Jason: “Dr. von Natsi is stringing all manner of hellacious-looking equipment all over your Chantry and setting it up to infuse the wards with additional power. Wouldn’t it be such a terrible pity if something were to go wrong with that process?”
Kara: “Georgia is helping him!”
Jason: “…”
Me: “Yeah, Georgia has no context for being fearful of Dr. von Natsi cause the last time she participated in Science she got Celerity.”
Jason: “Well no, the first time she participated in Science she got Celerity. Other times after that have had other effects.”
Me: “That’s true, she did go to Pluto….”
Kara: “But that didn’t work out too badly for her!”
Jim: “It was interesting!”
Kara: “She rescued Jawahar!”
Me: “…And she got a cat, so yeah, I guess that’s true. Damn it feels good to be a Georgia.”

***

Author’s Note: Many of the next few writeups will be shorter than most, due to shorter evenings, increased meta-game discussion to move the plot along, and the fact that I can’t write up the Scout scenes publically yet. I considered trying to combine them into a few larger posts, but I decided with my limited time it might be better to have more shorter posts published more regularly.

#

COSTCO

Anstis stares at the small pirate hat held loosely in his hand. Slowly, he dabs the spots of blood and tastes it. It’s definitely Noah’s.

Footsteps and the tap of a cane, and Everton appears at his shoulder. “Hmm. I’d regard that as a very poor sign, very poor indeed.” Everton sighs and shakes his head sadly. “I wonder, Captain, if a moment of reproach, or regret, might be called for? Given what you may have shuffled this one off to?”

Anstis folds the hat carefully and shoves it in a pocket of his coat. “I’d rather find him first,” he growls, clenching his fist.

“You do realize you may not find him.” Everton eyes him seriously. “I have dealt at length with some unsavory characters amongst the Sabbat. They have a saying, one that must be translated from the native tongues, but effectively comes to a term they use for extremely young vampires. They call them ‘Baby on a Stick.’ Embraced, staked, and ready for consumption.” Everton grimaces. “Your patron is the exception, not the rule, and I’m concerned your crewman there–”

Anstis’s head snaps up, eyes practically glowing with fury. “My patron?! I have no patron.”

Everton meets his gaze evenly. “Oh do forgive me. What is the small one to you, then?”

Anstis’s sneer widens. “Sertorius is just another vampire in the city. One I occasionally associate with.”

“See the difficulty is, I wonder if he has the same opinion of your relationship, and it is his opinion that is more likely to be of relevance.” Silence lingers as the two men stare at each other. Finally Everton shrugs. “But it’s none of my business then.”

Everton tucks his cane under his arm and nods politely. “I suppose I must let you get on with making the inquiries you must. I have other business I must attend to of course.”

The fire slowly fades from Anstis’s face. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the hat, handing it toward Everton. “Before you go, do you have any tracking skills of note?”

Everton lifts an eyebrow. “Well it’s been some time since I’ve done any woods-craft, but I am Toreador. Let me see the hat.” He shifts his cane and takes the hat. Immediately, his face falls, the smug superiority leeching away with the last of his color. After a long moment, his eyes refocus on Anstis. “Captain…whatever became of that vessel of yours? The submarine?”

Anstis scowls. “Why?”

“Dead men occasionally tell tales. In fact I believe you know that better than most.” Everton suddenly tosses the hat back in a quick motion. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you much,” he says curtly, “Beyond the fact that he lost the hat, violently, and by surprise. What became of him after he lost it I cannot say.”

Everton turns to Scout, lingering nearby, watching them nervously. His composure returning, he smiles and bows lightly to her, then turns back to Anstis. “Do take care though, Captain. Others may have inquiries as to what transpired tonight, and they might extend those inquiries into other affairs of yours. Nautical ones, perhaps.” He starts striding away, cane clicking on the asphalt. “Good luck in your search. Oh and, give Mr. Li Weng my regards.”

Anstis is staring at the hat, but at these words his head snaps up. “…Wait a moment.”

But Everton is already gone.

Scout walks up to to Anstis as he stares into the night, hat clenched in his hand. “Have you found what you need?” she asks.

