It was a clear night in the city of Boston, quarter moon shining overhead. The rain had cleared out, and the night was young, which would bring out all sorts from all walks of life, and this would lead to friction and deals being made. Police sirens could be heard from parts of the city, the occasional staccato of gunfire could also be heard echoing from the distance, always just a few blocks closer than one could consider being comfortable with. But this was the reality of living in the city of Boston, gunfire and police action wherever people and criminals got too rowdy, and too bold and were incapable of handling the police that were brave, or stupid, enough to show up and attempt to enforce the law wherever the violence or trouble was going on. It was business as usual in a city like Boston, and even more so if you would look beneath the surface of petty violence and police action.

All was not peaceful this night, and for more than the usual reasons. The city was controlled by Vampires, and the Prince of such beings in this city lived well, to put it simply. His mansion was grand, the porch had great old columns resting upon it, towering upwards to support the building while oaken double doors provided the gateway into the private realm of this being of wealth, importance, and extravagance. Such places would also invite the heavy security required to maintain them, and such men and beings of power were indeed here. They were normally about the lawn, patrolling and looking for interlopers, while others would man the gates and posts there, only admitting those who were on the authorized list for that night, and knew the proper security protocols to even gain entry. But this was not a normal night, for this very same security was dead, slaughtered to the man and scattered about on the grounds outside, indicating a far greater trouble going on than usual.

Those grand double doors were blown down, a clear indication of the invasion of the Prince's realm by men unknown. More guards were dead within, the grand hall ruined and destroyed in many places, leading deeper into the private quarters of the Prince himself. Said prince was staked in the chest, an action that paralyzes any vampire until it can be removed, while he had been strung up onto a piece of wood by several men who now surrounded him. Crosses hung from their necks, and while they were clearly nervous, their garb clearly spoke of their Catholic origins. From this scene one could draw a whole myriad of conclusions, few of which would fit the apparent capture of this vampire Prince by mere mortals.

They had specific orders on how to kill this Prince of the Vampires, and they enacted such things quickly, unsure of how long the paralysis would last, unaware of its permanent effects until removal, or Final Death. They removed his fangs, per the odd instructions, dousing him in gasoline while reciting prayers to their God, for the blessing that would free this wretched creature from its fate of Undeath, whether it wanted to be freed or not was another matter completely. A match would then see the Vampire prince burst into flames, unable to scream or fight back because of the stake of wood rammed into his chest. This affair, and whatever dark thoughts that went through the prince's head, were the last moments of this Prince, for there would be no recovery from such an event.

With the Prince ablaze, and fangs in possession, the god fearing men starting dousing everything in gasoline, praying the whole time, breaking windows as they went to feed the oncoming blaze, as they slowly worked outwards, having worked through much of the gasoline that they had brought with them, using what was left as they walked out the main gates to provide a path to light so they would not have to be close to the building when the blaze started. The eldest, and in charge, man of the three lit a cigarette with a match, taking a drag before releasing the smoke into the night air, before tossing the match upon the trail of gasoline, sending a rush of fire into the mansion, which quickly erupted into great flames and billowing black smoke, the wooden, gasoline soaked building burning eagerly and greatly, the lack of rain only accelerated this process further. Such a blaze was clear for miles around, which was the goal all along.

- --

Archbishop Hallr Gunnarson & Cecilia Torhild

In another part of town, beings of another sort and creed were gathering. Underground, within a network of tunnels, all part of the old 'Big Dig', Garou and Vampire convened to discuss dark things, none of which would be within the Camarilla's interests. The tunnels were dank, wet, and cramped at spots, but a larger, foyer like area had been discovered and was being used to convene the meeting, which had all sorts of odd, outcast beings. For the Sabbat were here in force, long time enemies of the Camarilla, and there was a Garou present that was not, in many cases, welcome by any other of the more mainstream Garou beings. The Black Spiral Dancer Cecilia Torhild was in attendance, and wherever she went, the Garou would be ready to fight her and stop her goals whenever possible, but were not everywhere to stop her. Here was one such gathering.

Arch Bishop of the Sabbat, Hallr Gunnarson, was face to face with the Black Spiral Dancer, a Cecilia Torhild, and they were currently dicussing nothing in particular while the last stragglers trickled in for the meeting. Gunnarson had very specific plans and strategies, while Cecilia was more interested in the slaughter and the fight than the not so gory details of such affairs as their own, but that is what sparked their partnership in this case. Gunnarson could do the underhanded, the sneaky political backstabbery, while Cecilia got to just go after her enemies and loosely keep that in line with the plans and orders of the day. The Arch Bishop knew what he was getting involved with here, but it was all part of the plan, and as the last of the members required entered, he turned the topic to strategy and plans.

"Cecilia of the Black Spiral, I have a task for you that should be enjoyable for yourself, if nothing else, as it seems everyone is finally present." Cecilia quieted down for now, humoring the Sabbat vampire and feigning interest, in case it proved boring and nothing to her interest at all, unlike his suggestions indicated. Gunnarson continued, apparently unphased by this. "We know not where the Garou mainstream like to huddle down for a night or day, resting to gather themselves again. I figure you would enjoy knowing where they are living, so I would request that you take several of my vampires and figure this out." Cecilia smirked, she had to admit that would be interesting, and shrugged as several vampires that would be appointed this task stepped forward, and she spoke. "Yea, I can go sniff em out. If your vamps can't keep up, don't expect me to wait for em. Let's go." With that she was gone, the vampires having been specifically chosen to keep up, and Gunnarson turned to the assembled mass and continued.

"Each of you have been called here to receive orders, to know your roles in the days to come. The Camarilla, weak as they are in mind, took Boston from us some time ago. We are here to return it to the control of the Sabbat, which is why you are all gathered here tonight. You have your orders, but some of you I wish to see personally, in my quarters. Leaders of packs, masters of war, priests, and others who are noted in your orders, come with me. The rest of you, execute your duties, for the Sabbat, have returned to Boston to reclaim what is theirs." The meeting dispersed, while Gunnarson retired to his quarters in the tunnels, awaiting those that were to report to him, sitting at a desk and looking at the intelligence gathered so far, silent as they trickled in one at a time.

- --

Nora Myrna

Outside of Boston by, roughly, 30 miles or so, a newcomer to the area is traveling progressively closer to the area. This person is known as Nora Myrna, a Garou that did not serve the darker powers like the Black Spiral Dancers did, she herself was a member of the Fianna tribe, patrons of preserving the artistic past of the Garou, of music and art, and would hold such things close to them, as fierce about the arts as they were about defending themselves and their kin. As she was a Homid, born of humans yet able to control her beastial self after growing into her first change, she could walk among humans more comfortably than others of her kind, but that did not mean she would take them over the wilderness itself.

Arriving at a pond, one could marvel at the lush, verdant growth of the area, and wonder how it had gone unscathed by the ravages of the marches of industry. Looking closer, Myrna would find the markings of her people, the Garou, in this grove, providing the answer as to why. There was a small cave in this grove, verdant wild life and crystal clear water perhaps indicating the place as of some importance to the Garou. Of course, such places of beauty were not unsullied in their view to others, as one could easily see plumes of smoke in the distance, of the fires of industry, often times caused by the Kindred and the humans themselves, never halting to consider the impact on Gaia, or simply not caring.

Myrna could see all this, and cursed the Kindred for what they had wrought upon this land, and all land they would tread upon. For they did not seem content in simply letting their curse be contained to themselves, no, they had to go about ruining the land and the lives of others with their miserable suffering and thoughtless, careless actions. She had seen the land ruined by the Kindred before, who many times were the inadvertant source of a place's woes and troubles, and no matter where she went, this always seemed the case. And it was infuriating, how they scurried about like cock a roaches, refusing to die long after they had overstayed their welcome and draining the area of its life, like parasites, for their own selfish gains.

Such thoughts would echo in the mind of Myrna as she descended from the hill top she had spotted the grove from, her long journey had left her thirsty, and the land still provided for those who respected and protected its ways. This grove was one such place, and as she arrived at the bottom of the hill and reached the grove, she knelt by the pond side, dipping her hands into the water. She drew the water up, drinking from it and quenching her thirst, all the while her thoughts still dwelled upon those smoke plums she had saw, and how much work clearly was to be done here to free the land of the parasitic Kindred.

All Caramilla Vampires, Inigo Malzahar

Inigo Malzahar stood upon the stage, alone. He had quite a lot on his mind right now, understandable, considering the events that had kicked off this wonderful night. He hadn't risen with the plans of finding the Prince, a vampire that, while they had never seen eye to eye, understood the value of information and gave him fairly free reign to do as he saw fit to get the job done. So they got along well enough, from a professional point of view. And he would not have wished a final death upon the Prince, not at this moment at any rate, there was far too much at stake, if his information and sources were reliable, and they had never failed him before. He had enough time vested into this network for it not to fail on him, and he had experience in this kind of work.

Inigo was in his usual great coat, leaning upon an old cane that seemed to support the vampire's weight more than anything else, although this was all smoke and mirrors. He had not removed his hat, a wide brim that had served him well for a good many years now, and he had invested some money in keeping in working order. His attire beneath was clean, but nothing flashy or fancy. A vest, dark slacks and working shoes made up a rather humble attire for someone of his standing. But Inigo did not readily stand on fancy garb, he spoke like an enigma many times as it was, there was little need to dress like one. He had a few other items on his person, nothing he gave any serious thought to. He had popped by his abode, collecting a few things he wouldn't take in the presence of the Prince, weapons, for example, and came here after sending the ghouls on their merry way.

Inigo knew arming himself against many of his enemies was a joke, but it kept up the illusion, and wasn't that the job of many, in the end? Lie to the face of the humans, let them think nothing was wrong, that nothing that went bump in the night was any more substantial than a heavy breeze or just an unstable tea kettle, and not something far more dangerous. But such thoughts were for later musing, as the ghouls arrived to receive their orders. "Go, fetch your masters, rally all those among the Caramilla to this home of drama. There is words to be had this night, for wrathful foes unseen have wrought woeful wickedness upon our kind. The flames of war have been unleashed, and discussion must be made as to how we shall demonstrate our response in kind, what deeds and actions must be placed in motion to preserve our mission. Go now, you have your orders. Ensure that the Seneschal especially is aware and present, one such as that will be required."

The ghouls would go, informing all the vampires of the Caramilla to go to the theater downtown in Boston, that a meeting of dire importance and emergency had been called, and that time was of the essence in this moment.

Jocasta and Eddie

Jocasta sat at the counter, watching her mother, a tall powerfully built woman with thick black hair streaked with silver. Her sleeves were rolled up, revealing the tattoos of their tribe and kuklos and she was glowering at the other woman. Both were warriors, mothers, and at odds about some mission. Jocasta pretended to not listen, instead she slowly rolled a cigarette, Eddie watching her nimble fingers intently. He hated when people argued and she could feel the tension coming off the Metis male. He was in his Crinos form, comfortable at the sept behind the Veil so he was not forced to shift to the homid form. His golden green eyes were bright and Jocasta always thought there was an air of innocence about him, even in his most brutal rages. Her dark eyes cut to her mother who was growing louder and more adamant, the other woman also raising her voice. Something had gone wrong, somewhere south in Mexico, Chiapas perhaps. There was unrest in the jungle there, Wyrm creatures appearing where they had not been expected.

