“A drink…how wonderfully mortal of you. I wouldn’t expect it from one so old.”

Porter huffed the dirt from his nostrils and turned to Vittorrio, only to find him gone. He exchanged a perplexed glance with Gabriel and then shook it off.

“Typical.”

The night was thick and unnatural with potential. Gabriel was still cautious about his newly arrived compatriot, but by the time the two neared the front gate of the drive, Porter’s familiar scent had worn his defenses down. They spoke freely, mostly of what the Ventrue had been through since his absence. He told Porter about Poe and the cultists, about the creature and the Inconnu. It hardly seemed logical to keep it a secret, as the Inconnu’s rich purple seal was burned into the pallid flesh of the Gangrel’s forearm as well.

The two walked at a leisurely pace, foregoing their gifts of Caine or the luxury of automobiles. Lately, they had seemed so confining to the Ventrue. Not that he didn’t appreciate their power or convenience, but he was finding himself acquiring a taste for the natural way of things and knew he would receive no qualms from Porter on the matter.

They reached the city just before midnight and only then did either of them realize they had arrived on Friday night. Prime feeding time. The strip in Cascadia was famous (or infamous) for it’s wide selection of bars and clubs ranging from seedy to questionable. The streets shimmered and glistened with excess rainwater conveniently washing the filth from the alleyways and gutters and into the streets. Human and Kindred filth as well littered the streets.

The intelligent stayed inside, curled on their couches or beds, while the delinquent and immoral roamed the streets, in search one type of prey or another. From the sidewalk, eyes peered over coat lapels and from underneath hooded sweatshirts at the strange pair. One in muddy clothing, the other in an ill fitting night gown.

“Blasted bloodbags. You’d think they’d never seen Japanese Silk before.” Porter grumbled. The Ventrue grinned for the first time all night.


An hour later they emerged from Joseph A. Banks new men. At least they looked like men. The salesman had been perplexed and more than a little suspicious at the oddly dressed customers, but who was he to argue with a quick five hundred dollars on the side?

By the time they reached “Dream”, it was well into the evening. Even without a watch Porter could tell the time by the exhausted, drunken looks on the revelers who stumbled by. The club’s pulsating flashy exterior was matched inside. The two walked unabated towards the back, through the throbbing, gyrating throngs of dancers.
They slid deftly into a booth and peered at one another through the film-like haze of smoke.

“Things are different since you’ve been away Ports.”

“They always are.” The old man grumbled, his one good leaving the Ventrue and perusing the crowd.

“Hmm. Poetic. But I’m serious. Look around.”

Porter took the club in. Human dancers, the sour tang of alcohol in the air. Cigarettes blazed like flares at a perpetual accident. In the center of the dance floor, a Malkavian buried his fangs into the neck of an unsuspecting dance partner who cooed in ecstasy.

Instantly the Gangrel was on his feet, stopped only be a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“What the devil?! He’s breaching the Masq…”

“That’s what I’m telling you Scruff! There’s no order here anymore.”

“What about Valek?”

“Gone.”

“Sorenti?”

“Gone as well.” The Ventrue held back his remorse at the last statement, averting his eyes to the spinning humans once more. Porter sat dejectedly, signaling the waitress.

“Guess that makes things easier on you and me.” He glanced at Gabriel.

“We’ll see.”

He felt them. They shuddered at the edge of his conciousness, flickering fairy-lights in his mind. Two of them, bright and strong. Dreamy blue eyes snapped open; a falcon's smile across ivory skin. He rose in a single smooth movement from the leather chair, one graceful hand whipping out and brushing a strand of hair from the face of the sleeping woman prostrated at the legs of his seat, before gently depositing a crumpled note on her steadily rising chest. Filthy whore that she was, she had proved entertaining. Pale digits hurriedly inspected his suit, searching for creases along it and finding none. Perfect. And then he remembered what had brought him from his dreamy state of semi-conciousness: them.

He drifted through the endless corridors leaving blackness in his wake, candles guttering as he passed. It was the way he liked it, and his ghouls would forget it, night after night. They knew better than to question him as he passed them by; indeed, they cowered in the shadows, mindful of his wrath. It had been years since they had seen that light in his eyes, and they knew better than to question it. Portraits slid by – faces of ages long passed, trapped in oil and left with only flickering candles and mocking phantasms. Once upon a time he loved them all. Once upon a time he had risked his life for them. Once upon a time he could have stood in front of them for years, utterly entranced by each delicate brush of the artist. But no longer. He had moved on; at least, that was the way he saw it.

