Knocking On Heaven's Door

[Sergei Vishnyakov]

In the inky dark of midnight, skinny fists pounded the great doors of York Minster. The moonlit figure pressed itself against the huge doors, as if by driving itself hard enough against them it might pass through them.

“Sanctuary! Do you hear me, sanctuary!”

Fingers raked down the grain of the wood, as sobs choked away the voice, the figure sinking down towards its knees as the seconds passed by with no answer from within the ancient cathedral. It's eyes closed, dark tears bleeding out over deathly pale cheeks. Was this how it would end? Had the final death come at last – not with the dignity and solace imagined, but as a bloody violent thing, all meat and murder...

Suddenly, there was a clink of metal, as if some mechanism within the cathedral had begun its motions. The figure scrambled backwards on all fours, eyes frantically searching up and down the length of the point where the doors met. Like the gates of heaven, they began to swing inward, and warm hands of firelight reached out into the night.

Gasping in mixed shock and relief, the figure could scarcely move, but to reach a hand towards the light.

“Hurry!” a voice hissed, from within, as a black clad shape reached out to take tight ahold of the sobbing figures' wrist. “Before the devils come!”

[Sergei Vishnyakov]

Sergei Vishnyakov stood on the street opposite the huge, gothic cathedral. He wondered which of the Kindred within the sanctuary of the church had chosen this particular location as a refuge. It seemed perhaps too much to expect that the Camarilla had noted the irony of the selection – using a so-called holy in an effort to protect themselves. In centuries gone by, the mortals had believed that such places would keep them safe from the fanged monsters they stalked amongst them. They were wrong then, and the fools who trembled within York Minster's walls were just as wrong now.

“It's well fortified,” the sorcerer noted, turning his head slightly to look at the woman by his side.

[Katarina Gordislava]

Katarina Gordislava looked at the Minster, and then back to Vishnyakov. "Yes, but they cannot watch all of the windows at once." Her words were delivered in English with a hint of a Russian accent. The former Archbishop of Moscow lifted her hands to settle the hood of her wool coat back on her shoulders.

Some might call her current position as merely the highest ranking Cainite in England as a huge step downward from her former one. Yet with the Camarilla stronghold evaporating into an Anarch state, the Sabbat's prospects on the island nation were better than ever. As her presence and actions were instrumental in bringing that situation about, Katarina knew it was only a matter of time before she could claim the title of Prisci of England.

But before that could happen, the few pockets of Camarilla resistance that remained would have to be wiped out. Starting with this futile resistance cell that was holed up in York Minster.

Katarina put her hands in her pockets, even though the cold did not affect her. "Signal the Tzimisce on the roof. We will execute our plan in five minutes." Snow began to fall lightly, sticking to the cold pavement as the Sabbat pack went into action.

[Sergei Vishnyakov]

Shapes that had appeared to be gargoyles moments ago began to come to life. The Tzimisce arrayed around the rooftops of York Minster were grotesque, one and all, with leathery flesh drawn tightly across their angular bone structures. They rattled over slate tiles, swinging themselves down from gothic spires to scale the cathedral's hallowed walls.

Sergei's eyes traced their movements, recalling how on a night not unlike this one the Russian Sabbat had made their first play against the British Camarilla, by crashing the Prince's party at the Barbican. A great deal had changed since then and now, with the once proud Camarilla fragmented all across the isles, the targets of their attacks were not so notable as the Prince and his Primogen. They hunted the stragglers of the old ways. Nonetheless, every death was crucial and brought them a step closer to wiping out the last of their enemies.

With this thought in mind, Sergei looked to Katarina, luminous and beautiful in the moonlight. So much of this was her doing, and now she reaped the reward for her diligence in trying to over-throw the former Prince Rodermark.

[Katarina Gordislava]

She nodded to herself as her pack went into action. Uri, Alexi, and Sheila were waiting with her and Sergei, the rest of the pack scattered around the grounds. Those with no talent for obtenebration, and all the non-Lasombra like Sergei, were waiting for the Tzimisce to pop the doors from the inside.

