Victor Redwyne stared out from the battlements of The Arbor’s Castle, the seat of House Redwyne and his family’s home for generations back. The massive construction had some of the grace of Highgarden - with a few towers built in the same style, but nowhere near as tall as those in The Reach’s capital. The entirety of the outer wall was built from a yellow-hued stone with flecks of precious minerals within it, that had been mined from a cliff that faced out onto the ocean, and whenever the sun shone upon it, the traces of expensive gems and metals it contained reflected the light, giving the impression of the castle’s walls glowing to any who happened to look up at it from a distance.
The tall, thick walls surrounded the castle's well-cobbled courtyard, and its Keep - a large, sprawling building in which the Redwyne's private quarters could be located, along with numerous guest rooms, a massive hall and well stocked and equipped kitchens. Also within the protection of the walls were the House's private stables, an open-air blacksmith, and a building made from wood and bricks that served as the barracks for the Redwyne's Household Guard.
Roughly two kilometres away was the town of Ryamsport, nestled against and sprawling outwards from a cove that looked almost as if it had been bitten out of The Arbor by a giant. The docks of the town were packed with merchant ships from all over the Seven Kingdoms, here to trade with the wine merchants who worked for Victor’s father - intelligent, learned men: who spent their days arguing over the number of golden dragons that would be exchanged for every ten gallons of wine loaded onto the ships bound for the rest of Westeros - and even some for the Free Cities. It was ironic, to Victor - that men of such vast learning and supposed intelligence and wisdom spent the most of their time and energy arguing over the price of wine; but, he supposed, that was what lined his family's’ coffers - the work of such men, and their commitment to not parting with a single drop of wine until its price had been paid in full.
Halmon used to love such work - he would come home from a day at the docks buzzed and excited - and looking down at the port town made a small smile come to the man’s lips: it was not the first time he had missed his younger brother, who was presently at Highgarden, serving Lord Leos Tyrell - a man whom, in their infrequent meetings, Victor had judged as insane. He cared not what his father and many older and bumbling nobles said; the man was no genius - he was a loon, plain and simple. And a loon who Victor was bound to by ties of honour and blood - the first he could do away with when his father finally passed away, but the latter prevented him from acting out of his love for his sister; and his nephew, whom he had met only once.
Regardless, Halmon’s presence at Highgarden was certainly a benefit - Victor and his younger brother had a monthly correspondence, via ravens; his brother’s letters providing him with crucial information about the goings-on in the Court of Flowers. Sighing, the man pushed off from the battlements, the rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the rocks beneath his feet reaching his ears as he made his way back down towards the castle’s main courtyard.
The Blackfyre Rebellion had been finished now for over a decade, and the last supporters of the pretender Daemon had been chased across the Narrow Sea to live out their days in exile. However, the scars of the great conflict had affected The Arbor for years: many of their best young fighting men had died during the conflict, defending whom they had believed was the rightful king - and, luckily, their sacrifice had not been in vain: House Targaryen had been victorious, and Daemon had been slain on the battlefield. Now, those scars were finally beginning to heal - The Arbor’s courtyard was once again full of activity, and fresh-faced young men were there to take the places of Victor’s lifelong friends whom had died fighting alongside him: who he would always remember in his heart.
The castle’s blacksmith was training four or five of his apprentices in the art of shoeing a horse - the animal itself of a fine breed, having been sired by one of the Dornish Sandsteeds which had been delivered to The Arbor as a gift in return for a few cases of wine by the agents of House Martell themselves. That had been about six years ago, now - and the Redwyne’s stables had improved dramatically with the introduction of foreign and superior breeding stock.
Across from the open-air smithy, a number of young men - squires and guardsmen alike, all novices in the art of the sword - were training under the watchful eye of Duncan Redwyne, Victor’s uncle. He looked up from his overseeing of the teenage boys for a moment, greeting his nephew with a gruff nod - before going back to his work. Smiling, Victor had returned the nod with one of his own, the boots which he wore crunching dirt underfoot as he made his way towards the open gates of the castle, passing beneath the raised portcullis.
From the gates of the Redwyne’s castle, a long and winding road led to the harbour town a few kilometers away, the majority of the well-paved road settled upon the slope of a steep hill that the castle was situated on top of. Even from where he stood, as he cast his gaze down again at the town over which he would soon rule, he could see the glimmering of the ocean, and the sea of masts that accounted for the numerous ships at anchor.
After another fifteen minutes of staring, Victor decided that he would take his daughter for a ride down to the port town the next day - it had been a while since she had been given such an outing. Turning on his heel, he left visions of the past behind him, steeling himself for a day of administrative duties - focusing all of his energy, now, on the present: and planning for the future.
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Most Recent Posts
I second Zach! Awesome posts, one and all!
If anyone wants to do something with Alex, feel free to PM me, too. I might start working on a faction of my own, soon, as well!
If anyone wants to do something with Alex, feel free to PM me, too. I might start working on a faction of my own, soon, as well!
Name: Erryk Yronwood, The Bloodroyal
Age: 29
Appearance:
Erryk has often been described as a man with the body of a lion and the reflexes of a snake - a description which brings a smile to his lips every time he hears it. He has the pale skin of a Stony Dornishman, and the bright blonde hair and blue eyes that the Yronwoods are famous throughout Dorne for possessing.
