Ezekiel

WH40k: Dirty Deeds, Done Dirt Cheap! - A Necromunda Bounty Hunter Narrative [Currently Open]

Valentin Vacas

Name: Valentino Vacas

Clan House: Orlock

Personal Demeanour: Valentino embodies the brashness of Orlock Drudges, having grown up on the promise of the gang house, that with enough guts, violence, and good fortune anyone can make it big in House Orlock. Unlike many of the House Gangs, Orlocks pride themselves on loyalty to gang and family above even House and Valentino is no different, still wearing the markings of his Drudge gang with pride. Having grown up in the Ashwaste mining settlement of New Helmawr, he maintains the air of an outlander, moving with a casual calm and confidence which the generational inhabitants of the Hive Cities have long lost as a means of survival. Some might call him charming, others arrogant, most likely both, but burning within Valentino at all times is that drive that first pushed him up and our of the radioactive dirt of his hometown.

Description: Well built, but in the earned, hardy way of an industrial worker and fighter as opposed to the swollen chemical form of House Goliath, Valentino's skin is tanned olive from the harsh unfiltered sun of the ash wastes South of Hive Primus, as opposed to the eternal cold of their Northern counterparts. Much of Valentino's skin is covered in the intricate designs of gang and house allegiance. As with many of his house, the digits of both of his hands have been replaced with cybernetic implants. Unlike many, however, Valentino's are surprisingly dextrous and well kept, the cold iron coated with gold sealant, to only add to his eccentric appearance. In a surprisingly functional final element, Valentino keeps his hair short, the sides shaven down and the rest styled but short. A dark Orlock great coat is the only aspect of his clothing that someone who knew House Orlock only from the wider reputation and description would associate with the House, his clothing beneath red and black in colouration.

Skills: As with many drudges of House Orlock, Valentino is an accomplished brawler, both in the sense of bouts of hand to hand brawls and close-confines gunfights. As with any self-respecting Orlock ganger, he has more than a little skill in both metalworking and alcohol distilling, both skills which have made him more popular than he might otherwise have been with his fellow bounty hunters. Another skill developed from his background out on the Ashwastes is a skill for operating surface vehicles, from the sleek but rumbling radbikes to far larger vehicles key to the mining industry, he has a well-practiced knack for it that few hivers ever need to develop. The final set of skills the ganger can lay claim to, other than passing hobbies in poetry and art of various forms, is that of a practiced mechanic, having grown up far from anywhere that could lay claim to anything as official as a techpriest.

History: A sketch of your character's life and history, preferably until they were made aware of the contract. Give me three solid paragraphs, at least, please.

Equipment and Armament: His favoured weaponry being heirlooms passed down through his dredge gang, a duelist chainsword and drum-bolt pistol, each engraved with the names of those who have wielded them. While his attire may appear ostentatious, other than his great cloak, much of the embellishments are the typical work of House Orlock with a coat of shining paint and fabric atop, armour hiding in plain sight. Alongside these, the trade tools of a bounty hunter, Valentino keeps a well stocked toolkit, which is mostly used for the maintenance of his personal radbike.

Miscellaneous: Anything you want to mention but haven't been able to cover yet.

The Grim Crusade - A Warhammer 30000 RP

Year: 001.M31
The Triumph of Ullanor

The first day of celebration arrived. The event, great as it was, was planned to last in its totality for quite a while, even though the Triumph proper was not likely to last longer than perhaps three days. Indeed, the world itself was a celebration of humanity’s triumphs, and never more so than today.

To each side of the mirror-smooth granite platform, beyond the rows of Ork skulls lining its perimeter and the smokeless Promethium lanterns lighting it, countless human soldiers awaited the arrival of they who would walk the runway, a great sea of bodies that stretched to the horizon and beyond, men and women from all over the galaxy coming together as one united mass of human spirit and uniforms, kept informed of proceedings by innumerable pict-casters and kept excited by vox-hailers praising them and those they fought and died alongside. From these alone, their energy was high - it was already known that, save a few exceptions, every single Astartes Legion would be represented at the Triumph, not to mention the Cult Mechanicum and the Titan Legions; and though nothing of the sort had been confirmed, it was said too that the Primarchs may make an appearance at the event- perhaps even the Emperor himself, first and most resplendent of mankind’s number.

It was said, of course, that so too would the xeno races emancipated by the Edict of Tolerance be represented in this march. Reaction to this was mixed; some supposed there was a plot against them,

And, sure as planets orbited their stars predictably, the first craft descended from the skies above the crowds of man to thunderous applause. A shimmering, auramite-clad transport custom-made for the occasion, as lengthy across as some Titans were tall, its landing was clouded by a burst of water vapour and vaporised coolant as its landing gear extruded toward the ground, cloaking the opening of its doorway as a mass of silhouettes.

Then, with what seemed a sudden burst of wind, the vapour cloud dissipated, revealing a company of one hundred warriors of the Legio Custodes, a formation ten men by ten, all easily nine or even ten feet tall, each impeccably clad in spotless golden power armour itself covered in symbols and text describing their unbelievable feats, who would have easily been the height of celebrations were it not for the fourteen-foot giant leading them: the Emperor of Man, a halo of light surrounding shoulder-length black hair and a face whose jawline could cut diamond, outfitted with His own relics of war. Golden auramite and perfectly-cut red jewels encased His frame in an impregnable defense, the Palatine Aquila that was His personal heraldry borne proudly upon His chest; His left hand was ensconced in a mighty power claw, its curving talons promising an end to all who might face Him; and hanging at His right hip, the scabbard containing His legendary blade, a meager trinket by comparison to the weapon it contained, but a masterfully crafted item in and of itself.

There were no words to describe the moment, other than simply “glorious”. The only sound that broke the silence that befell the crowd was the noise of the Emperor’s transport returning from whence it came, and the continued whirring of machinery throughout. At last, as a servo-drone equipped with vox-speaker and pict-capture moved to the level of His head, He spoke.

‘Rejoice,’ He said softly, ‘for we have come far. Rejoice, for the day is ours, and the galaxy with it; many men and women have lived and died for this day, and many more have fought to see it come to fruition, some even since the inception of my grand design. There is still much work to be done; but rejoice, for this moment shows that there is nothing that can stand in our path, no obstacle that cannot be overcome by the combined might of humanity, and the many soldiers, warriors, and combatants we celebrate this day.

‘Rejoice!’ He called, His command ringing out to the farthest stretches of the crowd even before they heard it from the vox-casters, filling them with awe and empowering them beyond measure. ‘For today, we are almighty!’

The outcry of adulation outshone any cheering that had come before it. Tears were wept, friends were tightly grasped in siblinghood, and the Emperor along with His personal guard began the long walk down the highway toward their final destination.

And behind them, the next of the representatives’ ships began to alight from above...

The first ships to land and disembark their forces came from the Fifth Legion, ships and forces clad in gleaming white and bronze. Prometheus walked at its head flanked by his captains and Imperial Army Generals. In contrast to his Legion, and the Emperor himself, Prometheus had ordered that his armor not be repaired or cleaned after his battle with the Ork Warlord. The great armor was still scorched and scarred from battle whereas each of his captains showed polished perfection. The image however was striking, capturing the same visage as the famous pict captured at the summit of the Ork fortress.

Directly behind him marched the Ancient Dreadnought, first commander of the Knights of Awe, carrying the great banner of the Legion. Around the Ancient walked several other Dreadnoughts each carrying a company banner. Uniquely behind the great banners of the Astartes Legion walked Sentinels with their own crippled heroes in Dreadnought caskets who carried Imperial Army banners, specifically banners of Imperial armies lost to the Grim Crusade, even those who had not fought alongside the Knights of Awe.

For miles the Legion and their Imperial Army attachment marched in blocks of a single Astartes and the ten Imperial Army soldiers they often fought with. The columns stretched for miles, no tanks or vehicles accompanied the Knights of Awe, simply hundreds of thousands in immaculate parade dress. Many groups were conspicuously missing one or several soldiers, or even their Astartes at their head. No efforts were made to hide this however. Squads missing their Astartes leader honored the fallen by carrying some artefact with them, a helm, sword or pauldron. Equally Astartes who had lost men under their command honored them by carrying a small flag with each of the fallen’s medals and commendations.

The Triumph was a celebration of victory, but the Knights honored the fallen just as strongly as the victory itself. Their remembrance was not entirely a somber one, the fallen were exalted as heroes who had earned the Imperium this victory rather than a grim cost. As the Knights of Awe began to finish their section of the parade Prometheus finally climbed the stage and joined the Emperor, falling to a knee in greeting showing humility and continued fealty to the Emperor at the height of his own honor during the Triumph.

Next came the procession of the Stargazers. Though it had been said that doubtlessly the Primarch of the Twelfth Legion would have insisted upon a full procession of Tech-Priests, automata, Skitarii, Sydonians and Onagers, the Legion’s ranks as they marched down the causeway proved to be subdued in that regard. Beyond the columns of Astartes arranged in the Legion’s peculiar twenty-five man Maniples with two rows of twelve Astartes led by a single Commander, the only noteworthy deviances were two three-man squads abreast each column, a Princeps and two Rangers, holding aloft gilded banners depicting the Aquilla Mechanicum. Thirty war cohorts of the Stargazers Astartes marched, representing the fifteen Macroclade Fleets of the Ordo Astranoma that had attended the battle of Ullanor.

