Recent Statuses

6 yrs ago
Current The Empire Strikes Back
6 yrs ago
Off to visit the little sister. Shall be back by Sun/Monday.
6 yrs ago
Trying to wrap my head around the new tools and bits of the site. Well done, Mahz.


Née 1991. I feel old already.

Been roleplaying from the age of 15, write on solo projects in my spare time. I heartily encourage interaction when it comes to writing and creative efforts. Like to think I'm an understanding but stern and solid GM when I host games, and a collaborative and creative individual. Used to draw. Write in advanced section.

While I might not be as omni-present a some of you are on RP:G, I have been a part of it since 2009-2010 (if my memory serves me right). However, I must admit that post Guildfall, my activity also dropped. Slowly getting back into things.

I attended university to acquire my master's degree in history. I already have an educational degree for history and English, and have taught both in secondary school. Prior to pursuing a pedagogical degree, I served with my country's army for two years. Currently I am a fulltime teacher of diverse courses and subjects.

Most Recent Posts

Driven from Topanga by the botched hit on his unlife, John moved into Brentwood. Though it was just a small step down from the mountains, it was a step in the right direction for a Ventrue ousted from his lair and now looking to move into the city proper. Nestled between Santa Monica and the hills, the westside neighbourhood was flush with money. Even its palms and cypresses had the colour of dollar bills. Neat plots of mansions, and country clubs proclaimed the area’s wealth and luxury. It was ideal to gaze eastward at L.A. and attempt to pierce the fog that was Kindred politics.

John and his crew had swept into a highrise on Wilshire Boulevard. It was owned by one of his underlings, and considered a temporary safe haven. The storefront advertised tobacco and imported liquor, but its true business was a covert club in the back. Poker, poles and prostitutes comprised the den of vice where Johnny Rook sojourned. While rigorous in discipline, he had always felt a pull towards the wickedness of men and women. He experienced a strong attraction to the sordid indulgences that constituted human or Kindred behaviour, and the private club was a perfect place for that. The path to pleasure was often crooked and littered with potholes, and John did so enjoy judging people. It helped pass the time as he searched for more permanent lodgings and information on the chaotic state of Los Angeles.

Sat in the booth with the best vantage point, the Ventrue lazily dragged his eyes across the red-and-purple lit room. An iced bucket of Russo-Baltique had been brought over for show and remained untouched upon the polished table. However, not all worldly pleasures went to waste. A female dancer was making sweet love to the silver pole on centre stage, her curvaceous body oscillating to the slow sway of the a remastered synthwave track. John might have been dead for centuries, but he still relished the sight of supple and warm flesh undulating. Greedily he drank in the sight of her and wondered if she had ever drawn another person’s blood. He would love to drink from her. It was therefore with some regret that he responded affirmatively to someone joining him at his table.

Finding out WHERE had been ever-so-slightly difficult. Agents of the Inquisition, even splinter cells of hunters, were monitored by the security network. Rachel would have been much more impressed with Andre had his watchers told them of the strike BEFORE it happened, as recently nothing seemed to please Eva more than infiltrating or hurting the Inquisition. 'Humans that have forgotten they are human,' she had called them. It struck Rachel oddly, but there was yet no denying the pleasure Rachel's elder gained from foiled attempts by agents and hunters alike.

So when they heard the news coming out of Topanga, Eva seemed happy to hear it. Rachel was even happier to hear it: a rogue Ventrue from the Camarilla? With no apparent ties to the false Prince from Seattle? It was enough to excite her, and finding him thereafter had been a matter of tapping into the network of contacts that was in every single contour of Los Angeles. Before Rachel it had been Yanci who mostly curated the network of contacts, trained by Eva herself. Yanci was alright at it, but there was a certain level of attention to detail that could have made it all better.

So Rachel took it over, running it like she might a network of junior partners and their clients at a large modern law firm. When she started to make calls it wasn't very long before one of those she called, a ghoul with a security assets firm that specialized in hacking camera networks and facial recognition, was quick to tell her all about this event his people had logged. Rachel pretended to care as the ghoul gave her details Andre's watchers already passed along, but where Andre's watchers had finished with the end of the 'hit' on Corbett this ghoul had tracked the fallout.

