Elysium - The Coming of Lady Adelaide

[Joey]

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. ]

[tithe]

Jack

Jack is glad enough to smile (ugh, must he?) when Helmer Rasmussen is named Prince.The Brujah has always been notable for his support of Clan Nosferatu, even against Winthrop and the other scions of more fastidious clans. His gladness is mixed, of course. Because he doesn't look for an intensification of the war between kingdoms, the one just beneath the surface of the Day's world, the one which is more twilight or midnight than the deeper and lightless Abyssal dark which tastes of a different kind of blood, which is more blood-sport and blood-frenzy, which tries to subjugate the Day's world by destroying it. But Rasmussen is calling for a more forceful push. Still. Once upon a time all Jacks are soldiers, or were, and Jack is essentially a[n Optimist] visionary. One night of true peace. Would it be worth it?

Rasmussen names his Court and sharp-eyed Jack is not quite as interested in that. By the time Lady Adelaide opens her mouth to say something, his arms are folded on the piano's top, his posture relaxed, ready to spend the rest of the evening socializing before skulking off, except

Enough.

The tip of wood through Lady Adelaide's breastbone. The sudden appearance of a pack-of-war, a gruesome battle-vulture set of blood-rite monsters, the Beasts You Might Become, the Beasts You Must Not Become, the Creatures that Have Devoured their Own Spirits and are Hungry. Jack is quietly astonished: his eyes widen with revelation (the curling, fear-soaked whisper, Henrietta) and cold understanding. He knows that shotgun. Now he knows the whole face of its wielder. He knows that shotgun. Now he knows why he saw it in the Underground. He knows those Henrietta stories. There are so many of them. Now he knows who the mole is. Now he knows how they have seemed so certain and so sure and came out of nowhere again and again and...

It is never enough. What he knows.

Jack is a creature with a (good) heart. He flicks a quick glance over to Gotfred, his primogen, where last Jack saw him standing in his suit-that-is-also-armor, and for an instant -- his hands flatten, rigid, on top of the piano -- and the feeling which defines that quick glance is apology.

I'm sorry this is where the story's taken you.

But that was just a moment hiding inside another moment, unnecessary and unremarkable. His hands are flat on the piano. His blood is flowing, not to his strength or to his agility, but to his abiity to weather a siege, and although Jack is a Vanishing Jack, Jack is one of those Jacks who can erase himself from your eyes and from your mind between one blink and the next, he doesn't yet vanish. No. Jack turns immediately after that unnecessary and remarkable (speaking [feeling]) glance at his Primogen (and it had to scrape past Donkey Teeth, if Donkey Teeth was still there, hadn't ducked and covered) ... to the dark-skinned Assamite in dark-shades he just happened to be beside. Because it would be a squandering a potential opportunity to fail to at very least give it a shot. Because Jacks aren't cravens.

"I have a business proposition for you I know you're going to like no matter who wins."

(To believe in coincidence is to invite the hand of fate to steer one's course, after all.)

----

Lux


Just a handful of nights ago, what had she said to Flood? I don't know why you think you know so well what it's like within the Ivory Tower's halls, as anything other than Hannibal in Trebia of course. It hardly hurts at all to be stabbed in the back. It's annoying, at worst; interesting, at best. But having your head ripped off and your soul drained? That sounds like a shit shindig, man.

Now look. Lady Adelaide. A back. A stake. A heart. And what is shaping up to be one shit shindig. Hannibal in Trebia.

Lux is shocked by the sudden appearance of the Sabbat. Henrietta in Rags. The shock thrills through her, sings in her like the stars falling from their courses or a constellation peeling itself out of the firmament to lift a flaming sword. She is shocked. But that shock doesn't cause her to panic. No, panic was last night's special. Fury was the night's before that. Tonight?

The Toreador had [covertly] her cellphone in hand [modern vampires of the city] to text news of Rasmussen's installment to St. Germain.

The text the fortunate non-guest gets instead is:

keep the chip

Her thumb depresses the call image as Lady Adelaide's body hits the floor. Not because she is going to hold up a finger and ask everybody to give her a moment while she makes a call. Not because she is calling for help. If the vampires here cannot help themselves than there is no point in calling for cavalry. This is the full weight of the city's Camarilla, of the Inner Circle's cavalry, this is a room full of luminaries and elders and Lux is not one of those luminaries or elders. So she's not calling for help. She's calling so that just in case they have some idea of what went on.

If her Anarch cohort answers the phone he will only hear the sounds of: whatever happens next. If it goes to message: the same thing, when he checks it. Until someone breaks the phone. Until the battery runs out. Until the message box is full. Until whatever happens next turns into what happened.