Katarina turned slightly, gave her Vizier a wink, and spun herself into Shadow. Skating through the Abyss, she materialized inside the nave of the Minster.

"Boo." She bared her teeth in an imitation of a smile at the wide eyes surrounding her. Then stained glass bent and shattered as the Tzimisce dropped in, and the rest of the Lasombra erupted out of the Abyss, Shadow coalescing into solid, deadly form.

[Sergei Vishnyakov]

As he towards the cathedral, Sergei began to draw upon the power within his blood. He felt the heat of it beneath his skin, as muttered words called upon infernal arts. Sickly green balefire danced on the tips of his fingers and as he jogged through the cathedral's doors, the flames roared into a fist-sized ball the moment his hand connected with a young Kindred attempting some last-ditch heroics. The fledglings body spun away from the punch with a wail, once ivory-smooth flesh bubbling and blistering as the fool tried to smother the fire spreading across her chest.

“Cease!” a voice commanded, and for an instant Sergei felt the will of another weighing down heavily upon him. He turned to see an apparently middle-aged man, who wore the dog-collar of the priesthood. Cowering behind him were other shapes, that might has well have been mewling kittens for all the threat they posed. As their eyes met, Vishnyakov felt the man's command trying to shackle him once again.

A younger, less experienced Cainite would have obeyed then. When applied by masters of the art, Kindred domination was almost impossible to resist. Though Sergei was by no means old, in the grand scheme of Kindred ancestry, he was not inexperienced.

As if in prayer, the warlock pressed his palms together for a heartbeat, before tearing them suddenly apart – a cable of emerald flame snarling to life in the space between his hands. There was no showmanship in his next movements, no wasted energy. With a quick flexing of his wrists, he sent the fire lancing out through the air, the head of the column eagerly devouring the other Kindred's upper-body like the jaws of some hellish serpent.

[Katarina Gordislava]

Stepping through the doors behind Sergei, Fyodor Karpushka was careful to avoid the flames the Vizier called up. Lasombra were extremely flammable and it wouldn't do to go up like a Roman candle during the attack. As Vishnyakov destroyed the priest, Fyodor stared at the shapes behind the flaming Kindred. The fire glinted off their frightened eyes, and he pressed his will upon them through that contact.

Mass manipulation through domination was difficult, but Fyodor had the skill necessary. The vampires were high generation and relatively unskilled - not quite fledglings but there was a reason they were all huddled here in fear. He uttered a few low words, and a few of the group resisted the pull of his command. However, those few were quickly pulled apart by their brothers as the Camarilla turned on themselves.

The Sabbat priest walked further into the nave and the chaos that was within.

Katarina battled a waifish Toreador, tendrils of Shadow assisting her against the other's supernatural speed and reflexes. The female Camarilla held a narrow saber, and the former Archbishop bent backwards a fraction of a second too late as the sword whipped towards her face.

Vitae fell from a cut along her cheek, and she screeched in rage. A Shadow tentacle ripped the saber from the other's hand, and Katarina lunged forward. They traded blows for a moment, and then there was an opening and Kat grabbed the Toreador's head, snapping her neck. Snatching up the fallen sword, she stabbed it through the other's eye socket, skewering the Camarilla to the ground.

[Sergei Vishnyakov]

The balefire was gone as Sergei came alongside Katarina. Though he had complete confidence in his ability to control the infernal fire, he wasn't about to take any chances. A pool of vitae was rapidly forming around the corpse-kebab, but it was the scent of Katarina's blood that stirred Sergei's hunger. He caught himself starring at saber wound and forced his eyes elsewhere, as difficult as that was, instead looking deeper into the cathedral. The rest of the pack capered about ahead, destroying centuries old <meta http-equiv="CONTENT-TYPE" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><title></title><meta name="GENERATOR" content="OpenOffice.org 3.1 (Win32)"><style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 2cm } P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm } --></style>antiquities as they continued the slaughter.

