[Richthofen Castle - Interior]
You know what is happening, what has happened, what will happen. Camarilla & Allies v. Traitors and Fanatics.
[Richthofen Castle - Exterior]
This is no skirmish. This is an all-out battle. This is the Sword of Caine. The second invading force. Automatic guns and somewhere [of course] a chainsaw [naturally], long tendrils of abyss and creatures which once must have been people but have been bone-crafted into something Other. Look at them: the new, terrified, mad shovelheads, driven by thirst and by hunger and by annhilation; the older veterans, who exemplify like flies to wanton boys are we to gods but they are not the we they are the gods. Look at them, pressing against the castle's walls, on and into the gardens, look at the smoke and the fire of it, the confusion of Those Who Are Fleeing, and Those Who Are Fighting, and where they meet.
Somewhere in this push is Flood. What was the signal? Enough.
[Earlier - Union Station. Temple.]
They do not pretend to be anything other than what they are. They are vampires. They are apex predators. They are free. Free! And tonight one of their packs will feast on the coveted vitae of an elder, a favored antediluvian puppet, and they'll be that much closer to the Father, they'll be Stronger, they'll be fucking vampires and those pretender-vampires, those weak-hearted would-behumans, will be divested of the gifts they spurn through diablerie or Final Death. Before a siege, there are the auctoritas ritae.
How hot can the veins of Caine run. Flames [Hellish] leap, and so do Cainites caught in a trance, twisted metal and living [for now. twitching. dripdrip] sculpture reflects orange and red and red and always red red. The more austere quote passages of [their preferred (or whatever vampire is stronger's preferred)] The Book of Nod.
There is a Flood somewhere in all this. Lapsed Sabbat but still Sabbat. Still Lasombra. And where there is a Flood, there is a Cainite who is giving him an intense [corrosive] stare, looking at him with needle eyes, a wild-haired creature whose fingers flex and flex with a jackal's smile curling his humorless lips.
Here is Flood in a human cocoon. How he dares walk into Temple in such garb. A three piece suit. Always a three piece fucking suit on this pretender. This wolf in sheep's clothing among wolves who give him looks like that when he wears it. The cocoon gives way though. It gives birth to something else. The shadows created by the firelight in the crevices of his tailored finery. This isn't his Sunday's best. This is Temple. And those shadows suddenly blossom. Rends the fabric to tatters from within in an explosion of the Abyss that refuses to mar his own dead man's form.
A trinity of these arms manifest from him. They are his armspan, his height, and fall still-undulating to three points at his feet like they are created by floodlights from his twelve o'clock, his four o'clock, his eight o'clock. Tentacles of some undersea creature that writhe as a host about him once unleashed. Maybe manifestations of his soul. Maybe manifestations of the Abyss that wants that eternal creation of a divine being, still languorous within his unliving corpse of a body. He is left in black slacks, black leather belt, and black tooled suede ankle boots, the last better than his shiny wingtips for what come. Bare chested the shadows of his arms, face, head still move of their own accord unfettered by the bonds of light or physics.He reaches to the German cavalry sword, a trophy from the First Great War, leaning against one of the stone walls deep under Union Station and unsheathes it as he has been unsheathed.
Flood looks to have become use to such stares. His time in Temple, his time on sacred ground and time fighting one the more conventional battlefields, all were scarce for this King of the Night. But in become use to it, he seems to have also developed a knack for dealing with glowering like that.
Direct confrontation. Only with a bit of panache.
Everything about the bearing he brings down upon that other Cainite says one thing: I am the Sword of Caine and I am here.
Joey @ 3:03PM
[ Shadow Play already on. Arms of the Abyss: Manipulation + Occult. ]
Roll: 7 d10 TN7 (1, 2, 4, 5, 7, 10, 10) ( success x 3 ) VALID
Joey @ 3:17PM
[ Courage. Going with the difficulty for bonfire as per the book. ]
Roll: 5 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 4, 6, 8) ( success x 2 ) VALID
Joey @ 3:18PM
[ Jumping. First Strength for distance. Pumping to 5 with 2 BPs. Strength + Potence. ]
Roll: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 1, 2, 4, 5, 7, 10) ( success x 2 ) VALID
Joey @ 3:19PM
[ And Dexterity + Athletics. Pumping Dexterity to 5 as well. Specialty: Precise. ]
Roll: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 10) ( success x 3 ) VALID
Joey @ 3:20PM
[ That's 4 successes with the Specialty. ]
--
"Flood," says the Freak. Because the glowerer was a Freak. Malkavian Antitribu. Angelo, whose madness was for consumption, who swallowed things and couldn't stop swallowing them who liked to feel them inside his stomach who'd been Embraced as a shovelhead and who'd eaten his way through the fucking dirt to become this wild-haired aesthete, his eyes too wide even without the needle-glare to fix them into something hateful. He tries to see into Flood, understand, tries to use his madness to parse the pattern of this creature with cavalry sword who uses the darkness to transverse light, but he can't do it. The Freak wavers then holds out his hand.
"I guess you're not such a faithless motherfucker after all."
But look, Flood's stylish [nightmareish - terrible; completely fucking exhilarating display of Cainite power, and that's the only reason to be a Cainite] passage through the fire has brought other eyes to bear, see how he holds himself, see what Angelo does, judge and measure and they're a tense lot, the Sabbat, even on the eve of coming together, of their Holy Jyhad, their sure-to-be-triumph:
A tall Cainite, broad-shouldered and female, with a broad-sword, hard eyes and a serene Madonna's expression, though her hair is a nest of vitae-soaked elflocks. Ventrue Antitribu.
A smaller Cainite, narrow of face, paler than Flood, hair as black as the Abyss which matches the color of his heart and his eyes, dressed more in shadow than in cloth, nothing but shadow and flesh... Flood knows this one, too, or knows of him, Mikhail.
A creature whose face is gnarled, scarred and shattered, hooks through the lower eyelids attached to chains that drag down and pierce the side of its jaw...
A Brujah antitribu who could pass for human, slick sheen of blood-sweat and a light of enthusiasm {Fanaticism} in his babyface eyes, two pieces of a crow-bar just-wrecked in hand, the edges jagged...
No pressure, Flood. None at all.
[Note: Flood has Courage 6 for the Duration of the Siege. Strength 5 and Dexterity 5 as well!
Tithe @ 3:44PM
[Eyes of Chaos. Percept + Occult. +3 Difficulty b/c of Iron Will. Uh, can't go higher than 10, so there we are.]
Roll: 7 d10 TN10 (2, 3, 5, 8, 8, 8, 9) ( fail ) VALID]
--
If Flood cared about his name, despite that insult, he might recite it back at the invocation of his own. Instead he keeps his eyes on Angelo even as his is cognizant - once again let's distinguish between noticing and caring - of other eyes alighting upon him.
Besides, there are so many more important things to care about. Chaotic insight. A broadsword. Shadows-not-his. The jagged ends of what was a crowbar. See all the things that matter more than others' perceptions? Oh, or at least that's the facade that Flood puts on. He wears it easily and well. It is just a more solid ground from which to launch his retaliatory attack.
"Hungry, brother. Thirsty, brothers and sisters. I have brought my cup of faith here to be filled, Caine willing," his voice growing in strength and volume as he continues. It's obvious he's no longer just talking to the freak who had been staring him down. Who had questioned his faith.
And that is when Flood, lapsed Sabbat, finally breaks Angelo's gaze. "Let me tell you of a meal that will fill you! Let me tell you of a feast laid out for us by Caine himself! A nest of eels and bottom feeders that sustain themselves on the waste of humanity. Waiting to be skewered and roasted and devoured! An armed herd is all that guards them," he laughs full and loudly letting it echo off the stone walls of the chamber behind his voice as he continues booming over it. "Earn your place at that table! And toast with me to Caine! Toast with me to the fall of the Antediluvians! Toast with their Blood!"
His voice stirs as the shadows begin to lash out, whipping around him in a storm that threatens to overtake Angelo who is standing so close. When he turns back toward the freak they part like a blackened sea to allow his regard to again fall upon his fellow Sabbat. His hand reaches out and clasps on the other's forearm. His grip is implacable and unrelenting as his fingers wrap around the cold muscle and flesh of the other Cainite.
His cult of personality brought to bear with that speech crafts attempts to craft a different the ending for vitae-scribed histories. And ending, or a beginning, with Angelo offering his wavering hand to one who has stepped through fire and forward to lead this war party.
Joey @ 5:19PM
Empty. Hungry, brother. Angelo's muscles succumb to a series of tics and twitches as his mind brushes up against the inevitable fact of that yawning nothing inside which wants to be filled and never, oh no, not ever, ever never will be no, and his lips skim from his teeth again, the smile wholly unconvincing. Perhaps because Angelo is being drawn in despite himself, manipulated and swayed in spite of reservations, by the Lasombra before him's bearing, by his words. Flood breaks eye contact with Angelo to direct the full sway of his personality at his nearby brothers and sisters, raises his voice to let the echoes draw more flies into his web [and the booming echo has a backdrop of fire-spitting, of catechism recital, of argument and hyperactive joyful boasting like a net of gnats above the crowd, has as a background the last terrified-ecstatic whywhywhy sounds made by humans trussed up and hanging, terrified until they're bitten and then it feels so good and then terror again and what does the mind do with that kind of stimuli and the scent of blood of vitae is everywhere but it is Not Wasted], and if his confrontation had begun to get attention before, now the attention is his and at his command.
That grim Crusader thaws enough to smile faintly.
Mikhail is nodding, though any other indicator of approval or disapproval is difficult to read. His eyes are opaque.
The creature with the shattered face roars-bellows its approval, the chains dragging his eyelids down causing them to gape attached to his jaw revealing of the interior.
The baby-faced Brujah antitribu laughs, laughs for the joy of the hunt, laughs for joy in strong leaders, laughs for pleasure at the words which speak to his sparking-wire cold dead heart, and he throws one half of the ruined crow bar back into the fire. "I'
And more, and more . . . A Tzimisce with skin as smooth as polished stone a long throat and manticore teeth, appraising attention drawn to the King of Night in the last of his speech, it (she) comes forward to speak to him, a Toreador antitribu with dead eyes and a series of tattoos that unroll an occult history . . . A twitchy thing, teeth blunt jaw black with vitae . . . They're a reckless monster-force, the Sabbat, and were it not for their shared beliefs, the nearest of whom are taking up the cry, "Toast with their Blood!" "To the fall of the Antediluvians!" "TO THE FALL!" well were it not for that, they'd eat themselves.
Eat themselves.
Flood turns back to the Freak nearly overtaken by the Lasombra's shadows [see how the darkness undulates see how it punctuates], and it seems that Flood had an effect. Angelo has the palm of one hand in his mouth, gnawing, has ripped a chunk from his own forearm and swallowed it, savaged it, swallowed it. Apparently without noticing it. But the wavering and still-whole hand is taken and Angelo swallows swallows swallows and
well it's the victor who writes the story and decides on the meaning of things. Things like Flood gripping the Freak's arm so rigidly. Flood, the Leader.
