[IC] NO LONGER ACTIVE : Tides of Sedition

[Noxious]

September 9th, 2016. Friday night.

Despite the steady drizzle of rain the humidity wasn’t letting up. It seemed to crawl into lungs and press against them; an attempt to strangle from within that failed in an undead chest. The night twisted a coaxing finger, dark winds flitting across the sky; whispering something oppressive. A mild, yet permeating heat licked across a midnight skyline, clouds devouring stars. The clouds were in turn sliced and blurred by the lightning that darted above the city. It would die down to pitch darkness only to streak once again and reveal the proximity of a towering church spire and the grim faces of buildings and their faux light, false promise and security. There was something primal about the lightning rolling about the clouds, threatening those below with such a fierce beauty you almost wanted to let it take you.

And as above, so below.

The night raged on with all the promise friday brings. People filtered in and out of bars, homes, theaters and restaurants. They dwelled upon themselves with a blinding narcissism; oblivious to those that prowled about them, with them. They were giddy, intoxicated, lonely, sad, hunting. It wasn’t just the vampires scouting for prey. Observation gave way to all forms of monsters, mostly human through and through; but there were none so ferocious as her ilk; tucked within the masses. The demons, the vampires, the undead that sustained themselves on the buzzing life of this city; shaping and contouring a refined dish on which they feed their vices.

The music and chattering populace would have faded away at this vantage point, had she been human. Alas, the noise still chased and caressed her senses. She waited on the out perch of the building, watching a specific car; waiting on a specific someone.

She hadn’t been out long, two hours or so. She was trying to escape them, but was only feeding their urges within herself. Out here she had to hunt harder, smarter, crueler. Fear was something crisp and tangible and electric; she could feel it vibrate within herself as the lightning teased the sky. Charcoal lined eyes peered out from messy blonde hair, over the edge of the building, a slack forming as her lower jaw began to snap free of the human binds.

Then her phone rang shattering the image. Her eyes rolled from something primal to something irritated. She cracked her neck and popped her jaw back in with a sharp crunch as the bones rubbed and refitted, they were still grating as she answered the phone, “Yes?” Her eyes continued to flutter as if in her annoyance she was barely able to hold it together. She detested the whimpering whine of her thrall, even through the phone. Thankfully she trained them to be concise. “Tell them I’ll be there.” She slipped the phone back into her jacket pocket and started heading towards The Yowling Hide, a ‘punk rock’ bar where she was something of a regular. It’s owners and clientele were human, predominantly. If someone was looking for her there it wasn’t her sire or baron. They had better means of tracking her down than slumming it in a human bar. It’s why she liked the place.

Fifteen minutes later she was pushing the heavy metal door with ease and stepping into the blur of chaos and debauchery contained in this badly lit and terribly aerated basement. She caught the flinching gaze of her thrall and offered her a smirk that edged the line of a snarl as she made her way to the girl. She had to crack her neck and pause to center herself. She was hungry and Calorian was, as always, letting waves of fear drip from her like honey. Fiona raised her shoulders in a ‘what-the-fuck’ shrug and Calorian pointed towards the rest rooms and tried to shout over the music something that appeared on her lips as ‘Waiting over in the coroner.’

Fio canted her head towards the rest rooms and sniffed at the air with little luck. The plethora of human excrements, combined with the molding beer lines and smoke made it difficult to pinpoint anyone; another reason she liked this place. She glanced back at Calorian, she seemed no more nervous than usual. The girl wouldn’t be stupid enough to send her into a trap; Fio convinced herself as she was walking towards the corner by the rest rooms.

It wasn’t difficult to locate the woman in question. She was staring directly at Fiona and looked ridiculous in a club like this. Fiona’s leather jacket, torn denim jeans and combat boots allowed her some anonymity, but this woman looked like she should be at the Catalina Wine Mixer. As Fiona got closer she narrowed her eyes and produced her signature scowl. Surprisingly, the woman just appeared bored. “Fiona Engel?” Fiona quirked an eyebrow in response. The woman wasted no time thrusting an envelope into Fiona’s hand and then she disappeared into the crowd.

Sure, Fio could have followed her, but the girl was obviously a thrall; the bored demeanor, the complete lack of reaction. Fio was more interested in the envelope. She flipped it over in her hands a few times, feeling a demanding crack of her knuckles as she twisted her fingers, reading the outer inscription. She tapped it against her palm a couple of times, considering. The finger seemed extended, as if a third joint was appearing. She scanned the club, brushing blonde hair out of dark lined eyes with an unphased finger, trying to be casual. She felt no one out of place, though she did sense Calorian tense behind her; the targeted fear was like a lover was brushing her skin. She felt a few more knuckles crack and elongate. Her entire night had been thrown off, there was nothing else she could do. She quickly made her way out and headed home. She was hungry and it was tickling her stomach like a molotov cocktail.

By the time she got home her fingers were barely human, elongated twitching kin to what they had once been. She traced them along the cement walls that lined the basement, nails dragging and then clicking along the celled doors as she passed them. She sniffed the air until she turned towards a specific individual, if you could even call them that anymore. It whimpered and added the sharp smell of urine to the already intoxicating scent of fear. She breathed in heavily and her already demented facade trembled. The screams were muffled to the outside world but reverberated amongst the cells. The strength ran through her like the lightning in the sky and she let it take her into something primal.

September 10th, 2016. Saturday night.

She was sitting in her room on James Island, flipping the envelope in her hand. She scratched nervously at the back of her neck; trust had never been a strong suit with her kind. She had looked into the seal a little more just before dawn. There was a library here, most older vampires had them, and luckily Jezebel didn’t think the underlings could get powerful through books, so it was lightly guarded. It seemed simple, a seal of silence regarding what was in the note. She bit the tip of her finger, traced it across the envelope and pulled out the card inside; really, what did she have to lose?

She stepped out into a warm breeze. The sky was muted and filled with grayish clouds reflecting the light of the city. A creepy calm curled through the dense southern air. As she approached the docks the reflection of the city was doubled in the clouds and the deep shipping waters ahead. The water lulled as it lapped against the shore and the buildings that jutted into it’s depths. As she headed away from land and into the warehouses that pressed their weight into the sea floor she found DOCK 15 in large spray painted yellow. There was a flood light outside, casting down across 20 feet of dock before glinting across the steadily arching water.

There was fluorescent light in what looked like a main office just to the right of the yellow DOCK locator. She could make out the dull thrall from the bar and another man in the same Catalina Wine Mixer chique; boat shoes, polo and khakis. She took a brief moment to question why she was here, but ended up repeating to herself the same mantra that had followed her morning. 'You have nothing to lose and so much to gain.'

She opened the door and stepped confidently into the room. “Welcome, have a seat,” the man stated very cheerfully, unsurprisingly the female drone did nothing. The man continued,“We are waiting on a few others and then we will get started.”

A few others? Her eyes traced the completely empty room and she sat down in one of many seats separated by a conference table; 3 exits, 7 windows. If this was a trap they had chosen a terrible place. She looked at the two drones and couldn’t help but roll her eyes. ‘They’ also would need better contenders. She leaned back in the traditional office rolley chair and propped up her elbows on the arm rests. She cracked her knuckles and stared directly at the chipper man, daring him to show fear. He didn’t seem to notice. He seemed to be watching the door with anticipation.

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SUMMARY

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September 9th, 2016. Friday Night. A thrall locates you and gives you an envelope. She seems monotone and dull, but well taken care of. She has no other information to offer other than the envelope.

The envelope is sealed and requires a blood pact to open. The magic is tricky, but not difficult to come across if you know the right people. Instructions for opening are written across the envelope, “A drop of blood will seal your lips to the information contained within as surely as it is revealed.” Only the blood of the vampire addressed will open the envelope.

Inside is a card containing the following: “Saturday September 10th, 2016. Midnight. Charleston Harbor. Dock 15 Warehouse. For those seeking advancement.” Vague, to be sure.

[ConstableWalrus]

September 9th, 2016. Friday Night.

Alban waited below street level; looking upwards at the grate from under his deep hood and his eyes narrowed, the beat of the clubs music had started he wagered about an hour prior. The heavy thumping of whatever new version of trash they were playing this week was irritating and grinding on his head. But there was one upside, it drew food.

His head cocked hearing small scratching on the concrete tunnel and splashing coming towards him and with a quick motion he grasped the large rat sinking his teeth into the creature as it squeaked in pain squirming before eventually falling still. It’s body shriveling up as Alban drained the small vermin of it’s blood. Tossing it away and casually wiping the blood off his lips and face with the inside of his jacket and flexed his hands moving up the sides of the concrete sewer the claws on his hands digging in and finding perch to crawl his way up to the grating and push it open.

As he felt the fresher air of the open alley his eyes adjusted to the light creeping in from the street lamps mingling with the neon sign of a club just across the street; His eyes scanned the alley finding nobody in sight; far too early for drunks and users to stumble their way into places that should not be.

Alban’s features suddenly scrunched up, and he leaned forward spitting out a wad of tangled fur and fat from his teeth, and he pulled back to his full height the look of disgust on his face evident as he wiped it on his sleeve. Worst part about the rats he thought to himself as he looked down at the clump of bloody fur and body fat noticing a newspaper beside it. Alban picked it up from the dirty alley floor.

[Murders on south side, Police chief urges crackdown on gang violence] The headline read and he rolled his eyes. moving the paper underarm and pulling the hood on his face down looking outwards towards the street, people were still walking by. None brave enough to glance into the dark alley let alone walk into it. And all were dressed up ponces waiting to get stupid and laid. And he hated them for it, hated them being normal.

His head shook shaking himself out of his own thoughts as someone stopped at the entrance of the alley and began to walk forward, it was slow. But the woman was making progress into it; he slipped deeper into the alley moving towards the old brick building and dug his claws into it scaling up it and slowly making his way crawling along the wall like a spider.

She didn’t look like much, but at this point it did not matter. It was young, fresh looking enough, and would be better than the rat he had been drinking the past few days. Except for the stray dog that wandered a little too far, he mused that it was a good night from dead anyway. But this was fresh. And he licked his lips as the woman entered the middle of the alley he dug his heels in and kicked off the building landing quietly behind her and reared back a hand to grab her.

When she turned around and he saw the face, there was no fear. No emotion, just dead eyes and she carried a note. “Fuck.” Alban hissed aloud “Fuckin’ first fresh meal in a week and it turns out to be a fuckin’ thrall. What do you want then?” He put his hands to the side tapping his foot impatiently angry at missing a meal and now this dim witted thrall was looking through him as if he was not there.

The well dressed woman said nothing other than thrusting an envelope into his chest and turning and started walking back out into the street “Oi! whats this about?” He called after the thrall but it continued to ignore him and walk out into the street disappearing into the next group that walked by. “Yeah and fuck off then…Creepy fuckin’ bitch.” He muttered looking down at the envelope turning it and reading the face his eyes narrowed at the mention of a blood oath to even open the damned thing and he opened his jacket and placed it into a pocket.

His eyes looked up at the old brick buildings and he took a cautionary glance at the street before he leaps to the side gripping in and scaling up it quickly, his talon like claws gripping easily into the old brick and as he reached the top hopping over the edge he wiped his hands, the only sign of his climb a few chunks out of the old brick and the scaring of a few birds. He pulled the envelope from his jacket and gave it another once over clicking his tongue as he drew a claw up his arm getting a small cut and let it spatter on the envelope breaking the seal and he read the contents within.

September 10th, 2016. Saturday Night

Alban had read and reread the note over and over again throughout his time moving through the drainage tunnels and sewers taking the occasional detour over a rooftop for some fresh air and a few birds he could manage to sneak up on.

... For those seeking advancement He chuckled lightly in his throat, the wording left much to be desired for detail but he would let it slide, his thoughts broken up as he reached the heavy drainage gate that led near the dock in question. He swiped at the metal and he tore through the thin sheet easily; tugging it back to create a hole for himself and slipped through bending it back into somewhat of the same place.

The sound of the water hitting shore and concrete was the first thing to hit his ears, and the docks were more quiet than he expected at this time of night. He looked up at the sky and pulled the deep hood; gripping into the concrete and climbing up the sides until he was on level with the many warehouses above.

Counting the numbers down as he passed the docks until he saw the bright yellow Spray Paint of Dock 15 he put his hands into the deep pockets of the hoodie and made his way towards the illuminated office; spotting inside the thrall from the night prior and a man just as well dressed.

Opening the door slowly he peered inside; Greeted by the man while the woman simply stared into space “Welcome, have a seat.” The man stated in a cheerful tone and continued “We are waiting for a few others and then we will get started.”

Alban nodded keeping the hood pulled over his face and hands in his pockets as he sat down hard in one of the desk chairs his tall and gaunt form stretching as he moved his legs into a more comfortable position, the hood still covering most of his face as he sat quietly his arms resting on the table in-front of him, his claws making marks.

