London Burning: Endgame

[Thaddeus Post]

He wasn't often worried, but Thaddeus Post was worried this evening. He'd missed all the excitement at the London warehouse the night before with his creeping around the old Tremere chantry, but when he'd gotten wind of what was brewing in the South he'd packed up immediately for Salisbury Plain.

Petros and Daniel rode in the front seat of the van, driving through the sunlight while Jenny and Thaddeus reclined in the back. Although, with all the equipment and suitcases and various sundry items attached to the walls, it was tough to find a place to stand, let along sit. Jenny was clinging to a strap on the wall and perched on the edge of a wooden chest that they'd brought back from Egypt, while Thaddeus had propped himself up in a corner and gone to sleep until night fell.

They'd been stopped for a few hours when he finally awoke, and Jenny opened the side door of the pea green VW and poked her head in. "It is beginning."

Post stumbled out of the van, stretched kinked muscles, and ran his fingers through his hair. "I was hoping we'd have another night to prepare." Crickets and other night insects sang into the country air, but there was the distinct tang of brimstone that tickled the tonsils as one exhaled.

He frowned, "Is the Prince here? Are we the first to arrive?"

Jenny shook her head, then nodded. "There was some... difficulty that kept Roland and Gabriel from arriving sooner. Though the Brujah have been gathering over the next rise. The Baali are at the henge, and I believe they might attempt to break up the demons before they open another Hell Hole."

Thaddeus started, and then began striding towards where she'd pointed out the Brujah's camp. "They cannot attack until we know ... If this is their endgame, the Baali will have all their sorcerors at Stonehenge!" The Tremere broke into a run, hoping he'd be able to talk the Brujah down from getting annihilated.

[Marcus Thornby]

As Thaddeus made for the camp, he could hear the sound of raised voices carrying on the wind. Typical of the often hot-headed Brujah, they were near the point of erupting into anarchy. They had already been made to wait, to stew and simmer in their anger, for over an hour. It would have been clear, then, to any outside why the Clan gathered together as a whole so infrequently. It was their curse to be consumed, almost on a whim, by passion. Once they set themselves to supporting a cause, the Brujah would fight to the bitter end. They were the perfect martyrs, and talking them out of something that they had thrown their weight behind was nigh impossible – especially with someone like Marcus Thornby in charge. His voice cut through the din like hot steel. “All of you, in the name of Carthage- shut the hell up!”

[Katarina Gordislava]

Katarina tsked irritatedly as she looked at her nails. One had been chipped the night before, and she had been too busy to get it filed down. With effort she forced herself to look away, and looked down at Stonehenge. Sergei stood beside her, silent and recovered from his exertions of the night before. Fyodor had drained an entire kine to regain his strength, but he was back with the rest of the Sabbat she'd brought to Salisbury.

She ground her teeth as she thought about the Ventrue Primogen who shared his name with the plain that lay spread out before her. He was infuriating and he was also not here yet. Making fists with her hands, the Archbishop focused on the monument that lay in the center of everyone's attention this night: Stonehenge.

It was lit with torches, and there were kine down there with the Baali sorcerors and demons. Mutilated and tortured mortals, who's pain and anguish would serve as fuel for the passage between the demon's world and the real one. She narrowed her eyes - as much as the Sabbat wished for Gehenna to arrive, the end of the world was not to be at the hands of the Baali.

They were far enough away to avoid detection by the Baali's wards, but the faint sounds of chanting could be heard from Stonehenge. And, a commotion behind and to her left.

Katarina snapped her head around, and fumed silently. The Brujah would be the clan who had appeared en masse to the site first. She didn't dare approach them, truce or no truce, without other Primogen around to stop them it would be nearly certain suicide to try to talk sense into them. If they attacked prematurely, without proper backup, they would be slaughtered, but it might stop the sorcerors from completing their work.

And she was willing to let them try, anyway.

[Roland Salisbury]

It was 92 miles from Greater London to Salisbury. At a sensible speed, that was roughly two hours of driving. To the Scourge of London, however, sensible was an alien word. Occupied with the task of trying to co-ordinate the entire Kindred population of southern England using only his cellphone, Roland had turned over the task of driving to Dylan. The hulking Gangrel handled the sedan roughly and seemed to increase his speed with every mile they grew closer to Stonehenge, hurtling down the A303 at almost 100 miles an hour.

As the car swerved off onto the A344, the standing stones were within sight. “Yes, we're here,” Roland confirmed to whoever it was on the other end of the line at this particular second. He had been completely consumed by the phone for the last hour. “Can't see much yet but” - the car jerked up with a slight bump, and Roland was almost certain that Dylan had just driven over a hedgehog - “I can pick out the Brujah camp, and some activity at the circle itself...”

[Sansa]

Sansa was curled against Gabriel's side - the rocking of the car bringing a sense or normalcy to her bizarre situation. She was so thirsty that she thought she might go mad. But when presented with her food options upon waking that evening, she'd clammed up, horrified.

Gabriel was upset with her, she was sure of it, and she was desperate for him to be proud of her. The aching inside her was growing with every mile, and when they finally jolted to a stop, she thought she might run out of the car and keep going until she hit the ocean. Instead she let Gabriel hold her hand and pull her out of the car, where she stood pressed up against him, looking around warily at everything.

A ravenhaired woman whisked by, and Sansa stared at her. At the smell of her... She started to peel away from Gabriel's side, only to be pulled back gently. Angry, she yanked at his hold on her, snarling in a very un-ladylike fashion.

[Gabriel Rodermark]

At last arriving at Stonehenge, I saw that there was already a large number of Kindred assembled. On the journey towards Amesbury Roland had informed us of the jarring news that had let to our sudden withdrawal from the capitol city – that far from being over, the Baa'li invasion was only just beginning. With their seeds of corruption planted all across the country, it was time for the hellions to make their final bid for power. Everything would be decided at Stonehenge. Already Roland spoke of it as a momentous occasion, as if the night would go down in history as one of the key points in Kindred history. He was not far from the truth...

