Path of the Vampire forum

((OOC Note: This thread is for those who have contacted me or signed up to join the ARES faction RE: http://www.mooncalfstudios.com/pathofth ... 98&t=26815 ))

He had been perched in a discreet position for the last two weeks now, a pair of high tech binoculars periodically covering his dragon eyes as he peered in on the bustling activity happening behind razor wire. With every new discovery, nominally jotted down in a notebook at his side, he grew more concerned – more angered. The human military was up to something, as usual, and he had no doubt whatsoever that whatever it was included the words “no” and “good”. In that order. He watched now as a covered military vehicle drove relatively silently through the main gate, waved through by an armed guard or two. They were nothing if not incredibly well versed in their thing, a well oiled machine alert and ready to take action against any and all. The snarl of whatever creature they’d captured tonight rose out of the vehicle and the Dragon cursed under his breath. The poor ********. It no longer mattered what species the captured creature was, either. They did not deserve whatever ill thing was happening behind the high walls of the military installation. And hell, if it could happen to the various powerful beings Nikolae had watched dragged inside then it could most definitely happen to him and his fellow vampires. He was pretty sure there were already vampires inside.

Stuffing his notebook into his bag, he stood and dropped the binoculars in as well before slinging the black pack over a shoulder. He drew the shadows around himself before abandoning his post, a million thoughts on his mind and all circling around one idea. Something had to be done. The sooner the better. And unfortunately, it looked like nobody else was going to do it. He hoped he could garner some help though. The time for slaughtering their own kind had come and gone – and gone again apparently. It was time to stand in solidarity. Not as a species, because Nikolae really couldn’t stand most vampires. But there was a lot more than vampires roaming the streets these nights. The city was a damned cesspit of the supernatural. And after watching a few of them from a safe distance the Dragomir had decided they weren’t all bad. Some of the humans, too, seemed perfectly fine if vulnerable. It honestly astounded Nikolae that humans bothered to live in a town crawling with gangs, secret military posts, and enough supernatural ‘accidents’ to warrant their very own X-Files spoof episode. If they weren’t careful, secrecy would be the least of anybody’s problems. Nikolae could already feel that much, like a dark cloud lurking over the horizon just waiting to crash down on the town and all its inhabitants.

He found himself back in town, standing outside a frequently used cybercafé, when the idea hit him square in the chest. Nikolae slid his sunglasses on, pulled the hood up over his head to conceal his identity should anybody be walking by and happen to glance over. He reached for his notebook and scribbled a note down before ripping out the paper and pinning it to the corkboard of announcements. He eyed his work critically for a moment. No doubt Azraeth would have been more eloquent, would have made a passionate speech in front of dozens of his adoring fans. But that wasn’t Nikolae. Not now, and God willing not ever. He leaned forward to add another note to the very bottom, because if there was one thing he knew about his fellow vampires it was their comical aversion to change. Any who came to his meeting of the minds would become a target for those who killed their own kind, not to mention the military units that he could swear were upping their patrols searching for the weakest to kidnap and do unspeakable things to. Call him paranoid, he’d rock that hat.
The Dragomir hunched his shoulders and strode away, stopping at a dozen or more other haunts he knew that not only vampires visited but humans with otherworldly powers of their own, and mortals who were more and more aware of the supernatural in this town. It was past time to set aside differences and get something done. Plus, so long as nobody saw anybody’s face nothing could really go wrong – he hoped. He plucked out his phone as he circled back toward his favorite perch and texted his childe, instructing Raeth to be at that damned warehouse tomorrow whether he wanted to be or not. And to cover his eyes. And his hair. Hell, did he change his body again? Mystics. A brief thought of his other childer was dismissed – this had nothing to do with family, lineage, or the Dragomir. It had to do with survival and being ready for what was coming. Safety in numbers, and shooting the first shot gave them all a better chance. He tucked into his perch and pulled up the internet browser, adding a dozen items to his cart for overnight shipment. Full battle gear, reflective sunglasses, and a helmet for when things went boom. He had an odd hope that he wouldn’t be the only one who liked to blow **** up in the group he hoped to form. Who didn’t like fireworks, after all?

