You are the owner of this hand, a towering gunslinger and companion of six years to the target of the ruffian’s harassment. “Now I told you not to get into trouble while I was watering the horses,” you chide your partner.

“I did not ‘get into trouble’, it got to me,” Wiktoria explains, taking your offered handkerchief to attempt to remove the dust from her shoulder. To her clear dismay, the dirt is far more stubborn than she expected.

“That's our guy?” You attempt to affect a more western accent in an attempt to stick out less, though throwing a man several yards, having an actual clean outfit on, and conversing with the most out-of-place person in town are having the opposite effect.

“It’s one of them, yes. There should be seven members in his gang, him included,” the girl stands, facing the door with disgust still crossing her graceful features.

“Make that five,” you reach into your breast pocket for a cigar, and you find it empty, making you curse under your breath. “Two of ‘em tried to ‘tax’ me at the trough.”

“And?”

“Took one’s head off with the manure shovel, other one with one of those throwing knives you got,” you make your way to the door, the sound of shouting and cursing making it clear your prey is up and itching for a fight. “Sun was still up, so it’ll stick. Unfortunately for these fellas, it just dipped over the hills.”

“Do be careful around their teeth,” your companion chides, following you to the batwing door, “I hate having to get their venom out of your system.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes, jumping over the stairs that lead off the saloon’s porch, “I get bit one time in Louisiana and I never hear the end of it.

“I don’t know who or what you is, boy,” the ruffian you bodily removed earlier spits, along with a mouthful of tobacco. “But for what you done me ‘n the boys here,” he gestures to his gang, all of them in similar heavy, dust-covered clothes and floppy hats. Miners from some other frontier town likely come to the spread-out farming community to feed more discreetly. All of them are white or mixed, settlers from out east before they were turned, you’d wager. “Are gonna kill you nice and slow, make that tight piece you came in with watch. And you get to watch while we take our turns havin’ fun wit’ her fore’n we finish her off the same way.”

Your only response is a sneer, your hand going to your weapon. “I’d say your mouth got you killed, but we’re here to do that anyway. Before you ran your stupid hick mouth this was simply business. Now, it’s gonna be a pleasure.”

>You pull out one of your two stag-handled Colt Navy pistols and gun down the two approaching you before they can react. You are Mark Benning-Greenly, son of an Episcopalian minister and the fastest gun in the Connecticut River Valley.

>You swing your Winchester Model 1876 under your shoulder and ventilate the chest cavities of the nearest two. You are Bartholomew Sinclair, eleventh of fifteen children of a Maine homesteader, infamous for your ability to hit a swimming beaver at a hundred yards on a windy day.

>You hoist your silver-bladed ax and meet the nearest ruffian halfway, splitting his head open like a rotten log. You are Laurence MacAthan, son of a Vermont logger, famed as the man who can fell any tree with nothing but a sharp ax.

>You unsheath your Model 1840 Cavalry Saber and fell the nearest ruffians with a single clean stroke. You are Joseph Warren Bayberry, heir to a lineage of Massachusetts equestrians who have fought in every war since the French and Indian one.

>>5345945
>>You hoist your silver-bladed ax and meet the nearest ruffian halfway, splitting his head open like a rotten log. You are Laurence MacAthan, son of a Vermont logger, famed as the man who can fell any tree with nothing but a sharp ax.

>>5345945
>You pull out one of your two stag-handled Colt Navy pistols and gun down the two approaching you before they can react. You are Mark Benning-Greenly, son of an Episcopalian minister and the fastest gun in the Connecticut River Valley.

>>5345945
>>You swing your Winchester Model 1876 under your shoulder and ventilate the chest cavities of the nearest two. You are Bartholomew Sinclair, eleventh of fifteen children of a Maine homesteader, infamous for your ability to hit a swimming beaver at a hundred yards on a windy day.

>>5345945
>silver-bladed ax
Sometimes these Damned are kinda like trees. Old like redwood, tough like pine, strong like mahogany... and nevertheless chopped down by your ax, just like any other tree.

>You pull out one of your two stag-handled Colt Navy pistols and gun down the two approaching you before they can react. You are Mark Benning-Greenly, son of an Episcopalian minister and the fastest gun in the Connecticut River Valley.

File: film-western.jpg (38 KB, 720x350)

38 KB JPG

>>5345945
>>You pull out one of your two stag-handled Colt Navy pistols and gun down the two approaching you before they can react. You are Mark Benning-Greenly, son of an Episcopalian minister and the fastest gun in the Connecticut River Valley.
............
......

>>5345945
>You swing your Winchester Model 1876 under your shoulder and ventilate the chest cavities of the nearest two. You are Bartholomew Sinclair, eleventh of fifteen children of a Maine homesteader, infamous for your ability to hit a swimming beaver at a hundred yards on a windy day.

>>5345945
>You hoist your silver-bladed ax and meet the nearest ruffian halfway, splitting his head open like a rotten log. You are Laurence MacAthan, son of a Vermont logger, famed as the man who can fell any tree with nothing but a sharp ax.

>>5345945
>>You unsheath your Model 1840 Cavalry Saber and fell the nearest ruffians with a single clean stroke. You are Joseph Warren Bayberry, heir to a lineage of Massachusetts equestrians who have fought in every war since the French and Indian one.

>You swing your Winchester Model 1876 under your shoulder and ventilate the chest cavities of the nearest two. You are Bartholomew Sinclair, eleventh of fifteen children of a Maine homesteader, infamous for your ability to hit a swimming beaver at a hundred yards on a windy day.

>>5345945
>You swing your Winchester Model 1876 under your shoulder and ventilate the chest cavities of the nearest two. You are Bartholomew Sinclair, eleventh of fifteen children of a Maine homesteader, infamous for your ability to hit a swimming beaver at a hundred yards on a windy day

I like the humble beginnings over bein’ all fancy-like.

>You swing your Winchester Model 1876 under your shoulder and ventilate the chest cavities of the nearest two. You are Bartholomew Sinclair, eleventh of fifteen children of a Maine homesteader, infamous for your ability to hit a swimming beaver at a hundred yards on a windy day.

>>5345945
>You swing your Winchester Model 1876 under your shoulder and ventilate the chest cavities of the nearest two. You are Bartholomew Sinclair, eleventh of fifteen children of a Maine homesteader, infamous for your ability to hit a swimming beaver at a hundred yards on a windy day.

>>5345945
>You swing your Winchester Model 1876 under your shoulder and ventilate the chest cavities of the nearest two. You are Bartholomew Sinclair, eleventh of fifteen children of a Maine homesteader, infamous for your ability to hit a swimming beaver at a hundred yards on a windy day.

>>5345945
>You hoist your silver-bladed ax and meet the nearest ruffian halfway, splitting his head open like a rotten log. You are Laurence MacAthan, son of a Vermont logger, famed as the man who can fell any tree with nothing but a sharp ax.

We are the big guy and our friend is the smaller smarter one of us in our group. Lets play to type.

>>5346044
>We are the big guy
For you

>>5345950
>>5345976
>>5345978
Mark Benning, the Lancaster Gunslinger

>>5345955
>>5345984
>>5345996
>>5345998
>>5346012
>>5346015
>>5346017
Bart Sinclair, the Marksman from Maine

>>5345949
>>5345985
>>5346044
Laurence Mack, the Strongman Lumberjack

>>5345991
"Doc" Bayberry, Veteran Cavalryman of the Indian Wars

Unless I'm discalculic, rifleman wins the vote. I have some things to do right now, but there should be an update out tonight.

Had my trip on then had to make the post again, oops.

>>5345945
>You pull out one of your two stag-handled Colt Navy pistols and gun down the two approaching you before they can react. You are Mark Benning-Greenly, son of an Episcopalian minister and the fastest gun in the Connecticut River Valley.
damn i wanted to have the big iron

>>5346164
>You hoist your silver-bladed ax and meet the nearest ruffian halfway, splitting his head open like a rotten log. You are Laurence MacAthan, son of a Vermont logger, famed as the man who can fell any tree with nothing but a sharp ax.
Missed the vote but oh well.

Faster than even their supernaturally enhanced eyes can see, you swing your trusty Winchester under your left arm and feather the lever twice, twisting your torso to the right after the first shot to open the second ruffian’s back even after the first falls. Silver bullets make sure that they don’t get back up, along with your spot-on aim even from the hip.

“Four down,” you tug your gun free of its belt and eject a smoking shell. A third ruffian rushes you, his already sickly skin turning proper gray and his rugged features elongating and smoothing out as his incisors and canines group together into a cluster of fangs at the front of his mouth. Nosferatu, a breed of rotten-blooded vampires of European origin, the lowest of the low among those who can pass in human society. You boot the nosferatu away, sending him tumbling ass-over-tit into the vacant hitching post across the street. The last two have already transformed at this point. The ruffian who grabbed Wiktoria is another nosferatu, though more developed than the first one, with a bigger, more rounded head, smaller, more sunken eyes, and fused middle and pointer fingers; his hat has fallen off thanks to the transformation, exposing his long, knife-shaped ears to the world. The last is a padfoot, a type of werewolf that’s also of European extraction, with long thin limbs, an emaciated body, and an elongated neck and face; padfoots have far less hair covering their sickly forms than most other Old World werewolves, short snouts despite their long heads, and deathly gray skin (though a darker tone than the nosferatu).

The padfoot and nosferatu move to flank you, taking advantage of the fact you’ve only got a single, unidirectional weapon. You take a blind shot into the leg of the werewolf who’s approaching your left, and you can hear him crash to the ground. No doubt the bullet went through his leg, meaning he’ll be up as soon as it heals, but it gives you the time you need to focus on the two nosferatu. The one you threw across the street is already up, pushing his supernatural speed to the limit to rush you and arrive at the same time as the first nosferatu. You take advantage of the tunnel vision you know that extreme speed gives him to sidestep him, cracking the butt of your rifle against the ringleader’s head to give yourself some distance, and drawing the bowie knife you keep sheathed under your arm by the time he’s past you.

Air escapes the nosferatu’s shriveled lungs as your knife finds home between his shoulderblades, and you use the handle to block the other nosferatu with the captive one’s body. By now, the padfoot is back on his feet. Again, utilizing your impromptu shield’s shoulder as an makeshift block, you line up a shot and paint the side of the saloon with the werewolf’s brains.

You slice down and across your shield’s back, severing his spine and sending him to the ground in a boneless pile. The other nosferatu slashes at you with his claws, his underestimation of your reflexes costing him his right hand. You place the barrel of your rifle against his chest, nudging him back despite his clawing at the finish, and pull the trigger. His heart isn’t your target, but the massive damage brings him down nonetheless.

“Do you need these two for questioning?” You call out to Wiktoria on the porch, seemingly the only onlooker in the entire town. It appears they fear night, likely thanks to the very gang you’re in the process of dismantling.

