Ezekiel

World of Darkness: City of Angels

Los Angeles
US Bank Tower

The bird's eye view of LA was something to be admired, a city of countless dreams, extreme, failings and triumps, expressed in a gridlock of lights, stretching as far as one could see. All the dirt and glory of humanity beated down into a series of bright shapes, etched into the Earth.

Hardestadt thought of this to himself as he gazed out across the sprawl. L.A may have been the territory of others, but the Camarilla played a part in the lives of most global companies. It was fairly easy to acquire himself a temporary office in one of the city's grandest towers, and, at least, the one he felt most visually pleasing.

He strode back towards his 'new' desk. The office had been the work station of a man who had spent his entire lifetime climbing the rungs of whatever firm owned this particular space, scrabbling away to attain his goals. Human lifetimes were so very short, to have fought so hard, for so little. It was to be admired, really, if only the Kindred commonly showed such zeal. Still, the man had found himself shunted back to whatever perch he previously occupied, probably something similar merely a floor down, for the time being.

The desk was not overly grand, apart from its surroundings, functional, a work place, Hardestadt could appreciate that. He'd seen far too many obsidian monstrosities to ever feel respect for someone based on their inclination towards dramatic desks. After yet another momentary distraction, Hardestadt focused on the files before him. Hard copies, none of what he was reading would ever be transfered to the risky sphere of electronic communication. While the force of technology had done wonders for the reach of the Camarilla, it provided another avenue for attack, one they could ill afford with such matters. Pages of worrying reports, of elders and their abuses towards the younger generations of kindred, of uprisings and the efforts to put them down. It galled Hardestadt, not because he felt much in the way of remorse for the young, but that the ancients of his people would risk so much simply because of a lack of tact.

Sighing in exasperation, he tossed a particularly troublesome report aside, just as the intercom spoke to him;

"Mr Hardestadt, a Nicolaus Strøm to see you, Sir." The receptionist assigned to him was pleasant enough, capable to protecting his authority without aggrevating guests in the manner that so many L.A. Kindred could do.

"Very good. Please send him in." He replied, before releasing the reply button on the device, standing, as the onyx doors to the room opened gradually, automatic, when guests were expected. Hardestadt was a man of easy authority, but he had not forgotten the boon of decorum in all his years, moving around his desk to greet the man.

"Archon Strom, a pleasure." The handshake was firm, as expected, but as always, the spark of Hardestadt's inescapable command of presence flaired along the contact. Even if he could hide his power from those attuned to it, it was doubtful he would, it was always profitable to remind his fellow Kindred that were he to truly focus, they would kneel before him before they could strike.

"Please. Sit." He motioned to the chair before the desk, before returning to his own, collecting the files atop the desk. None had been left open, but it was always good to collate.

"Tell me, how do you percieve LA?"

Nicolaus didn’t make a habit of guessing another’s appearance or even their personality based on a business card, but sometimes a few lines of text -or in this case, a gold-foil letter- is enough to build a sound hypothesis. Although if the immense Bank building of classic construction and elegance, along with the tall, black double-doors leading into Mister Hardestadt’s office from the lobby wasn’t enough to convince him, then the very aura being projected from the other as they shook hands was sufficient. The subtle, yet potent effects of his presence was something Nicolaus had not experienced in a very long time from another Kindred. On the lower end of the spectrum, such tactics were generally employed to gain the other’s trust and allow for a more peaceful exchange, but it was also a double-edged sword as it gently reminded the recipient of just who was in charge.

“Thank you.” The Ventrue nodded as he settled into the dark tanned leather-bound chair facing Hardestadt across the desk.

The question came as a bit of an abstract, and Nicolaus supposed he could have spent more time mulling over the correct answer as though there were one, but after a moments pause he simply echoed the sentiments of what most elders felt already.

“On the surface, Los Angeles is the epitome of success and reward for those willing to work hard. A place that builds up and tears down on a daily basis, but still manages to survive the night.” His tone was smooth and even, and eye contact never wavering from the other. “Peel all that back however, and you get a city that is youthful, irresponsible and complacent. And like most liberal areas in this country, it is a city on its knees begging for leadership but too proud and stubborn to ask for it.”

As the Archon answered, Hardestadt's gaze did not leave him, the Ancient seemingly content to give the younger kindred his full attention, at least for the moment. He nodded slowly to the man's response, not neccesarily an affirmation, but a recognition that he was listening.

"Such is the way of the Anarchs, to hate what they need, and to shun those who provide it." For now, the Elder's sight returned to the files on his desk, opening one and flicking through the contents, before he responded any further.

"Los Angeles has always had leadership, although not all of them knew it. One of the more...egregious, excesses, of the Toreador clan forced many into exile. A particularly successful disapora have been crafting the city from its outset, not a minor accomplishment." He cast the file aside once more to return his focus to the Archon, a faint smile across his lips.

"This hidden leadership has become public, but under a different figure, I am sure you are aware of the new Baron, she's an...interesting, character." Hardestadt almost laughed, it had been a while since someone had dared to speak to him so, beyond their final desperate moments. Refreshing.

"I do not know where their previous leader, an elder, now in torpor, is resting, but that is irrelevant. I have no need to push into the politics of this city, for now. Whatever previous tasks you have been assigned are moot, your activities in this city are being narrowed to two purposes." Another file was selected from the table, but this time, handed over to the Archon.

"It is imperative that the Sabbat not be allowed to extend their territory into the city, with the fall of San Fransico, I expect them to at least make the effort. You will work to counteract these efforts, 'quietly' I do not wish it to appear that the Camarilla is supporting the Free State openly." The Elder paused before continuing, this time, tapping on the file he had just handed over.

"Secondly, the Baron has a right hand, a man who goes by the name of Henry Locke. He is not something I have encountered before, and when you've lived as long as I have, that can become somewhat troublesome. Find out who, or what, he is. I believe this will be fairly important to the future of this city, and where its loyalties lie." Hardestadt's tone grew more serious, more the commanding elder, than the elitist businessman, on this final matter.

"That will be all."

The Venture did his best not to allow the satisfying smirk that was hidden deep behind the emotional mask he wore to surface, but he was very much looking forward to giving the Sabbat as much hell as possible, perhaps even grounding several of them into the dust of the earth along the way. Since his separation from the Black Hand over two hundred years ago, the anger and resentment of the sect allowed him a resolve that would never waver from its course, never simmer as endless time passed, and would always be in the forefront of his memory to remind him that they will always be the enemy. And while this fueled a passion to write the so many wrongs of his past, he had to ensure that personal feelings would not cloud better judgement.

“Very good sir.” Glancing at the file folder for but a moment, he nodded to the other in acknowledgement and stood from the leather chair, causing a slight creaking sound from the old wood and joints of the furniture.

He remembered Henry Locke, although aside from slight insignificant details and perhaps a generally positive attitude that he most likely wanted others to see on the outside, he knew little of the ex-proprietor of the Sunset Lounge. But such was the way of things. There are those who keep away from the public eye of humanity, and then those who entrench themselves even deeper, hiding from the Elders and Justicars of kindred society, only resurfacing when events begin to shift in their favor. Nicolaus held a certain respect for Locke based only on what he knew of the vampire, but everyone has a secret.

