The Dreams that Fiends Dream

On the Edge of the Knife

August 15th, 1985.

Emil Saari gripped the hilt of a vicious looking sissipuukko his late grandfather gave to him – all the time staring through the window to the street below. Through the closed door of his room he could hear his parents fighting. They fought over his fathers‘ drinking, they fought over money (the lack of it), they fought out of despair and helplessness – and usually these fights would end with his mother getting a beating. Since his father lost his job on the assembly line of SAKOs‘ Riihimäki plant, they fought just about anything.  Emil had no respect for his father, and since his grandfather passed, he considered himself his mothers‘ last line of defense. His weak mother, that always rejected his help.

Emil nervously welcomed the sight of two VW Type 2s‘ – a blue and a black one – that slowed down to a halt in front of his building block. Emil was already dressed so he slipped out of his room. His mother was standing by the kitchen door, catching his eye but saying nothing. Half way to the apartment door his fathers‘ slurred voice interrupted his escape “Where do you think you‘re  going? There‘s a curfew out…” losing his words suddenly as he saw a knife in his sons‘ hand. Emil produced a hateful smile, while motioning a gutting maneuver across the air aimed at his father, before exiting the apartment.

On the street outside a few figures of various ages waited. They were his real family. “Get in, kid.” A tall guy in his forties with short blonde hair motioned Emil towards the van. The guys‘  name was Lauri. Some might consider him a right wing firebrand, but to Emil – Lauri was a direct link to the mystic warrior past his grandfather talked about. To him, Lauri spoke of the times as they were – shed of realpolitik. People like Lauri will eventually lead Finland out of her predicament.

Emil was sitting in the back of the blue Type 2, there were about 7 guys crammed in the back – some of them his high school friends, all nervous like himself. They passed some bad attempt at kilju in a military flask among themselves to lighten the mood and find their sisu. Lauri, sitting in the front seat turned around to face them, he was wearing a vest holding a large puukko with Lapua iconography engraved on its wooden hilt. He put a walkie talkie near his mouth “Listen up my soldiers, you all know your roles, and if you follow them we will finish this quickly. When we arrive at Ronnbacka, and find this place, I want you on your best behavior. I hope you polished your puukos‘ so the hyökkääjät can appreciate them better. You all know what to do, we talked about it this morning… Tonight you are picking up the slack of our corrupt state services, and doing what should have been done to these hyökkä strikebreakers years ago. ” a loud cheer erupted from the back of the van, the same could be heard through the walkies‘ static. The vans continued their cruise through three police checkpoints – unmolested. A police Saab 900 slowly drove away from its parking spot as the two Type 2s drove by their destination – a large apartment block in Ronnbacka. It was already cleared of two police patrols which patrolled the block with their dogs. From the VWs‘ exited 18 men with ski masks which then proceeded in good order to the entrance of the apartment building.

In the early morning hours the denizens of Ronnbacka were woken to the sounds of ambulance and police sirens, to the barking of dogs and wails of mothers and wives as eight bodies lay covered in black plastic in front of an apartment building at Rapakvientie 10.

An interpretative dance

"Ice Box" facility, Vantaa
August 4th, 1985.

The large door slides open and a well dressed, middle aged woman enters the large, empty storage hall. She quickly scans the area then proceeds towards the most interesting item – a large holding harness in the very center of the room, in it a slumped female figure. After inspecting the restraints, the woman grabs and yanks out  a wooden stake previously protruding from the figure's sternum.


Good evening.

Yes, hi, hello. Mamma L, was it?
I’m Prince Jacob’s personal assistant, Erika, and I will be interrogating you tonight. Now, if you would stay calm, obedient and honest, this will all be over before you know it.

With a shrieking inhale, the figure – Mamma L – animates back to life. Mamma L flexes her fingers, her stare fixed on Erika.
Erika, apparently content, places the stake on an instrument tray near the harness and proceeds to undo Mamma L's restraints.

Feel free to stretch your legs too, dear, I’m sure they’re stiff.
Tell me, do you like classical music?

In another life, I liked it. These nights, I exist for it.

Splendid. I was thinking of playing some Strauss.
Frühlingsstimmen, to be precise. It’s this beautiful, rich waltz.

You do waltz, don’t you?

Mamma L gets up slowly, managing a forced, modest smile. 

Not in the least. But you lead.

Wouldn't have it any other way. You will pick it up in no time.

Erika, looking quizzically at her walki.

Now, how do I… oh, it’s already on. Is it on?