Her mother's shoulders were bunched, she was growing to the point where her temper would explode and it could mean a vicious fight between the two Garou warriors. Delia was snarling back and there was no backing down between the two proud veterans. Jocasta slowly brought the cigarette to her lips and lit it, inhaling deeply and blowing out the smoke toward the pair. She peered at them under her straight bangs when her mother whirled around. She was a health nut, always working out and insisted on organic meats and food, no alcohol or drugs of any kind. Jocasta raised her eyebrows and took another drag.

"Jocasta! By the Goddess what are you doing?" Atalanta shouted, watching the curl of blue smoke rise and her nose wrinkled at the stench. She had the gift of wolf senses even in her homid form and the acrid tobacco smoke stung her nostrils. "Put that out!"

Jocasta took the cigarette from her lips and held it, as if to examine it. "Calms the nerves, maybe you should try it, Mother?"

"Calms the...put it out now and open a window," she snarled, taking a step toward her daughter.

The other woman, Delia, coughed at the smell, her short blonde hair waving back and forth as she shook her head. "Really that's not necessary, Jocasta. Your mother and I were just having a discussion."

"Is that what you call it? Because I was certain she was about to go for your throat," she eyed her mother who was wrenching open one of the kitchen windows. "And you're both making Eddie upset. He doesn't like fighting."

Eddie looked up at his name from where he sat on his haunches at her side. His heavy shoulders were tense and his clawed fingers flexed constantly with nervousness. Delia looked at the Metis, her face revealing her loathing for a brief moment before she smiled but long enough for both of them to see. Jocasta would not have been fooled anyway, Ahroun were terrible liars in her experience. She took another deep drag as her mother turned back from the open window, her face still in a mask of anger. Her dark arched brows drew together and she put her hands on her hips.

"Out now, take that and your little friend with you," she said, though Jocasta could tell she had calmed down from the angered pitch she had been at before the argument had been interrupted.

"Now, now, Mother...you know Eddie is my son now," she pointed out much to the chagrin of Atalanta who shook her head. Eddie seemed pleased with it and made a growling, chortling noise of pleasure. "Since I couldn't keep my own pups, he's all I have."

Jocasta stood up, the cigarette now planted between her lips. She still was raw about having to give up her twin boys, to the Get of Fenris of all tribes, in exchange for two female pups who were likely to have a very hard time growing up in the patriarchal tribe. It was a typical trade, the Black Furies simply did not keep boys but for select Metis males since they were sterile and generally rejected by other tribes. Despite their fierce feminist nature, the women of the Furies also held a nurturing side and took in the unwanted offspring of the taboo inter Garou matings. Eddie was one such creature. His name was not really Eddie but he responded to it and no one seemed to recall what his real name was. It was Jocasta's sick little joke, calling him Oedipus as a play on her own name which was the same as mother in the Greek myth of the man who would kill his father and marry his mother. It caused offense to many of the elders, who did not see any humor in the fact that inbreeding and breeding of Metis were becoming a bigger problem among the Garou.

"You girls behave now, I don't want to come in here and find fur all over," she said as she strolled out the door, still smoking. "Mother, I'll be leaving tomorrow by the way. I'm taking Eddie on a little road trip."

Atalanta shot her a look, it was the first she had heard of it. "Where?"

"Northeast," she replied, standing back as Eddie ducked down and went through the door. "Seems like a place to be now. I always wanted to see the Green Monster."

Atalanta frowned, unfamiliar with the term as she was not a fan of sports or other silly games men played for too much money, "A Green Monster? Is it some sort of Kindred ghoul? A wyrm corruption?"

Jocasta laughed, her dimpled smile flashing, "Yeah, something like that."

Eddie looked back and replied in a deep rough voice, "We're gonna see the Red Sox."

Delia smiled and chuckled, "Baseball, Atalanta, they're going to Boston."

Her mother stiffened, she hated being made a fool and her daughter frustrated her constantly, "Fine. Why can't you just say Boston? Everything must be a riddle with you."

She waved them off, her New Moon daughter was not what she had expected and she grumbled to Delia, "If only I could have crossed my legs and held her in another week or so. I would not have to put up with that. How she managed to even rank up, I will never know."

Delia shrugged, "She is Ragabash, it is her nature to be contrary and speak in riddles. And she is not without bravery and honor, though she plays it down. You don't see what she did?"

"What start smoking in my house even though she knows I hate it and forbid it?" Atalanta retorted, watching from the open window as her only Garou daughter sauntered down the walk with the big Metis shadowing her steps.

"No she turned your anger on herself, derailing our fight," Delia replied, "It's what they do, you know that."

She sighed and twitched her nose, the odor of cigarette still rank in the air, "Yes, that she did. I'm still not done with you but I'm not ready to tear your throat out."

"As if you could," Delia replied, smiling slightly at her old friend. "We'll get it situated, bring back those that were lost."

Jocasta snuffed out the cigarette on the gravel, she was not much of a smoker but it had it's advantages. Eddie trailed her, sniffing here and there, looking for prey as they passed by the large empty field that lead to the brush where deer, wild hog, and rabbits would abound.

"Go on," she said, waving at him, "Hunt now because tomorrow you'll be in homid form."

Eddie curled his lips, revealing the long white fangs and snorted. He did not particularly care for being in homid form but it was necessary. He bounded off, his hulking form moving swiftly, faster and quieter than he seemed he should be. His nose picked up the trail of a young buck nearby and he was hungry.

Jocasta waited, watching the sunset in the west, the golden light touching the mesquite trees and glittering off the water of the Rio Grande. The heat would cling to the night, it was never quite cool in the Valley, the rural area of South Texas full of cattle, barb wire fence, scrub land and little else. The sept was on the border with Mexico, a convenient way point for the Black Furies as they dealt with the wars and issues that arose south of the Red River all the way to the vast Amazon jungle. It was quiet and other than the occasional wandering immigrant crossing their grounds, none bothered them. They were viewed askance by the local ranchers as a hippy feminist cult and they were happy keep their distance.

The journey was uneventful, a two day drive across the eastern half of the United States with Eddie hanging his head out the window, even in his homid form he enjoyed the blast of smells the wind brought. The caern in Massachusetts was opened and vulnerable now to the encroaching Kindred. The urge to go there tugged at her mind, her connection to Gaia was deep, as it was to all Garou but in particular because she was born into the Black Furies. The Theurge Ianthe had bid her to go and while Jocasta was taken aback that she was the one chosen among the warriors and more spiritual Furies, she obeyed.

Vasile

Vasile sank back against the stone carved chair, his long legs extended out, elbows resting on the arms. He watched her, so pretty she was, cold and shivering with fear and pain. The deep crimson blood dripping down her pale skin. He would never grow tired of it, his hunger stirred with her whimpers and the tendrils of red coursing down her thighs. He had cut her, she was his latest project, another subject for his flesh carving to create servants. He was pondering his next move, tired already of the same monstrosities he had been making the last few decades. Vasile was bored, he wanted something new, something that would strike fear into the hearts of the mortal sheep.

His fingers touched the silver cross around his neck and he smiled a slow, lopsided grin. He was handsome in a severe way, his high cheek bones and sharp chin gave little room for softness and that was just as well for he had none in him. Vasile turned the cross around and finally stood up, walking over to the girl that lay strapped to the table.

“Good news,” he said, speaking in a low pitched voice that had a hint a growl. A practiced sound that when spoken in the ear of some infatuated mortal would send a thrilled shiver down their spine. “I know what I want with you.”

“P-please,” she blubbered. They always did. “Let me go...I...I can’t...”

“You don’t have to,” he said, taking out a bone saw and he turned back to her, a slight smile on his elegant features. “You just will. You are mine and I use you as I see fit.”

He set the saw against her arm, he used an old fashion one, no electronics that was just tacky.

“You did not mind so much last night, when I ravaged you and drank from that pretty neck?”

He chuckled, a cold dead sound and he began to saw into the soft flesh. Her screams echoed off the stone walls, a sound he had long grown accustomed to and rather liked. They each sounded slightly different but the terror was the same. They just did not understand, their lives were nothing but small tokens, to be used by their elders when the need arose.

Once her arm was off, Vasile set it aside, he could use it later. He tasted her blood off his fingers as she writhed in pain, her eyes rolling back in agony. He dusted the wound with a powder, a potion made by him to stop the bleeding instantly to prevent her premature death.

Vasile’s dark grey eyes moved over her and he playfully pinched her cheek before stepping away to his storage area. He removed the limb of a taloned creature, long and scaled with claw tipped fingers. He had created it, from several sources and now he had a subject to mount it on. The pretty blonde he had picked up in the night club would become his own harpy, a rather interesting idea he had while perusing books of ancient mythology. Chimeras, griffons, harpies, and other such creatures melded from various body parts of human and animal. It had given him inspiration and he set back to his work with a new enthusiasm.

The Archbishop wanted a war and he would gleefully supply new soldiers for it. Hours slipped by as he molded the girl’s flesh and bone into a bent, twisted creature with clawed talons for fingers and a gaping mouth full of razor sharp teeth. She was his ghoul now, she would obey and beg for blood from him. She was under his control, another minion in the ranks that served the Sabbat’s war against the Masquarade and the pesky hunters that pushed their holy noses into business that was beyond their ken.

He was bending one of the girl’s ribs, stretching it to help expand her lung capcity all the while she cried in horror and pain. When one of his ghouls shuffled in,he glanced up, irritated. He was a hulking brute, used by Vasile as a bodyguard, his pale flesh hung in folds, pitted and scarred with thick tissue that acted as armor. The vozhd curled his lips at the smell of fresh blood, his teeth yellow and razor sharp.

“What is it, I’m busy,” Vasile said, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his arms coated in gore.

“Master, the message has come for the meeting,” the ghoul gurgled out in his ruined voice.

“Ah, damnation now?” he hissed.

The meeting that Gunnarsson called, he was going to have that bitch Thorhild in attendance and he disliked the she wolf. He sighed with annoyance, finishing up what he was doing and giving the subject a shot of tranquilizer to settle her down so she would not move around and ruin his work while he was gone.

“Carl, come with me and send Frank in here to guard the room,” Vasile ordered.

He cleaned up, dressing in a dark suit, his hair slicked stylishly back. Vasile made his way down into the meeting, walking through the winding tunnels. He was late and stood in the back, listening to the plans against the Camarilla. He watched the Archbishop, they had known each other for many years and he wondered what Gunnarsson had up his sleeve. Why bring in that Garou? War against the Masquerade was nothing new, they could take back Boston without the help of dogs. He shot a look toward the attractive black haired woman and felt a small shiver of desire, what a ghoul should would have made if she had been human.

“Runnin’ my rig around ninety-five...Rockin’-and-a-rollin’ in overdrive…”

The driving guitar of George Thorogood and the Destroyers pounded from the battered speakers of David’s F250, competing with the roar of the diesel engine to shatter the midnight silence as he put the pedal to the floor, grinning as the needle climbed past 90. He’d been driving for a few days now, stopping along the road to sleep whenever fatigue overtook him, and was now tearing up the highway outside Williamsport, Pennsylvania, bound for Haverton, Massachusetts.

