Frost was standing on the rooftop of the New Chelsea bylaw 
commission building. They had been waiting nearly two hours for 
Cochrane's contact to show up with the artifact that Cochrane had 
asked them to receive. Something about the situation stunk. Sabbat 
were hardly ever late. In fact, almost never - especially when 
dealing with important packages for a senior member like Cochrane. 
At least, Frost thought he was a senior member. It was hard to tell 
if this New Chelsea takeover bid was his idea or someone else's and 
Cochrane was just some pawn. The Black Hand was caught in a 
mysterious web not even he could penetrate. He looked over at 
Rachelle.

   "Looks like we got blown off," he said nonchalantly. "I'm sick of 
this waiting. It makes me edgy, let's go." Rachelle nodded her 
agreement. Cochrane was gonna get an ear full for wasting their 
time. Frost turned to the fire escape. As he did he felt one Kindred 
presence, followed by twelve additional.

   "Shit!" he exclaimed turning to Rachelle. "Something's up. I 
don't think it's good either. There are thirteen vampires really 
close to here." Then Frost felt an exceptionally strong force; in 
his entire life he had only felt one Kindred presence that surpassed 
this one - Specter's. This presence fell into nearly the same 
category: super powerful, and exceptionally evil. In fact, this one 
was even more evil than Specter had been in her darkest hour. They 
had to get off the roof now! Rachelle was looking at him with a 
concerned expression on her face.

   "What is it?" she asked. She had already drawn her sword and a 
9mm handgun.

   "Someone really strong is here. We gotta get off this roof; we're 
sitting ducks up here." Frost drew Masamune, starting towards the 
ladder. As he moved towards it he saw the air in front of it ripple 
slightly. He stopped. Someone was hidden there. As he stepped back, 
the barrel of Rachelle's gun pressed into the flesh of his back. 
"Someone's there," he whispered. A moment after he spoke he saw the 
mist lifted and his enemy was revealed. A Sabbat warrior armed with 
an M-16. Frost looked around. The others he had sensed were slowly 
appearing, armed with all sorts of different weapons: AK-47s, MK-5s 
and Glock 9mms. This whole thing was a double cross.

   "Yes it was, Mr Frost," Frost turned to see the speaker. "You 
see, Cochrane works for me."

   "What do you want?" Frost pulled out his own Glock 9mm. He and 
Rachelle had instinctively moved back to back.

   "Simple," came the smooth, even tones of the stranger. "I want 
your sword." He must have seen Frost scowl, so he continued. "You 
see, you don't have any choice. Give me the sword or I will kill 
you."

   "You're going to kill us anyway," Frost spat at the dark figure. 
"Why should I make it easy for you?"

   "I give you my word that you will not be harmed," the figure 
said.

   "Great!" Frost said sarcastically. "Are your promises as good as 
Cochrane's?" Frost glared at the figure for a moment; his features 
were obscured in his dark form. "OK, I've thought your offer over. 
I've decided just to kill you all."

   The figure started making arcane gestures and muttering softly. 
Oh no, he was preparing a spell. Frost saw a ball of light forming 
between his hands, could feel the power of the magic. Frost saw only 
one chance. He dashed towards the stranger. Before he could even get 
near him, he heard gunfire and felt metal hitting his flesh, going 
straight through. Frost fell to his knees. He thought he heard 
Rachelle in the background. Then he looked at the figure.

   "You should have made your attack count," the cloaked man sighed. 
"As much as it pains me to destroy a great warrior such as yourself, 
I feel it is necessary." He raised the ball of light in his right 
hand.  "Goodbye, Frost." As Frost got to his feet, the figure whose 
features remained hidden in darkness despite the blinding light 
flung his spell at the Caitiff. The last thing Frost felt was a 
gentle pulling sensation, then the flash hit.