Anstis carefully fingers the bloodstains on the hat. “I believe I may need the assistance of a Tremere that is not Ms. Johnson,” he mutters, half to himself. “Or at least someone with knowledge of thaumaturgy.”

Scout tenses, as if wrestling with something in her mind, then straightens as she appears to make a decision. “I am new to this city, but I have made…some connections,” she says with a significant gaze. “There is a possibility that some of them may be able to put me in touch with some people who would be of use to you.”

Anstis eyes her, then nods. “If possible.”

Scout steps a few feet away and makes a call. Anstis lingers nearby, pretending to be focused on the hat, but in reality straining all his senses to listen in on the conversation. After a few rings her call connects, but there’s no response, just silence on the line. Scout doesn’t seem phased by this. “I’m looking for a contact,” she says firmly. “A thaumaturgist, not associated with the San Francisco Chantry.”

A voice responds then, electronically modulated. “For what purpose?” it rumbles, unnaturally deep.

Scout tenses at the sound. A small shudder escapes her cool composure. “…Paying out a favor,” she says flatly.

“Difficult. Will it be worthwhile?”

She lowers the phone and turns to Anstis. “It’s not going to come easy. Or cheap.”

Anstis eyes her a long moment. A different plan has occurred to him on how to track Noah, but he is intrigued by her actions. He tries to glance at the screen of her phone but she tilts it away. He shrugs. “A thaumaturgist may or may not be necessary.”

She glares at him, but before she can respond, the voice speaks from the phone, “Who is asking?”

Steeled composure drops across her face like a guillotine. She lifts the phone again. “A pirate.”

There’s a long pause. “What is the weather tomorrow?” the voice rumbles.

She eyes Anstis. “Mild, possibly worse later.”

Another long pause. “Let me know if it begins to rain.” With that, the call ends.

Relief sags her shoulders and she puts the phone away. “Well, if you do decide you need a connection you let me know.” She pulls an unmarked business card from her pocket and scribbles her phone number on it.

Anstis smiles and accepts it. “Ah. Thank ye. Here is mine.” He hands over his entire phone.

Scout stares a moment, then rolls her eyes and texts herself from it.

Anstis eyes her as she types. “Marcus has assigned you to assist me, but what be your purpose here?”

She stops typing and slowly scans the lot around them, gaze lingering on the burnt out taco truck. “That…can be handled myself,” she says, and hands the phone back.

“Mm.” Anstis watches her as he puts the phone away, then straightens and smooths at his coat. “I shall be entertaining myself for the rest of the evening. Contact me tomorrow to continue your assignment.” He instantly morphs down into the form of a large blue and gold macaw. She steps back in surprise as he squawks and explodes into the air, wheeling around the lot once to gain altitude, then disappears into the fog to the west.

She lingers a moment, staring around, taking a long breath of the cool night air. Adam’s car is still parked nearby, engine idling, his sunglassed-gaze watching her through the windshield over his permanent smile. With no other way back to the city, she walks over and climbs in wordlessly. He nods at her but remains silent as he pulls out of the lot and heads back toward the freeway.

#

THE CHANTRY

Dr. von Natsi shows up at the Chantry to pick up the vitae-soaked femur bone he was promised. He’s ecstatic to finally have the piece–one of the key elements needed for the ongoing golem project–so much so that he doesn’t remember to ask where Georgia got it from. As agreed upon, in exchange for the bone, von Natsi sets to work using Etheric Science to upgrade the Chantry wards.

(Jason: “Dr. von Natsi is stringing all manner of hellacious-looking equipment all over your Chantry and setting it up to infuse the wards with additional power. Wouldn’t it be such a terrible pity if something were to go wrong with that process?”
Kara: “Georgia is helping him!”
Jason: “…”
Me: “Yeah, Georgia has no context for being fearful of Dr. von Natsi cause the last time she participated in Science she got Celerity.”
Jason: “Well no, the first time she participated in Science she got Celerity. Other times after that have had other effects.”
Me: “That’s true, she did go to Pluto….”
Kara: “But that didn’t work out too badly for her!”
Jim: “It was interesting!”
Kara: “She rescued Jawahar!”
Me: “…And she got a cat, so yeah I guess that’s true. Damn it feels good to be a Georgia.”)

