[b:396a59583b]Awake![/b:396a59583b]
[i:396a59583b]In which an old vampire awakens and feeds, then starts a wheel in motion.[/i:396a59583b]

The rotting bird is too tempting a meal; no matter that it has been gnawed at by almost every stray cat within three miles. The Opossum scurries from its leafy cover and begins to feast on the scant meat remaining. No sooner has it taken it's second mouthful than the earth beside it seems to shudder and shift, as though subject to a movies special effect. A filthy talon claws its way up, into the night, closes around one of the scavengers rear haunches, and yanks it down into the hole.

Were anyone listening, they might hear - for no more than a few seconds - a sound similar to a child sucking the last remnants of a milk shake through a straw. Were anyone close enough to hear, they would also be close enough to see the next event; the shudder that moved the earth a moment before occurs again, but on a much larger scale. The ground itself seems to shift upwards into a mound of deep soil, and this turf itself cannot decide its own nativity - from black to red to white, each transition quicker than lightning.

As the dirt decides upon a series of pale and ballistic pink hues, it also forms into something the shape and size of a small automobile. This form lends itself angles and inflections; if our witness had ever experienced a "magic eye" image, that particular optical skill would now be useful, as the dirt-form now resembles a hunched human-like shape in a fetal position.

There is no dramatic slow-rise and survey of the landscape, no flash of lightning, no primeval roar. The creature unfolds into its unnatural shape and leaps forward some twenty feet, then again a further twenty feet, and there devours the infant occupants of the recently deceased Opossum's nest. On completing this menial task, the creature, the vampire throws itself forwards in a series of gargantuan leaps, covering several miles in mere minutes.

Those miles brought it to the outskirts of a town, a town that had been raped and butchered some years prior. A town that had emptied itself of all good and evil. A town that had been rejuvenated by the building of a casino on its city limits. It, who was once a he, perched itself, fore-claws taking its weight, hind-legs scissored either side, wolf-like, atop a steel girder which would form the southern wall of a new Wal-Mart - "Opening in June 2009! Apply online to become an Associate!".

Eastwards, state route 38 led into the heart of the old town - most of it demolished to be replaced with new, modern apartments and shopping centres - but there were some familiar sights, but they were few. Far too few. The visions didn't matter, however, the onlooker had scant use for his single eye; his ears, nose, tongue and mind were his true wardens, and had been for centuries.

Even at this distance, it could smell the blood perfume flooding from the cities' epicentre in serpentine tendrils; cattle, hundreds - no, thousands of them. Innocent, unaware, ignorant and unafraid of the terrible sentinel who observed their contingent passings with only one consideration of their mortality; whether to take it this night or the next.

With what might pass for a wry grin, it shook the bloodlust from its forebrain, knowing it would need to feed much more within the hour, but not quite now, not for the single task it needed to complete. It howled, a noise something like a wolf, but perhaps only if that wolf was four hundred pounds and had smoked for a thousand years. Within a minute, the half-moon was blotted out by the flapping of a hundred or so wings, as several dozen common pigeons swooped down, landing four or five at a time on the tree-like arms of the vampire, and sipping from the blood - only a drop or two per bird, but enough to empower them with the strength to fly, but more importantly, the blood would deliver the message the old beast needed delivered.

After tasting, the birds flew off in all directions, each wing six strong, so that if one failed there were others to replace it. Each flight carried a message unique to its pigeons; blood-visions that would say all that needed to be said; to the beautiful, to the wise, to the old, to the young, to the discarded and to the noble. Old friends, old mates, and even some old enemies; all were summoned to this Gangrels [i:396a59583b]althing[/i:396a59583b] under the next full moon.

It had slept for the best part of a decade, but something deep within the earth had stirred, something darker and older than even it's sire's sire, and its ripples had raped through the planet, threatening the existence of each bird and beast, mortal and cainite, methusulah and neonate claiming the right to walk and breed and hunt and kill.

