laclongquan
Arcane
I also vote for this. A True Patrician!
-
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Let's Play VtM: Night Empire
- Thread starter grotsnik
- Start date
I think I suggested Dance mainly because (Smashing Axe's frankly terrifying Aryan supermonster pic aside) he's always had that awesome, cold-fish, dead-behind-the-eyes, closed-off aristocrat thing going on (which is probably why the poor fella gets typecast so often).
This is the bestest Sommers ever. A true Patrician
Kalin
Unwanted
Quite so. The melanochroi thug simply cannot compete with British breeding and ingenuity.
laclongquan
Arcane
Dance is a good pre-baroned Sommers. But after, he lack the quiet menacing aura of a brooding patrician sit in his study.
To Michael Corleone's credit, his villainous slouch is magnificent and adds a lot. And, much like grotsnik's pic of choice, he has that "dontcha fuck with me" look. Make him blond and he'll be an acceptable Sommers.
scowl of contemptuous disdain.Running Fox
Educated
If he's up to it, I was thinking of maybe something inspired by this picture:
Yeah, not gonna happen in the next 10 to 20 days.
Plus, you ruined any shred of creativity (and with that motivation and fun) I might have had by posting that photo. Next time, use words.
ironyuri
Guest
I can't remember what we were voting for, anymore.
So yeh, A and Horn sound good, but what does that mean?
So yeh, A and Horn sound good, but what does that mean?
Random Word
Arbiter
- Joined
- Mar 14, 2012
- Messages
- 320
It means Fellowes chills with the Archon and we go find some hunters and/or Mandrake.
ironyuri
Guest
Sounds bro-tastic. For a second there, I was worried we were taking a ride through werewolf territory during a full moon or something...
laclongquan
Arcane
What a liar~ A mean Sommers be Turcov's bitch and must send his right hand man to play bodyguard for a pissed off Archon. (P) Horn is not great, but at least we can see what he can do. He's treasury, so tracing the money is a good investigation move... We shall see.
Stop the lies, start the truth, for fuck's sake.
EDIT: I repeat, I advocate B, refuse Turcov's ridiculous suggestion that the Envoy need some stinking bodyguards. IF you want hunters, a (p) to his contacts in Foreign Office or Treasury will trace those bastards right there and then, no need to cramp Archon's style with some muscleheads. We need freed up muscle to hit those Sabbat bastards right back, not to sit on defense.
EDITY EDIT: Peter Glenville of Foreign Office, man killed his daughter and you covered up for him. Later he provided info about the container moved by Kueijin, with video show that the monster used strange kind of Obfuscate, and with that you knew for sure Terrence Ranigan was chased by him before captured/rescued by Prince's men. With those videos, you knew for damn sure Hobb was a master of disguise and obfuscate. IF you contact Glenville, man will find out where and when hunters got in.
grotsnik
Arcane
- Joined
- Jul 11, 2010
- Messages
- 1,671
Chapter 6 - Drawback
You recognise each of them from their photographs.
Charles Kaleni, weathered and tall, his hair shaved back to a faint grey fuzz, leaning against the open door of the makeshift operations room, is smoking a small cigar. Sasha Wojcik and Billy Budd are dancing, giggling, hand-in-beer-in-hand, to the tinny noise emanating from a small CD player set on one of the chairs.
“I don’t want, anybody else, when I think about you, I touch myself-”
As Kaleni, dropping his cigar at the sight of you, barks at them to fall in, Budd dashes for the CD player, turning it off, while Wojcik’s the first to stand in line; and that’s Steven Cutter beside her, short and bulldog-brutish, and Nikhil Paudal, missing an ear and rising, last, from his game of patience upon the floor.
“Easy, lads, easy,” Trentbridge says from beside you. “It’s not a bloody parade. We’re just here for a chat. Captain, I do hope you’re not being too hard on them.”
“Worthless wretches and insubordinate maggots, sir,” Kaleni growls, straight-faced. “Got to keep ‘em on their toes. Give ‘em an inch, sir, they’ll take a mile. Got to push these spineless single-celled little pondscum, push ‘em up the evolutionary ladder till they’re close enough to pass for actual fucking Englishmen.”
A few of the soldiers grin; Trentbridge chuckles, leniently, and you take that as your cue to smile as well.
“Take your seats,” he says, flapping a hand, “take your seats. I want to introduce you to an essential part of our little project. This is Mr Sommers; he wants to have a word with you.”
You step forward. Time to make your presence felt.
“I suppose I should begin by saying that we’re all immensely proud of your accomplishments in training,” you say, scanning the faces of the team, “but let’s be honest - the training isn’t why you’re here. You’re already highly-trained, you’re already extraordinarily capable; you want to get out there and do some damage.”
“Ready and waiting, sir!” Budd calls out, before Kaleni snarls back,
“Quiet-”
“Damned glad to hear it,” you tell him, smiling. “But we’re not going to send you in half-cocked. Which is why I’m going to be taking Mr Fellowes off your hands for a few weeks - to scope out a potential target. I’m sure you’ll all miss him.”