[idlehands]

August 31, 2016, Wednesday Night

Her hair was a few shades too auburn for his taste but he could persuade her to change that, to dye it a rich walnut brown that liked best. The young woman’s oval face was a bit too freckled and she lacked the slight overbite that had endeared him to his late wife’s shy smile. A little too tall and thin, though he could ignore that for now, it was her eyes that drew him in. Dazzling in the sunset, hazel brown turning to gold the way he remembered. She was wearing a loose flowing skirt that fell to her knees, conservative enough but when the light shone from behind he could see the outline of her hips and slender legs through the gauzy fabric.

Darek watched her from the shadows, waiting until the sun had finished dropping beyond the water. He could see she was relaxed, enjoying the evening breeze carrying the tang of the sea, her aura glowing around her pale as starlight. She carried a phone, ubiquitous in this decade but in her other hand she gripped a brochure like the ones they offered at hotels. A tourist.

Sidling up to her, he rested his elbows on the pier as the leather of his jacket creaking slightly. “A storm is coming.”

The girl snapped her head around, noticing him there and he could see her aura flicker yellow and gold with nervousness. He took what seemed to be a deep breath and projected his presence upon her. He smiled a little, a slight dimple creasing his left cheek and he raised his eyebrows just enough to seem amused but concerned.

She started to relax, smiling a little though he could sense she was still unsettled by his sudden appearance. “What do you mean?”

Her voice was soft and the accent southern but not local. She was looking him now and he could see her eyes, indeed they were that honey hazel that he sought after. His own grey eyes lit up with hunger and he had to force himself to not over do it and frighten her. Tilting his head, he gestured to the crimson glow of the few clouds, “Isn’t that how it goes? A red sky at night...”

“A sailor’s delight,” she answered him with a slight chuckle, “You have it backwards.”

Darek shrugged his broad shoulders and huffed a laugh, running a hand through his thick wavy hair, “You are correct, I never was much one for sailing. I prefer to keep my feet on dry land.”

“That must be hard if you live here,” she replied, her interest now turned fully towards him. “If you do, I mean.”

He looked her in the eyes, now turned to face her, still leaning an elbow on the wooden beam. “I do, born and raised. And do you do much sailing, wherever it is you’re from?”

It was not much of a lie, he was indeed reborn here, not too far from where he stood speaking to this girl that looked so much like Ruth. Her eyes especially and that was the hardest feature to match as his late wife had a rather unique shade of hazel.
She laughed, tossing her auburn hair back over her shoulder, tilting her head just so that Darek’s gaze fell on her slender white throat. The graceful tendon under taut pale skin met her collarbone and he could practically see her pulse speed up.

“You got me, I’m a tourist,” she said, fanning herself a few times with her brochure, “No, I don’t do any sailing in Nashville.”

“Ah, you are far from home. How are you liking our fair city?” he asked, bouncing his gaze from her neck to her eyes once more.

She canted her hips, reaching to twirl a lock of her long hair, “I think it’s very lovely...I’m Lauren, by the way. So what do you do?”

He could see her aura soften to a cream color more relaxed now, but still there was that edge of apprehension which suited him just fine. “Darek. I’m an artist of sorts.”

Lauren laughed, her fingers touching her lips as if to suppress the reaction, “Let me guess, are you going to ask me to come up to your room to see your sketches?”

Darek licked his lips slightly and grinned, “No not exactly, I’m not that kind of artist. Graphic arts, animation. Computers.”

She leaned now against the beam, tossing her hair back once more. Her interest obvious to even a casual observer let alone the vampire inhaling her scent into dead lungs. Darek met her eyes, radiating his power towards her, watching her eyes grow more luminous as she reacted.

The young woman bit her lower lip and then replied, “You don’t look like a computer nerd.”

He merely raised an eyebrow at that, “What does a computer nerd look like?”

“Uh, not like you,” Lauren blushed and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. He could see the nervousness flickering in her aura and something else. Lust. Desire. All good signs.

“Lauren, where are you staying?” he asked suddenly, his grey eyes holding her honey colored gaze.

Blinking, she looked as if she surprised herself by answering right away, “At the Marriot...why?”

Darek moved a little closer, leaning down to whisper in a low voice. He could feel her shiver as his hand brushed down her arm, “Because I hear they have terrible continental breakfasts and I can make a mean omelet.”

Lauren gaped at him, her lips opening and closing as if to protest but then she just blushed again and smiled, glancing down. He could see his effect working on her and he pushed her a little more, slipping his hand up her shoulder to brush through her reddish hair. He wondered briefly how soon he could get her to dye it.

September 9th, 2016, Friday Night

Darek brushed her rich brown hair back from her neck, neatly wiping away the smear of blood left from his feeding. It had not taken more than a week to bring the girl at the docks into his life. She was enthralled, but even before she had tasted his blood she had dyed her hair to please him. She was eager and naive for a passionate love affair in the romantic city, so Darek gave her what she wanted and in turn, she surrendered all to him.

He rose from the couch, waving her off, “I’ve got to get the gallery. Bring Sylvia along with you.”

Without a word of protest, Lauren went to fetch the other thrall. Darek adjusted his tie by feel, knowing it was straight and he put his dinner jacket on. His sire, Miss Cora Finch, always insisted on such formalities she was well known for her southern charm. The vampire grimaced at that and rubbed a hand along his jaw. He was freshly shaved as Coral liked, his thrall Sylvia had a fine hand with a straight razor.

The two young women walked behind him as they entered the gallery, both wearing red retro style dresses, their dark hair up in neat twists with bangs framing their lovely faces. Darek spotted his sire Cora across the room, her vivid ginger hair and alabaster skin unmistakable. She wore blue tonight, never red as she claimed it clashed with her hair.

“Darek!” she drawled, smiling her practiced charming smile as she beckoned him. She stood with a knot of men, humans as he watched their pale auras change to shades of pale yellow as he approached and he detected spikes of green as the men noticed the girls. Envy, tension, and intimidation radiated off of them as his presence was felt.

"Gentlemen, this is Darek Birch, he is the one that donated that lovely painting done by his famous grand uncle, Dariusz Brzezcki,” Cora gushed, pulling Darek to her side by winding her arm into his. “Truly a revolutionary talent of his days, wouldn’t you say?”

The older man merely grunted and drank from his champagne glass but the younger man who wore glasses nodded and rattled off some of the usual critiques of his old art work. Darek glanced at the painting, it was one of his done in the style he had painted with during the 1950s. Bold strokes and dark hard colors, he had finished it two years ago at Cora’s insistence she needed new ‘findings’ of his art. The stark painting about the alienation of youth from war and mass culture. The tragic figure centered in the middle was a huddled young woman, screaming soundlessly surrounded by faceless humanoid figures, all turned away.

The haunting eyes were shade of golden hazel and he had to look away, focusing on the next question, “Ah, it was something I found in the attic under some oil cloths.”

A typical answer, why Dariusz Brzezcki’s new works were found every year or so. There were less and less, despite Cora nagging him to paint more. He worried that it would draw too much attention and someone would investigate the ages of the paintings, perhaps call them frauds. He wanted little for money and did not desire the attention but Cora Finch did and Darek was obliged to the vampire to do her bidding.

“Are you two sisters or something?” the older man finally spoke, his eyes on the young women. Both were brunettes with hazel eyes, though the taller and more slender had golden brown while the shorter curvier had a tint of green. Only Darek really noticed that difference, it made it hard for him to choose between the thralls, Sylvia being shaped more like his late wife and Lauren had the right eye color. Both were beautiful and he felt a twinge of hunger just looking at them, despite his recent feeding.

The girls shook their heads simultaneously, their long pony tails grazing pale shoulders as the light scent of lavender could be detected as they did. Darek blinked, his grey eyes darkening slightly. Ruth always wore lavender. He remembered smelling it that night on the docks, despite the stink of the bay. At that thought he struggled to maintain his presence next to Cora, his teeth grinding and the men suddenly looked at each other, their auras spiking with orange as fear shot through them.

His sire gripped him harder, shooting him a look and her greater power soothed the men and they began to speak about prices. Of course, she was selling his painting. He held his glass of champagne but did not drink, his thralls taking small measured sips but their eyes hardly left him.

“I think I need to step out for some air,” he said after they had finally settled on a price. Two hundred thousand dollars for a fraud. He could not help but think of it that way, the men were paying for a piece of history that was made only two years prior, even if it was by the same hand.

Cora looked at him, “Don’t take long, they want you to sign the papers as well. Certifying the authenticity.”

He nodded and slipped out of her grip, the two thralls automatically following him. He held his hand up, “Stay, have something to eat. I need a few moments alone.”

Sylvia and Lauren halted and turned back to the buffet table where most people were gathered, nibbling on fresh exotic fruit and expensive French pastries. Darek left the gallery, passing by a knot of people smoking. He stepped out into the garden to get away from the acrid stench of cigarettes, where the night blooming jasmine scent was heavy. There was a time where he smoked, he had picked it up back in Poland, the war was hell on the nerves and even the mild comfort of nicotine had been a blessing when he could find it. Ruth did not like the smell so he had quit and now he could not inhale even if he wanted to. His head snapped around at the sound of footsteps in the gravel, his lips curled in a snarl as moonlight glinted off exposed fangs for the briefest moment.

A young woman stood before him, unperturbed by the sight of Darek and handed him an envelope. Composing himself, the vampire noticed the woman had not been at the gallery and was dressed more for a midnight sail than a cocktail party. He also noted the dull eyed lack of reaction that marked her as a thrall.

His scalp prickled when he saw the seal and he tucked it away for later. Darek returned to the party though the curiosity over the letter burned in his mind. When the vampire returned to the party, the painting being carefully wrapped to be shipped to their law office downtown, Cora turned to him.

“You seem distracted, darlin’,” she cooed, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. “You did very well, a nice chunk of change for the gallery and everyone else. Your take will be deposited as soon as the check clears.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied automatically, his fingers curling against his palm as she touched him. “I should be going, I’ve got work to do.”

Cora laughed lightly, “Need a good night’s sleep? Stay a bit longer, I’ve missed your company.”

Unable to resist, he stayed and she drew him off to the side. Cora kissed his cheek and whispered, “You’re distracted and I want to know why.”

Darek stiffened, turning his head slightly, “No reason, I just have a project I’m falling behind on.”

“Why do you insist on playing around with those stupid games, it’s a waste of your talent. I want another painting ‘found’ by the end of the month, Darek. Give me something that will bring in big money like tonight. Why don’t you paint something about the war, people love that tragic stuff.”

He grit his teeth, his lips twitched in a smile, “I’ll see what I can do, Miss Finch.”

“Do so,” Cora turned, her hair fiery against her royal blue gown. “I have little patience and though you are a favorite, you’ve been testing it lately. Leave off of those insipid graphics and get back to real art.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, his hand slipping into the pocket of his jacket, fingering the envelope. “May I go then? I’ll need to order supplies.”

She waved him off with a twiddle of her fingers, “Take your twins with you, I don’t like them.”

Cora wrinkled her nose in distaste at the thralls, “Doesn’t that make three now? You’ll drain yourself. Get rid of one of them.”

“Only two,” Darek corrected, his grey eyes flickering, “Maggie is gone. Remember?”

“Oh, right,” Cora exclaimed, “I forgot about that one. Got tired of her then?”

Darek merely turned his head, glancing at the two women waiting, “Something like that, I know my limits.”

“Good man,” she patted his arm, “Go on then, I’ll see you at the end of the month.”

He left quickly, eager to get away from the cloying talons of his sire. Once he was home, he locked himself in his office, the darkened room glowing from the screens of his pair computers. Sitting down, he took out the envelope, flipping it over and reading it again. Finally curiosity won over and he bit into the pad of his thumb, smearing the blood along the seal.

September 10th, 2016, Saturday Night

Darek strolled down to the warehouses, his grey eyes wary as he found the one marked DOCK 15. He was dressed in dark jeans and a black t-shirt, the sleeves snug on his biceps and lean hard chest. Turning towards the lighted area, he spotted the dull eyed thrall and a man dressed in khakis who smiled congenially at Darek.

He waved him over, “Welcome! Come right in, please.”

Darek paused, taking in the man’s aura but it was calm and white, tinged with grey. Running hand through his dark tousled hair, he passed the thralls and stepped into the room. He looked at the woman with bleached hair, her aura prickling violet spiking out from her slender form. Darek took a seat beside her, leaning back to stretch his long legs out. His gaze turned to the hooded vampire, his deep purple aura wrapped tightly around him almost like a shadow. There were both wary and curious, as he was. If it was some sort of setup or trap, he could not sense it from any of the people present.

He leaned his elbows on the arms of the chair, steepling his fingers as he watched the doorway for the next arrival.

[Irisity]

September 9th, 2016. Friday evening

Carrie gorged on the target’s flesh as he stared at her with wide eyes, his mouth open in an eternal, silent scream. She could feel Malik in the back of her mind, peering onto them with his ever-present glare. She paid him no mind as the target writhed and wriggled under her grasps as she sunk her bloody hand into his chest and squeezed his fragile organs and bones. This fucker would’ve had to have done something really bad to piss Malik enough to watch. The scent of blood flooded the air and permeated onto the target, staining every fiber of his being. The concrete wall dug into his back and pierced his spine as Carrie crawled onto his open stomach and smeared his blood onto his lips, forcing him to taste his own disgusting fluids.