The next night he woke, pleased to find his purchases had been dropped off at the designated place. He donned the black pants first, black ****-kicker boots, and black turtle-neck. A comfortable black and red leather jacket went over that, a freshly sewn patch over the left chest side stated his codename ‘Nemesis’. He eyed the helmet with hesitation, tempted but ultimately shoving it into his black bag. He shoved the new sunglasses over his telling reptile eyes and pulled a black handkerchief across his lower face to tie behind his head. Then he loaded himself down with enough weapons to kill his way out of any attempted trap – one could never be too careful – and tossed a few special explosives in his bag just in case. He left the place he’d slept that night on silent feet and made his way to the warehouse. He wasn’t surprised to see his childe there already, and touched the males back in affectionate greeting. “Let’s light this place up a bit, shall we?” He murmured. He stepped away from the man and began summoning spirits, surrounding the building with the things until he was sure this particular warehouse would be spotted by the guests he hoped would be coming. He stepped into the building then, leaving the door only slightly ajar, and set another piece of paper on a dusty table he’d found tipped over. He tipped it upright. The paper was a simple agreement. On top, in big letters, were the letters A. R. E. S. and beneath them were lines for signing. He signed his own codename first. Nemesis. Next to his name he jotted down the phone number of a burn-phone he’d acquired and would replace after their first action as a group. Better safe than dead. He stepped back then, and pulled a rusty chair to the middle of the big open space to sit. His bag went to the floor between his feet in easy reach. He faced the doors and waited.

Cathy had watched people disappear and had sent out her wraith to watch as well. Vincent had gained much knowledge from his wonderings. He had even invaded a building that was holding people that had been taken. Cathy shivered when she learned the news yes the wraith could not talk but she had learned a lot from him. She wondered the street her business doing well and she needed to get out. She saw the sign posted on the wall and read it wondering if she should let her sire know or not. It did say to keep it mum so she looked at her wraith that was beside her and nodded her head to him to go check it out before she got there.

Vincent was gone before she knew it and she walked to the nearest apartment that she had in the area. She changed her outfit quickly as she waited for Vincent to return and looked around. She actually had an outfit that would work for this as well as a mask that was black and covered most of her face only her blue eyes would be seen though it. She put on a pair of black pants, a black tank, black boots and a black jacket that had Innocent Divergent on the pocket as her name. It was a different outfit and something she had wanted to get. She put the name on it with her machine. When Vincent came back he held up two fingers to show there where two people there.

She left her apartment and was off to the warehouse her gun in the bag along with the sword though she had only used them on zombies at the moment and not on other things. She had not killed people yet and without having fangs she was scared to even feed so she also had in her bag a bottle of blood. She made her way to the door of the warehouse and knocked on the door waited. She wondered if there would be a secrete word for the place or something. That would be a cool thing to have a secrete word. She put on the mask before the door opened and she walked in looking around before walking over to the two men that where standing there she did not say a word yet but waited for others to arrive.

Wendigo caught the sword-hand of the Paladin as the blade descended, the nails of his monstrous form digging into the human's wrist. The violent twist that followed was sufficient to not only break the wrist, but dislocate the shoulder. Before the hunter could scream, the other massive hand was at his throat, lifting him off the ground. Wendigo turned the man violently and drove him head-first into the concrete wall of the sewer: once, twice, three times...

This brutal assault continued until there was little more above the jawline beyond bone-meal and brain matter. He dropped the body and paused to listen: the sewers were unusually quiet. He had not allowed himself to believe that the death of Ramiro Barros would have any more impact on Paladin numbers than had the death of Valentin... but perhaps he needed to revise his thinking. If they were still out there, their zeal had at least been tempered. Perhaps this was simply evolution: vampires had killed so many of the reckless hunters that a new species of Paladin was emerging. The other option, he supposed, was that the vacant niche in the Harper Rock "ecosystem" would be filled by something else. He wasn't sure which would be worse.

After disposing of the body, the vampire returned to Groom Center. He unlocked the cabin of the black van parked in the reserved spot in the parking garage and changed his clothes. His appearance was easy enough to change, but all of that was illusion. Blood-soaked sleeves would still leave incidental evidence of his nightly activities. He threw the soiled clothes into a large, unmarked bag for cleaning at Black Box later, and re-locked the van.

The enormous frame of the Killer shrunk down to the inconspicuous image of Charles Wabash. As Wabash rounded the van toward the elevator, he absently pulled a pamphlet from the windshield wiper. He glanced at it for only a moment: generally such flyers were either coupons for pizza or an invitation to join a church. He was, then, surprised to find it was an entirely different kind of invitation. Vaguely worded, conspiratorial, and entirely unhelpful. Harper Rock attracted that sort. In fact, as things progressed in Harper Rock, it only attracted that sort. He crumpled the paper into a ball and crammed it in his pocket.

