Hour Error

Black Powder Arcana

All those options would be fine by me.

I'm around, just finals week, so a bit pressed with time.

Santa Celia: Coast to Coast

---

Sir Skeleton and Laser Girl
Pearl's Girl, Track 2

---

"You've got the codes?""

Of course, the hollow not-voice echoed through Laser Girl's still developing mind. A skeletal hand reached into the waist pocket of the coal-black coat, handing the other woman a carefully folded piece of paper from within. Laser Girl knew that it was lined with a flowing series of numbers and letters, a password written in lovely red in. She knew better than to ask Sir Skeleton the source of the red ink. She already knew. She'd always known she presumed. It was one of his strange habits. One of his rituals. One of his interests. She might have called it a hobby, but she did not know if he had hobbies, not in the way that she meant when she described playing the keyboard as a hobby of hers.

"How long before they find out?" the voice purred in reply.

A day, maybe less.

"That's more than enough time, baby."

"What gives? D'you really need us for this job," Laser Girl sulked, interrupting. She didn't enjoy torture, even when it paid well. It killed her vibe, threw her off the beat, and she hated the way it made her feel. A job was a job though, as Sir Skeleton said, and mercs-for-hire didn't have time to worry about morals.

"Hey now, honey. It's not easy to get past a Cybozu mainframe, not when it's packed to the brim with Black ICE. Not if you don't want the jerks pinging you, and delivering a package of Semtex within the hour. No baby, Sometimes you just need that human touch, you know? A little bit of that good, old fashioned human engineering," The woman added with a laugh, and a Cheshire grin in Sir Skeleton's direction.

Laser Girl had already decided she liked her. Whoever she was, she was rad. She was a killer, a real killer, a hit of adrenaline straight to the heart. The perfect upper, the perfect boost to bring her back from the lows of ecstasy withdrawal. Laser Girl could practically feel the lovely dopamine, beloved serotonin, and thrilling norepinephrine surging back into her blood. Laser Girl could smell the death on the other women, she'd learned, she'd had too. The scent reminded her of Sir Skeleton, only it wasn't cold that she felt. The death that she felt was full of emotion, and electric energy.

It left Laser Girl with the tingling taste of electricity running across her tongue. She felt alive again, as her nervous system screamed. Begging that she move, that she run, that she escape.

It was all so cool.
It was all so wonderful.
It was all so interesting.

Our payment, Sir Skeleton stated in his wonderfully ominous way.

The woman nodded, and handed Laser Girl a briefcase. It was heavy, much heavier than it had seemed in her hands. Laser Girl didn't bother to check what was inside of it. Sir Skeleton would not have allowed it. He said it was rude. He said there were formalities to respect, and rituals to adhere to. There were rules to the game they played. They were not amateurs. They did not deal with amateurs. Mutual respect, and trust were the necessary foundations of their profession. There could be no accord, no contract without them.

"You can feel it can't you?" The woman asked, staring up into the night sky, moving as if caught in a slow dance. Moonlight danced in her eyes. "I can. I can smell it in the air. I can feel it in the wind. I can hear it in the shadows. The game commences."

Sir Skeleton merely nodded, tipping his hat an inch. Laser Girl shuddered, she feared Sir Skeleton's indifference more than she feared his anger. It was as if he'd forgotten how to be human, how to pretend, and how to feel. If he'd ever been human she thought wryly. She wasn't sure, not anymore. Not that it mattered. He was fun. He was interesting. He provided her with money. He provided her with fun. And that was all that she needed. That was all that she wanted.

Laser Girl watched the woman vanish into the alley with a slow wave of a pale hand, grey eyes shifting out of existence in a blink. Tendrils of smoke fading into the shadows.

She'd couldn't wait to see her again.

She wanted to dance.
She wanted to sing.
She wanted to live.
She wanted to kill.

---

Aquila
Journey Into Night, Track 3

---

The man dangled from the top of the lamp post, blood slowly pooling beneath him in a small puddle. The electrical wire that imprisoned him, was wound tight around his body several times over. Sarah could see the skin around his wrists beginning to turn a shade of blue. She didn't feel sorry for him. She didn't care. He deserved so much worse. He'd earned every bruise, every cut, every broken bone.

