Let's Play VtM: Night Empire

[Running Fox]

HELLOOOOO! UPDATE?

 

[laclongquan]

:mumble:

Yo, grotsnik~ Yo~

 

[CappenVarra]

 

[Esquilax]

Is this good shit still alive or on hiatus, grotsnik?

 

[grotsnik]

Is this good shit still alive or on hiatus, grotsnik?

It's alive! Been caught up in moving/having mild trouble figuring out how to avoid the next update being one long talky scene that doesn't move the plot forward sufficiently, that's all. I advocate passing the time by jabbing pitchforks at Storyfag until he finishes his cliffhanger.

 

[ironyuri]

Is this good shit still alive or on hiatus, grotsnik?

It's alive! Been caught up in moving/having mild trouble figuring out how to avoid the next update being one long talky scene that doesn't move the plot forward sufficiently, that's all. I advocate passing the time by jabbing pitchforks at Storyfag until he finishes his cliffhanger.

grotsnik deploys an expert bait and switch technique.

 

[laclongquan]

and may hope spring eternal~

 

[laclongquan]

DAMNIT!!! GROTSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSNIKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK~

 

[Gedeone]

Ok...i actually registered. No more lurking i suppose.

I was going to thank Grotsnik for all the good stuff...but it seems this thread is kinda...dead. Again.
How depressing.
Oh well...good things don't last long.
Ty anyway Grotsnik...

 

[Running Fox]

But under it all they were men, penetrating the thread of desolation and mockery and silence, puny adventurers bent on a colossal journey, pitting themselves against the might of an OP as remote and alien and pulseless as the abysses of space.
Had ~3108 thought in man-fashion, he might have epitomized a thread as a voracious appetite, and the world as a place wherein ranged a multitude of appetites, pursuing and being pursued, hunting and being hunted, eating and being eaten, all in blindness and confusion, with violence and disorder, a chaos of gluttony and slaughter, ruled over by chance, merciless, planless, endless.

 

[grotsnik]

Lol, hiatus. And suddenly these CYOAs are two-a-penny in the Playground. Yeah, I'm sick of them myself. Fucking LARP shit, we should totally ban everyone who participates in them and double-ban anyone who wastes their time writing them. Or something.


Chapter 6: In Which The Queen Presents Herself



“Get the fuck off me - I’ll kill the fucking lot of you, you Camarilla bastards, you Camarilla fucks-”
The Mithraeum is lit by two sputtering torches, raised in brackets against the central pillars.
The female shovelhead squirms against her bonds; the male sits, quite still, a few metres away on the far side of the deep stone pool, and gazes coolly up at you.
You strain towards that dull and sullen mind, feeling for its flaws, looking to see where you might dominate and control it; the bond of communal blood is strong, a layer of flickering red surrounding and circling his thoughts. It almost seems to have overpowered what little individuality he ever might have had.
You nod to Cripps.
He steps close to the far edge of the pool, hefting the petrol can, and tips. Iridescent liquid spills out across the male shovelhead’s head and shoulders. He does not flinch.

“My name is Anthony Sommers,” you begin, stepping forward, “and I am the Baron of Whitehall. Last night you attacked my house. You tried to kill me and my allies, you disrupted the Masquerade, and, perhaps most irritatingly, you daubed graffiti on my walls. Now - as you can probably guess, while you lay unconscious, your packmates, your treasured friends, your proud warriors of the Sabbat, did not bother attempting to break in and rescue you. It’s almost as if you’re utterly disposable - feeble flesh to be wasted on an off-chance or a whim, isn’t it?”
Vogler lifts the first torch out of its bracket.
“-fuck away from me, I’ll tear you all apart, I’m strong now, I’m powerful-”
“You have been lied to,” you tell them, serenely. “You believe that the Sabbat has the power to rise up and openly subjugate mankind. You have been told fairy-tales about a night empire, with yourselves as dukes and duchesses - perhaps even kings. But you have been lied to, and you have been used.”
The male smiles, very slowly. He opens his mouth, licking at his teeth, and says,
“You have been lied to.”
“Tell me who turned you,” you continue, ignoring him, “tell me everything you have learnt about the Sabbat, and I will grant you clemency. You are innocents in all of this - you have not been given the entire picture. I am willing to enlighten you, and to turn you onto a better path.”
“You have been lied to,” the male shovelhead says, in a quiet monotone, still staring up at you, “and you have been used. You are the pawn of horrors, and your witless collaboration in their affairs may yet lead to the annihilation of all our kind. What do you think is waiting for you, in the darkest heights of your Camarilla palaces? What sits upon the throne? The Antediluvians are your true masters-”
“Ugh,” Vogler says, “Antediluvians. They really have been given the, er, spiel, haven’t they?”
“-their rise is imminent, you fools, too busy clinging to your domains and your petty power to see that, they’re coming, and they will devour you, your gods, your precious ancestors will devour you all, you fools, you damned fools-”
You nod to Vogler. He tosses the torch down into the pool, a fluttering comet of light in the darkness.

