I used to believe in the passage of time and the calling of destiny. More correctly, I used to hold true a certain perception of time as explained by the 10th Doctor: That time is nothing more than rare fixed points swimming in a sea timey-wimey stuff. It rarely mattered how one arrived at the fixed point, or that the journey need not be linear. Time isn’t a line any more than space is finite–it’s merely the easiest explanation for the unexplainable.
Kind of like how we pass ourselves off as acts of nature, or fallen pianos. It’s easier for the mortal mind to understand that things break, freak storms happen, and a beautiful lie is ever so much more palatable than the ugly truth.
Ugly truths like we are eternal, that we have forever, that we are the rulers of the night. We buy into those lies just like the morals buy into our deceptions, clinging to the notion of a ‘forever’ until we slam into one of those fixed points in time. And we realize there is no linear line drawn from Point A to Point B that lead us to our fate. No logic in the universe can explain the horror of that moment.
I experienced that moment not a month ago, so believe me when I say I speak with authority.
I refer to Mobile, Alabama. In case anyone missed the events last month, a wave of kindred fell upon the city and destroyed every Acknowledged member of that domain, no matter where they hid. No matter who tried to defend them. Every single acknowledged member of the Ivory Tower, acknowledged as a resident of Mobile Alabama, received a final death.
ALL OF THEM.
Gone.
Dust.
So much for that promise of forever.
The easiest explanation is that the Justicariate ordered this. The easiest thing to do is to fabricate whatever excuse let’s you all sleep at daybreak and dream of your blissful little pursuits. Just like the easiest thing Vernon Cross, Anna Donnelly, and myself could have done was close our eyes, stick our fingers in our ears, and hum until the bad vampires were all gone.
They weren’t after us. That was made clear when they took the torpored body of Mistress of Harpies, Gemma Quill of the Assamites, forcefully from my arms. They had no intention of destroying us as they drove iron through my back and into the earth, pinning me like some sort of elaborate voodoo doll. No notice of me when they lit her on fire.
It would have been easy to say “Well, this isn’t my city. This isn’t my clan.” And close my eyes and hum while she burned.
We didn’t do that. We asked why. We screamed why. We honored our arrangements with Mobile’s rightful Prince. We fought for a domain that fought for us in our war against the vile bastard known as Stein.
We lost.
An entire domain died.
No, this wasn’t called by Their Graces, the Justicariate of our sect. No, this wasn’t a product of the Sabbat. And no, I’m not sleeping very well, actually. Thank you for asking.
~*~
In our next little installment of “While the Mistress of Harpies is away, the Kindred of Orlando will play…” let’s skip down the Yellow Brick Road of Mages, and Werewolves, and Sabbat, OH MY!” As many of you may have noticed by now, I know a lot more of what occurs in this city than what my mere physical presence would allow. As such, I’m completely up to speed on what occurred at the August 12th gathering.
Mages:
Is there anything more annoying than a party crasher, especially one who crashes a party without even physically being in attendance? I have to give Super Douche Points to Parabolic Industries and their stunning gift of Verbal Herpes at our wonderful gathering. Notice, dear readers, that the Super Douche Points were awarded for their lack of presence after sending such a fantastic gift!
I mean, who doesn’t enjoy a good game of Musical Chairs: The Supernatural Edition! Had I been present, I would have laughed myself silly at this reinvented old parlor game. For truly, that’s what it was. Everyone heard this musical bell or chiming sound, from all accounts, before their unique abilities were somehow switched up. When the “music” stopped, every Kindred was left with the “chair” they were given.
Would that make it more a Supernatural masked ball, then? Only with our abilities masquerading instead of us? Or was this more a game of Undead Clue? (I call Scarlett in the Parlor with the Lead Pipe! (The lead pipe so rarely gets love these nights…)
Regardless, no one is certain what ended this issue. Some say it was through the magnificent assistance of Princess Leiagh of the Magic Kingdom, and others say it was through the joint effort of many magically-inclined Kindred. What I *do* know for certain is that this whole trouble circles around the abduction of a Dr. Song’s daughter, and the apparent double-crossing of a deal with Dr. Song. My sources inform me that the deal was made by Toreador, Brujah, and Ventrue. BUT some other clan, or individual, decided they didn’t want this deal to go through at all.
Now, I’m all for the political backstabbing, and double crossing, and double double crossing, and the restabbing of the backs of the crossers that double crossed the original crossers. But inviting the Mages into our Lollipop Guild? Seriously? I sure hope you can undo whatever it is whoever it is did, because I’m not certain anyone in our city appreciates being melted-by-proxy by the Wizard of Ozh-Mah-Ghawd when he’s all slinging the magical water at us.
(Seriously, I can’t belt out the Elphaba songs to save my unlife. Can we please stop fucking with the Mages? Pretty please with sugar on top?)
Werewolves:
I was going to transition into this particular clusterfuck with some trite and contrived phrasing of “drinking the magical water” or some other turn of phrase. But from what I’ve heard, the werewolf emissary drank enough for all of us. Actual alcohol, that is. As in she showed up absolutely lit to our party. I wonder if the werewolves think so little of us that they have to drink massive quantities before dealing with our kind? Or maybe she just hit a lot of the liquid courage?