The hunting had been good out in Washington, but a week before he’d received an email from an old Massachusetts contact by the name of Robert Chandler, and what he’d read had worried him. After wrapping up business in Spokane, David had packed his gear, changed his plates, and hit the road.

The Militiaman-turned-Hunter fired up his phone, opening his email to read the message again.

"Mr. Connally,

I don't know if you remember me at all, but you did some freelance work for my friends a while back up here in Massachusetts? Things have gotten pretty Bad up here lately, and I could use the help; truth be told, my sponsors are kind of insisting. I'm pretty Forlorn. Hope to get as many folks up here as I can, things are that bad, but I'm starting to doubt too many will show given the state of the rest of the world. If you can make up here, let me know and I'll send you my address in Haverton. If not, or if you're already Dead, well then don't worry about it.

- Robert Chandler
Mundus vult decipi."

David turned the email over in his mind, thoughts drifting back to the “freelance work” mentioned in the message.The more he thought about it, the more he seemed to remember who he was dealing with; a bookworm type who’d stayed mostly in the background, compiling intelligence for the rest of the group he’d been assisting at the time. He’d departed without leaving his contact information, so the fact that the guy had managed to track him down spoke volumes about his research skills all by itself. David Connally wasn’t an easy man to find, and he liked it that way.

Could be a trap, he thought to himself, then shrugged and dismissed the idea. Chances were slim that a bunch of Vampires would bother sending an email and inviting him out for a beer. If they knew where he was, he’d be dead already.

As the song ended, David reached into the cooler in the passenger seat and fished around for a moment, groping through the ice until his fingers wrapped around cold metal. He popped the tab on another can of Coors Original and took a long swig, his blue eyes narrow as he pondered what he could be driving into. After another sip he stuck the can in the cup holder and tapped out a quick reply to Chandler with one hand.
Robert,

David here. On my way, 5 hours out. C u soon.

Foghat’s “Slow Ride” fired up on the iPod plugged into the stereo system, and the Arkansas native grinned again and edged the accelerator up to 100, the rumble of the diesel engine bellowing his presence into the night.

Better make that three hours…

The Umbral Massachusetts was primal, gleaming forest teeming with spiritual life that was bisected by the web-strands of the Turnpike flowing north, straighter than in real life, and idealized -- the Mass Turnpike wasn't perfect, but it was decently kept. This thing in the Penumbra, was crawling with Weaver spirits that maintained this straight line through the countryside; gentle curves in the real road were more like spider webs here, curved only by a series of closely-spaced angles that created a curve. And, like a spiderweb, the roads branched off. Generations ago, these back streets were weak Weaver presences, but as the cities sprawled out and the suburbs became cities in all but name and height, for they lacked skyscrapers, and small towns which once had an identity and welcoming spirits became the sort of development real estate guys liked to create, gated subdivisions, the small town character of New England was quickly eroding in favor of something more soulless. As a result, mechanistic Weaver-spider things made up of steel rebars and concrete crawled all over the highways, some zipping along at speed -- perhaps those were spiritual imprints of automobiles.

The road was losing its allure, or so it seemed to Nakhti Looks-Twice; the first Strider Elder he met, Shebitku Light-Step, commented that it was no longer the province of adventurers but a thing of everyday life, unremarkable. Mundane. Banal.

And the Weaver owned this road. Maybe it was different in the less developed world, where people still were born, lived and labored in the same villages. But New England was a place that was unaffordable to the young, the most dynamic of populations, and they sought their lives elsewhere...they moved out on the highway.

While Weaver spirits were not always dangerous, at least if not disturbed, Nakhti wasn't interested in stepping onto the road; he kept his distance; a lean, muscled thing in Crinos, with smooth, short hair and perked up ears. He looked the typical Strider in Crinos, which was how the Elders at the Sept of the River Valley, Children of Gaia, knew him; his pedigree was indelibly stamped upon him in Crinos, whereas in Homid he could pass -- slightly olive skinned, dark haired, but blue eyes from his father.

It'd been a long trek from Cleveland into Western Pennsylvania, through New York, and then up 95, sometimes walking, or running in lupus, or hitchiking. It was a chance to stretch his muscles and get his bearings on the open road, the way old Shebitku Light-Step told him to -- and, as the old Strider said, slyly, be sure to live up to your name.

So Nakhti looked twice, once in the physical world, and then he stepped sideways betimes to see what these places looked like in the Penumbra. He'd been on the road before, with Charlie, with Dad, before the arrest, but he'd never seen it through the eyes of one of Gaia's warriors. He didn't spend all his time in the Penumbra, but he spent a lot of it in this unfamiliar place of strange symbolism, getting familiar with the landmarks and what they meant in the Umbral sense, learning the only way he really knew how -- doing. He had a mentor, briefly, for about six months before he was cut loose and put into the Rite of Passage, Strider Style, and that opened his eyes to what he didn't know. Some Full Moons only wanted to know where they needed to go to kill something, buit Nakhti was a different sort, perhaps it was being a full moon in a tribe known for its crescent moons. He looked beyond the immediate.

He was still sorting out what he saw, particularly on Interstate 95, one of the largest roads in America when he veered off, away from that main artery of Weaver-influence and deeper into the small towns and obscure roads of New England, a place long settled by what the Natives called, "Wyrmbringers."

And yet, there wasn't too much Wyrm taint in these small towns of a couple thousand people or so. And if there was a lot of the Weaver here and there, it was isolated, of small consequence. And that was how he found Nottingham, New Hampshire.

He was raised in foster homes and generally was deprived as a kid, but he knew that sedate, idyllic little towns like this existed, full of kids playing in lawns and homes built in another time before the 'ticky tacky' of the song that described the post-WWII construction boom, which is really when the Weaver got started. It was curving roads and settled shrubbery and gardens, oak and elm trees in a cool summertime, and verdant parks maintained by the community.

He was out of the umbra by the time he got to Nottingham, New Hampshire, via Route 152, a state road that was pretty much overshadowed by lush trees; it was a good place, and a scenic route. In the autumn, it must have been even better. Nakhti was a kid of the midwest, and he'd never been up here before, but this place stirred him a bit. Verdant greenery and the occasional house, but New England wasn't farmland or anything like that. It was a piss poor place to raise a crop, but it certainly had trees and meadows.

Then, the spell was broken as a navy blue car with bright blue stripes and white block lettering saying, "POLICE" pulled up alongside him on the road; he had his poncho and hoodie packed away in his backpack, which was some sort of nondescript hiker's pack, rugged and dependable and a gift from a Strider Kinfolk he'd been staying with near Cleveland before he set off; Sarah told him he'd need it, and she'd been right. She also was the widow of another Strider, so she'd known precisely what to pack and give him. She was a lifesaver.

He wasn't too scruffy, but he had a couple day's stubble on his jaw. He wore jeans and a good pair of boots that were definitely broken in, and a t-shirt that showed off the lean lines of his homid form, along with the sun-kissed skin.

The officer was a beefier, ruddy sort, and he merely rolled down the window, "Anything I can help you with, friend? You look a little lost here." The guy had a thick enough local accent -- they all fucked with their vowels up here, but the guy wasn't getting out to frisk him or going, "What you doin', boah?" like they did in some other parts he'd been to with Shebitku; the old man was dark skinned, of Moorish ancestry, but to people in places like Georgia, black was black, don't know what the fuck a Moor is nohow. He was expecting that sort of rural cop trouble here.

Aw fuck, cops. He'd grown up in the system after his dad was incarcerated, and his dad was an outlaw that wasn't particularly well disposed toward the cops to begin with, but he forced down his hostility and replied, blandly and politely, "I'm hiking toward Pawtuckaway, have some friends I'm meeting up there, locals." He made a sign that he knew, an off-handed sort of gesture that went with his speech, but he saw the red-haired, ruddy cop's eyes flash knowingly at the signal and quickly returned the counter-signal as he spoke -- he was kinfolk, Fianna.

"Well, then you're headed in the right direction. Just make sure to introduce yourself when you get in, you'll find we're a tight little community here and we take care of our own. Enjoy the weather, friend."

Nakhti grinned a bit at the cop and nodded, "Thanks, I'll make sure on all accounts." Respect the territory of another so went the Litany, and Nakhti knew it by heart -- what's more, Striders were often welcome guests anywhere because they abided by it. If the cop had told him, as kinfolk, to turn away, he would have left a message and stayed away from the Caern. Being told to head on in was, at least, a good sign. Still, he intended to hold to the correct form on approaching a caern.

He didn't see much besides the odd passerby on the road from there, but about a mile down the road, he was picked up by a fellow in a truck that gave a similar sign and was deposited off a ways from Pawtuckaway; he drove off with a wave while Nakthi stepped into the woodline carefully, ever so carefully, and looked twice, as was his name, before he shifted into Lupus, his possessions were dedicated to him and shifted along, or disappeared entirely, form and gave a howl of introduction for himself; his name, identifying himself as a Silent Strider and the information that he had a message for one of the elders. This particular tradition was strong with every tribe, because territory was no joke, but it was particularly strong with the Striders, who were afflicted with a wanderlust.

It wasn't just wanderlust that brought him here, he knew he was going in the city after his half-sister, and a nearby caern was a good place to get some sort of idea of what was going on. So he'd taken the job of delivering their mail from other parts, which was an easy enough job that guaranteed he'd be invited in to stay for a bit. He didn't think he'd need too long -- Charlie wasn't on the grid, but she was predictable in that he knew what sort of places to inquire after to find her.

So a howl of introduction, it was the traditional way and everything he'd heard about this place was that it was one of those staid, older caerns where the formalities stuck. The nearest locals, luckily, were largely kinfolk and pretended not to notice the wolf howls -- they had practice. Other locals thought the local coyotes were at it again -- no one bothered to tell them differently and they didn't care.

Haverton sat several miles west of Boston, a tiny town half forgotten by time and sometimes the locals themselves! Boston remained a good forty minute drive out, enough for only the most dedicated commuters to bother with. The rest of the town occupied themselves with... supporting the town. A small grocery store, a gas station, a few antique shops and boutiques that rarely saw outside business; the firehall, police station, the town court and clerk, and the council chambers all shared the one building. Not that there was much call for any of them. Among the chaos of the world, those who lived in Haverton existed in a quiet repose of peace and dreams. It served as a haven for lost artisans and painters, writers who wanted away from the distractions of life for a bit. The trick, however, was not just in the hearing of it. Finding it was difficult at best.

Buried among the trees of the Massachusetts forests, a wrong turn on any of the various back roads that passed nearby would leave you either in another town altogether or hopelessly lost. Haverton's one main street, lined with turn of the century buildings and with tiny lanes running off towards Victorian houses, ended in a cup-de-sac a mile outside of town. The remains of an asylum, with stone walls and burnt out windows, stood like an ancient and forgotten castle there. That single main road heading southeast out of Haverton was also the only way in. So small was the town that it did not even warrant stoplight any of the intersections. Robert found his home town to be relaxing. The people who lived there were much like his family had been: quiet, polite, and... slightly different from the rest of the world. And the only people who ever entered were those who knew how to find it to start with or those who were well and truly lost.