[He's got 'em. If there's any particular face among those above that Flood would want to 'keep near' or to order about, lemme know or post it and I'll probably segue us into the meat of the battle after your next post.
Tithe @ 11:02PM
[Angelo. Self-Consumption BITE. Dex + Brawl.]
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 5, 6, 6, 7) ( success x 3 ) VALID
Tithe @ 11:02PM
[Actual Damage.]
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 5, 5, 9, 10) ( success x 2 ) VALID
Tithe @ 11:03PM
[WP]
His cult of personality brought to bear with that speech crafts attempts to craft a different the ending for vitae-scribed histories. And ending, or a beginning, with Angelo offering his wavering hand to one who has stepped through fire and forward to lead this war party.
Joey @ 5:19PM
[ Manipulation + Leadership. Specialty: Cult of Personality. Spending a WP. ]
Roll: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 2, 4, 6, 9, 10) ( success x 4 ) [WP] VALID
--
That grim Crusader thaws enough to smile faintly.
Mikhail is nodding, though any other indicator of approval or disapproval is difficult to read. His eyes are opaque.
The creature with the shattered face roars-bellows its approval, the chains dragging his eyelids down causing them to gape attached to his jaw revealing of the interior.
The baby-faced Brujah antitribu laughs, laughs for the joy of the hunt, laughs for joy in strong leaders, laughs for pleasure at the words which speak to his sparking-wire cold dead heart, and he throws one half of the ruined crow bar back into the fire. "I'
And more, and more . . . A Tzimisce with skin as smooth as polished stone a long throat and manticore teeth, appraising attention drawn to the King of Night in the last of his speech, it (she) comes forward to speak to him, a Toreador antitribu with dead eyes and a series of tattoos that unroll an occult history . . . A twitchy thing, teeth blunt jaw black with vitae . . . They're a reckless monster-force, the Sabbat, and were it not for their shared beliefs, the nearest of whom are taking up the cry, "Toast with their Blood!" "To the fall of the Antediluvians!" "TO THE FALL!" well were it not for that, they'd eat themselves.
Eat themselves.
Flood turns back to the Freak nearly overtaken by the Lasombra's shadows [see how the darkness undulates see how it punctuates], and it seems that Flood had an effect. Angelo has the palm of one hand in his mouth, gnawing, has ripped a chunk from his own forearm and swallowed it, savaged it, swallowed it. Apparently without noticing it. But the wavering and still-whole hand is taken and Angelo swallows swallows swallows and
well it's the victor who writes the story and decides on the meaning of things. Things like Flood gripping the Freak's arm so rigidly. Flood, the Leader.
[He's got 'em. If there's any particular face among those above that Flood would want to 'keep near' or to order about, lemme know or post it and I'll probably segue us into the meat of the battle after your next post.
Tithe @ 11:02PM
[Angelo. Self-Consumption BITE. Dex + Brawl.]
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 5, 6, 6, 7) ( success x 3 ) VALID
Tithe @ 11:02PM
[Actual Damage.]
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 5, 5, 9, 10) ( success x 2 ) VALID
Tithe @ 11:03PM
[WP]
Roll: 5 d10 TN8 (1, 6, 6, 9, 10) ( success x 2 ) VALID]
Flood does not even know how much of what he says he actually believe. Who knows how much of it they do? How much of it is a rationale to aim their debased and most basic yearnings. No, it's not the words, not them really, that Flood believes in. It's this. The power they give him. The assertion of dominance as they are whipped into frenzy and fervor when his cold and sharp works crack out in the firelight. Those that look are gathered with his gaze. Regarded and that is the stimulus that draws them into his circle.
His is the eye of the storm and the tempest is growing.
The priests are readying the cups and the war party is breaking up into its packs.
Some only temporary in such a transitory city, transients in a place where some packs only have one or two straggling survivors after a night's battle and move onto another in the next, when shovelheads survive, but their sires do not, and Flood finds one of these stray priests. Perhaps it is the yule marble skinned fiend. If it is he begins to clang his sword on rock and shaped metal, looking here and there to see who will gather to the sound it makes before it is drawn across his skin and his vitae is given to the cup that comes, the cup he knows will come, shed and shared on to the next for their red tithing.
Some only temporary in such a transitory city, transients in a place where some packs only have one or two straggling survivors after a night's battle and move onto another in the next, when shovelheads survive, but their sires do not, and Flood finds one of these stray priests. Perhaps it is the yule marble skinned fiend. If it is he begins to clang his sword on rock and shaped metal, looking here and there to see who will gather to the sound it makes before it is drawn across his skin and his vitae is given to the cup that comes, the cup he knows will come, shed and shared on to the next for their red tithing.
Vaulderie.
Blessings come and they drink and they are bound under it by the shackle-breaking and brotherhood-making vinculum. Even if it is only for the night. Even if they will never fight again beside one another. Flood's clashing metal and ringing words summons and creates a pack for him on this eve of impending Crusade.
[ Oooh. Totally going for dealer's choice, whichever ones were roused to the point of wanting to fight beside him, but he's going to definitely want that Tzimisce and the Ventrue antitribu. They're a bit more his style. Other than that whatever you're going to have the most fun with. ]
The priest who holds the bone-carved cup (chalice) is smiling, during the ritual. The type of deliberate monster who revels in the potency of small gestures and who has for tonight chosen Flood as its ductus. The priest is indeed that marble-skinned fiend who'd approached Flood at close of his speech but the Crusader with the broad-sword comes, too, no ripple in her Renaissance angel serenity, and the hyper-active blood-sheened Brujah who looks like the kind of thing women would begin to mother automatically and men to give friendly advice to … were it not for the fangs and the manic light in the eye. The dead-eyed Toreador-anti comes, and then with a doggish expression of absolute loyalty gaze fixing on the cup as blood is spilled into it and then mixed with ceremony the smell rich and potent and potent and Power comes the creature with the hideous (not-Nosferatu, but still) face, a Pander. Angelo does not come, slinking off with his own pack, but who cares? Because the vinculum is binding, [with an exception] is taking strangle-hold, and they are ready and Henrietta's War Pack is Disappearing and the kine are dead hanging pale and bloodless almost no drop on the heated floor and the Sword of Caine is ready and so
[Richthofen - Interior.]
You know what is happening,
(We are experienced in fighting the Sabbat because none fight them more than they fight amongst themselves…
…But where there are Sabbat, I'll be there, to cut them out. Until I meet my Maker, or see the death of the last of them myself, I'll keep doing it. That is my, oath.)
what has happened,
(Thrive in war, and you will thrive in the peace we earn with it. I will fight a hundred thousand nights for one night of true peace…
…Enough!
They think our humanity makes us weak. Let's show them how wrong they are.)
what will happen.
The screams come first --
[Richthofen - Exterior.]
-- and they were answered by gunfire [pop-pop, pop-pop], barely silenced. They were answered by the closing vise of the Sabbat and the well-trained ghouls [Blue Blooded and Rasmussen's, Narcisa's and Elysium's) answering emergency with brutal efficiency. These sorts of things never take much time, and those who are fleeing from within tangle up with those who are coming to help hold the lines [there seems to be a remarkable amount of courage, among the surprised "Kindred" pretend-vampires in their finery, but they were stirred and moved by the two-pronged speeches of Brujah], and it's sometimes difficult to tell which is which, though does it matter to the Sabbat? It does not. They're here to slaughter the pretenders all.
There is the Brujah Elder and there is the Sheriff at the wall.
The wall is full of cracks, battle spilling inward.
There is a knot of particularly strong resistance to the invaders, over there in the gardens by the arches full of [Natural] darkness.
There on the other side is a weak point, where many from within appear to be escaping successfully, fleeing into the city and the night.
And over there is a massacre, the Sabbat victorious, though bullets rain down hard and fast from above from those silenced but all-too-well-known sniper rifles, not always being too careful about their targets ... Confusion, confusion...
Somewhere in this mess is a Flood and his pack. Where is Flood and where is his pack?
[Hokay. So. First:
Vinculum Ratings Apply Thus:
8 = The Crusader. Kate.
2 = The Fiend. Ursola.
2 = Baby-faced Brujah Fanatic. Eduardo.
7 = Dead-eyed Toreador Antitribu. Alain.
1 = Faithful Pander Thug. Jim.
Second:
Choose your poison. We're dropping Flood & co. in the midst of things obviously, but you can pick where he's going to focus his attention for the bit-to-come. And at the end of your post, gimme his Init!
]
--
There is their meal. The cavalry sword is whipped above his head in a precise and cutting circle and leveled again a moment later. He repeats his previous words, shouting them above the gunfire: "Toast with their Blood!" And he begins his sprint at their head. Flood aims for the weak point. Aims to both solidify the lines and cut off the enemy's means of egress. His words provide his war pack with just the right motivation, he believes, to get them there.
[THE FINAL INITS ORDER
Flood: 18
Alain: 18
Carmen: 16
Eduardo: 16
Ursola: 16
Owen: 15
Domenech: 15
Errol: 14
Magdalena: 13
Jim: 12
Kate: 11
NOW FIGHT THEM ALL FLOOD. Haha. Just kiddin'. I'll work on the Declares of Doom and Cinematic LET'S DO THIS post now. Just wanted to get this neatly on record now.]
--
He calls the darkness and it comes to him [loyal as a lover never, ever is except in stories, except in moments of weakness], dragging up and over those snipers, and sound up there is muffled, is quiet, but the steady hail of bullets unsteadies, skips like a heartbeat suddenly terrified, worn ragged, and when it starts up again it's not as strong, doesn't come from as many corners … and is even less discriminate, while that darkness lasts.
But Flood isn't gazing at his own handiwork. There's more to do.
The weak point.
The weak point is a weak point in part because the Sword of Caine's presence there is diminished. Has been diminished. The ground is writhing with shovel-heads and ash, with the still withering limbs of those undead who met their Final Death and the warmer-looking, even dead, corpses of security ghouls, and then there is a quiet space by wall that is neither low or high, a willow tree serene beside it, branches not for climbing but perhaps for hiding [at least for shadow, dredging up more darkness to attack], bushes where enemies might be hiding, might be waiting, might be terrified and watching, then a flat expanse of grass and look. There is the wall, the point of exit, iron spikes. A gate, the point of exit, toward a street and waiting cars, and there is stonework, and look.
There is a red biplane with the black Iron Cross on its wings, like something out've Flood's years as Niccolo, a relic just as he is. Richthofen Castle was, after all, built that WWI Ace Pilot's uncle, and the heritage [why?] is kept alive for the historical society, and perhaps something in that cavalry sword he has remembers other nights.
But the red biplane is nothing now except cover for the escaping scions of the Ivory Tower, those who are fleeing. And it is nothing now, except cover for the scions of the Ivory Tower who are making a stand that some of their companions might escape (or so that they can survive [let's not pretend there's too much warmth and friendship going on here]).
Here they are. The feast.
A pale woman with hair like embers, long and flowing, in a sea-green gown who seems to be armed with nothing more than her wits, such as they are. Though: there is some malformed bone-crafted creature at her feet. Magdalena.
An intimidating woman with a certain gauntness to the face, eyes pale and staring, but precisely if somewhat masculinely elegant, a stake in one hand and a nasty ax in the other, taken by the looks of it from a fallen Sabbat. Carmen.
