Let's Play VtM: Wild Nights - Chapter 10

[Excidium]

His head swam as his blood pooled in his crotch, as his cock grew and grew and grew and pushed urgently with no place to go. Hunger surged with every pulse of his rigid shaft.

Control it. Fight it.

His jaw throbbed, burned even, but, by a miracle, his fangs stayed retracted.

 

[SCO]

Wouldn't surprise me a bit if some of the bioware writers ghostwrote for harlequin.

 

[grotsnik]

Since it looks like we'll be heading to Hampstead Heath again and I've been drinking, here's some local colour of dubious interest;

First off, the heath's awesome. A bit of wilderness in North London, with a good hill that gives it fantastic views over the city, and a lake beloved by hungover people on New Year's Day who like to dive into it, it's also got a rep for night-time crime and dogging/cottaging, because it's so open and filled with dense woods. It also claims to be home to a ghostly headless chicken. More specifically, the headless chicken that Sir Francis Bacon froze using snow from the heath in a scientific experiment that then gave him pneumonia and killed him. It's been sighted several times over the centuries, it's said.

Surrounding the heath to the north and east, you've got Highgate, which is pretty much a chic, wealthy rural village on the outskirts of Central, and which also boasts the 2nd biggest mansion in London, Witanhurst, which is soon to include an enormous underground complex beneath the entire village. It also has Highgate Cemetery, where Marx is buried, and where, in the 1960s and 1970s, the Highgate Vampire appeared.

The cemetery's a fairly creepy place as it is - overgrown and poorly attended - and stories began to spread about people (mostly young women) seeing weird phenomena or being attacked/stalked by a freakish pale man. (Basically, it was Spring-Heeled Jack all over again.) The cemetery was then plundered every night by a combination of vampirologists who thought it was a vampire, occultologists who thought it was a Satanic presence, Satanists who wanted to harness the Satanic presence they'd heard about in the papers, and drunkards who wanted to see some supernatural shit. Coffins and graves were desecrated, and one corpse was disinterred, decapitated and had a stake put through its heart. Forty years on, the head vampirologist and head occultologist are still engaged in online flame wars. God, I love my country.

 

[Excidium]

That's some good inspiration right there. :D

 

[Black Bart Charley]

According to much later accounts, in October 1837, a girl by the name of Mary Stevens was walking to Lavender Hill, where she was working as a servant, after visiting her parents in Battersea. On her way through Clapham Common, a strange figure leapt at her from a dark alley. After immobilising her with a tight grip of his arms, he began to kiss her face, while ripping her clothes and touching her flesh with his claws, which were, according to her deposition, "cold and clammy as those of a corpse". In panic, the girl screamed, making the attacker quickly flee from the scene. The commotion brought several residents who immediately launched a search for the aggressor, who could not be found.

Attempt rape, become legend. A major win in my book.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Highgate_Vampire

That shit is hilarious.

 

[Esquilax]

Many days without posting.. It's probably too late, but I gotta encourage the assembled bros to move in favour of B with Joan. We simply can't leave right now - we have to sit tight and listen in. Events are moving to a head right now and by leaving, we risk missing some critical info that we'd need to react upon ASAP.

Remember waaayyyyy back in the very first chapter of this fine saga, when Anthony had a choice to either attend the Prince's summons come by late in order to cover up that Foreign Office Kine's murder/rape of his little girl? That choice informed how we reacted to every subsequent interaction with the Prince; it initially set us on a path against him, and it ensured that he would always view du Marchais as more loyal and trustworthy than us. In hindsight it was probably a poor choice, because we were blinded by the benefits of going after a new Kine contact without seeing the sacrifices we'd have to make in terms of our relationships with the Prince.

I see this choice as similar: leaving right now seems attractive because you're curious, but the truth is you're probably giving up a lot in order to obtain something that really isn't all that valuable.

As curious as I am about who took our treatise, it remains just that: a curiosity. What do we get out of meeting this person, right now when it's crucial that we find out what Eames is up to? Not much. If it was blackmail, the note would have been more threatening or we'd be in far deeper shit by now. A meeting with our mysterious contact can wait: the note that they left indicates that they're not a threat. They want to talk to us, I'm sure we can meet up with them in the future.