She shakes her head in response, the dull glow of her eyes visible even under her bobbing hat. “I doubt they would give us anything insightful under traditional questioning,” her expression morphs into one of complete disgust as if to reinforce what she says next, “and I simply will not read anything from their blood.”

“Yeah, I figured,” you fix your hat, which had become askew in the tussle. “Let me get a couple of stakes, we’re not gettin’ any more bullets till we swing north into Montana once this is all done. And we got no way of knowing how many of ‘em are holed up wherever they are.”

The dainty woman lifts the small case she had brought with her when you parted to water your horses from the floor and unlatches it, opening it only wide enough to remove two of the ash stakes she carries with you. Most of the time, a silver bullet through the heart or head will do the trick, occasionally a simple decapitation will take even at night, and many vampires can’t survive in the sunlight at all. But on some occasions, only a stake (or other means that don’t agree with a vampire such as your companion) will do. This isn’t one of those occasions, but a stake is both cleaner and more durable than the lightweight throwing knives you’ve recently added to your arsenal, and they’re reusable unlike your silver bullets.

After catching both stakes in one hand, you quickly dispatch the pair of nosferatu. Looking over your work, the bodies of the vampires have almost instantly desiccated, and the werewolves (one of the thugs you immediately shot is also one, it turns out) have returned to human form.

“I will make arrangements with the undertaker. Instructions to burn the rot-bloods and to how to bury the lycans correctly,” Wiktoria joins you on the street, deftly stepping in the spots not splattered with gore. She delicately takes the stakes from you, gesturing to get the blood off of their points, and places them back into their case. “You will go find us the inn, along with this one’s—” she gestures to the wrong corpse “—favorite whore.” She seems to mull for a moment, her eyes losing their focus on you, “and a clean one, if you can find one.”

You just nod, letting the girl go about her business as you head back into the saloon. “The bounty for that gang should cover the window and more,” you tell the barkeeper, before dropping two coins in front of him, enough for what you’re going to purchase.

At your doing so, the mustachioed man peaks over the counter from where he was cowering. “You killed ‘em?”

“I did. I’ll take six- no, make it ten of your cigars, and a bottle of brandy,” you look at him expectantly, half wondering if he’s about to piss himself.

“Alright sir, right away,” He doesn’t ask anymore questions, just fixes up your order for you. You wave down his attempt to give you change, just pocketing the cigars and the bottle. The look he gives you on your way out lets you know that the brandy’s not just for you, but for Wiktoria, but you don’t really care. She’s a hundred and eighty, you’re not going to police her if she wants a drink.

Luckily for you, the whorehouse is only two doors from the inn. It’s not a pretty building, nothing in Farson is, but it seems the madame has at least tried to make the interior inviting. Said madame sits in the well-lit foyer, a book in one hand and a fan in the other, clearly not expecting any business besides the gang of ruffians.

“Oh, I wasn’t expecting anyone… so early in the night!” She greets you, attempting to conceal her surprise. She’s a handsome woman, not too old, though clearly with her best years behind her. Despite that, with her silky hair, hourglass figure, and deep cleavage, she’s definitely the best sight in this town. “Know what you’re looking for dear? I can’t promise variety, but I can promise a good time.”

“I’m looking for something specific,” you inform her, “see, I just saved your business from that gang that’s got y’all so scared.”

“Wonderful,” the madame says with a little clap. “Though for the past couple of weeks, they’ve been my only business. Now sweetheart, when you say ‘somethin specific’, what exactly do you mean? I can getcha a lineup. Only got four girls here though.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary—”

>Because you only need the gang leader’s favorite. Wiktoria can wait to feed, she hasn’t been using her powers that much anyway, and you don’t feel like leading a girl to her death.

>Because you only need the gang leader’s favorite and her newest girl, tell her that you like to party. Wiktoria said someone clean, and the town won’t miss a prostitute if she goes missing on the same night the gang is wiped out.

>Because you only need the gang leader’s favorite and her most experienced girl, tell her that you need a couple of girls who know what they’re doing. Wiktoria said a clean prostitute, and the lower quality blood will satiate her less, but you don’t serve her up young’uns when you can help it.

>>5346757
>Because you only need the gang leader’s favorite. Wiktoria can wait to feed, she hasn’t been using her powers that much anyway, and you don’t feel like leading a girl to her death.

>>5346757
>Because you only need the gang leader’s favorite. Wiktoria can wait to feed, she hasn’t been using her powers that much anyway, and you don’t feel like leading a girl to her death.
It's not to moralfag, considering I somewhat have the feeling that a haughty (and probably very strong) vampire can just take what she wants if it's not given. It's just that Miss Wiktoria shouldn't be spoiled rotten. After all, we did all the hard work.

>>5346757
>Because you only need the gang leader’s favorite. Wiktoria can wait to feed, she hasn’t been using her powers that much anyway, and you don’t feel like leading a girl to her death.

>>5346757
Let’s be realistic here a vampire with a little power and somewhat controlled desire is better than a weak vampire that can't think straight
>Because you only need the gang leader’s favorite and her most experienced girl, tell her that you need a couple of girls who know what they’re doing. Wiktoria said a clean prostitute, and the lower quality blood will satiate her less, but you don’t serve her up young’uns when you can help it.

also lol a "clean" prostitute did you also want us to find a unicorn here lady

>>5346802
She wanted an entire bottle of Bordeaux wine from a tavern in the ass-end of Wyoming. Her expectations could be described as unreasonably optimistic.

>>5346805
As another trivia addition to this- at this time in 1884, though perhaps it might not be known to our brandy-drinking American player character, the Bordeaux wine region of France was recovering from the brink of annihilation following the Great French Wine Blight.
Finding a unicorn just might be easier than a bottle of Bordeaux wine. And judging by the trend it might be next on the list.

>>5346757
>>Because you only need the gang leader’s favorite and her newest girl, tell her that you like to party. Wiktoria said someone clean, and the town won’t miss a prostitute if she goes missing on the same night the gang is wiped out.

>>5346757
>Because you only need the gang leader’s favorite. Wiktoria can wait to feed, she hasn’t been using her powers that much anyway, and you don’t feel like leading a girl to her death.

I’d rather wipe out scum than be it.

>>5346757
>Because you only need the gang leader’s favorite and her most experienced girl, tell her that you need a couple of girls who know what they’re doing. Wiktoria said a clean prostitute, and the lower quality blood will satiate her less, but you don’t serve her up young’uns when you can help it.

>>5346757
>Because you only need the gang leader’s favorite. Wiktoria can wait to feed, she hasn’t been using her powers that much anyway, and you don’t feel like leading a girl to her death.
She'd probably complain no matter who we gave her anyway, given she won't drink the blood of any of the gang.
>>5346805
>Oh yeah I want a bottle of imported French wine that runs +600 USD in 2018
Woman's got expensive-ass tastes, but I guess a high vampire is obligated to be an aristocratic bitch.

>>5346763
>>5346774
>>5346776
>>5346820
>>5347002
Wiktoria has unrealistic expectations that you're not going to entertain.

>>5346817
Get her what she wants.

>>5346800
>>5346977
We have McDonald's at home
McDonald's at home:


Also lol, lmao.

>>5347002
>given she won't drink the blood of any of the gang.
She wasn't going to drink it, but that'll be cleared up in the next post. Besides, isn't it a thing where vampires aren't supposed to drink another vampire's blood in most vampire literature?

>Oh yeah I want a bottle of imported French wine that runs +600 USD in 2018
You can get bordeaux for like 20 bucks.

>>5346809
>the Bordeaux wine region of France was recovering from the brink of annihilation following the Great French Wine Blight
It's bouncing back by now, but you're right that was a completely deliberate choice to show the difference between how down to earth our protagonist and deuteragonist are. Very astutely read, excellent catch.

>>5347046
>Besides, isn't it a thing where vampires aren't supposed to drink another vampire's blood in most vampire literature?
It's inconsistent in my experience, but so's most vampire lore. Sometimes diablerie is just a power boost vampires don't use to prevent them all from killing each other. Didn't want to assume.
>You can get bordeaux for like 20 bucks.
Well, I figured she would be picky, and those prices jump up pretty fast. I bought a bottle of good Chianti for USD 50, but I've seen some stupid fucking prices on wine.

“All I want is the leader’s favorite,” you tell the madame after a short pause. Wiktoria can wait to feed, she’s hardly been using her powers and you’re not a milkman here to deliver blood to her.

“Oh, that’s the way it is huh? Fine. I ain’t judging you, in no position to anyway,” the madame folds her book and fan, placing them down where she had been sitting. “Just sit here a spell, I’ll be right back.”

The madame returns a few minutes later with an older girl in tow. You can't tell how old she is just by looking at her, done up in makeup and wearing what must be one of the most expensive outfits in town. “Here she is,” the madame presents the girl with a flourish. You don’t react much besides looking her over. “Loretta, this gentleman’ll be making use of your services tonight. He took care of those ruffians for us, so you make his night memorable, you got that?”

“Yes’m,” on closer examination, Loretta has some scarring around her neck, and what’s either a bite or scratch mark on one of her eyebrows. “I have to thank you for what you did, Zeke was mighty rough and was hurtin’ the madame’s business.”

Whore acquired, you make your way to the inn, paying for a room on the top floor. The innkeeper gives you a small discount for your service to the town, and you make your way up.

“So big guy, what’s your name anway? You been awful quiet for a hero,” Loretta tells you, leaning on you and stroking your chest as you sit on the bed together.

“‘S Bart,” you tell her, keeping the interaction terse. She won’t remember anything after Wiktoria’s interrogation.

“I like that name, Bart. What sorta good time are you lookin’ ta have, hero?” She wraps her arms around your neck, planting a kiss on your cheek.

You grunt in response, before giving her a real answer. “Just hold on a minute, I’m waitin’ for someone.”

“Oh, it’s like that,” she gives you a little grin, making another scratch on her cheek stand out. “Alright, I can already tell you ain’t the type to treat a woman the wrong way.”

A minute or so later, your companion arrives. “The horses have been relocated to the inn, and our belongings with them. I doubt we will have to spend more than the night,” she looks at the bed, finally removing her hat and freeing her tight ginger curls. “That’s the favorite?” Her mouth hardens into a line after you nod, clearly not pleased that you’ve not brought her a meal.

“Oh, I wasn’t expecting—” the prostitute begins before being cut off.

“Silence,” Wiktoria’s voice reverberates through the room, the echo taking on a deep, sinister tone. She’s removed the glove on her left hand, and approaches the bed with that hand raised.

You move to put your back against the door, and prevent any intrusion. Not that you expect there to be any.

