Cochrane looked at the girl lying on the couch. She was asleep, 
and had been when he found her. Odd for a Kindred to be asleep at 
night. Well it wouldn't be night for much longer. He could see that 
she had been crying by the dark crimson stains on her face. The sun 
was even now beginning to rise. The tattered old curtains in the 
room would provide little cover from the sun; he would have to move 
himself and the girl to another room, one that Frost's female 
associate had properly 'redecorated' by putting in tinted glass and 
light resistant curtains.

Speaking of Frost and Rachelle, neither had yet returned.  Not that 
he was worried: having dealt with those two before he knew they 
would survive, although they might end up sleeping in the sewers. 
Cochrane shivered at the thought. He hated the sewers; even going 
near them made him wish he could throw up. Of course, lacking blood 
to his stomach, he could not. Frost and Rachelle on the other hand 
were warriors, they did what was needed and they didn't care who 
they had to kill or blow up as long as they knew the reason. They 
were truly soldiers of fortune.

Cochrane felt a light sting as a ray of the rising sun touched the 
skin on the palm of his hand where the black hand tattoo was. Time 
to move. Gently, he picked up the girl and moved her into a bedroom. 
After he made sure no light would creep in, he closed and locked the 
door and retreated to one of the other rooms. As he entered the room 
he scanned it quickly, making sure there were no intruders. After 
having assured himself he was alone, he lay down on the bed to rest. 
As he began to drift slowly into the silence of sleep, he heard the 
soft tones of a familiar voice.

"What took you so long? I've been waiting."

As he heard the voice, Cochrane sprung up from his sitting position 
and whipped out a chrome plated hand gun he kept in his waist belt. 
Although bullets couldn't kill Kindred, they could be used to slow 
them down and allow escape. He spotted the figure standing in the 
shadows in the north most corner of the room. It was Cray.

"You startled me Cray," Cochrane said, putting the safety back on 
his gun. "Haven't I asked you in the past not to appear like that?"

"I apologize Michael, but I had to make sure I was not interrupted 
by your guest. I have urgent business to discuss."

Urgent business. Cochrane was tired of running Cray's errands; Cray 
had made him run over half the world collecting relics for some 
unknown purpose. He was sick of it. "What artifact do you wish me to 
obtain for you now?"

"A very special artifact, a one of a kind weapon of unequaled power. 
Something that only one Cainite has ever been able to hold. I want 
the Masamune."

Cray must have seen the expression of shock on Cochrane's face. 
Steal Masamune from Frost? Impossible! For Frost to give up Masamune 
he would have to be... dead. Cochrane made a simulated gulping 
action.

"Yes, Michael, I see that you understand." The ever-present smile on 
Cray's face and his gentle, lilting voice infuriated Cochrane, 
especially when the subject matter was so horrifying. "I shall send 
you word on how this is to be done," Cray continued. "You must 
follow my instructions exactly when they come."

Cochrane looked down for a moment, and when he looked up Cray was 
gone. He lay back down. Kill Fredrick Frost? He wished Cray had 
given him less of a... well, insane mission. Oh well. He wasn't 
about to cross the Sabbat, and that meant following Cray's orders. 
No one crossed the Sabbat and lived.


             - End of Post.
               Michael Cochrane,
               Sabbat.
               Posted by Fredrick Frost.




Marcus Grogan lay still on the cold floor of the wine cellar. He had 
lay here for a long time now - too long. But he was unable to move. 
Or unwilling. He had not decided which.

Emotions were a hard thing for Marcus to face. Since the day his 
Sire, Clark Jackson, had 'disowned' him, Grogan had hidden his 
feelings deep inside. Bottled them up. That terrible day had made 
the Tremere recognize the evil that burned within and the awful 
power that anger brought with it. He had discovered the dangers of 
feeling too much.

But he had met Leanna Treve. Everything had changed the day she 
walked into New Chelsea. There was something about her, something 
intangible, that drew him to her. Of course he would never have 
pursued a relationship with her. For one thing she was too young for 
him (he was her Elder by 142 years) but also his duties as Primogen 
in the Gothic City took up far too much of his time. But still, she 
made his heart leap in a way he had not felt since the day of his 
Embrace more than 250 years ago.

She knew this, of course, and used it to her advantage. The little 
Irish Cainite had gotten almost every one of her wishes when it came 
to Kindred politics. She knew how to manipulate Marcus. And he 
didn't mind.