Erika knocks on walkie microphone.

tap – tap – tap

It is. Sorry.
Spin it.

As the waltz erupts from the corner speakers, Erica waves her finger, directing the first few notes. Mamma L closes her eyes, her posture loosening.

Ah, the majestic voices of spring. There’s something in the mathematical nature of a waltz that eases the mind. Oh, do come closer dear, you’re not in any danger.

Mamma L approaches slowly. As Erika puts her hand around Mamma L's waist, Mamma L keeps glancing around the room as if expecting another presence.

I was hoping for a proper meet with the Prince.

Were you now? I'm sure you will meet him in no time.
But right now, right hand over my shoulder, like that, yes, left hand in my right, good, good.

Mamma L let's Erika do what she would, her bearing almost resigned.

Now, do you hear the tempo, the one, two-three, one, two-three, one, two-three of the brass? Just count those and follow my lead.

Mamma L nods, they start dancing. 

After several steps, Erika starts talking mid dance.

Do you know why I actually love a good waltz?
This bloody infectious tempo. Once you dance a few steps, it latches on and stays there. Always somewhere near, in the background noise, always being counted.

One-two-three, one-two-three, don't-miss-a-step, one-two-three.

It doesn't really ease the mind as much as give it a mindnumbingly menial task.
And numb subjects are so much easier to interrogate.

Mamma L`s posture stiffens as her look of resignation turns into one of trepidation.

My dear, you are as rigid as a board. And you’re trembling.

Erika presses Mamma L closer.

Don't tell me you are that afraid of little old me?

Mamma L keeps silent, her trepidation turns into outright fear.

Oh. No.

It’s not just that. It's…
You are desperately trying to hide something for me, aren’t you?

How nice.
See, now – now we can dance.

August 12th, 1985.

Slumped in his armchair, Splendor Solis sitting on his lap, Jacob turns the control knob on his viewing console, once again going through the rewind – pause – play motions of Corridor Camera B's final minute of footage. 

Mamma L wasn't staked.
Wasn't dominated.
And can liquefy, er… transmute inanimate objects temporarily. 


<meta />

Ever Returning


He was running for his life.

Long leaps through the jungle, scrambling for footing with each step, each jump precariously leading him forward. The branches scratched his face, stinging in the darkness. The starlight and the full moon let patches of light through the canopy above. The dog barking wafted after him overlapping with the noise of the posse. Men shouting, the words in English and French coming forward, chopped up, like the light, like his leaps, like his cheeks, like his thoughts. A gunshot. Quickly followed by a second and a third. Then screaming.

He continued running.

He had no clue why he was running or from whom. Were they Force Publique? They must have been, with the dogs and the loudness. Only the owners of the jungle would be so callous in making so much noise. His chest did not pump for breath, his heart did not climb up into his throat, there was no taste of bile and wheezing of exhaustion. But he felt the Beast roaring up its ugly head with each gunshot and each allez-y, allez-y that reached him. It was threatening to take over, to fight, to fly, to sprout the claws and rend the colonial mercenaries into shreds.

He pushed himself to go faster.

Before he realized, he ejected from the jungle into a large clearing, stumps of large dead trees pointing upwards, covering the empty ground like fingers grasping toward the starry night. He stumbled, surprised, and lost his footing which sent him flying to the ground. He tumbled and turned back, toward the jungle to catch the moment when the dark trees he left behind combusted. All at the same time, turned from darkness to a red bright inferno, they turned into torches. The Beast exploded in his mind, suffocating thought and taking over eyes and limbs and Blood.

The mercenaries started howling in pain, and the cacophony of their voices turned into the shrieks of lupines…

… which startled him awake. The ship horn was blaring outside, muffled by the steel bulkheads that surrounded him. It wasn't wolves, it was ships. It was a dream. He was not there. He was not there, among the lupines and monstrous men and strange African Cainites. He was in Helsinki, waking up to a different kind of horror. In the complete darkness, the sheer joy of the realization that the Beast still slept had deformed his lips into a smile. Horror indeed, just not tonight.

The flight home
Lucky or just that good?

40 000 ft. above the Atlantic
June 20th, 1985.

Jacob was sitting comfortably in his private jet cabin, looking out the window, counting his lucky stars. The Conclave went… almost unbelievably well.

Firstly, he was still unlive.
And, unfortunately, that was by no means a trivial success – not when one wakes to hauntings and suicide attempts, only to bob and weave through lethally delicate diplomacy in the evenings.

