-=[house of pain temple, newark, new jersey]=-
(lich/tamiel)
((This post is an introduction to the 'House of Pain' Temple in Newark New Jersey, were the meeting will be held. I will wait a few posts for people to post their arrivals before the actual meeting begins.
Remember, attendence at this meeting is technicaly not opitional. If you are NOT at this meeting, please email sabbatst@metropolischronicles.com. It may be checked up on IC, so please remember to email if you are NOT there))
The church is nothing special. An abandoned building in the middle of a slum. It has been this way for going on a century and a half now. A typical 1800s style wood building, with a large bell tower extending up two stories and crowned by a cross near the front of the building. There are rumors about this place. More like urban legends. Always have been, really. Its the home of a serial killer. Its a temple for satanists. Its a gateway to hell itself! These are all unfounded... of course.
As you enter the church it looks even less remarkable. The sancturary is covered in graffiti and rubble. The pews are broken and scattered, even the alter is turned over and missing most of its holy artifacts. Hell someone has even salvaged the pipes for the organ behind it. A few minutes after you stand around, a... thing comes to fetch you. It is small, four feet maybe. Smooth dull gray skin, featurless in every way. Its head is huge, and its eyes still much much to large for it. Its neck and torso are realtivily small, whiles its arms and legs are about average... for a human, that it, and its tail... well, its tail is there, what else needs to be said? It has only six fingers and four toes, each of which end in large sharp black talons, with similar talons going up and down its back, from the tail the mowhawk it makes on it's head. It speaks out of a circular mouth. No lips, just sharp teeth to enclose on themselves. In a scratchy and horse voice it urges you onward, towards what used to be a bathroom.
Hidden in one of the stalls is a trap door, with a ladder decending quite a ways down to the flicker of firelight on dirt floors. Quite the climb. Once you reach the bottom, the temple sits before you, just down a short tunnel. Thats the only word for it, tunnel. Everything here seems to be dug out, and surronded by dirt. In the temple, all the furniture is made of bone. On each side ancloves have been dug out of the walls and skulls have been placed inside. The very perceptive might swear, every now and then, one of the skulls breifly grows back eyes. But no one is quick enough to see them when they turn to look directly at it. Three rows of three benchs sit around a speaking platform in a semicircle. On this platform, a rather ornaite alter to Caine and the Sabbat its as a podium. Behind this two large wooden doors stand closed. A plaque above them reads 'Remember your manners and to ask before you enter my home'. Off to either side, two more tunnels lead in oppisite directions.
Looks like the meeting hasn't started yet.
(travis/salvador)
He gets out of the cab, his long formal black coat trailing behind him. He slowly climbs the steps of the church. His aristocratic spanish features are shrouded in darkness as he steps through the doors of the fallen church, and as the doors bang shut behind him he genuflects to the desecrated altar. He then walks casually forward to one of the front row pews and seats himself to wait patiently. Appearently Salvador Xavier Munes was the first to publicly arrive, though he knows that another resides in proximity to the church.
(chivo)
**He locks the door on the old, dusty, beat-up firebird, leaving a crack in the window so his personal security system can have some air while Shane went inside. He immediately realized it wasn't his cup of tea as he entered the place, then the diminutive little monster urging him on.
A stiff legged walk down through the tunnel, the smell of dirt filling the crevices even more. Was it from him, or was it simply patches of fresh dirt in the tunnels, who could really tell. He stands, a grimace on his face as he looks around. Hopefully no one would hold it against him if he didnt sit on one of the skeleton thrones.
The place made even him feel creeped out.
A nod to the other one there, and a glance over him from eyes hidden by the brim of his hat, and nothing more. Only waiting....
(adam/alexandra)
Alexandra Leblanc climbs slowly from the taxi a slight sneer playing across delicate porcalin features as eyes run slowly over the delapidated church. my what fun hands raise slowly to pull black hood of the velvet cloak over hair the cowl laying low over face casting all but her bottom jaw into deepest shadow. hands hold the cloack closed around her body holding it up off the ground as she makes her way slowly through the litter.
when the creature leads her to the toilets she almost turns and leaves. do you know how much dry cleaning is these days. yet down the ladder she goes. into the bowels of the earth
the bone furniture is studied with much interest. she wonders how it would look in her living room. before attention is finally turned to the other two a breif glance. dismissing them yet when he takes a seat she makes sure it is somewhere she can watch both of them.