“Tell me. What do you know?” The vampiress places two fingers on the paralyzed prostitute’s forehead, which causes the latter’s eyes to roll back into her head. Wiktoria’s eyes dart around the room, her posture stiffening significantly at one point in the interrogation, until she finally releases the whore. “Hm,” her voice returns to normal, and she exhales through her nose, letting the tension leave her body. “They came in several weeks ago from a mining town called Almy, near the Utah border, in the forest.”

“Anything else?” The prostitute flops onto the bed, and you do your best to ignore her, just focusing on the investigation.

“Nothing pertinent,” the vampire’s nose crinkles up, looking down at the other girl on the bed. You can figure out what she saw. “I will alter her memory of this event, along with her relationship with the nosferatu.”

“What about the rest of the town?”

Wiktoria sighs, looking as small as she actually is. “I did what I could. Let’s get her out of here. I want to get some rest.”

You do as she says, waking the girl up, slipping her a quarter, and sending her on her way. When you return to the room, Wiktoria has taken the bed, laying on it with her arms crossed and her eyes closed, already asleep. Resigning yourself to the chair, you first make sure not an ounce of light can get through the window before sitting down and taking a swig from the bottle you purchased.

Surprisingly, you’re actually able to sleep. It feels brief though, despite the fact that you can see that it’s light outside. Thankfully, this time it was a dreamless experience, you hate having to relive anything before the past handful of years anymore.

Wiktoria is still sleeping like the dead, so you take the opportunity to step out onto the front porch downstairs and have a smoke. You can see smoke rising over the far side of town, indicating they took the vampire’s suggestion in disposing of the bodies. You take a swig from the bottle before you step onto the street, aware of alcohol’s lessened effect on you from being a vampire’s familiar.

“Hey there, big fella!” The madame of the brothel greets as you pass it, standing on her own porch. “I don’t know what you did last night, and I won’t ask, but I haven’t seen Loretta so happy in Lord knows how long,” she gives you her best salesman smile, “I figured I’d give you one on the house for that.”


It doesn’t take much pondering. “I must decline, though I appreciate the offer madame,” you tip your hat as you continue down the street. Soon enough, you come to the burial yard, two freshly-dug graves, clear thanks to being so new despite being unmarked. Off to the side of the graveyard is the pyre, the nosferatu’s bodies wrapped in sheets making excellent kindling. “These’re some odd arrangements,” you tell the undertaker as you approach the pyre.

The older, dour man responds by spitting a lipful of tobacco into the crackling flames. “Sure are, I woulda just dumped ‘em all in one big hole. But the marshal done told me to do it this way, craziness.” He shakes his head, clearly not wanting to speak anymore.

That’s enough for you though, you just wanted to see if Wiktoria’s mental manipulation had stuck. After a quick meal at the saloon and a trim to get rid of your creeping stubble, you return to the inn and your room.

“What time is it?” Wiktoria asks, stretching with one hand as she puts on her skirt. “I do hope I have rested long enough to recover some strength.”

“One-thirty. We can head out now, if you’d like. Nightfall isn’t for another six and a half hours, give-or-take,” you give her a hand with the back of her dress. You know she can do it herself, but you also know she appreciates the help.

“Let us go now,” the vampire tells you, putting her gloves and hat on, “that way we will arrive at their base before nightfall.”

“How do you know they’re based out of there?” You ask, gathering your things together.

Wiktoria packs up her belongings as well, the ones that she actually brought to the room. “It was listed as an area of interest in the dossier for the Primature. A suspicious mine explosion occurred there, and coal production has risen every year since. Those events already do not correlate, but what’s stranger is the lack of any outside interference in the town, besides the export of the product from the mine.”

“Must be a fair ways off the beaten path,” you take a dollop of Sun Cream in your hand. It’s a petroleum jelly-based concoction that allows several types of vampire to walk in the sun without diminishing their powers or increasing their hunger. Since Wiktoria keeps just her face exposed, you don’t go through too much, with it being a limited resource. Exposure to the sun isn’t fatal for one of your companion’s standing, though it completely shuts off her powers (and by extension, your enhancements) and rapidly increases her hunger to the point where enough exposure renders her comatose.

“That is the strange part,” she responds after you smear a good bit across her face, dabbing it on further up her cheeks by her ears. “It is a mere ten miles from the next railroad town, and not significantly elevated either. Granted, it is in the hills, and a rather untamed stretch of forest, but it is by no means a remote location.”
“What’s the plan for when we get there?” You ask after pausing the conversation to check out and retrieve your horses from the stables. “If they could spare that many rot-bloods and wolves, we must me lookin’ at quite the hive.”

“Hm,” Wiktoria ponders as she gets onto her saddle. “That is a fair point, I suspect they number in the dozens, there have been reports of several similar gangs.”

“This is cutting the head off ‘a the snake though,” you provide.

“Correct, and if word of what occurred here last night spreads faster than we ride, they will likely recall who they can,” she spurs her horse on, and you follow. Her face is completely shaded, aside from the tip of her chin, so you can’t see her too well even as she speaks. “Considering the composition of just this gang, I do doubt slaying a single progenitor will solve the problem.”

“True,” you spark up as you leave town, taking a drag of the dry frontier tobacco. “Oh yeah that’s right,” you dig out the bottle of brandy you bought yesterday, “try some o’ that, it ain’t wine, but you should like it.” After saying that, you pass it to her.

Intrigued, Wiktoria uncorks the bottle and takes a hearty swig. She doesn’t spit it out, to her credit, but her entire body does shudder. “What IS that?” She practically hurls the bottle back at you, and you casually catch it, taking a swig of your own.

“It’s not the best but-”

“Do not tell me that is what passes for cognac in these United States, because I have had proper spirits ‘back East’, as the locals would say,” she crosses her arms to show her irritation.

“It’s brandy,” you tell her, stashing the bottle away. “Prolly Californian, if I had to guess.”

Wiktoria shakes her head, “Simply dreadful, it seems I will not find a satisfying drink until we report into Montana after this case is over.”

Some hours of riding and a water break later, as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, Wiktoria brings the topic of a plan back up.

Pick one [A] option, and one [B] option:

>[A1] Treat the town as if you were normal travelers in a normal town. Probe as best you can while the sun is still out and depart for a camp in the hills by nightfall. You will be able to return the next day without attracting too much suspicion, but you will have to be on your toes the entire time.

>[A2] Pass the town and make camp before sundown on the day you arrive. Sneak in during the night and see if you can’t see how the town works and what’s going on there. You may be able to enter more casually during the day, but during the night stealth will be your greatest ally.

>[A3] Kick in doors and actively question as many of the residents as you can. If there are any mortals, they will likely be under thrall, and if there aren’t then you will be able to use the sun as your ally. You will have to avoid the town entirely during the night, unless you want to go in guns blazing, but during the day you should hold most of the cards.

AND

>[B1] Wiktoria has made some roundabout overtures about feeding, not just finding something to drink. If you should see another traveler on the road, one you wouldn’t be too opposed to her feeding on, you will stop them for her.

>[B2] Wiktoria has made some roundabout overtures about feeding, not just finding something to drink. She’s in good enough shape to deal with some lesser vampires, especially with you backing her up. And you still want to arrive in Almy before sundown.

>>5347197
>Sometimes diablerie is just a power boost vampires don't use to prevent them all from killing each other
I mean even if amaranth was a thing here (not saying it is, I like Bloodlines but I think VTM and White Wolf overall are pretty much straight trash), would someone like Wiktoria really want to drink the powers and absorb the powers of a bunch of low-class goblinoid vampires?

She could read them with psychometry, but that would involve imbibing some of their blood.

>>5347218
>[A1] Treat the town as if you were normal travelers in a normal town. Probe as best you can while the sun is still out and depart for a camp in the hills by nightfall. You will be able to return the next day without attracting too much suspicion, but you will have to be on your toes the entire time.

>[B1] Wiktoria has made some roundabout overtures about feeding, not just finding something to drink. If you should see another traveler on the road, one you wouldn’t be too opposed to her feeding on, you will stop them for her.

>>5347218
>[A2] Pass the town and make camp before sundown on the day you arrive. Sneak in during the night and see if you can’t see how the town works and what’s going on there. You may be able to enter more casually during the day, but during the night stealth will be your greatest ally.

>[B1] Wiktoria has made some roundabout overtures about feeding, not just finding something to drink. If you should see another traveler on the road, one you wouldn’t be too opposed to her feeding on, you will stop them for her.

>>5347225
>Support

>>5347225

Support.

>>5347218
Supporting >>5347225

>>5347218
>[A2] Pass the town and make camp before sundown on the day you arrive. Sneak in during the night and see if you can’t see how the town works and what’s going on there. You may be able to enter more casually during the day, but during the night stealth will be your greatest ally.
>[B1] Wiktoria has made some roundabout overtures about feeding, not just finding something to drink. If you should see another traveler on the road, one you wouldn’t be too opposed to her feeding on, you will stop them for her.

If this is where the big boys are then it's best to not fuck around and underestimate them, I think. May as well make sure the ginger battery is fully charged.

>>5347218
A1
B2

I suppose I’m a moralfag at heart.

>>5347218
>[A2] Pass the town and make camp before sundown on the day you arrive. Sneak in during the night and see if you can’t see how the town works and what’s going on there. You may be able to enter more casually during the day, but during the night stealth will be your greatest ally

>[B1] Wiktoria has made some roundabout overtures about feeding, not just finding something to drink. If you should see another traveler on the road, one you wouldn’t be too opposed to her feeding on, you will stop them for her.

>>5347218
>[A2] Pass the town and make camp before sundown on the day you arrive. Sneak in during the night and see if you can’t see how the town works and what’s going on there. You may be able to enter more casually during the day, but during the night stealth will be your greatest ally.
>[B1] Wiktoria has made some roundabout overtures about feeding, not just finding something to drink. If you should see another traveler on the road, one you wouldn’t be too opposed to her feeding on, you will stop them for her.

>>5347218
>>[A1] Treat the town as if you were normal travelers in a normal town. Probe as best you can while the sun is still out and depart for a camp in the hills by nightfall. You will be able to return the next day without attracting too much suspicion, but you will have to be on your toes the entire time.
No reason to rouse suspicions.
>[B1] Wiktoria has made some roundabout overtures about feeding, not just finding something to drink. If you should see another traveler on the road, one you wouldn’t be too opposed to her feeding on, you will stop them for her.
It IS a vampire quest.

>>5347225
>>5347240
>>5347247
>>5347270
>>5347534
"Hello I'm Vince Humanman and this is my niece, Vicky O'Notavampire." + the McDonald's we have at home.

>>5347231
>>5347343
>>5347354
>>5347524
Solid Snaking it + the McDonald's we have at home.

