The Ventrue crept back towards the wall of the club, furthest from the large set of doors through which the hooded figures lined through. The shrieks of club patrons were less frequent, as the majority had escaped safetly. The bodies of those who had not lay motionless on the floor in dark, black pools of blood that melded with the clubs shadows.

The gladii spun cheerfully in his hands, ready to engage in their deadly business, yet the Ventrue felt a cold fear in the pit of his stomach. Before he could contemplate the feeling further the hollow [i:94f2d3be7c]pop pop pop[/i:94f2d3be7c] of automatic weaponry rang out and he threw himself sideways towards the bar, cartwheeling through the air.

The solid steel bar, designed to look like some crude form of industrial metal, was sadly only durable in appearance. Tiny chunks of plastic and wood exploded around him as the bullets punctured the opposite side. The next moment, Porter was next to him, his leathery skin exposed yet unaffected through the bullet holes in his shirt.

[i:94f2d3be7c]"Blast you blue blood! What've you gotten me into now?!"[/i:94f2d3be7c] he grumbled, searching the bar's stock for some type of weaponry.

[i:94f2d3be7c]"Hell if I know!"[/i:94f2d3be7c] another shower of bullets shattered the wall-length mirror above them, sending sparkling shards of glass atop them. [i:94f2d3be7c]"But they mean business."[/i:94f2d3be7c]

A shriek and a grunt echoed behind the bar and Alois leaped it's counter amidst a hail of gunfire, landing beside the pair. He smiled mischievously.

[i:94f2d3be7c]"I see I still possess the tenacious ability to choose quality company!"[/i:94f2d3be7c] he chirped with a smile. Neither Gabriel nor Porter chose to return the gesture. Instead, Gabriel tucked his blades into the small of his back, looping them through his belt, and grabbed a bottle of everclear stowed discreetly beneath the bar.

Porter grunted in surprise as the Ventrue tore a section of his already destroyed shirt from his torso and stuffed it into the open bottle's mouth. The air sizzled and Gabriel's trouser seams cried out as he employed blood magic to provide the required strength. With one fluid movement, the kindred launched himself high into the air and onto the catwalk high above.

The trails of gunfire raced up the wall and towards the ceiling, pocking the once flawless interior of the club in a desperate chase. The Ventrue lit the rag and heaved the volatile concoction towards the row of attackers below.

[i:94f2d3be7c]WHOOSH![/i:94f2d3be7c]

He felt the heat instantly and threw himself towards the grating to prepare for Rotschreck's affects. Clamping his eyes shut, he could feel the panic begin to claim his senses. Within the span of a second he had conquered the Red Fear and dove towards his opponents, bringing his gladii to bear.

From the corner of his vision, he could perceive Porter and Alois leading a similiar charge.

[i:d5496bc6dc]" Now look here...you wanted to come to the club but as soon as some guy allegedly winks at you ...you decide that you want to leave....well not on your life...literally. Can you not feel it in the air....the crackle of raw energy? you can't? ah well you are merely a mortal after all...now tell me what do we know about ...."[/i:d5496bc6dc]

Her voice trailed off and her eyes darkened as all around them the club seemed to explode into a mass of frenzied activity all intent on one thing.....getting out of the club in one piece and unharmed.

[i:d5496bc6dc]" Izzy perhaps we should ...well like leave ...like now, I value my life even if you don't yours"[/i:d5496bc6dc] Ewan muttered as the sound of gunshot richoted around the rapidly departing clubgoers.

[i:d5496bc6dc]"And then there were 2, is that not the one who winked at you Ewan? perhaps you are right we maybe should leave, what the hell?"[/i:d5496bc6dc]

Isabella pushed Ewan down onto the seat and shielded him with her body as a volley of gunfire echoed around the club. The sharp tang of smoke filled the air, as quickly as the gunfire started ...it stopped.....and cautiously Isabella sat up to survey the scene around her, her hand remaining on Ewan's back to keep him out of view.

Alekz would probably have beaten her to a pulp for what she'd done tonight; what she was doing now. If he'd survived. That kernel of sanity sat in the back of her mind and sought to bring her rampant emotions back under strict control. And failed miserably.

Her own personal Rotschrek drove her to slash at anything in her path and it took a couple of seconds to realize it wasn't Porter that was taking the majority of the damage. The unkown Kindred's words were like a buzzing in her ears and she swayed in place as her hands dropped to her side.