The rest of the Primogen had known this, naturally. But they knew 
the stoic Tremere had strength enough to refuse any outlandish 
wishes Treve might have had, so they said nothing.

But, politics aside, she was the reason he had felt so alive these 
past few months. So close to the man he had once been. But all that 
was over now. Leanna Treve was dead.

It was so senseless. Some anarchs had caught her in a drive-by 
shooting, and staked her through the heart when she was down. 
Without help to remove the wooden instrument, Leanna lay helpless 
until sunrise. All that was found was a decayed skeleton, apparently 
over a hundred years dead.

So Marcus had retreated here, to his Haven, and not moved a muscle 
since then. His aides brought him food occasionally, but they had to 
force the blood down his throat, as he had not the will to drink it 
himself. The Primogen had been barely conscious of his surroundings 
for the past two weeks as he slipped in and out of lucidity. But 
today he was aware. Today, he might make his first motions.

Just then, Grogan's most loyal Ghoul stepped in, illuminating the 
cellar with a bright light from an overhead lamp. Grogan sat up, 
hissing in pain at the brightness. Shocked at his Regent's recovery, 
the Ghoul shut the door, and made his way down the stairs.

"Master," said Greg Richards, the Ghoul. "How are you feeling?"

The flinch from the light had been involuntary. A step in the right 
direction, to be sure, but Grogan had still not recovered enough to 
speak. He sat still, eyes generally staring in Richards' direction. 
The Ghoul nodded his understanding, and held up a newspaper to the 
Primogen's face.

"Master, do you see this? There is a message inside. It is a few 
days old, and I am sorry, but we have been... distracted lately. I'm 
sorry we didn't see it sooner."

Marcus' eyes drifted blearily over the newsprint before him. The 
stale smell of the ink and faded paper struck a vague memory inside 
him. Eventually, the words came into focus.

Something inside the Tremere's brain snapped into place. He read, 
quickly. A message, from a powerful Tremere in the city. This form 
of contact was not often performed in the west. Perhaps an Eastern 
Cainite?

No matter. It deserved reply. How long ago had this been sent? 
Hopefully he had not given up hope. Grogan knew that his condition 
was not being advertized publically, and that only a few knew where 
he was. Briefly, the Primogen wondered what else he had missed...

Groaning, Marcus sat up straight as a rod. He opened his mouth, but 
no words would come forth from his rusty vocal cords. Frowning, he 
made a squiggly gesture with the bunched forefingers and thumb of 
his right hand. Greg understood this to mean he wanted to write 
something, and left to fetch a pen and paper.

A reply must be sent. Grogan would answer the challenge of a fight 
to the death. Of course, the fight was not a real issue. The message 
was a request. He was asking about his position in the city, and if 
Grogan required his services. The Primogen nodded. Right now, he 
needed all the help he could get. He could not keep his Tremere in 
check in his present state.

Marcus tried to stand, but fell back to the floor with a thump. 
Soon. Soon he would be better.


           - End of post.
             Marcus Grogan,
             Tremere Primogen.




It was dark in the alleyway. That's how Rutger liked it. The sickly 
orange glow of the street lamps cast everything in an eerie, unreal 
light. The darkness, on the other hand, showed everything as it 
really was. The darkness was Leick's domain.

Things had not been going so great for the Brujah Primogen. After 
the reminder of Laplace's power, Leick had found fear from a voice 
within him. He still wasn't sure what it meant, but it frightened 
him. He worried he was going insane.

But that wasn't all. With Laplace's growing sanity, Leick had been 
losing more and more control over the city. After all, why would the 
Council listen to a Primogen with no subjects when the Prince was 
sitting in on every meeting?

Not that Alexander Laplace was well. Certainly not, But he seemed to 
gain a little bit more of his mind every day. And that scared Leick 
more than anything else. Much as he hated to consider it, the time 
may come when he would have to leave New Chelsea. Find a smaller 
town that he could rule easily from the shadows.

But, as happened every time such thoughts entered his head, a strong 
urge forced them back out. No, he had to stay here in the city. 
There were things he had to do. Power that he must grasp. Rutger 
Leick would once again rule New Chelsea, no matter what the cost!

