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Let's Play VtM: Wild Nights - Chapter 10
- Thread starter grotsnik
- Start date
Excidium
P. banal
Yeah but that's not how Joan acts. What she seeks in the Sabbat is just freedom, she will do anything to escape the pyramid, but that doesn't mean she'll start acting like a stereotypical Sabbat monster all of a sudden. Joan is young and still very human, like it or not. She may commit evil deeds, but only because she needs to. At least for now...
I think that's the great thing on this narrative, a character that is risking everything to go from a bad situation to one that is even worse...
I think that's the great thing on this narrative, a character that is risking everything to go from a bad situation to one that is even worse...
Bob
Novice
- Joined
- Apr 20, 2011
- Messages
- 20
C
Open the gas, kill them all. We should find a gas fire or an oven or something - turn the gas on, blow the flame out - let it build up for a bit.... The fire service will, after the fire, look for the source of ignition. As long as there's a plausible story for them to find - a candle left on top of the TV, a shorting plug, a cigarette, that that's as far as it will go. The fire will destroy any forensic evidence that might lead back to us.
Humanity? We'll go find some sort of morality pet later if it becomes an issue.
Lure her out? Yeah, like that's gonna work.
"Help me! Help me!" Worked well for Kitty Genovese. Very low odds on bystander intervention in that sort of situation. And anyone else in the flat block may call the police on hearing it. We don't know enough to lure her out specifically.
...
We'll have to stick around for a bit after the fire starts to make sure she doesn't get out of the building. But if she lives through the initial bit she will have to leave her room, and if she does she'll be in hallways, no reason to suspect us - trip and fall down the stairs. Elevator will be out because of the fire. Shit, accidents happen all the time....
Open the gas, kill them all. We should find a gas fire or an oven or something - turn the gas on, blow the flame out - let it build up for a bit.... The fire service will, after the fire, look for the source of ignition. As long as there's a plausible story for them to find - a candle left on top of the TV, a shorting plug, a cigarette, that that's as far as it will go. The fire will destroy any forensic evidence that might lead back to us.
Humanity? We'll go find some sort of morality pet later if it becomes an issue.
Lure her out? Yeah, like that's gonna work.
"Help me! Help me!" Worked well for Kitty Genovese. Very low odds on bystander intervention in that sort of situation. And anyone else in the flat block may call the police on hearing it. We don't know enough to lure her out specifically.
...
We'll have to stick around for a bit after the fire starts to make sure she doesn't get out of the building. But if she lives through the initial bit she will have to leave her room, and if she does she'll be in hallways, no reason to suspect us - trip and fall down the stairs. Elevator will be out because of the fire. Shit, accidents happen all the time....
Excidium
P. banal
If she's involved with the police as Osazema hinted, we don't need to worry about faking an accident as anyone investigating would just assume it was retaliation for a drug bust or something.
We can lure her out using dominate, the only hard part will be making eye contact, I doubt she'll just open the door if we knock...
We can lure her out using dominate, the only hard part will be making eye contact, I doubt she'll just open the door if we knock...
Azael
Magister
laclongquan said:
Like the cops would care that much about a missing yardie...
You're reading too much into this, people aren't voting against you to spite you, they're voting against you because the idea is dumb. Convincing people to leave town without consequences is a fairy tale, look how well that ended up in Miller's Crossing. We've agreed to do this dark deed, backing out now will be a failure.
Joan is misguided and naive, it's about time that she wakes up and smell the (dead) roses. This path of hers is an ugly one and there will be blood.
laclongquan
Arcane
The point, buddy, is not about keeping the masquerade. The point is we do just enough to satisfy our shopkeeper to get the bug. If the gal blab about vampire out in the countryside, shrug, that's out of our hands. If it's causing more chaos, it's no problem since its' not Joan's headache
From start to finish my point has always been doing just enough, with an aim toward info mining, without profiting any associate of Joan. Joan is not Tony, after all, and Tremere spy is not the same as Ventrue patrician.
Therefore expend our humanity in some sort of massacre make no sense. Or risk our identity exposed if we go in gun blazing. We just go in normally, have a quiet chat, then leave. If after that the whole family just up and leave, well, Joan's actions are hardly suspicious.
From start to finish my point has always been doing just enough, with an aim toward info mining, without profiting any associate of Joan. Joan is not Tony, after all, and Tremere spy is not the same as Ventrue patrician.