Meeting our contact isn't urgent; listening in on Eames right now to find out what she wants with Hob is. We still don't know a goddamn thing about Hob! So far, we've done very little to learn about him, his motivations, what his powers are, and that is really fucking bad.

I think that some of you guys are having a bit of a mental block here: the exploration/searching option is inherently more attractive than the "sit tight" option because it leads you to think about all the benefits of actively doing something without considering the fact that you'd also have to sacrifice a lot. But it's an illusion. And that's the problem, by finding out who are mysterious contact is, we sacrifice an opportunity to discover what Eames is up to before she's put her plans in motion. It's a boneheaded move, and it's motivated by short-sightedness.

Keep your eyes on the prize: Joan wants freedom and revenge against that cunt Eames. Leaving now to look for our contact can wait - they've contacted us tonight, they can contact us later. Nothing in the thief's behavior thus far indicates that they want to blackmail us soon, so I see no point in going after them right now.

 

[Rod Rodderson]

If I'm good at anything, it's putting things off. Christ.

Right, if it's still relevant, B (Joan) and D (Sommers).

 

[Gondolin]

I'm voting B, too, for Joan. We took the risk of killing somebody and dealing with a Samedi. We should stick to that course of action and see what happens.

As for Anthony, go to the Gangrels, see if we can find Erika.

 

[laclongquan]

I dont think it's the wrong choice.

It set the tone of our action, that we consider our seat of power, which is the Kine politicians, seriously. The man in Foreign Office repaid us by provide intel about that monster: a wacky Obsfucate user come from a Chinese smuggling route; and he will keep on being our source there. Also importantly is that our action keep Humphrey [/]happy[/s] , content since we prevent a big scandal to his government.

Had we ignored his call for help and gone to the meeting, our control over Humphrey as well as other politicians surely would have weakened.

 

[Esquilax]

The information was interesting and insightful, no doubt, but how have we made use of it? We found out that Hob is likely linked to the Cathayans in some way, but we haven't really done anything with that info. Doing Humphrey a big favour was also to our advantage as well, but if there's a choice between currying favour with your Prince and currying favour with some Kine in your employ (as useful as he is), then it's pretty much a no-brainer here. Why should a Ventrue be concerned about keeping a Kine happy anyways?

But that's besides the point. My point is that you're looking at A from the perspective of "What are we going to get out of it?". I'm looking at it from the perspective of "What do we have to sacrifice in order to meet our contact?" and in my opinion, we have to give up way too much for very little benefit. We have to give up potentially a ton of insight regarding what Eames is planning on doing tomorrow night and the ability to react to it before she's put her plans into motion. We also lose the ability to inform the Sabbat about what Eames is doing and what sort of creature she's keeping in her basement: which is the whole fucking point of our mission.

As far as specifically what Hob and Eames are doing, I'm not entirely sure, but my guess is that Hob is going to try and Possess her tomorrow night. A Demon can only possess someone that consents to it, and it looks like Eames has given consent:

“Do it, then,” Eames says. “Tomorrow night. Just…you go ahead and do it.”

“If possible,” she adds, with renewed desperation, trying to fill the silence, “I would prefer to avoid there being any pain. I have…always abhorred unnecessary pain. Is that…is that clear, Hob?”

By choosing A, we're pretty much ignoring our character's entire mission. It makes no sense: we go through all this trouble to acquire a bug, then we fuck off the moment something else comes along? We've gotta be more resolute than that. It's retarded to just run off like that when Joan's work has just begun.

I dunno bros, realizing that the de facto Prince of the London Camarilla is actually a Fallen in disguise seems like a pretty fucking useful thing to overhear, don't you think? Maybe we can also overhear some clues about Hob, maybe weaknesses. We know so little about him, the lack of information is really killing us.