“Won’t be the same without old Downton Abbey around to cheer us up, sir,” Wojcik says, to a chorus of chuckles.
You assume you’re meant to know what that’s referring to.
“You’ll have him back soon,” you say, “I promise you that. And before long, we’ll see the bastards fleeing our country in terror and we can all celebrate together. In the meantime, if there’s anything you need, anything at all, call me directly and I’ll provide it.”
“There was one thing, sir,” Cutter ventures, raising a hand. “The scopes on the rifles, sir, standard-issue, and they’re not up to much. Said to the others, they’d be better off taping a bog roll to the barrels, sir...”
You listen patiently, make him write down the make of the scope he’d prefer, and once you’re back in the car, you arrange for a boxful of them to be shipped out to the facility - along with a new, more expensive sound system.
The bond of blood is one thing, you tell yourself; but Kine need to be able to justify their feelings to themselves; pretend they’re rational creatures and not driven by the mindless chemicals sloshing around inside them.
*
“Religious extremists?” Horn asks. You can hear him breathing down the phone, gasping for air as if even this conversation is tiring him out. “You, you’d probably find them loitering about in, in Finsbury Park, eh? What’ve they been up to this time, Patrician?”
“Christian extremists,” you explain patiently. “They’ll probably have entered the country separately, on forged passports, some time in the past month or so - and while at least one of them’s Italian, we can’t rule out the possibility that others have arrived from other countries - so you’d need some dedicated people to sieve through the data and find the patterns. They’ll be in contact with someone back home, and they’ll have smuggled a large quantity of weapons in to await their arrival. They’re genuinely pious, so it’s highly likely they’ll be attending the Easter service somewhere in the city if that’s of any use.”
You continue to give him details; he whines a little about the impossibility of monitoring all two-hundred-and-fourteen Catholic churches in London or locating a group of possibly illegal immigrants in a nation brimming with them, but soon acquiesces.
As you lower your phone, you frown. Something is off; your car, you realise, has been at a standstill for quite some time.
Rapping on the smoked glass at the front of the car, you snap,
“Driver - what’s wrong? Why aren’t we moving?”
Mr Cripps growls, his voice muffled behind the screen,
“Jam.”
“A jam?” you exclaim. “At three in the morning?”
“Jam.”
You wind down the window and poke your head, a little gingerly, out into the night.
A couple of taxis are, indeed, waiting in the entrance to Regent’s Street ahead, engines running, horns parping out in frustration and the chaos blocking the road ahead.
Silent, masked figures are moving up past the colonnaded shops towards Oxford Circus, twirling, cartwheeling, past each other in circles and in waves, centring about a procession of lorries trundling slowly up the very middle of the street. Fire-eaters turn to the empty pavement and blow billows of flame at the non-existent spectators. The enormous origami-paper heads of exotic animals - giraffes, elephants, lions - turn, flapping their ears, from the top of a lorry trailer, puppeteered by dancers below clutching their strings.
Stepping out of the car, you catch sight of the gaudy, hand-painted sign on the side of one of the lorries.
‘Cirque De Loon’.
“Making mincemeat of Moscow,” a bright voice cries, from far above, “hamstringing the Hippodrome, sodomising the Soleil, castrating the Colosseum itself, ladies, gentlemen, children and beasts, abandon your religions, denounce your gods, forsake pleasures earthly and unearthly, for your prayers have been answered - the return, once-in-a-lifetime return, of the ghastliest and greatest show on earth, its first stop, Loondon Town, city of crazies, blessed Bethlehem of Bedlam-”
The Pell-Mell Queen is small, and perched atop the cab of one of the lorries. You can make out a face painted ghostly-white; she stretches out her arms and cries, at the two policemen who lean back on their car, alone on the empty street and watching her with some amusement,
“Push the crowds back, constable, please, keep them back - there’ll be chaos, there’ll be stampeding, there’ll be bodies trampled underfoot, eight-year-old hoodies stabbing their own mothers and stealing her purse just for a ticket to the night circus, the damned circus - we’ve dug up P.T. Barnum and he’s the main event of the freakshow! Hie thee to Hyde Park, kill that rickshaw driver there and hijack his vehicle, he’s not doing anything with it, we’ll be waiting, we’ll be wilting without you, come nimble, come quick, jump over the candlestick-”
You watch as the procession moves, achingly slowly, past a few late-night clubgoers with their mouths open and one confused-looking drug dealer, up to the Circus and out of sight.
“Making an entrance,” you say, to nobody in particular.
*
“I never saw her myself,” Vogler says, gazing into the fireplace. “But she’s quite mad, reputedly - someone once told me other Malks used to make pilgrimage out to visit her, just to soak in her raving, listen to the voices babbling up out of her. Like taking the waters at a spa, I suppose.”
“Hm,” you respond, pacing back across the drawing-room floor.
“Your man Fellowes,” the Gangrel continues, “he’ll be with the Archon now? I suppose you’re glad to have a man on the inside.”