To the rear of their procession came an ordinatus tractor and gantry between an assembly of the Legion’s Knights. The tractor was flanked by three Armigers, followed-up by two Questoris Knights, and capped the Legion’s procession off with a looming Astronomer Dominus. Set atop the ordinatus tractor’s gantry was a ceremonial platform and dais upon with the Primarch Augor Astren stood, fully armored and equipped, brandishing his Omnissian Axe with both hands while his six spider-like servo-arms each held aloft the severed head of an Ork Warboss. Upon the topmost circle of the dais with him stood the Legion’s Archmandriture, Mercaerath Kyrius, cutting an unusually reserved figure due to his wholly unaugmented visage amongst the heavily modified crowd of the Legion’s senior personnel. Three figures shared the next step down upon the dais: A single Astartes and two comparatively diminutive figures to his sides, easily overlooked and dwarfed by the enormity of the figures standing betwixt them. The Marine, clad in stark white and ivory power armor, was evidently the much-reviled Corneceus Sicanus, the Legion’s Chief Apothecary. His demeanor was reserved, making little in the way of movement beyond adjusting the ceremonial stave he carried, modeled upon the Prime Helix and capped with a sigil of the Cog Mechanicum. To his right stood Andron Axaltus, a Skitarii Alpha and the leader of the Stargazers’ Skitarii Legion. He had adopted a particularly affected pose, holding aloft a Power Sword and a Transonic Blade alike whilst supporting the weight of one leg atop the headless carcass of a heavily augmented Ork Mekboy draped across his end of the dais. His figure was the only one upon the entire platform to wear the Martian-red robes of Mars, in an unusual show of conservatism on the Primarch’s part. To Corneceus’ left stood a perplexing and nearly unheard of figure of Baron Sigveyr Archarnon, the commander of the Ordo Astranoma’s Knight Legion. Nearly a complete unknown to most of the Imperium writ large inclusive of most of the other Astartes Legions, his unexpected appearance upon the Twelfth Primarch’s dais essentially served as his premier introduction to them all. He was adorned in the oddly ceremonial pilot armor of the Feudal Nobility and hefting a ceremonial saber. Curiously, his personal augmentation struck out as the most unusual amongst the assembled figures: a thin, tethered cable ran out from the base of his skill and connected to the base of a floating servo skull that drifted in eerily close proximity to the Baron’s head, almost seeming like some decrepit figure muttering in his ear.

Why the Primarch of the Twelfth Legion had foregone a procession abundant with more of the colors and blatant insignia of Mars was not entirely clear, though rumors that would spread for weeks thereafter claimed a number of wild theories - that he was attempting to distance himself from the Mechanicum, that he sought to waylay the disapproval of the Emperor, that it was a conciliatory gesture made towards the Primarch of the Second Legion, and more than a dozen other unsubstantiated rumors. More broadly, while the Legion’s comparatively miniscule procession had barely even begun to approach the size and pomp of those of the other legions, it had surprisingly stood out amongst a number of Imperium’s populaces for the simple reason that their procession had been amongst the only ones to feature the titanic elements of their Knights, which so far after the original procession of the Titan Legions had managed to stand out amidst the march.

Behind the precession of the Twelfth Legion came the forms of the Nineteenth Legion, the Steel Sentinels, the field grey of the Neophytes contrasted by the singular mass that was the light brown of the fully armored Astartes that led the columns. The blue glow of their weaponry reflected off of them, giving the Steel Sentinels a stark contrast to the red eyes of their helms. Their march was in near perfect unison, rivalling the Mechanicum in synchronicity as they moved through the Triumph, brandishing the medals gifted upon them by the Primarch Prometheus proudly and with honor. Behind them came the cohort lead personally by Usriel, amongst his gene-sons he marched, joined by his Chief Librarian, Apothecary, Master of the Forge, Head Consul, and the Legion’s Standard Bearer immediately behind him in a single line. Unlike the Twelfth, the Steel Sentinels had not come bearing trophies of war, no ork heads or treasures taken to adorn themselves. Yet, behind that cohort came a great many blackened walls hoisted by moving platforms, these walls were studded with diamonds shining into the air and casting light into the crowds from their reflections and refractions. Under each diamond was a plaque with a name and designation, each was that of a fallen Neophyte or Astartes that had fallen during the Ullanor campaign, their memories and sacrifices being honored by the grace of the Triumph.

As the glimmering memorial passed ahead and the onlookers turned to greet the next segment of the procession, the cheering seemed to falter and grow pale for the merest instant. It was soon reprised by a new surge of acclaim, but the calls felt strained and perfunctory, as though they had only been raised because such was the form for a great Triumph and not because of any genuine love or admiration. For indeed, the force that now approached, wordlessly stepping in synchrony like a single-minded machine and arrayed in the full panoply of battle, had never cultivated anything but fear and unease among the greater part of the peoples of mankind.

The Abyssal Lurkers marched in tight ranks, bolters, claws and chainswords held at the ready, the unfeeling eyes of their helmets staring deadly ahead. Faceless and unadorned, they covered the path like a river, its surface drowned beneath the unending flow of impersonal blue armour. At the head of every vortex came its Skotarch, holding a metal stave tipped with a sculpted simulacrum of the Ninth Legion’s symbol. After him there followed the specialist troops, bristling with shield walls, bladed hands and fearsome weaponry, and the great mass of the legionary files. Finally, the rearguard was closed by the looming shapes of Terminator cohorts. Time and again was this sequence repeated, uniform and unchanged, until the sight began to blur.

At long last, the vortices came to an end. Yet the calls from the crowd did not grow any more genuinely elated, and in truth more than a few soldiers had to suppress a sound of consternation. Grim as the march of the legionaries had been, their bodies had at least borne the semblance of humanity. The same could not be said of what came next – the hulking armoured forms of the Abyssal Dreadnoughts, advancing with implacable mechanical gait, and the creeping packs of the great charybdes, guided by their mancipes and surmounted by the withered silhouettes of targeting servitors. Casting their spindly shadows over all, the titanic beasts Opis and Clymene closed the cortege. Their backs had been relieved of artillery and fitted with palanquin-like platforms for the occasion; thereupon stood Sarghaul himself, unmoving like a statue and surrounded by his Lictors. Alongside him were high lieutenants from among his gene-spawn, the Fleshweavers and the Heralds of Silence, the many-limbed Primus of the Dronemaw and Nuvornal the Elder Manceps, as well as the equerry Issnos Traal, in dark armour with talons of polished leviathan-bone tipping his gauntlet-fingers. Unlike those who had come before, the Lurkers bore nothing at all to commemorate the battles of Ullanor, yet the meaning of that absence was clear, as did their silence speak louder than any words: that they would fight to the utter annihilation of the foe, and not even a memory would remain of those who would stand against the Imperium.

With most of the Legion afield in the far flung corners of Imperial space, from the civil conflict in Obscurus to pushing the boundaries of the Astronomican in the galactic eastern fringe, the contingent of Tears of Dawn present for the Triumph was not grand in size. Nevertheless, Sekhmetara had taken the Emperor’s summons as seriously as she had his command to focus on the completion of her current campaigns instead of attending herself.

In a fashion typical of the Legion, none of the diminished presence of the Mithran legion marched in the ground formation, but instead soared upon the air. A formation of blazing orange and gold seared through the sky, Fire Raptor gunships flanking the dominating form of a Stormbird. The roaring engines of the craft added to the cacophony of assembled noise even as the craft screamed overhead, before banking around and over the assembled procession. The expert pilots of the Tears of Dawn pulled the large craft into maneuvers that even other astartes or advanced flight servitors could manage, flying without the alarm and predictive measures usually contained within the machine spirit of such costly craft. The proud pilots of the Raptora Wing had been assigned this duty from their primarch not because their expertise were not sorely needed across the Imperium, but instead because no force greater exemplified in martial force the character of her Legion and they bore such responsibility with the fierce Mithran pride they were known for.

Their Primarch still in orbit, seeing to the disposition of warriors and vessels throughout the Milky Way, Kaelianos had sent in his stead Modius Lavinus, bearer of the legions standard touched by the Primarchs own hand.

Following behind him came the serried ranks of nine entire cohorts of his Praetorian Guard, emblazoned shields by their sides as they marched, armour polished to a gleam and helmet crests brushed to perfection; it was a token force only, for the Eighth knew no rest, and already the majority of their forces in the Ullanor System were regrouping in orbit before jumping off who knew where in order to face another threat to their Imperium.

Behind the Eighth, came the Tenth. Arnulf Wode, the second-newest primarch to return to the fold, rode ahead of his Legion in his massive superheavy tank, the hybrid Fellblade/Baneblade Return to Sender, waving to the crowds as he rolled past. Behind him, an entire battalion of Predator tanks, ranks and ranks of medium armor, then the Legion’s Sicarans, all their turrets pointing up and to the right in salute. The driver and commander of each vehicle rode with their heads out of the hatches, with the remaining crewmembers stood atop the engine decks, cheering and extorting the crowds to new heights of fervor and exaltation.

The Pact’s contribution to the Triumph was the reminder to the citizenry that the Emperor’s armies were overwhelming, and that the Astartes that made up the vast ranks of warriors were as eager for victory and peace as they. The Pact was an honest, pragmatic legion, who valued peace and the absence of danger as much as they valued the glory and prestige victory brought them. The Legionaries of the Pact were as eager to be here, soaking up the adoration of their citizenry just as much as they wanted to be on the killing fields, decisively ending some affront to the Imperial Truth.

Behind them, came the mechanized infantry, the second pillar of the Legion. They marched, in perfect lock-step, alongside their Rhinos, bellowing baudy marching songs and stomping their left foot in cadence so that a thundering crash echoed through the procession every off-beat of their songs. Normally derisive of ornamentation, every marching squad held aloft a banner of the Pact, either their own banners, or ones taken from the enemy during the Unification of Salient, Arnulf Wode’s adopted home world.

Thirdly, the artillery. As the tanks did, the self propelled guns of the Pact, a dizzying variety of Basilisks, Medusas, Bombards, and other, more esoteric weapons, Arquitor Bombards, Scorpius Whirlwinds, and the squat, pugnacious Vindicator siege tanks all followed in perfect spacing. As the barrelled artillery passed a certain point, the crews fired underpowered blank shells that shot wads of confetti into the air as they made a thunderous bang. The crowd cheered louder and louder as each passing rank of armor filled the air with more smoke and paper.

Eventually, the grinding of treads on the roadway faded at the Tenth’s showing ended, allowing the next part of the procession to pass in review.