Finally, he stepped out, and into the night. Straightening his suit once more, he allowed the cold air to hit him, and envelop him. For a second he allowed sharp eyes to adjust perfectly to the night, before moving in hurried steps down the path that led to the driveway, ignoring the electric lights that snapped on as he slipped quickly between them. They illuminated a huge expanse of well kept grass, intersected by gloomy sprouts of perfectly clipped bushes. This garden too had once been a source of interest, before he had moved on. Now it was merely an inconvenience. And finally, he moved down from the grass, taking the stone steps two at a time whilst retaining his composure. Iron gates clicked open mechanically as he approached, CCTV cameras watching as he slipped by.

A car was waiting. A black, sleek contraption, it was – although he still favoured the carriages that had once been the source of much amusement. The door opened as if by itself, and he slid in, sprawling over the leather seats and letting a sight that need not be whistle from between stark, sharp canines. The compartment slid down with a slight whine that made his ears twinge nonetheless (he would have to get someone to see to that...) and the grizzled face of George stared back at him. His favourite ghoul; now almost one hundred. Usually his servants didn't make it past fifty, but this one hadn't been chosen for his looks. His had been chosen for unflinching loyalty, a sharp wit and most importantly of all, an instinct to kill.

“Where to, sir?”

The vampire paused, unsure for a second. His eyes twitched, and again those cold lights flickered. His lips parted ever so slightly for a brief second... and then his eyes refocussed, a hand brushing back his neat, black hair.

“'Dream'. It's... it's a bar. Do you know of it?”

“Yessir, I do sir.”

“Excellent. Step to it, then.”

And with that, the compartment slid up again, accompanied by a melodramatic sigh from the lounging Toreador. He would definitely have to get that sounds fixed. As the car lurched to a start, he let his eyes flicker back to his haven for one last second – taking in the magnificent stone artwork, spearing high into the sky. Looming gargoyles, massive arched windows and sweeping buttresses stood in start contrast to the security booth hurriedly constructed by the gate; and even from here he could see the light glint off the sub-machine gun held by the ghoul currently surveying the CCTV.

It was a shame that it had come to this. The Toreador cared little about the Masquerade and it's effects, but knew better than to attract the attention of the so-called law enforcement. When it came to the Prince, it had nearly always been an uneasy pact: his land was his, and he was allowed to pursue the art and fascination he sought. In return, he would adhere to the Masquerade, as well as keep an eye out for the Sabbat. But lately things had changed. Lawlessness had fallen; the social ladder had crumbled. But he had remained as always, unmoveable, unchangeable by all but the subtle whims that decided the difference between life and death for those kine that scuttled about around him. But... maybe these two new lights would aid him? Perhaps they would help? Perhaps they would provide entertainment?

Finally, the car creaked to a halt with the crunch of broken glass beneath it's wheels. He was out of the doorway before the whining even started, one silver hand catching the driver's door as it opened. He stood, staring straight ahead, seeming to address nothing but the cold night air before him.

“Stay here.”

Time to play...

The lurid fluroscent lights blinked through the dank mist of the early autumn morning.

Dream......if only she could.....in fact if she could would she scare herself to death .....death now there was a funny thing.....what was death ...was she not dead now ......lets file that for future discussion.



"Issy ...are we going home or.....shall we?"

He nodded towards the entrance of the club and she sighed ...loudly ....her eyebrows lifting as she watched a slightly inebriated young man stumble out of the entrance and proceed to throw the contents of his stomach up into the gutter.

"Oh lets ......the place looks delightful doesn't it?"

The sarcasm that laced her voice did nothing to put staid to his appetite for the club.

"Uhuh ...it looks fantastic " he gave her no choice.....he simply linked his mistress's arm and they walked in .....did she dare say otherwise....no...did she rely on him more than any other?....yes....was she scared of the others? yes.