On the other hand, let's take a look at what we could potentially gain from A. Well, the thief's behaviour thus far means that they're probably not looking to blackmail us and they're not a threat, so there's little benefit in terms of self-preservation. The contact also mentioned that they've found another way into the Chantry - useful, but we already know one secret entrance anyways, so why would we need to know another? The Sabbat are too disorganized to stage an attack on the Chantry, so what the hell's the point? Most importantly, why is meeting this person so urgent that we need to meet them right now? We could just as easily meet this person another time, but we'll have only one shot to listen in on Eames and Hob before they start doing whatever it is they're planning on doing.

But hey, I could be wrong. Could be that Eames will just stay at home watching reality TV shows with Hob tonight and we'll have wasted our time. Might also piss off the thief to the point where they'll consider turning us in.Both of these things are possible, I just don't think they're likely.

Though I gotta admit, I'm dying to know who the thief is. My bet is Argyll.

I've set up a tally. First letter is Joan's choice, second letter is Anthony's. Seems like we've got a tie for Joan.

Excidium - AD
Storyfag - BD
laclongquan - AA
Kz3r0 - AA
Esquilax - BD
Breaking Axe - BD
ironyuri - BD
Bob - AD
Black Bart Charley - AE
oscar - AD
Rod Rodderson - BD
Gondolin - BD

 

[Excidium]

So who's going to take the responsability and break the tie?

 

[Esquilax]

So who's going to take the responsability and break the tie?

grotsnik could always invoke the ancient and sacred rite of "hey, let's flip a coin. Heads is A, Tails is B".

EDIT: I think SCO may have voted for B, but he mentioned something about tipping off the Inquisition, so I wasn't quite sure what he wanted. Perhaps he can be a bro and break the tie.

 

[Bob]

There isn't necessarily a tie - my vote for A was conditional on being able to record the bug's output. I'll make it a clear B to make things easier though.

 

[SCO]

I'm not invested with Joan. Take my vote for her and do what you want Exquilax.

If you're going to listen, may i suggest a tape recorder? Useful, you know.

 

[Black Bart Charley]

I took a quick stroll through the sewers to looks for hobdates. Didnt find any.

 

[Esquilax]

There isn't necessarily a tie - my vote for A was conditional on being able to record the bug's output. I'll make it a clear B to make things easier though.

Cool, now when things fuck up horribly, it'll be "fucking Esquilax and his stupid tl;dr bullshit text-walls! I'm never listening to a word that motherfucker says again!"

Heh, but all jokes aside, I think we should listen in right now. I want to find out who the thief is, but I want to find out what Eames is up to even more - we've got no idea what she's doing. What theories do you bros have regarding Eames and Hob's plans? I'm thinking it's possession, almost certainly involving the vase in some way.

 

[Excidium]

If something bad happens it's Esquilax fault.

I took a quick stroll through the sewers to looks for hobdates. Didnt find any.
http://i.imgur.com/Ne8tf.jpg

Cool.

 

[laclongquan]

Now that I thought about it, Seeking harpies to look for Erika got one big advantage: they are a terrible source of gossip. Finding Erika is primary purpose, true, but leaking info to them is not a bad secondary benefit.

So let me honk my horn and ask again for A-A

 

[grotsnik]

...so my inability to write action scenes is going to be a bit of an issue in the following chapter, since it centres around quite a big bit of action. Hopefully it's not so bad as to be unclear/ridiculous, anyway.

I'll try and do another quick chapter in the next couple of days to give you a choice, since this was already pretty fucking long.


Chapter 10 - Roger Kirkbeck



It's beginning to rain.

You can hear it, tip-tapping at the roof of the Vessel above, trickling down through the gutters and storm drains somewhere outside the walls – and, far below, you flatter yourself, you can hear a distant roar as dozens of flowing streams meet the underground rivers, far below.

It will be autumn soon, you think, and the thought delights you, raises you up, makes you hunger for a day that, surely, can’t be too distant now. The summer, feeble and short-lived, has come and gone. And London will be a night city once again.

They’re waiting for you, your brothers and sisters across the river.

Hopefully they won’t have to wait too long.