(salvador)
Hearing movement in other parts of the church the spainard moves towards the ladder, he's been here before, and decends much as he has before. Arms, tendrils of living darkness lower him gently down the shaft, and he looks about curiously at those who have also just arrived below. "Hello", he says, his spanish accent quite noticable.
(tamiel)
Eventually, after everyone is settled in and ready, the double doors open on their own. And out walks the demonic entity that can only be a Tzimisce (you hope)
Tamiel stands at a bit over nine feet tall. His features are long, spindly, and exagerated. Both his arms and legs are incredibly thin, ending in large hands and feet with one inch bone claws. His chest is thin and streched out, showing his ribs. If you'll count, he also seems to have four extra of these ribs. His neck is thick and rough looking, with more lumps then should be found on the throat. His face is fairly hedious. Flat and smoother then the rest of his body. His eyes are small and beedy blood red dots, hidden behind thick bone rimmed glasses that are grafted into his eye sockets. His teeth are all sharp and bulky, coming from a slightly elongated jawline. Four of these teeth are large enough to stick out of his mouth, and razor sharp. His upper Cainies stick out on the inside, while his lowers stick out on the outside, seeming to lock into each other. He has no facial hair, but there is a rather sharp looking blackened bone spike sticking out from his chin, which might be his idea of a ghotte. Four more horns adorn his forehead, two on each side. The outside horns are long and thin, curving up eight inches out. The inside two are short and fat, a meer inch and a half. His hair is messy, tangled and long, going down past his shoulders. Jet black and thick, if you look close enough, you might notice it isn't all from the same head... Tamiel tops off all of this with thick, elobarted (and fairly faded) robes. The robes are dark purple, covering his shoulders, going down over his chest and leaving a V opening till just above his waist, where a bright blue sash ties off the robe, knot halfway to his side on the left, and then travels down to just above his feet, which are covered in thick human leather boots. The back of the robes are tattered in sevreal places right down the center, but don't reveal anything underneath.
He stares at the assembled for a bit, then begins to speak. His voice... or rather, voices, are loud and booming. Speaking one after the other for an echo effect. As such, its hard to place and accent.
"Brothers and Sister's of the dark father, I welcome you to my home and temple. Before we begin, I would like to state my authority, so you may know how to weigh the power behind my words. I am Tamiel of the Black Winds. Tzimisce and Koldun. I have here two letters of Recomandation from the Prisci Buri and Angrboda. I only need of these... to become Bishop."
He quites for a moment, giving others time to register the statment.
"Next, I bring you tidings for the Regent. An... agreement has been struke. The situation across the river is to be handled in a more... subtle manner then the Puppets of the Elder's suspect. This city will be our main base of operations in raids against New York City. Do not fret, no one makes you fight. But this city must be secured. We most insure no Camarilla hide amongst us, and then we must take measures to atleast know if any Cainites or 'Kindred' enter its boarders. Newark shall be a stopping point. Were nomads and the like will sleep in the day and retreat to heal their wounds. Those who wish are welcome to join them in their fighting, but it is demanded of no one. Before we go on to the specifics, are there any questions or objections?"
(michael)
The toes of boots find reason to pause at the lip of cavernous depths trapdoor reveals, and it is something akin to amusement that urges shape on lips that simply seem [i]far[/i] too young. The fleshcrafted servant chortles and grunts and bubbles it's vernacular begging the quiet youth to follow with haste, and as a soft breath expells itself from long dead lungs, Mik'hail's only comfort to the small creature is a chuckle that rolls smokily from the hollow of his throat.
How..... delightfully ironic.
The Ductus of the Seraphim, mightiest of all ArchAngels, he who has been chosen as Caine's beloved [ damned ] Soldier, casually descends the ladder into the tunnel below, as if arriving for a chat with the Morning Star himself rather than the local power that is. Though as boots find the packed dirt floor, and lean body turns to offer dark eyes the visions of what has been prepared - skulls in alcoves, bones grafted to utilitatiran if ornate furniture, and the exquisite altar before them - the symbolism may not be far off. Something glimmers in the obsidian pools lurking beneath the shadows of his brows, hands draw together with flattened palms, the very tips of long index fingers trace the softness of lips through the offering of a moment's sacrosanct [ seditious ] prayer... and only then does the Prince of [ Caine ] Light draw into the immaculately prepared tunnel.
