Frost had placed six charges in the abandoned subway station already. He had only two pieces of C-4 left so he had to place them carefully. Frost looked around momentarily. The last time he had been here he'd cut off Rutger Leick's hand. Little more than a year had passed since then, that fateful night with the Great Crystal. Now everybody thought Frost was dead - and Leick was Prince of the city. Rumors were flying through the town of New Chelsea. The other Primogen were not happy with their new Prince. According to the rumor they were planning a huge coup that would completely destroy Leick and all of his followers. That suited Frost just fine; anything they did to weaken Leick's grip on the city. However Frost guessed that Leick had an escape root - the Brujah always did. Chances were Leick would return to his original hiding place if he lost control. Then Cray would be alone before Frost, unless the Sabbat helped him. Frost had to go see Cochrane sometime to see if he could turn him away from Cray. Frost placed a charge in an old rusting garbage can; it was unlikely Leick would see it if he returned. Then he connected the radio detonator. He kept the last charge. He might need it soon. Roche had blown up at least one of the Sabbat safe houses in the city. Frost hoped that he could use that to gain Cochrane's attention. If they were going to destroy Leick and Cray, Cochrane's Sabbat forces would be of great help to them. Before he did anything Frost wanted to talk to Nalal, he hoped the scholar would have some insight into the future. Frost walked around the station and checked the charges - they were all ready. Rachelle should have brought Nalal back to the apartment. Frost left the subway station and began to head home. Hopefully he could tell him more about Cray and what he was up against. - End of Post. Fredrick Frost, Caitiff. Airegon was in pain. she had just been fighting someone or something, but whatever it was it was strong. It was also the owner of the voice that told her to get the Masamune. She had refused to do it - that was why it had attacked her. Well, she thought that was why anyway. Precious crimson blood was dripping down her face, arms and legs. Her stomach was nearly sliced open, yet somehow she had to be able to find Frost and warn him of what was after him and the Masamune. She was heading to where her senses were taking her, to where Frost was; she was trusting them, it was all she could do. Somehow she found him, and when he started to say something to her she interrupted him... "Something," she gasped, fighting for breath she didn't need, "I fought it... Strong, very strong... it wants your sword - the Masamune... Don't let it get it... It would mean the end." By now her voice was a weak, pale whisper. A dry leaf echo of her once solid timbre. Falling hard on her knees, because she could no longer hold up her own weight, Airegon reached out a hand to Frost as if asking for help. Then, whispering so softly he could barely hear her she said: "Stay with me... till I... die... Please," she pleaded, her voice sounding thin and pitiful. It cracked from choking sobs as she gasped, "I'm scared... and... I... love... you." Falling completely to the ground, Airegon whispered her last words: "Forgive me." She had now gone to a place where hopefully she could find peace within herself and towards herself. - End of Post. Airegon, Brujah. Cray stared at the gray tiled floor of his room as he entered thoughtfully. This was ostensibly his office, but really served only as a token, a sign of Cray's position as "Director of Current Affairs" - whatever that meant (another of Rutger's ridiculous ideas). It was empty at Cray's behest; he used it to meditate in silence, away from the noisy minds of the Kindred fools who infested this dreadful city. It was just off to the side of the (currently empty but for one or two Ventrue guards) throne room, but thanks to a protection spell no one even directly outside the door could hear what (if anything) went on inside. Cray liked it that way. The slabs were cold beneath his feet - he could feel them through the hard soles of his shoes. He wasn't like these people, of course, nor like their enemies ("Kine" as the Necrosyne linguists had dubbed them). The Earth reached up with its cold tendrils to pull him under, seeking the imprisonment he had never been forced to suffer. The others may have been freed, but the Earth still sang for Cray. His punishment was yet to come. The floor went dark, and for a brief moment Cray wondered if he had fallen unconscious (is