Living Between Two Swords

Nightly Warm Up

2009-01-15T13:15:54Z

With a thrust forward with Riley's sword, the air bleeds and dies.

A parry to the left, and a slash to the right, ducking down, his knees folding beneath him and his shoulder tucking. A quick push and the roll carries him out of harm's way. Coming to his feet he turns behind him and slashes an invisible throat, before jumping forward to kick at the dying ghost's feet. With that corpse providing a stumbling shield, he crosses behind it, to grant safe passage from the invisible reinforcements.

The exercise is done. It is one of a hundred a night. They are short, but he only has to maintain his skill, when so long ago every night was required to make gains in his proficiency. Now, the diplomat's tongue, and the pen of the scribe are far more useful weapons. His proficiency in those is lacking, but his natural talent is apparently, for the time being, holding the line.

The blade is depressingly dry, and so he runs it across his palm to grant it vitae.

Trusted servants and dearest friends should never be asked to go without drink.

Picking up the printout of Dr. Gomorrah's return missive, he smiles. The paintings are now his. The gifts make excellent trophies to the maneuver. The Lancea Sanctum in Arizona make gains, and he might have a method to bargain for an infected Sanctified's cure. The gains are well worth the swallowing of some pride. A pity, he muses, Father never learned that fact.

His deal with Barrow begins to look more and more interesting.

What price do I pay? What deal with the devil can ever be so justified? And he finds himself answering. Whatever price I must pay to secure my family, to maintain my honor, and to gain the faith everything that is required.

I will not fail. I will be relentless. Sum Sanctus.

Blood, Bullets, Blades and Brothers

2008-12-31T00:00:24Z

Downtown Little Rock, December 30th, in the lower levels of a Catholic Church, where many alterations have been made. The custom of the clergy, the significant financial donations, and predatory scare tactics have long kept mortals from these lower reaches, in traditions begun beneath the Cardinal Tiernan Callaghan. Here the Lancea Sanctum gathers to discuss, to worship, and to enjoy a sense of community with fellow predators.

This night, Sister Rebecca has asked to take confession with Mother Superior Callaghan, so they have secluded themselves in silent in the booths set aside for such, with the ominous Paladin Vrai guarding them. Beneath that hallowed location, in the true heart of the faith's worship, the Sanctuary plays host to Archbishop Cassius Callaghan, Bishop Wyatt Riley, and Brother Puck who stands behind Cassius, acting as a de facto Paladin. Brother Gabriel Priest fulfills his duties about the city, hunting for the Prince.

The discussions are simple and succinct. The Archbishop and the Bishop converse on the celebrations that come to the faith, the Quadrigesima and the Feast of Longinus. They discuss the Strix and the Texan front. They talk of the Carthian body politic, and the circumstances arrayed for and against the faith. But most often, both predators light up when discussing tactics, and they focus on those details specifically. Together they sit in the chairs behind the altar, facing empty pews.

In the midst of such conversation, Sister Angelique Dragosani slides passed the door and comes inside the Sanctuary which remains open to all predators, her goal to achieve a nightly meditation of purpose, and to have her nightly prayers. Upon seeing her fellow faithful she moves instinctively to join the community of which she has become a part.

As they note her presence, the conversation turns to local threats.

"Your Grace," says the child-like predator dressed in Blue Byzantine robes, adorned simply with a Lancea Sanctum stole made of black silk, and embroidered with a red Spear of Longinus at both ends and in its middle. He addresses the Bishop next to him. "Its a shame that such violent threats are required to gather so many of the faithful in one place."

Bishop Riley, nods as he speaks. "I agree but it is something that has to be done for the greater good of all. Also if I fail in this Killeen will be in very trusted hands with Bishop Dominic and Paladin Valentine. They will still fall under your guidance."

"Good evening, your Excellency. Your Grace...if i may ask....what is going on?" The lovely lady interjects.

Archbishop Callaghan turns a pair of green eyes and his sad smile to Angelique.

"Have you not heard, Sister Angelique, of the threat posed by Caleb Barrow?"

Her lips purse in a look of concern, her brow furrows. "Vaguely."

"Caleb Barrow is a warrior-hunter of the Circle of the Crone, who also holds affiliations with the Carthian movement." Cassius sighs in frustration. "A couple of weeks ago, he broke into a meeting I was having with a few of our locals and threatened Brother Vrai with retribution, promising a 3 for 1 death rate should a battle come to fruition between the Acolytes and the Faithful."

He turns to look thoughtfully at Riley, "I know your zealotry to be true. Do not fall, and we shall have no need to consider who answers to whom. And know that should any of us fall, our faith cannot and will not falter as long as a single Kindred remains to hold it."

"First of all, this Borrow is rude and deserves to be brought to judgment before Him." Angelique appears to build a head of steam, even as a slight smile grows on Riley's face. The visiting Bishop nods at her words. "Second of all It is my duty to protect."

Puck stands behind the Archbishop, quiet, and watchful. Brother Puck is taller than Cassius, which isn't hard, and dressed in functional military fatigues. His long hair is braided and swept back, the blond rope hanging behind him. He watches the interchange and measures Cassius as much as Angelique.

"Duty is not absolute, Sister Dragosani." Cassius answers her. "Having duty and the honor to carry it out does not guarantee success. We must always plan for both our potential victory, and the possibility of failure. You have fervor, Sister Angelique. But protection is harder than destruction. Vastly more difficult. You have fervor, Sister Angelique. But protection is harder than destruction. Vastly more difficult."

Puck flinches, as Bishop Riley smiles. Cassius seems not to notice either.