His shoulders are neither broad nor slender, but his upper body is certainly muscular - a result of a near-lifetime of wielding a bow. Despite not having seen his home, Yronwood Castle, in far too long of a time for his liking, he still wears his family’s crest proudly, and even sports the light Dornish armour made for their horse archers, from leather and metal disks.
Personality: Like many Dornishmen, Erryk is hot-blooded, moody and impulsive. He has a sexual appetite that far surpasses even that of many Dornishmen’s, and one of his dreams is to bed a woman - and a man - from every corner of the globe. He's still fiercely loyal to the ideology that his deceased father had possessed: the dream of a Dorne ruled from Castle Yronwood, rather than Sunspear - and a Dorne free of the influence of Northerners. However, as a result of the Yronwood's backing of House Blackfyre in the Rebellion - and, by extension, their revolt against the Martell's authority - Erryk was forced to flee across the Narrow Sea, and banded together with Bittersteel and numerous other Exiles to create the Golden Company: doing so more out of a feeling of necessity than loyalty to Daemon Blackfyre.
As a result of his being trapped across the Narrow Sea, and the knowledge that most of his family were more than likely dead, Erryk Yronwood gradually became more hopeless - and, as a result and more indulgent in wine and women - and, as the years passed, earned himself a reputation as one of the Golden Company's greatest debaucherers. He has hardly any shame these days, and is open about his sexual exploits - a rare and strange trait, for the usually reserved and disciplined Yronwoods. Despite his reputation for drinking and fucking his way through every bit of gold that he receives from Aegor Rivers, Erryk is a renowned fighter - and fights fiercly for the Golden Company, out of respect for its leader: the 'Bitter Bastard', as he calls Aegor, the man having earned Erryk's respect: even if he did hail from the other side of the Red Mountains.
Although he has mostly lost all hope in any chance of one day returning to Castle Yronwood and claiming his birthright, it is still Erryk's greatest dream: and he would quickly put aside his new addictions (in the form of wine, men and women) and focus the entirety of his being on returning to Westeros and conquering Dorne, should the opportunity present itself to him.
Bio: Erryk was born in Castle Yronwood in the Northern Regions of Dorne, the second-born son of the late Lord Yronwood and his wife. He was raised from a young age to foster a veiled hatred for the Martells of Sunspear, who ruled over his family from their seat by the coast. His father, a learned man, realised the importance of his son having an education - and saw to it that Erryk was provided with all the tutors and learning resources he needed to properly nurture and grow his intelligence.
As well as his reading and mathematics lessons every day, from the age of four Erryk was trained by his older brother of thirteen years what it meant to be a Yronwood: he taught him how to swing a sword, to string and fire a bow: and how to instill fear, respect and loyalty into the hearts of men over whom he ruled.
It was found, by the time that he was ten, that Erryk had a knack for riding - and seemed to be extraordinarily gifted with a bow. He was far superior to his brother when it came to marksmanship, whether it be on a horse’s back or with both feet planted firmly upon the ground. His father was extremely proud of his son’s new skill, and would talk about it to whoever would listen. Erryk participated in several marksmanship tournaments throughout Dorne, and almost always came first, second or third - giving his father even more bragging rights.
By the time Erryk was thirteen, he was almost a man: muscular, bearded, intelligent and witty. His father decided it was time that he truly became a man, and had Erryk’s brother arrange for a woman to take his second son’s virginity. The night was one of the best in Erryk’s life - and, even though he knew the woman was being paid, he was extremely proud of himself the next day. He soon developed a large appetite for women, and spent every moment of spare time that he had chasing after the servants and minor noblewomen who attended his father’s court in Castle Yronwood.
When the tensions that led to the Blackfyre Rebellion began to heighten, Erryk’s father announced that House Yronwood - and many other Northern Houses, loyal to The Bloodroyal - would not be fighting alongside House Martell in support of House Targaryen, but would declare their loyalties with the Blackfyre Rebels. Although the Rebels wanted to do away with a Dornish influence at court, Erryk’s Lord Father thought that they would be an excellent tool to do away with the Northerner’s influence in Dorne, and to dispose of House Martell and put House Yronwood in their place.
Erryk, considered man enough at fourteen, marched with his father, elder brother and uncles with the men that House Yronwood had mustered for the Blackfyre’s cause, and headed for the first time out of the Red Mountains and into the rest of Westeros. The fighting was fierce, and although the Yronwoods did not fully trust the Northerners, they fought with all of their might alongside them in the hope of defeating the Targaryens - and, by extension, the Martells.
Erryk’s older brother was slain by a knight from The Reach in the lead-up to the Battle of the Redgrass Field, a devastating blow to the morale of the Yronwood-led Dornish forces. However, they carried on, and fought alongside the Blackfyre Rebels until they began to rout as it became clear that they would not win against the superior, Targaryen-led force.
Erryk’s father urged for him to take as many men as he could and flee to the Free Cities, and to continue the fight for Yronwood superiority in Dorne from there. He knew that his father would surely be executed if left behind, but Erryk - ever an obedient son - did as his father demanded and fled over the Narrow Sea with a number of Dornish now-freeriders, and joined the Golden Company in support of Bittersteel - serving him in the hopes of one day returning to Dorne and reclaiming his rightful home, Castle Yronwood.