It's task done as efficiently as possible - email or telephone or even a letter was unthinkable and unknown technology to this Gangrel - Euryon, moved hungrily into the heart of New Cascadia, hoping for a worthy hunt, a mark that would deliver blood full of strength and power.

((ooooh...nifty.

((I ought to mention there is an open invitation to anyone to join in, for old times sake.... take the story wherever you want, I have no over-arching plot, just whoever posts, try and keep in context of whatever else has been done in this thread, and the IC history of SoC))

((Ohhh!!!

(( wow... great to see some IC posting

[i:79c877dea2][b:79c877dea2]Sanctuary of the Inconnu, Switzerland[/b:79c877dea2][/i:79c877dea2]

[i:79c877dea2]"Then you will go."[/i:79c877dea2] Answered Francis in the manner of a command, rather than a question or a statement.

George stared at the pigeons in their neat little line, heads lolling to one side from where he had snapped their necks, for no apparent reason.

[i:79c877dea2]"You know it was him who sent me to the malkavians? Set me on the path which led to ..."

"No, I did not know that. It makes no difference. Somebody has to monitor this. Your flight leaves tonight."[/i:79c877dea2]

[i:79c877dea2]"This will be fun..."[/i:79c877dea2] Whispered M.

With suffocating tardiness, the walls began to shift to their rightful positions, some several feet from where they seemed to currently be; the sensation of white-hot-fire searing its flesh abated slowly; the silent bubble encompassing the back-alley forced its expansion and began to allow the pulse and rhythm of the cityscape into its experience; ultimately, the beast itself receded, leaving the vampire creature alone with the broken remains of a fairly young Cainite, recently eased of its unlife.

The death had been inevitable once it had decided upon a mark, but in the spirit of fairplay, or more likely, boredom, a coercion to violence and ferocity had been summoned in the finally deceased. It had fought and died well, dodging several of the Gangrel's initial attacks, and even landing a well placed, but ineffectual, blow on its flank. The prey had certainly demonstrated a martial ability, but was simply unable to withstand the assault delivered upon him; claws like icy steel, engaged with an undeniable hunger and centuries of battle experience.

Nevertheless, the feeding was not what was important, the part of the Gangrel's mind that still functioned with some sense and an element of wisdom, accepted with grim certainty that its sanity was losing out to the beast; before, frenzy would not normally claim it unless a battle had been hard won, and the blood-prize exquisite; but now, the anticipation of a fight had stirred the wolf within, and the smell of blood had enraged it with fire.

Even now, with its hunger sated and unlife taken, Euryon could feel its ravenous eyes behind his own, lusting for another chance to drown it in ecstatic fury. It knew just enough that for what might well be coming - something that was counted ancient before his ancestors were naught but protoplasmic slime - it would need all the cunning and guile at its disposal - and for that, it would need help; help in controlling its insatiable beast, just for a while longer; just for this last battle, and then, if it still walked, the beast could devour it whole, and any who might try could hunt it down and claim it as a prize.

The movement of a cloud over the moon was subtle enough a sign for it to evacuate the feeding ground. A few deft leaps brought it perched atop yet another construction site. From this vantage, it felt as though the winds shifted, blowing toward him from each direction, north and south, east and west, just for a moment. It glared at the horizon before it for a moment, a shadow of sentiment passed across its vacant expression, and was as suddenly gone.