"I know, but as I am learning my duties and my Path. I know what has happened in the past with your...family."

Now it is the Archbishop's turn to flinch, as she continues.

"I do not wish that to happen to anyone else i know. I will do all in my power to protect those around me until I am accepted by a charge."

Cassius becomes possessed by a vacant look.

"All the training in the world matters not. Sometimes, it is merely God's will. Until our time, we can only do what we feel is best."

Riley's smile fades to nearly nothing, as he nods in accordance with the words. Puck adjusts the strap of his gun holster, and checks his blade. His nervousness does not show easily. The young predator before the anointed presses on, fervor and passion fueling her words.

"I am doing my best to become what God wishes me to be!"

"I know," her Archbishop replies, "And in that, I am proud of you."

"I also have not traveled since you have talked to me last," she challenges.

"Its best to learn from the examples of others and spread this example to all," Bishop Riley intercedes. The rising passions of so many predators easily put each of them on edge. Like a the tactician he is, Riley moves to intercept possible explosions of emotion.

The Bishop and Archbishop exchange glances, and the feverish pitch disappears from Cassius's voice.

"I have noticed, Angelique. All is well. Bishop Riley, I agree. I think that perhaps..."

A faint sound, unidentifiable, echoes down the stairwell. Cassius turns his head to hear it better. Bishop Riley focuses on the door to the Sanctuary, while Puck begins to draw pistol with practiced smoothness.

"Perhaps what, your Excellency?" asks the beautiful girl monster, but now even her ears are catching it, and closer to the door than the others she turns, her hands staying behind her, and her passion giving rise to the beginnings of battle lust.

The sound grows and Cassius begins to stand, as the doors that keep this chamber sealed from the world of mortals are forced open by what looks like a rallying horde. Puck clears his gun, and Cassius reaches for a curved Japanese blade kept near at hand. Angelique's fingers grow fluidly into razor sharp edges, the birthright of her blood, and a growl echoes from her throat. Bishop Riley is as stoic as Cassius, drawing a long western style broad blade and an antique revolver.

The people that flood through the door, are not quite people at all. They have hands and feet, arms and legs, bodies...but their mouths seem to have been moved and cloned a hundred fold. On their faces they have no mouths. But on their hands and near their necks there rest scores of misshapen and tiny orifices, which chew at the air and grind and grind and grind.

"Faithful!" cries the Archbishop, "to arms!"

Wyatt Riley dashes from his seat with sword in hand charging the crowd. His blade is already moving, the heavy metal edges parrying the most likely angles of assault, as he searches for an opening with which to kill. His gun, an extension of his will, raises in his other hand like a cobra, ready to spit leaden venom into the face of those who would violate a Sanctuary of the Lancea Sanctum.

Angelique began the utterance of a prayer for strength. Being so close to the front, and also moving forward, the horde crashed against her first, and her claws reached out to snuff the life from unwashed heathen monstronsities, meeting evil with violence.

Callaghan rushed forward, down the steps using their height for momentum. The katana he carries arcs fully and catches the candle light in its speed, looking for all the world like a streak of fire, before it buries in, peirces through, and passes beyond the first of his victims. His speed carries him past Angelique and into the throngs of invaders.

Puck also moves, though not directly to them, circling around the mass of conflict knotting up just past the doorway, and firing rapidly into the crowd. The hindmost invaders begin to fall to his well placed shots, a hand cannon booming in the nearly sound proof sanctuary.As the back numbers of the enemy fall to bullets, they begin to impede one another. New invaders, and God knows how many there are, must now climb over the rapidly mounting bodies of their allies. This gives the front line time to meet the Archbishop, Bishop, and Sister Angelique in close and point blank combat.

"I shall," Cassius speaks, swinging the blade in a crossing arc, slicing off neatly the head of a beast-man, "take the left flank."

Wyatt caught an invaders slashing claw on the crossguard of his larger blade, and with a quick motion, rolled the blade to an en guarde position, breaking fingers, and exposing a hand-mouth. As the thing gnashed and wailed, stretching and flexing to devour his face, the ghoulish thing came into line with the mouthless face of its owner.He lifted his revolver, taking a split second to aim and get the angle just right, before its barrel roared, and hot lead burned and broke through the foul mouth, the hand's flesh, the bones and the air between it and the things face, finally destroying the beasts brain and taking its life.

"I'll take the middle route," spoke the Bishop, calm and collected, save for his eyes where the battle lust was beginning to brim to the forefront.

"That leaves me with right," said the brutal lady, wading through the onslaught and slashing the enemy. "God be with us!"

Cassius dances in a masterpiece of rhythm and skill, but as he begins to shout strategic orders to coordinate the faithful, the sound of his voice is swallowed. The battle prayer that Angelique recites disappears, though her mouth still moves. Within five feet of the enemy, sound shatters, consumed by the insane, silent rambling of the monstrous throng.

The enemy seems heedless of their losses. Their sick milky eyes don't seem to acknowledge what they see or their surroundings at all, merely looking pained and filled with suffering. But their shark toothed hand mouths reach graspingly for their Kindred enemies.

While Cassius stands confused, and Puck maneuvers to best catch the enemy in useful fire, Angelique continues to pray, ignorning the silence. She catches a claw in the nose of one of the mouthless men, and tears it free with brute strength, dragging most of a face with her freed hand. Her lips switch from English to Japanese, but the sound refuse to come, regardless of the tongue its beckoned in.