Age: 29
Appearance:
Erryk has often been described as a man with the body of a lion and the reflexes of a snake - a description which brings a smile to his lips every time he hears it. He has the pale skin of a Stony Dornishman, and the bright blonde hair and blue eyes that the Yronwoods are famous throughout Dorne for possessing.
His shoulders are neither broad nor slender, but his upper body is certainly muscular - a result of a near-lifetime of wielding a bow. Despite not having seen his home, Yronwood Castle, in far too long of a time for his liking, he still wears his family’s crest proudly, and even sports the light Dornish armour made for their horse archers, from leather and metal disks.
Personality: Like many Dornishmen, Erryk is hot-blooded, moody and impulsive. He has a sexual appetite that far surpasses even that of many Dornishmen’s, and one of his dreams is to bed a woman - and a man - from every corner of the globe. He's still fiercely loyal to the ideology that his deceased father had possessed: the dream of a Dorne ruled from Castle Yronwood, rather than Sunspear - and a Dorne free of the influence of Northerners. However, as a result of the Yronwood's backing of House Blackfyre in the Rebellion - and, by extension, their revolt against the Martell's authority - Erryk was forced to flee across the Narrow Sea, and banded together with Bittersteel and numerous other Exiles to create the Golden Company: doing so more out of a feeling of necessity than loyalty to Daemon Blackfyre.
As a result of his being trapped across the Narrow Sea, and the knowledge that most of his family were more than likely dead, Erryk Yronwood gradually became more hopeless - and, as a result and more indulgent in wine and women - and, as the years passed, earned himself a reputation as one of the Golden Company's greatest debaucherers. He has hardly any shame these days, and is open about his sexual exploits - a rare and strange trait, for the usually reserved and disciplined Yronwoods. Despite his reputation for drinking and fucking his way through every bit of gold that he receives from Aegor Rivers, Erryk is a renowned fighter - and fights fiercly for the Golden Company, out of respect for its leader: the 'Bitter Bastard', as he calls Aegor, the man having earned Erryk's respect: even if he did hail from the other side of the Red Mountains.
Although he has mostly lost all hope in any chance of one day returning to Castle Yronwood and claiming his birthright, it is still Erryk's greatest dream: and he would quickly put aside his new addictions (in the form of wine, men and women) and focus the entirety of his being on returning to Westeros and conquering Dorne, should the opportunity present itself to him.
Bio: Erryk was born in Castle Yronwood in the Northern Regions of Dorne, the second-born son of the late Lord Yronwood and his wife. He was raised from a young age to foster a veiled hatred for the Martells of Sunspear, who ruled over his family from their seat by the coast. His father, a learned man, realised the importance of his son having an education - and saw to it that Erryk was provided with all the tutors and learning resources he needed to properly nurture and grow his intelligence.
As well as his reading and mathematics lessons every day, from the age of four Erryk was trained by his older brother of thirteen years what it meant to be a Yronwood: he taught him how to swing a sword, to string and fire a bow: and how to instill fear, respect and loyalty into the hearts of men over whom he ruled.
It was found, by the time that he was ten, that Erryk had a knack for riding - and seemed to be extraordinarily gifted with a bow. He was far superior to his brother when it came to marksmanship, whether it be on a horse’s back or with both feet planted firmly upon the ground. His father was extremely proud of his son’s new skill, and would talk about it to whoever would listen. Erryk participated in several marksmanship tournaments throughout Dorne, and almost always came first, second or third - giving his father even more bragging rights.
By the time Erryk was thirteen, he was almost a man: muscular, bearded, intelligent and witty. His father decided it was time that he truly became a man, and had Erryk’s brother arrange for a woman to take his second son’s virginity. The night was one of the best in Erryk’s life - and, even though he knew the woman was being paid, he was extremely proud of himself the next day. He soon developed a large appetite for women, and spent every moment of spare time that he had chasing after the servants and minor noblewomen who attended his father’s court in Castle Yronwood.
When the tensions that led to the Blackfyre Rebellion began to heighten, Erryk’s father announced that House Yronwood - and many other Northern Houses, loyal to The Bloodroyal - would not be fighting alongside House Martell in support of House Targaryen, but would declare their loyalties with the Blackfyre Rebels. Although the Rebels wanted to do away with a Dornish influence at court, Erryk’s Lord Father thought that they would be an excellent tool to do away with the Northerner’s influence in Dorne, and to dispose of House Martell and put House Yronwood in their place.
Erryk, considered man enough at fourteen, marched with his father, elder brother and uncles with the men that House Yronwood had mustered for the Blackfyre’s cause, and headed for the first time out of the Red Mountains and into the rest of Westeros. The fighting was fierce, and although the Yronwoods did not fully trust the Northerners, they fought with all of their might alongside them in the hope of defeating the Targaryens - and, by extension, the Martells.
Erryk’s older brother was slain by a knight from The Reach in the lead-up to the Battle of the Redgrass Field, a devastating blow to the morale of the Yronwood-led Dornish forces. However, they carried on, and fought alongside the Blackfyre Rebels until they began to rout as it became clear that they would not win against the superior, Targaryen-led force.
