Monuments to the Dead: Requiem RP

This will be the official thread for this RP. I think I'm ready for everything. This is what I have placed so far. I just need everyone to show that they are ready.

Prince: Ruby McAlister

Invictus: Ruby McAlister, Lord Estefan, Minot, Jennifer Achilli, Bartholomew Scarborough, Python, Oliczander Glanndin

Carthian: Spierre, Fredrick Haggard, Strelic, Jackie Winter, Matthew Horus, Ruth Campbell

Sanctified: Grey Zorn, Brad, Eleanor, Kelley Munly,  Tristan

Dragons: Solomon (Scott) , Lady Grace, Lisa Klein, Tara Halsted, Malcolm Ferriere

Crone: Rob Morrison, Michelle, Rachael Malik, Robin Woods, (Eric’s character)

Seneschal:
Sheriff: Grey
Master of Elysium: Oliczander Glanndin
Herald: Estefan
Prince’s Harpy:
People’s Harpy: (Eric’s character)
Archon: Bartholomew Scarborough
Primogen Counsel: Solomon (Scott), Spierre, Bartholomew Scarborough
Priscus Counsel:

Baroness Ruby McAlister – Gangrel Invictus. Former slave who fled north but was embrace before reaching Canada, later took power in the 60s
Lord Estefan – Nosferatu  Invictus. An eccentric Herald who likes to keep up to date with all the kindred in the city.

Marquis Bartholomew Scarborough – Ventrue Invictus. Old and wise ventrue and helps keep order in the Invictus.
Speirre – Daeva Carthian, has been at the helm of many revolutions over the past 100 years, represents the Carthians.
Minot – Mehket Invictus
Jennifer Achilli – Ventrue Invictus
Python – Mehket Invictus
Oliczander Glanndin - Nosfuratu Invictus


Fredrick Haggard – Gangrel Carthain
Strelic – Nosfuratu Carthian
Jackie Winter – Mehket Carthian
Matthew Horus – Daeva Carthian
Ruth Campbell – Nosfuratu Carthian

Grey Zorn – Daeva Sanctified
Brad – Mehket Sanctified
Eleanor – Daeva Sanctified
Kelley Munly – Ventrue Sanctified
Tristan – Nosferatu Sanctified

Solomon (Scott) – Nosferatu Dragon
Lady Grace – Nosferatu Dragon
Lisa Klein – Daeva Dragon
Tara Halsted – Gangrel Dragon
Malcolm Ferriere – Mehket Dragon

Rob Morrison – Ventrue Crone
Michelle – Deava Crone
Rachael Malik – Mehket Crone
Robin Woods – Gangrel Crone
Mr. Twist - Daeva Crone
Harlequin - Daeva Crone

Ryan Fitch - Nosferatu Unaligned
Hank Robins - Gangrel Unaligned
Megan Lynch - Nosferatu Unaligned

Should we introduce ourselves here?

"Strelic – Nosfuratu Carthian " 

Updated city positions!

Prince: Ruby McAlister
Seneschal: Spierre
Sheriff: Crusader Grey
Master of Elysium: Oliczander Glanndin
Herald: Estefan
Prince’s Harpy: Minot
People’s Harpy: Harlequin
Archon: Bartholomew Scarborough
Primogen Counsel: Solomon (Scott)-OD, Prefect Spierre- Carthian, Python - Invictus, Rob Morrison - CotC, Eleanor - LS
Priscus Counsel: Bartholomew Scarborough - Ventrue, Lady Grace - Nosferatu,  Michelle - Mehket, Tara Halsted - Gangrel, Lisa Klein - Daeva

Updated Invictus fancy pancy titles!

Prince Alder Ruby McAlister, Commissioner and Duchess of Detroit
Arcon Sir Bartholomew Scarborough Knight of the Red Steeds and Earl of Detroit
Lord Alder Estefan, Au Pair and Advocate
Lady Minot, Advocate and Almoner
Ms Jennifer Achilli, Librettist
Mr Python, Solder
Lord Oliczander Glanndin, Steward and Librettist

Don't mess this stuff up or you're dead!

My name is Esther Moore. I'm nineteen years old and I was born and raised in Metro Detroit, the daughter of a non-denominational minister and his wife, James and Ruth. Our congregation is small and tightly knit. We all look out for each other, like a big extended family. Even though I don't always see him very often, I've always been extremely proud of my father. He does good work in Detroit and the surrounding area. The world could really use more people like him.

One night, walking home from a soup kitchen with my father and eight members of our church, we were set upon by a gang of some sort. I screamed and tried to run as my brothers and sisters were attacked, but one of their number grabbed me roughly by the arms and held me above the ground while I struggled to free myself. I caught sight of one of the people grab Rebecca by the throat and throw her to the ground. He leaned down and pressed his mouth to her jugular and I felt sick as I realized what these creatures were. The towering monstrosity detaining me hauled me away. I was gagged, bound hand and foot, and deposited on a raised surface in the dark. Minutes passed, or perhaps hours. I couldn't tell. I wept. Finally, bright lights came up, blinding me, and that's when I realized where I was. I was on a stage. As I looked around, quickly taking in my immediate surroundings, I saw three other members of my congregation, bound similarly. I panicked. Where was my father? Had they killed him? My tears became those of rage, until I saw him seated in a gilded wooden chair a couple of yards in front of the stage. Tied fast. Surrounded by the damnable creatures.

The most revolting creature I have ever seen bounded out onstage, greeted by loud cheers of the soulless masses. It was six feet tall, almost spider-like in his ganglyness, its gaunt frame draped in the finery of a court jester, bedecked in bright hues. Two withered arms are nestled directly under its ribcage, both holding guthooks. Hiding its hideously malformed face was a combination Comedy/Tragedy mask. It gave a dramatic bow and began working the crowd in the same manner as a ringleader in a circus does. "Watch, and be amazed at the power of the Harlequin!" The horror then reached towards Clinton, its horrible secondary set of withered arms stretching like rubber as they snaked towards him, far exceeding their previous length as they dug their hooks into his flesh. Giggling like a madman, the demon Harlequin reeled in my brother in Christ, slamming the screaming Clinton into its own emaciated flesh. To our horror, there was a wet sucking sound as our brother was dragged inside of the loathsome creature, who laughed all the while, their flesh fusing together, warped into one by some dark blood sorcery. Up to his torso in the monster, his right arm vanished to the elbow in Harlequin's chest, Clinton continued to scream as the freakish abomination began to empty him of his blood. I felt the bile raise in my throat as I struggled not to vomit. I tried to choke out a prayer as I watched my father face set, the hard line of his jaw displaying his fury. I willed him to struggle, to break his bonds, but he sat there, watching each of our brothers come to a similar end. Finally it dawned on me that I was to receive the same treatment. The vile creature extended its arms toward me and pulled me close. However, instead of pulling me into himself, he instead removed my gag. To my shame I vomited immediately, retching until I had completely emptied my stomach. When I could heave no more, I looked up into its malformed face, disgust and terror written plainly on my face, and I watched it draw a blade across one of its four palms. It squeezed the wound, causing the blood it had stolen to well up. It drew a finger along the length the wound. I realized too late what its gruesome plan for me was as it pressed my jaw open and thrust its finger into my mouth, wiping its blood on my tongue. There was enough of it to sit in a thin film. Tears sprang to my eyes as the monster squeezed my mouth and nose shut. Finally I could resist no more and swallowed. My fate was sealed.

I woke alone on the stage. My bonds were gone, but my wrists were still sore. Upon waking I vomited again, though it was just bile this time. Against my will my whole body slowly worked up to wracking, silent, ugly sobs. I curled in on myself on the floor. The only thing I could think was one phrase, over and over again. "God have mercy." I whispered this to myself until my throat was hoarse. I shakily hummed a hymn from my childhood, hoping it would comfort me, but the notes seemed to fall empty in the abandoned, shadowy theatre. "God...God...please..." A low voice from the shadow chuckled. "He has no power here." The monster from earlier--Harlequin?--came halfway out of the shadows. I struggled to at least sit up and strained to see him in the dark. "Do you know what you are, child?" I made no reply but a shaky nod. "Your name is Katka now." I paused, not wanting to relinquish my name, my identity, but at last I nodded. Tears were coursing down my face. "Good." The monster returned to the darkness, and I sobbed myself back into oblivion.

Being alone has always been a part of me . . . and God am I tired of it.

You may call me Solomon Tours.  Please, Solomon will do.  

And if you must know, I'll tell you a little about myself:  I am of French descent.  France has nothing to do with who I am though, I'm an American.  My family's just been living in Michigan long before it applied for statehood.

My dad was an asshole and my mom subjected herself to many different men.  My childhood was just peachy, thank you.  But don't worry, I packed up and divorced them once the War in Europe broke out.