>>5347352
Vince Humanman + Pulls into blood drive as vampire cheers, orders one black coffee and leaves.

Sorry about yesterday. I'm busy today as well, so an update will either be tonight or tomorrow.

“There’s a wagon, ‘round the other side of the hill,” you tell Wiktoria as you water your horses from a small spring around nightfall. “Sounded like a couple of Chinese, though I can’t say I know why they’re so far from the railroad.”

“Perhaps they are traveling to California or Utah, the last missive from the Diocese did mention interstate railroads being constructed there,” the vampire runs her tongue along the front of her teeth, a tic which she seems, miraculously, unaware of. Once she’s done thinking (evident by her ceasing of the tic), Wiktoria nods her head. “Yes, if you can get one of them to this side of the hill, I would be most grateful.”

Resigning yourself to tricking some hapless (yet entirely expendable in the eyes of society) chinaman railway worker, you make your way around the small hill. Briefly, you consider the possibility that letting Wiktoria feed on the prostitute back in Farson would’ve been easier than this, but you quickly put that thought out of your mind. Sure, you’re still handing another human over to your fiendish traveling partner, but instead of some girl in an unfortunate circumstance, this is at least some cookie-cutter opium addict who’s already sent all he’s ever earned back to his clan (or however it works there) across the Pacific.

“Ah shit,” you whisper under your breath as you catch the scent of burning opium on the gentle spring breeze. “Hey there fellas!” You call out with forced cheerfulness, catching their attention.

The one closest to you, with his back turned, seems to take the most notice. The other two are having a more private conversation in their own chittering language. Unfortunately for you, it seems like, even if he can understand English, the most sober of the three can only actually speak Chinese.

It takes you a couple of minutes to both get around the language barrier and convince the chinaman that you, a tall and broad cowboy-looking fellow of American extraction, would need his help to dislodge your wagon from the mud on the other side of the hillock. You also had to flash him a handful of coins to sweeten the deal, but that’s a given out here in the West. Especially when you’re dealing with folk like railwaymen, cattlemen, miners, and the like.

Sometime later, you and Wiktoria are back on your horses, exsanguinated and chopped up remains of the chinaman secured in one of her saddlebags when she speaks up. You usually don’t talk to her while she’s feeding, or right after. Not that it offends you or that it’s particularly disgusting to you at this point, just seems rude.

“Hmm,” the vampire suppresses a cough. The fact that that seems more off to you than her being able to drain a man’s body of his blood within half an hour strikes you as somewhat odd. “Say, Bartholomew. Was that man in an altered state when you encountered him?”

“He was,” you say, not missing a beat, even after uncorking your bottle of brandy. “They usually are, when they ain’t working,” you add after a swig.

Wiktoria shudders, “I appreciate you going out of your way to allow me to feed, even knowing it was not entirely necessary. Though I will let you know—”

You roll your eyes, here it comes.

“—and this is not snobbery, but clean blood is far more beneficial than blood which has been dirtied.”

You know what she means. Drugs, diseases (especially venereal ones), lycanthropic or vampiric bites, all of it decrease the ‘value’ it has to a vampire.

That makes you wonder though. “I know you drank up plenty of drunks in Louisiana and up the Mississippi, what changed?”

“Alcohol can be processed or ignored, like a minor sickness. Though yes, someone who has been incapacitated by alcohol’s blood would be as polluted as an opium smoker’s or a chewer of concentrated coca’s,” she sucks in air through her nose, as if trying to wake herself up. “However, feeding on anything of the sort is especially taxing for one with such psychometric powers as myself.”

“Well, next Mormon missionary I see I’ll bring to ya,” you take another, deeper swig. Besides the enhanced strength, stamina, reflexes, night vision, and the sharper vision being Wiktoria’s familiar grants you, you also have a greatly increased tolerance for alcohol, poison, and the like. You still aren’t some kind of drunk, but it has been nice to take advantage of.

The following afternoon, around one, you arrive in Almy.

The approach to the town was completely deserted, the only travelers being yourself and Wiktoria, the last farms were miles behind you and the last livestock were even further back. Even the town’s sign was in a state of disrepair, the line where its population would be painted over in black. Nearly every building is boarded up, save a particularly dilapidated inn in the middle of town. A post office is conspicuously absent.

“I suppose we should start there,” Wiktoria’s expression betrays the falseness of the confidence in her voice, the state of the town is far worse than either of you had expected. ‘There’ is, naturally, the only building that doesn’t look like it’s bursting with nosferatu clawing at the windows for the sun to go down, the inn.

“Not like there’s a town hall or even a damn sheriff’s office,” you agree, head slowly swiveling to take in as much of the main drag as you can. The buildings that would’ve been the town hall and sheriff’s office have been stripped down to the studs to provide the lumber used to board up the rest of the town, and there’s a scorched square of earth where you would bet your life the church once stood. “Might as well, least if we’re walking into an ambush here, they’ll be even weaker than normal people.”

“Good point,” the vampire concedes. Luckily, the inn’s trough is actually full of fresh water, so you can leave your horses out there without them keeling over.

The inn is in absolute tatters, its rugs bunched up and dusty, its wallpaper curling, its chandelier falling apart and filthy, and behind its desk covered in cobwebs. Behind said desk is a wide-eyed, very gray, very slight man.

“O-oh hello travelers,” he says in a wavering voice, “I-I had not been expecting any g-guests today,” his hands unclasp as he stands, though he immediately pitches his body forward to lean on the desk. “We do have rooms available, i-if that is what you would like.”

You share a sideways glance with Wiktoria, the minute shake of her head telling you that the innkeeper is indeed human. “We’re just passing through mister,” you respond, hooking your hands into your belt, “we just came by to water the horses, maybe pick up some supplies on our way up to Montana. But it seems like your town’s fallen on hard times.”

“A-ah yes, of course, supplies. It so h-happens that the general store has relocated to the rear of th-this very building,” he nods frantically, his cheeks filling with color. “Town’s been a bit out of it since the explosion, yessir.”

“That’s strange,” Wiktoria cuts in, her suggestive powers permeating her voice, “I read in the newspaper that the output of the mines’ was higher than ever.”

The innkeeper gapes like a fish, his mouth opening and closing and opening again before he can respond. “W-well yes, but the mine-the miners you see are just so busy in the mines, they’ve got no time to rebuild.”

“But the town is so rich now,” the vampire continues, laying her manipulation on even thicker, “you could surely afford to hire out the repairs to Evanston, or even Park City?”

The innkeeper is sweating now, some block or hypnosis in his feeble head preventing him from answering Wiktoria’s questions truthfully. Or maybe the information is simply no longer there.

“Why is it that a boom town is in such a state?” She prompts further, beckoning the man to enhance the effect of her power even further.

“I-it’s just how the miners want it little miss! The miners and the boss!” After that answer, the innkeeper sucks in a breath, turning to bolt up the stairs to the right of the door.

Wiktoria doesn’t let him, stopping him with a word, far more power poured into it than mere suggestion. “You still have to show us to the general store,” she says, in a far more even tone with far less power.

“Th-that’s right,” the innkeeper says, even more absentminded than before.

“You may have laid it on too thick,” you whisper to Wiktoria as you’re lead back through the inn’s dingy ground floor. “We’re supposed to be acting natural.”

“He will not remember,” the vampire responds. “And my actions got results, his answer to that told us more than he could have with his words.”

You have to concede that.

“H-here you go,” the innkeeper lets you into the rearmost room of his business, which looks like it was once a porch, but has now been boarded up and had a counter installed on the far end. He then departs through the inn, and you can hear him rush up the stairs.

The shopkeep, who you suspect isn’t a shopkeep by trade, is an extremely mangy man, probably half-indian, in an ill-fitting outfit that hangs off of his near-emaciated form. His black hair hangs greasy and stringy over his face, and his lipless mouth is tobacco stained. He’s either a newly-turned werewolf or completely feral, just based on his twitchy mannerisms and his constant sniffing of the air.

“Welcome, welcome,” he licks his thin, discolored lips, “what can I do for ya travlin’ folk?”

His brown eyes are the same shade as a dog’s and filled with the same hunger as a starving tramp’s. He licks his lips once more, palming his cheap snuffbox as he awaits your answer.

“Just some food for the road,” you answer, “dried stuff, we’re fixin’ to rough it for a week or so.”

“I see, I see, lemme fix that up for you,” he watches you with that hungry gaze the entire time he puts together the overly-dry jerky and salt pork, as well as the dusty jars of pickles he throws in there.

Later, sitting in your camp in the woods outside of town as the sun dips below the distant Uinta mountains, you recap with Wiktoria.

“Just what the hell was that? The whole place is a goddamned hive,” you spit, literally and figuratively, into the underbrush.

“It is,” she exhales through her nose. It’s another tic of hers, though one she’s more aware of. “This is far worse than I had anticipated, I do not think either of us suspected the situation was nearly this severe.”

“Can we handle it?” You refrain from lighting a cigar, wary of casting any sort of light, even in the evening gloam.

“Based on what we have seen so far,” Wiktoria nods, “absolutely. This is likely a nest centered on a single individual. Granted,” the vampire pauses, her young features displaying an entirely too mature amount of concern, “I can not gauge the power of the leader of said nest. Nor can I be sure they are the one creating the nosferatu.”

“Seems like all the werewolves are padfoots,” you offer, “that’s unusual, ‘specially this far west.”

Your companion nods, “that is a good point.”

“Maybe it’s a big nosferatu and a padfoot runnin’ things together?” You follow up.

Wiktoria considers this, though she shakes her head after some thought. “Nosferatu are quite arrogant, especially those of considerable power. One with a nest of this scale would not allow said nest to fall into such disrepair, and would certainly not partner with a werewolf of such low standing.”

“Y’think the nosferatu and padfoot are working under someone or somethin’ else?” You lead, not eager to hear your speculation confirmed.

“Correct,” Wiktoria confirms your speculations. “Though who or what that is, it is impossible for me to say.”

>Sneak back into town during the night without Wiktoria, your scent as a familiar is baffling and often hard for the supernatural to detect, while her strong and pure blood would be like a beacon unless you covered it up. You’re not going in hot and heavy though, just to observe.

>Wait for the mines to empty out and enter them. The town was almost completely silent during the day, leading yourself and Wiktoria to believe that the majority of the nest are spending the day deep underground, allowing them to extract as much coal as possible while simultaneously avoiding the sun.

>Reenter the town early in the morning, as soon as work resumes. Avoid the inn and keep your search to the houses, focus on the few structures that actually had sound coming from them during the day. If there are humans there, you can ask them what happened to the town, if the inhabitants aren’t human, you can ply them for information with the threat of the sun.

>Storm the town around noon tomorrow, when the nonhumans are at their weakest. You can round them up in the inn and get as much information from them as possible by using threats and Wiktoria’s powers. The only downside is you may use up the rest of your Sun Cream keeping her empowered.