Erryk’s father urged for him to take as many men as he could and flee to the Free Cities, and to continue the fight for Yronwood superiority in Dorne from there. He knew that his father would surely be executed if left behind, but Erryk - ever an obedient son - did as his father demanded and fled over the Narrow Sea with a number of Dornish now-freeriders, and joined the Golden Company in support of Bittersteel - serving him in the hopes of one day returning to Dorne and reclaiming his rightful home, Castle Yronwood.
Here's my sheet; not quite done yet, but I'll get around to it sometime. Lemme know if anything doesn't work, and yeah.
House Redwyne of The Arbor
House Redwyne, one of the most powerful and influential Houses of The Reach, are known throughout Westeros for their ships and the fantastic wine which is produced on the island over which they hold sway. Publicly, the Redwynes are honourable and dutiful, loyal to their Leigelords in Highgarden: especially so, due to the ties of marriage which connect the two Houses. However, aside from the current Lord Redwyne, who is now well into his twilight years and a relic of a bygone era, the rest of the Household (his sons) are extremely ambitious, and only loosely loyal to the lunatic who rules over them from Highgarden. Lord Redwyne’s sons are known for their ambition, and their ruthlessness when it comes to getting what they want - and, as the elderly man spends himself spending more and more time in his private chambers in readiness to hand over the mantle to his eldest son and heir, the position of House Redwyne - and the Arbor - may soon move up in the world of Westerosi Politics.
The Household
Lord Arron Redwyne - Ruler of The Arbor, sworn to House Tyrell in Highgarden.
--His son and heir, Victor Redwyne.
--His second-born son, Halmon Redwyne.
--His daughter, now Lady Tyrell, previously Cassilda Redwyne.
--His youngest child and son, Emmon Redwyne, twenty-five years old.
Duncan Redwyne, Arron’s younger brother, Master-at-Arms of The Arbor, fifty-three.
--His bastard, Ser Donnis Flowers, twenty-nine.
Maester Donnel, The Arbor’s current steward in Halmon’s absence - overseeing Emmon’s training, fifty-seven.
Byce Flowers, bastard of Arron’s cousin, Harbour Master, twenty-six.
(( More characters will be added as they come up in my writing - so, expect this list to grow to be quite long. ))
Important Members of the Household
House Redwyne, one of the most powerful and influential Houses of The Reach, are known throughout Westeros for their ships and the fantastic wine which is produced on the island over which they hold sway. Publicly, the Redwynes are honourable and dutiful, loyal to their Leigelords in Highgarden: especially so, due to the ties of marriage which connect the two Houses. However, aside from the current Lord Redwyne, who is now well into his twilight years and a relic of a bygone era, the rest of the Household (his sons) are extremely ambitious, and only loosely loyal to the lunatic who rules over them from Highgarden. Lord Redwyne’s sons are known for their ambition, and their ruthlessness when it comes to getting what they want - and, as the elderly man spends himself spending more and more time in his private chambers in readiness to hand over the mantle to his eldest son and heir, the position of House Redwyne - and the Arbor - may soon move up in the world of Westerosi Politics.
Lord Arron Redwyne - Ruler of The Arbor, sworn to House Tyrell in Highgarden.
--His son and heir, Victor Redwyne.
--His second-born son, Halmon Redwyne.
--His daughter, now Lady Tyrell, previously Cassilda Redwyne.
--His youngest child and son, Emmon Redwyne, twenty-five years old.
Duncan Redwyne, Arron’s younger brother, Master-at-Arms of The Arbor, fifty-three.
--His bastard, Ser Donnis Flowers, twenty-nine.
Maester Donnel, The Arbor’s current steward in Halmon’s absence - overseeing Emmon’s training, fifty-seven.
Byce Flowers, bastard of Arron’s cousin, Harbour Master, twenty-six.
(( More characters will be added as they come up in my writing - so, expect this list to grow to be quite long. ))
Ruby and I are writing a collab which should hopefully be up sometime over the weekend.
I've got exams next week, so I probably won't be able to post after the collab for a few days at least.
I've got exams next week, so I probably won't be able to post after the collab for a few days at least.
I've almost got my sheet finished - House Redwyne should be up and runnin', soon!
I need some wives/betrothed for Lord Arron's children - the son and heir is already married, but he still has two other sons who are quite eligible, as well as a few nephews. Anyone interested in landing a Redwyne? They're a great catch, I promise. ;)
I need some wives/betrothed for Lord Arron's children - the son and heir is already married, but he still has two other sons who are quite eligible, as well as a few nephews. Anyone interested in landing a Redwyne? They're a great catch, I promise. ;)
Tentatively stating my interest.
I'm a bit busy at the moment, but I should be able to get a sheet up sometime soon - I'll just keep a semi-low profile in the first few weeks of the RP so I don't hold anyone up.
Does anyone have any supporting roles that they want filled? Uncles, brothers, bastards? Bannermen, even? I'm easy.
I'm a bit busy at the moment, but I should be able to get a sheet up sometime soon - I'll just keep a semi-low profile in the first few weeks of the RP so I don't hold anyone up.
Does anyone have any supporting roles that they want filled? Uncles, brothers, bastards? Bannermen, even? I'm easy.
Oh, shit! Sorry to hear that, Wernher: best of luck with everything!
I got a post up - wasn't really that.. related, or good, but eh. I'm gonna be collabing with Roobes over the next few days, too. c:
Might make a sheet for an unrelated faction, or something, sometime soon.