A forced smile was plastered over the expression of disgust that should otherwise have been in it's place as he stepped into 'Dream'. He had seen better places infested with filthy vermin. Still, composure was of the essence. He slipped between the dancers, mindful not to get too close. The cloying stench of the human perfumes wrapped itself around his nostrils, dancing through his brain and firing neurones that would perhaps have been associated with pleasure whilst he was mortal. But to him at this moment it was nauseous, cloying and utterly disgusting. He let himself drift between the people, sharp eyes prying every single face for something he recognised and sought.

Thrice he felt other kindred, thrice he gazed into their veiled eyes. Each time he was disgusted, and pulled himself back. These were not the weak creatures he had come for. Yet they were here too. Yes. It was only a matter of finding them. He moved with a pressure now, almost forcing himself around the stumbling mortals that went about their ways around him, ignorant of the hunters in their midst. Lights flashed, irritating his eyes yet further, and causing his upper lip to curl. A seconds pause, and the gentleman's expression returned, the blank smile still dancing over his thin, white mouth.

He reached the bar, pausing there for a moment to rest a thin arm on the grimy surface, pale digits drumming an impatient beat into the seething mass. His eyes flicked between them, lingering momentarily on the more interesting aspects of the dancers. His gaze slipped over the shapely curves of a few of the female patrons, before he scolded himself. He was not here to enjoy himself; in any case, not in such means. If his sire was here to see it... why... Ah, Alois, he would say, how far have you fallen from the tree? This brought a dark smirk to the Toreador's features.

He had fallen far. Too far. His sire had been of interest, at least for a while. A gifted artist, he had spent years in New Orleans, watching the brush of his maker flit over canvas, transforming blank pages into a masterpiece. But eventually that too had bored him, along with his master's constant nagging. And then his sire had sung a new tune, and his blood had painted a new picture on the floor of their haven. The fires of their home had afforded brief fascination, before that too was forgotten in the whirl of events. Of course, his 'father' had been of more use before his final curtain had drawn. He had proved to me most useful when it came to the hunt of precious vitae; and now his master's memories clamoured for space with his own. Alois was not old at a mere 284 years, but his skill far surpassed that. Fallen far, indeed.

But now was no time for nostalgia. That was not why he had arrived. And now he saw them; and how. Dressed so elegantly, with such a sense of style. Older than him, and stronger. Exuding an aura of power that was unmissable... a... a wanderer... and... a... a blue-blood? Here? How interesting. And in a second he was there, smooth, practised voice filtering through the smoky air, accompanied by an angel's smile.

“How progresses the evening, gentlemen? Are you here for the company? Or the food perhaps?” Again, that dark, sinful smile,

“Or only for a drink?”

Gabriel glanced up from the gin and tonic he had been entertaining for the past hour, his jade eyes flickering over the new arrival with perceived interest. Through the stench of human sweat and booze, he could make out the figure, and could instantly place him as Toreador. Try as he might, the Kindred could not hide the grace of movement and style that naturally exuded from his kind.

The Ventrue, with his powerful jawline and thick features, resembled less and less with each passing night what features were commonly associated with the Clan of Kings. Gone were the thin, delicate nordic features that had lulled so many opponents into believing him to be weak and helpless. His exterior now matched his interior. Tough, relentless, and ruthless.

His let his hand fall from his drink and reclined upon the booth's pleather surface.

[i:1cd79cb4a2]"I suspect we're here on common interests. My friend and I have only recently arrived in town."[/i:1cd79cb4a2] he motioned to the stout figure that sat across the table. Brawny and intimidating, Porter locked his single eye upon the Toreador and watched suspiciously. [i:1cd79cb4a2]"Forgive him. He's not a man for words. This is Porter."[/i:1cd79cb4a2]

Again silence from the ancient Gangrel. Just the [i:1cd79cb4a2]thump thump thump[/i:1cd79cb4a2] of house music and the mixture of voices.

He motioned for the Toreador to join them and then raised a hand to signal the waitress. The stranger looked slightly bemused.

Behind the smiling waitress, the clubs doors opened once more, pouring the purity of moonlight into the smokey interior in great beaming columns that cut across the dance floor. A woman stepped in with a gentleman who aside from the company he kept, was quite unextraordinary. The Ventrue strained his eyes to discern her identity before realizing his guest was speaking.