A pale man with cruel arching eyebrows and a curl Hollywood idol mouth and a certain wiry sleekness, in a furred but timeless collar and jacket just dripping suavity, his hair dark and one of the heavier more means-business handguns in one hand, though it looks to be modified or customized more stylishly. Domenech.
And if Domenech is closer to the gates and further from the plane (he is), then Owen is closer to the plane than he is to the gates, the strong-looking (those those can be deceiving) man in a suit with his tie loosened and his top button either undone or lost, one of the first to notice the oncoming Cainite reinforcements and to take aim.
But closest of all, Errol, the Nosferatu, who has just gutted a Sabbat whose claws marked her as perhaps Gangrel, dead Sabbat whose skull is caved in, who isn't moving anymore, Errol who looks like his limbs were crafted in order to get Lepers dates.
Flood lets loose the hounds, and -
[THE DECLARES.
Kate: Be intimidating, slice down Errol.
Jim: Flank Errol, punch him.
Magdalena: Oh no! Climb this wall to safety!
Errol: 1. Throw Dead-or-Torpored Sabbat At Kate. Maybe the ash'll blind her or foul-up her sword. 2. Stab Jim.
Domenech: 1. Aim + Presence 2 on Ursola. Celerity 1. Headshot Ursola, Hopefully As She Flees. Celerity 2. Shoot Kate.
Owen: Reflexive: Taunt-y taunt! 1. Shoot Flood. 2. Shoot Eduardo.
Ursola: Clinch/Bite Owen.
Eduardo: SPEED PAST ALL THE CAMARILLANS, to cut them off from outside the wall. Hee Hee!! Celerity 1. KEEP WITH THE SPEEDING HEE HEE HEE HEE. Unless has already made it, in which case, twirl stake and machete intimidatingly.
Carmen: 1. Stake Eduardo.
Alain: Ooh, Magda has pretty hair. 1. Drag her down from the wall. 2. Grapple & cut out an eye as a souvenir.
Flood: ????
THE OOC ST COMMENTARY.
I'm not making a map. The distances are going to be cinemafied through hardcore. Most of the fight will probably happen between the iron spike wall and the plane, because that's where the exit is. We're not wasting time on 'closing,' except for Eduardo who's trying to cut them off. But feel free to make use of anything mentioned in the setting when you're doing your declare/plotting out whatcha wanna do, and if you have any questions feel free to ask. You can also give me a Percept + Alertness diff 7 roll to see if anybody IS hiding in the bushes if Flood's taking time to look. Any questions lay 'em on me!]
--
Joey @ 1:34AM
[ Rolling five dice for vinculum ratings to be assigned at Jess' whim. ]
Roll: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 2, 7, 8) ( success x 2 ) VALID
--
[Richthofen - Interior.]
You know what is happening,
…But where there are Sabbat, I'll be there, to cut them out. Until I meet my Maker, or see the death of the last of them myself, I'll keep doing it. That is my, oath.)
what has happened,
(Thrive in war, and you will thrive in the peace we earn with it. I will fight a hundred thousand nights for one night of true peace…
…Enough!
They think our humanity makes us weak. Let's show them how wrong they are.)
what will happen.
The screams come first --
[Richthofen - Exterior.]
-- and they were answered by gunfire [pop-pop, pop-pop], barely silenced. They were answered by the closing vise of the Sabbat and the well-trained ghouls [Blue Blooded and Rasmussen's, Narcisa's and Elysium's) answering emergency with brutal efficiency. These sorts of things never take much time, and those who are fleeing from within tangle up with those who are coming to help hold the lines [there seems to be a remarkable amount of courage, among the surprised "Kindred" pretend-vampires in their finery, but they were stirred and moved by the two-pronged speeches of Brujah], and it's sometimes difficult to tell which is which, though does it matter to the Sabbat? It does not. They're here to slaughter the pretenders all.
There is the Brujah Elder and there is the Sheriff at the wall.
The wall is full of cracks, battle spilling inward.
There is a knot of particularly strong resistance to the invaders, over there in the gardens by the arches full of [Natural] darkness.
There on the other side is a weak point, where many from within appear to be escaping successfully, fleeing into the city and the night.
And over there is a massacre, the Sabbat victorious, though bullets rain down hard and fast from above from those silenced but all-too-well-known sniper rifles, not always being too careful about their targets ... Confusion, confusion...
Somewhere in this mess is a Flood and his pack. Where is Flood and where is his pack?
[Hokay. So. First:
Vinculum Ratings Apply Thus:
8 = The Crusader. Kate.
2 = The Fiend. Ursola.
2 = Baby-faced Brujah Fanatic. Eduardo.
7 = Dead-eyed Toreador Antitribu. Alain.
1 = Faithful Pander Thug. Jim.
Second:
Choose your poison. We're dropping Flood & co. in the midst of things obviously, but you can pick where he's going to focus his attention for the bit-to-come. And at the end of your post, gimme his Init!
]
--
Flood surveys the battlefield for but a moment, knowing that a pack at his back could lead to a force in disarray or a mob of Cainites nipping at his heels, and this with only the slightest hesitation. If they had thought he was hesitating they would be corrected by the bilious cloud of darkness he belches forth at those shooters on the roof, some two stories in diameter and laid like a blanket over them. It's effect is deliberate: to solidify that pocket of Sabbat triumph.
But Flood had promised this impromptu war pack a feast, and any politician worth his salt knows to keep his promises when they're for such visceral yearnings. That enshrouding of the Abyss finished, Flood's eyes narrow like twin daggers of jade before his sword point is brought up on that opening. That exodus. Richthofen is a pomegranate fruit cracked open and look at all the red morsels spilling forth and waiting to be consumed.There is their meal. The cavalry sword is whipped above his head in a precise and cutting circle and leveled again a moment later. He repeats his previous words, shouting them above the gunfire: "Toast with their Blood!" And he begins his sprint at their head. Flood aims for the weak point. Aims to both solidify the lines and cut off the enemy's means of egress. His words provide his war pack with just the right motivation, he believes, to get them there.
[ Pumping Stamina to 5. After his Shroud of Night roll Flood will be at WP 6 and BP of 9. Maybe higher if he got to drain one of those kine before leaving the Temple. The most he can roll for Courage is still 5 as Virtues are limited by Humanity. All Physical stats are now at 5. ]
Joey @ 12:13PM
[ Obtenebration: Shroud of Night. Manipulation + Occult. Difficulty 9. Dropping a WP. ]
Roll: 7 d10 TN9 (3, 4, 5, 5, 6, 7, 10) ( success x 2 ) [WP] VALID
Joey @ 12:32PM
[ Initiative: 1d10 + 8 ]
Roll: 1 d10 TN6 (10) ( success x 1 ) VALID
--
Flood: 18
Alain: 18
Carmen: 16
Eduardo: 16
Ursola: 16
Owen: 15
Domenech: 15
Errol: 14
Magdalena: 13
Jim: 12
Kate: 11
NOW FIGHT THEM ALL FLOOD. Haha. Just kiddin'. I'll work on the Declares of Doom and Cinematic LET'S DO THIS post now. Just wanted to get this neatly on record now.]
--
He calls the darkness and it comes to him [loyal as a lover never, ever is except in stories, except in moments of weakness], dragging up and over those snipers, and sound up there is muffled, is quiet, but the steady hail of bullets unsteadies, skips like a heartbeat suddenly terrified, worn ragged, and when it starts up again it's not as strong, doesn't come from as many corners … and is even less discriminate, while that darkness lasts.
But Flood isn't gazing at his own handiwork. There's more to do.
The weak point.
The weak point is a weak point in part because the Sword of Caine's presence there is diminished. Has been diminished. The ground is writhing with shovel-heads and ash, with the still withering limbs of those undead who met their Final Death and the warmer-looking, even dead, corpses of security ghouls, and then there is a quiet space by wall that is neither low or high, a willow tree serene beside it, branches not for climbing but perhaps for hiding [at least for shadow, dredging up more darkness to attack], bushes where enemies might be hiding, might be waiting, might be terrified and watching, then a flat expanse of grass and look. There is the wall, the point of exit, iron spikes. A gate, the point of exit, toward a street and waiting cars, and there is stonework, and look.
There is a red biplane with the black Iron Cross on its wings, like something out've Flood's years as Niccolo, a relic just as he is. Richthofen Castle was, after all, built that WWI Ace Pilot's uncle, and the heritage [why?] is kept alive for the historical society, and perhaps something in that cavalry sword he has remembers other nights.
But the red biplane is nothing now except cover for the escaping scions of the Ivory Tower, those who are fleeing. And it is nothing now, except cover for the scions of the Ivory Tower who are making a stand that some of their companions might escape (or so that they can survive [let's not pretend there's too much warmth and friendship going on here]).
Here they are. The feast.
A pale woman with hair like embers, long and flowing, in a sea-green gown who seems to be armed with nothing more than her wits, such as they are. Though: there is some malformed bone-crafted creature at her feet. Magdalena.
An intimidating woman with a certain gauntness to the face, eyes pale and staring, but precisely if somewhat masculinely elegant, a stake in one hand and a nasty ax in the other, taken by the looks of it from a fallen Sabbat. Carmen.
A pale man with cruel arching eyebrows and a curl Hollywood idol mouth and a certain wiry sleekness, in a furred but timeless collar and jacket just dripping suavity, his hair dark and one of the heavier more means-business handguns in one hand, though it looks to be modified or customized more stylishly. Domenech.
And if Domenech is closer to the gates and further from the plane (he is), then Owen is closer to the plane than he is to the gates, the strong-looking (those those can be deceiving) man in a suit with his tie loosened and his top button either undone or lost, one of the first to notice the oncoming Cainite reinforcements and to take aim.
But closest of all, Errol, the Nosferatu, who has just gutted a Sabbat whose claws marked her as perhaps Gangrel, dead Sabbat whose skull is caved in, who isn't moving anymore, Errol who looks like his limbs were crafted in order to get Lepers dates.
Flood lets loose the hounds, and -
[THE DECLARES.
Kate: Be intimidating, slice down Errol.
Jim: Flank Errol, punch him.
Magdalena: Oh no! Climb this wall to safety!
Errol: 1. Throw Dead-or-Torpored Sabbat At Kate. Maybe the ash'll blind her or foul-up her sword. 2. Stab Jim.
Domenech: 1. Aim + Presence 2 on Ursola. Celerity 1. Headshot Ursola, Hopefully As She Flees. Celerity 2. Shoot Kate.
Owen: Reflexive: Taunt-y taunt! 1. Shoot Flood. 2. Shoot Eduardo.
Ursola: Clinch/Bite Owen.
Eduardo: SPEED PAST ALL THE CAMARILLANS, to cut them off from outside the wall. Hee Hee!! Celerity 1. KEEP WITH THE SPEEDING HEE HEE HEE HEE. Unless has already made it, in which case, twirl stake and machete intimidatingly.
Carmen: 1. Stake Eduardo.
Alain: Ooh, Magda has pretty hair. 1. Drag her down from the wall. 2. Grapple & cut out an eye as a souvenir.