“Mm.”
He sips at his vitae glass, deposits it carefully on the table beside him, and says,
“You know, when I was out in the wilds, decades and decades ago - funny how these little things stay with you - I passed through the bracken, down by a lake, and stepped on an adder. Little bastard bit me, quick as you like, and darted off into the undergrowth. He must have thought his venom was kicking in, causing me quite incredible pain - he must have thought he’d got the better of me. Well, I called him back, drowsy and docile, under my spell, and he must have thought himself safe as I lifted him up, gentle and caring, and wrung his neck.”
“A spiteful, petty act of revenge against a creature that had no way of understanding what revenge meant,” he concludes, “but the moral I took from it later was that when we do not know the nature of the game our opponent is playing, we have no way of telling when we’ve won or when we’ve lost.”
“I’m not interested in parables,” you snap. “Turcov’s game is simple enough - he doesn’t want to act openly against me, so he tries to keep me weak by taking away as many of my assets as he possibly can. I might pull the same trick on him by inviting his Toreador toyboys to a fucking year-long poetry workshop in the countryside.”
Vogler pulls a sympathetic face.
“I did as you asked, incidentally,” he tells you. “Some of my men will come down to London to lend a hand once they’ve finished up their duties in Swansea. No idea how useful they’ll be - bunch of outcasts and failures. Aside from kicking out an Anarch den when we first moved in, they’ve hardly proven themselves.”
“Outcasts and failures,” you murmur, “we can make something of. All right, so-”
A horrid, drawn-out mechanical whine-and-rattle; as Vogler frowns and turns, trying to discover the source of the noise, you stride quickly to your desk and turn the security screen on.
“Someone’s trying to get over the wall,” you breathe. A tiny, hooded figure, supported by two others, struggles to reach the razor wire at the top of the high garden walls, then takes a step back. Something is ignited, and lobbed; it explodes into flame somewhere on the lawn on the other side.
Vogler snaps, leaping from his seat,
“Stay here-”
And goes. Doors slam in the distance.
You bring up another shot of the wall onscreen. The three figures huddle together, more closely, beside the old willow that stands by the carp lake. Another makeshift firebomb is produced, and thrown.; this one seems to land somewhere closer to the ornamental pond. One of the attackers - a Brujah? - takes a step back, judging the height of the wall, and runs at it, scrambling up the sheer brick, their shoes finding the cement cracks, his fellows cackling in excitement as he goes.
He reaches the top; as he turns to salute his comrades, the hideous shape of Mr Cripps comes flying out of the darkness of the willow branches, tackling him. The two of them plummet down together, out of sight.
The other two attackers gape, turn, and flee.
You flick between the various camera settings, but you’re unable to make out anything else.
About ten minutes later, Vogler calls you. He sounds breathless, and a little thrilled.
“I got one,” he says, “and your Nosferatu got another. The others ran away down the hill. Looks like the fires didn’t spread, either - the lawns are too damp from last night’s rain.”
“Sabbat?”
“I’d say so. Come out and have a look.”
*
It’s been painted across the wall in some kind of viscous, oil-black substance; the letters three feet high.
FOR ANGELOS
Your grip tightens on the pommel of your cane.
“Looks like you’ve been marked,” Vogler says, cheerfully. “Wonder how they got this far north.”
His face and beard is spattered with blood and droplets of gore, respectively; he doesn’t seem to care.
“The woes of taking on the Sabbat in London,” you reply. “A raid here, a murder there - and they vanish back into the underground, leaving their old dens behind. A city too large to police. They’ve moved their damned Court six times since they made it.”
“About that,” Vogler begins. “My Swansea friends may not be of much use, but I can contact Venice for help if need be. Have you considered the use of an Assamite-”
From the wall above, you hear Cripps growling.
The genteel cobbled street outside Witanhurst descends down a steep hill, past Highgate Cemetery, down towards Archway and, eventually, Islington. And now, by the light of the distant lampposts and the grey pre-dawn sky, you can make out two of the hooded figures, lingering just beyond the crest of the slope.
They don’t appear to be in any rush to come closer. One of them crows, raising their hands to their mouth,
“Blue-blood. Blue-blood. Fuck you standing there for, Blue-blood?”
Vogler glances sideways at you.
“They’re just shovelheads,” he says. “Puffed-up on blood and a newfound sense of power. A nuisance, not a threat. We could take one alive, maybe find out who embraced them, if they were taken to a den we might find out where it is-”
“They’ll have a van nearby,” you warn. “They’ll have to - only way to get away before dawn.”
A) Attack, all three of you. They’re only shovelheads.
B) Let the other two attack. Best that you stay out of it, shovelheads or not.
C) Return to the estate. The shovelheads won’t be able to hang around much longer before dawn.
And (assuming you survive, of course) what would you like your next move to be?
A) Contact the editor of the paper that ran the Mandrake story.
B) Visit the Pell-Mell Queen in Hyde Park.
C) Bring in Vogler’s Assamite, if possible.
