Turton - Is what you are in the dark the night? (Frederick's IC)

[Worlok]

To some people, the idea of running into an honest-do-goodness vampire in the dark still was the epitome of 'uncomfortable', to say the very least. To others, street-gangers, skinheads, drug-dealers or well-armed pimps took the place of the bloodsucking lords of the night. And had such a person run into these two guys, they would, to their utmost horror, have found themselves face-to-face with a pair of hoodlums matching all five categories, if their conversation could be believed.

Ranting and raving and trying to clearly impress onto one another just how tough they thought they were, they waltzed down the interconnected and labyrinthine network of backyards and alleyways that Eastern Turton was famous for, laughing at horrible, witless jokes, posing with their tacky hunting knives every once in a while, and remaining oblivious to the vampire called Le Pen that had been trailing them since they had caught his eye five minutes after sundown, as he'd struck out on patrol like he had done so many nights before.

It was curious, actually: Over the course of the last few years before the turn of the millenium, the famed and infamous hunter of his own kind had noted the age-old Sabbat tradition of shovelheading their hapless neonates slowly dying out. These guys were not only recent embracees, but from the way they carried themselves, one could have assumed that they had gotten hit with a shovel at least once too often, anyway.

"So, as I was sayin', Ralph, there I was, and this guy with his little chain, he just jumps me, right, because you know how 'em beaners get with their women, right?" one just refreshed their halting conversation as the two of them rounded a corner, showing the basic courtesy to make sure that noone was heading towards them before slowly having their fangs decend. "Right, of course I know that, Walt. Ain't like 'em mudbloods are rare 'round these parts." the other agreed, and both shared a hearty, mean-spirited laugh before Walt resumed his narrative: "So, basically, he jumps me, right, and I just like, kick into flip 'n' ****, and he flies right past, 'n' then I say to him, brochacho, I say, you jus' messed with the wrong guy tonight, and I let 'em fangs come out, and he goes all pale, and - basically, the next night, she was single again, ya feel?" - "I do, Walt, oh yes, I do. Still don't get why you'd lower yourself to a mud-blood, though. I always say, only blood really worth it's ours, yes?" - "Dunno about that, Ralph. Actually makes you feel like you help the war effort, though, ya know? Like, whoosh, and dat's pu-ri-fi-ca-tin' up deir asses, right?"

So far, they had obviously not noticed him.

[McStabbington]

Frederick Martel sighed inwardly to himself. We keep getting smarter; they keep staying the same. Honestly, there were days when he thought that the only thing he had really done with his life was to cull Lasombra that would never have survived ten years anyway. . .

He shook his head briefly and got his head back in the game. Even if they were idiots, they could kill a lot of humans in ten years. More importantly, even idiots had their uses, both for him and for the Lasombra. Vampires as a general rule were not the most technologically savvy of races, but if they could half the things they did on that CSI-show, Martel had to admit that it was possible that they had found a pattern to disappearing members of the Sabbat. In the past fifteen years, he'd been gradually working his way up the Eastern Seaboard, and every stop along the way would have seen a spike in Sabbat casualties. Sometimes they were tightly-run crews that only allowed him to pick off low-hanging fruit. Sometimes he managed to get enough information to rip their numbers down to the foundations. But everywhere he went, he always managed at least a few kills.

Which meant that it was always possible that they'd tracked him to Hartford and laid bait in the next few towns along the line. And few things make better bait than a vampire too young to know what a load of crap that "top of the food chain" talk really was. Still, in war overestimating your enemy can be as dangerous as underestimating them. While he made no effot to appear as anything other than a human, Martel quietly followed Walt and Ralph. With luck, they'll take me straight to the headquarters, which will allow me to start mapping out the entire Sabbat network. Still, as he walked after them, he looked up and down the street. He kept his face as unconcerned as possible, but inside he hoped that either he was being paranoid in his old age or that anyone who was trying to mark him as a potential target was new at this.


I'll make a visual Alertness check just to see if anyone is starting to mark me. Better safe than sorry.

[Worlok]

As Frederick pondered, the conversation just went on. Neither Walt nor Ralph seemed to have any sense of strategy or stealth, noisily making about as they were without an apparent care in the world, but fangs out and shanks ready for all the world to see: "Yeah, sure, but basically, it's jus' - I dunno, I guess there is fighting the good fight, but I mean, like, you heard the Old Guy." - "Sure I did. But way I see it, there's nothin' base about getting your mouth dirty when you're out on a crusade, right?" - "Right. Still, I'd rather-" - "No. Stop it. No point, right? 'sides, the Old Guy's still a Slav." - "Well, sure. There's that, but-" - "See? Jus' ya lis'en to ol' Walty, 'cause, y'know... I KNOW MY CRAP!" And following that last outburst - in which "ol' Walty" was quite obviously imitating someone else, judging by the change in tone - the two of them were having a moment of bromance there; something about the way they briefly hesitated, looked at one another, and immediately broke down laughing again somehow seemed to imply it.

Roll for it, then. :smallwink: Perception 2, Alertness 2, that's 4d10. Not stellar, but if there is someone there, you'd likely find them with a roll. :smallsmile:

[McStabbington]

[roll0]
[roll1]
[roll2]
[roll3]


As Martel walked along quetly behind them, he silently filed away their blathering for later. Their boss could be the chief of their war party; could be as high as a lieutenant in the Sabbat. By the sound of it, Tzimisce or Gangrel, and a decent age too. When he started asking questions, he'd be sure to inquire further. Martel doubted that these knuckledraggers were high up enough to know the head of the Sabbat in the area, but it was always possible that the Sabbat had resorted to shovelheading to bulk up their numbers for this "crusade" they were talking about.

The last part did give Frederick pause though. Apparently, whatever was up was beyond the normal Sabbat shenanigans. Martel considered his options, and opted to defer. For now they weren't hurting anything but Martel's patience, and by not killing them, there was no risk that he would make the local Sabbat change their schedule or tighten their security. Plus, I only brought one stake, he mentally added sourly. So long as it stayed that way, he would simply track the two cretins and see where that led. Once he knew their lair, their death was inevitable anyway.

[Worlok]

Good rolls! The one is harsh, though. Still, two tens. :smalleek:

Frederick noticed birds. Row upon row upon flock upon flock upon swarm of them, mostly crows and rooks, lining the rooves, window panes, rainpipes and balconies of the surrounding houses in perfect silence, but clearly wide awake - funny how they had simply bypassed his notice until mere moments ago. It was almost scary to see them now, all lined up and watching, for they really seemed to watch the three Kindred below, but other than that, noone could be seen or heard. No pedestrians or cyclists about 'round here, and so far, they had not even encountered a single passing car.

While there was light behind some of the windows, and sounds coming out of several, he could not locate any sort of immediate threat. Nor could Walt and Ralph, apparently: "You heard him, though, right? Just grab a snack for now, and map the place while we're at it." - "Sure did, man. Reckon though this really makes sense?" - "Say what?" - "Well, y'know, I've been wond'ring about that plan of his." - "Plan Parliament?" - "Yeah, 'xactly. I mean, I guess it makes sense that he'd try and gather a presence here before speaking to them. But then why send us here to the ass-end of nowhere with nothing to do but snacking, huh?" - "Because that way, we can make sure it's just the ass-end of nowhere, obviously, and then we and the guys from the pack and his contacts, we land him a nice big map of the city, and every-"

Walt didn't get to finish his sentence: Having just been about to round the next corner, he suddenly seemed to freeze mid-step, staring in wide-eyed and still open-mouthed disbelief down the road at something Frederick could not see from his position. Ralph, having previously been looking at Walt, passed the corner in question, and from his breathless gasp it was quite obvious that his reaction had been similar. Whatever lay ahead had shocked two hardened criminals and apparent Sabbat hopefuls into complete silence with but a look. And the birds still watched.

[McStabbington]

. . .Well this just went pear-shaped in a way that was both completely unexpected and surprisingly gothic.

Frederick ducked to the nearest shadow more out of instinct than out of any plan; his brain was still trying to process the implications of the eerie sight above. Martel had seen similar displays in the past. Jesse could do something similar, as could Pablo. But the sheer scale was still . . . daunting. Still, I haven't necessarily been made. The report could go back either way, although a betting man would say the Nosferatu picked the lunkheads up for the Camarilla. The important thing, though, was that while they could report he was there, they probably couldn't tag him as a vamp, and they definitely couldn't say what he could do. Each useful nuggets of information.

Still, as Martel sized up the tactical situation, it looked like they might get their info anyway. The shovelheads were scared of something, and there were really only three possibilities. They could fight, they could talk or they could break; breaking being most likely. Which would unfortunately send them straight back at him. If he fled full-tilt, he might get clear with them only seeing a shadow, but he'd lose any chance to keep tracking them or hear a conversation. If he disappeared into the shadows, he could see everything with a good chance at safety, but the birds would make him in a second. Still, if they turn, it can't be helped. Sliding as far into the nook he'd found as possible, he hid as well as could while maintaining his view of the two vampires in front of him. He could feel his blood humming as he gently eased himself from view.

I'm goingto do Cloak of Shadows, remain very, very still and hope that being viewed by birds doesn't give me away.

[Worlok]

As shadows enveloped the hunter's form, he could briefly perceive some unknown sensation, a feeling as if he had passed a curtain dividing the world he knew from the one in the shadows, allowing him to pass unseen for now, but only for something hidden on this side to notice him and start staring, sizing him up. But it was over as quick as it had begun, and while a certain, uncommon, insistent unease prevailed within him, nothing happened to Frederick, suggesting that no, he had not been noticed.

The same was apparently not true for the two shovelheads, though: Ralph, the mask of terror on his features pretty much the splitting image of the one on Walt's, came around the corner he had crossed before, walking backwards, eyes primed at whatever it was that had scared them so, and his colleague helpfully sidestepped around him so as to not obstruct his path. A sound as if from running water suddenly and hotly bursting out of a million pipes, or as if from a massive snake preparing to strike its victim down, resounded in the alleys, and while it did nothing to quiet the sounds of the living behind the windows around, kindred and animal did react.

