Let's Play VtM: Wild Nights - Chapter 10

[Kz3r0]

You are too harsh with yourself.
This is still one of the best LPs here.



PS:
I hope that things at work are better now.

 

[grotsnik]

Eh, the company went bust around New Year, but I honestly didn't mind - the stress was all from that long-ass pre-collapse period through the whole second half of the year when people are being laid off all around you and you're expected to pick up their workload to 'do your bit', and the pay-cheques start getting delayed and coming through in dribs and drabs, but your boss keeps making promises to stop you from walking out...yadda yadda yadda.

Anyways,

 

[Hellraiser]

Yeah that shit sucks so I doubt anyone can blame you, nothing worse than knowing you are on a sinking ship and being uncertain of the future.

 

[Esquilax]

Hey, thanks for reviving this. I would have preferred for the story to go on, but better to end things like this rather than having it descend into a nonsensical Lost-esque plotline if you feel that you couldn't have continued it in a satisfactory manner. This was pretty much my favourite thread on the 'Dex for a long time, so I'd love to see you continue doing more writing like this, whether within this setting or otherwise.

Anyways, hope that your work situation is better now than it was before. Thanks for the LP

 

[oscar]

This was easily one of the most brilliant and enjoyable things I've read in my life. I would love you too continue but for providing and writing what you've done so far.

 

[Kashmir Slippers]

I really, really enjoyed this, and I appreciate you explaining everything.

 

[Gondolin]

I'm still sad that the story ended. Thanks for the good times, bro.

 

[laclongquan]

Why oh why you have to send another spike of excitement to us? Why cant you let the dead in the grave?

 

[Kz3r0]

Why oh why you have to send another spike of excitement to us? Why cant you let the dead in the grave?

 

[Excidium]

Anthony will always be my favourite Ventrue.

 

[grotsnik]

Why cant you let the dead in the grave?

That is not dead which can eternal lie has been properly indexed in the Let's Play database.

 

[CappenVarra]

It was a lovely thread, and based on the experience, I'm sure you'll have many nice surprises for us in the future

 

[Smashing Axe]

I really did enjoy reading this, do you work as a writer or is this just a little side hobby for you? As far as single-person collective CYOA like these go, I think the best way to handle them is to assume the character survives, but have his life situation get royally fucked over from bad decisions. It smooths the story and can lead to some interesting situations.

 

[Онега]

Making the choices 'real' choices. I think I got a bit better at this as it went along, but some of the bad false choices from the first part, which were these momentary reactions rather than considered actions, still really piss me off. Part of the problem was the immediate, one-night-at-a-time style I picked for the narration, which meant I couldn't really skip forward in time to get to a meaningful choice, like root or the Barbarian could in their LPs. It was a mistake.

Thats not a problem. First, the outcome is at your hand. Any superficial choice we could make, as to which gloves to wear, can have consequences 5 updates later, where another party now lacks the proper hand attire and gets booed at a "homosexual vampires" gathering.
And second, more important, this is not a game. Its an interactive story. There is no goal. The journey is the purpose. Any choice matters.

Nature of the protagonist. Again, when root or the Barbarian did more wide-scope IFs, of if you're DMing with a group of friends, you can kill off a fuckton of characters without worrying about ruining the momentum, whereas I think with pretty much all of these 'you are collectively a single hero' LPs (at least all of the ones I've read on the Codex) killing the hero means bringing the game to a screeching halt and starting it up all over again, so you worry endlessly about killing them in an arbitrary way that feels like a shitty anticlimax, so you end up just not killing them when they deserve it. I mean, Anthony should have been whacked long ago, he really should. I'm not sure how you deal with that.