this what it felt like?) but he soon realized that the overhead light had gone out. In this form Cray had temporarily trapped himself the darkness actually impeded his vision. Rather than slip out of his cloak of humanity, he narrowed his gaze to peer into the darkness. "Who's there?" he demanded in a firm but gentle voice. A strange feeling (kind of chilly, forceful like cold water splashed on one's face... interesting) hit him suddenly at the brief silence that followed. It was an uncomfortable experience. "Hello?" he called again. "It's been... some time," came a thankfully familiar voice from the black air before him. The tension dripped out of Cray's restrictive body at the sound. True, it was very different to hear it with these ears, but it was the same. "Kazha," Cray breathed with a smile. "It has indeed. I was wondering when you would turn up here." "It takes time," he said, that deep but clear voice sounded softly. "I'm aware of that," Cray informed his elder. "I have been keeping an eye on your progress. Have you reached your full strength as yet?" "Not quite," the voice admitted, but Cray soon saw a shadow flicker in the darkness, and it quickly coalesced into an average sized human form. "We are... almost ready." "Good," Cray sighed. "I have spent as much time as I believe I can stand with these Necrosyne maniacs. I'll be glad when it's all over." He paused for a moment, asking hesitantly, "May I see your human form?" He was curious as to just how well his masters could create the shape by now. It would be an indication of how far they had recovered. "As yet," Kazha Dhum explained, "the light will disintegrate my disguise. I cannot yet even assume my Hakkarian form." Cray bowed his head in disappointment. "Do not dismay, our savior," the voice implored. "We have power still, and more will grow soon. Very soon." "I have seen your power," Cray said a little too harshly. "My servant was destroyed trying to do my will. You shouldn't have pressed so hard." "That crusade is foolish," Kazha dismissed. "The sword is no longer a threat to us. We have become too powerful." "It's not the sword I'm worried about," Cray answered cryptically. "You know I have spent the centuries collecting artifacts of magick, keeping them beyond the reach of mortals and Necrosyne alike. This sword is just one more - of itself. But its potential, as I'm sure you're aware, is far greater than any of the others. As I said, it's not the SWORD I'm worried about." "You fret like one of them," the elder chastised. "We are beyond them. There is no need to fear." Cray felt like reminding Kazha Dhum that it was a Necrosyne that had kept he and his family below the Earth for all this time, but decided against it. It would not be wise at this juncture. They were grateful for Cray having rescued them - but for how long would this reprieve last? After what he had done before the Exile. "I hope you're right," he muttered. "Of course I am," said the voice, distant now, as though from beyond the stone walls around Cray. "It is time you leave this place, these people. Join us once again, our savior. Join us..." The voice trailed away, and Cray suddenly realized the lights were back on, though he didn't know quite when that had occurred. He couldn't leave the complex now, though. Despite Kazha Dum's foolish pride, Cray knew that there was still work to be done. If he was to be a savior, let him be a successful one and not a short-sighted power-monger like his elder. There was still one issue to be taken care of. There was still the One. - End of Post. Cray, Ancient One. Posted by Rutger Leick. Frost peered beyond the shrubs where he was hiding. It hadn't been hard to sneak up on his old hiding place. The manor was very lightly guarded. The Sabbat must have been doing everything possible to protect whatever safe houses they had in the city. They probably didn't think anyone knew about the mansion, except maybe Rachelle. Frost crept forward, moving low to the ground to stay out of sight. He took almost a minute to reach the side of the house. Seeing no guards, he quickly sprinted to the back entrance. The door was unlocked (the fools); Frost opened it and walked in. He quickly moved to the room he knew Cochrane liked to stay in. He pushed the door open gently. Cochrane was sitting in his chair. His back was to the door and Frost thought he smelled cigarette smoke. Since there seemed to be no guards in the entire place, Frost simply pushed the door open. "Who is it? I asked not to be disturbed," Cochrane growled angrily. "I have important matters