Better than the town was his own home. The sprawling farmhouse with no farmlands around it was at the end of a country lane that led deeper into the woods and then stopped, as though the dirt road's only existence was to provide access to the house. And such a house it was! Originally, the builder had intended a small four room house. Somehow, under the care of the Chandler family, it had grown! Additions had been tacked onto the sides by amateur carpenters, spare rooms and closets sprouted at odd angles on the second floor, and few of the windows matched in either construction or size. Sections of the wooden house had even been painted with different colors unified only drabness! The only thing unifying the house was the carvings.

Over the generations, the Chandlers had left their marks upon the structure. Glyphs! Wardings! Runes! All manor of symbols had been carved into the wood around the doors and windows, and etched into the stone foundation as well! Amish hex signs fought for space with Nordic carvings, while a mezuzah hung in each door and window frame. Those wooden frames had been painted bright red and were kept well painted even as the rest of the house looked in need of some love and care. Robert tucked his iron knife into its sheath as he stepped back to examine his own latest addition: a hamsa just above the outside knob to the front door. The purpose of all of this was the same now as when his great-grandfather had first started the tradition: to keep out any who would mean harm to those within. Robert didn't know if they had ever worked, of course. He did know that the house had never been broken into or invaded in anyway, although he was well aware that absence of evidence did not prove a thing. But he believed that such symbols might have had some effect and might continue to do so. He was not so shattered a man that he had stopped believing.

Besides, if vampires and werewolves and ghosts (oh, yes, there were ghosts, even if only in the mind!) were real, then why not the basis for this tradition as well?

Sighing, Robert looked up towards the late evening sky. The sun had almost slipped beneath the horizon, the last orange-pink rays of light causing shadows to stretch like fingers about the house. Sunrise and sunset. Dusk and twilight. These were the between times that he relished, when the world was at a silent, otherworldly peace that matched his own nature. It almost made him smile.

Almost.

Stepping back inside the house, he looked about numbly. He should have cleaned more he realized. Not as far as dirt and dust, as he did his own housekeeping on a weekly basis. No, the concern was the books. They were everywhere: piled in stacks along the walls, jammed into corners and crevices, lining the staircase up, filling the kitchen countertops... Robert knew where almost everything was that he needed. Or at least he had a good idea. The best ones, of course, he kept in a special barrister's case in his room. A few darker ones he had locked away in trunks in the dank basement to fight it out with the mold; there was no question in his mind that the fungus rot would be on the losing side of that battle. He debated with himself whether or not he should remove the books off of some of the furniture he thought might still be under the neatly stack heaps, wondering if people would want to stay in one place long enough to sit...

"Food," he muttered suddenly, "Probably should have gone shopping... or something..."

Robert looked out the living room window to the old stone barn that sat at the back of the property. The roof was still sound, he thought. People could hide their vehicles there, maybe? Or turn it into something useful? It would have to be cleaned out, though, as to the best of his knowledge the barn had never actually been used in any farming capacity since his family had purchased the land some seventy years ago. The ancient steam powered traction engine that sat rusting within would probably be worth a fortune... if it could be repaired. Now that he thought about it, his uncle Renfew had stored two or three cars in there a couple of decades ago, hadn't he? Robert shrugged. His uncle had collected all manner of things and dumped them there: HAM radios, tools, scrap lumber and metal, oil lamps. There had always been the temptation to call one of those 'picker' companies and have them clean it out, only he never saw the point. It wasn't like he needed the barn for anything before. If the others wanted it or needed it, they could clean it out themselves.

"Speaking of which..." he muttered again. Robert pulled the pocket watch out from his jeans and checked it. He had little idea when any of them might arrive. If any of them did, he darkly added. The Society had promised to send some help but had encouraged him to do what he could as well on his own. Which was ridiculous. Robert was many things, but he was not a leader nor a recruiter. Still, even a token force showing up would be useful. Things in Boston were getting worse, and there had been little he could do about it by his lonesome.

Tired of the wait, he picked up his violin from off the mantle by the fire and headed out towards the back porch. A quick tuning, and then bow was placed to string to let forth a low, long note like the wail of a banshee. Robert closed his eyes and played, only it was not any music that had ever been written or recorded, nothing found in any library. Instead, it was an improvised melody that came from his soul to ring out into the silent woodlands behind his house. What he lacked in training and skill, he made up for in passion as he played for a woman dead two years, along with the death of his heart.

Tosh climbed out of his bed at dusk. His room was an old supply room at the bottom of a dead end subway tunnel. The tunnel construction had begun around 1942 but due to Pearl Harbor and then the following war the tunnel project was abandoned and eventually forgotten though the plans and paperwork may have been relocated by a certain vermin-like vampire. Glancing around the room, he quickly took in his squalid living conditions. The room was dirty and hadn't been cleaned most likely in sixty years or so. His bed was simply an old mattress drug from the dump. He had a small table and single chair, which held five, three ring binders full of coins. This was Tosh's one addiction or extravagance. All of his life he had, to scrape and muck through the sewers looking for coins or jewels to make enough to buy food for a few days. Since he had been turned into a vampire, he still had not lost the desire to hunt the coins, and jewels of the storm drains, but these days he traded away what he found to buy coins he wanted for his collection.

The majority of his income came from parlaying information he had gathered into money. Because he knew the storm drains, sewers, and subway tunnels of the city like the back of his hand he was able to go almost anywhere in the city unseen, which was great for a spy. He was about to leave his room for the night when a ghoul gave him a message. He listened carefully trying to analyze the message and read between the lines. He waved the ghoul off, stepped outside of his room and closed the door. He hoped the meeting wouldn't last long, he wanted to find a barmaid to spend the evening with. The Camarilla members all tended to have an opinion about everything and meetings usually lasted longer than what Tosh would have liked. Reluctantly he began waking his way down the tunnels that would lead him to the storm drain nearest the Camarilla meeting sight.

"Honey, where have you been all my life."

Her feet padded across the slick wet floor, tacky red sticking to the tile beneath them, the excess squishing out from between her toes to run down into the drain below. You lost track of time in the meat locker, or at least Michelle always did, and that was how she liked it. Nowhere to be, nobody to see, nothing but her and her toys and that snarling beastie who was trying so very hard to be big and bad when she'd ripped his wolf rug out from under him so fast he still didn't quite know what had happened. She'd had some close calls in her younger days--what, she was still learning, cut a girl some slack--but these days she really had it down. Industrial cable, the kind you found in old construction projects or at discount workman stores had been threaded through his arms long enough ago for his healing to have locked them in place, joints popped out of socket and kept there by the metal in his system. Same for his legs, the knees bent back until dislocation and secured with a length of metal just long enough to keep them out of position. Garou were strong--fucking strong--so you had to figure out how to keep them from using that strength if you wanted to keep them for any length of time.

And she had an awful lot of questions for Mister Kakhram.

He was snarling something about how awful he was, how his name meant Choker of the World Bitch, how he was going to turn her into his personal meat sack when he broke free, all that jazz. It was the same drivel she'd heard before from the lunatics but somehow it was always slightly endearing, all that hope that 'the Wyrm would save them' or 'kill me, Gaia will still drown' or whatever the hell they decided to say this time. She kind of tuned it out, honestly, by bringing a ballpeen through his teeth. He snarled past the slurry that was dripping down his chin and bubbling up from under his lips, white flecks of bone dripping through pulped muscle and fresh blood as she continued like she hadn't heard him.

"Nine times out of ten you fall apart before I even get to know you, you know that? Someone sure did a shitty job of putting your fucked up little family together." Her voice was flat and atonal, unpleasant to listen to--it sounded bored, venomous, harsh to the ears. Whether she was insulting them or cooing to them it stayed the same, her eyes dead as a doll's and black as a shark's, pupils swollen as she swayed slightly and paced around them. She was doped up, she had to be when she dealt with them because if she came at them normal then her fingers started shaking and her heart started pounding and her teeth stretched into these lovely little killing--

He was saying something. How long, she wondered idly, had he been talking? This big crinos voice, half growl and half snarl. Disgusting, she found herself thinking without feeling, looking at the massive, misshapen shoulders from the back. He was patchy, mangy, his hair coming off in tufts and sloughs even now, his lips curling back from shattered teeth already starting to heal. It almost wasn't important what he was saying--it took an awful lot of force o break a crinos bone, but even in Homid Michelle was a little bit more to deal with than a normal girl. She shattered one of his ribs with a well-placed strike from the hammer, rounded head delivering a body's worth of wind-up and force to a single point. The crunch and the coughing whimper that came from it calmed her down a little, and she leaned down to press a knee into the creature's back, leaning down onto it as she watched. She moved like the recently drunk or the intimately aware, flowing through the air with willowy, almost gentle purpose. "I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you over the sound of how much I wanted you to shut up. Try again, I'm listening now."

Rolling his eyes back to look to her as best he could, Kakhram's voice was like a guttering candle through the slurry of blood, spit and fragments of his teeth that had already begun to heal. "Do what you want with me, bitchling. I am Kakhram Bane Dancer, I have split your Gaia's skin and raped the wound until--" Until he howled in pain and rage again, apparently, as this time she swung the hammer into his temple. No way he didn't have a concussion after that one, a tap like that would have cracked skull on a human and even in crinos is must have seriously rung his bell. He was losing strength, his roars becoming more like whimpers and his body beginning to shake. She'd give it to him, he was lasting longer than she thought he would.

"Really, please, tell me more. You know how much I like hearing you talk about yourself." She drawled as she walked around him once more--the garou body was really a remarkable thing. The raw abuse it could stand was fucking impressive, but even it had its limits. And speaking of limits, she really was drawing close to hers--she could feel her last hit wearing thin, evaporating under the rage that boiled up under her skin. The muscles in her forearms were already starting to ripple and change, her fingers curling into claws, hair beginning to sprout from the shaved dome of her head. She'd better finish this up then. "I'm sorry to say I'm losing my temper, baby, so here's what's going to happen." Leaning down, she smashed him across the mouth once more with a spray of teeth and broken jaw--she was stronger now, oops, she needed to be a little more careful--and grabbed him by the muzzle, raising his massive skull until he looked into her shark-dark eyes with his own sick yellow ones and saw the changes beginning to make themselves apparent in her.

"I'm going to start hitting you, because I can't stand the awful fucking sound of your voice. And you're going to start telling me exactly where your Hive is so I have somewhere to bring your lifeless, disgusting body back to. And if you're very, very smart, you'll tell me quickly and I'll end your miserable fucking life before I really lose it. Because if that happens you better just hang on, sugar." Looking down to him now, she could see he was really beginning to get it, just how fucked he was. Those yellow eyes were starting to shake, his tongue was starting to loll out the side of his fucked up mouth, and he was panting blood and dribble down to the mess at the floor that ran with a plit-plit-plit into the drain. She was almost seven feet tall, now, her body rippling with wiry muscle that tensed as she readied the hammer and smiled.

"It's going to be the night of your life."