“If I may ask, sir.” His tone was curious, as it should be, considering he was quite unsure of just what role Hardstadt played in all of this. “As for the relay of communication, shall we work directly or through a proxy of your choosing? I am fine either way. Although I have many trusted eyes and ears throughout this city, and so a recommendation is possible if needed.”

"I will likely remain in LA for a few more days, I believe my secretary can provide you with a number to call should you need to reach me in that time, beyond that, I do not foresee this city requiring my direct touch." The elder Ventrue kept his focus on the younger as he stood and moved away, he smiled as he responded, but it was not from kindness.

"What I have tasked you with goes beyond the authority of any other contact or mission you recieve, I would be careful to not....frustrate, other Elders of prominence, but be under no illusions, I want LA to remain as it is, and I do not want to have to directly involve myself again. I will contact you if your work is lacking, see that it is not." While he lacked warmth, Hardestadt's tone was not intentionally threatening either, petty threats and intimidation were beneath him, and he respected the work of the Archon too much to believe that he did not already know what the state of play between them consisted of.

World of Darkness RP. Intrigue and Conflict on the West Coast

The OOC is evidently up, but we're still recruiting and looking for more people to join! The IC has only just really kicked off.

World of Darkness: City of Angels

How's everyone going with WIP posts and characters?

The RP will continue to chug along at whatever pace we can all manage, but updates would be helpful :)

World of Darkness: City of Angels

Strange

No matter how ancient he had become, Henry still found himself slipping into behaviours by nature, becoming accustom to whatever new role he had set upon himself, before losing it to the whims of fate. Now, watching the city stretch out before him, from the luxury of Chateau Marmont, he found himself at a loss. Sunsent was no more, his life running the lounge, as much ash as the rubble on which his bar had been built. Here he stood in a new establishment, as patron, not owner.

Still, the line had been drawn, Los Angeles was his home now, and he had promised such to those who mattered. In the cosmic scale of his liftetime, his bond with them was but a whim on the wind, but to Henry, that still mattered more than his own wishes. It had been so long, if ever, that he had been free of such obligations.

Prepaerations were nearing their conclusion, soon one of LA's most exclusive locations would be prepared for two particularly exclusive guests. The usual staff were preparing the venue, while Henry himself was finalising his preperations of a different nature. It was his role to ensure the survival of the Free State of LA, and by extension, the kindred best postioned to lead it. No matter who these guests were, and the power behind them. He had a host of mortals, ghouls and kindred he could call upon, and sure enough, they were held in reserve, should matters go awry, but with the aim of no overt displays of hostility, for now, he was working on his own. The angles had been calculated, the approaches considered.

It had been some time, time that made years seem like the patter of rain, since he had taken so direct a role in the matters of mortals and immortals alike, for so long he had simply drifted through their worlds, stopping only when either empathy or curiosity forced him to intervene. Perhaps a combination of both had driven him to LA, and then into aiding the eclectic band of Kindred that had built the city, and the Free State, from the shadows. As he watched the city, he allowed his senses to slip from his bodily form, roaming on the aethric winds. While he might search through the city for potential threats, for the unkowns, that would have likely been a waste of time, as slow as any mundane approach. Instead his concious thought felt for the presence of one unconcious mind. He did not wake, her, simply watching her through the skein of his power, watching the chaos that was her mind, and the new powers it wrestled with. The death throes of a second, weaker, personality within. There were few alive, or dead, who could so obviously reach beyond the boundaries of Topor, but Henry did so, at least with her, with contemptuous ease. He did not wake her, but she would feel his presence, maybe not now, but in reflection. A reminder that someone of like mind was watching over her city, and watching over her, especially with a mind so conflicted. He hoped the two promises, to her, and the latter to himself, would never compete.

She had begun the fight he had first waged before time had ground his will to dust, the challenge against the Oblivion which was burningburning forth to meet them. The cynic in him would argue the yet further time would only result in the same fate for both of them, surrendered to their fate. Of all the things he had ever been, he'd never been a terribly good cynic.

In the next moment, he returned to his physical form in full thought, eyes flickering with the power of his form for only a moment, returning to his mundane, mock-human, senses.

He turned back into the function room, stepping back through windowed doors. The oppulance of the room was ignored as he moved to a nearby table, steadily finishing the process of dressing appropriately. A burgundy tie done up, gold tie clip in place, he paused only to examine his cufflinks before setting them. Twin stars, as was his preference. He had always been fond of the little momentoes. As he finished correct the sit of his shirt, the doors to the room opened. He felt her presence before he saw her. He had always been observant, and the aura of those with whom he was familar were traced like a breeze to him. He turned to her, smiling, although it did not quite reach his eyes.

"Ready?"

She came into the room like a storm of sweet scents, aggitated energies, and the barely audible sound of her high heeled Prada black leather boots sounding off against the hard wooden floor of the hall below her until she hit the room carpet. Big brown eyes literally seemed to glow honey gold when she stopped under the accent lighting fixtures directly above her. The tightly fit black slacks and shimmering champgange colored silk halter hiding under a black blazer coat, the exterior of it's arms a delicate web of black lace. Chateau Marmont and it's old Hollywood glamor was a long time favorite for her, but not just her. Rock stars, actors and actresses, directors, Hollywood elite, writers, visual artists, and whoever else could buy their way in. Even on off nights anything could happen. But the Chateau wasn't a normal hotel, for other reasons, too; reasons directly related to the guest list factor. Each suite was it's own little haven, with the privacy and security to back it up. Once you passed through the main building, unless you stayed there, there was little to no mingling.

Henry had set them up in the kind of posh, catered, room that their two visitors would be most used to. Yanci Carolina couldn't have loved the man more, loved him enough to have regrets for the first time in a long time. Still the decision had necessitated a change. That was easy enough when Eva controlled the site since the original owner first sold it. Eva hadn't been there, of course. That was old West Hollywood, afterall. Yanci had been sent in her place, but even then Yanci hadn't been the front woman to that pow-wow. That had been their ghoul front; Albert E. Smith. Alby, as Yanci overjoyed in calling him playfully. She even recalled how much they purchased it for: $750,000 cold hard USD. And at the moment all she could think about when her eyes looked this way, then that, was.....how much more furniture they'd put into this room since the last time she was in it. That had been a while, if Yanci remembered correctly.

Bar Marmont, on the other hand, she had been to more recently. And often. Even Brujah can act a little Hollywood in this town. As she stepped up to him, she finally spoke. "This hotel is where James Dean jumped through a window to audition with Natalie Wood for Rebel Without a Cause, Elizabeth Taylor nursed Montgomery Clift post car crash, Led Zeppelin rode their motorcycles through the hallways and John Belushi took his final breath...these two don't rank that high, so I moved us."

When his eyes caught her's as he process that, she smiled. Big. "C'mon. They're probably waiting on us." She knew they were. Through the wide halls she led him, out the back, through the balcony and down the stairs that led to the exterior aft courtyard. The Spanish Bungalows, even the pool, weren't originally even part of the Chateau. All of that was added later, by someone too unwilling to wait for a deal to be done to buy the Chateau. Eva. The Chateau bought the pool, and bungalows, a few years after she purchased it.

"She saw it. I don't know how." As they walked, she looked back from the lead to see him blink. It made her chuckle. "She looked at a failed apartment building and saw a legendary Hollywood location. I told her she was crazy, back in the 1930s. When they turned the hotel into a state historical site in the mid-90s, she celebrated. I happily took that 'told ya so' from her."