Walking toward the elevator, Wendigo behind Wabash's eyes noticed that the pamphlet was not ubiquitous throughout the garage: the van had been specifically targeted. Wendigo momentarily considered a trap -- as he always did -- but he had yet to find a trap he could not easily dismantle from within. Riding the elevator up to the offices, he debated whether he had dismissed the message too quickly. Had Dee been here, the Wraith certainly would have tried to convince him to go... and the Wraith probably would have succeeded. By the time he reached his office, he was resolved to show up. At worst, it would be a waste of his time.

---

For one familiar with the neighborhood, it was easy to spot the change to the warehouse. He observed it for several minutes, cloaked in the shadows, from an alleyway down the street. A few people were milling about: perhaps having the same debate he had had last night. There was no more debate for Wendigo: once his mind had been made up to attend, it was unlikely to change.

He flipped through the video footage stored on his phone: security tapes spliced together to create profiles... personalities he could steal if needed. He settled on the image of a young man who had served as a Temp at Groom Center for several weeks before returning to Toronto: he wore jeans, a black turtleneck, and an Argonauts cap. Settling into the diminutive frame, he tied a kerchief around his face. Disguise, he found, was a subtle art... the kerchief was a decoy. It created evidence that he wanted to hide the face he wore when, instead, the face itself was the mask.

Before crossing the street, he checked his bag: a pair of Dorf Carbines, a dozen clips, and a short blade were inside. The weapons were exceptional in only one way: they were so common in Harper Rock that they could be left behind without concern. Additionally, a dozen knockout bombs and smoke bombs were securely fastened in a bandoleer. He zipped up the backpack and slung it over one shoulder as he left the shadows.

As he entered, he observed that he was an early attendee. The second thing that caught his attention was the signup sheet. The names on it were unfamiliar: probably pseudonyms. He had never avoided using the name Wendigo -- the name he now mostly closely tied to his "true" identity, if such a thing existed -- but there were a lot of unknown variables in play here. Thinking briefly of the cap, he wrote down "Argonaut" and an email address before leaving to find an empty chair.

“Hey, listen to this.”
Michael wasn’t much for a social norm as mundane as hello. He’d called her, one of the few who knew how to get in contact with her. She’d have smiled except she hadn’t felt like smiling for a few days. Her reason for coming back to Paris was turning into a drawn out, cloak and dagger affair that was gearing up to take longer than she thought it would.

And she missed home. She missed Elliot. She missed being a vampire in a vampire world, and not stuck in Paris pretending to be something she wasn’t anymore, for people who didn’t even know who she was.

Never really did.

Despite her natural inclination to disregard everything her misogynist thrall had to say, she found herself feeling rather indulgent towards him. So rather than tell him to stop wasting her time she hummed instead, letting the non-verbal sound indicate her willingness to listen to whatever it was he had to say.

“So…” Michael cleared his throat and she heard the rattling of paper. She could make out the sounds of traffic, the odd car, and the staccato clack of city life. Or in this case, little town life in middle of nowhere Canada. They had more traffic in a Parisian patisserie at six in the morning than that little hick wonder.

Pi waited patiently.

“Harper is in danger.” He started, obviously in full theatre mod, his voice deepened and gravelly. He’d taken on a James Earl Jones tone; a Morgan Freeman God voice, in full omnipotent swing. “People are killed or disappeared every day. You or your loved ones could be next!”
“What the hell are you reading?”
“Some **** posted up on a café notice board.”
“And this concerns me why?”
“It’s some cloak and dagger, come to the warehouse, hide who you are… tell no one. Classic serial killer crap, probably go, get yourself jacked, wallet stolen, and left naked in the snow outside the hospital with a few cracked ribs for your troubles. But….”
He left the lure dangling, knowing the woman who held him in thrall about as well as any. He was tied to her, by blood, by some sort of Jedi mind meld, or probably more Darth Vader and the raised finger of ‘shoot yourself in the face, dark arts mumbo.
“But you think it has to do with what we are?”
“Don’t you? What else can it be? There are… what? A million of you blood sucking bastards in this city. ******* census would have a field day if you weren’t all here as illegal as hell. You should come home and go… kick some conspiracy theorist ***. Have dinner. Suck some neurotic oogie boogie blood, and then they can all stumble about like they’ve lost their left frontal lobe.”

Pi couldn’t help herself, she shook her head and smiled. She wasn’t feeling much like smiling, but in his way, irreverent and idiotic as he was, he cheered her up. And made her miss home even more.