The shovelhead cries out as the fire engulfs his face and torso. He begins to struggle now, rocking back and forth in an attempt to break free of his chains. The female is screaming too, caught up in her own terror of the heat, straining away from her burning companion.
Cripps, never taking his eyes off the flame, lifts, from the side of one of the pillars, a double-barrelled shotgun, and raises it to his shoulder. As the shovelhead’s skin blackens and tears, he glances at you.
You nod, again; he fires, once, twice, with absolute precision. The vampire’s charred head almost seems to crumple; his chair totters, back, and then falls.

The female shovelhead is sobbing, or at least making the sound of sobbing, still trying to shift herself away from the deadly flames. She gives out a little shriek when Cripps tosses the rest of the petrol onto her head and shoulders.
“I am not without mercy,” you pronounce, “but I am, I’m afraid, quite without patience.”
She does not respond. Vogler lifts the second torch from its bracket. He has, you notice, a slightly strained expression on his own face.
“Please,” the shovelhead whispers, at last. The petrol is streaming down her mohawk, flattening it against her bald scalp. “Please don’t, please don’t-”
“Where is Amen Court?” you ask. Her eyes meet yours; and in an instant her mind snaps, as fragile and as brittle as a winter branch.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t fucking know, they said we’d be brought there after we’d finished our job, to be honoured...”
“The job, specifically, being my assassination?”
“...said we’d been chosen, said we were the only ones who could...”
“So you don’t know where Amen Court is. What do you know? Where did they perform the Vaulderie?”
“They called it Jacob’s Island, near Bermondsey, one of the council blocks there...please, I was only doing what they...”
“Who led the affair? Did they say who was in charge these days?”
“The one who greeted us, his name was Ketch, he was...huge, huge...he didn’t say much at all, the ductus led the Vaulderie, look, they just said we was to form into squads and hit specific targets, they gave us the van...I’m telling you everything...”
“Be sure that you do. Were you supposed to meet up at Jacob’s Island?”
“No, no, they said we was to get underground, enter the sewers near Leicester Square and head south, and they’d find us again...”
You laugh, gently, to yourself. Cripps peels off a horrid smile.
“Am I missing something?” Vogler asks, looking between the two of you.
“They’d probably have run into the Centurion heading that way,” you tell him. “He’s a sort of local personality around here; so much for the loyalty of the Sabbat. Bermondsey, though - that’d be part of Eda Sly’s territory. Is there anything else you can tell us, my dear?”
The shovelhead’s eyes are upon the floor.
“They told us all about you,” she ventures. “How you kept us all down, how you elders refused to let us be what we could fucking be, how the Antediluvians are coming and everyone needs to pitch in for the war- but that was it - nothing else, I swear.”
She raises her eyes; she isn’t lying, you know.
“Perhaps now you realise,” you tell her, “how wrong you were to believe in their nonsense. All right. Thank you for being truthful with us.”
“You’ll let me go,” the shovelhead whispers. She stares up at you.
You open your mouth to respond.
Vogler, beside you, stretches his arm out, almost lazily, and lobs the second torch down into the pool. The petrol ignites, with a flash.