Flood: ????
THE OOC ST COMMENTARY.
I'm not making a map. The distances are going to be cinemafied through hardcore. Most of the fight will probably happen between the iron spike wall and the plane, because that's where the exit is. We're not wasting time on 'closing,' except for Eduardo who's trying to cut them off. But feel free to make use of anything mentioned in the setting when you're doing your declare/plotting out whatcha wanna do, and if you have any questions feel free to ask. You can also give me a Percept + Alertness diff 7 roll to see if anybody IS hiding in the bushes if Flood's taking time to look. Any questions lay 'em on me!]
--
Joey @ 3:42PM
Flood's hounds, the dogs of war stirred to fury by appeals to their killer instincts and led by him to this well-stocked hunting ground, are aided by a darker host that reaches from the shadows. Two of these Abyssal limbs lash like whips upon Domenech as he readies that hand cannon to fire at its master's comrade, Ursola. The last? Snakes like a lone anaconda toward that biplane and into the shadows of its cockpit, the shadows that are its true home to find out what creature has dared sneak into its den, constricting and crushing around and upon it curiously with lethal alacrity.
And Flood unfettered advances upon Owen with his sword at the ready. But he does not trust inherently in the abilities of the Abyssal manifestations. Or perhaps at least inherently in his own ability to control them as such. As they execute his ends across the battlefield he crosses is in a curve-ball pattern to avoid the sights of the biplane's guns.
When he finally has reached Owen the broad swooping blade of the cavalry saber lashes out in a lopping strike to remove the hand that holds the gun he seems prepared to fire at Flood.
[ Arms of the Abyss #1 & #2: Constrict Domenech
Arms of the Abyss #3: Constrict whatever hides in the biplane.
Flood has been called a devil before -- a demon, too. But now. But now, oh, dread to see it. Now he is truly mantled in darkness, the night's own darling prince of the dark. He slithers across the spare summer grass, avoiding (just in case) being caught in the line of the bi-plane's sights, that red German relic which watches impassive, and as he does watch as the darkness flows and undulates, one tendril coiling up and into the cockpit to grab at whatever lurks within whatever insinuation of a shape, and a cry comes from the cockpit to tell of his success. Two more arms of inky darkness reach to coil around that oh-so-dashing, so Hollywood classy creature with the cruelty and handsomeness, and before Domenech has a chance to react he is entwined, embraced, and crushed. He struggles back, the Brujah (oh, did you think he was a Toreador? silly), bringing his not inconsiderable strength to bear: flings off one tendril of darkness-made-solid, but cannot -- does not -- shake the second. . .
. . . And Flood.
Flood. He bears down on Owen. Owen with the loosened tie, Owen with the sharp retort waiting, Owen with strength clear in his musculature and the way he fills his space, Owen aiming with that gun at Flood who slices with that sword of his and then there's a spray of vitae [Potent], of hot-tempered Blood, splatters the grass and splatters Owen's side and splatters the hand still gripping the trigger of a gun and the gun itself where it lies in the grass preserved for another moment or two or three, perhaps even more, an incorruptible relic, and the pain of it, the precision of it rocks Owen to his core so [look, his eyes widen at Flood, and they are also green] Ursola has no problem at all coming at him from the side and insinuating her arm around him and then
biting, Kissing, deep oh deep and beginning to feast.
Point 1 (and a half?) for the Sword of Caine.
But here is Eduardo. Baby-faced, laughing, not in Frenzy but frenzied, muscles artificially pumped, streaking through the Camarilla and toward that wall and the glint in his adorable eyes is --
Thunk.
Frozen. Because here is Carmen impaling him through the heart with her stake in one simple and forceful movement. Blink, and it looks like he ran into it. Like that was always gonna be his fate and he was rushing to it with his arms fucking wide open and laughing like some damned fool kid. Carmen never blinks, but keeps the impaled Brujah-antitribu as a shield and moves implaccably toward the next mark. With elegance, if you please. Boardroom Shark.
The battle is less certain by the iron gates, with Alain grabbing for Magdalena, catching her around the legs and pulling, though losing his grasp when the red-haired creature resists, clinging desperately to the gate and trying to push herself up and over, and he stumbles back with a look of … You could call it surprise. It's a look that does not bode well. The look of a cat toying with its prey, concealing annoyance just barely.
And closer to the biplane, the Nosferatu. He flings that be-clawed predator at the oncoming Holy Warrior(ess), the Blue-Blooded Knight, she of the serene presence, and he flings with both forceand accuracy. Fortune decides to abandon the Knight (or perhaps to test her), and the dead or torpored Sabbat's claws cut deeply across her chest and ribcage and left arm, tearing muscle and flesh and undead veins, revealing and splaying bone . . .
. . . rocking her back and to the ground, though she's already getting up as Jim, that ugly creature who is not a Nosferatu, whose mother really DIDN'T love him or whose mother died in another battle, roars and aims a punch at the Nosferatu which, though it lands, seems to do nothing. Of course, the Nosferatu's knife misses Jim entirely, passing under his arm and uselessly into air.
[NEW INITS.
Flood: 18
Alain: 18
Carmen: 16
[out] Eduardo: 16
Ursola: 16
[out] Owen: 15
Domenech: 15
Jenny: 15 [ding, ding! new challenger!]
Owen is shit out of luck. We won't bother giving him a health rating right now. Maybe in the unlikely event that he gets outta this one.
Eduardo is staked and at 3 Lethal.
Kate is at 5 Agg.
NEW DECLARES.
Kate: WTF? CUT OFF NOSSIES LEGS.
Jim: PUNCH ERROL AGAIN.
Magdalena: Gonna roll a Percept + Alert. If successful, she'll try to help Dom. If not, she'll kick Alain in the head and get over that fence.
Errol: 1. Stab Kate Through The Eye. 2. Stab Kate Again.
Jenny: Beg for mercy, affectingly? Get outta the plane.
Domenech: Struggle for freedom!
Owen: Get sucked on. Gross. Tzim makeouts.
Ursola: Suck on Owen. Yum.
Eduardo: Be staked + (in)human shield. This sucks. And not in a cool way, like that Tzim and Bruj.
Carmen: 1. Slice Shadow Tendril. 2. Slice Shadow Tendril. 3. Slice Flood.
Alain: Did you really kick me? 1. Climb Faster Than Magdalena. 2. Grab her hair. Celerity 1. I don't even know how to declare this. Push her down so she gets impaled on the fence's spikes.
Flood: ????????
--
But he is too busy to scold her. In the long run her feeding will have the desired effect. One less Camarilla dog and a bolstered Sabbat soldier in its place.
The darkness stays upon its targets. The shouting figure in the plane. Domenech, the other arm returning to descend upon him again, and constrict. Pluck his limps from his very form, crush his ribs until they devour his heart and the seat of his vitae, pulverize vertebrae and bones until muscle can only writhe around them ineffectually as earth worms. At least that is their intent.
And Flood?
Flood sees a knight fallen and a sense of blood-borne honor rises in him. Chivalry for the Ventrue antitribu. A need to preserve the unlife of the dead woman. See how he looks at her fallen form, passion risen in his cold eyes by the Vaulderie's stirred brew.
"Bite him you fool," is what Flood barks at that Pander thug readying his baseball bat of an arm to throw it at Errol again. Flood is backing away from where Carmen is focused on those tendrils of darkness' essence. When she turns on him his saber rises to try and parry the blow. And then? And then it shows what Flood means, turning to bite its steel edge into Kate's attacker.
[ Arms #1 and #2: Keep on keeping on Domenech.
Arm #3: Crush that Jenny. Crush her good.
Flood: Split to parry Carmen with 5 dice and slice Errol with 2. Cutting down his split pool by -1 dice for directing the Arms. That's 3 total actions including getting one of the Arms to start attacking again, which is his per turn limit. ]
Flood. The eye of the storm. Look at him. He yells an order and it is obeyed, not because he fueled his voice with blood, but because he is Flood. Because he made a command and the Pander Thug must obey, though it wrenches him, and instead of flinging his fist upon that Nosferatu he flings his teeth instead, gleaming fangs sharp and wicked and curved, and how they rend that grotesque flesh, that mockery of humanity, that Beast-warped form -- but too late for Kate. They are both too late for Kate, the Crusader, who --
But first. Flood. Look at him, how it all happens around him. How he is its still and deadly eye. The darkness he insinuates, curling and crushing in the cockpit of that German plane, it squeezes and its victim gives another cry, sounds so plaintive her voice plucks at heartstrings, recalls memories of people once loved, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps -- Oh please! Stop, please! I will do anything! -- a sob, and how to doubt? But the ribcage cracks.
Look how those blacker than black Abyssal arms at Domenech whip, the one thrown off unstoppable, coiling again around his leg and hip and ribs and both of them together would compress the well-dressed Brujah into diamond, but for a surprising vampiric resilience, and but for Carmen. Carmen, with the pale staring eyes, the mad eyeballs, fixed and unsettling, the axe and the Brujah antitribu shield who stares that last gleeful spark replaced by anxiety anger fury rage constrained by wood. Carmen slices the darkness and it quails, and she slices the darkness again, and it shudders and begins to break up, to dissolve, pieces drifting in the air untethered and unmooring, unravelling from Flood who is the still heart of this melee.
But Domenech himself escapes them, throwing all of his Will into getting free: and now he is at liberty. His teeth skim back from his fangs and he snarls, a lock of hair [at least, at last] mussed, and Ursola does not notice or care that Domenech is free or that Carmen is bearing down. Why should she?
She is on her way to committing diablerie on Owen, who is going boneless in her arms, sinking to the ground while she holds him up. Look at Owen, something in him tries to re-gain control, to bring steel to his spine, but he can't he can't and it feels So Good though he knows --
Is that a heartbeat? He hasn't heard one of those in a long, long time.
But even with that, is the tide turning against the Sword of Caine? Look. Here is Erroll. No: Here is Flood. Flood, moved by sorcery, moved by the ties that bind by the blood in a bone-chalice towards chivalry, toward ardent defense, and he parries Carmen coming for him as Domenech breaks free, doesn't even need to clatch with that axe which sweeps past him, he is too quick and too gone.
His sword bites deeply into the Nosferatu. Deeply, and first. Unknits loathsome tissue, makes one arm near useless. But near is not enough. Erroll stabs at Kate's open eyes anyway, and his knife goes through like a thread through the eye of a needle and bites deep. Kate is made of sturdy stuff, and even as Erroll withdraws the knife [slurp], trailing bone fragments and viscera, the wet dripping fluid of an eyeball shattered it is all beginning to mend. Just not enough. And then he stabs again --
The Crusader is ruined. Not Finally Dead. But look at that gruesome, gory mess -- and this is when Jim falls on Erroll, biting, ripping into the Nosferatu at Flood's behest -- oh, Kate is down. Torpored. And Jim tears into Erroll, burrowing deep, eyes glittering.
[INITS. Not going to re-roll 'em.
Flood: 18.
Alain: 18. [1 Agg.]
Carmen: 16.
[out] Eduardo: 16. [3 Lethal.]
Ursola: 16.
[out] Owen 15.
Domenech: 15. 2 Lethal.