Easy. Dont kill him. Dont worry about it. The protagonists in books have the tendency to survive till the end despite mortal danger (lol) throughout the book. As long as the dudes who vote believe that their dude is in danger, everything is fine. Your job is to make them believe. Hell, even if they dont believe, everything is still fine, since we want to see the end of the book, what/whenever it might be. If you personally have a problem with it and think that he should have died for choice A but the book is not at the end yet, lower his status a notch. Lose friends, alienate people. In my opinion you did exactly that rather well, better than TV garbage like Breaking Bad that just goes on and on and on in permanent and comical status quo.

Joan and Hob sucked alright, but those problems can be easily canned.

So, when is the next update?

 

[grotsnik]

I do, but not in the fun sense - I write ad-copy and boring shit like that.

 

[Esquilax]

Brodawg, I think I speak for everyone when I say that if you were to decide to write a new WoD LP that would be organized in such a way to satisfy your inner perfectionist, buckets would be cummed. Or hell, anything you write really, but to be honest I love your take on the setting and your portrayal of London.

 

[grotsnik]

Well, I dunno. I could just skip ahead six months or so, wrapping up those plot-lines, and get a kind of fresh start with Tony, but I'd have to make a solemn vow not to quit before some kind of resolution was reached. Or maybe dead should stay dead. I'd love to do it, and I should have time these days, but I don't want to waste other peoples' time with a shitty/abortive revival.

 

[Excidium]

I'd really be happy with anything you're comfortable with.

 

[laclongquan]

Well, time is ours to waste, after all. DO IT, GROTS~

 

[grotsnik]

All right, why the hell not? Sorry about the lack of paragraph indenting, by the way. The new forum software seems to get a bit fussy when it comes to copy-pasted material; it might make it all look cluttered and hard to read (at least that's how it comes across to me) but if you copy it back into a Word file, the formatting should still be there. If this thread should die before its time, may I go prematurely bald, be stripped of all my posts, and possibly suffer some kind of seizure.​

VtM - Night Empire



It begins, for the Right Reverend Kenneth Shaw, Bishop of Oxford, exactly like the nightmare that, over a three-month period a few years ago, left him sweating, clammy and sleepless, and even – shamefully – sent him scurrying to an expensive therapist in the city, who proscribed him sleeping pills and asked him if his sister had ever played with his genitals. He wakes, in the darkness, to find the bed beside him empty and the bedroom door ajar, and an inexplicable, insistent sense that something is horribly wrong.
“Danielle?” he says.
From somewhere downstairs, he swears he catches the sound of a muffled cry.

Another man, perhaps a younger man, might have reached for a lamp or a cricket bat. He wouldn’t even know how to hold such a weapon; and besides, his only concern is for Danielle. Fingering at the silver cross that dangles loosely across his scrawny chest, he rises, slips on his dressing-gown, and strides quickly to the landing, hissing her name again as he goes. There is a light burning in the hall below.
“Danielle!” Shaw calls, more frantic, but nobody responds.

As he reaches the bottom of the staircase, someone calls, quite coolly, in a slight, lilting continental accent,
“Good evening, my Lord Bishop. Please - don’t worry. I mean you no harm.”
A man is standing in the entrance to his study. The intruder doesn’t, to his surprise, look like a burglar; though he’s dressed in a black polo-top and trousers, he must be at least in his fifties, with a balding pate and a slightly embarrassed smile. He raises his hands, as if to show he’s unarmed.
“Where’s my wife?” he asks, but the intruder simply shakes his head and says,
“We thought it best to remove her from the premises, my Lord Bishop. For her own safety. A basic precaution-”
Shaw snorts at that.
“What rot,” he says. “You’re not with the police. The police don’t burst into people’s homes in the middle of the night – not in my country, anyway. Who are you, and where is my wife?”
The intruder keeps smiling, and tells him,
“You’re quite right, you know. Very insightful. My friends and I are not with the police. Would you join me in your study, please?”

There are other figures all around, Shaw realises; brawny men, scarred and scowling, dressed in the same black uniform. Wooden Tau crosses hang from their necks, and the immediate fancy takes him that they’re mocking him. Each one of them holds a gun, lowered towards the floor, steady and calm.