Bishop Riley feels the hesitance of their advance, and sees the cohesion failing. With a wild moment of abandon, he hurls himself even further into the enemies' ranks, blasting with his hand cannon, eerily quieted but no less bright. Flash after flash, meets the oncoming wretches. As they close, through sheer numbers, his blade begins to carve and slice at limbs, disabling and dismembering.

The enemy falls. One monstrous invader slashes out hard with a clawed hand, and a sickening vibration races up Riley's sword, as the mouth literally chews on the metal. For now the fold of the blade holds up. In response, Riley's gun blazes a trench through the creatures face. A new one quickly takes the dying and warped mortal's place.

Two of the beasts move in on Sister Angelique, and they try to attack her together. Both of them though, blinded by madness, rush her low, and she leaps, clawing their throats, and rolling in the air to land behind them.

Wyatt Riley, battle maddened, appears to be laughing with fangs extended as he keeps attacking, despite the advance against him. More and more, the brutes hit home with their biting glances. Vitae trickles in slight rivulets from the wounds, and as he spins to fire, or to cut, he paints spirals on the ground.

Cassius seems disturbed most by the silence, and rolls his blade about him in a wall of metal, defensively. He draws a second shorter blade from his back, this one without the circular guard, from its hiding place amidst the cowl of his hair, and a lock of that hair falls to the ground cut by a parrying blow.

The Carnage ensues. The faithful gain ground, at little cost to themselves. Puck has expended all the rounds in his pistol and instead of reloading, simply moves forward, drawing a curved blade of his own, heavier and larger than his Archbishop's, and crashes into the far left flank with Cassius.

Yet, the bodies of the crippled horde are still being pressed by more and more of them from the other side, the entryway jammed by their numbers. From above them, starkly audible through the silence unnaturally created, the struggling Kindred hear ringing metal in the loftier sections of the Cathedral. Powerful blows, likely caused by Vrai, are joined by a screaming Valkyrie battle cry as Sister Rebecca joins the battle in her own violent conflict.

In the Sanctuary, the furthest from the gathered faithful begin to turn on their dead brethren and devour them with hand mouths. Pressing flesh of the fallen to their necks, they knit their own wounds, and seem to glow with a sickly green light. Suddenly, sound returns to the chamber, the unholy spell broken by this new priority, this unearthly hunger. They begin to press themselves, these enemy survivors, closely together. They murder the space between themselves and push to the faithful.

Freed from silence, Angelique again begs for sharpness from the almighty, "Lord make us a weapon for you. Help us to defeat our enemy."

Bishop Riley, lost in the lust of battle, screams as he runs another beast through, "I will guide your personally to hell if I have to!"

Cassius also prays, a measured rhythm, the sound passing between the hissing of his dancing blades, "Hallowed in faith and hallowed in blood..."

Riley's zealotry costs him a moment, as his blade is caught in the belly of an attacker, the torn cloth reveals a distended and bloated middle, adorned with a functioning mouth.Its tongue is wrapped about his blade, keeping it tightly to the beast, and though it dies slowly, three others fasten to Riley's arm, and tear into it, sawing it off with their innumerable misplaced jaws. The arc of vitae fountains about the melee.

Now, the enemy seems to have gotten wise as well as fanatical. They crash to the middle and begin to focus on Riley, and his wounds bleed rivers to the floor. He parries a few of the overbearing monsters with his gun, shooting at limbs, into faces and flesh, but they crush him, crashing into him over and over again.

Angelique and Puck begin to wade through the violence, paddling through the carnage with blades and hands and claws to get to Riley, the first to fall from sight. Cassius screams in near mindless rage and begins to climb the monster in front of him, skipping across the bodies of his enemies to get to Riley's defense, but he slips on the uneven torsos and slides into the mass, fighting as a blur to get free.

Riley screams in pain and anger, the sound like a demonic clarion call from the pits of hell. Many of beast-throng press their backs to Angelique. They make themselves vulnerable and seem uncaring. Something, wrong, is happening in the throng of flesh.

"Return to hell!" she cries slashing hard at the soft parts exposed to her. Many of them fall to her ferocious assault, but this seems only to aid in their defense of their foremost, who have the advantage over the fallen Bishop. The bodies she creates slicken the floor, and her feet have difficulty finding purchase.

Riley falls to one knee still fighting, but he is fastened to by so many. They cling to him like insects, chewing at his lone remaining wrist, and drinking the kindred vitae that comes forth. His world turns into a crushing wall of bodies, each covered in mouths. The numbers of the horde have thinned, but it does not seem to be quickly enough.

"There are but 15!" the Archbishop cries out, still stifled by the crowd about him. His passage is not clear, though he takes but a few wounds. "Look to Riley. Look to the Bishop!"

"Damn you, monsters!" Angelique kills and rends. "Enjoy my claws as they end you!"

Callaghan's face becomes a wall of panic as he slices and pushes through. All his grace abandoned in desperation. "We shall not lose him! Puck, Angelique, to Riley."

Riley himself disappears beneath the waves and no longer do they recede. His image is lost in the sea of violence. The tide steadies as it wavers, and the only thing to break their devouring pattern is Riley's broadsword thrust up as Excalibur from the lake.

Even as that familiar blade, bloodied, shoots like a spire through the skull of one of the enemy, a horrendous tearing echoes through the chamber. In sudden response, the mass of enemies turn their attentions to their flanks, where Puck, Angelique, and Cassius are grating at their numbers like sand blasting stone.