An intensely loud, horrible screeching sound jerks down your earphones, making you start. It’s followed by a few seconds of rustling, then a heavy clunk.

Eames is getting dressed.

Slowly, balefully, you begin to smile.

You stand, listening carefully, and pace across your room, trying to imagine her movements across her chamber. She’s turning to look at herself in the mirror. Now she’s opening the door of her wardrobe, taking out a pair of shoes, and slipping into them.

Now she opens her chamber door and steps out into her study. Her footsteps are light, and she pauses for a moment (at her bookshelves?) before you hear the scrape of her chair being dragged back as she takes her seat. The sound of scratching; she’s beginning to write.

After a few seconds, you hear her sighing to herself.


*


Roger Kirkbeck tweaks the curtain to one side.

Below, in the faintly-lit driveway, beyond the rain-spattered windowsill, he can make out Arlington, the dour Tremere security manager in Eames’ employ, jogging across the gravel towards a waiting Land Rover. He hops up into the back, and the car skids away into the darkness, fast, vanishing into the gloom of the dense forests surrounding the country house.

Kirkbeck lowers the curtain.

Well, he thinks. There’s almost certainly an entirely reasonable explanation for that. No need to panic, is there?

With impeccable calm, stroking down his jacket as he goes, he returns to his desk and presses at the intercom.

“Was that Mr. Arlington who just left?” he asks, aloud.

A pause, before a muffled, harassed-sounding voice replies,

“…I, er, think so, sire. He told me to stay behind and man the security cameras. I can, er, call him on his mobile, if it’s urgent-”

Kirkbeck opens his desk drawer and removes a tiny pinfire pistol, which he stows away in the top pocket of his waistcoat. It’s not much of a weapon; but it could do some damage if aimed at an assailant’s face. He’s never really found much use for weapons, in his time.

“Did he say where he was going?” he says.

“Um…no, sire. I think it might have been to check the fences. Would you like me to call his mobile, sire?”

“I wouldn’t bother,” the Prince says, simply. “He won’t pick up. Who is that? Are you one of Turcov’s boys?”

“No, sire, my name’s Buckley, sire – Regentia Eames had me, um, join your security staff last month. Some of Baron Turcov’s team are playing poker in the kitchen, I think, if you’d like to speak to one of them, and I think your butler is still-”

“I’m going to meet you over there in the security room, Buckley,” says Kirkbeck. “Five minutes. If you don’t have a weapon, I suggest you find one.”

Glancing at himself in the mirror, he removes a bundle of bank-notes from their hidden compartment inside the mantelpiece, stows them in his jacket – just in case – then exits his study and hurries down the wide, marble-lined staircase.

As he reaches the second floor landing, all of the lights go out.

Kirkbeck hesitates. At this point, he’s well aware, during a power-cut, the back-up generator is supposed to kick in, restoring electricity to the household.

But nothing happens. The drizzle continues to spatter against the French windows. The lights do not return.

“Caine help me,” he mutters, and then yells, as loudly as he can, turning to glare down both of the long second-floor corridors, “Buckley! Come out wherever you are, you son-of-a-bitch!”

A nervous-looking neonate with slicked-back hair, dressed in an ill-fitting brown suit, bobs nervously out of one of the nearest rooms to his right.

“S-sire?” the Kindred asks.

“You Buckley?” Kirkbeck snaps.

“Yes, sire,” Buckley says, guiltily, taking a few steps forward onto the landing. “It, um, looks like there’s been a power-cut, sire, but the back-up generator should be coming back on in a couple of-”

“It’s too late,” says Kirkbeck. “They’ll have hit the generator first of all. We need to get to a window - see what’s out there. Did you find a weapon, by the way?”

Without waiting for a response, he turns and stalks across the landing to the French windows. Buckley scurries after him, earnest and concerned, babbling,

“Just the gun they gave me, sire – but you’re really supposed to be in your study, sire-”

The Prince reaches the French windows, and, tugging them open, steps out onto the balcony and into the night.

