(Side Story: TC) Some Folk Will Believe Any Old Shite!

[Stonehouse]

“Oh, for ****’s sake!” said Grant Stonehouse. “It’s just one thing after another!”

Not for the first time in recent weeks, Stonehouse, the English businessman with a penchant for drinking fresh, human blood, found himself almost pulling his thick, dark hair out from his scalp in utter frustration. Slamming the flip-top lid of his brushed aluminium laptop down onto the keypad, the glowing white Apple symbol fizzling out like a candle’s dying flame, the agitated vampire jumped to his feet.

“Can we not just have a few days without any hassle?” said Stonehouse as he began pacing around the lounge of his city centre apartment. “Just one day would be handy!”

Hardly a day seemed to go by without some crazy story or another dominating the headlines. The phenomenon of “fake news” was infecting the media like an irritating virus, spreading through the pages of newspapers, blurring the screens of TV bulletins, and contaminating websites. It was becoming more and more difficult to determine what was fact and what was fiction. Blatant lies had been relabelled as “alternative facts” by shameless shitebags in positions of power, and the gullible masses were willing to swallow whatever garbage was being rammed down their greedy throats. Some folk will believe any old shite!

A few months back, the Masquerade, the veil of secrecy that had kept the vampire community hidden from their human counterparts, had been torn down, potentially exposing Stonehouse and his brethren to an almighty backlash. Rumours, truthful or totally fabricated, were floating around freely like flotsam on a rough sea following a shipwreck. At any stage, a rallying call could be sounded by anyone with an axe to grind against the vampires, and there could be carnage on the streets of Harper Rock. Disillusioned people, the disenfranchised folk of the city and its surrounding area who felt left behind by society, were looking for somebody to blame for their own misfortunes, a scapegoat to be held accountable for the failings of their community. People clutching at straws, drowning in obscurity, are often willing to believe anything that they are told if it deflects the responsibility of the problems from their own door.

Stonehouse, along with a handful of close acquaintances, had been endeavouring to uncover those responsible for the Masquerade’s collapse. The official line was that a member of the Lionelli faction had spilled the beans to the authorities, letting them know that vampires genuinely existed, and that they weren’t simply fictitious creations from the minds of horror story novelists. Sometimes, the truth seemed more weird and wonderful than the plethora of fake news polluting the airwaves. However, Stonehouse was sceptical about the exact source of the breach of secrecy.

The Hebigumo Foundation, the public face of an organization run by the Jorogumo, a group of shapeshifting Sirens, was currently under a high level of scrutiny. There was clearly something sinister going on within their headquarters, and Stonehouse was determined to get to the bottom of the puzzle.

However, a new, potentially lethal curveball had just been thrown by a mysterious character who went by the name of “The Administrator”. The anonymous personality, who occasionally posted statements in a secure internet forum, had a title that sounded like he should be taking the leading role in a seedy BDSM movie. He may as well call himself something equally as ridiculous, like “The Governor”, or “The Master”. Normally, Stonehouse would take everything that The Administrator posted with a huge pinch of salt, but this particular instalment had grabbed the Englishman by the scruff on his neck, causing him to stomp around his living room like a caged tiger. The words that were leaping out at Stonehouse like an uncontrollable jack-in-the-box were “Wendigos” and “demi-fae”.

The Jorogumo, and their close allies, the Encantado, were not only both classed as Sirens, but were also under the much greater demi-fae umbrella. Was it too much of a coincidence that The Administrator’s latest announcement, discussing a growing threat to the fragile peace that had been established between vampires and humans, was concerned with another species of demi-fae, the Wendigos? To Stonehouse’s logical brain, the connection seemed too suspicious to be ignored.

Were the demi-fae gathering their forces together to create an unholy army that would wreak havoc among the human population, and hammer another collective nail into the vampire’s coffin? Such a scenario was quite simply one that Stonehouse - and all of vampirekind - couldn’t afford to see happen. It was time for the businessman to make a few phone calls, to try and nip this latest threat in the bud before it blossomed into another devastating catastrophe.