Angelique keeps going,screaming in anger. Cassius screams at the sound, and full blown red eyed frenzy takes him. His sword is dropped and he begins to tear at eyes, and throats, rending as he moves towards where Riley made his stand. Puck moves to get in between Angelique and Cassius, fending off blows aimed at them. Several blows that would have slashed Angelique's neck are met with skillful parries before powerful ripostes send the offender to hell. Puck is efficient, and nearly composed, though his anger is beginning to chafe at his mask.

The faithful are nearly consumed by frenzy, with only Puck retaining his sense of self. The carnage is over in seconds. The enemy is broken, and shattered, some being drained by Cassius in his vengeful frenzy.

For a few seconds after the hard edge of violence is assuaged, Puck is torn in how best to act. It grows apparent that neither Cassius nor Angelique will turn on one another, and with a parting look at Riley's remains he moves to the door to keep cover their, in case of a renewed press of the cultists comes.

Angelique regains herself before Cassius, and rushes to Riley, her hands hovering over his headless body, a skull and head torn from one of his enemies still clutched in his lifeless hand. His skin has begun to blacken, as final death overcomes his corpse, and the surface of his body has begun to fall away as ash.

Her voice begins as a low whisper, but escalates to a scream, "No. No. No! NO!"

As she gives in to impulse and touches him, her own soft motion sets off the chain reaction upsetting the uneasy equilibrium in the corpse. It falls away as powdered gray and black ash, becoming mud near the neck, as his remains mix with his spilled vitae. His head is nowhere to be seen, likely devoured by the cultists in their own frenzy.

His clothing remains, and a piece of paper sticks errantly from his coat pocket. Shock washing over her face, she moves to take the paper from his pocket, blood tears springing to her eyes.

Cassius regains himself also in tears, blood spattered over his face, and a drained corpse dropped at his feet. He looks about, seeming to recover himself but slowly.

Puck takes stock of the door, his back to the wall, and his face only slightly exposed as he inspects the staircase. He calls out in Gaelic, waiting for echoed responses. Code words are bandied back and forth.

Angelique pulls the paper free from the coat, and unfolds it, seeing a lazy handwriting, arching over the page.

Callaghan moves to reclaim the sword he lost in frenzy, and moves also, with reverence to the sword that Bishop Riley had left behind.

The grating sound of the blades across stone echoes as she hoarsely begins to read. Bishop Riley's last message to the Damned rebounds from the walls.

"Any day, anyone of us can fall. Our Faith gives us strength, will unify us, and keep us strong. If one falls, learn from them, teach their lessons. Stay strong and never fail even if it will mean your end, because if you die on your feet for what you will hold sacred you truly never fail."

"Archbishop Callaghan, you are brother to me. Be that leader that others strive to serve."

"Bishop Dominic, be the bishop you where meant to be."

"Dragosani, serve and protect and never stumble."

"Citizen Princes September and December Carnivale, remember that there is no merit without effort. Lead your cities the way you always have."

"Paladin Akira Valentine, you have been the closest thing to a friend as one could ever ask for. Keep strong and serve Bishop Dominic as you have served me."

"Sum Sanctus and Strength threw Merit."

"Bishop Wyatt Riley"

Cassius bows his head, his gore spattered hair dripping on the stones. "We have failed a brother, O Lord, one who came to us in our our of need. We will not forget his sacrifice, O Lord, and pray that when the time comes, each of us are prepared to make that same stand in faith and service. Amen. Sum Sanctus!"

From his position against the wall, looking out the door, Puck makes the mark of the Spear of Longinus, and kisses his hand, saying quietly, "Sum Sanctus." After a brief space of time, he says, "All clear, Excellency."

Angelique, her voice wavering, intones, "Sum Sanctus." She clutched the letter to herself, her body shaking.

Rebecca's voice is heard saying, "All clear." Brother Vrai's voice elsewhere in the house cries, "All clear." Bishop Callaghan's voice cries out in desperation, "Cassius! Cassius! Who has fallen!" her connection bearing the truth of despair to her heart if not the details.

The shaking Sister Angelique continues, desperation and loss in her voice, "....I know i wasn't asked.....but this night has lost a great predator. Bishop Riley has fallen, he went down fighting."

Cassius moves to the door, speaking quietly to Puck, whispering requests for aid, to go and see to Katherine, to see to the others. Puck nods at his words and passes out the door, hesitating to look with concern to Angelique. He sees Cassius moving towards her and quickly glides to his duty.

Cassius quickly returns to attend Angelique's words, "That he did."

Dragosani closes her eyes, unable to speak more, trying to keep from just losing it completely.

The Archbishop puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes lightly. "The letter, Angelique. I would make a copy of it. Those named in it must be told. For him."

"I'll do it, your Excellency," her fist grips the letter brutally, grasping it like she grasps at honor.

"May I copy it please? For the Archives. For remembrance. For his honor?"

Angelique nods,losing it then, handing it to him, her hands falling into Riley's ashes.

The Archbishop takes the letter and prays for strength.

A journey south into the cold...

2008-12-26T11:57:42Z

Shreveport sat under an endless storm, the weather turning colder and growing heavier. It oppressed the Sanctuary of the Faith, even as the doors were thrown over to the irreverent hordes of Crones and Dragons. Packs of predators gathered together under pretense of frivolity or community. They touched one anther's hands and faces. Cassius could not be deceived. As he looked at the beautiful structure of the Church, he remembered the first place in Shreveport they had gone.

____________________________________________________________

The meeting with Prince Alex had been informative, if a little disheartening. The boundaries of this kindred domain shivered in the clutches of a Dragon Prince who openly confessed to the impalement of interlopers and transgressors on spikes. His cool and rudimentary manner were emphasized by the meeting place he had chosen to greet his foreign dignitaries: a simple if large trailer, bathed in and flooded by strong white light.