“Shh,” I sighed, absently stroking Sansa's hair, trying in vain to soothe the poor girl. I was unsure of her still. We had not yet had the time to speak to one another, for her to question me about what had transpired. Following our departure from the warehouse, we had time for nothing but sleep. She had fed again, almost again my will, and then fallen into a deep, fitful sleep. She was handling the hunger with a little more grace now, but now and then it would flare in it.

I held her close to me and began to walk after Roland and Dylan, towards where the Camarilla contingent had gathered. In the distance I thought I caught sight of Katarina Gordislava, and instinctively pulled Sansa a little closer...

[Thaddeus Post]

"All of you, in the name of Carthage- shut the hell up!"

That would be Marcus Thornby, Primogen of the Brujah. Thaddeus strode up to him as a black sedan pulled up nearby. "A word, Thornby?"

Around him the leaders of the Brujah bristled as a Tremere walked right between them and demanded the ear of the Primogen. It didn't seem to bother Post, but he was very aware of the tides of emotion around him.

[Marcus Thornby]

As Post moved through the crowd, a few of the more wound-up Kindred sneered and mumbled, muttering slurs. In truth, any interruption of their argument would have set the Brujah on edge – it mattered very little that this particular intrusion happened to be a Tremere. Marcus Thornby had never had an especially high-opinion of the clan, but didn't let that stand in the way of co-operation for the greater good of the Camarilla.

“Post.” His eyebrows rose, though his tone suggested that he wasn't at all surprised to see the mage. Marcus gave Thaddeus a firm pat on the shoulder before motioning for him to walk, a little way from the boiling pot that was the main camp.

Once they were out of earshot, he said: “Give me the bad news first.”

[Sergei Vishnyakov]

Tension. It was like the whole plain was balanced precariously on a knife's edge. There were Kindred arriving from almost every clan and bloodline, Camarilla and Sabbat alike. They all watched each other apprehensively, looking to their leaders for direction. Katarina and Gabriel seemed in no hurry to dish out orders, however, no doubt just as concerned as their 'subjects'. They could only guess at what was waiting for them in the stone circle, what new monstrosity they would all have to face. If there was one thing that Sergei knew, however, it was that wasting time and energy bickering was not going to help. They could tear each other apart later, after they had dealt with the greater evil at hand.

[Thaddeus Post]

The bad news? Thaddeus rubbed his forehead with his fingers. "The bad news is we don't yet have the strength to confront such a large group of sorcerors. With their blood magic, they would win the night against the Brujah. I know your clan is champing at the bit to get down there, but it would be a bad idea to start the attack prematurely."

He sighed. "The worse news is if we don't get the Baali shut down now, we may not be able to. Once they have created the rift..." Thaddeus shook his head, then raised his eyebrows and smiled. "Ah, Salisbury!" He raised his hand to draw the attention of the Ventrue Primogen.

The Archbishop, Katarina, was walking towards their position as well, and the Prince was trailing slightly behind Roland, a young fledgling pressed against his side. Post narrowed his eyes, but straightened his face as he turned again to Thornby. "If the battle is joined prematurely, we lose the element of surprise, and that will cost us dearly."

[Katarina Gordislava]

Fingernail momentarily forgotten, Katarina stalked towards where she could see the Camarilla leadership congregating. "Sergei, get the pack organized. Samuel will help you." Her Vizier nodded silently and stepped away from her side, turning back to where the Sabbat were milling about.

Thornby was talking to a kindred she didn't recognize, and Salisbury had just joined them. Rodermark and ... oh, this would be interesting. They weren't far behind, but she made it to the Primogen before the Prince did. "Roland."

"Archbishop," he greeted her mildly.

"I hope you brought more than fledglings with you," she said pointedly as Gabriel and Sansa were within earshot. "These Baali mean business this time."

[Marcus Thornby]

“I think we lost the element of surprise a long time ago.”

The lay of the land was such that both the Kindred and the Baali could see one another, vision unobstructed by obstacles. Fortunately for Thornby, Post and the others, the Baali seemed to be entirely preoccupied with their hellish ritual, so had not made a move on their unexpected guests.

“I hope you brought more than fledglings with you. These Baali mean business this time,” said a woman that Marcus did not recognize. The Brujah frowned. She had shovelhead written all over her. His nostrils flared as he spoke.

“Likewise. Hope you got plenty of fiends on the way. We could do with the cannon fodder.”

[Roland Salisbury]

Roland removed his glasses, cleaning them slowly as he spoke. Already the sky had begun to darken ominously, a shade deeper than typical midnight blue, the stars smothered in cloud. “All of our available resources as being marshaled to this location. There is no guarantee that they will arrive in time, however. Whilst the Baali may not be actively trying to remove us from their ritual site, if we allow them to continue unhindered much longer then all the Kindred in Christendom would not be enough to stop them.”

[Katarina Gordislava]

"There are reinforcements on their way down from York, but I do not know when they will arrive." Bishop Selena Greene was bringing fifty Sabbat with her, including a cluster of Gangrel antitribu. They were at least three hours away, however. "We also have twenty hellhounds, courtesy of the Tzimisce. Each, I'm told, will feel no pain and fight until their heads are severed or they bleed dry. Rottweilers and doberman pinschers, initially."

She couldn't hide the slight curl of her lip indicating her distaste for the creatures. "In short, we are ready when you are, Salisbury."

Katarina looked towards Rodermark, wondering if he really was so far gone that he was allowing his Ventrue Primogen do all the talking. Their eyes met, and she raised an eyebrow at him, smirking a little.

