08-11-2013, 02:45 PM
At the head of the hall are arrayed what remains of the Camarilla powers that be, at least the Ventrue and Brujah of them, the hydra's head staked and skewered and discarded like so much trash. Henrietta's tossing of Adelaide seems to be less an indicator that she has forgotten the Lady of Geneva and more a slight, handling her like a rag doll. When the war pack around her advances on the assembled Kindred the terrible Nosferatu matriarch's focus remains on that bloodied jewel of her desire, now a diamond in the rough skittering across Elysium's floor.
Everett's speech booms through Richthofen's great hall, though, its end stirring the bikers to levels of raving lunacy and fanatical fervor in retaliation. They begin unleashing their carnage upon the keep's interior. The war pack has five gnarled fingers, each its own shade of menacing, and they close like the hell hounds they are.
Witness Gui, their leader, or at least the helm of the battering ram already deep within the castle's gate. His shotgun is raised and aimed for Jonas Halder's handsome little face.
The Tremere, for all their talk of standing at the ready to fight and defeat the Sabbat, look terrified for a moment. And then Everett's voice comes in that same moment and buttresses their bravery against the invading force of past comrades. Malcolm has a switchblade in his hand, long and thin and sharp and familiar to Kali. Jeremy and Anne have stakes in their hands before too long, but both of them and Marguerite herself seem to be readying the more esoteric conjurings of their blood disciplines to turn against the war pack.
Wenceslao has turned away from the neonates and ancillae around him, abandoning them out of loyalty for his lady, bravely advancing on where Henrietta is now bearing down on the Strategoi of Clan Ventrue. Her safety seems to be his soul concern.
Outside the sounds of automatic gunfire comes pop-pop-pop in the night, first through that bulletproof glass of Elysium's windows, and it isn't just the three. Soon the bullets are peppering the windows. The noises are low, suppressed (not entirely silenced by whatever has been added to gun barrels), but come fast and continuous like someone is making popcorn. And closer to the walls of Richthofen, like a second invading force is coming from outside.
There is screaming. Inside and outside. Some more feral than others as the Red Fear takes Kindred and sends them scrambling for safety. It isn't long until undead muscles bolstered instinctively by vitae are breaking those windows from the inside out, the last layer of the onion standing between them and whatever danger closes in from the castle grounds.
But one group stands whole. The Nosferatu. Whole and still, saucer eyes and milky orbs and whatever else might be taken as connected to the visual cortex of the motley and gruesome bunch glancing at Gotfred.
Who seems horrified, even as Henrietta turns to advance on Lady Adelaide rather than the childe she has not seen in the better part of a century. Does not even regard him for a moment. His pale blue eyes, pristine having escaped his visage's curse, are wide and round and weep blood before he screams in rage and enters what is unmistakably a frenzy.
Gotfred, lost in his Beast, Beast becoming, Beast become, is advancing on Henrietta and Wenceslao. The remaining Nosferatu? They heed Everett's call instead, after another moment's confused soul-searching in their scarred and misshaped insides, turning outside the hall not to run, but instead to defend the keep.
Lux is a vision, an ethereal dreadnaught that bares its fangs and the entirety of her menace down upon the wiry biker, that one rakish biker, that one rogue with some semblance of panache that levels his gun on Everett, sending the Toreador antitribu - her counterpart amongst the Sabbat rabble's vanguard - scurrying and screaming and clawing for a way out right into that great Gursky photomural. It's not long before he's almost through it, breaking his way out of Richthofen and away from the beautiful and terrifying banshee that unsettles his very Beast.
Lux does not delay in lashing out with the thin blade she produces, Dirty Dan becoming the one that actually feels the bite of its edge behind that bark that left his packmate a wreck. He is sliced neatly by it, leaving one arm limp, though he tosses his blade into the other and stabs Malcolm in his throat. For a mortal it would be a killing wound. The Tremere tosses his own blade, not letting it slow him as he shows off his knifework, and when it comes out in a flash...
Dirty Dan's head is left nearly severed, hanging on by what's left of his spinal cord, the Malkavian antitribu dressed like one of the campy Warriors in urban war paint. He's slumping to the floor before Malcom's Toreador savior ferries them both away in a leaping and less-graceful, but altogether effective, push. The other Tremere take their cue, abandoning the ground and therefore pushing deeper into the Sabbat ranks, turning the head of the hall into an all out fray.