The finale of the Triumph was far from grand, the final participants neither counting a mighty Primarch nor god-machines among their number. Their Primarch had already left, and not being the sort to engage in pomp or pride many of their number had followed her. The XIVth Legion did not bring trophies, they did not bring great engines, and they did not prepare grand banners. Instead, those Doomsayers that did take part simply marched in loose order, their procession taking far more space than was sensible for how few were there. But they did remember who they were, and where they were and understood their obligation to give a fitting end to the lengthy affair. Lacking the typical tools to provide such a display, for after so long could anyone truly be impressed by another array of power armored figures?, they made use of what they did have.

As they walked upon the grand procession, the gaps in their ranks slowly widened, and hidden figures slowly became visible. Small, miniscule in comparison to the warriors they were among, they had been hidden at first by the rows of marching women. Yet now as they walked alongside the Astartes, the truth of who and what they were became obvious. Those Doomsayers who had remained on Ullanor lacked a unique display of martial might, but there was one resource within their fleets that they could draw from - one that almost no other Astartes could count upon. Their children. The legionnaires marched with an almost casual cadence, many removing their helmets with their sons and daughters soon lifted up into their embrace or even placed to ride upon their pauldrons.

Where their cousins had marched beneath icons of war and death, where their fathers had marched before them, the Doomsayers focused instead on what their victories had bought, the Emperor's promise so tantalizingly close to fruition. A future where the children of warriors need not become the same. That eternal, never achieved dream of peace.

As the first participants of the grand procession made it to the end of the triumphal way, a monumental sight awaited them. Long had the architects of the Triumph labored, but none so secretly as those that had provided the final trophy. What awaited them was nothing less than the preserved frame of the fallen Urlakk Urg, the greenskin warboss recovered from the wreckage of his dread tower and placed as the ultimate insult to his entire race. A cordon of Doomsayer Revenants who had demurred when offered the glory of the procession stood guard around the massive corpse, their weapons drawn as if afraid it might somehow come back to life. Judging by the tell-tale volkite burns that had scoured flesh from bone, and the neat hole in between his eyes, it was a fear that had been taken rather seriously by the XIVth. But most resplendent of all was a massive banner of the Knights of Awe hanging behind the slain xeno, proclaiming to one and all who had made such a sight possible.

As the procession of Astartes reached the final spectacle of their march, as the titans strode among them and the roars of supersonic engines spoke of the Imperium’s dominance of the skies, The Emperor and his custodes watched from the pinnacle of their triumph. Even for the Astartes, perhaps even the Primachs themselves, it was a strain to look upon the Master of Mankind when he made no effort to conceal or ease the scope of his might. Yet, they could not look away, for all eyes were drawn to the being of perfection before them. As the first of the Legions reached their final positions for the conclusion of the Triumph, the Sign of the Aquila rippled through their ranks, ceramite and ceramite clanging with such repeated enormity it could be heard over even the great warhorns of the God-Machines echoing their same praise.

The blinking lights of a horde of recording devices flared to life at the sight, preserving the sight not just for those across the galaxy but likewise for those across the Triumph itself who would be too distant to behold the finality of their glory. The golden light of the Emperor’s might shone back at him from the gleaming auramite of his guardians, the Custodes stoic in their physical form but ever alert and poised to act.

“When first the Aquila was raised on distant Terra, this day was the promise.” The Emperor’s voice broiled through the air like the surge of a rogue wave. While Remebrancers worked to bring it into being through sound systems across the length of the Triumph, the necessity of doing so was in doubt. All those present felt, more than heard, the power of the Emperor’s own words. “The path we chose was wrought with trial and tragedy, but the cost of justice has always been high. Our aim has never simply been the victory of might, but the vindication of our righteous truth. Not the enslaved peace that has been offered countless times to humanity by false religion and cosmic foes, but peace and freedom both. The right of humanity to rule across the stars, as is our birthright.” Each intonation of the Emperor’s voice stung the air like the building force of thunder, softening only slightly as his words carried on. “The Campaign we have fought here is but a sign of our inevitable victory, a hated ancient foe of our people laid into the dust, never to rise again to threaten us so. Because of our victory, generations of human children shall never need to fear the Beast as their ancestors have. What began on the slopes of Terra has reached this new pinnacle, and from here, only the Galaxy awaits.” The Master of Mankind paused in his speech, looking over the assembled parada as if his focus might reach every soul present, impossible a task as that might be even for one such as him.

“My Children have lead you all to victory across countless worlds around innumerable stars, the Legiones Astartes at the fore, but do not forget that each being within the Imperium has sacrificed that we might stand triumphant today. Each of you, from my chosen primarchs to those who toil to bring arms and armour to the front have earned the right of this victory, and countless others, be they upon Ullanor or at the farthest cusp of the Galaxy.” The whole countenance of the Emperor shone with pride, a sight that could stir even the most jaded of those present, such was the force of majesty in the presentation of this work.

“Thus it is so, that with a heavy heart, for I shall no longer have the privilege of witnessing your glory first hand, that I pass the orchestration of our Crusade on to them, my children.” For the first moment since the Emperor began his address, a true hush rolled out over the parade, not in awe, but in shocking doubt, a thousand questions springing to the mind of those assembled. “I have been your Emperor and Warmaster, but the time has come where one role must surpass the other. Here, and upon the gruelling campaigns of this Crusade, my children and the forces they command have shown that you no longer need my guiding hand, and it would be remiss of me to forsake the governance of our hard won realm, simply that I might keep your noble company. Upon Terra the Aquila was raised, but it is here, from Ullanor, that it shall be raised higher still, until the galaxy, from the Ghoul Stars of Ultima to the far rim of Pacificus are one within the Imperium. To this duty I trust, what say you?”

The question from the lips of the Emperor broke a moment of doubt, shuddering through those assembled like a wave of righteous fury from less enlightened times.

“For the Imperium! For the Emperor!”

Our Final Nights: A World of Darkness Roleplay

Hi, just dropping in quickly to say that I may be interested. This seems to be mostly a discord affair?

@Dead Cruiser

We currently have a few scenes being written in google docs, and we use the discord for OOC communication but all finished posts end up here :)

Please feel free to hop in the discord for a chit chat with us all if you feel like it.

Our Final Nights: A World of Darkness Roleplay

BUMP

We're still going!

Necromunda Roleplay (Group, open!)

Definitely up for it if there's any chance to start

Cyberpunk 2077: The Dragon Rises

You've never backed down from anything in your life, even when you maybe should've. You go through Night City knowing a stray bullet could end you while hailing a cab. But that's never stopped you from taking action. If you gotta kill, kill. If you gotta burn it all to the ground, then let it burn

The state of the world in the year of our lord, 2077, rests on a knife's edge. The inertia of stagnant status quo since the Fourth Corporate War seems about fit to run its course, the titans of war and industry once again reaching boiling point in their hostile rivalry of each other. Proving themselves no better than the Corporations, the remaining independent nation states of the world vie as they ever have for greater control and dominance, wrestling with both each other and the capitalistic giants who have dominated the new era.

This roleplay takes place in Night City just prior to the events of the video game. The players are contractors, employees or simply mercenaries that have been offered a lucrative contract by the Chinese megacorp, Kang Tao. The job will see the group plunged into the cut and thrust of inter-corporate politics in the bright lights of Night City. For this reason, player characters will be accomplished individuals in their own right, but not so influential or capable that they'll be able to stick it out on their own.

A sweet and short brief, but this is after all, only an interest check. If you'd like to swing by my discord https://discord.gg/kMWyKtvZxx for further questions and the like, feel free to do so. An OOC/IC will be following shortly.

The Grim Crusade - A Warhammer 30000 RP

Collab with @FrostedCaramel

Gloriana Class Battleship Ultus-Solis
High Orbit Anchor Over 20-63. Locally known as Praxia

The request had arrived quietly, a single serf dressed in the heraldry of the XVII catching Isabis Khafre in transition between her chambers and some unknown destination. With a simple bow he had offered her a piece of paper, marked by the wax seal of the station of the Seventeenth Primarch. He had waited until the adoptive sister of a Pimarch had finished reading its contents, a simple invitation to attend to the Emerald Priestess with all haste, though the obvious fact that it was a command more than an invitation didn’t need to be stated in words.

The serf had waited quietly as the famed Remembrancer had read the contents of the letter, and with a single hand had ushered her away down the corridor. Without a word, Isabis was led through her own Legion’s flagship, through pathways and chambers so ill-traveled that the two were likely the first mortal souls to use them in untold years. After some ten minutes of walking the Serf brought Isabis into an auxiliary loading bay, one of hundreds in a ship like that of the Ultus Solis. At the far end of the bay with engines idle sat a Serpent Stormbird with its maw open for loading.

Without hesitation, the Serpent’s Serf had led Isabis inside of the darkened troop bay, the first sign that anything was slightly wrong being the presence of two silent Astartes harnessed in at the far end.

With a quick hop from ship to ship, the Stormbird landed in a similarly nondescript hangar in the Serpent’s own flagship, Solstice’s End. Quietly Isabis had been led from the ship by the Serf once more, though this time he relinquished his place as guide when the two Astartes exited the craft and took up positions at either side of the mortal.

The two Astartes quite out of character for the daughters of Nelchitl remained quiet as they walked. Leading her on through the ship through a similarly strange number of vacant passageways and chambers before they exited through a pair of extravagant doors depicting the arrival of the Emperor on Ixhun and into a room equally as impressive. Frescos of the Emperor and Nelchitl in the heat of some obscure battle lined the ceiling, with extravagantly carved pillars of the Legion and its attachments honor rolls tallying endless names of the lost heroes of the Imperium and the 685th Expeditionary Fleet in immaculately small script held the ceiling aloft. In the center of the room, a table lay fully supplied with delicious meats and fruits of unknowable succor, as well as two wine glasses one clearly made for a human, and the other for a far larger individual.

“Wait here.” the two commanded as they exited back through the doors, leaving Isabis to her own devices in the finely furnished room.

Nearly an hour passed before a door, so finely cut into the ornamented wall as to be nearly indistinguishable from it, opened into the room. The Primarch of the XVII entering in her armor before it closed flushed behind her.

