Fantasy ••• ℬяιтαηηιcα ℒσsт ••• | [O/A]

[legalrehab]

S E I K O 島崎清子

alias: Kirin

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WHERE: Residential District Streets
WITH: Templar Artillery
DOING: Combat
CREDIT: Inesanemona
PLAYLIST: Winter's Nocturne

He held out his left palm to the wind, it’s warm-embrace upon such dark and green colored skies meant ill for the city of New Orleans. The warming tendrils of wind against the cool currents of the sea meant a monsoon was upon him. Odd, how comforting could the chaos of such brutal weather be? While nature ravaged the land below it, it droned out the noises of any voice in his head and reminded him of the comfort of his own mortality. While the world strives for order, was Seiko someone who felt solace in that which could not be controlled? As he breathed in the scent of rain, he felt the droplets fall upon his fingers. His ears began to deafen to all but the roaring anticipation of the storm.

Words formed within his head, as he spoke them in his native tongue.



“Thunder faintly cries away
Blankets of mossy cloud
The rain may start it’s dance
Will you stay by me?
...
Thunder faintly cries away.
Should the rain not dance,
I will be here,
Still counting the days"



The poetic words calmed him in mediation, after spending the entirety of the day filling his mind with the words of others it was as if his brain could not stop reading books that weren’t there. He wondered if he had read these words somewhere or should the thoughts have been purely his own? He let the thought go. As the sky darkened, the streets lit up and the allure of the New Orleans nightlife began.

Or so it would have.

Those were not the call of storms he was hearing, but gunfire. It was distant, but it was followed by a brilliant flare of white light. This did not bode well for the fallen samurai, a cold shiver ran throughout his spine, the same sort of panic when realizing something may have happened that cannot be undone. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this panic and honestly, he didn’t care to remember. Regret overcame him.

No, Seiko thought to himself, please say Jack isn’t anywhere near this. Please say he’s at the manor with Maeve. He balled up his hands into fists, he couldn’t stand not knowing. He was so foolish. Though he knew his gut was telling him if he was wrong he wouldn’t have to beg for fates to change the answer. He tried to make sure he wasn’t in a dream, anything at all to ensure this was not the fate to be delivered.

However, he knew as well as anyone that there was no changing fate.

“Templars…” Maeve’s call filled his thoughts, it was faint but without a doubt it was her. “The docks… They’re after Jack!”

He cursed himself for being ill-prepared, he bore no weapons upon him. He was off-duty afterall, and not being prepared to be called in was his first mistake. Damnit, you even thought about this before you left. He gritted his teeth as he remembered looking at the bulky katana propped up beside his doorway before leaving his bedroom and thought, No I don’t need that unless I’m being paid. He typically kept a lightweight weapon upon him but the last travel weapon he had was broken when he shattered it into the ground defending Jack that short time ago. Finding his preferred weapons in this coastal American town was nigh impossible, the best he could find were decorative curios outside of a traveling Japanese merchant ship.

"When this fight is over," he muttered to himself, "I’m going to need a smith."

The situation left him with little option. His home was too far away from Maeve’s call to risk a venture for equipment. There would be no getting to Jack in time- but if he couldn’t get to him he would make sure no one else could either. As he reached for his hair to remove his “Collar” hairpin, he channeled back to Maeve only hoping she could hear his voice in return.

“Maeve. Get him somewhere safe, I will hold the line.”

Seiko lunged forward as his body became the Kirin. His hair fell down around his face and grew to cover him in black leathery skin. Gravity seemed to swell around him and a swath of macabre shadows overtook his form. His veins bulge from every muscle, his skin washed over to become pale as snow and his body jeered in convulsion growing larger with each heave. His blood ran black, cold as the northern arctic and rejoiced in the thunder above.

The Kirin leaned his head back and brought up his icy cloven hooves, the ground below him crackled under the weight of the beast. He reared upward and brandished his antlers proudly, sturdy as steel. He opened his senses to experience the world no longer as human but as beast. His sight became clearer, he did not often get a chance to live in this other self these days, and he had never brandished his form upon the streets so openly either. It felt vivid to be a beast again. He never felt as free as he did when running upon four hooves.

He could hear an unfamiliar hum emanating from the streets as he galloped toward the conflict.It was a heavy whirring he had never heard before. Something unnatural and mechanical. He followed it’s sound while storming through the crowded streets. The pedestrians of human and inhuman alike parted like water as he dashed down each road. The ground continued to break upon the force of each stride, the sounds of panicked civilians was hushed by the presence of cackling gunpowder and thunder. It was apparent that these streets were about to get bloody. His eyes scanned for threats along the way, which was easily done as the only threat was anyone who was not actively running away from him

The threat was impossible to miss, the templars had sent out their troops in steam trucks. it was not just one mechanical abomination but several. They belonged to several Iron-clad vehicles, prowling upon the roads like sentinels delivering soldiers to fight. Inside each vehicle lied women and men awaiting their orders to emerge and lend arms to war. The Templars were certainly armed to the teeth, and he had no doubt that inside each vehicle was a springload of bloodthirsty soldiers waiting to kill him on sight.

They were like impenetrable little beetles, moving slowly to tip the scales in the favor of the templars. The more numbers they had the easier their fight would be as unlike the beasts and vampires of this city, they had no reason to preserve other lives around them. Seiko and his comrades fought amongst carefully placed steps, while these cowards would have free reign to terrorize wherever was needed. It was immediately apparent, as they drove recklessly to their destinations moving past anyone who would stand in their way effortlessly.

The beasts may have had no iron caravan like the Templars, but they had him - they had the Kirin. Seiko reigned up his cloven limbs and kicked back in preparation. His primal instincts took over and he prepared to fight for the territory he now called home and the safety of his new companions. If he could not have them bear witness to his efforts, he would make sure they would feel it. The road ended here, whatever brave souls lied await within those iron boxes would need to repentance now - Death had arrived.

He roared in fury, and lept upon the closest tank, coming into full impact of the nearest sentinel’s iron roof.

They will not be getting past me.

 

[Luxura]

​

Hello lovelies!

All of us involved in Britannica Lost would like to extend our deepest appreciation to the RPN community for helping us reach 10k views (on our 100th post to boot!). We have only been open for five months, and for us, this is amazing! We didn’t expect to garner so much attention!

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In the meantime, with recent news of the discontinuation of BBCode+, there will be lots of formatting changes over the next few weeks. We appreciate all the hard work of our friends @constellation and @christy for their beautiful work on our Character Sheets and Post Formats, and cannot wait to use them again in the future. Please bear with us as we update our codes, but we will do our best to keep everything as fluid as possible.

From the bottom of our hearts, thank you again!

​

 

[Crazy Trey-n]

Dominick Durham

Goliath

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WHERE: The Docks
DOING: Attempting Futile Negotiation
WITH: A Brave Little Lass & Co.
CREDIT: WIP

Running at such lengths had never been one of Dominick's strengths. The bite of a cramp had begun to sink its fangs into his left leg. Stitches were already digging deeply into his side. Had it not been for the insurmountable summit of his determination or the urgency of the task at hand, he would have stopped for a breather, braced himself against a wall for some much needed support, and lamented over his refusal to train endurance while on the ship (having been scolded due to a jog through the halls of Paradise that 'threatened to throw them off course'). Instead, he trekked on, preparing himself to wade as carefully as he was able through the obstruction of a busy street ahead while coming to a realization that he'd been attempting to put off for some time.

"I think I'm beginning to grow too old for this sort of thing."

Earlier on, while walking beside Alexei under the fixed stares of a committed crowd, the priest had been content with daydreaming about what it might have been like to walk the same streets as just another one of its citizens. He'd remained oblivious for a few moments after the Russian wandered off, only becoming aware of the trio and their identities when his comrade first spoke. Soon after came controversial names. Then there was the flare. The rest had quickly become history, a blur of people and streets flying by, of reluctant shoving and battered stalls and hastily murmured apologies as the chase began. The two had split up after the group passed through an alleyway far too narrow for either of them to fit through. He'd been running, wavering between a world of thought and the one cascading with rain around him, ever since.

The Harpy and 'The Key'. There'd been fewer sermons in the past few months than briefings on those who'd escaped the Templars in a war he hadn't yet been a part of, so their descriptions were facts he knew well. Despite not being familiar with the third they were company to, a young woman of smaller stature, he was sure that the trio had noticed them long before Cain had chosen to condemn them and make their presence official. One would have to be entirely ignorant not to notice his stature, Alexei's suit, or at the very least the small convoy that had been following them wherever they went like herd dogs on sheep. Still, he'd need to have a word with the kid over the concept of tact sometime. Even Dom knew better than to offer anyone of such importance the possibility to slip away.

Then again, Cain did seem prone to causing trouble whenever he was able.

The present renewed itself when he barreled past the last cluster of people, startling a gathering of teenagers who'd been smoking on the street corner, and stepped out onto the soaking wooden boards of what seemed to be a dock. A rather large warehouse stood between him and the river, leaving little room for movement or places to hide. He'd made it to water as his other half had so graciously asked him to. Now where was-

There.

They emerged as flickering, flitting shapes through the gloom on the other end of the dock, three figures followed by another that shined through the night with the glow on its chest. Dominick abruptly began to bolt across the boardwalk at a sprint to cut them off on the other end, and it seemed he hadn't been a second too soon - the instant that he rounded the corner, the three of them came to halt, coaxed by the Harpy herself. Without missing a beat, Cain once more taunted the trio and fired off another flare, and Dom advanced slowly forward, forcing himself to remain silent in order to observe the trio while the opportunity was still available.

Jackson Fletcher. The briefings that The Sisters and The 84th had sat through time and again lent very little information on why this particular man was 'The Key', and in Dominick's very own opinion, painted him in a very different light than the monster that the Templars seemed to portray him as. There very well could be demons lurking beneath his skin, but then and there, Jack looked like just another human being with a story to tell; nothing more than a haggard man with tired eyes and a sudden desire to no longer run.

Maeve Donovan. She stepped forward with all the nonchalant pomp of a diplomat and shot quips right back at Cain that would have him snickering had they not been on opposite sides. This one was exactly as she'd been described: blonde, buxom and bold, a vixen without any disguise. Beneath all of that, however, he knew there was a woman centuries older than himself with experience that far exceeded his own. He wouldn't be foolish enough to underestimate her should things come to blows.

And then there was the pipsqueak. At first she didn't seem like much, until the moment she opened her mouth and spewed fire that he'd not have suspected her capable of. It was admirable, though it did hurt to be associated with the things she spoke of. Vile monsters that took lives, if not prisoners, and tortured them? Was that what the Templars were known for among the werebeasts? The accusations were more than enough to stop him in his tracks, finding that he had stepped close enough to be bathed in the glow of Cain's suit. He raised a steady hand, face twisted with grim attentiveness.

"I - we - don't want to hurt anyone here," he spoke sternly, being careful not to allow his tone to come off as aggressive. "There's no need to shed blood, nor do we need anyone here to lose their life for the sake of a fight that could be prevented."

Dom knew just as well as the rest of them that reinforcements would be on their way to the site of the flare and should be arriving fairly soon. All they had to do was stall long enough for them to swoop in, or by some miracle get the trio to stand down before the situation took a turn for the worse. He much preferred the latter... though the Harpy's words, the sound of something swiftly approaching, and knowing that Cain wasn't much of a patient negotiator were details that proved to be faintly discouraging.

"Please, stand down and we can settle this before matters grow worse than they need to. I'd rather none of us have to see what may happen, for your sake just as much as ours."

 

[nighteyes]

Esther Asturias

SHERWOOD

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WHERE: The docks
WITH: Jack, Maeve, Nascha, co and too many Templars for comfort
DOING: (ง'̀-'́)ง
CREDIT: Charlie Bowater

“On me?” Esther echoed, brows lifting by a fraction as she looked to her companion for affirmation. Then she directed her attention to the mannequin in question, the one clad in a gown of layers so airy as to seem spun from gossamer and starlight.

The outermost was sheer, the color of skies at gloaming and draped in swaths over a sheath of paler blue that shone silver with embroidery. In an absent, purely instinctive gesture that spoke of underlying reverence, Esther's hand ventured to her cheek. She said nothing at all as she appraised the painstaking detail. When her eyes flickered over the gown for a second time she became pensive, drawn away by her thoughts. Had Cassandra not planted the idea, Esther would not have considered it for herself; now that idea was there to stay, and what would come to pass if it laid roots?

“I've not worn anything so fine in a very long time,” she conceded, quietly, as though saying so were the passing on of a secret. When she spoke again, humor played at the fringes of her eyes. “So long ago that might as well have been another woman, really. But... even so, I've a sudden notion to do something daring. Would that I could, had the sign read open for us. All the more reason to return, wouldn't you say?”

She had thought only of the gown's loveliness at first glance. Before she could catch herself with reason, she had imagined the garment nestled safely away in the cedar-scented embrace of her armoire. Not as practical as her woolen traveling cloak, to be sure, but just as cherished, albeit in a different way. Never mind that she hadn't the foggiest when or where she would wear it, or how the touch of fine silk could feel wildly foreign to her now, akin to a mortal slipping into the shed feathered skin of a swan-maiden.

To have stirring notions before a dress shop's display window was new-feeling, but they played into a pattern of late. Take her place of residence, for one: she could have set down her trunk in a boarding house or a hotel, and had she not chanced upon the townhouse in Bywater, she may very well have. Standing at the rusted rear gate that led into a wall-enclosed courtyard strewn with dead leaves, she had peered through the bars to take stock of the house's weathered countenance. Her mind was made in a moment's time.

When swept away by spontaneity in years past, expenses on herself had never been a king's ransom by any stretch of the imagination. In her sphere, to purchase a property on whim alone was extraordinary. She found herself at a loss for what this could be attributed to: a change in environment, or a change within oneself? Then she mulled over how she had rejoiced in dipping a foot into the things she had not experienced in many years. The giving of her name—her true name—and hearing it put to voice again and again, encountering all manner of people, and setting her cares aside for just a little while for nights on the town. By her reckoning, both had a hand in it.

Further still, were all these things that another woman in an other life would have been more given to? Try as she might Esther could not quite remember, but silently, secretly, she put forth a question she had never before asked of herself: if this was not so much a transfiguration as it was an unearthing.

“Your company has been a boon this evening. You've an eye and an instinct for this,” she announced to her companion. With warmth kindled in her features by a renewed smile, she added, “And I've an inkling that romping about America is well and truly reviving my taste for adventure. I'd lost sight of that for a spell.”

Walking arm in arm they left the darkened storefront behind, nudged along by the weather. The skies had been lowering all that evening, a promise and a warning. She had felt a few speckles on the crown of her head upon first setting foot outside her house, and things had taken a turn. The mist that had been descending slantwise through the glow of the streetlamps had turned to a steady and persistent drizzle. It pattered all round them and on every rooftop, and the wet street held a polished luster.

When she tipped her head back with eyes closed, she found the moisture settling upon her face pleasantly warm. Here and there in the midst of errand-running Esther had overheard talk of the rains to come. This was to be a deluge, though to her ear none seemed particularly ruffled by the weather reports. This was old hat for a city accustomed to storms, and she was beginning to glean a better sense for its people from walking among them: possessed of a zeal for life, and not without mettle. A mingling of virtues that she found very estimable, and one that she aspired to.

Esther guided her to shelter under eaves, and as they walked, she looked out on the runnels that fell from the gutters. She was unused to this kind of familiarity, especially with new acquaintances, but she did not dislike it. This was earning her callouses, she supposed. “Tis a shame we happened by that shop too late,” she mused, giving Cassandra's wrist a tentative pat with a gloved hand. Not the first shuttered shop that evening, either, and by her reckoning, better luck would be had on livelier streets. Where was the fun in seeing everything there was to see of a place all in one go? But that was for another night. She could have pressed on perusing windows, yet the thought of finding refreshment and resting awhile was very alluring. This city would unfold itself in its own time, and if it kept a few secrets clasped close, all the better.

“As far as bars go, I can think of one to recommend,” she offered to Cassandra's interest. Not the whole truth; there was another. The issue was not exactly with the establishment itself, but what those four walls had played host to. Even here, over a fortnight later, she almost flushed to think of the whole business of fending off the forward fellow. Best to skirt all mention when there was a risk of being recognized there; that unfortunate incident was very last thing she wished to be known for. “Lively, to be sure; never a dull moment! You will find the Brass Canine takes all kinds. Not far, though we could go by streetcar.”

Farther down the street, a woman was sweeping a child into her arms. The boy, keen on some point in the distance over her shoulder, was imploring to stay and watch the fireworks; his mother paid him no heed, striding briskly in the opposite direction.

Bemused, brows quirking slightly with interest, Esther cast a glance at Cassandra before following the path of the boy's gaze. She was guided to a light that had just risen beyond the city canopy. That must have been what transfixed him so, but what an odd display it was. There was only one, and the weather seemed poorly suited for...

Her train of thought went unfinished and spiraled away, lost. Esther came to a halt at Cassandra's side.

Recognition passed over her expression, a curtain drawn, and with it all color and geniality fled from her face. Her lips began to move as though making to speak, but then they stilled again, and she remained silent. For a beat she stood unmoving, transfixed, and then she slipped away from the other woman. Her feet ventured several steps forward of their own accord, her wide-eyed stare pinned on the skies.

How could this be? If they were here, she knew of only one cause. Understanding fell upon her heavier than a blow, and she was nearly winded. Inner turmoil was laid bare across Esther's features for all to behold: distress and disbelief mingled in the crinkling of her brow, but in their midst, there was a glimmer of something else altogether. Her jaw shifted; a muscle in her cheek tensed, and then released. A decision was made, a mind loosed and setting to work like a tripped snare.

She turned back, remembering Cassandra's presence at her side. “I must take my leave of you.” Her voice was hushed with urgency, and she spoke quickly. The wicker basket of groceries was pressed into the woman's arms, but not before several parcels bound in brown paper and twine were drawn from its depths. “My thanks to you, Miss Caldecott. I cannot bring this with me, and it would be a sad thing if these quality goods went to waste. And please—”

Esther leveled her gaze with hers, earnest and intent. “Do keep your wits about you. I fear the streets will not be safe tonight.”

She did not tarry any longer, bidding the woman goodbye over her shoulder as she made a swift departure. Sprinting with abandon toward the disturbance in the skies, her stride went unbroken when she reached down to take hold of her gown's hem. She drew up her skirt over legs clad in trousers and sheathed twin blades to knot it sash-like about her waist, the parcels tucked within for safekeeping.

Let me be mistaken in this, she thought. A plea, a prayer. She would certainly dissolve into laughter if nothing was amiss. In that moment she wanted nothing more than to be wrong, to be a silly woman who started at shadows and glimpsed threats in innocent things, yet in a visceral recess of her being she knew her fears were on the mark.

Blame first turned inward rather than to the enemy, for having been taken so unawares, for thinking there was time yet to breathe. A sea's vastness once held the danger at bay, and she had allowed herself to draw too much comfort from the distance. To put it plain, being away from the thick of world affairs had blunted her. But hindsight was infallible, and there was no time to spare on shame.

The guttering signal flare was descending overhead, a languorous and ill-omened falling star above the French Quarter. Esther swept and shouldered through the crowds that eddied beneath, walking against the grain. The city of New Orleans was unversed to what had been the norm in Londontown, and to think of bedlam in her streets of color and light grieved her to pain. With a soothsayer's surety she knew what was coming, and in turn, she was helpless to prevent a thing.

When displaced Londonians looked upon these these armored soldiers and their fires in the sky, did they think of Cheapside? Of flame-wreathed ruination and of reaching pillars of smoke, blacker than pitch? Language could not find proper purchase on the unspeakable; some things could not be perfectly known unless seen and felt. A tether of communion was strung between those who had.

Her eyes swept the throng, flitting from face to face and never lingering. She resisted that inclination, natural as it was. A commotion had transpired here mere moments ago, leaving palpable confusion and unease in its wake, and she expected to see both mirrored in the faces around her. She searched on, to no avail, and his name leapt to her mouth in a shout. It was drowned out in the din, and she saw neither hide nor hair of him.

Out of the many voices that swelled around her, she drew piecemeal whispers and murmurings of a shorn-headed man with a lamp in his breast, and of another, a fellow almost tall enough to crack his head on the moon. They had taken up a chase, but to where? After whom? She scoured the talk for any useful scrap. A voice of authority—a policeman?—was appealing to passerby for an eyewitness account of what had transpired.

Upon breaking free from the hustle and bustle, the trail was thrown into sharper clarity. She moved with all haste. The pursuit was faint to her ears; the weather was not to her advantage, muddling noise and scent alike, and she was pressed to strain her senses. She had not caught sight of them yet but she was not far behind, tracing the path of their flight.

