VAMPIRE THE MASQUERADE: PITTSBURGH BY NIGHT

Prologue

The violin sings low through the penthouse. Paganini, spinning slow on an old record player. The city sprawls in broken light and winter haze. High above the Golden Triangle in his penthouse suite, Prince Morgan watches the city through the floor-to-ceiling glass wall. He sits with his back to the room, one hand tapping the armrest of his leather chair, the other beneath his cheek. Behind him, two women lounge on opposite couches. Beside the Prince stands a man built like a brick wall, face a slab of twisted scars, eyes hidden behind blood-red round shades.

One of the women speaks, voice soft as breath. “Gehenna was just a bedtime story for the ancients. Like we said it was. No street ran red with the blood of childer. No apocalypse. Just another lie that faded with the millennium.”

The other, all power-suit and lipstick like dried wine, adds to the conversation. “Sabbat’s gone quiet. The war was bloody, but we heard that the remaining force left the city to recuperate. Fighting is reduced to skirmishes now. The Camarilla holds New York, sire.”

Morgan stops tapping.

“They’ll come crawling back out,” he says, calm as still water. “Fanatics always do. Think they stopped the end of the world with crusades and claws. Victoria, keep your eyes open. I want names, faces, every newcomer who steps foot in my domain checked out. We’re not playing host to rabid dogs. Let us not forget that they still hold Philadelphia. That’ll be all.”

“Yes, sire,” Victoria nods, already sliding her phone from her coat, her heels echoing as she vanishes through the tall double doors.

The tapping resumes.

“Giselle?” the Prince says without turning. “What’s your read?”

The other woman, speaking softly to no one but herself, pauses. Her eyes are cloudy and disinterested. Her voice is barely a whisper.

“We build what others break, my Prince,” she murmurs. “The Sword sharpens itself, swings wildly, strikes stone. Cracks itself apart in the dark, thinking it striked true.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Morgan stares through the glass at the city glowing beneath the light snowfall. Bridges stitched across rivers. Cars scuttling like beetles. People mingling in the parks. Everything in order.

“Thank you, Giselle. You can leave. Oh, and please, tell Chauncey to send someone in. I find myself… parched.”

The woman rises. She bows slightly, still muttering to herself. The doors open and she disappears into the corridor.

He inhales and exhales slowly. Habit, not need.

“You can drop the charade now, Sheriff.”

The scarred man at his side flexes his neck and cracks his head. The illusion dissolves. Beneath his mask, the Nosferatu reveals himself in full. Scars twisted into something akin to a demon. Something meant to haunt.

“My Prince,” he growls, voice thick like tar. “Do you really buy what the madwoman said? Gehenna… a farce? All those signs… thinblooded… just coincidence?”

Prince Morgan chuckles without mirth.

“Religious now, Carter? Maybe the world didn’t end. Or maybe it’s already here. Maybe having to worry about Gehenna for an eternity will be our Gehenna.”

The doors creak open. His meal arrives. A blonde woman blindfolded in satin.

His fangs slide out.

Across town, far from the Ivory Tower, down in the rusted bones of the city, a disheveled, bruised and battered man runs like hell through the industrial graveyard of Chateau. Blood runs down his side. His breath comes in knives. He stumbles over old rebar, crashes through a doorway hanging off its hinges. The gun in his hand trembles. Every few feet he turns and fires, teeth gritted; just to make a point, even if it misses. Finally, a dead end. He stops, panting. Swears under his breath. Then turns. Click. Empty. He tosses the gun to the side and puts his hands up.

“You don’t know who the fuck you’re messing with.”

From the dark of the dusted warehouse, a voice is heard. “False bravado won’t do you any good. We know exactly who you are. We want you to carry a message.”

“You’re fucking dead!” the man sneers, rage spilling through cracked lips. “Whatever it is, you can shove it up your–”

A loud bang. The echo rolls long and slow.

He falls down, motionless.

It is the year 2000. As the oblivious Kine light their fireworks and toast to a new millennium, Gehenna, the prophesied cataclysm that would have the ancients drown the world in the blood of their childer, has not come to pass. Amid the looming towers of Downtown Pittsburgh, Prince Henry Lewis Morgan endures. For more than a century he has ruled the city, upholding the Traditions with an iron will. His grip weakens, yet his presence looms. Ever since the city lost its steel production, both the population and the Prince’s coffers bleed, and Camarilla’s hold slips ever so slightly beneath the weight of festering discontent. Beyond his waning influence, the Anarchs swing their bats in punk-soaked squats, howl rebellion in smoke-choked bars, and plot freedom in boarded up factories of North Side. Beneath the city, in the sewers and the derelict Underground Railroad, the Nosferatu slither. Deformed in body, sharpened in mind, they are the eyes and ears of the Camarilla; spymasters, whisper-merchants, and now, guides through the maze of data and surveillance that defines the new age. In North Oakland, beneath the Gothic spires of the Cathedral of Learning, the Tremere keep their secrets. There, behind warded doors, they study the tomes pilfered from Hillman Library and delve into the crimson mysteries of vitae, far from the idle prattle of Elysium. The thin-blooded, once hunted like rats and accused of heralding the End Times, linger in Prince Morgan’s domain, barely tolerated. To the west, in the wind-blown wilds of Oakwood and East Carnegie, the Autarkis Gangrel pace like wolves among the trees, eyes burning with hatred for all sects. They guard their territory with fang and claw, indifferent to politics. On moonlit nights, the Appalachians echo with bone-chilling howls, sounds that no Kindred can ever make, sounds that put the primal fear in every Kine. Some say it is mourning, others say war songs.

And then, there is the silence. The Sabbat. Their packs in Pittsburgh lie scattered and butchered, remnants of a decades old war. The Anarchs and Camarilla struck together once… but now the quiet feels like a held breath before a scream. Something stirs.​

The sun bleeds its last across the mountains, swallowed by dusk. The moon opens its silver eye upon the city, and so you rise… But who are you? (Please specify gender if you wish to do so.)

Race

toreador

A) You began leaving your mark on the art scene of Pittsburgh with works that were raw, unpolished, and deeply reflective of your internal chaos. You were hungry for recognition, but also for connection with others who felt just as lost in the world. At one of the gallery events, you met her. She said you had “a brilliant spark,” that your work “mirrored the suffering of life.” Flattery with a bite. First, she became your anonymous patron. Then, she sank her teeth in for good. Now, you own a club to her name in the South Side, Acherontia, which has recently gained attention and fame among the Kine for its retro darkwave scene and rave nights. Sometimes, the place doubles as Elysium, a truce zone where Pittsburgh Camarilla can shake hands for a while. Most nights, it’s just noise and strobe lights, but for you, it’s also a studio. You paint in the basement; concrete and a single flickering bulb. Your sanctuary. You’re trying to fill a void these nights, chasing the echo of a muse that slipped through your fingers the night you got Embraced. You chase it with blood. With bodies. With whispered names that you forget by the next night. Nothing works. As if that weren’t enough, your sire has recently vanished without a trace. Disappeared. She’s even missed a few of her beloved high-class socialite mingle events. You are determined to find out what happened. You are Toreador.

Auspex, Celerity, Presence.

assamite

B) A prestigious university in Cairo was where you worked as a librarian. By day, you were friendly with students and staff. People believed you were a person of scholarly ambition, hungry for knowledge. By night, your sadistic tendencies eventually led you to playing the role of an infrequent serial killer. Unluckily, one of your targets turned out to be a vampire, someone you had misjudged as easy prey. You were Embraced half out of amusement and half out of punishment. Despite being a neonate, they found value in both your bloodthirst and your technical know-how. While you were trained by the Warrior caste, your occupation and skillset also brought you into contact with the Viziers. After a year of brutal training and backbreaking errands, you’d had enough. You stowed away on a ship bound for the United States, for Pittsburgh. Now, you’re a mercenary, an assassin, and a fugitive. On the run from the swift judgment of the Elders of Alamut for your desertion. You are Assamite.

Celerity, Obfuscate, Quietus.

ventrue

C) It started small, your job at the agency. A smear campaign here, a little black site torture interrogation there. You kept your head down, your mouth shut, and your conscience buried six feet under. Every time they handed you a job, you finished it. Quiet. Efficient. Clean. Your superiors noticed. With every promotion came more risk… and more reward. But you weren’t in it for medals or the occasional pat on the back. You had your eye on the real prize: the “inner circle.” The big government boys giving the orders, pulling the strings, steering the machine. You wanted in. Then the real “inner circle” noticed you. The kind that don’t show up in reports. The kind who see beyond classified. Vampires running their own operations behind the government. They needed someone like you: sharp, loyal, and just ruthless enough to follow through without asking questions. You were taken off the books. Declared KIA in a drug bust that never really happened. You watched your own funeral from across the street, cigarette smoldering in your fingers. Now you’re one of the Damned, pulling jobs and gathering intelligence for your masters under the false identity of an FBI agent, just like before. And just like when you first started your career, you’re back at the rock bottom. Except this time, you have no intention of staying there for long. You are Ventrue.

Dominate, Fortitude, Presence.

ravnos

D) You experienced your first round of applause on the stage of a school’s play. Since then, you felt you were an actor. You moved to the sunny hills of LA trying to chase jobs and fame, but to no avail. Desperate for money, you started doing riskier acting gigs: first, performances on the street with troupes of junkies and other trash in the hopes of netting some dollars; then, leading your own group of street actors and performers, doing street plays for money and - all the while - stealing from the unsuspecting, dazzled crowd. Over time, powerful people noticed you, and your group started getting invited to parties in houses farther and farther from the city to reenact real-life tragedies of murder, exploitation, and rape to wealthy, darker individuals, where they would pay you handsomely and lavish you with gifts and drugs. Until one day, you were tasked to perform a ritualized murder in one of those unknown houses, unaware you were participating in your own snuff act. The blade that cut your throat was real and, as you lay dying, to honor your desire of acting you imposed yourself as a kid, continued to perform the dance macabre as a last, defiant act to life itself. Someone in the crowd greatly admired your resolve and, as the others were feasting on your blood, she took pity of you and, with a smile, gave you the dark gift. You are Ravnos.

Animalism, Chimerstry, Fortitude.

nosferatu

E) Tinkering with tech and computers always felt like your natural calling. By the time you were in college, you were already a black hat. Turns out, you and your group had been on a watchlist for a while, and it all came crashing down when your idiot of a roommate made a series of OpSec mistakes. The FBI showed up on campus and arrested the moron. The feds confiscated everything. Hopeless and paranoid, you steered clear of the streets, double-checked your back at every corner, and headed home to grab your bag and leave town for good… before they came for you too. Except the knock on your door wasn’t the feds. It was the ugliest, smelliest, most repugnant creature you’d ever seen in your life. After you came to your senses, it explained how they were the ones who tipped off the FBI, and how its organization needed exceptional people like you. It invited you to its “family.” The wailing of police sirens in the distance only added to your despair. You accepted. Weeks later, police cornered “you” in a forest lodge on Mt. Washington. They breached the site and… the whole place vaporized in a massive explosion. Now, you’re a boogeyman in your old circles, leaving your old sig behind for scares. You are Nosferatu.

Obfuscate, Animalism, Potence.

brujah

F) Your widower father worked day and night at the steel mills to afford you a good education. But times were hard. From seeing your dead-tired dad at home to visiting the mill where he worked, you witnessed firsthand how the workers were treated unfairly in the twilight of the steel industry; underpaid, overworked, and left in dangerous conditions. By the time you were in college, the steel industry had all but vanished. But the economic depression and decline still hung thick in Pittsburgh’s air… at least for the working class. Local celebrities, bankers, and ex-steel barons still lived comfortably in their mansions. Because of this, you and your friends clashed with riot police time and time again during protests. With your fiery personality and charismatic speeches, you became someone who inspired people to take action, to fight back. Then today, while walking across campus, you met someone. He felt important… too important. He asked to come back to your dorm room, and for some reason, you agreed. You think he said you were being recruited? At least… that’s the last thing you remember. When you woke up, he was gone. You are Brujah.

Celerity, Potence, Presence.

malkavian

G) Some might call you a sociopath. Throughout your adolescence, you saw people as beings beneath you and silently mocked their beliefs and lives. In your mid-twenties, after dropping out of university, you made a living out of conning the bereaved. A practiced tilt of the head, a pause, a whisper. “They’re at peace now.” Of course it’s all bullshit. There’s no such thing as the supernatural. Your smoke-and-mirrors act, built on cold reads and rational guessing, was just an easy way to make money. Your Embrace came out of nowhere, a seemingly random attack in a parking lot while you were walking to your car. The first few nights were horrific, tense and confusing. You never saw your sire once. The only communication came in cryptic, surreal fragments: messages left on your answering machine, instructions slid under your door in unmarked envelopes, the ringing of a payphone down the street that only stopped when you picked up. Eventually, you got the hang of hunting. And then came the voices. Whispers in the back of your mind, speaking of nothing and everything. Flickers of movement in your peripheral vision, always gone when you turned to look. The world shifted, cracked slightly at the edges. Reality felt like a stained glass window, and you were on the wrong side of it. You’ve come to understand that the Embrace was a kind of divine punishment for your arrogance, your blasphemy, your mockery. The spirits you lied about your whole life? They’re here now. And they’re tormenting you. So be it. You will spit in the face of your tormentors. You will stare into the abyss and punch God. You will have the last laugh. You are Malkavian.

Auspex, Obfuscate, Dementation.

tremere

H) Born into a devout Catholic family of Polish immigrants, you lived in a small but modest house on Polish Hill, just north of Oakland. You were religious until your adolescent years, until that night. On a dare from your friends, you snuck into the crypt of the Immaculate Heart of Mary Church at midnight. What you witnessed there shattered your faith: a horrific ritual murder and rape, committed by your parish priest. No one would have believed your word against the good Father’s. So, you said nothing. You distanced yourself from the Church and from God, repressing the trauma the only way you knew how, silence and distance. Years later, while studying in Hillman Library, a man approached you. He asked questions about theology and mysticism. You tried to brush him off, told him you hadn’t practiced since your teens, but then he looked into your eyes and asked again. Something compelled you to speak. From what your family taught you as a child to the atrocity in the crypt, you told him everything. When you finished, he looked pleased. He took you to Cathedral of Learning, Cathy, to one of the unused rooms in the sub-basement. There, he drew wards, chanted phrases, and opened a door to reveal a massive room. Then you were Embraced. That was months ago. Your Embrace was experimental, a test to see if faith and trauma could power blood magic. There is a constant war within you; the struggle to be someone better for your old family… and to be something monstrous enough for your new one. You are Tremere.

Dominate, Auspex, Thaumaturgy.

Map

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Character Sheet

Name: Adrian Vale
Generation: 13th
Clan: Ventrue

Attributes:
Strength 2
Dexterity 4
Stamina 2

Charisma 2
Manipulation 3
Appearance 2

Perception 3
Intelligence 3
Wits 4

Disciplines:

Dominate 2
Command: Speak a one-word command, which the subject must obey instantly. If the command is at all confusing or ambigious, the subject may respond slowly or perform the task poorly. The subject cannot be ordered to do something directly harmful to himself, so a command like “die” is ineffective.

