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Post by Storyteller on Nov 27, 2005 20:46:45 GMT
You watch them, their faces, their lives, for the few hours that remain until sunup, before returning and resting.
You watch their faces again in your grim nightmares, reflections of what could, almost, have been.
You wake again, the shroud of the dark lifting round you as you rise.
-1 vitae
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Post by Smoothie on Nov 28, 2005 21:55:52 GMT
He rises. The old habits of stretching and wiping his eyes are gone. He just rises. No need to get dressed, he didn't undress. He just puts on his hat and jacket.
One habit he indulges in is the sharpening of his weapons. He finishes quickly and buys a paper on the way to watch his show of humanity in the appartment building. He'll skim the headlines during any bouts of inactivity while he waits for his meeting-time.
another payday... if I want to live forever, I probably should find a new line of work...
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Post by Storyteller on Nov 29, 2005 18:55:06 GMT
Casavantes denies allegations of Mob backing
Gianni Casavantes, favourate candidate in the contest for the position of Mayor New Orleans, in a statement yesterday, denied claims that he had friendships and business links with key figures reportedly part of one of the largest criminal organisations in New Orleans. The implications of the rumours threaten to undermine, and destroy his entire, to-date successful campaign. Whether the public will accept these allegations, however, remains to be seen.
--Christian Keever, Political Editor
You head up there, and watch them. Some of the windows are dark. You've come up here enough that you know which of them will be out, hitting the bars, which will already will be asleep, and which will be otherwise engaged. You watch the few that remain, doing things that seem, that are, so ordinary.
Not for you.
It just can't be for you any more.
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Post by Smoothie on Dec 1, 2005 10:50:27 GMT
He heads out a bit early, pocketing an interestng, torn out article and throwing the rest of the paper away, he says his silent goodnights to them.
He keeps his eyes open for bit of refreshment on his way to his meeting.
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Post by Storyteller on Dec 4, 2005 14:57:47 GMT
You walk. It's a fairly long walk from your place, but you don't mind. You've got time. You drink in the night air.
The best chance of sustinance you see on your way is a pair of tramps, huddled round a barrel in an alley. It's such a typical, almost cliché scene in the city nowadays. You sniff, just to check out the air, and smell the smoke of the fire.
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Post by Smoothie on Dec 5, 2005 4:04:13 GMT
Victor walks slowly, swaying a bit, toward them, then from about ten yards away he addresses them, squinting at them and adding pauses to make himself seem full of the false confidence of a drunk, "What the fuck are you fairy-faggot love-birds doing at ~my~ fire?"
Bring your blood to me.
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Post by Storyteller on Dec 8, 2005 22:49:01 GMT
One of them casts the other a look, that simply smacks of 'what the fuck?!', but the other addresses you.
"What are you talking about bud? But hey, don't worry, there's plenty of fire for all. Nice coat, where'd'ya find that? Obviously fine pickings there."
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Post by Smoothie on Dec 9, 2005 6:07:39 GMT
The irony of that statement is that it comes from one dressed as he is!
"Glad you like it! After I finish with your mother, the next guy took it off so he could have his turn and I snatch it up! Victor laughs. He takes a comfortable stance and hooks his thumbs on his belt, obviously not planning to go anywhere.
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Post by Storyteller on Dec 10, 2005 19:31:29 GMT
"Wha-"
His mouth hangs slightly open for a second, trying to work out what you just said. It finally seems to come to him.
"What the fuck are you saying man?! We're just here, offering a chance to get warm, and you start shooting off insults? Now take it back, or come over here and say it."
He talks tough, and obviously takes what he believes to be a tough stance, but doesn't really succeed. You're far from fooled. You can see it in his eyes.
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Post by Smoothie on Dec 11, 2005 2:07:16 GMT
"I don't take it back, just like I don't take back your mother, even after she beg me! She had such a stinking hole, it took a week to rid myself of her stench! Now I see she raise a son with no honor as well, I think I will see her again just to give her a good beating!" Victor stumbles, as if drunk but holds his ground. He's not trying to scare them off, but rather to drive one or both to rage and so doesn't want to appear too intimidating.
Victor chuckles inside and wonders if anyone ever speaks like this seriously, to him it is a tool.
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Post by Storyteller on Dec 12, 2005 20:40:25 GMT
He sees red. His face contorts slightly, and he rushes forward at you, his companion backing away slightly.
You win initiative
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Post by Smoothie on Dec 13, 2005 3:33:18 GMT
Victor grins his too-wide grin and looks him in the eye as he approaches, imposing his Will and reveiling the Eye of the Beast upon the victom. He also pulls out a punch dagger in each hand to make it look good for the victom's friend.
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Post by Storyteller on Dec 17, 2005 18:25:20 GMT
Disc roll: Pres+Emp+Night+3(willpower)= 13
5 successes [Exceptional success] Contested roll won
When you pull your punch daggers, the guy's friend backs away slowly, further into the alley.
You look the bum straight in the eye, and he just stares back, paralysed with fear. Out of the corner of your eye, you see his trousers start to dampen.
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Post by Smoothie on Dec 18, 2005 2:12:57 GMT
Wic looks at the one backing into the alley, "You move too slowly, ratbag! I can still smell you! Will you be next?"
Assuming he scampers off, Wic circles his mark, puts his knives away and lunges at the man from behind, hopefully sinking his fangs in before the guy can react. He'll top off.
Do we get a Willpower point back when we rest?
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Post by Storyteller on Dec 23, 2005 17:39:10 GMT
Given that willpower is restored for a good nights sleep, i've always said that Vamps only regain willpower by resting by having a peaceful waking night, as in, doing nothing stressful, because of the chronic nightmares they suffer during the day, so no, not really.
The non-petrified tramp, suitably brow-beaten, legs it away, down the alley. You turn your attention back to the guy, rooted to the spot. As you walk round, neither his head nor his eyes follow you, he just stands stock still. You lunge forward, and sink your fangs into the back of his neck, feeling his warm blood rush into your mouth, filling your body once again with power.
How much blood are you going to take?
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