With the beat of ten-thousands of wings unfolding and hitting air, and the tremendous cacophony of a million coarse bird voices mouthing discontent, the swarm took flight, showering the world below in both a snowfall of black feathers and annoying noise, and the Sabbat scouting team at the corner now noticed the winged masses above, snapping out of their fearful hesitation just long enough to look at each other, nod, and then take off screaming, dash down along the street in screeching, cursing terror, away both from the thing that scared them and the place where Frederick had been hiding out.

Leaving him alone with some unknown monstrosity just around the bend. That, judging from the strange feeling now growing more insistent yet, was approaching his position rapidly, if likely without awareness of him.

[McStabbington]

215 years is a lot of time to encounter new experiences, but Martel found this situation totally out of his ken. On the one hand, his training insisted that the absolute best thing to do would be to stay still. If the thing coming was what he thought it was-what he prayed it was not-then Martel had no real hope of outrunning it and would only provoke it into chasing him by fleeing. On the other, his instincts demanded he flee anyway. While he couldn't place the hissing sound, he could think of only one thing that would provoke such a reaction in Sabbat vampires.

His training won out, albeit by the barest of margins. Martel just hoped like hell that what he was sure was coming would pelt off after the two Sabbat and not bother to look around too closely. That being said, he hardly did nothing. His blood pounding in his ears, he wrenched and racked the flesh in his hands, drawing forth a set of long, razored claws. At the same time, he pulled and twisted the shadows around him, drawing them closer and himself further into their depths. He hoped that the result would be enough to hide him from view even if the coming beast could see through his Cloak.


Spending two blood points, one to bring out my Protean claws, and the other to activate my Shadow Play to give me another die to my Stealth pool for my hiding. I'm basically just hoping that Auspex/Taint of the Wyrm/whatever else a werewolf might use or no, he still can't spot me. I'm assuming it's Dex + Stealth, so a total of six die.

[roll0]
[roll1]
[roll2]
[roll3]
[roll4]
[roll5]

[Worlok]

Dex plus Stealth works, yes, but those two ones are hell on the effort, much as I hate to say it, man. :smallfrown:
Through the mess of feathers flying all over the place, Frederick saw a strangely clear-cut shadow, freakishly so with the lighting conditions in mind, coming out from just around the corner: Sharply thrown against the wall of one of the houses across the street, and of intimidating size, it seemed to be that of a bestial head, yet curiously, nowhere near remotely wolf-like or even mammalian. Rather, it would appear to be some sort of gargoyle, a beaked, quilled, and vaguely avian one by shape, yet with a slender, arched-back neck much like a snake's. The shadow, and whatever cast it, had obviously not yet noticed him, instead staring after the two Sabbati as they fled, still screaming.

What happened then, however, happened very fast: For the briefest of instants, there was a silence all around, as of the world itself waiting with bated breath, then another of the tremorious hisses, this one clearly betraying a semblance of pain, or maybe anger, or maybe fear, and as the Frenchman's claws came out, so disappeared the shadow. Suddenly, however, Frederick grew aware of something being - but vaguely - aware of him, feeling watched, and the shielding embrace of the shadows felt rather quite confining now, as if he was alone in the dark with a monster more terrible yet than a vampire was. Something in the back of his mind was now painting the picture of a child hiding under his blanket even though there already was a bogeyman perched on the bed, and his long years of training did their level best to help him keep his cool even under this onslaught of primal, instinctive fear.

Something was out there, using the shadows like he himself was wont to do, and now it was looking for him.

[McStabbington]

Frederick knew better than to press a losing fight. With any chance of an ambush blown on an illusion, pitted against a creature still hidden and even more at home in the shadows than he, to remain would be foolish. Turning back the way he came, Frederick bolted back for the street he'd picked up the two Lasombra, hoping against hope that whatever it was wouldn't follow him into the open. As he ran, he drew on his blood still further, forcing his legs to churn faster.


Blood Point spent to raise my dexterity by one, bringing me down to 10 bp. I'll be running full tilt, giving me 29 yards of distance.

[Worlok]

Le Pen's rapid start for where he had come from and into the open was met with another resounding hiss, and he could have sworn he had seen the very shadows he had been hiding in clamp shut behind his back like a set of jaws that had just been denied a tasty bit of meat. The oppressive presence he had felt seemed to fall behind almost immediately once he was actually running, though, the unwholesome thing across the corner being apparently not all that interested in chasing him, or maybe conflicted as to whether it should go after the one Lasombra renegade or the two shovelheads that had escaped it earlier. Ultimately, the matter resolved itself, if likely just because he ran so very fast, and once Frederick arrived at the spot where he had caught sight of Ralph and Walt originally, the Frenchman had shaken the shadow, the hissing, and the whole messed-up situation for good - as far as he could tell, at any rate, and even if just for now.

Speaking of now, however, it was only then that he realised just how completely empty the streets of Eastern Turton were tonight, and a quick look-around only really confirmed that the same now held true for the rooves, as with the exception of a lone magpie chilling atop a trashcan off in an alleyway, and a small group of crows currently passing overhead, the birds had taken their leave as well. On the downside, his two prospective victims were now nowhere to be seen, and all he had to show for his efforts was what cryptic references their talk had contained.

[McStabbington]

Martel broke north, then east a block, then north again. He kept his remaining blood in reserve, but he ran to gain distance and lose any potential tail. As he ducked into an alleyway and skidded to a halt to check to see if anyone was tailing him, he mused ironically to himself that vampirism had all kinds of advantages that no one ever talks about, among them the fact that it's hard to get winded when you don't need to breathe.

He watched behind him for a minute, then retracted his claws. He pulled off his polo shirt and, dropping it in the alleyway, untucked his white tee. Even after fifty years of wearing tee-shirts, he still didn't quite feel right in them, but at the moment feeling right came a distant second to changing his look at a glance. With a tug, he pulled his short ponytail free to let the hair hang loose. Lastly, he spent a moment calming and centering himself, looking at the street lights, then controlling the shadows around him and pulling them into the appropriate position. A memory of Martel in Sante Fe, spending two hours every night for a full year figuring out how to do it, came back to him, and he smiled faintly. As he stepped back out of the alleyway, he had his old shadow back, winking in and out in perfect synchronization with the light hitting the pavement. Hopefully, he'd look different enough that followers would think him someone else.

He kept to the main, lighted streets like any smart civilian. He took the first main street north, then started cutting back west as he worked northwards. After losing his marks, Martel moved to his next priorities: food, and leading anyone tracking him away from his apartment. Martel hadn't really expected to find it, but with some googling he had discovered that there were enough livestock in the area to support a small-scale butcher. With some creative lying about being a local hemotologist using healthy cow blood as a control sample, he might convince the butcher to agree to catch the runoff when he slit a cow or pig's throat and sell it to him. Since relatively few vampires fed on animals except in extremis when they couldn't find a human, it was a good supplement to his diet that wouldn't bring him into conflict with other vamps. And since he didn't have enough blood in his apartment to cover the blood expended tonight, it would help him stay in tip-top shape.

Martel walked along in the night, silently musing on the events of a few minutes. As he walked, dark thoughts clouded his mind.

Worlok:

Let me know if the butcher should have been covered as a contact. I can edit that part out.

[Worlok]

I'd kinda prefer for Freddy to have found out about the butcher, and we'd roleplay the initial encounter. As it so happens, that plays into some notes I'd taken which might carry over into the larger plot. Would also mean that nobody has to edit much. :smallwink:
Notably, the shadows seemed to somehow try and elude the Lasombra renegade as he shaped them into his own, more so than usual anyhow, and it briefly felt like trying to tie living snakes in angry moods together - but they did as he commanded readily enough, and noone appeared to have followed him.

As Frederick moved towards the butchery, the streets became ever more crowded the closer he came to the town centre, and after only a short time, he was but a single form among houndreds, the dying throws of the rush hour taking the shape of polluters, on foot as well as motorised, scrambling and hurrying all about: Two black men, caught up in a conversation about how some mutual acquaintance apparently had trouble "protecting his hematite sticks", briefly paused as he passed them, one waving, the other just looking quizzically, and both were out of sight before he could make much of the event, a sizeable procession of long-haired individuals in bright green clothing following them, and briefly swarming all around him as they went along, talking and chanting in some language he couldn't remember having heard before.

On a street corner, an expensive-looking limousine containing several overweight individuals in suits and what was easily the ugliest dog Le Pen had seen in his unlife was stopping traffic while some kid in a uniform busied herself changing the left rear tire, and the noise would easily have been enough to distract a less focused person than Frederick was. He almost didn't notice that the bird swarm had returned, glossy black feathers lining the rooves and the traffic lights, but this time around without them watching him.

[McStabbington]

So edited.


Frederick paused his musings about the shadow creature he had tangled with earlier. He did not break his stride, but his senses perked. People in robes, guys in expensive suits, and people I don't know waving at me. Something is . . . off. With a few casual steps, he slid into the nearest recess of an alleyway.

Frederick has learned a useful trick to successful skulking long ago. Fishing in his pants' pocket and trying not to loosen the stake tucked in the waistline, he drew forth a carton of cigarettes and a lighter. Personally, he found the habit as disgusting as he did when he was alive, but someone standing around staring stuck out like a sore thumb. Someone smoking was just enjoying a well-earned break. Plus, if he did it right he barely had to inhale once or twice and he could slowly let the cigarette burn down on its own. Tapping the carton with practiced ease, he drew forth a Marlboro, tucked it into the side of his mouth, put the carton back, and then lit the cigarette with the casualness of a lifetime smoker. He leaned one shoulder into the wall and leaned just far enough forward to keep a watch on the limo out of the corner of his eye.

