Character Sheet: Diane Forester Appearance Prelude
Journal Entries:
Name: Diane Forester Player: Jo(anna) Hart Status: N.P.C. (Player Resigned) Chronicle: Santa Cruz/Vampire Nature: Conniver Demeanor: Thrillseeker Clan: Ventrue Generation: XIth Haven: Motel Concept: Journalist ATTRIBUTES: Physical: Strength-2, Dexterity-2, Stamina-2 Social: Charisma-4, Manipulation-4, Appearance-2 Mental: Perception-2, Intelligence-2, Wits-3 ABILITIES: Talents: Acting-2, Alterness-1, Brawl-1, Dodge-2, Empathy-2, Intimidation-2, Leadership-4, Subterfuge-3 Skills: Drive-2, Etiquette-1, Firearms-1 Knowledge: Bureaucracy-1, Computer-1, Finance-2, Investigation-3, Journalism-4, Linguistics (French)-1, Medicine-1, Occult-1, Politics-2, Science-1 DISCIPLINES: Dominate-3, Fortitude-2, Presence-1 Backgrounds: Contacts-2, Generation-2, Resources-2, Retainers-1 Merits & Flaws: none VIRTUES: Conscience-2 Self-Control-4 Courage-4 Humanity-6 Willpower-? Blood Pool-12 Appearance: Petite, professionally yet tastefully attired in business suits and skirts, and usually wears her ash-blond hair straight and cut somewhat short. Usually wears sunglasses outside. Very classy. Prelude: The woman who was sitting in the driver's seat of the battered Range Rover while her passenger struggled with the roadmap didn't look to be in a good mood. Some tension about the way her square jaw was set and a pale defeated aspect behind her eyes gave out an almost palpable miasma of a coiled spring. She sat inhumanly still, contemplating her distorted reflection in the windscreen, hand clenching and unclenching on the gearstick. The man sitting next to her, a few years younger and dressed in a smart suit, had the wits not to interrupt her thoughts. "I remember the fire at the Hexham Courant. 1963. First damn job I ever had, on that paper, and just after I finally wangle a trip down to London to get the low-down on the only local political scandal that pathetic town had ever had and all the guys complaining that I'd got the feature by sleeping with the editor. True of course. So I get the story, get my hooks into the MP and get a sniff at the London scene (and boy did we think that was groovy at the time?) and it gets into print and -then- the distributors burns down. So no record of my first real story. Ever." The man glanced across, his Hispanic eyes scanning her face almost nervously. "I think I have it," but she didn't hear. Her faded jeans and the combat jacket with it's sleeves rolled up above the elbows melted into the dark shadows as she sat in silence, still thinking. "And it's the records that matter. I always knew that I was going to matter. Even in those first days. Damn but London was a fun place in the 60s and I got my money's worth, we all did. The paper trade was expanding, political scandals exploding all over the place. Of course I didn't care what I did, we got the stories, didn't we? So what if I connived my way into people's beds to make contacts, no-one forced them! So what if I camped out in hospitals, brought drinks for the people's sisters, made up imaginary relatives. It's all in the line of duty. The story is the thing! And I'm good. Damn good. Good parties too. Moving into radio was the best thing I ever did;. All done through contacts of course. <wry smile> I remember being sent out to Paris to cover the student riots, we managed to get some people together with handouts and they put on a riot for us, just as backdrop to the story. But we got onto good stuff too, me and my team. God knows where they all are now." "And things got better, I never game a damn about being sent into warzones, volunteered even. I thoroughly deserved every scrap of reputation I ever had. Didn't use my real name as a byline of course. I was Dido, like in the opera. One of the things that never ceases to amuse me, how so many of us use fake names after death. but I went back to my original one. I loved South Africa from the first moment I saw it, the people, the scenery, the whole lot. Of course I was covering riots again, with a full news team reporting to me. By that time I was covering for the BBC world service, pay wasn't brilliant but we all made it up in freelance work. Back home they'd been rioting in the streets, the whole Sex Pistols/Punk thing. All great news. I loved punk even though it made me feel so bloody old. But in Soweto we ran into pretty major hassle. I ended up as a hostage with a couple of television types who just fell apart. Even I'd have to admit it took fast thinking and fast talking to get out of that one. And they plastered my face across the local papers near where I lived near London for about a day I think. So much for celebrity. As I said in an interview at the time 'When you're there to cover the news you can't get personally involved.', but some of the people I'd med in the townships it bothered me then more than it does now." "I was damn unlucky that the business with the war crimes came up in the silly season, when papers will print anything that passes for half a story on their front pages. I was sick as a parrot at the time; I'd just won an award for a series of reports I'd put together on the Miner's Strike, and another one for some work on the Falklands crisis and what do they get me for? A faked war criminal. Was a damn good story though. Shame it wasn't true." "And suddenly they had the nerve to sack me. So I thought 'to hell with this stupid country' and I took off for the States. I wasn't broke by any means then. Still had those Reuters shares I still have actually. Left my boyfriend behind, but he always was a whiner. I sometimes wonder what have happened if he'd had the guts to follow, as he was threatening. I reckon he'd have died by now; they could never have let him live; but he was preposterously rich. Wasted." "The good thing about radio is that people don't recognise your face, and my background was impeccable. I came out West, waltzed into a job without any trouble. As for the rest, well I'm inclined to skip over it. Some blood and guts murder that I'd spiced up, as per usual. Soon after, the call from Kenny, although I didn't know his name then. I was to get used to the stupid conspiratorial calls, he always used idiotic code words, in my opinion. But some nuts are dangerous so I did the usual thing. Be polite, get the phone tapped. The usual thing. He even had the nerve to come round with some woman and waste 3 hours of my time by telling me about his mission to destroy monsters. And I was stupid enough to think, 'Well, maybe there's a story in it.' I can look back and think how dangerous that whole thing was, god along knows who his contacts were, and what he did with the bits of information I fed back to him. I thought he was a loon, but not a dangerous one. Or not to me. Then he disappeared." "So I looked into it briefly, drew a total blank and left it. Something in the back of my head said 'later', and I had more important things to do. And he used to appear and disappear the whole time. He was a loon. But of course then I was offered the producers job in Monterey and the rest was more or less inevitable." "Petra had her own plans worked out, and more power to her elbow wherever she is. I first met her in the controllers office in Monterey, and she is really one of the few people I've ever met who could intimidate from a distance. I never liked her but damn I respected her respect her even. As I say, she unnerved me, and she would insist on taking me out to supper just to talk about things every week or so, how the staff had been doing, whether I was going to reorganize the transmission schedules. I'm sure I wanted to tell her more than once to mind her own sodding business and let me get on with things. And she with her odd phrasings and the lace fringed dresses. When she wasn't there I used to get quite worked up about things, and she knows perfectly well that we were never friends." "We were lovers though." Finally the emotionless mask was replaced by weariness and she reached across for the map with a rueful smile, glancing back at the lights of the city through the back windscreen, flickering on the skyline. "Time to go, Miguel.", the accent was crisp and English with a faint hint of a suppressed regional dialect, still the voice of a radio journalist. She gives the man a brief reassuring smile, and puts her foot down, letting the tyres screech against the tarmac. "Oh I can't complain, she knew what I was like, far too well. I even guessed at some of the politics that was going on. Stupid, too stupid to realise quite enough until it was too late. It was when she introduced me to Kenny again and of course he recognised me. Little bastard had taken her side instead of doing the things he used to try to shock me by telling me about. Blood-bound of course, although I didn't know it then, and he'd pointed her in my direction like a trained dog. I can imagine it, 'You want to control the papers, the media I know this woman and she'll take the job' And the rest was inevitable." "When I was embraced I wasn't even angry at her, because she made it all sound so inevitable <she floors accelerator>. I don't think it would have killed her to have been mildly more informative. She never told me a damned thing with out a reason, all her stupid scheming against the Prince, all wasted now. It must have been at least a month before I first had to drop a vessel because I just couldn't. I remember now when I stormed in and said to her 'Will you tell me what's happening?', and she laughed and told me to work it out. It would -not- have killed her to have mentioned the concept of selective feeding. At the time I thought it must be some kin of judgement but now well, I'm used to hanging around students and talking to them. I wouldn't tough anyone uneducated with a bargepole. But the memory rankles. I can't pretend I didn't love it. Still do in fact. I used to pretend that she'd ruined my life but we both knew that was a joke. Just the sheer high of feeling another mind crumble and a face that had been stern suddenly smile and agree. I like that, no more pretending, I do like that. And as for losing control no more pretending sometimes I like that too It wasn't even so very hard to tighten up my contacts in the paper, so many of them I'd known anyway all rather wasted now I suppose." "And now Kenny is probably dead and even Mig hasn't heard form Petra. She would have left me a message. Or has she really decided that the anarchs could do great things with proper leadership, the same argument she used to counter me with when I told her I was reminded of the students in Paris. Somehow my experiences were never worth as much as hers. Damn, I was tired of being inferior. And if she's dead, well it's tough but I'm not sorry I gave her address to the kindred I met in the bar. And he didn't lie to me. 'Don't be in Monterey that night' and so I wasn't. I had things to do. At least I'm more myself now then when Mig finally got back with the LandRover and I came far far too close to killing him." Still can't believe the bastards wrapped my Porsche around some railings; they'll pay for that. And all that godawful time I spent trying to buy my way into things all gone. Have to hope the accounts I have left will keep me going, I don't like to leech Mig for money." She smiled vaguely at the ghoul as the Rover weaved through the traffic. "I was lucky with him, or a good judge of character. He's still a damn good lawyer, and a good friend. And that inside knowledge of police procedures has been so useful to us all. Damn it all, I will go back one day" "And I don't even have time to change because we'll be close enough to dawn as it is by the time we arrive. I am -not- in the mood to bow and scrape, not dressed for it either. And if Petra's been telling me yet more lies then I'll look like a fool or worse for inviting myself to an Elder's hospitality. Just lucky I suppose that I did actually write down the address, in the glove compartment with the pistol which is quite ironic really <she glares at another car without even noticing that she's doing it, and the driver slows to give way as the Rover speeds through>. Damn, I'll be more ready to up sticks and move on a moments notice next time if there is a next time" Thursday, June 1st, 1995. 3:37 a.m. "There it is," Miguel pointed out the house as they drove up in the rover. It had been over a year since she had seen it. Crown's taste had obviously since been overinfluenced by new age pastel run rampant. Cream yellow bordered by soft purple trim struck her eyes squarely. Only the jet black roof reminded her of the drab olive Queen Anne Victorian that she had only once seen. Then it had brooded, perched over Santa Cruz on Beach Hill, the forgotten petite mansion of a robber baron whose lonely windows seemed to glare down at the resort city in disdain. Now, the house was merely a joke. The smart colours of the nearby victorians clashed sharply with the Queen Anne, who indeed should have been queen of the all the homes nearby. Even the hedge that could have once hidden such an embarrassment had been uprooted and an iron fence and gates installed that failed to masque anything. Miguel parked the rover on the street, ignoring the resident's only parking sign that threatened a ticket. After having gotten out, Diane waited like some begger at the small gate that lead up the walkway to the front porch and door. A stainglassed window suggested nothing of the interior save wealth, but for what seemed a very long time, no one came to investigate or answer her inquries at the electric button at the gate. Finally, the door opened and a young man, a tall broad shouldered blond, came gliding down. He was dressed in tasteful black Italian trousers, with a charcoal waistcoat and white shirt of Egyptian cotton. His icy eyes examined Diane with cool curiosity, but he at least offered her a smile, likewise cool to go along with his smug appraisal of her, so evident in her eyes. Had she never been to the place before, Diane would have known she had arrived at the house of Franklin Crown. Only he could have such a fop as a ghoul. "Hi, could I help you?" the young man smiled. His English was crisp and spoke more of the Midwest than of the yodeling surfer twang of California. Diane smiled and opening her purse, took out a business card. "Please give this to Mr Crown and tell him that a friend from out of town is here to see him." The ghoul nodded and taking the card, walked back up the steps in quick athletic strides and disappeared into the house, closing the door behind him. Diane looked up at the house, just in time to see a white hand quickly disappear from the windowed curtains in one of the rooms upstairs. Had Crown been watching her all this time? Certainly he would have recognized her. A sense of her helplessness washed over her and Diane felt herself getting angry at the thought that Crown might be toying with her. Just then the door opened and the ghoul, followed by two Rotweilers, came to the gate and twisting the knob, opened it for Diane to enter. "You may tell your man he can park on the side," the ghoul informed her. Diane waved at Mig and pointed and Mig started up the landrover while Diane entered the house, her feet bouncing off the spongy burgundy coloured carpet inside. "Well, I can only say I'm grateful that you escaped." Franklin Crown sat seated in a plump upholstered chair beneath his parched elephant hide walls and candystriped wallpaper. To his left, through a huge picture window, the lights of Santa Cruz sparkled, their absence defining the course of the San Lorenzo River as it twisted through the small city on its way to the sea. Diane crossed her legs, noting Crown's approving eye following their curves in an almost lustful fashion. If she hadn't known better, Diane would have sworn for an instant that Crown was still alive. Charlie, the blond ghoul, returned with a glass of blood tastefully presented in a Waterford glass. Though well given, the taste of the blood was slightly sour. The vessel had obviously been drinking beer, but as Diane was assured that it had at least come from one of the students from U.C.S.C. (University of California at Santa Cruz), she at least politely sipped it, acknowledging her host's efforts at procuring it. Noting her disapproval, Crown commented, "I'm sorry about the flavor. It was such short notice and the taste of our local students leaves much to be desired. Tomorrow, I'm sure we can perhaps find you an exchange student. Maybe a countryman of yours." "No, that's fine," Diane reassured him. "Friday night I can hunt for myself. I'm sure the students will be out by then." "Well, this is summer," Crown told her. "As most are home for the season, there will be less choice but enough stay over and coupled with those here for the summer sessions, you should be able to manage." "And my gratitude for your hospitality," Diane nodded, wondering what a shark like Crown would eventually ask for his service. "It is my pleasure," Crown reassured her. "Truthfully, I have long missed the company of my own kind. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I shall have to arrange an audience with Bouchard as soon as possible. You must call him, Happy, of course. He's such a buffoon, but as he has his support, and it will not do but to indulge him. After he has accepted you," Crown captured her gaze in his own. She felt uncomfortable but seemed compelled to return his gaze. "And my dearest Miss Forester, you must be successful in convincing Bouchard to let you stay." "Do you see a problem with that?" she asked. "Well, as news of the tragedy in Monterey becomes more widespread, and more from your city arrive as refugees, Bouchard will be harder pressed to let them stay. Indeed, after you've been accepted, I shall press him to deny refuge to all but the most deserving. After all, this city can hardly support more of our kind and is hard pressed as is. Any more would endanger the Masquerade." "I must say," Diane sipped again at the wine, pretending to enjoy it, "that you seem very calm given the news of Jackson's final death, and its manner. How do you know that I'm not an Anarch agent? It's not unheard of for Ventrue to join them, rare though it may be." Crown smiled. "Come now, my dear. You would hardly be flying here if that were true. And as for being alarmed, I am indeed. And for the first time in my undead life I find myself grateful that that bastard Perdicas is at least on the side of the Camarilla. Sandra was a wonderful Prince and I shall miss her, but she hardly had the brutal resources that are represented in Perdicas. That was perhaps her undoing." Diane seemed to think a bit. "How do you suggest I handle the Prince?" Crown scowled. "We do not refer to him as that here in this house," he told her. But afterwards smiling, he explained, "My dear Diane, he's an Argentine Frenchman, if you can imagine such a thing. Charm him. You can do that, can't you, my dear?" Diane's reply was to smile. "Yes I thought so." Crown nodded approvingly. (You will be housed in the Carriage House for the time being. It serves as a guest house and your landrover can stay below, where there is also another room which has but one blackened window. The carriage house sits at the end of the driveway and once housed Crown's carriage and horses and normally houses his Rolls. The upper portion is one room apartment, not counting the bathroom. The apartment has a tiled kitchen, living room and the bathroom is done in mosaicked woodwork of a vaguely Scandinavian style. On one side, nearest the stairway, the carriage house drops straight down as it was built over a wall on the city side the hill. The drop is about sixty feet. The upper apartment has skylights so is not considered a resting place except by night. During the days, you will have to rest in the room below. Crown tells you that you may have use of the Carriage House until you can set up your own crypts.) 2nd June 10pm "Well that was interesting, I hope you know what you're doing...", the hispanic ghoul closed the door neatly behind him and smiled at her. Diane looked him over and allowed herself a grin, leaning back in the uncomfortable chair with a creak. "Oh I'm sure you were very charming", she said. Miguel laughed with the characteristic short bark and draped his jacket across the table, putting the latest edition of the local paper down on top of it as he nodded to her, unable to keep his eyes from her face for long. "His face was a picture. But the first thing is that Mr Crown has asked you to be ready to meet him at half past midnight, apparently. Charlie implied that he might be round earlier as well. He also made some comments about clothes.", the ghoul bristled at an implied insult. Diane listened to this and then nodded. "Mmm... well /there/ is a surprise! But I wouldn't worry about it, I'm supposed to be a refugee. It would look suspicious if I had a full formal evening gown. I think this will do perfectly well, don't you?" She looked across at the reflection in the mirror, the indigo coloured linen of the skirt and jacket, the neat suede slippers, only slightly scuffed. She nodded, satisfied as the ghoul smiled in agreement. "Anyway, I'm assuming that you had time to talk to him during the day?" "Yes", Miguel agreed. "And if you want my opinion he's an arrogant bastard, but perhaps a bit brighter than he appears. I did mention the general decor but he didn't seem to feel it was interesting." Diane nodded, only one eye on the conversation as she pulled a comb through her hair. "Mmm.. and did you tell him?" "Oh yes. I managed to slip that in. I told him, in strictest confidence mind you, that you thought his master's taste in ghouls was better than his taste in furnishings.." "And?" Miguel's dour face brightened, "As I said, I wish you could have seen his face. I'm quite sure he'll go straight back to Crown and boast." He hesitated, daring the question. "Diane?" She tucked a last strand of her hair neatly into place and offered him a Warm, sunny, all-encompassing smile. "Yes?" "Do you really like him?" Diane pushed herself neatly to her feet and turned to the mirror for a moment, brushing down her clothes until finally satisfied with the neat dark figure that faced her. She turned to Miguel with an ambiguous smile. "Of course not, 'I' have better taste in people...", and she took a moment to pat him gently on the shoulder as she retrieved the paper and leaning back against a wall, began to read. Shortly afterwards she had formulated a list of four names to catch up with about the paper. It would have been a quicker task if she hadn't been distracted. She wasn't used to the underlying stress. The last time she'd been presented to a Prince it had been Sandra and she'd been told what to say in quite excruciating detail. This is not a problem, it's an opportunity, she told herself.. and Petra isn't here to screw you over. In fact, she concluded, she was getting soft. Too long in one place... 