The car rumbled down the street. The color was a dark green, and the car a Ford F-100 XLT from 1974. It sounded like a piece of shit, because it was a piece of shit. Looked like a piece of shit as well, Gareth thought. A green piece of shit, anyway. Thankfully, it wasn't his. He sat in the passenger seat, idly rolling his thumbs with a faraway smile playing on his lips. When he had stirred awake back at his office earlier that night, it had seemed to play out as any other Boston night - dark, exciting and full of tears and terrors alike. As Gareth was hit by the news that the Prince himself had been offed - and in such an exhilaratingly brutal way too, if rumors were true - he had quickly realized, however, that this very night would have so much more of these qualities than usual. Gareth was positively brimming with excitement, though the driver beside him thought he looked as calm and content as always.

The driver, by the way, was Miss Farragut. It wasn't her real name, but it was what Gareth had chosen for her. As Kine, she wasn't a real person anyway. She was, though, an old acquaintance, who loved more than anything to do everything Gareth told her to. Usually he simply sucked her dry, but sometimes, like tonight, she served as his personal little chauffeur. Her disgusting excuse for a vehicle aside, he liked this arrangement very much. He thought she was a lovely woman, and almost regretted having chopped off one of her hands a couple of years back. The fact she drove so well with one hand didn't make her any less lovely.

He couldn't blame her too much for the vehicle she possessed, though. After all, she had been a homeless alcoholic when they met. Gareth had stolen the Ford from some tosser - Gareth liked that word a lot - and given it to her, along with one of the rooms back at his office building, which housed quite a little family of Kine Gareth had picked up along the way, and even Kindred! But that was another story. Right now Gareth turned his head to the toothless Miss Farragut and gazed in her wet, bleak-blue eyes. The popped blood vessels in them made Gareth hungry. Miss Farragut was probably in her fifties, Gareth thought, and her colored bright-red hair suited her perfectly. He had turned towards her because she had said something.
"I'm sorry, love. What was that?" he asked.
"We're here!"
"Of course we are!" Gareth answered, rather abrupt. "Oh, at the theatre. Thank you, darling." He stepped out of the vehicle. "Have a pleasant evening!", he shouted as he shut the door and started strolling.

Gareth didn't know if he liked that the Prince was dead or not. On the flip side, it surely meant Gareth would get a lot more work now - and interesting work to boot. On the other hand, it also surely meant that the Sabbath along with the other cretins would become more bold. Furthermore, Gareth had liked the Prince. He was Malkavian and had entrusted Gareth with a lot of good work throughout the years. Hopefully whoever stepped up wouldn't be any less fun. For know, that person would be Nishimura. The little chink was an interesting character, if only for the fact that Gareth didn't know half as much about her as he wanted to.

And now, Gareth had been ordered to attend a theatre in downtown Boston, as he assumed all Camarilla vampires of remote importance or value were. He was dressed in a shirt, vest and trench coat, looking very much like a corny noir character. He lacked the silly hat, though. Also, he was slightly late. As Gareth crossed the street and headed towards the theatre, he couldn't help but notice the Seneschal herself stepping out of a limousine. She headed inside, and Gareth followed.

As she pushed her way deeper towards the caern, breaking into the more open ground by the lake proper, she caught sight of one of the Pawtuckaway garou and almost snorted.

Aidan Samhain-Born, Warder of the caern. More like nanny, as far as she was concerned--what had he warded against of late? She couldn't remember the last time he showed his stuff to anyone but some upstart whelp who'd ticked off a spirit a little too much. They weren't exactly big on challenges at Pawtuckaway, or at least not combat ones, and who else actually wanted the job of warder? She was sure he must have done something to earn it, made some sort of mark on the world or fucked someone up awfully hard, but she'd never seen it happen and doubted it would. Call it boastful, but even in her new shoes she was willing to bet she could have taken him.

And he knew it--or at least knew she thought it--which made that 'pissed in my coffee' look so much better.

Not just him, though, he made a friend. A new friend, by the look of him, and not a bad look at that. Darker skin than most, darker hair than most, same shabby clothes as ninety percent of traveling garou... Definitely a fighter, by the way he carried himself, probably ahroun, wrong presence to be galliard. Michelle had a hard time figuring out people's auspice or feeling their rage--her own was so overwhelming, so fucking sharp on the tongue that even some of the less resilient garou could barely talk to her most of the time, which was fine by her. If they couldn't stand the heat, they could piss off. A few years younger than her, she couldn't tell if he really was that much more interesting than poor old Aidan or if she was just interested in some more exotic meats.