[Worlok]

Cool. :smallsmile:
A multitude of honks, shouts, and people generally making huge impatient asses of themselves framed the limousine, and the girl that was fixing the tire sure seemed annoyed enough - which wasn't helped one bit by one of the green-clad figures, seeing how the guy had cunningly positioned himself right between her and her toolbox and apparently kept trying to talk to her without getting the slightest reaction. As if to form the whole unfortunate affair an exact opposite, the men inside the car were all deep in conversation, the closed windows silencing their words even before the street's overpowering racket could drown them out. Despite initial first-glance-appearances, they were not all identical, and not even all overweight: One, a refined-looking individual in what seemed to be a similarly elegant brown suit, currently seemed to be giving a speech of some sort, in that the rest formed a wordless audience, and another, an elderly man with a mohawk, was cleaning a set of sunglasses with his own shirt while staring at the speaker with a malevolence so palpable as to be notable from over here.

Le Pen grew uneasily aware of the aforementioned ugly dog perched on the mohawked man's lap, its rather quite massive teeth gleaming menacingly as it pressed its snout against the window and stared straight in his direction, its maw moving as if to form words of its own...

"Hey, man, you alright?"

And a meaty hand weightily, but not violently, touched Frederick's shoulder, moving as if knocking on a door.

[McStabbington]

Frederick cursed himself momentarily; while this not the first time someone got the drop on him, it was the first time in a long time that he'd been outfoxed twice in one night. Still, as drops go, this wasn't the worst. His body was already moving mechanically.

He jerked his head up and around before coughing a small cloud of smoke out. Then, casually drawing back to his right, he turned to face the man. He tried to keep his actions no more sudden or threatening than a man ordinarily would be when startled, but at the same time, he put his back to the wall and drew further into the alleyway, hopefully giving himself room to attack out of sight of the street, should the need arise. His voice sounded hoarse after the smoking and coughing.

"You mean aside from my heart attack? Jesus man, what does a guy have to do to smoke a cigarette in peace?"

[Worlok]

What stood behind him was, with utmost certainty, the tallest person Frederick had ever met in the flesh: Disturbingly close to seven feet in height, had he but stood up a little straighter, the stranger seemed to consist almost entirely of muscles - and hair, both beard and braincase being a vaguely palm-tree-like mess of dyed-black dreadlocks. The man stepped back, apologetically gesturing, and said in a deep, almost booming voice: "Hey man, I'm sorry. Just wondered whether you might have a smoke to spare. I saw ya standin' there, checking dat car and thought, I haven't had a Marbo in so long... I didn't mean to scare ya, yes? Name's Carl." His accent was difficult to place, Scandinavian maybe, and something about his face seemed off, but there was no way to tell why that was. Carl was dressed in an outfit that might have been white a long time ago and now looked grey, and his shirt depicted a faded depiction of Count Orlok from Nosferatu and the slogan "Reality? It is more likely than you think!" - He continued: "And you know, I'm really sorry about that. I always sneak up on people. Don't know why. Just happens. Am I interrupting anything?"

[McStabbington]

Martel stood for a moment, dumbfounded. Then his brain started to work again. His mind started mechanically ticking off the possibilities. If he's human, he's frightening enough that I wouldn't try feeding on him even if I wanted to. If he's not . . . Brujah, Gangrel, Nosferatu. They're the only ones of our kind that fit the mold and could slip up on me like that. Or he's the biggest damned Bone Gnawer the world has ever seen.

His mouth and hands worked on an entirely different wavelength: "Carl? Sorry about that; for such a big guy, you're quiet as a church mouse." He pulled his carton and his lighter out of his pocket, casually knocked the cigarettes to the carton opening, and pulled two free. "Here, take two. One for now, one for the road." He handed them and his lighter to Carl. "Name's Fred, although sometimes people call me Freddy, Frederick or 'hey you.' I was just looking at the convention of . . . well, the convention of people in robes. Seemed odd; know anything about it?"

[Worlok]

"Thanks, man. Freddy, was it? Funny. My last name is Krüger, see? Freddy Krüger?" He lit his first smoke with a wink and grin, inhaling deeply, then letting the smoke out with a deep and almost orgiastic sigh. Apparently the first smoke of any kind in a long, long time. "Maybe, we should hang out more, form a team and kill teenagers from the shadows, like...? Kiddin', here. But well, 'em dudes with the robes? They're everywhere nowadays. The other day, I'm chillin' with my buddy Ralph, and two of 'em come by and tell him he should leave, like, right? Not us. Just him. Has been getting that a lot lately. Some of the other guys, as well. And Ralph, he's a wee bit Nazi, like, so he goes full ballistic, and they tell him that they will be watching him, and one just kinda -" He looked around, making sure noone was directly looking at him - and curiously enough, noone was - before lowering his voice: "- hisses, basically. Apparently some sorta sect? Cult? Gang? It's like with that show with the aliens, yes?" His voice assumed a somewhat conspiratory tone as he bent forward, taking the cigarette into the corner of his mouth and thus avoiding putting burning embers in the Frenchman's face: "The truth is somewhere out there!" Then, he leaned back again, rising to his full impressive height and laughing past the glowstick and the clouds of smoke. "Or rather, like, 'round here. All hiding in the shadows, like. Care for a magazine? Should have one left yet, see?" In saying so, he directed attention to a briefcase slung over his shoulder, reaching into it and searching for something.

Meanwhile, the green-robed guy had apparently lost interest in the tire-girl, and she had completed her maintenance operations, anyhow. As the man in green snuck off, she put the toolbox back into the back of the limousine, cleaned her hands with a worn old rag and proceeded to make for the driver's seed, the ugly dog - and by now, a number of birds as well - looking in Frederick's direction all the while.

[McStabbington]

Sabbat. Has to be. While this guy was clearly muscle for the Sabbat, he didn't appear to be all that perceptive or bright. The dude telegraphed his fishing out a weapon so badly, he might as well paste a big neon sign on his suitcase. Which actually gave Fred what was very likely his only chance.

"Karl, please remove your hand from your briefcase, look up, and tell me what you see."

[Worlok]

"Huh? What? What do you mean there, Fred, my man?" Carl did, in fact, look up, a look of puzzlement on his face as he did so, the hand leaving the briefcase in order to dust some ash off his cigarette that was now jutting out of his mouth right beneath his nose, like a drinking straw into nothingness.

Birds cawed, and some took flight, several passing the two of them by rather closely.

[McStabbington]

Worked so far; now let's see how much further on the defensive I can get him. Martel had no intention of provoking the big man; the more he was around his . . . off-ness, the more likely it struck him the man was Gangrel. Likely City-type, to judge by him being Sabbat and his complete befuddlement by the birds. Either that or a Brujah already fairly far gone, which would be even worse. But he could cow the man into a more submissive state with the right leverage. And if it turns out he's human, I'll just be a crazy he'll want to put distance between. Win-win. He spoke low and calmly, letting the words themselves carry the point home.

"Your friend Ralph the Nazi, right? He has a friend named Walt. Lives in East Turton. Recently killed an African-American. Works for the Old Man. 'I know my stuff!" He leaned closer. "Earlier tonight those birds that just flew past us. Were watching him. Now they were watching you. And because of you, they just marked me." He clucked his tongue primly. "It seems to me a magazine won't make this up to me, Carl."

[Worlok]

This was honest surprise if ever he'd seen it anywhere: "Y- yeah, Ralph and Walt. Hang out together all the time, working for Mr Rucinski, far's I know. But he never killed a guy, they can't prove anything, and even then the dude they have been on about was Mexican, I think." Then, however, he grew quizzical: "But what's this about birds? You new in town, Fred? One of them?" As he said this, he began slowly stepping back, now both hands out of his briefcase, uneasily huffing his smoke.

[McStabbington]

Well, crap. Martel had been positive that this guy was Sabbat. But either this guy, while aware of vampires, was still human or he was the best actor Martel had ever seen. Martel figured the latter more likely, which meant that Martel was still obligated to protect him and shield him from the truth. Which meant thinking really, really fast.

"Them, Carl? No I had to make sure you were all you appeared to be." Martel hoped that the fact that he just blinked to himself would go unnoticed in the dark, then ran with what had just come to his mind. "The truth is, I'm with the Hate Crimes division of the FBI. Your friends, Walt and Ralph, have been picked up as possible low-level members of an organized hate group. I had to test you before saying anything to make sure you weren't with them. It seems you aren't . . . but you do clearly seem to know the group and their activities." He quickly added the last part, then continued.

"Now I could take you to the station and book you, but I'd much prefer that we keep this as low-key as possible. I'd like it if you and I could talk somewhere private; one conversation to tell me about what you know about the group, and I can take it from there. Your name is never mentioned, you're never called as a witness, and I never saw you. Depending on the value of the information, there could also be money involved, entirely under the table, of course."


I'm not even going to ask if I need to roll a subterfuge check on this one. I'm assuming Manipulation + Subterfuge.

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[Worlok]

Countered by Perception + Subterfuge. I'll also need you to roll again for the extra dice scored by that ten of yours, you glorious golden liar, you. :smallbiggrin:

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[McStabbington]

Here goes nothing. . .

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[Worlok]

Carl recoiled. "FBI? Like, one of them real ones in the shadows, and all?" While he didn't seem to be entirely convinced, he was taken off-guard, that much was obvious. But hey, at least he didn't ask for a badge or anything. "But Ralph and Walt, really? They talk big, but they'd never kill a guy, I swear. I've known them since el'mentary, they're not like that at all!" He looked about uneasily. "But well, you are police, yes? Then I guess it is okay. I don't know much, though, Fred. Or is that officer for me? Just rumors, really." The big man seemed extremely small all of a sudden. "Anyway, my dad's shop is nearby, we can talk there, okay?"

[McStabbington]

A smile creased Frederick's face. Now that I've got the upper hand, it's time to be the good cop. The role was unfamiliar, but getting people calm and talking was one of Martel's specialties. "Just Fred, Karl." He looked at the man, now seemingly shrunken, and his face changed to one of genuine concern. "I'm didn't mean to scare you Karl. I just had to pretend that I was a part of their group in case you were also in; just did a bit better than I expected, I guess. And we can go anywhere that makes you feel safe, so your dad's business is just fine. I'll just ask a few basic questions, and if it turns out that someone has set Ralph and Walt up, you have my word we'll get this worked out and their names cleared." He made a show of looking both directions uncertainly. "Which way are we headed?"