Therefore expend our humanity in some sort of massacre make no sense. Or risk our identity exposed if we go in gun blazing. We just go in normally, have a quiet chat, then leave. If after that the whole family just up and leave, well, Joan's actions are hardly suspicious.
grotsnik
Arcane
- Joined
- Jul 11, 2010
- Messages
- 1,671
SCO said:
Nah, she's not a real person. Giving a collective of anonymous people online the opportunity to act out the murder of a real-life policewoman and politician, as well as potentially her family, would have been an impressive attempt towards verisimilitude...but also kinda sick.
The feel-good anti-crime rap propaganda sounds pretty funny, though.
Excidium
P. banal
laclongquan said:
The thing is, we're not exactly a very intimidating individual, my fear is that if something goes wrong, what's stopping Osazema from calling the Regentia and telling her about our little arrangement?
Killing her is the safe option.
laclongquan
Arcane
Because it will be known that he's a tattletail who wont keep secrets of his customers? He will be severely damaged by that action, so he wont do it lightly.
Excidium
P. banal
Like Eames would be eager to make it public that there are Sabbat spies in her chantry.
ironyuri
Guest
Excidium said:
I don't think anyone is going to give a shit about Osazema selling out a Tremere neonate who wants to spy on her regent...
I do think that such a fact would make him seem more reliable an ally to the powers that be. What the fuck?
Stop derpan bro.
We're a shitkicking neonate. We need to do as we're told. We have the choice of doing a favour for a powerful samedi and doing it right, or fucking it up and having him make us a flesh puppet/tell our regent that we're a spy/just have us killed/whatever the fuck he wants.
He's a fucking samedi. If we fuck him around he'll inflict us with some rigor mortis or putrefaction.
Or more simply just kill us. Joan has no leverage .
laclongquan
Arcane
Look, you are a fucking customer, want to buy a fuck. Would you choose an whore that rumour said blackmail her customers in the past or a normal whore with no rumour attached?
You are a fucking customer want to hire some IT guys to set up your LAN for you company. Would you hire some guys rumour said he set up hidden surveillance camera in his customers' toilets before?
Get it? There's honor of some sort among thieves. There must be or nobody bother working with you. I dont worry too much about that Samedi tattle to Eames. As for so fucking pissed off at us that he want to murder Joan? It's not at that level yet. Possible, of course, but not yet.
And get a spine, bro. Joan is a neonate, true, but not a fucking pussy.
You are a fucking customer want to hire some IT guys to set up your LAN for you company. Would you hire some guys rumour said he set up hidden surveillance camera in his customers' toilets before?
Get it? There's honor of some sort among thieves. There must be or nobody bother working with you. I dont worry too much about that Samedi tattle to Eames. As for so fucking pissed off at us that he want to murder Joan? It's not at that level yet. Possible, of course, but not yet.
And get a spine, bro. Joan is a neonate, true, but not a fucking pussy.
ironyuri
Guest
laclongquan said:
Exactly. She's not a pussy. So why so she be afraid to kill someone?
Also, something setting up LAN for a company is different to someone selling you a listening device to spy on your boss. We're a customer asking for a favour that if found out could net Osazema some cred with the London Camarilla if he wants it. He's non-aligned, what does he care if he sells to the highest bidder?
Remember Karthik and his threat to give one of those business cards to du Marchais? Same deal. Joan can't expect loyalty from a Samedi who doesn't give a fuck about her, so why should we give him a good reaosn to fuck us in the ass by not carrying out his request?
Bob
Novice
- Joined
- Apr 20, 2011
- Messages
- 20
Excidium said:
We don't know why he wants her dead, we have reason to suspect it's in connection with the masquerade and that for whatever reason he hasn't done it himself.
That covers a lot of ground, a lot of people we might piss off. From her seeing something that she maybe shouldn't and the vamp not killing her through to her being a contact for hunters or someone's well-placed ghoul.
It's just caution to try to leave as little evidence as possible. Limit your risks.
laclongquan said:
He gave you a gun when he was talking about you being squeamish. He clearly wants her dead. Criminals aren't the sort of people you fuck about with on a technicality of the law, "Oh you should have SAID you wanted her dead. Silly me, I didn't realise!"
