op2024
Bugman
Ezekiel
NoctisStill accepting?
we are indeed!
Bloodrose
Member
Status
Recent Statuses
4 yrs ago
Some of you lot weren't cramed into enough lockers as children, and it shows.
6
likes
4 yrs ago
I am the person that eats the pizza crusts of people who don't eat their pizza crusts
11
likes
5 yrs ago
Fuck off, Sunday. Bitch-ass wannabe Saturday. YOU'LL NEVER BE SATURDAY!
5
likes
5 yrs ago
I also hate it when I am expected to have the bare minimum regard for the comfort of others. Fucking SJWs with their feelings n shit
8
likes
Bio
User has no bio, yet
Most Recent Posts
we are indeed!
“This one likes to scream!””
“Give her something to scream about, then!”
“Feed them to the flames.”
“Feed them to the flames.”
“Feed them to what do I owe the pleasure, my friends?”
Morgan kicked herself internally, letting out a silent groan.
She had been wandering again.
Where am I..?
“Thank you for meeting with us at such short notice, Abbie,” Rafael was saying, to a woman with soft, almond-coloured skin, “we wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.”
“Of course, of course,” Abbigale Jadeja gave the pair a slight, almost imperceptible nod, “the unbound never visit me, if it isn’t terribly important.”
Morgan found herself sitting in what seemed to be a dimly-lit warehouse.
Flickering orange lights hung from the ceiling, and rows upon rows of plain crates were stacked up against the walls.
Morgan and Rafael were facing the shapley figure of Abbigale Jadeja, who wore a sleek leather jacket over a flowing, ruffled top, and had her dark hair bound into a sleek beehive.
Suddenly, Morgan remembered why they were there.
“I’m looking for my old mate,” she spoke up, “well...I don’t suppose she's much of a mate, any more.”
“The dead can seldom afford to have friends.” Jadeja replied, keeping her voice neutral.
Out of nowhere, Morgan heard shrill, callow voices swelling in her ears, overwhelming her senses, and shrieking through every fibre of her being.
“Three blind mice! Three blind mice! See how they run! See how they run!”
She could hear laughing...no, screaming?
She could smell burning.
“They all ran after the farmer’s wife! Who cut off their tails with a carving knife!”
An enormous crow, with fiery red feathers, which hissed and crackled, like strands of fire, slipped out of nothingness, and perched on Jadeja’s head.
The bird’s pointy head twitched and jerked, pecking away at the woman’s forehead.
Abigail's lack of reaction to having her skin nibbled on made Morgan think that the bird probably wasn’t real.
The Malkavian gritted her teeth, and desperately forced herself back into reality.
Flames were snarling and spitting, but she pushed through.
“She's been getting into trouble,” Morgan explained, fighting to keep her mind on track, “and she's been...hurting people. I think you can help.”
“Terrible Calantha Teohari,” the crow cackled, in a hoarse, scratchy voice, “with an icy black heart, and eyes so sparkly.”
“What makes you think I can help, little seer?” Jadeja asked, her tone masking a derisive sneer.
“You have eyes and ears where the rat-eaters don’t,” Morgan said, addressing something Jadeja was obviously very much aware of, but deliberately deciding to be coy about, “if the Hidden Ones have any idea where Calantha is, they aren’t talking. We were hoping that you and your family might be able to offer us a hand, crimson crow.”
“Crimson crow!” The bird squawked, “Crimson crow!”
A roguish grin spread across Abbigale Jadeja’s sly face.
“I am open to discussing business,” she told the pair, “but first, will you join me in a little indulgence?”
Jadeja sharply clapped her hands together.
Two figures emerged from the shadows.
One was a strongly-built young man, with his hands bound behind his back, and a gag wrapped around his mouth. There was a look of abject terror plastered across his dismayed features.
He was being prodded along by a shorter, dark-skinned figure, wearing a red silk scarf, and tinted sunglasses.
“I don’t like to talk trade on an empty stomach,” Jadeja cooed, “you understand, yes?”