to wrestle with." "It's the ghost of Christmas past come to save you from your own wicked ways," Frost said mockingly as he moved towards the chair and put the blade of his sword to Cochrane's throat. "Now put the gun on the table and turn the chair around." Cochrane obeyed hesitantly. "Frost! You're alive? But how?" The look of shock on Cochrane's face was mixed in with horror. "Cray killed you by his own hand. Many told me about it." "Mike, Michael, Mickey," Frost said in a smooth voice, "you should know better than to trust Cray." Cochrane's expression dropped. "What do you know of Cray, Frost?" Cochrane was fishing for information, something he perhaps did not know. "Not much I'm afraid," Frost admitted pleasantly. "Only that he's living it up in the Prince's complex. Plotting who knows what. He is now Rutger Leick's Director of Current Affairs, but let's just say Cray is more the Prince than Leick." Frost smirked as he talked about his enemy. Leick was so weak. "Why should I believe you? You want nothing good for the Sabbat." Cochrane's expression stayed almost neutral. "In fact I'm surprised that you haven't yet killed me. Tell me: why should I trust you?" "Mickey, don't trust me, but if I were you I would find out. If Cray has switched sides than the Sabbat will want to hear about it. Now just imagine if some... underling sends them the news, well now your head will be on a plate for not having been vigilant enough." Frost took a step back, withdrawing Masamune from Cochrane's neck. "I'll be back; by then I expect you to be more receptive to a proposition I have to make." Frost started walking backwards towards the door. "Oh and Michael, if Cray shows up I wouldn't mention this to him." Frost continued to walk backwards until he was clear of the door. Then he ran out of the manor and continued until he reached the woods. This had been easier than he had hoped. Maybe too easy, but that was a chance he had to take. He just hoped he'd pushed the right buttons. - End of Post. Fredrick Frost, The Chosen One. "Karl! You in there?" shouted Kato, trying not to get too angry for the Kindred was probably sleeping. After all, it was the middle of the day and the sun was particularly hot! "Karl!" He thumped on the door again while turning to look down the alley. "Come on, you bat-bitten moron, get outta that pit and answer the door!" Kato put his ear to the door; he could hear a bit of noise, a thump, then a sleepy groan. "Go away," the voice grumbled. "I work night-shifts - can't anybody get any peace in this city?" "It's me, Kato, come let me in!" His patience was wearing thin (the spikes on his neck were starting to protrude) when he heard the noise of a bolt sliding and the door swung open. "Come in, close the door behind you!" Karl stood in the shade with a very sleepy look and half dressed. "Why do you demons not have any consideration for the likes of us Kindred?" Kato looked at him, smiled, and said, "I thought the demon bit may have given it away. Anyway, you ready to go?" "No, course not. That spherical death warrant out there seems to put the lid on things till dark," he said with sincere sarcasm. "And to think, you possess the future of your kind? What is this world coming to?" "I'd rather not get into that just now. Anyway, are the others ready?" Kato stood silently for a moment, he was checking out the apartment. "Kato!" shouted Karl. "The others?" "Oh, yeah, they're ready, Karl, they've already left." "They have? I thought this was supposed to be a joint effort, and a co-ordinated move?" "Well, yours is the only shielding with a Kindred in charge now, Karl. The others had to move before you did anyway. They don't get to know the goings-on in New Chelsea the same as you do." "OK," the Tremere assented, "well as soon as it's dark we'll move too - but there are a couple of things I need to do first." - End of Post. Karl, Tremere. Nalal paced back and forth in the dimly lit interior. The apartment Rachelle Proulx had brought him to was small and decorated in deep reds for the most part - but Nalal didn't see these things. At least, not the way others did. He was no longer a part of this plane of existence - soon he would be lost in the fabric of time entirely. He wasn't sure what would become of him then. Would he still be alive, albeit in some kind of temporally disconnected state? Or would he cease to be at all? Time (time!) alone would tell. "Would you please stop that?" Rachelle moaned from her seated position at a wooden table. Nalal glanced over at her. Her whole life unravelled before him: he saw