Is there honour among thieves? Yes. But it varies massively. They tend to keep their words only to the sort of people they have to work with and only up to a point. He decides to fuck us, no-one will ever know.
laclongquan
Arcane
Because killing the gal and her family is playing straight into his hands, that's why. That's the first step toward being his puppet. Nuuhuh, no way.
And you misinterpreting Karthik's deal. It's not blackmail, precisely. Karthik gave a notable player the choice between two kind of tools, with an upfront warning that he might go to the rival of that customer. Nothing wrong with that.
And you misinterpreting Karthik's deal. It's not blackmail, precisely. Karthik gave a notable player the choice between two kind of tools, with an upfront warning that he might go to the rival of that customer. Nothing wrong with that.
laclongquan said:
We started playing into his hands the moment we decided we want something from him. The more I think of it, the more it seems made the wrong choice with the bug. Now we're running errands for a Samedi instead of keeping an eye on Eames and the Greenwich Chantry. But what's done is done, so let's get this fucking over with, get the damn bug and plant it already.
Esquilax
Arcane
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2010
- Messages
- 4,833
Storyfag said:
I understand why it might seem that way, but it was the best choice given the circumstances. We need to get close to Eames, tear down the Pyramid and relay our info to the Sabbat - that's our overarching goal. Look at the alternatives we had: either we do a favour for the Samedi, we steal some money and give it to him, or we buy a bug from a Kine technician.
Stealing was out because Osazema doesn't seem like the type of man who gives a fuck about money. He is a man who deals in favours and information, not in money, as I've stated before. We're on the bottom of the totem pole right now, and we have to do a few favours before we can begin putting our own plots into motion. We just need to keep our heads down, do this favour for Osazema as discreetly as possible, then the real fun will begin.
Getting a bug from a kine technician is an even worse idea, because there's no way we wouldn't get noticed by somebody. Nobody likes shoveling shit for powerful, scary people, but fuck, that's what the Masquerade is all about. This is the least bad option on the table.
grotsnik
Arcane
- Joined
- Jul 11, 2010
- Messages
- 1,671
The shovelhead shrieks. The dried blood, caked around her mouth, cracks and fragments.
“No! No, you don’t understand! I didn’t mean to, I didn’t fucking mean to! I swear to you, I’m not a mons-”
With a small, muted sigh of satisfaction, Gordon Wyther jams his long knife into the side of her neck, and twists.
The body contorts for a moment, and then sags in his embrace. The head hits the canal-water below with a comical little splash.
Wyther waits for a moment, cradling the decapitated corpse absent-mindedly in his arms, and then lets it topple down too. A lorry roars over the bridge above.
The Brujah, loitering in the shadow beneath the iron arch, says,
“That the last of the hotel Embraced, Sheriff? ‘Cause I, er, was hoping to get some time off tonight.”
Wyther gazes through his misted spectacles into the murky water below. He feels mildly exhilarated, as much by the thought of a task successfully accomplished as by the kill.
“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I believe it is.”
They re-enter the sewers where the trail led them, ducking through the narrow medieval tunnels. Veering south beneath Camden Lock, Wyther halts at an intersection and yanks off his plastic gloves, tossing them into the fast-moving water. The Brujah follows suit.
As they step out across the walkway, a curious sound echoes through the chamber from behind them. A hard, metallic clunk. And another. And another.
Someone else is in the sewers. Nearby, approaching fast.
Wyther turns, frowning to himself. His slender fingers snake across his chest, unbuttoning the clasps that hold one of his knives in place within the fabric of his waistcoat.
“Sheriff…” the Brujah says, with a sudden, frantic urgency. “Sheriff, I think we need to get out of here. Now.”
“Quiet,” snaps Wyther, jerking up his hand, the knife clutched between his index finger and his thumb.
A smile flickers across his long face. His eyes focus on the archway at the farthest end of the chamber.
And from out of the darkness beyond the archway, something emerges, moving steadily, never altering its pace. Incredibly tall, heavily-muscled, clad in rotten iron strips of armour and a heavily corroded breastplate. Its yellowing hand rests upon the pommel of a sword at its side, and its eyes shimmer white from the shadows beneath its helm.
“Oh, fuck,” the Brujah wails. “Oh, fucking Caine, we’re dead, we’re fucking dead-”
He turns, and dashes madly away across the walkway, tripping over his feet as he goes.
Wyther ignores him. He takes up a stance, spreading his feet across the metal, flexing his fingers; waiting for the creature to come to him.