A nerve-crawling spark up her spine informed her that Gabriel O'Brien had arrived but she ignored him in favor of taking down the one person who could have ID'd her for sure. [b:ef10bb9aac]And[/b:ef10bb9aac] to wipe that knowing smirk off his face and erase that goading wink that would haunt her for the rest of her unlife. She could give the Ventrue her attention later, [i:ef10bb9aac]if[/i:ef10bb9aac] she survived this new challenge.

She shrieked her claim above the wall of noise that surrounded them and brought her hands up. Only to cleave air as Porter was ripped from her path, again! A desperate five minute scan of the future had all timelines focusing on the club's entrance as it showed a new wave of chaos hitting the interior. She took the only available pocket of safety open to her and dove for the floor.

Rationality hit like a bucket of ice cold water in the face and her hands melted back into their normal form as she speed-drew her magnetic gun from it's special holster. She could feel the vibration from the charged coils thrumming silently against the back of her waist. The weight of the magazine between the stock and the barrel told her she had a goodly amount of the lethal ammunition left to her.

The time strands began to weave a cocoon of patterns around her shelter but warned that her safety was only temporary, at best. It was clear she needed to create her own escape route. She aimed upward and coolly squeezed the trigger off in a classical spray, not caring if the targets were innocents or enemy. Perhaps one of the pellets might even find their way into either the Ventrue or the Gangrel. If she was lucky.

It was a few more seconds after she ran out of bullets, and reached for her last magazine, that the payloads made their presence known to each successful hit. If it was possible, the screams, that had begun to taper off, climbed to a new crescendo as acid began to eat it's way through flesh and bone.

She rammed the new clip into place and waited for the opportunity to get the hell out of there.

((OOC: Morrighan is really not a ghoul, at this point. She is a full-fledged Maven Kindred and the only one of her kind. Her Sire, Alekz, is dead, as far as she knows, but he's left her the legacy of his disciplines, one of which is Sagacity. Sagacity is the ability to percieve timelines and to (sometimes NOT so) accurately predict actions and events. The more timelines she has to deal with, the less accurate her ability will be and the more blurred they become when reaching longer into the future. Morag also carries a touch of vicissitude and auspex because of her long servitude to her original Tzimisce mistress, but that is fading with less and less use of the skills. The clan of Maven also carries two more skills of dominance and fortitude. She does register as kindred to Auspex but with a hint of Ventrue, as that is the mainline branch it is an offshoot of. Please refer to the thread Rewind (Alekz's story), in the USA district for insight into the new, budding, clan. For Morag's story, refer to Prisoner (Serai's story) in the UK section of the board.))

The Jaguar tore through the streets of Cascadia. Herman’s supernatural reflexes slipping the racing green XKR between the other cars with a casual ease. To think he was here because he was bored, the same reason long ago that he had come to this America, that and the Jyhad. It was always about the damn Jyhad, especially for one like himself. Individuals could be crushed beneath the machinations of the Mighty. Sighing melodramatically he swerved onto the main strip. Ahhh time to break his fast.

Cascadia certainly was interesting though, he had only been here three days and already he was well assured of its lawlessness. It was disgusting, what the hell did the Prince think he was doing? Anne would never let things get into a state such as this, but then the Prince of London had a grip of iron over her city. Working as a scourge for this last seven years, back in Europe, had given him an insight into the need for law.

Even as he was allowing his mind to drift back in time, he head the familiar thunder of automatic gun fire over the sounds of the city. Swinging the Jag tight into the curb he slammed on the brakes. Veritably leaping out of the car he was wearing a dark grey suit and a black t-shirt, the black leather strap of what surely must be a gun holster crossing his chest. Ahhh about time he had some real fun.

Looking to the left he saw a large black armoured van. A diabolic smile crossed his angelic visage. Leaning down he wrapped a pale hand around a white tire and focused, forcing the blood from his belly to his arm, he felt it. The feeling of life burning through his arm. He squeezed and twisted just [i:6a94881802]so[/i:6a94881802]. The tire ripped apart. That should hold them.

Stepping into the club he as confronted by something out of a bad horror movie. Bodies, punctuated by multitudes of gory entry and exit wounds littered the ground like a Fiend’s wet dream. Some twelve feet in front of him the last stages of a Melee played out. It was like watching adults beat up a herd of toddlers. Drawing his pistol, a vicious looking mass of black metal he began calmly emptying it into the black hooded men.