It’s silent, and calm; the rain is falling more lightly now. After a few seconds, from the marble steps descending into the gardens below, a couple of Turcov’s men call out to each other, their torches flashing in the dark.

“Trouble, Al?”

“Nah, generator must’ve bust…”

Perhaps I’m wrong, Kirkbeck thinks, and he allows himself a small, relieved smile. Perhaps there’s really nothing out there to be afraid of.

“Sire?” Buckley says, from behind him. “I really think we should-”

A distant, crash of foliage; as if a tree’s been toppled, somewhere out in the forest.

And the treetops, out beyond the stately pleasure-gardens and hedge-mazes of Cliveden, begin to sway and shake. Another loud crunch of broken branches, further out to the west.

Pigeons explode into the night sky above, screeching in agitation.

A high-pitched, drawn-out scream of agonised metal. It sounds, Kirkbeck thinks, remarkably like a deactivated electric fence being torn down and trampled underfoot.

And the howling begins. Bestial, keening and savage, lifted from at least a dozen throats. A cry to send a primal shiver to the bones of any man, or any Kindred.

“What…is that noise?” Buckley asks.

“Werewolves,” Kirkbeck says, simply. His smile has fled; he stares, grimly, into the darkness beyond the lights of the house.

The neonate’s young, stupid face contorts into something like scorn.

“That’s ridiculous,” he says. “Werewolves don’t come this close to the M4.”

“No,” the Prince replies. “They don’t. They’re being chased.”

On the steps below, the guards have unhooked their sub-machine-guns from their straps, even as a hideous, heavily-muscled silhouette erupts out of the trees, loping with quite incredible speed on all four paws towards the house.

The werewolf bounds forward across the edge of the hedge-maze, losing its balance for a moment as it lands in the foliage, and then regains its momentum.

One of the guards begins to shoot, panicking, opening up a blazing trail of fire across the gardens. A giant amphora shatters; and more and more monstrous, inhuman shapes are emerging from out of the forest.

Kirkbeck turns away, and scuttles down the staircase, turning the bend on the first floor, fumbling for his mobile in his pocket. Someone, possibly one of the ghoul servants, is crying out his name; he ignores them.

The garage, he thinks. I have to get to the garage. Get into a car, get out of the estate, get out of fucking harm's way.

He dials Robert Griddle’s number, holding the mobile close to his ear as he reaches the carpeted ground floor. Behind him, Buckley stumbles, swearing, his pistol drawn in his hand,

“Oh, shit – sire! Uh, sire! We really ought to-”

“Shut the fuck up!” Kirkbeck yells, without breaking his pace.

A cheery voice is sing-songing in his ear,

“Welcome to the O2 answerphone service. The person you are trying to reach isn’t available right now. Please leave a message or try again later-”

Kirkbeck curses, silently, and rounds the corner.

Down into the basement garage, he tells himself, feverish, where the cars are kept, get the heavy doors open somehow, barricade the entrance, get out of here while I can-

The outer wall explodes; fragments of plaster and brick rain down against the staircase and the carpet, making him stumble forward. An enormous hairy shape barrels in through the hole, snatching at Buckley in its claws, tearing at the struggling, shrieking neonate, tossing him up and catching him between its gleaming teeth-

“Prince! Prince!”

Kirkbeck keeps running, dodging into the empty kitchen, his face sticky with Buckley’s blood, and doesn’t look back.

Fucking hell, fucking hell-

His fingers tap furiously at the security panel beside the heavy door that grants access into the garage, pushing through as it swings far too slowly open; and then he has to push it back, fighting its mechanisms, forcing it back into place.

A low clunk as the door locks itself behind him.

Kirkbeck takes a breath.

He’s still clutching his mobile phone, tightly, in one hand. He can still hear the screams of his staff, through the reinforced metal of the garage door.

Quietly, his gory fingers pressing at the buttons, he begins to dial a new number.

SAMANTHA EAMES.

“Pick up, you bitch,” he snarls. “Pick up and I’ll tell you, you don’t need to fucking do this, this isn’t necessary-”


*


You open your eyes, and listen; Eames has, at last, stopped writing. The scratching of her pen has fallen silent.