The Centurion takes another pace across the walkway. And another. A string of bones, Wyther notices, is hanging from its belt.
And then it stops. Its milky-white eyes seem to fix upon him, and focus.
For the first time, Wyther begins to feel a little disconcerted. There’s weight in those eyes, and madness, and sorrow.
“Well?” he snarls. “Come on, then! What’re you waiting for?”
The Centurion’s decaying mouth opens. From within, a perfectly pale set of fangs glint.
“Mea culpa,” it whispers, in a voice as hoarse and old as the mountains. “Hodie noctu venato.”
And it turns on its heel, in a perfect military about-face, and strides back into the void beyond the archway.
Wyther’s mouth hangs open. He gazes after it, in pure astonishment.
“Hunting?” he cries. “Hunting what?”
From the darkness, there’s no response; just the rhythmic clank of armoured feet, walking some allotted patrolling path beneath the city.
*
The Ivy is quiet. Most of the patrons have already left for theatre performances or strip-clubs elsewhere in the West End. A couple of spin-doctors are seated in a booth at the other end of the restaurant, toasting each other’s health with a magnum of champagne.
Humphrey Trentbridge orders the sea bream, and a bottle of Pouilly Fuisse. Sommers, however, waves the waiter away without glancing at the menu.
“Before we go ahead with this,” he says, calmly, gazing at Trentbridge, “I’d like you to be quite certain that you’re willing to commit. Because it’s not going to be easy, Humphrey. It’s not going to be easy at all.”
Trentbridge smiles, faintly.
“Don’t think it didn’t give me some pause,” he murmurs. “But if we can bring down this...Sabbat, Sommers…if we can be sure no more civilians are going to be harmed…well, we have to try, don’t we? I’m willing to do my bit if your people are.”
Sommers nods. To his left, Fellowes, unbuttoning his satchel, removes a slim file and passes it across the table to the Home Secretary.
“We’ve found an old airbase in Sussex,” he said. “It’s been abandoned for years. Heavily dilapidated, surrounded by green woodland belonging to the Sultan of Oman – who’s rarely in the country. We’re also going to need funding for specialised equipment and weaponry…I’ve sketched out a few blueprints and specifications, Home Secretary.”
Trentbridge gives him a glance, but takes the file, opens it up, and begins to flick through the contents.
“Good God,” he says. “An XM25?”
“To fire phosphoric incendiaries,” Fellowes says, with a certain well-bred excitement. “They’ll need to be custom-made, of course. But it’s the pneumatic one-shots, I’m afraid, that’ll require the most care and attention.”
Trentbridge glances over a few more of the pages. Finally, grunting to himself, he leans across to the right and slips it into his briefcase. He straightens up again with a rather thicker sheaf of papers in his hand.
“And something for you,” he says, handing it across to Sommers. “A shortlist of candidates for the team. I picked the unit-leader myself; used to go to school with him as a matter of fact. Damn good soldier, damn good leader.”
Sommers gazes down at the top sheet of paper. A gaunt African face, its shaven head peppered with ash-grey hairs, stares back at him.
CHARLES KALENI, CAPTAIN: OSM SIERRA LEONE, QUEEN’S GALLANTRY MEDAL FOR DISTINGUISHED CONDUCT DURING OPERATION PALLISER AND OPERATION BARRAS.
“He looks a little old,” Fellowes mutters, uncertainly, peering over Sommers' shoulder.
“He’s dependable,” Trentbridge replies. “And tough as old leather. Grew up in Hackney, I believe. You won’t find a man more devoted to this city than him.”
Sommers turns the page.
Private Steve Cutter, ex-SAS, retired. Private Nikhil Paudal, Royal Gurkha Rifles. Corporal Raymond Black, currently training the ANA in Kabul. Private Sasha Wojcik, Reconnaissance Troop.
His finger lingers across Private Billy Budd, Signaller, currently awaiting court-martial for assault on a member of his own company.
“Can you really get all of these?” he asks, glancing up.
Trentbridge nods, and helps himself to the wine.
Sommers will have to decide, before his team is gathered, how much he is willing to tell them.
A) Tell them everything, and offer them the chance to become ghouls. If they’re going to come face-to-face with Sabbat, they're likely to realise that they aren't facing humans...and having lied to them may then have dire consequences.