Mesmerize: Mesmerize allows for anything from simple, precise directives (handing over an item) to complex, highly involved ones (taking notes of someone’s habits and relaying that information at an appointed time.) It is not useful for planting illusions or false memories. A subject can have only one suggestion implanted at any time. Both you and your target must be free from distraction. You may activate the imposed thought immediately or establish a stimulus that will trigger it later. The victim must be able to understand you, though the two of you need to maintain the eye contact only as long as it takes to implant the idea. The victim cannot be forced to harm himself directly.

Presence 1
Awe: Those near you suddenly desire to be closer to you and become receptive of your point of view. Despite the intensity of this attraction, those so smitten do not lose their sense of self-preservation. Danger breaks the spell, as does leaving the area. However, those who were subjected to Awe will remember how they felt in your presence.

Fortitude 1
Although all vampires have an unnatural constitution that make them much sturdier than mortals, Fortitude makes it so you can shrug off agonizing trauma and make the most bone-shattering impact look like a flesh wound.

Contacts

Most of your mortal ex-contacts (fellow agents, operators, beat cops, informants) sadly cannot be reached, as they think you are dead. You have to build your network from ground up.

Benjamin Raffard: Your sire. Raffard owns a real estate firm in Downtown Pittsburgh. He introduced you to the Pittsburgh Court a couple of months ago and got you a studio apartment in the South Side Slopes.

Rakeem Vaughn: Street informant. A common drug dealer, you saved Rakeem from a gang related shootout with your quick thinking while you were working undercover for a job on behalf of Raffard. As he owes you his life, he likes you quite a lot.

§Carter Pike: The Sheriff of Pittsburgh is a no-nonsense man. You got his number very recently, when he called you for a job. In one of your Elysium visits, you heard from Raffard that he’s a Nosferatu, but he looks human, somehow. Is it one of their tricks?

§Dennis “sp00ky” Weller: Nosferatu fledgling. You met sp00ky during a mission Sheriff Carter Pike assigned to the three of you; a test to prove your worth to the Court.

§Vivienne Holloway: Toreador fledgling. You met Vivienne on the same mission with sp00ky, arranged by Sheriff Carter Pike to test your loyalty and value to the Court.

Chapter One: Blood Work

Part 1

Your eyes snap open.

The ceiling fan groans overhead, spinning slow. You feel it before you do anything; the dull ache of hunger behind your gums as you slowly rise out of bed. You walk to the window, pulling apart the jet-black curtains just enough to peek outside to glimpse the Pittsburgh skyline, silhouetted by the early night. Your phone buzzes, a courtesy from Raffard. You answer.

“Yes?”

“Pike here. The Point, by the fountain. An hour. Don’t be long.” Click.

You drag a cigarette from the crumpled pack on the nightstand. Flick the lighter. Its flame used to make you recoil; some deep, feral revulsion that came with the curse. Now it just makes your eyelid twitch. You suck in the smoke and try to think.

Carter Pike. You’ve seen him in Elysium before; the Sheriff of Pittsburgh. A face full of scars and a personality like a brick wall. If he’s calling you directly, and it can’t be said over the phone, it must be important.

You throw on a suit and overcoat, strap on your shoulder holster, leave your apartment, and hop into your car. Crown Victoria. Nothing flashy. Being nondescript helps you stay unnoticed. If this meeting hadn’t come up so suddenly, you could’ve grabbed a bite on the way. Raffard mentioned that your… family, has a very specific taste in blood, and yours is quite simple. Blood from nicotine users. You start the engine and begin the descent down the sloped streets toward Point State Park.

You stop the car at the park entrance and step out into the crisp winter air. With slow steps, you approach the massive fountain at the far end. Just as promised, he’s there, with something tucked under his arm. But he isn’t alone. Beside him, a hunched figure; covering his face with a hoodie, pale and twitchy. Nosferatu.

“There he is,” the hooded Nosferatu croaks with something close to cheer.

“Good evening, Sheriff.”

“Likewise,” he replies. He’s wearing those blood-red round shades he always wears in Elysium. “We’re waiting on one more. Once she arrives…”

His words trail off as he looks past you. You turn as well and see a beautiful woman approaching. She’s followed by what you assume is her bodyguard or chauffeur, who holds a black umbrella over her in the gentle snowfall. Hands in the pockets of her fur coat, she offers a polite greeting.

“My apologies…”

“Let’s cut the greetings short,” Pike interrupts. “You three can trade pleasantries later. We’re already running late.”

“Here’s the brass tacks. I called the three of you for a job tonight. Seeing how all three of you are still fledglings, think of it as your trial. A chance to become respected members of the Camarilla Court.” He continues. “One of our guys, a ghoul named Stan, went dark about a week ago. We figured he was just laying low, but he hasn’t answered any calls or reported back.”

He unrolls what he was holding and hands it to the woman. She reads, silent, then passes it to you. Newsprint. You scan the headline: “BLOOD RESEARCH BEGINS!”

You hand it to the Nosferatu. He lets out a hiss of breath.

“God damn it,” he mutters.

“I think you can understand the predicament we find ourselves in. We’ve received word that someone, a PhD student at the medicine school, is analyzing blood samples from the homeless and street trash of North Side. Stan was among them, gathering intel.”

He looks at each of you.

“Your job is simple. Infiltrate the university’s medical department. Don’t care how, as long as you don’t kill anyone. Find out if any of those samples belong to Stan. If they do, destroy them. And if you do find a ghoul sample, make the student talk. I want to know who handed over the blood. Any questions?”

“Do you have a picture of the student? Or the ghoul?” you ask.

“Nothing on the student on such short notice. Here is Stan.” Sheriff takes out a driver’s license and shows it to all three of you. “Of course its a burner for a made up guy. But the photo is legit. Take it.” He hands the license to you, which you pocket inside your overcoat. “When the job is done, give me a call. You already have my number when I called three of you earlier.”

Then, the woman speaks again.

"Sheriff, does this disappearance have anything to do with… the thing we talked about?

Pike turns to her. Eyes unreadable behind the crimson lenses.

“I don’t know, Ms. Holloway. But keep your eyes open anyway.”

He looks at the three of you again.

“Any other questions?”

Silence. He walks away.

The three of you linger in the cold shadow of the fountain. The Nosferatu, wearing a crooked smile beneath his baseball cap and hood, speaks first.

“Name’s Dennis. Hope one of you two’s brought wheels - I took the light rail.”

“Vivienne.”

“Adrian.”

“I think we should visit the lab immediately, Adrian. Dennis here can… also come with us,” the woman looks at the Nosferatu.

Nosferatu shakes his head and clicks his mouth.

“Nah, I think going to the slums might be a better idea. Let’s shake the homeless down a bit, maybe spook ‘em a lil’. We might find Stan AND whoever collected blood from him and other bums.”

It seems that there is a tie in votes. Vivienne and Dennis turn to you.

“Well bossman, what do you think we should do?”

You start pondering your options.

p1 choices

A) Head straight to the university campus. A quick in and out should be simple and without a fuss, right?
B) Swing by the homeless center of North Side where Stan used to sniff around. If anyone heard something, they might be there.
C) Pay Rakeem a visit. He sells to homeless. He’s got ears on the street and a habit of knowing things he shouldn’t.

Votes are tallied, A it is. With “no split” winning over “split”.*

Part 2

You glance at your watch. 8 PM.

“We hit the lab first. Homeless center can wait.”

Dennis throws his hands up in mock defeat and shrugs. “Alright then.”

Vivienne turns to both of you. “Let’s take my car.” She glances toward the man holding the umbrella over her and gives a small nod. He responds in kind.

“Shotgun,” Dennis rasps, already grinning.

The four of you start walking toward Vivienne’s car, parked on the other side of the park entrance, far from where you left yours. It’s a sleek, luxurious sedan. The man opens the door for Vivienne while Dennis climbs into the front seat. You slide in next to Vivienne in the back while the man takes the wheel.

“Pitt Med, Oscar,” Vivienne says.

“Yes, ma’am. Should take about 30 minutes.” Oscar steps on the gas.

“Adrian, Dennis,” Vivienne begins, “I want to ask you two about this disappearance. Have you heard of anything similar happening recently? I mean, people going missing?”

You light a cigarette. She turns her head away at the sight of the flame. You smirk. You’ll never tire of watching Kindred reaction to your little party trick.

“Nah, nothing on our radar,” Dennis says, letting his arm dangle out the window. “If something had come up, Sally would’ve had us checking every crevice.”

“Auntie” Sally. Nosferatu Primogen. You’ve never seen her yourself, but Raffard mentioned her a few times. A local legend and a boogeyman, rolled into one.

“Nothing from me either,” you say, exhaling smoke. “Why? You asked Pike about this too. Is it something - or someone - personal?”

Vivienne watches the road through her window, her gaze distant. “Yes. Someone important to me. My sire. She disappeared a few days ago, around the same time as Stan. That’s why I asked Pike. And that’s why I’m asking you. When he called me in for this mission, I was hoping we’d find her along with the missing ghoul.”

“Sure thing,” Dennis turns to Vivienne and flashes a wide, unsettling grin. “I’ll keep my peepers peeled, yeah?”

The rest of the ride passes in silence.

“We’re close, ma’am.”

“Oscar, drop us off a block away. We’ll walk the rest.”

He nods and pulls over a few minutes later. You and Dennis get out. Oscar opens the door for Vivienne and hands her the umbrella. As he returns to the driver’s seat, she leans down and speaks to him through the window.

“Circle around the area and be ready when I call.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He drives off into the snowy night.

As snow continues to fall, you take the umbrella from her and open it, holding it above both your heads. “Shall we?”

You and Vivienne walk in silence, your footfalls muffled by snow. Dennis lags behind, head low, doing his best to avoid attention. As you make your way down Terrace Street, the School of Medicine building looms into view. Calling it big would be an understatement. With its labyrinth of interconnected structures, spire-like buildings, and tall, glass-paneled windows, it looks more like a modern-day fortress than a hospital. Dennis gets close from behind.

“Alright, bossman. What’s the play? Place looks massive. We don’t even know where they keep the stash.”

“You’ll enter through the hospital’s emergency wing at the back,” you instruct. “Find the security room, take care of the night guard, and guide us using the cameras. If you can pull building schematics, even better. Vivienne and I will go through the front gate.”

Without a word, Dennis walks into a shadowed alley and ducks behind a dumpster. A minute passes. Still no sign of him. Then, his voice drifts out right next to you.

“Sure thing, bossman. Let’s get yous twos those cameras. I’m going.”

You don’t see him; he never came out, but it’s unmistakably his voice.

“I’ll never get used to that,” Vivienne mutters. You make your way to the front entrance and enter the building. Inside, a security guard holds up a hand.

“No civilians after 8, sir,” he says, aiming it at you.

You flash a badge. Your alternate identity as a mortal, another idea of Raffard. “Special Agent Mulder. This here is Professor Lockhart. We’re here about the blood research taking place at this institution.”

The guard loses his composure, "“Well, uh… I’m sorry, sir, but we were told that…”

He stops. Both of you involuntarily look at Vivienne. In that moment, she’s the most important person in the world.

She reads the guard’s name tag. “William, please. We’ve come a long way for this project, and we still need to return to the hotel. Could you be a dear and point us to the lab?”

“O-of course, Ms. Lockhart. But I don’t know much about it. I’m just a guard, haha…” He nervously adds, “Well, if there is a research project, it’s probably happening in Scaife Hall.” He points at a sign. “Follow those. Labs are in that wing. Oh, and you’ll need an ID card to open the doors. Please, take mine.” He hands her the card. “If you need anything else, I’ll be here.”

Vivienne’s already walking away, offering no reply. You look at the guard dead in the eye and you stir your blood.

“Have no doubts about it. Now, why don’t you forget this whole encounter?” His eyes glaze like fogged glass. He walks back to his post and slumps back into his seat. The dull ache of hunger throbs behind your gums again. You make a mental note to feed soon. You catch up to Vivienne as you head to west wing, toward Scaife Hall.

Your phone buzzes after a while. Dennis. “Bossman, I’m in position. Can see yous twos heading to the labs from the screens here. I cornered a little songbird, he sang good. The one you’re looking for is Lab 186.”

You think you hear a muffled scream in the background. “Shut up,” Dennis barks, followed by a loud smack.

“Alright.” You turn to Vivienne. “186.” She gestures at a nearby sign. Labs 180 to 186 are on the upper floor.

“Dennis, don’t forget to wipe us from the footage.”

A chuckle through the line. “Already on it, bossman.” He hangs up.

You reach the end of the upper floor. Lab 186. Vivienne swipes the card. The door clicks open.

Inside, a man has his back turned to you, gripping a baseball bat. His friend is sifting through files. Both turn the moment you step in. The file-man drops what he was holding and bolts for the open window. At the same time, the one with the bat charges at you and Vivienne. You duck under his wide swing, probably not meant to cause pain, just to delay you two. You grab his wrist and twist it hard. There’s a sickening crunch. He drops the bat and collapses, howling in pain.

You see Vivienne blur past at unnatural speed, streaking toward the window, but it’s too late. The runner is gone. You can already hear screeching tires outside. Vivienne turns to you, her eyes wide.

“I saw him before.” She’s already pulling out her phone and dialing. No doubt Oscar, so he can give chase.

You leave the man groaning on the floor and make your way toward the files and samples scattered across a metal table, clearly the work of the two intruders. You take a quick glance at the tubes and find a vial of crimson liquid labeled “Stanley Kotack,” written in sharpie. Nearby, a research file. You pick it up and skim through it. According to this, the team, consisting of two students who worked on this project as their thesis, didn’t draw blood from Stan directly, his vial was already in a group of samples taken from volunteers. The report notes that his blood is “nothing like the ones taken from the homeless population,” and somehow has “regenerative properties.” Yeah, you’ve found the ghoul blood.

You take an old suitcase lying near the back of the lab, dump its contents, and pack every related vial and report inside. Then you turn to the man on the ground.

“Start talking,” you growl. “Who are you, who sent you, and why are you here?”

He winces, jaw clenched against the pain.

“Odran. He sent us. Said it was a simple smash-and-grab. Didn’t mention anything about vampires. Yeah, I saw your lady friend zip by like a ghost.”

Vivienne steps in. “How long have you been watching my club?”

“Two weeks. Maybe three.”

“Do you know anything about my sire?”

He hesitates. That’s all the invitation Vivienne needs. She kneels down, grabs his already mangled wrist, and gives it a deliberate twist. The scream that follows is bloodcurdling.

“No! I swear! I don’t know anything, I’m just,” he screams more. “Just a muscle! We were supposed to bring the blood and the report to Odran. Tonight. North Side. Some underground party! It’s in my pocket!”

Vivienne lets go, pats his jacket and takes out a small card, then stands up without a word. You’re already pulling out your phone.

Pike picks up immediately. “Adrian. Is it done?”

You give him the rundown.

“I see. Gather what we need. I’ll have someone there in ten to fifteen, to collect your guest.”

“Who is Odran?”

“Degenerate Anarch. More laidback than most of his sect in this city, but still one of them. Curious he’s mixed up in this blood business.” He hangs up before you can ask more.

You and Vivienne lock eyes. You take another glance at your watch. It’s about 11 PM, an hour until midnight.