You can hear her phone, ringing, and ringing, on her desk.

But she doesn’t pick up.

Her pen is tapping, rhythmically, impatiently, upon her desk. The phone keeps ringing.

Eames doesn’t pick it up.


*


Kirkbeck pulls the heavy concrete garage door to one side, slowly, painfully, his untested muscles straining.

Having glanced quickly out into the darkness to check for further attackers, he scurries back to the driver’s door of his Mercedes, turns the key in the ignition, and puts his foot down, hard. Skidding out onto the gravel, he spins the wheel and accelerates away down the long, straight driveway.

In the rear-view mirror, an enormous, hunched werewolf clambers across the battlemented roof of Cliveden House, raising its head dumbly after the retreating car, and then turns its attention back to the rattling gunfire emanating from the other side of the mansion.

Stay calm, the Prince tells himself, clenching at the steering wheel. Keep your wits about you. There’s another half-mile of woodland before you leave the estate, and these things move fast, and if Eames and her pet are any good they’ll have cars waiting at the roadside to deal with any stragglers.

The wipers squeak, back and forward, across the windscreen, driving the rain from side to side.

Park the car some distance from the gates and skirt around. Hitch-hike, find a bus stop – get anywhere, as long as it’s far away from here.

He frowns. Something is wrong.

His foot begins to ease off the accelerator.

A man is standing in the very centre of the road ahead. A short man, dressed in an old-fashioned suit, hands in his pockets, as nonchalant as a banker waiting for his train. The car’s headlights glint off his spectacles.

Kirkbeck breathes,

“Hob…”

He’s feeling a little strange; a little light-headed. A traitor-thought, intoxicating and delighting, is beginning to turn itself, over and over, in his head.

Can I be sure that this creature means me harm?

The car inches, ever closer, ever slower, to the figure standing in the middle of the road; its eyes gleam, pale as the moon, from behind those round spectacles.

How do I know that I haven’t been in the wrong about it all this time? Couldn’t I just speak to it – hear what it has to say?

“No,” Kirkbeck says, aloud, and his fingers, trembling very gently, grip at the wheel. “No, you can’t fog up my mind, whatever the fuck you are. Maybe you can turn everything else in the world against me, but you’re not going to take my mind from me. You’re not.”

He frowns. And his foot slams downwards onto the accelerator.

As the car gathers speed, racing towards the unmoving, grinning figure ahead on the road, the Prince whispers beneath his breath,

"Fuck you, whatever you are. Just...oh, fuck you."


*


Sommers holds his umbrella high, and tries to dodge the puddles and patches of sodden grass peppering Parliament Hill.

The heath is empty, and quiet; the vile weather has, presumably, kept away the usual denizens of the night.

In the distance below, somewhere in the tatty campsite for travellers that’s kept at the bottom of Highgate Hill, filled with battered white caravans and ragged tents, a light is burning.

Sommers splashes forward into the night, soaking his shoes and socks as he goes.

As he approaches the campsite, a fenced-off square of brown soil untroubled by the presence of vegetation, the door of the nearest caravan swings open.

A grey-haired old lady, wrapped in a tatty poncho, peers out through the falling rain and calls,

“’Orrid night, ain’t it, my lovely?”

“Yes,” Sommers shouts back, gratefully. “Yes, it is. You’re…you’re Grandmother Faa, yes?”

The old lady stares back, pleasantly enough, but does not respond. Her wrinkled face is speckled with soft, downy white whiskers, protruding from her nostrils and the tip of her chin.

“Could I come out of the rain?” Sommers says, coming to a halt in the mud in front of the caravan. “I’d like to talk to you – and to Grandfather Faa, if he’s in.”

Grandmother Faa smiles. Stepping back inside, out of sight, without a word, she leaves the door of the caravan open.


*


Sommers sits, patiently, on the edge of one of the unused sofa-beds, as the old lady fusses around her propane stove, getting it lit. She lets out a small, satisfied whine as it finally ignites.