Secondly, Karolina was named Archon Praetor and Nikotar wasn't.
The latter part would be great on it's own, but Karolina… She was something else.
Interested in his problems, that's what she was. Enough so that she made Helsinki her staging ground. Also, she appeared to be interested in Jacob himself. 
Talk about a win-win.

Thirdly, the amount of information he'd uncovered was mind boggling. Raw data for the most part, sure, but a metric ton of it. For instance, he now knew that Helsinki was surrounded by not one but three Black Churches. Or, he now knew that Nyx was face behind his financial troubles. Or, he now knew nobody cared about Nedja.
He now knew a lot of useful things.

And lastly, Alton.
To his credit, Alton was taking the whole situation with remarkable calm, only a slight flexing of his index finger – a subdued tap – betraying his nerves. A true Englishman.
In a few curve ball laden evenings, Alton was named Archon, Lictor, Housecarl and, judging from his stained aura, he'd ingested some really old blood. So, Archon, Lictor, Housecarl and butt boy.
Jacob ended up being none of those things, to his eternal relief.

Of course, having his trusted Sheriff - yes, to top it all off, Alton remained his Sheriff – showered with titles and accompanying obligations had it's downsides, but those were nothing compared to the downsides of having even one of those gilded hand-grenades fall to his lap.

Phew, Jacob muttered to himself, glancing over to Alton.
And as he noticed Alton discretely inspecting his reflection in the window pane, Jacob tried to produce his finest expression of sympathy.

Poor bastard.

The long flight home
Atlantic skies

40 000 ft. above the Atlantic
June 20th, 1985.

Warwick was sitting comfortably in a private jet cabin looking out the window, sorting his thoughts and emotions about the Conclave, impressions of one meeting in particular kept coming back to him…

The air was getting heavy and hot, but it wasn't the hot and humid Liberian climate, ego propelled corpses couldn't care less, it came from friction of wills and fraying of nerves of too many spiders in the same room, webs entagling.  The door opened suddenly and she flowed into the room like a cold fresh breeze.

Blind Justicar Maris… The symbolism was impossible to miss, but was it genuine ideological sentiment or just a morbid joke nobody knew for sure, she was an enigma, and the spiders froze… She glided trough the room, said hello here, quiped there, sent Dilon scurrying, talked to me for a minute, publicly elected her Arhont, then left the gathering, spiders frantically checking and rechecking their webs in her wake…

Well this Conclave was eventfull… I went there as a Sheriff of a provicial town under Sabbat siege, and I'm coming back as a, not in any particular order, Huscarl to Tyrfing, Firstborn, The Steel triumvir of Iron Courts, Lictor to Dilon Abernathy, Ventrue Clan Strategos of Scandinavia, Arhont to Justicar Maris of the Malkav Clan, some stuff I'll not even mention in my own head and lets not forget, still Sheriff of Helsinki, but now under Camarilla spotlights. Shit I'll have to print my business card on a billboard! Heh…

Alton's eyes focused back on the starry sky over the Atlantic as he stared trough the plane window on the long flight back. His contemplation was somewhat disturbed as the flight attendant opened the kitchenette door and light flooded the otherwise darkened cabin interior. The window became a mirror for a brief few seconds and Warwick saw Jacob looking at him with a hair raising cold stare.

Hmmm… Yeah, let's not fool ourselves, my merrits counted for, maybe, one third of the reasoning behind this titular shower, mostly I was to be a stone thrown into every spiderweb. I have to tread very carefully so it doesn't become a golden shower after all…

Pretending not to notice Jacob's unreadable glare, Warwick continued to look out the window, but the night sky didn't look like freedom anymore. It started to feel like a sparkling shiny net slowly constricting around him…

Helsinki turns Hellsinki
News from the world

The London Times
June 10th, 1985.

As if the cargo train exploding on the Kaarja – Helsinki route some 6 hours prior had not been ominous enough, in the early morning hours of June 7th, just 20 miles off Helsinki harbor, the MS Skania, ESCO’s Helsinki – Tallinn ferry, sank after a catastrophic hull failure. Almost unimaginably, both calamities were casualty free. The diesel-tank cars exploded, apparently due to a chain heating system malfunction, while in transit with no injured personnel, and Skania sank while running a skeleton crew on a maintenance trip, with no hands lost. Both incidents are currently under investigation by the Finnish authorities and are treated as accidents.