She had been struck with the idea of following by way of rooftop and had decided against it. Her feet knew the canopy of Londontown best, and she had not traversed that way in a long while.

Without preamble, there came a cascade of petals from above. She looked up, blinking and sweeping them from the crown of her head, when a face appeared over a balcony's wrought iron railing. The young woman's apology barely registered, for the broad-headed broom in her hands had claimed Esther's attention fully.

“Pardon,” she said, stepping forward, her eyes flickering hopefully between her face and the broom, “May I have a look at that?”

“You mean... this, ma'am?” replied the woman, befuddled by the request. Esther nodded in encouragement, hands outstretched.

The broom was cast down without fanfare. Graciously she judged its weight in her hands, considering. The balance was not what she was accustomed to, but this was manageable. She'd had to be resourceful in fixes before. “How sturdily made this is,” she remarked aloud, and with fondness. Then she clasped it close and said, “I need this. It's a matter of urgency.”

“Wait,” began the woman, a little frantic, “Please, wait just a minute—”

“Juliette?” came a sharp voice from within the residence. At this they both grew still, exchanging startled glances. “Have you finished tending the bower and the balcony? And who in the Sam Hill are you speaking with, girl?”

“Yes, ma'am. Nobody, ma'am,” answered Juliette, anxiously smoothing her hands over her pinafore, though it looked freshly starched. A housemaid.

A high keening sounded in the near distance, and Juliette started, but Esther did not. She need not look to know it belonged to a telltale light, twin to the first.

“Here!” Esther cast up her coin purse. The other woman caught it between her palms with a clap, wearing an expression of perfect surprise. “Cover the broom, with interest, to placate the dragon lady of the house—but the rest is yours for the trouble.” As she hurried away, she called out, “A thousand apologies from the poor man's Montague!”

She turned down an alley. Walls enclosed on either side and a ribbon of sky lay above, the second flare briefly within her sights before winking out. Petrichor welled up from the pavement beneath her boot heels, heady as perfume, and there was a charge to the air that could almost be tasted. That of the storm, or the hunt? This was so familiar feeling, so similar to another alley—

Her breath caught in her throat.

The veil that parted past and present had thinned to near nothingness in the span of a blink. Something pressed against it and took shape, drawing close, and memory rushed over her unbidden as it had not done for some time.

Blood on her tongue, not hers—cold cobbles at her back—rain filling her chest, it would not cleanse her, nothing ever could—

Recoiling, she stumbled in her retreat out of the alley's yawning mouth and into the light. Her heart had taken up the rhythm of her thoughts, set to pounding against its confines within her breast. Turning quickly away, she forced herself on down the thoroughfare that ran adjacent.

You mustn't let me harm anyone else. Don't let them find me, I beg of you.

Those were the first words she'd spoken to the man who happened upon her in the street so long ago, after she woke to being swaddled in his warm tweed coat. The lapel was so very near to her face and scented of many things: smoking tobacco, aged paper, and, faintest among them, the sea. She had nearly forgotten what they smelled like. What a comfort that had been, a candle's flame on the darkest of nights; she clung to that even now, because if she were to remember, she would do so in the way of her choosing.

On my honor, I swear to it, Thomas Weaver had said, You are safe.

Conviction rang true in the voice of that perfect stranger, for he would prove himself a man of his word and far more. Was it by a wonderous working of chance that he chose to step out of his carriage that night, or had some other force been at play? All movement stirred the world in some way; just as a stone cast into a lake would send ripples across the surface, so too was his untainted kindness felt across time.

When a man from London found her, she had been walking the shores of Kewstoke. Another borrowed coat was about her shoulders, the hem of her bedgown drifting in the shallow waves that swept over her bare feet. She had welcomed him into the house. Truthfully she was a reticent hostess, unused to receiving guests and equally uncertain of his company. But she had been gripped by a compulsion to not only help him seek passage across the sea, but also to see him safe, to see him find his footing again.

I will see you to America, she had said to Jack Fletcher, I swear to it.

Promises both spoken and silent were everlastingly on her mind as she peered out through the rain to take stock of the scene unfolding on the waterfront. Amidst the tumbling sprawl of an open air market, a copse of stalls and stands, she stood sentinel in a quiet and far-flung end. Activity all round was ebbing, thrown into disarray by the downpour and the disturbance near to hand. The brickwork edifice of a shipment storing house was to her left, and she kept near to it. Her gaze was unwavering on the expanse of boardwalk over a serpentine bend of the river that served as an artery of world trade.

In her looking, far more care was paid to the three huddled at one end of the dock with their backs to the water. Hillocks of barrels and crates peeped out from swaths of tarp, waiting to be spirited away to destinations unknown, and a warehouse perhaps intended for their processing loomed close. The dark shapes of moored vessels listed, stirred by the river's restless waters below. A place of beginning, of passage, and she could think of no better stepping stone to leap once again into the fray.

She had been away for too long.

A hand ventured to the crook of her elbow. Esther's palm briefly pressed to it, to the length of faded ribbon tucked far into her sleeve. Her step had faltered on this path but she had never forgotten, not once. She would cleave to her vow.

Every fiber in her limbs a tremulous and taut bow-string, she removed her shawl. The floral challis unfurled and snapped on the wind, proud as any banner of war; it was drawn over her head of near-black hair, then secured and arranged to conceal the lower half of her face. She took her new and very formidable makeshift weapon in hand.

“If you should happen upon a stick,” she said aloud, affecting levity as she slipped into Castilian to reach for one of her father's proverbs, “Build a cottage.” Her shoulders were tilted forward, hawkish and betraying intent. The roll of a thunderclap shuddered and reverberated in her chest, rousing her to action.

She sprung. Her willowy form streaked through the rain-threaded gloom on lissome legs; the ground flew and turned to a blur beneath her feet. A sidelong glance had informed her of the northman's arrival, and though he was undeniably a one man army on the field, she reckoned he might fare better with support. She veered in at an angle toward her quarry: the shorn-headed fellow, the shorter of the two. His back was to her, his figure limned by the glow of the lamp in his breast.

Bounding over pavement and then boardwalk slat, her heels rarely dropped earthward in her haste. Her footfalls, quick and light, were well masked by weather she now used to her best advantage. Out of her knotted skirt she had extracted a parcel of brown paper. Her thumb slipped beneath the twine, working it loose. Her voice then lanced the downpour, sharp with unflinching command.

“Six o'clock, tin soldier!”

With a flick of the wrist the parcel flew from her grasp, and she bid her aim be true.

To match your frock, the sundry shop boy had remarked earlier that evening, and they two had shared a laugh. That was why she chose this very gown (she remembered the date suddenly, just shy of ten years, had it really been so long?); an enduring love of cinnamon in all its forms. So it did sadden her a little to cast this parcel bundled to brimming with the powdered spice at a man's face—but only a little, mind, and no more than that.

Her features were obscured, but her eyes, lambent through the dark of night, were unmistakable to those who knew them best. As they flickered toward the three on the dock, a gesture marked by reassurance, they shone as vividly as a woodland's verdant depths.

 

[Luxura]

Bjorn Thorburn

alias: Úlfhéðnar

health bar

WHERE: Brass Canine -> Docks
WITH: Kenna -> Company
DOING: Sizing up the opponent
CREDIT: Aenaluck
PLAYLIST: Coming Soon

​

Dusk and dawn had become two of Bjorn’s more favourite moments in the days since the sun’s rebirth. They were oftentimes beautiful; soft and pillowy clouds, drawn long across the horizon in hues of rose and honey as the golden orb bid welcome to the morn or nodded off to rest with a haze of dew upon the air. Other times, much like this night, it was cool and hidden beyond thick, blackening cloud coverage; bellies hanging low as they tread threads of rain ever closer to the city’s core.

What he warmed to most, however, was that the world seemed to come alive to both. After over 800 years of observation, the beast had seen the world of mortals create time where none was present by the passing of the sun and moon. Still, they would go to bed after dinner and be well asleep by midnight; plenty well dreaming through the witching hour.
But it was here in the city of New Orleans that the rules were squashed under the heels of immortals trapped by the powerful burning glow of the sun. Vampires-- huddled away in their darkened homes, swaddled like babes away from a stray beam of light that may have filtered through the cracks-- could now awaken in the twilight hours and the city would be there to cradle their every desire. A city of colour and lights to the likes he’d never seen before, bright enough to fool anyone that the sun still lingered high in the sky above even on the darkest of nights. Mortals and beasts alike may sleep as they choose-- and many did if only to take advantage of a massive clientele base. Many shops still worked from dusk till dawn, while others worked the opposite; and many more worked all hours with rotational staff to man them. Those businesses would flourish, and keep the city bustling through it all.

The Brass Canine was one of those said businesses; like a well-trusted lover-- always available and never unkind. At a slow and meandering pace, the brutish beast strolled down Frenchman Street; at his side, toddling gingerly along the fences that encased Washington Square, was his ward for the day. Casting a quick glance at Kenna as she utilized her youthful balance and grace, the faintest of smirks ghosted across his lips for a brief moment of reflection.

He had spent the entirety of his day with her. While he hadn’t been physically present for her outburst with Meave a few days prior, he *had* been lingering on the back porch when it happened and made himself scarce entirely in the aftermath.
When he returned in the early morning hours, Bjorn had been surprised as he climbed the front steps to find that Kenna had remained at the house well into the evening; longer than he (and admittedly she, too) had anticipated. The conversation had been sour, but the Ravenwoman had meant well in her intentions to right the wrongs the young beast had suffered in correlation with the fleeing of New Londontown. Bjorn couldn’t fault Maeve for trying, and it seemed somehow-- likely by the grace of the Writer, Jack Fletcher-- that Kenna had managed to weather the storm. That house was rank with depression, and it did little to linger in the essence of wallowing.
Knowing but a little more about the fiery girl that caught his eye, the Alpha knew not why he felt the inclination to do so, but as she made to sneak out that morning, the large Viking blocked her path; sitting in the middle of the steps and easily filling them with the broadness of his frame. He always followed his gut; it had never led him astray, and this morning, it was aching for her in a curious way. He offered her a walk, nothing more… Now, a morning, afternoon, and soon to be evening behind them, Bjorn knew not when the walk would end.
It was incredibly apparent the girl wanted to go; the way her eyes darted around after every sombre-laced chuckle, or the hesitation in her steps. To be fair, Bjorn wanted nothing more to be stalking the city alone… though with Maeve locked up in her house, there was little for the brute to tend to. Bjorn had few interests in the city and was not eager to stray far to partake in any that he’d enjoy-- nor interested in obtaining new ones. So, whatever curious tugging of his heart pulled him to spend time with the orphaned girl would have to suffice...

“So where are we going now anyway?”
Bjorn raised a brow to her, silently looking away down the street towards the pub, and she followed his gaze to find her answer, “Yeah, I don’t think they are going to let me in there. I’ve kind of been kicked out a few times.”
A hearty chuckle suddenly burst forth from the massive beast, breaking his usual silent tension, “Ah, you will find with the right company many doors will open for you.” His tone full and warm.

With a large, heavy hand, Bjorn held open the door for Kenna to slip in before him. The night was pressing on, but the rain hadn’t kept many from tending to their usual dives. A few steps into the dimly-lit establishment and the bartender for the evening looked their way. His eyes set first on Kenna, and immediately his countenance turned sour, a snarl of teeth as he approached the bar,
“Hey! I thought I told you-”
But he stopped the moment one of Bjorn’s hands fell to the teen’s shoulder, simultaneously pulling her closer against him and steering her towards the back of the room. The keeper’s eyes flicked up to meet the brute’s hardened, level leer, choking on the last of his words as they stumbled around his tongue,
“She’s with me.” he muttered, though his voice was loud enough to clearly be heard by the barkeep; who nodded slowly with a scowl and grimace.

He settled them down into a booth at the far back corner of the bar, shadowed and private enough not to be disturbed by onlookers, nor overheard by those playing cards or billiards nearby. Catching the barkeep’s eye once more, the man grumbled slightly and barked to one of the barmaids, who sauntered over with a hunger in her eyes as she licked over his frame.
He’d seen her once or twice before. Wasn’t his type, but she played well enough to his quirks that he was comfortable with her tending to his needs. For Kenna’s sake, he ignored her gaze until she noted the girl sitting across from him, almost startled by her unexpected presence.
Crossing his arms over his chest, he settled his eyes upon the young pup, “Tell her what you want. She knows what I want already,” There was some small hesitance from his ward, so he quickly added, “The Queen pays for everything.” A jovial snicker under his breath.
The maid smirked, her cheeks flushing slightly with a shift in her stance, taking an order of whatever Kenna desired to drink or eat and leaving them with a soft touch to Bjorn’s shoulder.

Finding themselves alone, Bjorn settled back comfortably into the plush, well-worn leather cushioning, casting his gaze away from Kenna and out over the patrons for the evening, “Stealing, drinking, or causing a fight?” he asked her point-blank. When she didn’t immediately answer, he looked back to her with a smirk, “What did they kick you out for?”

The evening went much the same as the rest of their day had. Quiet conversation, always drifting on the edges of more sensitive topics. As food and drink came out to them, he picked away at a quartered, roasted chicken listening to the local Croel music as she spoke, his eyes always watching the world around them.
There was something itching the back of his mind, though Bjorn couldn’t distinguish what perturbed him. Perhaps veiled by his strange feelings to linger or let the girl leave, his usual strong sense of foreshadowing struggled to pinpoint the details of what kept most of his hair on end over the evening. Being as old as he was, the Beast’s senses were incredibly strong, able to hear the whispers of others from blocks away if he tried. But even still, Bjorn’s attention was drawn to the fiery young one, and though it tickled him insistently, he continued to provide her with his attention mostly undivided...

Until the call came.

He didn’t like others pushing into his mind and often kept it locked tightly from those who might think to try and pry into the thoughts of a nearly millennia-old beast. But the Harpy had a particular grace about her, a lilt he found just as soothing as he did grating-- either way, it always slipped through the barrier like a phantom, rare that it was for her to do so.
This was different than any time before. It wasn’t just to him alone, but a call to those she needed, she trusted, who would answer,

“Templars, we’re being chased through the Quarter. To the docks! They’re after Jack.”

A deep-set furrow pinched his heavy brows, his pulse stilling for a long moment as quick contemplation settled into the brute’s mind. It was as he had feared… they hadn’t been careful enough. They should have never left that corpse live with them, it was asking too much. Jack was a risk to them all, and now he’d brought the whole damn Templar army onto their sanctuary.

His deep green eyes flicked to the brunette across the table, his hand coming up to run over his beard.
If he were alone he would have already left, but with Kenna here… She was a liability. To bring her with him was asking for trouble. She was a firecracker; completely unpredictable and likely to get taken or severely injured. Though, if she followed, she seemed to have enough common sense about her to steer clear of a fight she knew she couldn’t win.
However, the girl had been looking for an open door all day… perhaps this would be her chance to stay safe. Though, try telling the girl to do anything and see what happens.

A deep grunt rolled in his chest as Bjorn pushed up from the table, choosing his words carefully, “Time to go. Jack needs help.”
He didn’t look back to her as he stalked away, but felt her youthful spirit chase after him; a small grain of compassion nestling into his heart.

Throwing open the tavern doors, the pair stepped out into the storm, rain steadily splattering down upon them. Taking in a deep breath, petrichor seeping deep into his lungs, Bjorn exhaled slowly, deep baritone addressing her without much of a glance,
“Templars are in pursuit of Jack and Maeve. We’ll be lucky to avoid a fight. You’re better off to stay here and be safe…” He turned to look down to her, a hand pressing between her shoulder blades with a smirk, “But I don’t think you’re going to take my advice. So stay sharp, and use your head.” Clapping her once, hard enough to jolt the young girl forward an inch, he cackled, “Let’s get on.”

Thankfully, the docks weren’t far from the Canine, or Marginy for that matter. At the southernmost peak of the district’s triangle the river curved, ships harbouring for many imports and exports. Warehouses were plentiful near the edge of the Market, though there weren’t many places for them to hide-- a curious choice for the Harpy to choose.
Regardless, Bjorn set them out into the street, bolting through the road to avoid the most people. Though the closer the pair got to the edge of the French Market, the thicker the crowds became; mortal and immortal alike ready to enjoy the evening despite the poor weather, out and looking for places to dine or evening vendors to purchase goods from.

Picking up a shrill screech from not too far in the distance, the Alpha lifted his head to the sky, the soft red glow of light casting off the low-hanging clouds alerting him to their location. He stopped short, surveying their surroundings before turning to his younger cohort, “Get to the rooftops, show me.”
The only way to get around these crowds efficiently would be to go around them, but with time of the essence…
Following Kenna’s lead, Bjorn watched the girl as she nimbly scaled the nearest building, and followed (not so gracefully) after her. Climbing up, his bulky but strong frame lifted him easily, but he was thankful for her to show the best places to gain leverage. With his speed and size, Bjorn was a better battering ram than a wall-crawler.

As he heaved himself up onto the rooftop, he knelt for a moment, watching the last of the flare in the sky burnout, following the dissipating trail of smoke down over the warehouse in the distance, “That is where we must go. Hurry now.”
Rooftops would prove to be quicker, but certainly not any less difficult to maneuver for the large Beast. With speed, he was able to jump the distances between without issue, but peaked tops of slate shingles made it slick, and flat-tops slippery with large puddles. Not having far to go, the pair reached the warehouse in little time.

Taking a running leap, he landed with a slight slip, though managed to quickly catch himself, then turn back to wave the girl on as she made her jump. There was a hesitation in her step, a slight ripple of fear in her breath… admittedly, the gap was large, even for Bjorn. As she took the leap, he reached forward, hands snatching her from the ledge her feet barely kissed and pulled her into his chest.
Looking down to check her over, he nodded, a rumbling, “Good girl.” as he squeezed her shoulder. Holding his hand there, he lowered them down to a crouch, skirting low towards the opposite end of the building to peer down at the scene below: Maeve, Jack, and the young feline from the other night, it seemed. And, their assailants; one lean and slender, a strange suit of light and armor unlike anything he’d seen in their battles before… and a…

Bjorn’s eyes widened, looking over the massive man that scaled heads above them all. A goliath, not just in height but in stalk, the man had to be unnatural… but it was still an incredible sight to behold. Never, in all his centuries of life, had the Alpha witnessed a foe of such a build. For nearly one thousand years he had always been the biggest of beasts, the strongest and better of all opponents that made their challenges against him. Fondly, in London, the Pits was his home, and the brute held the champion title, name etched into the top slot of the leaderboard, never to be claimed by another. Perhaps, now, in retrospect, Bjorn had finally met his match… And the Alpha grinned.

Hushed, he left Kenna’s shoulder, “Stay here, and out of sight.”

Jumping down from the rooftop onto the boardwalk below, he rolled his landing to avoid the boards that cracked and broke under the weight of him, stalking forward with a predator’s glean to his eyes as he shucked off his shirt… Mossy eyes never leaving the massive frame of the armored warrior across the way.

 

[Leola_Asarai]

Cassandra Caldecott

Little Sparrow

health bar

WHERE: The Brass Canine
WITH: A Fool
DOING: Playing Damsel in Distress
CREDIT: Wendy Ng
PLAYLIST: Coming Soon

How sad it was, in Cassandra's eyes, that her new companion had not indulged herself with fine clothes. It made her wonder how many other delights the woman had forgone. Was it that she could not afford them, or that she had just become comfortable in the things she already had? Cassandra could not understand that. Sure, items and possessions held little meaning, so easily bought and sold, stolen, or rather, just another way things changed hands. Still, there were so many beautiful things in the world not to indulge in them.

"Most certainly a reason to return," she said with a smile. Perhaps if she were on her own, Cassandra would have taken it upon herself to simply open the door and take it, but she did not want to involve others in such trivial matters. People could become just a little antsy over such subjects. Besides, getting things that way, although easy, could sometimes lead to complications down the road. Knick knacks and such were one thing but parading around in stolen dresses were another. Granted it had only happened a few times, and it was easy enough to talk her way out of, it was sometimes more hassle than it was worth.

Cassandra had yet to get to know her new companion fully to grant such uncomfortable situations upon her. If it had been a displeasing exchange, perhaps she would pass along a dress lifted in such a manner, but their meeting had been pleasant enough that Cassandra would more likely buy the garment for her before she would steal it.

A smile graced the blonde, "Adventure is one of the very few things that makes a life so long worth it." Although she did not know the woman very well, losing the sense of adventure in ones life was rather sad, and she felt elated that she was discovering it for herself once again. Life was far too long to live in the mundane.

The weather was closing in, and it would not be long before the rain would begin to fall, the women walked away from the shop arm in arm, hurrying to escape the looming clouds overhead. The darkened sky opened up as the rain started to fall. Cassandra didn't mind it. Rain always seemed to carry particles within it that elicit happiness. It was almost freeing being at the whims of nature herself. It was in human behaviour, it seemed, to control and dictate how life could be manipulated, moulded, and controlled. Try as they might to change it however, nature was still following the whims of its own discretion.