“Grandfather Faa’s out on the hunt with the childer,” she says, settling herself down on the hard plastic floor, apparently comfortable there. “Be back soon.”

Sommers glances up at the roof of the caravan. Familiar-looking symbols have been draw in a circle, in black felt-tip, from one wall to the other.

“Lhiannan runes,” he murmurs. “I didn’t expect to see these above ground in London.”

Grandmother Faa says, quite calmly, without looking up,

“Someone has to keep the fires burning bright, my lovely.”

Outside, some way away in the distance, a twig snaps. The old lady does not move.

Sommers listens; something is padding, slowly, on four legs, through the mud of the campsite. A low, canine growl, that somehow shifts into an old man’s hacking cough.

“Come in, Grandfather,” Grandmother Faa cries. “We’ve got a guest.”

The door swings silently open, and a naked old Gangrel, his wrinkled body stained with mud and grass, crawls up into the caravan. Trails of dried blood criss-cross his chin.

He glances incuriously at Sommers, then raises himself up onto two feet and steps into the cramped shower cubicle, out of sight.

“I know ‘im,” he calls, from inside the compartment. “Ventrue fella. Big fookin’ Camarilla boy.”

“How was the huntin’?” Grandmother Faa asks. She wrinkles her nose merrily at Sommers, as if asking him to excuse her companion’s behaviour.

“Bessie and Sam went down to the canal,” the old man answers. “I found a fella sleepin’ rough near the Chalk Farm bridge. Sri Lankan, think he was. Nice lad. Tried to share his whiskey with me. Bats up by the cemetery are jumpy, too. Not sure why.”

He steps out of the cubicle, tugging a pair of baggy, elasticated pyjama bottoms around his waist.

“’E said what ‘e wants?” he asks, nodding towards Sommers.

Grandmother Faa snaps back, with irritation,

“Grandfather!”

Sommers, feeling perhaps that he ought to speak up, clears his throat, and says,

“I shall…try to be brief. A friend of mine left this city in the spring, and I think she may very well be needed to return. Her name’s Erika Schiller…and she’s well-known to you, I think.”

Grandmother Faa grins. Her fangs, bent and yellow, nudge against her lower lip.

“Old Erika,” she says, cheerily. “Cigano’s girl. They always said she’d do well for herself, didn’t they, Grandfather? You could tell that, looking at her – she really took to city life, like so many of ours don’t. Not that Cigano approved, of course, but when Lady Anne asked, you had to say yes, didn’t you?”

Grandfather Faa, leaning against the plastic kitchen sideboard, adds,

“I saw her after she cornered that Tzimisce killer– bastard with those horrid claws – back in the fifties. Face torn to fuck, skin peeling away and going black, but I’m damned if I’d ever seen her laugh so much.”

“I think there’s going to be a Camarilla civil war,” Sommers says, and is gratified to see the old man, for the first time, meet his gaze. “Across the entire city. And I want to stop it before the Sabbat decides to take advantage and we find we’re too weak to stop them, and the whole of London goes to shit. The Gangrel, of course,” he adds quickly, “are fully entitled to stay well out of all of this. But I need Schiller.”

Grandfather Faa’s bushy eyebrows raise. He says, with mild bewilderment, gesturing towards Sommers.

“Hear all of that, Grandmother Faa? Ominous threats of a dark future, and the city going to shit, and civil war? Ain’t this why we fucking left?”

Sommers holds his gaze.

The old Gangrel’s tongue snakes down to the dried blood on his chin, and begins to rub, thoughtfully, at it.

“Erika’ll be on the move,” he says at last. “That’s our way, see. But last I heard of her was down in the West Country, on Dartmoor – she stopped over with a few of ours sheltering by Beardown Tor, Bradbury and his childer. They might know where she’s headed on to.”

Sommers bows his head in gratitude, and rises to his feet, as if to depart.