[Prudence]

Life was pretty ******* grand right now.

To start at the beginning, Prudence had found herself part of some 'group' called the Voodoo Dragons. She couldn't think about -who- specifically invited her to the 'group,' but the invitation clearly came from Mortll herself since she headed the thing. It had potential, if it didn't, Prudence wouldn't have thought twice about it. There were a lot of young ones, but there were a few solid old ones too. Like, her and Mortll and Azraeth.

The first battle had been a struggle fest, but each time seemed to be getting better and better. There was a human in there too, which was kinda crazy at first to Prudence and got some hesitation from her, but the human seemed to be a pretty bad *** ***** who could do a lot of cool **** and seemed to want to work with them, so maybe, just maybe she was alright. Prudence was a very selective person when it came to those she 'hung' around and typically, humans didn't make the cut. But this human did.

When the redhead got word that the Siren's were attacking them, Prudence had, for a second, thought that maybe-just maybe it wasn't a coincidence. That maybe they were targeting the group, because they were targeting her. Not that she could blame them, her and Levi and some other guy--Grant was it? Kinda **** on their parade a few months ago when those siren fuckers were up to no good doing some shady **** at some Asian sounding company in the bulk of the city. And wouldn't ya know it? Something shady was going on-but what was beyond her. Everything had been pretty ******* cryptic and solving puzzles wasn't her thing. Maybe Levi knew something that she didn't, which made the redhead's eyes narrow suddenly. Levi. Just the thought of his name caused the redhead's mood to alter significantly. He called for her help, then the woman hadn't seen hide or hair of him since that night she helped him out. ******.

So, with a potential target on her back, Prudence wasn't surprised when the siren bitches started gunning for her. Luckily for her, Prudence was the type of vampire who fought until there was no fight in her and while they tried to break her spirit down during the battle, very few of them could actually land a hit on the woman-physically or magically. They all got a fair few one fingered salutes in the middle of the battle as she cackled at their feeble attempts to do anything. And then, the Queen came.

That ***** had a straight hard on for the redhead. Like, Prudence had broke her favorite tiara or some ****. She came from no where, busted her arm and then shot her in the gut. The only two lands of the night from any of the siren bitches, before they were mercilessly slaughtered by the Voodoo Dragons last night. While Pru hadn't put any final bullet holes in any of them, she had shot a fair few throats, guts and crotches. That would teach them! And while she didn't end up with any crown, telling Amalea and Kitty that they earned the two from the Queen and the Matriarch, Prudence did walk away a right bloody mess.

Life was pretty ******* grand right now.

[Stonehouse]

Grant Stonehouse liked to be in control. He would much rather be in the driving seat, with his steady hands firmly on the steering wheel, than cooped up in the back, relying on somebody else. The well-organized businessman preferred to change gear when he wanted to, not when someone else thought it was the right time. He had total trust in his own abilities. There is a fine line between supreme confidence and total arrogance, and Stonehouse often found himself balancing precariously on that divide like a tightrope walker at the circus.

Fortunately, for the cocksure entrepreneur, his successes almost always backed up his immense self-belief, inflating his ego like a prideful pump. Stonehouse wasn’t always right, but he was never wrong. His assertiveness and poise had paved the way towards moderate wealth in his former human existence, and a small fortune in his vampire life. There was a reason why Stonehouse enjoyed wearing suits and shirts made by Boss: the name fitted his self-perception as snuggly as their fine garments hugged his athletic frame. It was no surprise, then, that recent events were frustrating Stonehouse, irritating him like an unscratchable itch on the sole of his foot.

Knowledge was power in Stonehouse’s book, but at the moment he was lacking in information. He wasn’t exactly powerless, but he did feel as though he were flailing in the breeze like an old, dishevelled flag. Firstly, the Masquerade had collapsed, putting the future of his business ventures in jeopardy. Secondly, there was obviously some kind of clandestine operation in progress, lead by the Sirens under the cover of the Hebigumo Foundation. The fact that Stonehouse and his allies had still not got to the bottom of the mystery was driving him crazy. Was the well of intrigue simply too deep? Would their investigative bucket never actually reach the bottom, and would the puzzle remain unsolved? Now, to add further confusion to the already complicated recipe, The Administrator had thrown in yet another ingredient, the wendigos.