However, there were certain things that got in the way. Not least of 
all the fact that he had no Brujah subjects in the city. Oh, there 
was Airegon. The little girl he had saved (with Karenthuras' help) 
from Laplace's Diabolistic extremes, but Leick had not seen her 
since. He was worried he had saved her life only to lose her to 
Freddy Frost again.

Frost... There was another obstacle that needed clearing. All in 
good time.

But for now, there was the problem of subjects. Laplace had 
expressly forbidden Leick from begetting Progeny. Even now that the 
Kindred population had receded to normal levels, Leick was not 
allowed to Embrace any Kine. He snarled to himself as he wandered 
through the grasping shadows. Ordinarily the Brujah would ignore 
such orders, but not now. Not when he was walking such a fine line.

Of course, that's not to say he couldn't bend them. Late yesterday, 
while he was tossing and turning in his bed, a thought came to him 
unbidden, waking him from his sleep. Laplace had forbidden him to 
take a human, but what about a Cainite?

As far as Leick knew, such a thing had never been done before. But 
what if it could be? There was only one way to find out. As Rutger 
made his way up to the mouth of the black alley, he reasoned that he 
would have to find the right Cainite, one with certain attributes 
that were just -

"You'll do!" he growled, reaching out and grabbing the nearest 
vampire from the street and pulling her swiftly into the darkness. 
He teeth crunched into her neck, and the blood began to flow.

This was not to be taken lightly. Not only could this be considered 
a violation of the Prince's orders, but Diablerie was universally 
despised. Still, if it was good enough for Laplace...

But a new relationship was being forged. No-one can understand the 
intimacy of the Kiss unless they have experienced it for themselves. 
There is no closer relationship two people can share. They 
experience death together.

As the last drop of blood fell from the Cainite's body, Leick 
removed his lips, and sighed. He took a good look at the body in his 
arms. The vampire was a beautiful, youthful female with raven-black 
hair. Her skin was pale as moonlight in her deathly state. But it 
would not be so for long, as Leick was even now opening up his 
wrist.

"Drink," he whispered, placing his open wound against the dead 
Cainite's mouth. The taste of Brujah blood roused her enough to suck 
the vitae down her thristy throat. Leick convulsed in pleasure and 
pain as his new Childe's lips and teeth nuzzled at his wrist. When 
his knees began to buckle he removed the blood source from her 
mouth.

He licked his wound, healing it completely. It was difficult to 
stand now, but the Primogen was rock-steady as he looked down at the 
beauty on her knees before him. It seemed to have worked! All that 
remained now was to test her.

Could it be? Had Leick created a new Brujah? Or had the Canite 
retained some of the Blood from her old clan, thus negating the new 
influx? Rutger didn't know, but was ready to find out.


              - End of post.
                Rutger Leick,
                Brujah Primogen.




   Airegon stood looking out of a window. She was all alone in some 
room with a locked door. Knowing she could easily escape from this 
room through the window made her curious as to who would put her in 
here. She knew she was in Frost's mansion, but she didn't remember 
coming in. Actually she didn't remember getting there at all.

   Shuddering, Airegon turned away from the window. She had a 
nightmare yesterday. She saw the death of her family, and she saw 
Laplace drinking her blood - this time all of it. And there was 
no-one around to help her this time.

   Yet again tears began to trickle down her face. She couldn't 
forget the look on her parents' faces as Laplace slowly and 
painfully killed them, blaming it all on her. She could still hear 
the words clearly:

   "It's your daughter's fault. She has shown me no respect and now 
you must all pay."

   But something was different. This time she saw Laplace, she saw 
him torturing her parents but the voice wasn't his; it belonged a 
human named Miguel. Miguel had been a friend of her family's before 
she was Embraced. Airegon had never liked him; he had always laughed 
at her and called her names. For some God-awful reason he thought it 
made Airegon fall in love with him. And then he would never leave 
her alone. He was always there after that, trying to hug her, kiss 
her, and touch her. Well one day she couldn't control her temper 
anymore and she had grabbed a poker and stabbed him in the stomach. 
Somehow he survived and had been haunting her in her dreams.

   And now, before she had turned away from the window, she had seen 
him looking at her. When he realized she saw him, he grinned evilly, 
waved, and turned away and left. She was scared. He knew where she 
was, and yet now she was to afraid to leave.


             - End of post.
               Airegon,
               Brujah.