[i:1cd79cb4a2]"I apologize, what did you say Mr...? I don't believe I caught your name.."[/i:1cd79cb4a2] he asked, returning his attention to the Toreador. He smiled broadly, his fangs sparkling delightfully in the strobe lighting.

((sorry, first meetings are always a bit awkward...i don't know how good your character is at masking his clan, so if it's something that an Elder with Auspix couldn't pick up let me know and i'll edit the post.

Ewan stood in front of the ornate mirror that adorned the vast part of the entrance to the club. His hands ran through his hair and then his eyes ran over his t shirt and onto his black trousers, checking that there was no bits of fluff to mar his appearance.

[i:f832db37bd]" Ewan hurry up your worse than a woman I swear if I didn't know any better I'd say you were a puff, now come on I have no desire to be here for ages so lets enter the forray so to speak"[/i:f832db37bd]
She didn't give him a chance to reply merely walked off, leaving him open mouthed then striding to catch her up, at least she dressed better now he thought as he admired the cut of the italian grey cotton suit that she wore and the way that it hugged her.....

She stopped mid stride and turned around...her eyes said it all and it was all he could do to stop the grin from spreading across his lips.

[i:f832db37bd]" merely a slip of the ...mind Izzy...my apologises,come what's your poison tonight?"[/i:f832db37bd]

Ewan had made it to the bar before she could whisper a reprimand in his ear, it was all in jest she knew that but still ...had to keep him in check so to speak.

[i:f832db37bd]" Anything at all make it neat with loads of ice though....Ewan....when you did a quick search of who's who in the underworld here did you see any of them? drawings ...anything at all?"[/i:f832db37bd]

[i:f832db37bd]" here you go ....there wasn't much to see anywhere, I got bits of gossip and a few names but not much its hard to snoop amongst your kind when your well.....alive.....why?"[/i:f832db37bd]


Izzy took the glass of amber liquid and licked her lips as she took a drink of the ice cold whiskey and turned towards him...she knew she had been seen, or at least sensed.

[i:f832db37bd]" Over my left shoulder sat at the booth directly opposite....see anyone familiar"[/i:f832db37bd]

The charming smile spread further; now accompanied by a twinkle in the eye – easily mistaken for friendliness, but… did something else glitter beneath it? Envy, perhaps? And then it was gone, an arm spread wide, theatrically, disposing of it into the claustrophobic, dark room. A gentle chuckle accompanied the gesture, showing those glinting canines, reflecting the same light that danced off the Ventrue’s.

“Of course. How very rude of me…” He took a step back, sweeping one hand back and dropping an elegant bow – entirely out of place in the dark bar, although he attracted very little attention. “I am Alois. Alois Carcone, of New Orleans…” A second chuckle, “Although my title is not quite up to date.” His second name was his sire’s: taken from him as he spluttered for life. But they needn’t know that – and, in any case, he had long since forgotten his own.

He let his eyes drift to the other, searching the savaged face where an eye once must have been. What a pity, he thought, he would be rather interesting if it weren’t for his accident… But now, back to the blue blood. He seemed to be the leader of the group – at least, if his reply stood for anything at all. But now he paused, his memory flickering for a second. A frown.

“And, good sir – excuse me for my rudeness – on the subject of names, I did not believe I caught yours…”

OOC: Absoloutely fine. Also, I apologise for the shoddiness of my writing. Not been my day.

Porter’s good eye flickered up, catching the sight of the overtly foppish Toreador. He grunted inwardly, feeling the remnants of his ruined right eye twitch as he rolled them. Downing the Macallan, he flashed a tooth filled grin at Gabriel who followed the Elder’s example of eye-rolling, and rubbed the coarse stubble on his face.

[i:52509338d1]“What are you deaf as well as stupid?”[/i:52509338d1]

Porter’s gruffness came as no surprise to either Ventrue or Toreador.

[i:52509338d1]“Excuse moi?”[/i:52509338d1]

[i:52509338d1]“You’re obviously the latter then. My young friend here is O’Brien. And I’m Porter. And you, my effeminate lace wearing buffoon are entering a world of hurt.”

“Porter!”[/i:52509338d1] Gabriel spoke sharply but softly.

[i:52509338d1]“What? He wanted to know! Sheesh lighten up Gabriel, I’m only messin’ with him.”[/i:52509338d1]

Alois feigned embarassment enough to draw an apology from Gabriel and a look from the Gangrel that would attract crows.