---

It was almost an hour or two when Michelle came too, lying face down on the same chilled meat-locked floor she'd been at not long ago. The smell was awful, charnel and raw, filth and blood and excrement and anything else that could have been beaten out of the putrid little shit staining the walls and the floor. She could still taste him, that awful, sick taste of corruption and decay, like formaldehyde and stomach acid, and as she pushed herself to her shaking hands she doubled over once and vomited to the floor, homid stomach struggling to keep up with a few crinos mouthfuls. It hurt like always and by the end of it she was panting, doubled over and sweating even in the cold of the locker, but as memories of it all slowly came swimming back to her she got to her unsteady feet to hose herself and what was left of the corpse down. It hadn't been pretty, and he hadn't been smart, and in the end she hadn't gotten anything out of him, but hey. Another dead Spiral.

When she was as clean as she thought she was going to get, she turned off the hose from the wall spigot and made for the door, unlocking it from the inside and tugging it open into the light proper. Shaking, chilled to the bone, she stepped out from the locker onto the packing floor of R. Lambert & Son's Fine Meats and dropped the hammer like a punctuation mark. The three men outside looked like they were trying very badly to play cards and pretend nothing had happened, but the way their hands shook and they didn't look at her meant they could hear at least some of what happened in there, and would see at least some more when they cleaned it up. Good Get Kinfolk, salt of the earth. She didn't so much as look at them as she padded her way up towards the shower, shivering, arms wrapped around her chest as she grabbed the pack of cigarettes from her table and lit up the first of many.

"Thanks for sharing, Rob. Made my fucking night."

All she knew was that she was tired and out of gas. She'd need a refill soon, much as she hated it.

And a meal, now that she tossed her last one.

The death of the prince, a malkavian like herself, came as a bit of a surprise to Eilwen Ferch Gruffydd ap Llywelyn ap Gruffudd ap Rhys ap Ellis ap Dilwyn ap Taliesin, or Eilwen Ferch Gruffydd, as she went these days. She did not like such surprises. The prince, while annoying at times, had still been useful to have around. If nothing else, he kept the camarilla controlled. Eilwen did not have much liking for the obsessively controlling elements of that sect, but that is always better than the chaos that the Sabbat were always trying to stir up. She did not like them. Her preferred mode had always been to remain distanced from the sects. Her old Sire, whom she had not seen for centuries, taught her that was best. Of course, he was born centuries before they formed, so his opinion might have been affected by that. She personally could no longer recall much about the time before the Camarilla or the Sabbat. But then, she hadn’t even been embraced for a century before that happened. She had been but a child. Still blind to the true nature of her kind.

The whispers comforted her thoughts, speaking of how Malkav’s will would continue to be advanced even without Quentin King III. They also spoke of wrapping oak trees in cat guts and a score other things like that, but Eilwen had long known how to tune out those particular whispers. Many of her kin were quite deranged in their minds. They had their purpose, but oft were their words lacking in sense. She realized she might have to take a more active role in events. It would not serve the plan to have the camarilla, or worse, the kindred in general, lose control over Boston. As such, she pondered whether she should stop by the meeting of the Camarilla. After a few minutes of thinking, she decided that would be wise. Information is always useful to have. While her Nosferatu associate gave her good information, his price was steep at times, and multiple sources are always good to have.

~| Thirty-seven minutes later |~

Eilwen approached the meeting place of the Camarilla. As per her habit, she wore a dark green, hooded robe, which concealed most of her features, all without restricting mobility. She did not acknowledge the guards outside the hall. She moved as if she belonged, so they did not challenge her. The fools. “No wonder he died, if guards never challenged people if they looked like they belonged.” she muttered beneath her breath. Of course, the fact that he had been felled by mere mortals had proven that already. It was honest enough to be killed by one of the werewolves. They were truly vicious beasts. Real threats. Humans were cattle. Most of them could not even comprehend the idea of the supernatural existing. Fewer still knew anything useful about it. These days, more than half those who believed in the existence of her kind attributed all the wrong traits to them. Not that she minded one bit. If they were wont to use garlic as protection, then that was only convenient. Better for her food to use useless defenses than reliable ones. The chamber, when she entered, was mostly empty. She took a place along the wall near one of the exits, in a nice bit of deeper shadow. She would monitor the events, but she would not intervene without good reason.

Jocasta

Jocasta left her car parked in the small lot that served the public and the ranger station of Pawtuckaway State Park. It was empty save one tan colored Jeep marked with the green circle of the park's logo. She locked up their belongings, Eddie shrugging into the old army surplus coat he wore over his Amon Amarth shirt and his jeans that had seen better days. His long black hair hung down past his heavy jaw and was in need of a combing. Jocasta shook her head as he refused the brush and stubbornly tucked the strands behind his ears, glowering at her. He was still sore at having to come in homid form though he did enjoy car rides it was not the same as running wild through the moonpaths.

She gave up and led him toward the park entrance. Jocasta looked like a camper, her long dark hair up in a ponytail and she wore a white t-shirt tucked into khaki shorts and hiking boots. She had a bag over her shoulder that contained not a tent or trail mix but her tools, weapons, and Eddie's Game Boy. She could hear him huffing and snuffling, she knew he wanted to change. Finally, after they were into the forest and away from the main trail she gave her consent.

"Alright, go on...and quit growling about it," Jocasta said waving her hand at him and turning away as he eagerly stripped and transformed to his more comfortable Crinos form. She picked up his things and stuffed them into her bag.

The forest was quiet, the twitter of birds dying down as they passed through the sun beams and shadows that filtered through the tall pines and hemlocks. Eddie made is way among the trees while Jocasta stayed in the trail as it wound upward towards the summit of a hill that was generously called a mountain. When they reached the summit, she could see the large pond, the home of the caern. The air felt clean here, the scent mud, the tang of pine, and the scent of other Garou in the breeze.

Jocasta made her way down, Eddie trailed after her unseen and soon she was approaching the water. The pond radiated a sense of peace and ancient wisdom. It had been a Croatan caern and though it was now a shadow of it's former power but still an important force to be protected. It was still morning, the sun midway to it's apex in the sky and the still waters reflected the puffy clouds that floated over head. She paused, watching a couple of turtles slip from their perch on a dead tree limb into the water and that is when she noticed the young woman.

She studied her for a moment, that redhair screamed Fianna, and she was certain she was not a Fury. Jocasta felt Eddie come up behind her, studying the stranger as well, his golden eyes wary of the stranger. The Metis could no doubt smell that she was homid, a Garou, and he was cautious. His experience had been not many Garou were as kind as the ones who had taken him in or the Children of Gaia who had other Metis of both sexes. He rumbled a growl and she hushed him.

Approaching the tattooed woman, Jocasta waved, "How's the fishing?"

Michelle hated going to Pawtuckaway.

One hand surfing the breeze out the window, she screamed down the road in a piece of shit red Civic that might as well have been community property at this point. The ignition would have turned with a butter knife and the engine made such a damn racket that she had to crank the stereo to about a billion decibels to drown it out. It was almost at loud enough to erase the possibility of thought but not quite--the speakers were way too far gone for that, which meant Michelle still had plenty of time to think about exactly how much she hated doing this.

She hated driving at the best of times. Not owning a car, it was always a matter of finding which car to jack, or bumming of someone else or some other bullshit she had no interest in. The Gnawers had shown her how but it hadn't made the act itself anything more than an inconvenience. She'd been told that some people liked driving, that that was their thing, but she was definitely not one of them. Chain-smoking cigarettes to get her fix before she hit nature camp, she stubbed out the fourth cigarette of the night in the inside of her thumb before dropping it into one of the many cans that littered the old beater. It was a habit, and a bad one, but she didn't think about it anymore even as it hissed and burned at the skin--she'd been alone for too long, she thought with a slightly dry smirk. She was starting to eat herself.

The problem with the caern was the garou as much as anything else. She could start off with the fact that not a one of the tribes--Furies, Fianna or even the Children--were exactly fast friends with the Get, and hadn't been since the first time they met them. It quickly became apparent that the Get reinforcement pack she'd been a part of was less reinforcement and more invasion. Apparently an elder somewhere had decided that if they weren't going to take teeth and claws to the wyrm that was so prevalent in the area, the Get would have to. It hadn't been a particularly pleasant conversation the first time she'd been there, or the times since, especially considering their losses. The Children in particular were critical--it was a waste of time, they said. The wyrm was too strong in the cities, it couldn't be fought directly, they had to work at it sideways. That was back when Thunder's Teeth was still in charge, an awful long time ago, and he'd said to them what had etched itself into Michelle's mind as what it really meant to be Get, one of the only real connections she had with her tribe:

If you're not going to help then get out of the way. Just because it's difficult doesn't mean it doesn't need to be done.

When the pack had dwindled, when Thunder's Teeth was gone and it was only Michelle, she'd stayed away as much as possible because she didn't want to hear it. She didn't want to hear about how they'd warned them it couldn't be done, how they were wasting resources or how they were fighting a war because everything looks like a nail to a hammer. She was too busy grieving and killing and hating, and the Gnawers had their own little caern down by the docks that she could draw her strength from. Urban caerns were better anyway, like little medical tents staked up on a battlefield. You never got to slink away to the woods, to forget that this was about taking the world back from the wyrm not about guarding what was left.

Most importantly she hated Pawtuckaway because it was a place of peace, and Michelle didn't know how to be at peace anymore. Maybe she'd been with the Get too long, maybe things had gone South one too many times. Maybe she was just too full of rage, but what she was really afraid of was that Thunder's Teeth had been right. The Thrall of the Wyrm, they called it when a garou really lost it, when their frenzy got so deep that the primal destroyer took an interest and a hold on it, but whatever it was she'd felt it often enough that it made her skin crawl to think about it. None of the heroes in those stories she got told ever had to pick knuckles from the back of their teeth or came out of their killing frenzy spewing their enemies back up on the sidewalk. Nobody talked about what happened when you were so far in, so far under, so alone that the only thing you could do to hold on was lose everything you were and trust in the monster to see you through. These days she felt more like a serial killer than a garou, and if she thought about it too long it caught in her throat and she started spinning, that awful throbbing behind her temples--

The rumble strip woke her back up and she jerked up in her seat, ash falling to the hem of her black dress as her eyes snapped about. Had she nodded off? Was she just too caught up in everything? Her lips curled into a snarl, a long drag filling her lungs before she pumped it back out in a long gray cone to the window. Wake the fuck up, soldier. They're messing with your head. When it came right down to it, it wasn't about her--it wasn't about any of them. This was bigger than that. If she had to cry herself to sleep every once and a while then boo-fucking-hoo. There was a war to win.

She got stopped by a ranger on her way into the camping grounds, of course, but they knew her by now. Didn't much like her, but they knew her. They exchanged cursory greetings--he said 'Hi', Michelle stared--before she worked her way into the camp grounds proper and pulled the shitty little civic into one of the many empty places. At least she didn't have to worry about them finding the car here, the rangers wouldn't have reported a fucking Mercedes if a garou had rolled up in it. Looking to herself in the mirror for a moment she almost smirked--she looked like a fucking mess. It had been hard to sleep after fucking over that Spiral, but she'd made good use of the time. As she popped open the trunk, she found her normally expressionless face falling into something of a smirk.