[i:4adc5bc9e0]They must come... Not all of them... But some, some must come... And I must know what to tell them... I need to know...[/i:4adc5bc9e0]

[i:7d9aeed62f] The reports were sketchy at best. However it appeares that somone or something has woken up. The birds was an odd thing though. Not that they had went out but that a few of them had made it all the way to home. He rolled the vile of blood back and forth on the desk infront of him. He knew what it was for however he was unsure if he should become involved or not. He was still searching always searching this would divert precious resources from the task at hand if he beame involved however if it was who he thought it was not takeing any action could prove very detrimental to his own personal cause as it was unlikely that that he would send out such a call unless it was .................... bahhh he could debate it all day every day and still not come to a conclusion ahh well this could wait a few more hours best to check on Gudrun and her progress. [/i:7d9aeed62f]

[b:eaa58c89e4][i:eaa58c89e4]Cascadia News[/i:eaa58c89e4][/b:eaa58c89e4] (Front Page Full Spread)

[size=24:eaa58c89e4][b:eaa58c89e4]Destination DEATH![/b:eaa58c89e4][/size:eaa58c89e4]

[img:eaa58c89e4]http://mort.level5.net/frontier.jpg[/img:eaa58c89e4]

State police and FBI are today baffled by what can only be described as a scene of hellish carnage aboard the Frontier Airlines Airbus flight FA327 which arrived late last night from Denver. Reporters have yet to be allowed on board the aircraft, but sources within Law Enforcement agencies have described bodies torn limb from limb, hacked apart or clubbed to death in some kind of orgy of extreme violence. The only apparent survivors are the flight crew, who landed the aircraft on schedule, following all normal procedures. The crew claim to have no recollection or knowledge of whatever took place inside the passenger cabin.

Who or what can have massacred the entire passenger manifest of flight FA327 is as yet unknown, though it is being speculated that something in the environment may have caused some kind of mass hysteria or temporary insanity as the passengers turned upon one another with whatever weapons could be easily improvised. Forensic and aircraft investigators are examining all possibilities.

The gruesome task of identifying the remains and contacting the victims' families has begun.

[i:eaa58c89e4]Full analysis, page 3

---

"Did we really need to do that?"

"I said it was going to be fun..."[/i:eaa58c89e4]

[i:d306ccef99]The smoke ascends into the evening sky, its fire dying now in the cold twilight. Surrounding the embers are half a dozen bodies, the dead guardians of the occupant of a cave. The moment the sun finally concedes to the horizon, a shape leaves the protection of the cave as unnoticed as it is swift. The stars slowly seem to move in the heavens, and then a second figure emerges from the cave. This one seems disorientated, unsure, tired, and at once, stunned. The sight of his Father dead before him causes the events of the previous day and night to resurface....

<>

...screaming, incessant screaming that only intensifies. He cannot stop himself, forced as he is to watch the torture and atrocity committed upon his pack-mates. He is the last left, restrained and drained, witness to only two survivors of the surgery that finished half a dozen of his brethren. The vampires, wizards and craftworkers, turn to him, hands full of blades and saws - one gnarled creature even has his own hands shaped like the instruments of pain. They begin, and he cannot control his fear, his beast, he screams and writhes, but he cannot escape the pain. He feels [u:d306ccef99]things[/u:d306ccef99] push inside him, coils around his dead heart; and then there is a din that permeates his narrow world of pain; the perverted vampires move away from him, yelling at one another, some reach for weapons; this he sees, and the small part of him that can focus, does so, and he begins to work on freeing any part of him from his bondage.

As he struggles, a light enters the dungeon, usurping the ethereal glow conjured by the Tremere, and a handful of warrior-knights charge into the fray. The skirmish is swift, bloody and fierce. The Tremere and Tzimisce all fall, as does one of the coteries. He finally tears an arm free from the bonds, slashing at himself to remove the cursed shroud covering him, weakening him; then they approach him, speaking their foreign words - some of it seeps through, but nothing of importance now - but there is a face, a girl, one he knew some winters past, from his peoples cousins land, perhaps? She smiles and raises a hand and he sees no more that night...