Woah, sorry about the wait there folks. This would've been posted last night, but I killed 4chan. My bad.

>>5351531
>Reenter the town early in the morning, as soon as work resumes. Avoid the inn and keep your search to the houses, focus on the few structures that actually had sound coming from them during the day. If there are humans there, you can ask them what happened to the town, if the inhabitants aren’t human, you can ply them for information with the threat of the sun.
Best we get more information before storming off into a (probably) infested mine.

>>5351531
>Reenter the town early in the morning, as soon as work resumes. Avoid the inn and keep your search to the houses, focus on the few structures that actually had sound coming from them during the day. If there are humans there, you can ask them what happened to the town, if the inhabitants aren’t human, you can ply them for information with the threat of the sun.
Much as I'd like to just head straight to the big cheese and kick his head in, if they're likely to be something we don't know the identity of, better to know what it is, or at least have a decent idea of it. Not like things stand to get much worse.

>>5351651
+1

>>5351531
>>Wait for the mines to empty out and enter them. The town was almost completely silent during the day, leading yourself and Wiktoria to believe that the majority of the nest are spending the day deep underground, allowing them to extract as much coal as possible while simultaneously avoiding the sun.

>>5351531
>Reenter the town early in the morning, as soon as work resumes. Avoid the inn and keep your search to the houses, focus on the few structures that actually had sound coming from them during the day. If there are humans there, you can ask them what happened to the town, if the inhabitants aren’t human, you can ply them for information with the threat of the sun.

>>5351547
>>5351651
>>5351692
>>5352289
"Yes hello it's me again, I forgot that I was going to Manitoba, not Montana. I will need far more of your moldy jerky."

>>5351736
DOOMenvania (not really but that was the best I could come up with).

“Sun’s coming up,” you inform Wiktoria, who sits by a tree a few yards back. You’re lying prone, observing the little mining town through a spyglass. You’d been in this position for an hour or more, after deciding you would enter town when the inhabitants returned to the mines. After sundown the previous evening, you had sat in another spot, further from your camp, watching for the miners’ return. You left when the second group, comprised mainly of werewolves, stuck their noses into the air and began frantically sniffing. There hadn’t been a good spot to observe the miners either returning or leaving thanks to the layout of the mineshafts in the area, but what you had seen amounted to around twenty nosferatu accompanied by a number of chained ghouls, and around fifteen werewolves. The werewolves had been mostly padfoots, with a pair of much larger kluddes accompanying them. Kluddes being larger, more powerful, and less humanoid werewolves of Dutch and German extraction. “I saw we give it a couple of hours, it would look strange if we walked in first thing in the morning.”

“Good idea,” the vampire agrees with a nod, slinking away before standing up. She’s changed from her finery into a (still expensive) outfit of light gray poplin, complete with a wide-brimmed hat and knee-length boots. She looks like she’s going safari, and you had informed her of much, to her great annoyance. “It will allow both of us to get some rest, as well as to conserve our supply of Sun Cream.”

A little later, while you enjoy a simple breakfast of what you had packed (none of the rotten shit you had bought in Almy’s general store yesterday), you bring up what you had seen last night to Wiktoria in more detail. More specifically, you give her a description of the ghouls.

“We have seen upirs before,” she starts, making sure light will be unable to get through her tent, “bloodthirsty ghouls, created from those who impure vampires have fed on without exsanguinating, but who their venom has nonetheless killed. They are strong, but extremely stupid, it’s likely that they are being used for simple menial tasks. The one thing they can do besides rip apart humans for their blood.” Satisfied with her shield against the sun, she removes her hat and lies down, only the soles of her boots visible to you. “We should have little trouble with them, they are extremely susceptible to suggestion and, as I said before, quite dull despite their strength,” she pauses a moment, considering your description of the other ghoul you had seen. “The other ghoul sounds like a vorvolaka, a slightly more rational kind of ghoul. I would hope that they are feeding it, as when one becomes starved, it becomes frenzied.”

“How’s one of them even created?” You lay down on your bedroll, intending to get a couple hours’ shuteye.

“It is hard to say, but they are typically corpses revived by particularly impure vampires. I suppose that a powerful nosferatu would be capable of it, but it is not a situation I have ever heard of occurring. Otherwise, it is a person who has consumed the venom of a werewolf before being killed, though in that case I would expect it to hunger for flesh rather than blood,” she drops the curtain over her little tent, blacking herself out from the sunlight entirely.

You ask one last question before you both settle down completely to rest. “What sort of super strong but dirty vampire would be capable of making something like that?”

More silence, more thinking. “A guajon or a strigoi, perhaps a strix, though I seriously doubt that is the case.”

You nod. Guajon are a type of disfigured Spanish vampire, it wouldn’t be far-fetched to see one out in the west, even forty years after Mexico had lost it. They don’t hunger much, and the case Wiktoria’s superior had once told you about involved one forming a commune around herself, so it was a reasonable assumption that that’s what you were dealing with. On the other hand, strigoi, which come from Southeastern Europe, have a ton of rules associated with them, including numerous weaknesses. Despite their inhuman appearance and often foul disposition, some have been able to integrate themselves into vampire ‘polite society’. And unlike the similarly hideous nosferatu, they be quite powerful. Based on the circumstances, you want to err on the side of it being a guajon, but you’ll reserve judgement before investigating the town further in person.

People shuffling away from one of the heavy wooden doors of the houses on the edge of town catches your ears as you saunter through. It’s not the first structure you heard noises coming from, but it is the first time those noises sounded like humans were making them, and more importantly, it’s the first time whatever’s in there took the risk of getting close to the windows.

So you walk up to the door, keeping your pace slow and steady, and rap on it. The noises instantly stop, but you can still hear them breathing. Wiktoria isn’t by your side now, instead she decided to case the part of the town that straddles the main road, away from both the inn and the majority of the mines. You both agreed that it would be safer to split up, being able to cover more ground as well as eliminating the chances of anyone picking up the scent of her Sun Cream and finding you both out.

After not getting an answer after four knocks, you give the home’s inhabitants one more chance, this time calling out. “Come on out friends, I’m just passing through and figured I’d see how ya’ll were doing, heard the town was going through some hard times! I got food and cash on me.”

That gets their interest, and one of them finally meets you at the door.

It’s a filthy, reedy woman who answers the door, hunger showing in her eyes even before you see just how thin she is. “Come on in, come on in,” she says in a thick southern accent. Probably came up here with her father or husband after the Civil War, fleeing the poverty of the South for a life of hard labor with guaranteed pay.

You enter the house, and she slams the door behind you, quickly latching it shut. There are four other people in the home, all in a similar state of starvation and uncleanliness, one of them is an old man with a wild beard and gnarled hands, and the other two are young teens, huddled together and quivering in a corner. You think that one’s a boy and the other’s a girl, but you honestly couldn’t say, as entangled and malnourished and unkempt as they are.

Tearing your gaze from the corner, you dig out a hunk of bread and a couple of sticks of jerky from your pocket. “Here,” you hand them to the woman, who starts to tear into the bread before your harsh expression convinces her to divide it evenly between herself and the other inhabitants of the home.

“You gave us your food, seen we was okay,” the woman says, “now you can git.”

“That’s some kinda gratitude,” you respond, drawing yourself to your full height and looming over her. “Suppose I had a couple questions, this town sure is in a state for how well it should be doin’.”

“Let him sit a spell,” the old man pipes up, gnawing on his jerky like a squirrel with a stubborn nut. “May be he has a solution to ah problems,” his voice is thick with a cajun drawl, and his body language jumpy, but his tone is wise.

“We ain’t got none,” the woman repeats. “Sure as hell none no gunslingin’ macho’s ‘na solve!”

With that she storms off, facing another corner of the house and refusing to look at you, viciously tearing into her bread.

“‘S the solution you got young’un?” The old man makes his way to a porch swing, propped up on crates and set on one wall, and takes a seat, sighing as if he’s been on his feet for a year.

You come over to the makeshift couch, but refrain from sitting, instead standing next to it with a foot propped up. “I need to know the problem if I’m gonna give you a solution,” you tell him, cocking your head.

“‘S a good point, good point!” He chuckles, beckoning the children over. “C’mon over chilluns, c’mon over! This’uns good people, I can tell.”

They look at each other before doing so, sitting on the floor next to the old man, gazing up at you with big, wet eyes. Both are slowly eating the food you gave them, neither looking like they’re willing to say anything besides maybe a whimper. You wonder if they’ve said a word in the three years since the mine explosion.

“Now then, whassit seems the problem?” The old man scratches his beard, causing some loose crumbs to fall into his palm. Gobbling up the crumbs, he continues, “I can tell y’got ‘sperience wit’ this sorta thing, naw?”

“Let’s say I did,” you humor. “What exactly is happening here?”

“When I was a young lad,” he snaps into his stick of jerky, “had a similar problem in in Lafayetteville. Not quite ‘s bad though, seein’ as it’s da heart o Cajun Country. Course the Church done solved that one, but I don’ think you’re a priest.”

“You figure right,” you confirm with a nod, “and I doubt the Church is coming all the way up here to solve your problems. ‘Less it’s the Mormon one.” You know from experience that the Mormons can do less than nothing to vampires, the College’s headquarters in the Diocese is even in Salt Lake City because of that fact.

“True nuff, true nuff,” the old man nods back, a cheery bob to it despite his circumstances. That’s the power of hope, not one you’ve felt in some time. “Anyway, trouble all started soon as them folk with the hoods came, brung that box with ‘em.”

“Box? How big was it? Anyone get to see what was inside?”

This time, the old timer shakes his head, “Naw, brung it straight to the minin’ office. I seen it go in there,” he suppresses a shudder, and the children are holding each other even tighter now. You can feel the woman staring at you behind your back. “Course, right after that they brung it, the mines were back up ‘gain, but ‘steada rebuildin’, they just got more ‘n more weirdos, comin’ in, ‘long with the normal folk. “‘Ventually, whole place shut down ‘side from them odd folk minin’! They pick a coupl’a us off every so of’n, ten days ‘r so. They feed us, get some cows or pigs from nearby the railroad, to do it. But I think we ain’t much more’n cattle to them ourselves.”

As the old man lets you out, he seems to remember something. “Das right, some’n did see someth’n out the box. It was leakin’ dirt.”

You thank him with another two strips of jerky, out of view of the others. It goes unspoken between you that one’s for him, and the other for the children.

After returning to the inn and not making any headway (despite buying a bottle of old snake oil to butter up the shopkeep), you head back to your campsite. Actually, you had noticed one thing back at the inn. The werewolf running the general store had a broken leg supported by a splint, explaining why he’s not in the mine with his brethren every day.