The grenade thrown into their midst finally blows.
No few of them is bleeding vitae from shrapnel wounds despite avoiding the worst of the blast. Tony, the Brujah antitribu who tossed the ordinance, howls again, enraged. It's almost a yipping hyena's angry noise that ends up sounding from his throat as he engages with the Sabbat Tremere turncoats, and maybe he's joyous for my direct conflict.
The Tzimisce, Hawthorne, advances behind the fleshcrafted and hulking monstrosity that leads the way, his whip a thing of bone and dried white ashen sinew, sharp as razor vertebrae extended to lash out and wrap around Everett's arm, the same arm he'd threatened to lay blows into Henrietta with. He manages to break free with a yank that leaves the bones a fine trophy of a bracelet around his wrist should he survive the night's siege.
Dana, that same szlachta, is a bounding monster, a blonde-haired and gruesome razorback, tail end high from once-human legs bent backwards, leaping to lay punches into Kali that are ineffective as she opens up from her heavy pistol, barking a bullet into her head. The thing, that once-bouncer - yes, some of the tattoos are still there and familiar from past visits to Hawthorne's club - rebounds and readies itself for another onslaught. Again setting upon Kali.
Hawthorne is left with a malamute ghoul, loyal to Everett, mimicking its once-human counterpart, a wolf frothing and snapping, though his undead flesh survives the mauling unscathed.
The first shot from Gui's gun leaves Jonas slumped to the floor, the majority of his face's flesh blown away, though it turns out to be a ruse as the Ventrue's hand closes implacably around the Brazilian Cainite's ankle and yanks him back into the brawl. A brawl that the Ventrue is sure to lose, but a last ditch effort none the less, the Blue Blood displaying great valor as what looks like the last of his vitae begins draining free and he enters an frenzy unleashed upon the Brujah antitribu.
Henrietta is upon Adelaide, tearing into her, ravaging her now-frail and in-torpor form when Wenceslao finally reaches her, her lone - no, not so alone. Jack's argument and deal seems to have won over Samit, and that Assamite joins alongside the Elder Ventrue in facing down Lady Adelaide's aggressor. The monstrous woman, Henriette in Rags, Henrietta drenched in vitae and laughing in a sickeningly girlish yet husky giggle, turns back upon them as they engage one another.
And on comes Mercy, entering into that fray with claws of her own, claws gleaming and ready to see which side she will take and who they will rend, almost flexing of their own accord and eagerly.
In the ensuing moments...
Jonas is finally dispatched by a blast from Gui, who wields the business end of his shotgun toward Mercy, the merciless Gangrel coming for him.
The shot sprays onto her, but between the leathers she wears and the toughness of her skin the Gangrel weathers that hailstorm of metal pieces unscathed. The outlander's claws rip into his flesh and flay away muscle from his chest and stomach, leaving deep furroughs. The next shot from Gui is not so easy for her to absorb, not at this proximity, a blast that comes after another cocking of its stock, an explosion of smoldering gunpowder and bullet fragments that tears at the flesh and veins beneath of her face.
The heat of battle:
That explosion of the grenade.
The unleashing of magical forces from Tremere who wield their own fire and telekinesis.
Vitae courses through undead veins.
All this is finally overcome with by a warmth from outside. Does anyone else smell a keep burning? Elysium in flames? The Sword of Caine seems intent on bringing one of its most predicable weapons to bear:
Fire.
Not simply the chemically explosive smell of the hand grenade, shrapnel still smoking. The gunfire, popping kernels of lead now littering the glass windows (what's left of them) and sinking inches-deep into walls, finds friendly and foe flesh alike and almost always ineffectually. Until it finally stops, except for the occasional eruption of smaller firefights that quickly die (or those exchanging shots do).
But it doesn't so much stop as it is subsumed by a cacophony of explosions. A wall shakes as a car drives through it, jumping up on the half-wall of a window, tire still spinning ineffectually in the air where it penetrates Richthofen and bleeds blazing flame inside. A burning Trojan horse. Artifacts, furniture, and of course, yes, that silk wall covering catches ablaze and the room becomes a brick oven of glowering coals. Thankfully it is still on preheat. But not so many vampires are able to weather the fire that comes.