Say what you will about Michelle--she wasn't very honorably, and she sure as hell wasn't very wise, but as she grabbed the knotted rope handle and swung it over her shoulder she could feel the weight of the four cleaned spiral skulls clacking against her back. If glory meant killing her enemies then that much she could do, and maybe showing them some visceral evidence would make them listen, or at least get her another gift or something out of the deal. She could use a new trick or two before they really started catching up to her.

Making her way into the forest wearing nothing but her tattoos and her short black sun dress, Michelle did not look like a camper. But anyone that'd been around long enough would know about the Wolf in Sheep's Clothing that lived in the city and ate up the bad boys and girls. She wasn't much worried as she strode for the lake where she could see a few of her kind gathering. If she stood out in the otherwise serene setting she paid it no mind.

She tried hard not to feel like she was coming home.

(A collab post between myself and Kaylan)

Colleen Jennings was on the move, although she was not aware of the email sent out by a fellow hunter just yet, she had other reasons completely for being out and about at the opening hours of this evening. She was on the phone, waiting somewhat patiently for the man she was calling to wake his sorry ass up and pick the damn phone up. Before long, the ring tone was replaced by a grumbling sound and the noise of a phone being fumbled with, and Jennings practically sang into the phone. "Well, good morning to you, sleepy head. Get coffee on the pot Alex, we got work to do." Alexander, who was on the other end of the line, groaned a bit, stretching as he sat up, that woman on the other end having already hung up and was probably at least half way to his apartment, since she had already called. He sighed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, half tempted to just go back to bed and blow her off, but she usually had an excusable reason for when she pulled this kind of stunt, so he got out of bed and put on a pot of coffee, going about getting dressed and getting his hunting kit together, just in case, you never knew what kind of situation Ms. Jennings would pull you into with no warning what so ever. She never just made social calls, always a reason behind her visits after all.

Jennings arrived, knocking at the door, and heard Alex say it was open, and she let herself in, following the smell of coffee. Sure enough, Alexander was sitting at the kitchen table, a pot of black coffee sitting on the table, the local news on the small TV that the detective, secretly hunter, kept for himself to keep track of what the local news stations thought of recent events. Sitting down, Jennings poured herself a cup of coffee, smiling at the scruffy man sipping coffee, staring at the news network, and jokingly punched him in the shoulder a bit. "Lighten up there, gumshoe, you would have woken up in a few more minutes anyways. Besides, you been keeping up with the news? Stuff's been going on under the radar, folks are writing it off like they always do, or are being told to write it off like they always do." Alex nodded, sipping from his coffee and replying in kind, the tiredness was still clear in his voice. "Yea, the call's been put out for the Hunters again. Got an email earlier, from a solid guy. Figure you were coming here for that reason. And you just wanted to steal more of my coffee, since your too lazy to make your own most days, seems like."

Jennings smirked, winking at Alex as she checked her phone, loading up her emails from there while Alex stood up, cleaning up the coffee that wasn't going to be drank, cleaning the table off and what not, while she read the email and typed in a reply, shooting it off rather quickly to the fellow Hunter who had sent the email. One Robert Chandler, and she typed out a quick, easy reply while Alex finished packing up, having armed himself as well. "Jennings here. I just snagged Alexander, we'll be on our way and present in a few hours, talk to you soon!" Finishing the text, she heard Alex pick up his keys, and looked at him, and he raised an eyebrow. "Do you think I would leave my Oldsmobile here? I would get back and some kid would either have stolen it, stolen the radio, or vandalized it. I ain't leaving her unattended." They got into an argument over why they should be in seperate vehicles or not, why Alex cared so much about a shitty car, so on and so forth for a good several minutes, easy.

Finally Jennings just threw her hands up and walked out, Alex was refusing to budge in this case. He was right behind her, jumping into the driver's seat of his Oldsmobile while she got into her truck, which she thought was a far more appropriate vehicle for Hunting, why the hell Alex had gone and found some Oldsmobile and proceeded to buy it and actually use it for hunting was beyond her! Alex would have gladly explained that he found it hilarious that he would pull up in an Oldsmobile, and some aging detective would step out, removing any potential folks had for thinking he was threatening, right up until their head vanished in a fine red mist, a .454 Casull round having marvelous effects like that. But Jennings would hardly care, she didn't think two vehicles were necessary, and refused to ride shotgun in an Oldsmobile, and off they went, as soon as they hit the highway, Alex would pull alongside Jennings, the two hunters cruising side by side to their final destination for the evening, as it were.

Brigid's full, crimson-painted lips pursed with disapproval as her cold azure eyes fell over the assemblage in this dank and altogether disgusting 'meeting hall.' And while such distaste might seem an odd reaction from a creature whose vast fortunes were currently made indulging the tastes of the obscenely wealthy, whose proclivities leaned toward the uncomfortable and discomfiting? The truth of the matter was that Brigid Teague's personal "tastes" did not run toward being put out of sorts herself in any way.

Nor did she enjoy being underground. Stifling. Suffocating. Far too similar to the grave she was never destined to know.

And honestly, could the Archbishop possibly have chosen a more stereotypically campy place for the "vile, malevolent" vampires to meet? Brigid snorted softly through her nose in disgust, despising this hackneyed venue to the bottom of her exquisitely sensitive and artistic Toreador soul.

Even so, the loathing she had for the Archbishop's banal choice of setting was but a pale shadow to her abhorrence of the flea-bitten, tick-infested Garou, and the unleashed beast he kept to do his dirty work in particular. Yes, she supposed that attack dogs did have a certain usefulness, but that did not mean she would ever allow one in her home, to shed on the furniture or slobber on her clothing. No finesse, no artistry, no sense of the sublime depths that agony could inspire in their work. Not much more than bite. Claw. Rip and rend and roar, she supposed.

Brigid yawned. How insufferably dull.

The stacatto percussion of the four-inch heels of her charcoal grey Isabel Marant stiletto sandals still thrummed through the shapely muscle of her calves, ringing to powerful thighs and through a spine so perfectly poised she might have seemed to float across than merely stride the length of this great room. The preternatural grace of the body that beneath the curve-hugging slate-colored material of her Donna Karan dress was poetry for the eyes, supernatural or even the merely mortal. Her glacial blue gaze still drank in the motley assemblage, and though her more professional instincts were fully roused by the company, it was not until she caught sight of one uncommonly magnificent face that her crimson lips finally curled up into a genuine, almost playful smile.

Vasile.

If it still had a beat, her heart might have leapt at the sight of the Sabbat priest. Now here was a true artist, a vampire who whose vision transcended living flesh and bone, penetrating into the realm of the divine with the splendor of his darkly sublime vision. He was no mere creator of ghouls - oh no, not Vasile. This was a being who saw the true potential within the mortal confines of meat and marrow, just as a sculptor might see his creation in a block of marble long before he released it from those common confines. He was, in short, magnificent to her eyes.

Spite and malice had twisted her already vicious soul, to revile all her oh-so-tragically and ill-fated Sire ever embraced. Her loathing for the Camarilla was a visceral thing now. But it was the breathtaking skills of those like Vasile who truly reminded her, these dark decisions she embraced had led her true, that she knew kindred souls among the Sabbat. A single wave of perfectly-coiffed platinum blonde hair fell coyly over one eye as Brigid nodded in his direction.

It was his first time in Pawtuckaway; he'd never seen a New England town or a New England caern like this out here in Walden country; Thoreau would have approved of the tranquility of the unspoiled nature of the place.

After his greeting howl, he was approached by the warder, an older fellow named Aidan Samhain-Born who looked like he'd bought into the hippie thing a little too much, except for the leather boat shoes -- that was not very West Coast at all. The guy was reddish-brown going gray, but seemed happy to meet him, "Well, a young lad out and about, and you say you have a message for our Gatekeeper, do you? Well, we can get to that and then I'll guide you in for a little hospitality from the sept."

The whole thing struck Nakhti as a little too relaxed -- but he was also young and so held his tongue; the security might be in layers around the place that he wasn't even aware of. Not all Ahroun probed and thought through problems, but the ones that did were like Nakhti and looked for vulnerabilities the way a raven looked for something shiny. Such things caught their eye immediately. But he was of a close-mouthed tribe that tended to mind the courtesies, so he instead replied, "My respects, Aidan Samhain-Born, I would appreciate the hospitality of the sept." Of course, the whole thing had a little too much of the kumbaya ambience to it. Sure, a caern was supposed to be a place of spiritual restoration and refreshment, safety in an increasingly hostile world, but it really looked, to the life of him, that the Warder here was a bit too snug here. Perhaps that was his wanderer's blood crying out to find the road again, or his warrior's spirit crying to hunt. But he followed the man along where he led, figuring to at least spend a day before moving on.

The old Garou was about to say something more, tip of his tongue, when his mouth clamped shut and the jaw went tense; that'd be the sight of Michelle, skulls swinging off a rope.

Aidan didn't seem to like the sight, but Nakhti found himself intrigued -- maybe Pawtuckaway had something more to the liking of the young warrior than a drum circle and pot smoking.

Pony

Pony stalked into The Digs, her pretty and innocent face twisted into a scowl. She was slim, she was graceful, she was youthful... and she was pissed. Even the way her oversized denim jacket swung about her torso said it. To her The Digs were a second home, for when the Drummers were not found in their Haven by the docks or out attending to their duties, they were here awaiting the Arch-Bishop's commands. No doubt she had already missed whatever rousing speech Gunnarson had whipped up for everyone else, and that was to her liking. She knew her job. She knew what was wanted. And there was no doubt in her mind that part of the ArchBishop's current plans to stir up the Garou was to use vampires and trick the werewolves into thinking it was the Camarilla's fault. She doubted the beasts could tell much difference between the vampire sects. It wasn't as painfully obvious as it was when one looked at the wholesome Garou compared to the twisted Black Spiral Dances. Even in their human forms, the difference seemed obvious to her!

Even if it wasn't Gunnarson's plan, it should have been. Either way, Pony knew she needed just the right kind of grunts to go with the fleabag. It was a process already underway, actually, as the rest of the Drummers were already standing watch over the vacant lot where they had buried the latest recruits. Best way to get shock troops? Grow your own like corn! Bury them six feet under and then see what popped up hungry for blood and obeying whomever had it! Which would be the Drummers and whatever liaisons the other Packs had assigned to help with the process. It was a stroke of genius, nabbing guys from the VA hospital. Combat veterans, ready to serve. Just add vitae! And the way Pony had heard it, these guys would be a lot better of as vampires anyway compared to how the government was treating them! Wait 15 months for medical services?? Fuck that! Drain 'em, fill 'em, dump 'em, and the good as new all around. There might be mental issues, true, but that was for the other Pack leaders to worry about and only if the Shovelheads lasted long enough for it to matter. Strangely enough, though, it was always the Malkavians who seemed to object the most...

Pony had other priorities at the moment. Gunnarson wanted disposable warriors to go with Cecilia? Job done. But a war needed more than just foot soldiers.