[Worlok]

"Over there." Carl indicated another corner, not far away. "Follow me. It's about five minutes on foot." Then, he paused again: "Oh, and don't worry. It looks worse than it is. Dad's a butcher, you see, and he's getting old. Don't mind a little blood here and there though, do you, now?" He forced an awkward smile, apparently realising how strange that would sound, and made to lead the way.

[McStabbington]

Will the wonders never cease. "Butcher? Weird; I was actually on the way over there anyway. Not on official business, mind you, but as part of my cover. If you don't mind doing me a favor, just . . . don't tell your father what I told you. It'll keep him safe and give any conversations between us a plausible cover." He paused momentarily, then softly laughed. "But no, you could say I was a hunter long before I joined the Bureau. So no, a little blood never bothered me."

[Worlok]

"Heh. Guess I shouldn't be surprised. Dad's butchery is famous. Kinda. This one time, we had this busload of Bavarians stop by, and they were dying for some sausages, yes, and they stop by dad's place, and then later, this one guy, he goes 'Just like back in Munich'. You could say..." At this point, he turned around again, and that uniquely off face of his was now graced by a smile that seemed just a tad too wide, too cheerful: "...we're used to people coming by from far away." But the moment of weirdness stopped just as swiftly as it had come, and the rest of the way, Carl did not bring up anything of the sort again. "And don't you worry, I won't tell him anything. Chances are we'll run into him, though. So, you know, could be you'll have to explain it to him. But don't worry, he's cool."

The way would eventually lead to a small butchery - with shop attached - whose sole display window bore the inscription


KRUEGER & BRATOVICH
Finest meats and sausages
Est. 1934

in old-fashioned, golden letters, with the piles of foodstuffs prominently, well, displayed behind it in clean, white vitrines providing all the advertisement one could want beyond that script.

"You say you're a hunter, though, Fred? Me too, in a way. There's lots of boars just out of town, usually starting around September. Come here from further up north, fatten up, taste delicious. But well, here we are, Dad's place." He indicated the window and grinned again, looking back: "Funny story, though? When grampa came here from Germany, he was used to the butcher's shops there. And in German, they have this saying, basically, "From our own butchery!", and the butchers over there, they use it to indicate that they make the meat themselves, from their own animals, like, point out how fresh and good and everything they think their meat is. And Grampa, he comes here, knows maybe like a smattering of English, and he puts up a slogan 'We butcher our own!' - Would almost have gone out of business before someone pointed out the mistake." And with that and another smirk, he unlocked and opened the door, and gestured for Frederick to step inside.

[McStabbington]

"Boars, huh? I grew up out West, so it was deer, elk and the occasional moose for me. What does one use for boar hunting," Martel asked as he stepped through the door. As he stepped in, he immediatedly cheated out to keep both Carl and the room in sight. He scanned the room for visible exits. Martel couldn't shake the feeling that something was . . . off somehow. He had managed to confuse the big man ehough that he was sure he wasn't a vamp. But something about him nevertheless didn't feel right. Hopefully, he could make the deal and leave as soon as possible.


I'll make a Perception + Empathy check to check for signs of impending hostility or attempting to lure me into a trap.

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[Worlok]

The name Bratovich rang oddly familiar, and something in the back of Frederick's mind recalled horrible barking, gleaming teeth in the dark, and bat-eared, green-skinned shapes, once humanoid, tearing flesh with foot-long claws. But the notion passed, and it was likely not that rare a name wherever it was from.

Carl, for his part, still seemed genuinely uninterested in any kind of trouble, nervous though he was despite his attempts to hind it behind joviality. And much like the big man himself looked innocious enough for one of his fierce appearance, so too, did the room that lay before them: To the right, and thus across the room from his position, a glass sidedoor led to the butcher's shop, while up ahead, a staircase rose. Leading to another one. That would most likely lead to another one, judging from the ceiling's shape. They were in a stairwell.

A stairwell whose level between the stairs - which Frederick could see from where he was - apparently sported two fully identical lamps on the ceiling. And seemed to have other stairs, perfectly identical, if reversed in position when compared to the ones that lead upwar- no. No, the wall they'd be facing when moving upstairs was mirrored. And sure enough, Carl gestured for him to climb upwards: "The actual flat is upstairs. You wanna go ahead, so I can't shove ya down or anything?" Well. Crap.

Clarification: No immediate threat, Carl genuinely doesn't bear you any ill intent, but once you go upstairs, you'll end up standing right in front of a large mirror there for a while. The name Bratovich is that of a rather infamous Tzimisce ghoul family, but that might just be coincidence, seeing how those, like most Tzimisce, very rarely venture outside Eastern Europe unless already fully vampirised. What will you do?

[McStabbington]

"Actually, if it's all the same with you, I'd like to see the butcher's shop." Martel kept his tone even as he gestured to the sliding door. He shifted his weight slightly from one leg to the other, which coincidentally kept his condition hidden by the angle. "The part I'm most interested in is one you probably throw away as waste. Certainly the way the small-scale butchers do it out West would ruin it. So I'd like to see how you do your butchering to see if we can save what I'm after economically."



Incidentally, I grew up on a farm out west, and have seen a cow butchered before. The butchers I saw shot the cow in the head with a rifle, then slid a butcher's knife between the collar bones to pierce the aorta. Then they just started using the skin as an impromptu carpet while they took the cow apart.

Needless to say, since I'm interested in the blood, this isn't going to work. Just wanted to give you some idea how it works IRL for verisimilitude.

I'm assuming Manipulation + Subterfuge since I'm lying about needing to be in the shop rather than going up the stairs.

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[/spoiler]

[Worlok]

No need to. You actually just voiced a polite request, under the assumption that it's all the same to him. That's no lie, and you did not, as such, (have to) offer reasons or cite necessity. But I'll save that roll for the next time you really need one of those, okay? :smallsmile:
"Well... Sure, I guess. You'd have to speak to Dad about the butchery itself, though. It's in the house behind this one, out to the yard, and he is the only one with the keys. The shop itself ain't a problem, no." And with that, he turned to unlock the glass door to the butcher's shop. "But the waste always gets picked up at seven, the guys come through early here. So I can't promise you a lot."

[McStabbington]

Sure thing. Use it when you feel I stretch the truth too far.



Fred stepped through the doorway and turned, partly to keep Bob in sight and partly to look at the wares. I'll have to buy something to keep up appearances. "Actually, the thing I'm after is probably something you wash away afterwards. Specifically, the blood." He looked at Carl and offered a small shrug to show that, yes, this was a goofy request.

"The story is that I'm doing medical research while on sabbatical from Trinity in Hartford. You know how everyone has a blood type? Well, right now if you get blood from someone of a different type, you get blood clots that can do all kinds of nasty things to you: heart attacks, strokes, embolisms. But if you could figure out how to alter the antigens of someone's red blood cells, in theory you could make anyone a universal donor or a universal recipient."

"In truth, they may be doing research on that, but I don't know more than enough buzzwords to confuse people. Once I get the blood I'm just going to dump it, same as you do I expect. But people will expect me to have blood, and if they follow it up, that blood has to be clean enough that I could plausibly say I'm doing research on cow or pig blood before moving to humans. Which brings me to your operation" he said, bending down to eye some steaks.

"I was wondering three basic things. First, can you cleanly and economically drain off an animals blood when you slaughter it instead of dumping it down a drain? Second, if you can, how much would it cost for me to buy it off of you? Third, how do you normally dispose of it so that I don't clog my drains?" He paused momentarily, then looked back up at Carl. "And four, I know this is a long shot, but this T-bone says it's Angus. I've always found the very best meat comes off of Hereford-Angus crosses. Any chance someone in the area raises those and you tucked a T-bone away?"

[Worlok]

"Huh. Well, that's something you do not hear every day, for sure." Carl's confusion was even bigger now, and the look on his face spoke volumes as to how surreal he thought this was: "But first things first: We can do that. With the extraction of blood, I mean. You could even say it is kind of... a specialty of us here at Krueger and Bratovich." But, of course: "And of course, I could try and put you a share on reserve, Fred. But you see... We kind of have other buyers already, and they always take a lot. You'd have to ask my old man about the precise prices, but I can tell you that our blood won't come cheap, for now." There was no hostility in his voice, just a restrained helplessness in the face of an unknown oddity. "We generally just use a bucket of water and one of them standard washing chemicals, though. And yeah, there's an Angus farm somewhere just west of town, near the street you come down when you're bound for New Bedford, yes? They're not one of our usual suppliers, but we got this whole delivery for almost nothing. The poor beasts had some sort of gene-defect, I reckon, and apparently a spotted coat implies that the meat isn't Angus-quality good." Whatever he normally did, a capable salesman, this man was not.

"Say though, one thing got me confused in all of this... If you don't mind me asking this, of course."

[McStabbington]

Other buyers? His brow furrowed and he stepped back, hands on his hips. Martel hadn't expected that. "Other buyers? I hadn't expected that. Well . . . um, I suppose if the beef has some sort of gene defect, I could try some of your pork chops, although I'll have to get some rosemary from the grocery store." In truth, he didn't know the first thing about seasoning meat; any food he ate tasted flavorless and came right back up. But he'd known two sous chefs who had independently swore by the combination. Plus it gave him time to think.

"Um, sorry about that Carl. I just didn't expect there would be other buyers. What was your question?"

[Worlok]

"Yeah, I was kind of surprised as well, when I first found out. About the blood, I mean. Things what go on... in the shadows, like. But see, there's no easy way to ask you this... Basically, I've come some way since then. And now, this might sound weird, given that we are just standing here, having this talk. But you are Frederick Martel, are you not?"

[McStabbington]

With an effort, Fred kept his face impassive. It took a few moments to start thinking logically. His first rational thought was that it was good that reading a vampire's mind is nigh-impossible. In the span of only a few seconds, his inner monologue had plumbed the depths of Carl's parentage, mating habits and hygiene in some detail. If he's a ghoul, lying won't help me at this juncture. If he's a werewolf, I'm dead already. He edged closer to the glass door.