Several local newspapers, however, present a much grimmer take, with articles linking the diesel-tank explosions to heavy weapons and a surge of gang related violence that has been plaguing Helsinki for the past months – and, tentatively, to the Bandidos motorcycle gang, one known for their excessive use of weapons. And while the police refuse to comment on any claims about an open investigation, Iltalehti, a prominent right wing tabloid cites an uncredited “well known parliament member” saying: 

It’s them. They know their time is up. The police curfew is just a start. They will have nowhere to hide soon. We investigate everything. We have the best investigators. We will find them. We will stop them. We will eradicate them. We will make Helsinki safe again. 

The Skania disaster takes a sinister turn as well with reputable media outlets like the FBC - BBC's Finnish offspring - reporting numerous eyewitness claims “several identical black vehicles" entered the ‘unavailable’ ship. One article, again for Iltalehti, even cites a “respected member of the intelligence community”, stating that the model described is one often used by the Soviet diplomatic corps.

Meanwhile, ESCO’s Helsinki representatives released a public statement maintaining the 'catastrophic hull failure' responsible for the disaster was caused by ‘unforeseen circumstances’ while on a scheduled ‘minimal load’ maintenance voyage and were not available for further comments. The police, as expected, refused to comment on claims related to an open investigation.

Hopefully, the following days will reveal more about both of these mysterious incidents.

Teleoturgia Eximerosi
Blood of the Sun God

Sethmora Castle, Southern Scotland
June 5th, 1985.

 After what seemed an eternity, the room finally fell silent… Fighting the nausea and spasms of cascading pain, Alton gazed numbly at the blood seeping from the huge white bull's myriad wounds. Were it not for the blinding rays of daylight that pierced the dilapidated roof, stabbing the flagstone floor, and the almost unbearable pain that daylight brought with it, Alton might have enjoyed this victory… He honestly didn't think he was going to survive the second bull fight. That ghouled black bull from the first fight took from him much more than he expected.


Another spasm reminded him that this wasn't over yet and that the hardest part is still before him. He took a squinted look, underneath the bloody black cow skin he was wrapped in, towards the pen the white bull came from and the opened door behind it that led to a meadow outside and the distant cliffs.

Picking up the broken pieces of himself in a thin net made exclusively from his inhuman willpower, he took the earthen jug, filled with bulls blood, from Phillip, the ghoul that he was assigned, and with heavy feet started towards the day outside. Perhaps not once in the last century did he felt grateful inside for being an Englishman, but today he felt it again when the infamous English summer smiled down on him through heavy overcast. These heavy iron grey clouds were possibly the only thing between him and certain death.

But the clouds alone could not save him from the wrecking agony he felt with every inch of his being, only his will propelled him, he had no feel left in his body, only pain. Fighting tooth and nail he kept his beast caged inside him, the beast howled with fear, urging to escape this death trap. Alton was implacable, his iron will was all that was left of him, will and the knowledge that escape was just as sure a demise as staying here in the light. There was nothing left to lose.

At that moment he saw two things… A black slit in the cliffside that was his salvation, and the betrayal of the clouds in a form of a thick ray of sunlight in the way that was his downfall.

The beast howled, the beast begged, it screamed in fear, it trashed the walls of its prison, but Alton made a decision and the beast had no choice but to work with him or perish with him. With a dual scream of terror and determination Alton threw himself through the light into the darkness…

After some time he opened his bloodshot eyes in the blissful blackness, even the beast was silent and still. He looked at his black and scorched hands, and with an stab of panic, realised that the jug was gone!

Master!? Only a silhouette, Phillip stood above him, his back towards the entrance… But as Alton's vision focused he saw Phillip was holding the jug in his hands, a mix of pride, joy, fear and awe on his face. You dropped it Master, it cracked a little but it is mostly whole.

Thank you. It was all Alton could force through his teeth, this would all be for naught if this loyal kine… A lesson to learn maybe?

Alton gingerly took the jug from Phillip and started deeper inside, until all the pressure of daylight was gone. After one of the bends, cave grew into a spatious room with an altar, a fireplace and two statues same as in the arena. He sat down on a stone bench, set the jug in front of him and waited.

A few hours later he heard footsteps behind him, he turned his head with an effort and saw Lord Osmund st.Claire, Sir Cornelius Este-Wolf and Lord Clive Proteus walking towards him. Teeth grinding he stood up, it would not do to fail now on account of unobserved etiquette. His sire gave him a slight nod and put a lightest touch on his shoulder.

This has to be the proudest he ever was of me since the moment he sired me! He reined in an escaping grin, but this uncontrollable discharge of sarcasm gave him hope that his humanitas still held tight the reins, and the beast gained no new ground.