Bless us Father, for we are Your sin.
His clothes are loose and black - nothing flashy, but expensive and tailored enough to make a reasonable [ divine ] impression. From the polished boots to the lush slacks to the buttoned shirt and calf-length coat, he is dressed with as much formality as the meeting seems to require. Perhaps for more than he would deem necessary on a night to night basis, but there is pomp and circumstance than even a Brute will follow. Thick waves of shoulder length hair are pulled from his face with a nimble hand.
This is when the double doors open, this is when the .... interesting fellow that could only be Tamiel begins to speak in a singular chorus of echoing voices. Mik'hail listens, paused behind the back circle of bone pews, keeping his reaction to the stated names to himself. Any rising amusement is swallowed by trademark serenity. He needs not a long Genesis of who beget whom nor the names and letters of brothered Prisci to secure his position or ego. His own reputation rides on the fire and brimstone left in the Seraphim's wake. Soon enough, the time to speak will present itself - and until then, the [ fallen ] Angel waits.
Bishops interest him little more than knowing what name to use when addressing another, it is the speech of New York which holds his attention.
(chivo)
Letters, names, even a head full of horns meant pretty much nothing to him. Aside from loking like he just crawled out of bed with the devil, the Tzimisce wasn't making that big of an impression. Chalk it up to seeing too much over the years. The talk of taking New York wasn't too much of an attention grabber either, nor weeding out Camarilla. That wasn't what he was here for.
And the choice in decorration wasn't exactly a deal sealer either.
But he was all the way here, so he figures he might as well listen. Maybe there was something that would hold his attention.
(val/uriel)
Pause at the threshold...
Followed in the wake-presence of Michael is a drifting figure whom moves even slower than long stride of He ahead. Shrouded from head to toe in a hooded garment that on close inspection would prove to be singed at the
edges of its hood and hem as if burned.
Features are hidden with in the deep blackness of the hood's confines. Within the creature moves with a slow shuffling step like one whom is very old, very injured or perhaps just distracted beyond physical movement.
The only visible flesh are two elongated hands that seem made of perfect, pale and youthful flesh lying idle at the creatures side.
The varying depths and obstacles are regarding without silent comment from the figure whom at first glance seems hunched-backed (but to look closer there is something...). Each new twist and turn treated in hushed forebearance.
It is rare meeting a Koldun and even more rare one whom indulges in the fleshly metamorphisim that this creature has. Yet for now any thought or statement is reserved for the gathering instead for the turning of
it's head slowly regarding a strikingly handsome figure who likely saunteers not far from Michael instead. . .
briefly then returning that depthless gaze amongst its black shadows to that which speaks ahead.
(tamiel)
As no one has any questions, Tamiel countiues.
"Very well then. Firstly, know that I am not to be the only Bishop of this Domain. New Jersey will have three, and the other two will surely have their own plans and orders. We are deep in enemy territory even as we speak my Kin. No doubt, there will be other things to do. Establish routes to come and go, build a stronger presence on the road here. That sort of thing. If you do not wish to assist in these plans, no one is forcing them unto you... though I would hope everyone in this room is as concerned that the enemy has captured one our castles as I am.
"Now then... The plan is simple. As I said, we will secure this city and route out any of the enemy we know of. I have heard talk of... Alliances with the Camarilla in Trenton. I do not know if these are true... but if they are, I tell you know, these deals are over. Who ever crafted them, be assured, your death is envitable, and will last longer then you might think possible.
"But I digress. So then, once this city is totaly ours, we will begin to watch the entrances and exits. Packs or individuals are urged to speak with me, so I may point you to the best locations for those of your talents to monitor. We are going to be thourogh in this my Brothers, if possible we will even watch the floors of the Hudson. It is critical we maintain this city.
"Once this is all set up, the Nomads will begin to come and go, approaching from the east and south. We will set up safe houses and a few temples to support these brave Soldier's of Caine. That will be our job here, a support base for the those going to fight. A safe location they can come from and fall back too.