You take a bite of rabbit as you sit across from Wiktoria, who sits in her tent hugging her legs to her chest, avoiding the sun. “I found out how many there are in total,” you suck the remaining flesh off the bone as she starts, before tossing it aside, “sixty even, all of the vampires are nosferatu, of which there are thirty-six, there are eighteen padfoots, and six kluddes. I could not ascertain the number of ghouls, they never bring them all above ground at once. Only one or two at a time.”

“I found out they came into town some time ago, people in hoods with a box. The box was leaking dirt, and they brought it into the mining office,” you lean back. “After that, it was all downhill, now they’re using the townsfolk for cattle.”

Wiktoria looks pleasantly surprised, and almost hops up into the sun. “Very good, Bartholomew! Excellent even,” she claps, before running her tongue over her front teeth. After that brief interlude, she allows herself to continue, “you have found out our opponent as a strigoi. Now, we must decide how to handle this.”

>When the mines are empty, around midnight, you’ll sneak in and try to find where the strigoi is. You won’t have much direction when you get down there, but Wiktoria will be able to enthrall a ghoul which you can use to hunt the strigoi down.

>Follow the first group back into the mines. You’ll have to be both quick and stealthy, but once you’re down there with them, you’ll have the element of surprise. Working quickly, you’ll force them to lead you to the heart of the mines and, presumably, the strigoi.

>Tail the last group into the mines. Speed isn’t a factor, but you will have to be extremely careful, and you can’t risk bringing any Sun Cream, so Wiktoria will only be able to use her powers once you’re inside the mines. Sneak through the mines and follow important figures to find the strigoi.

>The mine office is outside of the town, go there with Wiktoria in the morning, once the town has emptied out again, you’ll continue your investigation there. You won’t need as much stealth, though if it’s inhabited by one or more of the hooded figures (who Wiktoria theorizes are the nosferatu sires and perhaps one of the kluddes), they’ll be able to detect you since Wiktoria will have to use her powers.

>Write-in.

>>5353474
>>Follow the first group back into the mines. You’ll have to be both quick and stealthy, but once you’re down there with them, you’ll have the element of surprise. Working quickly, you’ll force them to lead you to the heart of the mines and, presumably, the strigoi.
If things go wrong there'll be less trash we have to smash into hamburger meat. I figure our intent should always be to be fast once we know what we're running up against. Once the soil sovereign is down that's the hard part done with first.

>>5353474
>Follow the first group back into the mines. You’ll have to be both quick and stealthy, but once you’re down there with them, you’ll have the element of surprise. Working quickly, you’ll force them to lead you to the heart of the mines and, presumably, the strigoi.

>>5353474
>Follow the first group back into the mines. You’ll have to be both quick and stealthy, but once you’re down there with them, you’ll have the element of surprise. Working quickly, you’ll force them to lead you to the heart of the mines and, presumably, the strigoi.

>>5353491
+1

>>5353491
>>5353519
>>5353802
>>5353814
Unanimity.

“I think you should shut the door,” Wiktoria, still dressed like she’s going to hunt cape buffalo with the Prince of Wales, whispers to you shortly after the group you had followed into the second nearest mineshaft to the town dips below the first incline.

You glance up at the heavy, shudder-like ‘door’ hanging on the mineshaft’s ceiling above the entrance, then look back at Wiktoria. “I think they’d hear it,” you whisper back, “besides, soon as the next group sees the door’s closed they’re gonna know something’s up.”

“I…” the vampire roughly exhales through her nose, though she manages to keep it quiet, “those are good points, yes. Let us follow then, I neither want to lose them nor do I want to meet the next group.”

You nod, and together with your companion, proceed further into the earth.

The group you had chosen to follow into the mine consisted of four nosferatu, a pair of upir directed by leads in the vampires’ hands, and most promising, a kludde. You maintain a safe distance from them, sticking behind the three who remain together after two of the nosferatu depart with the upir down side shafts early into the mine.

The other three stick together for quite some time, descending further and further into the bowels of the earth. They pass bare seams of coal and half-completed supports, the two vampires occasionally pausing to chatter with each other.

You’re too far back to hear what they’re saying, if you were close enough then the werewolf would no doubt pick up either the sound of your footfalls, or your scent.

“Do you think that it would be possible to take them now?” Wiktoria’s question is barely audible, as you both peer around a thick support beam in the middle of the tunnel.

“Sure, but it’d make lots of noise and probably get us caught, let’s just keep following them.

It turns out that you don’t have to follow them too much further, as at a t-junction, the pair of nosferatu go one way, and the kludde goes the other.

>Follow the nosferatu, once you’re far enough from the junction, take one of them out and force the other one to lead you to the strigoi. You’ll have to deal with one of them physically, while Wiktoria uses her powers on the other. Either that or she’ll kill the one she confronts and psychically dominate the one you disable.

>Follow the kludde. You won’t have to follow him as far as you would have to follow the nosferatu, thanks to their hearing not being as good as his. But it will be a tougher fight, and you’ll have to hurt it a lot worse than you would have to hurt either of the vampires. Kluddes are rarer than nosferatu, so there’s a pretty good chance he knows where you’ll find the strigoi.

>>5354348
>Follow the kludde. You won’t have to follow him as far as you would have to follow the nosferatu, thanks to their hearing not being as good as his. But it will be a tougher fight, and you’ll have to hurt it a lot worse than you would have to hurt either of the vampires. Kluddes are rarer than nosferatu, so there’s a pretty good chance he knows where you’ll find the strigoi.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

>>5354348
>>Follow the kludde. You won’t have to follow him as far as you would have to follow the nosferatu, thanks to their hearing not being as good as his. But it will be a tougher fight, and you’ll have to hurt it a lot worse than you would have to hurt either of the vampires. Kluddes are rarer than nosferatu, so there’s a pretty good chance he knows where you’ll find the strigoi.

>>5354348
>>Follow the kludde. You won’t have to follow him as far as you would have to follow the nosferatu, thanks to their hearing not being as good as his. But it will be a tougher fight, and you’ll have to hurt it a lot worse than you would have to hurt either of the vampires. Kluddes are rarer than nosferatu, so there’s a pretty good chance he knows where you’ll find the strigoi.

>>5354380
>>5354391
>>5354438
Unanimity again, let's see how infallible democracy really is.

“Clean…” the Kludde growls, sniffing the air. You knew that higher-order werewolves were more powerful and had stronger senses than their weaker cousins, but you’re still surprised that he can smell Wiktoria through the dank and loose coal of the mine. “I smell something clean…” his accent is East Coast, like yours is when you don’t downplay it to get along in the West, but something’s different about it. It’s less rural, more… Hudson Valley. That would make sense, with him being a Dutch strain of werewolf. “Come out!” His voice is raised, though he refrains from yelling, or, crucially at this point, transforming.

To answer the kludde, you fill your hand with your bowie knife and bull rush him, shoulder-checking him into a timber support before burying your knife in his gut with one hand. With your other hand, you jam your hand under his chin and slam the crown of his head into the support twice.

You want to keep punishing him with head trauma, but the werewolf finally snaps out of his surprise and manages to overpower even your grip strength with his massive neck and back muscles. He swings his head down and swipes at you, head and fingernails elongating while his torso and arms balloon.

While kicking off from the wall, you make a vertical slice across his stomach and chest and another across one of his biceps. Neither wound seems to impede the werewolf much, despite the silver dust bound to the blade. Even his preternatural healing seems barely affected, shows you what good an unconsecrated silver coating is against anything worse than a mosquito. You bob and weave under a pair of slashes from the werewolf, disengaging completely to size him up a few yards away.

Considering his earlier display of pure-bloodedness, the kludde must be limiting his transformation to be able to fight in the confined space that is the mineshaft. Still, his head is somewhere between a pit bull’s and a wolf’s, long snout, eyes set far apart, and deep, thick jaws; and his arms and legs are bestial, and while the latter fit into his boots, the former are meaty paws tipped with inch-long claws.

“A hunter?” He questions, speech slurred by greatly increased teeth and reduced lips, “but human. I did not smell a human.”

As if to answer his question, Wiktoria appears between the two of you, smoking shadows trailing in her wake and her orange eyes glowing like lanterns.

You would have told Wiktoria to hold off, had you been more comprehensive in your planning with her. But you hadn’t been (since the werewolf had caught wind of you), and in the mindset of a vampire like her, it sounds effective.

She stabs her hand at him, gloves removed so that her claws glint in the low light of the mines. It’s something that Wiktoria doesn’t like to talk about or show off, but beside her odd eye color (which isn’t all that conspicuous), she has claws that appear to be composed of polished horn rather than typical fingernails. It isn’t very noticeable, but she does seem to be very self conscious of it. Now, at least, her claws act in her favor, as she’s able to bury her arm elbow-deep into the hulking werewolf’s chest.

Instantly, you’re aware of the fact that her blow isn’t fatal. Not that a vampire impaling a werewolf through the heart with their claws would be fatal under normal circumstances (the number of vampires in the world capable of that feat could be counted on one’s hands and a single foot, Wiktoria assured you), but you can also tell that she missed his heart by a good four inches.

The kludde grabs Wiktoria’s frail wrist, the one attached to the hand stuck between his ribs, and slashes her across the face.

Your companion screeches in pain, dislodging herself with her deceptive strength, before shooting back to take cover behind your larger frame.

“Were you bleeding?” You take the opportunity to ask her, reversing the grip of your knife to take on a more defensive stance.

“I did not share my blood in that assault, no,” the vampire confirms your suspicions.

Your lip curls as your nose scrunches into a sneer, but you quickly correct it. “Fine, I’ll give you an opening this time around. I’ll try not to get too messed up, wouldn’t want you gettin’ too hungry.”

Before you can even finish that sentence, the werewolf charges. You meet him ten feet from your initial position, and you can see the surprise in his dark, dog-like eyes.

“Didn’t expect a human to be so fast huh?” You ask, before driving an uppercut into his still-open chest wound. You deliver another jab into it before he can respond, though you duck the strike from his right paw and block the one from his left with your knife.

“Pureblood and her pet,” the kludde chokes out, “after the Founder.”

“It’s a business arrangement,” you tell the beast, vitriol seeping into your voice. “And thanks—” you step into his guard, your left elbow ripping his right bicep from the bone, “—for letting us know what you call the strigoi.” You ram your knife into the wound Wiktoria left and jerk it up, severing at least three of his ribs.

You pull your knife from his chest to block his left hand before his claws tear your throat out. His right arm restores itself worryingly quickly, either meaning he’s been eating well or avoiding those things which make werewolves weaker, though you know that it’s both. You have to intercept his rejuvenated right paw, catching it with your hand and entering a tug-of-war with the werewolf.