That led them to the highrise in Brentwood, of all places. Brentwood. When she got the location, the rest was simply too easy: Brentwood had always been a stomping grounds of Eva's, as had many of the neighborhoods that had been around since Hollywoodland's Golden Age. They had eyes and ears everywhere, and those eyes and ears had yet more contacts that were begging to pass along information. The money never ran out, but more than hard currency was the currency in Los Angeles that ACTUALLY mattered to everyone: who you knew and what those you knew would do for you.

Charles was a Brentwood centered Bouncer who lived in a crappy little house near Venice. Big, bulky, and presumed by most to be one kind of idiot or another--Charles was desperate for an audition on a sword and fantasy themed show that had exploded in popularity on its streaming service. He wanted to play one of the Knights, and try as he did to send in letter after letter after letter and tape after tape it just wasn't working. It never did; that's why the currency of Los Angeles was what it was. Yet when Charles passed along the news of a secret new club in Brentwood, at a highrise that meant something to Rachel...

All Rachel had to do was ask Yanci to set up the audition for Charles. Even as Rachel arrived at the building and found parking down the street, Charles was at Studio City, being auditioned. He'd get the no-lines bit role. Charles didn't know that, yet, but Rachel did thanks to Yanci. Meanwhile she got the location of the man she was looking for. Getting into the club, however, took a bit of performance from her. She showed up in a dark grey pencil skirt that stretched over her long-legged form, a matching standing collar blazer with buttoned sleeves that were pushed to her elbows, a white silk button up blouse under it. There was no jewelry, and her hair was a simple yet perfectly maintained middle part of straight hair that fell just past her jawline.

"Rook needs to see me."

It was more than a little surprise to Rachel when that was enough. She was checked for weapons; all she had was a smartphone within the inner pocket of her blazer. It was one of Maty's 'special' phones. Technobloodmagic, secure and free from trace. Maty and Eva had developed the phones for each of them; Yanci loved her's, Andre distrusted his and rarely used it, while it was anyone's guess if Eva was even using her's. She had been rarely seen lately, even by her own coterie. Her appearance in Santa Monica at the conference room had been a surprise, and a welcome one at that.

She didn't want to approach Corbett without Eva’s blessing. Because working without her blessing generally meant working without the tools she could provide. There would, for example, be no audition for Charles set up by Yanci if not for Eva's blessing being given to approach Corbett. Heels clicked as Rachel approached, her smile was polite as her tone, and she seemed utterly oblivious to the club's 'entertainment.'

"Jaoseph de Corbet, hello. My name is Rachel, and I represent the controlling party of Los Angeles. May I sit so that we can discuss some things?"

John had watched the woman in office wear strut on over with as bland an expression on his face he could muster. The way she appeared, in pencil skirt and pumps, showed she was all business: the polar opposite of the pole dancer. She would be better at home at some high end law firm. Who knew, perhaps she had just come straight from one? He was about to ask if he was being subpoenaed but got the wind knocked out of his sails when she not only got straight to the point, but used his Norman name. “Simply John is fine.” Upon hearing this echo of his past, John tensed somewhat, instantly on his qui vive.

“I am being found by all sorts of parties these days, making demands on my time. Still, I can never object to the company of a beautiful woman,” said the Ventrue male. A bit cliché, but he adhered to etiquette even when dealing with strangers. He had stood, until she was seated, then returned to his own. The words were courteous, but his tone was deadpan. After all, to him Rachel had manifested from thin air and he would treat her as a spectre until proven otherwise - no matter how pretty or professional she looked. She had done him the courtesy of being direct. He returned the favour, meanwhile looking for a way to even the playing field. Finding out just who she was and what faction she represented would be a good start. “Quite helpful, too. Who is the controlling party in this city exactly? You tracked me down, so you must know I have not been intimate,” John wove a pause into his verbal tapestry, “with its ‘turf wars’. There are more smoke and mirrors in L.A.’s politics than all of its clubs and brothels combined.” He was aware that referring to the conflicts between the Anarchs, Camarilla and the Sabbat was belittling, but he had always been one to poke a stick in a bee-hive.

Rachel found herself showing amusement with a deep cut smile on her red, polished, lips as she sat at the end of the booth seat and scooted her ass over one hip swivel at a time. Booths were not meant for women in pencil skirts, and the world at large was not easily navigated wearing high heels...a truth that was true in more ways than one.