What did I do?  I got a job.  That Ford character shelled five bucks a day for building cars.  So why the hell not?  I'd work, go home, get drunk, maybe pick up a broad, possibly sleep or read, then work the next day.  "Woe is me."  I'd say and sulk:  as a result I hated everybody and I'm positive everyone hated me.  But someone sparked an interest in me.  A childhood friend?  I doubted it.  A family member?  No, I was dead to them.  On my long walks home, I'd see this man standing under the lamp post on Boston Boulevard.  He was eerie, and every night I'd notice him, a strange fog kept him obscure.

One night I told him to beat it, and he did.  Picked up his book bag and walked away.  I didn't get his face, nor did I really want to.  However, if I saw him there again stalking me, I'd kill him.  I let him know that too.

It was that foggy night that my life as Solomon Tours would end.  An attacker ambushed me with a lead pipe with agility unlike anyone I ever fought before.  I thought I was a dead man after the first whack. After the third, I was right.

I awoke in a foul mess of a house, a house worse than mine.  I was empty, truly empty.

A man sat at a desk, sipping something.  As soon as I moved off the couch I was slumped onto, the man put down his cup to say, "This is the beginning, neonate."  The rest has lead me here.  I am now a Beast wearing Solomon as a mask.  My face is chapped, my eyes shot red and bagging.

This is loneliness.  And I will prove that I can redeem myself.  I have to. I must.

My tale goes back to the time that Tsars ruled the lands of Russia. I was a son of an officer of Nicholas's secret guard. I was inserted with the rest of my family into the palace to act as ears. I would shine the silver or do labor in the basements. I was fourteen when the war began.

When the mob breached the gates my father attempted to the hold them back for the family to escape. he lasted seconds. They thought my family a charity from the royals were let go back into the world while the royals reunited in captivity. I left my Mother and two sisters to try to meet up with the loyalist movement. It was disheartening, twelve members in all. No guns, a few axes, and almost none had experience with combat. Like I these were family of true loyalists, more angry at the death of their spouse, father, or brother and wanted revenge on the new order that was establishing themselves.

For two months we sat in that house and plotted schemes and not once left to enact them. We told ourselves that there was a plan and that we weren't the only ones, that someone would stand up and saves the Romanovs. We were right we weren't the only ones. There was the Patron. We would receive letters signed by that name. He gave us weapons and plans that were full proof. We had a leader, a man shrouded in darkness but it was better than nothing.

We would strike and wait then strike again. Never once giving the authorities a hint to our cause. It was years long campaign, many thought us more organized criminals than loyalists. By 1921 our numbers were up but the newer members wanted the perks not the cause. Patron would deliver us letters and our scores got bigger and better. Finally he asked us a question.

"Do you want to live or die martyrs?" The seven of the founders that was left simply said live. We were tired and sick of the fight that was clearly not going anywhere. Patron assured us that Anastasia that he got her away and safe, in America. None of us believed him anymore. His response to our answers was this. "Do this plan and you be in America in a month." The letter gave details of heist. A Faberge egg was being transported to St. Petersburg. It was a battle, not the night raids with half asleep guards but these were men waiting for us. Explosions and bullets broke the silence of the forest and the cries of the dying as the bullets and explosions died. Over forty were dead. majority belonged to our side. We were below twenty again and that didn't matter. We were leaving the country we hated. Patron smuggled us to England then to Canada then to Michigan. Fifteen of us sat in a warehouse full of smuggled rum and guns. Dozen of Tsarist artifacts sat in crates including the egg that our friends died for.

The sound of several feet pronounced their arrival. The air got cold and the feeling nausea came, they stood under the light with long coats, scarves and hats. The one in the middle announced his name.
"Gregor is what my associates call me, you know me as patron. I've been watching everything you've been doing since you began working under me."

"So why here in?"

"Detroit? Simple gonna take a interest in this city, needs some Russian flair in my opinion." He spoke without an accent well a thick New York accent. "Well pick among yourself and the chosen gets to speak to me in private the rest get to hunker here for a day or two." I was the youngest and new the most English so I got sent over. "So you're the one? Well you look capable enough". He motioned me to follow and I found myself in a hotel for a week. Every day I was interrogated of who I was, what I did for the cause, do I actually believe. Then I found out what they were and what they were trying to find out from me. The rest became their ghouls, I became a candidate for well their gift. It was three years before they turned me.

The gathering chamber was large empty space with several windows with heavy tapestries covering them. Large paintings of the traditional styles dominated the space between windows. The most notable was a portrait of the Romanov family that was placed next to the stairs that lead to the next floor. There was no carpet on the bare wooden floor, in the center was a large velvet rug where nearly as long table stood. The table was long and grand with intricate details engraved in the sides. The ornate nature spoke volumes about the man that acquired it.

There was a fire place behind the head of the table's seat that held crackled with fake flames from the LCD screen. The Head's chair was larger and by far more ornate and comfortable than the rest. Of course the others were of lesser culture but by no regards were they ordinary. Usually a cluster of smaller tables would be spread about but they have been moved to another room. Emergencies didn't need unessential.

Now to the man who was master of this building, Oliczander Glanndin. He was handsome but the air around him was chilled and brisk. Mortals would feel it as if it was icy daggers, but the smell of sulfur and ash was what most knew his presence by. A long black jacket with golden embroidery whispered of the culture of the Russian Nobles before their massacre. A scarf of red draped around his shoulders. A white button up shirt of the finest make and quality hid behind the heavy jacket. An expense belt clung to his waist as designer black jeans lead to black dress shows.

He sat at his designated chair and waited, wondering about tomorrow as his fellow Invictus and other rabble gathered. His knuckles bared the family insignia of his sire. He stared at the tapestry taken from a castle in Poland by Nazis then seized by a associate that would provide works that would Interest him.

(OOC: This was written jointly by me and Eric)

They would come. He had seen to that. The towering arrogance and ineffable pride of their leader would not allow them to escape from the snare he had so carefully laid over the course of weeks of planning, weeks of feeding his enemies just the choicest bits of information, a concoction of lies and half-truths that would see them marching into a death trap and onto the killing floor. Blood for blood, life for life, he would exact his revenge on those who had wronged him and his own.

Rodina: The triple syllables formed an old word for 'family', and it was this family that had been wronged so by worms striving to sprout the fangs of the serpent. Rodina. The Family. His Family. A Family that had suffered greatly at the hands of their own kind in Europe and had suffered again at the hands of inferiors. Tonight, tonight, the Rodina would be avenged.

This was to be a private matter, a family affair for the Rodina alone. No need to call the cross-toting lunatic who held court in Hell. His services were not required or desired. True, he would be furious when he discovered what the Family had done in blatant disregard to his position. For their part, the Rodina were content to let him stew in his own bile. There was work to be done tonight.
*         *        *
Esther struggled to match pace with her father, refusing to show any sign of weakness. She gripped the handle of her kukri excitedly.

"How far away are we, Dad?"

"I'm not Dad right now, Esther."

"Sorry, Dad--James."

"We'll be there in just a few moments. Now, keep quiet."

The other members of Esther's church walked silently around them, all in various states of agitation. Tension hung heavily in the air as they made their way to the rendezvous point. Rebecca, an older woman with a reputation for thinking quickly, patted Esther's shoulder reassuringly. Brothers Clinton and Neal were bringing up the rear, at each other's sides as they had been their whole lives. The dark streets offered no comfort, and the few streetlights that weren't burnt out offered only a feeble light which did little to illuminate the shadows. The city slept, more or less.

As the group made their way to the home of their sister church's minister, Esther nervously glanced around. Something wasn't right, and she couldn't quite figure out what it was. She brushed it off as nerves due to her first night on the job.

*         *        *

The theater was ancient as the corpse of the city it inhabited, squatting in the carcass of Detroit like some monolithic beetle. Beneath the former house of art, tunnels honeycombed the earth, foul holes home to monsters beyond the ken of mortals or even other Damned. Here was where the Rodina held court, here was where the Family put on the Show. The Rodina and their servants had already moved into the foyer of the theater, their twisted bodies crawling out from the holes in which they dwelt to take up position and lie in wait for their prey.

He stood behind the rotted curtain, his malformed nose twitching behind his mask, sniffing the air for a trace of his prey. He grotesque lips curled into a smile mirroring one of the dual aspects of his mask. They were here. Let them come, he was ready.

*         *        *

Esther's church group joined Detroit's larger one (about a dozen members) with no problems. Brief but polite introductions were made, and the ministers jointly led a prayer to God Almighty asking that He bless their work that night. When all had said "amen," they gathered their tools and departed. Esther tried to stay close to her father. They drew near the abandoned theatre that was their ultimate destination. Though it was surrounded by other buildings, it seemed separate somehow, its emptiness clearly outlined against the dark, starless sky. James held up a hand to signify a pause before they entered. Everyone stopped to hear what he would say.