[Gabriel Rodermark]

Had it not been for the prolonged silence that followed Katarina's words, I might have remained unaware of the fact that the eyes of all those present were focused on me. I looked up, away from Sansa, and saw the gathered Kindred with expectant expressions upon their faces. The Archbishop of the Sabbat had made the position of her sect clear and it was expected that I would follow with my own decree for the actions of the Camarilla. “We will attack on your mark then, Roland,” I offered, uncertain.

[Marcus Thornby]

Marcus shook his head and snorted. He turned away quickly, and stalked back towards the rest of his clan.

[Thaddeus Post]

Thaddeus nodded, lost in thought for a moment. Before Gordislava could follow Thornby's lead and walk away, he spoke up. "I'd like to see these hellhounds of yours, if you don't mind, Archbishop."

She paused, looking at him a little incredulously, and then nodded. "They're being held a little ways back over there. I will tell Samuel to expect you, Mr...?"

"Ah, Doctor. Dr. Thaddeus Post." He affected a small bow out of politeness, and then the Lasombra melted away into the night. Not literally, however. He exchanged a look with Roland Salisbury and found the Ventrue to be inscrutable as he turned away and began talking to various high ranking Kindred.

Which left the Prince, of all people, looking a little lost. Not good at all. Thaddeus strode to his side, reaching out towards the fledgling. "My Prince, let me take care of her for you." The girl bared her fangs at him as his hands got too close, and Post pulled them back out of reach. The little thing wouldn't last long as a new Toreador if she was left on her own. "It would be my pleasure, Rodermark."

[Gabriel Rodermark]

Thornby's displeasure did not slip by unnoticed. I watched him walk away with a rough swagger, full of insolent attitude. Some of the others were arriving, at last. Dylan grunted something in my ear, informing me that Greta and the Gangrel would be at the henge momentarily. I felt some of the weight lifting from my shoulders. Roland was handling everything exceptionally, as he always did. I watched him for a moment, feeling a sense of pride knowing that he was on our side, before Post stepped forwards with a proposal.

“Yes, please. Thank you, Thaddeus. Don't worry, Thaddeus will take good care of you,” I said, confident in Post – yet still finding myself wary of letting Sansa get out of my sight, especially with the likes of Katarina skulking about. I held her by the shoulders for a moment, our eyes locked, before placing a kiss on her forehead and turning her over into the Doctor's capable hands.

[Sansa]

She felt torn between terror and relief as she allowed herself to be separated from Gabriel. Her forehead felt cool where his lips kissed her, and then she was being turned away from him, Thaddeus gently folding her hand around the crook in his elbow.

"You must be Sansa," he said, and it took a moment for his words to register.

"Y-yes," she replied. Was she Sansa? Really, anymore? Thaddeus didn't let her get too lost in her thoughts, keeping up a steady stream of conversation as he walked her across the great plain, away from the firey vision of Stonehenge in the distance.

"I'm Dr. Thaddeus Post, but you can call me Thaddeus. Not a medical doctor, mind you, people always get confused about that. Archeology, history, that sort of thing." They were approaching a Volkswagen van where two large men were waiting, one sitting on the grass, the other leaning against the vehicle. She could feel their heartbeats, and hesitated, bringing her escort to a stop.

"Things are going to get a little crazy around here, Sansa. For the wellbeing of the Prince you need to be kept safe, and so that's what I'm going to do." He turned her around a bit and looked into her eyes. "Have you ... eaten recently?"

She stared up at him, body a bit hunched over from the gnawing sensation in her stomach. "I'm not... I don't..."

He looked over her shoulder, and then back to her. "Look, there's a lot to do before the battle starts, and it's going to start soon. We can't have you running out into the thick of it because the smell of the vitae is so thick its driving you mad. All the same, there aren't many kine around here, and I'm not giving you free reign on my ghouls."

Sansa frowned, not understanding half of what he was saying, and then she stiffened and yanked her shoulders out of his hands. She was here, nearby. Terrified, she started to run, only to find herself on the ground, arm pinned up behind her back.

[Katarina Gordislava]

Thaddeus Post? The eight-hundred plus Tremere? Katarina fought not to stare over her shoulder at him as she walked away. The man was allegedly responsible for the deaths of an entire pack (singlehandedly, the story went) of Tzimisce in Berlin.

There was no way she was letting him within sniffing distance of the Tzimisce. Circling around the 'camp', Katarina followed him as he took the girl from Rodermark and walked towards a ridiculous van. As soon as she got too close, however, the fledgling began to freak out, and Post had to throw himself at her to keep her from running off into the night.

Katarina let a smile cross her lips. Very nice. Walking closer, the smile disappeared. "I changed my mind, Post. It would be best if you did not come to close to the Tzimisce."

[Thaddeus Post]

"Good heavens girl!" Thaddeus had to move quickly in order to trip her to the ground before she could get away. Celerity was relatively simple to pick up on, and possibly the first skill she'd use subconsciously. He only hoped that Gabriel wasn't watching them. "Petros, get me a kit!"

The ghoul slid open the van door, poked his head in, then ran over with one of Post's emergency kits in his hand. It was cool from where it had been stored in the van's small fridge, and Petros knelt nearby to crack it open.

"I changed my mind, Post. It would be best if you did not come to close to the Tzimisce."

Exasperated, Thaddeus looked up at the Archbishop. "Great. Thanks for telling me. Little busy right now." Sansa thrashed underneath him, even though her arm was twisted up near the breaking point. "If you don't mind, this does not concern the Sabbat."

Still the shovelhead didn't leave, and Thaddeus chose to ignore her for the time being. Flipping Sansa over, he ducked a swipe from her hand, holding her down by her forehead as she scratched at his forearm. Petros handed him the blood bag, and as the fledgling reared up at him, Thaddeus pressed it into her open mouth.