Might make a sheet for an unrelated faction, or something, sometime soon.
As the last beams of sunlight began to slip away into darkness, Hollywood and the majority of its inhabitants were just waking up - both mortal and otherwise. Alexander Vereshchagin’s eyes opened slowly, blinking several times; irises dilating slightly as they adjusted to the dim lighting of his ‘bedroom’, if the room could be called that: it was a massive, rectangular room above a warehouse, thickly insulated and with only a single, small window - over which a heavy metal shutter had been pulled to keep out the bright light of the day.
The room was complete with cream-coloured wallpaper and wooden floorboards, and several propaganda posters - relics from the soviet union, along with a massive flag which dominated one wall: the flag of the now-fallen USSR. The floorboards happened to creak subtly underfoot whenever they were walked across: one of Alex’s many security measures, implemented by the Kindred himself because of his paranoid nature. He rose from his perch - a large, well-cushioned couch - with a yawn, stretching his arms out behind his head; cracking his knuckles as he tilted his head slowly from side to side.
The upper story of the warehouse, one of Alex’s many safe houses throughout LA, was sparsely furnished: containing only a rarely-used bed, a desk, and a large couch with a coffee table in front of it, on which sat his closed macbook. There was a massive flat screen TV taking up much of the wall facing the couch, which itself was sitting in the middle of the room - if he’d put it up against a wall, he would have been able to see the TV, but the kine whom he occasionally brought back would likely have been confused, as he had learned through experience.
He made his way over to the king-sized bed, eyes scanning over the clothes that he had set out across it: picking out a white t-shirt, a pair of black jeans, and some canvas shoes. The Russian quickly got changed, sitting on the bed with a soft grunt as he did up his laces. Rising to his feet, he shrugged on a leather jacket which he wore near-constantly, running his calloused fingertips across the rough, stubble-covered surface of his cheek.
Alexander threw one last glance around the room, ignoring the gnawing feeling which he was beginning to experience as the result of his hunger: making his way over to the coffee table and picking up his smartphone, shoving it into his back pocket. He also paused to open one of the table’s drawers, revealing roughly three handguns of different makes, along with ammunition for each of them. The Russian’s fingertips closed around the grip of a Makarov pistol, which he had brought back with him from one of his trips back to his motherland - a 1971 version, which he tucked into the back of his jeans, covered by his shirt and the hem of his heavy leather jacket - along with about three clips: he’d need them tonight, from what his kine had been telling him.
He saw himself as a shepherd, of sorts: the leader of his coterie, a woman whom he had only ever known as Eva, had given him the task of coming to control the Russian element of organised crime in LA. Alexander had set to the task with gusto, quickly coming to control the Russian Mob through his influence over its leaders, and several of its most prominent and successful members: over whom he had exercised his skills of persuasion, and where that had failed, he had used mind control - a skill taught to him by his Brujah sire and mentor. Alex was protective of his ‘flock’, as he had come to call the Mobsters under his control when he was talking of them to other Kindred, and was almost unreasonably possessive of these Russian men and women - the majority of whom had originally emigrated from the USSR.
He approached the only entrance and exit to the large room - save for the window, which was made from bulletproof glass (not that it would help if anyone that could cause Alex any real harm wanted to get inside). It was a large, thick door made from oakwood - reinforced with bolts of steel. Turning the handle, he swung the heavy door open with ease; stepping outside and locking it behind him with a key that was attached to his belt.
Alex found himself on top of a flight of metal stairs that led down to a mostly-empty parking lot: the beauty of the night sky above him invisible to the mortal eye because of the light pollution of Hollywood, and the larger area of LA itself - it was very, very built up, and extremely developed: a world and a half away from the Russian City of Petrograd in which the man had grown up. He barely remembered his homeland, but he felt a warm feeling in his heart everytime he thought of his childhood, and the family who’s faces he had long since forgotten.
The man descended the steps, shoes tapping lightly upon the metal plates as he made his way down to the parking lot - unhooking a set of car keys from the loops of his jeans, index finger pressing down upon the ‘unlock’ button; a loud beeping sound and the flashing of headlights responding to his action - coming from the chassis of a beautiful and well-looked after Audi S8. He opened the door to the car, sliding into the leather drivers’ seat and placing the key in the ignition, turning it with a grin as the expensive vehicle roared into life. “Beauty,” He mumbled to himself in Russian, pulling out of the car park and starting to make his way down town.
As he drove, he used his car’s bluetooth to phone one of the mobsters whom he controlled, speaking in rapid Russian: quickly gaining the information he needed; a group of Irish gangsters had been trying to encroach upon Russian-controlled territory, and had apparently started shifting heroin in one of the areas which Alexander’s men controlled. Despite his kine’s assurances that he and his men could take care of the problem - which sounded almost frantic in their intensity - Alex told him that he’d take care of it himself: it had been a while since he’d gotten his hands dirty, and he had a desire to shed blood tonight.