Well he would still have to find breakfast but at least he had found something to occupy his attention.

OOC: Sorry its not great. And yes he should reek of a Lasombra :D . Also his name is Herman Faust,

He moved. No time for acrobatics, no time for anything. He moved, a flickering image as he sped across the room, neatly sidestepping a savaged corpse. The click of a primed weapon made him smile a cold grin a second before the room before him exploded in the detonation of the gunshot. Shrapnel ripped through him, shattering bone and tearing his vital organs apart. He kept coming, ignoring pain as his bones melded back together. The shotgun was cocked again, and he was upon his foe – eye to eye. For a second more he paused, watching as the hooded man's expression turned from anger to surprise... and then to acceptance.

Arms of steel snapped outwards, gripping his shoulder: the Toreador leapt forwards, etiquette forgotten, clamping deadly, sharp jaws around the man's arm, and heaving his neck back. With a sickening crunch and a spurt of blood it was done – severed arm discarded on the floor, still leaking beautiful red vitae. The shotgun in Alois' white hands now – stabbed into his foe's mouth and a trigger pulled. The back of his head exploded in a shower of bone, hair and brain matter that splattered the wall behind him with that macabre colour. The vampire spun the smoking shotgun carelessly in one hand, swinging it round and finishing another man with the crack of a broken neck and a whisper on the bload-soaked air.

[i:36f8a5435a]Au revoir...[/i:36f8a5435a]

Another man leapt forwards – a sharp blade hissing in the air like a serpent. Again Alois struck out with the shotgun, at the man's head, but even as he ducked the Toreador moved. He had seen this coming. The sword came arching down – a guard as the man struggled to regain balance. The shotgun was thrown to one side, powerful arms gripping the sword by it's blade. Pain exploded down his hands as he felt cold blood gush onto the freezing metal, hissing and seething. A deadly fist lashed out, striking the weapon and shattering it into a thousand shards of refracted light. One hand gripped the man's shoulder as a foot rushed upwards into his crotch, before retracting as he squealed and a crack whipped through the air. One hand scooped up a shard of metal as Alois leapt forwards once more: knee into the man's stomach, and metal into the man's head. He drove it deep, gritting his teeth as blood blossomed from the wound. And then, with a gurgle, the man was still.

Movement caught his eye: George was here. A crack of a gunshot – and another – another hooded man toppled, two gaping holes in his chest, smoke pouring from his form as it writhed momentarily on the floor of the slaughter-scene. And then the ghoul drew another weapon from it's holster, tossing it with a careless flick to Alois. The Toreador caught it in an instance, assessing it without even a look. A Walther P99 .40 S&W version. Semi-automatic pistol. 15+1 9mm shots. 11+1 rounds. [i:36f8a5435a]Perfect.[/i:36f8a5435a] He spun round, a sharp eye searching for something to shoot. Fire exploded in a sudden rush: his eyes widened, pupils suddenly wide. The beast within him leapt up, baying, yowling and snarling. With a shake of his head, it was down again, beating back by the iron whips of the Toreador's mind. Now was no time for stupidity. Now was no time for fear.

Now was time to revel in the slaughter.

((good stuff all! welcome aboard those who just joined. i'll be posting soon.

Porter felt the rush of the primal swell in him as he charged. His clothes in tatters hung loosely to his torso, the frayed edges whipping around him as he leapt into a trio of their would-be-assailants. His jaws snapped open releasing a guttural cry before he drove his head into the nose of the closest gunmen, drawing an agonized gurgle from him. Pulling the man towards him he punched his fist into his stomach, claws extending in the final instant before impact, wrenching through the layers of clothing and into the bowel, before twisting his hand side-wards, disembowelling him with little more that a pained groan. The second one went weak, his underwear soiled before Porter turned his furry face to meet his. The old Gangrel grinned before stepping in close, snapping his neck in a blur of motion.

Porter felt something whistle past his ear, turning he found the third figure aiming another shot. He rolled forward, bringing his claws up into the gunman’s crotch drawing a bubbling shriek from his lips.

[i:0cb41a4ded]“One weapon down, one to go.”[/i:0cb41a4ded] Porter sneered, before he tore the gun from his hand, the hand falling to the floor in a useless wet lump. The gunman died mercifully quickly after his brain caught up with his injuries.