[i:52509338d1]“Forgive my companion. We have had a difficult time of late. Please join us for a drink?”[/i:52509338d1]

Porter turned his attention to the darkness of the club, his senses probing the faces of the revellers and the barmaids.

[i:52509338d1]“I’ll get this round, same again Gabriel? Cognac for our friend?” He muttered. “Fine, I’ll be five minutes.”[/i:52509338d1]

The stocky, powerful figure of the gruffled feral looked out of place among the dancing clubbers. His single, blinking emerald eye seemed to emit it’s own light as he walked to the bar, nostrils flaring as he read the thousand scents in the room. Jasmine, Rose oil, tobacco - too much of it for his liking, the spices of various drinks and the unmistakeable stink of Kindred. At least a dozen hid among the club-ranks. He groaned, nodding with a smile as sweet as he could muster, to the blonde behind the bar. His eye reading the name on her badge.

[i:52509338d1]“Becca? Yeah, I’ll have a brandy, double Scotch, and a Cognac. Oh and get yourself something.”[/i:52509338d1]

He sighed inaudibly as the last few words came out.

[i:52509338d1]Foolish old goat. They don’t say that these days.[/i:52509338d1]

Becca smiled back, leaving the Gangrel to his growing misery as she poured his drinks.

Porter looked around the booths nearest the one Gabriel inhabited. Directly behind them sat a woman and a younger man. The sight brought a cheeky grin to his cracked face. He winked at the young man whose face went white.

Becca returned quickly enough, leaving the drinks for him as she cashed the twenty he left for her. Juggling the glasses, Porter returned to his seat. His ears twitching as he heard an irritably familiar sound. Someone in the club, not far from them, someone cocked a gun!

[i:746f02d83d]"Gabriel..."[/i:746f02d83d] Porter's voice was dense with urgency, but the Ventrue paid no attention. His eyes followed a familiar shadow over a catwalk that hung high above the club's main dancefloor. Black and nearly shapeless in the dim lighting, the Ventrue could barely discern the figure that skulked along it's grated pathway. The figure slipped deftly by the dancing Kine and into a hallway, melding with it's shadows.

[i:746f02d83d]"Gabriel!"[/i:746f02d83d] the Gangrel sounded earnestly distressed, and his eye communicated the severity of the situation.

[i:746f02d83d]"I'll be back."[/i:746f02d83d] the Ventrue stood and pulled his money clip from his pocket. He set a hundred dollar bill on the table with clear finality, as if to overrule whatever argument might spew forth from the Gangrel.

Without another word, he slipped into the crowd, willing the Kine from his path. Pulsing, trembling bodies unwittingly moved from his path, unaware of the subtle yet potent suggestion placed in their subconcious by the dark, blonde vampire.

All the while, he kept his keen eyes solely on the hallway, never shifting, never relenting. Within moments he had climbed the stairs and was walking cautiously across the catwalk. His hand nonchalantly brushed his right breast, where on any other night, his engraved .38 Special would have sat comfortably in it's holster, invisible underneath his blazer.

Only the firmness of his chest met his nimble fingers however.

[i:746f02d83d]You poof. Gettin' sloppy...[/i:746f02d83d]

He reached the hallway and slipped in with a final discreet glance over the club's main room. The hallway was mundane in contrast to the gaudy club interior. Plain, manilla wallpaper stretched several yards to an open door. A single, flickering overhead light buzzed contently, helping Gabriel focus his attention from the continuous trance music.

He traversed the length of the hallway and stepped tentatively through the threshold of the door.

A footstep...the door slammed shut...

[i:746f02d83d]!shink![/i:746f02d83d]

When the lights snapped on, the Irishman found himself nose to nose with a swarmy, olive skinned Kindred. Cold, grey eyes of limitless depth peered into his own. Gabriel could feel his own essence being swallowed, lost in an oceanic abyss. Vittorrio smiled.

[i:746f02d83d]"Where ever did you come across these?"[/i:746f02d83d] his eyes flickered downwards, breaking the stupor.

Gabriel followed his gaze and saw his own hand, outstretched, mere inches from Vittorrio's stomach. The fingers were ghastly parodies of themselves, long and wretchedly pointed. Feral claws.