8 years... She put the paper aside and glanced across into a mirror, the same face looked palely back. Unchanged. The irritable feeling that had been growing inside her resolved itself into the same vague excitement at being in a new place that had been so familiar as a travelling journalist.. and perhaps a little more. She put the paper down and left a note for the ghoul, "Gone hunting" 2nd June 11:10pm The flash of recognition hit Diane as a delayed reaction, a double-take that brought her to an abrupt halt. Grey eyes darted back towards the junction where the clump of passers-by had bustled off. Her thoughts were racing `It couldn't have been him.. could it?' "Are you alright?", the man by her side managed to avoid bumping into her by a narrow margin. He was fairly typical of his type; vaguely unravelled, taking an intelligent if vague interest in things, late thirties probably. "Mm.. yes fine.". She pulled herself together quickly and smiled reassuringly, "I thought I saw someone who looked a bit like an old friend. It's not important.", she gestured towards the rangerover with a twitch of the fingers but her mind was still turning over behind her eyes.. couldn't have been Petra's ghoul.. I'd 'know' if she was here... Dr. Jacobs took a moment to rub at his glasses before replacing them on the bony bridge of his nose and climbing into the passenger seat, with an uncertain smile to the confident figure who swung into the drivers seat next to him. "Y'know Diane.. I just adore your accent.." He knew that he wasn't good at talking to women, and they could usually tell. Even the female students laughed behind his back.. so it was really quite a puzzle as to how he'd started talking to the cheerful englishwoman, or vice versa. Not that he was complaining, but he was nervous for some reason..out of practice, a voice at the back of his mind said.. and a quiet voice, even further back, said something else which he ignored. Amazing really to find anyone interested in Marine Biology, and they'd got on so well, and so quickly. She broke his train of thought by laughing at the comment and starting up the engine. "The trouble with accents is that people focus on the voice and not on what you are saying, John." He started to relax more as she kept up the chatter, driving decisively with a very firm hand on the wheel. Just going back to his place for coffee.. he could manage that.. Finally the car slowed to a stop as she parked outside a block of apartments. "I think I should warn you", he said, "That it might be a bit messy. I'm not the most organised of people." She turned with a confident smile as she jumped out of the car, "Oh don't worry about that.. I'll soon have you organised.." Diane checked her watch absently as she locked the car up.. an hour.. plenty of time. Friday, June 2nd, 1995 11:55 p.m. Diane waited nervously by the carousel. She could see that several vampires had arrived, many of whom she recognized from soirees in Monterey, in what had been happier times. Also, there were a number of familiar faces who had also arrived. She was regarding the Tremere, Hammel, who she had never met before when someone brushed up behind her. It was an obviously purposeful act, but she didn't give whoever it was any satisfaction by reacting. "Ahem," she heard someone behind her say, clearing his throat. Diane reacted by walking away, as if annoyed by whoever it was. Predictably, the kine or kindred who wanted her attention recovered from his shock and followed her. "Hey, stuck up bitch, I'm talking to you!" She stopped and whirled and the biker following her nearly walked into her. At first she thought it was one of the Brujah, but she quickly saw the puffed up young vampire in front of her was no soldier. "You're one pretty bitch, but you got an attitude." The young vampire was either drunk or stoned, probably the latter judging by the glassy look in his eyes. "You need to learn manners!" "And you're going to teach me?" Diane smirked, suppressing a laugh. Were they anywhere else, she would have iced the punk, but given that they were in front of the carousel, Elysium, with vampire eyes everywhere, she had no choice but to tolerate him. Commenting on the glazed look in his eyes she said in a very low voice, "You ought to be careful whom you feed from. The way you look now, you're quite a comic." The vampire puffed himself up. "Whad'ya mean?! It took me all night to find someone stoned to drink from," he yelled at the top of his voice. His words were glaring and totally in disregard of the Masquerade. To top it off, this idiot even admitted to searching out a tainted meal, something all vampires usually tried to avoid. A sandy blond haired Brujah, one of the real warriours, looked over at the young vampire disapprovingly. Though he no doubt deserved it, imagining him staked to a tree bothered her somewhat and Diane began to feel sorry for him, but only just. "Look, shut up will you? You're going to get yourself staked if you don't." "I'm not afraid!" the young vampire screeched. "Nobody likes me! They all hate me here. I thought that maybe you'd be my friend, but you're stuck up like the rest of them!" Several kine looked over. Diane could hear them speculating on what the "crazy" was talking about. The tall Brujah was walking over. Even a couple of security guards had taken notice. Diane grabbed the young vampire by the arm and dragged him over to the entrance of the miniature golf course. The Brujah came up to them but before he could speak, Diane addressed him, "Don't worry. I've got it taken care of." The Brujah didn't look like he believed her and was about to say something, but she cut him off again. "Look, maybe you'd better get back to the Prince and guard him." Just then, Diane saw an undead face she remembered from Monterey. Spiral, another Ventrue and her rival had come here also. "Look at that one," she pointed out Spiral to the Brujah. "He looks suspicious. He's got Anarch written all over him, and he's standing near the carousel!" she warned, her voice sounding panicked. The Brujah espied Spiral and, forgetting Diane and the drugged vampire, stalked off to deal with the hapless Ventrue. Poor Spiral, Diane thought. "That's a nasty looking smile you got there," the drugged vampire commented weakly, his arm still locked in her hand. Diane turned to regard him, mentally chiding herself for her feeling sorry for such a wreck. Dragging him into the entrance she asked him, "What's your name, Caitiff?" "Huh!" the vampire scoffed. "I'm a Ravnos, and we're bad-asses so you'd better watch out." The vampire's name was Weasel. Diane knew him from his description as given by Crown. Poor as it was, Crown's description seemed downright generous now that she had had a look for herself. "Bad asses, eh? What do you want from me?" Weasel glared at her. "Thought maybe you could use a friend," he told her. "But you're too stuck up. You're just like the rest of `em." Diane scrutinized the Caitiff. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it had turned past midnight. "Look, I'll talk to you later, maybe when you're not so stoned. Right now, - as a friend," she managed to say with some metal labour, "keep low and keep your mouth shut, alright?" Weasel looked at her and a small smile inched its way across his lips. "Friend?" Diane nodded and strode off to meet the Prince. (This general move is being sent to all vampire players. Note, that even though information in this move seems specific to a p.c., it actually represents information that is generally known or is available or apparent. Remember that like your Santa Cruz counterparts, all kindred formerly of Monterey are known to each other as they had belonged to a limited and common circle of associates. And that part of the makeup of a vampire campaign are the political and social dynamics. Note that part of this move will still be sent to you along with your own private moves. This is your interview with Prince Happy.) Saturday, June 3rd, 1995 12:01 a.m. Spiral continued to argue with the Brujah, Tony Darc, ready to run should the biker show any signs of attacking him. "Who told you I was an Anarch assassin?" he pleaded "At least give me the chance to defend myself!" Darc reached for a knife at his belt. Spiral backed off and was about to run off when another of the Dead Devils walked up and whispered into Darc's ear. Spiral had no trouble recognizing Chewy, the vampire who had nearly torn his head off the night before. Offering nothing in the way of an apology, Darc walked back to his post near the carousel entrance while Chewy disappeared altogether into the mass of kine, who all seemed oblivious to what happened around them. Regrettably Diane noted, Spiral seemed to had talked his way out of being pasted by the Brujah. He has the nastiest habit of surviving, Diane thought. She was about the initiate a conversation with Hammel when she was roughly tapped on the shoulder by the tall broad shouldered Brujah. "Happy wants to see you." He motioned with his thumb to indicate the carousel. He didn't seem happy about having been sent to chase Spiral. Diane smiled but all she got back was a toothsome snarl. Such lovely chaps, she thought. "Do a girl a favor and stand off a bit, won't you?" she waved her hand to dismiss the Brujah. "I can see you easily enough. I don't need to smell you as well." There were smirks and even a few chuckles from nearby vampires when she said this. The biker snarled, his teeth dripping wet. "You're either brave, or stupid," he spat. "If I were both, I might be a Brujah but I don't think I could ever work up quite the stench for it." Several undead eyes bugged out. Crown was nearby and Diane could see that he was visibly alarmed. The Brujah biker seemed taken aback. Assailed by mere words, he seemed unsure of what to do. He slipped his hand down to his belt, touching the handle of a knife that he was wearing in a scabbard. "Remember, love - Elysium?" she reminded him. His eyes glowing red with fury, the Brujah still managed to contain himself. Though he murdered her with his eyes, he did nothing else. Diane smiled and danced her way up to the carousel. Saturday, June 3rd 12:03 a.m. Diane grabbed one of the posts of the carousel as she jumped up. Though it wasn't going too fast, it was still quite a feat to be able to land properly. Balancing on one of the painted carousel horses, Diane worked her way to the bench where Happy was sitting. He was a curious figure, quite comical in appearance. His striped pants, jacket and straw hat belonged more to the fin de siecle than to any contemporary time, though he paired these with dark round French glasses that had been en vogue only a few years earlier. Despite his accoutrements, he still presented quite a dashing figure, in a mad sort of way. "Hello sir," Diane curtsied. "I am grateful for this chance to meet you." "And when you drink from a mortal, are you grateful, Madamemoiselle?" Coming as it did, it seemed almost like an accusation. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" Diane, for one of the few times in her life or unlife was left bereft of words. "I only imply that from both the vessel and myself you seek to draw succor and sustenance - of a sort. I ask if your gratitude extends to even the vessel, since it of a sort, is the same thing, n'est pas?" "Grateful -, um, yes I suppose I am," Diane lied. "Very grateful for I truly relish my unlife." "Yes, as maggots do corpses, our existence is sweet," Happy smiled. Diane again paused. She was having a hard time keeping up with him. Crown was correct though. He was quite a loon. "So, how mad am I?" the Prince leaned over to her and whispered conspiratorially, seeming to have plucked the very thought from her mind. Diane thought about lying, but it was better to be careful around Malkavians. They had strange senses. "Um, well, to be honest Prince, you seem very mad." "Insane?" he asked. Diane shrugged. "Possibly - probably. Mad, insane, yes." She grimaced, thinking that her interview was not going well. "You are honest," he told her. "When it suits me," she said, hoping for a change of subject. "And your attributes? Your talents? You wish to sell yourself to me? Tell me why you should stay?" "I'm well travelled and I tell good stories," she said. "And what is the best quality for telling a good story?" he asked. "Lying. You take the truth and embellish it, making it better than it ever was. It's the only way to tell a good story." "Or to sell it, yes?" Diane nodded. "Tres charmant," the Prince smiled. "I look forward to your stories." Diane smiled, feeling relieved. Never had she felt so out of her water. He nodded for her to go but as she left, he called out after her, "Diane?" She turned, before thinking. His voice mimicked the tone of a friend. "You have forgotten what Happy is. Try to remember." Smiling she nodded, all the while thinking, does he mean the word happy, or his name? She stopped herself from appearing too baffled walked away, glad to be away from the Prince. Diane stepped off of the whirling carousel, her jump mis-timed so that she slipped upon landing. Spiral was there, ready to greet her with a mocking laugh as she fell. "Graceful as ever, darling," he noted. Seeing Franklin Crown walk up, Spiral bowed. "Greetings, sir," he nodded. Crown nodded in return but then turned back to Diane, ignoring Spiral. He had made his choice it seemed. "How did your interview go?" he asked, seeming a little annoyed with his new protegé. "Very confusing, but he seemed rather charming," Diane noted. "I'm glad you could find something likable in the wretch," Crown said, not bothering to lower his voice. Both Diane and Spiral winced and looked around, but no one seemed to pay any attention. Such blasphemy seemed to be tolerated, at least from Crown. "Anyway," Diane continued. "I'm being allowed to stay." "Not without cost though," Crown said, glaring at Spiral. "Your friend here seems to have beaten us to the punch, as it were. Having already allowed young Spiral here to stay, the Prince already communicated to me earlier that he felt hard pressed to allow another of our clan refuge." "Really?" Spiral seemed to perk. "Why did he then?" Crown glared at him. "Because I made a deal. Why else? I'm putting both of you childer on notice that you owe me, and you owe me big." "Excuse me," Spiral interjected. "I don't mean to be rude, but it seems I recall that I won permission to stay myself, and without any help from - you." Looking at Diane, he added, "Quite the contrary." Crown's countenance seemed to darken. "Listen here, Spiral. Getting permission from the Prince is one thing. Getting permission from me is another. I'm giving you the latter now. Don't make me regret my generosity." Spiral pulled back, his face loosing colour. Diane bowed her head, trying to at least appear as if she were hiding her smile. "Of course, sssiiir," Spiral stuttered. "I wasn't suggesting that I was ungrateful. Of course I am and as Primogen of this city, you can rest your assurances on my loyalty - always." "Thank you, Spiral. I always knew I had the measure of you." He nodded to both of them. "If you'll excuse me." "Spiral," Diane chimed musically, "I do believe you make a jellyfish seem almost human." Spiral ignored her, glaring at Crown's turned back. "If ever there was a need of a staking" "I'll tell him you said that," Diane warned. "Of course you will," Spiral told her. "Why do you think I said it in front of you?" Turning toward her, he smiled. "And of course, it would be such an obviously stupid thing for me to tell you, of all persons, that he couldn't possibly believe it, coming so blatantly from your mouth." "You're as twisted as black oak," Diane hissed, "and as fetching." Spiral's smile stayed with him. "Coming from an expert like yourself, I believe you truly flatter me." Diane cocked an eye at him but said nothing. "Who's that there?" Spiral nodded at a young looking vampire now exiting the carousel. "He's not one of our chaps is he?" "That's a childer of one of the Brujah," Diane told him. "He's so new I think his skin is still warm." "Madness!" Spiral shook his head. "To allow an embrace in times like this. Pure madness!" Diane shook her head. "Really darling, how much of a surprise can that be." The two Ventrue regarded Brandon as he walked off of the carousel. Though they had nothing against him, by the mark of their respected clans, there was already enmity between them. After all of the interviews had been concluded, Prince Happy called everyone back onto the carousel. "Mes Enfants," he began. "We are in dangerous times these nights and the darkness, it will suck us dry if we cry not in a voice, but in the hoarse cry of the mob." Miryam looking around noted once again the dizzying effects of the lights as the twirling carousel zipped past them until they began to blur into a wash of burning colour. The carousel was speeding up. "The path to Golconda, if you wish it, is found in such a cry. Listen to the gulls when you first awaken. Their savage selfishness is our own. If you run the beach, they scatter before you. Such is our own flight and the gulls of Monterey, once our sister, yes such have come to roost. We are all here together now. Look around you! Look!" Everyone did, but all they could see was the whirling flash of lights. blinding their undead eyes. As the carousel continued to speed, many of them felt the pull of centrifical force and had to grip tighter. Happy paused as if he had forgotten what he was going to say. Purdy was seen bending his mouth to the Prince's ear. Happy nodded and then continued. "There are so many mouths now. You must not feed but one night in three. You must not kill your food, but leave it for others to feed from as they need. The dancer is here, but who will play the music? We must all learn to dance. Do you HEAR ME! TO DANCE!" All the vampires looked towards one another, trying impossibly to glean as much meaning as they could out of the Prince's nonsense. His rambling seemed to more frighten the assembly than to comfort them. It was as if the vampires of Santa Cruz had conveniently forgotten how mad he truly was. "The Sabbat, their music is the harshest. And it is so hard to dance to," the Prince told them sadly. Even Crown took note at the mention of the dreaded Sabbat. "Their voices are here, mes enfants. They are in the wind and they whisper around your crypts. They are simple voices and the tales they have to tell all have the same ending. In your daytime dreams, you must think to yourselves what tale you wish to tell, and how you wish it told." The whirling of the carousel was so fast now, that many of the vampires feared that it would break apart. It had built at the turn of the century and as it creaked and groaned, they imagined it disintegrating and hurling them to oblivion. All eyes looked to Happy, unaffected and standing in the whirlwind like the Captain on a ship of fools. Miryam was the first to loose her grip. But before she could be hurled away, Happy himself reached out to snag her arm and pull in back inward. So great was the centrifical force, that it must have taken great strength to do so. "So you see, mes enfants, we must ride together so that all of us can finish. In all things, we must dance, we must sing, we must weave our tales, but always - together. It is that or the ride is forever over." The carousel slowed to a stop and dizzy vampires spilled off of it everywhere. Jonathan looked up and noted how the Prince seemed drained, as if the words he had spoken had sucked him dry. Tenderly, the Brujah Purdy brought him a glass of blood to drink. Blood from a punchbowl was passed around by some of the Prince's ghouls. Though no one wanted to drink it at first, they were reassured when the Tremere Hammel, gazing into it, nodded to show that it was untainted of bonding kindred vitae and therefore safe to drink. The vampires, more than a little dazed themselves, broke up into various social circles, trying to put the best face they could on the Prince's words. During the party, Miryam stayed close to Opium, but on occassion she was alone. One time, Diane saw her talking with Caitlyn. She seemed a little nervous around Brujah, and there wasn't too much respect in her eyes, but perhaps some fear? When Miryam saw Diane, Diane noticed a genuine smile, reserved with politness. Diane guessed that Miryam liked Ventrue a lot more than she did Brujah. Miryam came over to Diane, perhaps not wanting to be alone, and hence open to some unwelcomed advances. The other woman dusted down her sleeves and turned back with a cheerful smile from watching the Brujah she'd just finished exchanging friendly words with. But she relaxes almost visibly as she recognised Miryam, maybe they weren't friendly words after all. "Evening, I don't think we've met? " she offered a hand to Miryam to shake with an easy smile. "I'm Diane, of the Ventrue.. I'm new here myself." "Hi, I am Miryam" she said softly in her slight german accent. "I have been accepted" She didn't seem too happy to relate this news to Diane. Diane seemed genuinely pleased. "Good", and she grined, glancing briefly round the Boardwalk "I think this place could use a touch of culture. She seemed about to ask more but something in her eye acknowledged that this was not the place and she continued smoothly, "I've always been quite a one for pop culture myself but I'm always told that I have no taste!." "It looks as though I'll be staying awhile myself" she added cheerfully, not even the slightest flicker of relief at having been accepted showing itself. "In fact I think we reached a useful understanding," she smiled wryly, just a touch of irony in her tone, "And I've been called far worse things by my editors." "It's good to see you. I was just thinking of how much this place reminds me of home. In fact if it wasn't for the dope fiends", her gaze wandered to a figure by the golf course and she paused and laughed easily. "OK, scratch that, it really -does- remind me of Brighton.... complete with the mods and rockers..." "What do you think of the Brujah?" Miryam asked. It seemed she was trying to change the subject within herself. "Do you know any from Monterrey that may be here?" "It seems like such a waste of good DNA if you ask me. I mean, " she indicated Caitlyn, "she always seemed reasonable from what little I've seen of her, but they don't seem to have the sort of capacity for thinking ahead that you need to get anything done apart from beating people up. No control. I'm willing to be proven wrong but ", with a wry smile, "I don't see that happening any time soon, do you?" Diane added at some point that she regretted not having made more effort to make contact with the Toreador in Monterey and asked Miryam more about herself and Opium.. and the Santa Cruz Toris as well... In the conversation Miryam slipped in the statement "Please be carefull, I know that they would kill any of us without much reason" Sadly the useful nature of this warning went right over Diane's head "No, not now that we've been accepted. But I'm sure it's what they'd like us to believe. It's the same as when you get moved to a new department, Miryam. There's always a lot of posturing going on until the pecking order has been established. The thing to do is to lay down your limits, show them that there's only so far they can go." She paused to glance coolly at the people they were discussing and turned back to Miryam. "Have they been putting the frighteners on you already?" Diane flashed Miryam another sympathetic smile and glanced back to one of the Brujah, not bothering to lower her voice. "It's like the army in South Africa, you give them uniforms and a job and they think they can get away with murder. And it can be such a drag to get them to listen to reason." "For what it's worth, if people give you trouble you can always let me know, I don't mind putting a list of grievances to their boss character.. I mean the worst they can do is kill me", she shrugged but there was a brittle tone to her voice, almost lost. But by the time Diane glanced back into Miryam's face it had been replaced by a wry smile. "I mean seriously, if we can present a united front then we have a better chance of being heard. Like I say, I can take the flak, it's the one thing I've always been good at." Diane seemed quite well disposed as she glanced round the area again, maneouvering to keep her back to Crown. "Mind if I ask how things are going? I was pretty lucky to make it this far myself, I reckon." Diane sighed and for a moment her face set like stone, then she recognised Spiral with an over-dramatic wince and excused herself reluctantly. She did give Miryam the number of her mobile phone if and suggestted meeting up later in the week, if Miryam was interested. Miryam looked into Diane's eyes after her last statement. A seriousness that was not there before was reflected in Miryam's eyes. She told Diane, softly, "Diane, don't think that they won't do what they want, I know" Shaken by some memory, Miryam went over to Opium Diane turned away from Spiral with a single sharp look and walked toward Raphael, largely because he was the first person to have caught her eye. He noticed that she had already managed to leave her glass somewhere untouched. She sounded cheerful enough though. "Evening, I don't think we've met? " she offers a hand to you to shake with an easy smile. "I'm Diane, of the Ventrue.. I'm new here myself." "Did you come down from Monterey? I'm a duffer with faces myself although she glanced