She didn't want to hurt him, she didn't want to kill him. Not really, not yet. She felt the steel shifting beneath her fingernails, it would have been so easy. It would have been so quick. Sarah grabbed the man's shoulders, and shook him awake.

"Name," she demanded.

"Wha- Who," the man groaned. One of his eyes was swollen shut, the other opened slowly, and grew wide with fear.

"Name," Sarah demanded again, pushing him. He swayed in the air, and the lamppost creaked in protest.

"STOP! Wait! Sergei, I'm Sergei, Sergei Gulayev," the man gulped, struggling against the torn wires.

"Alright, Sergei, what were you doing in my neighborhood?"

"Your neighborhood? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Yes. My neighborhood. What are you doing in my neighborhood?"

"This is the Wiseman's neighborhood," Sergei sputtered, his one good eye shining bright with bravado. "I payed him his cut, so what's the deal with this shakedown? This is some fucking bullshi-"

"New management, new rules," Sarah said, covering his mouth with a hand. "But I'll tell you what, you tell me where I can find this so-called Wiseman, and I'll leave you hanging here in one piece."

"Leave me here? Hanging? What-"

"Yes. You see I left a lovely note for the police, and all of your stash, alright most of your stash, right by the lamppost. I'm sure you know each other. I'm sure they'll be more than happy to see you."

"Fuck you," Sergei swore, fighting against the wires that bound him, and kicking his legs.

Sarah clocked him with a good left, it was soft, soft for her, soft for what he'd done, but she could tell it hurt. He groaned, and spat out a stringy strand of blood, perhaps a tooth. It was hard to tell.

"Fine, fine. 53rd Lambert Street, the street corner, he owns the pizzeria. Uses it to peddle his drugs. Just, fuck, don't tell him I told you."

Sarah smiled, patting Sergei gently on the cheek, wiping her bloodied hands against his faded coat. "Now Sergei, I'm only going to tell you this once, because I like you, you seem like a smart man. If I ever see you in my neighborhood again...well, let's just say I won't be so nice."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, if I so much as see you crossing 2nd Ave, well, then I'm going to throw you off of the Bauer Buildings. The police will be scraping you off the sidewalk. And that, that will be the last anyone ever hears of Sergei Gulayev," Sarah said with a laugh.

Sarah could hear him muttering, no praying, in Russian as she stepped back into the darkness of the alley. Pulling out small black notebook she brought out a pen and began to write. Names, addresses, safe-houses, mules, corner boys, muscle, and more packages. She smiled, the Wiseman didn't know it, but she had found him, she knew him, she knew his sins, she knew the drugs that had built his modest empire, and she knew the innocent blood that stained his hands.

She was patient. She would prepare. She would watch. She would wait. She would strike when he least expected it. He'd never expect death to come for him from the sky. They never did.

Justice, justice was coming for the Wiseman. And when she finally caught him, she would tear him to shreds, limb by limb, piece by piece.

Dark Streets - Urban Fantasy Noir

Oooohhh, questions, I love this sort of game. :D

@Hour Error - Vera is involved in some sort of scheme at the moment. What is it and how is it likely to blow up in everyone's face?

@Penny

Given the setting, I decided to go for something more interesting than mundane crime.

Having found herself on the streets without a sire or coven, Vera has found the first, best, get-rich-or-die-horribly-in-the-effort scheme. Working for the infamous hobgoblin pawnbroker Herr Wilhelm Strauss, she's currently intimately involved in the theft, and smuggling of an ancient artificial that's positively brimming with arcane power. Far to big to fit in anything but a modest pickup truck, Vera has no idea what the object is, what the object does, other than the fact it's heavy, very heavy, even for a supernaturally strong undead.

All Vera does knows for sure, is that Strauss said it'd be worth their while, and Strauss is dependable, at least when it comes to putting a price on things best left forgotten.

Likelihood of blowing up in everyone's face...well...generously probably not very long (depending on what GM hooks you'd like to use).