"I'm not, but I did go by that name when I did some work in Hartford. Which brings me to my first question, since we're just talking. How exactly does a local butcher know to ask for that name?"

[Worlok]

"Butcher's apprentice, more like. I mainly just sell magazines." Carl corrected, relatively politely still, producing a cheerfully colored bundle of flyers reading 'The Truth is out there - Alien sighting in Texas still denied by authorities!' from his bag. "And well, I do some work for some friends of Dad's, on the side. They run a club of some sort. And they told me I was to meet one Frederick Martel and clue him in, because apparently they got work for him. And then I saw you checking out King-Snake's car, and you met the description they gave, and I was like, well, too much of a coincidence there, really. And so I figured that you must be him." He sighed. "Reckon though I shouldn't really be telling you this, and you're from the FBI, as well, and now I apparently screwed up Training Week." And then shrugged, and helplessly glanced at Fred.

[McStabbington]

Not for the last time, Frederick had to mentally note to himself the hidden advantages in his species. The more the conversation continued, the more flummoxed he felt at the situation. I can't get a bead on this kid, and now he's offering me a job?

Fortunately for Martel, the kid was young and had yet to learn to read a bluff. And between Dodge City and Depression-era Vegas, Martel had learned to bluff very, very well. Well enough to know not to let his confusion bleed through on his face, and well enough to know how to stick with a bluff long past another person's breaking point.

"Let me worry about the larger situation. I told you that everything said here is off-the record. It still is." His voice was still calm and quiet, but had switched to the far more forceful and commanding tone of the alleyway. "You said that your father and his club wanted to meet Frederick Martel. I might still be able to help, but to do that I need to know what you know. First, who is your father, what is the group, and what does this club do?"

[Worlok]

"Gerhard. Gerhard Krüger. My dad. The club's just a club, though, really. Called 'Turton Philosophers Club', if it helps." He shrugged. "Mainly bother with charity stuff and such, far as I know. Museum openings, things like that. Sometimes hire some independents on for security, and I'm told this Martel is a bit of an expert on that. No real idea for what they'd need an expert. Told me the dude is French, too, and why would they want someone to come here all the way from France?" An uneasily smile, then: "Though Mr Winkelmann kept implying that he'd been working the East Coast there for a while already, so probably not actually across the pond right now. But really, it's Mr Winkelmann. Dude wears a bucket over his head and got an accent you wouldn't believe." His left index finger was circling next to his temple by this point, implying that his opinion of this Mr Winkelmann could not exactly be all that high.

Neither the name Gerhard Krüger, nor Mr Winkelmann rang a bell, however. Then again, there actually was a bell ringing now, or rather, the doorbell went, with there being noone to see through the front window, and out in the stairwell, a door could be heard being opened, followed by weighty, if measured steps coming down the stairs, and a muffled shout in a foreign language. Carl did not appear to have noticed.

[McStabbington]

What is the layout of this room?

[Worlok]

http://www.freeimagehosting.net/t/o4ti3.jpg (http://www.freeimagehosting.net/o4ti3)

Had ten minutes. Enjoy doing these too much. Depiction not to proportion. Click for larger version. Gotta run again. :smallredface:

[McStabbington]

Where I ultimately go depends on whether the door is unlocked. If it's unlocked, I slip through and leave it as close to being closed without latching it. If not, I cut behind the counter with the cash register to wall on the west side and get small behind the register.


At the sound of steps, Frederick's head jerks to the glass door. His hand moves to Carl's shoulder, gently nudging him towards the front entrance. He leans close and hisses softly: "Someone's coming. Get the door. You're cleaning. I'm not here." With another gentle nudge, Fred heads for the door in back.

[Worlok]

The door would appear to be the kind you would have on a walk-in freezer the likes of which hospitals and butcheries regularly maintained, yet as it effortlessly - and quietly - slid open to the side at his approach, what lay behind it turned out to be just a short corridor, for some reason sporting oak furnishings and an expensive-looking carpet the shop Frederick had just left did not. Two more doors were within sight, one just ahead at the other end of the gangway, and the other some miniscule distance off to the left.

While the latter was just another freezer door, and judging from the complicated pressure-system handle and padlock keeping it shut actually led to a freezer room, the one Frederick was looking at head-on was a more unassuming one, made of a beautiful, dark-brown wood, if marred by someone having shakyhandedly sprayed the two words "KEEP OUT!" upon it in blue paint. Perhaps ironically, it appeared to not be closed, but merely leaned on, and even though the room behind it stayed invisible and was as silent as the corridor, it all seemed rather out of place even from where he was.

The door slid shut behind him, again without any noise, and even drowning out the conversation beginning outside as Carl adressed whoever it was with a cheerful "Oh, hey, good evening, Mr Bratovich, I hadn't even seen-"

Conundrum: Door isn't locked, but opens and closes automatically, hence why I assumed you had initially slipped through. You could still slip out and duck behind the counter, but there is no telling whether you'd be seen by anyone you wouldn't want to be seen by. :smallredface: Normally, there could be a Stealth roll here, if you'd like to roll one?

[McStabbington]

I'm perfectly happy getting through the door, although I'm wondering if it's possible to use my hand to slow the door enough to stop it from latching. The point is to get it to look closed, but not be closed. Ideally, I would have the flat of my hand pressed against the door and let the increased resistance slow it enough to stop the door, but I'm willing to stick my fingertips between the door and the frame to try and keep it wedged slightly open. I'm guessing I have enough self control to avoid shrieking like a child if my fingers get mashed, although I'd like to avoid the test if possible.

Assuming it's at all possible, I'll eavesdrop on the remainder of the conversation.

Edit to add: Just so we're clear, the rank-ordering of preferences goes as follows.

1) Get through the door; leave the door imperceptibly ajar to allow for eavesdropping.

2) Get through the door; leave the door imperceptibly ajar to allow for eavesdropping by getting my fingertips mashed.

3) Get through the door; the door shuts behind me.

[Worlok]

It turned out, after two rounds of sliding shut, stopping just short of mashing his fingers, and sliding open again in that perfect, mechanical precision of advanced machinery - perhaps too advanced for a butcher's shop, come to think of it - that yes, the door would remain slightly opened if held in place with one hand, provided one timed inserting the other into the gap just right. The two people in the shop apparently noticed nothing wrong while this was happening, however, and their conversation continued undisturbed, if with Carl's massive shape blocking Frederick's view on the new arrival:

"-irst." - "That is quite alright, Carl. How's Training Week coming along?" - "Rather well. Currently working on that assignment from Henderson. Or, well, I will once I get the clean-up done." - "I don't understand why you are always cleaning when I'm around. All day, all night, we meet, you're cleaning up. But say, your assignment... the one with the... that Frenchman, this... security expert of theirs, you mean?" - "Yeah, 'xactly that. Monsieur Martel." - "He actually here yet, then?" - "Well, probably in town. All a little chaotic, really. Met this one guy I thought was him, you know, and then it turns out it's just some guy here on sabbatical who just happens to look a bit like him." - "Huh. Sabbatical. Talk about a coincidence..." - "Mr Bratovich?" - "Huh? Oh, oh, apologies, Carl, nothing you need to concern yourself with for now. Just... reminded me of something, is all." - "Ah. Well... Alright. But I think I'll find him once he shows up, and then I'll let everyone know. I mean, Johann was supposed to call me up, but apparently he hasn't had much luck, himself. So it's up to me to welcome the guy." - "Yes. Sure. You do that, then. And should you see Johann, tell him we're still waiting for him to fix that damn door-buzzer, if you would. But excuse me-" The doorbell went again. "-it appears that I am having... visitors." By the tone Mr Bratovich said this in, he might as well have been saying 'rats', but Carl did not appear to pick up on this: "Yes, yes, of course. And I'll go back to cleaning. Would you tell Marisa I said hi?" - "Reckon I could, at that." - "Cool. Thanks, Mr Bratovich." - "It is no problem, Carl. And... have fun cleaning up, I guess."

And with that, the shop door closed, the house door was opened, and someone else came into the building, having a brief exchange with Mr Bratovich out on the hallway - two female voices, undeniably, and in that same language the man had shouted in earlier - before following him upstairs, by the sound of things. Leaving Carl alone in the shop once again.

[McStabbington]

Frederick slid his hand out of the jam and eased the door shut as soon as he was sure Mr. Bratovich was heading back up the stairs. No sense in alerting Carl to what I heard. Stepping back from the door, he leaned against the wall and assumed an air of quiet expectation as he waited for the big man to open the door and announce that the coast was clear.

[Worlok]

And certainly, before too long, the door slipped open once again. Every now and then, it was as if there was a rustling of paper and soft footfalls coming out from behind Frederick, from the room behind the tagged door, only for it to swiftly fall silent again. But never did anything move in the small area the light in the corridor could illuminate, and even then, there was little menace to the noise - Even vampiric senses did not pick up anything in scent or sound that might not have been attributed to the workings of a common cat, for at least one such animal certainly made its homestead within these rooms, or the draft of an open window. But even if all of it had been cause for close examination, Carl's arrival would certainly have stopped most such endeavors short: "Hey man, coast's clear. Say though, no offense, but I guess you types really get paranoid over time, huh?" He was smirking while saying that, not with hostility, but with a certain amusement to it. "Then again, I don't think paranoid's the word I'm looking for. Careful? Nervous?" Shrug. "Wait though... was that door there open before? Before you came in?"

[McStabbington]

"The door," Frederick asks. He glances back at the doorway, and then at Carl. "It was like that when I came in. The door says 'Stay Out', and I want your trust more than I want to poke around your private business." Which was not, strictly speaking, entirely true, but it was true enough at the moment.

[Worlok]

"Huh. That's not supposed to happen. Normally we keep it shut. Really tightly shut. 't's private, and what-not-all. Ah well. Hope you don't mind?" With an ease that belied his mass, he slipped past 'Fred' and closed it, making sure to lock it - twice - with a key he produced from that silly bag of his. There was it, once again, that eery, misshapen grin he apparently liked to flash. Something was wrong about his facial proportions. Definitely wrong. "Anyway, now, anything else I can help you with?"