It’s a contest of strength the kludde is destined to win, as even with the massive enhancements bestowed upon you by your contract with Wiktoria, an older, purebred werewolf of the elder strains will still be more physically imposing.

As the contest reaches its tipping point in the kludde’s favor, the little vampire comes to your rescue. Wiktoria falls upon the two of you in a wave of shadow and blood, the darkness of the mine becoming impenetrable as she pours out her powers in an offensive against your opponent. The cloud passes over you quickly, but you make sure to maintain your hold on the werewolf’s arms and you maneuver him into the wall. Wiktoria comes back into view as the shadows retreat, her forearm once again buried in the werewolf’s chest, causing blood to at the same time gush from and flow back into the wound.

“Injure the beast, bleed it!” Wiktoria demands, focused on pumping her venom and power into said beast.

You do as she requests, allowing the werewolf’s claws to catch in your coat while his other arm flails uselessly into the wall. Your knife finds home once, twice, three times into your enemy’s throat and jugular before he’s able to free his hand and grab yours. The werewolf is able to wrench the knife from your hand by twisting your wrist.

He attempts to say something, but it’s garbled by both his ventilated windpipe and leaking veins, before ceasing his struggle.

Wiktoria falls back, covered in the lycan’s gore, and slumps on the mineshaft wall. “We—” she huffs, breathing roughly, the eye she had to restore is blood-shot, and her skin is even more translucent than normal “—we have to move quickly.” The werewolf writhes on the floor in the middle of the tunnel, regeneration severely hampered.

You understand, and grab the werewolf, now returned to his ‘human’ form, by the back of his head, forcing him to make eye contact with your partner.

“Take us to the strigoi,” Wiktoria’s voice is a hiss. Not an demand or an order, but a thought.

The werewolf just nods, and you help Wiktoria to her feet, before you both follow the limping, bleeding kludde further into the mine.

“The werewolf is far more puissant than I had expected,” Wiktoria ponders, “it has been some time since I encountered one of his kind able to put up such resistance to my powers.”

“He’s the sire of the other kluddes,” you conclude.

Wiktoria nods, “we must dispatch this one as well, depending on the strength of the strigoi, he will be able to break free from my domination, should I require more power against it.”

By now, you’ve reached a chamber at the heart of the mines, reached through an innocuous side passage in a particularly run-down and twisting section of shafts.

With a wave of her hand, Wiktoria makes the kludde stop, just outside of the doors to the chamber. “We’ll have to kill him then, but that’d let the boss know we’re here,” you tell her. And it’s true, you have no way of dispatching the werewolf silently. Even if you decapitate him, you don’t have enough salt to make it stick, and you don’t have nearly enough wolfsbane or a silver sword either. Five silver bullets from your revolver will do the trick (or three from your rifle, but you’d rather have that fully loaded when you fight the strigoi), but shooting off five rounds in a mine is mighty loud.

>Kill the kludde here and now, it will alert the strigoi, and possibly others down in the mine, but you can’t risk him getting out while you fight a vampire as strong as the one who’s running this town.

>Make the kludde go away, he probably won’t be out of the mine by the time Wiktoria’s domination wears off, but you just need him far enough away not to cause problems while you’re still engaged with the strigoi.

>Bring the kludde in as a distraction, exercising such precise control over the werewolf will tax Wiktoria, and probably render her almost completely powerless until she’s able to properly feed again, but it will be both a strong ally in the fight against the strigoi, and will kill two birds with one stone.

>Bring the kludde in, but only long enough to use him as a shield against the strigoi. Either that vampire will kill him or you can shoot him in the back while both are distracted. This will tire Wiktoria out somewhat, but it shouldn’t drain her powers too severely.

>>5357047
>>Bring the kludde in, but only long enough to use him as a shield against the strigoi. Either that vampire will kill him or you can shoot him in the back while both are distracted. This will tire Wiktoria out somewhat, but it shouldn’t drain her powers too severely.
Tough call, but I don't wanna drain Wik before a potentially nasty fight.

>>5357047
>>Bring the kludde in, but only long enough to use him as a shield against the strigoi. Either that vampire will kill him or you can shoot him in the back while both are distracted. This will tire Wiktoria out somewhat, but it shouldn’t drain her powers too severely.

>>5357047
>Kill the kludde here and now, it will alert the strigoi, and possibly others down in the mine, but you can’t risk him getting out while you fight a vampire as strong as the one who’s running this town.
If we don't win quick against the strigoi we're probably boned anyways. Best get this nearest threat out of the way.

>>5357122
>>5357175
Human (werewolf) shield!

>>5357365
Going in fast and loud.

“Let’s send him in ahead of us,” you suggest, “not to fight or nothin’, just to distract the vampire. Either it kills ‘im or I shoot ‘im through the back. Either way you’re not too tired and the boss in there is, sound good?”

“Yes, that is a… sound plan,” Wiktoria seems to have to convince herself, but agrees with you nonetheless. She closes her eyes, extending her hand again, and you, her, and the kludde march into the main chamber.

The floor of the corridor drops out about a foot beyond the doorway, with rickety wooden stairs descending fifteen feet down to the floor of the chamber. The chamber itself is around twenty feet in diameter, with another corridor entering it off to your left, the ceiling around ten feet above your head, and a barred wooden door directly across from where you stand, though on the level of the floor. On the floor itself is a coffin raised off the floor on a mound of dirt, a number of soggy burlap bags, and a number of torches on tall stands that cast the room in gloomy, dancing shadows. Most importantly, the strigoi stands at the head of the coffin, with its back facing you and its hands preoccupied with something you can’t see.

“Joost,” the strigoi’s voice is a low gurgle, fitting its haggard, hunched appearance. “You are here early,” it puts down whatever was in its hands and begins to turn.

“Go,” Wiktoria demands of the kludde, her voice barely a whisper.

The werewolf’s form shifts immediately, hands, head, and torso becoming massive, clothes tearing apart and black fur covering his body in their place. Aside from the extreme proportions and increased size, he sports a secondary pair of small, slender arms, almost like the wings of a bat without the membranes, sprouting from his shoulders. Overall, the kludde is north of eight feet high, massively muscled, completely covered in coarse, pitch black hair, and his eyes are filled with a sinister ruby glow.

The kludde’s growl makes the entire chamber shake, despite its low volume, and he launches himself at the strigoi. The two of them slam into each other to the left of the coffin, the strigoi’s enhanced speed and supernatural strength allowing it to catch the massive werewolf mid-strike.

“Can you shoot through him?” Wiktoria asks, still whispering, though you’re sure the strigoi is aware of your presence at this point.

“Not enough to hurt the vampire,” you let her know the truth, “maybe with a close grouping.”

Your own vampire companion nods, “Fire as many times as you can, I will give you a chance to reload.”

It’s your turn to nod now, and you stand up and aim as carefully as possible at the kludde’s back.

“The power of a pureblood,” you can hear the strigoi grumble over the growling and gnashing of the frenzied werewolf. “You are not in your own—”

Seven reports from your rifle cut the strigoi off, punching through the kludde’s back and obliterating his heart entirely.

At the same time as the werewolf goes down, a tangle of shadowy briars appears between the strigoi’s legs and pierces them, causing his knees to completely explode. It goes down with a scream that cuts right through you, interrupting your reloading and forcing you to slap your hands over your ears.

Wiktoria seems to be immune to the sound, instead it just seems to invigorate her, her face twisting with anger as she fades into and out of shadow to appear next to the floored strigoi and kludde. As you recover, the pureblood’s wrist opens and separates the kludde’s head from his body, resolving him. However, you can see her visibly slowing as you drop onto the chamber’s floor next to her.

“Pureblood. Hunter,” the strigoi says with venom in its deep, garbled voice. “The college, it has found us I see.” It’s already recovered from the injury Wiktoria inflicted, clearly being far fuller than she is.

It lunges for the other vampire, and you intercept it with the butt of your rifle. You swing the barrel around to shoot the strigoi in the gut, taking a strike from its claws on your shoulder to get the opportunity to shoot it in the gut.

While up close and personal with the strigoi, you finally get a good look at it. It’s a couple of inches taller than you are, as bald as the nosferatu it commands, and has a mouth full of bloodsucking fangs. Its face is just as bestial as the nosferatu, with big, black eyes, two holes in its face in place of a nose, completely absent lips that keep its teeth constantly bared, and long, knife-shaped ears. Its body is dark gray, toned, and, unlike the other vampires in this town, actually pretty bulky, with comparatively scrawny, overly long arms tipped with six fingered, clawed hands. You would guess that it’s male, since its bare chest is all hard muscle.

“We will move,” he hisses through the pain, kicking you over the coffin. You quickly recover, standing and squeezing off a couple of rounds off into the vampire’s chest. “With or without the—”

A tangle of thorns bursts through the strigoi’s chest wound, cutting off whatever he was about to say. “You will not,” Wiktoria’s voice, though resolute, is shot through with fatigue. “For your transgression against the law of the Collegium Barathrum, you will be executed here.”

The strigoi howls and leaps onto the ledge around the pit of the chamber, before shooting back at you, claws extended. You catch its hand on your knife, but find yourself bowled over nonetheless.

“Pureblood. Arrogant. You do not know the depths of my crimes.” This time he’s actually able to finish his sentence before you smash your knife into the base of his skull.

The strigoi manages to roll away, blending with the shadows as you and Wiktoria regroup.

“How do we execute ‘im?” You ask your companion, wiping the trickle of blood from the corner of your mouth you only just noticed.

>“Take off the criminal’s head,” Wiktoria states emphatically. She’ll corner him on the upper level with her powers while you maneuver around him and take off his head, at which point she’ll perform the ritual to make the death stick.

>“We will burn it,” Wiktoria says with force and malice. You will distract the strigoi and pin it while your partner lights the mines aflame. It will be tricky timing the escape, but the strigoi will die if you injure it and it is trapped underground in such a blaze.

>“It is simple, we will stake it,” Wiktoria says with a nod. You’ll keep the strigoi busy and chip away at it to give your partner an opening to stab it through the back with a stake you brought. While it is down from being staked, you will stake it an additional three times, to efficiently and permanently kill it.

>>5359456
>>“It is simple, we will stake it,” Wiktoria says with a nod. You’ll keep the strigoi busy and chip away at it to give your partner an opening to stab it through the back with a stake you brought. While it is down from being staked, you will stake it an additional three times, to efficiently and permanently kill it.
I'd 'STAKE' my life on it! Ha ha

>>5359456
>“It is simple, we will stake it,” Wiktoria says with a nod. You’ll keep the strigoi busy and chip away at it to give your partner an opening to stab it through the back with a stake you brought. While it is down from being staked, you will stake it an additional three times, to efficiently and permanently kill it.

