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Sunset, and the cold fire washed over him as the being that refused to let Henry Locke die took over.


The conversation had lasted an hour and 15 minutes on the dot, according to the smartphone once she ended the call with a touch of her index finger. Jenna Cross was upset, calling Eva in a panic. The fires had shaken what Jenna called "the community." What Cross had meant by that wasn't all of Kindred in the area, but the Thin-Blooded. There had been more disappearances within the community than usual. It was alarming, but nothing like tonight according to Jenna. The fires had caused emergency crews to go into warehouses near West Beverly Hills. How she got that information, in the speed in which she got it, intrigued Eva enough to pose the question. Jenna was coy, and while there was no denying Jenna her impressive circle of spies of and informants speed wasn't usually a hallmark of that.

As much as the thought diverted her mind, when Jenna finally got out with what it was that was before getting emotional.

"There are times I'm convinced you're secretly some fucking elder."

Eva wasn't even wrong, she noted. Just colder than Jenna could be in this kind of moment. Eva deflected with a reminder of Jenna's Brujah sire, yet half an hour later and Eva still found herself at the back balcony on the top level of the Lady Hollywood superyacht and staring into the obviously uncovered: a warehouse filled witThe memory of how he actually managed to get to the ship wasn’t clear. It was a rare but now unknown phenomenon. The worst time had been back in the greatest of wars, lying in the blown out shell of a building in Warsaw, surrounded by rubble and the ruin of his ambition for the human race. He had wanted to die then, to finally let the darkness claim him to whatever fate the cosmic force of his father had arranged for him. Something within him had forced him up, a presence buried in his deepest self which burned with a cold, ceaseless, fury. It had pushed his shattered form up and out, back into the war. His next memory was a month in the future. Nothing concerned him more than whatever it was that the old him had buried deep within the mortal shell of Henry Locke.

The fight had not lasted long. The first Wolf had gone down fast, in a hail of silver bullets it hadn’t anticipated. The next two had been cautious but furious, wishing to rip the human they saw before them apart in vengeance for their fallen kin. Henry Locke was a being of magic and supernatural power, but beneath that, his form was still human. It had taken everything to fend off the encroaching pack, the fury of tooth and claw that even all but the most powerful of kindred couldn’t match. He doubted what had occurred could have been considered him ‘winning’ but he was still alive, there was that. He didn’t remember how he’d made it to the waterfront, how he’d stolen the boat, or functioned enough to steer it. All he remembered was falling from the roof of the h Kindred in suspended and unconscious state. Hung and chilled like sides of meat on hooks zipped up in plastic. More specifically all the missing had been found there. When Eva asked about the others found there Jenna didn't know. Or even pretend to. As angry as she was, Eva advised learning as much as possible darkness at the Pacific ocean where water met sky and stretched into infinity. Am I getting cold? Am I getting lost in that game? The questions came in a never-ending repeat until the words finally hit her:

"Wake. Up. Woman. Damn."

It wasn't rare for Eva to find herself zoned out of reality entirely, lost in the voices, lost in visions, lost in time. She couldn't keep track of everything that was assaulting her at all hours. Even slumber only truly helped her physically. There was no mental refresh. There was no time the voices weren't there. Louder, more active. One absolutely screaming. Others murmuring so quietly it couldn't even be called a whisper. Like they were trying to hide.

Like Lubbock.

Getting snapped out of these states occasionally took persistence. Andre stood before her, broad shouldered and dark skinned, brown eyes tight with frustration. Rachel just waited quietly. Mateo made awkward one sided small talk. Yanci played with her phone and sighed and got visibly frustrated. Andre went farther than any of the others. By the time she was 'back' his large hands were wrapped around her arms and he was near shaking her. She knew. He had done it before. This time was right before he actually shook her. "Yeah?"

He blinked twice, and his shoulders lowered as his entire disposition changed instantly with recognition. "There was a boat. It's radio isn't on we're fairly certain. I decided not to fire until it got close because it probably wasn't a bomb considering Henry was driving. He ain't right and he's doing some's making my guys unwell. Like he's sunlight."