her all at once as a young girl, a bright and proud adolescent, the undead mockery of life he knew her to be now (would it be so bad, really, if all Kindred on this Earth ceased to be?) and also as the dried husk her walking corpse would become upon her Final Death. This spectrum of age was concentrated into one picture, staring up at him in frustration. "Stop what?" he asked simply, his flat voice betraying no hint of his Bulgarian origins. "The damn pacing," she sighed, holding her head in her hands. "Frost will be back soon." "I know," Nalal said softly, continuing his motion. "Where is he?" "He had some... business to take care of," Rachelle informed him. Whatever it was (Nalal was unable to see that, taking place as it did away from him spatially as opposed to temporally) the Toreador was sure it had something to do with violence. With Fredrick Frost it usually did. "I believe you were about to say 'speak of the devil'," Nalal smiled. A confused look on her pretty face, Rachelle uttered, "No I..." Frost walked in the door then, facing it as he shut it firmly. "Well speak of the..." She turned quickly to Nalal, pointing an accusatory finger at him as she moved towards Frost. "How'd it go?" she asked the Caitiff, embracing him briefly. "Okay," Frost said easily, removing his long black coat. "Nalal here?" Rachelle pointed wordlessly to where the visitor had ceased his periodic motion and stood silently watching his hosts converse. Frost nodded to the Toreador, and walked briskly up to him. "Nalal," Frost nodded. "Thanks for coming." "Of course," Nalal acknowledged. "I fear I will not be of as much usefulness to you as you might have hoped." Cocking his head, Nalal paused, then amended, "Or so it might appear from your perspective." "Whatever," Frost shrugged it off, gesturing towards a seat. "Shall we sit?" "No need," Nalal declined. "I shan't be here that long." Disappointment fell across the Chosen One's face. "I thought you might be able to tell me about Cray." "You already know what is necessary," came the reply. "Not really," Frost disagreed. "What are his strengths, weaknesses? How do I defeat him?" "Have you not already been told these things?" Frost frowned, and Nalal continued, "Part of your task, Frost, is to find your own path. The way is narrow, and the ground unsteady. I cannot guide you along it, else our combined weight may collapse it. What I can do, however, is tell you the rest of your task." "Task?" Frost was confused. "What are you talking about?" "You have been given a challenge," Nalal reminded the Caitiff. "There are three aspects to this task of yours that you must meet in order to succeed in your mission. "The first you have already begun. You must seek the allies and bring them into your ranks. However, there is yet one who may tip the balance, and that one you have not been informed about. There is a reason for this, but one you must discover for yourself." "Great," Frost said simply. "The second," Nalal continued, "is related to the first, but yet still separate. You must overcome one of your deepest prejudices, and face the past that you would like to forget. The meaning of this will become clear once the first task is completed." "Can't wait." Nalal kept on, "Lastly, and most importantly..." The Toreador broke off for a moment to look closely at his companion. With most people, Nalal could see them from their birth, to their death. Frost's existence began a hundred and fifty years ago, and he stopped being a very short time from now. No dried husk, no decaying corpse. He merely ceased to be. "You must be willing to give up your life for the cause," Nalal finished finally. "No problem," Frost said immediately. "I've done it before, you know." Shaking his head, Nalal sighed. "It will be different when you can't come back. You'll see." "Can't you tell me - ?" Frost began, but was stopped by Nalal's hand held up before his face. "That is all I can say. Now I must leave." And without a further word, the strange Toreador exited the building, leaving his old acquaintance Fredrick Frost to look on in bafflement. - End of Post. Nalal, Toreador. The night air had a strange eerie feeling. Karl stood at the corner of the Complex with Kato. The Bezoar tower block looked more intimidating tonight than it had in the past, just another sign of what was to come. Karl held Kato by the shoulder. "Wait here, you'll only cause trouble if you come in with me. I'll not be long, I need to see the Prince." Kato didn't want to go in anyway, but just stood back in awe. Kindred were in some ways the most