Sarah guided them under the eaves, continuing the exploration of the city around them. She gave a small shake of her head at the others sentiment, "for a city so seemingly enlightened to our kind, you would think there would be a little more available." Cassandra was contemplative over the dilemma that seemed to be the nuisance of the return of the day and night cycle. "Perhaps we are looking in the wrong place." Surely there must be others open. It would be bad business to remain shut when there would be a number of willing customers that linger within the night. In other cities, she had found night was not only reserved for those that had to be sheltered to the darkness because their lives depended on it. Some were still adjusting to the shift, and although they didn't need to be there, the night brought more comfort and familiarity than the day. As a man in a bar had once so eloquently put – 'it's just too damned bright out.'

Cassandra made a note to herself to ask Cecile when she saw her later if she knew of any shops in the city that would be open for them in the later evening. She would be much better at understanding her way around the city by now, surely. Cassandra shook her head, "no matter, I'll try and send word to the shopkeep. Perhaps I can convince them to remain open longer as to accommodate." Perhaps she would just send for the dress itself.

Her companion regaled about a place she knew, a bar that their evening could take them to. "You have me intrigued," she mused. She had held off visiting any establishment as of yet, and she was looking forward to diving into the debauchery of it all, not that she would ever let on that was what she was after. The Brass Canine. Never a dull moment and seemingly open to everyone. That could be damn fun indeed. Cass was keen for a drink and a good time. The name called to her. Something stirred in her mind that made her think it was where she needed to be.

Thoughts of the bar ahead were pushed aside at commotion not far from them. Fireworks? Had they missed some sort of festival that would elicit excitement of fireworks. Seemed unlikely in the current weather. A glance at Sarah suggested they were both as bemused as each other. Eyes lingered to the sky taking point to what the child had been indicating too. Curious. It was not fireworks. It was, however, most certainly a signal of some kind. Cassandra did not wish to know whom it was calling, but, and she could be wrong, she could swear she had seen similar before. Cassandra couldn't place it. With a glance to the woman beside her, it became apparent that she recognised it, or at least she knew what the signal was for. Her face had drained colour, and she almost seemed fearful of the implications of it. That worried Cassandra.

The implications of such an expression made Cassandra wary. Fights. War. She had seen that on the faces of others all over the world. The look was always the same. Cassandra wanted no part in whatever it was. She had spent a lifetime avoiding a war that so seemingly was always right on her doorstep. No matter where Cass went, it always seemed to follow her. She was most certainly not going to following it. Preposterous. What good was any of this? People were always the same. If it wasn't this, it was something else. There always had to be something. People liked to spill blood just because they could.

The urgency of the woman beside her brought her eyes back from the light lingering in the sky. "Oh?" she said, sweet confusion upon her face at the sudden haste in which Sarah said she had to leave. She was going to investigate whatever it had been signalling. It was a foolish manner, but Cassandra would not speak against it. Fumbling with the basket that was pressed quickly to her, Cassandra made herself look a little lost as to what was happening. She clutched the basket to her chest. Her eyes were wide with fright at the thought of the dangerous streets. Of what was dwelling in the darkness of the night. "Goodbye," she called out in a rush in a quick farewell, worry and fear to linger in her voice as Sarah disappeared around the corner.

Cassandra gave a slight huff after the woman disappeared, lowering the basket from her chest, holding it comfortably in her hands. Her shoulders relaxed, and her expression calmed. Such a strange young woman. Willingly running off into unknown circumstances that she would not be able to control. She wished the woman the best of luck and hope that they would see each other again. Regardless, Cass shook her head and rolled her eyes.

The warning she had been given was a sweet sentiment, but it fell on almost deaf ears. Cassandra knew of dangers, she had skirted past a number of them over a lifetime of daring to poke at them. She would be fine, she avoided fights as much as she possibly could. War was one thing. Uncontrollable and out of her element. On her own, she was much better at predicting the outcome.

It was not in her nature to seek out fights, battles or wars. Teasing and fun were entirely different things. Still, she would keep her wits about her. She always did. Cassandra had found that she could only rely on herself. She had acquaintances, some people she trusted more than others, but at the end of the day, she could only count on herself.

Now alone, Cassandra continued down the street. Although her companion had not wished to join her, Cassandra was still keen for a drink and a good time. Cassandra was growing more and more convinced 'Sarah' was not the woman's real name. People involved in whatever business that signal was letting out rarely give out their actual credentials. Either way, it was not her business.

Still taking the recommendation she was given; Cass chose to continue to the destination they had previously set. The Brass Canine. She had been told that it was not far, that Streetcars were available for a swifter journey, but she opted to walk. Rain was not an issue.

Her eyes glanced around as she made her way through the streets. People knew what the signal had meant. Their panicked look to the heavens suggested it was an occurrence they were familiar with. Interestingly though, only some people were afraid. Others went about their business as if they did not care what it could mean. Cassandra hoped whatever it was, it didn't interfere with her stay here. She had yet to explore the city to its fullest, and it irritated her immensely when she had to leave a place before it was her choice.

The rain continued coming down, becoming a deluge. Her dress was getting almost uncomfortably wet as it absorbed the rainfall. Such a bother as she has not been able to buy a change yet. Although an annoyance only for that reason, it would likely come in handy. Poor girl having been caught in the rain unexpectedly. She could work with that.

In the distance, she could see it. The signage that called to her with a promise of drinks and depravity. Right now it also called as shelter from the falling rain. It was going to be easy pickings for a good night out, and she was more than ready for it. The thoughts of fighting and whatever else was going on in the distant streets of the city washed away with the rain that continued to fall.

Running over the road, covering her head with her hand, she made her way past the people bustling past, like her, trying to escape the rain, filtering off in different directions. Making her way to the entrance of the bar, she pushed her way past. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said softly, "excuse me." She made herself small, innocently so, which was not that hard to do since everyone towered over her. She didn't even look at those she passed, keeping her head low. She stumbled inside as someone else was rushing out.

The warm atmosphere of the place surrounded her instantly. A slight smile lifted at the corner of her lips. She was going to like it here. Her eyes glanced around slightly, making herself look a little lost and out of place. Tucking a loose wet strand of hair behind her ear, she ventured further in. A few eyes were on her, she could feel them. She could sense familiarity lingering in the shadows of the bar, but she could not place where it was coming from. Ignoring the eyes as if oblivious to them, she continued with what she was doing.

Placing an order at the bar, she looked forward to letting the alcohol pump through the clockwork system to warm her blood. Placing the basket beside herself, she curiously looked through what the woman had left her. She could make use of it she supposed, or give it to someone to make use of it for her. As she sipped upon her drink, almost too distracted, looking through the contents of the basket she was approached. A man stepped forward, bold, assuming, and not at all charming. He was trying his damned hardest to be. How boring and unamusing, she had been hoping for a little more of a challenge. With a slight look of panic on her face from the exchange, she silently hoped that someone more worthy would come along to entertain her.

 

[leviathan.]

theo fairchild.

canary

health bar

WHERE: Dockside
WITH: A phantom
DOING: Getting the hell scared out of him
CREDIT: c-home on ArtStation
PLAYLIST:

My, my, what an interesting confrontation this has turned out to be…

Templars, werebeasties, and fangers all around. Was this some sort of punchline to a joke? It was a new take, for sure, cause Theo’s heard the gamut in his days as a pubcrawler from the ribald to the downright grimdark, but this one might just take the cake.

The Russian brat (his words were flavored with a cold burr, reminiscent of the men he had met stationed in a mission to Murmansk) was posturing with the best of them, but Theo could see traces of mulish swagger and fire that came with Templar neophytes, flashy up-and-comers who thought they were invincible, rising stars that had no thought for their impending supernovas.

He smirked. If luck will have it, they’ll break him in a few more years on the front lines.

Or not. Theo hadn’t, after all.

Then came a whispered curse, quiet as it was obscene, so low that Theo wouldn’t have caught it if his implants weren’t on maximum sensitivity. He darted his gaze round the group gathered on the docks for its source, pushing down his subconscious’ rising apprehension and his increasing uneasiness as he did so. He had to search around thrice before his eyes caught at the edge of the docks, where a tall, dark figure was lurking. He would’ve dismissed it as a mere shadow if it were not for the utter, almost predatory stillness of it among the swaying, moving silhouettes around it.

A shiver ran involuntarily through his spine as his intuition positively reached a fever pitch. He averted his eyes and focused back to the main group, praying that the…lurker hadn’t sensed his gaze.

Theo was a nosy bastard for sure, but this was stretching it.

His small frown slid off his lips as quick as the rain-slicked off his bronzed augments as the 84th were mentioned, the Queen spitting their name out like a curse, freezing his blood cold and inflaming some long-buried pride for his old unit in equal turns. As he looked closer, Theo berated himself for not seeing the hints of his foundation tech in the contours of the men’s armor, the graft work on the giant that he himself had pioneered. Was he growing soft in his age?

Langdon did say that his old Legion was in town, but he didn’t think he’d catch sight of their sorry asses so soon.

Speak of the Devil and he shall come.

"It's considered quite rude to eavesdrop, you know."

Theo didn’t even have to think. You can take the man out of the church, but you sure as hell can’t take the church out of the man. Years of Templar training and his finely honed flight-or-fight response kicked in screaming. In utter silence, Theo whipped around baring his titanium jaw like a cornered animal, the rain beading on his enormous canines as his left arm quickly morphs into a double barrel flintlock without a sound (Theo wasn’t an amateur—his tech was quick and functioned without a sound, no metallic clinks or noisy steam valves; he outgrew that his sophomore year.) and aimed it straight at the sound of the voice, blind with movement. He should’ve sensed the intruder coming from yards away, but like an idiot, he had tuned his ears completely into the conversation at his docks and his adrenaline response was too overloaded from simply being here to actually alert him in any useful way.

As his eyesight focused and his aural implants adjusted themselves to adequate levels, he saw his assailant, a yellow-eyed vamp with a scarred eye and gold fangs. There’s a full-body shudder as he recognizes that face from whispered rumor, from covert barroom talk he had to strain to hear.

Theo, though he has his lapses, is not an uninformed man. But he’s heard almost jack of the black sails sighted near the ports, heard even less about the man who’s in charge of it, but he knows enough that he needs to be at least 10 feet from this man now. Preferably even more.

He flattens himself as much as he can against the stall and sidesteps away to the far wall, back still flat against the wood, still training his flintlock mod on the vampire with barely a tremble of his forearm.

“Did you know,” he hissed, barely more than a stream of breath against the thundering rain above, “that it’s also considered quite rude to sneak up on someone while they eavesdrop? Two wrongs don’t make a right, buddy.”

 

[ashwynne]

Harrison Van Doren

Dutch

health bar

WHERE: The Brass Canine
WITH: A Pesky Magpie
DOING: "Introductions"
CREDIT: Exile0403
PLAYLIST:

The Canine always promised a good time and tonight was no exception. The air inside was hot and humid, perfumed with the scent of sweat, booze, and wreathing wisps of cigarette smoke. Many had ducked inside, called by the spirited jazz that trickled out onto the street or perhaps seeking to escape the inclement weather. Not Dutch though, no, he had been here well before the evening rush.

“All in,” he said, honeyed eyes dancing as they flicked up to peer at the gruff man settled across from him, the one who was staring at him darkly from beneath bushy brows. Trevor. Or Thomas, maybe, something like that. The man’s thumb idly lifted to brush against the edge of his salt-and-pepper mustache, robin-egg eyes never leaving Dutch’s face as he studied him. They were the only two left in this particular round. The pot wasn’t anything out of this world, but it was enough to make them take the game seriously.
He offered the man a friendly grin alongside the quirking of a questioning brow. Well studied at observing others, and in possession of a strategic mind, Dutch felt pretty confident in both his hand and the way he had assessed his fellow player. Well. It also helped that he was a natural at poker.
“All in,” Thomas-Trevor said in a vexed tone that spoke clearly to his own obvious uncertainty about whether Dutch was bluffing or not. This time he hadn’t been; revealing a straight flush with a broad smirk and a flourish of his hands where Thomas-Trevor had only Three of a Kind. Groans and grumbles greeted this revelation; some happier about it than others, and the beast made a quick and careful note of those who seemed just a little more miffed about it than others. Particularly, a lean fellow with a nasty scowl whose chair shrieked in protest against the floor as he pushed back violently from the table and rose with equal violence, body angling towards him.
A slight shift of the Cowboy’s legs as he slid to the edge of his seat and placed his feet flat and firm on the ground, his arms falling relaxed and ready to his side—hands curling to loose fists. For nothing, as it happened, the man seemed to think better of it and turned with a snarled curse to thud towards the doors; shouldering people out of his way, offering those who dared complain a snap of his jaws… reminding Dutch quite remarkably of a mad dog.

In short order he collected the pot for himself, imagining the fine drinks he could order… perhaps a pack of expensive cigars too. Then again… “Anyone keen on losin’ another round?” he asked, amber eyes brushing over those who had remained, cheekiness etched into the very air that surrounded him. At this, Thomas-Trevor shot him a look so dark that his mustache appeared to bristle, and the beast could only chuckle in amused delight.
“I’ll pass, partner, some of us have real responsibilities to attend to.”
For a moment he felt the tips of his ears begin to heat, but with an affectedly nonchalant brush of fingers through auburn hair he settled down and offered Thomas-Trevor a sympathetic smile. “There’s no shame in losin’ y’know… Trevor?”
“Thomas!”
Well. He’d been close.
That was decidedly the end of that conversation, the man pushing to his feet with an anger that was muted but visible in twitches of his mustache.
“And the rest of you?” Dutch asked once Thomas had left, glancing around the table. Those who remained didn’t seem overly hostile, but after a few quick glances passed between them, he had his answer. “Fair enough, I wouldn’t want to play me again either,” he muttered gruffly, pocketing his substantially thicker billfold and beginning to angle for the bartop.

He made it only three steps.

“Tem— Quarter. Docks! After.”

What in the? Dutch faltered, coming to an unsteady stop with a wince, hand coming up to absently brush against his temple. It had managed to be both a whisper in his mind and a shout; a command. It was the Queen’s voice, he knew that much. There was an urgency to it as well, but he couldn’t for the life of him parse what the hell it was supposed to mean. To say it was fragmented would have been too kind, and the beast felt the mildest pulse of a headache begin between his eyes. He wasn’t all that familiar with mind-speak and he sure had no clue what it was that she was trying to say, but… Amber eyes turned to the door, feet slowly angling that way too. Least he could do was check it out, right?

One step, two steps… and it hit him.

The vague call was forgotten and he froze, lips parting in startled surprise at the familiar scent. Pivoting back towards the bar, his eyes traced the scent until he spotted her; damp, elegant, and the very picture of a damsel who would do no harm to anyone. What a crock. And what the hell was it with the Canine?? This was now the second ghost of his past who had come to haunt him here… both had been equally lovely ghosts, sure, but this one had certainly left him more creatively than Nascha had… and with considerably lighter pockets.
Through slightly narrowed eyes, Dutch watched as some half-wit tried to schmooze the blonde beauty. She was clearly having none of it—if that quick panicked look she affected that screamed ‘save me’ was anything to go by—and with a short huff from his nose, the beast began to saunter over to where she stood. None better to save her than the man she had robbed.

Assuming a charming smile, Dutch slid in beside her, deftly elbowing away the dandy who had been trying his luck with charming her. “Miss? This man botherin’ you?”
“I- I most certainly am not!” Came the blustering answer from the fool. Dutch knew his type; all bluster, no balls. So, as he turned a withering glare onto the brunet, he was not surprised in the least when he all but shriveled into himself and quickly averted his gaze.
Offering some muttered nicety to excuse himself with, the dandy slipped away and Dutch let himself more comfortably fill the space that had now been vacated.
His elbow settled on top of the bar, the Cowboy leaning into it and giving Cass a lazy once-over as though it were the first time he had ever laid eyes on her. “Got caught in the rain, did you, miss?” he asked, his tone oozing sympathy, though his eyes bored into her with an edge to them, “Best be careful, wouldn’t want you to take a wrong step when the footin’ is so precarious.”
Dutch shot her a smile that was mostly teeth and flagged down the bartender. “Two glasses of Sazerac Rye, straight,” he called, pushing one of the glasses over to Cass when it was set in front of him before taking his own in hand. “Compensation for your… troubles. Figure you’re due for a second drink anyways.”
So saying, the beast tipped his own glass back for a small sip. Much as he would have preferred to deal with the pretty blonde while a little tipsy, he knew full well that he’d need to keep his senses about him for this particular interaction and so he limited himself to little more than a light sampling. “The name’s Dutch, by the way,” he added, studying her, wondering if she would carry on the charade with him or try bolting… or something else entirely, who knew what lay beneath the minx’s innocent act. “And yours is?”

 

[Crazy Trey-n]

Dominick Durham

Goliath

health bar

WHERE: The Docks
DOING: Taking the Initiative
WITH: One Big Boi
CREDIT: WIP

The time he had left to act was growing thin. Dominick dearly wished for a peaceful outcome, for each side to walk away unscathed, but the options they'd been left with were now few; the flare and Cain's oh-so sensitive approach with delivering demands had seen to that. In an ideal world, there might not be any sides at all, but what lay before him was the here and now. Spending time dreaming that circumstances were different wouldn't do him any good at the moment.

A part of him thought to barrel forward into the group, snatch up Jack Fletcher, and make for the headquarters at a breakneck sprint. The brave young lass wouldn't be able to stop him if he temporarily put aside his aversion to doing her any harm, and Maeve Donovan, should she choose to take advantage of her speed as an avian, would find it difficult to lift a figure of his weight and width. They stood a chance if Cain was willing to genuinely work together, but what was the likelihood of that?

The idea was crushed as two more appeared and very plainly made it known that they weren't on the Templars' side. Like the Harpy, the woman who approached seemed quick to shoot off taunts at his companion, though she was of slighter build and wore a wrap around her head so as to conceal her face from clear view. He'd only just witnessed her throw an object at Cain before his attention turned to the one that was approaching himself.

Dominick had never before seen such a driven warrior. His time amidst fighters of all types had led him to see a great many faces, all of varying degrees of ambition or bloodlust, but this man was something else altogether. The fierceness in his eyes alone made his want... no, his need for a fight nearly seep from every pore of him. If only he had payed more attention in the Templar briefings so as to remember who he was. The man's description was as vivid to him as day - big, bearded, burly and less approachable than a bear - as was the fact that he'd close ties to the woman who led the werebeasts, but he could not recall his name or the recorded extent of his prowess. All Dom could be sure of was that the man was looking at him as though he were some sort of competition to be bested.

The way that the man shrugged away his shirt to expose his muscled torso was an assurance of his intentions; it seemed as though the route that Dom was to take had been chosen for him.

Of course...

Oh, how he sometimes hated his own size. It'd had its joyous benefits before, such as a time back home when he'd been able to pluck apples for a group of boisterous children who had a tendency to loiter his temple's orchard, or once when his inability to fit through a particularly small door had spared him of a dreary mother superior's lecture. But times such as this? God very well may have written his death sentence in this world of competition.

"Lord, forgive me for what I am to do," he whispered to himself.

The priest stepped away from the trio and towards the lone wolf, instead, with a clenched jaw and a brief motion of his hand to draw the figure of a cross over his chest. His approach wasn't urgent or hastened so as to match the other man step for step. Along the way, he'd come across a long wooden beam that hadn't the strength to resist as he pried it from its roots in the dock, and soon after an empty, steel-reinforced crate met a fatal end over his knee, splintering in a way that left Dom holding it up by a handle as though it were a shield.

Leaving Alexei alone wasn't something he desired, especially with three others to account for, but he once more realized that their options were very, very limited. While Dom was no fan of initiating combat and the mere idea of speaking down on another so disrespectfully was enough to make him flinch, their encounter needed to come to end as quickly as he could bring it. Men of brass had a tendency to react with emboldened zeal when jeered only. Dom hoped this one was somewhat the same.

Very soon they'd be within arm's reach, so Dom lifted the remains of the crate, began to bash it with the beam as a taunt, and lowered his voice so that just they would hear it. "I regret that I'll not know your name before sending you to your maker."

Then he dug his feet into the wharf and swung his makeshift weapon directly at the Alpha's side with dangerous strength and speed.