Part 2 Choices

A) You still need to find the students, before this spirals into a full-blown Masquerade breach. Head to Odran’s party and see what he knows.
B) Swing by the homeless center first. Any scrap of information helps before walking into the Anarch’s den.
C) A compromise. Dennis won’t blend well in a place full of mortals, touching body to body. He can check the homeless center for Stan or the campus for the students while you and Vivienne handle Odran.

Also, if you want to do something to the ghoul you captured, or anything else before you leave, please specify in your votes.

I’m so sorry for this very late update, I got some bad spring sniffles. C wins.

Part 3

“Pike says he’ll send someone to pick up our man here,” you say to her. “I saw a fire escape at the end of this floor. Take him outside and wait for us. I need to handle something with Dennis.”

“Sure thing,” she says with a nod and grabs the suitcase.

Cellphone already in hand, you walk out of the lab, stare directly into the camera overlooking the corridor, and dial Dennis.

“Bossman, what’s taking so long? Have you found… oh.” His voice trails off after seeing Vivienne and a limping man clutching his wrist in pain.

“Yeah, we found the blood and the report on the research, but two ghouls were raiding the lab. One of them got away; we caught the other.”

You hear Dennis curse under his breath. “Sonuvabitch. Well, what do we do now?”

“Someone’s coming to pick up the stuff, including the ghoul. Stay put. Let’s take care of the guy you strong-armed.”

With Dennis guiding you through the cameras, you take the empty corridors and quickly reach the hospital wing of the school, avoiding additional security. You enter the small control room and find the half conscious security guard gagged and tied to a chair, with a bloodied eyebrow. Dennis, hunched over the screens, turns his deformed face to you.

“Hell of a night,” he says.

“Yeah,” you mutter, taking out a cigarette. “Just fantastic.” You slap the guard across the cheek. He stirs. When he sees Dennis’ face, he starts thrashing again.

“Rip that duct tape off and hold his shoulders, will you?”

Dennis gets behind the guy, releases him, and then grabs him with a wrench grip. You hold the cigarette an inch from his face.

“You smoke?”

The man stares at you, confused. You slap him again.

“Do you smoke?”

He nods frantically. You slip the cigarette back into your pack, then lean in and sink your fangs into his neck. It’s been a long night. And he was telling the truth about being a smoker. Before losing yourself in the ecstasy of the Kiss, you manage to pull away and lick the wound closed. You grab him by the hair and stare into his eyes.

“Now, why don’t you forget you ever saw us?”

Just like the security guard at the front of the building, as if a switch has been flipped, his eyes fog over.

You nod to Dennis. “We’re done here.”

You leave the dazed guard behind, the door swinging shut behind you. Dennis does his creepy giggle again.

“What the hell, we can do that mind trick crap?”

“I can. Imagine my shock when you disappeared into thin air.”

“Yeah, that’s my favorite one. Apparently, it’s not really invisibility or whatever. Hold on.” He ducks into a nearby restroom. Seconds pass. Then his voice comes from nowhere. “Alright, let’s leave this joint.”

You and the invisible Nosferatu stroll through the peeling halls, past nurses doing their graveyard shifts with dead tired eyes, and out into the night. Rounding the hospitals flank, you find Vivienne in conversation with a stranger beside an old model car, its color crimson red. In the back seat, the captive ghoul; hands, feet and mouth duct taped. The suitcase is already tucked into the passenger seat. The stranger looks up at your approach.

“Ah. You must be the other fledgling Pike mentioned. He said there were three of you…”

Dennis fades into view beside you. The man sighs and rolls his eyes. You take a good look at him. He speaks with an accent. He has his medium long raven hair in a lazy ponytail, with a clean shaven face. He’s definitely handsome. Wears all black with a leather jacket, and a t-shirt that has someone immolating himself. You think its from a band or an album.

“Ja. Typical Nos,” he mutters. “Anyway. I’m the courier good Sheriff sent to pick up your findings. Name’s Rolf. Rolf Toten.” He offers you a handshake. Dennis just gives a slow nod. “We’ve already been talking,” Rolf continues, glancing at Vivienne. “Pike gave instructions. You’re to split up. Hit the Anarch’s rave. Find the students.”

“I already recalled Oscar,” Vivienne says. “The other perp managed to evade him.”

Dennis shrugs. “Well, I can search for the students in the campus. I know the place, I used to study there, before the makeover.” He points at his face with a gnarled fingernail. “And I’m not that good at parties or whatever.” He turns to the courier. “You mind giving me a lift? Let’s not waste time.”

Rolf hesitates, then grunts. “Fine.”

Dennis tosses the suitcase into the back, climbs into the front. Rolf turns to you and Vivienne.

“Good luck,” he says flatly, then slides behind the wheel and stars the engine.

Ten minutes later, Vivienne’s car pulls up beside the two of you. As before, Oscar gets out and opens the door for her. Once you’re both inside, Vivienne doesn’t waste a second.

“What happened?”

“Sorry ma’am,” the ghoul driver mutters. “I lost him after a while.”

“No matter now.” She hands the address she got from the ghoul to him. “This is where we’re going.”

Oscar takes the card delicately, flips it once, then gives it back.

“Yes ma’am. North Side, if I’m not mistaken. I’ll get us there fast.” He steps on the gas.

The car winds across the bridge into the North Side, the silence thick in the car. Making your way towards the poverty stricken neighborhoods under the snowfall, you notice less and less people, and more and more decay. Homeless huddled around a burning barrel in the underpasses, hollow-eyed prostitutes waiting under the street lamp. As you are driving through same looking derelict warehouses, music gets closer and closer. No other cars are around.

Oscar pulls into a subterranean parking garage. It descends six levels, but only the second and third are packed. He settles the car on the third floor. You and Vivienne get out. At the far end of the floor, you see someone standing by a door. Judging by his broad frame, he must be a bouncer of sorts. As you approach, his expression sharpens.

“May I see it?”

Vivienne hands over the card. He studies it, then returns it without a word.

“Enjoy your night,” he says, opening the door.

It leads to a narrow maintenance tunnel lit by low red bulbs, connecting the parking lot and the warehouse. After a few minutes of walking and turns, you arrive at a set of stairs. There’s a queue, but it moves quickly. Another man waits at the top. Vivienne flashes the card again, and he waves you through.

The warehouse opens up to you. This level is part lounge, part bar, part restroom zone. Harsh lights overhead reveal everything: people drinking, dancing, talking too loudly. The couches look stolen, the bartenders look high, and the restrooms have a waiting line of half-conscious addicts. You see around hundred people here, maybe even more. A staircase going up is blocked by a chain, two men standing guard. Another set leads down.

“This place is packed!” Vivienne shouts over the music. “Where do we even begin looking for the Anarch?”

“Let’s start with the bar.”

Just as you’re turning that way, a familiar voice cuts through the noise, and a waving arm catches your attention.

“Hey, yo! Yo, Mista A!”

Vivienne arches a brow. A figure is pushing his way through the crowd. Durag, gold chain, Steelers jersey, oversize jeans. He grins wide when he sees you.

“Rakeem,” you nod. “I should have guessed you’d be here.”

He laughs. “Aw yeah, you know how I roll,” he turns his head to Vivienne and nods. “I see you, Mr. A.”

Vivienne crosses her arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She’s an associate. Chill out before I slap some sense into you.”

Rakeem raises his hands apologetically.

“Aight, aight, shit. My bad. Anyway, what you doin’ here, Mista A? Ain’t think you rocked with joints like this. You lookin’ for some white, green, brown? Tryna meet angels or demons?”

“We’re here on business. Say, Rakeem, you know who organized this party?”

He scratches his nose and snorts.

“Nah, don’t know the cat in person. Some weird ass motherfucker I heard. He throws the bombest parties around though. I think his name is Orcan… or Odran… or some freaky-ass name like that.”

“Yeah, that’s the guy we’re looking for. You know where he is now?”

He jerks a thumb toward the stairs going down.

“Some fine-ass lady just copped a bit of brown off me, said it was for Odran. That’s the dance floor down there.”

“Brown?” Vivienne asks, confused.

“Heroin,” you clarify. “Appreciate it, Rakeem. Can you describe this woman?”

“Oh for sure. Redhead, skinny pants. Looked tough, y’know?” A partygoer tries to get his attention, a potential buyer probably. “Aight, good seein’ you again, Mista A. Don’t be a stranger, word?” He does a handsign to you and leaves.

You two make your way down, narrowly avoiding people carrying their drinks.

“Who even was that?” Vivienne shouts, half-turning toward you as the two of you push into the thick darkness.

“Some gangbanger I happened to save from a shootout.” you reply, voice raised over the pulse of the bass. “He doesn’t know about what we are. I’d like to keep it that way.”

As you descend the narrow staircase, the light vanishes almost entirely. The further you go, the louder the music becomes, until it’s no longer something you hear but something you feel; vibrations pounding in your chest and behind your eyes. Colored strobes flash occasionally from somewhere deeper in the room. The dance floor is pitch black, with even more people dancing. A DJ booth looms in silhouette, and every few seconds, a blinding white light slices across the room. To the far right, barely visible through the dancers, a door stands out under the dim glow of two red bulbs. A woman turns and slips inside.

“There,” Vivienne says, tugging your sleeve. “She just went in.”

Shoving people left and right to make room on this tightly packed floor with Vivienne behind you, you reach the door and push it open without knocking.

A massive black leather couch dominates the room. On it reclines a man, surrounded by three women, glazed eyes drifting as they lounge over him like sleepy cats. A small table in front of them holds a few half empty glasses and an ornate silver tray with lines of powder arranged neatly beside a silver razor blade. Everyone turns their heads to you two. The man on the couch lifts a questioning eyebrow. He wears expensive looking clubwear.

Vivienne speaks. “We’re looking for Odran.”

Behind you, the door shuts with a click. You glance back, it’s the redhead. She leans against the door now, arms crossed.

“That would be me,” says the man on the couch. “And you are…?”

“Associates of Carter Pike,” you say.

Odran’s mouth quirks into a grin. He turns his head to one of the women.

“Well now, Camarilla in one of my raves. That’s new. And how did you even find an invitation?” He waves a finger. One of the women slowly presents her wrist, and he lowers his mouth to her skin.

“We found it on one of the men who attacked a research lab in Pitt Med tonight,” Vivienne says.

He lifts his head and looks at you two again, this time with a slightly soured, puzzled expression.

“My what, sent where? You’ll have to run that by me again. I think I missed the part where I supposedly gave a shit about some lab.”

You and Vivienne look at each other. You step forward, keeping your voice calm.

“The ghoul we captured said he was sent by you. He was trying to steal research papers and blood samples.”

He bursts into laughter. One of the girls jumps slightly, startled by the sudden sound.

“Oh, man. You Cam licks really are something else. Is this what it’s like now? You grab one crackhead and suddenly think you’re in the middle of a conspiracy thriller?”

“You’re saying you had nothing to do with it?” Vivienne asks.

“I’m saying I didn’t send anyone to do a damn thing.” Odran leans back, stretching out like a cat. “I might be Anarch, but I don’t do politics. I throw parties. I distribute things. I indulge.” He chuckles. “Politics. That’s for Frankie and his crew.”

Vivienne reaches into her pocket and pulls out the card.

“If you didn’t send them, then why did he have this?”

He doesn’t reach for it immediately. His eyes flicker to the card, and for a moment, something sharp and calculating passes over his face. He takes the card slowly and flips it over. Once, then twice. His grin fades and hands it back.

“Not my problem,” he says at last, his voice colder now. “If someone’s running around using my name, that’s something for us to sort out. Doesn’t concern Camarilla.”

“It might, if it blows back on the Masquerade,” you say.

“I’m not big on threats,” Odran replies, sitting upright now. “And I don’t owe the Sheriff anything. I suggest you leave me to my night. If I find out who’s dragging my name through the mud, I’ll handle it.”

His eyes linger on yours for a beat longer.

“Now,” he adds, lounging back again with a dismissive wave, “unless either of you brought something fun to the party… you can see yourselves out.” He snaps a finger and one of the women snorts a line on the table, then extends her neck to him.

As the two of you exit the room, the redhead opens the door for you again without a word. The music returns like a tidal wave, and the moment you step back onto the dance floor, the heat and pulse of the rave swallow you whole. You feel your cellphone vibrate. It’s a text message.

“found s2dents job done when ur rdy scp calls u 2 back 2 the park. with him rn”

Vivienne looks at you.

Part 3 Choices

A) If Dennis took care of the students, that means your task is done. No need to linger around this warehouse. Leave.
B) You don’t trust Odran, especially after seeing his reaction to the card. He had the upstairs of the warehouse chained off and guarded. Maybe you can sneak a look somehow? It would be difficult without Dennis, though.
C) Stay awhile and blend in with the crowd. Rakeem might still be around. He’s street smart and talks too much for his own good. Maybe he’s heard something about what’s going on upstairs.

Also, do you want to call Pike and update him on the situation, or will you tell everything face to face?

A) Call him, maybe he has instructions.
B) Don’t. Take initiative.

C and A win the vote.

Part 4

“Dennis. Said he took care of the students. He’s with Pike now.”

“So we’re done?”

“Technically, yeah. Let’s go upstairs, I can’t even hear myself think in here. I’ll call the Sheriff.”

The white strobe light that pulsed across the dance floor every few seconds was starting to get nauseating. Despite the late hour, people kept filing in. Same as before, the two of you shoved your way through the crowd and climbed the stairs back to the makeshift lounge area. The throb of the music dulled slightly as you reached the top. You found a half secluded spot, about as private as this place got, and pulled out your phone. You pressed one finger to your ear and dialed Pike. He picked up after a ring.

“Mr. Vale. I trust Mr. Weller relayed my instructions? How did things go in the Anarch’s den? We’re expecting you.”

“He claims he doesn’t know the men we caught. As expected,” you said. “But when we showed him the invitation we found on the attacker… he paused. Like something clicked. Couldn’t tell what. Also, the upstairs deck of the warehouse is chained off and guarded.”

There was a pause on the other end, a beat of silence before Pike responded.

“I see. This festering discontent, on top of the disappearances… Don’t put yourselves in harm’s way. Seneschal Moore would rather not explain your destruction to your sires. Neither would I. Keep it simple. You’ve got thirty minutes to snoop around, then leave. We’ll see you soon.” Click.

You slid the phone back into your inner coat pocket. “Pike says we’ve got half an hour to poke around before pulling out.”

Vivienne didn’t look thrilled. “You think that’s a good idea?”

“I don’t know,” you said. “But you saw Odran’s face, didn’t you?”

She glanced toward the staircase guarded by a pair of lean, unblinking men in matching leather jackets. “We’re not getting past them. And if we try anything, the staff’ll notice. Let’s just go with the flow. See where the rumors take us.”

“Alright. You hit the drunks, see what you can stir up. I’ll look for that guy we talked to earlier. Maybe we learn something about your sire while we’re at it.”

“You mean your friend?” she said, with that half smirk of hers. You nodded.

“Sure. I’ll see you, Adrian.” She drifted away into the crowd. You used the moment to cut toward the restrooms, more importantly, the people queued outside them. That’s where you found Rakeem. A drink in one hand, he has his one foot resting against the wall, while his head bobs with the noise as he is scanning the floor. He sees you coming, and his mouth immediately curls into a wide smile, flashing his pearly whites.

“Hey, Mr. A! How you doin’, man? Thought you dipped already. That weird cat give you what you needed?”