“Then go yourself. Call yourself The Butterfly. Pretend you’re me.”
She wasn’t sure why she picked that name. Why it slipped out of her mouth and spewed its way down the phone lines and into the ear of a man who had no damn idea what that name meant to her. And true to form Michael chortled.
“The Butterfly? ******* classic. That’s it. I’m you, and we are heading to a party, with a cape. And some secret signs and ****. And I’m… we… no ****, YOU are going to be codename… The Butterfly. Or whatever. And I’m not teaching you the secret hand shake either. And if I get killed. Well, you’ll just have to come home and rescue my ***…”

It was hard enough following his convoluted conversational outtakes and Pi barely followed his circuitous reasoning. “Michael.” She said softly.
“When are you coming home?” He said, just as softly.
“Soon.”
“How soon.”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m going to this damn thing you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“And if I die, you have to come get me.”
“You’re not going to die.”
“I will if it will get you back here.”
“How is he?”
Michael sighed. She could imagine him shaking his head, two fingers pressing themselves into the crease between his brows, massaging away the tension her question brought him.
“Like I ******* know… he’s never around the Den. And he hates my guts. It’s not like we talk and ****. You still haven’t told him what’s going on?”

Instead of answering Pi kept her silence, pursing her lips as she stared out the window, the dark streets of Paris twinkling back at her from the narrow window in the tiny studio apartment wedged under the cornice of an ancient four story.

The conversation ended there, the air in their witty repartee deflating at a rapid rate, until they both held the soggy ends of the shrinking balloon.

~The Next Night~

It was night when Michael entered the location at the designated time.

He was wearing a cloak, he borrowed it, five finger discounted from a local rag merchant. He considered a mask, and did it. Reasoning it wasn’t like he’d lose rep points for being an overly dramatic git head, cause, he was already that.

Pushing his way in, he kept to the back, despite his bravado. He wasn’t all that keen on getting himself shanked, no matter how much he missed his ….. Master.

Sauntering forward, cape flaring, mask covering half his face he signed “Le Butterfly” on the sheet, then melted (as much as a human thrall could melt) into the darkest corner he could find. Hoping he wasn’t the only one with the idea to remain blissfully anonymous.

<Clover> Snow. Clover loved everything about the snow, from the cold to the quiet. The white blanket that came and went, shielding the streets and the buildings, served as a reminder of the months that had passed, from the date of her turning to the most recent holidays. Dressed in her black skinny jeans and a black t-shirt, she crept through the shadows, moving from building to building. Slowly, Clover familiarized herself with old pathways and old buildings. She’d wasted so many days that she had to practice breaking and entering all over again, to relearn lockpicking and shmoozing. But each building left her with a better understanding. Past mistakes were corrected. New things were learned.

If it weren’t for her evening of breaking and entering, she might not have entered the Wickbridge bank. Clover might have used her tome to go directly from the eastern side of Coastside to home. After all, there was access to an ATM. But Clover didn’t want to carry the cash from Point A to Point B, not when she had the bank several feet away. Tucking her hands into the joined pocket of her hooded sweatshirt, she crossed the busy street and entered into the bank. The whole process was tedious. Yes, she had an account. No, she didn’t want to open a savings account. Yes, she had a valid license. No, she didn’t need new checks. No, she didn’t need to look into a car loan or a retirement plan. By the time she answered all of the questions, Clover had wasted almost thirty minutes of her life. The brunette had eternity, but dealing with bank tellers made her feel as if she had only moments left to spare.

As she left the bank, she heard a soft crunch, the sound of her boot coming down on a piece of paper. She’d left a mud print on it, her dirty tread distorting some of the words, but she made out enough of the message. The crinkled paper served as a recruitment device, drawing on the masses. Clover lifted her head and looked in either direction, but she couldn’t spot anyone that stood out against the crowd. She didn’t know if the paper came from inside the bank or outside of the bank. Someone could have carried it on the bottom of a shoe; someone could have discarded the paper there, thinking it useless.

Licking her lips, she turned the paper over in her hands, looking for something beyond the main message. She found no other identifying marks or hidden words. Clo quickly shoved the paper into the pocket of her hoodie and tomed back to the lair. She nearly tripped right over the ritual table, but she caught herself. Not paying any attention to where she stood, not counting the people in the room, she shouted for Jesse. “I found this outside of the bank!” Clover produced the paper and waved it around.

<Jesse Fforde> Although Jesse’s second most recent trip to the Shadow Realm had acted like a personality cleanse, he was still prone to his frustrated anxieties. The tattoo artist was the epitome of angst, at times; calm and collected on the outside, with a steady gleam to his eyes and a sarcastic smile quick to his lips, he could brush most things off. Laughter was second nature again, and he felt more at home in his own body and mind that he had for years. It had been over a month since he’d sired Logan and there’d been no urge to sire again. When he fed from humans, there was no itch to see if they were worthy; no itch to forge a bond. It was freedom.