evil of them all. Demons, even those who have books written about them, don't live up to the standard of a vamp. He watched as Karl disappeared inside. Then, he heard a sound behind him, a shadow crept round a corner, a trash can fell to the ground and a young woman's voice sounded. Kato dashes over to take a look, no doubt a vamp at work, but no. The street lay empty, as far as he could see, trash spread out over the road and the sidewalk, then he heard the sobbing of the victim. Getting closer to the woman, he saw some blood on the ground. The woman, laying there, was holding her hand close to her chest. Kato moved in closer and pulled her arm away from her body; suddenly she grabbed his hand and with her free hand plunged a blade into his side. "This is a leaving gift from your good friend Gemma," she said with a look on her face that would kill. She heaved him over onto the ground, got up and ran away down the street. Kato coughed a bit, spluttered, then the wound started to heal immediately. He had no idea he had been followed to New Chelsea and was not expecting this at all, especially as he thought Gemma had been killed. His shielding was lying wide open for corruption at the hands of her gang. Nonetheless, they would meet their fate the same as the resident evil of New Chelsea. This just gave him one more reason to go away. Meanwhile..... "The Prince will see you now," the guard gestured a welcome to the Throne room. Karl had never seen such change in such a short time. The Palace was not the way it had been in the days of Laplace. He entered the throne room aware of everything around him and noted how it seemed that time ran slowly in here. The walls seemed farther away than he imagined and the curtains draped round the throne flowwwwwed in a gentle breeze. (All happening very, very slowly.) "Come before me and kneel." "Yes, my Prince." "Who are you? What do you want? Where are you going?" "I am Karenthuras of the Tremere clan. I seek permission to leave this place. I am going..... away." "Why?" "A great evil is coming this way, it has been gathering it's forces on the edge of this reality. I must preserve the knowledge we have, the power, the kindred." "Yes..... you must, I can see that now." "Thank you my Master. You will not see me again." "Yes... You must leave at once." Still with time standing almost at rest Karl made his way out of the room. As he reached the corridor, the guard closed the door and everything ran at the usual pace. Outside: "What kept you? You only had to see the Prince! I've been waiting out here for two hours, getting stabbed and stuff!" "Kato we must hurry. There is no time to see the other, perhaps Nalal will already be there." - End of Post. Karl, Tremere. In the dark filth of the Gothic City's sewers, the squat vampire cloaked herself in the obscuring shadows, drawing them in on herself. Too many Kine dwelled down here, far beneath the surface of New Chelsea. People as forgotten by the world above as the Kindred were - Mole People. Silent as a mouse, Drukh crept past vague bundles that could be the sleeping homeless. The green blankets were filthy and full of holes, barely enough cloth left to provide any usefulness at all. If there were people underneath those covers, it was not much of a life they lived at all. Perhaps she would put them out of their misery sometime soon - it would not be long before she had to feed after all. It struck the Nosferatu as peculiar, the recent influx of Mole People to these parts of the underground. Just a few months ago she had been able to make it to her well/Haven with no major confrontations. Now it was not so easy. It just might be time to move, she figured. "Well hi there!" came a gruff, slurred voice from in front of Drukh. She started, jumping several inches into the air before she clapped her eyes upon the unkempt and dishevelled man before her. His eyes burned with alcohol and insanity, and his face was prickly as a scrub brush. One hand held a torn brown paper bag with something heavy inside, and the other scratched twitchingly at the tunnel wall. He was looking right at her. That was what unnerved Drukh. Of course he couldn't see her (her Obfuscation was at maximum now) but it disturbed her nonetheless. Doing her best not to make eye contact, the Nosferatu swerved to avoid bumping into the man and continued on her way. "Hey, I'm talkin' to you!" Drukh turned her head back instinctively, and saw that the homeless man had changed direction and was now looking on the way she was going. Those bloodshot eyes continued to bore into