The cemetary was trite for the Nosferatu to hang around but it was where the clan had always been, dating back to colonial times.  As it had expanded so too did the tunnels and passageways beneath it.  Now it was an extensive network and, except for the tunnels flooded by the river, allowed access to numerous locations and most places within the downtown area.

This night was different than most, a visitor was allowed access to their domain.  Still, this was not just a random intruder, no he was the Prince of Nashville.  Alexander Lassiter was known as a friend who made sure that the Nosferatu interests were heard and acted upon if possible, though honestly most of their interests were to be left alone.  This night he was meeting with Sharn, one of the clan elders.  The topic was not disclosed but as usual, Alexander came without pretense, escort, or demands.  He requested permission to enter and offfered tribute.  Some would think him weak for stooping so low but his acts were not lost on the Nosferatu and though he was a Ventrue he held none of the pretenses commonly associated with them.

The small clan of Nosferatu had gathered in the old crypt of some unknown civil war hero and waited for Sharn or Alexander to step out of the inner sanctum.  The wait was not long.  Stepping out of the inner sanctum Alexander bowed his head slowly in the direction of each of th gathered members and departed without word.  Sharn, through his one good eye looked around the room curled his one good finger towards Gregory before turning and heading back into the inner sanctum.

Waiting patiently he looks to the new corps lying on the gorund, a young man dressed in dark clothes, a pair of bolt cutters and a shovel lying near the body.  He doesn't say anything but spits in its direction.  Turning to face Gregory he shakes his head.  "Our Prince has a task for us and I think you might be useful in this manner.  Would you like to help the clan or stay out of politics."

[Private to Gregory Chambers: Though rare I'm starting this off as a group meeting.  Sharn is the clan elder, an old southern plantation lord that still dresses in the rags of a conferderate uniform though he looks like a walking malformed corpse.  I'll provide more information soon but wanted to get you started.  Feel free to accept or decline.  No harm either way]

Gregory followed the beckoning gesture into the inner sanctum.  He used to walked with the typical slumped defeated posture of a homeless junkie, now with his new 'gift' that had warped his body to match his already addled mind, he shambled with a peculiar spiraling gait.  Spotting the bodies on the ground along with the appropriate tools, Gregory's mind spun with fatalistic predictions.

Well looky here... the big boss comes down with a couple of bodies and tools.  It's all please and thank you, too.  Live or dead, things never change.  Let the dregs take care of the dirty work.  Don't want to get that fancy suit all dirty. Gregory thought, the wheels of his mind spinning purely on the power of spite.  Choose the new guy.  Gotta love being expendable.

"What you need done Boss?  I can take care of it for you."  His bulging eye reeled in its socket thinking of ways to dispose of a body or two.  Rip out the teeth, cut off the fingertips, chop it up and wrap it in garbage bags, it'll look like a mob hit.  Then again there was that fifty pound bag of quicklime he was dying to use.

dying. heh...

funny.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:52, Mon 04 May 2015.

"Seems our fair Prince needs someone to put some fear in a small time street gang and he wants it to be memorable but not break the Masquerade.  The messier the better...so he says.  Care to carve up some street thugs for the betterment of the neighborhood?"

Shuffling around Sharn looks to Gregory with a smirk...or it could have been a smirk...hard to tell with his features.  Either way he holds a folder out for Gregory to take.  "He can't get his hands dirty on this one and it can't be traced back to vampiric life.  Probably a million better ways to do this but he wants it to be brutal and leave a fear about not just the city but the street life too."

Whether Sharn has any other details or not is hard to tell as he shakes the folder for Gregorry to take.

Gregory snatches the folder from Sharn as fast as a fat child snatches candy from an over-indulgent parent.  His mismatched eyes shown with impish delight as he opened the folder and quickly scanning the contents, committing the contents to memory like a photograph stored in his mind.

Gregory was hideous.  Even before the embrace he had been dirty and disgusting, a repugnant individual to anyone of higher station, and that was nearly everyone.  When someone is tormented, it can stunt them and make them curl up in upon themselves into a self-loathing pile of jelly.  But in very rare occasions the tormented will sprint in the opposite direction, fully embracing that which they are tormented for and shaking it their faces.

Gregory was ugly.  Gregory was loathsome.

And Gregory was SCARY.

"Yer too good to me, Boss."
This message was last edited by the player at 02:51, Fri 08 May 2015.

"Exellent, I shall let him know who he will owe a small favor to."

Cracking the knuckles on his right hand Sharn looks to the bodies and chuckles.  "While you are headed out please dispose of these two idiots near the Sheriff's holdings..make sure they are found by someone talkative.  He should learn to ask before sending spies to follow the Prince, much less to follow him into our domain uninvited.  Time for him to be inconvenienced by their intrusion."