D) Spend time personally expending resources to hunt down the hunters.
E) Summat else.
You recognise each of them from their photographs.
Charles Kaleni, weathered and tall, his hair shaved back to a faint grey fuzz, leaning against the open door of the makeshift operations room, is smoking a small cigar. Sasha Wojcik and Billy Budd are dancing, giggling, hand-in-beer-in-hand, to the tinny noise emanating from a small CD player set on one of the chairs.
“I don’t want, anybody else, when I think about you, I touch myself-”
As Kaleni, dropping his cigar at the sight of you, barks at them to fall in, Budd dashes for the CD player, turning it off, while Wojcik’s the first to stand in line; and that’s Steven Cutter beside her, short and bulldog-brutish, and Nikhil Paudal, missing an ear and rising, last, from his game of patience upon the floor.
“Easy, lads, easy,” Trentbridge says from beside you. “It’s not a bloody parade. We’re just here for a chat. Captain, I do hope you’re not being too hard on them.”
“Worthless wretches and insubordinate maggots, sir,” Kaleni growls, straight-faced. “Got to keep ‘em on their toes. Give ‘em an inch, sir, they’ll take a mile. Got to push these spineless single-celled little pondscum, push ‘em up the evolutionary ladder till they’re close enough to pass for actual fucking Englishmen.”
A few of the soldiers grin; Trentbridge chuckles, leniently, and you take that as your cue to smile as well.
“Take your seats,” he says, flapping a hand, “take your seats. I want to introduce you to an essential part of our little project. This is Mr Sommers; he wants to have a word with you.”
You step forward. Time to make your presence felt.
“I suppose I should begin by saying that we’re all immensely proud of your accomplishments in training,” you say, scanning the faces of the team, “but let’s be honest - the training isn’t why you’re here. You’re already highly-trained, you’re already extraordinarily capable; you want to get out there and do some damage.”
“Ready and waiting, sir!” Budd calls out, before Kaleni snarls back,
“Quiet-”
“Damned glad to hear it,” you tell him, smiling. “But we’re not going to send you in half-cocked. Which is why I’m going to be taking Mr Fellowes off your hands for a few weeks - to scope out a potential target. I’m sure you’ll all miss him.”
“Won’t be the same without old Downton Abbey around to cheer us up, sir,” Wojcik says, to a chorus of chuckles.
You assume you’re meant to know what that’s referring to.
“You’ll have him back soon,” you say, “I promise you that. And before long, we’ll see the bastards fleeing our country in terror and we can all celebrate together. In the meantime, if there’s anything you need, anything at all, call me directly and I’ll provide it.”
“There was one thing, sir,” Cutter ventures, raising a hand. “The scopes on the rifles, sir, standard-issue, and they’re not up to much. Said to the others, they’d be better off taping a bog roll to the barrels, sir...”
You listen patiently, make him write down the make of the scope he’d prefer, and once you’re back in the car, you arrange for a boxful of them to be shipped out to the facility - along with a new, more expensive sound system.
The bond of blood is one thing, you tell yourself; but Kine need to be able to justify their feelings to themselves; pretend they’re rational creatures and not driven by the mindless chemicals sloshing around inside them.
*
“Religious extremists?” Horn asks. You can hear him breathing down the phone, gasping for air as if even this conversation is tiring him out. “You, you’d probably find them loitering about in, in Finsbury Park, eh? What’ve they been up to this time, Patrician?”
“Christian extremists,” you explain patiently. “They’ll probably have entered the country separately, on forged passports, some time in the past month or so - and while at least one of them’s Italian, we can’t rule out the possibility that others have arrived from other countries - so you’d need some dedicated people to sieve through the data and find the patterns. They’ll be in contact with someone back home, and they’ll have smuggled a large quantity of weapons in to await their arrival. They’re genuinely pious, so it’s highly likely they’ll be attending the Easter service somewhere in the city if that’s of any use.”
You continue to give him details; he whines a little about the impossibility of monitoring all two-hundred-and-fourteen Catholic churches in London or locating a group of possibly illegal immigrants in a nation brimming with them, but soon acquiesces.
As you lower your phone, you frown. Something is off; your car, you realise, has been at a standstill for quite some time.
Rapping on the smoked glass at the front of the car, you snap,
“Driver - what’s wrong? Why aren’t we moving?”
Mr Cripps growls, his voice muffled behind the screen,
“Jam.”
“A jam?” you exclaim. “At three in the morning?”
“Jam.”
You wind down the window and poke your head, a little gingerly, out into the night.
A couple of taxis are, indeed, waiting in the entrance to Regent’s Street ahead, engines running, horns parping out in frustration and the chaos blocking the road ahead.
Silent, masked figures are moving up past the colonnaded shops towards Oxford Circus, twirling, cartwheeling, past each other in circles and in waves, centring about a procession of lorries trundling slowly up the very middle of the street. Fire-eaters turn to the empty pavement and blow billows of flame at the non-existent spectators. The enormous origami-paper heads of exotic animals - giraffes, elephants, lions - turn, flapping their ears, from the top of a lorry trailer, puppeteered by dancers below clutching their strings.