It takes the female shovelhead longer to die than her comrade; she wails and squirms and batters back and forth in her chair as Cripps, unprepared for this eventuality, pops the shotgun open, reloads two shells, aims, and fires.
And suddenly you’re gazing down at two headless, human corpses, lying on their backs across the mosaic of Mithras.
Vogler gives you an apologetic smile, touches you on the shoulder, and says,
“Didn't mean to pre-empt you, old man. But, you know. Death to the Sabbat, in all of its forms. It’s a sensible strategy for any Camarilla Prince, I think.”

*​

​

What was it Bullcracker said to you, as you took your leave of him?
“You don’t listen, son. I tell you I’ve built my strength on staying away from the Camarilla, and you tell me I’d benefit from an alliance with you, you suggest we work together - you seem to think, despite everything I've said, that you can work me into part of your own fucking circle of pawns. That’s what’ll kill you, in the end, thinking like that. I get the impression you don’t think much of me. Perhaps you don’t think my achievements amount to much, being so unchallenged. Well, perhaps that’s fair. But I’d wager everything I own that my empire will be here when yours is scattered. I’ll still be here when you’re dead and gone and in the hands of God, who ain’t forgiving any one of us. Sooner or later, this city swallows every one of you up.”
That revolting boil, swelling in and out. That ugly smile.
But what did he know, after all? Just another damned Anarch.

*​

The walls of 50 Berkeley Place have been recently redecorated; an immense oil painting of Turcov, in the uniform of a Russian cavalier from about the turn of the century, astride a horse, hangs over the fireplace.
“I was surprised,” someone says, from beside you, as you gaze up at it, “when the Old Wolf bought this place. You, um, know its history, Anthony?”
You glance at Frank Biggs. He nods at you, scratching at one burly arm, looking immensely uncomfortable in his fashionable suit.
“Some of it,” you tell him.
“The actual stories behind the hauntings are unclear,” he continues. “You know how they, um, always are. A servant girl who leapt off the roof. A couple of children locked in an attic who starved to death. But whatever the cause, the spirit managed to drive a scullery-maid mad, frightened two lodgers to death, and sent another into a catatonic state, in the course of twenty years or so around the turn of the, uh, century.”
“And yet the house is quiet tonight. Did Turcov give this murderous spirit a stern talking-to?”
“Oh, some human exorcist dealt with it, I believe, in the 1950s. I had one of them evict a, er, spirit that was causing havoc in Canary Wharf myself some years ago. Listen, Sommers, we really need to have a chat at some point-”
The drawing-room doors open; as Turcov strides into the room, the barons fall silent.
“Good evening, everyone,” he growls, taking his place in one of the surprisingly tasteless brown suede chairs. “I’m sure you’ve already helped yourselves to vitae. So - I’m sure you’re all aware by now that a number of us were subject to Sabbat raids last night. I know that myself, Baroness Sly, Regent Artzi, and Baron Sommers, were all targeted. Was anyone else victim to an attack?”
Earl Godrick quavers, from his place on the sofa,
“Someone was certainly crashing around outside my study window last night - I didn’t see who it was. At the time I assumed it was just a fox - but looking back, you know, it could well have been the Sabbat, searching through my bins for private correspondence and secret information. Fortunately I am always discreet enough to have my ghouls shred such things.”
At the window, Andre Carabas begins laughing so loudly that he spills a little of the contents of his glass onto the carpet. Earl Godrick turns, frowning, and attempts to fix him with a cold stare.
“Perhaps to avoid our collective descent into paranoia and lunacy,” Turcov says, poker-faced, “we should go along with the assumption that it was a fox, until such time as you have conducted your own private investigations into the matter, Godrick. Now, as to the rest of you-”
“It was fortunate,” Eda Sly pipes up, “that none of my people were injured. I had to spend all night covering the matter up. What we need is a Prince, and as soon as possible, to organise a proper strike against the Sabbat and eradicate them from the city once and for all!”
A few half-hearted ‘hear-hears’.
“Easier said than bloody, uh, done,” Biggs mutters into his drink, beside you.
“I think we can take it,” you interject, “that the Sabbat never considered it more than an off-chance that these raids would kill one of us - really, by sending shovelheads, they were expending the bare minimum of effort. The use of explosives indicates that their primary aim was to cause as much noise and trouble as possible, to embarrass us before the Archon and further disrupt the process of our choosing a new Prince.”
Turcov gives you a surprisingly agreeable nod.
“Baron Sommers has the right of it,” he says. “Personally, I think we should be more concerned about the rumours that the butcher Ketch has left Amen Court. The last time he was deployed, the Sabbat began that bloody war that ended with the death of Baron du Marchais’ predecessor in Whitehall and the Bishops reclaiming their so-called ‘Devil’s Acre’ as their territory. More than a few of us in this room will remember the brutalities of that time, I'm sure.”
“Therefore, we need to begin by consolidating our knowledge of the Sabbat’s - dammit, boy, I said we were not to be disturbed-”
The young ghoul, clad in full evening wear, bows, flushes, and says,
“Excuse me, m’lord, but she, ah, she said...she said she wished to be presented before the Barons of London, in the absence of a Prince. She told me I was going to...ah...that is to say...”
“What in blazes are you blathering about?” Turcov snaps.
“The Pell-Mell Queen, m’lord, she...uh...she’s downstairs...”
Perhaps not even the most perceptive of mortal observers would have seen any sign of fury or discontent in Turcov’s expression.
You see it, though; you already know it’s there.
He waves a hand at the boy and says,
“Should’ve known she’d want to cause a stir. All right, send her on up.”
The ghoul bows once again, turns around, and almost walks right into the Pell-Mell Queen.