Throughout their walk Henry made sure to take in her words, to visibly do so, nodding to the analogies, the stories, the information of her past, the past of the city and her past with Eva. Some of it her already knew from other sources. The feeling behind it? Eva's motivations, her dreams for the city, that he knew in its totality. Henry had connected with Eva in a way that he had not with another since what felt like the dawn of ages. He did everything he could during moments like this to not remind Yanci of that. Let Eva be her's, he cared for them both too much to open those wounds, and their work was too important.

They walked by a few tables tucked away behind shrubs and trees; there was no main line of sight in the back of the Chateau. Paths spide-webbed out from the back entrance of the hotel main building, the roofs of the bungalows peaking out in the slight distance, all of it hidden behind the thick, tall, stone walls covered in ivy--and the electronic security everywhere the walls weren't. Yanci knew the people at the table; low level Hollywood execs "trying to make it happen." But her focus was on the second bungalow, the white wooden door opened as they got close by a young man with a wide smile, tight cropped brown hair, and pretty blue eyes.

Inside were white stucco walls with wooden beams above and the wooden ceiling further above that. Taller ceilings than most might consider, the main room of the bungalow in use--closer to the door was where their guests had been seated, on the other side of the room was a man flanked by a small group of other men, tailors, to be exact. The blonde man in the middle kept turning before thick mirrors brought in, giving feedback, shaking his head, even drawing chuckles. Seated close to the group was a man with salt and pepper hair, and a handsome face. It was the slightly older man, the one seated with salt and pepper hair, that turned his head upon their entering.

"Your friends are nice. I think we settled on dark blue."

Yanci's eyes bounced to the man in front of the mirrors. "Yeah, yeah I think the dark blue works. It's not Navy, but it's not gaudy. It'll work for the opening scene."

"Wonderful. Thank you, gents."

The older man stood, the blonde man trailed off into another room to change. Yanci brought Henry over to their side of the room, so Henry could shake hands with the older man. Even close up, he didn't look as old as he was. People joked the man was a vampire; Yanci knew better. "Henry, George Clooney. George, this is my friend Henry."

"Very nice to meet you, Henry." After the hand shake, his arms crossed reflexively over his chest, his blue eyes focusing anew on Yanci. "What happens if I need to talk to her?"

Uh. "You haven't heard?"

He looked pained, suddenly. "I had. I was hoping once I saw Gwen, or yourself, I'd learn it was all bad gossip. She's coming back?"

She nodded, firmly. "Absolutely."

A shrug, and the smile audiences knew so well showed itself. "Well, okay. Let me see about Matt. Thanks."

The tailors were already gone by then, leaving Yanci to motion for Henry to sit at one of the two seats across a white wooden coffee table with an ice bucket and champgange chilling inside, glasses resting next to it. They were untouched. She wasn't surprised. Finally, finally, Yanci regarded the Cardinal and the Ventrue. "Hello, welcome to Los Angeles. Please say nothing to seriously piss me off. Shall we start?"

The most unusual thing about the two men sitting patiently for Yanci and Henry was felt more in their similarities than their differences. These were two of the most prominent members of rival ideologies, the two great warring sects of the Kindred world. Yet both were here, dressed in fine, modern clothes. They would not have been out of place atop the spires of Downtown, or on a home counties private estate, networking and planning the rise and fall of business.

Instead, one was a Cardinal of a cult set on bringing about the end of the world as all had come to know, and the other a global conspiracy to hide the existence of vampires from all humanity. Cardinal Charles Delmare was the slightly more ostentatious of the pair, jeweled rings bedecked his hands and the cut and style of his suit was notably more flamboyent, but far from the realm of ridiculous. Despite his generally softer appearance, he seemed to have taken the wait worse, offering both Yanci and Henry little more than a curt nod for now.

Hardestadt had been eyeing his opposite intently, but was alive the moment Yanci regarded them both. To say he was warm would be inaccurate, the paragon of Ventrue capability, he was efficient, cut and dry. But his power of personality was almost overwhelming, it stirred even Henry's supernatural senses as he made to shake his hand.

"A pleasure to be here, and to enjoy such fine company." His hand graced Yanci's the next, just as firmly, but if the presence of the Ventrue was tantalising, his touch was all consuming. There were few kindred alive who could claim such a mastery of the vitae-fuelled presence. Despite this, his smile did not quite reach his eyes. "I shall endeavour not to offend you then, Baron." The edge of contempt touched his words as he spoke her title. It was a fine enough moniker, but it wasn't prince. "Shall we begin then." It was anything but a question.

"Indeed, Los Angeles has been abuzz of late." It was Charles Delmare who spoke next, his eyes flicking to Henry, but focusing on Yanci as the power in the room. "Is this wise to bring us both to your door, when you hardly have a handle on the fires spreading across your house?" He was calm in tone, but direct, with the assured quality of a man of great faith. "Mayhaps your Sheriff can advise you on such matters." He raised an eyebrow in Henry's direction, waving a loose hand.

"Get out. Now."

Moments went by, and no one moved, but shadows appeared on the otherside of the door, darking the sunlight that had been shining through the imperfect glass windows bordering the front doorway. The back was worse; it was all glass. All of it. There were good reasons that the Chateau was surrounded by so many walls, tangible and intangible. Yanci wasn't inviting the two back to the bedroom with it's back glass wall; probably for the best considering she wasn't entirely sure George and Matt were done and gone. When the two ancients finally moved, it was to look at Henry, then each other...never Yanci.

"What up, Yance?"

The voice belonged to CJ; thick rimmed black sunglasses, Raiders hat backwards over dreadlocks, dark skin so dark it was near purple in certain light. CJ wasn't a big guy, around 5'6. He didn't have to be what with the auto-shotgun held tight, at the ready, in his small hands. Yanci had a feeling the two ancients knew the rounds loaded in that shotgun, and the shotgun carried by every one of CJ's friends. The Bloods had been at the Chateau for days, spotting, security. The moment Yanci stepped onto the property, their number increased three-fold.

"The Cardinal is leaving."

CJ blinked, looking at the two visitors. "Which one is he?"

"The one that looks like a bad imitation of a Mexican pimp."

CJ smiled. "A'ight. C'mon, El Cardinal." Card-in-aleee, was how CJ said it, emphasis on the end of the title. A playful emphasis. "Stand ya self on up, and let's escort you out homeboi."

"...you know," Yanci's right hand appeared at her chin, her other arm folded against her midsection, as she retreated to a deep ponder. Or at least, gave the exaggerated pretense of doing so. "Nah. Let him stay. But let's get something clear..." She didn't sit. Instead, she stepped closer to the Cardinal. She bent at the waist, lowered her eyes until they were riiiight at level with the Cardinal's, maybe an inch away. "You can't even take shitty San Diego and you want to tell me about the state of LA? You don't have the first clue of what's going on in this city. If you did, you wouldn't have accepted this invitation. And I know this isn't an act...you really DO think you're that important, you're that special...you're not. Not here. Got that, Chief? So piss me off again and that 'state of LA' you're so uncertain about you'll see first hand, reallllllllllll fuckin' quick. Awesome."

She smacked the back of the Cardinal's shoulder in a friendly gesture, before moving her hand away and her body went towards her seat. Her eyes had already moved on, as did her focus: they were on the Ventrue. "Can we stop fucking around now? Maybe you've mistaken this for the annual meeting of your European financial institution tight-ass club, but this is Hollywood." Then, only then, did Yanci sit beside Henry. Quickly, comfortably, casually. Smiling big.