Even The Administrator annoyed Stonehouse. Who was he? The sarcastic showman was either some pesky little kid sheltering behind a computer screen, the epitome of a keyboard warrior, or somebody with a lot of power and influence; toying with the vampire community for his own amusement. Perhaps he was nothing more than Harper Rock’s version of the Wizard of Oz, hiding behind his curtain, trying to convince everyone that he was some kind of mighty magician, pulling the community’s strings via a set of elaborate illusions? At some stage, Stonehouse wanted to confront The Administrator in person, either to shake his hand for pulling off such an excellent charade, or to expose him as a fraud and a charlatan. But that would have to wait, there were more pressing matters at hand.

Several voicemail messages had been left on the various answer machines of some of Stonehouses closest acquaintances, the likes of Levi and Whit with whom previous discussions and escapades had occurred on the subject of Sirens, and his own vampiric offspring. Maybe it was time for his progeny to step up to the plate and show their mettle? So far, there had been no replies, which in itself was mildly frustrating. Stonehouse wasn’t the kind of man to sit around all day tapping his fingers upon his oak desk in anticipation of the phone ringing. He was a go-getter, an energetic upstart who didn’t enjoy wasting time.

He’d also searched for the contact number for the redhead called Pru, the woman with whom he’d dodged a few bullets in the tunnels beneath the Hebigumo Foundation’s secretive complex. A scribbled down set of digits that resembled a mobile phone number was all that Stonehouse could find, so he fired off a hopeful text message just in case, but to no avail, at least for now. Perhaps she would have been able to shed a bit more light on the situation?

As things stood, it looked as though Stonehouse would have to start gathering some intelligence on the wendigo threat alone. Call it preparation or laying the foundations, but a bit of groundwork never did anyone any harm. If rumours were to be believed, the sinister wendigos could be located primarily in a forest to the south of the city, so a trek into the wilderness appeared to be on the cards. If any of his colleagues decided to get in touch, he could direct them to his intended location.

Stonehouse was far more accustomed to 5-star luxury hotels than tents in the woods. Camping was for boy scouts, keen on adventures, or for youthful music lovers who wanted to experience the craziness of an outdoor festival like Glastonbury or Download. The thought of a sleeping bag was truly repulsive. A comforting duvet and feather pillows was much more appealing. A man has his standards, don’t you know.

Gathering a rucksack full of essential items, which obviously included a phone and plenty of weaponry, Stonehouse prepared for a reconnaissance mission to the forest. Chances were that this would be no simple walk in the park, so the makeshift explorer wanted to be prepared for any unwanted encounters. A tailored suit was ditched in favour of some camouflaged army surplus gear that Stonehouse had picked up cheaply at a second-hand market stall. He resembled a marine, rather than the usually sophisticated businessman who worked so diligently around the city. Apparently, there were wolves in Wall Street, but there were real wolves wandering menacingly in the wilderness.

[Prudence]

Knowing she couldn't walk around covered in ash and blood, Prudence opted to head to the trailer home, shower and change into something else. With her red hair high in a pony, the redhead left the trailer home under fifteen minutes. The woman wasn't one of those girlie girls that needed to spend thirty or forty minutes making sure every part of her smelled like some sort of flower, or spice to try and impress someone.

Stopping at the old beat up truck that sat parked more than it ran, Prudence grabbed a white zip down hoodie and shrugged her way into it. The woman zipped it up, hiding the camouflage patterned tank top she was wearing, before stuffing both hands into the pockets of the under armor hoodie. She was just about to close the door when Prudence saw her phone that she had lost about half a week back. So that's where it went to. Duh. She had used the truck to take the dogs to some dog park on the other side of town and had left her phone in the middle console. Not that many people called her-none, in fact. Unless Ryker needed her at the bar for an emergency, but everyone else just knew the one of three places she would be at. The caverns, her bar, or the sewers; mainly the latter because Nathaniel liked it in there.