Stepping out of the car, you catch sight of the gaudy, hand-painted sign on the side of one of the lorries.
‘Cirque De Loon’.
“Making mincemeat of Moscow,” a bright voice cries, from far above, “hamstringing the Hippodrome, sodomising the Soleil, castrating the Colosseum itself, ladies, gentlemen, children and beasts, abandon your religions, denounce your gods, forsake pleasures earthly and unearthly, for your prayers have been answered - the return, once-in-a-lifetime return, of the ghastliest and greatest show on earth, its first stop, Loondon Town, city of crazies, blessed Bethlehem of Bedlam-”
The Pell-Mell Queen is small, and perched atop the cab of one of the lorries. You can make out a face painted ghostly-white; she stretches out her arms and cries, at the two policemen who lean back on their car, alone on the empty street and watching her with some amusement,
“Push the crowds back, constable, please, keep them back - there’ll be chaos, there’ll be stampeding, there’ll be bodies trampled underfoot, eight-year-old hoodies stabbing their own mothers and stealing her purse just for a ticket to the night circus, the damned circus - we’ve dug up P.T. Barnum and he’s the main event of the freakshow! Hie thee to Hyde Park, kill that rickshaw driver there and hijack his vehicle, he’s not doing anything with it, we’ll be waiting, we’ll be wilting without you, come nimble, come quick, jump over the candlestick-”
You watch as the procession moves, achingly slowly, past a few late-night clubgoers with their mouths open and one confused-looking drug dealer, up to the Circus and out of sight.
“Making an entrance,” you say, to nobody in particular.
*
“I never saw her myself,” Vogler says, gazing into the fireplace. “But she’s quite mad, reputedly - someone once told me other Malks used to make pilgrimage out to visit her, just to soak in her raving, listen to the voices babbling up out of her. Like taking the waters at a spa, I suppose.”
“Hm,” you respond, pacing back across the drawing-room floor.
“Your man Fellowes,” the Gangrel continues, “he’ll be with the Archon now? I suppose you’re glad to have a man on the inside.”
“Mm.”
He sips at his vitae glass, deposits it carefully on the table beside him, and says,
“You know, when I was out in the wilds, decades and decades ago - funny how these little things stay with you - I passed through the bracken, down by a lake, and stepped on an adder. Little bastard bit me, quick as you like, and darted off into the undergrowth. He must have thought his venom was kicking in, causing me quite incredible pain - he must have thought he’d got the better of me. Well, I called him back, drowsy and docile, under my spell, and he must have thought himself safe as I lifted him up, gentle and caring, and wrung his neck.”
“A spiteful, petty act of revenge against a creature that had no way of understanding what revenge meant,” he concludes, “but the moral I took from it later was that when we do not know the nature of the game our opponent is playing, we have no way of telling when we’ve won or when we’ve lost.”
“I’m not interested in parables,” you snap. “Turcov’s game is simple enough - he doesn’t want to act openly against me, so he tries to keep me weak by taking away as many of my assets as he possibly can. I might pull the same trick on him by inviting his Toreador toyboys to a fucking year-long poetry workshop in the countryside.”
Vogler pulls a sympathetic face.
“I did as you asked, incidentally,” he tells you. “Some of my men will come down to London to lend a hand once they’ve finished up their duties in Swansea. No idea how useful they’ll be - bunch of outcasts and failures. Aside from kicking out an Anarch den when we first moved in, they’ve hardly proven themselves.”
“Outcasts and failures,” you murmur, “we can make something of. All right, so-”
A horrid, drawn-out mechanical whine-and-rattle; as Vogler frowns and turns, trying to discover the source of the noise, you stride quickly to your desk and turn the security screen on.
“Someone’s trying to get over the wall,” you breathe. A tiny, hooded figure, supported by two others, struggles to reach the razor wire at the top of the high garden walls, then takes a step back. Something is ignited, and lobbed; it explodes into flame somewhere on the lawn on the other side.
Vogler snaps, leaping from his seat,
“Stay here-”
And goes. Doors slam in the distance.
You bring up another shot of the wall onscreen. The three figures huddle together, more closely, beside the old willow that stands by the carp lake. Another makeshift firebomb is produced, and thrown.; this one seems to land somewhere closer to the ornamental pond. One of the attackers - a Brujah? - takes a step back, judging the height of the wall, and runs at it, scrambling up the sheer brick, their shoes finding the cement cracks, his fellows cackling in excitement as he goes.
He reaches the top; as he turns to salute his comrades, the hideous shape of Mr Cripps comes flying out of the darkness of the willow branches, tackling him. The two of them plummet down together, out of sight.
The other two attackers gape, turn, and flee.
You flick between the various camera settings, but you’re unable to make out anything else.
About ten minutes later, Vogler calls you. He sounds breathless, and a little thrilled.