“I’m sorry,” she said off the cuff, but polite, “I just sometimes find myself tickled that people miss the obvious. I did, too; you’re in fine company. Each so-called ‘Prince of Los Angeles’ right now, as well. As if Hollywood could have been the product of anything but a Toreador.”

Rachel reminded herself there was a Toreador that had met Final Death, yet even there the Camarilla’s information had been slim. So Rachel saying a Toreador was behind Hollywood’s inception didn’t mean anything seismic. It could have been the sole work of the dead Kid.
“When Los Angeles started, as I understand it, it was a collection of ranches. In fact much of the real estate in Southern California can be traced back to, if not the Spanish, then to the Mexican land grants after Mexican independence. That was it. A crashed ship on its way to the Far East held a Toreador. They were young, both in terms of physical appearance, far younger than typically sired today, and young in terms of their unlife. They weren’t quite the success anyone had hoped before, so they went west to find...something. Some success they could call their own.”

Her slender shoulders shrugged in the dark gray shiny blazer as she carefully retrieved her phone and placed it on the table in front of her. “You find this story, one form of it or another, in a lot of kine and Kindred. We found you because of a bouncer listening to the right person at the right moment. This bouncer wanted an audition on one of those fantasy sword and shield shows. On his own he could never attain it, but give the right morsel of information to the right ear and...a simple-minded kine gave me a place to look at. Our security did the research to confirm, and here I am. Bouncer wants the same as this young Toreador so long ago...he just wants that success that had eluded him elsewhere, in the normal world. In La La Land, however, I understand he’s at the audition now. Best of luck to him.”

The smile was gone as she spoke, and she spoke fast. A cadence that slowed as she returned to the primary story: “This young Toreador meets a woman, a guide and translator. She says she’s from Central America, but how she got all the way to California she never did say. Toreador and this woman stay up for nights talking, dreaming, of what could be. The night before she is to leave with her party of Mexican officials, he embraces her. Together they begin to create not Los Angeles, as I would have thought, but first they focused on the bigger picture: they began an influence campaign against Mexico, in favor of the United States. When the Mexican-American War began, they were ready. Then they focused on Los Angeles, and began everything from irrigation to sewer projects, to clearing out stubborn ranch owners who were ‘stuck in the past’, to hear her say it. Then one night, after seeing a moving picture for the first time, they dreamed up Hollywood more or less as it was in the Golden Age. They got to work. Over time they both stayed hidden, but controlled the levers of power since California, and Los Angeles, and Hollywood, were literally built by them from their shadowy perches.”

She tried not to sigh. She swallowed it, well enough, but with enough attention he would have seen it in her dark eyes, even if he hadn’t heard it. “Then the child, over time, gets unruly and overly impulsive. He threatens everything the two had built. I heard he met Final Death after holding a Kindred event that almost, almost, broke the Masquerade. His childer and her people remained, but there was nothing to take then they were already managing various parts of the city and this section of the state because the young Toreador had long ago gotten bored. From judges to universities to police unions to dock workers to Hollywood studios. Recently Los Angeles has seen a surge in tech companies, preferring LA’s real estate climate to San Francisco and Silicon Valley. Los Angeles always planned to be big, San Fran and Silicon Valley not as much.”

Her hands clasped together and came to rest on the table, next to her phone, her eyes carefully reading his, “And there it is, John. You know more than...85% of the Kindred in this city, even those who have been here for decades. Even those who have dug deep, trying to find the power players. Makes sense. In every other city in the world that’s how it works. In the City of Angels...the power players find you. Or they let you play at your game from afar, allowing you your ignorance. It’s easier to block someone like a Prince Vannevar from Seattle if he has no idea who he’s even trying to out fox. But say there was someone new to the city that could be useful to these power players, and those power players could be useful to this someone new...especially at a time when there are already so many claiming to be Prince, or Baron…”

Her hands lifted as she casually shrugged, a motion so loose and unbuttoned it almost surprised Rachel she did it. “That would be perfect. If only both sides could find a common cause, a way to benefit both, such that both would be satisfied. If only.”