Vittorrio's own hand held Gabriel's wrist tightly and had effortlessly avoided damage. The claws retracted and Gabriel wrenched his hands from his Grandsire's grip. The blood magic had sent pilfered vitae to his hand, and as a result the skin around his forearm had bruised under the ancient Ventrue's tremendous strength.

[i:746f02d83d]"Just something I picked up."[/i:746f02d83d] he said lightly, clearly just as surprised as Vittorrio was. The ancient's casual stance, one hand still his trouser pocket, showed that he clearly had been taking it easy on the much younger Ventrue. He glanced Gabriel over once more with his cold, knowing eyes.

[i:746f02d83d]"Hmmm...yes, well. I've brought you a gift Gabriel."[/i:746f02d83d] for the first time Gabriel noticed a medium-sized silver briefcase sitting on the floor. Vittorrio lifted it and set it on the table. His long, slender fingers rolled the combination locks to the appropriate combo as though by instinct and the case popped open.

Gabriel approached, still rubbing his wrist.

Inside lay two blades facing opposite directions, encased in a protective packing. The swords themselves were short by conventional standards, no longer than two feet at the blade, with only an extra half foot for a handle. The craftsmanship was remarkable. Delicate, ivory handles were sculpted with such smoothness and form that it approached carnate poetry.

The blade's as well showed stunning care. From the handle's end, they sloped gently inward before growing thicker and climaxing in a deadly point. As the flourescent lighting caught the blade's gleam, Gabriel could see tiny, ethereal engravings.

[i:746f02d83d]"My gladii from my days in the army."[/i:746f02d83d] Vittorrio said, looking upon them in a rare show of affection. [i:746f02d83d]"They served me well against the armies of Carthage, I hope they may serve you equally."[/i:746f02d83d]

[i:746f02d83d]"But why...?"[/i:746f02d83d] Gabriel whispered, transfixed with their beauty.

Vittorrio closed the case and turned to the Ventrue with stern severity.

[i:746f02d83d]"Gabriel...what you and the Gangrel face is deeper than the Council let on. It goes back further. You must exercise caution at all times. I think this may run as far as..."[/i:746f02d83d] he stopped and listened. His eyes narrowed and then he sunk back towards the exit. [i:746f02d83d]"Perhaps you should return to your friends."[/i:746f02d83d]

[i:746f02d83d]"They can manage themselves."[/i:746f02d83d]

The Ventrue jumped as the familiar sound of a shotgun blast resonated down the hallway and filled the room, jerking his head back towards the floor. When he turned around, Vittorrio was gone.

[i:746f02d83d]"Fucking typical..."[/i:746f02d83d] he muttered, yanking the gladii from their home and balancing them in his hands. His arms tingled with warmth, as though long dead nerve endings were awakening. He stalked down the hall, the blades shimmering malevolently.

OOC: --Reserved for post later today--

A choked-off cry of utter terror assailed the Ventrue's questing ears as he began his rapid pace along the shadowed catwalk. It was all the warning he had before a woman's figure seemed to emerge from the blackness there; her kholed eyes huge with fear, the gun pointed in his direction from a spread-eagled stance, aimed at his head. Red hair, in a New York bob, framed a a face that could only be described as white.

[i:752ed483f9]"I killed you once,"[/i:752ed483f9] the voice was tremulous but determined, [i:752ed483f9]"I can do it again."[/i:752ed483f9] She squeezed the trigger.

Gabriel didn't wait for the report before he lunged forward, his newly acquired weapons thirsty for their first taste of blood by his hands as they swung in opposing arcs. Only to cleave the lingering gloom with no resistance from either side.

The only sound in the immediate area was a splat, as the bullet streaked past and hit the far wall, followed by the sizzle of something that sounded like it was trying to fry it's way through the plaster and sheet rock. The shocked Kindred found his target and swung again. There was a double whine of disappointment from metal.

Screams, and the sounds of upending furniture, began to drift up from below, along with the tramp of frantic feet. Some of it making it's way upward toward the two combatants. The unknown woman jerked herself even further out of reach and, with blinding speed, holstered an very odd looking gun. She threw him a look that declared she was far from done with him and then rapidly melted downward into the panicked crowd.