They can see Gui's eyes grow wide as his dark blood-sweat-sheaned flesh reflects the orange and red light. That same fear grips the now-unseen, now-vanished Jack. The majority might forget he was ever there. It takes the hacking-and-slashing dervish Lux who spatters vitae from the end of her blade like a grim Jackson Pollock. The liquid, also erupting in sprays from diablerie, staking, the swinging of bludgeoning weapons and edged blades breaking out here and there, crackles in the sudden explosions of burning heat. The carpet does not simply run red with the stuff. The air is a mist of it.
Mercy's quarry drops his gun, its barking now silent, and runs on the hot wind of Red Fear. Hawthorne is already on the floor, incapacitated, broken, bitten, still as the day he should have died. Still as that beast he has crafted out of its own flesh and unleashed upon the Camarilla's Elysium, that falls beside him in its final act of defense.
And Henrietta? They descend upon her and she sees she faces an Assamite and Wenceslao, Lady Adelaide's bannerman, general, high guard. She bares her teeth as the smoke billows in to obscure more and more of the battle, and is lost in that exchange of blows. One of which, a fierce and frustrated backhand from Henriette, sends Everett, the Brujah Anarch harrying her with a flurry of ineffectual punches, flying out of the noxious cloud and lost in the fog of war.
At this point the Nosferatu Primogen, Gotfred in all his wild frenzy, is still stalking his way across Elysium-in-flames, tossing friend and foe alike in an effort to advance on Henrietta, Samit and Wenceslao's position, where they are facing off to fight over the in-torpor body of Adelaide.
For a moment after flinging Everett away Wenceslao and Samit square off with Henrietta, the Nosferatu antitribu gauging her adversaries and how they are readying themselves. Samit has produced a ritual blade, a curved crescent with a point that broadens out like the silhouette of a cobra with its hood flailed. He runs the blade along his tongue and a black ichor leaves a dripping coating before his own vitae sprays violently out at her.
Wenceslao has his own weapon now in hand, a piece of charred furniture ready, its splintered point threatening, and what looks like a trench dagger in the other. Henrietta bears fierce fangs and fiercer claws, the kind grown of the Gangrel's earthen discipline, perhaps learned in her time amongst the Sabbat.
The Assamite's spitting serves as starter's pistol and the three descend upon each other. And there is Gotfred, finally reaching them, emerging from the black clouds of smoke a terror.
The militant and misshapen arm of the Camarilla, the Nosferatu Primogen, does not lay hands on his sire no-longer-lost-sire, though, but instead his red-eyed frenzy provokes him to follow his most basic instincts. And that is to lash out at Wenceslao as what might have been a battle in the Camarilla-and-allies' favor turns more pitched.
Thought it all Samantha, a rabbit skirting the battlefield, keeping to her corners and shadows and well at that, is able to slip around the eruptions of violence and place herself out of harms way, another lost in the smoke and caustic glower of flames as she scurries away.
Richthofen is no longer a place for the undead, not the Camarilla or the Sabbat or the independents, many of whom had fled early in the fighting. Its very state is anathema to them all. At first many might have thought Rasmussen had abandoned them, even after his stirring speech, but instead it becomes evident to those who turn for escape he had abandoned a lost cause in favor of a more tenable one.
There he is just outside the castle walls, a cavalry sword in his hand, visible as such when it isn't a silvery blur gleaming red and lopping off limbs, shovelheads, stabbing through hearts and penetrating the invading horde alongside his Sheriff, a woman armed with a weapon of a more modern age – a submachine gun, its bullets finding home with surgical precision. They and their Kindred subordinates fight alongside Camarilla ghouls, ghouls as talented and professional as their garb and demeanor would imply, but against a savage force that pushes against the meat grinder they create without regard for its own safety.
Smoke billows and these are the flashes that are visible by those who stand to fight and those who flee to (un)live and fight another day. Until the smoke's tendrils are lit with flashing red, blue and white light, and the dying out of gunfire gives way to sirens. Police, fire, ambulances. It's only a dozen or so minutes until the police state, the martial law Denver had been left in, moves to reassert order. Limousines, town cars and other vehicles begin carrying away the survivors. Before the heavy metal clamoring of manhole covers sliding free and back into place as Sabbat and Nosferatu slink away, others simply taking to the shadows and darkness that is their home. The Masquerade's tatters are laughably knit back together, though it's barely a corpse bride's veil anymore.
The final tally is left for each and every vampire to discover. Denver is a battleground and its future no more or less certain than before, and what players survive to move its pieces now an even greater mystery.