   Rachelle saw the spell hit Frost. The ball swelled and engulfed 
his entire body. It changed color; first white, then red, then 
yellow and finally black. Then as fast as it had struck, the ball 
vanished. Rachelle heard metal clatter to the ground. It was 
Masamune, but Frost was gone. There was not a trace of him left. The 
figure moved towards the fallen sword. "Finally," he muttered. "At 
last you belong to us."

   Anger swelled inside Rachelle. She raised her gun and began 
firing. The figure was thrown back by the impact of the bullets. 
This was her only chance. She dropped her own sword and dashed 
forward. Gunfire erupted all around her, the bullets tearing the 
flesh on her arms, legs and back. But she kept running. She scooped 
up Masamune with her foot and kicked it up to her hand. She reached 
the gap left in the Sabbat line left by the stranger's displacement. 
The edge of the building on this side hovered over the city water 
supply. She heard the dark figure's voice screaming something a 
moment before she leapt off the building into the murky water below. 
She thought he had said, "I'll be seeing you again."

   And he would. And when he did he'd wish he'd never been born.  
Fredrick Frost would be avenged.



               - End of Post.
                 Fredrick Frost,
                 Caitiff.






Excerpt from "Volume VII of the Books of Mellibun", as translated by 
Nalal:


In my dealings with the natives on the Northern continent, I have 
witnessed many things, as you have no doubt read in previous 
chapters. It will never cease to amaze me how different these 
cultures are. Though primitive they may seem to us from the culture 
of Europe, they have a complex system of laws and customs. Such 
things will no doubt be the study of human scientists in the 
centuries to come (when word of the existence of this land mass 
finally reaches their ears) but as Kindred such things are of little 
interest to us.

What this writer found personally intriguing was the nature of the 
vampires among them. Firstly, unlike any other place I have been to, 
Kindred here may walk freely among the living. Indeed, many tribes 
appear to worship their Kindred, believing them to be ones who have 
achieved some higher, transcendent, state of being. Though it may 
violate our Traditional code, it is nonetheless a fascinating study 
(see Chapter XXII-c for an in-depth examination).

What may be more intriguing (especially for studiers of the Blood - 
many of whom I have a professional affiliation with) is the nature 
of the Disciplines among the tribes. Each tribe has its own set of 
powers, similar to our own Clans, but different yet again. It is 
this writer's belief that the Blood has become so mixed here as to 
have been completely removed from its origin. They have indeed 
created a new vampire species. (My next book will include a 
scientific study of the Blood, and several theories as to its 
arrival in this final state.)

For scholars such as myself, it can also be a treat to sit with the 
tribe around the sacred fire and hear tales of the Kindred legends. 
(Of course, one must overcome one's rötschreck but this is a minor 
matter which deserves no treatment here at this time.) Many 
fascinating stories have been recounted around the holy flame. Some 
are no doubt fabricated from nothing more than flights of fancy, 
whims of imagination, but many can clearly be traced back to actual 
events - though the original truth has been distorted beyond all 
recognition.

While I will devote most of this book to the myths recorded by the 
people of this continent, one short tale in particular has stuck 
with me, and deserves to be briefly told in this chapter. I include 
it here only because of its importance to the local tribe and its 
connection with the "world across the water" - our homeland.

Once long ago (or so the story goes) spirits of great evil walked 
this land. Many natives were enslaved and oftentimes destroyed by 
these great demons. For centuries they ruled over their small 
portion of the Earth, taking delight in the suffering of humans and 
vampires alike. No one was able to stand up to them.

But it seems a stranger came to them from a land across the sea. He 
dressed in attire unfamiliar to the locals, and spoke in a lilting 
tongue none could understand. He had no name to give them at the 
time, but they say he fought a great war with the ghosts of the 
realm. The man drove the creatures below ground, and his might kept 
them there, preventing them from arising.