"Look at you, Sammy. Making friends." She called by way of introduction as she approached, the skulls clattering against her back. Ostentatious, she knew, but last time she showed up empty handed with stories about spiral-killing they'd looked at her like she had three heads and moved on to listen to one of their little theurges talk about an ancestor spirit he chased through the lake. Her voice was flat and almost atonal, apathetic and viciously bored, and if she smiled with her lips her eyes were the same dead black as ever. "Can I play too?"

Rolling her shoulders slightly, she made her way to the pair of them and stopped just outside arm's reach. She wore the short black dress like gang colors, the front of it dipping low to show off an inked chest with no tits and the hem of it falling to barely mid-thigh over more tattoos. Nothing garou, nothing tribal, just good old ink in a dozen different patterns, most of them (oddly enough) the outlines of flowers. They might have softened the look if they hadn't been placed over the same kind of lean muscle that hid under Michael's hoodie or been marred with clawed scars.

"Hi. I'm Michelle. I like long walks on the beach and candle-light dinners. Everyone here hates me."

She shifted, holding the row of skulls out in front of her to the warder.

"Brought you a present. Bet at least one of them would make a killer bong."

The wail of a howl sounded nearby. As one of the lupus guarding the caern, it was the responsibility of Lucas to deal with it. He was the closest to the newcomer, who had already identified himself as a strider. The visits were coming more often, this one seemed particularly urgent. With his nose in the air, Lucas tasted to see if he knew this garou. He couldn't tell this far out, all he could smell was Fianna. With a huff, Lucas shook himself off and trotted in the general direction the howl came from. Once within sight, he didn't recognize the lupus right off. Striders were always courteous of territory and this one was no exception. After staring out from the tree line and studying the strider, Lucas stepped out and showed himself. If the message was as important as he made it sound, it was probably a good idea to let him pass into the caern. Lucas stared at the strider for a moment before turning around and walking toward the caern. A flick of his tail signaled that he was allowing the strider to travel to the caern.

Just as he turned around, Lucas caught the scent of blood and darkness. The Black Spiral Dancers were the only ones that smelled that way. There was another scent on the air. Smoke? Was that female from the Get back again? The only time those three mixed was when she was around. She was probably headed toward the caern to try again to get them to fight. Lucas rolled his golden eyes. The elders were too proud, once they made a decision, it would take a miracle to get them to change their minds. Lucas didn't care either way. War wasn't in him, all he wanted was to read and listen to music. Being a Lupus born Galliard was difficult. As a Lupus, he was more naturally inclined to protect territory. But as a Galliard, it was all about lore and the howl. He sighed, it didn't matter. There were more important things afoot.

Lucas heard yet another commotion. It was by the pond. The familiar scent Fianna caught his attention, however he didn't seem to know this one. The scent drifted along with that of the Black Fury. He knew the Black Furies were allies, but in this day and age, one couldn't be too careful. Time to check it out!
Lucas travelled swiftly, though not at his full stride. He knew any Fianna could take care of themselves, so there was no rush and it wasn't long before he arrived. He was and wasn't surprised by what he saw. Two Black Furies, one was a Metis. Lucas wrinkled his nose, he didn't much like metis. Neither did his tribe. He was less offended than most, and he found it brave that the woman he saw with it would bring one here. He stayed in the shadows for the most part, but he was up wind now and they would smell him soon enough.

Eriko-Noxious; Insert by Francis-Hellis

Inigo’s approach was greeted with a bow of her head; one purposefully blatant so that her respect for him, and for the Primogen, could be made apparent. Some thought her arrogant, and they were right, but the small statured femme fatale had not survived without relying on those with merit. Inigo was one such person and her attention was offered in verification. Plus, she had always liked Inigo’s way of speech. It reminded her of times in the past in which words were beautiful and poetic; a time when the population had grasped for the ethereal the only way they knew how. For a second she wondered what he had been like in life. Quickly that thought joined the other dissonance of her brain, a thrill hive that would have threatened frenzy in her youth. It was not a threat now as the conditioned organ began to file, list, and prioritize her thoughts.