He stepped through a veritable sea of crushed bodies, his feet stepping on discarded sinews and lifeless muscle. His shirt now drenched in the blood of the fallen, he ripped the remnants of cloth from his back and slapped Alois’ back with an over-exaggerated camaraderie knocking the lithe Toreador forward a step.

[i:0cb41a4ded]“Beautiful! I feel great! Now this is a real welcome home!”[/i:0cb41a4ded]

As the last of their attackers fell, Gabriel, dragging a corpse in which one of his swords was trapped, stepped up. Drawing a long disgusted breath, one that was intended to disguise the bloodlust he truly felt, and nodded to the combatants.

[i:0cb41a4ded]“We need to leave, now! The city might have gone to the dogs....”[/i:0cb41a4ded] He threw Porter a glance, the Gangrel merely smiling a goofy smile that made him look more like a lovestruck puppy than a savage killer.

[i:0cb41a4ded]“You are, of course, correct, Gabriel. The Police will be on their way, and I would imagine our friends here were sent by someone who wants our kind destroyed. I see no reason why we don’t take the vehicle they arrived in.”

“I can think of a few.”[/i:0cb41a4ded] Morrighan stepped slowly away from the Troupe. Her eyes wide and afraid.

[i:0cb41a4ded]“Nobody asked you, girly. Wait, what’s got you spooked all of a sudden?”[/i:0cb41a4ded]

Porter growled suddenly made aware that the floor, once red and sticky with gore, was now bare. Lifting his gaze he went as quiet as the proverbial, jaw slack as Gabriel turned.

[i:0cb41a4ded]“What. The. Fuck?!”[/i:0cb41a4ded]

The gunmen stood at the exits. That in itself would have been alarming enough considering the condition the Kindred had left them in. But more worryingly, each gunman stood as they had entered. Whole. Poised. And from the dark smiles they wore. Somewhat hungry for a rematch.

It was wrong. All so wrong. Fear beat it's way through his veins as the weapons were levelled: considerably faster than last time. He shared a glance with his ghoul – and then twelve triggers were squeezed. There was no time to react. A hail of bullets cut the air to ribbons, the walls, floor and ceiling cut to ribbons. Dust exploded from everywhere, masking vision and transforming the scene into a nightmare of flashing gun flares and whispering ghosts. Alois struggled through the scene, heaving his way over the savaged remains of George, leaking blood all over what little remained of the floor. And then, as abruptly as it had started, it ended.

The dust still curled all about the place, crumbling bricks adding to the mess. And yet, through the impenetrable veil of both smoke and the remains of the building, there came no more gunfire. Clips exhausted, no doubt. The Toreador kept moving, thrusting himself at long last against the broken wall, pushing himself into the corner and making himself as small as possible. And to think that this had happened, in his very home! Pah. Was nothing safe any more? And then he was torn from his thoughts again: eyes widening to the shrieking tune of metal being drawn from scabbards. And then steps; in unison, slowly.

Nearer, nearer. Finally, a form came slipping from the mess, passing by, a blade brandished in a perfect guard. For a moment Alois considered remaining hidden – but then his mind slid back to the bleeding remains of his ghoul, somewhere in the broken remains of the club. He shook his head, ever so slightly... and moved. He struck like a snake – silent and deadly. One lithe arm was wrapped about the unsuspecting man's neck in a flash: the other hand formed into a fist. For a brief second the victim gave a shout: Alois smiled – that was the way he wanted it. [i:9e940926c2]Let them know true fear...[/i:9e940926c2] And then his fist plunged down, shattering the target's cranium, ripping through brain matter and exploding out of the jaw in a mess of muscle, teeth and grey fluid. Back stepped the Toreador, smiling, hands spread wide, to admire his gory handiwork, and... the confident leer vanished.

For the man still stood. And now he turned – faster than ever Alois could have managed, blade singing a tune of death as it parted the air. For a second he had the chance to see the broken remains of his foe; the bloodshot, staring eyes and the confident smile. And then his ducked, almost carelessly, letting the sword pass over him – the smile returned. Not so hard, then...

He never saw the fist coming. It hit him with the force of a charging elephant – punching through his gut. Pain ripped through him as he was hurled backwards. No time for fear. Only a question. [i:9e940926c2]How...[/i:9e940926c2] He hit the wall, feeling it splinter under the immense pressure. And then he lost all feeling – felt his vision dim as the floor rushed up to meet him.

And then he knew blackness.