While helping von Natsi string a garland of spatulas and claw-hammers down the main hallway, Georgia gets a call on her cell phone. It’s Paul. She excuses herself and ducks into a side room. “Paul!” she greets cheerily.

“I had a very odd phone call not too long ago,” Paul says without preamble. “You were mentioned.”

She hesitates at his clipped tone. “I was? In what context?”

“Let me get right to it, where is Tom Lytton?”

“Why would you like to know?”

“Because I just heard a rumor that you diablerized him.”

She sighs. “I can assure you he has not been diablerized.”

“Well there was something about a video of you consuming someone entirely?”

She wanders the room. Sculpted busts of former Tremere Regents line the shelves. As part of von Natsi’s preparations, goggles have been strapped to each of them. “Huh,” she says, pausing to adjust a pair. “That’s interesting. Well, I assure you it wasn’t Tom Lytton.”

“Can you assure me it wasn’t anyone?”

“Negative.”

Silence on the line. “…Who was it?” Paul asks, voice low.

“You do remember that there was a blood hunt called against Tom, do you not?”

“No….”

“Oh, well there was!” she says excitedly.

Paul groans. There’s a sound of a fist hitting a table in the background. “Why would Tom go back to the city, then!? Last I knew he was heading east, toward Livermore. I assumed he would keep going, like any sensible person–”

(Jason: “And that’s when you suddenly remember, this is Tom.”)

Paul stops. “–Oh.”

Georgia sighs, brushing dust from the statue. “You do realize that Tom Lytton kidnapped and murdered the Nosferatu Primogen, right?”

(Me: *yelling from the kitchen* “I DIDN’T KILL HIM!”
Kara: “Georgia doesn’t know that.”
Me: “I know, but I’m gonna keep protesting it till I’m proven innocent.”
Jim: “I don’t think anything Tom has ever done has been innocent.”
Jason: “…Says the necromancer.”)

“Anyway,” Georgia continues, “Tom is not dead, but he has been captured.”

“By whom?” Paul asks carefully.

“Well, me.”

Another long pause. “…Where is he now?”

“He’s safe, for the moment. No one is going to diablerize him, Marcus has checked on him,” she says reassuringly.

“Put Tom on the phone,” Paul says.

“I can’t do that.”

“You just said you had him!”

“Right, I do have him. He’s…not really in a talking mood.”

“Georgia,” Paul says, in as serious a voice she has ever heard from him, “What. Happened?”

At his tone, the force of their blood bond to each other starts to overwhelm her, preventing her from dancing around the truth any longer. She sighs and sinks into a chair. “We went to the Costco, there was a small scuffle in which Tom’s associate may or may not have been consumed…by me…Tom was subdued, we put him in a van and brought him back to the Chantry.”

“Who was diablerized?” Paul snaps.

“Slayer.”

Paul pauses. “…Right, because who else would associate with Tom. Who did you capture him with?”

“Anstis, and Lord Rabenholz.”

“…Who?”

She brightens. “Oh, Rabenholz is new in the city. He’s been very helpful. I could introduce you!”

(Jason: “NO! Fuck no!”)

“…Maybe later,” Paul grumbles.

Georgia sighs. “Look, Tom is here, he’s been restrained, he is safe in the Chantry, and as long as he’s in here, he’s not out killing Primogens.”

“That’s a fair point,” Paul mutters.

A crash suddenly echoes from outside, followed by cursing in German, followed by an electrical surge that pulses the lights, followed by even more cursing. “Anyway,” Georgia says hurriedly, “I’d love to chat more, but there is something going on with my wards which I really need to take care of, so I will talk to you later. Love you!” She hangs up and rushes back to the hall.

(Chris: “…Paul thinks you might be a little crazy.”
Kara: “Oh my god, he finally figured it out.”)

By the time Dr. von Natsi is finished, the Chantry looks like an explosion in a hardware store, but even simple tests of the wards proves that they are now drastically enhanced. Georgia thanks him profusely and promises to come up to the tower to check on the progress of the golem as soon as she can. von Natsi, pleased with his handiwork, shakes her hand and leaves the Chantry in a flurry of goggles and Science.

