Carlisle by Night

The Valois Corporation building was a looming monolith amidst the skyline of downtown Glasgow. A neo-gothic tower of steel and glass clawing its way into the sky as if raising a fist to heaven itself, the building was a testament to corporate excess amidst the hardship of economic recession. To the autocratic Lasombra elders of the city, this place was a monument to their unquestionable authority. At three o’clock in the morning the building was almost empty of workers. Only a handful of night watchmen patrolled the place, and even they were under orders to look the other way this night. The automatic doors slid shut behind the leather-coated form of Anton de Sylvaine as he stepped inside. The reception floor was empty, at least as far as his eyes could discern; on the other hand, he was more than aware that this did not preclude there being hidden individuals present.

The ground floor was decorated in such a way as to be deliberately gaudy and offensive to the eye. Modern art sculptures lined the entrance like faceless demons at the gates of some conceptual, post-modernist hell. The whole area was decked out with large panels of artistically curved polished metal that warped and distorted peoples’ reflections until they were little more than vague silhouettes. Anton couldn’t help but have a slight admiration for whoever had come up with that idea; if the reception floor was filled with people, it would be impossible to spot an absence of anyone’s reflection. From the far end of the hallway, a door marked only as “stairs” opened, and a burly-looking individual in a tailored black suit came striding out. The man’s face was grim, and his short, almost military haircut did nothing to make his demeanour more diplomatic. The vampire’s nostril’s twitched as he picked up the augmented Vitae scent of a Ghoul. From the Ghoul’s body language he was quite old, probably rather powerful for his kind, and in this situation he was being astonishingly overconfident.

“I’m Anton de Sylvaine”, the Lasombra said as the black-suited Ghoul approached; “I’ve been summoned here.”
The Ghoul didn’t slow down as he came closer.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
Anton’s eyes narrowed at this statement.
“Didn’t you just hear me? I said I’ve been-”
“I don’t give a fuck who you are.”
Without further warning, the Ghoul threw a punch at the Lasombra’s face. There was the thud of knuckles impacting on skin, but the vampire didn’t so much as flinch. Anton didn’t know if the Ghoul expected to be able to hurt him, but this kind of action was not to be tolerated. As the thug lined up for another blow, the Lasombra struck out with a back-hander which snapped the man’s neck like a matchstick. There was the brief sound of shattering vertebrae, followed by the much louder noise of the heavy, lifeless body hitting the tiled floor. Looking down at the dead Ghoul, the vampire wondered just what the hell that was all about. He had been called here on request from the office of Charles de Sourriére himself, and now some idiot servant had tried to pick a fight with him? He realised that this might have been some kind of distraction just as a fist barrelled into the small of his back with wrecking-ball force.

The blow hurled him forward, sending him crashing into a lobby pillar. A hideous clang echoed through the reception floor as the vampire’s body collided with sheet metal, then dropped to the ground. On instinct Anton kicked himself back onto his feet, his fingernails lengthening into savage, curving talons as he did so. Around him, the nearby shadows coiled into lashing tendrils. Another blow came out of nowhere, this time hitting the bounty-hunter’s face with sufficient force to break his jaw. A third blow took him in the stomach, doubling him over. Lashing out wildly with his claws, the Lasombra felt his forearm instead connect harmlessly with his opponent’s elbow, before a kick to the side sent him sprawling. He could feel several broken ribs now; very few opponents were strong enough, and fast enough, to have done that to him. Clawing his way back to his feet, Anton burned through more blood, calling upon the apex of his skills in the arts of his Clan. Ethereal darkness erupted from within him, spilling from the wounds he had taken and clinging about his body like a shroud. Writhing tentacles like living coils of barbed wire unfurled from his back, lashing out like the legs of some horrific insect while ungodly fires blazed in the Lasombra’s eyes. Anton’s Black Metamorphosis was a creature born of blood and trenches; a thing which carried the fire and darkness of history’s most savage wars in every fibre of its being. He rose to his full height, eager to feel the flesh of his enemy beneath his claws.

