The chill wind blew past the broad shoulders of Rutger Leick this 
cold September evening. Over his usual crumpled, black suit, the 
Brujah Elder wore a long gray trenchcoat, hands (or rather, hand and 
stump) thrust deeply into the massive pockets. He strolled along 
quietly, taking in the feel of the wind, and the quiet solitude of 
the lonely street. He had a lot to think about these days, and had 
taken to walking the streets while doing so.
   It was the Prince, mostly. He was beginning to scare Leick. His 
madness was bad enough, but recent events had shown to be a 
Diabolist as well. Oh, not in the usual sense. Most Diabolists drank 
the blood of their Elders to gain in power. Some very old Cainites 
were rumored to have to drink the blood of younger Kindred instead 
of Kine. But Laplace did it for pleasure, and that frightened 
Rutger. There was no telling what that madman would do.
   But it wasn't just him; there was more. That damned Frost 
character was becoming belligerent again. He had blown up the old 
Ventrue theater, and Leick feared he would be the next target. And 
he had no retainers, no subjects. For Frost had killed them all.
   All except one, that is. Airegon, that insolent little Childe. 
Eventually, the Primogen would have to do something about her, but 
there were other matters to attend to.
   Like evading Laplace, and stopping Frost. Sure... No problem. A 
crazy Elder and a crazier Caitiff. Clanless anarch scum... To beat 
these, Leick would require real power.
   He stopped walking then, and removed his left wrist from his 
pocket, and peered at it. The stump was larger now. Leick had been 
using his Blood to begin to regrow the hand, but it would take time. 
A lot of time. For now, he had affixed a brace around the wrist, to 
which he could attach various implements. He had grown weary of the 
fumbling clumsiness that resulted from having only one set of 
fingers, and decided to do something about it. Now, when he wished, 
he could have a movable claw for a left hand, or (for those special 
occasions) a hook or a blade. It made quite a conversation piece...
   Something made Leick glance up. A neon sign, a cross. He was 
outside a church. Well, he had said he needed power. And once, a 
long time ago, the church had given that to him...


   He remembered it well. In his younger days, Rutger would go to 
church every Sunday, morning and night. He had realized there was a 
hole in his life shaped for God alone to fill. The services gave him 
something he had never experienced before, and he was happy. He was 
saved.
   But all that had changed one fateful night. Whilst wandering the 
streets of Rauss late one evening, a vicious gang had attacked him. 
The well-built Austrian fought them off for a while, but even he 
could not stop the aggressive pack. In the end, they killed him.
   However, that was not the end, for he awoke. The leader had seen 
his prowess and wanted it for his own. He had raised Leick from the 
dead, as only Christ was supposed to.
   Leick still remembered his Becoming. No human can ever imagine 
the torture a Cainite goes through. The pain of the severest 
headache one can imagine, experienced by every single nerve in your 
body. An appendix rupture - but felt by all your organs. The body 
died, and something else grew up in its place. A vampire. A Cainite.
   One of the damned.



   Looking up at the neon cross which bathed his face in a ghostly 
blue fog, Leick felt a twinge of pain. Now he was forever separated 
from God. He was Damned.
   Suddenly, the pain grew stronger. The congregation within were 
singing, and their faith was focused by the cross. Normally, a cross 
would not affect a vampire, but now it was the focal point of their 
attention, their belief, their trust. Rutger remembered the 
experience well, and wondered at the irony. That object, that 
symbol, which had once been his hope of salvation, was now the most 
loathed object in the world to him.
   The Brujah stumbled along past the church, until his stomach 
unknotted itself. Faith. It was nothing to him any more.
   No, God's power was something he would have to live without. But 
there was another way.
   He needed subjects. Retainers. Thralls. He must request 
permission to Beget by the Prince. Normally, Leick would just 
Embrace, and to hell with Laplace, but there was a narrow line to 
walk now. He was on shaky ground, and did not wish to lose the power 
he had at this point.
   True, the city had seen a massive influx of Kindred recently, but 
almost all of the newcomers had left the town shortly after arrival. 
Leick did not know the reason, and did not care. As long as the 
Kindred numbers were low enough, he should be granted permission.
   Yes, Leick nodded to himself. That was the ticket. Build an army, 
silently, slowly. An army to defend against the likes of Frost, and 
to back up his claim to power again.
   "I will reclaim the city," Leick muttered. "It shall be mine 
again." Laplace may sit on the throne, but Leick could run New 
Chelsea as he did once.
   It will just take some time...