These were the worst kind of nightmares. The ones she made so real she could barely tell if she was dreaming or not. She hated the taste of organs, but in order to induce an even more real scenario, she had to add taste and scent into the dream, things she normally left out for sake of energy conservation. Fuck, she did not want to feed tonight when she would wake. She would feel more drained than usual, and with Malik watching this one, lord knows he would be spitting critics in her face all damn night. Carrie drug her dirty, crusted nails down the target’s cheek and smiled widely, her red teeth becoming sharp like a tiger’s grin. She pressed her lips to the target’s cheek before murmuring, “Malik says hello,” and then swiftly and harshly sunk her teeth into the poor man’s neck, putting the dream to an abrupt halt. She blinked at her ceiling as she taste of blood receded from her mouth. Her brain buzzed as she cut the connection between her and her target; she still gripped the man’s locket in her hand. Before she had fallen asleep, she had inspected the photos in the locket to find his daughter’s young face inside. She had pondered on whether or not to use his little girl, but she decided she would save that for later. She spared him a more torturous night. Carrie hoped he would set right whatever he did wrong to Malik. She didn’t want to wear his daughter’s face, with pale skin and doe eyes.

Anxiety and guilt sat low on her gut as she slowly crawled from bed. This always happened every time she was the nightmare. She would wonder if she really was a monster. She would ask herself if she really did enjoy the awful things she committed in those dreams. Carrie thought it would stop after the first few nightmares, but it never did. She was beginning to fear herself more than anything; more than her own nightmares, more than Malik.

Carrie trudged into her bathroom, not bothering to turn the light on. She could see the dark rings around her eyes easily enough, even against her brown skin. She splashed water on her face and tangled her fingers through her hair as the last rays of sunlight faded under the Charleston waters. Her limbs felt sluggish and heavy as she stepped out onto the streets, a cold chill settling over her spine as warm bodies emerged from their apartments to mingle among one another in bars and clubs. She took her normal route to Malik’s office; Friday nights were always training sessions. The scent of young blood tempted her from the alleys and corners of Charleston, their sweet aroma lingering in her nose even after she left their vicinity, but she resisted her hunger. Malik liked it better when she was hungry and desperate for her Puppet Master training, and who was she to displease him?

Carrie entered the white building, Malik’s name scowling down on her and all of the other pedestrians. Malik had the business set up sometime in the early 2000s, seeing as his precious little asylums were shut down many years before. He screeched and beat Carrie that night when the mayor declared that all asylums within Charleston be deconstructed immediately. They survived off the many favors and fears owed to Malik in those dark years when they had no business. Carrie was like a dog, and if the dues weren’t paid to the boss, Carrie would tear through their minds and turn their enemies insane.

She tried to smile at the receptionist, another one of Malik’s thralls, but the receptionist only glowered back as Carrie pressed the elevator button to go up. All of Malik’s other thralls always seemed jealous of Carrie; she appeared like the favored child, with almost all of Malik’s attention focused on her training. There were two other Nightmares under her sire’s belt, and she thought she might find brotherhood and comfort in them, but they only cowered and hissed at her like feral alley cats. Even with Malik’s constant looming presence, she was always alone. When the elevator dinged open, Carrie stepped inside and checked her watch.

6:45

Lakin’s appointment would be over soon, Carrie had better get up there soon before it finished and Malik wailed on her like last time she was late. She raced down the hallway the moment the doors slid open and fervently knocked onto Malik’s door, hoping she didn’t interrupt their speaking.

“Come in,” Malik’s stern voice called from inside. Carrie peaked inside, dread lifting from her heart as her eyes landed on little Lakin. She smiled brightly at the sight of the girl and the girl grinned widely back.

“Carrie!” she yelled in excitement, getting ready to jump off the couch before Malik softly commanded her not to. The little patient frowned before leaning back into the couch again.

Carrie’s smiled faded when she turned to Malik after closing the door behind her. She averted his eyes and sat at her small desk behind Malik’s, his paperwork piling high on the floor. “Continue,” Carrie told them as she began organizing his paperwork.

Malik’s tense and aggressive posture relaxed. She couldn’t see his face from here, but Carrie could bet that he was flashing his classic warm smile, with the corners of his eyes crinkling and the light seemingly to shine brighter in his eyes. It was the smile that made her fall for his tricks.

“So, Lakin, tell me more about this nightmare of yours?” Malik pressed softly. Lakin’s tiny fists clenched into the leather couch. Her skin seemed translucent under the soft light; if this kid was a Dream Catcher, then she had to have had an ancestor over hundreds of years ago. Yet Carrie could still point out a little bit of Native in her, with her sharp, hooked nose. Lakin’s family had moved from New Mexico, causing Carrie to think she may be a descendant from a tribe out west.

“Well…” the little girl’s voice trailed off into memories. Carrie waited, ready to cling to every detail. “Mommy left home with Payton, and then Dad brought Mammal over to look after me while he went to work.” Carrie pictured Lakin’s mother and her older brother behind her eyelids before channeling their image into Lakin’s site. She stared at their looming presence in the corner next to Carrie, her heart filling with dread as her mother softly wept and her older brother clung onto her hand. Their image shuttered and faded to reveal a hunkered and shriveled old woman with tight lips and a tall glare. Her shadow snaked across the room and landed onto Lakin, causing the girl’s heart to race. “T-then,” she could barely squeak out a word. “Then Mammal hit me.” Her grandmother stalked closer towards Lakin, the apparition slowly beginning to fizzle out as Carrie tried to ignore the visceral fear welling in her eyes. “Mammal hit me hard,” she whispered. Malik was scribbling furiously onto his paper as his patient stared at the phantom as it slowly lifted its hand to smack the girl. Carrie’s eyes flickered between Malik and Lakin, guilt shifting through her gut again. Just before the old woman slapped Lakin, Carrie yanked the image back into her mind and subdued it. Malik’s hand froze on the paper, his shoulders rigid. Lakin breathed a sigh of relief.

---

After Lakin left, Malik nearly launched Carrie across the room. “You almost had it!” he screamed while shaking her shoulders, his grip crushing her small form. “You almost fucking had it, then you fucking blew it, you piece of shit.” The insults don't bite like they use to. In the beginning, they sunk into Carrie’s mind and burned through her skull, but now, they feel like soft pricks on the skin. Malik breathed a sigh of exasperation and scuffed at his oldest thrall. “Get the fuck out of my sight for a few days,” he murmured menacingly while collecting his things. He looked hungry, Carrie noted to himself. He gets rather pissy when he’s hungry.

Carrie averted his eyes and nodded in acceptance and exited the room quietly. She exhaled loudly to herself as she wandered around the halls. She thought about stopping by a club or a bar and picking up easy blood, but she accidentally stumbled into someone walking in the hallways. “Sorry,” she mumbled as she backed away from the girl. Carrie’s posture immediately changed when she saw the girl was a thrall. She didn’t seem very threatening, with her bored body language and dull eyes. She held out a letter to Carrie. The other vampire hesitantly accepted it, glancing down at the seal. It read something about blood pacts, causing her heart to spike. She looked back up, a question on her lips, but the thrall was already gone. Carrie turned to see if Malik was nearby, and she ducked into a women’s bathroom before inspecting the letter. Malik had always warned her against blood pacts, told her not to engage in one even with someone she greatly trusts. Maybe this was a test? Malik sent the letter to see if she’d take it or not, and if she did, he would punish her. Carrie trembled at the thought of punishment, but curiosity peaked her initial fear. She bit into her thumb and smeared her blood across the letter and began to greedily take in its contents.

September 10th, 2016. Saturday Night

Carrie reluctantly stepped into the crate, scanning the room. Three others sat there already; two men and a young woman. She sat as far from the young woman’s glare as possible. This place set her on edge, but her interest overruled her anxiety. One man was hooded, with claws extending from his pale, gnarled fingers. They vaguely reminded Carrie of a nightmare she once projected in her early days. The other one looked rather normal, but he was dusted with that ‘Old War persona.’ Not Vietnam, not Korea. No, he was from one of the Great Wars. Carrie starred at her fingers as she tried not to remember her father.

[Moon]

_{September 8th, 2016. Thursday night.}

The loud music bounced against the inside of her skull. Each beat reverberating throughout her entire being. She could feel it in her chest, a vigorous pounding like a heartbeat, a pale echo of the one she once possessed. It made her feel alive, it made her feel at home. The dark room, the smoke hanging in the air, the smell of bodies and alcohol and life. It all felt right. She didn’t know the song, and didn’t care to either. They all sounded the same these days, at least in places like this. The thin row of LEDs running along the walls of the room cast scarlet light along the dark walls and red velvet curtains, giving the room a sinister feeling. This wasn’t her normal haunt, a club owned by another vampire, but rather one that had just opened. It was nice enough, the private room not as accommodating as she had grown used to, but it served its purpose well enough. With any more bodies than the four that occupied it, it would feel crowded.

Lyra sat in the midst of the group upon the new white leather couch, her black dress strikingly dark in contrast. Her two thralls sat beside her, one to each side. All three stared intently at the fourth man who stood before them. He was a big guy, muscled with a strong neck and wide shoulders. She had lured him into her room with a slight touch and a coy smile, and he seemed content enough to just stare at her now.

“What do you guys think?” Lyra asked, her icy blue eyes piercing the stranger. When she made a new thrall, she liked to get some other opinions. There was no use wasting blood on someone you’d regret choosing later.

“He’s certainly big,” Anne replied simply, her brown hair falling to one side as she cocked her head.

Ryan took longer to answer, as he was preoccupied making neat little lines on the table to the side of the couch with a razor. Once he finished, he looked up. “You can do better,” he said dismissively, looking to Lyra. “His type are a dime a dozen these days.”

Truth be told, he was right. The guy was not much different than the hundred guys just outside their private room, drinking and trying to pick up girls who were even further gone than they were. The club seemed to attract a certain crowd, that was for sure. None of these children would be able to keep up with them.

“You’re right,” Lyra said, standing.

She walked over to the guy, extending her hand. He took it, with a bit of apprehension. Her influence on him must have been waning. With their newly established contact, Lyra was easily able to renew it. This time, she dove deep into him, her power radiating from her skin into his. She placed her other hand on his neck, doubling down with her influence. Within a few moments, he was entirely hers. Humans were easy targets, especially drunk and horny ones.

With a smile, she led him over to her seat. Having him kneel in front of the couch, Lyra turned to Ryan. Without a word, he handed her the razor which she proceeded to use to open her wrists. A smirk flashed across her face as the bright red lines appeared. In one fluid motion, she extended her arms out to her thralls and dug her fangs deep into the muscled neck of the man in front of her.

---

_{September 9th, 2016. Friday night.}

“A glass of chardonnay, please,” Lyra said as she sat at the bar. “On him.”

The man she sat next to turned to her and smiled, his teeth white as snow. He had beady eyes and his dark hair was slicked back, giving him an appropriately sleazy look for someone in his line of work.

“I didn’t think you drank,” he said, his Russian accent made him sound harsh. His words sounded like one thing, but meant the other. He knew what she was, or at least had some idea.

“Oh, I don’t,” she spoke, smiling. “I just like to play the part.”

She took the glass in her hand once the bartender placed it in front of her and turned to look out over the restaurant. It was a much classier place than the one she had been in last night, in a much nicer part of town. Different types of fun, in her opinion. The room was well lit, with candles on the white cloth covered tables and crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceilings. Soft classical music was gently playing, intermingling with the dull buzzing of silverware on plates and conversation.

“So why is it that I’m meeting with you, and not him?” the man asked. “A lesser man would be offended and take his business elsewhere.”
“Well then I suppose we’re all lucky you aren’t a lesser man,” Lyra replied, giving a light giggle and touching his arm. Her power radiated from her skin, just for a moment, until she pulled back. “Daniel figured you’d enjoy my company to his.”

“He’s not entirely wrong,” the man replied, taking a sip of his drink.

“Well then, shall we get this business talk out of the way so we can enjoy ourselves? Besides, we both know this is just a formality. Working together, both parties have benefitted. Is there really much reason to discuss anything at all?”

Detecting a moment of hesitation on his part, she reached out once more. Her hand rested gracefully on his, their eyes connecting. This man was one of Daniel’s small time dealers. He had a unique supply, but didn’t offer anywhere near enough for a meeting with Daniel himself. So that was why Lyra was here, to bat her eyes and convince him to continue on with their current deal.

“You’re right,” he replied, his eyes looking less sharp than they had moments before. “Let’s have some fun.”

And with that, Lyra put her drink down and led him off into the night. She’d give herself to this man, sealing the deal for quite some time. She didn’t mind it, if Daniel had asked it of her surely it must be important.