<>

"I think we die here, tonight, friend."
"Aye, ye could be true, Brujah. We are too few, it seems."
A murmur of agreement rustled through the circle. The remnants of an excursion to the islands of the Cathay, sent to find allies, or at worst information. It seemed that they would be unable to return with either, as this, their first port of call, the island of Japan, had been most unsuccessful. Their ambassador, a dignified Ventrue, had been slain and returned to their camp headless. Within an hour, an assault had been launched, killing a dozen of the vampires and almost all their mortal subjects. They had retreated to a tree-covered hilltop nearby and dug themselves in, hoping to survive to the small hours, and then break for the sea. They could, however, sense the growing forces of the natives surrounding them, with no apparent need to hurry.
"Sir, if I might speak...", a young neonate, another Ventrue, the ambassadors childe in fact, waited for the Brujah commander to nod his assent.
"Whilst I understand this ain't the same, I remember learning at 'Guards the recommended action when surrounded on enemy territory and low on ammunition..."
The Brujah looked to his second, the Gangrel, raised an eyebrow, then motioned to the Ventrue, a former Captain for the British, a race he tended to despise, them being long-time enemies of his own life-people, to continue.
"We ought to charge, Sir. I fear we have no other choice, and every moment we wait, they strengthen their position and force us to surrender to the light... I am of the opinion that a concerted sally down the eastern slope, here.." he waved a hand eastwards, "gives us a fighting chance."
The Brujah grinned and clapped the young Ventrue on the shoulder,
"Ah, a bit of the sangfroid your kind are famous for, eh? 'Well, good show, let's have at the rotters, what what!'"
Euryon coughed laughter at his friends impression of the young, newly orphaned vampire, but then proceeded to counsel his agreement....

<>

...and then there was only darkness accompanied by the glass-shattering chuckle of his sister. He was old, he was tired, and he was not used to being bested. He had devoured his way through her minions, slain her guards, only to fall to her cunning; a trait she had always possessed in greater abundance than he. She danced around him, her short blade nicking and slicing razor-thin cuts on his frame, forcing the beast within him to rise; for that is what she desired, to enrage the notorious Gangrel, to make him strong, and then to eat his soul. And she was succeeding, the more pain she inflicted, the more dangerous he became, but the less able to focus his attacks on her, the less able to use his other senses to their capacity.

His savious this time, however, is not an ally, it is not the ancient sea, nor is it his own power or skill, this time he is saved by pure, blind luck. In her arrogance she attacks too close, and his swinging claw grazes her, just the smallest cut, but enough to imbalance her, enough to lend him knowledge of her position, enough to refocus his animal desire to kill, enough to boil the blood within him, attributing him the strength to leap, to wrap his claws around her cold, pale throat, to roar triumph as his weight pins her, to flick his lips in a cool, wry smile, enough to allow him a molecule of sentiment for what the vampire shell beneath him once was, enough to place him at this juncture where an occasional accident becomes addiction.

And with a deep gulp, he takes a step closer to the All-Father.[/i:d306ccef99]

The headstone reads "I told you I was sick", the epitaph of someone who certainly considered himself a comedian. Anyone watching that grave would see the soil tremor and the stone slide an inch or two to the left. Somewhere beneath the decayed remains of the comedian, something much longer dead turns in its sleep.

George sat in his office.

Well, it had been his office once, in a previous life, when he had been Seneschal here. Now it was an overpriced office suite, chandeliers replaced with strip lights, plasterboard and partition walls replaced the marble facades and underfoot some unpleasantly coloured carpet tiles. Still, there was some level of familiarity about it.

[i:d48263ab3f]"And now we watch and we wait."[/i:d48263ab3f] Announced George, to the murmured agreement of the voices in his head. He leant back and sent his Inconnu trained senses roaming the city, searching... searching...

“You need me to stay?”

Brendan turned and offered the question’s owner a weary look. The lecture on responsibility and personal ambition sat poised on the tip of his tongue, but the eager gleam in the his young clerk’s eye radiated with imagery of a dazzling nightlife and undiscovered possibilities that were but a shadow of a memory in Brendan’s recollection. He smiled ruefully and shut the register, his evening’s intake fully counted.

“No, I’ll be fine Will. Take off.”