From a little distance away, the raspy, diseased laughter of a Nosferatu came, accompanied by half-mocking applause. The voice which came after it was one which Anton had not heard in decades, and which spoke in the language and dialect of an eighteenth-century Parisian.
“You’re getting slow, old man. Time was you were never that complacent.”
The Lasombra’s anger faded as he realised who his Obfuscated opponent had been. His claws retreated, but he did not shrug off the metamorphosis just yet.
“Mercurio Lepere.”
The Nosferatu stood, arms folded across his chest in the manner of a sensei watching a student. He was dressed in tattered combat fatigues and a flack vest which would have struggled to look more out of place among these corporate surroundings. Anton approached the old Sabbat warrior, a laugh creeping into his voice. It felt good to be speaking his native tongue once again.
“It’s been a while. Got to be a good thirty-something years since we last met.”
“1974, Saint Petersburg. Not about to forget that.”
“I guess not. Did you ever catch that little bastard in the end?”
“Eventually, yes.”
“Pity I couldn’t have been there for his death.”
Mercurio’s raspy laugh began again, his twisted smile showing a mouth full of piranha-like fangs. The two killers stood, wordlessly appraising one another’s stance for any sign of weakness. Both Kindred made an unlife out of being exceedingly difficult to kill, and that alone formed the basis of their mutual – if grudging – respect. As they shook hands, Anton finally returned to human form.
“I take it the Ghoul was one of yours?” he intoned.
“Like hell. He belongs to one of the bigwigs upstairs, I just dominated him to punch the next man who walked through the door.”
“Knowing it was going to be me?”
“Well of course.”
More bitter laughter was exchanged.

“So, you’re bound to know I was called to this meeting or whatever. Where is it happening?”
“Tenth floor. First boardroom on the right.”
“You have anything to do with me being summoned here?”
“Not me personally. But my Ductus did want a family representative there, and you happen to be the closest de Sylvaine to Glasgow at the moment, so you got picked.”
“I’m surprised, given what she knows about my loyalties. I’m not exactly all for the glory of the Sword of Caine.”
Mercurio’s expression hardened at Anton’s last statement. Although the old Nosferatu was more than willing to deal with freebooters if it got the job done, the fact was that he was a Sabbat idealist to the core. Anton’s status as an autarkis was one more reason why the respect between the two was grudging.
“Your grandsire knows you’re not stupid enough to upset her, Anton. I’m pretty certain of that myself.”
The Lasombra locked eyes with Mercurio for a moment, then decided not to push it. The Nosferatu was right of course; as much as Anton preferred his personal freedoms, there was no way he would act against the interests of that woman. Without further word, he made his way to the lift and pressed the button for the tenth floor.

The meeting room was exactly what would be expected of a Lasombra Clan gathering. The centre of the room was illuminated by two small lamps, which cast their flickering silver light across the onyx-covered table around which several figures currently sat in silence. These were individuals which few of Scotland’s Cainites would fail to recognise. Cardinal Charles Emmanuel de Sourriére himself, the Lord of Caledonia. Andrew Stewart and Catherine de Lacy, both Bishops of Glasgow. James McLaren, the Cardinal’s grandchilde and Templar to Bishop Rothman of Edinburgh. Towards the back, there sat Alejandro Pierce, Sabbat Inquisitor. Anton took his seat, careful not to meet eyes with any of the others present. These were a potent crowd, and he had no doubt that more than one among their number could invoke the powers of Dominate without resorting to spoken words. He did not, however, spare Pierce a hostile glare. The two had only met briefly in the past, but their dislike of one another was intense. Realising that on this occasion he could not simply brush off the antiquated customs of his Clan elders, Anton decided to play the part.

“An honour to be invited to your table this evening, Lord de Sourriére. I hope that I didn’t keep everyone waiting.”
“Oh not at all.” The answer came not from the ancient Cardinal, but from somewhere in the darkness behind the one empty seat remaining, at the head of the table. The voice which carried it was high, feminine, and full of happily murderous intonations. The sound of high-heeled shoes on the cold tiles of the floor announced the arrival of the speaker at the table. Her waist-length hair and exquisitely tailored dress were both as black as the unlit space from she had emerged. Skin pale as alabaster and eyes whose sapphire gaze would stop armies in their tracks completed her breathtaking appearance. Of course Mercurio must have known she would be here, but why let that information slip? After one hundred and eighty years as a mercenary among the undead, Anton could still feel his balls shrinking in fear just being near her.
“Grandsire…”
Cardinal de Sourriére spoke, his dry, cold voice echoing through the room;
“The council welcomes Lady Marie Sandrine de Sylvaine to the table.”
Anton couldn’t stop himself continuing;
“I thought you were still in Cairo.”

“I was”, Marie answered, giving the Cardinal an appreciative nod; “Sicily has recently reassigned me.”
She took her place at the head of the table. While the head of the de Sylvaine family was by no means the oldest at the table, the aura of implicit respect which surrounded her was unmistakable. She was but a quarter of the ancient Cardinal’s age, but here and now she was the official representative of the Castel d’Ombro of Sicily, and her word carried the unspoken backing of the Lasombra Antediluvian himself. Giving each of the council in turn a silent, predatory smile, Marie began to address the gathered elders.