"So let's talk. I'm not who you wanted to talk to, but I'm who you're stuck with. If you're curious, she's watching, she's listening. She's PROBABLY holding her face in her hand right now, or whatever the equivilant--I'm not that old, I've never had to go full on fucking hibernation. I should be more polite...but I warned you not to get uppity and piss me off. It's the first thing you both did. No one's going to put up with your shit, here. Doesn't stop you from rolling up Sunset thinking you own the place, like any rich VIP who comes to Hollywood. They find out the same lesson: this won't be a pleasure, the company in Hollywood is as fine as it wants to be to you." A direct retort to the Venture's earlier line.

"She wanted this to be friendly. She was hoping for honest communication. So let's be honest: we know both of your clubs are gonna keep coming for us. Now you finally know who's really in charge. Now you finally know who to aim at...but she built Southern California. Damn near literally. Either of you ever do something so profound? Ever create something that changed the world in so many ways, time and time again? Generation after generation? Either of you two have a skin on the wall as big as SoCal, or Hollywood? Why NOT consider working with us? We maintain the traditions; shit, I'd say Hollywood has done more to turn vampirism into a myth, to directly help the Masquerade, then anything your club's ever done. I'll stop so you can tell me I'm wrong."

Both the Ancients responded to the tirade sent their way with something akin to amused surprise, although they wore it in different ways, Charles, as the primary focus of the ire, was cold steel, regarding the scene with little more than tense restraint, relaxing only slightly upon the end of Yanci's words. He may have been leadership, but he was Sabbat, he dealt with more fiery personalities daily, just not so very focused.

Hardestadt wore a more visible reaction, a raised eyebrow and the hint of a grin. It was unusual for him to be spoken to in such a manner, unusual in a way that could either entertain or enrage him, for now he picked the former, allowing himself a nod of agreement at Yanci's final words. Despite all this, it was neither of them who spoke next.

"You can take the girl out of the Brujah." If Hardestadt's enjoyment was restrained, Henry was smirking in full, watching 'his' Baron go to work. While he may have teased her, it was clear, at least between the two of them, that his amusment was at the expense of the Ancients, and not her. "Eva's accomplishments were grand, yes, as I'm sure many of both the Camarilla and the Sabbat can claim to be, but as much as we aren't here to fuck around, we're not here to trade nicities either. Business, gents." There was something of the London gangster there, hidden beneath the carefully crafted neutrality which Henry wore to cover the habits of countless mortal lives across just as many nations.

"Of course. As I've come to be aware, Los Angeles has shed the Anarch Free State, a wise move, if you ask me, consolidation without dragging the old divides and motivations of the Anarchs with you. You may strike out on your own, I believe that to be the cause you are set on, but I would reintroduce the offer of the Camarilla." Hardestadt was the first of them to speak directly, the trace of a German accent adding to the imperious nature of his tone. He was, of course, breezing over that the last Camarilla 'offer' had been nothing short of an invasion. "Nothing so dramatic this time, LA would maitain it's current structure, and control of the region. You could even still call yourself Baron, if you so wished." Hardestadt's final smile. before he was interrupted, was smaller than his last, but in a way more genuine. He was being generous, but he was also under no misgivings that the offer would be rejected, at least at this stage.

"The Camarilla are weak out here, as well you know, as well do they. He seeks LA as a bastion in a land he has failed to tame." The Cardinal spoke, his gaze flicking from Hardestadt to Yanci. "We control San Fransisco, they have failed to stop us there, they will fail to stop us here, should the time come." The Cardinal spoke more intensely when the matter of the Final Nights came to the fore, he may have been intelligent, modernising and put together for a Sabbat, but he was still one of them, still bore the title of their religion; "The signs are strong out here, and that time is approach, whatever the specifics of the date. Caine rises." Charles had never been one of the Sabbat to place too much faith in the specifics of prophecy, the fact they had been wrong according to a modern, kine calander bothered him not, but it was still a public failure of the Sabbat that he had to reference, or allow as a free weapon.

Whatever the effect of his words on the others, Henry tensed, inperceptible to those who did not know him. A roll of his joints hidden as a stretch, the tiniest flexing of a fist. The Sabbat may have been wrong, but they would be right when it counted.

The voice that came from Yanci Carolina was different, now; different in tone, different in intensity, different in every aspect except the feminine, but there was no mistaking the voice for Yanci's. The voice was Eva's. "Gehenna will come. I know this now. I see this now. Thank you for accepting my invitation, however this new information changes the very nature of the world of darkness. I suggest speaking to your elders."

There was a blink of Yanci's long eyelashes, and when her eyes opened anew, they were closer to auburn than their usual brown. One blink turned to a flutter of lashes, as Yanci adjusted to the sensation that she had been a passenger in her own body, and no more. When her lashes stopped, she knew she was back.

It did little more than inspire a sad smile on Yanci's face. "...I imagine, uh..." Her tone was fit for a Church now, her face looking more like she'd just woken up than the half-Brujah that was present just minutes prior. Her right index finger came up to rub the inside of her left eye, her mind straining with focus. "You know how to contact us should you have questions, or desire to speak to us. But, um...the Anarchs were never in charge, here. The Kid was, letting the Anarchs believe what they wanted, Eva kept him sane...until she stopped being able to, and then he forced us public, and SoCal errupted. That's the honest story. "

"Of course not, the Anarch movement is a sham, even on the shining sea of the West Coast, the younger of us need the guidance of the Elders, even if those elders hide away." Hardestadt was serious in tone when he spoke, looking at Yanci, but as if he spoke through her, to the voice that had only just retreated back away into the darkness. He smiled, once again, gently. It was not a comforting sight.

"And it is to the oldest of elders to whom we must suplicate, if we are to survive." The Cardinal spoke next, although once again his focus seemed to shift between his Camarilla counterpart and Yanci, again, not truly to the woman who was actually there.

Only Henry remained focused on her, actually her, impassive visibily, but bleeding concern behind his mask. It was disconcerting, that feeling, to have one's body driven by another, through the power of your bond alone. It was several moments after he realised he was staring before he refocused on the matter of the meeting.

"How long will you gentlemen be staying? I can provide direct lines of contact back to us, should you be leaving soon." A mundane question, but it distracted him, as well as serving a true purpose.

"I believe I will be leaving," The Cardinal spoke, already rising as he did so. "The warning has been given, and likewise, received. We shall see how these Final Nights play out." He nodded to all those assembled, including his Camarilla rival, before making his way to leave. A true Lasombra, door's opened before him and he was soon lost in the shadow.

"He's just as insane as the rest. Far more dangerous, but just as insanse." Hardestadt spoke as he watched him leave, drumming gently on the table, before turning his focus back on the pair of hosts. "If we might have a word alone." He spoke to Yanci, although did not ignore Henry in his attentions. "If that is quite acceptable."

Yanci's head turned to Hardestadt slowly, as if traced his direction by some invisible fingertip just under her chin. Her words were her own, but given the slow, careful, way in which they were spoken she wouldn't have blamed Hardestadt for uncertainty in just who he was talking to. "...sure. CJ." The door was closing by the time she even named the Blood, his friends escorting the Cardinal to the Exit Tent. The Exit Tent was a really good time, as she remembered it, she doubted the Cardinal would have fun. He didn't seem the fun type.

