What Morven was doing wasn't *stalking*, exactly. Silently she padded through the streets of the concrete jungle that was New York, worn flat shoes barely touching the ground as she nonchalantly cast her gaze around the urban landscape, not focusing on anything in particular. Every so often, she would cast a wary glance at a small dot a few blocks ahead of her, as if expecting it to take an unexpected turn or pop up behind her without a moment's notice.

Hair pulled up into an intricate braid, revealing delicate markings in sludgy, forest-green paint, Morven certainly didn't look normal;  however, most people only glanced once or twice, a slight smile on their face that read, “*this is what kids are into these days?*” At least, that was until she broke out into a run (or a mild saunter, for a vampire's natural speed), and the few people that were out at such a late hour audibly scoffed.

“Ches! Ches!” Morven called out in a slightly irritated hiss, jogging up to the blindfolded vampire and crossing her arms. “You need to be more cautious when it comes to your surroundings. You're in Blackmoore territory while there's a bit of a – an issue.” At least, the deafening sound from only a short time ago that sounded like it came from a vampire seemed to suggest as much. She hadn't been so deaf and disoriented since the last metal concert she had attended out of curiosity.

Her nose wrinkled for a moment. “And if you're not careful, that lovely hair of yours' will turn to dreadlocks.”

---

Alistair thumbed the hilt of his sword absently, resting his back against the bar. Twelve rogues were not a big deal, but in the bigger picture... “There's been a lot of new blood recently,” he mused aloud. “The homeless around the city are  going missing, according to Morven, and stocks from blood banks are dwindling. If I didn't know any better, I'd say those are sure-fire signs of a new upstart family. Perhaps this group fell through the cracks?”

The leader of Clan Blackmoore grinned wolfishly, tangling a hand in blonde hair in an attempt to resist the urge to let loose a manic cackle. He loved his life sometimes, but it was often *so boring*. A new player in town – even if it was made of loose rogues and fragile coalitions – would sate his desire for excitement, at least for a time. A war on two fronts, if the Kingston situation escalated. “Adrian! Lead us to them, if you'd please. I need a drink, and I want it to be vampiric.”

Most said that drinking another vampire's blood was pointless – and, well, they were right. It had no nutritional value whatsoever, it was the consistency of tar and it was marked by an acidic flavour worse than vinegar, but everyone had to have their quirks. Alistair's just so happened to be intricately related to a thirst for power. He preferred to fight and struggle with what he drank from.