John watched Rachel like a hungry hawk, studying her beautiful face to both catch her out in a lie and marvel at her looks. He could have been spared the history lesson, as he had more or less lived through it. Furthermore, the things he had not witnessed, he could look up in this modern age of information. However, her polite tone had kept John from shutting her up, repaying her civility with patience. Besides, he could watch a woman he was visibly attracted to talk all night. Her story was as old as time: fated lovers falling out. A quarrel spiralling out of control. These were things he was intimately familiar with. What confused him, though, was the mention of a child. Was Rachel referring to the young Toreador who embraced his lover, or did they have progeny of their own or…? The whole thing smacked of scandal and drama, and though John was not one to usually encourage such things he did lap it up eagerly. “What a messy history,” he commented, as he let Rachel finish her story.

Upon the mention of Vannevar, John’s features clouded. “Vannevar is a power-mad glutton who is paranoid about conserving what little influence he has. I harbour no illusions in regards to how weak Camarilla is in these parts. In fact, I hold him and his ilk responsible for leaving me exposed.” In truth, he held himself equally responsible, but unless Rachel was pulling wool over his eyes she would welcome criticism towards the local Camarilla leadership.

He had watched her produce a phone from her pocket, further confirming that she was not part of the Camarilla. Rachel spoke of Toreador, but he could tell she was not one herself. “What’s this? Are we to record a recruitment conversation?” John chuckled indulgently, then responded in a low-pitched voice suitable for a hot summer night. His interest was piqued, partly by her most agreeable appearance, and partly by what she had told him. If it proved the truth, then he was flattered by the trust, and the risk she took in divulging the story. “Mutual satisfaction is, apart from the goal of any pleasurable relationship, forever a guarantee to maintain the status quo.”

John absent-mindedly ran a hand through his hair and considered his words. “So you are here on behalf of this… disillusioned artisan, trying to sniff out if I can be useful to her?” The question was largely rhetorical, a verbal check that he had understood the woman opposite him correctly. “You are here to ask me what I want, and propose what? A perfect partnership? I very much doubt that aside from your hairdo or the accuracy with which you apply your lipstick, perfection exists.” Though he flattered, he had still thrown her words back in her pretty face. “Mutual satisfaction… now that might be attainable. I am in a reactive mood, frustrated and put on the back foot. That makes me feel like lashing out. I just need to find out who was responsible for the hit on me.” John laid his cards out on the table. “The same resources you used to locate me with would be a good start… and tell me how I may be useful to you.” Even if it was impolite to point, John put his right thumb on his broad chest, before turning his index towards Rachel. He liked the double entendre, for wit and flirtation were fun ways to pass the time.

A quick glance from the phone to John, to the phone again left Rachel’s face with nothing but the spectre of a slippery smile, gone again soon as it had settled upon the red lipstick of her lips. If the charm was having any effect it was as visible on her face as starlight on a cloud covered night.

“Who went after you? The Inquisition. A rather pathetic band of them, no less, not the hyper-vigilant and rather capable Inquisition agents we’ve been stalking for months. If you want to see if any of them are left to kill, yeah, sure. I can ask the part of our group that would know, or be able to find out relatively quickly.”

The phone took up her attention as she fired a series of texts off, and in regards to the phone, she finally did address it: “No, I am not recording anything. Our resources have allowed us magically ‘secure’ phones, it’s one way in which we’ve stayed ahead of this new Inquisition.”

The phone went down the moment the text was finished, and as it did that slippery smile returned. “I’m asking for the location of any of those Society of Leopold fanatics remain of the group here in LA that assaulted you. And--” The phone buzzed, her index finger sliding across the glass of it’s screen as it remained flat on the table. The screen was blank and white to him, but to her… "They were based out of Oxnard, a shitty industrial city about twenty minutes up the PCH. ‘Knight Investigations,’ a Private Investigations company records say belongs to a former California state police detective, the location listed is a retail office space in an Oxnard Strip Mall next to a Jackson-Hewitt tax office and a Nail Salon.”

Rachel presumed Rook would remember those details, clicking the phone’s screen dead with a side button, returning her eyes back to his. “We need Thomas to return to Seattle. He’ll meet Final Death there, more than likely, but that’s secondary; we need to focus and we can’t do that with him here. We’ve denied him and embarrassed him but we’re too busy to confront him directly. The Camarilla will not find a foothold here, in any form, and our Elder is done allowing pretend Princes purchase in her Free State.”