A quick listen, and she was certain George and Matt were gone. Matt laughed, and complained, too loudly to not be heard eventually. George was the sneaky type. Clooney had a suspicion about Eva, about Yanci and Gwen, too. It didn't matter. It never did. They had their protections in place. There was a reason Hollywood helped the Masquerade, but was never threatened by it.

Her eyes didn't leave Hardestadt. Instead they studied him, briefly and with casual interest at best, before honey-brown eyes perched the brows above them. "Better?"

"It will do."

As the Venture spoke, the glamour of his presence fell away, blonde hair was replaced with brown, age lines and a bulkier form gave way to a younger one. The blue eyes remained, but they were flecked with yellow, his jaw sharp enough to cut with an edge. As he did so, the establishments security equipment began to stutter, not enough to compromise the facility, or even any surveillance of others, but Hardestadt the Younger would never be caught on camera, moving or otherwise.

"You spoke of your Sire in a manner few would speak of me, that is assured, and I can understand the precaution and care through which she has crafted Hollywood, and the Free State, I more than most." The manner in which he was speaking, in how he regarded both Yanci and Henry were palpably different. He was still Ventrue, but something of the hard extreme of his arrogance fell away.

"It is a noble work, worth saving, but Hollywood has stood for what? Pushing a century? You may think my work less profound, it may shine less bright and with less glamour, but it has stood since the Fall of Rome, and it is a work very dear to my cold heart." There were few enough that new of Hardestadt's great lie, and fewer still on this new continent. It was Henry that spoke next.

"The Younger." It was not a question, but a statement, dragged up from the memories of a man who had lived even then. It earned him a curt nod from the ancient Ventrue.

"So, you can imagine, that leaving the seat of my power is not something I take lightly, I am not here just to chat, to offer Camarilla protection, although that offer is very much real. I am here because the Final Nights approach, and most of us old, or powerful, enough to stop them are mad enough not to care." Hardestadt placed a card on the table, a number written across it, nothing more. "For matters which stem beyond our different alleigances." With that, the Ancient stood, patting down the exquisit, if simple, suit he still wore. No matter his form, whichever he wore, it seemed tailor made.

"Unlike my Sabbat counterpart, I will not be leaving your city immediately. Do feel free to drop by." Gradually the force of his presence restructured the glamour he weaved around him, the appearance of the elder Hardestadt returning to the fore.

Her eyes still never moved. They left Hardestadt sure enough; but only because he moved away and beyond her sight out the door. Yanci felt cold. The end was coming. Screw the guy who ran the Camarilla...Eva told her. It wasn't all Eva had told her, either; just all Eva wanted to share with the others. Los Angeles was about to get busy. In ways Yanci was having trouble imaging.

In ways she was certain Henry could imagine far better than she. "I need to talk to Gwen. Maybe a...supernatural apocalype movie that's bad enough to become infamous, and mocked endlessly with memes. Turn it into a pop culture fed joke. Enough actors and actresses owe us a bad movie. I'd say rush it through--but I suppose that was implied by making it 'bad' in the first place."

But that was just the rapid-fire damage control of her mind going off. Let it all process for a moment, and Yanci heard herself deeply sigh.

"Fuck. It had to be the City of Angels."

Ezekiel's Character Vault

Name: Teric Korva
Age: 48
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Force Sensitive: Yes (Just about)
Faction: Jedi
Skills: Espionage, surveillance, marksmanship, general black ops, fighter pilot.
Abilities:
Weaknesses: Limited Force Sensitivity.
Equipment(Include any assets):

Bio:

The child of a Jedi survivor of Order 66, Teric has lived with secrecy since he was old enough to understand the concept. Home was where ever the Empire wasn't looking, sometimes right under their noses, sometimes delving into uncharted territory. Both of Teric's parents were truly loving, but not blind to the realities of their existence, and so drilled their son constantly on how best to survive, and remain undetected while he did so.

This would be what kept him alive after the Empire finally caught up with them during Teric's adolescence, his parents and their ship, his effective home for those years, destroyed in a sudden attack. The fortune of the errands he was running, and him lacking any formal mark of existence being the only reason he survived that day. It would be years before he grew past wishing that he had not.

Ezekiel's Character Vault

Placeholder

World of Darkness: City of Angels

<Snipped quote by Ezekiel>

Esther's CS is still in the wipping process, but it should be done before later.

@Briza

I saw this, but I'm still willing to accept the charactee as is, and you post up when finished.

World of Darkness: City of Angels

@Rawk @Briza @Kingfisher

Sheets all accepted, those seem to be the only completed CSs uplodaded, so, feel free to post in the character tab.

World of Darkness: City of Angels

Name: Henry Locke
Age: Mid-Thirties/Presumed at least as old as the continental US
Title: Previous owner of the Sunset Lounge. Now fulfills some unestablished role in the running of the Free State
Biography:

Henry Locke was neither a particularly new, nor prominent name in the goings on of Los Angeles' 'night' life until very recent times. Most Kindred who knew the city for any great length of time might have encountered him, in some new minor project or the next, but he was usually gone before long, staying away from the city for greater stints than he remained. There seemed to be no real pattern to this, no riding in on the winds of change or storm of fury, simply a transient, something a little uncommon, but not unheard of, in the machinations of the Kindred.

This all changed in the early 90s. After a spate of local gang activity, forest fires and the like left a particularly fancy new apartment overlooking Downtown LA stuck on the market, Henry Locke purchased the property that would become the Sunset Lounge. It remained his personal private sanctuary for some years while he ingratiated himself with the local kine and kindred forces that be, never enough to step near the rungs of influence, but enough to make sure he wasn't treading on toes. It was the late 90s before he set upon the idea of a bar, but after that it was swiftly designed and opened. Modern chic that was somewhat cutting edge for its time, it was a quick draw for Kindred seeking something a little more refined and calm than the usual Anarch haunts and dive bars. Henry never looked to be exclusive, and his manner of a fairly down-to-Earth British migrant never changed, but soon the Sunset Lounge became one of the more popular destinations for those in power, and those seeking to rub shoulders with them.

The importance of the Lounge to the Kindred society of LA only increased as the Elder murders began. In a night of bloody violence, many of the cities most established Kindred were slain, or driven into hiding. Their factions crumbled around them, and retaliatory violence began. The Last Round, previous unofficial Elysium of the Anarch movement in the city was firebombed, along with many other 'safe zones' of the Kindred nights. But among all this, the Sunset Lounge stood. An oasis of calm in stormy seas, for whatever reason, Locke seemed able to keep the situation in hand. This did not sit well with some, looking for a figure to blame.

During Christopher Houghton's brief and bloody period as the declared Baron of LA, one of his most dramatic acts was to pin much of the violence of that night, and which had followed, on Henry Locke, calling for a Blood Hunt. More than this, he accused Henry of working with the Sabbat and Camarilla to weaken the Free State, to leave LA open to outside take over. Whatever their true thoughts on Houghton's ability to rule, or evidence, most of LA's Kindred through their weight behind the Kid, if temporarily, he was a moth to the flame for all those looking the leadership following the deaths of their previous Elders and sanctuaries, and the hammer came down hard on Henry. The same night the Hunt was called for, the Sunset Lounge was destroyed in yet another devastating bombing. Brujah leader, Catlin Monroe, was said to be among those consumed in the blast, doing much to weaken their support for the Kid, early in his reign.