"Now, as to what you get out of staying. Pack territories tend to go to whoever is strong enough to fend off the claim jumpers in this Sect. This will not be the case in Newark. You will be allowed Territory, atleast for now, as part of a plan set by the Regent the couincle that oversaw this plan. It is... antiproductive, to allow it to change hands whenever some self proclaimed bad ass decideds to take it from you. Territory will be enforced. Disputes are to be put before me and my counterparts, once two others show themselves worthy of this title. Newark has... seen better times. These 'ghettos' are everywhere, and blood is plentiful. On a feeding basis, there should be no problems no matter where you are set. I do not see a problem with these arrangments.
"Also, the Sword tends to have a policy of making you do as your told. Freedom is freedom, but we are at war, and we are an army. Freedom is not anarchy. If the need should arise to outright order you to do something, it is still expected of you. If you don't do it, you shall be punished. We will, however, forego the system of telling you to do it anyway once you are punished. As long as you take the punishment with some dignity, of course.... Do keep in mind though, my brethren, some things are still punished with the final death."
The Tzimisce scans the crowd, taking everyone in. Its a cold, intimidating stare. Not the eyes of someone who has seen to much... the eyes of someone who has Done to much. Their is a diffrence between soldier's who have nightmares and killers that don't. And if you didn't know it, you do now.
"So then, any questions?"
(salvador)
The spainard steps forward. "Hello again, your grace." he says formally with his pronounced spanish accent. "Are there any specific orders as to whom the other two bishops are to be?" his tone is polite but obviously interested. "I am Salvador Xavier Munes of Clan Lasombra, I have come here from Madrid, and while I lack a pack at the moment, I hope to remedy that situation soon." he stands politely quiet waiting for a response to his question.
(tamiel)
Tamiel's gaze shifts to the Lasombra, taking him in for a moment.
"This is a special city, but these are not special circumstances. The Bishop's will be choosen based on who is worthy..." he looks to the crowd, now addressing them all "And all the Cainites in this city have as much, probably more, say in who is worthy then I or the Couincles in Mexico. They will be taken from the leaders, those who can guide our brothers and sisters to victory and saftey, and those who think always of the sect first and, in their capicity of Leader, never themselves. We will who shall be Bishop in the coming nights. But as it stands, there are no orders 'from the top' as to who shall have this honor."
(chivo)
Again, all things that didnt really matter to him, with the exception of the promise of territory. Even dead, it was important. And then there was the looming threat. Sure he had all the tact that any bishop should have, making sure it seemed like your will was your own, but behind all the rhetoric, Shane knew the point he was geting across.
Then there was the Brujah curse, the one most people didn't take into acount. Whenever there were a few skulls to be cracked, or some heavy demolition to be done, they always looked to the Brujah. And from the looks of things around, he was the only one there.
Still, he stands there, silent, just listening. Even if he had nothing to say, he would probably not say it. It's just the way the cowboy was.
(salvador)
The Lasombra nods slowly, as if the answer given was the obvious one. "I see. Will there be ritus tonight? A vauldrie?" he smiles slightly, "And might I ask if there is a pack here who would be willing to accept an expirate from Spain into their ranks." with each sentence he raises his voice slightly, not yelling, but defniately grabbing attention
(gabe's vampire)
Darkness, Silence, Shadow and depth... these are the things which make up the universe when one who steps through the veil of the senses is shown the true worth and the true value of that which is the eternal war.
The smell of the old church filtered to him as he entered. Pain, dirt, blood, and filth of all kinds lingered in the air. Yet it was the softer sense, the scent of fire and of the thick musk of something darker, deeper.
Watching as the beast slowly moved out to greet him he knew he had come to the correct place. He had never the need to travel all the way to Newark. In fact leaving his Pack in Atlantic City was hard enough without causing a stir as to the well laid plans which were there. But it didn't matter, His Sister Priest was busy with affairs of her family, his Brother in the Pack was still scouring and digging deeper and deeper into the web which is the cities underworld, and as for his newest sister... He thought of her as a soft smile crept into the back of his mind for a moment. Oh yes, she was dealing with "other" matters.
Entering the dank and retchid restroom the visual inspection of the place almost seemed too familuar. How many times, in recent years, had he seen such a set up in either modern film or story of some sort wisked from the minds of helpless sheep and placed in the middle of the world to placate the mass thrawl of the endless spirit which was creativity. But alas, the care was not there and the only reason he was hear was because he wanted answers to the burning questions which had plagued his random dreams as of late. Whomever, was responcible for this 'call' had better be damn worthy.