Jenny: 15. 1 Lethal.
Errol: 14. 3 Lethal, 3 Agg.
Magdalena: 13. 6 Lethal.
Jim: 12.
[out] Kate: 11. TORPOR.
DECLARES.
Kate: X_X
Jim: BITE ERROL AGAIN.
Magdalena: Sob. Use An Eeeevil Dementation Power on Alain
Errol: Ack! 1. Avoid Jim's Teeth. 2. Stab Flood.
Jenny: Continue struggling. We're not all great fighters, okay?
Domenech: 1. Shoot Ursola. 2. Shoot Ursola. Celerity 1. Shoot. Fucking. Flood.
Ursola: Is somebody shooting me? I'm busy diablerizing, and I don't notice.
Carmen: 1. Cut one of those pesky shadow tendrils whipping around. 2. Also attack Ursola.
Alain: 1. Cut Magdalena again. 2. Cut Domenech.
Flood: ??????]
--
Now, again, Domenech freed aims that gun at him. That Hollywood gangster piece with its sight and etchings. And Kate is fallen. An apple to Newton's gravity and no less drenched in red. Errol still stands, that beast who'd put her to rest.
He strides through this valley of the undead, this valley of the shadow of death. The tide will be turned with a tide of blood and Camarilla souls trapped in torpor, if he has anything to do with it. There still corpses will be the sand bags that will turn back this sad excuse for a rally of their force. And then?
The Flood will come. Released from behind it. The vitae rushes and fills his veins. Consuming him as his eyes flush red and he becomes a thing of vitae and shadow and sheer force. The Lasombra leaves the Abyss to its own devices. Wills it to lash at its attacker. The one that had killed its sibling. He is the consuming Flood that comes to finish things.
[ Arm #1: Lash onto Carmen..
Arm #3: Lash onto Carmen. Jenny is spared.
Flood: Goddamit Alain, you better kill Magdalena because I'm not dealing with your all Dementation-crazy-shit. Oh, yeah, declare. Split: Cut Errol. Cut Domenech. Cut Domenech. ]
--
This is how it happens.
Flood is focused, but Flood is a prince of the shadow. His reflection was sacrificed to the abyss and look at how swift, how quick, the two arms of darkness which remain lash, whip through the air, snake through the air, whirling eddies of shade tearing from other more natural shadows lying slender and cold on the grass, as if the more mundane darkness yearned in some part to be used as a weapon -- to leave the biplane's cockpit and the victim found there-in, to lash at and around the tall and brutally elegant [gaunt, intimidating] Carmen, who finds herself struck-at by Flood's shadows in the instant she pulls her arm back to hack again at the darkness, just as she'd turned her body to -- but it doesn't matter.
They circle her and her undead (still unliving) shield, doing damage to both, before -- with a monumental struggle -- she escapes the grasp of one, dropping Eduardo to the ground, followed by her old money old world jacket.
"Pathetic weakling!" implaccable judgment, though Flood is anything but weak. Look how the Lasombra cleaves Erroll in twain. Look how it takes a moment for the undead flesh to realize it is no longer whole, it is no longer together, a moment for the saber's tip to leave followed by a macabre parade of gore falls at Flood's feet and across unmoving Kate. Look how the Nosferatu meets final death, one quick stroke that separates top from bottom and literally breaks the heart and shatters ribs and dead. He is Finally Dead, Jim left with a jawful of dead flesh that the Pander spits out onto the ground, grinning terribly,
and over there, the battle by the iron fence: How goes that? Beyond the iron fence lies freedom, the city, the kine. Places to hide, not limned in fire.
The Toreador-Antitribu Alain had cut Magdalena truly; see her on the ground, barely able to move, the vitae running from her, running from her, running from him, running and running, pallor white paper now. He cuts her again, but it's practically a love-slice; it does no further damage, just wets the tip of his weapon, which he turns on Domenech at last. Domenech who is free. Domenech who was trying to shoot Ursola, that manticore-mouthed stone-skinned creature, who is quietly and rapturously drinking Owen away, drinking him down, a La Pieta sculpture sheltering in the good graces of the eye of the storm. Domenech, who planned to shoot Flood next. His knife slash comes after Flood has his shot --
Flood, again. Flood, oncoming? Flood, consumed, a thing of vitae and shadow and sheer force. The Brujah, faced with the Lasombra directly, snarls at him but tries to avoid those certain attacks. The first almost cuts his collar, but is avoided; the second pings a button, brass, which it then catches and sends spinning out into the grass, and he can't avoid Alain with his attention on avoiding Flood, but Alain's knife does no harm.
Which is when Magdalena screams: "No! Fire! Fire!"
But it is more than just a scream. Fire and sand will become glass if enough heat is applied, but be careful of the warping -- and her voice is the warping that occurs under pressure, when the heat is too much; her voice, the sound of it, is Madness, is an unhinged thing, and it wrenches the hinges off of Alain's mind, worms its way into his cold dead brain, and warps it, and then Alainis screaming, Alain is s C R E E E E E E EE E EEE AM IN GG G Gg g gGggGgg EEE AAAAAAAAAAMing as the plea 'fire' becomes fire that is inside his skull it is inside his skull it is behind his eyeballs licking it is it is he can't he scratch it out cut it out cutitout and he first flees, staggering, clawing at his face as if only he could get inside his skull he could take the fire out takeitouttakeitouttakeit and this is the madness of
absolute
terror
[Castle Ricthofen - Exterior, Elsewhere - Speaking of Fire]
There is a car, and the Sabbat have lit it on fire, have stuffed it with fire - who are they, to let fire conquer them? They are true vampires and they embrace their weakness and make it into a ritual that gives them courage. Let these pretenders run from it. Let them deal with it. There is a car -- let loose, loosed like a bolt from a crossbow --
crashing through what remains of already broken glass, of already shattered windows, right into the hall where the "Kindred" were wont to hold their "Elysium" peace, their cold parties and their invampiric revels, where there is a melée going on, where a traitor is revealed and another is perhaps being uncovered, where the War Pack chosen to get first chance at Lady Adelaide Blue Blooded Scion is being fought and look
somewhere a Malkavian is screaming Fire! Fire!
and inside that hall, silk lined walls begin to catch flame.
[SO. One more round. And then maybe a half-a-round. Then I'm going to cinematic fade this bad boy. Kill who you can, be a badass Flood! More of a badass, I should say. IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE?
He gets +1 to WP since everything is going crazycrazy around him, so back to 4 for Flood.
Carmen: 16. {2 Lethal}
Magdalena: 13. {Still 6 Lethal}
[Magdalena: 1. Crawl Away. 2. DEMENTATE FLOOD.]
[Jenny: Run away!]
[Domenech: 1. Shoot Flood. Sorry, Owen. Burning Three BPs (because Jess just remembered that Domenech can do that). 1 for Dex. 2 for Celerity Actions. RUN. And. RUN.]
[Owen: Last Ditch Resist. Then die. Die die die.]
[Ursola: Mm. Two more slurps and your soul is mine.]
[Eduardo: Lie There, Staked. Like a boss.]
[Carmen: 1. Break Free. 2. Slice Ursola. Slice Her To Pieces. 3. Slice Ursola.]
[Alain: Flip Out. Run Away. Claw off face.]
[Flood: ?????]
--
[ Doing a Courage roll at difficulty 6 to stick around with that car rolling by and Richthofen going up in flames.
Arm #1: Keep on Carmen. This is the one that is still holding her.
Arm #3: Get Magdelena. Fuck her over.
Flood: Slash Domenech, Slash Domenech. ]
[ Blowing 2 BP to up the Strength of the Arm lashing at Magdalena by 2. Flood is at 4 BP. Just above a quarter tank. Keep your shit together Flood. ]
Flood howls, and Jim wheels around like a good hound well-trained to heed a call, wheels around for Eduardo, his eyes still open the sheen of firelight trailing a reflection on his eyeballs, and Jimpulls the stake, one foot planted on the Brujah-antitribu's stomach, pulls it slowly out and --
His dark reach [blood-Called, innate Shade] lashes at Magdalena, misses --
Lashes at Carmen, and once again entangles or tightens constricting and squeezing that creature, organs rupturing -- but what of that? They don't need them --
While his German cavalry saber lashes out at Domenech, and oh, lays him low, the cruel arch of eyebrows softening in surprise (arrogant outrage), a glint of fang, as Flood stops him forever and he drops, another saintly relic that'll be blown-away ash, those wide staring eyes, too young once the expression has left them --
-- and Carmen, Carmen is once again escaping that lashing, menacing shadow, and she bears down grimly on Ursola, the axe hefted once and twice and three times. The first time it bites deep into the Tzimisce's shoulder but when it pulls back the Tzimisce's flesh is as smooth as silk. The second time the blow is glancing -- perhaps Carmen has noticed how her Sect-mates are faring?
-- look, the stake it out of Eduardo, and the baby-faced creature rises up, his front drenched in his own vitae, and --
-- Flood is advancing on Magdalena, how swift it is! Too swift. Domenech, or what remains of him, has barely hit the ground -- and that Malkavian, clutching the gleaming mess of her innards to her lap as she scoots backward, her eyes red-rimmed and a bone-deep panic setting in, looking like nothing more than one of those cautionary tales from the Book of Nod of Malkav-priests and priestesses, opens her mouth and --
-- and it is too late. Flood is there, crashing through, pulverizing, doom --
-- and as Magdalena dies her last madness unvoiced, Carmen once again slices at Ursola, and this time, oh, this time, this time, it makes an impact, and one of Ursola's arms slides cleanly off, causing the Tzimisce to drag herself away from the very edge of Diablerie and look upward, dropping Owen drained and ready for the final bite 'lest his spirit escape (it won't), and Ursola does not blink as she rises --
-- and so.
Flood: 18.
[out] Alain. FRENZY RUN AWAY.
Carmen. {3 Lethal.}
Eduardo. BACK IN BABY! But probs about to Frenzy. {3 Lethal}
Ursola. {6 Lethal}
[out] Owen. All a-swoon.
[out] Domenech. Finally Dead.
[out] Jenny. ESCAPED.
[out] Errol. Ded.
[out] Magdalena. So ded.
Jim.
[out] Kate. Torpor.
DECLARES.
Jim: Look to Flood for direction! Since unstaking rule of cool already 'appened.
Ursola: 1. I'ma roll Courage for Miss Wasn't Paying Attention, and if she doesn't run away, claw out Carmen's eyes.
Eduardo: 1. If does not Frenzy, Grab Stake From Jim. 2. If Grabs Stake From Jim, Jump On and 3. STABSTAB Carmen With It.
Carmen: BP to Strength to make it 6 for three turns. Haha, three turns. Optimist. 1. Chop off Owen's head. 2. Chop at Ursola. 3. Slice Flood because Flood is the leader obviously.
Flood: ????
--
[ Another Courage roll.
Arms #1 and #3: Lash out at the bushes and drag whatever is in there back for Daddy to eat.