A quick pocket reach and she produced a card, matte lavender with a simple white phone number on one side, and nothing on the other. The other item she retrieved from her coat was a simple black gel ink pen, scribbling in quick but large and flared numbers another phone number on the blank side. She displayed it, holding it up in the air between her index finger and thumb, before laying it flat on the table and slowly sliding it over to him. “I can’t believe I’m fucking saying this, but Gehenna is coming. When the voices in your blood begin to boil and you feel an inescapable pull attempt to enslave you, use the card. If you’re smart and quick enough, we can help you. If not, it was very nice having met you, good luck when the world begins to end. If you require assistance or coordination regarding Thomas, call the number I wrote down--it’s my phone. If I were you I would expel him and claim the title of Prince as my own, however empty a title it is, it would deter others from claiming it. But,” Rachel simply shrugged, returning the pen and phone to the internal pocket of the blazer, “as my Coterie likes to say to me, ‘you do you boo.’ Have a wonderful night, Sir.”

Her voice exaggerated the Knightly title as she nodded gently, and scooted her toned ass out of the booth with a few easy motions, the clicking of her heels announcing her departure.

He hated to see her leave, but loved watching her go. John was left in his booth, to order his thoughts and make sense of all this. And then there was the looming apocalypse of Gehenna. He had come to the city to dispense his own brand of justice, but had now been seduced to greater things. It was as if a coin had been flipped in his mind, and he was waiting for how it would drop. John watched the woman dancing on the pole again, wrapping herself around it and twisting her body into poses a ballet dancer could be jealous of. He thought he might know how she felt.

Also, @sini, I would assume our characters may know one another, but to what extent I'm not sure. Might be fun to explore that.

Yup, hit me up. I'm in the VtM Discord server.

“I have seen things you mayflies would not believe.” The words were well-shaped and emphasised, thereby hinting at the intensity, control and particularity of the speaker’s character. His polished and refined accent only honed the edge of his speech.

All around them were the verdant, rolling hills with ample vegetation which made Topanga so private and attractive. They stood on Parker Mesa Overlook; bedrock mortars were carved out of the rocky outcroppings of the summit, and low shrubbery rustled in the night breeze. Behind them, the hills furled away in darkness to the west and north, while in front of them was the sandy arc of Venice Beach curving all the way down to Point Vincente. The illumination was so bright it seemed ablaze. Halfway down, Santa Monica Pier jutted out into the ocean like a sapphire pin dangling from a golden necklace. Catalina Island was visible off to the right. The couture-clad man who had spoken gazed out across the moonlit vista, and imagined the bay to be the gem-studded rim of Hebe’s sacred cup which contained the mythical nectar and ambrosia. The city, in this instance, symbolised the ambrosia Hebe served up to the Olympians as source of immortality, eternal youth and lifeforce. And like those Olympian gods, he intended to drink deeply from said grail.

L.A. suffered from smog, and the foggy blanket caught and held on to the light pollution. The phenomenon always brought to mind the great city fires he had seen. West of the metropolis and north of Santa Monica, this was where the mountains met the sea – a ‘Little Olympus’ of sorts, with its own pomegranate and date lined temple complex, the Getty Villa, nestled in the lower hills. Topanga was the place where the rich and artistic had been drawn since the 1920s, escaping the bustle of Los Angeles and Hollywood. As always, genius and insanity went hand in hand, culminating in the events of the late 1960s which had drawn Jonathan to the region. Not Neil Young’s musical mastery, but Charles Manson’s madness had pulled John to the City of Angels.

He wrest his eyes from the glowing bay below and settled them on the five kneeling men. When looking down at them he doubted any of them had been born when Manson started his campaign of murder, but he might be wrong. It was hard to tell sometimes, just when kine had been born... how shortly ago that they first had seen the light of day. To John, these had been children but yesterday, but already tonight they lay at his feet.

They were bound, and one of them was in bad shape. He would expire before long, as he was bleeding profusely. Jonathan’s nostrils flared at the scent. To those five kneeling men, he would appear as a figure of darkness cut from the lit-up sky at his back. Others like him watched from the shadows. Most of them wore similar long overcoats which ruffled in the wind.