 

[AntarcticRomantic]

René Troxler

Ephemera

health bar

WHERE: NOLA Templar HQ, Streets
WITH: Tech Unit
DOING: Prep; Going to Battle
CREDIT: len-yan
PLAYLIST: ☀

The engineer beside him chuckled at the joke he made at his roommate’s expense and left to go over another Legionnaire’s equipment. He smiled at her as she left, the expression hollow, but polite. Idly, his right hand reached for his mouth, covering it as his thumbnail tickled the flesh of his bottom lip, tracing over the line of the scar. The blond turned and observed the room. Countless Templars were working towards preparations for their missions: engineers and technicians sorting through the mods and augmentations diligently, Legionnaire’s strapping on their gear, and Sisters preparing themselves for battle should it come. No one was certain it would come. The chances they found their target was low on this first excursion.

Something within, deep in his core, stirred restlessly. René’s thumb stopped and he glared into empty space, his eyes distant and unfocused. With long strides, he marched his way to the nearest window to gaze into the inky sky. It was not to be. He’d forgotten the large trees which circled the building. Their massive limbs stretched over the canvas of night, preventing him from seeing through to the expanse of the heavens. Not that it would matter. With the dim light, he could see the water droplets which fell from the small leaves of the Southern live oak well enough.

Someone approached him from behind and he turned in time to meet them. A Sister, rather young compared to the rest of their collection, greeted him smartly. They’d met only a few times before, shy as she was. With a sigh, he was taken away from the window and returned to his duties until such time as they would be needed to begin their mission, though he doubted his division would be called into the field.

--❀--​

An alarm sounded. Voices rose when there was once there was something akin to silence before. The excitement was unbridled from the pounding hearts of the soldiers of the Order as they were commanded into action. The Key had been found.

The first wave struck out, prepared and tired of waiting. Legionnaires strapped head to foot in their gear and pride. The second wave pushed through, Sisters and what was left of the 84th in another caravan headed towards the inner workings of the city. Faces, familiar and unknown to him left in blurs, and in between the gaps was the crackle of suspense for the battle they were to face.

René pulled his satchel over his shoulder and waited amongst the technicians and combat medics that would be going into the field with the next wave. Someone shouted as they returned through the open bay doors, bleeding and heaving.

“Battle is engaged; we’ve sustained casualties. Medics are needed to the front lines, immediately. Field technicians are to hold position until further notice.”

“Already? The second marker was only engaged minutes ago, how is that possible?” an officer asked.

A medic pushed past Ephemera and others to tend to the Legionnaire’s wounds, removing elements of his armor at his arm and shoulder to release the chest plate. “A massive Stag beast toppled the first caravan. Dozens are injured, but fighting on.”

The blond shifted and stepped forward through the crowd, reaching the Legionnaire who had returned with word from the front lines. His jaw set into a hard clench. He’d gone to the Academy with this one. “What else can you tell us?”

Dark brown eyes lifted to him, and rapidly avoided his stare in recognition. “We didn’t get far enough to see, but the flare was fired from the docks. This where the battalion should be going.”

A few around him muttered and cussed at the immortal horde within the city. Arrival by foot was going to be a necessary evil, but it would also allow them more freedom of how they arrived at the scene. New commands were given, medics exited the bay into the storm, and minutes later, René’s unit followed behind. From where they were they could hear the shouting echoing through the streets. Civilians passed in a rush as they moved through the streets, looking to avoid the catastrophe hitting their otherwise quiet lives and the storm overhead.

From his left, he could hear someone whispering a prayer as they moved through the restless neighborhood. Another ahead of him joined the mutterings as residents looked at them through the heavy shower, some in curiosity, others with disdain. He focused ahead, seeking out the path they carved in the blocks of the Garden District to reach the docks as they had been instructed. The ground rattled as they took a corner and from the other end, he could see it. Golden, dusky orbs widened in awe and fear as they settled on the Stag and the toppled caravan. Templars fought to subdue the creature, and it seemed almost like a task in futility. With a silent hand gesture from their escort, a few branched away to go towards the fight, nearly tiptoeing to get close enough to anyone seeking repair or medical treatment.

He pulled the pistol from its holster, and slowly others did the same as they redirected themselves from the fray. They would have to try another route to the docks that would take them out of the direct line of the battle with the werebeast.

A gloved hand pushed his sopping hair back from his brow. Beneath his breath, Ephemera took up the prayer.

“You shall not be afraid of the terror by night, nor of the arrow that flies by day; // nor of the pestilence that walks in darkness, nor of the destruction that wastes at noonday. // A thousand may fall at your side, and ten thousand at your right hand; but it will not come near you. // You will only look with your eyes, and see the recompense of the wicked.”

 

[Leola_Asarai]

Kenna Mac Amery

Incendiu

health bar

WHERE: The Brass Canine --> Docks
WITH: Bjorn --> Stranger Danger
DOING: Observing
CREDIT: Olivier Ponsonnet
PLAYLIST: Coming Soon

Taking her scepticism with a grain of salt and a hearty laugh, Bjorn continued to direct the young beast towards The Brass Canine. Kenna held little belief that she would get away with being there, but Bjorn seemed to think otherwise. The right company could open many doors, she supposed that could be right, but that did necessarily put him into that category. No matter. She had two choices, to stay outside and not even tempt the offer, or enter the establishment and hope that he was as important as he seemed to think he was. She shook her head and gave a slight shrug before entering the door that Bjorn held open for her.

The air was thick with smoke, a scent that was familiar and brought a sense of comfort at distant memories. Coming to an abrupt halt as the barkeep recognised her immediately, Kenna took a step back as he pointed her out, chastising her for trying her luck. The heavy hand on her shoulder stopped Kenna in her retreat. The beast she was with stepped forward, announcing that she was with him. The barman cut his sentence short as Bjorn pulled her closer to him, solidifying the statement he made. A small smirk crept onto Kenna’s face as her eyes flicked between Bjorn and the barkeep. Seemed the brute had been telling the truth after all.

Following along with Bjorn to a booth in the far back, she settled in, her eyes darting around making a quick exit strategy so should she need it. Kenna did not always realise she did it. Checking for the best route out of any given place became a habit over the last couple of years. A way to keep herself safe should she find herself in danger.

Kenna’s attention was brought back to the table as the barmaid approached. The gaze the woman had on Bjorn gave Kenna all the information she needed, though it seemed the large beast ignored the girl it in favour of offering her to order anything. Kenna hesitated at the offer. She had no money and had never actually bought anything from this establishment before, part of the problem. Bjorn noticed the hesitation and clarified, a snicker to the fact that the Queen paid for everything. Interesting.

“I’ll have a . . .” she paused for a moment, “soda.” Best not to push her luck with the drinks. She had been lucky that the barman had not sent her packing, and she still wasn’t sure if Bjorn would allocate her the same courtesy of drink as Jack had the night before. On another occasion perhaps. Along with her drink, Kenna also ordered the largest platter they had, and then some. There was no possible way she would be able to eat it all. It didn’t matter though. It would either leave her with leftovers that would last the coming days back on her own, or it would get thrown to the trash. There were plenty of people on the street that would benefit from it by stifling through the garbage. Not the nicest way to get a meal, but at the end of the day, food was food. Either way, it would not be wasted, and on the ‘Queens’ dime, her loyal subjects should be so blessed.

Stealing, drinking or causing a fight. Another question Kenna hesitated to answer. “Oh, uh,” she muttered, biting her lip, “which time?” she said, a small sheepish smile and a shrug. Kenna rolled her eyes. “Look, the last time I just took some guys drink,” she admitted. “He thought it was someone else, punched him, and then it all turned into a big thing and then everyone was fighting.” She sat back in her chair. “Barmen saw that I stole the drink and threw me out. That it was the ‘last straw’” She shook her head, “I still maintain that it was not entirely my fault.” Bar fights happened every other night, if he banned everyone that started one, there wouldn’t be any patrons left in this miserable joint.

The evening was . . . nice. Much like the day, conversation flowed easily between the pair. She liked Bjorn. He was blunt and to the point, and everything just came easily. In the end though, it did nothing to still the stirring thoughts that lingered in the back of her mind telling her it was time to leave. Unease settled under her skin as her anxieties rose. It was time to move on. She knew that she needed to leave before the night was over. It was dangerous to stay in one place for long. Once they parted way, she would disappear to another point in the city. She needed to get as far from them as possible. Kenna also had to resume her search for Beau. She had a rough guess as to where that could be, she was getting close, she knew it. That in itself brought forth more problems than Kenna was willing to admit. For the last couple of hours; she would hold on to these moments with the older beast.

Kenna picked away at the platter of food, knowing that she should eat more because of the uncertainty of when another meal like this would come around, but unable to force too much down to make herself sick. A slight buzz in her ear gave Kenna irritation, her finger rubbing her inner ear to relieve the annoyance. As Kenna looked upon Bjorn, she noticed his face changed. Something was unsettling him. It couldn’t be the buzzing, could it?

Looking at him with furrowed brows Kenna still slowly chewed her food, wondering what was going on. He rose from his seat, saying it was time to go. Jack needed help. Jack. The urgency in his voice compelled her to follow, not fully comprehending what it meant. Kenna’s feet just followed, running after Bjorn and out of the bar.

Rain was falling in buckets now, people on the streets running to escape it. Kenna looked to Bjorn for guidance. What was happening? Where they were going? How did he know this? She had so many questions. She knew this would have been the best time for her to make her leave, but she couldn’t stay away. Not from this.

Templars. Them again. She hadn’t remembered where the name was from a few nights ago, but the feeling in the pit of her stomach gave her the knowledge she needed. She gave a slight sneer at the thought. Bjorn warned her that there would be a fight coming, that she should stay behind and be safe. Fuck that. She didn’t even need to voice her defiance, the hand on her back and the smirk on his lips told her he knew she wouldn’t heed his warning. He wasn’t going to force her to stay behind. She appreciated that he knew that it wouldn’t work. With the allowance of her following, she gave a nod of her head, focusing. Bjorn clapped her on the back, sending her stumbling forwards slightly. Kenna’s eyes gave a slight death glare in his direction though there was a hint of amusement sparked. She shook her head, trying her hardest not to smile before taking off and following the large beast.

Kenna didn’t know exactly where they were going, but she didn’t really need to. She trusted Bjorn’s lead, knowing her knew where they were going and the fastest way to get there. As they ran through the streets, trying to dodge past the gather crowds trying to flee the rain and continue to enjoy their nightly activities. Kenna tried estimating where they were heading. Their path was not too dissimilar than the other night. Slipping through the crowd, Kenna kept pace with the brute of a beast she was in company with.

They stopped; a screeching sound pulled her eyes to the sky. That was their marker. Kenna used the quick moment to catch her breath, her eyes still focused on the glow from the flare. Bjorn brought her attention back, motioning toward the roofs. Show him. She could do that. With a nod of her head, Kenna turned to look up the side of the building. She took less than a moment to survey the best possible way up. There were enough small ledges that it should be easy enough. Swiftly and gracefully, the young beast made quick work, manoeuvring herself up the side and onto the roof with ease. Observing as Bjorn followed suit, she was nervous he would lose footing, knowing how hard the ground was with such a mistake. However, he made it up just fine, her assisting him as best she could as he pulled his body up onto the rooftop.

In the distance, the flare burnt out, though there was still the last signs of it to guide them to Jack and Maeve’s location. She gave a slight nod as they hurried in that same direction. Kenna had nimble feet, finding it easy to almost dance over the shingles. She was careful about loose ones, the rain made them slicker than usual, but she could still manage with minimal slippage.

Eyes still trained forward, Kenna saw where they needed to go. The only thing standing in their way was a large gap between this building and the one across. He took almost no time, giving himself a running start, Bjorn leapt over, not entirely sticking the landing but enough that he was unharmed in his crossing. He beckoned her forward, but Kenna hesitated slightly. It was a large gap. Balancing was one thing, but leaping long distances was another. The fear of slowing him down or disappointing him flowed through her heart, so she shook it off, taking a few extra paces back before running forward.

A fearful gasp left Kenna’s lips just before her feet made contact. A moment of panic swelled as the fear that she had not leapt far enough filtered through her brain. Kenna wasn’t sure her footing would hold. Her toes made contact, her arms reaching out to Bjorn in an attempt to stop herself falling backwards. His arms had been open and waiting, pulling her close. Her feet had never even slipped from the edge. Kenna gave a sigh of relief into his chest, a smile gracing her in the short moment. The young beast was proud of herself for making the jump.

Bjorn lowered them as they made their way across the rooftop, crouching low as to not be seen by those on the docks below. Her eyes darted between those involved, observing who was there and the situation that was unfolding. Fuck. Panic settled into her heart, her eyes transfixed on the ones that were obviously Templars. Great, a tin robot and a giant that looked menacing as all hell. This was putting her way out of her skill level, and the thought worried her.

Telling her to stay out of sight and on the roof, Bjorn made a jump to the ground below, butting himself right in the firing line. Kenna kept low, staying hidden in the shadow of the rooftop. She may be headstrong, but she was not stupid. They would squash her. Keeping her eyes transfixed on the evolving situation, she would look for an opportunity to help, or if nothing else, make notes on fight styles.

 

[ashwynne]

Elias Laertes Brandt

J u d a s

h e a l t h | b a r

WHERE: Docks
WITH: Templars, Immortals & The Key
DOING: Hunting
CREDIT: LainValentine
PLAYLIST:

The rain lashed, heavy and unyielding, rivulets streaming through a sea of darkened gold and silver before sliding over skin. The vampire did not feel them. He was wholly and entirely consumed by the scene in front of him as he moved with a slow and methodical predator’s grace over the slick wood of the boardwalk. Tick.
The resounding dissonant beats of his clockwork organ continued to pound in his ears. It provided a punctuating off-beat to the steady thrum of rain, making the blond feel all the more untethered from reality—his own body seeming to remove itself from natural rhythms in the face of discovering exactly what his prey was. What he smelled like.

How would it feel to break and bend him to his will? To have the Mephisto offer up the nectar in his veins with pleading eyes that begged the blond to take it? The mere thought gripped his spine in a deeply wanting shudder.

He needed to get to the Key before the rest. The question was how. Cain and the giant already had the brunet hemmed in… but the odds were three on two, and even with the behemoth on the side of the Templars, Elias could not discount the possibility of a successful escape for the trio. Still, it looked woefully grim.
There was also the trouble of the reinforcements which had been sent. Yes, he had made it here before the rest of them… but that advantage would not last long and when they arrived—
THUD.
The sound of a not-so-distant collision made Elias’ head twitch, though he could not quite bring himself to take his eyes off of the Key. It seemed, though, that the Templars were not the only ones who had called for reinforcements. Good.

Quietly, carefully, the blond slipped his way into the deep shadows flung from a set of stacked shipping crates. Here he was made invisible, his presence only the barest bit detectable in the hot flashes of lightning that split the sky open and revealed the insatiable malachite intensity of his hungry viridescent gaze.
He would need to move swiftly and decisively: one smooth strike, timed to perfection, executed with the precision of a dancer. He would slip between combatants, snatch the Key, and be gone. The confusion of battle would afford him precisely what he wanted; time alone with the Mephisto, time to sample the ambrosia in his veins.

It was brutish and inelegant—not his typical style when it came to blood hunts—but at present there was little other choice. Which meant, for now, he needed to bide his time and wait for the perfect opening.

He would be a spider settled in the centre of its web; feet touching silk, intensely aware and ready to read the slightest of rippling tugs on the trap he had laid, one that would call forth his swift attack and deadly venom. It was not ideal, but should Cain or the Giant interfere, he would have to eliminate them too. Much ill could happen on a battlefield, and he suspected that the retrieval of the Key would mean more to Eden than the loss of one or two of their own. Especially when the blame could be pointed elsewhere.
He blew out a long breath, attempting to centre himself. Reining in his heart would be no small feat… every time he looked at the Key his clockwork took to pounding again—and he couldn’t bring himself to look away. But he needed to. Tunnel vision would blind him to the other pieces on the board and he needed to be able to see them all and think ten moves ahead if he wished to succeed.
Reluctantly, and with the image of the brunet man standing tall on the docks still etched onto his eyelids, the vampire closed his eyes.

“Keep your chin up, Brandt.”
The Knight flicked his gaze to the trim figure of the man seated on horeseback beside him, answering his soft and sonorous words in a matching low tone of his own. “In a metaphorical or literal sense?” he asked, shifting to look forward again and not even trying to hide the small smile that tugged the corners of his lips up.
“Cracking wise when a battle is looming? I’m not sure that’s particularly tactful,” came the response.
“Is there anything tactful about us butchering each other?”
“No, I suppose not.”
Elias could hear the smile in his companion’s voice which only caused his own to stretch. “Are you certain you don’t want to ride behind the column where it’s safest, my king?”
Predictably, this suggestion was met with a low scoff, “What, and leave all the glory to you while I sit on my ass? I think not!” a wry note entered his voice, “And I’m not king yet either.”
“Maybe not, but as far as I’m concerned, you’re already my king, Prince Victor,” Elias crooned, laughing low and soft from the depths of his chest at the vexed look his Lord shot him.
“Tell that to my three elder brothers,” the prince managed dryly, and then there came a crack from up ahead.
At once, both men straightened in their respective saddles; hands coiling around the hilts of swords. The air around them seemed to grow cloying and heavy, pregnant with tension and strained at its seams. It was the overbearing weight of all the lives that would be snuffed out today, made manifest on the air itself. A precursor to the battle that was coming.
Knight and Lord glanced at each other, dipping their heads in a gesture that was at once greeting and farewell. ‘Live that we may see each other again, and if not… I will see you on the other side.’ Neither man needed to say the words to hear them clearly in that single reciprocated nod.
“Not a second too soon,” Elias could hear Victor murmuring—as he always did—poised elegantly in the saddle with his eyes trained on the opposite side of the clearing where lines of enemy knights astride their own mounts were silently stepping out of the shadows. Moonlight turned the grass between them to silver, but Elias knew that by the time this battle was over it would be inked black with blood. “Stay your hand, set the trap, and choose your moment wisely. Steady hand, steadier heart, and a clear mind.”
It was no prayer that Elias had ever been taught, but by now he knew it word for word. Victor repeated it before every battle and it had become a mantra etched into the hearts and souls of all the knights dedicated to him.
“By the blade, by the horse and by skill alone.” Victor’s eyes flicked to Elias, a break from his usual pattern, and the blond blinked in surprise. “For Eisenbach, for your home,” he added in a softer, gentler, voice meant only for his knight. “For your daughter, Marie.”

It was a memory that came to him often… or at least, in critical moments such as these. At the height of a hunt, in those laden seconds before any sort of battle, he would see the image of his Lord peering at him through keenly noble eyes—a fire burning bright behind them. The very embodiment of the mantra he always spoke, one which the vampire now turned to himself.
Re-opening his eyes, he allowed himself to feel the uneven thudding of his clockwork organ. The wanton press of silver-capped canines piercing into his lip. And then—in a voice too soft for anyone but himself and the rain caressing his body to hear—he said; “Not a second too soon. Stay your hand, set the trap, and choose your moment wisely. Steady hand, steadier heart, and a clear mind. By the blade, by the horse and by skill alone.”
With the musical cadence of the words, and all the history they represented, Elias felt his heart begin to settle to a more manageable rhythm. More importantly, his mind began to clear and so he was finally able to tear his gaze from the Key to more closely observe the budding battle below him.

He was in time to see a woman hurl a parcel at Cain; one which all but exploded into a cloud of brown powder on impact. In the same moment, another figure approached… a man, tall, broad, bearded and tugging off his shirt. A werebeast, most likely, with his eyes fixed on Goliath. In answer, the giant turned towards him and proceeded to rend beam and crate into makeshift weapons to use against the approaching warrior. Perfect.
With the two Templar obstacles distracted by their respective opponents, he was now faced with only the trio between them on the docks. His eyes traced every conceivable path to them, stormclouds as thick and heavy as the ones menacing them from above descending over his eyes as he looked. There was no way to accost them without crossing paths with one of the battling pairs at present… let alone an avenue for escape with the Mephisto once he had him. “Verdammt noch mal!” he hissed, but after a moment of further brooding and sizing up the scene he relaxed once more.

Carefully, Elias slipped from the shadows and moved ever nearer, to another set of stacked crates and their associated shadow. He was close enough now to make out more of his target’s form. He lingered over him; taking in the damp chestnut curls and leanly built musculature visible through the soaked shirt clinging to his frame. The gun was troublesome, but the lean physique would make manhandling him all the easier… necessary, if he was to snatch him and leave.
The Mephisto’s two companions were more problematic, but Elias relegated them to future consideration for the time being. He needed an actual opening first, and then he would deal with them if they were not already distracted. It would take but a few more pieces on the board, a few more moves, and then he hoped to have his chance. It was a gamble, one he wasn’t fond of, but if he was not the one to take the Key tonight… he was equally resolved to ensure that no one else did either.