The scarf-wearing man gave his captive a sharp kick, forcing him down onto the cold stone ground, and presenting him before the trio.
“Thank you, Sai.” Abbigale said.
As wordlessly as he had appeared, the man in the dark glasses retreated back into the darkness.
Jadeja clasped her victim by the throat, digging her long nails into his flesh. Thread-like trails of dark blood leaked out of fresh gashes in his skin, whilst the man let out a muffled yelp.
The crimson crow fizzled out into nothingness, fading with one final squawk.
“Drinking cold blood from a cup isn’t the same,” the Ravnos explained to her visitors, “we are hunters. We don’t just feed on blood, we feed on life.”
Rafael flinched, uncomfortably.
“Your snack doesn’t look very happy,” he murmured, “I think he’ll have quite a bit to say about this.”
“Not for much longer.” Jadeja replied.
The captive wailed in fear, his voice muted by the gag.
“This isn’t necessary,” Morgan growled, “you don’t need to do this to feed.”
“I know,” Jadeja chuckled, “it's much more fun this way, though.”
Morgan rose to her feet, her hands balling into fists.
“Don’t.” She snapped.
“This is my elysium, little lunatic,” Jadeja tutted, “watch where you tread.”
“Come on now, Morgan,” Rafael stood up, placing one hand on Morgan’s wrist, “we’re guests here.”
“This isn’t what we stand for,” Morgan declared, “this is the kind of shit the Camarilla and the Sabbat pull. We’re supposed to be kinder than them, Rafael. We’re meant to be better.”
Jadeja forced the captive man’s head down, resting it on her knee.
“Even the most sane minds shatter after a few hours in my nasty little realm of dread and woe,” she said, “I wonder what would happen to your brain, psycho?”
“Hold on now!” Rafael called out, “this isn’t what we came here to do!”
“It seems the night had other plans.” Jadeja said, releasing her hold on the captive, and slowly rising to her feet.
Three predators stood opposite each other.
The warehouse fell silent.
Tension crackled in the air, like the raging boom of lightning.
Jadeja flexed one hand, her fingernails unsheathing, like the claws of a cat.
“You’ve spat on my hospitality, Anarchs,” she sneered, and now you-”
A ghastly roar shook Los Angeles.
The air itself seemed to shudder and tremble.
Morgan felt as though someone were rattling her skull.
“FUCK!” Jadeja cried out, keeling over in pain.
She fell to the ground, landing in a heap on the floor, next to her captured prey.
“What the hell was that..?” Rafael wondered aloud.
“Nothing good…” Morgan murmured.
Her body was quaking and trembling. Burning unease fizzled through her bones, seething and sputtering.
“Fuck…” Jadeja wheezed again, grasping weakley at thin air.
“Looks like she got hit worse than we did.” Rafael observed.
Jadeja was sprawled out on the ground, convulsing in agony. Her form twisted and twitched with pain.
“We’ll help you,” Morgan said, uneasily, “but you let the kine go.”
Are you still buying in new people? If so I have a Brujah with your name on it!
I believe we are still recruiting, aye!
Collaboration between myself and @Fiber
A wry, tinny voice crackled through the alleyway, blaring out of an old boom box.
A lithe woman, wearing olive skin, sung along, whilst her slender hands worked keenly, moulding skin, and blood, and bone.
Calantha sculpted the bodies before her, warping tattered matter together, with the kind of artful finesse that would have made Michelangelo turn scarlet with jealousy.
Satan’s a wooooooman.
Yeah, I’m a woooooooooman.
Satan’s a woooooooooooman.
Yeah, I’ve the evil one.”
Yeah, I’m a woooooooooman.
Satan’s a woooooooooooman.
Yeah, I’ve the evil one.”
A statue of grotesquely beautiful elegance loomed above her, lording over the alleyway, like some gothic tower of old. The bricks beneath her feet were drenched with splattered gore, and flakes of muscle.
A handful of writhing kine, frozen in motion, but still very much alive, had been woven together, and melded into place. They could not scream, but their twitching eyes cried out in agony and terror.
Calantha took a step back, drinking in the view, and admiring her handiwork.
