Alasta moaned as she trudged up the mountain paths. It wasn't the low, haunting mumble of the typical walking corpse, however- more like a child in the backseat frustrated with being stuck in a traffic jam. Many of the other council members had private jets, or could warp space and time like rubber. Her? She had to make do with what transportation she could scrounge, most likely her own two feet. Alas. Still, it was for a good cause. Unlike many of the other creatures of the night, she was still human in the ways that mattered, rotting flesh be damned. A monster was defined by what they were on the [i]inside.[/i]

The doors opened for her of their own accord, as they always did. While she might be able to hold her own against the Prince of Darkness for a time in a purely necromantic contest, the Count was far more adept than her in most areas of sorcery. Her cloak, the same crimson as her hair, brushed gently against the floor as she made her way through the corridors to the council chamber. A few of the other members had arrived, but strangely, it seemed the Count himself could not be... well, counted on. [i]More than a little infuriating. If you tell somebody to come to your place, and that it's urgent, you had damn well better be there to tell them what's going on. Unless...[/i] Alasta followed the train of thought to its station, and her decaying eyebrows raised at the implications, but she forced them back down quickly.

Looking around, there were a few old hands already in attendance. Cameron the Skinwalker, looking as aloof as always. Nyarlathotep, the devious creature. How Dracula trusted her was beyond her understanding. And Orlok, still with the remnants of his latest lunch. [i]You know, the mortals have these strange things called blood banks. Perhaps he should start making withdrawals.[/i]