 

[Luxura]

Holly Wilshire

alias: GABRIEL

health bar - 100%

WHERE: Docks, French Quarter
WITH: Templars, Beasts, The Key
DOING: Fighting
CREDIT: AdrianDadich
PLAYLIST:

​

With Cain’s order’s given, the Blood Sister made her way after the young Administrator, leading her toward the training facility at the back of the oversized mansion. In tow, Judas and the Overseer took their strides one behind the other, the blond vampire at the rear.

Holly knew that this was an area of expertise that favoured her senior counterpart; Jonah always having a bit more of a palate for warfare than herself. Combat was a necessity of her life, taken up not so much by choice but by fate. She went after her mentor in her youth looking to make a name for herself and find purpose, and she came back a woman of sword and shield.
It was with that subtle thought in the back of her mind that Holly had hoped Elias would have joined her at her side as they walked, for he seemed to have an aura of familiarity about him that she had not noticed prior in the restaurant during their introductions, and the woman wished to learn more of where it stemmed from. Nonetheless, the platinum blonde strode on with intention.

As they entered into the back wing of the house, a large extension took the existing foundation and lengthened out over what would have been a back lawn. Instead, a rather large training room took over the designated green-space, a corridor down the middle lined with railings towards what looked like change rooms at the opposite end; the wall overtaken by various weapons of in ranges of difficulty. Sectioned off areas on either side of the aisle allowed for several different training spaces to be created, though with the lights blackened it was difficult to determine much else about the large space.

The trio was led towards the very back corner of the room where recruits lined the wall parallel to the aisle. Nearly pitched black, this particular section had been created larger than the others, spanning several yards in length and just about 10 feet in width. Cerulean eyes narrowed in the deep dark, seeing only the outlined silhouettes of youth. She hadn’t augmentations to her vision, but the height and build of each dark form suggested to her that they were young… very young… too young.
All eyes centred on the sparring match between two individuals; young boys who moved with incredible speed, and even more wickedly in their violent intentions. Holly’s jaw tensed, eyes flicking down to Jonah; his countenance more intrigued and delighted than she’d seen in a long while, and she all but grimaced. Looking further her eyes passed quickly over their blond counterpart, the Vampire’s expression furrowed and cool; at the very least along the same lines as her own.
Swallowing, she turned back to the boys as their fight grew uglier. Weapons abandoned, they began to fall into fisticuffs, and the Sister all but shook her head. Children were not meant for this… And children were not recruits. She hadn’t expected them to be this young; that wasn’t in the briefing. She knew they were having a difficult time gaining new warriors to join the ranks, that recruits were getting younger, but this?

Venom seeping poisonous into her blood, a flushed heat began to singe her ears, tingle her cheeks. Calculated eyes found the Administrator in the darkness, their clipboard held tight to their chest as they watched in silence, expression void and blank,
“How young are they, these recruits?” she hissed, low enough as to not distract anyone’s attention. The young man met her stare with a start, then shook his head, “The majority of this division is between seven and thirteen years of age, Sir,”
“And their families are alright with this?” Her voice sharpening,
“They are part of the Persephone Project,” His own beginning to clip tightly as narrowed curiosity honed to a sharpened point in his eyes. Tightly, she grasped his arm and led him further away from her counterparts, remaining hushed, but only just barely as ire burned like acid in her lungs,
“The Persephone Project had strict guidelines about age and placement. In London-”
“In America,” He interjected, dangerously even, “We believe that the Persephone Project is the future backbone of the Templar Order. How we deliver on our mandate is within our jurisdiction.”

To build an empire on the backs of innocent children? To demand of them to fight in warfare, to spill their blood before they can learn their scriptures? This wasn’t holy… this was criminal! Not once in her briefings on gathering new recruits on this mission did anyone make mention of this blasphemy. But, who was Holly to make a claim of indecency; here in their own house? She could not rightfully abandon her orders without first displaying her case to her superiors… and this snarky son of a bitch knew it.

As the blond parted her lips to speak the sound of footfalls pounding the floor echoed around the darkness, and it wasn’t coming from the two boys. The Administrator glanced past her, and Holly turned to follow his gaze as another young man approached, out of breath and dishevelled,
“We’ve made contact,” he rasped, winded, and the Sister’s metals hands were on his shoulders immediately,
“Where?”
“A single flare from the Quarter. I have eyes waiting on the second.”
Bright eyes flicked over to Jonah, and then to Elias who met her’s ready and waiting; perhaps even a little hungry. Nodding once to him, she spun the young man around, “Get the troops ready, we move out immediately. We will need transports-- send word to the base to send as many as they have,” Meeting the vampire’s gaze once more, she uttered softly, “You’re with me.”

​

With the announcement the entire house exploded into organized chaos; whirlwinds of bodies getting into gear and readying their weapons in tight quarters. The moment they had been preparing for had come, but none had expected it to be so soon. Adrenaline hung thick and heavy in the air, a perfume of sweat and excitement caking every surface and filling every lung. Wolves in the den, awaiting the midnight hunt.

Holly went to ready herself in a private room on the second floor, leaving the warriors downstairs with a brief announcement of their new vampire soldier. It wasn’t how she had hoped to introduce their new partner in this mission, but it wouldn’t do to have him mistaken for an enemy so early in the game. The last thing Holly needed was another fight between her soldiers, and against one such vampire was only asking for more trouble than it was worth.

Free of her earlier blouse and trousers, she threw on her undershirt and combat shorts, then layered herself in armaments. A thick leather bodice wrapped around her torso to protect her most vital organs, layered under a chainmail shirt and her Templar robe. A compact steam-pack at her back plugged into the hulking mantel upon her shoulders, sitting pretty in place of the Angel’s wings. Though it was raining much more heavily, this was an older Seraphim model that ran strictly on steam power to give her the boosts she needed. Unlike much of the 84th new technology, this wasn’t so much of a threat to breakage under a little water.
Finally, her arm and leg modifications upgraded for combat-- additional thick steel plate-guards added-- she made her way swiftly back into the storm.

It didn’t take long for their transports to arrive from the base; large vehicles like the ones they had come into the city on, with long flatbeds to fit a couple handfuls of soldiers. Each steam-powered truck rumbled heavily in front of the mansion on the cobbled streets, their engines like lions ready for the prowl.
Stepping out in the steady rain, she herded Sisters and 84th into the vehicles, Jonah taking his own truck of men and Holly informing Judas towards the front of the line. Making to leave after him, the last truck pulled up to the end of the procession, and the familiar shadow of the Administrator passed by her quickly, a line of youth in toe; each decked in their own fitted battle gear. Most looked to be nothing more than training materials, weapons barely manageable for their size. A dire knot twisted her stomach as the young man turned back to watch her with a smile that was all too unfriendly,
“Godspeed, Gabriel,” he called to her over the rain. She could have sworn she heard a snicker whisper in her ear,
“I do not approve of these children accompanying us. It isn’t safe!”
“Your concern has been noted, Ms. Wilshire,” He drolled, “You would do them a great service to bring them back in one piece. Perhaps those that survive will be the ones to take with you back to Eden.” His lips a vicious, pearly grin.

Another flare streamed up in the distance, a siren’s cry as it trailed high into the low-lying clouds and exploded in a burst of light. There was no further time to argue, and she bit her tongue, sprinting to the nearest truck in the line and hopping up to hang off the passenger door as they skidded away.

The chase after the dying light was frantic, the streets loaded and bustling with commoners, despite the rain that continued to worsen. Thick rumblings of thunder were barely audible over the growling engines as they revved into gear, but the lightning strikes were bright; spider veins over the sky and making it more difficult to see the flare’s glow.

As they had left, eyes following Cain and Goliath from the widow’s peak announced they were headed towards the river, and that was their best chance at catching up with their comrades. The flare could only mean they had trapped them there at the water’s edge. It was impossible to think that they would have such luck as to find The Key in merely hours of arrival. Either the Lord’s will was true, his guiding hand ever leading his disciples to justice… or it was plain dumb luck that the Mephisto would be out in plain sight. Despite either scenario, Holly’s mission was clear, and just within her grasp.

Had she blinked, it was likely Holly would have missed it. Purely by chance, she happened to see Judas vault out of the back of the caravan a few in front of her own, taking a second to assess and then sprinting down a different street. Her eyes widened, barking at the driver, “Follow him!”
She knew vampire and beast well enough to understand their abilities to hear and smell were far greater than mere mortals. If he had sensed something, it was evident here, and the bloodthirsty hunter would lead her right to her mark.
Veering, skidding, off the succession line, the caravan accelerated quickly just as a thundering earthquake rattled through the vehicle. Followed quickly behind, the sharp, grating sound of crunching metal and squeal of steam escaping mingled in chorus with shouts and screams. The blond whipped her head around to witness the devastation created to her fellow soldiers under a beast so monstrous it was hard to believe real at all. The elements of a ginormous elk, antlers and hooves pulverizing steel and flesh alike as it trampled the truck and aimed to make waste of another behind.

Beast reinforcements-- this wasn’t going to be as clean and swift as she had hoped.

Sneering as she forcefully looked back to the driver, she demanded he continue to pursue the vampire towards the docks, regret burrowing deep in the pit of her stomach for those she may have lost behind.

On two feet, Elias was nimble, and able to slip through the city without hindrance. To the crowds of the French Market, the troop lost him within the swarms of people easily and abruptly it was clear that they could go no further without pedestrian casualties; their trucks did no good to them here.
Slowing to a halt, the blond dismounted from the passenger door, the troops in the back filing out after her, but she paid no attention to formalities; no formations or plans of attack; pursuit was still the value of the moment, every second the vampire got closer to The Key and she would be damned if Elias was the one to steal the goal out from under her. This was Holly’s mission, regardless of what the High Order thought. She would be the one to retrieve the Mephisto and bring him to Eden.
Crowds of locals began to form, fear in their eyes and low-toned murmurs following their every move as they parted for them; eager children held back by white-knuckled grips and elderly ushered away out of the rain. Many moved to take shelter, to steer clear of the hulking metal persons as they bolted towards the turbulent river, confusion and sometimes anger writ upon their faces. If it hadn’t been clear before now, Holly could taste the ire on her tongue-- Templars were not welcome here.

As the Sister known as Gabriel, the Messenger of God, stepped out onto the slick, swollen wood of the boardwalk, her eyes took in the scene that lay before her: Cain, enraged in the remnant cloud of some fine brown powder, his identity-hidden assailant not far behind him, poised and ready to attack; Goliath, moving forward to counter the large brutish beast she knew well to be an Alpha to the Harpy-- perhaps the most perfect match for this encounter; Judas… not clear in her line of sight, though she could sense his hunter’s presence like a breath upon the back of her neck; and lastly, the trio in question.
Maeve Donovan, the Harpy, and the one now known among the immortals as Queen of the Beasts in her succession at the Midnight Jackal’s fall. Near to her, a petite girl of no concernable recognition, and between them… The Key. It was a bonus to see the Mephisto had found his companions, as the Templars had suspected. If only it were her mission to bring down the leaders of the opposition…
Bright blue eyes locked immediately to the Mephisto’s dark umber, fear and a flicker of rage settling thick upon his features, which only drew Holly’s feet forward with confidence as she asserted her dominance with a resounding bark to her tone,
“Jack Fletcher, your time has come. Mephisto and fugitive of the Templar Order, you are to stand down and comply without resistance,” Cerulean eyes flickered quickly to all those that met her then, all bodies still as her soldiers lined behind her at the ready, “Our mission is simply to return The Key, and we wish no quarrel with any Beast or Vampire this night. Return to us that which is ours, and no harm will be done to your people. We will leave this haven city, and return to London…” her eyes shifting to Maeve’s, voice even, “We can fight our war another day.”

Brushing past the two women, the Mephisto stepped forward, hand holding his inferior weapon shaking as he roared, “Y-you did this; you did this to me? What do you people want?!”
The single unadulterated rage that swelled with venom in his black eyes seemed to drain their colour, the whites of his eyes sucking out the irises rapidly. The malice in his voice laced a different tone than she anticipated to hear; a twinning of two tones, two persons, speaking at once. Cautiously, the blonde narrowed her eyes, her stance lowering as she reached back to pry the shield and flail from her back, while the air around them seemed to change; the aura around the Mephisto appearing to darken like a void around his person, insomuch that she blinked rapidly to shake the sight. A sense of uneasiness tickled the hair at the back of her neck, like a blade it pierced between her shoulder blades, pinned there unable to be reached or removed.

Plucking flail and shield, she set her jaw and nodded firmly, “I will not repeat myself, and this is not a negotiation.”

With no movement made in their demands, Holly cast her eyes upon Cain, his eagerness to fight rippling off his form in waves. With a nod, she released him to retaliate towards the one who attacked him; coldly turning to Goliath with the same motions to continue his advancement upon the Alpha. Setting her sights up on the trio, her wrist began to roll, the ball and chain swaying, swinging lazily into centrifugal force. Her chin lifting higher, she calls to her Brothers and Sisters taking formations behind her,
“The Key is to be taken alive!”

 

[Crazy Trey-n]

Virgil Bedeau

Fantôme

health bar

WHERE: Nearby
DOING: Taking a Gamble
WITH: An Unfortunate Fellow
CREDIT: WIP

Guessing at matters of the mind and its workings had always held to him a certain attraction, not unlike the alluring appeal of a long-time lover’s beckon, but even still he’d not anticipated the Templar to react so… instinctively. Virgil had never deemed himself a menacing man, yet this one had shirked away from him as a dog that'd seen a threat might, with metal teeth bared and the barrel of a weaponized arm at the ready. It was a rather curious contraption, soundless and falter-free in its transition. Should the man not feel inclined to soon use it, Virgil would have to make a query as to how it'd been built. Being at the wrong end of a barrel had never before turned his eye blind to masterwork.

“Rather conveniently, I've never been a devout practitioner of what many consider to be right,” he shot back, a grin threatening to pull at one corner of his mouth. "Nor am I an advocate of that which is wrong, however, so naturally I am to ponder whether you level your firearm upon every passing stranger or if this occasion is something of a rarity to you?”

As the Templar attempted to busy himself with a cautious withdrawal from the scene and was beaten by an unrelenting downpour, Virgil chose to study him. Although the rain hid much, he could tell that the man was bulkier than he’d appeared from afar, and he speculated that most of his torso was likely altered by machinery in a multitude of ways. The metal jaw and oversized teeth set inside didn’t seem as though they made him many friends, but if this man was who Virgil believed him to be, then no doubt he preferred it that way. Just once had he known another who was as adept at modification, a true savant of his craft with a sharp tongue and even sharper wit. Perhaps they’d get along just fine if the two were anything alike.

"Truthfully, I’m here as that which you’ve labeled me: a ‘buddy’ of sorts.” While he was often brimming with thoughts, scarce were the times they ever truly met his tongue; the Templar would only hear what Virgil was willing to say. “My intentions are as pure as observing the meeting between opposing halves of a greater whole, and rare are the times I meet those who reside somewhere within the middle. If you’d be willing to forgive my former intrusion, then I might have a proposal of interest...”

Virgil hadn’t yet shifted against the persuasive embrace of a newly buffeting breeze, the only movement about him having been the ripple of his coat and the steady course of his gaze as it shadowed the Templar. The motions of his mind had taken precedence. Conversations could be like tides with the fickleness of their flow, so it was suiting that he'd been born to the sea and moulded by a man who'd made a living by the way of his words, whether guilesome or wise. Even if there was no room for companionship with the Templar, Virgil would at least ensure their meeting was kept compelling.

What better way than to raise the stakes?

“I’d like to present to you a gamble.”

There was a pause as he raised a placating hand in defiance of the falling rain; one could never truly predict what was to be when at the unfriendly end of a weapon, and much less predictable could be the one who wields it. The vampire was slow to withdraw his other hand from within his coat and practiced in the way he rolled the coin that came with it over the rise of each knuckle, until it was nestled with care between two fingers. One of its golden faces was etched with the likeness of a crowned, grinning skull, while the other, equally ridden with time-born residue embedded in a thousand little craters, was that of a three-masted ship cresting a thrashing wave.

Virgil made sure to hold it ahead for the Templar to clearly view. “They say that this coin was once the prized possession of an infamous corsair. To most, it is nothing more than an old lump of gold that'd fetch a middling price at the markets, but find yourself in the company of those that peddle questionable wares in dark places and one might offer to make you an extremely rich man.”

Fleetingly, he considered revealing the truth of its nature; the fact that there were only three known to exist, and that their holders were granted all but immunity to those whose trades were morally grey at best. His was the symbol of Piracy, and the other two - representing Smuggling and Slavery each - were owned by a pair of cutthroat, ruthless, very ancient werebeast twins that resided somewhere deep in the belly of the underworld. For all he knew, the old timer might already be well aware of such things.

“There will be no rules to this wager and the single stake would be a fraction of the evening," he assured the other. “You need only correctly guess which will rise triumphant here tonight: the union of the long-lived and the deathless, or those still susceptible to time.”

His gaze finally ventured away. The Templar was hardly in harm’s path, since Virgil had always been a man to stand by his sworn word. Trouble only came with compelling him to ever give it.

“Know that I’ll not take offense should you decline. Look upon this as another option for your night, put forth in the name of mutual amusement...”

As well as to quell his own curiosity, of course. Would this man of metal betray true loyalties by choosing those he'd once been pledged to, break reason by siding with what'd once surely been an enemy, or decide upon something else altogether? Maybe the fellow would just walk away, or even try his luck by shooting him and being done with it. There'd be no blame given or grudges held, for it would be well within reason to try, but neither did he believe the man would so readily reveal his place of hiding.

The sound of commotion further along the docks was enough to tear his attention away ever briefly. Two more figures had entered directly into the scene, each tossing the gauntlet at their respective Templar counterparts, and a flitting glance revealed that his acquaintance was making headway of his own amidst shipment freight and their shadows. Further beyond the collection of buildings that stood sentinel beside wide-eyed onlookers was the approaching stomp of the cavalry.

“You even have the benefit of an early glimpse at the playing hand.” There was a mischievous spark to his eye as he stared off at the fray, then at the clouds that veiled the stars. "So what do you say to a dance with chance?"

The bet had been set. All that was left for Virgil was to wonder if Lady Luck would once more side with him tonight, should this stranger take him up on the offer. A gamble had no less been the same way he’d come to own the cursed thing - earned through a game of poker from a man who'd gone nameless - and he’d yet to lose it to the clutches of another, though not for lack of trying. It merely seemed as though he and all of his late mentor’s possessions were to be forever bound.

As a final act of encouragement, he twirled the coin with a flourish so that it caught what little distant lamplight there was, for a moment gleaming bright in spite of a gloomy, weeping sky.

 

[Leola_Asarai]

Beau Desmarais

Mathis

health bar

WHERE: Streets
WITH: Himself
DOING: Heading to battle
CREDIT: Searching
PLAYLIST:

A crowd had gathered around the boys as they continued their training session. Though more eyes lingered on them now, Mathis was focused. He didn’t care for the audience or the eyes that were on them, all he needed to focus on was the vampire in front of him. Lashing out, Mathis fist made contact with Eli’s face, his fist red. Blood stained lines down his face from the other boys lashings. Neither child was ready for their session to be over. Feeling like they had something to prove, each boy was willing to push themselves to the limit, not wanting to be the first to fall.

A fist slammed into Mathis face, blood flying from the nose that was already bleeding. “Enough,” their trainer said. It wasn’t enough. They were not finished yet. He was still able to fight, he could keep going. The young beast was aiming up for a kick when arms grabbed him from behind, holding him back. Another trainer holding Elijah the same way. “ENOUGH!” their trainer said more sternly.

This wasn’t over. It wasn’t fair. There was still a lot more that they could do. Neither of them had conceded or fallen. His eyes glared darkly at the opponent he had been facing. He hated unfinished business.

The trainer sent him to get cleaned up. They had a mission.

Mathis quickly went to clean himself up, washing his face up in the bathroom with a damp cloth. He wiped the blood from his face, the mirror showing the slight bruising on his face. His nose had stopped bleeding, and the cut across his cheek was barely bleeding anymore. He could have gone to the medical bay but he didn’t think he needed an bandaging. Besides, he needed to hurry. There was no way in all the suffering of hell he was going to be left behind.

Already in his armoured gear, the young beast collected his weapon, re-strapping the bow to his back and his knife to his thigh. He was composed and ready, joining the others that were ready to go. Children lined up in ranks, walking out to the streets the rarely visited. None of them left the compound often, remaining in the training ground. In his opinion, a lot of these kids were not ready for this, but at the end of the day it was not his business. All he needed to do was to focus on himself, prove himself to be capable on the battlefield. He had been training for this. He was ready for whatever they were heading into.