Jonathan walked over to the man he thought was eldest among their number, then crouched down to come to eye-level. What vanity, to have come after him like this. “Who are you?” The question was grated out as if ground between a millstone. Jonathan angled his head slightly to the side in curiosity. “Who ordered this?”

The bound lout grumbled something, then spat a bloody glob at his captor. Quick as electric current, Jonathan recoiled and hissed maliciously. It was the instinctive sound of a coiled adder. Whimpers ensued at the display of the Mark of Caine, though the offender remained immune to Jonathan’s dread gaze.

There was little more disgusting to John than bad manners. Even in defeat one had to show grace, and this mere mortal had the audacity to spit at him. Worse, it was blood, and Jonathan knew that if it had hit him, he might have frenzied and thereby would have robbed himself of the chance to find out who these men were and who had sent them. He glared wide-eyed at the man, who was grinning through his red-stained teeth. This poltroon knows. He knows of the Beast raking my nerves with its claws, and thinks harassment will let slip its shackles.

Jonathan’s pride reared its head. “Just who do you misguided fools think you are dealing with?” He was Ventrue – not some Gangrel or Brujah barely in control of their tempers. Undoubtedly some insult had been coming John’s way, but the bleeding man collapsed which caused his neighbour to prattle out a verse in Latin for succour. So it was not just a hit but an ‘auto-da-fé’, an act of faith. Whether or not it was a crusade called against him or just a botched, overzealous attempt remained unclear. Now it was John’s time to grin. Alabaster fangs glinted silver in the moonlight.

“Be quiet, novice! Keep the faith. Trust in God.”

“Yes, be quiet, milksop. Your pronunciation is atrocious,” piled on Jonathan, scowling. It truly was an affront to the Roman tongue. Zealots, he thought, jaded. It was all he could do but roll his eyes.

“Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,” came the muttered reply of the near-snivelling human. “I am sorry, Inquisitor.” The Ventrue’s face contorted in a demonic leer.

“You are an abomination, an animal enslaved by its base desires and hunger, an agent of Satan,” came the delayed insult. This time, it did not go unpunished, as one of the Ventrue’s fists shot forward and hit the inquisitor in the jaw. The punch cracked the man’s jawbone and spilled his teeth out in the dirt like pearls from a torn necklace.

“Oh, but how very wrong you are,” exasperated Jonathan. Part of it was true though: vampires were hungry creatures, and the older the more vitae they needed. The smell and sight of blood, for example, had roused Jonathan’s considerable appetite, but he would not feed on these wretches. They had not earned that privilege. They would not experience the bliss of a vampire’s kiss.

Instead, he drew upon the previously consumed lifeblood of his thralls and ghouls to ramp up his vampiric powers. “You have made yourselves into iron. Therefore, you are strong but brittle. It breaks before it bends, and I hear the brittleness in your speech. Doubt is setting in.” Through an amalgam of presence and domination, Jonathan wreaked havoc on the spiritual fortitude of the captured hunters. Gradually he increased the pressure on their minds.

“Doubt which is justified, and caused you to fail. These novices you led to their deaths… their faith was found wanting.” He grimaced, watching the inquisitor spit molars still. The sight nevertheless did not deter him from teaching them their final lesson. Once again, he got in close, and cradled the man’s head gently in his hands. It would have been very easy to crush his skull and brains into a mushy pulp… but where was the fun in that? Instead, Jonathan leaned in intimately and let the bloodthirst work so he snarled and snapped his words into the inquisitor’s ear. “God is gone. It is just us devils now.” It was about all he could say before he had to pull himself away or devour the man then and there.

“Faith is like poison,” he told them, softly tapping a flinching hunter’s face. The man was quaking in mortal fear. John looked down all compassion and understanding. “I know, unfortunate soul. I shall cut you open and suck it out like from an aging wound.” He could smell their desperation on the air. It was time to drive home his point, much like they had wanted to drive home the point of the stakes meant for his heart. “Will the Gates of Heaven open before you as the sound of silver trumpets heralds your arrival? Or will you find the way into Paradise shut?” The Ventrue paced slowly before them, looking each in the eye to solidify his hold over them. “Worse yet,” he spoke soft as a lover, voice bubbling over with sympathy and malice both, overwhelming whatever mental defences the hunters tried to scramble together. Yes, they had trained for this, but the way they had tried to force their way into his lair like bumbling children meant that they were inexperienced and in over their heads. Did they even know the calibre of Kindred they were dealing with? He thought not. “There are no gates, no Holy Spirit, there is no Heaven,… Godfearing men like you ought to know there are worse things to be afraid of.”