          - End of post.
            Rutger Leick,
            Brujah Primogen.




Alain Roche was "pissed". It took all his self control to not show 
the slightest sign of anger. How many of his breed could accomplish 
that !

He had put out the signs. No contract. What the hell was the Prince 
or the Primogen up to ? He had sent out the signals, still no reply. 
This disturbed him. Sun Tzu's edict formed in his mind. "A sign of 
weak leadership; weak leadership is war, waste and trouble."

He knew that, although young for his kind, he would be safe. There 
were few, even of the Brujah, who would take him on. His Katakana 
shiminzo combined his esoteric knowledge and years at a shinto 
temple with Nikko had developed a mental and physical discipline 
that had made even his dreams do his bidding.

He smiled. Let them threaten me ! They would learn fear as soon as 
he touched their corpses with the blade; a consecrated blade, their 
bodies would not so easily regenerate. Let them figure out that 
Tremere riddle ! A grim foreboding gripped him. He knew his duty, he 
would protect all of those that wished to be protected - regardless 
of clan. Then he would hunt for those that did not allow balance, 
those that threatened the Primogen or those who opposed or seduced 
the Prince away from his duty.

But for now he would relax. He would go to the Shinto temple in the 
Japanese quarter. He would enter it, as had not yet been
consecrated. He had a late night appointment at the nearby Dojo 
where he would meet Onnekage, a swords master. They would train in 
the old style, not with wooden bokkans, but with blades. He would 
also look for a potential mate among his pupils, one with potential.

Sipping wine (he could still imagine the taste) Alain smiled. There 
was just one thing to do before he made his way into town. A lethal 
move, but one that would test the health of the clans. He would send 
out a challenge to the Primogen; the Tremere Primogen, a fight to 
utter destruction. If they were smart, which they hoped they were, 
they would see though the challenge, read the signs.

The Tremere would know that he was willing to offer his very 
existence for the clan. What he was offering was to be the servant 
and executioner of their wills. He was offering himself to the 
Primogen and ultimately to the Prince. If they did not respond, then 
he would wreak havoc, he would force them to react; to do their 
duty. Had they deluded themselves of reality ? They all lived in a 
human world and that in itself was dangerous enough ! He nodded to 
himself,
"Remember the Tremere ! We helped you out once, and we will again !"

Turning he moved to the door, Shiminzo, as ever by his side, and 
made his way out onto the streets to Onnekage and training.


          - End of post.
            Alain Roche,
            Tremere





"Why am I here again?" Frost wondered silently as he watched the
figures pass without sound on the street. "Why does this city keep 
pulling me back."  His car was sitting silently on the road side, 
its engine idle. Frost was beginning to question the motives he had 
clung to for his entire life.

Recently he had learned that his original nemesis had reappeared. 
His
wife. The creature entirely responsible for his current existence. 
He had chased her down in L.A and killed six of her progeny. She had 
fled
and he'd spent months with Jonas, his first teacher and long time 
friend, hunting for her. To both their dismay she was nowhere to be 
found. So he and Jonas had parted once more. During September Frost 
had slowly but inevitably drifted back towards New Chelsea.

He hadn't yet returned to the manor to reclaim his sword. He had 
done
surprisingly well without it. Although he missed being able to sense
when other Kindred were nearby. To Frost's surprise he had not seen 
any Kindred in the city at all. When he left, the city had been 
overflowing with Kindred. One could hardly move around without 
tripping over them. Now it was as if the place were deserted. Maybe 
they had all gotten wind of the Sabbat take over plans and fled.  
Kindred were incredibly cowardly sometimes. At any rate he was going 
to go back to the manor before sunrise. Eventually he would contact 
Leick; for some reason Frost enjoyed tormenting the Brujah. But for 
the moment he needed to reclaim Masamune and rest up.

He smelled the change of season in the air and with changes of 
season often come new dangers and new enemies.


           - End of post.
             Fredrick Frost,
             Caitiff & Sabbat Member.