She pressed the 'on' button down and watched the screen light up as it went through the turning on process. While that was going on, Prudence slammed the door to the truck closed and headed out of the trailer park. The turning process took about a minute, to a minute and a half, so the redhead stuffed the phone in the back pocket of her light stone washed colored pants. Her destination was the sewers since Nathaniel hadn't been in the trailer home-coming to the conclusion that he came and went and was waiting for her there. Implying he wasn't worried about her not coming home since he did things as normal. The thought made the redhead smile; because in her mind he shouldn't be worried. Even though, Prudence knew he was...deep down, he made a good effort to not act like it. Something she appreciated.

Her phone chirped from the back pocket, indicating there was a message. This caused the redhead to stop in her tracks and grab the phone. It could only be Ryker. At least that was what the woman thought, until she saw the name 'Grant,' show up and Prudence looked down at the phone, then around. Who the **** was Grant? The woman red the text, and shrugged, realizing it was someone she obviously knew given the context of the text--or at least someone who knew her. There was only one way to find out just WHO this person was and HOW she knew him. The redhead tapped in the screen and replied with a pretty simple 'Where do you want to meet up?' The towering killer hit send and continued walking towards the sewers, where she would make a quick stop inside her bar to grab a couple small weapons for some more hunting fun time, while waiting to see who Grant was and what he wanted.

[Whit]

Thank God for the Americans.

The recent election to the south had sparked any number of news grabbing events such as 'protests' and riots, and marches – not just in the United States, but in other locations across the globe. As far as Whitaker was concerned, the best way to deal with bad press was to wait for it to go away, and let the next big problem hit the headlines. The recent election of the United States president fit the bill, and while it did not entirely negate local reporting, it certainly acted as a decent smoke screen which gave Whit some peace of mind. A little bit of extra time to plan for the inevitable dangers of an exposed vampire community. He had, only a few months prior, met with Levi and Grant to discuss a sort of pseudo-political alliance geared towards addressing the many-faced problem which had been essentially dumped on them by the negligent Lionelli. Or at least, that was the official story. The Necromancer still craved a certain brand of vengeance if the story proved to be true.

Several news feeds scrolled slowly up on the wall of monitors which made up part of his media room. Normally each monitor was devoted to an independent function, such as tracking stock values, relaying information captured on live camera, local and foreign headlines, additions to local police databases, the movements of enemies or other persons of interests, and any number of purposes which kept Whitaker in the know and on top of his game. Information was, after all, the wellspring of power. One matter of disturbing immediacy was the Administrator posted culling of Wendigos. Whit recalled a time only a few years before when he'd been a mortal and there hadn't been anything that went bump in the dark. Then vampires. Fairies. Zombies. Now wendigos, which seemed to be mythical even by the standards of the supernatural. Whit found himself going specifically through missing persons reports, and attacks on the edge of Harper Rock, trying to determine if there was any truth to the Administrator's words. Were the wendigos hunting humans? If so, were the numbers substantial enough to warrant action? It seemed the answer to both questions was a resounding 'yes'.

Normally Whit advocated for waiting until all information was on the table before taking action, but inaction was going to lead to more human death, and therefor greater risk of negative exposure. With humans only seemingly slightly in favor of vampires on the whole, waiting was not a risk the vampire community of Harper Rock could take. Which meant there was another obstacle coming between Whitaker and his own research. He desperately wanted to learn more about what had caused the sundering, about how to make the rift larger. There was only a single ultimate solution. Even if humans could be goaded into the state of believing vampires were harmless or to be trusted; the Lionelli proved that outside forces could radically change human perception. It only took a few major **** ups in public without the right spin or media control to ruin the image of an entire species.

There was only one real answer. Humans would eventually find out that vampires were monsters. The monsters needed to grab hold of their immortality and take control of it.

The appeasing of the masses, the puff and fluff pieces about how humans and vampires could get along, the suppression of anti-vampire views – all of those were just the cover from the storm which Whit needed on his journey to find answers. And yet that cover seemed to want to disintegrate right over top his head.