"Your guys the only ones?"

Her hands were forcing his head down so she got a better look. She was tall, he was taller. "I'm fine, Eva. Tell me he ain't gonna go Biblical on all our asses or something."

The only thing Andre had any actual fear of: something he had zero defense against. She lied to him and told him they were fine before she was fast down to the First Level, at Henry in mere seconds. Smiling softly with a gentle tone to match as her bright brown eyes encased in the lines of thin eyeliner and the shadow of a faint faint purple surveyed Henry. "I thought I warned you about playing with furries."

It was her voice that brought him back. The thing which wore his skin could always do a remarkable impression of Henry Locke when forced to, but not to her. His weary eyes blinked, and consciousness returned. Everything hurt. His cuts were sealing fast enough to be visible, but he was almost certain his left arm was attached only by skin and good wishes. Henry felt the bone reknitting. It was sore, but that wasn’t the source of his pain. Unlike before, the cold force of entropy that had pushed him onwards had not receded entirely, it could not. It roared through every fibre of his being, keeping the human shell it was buried within alive, lest it burn supernova into life as its willing prison died. The force of it seared through every muscle. When he looked up into her eyes, he saw his own reflected. Motes of fire, the image of a star bursting to life played out trapped within his iris. He would be hurting her in turn, just by being close. No wonder there were no others.

Burn With Me

“When you get to my age, love, you start trying all sorts of weird shit.” He tried to stand and failed. The burning felt worse as he struck the deck again, the presence within pounding at the limitations of his form, he tried to focus on his own words, grounding himself in the now.

“Don’t think the fire was them, but they’re out in war numbers. Give them time to group, plan, if they already haven’t, and they might take the city….if they care to.” By and large it was geography and climate which kept the war between Kindred and Garou from spilling over, but it seems that was coming to an end.

His vision swam, and when he looked again at Eva, it wasn’t her, but the image of a woman he’d loved and lost in a different age, just before he had become who he was now. The last disciple. He blinked, and it was the Kindred once more.

“If I’d known we were going somewhere this fancy...I’d have changed.”

“Fire was the Kid’s sire.”

Her words were casual, her tone was razor sharp; splitting the hair of that bit of news between the two of them. Afterall Henry had plenty to do with the demise of the Kid in Hollywood. “It’s connected, somehow, I think, I just can’t prove it yet.” In a rather unusual move, Eva shrugged and admitted a bare thought: “I’m not sure I care enough to find out how. Depends on how difficult it makes life, to be honest. I never thought I’d be more anxious about an Inquisition than I was about a 4th Generation pissed off at me.”

Her pink lips twisted in a half-smile as she settled more comfortably next to him on the wooden and damp deck of the yacht. “We need to get you cleaned up. There’s a room down on the 1st Deck you can take, just ask the steward--he’s the middle aged Armenian guy in white. If you can’t find him, try the bar. He helps stock. “C’mon. Yance and Rachel are on their way, with everyone else coming later. It’s time for the coterie to talk some things out. Clear some fire warmed air from the privacy of a yacht, we’re not being pretentious with the location.”

A few beats later, and she smirked. “Not this time, at least.”

“Anyway,” she offered her hand, and from the looks of it, he might actually need it for once. “C’mon, the shower is tiny but the wood is nice and the bed is super comfy if you need a few minutes to, less of the warm and toasty bits.”

“Too hot to handle for you, am I?” Henry’s hand clasped her’s as he stood, the shuddering strain of the motion rocking through him as he did so. He managed to avoid fully leaning into her support, but only just, making it to his feet with a muffled gasp of effort. Once he was up, it was easier, each step reknitting the damage to his form and enabling him to shove the pain down into the depths of his psyche.

“I don’t believe you and yours could manage not being pretentious if you tried.” He spoke as his eyes looked over the vessel as they passed through it. He’d been present before, but not for long. Her idea of understated was a far cry from his. His hand remained linked with her’s as he adjusted to a form not simply about to betray him, before coming to a halt before plunging into the interior of the vessel itself. His eyes still sparkled in the reflection within her own. He’d still want to avoid close confines with the other kindred for now.