Dark Streets - Urban Fantasy Noir

The Bloody Needle

The Bloody Needle is a popular nightclub in Downtown Detroit, owned by Carmilla Krawczyk. Located in a former textile factory, it is a haven for the strange, the supernatural, and the sybaritic. Decorated in a Gothic fashion, the nightclub is a love letter to the Goth subculture of the 1980s. Unproven rumors have persisted since its inception that it is a front for the Russian mafia or perhaps an even more nefarious group of supernatural creatures. However, on any given night, well past the early morning hours, throngs of writhing revelers will be found, dancing within the heavy walls of the Bloody Needle, lost to the music and an innumerable variety of drugs.

Still looking for a suitable picture (happy for any suggestions).

Dark Streets - Urban Fantasy Noir

I'll commence the plotting.

Having recently found an old VtM rule book, I'm pretty tempted to write up some vampire themed night club.

Black Powder Arcana

I'm here, just thinking about my next post, and waiting for a bit of time.

Santa Celia: Coast to Coast

---

Aquila
Journey Into Night, Track 2

---

The sky above the tower was the color of midnight, bathing Sarah in rays of moonlight. The Bauer Building had been abandoned for almost a decade. Lack of structural integrity the city engineers had claimed when they shut it down. Sarah knew they were lying. The building has been stripped of anything valuable, and it was an ugly skeletal thing. A reminder of a Santa Celia that would never be. That could never be. Squatters were all that remained inside. Pathetic desperate creatures hiding in the darkness, protected only by an endless amount of bureaucratic tape, and pending lawsuits. Sarah did not hate them, but she hated their weakness. There was no place in the world for the weak. Nature did not deal in mercy.

Sarah could hear their fearful whispers from the 57th floor. They no longer dared to climb the crumbling stairs past the 40th floor. She heard them whispering her name. The Angel they whispered, the dreadful Angel had arrived, had driven off the scavengers, and the vultures that remained.

Dressed in tatters, scraps of clothing she had found, she crouched on the cold, barren concrete, wrapping her great wings around her to keep warm. A dagger cut into her head, she could feel the threads they had woven through her head. Up-hyped reflexes sending tremors through her arms. Her fingers shivered, opening and closing, digging into the bare skin of her arms. She could feel the razor blades beneath her finger nails quiver, ice cold steel finding purchase.

"You wanted to live," the familiar voice smirked. Feminine. American. Midwestern accent. She couldn't remember the face. She couldn't remember the name. But she could remember the anger. The anger that had kept her alive. The anger was all she had. She had nursed it. Kept it alive with the lost parts of hers, the parts she knew she'd never get back. "Be careful what you wish for."

"Don't look so angry. There was never a way for us to escape, Hamilton understood that, I'm sure a part of you does too. Just lay still and accept it. It will soon be over, one way or another."

Clawing at her skin, Sarah opened her eyes in burst of motion. She felt calm. She felt right. She felt strong. The memories were not important. They never were. She did not need the anger. Not anymore. She was stronger now. Better now. She was a predator. She was a bird of prey. And she could hear the vermin scurrying, scratching, and digging through the city. Filthy creatures. Weak creatures. She would not allow it. Not anymore. Not ever again.

She had prey to hunt.

With a bound, Sarah threw herself off the rooftop. She felt the wind rush past her, and pulled her wings tight against the body. She smiled, seeing the ground approaching at an maddening speed. At the last moment, she enveloped her great wings, and soared into the night sky.

The Hills were hers. They were her territory. Her hunting ground. Full of prey. Full of vice. Full of evil. She would cull the herd. She would restore order. She would make things right. She would kill, she knew. Some evils could not be forgotten, they could not be forgiven, and she would not forget. Not this time.

She knew her purpose. She could taste the certainty on the edge of her tongue. She could taste the blood, she could feel it, warm, and slick against her fingers.

The night was young, and she was a bird of prey.

Raiders and Ruins

I think I might change things up a bit and go for the ultimate of stigmatized characters, a tiefling that casts magic and wants to conjure things.