“Isabis, sister of my sister.” she greeted her with a smile, “I pray the travel was not too distressing.” she continued as she took up the glass of wine and took a drink. Thinking as she swirled the red liquid within, she looked over the sight of Isabis with a hint of pity for the woman, “Tell me Isabis, why do you think you are here?” she asked, the test in her words clear as she adjusted the weapons at her hip and took a seat in a chair obviously custom-built for her armored form.

There were few mortal individuals who had more experience than Isabis with the presence of the gene-scions of the Emperor, but even to her, their arrival was marked with the quickening of her pulse and the need to forcibly steady her nerves. She paused as she wrung her hands together, her breathing quivering as she beheld Nelchitl in full. Of all of Sekhmetara’s siblings she had met, few had the sense of physical danger that the Serpents’ primarch presented, and never had she encountered them in so private, so proximate, a setting. While she managed to hold herself steady in the presence of the demigod, she could not force herself to drink and eat, not yet. Thankfully, her mind did not betray her, nor her words, and after the brief pause she recovered enough to reply.

“Sire, I do have some idea.” She had long picked up on the Primarch’s favoured form of address and it slipped easily to her tongue. The memories came back to her of the ceremony on the summit. She perfected the art of slipping away from the Auxilia supposed to prevent remembrancers from wandering further than they were meant to many years before, assisted by the lack of desire to restrain a member of a primarch’s adopted family. She had beheld the sight in all its glory, marveled at the work of the divine Emperor’s child yet again, and the offerings they made in his name. Isabis knew her divine work, however, and even that which she found majestical could not be above being used for the betterment of humanity.

“You may fear that this knowledge might come to hurt your daughters, even yourself. If this were true, you would have my undying support in ending this threat in this moment.” Her breathing quivered even as she made the suggestion, while she meant the Primarch no harm, it was entirely another thing to vocalize the acceptance of one’s demise in the presence of the bloody handed presence of Nelchitl. “When I first beheld my sister, I knew she was not of mortal creation, only the divine could forge something akin to her. When I beheld the Emperor, beloved of all Mankind, I knew that I was right.” She breathed shakily, she had not confessed her thoughts so openly to a being of divinity in some time, the rush was as exhilarating as it was terrifying. “I know you see the same, I know you see it in your father, see it in my sister….And I, in turn, see it burn fiercely in you, Sire, as well...And never more than atop the mount of your victory.”

Nelchitl had allowed Isabis to speak, some part of her feeling compelled to listen, like a priest of old beside one’s deathbed she simply watched the mortal prattle on. She could practically hear the girl’s heartbeat thudding against her chest, taste the fear on her lips, though she relished the sensation there was no part of her that looked forward to what had to be done to her own sister’s kin.

As Isabis finished Nelchitl allowed herself to laugh. A mirthless thing, it slid from her lips as she reclined further into her throne. “The only one here with anything to fear is you, dear Isabis.” she said as placed the cup of wine down at her side, “My daughters and I will be fine. We shall endure, but you,” a section of the armor at her thigh hissed as some unseen mechanism worked, a small piece of the armor lifting away from itself as the handle of a blade made itself visible, “your fate remains uncertain,” she said as she lifted the dagger out of its place in her armor. With a flick of her wrist, the dagger cut through the air lodging itself into the table squarely in front of the Mithran.

“You mean to offer your life for my forgiveness? You mean to sacrifice yourself for me, in His name?” she stated as she remained in her seat, a look of disgust painting her face as an insidious smile graced her lips.

“No, I mean to say that were I any other, who does not understand what they saw, that I would advise in ending me.” It took a force of great will not to flinch at the sudden impact of the dagger, but next to the arrival of a Primach, the threat of physical violence was no great shock at all, instead she simply patted down the front of her gown, then looked into Nelchitl’s eyes once more.

“You are mistaken, though. You cannot kill me. You know that you cannot. Not that it is beyond your authority to do so, I am a mortal, you the child of his divine majesty. But that will not end Lady Sekhmetara’s grief, will not end her rage, and if you conceal it from her, she will know all the same. Her eyes are upon us.” Isabis unknowingly spoke the words which would one day carry from countless more lips as she steeled herself in the face of so brazenly speaking to a Primarch, a violent Primarch. Even as she thought it, she corrected herself. They were all violent, demigods forged for war in the greatest war there had ever been. “But we do not have to decide fates….I think this is an opportunity for comparison. I have spent the years studying the cultures of humanity and the works of our great Emperor….I think there are details, similarities, forged across the stars between worlds that have never met. I am forging the map that will show the way to the Emperor’s divinity….I would share it with you.”

Nelchitl’s head cocked slightly to the side as she stared into the mortal’s eyes, a small sense of respect budding for the woman as she managed to maintain a sense of composure even as she faced down a Primarch. Though of course she could, Nelchitl was more than aware that having been by Sekhmetara’s side for many years Isabis had certainly come to better understand the effects of being in a Primarchs presence. “You speak as though you understand Isabis....” she stood with blinding speed, the table that had once been between them twirling across the room as it was lifted in a flash before smashing to pieces against the far wall.

The Emerald Priestess leaned in close around the mortal, her arms on either side of Isabis trapping her in place as her overly sized head came to rest just inches from the mortals. The Emerald Priestess’ brown eyes a storm of anger and confusion as she spoke in a low growl, “What do you know of the Divine? You dare to imply that my Legion, that I disregard the writ of my own Father?”

Isabis closed her eyes at the sudden surge of motion, the only way she could stand her ground against the onrushing demigod was to deny at least one of her senses the ability to perceive them. It was enough, while she could not keep her breathing steady nor hide the quickening of her breathing even further, she avoided the natural urge to cower, instead eventually opening her eyes to match Nelchitl’s glare. In those eyes she only saw further confirmation of what she knew to be true. The broiling wrath of the divine forced into physical form. Even with her sense of utter danger, it still brought a single tear to her eye, awed by the beauty of a God’s creation.

“He thinks we are not ready. He was there for the Long Night, when humanity turned upon itself and erected countless false idols, false faiths, to cling to. He has seen the harm we have done to each other in the name of damned churches and heresies. That is why he must deny what he is, until we are ready to behold the truth.” She had not meant to set forth her dogma so readily, but once honesty had worked its way to her tongue she could not hold it back. Here, finally, was one of the Emperor’s children who she knew she could get to understand, who, in her own way, already understood. “This is why such things must remain hidden, why I am no threat that needs cutting away. I am a sister in belief, as much as I am a sister in bond to Sekhmetara and sister in blood to Kvasi. You know this too, and when the time is right, we will all bask in the new dawn of his light.”

Nelchitl felt disgust rising in her stomach as Isabis cowered before her, to close her eyes while she was being spoken to by one of the Emperor’s children was practically an insult to Him. Though what feelings she gathered at this affront were quietly dispelled as the Mithran once more spoke of her belief. The strange similarity to the Emerald Priestess’ own feelings on the matter not lost on the Primarch as she lifted herself away from the mortal, her features softening considerably as she backed away.

“It seems I was correct in bringing you here Isabis, though for a different reason than I had originally intended,” she admitted as she sat back down across from the woman. A smirk grew on her lips as she seemed to study the Mithran, genuine interest flashing across her face as she reran the words of Isabis in her mind.

“He is magnificent, is He not?” she asked quietly, almost a whisper as if avoiding the ears of some unseen enemy as her eyes turned to regard the fresco above them, “And though it pains me to have to keep such things from the wider breadth of humanity, it is His will that they remain ignorant.” she relinquished wistfully as the memory of her own censure came back to her.

"You are all magnificent. Each of his sons and daughters, a glimpse of the divinity that is him." Isabis breathed, her words barely less of a whisper than the Primach's, now holding her gaze in a combination of determination and awe. "We cannot fully comprehend the reasons for all that he does, for who can know the mind of a god? But still, his acts remain, but those of us who know the truth can still provide the worship that must one day spread across the stars. When we are all ready." The mortal woman's words lost any of the nervous shake as she moved fully into the flow of her faith, the charismatic force of her tone and personality returning to the celebrated remembrancer. She paused as she finished speaking, no longer due to a need to collect her thoughts, but instead heralding the change of her subject.

"I believe I know why he must hide as he does, behind reason and science. In all my efforts to find the Light of His Divinity, I have found….others. Beings who slumber in the great darkness and are made strong by heresy and suffering. He must protect us from them, and in doing so has sacrificed his own rightful place, to be recognised as divine." Memories flooded back to Isabis, of her time as a youth among the Silver Court of the Empire of the Scale, her education as a noble-priestess of the Serpent God. As fresh as the day it had happened, she remembered the presence in her mind, a constant reminder she was right. The memory sent a shudder through her, before she remained in the present once more.

"To be victorious, he will need his champions, his demigods, his children, most of all."

Bringing her eyes down from the fresco of the Emperor above them, Nelchitl lamented that even though it was of unquestioned beauty it held nothing to the form of her Father in the flesh. She listened quietly as Isabis spoke, of some other power lurking parallel to the Emperor Himself. Her interest piqued she leaned forward, the glint in her eyes one of curiosity rather than violence.

“There can be no others. Whatever these things are, some perfidious Xenos race so powerful as to be beyond understanding if I had to guess, they shall be purged as all before them. None can stand in the way of His plans, and that you say such beings exist is…” she shook her head slightly and laughed, “heresy to claim a false idol. Though can it really be heresy if we hold no sanctioned views in the first place?”

"I know not what they are, but traces of them are found across the galaxy, fostered among humanity throughout the Long Night. As much as humanity is not ready to know the truth of the Emperor’s being, the truth of them is hidden from us as well." Isabis spoke with earnest belief, mixed with a tone of desperate warning. She knew what she had felt long ago and had encountered countless examples of others feeling the same since. She knew not why the Emperor hid such from them. It was surely for good reason, but then it must also be his will for her to privately warn those she could.