“I got what I got. Now I’m wondering what’s happening upstairs.” You tilted your head toward the guarded stairway. One of the bouncers shoved a drunk who wandered too close to them. The guy tumbles and hits the floor hard. “You’ve been here longer than me. Seen anything strange? Anyone moving stuff in or out?”

Rakeem chuckled, set his drink down, and fished a small white bag out of his coat. He motioned for you to lean in. Like it was a handoff, nothing more.
“Keep it cool. Yeah, saw some stuff. Couple dudes lugged a wooden crate or two up there. Heavy ones. Real effort to move. That was a few hours ago. Nothin’ since.”

You nodded and took the bag, tucking it into your pocket.

“No one’s gone up since?”

He shook his head and leaned back.

“Ay, keep it real, man!” he called out, flipping back into party mode as if nothing happened. “Enjoy!” He reclaimed his drink and vanished into the pulse of bodies and flashing lights.

Your thoughts started racing. Heavy crates. What the hell were they moving? Weapons? Drugs? Something stranger? He did say he distributed… but was it just product, or something more?

Someone bumped into you and muttered a quick apology, snapping you back to reality. You turned and made your way toward the bar. Vivienne was already on her way back, brushing off some lovestruck clubgoer with nothing but a polite smile. Nothing like the feeling you felt earlier tonight at the hospital, just charm.

“What’d you find?” you asked.

“Not much. Didn’t want to ask the bartenders, since they might be Odran’s payroll and all. But some guy said he’s a regular in his raves, and he’s never seen part of the building roped off before.”

You filled her in on the crates. She looked up at the catwalk, at the guards. “There’s nothing more for us here, is there?” You shake your head. “Then let’s go.”

Leaving the Degenerate’s party behind, you take the same maintenance tunnel, lit by the same low hanging red bulbs, and walk back into the same parking lot, where Oscar stood by the car, polishing his sidearm like a man killing time. He saw you coming, holstered it, and started the engine. You got in.

“Where to, ma’am?” he asked her.

“Point State Park. We’re going back to the Sheriff.”

“Point State,” he echoed, shifting into gear.

The ride is quiet. The roads are quieter still. You check your watch: 3:00 AM. Not much time left until sunrise. The car rolls to a stop outside the park’s south entrance. Snow falls in a soft, steady drift, covering the monument paths and frozen grass. Oscar opens the door without a word. You and Vivienne step out into the cold silence. The Sheriff stands near the stone steps of the massive fountain, his back to you. Dennis lingers nearby, hood up, sickly yellow eyes glinting in the lamplight. His nose twitches as you approach.

“Sheriff,” Vivienne says, her ghoul trailing behind, umbrella in hand and over her

Pike turns slowly, eyes scanning you both. “Ah. Finally.”

Dennis grinned. “Yo.”

You dusted the snow off your shoulders. “Hope we didn’t keep you waiting?”

“It’s fine,” Pike said with a wave of his hand. “What did the Anarch say? What did you find?”

You answered first. “Odran denied everything. Claimed he didn’t know the attackers. But when we showed him the invitation, he froze. Thought about something, just didn’t say it.”

Vivienne picked it up from there. “The warehouse had an upstairs level. Chained off and guarded. Nobody went up there except two guys who carried crates earlier in the night. Heavy ones.”

“Crates?” Pike’s brow rose behind his glasses. “What kind?”

“We didn’t see,” you said. “But my guy said they were wood, and they looked like they weren’t light.”

Dennis scoffed. “Drugs. Military grade assault rifles. Molotovs. Earth from Transylvania?” He laughed at his own joke.

Pike didn’t return it. “That’ll be my headache, not yours. You did well. A shame that you couldn’t find Stan, but we’ve got the blood, the papers, and Dennis here found the students. Drunk and passed out in their dorm, celebrating their thesis. Completely oblivious.”

He looked up at the dark sky and the falling snow. “It’s late. Return to your havens. Have a good night, neonates.”

Pike walked off toward the exit. Vivienne headed for her sleek sedan. Dennis disappeared into the night on foot. You got behind the wheel of your Crown Vic and drove through empty streets, headlights cutting through the quiet snow.

Home.

You unlocked your door and stepped into the apartment. The leather chair was occupied. The fat man sitting there looked like a relic, an old suit from a dead era, small monocle and all. His heavy bulk strained the chair’s frame. He turned slowly to look at you.

“Raffard.”

“Keh-keh-keh.” The fat man creaked to his feet. “Adrian, my boy. How was your night?”

“Running errands for Carter Pike, which I’m sure you already know.”

“Of course. Who do you think gave him your name? Think of it as your trial run.”

“You also know I was paired up with two others?”

Raffard chuckled. “Now you’re insulting me, my good lad. I also know their sires all too well, Henrik and Mascha. Good friends, good friends.”

You pull a cigarette out of the pack with your mouth and reach to your pocket to grab the lighter.

“Oh yeah? This girl, Vivienne, she kept running her mouth about her sire who disappeared recently. Seemed emotional about it. You know anything about that?”

Raffard sighs and strokes his chin. “That… no one knows. Not even the Nosferatu with their eyes and spies.” He snaps a finger. “Poof. Disappeared a week ago. I’m not surprised that Mascha’s childe is like that though. Toreador are an emotional bunch… indeed, indeed.”

“So why are you here? Just to check in?”

“Bah,” he waves a hand, “Not even. I trust my childe to get the job done. Tomorrow night, there’s a meeting at the Elysium. Black Ink Gallery, downtown. You know it?” You nodded. “Be there. You can tell the details of the job well done then. Don’t be late.” With that, he grabs his hat from the nightstand and lets himself out. All the way out here, just for an invitation? Then again, for some reason, Benjamin Raffard never did like using cellphones or computers.

You exhale the smoke, snap the jet black curtains close and take off your overcoat to hang it. It’s only then you realize something stiff in one of the empty pockets. A small, folded paper. You didn’t recognize it before. Who put it there? The memory hits. Must’ve been the drunk who bumped into you at the rave. You unfold it. It’s an address. An address in North Side, to be exact. A hint? A trap? Both?

You lie on your back on the bed, smoking and staring at the spinning ceiling fan, thoughts swirling… until the first rays of sunlight spill over the skyline, and death-like sleep takes you.

Part 4 Choices

A) First things first, check the address before the Elysium meeting tomorrow night. This might delay you for the meeting.
B) Hold off. Attend the Elysium first. If this address matters, it’ll come up. But if there’s something time sensitive at the adress, it might slip away.
C) This reeks of a trap. Burn the note and forget it ever happened.

Also, will you tell others about this, or will you go alone?

A) Investigate the address alone. No backup.
B) Loop in Vivienne or Dennis. Two eyes are better than one, and you trust either of them. Mostly.
C) Report the note to Sheriff Pike or Raffard. If it’s a trap, at least someone else will take the fall. If it’s something beneficial though…

Character Sheets

Sheet 1 Ventrue Adrian Vale

Ventrue Adrian Vale
Name: Adrian Vale
Nature: Autocrat
Demeanor: Competitor
Generation: 13th
Clan: Ventrue
Sire: Benjamin Raffard
Weakness: Exclusive Feeding (Smokers)

Attributes:
Strength: 2
Dexterity: 4
Stamina 2

Charisma: 2
Manipulation: 3
Appearance: 2

Perception: 3
Intelligence: 3
Wits: 4

Abilities:

Talents

Skills

Knowledges

Advantages:

Disciplines:
Dominate: 2
Command: Speak a one-word command, which the subject must obey instantly. If the command is at all confusing or ambigious, the subject may respond slowly or perform the task poorly. The subject cannot be ordered to do something directly harmful to himself, so a command like “die” is ineffective.

Mesmerize: Mesmerize allows for anything from simple, precise directives (handing over an item) to complex, highly involved ones (taking notes of someone’s habits and relaying that information at an appointed time.) It is not useful for planting illusions or false memories. A subject can have only one suggestion implanted at any time. Both you and your target must be free from distraction. You may activate the imposed thought immediately or establish a stimulus that will trigger it later. The victim must be able to understand you, though the two of you need to maintain the eye contact only as long as it takes to implant the idea. The victim cannot be forced to harm himself directly.

Presence: 1
Awe: Those near you suddenly desire to be closer to you and become receptive of your point of view. Despite the intensity of this attraction, those so smitten do not lose their sense of self-preservation. Danger breaks the spell, as does leaving the area. However, those who were subjected to Awe will remember how they felt in your presence.

Fortitude: 1
Although all vampires have an unnatural constitution that make them much sturdier than mortals, Fortitude makes it so you can shrug off agonizing trauma and make the most bone-shattering impact look like a flesh wound.

Virtues:
Conscience: 2/5
Conscience is what prevents a vampire from succumbing to the Beast, by defining the Beast’s urges as unacceptable.
Self-Control: 4/5
This allows the character to resist the frenzy.
Courage: 4/5
Kindred use the Courage Virtue when faced with circumstances they endemically dread; fire, sunlight, True Faith.
Humanity: 6/10
Stuff breaks. People die. You have little difficulty with the fact that you need blood to survive, and you do what needs to be done to get it.

Sheet 2 Vivi

Name: Vivienne Holloway
Nature: Masochist
Demeanor: Bon Vivant
Generation: 13th
Clan: Toreador
Sire: Mascha
Weakness: Entrancement

Attributes:
Strength: 2
Dexterity: 3
Stamina 2

Charisma: 3
Manipulation: 4
Appearance: 3

Perception: 3
Intelligence: 3
Wits: 3

Abilities:

Talents

Skills

Knowledges

Advantages:

Disciplines:
Auspex: 1
Heightened Senses: This power increases the acuity of all of the vampire’s senses, effectively doubling the clarity and range of sight, hearing and smell, while taste and touch likewise become far more distinct; she can taste the hint of liquor in a victim’s blood or feel the give of the board concealing a hollow space on the floor.

Presence: 1
Awe: Those near you suddenly desire to be closer to you and become receptive of your point of view. Despite the intensity of this attraction, those so smitten do not lose their sense of self-preservation. Danger breaks the spell, as does leaving the area. However, those who were subjected to Awe will remember how they felt in your presence.

Celerity: 1
Not all vampires are slow, meticulous creatures. When needed, some vampires can move fast, really fast. The Toreador are more inclined to use Celerity to provide an air of unnatural grace to live performances or for an extra push to complete a masterpiece on time, but they can be as quick to draw blood as any Assassin or Rabble when angered.

Virtues:
Conscience: 4/5
Conscience is what prevents a vampire from succumbing to the Beast, by defining the Beast’s urges as unacceptable.
Self-Control: 3/5
This allows the character to resist the frenzy.
Courage: 3/5
Kindred use the Courage Virtue when faced with circumstances they endemically dread; fire, sunlight, True Faith.
Humanity: 7/10
This is the rating most humans and neonates in World of Darkness start with.

Sheet 3 n0s

Name: Dennis ‘sp00ky’ Weller
Nature: Rogue
Demeanor: Rebel
Generation: 13th
Clan: Nosferatu
Sire: Hendrik Bekker
Weakness: Monstrous Visage

Attributes:
Strength: 2
Dexterity: 3
Stamina 3

Charisma: 2
Manipulation: 3
Appearance: 0

Perception: 3
Intelligence: 3
Wits: 4

Abilities:

Talents

Skills

Knowledges

Advantages:

Disciplines:
Animalism: 1
Feral Whispers: The vampire creates an empathic connection with a beast, thereby allowing him to communicate or issue simple commands. Eye contact must be maintained the entire time. The simpler the creature, the more difficult it becomes to connect with the animal’s Beast. Feral Whispers provides no guarantees that an animal will want to deal with the vampire, nor does it ensure that the animal will pursue any requests the vampire makes of it.

Obfuscate: 2
Cloak of Shadows: The vampire must rely on nearby shadows and cover to assist in hiding his presence. The vampire remains unnoticed as long as he stays silent, still, under some degree of cover, and out of direct lighting.

Unseen Presence: The vampire can move around without being seen. Shadows seem to shift to cover him, and people automatically avert their gazes as he passes by.

Potence: 1
Kindred endowed with Potence possess unnatural strength.

Virtues:
Conscience: 2/5
Conscience is what prevents a vampire from succumbing to the Beast, by defining the Beast’s urges as unacceptable.
Self-Control: 5/5
This allows the character to resist the frenzy.
Courage: 3/5
Kindred use the Courage Virtue when faced with circumstances they endemically dread; fire, sunlight, True Faith.
Humanity: 7/10
This is the rating most humans and neonates in World of Darkness start with.

Part 5 Chapter 2 - Gathering Storm

For you, the transition felt like… nothing. No dreams, no thoughts. At this point, you’re even starting to get used to the black emptiness. You get up and look out at the skyline through your window for a minute or two, your little ritual. The same dull ache in your head reminds you to feed, so you open the fridge and take one of the bags. Cold and tasteless, but they get the job done. You throw on a different suit, get your gear on, and leave the apartment. Yesterday’s snow stopped sometime after you went to sleep, you think, while deciding what to do about the paper you found. Might as well notify the Sheriff. You get behind the wheel, start the car, and drive down the sloped street toward Black Ink, the gallery downtown.

You arrive a little early, just like Raffard told you to. A two-story building, the gallery squats on the edge of the arts district, far enough from prying Kine eyes to avoid questions, but close enough to blend in with the bohemian detritus. You get out of the car and spot the Sheriff playing bouncer at the doors. Arms crossed, eyes fixed on the street, leaning on top of the steps like a statue. He watches the passersby but doesn’t react when he sees you approaching from the opposite sidewalk.

“Adrian,” he acknowledges you with a raised hand. “Here for Elysium?”

You nod. “Raffard’s idea. By the way, I didn’t notice it last night, but I found this in my pocket.” You hand him the folded paper. He raises an eyebrow behind his lenses as he reads it. “One of the partygoers at the Anarch rave must have slipped it in. What do you think of it?”

His face is unreadable behind the mirrorshade, only your own distorted expression staring back. Then he speaks.

“It’s in North Side. Another warehouse, I think. I don’t like this. Too many… too too many arrows pointing at the Anarchs. Are they preparing to make a move?”

“Don’t know. What should I do with it? I was thinking of going there if Raffard hadn’t told me to come here first. Also, what did the ghoul we caught say?”

“Nothing,” he says, finally looking at you. “We beat him. Tortured him. Dominated him. All he says is that he was sent by Odran. You did right bringing it to me. Have you told anyone else?” You shake your head. “Good. I’ll leave it to your discretion if you want to share it.”

“You don’t trust the Court?”

He scoffs. “Call it skepticism. I don’t even trust you. In my position, only a fool trusts anyone. After Elysium, take someone with you. Go to the address. And then…”

He cuts himself off, eyes drifting past your shoulder. You turn to follow his gaze. Dressed like he walked out of a 1940s photograph, with a cravat and an ivory-tipped cane, your sire approaches slowly.

“Mr. Raffard. Glad you could join us tonight,” Pike says coldly.

Raffard smiles with too many teeth. “Carter, my dear fellow. Always such a pillar. Keeping us safe tonight, are you? How’s Victoria?”

“You can ask her. She’s here tonight.”

“So I shall, so I shall.” Raffard glances to you. “Adrian, finish your talk with our tireless Sheriff. I’ll be inside.” With a tip of his cane, he slips past you and vanishes into the building.