WIP Just A Skeleton for Now, will wrap it up tomorrowish

Lorn the Tiefling Spellcaster

Name: Lorn
Race: Tiefling
Age: 23
Appearance:
Skills and abilities:

• Sneaking/Hiding/Moving Silently
• Literate
• Magical Lore
• Magic: will elaborate, probably a focus on elemental magic, with a less experience but an interest in conjuration

Weapons:

• Staff of the Wanderer: an enchanted staff carved out of a strange, grizzled wood that seems as hard and durable as metal
• Dagger

Attire/Armor:

• Well-Worn Leather Boots
• Wool Skirt (Red)
• Sturdy Belt
• Wool Shirt (Red)
• Wool Vest (Black)
• Ample Cloak with a Hood (Black)

Other Equipment:

• The Grimoire of Saint Valus: a unique spell tome, reputed to contain forbidden knowledge regarding the much-feared spell school of conjuration
• Leather Traveling Pack (Backpack): containing a bedroll, a mess kit, a tinderbox, rations for a week, a waterskin, and a length of hempen rope

Background:
Other stuff:

Dark Streets - Urban Fantasy Noir

My body is ready.

Dark Streets - Urban Fantasy Noir

Vera the Vampire

Name: Vera Crossley
Character Concept: A young vampire with ties to organized crime. Before her embrace, Vera was a police officer with the ______ Police Department.
Trouble: Vera is resented by her sire. Worse still, she has been exiled from her coven, a veritable death sentence for most fledgling vampires.
Scene:

Out in the Cold

"Well, what do you have do say for yourself, my dear childe?"

Fear surged through Vera at the sound of the familiar feminine voice. In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to follow the sensual tones that drifted to her from across the room straight into the crypt. It made her want to die, to feel the ecstasy of her embrace again, to suffer. She felt so weak, so powerless, and it made her afraid. She was naked without her gun. They'd taken it from her, of course. Not that it would have mattered. She couldn't hurt Teresa. No matter how much she she wanted to. No matter how much she tried. She was bound by her blood, and it filled her with bitterness. Vera drew a slow breath, an old habit from life that she couldn't quite shake. She looked up from the marble floor, and flashed her teeth in a defiant smile that was full of anger, years of rage only barely contained, "I'm not sorry."

"Of course not, Vera," Teresa purred, stepping into the light. Despite her best efforts, Vera could feel her jaw slacken with awe as she gazed at her sire. She was so beautiful. Hair the color of midnight fell past her shoulders. An evening gown in crimson silk, that fit just so, accented an inhumanly perfect figure. Slender arms were hidden beneath a web of black lace, and her reddish brown skin was flush with color, as if she was still alive. Teresa's cherry colored lips pursed into a wicked smile. That same smile that had broken Vera, cursed her, and lit a fire deep inside of her that had almost consumed her."You have always been my most disobedient servant."

"You went too far. You asked for too much. You knew. You always knew," Vera said with a rising desperation in her voice. "You knew I wouldn't do it."

"No, I simply hoped that you had finally understood what you are, what we are," Teresa softly replied, her "I believed in you. I gave you a chance, and you disappointed me."

"You made me what I am."

"I did, yes. A pity you that you could not recognize the wonderful gift that I gave you. I saved you from your humanity."

"I- I tried," Vera stammered, her voice finally breaking. The brilliant seas of emerald she faced, drowned her in memories and desire. They tore at the faint echoes that remained of Vera's soul, and filled her with dread. "You gave me no choice. I couldn't–"

"Oh, Vera, you always had a choice," Teresa interrupted, slipping closer. Vera could feel her nervous system screaming. A predator, a true monster, stood ever closer to her, just out of arms reach. Vera willed her body to move, but it wouldn't listen.

"I'm not a monster, I'm not like you," Vera managed to snarl, fighting the spell that had enthralled her.

"Oh, but you are, Vera. You have killed, you have fed, and you have bled for me," Teresa said bridging the gap between them. Removing a glove, she softly stroked the side of Vera's face. She spoke slowly, sensuously, and each lovely syllable that escaped from her generous mouth pulled painfully at the strings of Vera's unmoving heart. Lost in her sire's eyes, Vera shivered with unwelcome pleasure. There was power in those ancient eyes, so much power, and Vera could feel the hatred that she had nursed so carefully fade from her thoughts. The love that Vera felt for the elder vampire was overwhelming.

"Teresa, please," Vera begged.