There was a buzzing at his side he hadn't noticed, engrossed as he was in fact checking. He looked at his phone and noticed a missed call from Grant. After checking his messages, it seemed they were of a similar mindset about the matter. Whitaker was not, as far as he was concerned, a terribly strong individual. However, he could provide ample healing after having reached mastery of his path. A few exchanged texts later, and he was ready to go into the forest to search. Perhaps to destroy. He wore clothing suitable to the task, and carried along with him his phone, Bloody Mary (his gun), as well as some explosives in an unmarked duffle bag, and the very first pocket watch he'd ever gotten as a good luck token.

Then he went to meet up with Grant.

[Stonehouse]

Prior to his existence as a bloodsucking creature of the night, Stonehouse had been a successful businessman across the Atlantic Ocean in the UK. He had been based in the north of England; his regional offices located close the industrial heartland of Manchester. The old Lancastrian city was probably double the size of Harper Rock, but almost ten times larger in terms of population if the surrounding Greater Manchester district was to be included in the total figure. But even this sprawling conurbation paled into insignificance next to London, the country’s world-renowned capital city, and base for the national headquarters of Stonehouse’s employer, a medical company called Elixir.

The flamboyant salesman regularly had to pay a visit “down south” to the murky metropolis of London for various meetings and conferences. The presentations and planning sessions were inevitably coupled with an overly expensive business lunch or two in a swanky restaurant, racking up yet another enormous expenses bill. Foie gras or a plate of oysters washed down by a glass or four of Chablis represented a reasonably shiny silver lining on the boredom cloud of a day spent spinning around on faux leather chairs in a board room.

To the casual onlooker, London and Harper Rock were poles apart, and shared few similarities, but a closer inspection could reveal a completely different story. Both cities were littered with weird and wonderful sights, a smorgasbord of characters with unbelievable tales to tell, and a plethora of shady activities being conducted down dark alleys and abandoned buildings. There may not have been any actual, physical vampires in London, at least none that the general public were currently aware of, but the city could certainly drain you, and suck the living daylights from your soul.

One of the many “joys” of a journey to the big smoke of London was the opportunity to fight one’s way across the city using public transport. As with most large cities around the globe, the traffic was nearly always a nightmare to negotiate. The Underground - an elaborate network of train-lines that burrowed through the depths of the city, disturbing the graves of long since deceased Victorians - was a reasonably fast and reliable system, but the carriages were always jammed full. Commuters, heading to and from work like robotic drones, were crunched up next to tourists, resembling tiny sardines packed tightly into a can. Even the shortest of trips was thoroughly unpleasant. Unfortunately, the alternatives weren’t much better.

If a subterranean adventure simply wasn’t your thing then a famous black taxicab, or an iconic red bus were probably the best two replacement options. However, both modes of transportation came with a problem. Whether it was rush hour or the middle of the day, the roads were usually gridlocked with traffic crawling along at the pace of a drunken snail carrying a particularly heavy shell that was waterlogged with typically English rain. There was a common saying around the streets that summed up the situation, tapping into the unpredictability of the transport system. If something was unreliable or a little bit random, it was said to be like a bus, because you’d get none arriving for what seemed like an eternity, and then three would roll up in convoy, like a carnival procession had just hit the road.

As Stonehouse’s arms flapped around, padding the numerous pockets of his camouflaged combat trousers as if he were attempting to swat an invisible fly, he was midway through his own London bus five minutes. First of all, just as he was about to vacate his apartment and embark on his journey towards the forest, the businessman-cum-commando’s phone suddenly buzzed from within the depths of his backpack. For a brief moment, Stonehouse wondered if he’d thrown a giant bee into his bag by mistake.

Checking the incredibly brief and succinct text message, a reply from the redhead called Pru, Stonehouse immediately fired off a response. A smile graced his chiselled face as he pressed the send button. Finally, someone had replied to his call to arms. Stonehouse’s return message was slightly more lengthy than Pru’s simple “Where do you want to meet up?” bullet point, advising her to make her way to Newborough transit station in the south of Harper Rock, and to bring her favourite weapons along for the ride. However, the normally chatty salesman didn’t over-elaborate on his plans. He’d put the meat on the bones once the pair came face to face.

