On the shore dimly seen

Salem July 4th 1814

The fire danced high on Gallow’s Hill, the last shell from the display leaving a red trail across the night sky.

A tall man exits the tavern, and looks towards the source of the rocket. Whilst others in his group reacted with surprise at the loud report he seemed to take it in his stride. His hand drifted to the hilt of his sword.

’He’s handsome enough, I suppose it won’t be a total chore’
She pulls the sable cloak around her and moves towards her prey.

It’s at that point he turns to the corner of the building, and throws up the contents of his belly into the rutted ground.

‘However will I turn the eye of such a paladin of virtue? ’ she cocks an eyebrow at the muscular giant on the white horse. His braided straw hair hangs from under the captain’s cap he wears.

‘If I get any of him over the cloak you are skinning the next loup-garou we come across to get me another’.

‘Do the job first, then bitch about it. Anyone would think you were Camarilla.’

She doesn’t make another step before he manages to piddle down himself. ‘make that two. Are you really sure we shouldn’t just rough him up?’

’We’ve found adequate material in ports before in a worse state. We don’t always seduce convent girls you know?’

‘I shan’t be long. Under the Old North Bridge in 10 minutes.’

‘That long? Are you doubting your charms?’ The snide comment comes from the Nosferatu.

‘I doubt his ability to walk upright in a straight line. But make it five, I’ll just carry him.’ She blows a kiss at the scout, remembering the insult for later.

15 minutes later

‘I admit he might have some merit.’ She looks on amused as the victim, now amazingly alert, fells the second ghoul and impaled the Nosferatu. His look of surprise as the Nosferatu calmly walks into the blade, is matched by a look of horror as he drops his mask.

The next evening – Old Dutch Burial Ground.

’He’s drained mon pere, ready for the rite.’

‘Then let us begin.’ He strides across to the man hung eagle fashion from the roof of the crypt. The blood drops from him, trails through grooves on the floor to form a sigil and from their into five moorish goblets of fine gold.

All of those present pour some of their blood back into a sixth goblet. Words from a northern language are muttered over it before the man is cut down and the blood is poured down his throat.

It’s then it all goes to hell. The Brujah attack the pack mid ritual. Normand flees the she-devil by calling on powers she didn’t know she possessed. The last thing she sees is the rest of her pack being destroyed, with the fledgling draining the one that had just created him. She kills a foolish braggart on the edge of town and rides North toward the ports.

On the shore dimly seen

The Hollow Crown Melanctonsmith