An Hour Later
“Aye, an’ then I said to ‘im - ‘you fookin’ Russian prick, you can go back an’ tell your boss that the paddies own this place now’, an’ the coont did jus’ that - not a word out of ‘im, ‘ee fucked off! I was expectin’ a fight, or somethin’ - seems the Russians here ain’ -real- Russians, just pansies! So I shot ‘im in the back of the head, y’know - didn’ want him runnin’ an’ gettin’ ‘is friends onto me..” Laughter, along with the ramblings of several Irishmen continued to meet Alexander’s ears, his eyebrows creasing into a frown. Killing his kine? He’d make sure that one suffered, for that.
The men were standing in a loose circle in an otherwise-deserted alleyway, lit only by the dim light from a singular, flickering lamp post a few metres away from them, at the beginning of the dead-end alley. Although they had no idea of his presence, Alexander had been watching the paddies from his position on top of a liquor store which was situated next to the alley for about fifteen minutes, making sure that they were the men he wanted: he didn’t want to kill just anyone.
But, any doubts that he might have had had vanished, replaced by anger - fueled by his near obsessively protective nature for those that he considered ‘his’ - that the mortals beneath him had dared to touch a hair on his kine’s heads. Deciding that now was about as good a time as any, he pushed his earphones into his ears: pressing ‘play’ on the touchscreen on his phone, a classic Russian symphony beginning to play as he jumped from his position on the roof down onto the cobblestones below, landing with a dull ‘thud’ - which was masked by the sound of far-off bass music, coming from one of LA’s many clubs.
He gradually rose from his crouched position, eyes slightly illuminated in the dim light of the alleyway: deliberately making his appearance known to the gangsters in a slow and intimidating fashion. It took a moment or two, but eventually one of them realised his presence - a shout of surprise leaving his lips as he saw a pair of dead-looking eyes staring at him, unblinkingly, from over his friend’s shoulder. “Jesus, Mary and Jose-,” He started, but was stopped mid-sentence with a bullet to the throat: fired from the muzzle of Alexander’s makarov.
His friends immediately stopped in their joking, staring in shock as the Kindred’s first victim fell to the ground with a loud thud, squirting blood from a gaping hole in his neck. Alex watched the men’s reactions almost as if they were in slow motion, eyes flicking between each of their faces: analysing if they were going to try to fight him, or if they were going to run away. Fight or flight. If they were wise, they’d run - not that it would help them anyway.
The first man to turn was obviously used to seeing violence, not that it didn’t make him angry: he was furious, and it was written all over his face. Alexander allowed the man to draw his gun, even allowed him to take aim with it - before he, too, received a bullet: this time to the chest. A yell of pain accompanied the Irishman’s subsequent fall from grace, the remaining three men looking between each other with uncertainty.
They were quite certainly yelling in their panic, but Alex didn’t hear them - all he heard was the sound of the music playing loudly in his ears, masking their shrieks and yells. Although he knew how to read lips, he didn’t bother: the pleading of mortals bored him, and the sight of blood had him hungering for more.
One of the Irishmen’s spirits broke, then, and he decided to make a run for it: attempting to pass Alex in the process. “Big mistake,” The Kindred murmured in his deep voice, the Russian coming from his lips as easily as English. With a blur of speed that was almost invisible to the human eye, he was suddenly beside the fleeing gangster - a fist that could well have been a steel bar slamming into his stomach, winding him and breaking at least three of his ribs. He fell to the ground, too - incapacitated for now. The sound of crashing cymbals and increasingly intensifying violin-playing filled the Russian Vampire’s ears, as his victims thrashed about on the ground at his feet.
While he’d been dealing with his friend, one of the two remaining mobsters had drawn his gun - and fired it in the direction of Alex’s chest. The bullet impacted with the Kindred’s flesh, a grunt leaving his lips as he staggered back a few steps - his right earphone falling out of his ear. Suddenly, he was exposed to the true sounds that had been created as a result of his playtime: the screaming of dying men, the gradually receding ringing sound of a bullet being fired, and the frantic yelling of two men who were raised in Ireland: a country full of superstitions, and not all of them completely made up.
He looked relieved when Alex staggered back, and even a few drops of blood began to dribble from his wound: but he didn’t fall to the ground, and he certainly didn’t look like the bullet had hurt him. Alex stayed on his feet, simply.. staring at the two remaining mortals.
“You fookin’ demon!” The man screeched, the familiar sound of his voice registering with the Kindred’s now-exposed eardrum: marking the man who had just fired his weapon as the man who had been bragging about shooting Russian mobsters. “Demon?” Alexander smirked, another blur of superhuman speed and the dim lighting of the alleyway causing him to look as if he had just teleported to the side of the other Irishman who had not yet drawn his gun; snapping his neck with ease, as if he had just been pulling apart a toothpick. It made the same sort of noise, at least.
The remaining man’s face turned pale as he struggled to come to terms with what he had just witnessed: a loud “fook this!” coming from his lips as he turned and sprinted away, towards the only entrance and exit of the alleyway: and Alex let him go. For a moment, at least.
Then, there he was - in front of him, a hand taking a rough hold of his jacket - eyes staring into the human’s own, almost as if he was hypnotizing him. Soon enough - within a few seconds - the fear in the Irishman’s eyes subsided, replaced by a sort of.. blank obedience. Without having even said a word, Alexander had taken over the man’s mind - which hadn’t been too hard, because of all the drugs he’d been abusing.