Her fangs pierced the plastic and the blood gushed into her mouth. She would settle down nicely once the Beast was satiated. Settling back on his heels, Thaddeus looked up at the Archbishop, in time to see her back as she turned away. What was that about? He kept a hand on Sansa as she sucked at the blood, and nodded to Petros. "Thank you. We're going to have to keep an eye on her during the battle, but I will be needed there, not here. I trust you can keep a fledgling from draining you without your permission?"

[Katarina Gordislava]

Katarina spun herself into the Abyss and re-emerged by Sergei, just as he was finishing coordinating with Samuel. "I suppose the Cammies haven't decided when to attack yet?" She trailed a hand up his arm, fingers soft on the fine fabric of his shirt.

"They're still waiting for more to arrive." Sergei's eyes were intense as he looked down at her. He opened his mouth to say something more, but a cry from the edge of the gathering jerked his head around.

"Time's up!" It was one of the Brujah, perhaps Thornby himself. Katarina stood on her tiptoes to see and could just make out a mass of shapes disengaging from the mix of shadows around Stonehenge. Her hand tightened on her Vizier's arm.

[Roland Salisbury]

“Time's up!”

It was as if Thornby had held his entire clan by a leash, and at these two simple words that very leash was torn from his grasp. Like some barbaric horde of the north, the Brujah charged down towards the stone circle with reckless abandon, their blood already hot in anticipation of battle. Roland watched with a mixture of pride and vexation; pleased at the fervor with which the Kindred fought for their cause, and at the same time repulsed at how foolishly they ran into combat, not knowing who or what foe they were to face. He shook his head and turned away from the scene, quickly assuming the role of General as he began to co-ordinate the attack of the other Kindred.

[Gabriel Rodermark]

I could not tear my eyes away from her. I felt Roland, consciously willing me to attend to her rather than allowing my gaze to trail after Thaddeus, but it was useless – even more so when I saw that Katarina walked close behind, their shadow. In spite of this alarming site, I was at last drawn to more pressing matters as Saul Leavis materialized at my side. He flashed a snaggle-toothed grin and rubbed his pale hands together, as he looked out over the unfolding drama. I heard him telling me that the others were on there way, that Starkley and her brood would join us soon... but I didn't process any of it. My thoughts were occupied with the shapeless mass that was forming above, around and somehow beneath the henge, as if the entire monument was being consumed by some ravenous amorphous force and at the center of it all, in the eye of the storm, it was...

[Thaddeus Post]

"Time's up!"

Thaddeus released the trembling fledgling, turning around and getting to his feet in time to see the horde of Brujah taking the field. "Christ," he muttered. "Time's up indeed."

He turned to Petros, who simply nodded. Daniel came around the far side of the van and joined him on the ground beside Sansa. The girl was curling up in a ball, moaning, the empty blood bag clenched in one hand.

"Call me if anything -" Thaddeus stopped his instructions as Jenny appeared beside him.

"I will watch her, Thaddeus. Go." Her husky voice was as exotic as the night they'd met, and at over four hundred years of age, she had the power to protect Sansa if anyone did. He nodded, and strode quickly towards the forming battle, a few chants and spells turning over in his mind.

Thaumaturgy was the best option - fast and messy - but all thoughts of his Gifts left him as Thaddeus beheld Stonehenge. The fires started within the Circle were dark and forboding, creating a cloud of black smoke above that seemed to move of its own accord, regardless of wind. Somewhere between the Camarilla and the Baali, the Brujah clan met the on rush of attackers with battle cries, and the two groups crashed into each other, like two waves on a beach.

But Stonehenge brooded behind them, and Thaddeus could almost see what was happening. "They're doing it. It is opening." He spoke mostly to himself, but the Prince and the Primogen were as aware of it as he was. The battle would be joined now, regardless of how many reinforcements were coming.

The firelight in the center of Stonehenge flashed bright white and stayed that way, casting the entire battle into spotlight. Thaddeus could see the Archbishop and her Vizier off to the side with their pack, Katarina even paler than usual. He narrowed his eyes at the Tremere antitribu, but thrust the traitor from his mind. If anything, Vishnyakov was an asset to be used, not an enemy. Not tonight.

In fact, if they used their powers in tandem... Thaddeus mused for a moment, even while his feet began running towards Stonehenge, green fire enveloping his hands.

[Clara Mandelbrot]

From the eye of the storm, a voice – as if the eye itself, a swirling churning ethereal voice – called out across the plains: “Burn and topple, shatter and rend! Soon, the sun shall set upon this fading world and we shall revel forever in the darkness of our own making!”

At the center of it all, spewing out madness like the very chasm of Hell itself, there stood one woman – Clara Mandelbrot. Her fists were raised to the skies like skinny antennas, energy and shadow pulsating from her very fingertips. Her manic eyes watched the sky as the shadow of Nikolai Werner, a once proud man now warped into some winged brute, circled Stonehenge like a demonic vulture. She cackled with glee as Werner, screeching, swooped down and lifted a Brujah by the shoulders, carrying him for only a moment before tossing him like a rag doll into one of the ancient stone structures of the ring. Her laughter seemed to soar as it was sucked up into the wind, a terrible music to which each of the hell fiends danced.

[Katarina Gordislava]

Katarina Gordislava shuddered at the sight of the Baali hordes, and not for the first time considered leaving. After all, the Baali would put a tremendous dent into the Camarilla for her, and the Cammies would no doubt be successful in beating back the demon's incursion. Even if it killed them all.

As a winged monstrosity swooped down out of the thick black smoke above the ring, she forced herself to release her hold on Sergei's arm. "Stay by my side, Vizier." He looked down at her with such intensity that she felt almost silly in giving him such an order. It would take the entire demon band to tear him away from her.

The Archbishop turned to the Tzimisce. "Samuel, now might be a good time to..." she paused, "let slip the hounds of war."