The anger dripping off his words speaks of promises of more direct action in the near future.

The folder contains survellience photos of some obvious low life wannabe gangsters.  Each has a dossier with detailed information and several of the photos have weapons and drugs in them, including shotguns equipped with modified barrels for use with dragon's breath rounds.

"Well you just call me William fucking Parnassus.  Willie P, iffin ya be." Gregory exclaimed halfway between to himself and to Sharn.  "These boys got themselves some highly illegal, HIGHLY suspect hardware there Boss.  That's too coincidental for my likin' yes indeed you better believe it.  Dem rounds too special for pert little bastards like them.  Those are specialized iffin ya ken, which I know you too trig not to know."  Gregory muses with a conciliatory gesture to Sharn, as if trying to excuse his rudeness.  Gregory seemed to slip in this strange and almost archaic dialect during times of excitement.  It was fast, choppy, and had wrong strains on the wrong syllables, it was the verbal equivalent of dragging ones nails across a chalkboard.  A small laps into a habit of trying to unnerve any who heard it.  And those who weren't accustomed to such flights of fancy, would find it at the very least, unsettling.

"Looks like they, or their boss, was an expectin' sort.  The kind of expectin' sort that's all too familiar with what goes bump in the night, aye so says I, I do."  Hooking the fingers into the upper jaw of the be-suited corpse, he began hauling the body out, head first as if it were a particularly bothersome bag of garbage.  Looking back to Sharn he gives off what could be considered a boyish grin,  "Don't 'chu worry none Boss.  I ain't too trig, but I'll get it done.  Then those boys'll be, see you later alligator, after a while crocodile, don't forget to write."  This last bit was said in a dead monotone with almost an electric tinge to it.

If anyone who didn't know him heard this, they would think Gregory mad.  In truth it was something far worse.  Gregory had the sanity and the perverse nature to revel in being a bur to societal correctness.

Get his tools, he would.  His nice snikt-snikt tools.  The bolt cutters would work nice, chain and locks to seal doors.  Oh yes it was gonna be some fun times coming up he thought as he made his way to drop the would be spy's carcas where it needed to go.  "A right fine night, cully." Gregory said nastily to the corpse, some of its front teeth now ripped away from the rough handling.
This message was last edited by the player at 05:31, Fri 29 May 2015.

"Indeed they are.  Might be more difficult than one would expect, be careful.  If they have those weapons then they might have other technology too.  No sense dieing for this task.  Still might be interesting and useful knowledge to know where they obtained such weapons."

Turning away as Gregory dragged the corpses away Sharn shambles off into the darkness...

The nights air was cool and it was dark tonight.  Cloud cover was rapidly moving in blocking the natural light from the moon.  The noise from the Vanderbilt area nearby was already getting loud with college drunkards and their partying (even though it was a couple of blocks away).  Per the dossier the troublesome gang bangers were across town near the strip club Crazy Horse.  East Nashville...it had degraded over the years and was now like most poor neighborhoods, crime filled and full of drugs and gangs.  Of course low income neighborhoods meant less police presence and less credible witnesses were anything to go wrong.

First stop, Sheriff's hold.

Gregory thought as he humped his corpse-y ruck through the sewers and back alleys that had become so familiar to him in his un-life.  Usefull things really, if you didn't mind the smell, and you really didn't when you spent most of your adult life scrounging through dumpsters for a halfway decent something to eat or keep warm with.  On the borders edge, just like boss wanted, Gregory popped his thumbs in the corpses eyes and tore his face in two with his inhuman strength.

"Bye-bye cully." Gregory cooed to the red ruin once was a face as he pushed it off the roof of a nice tall building and onto the sidewalk of a busy street.  Gregory thought that was right clever, any of the Normans down there would think it was just another suicide jumper.  But anyone who knew anyone would know right quick and in a hurry who and what that was.

Next stop. Big business.

Buggering off himself, right quick and in a hurry Gregory made his way to East Nashville.  The bad ol' side of town, the good ol' bad side a town.  Smells like whores and drugs, moldy old buildings with crumbling plaster and human shit.

Smells like home.  Yes indeed, you better believe.

slinking in a darkened section of street, Gregory watched where the gang bangers were held up next to the Crazy Horse.  He wasn't too interested in strippers now-a-days, and never was keen on caesarean section scars when he was alive in the first place.  Best scope out the place first hand, especially if they were apt to use those Parnasus dragon rounds.  As he skulked, and watched, and waited, he thumbed the edge of the old fire axe he had picked up from one of his little hidey-holes from the sewers and checked the knives under his rag shirt.

The voice of a department store Santa creeps into his head spouting, "you'll shoot your eye out, kid." and his mind immediately jumps to the would be spy and how his eyes popped like orbs of mint jelly beneath his thumbs.

Gregory began to giggle.