B) Let them know a little – hint at dark forces working in London. Do not, of course, make it clear that you’re a member of said dark forces.
C) Keep them in the dark; tell them the Sabbat are 'terrorists' or similar. Make them ghouls.
D) Keep them in the dark, but don’t attempt to make them ghouls.
“No! No, you don’t understand! I didn’t mean to, I didn’t fucking mean to! I swear to you, I’m not a mons-”
With a small, muted sigh of satisfaction, Gordon Wyther jams his long knife into the side of her neck, and twists.
The body contorts for a moment, and then sags in his embrace. The head hits the canal-water below with a comical little splash.
Wyther waits for a moment, cradling the decapitated corpse absent-mindedly in his arms, and then lets it topple down too. A lorry roars over the bridge above.
The Brujah, loitering in the shadow beneath the iron arch, says,
“That the last of the hotel Embraced, Sheriff? ‘Cause I, er, was hoping to get some time off tonight.”
Wyther gazes through his misted spectacles into the murky water below. He feels mildly exhilarated, as much by the thought of a task successfully accomplished as by the kill.
“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I believe it is.”
They re-enter the sewers where the trail led them, ducking through the narrow medieval tunnels. Veering south beneath Camden Lock, Wyther halts at an intersection and yanks off his plastic gloves, tossing them into the fast-moving water. The Brujah follows suit.
As they step out across the walkway, a curious sound echoes through the chamber from behind them. A hard, metallic clunk. And another. And another.
Someone else is in the sewers. Nearby, approaching fast.
Wyther turns, frowning to himself. His slender fingers snake across his chest, unbuttoning the clasps that hold one of his knives in place within the fabric of his waistcoat.
“Sheriff…” the Brujah says, with a sudden, frantic urgency. “Sheriff, I think we need to get out of here. Now.”
“Quiet,” snaps Wyther, jerking up his hand, the knife clutched between his index finger and his thumb.
A smile flickers across his long face. His eyes focus on the archway at the farthest end of the chamber.
And from out of the darkness beyond the archway, something emerges, moving steadily, never altering its pace. Incredibly tall, heavily-muscled, clad in rotten iron strips of armour and a heavily corroded breastplate. Its yellowing hand rests upon the pommel of a sword at its side, and its eyes shimmer white from the shadows beneath its helm.
“Oh, fuck,” the Brujah wails. “Oh, fucking Caine, we’re dead, we’re fucking dead-”
He turns, and dashes madly away across the walkway, tripping over his feet as he goes.
Wyther ignores him. He takes up a stance, spreading his feet across the metal, flexing his fingers; waiting for the creature to come to him.
The Centurion takes another pace across the walkway. And another. A string of bones, Wyther notices, is hanging from its belt.
And then it stops. Its milky-white eyes seem to fix upon him, and focus.
For the first time, Wyther begins to feel a little disconcerted. There’s weight in those eyes, and madness, and sorrow.
“Well?” he snarls. “Come on, then! What’re you waiting for?”
The Centurion’s decaying mouth opens. From within, a perfectly pale set of fangs glint.
“Mea culpa,” it whispers, in a voice as hoarse and old as the mountains. “Hodie noctu venato.”
And it turns on its heel, in a perfect military about-face, and strides back into the void beyond the archway.
Wyther’s mouth hangs open. He gazes after it, in pure astonishment.
“Hunting?” he cries. “Hunting what?”
From the darkness, there’s no response; just the rhythmic clank of armoured feet, walking some allotted patrolling path beneath the city.
*
The Ivy is quiet. Most of the patrons have already left for theatre performances or strip-clubs elsewhere in the West End. A couple of spin-doctors are seated in a booth at the other end of the restaurant, toasting each other’s health with a magnum of champagne.
Humphrey Trentbridge orders the sea bream, and a bottle of Pouilly Fuisse. Sommers, however, waves the waiter away without glancing at the menu.
“Before we go ahead with this,” he says, calmly, gazing at Trentbridge, “I’d like you to be quite certain that you’re willing to commit. Because it’s not going to be easy, Humphrey. It’s not going to be easy at all.”
Trentbridge smiles, faintly.
“Don’t think it didn’t give me some pause,” he murmurs. “But if we can bring down this...Sabbat, Sommers…if we can be sure no more civilians are going to be harmed…well, we have to try, don’t we? I’m willing to do my bit if your people are.”