Decending the tattered and worn ladder the call of voices could softly be heard as he made his way down the tunnel and into the sanctuary. He arrived just as the second question was asked. Looking around the room he took each one into the burning core of his mind. The horridly tall and beautifuly ornimented Tzimisce, obviously the whole reason they had all been called here. Then the well tailored in black spaniard. A smile crept to the corner of his lips for an instant as he viewed a cousin in blood. Yet he continued to scan the room, each face, each man or woman was placed into memory.
As his gaze finally fell back to the tall, 9 foot beast, he recalled the echoing question which lifted it's way to him as he decended.
~Were there any questions?~
He paused for a moment and thought almost about leaving, but that would be rude and disrepectful to atleast someone who seemed to have a hold of atleast a small sliver of intelligence. Then as the words formed into his brain the gaze from behind the small rimmed, smoke black colored shades formed into words. The long Thick, black leather hung loose around his form down to just below his ankle. High gloss, shin high, Black, reinforced heel, toe and arch, SAS jump boots laced up tight held his stature, bloused black fatigues, and a well tailored ash grey shirt rounded him out. Thick, raven black hair hung down just to his shoulders. He was clearly of Spanish or Mederterainian decent and the soft yet full accent of his Spanish Heritage flowed from him as he spoke.
"I would pose a question for thee."
He paused as he was sure many would turn to see just who was the last to currently arrive and the first to give responce without title, name or even proper respect to station. Having missed the whole introduction of who he was and the credentials he bore he had no reason but to offer the base level of humility and respect he felt was given to someone who could be nothing more than a crafty (no pun) skin freak.
"Obviously, I arrive just short of proper introduction for if by doing so I offend thee by not offering proper respect to your station then I offer due appology unto such an act of transgrettion. Yet, I stand here pondering what it is exactly that those of even more powerful station, wisdom and worth, plan to do with but a meer pitance of that which has seemed to be gathered here?"
(tamiel)
He just stares at the new comer for a bit. He just explained this... for the love of god...
Eventually, he simply says "I am not going to repeat myself brother. Next time, I would suggest listening. I only pointed this out two or three times." Harsh, true. But he can tell from the Thee's and Thou's this one likes to think of himself as some kind of noble. Needs to be put in his place as soon as possible, because only when things are in place, does the machine run well.
(chivo)
You can almost hear his face crack as the smile forms and a soft chuckle comes from his throat. Creepy as this Koldun was, he was pretty funny, and it was always amusing to see one of the high and mighties get put in their place.
His Expression, for the most part, still remains hidden, he sticks to the shadows, his hat fixed to his head casting even more shadows over his face as he turned to see the newcomer.
Damn...
Another prissy, well dressed spaniard. He was outnumbered.
(rach/gabriel)
[Some say the world will end in fire -- some say ice.]
He was there and then again he wasn't. The hawkish line of his nose is what appears first. A sharp edge against the distraction of your perceptions. A teenager perhaps, white T-shirt and denim jeans, small strains of [...red-red-red-red..] somrthing on the chewed right cuff. Head twists to the left to regard his packmates [Angels of the second coming], a smile so -CERTAIN- so -CONFIDENT- finding fierce purchase on symmetrical features.
[--from what I've tasted of desire....]
And you can almost feel the motion before biceps begin to ripple under the thin weave of cotten T-shirt. A clap, and then another slowly increasing in speed and force. The sound seeming to draw eyes, to the well-featured blond boy. His lips are twisted into a smile, but eyes are fixed almost feverishly on Tamiel...
[I hold with those you favor fire.]
"Bravo."
And the clapping stops, the boys hands gripping the lip of his his seat [..blood flows through undead veins..] in fixed interest, seemingly uninterest in the disturbance he hjust caused, or the spectacle of attention that was invoked--by his approval.
[I am the messenger.]
(rob/raphael)
Standing behind Uriel and Michael is a bulky man in a leather trenchcoat. No sleeves, reckon those must have gotten ripped off...
He says nothing, just watches the exchange of words with his three eyes.
Oh, yeah, Did I say three eyes? Indeed I did. How strange. All blue, and full of a youthfull innocence most find disarming.
Well, they would is it weren't for the massive sawed off shotgun he cradles in his arms, and strokes.... Well, lovingly.