Flood: Slash Carmen, slash Carmen, parry that slice. ]
--
The last bastion of Ivory Tower standing (at least here) doesn't try to keep her flesh from feeling the bite of Flood's already vitae-drenched sword. The too-tall, gaunt-eyed, well-dressed madame-of-deals brokered and politics unseated, turned tonight into an ax-wielding warrior, weathers the first blow and -- barely weathers it. Another will do it. There's practically nothing but a ruin of a body there, going still through sheer force of will. Her ax --
[Richthofen - Exterior. Elsewhere.]
Unseen, a Ventrue braces herself to sprint, over her shoulder a light pile of [Torpored] bones, and around/before her the barbarians-getting-in-through-
[Richthofen - Exterior. By the biplane. Flood's stand]
-- slashes once and separates Owen's head from Owen's body, then turns its edge on Ursola, where the blow is glancing, and the selfish [Hedonistic?] Tzimisce doesn't seem to notice it. Ursola instead begins to become a thing of bony protrusions, arms needling up, until of course the fire climbing to greater heights leaping through windows waving like a mocking lady-love from some surrealist's nightmare of vampiric chivalry --
[Richthofen - Interior. Elsewhere.]
Four Kindred square-off. The Lost Sire Found. The General [Turned Traitor?]. The Assassin and the Loyal Ventrue Elder. There is smoke and fire dripping downwards, raining like a Biblical plague and it may not be Gehenna but --
[Richthofen - Exterior. By the biplane. Flood's stand]
-- outside the Tzimisce is gripped by Red Fear and flees the scene. Carmen weakly brings her ax down on Flood, but he parries it easily, and then Eduardo is on the Ventrue who'd staked him, and nothing about him is adorable or babyfaced or designed in that moment to make people say aww, the air practically fills with a red mist that echoes the red in his eyes, and Jim -- why, the ugly pander thug, so faithful, takes some initiative and lopes to the bush Flood's shadow arm lashed unsuccessfully through, diving literally through the branches in order to get to the Kindred fleeing from the other side, and --
[Denver - the streets]
Martial law comes, white and blue and red lancing through the billowing signs of carnage, guns and kine and force prepared to unmake the cold struggles of the undead, and though they're nothing compared to the vampires (true and pretend), the battle breaks and filters off. Remember the Inquisition.
[Richthofen - Exterior. By the biplane. Flood's stand]
-- that last shadow arm of Flood's drags from the bushes a struggling, clawing creature, sleek in a suit and a blue silk cravat, fine-featured and frightened, fingers gouging runnels in the earth.
And so.
[AND SO WE'RE OUT. Haha. You can do a final Flood-drinks-the-hell-outta-
--
And there is another thing he wishes for. The effect of tasting that blood. See how it enlivens him as he rights himself. Brings malevolence to his heart that straightens his back. He snarls in disgust at the weakling now being devoured before him. See how he suddenly cares, as much as the Vaulderie had spawned in him, making taking this in all the easier to savor. The arms of darkness withdraw to his side. He takes no trophies. Instead they bear up Kate, his fallen Knight, and carry her torpid body alongside as that same billowing shroud of darkness that had blanketed the snipers is drawn to him and obfuscates their escape.
--
[ Perception + Alertness. Difficulty 7. ]
Roll: 5 d10 TN7 (2, 3, 6, 6, 8) ( success x 1 ) VALID
--
[Hey, look, there is someone hiding in the cockpit of that plane. Hey, look again, there is an insinuation of movement in the bushes over-that-way, just a darker shape that isn't a shadow and isn't moving but looks wrong, the way shadows should lie. No telling what side or who, though maybe Flood has some guesses. The hidden ones are staying v. still.]
--
"Watch the bushes!" He shouts it as he sprints forward and into the fray alongside his fellow Sabbat.
Flood's hounds, the dogs of war stirred to fury by appeals to their killer instincts and led by him to this well-stocked hunting ground, are aided by a darker host that reaches from the shadows. Two of these Abyssal limbs lash like whips upon Domenech as he readies that hand cannon to fire at its master's comrade, Ursola. The last? Snakes like a lone anaconda toward that biplane and into the shadows of its cockpit, the shadows that are its true home to find out what creature has dared sneak into its den, constricting and crushing around and upon it curiously with lethal alacrity.
And Flood unfettered advances upon Owen with his sword at the ready. But he does not trust inherently in the abilities of the Abyssal manifestations. Or perhaps at least inherently in his own ability to control them as such. As they execute his ends across the battlefield he crosses is in a curve-ball pattern to avoid the sights of the biplane's guns.
When he finally has reached Owen the broad swooping blade of the cavalry saber lashes out in a lopping strike to remove the hand that holds the gun he seems prepared to fire at Flood.
Flood: Advance in a serpentine pattern and chop off Owen's gun hand. ]
Joey @ 5:43PM
[ Abyssal Arm #1 lashes out at Domenech. Dexterity to grab him. ]
Roll: 3 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 8) ( success x 1 ) VALID
Joey @ 5:43PM
[ Damage ]
Roll: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 4, 6, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 4 ) VALID
Joey @ 5:44PM
[ Abyssal Arm #2 lashes out at Domenech. Dexterity to grab him. ]
Roll: 3 d10 TN6 (1, 7, 8) ( success x 2 ) VALID
Joey @ 5:44PM
[ Damage ]
Roll: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 4, 7, 8, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 5 ) VALID
Joey @ 5:45PM
[ Abyssal Arm #3 crushing whoever is in that biplane. Dexterity to grab it. ]
Roll: 3 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 6) ( success x 1 ) VALID
Joey @ 5:45PM
[ Damage ]
Roll: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 7, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 4 ) VALID
Joey @ 5:47PM
[ Flood trying to chop off that arm. Blowing a WP. He's at 5 WP. Specialty: Precise. ]
Roll: 8 d10 TN7 (1, 2, 4, 7, 8, 8, 9, 9) ( success x 6 ) [WP] VALID
Joey @ 5:48PM
[ Damage ]
Roll: 13 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 2, 3, 3, 6, 6, 7, 8, 8, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 8 ) VALID
Joey @ 6:00PM
[ Three more damage dice I forgot about. ]
Roll: 3 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 6) ( success x 1 ) VALID
--
. . . And Flood.
Flood. He bears down on Owen. Owen with the loosened tie, Owen with the sharp retort waiting, Owen with strength clear in his musculature and the way he fills his space, Owen aiming with that gun at Flood who slices with that sword of his and then there's a spray of vitae [Potent], of hot-tempered Blood, splatters the grass and splatters Owen's side and splatters the hand still gripping the trigger of a gun and the gun itself where it lies in the grass preserved for another moment or two or three, perhaps even more, an incorruptible relic, and the pain of it, the precision of it rocks Owen to his core so [look, his eyes widen at Flood, and they are also green] Ursola has no problem at all coming at him from the side and insinuating her arm around him and then
biting, Kissing, deep oh deep and beginning to feast.
Point 1 (and a half?) for the Sword of Caine.
But here is Eduardo. Baby-faced, laughing, not in Frenzy but frenzied, muscles artificially pumped, streaking through the Camarilla and toward that wall and the glint in his adorable eyes is --
Thunk.
Frozen. Because here is Carmen impaling him through the heart with her stake in one simple and forceful movement. Blink, and it looks like he ran into it. Like that was always gonna be his fate and he was rushing to it with his arms fucking wide open and laughing like some damned fool kid. Carmen never blinks, but keeps the impaled Brujah-antitribu as a shield and moves implaccably toward the next mark. With elegance, if you please. Boardroom Shark.
The battle is less certain by the iron gates, with Alain grabbing for Magdalena, catching her around the legs and pulling, though losing his grasp when the red-haired creature resists, clinging desperately to the gate and trying to push herself up and over, and he stumbles back with a look of … You could call it surprise. It's a look that does not bode well. The look of a cat toying with its prey, concealing annoyance just barely.
And closer to the biplane, the Nosferatu. He flings that be-clawed predator at the oncoming Holy Warrior(ess), the Blue-Blooded Knight, she of the serene presence, and he flings with both forceand accuracy. Fortune decides to abandon the Knight (or perhaps to test her), and the dead or torpored Sabbat's claws cut deeply across her chest and ribcage and left arm, tearing muscle and flesh and undead veins, revealing and splaying bone . . .
. . . rocking her back and to the ground, though she's already getting up as Jim, that ugly creature who is not a Nosferatu, whose mother really DIDN'T love him or whose mother died in another battle, roars and aims a punch at the Nosferatu which, though it lands, seems to do nothing. Of course, the Nosferatu's knife misses Jim entirely, passing under his arm and uselessly into air.
[NEW INITS.
Flood: 18
Alain: 18
Carmen: 16
Ursola: 16
[out] Owen: 15
Domenech: 15
Jenny: 15 [ding, ding! new challenger!]
Errol: 14
Magdalena: 13
Jim: 12
Kate: 11
Domenech is at 2 Lethal.Magdalena: 13
Jim: 12
Kate: 11
Owen is shit out of luck. We won't bother giving him a health rating right now. Maybe in the unlikely event that he gets outta this one.
Eduardo is staked and at 3 Lethal.
Kate is at 5 Agg.
NEW DECLARES.
Kate: WTF? CUT OFF NOSSIES LEGS.
Jim: PUNCH ERROL AGAIN.
Magdalena: Gonna roll a Percept + Alert. If successful, she'll try to help Dom. If not, she'll kick Alain in the head and get over that fence.
Errol: 1. Stab Kate Through The Eye. 2. Stab Kate Again.
Jenny: Beg for mercy, affectingly? Get outta the plane.
Domenech: Struggle for freedom!
Owen: Get sucked on. Gross. Tzim makeouts.
Ursola: Suck on Owen. Yum.
Eduardo: Be staked + (in)human shield. This sucks. And not in a cool way, like that Tzim and Bruj.
Carmen: 1. Slice Shadow Tendril. 2. Slice Shadow Tendril. 3. Slice Flood.
Alain: Did you really kick me? 1. Climb Faster Than Magdalena. 2. Grab her hair. Celerity 1. I don't even know how to declare this. Push her down so she gets impaled on the fence's spikes.
Flood: ????????
--
A rising tide of blood lifts all ships. Flood does not interrupt Ursola. Does not interrupt the feast he'd promised her, though he's far from impressed with her abandoning the battle for her own hunger.
There is a time and place for anything and surrounded by Camarilla defending their nest of snakes is not it.The darkness stays upon its targets. The shouting figure in the plane. Domenech, the other arm returning to descend upon him again, and constrict. Pluck his limps from his very form, crush his ribs until they devour his heart and the seat of his vitae, pulverize vertebrae and bones until muscle can only writhe around them ineffectually as earth worms. At least that is their intent.
Flood sees a knight fallen and a sense of blood-borne honor rises in him. Chivalry for the Ventrue antitribu. A need to preserve the unlife of the dead woman. See how he looks at her fallen form, passion risen in his cold eyes by the Vaulderie's stirred brew.
"Bite him you fool," is what Flood barks at that Pander thug readying his baseball bat of an arm to throw it at Errol again. Flood is backing away from where Carmen is focused on those tendrils of darkness' essence. When she turns on him his saber rises to try and parry the blow. And then? And then it shows what Flood means, turning to bite its steel edge into Kate's attacker.