She spied Vasile across the room and pursed her lips hard in anger. Jungle boots stomping across the floor, ripped cargo pants flashing pale flesh, the tiny girl with the ponytail walked right up the flesh artists and began poking him hard in the sternum with what only looked to be a delicate finger. "Where are my fucking scouts, Vasile?"

When it came to such matters, Pony had no tact. She looked oh so adorable and innocent, and had she the temperament for it she could have been the perfect lure to her own trap as she reeled in mortals with a lust for such thing. Only she was a hunter. The idea of being dainty and coy was as alien to her as mercy. "You promised me three ghouls last week. Three! Remember? That's why I gave you my blood, to create some ghouls to handle daylight crap on the sly?" The last bit was an outright lie, of course. Pony wasn't so stupid as to give Vasile her own blood any more then she would give him her body! The vitae had actually been contributed by her lieutenants, who no doubt in turn had extorted it from lower ranking members of the Boston Sabbat; at least she hoped they did, as she had no use for stupid lieutenants. Vasile did good work, she would give him credit for that! And on a personal level, she did respect and even admire him a little. She thought he seemed to return some of that respect sometimes, although she wasn't sure. The idea of 'liking' someone had been lost over the decades along with the whole 'mercy' concept. Only Vasile lingered over his victim's sufferings, savored it, reveled in his torturous manipulations as though it were art. And maybe it was! Too bad the only art Pony cared for was the art of war.

Not even giving him time to speak, she jabbed her finger at him again. "Tomorrow, Vasile. I want them tomorrow." The slightly chipped nailed finger swung about to point towards the ArchBishops' chambers. "I am going to go talk to Gunnarson now. Please get the fucking job done, aright?" Pony gave him one more puppy dog glare and turned away, lips twisted in aggravation. She thought it so unfair that she, the Sabbat War Leader, she have the honeyed notes of sixteen year old girl to give commands and ultimatums with instead of a proper bellow that came of leather lungs.

In turning about, she found herself looking directly at the Toreador, Brigit. Pony's mood became more sour. There was something about the elegant and poised woman that just set Pony's fangs on edge, annoying her for no reason that she could put a name to. Those full lips, the perfectly styled hair, the full swell and curves of her adult body that did not so much wear the dress as it did complement it. She made the Pander feel base. Pony was pretty, yes. But Brigit was beautiful, a refined elegance that outshone her in so many ways. And that irked the smaller girl. Worse was Brigit's arrogance; she was good at what she did, yes, only she wasn't the only one who could do the job. There was one thing Pony could take pride in; she knew she could kick the Toreador's perfectly rounded ass in a fist fight. In the end, she raised her petite chin up a little and sniffed dismissively at Brigit before stalking away; it was like Great Dane being dismissed by a Chihuahua puppy.

So it was that Pony marched down the twisting corridors to Gunnarson's office. "Hey, B-man," she gruffed as she entered, "No one seems to want to be first to talk to you. They're all standing around plotting. So you get me." She grinned, showing her tiny white teeth clearly. "Isn't that lovely? You want my report or did the Nosferatu give it to you already?"

The room was a cacophony of over indulgence; overpriced crystal twinkled from the lighting, silk caressed the darkened windows that blocked out the uninitiated and gold licked at the same silverware as the silver tongued occupants. Her three companions were taking turns verbally coaxing orgasms out of one another with practiced tact of blue blood breeding. They had completed the merger only hours ago and her wealth had increased once again. She was leaning back, flawlessly manicured nails clicking at the long stemmed wine glass gently as she bathed in the progeny of her capitalistic heights. But her mind was away from these mortal follies, still ruminating over the wolf attack on their sheriff. Her company was blissfully ignorant of these events and failed to notice anything strange about their unusually passive ‘leader’; though if they had noticed they were probably counting this as pleasure and would not have questioned it. Johnathan Milbanks the Third, an abhorrently greedy individual that had gained all the skills to back his chosen endeavors was intoxicated and laughing sharply enough that she turned her head to avoid the direct assault. Her eyes took this moment to roam across the room. This establishment had always been one of her favorites. They lacked the nouveau riche and ostentatious celebrity classes that clawed at beauty only to destroy it. The establishment hand selected clientele to the degree that often the great hall seemed almost barren. They would sooner turn someone away than break the basic merits of this place, for all that entered were guaranteed to have two commonalities; they were wealthy and enjoyed their privacy. Her head canted just slightly as she caught the beckoning gaze of one of her Brujah bodyguards. He received a slight nod and then she turned her attention back to the table.

She placed her glass on the table and turned on the charm, literally. Presence was no longer something she worked at, but rather a natural and fluid action, such as breathing is for the kine. “I apologize my friends, but I must depart on some personal business.” Adoration glimmered in their souls as she stood and started heading towards the door. There was a flicker of rejection from Milbanks, but his yearning was not enough to raise a question to Eriko.

As she stepped into the chill night air Peter and Francis moved to her elbows. It had been Peter who had come inside to coax her out so it was he whom she addressed while placing a cigarette betwixt her lips. “So, what is this all about?” Francis lit her cigarette with a steel zippo and she inhaled, her face lacking any of the previous faux joy as the smoke trickled about.

“You’ll want to sit down for this.” He really meant they didn’t need to be talking about this on the street. He motioned towards her black overly tinted limo and her mind, always skittering about, started to imagine the probable to impossible, weeding through a hundred thoughts as Francis opened the door and her lithe form slipped in, Francis and Peter once again entering to be at either side of her. A third Brujah named Jay, smaller yet smarter than the other two, was occupying the driver’s seat.

Across the back of the limo sat a twitchy ghoul. She had never been a fan of the ghouls; most likely stemming from her inability to respect them on any level. They were necessary, she understood, but to have one sitting across from her tickled something vicious inside of her so that her lips slipped into a scowl. “Speak.” She glanced down at her skirt, adjusting and picking at the fitted hem in favor of continuing eye contact. She feared she may ‘accidently’ let something evil slip into his mind. Once he finished stating his piece they pulled over and discarded the man on the side of a street without so much as a thank you. But do you thank the man that tells you your Prince is dead? He should be thankful none in the limo viewed him relevant enough for accountability.

The limo held pause on that corner for a moment while two fingers pressed and rubbed her temples. She knew the action did nothing for a being that lacked a pulse, but it helped her to think. It was only a matter of seconds before orders began to flow from her in an almost subconscious wave. She had commanded pirates, she had commanded respect, but to command the Camarilla of Boston until a replacement was found, in a time of war no less, this would require her to be on the top of her game and so each order became a little more infused with dominance as she tried to place her bearings. She removed a cigarette which was again lit by Francis who moved to allow her access to the slightly cracked window.

“Jay, make Inigo aware we will be slightly late. Head towards the Prince’s house. I also want an extra man on Bishop. Francis, I need some favors called in. I want a line to New Orleans Camarilla opened, specifically one of the LeDeaux clan if possible. They appreciate discretion. We don’t need to deal with encroaching or pillaging Camarilla on top of our current issues, so let us attempt to keep this in house and quiet beyond the requests I make, understood? Send your progeny to New York to locate Laurna Crest, she is one of their Primogen. Fill her in on the situation. We will need to notify Elders but I will speak to Bishop in these regards. He should be meeting us. Peter, be sure that the inner circle and those with information will be at this meeting. I want the Primogen to meet afterwards. I also specifically require the help of Tosh so be sure he is in attendance. Get the word out that any unaligned kindred who wish to remain neutral should check in or vacate Boston for the time being.” At this declaration she looked to Peter and raised a brow, making sure her next words were pointed. “This is not a joke. This is not a drill. Unaligned still traipsing around the city in the next week will be treated as Sabbat unless their true intentions are known.”

The limo pulled over a few blocks from the Prince’s house. There was no reason to get any closer and draw attention to themselves, or to the Prince’s house. Eriko’s form moved from the back of the limo into the shadows quickly and soon she and Francis were jumping the large wall that surrounded his home. Peter had made his way to the back while Jay watched from the Limo, keeping her running. They moved quickly, silently, though the only other life they could sense came from the sounds of the city a few miles off. Once Eriko was comfortable with the fact they were alone she stepped into the house. She stopped walking about once she located the Prince. She stood there, shifting her weight to her right leg and examining the work. After a couple of minutes she walked about the scene, taking it all in. There was a hint of something in that scowl. One artist of death to another. Yes, that curl that laced amongst the scowl seemed to be a bit of respect. Surely there was no emotion for the dead Prince. She wasn’t much for sentiment. “Hmph. Ok. We should go now.” That thin digit rolled in the air the symbol for wrap it up and take off.

Not 20 minutes later they were pulling up to the theater. The exiting of the limo was highly reminiscent of their last stop. Peter exited and headed to the back of the theater while Eriko and Francis headed for the front. She had some strong opinions to share and there was much to do. The haste was apparent in the nippy sharp clicks of heels that touched the pavement. Francis opened the door for the small ferocious little thing, his large form fully capable of covering her back and possibly enveloping her tiny form in a bear hug if necessary. It was not something he had tested, and randomly as he stepped through that door he was counting on one hand the amount of time he had actually touched the Ventrue whom’s wake he followed upon.

As Tosh traveled through the storm drains he chatted quickly with several of the rats and sent them on ahead of him. Several minutes later one of them returned and told him a cold one was waiting at the drain outside of the theater. Based on the description it was Peter which meant Eriko was at the Camarilla meeting. He lifted the broken grate on the storm drain cover and emerged a few feet from Peter. Before he was completely out of the drain Peter said, "Eriko wants you inside."

Tosh rubbed his hands together as rats do, then nodded to Peter before scurrying into the theater back entrance. The nice thing about theater's was the false floors and hidden passageways, especially in older ones like this. He traveled through the tunnel and up a staircase before emerging out of a door marked "Stagehands Only" He took a seat in the balcony closest to the stage.

While awaiting the arrival of the rest of the members he stroked his chin thoughtfully, if Eriko needs me then this could prove worthwhile, the last "favor" for Eriko ended quite profitably, in fact the coin he had acquired on the journey turned out to be from the Hun Dynasty in China, which was a very nice addition to his collection. He excitedly thought of all of the possibilities and his mouth began to salivate. Nothing is better for a Gangrel than a good hunt.

Tosh picked up a rat that had followed him in and chatted with it quickly, and gave it precise instructions. Several of the rats were to scatter around the building hiding in the walls and other places and report any conversations that may be of value. He set it down gently on the faded carpet and watched it scurry away.

He waited patiently as the members slowly trickled in. There were only one or two faces he recognized. Due to his preference of dark tunnels, he often stuck but he didn't care. Sadly it was for that reason that most of his counter-parts refused to speak with him let alone remain in his presence for any longer than necessary.