her. Was it possible...? "Yeah, you ugly lookin' freak," the man giggled in his broken voice. "Where the hell you goin'?" Confused, and a little frightened, Drukh picked up the pace and headed on down the tunnel. Almost as soon as she had begun walking again however, the man screamed: "I'm talkin' to you, bitch!" Five heavy steps behind her, then the forceful crack of his partially full whiskey bottle upon her sparse-haired head. The rough shards cut into her skin, and blood and alcohol mingled in their flow down her face. Drukh turned to the man, the full intensity of her Cainitic being evident upon her face. She bared her skewed fangs, allowing the human to cower before her horrendous appearance. He didn't. Instead, he hit Drukh with his fist, and she found herself tumbling forcefully to the floor. She landed with a crack of her spine, and stared up at her attacker. Drukh could see now that the man's flesh was pulsating, like something within was ready to burst out of his skin. It calmed after a moment, but whatever was inside him could still not contain its excitement entirely. Not knowing what was going on and frightened by the ferocity of his attack, Drukh scrambled up, crawling away from him as fast as she could. But she was grabbed from behind. The homeless man picked her up like she was no more than a grocery bag, lifting her high into the air. Drukh felt something pierce her skin - whether a physical weapon or a burst of energy her spinning mind could not determine. She struggled to escape, wriggling against the man's grip and kicking strongly out in all directions, but it was no use. The thing which had entered her burrowed its way into her inside, expanding swiftly and brutally. In moments, Drukh was torn apart from within, becoming millions of tine chunks of decayed flesh which scattered all around the sewer system. No one would find these remains, however, as each piece of Drukh became a wisp of mist before it ever hit a surface. The Ancient One calmed his imminent transformation. The elation inside him was immeasurable. He had felt it, while silencing that wretched Necrosyne. His power, it was back! Filled with a hope and desire he had not felt for centuries, the being ran back to his group. He would tell Kazha Dhum. Soon they would all be back to health. Soon they would be ready. - End of Post. Drukh, Nosferatu. Posted by Rutger Leick. Through the grimy alleyways, the river of mist flowed. The gray vapor ran thick and heavy, making fleeting forms that seemed as solid as the walls around them, but which lasted only milliseconds. Shapes grew and dissipated as quickly as though caused by random chance, but they were certainly not. For within that fog flowed the conscious minds of numerous entities. Their will shaped their appearance, and their excitement controlled their will. They were strong again. Not quite up to full capacity, but as near as the Ancient Ones had gotten for a very (very!) long time. Unstoppable they were now, an immutable force of nature swimming down the man-made trenches that were New Chelsea's streets. The river spilled out into a large road, widening to fill the street as it continued it's directed passage. No living thing haunted this place tonight, but it wouldn't be long until the mist found a target - any target. Tonight the carnage would begin. Within days, only the Ancient would be left on this sacred earth. Asabi, the Assamite assassin, lingered outside the large building. Through the brightly lit window he could see the two beings ("Cainites" as they called themselves) strolling around in full view. Such contempt for the Camarilla's Masquerade. Asabi shook his head in disgust. There would be no 'muruwa' in carrying out his contract tonight. It was too easy. But part of his beliefs was that he would carry out his contract to the best of his abilities. But really, the 'munafiqun' (especially the Ventrue, as his target tonight was) were contemptuous beings. Look how loosely they hold to their morals (misguided though those morals may be). They give themselves a sacred code by which to live their unlives, then spend their entire existence looking for ways to break that code. It was madness. To think that the 'taqqiya' had been kept for so long, and so well, while the Masquerade was routinely broken every day. Just one more example of 'munafiqun' foolishness. Asabi would not relish the slaughter of his target, this Shandrill Moorhar. But 'umma', his dedication to the community of his clan, demanded it. That, and his 'asabiyya'. He would not let down the Assamite clan. They