"Yeah, well it definitely doesn't work on whatever this guy is. Nemsemet just wiped out Caradoc de Lacy and most of his posse single-handed, along with some of the hanger-ons. I barely got my ass out of there intact. I -was- riding out of town, but something fucking stopped me in the middle of the road. I need a sorcerer to look at it and figure out just what the hell that is. Then I want to unwrap that fucking mummy! He killed some of my pack!"

Rusty, blowing town? It usually didn't work like that, Rusty was a lot of things, but he didn't generally run away from a fight. The man tended to go where he would and courted trouble. 

"You got a phone?" He couldn't get out, but maybe he could bring the boys in. Some of the chapters were at Lake Talbot, in the Appalachians for the yearly club retreat. They sat around a lake, got high, fucked with bikes and sold drugs to hikers and college students. It wasn't as good as it was in the late 60's and early-to-mid 70's, but it was a club tradition. He only came down to New Camden because de Lacy called him in with a few guys, not wanting an entire club to come in and wreak havoc on his town. Rusty obliged, because he smelled a good deal and desperation.

Now he was the desperate one. Breathing heavily, holding himself in check, chest heaving.