"This will be a great victory for God tonight, my brothers and sisters. Pray to Him for strength and it can not but go in our favor. Stay in formation. Hold your ground. God be with you all." Another amen rippled through the group before they crossed the threshold of the theatre.

The theatre was completely abandoned, and almost completely dark but for the occasional pool of natural light coming through the broken windows. They walked silently, fanning out across the area with their weapons drawn. We stood in silence, all senses alert for any sign of another presence. Suddenly, my father saw something we didn't and yelled, "It's a trap! They've led us into a goddamn trap!" Simultaneously, all of the doors slammed shut and several figures emerged from the shadows. As we watched, stomachs dropping, more and more made themselves known. We backed up into each other, trying to keep no angle unwatched, but it seemed that no matter how many came there were always more.  There must have been at least four dozen of them.

He smiled, a cruel, satisfied smile as he emerged into the light of their flashlights and the glint of their blades, he grin stretching further as they wretched at his twisted shape. He gave a hideous, shrieking chortle as two, withered, atrophied arms pushed their way out from under his ribcage, their tiny hand clutching guthooks, their crescent curve cruelly sharpened for pain as much as death.

As one, the Rodina gave a hideous battle shout as they charged, blades and bludgeons held high, their screams turning to giggles and shrieks of delight as they hit home, their arms powered by nightmarish, lunatic strength, easily smashing apart bones and ripping flesh and fat with horrible ease.

Each and every one of the Rodina were twisted in some fashion, cursed by nightmarish deformities beyond the ken of mortals. A malformed dwarf with an oblong head chewed away at the innards of a howling clergyman with steel dentures, a hideously obese giant simply crushed a screaming woman beneath its wretched bulk.

Esther's pulse quickened and all of her senses became overloaded with the information being thrown at her. She gripped the handle of her knife so hard her knuckles turned white. All of the training she'd been through in the past five years sprinted through her mind. Esther drew a slow breath, trying to calm her pounding heart, and looked to her father for the signal. He didn't give it; it was the monsters who made the first move. In an instant all was bloodshed and violence. A young vampire assaulted Esther, but she was able to put an end to that with an instinctual two-handed blow to the soft flesh between its shoulder and neck, taking its head half off. The hideous creature fell to the ground screaming in agony. Esther felt something move directly behind her and whirled around, barely parrying a blow from another one of the beasts. She grabbed the stake at her belt and deftly thrust it upward just below the sternum, driving it directly into its heart. In the moment of quiet right after, Esther saw a monstrous hunchbacked being grab Rebecca by the throat, throw her to the ground, and drain her of her blood in a matter of moments. Tears sprang to her eyes but she said a quick prayer for Rebecca's soul and banished them.

Leaping from the shadows with a speed belied by his size, an umber-bearded giant darted forwards, a cavalry saber from another age gripped in his hand with the comfort of an expert. He spun deftly, neatly severing the head from a nearby man, the resultant fountain of gore jetting into the air, much to the delight of his Rodina masters. He moved like a reaper cutting corn, granting his victims the mercy his masters would otherwise deny them. Were one to look into his eyes, they would find a deep and profound sadness unmatched by any mortal. Death was the only comfort he could give, and he gave it freely. Illitch moved through the slaughter, the blood-slick boards creaking under his boots as he spied his target. The congregation had been slain nearly to the man, and only a few remained, most bleeding out on the filthy floor of the theater or at the cruel disposal of the Rodina. Illitch spied Bogdan the dwarf gnawing on the leg of a still screaming woman, his dead black eyes alive with daemonical madness as he consumed her flesh. Mr. Twist greedily sucked crimson from the stump formally occupied by a human hand previously removed by the Rodina's cleaver. Several bloodslaves like himself had begun to drag the wounded into a circle in preperation for the Show. Illitch gave a disgusted grunt at such behavior as he once again refocused on his intended target.

The girl. The Harlequin's new daughter.

She and her idiot father had themselves surrounded by the corpses of their comrades, and as darkling luck would have it, she had her back to him. In a single bound, Illitch spanned the distance and wrapped his gore-soaked arms around her.

Esther struggled, pleading with the giant to release her. When that didn't work, she started hurling insults at him, daring him to fight her like a man. Finally, in a fit of desperation, she bit down hard on his hand and drove her heel into his shin. Illitch grunted as the girl's heel connected, but he held fast, dragging her away from the nightmarish scene.

As the rest of the survivors were rounded up, Illitch wrapped a length of chain around the girl's wrists, restraining her and preventing her wasteful attempts at escape. From the shadows of the mouth of one of the tunnel holes, a pair of bloodslaves dragged an ornate gilded chair from the mouth of the tunnel, making their way over to the man who had so brashly lead his men into death's embrace. Well, Illitch corrected himself, not all of them would yet be dead for hours.

Mr. Twist had vanished from the killing floor, suddenly appearing to slither out from a hole in the floorboards of the stage like a worm, his antlered top hat upon his head and his gore-streaked suit proudly vested, a severed hand clutched in his grasp. He cleared his throat with a hoary rasp before belting out his dire words.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls of all ages! The Rodina are proud to present..." at this he paused for emphasis before screaming, "HUMAN ODDITIES! You'll gasp! You'll swoon! You'll faint! Behold, God's greatest trick, the Harlequin!"

Esther stood beside the giant, nearly useless and she heard what was going on in the room at the end of the tunnel. Her view was blocked by her captor, but she heard the monster's announcement. She turned to the giant and questioned him, "What are you doing with me?" Illitch was silent, his dead tongue unable to answer her plea. He wanted to tell her to run, to flee while he held the Rodina off, but the Hussar knew the time was not yet right. Esther grew more and more frustrated with the giant, not understanding why he wouldn't answer her. She thought about drawing her kukri and threatening him with it, but her arms were bound too tightly to even make that a possibility. She was still attempting to force an answer out of him when the one called Harlequin made his entrance.

The ragged curtains drifted aside like forlorn crimson specters, their rotten skins caressing the floor as they slid across the dead wood of the boards. A spotlight flicked on from the balcony, and the stage was bathed in eerie yellow light.

Gasps of horror and the sound of retching accompanied the motion, for behind the curtain lurked the most twisted creature never conceived by a benevolent God. It stood tall above the ground, it's sickly, emaciated form draped in the cruel finery of the jester's motley, it's once vibrant colors now faded to dingy grey. It was a monster, that much was certain, it's body skinny and seemingly glass-like in its fragility. Its face was covered by a dual mask depicting Tragedy and Comedy, the jovial portion twisted up into an impossible lunatic leer, drawn to the point to which the skin would split on a human face if it were to wear such an expression. The Tragedy mien drooped madly, as if the monster's face were melting. Beneath it's taut ribcage were a pair of slender, emaciated and atrophied arms, withered flesh twigs that held guthooks in their dead fingers.

Esther felt sick to her stomach as she caught a glimpse of the Harlequin between the giant and the wall of the tunnel. She had to look away from his twisted figure or risk losing the contents of her stomach, as some other members of her church had done already. She looked at Illitch in horror, searching his face for any indication of what her fate was. Illitch said nothing, but his eyes betrayed a deep and profound sadness, tearing his eyes away from hers as he forced himself to watch the Harlequin and his Show.

"Behold!" Shouted Mr. Twist, a hideous smile write plain across his mutant features, "The tricks and pranks of the Harlequin! Marvel as he performs the Siamese Twin! Can I have a volunteer?"
The freak with the top hat gestured towards one of the disabled wounded, crooking a bloody finger towards his would-be victim.

"You there! What's your name?"

The bloodied man swallowed as he realized he was being singled out for whatever horrors they had in store.

"Clinton," he choked out.

Mr. Twist smiled even more broadly as he proclaimed, "I see! Step right up!"

Clinton heavily rose to his feet and shuffled to the stage, the chains binding him clinking almost cheerfully.

"That's a good lad! Come along! Don't be shy! Come see what the Harlequin has in store for you!"
Clinton mumbled a prayer under his breath and stood before the Harlequin, looking over the monster's left shoulder to avoid gazing on his sickening person.

Mr. Twist once again surveyed the crowd. "Come one! Come all! Be bewildered as the Harlequin and Clinton become one! Laugh! Scream! Cry! It's all part of the show!"

Suddenly, the twin vestigial arms of the Harlequin sprang to life, twisting and elongating as they snaked towards Clinton, their hook digging into his shoulders as the Harlequin reeled him in like a fisher hauling in a fresh catch.