Despite this, Henry survived, or previously escaped the blast, along with Catlin (now known to be Yanci). Through the mysterious Toreador in disguise, he was able to plan something of a reprisal against the Kid, with his errant Childe, Eva. While the Kindred Civil War began in earnest, Christopher never gave up on his search for Henry, committing resources that would have been best securing his rule, to hunting down his latest paranoid haunch. Eventually he got what he desired, Henry Locke brought to him in chains.

Whatever happened that fateful night, the Kid came out the worse, a pincer movement, based on the false victory of capturing Henry, fully exposed him to Eva's gambit and sudden attack. Childe defeated Sire. Those limited few who were there recall a brief, but intense conversation between Henry and Eva, the last she would have before entering Torpor. One of Eva's Coterie, Nathaniel, a Nostferatu, took badly to her apparent abandonment of them, striking back at those he held responsible, namely the rest of Eva's Coteria, Yanci in particular.

Henry's vengeance was swift, before the night was over, Nathaniel was dead, and Henry had joined Yanci in their current roles of running the Free State. Yanci is the obvious Baron for the Kindred to flock to, but Henry's role at large remains a mystery, simply that he is present, and watching. Some might call him a Sheriff to Yanci's Prince, enforcing her law, but those are not words heard from either party.

The Dance of Dragons - (ASoI&F) (GoT) - [Openly Recruiting]

With @MrDidact



The Iron Islands
Pyke

"Do you trust them?" Baela spoke from behind the sparse cover of the cloth divider erected between the pair as she changed. While Pyke had more than enough guest quarters for them to prepare for the evening seperately, both had opted to meet in Luke's room prior to their descent, dismissing the offered servants in exchange for privacy. Whether the Ironborn expected any pre-marital excess between the pair was moot, it mattered more to them both that they might speak in relative private.

"Do I trust that Dalton will do as he promises? Aye." Lucerys finished clasping the side-buckles of his doublet in place. Black in colour with only the slightest detail, and a small copy of his household insignia over his heart, it was of good quality without being ostentatious, as to suit the hall they attended. "I think it would be overly naive to not worry that he may not stick to such limitations, but we need the Greyjoys as allies as much as they need us to fulfill his ambitions. Of all of his full-blooded brothers, Lucerys was the most serious, and spoke with a voice older than his fourteen years.

"I suppose that will have to do." Baela replied. A year younger than her cousin, Baela was the bolder of her sisters, and while she still had the bearing of her youth, there was fire to her being, and words, that matched her infamous father. Any further reply was interrupted by the young Targaryen letting out a hiss of frustration. "Would you mind giving me a hand?" While Luke was more than capable of dressing himself, the style of court was rather more encumbering for women. With a slight pause he stood to move around their ad-hoc divider. Baela's gown was black, but rather than trimmed with red as might be expecting, her bodice was light blue, and the detail across both colours trimmed in white, as to match the House of her mother. While she was largely contained within the confines of the garment, the lacing up the back of her dress was undone. Bold and adventurous, like her cousins, Baela was slightly more tan than her twin sister, or the other women of their family. She waived on arm in a frustrated manner behind her back. "This is most unhelpful."

Lucerys approached her. The Velaryon brothers and Daemon's twins had grown up together, far closer than they were with the cousins they now faced off against. The closeness of children had grown slightly more strained of late, as they approached adulthood. Baela may have been young, but she was already beginning to show the form of an attractive young woman, much as her sister did. Luke, for his own sake, was well-built for his age, and the thoughts and worries which young men felt towards the opposite sex had begun to set in. He paused only for a moment longer before beginning to help his cousin lace the back of her gown.

"You're wasted on them." Lucerys spoke before he could think to hold it in as he finished the last ring of lace. Stunned at himself for a moment, he mumbled through the rest of a sentence; "I...I simply feel we need not have changed for a feast among the Ironborn. Baela turned, laughing slightly, in not an unpleasant manner, before she replied.

"Perhaps, but I would not want to have you show me up hmm?" She squeezed his shoulder as she passed, still smiling; "Oh, and I wouldn't want to fail to impress my future Lord Husband Greyjoy, what with our world-conqering children to make." She looked over her shoulder as she joked, her laugh infecting Lucerys before she spoke again; "Come, let us not keep the murderours raiders waiting."

After the raucous negotiations on the shores of the island, Lord Dalton had invited his guests to the long hall itself, along with all of his bannermen, his top captains, and his finest warriors. Great piles of fish and other creatures of the sea had been gathered and dumped onto the beach for the two dragons to feast on while a similarly hearty table had been laid out for the royal guests. The long hall was packed with wooden tables who were crammed with Ironborn nobles and reavers, all clanking mugs of ale and mead and feasting on crab, squid, and fish as well as a few enormous roasted boars and sides of beef. Ironborn bards gamely pounded out energetic tunes while men arm-wrestled and finger-danced and thrall women danced and entertained the guests.

The Iron Islands rarely saw such festivities outside of weddings and funerals or days devoted to their Drowned God or celebration of a succesful raid. But every man and woman sensed war on the horizon, and the Red Kraken had called the islands to him for one mighty round of merry-making before the ships would begin to sail. Dalton sat on the Seastone Chair of his fathers stretching back untold generations, a throne of oily black stone carved in the visage of the kraken. He had seated Prince Lucerys at the seat of honor on his right side, and Princess Baela next to him. His rock brother Veron sat on his left side and the rest of the high table was filled with those most prominent amongst his kin and his bannermen, including his mother, Lady Morgana Merlyn, his cousin Cotter, Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet, and his sister Alannys, who was another of his premier commanders and reavers.

Dalton may have been an impudent man, but even he hadn't been so bold as to seat his salt brother or any of his salt wives, among the guests and pay further insult to the Prince after sealing the negotiation. Theon Pyke, captain of his honor guard, sat, laughing and drinking, with a table full of men with red kraken badges nearby, and helping keep Dalton's salt wives happy. All of the Greyjoys looked much like Dalton. Dark of hair and eye, fair of skin and features, handsome and attractive, but all with scars to show their warrior nature, save for those who were not reavers like Dalton's mother.

The Red Kraken himself stood, raising his tankard of mead as Veron pounded on the table for quiet. Dalton cleared his throat and said, "Tonight we celebrate the new friends we've made in Queen Rhaenyra, and particularly her son Prince Lucerys and his bride to be, Princess Baela. Thanks to them, the Ironborn will once more strike terror into the hearts of the greenlanders, and once more the men of the West and Reach will remember who it is who rule the Sunset Sea. To Queen Rhaenyra! We do not sow!"

The Ironborn took up the call, some calling out their own mottos, or the creed of their god, while many others praised the Red Kraken directly, and even Queen Rhaenyra. Dalton smiled, laughing and sat down to turn to Lucerys and Baela, "I trust you are enjoying yourselves?"

While Lucerys appeared serious, if not enough as to seem surly or disrespectful to their hosts, at least by the fashion of court, Baela looked around her with far more in the way of fascination. The bawdy display of Ironborn celebration captivated her, even if some element was still repugnant. Purple eyes watched both dancing and finger-dancing, and her sing-song voice laughed along, if less overtly, with the men at particular fine examples of both.