at the Brujah, "in some cases the trail of destruction speaks for itself." She grins and nods towards one of them, "Give them a uniform and a job and they think they can get away with murder! They're probably quaking in their boots right now" She grined, "But hiding it bloody well! Do you know any of the others here.. I could manage some introductions... if you're interested that is." "I'm Raphael, delighted to make your acquaintance." responded Raphael, all smiles. He took Diane's hand and, while doing a caricatural bow, gave it a light kiss. "And yes, I'm too from Monterey, but I fear that I was a little... recluse at that time, so it's perfectly plausible (but extremely sad) that we never meet before." He also looked at the Brujahs. "Murder? I know that they are not exactly saints, but... Sister, you really said too much or not enough! You will have to tell me the whole story, but not tonight, for the Boardwalk is full of ears, and some of them are not friendly one's." To that, he smile and waved his hand at a Brujah who was staring a little too much at them. "Well... What was I saying? Oh, yes. I was about to tell you a most horrible confession: before tonight, I never encountered anybody here... Yeah, I know, I'm a social wreck... Can you save me? Please?" But before Diane could say anything, Raphael suddenly turned his head as the sound of a dog barking came from far away. "She's coming!" he said, his smile growing to a panicking size. "Oh! Please forgive me, but I must leave.... He quickly gave Diane a big hug, then ran to his bike. Two seconds later he was gone. Saturday, June 3rd, 1995 2:50 a.m. Well, that was an interesting party, Diane thought Crown had lingered behind, so, with it being Miguel's night off, she let herself into the front door with the key Crown's ghoul had given her. She noted how the house seemed so still, so quiet. Walking forward on the plush carpet, she paused at the base of the stairs and looked up. Crown's ghouls seemed absent and though it seemed a childish thing to do, she felt childer were allowed some freedom to be curious. Carefully, feeling a small rush of blood burning inside her, she carefully walked up the stairway, noting the spongy feeling of the carpet beneath her feet. At the landing, she examined the painting which she had glimpsed from below. It was set into the outer wall, and was painted on glass. It showed a young girl, very beautiful, in a classical pose and costume, picking grapes. The huge painting was bordered on all sides by thick panes of stained glass. Poised as it was to catch the morning sun, it would have been quite a site during the day and Diane was sorry that she would never be able to see it. It was the first time in many years that she realized she missed sunlight. Turning from the painting, she climbed the one remaining flight of stairs and slowly espied the long hall of the upper storey as it came into view, its length illuminated by old fashioned gas lamps, converted to use electricity. Then she noted the hell hounds. Large black mastiffs, every one, the largest of their number came running, his eyes burning red with fire. She jumped back and nearly broke her leg as she flew back down the stairway. So quickly did she fly off of the steps that she couldn't help but to collide with the corner of the far wall. Panicked, she looked behind her and noticed that the hell hound paused at the base of the steps. It didn't even growl but opened its mouth to display razor sharp and wholly unnatural teeth. An alien intelligence burned in its eyes and it seemed to be almost laughing at her. Saturday, June 3rd 2:56 a.m. Not at all liking her run in with the hell hounds, Diane unlocked the door to the carriage house and walked inside. Something grabbed her hand with the keys in one crushing grip while another hand grabbed her throat and crushed her larynx. She vaguely thought about kicking somewhere through the fog of pain that hit her, but her attacker had thought about it first and as she was let go, a solid kick was placed in her chest, breaking almost every rib she had and abrading her heart. Were she human still, she would have been dead several times over. "Allo Bitch!" Tony Darc's voice hissed in her ear. "Welcome back." Grabbing her by the hair, he pulled her along the hallway and tossed her inside her own room. "I hate English!" he confessed. "I hated them when I was a child and they were running, looting and raping all over my home in Poitiers, and I hate them now. I never was happier then when I was disemboweling them. But then," she could see him shrug through her bloody haze, "when I was embraced, I had to give up my mortal ways. Ah, for the simple pleasures of youth." She was lifted up and she felt the sharp very painful jab of a long knife as it was thrust into her abdomen. Darc twisted it, curling and cutting her intestines. With one long powerful sweep of his arm as he reached around her, he slashed her open and Diane could feel her intestines spilling out over her knees. "Where are your words now, eh you Ventrue whore? Don't worry, this is just a friendly lesson so you don't forget who the true masters are in Santa Cruz." Diane tried to gurgle a curse through her throat, but the words couldn't make it past the damage. "Here, let me help you to bed," he offered. Picking her up, he tossed her onto her bed. It was wet and soaked all the way through with blood. There she was presented with the view he had intended for her. Miguel's body was hanging upside down, having drowned her bed in his blood. His head was propped alongside her own, her hair soaking the blood up. "Good day, Sweet dreams," Darc chuckled as he turned off the light and closed the door. <Immediately after the end of the last one- early morning, 3rd> In the silence of the room, the mobile phone rang. Diane started to laugh, red tears rolling down her cheeks and dripping onto the mess on the bed. The knife-wounds had already healed up as she sat up carefully so as not to disturb the corpse, trying to pull herself together. She pushed the panic and the guilt to the back of her head with the promise that somehow, someday, she'd have the Brujah grovelling at her feet. The phone continued to ring. She got up, finally, and stripped off the blood-drenched jacket, tossing it over the corpse gently as she went to the phone. She took a moment to steady herself before answering it. "Hi, is that Diane?", it was a woman's voice that she didn't recognise, or her head was still too fogged from shock to be able to concentrate. "Um yes it is. Hello.. who am I speaking to?" "It's Kitty Peters, you left a message for me. You knew one of my lecturers or something?" Diane paused and forced herself to think this over logically. If she'd known one of the woman's lecturers then she must be a reporter or something along those lines. But had she phoned her? She rubbed again at the now drying bloodstains and closed her eyes for a moment to concentrate on the name. She'd certainly seen it or heard it. "Hello? Are you there?" She opened her eyes again and glanced round, lighting on the newspaper that was still folded neatly on the table and forced herself back into competent mode as she finally siezed on the information. "Yes, sorry", she said, sitting back against the table so as not to have to look at the gore. "Just had to go and turn off the kettle. I recognised your byline in the paper. I thought I'd try to arrange to meet up sometime if that's OK. I remember Sheila mentioning your name when I caught up with her in Monterey.. busy woman." "Really?" the californian twang sounded pleased. "Yes, so I wasn't all that surprised to see you'd made it to feature writer already. Actually I could use your help, if you have some time to meet up so that we can talk about it in person. I'd prefer that to the phone really." "Ahh.", the other woman was obviously putting two and two together and deciding whether she liked the result. "Well sure, why not?" Diane closed her eyes briefly in gratitude as her self-confidence flooded slowly back and the reporter named a busy cafe and they agreed a date and time. Her head was already buzzing with how she would talk to the woman, the secret investigative report she would tell her she was working on. Then the offer to help her brush up her writing, the contacts she might be able to offer, the slow building up of interest and then cautiously picking off information. It would be a start. She put the phone down and turned back to the room, eyes pausing on the corpse. Even as she rolled up her shirt sleeves and started to clean up something inside her had already subconsciously decided 'No more ghouling ever again' as the only answer to the rising tide of guilt. Jun 3rd, approx 2am She'd spent most of the night sitting silently in her room and clearing up. The bloodstained clothes and sheets and Mig's personal belongings were neatly bagged up and she was resigned to having to ask one of Crown's ghouls to organise having them burned... just as soon as she could muster herself to leave. The body itself was in the car under some blankets and she had been trying not to think about it. The scent of blood that had been driving her half-wild, low as she was already after healing, was almost imperceptible. Waiting 2 more days to hunt was not a happy thought. She met Charlie out in the driveway and managed to muster a bright smile. "Ah, good evening. I'm glad I ran into you", she said cheerfully. His eyes wandered over her and to the car curiously and he nodded. "Just wondering how you were getting on." She sighed dramatically, "So he asked you to check? Well, I'm fine as you can see!", she added mentally that it was a new definition of fine... "Actually I was hoping you might be able to do me a favour if you have the time." "Oh?", he seemed to perk up, presumably at the hope of getting some gossip, "Well really you should speak to Mr Crown about that but of course I'd be more than happy..." his eyes seemed to harden slightly. She beckoned him inside the carriage house, thankful that the smell was more or less undetectable now and smiled at him as she indicated the bags. "It's just some stuff that I need to get rid of. I think burning would be best." He smirked and looked them over and she could see that he was about to refer her to his master again. But she pressed on, despite everything, focussing her thoughts and concentrating on projecting... <<You want to listen to me, you're fascinated. You want to believe me>> And her voice dropped to a seductively lower tone as she felt it take hold. "I would have told him but I don't want to get anyone into any trouble. This is private business, Charlie, and I don't want any of you to suffer from my mistakes. It will really be the best thing all round if this is just disposed of quickly. You see.. I don't want anything to happen to -you-." The vampire bit her lip and forced an expression of pure unadulterated concern into her eyes. "I don't want you or Franklin", she used his first name deliberately, "to pick up any hassle over this which is why it's best all round that it gets finished quickly. Of course I'm happy to talk to him.. I don't have anything to hide, but you can see where I'm coming from." The ghoul nodded and sighed as if much put-upon. "I'll see what I can do", and she noticed with an imperceptible wince that something was flickering in his eyes that indicated that he might have a very clear idea of what she had just done to him. It was only after they left with the bags, and she forced herself to stay and watch them burn from a safe distance that it occurred to her to wonder whether Crown had gotten a decent sort of boon from the Brujah, for letting him on his ground unhindered. Sunday, June 4th, 1995 4:56 a.m. [Phone message:] <BEEP> Message Sunday, June 4th at 4:56am...20 seconds: <click> "Diane, Jonathon Steele here. I was wondering if you'd like to get together and discuss our...um, current situation. You can leave a message with my answering service at 1-800-xxx-xxxx. I am looking forward to hearing from you." <click> End of message <BEEP> Jun 4th Soon after dusk (9pm ish) Finding Weasel again had been easier than planned, certainly easier than the decision to go and look for him. She'd started at the Elysium, dressed casually this time in jeans and a shirt and taken a while to look round the people and nodding politely to any of the other kindred. With what was turning out to be typical bad luck, Darc was also there and she managed to meet his gaze coolly enough before turning away. "Did he get you then?", Weasel grinned with what might have been supposed to be a sympathetic leer. She shrugged. "Let's just say he wanted to see if I had guts." and she smiled wryly at the irony. "Listen Weasel, are you busy tonight because I could use a hand with something." He'd haggled a bit about the price but eventually curiousity had gotten the better of him and he'd climbed into the landrover alongside her. Sunday June 4th, 1995 9:52 p.m. Diane watched Weasel toss the body into the rolling surf off of Pescadero, entirely empty this time of night, thinking how inadequate the Caitiff's measures were. Surely, poor Mig would wash back up onto the beach. "Weasel, you can't be serious," Diane said to him as sloshed back onto the sand, all the while thinking how poor a reward Mig had received for his years of service. She promised his memory that someday it would be Darc's body rolling in the surf, and she wouldn't care who found it. Weasel just gave her a cryptic look. "Just watch he said." There was a broiling in the water. Once, on assignment in Brazil, Diane had been treated to a similar spectacle, staged for her with the body of a capybara. "Sharks?" she asked. "Maybe," Weasel said, not looking at her but continuing to watch the thrashing water just beyond the surf line. "Just remember this place. It's handy to get rid of any accidents." Diane held back a tear. She focused on her bearing and nodded to the Caitiff. "Thanks, Weasel." Weasel softly grabbed Diane's arm as she passed. "Hey, Diane, I'm sorry about your ghoul. Don't worry. They'll all get payback - soon enough." Diane paused. "Weasel? What do you mean by that?" "Diane? Are we friends?" "Of course we are." "Then call me Serafin," he told her. "Weasel's what the Brujah named me. The `others' just took it up." "O.K. Serafin. You got it. So, you want to tell me about that cryptic remark?" Serafin just smiled. "You'll see." He ran up the beach and she followed, after a pause, absently noting how hard it was to trudge in soft sand. Sunday June 4th, 1995 11:56 p.m. Diane paused, absently watching the police cruiser pass by out of the corner of her eye. Then she and her friend resumed their "necking", and the parked volkswagen once more rocked to the rhythm of their movements. The young man, a summer stay over from the university, moaned. She drank deeply. He was young and he could spare the blood which she so desperately needed. She drank, almost too much. With not a little will, she pulled herself back, licking his neck and kissing the fine blond hairs that spilled over where she'd "kissed" him. (Diane has 2 blood, and now gains 8, bringing her to 10.) "Sleep tight, love," she told him, exiting the vehicle and locking it after her. Steve's breath rattled. She realized she'd drunk too deeply and there was a slight buzz in her head. What was his name - Steve? - had been drinking coffee and had smoked a joint not long ago. She hadn't tasted it in his mouth when kissing him, but it was there in his blood, now inside her. That was the problem with feeding on students, they always seemed to have something besides blood floating around in their veins. Still, it gave her a chance to sample some interesting flavors, as long as it wasn't something too hard core. She'd had a few nasty trips before and now took great pains to observe her prey, but there were never any promises. Keeping an eye out of an easy snack, Diane decided she had at least enough to recuperate. Stopping at a phone booth to dial 911 (emergency line), she told the operator that there was a guy in a volkswagon on Walnut who seemed to be having a seizure in his car. Then she hung up. He'd probably live, she decided, but it was best to make sure. Monday June 5th, 1995 12:42 a.m. Santa Cruz was dead at this time of night. The Toreador, who hunted the catalyst, had probably already gone home with their meals. With her own hunting prospects poor, unless she felt like more caffeinated vitae from one of the late night cafes, Diane decided to give it a rest and look up the Tremere, Hammel. Serafin, who seemed to know everything, had told Diane that Alex kept a caravan (trailer he'd called it) in a small section behind the main caravan park on North Pacific, near the river. Walking briskly through the park, the lights of all the caravans turned out, Diane was treated to the mixed sounds of human congestions, sickness, snoring, crying, arguments, lovemaking. Occasionally a dog barked at her or a cat hissed. If the animal was too loud, she would just hiss back and the creature would scurry off. There was only one trailer that was well lit and that was near a circular road, rather exclusive, Diane thought, for a caravan park. She knocked on the door, noting the potted plants full of daytime blooms that a vampire couldn't possibly enjoy. Alexandra Hammel opened the door and Diane could hear Melissa Etheridge playing on a stereo. As Alexandra saw Diane, she gave her a quixotic smile. "Come in," she said. Diane shook her head, suddenly feeling a pressing need to be elsewhere. "Just paying a courtesy call," she said. "Perhaps, another time?" Alexandra gave a perplexed little smile. "Certainly," she said, watching Diane depart. Monday June 5th, 1995 4:16 a.m. Diane wandered around Santa Cruz for several hours. She always seemed to carry with her some sense of unease, as if there was something she was forgetting. Finally, as the morning drew to a close and she saw the large outline of Crown's mansion looming high on the hill above her, she realized that the mansion was where she'd wanted to go all this time. Walking up path from Front Street, Diane entered the house from the front. Charlie, Crown's ghoul, opened the door for her. "Good evening, Mizz Forester. You've been expected." Charlie ushered her into the large formal sitting room, whose one dominant feature was a large picture window that seemed to take up one whole wall. Below them, as if viewing the scene from the edge of precipice, the vista of Santa Cruz lay before them. The lights of the city twinkled like coloured electric gems, still giving the sleepy town a melancholy look. Fog was starting to pour into the city, following the course of the river below them. "Ah, my dear, we've been expecting you." Franklin Crown got up from the stuffed horsehair chair which he often sat in, receiving guests as if the black seat were a throne. Two others were there as well. Diane recognized Spiral. The other was a vampire also, but not one she'd met before. "You know Spiral, of course," Crown motioned toward Diane's fellow Ventrue from Monterey. "Allow me to introduce Mirabella Giovanni, who has recently arrived in Santa Cruz." "Call me, Mira," the woman said, rising from her seat and extending her own hand. Diane took Mira's hand, thinking, Giovanni! What are they doing here in THIS backwater? "Charmed," Diane said. "Diane Forester." They all took their seats, giving Diane a moment to look over the newcomer. Mirabella cut an elegant figure, in the best tradition of vampire seductress. Her sleeveless black silk dress was simple, yet elegant, especially given the cunning weave of gold weave that adorned the belt around Mira's tiny waste. Of course, the Giovanni were notoriously wealthy, a fact that hadn't escaped Diane in her youthful unlife, though she'd never met a non-Camarilla vampire before. "Diane, where have you been keeping yourself?" Crown asked. "I sent for you hours ago." "Sent for?" Diane tried not to look surprised. Then she realized what Crown meant. He'd summoned her. Somehow, he'd been able to link with her mentally, not strong enough to communicate, but enough to plant a suggestion that she return home. Returning a warm affectionate smile to Crown's self important smugness, Diane also realized why she'd not given into it. She must have sensed it was from Crown. That was reason enough to avoid it. "So, how did you sleep?" Crown asked her, point blank. "Fine," Diane assured him. "It's the best rest I've had in a fortnight." She realized that he somehow knew about the Brujah visit. But she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of humiliating her in public. "Frankie?" a woman's voice called down from the entrance to the room. Crown's smug composure vanished instantly. A look of panic was there for all to read. "What?" he said, jumping up. "Excuse me!" was all he offered to his surprised guests before disappearing. They could all briefly hear Crown's voice, first arguing, then pleading, then patiently urging what sounded like a young woman. What he was trying to get her to do was a mystery as none of them could make out the words. Spiral spoke, deciding to end the awkward silence. "So, Mira, what brings you to Santa Cruz?" he asked, broaching the subject at last. Of course her answer was purposely vague. "I'm here to visit an old family friend." Spiral was just about to ask what friend, when Diane, sensing the Mira's desire for privacy, butted in by saying, "That's a lovely dress you have there. Is it from Venice?" Mira's eyes shined. Diane could almost read the thanks in them. "No, Florence," she said. Spiral sagged down, prepared to be bored by talk of clothing and dresses. "Are you staying here with Franklin also?" Diane asked, using Crown's first name in a purposely familiar way, to suggest that he and Diane were friendlier than they really were. Whether it worked on Mirabella couldn't be seen, but it did have it's affect on Spiral, whose jealous scowl cast itself onto Diane. Crown was still conveniently absent, unable to respond to this familiarity. "No, I'm staying at the Bryce House," she said, surprising in her ready willingness to reveal her crypt. Probably, it was a lie. "Bryce House!" Crown exclaimed, upon returning. "But, that place is haunted! It's full of malevolent spirits. Kine won't go anywhere near it, I hear, day or night." Off in the distance, Diane could hear a phone ringing until Charlie answered it. "Which makes for the perfect resting place," Mira smiled. Diane had heard that the Giovanni were necromancers. If true, then these supposed specters would be little problem for the vampiress. Crown was about to add something when Charlie appeared, dragging a phone with attached cord. The phone was art deco, expensive and hopelessly spoke of being trapped in 20's decor. It seemed as "modern" as Crown could think, Diane noted, observing the trappings around her. "What!" Crown's shocked voice answered. "I see. Well, in this at least, you have my support. I'll supply the reward, just like last time." He hung up the phone, which Charlie silently took away. When they were alone again, Crown addressed the other vampires. "That was one of Perdicas' brood. That being who styles himself the Prince has called a Bloodhunt on the new Gangrel, the one calling himself Raphael." Though they didn't know him, both Diane and Spiral knew of him. He, like most Gangrel, was a solitary and aloof creature, only occasionally dealing with the subtle life of his vampire kindred. "What has he done to deserve this?" Spiral asked, shocked that a Bloodhunt against one of their own should be called so soon after their convelcade on the carousel. "He's embraced without permission. When Perdicas' Brujah nabbed the chylde, Raphael retaliated by killing several Brujah ghouls who were guarding her. He's taken her to the mountains. The Prince has offered a substantial reward for whoever brings him proof of Raphael's death. I know, I'm supplying the reward." Before they could ask, Crown told them. "a vial of Giant's blood and a dagger." They were all silent for a while. It was Mirabella who spoke first. Smiling, she said, "And I thought I was going to be bored here." Monday June 5th, 1995 4:21 a.m. "Diane, I'm hurt...truly. You