Clinton slammed into the skeletal frame of the freakish Damned with a wet squelch, his flesh running like wax as he melted like a candle into the Harlequin. As he screamed in pain and in horror, their flesh began to fuse, and Clinton readily sank chest-deep into the Harlequin. His legs having disappeared, Clinton now hung from the Harlequin's chest like a piece of grotesque fruit on a tree made of madness.
"BEHOLD!" Screamed Mr. Twist with relish, "THE AWESOME POWERS OF THE HARLEQUIN!"

Tilting back his mask with a free hand, the Harlequin revealed his true face, a visage resembling melted candle wax, with features sloping down in oblong ropy puddles of flesh. He dipped this visage into Clinton's neck, and began greedily drawing the red life from the screaming man.

Esther was able to observe this vile anomaly from the mouth of the tunnel. She almost cried out Clinton's name, but the syllables caught in her throat. She glanced about searching for Neal and saw that he was not in the audience. She offered a prayer of thanks that Neal had not survived to see his beloved brother treated thus, along with prayers for both of their souls. She numbly observed that she'd been saying the prayer for the dead too much for her taste that night. The numbness crept all over her body until she no longer felt that the events of the day had happened to her.

The now exsanguinated Clinton slid from the Harlequin's body, his form exiting the Harlequin with a wet pop before slipping onto the floor. His corpse an ashen grey, Clinton lay still, his skin drawn tight across his cooling bones. Mr. Twist chortled vilely as he watched the 'volunteer' fall lifeless to the floor. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, marvel as Bogdan, the Swiss midget with steel teeth, chews up his bones! Come one! Come All!" At this, the horrible malformed dwarf hobbled onstage, his blood-soaked teeth gnashing as he began to shove Clinton's corpse down his throat, his neck bulging obscenely as he consumed his catch, his jaws unhinging like a snake's. Lifting his head back, the dwarf crammed the rest of the corpse into his gullet like a heron swallows a frog, audibly and horribly gulping him down with gust. Once the entire corpse was swallowed whole, Bogdan gave an exaggerated bow and tottered offstage.
Esther's horror could no longer be expressed in any human language. She squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to kill the image of Clinton's body being wholly destroyed, but the Show continued playing like a macabre film on her closed eyelids. She idly wondered again what her fate was. It must be worse than Clinton's, if her reasoning was correct and he had been merely an opening act.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen! The final act before your own grisly demise is about to commence! You there!" Shouted Mr. Twist, pointing at the congregation's leader chained to the gilded chair. "Can you point me to your little girl? Who's the lucky lady here tonight? Where is she?"

Dread built in Esther's core as she realized that she was "the lucky lady." She watched her father anxiously. He was stone-faced, but she could see the sickening rage building behind the stoic facade. He made no reply to the twisted ringleader's question. Seeing the expression in the minister's face, Mr. Twist smiled yet again. "Come now! Don't be shy! Where is she? The Show simply cannot go on without her!"

James cleared his throat and said in a low voice through his teeth, "I don't know."

"You don't know where your own little girl is? Your precious daughter? Well, well! A bit careless, aren't we?" Mr. Twist gasped in mock shock. "Oh, my! You didn't bring her on a Hunt, did you James...? How reckless of you! Don't you know what happens to unattended children during the Show?"

James' pride got the better of him and he reacted violently. "Esther is grown woman. She was ready. I trained her myself! She had to be ready," he spat.

Breaking his silence, the Harlequin laughed grimly. "James! Ah, my dear little James! You lead her into a trap! You lead them all here! Their blood stains your hands as much as it stains mine! You killed them just as surely as I did! Hmm, what little your training did! Bah! You embarress yourself!"

His dropping to a low, menacing hiss, the Harlequin said, "You took my little girl from me, James, and now I'm going to take yours."

Crooning, the Harlequin replied. "It would have been her birthday, you know. A fitting day for her to join the Family. She will be so happy here, James. I'm the father she never had."

"You're insane."

"I?" The Harlequin placed a hand upon his breast. "No, James, I didn't lead my men into a wholesale slaughter on a bit of a prideful hunch. If anyone here is mad, it's you. Besides, it's not as if you can stop me."

Illitch gently brought Esther into the light, giving her a father a full view of his captive daughter. "See, James? There she is! All ripe and ready to join the Family! I must thank you for bringing her to me so readily."

Esther shook the giant's hands off of her, though it was obvious he could have kept hold of her had that been his wish. She stood completely straight and allowed no emotion to display itself on her face but contempt. She succeeded in the concealment of her shaking, but only just.
James set his jaw and stared at Esther, memorizing her features. He knew it was likely the last time he would ever see his daughter.

At least when she could still be considered his daughter.

The Harlequin let loose a little giggle as he drew a guthook across his palm, the stolen blood easily and readily welling to the surface. He approached Esther, bloody palm outstretched, his other hand gently tipping back her head as he raised his slashed palm above her face.

Esther's facade slipped as she panicked. She widened her eyes and pressed her lips together, hoping against hope that this wasn't happening.

Harlequin gave a brief pout as Esther sealed her lips. "Oh, but we can't be having that, dearest." As these words slipped off of his tongue, the Harlequin brought his palm down on Esther's lips, coating them in his stolen blood. She shuddered in horror first at his endearment, then at his palm against her mouth. She whipped her head away and stared at the ground, struggling to keep her composure.
The Harlequin, all sense of tenderness since fled, roughly seized her face, forcing his palm once more onto her lips, his secondary set of arms grasping her tightly by the waist as the blood pooled on the flesh of her lips. Esther's veneer of stoicism dropped completely. She struggled to free herself, willing him to back away, praying to God to save her, but he held her fast. She pressed her lips more tightly together as she fought against him.

"Dearie, it's only a matter of time, best to let it in before you make me force it. Things will be much easier if you just let me in!"

She shook her head, weeping openly.

The Harlequin gave a final sigh before saying sadly, "Then I suppose you give me no choice." With the same freakish elasticity he displayed earlier, the Harlequin's secondary set of arms elongated, stretching up to reach Esther's mouth, the grey fingers squirming in past her lips to settle on her teeth. Wrenching her jaw open with his secondary limbs, the Freak squeezed the stolen blood from his palm into Esther's now open mouth.

She swallowed reflexively, the monster's Vitae leaving a sour, metallic aftertaste in her mouth. She looked to her father, anguish clear on her face, and was met only with his same stoic stare as before. He turned his face away from her.

"No." The Harlequin's voice was edged with the razor's edge of menace, wholly unmistakable for anything else. "You will look at her."

James slowly turned back to Esther, pain now written in the lines of face.
"Good, you're watching. Good. You feel pain, yes? You know what it's like to lose your only daughter now, don't you? I relish your pain, I drink deep of it."

"As for you," intoned the Harlequin, turning his gaze back towards Esther. "Welcome to the Rodina, Katka. Welcome to the Family."

(Stagnation? I don't think so.)

The room remained empty for the time being, Oliczander placed his elbows on the table and his fingers interlocked. Only in privacy would his imperial manners fade to relaxation. The crackle of the false flame stirred memories of old back into front of his mind. The last battle in Russia he fought was something he didn't think about often, it was at slow somber times like this did he every reflect on those days.

......................
The forest was thawed and wet, winter had ended here and green was gradually returning. The night was also gradually becoming day as dawn approached. The forest was no friend to light as the branches shielded the ground from the moon's rays. Moving through the dead plant life without making a sound was achingly slow and difficult. It was obvious this was a trap for us and we were betting our lives on the Faberge egg was really being transported now rather than the scheduled time at night hours from now.

Six of us lead while the mob of thirty two stayed in the rear. There was no chances being taken, if the paw gets eaten the body can still ran away. The forward two held crossbows, medieval yes but quieter than guns. Already birds were singing and the sound of animal life awoke, the hope was the click would be hidden and the arrow would kill on impact. Petyr lead a man four years my elder and a scholar who was in the academy to join the guard, he was a first year Cadette who just transferred, he was spared to poor record keeping. Then there was Tatyana who was sixteen and angry, from what fragments we could get from her seem to spell that her family was murdered then slandered by being called Tsarist supporters. Oliczander held the third position and the one with the rifle, a standard Mosin Nagant with bayonet was slung across his back with a large dagger on his side. The last three were triplets called the Silver brothers because they arrived with forty pounds of silver from Patron two years ago. Vlad, Joseph, and Mark were their names and each carried a rifle of the same make.

The road was clear and empty, cars were unusual in this part of Russia, the cart traffic was heavy enough though to keep the forest from reclaiming the road. The forest brush on the sides was thick with spring time growth. The cover was almost perfect. We picked a spot between two thick trees with a heavy branch that had fallen from the just passing winter between the two. The Brothers layed on their stomachs as they covered the barrels with mud and leaves and twigs to camouflage the rifle. Keeping the leaves and mud out of the breaching mechanism to stop jams.