Cold and stone face Mathis heading to the trucks. In the corner of his eyes he caught a glimpse of Elijah. A slight snare escaped him before turning away, hoisting himself into the truck bed with everyone else. Their unfinished battle would have to wait until after the one the were heading out to. He was looking forward to going up against him again. He enjoyed the challenge, and the satisfaction of taking him down would be sweeter because of it.

Now was not the time though. His mind moved on from the incomplete training session and focused on the mission at hand. The were debriefed in the truck. This was to be a retrieval mission. They were looking for someone. The Key. Mathis didn’t know who it was or why they were important. He didn’t care. It wasn’t his job to worry about that. Their goal was to be a distraction, support when needed. They wouldn’t be expecting them, and they would be using that to their advantage.

A flare light up the sky, a beacon to their heading. He smirked as they drew near, impatience settling under his skin, an itching to show his skills, to show his commitment to the cause. He needed to prove how valuable he could be.

Suddenly, their truck came to a screeching halt. The children braced themselves, eyes glancing around the sides of the truck bed to see what was happening. The truck in front had been blindsided by a beast. It was heading for them next. It was massive, elk like but also not like any beast he had ever seen. Jumping out the side of the truck before any impact had been made the group of children ran at the beast.

This wasn’t the main fight. One lone beast against the trucks. This was a diversion. They were being held back from supporting the other templars. This wasn’t where he was going to make the greatest impact. Mathis was not going to waste his energy on one lone beast when he could be helping with the main goal of their mission. His skills were better utilised elsewhere. This truck of kids could handle it.

Running on foot as the rain pelted down, Mathis made his way to the real battle.

 

[CosmicDusk]

Cecile Bellerose

Ember

health | bar

WHERE: French Quarter Streets, Docks
WITH: Beasts, Templars
DOING: Anticipating
CREDIT: Milica Jevtic
PLAYLIST:

The poem was repeatedly cited as she continued her walk. The nights were the same in the ever festive French Quarters. Cecile usually would indulge herself in new company, acquire new tastes for her wine cellar should they appease her, but tonight left a queasy wave in her stomach. She avoided the drink that was offered to her, not just because she was on a business call, but the sensation rode her the entire conversation. The coin flipped over her knuckles and back under her cloak, a subconscious motion as she retraced her thoughts.

A piercing wail of an whistle tone boomed, causing sapphire eyes to seek the source. Voices followed the distinct parade, gradually softer with each descending step. Noises and clatter left as quickly as it came, while dancers and musicians were none the wiser. She gave the sky a quick glance, following its smoke tracks, then descended herself. Light, agile steps took Cecile east of the town as she heeded to the sound of nothing but cries and howls. Grey and black clouds were ripped and plagued with the onslaught of war. The scent of musk and lingering blood polluted the air.

Clatters and bellowing were all she heard as she took further steps through the town. She didn't pay heed to the footsteps behind her, but she trusted it was one of the other vampires who followed her. Instead, she was more focused on getting to the area, and hopefully remove the threat to this musical city. The air was putrid, adding to her dismay. The stench of mortals, metal.

Templars.

Ocean brine filled her nose, dark clouds of the waves serenaded her ears, something she always enjoyed. However, tonight they were harsh, uneasy. Jazz notes faded, replaced by the harsh wind that followed behind her as she ran as fast as she could. Her hood whipped around her neck, hair frantic and waving with equal speed and irritation. In seconds, she picked up deep voices, the cranking of metals again, and she knew she was close. Until she abruptly stopped. She expected Templars indeed, their movements behind immortals' tail until their end.

But she did not expect a much larger army.

She smirked, her eyes narrowed black. Then picked up speed again, picking up the rear of a few men.

If you insist, then let us have some 'fun.'

She locked herself, then slammed herself into one of the three guys that held up the rear. He grunted, then let out a gruesome bellow as he raised his ax overhead. A few more behind him followed suit, each lifting their steel weapons before themselves in hopes to strike the petite woman. A glint peaked in the air, caught in the light of the moon. When they looked again, Cecile had disappeared from in front of them. In the midst of the momentary confusion, a silent shriek paled the dark silence. Gargling and raspy breaths were quick to replace said silence as one by one steel tumbled to meet the ground. Behind the smaller creatures, one of their comrades spewed liquid from his throat, fingers itching and dangling as if he was choking. As the bigger body finally toppled over, they looked up from where he once stood. The blacksmith stood with her back against the corpse in all her tall stature, her black cloak gone, clad in only black clothing with a single silver dagger perched on her thigh, a moonblade resting on her tailbone. Her fingers glistened in the moonlight as yet another glint glittered.

Then came an all familiar scent. Speed like a maniac, she barged her way through the crowd. Voices, a few she recognized, one she had been eager to meet again since their last entourage. Cecile caught sight of a tall fellow, and with all the energy she had, she gained speed. His silhouette getting larger and larger and she couldn't help but smile as her heel clacked against his back, and she somersaulted herself onto the docks. With a perfect landing, the vampiress rose and her feet immediately took her to the center. Not a single hesitant step. No, she was determined to confirm her suspicion.

The scents of Beast reached her, but her eyes intrigued by something else.

"If it isn't Holly Wilshire. We meet again, White One."

 

[Leola_Asarai]

Cassandra Caldecott

Little Sparrow

health bar

WHERE: The Brass Canine
WITH: A Bigger Fool
DOING: Playing it cool
CREDIT: Wendy Ng
PLAYLIST:

More often than not, Cassandra was willing to let fools prattle on, allowing them to preen and try and grasp her attention. Tonight, she was looking for a little more substance. It was a new town, she was hoping for something to spark her interest, to see what the beautiful city had to offer. So far, she was underwhelmed. Sipping her drink, her eyes were avoidant of the man that had slid himself against the bar beside her. Her small demeanour subtly calling out for someone else to saunter over. That or Cassandra would have to take care of the fool herself, and she rarely liked getting her hands dirty, if someone else could do it for her.

The man before her was making a right fool of himself, desperation oozing out of his sweaty pores as he tried to prove how suave he was. He was failing miserably. He also seemed so very unaware of her disinterest in him or the attention he was giving.

Just the same as many times before, it did not take long for someone to come to her aid. A young man with a charming smile, sliding right in between her and the man so miserably trying to garner her favour. How remarkably interesting. It was a man that was no stranger to her, the familiar scent from moments ago reigniting memories in the back of her mind. The evening indeed did get a little more interesting.

The young woman made herself small in her seat, shy and just a little bit wary of the situation that was unfolding. “Maybe a little,” she said a little sheepishly. Cassandra would play along with this charade for as long as she saw fit. She barely noticed the man as he made a muttered excuse to leave, her blue eyes lingering on the cowboy before her, calculating the situation in her mind as he made himself comfortable in the space that had now been vacated.

How many months had it been since the last time they had met? After all this time, it seemed the little puppy was far from home. It was not like she could call him out about it, it would be hypocritical of her to do so. Still, she had best keep on her toes in such a situation. Meeting up with people of her past could be dangerous. Especially one most likely left unamused by how things ended. Men slighted were often over emotional over the whole ordeal.

“Indeed, it seems the heavens are crying an awful lot out there,” she said softly as she smoothed out the damp fabric with her hand, “I’ll do best to take that warning to heart. One can never be too careful in an unknown environment.” The way his eyes glanced her over made a small, shy smile appear on her lips. Cassandra held little belief that he did not remember her. However, she could play dumb. It was her speciality, after all. Besides, he would either believe that she did not recognise him as well and try to get the upper hand over her in the situation, or he would see through the ruse. Cass wondered for a moment how far their little game would go. He had caught a glimpse past her deceit during their last interaction, would he believe it again on a different level, that she did not remember his face. Perhaps that he was not as memorable as he thinks he is. Poking fun at him would be delightful.

Flagging down the bartender, he ordered another drink for himself, and one for her too it seemed. “Oh, thank you,” she said, as if almost surprised that he would do such a thing. “That is very kind of you.” She took the drink in her hand, her other just finished off. Cassandra knew she would have to be careful. She knew how much of a lightweight she could be if she was not careful. Was that his plan, to get her drunk? Like it would be that easy again. She always found men smoothly played on the subject, playing drunk and being drunk were vastly different things, but could they really tell the difference.

Taking a small sip, she smiled, “I’m charmed, Dutch,” she said. The last time they had met she had let loose, though still not as drunk as she could have been, they had been much the same. It had been an opportunistic moment. She had planned to make a meal of the man that evening but could not bring herself to do it in the end. Their roll around in the sheets sated her well enough in the moment, such as the slight bit of pocket change and few belongings she picked up as well.

“Miss Caldecott,” she said, reaching her hand out, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Leaning back against the bar, she took another sip of her drink, “so, what has your evening entailed so far, Dutch,” Cass asked, purely an innocent curiosity littered the tone of her voice. She held the glass as if she were unsure of herself. As if she had little confidence in what she was saying. Almost too shy. “Have you been buying drinks for all the pretty girls at the bar, or just ones looking particularly out of sorts,” she said as if embarrassed for being caught in such a state. “I promise you, I’m not usually this dishevelled. Please forgive me,” she said innocently; for more than one thing.

 

[nighteyes]

Sister Aglaé

JEANNE D'ARC

health bar

WHERE: The docks
WITH: Holly Wilshire, Templar soldiers, and too many immortals
DOING: ᕙ(`▽´)ᕗ
CREDIT: Arthur Rackham

O soft embalmer of the still midnight,
Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleas'd eyes, embower'd from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close
In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes,
Or wait the "Amen," ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities.
Then save me, or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes,—
Save me from curious Conscience, that still lords
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.

To Sleep
John Keats

✧​

On the cusp of dawn, Jean-Bayard woke to the vigil of the menhirs.

Had he not known better, Bay might have thought he had been whisked away to some otherworld. The small and gently sloping hills were caught in brume, and the landscape was dusted with a velvet sheen that scintillated under the touch of first light. For the past two nights they had slept in a copse of upright slabs that had stood sentinel for untold millennia, where the air was close and laden with quiet, ancient memory, and the machinations of man seemed to him a faraway fantasy.

Stirring beneath his blankets he blinked sleep from his eyes and moisture from his lashes. He could not see far beyond the boundaries of their small encampment, and he spied Ségolène situated at the periphery. His sister sat turned away from him, her back flush against one of the stones.

After finding this place and laying down their rucksacks, they had spent the better part of an hour scouring the surface of every slab until they found the waypoint: a place low to the ground, well-hidden by overgrowth where the granite had been smoothed. Ségolène had used the blade of a knife to gingerly scrape away moss to reveal beneath a chiseled engraving, a more recent amendment that depicted a hound standing rampant, teeth bared. He'd first laid eyes on the creature many years before, emblazoned on a well-worn tome buried deep in an attic space.

'A hunting hound,' his father had told him, when he had run to him brimming with questions. 'A servant of man. When you are older, my son, and your shoulders have broadened, I will tell you more. Someday soon, but not today.'

Bay's eyes, resting on the outline of the one shoulder visible to him, noted from the way it hung that his sister was steeped in thought. She had often been these past few days. Her gaze was cast out upon the enshrouded landscape, knees drawn to her chest. The kerchief she wore over a coif that veiled hair, nape and throat, both of undyed linen, lifted in the breath of wind that threaded between the stones.

She stirred. Ségolène took up the rifle laid across her lap, and she trained it upon a point in the distance. When Bay looked with rising alarm, he discerned subtle movement and the suggestion of a shape. The plumes of billowing fog parted, and a form was revealed in their midst. A hind stood with cautious poise on the incline that swelled above their encampment, and its dark gaze, watchful and considering, was fixed upon Ségolène.

The barrel of the rifle was lowered with the same amount of care. For a long breath the hunter and the hind gazed at one another through the swift-moving vapor. A hush had fallen over the hills, broken only by distant birdsong and the sighs of the feather-soft grass. Then the hind turned away, and before disappearing from his sight, Bay glimpsed an abdomen heavy with fawn.

Following a light breakfast, they broke camp and picked their way through the cool and damp morning in search of the road. Their business with the menhir was concluded, and they were to press on. For two days Bay and Ségolène had laid in wait with mounting impatience, and the previous night had borne fruit. The skies had cleared just enough to lay bare the constellations, and they were at long last able to consult the positioning of Orion.

They were picking their way down the slopes, following a wending path through the brush. Ségolène walked ahead of him, entirely at ease at the helm, arms swinging freely by her sides. There was a bounce to her stride that struck him as triumphant, and he was not surprised to see it. On a lark they'd sought out the blade before, to no avail. But suddenly there was an air of discovery about a thing so daunting and distant as to seem impossible before. Excitement pricked at them both. "Gigi," he called out.

She turned to look back at him, and eyes shaded with striations of brown and a fickle wavering blue-green peered at him questioningly from a face dusted with freckles. Now and again there were moments when he found himself a little shaken by her glance, when the light struck just so and the modifications to her sight became evident. Here in the cloud-dimmed daylight, her eyes looked as they always had.

She was set to undergo another procedure—the last, he prayed—and he swallowed his true sentiments as best he could. He couldn't number the times she had gone under the knife, and clinically white walls were as familiar to him as his own house. Bay had been at her side through it all, bearing witness to every success and every setback. These automaton limbs would serve to keep her safe, but when and where would the modifications end? How much of Ségolène would be left?

A shadow of his thoughts must have passed over his face, because her expression became one tinged with concern, and her hands moved to form a query. Is something wrong? she asked him.

"No," Bay readily replied, smoothing his features. Eager to change the subject, he then said, "The lines in the book you translated from Breton. Could you recite them again for me?" That was the only diversion he could think to conjure on the spot, appealing to her interests. Thankfully, it worked. She was all too eager to relay it to him again, giddy as a child in her enthusiasm.

Under the Hunter's eye, behind a looking glass of Heaven, lies in slumber the waiting Maiden.

His gaze ventured beyond her. There was no lingering doubt hovering about the itinerary and their quest, like the horizon, was laid out and waiting.

✧​

Rain pattered a silver gauntlet resting upon the hilt of a sheathed blade.

The feeling that rippled through the bed of the transport vehicle was palpable. To the woman seated at the end of one row it was as present as the moisture on the air, pressing in about her senses. No sooner were they settled had the news come and the manse that housed them was instantly astir with a flurry of activity, an honest to goodness tangle of noise and confusion as soldiers who were adjusting to new arrangements threw themselves into readying for combat.

When word of a sighting descended, it drifted to her through the ajar door of her living quarters, where she was still recovering from a days-long sojourn between sea and sky. Though far more accustomed to air travel now, she had her limits and they had made themselves known. During the last stretch of the journey the airship was caught in the wrathful throes of a storm at their heels, and it was all she could do to keep her composure. Pale-faced and wide-eyed, she had been wracked with fear and bouts of sickness that did not abate until they were near to landing.

There had been a time once when she enjoyed crystallized ginger, but if she never had cause to chew the stuff again it would be too soon; her love of it was tainted forever. She had been all too happy to be on the ground—she could have stooped to kiss it, so great was her relief! All was right again with solid earth under her feet, but she would not deny that she yet felt the journey, and that her body would have thanked her had curled up for a very long sleep.

Her personal effects were tended to first, as they were few and far between and tucked away with ease. Then came the preparations for patrols, and this she treaded into with methodical attentiveness. A once-over of her limbs and their functions, the laying out of her armor to account and tend to every piece, a cursory consultation of her weaponry; there was a measure of comfort to be taken from a routine familiar as drawing breath.

At some point she had managed to find a spare moment to steal away into the kitchens, padding quietly and with purpose through the halls, and returned with a tin cup in her hands. Steam plumed from its contents, bitter and sharp. The drinking of this tincture, coupled with gargling salt water and applying ointment to new scarring along her throat that was still tender and red, had become her new norm.

Every aspect of her recuperation had been detailed in a pamphlet that almost matched her wrist in thickness, and she would review it with bated breath, as if hoping the mere action of looking would hasten the process. Every day she would look, and every day she would remind the candle flame of eagerness within her—Now? it would always whisper—that she must wait, but only a little while longer. Among the grains of wisdom to be taken from her life, there was this: that the path of healing was long.

Her breastplate was laid across her folded legs when heavy footfalls trailed past her door, and she roused herself from her bunk, poking her head into the hall to find out what all the fuss was about.

Excitement was in abundance, for who among them could have anticipated that they would stumble across their quarry so quickly, when the briefing for the mission was fresh in their minds? She shared in it, of course, no question, but other matters plied for her attention, driving her to distraction. Her head turned, and beneath her helm Ségolène's eyes drifted to her Commander. The woman who wore the mantle of Gabriel was near to hand; she had not bothered with seats and instead had stepped up to grip the passenger side door.

Bewilderment had roiled within Ségolène at the scene she witnessed from her seat: a queue of too-small soldiers filtering into another transport. It troubled her then and troubled her still that a troop of children had joined their company. She turned the matter over in her mind to examine it every which way, but it did nothing for the feeling that sat with a river stone's weight in her chest. The whole business was oddly cavalier; her Commander's concerns were simply waved away and left to fade into the aether like smoke. Ségolène's sentiments were made plain, etched into her features by a crinkled nose and a deepening frown. Bristling, she had been struck by a startling thought: that the vicious twist to that fellow's mouth seemed made to accommodate a clenched fist, but she quickly caught herself and decided she ought to mind her own affairs, lest temper lead her astray. That was about the time she drew in a steadying breath and donned her helm, because doing so was far easier than unpinning her heart from her sleeve.

The cityscape was a blur, a rush of bustling streets and city lights that swept by, almost too fast for her eye to follow. The storm above sounded a deep warning that trembled on the warm evening air, and inwardly she hoped nature's ire did not have an attraction to armor. An order from Gabriel to the driver sounded in her ears over the roar of the engine, and she was bracing herself in her seat as the vehicle veered down a new course. She caught a fleeting glimpse of a great shape setting upon the caravan, an antlered creature of a size almost too extraordinary to be believed. It was heralded by hoofbeats that seemed to shake the earth to its foundations; the beast threw itself bodily upon one of the vehicles, and the carapace buckled under crushing, unfathomable weight. She cut a masked glance at her Commander, who was urging the driver on.

The vehicles that remained were soon slowing to a stop. Gabriel was leaping down from her perch, and Ségolène's comrades in arms were rising to file out of the flatbed. But the chase had not yet come to its close; they were to go the rest of the way on foot, and after flicking a cursory look at the narrowed streets and throngs of watchful passerby, she understood why. She was among the last of their number to hop down, bringing up the rear. They moved as an avalanche of metal, and the crowds that choked the scene made way for them.

Lightning streaked the skies above in bright rivulets, and the pale, flickering flash of light illuminated a skirmish on vast docks and boardwalks that bordered the waterfront. Gabriel had taken the lead, venturing out to address a figure at the water's edge: their quarry. She drew up to flank her with crossbow in hand, standing rigid as she looked on, and as the other woman's voice carried over the wet slats her gaze swept the scene, left to right and back again, taking stock and numbering the players. She was conscious of the faint fluttering of her heart and torrential downpour upon her helm. The seconds that passed seemed drawn somehow, stretched thin and turned to hours.

Her focus was drawn to the tall figure that stepped forward, past two companions. The Mephisto known as Jack Fletcher was trembling with unfettered rage that took on a life of his own. The air about his form appeared to darken, bringing to mind the way tea leaves and coffee grounds leeched color into scalding water. Perchance it was only a strange working of light, but her vision rarely played tricks, even in the gloom. Something seemed to shift, and whether it was in the air or the people all round she could not say, but it was evident that combat was unavoidable this night. With weapons in hand Gabriel signaled to every soldier at the docks, giving them leave to engage. Ségolène, in turn, advanced with weapon raised.

 

[Luxura]

Jack Fletcher

LAZARUS

health bar - 10%

WHERE: French Quarter - Docks
WITH: Kenna & Beau -> Seiko
DOING: Fighting
CREDIT: LainValentine
PLAYLIST:

​

“They’re coming, Jack! You have to wake up!”

A shaking gasp rattled the brunet, scared eyes closing tight. It seemed, in that moment, that Jack’s nightmares were truly omens; tragic shadowed warnings of tortures yet to come. His eyes opened again; flicked quickly between the two Templar soldiers, to the women that would lay down their lives for his soul to carry on for another day. Solemnly, the Mephisto paused to wonder if all of this was futile-- he was without serum, how much longer did Jack truly have before he truly left this world?

The boards beneath his soles trembled, and Jack followed the wave to the source-- Bjorn. The Alpha stood from where he must have jumped from the rooftop, sights on the larger of the two Templars as he advanced.
A cry of surprise snapped his head back then to the other to witness a strange tableau, a large cloud of brown powder billowing around the young man in his steel suit. Looking past him through sheer curtains of rain as he coughed and hacked, Jack spied the dark, willowy form of a masked woman… In the blinding strike of lightning, Jack winced-- he swore her image changed; medical robes and sterile white, watching with calculated eyes at her experiment screaming in agony. Trembling, narrowing his searching gaze, he recognized her eyes, mouthing her name in a breathless whisper.