And yet, a person couldn’t be happy all the time. There were always going to be things that worried them. There were always going to be problems, somewhere; life could never be bereft of problems. His most recent conversation with Kaelyn had him on edge, and he wondered if Clover had put her up to it. Were the women scheming against him? What would Clover think, if Kaelyn told her all about their conversation? With the way Kaelyn liked to pry and tell people ****, he wouldn’t have been surprised. Maybe she was turning into the family gossip.

In order to distract himself, he decided to use up some of the stores that people kept handing to him; he had so many ingredients for rituals he had no idea what to do with them. Some of them would have to be sold, but he couldn’t bear to see them go. What if he needed them in the future? He’d regret selling them, then. At the ritual table, he had a box of the used syringes and a bag of ancient bones. When he summoned the fae, it was to get them to bring him useful objects. Except they kept bringing him useless crap. He wished that they were physical creatures; he wished they didn’t disappear. He wanted to kick their ******* heads in.

When Clover nearly tripped over him as she came through the tome drop, he half expected to be shot. Instead, she was waving a piece of paper at him. Excited, it seemed. Blinking at her, he took the piece of paper and read. Once. And then twice. Then skimmed for keywords a third time. “Do we… I mean, we’re the ones killing people and making them disappear,” he said, glancing up at Clover curiously. “You want us to make a change…?”

<Clover> No.

Clo looked at the paper, reading it upside down, and then raised her eyes to meet his. She liked making people disappear; she liked escorting them to watery graves, to unmarked graves. From her interpretation of the paper, she saw a golden opportunity to investigate. What if the humans were reassembling? What if hunters were building their ranks? The wording was so vague and so very dangerous. Weren’t they supposed to investigate? Clover had investigated other suspicious occurrences, although she’d investigated alone. For once, she had the opportunity to include someone else, to recruit someone else. She hadn’t wanted to show up alone.

“I want us to see what it’s about,” Clover countered. “I’ve followed people that talk like this. I’ve listened to their spiels. They were hunters. I overpowered a couple of them. If these guys are recruiting, shouldn’t we go? We could blend in. We could spy.”

And Clover had done such things before. Whenever she happened upon such questionable characters, she always chose to follow, whether she meant to pick pockets or otherwise. She meant to persuade Jesse, but there was always the possibility of his refusal. If he advised her to stay behind, she knew she’d listen, whether or not he used his sire voice. The paper surely wasn’t the only one in the city. The papers were probably everywhere, just like recruiting papers for colleges. What if dozens of people showed? And if there were more?

“What if they know more about our weaknesses? What if they have some special ideas? Not all hunters are morons.” Clover knew she was pressing him, pressing him in the way that she always seemed to, in the way that let him know that she meant business. “I want to go.”

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse’s head tilted back, mouth open in a silent, understand aaah. Glancing over the words again, he now understood why Clover had brought the flier to him. The point was a valid one; they had to go. Surely, they wouldn’t be the only vampires to go, either. Vampires were very uptight about their secrecy, and if there was any chance of the humans gathering and rising up against them, they’d surely want to stop it. Wasn’t that the point of the masquerade? To keep another vampire apocalypse from wiping them out and sending them all to the Shadow Realm for good?

Jesse was very attached to his immortality; he shuddered to think what it would be like to be stuck in the Shadow Realm, even if he did sometimes like the place. There were things that he’d read in Clover’s journal recently, too – she wanted to go. She wanted to visit. He hadn’t said anything to her about any of it yet because he was biding his time. He was waiting for the right moment – and the right thing to say. He couldn’t stop her from doing what he himself had done, but he also wanted to make sure she was okay. That he would there for her. That if she stayed too long, he’d come the **** down there and get her.

But that was a conversation for later. For now, they had somewhere to be. She didn’t have to explain, or pressure him. She had him at they were hunters. “… we have to hide our identity. We have masks…” he said. He had already handed the flier back to Clover, headed for the elevator; headed for the hidden room downstairs, and the drawers in which he kept his breaking and entering gear – as well as the masks.

<Clover> The paper back in her hands, she reread the words once more. Even after he moved, she’d stayed behind, lingering. Harper Rock was always in danger, or so it seemed. One danger after another; one threat after another. Clover loved the excitement and existed for the thrill, but even she wanted some ******* peace and quiet. When she finished reading the paper, memorizing the words, she applied pressure. Clo crumpled the paper into a ball and tucked it away in her pocket, determined to keep the announcement between the two of them.