His mobile phone is sitting on the bedside table, back upstairs, unused and useless; idiot that he is, his first reaction should have been to call for help.

He raises his hand instinctively to touch his own crucifix once again, and prays that Danielle has not been harmed.

Two glasses of sherry have been laid out on his desk; and, he notes, with an anger that’s unfamiliar to him, some of his antique volumes have been removed from their places on the bookshelf, and left open and scattered on the floor. The folding doors into the living-room are drawn; two of the burly men take up their positions on either side.
The middle-aged intruder takes Shaw’s own chair, and gestures for him to be seated on the opposite side.
“Introductions,” he says, abruptly. “My name is Father Erasmo Pacelli, my Lord Bishop - a cousin of yours from across the water. A pleasure to meet you.”
He makes a strange, jerking gesture with one hand, as if offering it to shake, but then seems to think better of it.

It takes a moment for Shaw, still confounded and afraid for his wife, to fully comprehend what’s being said.
“You’re a priest?” he asks. “You and your thugs broke in here, in the dead of night…and you’re a priest?”
“More of a priest,” Pacelli says, just as pleasantly as before, “than you, my Lord Bishop, though my house is not nearly so large as this ‘palace’, and my flock is only made up of these few faithful souls you see before you. And a few more, who are engaged elsewhere tonight – a meeting with the Bishop of Guildford.”
Shaw frowns.
“Julian’s a friend of mine,” he says. “What is this? A kidnapping? Some damned plot?”
Pacelli merely smiles, and locating the nearest book, slides it across the table towards him.
“I was glad to see you had this,” he says, “in an otherwise…unimaginative library. I’d be interested to hear what you think of it. Please – I’ve marked the relevant passage.”

It’s one of Danielle’s books, Shaw realises; The Phantom World or some similar kind of fashionable Victorian nonsense. A crude woodcut portrays a silhouetted rider set against the backdrop of hills and fields.

About nineteen years before, he reads, on the occasion of a New Year's market at Poligny, a terrible storm had broken over the country, and among other mischiefs done by it, was the scattering of Pierre's flock. In vain did I labour, in company with other peasants, to find the sheep and bring them together. I went everywhere in search of them. Then there rode up three black horsemen, and the last said to me: 'Whither away? You seem to be in trouble?’ I related to him my misfortune with my flock. He bade me pluck up my spirits, and promised that his master would henceforth take charge of and protect my flock, if I would only rely upon him. He told me, as well, that I should find my strayed sheep very shortly, and he promised to provide me with money. We agreed to meet again in four or five days. My flock I soon found collected together. At my second meeting I learned of the stranger that he was a servant of the devil. I forswore God and our Lady and all saints and dwellers in Paradise. I renounced Christianity, kissed his left hand, which was black and ice-cold as that of a corpse. Then I fell on my knees and gave in my allegiance to Satan-

He looks up. Pacelli is watching him, with a gently expectant, almost beatific smile.
Lord above, Shaw thinks, what manner of lunatics have broken into my home?


“I take it,” Pacelli says, breaking the silence, “that you believe in the Devil and the Devil’s work, my Lord Bishop. Unless the Anglican Church now finds it less confrontational to refer to them as metaphors, or figures of speech, or something of that kind?”
I believe in evil, Shaw tells himself. I believe I can recognise it when it’s sitting in my chair.
He answers,
“I’d stand my faith against yours…whatever you call yourself.”
“You needn’t be so hostile,” Pacelli says, leaning back in his chair. “I told you before, your wife has been spirited away for her own good. You have my word she will not come to harm; she is in all of this an innocent. We do not harm innocents, only the guilty. A man or a woman that consorteth with devils, or that practices sorcery, shall be put to death, stones upon stones; their blood is upon themselves.”
Shaw spits back,
“He that sheds the blood of another man; for that man his own blood shall be shed.”