---

Lyra left the man’s hotel room not an hour before the sun would rise. It wasn’t too far from her apartment, so she wasn’t worried about being caught out in the daylight. No one was on the streets yet, the first gentle rays of sunlight had not yet peaked up from beyond the horizon to wake them from their slumber.

She turned the corner and noticed a woman standing a few feet away, her eyes dull and her face unflinching. She wore posh clothes, they were nice, but not something Lyra would be caught dead in. Well, more dead than she already was. Lyra could tell instantly she was a thrall. The woman didn’t seem to have much of whoever she was before left in her.

Silently, the thrall handed Lyra a sealed letter and walked off.

---

_{September 10th, 2016. Saturday night.}

Lyra walked down to the warehouse on dock 15, giddy with excitement. The letter was vague, but seemed promising enough. If anything it would be interesting. Sure, the thought of a trap or some other sinister plan crossed her mind, but she figured there was nothing to be gained without taking a little risk.

She walked into the room, her natural grace exuding from her with each precisely placed step. She wore more practical clothes than she was used to, tight pants, a pair of boots, and a form fitting top. In the off chance it was a trap, wearing a dress would be fairly detrimental to her survival.

There were already four others there, not including the thrall woman and the other thrall she was with. A blonde woman, with eyes darkened by mascara. A hooded figure with ghoulish claws, freely displayed on the conference table. A woman with thick, dark hair. And a rather handsome man. Lyra decided to take a seat next to the man, the motion accompanied by a small smile and a flash of her blue eyes.

[MelonHead]

Introduction

Cruel eyes glared in his direction as he slid shut the door and faced the waiting crowd. He was late, and proceedings had taken off without him, accusing stares fixed him from the sparsely populated briefing room, smatterings of blue and off colours donning the illustrious men and women of the force before him. He nodded ironically, tipping his worn fedora in their direction and striding purposely to the empty back row to settle himself forcefully upon a chair, his feet perched on the head-rest of the seat in front of him.

“Nice of you to join us Mr.Reed.” An authoritarian voiced echoed from the grey haired black man at the front of the room, who had just been interrupted mid oration by the broad shouldered private investigator, Peter Reed, and his unruly entrance. The speaker was unmistakable to anyone present, Simon Fuller, their collective Sire and Deputy Chief of Charlestone Police. The sparseness of the briefing room was telling of one thing, to those in the know, only the Vampiric members of the police were present, which marked the meeting as one seeped in underworld politics. Of course, Peter was aware of all this, he wouldn’t have been in his old workplace for anything less than an official meeting of Fuller’s Kin, he had stuck it out on his own and the price he paid for it was one he paid willingly. Meetings like this were an annual affair in his experience, and they usually spelled misfortune for someone assembled. Even the thralls had been excluded, leaving six Children watching their master and wondering who was missing and if it had further ramifications.

“As I was saying, there isn’t much I expect from you, only the cardinal virtues of loyalty, respect and obedience without question.” Fuller concluded his rhetoric and Peter sighed inwardly, he’d heard this spiel before. “This is not much to ask from ones children, is it?” He looked at a Hispanic woman at the front and she nodded in agreement, not that she had any choice. “So when one of my own steps out of line, it angers me greatly. This anger in me is not a healthy thing, it flares up recklessly and threatens to consume the object of my anger.” He sighed conspicuously. “Still, a Father must have patience, as must a leader of men. However, when that patience is tried again, and again, and again, an example must be made, or discipline will be lost.” Fuller clicked a small device in his hand over his right shoulder, and the smart-board behind him came to life, sound accompanying it. The assorted Vampires were treated to the scene of Fuller shaking his head sadly at Marty, one of the newer additions to the Chief’s family. Peter noticed at once that Marty was not present, and had a strong suspicion of where things were going.

“Now Marty, you knew it would come to this.” Fuller said, standing beside Marty as he shook with obvious fear, looking at Fuller and then down at the ground and all around himself. He was always a small man, but he looked smaller still next to the hulking form of the Chief in the video.

“Please Sir, I have a weakness, I’m new to this blood thing, give me a chance.” Marty’s irritatingly nasal voice raised to an even greater irritatingly high pitch, Peter stared at the board with interest.

“I’ve heard it before Marty, all of it, and you’re fresh out of chances.” Fuller told him, his voice taking on that sudden deadly serious tone Peter was uncomfortably familiar with.

“Please, don’t do this Sir.”

“Open the door Marty.”

“I’ll do better Sir, please.”

“Open it.” Peter felt the force behind those simple words, the power lacing them affecting him even through the medium of video. Marty’s hand shook as he fought the compulsion, but as Peter knew he would, he lost. The handle turned and he yanked it open, screaming as the full light of the sun engulfed his starved form. It took him moments to die, and the video turned to black.

“I hope this has been educational. Dismissed.” Fuller walked down the aisle, staring straight ahead as he left the room with not another word. His message was bright and clear.

Never fuck with the Chief.

Friday, September 9th.

Perhaps a week later, the jaded detective sat at his desk in his small office in downtown above a pawn-brokers with a bottle of whiskey and some scattered paper in front of him. One large hand tapped the table rhythmically as the other clutched a half-empty glass. His thoughts were far away, and it showed on his stern looking face, his steely eyes were staring at the wall with such intensity it would have balked if it could. It was a quiet night, but then most nights usually were, his business was far from lucrative. It was his though, and that meant something.

Sometime close to midnight there was a knock at his door and he looked up with interest.

“Come in.” He bellowed a little too loud, his boredom getting the best of him. He coughed awkwardly and then settled back in his well fitted chair, regarding the newcomer with a seemingly casual glance. She said not a word as she walked towards him, dour looking, uninterested to the point of inhumanity. He’d seen the expression before, he saw it often, she was a thrall. Her lack of greetings was a cause for concern, so his left hand snuck down to the drawer at his left as he continued to examine her, the well-kept clothes were a sign of her status, but it seemed to him she had been picked purposely for her general demeanour, one that threatened not a single ounce of interest. She was plain to the point of absurdity, interesting, it suggested a degree of thought in her master’s agenda, perhaps secrecy. His right hand reached out to seize the offered envelope, even as his eyes sought out signs of betrayal. He knew he could react faster than she, thrall or no, his pistol would be pointed at her head before she could close the distance and stake him.

“What’s this?” He asked, turning the envelope over and spying the seal, his eyes shooting back to the woman. She simply reversed out of the room and closed the door, strange behaviour even for a thrall, secrecy was definitely a priority.

“Drop of blood, seal your lips, how droll.” He read the words out loud, frowning at the object in his hand.

“Well, even if I alone obtain the information I’ll be no worse off for knowing it and being unable to reveal it to others than if I never read it at all.” Peter had a habit of monologue, stemming from his past in the force and his frequency of bouncing ideas off his old partner. He cut a small mark on his fingertip with a letter opener and traced the seal, watching it open with interest.

Saturday September 10th, 2016. Midnight. Charleston Harbor. Dock 15 Warehouse. For those seeking advancement.

Saturday, September 10th.

The next night, Peter sat at his desk drinking whiskey and considering his options. Should he, shouldn’t he, how idiotic would it be to walk into some petty squabble or trap and die, what was the likelihood an old enemy was luring him to his final death, that sort of thing. Eventually he concluded it would be pure lunacy to take someone obviously secretive and powerful up on an offer such as that for such a vague purpose. He sighed and pushed back his chair, grabbing his gun as an afterthought and walking to the door with a few quick steps. He looked at the fedora and tough brown trench-coat on the stand and sighed, irritated that his style had been misappropriate by idiotic hipsters.

“Damn kids.” He spat, grabbing his apparel and stepping out of the room.

Peter approached the dock with a practiced caution, his average height but powerful build usually enough to see off potential violence there was still no harm in being a little watch-full at his age in his profession. He made it a few minutes past midnight, late as always, but apparently it mattered little as he entered the building and started as he was immediately spoken to by a man. He took in the scene, the female thrall from before and another, a man dressed in khaki with a disarming demeanour, a greeter then. Whoever was overseeing this event had an eye for picking the right pawn for the right job, Peter gave him that.

“What’s going on, how long are we expected to wait?” Peter asked him assertively, expecting little from the thrall. He received only an apologetic smile and a waving on into the room, which Peter took the time to glance across. His interest was piqued by those assorted, Vampires without a doubt. He saw an unkempt female with a forceful glare she directed at those around her, particularly the greeter and the female thrall. He decided she was the most likely to enact immediate violence as his eyes dragged past and onto one of the more malformed and obvious of his kind, at least he presumed as much from what his keen eyes could see past the hood and the claws cutting into the arm-rests. The other man was his polar opposite, an attractive sort, physical robust perhaps but without the look of a fighter, Peter would watch him, but he didn’t expect violence from him. The native woman also lacked the tell of a fighter, though he had heard disturbing stories about the abilities of a certain tribe of Vampires that stemmed from the Native Americans, if the stories were true he had nothing to fear from her physically. The fit man had also apparently gained the attention of an equal of sorts, a woman that caught Peter’s eye briefly before his cold sense of pragmatism re-asserted itself. With a final glance around the room for tactical reasons he dismissed the group, they were Vampires and likely had some power, but they would pose little threat to him unless this was a set-up solely for him, which seemed unlikely.

“Evening.” He muttered, being the first to say anything to his fellows. He placed himself carefully on a chair that gave him a good view of those to either side of him and suitable space besides. You could never be too careful with midnight dealings.

[ayzrules]

August 15th, 2016, Monday morning

Willa was sleeping when Stella came for her. She slept as much as she could, finding that it was a cure for both her sense of boredom and a blissful oblivion compared to the reality of her situation. But Willa was a light sleeper, and as soon as she sensed Stella striding across the marble floor to her bedroom, she instinctively opened her eyes and lifted her head, remaining in the same curled up position until the door knob began to turn. Then, she sat up and got to her feet, the world spinning wildly before it righted itself.

The door opened, revealing Willa's sire. Stella's green eyes seemed to glitter cruelly and coldly, her black hair pulled back in a tight bun. Stella silently glared down at Willa as she shuffled slowly and reluctantly toward her. She didn't wait for Willa to completely reach the threshold of the room, instead turning on her heel and stalking out into the corridor. Willa followed her into a specially sound-proofed room with the same marble floors. Two decades of serving as Stella's vessel to store pain had numbed Willa to certain things, but that wasn't to say that it didn't hurt when Stella beat her. Willa had just learned how to deal with it in a somewhat more effective manner.

At first, Stella tied Willa down whenever she needed to inflict pain, but as Willa grew less and less responsive to it, Stella gradually stopped altogether. Inside the room, Willa simply laid on her back on the ground, the cool marble chilling her flesh and sending goosebumps up her arms. Stella shut the door and turned around to open a small storage closet. Willa bit her lip in anticipation for the first blow, staring up at the stark white ceiling.

A sharp pain exploded in her right knee, and Willa sucked in a breath, digging her nails into her palms. Stella had taken some sort of club or crowbar or bat-Willa couldn't tell from her vantage point-and bashed it viciously against her leg. As Stella continued, Willa tried to keep her breathing steady, doing her best to concentrate on the rapid beating of her heart that she could feel in her ears instead of letting the pain take her over. Falling unconscious before Stella was done wouldn't work anyway; Stella would simply dump a bucket of ice-cold water on her face and pick up right where she left off.

Stella fell into her familiar rhythm of evenly timed blows carried out in an almost mechanical manner, and Willa fell into her own rhythm of doing whatever she could to drown out the pain. Willa found that reciting things silently in her head usually helped.

Alabama , she thought to herself. Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado... the familiar sequence of the states in alphabetical order provided a strange sense of solace to Willa. Delaware, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana...

What Willa liked to call the "brute force" part of Stella's routine (for how the blows were mostly targeted at large areas and left livid bruises rather than drew blood) was coming to a close. Her legs were most likely broken, the bones shattered and mangled, and Willa knew that her ribs were probably broken as well. But that could wait until later-Stella wasn't done yet, as Willa was reminded when a bone-crushing blow hit her jaw, the sickening crunch reverberating through her ears.

There was a momentary pause in the strikes, and Willa used it to take stock of her condition despite the pain that was threatening to tear her apart. She whimpered quietly, each breath sending lances of pain through her midsection. Stella ignored her; she had always ignored her. Cries of pain, tears, threats: to Stella, they didn't matter. Gaping wounds and twisted bones and bruised flesh and lacerations criss-crossing Willa's skin; they were all good things, things that would give Stella a decisive advantage over any opponent. Willa knew that her death-well, her death after becoming undead-would mean less than nothing to her sire. Stella would pick up another random person off the streets and force them to become the most formidable weapon that she had, as ironic as that seemed.

Stella knelt down on the ground beside Willa, a wickedly sharp scalpel in her hand. Willa groaned in pain, shutting her eyes for a moment before reopening them to gaze up at the ceiling again. Stella grabbed Willa's forearm, and Willa's muscles tensed in anticipation. She felt the blade slice through her skin, blood beginning to ooze lazily out of the wound. Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine... A flurry of small, precise slashes flew across Willa's arm, and her breath began to come out in short gasps. Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan... The last thing Willa could remember before she lost all sense of control over her mental state was Michigan.