  Frost looked up at the sky through the holes between the tree 
branches in the park. He could see small patches of twinkling stars 
between thick patches of cloud. The fallen leaves crunched under his 
feet. He had been mildly uneasy for several nights. When he was 
hunting the rogue Nosferatu mutant, he had had a vague sense similar 
to the one he received from Masamune when he approached another 
Cainite, but weaker - almost non-existent. He had felt this before 
but had never been able to ascertain the exact cause of it. The 
sense was gone tonight. He stood still for a moment, looking up at 
the sky again. The air was beginning to grow colder. Soon the 
Illinois winter would set in and snow would cover the ground. Most 
Kindred didn't even feel cold a few years after their Embracing. But 
Frost still felt it.  He was different in so many ways.

  Frost heard a crunch within the leaves, and a few moments later he 
felt the presence of another Kindred. He turned to the direction 
that the noise had come from. Stepping out from behind a small grove 
of trees, Frost saw Nalal. The leaves crunching must have been 
deliberate, Nalal had never been that sloppy. Frost turned his eyes 
back to the sky. Nalal walked towards him gingerly. When he was 
standing beside Frost he spoke.

  "I've been looking for you Frost," he almost sighed the words. 
"Since I first spotted the Crystal forming here I've been trying to 
figure out your role in what going on. Your place in the world."  He 
paused looking over at Frost.  "I can't figure it out. You're the 
second Frost to become without powers; aside from that I have seen 
no others recorded with the same anomaly. I can't figure out why you 
and Deacon..."

  Frost cut Nalal off sharply. "There are more than just me and 
Deacon who became without powers." Nalal looked perplexed at Frost, 
as if some great revelation was about to be made.  "I've known about 
Deacon for some time. Even without powers he was a formidable 
warrior, but in the end he died. The Kindred of England were told 
never to Sire another Frost - they said the madness and power that 
arose from our strange Becoming was too much of a threat.

  "But then came a young Ventrue who had, as a mortal, been in love 
with my wife. He made my wife a Ghoul and when she was convinced 
that she loved him he Sired her and tried to kill me. The master of 
this one saw his Progeny's shameful act and Sired me without 
permission. Fortunately the Prince in London forgave his act because 
of his forthrightness and the strange circumstances. I was trained 
by another of my master's Progeny: Jonas Makam. He trained me better 
than any other could, he taught me great skills in sword fighting. 
Then, when he felt I was prepared, we were sent to kill my wife and 
her master. We were able to kill him and most of his Progeny in a 
brilliant attack."  Frost smiled, remembering the battle. He looked 
over at Nalal. The shorter Cainite was hanging on his every word.

  "And your wife?" Nalal asked, wishing Frost to continue.

  "She escaped."  Frost's eyes fell to the ground.  "But she wasn't 
satisfied with just escaping. She wanted to take away my soul and 
destroy my heart for what I had done. So she Sired my two sisters, 
Janelle and Mary, and my two brothers, Robert and Henry. They all 
became without powers. I was never able to kill them, even though 
I've run across them many times. So to this day there are five 
powerless Kindred."  Nalal looked stunned. Then he turned and 
started walking north.  "Nalal, wasn't there something you wanted to 
say to me?"

  Nalal stopped walking. He wanted to return to his lair and record 
the story Frost had told him before he confused the details. This 
story might be important to whatever was happening here.  "It can 
wait. I'll find you later."  And with those words Nalal was out of 
sight.

  Frost began walking south. Why had he told Nalal that story? It 
didn't concern him. Oh well, what was done cannot be undone. Frost 
reached the apartment building where he had rented an apartment a 
year ago. He had continued payments so he could stay there when 
needed. He headed inside. Today he would get a good rest. No more 
sleeping in caves and sewers.


               -  End of Post.
                  Fredrick Frost,
                  Caitiff.




Karl threw the newspaper onto the table in his new apartment in 
town. He had read the message intended for Marcus in his copy. 
Sitting in the dark room, the windows sealed with metal panels, he 
wondered whether Marcus had received the message yet or not. His 
dear manipulative fellow had been assassinated and he'd probably be 
in deep shock. Of course, if he wasn't then he would be soon. The 
message was a challenge to the death for his position as Primogen in 
the city. All Tremere in New Chelsea knew that Grogan was being 
manipulated by that Treve, but not one really cared. Not even Karl 
cared for the discrepancy in power.

