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    1. Bloodrose 5 yrs ago
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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
4 yrs ago
Fuck off, Sunday. Bitch-ass wannabe Saturday. YOU'LL NEVER BE SATURDAY!
5 likes
4 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

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This seems like its still got some activity going, so I figured I'd poke my head in and ask to make sure before suddenly trying to join a discord that turns out to be dead.


We are still very much going! The discord is active :)
wots all this then





“This is the last time, Rafael,” Algernon Regardie glowered at the Brujah, from over the rim of his blood-filled china cup, “How am I supposed to move on with my unlife, when you keep on popping up everywhere?”

“This is different, Algernon,” Rafael frowned, “this isn’t some 4am drunk dial.”

“Caine knows we’ve danced that dance enough times.” Algernon tutted.

The four vampires were sat in Regardie’s plush living room, in a set of grandiose, high-backed chairs.

Algernon’s room was decked out with a sea of expensive-looking bookcases, stuffed full of the kind of fat novels that Morgan suspected rich people only brought to make themselves seem sophisticated infront of their pompous dinner guests.

“I sincerely hope I haven’t just been dragged along to some bitter, undead booty call,” Jadeja rolled her eyes, “three more minutes of this, and I’ll throw myself out into the fucking sun.”

“Rafael knows all about three minutes.” Algernon mumbled, before quickling vanishing into his cup, to avoid Rafael’s furious glares.

Some distant, ethereal voice began to whisper in Morgan’s ear.

”Primal impulses guide us, Miss Holloway,” the ghost hissed, ”the bloodthirsty beast, and the doting suitor. Killing and courtship are two sides of the same coin.”

“Shagging has brought a great deal more joy into the world than homicide.” Morgan shot back, far more loudly than she had intended.

Everyone else in the room stared at her.

“S-sorry,” she spluttered, “the voices make it hard to -”

“Could you not be a complete fucking basket case, for five seconds, Morgan?” the brujah growled at her, his brow furrowing.

“Don’t be cruel, Rafael,” Algernon chimed in, “she can’t help it.”

The brujah sighed, crossly.

“Sorry. It's never nice, running into an ex.” Rafael muttered, his boot-clad feet resting on Algernon’s coffee table, much to the kindred’s obvious displeasure.

“That's only a problem for me when the neighbour's dog keeps digging up my backyard.” Jadeja smirked, letting out a sharp cackle.

Morgan couldn’t help but laugh.

“From what I’ve heard about you, and your little family, you’d need a football pitch to hide all of those bodies.” Algernon chuckled.

“Don’t encourage her.” Rafael grumbled.

“I’ll do as I please,” Algernon snapped, “now get your feet off of my fucking coffe table.”

Rafael did not comply.

“What's happening to the Ravos?” the Malkavian asked, trying to steer the conversation away from petty bickering, “how is it affecting Jadeja?”

“That pertains to something that all the ”sensible” canaanites are refusing to acknowledge,” Algernon said, with a sour grunt, “an ancient power struggle, between us, and our monstrous progenitors...”

The bearded man continued to ramble and rant, in a dull, briny voice, but Morgan found her attention wandering.

A deep unease washed over her, skittering up her back, and burrowing beneath her dead flesh.

The Malkavian could feel something stirring, out of the corner of her vision. Whispering feet tip-toed across the synaptic corridors of her mind’s eye, and danced through her psyche.

“Someone’s here!” She called out, rising up from her seat, in a sudden explosion of movement.

“Oh for god’s sake, Morgan!” Rafael snarled, flashing his fangs, “pull your head out of Wonderland, you crazy fucking luna-”

The Brujah’s lips kept moving, even as his head tumbled from his shoulders.

Dark blood spurted from the stump of his neck, stirring the beast within Morgan.

Rafael’s corpse slumped back in the chair, minus a head. In an instant, his body began to wither and decay, his clothes hanging loosely over rotting bones.

A fraction of a second later, Jadeja let out a sharp gasp, as the sharp end of an enormous broadsword erupted through the back of her chair, and burst through her chest.

Carmine tears dribbled out of the Ravnos’ mouth, and then she dissolved into a clump of wilted ash.

“What a shame,” Algernon grumbled, taking a sip from his tea cup, full of blood,“I had rather been hoping to engage Miss Jadeja in a spot of Amaranth. She has a kill list longer than the book of psalms, and you know how I feel about murderers.”

A stab of dread lanced through the pit of Morgan’s stomach.

Oh no…

From out of the shadows, two figures stepped into being.

One was undoubtedly a nosferatu, riddled in burnt tissue, and warped scars. A single eye bugged out of the scorched remnants of her monstrous skull, and she clutched a pair of garden shears in her hands, still wet with Rafael’s blood.