“Don’t want to get that ash out of your hair? I’m sure we’ve been in more compact places.” It was definitely poorly timed, but necessary. Beyond the simple want for her, he needed to show her, show himself, that it was still him buried under his skin. At least for now.

I'm here, sorry for the delay. Will plan something up.
pew pew Mass Effect

Been a while since I tried something new.

“Call them.”

The tone was easy, but forceful, a command in all but tone. It didn’t have to be, the concept of refusal had been left behind long ago, years before Lubbock had pulled the damaged rat out of his hole in Seattle, a will broken by years of torment, only to find new suffering in freedom.

The labyrinthian streets of Los Angeles stretched out below them, a teeming hive of humanity lit by a billion motes of light, drenching the forested hills in darkness by contrast. Two figures inhabited the clearing, Lubbock stood, pacing around the area, while the other knelt. Surrounding the latter figure, runic symbols which hurt to look at, drawn in blood over the grass, stretched out. At seemingly random points, candles burned, faintly, in the night air. Human fat did not burn terribly well, but, it always paid to follow the recipe with these sorts of things.

“Call them.” The words were more insistent this time, betraying the impatience of a born killer, beneath the veneer of sophistication the toreador expressed. The kneeling figure made no noise. It had been some nights since Lubbock had removed their tongue, mostly in a fit of boredom. They’d lost their eyes long ago, plucked out for the crime of sharing the secrets of Clan Tremere, then cast into the bowls of the Seattle Madhouse. They were the true reason Lubbock had deigned to unseat the ruling parties of the Ivory Tower to the North. A city burned so that he might have one piece to his puzzle. The figure did not refuse, their lips moving to silently express the syllables of a spell, the drying blood stirring around them as the first spell was cast.

“Good.” It was a simple word, but it brought elation from the kneeling figure, a happy smile breaching the grimace of their ruined features. For the first time, Lubbock exuded approval, and to the being utterly caught in the power of his presence, it tasted finer than any taste of blood could have. The toreador approached the kneeling figure, slinking behind them, not breaking any of the symbols. He embraced the Tremere from behind, wrapping long, slender arms around them.

“Is your first wish still the same?” He asked her, the mute female kindred nodding slowly, but insistently, leaning back into the embrace. She rasped something that was almost a yes.

“Then I will burn them all for you. Rest well.” Lubbock spoke to her in a tone that was almost kind, before one finger pressed onto her chest. As easily as tearing paper, her ribcage gave in, Lubbock plucking her heart from her as simply as removing an apple from a crate. The Tremere gasped in final relief, before crumbling into ash. Lubbock was alone for only a few moments, before the pervasive dark of the night was interrupted by four stark motes of red. Stepping forth from these brief sparks, the Tremere of Los Angeles. Well, four of them.

There was a moment of confusion as they regarded the stooped figure of Lubbock, resting, as he appeared to be, at the centre of a large piece of Tremere spellwork. As he made to stand, he allowed some of his aura to bleed through into what would be visible to the trained eyes of more experience kindred. A tiny shred of his vast identity.
“You are not the traitor.” One finally spoke, the tallest. They were all clad in the red and black robes of their particular strain of Tremere, the surprisingly conservative chantry that Strauss lead on the Sunset Coast. Lubbock was disappointed he had not come himself, but then, perhaps he had some inkling of what had awaited his subordinates.

“Not the one you are looking for, no. You are a moment too late for that.” Lubbock rolled his shoulders as he spoke. In the low light, it finally became obvious that the finely dressed figure was covered in the ash of final death.

“You are interfering in Chantry business.” One of the others spoke, a female voice from within the obscuring hood and folds of her robes. Lubbock didn’t turn his attention as he spoke, his eyes dancing between all four Tremere, seemingly randomly.