As Inigo spoke she turned a few pages of the folder. Her attention moved to him between pages, but with her mind fluttering the way it was she could not careful read the report. She abandoned her attempted reading but carefully slipped the folder between her arm and chest for later. She meet his eyes with a fierce unfaltering gaze. Now was not a time to shy away from eye contact. Now was a time to weed out the untruthful. She was in control enough to not assert any kindred dominance into her stare beyond the strictness that lay even in the base of her nature. She favored brevity with Inigo in light of the lengthy speech she had in store for the assembled group. Once he had finished speaking she responded.

“Thank you valued Inigo. I hope that you shall remain faithful for what comes." She paused, either for affect or acknowledgment, and held his eyes for a few moments. She really wanted to discuss his thoughts on who was behind the attack, but that could wait until after their meeting. And so he was offered another bow of her head.

While she admired his speech, he was right to recede this burden. There was no room for confusion now, and her words would not be confused, for better or for worse. She stepped out towards the front of the group. Francis followed behind her, watchful and coiled. His presence loomed about her, more mindful than her own shadow. Once she was at a raised position it was easy for her voice to carry. The same voice had once carried deep into the night across the sense-blurring force of a cyclone, ushering out similar orders. She had been a warrior then, sick with bloodlust and reckless in her youth. She couldn’t help but allow those lips to curl ever so slightly. Time truly was cyclical.

Time. “Some of you may recall before the Camarilla offered balance, united us with the belief that we could exist among humans. We go about our own business, we have shed the burdens of awe and fear. Avoid the hunters, the attention, that continually spawn from the loins of that truly cursed lifestyle. A semblance of stability in this eternal life.” She paused, finding the gaze of attendees. The passion of her stare was apparent; less apparent was the almost subconscious use of presence. Her eyes narrowed as her tone became graver. “For those who don’t remember, it was not all blood orgies and cult followings. There is no strength, no power that can protect you from the wrath of others when they know your face. Your true face. No protection beyond a very deep hole and time, and that is if you are lucky. Each clan here has lost dozens of kindred to not respecting the masquerade. Kindred have been mutilated, strung up and burned not 50 miles from this very location. Kindred much stronger than the majority of you. I do not only speak of a distant Boston of the past, these times threaten us now. Your Prince and your Sheriff were murdered. These were not acts of chance. This was a threat. Be not content. War is coming to this city.”

She paused again; smoothing her skirt with a dry palm and tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. It didn’t matter what she had done earlier in the night. Her appearance was fervent, refined, and direct; part politician, leader, and captain. These were her common base traits, and now, surrounded by kindred, the promise of battle tickling her neck, they were undeniable. “I am Eriko Nishimura; Seneschal to the Camarilla of Boston. More importantly, I am not a stranger to waging war. War is in my blood, just as it flows through all of you, handed down as a necessity, as a blessed birth right. It seems that this ideal has been lost upon some of you, specifically those unaccustomed to fighting for survival, for our protected way of life. We grew comfortable. Let me be very clear, the Camarilla support existing among the humans, not as humans. The time has come once again to be warriors for the cause that unites us here.

Our vigilance, our protection of the masquerade and of each other should have increased immediately following the first whispers. It did not. We were vain and self-righteous in our blindness and now chaos beckons at the door. The blindness ends now. We are at war. In this cyclical life we have always been at war against the beasts, kindred and kine we share this world with.” She seemed more lively when she spoke of war. “I am not asking you to fight for me, but with me. In my opinion there is nothing, nothing, more valuable in this eternal life than the opportunity to fight for something you believe in. This as a battle for our city and for secrecy. Now, if you are questioning that reason, the importance of the masquerade, I ask that you reconsider.”

She now looked to Peter who had slipped in the back of the crowd. He nodded and went to retrieve something from the limo. She returned her gaze to those gathered and her tone became sharper.

“Complacency and cowardice cannot, will not, be tolerated. There are no gray areas in war. You are with us, or against us. And those against us are going to burn. I am going to take everything they have ever loved and destroy it or damn it. The hills will run red with the blood of the beasts, the streets will glimmer with the brutish insanity of the Sabbat. There will be no one left to mourn their pathetic passing into whatever hell that awaits. Even humans will not be spared; for woe to the human who stumbles into our fray. We may not be the righteous, but we will be the victorious and never, never a coward.

