A relative silence takes the hall once the last presentations and claims are made. Conversations are still going on in insular pockets, a few last details being sorted out where domains intersect like the razor wire edges of Venn diagram fiefdoms. Most manage to retain the demeanor of order and humanity, the masquerade within the Masquerade that the Camarilla holds dear. And when Adelaide raises her chin, ready to speak again, most of these sidebars and conversations taper off completely.
"Helmer Rasmussen has called this city home longer than any here," that Iron Lady begins, her steeled gaze slicing from left to right, lending both that opening statement and the ones after a finality.
"He has served the Council of Primogen as the eldest and voice of its Brujah, a clan that has always defended it when others – even those of my own clan – had cut their losses. Fought the fight when it was not a foregone conclusion, a true testament to their bravery. When the city was on the verge of succumbing to the barbarians at its gates, he rallied those who remained and beat back those who would challenge the Camarilla's claim on it," holding her hands out, now, at the Elysium that surrounds them.
"If Richthofen is the Camarilla's keep, its inviolate bastion in these nights of trial by fire, Helmer Rasmussen is its foundation. And the Camarilla – its Inner Circle and its Justicars – ask that again he serve. This time as Prince of Denver, if he will claim it," and she looks to Rasmussen, the slightest inclination of her head as, arms still out, she steps to the side and he steps forward.
There are four vampires other than Lady Adelaide that seem entirely unsurprised by this announcement. They are Helmer Rasmussen, Wenceslao, Jun Oka and Jonas Halder. Even Lucille's eyebrows go up, though her smile is nothing but pleased at the decision. Gotfred's face is as unmoving as the fleshy knots of bark it resembles, though he folds his hands behind his back and those claw like feet flex to dig into the carpet. It is neither a positive nor negative reaction. But an intense one nonetheless. A soldier surveying the landscape and standing at a willowy height of attention.
Rasmussen speaks firmly as ever.
"Losing ground is no longer an option," his voice radiating through the crowd. It brings a quiet to those last conversations, ones that continued even at Adelaide's voice. Eyes are drawn to him and backs straighten of their own accord.
"Leaving ground unclaimed is no longer an option. Our enemy has nothing to lose. This may seem to their advantage. But they have no investment in this city," the way his hand flexes to a fist, one he wields before him like a scepter of scar-knotted knuckles, shows that he does have such an investment. A grip on this place that will not let go, no matter how cold and dead his hands are. No, its seems they will need to be ash before he will release it, and one might imagine the entire city must burn for that to pass.
"To them it is a field to descend upon as locusts. To us it is home. To those that fight for it, it is home. Earn your place. Thrive in war, and you will thrive in the peace we earn with it," he lowers that hand and seems reluctant to go one to the next part of his speech. The final part of his oratory.
"You deserve to know the one who would be your Prince. I have no love for war. I have fought in life and after it. I have no love for the slow siege it lays upon the soul. But I have learned this: The time spent spilling blood, whether between sunrise and sunset or vice verse, is worth even a single moment of peace. I will fight a hundred thousand nights for one night of true peace," and if he had seemed reluctant before, the way his voice stirs at that last part brings it back to a raging fury. A vigor that echoes through the halls.
And if that part had seemed like reluctance, if only at first, it may be surprising how easily he delivers the next.
"Lord Wenceslao of the Ventrue will serve as Seneschal of my court. Lady Narcisa Rulfo of the Malkavians will continue to serve as Sheriff. Lady Lucille de Dampierre will continue to serve as Keeper of Elysium, which will continue to be held at Richthofen Castle. The election of Primogen will be kept the business of the clans they represent, and their advisement will remain a valued part of governance regarding the war effort. The floor is closed on matters of station and office, though Elysium will remain open for any business that still needs to be resolved," and finally, he turns to Lady Adelaide. His demeanor is no less stern and solemn even as he addresses her.
"Lady Adelaide, allow me to thank you on behalf of all Kindred of this domain for your presence and willingness to stand with Denver in these times of war and uncertainty," ending it with a bow that is returned with the inclination of Adelaide's head and a sharp smile.
"We thank you, Prince Rasmussen, and-"
"Enough."
A feminine and wantonly savage voice cuts through the air. The kind of voice that can no longer be contained or suffered to listen in on even another moment of this.
The look on Adelaide's face is not one of surprise. Not even one of disbelief. It all happens too quickly. Before it can transform into any of these expressions, it is only a narrowing of eyes. The moment of notice before what has just occurred even truly registers.
Because it must be a mistake. No one interrupts Lady Adelaide of Geneva, Strategoi of the Ventrue, Pillar of the Camarilla, Voice of the Inner Circle's Will. Perhaps some Malkavian tic, maybe a Malkavian bloodsucker named Tick that will pay for this slight for the rest of his or her unlife.
It is frozen by the vitae-coated spike of wood that emerges from her breastplate and through the high cut of Lady Adelaide's black gown.
She is there, a statue in pristine yule marble, before she is hoisted up unceremoniously on that pike and vaulted aside like so much trash pinned and picked from the floor by a custodian of some debris-strewn thoroughfare.
