The hunt always came easy. And his stoic stomach helped quell the vodka-poisoned blood that now sat in his veins. Arkady let the weary, dazed drunk aside after licking the wound closed upon his neck, and set out to the spot that was declared ready for action.
The other members of his pack were at the ready. A highly combat-oriented pack, the Shattered Hammer consisted of Brujah, Gangrel, and Tzimisce. One of the scouting types figured out a local Camarilla party, and thought to rile up some shit and maybe get a bit closer to Caine through some of the unsuspecting Masquerade-obsessed feudal fucks.
The group watched from the rooftop across the way, lighters and bottles in the hands of Gangrel and Tzimisce - the Brujah were always uneasy with their Beasts, so they weren't allowed to mess with fire. Arkady'd already sprouted his claws in anticipation for the visceral bloodletting in store.
He knew killing unnecessarily was a sin, but these were Kindred, outside the typical cycle of nature. And further, these were Camarilla - they ignored the threat that the sleeping Ancients posed while sitting on their Ivory Tower thrones. What audacity they held with no consideration! They deserved what was coming to them. Every. Single. One.
The group of vampires exited the doors of the posh building, laughing and gossiping - Harpies, no doubt. Probably Toreador or Ventrue. The sullen ones that stuck together were probably Tremere. It didn't matter. The lighters sparked, cloth ignited, and bottles were thrown. Light flew up as the bottles crashed upon the ground, their volatile fluid igniting in bright tendrils of deadly, consuming orange.
The Camarilla vampires, as was expected, flipped their collective shit. The Toreador were gone in moments thanks to their blessing of Celerity. Cowards. Materialistic cowards! The Tremere huddled together - some of the others drew weapons and balked from the flame. Then the Sabbat dropped from their collective perch, and rushed the unfortunate gaggle of Kindred.
The Sword of Caine struck at the Ivory Tower that night, chipping away as it could. Sons and Daughters of Caine against Kindred with little regard for the Masquerade. Deadly magic was flung by the Tremere - fire was already about, all they needed do was manipulate it upon those who initially threw it. The Tzimisce caught aflame, and sent itself into its horrid, monstrous war-form. It waded, spikes and arms sprouting from its terrible visage, and clubbed and tore at the Tremere. Arkady joined it, his dark claws flashing, tearing out the spellcasting throats of thieving mages.
The Brujah and Gangrel made short work of the remaining Kindred, and soon there was little more than piles of ashes or bodies being supped of their souls and vitae. The Tzimisce, however, was consumed in the flame and died in glorious burning battle. As quick as they showed, after making their bloody and terrible work done, the remaining Sabbat gathered the ashes of their friend and the teeth and trinkets of the fallen Camarilla. Then they were off again, to bring the spoils of their work to be given as sacrifices in memory of the loss of their packmate.
It was thoughts of nights like these that filled the head of Arkady during his daysleep beneath the earth. Would these Cainite compatriots join him as a new pack? Would such bloody glory be found among comrades as in the old days? Or would he stick as a solitary urban hunter, stalking alleyways and bars and theaters for unsuspecting, pathetic mortal prey and the occasional Camarilla Kindred that he sought out?
Only time will tell.
Subject: Living is Hunting, Fighting is Playing 
Sun Jun 12, 2011 11:34 pm