The young man said nothing, but only flashed a brilliant grin and dashed out of Brendan’s Guns and Pawn. Brendan watched him, temporarily bathed in hot yellow light of a streetlamp and then he was alone with his thoughts once more.

Alone at last, he delved into the routine he had carried out so many nights before. Mundane as it was, it was done with careful scrutiny and with the love of an attentive parent. After all, that was what Brendan’s Guns and Pawn was to him, his child. It was what he had given up his mobility, his money, his sobriety and (why not admit it?) even his wife for. In truth, the shop was all he had and labeling him somewhat obsessive in it’s details wouldn’t be overstating it.

And this year had been his boom year. He was selling pistols and shotguns at an astounding rate. Handguns had paid off his car and hunting rifles his flatscreen. Sure, some of his customers came across as rather suspect, but then again who was he to judge a book by it’s cover?

His tasks complete, he wheeled the vacuum back into the broom closet and took his place next to the main panel of light switches. Fleet Street appeared dull and lifeless outside storefront’s main windows and he felt an overwhelming sense of peace, staring out from behind his neatly organized shelves. With a flip of the switch the store was bathed in darkness and his merchandise became little more than oddly shaped silhouettes against a Fleet Street that suddenly seemed much more vibrant and alive.

Something was off though…

The nightscape outside was obscured, or at least part of it was. A trio of looming monolith-like figures stood before him. At first, Brendan was certain what he was seeing was outside as the front door was already locked and they had appeared seemingly out of thin air. They stood motionless, broad and imposing. A cold fear writhed it’s way across his cut as he realized whatever these alien objects were, were INSIDE the building, not even ten feet from where he was standing!

His extremities numb, he fumbled for the lights and found them at last, clumsily slapping them on with dead fingers. The store was illuminated once more and where just seconds before there had been empty space, three enormous men stood peering down at him.

Each was clad in denim and leather, and Brendan was almost overwhelmed with the odor of engine grease emanating from them. The one nearest to him, by far the largest, was a great beast of a man with a massive beard whose color was a mystery to him due to it’s extensive standing by oil, cigarette tar, and God knows what else. A great, swooping brow obscured his eyes from all light, but the sinister malice on his face was evident enough. He stepped forward.

“W..we’re closed.” Brendan managed, instinctively stepping back as the ogre moved towards him.

“More than you know chum.”

The voice was more animal than human. A low, guttural growl that seemed more suited for instinctive messaging than true communication. His cracked lips broke into a smile, yellow and horrifically sharp. A single gloved hand shot out from his body faster than Brendan could’ve thought possible and clamped down upon his shoulder with inhuman tightness.

Bolts of white hot pain immediately pulsed through Brendan’s frame and he could feel the strength leave his knees. The only sensations he was aware of were the overwhelming nausea that filled his torso, and much more distant warmth he urinated himself.

The brute pulled him close, so close he could feel his scalding breath beat down on his forehead. The motoroil smell now possessed a new element to it…it smelled as though it were burning, ablaze with an intense fire that consumed everything before it.

“You shut the shop down, or we’ll do it for you.”

The goon’s eyes became visible now, and within their blackened pupils Brendan could see all the hatred, vengeance, and loathing contained in the world encapsulated into two tumultuous pools of fury. Beneath their ebony exteriors the fires of hell raged, a cauldron of violence simply waiting for the signal to explode of to it’s surroundings…to destroy and devour.

Darkness took hold and vaguely felt himself falling…

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Tyler took another swig from his flask, the warm taste of iron passing over his palate unnoticed, but the incredible sensation of liquefied life filling an otherwise dead body both familiar and welcomed. The container slipped into his suit’s inner pocket and leaned over the tabletop, closer to Gabriel.

“Get this,” he whispered, watching to ensure no passing Kine overheard, “I sent Wulf down to deal with our little friend on Fleet Street? He said the guy was so scared he pissed his pants!” Tyler was laughing now, his radiant smile sparkling in the café’s dim outdoor lighting. “The guy was so terrified he shut down the next day!”