Michigan, she repeated to herself, screaming in agony when more gashes began to appear on her exposed skin, every ounce of her self-control dissipating into nowhere like wisps of smoke in the wind. Michigan, Michigan, Michigan, Willa shrieked inside her head while she shrieked wordlessly out loud, twitching uncontrollably as Stella sharply twisted the hilt of a blade that she had plunged deep into the side of Willa's thigh.

When Stella set her multiple blades aside, Willa knew it was almost over. She closed her eyes for the final part, going as limp as a rag doll while Stella repeatedly picked her up and let her drop to the ground, tossing Willa around as if she weighed no more than a piece of paper.

Throughout the entire ordeal, Willa had done her best to remain absolutely still save for a few twitches or sharp jerks, though she screamed freely. If she struggled or tried to evade the beatings, Stella would just go back to tying her down again. Willa preferred being able to feel her limbs after Stella was finished, despite what one might think. Things were bad enough as they were, and she hated having her circulation cut off for so long that she had no control of her limbs and extremities for hours after Stella left. She was already so very helpless-the very least she could do was try to maintain control over her own body, as fragile as that control was.

Finally, finally, finally , Willa could tell that Stella was done. Willa was teetering on the brink of consciousness, black and red spots filling her vision. She could feel blood dripping down the side of her face, and every breath was a struggle. Willa knew for a fact that the majority of her bones would be broken, but Stella usually never touched her neck or her back. After all, it would be completely useless if Willa died before Stella was able to transfer her pain to somebody else. Willa was well aware of the fact that she would have died already if she was still human, and she didn't know if that was a good thing or not. She wanted to be alive, that was for sure, but if the price of staying alive was being forced to serve as Stella's storage vessel, then Willa would have preferred to be dead. Not dead and reborn as a vampire, but truly dead.

Stella began to gather the various items strewn around the room, putting them away in the closet. The last thing Willa remembered before everything went black was the gentle click of the door knob as Stella exited the room and closed the door behind her.

*****

August 16th, 2016, Monday night

When Willa woke up, she was still lying flat on her back, but the pain hadn't faded. Her pulse pounded in her head as she took in a few shallow breaths, probing her broken ribs. Most of the blood had dried, and Willa knew with a dull sense of resignation that she would not be dying anytime soon. Stella was smart enough to avoid puncturing her vital organs.

Over the next couple of hours, Willa fell in and out of consciousness, lying in a pool of her own blood and unable to move for the sheer pain of it all. She knew that the brunt of it would be gone soon-Stella was most certainly out on a job right at that moment, otherwise she never would have even bothered to fetch Willa in the morning.

A little after Willa awoke for the sixth time, the pain seemed to move out of her all at once. One moment everything hurt just as much as it had earlier, and the next Willa was left with a deep, throbbing ache that seemed to percolate through every inch of her body. She was by no means healed, but it was considerably easier to move around after the pain had lessened. Granted, it wasn't as if she was not feeling anymore pain, however, the sting was gone from it.

Willa groaned and began to move, turning over onto her stomach. Just that was so utterly exhausting that Willa nearly passed out again. She began the excruciating process of inching across the floor to the door, white-hot pain searing through her broken body with every movement. But she had to get to her own room and try to heal herself, otherwise she would end up being completely paralyzed as the bones healed improperly.

Willa had no idea how, but she made it out into the hall and into the spacious bathroom. There, she weakly grasped a hand mirror and stared at her reflection. Deep gashes were cut into the sides of her face, and her eyes were dim and unfocused. Willa was covered in blood. That was the lingering thought in her mind-the blood, all the red, red blood-as she drifted out of consciousness for the seventh time.

*****

September 9th, 2016, Friday night

The rain gently caressed Willa's face as she limped down the dark alleyway, and the humidity pressed against her like moist velvet. Lightning danced across the sky every so often, and Willa's wet hair was plastered to her face. She was hungry, so very hungry , and the emptiness of her stomach was just as bad as the permanent ache in her limbs.

Willa had done her best to heal herself using what limited resources that she owned, mostly from her infrequent trips to the outside world. The naturally enhanced healing of vampires did most of the work for her, but Willa had to set the bones herself and pop dislocated body parts back into position. She was by no means a professional, but she did what she could. Anyway, it wasn't like any healing was permanent-Stella would just break all her bones again in another month or so.

Willa supposed that she should have been more wary of being out alone, especially with other vampires prowling about every night, but she found that it didn't make any difference to her. Most vampires wouldn't give a shit about the woman shuffling slowly along the sides of the street with her eyes fixated on the ground and her worn-out jacket pulled tightly over her thin frame. She was far too weak to attempt feeding on humans, so Willa relied on whatever animals she could get her hands on, be it rats and other rodents, birds, stray dogs and cats...anything really, so long as it had blood to offer her.

A flicker of movement in her peripheral vision caught Willa's attention. She turned and saw a cat with matted fur and a mangled paw doing its best to find shelter from the rain. Willa limped over to the curb and sat down, watching it with a peculiar sense of sympathy. "I guess we aren't really that different," she said softly, her words carried away by the wind. Of course, the cat made no indication that it had even felt Willa's presence. Willa almost considered sparing it, but she was reminded of her own hunger and shook her head incredulously at herself. "Sorry, little guy," she whispered as she picked it up, biting into its warm flesh and letting its blood fill her mouth.

When Willa was done, she set the cat's corpse aside and remained in the same position for a good ten minutes, not wanting to get up again. The irrational thought of staying where she was forever and never going back to Stella seized Willa, but she quickly discarded the notion. The sun would be up in a few hours, and if she was still sitting on the curb in the alleyway in one of the poorer sections of Charleston by then, she would die. And Willa knew that she wanted to live, just not with Stella.

The thought of her sire sent chills up her spine. Every time that Willa fell asleep and every that time she woke up, Stella's cold green eyes were glaring at her, hard as rock and devoid of all emotion. Willa sighed wearily, laboriously getting to her feet once again. She wasn't sure where she would go next, but it didn't seem to matter that much at the moment.

Willa accidentally put too much pressure at once on her right leg, and pain flared up from the half-healed knife wound, sending Willa staggering to her knees. Tears filled her vision and she blinked them away quickly, though the urge to cry her eyes out was a strong one, albeit weaker than it had been twenty years ago.

Almost twenty-five years now, she thought bitterly to herself, carefully getting back onto her feet. Willa contemplated walking around for a bit and attempting to pick up a little news about the vampiric world. She very rarely left her own room, as sparse as it was, and knew next to nothing about the vampires of Charleston besides the basics. Hell, she didn't even know who the Baron or Baroness of her own bloodline was. It wasn't like Stella was particularly forthcoming either-Willa was simply a tool, to be disposed of if she became overly annoying or troublesome. She belonged to Stella, and Stella would do as she pleased with her property. Willa knew what would happen if she tried to resist, and she wasn't sure if she was ready for a final and permanent death just yet, despite it all.

As she hobbled toward the entrance of the alleyway, Willa could make out a figure approaching her. Willa averted her eyes and walked to the side, not keen on the idea of a confrontation of any sort. The figure materialized as a well dressed, and emotionless woman who seemed to have her attention directed solely on Willa, despite her best efforts to remain inconspicuous. The woman stopped in front of Willa, looking bored and entirely uninterested. It took Willa a moment to notice that she was holding out an envelope to her.

Willa looked at the woman's face with a hint of fear in her eyes, noting that she was a thrall. Why would a thrall seek her out? Willa knew no other vampires besides her sire, and Stella had no reason to give her any sort of written communication. So, Willa hesitantly extended her hand and let the woman deposit the envelope in it before turning around and walking off, the shadows swallowing her up. Willa grasped the envelope tightly, trembling slightly before placing it inside her jacket for safekeeping as she began the long trek home.

*****

September 10th, 2016, Saturday night

Back in her own room, Willa had opened the envelope with a drop of her blood, acknowledging the blood pact. She greedily ate up the short, succinct message: “Saturday September 10th, 2016. Midnight. Charleston Harbor. Dock 15 Warehouse. For those seeking advancement.” Willa had read and reread the simple line a dozen times, wondering what in the world it all could mean. But in the end, her choice was clear: she was most definitely seeking advancement.

I have literally nothing to lose anyway, Willa reasoned with herself. It was true that if Stella caught her, she would kill her, but at least that would be the end of the pain. And if some of the other vampires that Willa had only heard stories about caught her, she would most likely be killed as well, not that it mattered. The thought of the vampire courts conjuring up some sort of torture before they killed her was laughable. She'd already been put through torture for twenty-four years now. Sure, Willa didn't particularly want to die, but the strange message had awakened a thirst for freedom that had been dormant in her up until now, and if she had to risk her life to get this freedom, then she would do so-and gladly.

Outside, it was as humid as ever. The clouds were dark in the sky, their vague forms obscuring most of the moon. Willa was always careful to stick to the shadows when venturing out from Stella's luxurious residence as her sire's neighbors would find the sight of a half-starved thing like her entirely out of place in the wealthier section of the city. Willa made her way slowly to the docks, pausing every ten minutes or so to catch her breath. She knew she probably looked like death itself to the casual observer-haggard and gaunt, with faded bruises covering her face and eyes that darted every which way, more anxious than a skittish horse-so Willa wore a loose sweatshirt with a large hood to hide most of her features.

Willa reached the docks a little late. She walked cautiously into the well-lit office, noticing the others in the room and letting her gaze fall to the ground. A blonde-haired woman with a glare that reminded her of Stella's (albeit angrier), a hooded figure with claws that made Willa shudder involuntarily, a dark-haired man who appeared fairly normal, a woman with dark skin who was staring at her own hands, an attractive blonde woman, and a man wearing a trench coat and a fedora were already there. Willa sat down in the first open seat she saw, looking down at the table and desperately hoping that Stella would not take note of her disappearance.

[Hellis]

September 3rd, 2016, Saturday Night, The Web ”Goth Night”

Twack, thwack, thwack. The sound was sickening, you didn't have to see what was going on to associate it with the terrible pain and affront to morals that it represented. A wet, slowly cracking noise, like a difficult to splice melon being hammered upon in frustration. It filled the tiny basement level room with its ever so monotonous pace. IT was almost like the beat of some slow trance-song intro. Every so often, there was a groan of pain and a snarling noise, followed by a much louder ”Thwack”.

On the floor lay a once pretty blond boy. His face a perpetual snarl, with a bruised lips and quite a few teeth missing. His teeth lay scattered on the floor like pearls, perfectly white and florescent among the the dark pools of blood. His right eyes was as red as the blood at this point, the blood vessel having popped from repeated stomps to his temples and side of the head. His face was ground under the heel of a pair of heavy combat boots. The dark leather caked with his blood. The boots in turn, were laced tight around the foot and ankle of a blond, tattooed woman. Next to her stood a another blonde, taller, broader and very much a man. The two took turns to stomp at the poor victim, who's legs bent at odd angles. Marcus and Minni Levou, were vampires. The man on the floor, Johan Elander, was a vampire to. And the man watching them from the shadows of the rooms darkest corner, was very much a vampire. Stepping out from his place of observation, Louise Noir looked absolutely bored with the entire spectacle.

”You are really growing tiresome Mr Elander” He spook in a yawn. ”You do not have a live Sire here, you entered this Barony without permission, entered this city without paying a visit to the Monarch.” He said as he knelt in front of the mess of a man before him. His fingers ran trough the hair of the blonde, once pretty vampire and tugged his head up after Minni reluctantly removed her foot from the back of Elanders skull. ”Worst yet. You tried to force yourself on one of my girls. Blood Dolls are expensive, and even more expensive to keep happy and quiet” He said with a snarl and tightened his grip around those blonde locks of hair.

”F-fuck you.:” There was no bravado or defiance in his voice. Just the primal hatred of one creature of darkness to another. Elander spat, a little of his blood landing Lousise face. The one good eye stared into Lousies eyes and found there nothing but the darkest, deepest of loathing. He cringed visibly as he realized that the red swirling light dancing behind Louise' eyes was that of the infamous blood seers powers at work. Louise had wiped the goblet of blood and tasted it with only the tip of the tongue. Then he spoke.