The quotation seems to irritate Pacelli; with a sharp, careless movement, he snaps his fingers towards the two thugs positioned by the folding doors.
“We might hurl the words of God at each other all evening,” he says, re-establishing his gentle smile, “like infants casting thunderbolts. But I understand you, my Lord Bishop. You believe that your duties lie in lending comfort to mankind, as if religion were a blanket and a cup of hot cocoa – handing out kind words and community support and never, ever judging. You view sin as a human weakness, a mere failure of empathy, and while you admire Christ, you believe in his divinity only a little – ‘un seulment peu’, as it were.
“You are unforgivably ignorant. The Devil’s sons and daughters walk this wretched earth, and mankind, corruptible, blind and weak, is their currency, their crucible, their empire. We build our lives on the precipice of ultimate darkness, smiling and stretching out our hands to meet the horrid embrace of Satan – and, my Lord Bishop, because I know you have no more faith than any of these other false priests, I have brought you proof.”

He nods; the two men yank the folding doors back, and Shaw leaps out of his chair, stumbling backwards against the far wall, at the sight of the figure bound to his living-room table.
“You needn’t worry,” Pacelli says, entirely composed, slipping out of his own seat. “We have wards in place; the fiend is entirely at our mercy. It cannot even move until the stake is removed from its chest.”
“My God,” Shaw stammers, fumbling at the wall, his eyes fixed on the hideous thing. “My God…my God…my God…”
“Come,” Pacelli snaps, and the two men catch hold of Shaw’s elbows and drag him, helpless, across the study floor. “Take a closer look, my Lord Bishop. The thing in itself. All of the servants of Satan are monstrous, but this one cannot conceal its ugliness. What is it – a hog, a rat, a man? You will snatch at rational absurdities and declare it a freak; it is not. There are thousands of fiends like this, each of them as repulsive as this one, and countless more besides that take on the form of man, indistinguishable from you or I. We are living amongst the armies of Hell, My Lord Bishop – and your friend Julian, Bishop of your faint-hearted Church, self-declared soldier of God, was a servant to one of these devils, one who drank of their dark communion and lived under their aegis- but perhaps I am lying, yes? I am, after all, only a man. Please, watch closely.”

He reaches over to the beast chained across the table. Shaw, mad-drunk on the nightmare unfolding all around him, sees the metal pliers in Pacelli’s hand a second too late.
“Wait-” he begins.

A crackle of bone; and a solitary yellow finger is worked loose from the sleeping creature’s hand. Pacelli holds the severed digit aloft for a moment, like a magician demonstrating that no trick is involved in his act, and then returns it to its place.
The bloodied stump glows hot for a moment. Shaw, horrified, watches as the skin around the wound writhes and contorts, stretching out across the wound, healing fast; and, in a few brief moments, the pestilent hand is whole once again.

“I’ve performed similar tests while the fiends are conscious,” Pacelli says. “They feel pain as we do, do not doubt it – but Satan keeps them whole. And they fear fire, above all – Monk, remove the stake.”
The pressure at Shaw’s elbow recedes. One of the burly men trudges around to the thing and, in one sharp motion, tugs the wooden spike out of its chest.
The beast screams, loud and fearful, attempting to sit upright; its emaciated, rotten muscles strain, uselessly, against its chains. Its eyes flicker about the room, from face to face.
“You – fuck – fuck,” it yells, “Fuck are you, hunters? Where the fuck am I? What the-”
“Do not listen to it,” Pacelli says. He rummages in a black leather bag placed on one of the living room chairs, producing a small propane torch. “It is a liar and the father of lies, yea, its mouth shall be stopped-”

The horrible creature catches Shaw’s eye. Despite everything, he begins to find himself curious, and, leaning forward, while keeping well out of the reach of its struggling claws, he asks,
“What are you?”
The thing gapes, bewildered at him.
“Get me out of this, boss,” it whines, “and I’ll tell you. Fuck – is that what your pal here wants to know? No need to use the fire, boss, I’m all right, I’m happy to help-”
“It bargains,” Pacelli cuts in, “because it is afraid. If it were free, we would be dead – or under its spell.”
The blowtorch flame, a sharp and scalding blue, arcs out into the air.