Then the crackle caught our attention as the sun dawned and rays breached the thick forest. A fire was poping steadily then the faint smell of smoke flowed into our nostrils. Petyr and Tatyana looked around trying to find a hint of where the fire was. Then the realization that it was a few yards away behind a thick bush. The two slowly pressed forward, fingers on triggers. I behind them, with knife drawn. Silence was necessary. If there was one camp then there was bound to be more. There was a gap in the bottom of the bush that allowed Petyr to steal a glance at the source. His arm slowly raised with two fingers up to alert us to two people. He waved his hand flat horizontally to indicate them as hostile. His arm fell to the bow and waited for the girl and Oliczander to get into position.  Looking behind another log was available for cover roughly twenty feet from the fire. Oliczander crouched at the edge of the bush while Tatyana slowly dragged herself around to flank. Once she was under the log she flew a thumbs up, Oliczander tapped Petyr on the shoulder as the silent countdown to three started.

Luck was on our side as a hawk swooped down snatching a rabbit into the sky as the mammal screamed the bolts released. One slammed into the guards eye socket killing him quickly. The other into his lung. He reached for his whistle but a gloved hand covered his mouth and a dagger jerked into the back of his throat, ending him. The tiny fire that gave them away had a shade over of it that hid the light but did little to block the sound. The guards both held rifles that quickly replaced the bows. In four minutes the truck should round the bend.

The one that took the arrow in the eye fell over something covered in a green tarp. It was a surprise to find that it was covering a maxim. It was fully loaded and pointing to where our reinforcements would arrive if called. They had an idea where they were if they were there. Uneasiness filled the trio as they watched the road for any other camp.

Again luck was on our side, the flair of a cigarette caught Petyr's eye. Tapping Tatyana he pointed to the tree that had an unusual amount of leaves compared to its barren counterparts. The light flaired again as the sniper took another breath. They were lazy. Rifle dropped and another bolt loaded she took aim and waited. The sound of wheels on mud and engine pouting smoke came, the military transport rounded the corner.

The concussion of the rifle slammed into Petyr's shoulder as the windshield broke and blood exploded in the driver's seat. The vehicle slammed into a brake. Already Tatyana was picking the rifle as the sniper fell from his perch with an audible thump. The door opened a young boy came to view, obviously younger than Tatyana. His face had traces of facial hair. He held onto the rifle tightly as it was just barely his size. Another shot rang out as the child soldier's skull caved as lead buried itself into his brain. he flew back slamming the back of his shattered skull into the truck. Olickzander chambered another round.

Shouts came from behind as men poured from the back with uniforms in precise order. Scanning for the sharpshooters they broke for cover. It looked like twelve as four men ran to the right and four ran to the left and the remaining four stayed behind the truck. The ones that broke for cover weren't entirely lucky as the trio took their shots killing two and wounding one in the leg who dropped and screamed in awful agony.

Tatyana glanced at the Maxim to get shout down silently by both men. If they invested fourteen men now then there's more later. The trio shot in rapid succession pinning the four who stayed and strafing the ones in the foliage now. A man with thick red beard peered from behind the truck. Lead scraped the inside of his eye socket then outside of his brain and the interior of his skull, then proceeded to exit with gaping hole in the back.

"Help me you bastards!" The wounded screamed as he grabbed at mud to pull himself to his comrades. His dead companion inches away from his feet who took a round to the chest. The bullet had burned at first but now the pain was secondary to the squirting blood that would fountain at every attempt to use it. Anger was quickly slipping to fear.

"Hold on! We're trying to get you." Someone said behind the truck. Panic rippled through his voice. He was shaken and it was obvious. Confidence began to beam from the forward trio as they suppressed.

A figure broke cover behind them as Joseph sprinted to the other side of the road, bullets ripped through the air and slammed into mud and water making splashes. The sound of cracking branches made it clear the three who made it to Oliczander's side were close and didn't want to keep distance. Swing around he saw the enemy appear from shadows and underbrush. Not taking the time to aim he pulled the trigger and the bullet sped towards the soviet soldier. Impacting on the trunk next to this face, bark and wood shout out and twinkled onto his face making him close his eyes.

The soviet lifted his rifle and to his shoulders and took a moment to pause as his vision straightened after the blurred of the bullet and the sting of light shrapnel. Oliczander dropped as his knees gave up and collapsed backwards as he chambered the next round, the last of this clip. The bullet fired at him only to miss by too little. The bullet touched the skin but the heat was close enough for Olic's eyes to water.

Half haphazardly aiming the young Tsarist fired again and again he missed. The near kill shot had spooked him. If he remained cool he would've finished him and now his comrades had appeared from the brush looking for someone to punished for the pain being inflicted on them.

The sound of broken twigs and rampant breathing drew Oliczander's eye to a sprinting Tatyana. Launching herself into the air by kicking off a log she brought her bayonet down into the shoulder of the newly discovered soviet. The curnch of steel on bone and the pain fill grunt given a second after was all that escaped the man as the blade pieced the top of his heart. She screamed the scream of a berserker in the midst of a blood fury. The man to the dying soviet's right swung his rifle to take fire on her only to have a bullet break through his sternum as Vlad arrived with Mark who took aimed at the other who had the advantage only a few moments ago.

Tatyana not being satisfied with the gruesome impalement had rushed over to him and gripped his rifle. Delivering a swift but brutal kick she dislodged his knee. Tugging as hard as she could she wrestled the rifle from his grasp as the sling slid off his shoulder as his body collapse to his knee. Maneuvering her hands she swung the butt of the rifle down on his face. It rammed directly into his nose, crushing the bone as a shower of blood followed the blow. Unconsciousness quickly arrived.

Oliczander being dragged onto his feet by Mark saw that Petyr had dropped two more behind the truck while the brutal display of Tatyana's fury. A man fumbled from across the road as Joseph appeared after him pointing his rifle to at the last three.

"Is that all of them?" Mark called to us.

"yes!" Called his brothers in unison. The group now wrapped around the truck to the three prisoners, carrying the fourth by his shoulders of his uniform. Dropping him into the mud as his face is covered in mud.

"You all rot in hell." Whispered half menacingly by the near dead wounded. His face had lost colored and he blood had stopped squirting from the movement of his leg. He had no fight left and nether did the one that was behind the truck. His face was covered in his comrade's blood. Spots of individual bloodlets had began to dry on his face. He was young but around Olic's age. The one that Tatyana knocked out woke up and began to get on his feet. Vlad made sure he didn't, thrusting his bayonet down he pierced his neck and they all watched him choke on his blood as a pool gathered underneath him.

"No" simply said Vlad. He was the off one in the trio and he had been cruel in the past. But the decision wasn't one of conflict of interest. A few rounds were popped and the survivors were no longer surviving. It was startling that no was harmed during the fight.

Guns were gathered and in a pile and Petyr threw himself into the back of the truck. The crunch of crowbar against wood conflicted with the now surreal silence of post battle.

"Holyshit, its here. Its actually here!" Petyr said in joy as he appeared in front of the flaps and presented the Egg. It was covered in intricate designs that mirrored the exterior of the Royal Palace. The six revolutionists stared at it stunned that it was there and that this wasn't a waste of resources. Too many times did they run into a trap and survive when a plan went badly. Patron was good but they swear that he would purposely get a detail wrong as if he was testing them.

The sound of thunder raged in the clear blue sky. The six individual's joy soured as the sound of explosions neared the camp told them that this wasn't the actual ambush. The quiet debate occurred with glancing stares. Do they join the fight or leave to live in another country leaving those behind. But ultimately it was something they couldn't do. Too many had been friends and betrayal at this point wasn't their nature.

"Petyr can you move the truck so it can be ready to drive out the way it came?" Oliczadner asked as he packed ammo into pockets. The others mirrored him as Petyr dragged the corpse out of the driver's seat. With a sigh Petyr got into the truck and turned the engine back on. The others gave a quick last glance concerning their doubt to one another again.

They began rushing towards their comrades, friends, and new family that was being attacked. There was no way in telling how bad it was. There was only one boom so it could be already over and the group had surrendered but as the they neared the sound of rifle fire intensified. Two of the brothers split off as a thought occurred to them. Vlad took the lead as he ignored whatever thought the other two had achieved in cohesion.

They found the screen of bush that marked where they left. Slowly as they gathered their breath as adrenaline once again filled their veins. Pushing the stubborn branches apart they peered into a fight that was nasty. There was no lines just chaos of war. There was no clear winner but the crater from whatever exploded had cleared several trees and limbs were clustered in the area. Taking in one final deep breath Oliczander and the two others punctured the bush as they charged in to help.