Jack Lewis slouched into the Throne Room, filled with trepidation. 
The Prince had summoned him here tonight - and the message had not 
seemed pleasant at all in tone. Like all subjects in New Chelsea (at 
least - all those with half a brain in their heads) Lewis feared the 
Prince. His moods swung wildly, and he could snap at any moment. He 
ruled the city, not through wisdom and respect, but through fear. 
Fear of those unpredictable outbursts that had resulted in so many 
deaths.
    On the other hand, Jack Lewis mused, on occasion Laplace had 
accepted tremendous insult without reaction. Like that Frost boy's 
presentation. If Lewis recalled correctly, Frost actually stabbed 
Laplace in the foot! This had caused much speculation among the 
Primogen, but in the end, who could know the mind of their Prince?
    It was this unpredictability which caused the Nosferatu Primogen 
such discomfort as he obeyed the summons and dragged himself into 
the large stone chamber where the Prince met his subjects. He stood 
outside the large oak doors now, and ran a trembling hand over the 
mottled, patchy skin of his bald skull. Nervous saliva slipped 
between his misshapen teeth as he drew a deep breath, and pushed 
open the doors.
    It was empty. There was no-one in the throne room. Laplace must 
still be on his way. Lewis still continued to fidget - the delay 
just made his disposition worse. Where was the Prince?
    No sooner had he thought this then the door at the back of the 
chamber swung open, and two Toreador guards emerged - and, behind 
them, Alexander Laplace. The Prince marched purposefully to his 
large chair and seated himself regally. His eyes were clear and 
alert today, his madness relegated to a back seat. The hardness in 
his glare made Lewis cower, stooping lower than his usual squatted 
posture. The Prince raised one velvet-dressed arm and called out to 
the Nosferatu Primogen.
    "Step forward, Jack Lewis," came the voice, clear and resounding 
as a bell. Eyes darting back and forth wildly, Lewis shuffled 
forward. What could Laplace want? The Nosferatu had debated this 
silently all the way here. He had done nothing he could recall that 
might incur the Prince's wrath. What was it?
    The French Toreador watched silently as the ugly Primogen made 
his shivering approach to the throne. He smoothed the front of his 
wrinkled, smelly doublet and waited for a dramatic moment before 
continuing:
    "Have you no control over your subjects, Mr Lewis?"
    Jack's head snapped up at this. What was he talking about? There 
were but one or two Nosferatu in the city, and they all kept to 
themselves. Had one of them done something drastic? he wondered. 
Will I be sentenced to Final Death? He trembled.
    "Sire?" the Primogen asked shakily. "I don't know to what you 
are referring."
    "It's a simple enough question," the Prince replied coldly. "Do 
you or do you not have any influence on the Nosferatu of this city?"
    Jack Lewis' mind was whirring. What was going on? There was 
nothing to do but answer.
    "Of course, Sire," was all he could say. "My subjects respect 
me." He didn't like referring to the Nosferatu as 'subjects' but it 
was expected by Laplace. He was stuck in the middle ages, and 
expected everyone else to be the same. For the thousandth time, Jack 
wondered if he had made a mistake accepting this position of power 
in New Chelsea. He *was* the oldest Nosferatu in the city, but had 
no qualifications for leadership.
    "Perhaps you can tell me then," answered the Prince, coldly, 
"why there have been several incidents of vampire attacks reported 
to the police?"
    "Vampire attacks?" Lewis parroted nervously. There were many 
Cainites in the city. Why would Laplace suspect a Nosferatu? "By 
whom?"
    Laplace shook his head. "No-one knows. By-standers saw but a 
vague blur. Obviously the attacker had Obfuscational powers. All 
Malkavians have been accounted for. That leaves Caitiffs and 
Nosferatu. We have... reason to believe the culprit was Nosferatu."
    "What reasons?" Jack blurted out without thinking. Cringing as 
they slipped past his lips, he awaited the violent retribution. None 
came.
    "They are my own," the Toreador replied simply. "Among the 
victims were a group of nuns. Such blatant disregard for the 
Traditions must be punished. If you have no control of your 
subjects, Mr Lewis, you shall bear the brunt of this discipline."
    Jack Lewis' convulsions increased in intensity. Terror seized 
him anew. He must avoid punishment at all costs.
    "Sire," he mumbled, "I will seek out this stray Nosferatu and 
get an explanation. I was not aware of the presence of any more of 
my kind here. The perpetrator will pay for his actions!"
    "He had better!" Laplace warned. "Now, begone." He waved a hand 
dismissively, and left Jack Lewis to shuffle out of the throne room 
before more wrath fell on his head.
    Slouching through the darkened halls of the Bezoar Complex, the 
Nosferatu Primogen's thoughts were racing. What was a rogue 
Nosferatu doing in the city? Why was he attacking Kine right, left 
and center? Most of all, what the hell was Jack going to do about 
it?