There was another long pause in her words, before with another steadying breath, she removed a dataslate from her robes, holding it over to the Primarch. "I have been...trying to compose my thoughts, my findings, on the Emperor’s divinity. I have not shared this with any other. I would be honoured if you might read it, and see how our thoughts compare."

“I doubt these beings are anything to worry about Isabis,” she countered softly, “were they truly such a great threat, He would have told his children by now. How else could we face something as powerful as He?” she outwardly dismissed Isabis’ warning, though internally Nelchitl was rife with confusion as warring parts of her own mind went at each other over what was being said.

With a nod Nelchitl reached out and took the data slate from the mortal, her eyes skimming it’s contents even as she spoke once more, “I will look through it, offer corrections or my own views if it would suit you. Though I dare not say that I helped in penning it’s contents if you want my help. I cannot tempt the ire of Malcador again in this regard.” she finished bitterly as she continued scrolling through the words. Though she did not say it, she could see why Isabis was so lauded a Remembrancer as she read through what she had already written. Vast paragraphs of the Emperor’s wisdom were arrayed in such ways as to seem scripture. She smiled and kept reading, almost lamenting the speed at which she devoured the mortals' work.

The Grim Crusade - A Warhammer 30000 RP

The mountain of cushions and blankets which Sekhmetara fell backward onto amounted to a welcome reprieve to the trials of the day. Much as she was hardly one to shy away from the spotlight, often the politics and grandeur of her role as one of the scions of the Emperor could be more taxing than the fires of war for which her gene-enhanced form was built for. Politics may have been in her soul but was burned within her blood. The teal of the two-piece silk shuka drifting about her in the artificial breeze of her private chambers. In a display which would surely be disrespectful from any other, the colouration of her private wear was a slight nod to her favoured sister’s title as the Emerald Priestess. She wasn’t quite aware if her double primarch visitors ‘had’ a change of clothes for private matters, but she had set aside the time and space for them to do so regardless. Failing that, perhaps one of few individuals in the galaxy who could even loosely claim to have ‘something in their size’ was the host and so something could be salvaged.

“Enkosi, Enkosi, hamba.” Sekhmetara waved off the attendants which immediately flocked to the edge of her divan, leaving behind the decanters of Mithran wine laced with the Fenrisian herb introduced to her by the Emperor to enable even Primarchs to experience the benefits of wine. Mithran cuisine, known for both sweetness and fire, presented itself in the form of various side plates. Her people were well known for feasting, albeit with many smaller plates as opposed to the set courses common in other human cultures from across the Imperium. As her sisters arrived, Sekmetara sucked the full flesh of a Mithran date from the pip around it, motioning with her golden glass of wine from her reclined place to the two. “Sit, drink, eat, we are utterly alone, for once.”

Though the ornamentation within the Ultus-Solis was nothing new to Nelchitl, she always found herself strangely at odds with the design choices of her sister. To use such a mighty machine of war as a Gloriana for hosting the delegations of long-lost branches of humanity made sense. To awe the rediscovered worlds with the wonder and immense power of the Imperium’s manufacturing and the ability for war could set the tone before the first delegates had even landed in its vast hangar bays. But the interior had always been of such lavish decoration and opulent finish that it had always appeared as more of a luxury pleasure barge suited to the likes of nobility. Though, Nelchitl couldn’t lie to herself and say that the ship's extravagance was uncalled for, only that she disagreed with it.

She took another goblet of wine from a waiting attendant and waved him off with a hand. The server sliding quietly away as Nelchitl changed into one of the many outfits that had been laid out for her by Sekhmetara. She chafed at the sight of herself in the overly large mirror adorning one wall of the room, the blood red dress that she had chosen looking and feeling out of place on her as she longed to be back in her armor. With a single gulp of her goblet she was done with the wine and moving to meet her sisters.

Entering the chamber Nelchitl made a quick path to the assorted food and drink that had been laid out for them, and with little more than a smile to Sekhmetara finished another glass of wine before picking up a plate of assorted meats.

“Count yourself blessed, as I only wear such things for your amusement, nothing else Sister.” she said as she too fell into the myriad cushions and pillows of the room, “If any of your favorite little Remembrancers take a picture of me in this… Well.” she didn’t finish the thought as she took another long drink from her glass, “This does not suit a Scion of the Emperor.” she finished sorely as she attempted to shift to a more comfortable position in the dress.

Daena fiddled awkwardly with the clasp of her outfit as she prepared herself to greet her sisters, the woman slowly but surely lowering the mental walls she had erected around her true self. Far from finding her surroundings distasteful, she embraced the ostentatious decor as an anchor for her roiling mind. In truth, she had prior expectations to fall back upon for a private retreat with her only peers - perhaps the only individuals in the galaxy she both wanted to and could be herself with. But the charming diplomat gliding among the retreats of the powerful? That was close enough of a role to at least get her through the door. As far as after that, well, she’d play it by ear.

Steadying herself in the way that humans do, a category that she ruefully considered she still technically counted as, the Primarch finally placed the clasp of her voidblack gown in place. The dress was rarely worn, typically only on those happy occasions when newly rediscovered worlds voluntarily joined the Imperium. Its clasp was of pure silver, fashioned in the shape of the Imperial Eagle with her father’s lightning bolt clasped in one talon and a garland of laurels in the other. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she remembered her father’s tailor taking the commission as a personal challenge, designing the outfit from scratch to accommodate her wings.

Drawing one last breath to steady herself, she entered her sister’s lounge, ignoring the few servants that she had to pass in order to reach it from the dressing room. Gliding into the room, Daena let her smile grow - a far warmer and calmer expression than the one she wore earlier in the day. “I think it fits you splendidly, little sister,” the Angel teased, continuing towards Sekhmetara and joining her on the small mountain of pillows. “I hope I did not overdo my introduction?” she asked, irisless eyes gazing up at the Mithran woman, this time making no attempt to hide the undercurrent of anxiety that had clouded her thoughts since her display in the hangar.

“We have a saying on Mithra, a trap with no bait is no trap, but bait without a trap is just a gift.” Sekhmetara shifted slightly to lean upon her side, slightly raised up from her sister she smiled kindly to her. “Those that will not be won by honeyed words might still be won through fear, and if neither of those work, we can always throw Nelchitl at them.” She finished with a moment of levity, her eyes moving with mischief gleaming across them to regard her other sister, tilting her head just a little as she regarded her.

“You’d be surprised how dangerous a picture of a woman in a pretty dress can be, maybe I should sacrifice a remembrancer to enshrine this particular vision perpetually.” Her tone remained light with a teasing, if not unkind, tone. One hand moved languidly to her lips as she lifted the goblet of wine to her lips, savouring the taste and the previously unknown shifting of sensation that came with the touch of the altered alcohol. As swiftly as the Primach would notice a threat in battle, the taller of the primarch sister’s noticed her winged sibling’s lack of drink, and her other hand was quickly stretching to lift a spare from the low-table before her throne of cushioned padding. The wine was pressed to Daena’s hands with a laziness that belied a secret forcefulness. “It will help whatever storm brews behind those perfect eyes, dear sister.”

Nelchitl turned to regard Daena as she entered the room, the Scion of the Doomsayers a far better fit for a dress than she herself could ever be. She gave Daena a vexed look as she brought the cup of wine to her lips, “I am not little.” she huffed, her tone betraying the fact that the Emerald Priestess had taken the words of her sister quite literally, “But thank you.” she yielded to Daena’s compliment before turning her full attention to the honied words of her favored sister.

“I would prefer not to have to kill one of your cherished pictographers, but if you insist.” she smirked at Sekhmetara as she took another drink of wine. With a turn she faced her whole reclined body toward Daena, the silk of her dress shifting quietly around her as she did, “Drink, for these are blessed times Sister, and tell us what troubles you so. Perhaps, though I know I’m not the wisest among the Emperor’s children, we may be of some help to you.”

“I could always take the pict myself,” Daena teased, before looking down at the drink being pressed into her grip with a clear hesitance. To willingly have less control of herself than the already uncomfortable state she was in without psychic barriers was like being asked to strip naked when she was already unarmored. But, after looking into the eyes of her sisters, she relented.

A silence spreads between the three as she holds the wine in hand, Nelchitl’s unanswered statement the only thing on the Angel’s mind even as she stared into the cup. Her wings fluttered down close around her body as indecision wracked her mind, the massive woman eventually giving a sigh of defeat. “I saw your deaths,” she whispered, immediately drinking a heavy draw from the Fenrisian enhanced brew as if to drown the words she had spoken.

Nelchitl paused as she drank, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly as she lowered the wine from her lips. A tense moment of silence passed between the three before the Emerald Priestess abruptly rose from the cushions arrayed about her. Her dress flowed about her form, both beautiful and terrifying as she came to her full height, the light of the chamber catching the fine thread work of the gown and seeming to radiate a soft red glow about the Primarch. She brought a leg up onto the table before them, knocking over a small tray of delicacies and a pitcher of wine as she did. Raising her glass to the sky she smiled upon the troubled form of Daena, “Each of them more glorious than the next I’m sure Sister!” she beamed, “To give our lives in service of the Emperor and his vision…” she swayed where she stood, her eyes watering slightly as she looked down upon her sisters, her precious emeralds.

“Glory to the first to die!” she proclaimed haughtily as she pumped the wine glass further into the air, spilling wine over her fingers as she did.

The warmth of Sekhmetara’s eyes remained on Daena even as Nelchitl responded with the martial bravado which so defined the ‘youngest’ of the sisters in some amount of concern, but mostly with the dangerous curiosity of a huntress. Her sister’s words were as much an opportunity as they were a warning as she considered the consequences of such. Was her fellow primarch prophetic as part of the esoteric gifts of their bloodline, or was she simply mad? Perhaps both.

Finally as Nelchitl exclaimed her toast, the Mithran primarch turned her gaze to her treasured sister, a smile crossing her features as she rose from her languid recline amongst the cushions of her divan, lifting her own goblet of wine.