Peter walked in with a kindred shackled. It seemed the fight (information?) had already been beaten out of him. She continued to address the other vampires as Peter handed the shackled kindred over to Francis. “I do not care about your personal feelings towards the Prince. I do not care about your personal feelings towards the Sheriff. I do not care about your personal feelings beyond two simple factors: Are you a friend or an enemy? Can I count on you to protect our way of life?”

She turned to the vampire that Francis contained a few feet away. “This man was a sworn bodyguard of the Prince, yet somehow he is alive and the Prince, and all his comrades are dead.” She glanced over the beaten man with a malicious smirk and then her eyes met his and her demeanor became something that could be confused for sympathy. She knew the man’s sire, an honorable man. He would be ashamed. “It was wrong of your elders to let you believe that cowardice was acceptable. May you find redemption in an afterlife, if you believe in one.”

She met the eyes of Francis and gave a small nod.

[Francis-Hellis]
Francis had been holding the kindred down with relative ease. There was several reasons for this. Peter had previously pulverized the man’s tibia bone with great care. And then his left knee had been turned into splintered little pieces. Even if they could heal, if you fractured a bone enough, it would still be incredibly painful and take forever to heal. This was one reason the vampire in his care was pacified. The other was the stake that had been driven into his back. Paralysis from a severed spine was an effective way to keep an unruly creature of any kind down. Francis had stood still, statue of discipline and muscle. He moves suddenly, tossing the man onto his back. He stared up at Francis, who by all means should not have been able to so easily take him out earlier. Francis was scary, ask anyone, but to this man he might as well be satan incarnate. He steps up and close, grabbing the man by the neck. And as the man flailed, he held him down while grabbing a hatchet in his other hand. With a swift swing, the head came rolling across the floor. He let go without a word and produced a zippo offering her a light for the cigarette she had pulled out.
[/Francis-Hellis]

She inhaled from the cigarette and turned back to the gathered kindred, once again making focused eye contact. “If you choose the path of cowardice run, run fast, run far, leave this city for no mercy exists in this place, not anymore. They have stolen our mercy.” She sighed. She shouldn’t favor threats. This was not a pirate ship. The cigarette was discarded and she wiped a few smudges of coward’s blood from her cheek with a folded kerchief from her breast pocket. She refolded and replaced the piece of fabric and then addressed the gathered once again.

“Because I am not unreasonable I offer amnesty to those who want to remain unaligned. I will give the indifferent 48 hours to get out of Boston. Leave the city. No one is forced to fight or be involved, live out your existence in another corner of this world.” She felt no sympathy for the cowards or the unaligned, surely none for the body slumped near her feet. If the Camarilla would support the massacre of them all she would oblige. She had, from the beginning, been a staunch supporter of the Camarilla. Not just because of the order, but because she was heavily invested in the masquerade. “I hope that you choose to stay and fight, in my experience the weakening of the masquerade and the inevitable war is infectious. If we win this here, it won’t have a chance to infect the rest of the world.”

“All kindred wishing to remain in the city of Boston, aligned or unaligned need to check in with one of the Primogen or at Elysium. Spread the word.”

She bowed her head just slightly and stepped back. Before the room could react to her decree she made her way to an exit of the building. There was much to do. She began to read over Inigo’s report and think more about their situation as she slipped into the Limo. Peter walked up to the Primogen and a few others, whispering to them a message about meeting in the next hour at her residence before he too returned to the limo.

Tosh sat in the balcony as Eriko gave her speech. He couldn't help but smile at her veiled threats sounding almost pirate-like. Ahh the good ole days, he thought to himself. He watched as one of Eriko's men brought in the prince's bodyguard. The head fell of the vamp and Eriko smoked, he nearly laughed at the casualness of it. He made a mental note not to mess with that guy ever, he may be closer to the beast than even he realized and of all the clans out there Gangrel's definitely knew the beast.

As her speech concluded Tosh realized it was once again time to pick a side in the conflict, even though he tried playing both sides in most conflicts, the fact that , Eriko, one of his oldest friends was in the Camarilla meant that his hands were tied in this instance. War and conflict had never been something that he shied away from and he wouldn't begin now. He watched her leave the building and knew she was headed to her mansion for another meeting.