Having just decided to place his phone in a far more accessible pocket of his pants rather than have it sink to the bottom of his rucksack once again, the tele-communicator burst back into life. The second bus had arrived right on cue! The fact that there were so many pockets on the pair of trousers did make the task of relocating the phone a little trickier than it should have been. Clearly, the camouflage was working perfectly!

For the second time in as many minutes, a smile widened Stonehouse’s cheeks. It was now Whitaker pinging out the messages, having apparently missed Stonehouse’s earlier call. A quick game of telephone tennis was played out as texts were fired off, back and forth like a dynamic rally during a grand slam final. Whitaker had joined the team, and was about to make his way to the rendezvous point.

A grin of satisfaction lingered on Stonehouse’s face as he locked the door to his apartment. The wheels were slowly rolling into motion. He’d share his full thoughts with the two others when they all met up. Additionally, Stonehouse was definitely keen on hearing what they both had to say about the potential wendigo crisis.

[Prudence]

Prudence was going the wrong way. That much was evident when the mysterious 'Grant' replied to her text message and talked about heading to the Newborough station. Seeing as she was on her way to Cherrydale--that wouldn't work. She would have grunted in annoyance, but the person talked about bringing her favorite weapon and that actually sounded fun. Something Prudence wasn't going to turn down.

But...she did need to error on the side of caution. The redhead typed out a reply of 'Be there in fifteen. While she turned on her heel and headed back to the trailer park. Time management was needed and she did have her favorite gun there, it only made sense. What also made sense to her was not meeting some random person she wasn't really sure about. Back up might be needed. If the person was sketchy, then she would have the upper hand with one, or even two people on her 'side.' But if they were cool, and needed some muscle, then Prudence and her friend(s) could provide that muscle assistance. In the end, it was better she went ahead and invited Nathaniel and Mordie along, because Prudence was positive they could both come in handy, if they replied, or even showed up.

When the redhead was on the cusp of the trailer park, she sent a text to her husband, personally, instead of sending out a group text for both him and Mordie. 'Hey, baby! If you're tired of the sewer scene and want to check out something new, meet me at the Newborough train station in about ten. Love ya! Prudence hit send and then proceeded to text her friend Mordie. 'Yo! If ya ain't got **** to do, meet me at Newborough train station in like ten. Bring some good **** with ya. I'm sure we'll see some trouble tonight. Trouble was code for 'fun,' because Prudence rarely found herself in trouble and Mordie being in trouble was an impossible idea in her mind. The guy was a giant and bulked up to the max, so who would really mess with him? Rather, who would make trouble with him?

With both texts sent out, Pru moved to her trailer and climbed up the three stairs that would take her inside the living room area, once the front door was shoved open. The dogs whined at the door as she unlocked it, but once they saw her, they bounded off and checked out the trailer's rooms to make sure they were the only ones in there. Prudence more or less followed them down the hallway to the bedroom, and moved to the trunk at the foot of the bed. The redhead flipped the latch so she could open it and then pushed the lid so it fit snug against the mattress and box-spring at he end of the bed. What awaited her inside made the woman grin. Pistols of all sorts of makes and models secured to the top of the trunk. Small blades tucked inside a durable case of some description; leather, or woven. And then finally, the gun that had been with her through the years. The redhead hoisted it out of the trunk, grabbed a small blade that easily latched to any pocket in a pair of pants, a box of ammo, then closed the lid and twisted the latch once again. "See ya later, boys." Prudence said as she headed out the front door, then took off in a run for the train station; a run that no human eye could pick up.