Only the leader of the hunters was not babbling or praying, hard as it was to do such things with a busted face, while Jonathan deconstructed their entire system of belief. The others shivered and pleaded – except for the one passed out from blood loss – and soon started begging as hysteria set in. Now it was time to indulge.

“Five little piggies, about to squeal. This little piggy went to market,” started John, pointing at the bleeding man. His shoes crunched the blood-soaked gravel. “This little piggy stayed home,” came the next verse. One of his cohorts stepped forward having heard a wordless command, and summarily ripped the back of the hunter’s neck out, then shoved the bony paste down the third man’s throat. The victim soiled himself. “This little piggy had roast beef,” the rhyme continued, the Ventrue spoke over the cries and gargles. “This little piggy had none.” The gibbering novice’s neck cracked with an audible pop, and the screaming stopped. Before long, the soothing sounds of night returned while Jonathan’s retroreflecting eyes which rested on the last survivor pulsed like garnets. He sighed. “And this little piggy cried ‘wee wee wee’ all the way home …”

In the end, the inquisitor spilled his guts literally as well as figuratively. Iron breaks before it bends. Talking had been hard, and John almost regretted breaking the man’s jaw. Almost.

They had been part of a fringe group tied to the Society of Leopold, left behind or expelled. Their strike at him had been their way back into the Inquisition’s good graces. One of the first probes directed at Kindred in Los Angeles. This was nothing he had not dealt with before, nothing new… until they mentioned an overarching cabal. Indeed, that was discomfiting: the inkling that there might exist a larger and more dangerous organisation. Larger, more dangerous and techno-savvy. These latter days wannabe Torquemadas disappointed as adversaries and fought like cowards by using advanced technology. While Jonathan admired their Machiavellian tactics, he figured the mention of “blankbodies” and “FIRSTLIGHT” to be the result of severe dementia he had inflicted upon the hunters: the ravings of dying men.

No, of dead men, he corrected himself, throwing one last and cursory glance back at the five bodies. Already his ghouls were busy chopping up the carcasses, and he could sense the bobcats and cougars prowling nearby. They had been attracted by the smell of gore. “Inform the Gerousia of the events from tonight,” he instructed one of his underlings. “And let the word go out through the proper channels that I wish to meet with our illustrious Prince. Tell him I am not amused.” Vannevar has some explaining to do as to why I had to deal with these rabid dogs in my backyard.

The past half-century he had watched events unfold from the sideline, comfortably numb. Tonight had shaken him awake. The chaos of the Anarch Free State had spilled over and touched him directly. This would never have happened with a strong Prince in power. Topanga was no longer safe. Or perhaps safety had always been an illusion. Regardless, he refused to run. This was as far west as west went, and he was disinclined to try his luck elsewhere. The time for idleness was over. Everyone in this godforsaken city is out for blood. Thus the thought grinding within his skull as he straightened his long coat. All bitterness aside, he grinned in long overdue excitement. And now, so am I. Time to shake the tree. Via his various blood bonds, carefully cultivated over the years, he called on his intimates - those who knew him as Jonathan Corbett. To most of L.A. he was Johnny Rook. The city was lousy with thin-bloods and anarchs, after all. Scum who had no business knowing his true identity.

Another summons went out from him, calling out to lynxes, mountain lions and coyotes alike to join for the coming meal. Their shrill screams and howling screeches rose up in the night’s air as the Ventrue started his descent towards all the coloured lights, heralding his coming like so many of Heaven’s corrupted silver trumpets.

Johnny Rook was coming to town.
Still accepting by the way!

Jonathan Corbett
(formerly Jaoseph de Corbet), also known as Johnny Rook
Age: 909 / 30 (forever 31)

Species: Kindred, 7th or 8th generation Ventrue (sources differ and Jonathan is unlikely to debunk useful mystery)

Blood type: Being embraced in a time of war and at the site of a siege, has directly determined the herd he may feed upon. It has to be someone who has served as a soldier or policeman/-woman, or done bloody violence, and to a lesser extent someone who has wielded a weapon.