She casts Everett a look; she doesn't intend to die for the Camarilla or in a once-was Elysium with that 99 cent store photograph looking down. Abhorrence for the thought; it sparks in her crystalline eyes, it is the corrosion that makes them darker at the edges, that gets in her lashes like soot and delineates their brightness, and the blood moves through her too, waking and wicking. But there's also abhorrence [Rebellion] at the thought of allowing a well-timed surprise to wreck her on the rocks. As impressed as she was with the showmanship the Ventrue brought to bear upon Court and the City, she is just as impressed with Henrietta (though rather less keen to see the whole of this performance than she was to time-travel back and see that famous dance).

So Lux absolutely does not intend to flee like certain C words might. Retreat? Perhaps and probably. But not immediately: How could she? How could she, not knowing? And how could she just abandon her Sect-mate? Easily, but she won't. Does not intend to. Lux wants Rasmussen to win. He'd make a great Anarch Baron, and it would just really be the cherry on top of the ruination of her decade if Rasmussen was killed, the city locked once-again in a stalemate with the Sabbat having the upper-hand, and one of those Tremere sweeping in to claim praxis simply because they're the ones who survived.

Somewhere there's a Nosferatu who's turning to talk.

Lux is a Toreador who's reaching for a [make-shift] weapon, any weapon. Maybe she's taking her hair down, or maybe she's taking cover behind a couch in order to fineagle something. Maybe she's guaging her chances of zipping through the cluster of elders and war-pack to Adelaide, hauling the stake out of her heart, and using it to stab whoever comes to rip off her head.

Until whatever happens next turns into what happened.

---

tl;dr

Jack:
O_O;;;;
O_O;;;;
o_o
<.<
U:

Lux:
o_o
O_O;
>.>
V_V
>_<

---

ooc: If we can't manage to get scene times squared away (I'm sure we will), don't mind just banging out some rolls!

[Howl]

In the wake of the attack, Lux was already planning her next five moves, calling her compatriot so that the Anarchs might keep some record of the preceding events and telling him: keep the chip. Everett didn't see the text, but if he had - if he'd known what it meant - his reaction would likely not have been pleasant.

Many of those gathered there that night were thinking about how to save their own skin. Most of them, probably. Idealists didn't last long in the world of the undead. They learned to adapt, or they flared out young, or they let the horror and disillusion drag them into a different, darker life.

Blame it on youth then, because what Everett did next was more than certainly going to mark him for an early death one way or another. (But he'd already done that years ago, so maybe it was nothing new.)

First: he whistled. High, shrill, commanding. Maybe it was meant to gain the attention of those around him, but the creature that responded wasn't one of the gathered kindred. It was a dog (a malamute, to be precise.) Huge and muscled and dangerous enough to give an enemy pause. It leaped out of the back of Everett's truck in the parking lot and came running to its domitor's aid. Perhaps it would find a way into the castle, or maybe it would find its way barred. Either way, it would try until its claws and teeth bled.

Second: Everett discarded his jacket and stepped forward, standing tall and bright and angry.

"If you care about this city, don't run!" he shouted across the hall, projecting his voice toward those on the fringes who were already slinking into the shadows. "If you care about your humanity. Hell, if you care about your fucking dignity. The wolves are at our door, and you're going to just let them in without a fight?" He pointed at the Sabbat, at Henrietta and her war-pack, and in that moment he was exactly what an Anarch and a Brujah should be: impudent and bold and lit with passionate fire.

"They would burn Denver to the ground and feed us all to the vultures. And look! They'll laugh while they do it. Because they think that our humanity makes us weak. Let's show them exactly how wrong they are! Stand with me!" He turned his gaze to Rasmussen and gestured toward the Elder. "Stand with your Prince!"

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

Everett
[Cha (captivating) + Leadership, +2 from natural leader, -2 diff from enchanting voice]
Dice: 8 d10 TN4 (3, 3, 4, 5, 5, 7, 9, 9) ( success x 7 ) [WP]

Tithe
[Witnessed!]

[Note: I also have a transcript and a screenshot of the roll if you need it Joey. Also, let me know if I should retract anything here - if, say, someone would just shoot him in the head once he started talking. *g*]

[Samael]

The Ravnos looks up from her whispering to Mercy as Adelaide declares Rasumussen the Prince. It is an entirely expected development and it means the status quo will remain. There's a touch of sardonicism in her smile, but it is very faint. She has nothing at all against the man; she just generally appreciates it when the status quo is flipped. At least, unless the status quo has her on top.