[Whit]

Anyone who claimed that style was devoid of function was a fool. Whitaker had learned, as he began to invest in himself for the sake of his businesses, that the cut of a suit could play as much a nuanced role in the intricacies of office politics as productivity and efficiency. This was a large part of why he made no effort to cover up his corpse-like visage. He looked to be dead, with sunken eyes, purpled lips, and gaunt, emaciated features which reflected the way he had died. Wasting away from a sickness deep in his bones. The appearance had the effect of making him difficult to approach, which was precisely what he, as a shameless introvert, wanted. Along the same lines, he normally drove a modern Rolls Royce because the brand spoke of wealth and luxury. While a beat up 1990's vehicle might have gotten the job done equally well, putting on a show was a major component of human culture. However, stealth was more important than style, and Whit was thankful he'd had the foresight to purchase a barely running junker with fake plates, in cash.

Maybe Whit was just naturally inclined to assume the worst was absolutely going to happen.

His bag was flung into the trunk, and he began on his way to the meeting point, previously dictated by Grant. The drive itself was not a long one. The only 'updated' part of the car itself was a new radio, which sometimes made the wiring in the entire car go haywire, but he was able to connect his phone. The GPS function was unecessary, but Whit had been pulling up articles about the wendigos after doing a little bit of research. As he drove, the pages were read aloud through the speakers, right off of his device. It seemed very little was known about them as a species other than that they really weren't supposed to exist. The myths surrounding them made them seem almost like werewolves, or ice wolves. He could tell, based on a few things, and due to his own ties to the subject, that they were gifted with certain necromantic abilities. Which seemed odd. Everything Whit had ever been exposed to about the fae made him believe they were essentially the opposite of vampires. Natural to the vampire's unnatural.

There were no clues or hints about how to kill them. Or how to drive them off. Presumably, the Administrator knew what he was talking about though, and if enough vampires attacked, the wendigo population would be impacted enough to move.

And yet. What had brought them to Harper Rock? Was it some conspiracy to ruin vampires? Was there something else going on beneath the surface?

He was curious, but curiosity was sharpy drowned out by the need for action. And so he detached his phone after arriving at the meeting location. He parked his car in one of the commuter spots at the Newborough station, and grabbed his bag. Seconds later, he was approaching Grant who appeared to be wearing camo army fatigues. "Rambo?" He asked as he neared.

And then, more to the point. "Anyone else turning up for this?" Not that it really mattered; he and Grant were more than competent enough in Whit's mind. But extra muscle to make up for Whit's notable lack of it was always welcome.

[Stonehouse]

Stonehouse skipped out onto the street with a spring in his step, buoyed by the fact that a couple of people had responded to his messages. He paused, scratching his smoothly shaven chin as if he were in deep contemplation. Delving into one of his many pockets, the upbeat businessman withdrew his phone once again, the screen bursting into life with the aid of thumbprint recognition. Although three heads were certainly going to be more effective than just one, additional help would be most welcomed. One final round of messages to those who had not yet responded couldn’t do any harm.

With the click of a few buttons, Stonehouse fired off another volley of texts in the hope that more troops could be rounded up to join the party. If the wendigo threat were as real as the Administrator seemed to suggest, then every vampire would need to stay alert and be ready for action. There would be no point burying their heads in the sand like immortal ostriches, hoping that the problem would simply disappear. When the **** hits the fan, the spray usually catches everyone in the face.

The frustrating issue with many of the folk who walked the undead pathways around Harper Rock was that they had a habit of vanishing into thin air, like magicians’ assistants, gone in a puff of smoke. There was always so much to occupy their time, a new business venture to dive into or a mysterious ritual to be learned, maybe even a dispute over a territory that needed resolving, either through negotiation or brute force. Perhaps the vampires of Harper Rock were all like London buses in a peculiar kind of way? You wouldn’t see any in ages then they’d all show up at once.

Replacing his phone securely into a pocket of his combat trousers, Stonehouse set off on his brief journey across town. His thoughts were occupied by the wendigos; what exactly was their plan? Having encountered encantados and their close allies, jorogumos, Stonehouse’s knowledge of demi-fae was slowly increasing with each skirmish and run in with the weird creatures, but there were still so many gaps to plug with extra information. The only type of demi-fae that the intellect could really say that he understood with any sense of authority, were the sidhe. These humanoid spirit beings could be summoned by using incredible concentration, although they rarely hung around for long. Maybe they would be of assistance against the wendigos?