“I got one,” he says, “and your Nosferatu got another. The others ran away down the hill. Looks like the fires didn’t spread, either - the lawns are too damp from last night’s rain.”
“Sabbat?”
“I’d say so. Come out and have a look.”
*
It’s been painted across the wall in some kind of viscous, oil-black substance; the letters three feet high.
FOR ANGELOS
Your grip tightens on the pommel of your cane.
“Looks like you’ve been marked,” Vogler says, cheerfully. “Wonder how they got this far north.”
His face and beard is spattered with blood and droplets of gore, respectively; he doesn’t seem to care.
“The woes of taking on the Sabbat in London,” you reply. “A raid here, a murder there - and they vanish back into the underground, leaving their old dens behind. A city too large to police. They’ve moved their damned Court six times since they made it.”
“About that,” Vogler begins. “My Swansea friends may not be of much use, but I can contact Venice for help if need be. Have you considered the use of an Assamite-”
From the wall above, you hear Cripps growling.
The genteel cobbled street outside Witanhurst descends down a steep hill, past Highgate Cemetery, down towards Archway and, eventually, Islington. And now, by the light of the distant lampposts and the grey pre-dawn sky, you can make out two of the hooded figures, lingering just beyond the crest of the slope.
They don’t appear to be in any rush to come closer. One of them crows, raising their hands to their mouth,
“Blue-blood. Blue-blood. Fuck you standing there for, Blue-blood?”
Vogler glances sideways at you.
“They’re just shovelheads,” he says. “Puffed-up on blood and a newfound sense of power. A nuisance, not a threat. We could take one alive, maybe find out who embraced them, if they were taken to a den we might find out where it is-”
“They’ll have a van nearby,” you warn. “They’ll have to - only way to get away before dawn.”
A) Attack, all three of you. They’re only shovelheads.
B) Let the other two attack. Best that you stay out of it, shovelheads or not.
C) Return to the estate. The shovelheads won’t be able to hang around much longer before dawn.
And (assuming you survive, of course) what would you like your next move to be?
A) Contact the editor of the paper that ran the Mandrake story.
B) Visit the Pell-Mell Queen in Hyde Park.
C) Bring in Vogler’s Assamite, if possible.
D) Spend time personally expending resources to hunt down the hunters.
E) Summat else.
Hellraiser
Arcane
We should do that at some point
.At first I thought that traffic jam was an ambush. Well it looks like Turcov did not do anything to the Malk.
Now about the first choice. If we let them get away we risk losing face (and the Archon getting pissed potentially, or maybe not?), if we stay out of it we risk getting ambushed while alone, if all three attack we risk getting ambushed. If their goal was to draw us out and capture us then both A and B are very unwise. Either we lose Vogler, Cripps, both or Anthony himself. I'm inclined to C myself but not yet sure.
Yeah so maybe we should have done something about the Sabbath huh Esquilax?
Now regarding the "if you survive choice". An audience with the Queen might result in some Malkavian "insight" into the current situation in London. Remember that she did predict the revolution in Russia along with the Tsar's family execution. Although that could have been an "educated" guess, considering how shitty the situation in Russia was. Contacting the editor should be a priority, however walking directly into his office is a bad choice if we do not know *who* owns the paper. Hell it is a bad choice even if we are sure this is not Turcov's Russian friend's doing. We should lure him out into a public place, one that we know will not have "Mandrake's" surveillance or worse.
Chasing down huntards personally? Well if we learn where they are the Archon would be pleased I guess. They are a nuisance that we should dispose of. However similar to Mandrake caution is necessary.
The Assamite? With Fellow's busy we could use him for some ass kicking I guess. But without knowing where to send him first it might be pointless.
I'm torn between investigating huntards or Mandrake personally.
C) fuck shovelheads
A) Mandrake needs some overdue attention
Regarding "Sabbat or Huntards, which is a bigger threat and why?", we should consider pulling a Ventrue and getting the hunters to attack Sabbat, somehow... Wheels spinning, plots tangling up, nothing to show for it yet...
A) Mandrake needs some overdue attention
Regarding "Sabbat or Huntards, which is a bigger threat and why?", we should consider pulling a Ventrue and getting the hunters to attack Sabbat, somehow... Wheels spinning, plots tangling up, nothing to show for it yet...
Running Fox
Educated
AA
laclongquan
Arcane
Mhmmmm~ This have potential
Sabbat situation: They've made headway into the south. And we have made no move toward them just yet, so their conclusion is that they've gained ground and we are too weak to stand against them? This could be just a provocative move on their part; or this could just be a bait to trap us.
On the other hand, Sommers is pretty well known to Sabbat in a few factors: One he's the mastermind of the ambush that took down Angelos and several packs of them, so he's smart. Two he's not the one who went to meet Angelo to lure him into that, and he's not at the ambush site, and the major credit of that battle fall to Tremere faction and Samantha Eames, so they can think that he's not a direct action type. Three: if Dubrik share his impression, they will know that Sommers buy a truce with him in agreeing to an exchange of a spy with a poisonous data from him. So it also mean he's a make-deal, and definitely not a fight type. Factor three is an assumption that he shared data with London, which we dont know if he does... On the other hand, with just factor one and two, they can safely assume that if they baited an ambush, no way Sommers will move in.