The big Cainite nodded, then bared huge flat teeth in what might have been called a grin. He raised an arm and then dropped it, hand pointed towards the growing battle. Ten Tzimisce loped forwards surrounded by a pack of deformed dogs, swinging around to the south to pin up a loose edge of the battlefield. The demons would be hard pressed to try a flanking manuever from that direction.

Eerie howls pierced the night, and Fyodor appeared at her side. "Archbishop."

She nodded, not looking at him. "We go forward."

[Sergei Vishnyakov]

Sergei watched as the Tzimisce charged into battle. They, like the feckless Brujah and Gangrel, were so much fodder for the slaughter, meat to be tossed into the gapping maw. He saw the London Tremere, too – or at least what remained of them. A lone sorcerer moved towards the conflict with an eerie emerald flame erupting from his skin. Already, the Vizier had begun to prepare himself. The conflict would be taxing on his reserves of energy, particularly when faced with the likes of the airborne phantasm that they had just seen appear from then vanish into the smoke – a being far more powerful and focused than the chaotic imps that had over-run the warehouse at the Isle of Dogs.

Steeling himself, Sergei summoned flames of his own to hand. The Sword of Caine, the Sabbat, would not be stayed. It would strike down with a vengeance upon any - be they from the blackest pits of Hell or golden fields of Heaven - who sought to claim the world for their own and usurp the throne of the Dark Father. At this thought, the fire which consumed his skin seemed to roar – and with that they their attack began.

[Sansa]

Sansa curled up in a ball on the grass, the aching inside her fading for the moment. After a while, sounds began to filter through her ears and into her mind, a cacophany of noises that made no sense.

Eyes closed, she tried to separate the sounds - to put them into catagories and classify them. However, underneath everything was a thumping sound that threatened to undo her hard work and send her back to the beginning. Concentrating, she focused on other sounds.

A woman's voice was shouting, but she was far away and Sansa couldn't make out the words. Dogs were howling, and there was the brush and scrape of what must be a huge fight. Men grunted and shouted, the wounded screamed.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Sansa put her fingers in her ears, but she could still sense the sound just beyond the edge of her hearing. She turned her face towards it and sat up, opening her eyes.

"Feeling better, miss?" A dark haired beauty sat crosslegged on the grass before her, scrawling on her hand with a black pen.

Thump-thump.

Sansa stared at her, feeling extremely disheveled and sticky, and slowly nodded her head. A thought occured to her, and she put a hand to her breast, then two fingers to her neck, just below her jawline. She gripped her other wrist, trying not to panic.

Her heart wasn't beating.

[Marcus Thornby]

Whilst the other Primogen were not so eager to wade knee-deep in battle, Marcus charged ahead of his clan-mates. He moved swiftly, making quick work of numerous smaller demons. Due to the close proximity of combat, he had opted to arm himself with what looked like a claymore. In spite of the blades great length, he swung it with ease, cleaving through flesh and bone, cutting himself a path towards Nikolai Werner. There was a notorious animosity between Thornby and the Tremere chantry, in particular those who had served under the late regent Roderick Alan. That Werner and Mandelbrot had been traitors all along only fanned the flames of Marcus' anger. Upon hearing of their betrayal, he had sworn that he would take their heads himself and the former Master of Rites would be the first one to fall upon his blade.

[Thaddeus Post]

Demon creatures exploded as Post wove his blood magic; ichor and their unspeakable innards raining down in a lopsided circle around him. The Brujah were in the thick of it, nearly surrounded by attacking Baali demons. They didn't seem to care, but Thaddeus waded towards them, keeping the pack's backside clear of enemies.

As clear as he could, anyway. From the corner of his eye the Tremere could see the Sabbat charging into battle, a small pack hanging back and protecting the Archbishop as she and her pet Tremere antitribu advanced a little more cautiously. Post was forced to look away as the Werner monstrosity swooped down directly at him. The Brujah Primogen was trying to get at the Baali sorceror, but the Master of Rites (former) was focusing on what he saw as the biggest threat.

Post was bowled over as the creature that had been Nikolai Werner evaded Thornsby and swooped down on him. He rolled away, but was cut by the Baali's talons before Werner took to the sky once more to prepare for another pass. The sorceror glowed purple as he prepared a spell, and Thaddeus came up on one knee to counter him.

With a loud cry the air around Werner burst into green flame, tearing ragged holes in his wings and sending him spiraling to the ground. Thaddeus sagged, momentarily weakened by the spell he'd used.

[Dimitri Vojslav]

The clouds thickened into a brooding blanket of hatred as a black cab approached along the road. The driver barely flinched at the site by the circle of stones. What he'd been exposed to the last hour or so was infinitely more ghastly than that which transpired before him. His silent, immaculately-dressed passenger sat transfixed on the scene playing out as the cab came to a stop.

"Thank you my good sir..."

The fiend gracefully moved towards the door and climbed out of the taxi. As he did so, the driver momentarily gasped as his head was forced through the windshield, his limp body landing on the black bonnet.

"...keep the change."

As Dimitri approached the large bonfire, he took in the chaos that surrounded him. His mind drifted back to that fateful night over a century ago, when flame and sword clashed amid falling snow and moonlight. He had left the confines of the taxi away from the group of verhicles that the Camarilla and Sabbat forces had arrived in, and so approached from one of the flanks of the scrap. Considering his unnanounced arrival, he thought it prudent to make his allegiance clear.

He darted forward and lowered his posture before vaulting up into the air and gliding a few metres off the ground. Simultaneously, the night sky crackled and boomed above them. He soared directly over the bonfire, parting the smoke in a somewhat dramatic manner. As he did so, an intense bolt of forked lightning shot down from the angry heavens and fried a group of three Baali. A second, well-timed lightning strike took out another two who had noticed Dimitri's actions and charged at him.

In the precious seconds he had to take stock of the situation, his eyes fell upon a woman to the rear of what could only be the Sabbat packs.

Archbishop Katarina, I presume...