As the body hits the ground a woman begins screaming and several people run to try to help though they'll be no help at all.  A few men from within the building look out into the street before looking up and scurrying back inside obviously headed for the roof but they'll be too late as well as Gregory is already gone.

Arriving near the strip club a short time later Gregory can see that it is farily busy this night including a small group of gangbangers in the parking lot gathered around a couple of older model Cadillacs listening to various rap tracks, currently old school NWA "Fuck da Police".  Thought they didn't appear to be the group from the dossier, based upon the colors they were wearing, they still represented an obstacle to overcome.

A small nondescript van parks just up the street obviously gaining a clear view of the front door to the club.  The bouncers are eyeing the group in the parking lot but are currently leaving them be.

[Private to Gregory Chambers: Wasn't sure where you wanted to go from here]

[Private to Dante Hargrave: The intent is to draw them away from the eyes of the general public, then kill/interrogate...interrokill them]

Well looky-loo what we got here my cully, mosquitoes.  Mayhap one of these fine fellows knows where I can find the ones I'm looking for.  And boss said to 'carve up some street thugs for the betterment of the neighborhood.'  Gregory thought pulling Bosses' words straight from memory.

From his discreet, trash ridden, alley Gregory looks around quickly for the best thing to get their attention with... God bless truckers and base heads.  An old beer bottle half full with a suspicious yellow liquid that, from the smell, was clearly not its original contents.

Bottle in hand and cocked to throw, 'I say my dearest fellows, would you be as so kind as to reveal the whereabouts of your companions?'  That is what he thought in his head as he chucked the piss-bottle trucker bomb at the caddies.  What actually comes out of his mouth is a torrent of the most disgusting hate filled garbage that would make even the grand high wizard of the KKK blush.

A scuffed ride and some racism was a wonderful bit of bait.

In a flurry of ratty clothing, Gregory was down the alley, melding into the shadows with Obfuscation.  With surprise and distance, he could judge he had at least five to ten seconds to set up his impromptu ambush.  All the time in the world my cullys.  Springing up, Gregory scrambled up on top of a rusted fire escape and waited for his prey to come rushing into the blind alley full of their foolish pride.  And honestly, who looks UP when looking for someone?

He thought the axe was hungry as he held it in his hands.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:33, Sat 06 June 2015.

The beer bottle toss elicits the response Gregory was looking for as the night's air is filled with muthafuckas and cracker ass beeyatch names and derivatives and then the rattling of fences as the men quicckly scamperred over the barrier and followed down the alleyway.  The fastest of the bunch was the smallest of the bunch, a young light skinned man standing about 5'2".  Dressed in jeans and a blacck tee shirt he has a blue bandana tied around his forehead and sunglasses turned around backwards.  In his left had is a Glock 21.  Rushing forward he passes underneath Gregory without looking up.  Based on their footsteps they are at least ten feet behind and just out of sight...

[Private to Gregory Chambers: Giving you a chance to act.  There are at least seven that moved towards the fenceline after the piss bomb]

[Private to Dante Hargrave: Sorry bout the delay, training on third shift and I'm under the weather.  Not super sure on the system either so I'll let you handle the number crunching for now if thats ok]

Wait for the main group... aye that's it.  Gregory thought stifling a fit of the giggles.  Soon as they were under him it would be time to strike.

SNIK SNIK

Soon as that would happen, it would be mass hysteria.  Cats and dogs living together type mass hysteria.  And all the while that axe blade rising and falling in a gristly tempo.

Soon the main group rushes forward.  Not a tight tactical formation but rather a mob searching for a victim.  The flip trash cans about and scream profanities coupled with threats of serious violence against Gregory, his family, and his mom.  Passing beneath him the one in the lead slides the 9mm back and fires a shot into the wall next to him.  "Keep running muthafucka...we be catching u soon and you be catching some muthafuckin lead...ya heard!"

[Private to Gregory Chambers: Attacks are melee + dex; damage is based on weapon and strength, soak is stamina...etc.  We'll add lib it some.  Everything is almost always difficulty 6, I'll specify otherwise. ]

[Private to Dante Hargrave: 20:33, Yesterday: Gregory Chambers rolled 5 successes using 7d10 with the World of Darkness 3rd ed, Specialised system with a target of 6, rerolling 10s. Attack roll.  Don't know the damage on a fire ax, I'll leave that up to you, but we can assume 2 successes from potence]

Gregory leaped down from the fire escape, axe arching in the night to connect with the unsuspecting below.  His own horridly prodigious might coupled with his downward momentum was sure to make who was on the receiving end very 'dividing' on the situation.  As the wind whipped past Gregory on his downward decent, he began screaming in a high warbling tone.  The embrace had warped everything about Gregory, even his vocal chords, and when he screamed like that, it was no human sound.

Gregory screamed like a dead man.