The Sheriff turns back to you. “Like I said, after Elysium, take someone with you and go visit the address. They’re either up to something, or…”

“Or?”

“Never mind that, neonate. I’ve already said too much. Go inside.”

He turns his head back to the street. The conversation’s over. You head inside.

The inside of the gallery is spacious and dimly lit. Stark, abstract paintings line the walls, some look like twisted anatomy studies, others pieces from Nerdrum and the like. A string quartet plays a dissonant piece behind smoked glass, barely visible. You spot familiar faces from past Elysiums: a pair of neonates speaking in hushed tones, a Malkavian you’ve seen once before, and a Nosferatu hunched in the corner, wrapped in shadow. Dennis.

You find Raffard in the far corner, speaking to two people, a man and a woman. The woman looks meek and uncomfortable to be here. She wears a modest sweater and has a silver cross hanging from her neck. The man resembles a university lecturer; scholarly and sharp. Raffard sees you and beckons you over. The pair turns their heads to you.

“Good evening, neonate,” the man says. Then, to Raffard: “We’ll resume later.” He walks off, the woman in tow.

Raffard watches them go. “Creepy bastard,” he mutters. “Kenneth Hitchens. Tremere Primogen. The woman is his new apprentice. Doesn’t usually show up Elysium and most of us prefer it that way, including him. I wonder what the hell he wants tonight.”

He drains his glass. “Anyway. Tell me about last night.”

And you do. From last night’s call to the moment you found the note in your pocket. By the time you’re finished, the gallery is properly crowded.

“I see,” Raffard says, swirling a fresh drink. “The Sheriff’s right. Visit the place and see what you learn. The Rabble are a misguided, savage bunch. If they start showing teeth like dogs, they should be put down like one.”

A sharp clink cuts through the air. Conversation around you dies as everyone turns toward the center of the gallery. A tall woman stands there; short-cropped blonde hair, power suit tailored to precision, glass in hand.

“Seneschal Victoria Moore,” Raffard whispers beside you. “Prince Morgan’s childe.”

“My fellow Kindred,” she begins. “I thank each and every one of you for attending the Elysium, and I thank our host, Keeper Adelaide, even more for her hospitality on such short notice.” She lifts her glass toward a glamourus, striking woman in crimson. Adelaide returns the gesture with a self-satisfied smile, all teeth and show. A servant hands Raffard another glass, which he takes greedily without acknowledgment.

“We live in trying nights,” Moore continues. “Our Prince sends his regards. Tonight, we’ll address several matters, not least among them the security of our domain. But for now, mingle. Speak. Listen. That is the gift of Elysium.”

She steps back, and the conversations resume; whispers of politics, murmurs of rumors, forced laughter. Eyes follow you, politely indifferent. Elysium etiquette, after all. Raffard polishes his monocle with the corner of his sleeve.

“You heard her,” he murmurs. “But what she didn’t say… that is what matters.”

“She didn’t say much,” you note.

“Exactly. Victoria only speaks when she’s laying the groundwork. She doesn’t waste breath on small talk.”

“What do you think she’s hiding?”

He snorts. “The truth. That the Court’s collapsing under its own rot, propped up by grudges and dead names. Much like this city.” He waves a hand, disappearing into the crowd once more and leaving you by yourself. You drift through the shadows of the gallery, the paintings leering at you, the music offering no comfort. Eventually, you approach Dennis.

“Bossman,” he says, eyes glinting. “Where’s the lady?”

“Haven’t heard from her. She’s not here either. What are you doing here?”

“Listening. Taking notes. Think you’re the only one who works for someone?” He grins. “What’s bothering you?” You pull him aside and explain the situation.

“And the Sheriff told me to take someone with me.”

Dennis frowns. “Feels fishy. Like, real fishy.”

“Tell me about it. But there’s nothing we can do but follow through.”

He shrugs. “Eh. I’ve learned what I needed here. Let’s hit the address and be done with it, yeah?”

A servant glides up to you. “Good evening, sir. Would you prefer something tailored to your palate, or will the house selection suffice?”

“Smokers,” you say. He nods with utmost respect. “Of course.”

While you wait, you try calling Vivienne. You slide the phone back into your jacket with a frown. “She didn’t answer.”

“That’s weird,” Dennis says. “Think something happened?”

You don’t know. But there’s nothing you can do right now. The servant returns with two glasses on a silver tray. You take one. Dennis grabs the other and drains it in one go.

“Bah. Tastes like shit. Let’s go.”

You step outside with Dennis behind you and spot Pike speaking with someone. Another neonate, maybe. He catches your eye and gives a small nod. You get behind the wheel. Dennis climbs in, hood up, head low. You check your watch. 11 PM.

“So, what’s the plan?” Dennis croaks.

“You’ll scout ahead. Then we go in together. Stay in the shadows and watch. If anything happens, you’ve got the element of surprise.”

You turn onto the road that leads to North Side. “Call Vivienne,” you say. “See if she answers.”

Dennis takes out his phone with gnarled fingers and dials her number. He hangs up a second later. “Unavailable.”

You can’t help but feel uneasy. Does she have plans of his own, is she in trouble, or are you just being paranoid? You pull out the folded note. The address is scrawled in sharp, cramped handwriting. No name. Just a spot in North Side, past the railyards and the skeletal factories. You sigh. Shift into gear and drive.

Crossing the bridge into North Side, the city seems to decay around you. You kill the headlights as you near the street, more alley than road, surrounded by rusted chainlink fences and decaying warehouses that haven’t seen real use in years. You park a block away and Dennis gets off. And then you wait. Five minutes pass. Ten. Then he returns.

“It’s clear. Let’s go.”

You approach the squat brick building with a faded loading dock door and a side entrance. You take your pistol out and push the door of the side entrance wide open.

“Behind you, bossman. Go.”

Inside, the warehouse is empty, save for a single low-hanging bulb and a chair beneath it. A man sits there, flanked by two others. One of them you recognize, still wearing the same tasteless, expensive clubwear.

“Odran,” you say, keeping your gun low. “We could’ve had this conversation at the rave.”

“It wasn’t my call to bring you here, lick. It was his.” He jerks a thumb toward the man in the chair. He stands and walks into the light.

“Adrian… Vale, am I correct?” he asks.

“Who’s asking?”

“Name’s Frank. Frank Porter. You could say I’m the ringleader of the Pittsburgh Anarchs.”

“Ah. You must be the ‘Frankie’ he mentioned last night. So, why am I here?”

The man flanking Frank twirls a ball-peen hammer in his hand, over and over again. Odran crosses his arms.

Frank continues. “Call this a gamble. One where I expose myself because I have to. I don’t trust the two-faced scum of the Camarilla Court. But you? You’re a pawn. An inconsequential grunt. Last night, my people pulled someone out of the river. Exsanguinated, not a single drop of blood. No ID. We heard the Camarilla lost a ghoul recently, one sent to spy on us. Naturally, since it happened on our ‘turf,’ everyone’s going to look our way.”

“So what’s my role in this?”

Frank opens his mouth to reply, but your phone rings. You take it out of your jacket. It’s Vivienne.

“I’m in the middle of someth-”

“Adrian!” Her voice is desperate. “They found her. They found Mascha! She says she was kidnapped and tortured by the Anarch scum! We are at the gallery right now, in Elysium.”

The lightbulb above you sways gently. Frank watches you closely. Odran tenses. The last man stops his twirling and grasps the hammer tight. You feel the cold weight of your pistol in your hand.

Part 5 Choces

A) Confront Frank with the news immediately. If the Anarchs really tortured Mascha, someone here is lying. Now’s the time to find out who.
B) Don’t reveal what you’ve learned just yet. Let Frank talk. Better to hear what he’s really here to say before you make a move.
C) Pocket your phone and walk out. Return to Elysium to verify Vivienne’s story yourself. Whatever this was, it can wait.
D) Question the whole thing. Mascha’s return right now feels off. Could someone inside the Camarilla be using her to frame the Anarchs?

B. wins

Part 6 30.06.2025

“Got it, thanks. I’ll call later, alright? Take care.”

You hang up the phone and try to maintain a straight poker face to not let the Anarchs know. Are they lying? Was this a ploy to slowly chip away at Camarilla agents by taking them out one by one? What if they are telling the truth? Vivienne’s sire revealing herself feels like a trap. Are they setting you up too? What if they think you work with them? You are jolted back to reality when the Anarch ringleader speaks again with authority.

“Testing your luck, neonate. As I wanted to say, your role is being the inconspicuous and innocent fish out of water. No one in your court can be held responsible if the clueless lick happens upon something that points the finger to us for the killing. I don’t know if it’s Camarilla or another party setting my people up, but we won’t be fall guys for anyone.”

You keep your expression still, but your mind races. You’re not sure whether this is calculated truth or calculated lie. To Frank’s left, the hammer twirling Anarch finally speaks with a thick London accent. His hair sticks up in liberty spikes, and he wears a torn leather jacket covered in faded patches.

“Could be a plant, couldn’t it?” he says, flipping the tool again in lazy arcs. “Someone playing the part, stirring shit while the big dogs tear each others throats out. I mean, come on. Cammy ghoul found drained on our turf is a bit too on the nose.”

He catches the hammer, resting it on his shoulder with a grin. “Course, wouldn’t be the first time your lot tried to start a brushfire and act surprised when it burns the bloody house down, but I doubt you’d know much about that.”

Frank doesn’t even glance at him. His eyes remain locked on yours.

“What about the man we found?” you ask him. “He confessed that he was sent by Odran.”

Odran shakes his head. “He’s full of shit. I told you, I didn’t send anyone. Either someones putting words in his mouth, or he was a plant from the start.”

“Or he’s been made to say it,” Frank adds. “You think your people are the only ones who know how to twist a mind?”

There is silence again in the warehouse. You don’t know where Dennis is exactly, but he must be nearby, watching this scene unfold. Frank speaks again, his tone low and serious.

“Without me, this whole side of the river goes up in chaos. So ask yourself: if I really wanted to start something, would I bring you here? Would I expose this much? This is what I want, Vale. You take this message back to your Sheriff, or your Prince, or whoever lets you off your leash. We didn’t kill that ghoul and we didn’t raid a lab, but someone wants to make it seem like it was us.”

“Listen to the man,” his accomplice says. “If Frankie wanted a war, there wouldn’t be a conversation waiting here. There’d be bodies, yours included.”

You holster your weapon.

“I’ll pass your message along.”

The Anarch ringleader nods at you with a grim expression on his face. “You seem like a smart man, Vale. The Movement needs Kindred like you. When you’re tired of getting kicked around, come see me. I’ll show you the next big thing.”

They begin to disperse without another word. Frank turns and walks off, Odran following him. The other one gives you a lazy two finger V sign before giggling, fully baring his fangs while doing so. Soon, the warehouse empties out, and you hear screeching tires outside, slowly fading away. Dennis materializes from the shadows, face creased with unease.

“You believe them?” he croaks at you.

“About how they’re being set up? Maybe. Especially after the phone call.”

“Oh yeah. Who even was that?”

“Vivienne,” you tell him. “You know how she talked about her sire being missing? She’s been found just now, claiming she was taken by Anarchs or something, I don’t know. I had to hang up before they noticed it.”

The Nosferatu stares at you. “By Anarchs? Isn’t that convenient?”

You turn and head for the car while talking with him. “Did the Nosferatu hear anything about that? I thought nothing happened in this city without the primogen’s notice.”

“We only knew that she went missing, seemingly disappeared into thin air. That’s why I was at Elysium tonight actually, to learn more about that stuff. Sally gets jittery when there’s something she doesn’t know about.”

Leaving the stale air of the warehouse behind, you and Dennis step out into the cold night. The street is silent, save for the low hum of distant traffic and the soft creak of rusted chainlink swaying in the wind. You cross the cracked asphalt toward your car, pop the door and get behind the wheel, while Dennis glances around, paranoid by habit. The car starts with a sluggish groan. You pull away, driving slow at first to avoid drawing attention, headlights still off until you’re back on the main street.

A shadow leans slightly forward from a nearby rooftop. He’s still as stone, afraid to breathe as if it will give him away. He watches as the two figure step out of the warehouse below. The Anarchs left a moment ago, and these two are leaving now, unaware they were being followed. The man’s face is emaciated, his big eyes are wide open like a feral dog’s and there is a half healed wound around his jaw. His fingers are curled around a battered phone. He watches the car until its taillights vanish, then flips open the phone and presses a number.

A click. Then silence on the line.

“They met at the old warehouse, just like you said. They were in there for twenty minutes, give or take.”

Another pause from the man, this time its longer.

“Yeah. I think they talked about our man from the lab. They’re heading back now. No one saw me.”

More silence, listening to the talking voice. Then, something faint: a second voice in the background. Impatient and irritated.

“Understood,” the ghoul mutters, unsure if the chill he felt was from the weather, or the words. “N-no… no contact. I’ll return soon…”

You kill the engine and get off the car. You and Dennis push through the gallery doors once again, stepping into hostile territory. Whatever formality held the night together earlier has vanished; raised voices now pierce the stillness between strings of chamber music. Kindred cluster around the room, some speaking in hushed tones, others more brazen with their opinions. Your entrance draws some attention, but no one dares to greet you.

At the eye of the storm stands Seneschal Victoria Moore, unfazed despite the heat of debate.

“We have no confirmation. No names, no trails. The only thing we do have is one of our own returned, and I will not abuse my position to call for a blood hunt based on circumstantial panic.”

Across from her, Raffard has discarded all pretense of courtly distance. He holds the cane like a scepter and his monocle hangs from its chain.

“Circumstantial?” he snaps and holds the cane towards Mascha. “One of our own kidnapped, tortured! With fire, no less! She’s lucky they didn’t leave her staked for the sunrise. And you would have us light candles in solemn vigil? There is a time for words, Victoria, and a time for action!”

She’s seated on a velvet stool off to one side of the gallery, half in shadow. Her clothing, or rather, what’s left of it, is in tatters, streaked with dirt and old blood. A long, rich crimson satin sheet has been wrapped hastily around her like a makeshift robe, barely hiding the burns and cuts underneath. Her auburn hair clings to her face in damp clumps, and her eyes are vacant, unblinking. Vivienne kneels beside her protectively, arm draped over her shoulders. She meets your eyes but says nothing.

Raffard glances toward her, then back at the Seneschal, his voice sharp again.

“They’ve escalated. We must respond in kind, before they find the nerve to try again. They are testing us, and we are failing that test with every minute we sit on our hands.”

Victoria exhales slowly, folding her arms.

“And what if it’s a provocation meant to bait us into an all-out conflict? What if we’re being manipulated by a third hand? Or perhaps you’d enjoy another war on three fronts, Raffard.”

The room murmurs, tension builds. Pike stands a short distance behind her, silent as always. His arms are folded, his gaze fixed not on the speakers, but scanning the crowd, as if gauging reactions. You and Dennis edge your way through the crowd. He leans in.

“What the hell did we just walk into?”

You shake your head, already stepping to the side to the power players a wide berth. As you near towards the wall, Seneschal’s gaze flicks toward you. Raffard turns as well, surprise flashing in his eye.

“Ah, Adrian. You return just in time. Perhaps my childe has something to contribute? What have you learned from your meeting with those Rabble scum?”