Clover followed Jesse’s path to the elevator, her steps slower than his had been. She went over other clothing she had to hide her identity. She had to conceal her hair. She had to conceal her arms. Jesse had hoods that Clover had thought to steal, but she thought that she had one buried amongst her things, the things she had scattered between four different places, three separate homes. “You’re talking about the animals,” Clover spoke, the first words out of her mouth after she’d entered the room. Without hesitation, she went for the drawers as well. Her jeans and her shirt were fine, but she’d tucked a cloaked jacket away, more cold-weather attire, and a hooded scarf. Both of the pieces were reserved for the cold, even though she had no real need to shield herself from the temperatures.

<Clover> “If we’re dressing up with animal masks, we might as well just call ourselves by the names. You can be Lamb this time.” It was a joke, something that had her snorting. When she’d found the cloaked jacket, she slipped it on over her black t-shirt. Her hands didn’t need gloves, despite the fact that she had tattoos on her right palm and fingers. Both were on the inner side of her hand, hidden. She didn’t really need the jacket, if she kept her hooded sweatshirt on. But she’d decided against the sweatshirt and exchanged it for the jacket. “If we find hunters, are we going to take a hostage?”

Dressed, her jacket and her hood in place, she only needed a mask to hide her face. Instead of going for her own, she chose to take one of Jesse’s. The tiger. Always the tiger. Fierce, independent, fanged beast. If someone had suggested any other animal, she would have slapped the person. She wasn’t meant to don the mask of a fox or a lamb. Clover wanted to be the embodiment of a tiger. She only hoped to have the strength of the beast.


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse was already in jeans and a black, long-sleeved shirt. The shoes on his feet were semi-sneakers instead of the boots he usually opted for, but he’d only visited Serpentine briefly before he’d come back to the ritual table. He and Clover were on the same thought path – they were both tattooed. Both easily recognisable by said tattoos. They would all have to be covered. The selection of gloves Jesse had were vast; he needed to keep his fingerprints to himself, most of the time. Most of what he got up to was against the law. He pulled on a pair of the thinner leather gloves, before grabbing a thick, woollen scarf from the rack nearby. It could double as a hood.

When it came to the masks, Jesse scoffed at Clover’s snort. Yeah, sure. They’d used the masks a couple of times since Clover had got them for him; she had different ones, but this time she chose one of his. He didn’t mind. Everything he owned was hers, apparently; it amused him too much, and he’d keep his teasing until he knew he could do it right. She picked the tiger, and he didn’t feel like being particularly meek, so he selected the fox – the one with the most red paint splattered across its surface. It was fitting. Hadn’t he only recently been comparing himself to his own sire? The one who turned into a fox…

“Of course we’ll take a ******* hostage. We’ll take two. We’ll make a date of it – we’ll have one each. We can share from each other’s plates. It’ll be romantic,” he said with a gleaming grin. He checked his watch; it was already Monday night. They’d miss it, if they didn’t hurry up. “C’mon, though. There’ll be no romantic dates if we miss it,” he said, stopping only to tug Clover close and kiss her. The touch was feverish, excited. She’d come to him only ten minutes beforehand, but the idea had lodged itself in his brain. He didn’t need to be pressured. Spontaneity was his drug.


<Clover> She couldn’t tell whether he was joking or not. Her lips pursed, she eyed him as he checked his watch. Nothing about his facial features betrayed him. The grin could have been playful in a good sense or playful in a bad sense. With nothing more to offer, she was surprised by the kiss, and she wasted no time initiating another, as if they had all the time in the world. And though they did, they had somewhere to be, somewhere she wanted to be.

Clover secured her mask over her face and looked at him. The mouth stuck in an eternal snarl, the red splatters of blood and paint staining the white, grey, and pink, the mask looked as if it were made more for mischief than a dangerous meeting. Lifting her hands, she straightened out the mask, making sure that her brown eyes were aligned perfectly with the holes in the mask. “You’re a strange one,” she mumbled, her words muffled by the mask. Clover reached out and took Jesse’s gloved hand, and then she tugged. She led him toward their destination as if she were leading a blind man. Clo loved to play leader, especially when it came to important destinations, and she found their current destination to be of the utmost importance.