failed to return my message. I hope that everything is okay," said Spiral with a glance at Crown. "I know, and I'm sorry Spiral", there was a note of genuine sorrow in her voice or skilled acting at the very least. "Something came up. I'd still like to talk to you sometime if that's OK?" "Crown, while it is always a pleasure visiting," said Spiral, "we are hardly Toreadors with nothing better to do than have a dinner party. I am sure you will forgive my directness in asking you the purpose of this meeting?" Crown looked over at Spiral, seemingly distracted. "Hmm? Oh, Spiral, yes. I was going to suggest something but I think, given the night's late developments, that I'd better let it wait for the moment. That will be all." Crown waved his hand as if dismissing all those present, acting as if it were he who was reigning Prince of Santa Cruz. "Oh, not you Mira," Crown said, as the Giovanni vampiress rose from her seat. "I was hoping that you and I could finish our private little chat." Diane walked out of the house with Spiral as he left and commented in an undertone, "Looks like Frank's ranging far and wide for allies now. Wonder if the old dear still has a soul to sell...?" Monday June 5th, 1995 8:39 p.m. Diane emerged from her temporary crypt, ready to search for, among other things, a new place to stay - one that she could call her own. It would be the first among many secret places she decided. The political currents of Santa Cruz reminded her too much of Monterey, before Jackson's fall. She would be prepared this time, she vowed. However, Diane was totally stunned when, exiting from the Carriage House, she ran into Charlie. He was surrounded by policemen. There were at least nine of them milling around the grounds, searching for something. "I thought you said no one was home!" the policeman said to Charlie, obviously annoyed. "What I said was!" Charlie insisted, "That they couldn't be disturbed. Mister Crown and his guest have to rest, as they important social engagements to attend tonight. Given that you didn't have a search warrant, I was going to let you just go barging in." "I got news for you, buddy," the policemen poked his finger into Charlie's chest, "You don't need a warrant when you got probable cause. I'd say this is probable cause." The policeman pointed down at a lumpy form under a canvas tarp. Diane had seen enough such scenes in her journalistic career to know it hid a body underneath. But who's? "Excuse me, Miss Forester, is it?" Obviously Charlie had the cop who was staying on the grounds. "Can you tell me what your business is here with Mister Franklin Crown?" Charlie looked dismayed. Diane ignored the question, instead asking Charlie, "What's going on here?" It was the cop who answered. "There's been a murder." Diane looked as shocked as she felt. "Who?" she asked, looking down at the canvas. The police officer obligingly pulled the canvas away. Diane tried as best as she could to hide her shock upon seeing his face, his straggly blond hair framing the anguish that had frozen in rictus. It was Steve, the kine she'd fed on the night before. But she'd left him alive, she was sure of it. The cop turned Steve's head, and Diane saw the two puncture marks in the side of his neck. "What's going on here?!" Crown's voice bellowed. He had obviously awakened and was glaring down at the whole assembly below him from his porch. Charlie looked at Diane fearfully. The cop ignored Crown. Other officers were already approaching him. "Go on, do you know this person?" he asked Diane. "I thought I saw a look of recognition in your face." Diane bit her lip and nodded to the policeman, "I think so. Could I see his face again?" She closed her eyes briefly when they did so and gestured quetly for them to pull the tarp back over. "I think he's a student. I've been doing some research up at the campus and I must have seen him there. " and she looks the policeman straight in the eye. "I'm sorry if I'm a little shaken, I know death is part of your job, but I'm really not used to it. This is.. tragic. If there's any way I can help with your enquiries I'd be only too happy." "Was the... um.. corpse found near here? And those odd marks on the neck... is that what", she inserted a suitably dramatic pause" what killed him?" She hugged herself and added quietly, "I'm sorry, all I can think is that it could have been me." The policeman scribbled all of this down in his notebook. "So, you're still maintaining that you don't know him?" Diane shook her head, glancing out of the corner of her eye at Crown. If looks could kill, she thought. "Mizz Forester, would you mind coming down to the station with me? There's something I'd like you to hear." She nodded to the policeman automatically, "Of course Officer. Do you mind if I get my coat?" As she walked back to the carriage house she let her expression dissolve. They must know something. Maybe some eyewitness report of having seen them together. Or maybe whoever set this up had gone further. Because it had to be a setup. She unlocked the door and waited for the policeman who walked back with her to hold the door open while she picked her coat off it's hook. She managed a curious smile for the man, "It must be a harrowing job, having to always deal with the worst side of human nature" And the smile hung in the air between them. <<Presence 1>> "I can't tell you how shocked I am by all this... how did it happen? And what on earth brought you here? Naturally I'm only too happy to help.. but I'm curious.", she paused politely, "Poor soul." "Mind if I ask your name?" "I'm Detective Andy Locatelli," the detective said, smiling. As they walked back towards the car she shrugged the coat on, checking for the press pass in the pocket and glanced up at Crown, catching his eye with the faintest of smiles. At least this was a shock to him too. And after all, if someone, for some reason, was faking vampiric killings.. what better way to find out? Monday June 5th, 1995 9:00 p.m. Diane glanced at the clock again. It just turned nine o'clock, exactly. For several minutes now, the detective had been just staring at her, tapping his pen in an annoying way on the tabletop. She supposed it was meant to intimidate her. If he only knew, she thought. "Detective," she began, impatient for the interview to be concluded. "Andy. Call me Andy," he said. Diane smiled. "When are we going to get on with this?" she asked. The summertime nights were short and she didn't want to waste another one trying to find a crypt, especially given the evenings developments. Wherever it was, she decided, it would be very very secret. "You're new in town." The detective said it as a statement. Diane just nodded. "Where do you come from?" he asked her. "If you mean my accent, it's English," Diane said testily. "But for the last few years, I've been living in Monterey." "Monterey, hmm. Nice town. You like it?" "It's a nice place," Diane said, patiently waiting for this verbal dance to conclude. "Why'd you leave then?" "I felt like a change," Diane said. "Hmm, not much of a change. If you wanted to see Santa Cruz, you could of just got in your car and driven forty minutes up the road - thirty if you're speeding. Do you like to speed, Mizz Forester?" Diane noted that his accent had a bit of East Coast nasality to it. "I'm a journalist," she said for an answer. He smiled. "In other words, whatever it takes." Diane smiled back. "Sometimes. I don't set out to break the law. If you suspect me of a few speeding violations" "You still want to hold to your story about not knowing the young man?" "It's not a story," she said. "I didn't know him." "Then maybe you want to explain why we found this in his pocket." Locatelli - Andy - tossed her a photocopy of what looked like a scribbled note. She didn't recognize the handwriting, but she did recognize the content - all to well. It was an address and phone number. 111 Cannery Row - Monterey. "I checked that number. You used to live there it turns out, back in Monterey. And that was your phone number before you had it disconnected." It was true, though how the dead vessel could have gotten it, Diane was at a loss to explain. Cannery row had, since the 30's, been the haunts of the Nosferatu. The Ventrue had moved in back in the 80's, their power play heralded by the Monterey Bay Aquarium. Really, what the Ventrue were after was to destroy the Nosferatu power base and they'd succeeded - maybe too well. It had been said that the Nosferatu had vowed revenge. The Ventrue move had come with the blessing of the Toreador Jackson, who'd wanted to refurbish the area. Toreadors didn't have much love for Nosferatu. Could those sewer rats have been behind Jackson's final death? Diane had speculated it before, but she'd never had proof. That Nosferatu who'd been at the Prince's gathering, Loparlo, he knew Diane. He would might have known where she lived, after all, Cannery Row had been the Nosferatu's for years. And as she had participated in managing many of the businesses on the Row, maybe Loparlo now saw a chance to bring her ruin. But this was all speculation. "Mizz Forester, I'm afraid we're going to have to hold you here for some further questioning. However, there is a way I could maybe let you go earlier," Locatelli offered. "That being?" "Would you volunteer to take a polygraph test?" he asked her. "Otherwise, I'm going to have to hold you on suspicion of murder." "But, just on that scrap of paper?" Diane protested. "No, on the fact that you seem to have lied to us. Unless you can give us reason why someone would want to set you up. That is the only other explanation." Diane could give him plenty of reasons, but none that he would believe. She was just about to ask for a lawyer, a right she'd waived earlier. But she paused, trying to gather her thoughts. One thing she was sure of. She couldn't afford to be held, not with daylight beckoning only hours away. Monday June 5th, 1995 9:10 p.m. But, also obviously, taking the polygraph wasn't an option. She knew enough about how they worked to be certain that she couldn't fake the requisite sweat and temperature and pulse patterns - not if she had a hope of maintaining any sort of masquerade. Diane switched her gaze from the detectives hand with the impossible piece of paper back to his face, not bothering to hide her growing unease. The remaining options were dwindling. No point trying to dominate the man, it would be on record and any deviation from normal procedure would be picked up like a shot. Especially on a murder charge. She sighed, a very practised gesture, and finally asked, "OK. Before we go on with this, can I say something off the record?" Monday June 5th, 1995 9:12 p.m. Instead of answering her question, the detective just tapped away with his pen. Finally, he said, "O.K. Off the record. Shoot." He turned off the tape machine on the table. Diane said, "Look, you saw my press pass. I'm an investigative journalist" "What paper?" "Freelance. I've written articles that have helped put people behind bars. You're a policeman. You know what that's like, and how long people hold grudges." "Who?" "Excuse me?" "Who had you put behind bars?" Diane blinked. He didn't seem to be buying it. "You know that Braithwaite scandal that hit England about six years ago? The one where an M.P., excuse me, that's a politician - think congressman. Anyway, Mister Braithwaite turned out to be keeping secrets. He was an ultra conservative, reactionary white from Belgravia. He helped write anti-immigrant legislation but then, as it turned out, he had an illegitimate daughter by a Pakistani mistress. Well, I was the one who" "You're saying a guy in England framed you here, in California?" This time Diane cut him off. "I'm not saying that. I'm just giving you an example of how I made powerful enemies. I mean, Braithwaite lost his next election because of me. He's a cabinet minister now, but don't think that he's forgotten" The detective began to tap his pen again. Diane sighed, an affectation she used still though she didn't really breathe anymore. "Alright. For the past ten years, I've been investigating secret societies. I've had to go underground. If I've been twitchy, it's because I know what these people can be like. They have influence everywhere and no one, and I mean no one is safe, not even in a police station. I mean, for all I know, you could be one of them." "One of who?" he asked. At least, Diane noted, he had stopped tapping his pen. Diane smiled at him. "Look, you and I are on the same side. I'm trying to stop murderers and make this world a safer place, just like you. Only I'm doing it my own way and I'm making enemies." "Enemies? You mean, people who would kill someone, dump their body on your front porch, with your old address inside their pocket, just to get you in trouble, rather than just dump your body on your own front doorstep? Of course, you're a world famous freelance journalist whose disappearance would be noted by thousands, if not millions, of daily readers. You really expect me to believe this - excuse me Mizz Forester - this bullshit?" "Detective Locatelli. I really have no idea how this man got my old address, but based on that information alone, that someone may have thought that he knew more than he did and he got killed for it." Locatelli began to tap again. Diane was loosing him. "Look, I don't mind talking to you about this some more. But do we have to do this here? Can't we discuss this somewhere else?" "Somewhere else? You're a murder suspect. This is where we discuss - `things' - with suspects, in the police station! You're not about to go anywhere Mizz Forester. Now, how about that polygraph test?" "I can't." "Why not?" "I've taken a polygraph before as part of a report for when the police were trialling them in England and was proven to be a bad subject. I'm not willing to let my innocence rest on a technology that I don't trust. It's entirely up to you as to how to proceed, but I think you should know that while you're holding me, the true murderer is walking the streets." "And that would be?" "How the hell would I know?" she snapped. Again, the dreaded pen came down and began to tap on the detective's pad. He turned the tape machine back on. "I want to make my call now, please," Diane told him. "That's probably a good idea. You're going to need a lawyer - a good one." He shut off the machine. Escorting her to a phone, Locatelli paused to talk things over with another detective. Diane flipped through the phone book. Santa Cruz Seaside Company. She dialed the number. "You have reached the number for the Santa Cruz Seaside Company. All our offices are closed. If you would like to leave a message, please do so at the sound of the beep." Shit! Diane thought. What great timing. She realized she'd wasted her call. The ill-humoured detective didn't seem the type to just give her another. A beep sounded in her ear. "Hello, if anyone's there, this is Diane Forester. I'm at the police station and have been arrested falsely for a murder. They intend to hold me until dawn. I repeat, they intend" Someone picked up the phone. Thank Caine, Diane thought. "Allo English. You not having a good time?" Diane felt her dead heart stir. It was Tony Dark, that Brujah bastard who'd killed Mig. What did it have to be him? Diane silently asked. Why? "I'm,I'm at the police station." "Yes, until dawn I hear. That should prove very interesting. No doubt they will wonder how you managed to escape from your cell when the sun rises. Do you think you'll scream? It might make covering your final death up a little bit more difficult, I think. But - we'll manage." Diane imagined him smiling, his wet lips curled back in a toothsome repugnant smile. "I've written a letter. I put down names, places - everything." It was a lie, but she had every intention of doing it. At first, there was silence from the other end. "I see," Dark's voice seemed calm, almost amused. "Very good, English. You have guts, yes?" "That joke's old, you Brujah piece of shit!" Diane spat in the phone. Seeing the curious looks of Locatelli and the other policemen, she lowered her voice. "I just want you to know" The phone clicked dead. Diane stared at the handset and then, as if shocked, put it slowly back on the receiver. "Can we go back now," she asked Locatelli. "I have some things I want to write down." Locatelli beamed. "Certainly." He led the way back to the conference room. Diane just sat there stunned. Slowly, woodenly, she took his pen and started to jot down names, starting with Tony Dark and the rest of his Brujah pack. Someone walked into the room. Locatelli rose from his seat. "Chief! What, uh, how can I help you sir?" Diane looked up. The Chief was a large portly man, who seemed to waddle more than walk. "Detective Locatelli? Is this woman Diane Forester?" "Yes, sir, she is. Can I ask" "You've got the wrong person, detective. Mizz Forester's character has been vouchsafed by the San Francisco and Los Angeles Police Departments. Also, new evidence has come up." "May I ask what that is, sir?," Locatelli stubbornly replied. "The lab work has come back. Your body was killed elsewhere and dumped. Mizz Forester is a personal friend of the mayor. He's asked me to look in on this and is very distressed that you're holding someone he considers to be a personal friend. Mizz Forester is here doing some sort of investigation at his behest and he wants every courtesy forwarded to her, do you understand?" "Chief Norden, I have to protest. You have no right to come into MY investigation" "Am I hearing this right, Locatelli? Are you presuming to tell ME! what to do?" The detective appeared to shrink slightly. "Mister, I'm not asking you. I'm TELLING you to let her go! Now! If you want me to do it, I will. But then, you might as well just go home and sit there awaiting your hearing on insubordination, do I make myself clear?!" Locatelli nodded. "Yes sir, very clear." Chief Norden turned to Diane, who was busing pocketing the detective's notepad. She would carry it until she could burn it. "I apologize for any inconvenience. I can assure you it won't happen again. Why don't you gather your things and I'll drop you off where ever you want to go." Locatelli didn't make any move to stop him. Diane nodded. Walking out, she offered Locatelli a conciliatory smile. She found she liked him. For a kine, he wasn't bad. He might make a good ghoul, she decided. "Let's have dinner sometime," she said as she walked out. Thursday, June 15th, 1995 11:44 p.m. The kindred were busy talking amongst themselves, while their ghoul bodyguards hovered nearby amongst the kine. Los Diablos Muertos had had to round everyone up, making sure that they showed up at the meeting and in some cases, providing an escort. With the werewolves running amuck, most kindred were afraid to venture out. News of the Toreador, Claudia Bertini's final death had gotten out. She'd been destroyed two nights before - torn apart by werewolves while out hunting, while the Toreador primogen, Mudita, had been savagely mauled. Once, when a wolf howled in the distance, all conversation stopped and everyone paused, as if expecting another lupine attack, obviously fearing that what had happened to Claudia and Mudita would happen to them. And, with the recent attack on Elysium, speculation and rumours were floating that the attack had only been beaten off with much loss being taken by the Brujah. Normally, a Brujah setback would have been a cause célèbre for most Santa Cruz vampires, but recently, with wolves at the door, most vampires seemed more afraid of change than anything else. The Brujah were cruel and overbearing - but at least they were seen as protection - or at least they had once been. Other talking speculated on who had been leaving corpses around crypts. Evil glances were shot at the one vampire no one expected to find at Elysium - Raphael, the very culprit who'd been accused of leaving the dead vessels. Word was circulating that Raphael had diablerized his own chylde to try and get out from under the bloodhunt and that he was present trying to beg the Prince to let him back into favor. Other topics discussed floated around speculation as to why a Giovanni had come to the city - especially in such a troubled time when it would have been safer to stay away. The rich Ventrue, Spiral, it was said had already left, being flown out in a private helicopter and was said to be now in London. The Brujah doctor, Brandon Lawerence, it was said found a way to cut out as well. Many other kindred would have also sought a way to leave Santa Cruz had they the means. The Giovanni, Mira was her name, cut an elegant figure in her Gianfranco Ferre dress, hanging out mostly with the remaining Ventrue, Thomas Crown and Diane. She seemed lively and animate, seemingly unaware or uncaring of the storm brewing around them all. And last, the topic everyone was wondering about but no one was voicing was why Happy had summoned them all. Was it something to do with Raphael, or the werewolves? Did the Giovanni have something to do with it? It was apparent that Purdy wasn't taking any chance about Happy's security. Purdy was having words with Raphael - and not nice ones at that. "You came, chylde? Niiiiiiice. Real nice." Raphael bared his fangs and hissed softly. "Cute dentition. I bet it will do a perfect necklace for my babe, eh Rebecca?" Purdy said as he walked past Raphael. Rebecca laughed and blew a kiss to Raphael and walked away with Purdy. Later, Prince Happy, escorted by Purdy, Rebecca and Chewy, came out of the carousel. Suddenly, the Gangrel, Raphael, charged toward the carousel, claws fully extended and fangs bared. From somewhere, someone shouted "HEY! The stray dog's up to something!". But no one was in a position to stop him other than the Brujah on the carousel with Happy. On the carousel, Happy was not paying the slightest attention to what was happening below and was raising his arms, preparing to speak to his audience. Purdy was looking straight at Raphael. He was grinning, obviously satisfied that Raphael was now literally running in his lap. He positioned himself before Happy and waited, ready to tear Raphael to ribbons. But as Raphael jumped on the carousel and leaped on his prey, it was Rebecca, not Prince who was the obvious target. The impact knocked Raphael and Rebecca down the carousel. They met the ground with a loud "thud". As Raphael raised his arm to slash another time, a black hand closed on it. The hand twisted and Raphael's arm broke with a sharp noise. Raphael screamed and tried to release his arm from Chewy grip, but the Brujah was quicker. In seconds, he was holding Raphael in a bear hug and was pulling Raphael's head back, giving himself a free access to Raphael's neck. Raphael tried to move but the Brujah was too powerful. It was the end. But the death blow didn't come. Rebecca and Raphael had fallen from the carousel. Rebecca, now healed, was still laying down, eagerly about to watch the spectacle of Raphael's slaughter. However, there was a murmur from the crowd which parted to reveal - Rebecca! "What the FUCK!" this Rebecca spat, gazing at her unholy twin lying on the ground beside Chewy and Raphael. "IMPOSTER!" the first Rebecca screamed. "GET HER!" The first Rebecca jumped on and tackled the second Rebecca, tossing back onto the carousel. There was screaming, and mounds of torn hair, all of it black; but one Rebecca, and no one could be sure which she was, seemed to have the upper hand when a gunshot rang out. One of the Rebeccas staggered back, holding her stomach. As the two Rebeccas were busy tearing each others brains out, Chewy, still holding Raphael in his bear hug, turned his glance toward Purdy, asking for instructions. Purdy saw him and nodded in direction of the two Rebeccas, drawing his gun. Chewy nodded back, throwing Raphael roughly to the ground and advanced toward one of the Rebeccas. Chewy tackled her, pinning her down. "Get off me you STUPID FUCK!" this Rebecca screamed, but Chewy held her down. With this opportunity, the other Rebecca fled into the workings of the carousel. "HAPPY!" Purdy screamed his warning. Chewy tossed his Rebecca away and he and a number of ghouls ran towards the carousel. There were sounds of more shooting. The Brujah backed