Leaving the scene of carnage behind him, Alexander made his way back to his audi, which was parked a few blocks away. He got back into the drivers’ seat, the Irishman climbing into the back without complaint. A grin upon his lips, and blood splattered all over his clothing, Alex turned the key in the ignition - driving off, back towards the main ‘home’ of his coterie - Eva’s mansion in Malibu. He was sure she wouldn’t mind that he was bringing a guest back with him.
The room was complete with cream-coloured wallpaper and wooden floorboards, and several propaganda posters - relics from the soviet union, along with a massive flag which dominated one wall: the flag of the now-fallen USSR. The floorboards happened to creak subtly underfoot whenever they were walked across: one of Alex’s many security measures, implemented by the Kindred himself because of his paranoid nature. He rose from his perch - a large, well-cushioned couch - with a yawn, stretching his arms out behind his head; cracking his knuckles as he tilted his head slowly from side to side.
The upper story of the warehouse, one of Alex’s many safe houses throughout LA, was sparsely furnished: containing only a rarely-used bed, a desk, and a large couch with a coffee table in front of it, on which sat his closed macbook. There was a massive flat screen TV taking up much of the wall facing the couch, which itself was sitting in the middle of the room - if he’d put it up against a wall, he would have been able to see the TV, but the kine whom he occasionally brought back would likely have been confused, as he had learned through experience.
He made his way over to the king-sized bed, eyes scanning over the clothes that he had set out across it: picking out a white t-shirt, a pair of black jeans, and some canvas shoes. The Russian quickly got changed, sitting on the bed with a soft grunt as he did up his laces. Rising to his feet, he shrugged on a leather jacket which he wore near-constantly, running his calloused fingertips across the rough, stubble-covered surface of his cheek.
Alexander threw one last glance around the room, ignoring the gnawing feeling which he was beginning to experience as the result of his hunger: making his way over to the coffee table and picking up his smartphone, shoving it into his back pocket. He also paused to open one of the table’s drawers, revealing roughly three handguns of different makes, along with ammunition for each of them. The Russian’s fingertips closed around the grip of a Makarov pistol, which he had brought back with him from one of his trips back to his motherland - a 1971 version, which he tucked into the back of his jeans, covered by his shirt and the hem of his heavy leather jacket - along with about three clips: he’d need them tonight, from what his kine had been telling him.
He saw himself as a shepherd, of sorts: the leader of his coterie, a woman whom he had only ever known as Eva, had given him the task of coming to control the Russian element of organised crime in LA. Alexander had set to the task with gusto, quickly coming to control the Russian Mob through his influence over its leaders, and several of its most prominent and successful members: over whom he had exercised his skills of persuasion, and where that had failed, he had used mind control - a skill taught to him by his Brujah sire and mentor. Alex was protective of his ‘flock’, as he had come to call the Mobsters under his control when he was talking of them to other Kindred, and was almost unreasonably possessive of these Russian men and women - the majority of whom had originally emigrated from the USSR.
He approached the only entrance and exit to the large room - save for the window, which was made from bulletproof glass (not that it would help if anyone that could cause Alex any real harm wanted to get inside). It was a large, thick door made from oakwood - reinforced with bolts of steel. Turning the handle, he swung the heavy door open with ease; stepping outside and locking it behind him with a key that was attached to his belt.
Alex found himself on top of a flight of metal stairs that led down to a mostly-empty parking lot: the beauty of the night sky above him invisible to the mortal eye because of the light pollution of Hollywood, and the larger area of LA itself - it was very, very built up, and extremely developed: a world and a half away from the Russian City of Petrograd in which the man had grown up. He barely remembered his homeland, but he felt a warm feeling in his heart everytime he thought of his childhood, and the family who’s faces he had long since forgotten.
The man descended the steps, shoes tapping lightly upon the metal plates as he made his way down to the parking lot - unhooking a set of car keys from the loops of his jeans, index finger pressing down upon the ‘unlock’ button; a loud beeping sound and the flashing of headlights responding to his action - coming from the chassis of a beautiful and well-looked after Audi S8. He opened the door to the car, sliding into the leather drivers’ seat and placing the key in the ignition, turning it with a grin as the expensive vehicle roared into life. “Beauty,” He mumbled to himself in Russian, pulling out of the car park and starting to make his way down town.
As he drove, he used his car’s bluetooth to phone one of the mobsters whom he controlled, speaking in rapid Russian: quickly gaining the information he needed; a group of Irish gangsters had been trying to encroach upon Russian-controlled territory, and had apparently started shifting heroin in one of the areas which Alexander’s men controlled. Despite his kine’s assurances that he and his men could take care of the problem - which sounded almost frantic in their intensity - Alex told him that he’d take care of it himself: it had been a while since he’d gotten his hands dirty, and he had a desire to shed blood tonight.
“Aye, an’ then I said to ‘im - ‘you fookin’ Russian prick, you can go back an’ tell your boss that the paddies own this place now’, an’ the coont did jus’ that - not a word out of ‘im, ‘ee fucked off! I was expectin’ a fight, or somethin’ - seems the Russians here ain’ -real- Russians, just pansies! So I shot ‘im in the back of the head, y’know - didn’ want him runnin’ an’ gettin’ ‘is friends onto me..” Laughter, along with the ramblings of several Irishmen continued to meet Alexander’s ears, his eyebrows creasing into a frown. Killing his kine? He’d make sure that one suffered, for that.