[McStabbington]

"We were discussing the Philosopher's Club." Martel's voice had resumed its usual business-like tone. The information wasn't what he came for, but Frederick had the unmistakable impression that while he'd thrown Carl for a loop, it would have turned out quite differently with Mr. Bratovich. "I need to know who belongs to it, who they associate with, and any other businesses they run in the area. Full names, aliases, and locations if you have them."

[Worlok]

"Well... I could tell you that, sure. Or at least, some of it. Don't know everyone there, myself. But might I ask why you'd need to know that?" His curiosity was honest, but there might have been something else. Some share of suspicion, perhaps. "Because one gotta wonder. I just bring it up in conversation, and suddenly you need to know. No offense, of course, but from what I'm told, there have been people claiming to be FBI before. And... few of them really were, or so I've heard." Oh yes, suspicion, definitely. Very suddenly, come to think of it. Maybe there had been some more to that conversation than just it's exact and verbal contents?

[McStabbington]

While impersonating an FBI agent was new for Martel, knowing how a policeman responds when a witness gets surly was not. Dodge City, 30's Chicago, Paris. Different cities; same way of dealing with inadequate respect for authority. He took a small step towards Carl's personal space, staring directly into his eyes. He kept his voice low and almost icily calm.

"Mr. Kruger, I need to know because not five minutes ago, a self-described butcher's apprentice just asked about an alias I used on a previous assignment. He asked on behalf of an organization that he himself admits to having no clue as to why they might need the person they're asking. And this person found me and brought me back to a residence."

Another step, this time definitely in Carl's personal space.

"I am asking, Mr. Kruger, because it strikes me that the most likely explanation is an informant, an informant that I need to find and eliminate lest I get myself killed. I am asking because it strikes me as far more likely that this Philosopher's Club could be a front for illegal activities, because it makes no more sense that someone would hire me on for museum security than it does you. I am asking, Mr. Kruger, because if my suspicions are correct, you're in danger too, and it is my job as a servant of the public weal to protect you.."

Fred steps as close as he possibly can.

"To. Protect. You, Mr. Kruger. Now I have been kind and conversational to make this easier for you, but do not forget who I am or what I can do. Now, if you'd like to finish answering the questions I have, I can be out of here in five minutes. If not, I can come back again later and ask again, only much less nicely this time. Which do you want?"



Either Manipulation + Intimidation or Charisma + Intimidation. Either way, six dots.

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[Worlok]

Countered by Willpower, according to the rulebook. Huh. Let's see it.

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EDIT: Awkward. With your one one cancelling the ten, that puts him at more successes even without the reroll he would normally get now. Meaning he kind of won. Let's see how that turns out.
At such close range, the fact that Carl was very, very tall and muscular struck home that much more palpably, and as he leant forward a little and glared down at Frederick with some inscrutable sense of malice to it, the room seemed very, very small, and his position all the more vulnerable in the presence of the butcher's son. "No need to get this close, though, Freddy. People's protector, not bodyguard." This time around, his laugh seemed far less warm. "So I suggest you calm down a little. Did I get that right though? You are Frederick Martel? Because that sure makes this that much easier." Was he actually relieved? He sounded that way.

[McStabbington]

Frederick clicked his tongue, breathed out through his nose, and ever-so-slightly shook his head. A pity. "I liked you much better when you were friendly and compliant, Carl. I'm not him, but there's only one reason anyone would take an interest in Frederick Martel. So I'd like you to freeze."


Here's hoping the guy is human. . .

Using the Dominate ability of Command: Manipulation + Intimidation again, with a target of 6 (Carl's Permanent Willpower).

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[Worlok]

Carl recoiled, an expression of frustration gracing his features and thereby contorting them into a truly intimidating visage. But it was impossible to determine how much of that was truly owed to the use of the discipline, and how much to the big man's confusion over the command: "Well, uh, I don't know about that. You mean like... with a fridge or what?" Only then did a veritable flash of something, something invisible and supernatural, see fit to move over his frame, and he ceased movement, assuming a straight, almost militarily rigid pose, with his eyes now reflecting a truly chilling amount of rage. As if something had attempted to delay the Dominate effect, but failed to actually stop it short.

[McStabbington]

Frederick stepped back, and despite the time constraints, looked Carl in the eye. "It's not me you should be mad at," he said quietly. "I gave you every out I could." Then he turned and, hefting Carl's bag, plucked the keys from the side pocket he had tucked them into. Putting the bag on one shoulder, he went to the doorway. Had to be Auspex. Depending on how much Bratovich plucked out of Carl's head, I may have only minutes. Hopefully he likes playing with his food. He shook away the distasteful thought as he found the right key. With a brief surge of blood to shift his eyes, he found the right key, unlocked the door, and opened it.


Edit to add: Frederick activates Eyes of the Beast from the Protean Discipline. Allows him to see in the dark.

[Worlok]

Alright, yeah, should have figured thus. Thanks. :smallsmile:
In the gleam of protean sight, the room behind the tagged door seemed almost disappointingly average: Even though a living room seemed out of place next to a walk-in fridge, no matter how luxurious an arrangement such might have been, this would have appeared to be precisely that.

Simple white wallpapers lining the upper two thirds of the walls, for luxurious oak furnishing to take over near the ground. A number of lamps and a grandfather clock, several elaborately decorated chairs surrounding a poorly-aged, if quite well-maintained pool table that had apparently been reappropriated as a dinner table judging from the crumbs and stains on it. A few rugs here and there on the elegant carpet floor, and a slender chest of drawers right next to the entrance on the left. A light-switch on the right. Dust, immense amounts of dust. Bottles full of rare beverages, several long-extinct whisky brands side by side with elusive vintages of certain wines, lining a shelf opposite from the entrance door. Then another door, in the left rear corner of the room, closed and most likely locked like the first had been.

And a pair of eyes, small and round, reflecting what little light came in through the door and betraying the presence of a fittingly small and round, if outrageously shaggy grey cat, sitting next to a potted fern it remotely resembled for the poorly-groomed state of its fur, on a heater right under the whisky shelf. Watching Frederick, its head crooked in a mien of seeming curiosity. One paw leaning on the brim of the planter, as if poised to drop it off its seat and raise some noise. It did not, itself, make a sound, come to mention it.

[McStabbington]

Frederick had guessed that this was Carl's living area. He also knew that the likelihood of finding any useful information would be small, but it was worth it to take two minutes to look. Sliding into the room, he shut the door behind him, turning the knob to prevent a click from escaping. Once inside, he sidestepped to the left, keeping the chest of drawers behind him as he crossed in front of it as he watched the cat. I swear, just once I'd like to act as if a cat is really a cat. Once the dresser was on his right, he tugged the bottom of his t-shirt over his fingers to prevent fingerprints, and then began sliding drawers open, keeping one eye on the cat.


I'm basically just looking really quickly through any papers I find in hopes that I can find something valuable about the Sabbat, the Turton Philosopher's Club, or anything else that strikes me as important. I'm not doing much more than flipping through stuff really quickly looking for keywords; it won't take more than a minute. I'm not sure whether that would be Wits + Investigation or Perception + Investigation, so I'll just roll 5 dice and if you think it's the latter, just ignore the last dice.

[roll0]
[roll1]
[roll2]
[roll3]
[roll4]

[Worlok]

It would technically be the latter, but I hate to let people's tens fall through. Let's see. :smallbiggrin: By the by, did we ever establish what other languages Fred's dots in Linguistic give him, if any, actually?
The uppermost drawer contained underwear - clean underwear, thankfully, folded and all - and socks. The second several packs of cigarettes of a brand named "REVAL", a college ringbook and a calculator. The third merely stacks of old magazines, "Animal Husbandry Monthly" apparently being a favorite. The fourth, old letters, all in German, mainly the equivalent of birthday or Christmas cards by the looks of things, some of the older and yellower ones from times as long ago as October the 7th, 1929, and the newest one Frederick could find in his haste from November the 23rd, 2001. Photo albums, all closed and mostly kept closed by individual latch-and-lock systems, shared the fifth with some 1920s-era political cartoons on newspaper cutouts, a handcrafted dreamcatcher, and a number of pencils. The sixth was empty except for a folded-up blanket, something entitled "Myer's Big Family Boardgame Set", and a tin can filled with dried-out tobacco.

However the seventh and last of their lot was basically striking gold: Next to a slew of unopened envelopes and a broken dart board lay an ancient, weather-beaten tome, bound in once-red leather. The first page depicted a coat of arms, featuring a dragon-headed snake, a crown, some variation on a Celtic knot and a pair of swords, but the volume seemed to have been penned entirely in Greek, complete with wildly foreign alphabet. Only the passages "CHARTER OF THE HOLY ROMAN ORDER OF PHILOSOPHERS, TURTON BRANCH" and "© T. J. Winkelmann Print, New Brunswick, 1955" were in English, and even then they appeared to be just translations of the same things in Greek, judging by how the individual pieces of text were positioned on the page.

The same coat of arms, however, was imprinted on several of the envelopes at any rate.

Given the overpowering scent of old paperwork, a decade-long smoking habit and that certain cat, the air was stiflingly bad in here, and even for an undead person the odeur was less than pleasant. A purr from somewhere behind Frederick. In perfect silence, mayhaps even greater than was entirely normal in its kind, the aforementioned cat had snuck up on him, and now began circling his legs, glaring up at him out of curious, yellow eyes. No, not the same cat. Another one. Less overfed, slightly bigger, and most notably not grey, but black as darkest night.

"CARL?" someone suddenly yelled from behind the door in the corner, a male voice both shrill and coarse with obvious age and failing health. "IS ZAT YOU?"

[McStabbington]

Jacques Le Pen was trained in philosophy, which in that time meant mandatory learning of ancient Greek and Latin as well as the languages of the philosophers you read. Since he was reading a lot of Scottish Enlightenment philosophers, that would mean Latin, Ancient Greek, English and French are his languages.