"Oh, very much so, my lord Greyjoy." It was Baela who answered, focusing her composure somewhat as she replied to Dalton. Both Baela and Luke had joined in the toast, but otherwise the Prince had remained quiet, still, he managed a response to the Ironborn lord; "It is most interesting, Lord Greyjoy." Despite his severity, Lucerys was not negative in his assessment of the feast, nor did he conceal any thoughts to such, the differences between isles and mainland simply seemed to ensnare him less so than his cousin. As was his manner, he turned to more serious matters; "Do you wish for a representative to accompany us home?"

Dalton smiled at Baela, looking into her eyes as he did. His eyes were more playful now, those of a rakish nobleman, in contrast to the dark lust Baela had seen in his gaze upon the beach. It was still thoroughly clear he desired her however; especially given the fact that he hadn't bothered to conceal it when he gave Baela and her dress a rather lecherous once over once she entered the hall, though practically every Ironborn man and a few of the women had done the same. Dalton broke off the gaze and turned to Lucerys, taking down a swig of mead and saying, "I'm glad to hear it. We rarely get the chance to entertain mainlanders. And never royals. So, I made sure that only the best that the Iron Islands have to offer was put out for your honor."

The Red Kraken grinned at Lucerys before saying, "Indeed. I wanted one of my kin to accompany you on your journey back to Dragonstone, to give my regards to King Daemon and your mother personally. And so that the Islands could have a voice in your councils." Dalton wrapped a hand around his brother Veron's shoulder and kept smiling as he pulled the youth away from his conversation with their older, broad-shouldered, heavily scarred, and grizzled cousin Cotter and their sister Alannys with her high, sharp cheekbones, short salt-bleached black hair, and athlethic form emphasized by a leather doublet rather than a dress.

Veron looked much like his brother, but was unscarred and his hair was cut short. He was shorter as well and more wiry, but still well-built. His eyes and features were as handsome and cocky as his brother's, but there was more friendly jovialty to Veron's visage than Dalton's. Dalton said, "My little brother, Veron. Only a year older than yourself, Lucerys. But he's almost as good a sailor as me and almost as good a sword. He's also not dumber than a sack of bricks like a lot of my reavers. As my heir, I thought him as good a choice as any."

The younger Greyjoy brother dipped his head and smiled at Lucerys and Baela, "My brother flatters me, somewhat, but I would be highly honored to accompany you both back to Dragonstone and to offer the fealty of the Iron Islands to the Queen personally. I've never left the bounds of the Sunset Sea. I'd also be the first Ironborn to ever ride on dragonback."

Dalton laughed, "Aye and for once you'll get to brag about something to me. What do you say, Lucerys, think my brother can keep you both company on the way back? I plan on taking the long way myself if you go through with this parley, but I trust Veron to speak for me in the meantime."

"We would be welcome to have him." Lucerys nodded, the Kraken's own brother was something of a steal for their cause, acting as both a direct link to Dalton and some insurance that he would do as he was asked, to a degree. The Prince paused to sup from his drink at that, although it was his bethrothed which struck up further conversation.

Baela may have been young, but she was not unaware of the meaning behind the looks many had given her since she arrived at the hall. Valyrian beauty was almost ageless, and she was beginning to grow beyond simply the boon of her birth. A lesser person may have been uncomfortable in a room of reavers who were likely only the risk of punishment away from taking her in the very hall, but Baela was ever daring, and flaunted their depravity.

"Alas you will have to ride with the Prince, Moondancer is still too small to carry two riders across such a distance." Baela made a point to like ever so slightly downcast at that as she spoke to the younger Greyjoy. "Plenty of land between the Sunset Sea and the Narrow, anywhere in particular excite you?"

Veron smirked and said, "More's the pity, but I'm sure Prince Lucerys can keep me company well enough. And it's fortunate that I'm the one leaving. If Dalton was flying, even your dragon probably couldn't lift his arse off of the ground." Dalton laughed, "Only because of the size of my stones." The Red Kraken laughed and shouted at a serving maid to refill his tankard, pulling her into his lap as she did so. The maid giggled, evidently enjoying his advances. Veron laughed and replied to Baela, "I admit, I've never seen much of the greenlands. They talk much of Casterly Rock and Lannisport, and I would be glad to see them. But that isn't very likely, unless I go to help burn it." Veron smiled ruefully.

He leaned in towards Baela, a thoughtful look crossing his face, and said, "There aren't many places between here and your home that would be amenable to our presence I don't think... but what of Seagard? Few Ironborn have ever set foot there without intending to raid it. But I hear it is a fine place. And close to the ocean. We could stop there after our flight. I believe Lord Mallister is well-inclined to Queen Rhaenyra as well. If he sides with us, it's only to our benefit that we inform him of the pact we have made here and my brother's eventual command of the western black navies. What do you say?"

"I suspect the arrival of two dragons, a prince, princess and an heir to the Iron Isles might help make his mind up for him." Baela laughed, leaning back in her seat for the moment, twirling a few errant strands of her hair between two fingers, watching the Red Kraken's advances towards the serving maid. In her slight pause, Luke picked up the conversation.

"Mhm, Seagard it will be then. The Riverlands will likely be split in alleigance, best to grasp an idea early on of where the lines will be drawn." Lucerys was still serious, but not so much as to not enjoy his surroundings. "He'll likely try to feast us as well, whoever knew the start of civil war was so fattening."

Veron smiled at Baela and laughed along with her, then turned to Lucerys and said, "Excellent. Not only will I be the first Greyjoy to come in peace to the eagle nest. I'll be the first to fly there." Veron smiled again, evidently much enamored with the idea of flying on dragonback. His countenance was far more gentler than his brother's, far more thoughtful. He seemed much more the optimistic dreamer than the hedonistic and aggressive reaver that Westerosi so often associated with the Ironborn.

Dalton soon interjected in the conversation, reaching under the serving maid's clothes with one hand while he nursed a tankard of mead in the other, "Ironborn never eat so well as when there's war. And I expect to eat very well in this one. But we have a lot of ways to keep in shape, despite that." Dalton sneered lecherously at Baela and downed the rest of his tankard.

He gestured to the rest of the longhall, where Ironborn were bare-knuckle brawling, wrestling, and dancing with equal intensity, gusto, and ferocity. Several were playing the famous finger dance, with one of Lord Harlaw's men throwing an axe at one of Dalton's honor guard. The man nimbly lept over the axe, which almost hit a passerby. The man's comrades cheered as the guardsmen picked up the axe and threw it back at Harlaw's reaver. The Reaver tried to catch the axe instead of leaping over, but he was too clumsy and he fell to the ground in pain as blood burst from where his finger used to be.

Dalton laughed, "The finger dance. Our favorite game." Dalton turned to Lucerys and Baela, "Do the Prince and Princess fancy any of our games? I promise they're a lot of fun."

"I'll play that one." Baela spoke immediately, with a grin not entirely unlike that of a shark moments before the kill, motioning towards the man now writhing in pain from his lost finger. Before Lucerys could muster anything more than a surprised look, she had stood, striding over the table , holding the delicate skirt of her gown over to not entirely draw it over the table, before hopping down. While she may have been dressed as a Princess, she was still the daughter of the Dragon King of the Stepstones, and her gown had been made to not hinder her nearly as much as it might look.

"Tell me how it works." She spoke again, just as Lucerys stood to regard the display with something akin to nervousness, even if it barely graced his features before he controlled it. The grin, however, did not slip from Baela's lips, her eyes as wild as her father at his most daring.