To her credit, she nods a little to his words about not losing ground to the Sabbat. One of the primary reasons that the Ravnos is in the Camarilla instead of an independent like her clanmate Baja or so many Ravnos around the world is the fact that they are not the Sabbat. She hasn't spoken about her issues with the other sect with anyone here, but she's made it clear before her opposition to their ways, both in words and deed. So while she isn't swept up in a wave of propagandaic enthusiasm, she can acknowledge the man's words because they coincide (in part) with her own thoughts.

The announcements begin of Seneschals and Sheriffs...more calcifying of the new order. She vaguely listens to the names but little more, starting to lose interest. Primgen reveals mean nothing when, as the single member of an independent clan that claims membership in the Ivory Tower, you're not afforded your own spot.

Her attention begins to wander, until a single word splits the hall in which they stand and a wooden spike splits the heart of a Ventrue that they should all fear and respect. That is literally all the Ravnos needs and even as Adelaide is being hoisted up, she's reached behind her under that leather jacket and whipped out a gun. Her lip curls...she doesn't need to guess what's happened. The Sabbat have violated the sanctity of Elysium, which many within the Camarilla think is some sort of protective dome that can't be breached.

As Kali's weapon can attest to, the Ravnos feels very differently than those Camarilla members. Many of whom are now screaming and running.

She takes a quick stock of who's running and who's staying. She sees the Anarchs, Lux and Everett, stand their ground. The latter even tries to inspire like some sort of undead fucking Braveheart re-enactment. To his credit, he seems to be topping Mel Gibson's speech. Jack is apparently not leaving either. Mercy, she knows, will not leave. Others she doesn't know are sticking around. And, for the moment, so is she.

"Typical," she mutters to Mercy as she cocks her gun. "The Camarilla needs the Anarchs and cast-offs to save the day." Not that Kali isn't considering when and where to make her escape if it gets too rough...but for this moment, she's holding off for many reasons. Hatred of the invaders. The opportunity to improve her standing in the Ivory Tower. The fact that if most of the people staying die, she's out of allies again.

"All right, let's be superheroes." She prepares to take aim. "Dibs on the Black Widow role. I'd look good in that outfit, and I got the hair to match."

[Shayla]

Kali had quips, she always did, it was apart of the woman's nature, a very part of her soul. Mercy could not seem to fault the Ravnos these features, despite her normal distaste for such superfluous words she somehow accepted them from Kali.

But a retort does not issue from Mercy's lips, she does not growl or snarl or narrow her eyes as she spoke. No because the pretty, delicate things were talking again...and then there was blood, and pain, and fear. The room filled with terror as a Sabbat warpack invaded and defiled the sanctity of Elysium. To Mercy this simply seemed prudent practice, why seek one's prey high and low across the expanse of the city, when one simply need to go to one place and find all the prey you desire. It was a fault in the Camarilla's logic, thinking itself so mighty and untouchable that they could simply declare their court for all to know...and not expect to be destroyed for their hubris.

But while many of the Camarilla streamed towards whatever exits, whatever reinforced rooms of safety might be known or afforded to them...Mercy knew of no such places, and cared not to follow in the wake of the camarilla sheep. The Sabbat had made the mistake of attacking while she was present. Cornering her in a building of stone and unyielding metal. One did not force a wild animal into a corner, be it healthy, wounded, or near death such actions always proved ill for the cornerer.

Those who chose to stand and fight engaged in various acts of drama, Everett, chose to try and rally those around him, an Anarch calling the Camarilla to war...how delicious it would be for some. Kali readied a weapon she had secreted into the sanctity of Elysium, training it on whomever she chose. Regardless of what was done by whom, the only thing which Mercy noted, was those who ran...and those who stood their ground.

To Mercy this situation was simple, these creatures had threatened her with their displays of violence and supremacy. They had challenged her dominance with their cowardly act of grouping, none of the war pack choosing to stand on their own skill and power.

As Mercy's fingers warped and bent, bone shifting and growing until it pierced her flesh and curled into razor sharp talons, she let out a savage roar to match Henrietta's and the feral look of untold rage that tore all vestiges of humanity from her face. There would be no words, no rallying call. Mercy would show no flare in the coming moments. All that would mark her would be the unknowable savagery, the death and pain of those in her wake, and the blood that would splatter and smear like the calling card of a serial killer.

Mercy strode forward, fangs bared and eyes red with animalistic fury...death was coming...be it her's or their's it mattered not. The cornered animal struck...pity those who had cornered it.

[Joey]

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. ]