“Glory Unending, and the promise that we shall all meet again amidst the Light Eternal.” Since compliance the old Mithran term for the realm of enlightened souls, said to become the forge of the stars themselves, had developed to relate to the guiding hand of the Emperor in all things. Officially it was a secular term for the power of reason the Imperium represented. In more whispered tones, it spoke to the Mithran doubt that one such as the Emperor could be considered anything other than divine, with his treasured daughter but a step from the cusp of godhood. “Besides, only I can challenge Nelchitl for martial ability, and I have little reason to kill her, beyond wasting my wine and food.” Sekhmetara added in a teasing tone, drinking a further gulp of wine after their finished toast.

Daena forced herself to look up at Nelchitl as she spoke, but the smile did not reach her eyes. It was far from the pristine formalism of an emissary of state, the oracle quietly enduring the agony of being awkward. The wine, at least, helped.There had been no substance on Irkalla that could inebriate her semi-divine form, and a part of her could not help but enjoy the experience. But it was far from enough to overcome the unease of her visions, and of her ‘younger’ sister’s inadvertently recreating them.

With a defeated sigh she swiftly drained her glass before tossing it aside, the angelic woman slumping down on the mound of pillows. “I wish I could say all your deaths were glorious,” she began slowly, raising a hand towards the slowly spreading pool of wine Nelchitl had spilled. “I will do my best to explain.” The wine slowly began to lift off the ground, forming a thin strand, one of its ends splitting into many. Almost as an afterthought, Daena’s discarded glass floated up to join the display, the stem marking the barrier between the single strand and the many.

“What was is a simple enough of a question,” she said, lazily gesturing towards the single strand. “What will be is far less so,” she continued, inclining her head towards the many ragged strands. “Each of these possibilities could occur, but only one will,” she whispered, the wine glass sliding onwards, wine dropping to the floor once more as only one was chosen. “My own gift concerns endings, and of course not all fates are equal. A man conscripted into the Auxilia may one day be installed as a Governor and die at a great age in his palace. But it is far more likely that he will perish in battle. Most men have simple lives, simple fates, and simple deaths - some preventable, others not. But you, my sisters, do not. I cannot tell which of your fates will befall you, I cannot dismiss the ones which will not win you glory. And that frightens me,” she finally said, her detour into lecture and explanation finally ending with the frank admission, punctuated by the sound of the river of wine falling daintily into her hovering glass.

Nelchitl, still standing with a leg upon the table laughed, a hearty thing, full of amusement and bravado as Daena seemed to shrink within herself. She didn’t mean to offend her dear sister, but her words were simply too easy for the Primarch of the XVII to dismiss.

“And how many of my deaths have you prophesied thus far? Yet here I still stand before you both!” she tossed her goblet clear across the room as her sanguine rose within her and scooped the pitcher of wine from the table that was meant to refill the trios goblets. With a grin she drank amply from the pitcher, draining it’s contents in a few easy gulps. “Your prophecies are not set in stone sister, you yourself know this best!” she insisted as she wiped the wine from her lips, “Those deaths that lack glory I will simply defeat as they show themselves.” Nelchitl finished earnestly as she threw the empty pitcher to rest with the goblet from moments earlier.

She turned away from the pitcher as it clattered to the floor and looked upon her sisters, eyes glistening with pride, “I am no ordinary man…” she motioned to Daena and Sekhmetera after a moment of thought, “We aren’t even men.” she nodded thoughtfully, “We lead no ordinary lives, this we all know for truth. We are the chosen of the Emperor, Scions of the Master of Mankind!” she crossed her arms over her chest as she smiled down on Daena, hope and belief in their undertaking and in Him radiating from every ounce of her being, “He has entrusted us with his greatest undertaking! There can be no death lacking glory awaiting us! We shall shatter your visions and dance upon their shards! Of this I am certain,” she pressed her hands to her chest in the sign of the aquila, “The Emperor protects.”

Sekhmetara laughed in a manner full of infectious joy at her sister’s display, without a hint of a mocking tone, mirroring her salute moments after the empty pitcher clattered to the ground. “The Emperor protects, and he has no greater champion than Nelchitl of Ixhun.” Sekhmetara’s laugh ended with a bold and bright smile, her bare feet gliding across the soft rugs laid out across the chamber as she traced her way back to the private entrance to the trio’s chamber of escape from the wider galaxy, slipping only partially through the dividing curtain with a polite but brief request of “More wine,” to the awaiting servant, hovering so as to never overhear the Primarchs within, but at hand should they be required. The Mithran primarch did not wait to see her order fulfilled, instead pacing back into the room, the soft silk of her emerald garment flowing across her smooth skin.

“How do those wonderful feathers of yours handle being wet my dear sister?” Sekhmetara asked as she drew closer, even as the servants arrived with more flagons of wine, one immediately refilling Sekhmetara’s glass as it dangled from her right hand, while the rest was simply positioned back on the table before the mortal humans withdrew. She did not reveal the cause for her question, instead moving to refill her sister’s drinks themselves, quite pointedly handing Nelchitl another goblet as opposed to the whole pitcher of wine.

Color returned to Daena’s face at her sister’s bravado, the Oracle heartened by the belief that Nelchitl spoke true. Fate could be defied, that much she knew better than most, and none could face greater challenges than Nelchitl. She hoped. So strongly did she hope that without even recognizing Sekhmetara’s question she stood from the cushions and threw her arms around her ‘younger’ sister, reenacting their embrace in the hangar bay but without any of the pomp or formality.

A niggling part of her mind informed her that there was a question yet unanswered, the fact asserting control of her thoughts at the same instant she opened her mouth to speak to Nelchitl. Deciding that was as good an excuse as any to prevent her wine dulled mind from further embarrassing herself, she slowly shut it. Sheepishly, she turned her head towards her ‘elder’ sister, embarrassment soon replaced by confusion. “Well enough, I suppose. I retain the ability to fly even in the heaviest of storms, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she replied, completely oblivious as to Sekhmetara’s true objective.

Nelchitl smiled wide as Sekhmetara praised her. Being recognized as His greatest champion was intoxicating, exhilarating. Her hearts began to pump faster as the weight of the words processed through her superhuman mind and her breathing became shallow and clipped. Her mind swam with the possibilities of others thinking so highly of her. Of her daughters and nieces, brothers and sisters, of the common folk of the Imperium, but no one individual resounded as strongly in her mind as did the possibility that He thought so highly of her. “You spoil me sister, though I am inclined to agree of course.” she beamed, the smile spreading to her eyes as she spoke.

Before she could continue she found herself wrapped in the embrace of Daena, the sudden show of affection catching her mind slightly off guard as she pulled herself out of the reverie that Sekhmetara had caused her. She brought her arms up and wrapped them fully around her sister, the delicate threads of Daena’s dress a strange sensation when compared to the power armor Nelchitl was so used to interacting with her in. She brought herself to look at her older sister as she appeared about to speak, but found only a timid look of embarrassment in place of the ironclad surety that Daena so often wore on her perfect features.

Nelchit, still embracing her sister, turned to Sekhmetara with confusion on her face as the oddity of the question came to finally process through her mind, dulled as it was by the wine and overwhelming emotions from just earlier. “I hesitate to see how this has anything to do with me being the finest champion the Emperor has ever known.” she stated with a laugh before gently untangling herself from Daena’s embrace.

“Oh very little.” Sekhmetara admitted with a grin only slightly concealed by her raised goblet of wine, the hazel of her eyes flecked with gold as her mischief blazed through for a moment, the tallest of the female primarchs allowing her fingers to drift to her own hip as she paced closer to a panel on the wall, hidden among the various drapes and curtains decorating the chamber. There was a brief chime of affirmation as one outstretched finger from her wine hand pressed down.

The transformation of the room was not particularly rapid, but it was dramatic, the smooth stone of the flooring beginning to retract away, steam immediately rising in gouts from beneath as the central portion of the lounge retracted away to reveal the contents beneath. Scented water bubbled, but without the fierce nature to suggest truly harmful temperatures. As the stone slid away to near to Sekhmetara’s feet, on the very edge of the revealed pool, the slotting stone folded into the shape of stairs, leading down into the churning water. With a coy smile, Sekhmetara took the first step, allowing the water to swirl over her ankles, she increased her descent.

“Bring the wine.”

Nelchitl watched with confusion as the room transformed before them. She stood for a moment watching her sister as she entered the water, “I don’t think this dress is suited for such activities. My body glove is back in the dressing area, I’d prefer not to ruin this fine piece if it can be avoided.” she stated hesitantly as she stopped just shy of jumping into the pool. Gazing into the churning waters, the want to simply enter the waters nearly threatened to overpower her consideration for the dress she had been loaned by her sister.

“I must say sister, this is perhaps the politest way anyone has ever told me my tendency to lecture is boring,” Daena replied dryly, looking down into the pool with a wistful expression that soon morphed into a smile. “Praise to you, O mighty Sekhmetara, befuddler of prophets and blinder of oracles, defier of fate,” she said in teasing praise, raising her glass towards her sister. “None of my seers forewarned me of this.”

Warhammer 40k - Brave New World [Shipwrecked Colony RP] (Looking for more Survivors!)

Before Impact

"W...what was that?"

It was a fundamentally useless question and despite the increasingly serious situation, Alessaria still found herself able to grow annoyed at the whining voice which asked it. The young noble woman turned to begin explaining in perhaps impolite terms how clearly no one present would be able to answer such before a far more powerful shudder ripped through their surroundings. Expensive fittings, sculptures and other such luxuries were scattered across the ground as the floor itself seemed to turn, a servant letting out a cry of pain as the sharpened end of a decorative blade impaled them tumbling from the wall. The nobles themselves fared little better, tumbling and crying out as they lost their footing.

Alessaria slipped herself, but she prevented herself from rolling further by swiftly grabbing the leg of a heavy tabled, the shuddering motion of the vessel passing through her, an involuntary moan of pain passing her lips, before the stupid girl asking the questions collided with her.

"Get. Off....Me." She allowed all her frustration out as she shoved the young woman away from her despite the shocked protest of her fellow noble, but Alessaria was already moving, climbing to her feet and patting herself down before starting to stride towards the exit. She still had no idea of what exactly was going on, but she'd already decided that one of the noble lounges was a decidedly poor choice to wait this particular crisis out. As she did so, Trennek, the member of her household guards assigned to her personal protection, moved in step to fall in behind her.