The soviets were reforming and taking advantage as an officer blew a whistle. He was the first to fall to Olic as a quick snap fire had burst his forehead. Firing as fast as he could he emptied the clip into the group that had assembled. Two fell but the others were fine. Vlad was entangled in melee with another soviet who had surprised him. Tatyana was firing into the strays that were gathering where the officer fell. She had more success than Oliczander as four dropped dead in mid sprint their bodies sprawling into dirt.

The success was met with suppression as the group quickly found them unlike their earlier counterparts. Behind the trunk of a old tree, the couple watched as the soviet slide a knife under Vlad's jawline into his skull. Grunting in violence successes he peered over to the two and began to pick his rifle up. Standing up preparing to execute the reloading rebels he was stopped by a round that exploded his knee, severing it. Falling into the ground he began crying in whimpers as another several rounds peppered his back. Looking to their saviors they saw the diminished trio now turn duo with the maxim.

Their anger was palpable, there was no way to keep them from fighting to the death now. The gun was pointing to the mob that began to take cover and synchronizing their fire. The burst of fire broke their ranks. Claiming lives quickly and without bias. Their jackets began browning with the color red being added to their green fibers.

They stopped firing as the maxim fired until it was over heated by the group was destroyed. The machine gun had butchered majority of them. The gathering was wrecked. Groans of pain emerged from the pile of bodies as the wounded began to cry out for help.

"Another wave!" shouted someone to the far left. Bullets sped through the air into Mark and Joseph as dozens fresh soldiers broke through the forest. They were already on top of Tatyana and Oliczander before they found them. Using a handaxe Tatyana chopped a skull nearly in half. Olic's bayonet found flesh as he stabbed through the chest of a approaching soviet. His beard began to filter the blood as he fell to the ground.

"Retreats" and "Fall back" were called over and over when the gun fire diminished. The sound of Maxims chasing the failed revolutionaries was the final sign of defeat. It was about survival now. Oliczander began running with Tatyana close behind. Leaping over the deceased remains of the last two brothers the saw Joseph's chest was riddled with lead while Mark was shot through the throat.

The scream of a girl caught Oliczander's attention as a soviet grabbed her Tatyana by the hair. Her blonde hair was no longer in a bun but loose and now in a firm grip of her enemy. The bayonet pieced her side a moment later, it was flesh wound. She was going to be captured. Turning and leveling his rifle to his shoulder Oliczander saw the fear and desperation in her face. Her green eyes twiched nervously as pain shot through her face in waves. Her teeth jittered up and down in rapid sucession before she clenched them. She knew what was going to happen if she was taken back. It wasn't a happy fate. She began to mouth the words "Please...Save...me" To him as the round broke through her collarbone  and then into the man's chest cavity behind her. Shock and more pain developed as smoked fled out of Oliczander's rifle. Tears running down his face he ran towards her.

Blood was running down her face, incapable of speech due to pain and shock.

"I'm sorry." he whispered as he took his dagger and plunged it into her heart. The gun wound was fatal and she would've survived, slowed him down, he would've died too as he thought as he watched her eyes close without emotion. Her almost captor was dead, the bullet did its job on him.

The memory fades as the scenery of the forest dies away.

......................

The room was still empty and the fire still crackled. The Lord sat back into his chair removing his arms off the table. His head swung up to the ceiling looking up at his personal office. A portrait of her is next to this door with a photo of them on her 16th birthday.
"Unpleasant" was the only word that escape his mouth as the mortal turmoil inside him began to slumber once again.

After some time has past the hall started to fill with some of the cities kindred after going through the proper security and greeting themselves to Oliczander. For the first few minutes everyone pretended to be formal, asking about how the night was going, catching up on news and events. Then when the chatting was all over they started to move to their appropriate cliques and groups be it clan, covenant or something much deeper.

Prince McAlister came accompanied by Sir Scarborough, a larger man with a long black beard, he wore formal clothing with a long overcoat that appeared decorated with medals, embrumbs and wore a dark purple tie. Prince McAlister came wearing a belted Trapeze Coat and black boots. They both approved Oliczander and Scarborough speak first in a booming but friendly voice.

"Nice to meet again Mistar Oliczander, how has the night been treating you?"

An old Volkswagen swings into a halt in front of the warehouse along Michigan's River Rouge.  To mortals, the car signifies nothing; a dysfunctional muffler keeps the automobile from being quiet and oxidized sludge eats away the front frame.  Tonight, however the car screams the name of one particular individual:  Solomon Tours.

Entering Elysium, with an angry vibe, was the Nosferatu.  Solomon stomped his path to the door.  

"Good evening, Mr. Tours,"  greeted Oliczander classically at the door.  The master of the house offered to take and hang the guest's jacket.  In response, Solomon began to undo the large buttons.  

A rather nice burgundy scarf cloaked Solomon's mouth leaving red, dry, baggy eyes staring at whomever confronted him. Upon removing the jacket, the scarf loosened enough to be removed.  Although not phased, Oliczander was thanked by horrendous, ugly chapped lips that cracked as far as to the cheeks.

Having a scarred face didn't halt Solomon's sense of style and fashion, however.  His brown hair slicked back with Brylcreem.  Solomon wore a red collared shirt with a comb peaking from the front pocket.  To compliment, Solomon sported brown dress pants and leather shoes.  

Then afterwards, the Dragon entered the meeting chamber, in all its splendor.  There awaiting him were his common Prisci, four individuals who publically claim to follow the transcending teaching of the Ordo Dracul.  

Until the Prince arrived, what Solomon and the Priscus Council detailed was kept obscured and masked.

Solomon met up with Spierre, the Primogen of the Carthians, he wore a long black overcoat the covered most of his body. He had a handsome face, a shaved head and goatee, he also held a wooden cane painted black. Then there was Eleanor of the Lancea Sanctum, she wore a violet dress that opened in side and revealed her bare legs. They were both in conversation when Solomon arrived. There other Primogen had not yet arrived or were busy at the time.

They both greeting Solomon and Spierre stepped forward and put out his hand "Nice to see you, Eleanor and my were just have a discussion about how mortals should be handled in our domain, care to join?"

"Of course."  Solomon response.

"Glad to hear!" Speirre chimed in. He then turned to Eleanor "Why don't you start with what you said beforehand?"
Eleanor began to speak "With some of the action of the Carthian Movement and some of the other kindred who choose to total control over mortals leads to a lot of risks with the Masquerade, not only that, it can stimulate the unhealthy idea that we can walk amongst them as if were were not predators."

Unfamiliar with current affairs, Solomon's brow rises.  He asks Spierre, "What has your covenant done as of late?"

"Well the Movement has been cycling through a few ideas and experiment but things have been a bit of madhouse lately with how everyone tries to speak over each other, sometimes organizing the Carthians is like herding cats but we have been moving to a better consensus between us and I have hopes for a brighter future."

   

As the Kindred inside mixed and mingled within the warehouse shrouded from mortal eyes by it's sheer ubiquity, a bus pulled up in front, it's pitted and rusted exterior smeared with garish  paint and made up with golden fluting to better resemble the circus wagon it aped. The windows of the ancient vehicle were smeared with black paint, save for the front windshield, which remained open to the eye. Grinding to a halt, the bus shot out a cloud of black soot like powder from a gun as the driver coaxed the metal beast of burden into a stop.

It's doors clicking open, the passengers of the bus began to emerge, each host to hideous deformities. Even among their own parasitic kind, they were reviled as monsters, such was the weight of their curse, the hostility likely made even more dire by the way the Family delighted in their inhumanity. The first to step from the bus was Mr. Twist, the Ballyhoo who lured mortals and fellow Damned to the secret Shows the Rodina held at their theater lair. As always, he was dressed in a fine brown suit coated with the tarnish of time, a filthy affair with numerous worm-eaten holes and stains whose origins were better left in the dark. On his head, he wore his signature top hap, a purple piece with the moth-eaten antlers of a stag set into their center, a little gift he had received in Haiti. Out of all the Rodina, Mr. Twist truly appeared to be dead, with papery, mottled skin stretched tight over his skull, his jagged, cruelly sharp teeth proudly displayed for lack of proper lips, a long, white beard trailing down to his waist. Next came the Ringmaster himself, the Trickster, the Freak, the Harlequin.

Dressed in the remnants of a jesters' motley now worn grey with age, the Harlequin towered over his companion, his freakish stature further exaggerated by his perpetual gauntness. Small bells on his fool's and curled shoes jingled as he walked, and the sound always served as a prelude to his appearance. His face obscured by a combination Tragedy/Comedy mask, he was ever inscrutable, and when he chose to remain silent, his mood was impossible to judge. Curled up just under his ribcage, two withered limbs rested, their fingers twitching every so often as he walked.

Pushing open the doors to the warehouse, the two Rodina stepped inside, Mr. Twist removing his hat to wave it towards his Ringmaster, who belted out the phrase,

"Ladies and gentlemen! I present to you the Harpy of the People! The master of the Rodina, and your forever entertainer, the Harlequin!"