Gabriel mimicked Tyler’s grin, but without any of the earnest joy of his Childe. Torturing humans had long since lost it’s luster to him. But the shopkeepers compliance did bring some satisfaction, it brought him a step closer to his goal. His thin face appeared gaunt and weary, even moreso than usual. Maybe it was his proximity to the much more exuberant Tyler, but staring at his reflection in the café’s darkened windows, Gabriel’s reflection seemed oddly alien to him.

Tyler seemed to sense his Sire’s mood and after a few other pleasantries, excused himself (undoubtedly to reward his success with a night of debauchery) and took his leave. For some time afterwards, Gabriel sat staring into the Cascadian streets, still wet with afternoon rain. The night felt decidedly different, to the point of distraction. Something…familiar. That old sense of potential…of opportunity…seemed to hover before him in the air like an apparition. What was it? Why was he so on edge?

He stood and stepped out to the street, his sedan greeting him with a cheery chirp.

“Long time, boy. Gotta hug for an old friend?”

The voice crawled from a shadow darkened doorway opposite the gleaming Sedan. Two green eyes glittered impossibly in the low light, seeming to illuminate the rest of the “voice’s” features. A grizzled, stubbled face peered out from under a mop of unruly brown hair. Stepping into the light offered by the streetlights the figure revealed a dusty, ages worn greatcoat that carried the colours and insignia of the US Cavalry. Three stripes denoting the rank of the coats original owner, but meaning nothing to the figure that had worn the thing for the last two centuries.

A wolfish grin met the somewhat befuddled expression of the tall Nordic blonde man.

“You look like you seen a ghost, boy.”

“Porter?”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He had disappeared into the cracks of the sidewalk, seeking to finally disappear from the worlds of Kine and Kindred. He found some solace in the local Nosferatu warren. Joining their travels beneath the city, hunting with them – living on rats did nothing for his complexion. But Porter, if he’d been nothing else in the last 900 yrs, was the consummate survivor.

Years passed unseen under so much concrete and pipework. Passed without interest when you slept, dreaming and manipulating the world above and the Warren among. As the years passed his dreaming became more regular, his sleep lengthening from days to weeks to months. Then, just as the world had forgotten him something changed.

Two weeks ago a feeling of incalculable dread penetrated the asphalt, soaked through the layers of dirt. Dripped from pipes and surged along wires. The Warren was alive with rumour and worry, a feeling that shook him from his slumber.

And so, pulling on the old blue greatcoat, Porter stirred and made his way up into the concerns of men again.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He scratched at his stubble with extended claws. Raking at the dead, feral flesh.

“Gabriel. You feel it too huh, kid?”

Within several minutes span Gabriel was weaving the car through the hollow streets of Cascadia's downtown and the Gangrel was busy ruining it's leather interior with his earthy coating.

"So where've you been Ports?" he asked, emerald eyes flashing inquisitively. He made no attempt to veil his happiness at seeing his old partner-in-crime. But as much as he enjoyed Porter's company, his presence always seemed to be the harbinger of ill tidings. And with the night already darkened under the shadow of doubt, any joy derived from their reunion was dampened by an impending sense of danger.

"Hung around with the sewer rats for awhile. Got the full underbelly tour." he peered out at the passing buildings. Homes, businesses, each encompassing the dreams and aspirations of countless souls. For a majority of those souls life only held bitter disappointment and eventual compromise. "Was tired of all this. But something's not right."

"I know." Gabriel answered simply. Old Ports was nothing if not a straight shooter. People would be shocked at how fatiguing it was to associate with Kindred with all their secrecy and suspicion. As a member of the Ventrue he was supposed to value these traits above all else. The eternal struggle for supremacy. But in truth it just made him want to blow his fucking brains out. "Well in any case, it's good to see you. Glad to have you back. So do the Nossies have any sense of what's going on? Surely we're not the only ones who feel it."