The stranger was injured in the attack, but the natives were amazed 
to see his wounds heal as though he had never been pierced. They 
worshipped him as a god, although the stranger did not seek it. But 
he had lost so much blood that he was dying. After much heated 
debate, the tribe came to a decision: they gave their savior of 
their own blood, to save him from the Final Death which seemed 
inevitable. Night after night, one tribesman would offer himself to 
the stranger, who would drink him dry. And the next night, it would 
begin again.

He healed, grew well again, but only in body. His spirit and his 
mind were never the same thereafter, or so they say. They never 
learned the name of their savior, though there are rumors of what it 
may have been. Some say he had no name, others gave him the name 
"Koloko-waa" - Blood Savior. One elder tribesman claimed to know the 
name of the stranger for certain, though he could not reveal it. The 
man still lived hereabouts, he said, and they could not speak his 
name lest his wrath fall upon them. He would only say that to call 
upon the Bird-God would summon the might of their savior.

Of this Bird-God I could find no connection to the tale recounted 
above. The immortal Lappalis was a being descended from heaven to 
carry the first Cherokee leader to his home in the Red Valley, and 
he watched over the tribe until his death at the hands of the demon 
Karangee. What this might have to do with the above story is 
anyone's guess.

The point of the tale? The tribe's intention cannot be spoken for. 
However, I believe the story indicates a traveler from one of the 
fair Latin countries to this land. The mythical battle may have been 
no more than a skirmish with an aggressive tribe like the Pawnee, 
but none can say for certain.

In these pages, I hope you will find enlightenment. The path to 
Golconda is long and winding, but wisdom may come from the most 
unlikely sources.

This section is dedicated to the spirit of truth. May we all find 
peace in its shadow.



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






  Cochrane sat in a large chair in the living room of the late 
Fredrick Frost's mansion. Cray's plan to capture Masamune had not 
exactly gone as planned, and Cray had not been in a good mood as a 
result. While Frost had been eliminated, Rachelle had survived and 
fled with Masamune. She had seized her opportunity to rob the Sabbat 
of their victory with great skill. Cray had Cochrane send all the 
Sabbat not guarding the safe houses out searching every inch of the 
city for Rachelle. Cochrane complied, though he knew it was a waste 
of time; Rachelle was far too good to be found if she didn't want to 
be. Cochrane looked over onto the coffee table. His Glock rested on 
it. He knew she'd be coming after him, eventually.

  But he had no time to worry about one rogue Caitiff. There were 
bigger fish to fry. Recently he had become aware that the Yakuza had 
taken almost complete control of the Japanese quarter and that they 
were watching every person that came and went. For now, Cochrane had 
told his people to use the sewers to access their safe house. But 
with many new Sabbat arriving soon, the street would have to be 
used. There wasn't enough time to move the safe house to another 
location, the Sabbat warriors would be arriving very shortly. The 
key was the Yakuza leader, Alain Roche. Like all Camarilla vampires 
he had to have a weakness. One that could be exploited. His men were 
highly trained warriors so attacking him head on was obviously not 
an option. Had Frost been alive, Cochrane simply would have pitted 
the two against each other. Frost's vulnerability to magic might 
have cost him his life but Roche never would have been able to 
defeat him in a straight sword battle, Frost had been too good. But 
Frost was dead.

  Cochrane sat in the chair and continued to ponder the situation. 
Outside, the sun was slowly rising and the sky danced with yellow 
and red, and the moon began to fade.


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







   She had many followers; now it was time to take her plan into 
action.

   Sheilina and her children ran down the path towards the Bezoar 
Complex. As they neared it, Sheilina told them:
   "Anyone who is afraid to die, you must leave now - for many of 
you probably will. There is no doubt upon that."
   Shocked that only one of her children left, Sheilina and her 
group continued on their way. When they reached the Palace, Sheilina 
called for them to surround it, and soon they were all ready to 
enter and to attack, not realizing what their fate was going to be.



               - End of Post.
                 Sheilina,
                 Caitiff.