Will add some more about his stances/attitudes on topics or factions.
Already wrote up a char, baby.
Bio is a bit short and you need to figure out if your character's named Baltic, Balrick or Balick. I also suggest you do away with the lists and instead describe the sort of equipment he uses. Regarding force techniques and other skills you should at least somehow explain how he learned them. What are his interests? What are his goals? This sheet definitely needs to be expanded on.
She reminds me a bit of Avatar Korra, even if it's a different franchise. This is a good thing.

Approved. Have fun.
Collem watched the alerts, messages, number values and reports with grim vigilance. A holographic projection of the ongoing ambuscade was played out before his eyes, making the control station glow in reds and blues. Things were progressing better than he had dared hope. So far, most of the plan had worked: most shuttles and boarding craft had managed to get through and get in. Operatives who had infiltrated the refuelling station were still intact and causing trouble. Fighters and gunships were engaging the enemy all over the board. The Republic had been caught with their breeches down, but their scrambled fighters were putting up stiff resistance. Soon, he knew, those Hammerheads would recover from the initial shock and bring their arsenal to bear.

“Tell Flight Commander Turan to watch those breakaway squadrons. They might try to get around them,” Collem pointed out a small party of Aureks flitting around on the hologram. Aside from the possible damage, those Republic fighters might try and get far enough way to get some message out beyond the jammed communications bubble. Watching the battle unfold, he recognised patterns, feints and probes. Like a director picking out the notes in a symphony, Collem analysed the space battle as if it were a dance floor.

It was time to face the music.

A communication officer stood ready to forward Collem’s orders. “They will be lining up for attack runs soon. Tell the captains to put their point defence on alert, and bring interceptor squadrons into position. I bet they will be gunning for the Ajuur.” He nodded as if confirming with himself. He pressed a button to bring up a direct line of communication with the captain of the Ajuur-class. “Purple Jewel, this is Captain Corvinian. Recall a few fighters from their engagements, set up a screen to intercept. They’ll be coming for you soon.”

The Purple Jewel confirmed reception of the command. “Copy. Captain Jarmand requests support. Considerable support.”

“Get the bulk cruisers to cover your sides.”

“No, sir. He wishes the Terminus cruisers to join the fight. One of the Hammerheads is moving into a defensive position.”

“That’s a negative. Reform the attack line with the bulk cruisers and engage that lone Hammerhead.” There was still a chance they would be able to win this without deployment of the two distinctly imperial vessels. That is, if they were able to put the Republic cruiser out of the fight soon, before the other two had had a chance to slip their moorings. He knew he was asking a lot. Keeping the corridor to the boarded ships open was starting to take its toll on the motley fighter squadrons. Casualties and losses were gradually mounting as more and more Aureks were scrambled.

“Damned foolish bravery,” Collem hissed under his breath, and felt a begrudging grin tugging at his mouth. He would have done the same. That Hammerhead was about to get a pounding that would crack it open like a crustacean, but it would give the other two the opportunity to get into the fray. “Any word on the asset yet?”

“None, sir.”

Jarmand’s Ajuur-class cruiser was reporting the first incoming fire. Damage was minimal, but they all knew proton torpedoes would be coming soon. “Hail Vaughn’s ship… and get our systems hot. We might have to lock horns with those Hammerheads sooner than I had thought. Notify Jarmand's Purple Jewel, command him to fall back a little and see if he can draw those Republic cruisers into range of our guns.”

Hey there and here goes!

Her nails are kept long and filed into points, laced with a different toxin every week. Usually, they are believed to be non-lethal unless an individual is physically weak.

Sounds eccentric and none too practical.

She’s tried to fail through.

What do you mean by this?

Her methods vary from harsh, degrading words to using toxins with a various range of effects. Her toxins are difficult to find in the body and even harder to trace back to her since she teaches every student in her class to create different toxins weekly. Just because she collects the projects, doesn’t mean they can’t be replicated later.

How does the use of toxins on students advance their education? How does unknown use? I suppose you somewhat refer to it later on, in the final paragraph of the interview but I'd like some more elaboration. Does she always teach through pain?

With Lords and Darths, she will often take a more respectful and humbling tone toward them.

Humble tone, as 'humbling' means she teaches them humility or puts them in their place and tells them off.

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