Trinais — Roleplayer Guild

Billy Rikker loved 'Shark Week' because Billy Rikker loved sharks. Whenever that magical week of the year came around, he'd lock himself in his penthouse suite and watch the beloved creatures during all hours of the night and day, and God help whatever sonofabitch disturbed him. See, Billy loved how all sharks had a cool, sleek look to them as they cruised through the water. And being the equivalent of an underwater velociraptor only added to the wow factor. He did feel superior to them in one way, however. Whenever the camera crew dumped chum in the water, the sharks went ape-shit, losing the calm coolness they radiated while cruising the oceans at speed. All of a sudden, they were reduced to mindless savagery. Thrashing in the waves left and right. Feeding so fast they'd never know they'd gotten hooked through the mouth and were being hoisted up into the air where they'd either be gutted and cooked, or tagged and tracked as part of a science project.

'Man,' he'd think to himself, watching the Great White or the sleek Blue getting snagged on a line from the safety of his couch, 'I'm glad I'm smarter than a shark. I'm glad I'd never do something like that.'

So when his brain snapped to with a mouth full of Celestial blood going down, the screams of his exceptionally wealthy human patrons echoing in his ears while his younger vamps lost their shit, his older vamps got roasted by Flint the Mage and Karram the Fairy, the Nordic wench and what smelled like a human turned his front parlor into an abattoir before getting the source of the frenzy out, and Left and Right unloaded shotgun spray on Tony the Tiger, Billy had to whimper a little bit.

See, Billy Rikker liked to play the part of an old Italian Duke who was turned back in the 1600s and Emigrated to the New World. That he was smarter than most and could get shit down with a wave of his hand. Truth was, Billy was less than 80 years old and far from the master politician he claimed to be. He grew up on Camden's East Side and wasn't technically Italian (he was Scottish on his mom's side, and God knew what on his Dad's side courtesy of mom's profession). The only reason people bought into the lie was the fact that Billy popped up out of nowhere and started his own clan on the Dockside. What Billy lacked in political tack, he made up for in threats, a good poker face, and brute force. Nobody in the vampire courts liked Billy because A.) they didn't trust him and B.) they suspected he was a young one.

So here he was, lapping at Celestial blood on the floor with four of his senior vamps, his Thralls getting wasted left and right, and his true vamps behaving like sharks in a documentary after someone spills a gallon of blood in the water.

Billy Rikker would soon have 0 rich humans to give him status, 0 Thralls to do his bidding, and 0 True Vampires to enforce his Will on the rest of the Supernaturals. And his people were about to kill the whole gang of supes Nemsemet wanted more than anything else. And if they died, Billy was stuck in the city like everyone else. 

He was boned.

'Wait!' his concious mind wanted him to scream. 'These are the people Nemsemet wants! Everyone stand down! We'll play Let's Make a Deal and I'll finally be Number One in this town! Can't we all just get along?'

His animal instincts kept him lapping at the carpet, trying to get all the blood he could out of the carpet fibers like a fat kid licking spilled ice cream off the floor 'cause he knew he wasn't getting another cone. 

Left and Right pumped their shotguns again, ready to blow Tony the Tiger's brains out, but the constant fireballs the Mage was slinging had taken their toll on the glass chandelier above them. The braided Italian rope that held the art piece of blown glass and crystals had started smoldering after the first fireball and Billy's sensitive vampire ears heard the fibers snapping slowly. A stray bullet ricocheted off the wall, caught the fibers, and with a SNAP! the $800,000 piece descended onto his two enforcers, sending a wave of glass shrapnel all across the floor and their shotguns skittering to the front of the club.

And Billy Rikker, Number Two Vampire in the City, aspiring lord of Camden, and sycophant to the all-powerful Nemsemet, kept licking the blood out of the carpet.

===================================================

"It's simple, man. I saw them do it on Mythbusters. You take some iron poles, and then you weave duct tape over it like cloth until you get a boat that floats."

"Parry, you sank in Central Park. You're not a professional."

Parry held up a finger, taking another hit from the bong. He exhaled away from Cymriel's non-face. "Says you. I'm a professional Celestial. Means I can do almost anything I set my mind to."

"Tragically, it seems absolute power corrupted your brain into thinking so."

"Nah, that was the cocaine and moonshine I did in the '20s." Parry smiled, giggling as he remembered all the flappers and booze he'd chased back then. Oh man, and the time Flint had busted into the wrong speakeasy with a trench sweeper- that'd be in his brain for eternity. Nothing like looking for a kidnapping victim only to find oneself in the ONLY gay speakeasy in the whole goddamn city.

"And yet you never went the full length. Most Celestials that go AWOL go Demon right away. You didn't." Cymriel folded hands black as twilight over the empty bag of Funions. "I wonder why?"

"There are some lines even I won't cross," Parry mumbled, stuffing the bowl for another hit.

"Clearly." 

They sat in silence for what felt like eternity. Parry stuffing the bowl some more. Cymriel folding his hands, staring at Parry. Parry lighting the bowl. Cymriel Staring. Parry taking one hit. Cymriel staring. Two hits. Staring. Three hits. Staring.