The second character was a towering, dark-skinned man, with a shaved head, who hoisted his mammoth broadsword over one shoulder, as though it weighed nothing.

“I never got modern kine’s obsession with katanas and ninjaken,” the giant man chuckled, in his deep, booming voice “give me a good viking sword, and I’ll turn your enemies into a bloody stain.”

Morgan glared daggers at the imposter Algernon.

“You didn’t need to kill them,” she growled, “they weren’t a threat.”

“They kept me from you, my love,” the deceiver shot back, “that in itself is a final-death sentence.”

The fake Algernon began to shift, and morph, his slender body rippling, as though it were wet clay. His long beard melted away, and his angular features became round, and heart-shaped.

The original face of Calantha Teohari, which she had first worn all of those years ago, before the Angel had stolen her humanity away, gazed back at Morgan.

Despite everything, Morgan felt her dead heart flutter.

“We could have been together, amica mea.” Calantha murmured.

“Not like this,” Morgan shook her head, “never like this.”

A stray drop of blood flowed out of Calantha’s right eye, and trickled softly down her pale cheek.

“Stake her, Gracie,” the Tzimisce commanded her underling, “I have plans for this wild little rose.”

The nosferatu pulled out a sharp, wooden stake, which looked as though it had been whittled down from the leg of a bar stool.

“When we’re through, you’ll need fields upon fields to tuck away all of my skeletons.”



“Despair behind you, and despair surrounding you,” a sadistic, sneering voice called out, “your existence is nothing but suffering.”

The surging silhouette of a shadow stood before her, rippling softly, as though it were being fanned by a powerful gust of wind.

The shadowy figure bore the faint, hazy image of a woman, hidden by darkness.

“There is more than just the past, and the present,” Morgan replied, “there's always the future.”

The Malkavian’s head ached and throbbed. She could feel her skull pounding.

“You know what the future holds?” a dark smile cut through the blackness, creasing the hidden woman’s shadowy face, “misery and horror. The horror of a broken, rotting mind, rife with decay.”

“It isn’t all horror,” Morgan declared, “there are good things waiting for me, too.”

“Madness awaits you, little duckling,” the wispy figure let out a sharp cackle, “you’re going to crumble.”

“I’ll only crumble if I let myself,” Morgan said, defiantly, “there's no guarantee that I can’t fight it.”

“Any moment now,” the shadow woman promised her, “you’ll break apart, and never be put back together again.”

“You don’t know that!” Morgan snarled.

“Yes I do,” the silhouette laughed, “you’ve spent the past hour talking to yourself.”

Suddenly, Morgan felt a deep, lurching rush of cold dread.

She was falling.

Down, down down…

Crashing through the fragments of a cracked mirror.


The world returned to her in icy splinters.

The dull groaning of car engines. The hooting of nocturnal birds. The howling of night wind.

Tarmac beneath her feet. An icy chill against her skin. The murmur of voices, growing louder and louder.

Morgan found herself shambling towards a swanky, apartment, fashioned from polished glass, and smooth wood. Abbigale was propped up against the Malkavian, stopped over, and limping.

“Let us in!” Rafael shouted, calling up at the condo, “we need your help!”

“This is your plan..?” Jadeja muttered, cringing in pain, as she hobbled along.

“Open up!” Rafael demanded, hammering his fist against the door, “I know you’re home!”

The door of the trendy glass apartment creaked open.

“You’re fucking kidding me…” a grandiose voice grumbled.

A tall, slender figure stepped out into the darkness. A long, billowy beard obscured the finer features of his narrow face.

“I told you not to contact me again, Rafael,” the bearded man glowered, wiry eyes burning with scorn, “I believe that I made that particularly clear.”

“This isn’t a social call, Algernon,” Rafael grumbled back, “something is happening to Jadeja, and we need to know what it is.”

Algernon cast his gaze over Rafael’s shoulder, to where the stooped figure of Abbigale Jadeja was doubled over in pain, leaning on Morgan for support.

“Don’t tell me,” the sorcerer murmured, “a Ravnos..?”

A look of moderate shock flashed across Rafael’s face.

“How did you know?” He asked.

“Something terrible is happening,” Algernon Regardie told him, “ an accursed monster stirs in the East. It is too soon to say what the damage will be, but nothing good can come of this dark vivification.”

“Do you know what is going on?” Morgan asked, propping up Abbigale, whilst she hissed and groaned, “we all felt...something, but its nature alludes us.”

Algernon let out a conquered sigh.

“I suppose you three had better come inside,” he grumbled, “but take off your shoes. If you get mud on my carpet, then I’ll stake you, and leave you out for the fucking sun.”