off as two screaming, howling Malkavian Princes came tumbling out into the open. Shedding even more blood onto the area, the two identical Prince Happys finally parted and stood glaring at one another. Raphael immediately tried to take advantage of this momentary freedom, but the Dead Devils were faster. Before he could get up, three bikers were on his back and were trying to pin him down. Raphael struggled widly and almost managed to shrug the men off his back, but in the end his still-healing arm and the raw strength of the three ghouls defeated him. Immobilized, he saw the two Happys tumble down the carousel and all that ensued. "You are a pathetic excuse for an imposter," one of the Happys said while straightening his suit. "No, obviously you are," the other Happy said, preening himself in a compact mirrour while retwirling his moustache. "Anyone with eyes can see that you lack the panache of a real Prince." "Which one IS the real, Prince?" Mudita, the Toreador primogen asked, voicing the question on everyone's mind. "I can't tell them apart. They both have a similar aura. They're both psychotic." She pressed her fingers to her temples. "I can't read their thoughts well. I see terrible dark things from both of them - but I can't tell you which is the real Prince." "There is a way," one of the Happys said, looking toward Thomas Crown, who was standing toward the back of the crowd. The other Happy looked at the Happy who'd just spoken and nodded his head. "Yes, I agree. That is the way. Thomas?" Crown's jaw dropped. "NO! I refuse!" "What's going on?" Alexandra Hammel asked. "What's he - they - talking about?" The Happy who'd spoken last volunteered, "Our brother, Thomas, knows someone - a mutual confidant - that knows our person well and who could easily identify the real Prince." "Never!" Crown vowed. "I would rather see her dead than humiliated in this way!" "Aren't you worried that it is you who will be humiliated?" the other Happy pointed out. "Good point!" the other Happy agreed. "Merci," Happy replied, smiling. Thomas Crown pushed his way toward the front of the crowd. "End this charade!" he demanded of Purdy. "We can't tell which one is the real, Happy. We can't take the chance of killing the wrong one. I say kill them both!" Purdy looked over at Crown. "Get your hand off my jacket," he growled. "Come off it, man! We can be rid of this excuse of a Prince once and for all! YOU can take his place! I'll support YOU! Anything is better than that laughing stock of a lick sitting up there in stereo! It's more than I can bear! Kill them both! Then, the Camarilla would finally respect us. Even that Anarch rabble over in San Jose and Salinas - THEY would respect YOU. You can finally bring peace to the city." "Cmon!" Chewy urged. "Cmon Purdy, let's dump Happyass and we'll make you our Prince! What about it?" The Brujah ghouls took up the chorus, cheering for Purdy. Rebecca could be seen whispering something in Purdy's ear that looked like, "Do it." Obviously, the moment was ripe for Purdy to take the reigns. Purdy pushed Crown roughly back into the crowd, nearly knocking over the Gangrel, Mish, who stood in the way. "Crown, who're you trying to fool? Everyone know's that you won't be satisfied until you're Prince. And you'd get the Toreador or Gangrel to try and ice me once you figured you could get away with it - and the Tremere would help." "Me?" Alexandra shook her head. "No, not me, Purdy. I just want to serve, trust me." Obviously Alexandra thought that Purdy might make actually make a go of becoming Prince. "And Crown, if I ever did become Prince, my first official act would be to have you staked for sunrise. So give it a rest. Face it, Happy's Prince because he's the lesser of many evils. If you became Prince, the anarchs would waltz here in a quick minute. You don't have the briefest of notions of how to deal with them. And no one, besides the Brujah - and maybe the Nosferatu - really want me as Prince." Purdy scanned the crowd. No one disputed him thus far. "All of you would scheme and connive to bring me down. But with Happy, everyone's willing to let it slide. No one's really jolly, but we all exist - together!" Purdy scanned the crowd. There were grumbles but when he looked that way, voices grew silent. "Otherwise, the whole candle melts. Point taken?" There was silence, but no one offered disagreement. "So, what do we do now?" the Nosferatu, Loparlo asked. "Do we just wait?" Purdy looked at the two Happys. "I don't think we have much of a choice right now - until someone here can come up with a way to tell who's who?" Purdy turned to Crown. "What about this confidant that the Happys were mentioning?" "Forget it," Crown hissed. "You had your chance, Purdy. By throwing away my help, you've shown yourself to be a greater idiot than those two on carousel. Don't expect my aid in anything further. Frankly, I don't care who rules here!" "Alright. If anyone has any ideas, chuck it up. Otherwise, we all hang until this thing is resolved - and childer - from the way it looks it's goin ta be a real long night." Caitlyn Jackson stormed forward, obviously upset. "Come on, Crown, bring this woman forward! We need to get this crap out of the way and concentrate on getting some normality restored here. If you can solve this problem, then fucking solve it!", Caitlyn shouted over the mumbling voices around her. As Crown turned to face her, she tucked her hand inside her leather jacket. Crown just sneered at her, turning to Purdy and commenting, "Perdicas, put a leash on your bitch. She's barking and it's starting to annoy me." "FUCK YOU!" Caitlyn pulled a gun out, pointing it at Crown's head. "You BASTARD! I'm not forgetting what you tried to do to me. Don't push it!" "I don't know what you're talking about," Crown yawned, ignoring the gun. Caitlyn addressed the others in the crowd. "I got the imposter posing as Raphael trying to dump the body of one of our ghouls in front of Crown's crypt. I save his ass and he tries to ice me for it." Crown's sneer crept back across his face. "Oh that." He smiled, looking something like a nicely dressed lizard with a grin. "Sorry my dear. I could hardly tell you apart. Street trash - it all looks the same." Something in Caitlyn snapped and she pulled the trigger. However Purdy, moving so fast that no one could even remember having seen him move, suddenly had the gun in his hand, even as it went off, firing harmlessly onto the beach. Everyone watched a bunch of sand fly up and then it was totally silent. Crown looked unperturbed. Casually, he pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his face. "I won't insist on a Bloodhunt for violating Elysium," he told Caitlyn. "But learn to watch your temper. Next time" He finished without continuing. "Yeah," Caitlyn nodded. "Next time," she promised. Purdy, observing this, handed the gun back to Caitlyn. Speaking like nothing had happened, he asked Crown, "So who IS this babe the Happys were mentioning?" Crown just glared at him and walked away without answering. A number of his own well armed prepy ghouls appeared carrying automatic weapons, covering his tracks. He started up a conversation with Mira Giovanni and soon the two of them had pulled away from the others while his ghouls formed a screen around them. Friday, June 16th, 1995 12:17 a.m. Purdy had just finished his speech. He motioned to Chewy and other Dead Devils to guard the two Happys and walked toward Raphael. Raphael, who was still pined down. Purdy knelt beside Raphael and yanked his head up by his hair. "Tell me, you little shithead, how did you know it wasn't Rebecca on the stage?" Raphael growled, then squinted as if from pain as the biker who was holding his broken arm to the ground twisted it sharply. He looked Purdy in the eyes and said slowly, as if each syllable was difficult to pronounce, "The scent... Her scent wasn't right..." Purdy nodded. "It makes sense. Could you do the same trick with these two suckers?" he said pointing at the two Happys. Raphael looked at the two Happys. He passed his tongue on his lips and said, "I maybe can". Purdy released his grip on Raphael's hair. "What we have to loose anyway? Well, stray dog, what're you waiting for? Get up and take a good sniff." With the maximum of decorum he could muster, Raphael got up. Slowly he walked toward the two Happys, who were looking at him with an amused glance. Raphael got up onto the carousel and sniffed. He stayed there for several minutes and appeared to be trying to decide, looking at first one and then the other of the supposed Malkavians. Finally, Raphael turned to Mish and the others and shook his head. He couldn't tell them apart. Friday, June 16th, 1995 12:25 a.m. The vampires, even Raphael who was made safe for the moment by virtue of Elysium, broke up to talk. They wouldn't leave until dismissed by Purdy. After all, with all of the lupine activity, most of them would need the Dead Devils to escort them to the vicinity of their crypts anyway. After a while, Diane noticed that Caitlyn moved off to talk a bit with Raphael, a curious act given how strongly the Brujah had been trying to destroy him recently. Still, there seemed to be no animosity between the two, judging from the way they spoke. Some shouting made her look once more toward the carousel. A wolf had appeared and was charging the two Happys. Then another wolf appeared, knocking the first wolf away from the carousel just as it was about to jump aboard. Purdy, the rest of the Dead Devils and ghouls appeared and blasted the wolf into bloody shreds. The wolf was Raphael, who was slowly transforming back. He looked very dead. "You didn't have to shoot him," Mish said, after transforming himself. "Fuck that!" Purdy said. "I wanted to shoot him. And what was he doing going after the Happys. Dumb and Dumber. We're better off rid of him." "Well he's not at final death yet," Mish announced. "You've just driven him into torpor." Caitlyn, after quickly conferring with Miryam, looked over at the slumped body of Raphael. "Purdy", Caitlyn began, "let's sort this thing out quickly and have done with it!" Pointing towards Miryam she added, "Miryam here knows a thing or two about our imposter. She says he's a Tzimisze named Pyotr, and if we can use that, and whatever this woman of Crown's knows, then we can work out who is the real Prince. Let's force this issue and get things sorted out once and for all". Caitlyn glanced at Miryam. Then she pointed them towards the slumped Raphael, where Mish stood looking over the body. "I also want to keep Raphael alive", she began, and then noting the black look that swept over Purdy's face, she hurried on. "I know, I know ... he deserved everything he got but he was getting desperate to do something. If some bastard had taken on your form and started killing kindred left right and centre, might you not want to sort him out yourself? Raphael might have acted stupidly, but I owe him, Purdy. He saved my skin against a couple of furbacks some time ago, and I want to pay my debts. Let me give him some of my blood just to bring him round; not enough to let him try anything stupid again, but I want him kept alive." Friday, June 16th, 1995 12:35 a.m. Rebecca scoffed and would have said something scathing had Purdy not given her a dirty look, which made her swallow her comment even on the edge of voicing it. Purdy seemed to take Caitlyn's request very seriously. "Yea, well I understand the need to repay a obligation. I'm not going to say I approve of your decision. I think you're a fuckin idiot, and my opinion of you has dropped to the gutter. But if you have a debt, I'll respect your right to pay it off. BUT!" Purdy held his finger up in front of Caitlyn's face, "I'm going to hold you personally responsible for that lick's actions from here on out - because you're the one who brought him back." Purdy lifted Caitlyn up by her jacket, so that she faced him, her feet well off the ground. "And you keep him out of my face and out of trouble or I'll have you ashed right alongside him when the time comes! Dig?" Caitlyn nodded. She turned to the others for help, but everyone but Mish turned away, not willing to face the displeasure of the Brujah primogen to help an outcast Gangrel. Quietly, Caitlyn opened her vein and let some of her vitae pour into Raphael's upturned mouth. Friday, June 16th, 1995 2:58 a.m. As time progressed, it became obvious that nothing was going to end the impasse. Dawn was getting closer and many kindred began to grumble. Most demanded to leave, in response to which Purdy said that they could leave - but alone, without protection. With "wild dog" packs roaming the streets of the Flats, no kindred are leave the Boardwalk and the safety of Elysium as provided by the Brujah and their armed biker and security guard ghouls. Caitlyn found her thoughts wandering to finding some ghouls of her own. But given her actions vis-a-vis Raphael, she doubted that this was the right time to approach Purdy about it. In fact, she doubted that Purdy would want to see her face anytime soon. So the end result was that almost the entire kindred population of Santa Cruz was holed up at the amusement park, now closed. They began to break up, hoping to find suitable sleeping places during the day. No one was happy and may kindred were begging Crown to be loaned some of his ghouls for protection. Much as Crown would have enjoyed having the Toreador and Nosferatu beholden to him, he couldn't really spare his ghouls as he had no intention of sleeping at the Boardwalk and had already promised safe passage to the Giovanni, Mira. More and more, pressure was being put on Crown to produce this so-called mystery woman who could identify the real Prince. But Crown refused, and in fact, now denied the existence of any such person as a figment of a madman's imagination. Finally, it was the Tremere, Alexandra Hammel, who finally came up with a solution - of sorts. What she proposed was that, if the imposter was using blood, as almost all Cainites did, to fuel his power, than if he were depleted of blood, he would be unable to maintain the facade. "But can you take their blood so easily?" Mudita asked Alex. The Tremere merely smiled. "Blood magic is our specialty. My only concern is that if I take too much, I could harm the real Prince, or drive him into Torpor." "Don't worry my dear," Crown smiled. "I certainly won't hold you responsible and I applaud your attempt." Purdy didn't seem happy about the idea of a Tremere working blood magic on the real Prince. He suspected Alexandra, probably correctly, as being a Ventrue puppet; so it came down to a Primogen vote. Purdy of course voted no, but the other Primogen, becoming anxious with the approach of dawn, voted with Crown. Purdy warned the Tremere of what would happen to her if the Prince was harmed, which only made her more nervous. "I'm hoping that the Prince either has more blood or has stronger blood than the imposter. Between the fight the imposter was in with Rebecca, and from what I hear, being shot up by Mister Crown's ghouls, I'm hoping he's fairly depleted." Saying this, Alexandra, screened for secrecy by some black cloth, began to work her magic. Almost at once, both Happys began to show discomfort. Everyone's eyes were on the figures on the carousel. Though both showed distress, one was obviously the worse for the effect. Soon, one of the Happys collapsed, while the other looked over, his expression one of concern for his fallen foe. Purdy rushed up, looking at the standing figure. "Happy?" he asked. His answer came when the other vampire leaned up and groaned. Everyone gasped. Instead of Happy, a pale faced gaunt blond vampire, with an unfortunate blemish on his cheek, looked up at the crowd. He appeared ill with lack of vitae, but his reaction was to giggle. "He's Mad!" Crown gasped. "Of course he is," Mudita told him. "Who else but another Malkavian!" While Chewy held the imposter in his arms, Purdy searched him, and soon yanked off an ancient looking Medallion. Crown, ever the antique expert announced, "Byzantine. Probably 13th century." "Who are you?" Purdy demanded. "Ah, mon petit Brujah," the real Happy said in a tired voice, "he is one of mes freres who has lost his way, dancing to the song of that other chorus. Alas, he is un Malkav antitribu. I heard his song in the voice of my soul, as can all of my kind recognize each the other when our souls are in tune." Purdy nodded. "Sabbat. That's what I figured." "Nice to let us all in on your suspicions," Crown hissed. "Actually, I was waiting until they got you. Might as well make them do some good work while they were here." The Nosferatu, Loparlo cut in before things could get too heated. "You said 'they.' Does that mean you think there are more?" Purdy shrugged. "Who knows." Turning to Chewy, Purdy told his clanmate, "Take him back to the Crib. I'll want to 'talk' to him." "I'll want to be privy to this interrogation," Crown demanded. Purdy just turned and smiled. "I'd love to, Crown. Someday, I'll make sure you get to witness my interrogation techniques first hand. But until then, just count your blessings that it isn't your turn - yet." "You dare to threaten me?!" Crown fumed. "Obviously. Are you issuing a challenge then? You have that right." Crown appeared distressed. "No. I won't fight you. I know that's what you want." "Crown," Purdy growled, "You don't know me and you have no idea 'what I want.'" "Gentlemen, let's focus on matters at hand," Jonathan Loparlo suggested. "With wolves literally at the door, and now the attentions of the Sabbat, we can hardly afford to fight amongst ourselves. Let's let bygones be just that - bye and gone." The matter was settled when Prince Happy tapped his cane loudly on the carousel floor. Crown and Purdy turned away from each other. Chewy took the imposter away for interrogation, screened by a band of his ghouls. Happy affected a clearing of his throat. "Mes enfants, it is short until dawn. On Saturday, you must all return and tell me your stories. I shall decide then who the winner shall be." "The winner?" Purdy asked. "The winner of what?" "On Saturday - midnight" Happy started to leave but then turned. "Oh, Monsieur Crown, the amulet, sil vous plait." He held out his white cadaverous hand and Crown, stalling at first, finally handed it over. The Prince left and the others did to, being escorted away by the Brujah ghouls. Saturday, June 17th, 1995 12:00 midnight. It was another foggy night. With wolves still prowling the street, it had been quite an adventure for some of the kindred to arrive safely. Still, by pooling their ghoul escorts, a number of the more wealthy and powerful kindred, mostly Crown, Purdy, and Loparlo had been able to give enough escort for vampires calling the Boardwalk in need of such. Mish too had gone out and brought in several vampires so that the compliment meeting that midnight represented nearly the entire vampire population of Santa Cruz, with many ghouls present as well. Of course, Mock, the Nosferatu primogen was absent, as always. Loparlo it was said was going to be named primogen in the elder's place as, with the diablerizing Sabbat around, who could blame the ancient vampire for wanting to stay away. As it turned out, a number of petitions were to be heard that night. Aside from Loparlo being named primogen, the Brujah, Purdy, wanted to be allowed to embrace three new clan members to replace Jerry Jones, Richard Lopez and Tony Darc. Crown was expected to have none of it and the Toreador, Mudita and Gangrel, Mish were expected to vote with Crown. For this reason, Loparlo's being named a primogen took on a new importance for Purdy, who, with the Prince in his pocket, needed more votes to at least bring about a tie; with the Prince declaring any tie breakers. Of course, Loparlo himself was keeping mum about which way he would vote. For the lesser kindred, such political maneuverings were well beyond them and not of interest. Many of them, feeling the fear brought on by recent werewolf predations, were bringing their own petitions; not for childer, which was denied them, but for the creation of ghouls, both as companions and for protection. It was also rumoured that tonight would be the night that the fate of the Gangrel, Raphael, would be announced. Currently, Raphael was in torpor, having been shot up by Brujah ghouls when he attempted to rush the carousel. Speculation was running high. Anything from Raphael's public diablerization by Purdy to his adoption as a chylde by Happy were being voiced. It being a Saturday night, the Boardwalk was open late. However, the need of the vampires for their privacy was paramount. Herds of kine were ushered out by security on the pretext of a bomb scare. The band on stage, "The Lonely Children", had been imported from Monterey to entertain the kindred and their ghoul escorts. As the lead singer, Caitlyn Jackson, was a local celebrity now residing in Santa Cruz, a number of kine were reluctant to leave. Little did these humans suspect that their idolized singer was one of the walking undead and that they were lingering in the midst of a crowd of hungry vampires. Another vampire led band, a sort of rival to the first one was going to play next - Amber Bateman's "Amber Chorus". Once the park had been emptied, these more stubborn kine were dominated or charmed into submission and all kindred were allowed to feed from them at their will. These kine posed a strange juxtaposition to the revelry going on around the carousel, the arcade and in front of the bandstand. Any stranger would have assumed they these people had swooned from too much drink or from drugs. How much darker and ultimately unbelievable was the truth. While vampires amused themselves at the untended arcade games, the band finished up one of their darker and more cryptic songs, "Blood Feast." All voices grew silent as Prince Happy appeared, not on the carousel, which was reserved for primogen meetings, but on the stage. "The Lonely Children" were packed off to other parts while their singer joined the crowd of vampires. Behind the Prince, squads of Brujah "Security Guard" ghouls patroled the beach in jeeps, to ensure that the meeting was private. "Ah, mes enfants. How beautiful you all are. I have good news for you all. The times of strife, they are over." The crowd paused waiting for the Prince to continue, but he seemed distracted, gazing at some distant point in the sky. Everyone could see that Happy was wearing the Byzantine amulet taken from the Sabbat agent, who had met his final death at the hands of the Brujah after being interrogated. Crown affected a cough while standing offstage. Happy looked over at the Ventrue with glassy eyes. "Ah yes, mon frere, Thomas, will now speak to you all." A seat was provided for the Prince by a Brujah ghoul and Crown took the microphone. "The first announcement that the Pr, that, um, he," Crown pointed at Happy, "wishes to make is that the restrictions on feeding are henceforward lifted for the duration of the summer months." Murmers were heard amongst the small group of vampires. Several applauded. "However, during the leaner winter months of December through February, the restrictions on feeding will go back in place." "For the time being, you may feed at will. You are required to clean up after yourselves and make sure that you choose your vessels wisely. You are to dispose of any kills made and destroy the remaining waste. Any vampire not adhering religiously to this will be staked and disposed of. Any vampire who drinks dry improper vessels, whose disappearance will threaten the Masquerade, will likewise meet their final ends." "And I want to point out that though we are lifting the restriction of taking the life of unwanted and unmissed vessels, you are to show discretion. Certainly, no one but those on the Primogen Council will be allowed to take more than one life per month. Anyone violating this will be treated as having violated Caine's law, in the form of the First Tradition." "You can all thank my money for this. Thanks to extensive tourist advertising in many North American and Asian cities, and a blanketing of European areas through my contacts there," Crown nodded to Mira Giovanni, who returned his acknowledgement, "we can be