   Airegon winced in pain as she climbed down into the sewers. She 
was severely injured and needed a place to rest till she could get 
some help tomorrow. She didn't know where she could go any more; it 
didn't seem like anyone wanted her around these days. She wasn't 
sure if she wanted to be around any more either, but what else could 
she do?

   *****The next day*****

   Not knowing where she was going, Airegon slowly wandered around 
New Chelsea. She slowed down as a scene began to form in her head - 
it was of Sheilina; she was in trouble. Airegon concentrated on the 
scene and began to let her feet just take her to the place.

   When she had reached her destination, she realized she was at 
Laplace's palace. Great, what a joy. I hate it here. How am I 
supposed to get in without anyone noticing? Airegon wondered.

   Another picture appeared in her head of Sheilina being tortured. 
Forgetting now about not being seen, Airegon smashed through the 
window and into the Complex. Running down a long hallway, towards a 
bright flash of light, Airegon burst through the doorway just in 
time to see Sheilina's head fall from her shoulders, cleanly sliced.

   Screaming as if she were in pain, Airegon ran back out of the 
Complex. What was Sheilina's crime that she had to pay such a high 
price?

   Realizing she had run back to the mansion, Airegon stopped and 
then slowly walked towards the door. When she reached it, she at 
first knocked quietly and then when there was no answer she began to 
pound on it, calling out Frost's name, not knowing of his fate.



             - End of Post.
               Airegon,
               Brujah.






Tempest walked into the large mansion where Cochrane was staying and 
opened the door. He looked around slowly, scanning the walls and 
shadows. When he was sure that there was no one there, he proceeded 
into the sitting room. He walked over to the man seated in the dark 
blue arm chair.

"Hello Tempest," came the man's deep voice.

"Hello Cochrane," Tempest said back.

"I trust you have completed the mission the Sabbat sent you?" he 
asked confidently.

"Yes," Tempest confirmed, nodding. "I killed Lorac and his Nosfaratu 
band of anarchs. What do you need of me now? Are the safe houses 
ready, and is the plan going smothly"

"We killed Frost," Cochrane said slowly, "but his companion got away 
with his sword. Your next mission will be to help us retrieve that 
sword, and guard the safe houses."

Tempest nodded in solemn obedience. He knew how to take his orders. 
For now.


            - End of Post.
              Tempest,
              Gangrel.







- The Time is growing nearer -

"What?" Rutger Leick said aloud, his head snapping up in surprise. 
It took him a few moments to realize that the voice came from inside 
his own head. "What are you talking about?"

- The Time. The Time for which we have prepared -

"Prepared?" Leick echoed, still speaking aloud. "What do you mean? 
What have we prepared?"

- You will remember. You do remember -

Leick's mind spun. What was his head telling him? He had done no 
preparing. What was going on?

- Remember -

And then the voice was gone again.

The big Brujah sat staring into empty space for several minutes. He 
had no clue what was going on, but knew it must be something. Unless 
he was going crazy. But he really didn't want to believe that. There 
was too much insanity around him already.

Poor Sherilyn, Leick thought briefly. She had been very subdued 
lately, weak. She'd barely even killed anyone for goodness' sake. It 
wasn't healthy.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden arrival of the little 
Ventrue, Hope Chitcka, bursting into his study. Her cute face was 
scrunched up into a mask of annoyance, and her arms were crossed 
belligerently.

"What did you want?" she asked him, her voice hard.

Ah yes, Leick recalled. I had called for her. Took her long enough.

"Sit down," the Primogen intoned in his thick voice. Hope didn't 
move a muscle. "Or don't. All the same to me."

"How 'bout getting to the point, big guy," she said rudely. Leick 
took this insolence, for now. He needed her cooperation. Again, for 
now. One day though, he vowed, her head will be on a pole in my 
living room.

"As you know," he said, sitting back in his large swivel chair, "our 
plans for your sister and her whore have been set in motion."

"So?"