”No. Fuck you.” Louise voice was a bored drawl as he smashed the mans head into the floor several times, with enough force to crack a tile, before rising to his feet again. ”Fuck you, and that degenerate blood line of yours. Your the last one to exist within the state borders. Your blood told me that much.” He rose and turned on his heel. Stalking over to the door, he stopped right before it and spoke, this time to his two loyal soldiers. ”He is a nobody. The Baron himself said we may dispose of him as we please. So please, if you would be so kind to make him scream a bit more then end his misery for me?” He said to his two bodyguards, not turning to look as he opened the door. As he closed it, the sound of stomping didn't resume. Instead, there was the sound of flesh tearing, and screams so loud Louise could hear them all the way up the stairs of the cellar. He closed the cellar door, and the sound was replaced with the loud discordant sound of electric guitars and the thumping of a drummer possessed. He walked out to dance floor by taking a shortcut trough the ”VIP” area, taking the time to kiss the cheek of some Vampire he barely met before and making sure on of his regulars had his favorite girl. Once by the stage were the Gothic themed, female fronted, symphonic metal band was doing their thing, he relaxed and leaned against the wall. Watching his ”kingdom”. A seething mass of misguided and outsider marked youth. He remembered the 80's with a certain fondness, all those punky, gothy teens who just adored vampirism. Not that they realized they had invited the real thing when they met Louise, but that was part of the charm. These days, his club mainly attracted the black dressed, corpse painted men and women once a month, when he hired some decent local talent and a big name goth band. Usually however, his place was a low key hangout for all manners of people. Hipsters came for the 80's decor and the wine, soccer moms showed up because they were bored with life and the artistic types and alternative kids were here for the music and to flirt with one another.

Hara strode to the bar, shooting his Bartender a smile. Joseph nodded to him, and produced a bottle of something that wasn't wine, poor it into a tall glass that was to dark and thick to tell what it held, and slid it skillfully over to his boss with a flick of the wrist. Louise took it without a thought and sipped.

”M... This is new. Who did you tap?” He said, his powers not engaging unless he wanted to. Joseph nodded up ahead, and Louise saw the black dressed, dark skinned beauty who was dancing with the others. He dress was very much a homage to the less savory trends of the 80's, with enough skin showing that you could tell some people had a hard time not looking. Louise licked his lips.

”We're closing late tonight” he said, then stalked towards his next meal.

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September 9th, 2016, Friday Night

The floor was almost empty of dancers and customers today. The few that were there danced almost sluggishly, grinding and being far to inconsiderate of their surroundings morals then was proper form. The speakers blasted Bauhaus, and a few pretty girls in gothmakeup were trading stories about their annoying families and friends who ”Just didn't get them”. Another table was occupied by two men in buisness attire, neither of them carrying themselves like employed or well respected fellows. The locals who enjoyed this place did include all kinds after all, the fact that mafioso made it a place to meet every now and then was only natural. Louise didn't mind, he gained so much intel from their blabbering mouths.

A pair of smartly dressed, well groomed would-be-artists chattered amongs themselves in one corner of the club. Louise watched them with the tiniest semblance of care of passion. He was amusing himself by counting every time one of them used a short hand in real life. Deciding he might just kill whoever said ”lol” and ”Rofl” the most. He was broken out of his macabre reverie by Joseph.

”Mr Noir. This came for you” Joseph handed him a letter. The seal made him whistle audibly ”Thank you Joseph. Could you go over to the gentlemen in the suits and ask if they want a refill?” He said, not looking up from the seal. He put into his breast pocket and began to move for his office. On his way he called over the Siblings and looked at them sternly. ”Nobody is to disturb me for next few hours. Understood?” He asked, his tone didn't allow for any other answer then ”Yes.”

He hurried up the stars to second floor and slipped into his office. He toook up the letter and stared at it. Sitting down heavily onto his office desk, he crossed his legs and bit his lower lip. ”What the fuck are you about?” He seemingly asked the letter. ”Who sent you I wonder” He extended the little hidden blade of his metal ringpiece and pricked his thumb before letting the drop hit the seal. Time to find out.

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September 10th, 2016, Saturday Night

Hara strode towards the location with a confidence as unshakable as the very concrete under his feet. That was to say, it was deceptively porous and prone to cracking under to much pressure. For once, he was going into something all but blind, and it unnerved him. He was supposed to be the one always in charge, instead he was on the back foot, tugged along by his own desperate hunger for knowledge and his almost fetishistic indulge when it came to secrecy. He never liked the Docks, to many rats and to many placed for trouble to hide. The sea lapped at the piers as he passed them, and he found the sea as hostile and ominous as he always had. He knew that at the bottom rested cementshoed corpses, disposed garbage other things a testament to the Docks being the least pleasant part of town.

He located the place easily enough, noting the size and potential exits as he approached it. He was nothing if not a proffesional coward when it came to these things. As he entered, the glanced at the thrall who met him with a dull, apathetic look. The other Thrall was much more pleasant, bowing slightly at the waist. ”Welcome Mr Noir. Some have allready arrived” He spoke, that accent made Louise want to punch the man. God he hated it instantly.

Instead however, he refrained from the violence and strode inside the room. His eyes fell immidietly on Fio. ”Fio” He nodded. He knew her, likely knew more about her then Fio wished him to. As a pitfighter, her blood had not been hard to get hold of after a brutal bout, and so he knew more about her then he did most other vampires.

The hooded one was a mystery to him. It was not a person he ever met before, he was quite certein. The claws however, the claws he had seen on somebody else before. He was most certain of it. The dapper, old soul who sat around looking both bored and alert at once he knew had visited his club once. A art exhibit If he wasn't mistaken. The lovely young looking creature who sat and looked so subdued was new to him.

Lyra he knew. ”oh. Look. Civilized people.” He said at the sight of her. By that, he meant a paying customer. Lyra had been to his club more then once. She always tipped well and treated the establishment with respect. So she was a pleasant suprise.

He knew the detective for what he was the moment they locked eyes. From a career criminals perspective, you could always pick out the cop in a room. He smiled, cold and unpleasant at the man as he took his seat on the direct opposite spot in the room. Pulling his chair up and sitting cross legged, he began examining his nails. He noticed Willa Last, she seemed so small compared to the rest, as if she was trying to will herself awway. He could sympathize

[Habibi359]

Like every evening Michael had woken up, taken a shower and brushed his teeth. Two-beds apartment was a decorated decently with postmodern arts on top of wine-red wallpaper. His kitchen hadn’t seen any use in decades, not since he found out in a nasty way there were vampires in the world. Windows were covered with heavy curtains to not even accidentally let out sunlight. Nowadays there were no mirrors but television screen and a web camera if he wanted to look at himself; Ages ago he had used a copper surface to quickly glance that the outfit was alright. It hadn’t lasted long and he had trusted his tailors that the suits did fit.

This evening he had gotten a text message in his phone. Another customer asking for meeting, and Michael replying with an address of one of them restaurants that knew the Fourth Face. While he never ordered food nor drinks, he worked for dangerous men. These men did pay for their silence and did threaten with some horrible business losses if their lips would open to wrong persons. Naturally, during the years the meeting places had to change. Restaurant keepers grew older but Franklin Maccellan and his gang didn’t. Neither did their Four Faces.

Michael liked the fact that some customers feared him. But he did dislike the fact that it was due to his employers, not from himself. Not that he himself, with extra weight around the belly and his enormous lips, was a frightening sight, but still. Fear out of respect was what he lacked. He did take tad more dramatic suite – Wine red jacket with black bow tie, with with fedora and trousers to complete the imposing and threatening look. Hopefully it made an influence to the customer.

---

Michael Boras had been awake for few hours and sitting at the restaurant; it was dark enough to walk around the town and it was time for the dark side of the town to wake up and start working. Friday night; weekend was at hand with many to celebrate the ending work week. Masses were already on the move despite the promise of rain on the sky. Michael enjoyed the masses and the Friday nights. When there was some free time, he'd gladly join them at the one of them jazz clubs. Listening music, trying one's luck with the ladies, gambling, feeding with unlucky chums at dark alley... Small joys of the life when there wasn't any work coming. Pity this wasn’t one of those nights.

Someone with a minute off from the agreed meeting time sat in his table opposite from the Fourth Face. A woman. But not any kind of woman, she was a thrall. Fourth Face saw this by her lack of humanity and stench of another vampire’s blood within. Someone wanted to order this job anonymously, Michael thought. He straightened his wine red suit and tightened his black bow tie. “Good evening. I understood you, or your client require our assistance.” Michael started. Revealing his smarts to the thrall right away.

No answer. Disappointed that his costume nor his cleverness made an impact, the Fourth Face straightened his posture half an inch and continued “In the message I got, you hadn’t specified what the... Nature of the business would be.”

No answer, but now the woman had started to move. She revealed an envelope with relaxed, almost robotic movements and laid it down on the table. Without any extra movements nor saying anything she rose and walked away. The customer really wanted to work in mysterious ways. It could be a trap also, so Michael took the envelope and exited to the restaurant’s toilet. He knew there weren’t any mirrors there, just a wide window that was slightly open in case he needed an escape. He locked the door and inspected the received letter.

A Blood Pact to be sealed with a drop of blood. He worried for a moment that this pact was going to overlap with the pact of his “supervisors”. But then again… Franklin had told the Fourth Face to lay low after the last case (Smuggling stolen goods) and the message had come straight to him, not through Franklin nor his three hands. So he could keep this information from them. It wasn't straight opposing of Franklin's power.

Hence… He bit a corner from his thumb open, offered a drop of blood and finally opened the envelope.

---

Saturday, September 10th. 2016. Midnight. Charleston Harbor. Dock 15 Warehouse.

For those seeking advancement.

Those four last words had been promising so much. Definitely something Michael had been thinking the night before Saturday. He had gained some power with Franklin, but he didn’t prefer to stay as his lapdog for all eternity. But he couldn’t oppose them and break the blood pack either. This meeting could risk the pack being broken and that would ensue his death. And even if he did gain power and advancement and minions and whatever the letter’s vague description promised, and it didn’t, he would still be under the command of the Mobster with Three Hands.

However, if this was a promising offer that would rise the mobster ring to new heights, perhaps this was going to give him some more power in Franklin’s eyes. Perhaps he’d be almost even to Jonathan. Not a likely outcome, but at least they could trust him more if he showed loyalty to the mobster ring. So he could take this chance for one reason or another.

But this could also be a trap. Franklin Maccellan wasn’t the only shady player in town, and there was slight competition from customers and areas. This could be a setup to get to the mobster boss. Hence the Fourth Face had taken less flashy costume. Long black jacket with black bowler. He had fed with some blood just in case- an unlucky mobster knocked unconscious would wake up with anemia- and, one last time coming to the conclusion that the risk was worth it, he had left towards Dock 15.

Night was beautiful indeed, but Michael didn’t take the time to enjoy the scenery. He inspected the surroundings at the docks before coming closer to the warehouse in question. There were two people waiting. The thrall from yesterday, and another man. If it was only them, he could probably escape if this meeting turned out to be a trap. Warehouse itself didn’t look threatening and in Michael's mind easy to escape from. He made a final look around before straightening his jacket and entering the warehouse.

Woman stood by idly, but the man was happy to announce that he had came to the right place. Michael tipped his hat. “Good midnight to you too. Pleasant to be here.” He was instructed inside and wait with the others before starting, to which Michael nodded. “Gladly. Thank you for assistance.” And without further words, he entered further in.

Room was empty expect a conference table and seats around it. Room had windows that to Michael's delight didn’t reflect too much. And around the table there were already several people waiting, no doubt they also were offered promises of advancement. At the look of the lot, he started to guess none of them weren't humans.

A hooded man with sickened pale skin on his fingers. And claws. A hitman or an enforcer, possibly.
Some pretty boy with a messy hair, looking like trying to own the place.
A woman with dark curly hair that was a tad anxious. She perhaps didn’t know what for she was here. Unlike Michael.
A woman with dead eyes. Young and pale in every way imagined. Annoyed. Like a teenager. Nothing of interest.

Something of interest was the beautiful blonde woman. The makeup was a finishing touch to make Michael hope for enough money to have her as an escort to one of them fancy clubs.
There was another man that peaked his interest. Michael didn’t know if it was the thick hair or dark, rough and short beard or what in this man's appearance or existence.
There was also a woman that was even shorter than him. A frightened creature looking like someone his gang used to tease in school. Someone that he could, perhaps, manipulate.

Peter Reed was, to Michael's surprise, also summoned. The detective leaned forward with hands on table, like ready to spring in action. Two looked at one another, Peter intensively and Michael with surprise. Michael cursed in his mind. He had made a nasty trick to Peter last and only time they had done business, so this would be troublesome.

Michael however couldn't let the concerns show any further, so he calmed himself. Peter neither made further actions, just leaned back in his chair. “Good midnight” Michael said with half a smile and small nod to the people. He took another place from the conference table, putting his bowler in front of him. Waiting eagerly why they were summoned here…

[Noxious]

The room was tense; like a court ordered rehab program with a bunch of occupants that weren’t sure what to expect and an unvetted social worker leading the way with blind optimism that only added to the tension. The plain looking man pressed his hair back with his right palm, a subconscious tick left over from before conditioning, though it didn’t seem to denote nervousness. His eyes scanned those sitting in front of him and he seemed in control, well, he seemed like a person told to appear confident; a little off, a little forced. The scene was awkward, even from a vampiric standpoint. Usually thralls, even those conditioned to be calm, would be exhibiting some reaction (sweat, shaking) when surrounded by a group like this. There were a few present that had a nature in and of itself that seemed to facilitate anxiety, especially in humans; but not these thralls. The well dressed man stood in the middle, encircled by the desk filled with individuals that could each remove his head from his body without even trying. He exhibited the nervousness of a CEO in a board room holding all the cards for a takeover. It was all topped with the unfaltering sociable smile stuck to his lips as though his master had painted him like a stiff doll. It eerily remained even as those same lips parted to speak.