The little Malkavian is dressed magnificently, in a sweeping gown that’s divided neatly down the centre, in black and in white; the ‘night’ side depicts a glowing silver moon surrounded by creeping silver tendrils, while the ‘day’ is marked out by a burning golden sun whose flames spread about her hem and sleeves. Her face has been made-up to match the domino effect, split down the bridge of her nose.
She sweeps past the bewildered ghoul and into the centre of the room, where she stands, hands on her hips, gazing all around.
“London!” she announces, at last. “Sweet stinking London! All of you, here, dark legends of Albion and beyond, let me greet each one of you! Baron Turcov, great Russian wolf, kindy grandfather - how selflessly you watch over your adopted city in its hour of need, holding it in your care until the true Prince arrives!”
Turcov rises to his feet, and does not flinch as she snatches at his hand and lays her lips upon it.
“Noble queen,” he says, “we are truly honoured to have you amongst us tonight. What-”
“Shaul Artzi,” the Queen cries, turning to the bespectacled Tremere, who looks a little panicked and takes a single step backwards. “You have truly risen to glory, good mage - taking the place of that pestilent dabbler, that treacherous occultist, that arcane monstrosity! I am certain that under your sage aegis, the Tremere of London will strive on towards the light of knowledge, except in those very specific cases where the knowledge leads to the awakening of dark forces you cannot hope to understand or control.”
Artzi gapes.
“I, oh, thank you. Did you, er-”
But the Queen has already moved on.
“And Earl Godrick - the wisdom of centuries hangs upon you! Is this not a Prince, barons of London? Is this not a Kindred born for rule, to the other Ventrue as the Ventrue are to us poor unaristocratic souls! Beautiful Riva, beside him - why do you sit as an equal amongst these paltry thin-blooded weaklings, who are so much your lessers? You should detach Camden from its banks and push it away to form a city all of your own!”
And all of a sudden, she’s standing in front of you. Her dancing eyes meet yours, and she tilts her head as if conducting an examination.
“He’s another Ventrue,” she says, softly, after a moment. “What’s more to be said?”
“Queen,” Turcov interjects. “You have in fact presented yourself to us in a time of great concern to us all. The Sabbat-”
She does not listen, but continues to dance around the drawing room, calling Digby Deeds the dark lord of all the tennis courts and praising Biggs for being ‘altogether less stupid than the average Brujah’.
“I am home,” she concludes, having greeted all of the assembled barons, clapping her little hands together, “I truly feel as if I am at home, in the madhouse! Tell me - when shall we conduct the ceremony? When shall we hear what great Mithras has to say?”
“You are planning on talking to him, then?” Carabas calls out from his corner, sneering openly. He’s clearly been left unimpressed by her addressing him as the ‘Baron of Buggery and Antiquing’.
The Queen smiles, sweetly, at him.
“I would not know how to talk to Mithras, dear Andre,” she says. “I shall speak only to the madness, to the babble of lunatics across continents and time itself, and from out of the lunacy Mithras shall answer, telling us the name of our next Prince of London.”
“Perhaps you might enlighten us all now, then?” Turcov asks. He sounds bored, self-consciously so. “I’m afraid we’re all rather busy protecting our city against the Sabbat, and I’m sure Archon Iacomo would be delighted to know that Mithras has chosen the new Prince and he can trot back home to Venice.”
“Poor, dear Turcov,” the Queen whispers. She leans down to stroke his cheek, a movement that makes him tense visibly. “He still doesn't believe in me, even though I've proven myself to him before. I shall hear Mithras’ judgement before the whole of the London Camarilla, my hands resting upon the ancient London Stone, the altar upon which Brutus himself made his unholy sacrifices, all those centuries ago. I have said my piece, and I hope you will spare no effort in arranging it. Please - return to your meeting.”
She sits, perfectly sedate, on the nearest sofa, placing her hands in her lap, and smiles at you all, as if encouraging you simply to forget that she’s there.
“The whole of the London Camarilla...” Turcov exclaims, and now the anger in his voice is plain for all to hear. “My dear Queen, do you really think we are going to give you all of London as an audience for you to spout whatever disruptive gibberish takes your fancy at? The Anarchs, too? Perhaps you’ll insist that our new Prince should be one of your jugglers, or a housecat, or the charred ashes of our last one? Do you really think I, of all people, have forgotten what you’re like?”
She maintains her topsy-turvy smile without responding, and gazes around the room, waiting for you to get on with the meeting.