Karl didn't like Grogan much, or grew to hate him over the years in 
New Chelsea. He wasn't with the new league within the Tremere clan, 
which made Karl's task easier. This new threat to Grogan had him 
puzzled though. Grogan doesn't make enemies easily, or didn't 
because no one ever went to him with city business. Karl was the 
link there they came to him, and although he didn't play the part of 
Primogen officially, knew that the position would be his one day.

The threat had been sent and Marcus would have to reply. Karl would 
watch for the reply going out and when the time is right, after this 
face-off has been settled, he would make his challenge. Unless.... 
during the face-off, in the height of confusion, he interrupts the 
dual to pose a threat. The matter was undecided, but knew it would 
have to come.

Karl's blood started pounding about his body, quite irregularly, 
again. "It's starting again," he said out loud as he braced his arms 
against the chair. His body pounded with a force that seemed to 
strengthen him from within and the energy he felt in himself was 
very different to anything he'd experienced before. Suddenly he felt 
himself shift, almost like he went through a rift in space itself, 
seeing the room in a ghost-like manner. Surely there was some 
explanation for this.

  Of course there was the fact that he had drank some of the blood 
samples he had collected before destroying the place and Jennifer 
and moving out. This was the only explanation he had for this 
strange reaction. Could this be the same gift as the Nosferatu clan 
possess? An ability to stay hidden, to cause themselves to disappear 
from plain sight?  Perhaps the power may not be strong enough for 
this to be accomplished. Time would tell, but time is always an 
annoying factor in hatching a plan.

          - End of post.
            Karenthuras,
            Tremere.




He had found what he needed to know. Nalal sat in his dimly lit 
Haven - the abandoned warehouse - and scribbled the last of his 
vibrant script into the log book. Someday, long after he was gone, 
others may find this useful. He certainly had.

As always, the fleeting thought flitted through his mind that 
perhaps such things should be written on a computer. After all, the 
words would have a far better chance of standing the test of time in 
such a medium, rather than on the fragile leaves of paper he 
scribbled into every night. But he loathed those soulless electronic 
devices. Most Kindred today accepted computers as a way of life - 
Nalal never would. He had grown up on the streets, lived as a 
pick-pocket most of his mortal life. The Bulgarian was a 
down-to-earth guy in his human heart.

But precious little of that human survived today. Nalal looked back 
on those terrible days of his youth with something bizarrely akin to 
longing. For all he had gained, he would always feel he had lost 
something in his Becoming.

Which is why he could not bring himself to use a computer. It was 
the perfect metaphor for the vampire - a cold, bloodless entity with 
no regard for humanity whatsoever. True, vampires didn't have the 
same tendency to crash unexpectedly, but it was a good metaphor 
nonetheless. A metaphor which Nalal wanted no part of. Of course it 
was stubborn. That was the point.

The final period in today's entry was delivered with a flourish, a 
wide gesture from the Toreador scribe, and he shut the large book 
with a bang. The story Fredrick Frost had just related, as well as 
all of Nalal's thoughts on it, had just been put down as ink on 
paper, recorded for all time. Someone, somewhere, sometime, would 
find it useful. Nalal just knew it.

He sat back, then, and thought. These truths which were revealed to 
him would have an impact on the future. Nalal would have to discover 
what significance the facts held. Tamlin, the Tremere, had not 
answered his summons. Either she had refused his offer, or did not 
receive it. Either way, Nalal had no use for her. Whatever needed to 
be done, he would have to do it himself.

Seeing into the future was a tricky business. Most Kindred liked to 
pretend it was impossible, but many Auspex-gifted individuals were 
blessed with the ability. Or perhaps cursed with it. For the deeper 
one looked into one's future, the more one became set into that 
path.

It was all part of the truth about prescience. This truth had been 
revealed to Nalal in his tomes from the past, along with a warning: 
that this truth would bring about great pain and suffering. He was 
still trying to figure that one out, actually. How could knowledge 
of itself be dangerous?

No matter; there were things that needed done, sights that needed 
seeing. Prophecy was difficult, even hazardous. If one spent too 
long in trance, the body could become removed from the mind, and 
waste away while one's consciousness floated elsewhen. Tricky, it 
was. And necessary.