"What?" Parry asked. "You want some? Or are you going to ask the question?"

Cymriel waved his hand, declining the glass pipe. But he did ask "Why did you run?"

Parry rolled his eyes and reached into the never-ending bag of Cool Ranch goodness. "It's the motherfucking Shore, Cymriel. You can look into my brain, so you tell me."

"I don't have the slightest interest in looking through your mind. I'm quite certain it'd drive me mad."

"Then let me put two-and-two together for you," the Celestial quipped. And he looked into Cymriel's eyes. Really looked. And gave his partner-in-divinity the whole story in fast forward.

"The Children's Crusade."

"The motherfucking Children's Crusade." Parry took another hit, trying to get the buzz to wipe away that slasher-snuff mind film he'd replayed in Cym's head.

"Kid's die all the time, Parry. They die all the time today."

That got a reaction. Parry was suddenly on his feet, screaming as he pitched the bong into the ocean- over the protests of Michael Jackson, Caterpillar Pryor and the White Rabbit.

"It wasn't the fucking dying! I got used to that! It was the ones that didn't die! The ones that trusted we were looking out for them, that had all the faith they were doing good, and we stood by and watched as the adults took them and sold them into slavery in lands far away. And we fucking WATCHED!"

"We don't take sides with the humans, Parry. Only when demons are involved. It wasn't our fight."

"Fuck you and your rule book, Cym. You got your answer. Now send me back or don't."

"I can't send you back as you are. You'll be eaten alive by the vamps within seconds. You'll need a Dawn Blade."

Parry twirled his finger in the air. "Whoop-de-doo. Guess I'm dead then. Open the gates and let's see what I get."

"See, that's the thing. I can't open the gates for you either. For anyone."

"The fuck you talking about, Cym?"

Cymriel swept a hand over the table. "Nemsemet hasn't just locked off the city to magic. He's locked the Nether. Everyone and everything that dies there stays on The Shore. de Lacy is two dimensions over and I'd much rather be here with you, the guy who shoved six centuries of a double workload on me. The guy had control issues that extended beyond the boardroom and into the bedroom."

"Really?" Michael Jackson asked.

"No, I'm not sending you to his Shore, Parry. We're talking business right now." Cym folded his hands onto the table, spared a glance at the three hallucinated companions, and with a gust of wind scattered their forms into grains of sand which fell to the beach. "Now that I have your undivided attention."

"You have half of my attention," Parry replied. His bong was suddenly in his hand again, loaded and ready to fire. His fingers snapped, forming a flame that hovered just above the bowl. "So if the blockade extends to the Nether and I need a Dawn Blade, a Celestial weapon forged from a dying star, and mine is in the wreckage of the daycare center, how do you propose to get me back in one piece?"

"You know that diaper bag of yours? The one with a portal to the Nether in it?"

"Yeah, my-" Parry stopped. Narrowed his eyes at Cymriel. "That's not public knowledge. If you knew about the portal spell, you'd have been able to track me down and pull me back."

"Please. When you tried to shove the tiger kitten inside, it got pretty obvious."

"You've seen Shounen-Ai? Where is she? I haven't been able to pull her back since '97!"

"Uriael and Basliel love little Shuyin."

"Her name is Shounen-Ai!"

"Whatever. Shounen-Ai is fine. But more to the point, you've got a single conduit from The Shore to the material world." Cym stood, brushed the Funion crumbs off his black robe, and unclipped the sword at his own hip before tossing it on the table. "So since I'm stuck here with you, have a gift. From me to you. For old times sake. And keeping in the spirit of things, let's go Blue Chips and Red Chips." Parry's hand retracted from the bag of Cool Ranch Doritos as it foil packaging resealed. A bag of Fire Red chips likewise sealed up and floated across the munchie table to him. "Blue Chips, you stay here, get toasted, and leave your friends to fight the vampires and Nemsemet on their own. Eat the Red Chips, I give you my wings and sword, send you back, and wait here in your place. Your friends and pretty soon the whole supernatural population of Camden will know what you are, so your vacation will be over. And when Nemsemet is dealt with or you're dead, you come back to work. Does that seem-"

Parry was gone by the time Cym stopped talking. The bong on the chair and the Fire Red bag ripped open. Cym's sword and his wings were likewise gone. Despite his best efforts, Cym actually felt surprised that Parry, selfish asshole that he was, hadn't stopped to think whether or not he wanted to go back into the fight and sacrifice his anonymity and life of hedonism for a few friends in a jam. He'd stuck it to Cym for so long, and Parry and Cym went back millenia.

And now Cym was stuck on Parry's Shore, with nowhere to be and nothing to do until Nemsemet's spell was broken.

"Well fuck," Cym said, grabbing the bong in one hand and lighting the bowl with the other. And then getting a mouth full of bong water.

===================================================

Parry snapped to in the back of the van, pale as hell, probably weak from blood loss, with Rikive standing over him and four bullets extracted onto the floor.

"Aw, lovely! I missed you so much!" Parry leaned forward and tackled Rikive in a hug before planting a kiss on her cheek. "Gimme two seconds lovely, gotta take care of business, then we'll talk."