How do you want to deal with the Sabbat situation?

A) Embarrass Eda Sly by announcing publicly that the Sabbat have a den in her territory, and suggest the barons work together to attack it.
B) Attempt to gain leverage with Eda Sly by letting her know privately about the den, and letting her take a share of the credit.
C) Keep quiet about it for now and send in some of your own people to investigate/attack, taking the glory for yourself.
D) The building is hardly likely to be of any significance to the Sabbat, seeing as they let their shovelheads know of its existence. It’s better simply to forget about it and let everyone else say what they’ve learnt.

And what about the Queen’s intentions?

A) Stay the hell out of it.
B) If she’s refused her audience, she’ll only cause more trouble. Support her. You can always explain your reasoning to Turcov afterwards, if he’ll listen.
C) Side with Turcov publicly; perhaps she can be talked down to an audience of just the barons.
D) Turcov’s right, she can’t be relied upon. Wait until she’s gone, and then suggest to the others that she be somehow removed from the city.
E) Side with the Queen - and suggest, furthermore, that she use the Mithraeum below your mansion at Witanhurst to contact the ancient vampire on this historic occasion! (Obviously you’ll clean out the remains of two shovelheads first.)

 

[oscar]

C A

Excellent to see you back. I missed Sommers.

 

[laclongquan]

I LIKE GROSTNIK THIS MUCH

And here I just thought, oh god I am so bored. Have nothing to read or argue about. Then you return! You return!

Anyway, back to business.

First choice

I agree that The building is hardly likely to be of any significance to the Sabbat, seeing as they let their shovelheads know of its existence. But there's an outside chance to discover some clues there with an very EXTENSIVE investigation, the like that can not be conducted stealthily or without the cooperation of the baroness.

Embarass Eda is soooo crass. Unsubtle. Non-Ventrue.

So I recommend B) Attempt to gain leverage with Eda Sly by letting her know privately about the den, and letting her take a share of the credit.