"So," Leick answered, heaving himself up to his feet and edging 
around his desk to face her, "I have fulfilled my part of our 
bargain. It is time for you to fulfil yours."

"No way," she disagreed resolutely. "Not until it's done." A pause. 
"I don't entirely trust you, Rutger."

He smiled, a dark, heavy smile. "And neither should you. But a 
deal," he said, grabbing her violently by the neck, "is a deal!"

She fought to escape his grip, but couldn't. Her hands scratched at 
his one clutching her by the throat, wounding it mildly. But Leick 
paid no attention. She was no match for him.

He raised the stump of his left hand, a wide-bladed knife attached 
to the forearm brace, and inserted it into the top of his shirt. A 
quick motion ripped through the tie and the shirt itself, exposing a 
section of his bare chest. The knife moved again, embedding itself 
into his thick flesh. Blood began to ooze out of the wound, and 
Leick roughly shoved Hope's face against him.

"Drink," he sneered, and she did. The smell and the near taste of it 
could not allow her to do anything else, so driven by the Hunger was 
she. She drank. And drank. Until Leick pulled her off of him, his 
knees buckling. A thin rivulet of red vitae trickled down Hope's 
smiling lips.

As he attempted to regain his breath, Leick mumbled, "We will do 
this again tomorrow. The third drink will come nearer the time."

"You got it," Hope said, her mood turned. The Primogen's Blood was 
potent; she couldn't get enough. He smiled at that - she was an 
addict now. She was his.

The Chitcka girl wandered out of the room, and Leick retook his 
seat, spinning slowly on it. Events were moving now, though he was 
not entirely aware of them. He could feel it. He had been told.

The Time was near...



              - End of Post.
                Rutger Leick,
                Brujah Primogen.







  Cochrane sat in the living room of the mansion. The young 
Camarilla Tempest had just left his presence. He distrusted the boy. 
Anarchs always led the Sabbat to trouble. But Cray had told him to 
acquire the youngster's services for the good of the Sabbat; he 
hadn't given any reasons only orders. Cochrane was growing weary of 
Cray. He was, of course, not foolish enough to cross him but he was 
growing tired of the over-control Cray seemed to exude on the Sabbat 
here.

Cochrane suddenly felt as though he were being watched. He quickly 
scanned the room - in a chair near the fire place sat Cray. 
"Michael," came the smooth tones of the newcomer, "it has been 
several weeks since the girl escaped with the sword. I thought that 
you would have her by now. What is the delay?"

Cochrane gulped, he hated giving Cray bad news. "I'm afraid that she 
has not been found. Unfortunately, we have not been able to find 
even a trace of her. Frost trained her very well. She may not even 
still be in the city." He paused trying to gauge Cray's reaction. 
"If I had more men..."

Cray interrupted him sharply. "There has been a delay in the arrival 
of your forces," he informed Cochrane, gazing intently at a wine 
glass he had picked up from beside the chair. "It seems that a new 
battle has begun in Detroit and also in Chicago. While they are... 
ordinary battles the forces had to be deviated. No reinforcements 
will be arriving until at least late February."

"How am I to proceed without more warriors?" Cochrane protested.

"Put our plans on hold. Divert as many men as you can to finding the 
girl. Use the anarch population to your advantage." Cochrane looked 
down for a moment. When he looked up Cray was gone. "But most of all 
find that sword."

After that there was only silence.



              - End of Post.
                Michael Cochrane,
                Sabbat.
                Last post of the year from Fredrick Frost.






Half the overhead lights were on in Rutger Leick's underground lair, 
providing reasonable illumination to the whole of the abandoned 
subway station. Sherilyn Massee was dozing still in her bed - Rutger 
hadn't been able to bring himself to wake her yet - so there was no 
fire lit. Leick disliked the flames, much as his Childe may have 
been enraptured by them. No, he found no pleasure in the rötschreck; 
he preferred instilling fear in others instead.