“Leave her be,” Grandmother Faa adds from the floor, with sudden urgency, her wide milky eyes fixing onto his. “If you’ve got any thought for others that ain’t yourself, Mr. Sommers, you’ll leave her be. See, there’ll always be civil wars, and politicking, and treachery so long as there’s Kindred like you. Xaviar, Caine save him, figured that out - and since it won’t never end, not till Gehenna comes, what’s the sense in getting involved and dying for it? No – better, far better to get out of it all, if you can. Run out into the wilderness where there’s only you, your Beast, and kine t’feed on, and keep running, so’s they won’t catch you and bring you back into all that Jyhad, all that pain.”

Sommers hesitates. Then, stooping slightly, he offers his hand to the old Gangrel.

“I’d very much appreciate,” he says, “having the pair of you as friends. I like to think we’re on the same page here.”

But she just keeps shaking her head, repeating,

“If you’ve got any heart at all, Mr. Sommers, you’ll leave lovely Erika well alone. Leave her to run.”


*


The first ambulance arrives at Cliveden House at just past three in the morning. The driver, a ghoul in the employ of St John’s Ambulance and Regentia Samantha Eames, pulls up near the gates, letting the two vehicles following his roar on down the driveway, sirens screaming, and steps down onto the grass.

An expensive-looking Mercedes lies by the side of the road, its engine still running, the front bonnet buried in the side of a great oak tree. The skid marks across the tarmac suggest that the driver lost control of his vehicle while fleeing whatever was happening up at the mansion, and crashed it.

The windscreen is almost entirely shattered; a few cobwebbed strands of glass hang from the frame. The driver’s seat is empty. The windscreen-wipers, crooked and bent, are still jerking spastically back and forth.

It takes the ghoul a few seconds to see the body, lying in the darkness of the woodland undergrowth some distance from the crash site.

You’d probably need a DNA test to recognise the decapitated corpse itself, which is horribly withered, almost skeletally rotten, a battered husk, its brown bones snapped and hanging loose in several places, spilling comically out of a very fine and modern-looking waistcoat and jacket.

The ghoul stoops, and begins to go through the corpse’s pockets. A few banknotes, loose; a bankcard in its wallet. Spotting the golden ring on the body’s index finger; he slips it free, and holds it up to the moonlight, examining the imprinted seal.

The head of a deer, crowned with ivy, a spear-head rising through its head.

Figuring that it has to be worth a couple of quid, the ambulance-driver pockets the signet ring of Prince Roger Kirkbeck, and strolls back across the grass to fetch a stretcher.

 

[Gondolin]

Well, bros, tonight we mourn a prince. Sort of.

 

[Excidium]

Great update! Kirkbeck is no more.

Your writing on action scenes is fine. I liked the werewolf attack, really fucking scary from Kirkbeck's point of view.

 

[Esquilax]

Fuck do I feel stupid. The only thing we heard on the receiver is a phone ringing - nothing useful. Tho I'm pretty sure there's a second part to this chapter, seeing as though we don't have any choices to pick from.

Anyways, great update as usual. Things are really getting fucked. Sad to see Kirkbeck go - I rather liked the guy, despite the fact that we butted heads with him so often. I thought he was pretty reasonable for leader, and his death will be a huge blow to our cause. Not sure we could have done much to save him, even though we had the option to escort him out of Cliveden; between the werewolves being led to the Estate and Hob, we'd be toast.

The Gangrel's reaction to the war is pretty much to be expected. "Leave us the fuck alone", basically. Makes me wonder, even if we find Erika, how do we know she wants to come back to London and fight? She's probably far happier with her clanmates, and even if we do convince her to come, well, then the Gangrel aren't going to like it.

Oh well, if we get really desperate we can just chat up the Centurion, right guys?!?!

 

[Kz3r0]

Well, bros, tonight we mourn a prince. Sort of.

Mourning isn't exactly the first thing that crossed my mind while reading of his demise.
I hope that this is not the last time that we see the furry ones in action.

 

[Breaking Axe]

Gah, regretting not going with the Kirkbeck option now, simply to witness the havoc of the scene with a vampire led ghoul death squad thrown into the mix.

 

[Excidium]

You want to pitch our ghouls against werewolves?