Second choice

We are standing in a crossroad. On the one, publicly side with him . On the other oppose him subtly. Stay out of it make no progress. So leave the subtle choice of Side with the Queen - and suggest, furthermore, that she use the Mithraeum below your mansion at Witanhurst to contact the ancient vampire on this historic occasion!

I stress that we do not expect this choice to profit us much directly, since we dont have big reputation, dont invest money into rebuild it, and Malkavian is frankly unpredictable. Dont even hope that she will name us the Prince candicate.

BUT.

But we have profitted from Malk seer's oracles before. It's a strong recommendation that we deal with them again. This could open more avenues of action for us

Plus, this choice poke Turcov's dignitas a bit. We are not above trolling him, are we?

E) Side with the Queen - and suggest, furthermore, that she use the Mithraeum below your mansion at Witanhurst to contact the ancient vampire on this historic occasion!

 

[Running Fox]

Its like this shit is written for me.
You ever listen to K-BILLY's Super Sounds of the 70's?
It's my personal favorite
Joe Egan and Gerry Rafferty were a duo known as Stealer's Wheel
when they recorded this Dylanesque
pop, bubble-gum favorite
from April of 1974
That reached up to number five
as K-BILLY's Super Sounds
of the 70's continues!
Fucking Vogler stopped all the fun dead in its tracks...

Oh and, sweety, those other CYOA are banal and boring at their zenith. Only root and barb can hold you a candle. Now that I've done my share of wet and sloppy cocksucking for the next few years, I'll utter some critique.

This all is by the way not larping, for actual larping see your sig and that despicable running simulator.

Oh and by the way, "The Haunting of Hill House" gotta have the most fucking pathetic first 50 pages I ever read. Tell me Eleanor is gonna die soon and painful...

Eagerly awaiting what Esquilax suggests....

 

[Running Fox]

Lol, just kidding.

How do you want to deal with the Sabbat situation?
A) Embarrass Eda Sly by announcing publicly that the Sabbat have a den in her territory, and suggest the barons work together to attack it.

Eda is gonna burn in 6 months.

And what about the Queen’s intentions?
A) Stay the hell out of it.

“Dispute not with her: she is lunatic.”
- William Shakespeare, Richard III

 

[CappenVarra]

Good to have you back

Definitely B) on the first choice, that's the Ventrue Way (TM). And yeah, I know that Pell Mell Queen just used "just another Ventrue" as an insult; who cares? A) is childlish high-school bullshit, C) is like that thing Iacomo was talking about, and D), while probably true, misses out on influence points gained by B).

Second choice, fuck, dunno. Malkavians. Tempted by A)...

 

[Esquilax]

So glad to see this thread alive and well again.

On to business. It's a shame that the Anarchs didn't like our offer, hopefully they won't fuck with us after parting on such poor terms. Guess we'll have to look elsewhere to determine the location of the Hunters.

Sabbat: I don't think we should vote C for the first choice - it's a greedy, glory-hunter move that will piss off our colleagues the same way that offing Angelos did. Remember: to stay in Whitehall, we don't have to be the best Baron, we just have to not be the worst Baron. Making friends among our peers and getting people to support our man as Prince is more important than showing everybody how awesome we are. That being said, I am not so sure about A. Throwing Eda Sly to the wolves would take the heat off everyone else and ensure that they like us more, but I don't see how it would further our position in terms of alliances/propping up Vogler. The Sabbat den is either insignificant or a possible trap, so telling everybody about it might backfire badly if things turn out poorly.

Out of all the choices, I like B the best. A backroom favour like this might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Pell-mell Queen: Maybe someone can convince me otherwise, but I don't see any likely way that involving ourselves in this business will make us come out a winner. Turcov thought he could manipulate her for his own ends, and it backfired spectacularly. I doubt we'll fare any better.

That being said, if we're working with Eda Sly (she and Turcov despise one another) supporting Turcov publicly as a meek sycophant is a great way to cover up our moves if we're making an alliance with one of his enemies. That's a pretty good reason.