Heh. Maybe we found our cowardly lion?
Regardless, you all may have noticed the little problem we had at the beginning of the month with the Police? Namely, that they weren’t policing like they should? Yeah, that came about by a little mortal scandal involving the Chief of Police presumably being framed for child pornography. The Boys and Girls in Blue decided to stop zooming all over the city in their normal little munchkin patterns, went on strike, and claimed to remain in such a state until the Chief was cleared.
They were set to strike for a looooooooooonnng time, according to sources. I don’t need to tell you how bad that would have been for us. We’re talking National News Coverage and CNN headlines. Citywide strikes are like front page gold to the news crews. So not the way we want to promote our city!
And when the night was at its darkest, and the poppies were all, well, poppying, something happened. Evidence was found that the Chief was, in fact, innocent! The evidence trail lead straight to one location. You get three guesses, but you only need one. Yup. Atlanta.
Fucking Atlanta.
I’m sick of your shit, Atlanta. Give up and go home! You’re drunk! You lost. Get the fuck over it and move on. We broke up with you and took back our stuff. Don’t make me ask His Majesty to get a Justicariate Restraining Order. Those tend to come with bigger terms than just staying so many feet away from us. More like so many final deaths of your citizens until you straighten the fuck up.
Anywho, the werewolves were more pissed off about this turn of events than we were. Apparently, the police chief is something called a ‘kinfolk.’ Whatever that is, it looks and smells human, but it’s tied to the werewolves somehow. And there was this deal in place–yes ANOTHER HIDDEN BACKDOOR GODDAMN DEAL–with Stein that defined the terms of werewolf-to-Kindred interactions. Part of that deal was that the kinfolk got to live in Orlando free of molestation or interference by the Kindred. In exchange, the werewolves stayed out of the city.
Oh, and more than just the electronic fingerprints on this crime pointed towards Atlanta. Apparently, five of these kinfolk were abducted and taken TO ATLANTA. When our people pointed fingers to Atlanta, the werewolves literally said “Not our problem. Our deal is with Stein. Give us our kinfolk or else. In fact, we’ll take five of your people as ‘guests’ until our five kinfolk are returned. Kaythxbai!”
Did anyone else look around in utter amazement at the stupidity of this? Anyone?
Regardless of my feelings on the matter, Elder Grimalkin of the Gangrel agreed to go with the werewolves, along with five ghouls gently donated by various kindred, and hang out for a few nights. Elder Cerberus headed up the quest to save these kinfolk from Atlanta. I don’t know quite what happened in Atlanta, and I’m dying for all the delicious stories, but Elder Grimalkin is back among our citizens. I’m assuming this meant all parties reached a satisfactory conclusion.
It’s come to me that Elder Primogen Kennedy of the Toreador saw both Elder Grimalkin and Elder Cerberus as *loyal* for their quick actions and bravery in the face of the werewolf issue. I further commend both for their actions. Bravo!
The only part outstanding in this deleted chapter of Oz is that the Cowardly Lion is reportedly returning to meet with Prince Vitale to negotiate terms of a new treaty. Maybe this time she won’t be so drunk? Heh. Who am I kidding? Please be that drink. Please? I have to see a drunk werewolf for myself, if only for my own collection of “no, shit, there I was…” stories.
Sabbat:
It seems our gatherings would not be complete without some form of incursion from the flying monkeys… err, the Black Tower. Only this time, they didn’t try to kidnap our members and lock them away. This time, we did the kidnapping. Rather refreshing, that. Six of the little jerks decided to squat in an abandoned house in Orlando, and true to form, utterly wreck the place.
Some people have no concept of OPP.
A small group of our very own, lead by Elder Ganbataar Khan of the Gangrel, entered that poor, poor house and–
–nothing happened. Let that sink in a bit, shall we? According to the rest of the living world, nothing happened that night in that rather unremarkable little house. No call to the police. No shouts of alarm. No need for the rich investors of our kind to suddenly develop a raging need for a three bedroom ranch-style house in an unimportant zip code. Quiet was the night, the stars aglow while mortals slept on peacefully literally twenty feet away.
I’m making such a big deal about this due to the very brave and intelligent decisions made by the members of this strike team. They got in, they secured the flying monkeys, and they got out. All who were in attendance have my personal thanks for a job well done. I do hope His Majesty takes note of these individuals in the coming nights. Their services in future endeavors may be worth the call.
It does bear mentioning that a small video camera was found in the house, which Mr. Winston of the Nosferau tracked back to a server in St. Petersburg, FL. Who was watching this group, and for what reasons, we don’t quite know. Though we can speculate that our War Master will have quite the laundry list of things to ask when it comes time to question this lot. We eagerly look forward to the outcome!
In service to the Tower,
Image
Mistress of Harpies of Orlando
PS–A neglected shout out from last report: Elder Primogen Kennedy of the Toreador is owed a great deal of thanks for his handling of the Elite drug problem. While vague hints of that loathsome drug surface here and there, it’s more like a shadow of its former self. My thanks, Mr. Kennedy, for all you do. Truly.