[ Arms #1 and #2: Keep on keeping on Domenech.
Joey @ 11:10PM
[ Arm #1 crushing Domenech. Strength + Brawl. ]
Roll: 6 d10 TN5 (2, 2, 4, 6, 7, 10) ( success x 3 ) VALID
Joey @ 11:10PM
[ Damage ]
Roll: 9 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 4, 4, 5, 7, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 4 ) VALID
Joey @ 11:11PM
[ Arm #2 lashing onto Domenech. Dexterity and carrying over the difficulty since I'm guessing it's lower since he's being held. ]
Roll: 3 d10 TN5 (2, 8, 9) ( success x 2 ) VALID
Joey @ 11:11PM
[ Damage ]
Roll: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 2, 4, 4, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 3 ) VALID
Joey @ 11:11PM
[ Jenny! Arm #3 is coming for you again. ]
Roll: 6 d10 TN4 (1, 4, 6, 7, 7, 10) ( success x 5 ) VALID
Joey @ 11:12PM
[ Damage. ]
Roll: 11 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 2, 2, 3, 3, 4, 4, 6, 8, 9) ( success x 3 ) VALID
Joey @ 11:12PM
[ Flood's parry of Carmen's strike. ]
Roll: 5 d10 TN6 (4, 5, 7, 10, 10) ( success x 3 ) VALID
Joey @ 11:13PM
[ Flood's strike at Errol. Dropping a WP because he's in Vinculove. Flood, you poor romantic bastard, you're at 4 WP now. ]
Roll: 2 d10 TN6 (1, 1) ( success x 1 ) [WP] VALID
Joey @ 11:14PM
[ Damage ]
Roll: 10 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 1, 3, 5, 8, 8, 10, 10, 10) ( success x 5 ) VALID
Joey @ 11:46PM
[ Soak ]
Roll: 5 d10 TN6 (4, 5, 7, 8, 9) ( success x 3 ) VALID
Joey @ 11:46PM
[ Soak ]
Roll: 5 d10 TN6 (6, 7, 7, 7, 9) ( success x 5 ) VALID
Joey @ 12:10AM
[ Arms of the Abyss. Strength. ]
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 4, 6, 9, 9) ( success x 3 ) VALID
Joey @ 12:17AM
[ Arms of the Abyss. Strength again. ]
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 3, 4, 4, 10) ( success x 1 ) VALID
Joey @ 12:23AM
[ One more time, we're gonna celebrate! Oh yeah. Alright. Don't stop the dancing! Yeah! ]
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 2, 2, 6, 7) ( success x 2 ) VALID
--
But first. Flood. Look at him, how it all happens around him. How he is its still and deadly eye. The darkness he insinuates, curling and crushing in the cockpit of that German plane, it squeezes and its victim gives another cry, sounds so plaintive her voice plucks at heartstrings, recalls memories of people once loved, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps -- Oh please! Stop, please! I will do anything! -- a sob, and how to doubt? But the ribcage cracks.
Look how those blacker than black Abyssal arms at Domenech whip, the one thrown off unstoppable, coiling again around his leg and hip and ribs and both of them together would compress the well-dressed Brujah into diamond, but for a surprising vampiric resilience, and but for Carmen. Carmen, with the pale staring eyes, the mad eyeballs, fixed and unsettling, the axe and the Brujah antitribu shield who stares that last gleeful spark replaced by anxiety anger fury rage constrained by wood. Carmen slices the darkness and it quails, and she slices the darkness again, and it shudders and begins to break up, to dissolve, pieces drifting in the air untethered and unmooring, unravelling from Flood who is the still heart of this melee.
But Domenech himself escapes them, throwing all of his Will into getting free: and now he is at liberty. His teeth skim back from his fangs and he snarls, a lock of hair [at least, at last] mussed, and Ursola does not notice or care that Domenech is free or that Carmen is bearing down. Why should she?
She is on her way to committing diablerie on Owen, who is going boneless in her arms, sinking to the ground while she holds him up. Look at Owen, something in him tries to re-gain control, to bring steel to his spine, but he can't he can't and it feels So Good though he knows --
Is that a heartbeat? He hasn't heard one of those in a long, long time.
But even with that, is the tide turning against the Sword of Caine? Look. Here is Erroll. No: Here is Flood. Flood, moved by sorcery, moved by the ties that bind by the blood in a bone-chalice towards chivalry, toward ardent defense, and he parries Carmen coming for him as Domenech breaks free, doesn't even need to clatch with that axe which sweeps past him, he is too quick and too gone.
His sword bites deeply into the Nosferatu. Deeply, and first. Unknits loathsome tissue, makes one arm near useless. But near is not enough. Erroll stabs at Kate's open eyes anyway, and his knife goes through like a thread through the eye of a needle and bites deep. Kate is made of sturdy stuff, and even as Erroll withdraws the knife [slurp], trailing bone fragments and viscera, the wet dripping fluid of an eyeball shattered it is all beginning to mend. Just not enough. And then he stabs again --
The Crusader is ruined. Not Finally Dead. But look at that gruesome, gory mess -- and this is when Jim falls on Erroll, biting, ripping into the Nosferatu at Flood's behest -- oh, Kate is down. Torpored. And Jim tears into Erroll, burrowing deep, eyes glittering.
[INITS. Not going to re-roll 'em.
Flood: 18.
Alain: 18. [1 Agg.]
Carmen: 16.
[out] Eduardo: 16. [3 Lethal.]
Ursola: 16.
[out] Owen 15.
Domenech: 15. 2 Lethal.
Jenny: 15. 1 Lethal.
Errol: 14. 3 Lethal, 3 Agg.
Magdalena: 13. 6 Lethal.
Jim: 12.
[out] Kate: 11. TORPOR.
DECLARES.
Kate: X_X
Jim: BITE ERROL AGAIN.
Magdalena: Sob. Use An Eeeevil Dementation Power on Alain
Errol: Ack! 1. Avoid Jim's Teeth. 2. Stab Flood.
Jenny: Continue struggling. We're not all great fighters, okay?
Domenech: 1. Shoot Ursola. 2. Shoot Ursola. Celerity 1. Shoot. Fucking. Flood.
Ursola: Is somebody shooting me? I'm busy diablerizing, and I don't notice.
Carmen: 1. Cut one of those pesky shadow tendrils whipping around. 2. Also attack Ursola.
Alain: 1. Cut Magdalena again. 2. Cut Domenech.
Flood: ??????]
--
Flood moves with a purpose. There is nothing extraneous about his actions. Even his words, when they had come before, were direct and to the point except for that addendum of 'fool'. See their effectiveness as Jim's teeth maul and ravage Errol. But now he is silent. He does not even grunt when he swings that saber with ruthless efficiency, an extension of his arm that moves in a singular line straight out from his body in wicked arches. His chest is sprayed across now, an X of vitae kicked up from the force of the blade on its back swing. He had deflected that blow with the clang of metal on metal and now?
Now, again, Domenech freed aims that gun at him. That Hollywood gangster piece with its sight and etchings. And Kate is fallen. An apple to Newton's gravity and no less drenched in red. Errol still stands, that beast who'd put her to rest.
He strides through this valley of the undead, this valley of the shadow of death. The tide will be turned with a tide of blood and Camarilla souls trapped in torpor, if he has anything to do with it. There still corpses will be the sand bags that will turn back this sad excuse for a rally of their force. And then?
The Flood will come. Released from behind it. The vitae rushes and fills his veins. Consuming him as his eyes flush red and he becomes a thing of vitae and shadow and sheer force. The Lasombra leaves the Abyss to its own devices. Wills it to lash at its attacker. The one that had killed its sibling. He is the consuming Flood that comes to finish things.
[ Arm #1: Lash onto Carmen..
--
This is how it happens.
Flood is focused, but Flood is a prince of the shadow. His reflection was sacrificed to the abyss and look at how swift, how quick, the two arms of darkness which remain lash, whip through the air, snake through the air, whirling eddies of shade tearing from other more natural shadows lying slender and cold on the grass, as if the more mundane darkness yearned in some part to be used as a weapon -- to leave the biplane's cockpit and the victim found there-in, to lash at and around the tall and brutally elegant [gaunt, intimidating] Carmen, who finds herself struck-at by Flood's shadows in the instant she pulls her arm back to hack again at the darkness, just as she'd turned her body to -- but it doesn't matter.
They circle her and her undead (still unliving) shield, doing damage to both, before -- with a monumental struggle -- she escapes the grasp of one, dropping Eduardo to the ground, followed by her old money old world jacket.
"Pathetic weakling!" implaccable judgment, though Flood is anything but weak. Look how the Lasombra cleaves Erroll in twain. Look how it takes a moment for the undead flesh to realize it is no longer whole, it is no longer together, a moment for the saber's tip to leave followed by a macabre parade of gore falls at Flood's feet and across unmoving Kate. Look how the Nosferatu meets final death, one quick stroke that separates top from bottom and literally breaks the heart and shatters ribs and dead. He is Finally Dead, Jim left with a jawful of dead flesh that the Pander spits out onto the ground, grinning terribly,
and over there, the battle by the iron fence: How goes that? Beyond the iron fence lies freedom, the city, the kine. Places to hide, not limned in fire.
The Toreador-Antitribu Alain had cut Magdalena truly; see her on the ground, barely able to move, the vitae running from her, running from her, running from him, running and running, pallor white paper now. He cuts her again, but it's practically a love-slice; it does no further damage, just wets the tip of his weapon, which he turns on Domenech at last. Domenech who is free. Domenech who was trying to shoot Ursola, that manticore-mouthed stone-skinned creature, who is quietly and rapturously drinking Owen away, drinking him down, a La Pieta sculpture sheltering in the good graces of the eye of the storm. Domenech, who planned to shoot Flood next. His knife slash comes after Flood has his shot --
Flood, again. Flood, oncoming? Flood, consumed, a thing of vitae and shadow and sheer force. The Brujah, faced with the Lasombra directly, snarls at him but tries to avoid those certain attacks. The first almost cuts his collar, but is avoided; the second pings a button, brass, which it then catches and sends spinning out into the grass, and he can't avoid Alain with his attention on avoiding Flood, but Alain's knife does no harm.
Which is when Magdalena screams: "No! Fire! Fire!"
But it is more than just a scream. Fire and sand will become glass if enough heat is applied, but be careful of the warping -- and her voice is the warping that occurs under pressure, when the heat is too much; her voice, the sound of it, is Madness, is an unhinged thing, and it wrenches the hinges off of Alain's mind, worms its way into his cold dead brain, and warps it, and then Alainis screaming, Alain is s C R E E E E E E EE E EEE AM IN GG G Gg g gGggGgg EEE AAAAAAAAAAMing as the plea 'fire' becomes fire that is inside his skull it is inside his skull it is behind his eyeballs licking it is it is he can't he scratch it out cut it out cutitout and he first flees, staggering, clawing at his face as if only he could get inside his skull he could take the fire out takeitouttakeitouttakeit and this is the madness of
absolute
terror
[Castle Ricthofen - Exterior, Elsewhere - Speaking of Fire]
There is a car, and the Sabbat have lit it on fire, have stuffed it with fire - who are they, to let fire conquer them? They are true vampires and they embrace their weakness and make it into a ritual that gives them courage. Let these pretenders run from it. Let them deal with it. There is a car -- let loose, loosed like a bolt from a crossbow --
crashing through what remains of already broken glass, of already shattered windows, right into the hall where the "Kindred" were wont to hold their "Elysium" peace, their cold parties and their invampiric revels, where there is a melée going on, where a traitor is revealed and another is perhaps being uncovered, where the War Pack chosen to get first chance at Lady Adelaide Blue Blooded Scion is being fought and look
somewhere a Malkavian is screaming Fire! Fire!
and inside that hall, silk lined walls begin to catch flame.