On the other end of that spike is a gruesome woman.
How many here would remember Henrietta in Rags?
It has been nearly half a century, but the tales told may stir in those who had heard them. Of a terrible woman who reveled in the curse of her clan, making it a strength she wielded as a part of her clout. Henrietta in Rags. How she got that name? Perhaps from a vindictive Harpy. Perhaps whispered behind her back before worming its way up to her ear. Until she embraced it, as well, becoming Henrietta of the Seven Veils. Henrietta whose dance on fated Elysium was so beautiful as to transfix Toreador, Harpies and even the past Keeper of Elysium as she peeled away sheet after waste-drenched sheet, each draped like a noblewoman's favor over her spineless tormentors with a laugh of delight.
She laughs now.
And she does not stand alone.
They are a grim host that surrounds a bloated and blood-drenched monster. A war pack. The kind of Sabbat cliché one might make jokes about to ward off the truth of their existence. The reach of their menace. Yes, there is biker garb. Yes, there is war paint of black ash mud and blood. Yes, there are the trappings of a Gehenna cult's military hand.
And closest to Henrietta, her right hand:
Gui Cavalcanti. Few might know the name. Many would recognize the carnage he has left in his wake since the siege's onset.
There he is, and in this moment his name is War. A dark-skinned man with hair cut close to a black film on his head, standing shirtless and painted in bloody hand prints, each flecked with ash. He has a shotgun in one hand that Jack will no doubt recognize. A shotgun that Jack, but no doubt others who whether the siege thus far, know he can use with vicious efficiency. And in the other a large machete. Clean and glinting in Elysium's light.
But this is no longer Elysium. Not in any sense of the word. This is a battleground. And the first shot has been fired.
[ Alright. Any and all PCs who simply flee, whether by Rötschreck or tucking tale with the plan of unliving to fight another day will not be punished. They can get away to elsewhere or the safe rooms and escape tunnels built into Richthofen in case of such a breach. There is ample private security available to allow for at least this. Scatter! Scatter! Scatter! You can go right on playing as normal with the dust settling and the fog of war still obfuscating the result of all this.
But those who stick it out to fight, convert, parlay, whatever, can consider their PCs paused. They will have an active roll in the result of this event and its effect on the system as a whole. I will be running two or three scenes over the course of this week for combat. Those who can't make scenes but can sit down to knock out a couple of rolls can also get involved. Until it's sorted out, consider your PC paused. Everything should be wrapped in a week's time (Sunday). Be warned that this is a high threat level, which is why I'm leaving participation up to each player's discretion.
Look to the System Scenes and Times thread for scheduling. I'll be leaving this thread open for IC reactions, reflexive actions, fleeing, freaking, and mood stuff, but no actual combat should begin yet. ]
"Helmer Rasmussen has called this city home longer than any here," that Iron Lady begins, her steeled gaze slicing from left to right, lending both that opening statement and the ones after a finality.
"He has served the Council of Primogen as the eldest and voice of its Brujah, a clan that has always defended it when others – even those of my own clan – had cut their losses. Fought the fight when it was not a foregone conclusion, a true testament to their bravery. When the city was on the verge of succumbing to the barbarians at its gates, he rallied those who remained and beat back those who would challenge the Camarilla's claim on it," holding her hands out, now, at the Elysium that surrounds them.
"If Richthofen is the Camarilla's keep, its inviolate bastion in these nights of trial by fire, Helmer Rasmussen is its foundation. And the Camarilla – its Inner Circle and its Justicars – ask that again he serve. This time as Prince of Denver, if he will claim it," and she looks to Rasmussen, the slightest inclination of her head as, arms still out, she steps to the side and he steps forward.
There are four vampires other than Lady Adelaide that seem entirely unsurprised by this announcement. They are Helmer Rasmussen, Wenceslao, Jun Oka and Jonas Halder. Even Lucille's eyebrows go up, though her smile is nothing but pleased at the decision. Gotfred's face is as unmoving as the fleshy knots of bark it resembles, though he folds his hands behind his back and those claw like feet flex to dig into the carpet. It is neither a positive nor negative reaction. But an intense one nonetheless. A soldier surveying the landscape and standing at a willowy height of attention.
Rasmussen speaks firmly as ever.
"Losing ground is no longer an option," his voice radiating through the crowd. It brings a quiet to those last conversations, ones that continued even at Adelaide's voice. Eyes are drawn to him and backs straighten of their own accord.
"Leaving ground unclaimed is no longer an option. Our enemy has nothing to lose. This may seem to their advantage. But they have no investment in this city," the way his hand flexes to a fist, one he wields before him like a scepter of scar-knotted knuckles, shows that he does have such an investment. A grip on this place that will not let go, no matter how cold and dead his hands are. No, its seems they will need to be ash before he will release it, and one might imagine the entire city must burn for that to pass.
"To them it is a field to descend upon as locusts. To us it is home. To those that fight for it, it is home. Earn your place. Thrive in war, and you will thrive in the peace we earn with it," he lowers that hand and seems reluctant to go one to the next part of his speech. The final part of his oratory.