My bet on this as a political move on Sabbat to embarassed him. Not an ambush. Not when it's so close to his residence. That close, a direct frontal assault in the early night make more sense.
CHASE THEM DOWN, LET NO ONE ESCAPE. Or at least capture one so we have some intel on Sabbat. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.
Just Vogler and Cribbs may not be enough to achieve that purpose. Beside, Vogler is a hunting beast, action type. Stay back and let him do the job will lessen our own standing in his eyes and embolden him in future. Fuck that. We will show that the hero of Two Week War is not just for talk.
Future plan:
I am a bit equivalent about these.
It's true that mandrake situation needs us look more into it. But we havent had surveillance data on that person as I suggested earlier, so move in directly could be dangerous.
It's also true that we have good working relationship with Malks. Victoria, the anarchic seer? Donnie Jamieson the crazy US malk? So a visit to Pell Mell Queen could be fun and profitable. But that might slow down our own working tempo, see. So much to do, too little time.
Spend time to personally hunt the hunters is not a bad idea. While asskissing Archon is a plus, the main idea is that hunters should not be left alone and free. ANd in prologue they visit one bishop and captured other who was accused to be under thrall of a kindred. Bishop? Isnt Sommer' favoured blood is bishop type? This might directly affect us, so I agree that this is a good thing to do.
Bring in Vogler's Asamite is prolly not a good idea. We dont know how good he is, we let Venetian faction too much reign, and we rely too much on Vogler's resource. That could make him emboldened further. Doesnt sounds too good, right?
I am also waiting for other schemes. We have three very good options here, so if there's an alternate better than them...
Sabbat situation: They've made headway into the south. And we have made no move toward them just yet, so their conclusion is that they've gained ground and we are too weak to stand against them? This could be just a provocative move on their part; or this could just be a bait to trap us.
On the other hand, Sommers is pretty well known to Sabbat in a few factors: One he's the mastermind of the ambush that took down Angelos and several packs of them, so he's smart. Two he's not the one who went to meet Angelo to lure him into that, and he's not at the ambush site, and the major credit of that battle fall to Tremere faction and Samantha Eames, so they can think that he's not a direct action type. Three: if Dubrik share his impression, they will know that Sommers buy a truce with him in agreeing to an exchange of a spy with a poisonous data from him. So it also mean he's a make-deal, and definitely not a fight type. Factor three is an assumption that he shared data with London, which we dont know if he does... On the other hand, with just factor one and two, they can safely assume that if they baited an ambush, no way Sommers will move in.
My bet on this as a political move on Sabbat to embarassed him. Not an ambush. Not when it's so close to his residence. That close, a direct frontal assault in the early night make more sense.
CHASE THEM DOWN, LET NO ONE ESCAPE. Or at least capture one so we have some intel on Sabbat. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.
Just Vogler and Cribbs may not be enough to achieve that purpose. Beside, Vogler is a hunting beast, action type. Stay back and let him do the job will lessen our own standing in his eyes and embolden him in future. Fuck that. We will show that the hero of Two Week War is not just for talk.
Future plan:
I am a bit equivalent about these.
It's true that mandrake situation needs us look more into it. But we havent had surveillance data on that person as I suggested earlier, so move in directly could be dangerous.
It's also true that we have good working relationship with Malks. Victoria, the anarchic seer? Donnie Jamieson the crazy US malk? So a visit to Pell Mell Queen could be fun and profitable. But that might slow down our own working tempo, see. So much to do, too little time.
Spend time to personally hunt the hunters is not a bad idea. While asskissing Archon is a plus, the main idea is that hunters should not be left alone and free. ANd in prologue they visit one bishop and captured other who was accused to be under thrall of a kindred. Bishop? Isnt Sommer' favoured blood is bishop type? This might directly affect us, so I agree that this is a good thing to do.
Bring in Vogler's Asamite is prolly not a good idea. We dont know how good he is, we let Venetian faction too much reign, and we rely too much on Vogler's resource. That could make him emboldened further. Doesnt sounds too good, right?
I am also waiting for other schemes. We have three very good options here, so if there's an alternate better than them...
A on the first choice. At the very worst, our two glorious points in Fortitude should allow as to prevail against shovelheads. And we can Dominate them to Hell if need be. The simplest command that comes to mind is "hold". We need to capture a shovelhead in order to have intel on the Sabbat. We have to know where best to point Team Wistman, no?
D for the second choice. I have this strange impression that Mandrake is just a red herring, devised by grotBRO to fuck up our planning and resource allocation. We should definitely expend more resources to track the hunters down (though calling Horn was a good step in that direction!). Once we locate them, we can think of the best way to utilise their existence. I'm sure Iacomo would be more than happy to tear them to shreds for the insolence of attacking him, so we might just inform him where they are. But discretly feeding them info on the Sabbat would work too
Nope, Anthony needs the blood of people living in fear of death, much like he did while still mortal.