The path was the same, although they took the elevator in the opposite direction, and when they arrived on the previous floor, they took a fadeportal. The paper had mentioned an abandoned warehouse, and there were multiple abandoned buildings in Harper Rock. Every city had abandoned buildings. The difference was buried in the wording. The abandoned warehouse. Clover knew of the place, and she had a feeling that she was spot on.

The fadeportal took them to a familiar station, and Clover redirected them to yet another station. The journey didn’t take long, but the change of directions had her feeling as if they were being thrown about, as if they were on a wild rollercoaster ride that she’d initiated. By the time they arrived in the appropriate district, Clover had loosened her grip on Jesse’s hand, and then she relinquished her hold altogether. They had no more station crowds to navigate--although Jesse never had to deal with station crowds, given his knack with parting seas of people.

“Are those what I think they are?” Clover had raised an arm and pointed toward the warehouse before them. The spirits that danced around the building served as a welcoming mat, like outdoor lights. They were being drawn toward the building like moths to a flame.


<Jesse Fforde> The looks they got as they navigated the crowds had Jesse chuckling beneath his mask. Even if they weren’t perturbed by his mere presence, he had a feeling they’d have parted the seas of people anyway. They were dressed all in black wearing ominous animal masks. Of course people weren’t going to bother them. They were going to stay as far away as possible.

It didn’t take them long to reach their destination, and it was obvious they had arrived at the right place. The spirits gathered as if the warehouse were a communal watering hole. As if something inside promised them life, so they lingered like lost souls tethered to a common purpose. Jesse just nodded as he forged onward; this time it was his turn to take the lead. Anonymity was key, they said, but he still tugged at Clover’s hand. They were in this together. There was nothing in that flier to say people couldn’t come as pairs. Tell no one where you are going, it had said. But why wouldn’t people band together for this so-called cause?

As Jesse stepped inside, bringing Clover with him, he wondered whether they should have left a note. They should have told someone. Why would they listen to the whims of a flier? It could be a trap. Whoever had organised it was covering their tracks. Limiting the clues. Jesse’s steps were tentative as they entered, his body angled in front of Clover’s so that if there were traps, if they were shot at, he would bear the brunt of it. But there was no violence – just a couple of other lingering souls. He could count four – no, five – other bodies in the room. They all hung around. They weren’t talking to each other. It didn’t look as if the meeting had ended. It looked as if it had barely begun.

With Clover’s hand still securely within his own he went straight for a sturdy pole for them both to lean against. Not at the back of the room, but not the centre of attention either. He had ignored the sign-up sheet. There was no ******* way he was putting pen to paper when he had no idea what they two of them had just got themselves into.


<Clover> The silence washed over her. No one had said a word, or at least it seemed that way. Clover focused on the way the people had gathered around the room, and then her eyes found the piece of paper sitting atop a righted table. Were they supposed to sign the paper? Was it some kind of sign-in sheet? Jesse hadn’t moved, and he still had a firm hold on her hand, so she suspected he wasn’t going to give the paper another thought. If she were on her own, she would have signed immediately. Signing in, or signing up, with an alias meant very little, in her eyes. None of them knew one another. When the masks were on, they were different people. Clover became Tiger; Jesse became Fox. Tiger would have signed the sheet. To Clover, the signature would have meant jack ****.

Still, she remained by Jesse’s side. It was her turn to study the other people in depth, to study her surroundings in depth. There were different types of masks and different types of attire, but they shared a common purpose, whatever the real purpose happened to be. No. Apparently, they wanted change. They wanted to protect their loved ones from disappearing. They wanted to save their loved ones from the slaughter. Again, the vague writing on the paper left Clover at a loss. Were they surrounded by hunters? Were they amongst sorcerers? Were they amongst their own kind? The most important question was saved for last. Did the answer to the previous questions really matter?

Whether they were amongst any of the mentioned groups, they still bore the same risk. Vampires couldn’t even trust other vampires. They were surrounded by enemies, united cause or not. At that thought, Clover squeezed Jesse’s hand. She hoped that he understood the gesture, that he didn’t need the words. Regardless of the rest of the members in the room, the odds were never in their favor. Clo waited though. She waited for someone to break the silence that she was so reluctant to shatter.