As he stood stiffly others took the offering from him and went about their duties. As Lord Proteus started the fire under the cauldron, Alton braced for the beast's protest, but it never came, as though the beast was even more drained than he himself was. After a introductory ritual, there came a pro forma voting session of the full fledged members and having passed the test Alton was accepted in the Cenaculum as its Stratiotis. After every other member drank, he was handed a chalice of dark liquid. When the first whiff of blood hit his nose, he knew this was something else, something special, with a quick glance under the eyebrows toward others, who all looked at him solemnly, he took a good sip not wanting to procrastinate longer.

Alton involuntarily twitched from the lightning strike that was waiting in that one sip, so much energy, so much power, so much hunger and rage. He was jolted out of his stupor and never felt more alive. He had his suspicions and they were proven this night! It was Mithras himself coursing through his veins, it had to be, nothing in Avalon could be so potent, so ancient and yet so hungry for life…

More prominent members continued chatting after the ritual like nothing happened, knowingly leaving Alton to sit in silence, his whole body vibrant from the blood of Mithras. He tried to focus his thoughts, but emotions raged in him, exhilaration from beyond words, terror that the perceived power of this being brought and a fervent wish not to be on the bad side of the Sun God.

From Jacob, with love
The confidential report

May 16th, 1985.


the operation went… well. I imagine. The mortars worked perfectly and white phosphorous was as lethal as expected. Simeon and Ferrum Nigrum are dead. However, de Sotto failed to show up. And Hilsfrid made a memorable appearance.  I also imagine I may have wasted a trump card by rushing to take our friends offer. But I stand behind my decision. With Hilsfrid's blasted ephemeral tail on me, I felt I couldn't take the risk.

So, now, Helsinki has a new Toreador primogen. To whom I own a major boon. Oh, and Black Spiral Dancers rampaging in the woods. And a couple of other goodies. I'll be in more detail when we meet.

And meet we should in about 3 weeks. I'll be holding a Court early next month, a prelude to the Conclave if you will. You and Nikotar will be finalizing our dealings with the Old Court there. You will, however, be expected to make an appearance some two days prior, for your meeting with Tyrfing.

I'll inform you of the exact schedule as soon as it crystallizes. I will also be asking you for a small personal favor, but that's another topic for when you arrive.

Expect to hear from me soon, Father.

With deepest respects,


Cigarette - nine of hearts
Sounds of an empty battlefield

May 15th, 1985.

Feet straight in front of him, his back against the warehouse wall, Alton sat on the cold ground, numb of body and thought. The only sounds to be heard were the deep bass thumping through the forest, and the incessant sizzling of phosphorus that refused to go out. His lackeys and ''comrades'' already took away the remains of 20 odd deader that dead undead, including the infamous Ferrum Nigrum, Ilmars snake Simeon and the pretty lunatic Evelyn. It felt so empowering to watch them all die in a heartbeat under the merciless barrage, it was perfect, the plan, the execution… for another heartbeat…

His face turns towards the mangled cadaver of a Garou that was so close to killing him. None of those wounds are of my making… None! He thinks with a snarl. If that crazy old beast Inyanga, and crazier still Ravnos witch haven't seen fit to intervene at that precise moment… bloody hell… I'm too old for this… Bollocks!! Apparently I'm not old enough.

He takes out a cigarette and a lighter, but his fingers are numb…

What happened?! It was a trap, you wanker!! He thinks to himself… Ok, so Hilsfrid was good with serving up Simeon and Ferrum Nigrum, even Evelyn to us, so she could draw us out, that doesn't bother me, what bothers me is who ''leaked'' the info on the War party?! Was it Stina, was it Neil, was it Hilsfrid herself?!

He tries lighting the cigarette again, but his fingers are shaking now…

Is the ''Old court'' working with Sabbat or are they just puffed up retards?! His mind starts racing from suspect to suspect, dismissing some, jumping to others, circling back to the dismissed ones… STOP! This is no time nor place for brainstorming! Bottom line, this was a win, a huge win for us… for Jacob… heh, for Dilon… for whomever I never want to meet… But is it enough? No, it's never enough…

A lighted cigarette brings a smile to his face, along with a tingle of never quite forgotten fear, but just for a moment…  Shit… my throat is gone…

He stands up slowly, covered in gore and starts walking towards the waiting Volvo, chuckling to himself all the time.

With the wind changing direction, and the phosphorus from the grenades gone cold, the only sound that could be heard on this damp field near Kerava was the sound of quiet footsteps and a low gurgling noise that followed the dark figure.