“They're all too.. weak,” he observed, dispassionately. “I don't sense any.. leader, but they may well have burrowed deep into the undercroft.”

[Katarina Gordislava]

Nearby a Tzimisce nearly cackled with glee as it sank its fingers through the flesh of another Toreador's face, pulling and reforming the shape while the other Kindred screamed. Katarina didn't bother hiding her shudder. "We could try burning them out, but I don't want to leave any of this to chance. We'll do a thorough sweep."

She stalked through the mayhem towards the entrance to the undercroft, trusting that her vizier would be close on her heels.

[Sergei Vishnyakov]

<meta http-equiv="CONTENT-TYPE" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><title></title><meta name="GENERATOR" content="OpenOffice.org 3.1 (Win32)"><style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 2cm } P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm } --> </style> Each step into the under-croft of York Minster was like a step into the past. The stone stairway they wound around circled a stone pier that was carved with markings whose origins pre-dated any Cainite that Sergei had ever met. The kine had turned the place, as they so often did, into a shrine to the past so that most all the vaults and archways concealed some historic artefact: a fragment of Roman plasterwork or a heavy wooden chest from Norman times. Vishnyakov's eyes slid over it all, noting not the archaeological worth but the potential that any one piece might concealing a cowering member of the Camarilla. He sharpened his senses and the musty smell of the place filled his nostrils, though it was not enough to disguise the scent of stale sweat that lay beneath it. Stalking forwards through the gloom, he weaved his way smoothly around a glass gabinet exhibit towards a shadowed alcove...

[Katarina Gordislava]

Rooting out rats in a cellar was a job for someone else. But everyone else was busy, and it was most likely that the leaders of this little group of Cammies were down here, so Katarina stalked into the semi-darkness. Her eyes adjusted quickly, and she crinkled her nose at the smell of sweat and fear.

"If you come out, we'll be merciful," she cooed. A mercifully quick death at the hands of the Lasombra was the most these could hope for.

[Katarina Gordislava]

An hour later, and it was all over. Katarina quickly and efficiently wiped her hands on a cloth, unwilling to let Camarilla blood remain on her longer than necessary. There were red splotches on the snow - by the windows, by the door. Sergei was leaving bloody footprints behind him as he walked out of the minster.

The creatures in the undercroft had come out pleading for their lives, only to be met with slaughter. A few had remained hidden, displaying an uncharacteristic level of brains for Cammys, but Kat had enjoyed sniffing them out. Those had not been given quick deaths.

Snow continued to fall, red turning to pink and then fading towards white. Soon there would be no trace of the raid... at least on the outside.

She felt like laughing. So she did.

[Sergei Vishnyakov]

The kine who came to the Minster would look at the slaughter – at the rag-doll bodies scattered around the cathedral, choking on their own blood and vomit – and wonder, why was nothing taken? Why profane a holy sanctuary and leave behind the relics of centuries past? Sergei had his treasure, however. The head of Anna Starkley - the newly retired Primogen of Clan Malkavian – dangled from the sorcerer's fingertips by coils of ringlets matted with blood. Her lips were peeled back in what neither grin nor grimace, revealing her crooked fangs. It was as if she cackled along with the Archbishop. Sergei waited for their laughter to subside.

“Leavis and Salisbury are all that remain. Even the Ventrue haven't the skill to conceal all of this.”

[Katarina Gordislava]

Katarina agreed. "Send Roland Starkley's head." She looked at her Vizier, and amended, "Or her hands. Whichever you do not have a use for." Tremere used odd things in the preparations of their magics, and she tried not to get too involved.

A fledgling came up behind her, a thick fur coat in his hands, and the Archbishop shrugged into it, her bloodied clothing now neatly hidden from view under the ankle length coat. "Leavis will be nearly impossible to uncover, but Salisbury and his kind do not have the Nosferatu inclination towards paranoia or hiding. He is next, and he knows it. Or will, once he gets our little present."