He just watches. Occasionally, he'll whisper something to Uriel, who will respond likewise in a whisper, but mostly he just watches. That might even be fear in his eyes. I dare you to ask him.
(michael)
Sanctity.
As comfortably as Uriel stands wrapped in his singed robes, Raphael his martyred blood, Raguel his shadows, and Gabriel his visions, the Brujah remains silently listening, calmly bathed in the invisable halo of some serenity [ eye of the storm ] - the quality that makes the discovery of his lineage so much more disturbing, especially when compared to what is expected from the Seraphim's [ well deserved ] reputation. There are those that have seen too much, and others that have done too much, and then there are those that just see and do. In Mikha'il's eyes, there is never too much. Judgement is final and swift and he leads his pack to fall upon transgressions as Caine's deadly plague, even the earth itself scorched with the brimstone that sizzles magma within their infamous wake.
The ends will always justify the means.
This is not the first Mihka'il has heard of such alliances, nor is it the first battle plan complete with promises of undisputed territories or Bishopry to those that prove worthy so on and so bloody forth. Those are not the squabbles for which he saves their Strength. And now that Gabriel has gathered attention to themselves...
"Your... Excellency."
The appellation rolls warm smoke through the air, his eyes lift from a breif study of the cleanliness beneath fingernails to the twisted beauty of Tamiel's crafted countenance, the recently placed creative anachronism not exactly ignored, but not given more than a passover, either. While he does not raise his voice to be heard, the smooth tenor carries effortlessly the distance; it is not a voice that demands attention, it is one that easily, yet respectfully, commands it.
"I am Michael, Brujah Ductus of the Seraphim." A casual wave indicates those gathered of his pack behind him; the clapping youth that only recieves a fond [ adoring ] smile, the three-eyed male stroking the shotgun lovingly [ never fear, when you are by my side ], the whispering [ visionary ] creature swathed in singed robes, and the Russian bathed in shadows whom.... should... be there [ Raguel always watches over their light from the darkness ], while they need no introduction and their reputation preceeds, not all of his Clan are without their manners as this is a formal meeting after all. "You know as well as I we would not have been sent if the Greater Hand did not deem our presence necessary or beneficial. Now that you have our Strength to weild the Sword, as well as the others who heeded your invitation, what are your plans of action to ensure our victory?"
The Seraphin serve fanatically - but no Bishop expects to throne himself in power without being properly questioned or tested, so far all has been understandable hypothetical talk for organization is key to the machine. However, Mikha'il will not lead his pack under a hungry fool's initiative. Now is the time for decisive planning.
(salvador)
When the other spaniard speaks, Munes, turns his head slightly to watch and listen while his country-man speaks. His attention returns to the Koldun as the Tzimisce responds, and draws a slight smile of amusement. This one is sharp, but then the sword of Caine needs to be sharp doesnt it. He shrugs and waits for a response to his own questions regarding the Rites, and openings in packs.
A sudden idea occurs to him, in a start that registers only as a slow blink of his nearly black eyes then he speaks, directing his words to the Bishop in a clear but respectful tone. "Your Grace, if I may, I'd like to offer my services to you as Templer. My reputation is known in Madrid, and I served Archbishop Moncada as a Bishop until his final death."
(tamieL)
Hrmmm, lots of questions, all at once. Tamiel takes them as they come.
"Brother Munes, Rites are expected but my studies have always been more... Factual then spiritual. I do not know the specifics of any one Rite, though I of course invite any among you to lead what approiate Rites you shall."
"Michael... I am aware of the Serphim, your reputation proceedes you. For now we will be securing entrance and exit to the city. As soon as possible, we will route any of the enemy found inside this decaying city. To the best of my knowledge, however, this particular part of the state is ignored by the Camarilla. No big busiess blood money to suck from the poor is left in most of Newark. Once that is done, we will keep the city at all costs and uphold the will of the Father. Once again, you are of course welcome to fight in New York, if you so choose... but we are more of a... feild hospital then an artillary post. If you'll exuse my Sethian terminology. Once the city is safe the nomads will begin to pour in and rest here between raids. As I understand it, most have choosen to cross beneath the Hudson River. But we will support them as they come, not assist them in battle. Safe houses, temples, that sort of thing. I have a request for the skills of your pack, but I shall ask in private. I have nothing to hide... but I do not know if you will have conflicting intrests that you wish to keep to yourselves."