Every man and woman in the hall stopped to stare as the Princess went to join the reavers playing the finger dance. Some whispered amongst themselves, surprised by the sight of a greenlander participating in one of their games and a woman at that. Others scoffed and made bets on how long she would last. But many men and women crowded around the group, excited by the prospect, with some even cheering her on.

Dalton was the most pleased of all, and he stood from his own chair to walk over. Dalton said, "The rules are simple. Each player takes a turn throwing the axe at another. That player must either catch the axe or dodge it without falling on their arse. The game can end when someone is wounded or when one player yields."

The Red Kraken turned to address the hall, "It looks like our dear Princess Baela wants to try her hand at a real game. Being a good host, I must oblige her. But neither can I participate. I am bound by guest right after all, and if I played her, I would surely break that oath. And I still seek the Princess' hand. It would be difficult to give a ring to her with if either of us had a few fingers missing."

His men all laughed at that, with some others cheering or light-heartedly jeering. Dalton was well-known as a master of the finger dance, and had been skilled enough to never lose a finger to it. Dalton spoke over the noise, "So who wishes to try their luck? Anyone?" Most of the reavers seemed reluctant to compete against a woman, and perhaps some were afraid of the idea of losing to one. But many others raised their voices to volunteer.

Dalton made a show of debating on who to choose but then he selected one of his honor guard. A thick-necked, long-bearded, tall slab of a man who looked every inch the archetypal beserking Ironborn warrior, with multiple missing teeth, and many tattoos and scars. The pinky finger on his left hand was missing as well. Dalton spoke to Baela, "Ulrik. One of my best killers. Not too late to back out, Princess. It is a dangerous game."

"It won't be the number of fingers I possess stopping me from marrying you, Lord-Reaver." Baela swung her hair back as she smirked, removing a trailing ribbon from her gown, she used it to tie up the silver-blonde mane of her hair, turning on the spot to regard the man upon whom she had been faced. "You know too well I am a promised lady." She continued the jibe as she raised an eyebrow, her eyes studying the large Ironborn from head to toe.

"Are all the men of the Iron Isles so...handsome." She continued to tease, although her target shifted, a cat-like grin crossing her lips as she mocked him, exhaling as she relaxed into a stance all too familiar to her, loose, but poised to strike. Hidden beneath her gown, powerful legs poised at the ready, all outward signs of release a masquerade.

"I believe you are supposed to throw your axe at me then?" She opened her eyes as she decided she was ready, the smirk returning in an instant.

Ulrik snarled, obviously not one used to being teased by someone half his age and height, and a girl at that. Dalton only laughed uproariously, and the crowd began banging their tankards on the tables and stomping their feet, most of them chanting Ulrik's name as he cocked his arm back and got ready to throw. Veron and a few others however took up Baela's name in their own chant and the chorus of voices reached a fevered crescendo right before Ulrik leaned back and let the axe fly at Baela's hand.

Baela was in motion the moment the axe left Ulrik's hand, turning her body so that she was out of the path of the throw, her eyes tracing where the axe would be, not where it was. She had never played the finger dance before, but her father had once taught her to juggle, and she'd since practiced with a variety of often sharp objects. This wasn't so different.

The axe sung in the air, although the Princess had her eyes on the spot she anticipated the axe to be, rather than its flight, giving her just enough time to catch the eye of Veron, her adrenaline giddy grin still in place, before in the next moment, she reached out. The handle of the axe met her grip, and her fingers clenched. She allowed the momentum to carry her, spinning on the spot with the Ironborn's much greater strength, turning it into a throw of her own. She was graceful, but it could not be mistaken for dancing, she was not her sister. Rhaena was a princess who knew how to be a warrior, Baela was a warrior who knew how to be a princess. Her arms chorded, before unleashing the axe, momentum, and her own force, added to the throw, sailing it in the air towards Ulrik.

There was a collective gasp as the Ironborn saw Baela catch the axe deftly out of the air, with many grown men openly gawping in disbelief at the sight. More than one even spit out his ale. Veron and most of the younger men in the hall looked on in awe, and even Dalton had a wide grin on his face. Ulrik was the most stunned of all. As Baela turned to return the throw, there was a great roar from the crowd. The axe flew back at Ulrik with incredible speed and force, and the big reaver made a visible effort to collect himself as he reached out to grasp the axe, not to be outdone by some greenlander girl.

There was a keening howl of pain and a gush of scarlet splashed over a few of the onlookers, including a drop on Dalton's cheek. Ulrik gripped his right hand where his middle finger used to be, breathing in rapidly as he knelt to the floor. He grit his teeth and looked at Baela before suddenly smirking, "I yield."

A cheer reveberated through the hall, with Veron Greyjoy leading the chant of Baela's name. Dalton took up the cheer as well, lifting his tankard to the Princess' honor and drinking heartily, blood and all. Various Ironborn smacked Baela on the back as if she were a man and one even thrust a tankard of mead into her hand as the younger Greyjoy came to Baela and Lucerys, saying, "You Princess keep finding ways to surprise and thrill. I've never seen my kin so enthused by a mainlander. They're already calling you Baela Bladedancer."

Despite the general ruckus and bawdiness of the hall in response to her actions, Baela remained poised, even as she flushed with victory, curtseying, in a manner which was only half a jest, at the receieved cheers and chanting. Her grin became a little less ladylike as the Ironborn approached her most closely, even the wildest of the Targaryen daughters was unused to the physical touch of reavers as they congratulated her, taking a moment to compose herself once their hands had stopped clasping her back, straightening her gown slightly as she laughed along with them.

"Aye, I don't suppose our foes would be happy to gaze upon this sight." Lucerys replied to the Younger Greyjoy, smiling slightly as his concern for Baela's wellbeing drained away. "We'll leave early enough in the morning, but that is no cause to not appreciate the feast in full." The young prince chuckled, approaching Baela to wish her his own congratulations.

Veron nodded his head to Lucerys, "Aye. My kin and countrymen may have seen you as convenient allies. But now they may start to see you as proper friends. Though you might not like having a bunch of salty reavers as friends." Veron smirked and began introducing the royal pair to several young Ironborn nobles, sons and daughters and kinsmen of high lords and great captains or warriors. The feast continued in earnest, with the drink flowing freely and fresh food and women arriving regularly.

Dalton had played the finger dance himself and won against several reavers, then proceeded to get terribly drunk, which only exacerbated his appetites for wine, women, and blood. By the time midnight arrived, he had already beaten three men bloody in fist fights and had taken five women in the longhall for all to see. Veron in the meantime had passed the time by chatting amiably with the prince and princess, and even taught them a few Ironborn shanties, vulgar, obscene, and loud chants that shook the hall with drunken singing.

When the party was winding down, Dalton stood up, stripped to the waist with his black hair askew and blood covering his knuckles. He held up a tankard of mead and shouted, "Cheers to Prince Lucerys and Baela Bladedancer! They're not bad guests for greenlanders!" There was a roar of approval and the Red Kraken continued, "And here's to good food, good drink, and loose women. There'll be more to come. From Oldtown to Lannisport and Harrenhall, we shall take what is ours and write our names in fire and sword. And it will all be paid for in blood and iron! In the morning, we set sail for war!" The resulting cheer was even louder and lusty than the first, as the reavers imagined the plunder and glory they would win.

"What is dead may never die!"
"WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!"