We stood ready. The board was set. The pieces were arranged. Around us swirled howling winds. Lighting threw spears across the sky. Torrents of rain slammed into the ground, threatening to flood and wash Tradeston clean of it’s diseased invader without us.
Magnus and Sir Charles stood at the centre; at the eye of the storm. The epitome of calm and control, the Tremere sorcerer began the arcane ritual that would ensure our enemy’s destruction. His understated power aptly described by the simple but exquisitely-tailored suit he wore. In contrast, Sir Charles rose majestic and strong in articulated full-plate made of shining steel. He wore a full helm and his eyes shone with vim and vigour through the narrow eye-slit. Sir Charles placed himself in front of Magnus to defend him with skill and tower shield and broadsword. If any would make it past him then surely the rest of us would also fall and the domain of Glasgow with it.
Our tactics were simple. The enemy, the self-titled “Sage”, must battle through layers of defenses to reach the source of the esoteric magicks that would ultimately defeat it.
The next layer of defenses were the most puissant fighters the domain had to offer. Victor, our most hirsute of heroes, wielding a longsword burning with arcane fire. Michael, new to the city, untested in this kind of battle, yet prepared: girded with modern camouflage such that he seemed to almost blend in with the night, his body protected with the armour designed to resist all the mortal world could possibly throw at it. The suppressed AK-47 assault rifle and the sheathed machete: all he needed to prove himself a lethal threat to the enemy. Lastly, Jack. Though she might have been passed over as inconsequential – physically dwarfed by the other two, as she was, and dressed as if to be a shadow to the other Brujah – one look at her eyes showed that she should not be discounted.
Glasgow was not without allies when such evil, as the Sage, prevailed: a nervous truce existed with the werewolves but none could deny their courage and tenacity in battle. They agreed to help and fend off the minions that our enemy would no-doubt send against us.
Yet there existed one more layer of defense. A ring of explosives, triggered by technological means that could not be fooled by tricks of the mind. Surely such as that would not stop the Sage? But the defenders knew that even inflicting a minor injury against it before we met the freak head-to-head could be crucial to our success.
Above us all, the master strategist and architect of our plan, stood watch. He was poised with a weapon capable of destroying helicopters and armoured vehicles. That terrible firearm, a 50 cal rifle, was pointed at the centre of the killzone. All it needed was a target. It was a predator almost as lethally beautiful as the one who wielded it. Esteban waited. His long blonde hair was tied back in a braid, the sides of his head shaved, his beard was trimmed and oiled. His black combat fatigues and kevlar vest covered the svelte muscles barely hidden beneath them.
Then we began.
It started with chanting from Magnus. The sound could barely be heard over the raging winds and the fog obscured vision but the wary fighters knew it was now only a matter of time.
Through the powers of blood, our foe was Summoned from where it lurked, like a parasite, in our dear, green city.
The stench of the heavy fog deepened and turned a putrid yellow/green, like bile. Five humanoid shapes, without the extra arms and heads of repugnant creations of Vicissitude, but sinister all the same, drew towards us. As they drew close, it became clear that they were mortal. Our bestial allies fell on them and ripped them to shreds in bare moments. Their apparent humanity was shown as a cruel lie as their bodies burst into shadows as they died.
Suddenly, explosions ripped the air. They were louder even than the lightning strikes from the storm and told us that something larger and more deadly had breached our perimeter defense.
A horde of monsters rushed out of the horrid gloom. A shot was fired by Esteban and the first of the Vozd, dread creations of the Tzimisce, died with the contents of his skull sprayed across the street. Jack opened fire with her assault rifle but the Vozd barely noticed. The gunfire drew the attention of the werewolves who raced towards the group as half the creatures passed by and engaged with Victor who was ready with his wicked talons. He gouged lumps of corrupted flesh from their bones.
Sir Charles called across the encrypted communications to warn us that the Sage was approaching. With discipline, though it must have pained him to watch his companions fight unaided, Michael watched to ensure we were not ambushed while engaged with a lesser enemy.
The Vozd tried their hardest to get their claws on the Scourge, but even their best attack failed to even break her skin. The werewolves were terrifying in their rage but gained no more advantage than the Vozd themselves did against us.
With unerring instinct, Esteban knew that to wait, to take the time to reload his monstrosity of a weapon, would be a mistake. He dropped from his vantage point mere moments before the Sage himself coalesced out of mist behind where our Prince had been standing. The Sage sprung from the rooftop and landed on top of Esteban. With his six inhuman arms, it wrapped the Prince in an unbreakable grip. There was the sound of cracking bones and Esteban roared in rage.
Back at the other fight, Jack emptied the full clip from her rifle into the Vozd she was fighting. It was wounded but she could afford the time to reload so discarded the useless weapon and drew the machete sheathed at her side. Exposed to the air, the blade burst into the same arcane fire that surrounded Victor’s sword. As the werewolves distract it with their teeth and claws, the Scourge carved a single bloody slash through the body of the monster and it died instantly.
Behind her, Michael and Victor had already seen the danger and rushed at full speed to support their Prince. They gazed in horror as the Sage bit savagely into Esteban and began to feed.
Unbeknown to our heroic combatants, the ritual site itself was under attack. Also coalescing out of the mist were the Sage’s most powerful lackeys; taking advantage of the distraction. An epic battle ensued. Sir Charles was unstoppable as he dueled alone against the Tzimisce our enemy had sent. By the end of the fight, his blade was notched and his armour no-longer spotless, but all those who stood against him were destroyed.
Victor arrived first to aid Esteban. He slashed twice with the burning sword and the blade bit deeply but the Sage was fully focused on restraining the twisting and struggling Prince.
Michael reached next. His newly drawn blade also burns as he and Victor take turns raining their blows on the enemy until their magic is exhausted. Victor dropped his blade and returned, again, to using his vicious talons.
Despite the Sage’s devastating attacks with tooth and arms, Esteban’s supernatural resilience and armour shrugged away what would have been the most grievous of injuries. The pain seemed to instead spur him on. He pulled on his well of strength and the famous Brujah might and, with a roar of victory and a challenge, he overpowered the ancient being and threw it against a wall.
With unnatural speed, Victor moved in and swiftly ripped out the Sage’s throat in one move. Stinking ichor sprayed out, coating the gathered combatants in foulness. Unable to heal the terrible damage he had been dealt, the helpless kindred collapsed to the ground.
Finally, the sound of chanting ceases. At the completion of the ritual, the Sage burns and is consumed to dust.
Though the storm still raged around us, it seemed that it had spent its strength much as we had. The foul fog gradually dissipated under the cleansing rain to reveal the mutated and dismembered corpses of our enemy and the scorched craters now marring the visage of the streets. Our work done, it was time for the more important work to restore the smooth running of the city and ensure the residents had no idea what nightmares had almost taken us all.
