[@POOHEAD189] The woman Caber had ensnared screamed again, her register rising from flat fear to piercing agony. The bar seemed to recoil from the unexpected sound like a living thing. Glass shattered as the slipped from the hands of started patrons and jostled serving staff alike. Several chairs went over backwards as people jumped to their feet in startled shock. The woman staggered back into a corner hunching her form over, the tracksuit black against the old country dimness the pub cultivated. Her hands and face in contrast shone with a burning green-white light as spiraling sigils of ancient ogham script seemed to carve themselves into her flesh. The few people who had moved to help her, probably imagining her to be having some sort of medical emergency or other mishap, fled before the flickering witchfire. The panic spread quickly. It was beyond natural panic a cold a visceral fear swept through the assembled mortals like razor sharp ice. “Fire!” someone shouted and there was a general stampede for the door. Even those that would ordinarily have been made of sterner stuff fled before what could only have been magically induced terror. The woman continued to scream, clawing at her face in a frenzy of pain and panic. Long gashes appeared in her handsome face, the blood blue black in the weird illumination. [hider=Oh brother where art thou] Some other fae magic has been used to subvert Cabers charm and will kill this woman. After she dies her corpse will impart a cryptic message. [/hider] ___________________________ [@Fetzen] “Mister Othen,” came a steady cultured voice from behind the gargoyle. Behind him stood a tall man of indeterminate age in an expensive suit of grey white european silk. A slender cigarette hung from between his thin pale lips and his oddly colourless eyes moved constantly behind a pair of rectangular gold framed spectacles. As the gargoyle turned the man removed the glasses and polished them with a cloth which vanished back into the breast pocket of his coat as soon as it had appeared. He never removed his cigarette during the entire process, a thin stream of smoke twisting into the chilly air. Sadjic Trioulscar was a well known figure in the murky underworld of the arcane. He claimed to be a vanilla mortal but there was a sense of power and menace about him which left others wary. Although he had a Cypriot passport, inquiries into his past either lead nowhere or the people asking the questions conveniently vanishing. Sadjic made his living as a broker of sorts, moving between the various factions of the supernatural world dispensing and collecting favors. “A great tragedy to lose Herr Mauser,” Sadjic said with a glance towards the flurry of police activity. “And at such a delicate time,” he made clucking sound as though it were indeed a great pity. Behind him, half concealed by the early morning light was a black luxury sedan. The driver sat with his hands on the wheel, eyes staring straight ahead as though a mannequin rather than a man. “Not a good time to be an outcast with few allies, not so? Once the finger pointing starts, who knows where, or on whom it will land?” [hider=Friends Like These] Sadjic wants to offer Othen a deal that will sound like it will help him but will actually backfire [/hider] _________________________________ [@Sophrus] Thaum had no sooner moved off down the street than a large panel van with the stenciled legend ‘City of Detroit’ on both sides turned onto the road. As rare as public works were in the city these days the vehicle should have aroused attention but no one so much as looked at the van as it pulled up to the curb and a half dozen figures, mostly men but a few women stepped out. Each of them wore city of Detroit utility coveralls and carried a large duffel bag. With calm almost bored efficiency they headed into the apartment building. The Guardians of the Peace, more commonly known simply as Guardians, or be less pleasant nicknames, were the shock troops of the Council of Wizards. Functioning as something between police and paramilitary death squads few groups were as universally feared and hated as Guardians. All Guardians possessed latent magical ability, the sort of thing that in ordinary circumstances would never amount to much beyond a miraculous escape, or an unexplained streak of luck. Recruited by the Council a Guardian underwent a ritual of empowerment and was subject to a series of geas which made them something more, or less, than human. They were completely loyal and incorruptible and, although not wizards themselves, were capable of feat of magic which made them a threat to almost any member of the supernatural community. The first Guardian to reach the door, a bulky main with neat dark hair, extended a hand toward the door jam and paused. After a moment he withdrew a rune inscribed rod and bought it down firmly against the latch plate with a flash of amber light. There were a few people on the street, a mother pushing a stroller and a few joggers but none of them seemed to even notice the unusual event. Thaum turned the corner on the strange scene and hurried on, as he passed an alley however he felt a presence behind him and something press up against his back. “Fancy meeting you here,” came a husky and decidedly female voice. Whatever was pressing into his back clearly wasn't a gun, but that wasn’t necessarily a good sign. “Everyone out looking for the man who killed Mauser and he just happens to walk past.” [hider=Dangling pointer] Whoever this is wants to here Thaum's side of the story but wont hesitate to turn him over to the Guardians [/hider] ________________________________ [@Hour Error] The air outside was unseasonably cold. Wind heavy with moisture but not quite ready to bury the city with snow whipped through the streets. Even to the dead it was cold and for mortals it was reason enough to keep off the streets. Years of indifferent maintenance meant that the pavement was undulating and uneven beneath Vera’s feet. Of the lights meant to illuminate the dark streets perhaps one in three still functioned. Some had been smashed by thrown rocks, others buy bored gangbanbers with handguns, hell there were even a few genuine electrical faults. As Vera turned off the street that the Necronomicon claimed as its own a car began to slow behind her. It was a beat up ford that might once have been blue but years of indifferent maintenance had left black or grey. One of the doors had been replaced at some point and no one had ever even pretended to match the paint and a blow, either a boot or a minor fender bender had dished in the back door almost to the wheel well. The passenger side window rolled down, the result of old fashioned handle rolling rather than an electrical type. A man with a crew cut and a flat unpleasant face leered at her. “Hey baby, wanna keep me and my friends company?” he called. There was something brittle about his tone that might have gone unnoticed to a regular mortal but rang hollow to a vampire, even a slightly drunk one. There were two other men in the car, though they were concealed behind tinted windows and by the angle that the vehicle made to her. The wind shifted ever so slightly bringing her the subtle wiff subtle whiff of cordite and machine oil. [hider=Operation Pixie Dust] The car contains a group of vampire hunters who are about to try to put a hit on Vera [/hider]