“First and foremost, allow me to congratulate his Excellence Lord de Sourriére on the very efficient capture of Edinburgh. Scotland’s domains are almost entirely pacified and unified at this present time. We can continue to fortify our holdings while Aberdeen spirals towards its inevitable defeat.”
She briefly paused, then continued;
“However, the number of cities under our command is only one of many areas in which Sicily is interested in expansion. Our primary objective remains, as it has been, the destruction of the Clan founders.”
At this, a number of worried looks passed between individuals at the table. Although the gathered Cainites retained their composure, the tension in the room increased palpably.
“This is where my grandchilde enters the equation.”
The Lasombra elder turned her head slowly towards Anton, who did not dare move.
“The city of Carlisle. As domains go I would struggle to give less of a fuck about it, but I was recently made aware of certain information in which that city is mentioned. I am informed that one year ago, a means of destroying an Antediluvian appeared in Carlisle. I will not risk this weapon – whatever it may be – being lost or destroyed by us launching into an ill-considered crusade. I want to know what this ‘means’ is and how easily it can be acquired for us. That is the task with which I am charging you, Anton, and should you not have results for me within the year I can assure you that you will be kissing sunlight.”

Let the guessing of what that is begin

I have an idea, I think it be Eddies razor... you know... since it is part of death itself! I worry move about Mercurio and co. Being in the country... and possibly heading for the county... that will not be fun!

That was more recent, will have to look back and see what happend around this time last year. This time last year was when we had the big Sabbat battle

Keep thinking along those lines...

My bet would be Angels

OH SHIT!!!! that about sums it up

The silence in the room was broken by the sound of a fragment of charred skull being nudged aside by an immaculately-polished Italian leather shoe. Dressed in his signature hand-woven silk suit and three-quarter-length black cashmere coat, Alejandro Pierce would have not looked out of place in this funeral parlour were it not for the conspicuous lack of any furniture, and the fact that the walls and floor were blackened with soot. The fire the previous night had completely gutted the place.
This small parlour in Edinburgh had never really served as a funeral business, after all. It was simply a convenient front which the vampires of Edinburgh used to dispose of inconvenient corpses. Last night, however, it had turned into the place where Archbishop Geoffrey Montague-Forsythe had been assassinated. Pierce hadn’t yet found out why the Toreador Archbishop had come to this place last night, or how it was that his killer – or killers – had known to find him here. But Charles de Sourriére had assigned Alejandro to discover the truth behind what had happened, and at times like this there was no arguing with the ancient Lord of Caledonia.

The young Lasombra wasn’t alone down here. Standing a little way behind him was the slender figure of his childe, Samantha, who was herself dwarfed by the hulking form of Danu Kulich. Alejandro found it amusing on some level that the two members of his pack whom he trusted the most were the oldest and youngest, respectively. Samantha had ended up being “recruited” by Black Eagle Consulting seven years ago in Los Angeles, when Alejandro’s feeding instincts had gotten the better of him, and in a moment of guilt afterwards he had decided not to let her die. Although the girl lacked any true memories of the savage debauchery which had led to her Embrace, Alejandro had never regretted having Samantha’s considerable wit and social acumen to add to his own, even when the increasingly intimate nature of their relationship had become a bone of contention among some of Black Eagle’s members.
Danu Kulich could scarcely be more different. The massive Tzimisce was a former Hungarian soldier, Sired some hundred and twenty years ago. He was nearly five times Alejandro’s age, and was a terrifyingly skilled warrior. Sometimes Pierce wondered exactly why such a powerful individual maintained any loyalty to an otherwise young and modernistic pack like Black Eagle. He certainly didn’t object to having Danu’s sword arm to rely upon, however.

With his two pack mates at his back, the Ductus of Black Eagle surveyed the carnage in the room. If word of the assassination had already reached Lord de Sourriére in Glasgow, then it was going to have circulated among the packs of Edinburgh. Alejandro could bet that within an hour every damn Cainite in the city was going to come for a look at where it happened. Already he could hear footsteps descending the blasted stairway which led down here from the reception area above. Soon, there would be a whole crowd of bloodthirsty, revenge-hungry predators in this room. The footsteps neared, and in moments pack of five young vampires emerged out of the darkness of the stairwell. There was anger etched on their faces as they looked around, but if they harboured any ideas about starting a fight, a withering glare from Danu soon made them think otherwise. Silently, they retreated to a corner of the room.