The hooded figure's hulking mass towered over the shattered Toreador, who lay in a heap on the floor. The stolen blood that fueled his undead curse spread like a fog. The attacker lifted him as one might a small misbehaving dog, and pinned his limp corpse against the wall. Instantly the other hand cocked back, a set of sticky pointed nails poised to gut the poor boy.

At first it was merely hesitation.

Then it grew. It festered and gnawed at the very fibrosis of his rotting brain. Tissue seemed electrified, rigid as an epyleptic seizure and then he shrieked. The Toreador slid to the floor, as his attacker screamed in horror above him, his shrill cry shredding his vocal chords.

The scream became heavy and gutteral as blood filled the cultists throat. A series of intense, violent coughs wracked his shivering frame, bits of lung and blood streaking across the floor in mishapen, semi-solid patterns. He collapsed in a heap beside what had only moments before been his prey and lay writhing, all the while screaming...shrieking...sobbing.

Desperate hands covered in quickly coagulating blood tore at his clothing, fighting some imperceivable foe. Fabric shred and by the time Gabriel reached him, he was shirtless, his pale skin covered in self-inflicted scratches. The Ventrue raised one gladius above his head, it's deadly blade pointed downward towards it's fleshy home.

The creature weakly looked up.

[i:1752ac7af1]"You're...fucking...kidding..."[/i:1752ac7af1] was all the Ventrue managed.

The attacker's face was a hybrid of features, mixed between human and animal. He appeared as a feline might without any hair, the nose pronounced and melded into his upper lips. Sunken eyes barely registered their impending death from underneath a heavy brow. A set of uneven, jagged teeth protruded awkwardly from his mouth. The proportions were wrong, unnatural.

The sword dropped harmlessly to Gabriel's side as he knelt mere inches from his exhausted victim. There, in those glittering yellow eyes, he saw something that filled his dead heart with reproach. He stood quickly and sneered.

Gabriel's step-sire Sorenti had taught him the finer points of etiquette and manipulation in a more civil time. There had been nights when Cascadia was little more than politicking with the Kindred and human elite, and it was in that environment the legendary Ventrue had prospered. He had taken a young Gabriel under his wing as his own and taught him to use force as a last resort, how it was truly a sign of mental weakness. When intellectual prowess failed however, he had also taught him how to force an opponent to tear his own face off as a result of the hysterical frenzy brought on by Dread Gaze.

By the time the cultist finally fell silent and motionless, his face was little more than pulp and grime. Skin and blood were wedged under those same jagged nails and hung in great clumps from his still fingers.

Behind him, Porter battled savagely against the sea of bodies. The sounds were nauseating. The sound of tearing skin and the frigid snap of bones were present, even when the Gangrel himself was immersed in a sea of arms and legs. Gabriel extended his mind once more...

[i:1752ac7af1]...NO BLUE BLOOD...[/i:1752ac7af1]

...and stumbled backwards.

[i:1752ac7af1]"Porter!"[/i:1752ac7af1] he cried. From the ocean of body parts, the Gangrel's wry eye spotted his friend, [i:1752ac7af1]"Porter! Be careful! They're connected somehow! They learn from..."[/i:1752ac7af1]

The blow was unanticipated and the Ventrue jaw shattered under it's impact. Who WERE these guys?!

Lower limbs sizzled and bled more than just crimson fluids as the ammunition released its potent chemical. It also included bits and pieces of muscle and bone, some of it a gooey, non-descript color that dribbled at first, then became a steady trickle. Legs gave way when they could no longer uphold their burden; hands reached for crotches that bubbled and smoked. Then they too began to steam as the corrosive found new flesh to devour.

Time slowed and then cleared as more bodies melted away, providing an open field for her hasty departure. Morag crawled from her sanctuary and stood up, scanning another 5 min. corridor for anything she might have missed.

What was [b:574097e1fd]wrong[/b:574097e1fd] with this picture?

Then she spotted it. The anomoly.

She almost hadn't seen it. At first the movement was slow, infinitesimally slow. But it was there and the lines of the future were, intially, fuzzy within the first minute. At the second and third ones they blurred decidedly and by the count of 5, they were off her scope!!

She couldn't read the time!

She scanned the club hastily, matching time lines that she [i:574097e1fd]could[/i:574097e1fd] read to those left alive. Or, in this case, undeath. The rest was human garbage. She catalogued an unknown female vamp across the room, Alois a small distance from where she stood, another unknown male Kindred just inside the doors and Gabriel O'Brien along with the Gangrel meeting up just yards in front of her. Neither of them aware of her presence. For the moment.