There was the rub. To save the future, one had to see the future. 
And doing that locked fate into place more concretely. It was all 
part of the great Riddle. God (or whoever was in control of things 
around here) never did play fair.

Nalal closed his eyes. Breathing deeply (for effect only - he didn't 
need the oxygen) the Toreador let his mind wander freely. It drifted 
through the four dimensions, brushing lightly against things unseen, 
unheard, unfelt. Colors flashed past his spirit like a highway of 
rainbows.

There! There it was! The quantum slipstream of time chugged by mere 
'inches' away from his relative position. Nalal stretched out a limb 
of his astral body and grabbed hold of the stream for dear life. The 
sheer force of time nearly separated his spirit from his body, but 
Nalal was used to this by now and hung onto reality like a bulldog 
to his supper. Eventually the forces resolved themselves, and he 
eased into the quantum byways.

It was all so different to him now. Before the truths had been 
revealed to him, Nalal had seen but one possibility. Now, the paths 
of time spread out before him in all directions, a cosmic spaghetti 
junction. Roads twisted and turned, while minor paths cut their 
winding way between the soaring causeways. Minor timeroads, major 
continuums. All stood before Nalal, and he stood over them like a 
mountaineer above his latest conquest. Getting his bearings, the 
Toreador gazed out to see what he could see.

Most paths he saw for New Chelsea were large, and headed generally 
in the same direction. A dark cloud covered those roads, obscuring 
their fate in a black haze. That way, he knew, lay Gehenna, the end 
of the Third Cycle. Those ways must be avoided at all costs.

But there were others. Many others, in fact, though not as wide and 
as smooth as those that lay in darkness. Such routes led to 
redemption, and prosperity, more often than not, although some wound 
their chaotic way off into obscurity. No-one could see what lay at 
the end of those roads, though Nalal suspected they could not be 
traversed. They were most likely the remnants of roads not taken, 
passageways begun but left unfinished till only the hint of what 
might have been remained. Too many of those stood in New Chelsea.

What was this? Nalal's spirit made a close approximation of 
frowning. There was a new street here, one he had not seen before. 
Was it new? Or was it merely so small that he had missed it every 
other time he had attempted this journey? No, he realized, not 
small, but hazy. Indistinct. It stood in a state of flux, half there 
and half not. The boundaries of this way were unclear, and its 
destination unfathomable. Intrigued, Nalal started his way upon it.

There was very little to see here. A blue light shone all around 
Nalal, beaming through his astral body like sunlight through a 
cloud. It glistened all around, delimiting the far-off borders of 
the tunnel he walked through. Then, unexpectedly, it began pulsing. 
For a moment, Nalal worried it was about to collapse in on itself, 
or fade from existence and leave his spirit forever wandering 
through the reaches of space-time, but it held.

A roar. A sudden growth of darkness, as the path became black as 
night. For the briefest moment, Nalal thought he saw the head of a 
dragon, but before anything resolved, his eyes shot open and he 
awoke in his chair.

What was the time? He glanced up at the boarded windows. A cobweb 
began to glisten, and he knew the sun had just now risen above the 
cityscape. A great drowsiness came over him then, and he knew he 
would have to wait until tonight to do anything more.

What was that he had seen on the astral plane? Was it anything? Or 
merely the collapse of one possibility out of thousands, millions?

Who could know? For now, it was all Nalal could do to slump over to 
his crude sleeping area and flop over.

Tonight...


             - End of Post.
               Nalal,
               Toreador.
               Posted by Rutger Leick.




Alone on a chilly street, the two Kindred performed an intricate 
dance. They wound their way down the empty street, exchanging 
positions intermittently, but with a pattern. They were on the Hunt. 
But not just any Hunt. Their first.

Rutger Leick had been on many Hunts of course, and so had Sherilyn 
Massee. But both were new creations tonight, of a sort. Leick was a 
Sire again, for the first time in years. And Sherilyn may as well 
have been a Childe once more, for she had to learn everything anew.

When Leick had drained her and infused her with his own Blood, 
something strange had occurred. He had intended to make her Brujah, 
but she had instead become Something Else. Neither Toreador, nor 
Brujah, nor any other clan. Nor was she Caitiff, for instead of 
having no clan, she had two.