Shaw cannot bring himself to remain silent.
“Look,” he says. “No matter what this…what it is, you can’t hurt it-”
“You only pity it,” says Pacelli, “because you think it is weak. I want it to tell you just how powerful it really is. How many politicians in this country of yours owe their places to its kind, how many men and women live in their service…and when you have heard it all, my Lord Bishop, you will wrestle this torch from me to burn this fiend into ash by your own hand.”

By the time dawn comes around, it’s told them almost everything.

*​

​

​

You glance through the report. A few of the names are familiar to you – most of them you’ve never heard of.

“Obviously, some of these are outside chances,” Costello says, crossing her legs, “but based upon your reputation, Patrician, I thought you’d want thoroughness over brevity, yah?”
The harpy glances, with unconcealed pleasure, at the intricate murals decorating the walls of Witanhurst’s drawing room. An old grandfather clock chimes, faintly, to mark the hour.

Her admiration is understandable; it’s now been three nights since you moved into the grand faux-Georgian estate, perched behind high walls and security cameras, overlooking Hampstead Heath, and you’ve hardly begun to explore the countless rooms and arabesque staircases of the house, let alone the murky underground passages that creep outwards far beneath the village itself. Witanhurst, a former home to the Venetian Camarilla envoy himself, certainly did not come cheap – but, as Fellowes said, the Baron of Westminster has to meet certain expectations. The servants, ghouls under the watchful stewardship of an utterly distinguished, totally blind butler by the name of Woodcock, find the dark passageways confusing and a little frightening, and they speak in watchful whispers as they pass beneath the portraits and statues of revered Camarilla elders.

“I suppose some of my peers are hoping to put themselves forward as candidates,” you say, flicking through to the next page.
“Two or three, yah,” Costello replies, clenching her cigarette holder in the corner of her mouth. You know it’s a lie; five of your fellow barons are listed in the black notebook you keep in your jacket pocket. “But they’re wasting their time, honestly; the word from Venice is that the next Prince of London has to be from outside the city. No debate. After everything that’s happened…the local Camarilla’s under probation, essentially. The Inner Circle want to be certain that every baron is loyal, and they want an trustworthy leader to come in and root out any more, ahm, rogue elements.”

You stare, wearily, at the list of candidates for your next master. Lickspittles and toadies, you think, a few lucky devils lacking any real opposition and one or two careful players. Any one of them would be grateful for the support of one of London’s most prominent barons; any one would no doubt wish to punish the Kindred who backed a rival.
“Anything else on him?” you ask, pointing at a blurry photograph of a bony-looking Gangrel, with a ragged beard and a pair of fashionable sunglasses, deep in conversation on a wretched-looking high street. “A Baron in Swansea? I didn’t even realise we had a council there.”
“As it happens, we don’t,” Costello says, puffing out a delicate wisp of smoke. “I’m reliably informed it’s little more than a gang of independents and ne’er-do-wells – but Vogler’s a fine self-promoter and they say he has someone’s ear. He’s asked for information about you, in fact; could be you won’t have to even approach him.”
“And this one…Regent of the Bristol chantry? You’re seriously telling me that after everything that’s happened, they’d allow a Tremere prince in London? There’d be bedlam!”
“After Samantha Eames, it’d certainly get the Anarch conspiracy crowd excited, yah,” says Costello, “but you’re forgetting about Vienna. I hear the Tremere are very concerned about reprisals against their clan in London. Greenwich and Lambeth are some of Europe’s finest chantries – they’ll be lobbying hard to ensure we get a Prince who’ll prioritise their safety. If not a Tremere, then someone favourable to Tremere interests.”