The entire room turn their heads towards you except Mascha, who continues her blank stare into void. You open your mouth to speak.

Part 6 Choices

A) “I met Frank Porter and his lieutenants. They claim innocence. He suspects a third party is involved.”
B) “Frank’s playing dumb, but he knows what happened. They’re preparing for something. We need to move before it’s too late.”
C) “I didn’t learn anything concrete, really.”

A wins

Part 7 10.07.2025

“I met with Frank Porter, the Anarch leader, on his behalf because of an anonymous note I acquired when we were investigating the disappearance of a Camarilla asset, a ghoul, which our Sheriff can confirm,” you say, gesturing at Pike. He watches you with his usual stonewall expression. The entire gallery is hanging on your words.

“He didn’t talk about kidnapping or torturing Vivienne’s sire, Mascha, specifically, but he and his men adamantly denied both the killing of the asset in question and breaching the Masquerade by sending his blood samples to the medical center for examination.”

Raffard sneers at your explanation. “Bah, common lies from a common man. He’s trying his hand at deception, trying to sow uncertainty.”

Seneschal cuts him off. “Please, Raffard.”

You’re not sure if you’re being played by the Anarch or not, but the die is already cast. “He told me that his crew was being set up as fall guys; either by the Camarilla… or by a third, unknown party.”

The murmurs grow louder once you finish speaking. You scan the room to gauge reactions. You spot Keeper Adelaide in the corner, talking with the Court’s Harpy, someone you’ve seen before but were never introduced to. Raffard shakes his head, slicking back his balding hair. Seneschal Moore looks you directly in the eye.

“Thank you, neonate. I will take your report into serious consideration when I have the opportunity to speak with our Prince, who, sadly, couldn’t attend Elysium tonight.” She turns to the room. “Then the question becomes: who stands to benefit from a war between us and the Anarchs?”

Raffard, his voice booming, speaks again. “The answer’s the same every time, Victoria. There can be no third party. These gutter trash play innocent while setting us up to bicker among ourselves. Frank is probably arming all his mercenaries and ghouls with incendiary rounds, stakes, and Molotov cocktails. Right. Now. Who knows when he’ll strike again?”

You think of the crates from the rave. Rakeem did say they looked heavy, and the Anarchs never mentioned them during your talk – conveniently enough. Could Raffard be right?

The Seneschal holds up her hand. “Enough. I won’t drag the Court into a senseless war based on speculation and hearsay. But I will relay this matter to our Prince with utmost care, you have my word. I thank you all for attending tonight. If you’ll excuse me.” With that, she turns to leave the gallery, leaving your sire fuming behind. You approach him about what happened earlier tonight. He’s already trying to regain his composure.

“You remember the courier you talked about, the one from your mission? He and Ms. Holloway found her. She was in frenzy, running mad by the riverfront in the state you see her in now. Pike himself went out to bring her in, staked. At least she didn’t kill anyone in her frenzied state.”

“Frenzy?”

He sighs. “It’s when you lose all control to the Beast, becoming something that only wants to kill and feed. A terrible thing truly.”

“I see, I see. By the way, when you mentioned the Anarchs arming themselves, I remembered hearing about a bunch of unmarked, heavy crates being moved at the rave. My contact had no idea what was in them.”

“Did you now? Well, isn’t that interesting. The only way anyone could get their hands on military grade firearms in this city, especially off the books, is to deal with the Giovanni or their Kine mafia associates. Sadly, Necromancers have the gun trade on lock.”

You lift an eyebrow. “Necromancers? As in, actually raise-the-dead? Have you had any dealings with them?”

He laughs. “Who hasn’t? Why don’t you pay them a visit when you’re free. Tell Angelo Giovanni I sent you.” He gives you an address in East End, in Bloomfield. “Ask them if they actually sold anything to the Anarchs, or if they’ve heard anything on the grapevine.”

“Will do.”

With that, he departs the gallery, leaving you alone. Dennis is nowhere to be seen, you realize you haven’t spotted him since your speech. Probably found a corner to skulk in. You spot Toten and Pike near the tall windows at the far end of the gallery. Rolf Toten leans with studied casualness against the glass, one ankle crossed over the other, his vintage leather jacket creaking slightly with every move. Beside him stands Pike, his eyes covered by shades, as always. You approach just as Rolf is finishing a sentence.

“…couldn’t even see what was coming. But she still managed to tear through two fences and a car door before you got the stake in.”

Pike grunts. “She’d have torn through three more if we hadn’t flanked her from the blind side.”

“She looked like a dog that’s been kicked too many times. But there was something else in her eyes…”

You clear your throat softly. Rolf turns his head toward you with a faint nod. Pike just stares, unmoving.

“Vale,” Rolf says. “We were wondering when you’d come over.”

“I heard you were the one who found Mascha.”

“That’s right. Me and dear Vivienne were driving near the river at her request… That’s when we saw her. She wasn’t dressed for the weather. In fact, she was in rags. Then I called Herr Pike.”

“What state was she in?”

“Filthy and cut up. Looked like she’d crawled through a demolition site. Burns, lacerations, half her face scraped raw, you know? Her hands were torn up like she’d been clawing at concrete.”

Pike adds, “At least we didn’t find any Kine drained dry. The Prince has no tolerance for killings, especially of mortals.”

You glance between the two. “Was she alone?”

Rolf nods. “Ja. No one else was around. There were no signs of a fight. Just her, stumbling around, like someone dropped her off.”

“Dropped her off?”

Pike finally turns his head to you. “He’s not wrong. If she escaped on her own, it doesn’t make sense how she got that far.”

“Could’ve been dumped, like I said, let loose on purpose,” Rolf muses. “You want to stir up panic, what better way than releasing a frenzied Kindred?”

“Especially if someone knew there would be eyes watching that area,” Pike mutters, his head turning toward the other end of the gallery. You glance back and see Mascha. Her body remains half-turned away from the room, with Vivienne kneeling by her side.

“Are you implying something?” you ask him.

“Just stating what I’m seeing, neonate. Though I’m not on good terms with them, even the Nosferatu have little information to share with me about what happened to her… How she went missing and so on. Very unusual for the Primogen and her people.”

You narrow your eyes. “So they might be sitting on something?”

“Not necessarily,” Pike shakes his head. “Either way-”

His phone buzzes sharply in his coat. Pike checks the screen, grimaces, and answers with a grunt.

“Yeah, it’s me.” A beat of silence. You watch the Sheriff’s expression freeze.

“Understood.” Another pause, longer this time. He looks out the window to check for something.

“Now? Fine. I’ll send them out.” He pockets the phone and turns toward you, his stitched face unreadable.

“That was the Seneschal’s driver. Prince Morgan wants to see you. You and your coterie.”

You tense. “Now?”

“Now,” Pike confirms. “Car’s already outside and running.”

You scan the gallery. Vivienne is still by Mascha, brushing a thumb across her hand. Dennis lurks near the two, next to a sculpture in the corner; arms folded, head low like a nervous rat. You stride across the floor toward them.

“We’ve been called up.”

Vivienne straightens. “By who? Whoever it is, I’m not going anywhere.”

“The Prince.”

Dennis stiffens and rolls his eyes. “Well, that’s just fantastic.”

Vivienne looks back at Mascha, her expression torn. The bloodied satin still clings to her, her face locked in that same eerie detachment.

“I’ll be back,” she murmurs softly, squeezing Mascha’s hand.

Outside, the sleek black sedan hums beneath the flickering streetlight. The driver, a silent man in a dark coat, opens the back door. The ride from the gallery to the penthouse feels longer than it is. The car rolls into a corporate plaza and stops in front of the tallest building around. The elevator inside is silent and swift, humming as it carries you past floor after floor of darkened offices.

You step out into a hallway of obsidian floors and soft golden lighting that seems to cast no shadows. The Seneschal’s driver doesn’t speak as he leads you to the end of the corridor. There, two tall doors await, with a man standing in front of them. He holds up a hand to stop you, enters, and returns a moment later – then opens the doors wide. The three of you walk in.

The Prince’s penthouse is grandiose. A fireplace stands in a corner, surrounded by steel bookshelves. An antique saber is displayed on a plaque, and oil paintings adorn the walls. A crucifix hangs on the far wall, surrounded by framed photographs; black-and-white shots of men in Union blue, proud and solemn. The Prince sits in a grand leather chair, watching you. His face is hard and angular, silver hair combed neatly back. A full beard frames his jaw, and he wears a three-piece charcoal suit tailored in an older style. Behind him, the city stretches out through a floor-to-ceiling glass wall. The Seneschal stands near his desk, hands clasped behind her back.

“Approach,” Morgan says, and you do.

“Mr. Vale, I was informed that you and Mr. Weller met with Frank Porter, the Anarch leader, earlier tonight. Is this correct?”

“Yes, sir,” you say. “I met with him and a few of his lieutenants. It was a lead connected to the missing ghoul we were investigating.”

He says nothing, so you continue.

“Two of us went because I believed it might be a setup or trap. But Frank denied involvement in the ghoul’s death. Denied breaching the Masquerade, too. He suspects a third party is playing both sides.”

“And do you believe him?”

“He at least wants me to.”

Vivienne steps in. “Adrian told us he didn’t mention Mascha, said nothing about her disappearance or her torture. But he was very clear in blaming someone else.”

Prince’s gaze shifts slowly to her, slightly annoyed. Seeing this, Moore steps forward.

“Mascha is recovering, but she’s in no state to give a full account. She was found at the riverfront in frenzy. We staked her before any Kine were harmed. Upon arriving at Elysium, she muttered that it was Anarchs who tortured her. We’re already spinning the story as a performance art film shoot for the media, but Mascha’s return is likely not a coincidence.”

“She was bait,” Morgan says coldly. “Used for confusion. Or distraction.”

Vivienne tenses beside you. “With respect, my Prince, I don’t believe she’d ever betray us.”

Morgan’s eyes stay on her. “Do you now…”

Then his gaze returns to you.

“If this third party exists, find them. And if Porter is lying, expose him. On that note, I commend you for discreetly handling your prior mission. For that, you’ve earned a token of the Court’s gratitude. A small boon, to be redeemed at your discretion. Though I suggest you not waste it.” He turns to his Seneschal. “Have them dropped off wherever they require,” to which she nods.

It’s late at night, around 4 AM. You’re home. Your car is parked out front, brought by the Seneschal’s people. You step inside and think about the events of recent nights, as well as what to do tomorrow night. A boon from the Prince is no small thing. And if you play cards right…

Part 7 choices

A) Visit the Giovanni address before doing anything else. If they can drop a hint on Anarch activities, it would help a lot.
B) Go to the Dump, the Nosferatu underground maze in the sewers. You’d need a guide to find your way through the filth.
C) See what the Tremere are up to. You were told that they weren’t liked, but maybe you can pool resources, or even gain allies.
D) Investigate the riverfront Mascha was found in. Is it possible that the Camarilla missed something in the hubbub?

Please pick two options. The unpicked options will be visited by your coterie members. As always, feel free to do write-ins.

Part 8 23.07.2025

You leave your apartment as soon as the sun goes down. You flip the paper in your hand, the one with the address of the joint in Bloomfield. Known as Pittsburgh’s Little Italy, it’s no wonder the Giovanni are headquartered there, weaving themselves in and out of the crime family. You decide to give your coterie a call on the way, but before you do, your phone rings first. It’s Dennis.

“Bossman, how you doin’?”

“Driving to East End.”

“Ah, sweet. Care to pick me up on the way? I’m near the T station in Beechview. You know, the one with the alleyway behind it?”

You picture the route. He’s fifteen minutes away, tops. “Yeah, stay put.”

He lets out that raspy chuckle. “You the man.” He hangs up. You shift gears and turn toward Beechview.

You stop in front of the shadowy, garbage filled alleyway and see a hooded figure being intimate with a woman. At first glance, it might seem like two lovers having fun, but you know better. You honk once to get his attention. His head snaps toward you; his partially melted looking face pocked with pus filled dots, his yellowed eyes in bliss, his mouth bloody. He flashes a wide smile, fangs bared and eyes wide open. He licks the wound close and wipes his mouth with his sleeve in a wide motion. The woman slumps down against the wall, you’re not sure if she’s a prostitute or a bystander. Dennis scuttles over in quick steps and hops in.

“This early in the night?” you ask.

“Eh, can you blame me? That glassed shit they gave us at the gallery might as well have been watered down piss. And I’m tired of sucking on rats already.”

You laugh while hitting the gas. “Nosferatu feed on rats?”

“Don’t even. Anyway, what’s the plan?”

You explain: you’re en route to meet the Giovanni, to ask about the unmarked crates you saw at Odran’s rave.

“Raffard suspects they might be running guns, gearing up for war or something. What were you gonna do?”

“Pike told me to visit the Tremere in Oakland. Maybe they know what happened to the sire or learned something. After that, I’ll swing by the Dump. I haven’t heard from the clan since yesterday. Feels like we’re running in circles.”

“Nevermind the Dump. Focus on the Tremere. I’ll ask Vivienne to check in with the Nosferatu.”

He gives you a sidelong glance. “Why? Can she even find her way in? It’s not exactly an open invitation with a neon sign, you know. Besides, shouldn’t she go to the Tremere? Or better yet, stay put?”

You shake your head. “Not in this state. She’s seemed cathartic since yesterday. I fear she’ll do something stupid like going on a personal vendetta if she stays idle.”

You dial her number while waiting at the red light.

“Adrian,” she answers. “What are you doing?”

"I should ask you. How’s Mascha?"

“Detached. She barely talks anymore. Just… vacant. I’ve heard her mutter, ‘no more, no more.’ Whatever those Anarchs did, it broke something in her.”

“Don’t do something stupid. I’m on my way to talk with some people about the crate thing we saw the other night. What are you doing tonight?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to leave her alone. But I also know I’m useless to her the more I sit by her side.”

“Hey, why don’t you go visit the Nosferatu in the sewers? I talked with Dennis, says they might have something. He hasn’t checked in with them yet.”

There’s a pause on the other end. Then she speaks again. “Maybe. I’ll ask the Sheriff about it.” She hangs up.

You turn to Dennis. “Says she’ll talk with Pike about it. I’m getting tired of wrangling her.”

He shrugs, watching the road pass in silence. You pass Liberty Bridge and drive toward North Oakland. After dropping him off near the campus gates, you head deeper into Bloomfield.

The address is a fine dining Italian restaurant called Il Cardinale. You enter through heavy doors into a red carpeted foyer. A maitre d’ greets you, eyes scanning a list.

“Good evening, sir. Do you have a reservation, perchance?” he asks while scanning a list.

“I’m on the diet these nights. I’m actually looking for one Mr. Giovanni?”

He immediately looks up at you, sharp.

“If you could inform him that I’m here on behalf of Benjamin Raffard…”

He studies you briefly, then nods.

“Very well, sir. One moment.” He disappears into the main dining room. A minute or two later, he returns.

“Right this way.”

You’re led through candlelit tables, up a back stairwell, into a corridor lined with mahogany. At the end waits a private room. The maitre d’ opens the door and leaves you, his footsteps fading away.