That's not to say Sherilyn had the powers of both clans. To be sure, 
she had inherited a certain amount of Potence from Leick's clan, but 
her Toreador Disciplines had weakened. What strength she had had 
been evenly spread over four (or possibly more) Disciplines, and 
left her unsure of her capabilities.

What was more interesting was the effect on her mind. When she began 
to Turn, her mind was torn in two very different directions, and to 
compensate, it retreated from almost all she had known. Her memory 
was still intact (to a good extent) but the abilities that come from 
experience were all gone. Her mind had withdrawn to a child-like 
state, one in which she required extreme protection, and so Rutger 
Leick was accompanying her tonight, on her first Hunt as his Get.

She hung close to him, as the two orbited each other strolling along 
the street. Both felt an odd excitement tonight, a feeling of 
anticipation that begged for savage release. Every fiber of their 
bodies cried out for action, for blood, for a kill. And a kill they 
would have.

Laplace wouldn't have to know, Leick figured. Who's to say if a 
human shows up dead that it was us? There were so many Kindred in 
the city nowadays killing indiscriminately that it created a perfect 
cover. For the first time, Leick was glad of the anarchistic 
tendencies of the younger Generation.

He looked to his left at the Cainite skipping along the sidewalk. 
She was so beautiful, her dark hair flowing in the breeze. Her pale 
skin reflecting the moonlight above. But her beauty mostly came from 
a deadly elegance, an air about her that told you she could snap 
your neck like a pencil and still retain her dignity. It was a 
beauty that came from within. From the Beast. In a way, Leick was in 
love.

No-one else could ever understand. He was so far gone from his 
Humanitas that a real emotion of love was not something he was 
capable of any more. But he felt that closeness that comes from the 
bonding of Blood, from the sharing of one's life, one's experience. 
Tonight they would kill together.

They swapped sides again, her body brushing lightly against his as 
they did so. Tall as she was, she felt so small and helpless against 
him. He felt the strong urge to protect her, to keep her safe. She 
was vulnerable now, after what he had done to her, but he felt no 
remorse. She was his now, and always would be.

He reached out then, grabbing her, causing her to stop. The music 
continued in Sherilyn's head, and she kept it bobbing from side to 
side in time with the internal beat. Her eyes, too, danced back and 
forth, betraying no thoughts. Perhaps she had none to reveal.

"Quiet!" Leick whispered to the girl who was humming slightly. She 
stopped then, leaning towards him for comfort. He tried to ignore 
her nearness as he listened for the heartbeat.

It was nearby. He could feel it, smell it. Very nearly taste it. 
They would dine tonight!

Leick heard the boy before he saw him. The kid came round a corner 
up ahead, hands thrust deep into his pockets, eyes intently watching 
the ground before him. His bright orange coat was zipped up around 
his neck against the cold. Leick realized suddenly just how chilly 
it was. The teenager's breath crystallized in the air, and his 
cheeks were pale from the cold. Leick thought how odd he and his Get 
must look tonight, he in his grey suit and Sherilyn in her 
short-sleeved dress. The boy could not fail to notice two such 
inappropriately-attired strangers.

On the other hand, maybe he wouldn't get a chance, for Sherilyn was 
on him faster than Leick could blink. Fangs flickered briefly as she 
became a vague blur. How fast she moved! The boy's head never raised 
before it was virtually severed from his shoulders. Leick's view of 
the kid's face was blocked, as Sherilyn sat on his chest like a 
vulture, teeth buried in his throat. The Brujah Primogen was filled 
with some strange emotion at the site. The Blood within him sang at 
the site of its Progeny perched on a fresh kill.

It was a picture worthy of Van Gogh. As Sherilyn's head raised 
briefly from the kill, a snapshot of the moment seared itself into 
Rutger's mind. The moon shone brightly from a cloudless sky on 
Sherilyn's upturned face. Red liquid ran down her chin as her teeth 
kissed the moonlight. She was the most beautiful creature Leick had 
ever seen there, crouched like an animal over her prey.

And then the picture was gone, as her head returned to its Feed. 
Leick wandered up and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Easy now," he cautioned. "Leave some for Daddy."

And he bent down with her, as Sire and Get drank their fill on a 
cold, dark night. And the blood ran thick and red down the street, 
pouring into the gutter with a loud gurgling sound, glistening like 
the Jordan River.


              - End of Post.
                Rutger Leick,
                Brujah Primogen.