Frederick cursed to himself. It's always something. . . He remembered Carl talking about his father getting up there in years. And it was late. And Carl had been so delicate about locking the door. The poor guy's almost certainly human. Which made what was going to happen later tonight even more tragic. Nevertheless, he had to think of something.

As quietly as he could, he shut the drawers while keeping the book, the letters with the coat of arms on it and a pencil. As he did so, his blood pounded in his throat. While he was still not gifted enough at changing his shape to do some of the more exotic shifts, he did have many years of practice at shapeshifting the little things: eyes, hands, and as it turned out, the voicebox. His usual alto could drop down to a baritone. Probably not as low as Carl's booming voice, but Frederick hoped it was enough.

As soon as he got the drawer closed, he turned while still crouched. One hand, the hand with the book and letters in it, gently tried to stroke the cat and give it something to rub against as he moved towards the door. The other reached for the doorknob. As he moved, he spoke in what he hoped was a fair imitation of Carl's deep voice: "Yeah. Sorry for waking ya. Just goin' fer a walk. Go back ta sleep."


I'm guessing this is Charisma + Performance? So five dice.

[roll0]
[roll1]
[roll2]
[roll3]
[roll4]

[Worlok]

Makes sense. French being his native tongue, and three dots in Ling giving four bonus languages, though, you're still technically within your rights to add one more. :smallbiggrin: If you would hear some recommendations, Polish, Turkish, German, Dutch, Italian, several dialects of the Indian subcontinent and Arabic will likely feature quite heavily throughout the course of the game. Just a suggestion though, as I said, we can work in everything.

Also, Manipulation + Performance, I would say, seeing how pretending to be someone's close relative kind of is a deception move (You despicable blackguard, you! :smalltongue:). I had considered Wits + Subterfuge as an alternative, but I can't seem to find a specific breakdown of such a case in the rules. So I'd say screw it, and we'll work with it for now. :smallbiggrin: Here's a Perception + Subterfuge for our aging con victim, modified by them old ears not being what they used to be and all, with a small bonus for great familiarity. Sound fair?

[roll0]

Two against three, you win the roll.
A pause unfolded, the old man taking a moment to think that through. Then: "Yes, yes, perhaps you are right. It's leht. Still no reasson to tawk to your grampa like zat." Funny. For all his audible decrepitude, and the curious accent no less, there was an air of authority to the old man's voice, for this was certainly someone quite used to giving commands. "But you do not sound good. You catch ze cold again?" The cat gave a satisfied purr, sniffing the vampire's hand and then proceeding to rub up against his leg some more. Carl's grandfather again: "Speaking of zoh, would you be a good boy and go fetch my medicine before you leave? I zink zat it's still in ze ushual plehce."

[McStabbington]

Hrm. Hadn't realized I'd have two more languages. Well, Kant was the newest, biggest philosopher at the turn of 1800, so I'll say that one language is German. The other one would be Crow Indian. The Crow were one of the more powerful tribes of the Upper Mountain West, and between French and Crow, Le Pen should have been able to speak with most of the tribes he came across. While I doubt it will have any relevance in the story, it would be something he would have learned.


Martel knelt, trying not to squash the cat underneath him. As quietly as he could, he brought down the briefcase in front of him and flipped it open. Setting the book and letters inside, he closed and latched the case. His left hand reached for the cat and stroked it while his right went for the doorknob.

"Sure. And I'm sorry. Just . . . didn't want ta wake ya. Give me five minutes ta finish cleaning the shop, and I'll get them for ya before I go," he said, continuing his mimicry.

Frederick winced inwardly. I swear before I'm done here, I'm going to kill you for this, Bratovich. Slowly and painfully. This kid didn't deserve this.


I'm assuming Charisma + Subterfuge to mislead him into thinking I'm going to be right back?

[roll0]
[roll1]
[roll2]
[roll3]
[roll4]
[roll5]
[roll6]

[Worlok]

One more language, I had miscalculated there. German and Crow Indian both make viable choices, though, and I might have mentioned before that this game is set up to be able to include absolutely anything - So regardless of which way you choose, it will see some amount of play. :smallwink:

Also, the roll was not technically necessary, you generally don't need that much in the way of subterfuge for a five-minute-delay with a likely cause, I'd say. But it's all good, don't think I could top that many successes, anyway. :smallbiggrin:
"Yes. Yes, of course. You do zat, zen. But be quick." the old man's voice replied after a moment's hesitation, its croaky, off-pitch quality allowing little assertation of intent. He added something, in a grumbling and significantly lower key, only still (barely) audible for what had, in its time, most likely been a booming bass the likes of Carl's.

The way out would thus have been free to take, and other than the second cat leaving its post next to the fern and coming closer to join in the leg-surrounding of its counterpart, there did not seem any further reaction to Frederick's actions so far.

Disturbingly, however, the door simply wouldn't budge. Now, seeing how it was to be pulled and not pushed when coming from inside the room, that left only two natural explanations: Someone rather monstrously strong was actively holding it shut from the other side, or it had, somehow, been jammed. Somewhere behind it, a supressed cough could be heard, and someone hissed something that sounded quite extraordinarily impolite, despite the language being none that Frederick immediately recognised.

[McStabbington]

Then Crow. It's actually fairly easy to get very good German-French or German-English translations of philosophy texts.


Frederick stopped twisting at the handle and sidled right towards the drawers. If the door opens, I'd rather not be smushed. Frederick flexed his hands, ignoring the pain as his razored claws emerged from his fingertips. Leaning his head towards the door crack, Frederick spoke softly and calmly. "Carl, you're not thinking this through. If your grandfather comes out, what do you think I'm going to have to do? You and I both want him safe, so let's take this elsewhere."

At that, he drew back and crouched in a single fluid motion. He'll have to look around to find me.


Dex + Stealth to remain quiet and hidden (except the eyes. This fella's going to stay where I put him from now on). Activating my obtenebration for an extra dice and hoping like heck the cats don't flip out.

[roll0]
[roll1]
[roll2]
[roll3]
[roll4]
[roll5]

Edit: You know what, on second thought, I'll leave the obtenebration out of this. I'd rather fail this roll than have the cats panic.

[Worlok]

Alright. Interesting choice, let's see what comes of it. :smallsmile:
There was no response or reaction, neither spoken nor otherwise, as far as Fred could tell. The door remained shut, and the cats just continued following Frederick around, still oddly silent even by the standards of their kind.

On the other side of the unyielding door, a rustling, as if from paper or drying leaves, could be heard, and someone gave a grunt that might have come from pain as much as from general discontent.

On the other side of the door that divided this room from Grampa Krüger's, however, the old man's voice resounded once again: "Ist somefing ze matter, Carl? Are you still zere?"

[McStabbington]

If Frederick had any doubts that Bratovich had ghouled this poor kid, there was none now. No one in their right mind would lock their aging grandfather in with someone like me. Nevertheless, the situation right now was a stalemate, which really meant a victory for the Sabbat. Still, I'm not out of options yet. Not by a long shot.

Ignoring Carl's grandfather for the moment, he moved to the walls, searching for a window to open so that he could climb out.


Unless a window is immediately apparent, I'm going to move along the walls from farthest from (what I presume is) the bedroom door to closest, looking for a window. Once I find one, I'm going to open it if possible and climb out. If it's got some kind of security grate, we'll see what I do then.

I'm assuming I won't need an actual search check to spot a window.

[Worlok]

Sadly, there were no windows to be seen, merely some sort of wooden grate integrated into the wall in the manner of a certain type of ventilation shaft (key difference being that the wall was a good bit too thin to have a ventilation shaft built into it - This seemed to be some "impractical oversized cat flap" kind of deal). Right next to the heater and just above ground-level in the furnishing as it was, this meant that Frederick would have to crawl in case he would try to pass it, but by the dimensions of things, such would be possible.

If only just barely so.

With some slight effort.

Provided he'd push the suitcase through first, or drag it after him.

Moving on.

Behind it, another room could be spied, and this one did have a window, right over a bed that dominated what little of the place one could spy from here. However, it also had another door, this one not closed, but wide open currently, and right next to the grate as well - meaning that one led into old Mr Krüger's current room of stay. And would all but guarantee Frederick crawling into the elderly's line of sight were he to actually go for it.

Here is a roll you might want to counter with Perception + Alertness, if you would. Things are reaching a rather tight spot in here. :smalleek:

[roll0]

[McStabbington]

Damn! He let himself snort quietly in frustration. Okay, so I can get to a window, but I have to go through the old man. Or I can through the door with the crazy powerful ghoul. He thought to himself quickly, then decided. He moved carefully and quietly over to Carl's grandfather's door and shifted the briefcase from his left to his right hand. As he did so, his eyes scanned the room for any sign of danger. He would have had time to get Bratovich. There's nothing for it. His left hand knocked on the door. Attempting to mimic Carl's bass one last time, Martel spoke "Grandpa?"


Perception + Alertness roll

[roll0]
[roll1]
[roll2]
[roll3]

Edit: I can't for the life of me seem to find the rules for willpower in my .pdf copy of VTM (page numbers are off and there's no index), but I believe that I failed that roll with the one. If so, and if it will make a difference, I'll blow a willpower point in order to get a success. More if I can; I strongly suspect I needed to win that roll.

[Worlok]

You would spend one point of Willpower for a success. Fred's Willpower would thereby be reduced to seven dots until the spent one is regained as per your nature, or until the end of the scene. It would, regardless of re-gain, be the only one you can have him spend in any such fashion for the duration of this scene, unless particularly desperate circumstances apply - which I will determine, and tell you in such a case. No content-update for now, as I will wait for your decision on whether or not you will use the point. :smallsmile:

[McStabbington]

Hrm. Critical situation vs. blowing any chance of using more. . .

Given my plan (yes, I have a plan . . . sort of), and the fact that I may very well be involved in some combat later on, I think I'll hold off on the Willpower expenditure for the moment. I don't think I'll be in mortal danger for at least another ten seconds even with the failed roll.