An enormous, bloody sculpture, carved in the likeness of Morgan Holloway, stared back at her.
“Beautiful,” Calantha gasped, overcome with joy, “absolutely beautiful.”
The first report was from a homeless man on the street. The second came from the beat cop he flagged down. He made a few panicked radio messages before the “dry-cleaning crew” as they called it arrived on the scene. That cop would be sent for some therapy sessions, where they’d diagnose him with a stress induced psychotic break and have him back on the force after a little counseling to “clear up” what he saw. The bum would also get some help, a little extra check just to make sure he forgot what he saw. That left only the physical evidence clean up, which was being handled by the men in the van labeled “New World Cleaners”.
The personnel handling the clean up were a bunch of clones, only minimally intelligent. When they saw something worse than the usual maimed corpse they had to call someone else, and Grace was the one to get the first call. She decided to check it out in person and give Julie the chance to get some rest; Julie hadn’t quite gotten used to the wakefulness pills at this point in her career whereas Grace used them every day. Her Tesla pulled up alongside the curb and then parked itself after she got out, while she doubled checked the security systems to avoid a repeat of that previous incident. One of the clones dressed in all black gestured to the alleyway and Grace stepped under the caution tape, into the part they had obscured from outside eyes.
The “statue” was not a pretty sight. The organic matter in the rest of the alley was easy for them to clean up, but something this large was different. They could try to dissolve it; that would mean out losing on an opportunity to study it. Instead, Grace decided to see if could have it transported it intact. She called for something larger than the usual cleaning van to pick it up, then started a phone call. The call was routed through her neural implant, making Grace look like she was talking to herself.
“Hello Isha, I’ve got one for you to take look at. Fusion-type, human-shaped, biomass is about 600 kilos. Origin unknown, but I’m investigating.”
Grace grabbed a few cables from a box one of the cleaners had unloaded, then walked closer to the grotesque statue. She had a strong stomach but still didn’t like looking at it much. A quick scan revealed heat signatures, showing that whatever it was made of was still alive. Her conversation went on. “
Yeah, I’ll get it shipped as soon as I’ve got the scene cleared. You can handle it in La Jolla? That’s great, I was worried I’d have to find a way to get it to Fort Detrick. Just tell me if you want it at Scripps or Salk and it’ll be there by the morning. Oh, one more thing, it’s inert but alive. No, you don’t need to worry about what happens to them, they’re nonessential and I’ll archive the memories before I send it so you can do whatever you decide is best for your research.”
As she finished the conversation Grace got close to the statue and wiped away some of the blood, looking for a good place to insert the socket. This was not what she would call a productive night, but there were tasks that needed to be resolved and ignoring them would only create worse problems.
“Somewhat careless, Sister,” Johnny.C murmured, taking a drag from his cigarette, “as much as I’m sure she was beautiful. You know I love your work, hun, I really do, but do we need the heat right now?”
Calantha took the cigarette out of Johnny.C’s mouth, slipping it between her own, currently plump, lips.
“You sound like one of those craven Camarilla dogs, brother,” she teased, drawing in a mouthful of smoke, and then blowing it out through her nostrils, “are we not Cain’s sword? If we need to fight, then fight we shall.”
Johnny.C pinched back the straight, yoinking it right out of Calantha’s mouth, and returned to smoking.
“I love a good scrap as much as the next Canaanite, Sister,” he countered, a thin, silver trail leaking out of the end of his smoke, “I’m just being realistic about our odds, if we get too...reckless.”
Calantha regarded the white suit-clad man with a curious glance.
“Reckless?” she prompted.
Johnny.C spread his arms out over the balcony, gesturing to the lights of L.A’s towers and spires, glistening in the dark, like a sea of burning orange.
“I don’t want to lose what we’ve got here, Sister,” the suave figure told her, “I like this existence. I’m content. There’s more than enough tramps and hookers to keep my camera rolling, from now until Gehenna. This city spews out the downtrodden like it’s going out of fashion. Where else would I find such a ripe cesspit of losers, that no ones ever gonna miss, or ask after? I’m a king here, Sister, and -”
Without warning, Calantha grabbed Johnny.C by the back of his neck, and thrust him forwards, slamming his head into the steel bannister in front of them. The cigarette fell from his mouth, and tumbled downwards, vanishing into the night below.