E: Inform the other Barons who were attacked about what we know, wile voicing our suspicions about the nature of the base.
A: Stay the hell out of it

 

[grotsnik]

Oh, and it's also worth saying that Surf Solar very kindly messaged me during the hiatus with some extremely cool-looking bits and pieces of art that I'm going to try and work in where I can...

 

[laclongquan]

Dont tell me you ignore a chance to troll Turcov?

 

[Hellraiser]

Decisions decisions decisions. Still unsure about the vote, particularly the second one.

B) For the first choice looks solid. Why? Because it won't piss Iacomo, in fact this is something he wants to see. We'll help the Camarilla by driving out sabbath scum when we could have used the situation for personal gain. It will show our priorities, the good of the camarilla first, backstabbing in true ventrue fashion second.

As for the second choice, while trolling Turcov would be nice, we have to consider the consequences. We want his beef with the malk queen to get in the way so that the Archon notices it. Especially if Turcov would led his beef with her get in the way of the good of the Camarilla. At the same time we don't want it to look like we orchestrated a crisis with the Queen just to get rid off Turcov. Iacomo won't approve of that.

However openly supporting the queen and letting her use the Mithraeum can backfire rather spectacularly. Remember *why* Turcov has beef with the malk? Because he tried to use her to his own advantage and it backfired. It's a risk, a major one. Who is to say what the great Mithras will "tell" her. Consider another thing, how likely are the other barons to like what "Mithras" tells them about the current state of the London Camarilla. Who do you think they'll blame for what the whole ordeal, especially if what they hear is rather embarassing? They'll blame Mr. Sommers who let the malk use the mithrareum. We'll climb up on the scapegoat list.

Even now I doubt the Barons liked what the malk said.

Considering the risks the best options here are either to side with Turcov or to stay out of the affair. Now we may not like Anthony being Turcov's bitch, but Turcov's a pimp we know and the queen is batshit insane as all malks are. On the other hand, the queen might be pissed off by that action.

Now organizing an effort to get rid off the queen could score us points with the other barons. Especially if they consider her a nuisance. But what will the Archon think of that?

Siding with Turcov has the added benefit of not pissing off Turcov as much when he learns we're working with Sly. If we choose to do that. A and C look like the ebst choices here IMO, not sure which would be better at the moment. I think we should look at the move from a political perspective. We want our skin saved so we want to side with the more popular option. At least for me, it looks like more kindred are annoyed by the malk rather than amused by her. It's one malk against a few barons, I say we choose the barons over some circus freak.

 

[laclongquan]

The problem is the point of view.

I dont see Turcov's past dealing is disastrous for him. Sure, his plain failed spetacularly, he had to get out of Russia. BUT he kept his unlife. The Red October and the civil war is nothing to sneer about. He got out of there first and intact, that's his fortune. IF his plan had succeed he would have become highly placed in Tsar's Court... Not a good place to be in that time, now is it? The whole Royal family got the chop.

So no, I dont fear our dealing with her will harm us.

 

[Hellraiser]

Unless the other barons think "hey, that asshole Sommers let that clown queen make a mockery of us in the fucking mithraeum. I say we fuck him over when we get the chance."

We need allies, how is pissing off quite a few of the other barons supposed to help us with that. Trolling Turcov is not worth jeopardizing potential future relationships with the other barons period. It's plain dumb, especially for a Ventrue. Unless Sommers turned Malk during the hiatus, trolling for the sake of trolling is not or should not be his nature.

Yes, Turcov's ass was saved. So what? As far as we know our main threats are the Archon getting pissed off, the Sabbath getting stronger or the other barons pointing their finger at us when an "example" will be need to be made so that Venice knows all is well in London again. A communist revolution from which the queen may save us from by accident is *not* a significant threat.

 

[laclongquan]

Oi~ Remember the scene with the Archon? I say all barons of London hate us and want our head already. Keeping head down and lay low wont help us in this case.

As for the other barons, who know? Not all barons hate Pellmell Queen, that's for sure.

 

[Gondolin]

IT'S (UN)ALIVE!

B on the first choice.
Maybe D on the second one.

 

[Kz3r0]

D)
E)