“First, on behalf of my proprietor I would like to genuinely thank you all for coming; we are fully aware of the danger. You may have noticed this group is rather eclectic, for lack of a better word. There isn’t a living or dead person who would gamble on placing you all in the same room, but isn’t that part of the fun?” He paused to chuckle, but it seemed rehearsed. When no one else shared the laugh he cleared his throat and continued on. “There will be questions I’m sure. Please hold off and we will do our best to answer them.”

He seemed to attempt a serious expression, but was unable to suppress the smile implant as well as he hoped. “As you may know the Monarch and his Barons have maintained control of the Charleston area for two centuries and have implemented laws that, in all truth, are used to enslave and disenfranchise their own kin. You don’t remember a time before these laws and restrictions, but my proprietor does. He sees a need for change and he is not alone in this. Some of you may hear whispers of dissension. They have always existed, no matter who the ruler, no matter the location, but the whispers are growing as the times change and the rulers do not. While the Barons seem to hold a strong front this is all for show. They have as many cracks, secrets and bias as any human; compounded by centuries of time to expand and dwell on them.”

“We are not expecting you to take on the Monarch or the Barons head on; but you are in a unique position of being invisible in a world where age blinds the elders to your abilities. You may be unaware of the tribulations between the Barons, but my proprietor has information that will help guide you into actions that will benefit yourselves, as well as them. You see, there is always discord amongst the Barons, discord which you can fuel and stoke to a greater flame and purpose. The plan is to use their own vices against them.”

“I’m sure some of you are thinking that if it was so easy, why hasn’t it been done? It isn’t easy, but it has been done. Before we continue with the information provided I feel inclined to tell you that if you would like to bow out, that is acceptable. You can simply walk out the door right now. It would be remiss for me to fail to inform you that the blood pact only covers the events and discussions of tonight. My proprietor suggests that a blood pact is formed between those of you who wish to carry on, for your own protection of course.”

[ConstableWalrus]

Alban watched the thrall as he went through it's motions, the tone as force as the chuckle and smile. Reminded him of a game-show host and it made his claws twitch as he rapped them against the wooden table. Alban leaned forward dragging the claws against the wood as he did the large marks indented into the wood.

Alban kept his blue eyes on not only the thrall but the surrounding myriad of other vampires. Watching them carefully from under the deep hood. Pretty things all of them. and the claws dug harder into the wood creaking his section of the table. and waited for the thrall to finish before he spoke.

"So let me get this straight puppet. Your..." He pulled his clawed hand from the wood splintering most of it off and rolled his wrist "Master wants to help me?" a chortle erupted from him, his heavily accented voice trailing off afterwards "Must be taking the piss." Ablan leaned back fully and the hood fell from his face showing the terrible mark of his breed, the paled dead skin the sharper features and the sickly look of him.

"I am taking a risk by being here puppet. The under baron sees much through our eyes." Alban let out a grunt and kicked the worn mud covered shoes onto the table and rolled his jaw until it gave an audible crack. "And we are to expect that this master of yours is doing out of the kindness of its black dead heart?" Alban leaned to the side the cracking of his jaw letting some of the congealed rat blood and hair that was stuck in his teeth released and he spit it out onto the floor before wiping his lips with the sleeve and looking hard at the thrall.

[MelonHead]

Alarm bells were ringing in his head as he maintained his cool on the outside, leaving no sign of the proposal rattling him save the furrow of his forehead as he entered fervent thought. The P.I was trying to work through the potential ramifications of a meeting such as this, burning his way through lists of ideas and highlighting possibilities.

What he knew:

Group of diverse Vampires, evidently of different bloodlines, gathered by a mysterious and secretive benefactor who hasn’t made a personal appearance.

Evident test of loyalty from the outset, potential to leave ultimately a forgone conclusion, as information thus far is sealed by blood pact.

Diversity in Children reduces the chances that a single Baron had organised the event, either to catch unruly Vampires of their bloodline or to usurp another Baron, though not impossible, worth further consideration.

The most he could do is stick it out, though leaving later could be complicated after a blood pact is made, he could always make his decision after hearing what the parameters would be.

Conclusion, wait and see, but first.

“Ugly here has a point, but more importantly, as you’ve said this sort of thing has been done before, but you know what, for every single success there’s a hundred piles of ash before it.” Peter shook his head. “I’m going to need a pretty solid assurance that this is the real deal, your boss has to give us something to inspire… confidence.”

[ayzrules]

Two other vampires arrived after Willa did-a raven-haired man with a pretty-boy look to him and a rather plump man wearing a hat. After the man wearing a hat took his seat, the thrall that had greeted them earlier began to speak. Willa kept her eyes downcast as she listened to what he had to say. She was uncertain and wary of the entire situation; who would care anything about a vampire like her, a weak little thing who could barely even walk most of the time, and why? She could understand the reasons for summoning some of the others-the vampire with the clawed hands, for instance-but why her?

The thrall's explanation posed no answers to the question that burned inside her. How could the older vampires be blind to her abilities when she possessed none to be blind to in the first place? Of course, coming from the same bloodline as Stella meant that Willa was able to manipulate pain too, but she rarely ever had the energy or the chance to use it. The only times Willa could recall utilizing the ability was transferring pain into rodents and birds so Willa would be able to catch them and feed. Besides, she hated the power. The back of her neck prickled as Stella's harsh voice and cold eyes came to mind.

However, there were parts of the thrall's proposal that piqued Willa's interest. If he was talking about bringing down the Monarch and the Barons, what was to say that they couldn't get rid of Stella too? Willa knew that her sire was certainly nowhere near as powerful as the Monarch or the Barons. Willa tentatively lifted her gaze from the table. She was suspicious, but at the same time she was just the slightest bit hopeful. Out of all the vampires assembled, Willa thought that she could safely say that she had the least to lose.

The vampire with clawed hands dug his claws into the table and tore out chunks of the wood. The hood he wore fell back and away from his face, giving everyone in the room a clear look at his sickly features. Willa had seen other vampires of his bloodline before, not necessarily in the sewers but above ground in dark alleyways and derelict buildings. She'd never approached any of them, and they'd never approached her. Even Willa knew of the rumors that swirled around about their kind.

Willa listened to his responses to the thrall, finding that she agreed with most of them. Why would any vampire-and judging from the fact that this vampire had so thoroughly conditioned his or her thralls and secured a location for the meeting as well as done extensive research to choose a group of vampires from a variety of bloodlines, the vampire was fairly well off-want to help the likes of her? Most other vampires completely ignored her, and she couldn't blame them. There was nothing about her that was threatening in the slightest, and she had no useful abilities or skills to offer to anyone. Unless you counted being completely still while Stella hit her as a skill.

The vampire that looked like he came straight out of a murder mystery spoke up. Willa found merit in what he added as well, especially the part where he pointed out that the chances of success were low. And did the vampire organizing all of this take any time to think about how well the vampires he or she chose would work together? Although Willa's eyes had been glued to the table the entire time, even she could pick up the tension in between some of the vampires assembled. For example, the murder mystery vampire didn't seem to be very popular amongst the ones who recognized him, from what Willa could see.

But at the end of the day, Willa knew that she either had this or going back to Stella for the rest of her undeath. And the thought of throwing away such an opportunity to free herself of her sire-even an extremely precarious one as this-made Willa uneasy.

I have nothing to lose, nothing to lose, she repeated silently to herself. Willa looked up for the first time since she took her seat, taking off the hood of her baggy sweatshirt in order to get a better view of the room. She knew that her face still bore the signs of the last time Stella had paid her a visit-there were scars on her cheeks from where Stella had dragged a knife through her flesh and faint bruises that were highlighted by her unhealthily pale skin-but Willa supposed that it didn't really matter in this kind of situation. She pushed her brown hair away from her eyes and turned her attention to the thrall. "I agree with...with what they said," Willa began, her voice timid and spider-soft. "But why? Why us, besides our age?"

Now all there was left to do was to watch and listen.

[Habibi359]

The colorful bunch that had been summoned to the meeting was eagerly waiting after Michael had sat down for whatever was coming next. Seemed that he had been the rude one here, coming last to the meeting. The man in polo started his presentation; whether he was nervous or exited, the Fourth Face couldn’t tell. Thrall like that would be expected to be afraid in a company like this; if he had good news that would interest the lot, surely he would be eager to see their expressions.

Michael had expected there to be a bigger force in play and in his mind his confirmations became right as thrall spoke. Behalf of a proprietor… Probably one with a lot of influence to have confidence to summon this group. “… But isn’t that part of the fun?” Thrall had joked. Fourth face snorted quietly. The gathering here was far from fun. An amusing try, but the fellow didn’t have a future as a comedian…

What came next however took the cake. This group, right here… Would overthrow the Barons and the Monarch.

The idea was a madness he’d encounter while watching himself in the mirror. The presentation’s main point was so simple, yet so big, bigger than unlife itself. The promises and possibilities that existed in that small idea. And this group would be trusted with information to tear them down. Plan was simple, it was brilliant; hot coals of hatred were already laid between the vampire barons and the monarch. They would simply put some gasoline and watch as the inferno engulfed them.

And it had been done in the past, the thrall said. Michael wondered if this had happened centuries ago or if it was a lie, but he let the tough go. One who had summoned the lot seemed confident to this plan. And for reasons or others he had a trusted them with the information. Blood pack of course would keep everything revealed here confidential, and another would come if they were to take part in this revolution. Something Michael wasn't too happy about, but perhaps it'd be worth it.

Michael was bit too excited for all of this, so he tried to calm down in his bald round head. There were possibilities in all of this and he would take all the profit from it gladly. There were numerous risks too, Maccellan’s blood pack being one of the bigger things. Would he be able to take part with greatest effect to all of this? And even if he'd be able, they were toying with Barons. Jonathan Scott had once playfully said that “Blood pact is for your own safety, Fourth Face. Oh believe me, some rules are to be followed lest you be swallowed by shadows. Heh heh heh…” Year later he understood that his sire talked about the Barons. Force even Maccellan’s gang didn't want to toy with.

The group around the table had already said out loud the concerns that were bouncing within his mind. It was fine and all as he wouldn't have to be a doubter like them, so he would be left to ask about the cheese. Indirectly telling that he'd be interested, not only to thrall but the others around the table too.
He opened his arms, saying out “And what would we gain from orchestrating this revolution?”
He put his right hand on his chest, putting on an innocent smile. “Freedom is nice and all, but surely if we’re to risk our lives there’s more profit to this?”
He pointed his finger at the male thrall. “You did promise... Advancement, in that letter I received.”
He then emoted with his hand towards the other participants. Theatrical, but Michael couldn't help it. "Perhaps you too were promised... With this?"
After ending his speech, Michael leaned forward, put his weight on elbows and toyed with his thick, outwardly pushed lips with his right hand's fingers. A habit he enjoyed while waiting for an answer, as he didn’t have any beard to yank nor one would grow in his face.

Naturally revolution and overthrowing even few of them barons would give the Fourth Face a chance to rise to even greater heights. After some obstacles were destroyed first.

[idlehands]

Darek listened quietly to the proposition and to the vampires that voiced their concerns. He agreed it did seem fishy and truth be told it was not his Baron whom he hated, it was his sire. Still, the barons as a whole had such a stranglehold on the scene in Charleston it was impossible to do anything without permission. No one would be able to move up as the hierarchy was based on age and so death was the only way around that fact. Clearly they were going to be used to foment unrest and disrupt the balance of power.

He had assumed that some sort of rebellion was in the works with the promise of advancement and the tight secrecy. The idea appealed to him or he would not be here. In his former life he had fought oppressive governments of both the invading Nazis and Soviets in his native Poland. It was dangerous then as it was now. It could take a lot of time and effort and they would suffer losses. The decision for him to make was if it worth it?

Darek glanced at the clawed vampire, despite his appearance and rough attitude he cut right to the heart of the matter. Obviously it was someone with much to gain from the overthrow but that did not narrow down the list very much. Rubbing the bridge of his nose he listened to the others speak up, a rude man and a mousy young woman. It was the pudgy vampire that rambled on and on that made Darek consider leaving. A man that liked to talk that much was dangerous.

Curiosity though kept him in his chair. There was not much to add to their questions right now so he kept his mouth closed and waited.

[Hellis]

This motley crew of vampire castoffs was going to somehow work together? Somehow they were supposed to outwit and outmaneuver the crazy old and powerful. Yet, he could not think of anything he wanted more then to see the face on his Sire as he cut her off from her precius Baron. Oh it would be so sweet to finally have the upper hand. And so the wheels turned in his head. And so the engine of spin hummed within his shriveled heart. He could expand so much further with a new structure, he could embed himself in the very fabric of the town. Yes. This was a opportunity. One he could not allow himself to miss.

