Justric

World of Darkness (Boston)

Sabbat War Leader? Done and up for approval.

World of Darkness (Boston)

Faction Name: The Drummers
Allegiance: Sabbat
Location: "Wherever the Arch-Bishop fucking says we're needed."
General Information: A small pack of 3 Panders led by (and including) Annabella

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Name: AnnaBella "Pony" Shepherd
Generation: 8th
Clan: Pander
Disciplines: Celerity, Dominate, Presence, Potence

Personality: Pony is what the Sabbat created her to be, a soldier in the war against the Camarilla: direct, cold, aloof, and ruthlessly efficient. She does not abide by cruelty for cruelty's sake, but nor is she particularly merciful. Nor is Pony stupid; while shock troops and direct assaults against Camarilla strongholds are tried and true methods of Sabbat tactics, she is not above using what she regardless as legitimate ruse de guerre to accomplish her goals. Adhering to and advocating the tenets of The Path of Honorable Accord, she disdains those members of the Sabbat who revel in their debaucheries, conceding their possible uses yet being well aware that such indulgences can easily distract one from the struggle against the Jyhad. Pony is well aware of the potential uses of her innocent looks against humans, but refuses (and to a great degree doesn't even know how) to use them as such. Anything smacking of such concepts as love, romance, sexuality and the like can be confusing and so are treated with scorn when applied to herself.

Biography:
AnnaBella vaguely remembers parts of her mortal life, but not many and those only in flashes. She doesn't really care to find out and dismissive of clinging to any of it. She knows she was born in 1873 in Boston... and that her family was well off if not rich, something to do with whaling... and she remembers wearing pretty dresses... but that's about it.

The only first clear memory she has is of climbing out of the earth with an incredible thirst for blood. Naked and crazed, she attacked the first thing she saw: a man watching over the farm field from which she had scraped herself out of. The man was caught off guard and drained of every last drop of vitae, making AnnaBella incredibly strong and fast all in one go. Others came then, men and women in a wide variety of clothing and from assorted backgrounds. They treated her like a wild animal, her frenzy such that they could do little else with her especially when a handful of others began to rise up out of the earth with crazed expressions and growling for blood. It was only when a tall, elegant woman with piercing eyes began to speak to AnnaBella and those with her that they all began to calm down, AnnaBella fighting the hardest to resist. Clothes were brought, and more blood, and these newly created vampires were crudely informed of their new existence. They were called Shovelheads, and regarded as disposable soldiers in the war against ancient monsters and their children; told if they could survive long enough, these fresh risen undead were scoffingly reassured they would be inducted into the Sabbat proper. Funnily enough, AnnaBella had already scored a point in their favor by killing the Brujah who had been watching over the buried recruits; if he wasn't able enough to defend himself against a freshly risen neophyte (one who they then realized was clanless!) he obviously was of no further use to the Sabbat!

The next year brought several brutal clashes with the enemy, a group she had come to know as the Camarilla. By 1892, AnnaBella was the only Shovelhead of her party remaining and so fully inducted as a member of the Sabbat. That was when she received the nickname of Pony, for she always wore her fine blond hair in a braided ponytail. All those years of fighting in the urban environment had given her experience and the ability to plan fluidly that was hard for the older, more hidebound vampires to match. She proved time and time again her resourcefulness and effectiveness in combat, yet because of her clanless status she was forced to drift from pack to pack in an attempt to find a place where she would be treated some some accord. It never came.

Not until the Third Sabbat Civil War of 1957 and the rise of Joseph Pander; Pony had thrown her weight in behind the influential Caitiff leader and was there when she and the others like her were awarded the status of Honorary Clan - the Panderers. Still in Boston, she rallied the Panders to her and formed her own pack, the Drummers. Consisting of anywhere between 3 to 12 members at any one time, this new pack carved a niche for themselves under Ponys leadership: recruitment.

With her as their Ductus, she organized and lead the local Sabbat on recruiting missions to create more Shovelheads as shock troops. Their name, the Drummers, came as an allusion to the drums used by 18th and 19th Century recruiting sergeants and from the habit of placing potential recruits in steel oil drums before burying them or dumping them in the ocean; Pony only wanted those recruits who were either strong or resourceful enough to survive such an ordeal. Anyone too weak or too dumb to get out on their own was a waste of vitae and time. She didn't think it was an unreasonable method, for she wasn't so cruel as to weld the barrel shut before being being buried...