           - End of post.
             Jack Lewis,
             Nosferatu Primogen.
             Posted by Rutger Leick.




After the slaughter, there was still no contact with any worthy 
Kindred or Primogen from any clan. Lilith was very disappointed... 
surely her reign of terror would pose some threat to the vaunted 
Masquerade? If no contact were made soon, she would have to start 
hunting the damned instead of slaughtering Kine.

Stretching her arms and legs, Lilith walked past her new progeny.
Of the six nuns who survived the encounter, only two remained. Her 
hungry sisters ripped the first apart. Two of the *nuns* committed 
suicide praying while the sun rose and the other had an accident the 
previous night. Lilith sighed, "I should have told her that no 
matter how invincible our kind may seem, we are not fireproof. Don't 
play with matches..."

Her gaze suddenly shifted towards the two remaining abominations. 
Their mortal names were Sarah and Sonya. For Nosferatu, they were 
quite pretty, almost like twins. Both of them had spiny *hair*, 
claws, bony wing protrusions and other physical similarities with 
Lilith but their facial features were nearly the same as when she 
Embraced them.

She held both of them at arms' length. "You are my family 
now...shall we have some fun?"

Sonya nodded vigorously; baring her fangs when she smiled, while 
Sarah nodded in agreement.

Lilith was pleased. Her new children were more than she could have 
hoped for, superior to any sizable army. "Good, I feel like Japanese 
tonight. Let's visit the Japanese quarter shall we?"

It was more of a command than a request. Nevertheless, Sarah and 
Sonya obeyed. The three were going to massacre Kine until they were 
knee deep in blood tonight.


       - End of post.
         Lilith,
         Nosferatu.



   Sheilina, now back in New Chelsea, had learned that Airegon was 
in the care of Karenthuras, the Tremere autark. Unfortunately the 
vampire seemed a little leery about having her there. Sheilina 
wondered what had happened; Karl wouldn't tell her for some reason. 
She would go talk to Frost or Leick tomorrow if she could find one 
of them... though supposedly Frost had left town again. Just when 
Sheilina's powers were low and she couldn't use them.


   Suddenly the tree next to Sheilina burst into flames... "What 
the.." Shelina exclaimed as another flaming arrow flew by. "Who's 
there?" she called. There was no answer, only more arrows - each one 
just narrowly missing her. When she had no doubt that the next one 
that was fired would hit her, she began to run.

   "Damn!" she screamed as she tripped and fell over a coat that was 
on the ground. She recognized it as Airegon's and wondered if that 
meant Karl had given her more blood and cured her. She certainly 
hoped so, she thought as she dove into the nearest building she came 
to - which happened to be the Bezoar complex.

   "Great now I'm in trouble," thought Sheilina out loud as the 
guards ran over to her.

   "Got that right little girl!" laughed a guard.

   Well as long as I'm here I can ask about Airegon...

        - End of post.
          Sheilina,
          Caitiff.



Lucien duCharne read his letter over one last time.

"To Matthias,

   "Your arrival in the city has been brought to my attention. You, 
along with some other new Gangrel arrivals, will have to present 
yourself to the Prince, as the Fifth Tradition dictates. I am sure 
you are aware of this obligation, but as the reigning Primogen of 
the Gangrel of the city, I feel compelled to meet with new arrivals 
and discuss the details of the ritual here in New Chelsea. Though 
this is not required, it is much appreciated as any wrong move by 
new arrivals could prove quite fatal.

