a reason, though Whisper had never quite played against Endymion. He was an odd sort who kept, to a degree, to himself.

This was one of his daughters. He could smell it on her.

She curtsied, polite enough, and stood to her short height. Whisper surveyed her impassionately, not quite smiling and not quite frowning, simply taking-in the view of her. The girl was youngest of Endymion’s, he recalled. P-something. Paione, that’s what it was. Cute in an innocent sort of way, which was unique. Most became depraved so damn quickly that he hadn’t found it funny. Whisper enjoyed easing someone into depravity. It made the depths so much more satisfying.

Whisper snapped his fingers, taking another sip of his coffee, and the magic of the Fae was demonstrated. It wasn’t a quiet magic, nor a small magic, nor a complex magic. It was a brutish magic, the kind that made everyone jump to it, the kind to where even Paione probably felt the impulses generated from it, even as a bystander. Every single person in the cafe got up from their seat, exiting the cafe quietly, leaving it in a small flood. The mother carted away her child and the place was left empty.

He drew himself up to his full height, looking down at her from seven feet of gangly limb, and smiled his half-made smile. Whisper sipped his coffee, letting a little bit of tension grow in the girl before opening his mouth again. His eyes glinted with humor.

“Enjoying Earth?”

[Luminesa]

USA
Los Angeles, California

She entered and Whisper recognized her. The girl was one of his...well, to call him a rival would be to call Endymion nothing; every Fae was rival to every other Fae. That was how life worked. It was sometimes friendly. It was sometimes hateful. It was always for keeps. The Immortal Game was immortal for a reason, though Whisper had never quite played against Endymion. He was an odd sort who kept, to a degree, to himself.

This was one of his daughters. He could smell it on her.

She curtsied, polite enough, and stood to her short height. Whisper surveyed her impassionately, not quite smiling and not quite frowning, simply taking-in the view of her. The girl was youngest of Endymion’s, he recalled. P-something. Paione, that’s what it was. Cute in an innocent sort of way, which was unique. Most became depraved so damn quickly that he hadn’t found it funny. Whisper enjoyed easing someone into depravity. It made the depths so much more satisfying.

Whisper snapped his fingers, taking another sip of his coffee, and the magic of the Fae was demonstrated. It wasn’t a quiet magic, nor a small magic, nor a complex magic. It was a brutish magic, the kind that made everyone jump to it, the kind to where even Paione probably felt the impulses generated from it, even as a bystander. Every single person in the cafe got up from their seat, exiting the cafe quietly, leaving it in a small flood. The mother carted away her child and the place was left empty.

He drew himself up to his full height, looking down at her from seven feet of gangly limb, and smiled his half-made smile. Whisper sipped his coffee, letting a little bit of tension grow in the girl before opening his mouth again. His eyes glinted with humor.

“Enjoying Earth?”

Paione watched Whisper's movements with terror and confusion. His eyes surveyed her like a dress on a rack, and she shuddered. Was he going to hurt her? She twiddled her fingers, as she clasped her hands together close to her chest, and she backed away just an inch or so. He was an incredibly powerful being, probably just as powerful as her father. He had also sensed her immediately, and knew she was a Fae. Her blue eyes widened in terror, and she backed away just a little more as he stood, more than two entire feet taller than him.

Everyone else was gone. The humans left, as though a silent force had commanded them to do so. The being in front of her was so frightening, he was almost like a god. Like her father, but much more sinister. She shivered like a wet kitten, and she ducked her eyes yet again. "...N-No, sir...Everything is...so unfamiliar...I-I don't like it here...The noises and the sights and sounds are all so...overwhelming...and unfriendly...Ahhh...please...d-don't hurt me..." She cowered, hiding her face in her flowy blouse. "...I-I'm only here because...m-my father sent me..."

[Ormata]

USA
Los Angeles, California

"...N-No, sir...Everything is...so unfamiliar...I-I don't like it here...The noises and the sights and sounds are all so...overwhelming...and unfriendly...Ahhh...please...d-don't hurt me..." She cowered, hiding her face in her flowy blouse. "...I-I'm only here because...m-my father sent me..."

Whisper laughed. His laugh was like that of a dog’s, harsh and loud and without restraint. She was scared of him. How cute. She was scared of Earth. Even cuter. Overwhelming and unfriendly sounds, that’s what she called it, but to Whisper that was the icing on the cake. Here the predators all announced themselves. Here the children all gave notice of their appearance. Here the birds squawked and did not dive, the dogs run and do not bite. Earth was a realm of obvious things, the noises mere announcements of little things that nipped at one's feet in attempts to garner attention, little things under delusions of grandeur and power.

She had never been to the Hedge, he suspected.

He wiped the tears from his eyes, dabbing at them with a napkin produced from his pocket. “Come now, hurt you? I only hurt those who cross me.” Whisper considered the girl, pursing thin lips as he took a drag from his cigarette, though the Fae was considerate enough to blow smoke to his side and not into her face. Her father had sent her. He had interests, then, in the mortal world.

“And why, then, did your father send you, little girl. Oh, do you want a drink? I’m sure one of the mortals left one to your liking.”