Morrighan did a double take on the oblivious pair before her. [b:574097e1fd]THIS[/b:574097e1fd] wasn't the Ventrue she knew... and detested. This was something that looked and dressed like him but who's actions and gleeful smile were almost a mirror image of Porter's countenance. What the fuck was going on here? How could she have been mistaken...again?

What was wrong with her vision?

She shook her head violently, eyes blinking rapidly, tears forming. The whole place had suddenly spun and swam then sharpened, on an almost audible click, to the lounge's portals. Eyes rounding in stunned surprise as they took in the fact that their unidentified attackers were back in business. Hale, hearty and ready to strike again.

For the first time since Alekz had left her, and gifted her his legacy, the Maven woman trembled with a touch of desperation. What the shit had that hellish duo in front of her, having a male-bonding moment, gotten her into? Was this something that devil of a mage, Julius Darrant, had cooked up to eliminate any and all witnesses with? How had he found her; them? Why couldn't his minions have stayed dead?!!

Gabriel's query soaked in and she almost laughed hysterically. It shocked her that she could speak in such a normal tone of voice, [i:574097e1fd]"Oh, I can think of a few".[/i:574097e1fd] Porter's acid quip, thrown in her direction, blew past her as she continued to stare at the collective foe. Both men turned to look in the direction of her stare.

[i:574097e1fd]"What. The. Fuck?!”[/i:574097e1fd] She couldn't have agreed with a comment more.

Morrie took a deep breath and blew it out; an unnatural calm settling over her shoulders. Time for position assessment. Alright, since open flames didn't appear to be an option here, then perhaps those ghouls (or whatever they were), would find it very difficult to process orders and maintain themselves if they had no brains left. Without gray matter, they shouldn't be capable of skills, let alone disciplines.

She set her stance wide-legged, then centered her inner self into the floorboards beneath the soles of her boots, cradling her gun between suddenly rock steady hands. The oddly longish, slightly wider barrel brought to bear, straight between the eyes of the nearest target. Every bullet [b:574097e1fd]HAD[/b:574097e1fd] to count. She set her mind and focus to that one goal.

And preyed this would work.

((FUCK ME!

OOC: Quite,

As the battle began again he found himself backed into a corner, three of the hooded monstrosities, men hardly seemed appropriate any more, blades drawn closed in.
“Aha… so gents, how should we do this? Queensberry Rules?” He calmly removed and folded his jacket placing it behind him as the things looked at one another, shrugging in obvious confusion. These men, no matter what ever their preternatural nature were about to learn a, often quite literally, once in a life time lesson; never, ever, ever back a Lasombra Kindred into a dark corner, you never know what will come out.

The shadows poured down over him, taking on form and substance, becoming part of him. The figure before the men had changed immeasurably. Inky black shade flittered across his alabaster skin, his face a mass of shadows and teeth and four writing tentacles of pure Night grew from the sides of his torso.
“Or perhaps not?” The voice to had changed, twisted and demonic in the extreme. Before the dark clad assailants could do more than raise their blades he stepped forward.

The tentacles extended, reaching the central man, even as his more natural arms grabbed the throats of the left and right assailants, lifting the central man high into the air and hurling him across the room it hit the far wall of the club face first. Twisting his grip he tore the throats clean out of the other men.

More shadows poured down to him, swirling around his feet and up, over and around his body in tenuous wisps of darkness.
“Now, lets get this party started!” He grinned, across the room though he saw a horrible motion as the things arms popped back into their sockets and the neck twisted back to a natural angle. Grimacing he turned around slowly to see two of the things slowly getting to their feet, rubbing their throats like a kine with a cough. Interlacing his fingers he cracked his knuckles.
“Right then… Lets see exactly how much you can heal shall we.” With a demonic laugh he charged…

((sorry, but as GM i have certain rights and responsibilities to my NPCs :twisted:

The punch had certainly been a good one. The bone in his jaw had crumbled into so many bits and pieces, held in place by tissue and little more. The skin sagged and dipped strangely and Gabriel found his ire rising as he was forced to expend yet more blood to heal.

The annoyance was compounded by the fact that his attacker was still coming. The kindred dodged the blows as best he could, counterstriking when the opportunities arose. His fists found their targets solid and nearly unshakeable.