"That sounds all too unprofessional," Solomon says while placing his hand comfortably on Spierre's shoulder.  Solomon made sure the choice of his nest words and tone were assertive.  He continued, "Perhaps embracing the individualism over the democracy of the consensus can progress your group in a more favorable direction?"

The noise of the Harlequin entering Elysium startled the conversers, interrupting until the safety of knowing who had arrived established. Returning to what they meant to, Solomon awaited a response.

Spierre shook his head and smiled "While some of the fellow members would agree, I feel we need strong consensus in order move forward, we are a body of kindred not just kindred who share the similar ideas."

Soon the attention was stolen by Harlequin's flamboyant display. Most looked at the show with amusement and even gave an applause while others stared stone faced at the performance like Prince McAlister but Sir Scarborough cracked a smirk. Of all the kindred Sheriff Grey of Lancea Sanctum look at them with disgust.

As things started to settle down McAlister's court took seat at the head of the room facing everyone, Harold Estefan come forth dressed in a mismatch of bright victorian clothing and began to speech with a great booming voice "Kindred of Detroit, I greet you all to Lord Oliczander's beautiful elysium!" his mouth opened widely with every word to reveals a set of shark like teeth that decorated his mouth "By the will of Her Grace Alder Ruby McAlister Commissioner, Prince and Duchess of Detroit we are to begin open court!" Estefan's hands moved about as if they had a mind of their own, adding to drama of his speech "Please give your attention to our Prince." He said before bowing and taking a seat.

McAlister stepped before the crowd "As some of you may have heard, a few nights ago I suffered the death of a child. He was assaulted by draugr and it's brood. The creature managed to flee and still roams the city. Draugr don't attack like this, nor do that target kindred. I know that this was a message given to us by the Counsel of Ancients. I hear more cities in the region choose to follow their will give up their power to nothing more than a shady group that claims to be the remainder of dead society. We will not submit to them or live in fear of them. Tonight I wish to heard from any of my appointed Primogen that wish to speak up and the People's Harpy on the matter. If no one has anything to add court is closed." She then paused to let anyone interject.

Oliczander's eyes flickered as war and combat of old stirred beneath the surface, an irritable feeling soured in his gut. A sense that had kept him alive and had followed him into undeath for so long. Slightly turning his head his eyes caught the Princes and a none verbal communication was sent.

"Lord Oliczander, do you have something to say?" Prince Ruby asked as her convenant mate prepared to talk.

"Yes and thank you, Prince Ruby. I've heard that the counsel has made staggering strides in conquering the great lakes. Any word from the outside regions about these ancients?" Oliczander asked, specifically to the Prince but allowing his gestures to include the rest of the gathering.