Sommers nods. To his left, Fellowes, unbuttoning his satchel, removes a slim file and passes it across the table to the Home Secretary.
“We’ve found an old airbase in Sussex,” he said. “It’s been abandoned for years. Heavily dilapidated, surrounded by green woodland belonging to the Sultan of Oman – who’s rarely in the country. We’re also going to need funding for specialised equipment and weaponry…I’ve sketched out a few blueprints and specifications, Home Secretary.”
Trentbridge gives him a glance, but takes the file, opens it up, and begins to flick through the contents.
“Good God,” he says. “An XM25?”
“To fire phosphoric incendiaries,” Fellowes says, with a certain well-bred excitement. “They’ll need to be custom-made, of course. But it’s the pneumatic one-shots, I’m afraid, that’ll require the most care and attention.”
Trentbridge glances over a few more of the pages. Finally, grunting to himself, he leans across to the right and slips it into his briefcase. He straightens up again with a rather thicker sheaf of papers in his hand.
“And something for you,” he says, handing it across to Sommers. “A shortlist of candidates for the team. I picked the unit-leader myself; used to go to school with him as a matter of fact. Damn good soldier, damn good leader.”
Sommers gazes down at the top sheet of paper. A gaunt African face, its shaven head peppered with ash-grey hairs, stares back at him.
CHARLES KALENI, CAPTAIN: OSM SIERRA LEONE, QUEEN’S GALLANTRY MEDAL FOR DISTINGUISHED CONDUCT DURING OPERATION PALLISER AND OPERATION BARRAS.
“He looks a little old,” Fellowes mutters, uncertainly, peering over Sommers' shoulder.
“He’s dependable,” Trentbridge replies. “And tough as old leather. Grew up in Hackney, I believe. You won’t find a man more devoted to this city than him.”
Sommers turns the page.
Private Steve Cutter, ex-SAS, retired. Private Nikhil Paudal, Royal Gurkha Rifles. Corporal Raymond Black, currently training the ANA in Kabul. Private Sasha Wojcik, Reconnaissance Troop.
His finger lingers across Private Billy Budd, Signaller, currently awaiting court-martial for assault on a member of his own company.
“Can you really get all of these?” he asks, glancing up.
Trentbridge nods, and helps himself to the wine.
Sommers will have to decide, before his team is gathered, how much he is willing to tell them.
A) Tell them everything, and offer them the chance to become ghouls. If they’re going to come face-to-face with Sabbat, they're likely to realise that they aren't facing humans...and having lied to them may then have dire consequences.
B) Let them know a little – hint at dark forces working in London. Do not, of course, make it clear that you’re a member of said dark forces.
C) Keep them in the dark; tell them the Sabbat are 'terrorists' or similar. Make them ghouls.
D) Keep them in the dark, but don’t attempt to make them ghouls.
laclongquan
Arcane
Mwahahahahahah
Now that is what we are talking about. Kine muscles!
D is out. Keep them in the dark and dont make them ghouls run the greatest risk of discovery and exposure. They gonna find out anyway, as soon as the 1st battle, as late as the 1st prisoner. So treat them like mushroom (keep in the dark and feed bullshit) is O.U.T.
C is very dangerous in term of betrayals and them turning on Humphrey and Sommers. Militarymen are accustomed to be kept in the dark but add "enslavement" in the process will lead to revolt and mutiny for sure and certain.
A is risky in term of individual psy profiles. some will balk, i think, at being muscles for monsters, even if those monsters are 'good'. If we choose A, there's possibility we will lose1/3 to half of the personel. Least risk of all option. Basically Sommers will have a small elite squad of Kine shooters.
B is good in short term, but long term we may be fucked. Gently, I think, but fucked nonetheless. B may ensure we get a full squad but their lack of knowledge will hinder further infomation sharing, briefs and debriefs I think.
Overall, I vote A. When Sommers have a weapon in his hands that weapon should be fully reliable. A excellent dagger is better than a blunt and brittle sword.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Now that is what we are talking about. Kine muscles!
D is out. Keep them in the dark and dont make them ghouls run the greatest risk of discovery and exposure. They gonna find out anyway, as soon as the 1st battle, as late as the 1st prisoner. So treat them like mushroom (keep in the dark and feed bullshit) is O.U.T.