You slap the folder down onto the coffee table and reach for your notebook.
“I assume there’ll be an additional fee,” you ask, “for meeting outside your Elysium?”
“No trouble, Patrician,” Costello says. "No trouble, no cost - the brooch’s all I want. I was interested to see your new home, anyway.”
Her gaze lingers over the freakish-looking suit of Nosferatu battle armour stood beside the fireplace. Go on, look, you think, without rancour. Tell them all how I live; let them seethe. They’ve got far more to worry about now than that young upstart Anthony Sommers. A new prince, and every baron vying to be the kingmaker – the next Seneschal.

You jot down the number of the safe-deposit box in St Pancreas station where the Chorazin brooch may be found, and pass it on to the harpy. She bows, and rises to her feet.
“One last thing,” you tell her, unfolding a sheet of paper out from inside your notebook. “Do you know anything about this?”
Costello nods as soon as she sees the headline.

Her Majesty’s Grey Eminence

The corridors of power are shady places. Underhand deals, secret rivalries, even hidden love trysts…even with the help of trusty snoops like Mandrake, we will simply never know every deception that happens or has happened in Whitehall. Take Mr X. A young man – apparently in his late twenties or early thirties – who dines and meets with some of the most powerful men in the country in expensive London restaurants and hotels during the dead of night. He is wined, dined, and clearly listened to, by dignitaries such as Sir Humphrey Trentbridge, former Home Secretary, William Horn, Permanent Secretary of Her Majesty’s Treasury, and Assistant Chief of Defence Staff Thomas Fielding – Mandrake’s sources inform him that Trentbridge in particular was ‘utterly dependent’ upon this man during his government’s final days in power, frequently placing phone calls to him at 2am or later. An ‘advisor’ from Goldman Sachs, perhaps, or a friend from the unions? Whitehall claims Mr X is nothing more than a junior spin-doctor, but cannot provide us with his name – surely they know better, dear reader, than to tell such very poor lies! Mandrake will report back as soon as he has further details about this sinister man of mystery.

There is no picture; despite yourself, you’re a little proud that they didn’t manage to catch you on film.
“Yes,” Costello says, “I’m afraid there’ve been a few jokes at your expense concerning that. Baron Fesk was positively doubled up with the giggles when I saw him last week…but then he will laugh at almost anything, the poor fellow.”

Costello’s little arrangements with various respectable Kindred around the city are well-known. The rumour-mill (founded, no doubt, by the harpy herself) states that she’s a pervert; that she fornicates with Kine, and seeks twisted, strange and bloody pleasures amongst kin. You have good cause to doubt it – her real pleasure, it’s always seemed to you, lies in talking.

You fold the article back up and ask,
“So one of them is responsible for this? That bit about ‘sinister man of mystery’, it’s an obvious jibe. Some kind of practical joke, a prank?”
“It’s possible,” she tells you, “but as far as I know, this ‘Mandrake’ is just another kine. Political gossip columns and the like – all the government crowd slip information to him. I’d say it’s just as likely one of them spotted you meeting your contacts one time too many and decided to stir things up. One should always be careful, of course…but I doubt either you or the Masquerade have anything to fear from hacks investigating ‘Mr X.’ But I’ll try and find out the author’s real name for you - in case you want to pay him a visit and, yah, correct his line of reporting.”

You see her out onto the driveway; the instant the great reinforced door clangs shut, Woodcock comes running out, looking a little hurt that he wasn’t allowed to properly perform his duties. You clap him gently on the back and proceed into the parlour.

A colossal cloth map has been spread across the coffee table; a purchase from one of Mayfair’s innumerable over-expensive purveyors of antique bric-a-brac. It portrays London as it was a mere three hundred years ago, a small blot of grey oozing out from the Thames. Fulham, Wimbledon and Marylebone are nothing but fields; the city has not yet begun its great Victorian expansion.