D for the second choice. I have this strange impression that Mandrake is just a red herring, devised by grotBRO to fuck up our planning and resource allocation. We should definitely expend more resources to track the hunters down (though calling Horn was a good step in that direction!). Once we locate them, we can think of the best way to utilise their existence. I'm sure Iacomo would be more than happy to tear them to shreds for the insolence of attacking him, so we might just inform him where they are. But discretly feeding them info on the Sabbat would work too
Nope, Anthony needs the blood of people living in fear of death, much like he did while still mortal.
Hellraiser
Arcane
StroryBRO if he was a red herring how could he have convinced the editor to put that piece about good old Tony in the paper? At the very least he is a potential masquerade breach, that may fuck over Anthony's position as puppet master for the kine politicians. If left unchecked that is. Now considering that hunters and shovelheads are derping around than yes he may be a distraction. But if the Archon sees mentions of Anthony Sommers, HM's gray eminence, in the papers, television or on wikileaks he will be pissed. He will think that Sommers' current position is way above his qualifications, that we are no good as baron and detrimental to Venice's agenda.
Sure hunters and sabbat can't be ignored in the long run as well. But Mandrake is a potential threat focused only on Anthony.
Sure hunters and sabbat can't be ignored in the long run as well. But Mandrake is a potential threat focused only on Anthony.
Random Word
Arbiter
- Joined
- Mar 14, 2012
- Messages
- 320
I like this, let's make it happen if the opportunity arises.
It's hard to tell if anyone competent is orchestrating this little raid or if it's simply some shovelheads being shovelheads. It's best to err on the side of caution, though - if someone competent planned this then even if they didn't count on us getting our hands dirty they'll have the eventuality covered. I don't think there's any great risk either way, but I don't see any great reward in capturing a shovelhead - so he can tell us where his pack is holed up, is it really that hard to find a Sabbat pack? I imagine you can't walk ten steps on the south bank without tripping over one at this point. Sit up and take notice if someone important shows their head, but this looks like it's going nowhere.
C
I'm torn between A and D. I think Mandrake is a legitimate threat, and even if it isn't it's a sufficiently good facsimilie to warrant investigation. It is not, however, a more important threat than the Hunters, but unlike Mandrake they aren't after us specifically. Fascinating as B might be, I don't think I ever figured out what the cryptic prohpecy from the last Malkavian seer meant, and I'm not sure this one will be any clearer. We've already set a search for the hunters in motion by calling Horn, so let's keep the pressure up on all fronts and choose:
A
SCO
Arcane
- Joined
- Feb 3, 2009
- Messages
- 16,320
Disputed party "elections" are often decided when a player convinces opponents to give them their support.
However, the lady is loony, so i doubt even the idea that she's going nowhere occurs to her.
C) unimportant or a trap (though Vogler would enjoy it, so if any B)
edit:B) A) between doing nothing, i prefer to let them enjoy themselves - but no pursuit. Hopefully Vogler Von Derp doesn't frenzy and acquire some permanent disfiguration. Considering he just drank vampire blood and is not a brujah, a good bet
A) dominate that fucker
Don't forget the sun is coming up.
However, the lady is loony, so i doubt even the idea that she's going nowhere occurs to her.
edit:
A) dominate that fucker
Don't forget the sun is coming up.
SCO
Arcane
- Joined
- Feb 3, 2009
- Messages
- 16,320
The beast frenzies when it's hungry or afraid. Granted, the guy is a grangel so maybe he's in tune and hunting will bring it out.
But i dislike "don't do shit" options. A lot really - so yes, it's not wise, but i'm voting for it anyway. In fact, i'm changing it to A).
Got a problem with that?
BTW storyfag, the PC in your chronicle will be the most suicidal lasombra i can manage on the options. Visiting werewolves is just the beginning. Hohohoh
But i dislike "don't do shit" options. A lot really - so yes, it's not wise, but i'm voting for it anyway. In fact, i'm changing it to A).
Got a problem with that?
BTW storyfag, the PC in your chronicle will be the most suicidal lasombra i can manage on the options. Visiting werewolves is just the beginning. Hohohoh
Excidium
P. banal
B) Because fuck it, I want to see what happens! r00fles!
Then D) Because it's time to stop ignoring the hunters and take direct action before they pull whatever they are planning to do.
Then D) Because it's time to stop ignoring the hunters and take direct action before they pull whatever they are planning to do.
laclongquan
Arcane
Well okay
A is direct threat to Anthony
B is potential friendly high level ally, considering our past experience with Malk.
D is direct threat to Camarilla. When hunters moving in, EVERY kindred is under threat.
Still nothing to convince me to choose one of those three very equal choice.
A is direct threat to Anthony
B is potential friendly high level ally, considering our past experience with Malk.
D is direct threat to Camarilla. When hunters moving in, EVERY kindred is under threat.
Still nothing to convince me to choose one of those three very equal choice.
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