Tosh exited the building carefully and entered a storm drain. It was always quicker to travel underground, their wasn't any prying eye or dirty looks as he passed. He moved quickly through the tunnels and arrived at a manhole cover that was only a block or so from the mansion. He climbed out carefully and walked quickly to her house. A man dressed as he in a nice neighborhood like this would stand out like a sore thumb, the sooner he was inside was better. He circled the house quickly and came to a side entrance that was used mostly for hired help, gardeners etc. Eriko and he had decided that it would be best for him not to use the front entrance.

As he stepped inside he recognized a few of the older antiques in the house, and couldn't help but smile at the memory of their "acquisition."

"Hi, I'm Mike, and I'm a messenger boy." He affected the same tone in a sense, even as he looked her over; he'd been raised in a group home and was accordingly wary of introductions and first impressions. He was good at the staredown, blank-faced. She didn't seem the sort to blink, but it wasn't like the official Garou version of the stare-down, which was a ritual trial between garou with something to prove. It was a presentation of self in a sense; a lupus in a pack environment would understand the notion immediately -- you controlled the first impression. His was cool nerves and a penetrating stare, of deliberation and expectations. Some ahroun had the rage roiling off them, but the Striders went for a more controlled mode -- they unleashed it, but they controlled it, they wielded it like a knife in the dark. Where others came screaming "KICK YOUR ASS" the likes of Nakhti, a fair representation of a full moon of his tribe, waited patiently for the fight and then ended it decisively. In a sense, he was coiled up, but conserving it for when he'd need it. That impression was well-communicated, for those who would see; he stood at ease, but faced the woman squarely, thumbs hooked through belt-loops, shoulders up, but not bunched.

The blue eyes were a contrast against the olive/tan features, even if the hair was flecked with shades of ginger; he kept it in a conservatively short cut which suited the rest of the presentation; he didn't wear faux-Egyptian jewelry or dress it up, he had pure breeding to rely upon. His clothing was shabby, but it was also of a straightforward, no-nonsense nature. Luckily, he didn't have to talk much, and that helped foster good relations with other tribes -- it was usually the talking between Garou, which often meant 'boasting' and 'bitching' that seemed to get the average werewolf in trouble. He had tradition to lean on here; the Striders were notoriously close-mouthed, and that was a bit of an advantage in the talky-talky world of Garou relations, where conversations could go to claws pretty fast. Nakhti took his share of discipline from the elders, it was the way of things. It'd been useful lessons in etiquette, Strider-style. A closed mouth catches no flies.

Aidan, meanwhile, was fuming a bit; it was clear that there was bad blood between the woman and the Warder, and perhaps more between other members of the sept, but the skulls were intriguing and Nakhti couldn't resist a question.

"Nice skulls?" Flat inflection, even in the face of her shift, but he was clearly interested, moreso than the caern's warder in a sense, who seemed a bit caught up in the challenge than the threat, but Nakhti was from a tribe that looked to the threat first, last and always, and he seemed to grasp the nuance there. At least one of those skulls was metis, and since the woman wasn't being attacked here and no, he had to assume that she was welcome at the sept and those skulls were enemies.

Meanwhile, the Warder replied to the woman's display of the skulls, "I see. It seems you shall have something to speak of at the next moot, so you might explain where these came from." If he ignored the bong comment, it seemed to strike home a bit; the joke had an edge, and was dipped in acid. It was almost as if the sight of dead enemies was some sort of refutation, or at least, unwelcome evidence that someone was wrong. But what and why?

Nakhti wasn't sure why that raised hackles or why those words would have an edge, but he felt his guard go up -- this place clearly had currents. Some sort of ugly argument between the sept's garou and this outsider. But he was an outsider himself, and perhaps there was common cause to be made between outsiders.

Look twice, Nakhti -- he could hear his mentor's voice in his head.

Idyllic little caern, the warder in sandals, a joke about bongs. Small town New England, separate from the troubles of the city. And these were the End Times; sadly, the realization dawned. Aidan Samhain-Born wanted to maintain his quiet slice of caern in the years when he'd grown weary, his limbs weaker and his shoulders heavier with the burdens he'd carried. But this was a time of unrelenting war, that's what the Strider elders he met told him.

"So, where's the rest of your pack? Back in the city?" Possibly a delicate subject, but the young Ahroun wanted to know the score. He was tired of dancing around the elephant in the room.