Johnny.C let out a yelp of surprise as his head connected with the metal. A few moments later, and he was hoisted up off of the ground, his feet dangling in the air.
Calantha’s lithe, olive fingers threaded around his throat, slithering like liquid putty. Within moments, he was being choked by a pool of flowing skin and bone, mud-like flesh pouring into his mouth, and down his throat.
“You pompous, Ventrue poser,” she snarled, whilst Johnny gargled a mouthful of bubbling tissue, “you prize your vanity and laziness over the great work which we do? You’re lucky that our brethren can’t hear you.”
Calantha tossed Johnny.C to the floor, releasing her liquid hold upon him, as her hand reverted to a more natural shape.
The Ventrue crashed to the ground, his head cracking the tiled balcony floor.
Johnny.C let out a dull groan.
“I will graciously advise you not to question me, ever again, brother.” Calantha sneered “and I will recommend that you don’t get up until I am long gone, for your own safety.”
And with that, Calantha vanished back inside, leaving Johnny.C to stew on the ground.
Uncompressed memories took up a lot of disk space, but Grace didn’t have to worry about that, infrastructure was quite good in this region. At the start she was worried that the memories and the readings taken at the site would reveal Nephandi activity, but then the review showed it was the work of a vampire, something she was far less familiar with. She had a video file made from the memories and circulated as a security bulletin, full of jargon and given an unremarkable priority. She wondered if anyone internally would care, if the vampire could shapeshift then any footage would only be useful for revealing a preferred form at best. It was an isolated point of data, no pattern, no connection to anything she knew of at the moment.
As she looked outside the window inside a desolate office tower, Grace took a deep breath and thought if there was anything else to do with this latest dilemma. There was one other angle, one person who might care. Grace thought about how to word something less formal than the bulletin, and then started typing the email through thought alone.
“Seems like our city has a littering problem, or I guess some might call it an attempt at public art. Some public nuisance made a ten foot tall sculpture and used the bodies of a half dozen Angelenos as the raw material. I’ve already handled the removal and processing, if you want a look at it I can arrange that, but let me know quickly because the team that has it is not known for keeping specimens intact. From what we’ve been able to deduce it was likely the work of someone in the blood-drinking community, which is why I’m informing you. My knowledge is limited but I believe something like this is within the capabilities and interests of a known subset of them. I’ve attached the footage I have of the culprit, whatever use that may be to you. I will be happy to answer any further inquiries you have about this matter, and until we speak again, I wish you luck averting the apocalypse and other lighter matters.”
Signed,
Grace
Once it was ready and properly encrypted, Grace sent it off to an old address she had for Eva. After that she put it out of her mind, not knowing if any reply would ever come.
Only one person in the room was alive.
Well, truly alive.
That haughty, arrogant cowboy, with his stupid, twangy voice.
Gracie Goulbourne watched the smug prick strut about like some pompous peacock, as everyone took their seats.
He was still warm. Still had kine blood pumping in his living veins.
“Thank you for coming, brothers and sisters,” Calantha, the one who had called the gathering, addressed the room, her slender arms spread wide, “I know that you all have important matters to attend to, so I’ll try not to keep you too long.”
Gracie’s one good eye danced about in its burnt socket, surveying the room. The nosferatu bore the flames of Liverpool’s blitz upon her gnarled form. The archetypal deformity of her bloodline had manifested itself in scorching, sweltering burns, which covered every inch of her body.
Besides Calantha, whom today had long tendrils of flesh and bone in the place of hair, there were three others in the room, not including Gracie.
There was Tate, an enormous, dark-skinned Brujah-Antitribu, whose quest for freedom and liberty, above all else, had driven him into the clutches of the Sword of Caine.