He did not fail to notice the whelp at her side. Surely, he knew, it must be the Tremere antitribu, Sergei.

Aware of his so-called allies, Dimitri moved away from the bonfire to distance himself from the bulk of the Baali numbers. Their presence was strong, but not overwhelming enough for Dimitri to miss the strong smell of Toreador blood coming from the sidelines. The thought in his mind made him laugh as another group of the infidels charged towards the Sabbat ranks.

[Katarina Gordislava]

In a few precious moments, everything was chaos. The Camarilla was holding their side of the battlefield fairly well, but the Sabbat was hard pressed to keep the Baali foes from flanking the Brujah and enveloping the laughable resistance the Toreador were beginning.

The lone Cammy Tremere was shooting fire everywhich way, and Katarina made sure to guide her pack as far from him as possible. Lasombra were among the most flamable of the children of Caine, and she had no wish to be caught up in a green blaze.

Gabriel Rodermark and Roland Salisbury were no where to be seen, but the pack's momentum had sent them further into the battle than she'd planned. Seconds ticked by into minutes, which stretched impossibly long while the monotony of battle continued. Katarina snarled and whipped tentacles of Shadow around, destroying whatever Baali demons tried to get in her way.

[Gabriel Rodermark]

“Mandlebrot,” I spat, the word like some bitter poison I was eager to rid from my lips.

I stood, somehow frozen to the ground by my own anger. Until that point, my feelings had been consumed with concern for Sansa, and yet upon setting eyes on Clara I felt a sudden convulsion of righteous hatred for the loathsome little madame. For months, perhaps years, unknown she had worked against the Camarilla, seeking to destroy what we had created from the very foundations upwards. In corrupting the Tremere, she had fractured one of the three pillars that maintained the structure and strength of the organization.

The Toreador provided the social graces and a conduit to the living world; the Ventrue provided the financial backing and management skills – but it was the Tremere who provided much of our strength. Through cunning and artifice they had ensured, since the days of their heretic birth, that none could challenge the Camarilla without fear of death in a blaze of unholy fire. Without their presence on hand, I saw clearly the chinks within our armor.

And yet... in lieu of our once loyal mages charged the bloody-fist of Troile, the Brujah. Their hatred was palpable and as I watched them saw that even the greenest of neonates fought with every ounce of strength in their being. I felt then that I had underestimated them, as they had perhaps underestimated the strength of clan Toreador. This revelatory thought in mind, I armed myself and set off to join the fray. If London was to fall, I would make sure that my blade was soaked in the blood of its conquerors.

[Marcus Thornby]

Some men were born warriors. Others became warriors, with years of dedication. There were those, however, who were not destined to carry gun or glaive, no matter how many decades they spent practicing. The scourge of London fell into the first category, and moved through the battlefield as if part of some intricate choreography which he himself had orchestrated. In the second category was Marcus Thornby, who though a scholar by birth had taught himself – as expected within clan Brujah – to fight.

In the final category, undoubtedly, was Gabriel Rodermark. To the Prince, the pen was mightier than the swords. Whilst perhaps adapt at striking a man down with words, Rodermark could not simply flash his eyes at the Baali hellspawn and expect them to fall to their knees. As he fought, Marcus saw Gabriel and the others at the corners of his vision. In the moments when the protective shield of his bodyguards slipped and Gabriel himself was forced to engage in combat, it was painfully obvious that the field of battle was alien to him.

They were focusing too much on him, Thornby thought – worrying too much about his safety.

He was a liability.

[Sergei Vishnyakov]

New allies and foes were joining the battle at an alarming rate. Sergei had given up trying to keep count of the who's, what's and where's. All he knew was that they couldn't go on like this for long. Though the combat had not long started, it had started with a bang. Everyone had brought out the big guns at the get-go. Whilst the more brutish kindred could fight on for some time, the likes of Post and Vishnyakov did not have an infinite well of energy upon which to draw. They would need time to recharge, to feed even, and that time simply was not available.

Fatigued, Sergei was knocked to the ground by a winged creature of some kind. He upturned one palm and fired a short, sharp bolt of energy into the belly of the beast. It cork-screwed to the ground beside the vizier, who took a moment to gather himself before struggling back to his feet.

[Sansa]

Sansa sat on the damp grass next to the VW van, watching the battle in the distance through bleary eyes. The hunger no longer gnawed at her stomach, but she felt... dazed. Unsure of herself.

Confused, mostly.

Her eyes tracked to the dark woman who was 'watching' her, what was her name? Jenny. She looked like she would have been right at home in the movie Pirates of the Carribean, though she was wearing normal clothes. Sansa's mind wandered off to a place where Johnny Depp sat her down and began to explain what was going on with her, but she felt a pain in her side.

She was on her feet before she knew what she was doing. "Gabriel!" Jenny grabbed her upper arm with surprising strength, and stopped her from running down to the battle.

"Stay here, girl, this is what the Prince asked you to do." She followed Sansa's gaze towards the battle, though neither of them could see Rodermark's contingent in the mess of bodies and flashing blood magic.

Sansa writhed in the woman's grasp, but couldn't get away. "Something is wrong!"

[Thaddeus Post]

The thing that had been Werner had gotten airborne again before Post could recover sufficiently to finish him. The Tremere tracked the winged creature to where the Archbishop's Vizier knocked it to the ground again.

Nicholas Werner struggled on the smoldering grass, and Vishnyakov was getting to his feet when Thaddeus fought his way to their position. Both Kindred were weary, but Werner was like a thing possessed. And, well, so he was.

Calling up flames, Thaddeus noted that the Lasombra who had been with the antitribu had quickly moved on, away from the dangerous fire magic that could combust them easier than paper. Satisfied that he wasn't about to burn their temporary allies to a crisp, Post released the flames, slamming the Werner-thing back to the ground where it screamed in agony.