Parry the mage rolled to his side, reached into his diaper bag that was still hanging from one hip, and fished around for a few seconds. Cymriel's sword was the first thing that popped into his hand, on top of the pile of stuffed animals, toys, tech trinkets, doodads and diapers. So when Parry pulled the beaten iron longsword from the bag and sprouted a set of six wings with eyes glowing like the cores of Blue Giant stars, turned to Rikive, and put one hand on the van's back door, said "I smoked weed with Michael Jackson. And it. Was. AWESOME!" he didn't take time to gauge the reaction of the Norse demi-goddess and the pantsuit-wearing supernatural lawyer.

He just burst out of the van with a flaming sword, screaming "THRILLER TIME TO-NIGHT!" in a shriek and made a bee-line for the melee, swinging a sword that cut into vampire thralls like they were vegetables and vampires like they were mortal.

"I'm on acid," Parry said. "And I swore I'd never do acid again after the 70s."

"Whatever," the giant caterpillar with the face of Richard Pryor said, taking another hit from his bong. Caterpillar Pryor passed the bong to the white rabbit wearing a disco jacket, who promptly hit that glass pipe and blew a wave of smoke into Parry's face. The rabbit promptly checked its watch and checked out, then passed the bong to Michael Jackson. All three were careful to avoid the tabletop of Doritos, Funions, Cheetos, and cold pizza that covered every inch of the tablecloth.

Parry refused to believe he was where he thought he was. Because if he was where he thought he was, he was royally fucked. The entrance to the Nether, who or what waited for a being, changed based on who died and where, but some things never changed. 

He was 90% sure that the beach of silver sand that stretched on into eternity was normal, as were the golden waves lapping at it in the darkness of night, from an ocean that also stretched onto the horizon. One occasionally had a fog bank rolling in around oneself as well, when one investigated the surroundings too closely. He was on The fucking Shore. The Shore was bad news. Maybe he was just in a coma. He'd escorted a few beings to The Shore back in the day. Caesar showed up to a banquet full of bitches eating honey cakes and drinking wine in an orgy of food. And he'd escorted one guy here for just a few seconds back in the 80s. A cutie pie who'd contracted HIV and didn't have anybody to stand at his bed- Parry walked him in real quick, before any of his colleagues noticed he was on the Shore, and found a display that would make the San Fran Pride Parade stop and go "Okay. No. Just, no."

But the tea party table with giant Caterpillar Pryor, a white rabbit in a disco coat, and Michael Jackson in his glitter jacket and white gloves passing a bong between each other- that was from his own fucked up brain.

"So... I'm dead?"

Caterpillar Pryor took the bong from Jackson in one of his twenty-some arms. "You took two bullets to the liver, one to the right lung, and another grazed your heart. And then you got turned into a buffet for a clan of vampires before leaving a pint of blood on their carpet." Pryor lit the bong with a snap of his/its fingers, took a long puff, and set the pipe down. "So yeah. You're boned."

Michael Jackson reached for the pipe again with a white gloved hand. "On the plus side, you found a way out of the city before the mummy went nuclear."

Parry had to nod while he considered this. He was out of the city, true. No more Nemsemet to worry about. He could relax, chill for eternity, and have a gay old time. He was a Celestial, which meant he got VIP tickets to eternity by default, right?

Right?

"Not necessarily," said the black-robed, hooded figure with six wings that sat at the head of the table. It extended one glowing hand and took a bag of Funions from the munchy buffet the three hallucinations had set up.

Parry's heart stopped (which, when he thought about it, wasn't really possible because his heart hadn't been beating in the real world for a few seconds at least [or maybe minutes; time was fucked up on The Shore]) as he drank in the sight of Cymriel ripping open a bag of Funions, flaming sword sheathed on one hip, eyes glowing like faint blue stars beneath his hood while he munched on the salty and probably foul tasting snack food. And if Parry was a betting Celestial, he would say that his body peed a little in terror from seeing Cymriel sitting on his Shore.

Right.

Time to settle old accounts.

Parry held one hand out to his left, said "Hit me," to whoever had the bong now (the Rabbit) and took an enormous hit from the hallucinated drug paraphernalia. Thankfully he did feel a buzz kick in when he blew out the smoke, so that was at least working on The Shore. Armed with said bong and a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos the giant caterpillar gave him, Parry put one foot in front of the other, trudging through the sand as Cymriel pulled a chair out for him.

"So," the Seraphic Celestial said between bites. "How was life while you were AWOL? Because I sure as shit hated doing all your work plus mine while you partied it up with the mortals." 

Parry sat down, putting the bag and bong in front of him, and held both hands up in a gesture of surrender as he said "Look Cym-"

"Cymriel," the being snapped. "You should at least do me the courtesy of using my full name when addressing the being you left to do all of your work for six-hundred-fucking years."

"I was gonna use your full name!" Stuck up asshole, always playing by the books. Probably gonna draft me back into the Cherubix and make me do all the shit assignments. 

"Parry. We're on the gods-damned Shore. Nothing you say or think is private here. Mind yourself or I won't send you back."

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