And Hope, she was off and about already as usual. Really, Leick 
could swear she got up BEFORE sunset sometimes - though he knew this 
could not be true. But whenever he got up, she was gone. In times 
past she had slept often at her own Haven, but recently had taken to 
spending nights here with him and Sherilyn. It was safer, for all of 
them. The deadly trio should not be separated, not now.

The Primogen's head shot up when suddenly the room was plunged into 
darkness. The lights above had suddenly snapped off, cloaking the 
subterranian lair in black. Being a vampire, Leick could still see 
somewhat, though very little ambient light existed this far 
underground. He got to his feet, sensing a presence in the tunnels.

"Who's there?" he yelled into the expanse. His deep voice tumbled 
through the darkness, rolling back to meet his own ears. There was 
no response. None verbal.

- I am here -

It was the voice within his head. Had it somehow disrupted the 
electrical activity in the Haven? How had it done so? This had never 
occurred before.

"What are you?" he asked finally. The question had never been 
answered to his satisfaction.

- I am the voice within your head. I am the whisper in your ear. You 
have heard me before -

"Yes," Leick admitted, "but are you me? I mean, am I creating you?" 
There was silence in his mind for a moment. Then:

- I am here. You know me -

The words, the feeling, it all brought back memories for Leick. It 
was true, he had known this presence for a long time now. Whe he had 
held the jewels, the pieces of the Great Crystal, the voice had been 
there. It had guided him. Ever since then, it had come to him 
occasionally, telling him things, though he little understood them.

"You're the Crystal," he spoke aloud still, though the voice that 
replied was only in his mind. "Somehow, you're the Crystal of 
Darkness."

- No. I am much older than that. I was here long before your kind, 
Rutger. I was here Before -

"What do you mean?"

- We must move now -

"Move?" he was confused. "What are you talking about?"

- Tonight is the time. It is your time to ascend -

A movement. A flicker in the darkness. Leick's sensitive eyes picked 
up the slight flutter, and he brazenly called out, "You! Who's 
there?"

There was no reply. Slowly, Leick reached back behind him, to the 
table beside the chair he had been sitting on minutes earlier, and 
lifted a sharp object from it. The cold steel felt good on his skin, 
and he slipped the saw blade onto his wrist brace. His left arm was 
now a gruesome weapon. Let's see the intruder attack now.

"Who are you?" Leick tried again, backing towards the wall. The 
shadowy form seemed to stay the same distance away from him as he 
moved, though it didn't appear to be walking.

- You know me -

"Not you," he told the voice. "The intruder. Who are you?"

"You know me," came the voice from his head, but externally now, 
projected from the figure before him. Leick's eyes widened in 
confusion as he slapped his right hand back onto the wall, 
triggering the light switch there. Every light bulb above flickered 
on, shining intense illumination on the two beings here. The sudden 
brightness caused the Brujah's eyes to squint nearly shut, but he 
took in the sight before him.

A man, or possibly vampire. He stood about five foot nine; not too 
tall, not too short. His hair was brown and neat, and his eyes were 
a warm blue tone, like a gentle sea. His chiseled features were 
caught in a perpetual half-smile, as though life itself amused him. 
Who was he?

"Hello, Rutger," he said in the voice which had previously existed 
only in Leick's head.

"What in hell is going on here?" Leick roared. None of this made any 
sense to him, none at all.

"It is Time," he said simply. "We must move."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," the Brujah claimed, waving his 
serrated blade around threateningly. "Not until I know who and what 
you are."

The stranger's expression didn't change as he replied, "You know 
me."

"I don't know squat," he said angrily. "How about you fill me in?"

"There isn't time," the stranger insisted, in that familiar voice. 
"We must move. The end of the Third Cycle is upon us."

Third Cycle? Leick didn't believe in that nonsense. "Not until you 
tell me who you are," he insisted.