"Alessaria, where are you-" One of the other gaggle of women attempted to approach and speak to her, but Trennek quickly stepped between them, preventing the lesser noble from delaying his mistress any further motion. The lady herself didn't bother to respond, instead passing through the ornate entrance to the lounge even as another rumble rocked the vessel.

"I do believe something is quite wrong, Trennek, and much as I am loathe to admit, I do not think this is the sort of wrong which father's name will be able to fix." She spoke with an exasperated tone as she clutched to the guard to steady herself.

"Quite so, my lady."

"So....what do we do?"

"I believe you will be safest in your private chambers, my lady, I would recommend locking the door."

"Very well, let us be about it."

Matters, despite their already somewhat dismal state, did not improve. It did not take long for Alessaria to make it back to her private quarters with Trennek’s aid, the noblewoman locking the chamber as suggested as the ship continued to shudder and churn.

“My Lady, it would be best if you take shelter within sturdy confines...such as this.” The bodyguard motioned to one of the heavy set chests adorning the room, an action that earned him an aghast stare from the young woman in question.

“In….the box, are you mad?”

“I’m sorry my lady, I wouldn’t suggest such a thing if this weren’t a dire situation, I do not believe the safety of this room can be guaranteed.

It still took Alessaria a moment to recover from the insinuation, but another fierce tremor rolling through the ship made her mind up for her, and she nodded hastily. “As you say.” Trennak was already opening the ornate chest, removing some of the contents in the process, mostly some of the more personal clothing of Alessaria’s expansive collection. Even so, it was a tight squeeze and not exactly a situation the noble woman was used to, wiggling her way inside so that the lid may be shut.

“Stay put, my lady, the Emperor protects.” Trennak spoke with a ghost of a smile, which earned him a tremoring nod from Alessaria, before her world was plunged even further into darkness by the closing of the chest.

Planetside

Amongst the ruin of what had once been a noble imperial vessel, the chest rocked back and forth for some time, before finally tipping over. Alessaria sprawled outwards as she was finally able to take full breaths of air, choking immediately as she instead tasted smoke and ash, the ruins of the vessel, mostly her personal state room, all around her. She choked back a cry of fear as her eyes fell on the partial remains of her bodyguard, scrabbling over to the corpse. A full third of his upper body was simply missing, bisected by some amount of debris in the impact no doubt. With a whimper, the noblewoman fumbled with his belt to remove the ornate las pistol at his waist, her hands tremoring as she held it herself for the first time.

”Hello!?” She called out in as loud and even a voice as she could manage, which was fairly successful in the former, but certainly not in the latter.

Our Final Nights: A World of Darkness Roleplay

Of the five staterooms on the 1st Deck Henry was given the fourth down from the door to the weatherdeck and the stairs. Desks and accents and doors were a dark stained cherry wood, fixtures and switches all the same simple copper finish. The carpet was light and sandy and short fibered yet plush all the same, bathrooms were attached though they were little more than toilet and shower closets with an awkward sink.

Eva was the fifth stateroom from the stairs, the last one, though the stateroom was otherwise no different than the others--save for a slightly larger bathroom for Nicole to shower the funk of the LA Port off and slip into fresh clothes. She never caught Henry emerge, she watched the second helicopter of the evening briefly land. Two women emerged, to her eye’s obvious Kindred just from the surreal ease in which they all but slipped and shrugged out of the helicopter, never once worrying about the blades...a real concern at sea despite the calm state of the waters just outside the Port of Los Angeles waterways. The buoys marking the western edge of the maritime corridor were no more than fifty feet away.

Where Eva sat it was all right in front of her, minus Tina, the bartender tending the yacht’s bar on the 1st Level--the area of the boat arrived at from taking the stairs up, instead of down for the staterooms of the 1st Deck. The 1st Level interior was entirely the bar, and a large lounge with various screens and parallel white sectional sofas, the walls lined with shelves filled with a hodgepodge of books read and shared by small crew and coterie, blue-rays and DVDs, and scripts.

The Captain was no fan of the ship being so close to the wake of larger vessels. They had simply been waiting. As Yanci and Rachel walked around the 1st Level of the exterior to the back of the boat, through the door to the lower level and deck, up the stairs, through the lounge, and into the bar surrounded on most sides by rounded glass. Los Angeles glared in the distance, smoldering with the orange and red glow of fire. Southern California residents knew that particular sky far too well. Tina walked out just before the two arrived.

“Are we sure?”, was how it started. The words were spoken sharply by Yanci, dark eyed and dark featured, her hair in long waves and overflowing her shoulders by a few inches, wearing acid wash jeans near baggy legged and a dark blue wool sweater that stopped at her midriff.

Rachel wore a Prada charcoal pants suit, the pants fitted and finished with a gold plated hollow centered buckle,the blouse black silk and hanging off her shoulders just far enough to hint at curves underneath instead of outright show them; her straight cut bob a dirty blonde and undyed.

The style differences only hinted at deeper differences. And made Eva feel oddly appropriate after a change to black tights with a fine black mesh along the sides shaped like smoke rising up to the thinnest smoke tendril at her knee and a simple white sleeveless shirt simple white Reebok classics on the feet that were resting on the bar. Eva didn’t turn until she shrugged. “As sure as I can be.”

“We’ll be ready if it goes badly,” the tone bordered on cocky as Dre just breezed past the two ladies for a seat at one of the cherrywood tables with matching chairs just off the bar and next to the glass. His clothes were as simple as dark loose jeans, brown boots, and a black teeshirt.

“Which it could. Very badly.” Rachel didn’t look up from the phone, but even she had to admit it.

Mateo was the dandy; purple velvet vest, black dress shirt unbuttoned a few buttons down from the top, dress slacks, calf high boots of polished leather and gold buckles. “We know who they are. We know they don’t know much about Eva.” The exchange of glances between Maty behind the bar and Dre and Yanci, in particular, was fun for Eva. Even if it just kinda meant Maty squirmed for a moment.

Eva had to rescue him. “It could all go very badly. Big gambles are big gambles for a reason. If it works out...we have a chance. If it doesn’t...I don’t see a path.”

“And they may know enough to actually make life suck for a bit,” Matty shrugged, thinking it over, the shrug making his waist length black hair dance for just a second.

“Tell me this isn’t just the next thing, Eve,” Yanci’s gaze wasn’t kind, it wasn’t cold, it was just anxious and darting and scared. “I get the chosen bit, it’s one of our favorite cliches. Those scripts on those shelves are filled with them. We both know how that normally turns out. So what if this goes beyond the pale?”

Eva smiled, if only because what else was left to her? “No clue, Yance. I don’t see a path without their help. So many of them will die if we don’t try. I can’t not try. If you can’t…” Eva’s hands went instantly up near her shoulders, palms out, innocence proclaimed by gesture. “Not to say you’d ever bail. But--”

“--yeah, I get it. I just don’t think it’s good enough. Dre is always superman, until he’s not and he breaks and our security forces break. It’s happened. We survived on luck during the King riots. LUCK. WE WILL NOT GET THAT LUCKY AGAIN. Rachel is afraid we’re the only thing she’ll ever have left in a life she gets to pick, and Matty believes in you. Like I believe in you. But right now I can’t tell if this is really the crazy gambit we want to make or if you’re just being Eva, the first of the Hollywood divas.”

The cocktail table Dre sat at almost did not survive the thunderclap slam his palm struck upon it’s surface as his temper snapped. “WE SURVIVED. Sometimes that’s a matter of luck. That’s the way it works, girl. I’m sorry, but this ain’t helping shit. You been pissed off for months. Life’s never going back to the way it was. That’s not always such a bad thing.”

“The end of the world doesn’t sound fun,” Matty’s voice was a gentle and measured thing after silence hung in the air for long moments, tipping off the curious and problem solving mind behind it, “You’re right, Yanci. I believe she’s right. I believe she’s picked, and why she was is a question we need to ask and answer. I get why she hides from the greater Kindred society. I know what it feels like to not belong to it. Whatever we can salvage...for us, for them...certainly I’m the newest of us yet I cannot help but feel confident in saying this is who and what this coterie is. Just trying is what we would do. Help. Keep ours as safe and normal as possible in the process. We’ve worked for a while to outfox the Inquisition digitally. I’m confident in our work.”

“There’s no stopping them. I have to try to manage it and take care of them.”

Rachel’s pained amusement made Yanci shake her head, and sit down at the other cocktail table. “Okay.”

For now, Eva thought, it would have to be enough. Henry and Nicole were stirring. “We’ll see what Henry has to say.”

“And Nicole?”

Every pair of eyes in the bar went to Eva. If she could have blushed…”I guess so.”


One habit Grace had acquired was a tendency to judge people by where they liked to discuss business. The fact she was willing to meet with someone who chose the lounge of a yacht showed how far things had diverged from normal circumstances. Julie and the helicopter had returned home, Grace had gotten to the yacht by other means. A quick cost-benefit analysis was what guided that decision, the stakes demanded that someone go to the meeting, but the risks involved meant that exposure should be minimized. Julie’s inexperience wouldn’t add enough value to justify the added risk. Even Grace, with her many layers of precautions, felt uneasy standing in the doorway of the lounge. She wore one of the outfits she always did, selected to be as generic and unmemorable as possible, unbranded and composed entirely of shades of black and grey.

As she scanned the room the roster of Eva’s friends looked different from how Grace remembered them from their first meeting, back a sunset, but the intelligence files she had offered no explanation. The one with the most detailed file was Rachel, but it was almost entirely about her mortal life, from the days when she had been seen as a potential recruit to the cause. Old information, but not without value. It would be easier talking to her than trying to understand the network of social interactions unfolded before her; Eva was the center of everything but to understand all of centuries worth of accumulated details and norms was not practical. Grace only had time for what could be measured, not ill-defined social ties. When there was a pause, she walked near Rachel and said:

“Miss Fields, it is nice to see you again. It’s a shame that our interests don’t allow us to work together more often, if certain events had been different we may have been part of the same organization, in the same cohort even. If we had met twenty years ago I’m sure we’d be discussing Harvard’s infamous Math 55 course and comparing our scores on the Putnam Exam, but I do not know if you are the same person those old files depict. I have other concerns these days, and I believe you do also.”