"....only four edicts you really need to know. The Masquerade is most important, but I'm sure you know that...." and the Prince droned on. He seemed to respect Vrai, but his body language told Cassius that Katherine and he were really only shown deference by virtue of the company they kept. That would eventually change. His own smile, framed by his hair hanging down and caught in the wind, was as icy as the dragon's.

When he'd arrived at a breathing spot in his litany of edicts and their interpretations, Cassius politely inquired of the Prince, "Your Majesty, we have business with the Lancea Sanctum of your city, and I would like to know your opinions on them?"

Prince Alex turned a surprised face towards the young image in front of him. He recovered quickly and replaced his expression with a flesh mask of calm. "I think they lack faith. Bishop Marcus seems to go through the motions and the Waxes try less hard, I believe. Sunni especially mouths off when she thinks no one can hear her. Some can."

Then he smirked, and Cassius made note of that disdain. Alex had already given away his opinion of the Lancea Sanctum by forgoing attendance at Mass. For one who spent so much time and had so many fond words for Her Excellency Magdalena, he certainly had little care for the propriety of faithful support. That would change as all things did, given time. The faith was immortal, because no matter the import of the vampires who hold it, the faith will live on through its thousands of adherents.

They thanked the Prince for his edicts, his hospitality, and his opinions, and they politely made their way to the Sanctuary. Cassius put a hand on Katherine to guide her, and the tension in that hand said everything to the blue eyed beauty. Her blonde hair was more tightly cared for than his own brown locks, and the wind bothered it less. She looked the part of an ice princess in her dress and purple shawl. It was strange that in this land far to the south the weather would turn as it did, to a cold and nearly snowing sky.

Puck had waited in the car. He had checked and rechecked the ammunition to each weapon he carried and their were several. Knives and swords as well, each polished and in its place. He nodded at Katherine as they came to the door, and Cassius, not Vrai opened it for her. Vrai stood ominous as a shadow, now quiet again after he'd spoken with the Prince and said more than he might have for a week before. Vrai was ever vigilant, so such personable pleasantries as door opening fell to the Daeva. Cassius took comfort in that, before walking round the outside of the car and taking his place next to Puck in the front.

To an outsider they would have looked strange, this pack of ravenous beasts.

The unseen death that was Vrai, entered last and closed the door, careful this time to mind his strength. His bulk intimidated the air about him, but did not hinder his movements, which were as graceful as a ballet dancer's would be. His weaponry he held tight to him, strapped and tucked, concealed and then concealed again by his formidable will, which would cloud the minds of witnesses and slow their responses to his lightning fast and incredibly powerful blows. His face seemed to have become metal, so often was it hidden behind a physical mask. His eyes, those cold dark eyes, shone from the depths and spoke of anger everlasting and sadness to drink with that hateful meal of spite. Vrai was steady, and ever watching. Yet Vrai likely felt little and by choice, because to feel was to invite suffering. Vrai had been charged by the Cardinal to bring suffering. Not to endure it. For Cassius, Vrai was like a brother or favored son. He was a tool of the faith, and as a fellow instrument of damnation, he was a comrade beyond peer. It was a cold kinship, to be sure, but still meaningful and well kept. Briefly, Cassius wished Putnam could be as close to him as Vrai. Vrai was a Brother in Faith, and Putnam was merely a Brother in Blood.

Cassius could have been Katherine's brother by apparent age, dressed in a black suit and blood red shirt. His lithe body bore powerful muscles that themselves bore criss cross scarring that few ever saw. His face was a perfect gleaming perfection, but he had spent so many sleeping periods, eclipses, without making so much as a change in his expression that sometimes what should have been regular and fluid emotions changed his face with glacial slowness. Muscles that should have flexed, instead broke into smiles, frowns, or angry screams. For himself, he carried a handful of switchblades on his person, blessed by the Bishop to turn to ash while releasing into his damned body the vitae he needed to fuel his fighting skills and to stave off his eternal hunger. His boyish hands, hands which never seemed to callous despite hours of swordplay, adjusted his suit slightly as he sat in the car, content that his pack, his new family, were more than safe and gifted with purpose. His green eyes smouldered.

Katherine sat behind him, with Vrai beside her. The age similarity to Cassius's appearance was more than overshadowed by her likeness to Puck's appearance. She was beautiful, with lips for kissing and that could turn a word into a weapon. She was slight as they liked them in the modern age, but fit, with regular gym workouts becoming regular martial practice since the beginning of her Requiem. She kept up the small talk as they traveled, turning this business meeting into a social for them all. Her mortal days were not far behind her, and the echoes of them gathered the rest of the ancient and withered predators in the vehicle with her into a more alive moment. They chatted, and Cassius jested. Even Vrai seemed of good humor, and Puck made an effort, but was still strangely silent. Looking on her, Cassius was filled with love and longing, and pride. Perhaps pride was above all else. She was youthful and just beginning a long rode in damnation, but she was exhuberent and passionate, and devoted to learning both word and action of the Testament. He could not have made a better childe with a thousand more years of study and all of God's luck. She was as she should be.