assured of a steady stream of tourists far in excess of what we will need." There was more applause, none of it from the Brujah. "Now another point. Not that I'm encouraging that all of you drink your vessels dry, but now and then, I think it's a good practice for us all to engage in. Besides the sweet savouring of drinking a life, many of you are showing unnecessary attachments to your former humanity. This is of concern to many of us. Remember that we are a higher form of life, created by Caine to cull and keep in check the vast herds of kine. Aside from your ghouls, no one of us should consider any of these kine of any importance. Any kine who is worth anything will ultimately be embraced, or at least given the option. But these are few. The rest are food for the Gods." "I'll now turn you back to theum, him." Crown handed the mike back to Happy. "Thank you, mon frere for that inspiring bit of speaking. I'm sure I say with you all how you much your words make us feel a certain way," Happy nodded. There were some chuckles from the crowd. "Let us all give a round of applause to Monsieur Cr, Cr - him," Happy said pointing at Crown while smiling. There was a round of laughter and applause, but little of it for Crown. The few remaining Brujah and their ghouls were particularly vociferous with cheers and a few undisguised invectives for Crown. "Mais mes enfants, the dryness time, it is over. You may drink your fill of the bounty of Caine." There was more applause. "Now, I wish to announce something more. The appointment of Monsieur Loparlo as acting primogen for his clan, les Nosferats." "I protest!" Crown voiced. "Loparlo's appointment was supposed to be addressed AFTER another matter - by the entire Primogen Council!" "Ah, it seems that I have the ballots here," Happy said, pulling out some envelopes from his colourful balloon pants, "of les Primogens Brujah, Gangrel et Toreador. They all have said, oui, which makes it certain. You can vote, non, if you wish, but it will make not a differance. And it would be so cruel to Monsieur Loparlo to say he is on the council and not to vote this evening because he was made a Primogen late, non?" Having been outmaneuvered, Crown sank back into his chair and continued to sulk. "The last thing I must tell you is of the fate of Raphael because I know you are all near your final deaths of curiosity if I don't tell you soon. Because he has helped to save us from the Sabbat antitribu, I have pardoned him for his crimes of the taking the unlife of the Bruzjhah, Lopez, the killing of Bruzjhah ghouls, and the creating of his chylde, for which he has paid most dearly indeed. But, bowing to the wishes of our primogen," Happy nodded to both Crown and Purdy, "who are for once in agreement, Raphael will be banished upon his recovery, upon pain of final death should he come back here again." "Now, mes enfants, continue to dance and sing and enjoy yourselves. We of the council have matters to discuss; but you may go about your way. I will hear your petitions after the council session, when you come to tell me your stories. I tell you all that I will have a most special prize for the one who gives me the best bedtime story." Happy, followed by the rest of the primogen, Loparlo among them, retired to the carousel, which was soon sent whirling, it's music loud enough to drown out any sound of what they were saying. Still, despite the gravity of the meeting, it was hard to take it seriously, which is perhaps what Happy intended, as all the participants save Crown, who always chose to stand, were seated on colourful carousel horses, whirling in the mirroured lights of an insane Prince's court. The kindred broke up, waiting their turn to tell their stories and then be heard by the Prince. Amber Bateman's clear crystal voice cut the night, drawing all undead ears away from the mad carousel and towards her pure gift. Sunday June 18th 1995 - 00:30 The singer had a stunning voice, Diane decided as she lounged back against a wall inspecting her fingernails. She'd decided it would be only fair to give the band quarter of an hour while she made up her mind but in truth it hadn't taken that long. She preferred Amber's voice to Caitlyn's although she didn't think either of the bands' songs had anything particular to say. The Brujah, Caitlyn, approached and there began an uneasy banter to which Diane paid little attention. The rivalry between the two singers seemed to resolve itself as the two began singing a duet. A group of glassy-eyed healthy-looking girls swayed past the silent figure without paying her any attention. The vampire itemized them briefly: long hair, strappy sandals, skimpy T-shirts, jangling jewelry, faint tang of sweat and a glowing body warmth she could almost sense. If the other kindred were taking Crown's advice to heart, there was a good chance that at least one of the four wouldn't make it to dawn. To Diane they were wasters, silly giggling parasites who had hardly a brain cell between them and she wouldn't have touched any of them with a bargepole - no doubt some other kindred would be less picky. She amused herself by wondering which one of the girls it might be and which of the kindred. Most of the elder politics had gone over her head, but on the whole she was pleased that Raphael wasn't to be killed. For better or for worse, they had all arrived together and it was so easy for the older vampires to find excuses to hound the younger ones. She certainly derived a good deal of vicarious pleasure from watching the elders argue, feeling it was good for them to focus their energies on each other. She was less certain about Crown's tack on killing and decided lazily to put off worrying about it until later. Whatever this particular song was, it seemed to be going on forever, the pure clear tones swelling into the air even through the distortion of the sound system. The woman on stage had closed her eyes and was swaying to the same rhythm as the girls as she smoothed her hands slowly up her own body, lost in the beauty of her own music. Diane preferred 3 minute songs, the staples of the 60s and 70s music she had liked in her own party days. She drifted into a nostalgic memory of the time she had blagged her way into a supposedly secret gig to see the Stones in a tiny pub in South London. Now /that/ had been one hell of a concert, even without the drugs. Time loitered as if inviting nostalgia and the lights and sounds and voices and bodies conspired with the tropical breeze and the distant sense of ocean to convey a whisper of paradise. Bored with paradise, Diane went through to the arcade to watch Weasel playing pinball instead. (OOC: Is he still around? ) (A: Yes, and he's still playing pinball, having never made the transition to video. Even for a young vampire, he seems caught in time.) Sunday June 18th 1995 a little later As Diane was about to step up to the carousel, Caitlyn Jackson beat her to it. Rather than petitioning the Prince, Caitlyn turned and addressed the crowd. "There are those that are embraced and receive the greatest of gifts, and then there are those that die. We are the chosen, the higher form of life, but in escaping death we miss out on one of the high points of human life - the passing into death. For it is only then that we get to hear the voices of the angels, the songs that make any sound we can make appear little better than the yapping of dogs. Do you know where that sound comes from?", she began. Several in the crowd were mumbling, trying to figure out what the young Brujah was up to. "I SAID, DO YOU KNOW WHERE THAT SOUND COMES FROM?" Everyone's attention focused on Caitlyn. "Right, that's better. Okay, I'll let you in on the story of just why angels sing..." WHY ANGELS SING... In a faraway land of ages past there lived an ordinary man and woman - Kyle and Dania - who had little about them to mark them out as anything but just another man and woman amongst thousands of others. The, like many more, had a large family of five sons, all of whom were almost grown to manhood as the time of war moved closer. Kyle was a powerful man, and though his craft was but a simply farmer, his sons had all acquired his health and strength, and the sharp wit of his shrewd wife, Dania. And each son had talents which were unique within their family, and which certainly would be an asset to their King if he needed such men for his campaign. Daric was the eldest son, standing several inches above the height of his father and as broad across the shoulders as the very doorway. He had turned his interest away from the plough at an early age, and was now a swordsman of prodigious skills. From the quickest, nimblest of rapiers through the mighty broadsword, Daric was more than a match for any that dared stand before him. His brother Vanyar was next in line, and his talent lie with the bow. Not for him the clumsy crossbows that were the fashion of the military nowadays, but the longbow; a weapons requiring both great strength and precision. Vanyar could hit targets that few others might even be able to see, he could take birds out of the air as they flew by and shoot a leaf from the branch of a tree over a hundred yards distant. Toric was the middle brother and his affinity with animals had made him a magnificent horseman. There was not a steed in the land that he could not sit astride and have do his bidding, not a stubborn, unbroken colt alive that would not yield to his touch. The most broken-down of nags would suddenly find the speed of a champion racehorse when Toric rode it. The smallest and brightest of the brothers was Aldfelt, much more the product of his mother than his father. Leaner but no less well built than his siblings, Aldfelt's true power lie in his quickness of thought and deed. He could see thing and react to them faster than most men were even aware of them, and his ability to take control and command others was readily apparent. Few doubted that Aldfelt would become on of the leading tactical masters should the King find himself in need of Generals. Of all his sons it was Cathal that was the greatest disappointment to his father, and as he was the youngest, he found the favour of his mother more readily than the others. Cathal's skills were less measurable than his brothers for though he had the intelligence of his mother, he had little love for things of a martial nature. The world around Cathal seemed filled with wonders, and he could spend hours gazing upon the petals of a flower or the silverspun web of a common spider. His greatest ability was to put these magical feelings into words, and it was his poetry and songs that made him notable. When he lifted up his voice and sang the ballads of youth, those who would listen found their heart skip and tears of joy flood their eyes. "Songs?", Kyle bellowed when his tempers frayed the most, "Of all the most useless of things in this world, a minstrel must be the greatest!" While the other brothers chuckled and joined in the scorn, Cathal sought solace alone and refused to be cowed. He loved his family with his whole heart, but he was sensitive enough to be hurt by their mockery. A year passed and as the sons grew a year older a messenger came from the King; the country was at war and all able young me were to be drafted into the army. For Daric, Vanyar, Toric and Aldfelt the call could not have come soon enough, but Cathal had been dreading it. As the drums beat and the men marched off to war, Cathal hid himself away in the barn and waited until they had left. When Kyle heard of Cathal's cowardice there was no stopping his rage. After the breaking of pots and crocks and the upturning of tables, he threw his youngest son out of the family home despite the pleas of his wife, and told him not to return until his deeds could match that of his brothers. Cathal, his eyes blinded by tears, grabbed his few possessions and ran as fast as he could away from his only home. Months of wandering and feeding himself by begging or singing for his supper eventually led Cathal towards the front, where the King's army was fighting a steadily losing battle against. Word came to him that the two sides were to clash in a nearby vale, and from the descriptions of some of the champions and heros of the campaign so far, he knew that his brothers still lived. Fighting to get the better of his fear, Cathal headed for the valley, keen to be reunited with his brothers once more, for he never knew if he might lay eyes on them again. Days later Cathal reached the valley and as he crested the hill he looked down upon a scene of such carnage and ruin that sorrow almost drowned him. Thousands upon thousand lay dead there, men of both countries it seemed, but many more wore the colours of his own King than did not. With trepidation Cathal began to comb the corpses for signs of his brothers, and after many hours of searching he found each and every one of them, all with the life torn from them. Sobs whacked Cathal's body and salty tears burned his eyes as he wept for his lost kin, and so deep was he in his grief that he never saw the dark ghostly figure of death wending his way across the battlefield. Where the dark robed figure walked, shadowy figures rose from the fallen and stepped in line behind him, a silent flock following a determined shepherd. As the Grim Reaper stopped before Cathal, his long-handled scythe leant upon the bloodsoaked ground, he looked down upon the crying youth and spoke. "I am not here for you, boy, but for those that lie around you. Weep not for them for it was their time, but you have many years before you yet." Cathal looked up into the hollow sockets of Death's eyes and felt his spirit chill. Fear alone could not quell his grief though, and as the tears continued to roll down his cheeks he looked back to body of his brothers. "They all had their lives before them too until this senseless war took them away. If I could take their place, I would not hesitate to do so", he said. Death seemed to chuckle to himself, a cold, grating sound that clutched at Cathal's heart. "Their time is past now and they must come with me. Each has tried his talents and has failed and now they are to stand in my halls. Why would you think that I would have need of you over them? What skills do you have that would be of use to the halls of the dead?" Cathal looked up once more and felt his own courage grow as he realised that Death himself was listening to him. "I can sing. I might not be able to wield a sword like Daric, to shoot like Vanyar, ride like Toric or plan like Aldfelt, but I can stir the hearts of those who would listen. I can sweep away fear or pain with words, can turn sadness to joy or frivolity to contemplation. I can tell of things that human eyes could never see - my talents are no less than theirs, for all they might differ. If you can find a use for these skills then take me and leave them here in this world." Death, though without expression, seemed to be thinking on Cathal's pledge and with a nod he indicated that Cathal should prove his worth. The song Cathal brought forth was the greatest he ever gave voice to. His words would have warmed the dead themselves if they could listen and Death himself seemed pleased to hear it. As the strains echoed their way around the damned valley, and Cathal let the refrain drift off to an end. He then sat back and waited for the decision. "Boy", began Death, "would you be willing to give up your life here and follow me? Would you be able to walk with the dead, to use your voice to comfort them as they pass from the world they know and into my own realm? Could you use your voice to provide them with the light they will need to follow if they are to greet death with open arms?" Cathal knew that his answer would determine his fate, but for the first time in his life, he knew that such a momentous choice was his to make freely and he felt no fear. "If you would pass over my brothers this day and take me instead, I will walk by your side for eternity and give what solace I can to those who have reached the end of their time." Death nodded his agreement and with an icy touch upon Cathal's forehead, he took the youth away from life and into his own realm. The brothers all awoke from their wounds some time later, rising to stare at each other in wonder as they looked about them at the piles of dead. How they had survived they would never know, but for years later they talked of how they had heard the voices of angels singing to them, and were sure that they would die. If you ask any man alive who has suffered the same fate as they did, and yet has somehow lived on through is ordeal, each will tell you the same. The angels have songs that would burst the heart of those who listen, such is their sweetness and melody, and each would have felt the urge to slip away into the forgiving darkness and accept what death might bring. But they, like Daric, Vanyar, Toric and Aldfelt, would never know that it was Cathal they had heard, and that they would hear him once more before their time on this world came to an end. There was polite applause from the audience. "The twit actually thinks WE want to hear the Malkavian's stories?" Crown scoffed, walking away. Caitlyn face grew darker. Diane half wondered is she wouldn't explode on the spot. "Belle," said Happy. "You are a treasure, ma chere. I accept your beautiful story. I tell you, it is one of the finest I have heard. You have set quite a standard that will be hard for the others to follow," Happy said, gazing at the assembled crowd of petitioners. "Come, sit by my side. I will hear your word on whose is the finest story beside yours. You will judge the others - even that of Monsieur Crown." "What! I'm a primogen! That chylde has no right to sit in any sort of judgement over me, even it's for some stupid lunatics driveling whim." The crowd went silent. Crown looked around. Even he seemed to sense that he had perhaps gone too far. His ghouls, sensing the danger, tried to approach him but they were cut off by Brujah thugs. It was starting to look ugly. "You defy me Monsieur?" the Prince asked in a calm and curious voice. Happy thumped his cane on the carousel. Purdy appeared with three more ghouls, wiping his hands together eagerly. His smile showed some ferocious canines. "Problem?" he asked. Crown looked around. No one came forward for any support. Even the Giovanni turned her eyes away. "Uh, I apologize to the, uh, you, um, Prince Happy. I was, um, just jesting. Truly. I am very happy to have whoever you should choose judge my unworthy tale." He gave a sort of nod to Caitlyn that still managed to have a sort of derision about it. He obviously couldn't help it. "Ah," the Prince beamed. "I could not imagine a finer bit of fiction coming from your dead lips, mon frere. I think no tale could tell could best zis one. Alas, I cannot give you the prize, but you are forgiven. I am sorry, Monsieur," Happy said to Perdicas. "Perhaps another time?" Turning back to Crown. "You are tired, mon frere. You will go home now. Give my lady my regards. And then thank her for ze gift of your unlife tonight." Crown started to say something then caught himself. Quietly, he gathered his ghouls and left. Purdy chuckled and after watching Crown slip away towards his waiting Rolls, intending to be driven the three blocks to his mansion, the Brujah primogen disappeared back into the crowd. "Merci," Happy said to Caitlyn, suddenly dismissing her. Diane got up next. The horse was called 'Lightning', or so the legend on the laminated neck indicated. The ventrue explored it's 'mane' absently with ashen fingers as she found her balance and formulated a cheerful smile for the Prince, alien creature that he was. Nothing in her posture or brisk speaking voice gave any indication that she might be nervous or ill at ease. "I don't want to bore you, sir, by going on at length about my life." Diane began, lounging comfortably against the pole at her back. "I always think that's a bit like people who insist on showing you too many holiday snapshots+ too tedious for words. So instead I'm going to tell you a very old story, a Breton legend really. Normally I'd start by saying 'This is a true story' but in this case it might not be so I'll just begin with 'This story may not be true, but if it's not, then it should be '". She smiled crookedly, as if to beckon him closer, already finding a more confident tack from the smooth rounded accents of her own voice. "This is the story of Ys, and it begins a very long time ago and far away when a king from Cornwall fell in love with a Queen from Brittany and married her, and they had a daughter who was born on a boat tossed on the rolling waves of the English Channel, who was called Dahut. Her mother died when she was born but the girl grew up on the Breton coast, brought up in the pagan traditions of her mother's folk, and people said she was as wild and beautiful as the sea itself. Sometimes the fishermen returning from a night's fishing would see her walking along the white sandy beaches at sunrise, with her hair as pale as sun on the snow. Everyone who knew her loved her, and none more than the king her father." "When the day came for her 15th birthday he organised a grand party to which all of the local nobility and people of importance were invited. He was a rich man, his pockets filled with the profits from his Cornish gold and tin mines," the storyteller cleared her throat and added as an aside "Which he'd probably got by ruthlessly exploiting the local peasants as you do..." "Anyway, he spared no expense." she continued. "Even the Bishop of Quimper, who had recently converted the King to Christianity and had made his displeasure of Dahut's pagan ways known, saw fit to attend although he radiated an air of stern displeasure which put many of the party goers off their celebrations. After the bards had finished their ballads, the King stood up at the head of the table and told his daughter that in honour of her coming of age, she could ask of him a favour and he would grant it. She asked him for a city of her own, built as close as possible to the sea which she loved." "So it was done. The city was called Ys, and huge dykes and sea-walls were built to keep out the sea. A great lock-wall was set about the city itself and only the king held the key to the lock. So Dahut and her courtiers moved into the city and set about attracting artisans and musicians and craftsmen to live in Ys, which she dedicated to the pursuit of beauty and pleasure." Diane considered before adding, "The man who told me this story said that the only way to describe how beautiful the city of Ys became is to think back to your own home town and try to remember those things about it that you thought were beautiful.. and then to say 'It was only beautiful because it had a memory of Ys within it'" "Now the princess was indeed a pagan sorceress and the city became rich because she summoned a dragon for each of the townsfolk, with which they preyed on trading ships that were trafficking in the waters nearby, dragging many of them down to the seabed where their merchandise could be looted. In the city of Quimper, the bishop watched and regularly gave sermons against the evil in Ys - the wild orgies, wasteful banquets and crimes for which, he assured his flock, God would surely punish the wicked. Worst of all, the princess took up the habit of selecting a different lover every night, and making the man wear a black satin mask. It was enchanted and in the morning it would grow claws of steel and kill it's wearer. The princess said only that the bishop couldn't stand it when other people were having fun, although she couldn't in all honesty deny that the men she took to her bed were never seen again." "Then one day a prince arrived in Ys, who was dressed all in scarlet and was as beautiful as the day is long. Dahut saw him from her balcony and instantly fell in love, with every ounce of her cold heart. What she didn't know is that he was the Devil, who had been sent by God to punish the city.. He was the first man who had ever refused an invitation to spend the night with her." Diane rubbed at her nose and observed, "I think that just shows you how stupid men can be actually.. if I knew that all of someone's lovers had died