[ And with that all PCs are as out of retro as possible, though I'm sure you all have plans for aftermath scenes that have taken place in the past week since the 3rd of August (which is the date this all went down). Thank you all for your patience! I hope everyone had fun. Contact me if there are any IC details you're curious about or if any PCs are trying to contact allies or acquaintances to see if they survived. ]
Everett's speech booms through Richthofen's great hall, though, its end stirring the bikers to levels of raving lunacy and fanatical fervor in retaliation. They begin unleashing their carnage upon the keep's interior. The war pack has five gnarled fingers, each its own shade of menacing, and they close like the hell hounds they are.
Witness Gui, their leader, or at least the helm of the battering ram already deep within the castle's gate. His shotgun is raised and aimed for Jonas Halder's handsome little face.
The Tremere, for all their talk of standing at the ready to fight and defeat the Sabbat, look terrified for a moment. And then Everett's voice comes in that same moment and buttresses their bravery against the invading force of past comrades. Malcolm has a switchblade in his hand, long and thin and sharp and familiar to Kali. Jeremy and Anne have stakes in their hands before too long, but both of them and Marguerite herself seem to be readying the more esoteric conjurings of their blood disciplines to turn against the war pack.
Wenceslao has turned away from the neonates and ancillae around him, abandoning them out of loyalty for his lady, bravely advancing on where Henrietta is now bearing down on the Strategoi of Clan Ventrue. Her safety seems to be his soul concern.
Outside the sounds of automatic gunfire comes pop-pop-pop in the night, first through that bulletproof glass of Elysium's windows, and it isn't just the three. Soon the bullets are peppering the windows. The noises are low, suppressed (not entirely silenced by whatever has been added to gun barrels), but come fast and continuous like someone is making popcorn. And closer to the walls of Richthofen, like a second invading force is coming from outside.
There is screaming. Inside and outside. Some more feral than others as the Red Fear takes Kindred and sends them scrambling for safety. It isn't long until undead muscles bolstered instinctively by vitae are breaking those windows from the inside out, the last layer of the onion standing between them and whatever danger closes in from the castle grounds.
But one group stands whole. The Nosferatu. Whole and still, saucer eyes and milky orbs and whatever else might be taken as connected to the visual cortex of the motley and gruesome bunch glancing at Gotfred.
Who seems horrified, even as Henrietta turns to advance on Lady Adelaide rather than the childe she has not seen in the better part of a century. Does not even regard him for a moment. His pale blue eyes, pristine having escaped his visage's curse, are wide and round and weep blood before he screams in rage and enters what is unmistakably a frenzy.
Gotfred, lost in his Beast, Beast becoming, Beast become, is advancing on Henrietta and Wenceslao. The remaining Nosferatu? They heed Everett's call instead, after another moment's confused soul-searching in their scarred and misshaped insides, turning outside the hall not to run, but instead to defend the keep.
Lux is a vision, an ethereal dreadnaught that bares its fangs and the entirety of her menace down upon the wiry biker, that one rakish biker, that one rogue with some semblance of panache that levels his gun on Everett, sending the Toreador antitribu - her counterpart amongst the Sabbat rabble's vanguard - scurrying and screaming and clawing for a way out right into that great Gursky photomural. It's not long before he's almost through it, breaking his way out of Richthofen and away from the beautiful and terrifying banshee that unsettles his very Beast.
Lux does not delay in lashing out with the thin blade she produces, Dirty Dan becoming the one that actually feels the bite of its edge behind that bark that left his packmate a wreck. He is sliced neatly by it, leaving one arm limp, though he tosses his blade into the other and stabs Malcolm in his throat. For a mortal it would be a killing wound. The Tremere tosses his own blade, not letting it slow him as he shows off his knifework, and when it comes out in a flash...
Dirty Dan's head is left nearly severed, hanging on by what's left of his spinal cord, the Malkavian antitribu dressed like one of the campy Warriors in urban war paint. He's slumping to the floor before Malcom's Toreador savior ferries them both away in a leaping and less-graceful, but altogether effective, push. The other Tremere take their cue, abandoning the ground and therefore pushing deeper into the Sabbat ranks, turning the head of the hall into an all out fray.
The grenade thrown into their midst finally blows.
No few of them is bleeding vitae from shrapnel wounds despite avoiding the worst of the blast. Tony, the Brujah antitribu who tossed the ordinance, howls again, enraged. It's almost a yipping hyena's angry noise that ends up sounding from his throat as he engages with the Sabbat Tremere turncoats, and maybe he's joyous for my direct conflict.