Puck drove, and he was imposing at it, as he was at most things. It was a passive malevolance, as if he were caught in a continous story that he wasn't writing. His face carried with it an acceptance that his part was destined, and yet, he cautioned always about preparation. Puck's own hair was long, blonde, Aryan. His accent was slight, and given his mastery of so many languages, he could easily be required to affect it each time he spoke. He was larger than Cassius or Katherine, but smaller than Vrai. Puck was Irish once. Now he was damned. Like the rest, he was skilled at martialry, and at ambush tactics. He was a monster, but a quiet one, unless he was forced into his role as a speaker for the covenant. His clothing was deeply functional, and lacked a prim or proper appeal. His every gesture was practiced, or gave the impression that it was, and that was deeply comforting to Cassius. Were he a mere servant, Cassius would be pleased by the professional manner he bore, but as a Brother in Faith, Puck was meticulous and subdued in each of his manners. He would never raise his voice if a whisper would do, never shout when a statement would suffice. As overstated as Cassius had become in modern days, Puck was his inverse, and as bookends, they would be a perfect image for the Shreveport gathering.

The drive was calm and relaxed, and Cassius had plenty of time to consider Rebecca and Gabriel, both held to Little Rock by either a lack of interest in Shreveport, or a duty to the city. He prayed earnestly for their safety. Caleb Barrow had a reputation as a hunter, but he would not equal their combined cunning. They would hide well, and strike sure, should it be necessary. Still, even with God's angel's guarding their purpose, with the fallen Saints blessing their blades and eyes, Cassius wanted to hurry back as soon as he could.

God favored the cautious.
____________________________________________________________

The vehicle pulled into the gravel covered grass near the Sanctuary, and circled the makeshift lot twice, as Puck examined the area for potential routes of escape and pursuit. Vrai peered hard for the hidden, and searched for ambushes and countermeasures. When the expert warriors had finished their routine, Puck backed the vehicle into a spot not easily blocked, and shut the engine down. He and Vrai got out and did a personal scan of the first fifty yards about the vehicle. When that came up without result of danger, the Archbishop and Bishop exited the car and walked with their escort to the doors.

Outside, several kindred chatted and laughed with one another. Their cigarettes left trails of smoke clouds in the air, and the orange embers at the end could not push Cassius to frenzied battle lust, but it did, in conjunction with memories of the Saxons and Norseman and their burning sprees, put him in a foul mood indeed. The anointed did not look left nor right, nor bother making eye contact with the others as they marched in, flanked on either side by the fearsome pair of former paladins.

Inside was a stranger story. Katherine and Vrai broke away from Puck and Cassius to gauge the social moors of Shreveport's kindred, and to better present a fearless image to the congregations here. Cassius was reluctant to leave Katherine, but felt assured that Vrai could handle whatever plight she might find herself in. Puck was a comfort to himself as well. For a vague moment, he reminded Cassius of Assad, and the desert sands, which was surreal, as Puck was so far from that Arab damned from so long ago.

The boy Archbishop walked in his suit, with an mp3 player's headphones vining its way up his jacket and to his ear, walked to where a member of the city was addressing Marcus, the Bishop of Shreveport. Just as Cassius paused to speak briefly with a visiting Kindred to the city who hailed also from Little Rock, Marcus exploded in a bout of anger.

A tray of cooked pastries flew from the table, and the offensive Kindred bolted from the room, with city officials chasing after. Marcus, incensed, boiled in rage for a short time before regaining his composure. The rest of the city watched on in earnest as control grew like ice crystals over the Mekhet Bishop, and Cassius chose that moment to cultivate an end to his discussion with Sebastian.

A few strides, and a gentle taking of the chair next to Marcus, who still stood in the process of building a wall about his person of emotional strength, and Cassius took a seat. His emerald eyes passed over the suit, and the expression, a mixture of boiling oil and steaming blood, analyzing the anointed leader of Shreveport. So far, the Bishop had fallen short of expectations.

Conversation ebbed and flowed. The Archbishop heard laissez-faire attitude concerning the faith from most every resident of Shreveport, which was as he expected coming from Acolytes. The Prince of a nearby city claimed to rule by right of efficient murder of his opponents and openly claimed ot have little diplomatic skill. Cassius nearly dismissed him, but for his mention of his lineage, claiming as his sire Elizabeth Stewart. Shaken by this declaration, Cassius pushed him on through various other topics and nearly gave in to despair at the answers. A call to mass and an introduction to other faithful strengthened him greatly.

Shortly there after, Cassius and Puck regrouped with Katherine and Vrai to sit with Sister Bethany of Beaumont and her companion Wren the Crone, Bishop Marcus, Sister Sunni, Father Edward, Lyrica Wax, and a host of visiting Waxes. They talked easily of faith and its meaning, defining and dancing around religious idealogy, establishing how such faithful notions became entrenched in the right to rule, and speaking briefly but feircely about the place of predation in politics.

All the while, Marcus said next to nothing of import, and to Cassius adding absolutely nothing at all to the city, the faith, and to the Church of Longinus.

Father Edward Wax saw a brutal turn taking place and noted the limited time remaining until the sermon's beginning. He stood and piously asked for those who would take confession and Cassius heeded.

In the privacy and sanctity of the isolated cubicle, Cassius listened to the opening prayer and spread a beautific smile. This was a traditional moment, and a powerful gesture. He relished it.

"How long, Predator of God, since your last confession?" asked the Nosferatu.

"Father, it has been three hundred and six years, 3 months, and 2 days. I have strayed. Grant me penance?"

A hushed intake of breath was the only indication of surprise, at his age was all that Cassius could surmise. The priest gathered himself well, and pressed on.

"What are your crimes against the faith? How have you strayed?"

"Father, my moments of late have been filled with indecision. That indecision could have led, though didn't, to the destruction of my fellow faithful, about whom I am charged with safekeeping and guidance. I ask for penance, that I may be reminded of my duty, and never again fail in it."