horribly I don't think I'd be queueing up to join them myself." She frowned at Lightning's white glossy ears, pricked forwards as if the carousel horse was eager to leap off it's podium, and picked up the thread again. "Anyway, she was in love with the strange foreign prince but he shrugged off her attentions. When they walked in the ornate gardens together he asked her who was the real power in the city of Ys, and she replied that it was her city and no-one else's. But the Devil had on his charming face and he smiled and asked her why her father would not trust her with the key to the gates of the lock, if it really was her city. He laughed at her also and told her that in reality, she enjoyed being powerless because otherwise she would have acquired the key long ago, and that wasn't something that he personally found attractive in a woman's character. His words angered the princess and baited her and stung her into a rare fury and she swore a binding oath that she would find a way to get the key and prove that she, and she alone, held Ys in her hands. The Devil, helpful as always, suggested that she take it from her father while he was sleeping." "Dahut cast an enchantment on the King to make his sleep deep and took the key from him, presenting it to the scarlet prince. The Devil kissed her hand gallantly and took the key from it, and asked her permission very graciously to return the key to her the next evening when they would share a bed. The princess agreed." Diane broke up the story again to note "That bit shows how stupid women can be so I suppose they are even." She turned a smirk into a cough and went on. "So the devil went down to the lock gates and opened them, letting in the ocean. The King woke up from his enchanted sleep at the neighing of his war-horse and looked down from his tower to see Ys being swallowed by the waves. He realised at once that his key had been stolen and cursed the day he had allowed the city to be built. He ran into Dahut as he made his way down to the stables and from the look in her eyes, he knew what she had done. But she was still his daughter and the apple of his eye so when he climbed up onto his great charger he threw her across the saddle and set the horse's head towards dry land." "The horse waded bravely through waves that kept threatening to totally engulf his riders but it was obvious that the combined weight would soon drag all of them down. As the sky cleared and moonlight illuminated the scene the king saw the distant figure of the Bishop of Quimper standing on the cliffs with his arms stretched out in the shape of the cross. As the cross-shaped shadow touched the struggling horseman, Dahut flinched and fell from the king's grasp into the waves, and he heard the bishop's voice in his head saying 'It is the will of the Lord that you alone be saved as you are the one good man in that wicked city'. So the king wept and rode on and he was indeed the only man who escaped the flooding of Ys." "And that's more or less the story." Diane concluded. "Apparently fisherman in the area today still claim that sometimes they can hear bells ringing under the sea and occasionally people think they have seen a white lady walking along the beaches in the morning, but that's probably because they had too much to drink. Oh, and after Lutetia was left by the Romans, the people called it Paris or Par-Ys because it was so beautiful that it was compared to the lost city.. allegedly." She patted the horse's painted neck as she climbed off and bobbed an awkward curtsey to the prince. She wasn't really in much of a mood now to ask for favours, as the story telling had drained her. Still it might as well be now so she squared her shoulders and said, more subdued, "I'm sorry for taking up so much of your time sir. It's a story I always liked. And.. um.. if I might, I'd like to ask permission to create a retainer or two." She would be grateful, she thought, to be finished with this. (To Do List! I'm going to give a couple of longer term character objectives before I get down to some dates and times. Firstly I think if she hasn't yet found a haven of her own she'd need to do that, and secondly she wants to get her claws into the local press. I'm not going to give precise times or anything for that as I think it's just something she might do when she had some time. Finding accommodation is most important.) (A: Unless you're planning on dealing with this issue in the context of your immediate move, there's no practicality in bringing it up. There will be a period of transition where you will need to get used to this newer type of move structure. The structure of this type of move only allows you to deal with given actions at given times. I understand that you probably want Diane to be "keeping an eye out" for a likely haven. But with so many players, I'll probably most likely forget that this is an action item for Diane. In searching for a crypt, just keep repeating it in every move that Diane is looking for a haven. Keep repeating it until she finds enough crypts to satisfy her. Also, (Important) you should mention just what features Diane is looking for in a potential crypt. For now, we'll assume Diane is hiding out at a series of motels. I'll leave it to you to address this again in your next turn. As far as getting into the local press scene, again you need to define a specific course of actions. The previous mode of move was more open ended, where I would undertake some of Diane's actions based on what I thought was her character type. In this type of structure, you have to declare each of Diane's actions. I only tell you what happens and that's pretty much it. JK) (I'm not sure if you received the last timestop. My error if you hadn't. The timestop is well advanced past these times. Because of the general vampire move, the vampire chronicle is lagging well past the timestop. It is still players responsibility to bring their character current. I'm going to advance the date on some of these moves, just for the arbitrary reason of bringing it current. Also, you might want to plan out actions such as hunting. Because of my arbitrary advancement, I'll take care of it for this turn. Be aware that nothing is assumed. JK) <Caitlyn tells her story> "Merci," Happy said to Caitlyn, suddenly dismissing her. Diane got up next. The Ventrue wondered cynically if any other kindred were planning to take their egos out for an airing that night. For herself she much preferred watching verbal fencing, ideally well-laced with bitchy insults and vicious death threats, to saccharine stories. It was unfortunate that all the local kindred were actually present, including some she didn't recall having seen before, as otherwise she would have enjoyed assigning more and more outrageously libelous soundbites to the protagonists in every retelling. Maybe next time... But in any case, it did seem that mawkish fairy stories were the order of the day. Diane shrugged. In the words of Paul Weller, she thought, 'the public gets what the public wants'. She spared a brief concerned glance down towards the road, after Crown, as she walked up to the carousel. Even to Diane it was clear that the lines had been drawn, battle lines perhaps... and neutrality for herself didn't seem an option. She tried to focus on a positive mental attitude but images of Michael Caine commanding his depleted and hopelessly outnumbered garrison against the ruthless swarms of natives in 'Zulu Dawn' kept threatening to impinge on her thoughts...She squared her jaw and hopped up onto the moving platform - after all, since when had impossible odds ever been a deciding factor? Sunday, June 18th, 1995 12:28 a.m. A silence fell after the woman had stopped speaking, broken only by the groaning and clicking of gear wheels under the platform, rattling of some of the poles that had worked a little loose from the screws that held them down and the background chatter, a low level of murmurs from the world outside. It seemed to last for a very long time. The two vampires remained in their places like figures in a tableau, one seated with his back straight and hands clasped about the head of a cane, the other standing with her eyes turned down deferentially. Finally the prince moved, nodding to the woman fractionally and pushed his glasses up his nose with a long pale finger. Diane was relieved to note that at least he hadn't fallen asleep which was usually a good sign. "An interesting tale." he said, "I have heard a variation. Did you like marmalade when you were alive?" She looked up, startled at the non sequitur. "Marmalade?" For an instant her brain seemed to freeze up with the panicked thought 'I DON'T REMEMBER!' Damnit, it couldn't have been that long ago, only 10 years. How could she not remember?! She'd used to eat several times a day in fact, although she'd had little reason to think back to it of late. She played for time, speaking deliberately slowly. "Um.. orange jam stuff, like in Paddington?" Her thoughts flew round her head like frantic caged sparrows, panicked now more by the lack of such a simple thing to hark back to than by the elder who was expecting a response. Somewhere in the depths of her memory a fuzzed image of Michael Caine lost his temper with his trainees and yelled 'Don't point the bloody spears at me!' The prince nodded indulgently, smiling at her as if she was mad. Diane was about to frame the words to say that she thought it was alright, if you liked preserves - she was sure he didn't really care about anything she might have to say - when a relevant memory did come back to her in a rush and she had to stifle a smile. It wasn't the traditional golden conserve redolent with the scent of sunlight on citrus groves that might grace the breakfast table at the Ritz, but dingy jars at the back of a dank cupboard filled with a dubious greenish goo, the strands of peel resembling nothing so much as worms, that swam into her mind. She composed herself enough to send a heartfelt thanks to whichever angel ruled unwanted gifts before relaxing, buoyed with relief. "Well..." she confided to him with a shrug. "Frankly, sir, I never could stand it. I think it's because when I was just starting out on my own and I was as poor as the proverbial, one week all I had in the cupboard was a bag of onions and 3 jars of homemade marmalade that my grandmother had sent me, because I didn't have the heart to tell her it was foul. I had the bright idea of turning it all into a new variety of onion soup... " She allowed the understatement of the decade, "But it wasn't very successful." She found an odd smile from somewhere and pressed on cheekily, moving from truth into fiction, "Since then I did once have marmalade that had been made with Cointreau, which was outstanding. You could say that because I'd already tasted a variation, I was better able to appreciate the cordon bleu version." She squared her shoulders and said, more subdued, "I'm sorry for taking up so much of your time, sir. Anyway, it's a story I always liked. And .. um.. if I might, I'd like to ask permission to create a retainer or two." She would be grateful, she thought, to be finished with this. The prince merely nodded. "Create them well. They are potentially your future childer." He told her. "And do not love them too well. They will only kill you all over again." He seemed to focus on the space somewhere over her left shoulder and Diane suppressed the urge to follow his gaze. She just nodded, expression frosting briefly as the unbidden image returned of her own ghoul. It had been less than a month. She suspected the prince was doing this on purpose, to remind her precisely how unwelcome she had been and still was, but... he seemed distracted, as if in fact this had sparked off some memory of his own. She thought rebelliously that he might as well just have said 'don't get too attached to them because some Brujah on a power trip will probably shred them within a month' and found that she already felt vaguely sorry for the as yet uncreated ghouls; it didn't seem much of a life. As for Happy.. something about the tone of his voice had set her investigative scandal antennae to twitching. Something to do with a ghoul, or ex-ghoul. It occurred to her to wonder if Crown, like Mr. Rochester in Jane Eyre, might turn out to be keeping a mad wife up in the attic. The audience seemed to be over so Diane managed another curtsey of sorts and picked her way to the edge of the platform, formulating an updated version of her survival guide for young vampires which currently consisted of 2 rules that she had found quite useful: 1. Humour elders to their faces. They are all power crazed lunatics anyway. 2. Never apologise, never explain, never get caught. To these she added tentatively: 3. Its expected that you'll love yourself first and anything else as a poor second. As a lifestyle it felt, she thought, a little lacking in some important respects that she couldn't quite put her finger on. She passed the Brujah, Rebecca, who was preparing to tell her story to the prince. The Ventrue cast a sullen glance across at the other woman - it had seemed to be a good night to be Brujah and she expected Rebecca would be feeling the benefits of that and basking in Caitlyn's reflected 'glory'. She caught the other woman looking at her and rapidly assumed a more cheerful expression. "Good Luck" she said offhandedly, implying that the Brujah would need it, and gave her the thumbs up. In a half-remembered celluloid landscape, the sun rose over a deserted fort, peopled only with corpses. The English troops had held their position despite the odds, but at the cost of every man in the little fortress. Diane thought it was a good film, but a probably not a good omen. [Diane is at 12 pool]. (I think I'll leave the BP notes in for ref) Sunday, June 18th, 1995 - 9.41 p.m. The taxi didn't glide smoothly through the streets so much as judder from one set of lights to the next, the driver carefully managing to catch as many reds as possible to maximise the fare. He allowed a proud grin as he executed a particularly skillful maneuver which involved jerking the clutch abruptly twice in succession with just a nudge of handbrake on the first touch, which caused the cab to jump forwards sharply and then stall. He'd invented that one himself and it never failed to impress. "Would it be asking too much for you to actually get a move on?" asked his fare testily. The cabbie sighed, much put upon and waved a hand at the rest of the traffic. "It's the tourist season...." and he started into an anecdote about some people he'd had in the cab earlier. He eyed the English woman in the back seat to see how she was taking it. She wasn't really much of a looker although maybe if she made a bit of an effort, put her hair up and got a see through negligee or rubber gear...his thoughts drifted. Maybe a whip... She cleared her throat, "I /said/..." she said tightly, and the driver realised that she wasn't buying it. He made the mistake of sneaking another look at her in the rear-view mirror and was caught by the reflected image of her eyes, two dark pools that focused his attention, drawing him into a still quiet place where there was nothing except the eyes and the sound of her voice, laden with an odd air of authority. <dom2> " get a move on, <end> I don't have all night.." (OOC: Does dominate work through mirrors if you have eye contact? Who knows.. but it's very cinematic...useless wording of course.maybe one day she'll actually get good at it (!)) He snapped back to himself.. and got a move on. Some people... Diane paid the fare without a murmur and dusted down her jacket as she got out of the cab, looking up at the police department. It seemed quieter than she had expected. She paused outside to scan over the 'Wanted' notices before going inside. Again she noticed the lack of activity in the building. It had obviously seen better days and a lick of paint wouldn't have hurt,, but the furniture was serviceable and the few uniformed officers working on paperwork seemed industrious enough. The main staff must be out on patrol and barring any emergencies, this seemed a quiet time for the main department building. The desk sergeant, a tanned mustached man in his fifties with crows feet about his eyes, looked up as the woman entered, "Can I help you ma'am?" "I hope so." she said cheerfully, and the sergeant returned the bright smile. She took a brief minute to scan the room, looking for the man she remembered.. "I.. actually I was wondering if I could arrange to speak to one of the detectives here. Andy Locatelli?" The man's eyes rested on her face, curious, "And your name, ma'am?" "Forester. /Ms/ Forester." He wasn't precisely sure that liberated women were Andy's type so unfortunately for office gossip, that tended to imply 'work' rather than 'social'. Shame really, she seemed quite pleasant, "And what is the nature of your inquiry?" The woman laughed in a clear peal, "God, what's the best way to say this? Let's just say I once offered to buy him a drink and now that I've got some money in I thought I'd make good on that." A few other pairs of eyes looked up and the desk sergeant almost grinned. Maybe the office gossip would have it's field day after all. "Well, I'm afraid Detective Locatelli is currently off-duty, he won't be reporting back until Tuesday at 10am. If you'd like to leave a card, ahh.. Ms Forester, or a message, then I can make sure that he gets it." "A card will be fine." Diane assured him, and before the card was passed across she surveyed it and began to write on the back. *Hi!, I once offered to buy you a drink over a polygraph, the polygraph is gone but the offer of the drink still stands, and I think we have a lot to catch up on. If you'd like to arrange to meet up at The Cat, drop me a line at the Beach Inn. I'll look forwards to hearing from you, DF* She noticed the desk sergeant peering at her handwriting as she slipped back out. [ Diane is at 11 pool.] Monday, June 19th, 1995 2:41 a.m. The houses seemed quietly bewailing their isolation, each one threatening to drown in its own pool of shadows as the night drew to it's darkest.. The taxi rumbled up Beach Hill and drew to a smooth halt by the curb a couple of doors down from Crown's little mansion. Diane handed over the fare silently and got out, she wasn't in the slightest convinced that the driver actually spoke English and had needed to indicate on a map where she wanted to go. As he drove off, she found herself wondering whether making a ghoul of a taxi driver might be a good idea... at least it would save on cab fares. Since seeing the Prince she'd been absently sizing up more or less everyone she'd met for retainer potential. This was by no means the oddest idea that had crossed her mind. She recognised Charlie with an amiable smile as he answered the door, inspecting him for clues into the current state of affairs inside. He didn't return the smile. Diane felt this was a bad sign, possibly a very bad sign. He hadn't offered to take her coat either. She shrugged it off anyway and allowed herself to be shown into the other room. Even before the older Ventrue turned to face her she sensed that her initial apprehensions had been correct. He was in a very foul mood indeed. The room swam with it, as if it was an extension of his personality. Diane bit her lip and assumed the worst. He must have been outmaneuvered, outvoted and lost on every facet to still be this AWOL a couple of days after the event. Crown focused on her and advanced a step, the intensity of his glare pinning her helplessly like a butterfly. "What the hell do you want!" he growled. "I'm sorry if I've disturbed.." Diane trailed into silence as Crown cut her off sharply. "I have no time for this drivel. Get out of here!" She saw the muscles in his fingers tense and he scooped up an exquisite porcelain vase, weighing it in his hand. Getting out of here was beginning to look like a very good option. She backed off a step towards the door. The primogen paused, inhumanly still for a moment as he reflected. He's decided the vase is worth more than I am and is about to go for the poker instead, Diane guessed. She backed off another step and readied herself to dodge. (OOC: and pushed a point of blood into dexterity). But instead he seemed to find some more composure. "Just leave." Diane nodded quickly, grateful for the reprieve, and slipped out. She was not a little irritated at herself for having misread the situation so badly and took it out on the defenceless ghoul. "Next time" she hissed at Charlie in a venomous undertone, "Just tell me he doesn't want to be disturbed!". The ghoul seemed too subdued even to apologise and with a flash of insight Diane realised that his master's foul mood wasn't straight fury. Crown had been mortified. This was his defence. That Saturday, the Prince hadn't just pressed home his authority over the Ventrue primogen, he'd done so publicly in front of every kindred in the city. To someone like Crown, who seemed to require respect at least as much as he needed blood, it must have made it almost impossible for him to ever face any of them again. Never having received (or deserved) vast amounts of respect, the neonate found this difficult to comprehend, but she felt a twinge of regret on his behalf. After all, the clan did deserve respect... didn't it? She considered apologising to Charlie as he showed her out but decided against the idea. He was only a ghoul after all, although she had to admit it had been quite resourceful of him to have the cab waiting for her. She compromised with a polite nod and left. [Diane is at 10 pool.] (one down from your figures due to the spend) Friday, June 23rd, 1995 - 1:40 a.m. It had been a quiet, introspective few days. Diane had promised herself a kill at the weekend and, excited as a child, had deliberately refrained from hunting in order to leave herself hungry and heighten the sensation. She hadn't been entirely sure what to do about Crown. All her instincts said that she should see him sooner rather than later, to make any expressions of support she was planning to give seem more pivotal in the light of previous events. On the other hand, she didn't much appreciate being thrown out of the house like a used tea-bag. Still, it was all in the line of duty. She was, however, undoubtedly nervous as she sat for the second time that week in the back of a cab heading up towards Crown's house. The gnawing hunger was a constant distraction, as was the incessant chatter of the driver. He was evidently German, from his accent and the way his muttered comments to drivers foolish enough to get in the way was peppered with 'Verdammt's and 'Schweinhund's, but he seemed the garrulous type. He'd been talking to the car as well, Diane was sure. Under normal circumstances she might have just flexed her powers of suggestion to shut him up but even the minor distraction of allowing herself to get irritated at the idiot was a welcome change to trying to follow kindred politics so she rolled her eyes and sat through it. He rattled off a series of incomprehensible German words of endearment again and patted the handbrake, fondling it a little more sensuously than was healthy for a grown man with a piece of machinery, in his passenger's opinion. "What's your name?" he asked, out of the blue. 