The Tzimisce, Hawthorne, advances behind the fleshcrafted and hulking monstrosity that leads the way, his whip a thing of bone and dried white ashen sinew, sharp as razor vertebrae extended to lash out and wrap around Everett's arm, the same arm he'd threatened to lay blows into Henrietta with. He manages to break free with a yank that leaves the bones a fine trophy of a bracelet around his wrist should he survive the night's siege.
Dana, that same szlachta, is a bounding monster, a blonde-haired and gruesome razorback, tail end high from once-human legs bent backwards, leaping to lay punches into Kali that are ineffective as she opens up from her heavy pistol, barking a bullet into her head. The thing, that once-bouncer - yes, some of the tattoos are still there and familiar from past visits to Hawthorne's club - rebounds and readies itself for another onslaught. Again setting upon Kali.
Hawthorne is left with a malamute ghoul, loyal to Everett, mimicking its once-human counterpart, a wolf frothing and snapping, though his undead flesh survives the mauling unscathed.
The first shot from Gui's gun leaves Jonas slumped to the floor, the majority of his face's flesh blown away, though it turns out to be a ruse as the Ventrue's hand closes implacably around the Brazilian Cainite's ankle and yanks him back into the brawl. A brawl that the Ventrue is sure to lose, but a last ditch effort none the less, the Blue Blood displaying great valor as what looks like the last of his vitae begins draining free and he enters an frenzy unleashed upon the Brujah antitribu.
Henrietta is upon Adelaide, tearing into her, ravaging her now-frail and in-torpor form when Wenceslao finally reaches her, her lone - no, not so alone. Jack's argument and deal seems to have won over Samit, and that Assamite joins alongside the Elder Ventrue in facing down Lady Adelaide's aggressor. The monstrous woman, Henriette in Rags, Henrietta drenched in vitae and laughing in a sickeningly girlish yet husky giggle, turns back upon them as they engage one another.
And on comes Mercy, entering into that fray with claws of her own, claws gleaming and ready to see which side she will take and who they will rend, almost flexing of their own accord and eagerly.
In the ensuing moments...
Jonas is finally dispatched by a blast from Gui, who wields the business end of his shotgun toward Mercy, the merciless Gangrel coming for him.
The shot sprays onto her, but between the leathers she wears and the toughness of her skin the Gangrel weathers that hailstorm of metal pieces unscathed. The outlander's claws rip into his flesh and flay away muscle from his chest and stomach, leaving deep furroughs. The next shot from Gui is not so easy for her to absorb, not at this proximity, a blast that comes after another cocking of its stock, an explosion of smoldering gunpowder and bullet fragments that tears at the flesh and veins beneath of her face.
The heat of battle:
That explosion of the grenade.
The unleashing of magical forces from Tremere who wield their own fire and telekinesis.
Vitae courses through undead veins.
All this is finally overcome with by a warmth from outside. Does anyone else smell a keep burning? Elysium in flames? The Sword of Caine seems intent on bringing one of its most predicable weapons to bear:
Fire.
Not simply the chemically explosive smell of the hand grenade, shrapnel still smoking. The gunfire, popping kernels of lead now littering the glass windows (what's left of them) and sinking inches-deep into walls, finds friendly and foe flesh alike and almost always ineffectually. Until it finally stops, except for the occasional eruption of smaller firefights that quickly die (or those exchanging shots do).
But it doesn't so much stop as it is subsumed by a cacophony of explosions. A wall shakes as a car drives through it, jumping up on the half-wall of a window, tire still spinning ineffectually in the air where it penetrates Richthofen and bleeds blazing flame inside. A burning Trojan horse. Artifacts, furniture, and of course, yes, that silk wall covering catches ablaze and the room becomes a brick oven of glowering coals. Thankfully it is still on preheat. But not so many vampires are able to weather the fire that comes.
They can see Gui's eyes grow wide as his dark blood-sweat-sheaned flesh reflects the orange and red light. That same fear grips the now-unseen, now-vanished Jack. The majority might forget he was ever there. It takes the hacking-and-slashing dervish Lux who spatters vitae from the end of her blade like a grim Jackson Pollock. The liquid, also erupting in sprays from diablerie, staking, the swinging of bludgeoning weapons and edged blades breaking out here and there, crackles in the sudden explosions of burning heat. The carpet does not simply run red with the stuff. The air is a mist of it.