Black Hand evicted
Party poopers

March 20th, 1985.

In the dead of night, in downtown Helsinki, a man was walking purposefully through the dark alleyways. His black oxford shoes were trampling the fresh untouched snow, and detritus underneath, under the combined weight of himself and whatever he was carrying over his shoulder. On some other night he might have contemplated poetic parallel of snow covered rubbish juxtapositioned versus the shinning lights of Helsinki and whatever scum it was shielding against unwanted gazes… But on this night there were more urgent matters on his mind.

Like a couple of dogs chasing a wolf only to find a bear in the cave… This really was a close one… Jacob is barely ''alive'' and Fritt Fall and his goon ran away with Stina… but Connor is dead… bloody hell, Connor is dead! Good thing he answered our blind charge with blind hatred, better yet that Jacob was the target and not me… he smirked.

If I haven't emptied my revolver in his face when I did, Jacob wouldn't be coming back from this nap. He was a beast, a raging beast, and I'm not ashamed to admit , to myself, I would not want to go one on one with him… speaking of numbers, where did Abgail run off to? Hopefully she will not end up on tomorrow evening news…

He paused to readjust his burden, then continued plodding along…

All this running around chasing our tails is starting to piss me off, how the hell do they constantly have more information than we do, something needs to change soon around here… Shit! Those plonkers are gonna pump Stina for even more info, and then the waiting for them to make a move so we can react starts all over again! Alton was starting to up his pace unwittingly, mumbling to himself.

Soon enough he exited the alley near a Volvo with the engine running. Alton threw the Prince in the back, then turned towards the driver: 'George, take him on a ride 'round the city until he comes to, then take him wherever he wants to go. If it starts dawning and he is still out, take him to the embassy!'

'But sir…', George stopped himself, he knew not to point out logic when his master got that look in his eyes. 'Yes, sir.'

Alton slammed the door and ran back into the alleyways. Fueled by anger and his potent vitae, his legs began pumping faster and faster as he ran towards the other side of the huge apartment block, where he thought the kidnappers went. I have to finish them, they will go to ground again, and I will have to look over my shoulder for the next mischief they pull…

He was at the stairwell in mere seconds, and had to slow down. Anger was all well and good for getting your blood up, but for a fight, a level head was better, some would disagree, but he was no Brujah, and it wasn't his style. Soon he heard one set of footsteps two floors up, so he went as quickly and quietly as possible. Soon enough he saw Fritt Fall walking down the hallway away from him carrying Stina over his shoulder.

Alton began slinking down the hall with his weapons drawn. Just a bit closer… two more steps… At that moment the Pander turned on his heel, a hand on his gun. Fuck!

But it didn't matter anymore… Alton was severely inconvenienced by this point, and an inconvenienced Ventrue is stark raving mad by any other standards! Fritt Fall was lying in a pool of blood in moments…

'Call your sire to pick you up!', Alton said to Stina as he pressed a cell phone in her trembling hand. There was a sound of running feet from the floor above, but when the goon showed his face, he took one panicked look at Alton and the scene behind him, and took a running jump through a second floor window…

Alton took one step forward, but then his ears picked up the faint sound of police sirens getting stronger. He is just a dumb shovelhead, fuck him! Walking back to Fritt Fal, he snarled at Stina: 'Go! Move!'

He picked up Fritt Fall's body and hurried down the stairwell to the basement where it all began. There he quickly scanned the bomb shelter for any interesting nick nacks. He hastily pulled the canines from Fritt Fall and Connor, pilled the broken wooden furniture on top of them, then set it all on fire.

He jogged out of there into the cold night air filled with the bleating of bystanders and police sirens blaring. He took Stina through the police cordon flashing them an inspectors badge that wasn't really there, and walked calmly towards the parking lot where Inti Alainen was pacing nervously.

With an angry glare directed at Stina and a quick motion to get in the car, that brokered no discussion, Inti turned towards Alton: 'There you go again Warwick, you keep surprising me, and I don't like surprises… but still you are growing on me… like fungus.'

Alton flashed his cold smile: 'What can I say, fungus likes dead, thick, tree stumps… Talk to you later Inti, I'm sure you want to tuck Stina in, and read her a bedtime story.' He turned and walked away not needing to see to know there was a giant scowl on Brujah Primogen's face.

My charm is gonna kill me one day, but what is the point of eternity if don't have fun with it. He thought to himself walking away from the noise and hubub.


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