'Oh God, it wants to chat me up' she thought. "Diane" she said flatly, implying the conversation was at an end. Of course it didn't work. Nothing ever did with this type. Just as well the prince wasn't in the car with her, he might have wanted to take the man into the Malkavian fold where she had to admit he'd probably fit. "Es gefallt mir." He informed her, "Pretty name. Names are important, don't you think?" "Yep" she said shortly. "I mean, /really/ important, almost as much as timing." he insisted, eyes shining like stars. "Yep." He nodded enthusiastically, taking this as encouragement. "I'm Norb, it was my father's name. The cab is Adele, from my sister. She is a good little runner." Diane hoped he meant the car and not the sister and nodded, checking her watch. "Diane, that is the name of a huntress, yes?" Her eyes flicked up coolly. "Is it?" "Ach ja!" he grinned happily. "Is a pretty name. She hunted men, ja! You are visiting from England?" "Yep" The car turned up onto the hill and he checked her over his shoulder. "I run tours." He confided. "You want to see Santa Cruz, I can show you the echte side of town, the real side. Spooky tours. You'll love it. See, I have cards..." The vampire smiled politely, but only just, and accepted one. "Um.. Norb?" He perked up like a dog that had been called to heel as she said his name. "What the hell's so spooky about Santa Cruz?" (OOC: "It'd be fine if it wasn't for all those damned vampires"!) The man was effusive. Lots of things he said, but of course she would have to pay for the full tour to see them. The price for the full tour was written in very small letters on the card. Diane wasn't surprised when she read it, almost impressed by the sheer cheek of the inflated charge. As she was about to climb out, another thought hit her. "I don't suppose you know anything about the Bryce House?" It was the only place she had heard anyone talk about as being genuinely spooky, the Giovanni's haven. Karl's eyes widened. "Ach ja." he said, voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "There is a long story, very creepy, very spooky." Diane cocked an eyebrow, interested, "Oh? Feel like telling me then?" "Of course, of course.." the driver smiled. "when you come on the tour, ja?" Diane glared at him a moment, readying her will. Annoying little twerp, he knew something and she wanted to find out. But, surprisingly, a wave of laughter hit her instead and she leaned against the car door, helpless with it. Karl brightened, this was a good sign. "God," she said weakly, her mood suddenly lifted, "I can't fault you for effort!! OK, let's do it then. I'll give you a ring next week. Just one thing...?" The cab driver nodded, wreathed in smiles. "If I'm not spooked, do I get my money back?" Friday, June 23rd, 1995 - 1:48 a.m Diane had remembered to ask the cab to wait, anticipating the need for another quick getaway. Karl had been more than delighted, presumably thinking of the fare, and settled down with a book, which looked to be a faded copy of some poetry primer. Diane would have been surprised but she doubted anything that man was capable of doing could possibly surprise her. She almost entertained the idea of taking him on as a retainer, but balked at the thought of having to explain to anyone else why she'd done it when, as he was bound to do, he pissed off some kindred or other whose temper was less even than Diane's. The imagined conversation ran something like : Q: So, why did you decide he'd be a worthwhile retainer? A: *awkward pause* Well, he made me laugh. <silence> Her lips twitched up into a smile at the thought, when the front door was opened. She wiped the smile off quickly, replacing it by something with a bit more gravitas. Charlie did seem to be in a miraculously improved mood as he relieved her of her coat. Diane eyed him with a vague academic interest and wished she could just tap him like a barometer to gauge the atmosphere inside. As if reading her thoughts, the ghoul smiled warmly. "The Master will be glad to see you." The neonate and ghoul shared a moment's glance, and she nodded. "Thanks Charlie", she told him gently - it seemed a good idea to encourage him in these small helpful things. As he showed Diane through into the main reception room her thoughts ran over what she might expect. It looked as though Crown had calmed down somewhat since her last visit or at least his temper was running cold rather than hot. Best to be careful though, particularly with people who were capable of turning your mind inside out at the drop of a hat. She folded her arms in an unconsciously defensive gesture and pulled her shoulders back as she entered. The door closed behind the woman, and she waited. It was still a beautifully appointed room, with its high ceiling, huge picture window and ornate fireplace. The crystal chandelier was lit, throwing flickering shadows across the elephant hide walls and expensive regency striped wainscoting. She felt a sense of age about the room as if essentially, apart from a few fixtures, this scene might have been taking place a century ago. Crown himself was seated in the horsehair chair, his silhouette thrown into relief by the crackling fire behind him. Through the large picture window the city of Santa Cruz was laid out like a glittering silk scarf with the pinpricks of light indicating the course of human activity far below. The older Ventrue was looking out on the city as if he owned it, with the air of a lord surveying his domain. For an uncharacteristic moment, Diane felt oddly humbled for reasons she couldn't explain. Uneasy at finding a servile streak inside herself, she shrugged it off sharply. He was in control now, and God help whoever might be on the receiving end of whatever he was planning.... He turned to her smoothly and she noticed that he was cradling a brandy glass in his hand, warming it by the crackling fire. His expression was also warm. "How nice to see you, Diane, " he told the young vampire, "You've kept yourself away too long." She felt this was something of an overstatement, as it had only been a couple of nights. It seemed that the last meeting had been relegated into the realm of 'things that were not to be considered to have happened', and that they were starting with a clean slate. Diane considered this to be peculiar but if he was happy then she could live with it. Grudgingly, she admired his style. Ignoring everything that happened that you decided in retrospect that you didn't like was the sort of lifestyle she could appreciate. She returned the smile and maintained a respectful distance, as much of the fire as of the vampire. "Would you like a drink? I've taken to having at least a bit of your required type on hand for such social occasions. I'm afraid it's refrigerated, of course, but I'll have Charlie warm some if you like." "You're too kind, sir. I'd be delighted." she said brightly, turning to look out of the window at the same panorama that Crown had been studying. There were plenty of reasons not to accept blood that had been offered sight unseen, but also plenty to take it, and she was reminded that it had been some nights since her last hunt. He gave some appropriate instructions and Diane took the opportunity to study him, trying to read his face. She also wondered what his preference was in blood. The memory came back to her with a sour flavour of her own initial experiences with the idea of feeding preferences. One of the things her sire hadn't bothered to tell her about. The woman's argument afterwards had been that it was a learning experience but Diane still felt raw about it. She'd known that other kindred did seem to have preferred types of vessels but they never seemed to be totally unable to even consider hunting outside those areas if food had been scarce one week. They never seemed to feel nauseous at the idea of trying a different type of vessel. For some months she'd felt as if there must be something wrong with her. It was only when someone else had joked about Ventrue being picky feeders that she'd finally realised. Diane blinked out of the reverie in time to accept the glass of blood, forcing herself to sip at it slowly. Crown asked her cordially about her search for ghouls and Diane framed a suitably vague answer, making herself comfortable. She was glad that she had asked for the blood to remain chilled - had it been warm, she would have been hard pressed not to down it in one gulp. In a sense, she enjoyed the sensation of hunger. The primogen was speaking again, "So, is this just a social call, or did you have something you needed to see me about?" She didn+t hold back the stops. Diane leaned forwards in her chair earnestly and looked across into his eyes. "Firstly I really wanted to find an opportunity to tell you how impressed I was at all your efforts to help the city cope with the kindred influx. I don't think I'd thought about it much until you mentioned it but I really feel I've learned a lot about the practicalities of what it takes to keep a community of kindred going. I just wanted to say that.. I respect you a lot and.. um.. I admire what you're doing. " Diane nodded to drive the point home. She always felt it necessary to lay it on thickly as you couldn+t rely on other people to appreciate subtlety. Hitting them over the head with a metaphorical sledge hammer was an approach she liked. It was the same approach she had been used to take in seductions when she was alive, and it had never failed. You could really never flatter anyone too much. "As you know, and for what its worth, you do have my full support. So if there+s anything I can do I+m more than happy to put myself at your disposal." It was going down reasonably well, she thought. Although she was itching to try to find a way to work the woman upstairs into the conversation it seemed a shame to take the chance on marring an atmosphere that had turned more mellow. Reluctantly, she decided that this probably wasn+t a good time - although he was putting up a good facade it was impossible to know how much of the anger she had seen before was still simmering. The other vampire seemed to relax, this wasn+t anything urgent that would require any effort on his part. She didn+t seem to be in any severe sort of trouble or have annoyed any of his political enemies recently, or done anything potentially embarrassing. Conversation seemed pleasant and civilised. When she finally decided it would be polite to leave, Diane was content that his mood towards her was a lot improved. She hadn't been the real subject of his anger in the first place, although having seen it, she felt avoiding that anger in future would be a good move. She also maintained the hope that if she continued to make appropriate noises for a loyal, willing and trustworthy ally, he might not feel it necessary to dig his claws in too deep. A willing tool was always more reliable than one who was forced. Even knowing that Norb was waiting in the cab for her didn't spoil her mood, which was fortunate as he started to quote Goethe on the way back. [Diane is at 6 pool, she drank the blood] Saturday, June 24th, 1995 3:28 a.m. The night was welcoming. All of the buildings on Broadway seemed more real. It was as if every line, every crack in the sidewalk, every muted colour of the wood and brickwork, every facade was sharper than usual. The blonde woman walked as if time was irrelevant and took pleasure in the night. She was humming under her breath. It might have been because her head was still buzzing from the alcohol that her perceptions were off-kilter. She marveled at it anyway, pausing to gaze at a streetlight which had acquired a halo. She knew that drinking from drugged vessels was frowned upon but she still enjoyed the giddy high of the booze. Drink might be bad, but she'd done something much worse that night. As the thought struck her, it made her giggle. The party had been nothing special, but frat parties were easy hunting for the vampire. She'd become expert at settling into the atmosphere, making diverting conversation, projecting a general air of sophisticated counter-culture savoir-faire that drew the students like moths to a flame. Moths to a flame! This time she laughed aloud. She had always enjoyed hunting, as if it was an art form at which she had an especial talent. Performance art. Tonight it had been so simple. Her thoughts drifted not to the students she had seduced, that was humdrum, but to the girl. The girl had seemed lonely, she didn't know many of the others. She had been pretty enough to have been selected as the target for much winking and lewd comments from the men, which in its turn attracted unfriendly glares and catty backchat from the woman. Diane had watched her from across the room, certain after a brief appraisal that she was gay. There were ways you could tell if you knew what to look for. When the vampire approached the girl had looked up gratefully into her eyes as if she was her saviour. It was almost too easy. Admittedly, Diane had been so full of the excitement of what she was planning that it must have shone in her eyes and made her well-nigh irresistible. But when she had folded an arm around the girl and suggested they went for a walk the thought in her mind had been 'Come and be killed', and of course the girl had come. She blinked away from the streetlight that gleamed as if to mock the sun and looked up at the stars instead, digging her nails into the palms of her dead hands. She remembered the feeling of the kill and her fangs extended unbidden. She closed her eyes. It had been.. sublime. Their bodies had been so close, the girl with her warmth and her damp sweat and soft lips and the pounding of her blood. This time Diane hadn't held back but let her instincts take over, losing herself to the dark pleasure of feeding and holding the girl closer, pushing her back against the bathroom wall with hips and elbows and shoulders. Her own strength had been increasing with the blood even as the girl's knees gave way. The nails dug tighter. She had /felt/ the girl+s heart stop. It was one of the sweetest, most /real/ experiences she had ever had. She could barely remember stumbling giddily over the corpse as she ran the bath, stripped the body and dumped it in with cut wrists; no drug could come close. As the memory of the feeling washed over her, Diane felt herself start to wonder idly how soon she could do it again. A car dashed past, splitting the night with the growl of its engine and it brought her back to reality with a crash. Was this how serial killers felt? Diane hugged herself tightly. She hadn't even known the girl's name. She must have /had/ a name, and a family; people somewhere who loved her and would be heartbroken at hearing that she had committed suicide in Santa Cruz. The journalist inside her imagined the headline in some little local paper in the girl's hometown: "Local girl cracks under the strain", "Tragic Suicide Girl had Everything to Live for", "Parents weep at X's funeral". "X"? She hadn't even known the girl's name! 'I've just murdered someone, and there was no reason'. The thought wouldn't go away. Uncalled for images flooded into the vampire's head. The vivid colours of a summer sky, a red bus, bright printed skirts. Just /seeing/ colours under a light that wasn't artificial. Children laughing, the sweetness of honey. Waking up in bed next to someone whose name you couldn't quite remember and hoping he was a decent cook and wouldn't burn the toast. She struck out at them with a hand. Go away! But they weren't so easily displaced. Swearing at people on a bus who were being too slow, pushing your way to the front of a gig to try to touch a singer's hand, giggling with a group of girls at some male strippers, trying to eat a really hot curry for a bet. Being part of the real world instead of just watching it from the shadows. The night seemed chill and unfriendly now. The effects of the drink evaporated, leaving Diane sober and shivering. Life was precious. Why had she enjoyed the kill? Because when she killed, she had almost felt alive. There was no justification, no excuse, no way to ignore the truth. Killing was a crime, an evil thing, killing for no reason was doubly evil, killing for personal pleasure was almost beyond evil, it was sick. The girl had committed no crime except for being alive and being alone, and now she'd never have a chance do anything ever again! [She looses 2 humanity. (Now at 4) as she tries to come to grips with what she has done.] The vampire started to walk again, barely aware of the world around her. She was trying to resolve within herself the question of how something that felt so right could be so wrong. People didn+t call a lion evil when it killed a gazelle. They just said it was following it's nature. The memory of how she had felt as she drained the girl returned to bolster her. How can it be wrong to follow your instinct? If you couldn't trust your instincts, then surely you couldn't trust anything! It was a colder, harder woman who turned the corner at the end of the street. She did trust her instincts, despite everything. If her instincts said that she was a predator, and that kine were her natural prey then perhaps she should have listened to them a long time ago and stopped trying to hold onto the past. Although she felt this was true, the realisation gave her no comfort. It still felt wrong, as if there were another set of instincts warring inside her. She pushed those thoughts back. They were just kine, after all. If you let yourself think like that you'd go mad. A man and a woman, arm in arm, walked past on the other side of the street and the woman smiled at the lone walker. 'She smiled at me for no reason, just because she was happy and alive, and she thought I was too'! they were just kine, weren't they? Moodily, she started to walk back towards where she was staying when the night was pierced again by a distant howl. The vampire's head snapped round, frozen with fear. It was probably only a dog, she calmed herself, but there was no reasan to take risks. She spotted a phone box, and dialled for a cab. [Diane is at 12 pool] Wednesday, June 28th, 1995 2:30 a.m. It was like setting foot on the dark side of the moon. Shopping malls in the very early morning had that same quality of 'things that man was not meant to see', otherwise why would disturbing the privacy of a place that was designed and built to be crowded with swarms of humanity feel like such an intrusion? Especially in a mall which during the waking hours appealed to all the most material instincts of the kine. Night gave the place a more spiritual sense, as if it were some absurd cathedral. Diane inspected her reflection moodily in a shop window as she idled through the Pacific Garden Mall. It was relatively safe, if only because of the security cameras, and there was something about the atmosphere that struck a resonance. She didn't know why. The reflection was judged to be adequate, if a touch retro. Black turtle neck, black tapered trousers, black gloves, black cotton scarf, round-rimmed glasses. She shrugged. Since the weekend black had suited her mood. She kept a constant eye out for potential werewolves as she resumed walking and her mouth tightened into a thin line. She was getting fretful of the precautions and not for the first time it occurred to her that it wouldn't be a great shame if there were to be a rabies scare that might force city hall to send out men to shoot the curs on sight in order not to panic the tourists. She was still considering the practicalities of this plan when she spotted another figure. Another kindred. The woman was gazing at a shop window, her hands nestled in the pockets of an extravagant fur coat that looked to have been made o the pelts of something rare, or maybe even extinct. It could only be the Giovanni. Diane was impressed. The fur was so obviously unnecessary in the hot weather, the vampire was hardly even making a pretense at being human and having to deal with the vagaries of the climate. She studied the shop front. 'The Hidden World'. Presumably some new age trash emporium. Why would such a grand creature as Mira would take an interest in dross like that, especially as the sign in the window read 'Closed Indefinitely'. It would be a disappointment if all those spooky stories about the Giovannis turned out to be based on some affinity to ouija boards, tarot cards and crystals. As she took stock of the situation, the Ventrue noticed a black B.M.W parked nearby, and a couple of men in smart dark suits who were standing a few paces away. Evidently the car and the ghouls were Mira's entourage. She had been driven down here just to look in a closed shop window? This was certainly the sort of thing Diane could imagine herself doing if she had the wherewithal, but the Italian vampire had seemed more comfortable with her wealth than to need to splash it about. She grinned, curious to see what sort of explanation the other woman might offer, and walked towards her. As she approached she was not surprised to see that Mira was dressed to kill. The cut of her raw silk suit almost screamed 'Chanel', it was far too subtle to be one of the cheaper imitations, and she wore the lavish silver fox fur with the poise of one who was born to it. She seemed to notice the movement behind her from the reflection and turned to Diane, recognising her with a smile. Unfazed by the display of wealth, Diane returned the smile. "Good Evening," she said politely, with just enough enthusiasm to light up her face. "Nice night for a walk. I have to tell you, I love your coat. May I touch it?" Mira tore her eyes away, almost reluctantly from the shop window. (Perception - 1 success). Whenever their seemed the opportunity, the Giovanni's eyes would dart back to the window as if gleaning something therein. To Diane's inquiry, Mira held out a soft portion of the downy fur, allowing Diane the full opportunity of a dry caress. The feel of the fur was thick and glossy, but not as soft as it's appearance would have suggested. It seemed a poor choice for a garment after all. "Snow Leopard," Mira said, answering Diane's unspoken question. Diane understood. The choice had been mere ostentation. The Giovanni were renowned for their wealth. (Alertness + Politics = 1 success). Diane felt that there might be some reason beyond mere show in Mira's choice of apparel. Mira glanced at her Rolex. "You're up late, darling," she casually said. "And what brings you here?" "It seemed a shame to waste any of the night, when they're so short," Diane observed reflectively, trying to peer through her tinted glasses past Mira and make out by who or what the Giovanni had been so distracted. "So I thought I'd do some window shopping." "I suppose you could say fate made our paths cross," this time she allowed a pleasant grin, the tone carefully polite "Do you believe in fate?" Her appraisal of the little shop was more obvious this time as she let the other woman answer, then she added, with a guilty start, "I do hope I haven't disturbed anything? If so I'll leave you in peace..." It would be easy enough to find out who owned the shop and investigate from there, but Diane mentally chided herself for being distracted by images of Cruella deVille, a character she had always admired. It was almost inevitable for the Ventrue to have started to look at the other vampire as a sort of role model... Mira's vocal tone became deeper, which made her seem more serious. "No, I'm glad for the company. And as for fate, I believe in making my own." Diane looked at the window. (Perception = 2 successes). The displays had dust on them. Mira turned away from the window. "It is so dangerous out these nights with the wolves about. Can I give you a drop somewhere?" Despite her studied practice, Mira's Italian was peeking through. "It can be quite dangerous out anyway," Diane said with a wry smile, thinking back to the circumstances that had brought her to Santa Cruz in the first place. "I think a lot of its in the mind. In some ways, " she added wistfully, " I almost wish I could run into a werewolf -trouble you can see is easier to understand. I think I could take one out, too!" She looked down towards the end of the street, weighing up the odds. If there was just one and it was in a well lit area and it wasn't strong willed... then probably. Admittedly she didn't know of anyone who had successfully coerced a werewolf and lived to tell the tale, but there was always a first time - although it would be preferable if the honour of the 'first time' went to someone else. She looked back to find the other vampire giving her a somewhat odd look and smiled with her eyes. "But.. if you're sure it wouldn't be any trouble I'd appreciate the ride. As you say, time's moving on." Mira nodded to the B.M.W., which pulled up. She turned to Diane. "Where to?" Diane gave her a location near where she was staying, not too far so that she would take an undue chance on being ambushed by werewolves, but not close enought to advertise the exact location of her crypt. Soon, the B.M.W. was driving off into the late night.
Continue to Chapter 2
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