"Brother Munes, it is admirable that you pledge yourself. But... such is not a task given to a stranger. I mean you no offense brother, and is not that I do not trust you but... as of yet I do not know you well enough to give such a large trust."
(chivo/shane)
Helping without helping...of course there was the thought the tzimisce was up to something, ther was always that thought. But this seemed like a deal Shane could actually live with. So long as he could help without helping also.
He still remains silent, still just watching and listening. Talking would come later...maybe.
(salvador)
he nods again, satisfied with both answers to his questions, his purpose served by being acknowledged and treated with a modicum of respect he glances around at those around him, his dark eyes lingering only a moment longer on the three eyed invidual they do on anyone else.
(gabe)
A dark smile crept into his soul at the retort from the one who obviously held more than just "paper" acknowledgement.
~So, this one will not be as foolish as many before him... Good.~ he thought these words as he continued to scan those around him.
The Pack to his right, and a few select single individuals to his left, all was in order. The petty squabble of who would fall into what position, be it Bishop, Templar, or even the Smart Mouthed 'Noble'... it mattered little. As long as the glorifiing flame of truth, the eternal burning embers of the Dark Father in which would sweep across the land like a mighty hand of wrath ... as long as the truth was borne into the minds and souls of the slumbering sheep of the world, what did he care who or how anyone thought of himself or the pack he led.
Silently he watched with a more calm facade, constantly glancing from one to the next, behind shielded glass of small rimmed frames.
~Oh, indeed... the Seriphim, a noted Pack from deeds and story.~ The thought was a welcome sight to what had stood before it prior. Yet it was not the names, or faces, or even the pomp and circumstance of belittled stature, he could care less for that now. It was the truth, the burning desire to finally be rid of the God forsaken place, to finally stand in the deep shadow of his homeland once more and to finally be done with the petty rabble which continued to plauge the great and mighty Sword of the Dark Father.
He thought for a few moments upon if he should speak upon the details of Atlantic City, ... 'His' city... his Packs city. For it was they who had laid the ground work, cleaned the tunnels, infiltrated the groups, and had established the lines of truth and the lines of 'misdirection'. All save for the damned Cassino... in which he was secure in knowing that if the enemy was there, they were not where he was. So as the thought rose within him he was steeled away to a fortified place upon which he didn't truly care who bitched or moaned about this city... he had his own corner of this damned State already in order...
(uriel)
The gaze had been exchanged from hooded face-less figure to handsome beautiful boy. Often Gabriel spoke the words which the creature desired to be spoken.
Reputation might even speak that the winged (-- upon close inspection if one dares to it might be noted that though the priest seems hunched backed it is in fact two great black wings which give this impression whether crafted, deformity or so other form of magicks seems unclear -- ) creature did not speak it all.
It is perhaps then with some surprise (even from his bretheren) that he shuffles slightly forwards lifting one of the perfect pale hands slightly - resting it lightly like a dying dove against the air. Fingers as slender as they are long curled slightly outwards.
"And when these are finished, then My words will come..."
It is a voice made of ash and bone so soft to nearly be lost in the din if the collection of vampires does not pay attention.
Rough as if the chords which produced the voice had been torn and yet strangely sing-song as one might imagine an injured predator's birds song.
Strange that a pack with such a reputation for strength has such a member whom seems so weak.
(raguel)
*(Child twisted, howling, screaming. Begger's mercy, and a droplet of blood.) Raguel is there, undoubtedly, his presence vaguely felt in the slow trickle of blood that moves, not like a heartbeat's pulse but as a slow trickle from a river tightly damed, through his packmate's. Beat, fade, beat. A steady sort of certainty. Raguel (Judge. Executioner.). Most of the Sect would sooner cut off their own heads than admit to trembling in the later hours of the morning as day-mares, bright and fudged by merciless whispers of ancient pacts, wander through their semi-conscious sluggish minds. The howling at the gates draws ever nearer, not all Assamites fell before that torturous curse. Fear, fear, fear.
But come now, he's only Russian. How frightening can a Russian assasin be? He holds his own council, but the shadows flicker gently back and forth as though swaying like an inky pendulum at Michael (Mikhael)'s right hand, his Black Hand.
(Intense.)*
(uriel)
Silence (blessed silence).