As predicted, more Cainites soon arrived. What began as a trickle of individuals and small packs soon gave way to a horde. Edinburgh had always been a heavily-populated city among the race of Caine, with at least sixty and probably closer to a hundred vampires making their residence in its shadows. Even in the aftermath of Charles de Sourriére’s conquest of the domain, a large number of the Protectorate’s members had settled here. As the packs arrived, the Black Eagle vampires were becoming increasingly aware that they were outsiders at this gathering. While Pierce and his pack had a sufficient reputation to keep the crowd at bay for now, there was no mistaking the fact that the gathered Cainites were thirsty for violence. The conversation in the room was of revenge and bloodshed, and the fates that were planned for whoever was responsible for this. Staying here was risky as all hell; trying to leave would be even worse. Even with the hulking Danu at his back, Alejandro didn’t fancy his or Samantha’s chances of getting out of here if the situation turned any uglier. More and more of the gathered bloodsuckers were looking in Black Eagle’s direction, as if waiting for some kind of announcement. From behind him, Samantha leaned forward and whispered something to Alejandro’s ear. He nodded, and prepared to address the horde.

“Cainites…Cainites.”
The conversation in the room began to fall silent as many pairs of eyes focused on the young Lasombra. Pierce took a moment to extend his powers of Presence, filling the air about him with an aura of authority.
“You’re all aware by now that Archbishop Montague-Forsythe has indeed been destroyed.”
At these words, a roar of threats and curses rose from the crowd; the heightened Beasts of the vampires became increasingly palpable as the news sank in that someone had dared to strike against the Protectorate.
“Cainites, please!” Alejandro continued; “I do not think there are any doubts in our minds that agents of the Baronies of Avalon are responsible for this. I assure you, brothers and sisters, that blood will be shed for this. But when we make our return strike, our efforts need to be precise and directed. We need to destroy those who organised this attack, and make it clear that those who would war on us cannot hide behind their minions. But I assure you, retribution will be yours to give.”

“Retribution is both our right and duty to dispense here.”
The crowd parted as the softly-voiced words made themselves heard above the din of arguing vampires. Emerging from within the throng was a pack of four Cainites, three male and one female. A grey-suited Lasombra with pale blonde hair and cold, steely eyes stood at the front of the pack; he was known to the city as Bishop Victor Smith, a serial killer in life and a serial Diablerist in unlife. To his left was a straight-jacketed vampire who was flicking a straight razor back and forth with in one hand as if by some nervous compulsion. Looming behind them was a tall and athletically-built woman whose eyes practically burned with barely-suppressed fury. And yet it was the fourth one among them who had actually spoken; the short, lightly-built pretty-boy in the leather bondage trousers whose voice somehow carried more authority over the assembled packs than the late Archbishop could ever have claimed. Alejandro could not have failed to recognise him, or the pack; they were known simply as Do Unto Others.

“Well I’m glad we agree on that much, Konstantin” said Alejandro, his voice level as he met the Malkavian’s gaze.
“But there is an issue to be addressed here, Inquisitor”, came Konstantin’s reply; “Namely that of who is to lead the Cainites of this city in the dispensation of vengeance.”
“That does indeed need resolving. Obviously it falls to the Cainites of Edinburgh to find a leader from within their ranks. The new Archbishop will have to be agreed upon by Lord de Sourriére. From there the city can–”
“Oh, fuck de Sourriére!” The words came from a snarling, furious-looking vampire in the crowd; “What the fuck has he done for us, exactly? This country is supposed to be his Protectorate, right? Well what the fuck does that mean if he can’t protect one of his own Archbishops from those pricks across the border? Like the last Archbishop was even worthy of the fucking title anyway, fucking Camarilla stooge that he was. I’m sick of taking orders from that jumped-up son of a bitch!”
The hall was silent. Every pair of eyes in the room was fixed upon the Cainite who had just made his opinions very loudly heard. Alejandro was momentarily surprised that nobody seemed to have joined in on this rant; normally dissenters managed to rouse at least a couple of idiot followers, but even the vampire’s own pack were not speaking up. In moments, it became clear why.

“Your opinions are duly noted.”

The voice was cold and dry as wind from a tomb, but there was no mistaking the twelve centuries of accumulated power that it carried with it.

“Your unwillingness to follow my leadership is acknowledged.”

The dissenting bloodsucker’s eyes widened in horror as he realised that the Lord of Caledonia was standing among the crowd. He spun, looking frantically for the source of the voice. Lord Charles Emmanuel de Sourriére stood in the doorway, surrounded by his own ancient pack; the Ventrue Archbishop John Luther of Glasgow, the Tzimisce Bishop Isambard, Bishops Andrew Stewart and Katherine de Lacey of Clan Lasombra, and the Nosferatu known only as the King of Maggots. These were the Noctuary, the oldest and most powerful pack in the British Isles. Only now was it fully apparent that they had entered the room.