Mercy's quarry drops his gun, its barking now silent, and runs on the hot wind of Red Fear. Hawthorne is already on the floor, incapacitated, broken, bitten, still as the day he should have died. Still as that beast he has crafted out of its own flesh and unleashed upon the Camarilla's Elysium, that falls beside him in its final act of defense.
And Henrietta? They descend upon her and she sees she faces an Assamite and Wenceslao, Lady Adelaide's bannerman, general, high guard. She bares her teeth as the smoke billows in to obscure more and more of the battle, and is lost in that exchange of blows. One of which, a fierce and frustrated backhand from Henriette, sends Everett, the Brujah Anarch harrying her with a flurry of ineffectual punches, flying out of the noxious cloud and lost in the fog of war.
At this point the Nosferatu Primogen, Gotfred in all his wild frenzy, is still stalking his way across Elysium-in-flames, tossing friend and foe alike in an effort to advance on Henrietta, Samit and Wenceslao's position, where they are facing off to fight over the in-torpor body of Adelaide.
For a moment after flinging Everett away Wenceslao and Samit square off with Henrietta, the Nosferatu antitribu gauging her adversaries and how they are readying themselves. Samit has produced a ritual blade, a curved crescent with a point that broadens out like the silhouette of a cobra with its hood flailed. He runs the blade along his tongue and a black ichor leaves a dripping coating before his own vitae sprays violently out at her.
Wenceslao has his own weapon now in hand, a piece of charred furniture ready, its splintered point threatening, and what looks like a trench dagger in the other. Henrietta bears fierce fangs and fiercer claws, the kind grown of the Gangrel's earthen discipline, perhaps learned in her time amongst the Sabbat.
The Assamite's spitting serves as starter's pistol and the three descend upon each other. And there is Gotfred, finally reaching them, emerging from the black clouds of smoke a terror.
The militant and misshapen arm of the Camarilla, the Nosferatu Primogen, does not lay hands on his sire no-longer-lost-sire, though, but instead his red-eyed frenzy provokes him to follow his most basic instincts. And that is to lash out at Wenceslao as what might have been a battle in the Camarilla-and-allies' favor turns more pitched.
Thought it all Samantha, a rabbit skirting the battlefield, keeping to her corners and shadows and well at that, is able to slip around the eruptions of violence and place herself out of harms way, another lost in the smoke and caustic glower of flames as she scurries away.
Richthofen is no longer a place for the undead, not the Camarilla or the Sabbat or the independents, many of whom had fled early in the fighting. Its very state is anathema to them all. At first many might have thought Rasmussen had abandoned them, even after his stirring speech, but instead it becomes evident to those who turn for escape he had abandoned a lost cause in favor of a more tenable one.
There he is just outside the castle walls, a cavalry sword in his hand, visible as such when it isn't a silvery blur gleaming red and lopping off limbs, shovelheads, stabbing through hearts and penetrating the invading horde alongside his Sheriff, a woman armed with a weapon of a more modern age – a submachine gun, its bullets finding home with surgical precision. They and their Kindred subordinates fight alongside Camarilla ghouls, ghouls as talented and professional as their garb and demeanor would imply, but against a savage force that pushes against the meat grinder they create without regard for its own safety.
Smoke billows and these are the flashes that are visible by those who stand to fight and those who flee to (un)live and fight another day. Until the smoke's tendrils are lit with flashing red, blue and white light, and the dying out of gunfire gives way to sirens. Police, fire, ambulances. It's only a dozen or so minutes until the police state, the martial law Denver had been left in, moves to reassert order. Limousines, town cars and other vehicles begin carrying away the survivors. Before the heavy metal clamoring of manhole covers sliding free and back into place as Sabbat and Nosferatu slink away, others simply taking to the shadows and darkness that is their home. The Masquerade's tatters are laughably knit back together, though it's barely a corpse bride's veil anymore.
The final tally is left for each and every vampire to discover. Denver is a battleground and its future no more or less certain than before, and what players survive to move its pieces now an even greater mystery.
[ And with that all PCs are as out of retro as possible, though I'm sure you all have plans for aftermath scenes that have taken place in the past week since the 3rd of August (which is the date this all went down). Thank you all for your patience! I hope everyone had fun. Contact me if there are any IC details you're curious about or if any PCs are trying to contact allies or acquaintances to see if they survived. ]