"If only you had listened, if only you had learned," Teresa sadly whispered, placing a finger over her lips. "You were so close to perfection. So close. I only wanted you to live. To forget that silly code of honor that weakens you, cheapens you, and binds you to these pitiful mortals."

"Just kill me. You've won. Make it stop," Vera sobbed wearily. She couldn't take it. Not anymore. It was too much. She couldn't fight the compulsion of the blood that moved within her, the blood that had turned her. She felt as if something inside of her, something terribly human, would break and shatter into a thousand pieces.

"No, no, my dear, sweet Vera. That would be so terribly boring, so predictable," Teresa said with a wicked smile. "Your dream, your nightmare must continue."

"Teresa-

"Worry not, childe, you won't last long on your own. Not in this city. Not with the enemies you have made. Not without my protection," Teresa teased, laughing sweetly. She moved impossibly close to Vera, drawing painfully near, her body pressing against the young vampire's body. Her cool breath brushing against Vera's shaking lips, "When the Final Death takes you, think of me, and remember that you chose your fate."

Teresa brushed her lips faintly against Vera's lips, pulling back with a cruel grin as an involuntary, desperate whimper escaped from her captive. Vera could only watch as Teresa turned, and walked away from her.

"Teresa, wait, don't leave-" Vera pleaded, pain, unbearable pain coursing through her body.

Teresa did not stop, and faded into the shadows. Her fading voice a final torment, "I will miss you my dear police girl."

"No! You can't do this to me!" Vera shouted. Her body ignored her. Her will was shattered. Tears threatened as she tried to move. She had to stop her. She had to pursue her sire. How could she live without her? Before she could follow, an impossibly large set of hands grabbed her, hefted her off her feet, and slammed her mercilessly against the closet wall. Gasping for air, Vera struggled, and flailed desperately with her limbs, trying for any purchase, any strike that might wound. Blows that should have shattered bones, met only with unwavering resistance, as if she had struck a mountain, and not a man.

"Do that again, Vera, and I'll keep your head," the unseen figure rumbled, grabbing a hold of the back of her head, and violently smashing Vera's face against the unforgiving bricks.

"Fuck you, Anton," Vera spat back. Her retinas were alight with brilliant arcs of fire, and she could barely hear the thundering voice of the Russian over the ringing that echoed in her ears. Not that it mattered. Not ever. She wasn't going to listen. Not to him. Not to Anton. Not to Teresa's inhuman butcher. She wouldn't surrender. She wouldn't give him that satisfaction.

There was no warning when he threw her to the ground, delivering a kick that sent her skidding against the door with a dull thump. Groaning loudly, Vera tried to breath. Anton raised the young vampire unceremoniously to her feet by the collar of her jacket with an uninterested frown. "Enough. No more games."

"Fine," Vera seethed. She knew she had no chance against Anton. She had seen what the gigantic vampire could do. She wasn't ready to die again. Not yet. Not like that.

Anton nodded and the heavy metal door opened behind her. Vera felt a rush of cold air as he tossed her out into the darkened alley. The door slammed shut and she swallowed blood and the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. She wasn't hurt, not badly. She'd recover soon enough. She just needed to find shelter, she needed to move. She needed to move before they found her.

Crawling to her knees, Vera slammed a fist against the metal, "Anton, you bastard! I know you're still there! My gun, give me my gun. It's the least you can do. For old time's sake."

Vera heard the locks turning, managing to fall pathetically to the side as the door opened.

"For old time's sake," Anton grunted, tossing her pistol.

All steel and lovely, the pistol clattered impotently across the pavement, landing next to Vera. The door slammed shut, and Vera sat up unsteadily. With shaky hands, she grabbed her pistol, and in a single, fluid motion, she ejected the magazine and cleared the chamber. Emptying the magazine in her lap, she carefully counted the bullets. A mad laugh escaped her throat. Nine rounds. Anton had left her only nine rounds. Nine rounds of nine by nineteen millimeter Parabellum. It wouldn't last for very long.

Tucking the pistol against the small of her back, Vera buried her head in her arms and wept. Tears of crimson, the only tears left to her monstrous kind streaked down her cheeks, falling slowly onto the cold pavement.

She was alone.