“That is an unusual way of thanking me for doing your work for you.” He replied, seemingly adjusting his suit, heedless of the coat of ash preventing him from appearing as sophisticated as he had begun the night. The Tremere had begun to spread out, circling the spiraling patterns, their attention divided between watching the Toreador at the centre, and seeking to decipher the purposes of the spell. Naturally, they did not believe this could be spellwork of his design, instead of something their traitor had attempted, and been interrupted.

“Our arts are none of your concern, Toreador, her life was not yours to take.” The tall one spoke again, a long pale limb drawing forth from his robe, the taloned hand raising with a palm up. Already Lubbock could feel the draw of the Tremere’s blood magic. The air crackled with power and he inhaled steadily, through lungs that no longer needed to breathe. The moment the first syllables left their lips, he was in motion. The power of his own, stolen, blood thrummed and the world came to a halt. The air crackled with the force and speed of his form, the sleek, ash-covered Toreador moving beyond even the supernatural senses of his fellow Kindred. Before the first spell could be completed, one taloned hand had rent through the first kindred sorcerer, their precious vitae tumbling into the air, the power in their form sagging.

It was a dance of death, and few had practiced the steps for as long, with such enthusiasm, as Lubbock. He weaved through the crackling power of their air, the might of Thaumatergy sizzling the spaces he had occupied moments before. He was a being of power beyond these modern nights, but even he was weary of the touch of their magic, but they would never halt him. In the time it would take a mortal to even focus on the scene, the fight was over, the Tremere humbled, but not slain, kept on the brink of their unnatural lives.

“The Camarilla have taught you that you are the predators of the night, that human are sheep to be preyed upon, to be corralled and hunted.” Lubbock spoke as he returned to the centre of the runes, as the leaking blood of the Tremere flowed into the patterns already marked into the ground. His own fangs were slicked with their blood, granting him a temporary taste of the secrets they fought hard to keep. “That is a lie. You are the flock, the kine are grass. Bait to keep you in your little herds. Now comes the age of the true hunters.” His pace brought him to the centre, and he turned West, out towards the horizon, the great ocean that cast back the Light of Los Angeles and the Heavens above. As fluid as the water, his tongue switched from the bastardised modern tongue of the kine, to the old language. The intonations of Caine that his mother had taught him, before the Deluge had swept it all away.

“Arise, Ravnos, Arikel calls you, Rise, The Night Calls you once more.” As Lubbock spoke, he felt the pressure of his Sire’s mind within him even greater than before, felt the weight of eons, the voices of all the Kindred who he had consumed, or perhaps consumed him, rise to a crescendo in his mind. Then they were drowned in singular, unflinching, rage. The runes around him grew bright in the darkness, before Lubbock, and everything around him, was consumed in flame.


Henry’s eyes snapped from his view of the city, leaning as he was at the edge of the Sunset’s pool-balcony, his mind on the young kindred whom he had agreed to shelter, as a bright light scorched through the night behind him. He had missed the initial flash, but he knew with one heart beat that it had not been natural. He who had taught the first men the might of magic would know it anywhere, even bastardised by the Kindred and their ways.

The light that he saw, however, was far more mundane. The orange light of a new dawn poured down the Hollywood hills. A moment later and the surge of heated air and ash struck him, the wave passing over him. The clothing on his form singed, and only his supernatural physiology kept his skin from doing the same, kept the rush of air from blasting him from the ledge. Some of his guests weren’t so lucky, sent sprawling down the hillside below, or falling in pain as their skin blistered. This was on the prelude, the heatwave of a detonation, as he watched the hills of Hollywood come alive in flame, he knew the forest fire was not far behind, rushing down towards the city proper.

His phone was already ringing, and he was on the way to answer when enough sensation rocked him. Not a physical one, a pang in his soul, a wrenching dread as one of the many scattered pieces of his essence called out to him.

It was the beginning of the end.
Any restrictions for anyone wanting to play Power Girl? Back in the days of Ultimate Comic RP I had a version of the character I wouldnt mind returning to.
Rp is still chugging away and open!
I have reopened the Discord Server!

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