There were many unanswered questions, but hopefully the excursion into the wilderness would shed some well-needed light onto the shady situation. Stonehouse wasn’t exactly sure what he’d discover lurking in the forest to the south of the city, but he was keen to get the show on the road and find out. He wouldn’t have to wait long as the transit station came into view.

Stonehouse had only just parked himself up near the metro entrance - probably resembling a hitchhiker to the casual passer-by, his rucksack slung loosely over one shoulder - when Whitaker came around the corner. One down, one to go.

“Good evening, Whitaker,” said Stonehouse, offering a hand for his companion to shake. “This is designer label Rambo gear, don’t you know. Let’s just hope that the mysterious wendigos don’t push me!”

A subtle smile crept gently across Stonehouse’s face as the pair began their chit-chat.

“So, what do you know, if anything, about these creatures?” said Stonehouse with a more serious tone to his voice. “I don’t really know much myself, but I get the impression that they are bad news.”

Stonehouse glanced around, surveying the area as if he were trying to pick out a specific face from the pedestrians who were casually going about their business on what appeared to be a rather average evening.

“And yes,” he added, returning his focus towards Whitaker, “I’m expecting another guest to join in our little escapade. In fact, I think that may be her over there.”

[Prudence]

Prudence had stopped her faster than lightening speed run about a block away from the designated place this 'Grant,' choose. With still no word from her husband or from Mordie, Prudence just shrugged after the redhead had looked at her messages. It really wasn't any sweat off her skin if one, both, or neither of them showed up. She offered them the opportunity at some *** kicking and it was up to them to take it or not. Chances are her husband wouldn't-and the red head sort of already knew that because it seemed he took a personal mission in trying to end those Disciple guys. Prudence spent some time in there too-but she could spend her time killing anything, anywhere. There was seldom anything personal in her mind or feelings when it came to killing who--or what, needed to be killed.

The tall redhead took solid strides to the meeting place, gaining a few looks due to her rather large...weapon. Just looks and some moving around, or out of the way from Prudence as she walked. People were starting to get used to seeing guns--all shapes and sizes in Harper Rock. To most humans there were other things out there that posed a potentially bigger threat. Vampires. And they were right. So, maybe she was a vampire carrying a really big gun, or maybe she was just a regular, every day Canadian carrying a really big gun to ward off vampires? Hopefully no one would get close enough to make her draw out the weapon for them to find out which the redhead was. Unlike most of her vampire counterparts, Prudence tended to shy away from involving herself in any real human problems...or just humans themselves. Really, she believed humans to be a food source and when she was human, Prudence certainly didn't go frolic in fields with rabbits, cows and chickens. So, why would she do it with her food now? There were one or two rare exceptions, but since neither of those two humans were 'human,' Prudence felt as if she could roll with them if the time ever cropped up, or was needed.

As she encroached upon the meeting spot; the transit station, her steps slowed as Prudence's blue irises scanned the crowd, sweeping from left to right as she searched for the potential 'Grant.' A family, a couple college kids, two old men conversing about who knew what and a lady all sat or stood around the pick up place. Her eyes moved past the immediate area and landed on not one, but two men. ****. She thought to herself as Prudence's focus went solely on the guy that she had seen a time or two before. The other guy-the very dead looking one that screamed 'I'm a vampire!' she had never seen before, but clearly they were acquaintances given their close proximity. She stopped and just stared at the two of them, and then looked past them to see if anyone else might be part of their group. Wasn't that the guy who got mad at her and Levi over that whole Asian sounded place that Prudence couldn't say? It was hard to tell with the way he was dressed, but she shook her head. Yep. That was him alright. This was Grant. The woman moved around the random crowds and over to where they stood and then nudged her head in their general direction. "Grant." Prudence said as she shifted the weight of the gun on her shoulder strap, her eyes on the other guy now. "Grant's friend." Introductions done on her part, Prudence returned her attention to Grant. "We're off to shoot more things?" She asked with a small smirk glossing across her features. Ahh. Good times.