[SO. One more round. And then maybe a half-a-round. Then I'm going to cinematic fade this bad boy. Kill who you can, be a badass Flood! More of a badass, I should say. IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE?
He gets +1 to WP since everything is going crazycrazy around him, so back to 4 for Flood.
INITS. Not going to re-roll 'em.
Flood: 18.
[out] Alain: 18. [1 Agg.] [But Madness-Fear-Frenzy]Flood: 18.
Carmen: 16. {2 Lethal}
[out] Eduardo: 16. [3 Lethal.]
Ursola: 16.
[out] Owen 15.
Domenech: 15. 2 Lethal.
Jenny: 15. 1 Lethal.
[out] Errol: 14. [DED.]Ursola: 16.
[out] Owen 15.
Domenech: 15. 2 Lethal.
Jenny: 15. 1 Lethal.
Magdalena: 13. {Still 6 Lethal}
Jim: 12.
[out] Kate: 11. TORPOR.
[Jim: Didn't Flood say something about the bushes? Investigate!][out] Kate: 11. TORPOR.
[Magdalena: 1. Crawl Away. 2. DEMENTATE FLOOD.]
[Jenny: Run away!]
[Domenech: 1. Shoot Flood. Sorry, Owen. Burning Three BPs (because Jess just remembered that Domenech can do that). 1 for Dex. 2 for Celerity Actions. RUN. And. RUN.]
[Owen: Last Ditch Resist. Then die. Die die die.]
[Ursola: Mm. Two more slurps and your soul is mine.]
[Eduardo: Lie There, Staked. Like a boss.]
[Carmen: 1. Break Free. 2. Slice Ursola. Slice Her To Pieces. 3. Slice Ursola.]
[Alain: Flip Out. Run Away. Claw off face.]
[Flood: ?????]
--
Flood powers through, holding his ground as Alain flees, as Kate has a grim and slain monster's two halves sloshing open and collapsing upon her like a split garbage bag at a Chinese take-out restaurant. Tries to retain his focus as he revels in this eruption of chaos. This tempest. This storm's head thundering to land and bashing against the breakers.
Oh, how he wants to stay. Oh, how he could revel in it forever. He can already taste the rain of ash on the wind as he shouts now. He howls to Jim again, like he is becoming use to correcting his course with the strong currents of his voice:
"Pull his stake," a glance to Owen who is downed and out.
At hurricane force and speed the blade continues to lash out, those arms of the Abyss now unfettered and whipping about like the dark turbulence of this storm. All the thunder with none of the light.
Oh, how he wants to stay. Oh, how he could revel in it forever. He can already taste the rain of ash on the wind as he shouts now. He howls to Jim again, like he is becoming use to correcting his course with the strong currents of his voice:
"Pull his stake," a glance to Owen who is downed and out.
At hurricane force and speed the blade continues to lash out, those arms of the Abyss now unfettered and whipping about like the dark turbulence of this storm. All the thunder with none of the light.
[ Doing a Courage roll at difficulty 6 to stick around with that car rolling by and Richthofen going up in flames.
Arm #1: Keep on Carmen. This is the one that is still holding her.
[ Blowing 2 BP to up the Strength of the Arm lashing at Magdalena by 2. Flood is at 4 BP. Just above a quarter tank. Keep your shit together Flood. ]
--
His dark reach [blood-Called, innate Shade] lashes at Magdalena, misses --
Lashes at Carmen, and once again entangles or tightens constricting and squeezing that creature, organs rupturing -- but what of that? They don't need them --
While his German cavalry saber lashes out at Domenech, and oh, lays him low, the cruel arch of eyebrows softening in surprise (arrogant outrage), a glint of fang, as Flood stops him forever and he drops, another saintly relic that'll be blown-away ash, those wide staring eyes, too young once the expression has left them --
-- and Carmen, Carmen is once again escaping that lashing, menacing shadow, and she bears down grimly on Ursola, the axe hefted once and twice and three times. The first time it bites deep into the Tzimisce's shoulder but when it pulls back the Tzimisce's flesh is as smooth as silk. The second time the blow is glancing -- perhaps Carmen has noticed how her Sect-mates are faring?
-- look, the stake it out of Eduardo, and the baby-faced creature rises up, his front drenched in his own vitae, and --
-- Flood is advancing on Magdalena, how swift it is! Too swift. Domenech, or what remains of him, has barely hit the ground -- and that Malkavian, clutching the gleaming mess of her innards to her lap as she scoots backward, her eyes red-rimmed and a bone-deep panic setting in, looking like nothing more than one of those cautionary tales from the Book of Nod of Malkav-priests and priestesses, opens her mouth and --
-- and it is too late. Flood is there, crashing through, pulverizing, doom --
-- and as Magdalena dies her last madness unvoiced, Carmen once again slices at Ursola, and this time, oh, this time, this time, it makes an impact, and one of Ursola's arms slides cleanly off, causing the Tzimisce to drag herself away from the very edge of Diablerie and look upward, dropping Owen drained and ready for the final bite 'lest his spirit escape (it won't), and Ursola does not blink as she rises --
-- and so.
Flood: 18.
[out] Alain. FRENZY RUN AWAY.
Carmen. {3 Lethal.}
Eduardo. BACK IN BABY! But probs about to Frenzy. {3 Lethal}
Ursola. {6 Lethal}
[out] Owen. All a-swoon.
[out] Domenech. Finally Dead.
[out] Jenny. ESCAPED.
[out] Errol. Ded.
[out] Magdalena. So ded.
Jim.
[out] Kate. Torpor.
DECLARES.
Jim: Look to Flood for direction! Since unstaking rule of cool already 'appened.
Ursola: 1. I'ma roll Courage for Miss Wasn't Paying Attention, and if she doesn't run away, claw out Carmen's eyes.
Eduardo: 1. If does not Frenzy, Grab Stake From Jim. 2. If Grabs Stake From Jim, Jump On and 3. STABSTAB Carmen With It.
Carmen: BP to Strength to make it 6 for three turns. Haha, three turns. Optimist. 1. Chop off Owen's head. 2. Chop at Ursola. 3. Slice Flood because Flood is the leader obviously.
Flood: ????
--
The battle is again pitches in a different direction. Carmen stands alone and look at them descending upon her. Eduardo. Ursola. And look at Jim, not knowing if he's coming or going, the fool. If Flood realizes the motley assortment he leads he tries not to show it. Alain is gone and Kate is still and these would have been his more measured champions, but instead he is left with this single-minded rabble.
Next time he would be more careful when filling his roster.
Flood is the first upon Carmen and lashes out again, twice and quick if a bit unwieldy, hoping it's his strength that will instead carry the day as he focuses on parrying the blow she sends in return for their fearless leaders.
Speaking of fearless, look at those flames licking up, growing as they devour part of Richthofen's facade.
--
The last bastion of Ivory Tower standing (at least here) doesn't try to keep her flesh from feeling the bite of Flood's already vitae-drenched sword. The too-tall, gaunt-eyed, well-dressed madame-of-deals brokered and politics unseated, turned tonight into an ax-wielding warrior, weathers the first blow and -- barely weathers it. Another will do it. There's practically nothing but a ruin of a body there, going still through sheer force of will. Her ax --
[Richthofen - Exterior. Elsewhere.]
Unseen, a Ventrue braces herself to sprint, over her shoulder a light pile of [Torpored] bones, and around/before her the barbarians-getting-in-through-
[Richthofen - Exterior. By the biplane. Flood's stand]
-- slashes once and separates Owen's head from Owen's body, then turns its edge on Ursola, where the blow is glancing, and the selfish [Hedonistic?] Tzimisce doesn't seem to notice it. Ursola instead begins to become a thing of bony protrusions, arms needling up, until of course the fire climbing to greater heights leaping through windows waving like a mocking lady-love from some surrealist's nightmare of vampiric chivalry --
[Richthofen - Interior. Elsewhere.]
Four Kindred square-off. The Lost Sire Found. The General [Turned Traitor?]. The Assassin and the Loyal Ventrue Elder. There is smoke and fire dripping downwards, raining like a Biblical plague and it may not be Gehenna but --
[Richthofen - Exterior. By the biplane. Flood's stand]
-- outside the Tzimisce is gripped by Red Fear and flees the scene. Carmen weakly brings her ax down on Flood, but he parries it easily, and then Eduardo is on the Ventrue who'd staked him, and nothing about him is adorable or babyfaced or designed in that moment to make people say aww, the air practically fills with a red mist that echoes the red in his eyes, and Jim -- why, the ugly pander thug, so faithful, takes some initiative and lopes to the bush Flood's shadow arm lashed unsuccessfully through, diving literally through the branches in order to get to the Kindred fleeing from the other side, and --
[Denver - the streets]
Martial law comes, white and blue and red lancing through the billowing signs of carnage, guns and kine and force prepared to unmake the cold struggles of the undead, and though they're nothing compared to the vampires (true and pretend), the battle breaks and filters off. Remember the Inquisition.
[Richthofen - Exterior. By the biplane. Flood's stand]
-- that last shadow arm of Flood's drags from the bushes a struggling, clawing creature, sleek in a suit and a blue silk cravat, fine-featured and frightened, fingers gouging runnels in the earth.
And so.
[AND SO WE'RE OUT. Haha. You can do a final Flood-drinks-the-hell-outta-
--
Carnage and bodies disintegrating, others still being torn to ribbons, Carmen forgotten as soon as others are drawn upon her. Ursola who had been denied Owen. Eduardo who had missed most of the battle because of a stake buried in his chest. That's what Flood leaves in his wake as he advances on that morsel drawn from the shadows. He seems emotionless in this moment. The same way his face has staid stoic throughout, even at the insults hurled and the taunts volleyed his way, the picture of self-control and deliberate destruction, Jim alongside as the hand of the Abyss swat the well-dressed vampire to his feet.
They draw him out before him and Flood is the giving sort as he ushers those of his warpack who haven't fed forward. Hadn't he promised them all their fill?
Flood sets in and drinks. Drinks and drinks alongside his comrades from this one vessel and rises before the soul has been drawn out, flushed out, clawing-hands-furrowed like the soil behind. Flood has no wish to diablerize such a sad excuse for a vampire, no more than a gilded leech, only to have his fill.They draw him out before him and Flood is the giving sort as he ushers those of his warpack who haven't fed forward. Hadn't he promised them all their fill?
He leaves that soul and its power for whoever will claim it. Maybe the Pander. Maybe Ursola. Maybe Eduardo.
--
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