[b]Pony[/b]

Pony stalked into The Digs, her pretty and innocent face twisted into a scowl. She was slim, she was graceful, she was youthful... and she was pissed. Even the way her oversized denim jacket swung about her torso said it. To her The Digs were a second home, for when the Drummers were not found in their Haven by the docks or out attending to their duties, they were here awaiting the Arch-Bishop's commands. No doubt she had already missed whatever rousing speech Gunnarson had whipped up for everyone else, and that was to her liking. She knew her job. She knew what was wanted. And there was no doubt in her mind that part of the ArchBishop's current plans to stir up the Garou was to use vampires and trick the werewolves into thinking it was the Camarilla's fault. She doubted the beasts could tell much difference between the vampire sects. It wasn't as painfully obvious as it was when one looked at the wholesome Garou compared to the twisted Black Spiral Dances. Even in their human forms, the difference seemed obvious to her!

Even if it wasn't Gunnarson's plan, it should have been. Either way, Pony knew she needed just the right kind of grunts to go with the fleabag. It was a process already underway, actually, as the rest of the Drummers were already standing watch over the vacant lot where they had buried the latest recruits. Best way to get shock troops? Grow your own like corn! Bury them six feet under and then see what popped up hungry for blood and obeying whomever had it! Which would be the Drummers and whatever liaisons the other Packs had assigned to help with the process. It was a stroke of genius, nabbing guys from the VA hospital. Combat veterans, ready to serve. Just add vitae! And the way Pony had heard it, these guys would be a lot better of as vampires anyway compared to how the government was treating them! Wait 15 months for medical services?? Fuck that! Drain 'em, fill 'em, dump 'em, and the good as new all around. There might be mental issues, true, but that was for the other Pack leaders to worry about and only if the Shovelheads lasted long enough for it to matter. Strangely enough, though, it was always the Malkavians who seemed to object the most...

Pony had other priorities at the moment. Gunnarson wanted disposable warriors to go with Cecilia? Job done. But a war needed more than just foot soldiers.

She spied Vasile across the room and pursed her lips hard in anger. Jungle boots stomping across the floor, ripped cargo pants flashing pale flesh, the tiny girl with the ponytail walked right up the flesh artists and began poking him hard in the sternum with what only looked to be a delicate finger. "Where are my fucking scouts, Vasile?" 

When it came to such matters, Pony had no tact. She looked oh so adorable and innocent, and had she the temperament for it she could have been the perfect lure to her own trap as she reeled in mortals with a lust for such thing. Only she was a hunter. The idea of being dainty and coy was as alien to her as mercy. "You promised me three ghouls last week. Three! Remember? That's why I gave you my blood, to create some ghouls to handle daylight crap on the sly?" The last bit was an outright lie, of course. Pony wasn't so stupid as to give Vasile her own blood any more then she would give him her body! The vitae had actually been contributed by her lieutenants, who no doubt in turn had extorted it from lower ranking members of the Boston Sabbat; at least she hoped they did, as she had no use for stupid lieutenants. Vasile did good work, she would give him credit for that! And on a personal level, she did respect and even admire him a little. She thought he seemed to return some of that respect sometimes, although she wasn't sure. The idea of 'liking' someone had been lost over the decades along with the whole 'mercy' concept. Only Vasile [i]lingered[/i] over his victim's sufferings, savored it, reveled in his torturous manipulations as though it were art. And maybe it was! Too bad the only art Pony cared for was the art of war. 

Not even giving him time to speak, she jabbed her finger at him again. "Tomorrow, Vasile. I want them tomorrow." The slightly chipped nailed finger swung about to point towards the ArchBishops' chambers. "I am going to go talk to Gunnarson now. Please get the fucking job done, aright?" Pony gave him one more puppy dog glare and turned away, lips twisted in aggravation. She thought it so unfair that she, the Sabbat War Leader, she have the honeyed notes of sixteen year old girl to give commands and ultimatums with instead of a proper bellow that came of leather lungs.

In turning about, she found herself looking directly at the Toreador, Brigit. Pony's mood became more sour. There was something about the elegant and poised woman that just set Pony's fangs on edge, annoying her for no reason that she could put a name to. Those full lips, the perfectly styled hair, the full swell and curves of her adult body that did not so much wear the dress as it did complement it. She made the Pander feel base. Pony was pretty, yes. But Brigit was beautiful, a refined elegance that outshone her in so many ways. And that irked the smaller girl. Worse was Brigit's arrogance; she was good at what she did, yes, only she wasn't the only one who could do the job. There was one thing Pony could take pride in; she knew she could kick the Toreador's perfectly rounded ass in a fist fight. In the end, she raised her petite chin up a little and sniffed dismissively at Brigit before stalking away; it was like Great Dane being dismissed by a Chihuahua puppy.

So it was that Pony marched down the twisting corridors to Gunnarson's office. "Hey, B-man," she gruffed as she entered, "No one seems to want to be first to talk to you. They're all standing around plotting. So you get me." She grinned, showing her tiny white teeth clearly. "Isn't that lovely? You want my report or did the Nosferatu give it to you already?"