#

FORT FUNSTON

Once reaching his cave, Anstis contacts one of his ghouls he conscripted from his pirate party, Cheryl Nguyen. She’s the only on-shore contact of his operation, blessedly spared the fate of living on the submarine with the rest of the mindless ghouls he inherited and zombies he created. Fingering Noah’s hat, Anstis asks her to track down the name of the family that lived at 801 Marina Blvd. He suggests she start with news reports, since they would have been murdered about a year ago.

As she writes that down he considers his encounter with the bathroom wraith that evening. Over the course of this, he thinks about Boopsie, realizing a pirate probably needs a more thematically-appropriate familiar. Thus, when Cheryl comes back to ask if there’s anything else, he instructs her to see about finding him a monkey.

#

(Jason: “And with that, the night ends. Now, the way this is going to work, I would like each of you, in turn, to tell me what each of your characters’ objectives are for the next three nights. I have nothing explicit planned for those nights so I will give you your head to do as you wish, and we’ll spot role-play whatever encounters we need to have.”
Kara: “Oh! Paul and I were going to take Bob and Dug to see the therapist on Monday.”
Jason: “…”
Chris: “Probably not a group session to begin with.”
Kara: “Two individual sessions?”
Chris: “Yeah.”
Jason: “…Have I mentioned that I hate you?”
Kara: “Yes.”)

#

GEORGIA

Over the next few nights, Georgia contacts Leeland to ask about the symbol they saw on the guys who attacked them and to see if he’s collected any more information on the soldiers themselves.

Leeland is not happy. It turns out over the course of the night, these paramilitary men killed almost a dozen of his campus police officers. Fortunately, he identified the symbol easily, saying it’s an ionian alpha. Unfortunately, he knows this because he knows it’s the symbol of Myrmidon.

Nearly apoplectic with indignation, Leeland tells her to tell Marcus he doesn’t know why the methusula sent his own private army after him, but there are more civilized ways of telling a man to keep his head down. Confused, Georgia says she’s already talked to Marcus and he didn’t even know about the attack until they told him. Leeland scoffs, says that’s impossible, everyone knows Marcus is in charge of Myrmidon, they’ve done his wetwork for almost two centuries. Leeland excuses himself from the call then, citing eulogies he has to write, leaving Georgia holding her phone, perplexed.

Georgia needs to find out more about this, so she does the Georgia thing and calls Marcus. She tells him the Myrmidon logo was on the men, but Marcus is just as dismissive, confirming that he did not order an attack by them. “Believe me, Ms. Johnson,” he says, “If I wanted you dead I’d do it myself.”  On that uncomfortable segue, he reminds her that he still needs a copy of the Chantry master key and will be by in the next few nights to pick it up. With that he hangs up.

Begrudgingly, Georgia works with Bob to get a Chantry key made; not a master key, but one that will let Marcus pass the wards and in the front door.

(Me: “He’ll need to talk to Facilities if he wants a master key, and will need a requisition order.
Kara: “Yeah, seriously. And he’ll have to put a deposit down.”)

Some nights later, Marcus shows up to get it, but his smugness turns to irritation when she admits it’s not the master key he asked for. Exasperated, she asks him why he needs the master key, and he points out that having been imprisoned in the building once before, he is not risking the chance of it happening again. She sighs and gets him a second key, this one to the cells. Marcus accepts this, and the issue seems settled.

During this time, Georgia also sits down to look through the book the strange man named Cantor gave her, when he showed up in her office and invited her to visit his temple. The magic described within is deeply complicated, but despite devoting hours of uninterrupted time to studying it, most of its meaning still escapes her.

Finally, she gives up and spends time each night pacing the Chantry, checking on Dr. von Natsi’s additions to the warding structures and trying to see if she can decipher their magic instead. As focused as she is, she is less concerned than she probably should be that, night by night, the spatulas and claw hammers strung down the hall seem to be multiplying.

#

ANSTIS

Anstis secures the anchor deep in the caves of Fort Funston. His plan is to use it to try to summon more wraiths of his long-lost mutinous crew members, though since the ship it’s from wasn’t a personal possession of theirs, the connection might be tenuous. Before that, though, he plans to focus all his necromantic attention on the wraith he knows as Tuke, as he suspects the man was foremost among the traitors and he has a lot of revenge he needs to enact.