For her services time and time again, Pony was given by the ArchBishop the unofficial title of War Leader. The past two decades she has made the most of her position, forging contacts and securing weapons for use. In times of war, she would oversee the direct action against the Camarilla or any other foes that threatened the Sabbat. She takes great pride in her work, and while not fanatical the Ductus is dedicated to the cause as a Moderate.

Appearnce:

Never Lose Your Hat!

Oh, god, this is going to be heartbreaking, isn't it? I have this horrible image of her turning him human again unthinkingly, or having to perform drastic changes for him to live, or him waking up in the middle of the night to find her hovering over him...

(Grins)

Have I said lately how much I love writing stories with you?

The Highwayman Came Riding

Hmmm... I'm debating on whether or not to close this scene to move back to our other characters briefly.

Not too much longer, though, we should have Reynard hold up Fanny's carriage.

The Daemon Lover

Beneath the dark half mask of the Cuckoo’s visage, the man smiled in delight at her challenge. While his thoughts were hidden, it was clear that he found her request all too much to his liking. Laughing outright, he clapped his hands together to applaud her slowly in great appreciation for such her quick wit and cunning dig.

“Had you asked for some of those others,” the Devil admitted candidly, “I would have easily granted them, of course.”

“Money?” He snorted in distain. “Tis nothing more than the illusion of power and possession, a clinking and clanking of coins that are pretty enough to look at but have no real worth! Give a man a coin, he might purchase a tuber. Give him a tuber, and he may grow himself a farm. And you have wealth enough, your Majessty, so what good would more have done but to leave you so empty as to only be filled with greed.”

“Beauty eternal? Would you have me turn you to basalt and granite, frozen forever in time as you are for men to pine over and beg you to come to life for the price of their tears?” He gestured with a finely gloved hand at the stars overhead. “Or perhaps to make you a constellation in the sky, forever blessing wayward sailors with you grace and guidance, damning them to shipwreck with your name upon their lips or seeing them home to their wives and lovers in blessing at your merest whim?”

He looked back at her, pleased to part of her game and willing to give her the full knowledge of what consequences might have befallen her should her request have been so base. The Cuckoo leaned against the rail now besides her, thoroughly enjoying her company.

“And what is wisdom?! Even those who claim themselves to be wise can not agree on its foundations, and those who are so foolish as to actually be wise never see it. So what good does it do them?! Were I to grant you wisdom without your paid effort into it, you would have had a tool that you could never see nor use. And so I would have had to cheat you from the outright!” He made a face, his lips childishly pouting. “What fun would that have been for either of us I ask, your Majesty?”

The petulant expression vanished back into merriment as he continued to detail her rejected desires. “Murder. Most. Foul. That would have been difficult, I admit. The Devil does not murder or kill, your Majesty, never welds the knife, never drips the poison into the chalice nor sets the noose about the convict’s neck. I merely offer up the blade, bottle the venom, sell the rope. In doing so, the Devil allows the person to commit the act… and so murder his or her own soul. Still, I’m sure I could have accommodated you in the end.”

That same gloved hand waved back towards the ball, well underway with more livelier cadences now coming from the orchestra. Bodies whirled and twirled about, colorful displays moving about like so many enchanted flowers as they danced in their perfumes garden beneath the Baron’s gaze. “You well could have asked me for that which your father has sent you,” he coyly teased her, “to discover my nature and my reasoning for being here, to root out enemies and spies beneath his roof that remain undiscovered… Only I doubt the answers would have done you any good.” The Devil shrugged dismissively. “Again, it would have been a bad bargain for you anyway.”