"I am yours to command," the man claimed. "I am merely here to give 
you all that you have desired. But we must move now, else all is 
lost."

"Who. Are. You?" Leick drew out, his eyes burning with intensity.

The man sighed, his expression very nearly changing. "I am old," he 
said. "And new. I was here Before, and will be After. I am a part of 
the voice you hear, and it is a part of me. I am here to serve you." 
When he saw that wasn't good enough for the Brujah Primogen, he 
added, "People have given me a name. They call me Cray."






Gehenna. The word kept coming back to Nalal. In his studies, in his 
visions. Gehenna was near. The end of the Third Cycle.

In the Kindred legends, Gehenna was the time when the Antediluvians 
would awake from beneath the Earth and drink the Blood of all 
Cainites everywhere. Nalal had never wholly believed the stories, 
but knew there must be some truth to them. The only people who 
believed them fully were the same morons who attributed every 
misfortune to the great Jyhad. Conspiracy theorists. What was even 
more idiotic was the fact that the two notions were mutually 
exclusive - how could the Antediluvians be both slumbering under the 
ground, AND controling the actions of all Kindred? It was nonsense.

But Gehenna was near. That much Nalal knew. What he had to find out 
was: what exactly was it?

His books had numerous theories, each of them equally implausible. 
The Bulgarian Toreador massaged his forehead as he attempted to 
focus on the dull tome opened before him. It was hard going, 
especially since the language used was so archaic it bore almost no 
resemblance to modern thought at all.

"The hand that brings down the One," he translated slowly, "will 
rend asunder Gaia." Seemed to be relevant, he perked up. Better read 
on.

"On the day of the Nerssycum," he had NO idea what that meant, 
"shall the place become Chaos. Order will fall."

Now what did that mean? He frowned, squinting at the page before 
him. It all sounded so familiar, and he knew that it was important. 
But he couldn't see HOW.







"I need to see the Prince," Leick intoned, puffing out his chest 
importantly. The two Gangrel guards eyes him warily.

"The Prince has asked to be left alone," one of them said slowly. 
The Cainites stood at the end of the hall that led to the Throne 
Room, blocking the path with massive pikes. Leick frowned. He hadn't 
anticipated this.

The Brujah summoned the power of his Presence, becoming as imposing 
as was possible. "I am the Brujah Primogen," he stated firmly. "I 
demand to see my Prince."

The guards looked at each other hesitantly. It might be working. It 
might.

"Oh for God's sakes," Hope Chitcka sighed. "Just kill 'em."

So much for that plan, Leick sighed as the guards pointed their 
weapons at him and the group. Sherilyn and Hope tensed for battle, 
while the mysterious Cray hung back behind them. One of the guards 
thrust his weapon forward, and Leick caught it on his saw-blade 
attachment, grabbing the Cainite's throat with his right hand. The 
other guard turned, exposing his side to the others.

That was a mistake. Sherilyn leapt at him and the two fell to the 
ground in a tumble. Out of the corner of his eye, Rutger saw his 
mate batting her opponent's head off the ground like a toy. She did 
so love her games. Leick used his Potence to lift his attacker 
bodily off the ground, and slam his head hard into the stone wall. 
The vampire's head smashed easily, and when Leick let him go, the 
body slumped to the ground, already decaying.

"Sherilyn," he told his Childe, "game over." She looked up at him 
sad eyes, but his resolute gaze swayed her. Sighing, she bent 
forward and bit harshly into her victim's neck. Pulling back, she 
ripped the windpipe right out of him, blood spilling down her chin 
and spraying about the room as she waved it before her.

Leick marched on down the hall, and the others gathered behind him.

"You're sure about this?" Leick asked for the thousandth time.

"Yes," Cray's gentle tones came as he sped up to walk at the 
Brujah's side. "Laplace's prescience and his power will be unable to 
stop us for another... seven minutes."

"Seven minutes, huh?" Leick mused. "We'd better hurry."