Only then, in the eerie calm before the inevitable clash of fist and steel, Jack felt the finite hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It wasn’t the lightning strike or pungent scent of ozone that filled his nose. It was the familiar unease of a leering, malignant gaze. Shivering under the weight those eyes pressed upon his aura, the Mephisto searched the darkness for them, paranoia following their every glance. Twitching to the slightest of sounds, he looked for the hushed whispers against his ear, too quiet for his mind to make out the words but begging him all the same.

“Jack Fletcher,”

That voice was clear; louder than the rest, commanding and bold. Eyes of burnt sienna wildly blinked through the rivulets of rainwater trickling over his brows from damped curls. Shaking off the strange reality he’d found himself in, Jack settled on the radiant pearlescent-haired woman who stalked toward them,

“Your time has come. Mephisto and fugitive of the Templar Order, you are to stand down and comply without resistance,”

He knew of her… Gabriel, he believed he’d learned her alias somewhere along the way. But in the memories he’d acquired since his escape from their clutches, Jack could not recollect her face.
Nevertheless, the Mephisto understood who this woman was and all that she stood to uphold. A religion lost on glorified idealists; deranged scientists looking for gold in the souls of the innocent. Creators of monsters more unnatural than the Vampires that stalked the midnight shadows-- darker still, that Man would be the most dangerous and twisted of all beings, misguided by a belief in higher influence. How dare they play with lives like that-- pretending they could own but a speck of power meant for gods; to try and wear the mask of Mother Nature while poisoning her in her slumber!

Brushing past Nascha and Maeve, Jack stepped forward, hand holding his inferior weapon shaking as he roared towards the white knight,

“Y-you did this; you did this to me? What do you people want?!”

The single unadulterated rage that swelled with venom in his dark gaze seemed to drain their colour, the whites of his eyes sucking out the irises rapidly. The malice in his voice laced a different tone than what was normal to hear; a twinning of two tones, two persons, speaking at once. The air around them seemed to change; the aura around the Mephisto appearing to darken like a void around his person; all warmth and humidity from the turbulent storm coiling into the darkness and dropping to a winter’s chill.

With the arrival of Cecile; the confrontation of Leech Queen and Blood Sister, the battle broke into chaotic pockets around him. Eager to exact the revenge he deserved for all that had been done to-- and taken from-- him, Jack made to step forward, but it was the acute sound of a swift cut to the air past his ear that broke the Mephisto from his rage-induced trance.

Blinking rapidly, Jack’s eyes flooded with bright, raw umber, darkening to their normal hue. Shaking his head to clear the fog from his thoughts, he looked back to the single arrow sitting tight into the wood beneath their feet. Following the line of where it would have originated, his keen sights narrowed on a small dark figure, difficult to make out in the shadows and pellets of rain. Sneering, his eyes wandered over his frame… Small, very small. Was this… a child?
Movement flying at the same level drew the brunet’s attention across the rooftop towards a taller, still slender figure,

“Kenna?”

Heart pounding in his chest, his eyes flicked back and forth quickly between the two of them, his feet carrying him absently at a swift clip closer to the building, regardless of dangers unfolding,

“Kenna!”

Watching the tiff between the two youth getting heated, Jack’s gait steadily turned from absent hesitation to a jog, to a full-on sprint. Uncertain if he had managed to capture her attention over the pellets of rain, it was clear that the young boy wasn’t friend-- if the arrow at Jack had been a true testament of intentions-- but rather a very dangerous foe.

The Mephisto couldn’t fathom it; was this boy a part of the Templars? He was far too young for warfare; to have to learn to protect and defend, and kill. By the look in dear Kenna’s eyes, the expression of pleading upon her countenance, Jack could see that she knew him-- her brother. Her brother…

As he called her name a second time, Kenna heard him over the storm and caught his glance, calling back to him in relief. But the distraction was a play too perfect for the boy to pass up. Violence was his calling, and opportunity set the stage. He pushed Kenna forcefully back, her agile feet unable to save her then, and she tumbled back off the ledge. Jack’s clockwork heart lurched into his throat, his lungs breathless in alarm. With all the speed available to him Jack sprinted forward, jumping to catch her lithe form in his arms and pull her tight against him before she hit the boardwalk. Cradled into his chest, together their forms skidded across the wood; Jack taking the brunt of the impact with his shoulder and back.
Smoothing a hand over the girl’s hair, he hugged her close,
“I’ve got you. You’re alright.” Softly cooing, checking her over for any damages, “You need to get out of here, I don’t want them to take you.” he urged, taking her face in his hands wearily.
It was no surprise she refused to leave. The panic that alighted in her eyes pressed a pin between his ribs, aching for her. Shaking his head, his hands fell from her face, deep umber eyes sympathetic,
“Kenna…”
But Jack knew… he understood better than anyone what it was like to stay in the face of death for the one they loved most.

As he looked to her, a glint in the light attracted his attention in the background; Jack’s vision grasped the sight of the young child taking aim once more from the roof above,
“Shit!”
Quickly, Jack grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her down into the boards, covering her body with his own before any arrows could make contact.
Bracing for the impact only made it worse. Piercing with force, Jack cried out with a hard wince, his arms quivering with the sudden influx of endorphins. Teeth grit hard, he seethed a breath evenly, charred brown eyes opening to find his ward,
“Your brother has ill intentions, darling,” Growling, he shifted his weight off that shoulder, still covering her from harm, nonetheless, “You’re not safe,”

He did not hear the boy’s approach over the storm and siege around them, too focused on the pain throbbing down his arm and through his chest-- on Kenna’s safety.
Groaning, Jack hissed sharply as he rolled off her and to the side, allowing Kenna freedom of movement. Reaching back, a quivering hand wrapped around the arrow’s shaft with his jaw clenched tightly. In a fluid yank, he pulled back and up, tearing it from his skin and muscle with an agonizing cry. The wound would heal, there was no question of that, but that fact didn’t make it hurt any less, or quell the gushing pumps of blood that pooled out from the hole.
With a gravel grunt, the Mephisto swallowed back the bile, acid burning the back of his esophagus, and found his footing. Narrowed eyes were quick to follow where Kenna had gone to stop her young brother, but the child’s bloodlust had yet to be sated. As she held him back, Jack could sense the growing madness in the boy’s stare, his desire to complete his task like a runaway train plowing into anything in its path. Swiftly, Jack lurched forward, feet slickly sliding around the wet boards as he stumbled, but managed to grasp Beau by the bicep and tug him back from the other,
“That’s enough!” he roared, trying to hold the surprising strong child from lunging back at her.

Jack didn’t expect it. Retaliation, certainly; in the form of violence was to be assumed… but not like this had been. The boy had been blessed with youthful agility-- Jack hadn’t seen him move, nor the dagger in his hand; blinded by his inattention from frustration and anxiety.

He felt the blade enter the soft flesh of his cheek, no more painful in the moment than the needle he pressed into his veins with putrid serum to keep his life. Steel, cool and thin, sliding through the skin and into his gaping mouth, nearly four inches to the hilt; slicing even the top of his tongue no deeper than a papercut. The shock of it paralyzed him, gripped his muscles coiled and stiff as he gasped breathlessly, doe-eyed. Staring long into the child’s fearful eyes, Jack could see the innocence there, flickering like the lightning strikes of the storm above them before they swirled back into still, cool waters-- vacant, replaced with murderous focus.
The blade pulled out, and as he grappled with replacing the air in his lungs-- choking on the fount of blood that pooled into his throat-- the blade found a new home within his stomach, this time his body soaking the impact; awakening with raw and shocking pain that washed through him.

The blackened soil of his eyes drained to grey, veiled in a blinding fog. The humid air about them chilled, shadows creeping like a writhing aura about them. He blinked, and within Jack’s crushing grip held the wrist of the child who aimed to next flay him in the chest. For what seemed like years in the ticking of the seconds that passed, Jack could see the ghostly tendrils of his breath between them, smokey-- impossible-- as they dissipated into the night. And through them, he never left Beau’s gaze, blood seeping through his teeth, spilling over his lip as the wound slowly worked to restitch itself.
The muscles in Beau’s wrist struggled under the pressure of Jack’s hold, shaking until the blade slipped from his grasp to the boards at their feet. Sneering, feral, Jack twisted the arm back, heedless of the cries that came. The hand that had gripped Beau’s bicep burrowed deep into the boy’s hair and curled a tight fistful of chunky brunet locks at the roots. In a single fluid motion, the Mephisto slammed his assailant’s head against the brick exterior of the building, then released his limp body to fall in a heap at his feet.

Lightheadedness and ebbing reminders of pain thrust themselves upon the brunet forcefully, drawing Jack out of his foreign state of body and mind. Blinking rapidly, a hand steadied himself against the wall, the other pressing firm into his stomach to ease the bleeding. Colour returned quickly to his eyes, the dark, cold atmosphere evaporating like a dream, and in its place, he felt the swell of cold inside his veins, nausea and sleep. Looking down at the boy, chestnut brows knit together-- lost, momentarily, on how he’d gotten there. Panting, a heavy shudder passed through his limbs and all Jack could do was shake his head as he met Kenna’s eyes, speechless.
He hadn’t expected to find fear there. The foundation of trust he’d laid with tender care had been soaked in petrol, and it was his own hand that lit the match that set it burning to ashes.

Hands were upon him, but he was numb to the feeling of it, his senses slowly returning to him as he turned his eyes to meet the familiar stare of his retainer. Seiko urged him to follow, but Jack’s heels planted into the boards as his vision blurred, uncertain if by rain or by tears,
“Kenna,” he croaked, wincing as Seiko pulled him, “I’m sorry. Kenna, please; we can come back for him...”

 

[CosmicDusk]

Jonah Lancaster

The Overseer

health | bar

WHERE: French Quarters
WITH: Templars, Immortals
DOING: Observing, Shooting
CREDIT: Ástor Alexander
PLAYLIST: ♱

While Jonah was a bit astounded by how young the immortals were, they were well-equipped and well-versed in their skills and movements. There were clear motions for improvement, but their initial strength and determination alone were enough to keep the Overseer's eyes on them.

As they observed, he detected more presence around him, but he did not heed them. The two boys had an animosity that leaked off of them, but for a split second he sensed fear. Whether it was from them or the onlookers, he washed the thought away until an alarm called his attention. The Key had been found.

Gabriel was the first to react, bellowing orders as they exited the facility. Lingering thoughts followed him as the boys were no longer in his sight. Questions rose, but they were put on the back burner for now. Grey eyes darkened, his fists clenched around his cane, and chaos rode the Paradise as Brothers and Sisters moved in waves for battle.

Jonah left for his own quarters to prepare. Most of the time, he was relaxed and only dressed himself to the bare minimum upon their arrival to New Orleans, even during their venture to meet with Brandt. He understood the importance of being battle-ready at any given moment. Even someone as overwrought as he was needed some time to himself, however rare. The change of attire was of difference to him, so long as they didn't hinder his movement. Metallic body parts make up over half of his person, strength riding him entirely; attire honestly meant nothing except when presenting himself to the Archbishop.

Preparations were a grab and go type of protocol for him. They couldn't afford to lose another second after following a trail for a couple of years. Who knew how long the nexr encounter would be.

Jonah grunted at the thought.

♱​

The commute was quick, faster than it was earlier in the evening. Men spoke around him, some quiet per Jonah's preferrence, but the Overseer wasn't paying them any mind. No. Instead, his mind was racing over a flash of a moment before their departure. Did he see children board one of the ships? Or did he mistook the length of shadow against the Brothers and Sisters? Either or, it was evident the American branch recruited to extreme sides compared to its London counterpart. He couldn't fathom the decision of children. Yes, raw potential; but was there something else they were managing? He found children to be too frightened and fragile for the type of training Templars endured, especially augmentations.

It wasn't long for his thoughts to be interrupted but a rocky halt, men dismounting out of the vehicle and marching towards the docks. Jonah was not far behind, taking the lead as Holly and her Blood Sisters caught up. He would ask for her thoughts later; their priority mere steps away.

Gabriel spoke first, while the Overseer observed the immortals lined in front of him. A few men, women, all of whom stood with nary a fright. Indeed they were the beasts and vampires Templars had long hunted over the years. Hpwever, tonight, their goal was different than a faction war.

Behind the blond who he believed to be the Harpy from his research stood a tall, lanky man. Pale, disheveled, rotting.

The Key.

As Holly spoke, a clatter of bellows and clashes were heard from the rear. Jonah turned only in time for a figure to leap from the crowd and landed on the docks as if there was not a large formation of metal bodies covering the ground by the inch. The woman was agile, silent; the bloodthirsty aura leaking out of her as she addressed Gabriel by name.

Before Jonah would respond, a crash was heard from the left flank. Cries were heard, a roar cracked through the air like thunder. Something large entered the grounds. With a grunt, the Overseer turned on his heel, signaled a group of men, and began a March towards the source. The closer they got, the louder and deeper the cry was. Did the immortals have some sort of horde, some tank to throw off their artillery? It had to be as big as their tanks, but it would not come to him as a surprise if some of the beasts were able to transform into an animal that was of not normal stature.

Thundering footsteps drew close, screams and gunfire casted amok. Jonah's footsteps transitioned from patterned clacks to speedy, short thuds by the weight of his body. Men followed near and spread out until the shadow of a skyliner came into sight.

Not just one.

But two.

A stag and a mountain lion.

He underestimated their statures, but it was not enough to deter him. With practiced motion, the Overseer drew his revolver and steadied his gaze. Brothers-in-arms charged and provided the necessary assist and back up as Jonah aligned his sight on the great stag.

BANG!

 

[Leola_Asarai]

Kenna Mac Amery

Incendiu

health bar

WHERE: Docks
WITH: Jack and Beau
DOING: Fighting
CREDIT: Olivier Ponsonnet
PLAYLIST:

Keeping herself low, Kenna watched the scene unfold below her. Where she was situated on the roof gave her the best platform to see everyone, the lingering tension of the battle that was unfolding. Glancing around, she kept her eyes peeled. Kenna wanted to help, but she also did not want to get in the way of anyone. For now, she heeded Bjorn's words to stay out of sight.

As her eyes flicked around the evolving battlefield, a small figure caught her eye, climbing up the side of the opposing building. Shock crossed her features as her eyes began to understand exactly what they were seeing. It couldn't be. Her eyes bore into the figure, standing from where she had been crouched on the roof. Still not fully grasping what her eyes were seeing, she watched as Beau pulled himself onto the roof.

"Beau," she whispered, barely audible as the rain poured over her, squinting through the drips falling over her eyes. Her feet crept forward. Slow at first, but as the recognition grasped further in her mind, her feet moved faster. She didn't have time to question his appearance here, of all places, but as her eyes watched, he pulled the bow off his back. Glancing at where he was aiming, her face drained. "BEAU!" she screamed at him.

There was no hesitation in her leap, jumping the gap between building's with ease, just as Bjorn had encouraged earlier. Calling out his name, it had been enough to catch his attention, pulling it away from making an accurate aim at Jack, missing him.

Eyes flicked back to Beau, her running coming to a halt as he pulled a knife that had been strapped to his leg, the bow securely strapped to his back. "B-Beau?" She was confused, hesitant now as he seemed to not recognize who she was.

"It's me. It's Kenna." She said softly, gently, hoping that the harsh look on his face would dissipate. It lingered, not calming in his stride as he made his way closer to her, his knife at the ready. "I know. I just don't care."

Beau was so different. His eyes, the way that he glared at her. So full of hate and anger. So much had changed over the past year. He looked so different. Kenna took a step forward, but at the brandish of the knife, she took a startled step back, keeping her balance so as not to slip on the roof as the rain continued to pelt downward.

Kenna's footing was careful, watching where she was stepping, but not wanting to run too far from him. It had taken so long to find him; she was not going to let him out of her sights. "I've been trying to find you." Was he mad at her for not coming for him? Surely he knew that she was looking for him. She had spent all this time searching for any clues as to where he could be. "Beau, please, I'm sorry," she had to tell him. She would tell him as much as she could. She was sorry for taking so long, she was sorry that they took him. She was sorry that she failed.

Beaus face scrunched up in annoyance, "I don't want to be found," he growled out at her as he lunged in her direction. She side-stepped to avoid it, her feet stepping dangerously close to the edge of the roof. She could pull her knife out, her lighter, but she didn't want to. She would not hurt him, she didn't want to fight.

Hearing her name called, Kenna looked down, seeing Jack running in their direction on the boardwalk below. "Jack!" she called, but the relief that washed over her was short-lived. In the short moment she looked away from him, Beau stepped forward, his hands pushing against her, knocking her off balance, sending her hurtling off the edge of the roof.

Kenna's heart thumped in her chest as it skipped a beat, feet slipping over the edge, her body falling backwards. Her hands reached out, but she stopped herself from grabbing on to the small frame in front of her. Kenna did not wish to pull Beau down with her. Kenna had not expected him to actually push her off. Sure, he had a knife and attempted to stab her with it, but Kenna had thought it was purely defensive, not malicious.

Beau's face was emotionless as he stood at the edge, watching her fall. Kenna closed her eyes, bracing from the impact of her body hitting the ground. Impact came, but not in the way she expected. Arms coiled around her, pulling her close before the eventual impact of the boardwalk. The impact, although softened by Jack taking the brunt of it, it was still enough to knock the wind out of her lungs. Their skidding came to a standstill, a desperate gasp escaped her, her lungs trying to pull in air that had been lost.

The arms around her hugged her close, Jack's soothing words tried to calm her as she nuzzled into his chest, shaking slightly by the shock pulsing through her system. Jack tried his hardest to urge her to leave, but Kenna shook her head, panicked by the thought of that. "N-no I can't," she said, shaking her head, her eyes wide as she pulled away from Jack. "I can't leave him, Jack." Kenna couldn't do that, not again.

Kenna was taken back by the sudden shift in his movement, not expecting to be pushed down. It wasn't until she heard the sound of the arrow piercing flesh did she understand. "Jack!" Kenna's eyes quickly surveyed Jack's wound. "I'm so sorry," she said as careful hands reached up, inspecting the arrow in his shoulder, but not daring to pull it out.

Ill intentions. The dark look in Beau's eyes was enough to tell her that Jack spoke the truth, but Kenna could not accept that. "No," Kenna said, shaking her head, "It's not like him." This was not the boy from her memory. Beau was not nearly this violent. "It's not his fault." It was hers. She knew that. They had done something to him when they took him, he had changed. It was her fault for him ever getting into their grasp.

Water flicking from the tips of her hair as her head continued to shake, throwing away the thoughts of her safety. "I'll be fine, you need to get out of here. They are after you." Glancing up she saw Beau, less than a few feet from them, not even hearing his approach. "Shit," she said as she scrambled to her feet, putting herself between Beau and Jack.

Beau had his knife out again. "Beau, that's enough. You need to stop; you can stop now," she said, her arms up defensively as she took a few cautious steps forward. Kenna wasn't going to attack him, she didn't want to hurt him.

The child gave a sinister smirk, "What makes you think I want to." Keeping his knife held steady, Beau charged at Kenna. She kept her arms up defensively, getting a slight slice to her forearm as she grasped onto his arms, trying her hardest to avoid the knife further as he thrashed it in her direction. Kenna held tight to his wrists, holding him back as he pushed against her, trying to wrangle from her grasp. "Beau, stop! Please!" she said, holding him at arm's length, her feet keeping her balanced enough, even on the slippery surface. The kid did not let up though, pushing against her with all his force. He was a lot stronger than he used to be.

Jack was back on his feet, his hand grasping around the child's arm, yanking the boy out of her grasp. Kenna's face dropped as Beau's brandish of the weapon plunged into the Mephisto's face. She leapt forward to pull her brother off Jack, but it did nothing more than land an elbow in her already thin ribs, leaving her breathless and gasping for air. As she righted herself to try again, she stopped in her tracks as the air around Jack shifting, his eyes a hollow shell, void of the light that always filled them. For the first time since meeting him, she feared him.

The cluttering of the knife seemed to break her trance. Kenna reached out, but she was not fast enough as Jack grasped the young boys head. "Jack, no!" she screamed out, her ears ringing with the almost deafening sound of her brother's head cracking against the wall.

Kenna's breath stopped short as she watched his small form fell limp, unable to make herself move forward. When Jack called out to her, she shook her head, "No," she said, stepping past him and moving to her brothers' side. She knelt, cradling his head in her arms, tears falling down her cheeks, only masked by the rain that continued to fall. "It took me a year to find him Jack, I am not leaving him," she said sternly, through gritted teeth.