Momentarily satisfied, Thaddeus' eyes widened as he realized that the Baali sorceror thing was screaming a blood magic spell.

[Katarina Gordislava]

Katarina left Sergei's side as the Camarilla Teremere came close. It was obvious he did not intend to break the truce, and also obvious that he intended to throw a lot of that green fire around. Sergei could take care of himself, but Katarina was not about to let a stray glob of fire to destroy her.

She called for Fyodor, and the Lasombra priest was at her side quickly, working through the masses of fighting Sabbat to reach her.

"We must get to the center," she shouted in his ear, gesturing towards Stonehenge. "This madness will continue until we are spent if we do not cut off the head."

He nodded in agreement, and the Archbishop quickly selected a small number of the strongest children of Caine to accompany them. Samuel came, the hulking Tzimisce directing a pack of five altered hounds with gestures. The hellhounds were bleeding from many wounds, but they killed with such efficiency that Katarina almost felt jealous of their strength.

Almost.

With the hounds serving as a spearhead, the small group of Sabbat worked its way towards the front of the battle and the goal of the firelit Stonehenge.

[Sergei Vishnyakov]

To Sergei, it did not feel as if they were fighting a unified battle. Though orders had been issued here and there, the Cainities were working in factions. In some cases, even this was a stretch. Many moved independently, without apparent guidance from others. What hope did they have to succeed without some unified goal, he thought, hurling another ball of crackling energy into the fray. His eyes searched in vain for Werner, who had struck away into the billowing smoke above. In his search, he could have sworn he'd seen a frenzied Gangrel, teeth latched onto the neck of a simmering Toreador. Bodies littered the grass, to the left and right. The scent of blood was driving them all to distraction.

It felt, then, as if the mantle of savior could lay only on the shoulders of those sorcerers who remained. As fervently as the swordsmen and brawlers fought, as many rounds of ammunition were fired, only the blood magic seemed to leave any lasting effect – it was, after all, what had summoned the beasts and would eventually be there undoing, he was sure. Colliding into the body of another Cainite, charging in the opposite direction, Sergei shouted over the madness to the one man that would be able to help:

“Post!”

[Marcus Thornby]

Staggering through the battlefield, Thornby could have sworn he saw the bodies of Albert Mabus – former chamberlain of the Tremere chantry – and Hestia Cassia, one of the foremost warrior-women of the Gangrel. He saw his own men and women too, collapsed in bloody mangled heaps. The Baa'li did not merely kill; they destroyed. Marcus acknowledged each of them as best he could, paying them a moment of respect ... and yet he could not help but feel they had died for nothing. Though his own blade had claimed the lives of many, it seemed nothing could staunch the flow of darkness from the 'henge.

The impenetrable vortex which encircled Clara Mandelbrot was the key. Marcus had circled it many times, as his claymore tore limb from limb the hellions, and with each felled body another would emerge from the maelstrom. A ghoulish thing loped towards Marcus and he – grunting - heaved his sword, taking its life in one blow. Werner, still, circled above, an airborne general to the fiends. If Nikolai and Clara could be stopped, the power of the invasion would be significantly diminished – and yet it seemed no blade could take them... at least no blade that he held.

[Roland Salisbury]

Tactically, the battle was a nightmare.

The focus, of course, was the center of the stone circle. Ordinarily, seizing control of such a position should have proved quite simple, but with an apparently limitless army at their command the Baa'li had the upper-hand. It was a conclusion Roland had drawn only moments after the battle had begun, one that seemed self-evident to him. Each life they took was inconsequential. So long as the hell-hole remained open, more demons would come and they would keep coming until every single Kindred present was laid to final death.

Roland's thoughts were disturbed as Saul Leavis walked by. In tow was Anna Starkley, the Malkavian Primogen, who – newly arrived – beheld the battle in fascination. With the exception of Elizabeth Atkinson, each of the Primogen were now present. Marcus and Greta had charged into combat at the earliest convenience, but the others did not seem so eager.

“What's the score, boss?” asked Saul. Roland did not answer.

“Look at their pretty little wings...” Anna, her eyes wide and child-like, out-stretched a hand towards a cluster of harpy-like beasts, with the heads of women and the bodies of birds, that were pecking frantically at a figure which resembled the Scourge of London. Her fingers, parted, then snapped together as if she were tearing something from mid air. “We must pluck them off.”

Saul sneered and snickered, watching the Malkavian with a side-long glance. Roland pressed his fingertips to his temples, as if trying to draw to the surface some brilliant plan, some thing which might be their saving grace.

[Gabriel Rodermark]

I felt as if I were in a waking dream. A mere month ago, this madness would have been unthinkable. The destruction of the Barbican had been the greatest challenge I had faced in recent times, and foolishly I had thought myself invincible, impervious. Perhaps it was this arrogance that had brought the wrath of the Baa'li upon me. I recalled the vanity of my sire and wondered if I too had become prey to the vanity that so dogged my clan. Self-doubt clouded my mind, blinded me for a moment to the attack of one of Mandelbrot's minions. Dylan crashed in front of me, surrounded by a swarm of revolting creatures. He turned, wildly, towards the thing that had attacked me and crashed into it, absorbing it into the ever-increasing circle of beasts upon him.

I felt useless. Each time a beast approached, another would apprehend it, would throw themselves forward into the path of danger. My own blade remained clean, untarnished. What was I, I thought, if not a walking target? The others walked me through the fray and like moths to the flame the demons came, eager to fell the Prince, the figurehead. I saw the likes of Dylan, Willis, Thornby and I felt a surge of hopelessness and revulsion at my own ineptitude, how terribly out of place I was...

[Crowley]

To the east, half a mile from the battle, there was a *pop!*

A shadow appeared in the sky, two wings beating frantically. The bird, a raven, curved downwards. It landed on the damp turf, its head jerking upwards as its beady eyes focused on an empty point in the sky which, in an instant, became a portal, out of which other shapes began to spill.