The Nosferatu tilted a masked face at Cassius, and bowed slightly in thought before raising that expressionless facade. His whisper-quiet voice was clear as bells to the Daeva, as he intoned:

"The Fast of Longinus is near to us now. You shall extend that fast by seven full nights and grasp the direness of your error. Desperation is never the excuse of false action. Do you accept your penance?"

Cassius listened and realized, grasping fully the pain he would now endure. "I do, Father. I thank you for your gift of penance, and fear failure more than any other sin."

"Pray with me, Brother, and know purpose."

The prayers were brief but heartfelt.

Sunni gathered the congregation to mass, and delivered a sermon of unrelenting and bitter assessment of the laziness of the anointed. She drove the listeners down a tour of apathy's dangers, and called for service in action. All the while, she scanned the pews for reactions, and occasionally paused on Bishop Marcus's face to drive a nail of nasty thoughts into his eyes. He seemed not to notice.

The sermon came to a close, and Father Edward called for the faithful to recieve blessed communion with the Centurion's purpose. It fell to Cassius to be the first to stand, and he considered that it was a respect to his station that had kept the local Bishop from doing so. As he tasted the blood of the cup, he relished in its flavor and felt blessed in his damnation, before taking his seat.

A pause birthed impatience in him. Bishop Katherine noted the wait and feared an ending to communion and so stood, walking with grace to bow before Edward and recieve her portion of the cup, but was interrupted as the Bishop Marcus rushed to interrupt. Her Grace Callaghan waited with elegance, and did not interfere in the flow of things, but it was an effort Cassius noted, and rage that had begun earlier that evening gained in power and compressed into a more efficient expression.

Each of the faith took their turns without fail and without interruption save for Vrai, who held his ground as guardian, ever vigilant.

The night progressed in true comedy of errors. Some Kindred embraced without permission. More discussions and plots were hatched. Kindred jockeyed for power, insulting their rivals and taking what advantage could be scraped up.

Cassius and Puck moved like predators, the smaller gliding like a prowling panther, while the larger was a careful and abnormally graceful bull. Marcus was not aware of his position, so flanked on one side by Vrai, and in discussion with the elder Rabbi facing him. As the Archbishop moved to block his open side, keeping a wall behind Marcus, he opened a mouth freshly full of fang.

"Bishop Marcus, why are you incompetent?"

A litany of insult and an exchange of idealogical questioning passed succinctly. Marcus preserved himself from the brink of frenzy despite the barrage and gained some small measure of respect for doing so. The Waxes floated on the edge of the conversation frothing at the metaphorical blood in the water. They knew Marcus for a weak leader, and waited impatiently for the stronger group to destroy him. Yet Cassius knew in his actions that murdering Marcus would lead Shreveport weaker, not stronger, and so held himself to a single challenge.

"Bishop Marcus, I will give you three options. Within the next three months you must decide. Firstly, you may rescind your claim to the Bishopric of Shreveport and pursue other avenues of faith, that you are more suited to pursue. Secondly, that you will begin to lead as you have been blessed by oil and faith to lead, and thusly inspire your congregation. Thirdly, should you fail to choose these previous options, that you gird yourself for war, and face me in the holy rite of Recontre."

The bishop weakly responded to the initial volley of charges, but heard quite clearly the challenge in the last. With a hiss that did him credit he returned.

"I accept your challenge and will consider your advisement."

"Very well. Now shouldn't you be watching the goings on of your Bishopric?" taunted Cassius as he cut the Bishop from further conversation by blatantly stepping in front and turning his back on Marcus. The gesture was not lost on the Nosferatu, nor did it escape the notice of Brothers Puck or Vrai who instantly moved to be more ready to react to the insulting gestures effect on Marcus. Strangely, in the murmurs of conversation that followed, Marcus seemed to pile his rage into his heart, binding it and burning it, making it a fuel of his reason. Though he cast a withering glance as the Archbishop's back, he did not outwardly lose composure.

Cassius, for his part, spoke eloquently with the city's residents about all sorts of matters, before turning a shade paler as he caught Marcus out of the corner of his eye. "What is....Cease at once!"

He turned to face his conversational adversary, but did not stare at him, but rather at his shadow, fangs blazing in challenge, and his body shaking in irrational fear. He pointed, and the finger trembled. "Stop that at once!"

All the preadators scanned desperately for the cause of the outburst. Many saw the shadows of the Mekhet grow and strangle at the Archbishop's own, but few could make out the details.

This gave rise to an uneasy moment, but led quietly into a discussion of causes and effects, and Crone magics. Wren came over to give his own advice. The group disbanded quietly to feed, and make their ways to their homes.

Hell Will Wait

2008-12-16T08:27:33Z

He stared at the words of the letter for some time, letting the letters blur into a pink haze when the blood tears clouded his vision. It was so hard to be, right now.

His enemies grew in number, and as their names came to him, he considered their power.

His allies came to his mind as well, and as they came, he marked off the ones he could no longer trust.

~~Cardinal Mackenzie DuMont~~
~~Lady Molly Maye Maxwell~~
~~Regent Danielle Thorgrimmson~~

Quietly, he slid from the seat. He glided from the room to the window, and ran his fingers over the sill, running on memory and feel. His eyes were blurred. After a moment's contemplations of the smooth grain, to block out the feelings of rage and betrayal, fingers that would never hold a callous despite years of sword work slid open wood in wooden frame, and the glass sang.