The men were standing in a loose circle in an otherwise-deserted alleyway, lit only by the dim light from a singular, flickering lamp post a few metres away from them, at the beginning of the dead-end alley. Although they had no idea of his presence, Alexander had been watching the paddies from his position on top of a liquor store which was situated next to the alley for about fifteen minutes, making sure that they were the men he wanted: he didn’t want to kill just anyone.
But, any doubts that he might have had had vanished, replaced by anger - fueled by his near obsessively protective nature for those that he considered ‘his’ - that the mortals beneath him had dared to touch a hair on his kine’s heads. Deciding that now was about as good a time as any, he pushed his earphones into his ears: pressing ‘play’ on the touchscreen on his phone, a classic Russian symphony beginning to play as he jumped from his position on the roof down onto the cobblestones below, landing with a dull ‘thud’ - which was masked by the sound of far-off bass music, coming from one of LA’s many clubs.
He gradually rose from his crouched position, eyes slightly illuminated in the dim light of the alleyway: deliberately making his appearance known to the gangsters in a slow and intimidating fashion. It took a moment or two, but eventually one of them realised his presence - a shout of surprise leaving his lips as he saw a pair of dead-looking eyes staring at him, unblinkingly, from over his friend’s shoulder. “Jesus, Mary and Jose-,” He started, but was stopped mid-sentence with a bullet to the throat: fired from the muzzle of Alexander’s makarov.
His friends immediately stopped in their joking, staring in shock as the Kindred’s first victim fell to the ground with a loud thud, squirting blood from a gaping hole in his neck. Alex watched the men’s reactions almost as if they were in slow motion, eyes flicking between each of their faces: analysing if they were going to try to fight him, or if they were going to run away. Fight or flight. If they were wise, they’d run - not that it would help them anyway.
The first man to turn was obviously used to seeing violence, not that it didn’t make him angry: he was furious, and it was written all over his face. Alexander allowed the man to draw his gun, even allowed him to take aim with it - before he, too, received a bullet: this time to the chest. A yell of pain accompanied the Irishman’s subsequent fall from grace, the remaining three men looking between each other with uncertainty.
They were quite certainly yelling in their panic, but Alex didn’t hear them - all he heard was the sound of the music playing loudly in his ears, masking their shrieks and yells. Although he knew how to read lips, he didn’t bother: the pleading of mortals bored him, and the sight of blood had him hungering for more.
One of the Irishmen’s spirits broke, then, and he decided to make a run for it: attempting to pass Alex in the process. “Big mistake,” The Kindred murmured in his deep voice, the Russian coming from his lips as easily as English. With a blur of speed that was almost invisible to the human eye, he was suddenly beside the fleeing gangster - a fist that could well have been a steel bar slamming into his stomach, winding him and breaking at least three of his ribs. He fell to the ground, too - incapacitated for now. The sound of crashing cymbals and increasingly intensifying violin-playing filled the Russian Vampire’s ears, as his victims thrashed about on the ground at his feet.
While he’d been dealing with his friend, one of the two remaining mobsters had drawn his gun - and fired it in the direction of Alex’s chest. The bullet impacted with the Kindred’s flesh, a grunt leaving his lips as he staggered back a few steps - his right earphone falling out of his ear. Suddenly, he was exposed to the true sounds that had been created as a result of his playtime: the screaming of dying men, the gradually receding ringing sound of a bullet being fired, and the frantic yelling of two men who were raised in Ireland: a country full of superstitions, and not all of them completely made up.
He looked relieved when Alex staggered back, and even a few drops of blood began to dribble from his wound: but he didn’t fall to the ground, and he certainly didn’t look like the bullet had hurt him. Alex stayed on his feet, simply.. staring at the two remaining mortals.
“You fookin’ demon!” The man screeched, the familiar sound of his voice registering with the Kindred’s now-exposed eardrum: marking the man who had just fired his weapon as the man who had been bragging about shooting Russian mobsters. “Demon?” Alexander smirked, another blur of superhuman speed and the dim lighting of the alleyway causing him to look as if he had just teleported to the side of the other Irishman who had not yet drawn his gun; snapping his neck with ease, as if he had just been pulling apart a toothpick. It made the same sort of noise, at least.
The remaining man’s face turned pale as he struggled to come to terms with what he had just witnessed: a loud “fook this!” coming from his lips as he turned and sprinted away, towards the only entrance and exit of the alleyway: and Alex let him go. For a moment, at least.
Then, there he was - in front of him, a hand taking a rough hold of his jacket - eyes staring into the human’s own, almost as if he was hypnotizing him. Soon enough - within a few seconds - the fear in the Irishman’s eyes subsided, replaced by a sort of.. blank obedience. Without having even said a word, Alexander had taken over the man’s mind - which hadn’t been too hard, because of all the drugs he’d been abusing.
Leaving the scene of carnage behind him, Alexander made his way back to his audi, which was parked a few blocks away. He got back into the drivers’ seat, the Irishman climbing into the back without complaint. A grin upon his lips, and blood splattered all over his clothing, Alex turned the key in the ignition - driving off, back towards the main ‘home’ of his coterie - Eva’s mansion in Malibu. He was sure she wouldn’t mind that he was bringing a guest back with him.
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