Before that, though, he needs to find Noah. Cheryl successfully tracks down newspaper articles on the people killed in the Marina house, listing the name of the family–

(Chris: “Finch.”
Jason: “Finch?”
Chris. “Finch. The Finches.”
Jason: “…We have too much To Kill a Mockingbird going on here already.”
Chris: “Not a problem with that.”
Jason: “…”)

–Mr. William and Ms. Nancy Finch, and their young son. Unfortunately for Anstis, although the parents full names are listed, the son is not.

(Jim: “Actually, that might work just fine.”
Jason: “Oh…goddammit, I know what you’re going to do.”
Jim: “Alright. In a more secluded area of the caves, touching the blood of their child–”
Jason: “Ah, christ…”
Jim: “–I will use their names and summon them!”)

We will get to that new development soon.

#

SCOUT

Scout’s actions…are still secret at this time. 😉

#

RABENHOLZ

Rabenholz uses the next few nights efficiently, working with Rhona to enact some new business interests. He also asks her to make logistical plans for the gathering he plants to hold in just over a week’s time.

As usual, Rabenholz spends some time each evening practicing his sword work, but now he incorporates practicing with Glitch. He marvels at it, both for its magical abilities, but also for its balance, which seems to automatically adjust based on his movements, giving it ruthless efficiency.

As he becomes closer with the blade, his special object-read skills reveal more things. He now knows that Marcus put a recall enchantment on the blade. Tangential to that, he also knows there’s a dragon looking for it. He has to keep the sword safe, but from what he’s learned, there’s very little that will stop the dragon or Marcus from getting what they want.

(Chris: *muttering to himself* “Do I know how to, like, shove it in a pocket dimension…Oh! Wait! The mirror realm!”
Jim: “What’s a mirror realm?”
Chris: “You can basically make any reflective surface go into a, like, alternate universe that’s just space.”
Jason: “You could try that.”
Chris: “Would that be a safe place to keep an enchanted sword if I didn’t want anyone else getting at it?”
Jason: “Reasonably.”
Chris: “…Oh, wait, I have a thought, can I keep Tom in a mirror realm too?”
Me: “…”)

Thus, Rabenholz sets up two separate mirror realms, one for Glitch and one for the strung-up, hacked apart sculpture that is Tom. He also takes some time over the next few nights to visit the Chantry, convincing Georgia to let him look through some of the books and using what he finds within to do small thaumaturgical experiments, creating talismans and the like.

But the good Ventrue that he is, he doesn’t neglect his social obligations. He continues to present himself as the paragon of Camarilla ideals to Marcus and Bell, even though the former doesn’t care and, quite frankly, the latter doesn’t either. He also continues to network with the Prince, inviting the man out of his house-arrest sulk and to the opera one evening.

But underneath all this, Rabenholz is preparing for his gathering, and the political moves that must happen before then.

(Chris: “I also try to get in contact with Anstis.”
Jim: “Did we ever exchange phone numbers?”
Chris: “I don’t have a phone. Although given the amount of trouble this is causing….
Jason: “Yeah, then how in the gods’ names are you going to find Anstis?”
Kara: “I give you a goddamn phone. I’m dating Paul, I have them around.”)

With his new phone, Rabenholz gets ahold of Anstis and arranges to meet him on the roof of a skyscraper downtown, one he has just purchased a major investment in.

#

FINANCIAL DISTRICT

Rabenholz stands in the rooftop garden of the building, watching the fog pour in over Twin Peaks, cloak twisting around him in the cool wind. A shape spirals in out of the darkness, ambient street light from below limning a gold breast and long tail. The macaw lands on the edge of a planter nearby, hops down to the flagstones, then morphs up into the full form of Anstis.

Rabenholz nods at him. “I applaud your punctuality, Captain. I am sorry I have not had the chance yet to better make your acquaintance. Things have been understandably busy.”

Anstis shrugs and settles his hat. “Always are.”

Rabenholz paces slowly through the landscaped space, examining the designer layout of succulents, rock gardens, and native grasses. “I intend to hold a gathering, in nine days’ time. I believe it will be the first public gathering since the unpleasantness Mr. Bell has informed me of recently.”