    "In your particular case, there is another matter in urgent need 
of discussion. This letter will be delivered by one of my most 
trusted Thralls, and he will await reply. Please send word of your 
response with him.

    "Lastly, welcome to New Chelsea. I hope this letter finds you in 
good health."

    Yes, it seemed acceptable. DuCharne folded it up and placed it 
carefully in an envelope. He hoped Matthias would respond in the 
positive, and show himself promptly. There were important matters to 
discuss.

    Lucien called over his Thralls and handed them the letters. 
Jacob took the one addressed to Matthias - he was very reliable. 
Obviously all those Blood Bonded to Lucien were loyal, but Jacob was 
efficient and strong. Nothing could go wrong with the delivery if he 
was in charge. The shorter letters (those to the new Cainites in 
town, including the hot-headed Tempest) were carried by less perfect 
carriers. The letters were less important, and merely carried a note 
requesting they present themselves to him before they saw the 
Prince. It was not nearly so important as his meeting with Matthias.

    Contemplating the meeting, Lucien grew slightly nervous. Who 
knew what his place would be after the encounter?

    DuCharne gave the word to his Thralls and they left. The Gangrel 
Primogen sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. The reply would 
come. He could wait for it.


          - End of post.
            Lucien duCharne,
            Gangrel Primogen.
            Posted by Rutger Leick.



Tempest awoke in his hotel room around 11 pm, just a few hours after 
dark. He walked into the street and started along it, wandering at 
his own pace. At first he meandered without direction then, after 
about twenty minutes, he noticed the three men following at a 
distance. Odd, the Gangrel thought to himself - then suddenly 
remembered the old vampire he started a fight with in the bar around 
two weeks ago.
   Damn, he cursed silently. After thinking for a moment, Tempest 
ducked into the nearest alley and stooped against the wall, waiting. 
He knew they would come. He knew it.
   Then, three shadows crept across the wall. Two of the Cainite 
figures held knives while the other wielded no weapon. A faint glow 
surrounded him as he stalked purposefully forward.
   Crap, a magic user.
   "Stop where you are!" one of then said as Tempest turned to face 
them.
   "Why?" he said with an edge.
   "We have business to discuss," the second knife holder said, 
before the third member, the magician, growled:
   "Get him!"
   Tempest turned and summoned his sword, unsheathing it with a 
grand sweep of his arm, and ran at the thugs. They blocked his first 
few attacks with their knives but the Ganrel managed to slash one of 
them across the chest, then hit him under the arm with a second 
blow.
   After this happened, the magic user sent a flaming bolt at 
Tempest. It hit him hard, searing his shoulder with pain. He could 
feel the cold blood drip down his arm from the open wound. It was 
then that he finally realized who he had entered into combat with:
   It was the infamous vampire Lorac Majere. Tempest also knew that 
the magician would not rest until his enemy's blood was spilled at 
his feet. Caught off guard for a moment, Tempest was slashed across 
the side by the second man. He felt the blade hit his ribs, and was 
forced to turn and run.
   Shifting into an wolf, the hot-headed Gangrel climbed up a short 
wall and  crossed roof-top after roof-top. When he finally got back 
to his motel, he felt extremely light-headed. He realized then that 
he had lost a lot of blood.
   Then everything went black, and he fell to the floor, 
unconscious.


           - End of post.
             Tempest,
             Gangrel.