Inside, a man and a woman converse at a table. The man is thin and middle-aged, his hair slicked back, and he wears an elegant suit. The woman looks like a foreigner, with a loose face veil and flowing, unnaturally long raven hair. When they see you enter, she makes a courteous gesture toward the man and rises from her chair.

“Ah, I was just leaving. Thank you for your kind patronage and hospitality, Angelo.”

“Keep your eyes open,” he replies. “I pay well for things worth knowing.”

The woman leaves the room, acknowledging you on her way out with a series of eye movements and head tilts. You glance around. Two enforcers posted around the corners, with another man lounging behind Angelo. You sit across from him. He studies you in silence.

“My sire sends his regards,” you begin. “He needs information, something that concerns your family directly.”

“Which is?”

You lean forward a bit. “Let’s just say we have good reason to believe the North Side Anarchs are gearing up for war. And since the esteemed Giovanni family holds the gun trade in a chokehold…”

He cuts in, raising a hand. "I see where this is going. Giacomo, bring the ledger. And the other bag.”

The man behind Angelo leaves the room. You glance at him. He’s completely bald, save for a soul patch.

“You’re lucky I was indebted to Mr. Raffard from years ago. Otherwise, this tit-for-tat wouldn’t come cheap. I assume you can understand why we can’t give our trade list like that.”

Giacomo returns, dropping a duffel bag in front of you and handing a ledger to Angelo.

“Bag’s yours,” he says, while flipping through the pages. “A gift from Raffard.”

You peek inside. A massive Desert Eagle, a MAC-10, a suppressor for it, copious ammo for both, frag grenades… and to top it off, two wooden stakes reinforced with metal handles. Angelo starts speaking while you inspect the contents.

“There it is,” he taps the page with his finger. “Yes, we sold four crates of assault rifles and shotguns to Anarchs. Bullets, shells, flares…”

He skims down to a name.

“To one Odran Gallegher.”

You zip the bag closed. To Odran? Not Frank himself? Does this mean anything? You wonder if Frank simply told Odran to gear up for the whole crew, or if he’s acting on his own, in secret. You’re brought back to reality when the bald man hands you a card. You eye it curiously.

“My nephew’s number,” Angelo nods toward Giacomo. “Feel free to call him if you need gear. Likewise, we might ask you for a favor too. And tell your sire that my debt’s been paid.”

You pocket the card and shoulder the bag.

“Of course,” you say with a respectful nod. He extends his hand and you shake it, then turn to leave.

You exit the packed Il Cardinale through the clangs of silverware, poured drinks, and a woman’s laughter, stepping into the crisp winter night air. Approaching your car, you toss the duffel bag into the backseat and hop in. You consider going back to Raffard’s with the info immediately… but you pause. The Sheriff and his people were busy and likely couldn’t return to the scene where they staked Mascha. You decide to take a look yourself.

The drive to the riverfront is uneventful. You kill the engine and open the bag, taking out the massive hand cannon with you, then you step out for a look around. The only sounds are distant horns, the slap of the river, and the hollow hum of traffic crossing the bridge upstream. At first glance, it’s obvious a fight took place here. Fences are smashed, gravel and soil churned violently, and a metal trash can lies crushed inward. You spot tire tracks leading in. One set belongs to a small vehicle, probably Toten’s. The other, which looks like a van or pickup, but the tracks simply disappear. Just as you’re kneeling to inspect the tracks, you hear movement near the foot of the underpass. You draw your gun.

“Who’s there?”

A figure stumbles into view, hands up.

"Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” he croaks. “Are you a cop?”

You see a man in his sixties, maybe older. His face is filthy and his beard is covered in grime. His clothes are more rags than cloth. He stinks of booze and urine. You holster the weapon and pull the fake badge from your coat.

“Special Agent Mulder,” you say flatly. “You see what happened here last night?”

The name doesn’t even register, he’s too rattled to question anything.

“Yes, sir. I was here with my hootch… you know, just restin’. Then I hear a van pull up. Thought it was the outreach folk or the cops. I ducked down.”

“Go on.”

“They tossed a girl out, real roughlike. Then there was shoutin’. I couldn’t hear it all, but she screamed, a lot. Then… bang.” He winces, miming a gun with trembling fingers. “I stayed hidden. I didn’t wanna get shot too.”

“Did you hear them talking? Names, anything distinct?”

He closes his eyes, breathing through his mouth.

“One of ‘em said sumthin’… yeah. Screamed ‘She’s ready, Hester.’” He nods slowly. “I remember that. Right after the gunshot. Scared the crap outta me.”

“You remember which way they took off? Think hard, I’ll peel a fifty for you.”

His eyes shine, and he points with a trembling, sooty finger across the riverfront.

“That way. They took off… that way. Real fast.”

You squint past the road, trying to trace where the van’s tires might’ve carved through the gravel.

You’re still processing when the old man’s breath hitches. The thing is on him before you can fully turn. A blur of limbs and snarling teeth, it slams into the vagrant and tears out his throat in a single, brutal motion. You see the glint of fangs, too wide for a normal jaw. Blood spatters the concrete. The old man convulses violently… then goes still. The attacker snarls like a jackal, hunched over the corpse. This is definitely a vampire, and he’s covered in dirt and tattered clothing, like he clawed his way out of the grave. He lifts his head and turns his gaze to you, his eyes fixed.

No options, since I feel like I can’t possibly think of everything in this one scenario. Let’s freestyle a bit, suggest what we should do, and if people agree on it, we go from there. And if people like this more than predetermined options, we can make it permanent even. Oh and also, next updates will come out much faster.!

Part 8 choices

None

Part 9 01.08.2025

You draw the gun again, steadying your aim.

“Hold it!”

You don’t even know if he can understand you. He charges like an animal, fingernails stretched into daggerlike claws. You fire, Giovanni’s monstrous .50 caliber roars like thunder. The first round catches him clean in the head, but he keeps coming. You keep shooting, backing toward your car, each round thudding into him until the magazine clicks empty and he collapses at last, lifeless.

Taking your eyes off him, you open the passenger door and grab the duffel bag. Just then, the vampire slams into the car. He punches through the window, showering the backseat with glass, then rips the metal door off its hinges and tosses it aside like cardboard. You grab the first thing your hand finds in the bag and jump backward toward the gravel on the side of the road. He dives through the car and leaps on you.

Just as you get to your feet, the vampire grabs you and drives his claws deep into your gut. The pain is like a flash fire burning behind your eyes, and your scream is guttural. The Beast inside you wants to break free, but you barely manage to hold it back. His other hand grips your shoulder, claws sinking in, pulling you closer. His fangs reach for your neck. Half his face is a ruin, a ragged hole left by your gun, but he’s still coming. His claws are stuck in you, so you headbutt him to push his head away, then grab him by the throat to steady him for what you pulled from the bag.

He doesn’t even register what you’re holding and makes no attempt to dodge it. You drive the metal reinforced stake right through his chest. As soon as the wooden tip touches the vampire’s heart, the murderous intent on his face freezes solid. His body slumps and drops to the ground, paralyzed.

You yank his claws out of you with a grunt. You’ve been stabbed and shot before, but this feels different, as if your wounds are burning from the inside out. You sit in the driver’s seat to take a breather; even sitting hurts. One good thing about this side of the river being deserted: no one saw this. Probably.

You press the wound with one hand, trying to heal. Soon, a pair of headlights sweeps across the empty stretch of gravel, cutting through the wreckage with stark yellow light. A nondescript black sedan pulls up. It’s Pike.

“What happened?” he asks, leaning down to the driver’s window.

“I came down here to look around, to see if your team missed anything after the fight.”

Sheriff is positively seething. “On your own? Without telling anyone? My guys at the police department already shut down two calls about gunshots in this area. You’re lucky I was already on my way.”

“How was I supposed to know there’d be another Kindred waiting in ambush?”

“Teaches you not to play lone wolf, neonate. Suck it up.” He kneels to check your attacker. “That stake’s in deep. Looks like it hit right between the ribs. Nice work.”

He examines the body further. “Claws, tattered clothes, dirt under the fingernails, emaciated… Goddamn shovelhead.”

“A what now?”

“Shock troop. Cannon fodder. They beat you over the head with a shovel, turn you, bury you alive. Those who crawl out are stripped of their humanity. Monsters, through and through.”

You’re perplexed. “Who’s ‘they’?”

“Sabbat,” he says nonchalantly. “You’ll learn who they are soon enough. What did you get out of the bum over there?” He nods toward the old man your attacker killed, now laying in a pool of his own blood.

“Not much. Said there was a van that dropped Mascha here and sped off. One of the people who was present said something about Hester. Sound familiar?”

Pike turns his head to you. “Hester? Yeah… yeah, I know that name.” He clicks his tongue. “Hester Reed. From New York, with love.”

“Be specific, Sheriff.” You grunt through the pain.

“She’s a prominent figure from New York. I wonder how she ties into this mess. Our man here,” he kicks the shovelhead, “might have the answers.”

“New York? Why would New York Sabbat come here?”

“That’s what I’m wondering too.” Pike hefts the staked shovelhead over his shoulder and starts walking. “Leave your car. It’s done for. We’ll get you a replacement. Come with me.” He dumps the staked shovelhead into the backseat, one arm under the creature’s, the other gripping its thigh. He slams the door shut with his knee, pops the trunk, takes out a body bag, and walks back to the dead bum.

“Son of a bitch…” he mutters, crouching to examine the corpse. The old man’s face is pale from blood loss, frozen in a twisted, horrified expression. Pike stuffs the body into the bag and lifts it into the trunk without a second glance, wiping his gloved hands on his coat. You groan as you ease yourself into the passenger seat, stowing your Giovanni duffel in the back, leaving your ruined car behind.

The ride is quiet for a while. Pittsburgh’s city lights sprawl behind you as the cruiser climbs the winding streets of the Slopes.

Pike glances sideways at you. “You holding together?”

You nod, hand pressed tight over your stomach where the claw punctured you. It’s healing slowly, but it still burns.

“So what’s the plan with this… shovelhead?”

“We crack him open,” Pike says bluntly. “Tomorrow night. You’re coming.”

“Me?” you ask.

“You staked him. You earned a spot.” Pike’s voice is low but firm. “He looks freshly Embraced… maybe a week, tops. Whoever dumped him either didn’t care if he died or wanted him to start a scene. Burn blood and heal what you can. We start at sundown. I’ll have someone pick you up.”

The car stops at your haven. You step out, one hand still pressed to your stomach, the other clutching your bag. Pike shifts into drive.

You pause, then lean back in through the open door. “What about my coterie? Heard from them tonight?”

Pike exhales through his nose. “Ms. Holloway checked in earlier. She’s still down in the tunnels with the Nosferatu. Looking for any chatter about who else might’ve been at the riverfront. Takes a day to get a straight answer.”

“And Dennis?”

“Tremere Primogen has him going over some kind of residue they pulled off Mascha. No idea what they’re hoping to find. I don’t get how that stuff works.”

“Thanks,” you murmur.

Pike pulls the door shut and rolls the window down an inch.

“Don’t forget. Tomorrow, sunset. Be ready.”

The sedan glides off into the dark and disappears down the hill with a low rumble. You look up. It’s starting to rain.

They gather in the basement of a condemned rowhouse; wallpaper peeling, floors stripped bare. Rain ticks softly on the tin roof above them. Mold clings to the corners of the ceiling. A single lightbulb hangs low, casting a sick yellow hue across the walls. A man leans against the cracked wall, arms crossed over his chest. A ragged hoodie hangs loose from his shoulders, the hem stained with old blood. One of his boots taps lightly against the floor, just enough to irritate.

Hester paces the room, her boots thudding against the rotting wood. “One fucking night,” she hisses. “One night we needed everything tight. And that shovelhead bastard tears off and throws himself at the first Cam dog he smells. What happened, Rurik?”

“He wasn’t supposed to wake yet,” Rurik mutters from the old couch, hunched forward, elbows on knees. His long limbs fold awkwardly. His sunken eyes twitch toward the dirt-streaked floor. “He wasn’t ready.”

“No shit,” the man says, arms still crossed, his heavy frame tense. “You trust ghouls to guard a Cainite? That’s on you.”

“Nothing to do with trust, Rashid,” Rurik snaps. “I don’t know what happened.”

Hester stops pacing and looks at them both.

“I don’t care about whats and hows. What matters is the Cams found him. They’ll bleed him for answers. And if he says my name…”

“He will,” Rashid says coldly. “You were never good at keeping your mask on, Hester.”

She steps toward him, and looks him dead in the eye. She casts no reflection in them. “Watch yourself, Gangrel. You’re only here because we needed muscle.”

“And you’re only leading because everyone better’s dead. You wanna go, bitch?”

Rurik cuts between the tension. “Stop bickering like dogs. What do we do now?”

“We speed things up,” Hester says. “No more waiting.”

Rashid’s smile spreads wide. “So we’re doing it my way now, fast and loud.”

“Maybe,” Hester says, her lips twisting. “No more leash on the shovelheads. If they want to hunt, let them.”

Rurik raises his head slowly. “We haven’t even tested the tunnels.”

“You said the sewer maps were clean,” Rashid interrupts.

“They’re old maps,” Rurik shoots back. “Plus, the Rats are on edge now. I don’t like it.”

“Doesn’t matter what you like,” Hester says.

Rurik looks like he wants to protest, but says nothing.

“You’re rattled,” she adds, staring him down. “I get it. New York shook all of us. But I need you solid now. No more dead weight. You’re still Sabbat, aren’t you, Tzimisce?”

A pause. Then a slow nod.

“Good. And if we fail, we can always call on reinforcements. The city will fall.”

Rashid pushes off the wall and moves toward the stairs. “Iss’bout time we burned some shit.”

I think this is the perfect time for some EXP distribution. From beginning, to up until now… let’s say you have 21 EXP. EXP costs are as follows;

Attribute: current rating x 4
Ability: current rating x 2
Clan Discipline: current rating x 5
Humanity: current rating x 2

Part 9 choices

Again, no votes because Sheriff wants you present first thing. We will continue them after the scene. If you want to do something in the meanwhile, feel free to say so.

Part 10 Chapter 3 - What You Leave For Your Sons 11.08.2025

I think I got the votes right, which is Dominate 3(10), Fortitude 2(5), and then Firearms 4(6) for 21 EXP. When you get more EXP, Presence and Melee can be next. Let me know if I messed up.

[AAA said:]
Find a decent (yet discrete) melee weapon we can carry on our person.
[BBB said:]
Also some armor (I am thinking some Kevlar
Noted.
[CCC said:]
Make a ghoul bodyguard…
[OP said:] Noted

The sun sinks below the horizon. You pop the cap off the blood bag you kept in the fridge and drink the stale plasma while trying to heal the grisly wound from last night. Your tattered and bloodied clothes from last night are already in the trash. You command the blood to knead and mend your wound, watching in the mirror as your torn flesh knits itself back together. It takes a while, but you’re fully healed, without even a scar.

You change into another suit and strap your holster. Setting your old handgun on the end table, you decide to take the Desert Eagle with you, along with a frag grenade and the stake. Then, you hear a honk outside. Expecting Sheriff Pike’s courier, you take a peek. You’re wrong.

You leave the apartment and head out. The ghoul driver is already opening the door of a familiar limousine for you, and you get in.

“Adrian, my boy,” Raffard says, adjusting his collar with a casual air. “Heard you took a rough tumble last night.”