 

[Leola_Asarai]

Beau Desmarais

Mathis

health bar

WHERE: Docks
WITH: Kenna and 'The Key'
DOING: Fighting ---> being knocked unconscious
CREDIT: Searching
PLAYLIST:

Weaving through the streets, it did not take Mathis long to figure out where the others had gone. He kept to the shadows, watching the events unfold. From where he was hidden, he couldn't see as much as he wanted to. Looking around, he found his best option. Mathis climbed up the side of the building, his hands holding tight as he clambered up the wall. Keeping low, he crept to the edge of the roof. His eyes glanced around at the stances of the people preparing for battle. Commands were given, and he made notes in his head of how he was going to proceed.

It didn't take much for Mathis to guess who exactly 'The Key' was. Follow the command given, he knew that he was not allowed to kill him, whoever the man was, but he could sure as hell slow him down. Doing so slowly, the young beast pulled the bow from his back, keeping low as he crouched down, lining up a shot to the man's shoulder.

Just as he was about to shoot his shot, someone called out, a name that should not exist to him anymore. It caught him off guard, it caused his hand to slip in the shock of hearing the forgotten name. It shot his focus to hell, and the arrow missed its target. Mathis's face twitched as anger and annoyance settled into his young features.
Mathis stood from his crouched position, strapping his bow back over his shoulder, turning to look at a nightmare from his past. She came to a halt a few paces from him, but he made no notice. Mathis merely pulled the knife from where it was strapped to his leg and held it at the ready.

"Beau?" her voice called out to him in confusion, hesitant now. "It's me. It's Kenna." An almost blank stare filled with underlying hatred lingered on his face. "I know. I just don't care." Mathis started towards her, wanting nothing more than to erase the last part of his past that would not go away.

Advancing on Kenna, he kept his knife high, ready and wanting nothing more to make her suffer. She was a beast like him, and Kenna deserved to endure the pain of what that meant. Neither of them should exist. If it were the only way to save the world from their existence, he would happily take on the girl and any of these other beasts. She was not his sister. They were not even related by blood. He held resentment for Kenna and all the lies she had ever told him.

Mathis’ face scrunched up in annoyance, as she tried to convince him that she had been looking for him. It was another thing he did not care about. "I don't want to be found," he growled out at her. He was happy where he was. He sure as hell didn't want to go back to living the lie of the world she so happily lived in. He lunged at her. She side-stepped to avoid it, her feet stepping dangerously close to the edge of the roof.

So easily distracted. Someone called out for Kenna, and she stupidly shifted her gaze. Mathis couldn't help it. He stepped forward, hand rising and simply gave her a shove. It hadn't even been that hard to do. Kenna slipped from the edge of the roof, her body falling towards the ground. He stood, almost emotionless, watching as she fell, waiting for the inevitable impact.

Mathis' eye twitched in aggravation as someone caught her. The way he held her, arms tightly holding her, they were close. That irritated him more than her not crashing to the ground, and he wasn't sure why.

Shaking his head, the young boy became frustrated. He should have stabbed her, not pushed her. The only benefit he could think of was that at least now he had both her and 'The Key' in his line of fire. Sheathing his knife back into place, he pulled his bow from over his shoulder. Lining up an arrow aimed at the pair on the boardwalk, he wished to make more of an impact: two monsters, one stone.

Letting the bowstring go, the arrow cut through the air. Mathis had intended for it to hit Kenna in the head, but the man she was with saw his intention, only giving himself enough time to push her out of the way. Still, the arrow made contact, embedding itself in the shoulder of 'The Key'. Well, at least he finally hit the first mark that he missed.

Successfully slowed down, Mathis craved to test more of his skills. He strapped the bow back around his shoulder, making his way down the side of the building, back down to the ground. His feet landed on the boardwalk almost silently, the only sound of his approach was the sound of the rain pelting against him.

Mathis had his knife out again, holding it steady, eyes on the pair as he made his way closer, silently stalking them out. He wanted to kill both of them. Mathis knew that he was not allowed to execute 'The Key', but that didn't mean he couldn't take out Kenna. Someone else could take care of the man that lay curled up on the ground.

The girl called out to him again, futile attempts at getting him to stop, to make him come with her. Mathis didn't want anything to do with her. She was nothing more than a hindrance in his way. The child gave a sinister smirk, "What makes you think I want to." He had no intention of going with her.

Keeping his knife held steady, Mathis charged at Kenna. She stopped him short, holding him back. Kenna wasn't even fighting him, how pathetic. He pushed against her, pushing her back, trying to plunge his knife into her, wanting to let her blood spill as she pleaded for him to stop.

The young beast had a dark look in his eyes, unable to stop. He couldn't. He didn't want to. She deserved everything that was coming to her.

A hand wrapped around his arm, roughly pulling him away from Kenna. Mathis' eyes went wide in a momentary lapse of panic. He lashed out with his knife aiming at the much taller man, the first strike landing a blow on the Mephisto's cheek, piercing through the side of it as he leant close to yell at him. His gaze hardened again, the soft childish panic in his eyes replaced with the cold stone-faced glare. He pulled the knife from the man's face, aiming low on his gut as he made another strike. It would be enough to cause some decent damage, but not enough to kill him. At least not yet.

Mathis pulled the knife out, anger flowing through him as he elbowed Kenna in the ribs as she approached from behind before he attempted to make another strike just a little higher up on the Mephisto's abdomen.

Anger fueled his movements, desperate to succeed at taking the older man down. When the man grasped at his wrist, the child gave a low growl of irritation, until the air changed. He looked upon the man's face with confused panic, trying to understand what the hell was happening. He underestimated him. Mathis couldn't look away as the man's eyes changed, the air surrounding them giving an almost unnatural chill in the already stormy night.

As the cut in his cheek started to stitch itself back together, Mathis tried to pull his arm out of the Mephisto's grasp, panic in his movements as his feet slipped trying to pull himself away. It was no use. The hand around his wrist grew tighter, his muscles straining to desperately keep the knife in his clutch. He would be dead without it. Seemed like he just might be regardless. Unable to hold on anymore, the blade fell from his trembling hand, clattering on the ground beneath their feet. The young beast cried out as his arm was yanked back, sending shooting pain up through his arm.

He barely had time to react as fingers curled through his hair, grasping tight. He hadn't felt so small in so long, his eyes looking up in widened fright before wincing shut and bracing for the impact of his head crushing into the side of the brick wall. His mind went black as his body fell limp to the ground, the puddle of water at their feet turning red with the blood pooling from his head.

 

[Luxura]

Holly Wilshire

alias: GABRIEL

health bar - 80%

WHERE: Docks, French Quarter
WITH: Cecile Bellerose
DOING: Fighting
CREDIT: Peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:

​

Blustery wind howling, it could make one question if a hurricane were on the horizon. A soft ambient buzzing registered in Holly’s mind, the backdrop of rain drizzling upon her metal armour creating a white-noise of its own.
Calculating eyes surveyed the scene around her. The Werebeast Queen refused to meet her demands, and The Key’s threatening aura was not likely to obey. Negotiations-- as her counterpart Goliath had realized before her-- were no longer an option.

With flail and shield armed, her intention to move in on the Harpy was clear and focused. She was her biggest target in the way of The Key and her largest adversary. As Holly took a strategic step forward, a shadow crossed from the corner of her eye, swift and cool like the sting of a sharp blade across her skin.

She didn’t need an introduction to know that aura, she’d never forgotten it. The woman had been a ghost upon her dreams for years,

“I had hoped I would never see you again… but it seems God had another plan for us.”

Cerulean eyes narrowed, quickly surveying the Leech Queen’s form. Hair black as jet, her porcelain skin doll-like in complexion, yet the catlike eyes and hunter’s smirk were anything but pretty. From the Sister’s quick assessment, didn’t see a vast array of weaponry, but that didn’t mean the vampiress wasn’t prepared.
Continuing to roll her wrist, the spiked ball of her flail began to gain punishing momentum, her metal legs lowered and carrying her forward slowly, her voice evened and tight,

“I planned not for conflict in taking back what is ours… but seeing your face again, I have not the strength to deny my vengeance. Your head will join Kestrel’s!”

Both women sprung into action, a continuation of a battle and feud long unresolved.
With practiced precision, Holly swung wide and came back up, slamming her arm down with the ball and chain following swiftly behind, eager to make contact with Cecile’s skull. As the chain caught around Ember’s blade, the vampiress followed through with a wide overarching swing that pulled the weighted ball’s momentum away from her. Holly hadn’t seen this weapon in the darkness of night and clothing upon the woman’s person. She would do best to make a mental note of it and be prepared for any other plethora of weapons the blacksmith may have had on hand.

Following the path of her flail in Cecile’s parry, Holly lurched forward and swiftly met the woman’s body-check; sending the Templar stumbling back.
It seemed Cecile was as off her game as Gabriel. Had the Leech Queen been smarter of it, she should have continued her assault while Holly lost her balance.
Considering this in her quick recovery, Holly swiftly covered her exposed torso behind her shield. Steel heels digging deep into the boardwalk, the Sister pushed her weight down and forward, solidifying her stance against the attack. As she took the blow into the intricate metalwork of her arms, vibrating into her shoulders, she cried out loudly into the storm and thrust forward, bashing the woman back with the flat of her shield. Whilst doing so, she picked up the force of her flail once more, spinning expeditiously. She wouldn’t make the same mistake. In the wake of the bash, she came around from behind the shield and swung furiously.

The years since their last encounter, Holly spent considerable time training, studying up on the woman known as Ember. She learned less about her fighting tactics and more about who she was; the wares she made. Lucky for Holly that she had Sisters to challenge her in many forms and styles of combat more than ever before; all to keep her in peak condition. This fight was long-awaited… and all her suffering-- mental turmoil, emotional laments-- would be worth seeing the woman fall.

A successful hit in play, Holly could feel the spikes insert themselves within Cecile’s flesh, the sudden impact of the ball grinding deep into the muscles. Pushing through the momentum, she ripped back on the chain and pulled the flail back, eyes wide and teeth grit manically as it returned to her, dripping thick with viscous blood.

The Templar always held an inch of respect for the Queen for being a skilled and ruthless soldier. As Ember lunged for her then, Gabriel saw a reflection of the woman she fought before in Cheapside; graceful and proud… but perhaps a little more feral than before.

Keeping her shield close to her breast, Holly readied for another push, but as she dug her heels in, Cecile was faster; more agile, and sidestepped. Unable to maintain form, Holly had to pivot clumsily to turn around her. The blade Cecile wielded in her attack sliced deep into the armour of Gabriel’s left bicep, denting and breaking the rerebrace. Quickly, Holly jumped back, feet light and dancing as she recovered.

Bringing her shield down, cool blue eyes flicked around the battle breaking around them, searching anxiously for The Key. When her eyes found him in the company of youth, on the outer rim of the fight, she snarled. She couldn’t let him leave!
Where the Hell is that Vampire?!, she cursed inwardly, unable to see Judas' captivating visage through the bodies and shadows of night and storm.
Cerulean orbs returned to the opponent at hand. Her crystalline eyes narrowed in disgust, upper lip curling in a sneer, taunting the Leech to come at her again.

And how easily the taunt worked. She braced, stance deep and weight low into her thighs and heels. When Cecile was close enough, no more than a couple meters away, Holly pulled back her shield and flung it down into the softened wood in the woman’s path. The impact took it, sticking out from the boards, enough to trip up the momentum of Ember’s charge. Holly was right behind it, sliding under its cover.
Waiting to see how the woman would react, which direction she’d take, or if she’d run right into the towering wall in her way, the Templar Sister pulled from her back a long-handled mace-- a new addition to her roster since their last battle.
Drawing out from under the protection of the shield, she slinked low around it, flail twirling slowly with each roll of her wrist, the other hand bearing the mace out before her in defence as she circled,

“I have been waiting a long time for this,”

 

[CosmicDusk]

Cecile Bellerose

Ember

health | bar

WHERE: French Quarter Streets, Docks
WITH: Holly Wilshire
DOING: Fighting
CREDIT: Milica Jevtic
PLAYLIST:

Cecile grimaced at her words. Vengeance? She dared to speak of vengeance after taking away Kestrel?! She didn't utter a word; no. She wasn't given a chance to as she pulled out the shortsword she used earlier, steadying it against the menacing ball that flew towards her. With careful precision, she deflected the ball sideways, but one of its spike grazed her forearm when Cecile dashed forward. Her wrist screamed, weakened by the contact but her grip remained intact. Mere steps, and she tackled into Holly's torso, forcing the momentum back.

"Go, Maeve! Get him out of here!" Sapphire eyes glared into matching hues. "You already took two men from me. You will not win again!"

She spun on her toe, reminding herself of footwork and defense as she attempted a swing at the woman's torso.

Holly was quick on her feet as usual, deflecting her attack, the clangs of metals screeching in the vampire's ears. There was no mistaking Gabriel's rage, or how limited the metals contained her. Just bulky attire in battle, Cecile was still amazed by it as ever. But now wasn't the time to admire their handiwork. Such force knocked her back, the length of the shield covering her center as she dug her heels into the wood, much more strength than the last encounter. All too fast, the ball came around again. The witty Templar wasn't going to miss her next chance.

Cecile pushed herself off her toes, but Holly had been a second faster. The spiked ball made contact to her side, splicing at her hip. A pained yell, and she once again attempted to lunge backwards, creating distance. With her free hand, she palmed the wound, inspecting the severity by touch but never leaving her eyes off of Holly. Adrenaline rushed through her chest and she charged for the woman again.

The blacksmith sidestepped when she was a mere feet away from Holly's front, then turned her hilt inward. Keeping with the momentum of her speed, she bashed her shoulder against Holly's side, then brought her sword down, hoping to slice an opening.

Bright claret caught her nose. The scent of iron reminded her of her forge, and Cecile let a grim etched itself on her face. As distance widened between them, she straightened herself up. Her side screamed her, stretching a shrill on her entire left side as she felt her thigh harden from the liquid. At least this time it wasn't a bomb; the thought made her chuckle. The Templar leader had improved indeed, but so had Ember. Kindling in her fire, biting off lurking shadows and pesky vampires who thought they could take the position Kestrel once held. She would have no one break through her barriers. Not again. Not since her captive.

Cecile twirled her shortsword, then gave it a proper grip as she steadied herself. With her free hand, she brought the blade up to her lips, the tantalizing scent of her own blood invaded her nose as her body fought to heal. Sapphire eyes never lost their sight on Gabriel as a silent tongue ran across the center of the blade.

"Sweet as ever." She teased, metal grits and iron mixing. Then with all her might, pushed off her heels for another charge. "But not for long!"

 

[Luxura]

Alexei Pavlovsky

alias: CAIN

health bar - 60%

WHERE: Docks, French Quarter
WITH: Masked Assailant
DOING: Fighting
CREDIT: maria_lahaine
PLAYLIST:

​

Maeve Donovan-- buxom, dangerous, and as Irish as they come. Her’s was the kind of sarcastic wit that could either fire him up or burn his ego,

“The only ‘Key’ around here is the one you lost to your head when you signed up for this shit. Go home, lad. You’re in over your bald, pretty head.”

Cain snickered-- in fact, closer to a scoff-- as his tongue ran languidly along his bottom lip. Oh, if only she knew…

“Which division is it this time that will ruin our night, hm? The Ninth? The Five-hundred and First?”

Rolling his eyes, dark brows levelled. She was stalling for time. Fine. They weren’t going anywhere under their watch, and the Order would be right behind them… surely… any minute…

“No…. You’re from that Eighty-fourth lot, aren’t you? I hear you are a bunch of nasty feckers. As annoying and deadly as mosquitoes.”

Ouch… Alright, a little bite.

With a petulant sigh, Cain’s smirk dropped to a scowl, eyes flicking away from the Harpy as Dom set his sights on a newcomer. Brawny and monstrous, the man held all the telltale signs of a werebeast, if the Legionnaire knew any better. Vampires of such size and shape were highly uncommon, he’d been told. Persons of ticking hearts and metal fangs were leaner, agile killers of the night… not these monstrous golems of muscle and feral rage…. Well, so he thought. The one with Gabriel earlier could have perhaps blurred the lines.

“Six o'clock, tin soldier!”

Pausing, he turned half a step to look behind him only to be violently knocked back, punched in the face by a tightly packed brick of… something. Whatever it’d been, the dark powdered contents exploded on impact into a large puffy cloud, clumps clinging to his face and head as he yelped in pain. Hands came up protectively as he roared, “Chyort voz’mi!”
Why the fucking face?! His broken nose throbbed, pounding pain straight behind his eyes… No… that wasn’t his nose. Gritty as he squinted, the shooting pain began to burn, tears beginning to form as he grit his teeth and sucked in a breath-- but that, in itself, was a terrible idea. The air was thick of the substance, and with a large mound still in his mouth, Alexei felt all saliva become soaked up in the spice-- for that was exactly what it was. Cinnamon.
Coughing, he spit as much as he could, wheezing as he struggled to breathe, resulting in hacking violently as he doubled over. Waves generously spilled from his ocean eyes, and when he could inhale he released a raw cry of frustration, hands rubbing away at what remnants he could-- though only managing to smear it all into a thick paste.

Of course, it would be the worst possible time for his commanders to arrive.

Grimacing through his teeth, small reflexive gags pulling his composure, the Legionnaire couldn’t meet the eyes of Jonah or Holly, but rather turned his reddened, hazy gaze towards that of his assailant, fingers flexing as he rolled his shoulders. A deep carnal growl made him feel no less than an animal, his heart racing through flared nostrils, begging to be let off the leash.

With his commander’s approval, the Russian allowed the holds upon his ire to fall. Taking one step forward, Cain pulled the long sword-like weapon from his back, twin prongs bursting to life with electric force. Sparks arching and rippling between the sharp metal spires, crackling as white as the lightning that aches to touch it in the tempest sky.
Tear-stained cheeks did little to mask the malice in his blood-shot eyes, the periwinkle known to grasp much attention darkened to a deeper shade of blue as it slipped into the engorged black rounds of his pupils-- eyes hungry for blood, oceans parched for a shipwreck. His snarl curled menacingly into a twisted, sneering grin towards the lithe figure, stepping forward once, then again; closing the gap between them with intent to kill,

"You're as good as dead,"

In his evaluation of them, he found a curious woman, built slender and tall. She had the good sense to create breadth between them; a sense Cain was sure to catch onto like a fish to the lure. She had focus, and whether or not she was a skilled fighter was yet to be seen, but her intuition was keen, and that was enough to keep the Russian entranced.
Her eyes flickered around his form, assessing, looking for advantages to take. Cain had been foolish enough not to bring his helmet, and that was one the woman had already taken from him. The other was made clear by the glowing core within his chest, and he was not willing to allow anyone close enough to his hub without giving them a taste of death’s putrid door.

With a skip to his gait, the Legionnaire slid up to her form, cutting upward with his static blade. An easy move to start, and one simple to block as he followed through with a curved swing around and down in a large figure eight. Nothing fancy… a mere taunt, to see how she would utilize her makeshift, household weapon to her advantage. Stupid girl.

She moved with grace as liquid as the storm-- certain and true, fluid and purposed. She had some skills, this was certain to Cain now. But just how much so would be determined under his hand.
His blade came down upon her and she met it with a surprising amount of force, the frayed, thick head of the broom whipping past his face as he pushed into the hold. The wood buckled but held strong. The soft beginnings of cracks down the shaft towards her hands teased its age, but the Russian paid more attention to the present moment than the coming ones. The impact of steel on wood alighted the sparks of electricity, flickering brightly in the crescendo and crackling with vibrant energy. Sizzling steam hissed around the prongs with every kiss of raindrops, and Cain leered into her stare through the static’s glow.

Rain pelting his face, deep blue squinted as remnants of cinnamon mingled in the droplets that slithered and dripped from his furrowed brows, down into his eyes; igniting the burning, raw sensations once more. Whomever she was… merchant, assassin, or homemaker, the Legionnaire did not care… She would get her penance for taring him in this wretched substance!

Pulling back, he rolled his wrist, twirling the blade as he stalked closer, and wielded it high once more, coming down upon her again, same as before. Sweeping down, he lurched forward with momentum strong enough to warrant a fatal blow, and to her advantage, she slipped away from him; lithe and limber with preternatural speed. Cain’s eyes followed her, narrowed and blurring with rainwater and spiced tears, creating a thick fog as he furiously blinked to clear his line of sight-- doing so just quick enough to see the blunt end of the broom angled to jab towards his temple.
Pushing out a quick breath of surprise, his only option to avoid was to duck. Moving back would just give her more length to push the shaft towards him, and he was off-balance as it was… Dropping all his weight, the Russian let gravity pull his heavily metaled form to the boardwalk with a resounding ‘thud’ and swiped his leg out. He could either give himself space if she jumped back or better yet, bring her off balance and to the ground with him should his boot collide with her shin.