His eyes narrowed then within his mask’s eyeholes, seeing the Swam Queen and Seraphina more clearly of rate first time. “But to make you… happy. Truly happy. And without harming another or allowing them to suffer!” The way the Cuckoo gave a low whistle of appreciation and shook his head in disbelief conveyed the depths of how well she had impressed him with her guile. “Such a challenge! Such a puzzle! And to do so by the next moonrise! It has been… a long time. There was a tale of the last time, a tale forgotten save in the dustiest of tombs and beetle eaten scrolls. So forgotten… that even the Devil Himself sometimes can not recall it…”

The Cuckoo leaned against the balcony’s balustrade in silence for several moment as he gave grave consideration to her request. Licking one corner of his lips, he nodded in consent. “So be it,” he announced quietly. His tone was darkly serious and somber, yet all the more honest for it. “Between now and the next time we see the moon rise from this spot, I shall endeavor to make you truly happy without harming another soul or body in the undertaking or its completion. But you must do as I bid you, to play your part in this story despite your fears and be assured that your virtue and safety shall be held inviolate save by your own wishes. Should I fail…”

He trailed off, his eyes downcast and sad as he pondered the costs of failure. “Should I fail, my penalty is that all I own is forfeit. Lands, wealth, possessions… and my very self. I shall quit this realm and not trouble it again in your lifetime and half that again.”

Was there magic in the air? If not, then how came that feeling of knots tying and mortar settling stones in their place? His words had lives of their own, and those lives now bound him to their service in such a manner that tingled the nerves and prickled the hairs upon the back of the neck.

And then, just as abruptly as the sensation came, it fled away into daydreams and fancies.

The Devil masked character righted himself from off the rail, his somber expression settling back into bemusement. “It is good that you did not ask for a love that is true,” he admitted charmingly. “For that is one thing that I can not grant. A love that is true is only as true as the love that is given. If the love was not true in your own heart, your Majesty? Then you could never received true love from another, even were his heart bejeweled and given to you upon a platter of silver.”

“That being said,” he abruptly smirked as he drew near. The Devil bent low to whisper in her ear, a seductive tickle as his warmth breath flowed words for Seraphina alone. “Meet me in the stables in a quarter of a candle. Tell no one, for if anyone has the knowing of it then your wish can not even begin to come true. I have a great stallion saddled and waiting, and I shall show you such sights as to try and make you smile and bring you true happiness.”

World of Darkness (Boston)

What do you folks think? I know Garou are full up. Camarilla, Sabbat, or Hunter?

Oooor... I could do an Autarkis with enough mojo to survive on her own.

World of Darkness (Boston)

Going to start work on a second character soon just to get things moving.

The Highwayman Came Riding

Oh, that was sweet... They're starting to fall in love not just with each other, but with their shared dream.

World of Darkness (Boston)

Haverton sat several miles west of Boston, a tiny town half forgotten by time and sometimes the locals themselves! Boston remained a good forty minute drive out, enough for only the most dedicated commuters to bother with. The rest of the town occupied themselves with... supporting the town. A small grocery store, a gas station, a few antique shops and boutiques that rarely saw outside business; the firehall, police station, the town court and clerk, and the council chambers all shared the one building. Not that there was much call for any of them. Among the chaos of the world, those who lived in Haverton existed in a quiet repose of peace and dreams. It served as a haven for lost artisans and painters, writers who wanted away from the distractions of life for a bit. The trick, however, was not just in the hearing of it. Finding it was difficult at best.

Buried among the trees of the Massachusetts forests, a wrong turn on any of the various back roads that passed nearby would leave you either in another town altogether or hopelessly lost. Haverton's one main street, lined with turn of the century buildings and with tiny lanes running off towards Victorian houses, ended in a cup-de-sac a mile outside of town. The remains of an asylum, with stone walls and burnt out windows, stood like an ancient and forgotten castle there. That single main road heading southeast out of Haverton was also the only way in. So small was the town that it did not even warrant stoplight any of the intersections. Robert found his home town to be relaxing. The people who lived there were much like his family had been: quiet, polite, and... slightly different from the rest of the world. And the only people who ever entered were those who knew how to find it to start with or those who were well and truly lost.

Better than the town was his own home. The sprawling farmhouse with no farmlands around it was at the end of a country lane that led deeper into the woods and then stopped, as though the dirt road's only existence was to provide access to the house. And such a house it was! Originally, the builder had intended a small four room house. Somehow, under the care of the Chandler family, it had grown! Additions had been tacked onto the sides by amateur carpenters, spare rooms and closets sprouted at odd angles on the second floor, and few of the windows matched in either construction or size. Sections of the wooden house had even been painted with different colors unified only drabness! The only thing unifying the house was the carvings.