“You could say that. Thanks for the bag, by the way.”

“It’s nothing,” he replies. “You need to protect yourself, war is at our doorstep again. Even though bleeding for the court goes a long way here, take care to not get bled dry.” He leans it at the driver. “Let’s go.”

“Good to know. I thought Pike’s guy was going to pick me up?” you ask.

“Change of plans. I spoke with him about it. Now… let’s talk about the Giovanni. What did they say?”

“Not much. Anarchs did buy from them, so it’s true they’re arming up. But after last night, I’m starting to doubt they’re behind what’s been happening at all.”

“Of course they weren’t,” your sire says, finally done fussing with his collar, satisfied. “The Rabble are all bark and no bite; they would never dare. But a bit of old fashioned fanaticism is always welcome. It was obvious they were being set up, but we could have had a quick land grab from their North Side strongholds with a one-two punch. The whole area is prime estate, not to mention the abundant, street trash Kine no one would miss. The whores, the bums…”

You raise an eyebrow. “So is that what your speech at the Elysium was all about?”

“Court etiquette. A shame Moore and our dear Prince went the conservative route, some Kindred are simply more interested in an uneasy status quo with the Anarchs. What’s more interesting is why someone would target you specifically.”

“Who knows,” you shrug. “Dumb luck or a planned attack… it doesn’t matter now. Pike will tear it out of him soon enough.”

“That we will,” he says. “That, we will.”

“Nearing the plaza, sir,” the ghoul driver announces.

“We,” you ask him. “I thought you only wanted to pick me up to hear about the Giovanni report.”

“On the contrary, I’ll also be present in the room.” He laughs. “After all, it’s my childe they attacked.”

The car stops in front of a downtown building of what looks like a shell company, not far from where you were brought to see the Prince. You step out as the driver opens the door for your sire. A man stands in front of the glass tower, ready to escort you both inside. You enter the elevator, and he punches a button. The ride up is slow.

Floor 15 is clearly used only for storage. After a couple of turns, you enter an empty room overlooking the river. A single chair in the middle holds your attacker, still staked. The chair is bolted to the ground, with straps on the hands and feet for restraint. The Sheriff and the Seneschal lounge nearby, clearly waiting for someone before starting. They glance up as you arrive. Your escort leaves without a word.

“Sheriff, Seneschal.” Raffard nods to each and leans on his cane to take a closer look. “So this is the man? He reeks.”

“We’re waiting for someone. We’ll start as soon as she’s here,” the Sheriff says.

“Of course. The night is young.”

Five minutes pass, maybe ten. The stillness is broken by the ding of the elevator. Footsteps echo down the hall, and the door opens. A girl in her early twenties enters, dressed in mismatched clothes that look pulled from a Goodwill bin. The only striking feature is her sea blue hair. She speaks in a low tone, eyes lowered and disinterested.

“Good evening.”

Raffard tenses beside you like prey spotting a predator.

“Sheriff, you didn’t tell me the seer would be here?”

“With all respect, Mr. Raffard, the possibility of Dominate is gone. He’s past wassail. Giselle, do your thing.”

Giselle pauses beside you and stares at Raffard for several seconds before shaking her head, once, twice.

“And a good evening to you.” She mutters to someone unseen, then steps in front of the shovelhead and looks at him at an eye level. The Sheriff yanks the stake free. He moves behind the prisoner, gripping his head to hold him still. The shovelhead is still wounded from your gunshots, chunk of his skull missing. He snaps at Giselle in front of him, fangs bared. The Seneschal watches with her arms crossed.

The prisoner’s thrashing stops the instant his one remaining eye meets Giselle’s gaze.

“You are before me as a crude marionette, with lurid features painted in sewer water stage makeup, and strings vanishing into the forked night sky. The rackety puppet master laughs and bows before the crown and the court, his hundred marionettes dancing the macabre. It’s a vaudeville! He stands on the shoulders of a strongman who juggles severed heads. They laugh and laugh! They love it! They don’t see the little girl running around, the hystery girl! She cuts off the heads of the crowd as she laughs harder! They laugh! They love it! It’s a hystery! A hystery!”

Giselle starts laughing while staring into his eye. He laughs with her, catatonic. Pike glances at Moore, who nods. He drives the stake back into the shovelhead’s chest. The prisoner’s frozen face holds the wide grin. Moore grabs Giselle from behind, holding her steady as her laughter dies.

Your sire is already deep in thought. The Sheriff walks over to you.

“I’ve never seen that before,” you tell him.

“You haven’t seen much anyway, fledgling. Giselle’s visions are usually mad ramblings, but there’s a method to her madness. It’s possible the ‘hystery girl’ is her. Hystery, Hester Reed. We don’t know if any other packs have infiltrated the city, or if they’ve been recruiting.”

He continues. “We have two leads, ‘forked night sky’ and ‘sewers.’ We can maybe-”

His words are cut short by a ringing phone. The Seneschal answers, speaking in short, clipped phrases. In the distance, you hear blaring sirens and gunfire. She hangs up.

“Multiple reports of arson across the city. Assaults, break-ins, gunshots, a dead officer. And if that wasn’t enough, Anarch posses are fighting each other. Frank Porter is in torpor, and the petty gangs are taking advantage of the power vacuum. Or worse, they’re being manipulated or infiltrated by the Sabbat.”

She turns to the Sheriff. “Restore the order with men you have left. We’ll spin it as a terrorist attack. Benjamin-”

Your sire narrows his eyes, calculating. “I know what to do, Seneschal. I hope our Prince knows, too.”

Finally, it’s your turn.

Part 10 choices

A) Take Giselle with you and investigate her visions.
B) We can go help the Anarchs if they’re being hit by the Sabbat. Quid pro quo.
C) Take it to the streets with the Sheriff or your sire, and join the fight on the ground.

Don’t forget about your phone calls!

Part 11

A it is.

You turn to the blue haired Malkavian. “Me and my coterie can take you along, try to understand your premonitions, make sense of it. That is, if you want to come with us.”

She squints at you, then smiles. “Of course. I think they would help a lot.”

“We’ve already arranged a compensation for your ruined ride from yesterday, fledgling. In the parking lot.” Sheriff throws the keys at you and you catch it midair in one swift hand motion. He turns at Giselle. “Are you sure about this?”

She nods. “We all have our roles to play, Sheriff,” and then looks at you. “Let’s get going.”

With her in tow, you two leave the others in the room and press the button for the elevator. You take out your phone and call your coterie. Learning the address, you agree to meet in Vivienne’s club. It dings, and you two step inside.

“Do you trust your coterie? Your… friends?” She blurts out of nowhere.

“I wouldn’t go as far to call them friends. Associates,” you say.

“Why,” she asks. “do you think you’re above such trivialities? Or you don’t trust them, and they are tools for you.”

You don’t answer, and she smiles again and sighs. You can see her twisted reflection on the elevator door.

“This Jyhad we play, the eternal whodunit mystery of backstabbing and whatnot… don’t get too much into it, Adrian. I know what they say about enemies and friends, but you should have people, Kindred or Kine, that you trust. Trust without supernatural conditioning.”

“You know my name?”

“On the grapevine, you and your coterie’s name dropped here and there. Just be careful. I’ve known many fledglings in the last war, dying a meaningless death, the Final Death.”

The elevator dings again, opening onto the building’s parking lot. Only one car sits inside, so you make your way toward it. It’s a sleek sedan, something similar to what Vivienne’s ghoul was driving when you first met. You unlock the car, but before sliding in, you pause to look at Giselle. Though you only met her tonight, you sense genuine concern behind her words. Your eyes linger on her hair until you realize she’s staring straight into yours, questioningly.

“Is it true that you can see future and the past, read the mind unlike Ventrue can?”

She nods. “It’s painful and confusing, and not everything I see is necessarily true.”

“Can you divine my future?”

“Are you sure?”

You think for a second, and then nod. She first looks at somewhere behind you, then closes her door and walks to your side. She cups your head with her two hands and stares straight into your eyes. At first you can only see your own reflection, but then you feel it. Something is inside your head, like getting pricked with a needle. Your vision clouds, blurs at the edges in the same shade as her hair. Memories surface from a lifetime ago, then vanish. She starts hyperventilating, breaks eye contact, and your senses snap back. It’s like waking from a lucid dream.

“Sorry… I don’t want to talk about it,” she murmurs, apologetic for something you don’t understand.

“What happened?”

“Forget it, I’m sorry. Let’s just go, please.” She is already in the passenger side. You open the door and slide behind the wheel. She is muttering to herself in a quiet tone, but from her mouth movements, you can make up the "I’m sorry"s and "I can’t"s. The car rolls out of the parking lot and you turn the wheel toward South Side, it definitely feels nicer than your Crown Vic.

Giselle has the window rolled all the way down. Her head rests on her arms, halfway out into the night, watching the black water of the river glide below the bridge. The wind tugs at her hair.

“Do you like swimming?”

You blink. “What?”

“Swimming, you know. Since we’re dead and all, we can’t drown. I sometimes take a dip and don’t come out for an hour or two.”

You shake your head. “Can’t say I’ve ever tried, no.”

She shrugs. “You’re missing out. Don’t you have anything you do for fun? To relax?”

“Not really. Maybe I’ll do something when all this is over.”

She shrugs, grinning faintly into the wind. “You should. Everyone needs something that’s theirs. Something not about schemes, or power, or the endless hunger.”

The rest of the drive is quiet, save for the sound of the wind through Giselle’s open window and the low hum of the sedan. She hums tunelessly at one point, then breaks it off with a giggle, as though she’s just told herself a joke no one else heard. By the time you reach the Flats, the streets are alive with weekend traffic, despite the reports of attacks. Maybe Sheriff and his men already contained the situation.

Vivienne’s club sits just off the riverside of the Flats, not far from your haven. You park across the street, taking in the building with its weathered brick face. Above the entrance, a sign glows faintly: a blindfolded woman, her face scored with cuts, moth wings unfurling from her temples like horns. Beneath it reads the name Acherontia in jagged, white serif letters. The walls are plastered with layers; posters for bands you’ve never heard of layered over one another, graffiti tags half erased by time, and faded advertisements for nights long past. The fire escape is crowded with figures in black, chainsmokers and drifters laughing too loudly. Others loiter by the front doors.

You spot Oscar leaning against the railing, cigarette dangling between his fingers as he trades words with the bouncer. When he spots you and Giselle, he takes one last drag, stubs it out under his boot, straightens his jacket, and approaches.

“They’ve been expecting you,” he says, nodding toward Giselle in a half greeting before turning back to you. “Follow me.”

Inside, Acherontia’s walls are not bare industrial concrete like most clubs. Every stretch of surface is claimed by artwork; grotesque oil paintings, mixed media collages, and sprawling murals that seem to bleed into one another. Some are beautifully composed, others feel unfinished or even hostile. And when they mix with CRT televisions that flicker with static and looping VHS clips of faces cut apart, moths fluttering, religious icons glitching into noise, they radiate a suffocating energy.

Oscar leads you through the crowd and into a service hallway, then down a set of narrow stairs. The air grows colder, the music above reduced to a faint pulse through the ceiling. At the bottom is a basement room lit by a single dangling bulb. The plaster is peeling and in the corners stand easels covered in old rags, concealing whatever work Vivienne has hidden beneath them. Your coterie is already there, deep in hushed conversation. Their voices cut off when you step inside with Giselle at your side.

“Heya, bossman,” says Dennis, eyeing her. “Oh, what’s this about, then?”

“Hello, Kindred.” Giselle drifts past you, trailing her fingers across a covered canvas. You recount the Giovanni meeting, the riverfront fight, and Giselle’s vision.You ask your coterie what they’ve been up to.

Dennis lifts his disfigured hand in a reverse OK sign, showing a signet ring with a bloodred stone. “The Tremere gave me this,” he says. “A ward of sorts, magic shit. Said it’d help in a pinch. Other than that, nothing. Vivi was telling me something, though.”

She rolls her eyes and leans in her chair back. “They say there’s something or someone down there, hiding from the Nosferatu. I know what you think, that Nosferatu not knowing who’s lurking in their domain is a stretch, but I haven’t come across anything either. The whole thing is a big maze, by the way. I couldn’t find my way in if it weren’t for the Sheriff and Mascha’s tips.”

“Where’s she,” you ask her.

“Out to hunt. She is slowly getting it together piece by piece.”

“Yeah, enough about get-well-soon wishes, the hell do we do now?” croaks Dennis.

“Stick together,” you answer. “Vivienne says there is something down in the sewers, right? And Giselle here also saw something about sewers. I say we go down there.”

“We should go see the dagos first, stock some firepower.” He turns to Giselle. “What do you think we will find there?”

Giselle is not even listening to him, she puts her ear next to one of the covered easels as if listening. Dennis rolls his eyes and turns to you two, whispering so only you two can hear it.

“Hey, stumbling in dark is one thing, I’m used to that. But having a Malkavian as our guide?”

“You know we can hear you, don’t you, caramel unicorn?” Giselle says casually.

Dennis takes his hood and cap off to scratch his head. It’s boiled and pus filled. He mouths “what the fuck”.

“I’ll give the Giovanni a call upstairs.”

You step away from the meeting, pulling the Giovanni card from your pocket. The number is scratched in small script on the back.

Upstairs, the noise from speakers thunder through the floor, enough to move the hanging chains on its own, muffling the murmur of voices. You get out. The payphone bolted to the wall outside should help you. You drop in a coin and dial the number. After two rings, the line clicks. A man’s voice, smooth but brisk, cuts through.

“Yeah, what do you want?”

“Giacomo,” you answer, shifting the receiver against your ear. “I need some serious firepower.”

“Of course, we can arrange something. Cash, or favors?”

Music from inside and chatter around you drown half his words. You clamp your free hand to your ear. “We’ll talk face to face, just get them ready.”

A pale goth woman leans against the brick wall, mascara streaked beneath her eyes, a cigarette hanging from her lips. “Heya,” she says, nodding and smiling at you. “Got a light?”

Without thinking, you flick your lighter and hold the small flame for her while Giacomo continues in your ear. “Come by the restaurant, we’ll set you up.”

Before you can answer, the street erupts. An old pickup barrels past the club, and a voice howls from the open window:

“Camarilla fucks!”

The words are followed by the crash of glass as a Molotov arcs and shatters against the club’s wall, away from you. The roar of gunfire follows, men in the truck indiscriminately firing. The woman jerks as bullets tear into her chest. She collapses at your feet, cigarette falling from her lips, blood blooming across her lace top. Screams ripple from the doorway as panicked clubgoers dive for cover or scatter into the street. You drop the receiver and pull out your Desert Eagle, firing after the truck with the club bouncer and Oscar as it speeds off. One of your shots lands square in a gunman’s back, but the pickup disappears down the street. She gasps, eyes wide, bleeding out fast. Blood forms around her mouth and she looks at you with teary eyes.

Part 11 choices

A) Carry her to the car, and give her some of your blood while no one’s looking. Then you can decide what to do with her.

B) Steel your dead heart and ignore her. Accidents happen.

Also, what about the truck?

A) Take Vivienne’s ghoul Oscar with you and give chase. It might be too late if you wait for your coterie to assemble.

B) Let them go and visit the Giovanni instead. You won’t be caught outnumbered again, much less outgunned.