When they reached the end of the darkened corridor, the bulky 
Primogen heaved openthe huge doors, and they stormed into the Throne 
Room. Laplace sat there in his ancient French garb, unmoving. Rutger 
Leick took his place before the throne, Cray behind and to his 
right. The girls spread out, looking over the room's decor.

"Laplace," Leick called to his Elder. "I must speak with you."






No, not 'place', Nalal realized. The text contained a word he had 
translated as 'place'. No, the word was one which had contained no 
meaning at the time of writing, which was why he had misrecognized 
it. Today, it would mean 'city'.

But that didn't make any sense. The whole passage appeared to be 
about Gehenna, the end of the world. Why speak of a single city?

Then Nalal realized something. Who's to say Gehenna has to be a 
world-wide destruction? It may be, of course. But it starts in one 
place. And Nalal had the awful feeling he knew where that was to be.

The One. His other books spoke of a savior to the native people, one 
who had driven a race of evil creatures beneath the ground. A place 
in North America. Perhaps even right here.

He quickly removed the book he was looking for, one he had 
translated himself, and opened it to the relevant passage. Scanning 
its contents, he saw what he had feared.

One Cainite, very powerful. A protector, keeping the evil at bay. 
Keeping it beneath the Earth.

"The hand that brings down the One will rend asunder Gaia."

The One. Laplace. It had to be.

The hand. Only one man in New Chelsea fit that description. The 
hand.

Nalal grabbed his coat and rushed from his Haven. He had to warn 
Leick, warn him before it was too late.







"What is this?" Alexander Laplace squeaked, glancing about at the 
small asembly before him. "What is going on?"

"I have to see you, Your Highness," Leick bowed his head in mock 
submission. "I have urgent news."

"News?" Confusion wracked his face. "What are you talking about?"

"My Prince," Leick intoned, eyes burning coldly. "You must see 
something."

"I must?" he screamed, standing up in anger. "Who are you to tell me 
what I must do?"

Leick smiled. He had exposed his back. That was what they were 
waiting for.

With a grin of evil pleasure, Sherilyn Massee raised the wooden pole 
she had brought into the Throne Room. She squealed in delight as she 
thrust it forward from her position behind the throne. Laplace's 
eyes widened in shock as he stared down to see the shaft of wood 
emerging from his chest. Sherilyn's teeth glinted as she grinned 
widely, twisting the weapon inside the Toreador's chest.

The Prince was immobilized, completely helpless, and Leick stepped 
up to him, standing face to face with his 'superior'.

"Sire," he sneered. "I am Prince now."

As he looked into the Frenchman's eyes, Leick saw something he had 
never seen there before. Total sanity. The Toreador's eyes shone 
with clear lucidity, gazing deep into Leick's soul with his glare.

"You... fool," the Prince managed to groan past the pain, and Leick 
paused for a moment. But just a moment.

"Goodbye, my Prince," he grinned, and brought his left wrist up to 
his right shoulder. With a massive backhanded swing, the serrated 
blade sliced through Laplace's flesh and bone, and the Prince's head 
toppled, falling to the floor with a smack.

Beneath them the Earth rumbled and shook. Leick frowned at the 
unexpected tremor, and turned to see Cray with his arms raised above 
his head, face pointed towards the ceiling.

"It has begun!" Cray yelled, his voice echoing throughout the 
complex. "The Fourth Cycle is upon us!" He laughed, a stuttering, 
maniacal laugh. "Let New Chelsea tremble. A new power is born!"




Elsewhere, throughout the Gothic city, great cracks appeared in the 
Earth. From these openings, pure evil poured. No Kindred or no Kine 
could see this, but the evil was there. It rose from the depths, to 
strangle the dark city.

And the citizens of the world shivered in the wake of Gehenna, the 
end of the Third Cycle.




             - End of Season Three.
               Rutger Leick, Prince of the City &
               Nalal, Toreador.