[i:276e26da50]Christ...these guys are like steel...[/i:276e26da50]

Suddenly he was distinctly aware of a presence behind him, and pivoted on his heels, his gladii swinging in tight archs toward a fatal blow. He managed to turn just in time to see the white hot flash that erupted from the gun barrell that sent a bullet searing through the soft flesh of his throat. Crimson strings covered his opponent as he stumbled backwards, his vision blurred.

He healed again, pallid flesh reconnecting as he hit the floor with a roll backwards. His arm snapped and one of the short Roman swords whistled through the air and embedded itself in the gunman's gut. Meanwhile, the other cultist had taken advantage of Gabriel's distraction and arrived behind the Ventrue.

A pair of rock solid arms wrapped themselves around the Ventrue's unwounded, yet still blood drenched neck. The grip quickly tightened, and already he could feel tendons and veins snapping internally. Air was not an issue, but his head being pulled from his body might be. The other gladius whipped up over his shoulder and slid cleanly into the catlike face and Gabriel instantly felt the warm liquid spill onto his shoulder and the arms slacken. His slid from under their grip and wrenched the blade from the mangled face, pulling bits of bone and blood along with it.

He sprinted past his other opponent, who was on his knees tugging at the blade that protruded awkwardly from his torso. Eager to help as always, Gabriel snatched the hilt and pulled, reveling in the spraying red myst that followed. His opponents temporarily incapacitated, Gabriel leapt high over the fray, returning to the relative safety of the catwalk.

There was clearly a Lasombra in their midst. The shadows attacked with inky tendrils from all sides, gouging and striking their opponents with impunity. Bodies flew and tumbled as the unseen attacker had it's way. The fire had devoured the long tapestries and velvet curtains that had once adjourned the walls. Showers of red hot ash spiraled through the air in great illuminating patterns and flames grew higher and higher. Before Gabriel's very eyes the shadows shrunk from the great expanse of darkness that had occupied the nightclub to a few remote crevices.

The cultists moved in on the Lasombra, now deprived of the darkness' protection. Gabriel watched the figure converge on the lithe kindred...

An odd [i:276e26da50]pop[/i:276e26da50] rang out and by the time Gabriel identified the source, another cultist had fallen, his head hollow and brain matter spattered in a chunky trail behind him. A female figure, slight and nearly unnoticeable amidst the carnage, held an unusual looking gun at eye level and was frantically searching for another target. It was the weapon that Gabriel instantly recognized as the one that had nearly taken his head off earlier.

The Toreador Alois seemed to be coming to against the wall, and had the distinct advantage of apparently being counted out by the attackers. His bloody face was distorted with pain as he sat up.

Porter's warcry signaled his surrender to the frenzy. The old dog had returned to what had been born into even as a man. Bullets perferated him and chunks of skin were being torn off in great peels, but did not seem to hinder him in the slightest. Cultists fell without throats, eyes, limbs, and entrails, only to stand. The floor was undetectable beneath the massive amounts of blood and carnage on which they slipped and slid in a clumsy, sloppy battle.

Gabriel focused in on the fallen cultists. They were motionless, vacant animalistic eyes rolled back and blank. Then without apparent explanation or effort, their wounds healed and life or function returned to them. Gabriel grimaced. They weren't healing themselves.

[i:276e26da50]"They're being healed by someone else!!! You can't kill them!!!"[/i:276e26da50] Gabriel's rang like a pindrop in a thunderstorm. The chaos of battle never even registered it. With increasing desperation, he watched as the three cultists he had dispatched himself only moments before righted themselves and peered hungrily up towards the catwalk.

((alrighty kids. one more fight post per participant should do it. remember, they're pretty much indestructable...so far as they'll just get back up. sorry to take liberties with the characters, but these guys aren't meant to be beaten. So fight away, and then I have a way to end this particular conflict...
:twisted: :twisted: :twisted: :twisted: :twisted: :twisted:

Finally, the darkness receded, and the pain returned. It was a dull thud in his mind and through his limbs now, no more as he forced himself to remain motionless and let the blood that he had left course through his veins – as sweet as life itself, and far more invigorating. The flames still crackled, casting disturbing patterns over his blood-caked face that had moments before been the very mask of anguish. He rose slowly, a low growl issuing between his lips. He was in tatters: wounded, weaponless and without his bodyguard. But no, this Toreador wouldn't be going down without a fight.