Then there was Johnny C, a slick, suave Ventrue-Antitribu, who moved with the kind of finesse and elegance that would have made a Toreador go purple with jealousy. He wore a crisp white suit, and apparently worked “in the movies”. Gracie had known most Sabbat to have a precarious relationship with the Masquerade, at the best of times, so she wasn’t sure exactly how involved Johnny was “in the movies”, or even what movies he was involved with.
And finally, there was the stupid cowboy.
“I’m still something of a newcomer to these lands, and so I have turned to you, my friends, to aid me in my endeavours,” Calantha continued, her voice graceful and refined, “I am set to be reunited with an old falme, and I would like to do something special to mark the occasion.”
“I didn’t know that you types had old flames,” the stupid cowboy, Harry Jones, chuckled, running his fingers down the fringes of his daft jacket, “guess you learn somethin’ new every day. Or, every night.”
Gracie watched a plump vein in the cowboy’s neck bulge, calling to the untameable beast within her.
Calantha had made it explicitly clear to Gracie that Jones was not to be touched.
At least not without her say-so.
Gracie knew how particular Calantha was when it came to manners and etiquette. She took her little rituals very seriously.
“What is it that you want from us, sister?” Tate asked, his voice a deep, booming grumble.
“Your resources, brother,” Calantha replied, “whatever you can offer me. The favours which you have garnered in these rolling hills. The secret whispers which you hear twittering in the shadows, and quiet corners. I need your knowledge, and your know-how. I am on the cusp of understanding this land of adventure and opportunity, but the mysteries of the new world are known to you all. Help me, and I shall help you.”
“Speakin’ of helpin’,” Jones pipped up, “I delivered my club to you, just like you asked. You got the good stuff for me?”
Calantha nodded to Johnny C.
Wordlessly, the Venture reached into the pocket of his spruce jacket, and pulled out a bag of white powder, which he tossed over to the cowboy.
Jones grinned.
“You mind if I rack up here?” he asked.
Calantha shook her head.
“By all means.”
Beaming like a giddy child, Jones pulled out a rolled-up dollar bill, poured a fat line of powder out onto the tabletop, and began greedily snorting the dust up into his nostrils.
There was a look of cold displeasure on Johnny C’s pale face, but he said nothing.
“Why do we need the Kine’s club?” Tate asked.
“All will become clear, in time, brother.” Calantha explained.
Suddenly, Jones let out a sharp, pained, gasp.
The cowboy shrieked in agony, as twin trails of clotted blood began to ooze out of his nose. His face turned a sickly shade of violet, and he started to cough, fiercely.
Jones tried to speak, but all that escaped his mouth was a shrill, earsplitting wail.
Johnny C grabbed hold of Jones by the scruff of his stupid jacket, and slammed him down on the table, with inhuman force.
“But before we get to business,” Calantha smirked, “what sort of a host would I be if I didn’t offer my guests a little snack?”
They fell upon the cowboy, ripping, and biting, and tearing.
Morgan could smell burning wood, and crackling fire, on the wind. She could feel that crushing, smouldering heat against her skin.
She closed her eyes, plunging the world into darkness.
It’s not real. She told herself. Those are just the ghosts of flames long since extinguished.
When she opened her eyes again, and colour returned, the fire was gone. It wouldn’t last, though. The flames always came back.
“You alright there, Morgan?” Rafael Velez, a fellow Anarch, asked her, plucking her out of her head, and dropping her back into reality.
Or at least, what she thought was reality.
“Yeah, fine.” She lied.
The apparitions had gotten worse over the years, and would only get worse still in the years to come. Morgan knew that she was cursed with the knowledge that she was losing herself to insanity, and also the inability to do anything about it.
The plunge into madness was sadistically slow.
”Oh, you can’t help that. We’re all mad here. I’m mad, you’re mad.”
“Let’s get this over with then, yeah?” Rafael prompted, shooting her a look of mild concern.
It was getting harder to hide the fact that she was breaking apart from the world around her. Soon, she would only be jagged splinters of the woman called Morgan Holloway.
“Why do I always get the crazy ones?” Rafael murmured.