Alain Roche had remained motionless for over seven hours in a state 
of complete balance. His mind flowed both within and outside of 
time. Past images had formed in his mind, future ones came unbidden. 
Alain mused, precognition was merely applying the patterns of the 
past to the future.

Still he had no word from his Tremere elder. It worried him. 
Tonight, he would do the unthinkable, he would take Onekage's 
daughter, Sekuyu, as his mate. She would become his charge, his Kin. 
She had already fallen in love with Alain and was now prepared to 
take the last step....

Rising from his knees he made his way to the formal water garden, 
its water as molten silver in the moonlight. Guards stood as they 
should; silent and motionless. So far the training of the assassins 
had gone well. Only one had died. The price of failure.

Sekuyu came from out of the shadows, noiselessly, she was ready. 
Nodding, Alain beckoned her forward. Together they made their way to 
the training room. Once inside Alain moved closer, extended his 
neck, and bit the soft flesh of hers. Sekuyu did not move or resist, 
even to the last.

As she lay sleeping, undergoing her own transformation, Alain 
guarded. He would have a companion and more importantly the Tremere 
would have another trained Swords master and Assassin.

His only worry was the reaction of his Tremere Primogen.....


            - End of Post.
              Alain Roche,
              Tremere.




  Rachelle neared the mansion. She hadn't been back there in a few 
days and she was quite anxious to return, shower and have a good 
bath. She had the stink of sewers all over her. That, she guessed, 
was a side effect of sleeping in them. She pulled a key off the 
chain she kept around her neck. She found that was the best place 
for them. In pockets they seemed to get lost in sewers, forcing her 
to use windows to enter or find the spare key she had hidden 
outside. She pushed the key into the lock and turned it, hearing it 
click. Turning the knob she pushed the door open. Her muscles ached. 
She hated sewers; sleeping in them was something she did out of 
necessity, and even then she wasn't too thrilled about it.

  As she stepped into the foyer of the house she saw Cochrane jump 
out of his recliner in the living room. She groaned as he walked 
towards her. "Are you still here Cochrane? God don't you have some 
other city to take over?" He looked at her, perplexed.

  "There is something you should see," he said softly, conveying no 
emotion through his voice.

  "Not now," she replied coldly. She saw that he was about to 
contest, so she whipped out her sword and put it to his throat. "Not 
Now!" Then, before Cochrane could say another word, she was up the 
stairs and into the bathroom.

  After a very refreshing bath, and the addition of some perfume to 
cover the remaining smell of sewage, she emerged. Wearing only her 
bath towel since her clothes smelled like sewer water, she moved 
into the other room where she had another change of clothes. She 
dressed and returned to the bathroom, picking up her sword.

  Heading back down stairs she saw that Cochrane was standing in the 
same spot he had been when she had gone up. As soon as he saw her he 
spoke. "What I want to show you is upstairs so don't bother coming 
down. He started up the stairs. Rachelle waited until he was beside 
her then she followed him. He took her to the third bedroom and 
unlocked the door. Rachelle peered gently inside. There on the bed 
was Airegon. "You know her?"

  "Yeah, she's trouble." Rachelle spoke in a cold, bitter tone. "Get 
her the hell out of here."

  Cochrane looked at her with a small degree of shock. Usually the 
woman wasn't so cold. "I don't know, she doesn't look so bad to me." 
Rachelle's arm flew towards him. Before he could react she had him 
pinned to the wall with the sword to his throat... again.

  "I said, Get her out of here."  Cochrane saw some strange light in 
the Caitiff's eyes. He nodded in consent. "NOW!" she yelled. 
Cochrane went into the room and picked the girl up. He moved her 
quickly down the stairs and out towards his van, plunking her in the 
back. He moved to the front, started the van and drove off. Rachelle 
watched the van till it was out of sight. She wasn't about to let 
that brat get near Frost. During the Crystal problems the city had, 
she had been an important ally, a tool to be used. Now she was 
nothing; Frost felt the same way. If he had thought otherwise he 
would have sought her out. And with Cochrane there it was too 
dangerous to keep anyone else in the manor. No one else must be 
allowed to learn of Frost's involvement with the Sabbat, otherwise 
there would be hell to pay.


           - End of Post.
             Rachelle Proulx,
             Caitiff.
             Posted by Fredrick Frost.