Anstis’s eyes track him as he paces. “You mean Elysium.”

Rabenholz continues with even, measured steps. “Yes.”

Anstis lifts an eyebrow. He rocks back on his heel and strokes at his beard. “Come to think of it, no one has mentioned anything of a Prince in this city since I arrived.”

Still peering at the landscaping, Rabenholz flicks at a jade plant as he passes. “No, I don’t think Mr. Van Nuys will be returning to his role.”

(Jim: “This is the first time anyone has mentioned the Prince’s name to me.”
Jason: “Prince Not Appearing In This City.”)

“Is he yet alive?” Anstis asks.

“He is, but he will not take back the princeship.”

“But you will?”

Rabenholz stops and meets his gaze. “Yes.”

Anstis watches him a long moment. Slowly, he smiles and nods.

Rabenholz continues pacing. “I intend to present Mr. Lytton as an example. I also intend to praise your and Ms. Johnson’s names in bringing the fugitive to justice. But I am less concerned about what has happened and more interested in our future relationship.” He stops in front of Anstis. “Running a city is not an easy task, and an ambitious man such as yourself could make quite the profit in assisting in that. Assuming you have no similar ambitions yourself.”

Anstis chuckles. “Nay, the sea is my realm.”

“Do you mean to stay in San Francisco long, or move along?”

Anstis stares out across the buildings around them. Mountains of light, he called them when he first woke up in our time. “A great many things have changed in these nights. I am not yet accustomed to all of them. And I could use a home port on the Pacific.”

Rabenholz nods. “Indeed. You struck me as a man who can handle himself in violent, surprising situations. More importantly than that, you are a man who projects terror.” He clasps his hands in front of himself seriously. “Have you ever thought of a role in law enforcement?”

Anstis chuckles a sharp laugh at this. Rabenholz frowns. “You were never issued a letter of marque?”

“Nay, but I did discuss such a matter with Bell recently.”

Rabenholz waits for him to meet his gaze. “The ancient title of Sheriff is well suited for someone with qualifications such as yours,” he says seriously. Anstis’s eye widens, but Rabenholz continues. “I do not know if you’re interested, and I do not know if I can trust you.”

Anstis is silent a moment, considering. “What duties would you require of me?”

“Mostly to be in the right place in the right time, and on occasion, actually maintaining calm. The evening when I exhibit Mr. Lytton will be an important test issued against this city and myself. I would like to see that nothing untoward happens that evening. If you are able to keep the evening quiet, you will have my trust.” Rabenholz nods at him concedingly. “And, for your efforts, perhaps you would be interested in assuming possession of the body of Mr. Lytton.”

(Me: “…Wait, say that again!?”)

Anstis leans back, stroking his beard again. “An intriguing proposal….” He scans the skyline, seeking out the dark line of the bay beyond. “I could use a more permanent base of operations in the city…I would also like a quiet and secure room for study. Somewhere out of the way.”

Rabenholz nods. “Any other requirements?”

Anstis smiles slowly. “I require Lytton’s fangs.”

Rabenholz lifts an eyebrow. “A souvenir?”

“Not for me. For the Nosferatu.”

After a moment Rabenholz nods. He reaches into his cloak and pulls out a small silken bag. From it, he removes two chipped fangs and hands them over.

(Me: *glares*
Chris: “Naturally I’d have the taxidermist replace them.”)

Anstis nods and pockets them. “How often will you require my services?”

“In the normal course of things, I’d assume one third of each night. I’d estimate less if it were a quieter city, which I hope it will be.”

Anstis nods, straightening proudly. “Very well. I accept.”

Rabenholz smiles. He doesn’t offer a hand, but he bows to the pirate formally. “Let us see what my gathering offers then, Captain. I look forward to a profitable relationship.” He hesitates a moment, taking in Anstis’s outfit, as heavy and baroque as his is tailored and simple. Rabenholz strokes his own beard thoughtfully a moment. “Also…how do you feel about the name, Dread Pirate Anstis?”

(Jim: “Anstis smiles. He doesn’t know otherwise. And neither do you!”
Me: *sigh* “First we get stuck with the Twilight, and now this.”)

 

END OF NIGHT