“Adelaide, darling!” Calantha let out a titter of joy, sliding down next to the dainty little creature, on her wooden bench, “how are you, my love? It's been much too long.”

“All the better now that you’re here, sweetness!” the petite girl chirped, “I’m awfully fond of this new look of yours!”

Calantha giggled with warm joy.

On this particular night, she had a strong jaw, big eyes, and pale, snow white skin.

She was also garbed in leather crafted from flayed flesh and bone.

Adelaide, by contrast, had spent the last handful of centuries frozen in the body of an eight year old girl. She had rather promptly diablerized her sire, as compensation for the inconvenience.

“Have you been busy, darling?” Calantha asked Adelaide.

“A bit of this, a bit of that,” Adelaide waved one hand dismissively, “nothing too exciting. Mass murder loses so much of its charm after your third century.”

The cavern in which the two women sat was heaving with a veritable horde of ghastly, hungry cainites. The Camarilla and the Anarchs considered themselves to be monsters, but the Sword of Cain were a roaring inferno to their flickering match stick.

Clan Lasombra had come to America with the conquistadors, centuries ago, and the California Gold Rush only saw their power and influence grow further and further. Grace Cathedral, was a relic of such times, built in 1849, with the devious schemes of the Sabbat very much kept in mind.

Hidden from the mundane eyes of the kine, a series of dark, winding passageways, and subterranean chambers, loomed beneath Grace Cathedral, to be employed in times such as these.

Calantha and Adelaide were sat in a sort of battered old pew, surrounded by twisted, terrible figures.

On a bench, little more than a stone’s throw from where the pair were seated, Calantha spotted Leila Monroe, a blonde-haired Priscus, who had been hell bent on claiming LA for the Sabbat for as long as anyone could remember, trading words with a gaunt-faced Andy Warhol, who was hiding his haggard features behind thick, dark shades.

“It's a shame about your lot and cameras,” Warhol was saying to Monroe, “I’d have loved to shoot you in the studio, sometime.”

Across from the odd couple, Calantha spotted Isabella Cocolo, a tall, spindly Malkavian woman, with bronze skin, and long black haired, tied into knotted braids. A pair of twisted scars were carved deeply into her cheeks, forming a permanent warped grin.

Isabella was chatting with a grim looking man with an enormous white beard, whose overly-muscular form was squeezed into a much-too-tight leather jacket.

“Quite the gathering, isn’t it?” Adelaide murmured to Calantha.

She nodded in agreement.

Suddenly, out of the darkness, a towering character appeared, and stepped into the centre of the underground chamber. His misshapen body was shrouded beneath a long black cloak.

The monster raised one clawed hand, and the murmuring of conversation slowly petered out.

“It's him…” Calantha muttered, more than a little startled.

El Conde was exquisitely grotesque to behold. Even amongst the ranks of the Sabbat, nobody was quite sure if el Conde was a particularly ugly Nosferatu, or some other, alien breed of monster, all together.

From beneath his dark hood, a pair of enormous, milky white, orb-like eyes glistened. His distended mouth was stuffed full of jagged, razor-sharp teeth, and the flesh around his lower jaw had rotted away, to reveal bleached white bone. Ribbons of bloody, peeling skin hung off of el Conde's bloated face, and his necrotic likeness was overflowing with sickly yellow pustules, which oozed rank, stinking discharge.

"Exalted siblings," el Conde called out, his voice a guttural wheeze, as he addressed the room, "the matter which brings us here, on this most grim of nights, is indeed a dire one!"

El Conde clasped his hands together. His long, bony fingers grew into jet black talons, as lightless as smooth obsidian.

"Ancient, terrible powers stirr in the darkness. Our oldest enemy, dismissed as fiction by the ivory tower, has reared its foul head."

The room was silent, hanging on the raspy words of the pestilent speaker.

"You have all felt, as I have, hideous energies swelling, and thrumming, inside our very minds. Make no mistake; this is the beginning of the end. The final nights are upon us, my siblings, and these dreaded signals are harbingers of Gehenna itself."

The misshapen figure paused, allowing his enthralled audience to consider his words.

"But we shall not roll over and die, like some sickly pup, as the Camarilla, and those which baseless claim the mantle of "Anarch" will," el Conde declared, "we are more than the hapless feast of the antediluvians!"

El Conde spread his arms wide, his morose voice swelling into a roaring bellow.

"WE SHALL TAKE THE FIGHT TO THE BLOOD TYRANTS!" el Conde boomed, "AND WE WILL BLEED THEM DRY!"
Still accepting?


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.”


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.
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