• Clover's Attire
  Clover's Mask
  Jesse's Attire

Pulling the flyer down of of the board it had been tacked to Lily had to wonder just what kind of insane moron had started yet another cult. She'd seen things like this before and far too many times. It had started in Harper Rock with an organization that called itself 'The Order of St. James' and now, as far as her eyes and ears were able to tell, that very same Order was now...exterminated. Apparently the bloodsuckers didn't take kindly to people holding secret meetings and working against the status quo or something. She'd heard rumors of other organizations that had attempted to start underground meetings and rumor had it that those had all gone down the exact same way the Paladins did. It was a real pity too, a lot of them had been her so called 'friends' and 'allies' but seemingly only so when they needed information or weapons or for her to initiate some new foolish human in to their ranks. It wasn't like Lily was the only one with underworld connections and the ability to imbue paladins with their power but as the nights wore on it seemed as if people like her, and with her particular gifts, were slowly dwindling and becoming more and more rare.

Crumpling the note in a single hand she gave a soft sigh. Foolish little children. Maybe a good blood bath was what she needed. Things had been far to quiet for her lately at the tiny little abandoned factory she had set up as her little base of operations in the city. So far her own plan of instigating a war amongst the supernatural wasn't exact moving forward quickly enough for her pleasure even though the signs of underworld war made themselves known all around her. She could only supply so much money and so many weapons to the various factions all vying for control of the city but deep down there was one resounding truth that she refused to hear....no matter what happens, the vampires would retain control of the city no matter what. It was unavoidable at this point, there were simply too many of them. They had the numbers and the power they gained from the fade made them more and more powerful with each passing night.

Shaking her head as she passed by, what she assumed, was one of those very same vampires feeding on a human (or an incredibly aroused and/or intoxicated couple) Lily had to wonder just what was going to make this little group different than the rest. That was when the answer dawned on her just as simply as she had made her eay back to her factory. What was going to make this group different? Her, of course. With so many vampires potentially being in attendance perhaps she could end their short sightedness with a bit of her own...far sightedness. That was the very same issue she was in all of these underground 'factions' that were trying to spring up. Everyone was too narrow minded or like minded to actually tolerate any thoughts of change. Hell, there was barely even a fuctioning government of any kind in the city simply because everyone seemed to be stuck in the ways of old.

Just maybe...if humans and vampires could work together with anonymity then perhaps eventually they could work together without it. Regardless, the chaos and anarchy needed to end. The blood in the streets needed to cease. Perhaps this could be a way to do that.

~A few hours later~

The sun had begun to set as Lily worked diligently on her newest masterpiece. It wasn't so much a Van Gogh or a Da Vinci but the crayon made image spoke volumes all on it's own. The bottom half of the image, dark and sullen, was that of a deep green pair of eyes staring back at the viewer in a way that conveyed only pure malice and hatred, a feeling so real it seemed as if the creature were about to claw it's way from the image and in to the real world without warning. Above this darkness though was a city also cloaked in darkness, stars filling the night sky and illuminating even the names of buildings. If one looked closely enough the sign for "West Towers" could be made out and then across the city, just barely peeking through the trees to the north, the abandoned mansion that was only partially still standing. It wouldn't take long with the assitance of the level of detail to see that this was the skyline of Harper Rock at night.

Taking a deep breath and looking down at what she had created, Lily added it to the pile of others that took up a fair amount of room on the floor across from the makeshift forge the factory had been so kind to provide her with. It was amazing that even in this day and age there were so many different threads of time all working themselves simultaneously through the lives of every single person in the world. Simply trying to envision it was enough to give the sorceress a headache as she prepared herself for the night ahead of her. Her battle armor, a knee length ensemble with an intricate weaving of black and red cloth perfectly fitted with pieces of leather that ran diagonally across her chest to afford both protection and flexibility, was fastened to her in no time at all over a stab resistant shirt and matching crimson pants.

Finally, her sword was secured at her hip and her favorite compound bow stashed across her back made her ready for the adventure to come. It was, after all, time to change the future. The image of her newest work of art haunting her as she made her way out of the factory and towards....something. There were only so many warehouses in the city after all. Pushing the haunting image aside, Lily took a deep breath and let it out ever so slowly. There it was! A single flicker of what seemed like a black flame emanating from a rundown warehouse not too far from where she was currently wandering. Hopefully this was the sign she was looking for...if not then it was going to be one hell of a night. Pulling up her hood and even complementing the look with a kabuki mask she tended to keep on her, Lily set off in the direction of the warehouse.

It wasn't long before she arrived to find that she wasn't the first one there. The whole place seemed like it was going to turn in to some kind of shootout or something. Everyone seemed so...stoic and on edge. Striding with confidence across the room she signed her 'name' to the paper and added, as it seemed most had, a phone number. A burner of course. One didn't live as long as Lily had without learning a trick or two. Even as she took her place among the others gathered there the room was so silent she could almost hear the ink drying on the name that had been written to the paper...Moon.