But there were a few things that needed to be put straight.

"What keeps anyone one of us from turning of the rest In?" The effimate vampire spoke, his eyes narrow. "Hell. What keeps my Sire, A fucking BLood fucking seer, from tracking this meeting down?" He continued, a rising pitch to his voice. He didn't like being tugged along by some powerfull force he didn't see. Hell, he didn't like when it was a powerfull force he could see that was pulling him along. It made his blood boil, and his skin crawl all at once. This was bad news in so many ways. And unlike some present, Louise had everything to loose. He had built a life for himself. He had done it twice. Once when alive, and once as undead. If he was going to risk it all, he needed some assurance.

[Noxious]

He studied and listened to the group and he couldn’t help but let his own thoughts rise from beneath his conditioning. In his experience with his employer, these beings seemed infantile and savage. They didn’t inspire the reverence and faith that his employer had. He took in the female thrall with him, wondering if she had bothered to have her own thoughts. She took a moment out of her trance like boredom to offer him a shrug. He looked back towards the group and sighed. He was expecting the questions, that was not the problem, but it was difficult for him to listen to the collection speak of his employer in such irreverence. He had to remind himself that they were blind in all of this. His breathing became noticeably controlled, like a soothing exercise he had been taught in AA to dissipate anger before it took it hold. It faded and he was back to his awkward ‘game show host’ personality. He cleared his throat and once again addressed the room.

“There are never enough guarantees in life or undeath. The request for such seems presumptuous, though, anticipated. I shall help clarify what I can.” His gaze had attempted to follow those speaking in front of him and now returned to Alban. “My ‘master’, let us call him X, wants to help you help them. This is not charity, and we do not wish to disguise it as such. Kindness plays no part in this.” The thrall eyes flickered to Willa for a moment as he continued speaking, and then he looked over each of them. “X chose you all very carefully, mostly due to your unhappiness and a perceived drive to be more, but also because you have something beneficial to X and X believes they can benefit you; a sort of symbiosis. And of course, as I stated previously, your lack of reputation makes you, well, inconsequential to the targets, thus invisible. I feel like it should be mentioned that X’s capacity to find, locate and contact each of you should inspire at least some faith in X’s reach.”

“I have been informed of the peril and intricacies in your political environment,” His eyes drifted towards Peter. “There are no assurances that your sire won't turn you to ash this very night, just because. In fact, the only real assurance we are ever provided is the still aching mortality this world will never allow you to shed. Assurances are overrated and really, a debt that my employer as of yet does not owe to you. What assurances do we have that you will not revert to your subservient nature? Attempt to foil a well thought out plan because you are short sighted? Basically, we have no solid assurances to offer you, but you have none to offer us and I am exceedingly aware there are none outside of that door.” He gestured towards the door and beyond.

He looked to Michael. “No one was promised advancement. It must be earned. X is offering an opportunity. I will get back to the issue of payment in just a moment.” He wasted no time in finding the eyes of Louise. “I don’t know what would keep you from turning one another in. Hopefully the camaraderie that each of you can help each other. I doubt any of you are sitting on an abundance of allies; specifically any with real power. Your kind has never been good at trust though, which is why we suggest a blood pact be established, even if it is simply to keep you from talking about this collective to those outside of it. Something simple really. A fresh blood pact with vampires of similar age should override the majority of abilities and separate blood pacts in play to bring this meeting to light. Since trust seems to be out of the question, the blood pact must be your safest ally.”

“In regards to the Blood Seer, well, I do not deny that there are risks, but what would he see? Why would he be looking? There is absolutely nothing that connects this group, or this dock, to anything nefarious. We can bring a disco ball to the next function and call it a party?” Possibly another attempt at a joke, though the thrall did not pause and chuckle this time. He continued on.

“There are mechanisms in work, I am not at liberty to discuss the specifics, but X will benefit more if you are undead. At this point your final death would change nothing, a waste of your eclectic and unique talents. Alas, X has seen a higher purpose for you. Shall we continue to the true purpose? I’m sure some, if not all of you, are still ill at ease, but as of yet you are unaware of what is even being asked of you.”

The woman thrall had continued to seem bored. She checked her nails and smoothed out her skirt, barely glancing at the other occupants of the room until the male thrall glanced in her direction with a purposeful gaze. She stood, and let her gaze settle on the group, though it seemed to be looking beyond them somehow, lacking focus. Her voice was soft, but purposeful in a way that may or may not have been expected.

“I am here to provide you with some information, a few details that will help you create a rift. We were unsure as to how many, and whom, would show so there may be some deviations from the original laid plan. No bother, it was already loosely placed as my proprietor seems to believe that you will be able to fill in the gaps and holes with your specific knowledge and abilities. In fact, they trust that you will be able to expand the plan and the targets with your own knowledge and they would like me to notate any ideas you may have.”

“It would be beneficial to isolate the Barons, cause them to distrust one another. Sew seeds of distrust and malice in the higher ups and it will trickle down. The Baron of John’s Island, Orthrus, has few friends among the Barons after an unfortunate incident involving the late Baroness of Folly Beach. I’m sure some of you know the details, but perhaps you did not know that the Baroness of James Island, Lyssa, was quite fond of the Baroness of Folly Beach. Lyssa has many reasons to dislike Orthrus, a less discussed being her affection towards the mentally unstable humans she houses on her Island. Orthrus progeny went through a phase of tormenting these unfortunate souls until Lyssa caught one of Orthrus’ ilk and left them for the sun. If Orthrus once again allowed those under his baronship to cross the border and instigate violence, repercussions would be imminent. So, that is the intention.”

“As of now, we foresee that the most difficult target will be Lenore, the Raven. She is powerful and watchful and her weakness’ are few and far between. She has many enemies, though only one that is open in her dislike of the Baroness; the Frisian. Their distaste for one another is widely known among the Barons, though, like most discord, is kept private from any lower subsequent ranks. Luckily the Frisian has a very distinct calling card upon her kills; a savagery rarely exhibited by others. Lenore has a shipment coming in, an exceedingly relevant one and all you need to do is steal it and make it look like as if it was the Frisian. This will take a little more planning, because while the Raven doesn’t know anyone is coming, she always suspects it. It is likely the shipment will be guarded.”

The female remained standing, but seemed to be done with her part in this. The male thrall jumped in quickly. “So that is pretty much it. Any quest…” The female thrall cleared her throat and the male turned towards her, and then a light flashed behind his eyes, “Oooh, yes. Make the call.”

The female thrall already had a phone to her ear, but she wasn’t saying anything. Even with incredible hearing it was impossible to make out anything from the other end, but the male thrall filled the silence. “What you get in return is the tools required. We have the ability to make you stronger than you can imagine, when the time comes.” He nodded towards the female and into the phone she gave some affirmation. The man looked impatient and giddy all at once, like a child waiting on Christmas morning.

It was subtle at first, a heavy pressing in the air that tingled and nipped about the vampires. A taste like burnt caramel began to linger as if it had been here the whole time and then it surged within them. It could be imagined that this is what a poltergeist or another inhuman inhabitant would feel like, clawing down your throat, into your mind. For seconds it felt as if the body might be destroyed from the pressure within; but then the body began to accept it and take it in. The uncomfortable pain and otherness subsided as the power within them escalated at an impossible rate.

Fiona released a sickly gurgle as the initial feeling hit her. She doubled over and grabbed at her stomach, unable to correctly diagnose the location of the feeling that seemed everywhere and nowhere. Her stomach seemed an apt place to start; probably a human reflex seeing as the stomach provided little discomfort in undeath. Then her eyes flashed wide open and stared at the male thrall as she had been most of the night; bating, hungry, angry and then more clearly. She could smell that he was not afraid now. She could feel that she could make him afraid. She wanted him afraid. Her mind and senses felt as if they were stretching, recalculating, and she sniffed at the air and could see a nightmare, could feel and possess the demonic monster of dreams, one that clawed at the window of a young boy on a snowy night. She knew that boy was the male thrall, though he felt and appeared entirely different. She could feel her own form taking in the nightmares, welcoming the tension and ferocity. Her lips had just begun to curl into a devious smile when it all just dissipated. She felt normal, as if nothing had happened. She glanced at the others to gauge their reactions, to be sure she wasn't hallucinating as a soft "the fuck" slipped from those falling lips.

As quickly as it had come, it ended. The thralls were unaffected, but the man seemed to know the wave had passed and he concluded his speech, “We will give you the tools to take back control of your immortal life that has been denied to you. Any questions?”

[ConstableWalrus]

Alban watched and listened, the unamused look on his features and the slow scraping of his own claws against the soft wood of the table as the male thrall spoke pretty words for a fucking marionette And then the female spoke for the first time, the glazed dumb look in her face faded quickly enough for Alban to raise a bald brow.

Strings tighten, dance puppet dance he cast his gaze around to the others of his kind watching their faces for a quick moment before turning back to the woman and listening, intrigue and strife would swallow them all except the under-dwellers. He let a small smile cast about his features at the thought which dissipated at the mention of a call. And he leaned back watching intently at the scene when the feeling hit him.

Burning pain in his lungs and throat as if something was squeezing it with a burning fist and he clutched at it with a clawed hand resisting the sudden urge to tear at his own body to drive the pain out. Fighting the urge he slammed the claws down into the table and dug in his body convulsing as he could feel the immense rush of power and he snapped his section of table from it and it disintegrated. The feeling was wonderful; He could taste every different part of the rat he had early in the night, the smells of fresh kills still on everyone exploded into his senses and Alban could hear the thrumming of heartbeats of the scurrying things under the dock thrumming in his ears. His skin burned hot and the feeling of his body rapidly changing and adapting. His mouth shot open wide in a visage of pain but before it could be added a voice the pain suddenly ceased.

He let out a deep sigh of frustration mixed with relief at the feeling of normalcy returning and he glared at the thrall for a quick moment. "So, whelp of mister X." he stood and stretched feeling the rush of power abate "I don't think anyone here, even the thickest of us in the head would say they did not want to feel that again." He hissed out a breath and rolled his head "But, I don't think I'm going to be whipping my cock out and wavin' it about... But if your master has this kind of power. Why in the hell does he need us?"

[MelonHead]

Peter utilized one of the underestimated skills in a detective’s repertoire and listened, very carefully. There was a lot going on here, plenty of it dangerous, much of it far too fast. The thrall was a bit of a dick, but he’d been prepared with some clever responses, he was right, the standing of all assembled here was such that final death awaited them nearly every day at the whim of those better than them. So what did they have to lose? Not a huge amount, though a slim chance of life would always be better than certain death, which is what their mysterious benefactor had really been offering until…

His sight intensified beyond his own control, the lights growing unbearably bright and every minute detail around him making themselves known before his gaze. It was discombobulating, and more than that his head felt heady and thick, and somehow he knew that with a commanding word he’d have even the strongest willed human falling to their knees, and then, the feeling was gone. The connection between what the thrall had been saying and the sudden boost in power was evident, obvious, though its limitations were as of yet unknown. The quick glance he had taken across the room had revealed much to him, the others strained with their own blood-abilities, two of them unconsciously divulging some aspect of their power, mutation. He had discerned more, but for right then it was unimportant to dwell upon all he had learned in that single heightened period of observation.

What was important was finding out if their benefactor could maintain his strange ability, which had incidentally given Peter a clue as to their identity. First he wanted to go for the obvious though, to see if he could illicit a response. He was beaten to the punch by another question that seemed to be covering old ground.

“Because we’re untied, expendable and exploitable, more importantly, such a power is nice but it doesn’t hold a candle to even three of the barons combined, let alone the Prince. If X made his move now he’d lose, which is why we’re here. He’s gambling on us raising enough hell to give himself an advantage.” Peter shrugged. “Thing is, I know of a Baron with the ability to manipulate blood-powers, has our mysterious benefactor just made himself far less mysterious?” Peter kept a cool head as he observed both thralls reactions, he was certain that if he had hit a nerve they’d react, regardless of their manipulation, though it was something of a blind guess and he didn’t hold out much hope. From what he knew of Marreck Osei his ability worked on touch, but the similarities in his power and X’s were too great for there to be no connection what-so-ever. Unless of course this was something disconnected from Blood-Power entirely, which was even more interesting.

“Anyway, I think we’ve reached a critical juncture here, so far as I understand none of us can talk about what we’ve heard this far thanks to that blood pact we all signed to open the letter. Now, I think we’re now on unbroken ground, I think if someone were to answer yes to this little rebellion your boss is planning someone would let it slip, honestly I’m not sure how bound any of us are. So, if you can’t take the heat it’s time to get out of the kitchen, because I’m saying we need to sign a blood pact, secrecy or death, as I’m sure I’m not the only one of the opinion that none of you can be trusted.” He looked at Michael as he said this, as the only other here he could actually name, and one who he already had reason to distrust.