Finally as the room quiets and the restless shuffling of feet, glancing of eyes and folding of arms indicates no one can think of anything else to say for the moment...
He.Speaks.
(Tattered Whispers)
Its a voice used never idly. Ashes uttering such a whispered sound as to again be lost in the slighest noise. Yet despite its quiet tones it is not a meek voice. Carrying from amongst the ravaged-unused skin to ring in echo to those who listen.
One might well imagine that if He chose to raise his voice it might well shatter the fragile bone around them -- flesh and blood alike.
"Advocacy from the Council itself..."
Curious at the best of circumstances.
"We had not heard of any Archbishop of these lands however so it must indeed be but an unusual situation. It is an even more unusual situation to have a Bishop amongst un-won lands."
Pause.
"Still we are not one to turn a cheek to brothers. We are here then as amongst other things to witness your BloodBath?"
The voice is slow in the words which come with effort and just like the coal which with enough pressure will become a diamond its tone unfolds in blooming beauty capturing the listener whom falls prey long enough to pay attention.
Words so many words to be spoken more than he has in a very long time yet those closest around him (and even some of those not) can nearly read that he (It?) has not fallen silent for the night just yet.
(tamiel)
"Polina (sp?) will be the offical ArchBishop of these lands, though he is a bit... busy at the moment, as you might imagine. It is not as uncommon as you'd think to have Bishops in 'unwon' lands, but these lands are not unwon. New England has always been for the most part Sabbat land. Just because we lost New York City does not mean we suddenly control nothing in the area. And as for blood baths... soon, but not tonight."
(uriel)
Whether or not these words are agreed to cannot be told. Features are hidden by the deep hood and long-fingered nails have merely curled slightly.
"Mmm."
For now however the words felt to be false or not fall as raindrops against a pane.
Arcing whispers carrying outwards on faux breath.
"The war is never so truly won that soldiers can be allowed to sit idle.
It has been stated that no one is required to fight. Curious.
We wonder at this..." Pause as there is a shudder of those long singed wings against his back causing those looking to see the seemingly bent back straighten. The creature is a thing both long and tall whose shadow is cast before him outwards.
"...as it is our very natures which -require- us to fight else the gifts granted to us for that very purpose? Are wasted."
Another pause as the hood turns to seemingly gaze outwards at each face standing present nearby (...brush of fingers against the nape of neck...).
"It is not so much -how- as If... should any not feel themselves strong enough to aid to the greater Jyhad then they should not drag their brothers and sisters down. We have found fire is the most cleansing of tools in such matters."
Sulfur-smoke seems to surround the creature as he says this. Perhaps the Bishop of...
says they are not required to fight (whether as a literal term or not) but it might well seem the Father's holy angels feel otherwise.
(michael)
The Brujah's first response is only an inclination of his chin [ Father's holy blessing ] a silent ascension to the matters that shall be discussed later and in private. Raguel the shadow strewn pendulum to his right, Uriel whispering on faux breath to his left, Raphael standing guard behind, and the [ perfectly beautiful ] boy Gabriel infront. While he allows the singe winged creature to continue speaking without interruption, his attention turns to the blond before him.
....or partially so. One staying hand traces idle down the shoulder seam of the crimson tee. Perhaps he keeps another outburst from happening until the ashen questions have ceased, perhaps he comforts from the feeling of fingers that brush invisably against all that listen, or perhaps it is something else entirely. But even as there is one physical action, those eyes remain on the so recently [ self? ] appointed Bishop.
[ We have found fire is the most cleansing of tools in such matters. ]
Something curves his lips cherubic, the barest amusement shown - so dark an expression on a smile most merciful. Prompted by the scent of sulpher [ brimstone ] rising in the warm [ warming? ] tunnel.
"But of course." Nothing so sweet as the serpentous voice of an ArchAngel murmuring. "I'm sure his.... Excellency will not allow those that choose not to actively fight to sit idle as idle hands for temptation and apathy to inspire. Idle hands are useless... unsused gifts are gluttonous waste. Some use will be found for those that opt out." For something more than poignant example? That has yet to be determined. Though Newark is supposed to be a.... field hospital.... after all, beneath a Bishop that has yet to have a BloodBath. "Isn't that right, Tamiel?"
Whom, exactly, were the Seraphim sent to watch.
-=[in progress]=-
Posted by archangel at March 16, 2003 12:00 AM