He launched himself forwards – one of the things turned, followed by another. The two came at him, separating up to come from two angles. Alois gave a sniff at their cowardice – and reacted. Feigning to the left and causing the first to flinch with those frighteningly fast reactions, he turned and dived onto the second – an angel of death. One hand came slicing down – blocked as expected by a steely arm, sinews stretching, yet holding. Alois smiled a devil's smile, and, pumping more blood into his veins, leapt. The enemy below him acted as the perfect bracer – he was hurled high, over the catwalk, and... bang.

Iron-hard fingers plunged into the weak plaster of the ceiling at the same time as his feet. Dust exploded around him, showering his surprised enemies below. They shared a glance – hands went to pockets. A glint of steel. Alois' eyes widened, and he moved, pushing one hand into the ceiling further away, rapidly pulling himself across the surface, still dripping a macabre mix of both his enemies' and his own blood. Like a mockery of a spider he scrambled across the ceiling as his enemies opened fire, sparks and plaster flying. Yet he moved, too fast for a real aim, scuttling back and forth – chilling laughter dancing on the air in his wake.

And then, the first one leapt. Powerful fists came, lashing out for the surprised Toreador; who's face quickly melted into a bizarre bland of sadistic humour. [i:d32ee3a965]Very well...[/i:d32ee3a965] One deadly hand gripped his foe's wrist – a smoothly raised eyebrow reflecting in the bestial, glaring eyes. And then, with a sudden tug, he was hurled up, his arm wrenched from it's socket with a decided click and a grunt: straight into the ceiling. The weak plaster shattered, sizeable chunks exploding against the ground. For a second the broken form of the thing hung against the ceiling, framed by dust and blood. And then it fell to the ground with a sickening crunch.

His comrade offered the thing's corpse a momentary glance, before averting it's gaze back to their target. But... he was gone. Where he was only plain, whitewashed ceiling remained. His eyes narrowed, his head swaying from side to side... and then the gentle words reached his sharp, cat-like ears. He froze.

“Tut tut, young man. Did your father never tell you never to look away from your enemy?”

He span round – too late. He met only the foot of the sharp roundhouse kick that lashed from what seemed to be the pure darkness of a corner. He swung backwards, a bizarre rag doll, flopping backwards along the ground... and into the hungry flames. He leapt up, screaming, as the fire took hold. He struggled from the licking flames as they engulfed him, burning his clothes to a crisp and scorching his flesh beyond human repair.

“Yes!” Came the cold tones of Alois as he circled the struggling figure, the death-lights of his foe throwing monstrous patterns across his ghostly face, “Dance! [i:d32ee3a965]Dance![/i:d32ee3a965]”

“Ahhh” Herman gave a shattered smile and a nervous laugh to the encircling things. “Oh, you chaps knew that was just a bit of fun right? How about giving a fellow a head start eh?” One hood turned slowly from side to side as they raised their blades as one.
“Thought not.” the Kindred said wistfully as he backed away.

Feeling the bump of his back against the wall as steel web closed in, he felt the scuff of his jacket beneath his foot… So back where he started then. Out of the frying pan and into the preverbal it seems. He could, he supposed, change form and slip out a silent shadow. But there was far to much fire around for that and cowardice was hardly the way to deal with new friends was it? Just one other real option then…
“Well its been, what do you Yanks say? ‘Swell’” The quotation marks were audible. [i:9789cdf999]Wait for it… [/i:9789cdf999]“But I really must be going, places to go, people to drink, you know how life is?” [i:9789cdf999]Now![/i:9789cdf999]

He slipped his right foot back and whipped it forwards and upwards. The jacket hit one of them clear in the face, wrapping around his head, the charcoal material looked enough like a shadow for the things to suspect some new form of attack. In a split second the Lasombra charged, this though was no warriors charge this was far closer to a American Football or Rugby players charge. He hit the jacket headed thing squared in the chest with his shoulder. Running out into the open, lines of pain opening down his back as he felt the parting gifts of his assailants.

Shouting above the Melee he called to the assembled Kindred.
“As fun as this is, perhaps we should concede this one and regroup?” Even as he finished a hooded figure leapt out of the flames, blade raised high. Herman slammed an uppercut into the things chest sending it across the bar, moments later another came to meet the same fate. But he couldn’t keep this up all night and it was only a matter of moments before they charged on mass… Or the place burnt down around their ears.