Thralls, Triads and Trinkets.

[Mircea]

There was an inevitable problem that resulted of the fall of any tyrannical rule: Chaos.

The fall of the Broussard had created a vacuum in the city's underground circles and there were groups clamouring from all sides to fill the greatest space within it, fighting with and within themselves to establish a pecking order and grasps for whatever power and influence they could manage. So far, if rumours in the city were to be believed, the triads had the upper hand though, in truth, it mattered little to Mircea who gained power, so long as they did not bother him or his family in their quest to do so. It was precisely that that had drawn him from the warmth of their fire that night and out to the borders between Honeymead and Westwall. Habren had called to him from the hospital the day after Michael was allowed home and spoken to him of strange noises, similar to those they had heard coming from other buildings the triads and other gangs were using as a base for their nefarious activities. It had been the location, so close to the hospital that had saved their Michael, that had troubled him most and that, more than the promise of bloodshed, had seen him checking on the still recovering man before departing into the night.

It wasn't a long trip across the river to the location Habren had indicated; just enough of a walk to check and recheck the weapons strapped to his body, but, no sooner had he slipped inside the building he was directed to than Habren was greeting him with a kiss, kind words and her own hands reassuring her of his readiness for what lay ahead of them. She took his hand once satisfied and slipped a small rectangle of plastic into it, whispering words of encouragement and sending him immediately further into the building where the more trusted members of the gang awaited.

Short work was made of those, the highwaymen employed to intimidate or assault those who thought to cross the triad's path. When he had managed to pluck a second keycard from the corpse of one of his adversaries, however, it had not been the locked door that had blocked his path but something not so easily overpowered. A mystic had been at work in this place and targeted him especially for one reason of another. He tried to recall who he had seen nearby who might have continued up and prevented him following, but came up with little to help and it was, of course, possible that the triad themselves had employed the skills of a vampire to protect them against those vampires who might be most capable of bringing a premature end to their operation, whatever that might be.

With little choice but to wait, Mircea had taken up a stance, leaning against the wall beside the door with his eyes mostly closed to wait out the magic. Again, his wife had joined him and, after the explanation for his inactivity, the couple had settled in to wait together, chatting amicably and enjoying a few hours of simply watching the hunting habits of those who sort to progress further, both the successful and otherwise. With the witching hour came the strange lifting of pressure upon him, brought about by his proximity to the unfriendly magic and released with the dawning of a new cycle. Another kiss and more words of luck were passed between the two and again he continued on to still more ruffians who cared to test their skill against the soldier. They had fallen as swiftly as their comrades and the vampire had quickly continued on though the next locked door to the stronghold of the triad's officers, the most trusted and, it seemed, the most capable amongst them.

It had taken hours of meticulous searching from room to room, through drawers, desks, cabinets and the occasional dead body to find what he was looking for. It seemed to be common tactic amongst all of the city's gangs to keep their leadership locked away, safe from the madness below; it was a tactic with historical merit, but not one that Mircea had ever been able to comfortably subscribe to: if a commander could not see or hear or smell what was occurring in the thick of battle, how could they truly direct their forces to greatest effectiveness?

Emilian was sent on ahead, reluctant as ever to abide by his master's orders to pass word when the time was right to attack and only then did Mircea loosen his beloved Ileana in the scabbard Habren had crafted for him as a gift for the Yule before last and then debated for a moment or two, finally opting for a pair of small, almost delicate throwing knives, more often favoured by his wife than her larger husband, but he enjoyed to take her to battle with him in one way or another and her favoured weaponry struck him as a sudden advantage; they would anticipate a gun, the same weapons they favoured, but the knives that lined his sword belt was something he seldom saw wielded in the modern city and Habren had taught him well over the years to use them...

[Mircea]

He slammed the office door flat against the wall as he opened it, having the double effect of ensuring that there was no bodyguard hiding behind it and of startling the boss into turning away from the array of monitors he seemed to be tracking events lower down with, little good that the technology was doing him now. Mircea threw as he turned, flicking his wrist just as Habren had taught him so many years ago and sending the knife tumbling one and a half times to sink into the right side of his opponent's chest. It didn't seem to sink in completely to the hilt as it should have, though, confirming the suspicion that guns had been defended against with a protective vest, but it wasn't designed to stand up to the fine blade and the gasp and scent of blood suggested it had still pierced flesh, even if not with the entire length of the weapon.

He had lifted his hand again to throw the second knife, but the Asian leader was quicker than the vampire had expected, drawing his gun and rocking Mircea back with a solid hit to his chest, forcing him back behind the cover of the interior wall while a volley of shots followed, presumably intended to intimidate him into retreating after his initial attack hadn't taken the man down completely. Focus returned to him more sharply as he waited for the instant his adversary was forced to stop and reload his weapon before pivoting around the door frame and flicking his wrist again, his sharper senses allowing him to direct the knife even while he moved to embed itself beside its mate, exploiting the weakness in that section of the small, wiry man's armour.

When he stumbled back again, apparently surprised that the attacker hadn't been frightened away by the sheer number of gunshots levelled at him, Mircea strode forward, his very nature propelling his walk at the speed of a human's run even while he drew a shroud of shadows around him to cover his intentions and both confuse and frighten the human who was used to guns and knives, not magic and ancient warriors.

Ileana was already leaving her home at his hip as he moved, the hilt smashed into the underside of the gangster's jaw as the motion was completed, forcing his chin up and exposing his throat for the blade to follow in a quick slash, parting skin and raining crimson onto the vampire in a sudden, hot spray. A heavily booted foot lifted and planted itself in the chest opposite, pushing forward to create a distance that would allow him to spin gracefully in a circle and bring his sword to bear again, parting head from neck with surprising ease and seeing both fall to the floor with separate, heavy thumps.

A brief assessment of the scene turned up a familiar looking item, not unlike the one he knew to be about his person, or the partner to it that Habren carried with her. He plucked it up and pocketed it quickly, drawing his phone out of the same pocket to call down to his wife and tell her that he had yet another curiosity for her to look at for him. If it was, as he suspected, similar to the items discovered previously, it would raise all manner of questions regarding how these men came into possession of such powerful relics and, just as importantly...

Why did a human need such power?