Rachel could internally debate the likelihood of a 'chosen one', but she had maxed out her allotment of eye rolling for the day already--and if Mateo was to be believed being 'chosen' was unlikely to end well; just look at Caine, the logic went. So when the human magic user walked over and began speaking, Rachel actually smiled at the distraction.

Distraction was welcome, interest piqued was quite another thing when Grace brought up old files. "Old files on me? How flattering." Unlike Eva and Yanci, Rachel's tone was nearly void of the emotions the two Toreadors rode upon the unlife with.

But the line of 'I do not know if you are the same person those old files depict'...actually made the Ventrue laugh. A full, hard, if short lived, bark of laughter before quickly returning to her former composure. "Wow. Um...yeah, I'm mostly the same. Except for not being alive, I suppose, and a taste for blood."

"And fangs," Dre chimed into the chat he wasn't part of, but was overhearing all the same, as he stared a hole into the table at which he was seated.

"Ah, right, and fangs. I'm not that old. Eva tells me about the Anasazi people of early North America, Yanci recalls California before it was ever part of the US. Andre is a former slave and soldier of the Civil War. I'm a child relative to that, and too young to have begun to lose who I am to the 'monster' yet. The older you live as one of us, the further away from the human you were you find yourself. There are very rare exceptions; such as Eva. But me? I'm still me. Just less naive."

Grace was happy that the conversation was smoother than she thought it would be. Although they were close to the same age, neither spent much time with the typical concerns of someone approaching middle age in terms of human years. Grace continued with the formal pattern, if things got slow she could always fall back on the few jokes about Harvard and Stanford she knew.
“After this, if things are more relaxed and any of your friends wish to use some their experiences to correct errors with current historical studies regarding those time periods, they are welcome to contact me. I can nudge the scholarly consensus in the correct direction.”
“As for changes, I’m always wary about how reliable anyone can be when analyzing themselves. Memory is troublesome, it’s not as though people can store them in a Merkle tree so they can guarantee their integrity.” Silently, Grace corrected herself. Most people can’t. “Anyway, if you still have your taste for philosophy, this all reminds me of a famous hypothetical.
Are you familiar with Donald Davidson’s Swampman thought experiment? If you take a human and create an exact replica down to the last particle of matter, is it the same person as the original? If the copy remains and the original dies, is that person still alive? And would that copy, holding all of the memories and personality of the original but having experienced none of their actual life, even know anything was amiss? It’s an interesting idea that crops up in all sorts of places, including the works of a particularly irritating British comic book author and self-styled anarchist wizard who has so far managed to avoid our attempts to eliminate him. I’ve yet to see if any of that makes it into the TV adaptation of Swamp Thing.“

"Ask Yanci. At the moment she's managing Hollywood. I do know she's no fan of Mr. Moore; you can't be in this coterie and avoid comic books. For example if you think Kevin Feige is a mere mortal and not a conduit of greater artistic expressions and media minds...well."

Rachel shrugged, preferring to say no more on that subject lest she violate the privacy of Hollywood's creative circles. Especially the more hidden circles.

"I remember first getting exposed to the idea in Star Trek. Now Eva and Yanci have it popping up in modern classics like Rick & Morty." The word 'classics' had a certain exaggeration when spoken; though Rachel was cautious not to go further.

Yanci was quite fond of the adult oriented cartoon.

"As for after this...I don't know. That was the heated discussion we just let go: how suicidal is this? What if the Inquisition knows more about us than we think? What if they care more about studying Eva than helping her save the world? She wants to walk right into an Inquisition higher-up meeting. Lay the situation out to them. Not unlike what she did with you. I think we're waiting on Henry and Nicole to chime in."

"And her."

The addition came out of Eva’s mouth, even as her attention appeared as if it stayed on her quiet chat with Mateo at the bar the whole time. "Yes, obviously, yourself included."

The quiet lapping of waves and the gentle roll of the boat from time to time the only other sounds besides the low dull hum of the yacht’s engines.

Scientific literature was the only media Grace consumed for fun. Not that she’d had much fun lately. The best ones were too classified to share anyway. Grace avoided looking at Nicole, not quite apologizing about the ejection ; that was just a way to make sure that the helicopter and her subordinate were secure while allowing their passenger to get to her destination. She said
“Your chance of success rests on how persuasive you can be. I have reason to believe you are quite effective at that, even if I don’t know the specifics of your methods.” Grace’s belief in that was why she always took such precautions when meeting with vampires. Finding out how powerful they could had only increased this drive to be prepared.
She continued.

“Aside from that, you can try and plan, hedge your efforts to lessen the impact of a failure, but never assume you have a deeper bag of tricks than your adversary. That kind of hubris kills operations. So, what exactly do you want from the Inquisition? Just for them to stay out of your way, or do you see a role for them? I might be able to help but I admit I don’t spend much time thinking about them, they’re kind of like our mentally unstable cousin.”

Barely making her way through the doorway leading into the lounge, Nicole simply stared across the room, surveying the posh area and the collection of members, mostly part of Eva’s group. Her Coterie, as it were. The word didn’t resonate much with the Gangrel, as most of the terminology and lifestyle verbiage of Kindred society was still so very new to her, that the meaning was only surface if anything. She remembered Eva mentioning “Family” more than once, when referring to her coterie, so the significance was certainly greater to the Elder Toreador. Nicole’s family -her mortal family- were still back in Fresno, hopefully as secure as could be, with the only knowledge of their daughter as being dead. Perhaps that was the way it had to be.
Forever.

Arms crossed and leaning against the glass walls near the entrance, the Gangrel hadn’t moved from the spot in the last few minutes, unsure of where to position herself in a room of people she mostly didn’t know. Her arrival was...fairly unorthodox to say the least, and Eva insisted the girl take a shower and change first before joining them in the lounge and being subjected to all kinds of questioning by her coterie. Or so Nicole assumed would happen. She was the new blood after all, and could feel the eyes. Even though most were engaged in their own conversations at the moment, a sense of scrutiny could be felt as though the woman had been standing near the doorway completely naked with all of her secrets out on the table. She hated the feeling. Being there was quite uncomfortable for many reasons.
Speaking of…

She saw Grace across the room and screwed her lips up a bit, staring only daggers at the Agent in black for a moment, as an otherwise subdued anger was felt rising from the pit of her stomach. She felt betrayed by the woman. Neglected almost. Tossed out of the chopper’s belly like a piece of meat. But, Nicole also should have expected such a dick move. They were not friends. At least not currently. Probably never.

As if by some saving grace, however, a still small voice in the back of her head essentially nudged her enough to simply “drop the matter”. It was that same stern, yet tender voice she’d heard on multiple occasions in the past. Was it a telepathic connection she shared with Eva, or was it implanted in her memory as a safeguard? Just the thought of such supernatural fuckery was enough to make her head explode.

“I need a drink.” Nicole mumbled, making her way to the bar while fidgeting with the silver button on the slim fitting blue jeans she borrowed, to go with a heather gray long-sleeved t-shirt and a pair of white Adidas Superstars, which she’d never had worn if it wasn’t for the fact that her boots were drenched like the rest of her clothing. Free is free. Thankfully, Eva took the liberty of having Nicole’s stuff washed and dried during her stay, although knowing as much as she does about the Toreador, the Gangrel’s previous wardrobe was most likely dumped into an incinerator.

Henry paused before he entered the lounge, one hand pressed to the nape of his neck. He felt the two small pinprick incisions healing beneath his touch, the skin that was all too human when he wished it to be reknitting beneath the surface of his digits. It was a lesson learned even by ancient beings. Never walk into a classroom of kids covered with love bites if you wanted to avoid gossip.
"Fix us one, would you love?" Henry spoke as he walked in, nodding to Nicole as she moved towards the bar. The time between his arrival and now had done wonders on the man's condition. Most importantly, he no longer burned with the barely contained fire of his buried true form, but secondarily to that, his right arm no longer felt like it was hanging on by shreds of skin alone. Bloody Furries.

"Don't get them talking about Hollywood, we'll be here all bloody week." Henry added, towards Grace, as he found himself a seat, reclining back as he allowed the plush surface to take his weight in full. If he focused hard, the feel of fire, fang and claw could be pushed to the back of his mind for the moment. "Do carry on." He finally added, in a voice wrapped in a very different English accent to normal, the well structured tones of received pronunciation masking the Cockney London gangster for the moment.

Nicole could definitely smell -no, almost taste- the scent of the beasts that permeated from Henry Locke, as he passed by and took a seat with the others. It was totally foreign to her, but there was certainly something odd about it, turning up her nose for a moment, before pouring a couple of drinks for her and Henry. She could recall the scent a few times within the two weeks of her journey alone in the wilderness, away from most of the population. Hiding. Trying to understand herself and what she was. The scent was that of more animals than undead. Could it have been the werewolves she had heard about? Lupines, as she had heard them referred to with utmost disdain.
Paying little attention to her current moment, distant thoughts ran away, causing her to overpour the drink and create a small puddle of blood-infused bourbon along the granite countertop. “Shit.” She grumbled, soaking up the liquid with a stack of paper napkins, before taking both glasses and heading over to where Henry was seated

“It’s probably nowhere near as good as what you’d make.” Nicole leaned in to hand the drink to the other before making her way around to where Eva had been seated, and plopping down on a barstool.

“Hi.” She whispered to the Toreador, cracking a half smile. Nicole couldn’t help but feel guilty for leaving Eva as she did back at the villa all those weeks back, but she also knew that the Elder understood how much havoc the Gangrel’s blood was causing within. Being a relatively new vampire was anything but comfortable.

“Look, I’m sor-”