C is very dangerous in term of betrayals and them turning on Humphrey and Sommers. Militarymen are accustomed to be kept in the dark but add "enslavement" in the process will lead to revolt and mutiny for sure and certain.
A is risky in term of individual psy profiles. some will balk, i think, at being muscles for monsters, even if those monsters are 'good'. If we choose A, there's possibility we will lose1/3 to half of the personel. Least risk of all option. Basically Sommers will have a small elite squad of Kine shooters.
B is good in short term, but long term we may be fucked. Gently, I think, but fucked nonetheless. B may ensure we get a full squad but their lack of knowledge will hinder further infomation sharing, briefs and debriefs I think.
Overall, I vote A. When Sommers have a weapon in his hands that weapon should be fully reliable. A excellent dagger is better than a blunt and brittle sword.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Undead Phoenix
Arcane
B
These soldiers aren't just ordinary muscle - hand picked and will be using specialised equipment, so we'll need to keep a firmer hold over them than an ordinary thug. This means that we should tell them more than nothing, but the truth is still too much to tell them at the start.
These soldiers aren't just ordinary muscle - hand picked and will be using specialised equipment, so we'll need to keep a firmer hold over them than an ordinary thug. This means that we should tell them more than nothing, but the truth is still too much to tell them at the start.
Excidium
P. banal
I was going to vote B) until I flopped to A). 
ironyuri
Guest
Do we still ghoul them with B?
If so, B.
If B doesn't ghoul them, then:
C.
They need to have an idea of what they're facing, but they're soldiers. Their job is to follow orders and not to question the chain of command. They don't ask why their kine generals send them to kill ragheads, why should they ask who their kindred general is and why he's sending them to kill shovelheads?
I see you and respond with;
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wwoxp5avslI
If so, B.
If B doesn't ghoul them, then:
C.
They need to have an idea of what they're facing, but they're soldiers. Their job is to follow orders and not to question the chain of command. They don't ask why their kine generals send them to kill ragheads, why should they ask who their kindred general is and why he's sending them to kill shovelheads?
grotsnik said:
I see you and respond with;
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wwoxp5avslI
A most tasty treat, good sir 
With all the glimpses of Other Stuff we've been getting (Kirkbeck, Griddle, Eames and Hob, the Sabbat's Ritz Recruitment, and, above all else, Anthony), I've been wondering if we could also get a piece of text about London's new Archbishop. Pwease? Pwetty pwease?
As for the vote:
this.
With all the glimpses of Other Stuff we've been getting (Kirkbeck, Griddle, Eames and Hob, the Sabbat's Ritz Recruitment, and, above all else, Anthony), I've been wondering if we could also get a piece of text about London's new Archbishop. Pwease? Pwetty pwease?
As for the vote:
ironyuri said:
this.
SCO
Arcane
- Joined
- Feb 3, 2009
- Messages
- 16,320
B) obviously.
About the samedi betraying us.
Let's be honest about this: I think that gal is doomed because she broke the cardinal rule of secrets: tell no one.
There was the slight possibility of faking your death and getting the fuck out to participate in cannibal fests after having our face remade by a tzmisce or something ghastly like that, but only if we made no waves.
Since the woman will make waves, to keep this secret, she either needs to kill the fucker or misdirect him real good, because otherwise, as this gal will inevitably want to hurt the Tremere, the Tremere are going to hunt her - info will be traded etc.
But, in a way, this is no more than a confirmation too - since she is a primed grenade - ie: she will make waves, the necro selling the bug info will only hurts us more before we do whatever is going to happen.
This secret is only dangerous while we are not a confirmed traitor, afterwards, it's just evidence.
About the samedi betraying us.
Let's be honest about this: I think that gal is doomed because she broke the cardinal rule of secrets: tell no one.
There was the slight possibility of faking your death and getting the fuck out to participate in cannibal fests after having our face remade by a tzmisce or something ghastly like that, but only if we made no waves.
Since the woman will make waves, to keep this secret, she either needs to kill the fucker or misdirect him real good, because otherwise, as this gal will inevitably want to hurt the Tremere, the Tremere are going to hunt her - info will be traded etc.
But, in a way, this is no more than a confirmation too - since she is a primed grenade - ie: she will make waves, the necro selling the bug info will only hurts us more before we do whatever is going to happen.
This secret is only dangerous while we are not a confirmed traitor, afterwards, it's just evidence.
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