The Tremere watched as the Camarilla vampires gathered, all walks of such beings of various standing and power gathering to hear the grim news, if their own crude imitations of information networks, barring a few skilled amongst them, had already informed them of the news. He observed two such beings, one he had personally instructed a ghoul to inform, the other, probably a side effect of that. The Seneschal Eriko Nishimura, a fascinating example of her clan, that much was certain. Information was scarce, hardly surprising as she probably kept such things out of sight, and he hardly dug too deep. Such things would be noticed enough to attract her ire, and such a thing he could ill afford, especially a time like this. His musing on her were kept short and to the point, only concerned with the fact that, with the Prince dead in a permanent sort of way, she was the de facto ruler of the Camarilla operations in Boston. That meant she was THE boss above him now, for the present, rather than one of the higher ones. And knowing how she acted in the past, she probably had all sorts of agents and operations already in action, all to cover for this assault and other such shadowy goals that lurked in her mind.

The other notable presence, to the Tremere at least, was a Kindred that most of the others avoided, one who spoke with rats and held the information network that, he suspected, outclassed his or, at the very worse level, provided a rather potent rival. A strange specimen of their kind, which was saying something, the sewer dwelling information broker was probably the single Kindred in Boston that could treat information as a deadlier weapon than himself, and he could respect that, if nothing else. He, with his own strange habits, hardly cared or was bothered by the sewer Kindred's habits and company, although they rarely crossed paths personally, he was sure proxies and such in each of their networks had crossed paths consistently, and made deals and such as part of their own work as well as their master's. He approved of the information that Tosh, if memory served him, would potentially bring to the table, especially augmented with what his own report had, should Eriko decide to share.

Speaking of the illustrious Senseschal, Inigo calmly approached her, black folder tucked under one arm, leaning heavily as usual on his cane, inclining his head as he paused a respectful distance from her, well aware of her body guards presence in this place. After the Prince's death, of course they would be even more heavily aware of their surroundings and charge than usual, which was impressive considering their natural talent to begin with. But, such idle thoughts were irrelevant, and he spoke to her directly, before it was time to address the Camarilla. "I apologize for the disruption, Seneschal, but I suspect you will forgive such intrusions this eve. Enemies escaped with the life of our esteemed Prince, endeavoring to end our esteemed estate of Boston, though that ever endearing ghoul most likely eagerly elaborated as such." Probably not eagerly, but the poor creature had little choice in the matter, after all, Inigo was hardly one that could be blown off when he got on a roll. With her here, he was inclined to let her take the spotlight, hand out orders, and such, and passed her the black folder, speaking as he had before, hardly direct and apparently wasting breath for those unfamiliar with the Tremere.

"A specially structured script, storing select sources upon sometimes stressful souls against us, Sabbat and their seekers." It would contain the report meant for the Prince, so it would lack his normally maddening manner of speech, and in plain speak, it was an intelligence report on the most recent discoverable activities between the Sabbat, Garou on the outskirts, Human hunters, and other things of note. The Sabbat were the focus this time, however, and he figured that they had a hand in the death of the Prince, direct or otherwise. He resumed speaking while she either leafed through the report or not, adding onto what the ghoul would not have. "Speaking of Sabbat, this humble Tremere has called the meeting of the Camarilla, but is hardly one to be opening with speeches of venomous words and fiery orders, nor is he one to be in the open of such foreboding motions. The bulk of the bolstered body of the Camarilla appears bodily present, and it would bode well, in this one's opinion, to begin with the berating of some, the bolstering of others, and a beginning of new page in Boston history."

Inigo knew his manner of speech was not conducive to leadership, most Kindred couldn't follow or stand his manner of speaking for extended periods of time, for he spoke fast, and never directly stating manners. After all, one could summarize what he had stated as simply it would be, in his opinion, prudent to begin. But he spoke as such for his own amusement, and for his own uses, and so he would simply fall in behind the Seneschal, having both called the meeting, found the Prince's abode the way it was, and of course carried much knowledge of the report she now held, as well as additional information and such that would be analyzed further, he had a natural reason to be present. He stuck to the shadows around her, of course, keeping that respectful distance while waiting to be called upon, her presence would no doubt gather attention and silence the Camarilla that was gathered here, after all, many were confused as to why they had been summoned away from their duties. Let Eriko deal with explaining that, it was hardly his place to do such things with higher authority present now. Let her deal with the shock and backlash that would arrive from such things becoming known to the main populace of Camarilla Kindred.

The hunters gathered.

The way to the Chandler household was twisty and difficult to navigate, but in the end they all arrived in their own time. Robert met them upon the porch each in turn, looking down at them somberly for several moments before offering each a quiet greeting and thanks. The strange man seemed distracted several times whenever spoken to, his eyes often buzzing about as though the answers he needed were flickers of light just within his peripheral vision. Yet upon crossing the doorway into his home, he would turn about and look each in the eyes. In that brief instant, the man no longer seemed as lost and would say the same to everyone who entered his house: "Never invite anyone in without asking me first." No explanation was given, no reasonings made. Just a simple statement that no one should give another permission to enter the house.

Robert still had done little to reorganize or move his vast literary collection. A table had been cleared off in what must have once been the dining room, and half of a couch was now visible sitting before the great fireplace within the living room. The many bedrooms upstairs were cleaned out as well, and the sheets and blankets all freshly laundered for his guest's comfort. He bid those who needed a place to stay to take any room of their choosing save for the last at the end of the hall, saying simply that the master bedroom was his. Otherwise they should all make themselves at home and do their best not to move too many of his books around. He did apologize about the food situation. "I don't eat much," mumbled the hollow eyed scholar vaguely, "and I didn't know what anyone would want. If someone wants to run into town later, I can cover expenses. There's no food delivery out this far that I know of. I tried ordering Dominos Pizza once... They thought it was a practical joke. I think I have some ramen left if you're hungry now. And there's some coffee in the pot by the sink... or there was a month ago. I've got lots of tea, though."

Once as many arrived as he could reasonably expect, he asked everyone to join him around the dining room table. Several large maps of Boston and the surrounding area had been laid out along side newspaper clippings, internet printouts, photos, and books on local history. It was early evening when they held the first meeting; that was when Robert functioned best, even if it made the eccentric traits that marked him all the more apparent.

"So... Yeah, thanks again for coming." He paused as he tried to figure out what to say next; thrust into a vague role of leadership, his mind scrambled for what was worth mentioning and what wasn't. This was not a comfortable situation for him at all. Still, they were all looking at him! Robert had a difficult time not mumbling at first and was unable to meet anyone's eyes, staring instead glassily at the table around which they all stood. His voice was quite, distant.

"For those of you who don't know the area, The... Society of Leopold had sponsored a group of hunters known as the Forlorn Hope to keep an eye on things... and to take care of any troubles that arose. I was part of that group." There was a long pause, and Robert's voice quavered a bit even as his hands shook slightly. In all the time that had passed, he hadn't spoke to anyone of what had happened for the simple reason that there was no one he knew of who would believe him. Opening up now in front of other hunters, even strangers, released emotions that he struggled to control. His voice dropped to a hush. "Two years ago almost the entire group was wiped out. We walked into... something. A war, a battle, an ambush... They tore... They tore us apart faster than you could blink and by the morning? I was the only survivor. Since then it's... been quiet."

Squaring his shoulders and looking at the table, he gestured to the array of papers. "Until recently. It's nothing obvious at first glance. Put it together and you can tell that something is going on." As he spoke, his voice began to gain some strength. Facts and figures! They were his saving grace. The emotion was for the past and now he needed to focus on business, on now. Robert shoved the grief off as he always did, always putting it into the back of his mind so he could at least get through the day in front of him, always telling himself he would deal with it later and never doing so. Instead, it always came back in nightmares to haunt him.

"To begin with, the levels of violence within the city have risen rapidly in just the past few weeks. Assault, kidnappings, and murder, mostly. By itself, that's nothing, and I wouldn't have blinked twice. Only there's been a sharp increase in animal attacks as well, both in and around the city. Oddly enough, none of the witness or survivors can agree on what sort of animal they were each attacked by. Sighted species include: black bears, cougars, bobcats, Canadian lynx, coyotes, large dogs, grey wolves, and one woman... one woman is adamant that it was a Sasquatch. Leaving that last one aside for now, all of these are possible but not highly probably given the location of many of the attacks. And while there have been substantiated reports of grey wolf sightings in the state, more sightings have been documented of late regarding unidentified wolf species that are definitely not grey wolves. This map here shows the locations of all of the attacks within the past year. There's an index... here... that gives all the information.

"The local hospitals are desperately trying to keep up with the influx, emergency rooms are filled nightly, urgent care centers are filled daily, and the major thing in demand by everyone... is blood." Robert pushed forward several documents from the Red Cross and local media, as well as a public bulletin by the CDC. "There is an extreme shortage of blood supplies in the Boston area, which is strange because donations are at an all time high. The trouble is that a lot of the donors coming in are highly anemic. Even existing supplies are strained. The media has been going on thefts and black markets, but there's no evidence to any of it."

Next Robert pointed out the newspaper clippings and the police blotters. "What's most concerning is the number of missing persons reports. Those, too, are on the rise, up over 35% from the previous ten year average. There's generally nothing connecting any of the missing people... except for these seven." One fine finger tapped on an article. "Seven military veterans went missing from the VA hospital all in the same night. Some were in the ER, some were in-patients, one was just a visitor. Hospital logs showed they all entered, but nothing shows any of them leaving. Security videos showed nothing. The story was big news for a day... and then nothing. Like it was squashed. This second map and index also give all the details about each incident; names, last known locations, occupations, marital status, and... Well, you get the idea."

Robert looked up and licked his lips nervously. "So at a guess, after reviewing all of the relevant date and some of the not so relevant gossip, we're looking a large scale vampire infestation. Bigger than Chicago, maybe. And outside of it, all around and just outside the suburbs with occasional forays into urban areas? Werewolves. Or at least some other creature than can either change its shape or otherwise camouflage itself well enough to avoid tracking." His briefing finished, the scholar coughed and blushed a bit. "At least... that what it seems like."

Robert gestured in the direction of the old stone barn outside. "My family's been filling the barn with junk for decades. If you think anything's of use, you're welcome to it. I doubt there's any sort of weapons in there, not unless you're into rusty axes and scythes, but if you find something useable take it. If you think the barn itself is usable as... I dunno, an armory, a workshop, whatever... go ahead and clean it out. There's some old cars and a steam powered traction engine in there if you tinkering with that sort of stuff. Just be warned that it doesn't have the same sort of protections on it that the house does, except for the barn hexes. Lots of iron rods in the foundations and running through the stones, though, just in case you're worried about faeries." His voice was absolutely deadpan.

"I'll leave it you folks with the guns and things that go boom to figure out where we go from here. I just don't recommend all out war in the middle of the city, is all. Beyond that... I'm... not much of a leader. Sorry." And it was clear that he meant it. "But if there's any information you need, anything you want researched? I know where to look and not look."

He paused then, eyes flickering as though he had forgotten something. "Oh," he concluded absently, "There's a big Saratoga trunk up on a couple of palettes towards the back wall of the basement? You probably shouldn't dig around in it. It's got a special collection of books that... ah... If you've ever heard the term 'never see the light of day? It kinda applies to a lot of those for a bunch of different reasons."

Looking around at the assembled faces, Robert retreated back into his shell again, shrugging. "So... there you have it."

The effort of dealing with so many people at once combined with the emotional toll the memories brought was too much for him. "I'll... leave folks to look everything over. If you... if you need me I'll be on the back porch."