[Worlok]

Let me channel one M. Strauss here and go "A wise decision, neonate." - it might, however, interest you that Willpower points can't be spent for automatic successes in direct combat rolls (attacks, dodging, etc.). That's what dots in disciplines and the likes are for. Unless this changes your choice, I will report back in tomorrow with content, likely by means of editing this post. :smallsmile:
"Carl?" the old man replied, tiredly. "Ist somefing ze matter?"

A distant sound of some manner of wooden construction collapsing, or at least something similar going on, resounded in Frederick's ears, and somewhere out in the butcher's shop, someone uttered something sounding vaguely like a muffled curse. But nothing moved, and the door stayed shut.

[McStabbington]

Frederick winced inwardly once, then turned the doorknob, opened it, and stepped into the room.

[Worlok]

As the door flew open, the fact that the room behind it was much more brightly lit then the last one struck home, and as Frederick passed the doorframe, a surprised gasp followed by a coughing fit of an interesting pitch and sliminess served as his welcoming fanfare. This room was small, much more narrow than the last one if easily twice as long, almost like yet another small corridor, and the walls were lined with ancient-looking bookshelves full of equally timeworn tomes, the one free-standing piece of furniture being a ridiculously comfortable-looking armchair fit to seat minor royalty on in a pinch, and in said chair sat living proof that giantism was hereditary, for while what was presumably Carl's grampa had been worn by age to the point of looking almost skeletally malnourished, he would still likely have dwarved Frederick upon standing up, in terms of sheer height as easily as in those of width. The main difference between the two butchers was that the older man's head was bald, his beard was white, and instead of a weirdly-proportioned face, he merely had an outstanding amount of what could really only be duelling, or perhaps battle scars.

And he was coughing his lungs out - figuratively -, one massive paw of a hand desperately clutching an unlit cigar whose cap he had apparently just swallowed. For what it's worth, the old guy's eyes proved a bit better than his ears, and soon enough he managed to croak out "Now who... are you?" in between coughs and poorly-aimed handkerchief swipes aimed at his own lips.

[McStabbington]

Frederick paused ever so slightly; he had anticipated a much darker room with much fewer books and a much smaller man inside. Nevertheless, nothing he saw changed what needed to be done. I've already overstayed my welcome. Correcting his momentary hesitation, he gently swung the door shut behind him and, his left hand flexing behind him, locked the door. Scanning the room, he walked towards the light socket. As he turned it off, he looked straight at the old man.

"I'm just a bad dream you're having. I couldn't possibly be real."


Using the Dominate power of Mesmerize. I don't have any points in leadership yet, but because leadership is a talent, I can use my four dice from Manipulation without a modifier. Target is Grampa Kruger's permanent willpower.

As a side note, I believe that if I fail this roll, I will have to use a willpower point to get a success unless it would be futile, because the only alternatives are to break the Masquerade (which would get myself and Mr. Kruger killed), or kill Mr. Kruger directly, which I am trying very hard not to do.

[roll0]
[roll1]
[roll2]
[roll3]

[Worlok]

I'm afraid that wouldn't really have worked there. Despite most mortals not being able to actually oppose Dominate, its powers are, technically, combat-related, or rather, opposed rolls as far as I'm concerned, and thus there would not be a chance to use Willpower in this case (other than to determine the difficulty, of course). Not sure what the standard ruling is, as I can't seem to find it, currently, but I think the idea makes sense - there are, ironically enough, means to utilise Willpower expenditure to resist Dominate, by the way, but those are relatively few and far between.

You would, technically, have gotten to reroll that ten, however. :smallsmile:
The coughing fit dragged on there for a spell, until finally, a length of tobacco that had most definitely been a cigar cap just a moment ago, unlodged itself from the back of the old man's throat and hit the ground before him with a small, if uniquely phlegmatic splash. "If... you say... so... unreal... one." the man forced out, still wide-eyed from the scare of the whole affair, yet with the presence of mind to shrug while shakily trying to catch his breath. Losing a final cough before putting away his handkerchief in favor of a little yellow lighter he applied to his cigar, he then went on: "You go... ahead zen and... un-exist... some more." - and took the first deep drag, immediately relaxing to a visible degree as the tip of the oversized smoke lit up in a bright, fiery red, and his next few words came more fluently, riding a great blue cloud of smoke that smelled oddly like cinnamon: "Probably good for you, too." He seemed to consider this whole thing somewhat amusing, for whatever reason he might have had, and his reply surely was... unusual. But then again, it did seem to have worked... somehow, if maybe not quite in the way it should.

[McStabbington]

Frederick's eyes narrowed slightly, sizing up his response. He had assumed, between the medicine and the frailty of the old man, that he was human. If he's also Kindred, then this could get very messy. He mentally shrugged off the thought and continued with the plan, having no better options at this point.

"Since that jolt was terribly rude of me, I'm sure you'd like to leave this bad dream and just sleep."


Dominate power of Command to make him fall asleep. As before, Manipulation + Intimidation; target is Gramp's permanent willpower.

[roll0]
[roll1]
[roll2]
[roll3]
[roll4]
[roll5]
[roll6]

[Worlok]

A moment of rather embarassing silence passed, as the old man took another drag, savoring it by the looks of things. "Well. Zat didn't quite work out, now, did it?" he mouthed at last, expelling more of the sweetly smoke. "I will, however, go to sleep. Right after I finish my cigar, if you would let me now?" He didn't appear overtly malicious, if clearly getting some manner of pleasure out of the effect - or non-effect - of what had just transpired in this room. Then he spoke on, this time with something of a surprise. "But, say, what actually brought you here? Not like I haven't had my share of longfangs coming zroo here before you, but I can't plehce you, friend. You don't look ze type to try dominehshion, at any rate."

[McStabbington]

Frederick stared at the old giant for a long moment. Then his face broadened in a grin as he let out a hearty chuckle of relief. Shifting his vocal cords back to their usual timbre, his voice took on the clipped, relaxed cadence of the soft Western accent he had used for so many years.

"My apologies for the intrusion into your room and mind, Mr. Kruger" Frederick said, bowing his head slightly. "It was incredibly rude, but I thought it necessary to keep you from panicking. There can be rather . . . stringent penalties for those of us who reveal themselves and humans who learn about it. But since I have revealed nothing you didn't already know and fixing these problems is not my job, I'm relieved at your non-chalance."

He looked briefly over his head back at the locked door, then turn back. "That being said, I'm afraid I have to take your leave rather than chat. Right now, all I am is someone whom people seem not to like, and while it's impolite to climb through that window, it'd be more so to fight for my life in your bedroom. So if you don't mind just not making any threatening moves, I'll get out of your hair." Frederick began moving towards the window, keeping his eyes on the old man. "Again, I'm sorry for trying to mess with your head and the intrusion."

[Worlok]

This time around, it was Mr Krueger's turn to look incredulous, to the point where his cigar threatened to fall out of his mouth: "It's... no problem, really. But what is zis about you fighting for your life, and don't you people normally want to buy... Wait. Is zis Carl's fault, somehow?"

Somewhere beyond that door, some more rumbles were heard, but everything stayed quiet. Or as quiet as it would. Not even curses, this time around.

[McStabbington]

Martel took a moment to shift his eyes back to normal before looking out the window. No sense taking any chances. He studied the area for a moment, looking for movement outside the house. He then raised the screen and opened the window.

"No. Carl did nothing Mr. Bratovich didn't tell him to do," he said quietly as he worked. He looked at the old man and shrugged. "Bratovich apparently has enemies, and apparently thinks I'm one. So I go. I wish you a pleasant eve, and hope you have many more, sir." Another respectful nod to the old man, and then Martel hopped clear of the window, briefcase in hand.


Let me know if you think it's necessary to roll for a perception check, but I'm thinking for the moment that Carl and Bratovich are still inside the shop.

[Worlok]

Far as could be perceived, they are, and that is fairly obvious, so no rolls here. :smallsmile:
"Enem-, wait, Bratovitch told him to... Listen, same to you, my friend, but I am finking you may have misunderstood somefing just zere-" His voice trailed off as Freddy jumped, some well-trained reflex forcing his heavy form into a level of alertness that just could not be so gentle on an aging heart.

Out in the yard, darkness reigned surpreme. Just beyond the light getting past Fred himself and the window, there was nothing but blackest night, the heavens pale with the infective city lights being reflected all the way up there, allowing the Lasombra's eyes to make out the rough outlines of the distant buildings of the butchery. And the surrounding ones.

Somewhere, far out there, two little dots of light were glowing now. Tiny red dots, a long ways away, easily at the other end of the yard. Like eyes. The old man's sonorous breath could be heard from over here as he beat back another set of coughs. "Ze... ze... ze window, close it, please!" his deep voice whined from behind.

[McStabbington]

Frederick looked directly back at the eyes. His brow furrowed in sheer annoyance. Oh, for the love of Mike. . .

He had spent several years in the eighties picking up a math degree as an evening student at one of the Cal Tech schools. Martel had made it a practice to keep picking up degrees over his life, partly because it helped him keep up with the times, and partly because it helped keep his mind fresh. One class in particular had proven useful to a 200-year old gambler: probabilities. It had given him a firm understanding of the game he played: his job was to manipulate the odds so that he won and the Sabbat lost. A hand may be lost here and there, but so long as you knew the odds and kept playing them when they were in your favor, you could always beat another vampire. Because most vampires' first lesson in life is that it's better to fold than risk.

All the odds and gamesmanship in the world, however, don't help you when the other guy keeps rolling sevens and elevens.

In frustration, he snorted and raised a silent hand to the red dots in an unmistakable gesture. Will you just wait your damned turn, and I'll be right with you. Turning back towards the light, he brought a hand up and gripped the underside of the window. "Sure, Mr. Kruger. Least I can do." Pulling gently but inexorably, he drew the window down before sliding his fingers out. With his fingers clear, he began walking, with careful deliberation, in the opposite direction he had come to arrive at the butchers with Carl. As he reached the sidewalk, he looked back over to where the eyes had been and jerked his neck and thumb in an unmistakable "Well, get over here" gesture.

Sometimes when playing the odds, you have to be willing to take an extra risk, he thought. It confuses the heck out of an opponent.