He slipped first one leg and then the other out the window opening, and the freezing rain came down in sheets. Barely any visible effort had him gripping the overhang above the window. A pull, and a vault. His legs sprang and his shoulders received the rolling weight. As his body twisted and rolled, he came to a crouch on the roof. The rain made the shingles slick, but he hardly seemed to notice. The painful ice began to cling to his hair. Slowly, Cassius stripped away all the clothing, the Tool shirt and the white cargo pants, already graying beneath the freezing rain. He slid out of the red boxer briefs, one leg at a time.

Naked to the elements, in the presence of God's wrath, Cassius lay down in the glory of the storm. His body grew cold, but the heat it held had been stolen anyway. He faded to a light blue, the empty vessels showing through the pale milk white skin. His hair became crystaline, and pressed flat against his back. Through it all, as no human could, he kept his eyes ever upward, and always open. He saw the moon, a constant friend, occasionally looking back from the sky. It flirted with him, a grin here and there. His water pink tears mingled with jagged ice flurry and became a gory mask against his picture pretty face.

Minutes melted into hours, and hours froze on his body. Near sunrise, he began to work free from the piled white slush, which at its core had turned to a straitjacket of ice. It was hard work, and he welcomed the challenge. If he called upon the blood within, he might have guaranteed success. Yet, the weight of all that had come and all that would come was heavier, and so he almost asked God to take him to hell, almost asked for failure and the sun's burning rays.

Yet, he couldn't do it. Or rather, he couldn't help but break the ice and move past it. Naked in the early morning dark. He slipped back down and into the window, and took himself to rest. Plenty of enemies of the faith to do it for him. Suicide was cowardly, and he couldn't brook such cowardice, even if it might ease his own self-hatred. There was time enough for such recriminations in hell.

Hell would wait.

The Distance Grows Short

2008-12-13T07:29:14Z

The blades, now oiled, arc from their sheathes in a symphony composed of motion. He steps, and turns. His arm holds his wrist, which turns in endless circles and figure eights. He generates power with simple motions, and little exertion, because that was what he was trained to do.

Each movement is measured in efficient need, and what is needed must be reached by any means available. So now, the goals are tangled, and the vengeance he has craved for a year and a season crashes against the faith he has walked beneath for over a millennium. Fourteen hundred years against the death of an elder. That is a strict and tense set of pains to carry, and they tug ever harder against his skin.

The blades are metal and precious, though just as common as death itself. They are made with craftsmanship unmatched, yet they are just tools in the hands of a specialist. They scream silently through the air, hissing ruin as they pass. They were made for killing, but this evening they just go through the motions. Through the motions, like their bearer. Each night until vengeance...

He completes the ancient form of the four directions cut. Each wind- north, south, east, and west - has been killed a thousand times. Yet time does not die. Only people and kindred.

The closest enemy first, said the war-masters of old. The closest must be killed in turn. And so he has. The closest is not measured in inches or feet, but in the reach of influence. He measures in his mind as his fingers turn the hilt over and over again. A wall of steel cuts the room into quarters again and again, while the wheels in his mind cut the distance of space with the measurements of boons and favors, manipulations and developments.

The distance grows short.

Damn a Soul, and fie the rest, scatter the worthless with the best...

2008-12-11T21:32:49Z

From the journal of Cassius Cellechan -

Winter is a season of death, and Roselynn brought death to Little Rock.

Winter is a moment of the dying, and Caleb Barrow brings ends to the faithful.

Winter is a dream of rest, and we are the restless, entangled in love's echo, strangling in hate's shadow, and breathing broken glass into our bellows-breasted lungs.

My winter is falling with the snow of memory, and the cold I can feel is painful, but the numb and hated ice of what I cannot remember pains me still greater.

I have wronged Molly, and wronged Katherine, and wronged Vrai alike. I wrong those I care for continuously, so much so that I wonder if caring is an echo of what I could've done when I was a boy. Do I even remember it now?

I am mad, my childe has said. And she is right. I am madness born on bloody wings, to mortality and Kindred alike. I am madness and death, and blood and spire, and I'll set each thing I touch a-fire. Where from here may I go whilst the cold winds ever blow?

Solitude ending

2008-12-07T23:37:44Z

The letter glowed before him in beautiful green and black. The screen printed the words of an ancient across from left to right. Technology was cowed and bent before the will of an elder Daeva, and the confession that was rendered tore into the Archbishop's heart of hearts.

He read it again. And again. And again. Each time, he was moved to action, but all actions would wound more thoroughly. He read it again, and again, and again.

Time passed.

____________________________________________________________________________

The wind blew hard and cold, and Cassius was comforted in small measure by that. The Asylum was complete in structure, and the staff was nearly full. He had managed to hold off a grand opening with some sign on bonuses for the employees. Not a problem, really. Money and Kine both were resources that came as easily as they went.

In the quiet solitude of the slightly marred private fourth story chambers, he marveled at what had gone on. He had conferred with Vrai - the Paladin of Paladins, Katherine - his childe and his Bishop, Bishop Harkin, Bishop Riley, Lady Maxwell - a confidant and friend, and Lord Prince William Alexander Putnam - his foil and brother.

To rule was for ruling's sake, an end worthy of any means, should it be done at all. For honor and dignity and other such coinage could be expendable and fluctuated with the times. The Unconquered certainly didn't think this, but their words reaffirmed it none th less. He could not have vengeance directly, but he could certainly acquire it by squeezing the betrayer until the blood was just as sweet, and to do that, he would must become an equal.

And another murderous rival presented itself to give cause and motivation to the moment.

Caleb Barrow.

Cassius reclined in a chair, and turned on a sound system by remote. The strains of Nine Inch Nails floating through the air.