Leaving O'Brien with the teasing scent of her and the impression that he should have known who she was and the question of [b:752ed483f9]WHY[/b:752ed483f9] she wanted him even more dead than he already was.

***********************

The stress of seeing her nightmare come to life had left Morag's senses in a total state of disarray. She never saw the huge hand that caught hold of her and drew her from the midst of the nightclubbers anonymity as they fled the dance floor.

She could have easily escaped in the next few seconds if it wasn't for what the Gangrel did next. He sniffed her. Nerves sparked wildly as realization dawned that the one thing that she'd forgotten to disguise was her smell. Hysteria punched her into high gear and she swung clawed fingers at Porter's eyes.

((hehe...should be EYE. well done! will hopefully get to post later today. :)

You'll have to forgive Morrie. She's not in her right mind, ATM. :shock: She's seeing eyes, not dead people. mwhahahahhaha :twisted:

He was there a split second before the claws would have raked Porter's face into a collection of bloody ribbons. Later he would question himself as to why he had moved to save the thing that had been so rude to him mere moments before... but he had. It was more of a reaction, as time slowed around him. Sounds become blurred slurs, movements painfully slow and every detail intensifying a thousandfold. He saw every detail on those sharp, predator's claws as they cut the air, leaving ripples in their wake.

His foot lashed out, snapping into Porter's side with a crunch and hurling him to one side – away from the swinging death that passed mere inches above him. He raised a hand in a nonchalant wave, letting the claws rip through the fabric of his suit, gash into flesh and leave smoking gashes. He bit back the pain as she stood back, taking in this new assailant. He simply stood as kine scattered around them, biting and clawing at each other as they made a frenzied dash for safety.

He gave a momentary smile; followed by a short laugh that was lost in the spiralling screams. He allowed a glance at the rude vampire – still on the ground – and another to the carefully advancing Ventrue, blades held in a warrior's stance. And then his eyes swayed back to the girl, and that smile was back on his lips as the room became silent about them. He spread his arms: slowly, gracefully, showing an unarmoured chest, the grin becoming a careful, peaceful smile. And when he spoke, his voice was unwavering and strong.

“Come now. This is all very theatrical, but enough of this nonsense. The Prince may be somewhat behind events, but I doubt the same can be said for law enforcement. And, I don't know about you...” A sparkle of genuine humour in his eye, “... But I've never liked taste of policemen...”

OOC: I hope that's alright... if it isn't, don't hesitate to PM me.

Porter felt himself hurling into a table with the force of the Toreador’s roundhouse. He had stifled a doglike yelp as he tumbled arse over tit landing in a lump. The poncy arsed twit had kicked him!

Pulling himself to his feet, relishing the familiar palsy that travelled along his arms releasing five hooking claws.

[i:02070ba624]“Now that was just plain rude. Didn’t your momma ever tell you it was bad manners to kick someone older than you when they’re about to rip a girl’s arse apart?”[/i:02070ba624]

The four Kindred glanced at each other. Porter winked at the goth girl that had pulled his cheek open, his swarthy, stubbled face cracking into a “shit-eating grin”. Gabriel spun each of his blades with a degree of lithe skill as Alois again tried to stop the violence.

[i:02070ba624]“Stay out of my way! The monster is mine!”[/i:02070ba624] The girl screamed, losing some of her concentration. It was enough to allow what happened next.

Porter, having retracted his claws as Gabriel “sheathed” the swords inside his sleeves, was suddenly thrown aside. The air stinking of cordite as a shotgun blast heralded the next dancing melee to headline at the club. Alois and the female ducked and spun into cover as the room was hit by a staccato of weapons fire.

As the smoke drifted, Gabriel held the swords at arms length away from his body. A dozen hooded, fatigue wearing figures filed into the room, sporting an impressive collection of firearms, Gabriel mused, and each wearing vicious looking blades strapped to their backs.

[i:02070ba624]“Son of a bitch! What the hell is the score these days? Did the bastards put a kick me sign on me or sumthin’?”[/i:02070ba624] Porter pulled himself to his haunches, his suit jacket shredded. His chest peppered with the buckshot, more dents than holes.

[i:02070ba624]“Okay, which one of you sons of bitches shot me?”[/i:02070ba624]