“Why do I always get the bigoted ones?” Morgan shot back, a snarl creeping into her voice.
“What..?” Rafael stared at her, blankly.
Morgan suddenly realised that he had spoken those words, only thought them. She cursed herself for once again forgetting how to tell the difference.
“Nothing,” she waved one hand dismissively, “let's crack on.”
Directing a torrent of blood and power into her legs, Morgan sprang up off of the ground, leaping through the night like a spry flea, and bound through the air.
The Malkavian hit the railings above with a thud, her fingers wrapping tightly around a cold metal fence.
Rafael followed suit, and soon the pair were clambering up over the railing, and dropping down into the courtyard on the other side.
They slipped softly across the concrete, darting through the darkness on the quietest of feet. To the ears of kine, they would have been imperceptible.
“Let’s make this one quick and easy,” Rafael murmured, lowering his voice to a soft whisper, “there’s no need for this to get messy.”
Morgan and Rafael were on something of a mission for their Anarch comrades.
The insurgents had gotten word that Horatio Ballard, a powerful Ventrue, who was considered something of a major player out in the Windy City, had brought a massive stockpile of blood, through various underhand channels, which was being kept on ice in a private storage facility, not far from Hollywood Hills.
The Anarchs reckoned that Ballard’s investment could do a lot more good spread amongst the needy than sitting about as the private reserve of some greasy tycoon, so Morgan and Rafael had been sent to liberate it.
“Understood, boss man,” Morgan grunted “quick and easy.”
They made their way towards a series of blocky, shed-like containers, with bright green metal doors, reinforced with thick steel bars.
“Know which container we’re after?” Morgan asked.
“Number thirteen,” Rafael chuckled, “trust a ventrue to be so unnecessarily theatrical about the most mundane fucking things.”
It was only a brisk walk over to the thirteenth container, scurrying nimbly through the shadows.
“Ready to crack this bad boy open?” Morgan shot Rafael a brash smirk.
The suave-looking Brujah grinned, tugging at the edges of his snappy leather jacket.
“Forty five years of un-life, and this never stops being fun.”
Evoking the supernatural discipline known as “Potence”, Rafael sent a surge of raw strength flooding through his body in a tsunami of magical power. He gripped hold of the bars which ran across the container’s front, and pried them straight off, ripping them free with ease, and by-passing the need for a key completely.
“Lets rob the shit out of this fucking tyrant.” Rafael beamed, reaching down for the slight crease between the container’s metal shutter, and the concrete grown below, and wrenching the cover upwards.
“Caine’s balls!”
Inside, there was not a big fridge, full of frozen blood.
There was, however, an awful lot of un-frozen blood.
The red tide washed over their feet, soaked through their shoes, and running beneath their toes.
It was fresh.
The corpse of what had once been a security guard was hung from the ceiling, the flesh of his head fused into the cold metal roof, as though it had been pressed into the steel, like putty.
His uniform was ripped open at the chest, exposing the horror which lay beneath.
His skin and ribs had been carefully pried open, and his internal organs hung freely out of his stomach.
A sickly trail of gooey intestines was draped through the air, swinging loosely in the night wind.
It then dawned upon Morgan that the man’s heart, which dangled out of his open chest, was still beating.
His lips had been melded together, rendering him incapable of speech, but his terrified eyes twitched and jerked in their sockets, red and raw from crying, as they pleaded desperately with Morgan and Rafael.
He was still alive.
“What the fuck is this shit..?” Rafael wheezed, gasping for words, “This poor fucking bastard.”
Morgan had seen this before.
She turned on her heel, and looked back the way they had come, staring into the blackness.
She saw the faint outline of Calantha Teohari gazing back at her, before she vanished into the incessant dark of the night.
“What the fuck is going on?!” Rafael demanded, of no one in particular.
Morgan’s eyes fell upon the man-sculptures exposed heart, strung up at the end of a thread of viscous muscle, and intestine.
“It’s a symbol,” the Malkavian told him, “she’s giving me her heart.”
Aaaaaaand here they are!
CS coming sooooooon!
Definitely interested!
© 2007-2025