Over the generations, the Chandlers had left their marks upon the structure. Glyphs! Wardings! Runes! All manor of symbols had been carved into the wood around the doors and windows, and etched into the stone foundation as well! Amish hex signs fought for space with Nordic carvings, while a mezuzah hung in each door and window frame. Those wooden frames had been painted bright red and were kept well painted even as the rest of the house looked in need of some love and care. Robert tucked his iron knife into its sheath as he stepped back to examine his own latest addition: a hamsa just above the outside knob to the front door. The purpose of all of this was the same now as when his great-grandfather had first started the tradition: to keep out any who would mean harm to those within. Robert didn't know if they had ever worked, of course. He did know that the house had never been broken into or invaded in anyway, although he was well aware that absence of evidence did not prove a thing. But he believed that such symbols might have had some effect and might continue to do so. He was not so shattered a man that he had stopped believing.

Besides, if vampires and werewolves and ghosts (oh, yes, there were ghosts, even if only in the mind!) were real, then why not the basis for this tradition as well?

Sighing, Robert looked up towards the late evening sky. The sun had almost slipped beneath the horizon, the last orange-pink rays of light causing shadows to stretch like fingers about the house. Sunrise and sunset. Dusk and twilight. These were the between times that he relished, when the world was at a silent, otherworldly peace that matched his own nature. It almost made him smile.

Almost.

Stepping back inside the house, he looked about numbly. He should have cleaned more he realized. Not as far as dirt and dust, as he did his own housekeeping on a weekly basis. No, the concern was the books. They were everywhere: piled in stacks along the walls, jammed into corners and crevices, lining the staircase up, filling the kitchen countertops... Robert knew where almost everything was that he needed. Or at least he had a good idea. The best ones, of course, he kept in a special barrister's case in his room. A few darker ones he had locked away in trunks in the dank basement to fight it out with the mold; there was no question in his mind that the fungus rot would be on the losing side of that battle. He debated with himself whether or not he should remove the books off of some of the furniture he thought might still be under the neatly stack heaps, wondering if people would want to stay in one place long enough to sit...

"Food," he muttered suddenly, "Probably should have gone shopping... or something..."

Robert looked out the living room window to the old stone barn that sat at the back of the property. The roof was still sound, he thought. People could hide their vehicles there, maybe? Or turn it into something useful? It would have to be cleaned out, though, as to the best of his knowledge the barn had never actually been used in any farming capacity since his family had purchased the land some seventy years ago. The ancient steam powered traction engine that sat rusting within would probably be worth a fortune... if it could be repaired. Now that he thought about it, his uncle Renfew had stored two or three cars in there a couple of decades ago, hadn't he? Robert shrugged. His uncle had collected all manner of things and dumped them there: HAM radios, tools, scrap lumber and metal, oil lamps. There had always been the temptation to call one of those 'picker' companies and have them clean it out, only he never saw the point. It wasn't like he needed the barn for anything before. If the others wanted it or needed it, they could clean it out themselves.

"Speaking of which..." he muttered again. Robert pulled the pocket watch out from his jeans and checked it. He had little idea when any of them might arrive. If any of them did, he darkly added. The Society had promised to send some help but had encouraged him to do what he could as well on his own. Which was ridiculous. Robert was many things, but he was not a leader nor a recruiter. Still, even a token force showing up would be useful. Things in Boston were getting worse, and there had been little he could do about it by his lonesome.

Tired of the wait, he picked up his violin from off the mantle by the fire and headed out towards the back porch. A quick tuning, and then bow was placed to string to let forth a low, long note like the wail of a banshee. Robert closed his eyes and played, only it was not any music that had ever been written or recorded, nothing found in any library. Instead, it was an improvised melody that came from his soul to ring out into the silent woodlands behind his house. What he lacked in training and skill, he made up for in passion as he played for a woman dead two years, along with the death of his heart.

World of Darkness (Boston)

Ellri - hey, what am I? Chopped liver?? (Grin)