“Your cries of dissent do of course constitute a challenge to my authority, which I duly accept.”
“No…no wait, please!” the young dissenter looked panic-stricken. He had every right to be.
“Archbishop Luther, as my pack priest do you agree to preside over this challenge?”
“Of course, my Ductus” the Ventrue replied.
“And does this young challenger’s pack priest also agree?” de Sourriére continued. There was only silence.
“I hear no refusal from this Cainite’s priest.”
“I don’t want a challenge! I was wrong, okay! Just don’t kill me!” the younger vampire cried out, but the elder Lasombra simply ignored him.
“Fine. Then the challenge is accepted and ratified. As the challenged individual it is my place to set the terms. The battle will be one of raw Cainite ability alone. No weapons will be permitted, mastery of the Disciplines alone will decide the outcome.”
“NO!”
The dissenter turned and attempted to flee, shoving his way into the crowd as he tried to get away from the twelve-hundred-year-old Cardinal. He barely made two steps before the elder Lasombra’s fist smashed through the back of his ribcage. Cold fingers curled around his heart and crushed it. The unwilling challenger stood, unmoving, for a brief moment, in which the assembled vampires waited for the killing blow. Charles de Sourriére’s hand moved in a blur, and a wet smack of meat and bone resounded through the chamber as his punch knocked the younger vampire’s head clean off its body. The dead Cainite’s clothes fell to the floor, empty except for the ashes to which his body had been reduced.

As one, the crowd took a step back from the Lord of Caledonia. The ancient Lasombra’s poise was neutral, his voice unwavering…and yet his fury at the actions of the one he had just slain was palpable. One by one he locked eyes with every Cainite in the room, and in turn each one flinched away from him. Alone among those gathered, the Lasombra Victor Smith and the Malkavian Konstantin managed to hold his gaze for more than the briefest of moments. The Cardinal studied the two of them; the Ductus and Priest of Do Unto Others. They were, it had to be said, unpredictable. The only thing they could be relied upon to do was cause carnage. There had even been calls from some members of the Protectorate to declare them heretics and have them destroyed. And yet, de Sourriére noticed, fully three quarters of the vampires in the room were standing behind those two. Right now, what Edinburgh needed was a leader who could show the Baronies why it didn’t pay to meddle in the affairs of domains north of the border.

“The matter of retribution will be served”, de Sourriére intoned coldly, daring anyone to contradict him now; “and the city’s leadership will also be addressed. I trust that you are up to the task, Archbishop Smith.”
For a couple of seconds, Smith’s expression almost seemed to falter. While Do Unto others had become one of the most respected and feared packs in Edinburgh since the Protectorate’s conquest, it was entirely possible that none of their members would ever expect to be placed in charge of a city. Although Victor quickly regained his steely-eyed composure, the expression on Konstantin’s face could not hide his relish at the thought of being given such a high podium from which to preach. Without further word, Charles de Sourriére turned and left, his pack following behind him. Alejandro Pierce watched him leave, marvelling at the cool, unquestionable authority with which the elder had addressed the situation. Out of habit, he retrieved an Egyptian cigarette from within his coat pocket and lit up.
“The King is dead”, he said, before exhaling a stream of bitter smoke. He locked eyes with Victor as he started towards the exit; “Long live the King.”
As Alejandro made his way out, Danu and Samantha followed. Samantha glanced back over her shoulder, and in a gesture which many in the room would have considered tantamount to signing one’s own death warrant, she blew Konstantin a half-mocking kiss.
“Long live the King”, she whispered.
“Long live the King.” The Malkavian replied.
“Long live the King!” snarled another voice in the crowd.

Outside, the Noctuary’s members were emerging from within the burned-out doorway of the funeral parlour. The city’s vampires would not hold together if they were not given a target for their bloodlust. Charles de Sourriére had no doubts that Newcastle, or perhaps Durham or Carlisle, would suffer greatly for the offense that had been taken against the Protectorate. But while the children played, he expected Alejandro to discover those who had orchestrated the attack and make sure that they suffered slow, agonising deaths. Behind them, the cries of the rabble were rising into a bloody crescendo.
“Long live the King!”
“Long Live The King!”
“LONG LIVE THE KING!”
“LONG LIVE THE KING!”

That made me almost snort drink from my nose

oh hi Dale :p