It was cold in the sewers, and very dark. The rank odor threatened 
to make Drukh retch, but she had no food in her stomach - nor had 
she for 70 years. Most of her life had been spent in mourning for 
her Sire, and in voluntary torpor. Drukh had only recently ventured 
out into Kindred society. And already she had been called upon for 
duty.
  The Primogen of her clan, Jack Lewis, had called her to his Haven 
to order her to seek out the violator of the Masquerade. For some 
reason, he assumed the killer was Nosferatu and it was his duty as 
Primogen to seek him out.
  But, of course, Lewis wouldn't do it himself. He'd send out 
underlings. Like Drukh.
  It was easy to feel resentful. Drukh had done so for most of her 
unlife (and human life, come to think of it). Now there were many 
new things to discover about herself, many pleasures and pains. But 
resentment was still foremost in her mind.
  Sighing, the ugly Cainite splashed through the garbage and faeces 
that swam about her legs and continued to glance down each tributary 
that she approached. There was nothing down here. Why was she even 
here?
  It was, of course, because she had trouble in open spaces. 
Claustrophobia was a common condition, but Drukh experienced the 
opposite. She had spent so much time in her mausoleum of solitude, 
then her dry well here in New Chelsea, that she was unused to the 
clean air and endless sky of the outside world. Truth be told, it 
frightened her a little. To be underground, with the solid comfort 
of several feet of concrete and steel all around, was almost 
relaxing after her trip to the surface to meet with Lewis. *Almost* 
relaxing.
  But what was that? A sound? Drukh's ears pricked up as the stray 
vibrations sought her out. It was coming from right around the 
corner.
  Tensing, Drukh summoned her powers of Obfuscation, and edged up to 
the junction.
  There, inside the right-hand passage, were a few vague shapes. 
Drukh made certain to keep part of the wall between herself and the 
forms within. Her Obfuscational Discipline was not strong enough to 
assure invisibility otherwise. The blobs were talking in loud, harsh 
voices, but Drukh was unable to hear exactly what they were saying. 
Could this be the ones she was sent to find?
  One of the blobs gained form then, her translucent shell 
dissipating to reveal a lovely female form - alluring, yet distant. 
The ease with which she handled her Disciplines told Drukh this was 
the leader, and the strong stench of blood from within informed 
Drukh that these were almost certainly the killers and violators of 
the 1st Tradition she was seeking. But could they be Nosferatu? The 
woman was so beautiful.
  But a surprise was to come. For a moment, a brief one, the 
glamorous haze slipped away, and Drukh started. It caused a small 
splash, and the (now lovely once more) woman turned toward the 
noise.
  I'd better get out of here, Drukh thought.
  She turned and ran, steadily and silently. When push came to 
shove, she knew how to make a getaway no-one could track. This was 
not what occupied her mind. What did was the bizarre form beneath 
the other Nosferatu's mind cloak.
  Drukh had never before seen anything like it. The woman was 
clearly Nosferatu, but not like any Nosferatu that had been told 
even in legend. Spiny protrusions hung from her skull like hair on 
Kine, and skeletal wings stretched forth from her back, as though 
she were some demon sent from the lower depths. What blood curse had 
caused such a thing - and what other, more psychological, effects 
had it had on the woman?
  Drukh didn't know. What she did know was: Jack Lewis had to be 
informed. And right away.


          - End of post.
            Drukh,
            Nosferatu.
            Posted by Rutger Leick.



It wasn't very often that Karl took to the streets of New Chelsea, 
though recently he had to, nonetheless, more and more. If this 
wasn't enough, then breaking and entering was even less probable; 
Kindred or not, he did everything by the book - until this dark 
night....

Karl could feel the calling from his lair in the woods. He felt the 
tired breath of the Kindred running, the desperation for escape; he 
could feel the adrenalin rush through the Cainite, then stop. At 
once Karl ran to where Tempest lay. Confused by how he sensed this, 
the Tremere sought out the blood dripping, dripping, dripping, 
slower now.  Much slower now. Karl approached Tempest on the floor 
of his apartment at the motel.

The body was dumped on the floor in a pool of blood as a rat ran 
senselessly about the floor, searching for the nourishment in 
whatever  was decaying. This time, the rat would not find what it 
was looking for as this decaying body was dead long ago. Now 'dying' 
once more, Tempest was going to be incapacitated for quite a while, 
unless the blood loss was recovered soon. Nevertheless Karl pulled a 
flask out of his long jacket pocket.

Propping the body against the wall he pushed hard on the chest. The 
lungs, long out of use, would be full of blood and perfect for 
bleeding. He did not want to destroy this Kindred being, for that 
was going too far, so stopped the bleeding before it was too late.

Karl stood with his flask held up to the bedside lamp. It was as 
good as full: a full pint and a half, at least! The body slumped 
back down to the floor. Karl climbed back through the window which 
he entered and standing on the fire escape, turned back to look at 
Tempest. With no feelings of remorse, if that was possible from a 
creature such as he, he turned away again, climbed down and into the 
night.

    - End of post.
      Karenthuras,
      Tremere.