"You deserve to know the one who would be your Prince. I have no love for war. I have fought in life and after it. I have no love for the slow siege it lays upon the soul. But I have learned this: The time spent spilling blood, whether between sunrise and sunset or vice verse, is worth even a single moment of peace. I will fight a hundred thousand nights for one night of true peace," and if he had seemed reluctant before, the way his voice stirs at that last part brings it back to a raging fury. A vigor that echoes through the halls.
And if that part had seemed like reluctance, if only at first, it may be surprising how easily he delivers the next.
"Lord Wenceslao of the Ventrue will serve as Seneschal of my court. Lady Narcisa Rulfo of the Malkavians will continue to serve as Sheriff. Lady Lucille de Dampierre will continue to serve as Keeper of Elysium, which will continue to be held at Richthofen Castle. The election of Primogen will be kept the business of the clans they represent, and their advisement will remain a valued part of governance regarding the war effort. The floor is closed on matters of station and office, though Elysium will remain open for any business that still needs to be resolved," and finally, he turns to Lady Adelaide. His demeanor is no less stern and solemn even as he addresses her.
"Lady Adelaide, allow me to thank you on behalf of all Kindred of this domain for your presence and willingness to stand with Denver in these times of war and uncertainty," ending it with a bow that is returned with the inclination of Adelaide's head and a sharp smile.
"We thank you, Prince Rasmussen, and-"
"Enough."
A feminine and wantonly savage voice cuts through the air. The kind of voice that can no longer be contained or suffered to listen in on even another moment of this.
The look on Adelaide's face is not one of surprise. Not even one of disbelief. It all happens too quickly. Before it can transform into any of these expressions, it is only a narrowing of eyes. The moment of notice before what has just occurred even truly registers.
Because it must be a mistake. No one interrupts Lady Adelaide of Geneva, Strategoi of the Ventrue, Pillar of the Camarilla, Voice of the Inner Circle's Will. Perhaps some Malkavian tic, maybe a Malkavian bloodsucker named Tick that will pay for this slight for the rest of his or her unlife.
It is frozen by the vitae-coated spike of wood that emerges from her breastplate and through the high cut of Lady Adelaide's black gown.
She is there, a statue in pristine yule marble, before she is hoisted up unceremoniously on that pike and vaulted aside like so much trash pinned and picked from the floor by a custodian of some debris-strewn thoroughfare.
On the other end of that spike is a gruesome woman.
How many here would remember Henrietta in Rags?
It has been nearly half a century, but the tales told may stir in those who had heard them. Of a terrible woman who reveled in the curse of her clan, making it a strength she wielded as a part of her clout. Henrietta in Rags. How she got that name? Perhaps from a vindictive Harpy. Perhaps whispered behind her back before worming its way up to her ear. Until she embraced it, as well, becoming Henrietta of the Seven Veils. Henrietta whose dance on fated Elysium was so beautiful as to transfix Toreador, Harpies and even the past Keeper of Elysium as she peeled away sheet after waste-drenched sheet, each draped like a noblewoman's favor over her spineless tormentors with a laugh of delight.
She laughs now.
And she does not stand alone.
They are a grim host that surrounds a bloated and blood-drenched monster. A war pack. The kind of Sabbat cliché one might make jokes about to ward off the truth of their existence. The reach of their menace. Yes, there is biker garb. Yes, there is war paint of black ash mud and blood. Yes, there are the trappings of a Gehenna cult's military hand.
And closest to Henrietta, her right hand:
Gui Cavalcanti. Few might know the name. Many would recognize the carnage he has left in his wake since the siege's onset.
There he is, and in this moment his name is War. A dark-skinned man with hair cut close to a black film on his head, standing shirtless and painted in bloody hand prints, each flecked with ash. He has a shotgun in one hand that Jack will no doubt recognize. A shotgun that Jack, but no doubt others who whether the siege thus far, know he can use with vicious efficiency. And in the other a large machete. Clean and glinting in Elysium's light.
But this is no longer Elysium. Not in any sense of the word. This is a battleground. And the first shot has been fired.
[ Alright. Any and all PCs who simply flee, whether by Rötschreck or tucking tale with the plan of unliving to fight another day will not be punished. They can get away to elsewhere or the safe rooms and escape tunnels built into Richthofen in case of such a breach. There is ample private security available to allow for at least this. Scatter! Scatter! Scatter! You can go right on playing as normal with the dust settling and the fog of war still obfuscating the result of all this.
But those who stick it out to fight, convert, parlay, whatever, can consider their PCs paused. They will have an active roll in the result of this event and its effect on the system as a whole. I will be running two or three scenes over the course of this week for combat. Those who can't make scenes but can sit down to knock out a couple of rolls can also get involved. Until it's sorted out, consider your PC paused. Everything should be wrapped in a week's time (Sunday). Be warned that this is a high threat level, which is why I'm leaving participation up to each player's discretion.
Look to the System Scenes and Times thread for scheduling. I'll be leaving this thread open for IC reactions, reflexive actions, fleeing, freaking, and mood stuff, but no actual combat should begin yet. ]