[Thaddeus Post]

"Post!"

Thaddeus' head whipped around as the Sabbat Vizier cried out his name. The winged creature that had been a friend, once, had taken to the skies with a spell on his lips. That cursed Clara Mandelbrot was stirring up all sorts of trouble. If the suffering of the kine that had been gathered in the henge could be ended, it would weaken the Baali, but it was too late to prevent the hellhole from opening. It was already open!

Distracted, Thaddeus shouted a curse and blasted a wave of foul beasts apart with a wave of his hand. "Vishnyakov! A fresh perspective to the problem would be appreciated." He turned to the other sorceror who was fighting his way towards him, fixing the anttibru with a hard stare.

"Mandelbrot started this, we could end it with her I think." Post was shoved aside as a ward woven by Jenny and painted on the back of his hand protected him from a near fatal blow from behind. He twisted around and the enemy burned away in a gout of green fire.

[Fiona Devlin]

:: Three Figures on Horseback leap through the portal, landing on the outskirts of the battlefield. Fiona steadied her mount, surveying the hellish battle ahead of them with wide eyes ::

[Michele Hawkins]

So yeah, the battle spooked my horse and now it's reared up on its hind legs, and here's me trying to keep my butt in the saddle. I hold onto the reigns tightly and throw Fiona a dirty look. "Did we really need the horses, Fi?"

I mean really. I'm all for looking cool but this is over the top!

[Sergei Vishnyakov]

“The sorceress is the key,” Sergei agreed with a nod. Another foe came barreling towards them, limping and bleeding profusely from one gouged leg. There was no time to waste with the wretch, however, and so rather than wasting another destructive spell on the creature the vizier channeled a word of domination which would cause it to seek blood elsewhere. Eyes quickly darting back to the center of the henge, the Tremere indicated a circle of hooded figures, that created a circumference around Clara Mandelbrot. They did not move, both rather stood in a silent vigil, each of their faces turned towards Mandelbrot.

“There! She has a... shield of some kind.”

[Crowley]

As the horses thundered down out of the sky, the raven gave a squawk and darted up into the air. It circled for a moment, weaving to avoid a wayward fireball, before landing once more. With a flutter of its feathers, it hopped upwards and in a shimmering moment there was a man where the bird once stood. Kristopher Crowley looked disheveled, his dark lenses sitting lop-sided on his slim nose.

“Ladies... I do believe we are late.”

[Dimitri Vojslav]

As Dimitri neared the large frenzied crowd of Sabbat foot-soldiers, he lost sight of Katarina momentarily. But in that instant, the strong loathing he harboured for her pet Tremere was intensifying.

No, he was mistaken. Though his contempt for Sergei was unshameful and great, it was not the sole focus of his rage. Indeed, he could sense another powerful usurper nearby - one whom he was not familiar with. Alas, they were both nothing more than cannon fodder. A strange Tremere was unique in the eyes of a Tzimisce such as Dimitri. A stranger is simply an enemy you haven't made yet. But every single Tremere in the world, stranger or not, was an enemy by default. No, they were less than that. They were errors to be corrected. And Dimitri's hands would bear the fire to eradicate those mistakes.

But not today.

He walked with deadly intent across the battlefield where the two Tremere stood. The koldun could sense conflicting ideals between their psyches, yet they were cooperating. Perhaps there was insight to be gained from these two sorcerors. After all, did not Pavlov study dog's to gain insight into how worthless animals thought and behaved?

A crude, charred, metal shaft shot across Dimitri. He did not dodge or lean back, but stopped abruptly, allowing it to pass in front of him, ensuring it did not offend his regal stature. The smell of brimstone licked at his nostrils as the hellish spear impaled and ignited the ground off to his right, consuming a Camarillan agent whose fortune was lacking. Dimitri patiently, but purposefully, approached the curs.

"Your eyes tell me you have a solution that may extinguish the turmoil surrounding this place."

He did not address either of them in particular. It intrigued Dimitri as to who would answer first - a revelation that could offer insight invaluable to him.

[Thaddeus Post]

He had felt the Tzimisce approach, a warding sending a tingle over his body to alert him of the danger. When Thaddeus turned to look at the creature, he was taken aback at the being's appearance. A far cry from the Tzimisce that had come with the Archbishop, this one was smooth skinned, with hardly any evidence of flesh sculpting except for his feminine appearance. Which, he mused, the Tzimisce could have been born with.

"There is hardly time to discuss it," he said, ducking as a spear fell from the sky and landed a few meters away in a burst of flame. "There, and there. Weak spots in the circle." He indicated to Vishnyakov with a wave of his hand. "We must attack together or they will overcome us."

[Katarina Gordislava]

The hounds had been destroyed, finally. They left them behind and pressed on towards the henge, a writhing mass of demonkind behind them the only evidence of the so-called Hell Hounds. Samuel was still flanking the knot of Lasombra, ham sized fists smashing through the brittle bones of their opponents.

Fyodor pointed upwards, and Katarina spared a moment from furiously weaving tentacles of shadow to follow his hand. The winged Baali sorceror, Nicholas Werner, was above them, but his attention seemed to be elsewhere. She shook her head, and they pressed onwards to the circle. Now they were further inward than any of their allies except a few of the most furious Brujah.

The Archbishop and her Kindred spread out as far as they dared, trying to cover as much ground between them as possible without opening themselves to danger. A young Londoner screamed as a bit of fire magic caught her clothes on fire - the others quickly left her behind as her dry body burnt like flash paper.

"NOW, Fyodor!" Katarina shouted, and the pack priest nodded. The gathered Lasombra, now only numbering seven and very close to the stone of Stonehenge, were surrounded with writing tentacles of Shadow that tore apart any foes that approached them.

And then they were gone - all seven slipping into the Aybss except for Fyodor who darted towards the nearest upright stone.