Your fingers stray across the lower half of the map. The Sabbat have seized their opportunity well, Fellowes informs you, taking advantage of the turmoil within the Camarilla and the loss of its Prince to snatch up territory and reclaim lost ground, though the Barons on the southern side of the river, fearful for their positions, are unwilling to admit that anything is wrong.



The night is yours; how do you wish to spend it?

A) I’ll explore Witanhurst. This was once the home of a powerful Kindred – I’d be surprised if there wasn’t something of interest buried deep below.

B) I’ll investigate this ‘Mandrake’ character and try to find out how he knows so much about me. He shouldn’t be too hard to track down.

C) I’ll call Fellowes. It’s time for the Operation Wistman team to prove themselves at last – let’s send them in to take out a Sabbat den south of the river.

D) The council have granted me the right to sire; it’s about time I got around to investigating a suitable candidate.

E) This Gangrel might be an outside chance, but the weaker candidates are more easily manipulated. I’ll seek him out and offer him my support.

F) Costello may have been right about the Tremere influence; the Regent in Bristol’s a likely-looking candidate. I may just have to pay him a visit.

G) The Prince of London should be from London, no matter what the Inner Circle says. I’ll call together a select few of the barons to discuss this.

Or, alternatively, you can choose H) Oh god let it die why are you trying to bring it back just let it fucking die.

 

[Excidium]

Finally, it's back!

I'll wait for people to defend their picks before I choose something, most seem pretty valid. But I'm leaning torwards G).

 

[Kz3r0]

A) I’ll explore Witanhurst.

let it die

No, mwahahahahahahahaha

 

[Esquilax]

HEAVAN!!! FUCK YES, ITS BACK GROT YOU ARE A TRUE BRO BRO FOR ALL TIMES BROS 4 EVAR!!!

... *ahem*. I'd love to sire somebody, but aren't we a 13th-gen, hence only able to sire popamole thin-blood vampires? If we can sire a proper Kindred, then that'd be fantastic - I love Eddie, but having a childe would allow us to groom somebody who's got our back in a way that Eddie can't and who is just as as we are. Tony has a big house and a great career, it's time to start a family.

Then again, I'm also tempted by the possibility of once again heading across the river to strike fear into the Sabbat again. It wasn't long ago that we threw their entire organisation into disarray, and I'm sure that another foray down there will give them cause for concern. Plus, it will put a few of the other Barons in our debt.

Digging around our house for cool secrets sounds pretty awesome too. Can we do an episode of MTV Cribs while we're at it?

Provided we can sire someone of potent blood, I vote D) The council has given me right to sire; it's about time I got around to investigating a suitable candidate.

 

[grotsnik]

Since we're on a non-Gehenna timeline, I think we can take it that while higher-generation vampires are weaker, it'll be won't be a puny thin-blooded last-generation sort of weakness.

 

[CappenVarra]

Wow, it was a while since I last read this, will probably take a few updates to get the balls back in the air (so to speak).

B) or D) sound like good choices.

A) is not really Anthony's type of adventure, he gains experience for pulling other people's strings, not by dungeon crawling

C) is an ace up our sleeve, meant to be used for maximum leverage at a moment when nobody expects it and for a significant advantage - not on routine Sabbat cleaning ops - why clean up other barons's doorsteps for them?

E), F) and G) are interesting, but I don't like any of them - going with the Gangrel only means a chance of getting our pretty sheriff back at this moment (more info required); going with the Tremere seems extremely unwise, and G) means plotting with the uppity bastards that still consider us beneath their notice.

Could you perhaps post Anthony's current char sheet and conacts again, just to refresh / update the info a bit?

That said, I'd go with D) - a carefully chosen childe could be a great asset (or a doomed risk).

EDIT: A) sounds all right too, misunderstood it the first time. Still going for D) though