The room was beautiful, even despite its obvious age and distinct lack of warmth. The furniture was all finely hewn oak with exquisitely detailed carvings. The comforter on the four-post canopied bed in one corner was a rich, beautiful dark blue wool and the sheets were cream-colored linen. The dresser and vanity across the room was made in the same oak, all but the mirror, which was cast in some lesser metal but gilt in gold. It needed a polish, but still retained its splendor from years long ago. Toys from that same long ago age sat primly along the dresser, staring vacantly into the room. Notably, there were no windows in the room, and the lack of natural light made for a dim ambience even with the few lamps hooked up to the stolen electricity. A large plush armchair sat in between the dresser and the bed, facing the door. Glinting in the dull lamplight, a humanoid-sized gilt birdcage hung from the cieling a few feet off the ground. Its door hung open forebodingly.
Esther sat in the dark room, staring absently into the corner of the room opposite the armchair she occupied, thinking. Her thoughts wandered homeward, and she had to remind herself that wasn't home anymore, and never could be again.
It had been mere days since her fate was sealed, but thankfully she hadn't yet seen the monster. The realization that she was no longer quite human had set in slowly. The horrible sick feeling she'd gotten in her stomach during the freak's Show was now a constant dull ache. She didn't eat. No appetite. She avoided mirrors, unable to bear the sight of her own face whether the changes she saw were real or perceived. Anger had passed quickly into fear and deep sorrow.
There was a knock at the door, a harsh rap that disturbed the silence and shattered the relative safety of Ether's thoughts. The silence that followed the initial wrap was thunderous, and Esther was aware of the intruder beyond her door growing impatient.
She started, breaking from her reverie. Hesitantly, Esther rose from her chair, her borrowed skirts swirling about her bare feet as she crossed the room to the heavy wooden door. Clearing her throat softly and gathering her nerves she tentatively put a hand on the doorknob and called, "who's there?"
A hoarse rasp answered her from the other side, a voice accustomed to shouts and barks as opposed to quiet speech. "Mr. Twist, the Ballyhoo."
Esther's stomach dropped. "What do you want?"
"I? Oh, I want little from you. It's your father on whose behalf I've come calling. He will return shortly from what business he has in the tunnels. When he returns, he expects you to be presentable and ready to receive him."
"My father." Esther had to struggle not to spit the words.
Esther could practically hear the Ballyhoo sneering when he spoke. "Aye, yes, your new daddy. The Harlequin. You remember your name, niece?"
She had a brief image of defiantly flinging her full given name at him. "Esther Caitlin Moore!" she'd scream at him through the door. That would show him. Then he'd...probably tell the Harlequin, who was capable of unspeakable violence. Esther rested her forehead against the door and whispered, "Katka."
"Good," came the reply in a harsh whisper. "You are Katka of the Rodina, you are the Harlequin's beloved daughter both by blood and shared damnation."
Esther muttered to herself, "God will save me from damnation."
A low, dark chuckle slithered through the door and into Esther's waiting ears. "God has abandoned you. You belong to the Harlequin now."
Esther's anger came flooding back as she pounded a fist against the door and started reciting in a stronger, clearer voice, "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures--"
There was a sound not unlike ice being crushed in a bag of gravel, and Esther watched in abject horror as a knob of flesh began to emerge from the keyhole, first, a shock of greasy white hair followed by two yellowed eyes, the emerging face warped and stretched by its contortion. Next, the shoulders and torso of Mr. Twist emerged, birthed by the keyhole, his arms pressed against the door to force the rest of his inhumanly boneless body through the rest of the way. Setting his feet to the ground, the vampire stared into Esther's eyes with a dire gleam. "God is not here, I am here. He does not care for you."
Esther leapt backward to avoid contact and shuddered in horror at what she'd just seen.
She composed herself and reassessed her angle. "Ah...uncle. How good of you to join me. Please, let yourself in," she said mock-courteously, making good use of the sharp tongue her mother had passed down to her.
Mr. Twist seized Esther's face in his clawed hand, drawing her close enough to see the blood vessels in his yellowed eyes.
"You will not take such a tone with me, ghoul. The Harlequin may dote on you like his daughter, but you will always be a slave in my eyes. Take care with your words, lest I grow cross."
Esther forced herself to meet and hold his gaze stoically.
"You will come to regret your tone."
Esther considered this. Holding his gaze still she said carefully, "Please accept my apologies."
Mr. Twist relaxed somewhat, but maintained his glare. "Are you ready to receive your father?"
"I suppose so. How am I supposed to prepare myself?"
"Be polite, be respectful. Do nothing to let him think you are anyone but his beloved Katka. He sends you to your cage otherwise."
Esther glanced over her shoulder to look at the ornate birdcage hanging from the ceiling several yards away. "That's what that's for?"
Esther shuddered again. "How many Katkas has he had?"
Mr. Twist waved a hand almost absently, "Six, seven? I've lost count."
Esther hesitated, then asked, "How did she die? The original one.'
Mr. Twist's face darkened suddenly, and a horrible mask of subdued fury crossed his inhuman features. "You will not ask that again. You are the first and the last, never forget that."
Mr. Twist's sudden anger scared Esther and she walked quickly to shield herself behind the large armchair, watching him warily.
"You are Katka, you live. Do not challenge the Harlequin's delusion. Yours is not the place to question, yours is the place to live a lie. Do you understand?"
Esther nodded her head silently, her entire body tense and waiting for some some movement of his that would tell her he intended violence.
Esther's body language did not escape the perceptions of Mr. Twist, who leered grotesquely. "Little slave, had it been my choice, I would leave you chained in that cage for the pleasures of the Family, not lavished with gifts and treated like kin. If ever the Harlequin's delusion breaks, perhaps he will grant me that wish."
Esther remained still and silent, trying to gauge just how far she could push him. "That would be better than pretending to be one of you monsters." The words almost escaped her lips, but she thought better of them before it was too late. The Ballyhoo was apparently already on edge, and obviously had some wounded pride over being forced to treat a mere blood slave as his brother's daughter. Anything could push him to fury as far as Esther was concerned.
Mr. Twist gave a slight shrug, apparently satisfied with Esther's reaction, giving a last leering, toothy smile Esther's way before showing himself out, opting to open the door this time.
With the threat gone, the adrenaline left Esther's body almost immediately, leaving her feeling tired and anxious. She sank back into the armchair she'd recently vacated and cradled her face in her hands. No tears fell. She'd stopped crying after the first night turned into morning. She felt hollow and exhausted.
It wasn't supposed to happen like this. She was supposed to have proven to her father that she was a born Hunter, that she deserved to be initiated into the cell. But instead she'd let him down. She'd let all of them down. Rebecca, Neil, Clinton, everyone from Detroit's cell whose names she hadn't even gotten a chance to learn. Esther banished these thoughts. They would do her no good now.
She started singing the same hymn from days before, drawing on it for comfort as she had so many times.
As the broken melody was devoured by the hungry, scavenging silence, Esther was once again lost to despair. Time stretched into infinity, like a hide drawn over a tanner's board. Every moment was a self-contained forever, a promise of continuation and ennui.
Then, there came another rap at the door.
There was yet another knock as Esther stared stone-faced at the door, unable to move and frozen with cold dread. A reedy voice filtered in through the other side, a jovial, caring, hatefully loving voice.
"Katka, may I come in?"
Esther voice stuck in her throat. She hummed quietly to clear it, the room swallowing the sound, and said, "Yes...father."
There was a brief rattle as the doorknob turned, and Esther stared at the rotating bulb of brass in fixated dread before the door swung open to reveal the Harlequin standing before her, his hands hidden behind his back, and with a lurch of disgust, Esther realized he had opened the door with his atrophied limbs.
"Good evening, my sweet! I brought you a present!"
She did her best to smile, though she was certain it didn't reach her eyes. "Please come in. Father."
"Oh--thank you," she said, doing to her best to sound grateful
Gently shutting the door behind him, the Harlequin entered the room, bringing his hands forward to reveal what he had concealed behind his back. Resting in his hands was a doll made in the fashion of a young girl. It was certainly of the finest quality, and quite possible an invaluable antique, though Esther couldn't help but spy the dried patch of blood along the edge of the doll's dress and hypothesize that it had fallen into the Harlequin's hands much more recently.
"Oh, um--it's beautiful. Thank you. Father."
Esther was aware of the Harlequin twisting his melted visage into a proud smile. "Of course, Katka, anything for you."
Esther stood awkwardly, unsure of how to proceed. She gingerly took the doll and placed it on the dresser next to a very large, very old gilt mirror. As Esther caught her reflection in the mirror, she gave a barely repressed shudder of revulsion as the Harlequin placed his hands on her shoulders and gave a proud sigh. "Look at you, Katka, a woman grown. Truly, you must be the most beautiful girl in all of Switzerland. Tell me, have you seen Michael as of late?"
Esther's thoughts raced as she tried to infer who this Michael was. Finally she decided on a vague answer. "No, I haven't. Where was he last? I can't recall."
"Why, he stopped by a week ago when he returned from Bohemia. He came to give you flowers, don't you remember? Such a kind and thoughtful boy..."
"Oh, yes, they were lovely. They wilted so quickly, though," Esther got a little bit more in the groove of this game. In attempt to decipher her supposed relationship to this Michael, she probed, "Goodness, how long has it been since I met him?"
The Harlequin gave a brief hum at this as he considered Esther's question. "Oh, it must have been a year ago. Don't you remember? Poor girl, are you feeling alright?"
"Oh, yes, father. It just feels so much longer than that." Esther scrambled to recover from her slight misstep. "I feel as though I've known him forever."
"Oh, you two are wonderful together. A match made in heaven. I do hope he stays far away from the patrols. They say they took twenty boys from Zurich two nights ago. It would be dreadful for Michael to be burdened so."
Ah. So he was a suitor. Probably long dead.
"Oh, I hope not. I do worry about him. You know how he is," she cast about for more information about her supposed paramour.
"Mmm, true. I do worry about him. Speaking of the war, I do hope Karl returns in time to see.... No, I shan't speak of it."
"Father?" Esther hoped she could get away with questioning him. With any luck, the original Katka had been curious and he wouldn't think anything was wrong.
Behind the mask, the Harlequin hid a gleeful smile. "Oh, it's nothing, dear. Although, I have heard certain.... rumors about you and Michael."
Esther paused, maintaining a composed expression. "Oh?"
"Why," The Harlequin's tone turned horribly proud in a way only a father's voice can when he speaks to his daughter, "I understand he's asked to marry you, and that you've accepted!"
Esther inclined her head. "I had hoped to tell you myself, father. You've been so busy lately."
"I was wondering how long you were going to wait to tell us. To be true, I do wonder why you chose to keep it a secret at all."
Thinking on her feet, Esther replied, "We didn't want a big fuss made until we had a plan in place. Besides, I know how you like to have a performance." Esther carefully deliberated her next line, wanting to be sure to please the monster so he might leave her alone sooner. "I thought perhaps you would want to reveal the engagement at a Show. You know, with all the pomp and circumstance due to a daughter of the Rodina." Esther waited for his response with bated breath, hoping she hadn't crossed a line in her attempts to be convincing.
There was a dangerous silence following Esther's suggestion, and she could feel the Harlequin's fingers dig into her shoulders hard enough for her to let out a small cry of pain.
"What did you say?" Asked the Harlequin, his voice utterly devoid of any of his previous joy.
The color drained from Esther's face. She could think of no reply and stammered unintelligibly instead. "I'm--I'm sorry--"
A pained growl emerged from the Harlequin's twisted throat, equal parts hurt and fury, his fingers digging deeply into Esther's flesh as he spat out his words like hideous curses. "I am not Rodina. You are not Rodina. We are not Rodina."
"You're hurting me--please--" Esther struggled to break his grasp, cursing her misstep. "Please--" Finally, hoping it would snap him out of it, she screamed, "Daddy!"
This gave the Harlequin pause, and his dire grip relaxed somewhat, though his voice failed to soften, still retaining it's quality of stone and ground glass. "Why, daughter of mine, would you say such a.... vile thing? How could you? On such a day of all days... Why have you done this?"
"I'm so sorry, father. I'm so sorry. It was a slip of the tongue, no more. I'm so sorry. Please, forgive me." Esther hated herself for groveling to this beast, but saw no other option.
"A-a slip? No, Katka, that was more than a slip. I bring you a gift, I approve of your marriage, and this is how you repay me? With insults and hurtful things? I do not understand...." The Harlequin stiffened for a moment, frozen in place, dreadfully still as his warped mind wrapped itself around what had just happened.
Speaking in a thin monotone, the Harlequin continued to speak, "I cannot allow you to speak as such. You will spend the night in your cage without supper. It pains me to do so, but you leave me no choice."
Esther knelt in front of him and hung her head, hoping furiously to fix this with compliance. "Yes, father. I understand."
"No," said the Harlequin, "but you will."
Esther bowed her head further. "I damn well hope so," she thought.
The Harlequin approached the great gilded cage in the corner of the room, taking an atrophied hand to slip a rusty key into the lock and open it with a deafening click. Thus opened, the cage stood above the floor, and the Harlequin motioned for Esther to step inside her prison-within-a-prison.
Esther took a deep breath, got to her feet, and climbed inside. At least there were no signs of the previous residents.
The Harlequin flicked the door to the cage shut, and with the same withered limb, locked the cage. "Why have you done this, Katka? I do not understand... You will think on what you have done this night. I will have no more words with you until you have learned your lesson."
Esther felt claustrophobic as the door swung shut. Dread crept over her as she realized how limited her range of motion was. There wasn't even room enough in the cage to stand without crouching. "How long, father? Just the night?" Anxiety made her bold; perhaps bolder than she should have been given the circumstances. The Harlequin said nothing, only giving a slight, dejected shake of his head as he shut the door to Esther's room behind him.
The room fell dark once more as he left. Esther wrapped her arms around her knees, drawing them up to her chin. "What the fuck did I do wrong?" she exclaimed quietly to herself. It had all been going so well. He'd been convinced, utterly. She'd played her role to perfection...except using the name of his family. What had happened since she'd heard him announce himself with that title? Mr. Twist had said nothing, though of course he couldn't be expected to. It was obvious he wanted her to fail.
Next on the agenda: figure out what the hell was going on with the Family. First though, Esther needed to sleep, however loathe she was to close her eyes and let her guard down. Hopefully the light of day would soften the Harlequin's monster heart and he would release her. Considering the irony of that last thought, Esther laid down on the floor of the cage and curled into a ball, willing herself to drift off. The events of the past hour had thoroughly exhausted her. A stray tear ran down her face as she finally slipped into oblivion.