were all children of Haqim, followers of the 'Khabar', and the Path of Blood. The brown-haired head of Cheyenne Chitcka vanished from the yellow window now, leaving only the striking crimson locks of Shandrill Moorhar. Asabi studied his target, absorbed every ounce of her personality from the minute details he observed at a glance. He would be prepared before he made his strike. He was a professional assassin after all. For a brief moment, he wondered why the city's Prince would order him to kill this Ventrue. A Prince had the authority to order anyone's Final Death. In the Camarilla, it was his right. No matter, Asabi shrugged. He would carry out his duty, for Haqim and Alamut. Slowly, very slowly, he crept towards the building. Sherilyn Massee strolled easily along the sidewalk. The darkness caressed her skin as she twirled and skipped down the paved walkway. It was the first night in a long time she had been outside, and she was relishing every minute of it. Rutger (the meanie) had kept her locked up in that cold stone palace of his, not letting her out to have any fun. But tonight she had snuck out and, oh! the fun she would have! A long-forgotten tune leapt to her lips, Sherilyn humming the notes to herself as she danced along the abandoned streets. It felt good to be out, it really did. Vague sounds drifted to Sherilyn's ears, and she ceased her music-making, coming to a dead stop by the empty street. A man, talking. To himself? No other voice came back. Then she heard rough barking in reply, to which the man's voice spoke back, as though understanding its words. She giggled to herself. People could be so funny! Dog, though... Sherilyn didn't think she had ever tried dog. She skipped forward, deciding to make a meal of it. Kill the owner, drink the dog, then try and get back to Rutger's big stone building before he noticed she was missing! Her tune reappeared, this time as a whistle, and she rounded the corner, prepared to meet her meal. Two vage forms ahead. The gray torrent rushed towards the kissing couple, who were unaware of the river of death approaching. The mist washed over them, burying them suddenly and completely. Wide staring eyes captured the gray flood as their last image, and muffled screams emitted briefly before being roughly silenced. Within the foggy stream, solid objects appeared, vague green and scaly arms, legs, claws, teeth... They tore they victims to shreds, consuming what they could and leaving the rest. As the river flowed onwards, the solid forms became fluid again, running smoothly down the cold, dark street. It felt good, the collective killing. The sustenance ran through them all. But it would soon be time to become individuals again, to separate and destroy as many smaller units. Right now, though, they stuck together, remained as a river of mist. For together they were stronger. Together they would clean the city of its infestations, and reclaim it for themselves. But for tonight, it was all about fun. - End of Post. Ancient Ones, Asabi the Assamite, Sherilyn Massee the Venture/Brujah. Posted by Rutger Leick. It had begun. The foolish elders of the Ancient Race would not listen. In the darkness, where he was most comfortable, the one who now called himself 'Cray' skulked. The One had already begun his aggregation of followers. Before long, before Kazha Dhum and the ones from beneath the Earth had realized it, Frost would be out in force. Kazha thought the One posed no real threat. How wrong he was. Their kind had gotten too arrogant. They had been trapped for centuries by a Necrosyne (Cray hated using the creatures' names for themselves - 'Kindred' or 'Cainite') and now that they were free, they had somehow convinced themselves that they were invincible. Cray knew better. He had been living among the Necrosynes (at least occasionally) for a very long time now. He knew their limits - and he knew their strengths. There was only one course of action Cray could take in order to ensure the victory of the Ancient Ones. He had to get Masamune. Problem was, this time his kin were so busy enjoying their newfound freedom they couldn't lend Cray a hand. He'd have to rely on his own power for now. It might just suffice. But for now, Cray would sit and watch. Frost would have to leave his sword alone soon, turn his back on it (so to speak) for a moment. And when he did, Cray would strike. An all-out attack was not conceivable right now. But a stealthy raid, that would do the trick. One thing Cray knew about was stealth. Just sit. Tight. And watch. - End of Post. Cray, Ancient One.