>>5359456
>“It is simple, we will stake it,” Wiktoria says with a nod. You’ll keep the strigoi busy and chip away at it to give your partner an opening to stab it through the back with a stake you brought. While it is down from being staked, you will stake it an additional three times, to efficiently and permanently kill it.

Stick to the classics yes?

>>5359471
>>5359618
>>5359841
I need to work on making better choices.

>>5360200
Happens to everybody.

“We will stake it, as is custom,” Wiktoria states with a nod, “you must keep the filthy-blooded thing distracted, and give me the chance to strike it through the heart. Then, we will be able to permanently dispatch of it.”

You grit your teeth, but nonetheless nod in agreement, you’ll have your hands full keeping this thing distracted enough for Wiktoria to be able to sneak up on him again, especially since she’s going to have to get as close as she can, instead of just leveraging her powers against him. Your revolver and knife fill your hands, and you cover your partner with your body.

“You’ll have to be quick,” you let her know, “and sneaky, this one’s got the lay of the land. Not us.”

“I will not disappoint,” the vampire tells you, before your senses tell you she melts back into the shadows.

“Better not,” you let out under your breath.

A shadow passing over the dim light of the torches is all that alerts you to the strigoi’s presence, but it’s enough for you to fire on it. Your revolver is better for tight confines like this, but you’ve only got six shots with it, so you’re sure to be conservative and steady.

This tactic pays off when the vampire lets off an otherworldly screech and comes fully into view, lunging at you with claws and fangs bared. You holster your revolver with a spin, half-cycling it so you can fire as fast as possible without it going off in its holster, then catch the strigoi halfway with your knife. The strigoi’s claws catch on your knife, and you shoulder-check it to block its other hand’s attack. You wrap your right hand behind the vampire’s back and headbutt him, not where his nose would be, since he doesn’t have one, but right on his protruding cheekbone. You can hear and feel the bone snap as you bring your head back, but you don’t linger on it. Instead, you throw your opponent into the wall, letting the back of his head crack off the stone.

The strigoi kicks you in the chest, not even pausing to recover from being thrown into the wall. This time, you brace yourself enough to not be thrown over the coffin in the center of the room, and you slam your knife into its knee, twisting and pulling to cripple it. In response, the strigoi lurches forward at you, and slams his claws into your ribs.

Long and sharp, the strigoi’s claws slice right through your shirt and jacket, and rake a pair of bloody gashes along your ribcage. Right alongside the strigoi now, you draw your revolver and fan three shots into his head.

The three silver bullets fall with thuds into the dirt as the strigoi rapidly heals, he and you stare each other down. Your breathing has become slightly labored, between the hike into the tunnels, the fight with the kludde, and now the fight with the strigoi, along with the cut along the ribs that makes it hurt to breath, and it seems like your opponent is in much better shape. Despite having been stabbed, shot, and assailed with Wiktoria’s blood, the Founder’s healthy diet and his underlings waiting on him hand and foot keeps him functionally immortal.

His supernatural speed, however, isn’t quite enough to close the gap between the two of you before you have your rifle leveled. The sound of the gunshots is deafening in the small chamber, and five big game rounds punch through the strigoi’s left leg and hip, causing him to fall onto his face.

The Founder rolls over, and only begins to rise when Wiktoria drops from seemingly nowhere, stake in hand, and impales him through the chest.

He gasps, and the regeneration of his leg stops immediately, instead the wound begins leaking blood. “No—” another ragged gasp, “pureblood. You know not what you do.”

“I am perfectly aware of what I am doing here,” Wiktoria says, venom in her voice, as she stands and regards the streak of black blood that now adorns her jacket with disgust. “You and this nest of yours have far outgrown what is acceptable under Conciliary Law, and your enslavement of a human settlement is entirely illegal. Should you have any other crimes, you would confess them now.”

“For what reason?” the Founder questions, “My punishment will not change, will it?”

Wiktoria finishes setting up the candles and blade necessary to complete the proper execution ritual for a vampire like this one before she answers him. “No,” you’d like her to explain further, since you’d like to know if anything more is going on in the small mining town, but you don’t know the vampire legal system well enough to entice him into answering further.

Once her preparations of three candles around the strigoi’s head, a blade pointed north on the center of his coffin, and a splash of holy water (which Wiktoria keeps off of her skin) in said box are complete, the pureblood extends a single act of mercy to the other vampire. “If you have any last words, you may say them now. They will be recorded.”

While your partner informs the strigoi of his rights, you hammer two stakes just below his heart, one through the sternum and the other through the left lung. You hold off on the third, allowing the strigoi the right Wiktoria promised.

The strigoi spits a glob of black blood at the pureblood, who steps back to avoid it. “Fiul meu. Traieste liber,” his voice is an even lower grumble than before, and he spits at Wiktoria again, as if to punctuate it. This time, she’s too slow to avoid it, the wad of coagulated blood sticking to her cheek.

“What’s that mean? What he said there, at the end,” you ask Wiktoria with clarification when the ringing in your ears from the strigoi’s death screech stops.

She looks between the pile of dust that was the head vampire and you a couple of times before shrugging. “I do not know, actually,” she admits, shaking her head.

“What’d you mean you don’t know, I heard you speak plenty of French,” you continue.

Wiktoria looks at you like you’ve grown a third head, opening and closing her mouth before she can respond. “That- that was not French,” she corrects, “French is a poetic, diplomatic language, unless it is spoken by a North American furrier. That sounded as if it were,” she ponders another moment, “Romanian perhaps?”

“Don’t lots of vampires speak that? Why don’t you?” You’re aware that a lot of vampire… nobility? You don’t know if they’re actually nobles or just fancy folk, but some of them do use titles, are from

“As I said,” Wiktoria’s eyes narrow, clearly annoyed, “French was long the diplomatic language of Europe, and for as long as I have been involved in Collegium affairs, Hungarian and later German were their lingua franca.” She then adds, with strange smugness, “and the former has fallen completely out of favor in the past forty-five years.”

A strange dragging sound distracts you both as you ascend to the corridor you had entered the chamber from. “Wait a moment, you were correct about something, Bartholomew,” Wiktoria says thoughtfully once you reach the corridor.

“‘S that?” You ask, reloading your revolver and taking point.

“It is just that, what he said, ‘fiul’, it does sound quite a bit like ‘fil’,” she explains. “It’s ‘son’ in French.”

“TATĂ!” A voice like thunder cuts through the mines, accompanied by the sound of wood being smashed to kindling.

Your head snaps to the sound at the same time as Wiktoria’s and you both see a monster step through the smashed doorway. It’s huge, a head and a half taller than the kludde had been and even wider. It has a smushed, bat-like face with big knife shaped ears extending back from its temples, a flat, leaf-shaped nose, and tiny, sunken black eyes that glimmer with malice. “Tată?” It repeats, its massive hands, on the ends of arms which reach past its knees coming to rest on the ground on their knuckles, and sniffing at the pile of dust that was the strigoi. Its entire body is muscle and hair, completely covered in a wiry brown down and only afforded any modesty by a leather loincloth, and now that you can see its mouth, you can tell that it’s full of some of the most wicked fangs you’ve ever seen.

“What in the name of God is that?” You ask as quietly as possible, pulling Wiktoria back away from the chamber on instinct.

“Moroi,” she says, turning to you so you can better read her lips. “Strigoi are one of the few kinds of vampire which can have offspring, fiul means son. But when a pair of strigoi breed, they create a monster. A moroi.”

Something else you have to kill, something that seems a lot bigger, meaner, and pissed off than the strigoi. Great.

>Get the hell out of the mine, let the moroi chase you out. It’s a vampire, it’ll be weakened by the sun, and whatever death you inflict on it in the light of day will be permanent.

>Light the mine and run like it’s judgment day. Should the explosion not kill it, you’ll be able to fight it above ground with the advantage, even without Wiktoria’s powers.

>Use the confines of the mine to your advantage in fighting the monster. It’s big and you’re, well, also big, but you can still move and fight in the confines of the mine, something like it will struggle with that.

>Make for the mine office, it should be connected into the system of shafts, and the interior will provide you with an arena you can move around in while shielded from the sunlight, allowing Wiktoria to support you.

>Write-in.

>>5362295
>Get the hell out of the mine, let the moroi chase you out. It’s a vampire, it’ll be weakened by the sun, and whatever death you inflict on it in the light of day will be permanent.
It's more monster than man, likely not that clever though brutal. It's a risk, sure, since being in sunlight means no Wiktoria buff if I assume correctly, but the other options risk screwing over the town by collapsing the mine, or fighting this thing where it isn't weakened while we've been run down some already. I think it's fair to assume our gun's going to be far more effective in a place where we've put some distance between us and where they're also having to work on their tan.

>>5357122
>Wik
I keep forgetting to say this, but she even though doesn't use her nickname, it's not a shortening of her actual name because Wiktoria isn't a Polish name. The proper nickname would be Zwycie, from the Polish Zygmunt.

>>5362295
>Get the hell out of the mine, let the moroi chase you out. It’s a vampire, it’ll be weakened by the sun, and whatever death you inflict on it in the light of day will be permanent.

>>5362396
Don't tell me what to do, QUESTBOY.

>>5362391
>>5362502
Getting out of the mine.

“We can kill it in the sun,” you say hurriedly to Wiktoria, pulling her back into the corridor. You push the small vampire in front of you, practically starting to carry her, “Hurry up, that thing looks damn fast.”

“I am, I am,” the vampire insists, “just—”

At that point, you actually do start carrying her, manhandling her lithe form with ease and packing her under one arm. With your pistol in one hand, and Wiktoria tucked under the other, you start to truly haul ass.

And none too quick either, since you can hear the moroi scream in the distance, before the sound of its heavy breathing and heavier footsteps fills the tunnels behind you. Your own footsteps still echo louder, but you can hear it gaining on you.

“Can y’slow it down?” You ask Wiktoria, making sure not to squeeze her too hard, “You won’t be able t’use your blood or anything when we get above ground, might as well do it now.”

“I can, but I am already feeling hungry,” Wiktoria tells you. You had feared as much, but there’s still a good chance you run into Mormons, or someone else you have less of an issue with her feeding on, on the road to Montana.

“Go ahead, I can deal with this thing alone in the sunlight,” you say it with conviction, even if you aren’t sure you can do it without making a mess.

Wiktoria seems to consider it briefly, but the sound of the moroi approaching rushes her conclusion. “Fine. I will trust you with this, but I would ask you to be careful.”

“Always am,” you bite back, though it’s not always true.

Your partner concentrates, and you can hear her tear one of her wrists open with her claws before the moroi’s screams turn pained and the sound of its feet beating against the mine’s stone floor grows faint.

Some time and a pair of slain nosferatu later, you emerge from the mineshaft you had entered, into the blinding, late morning sunlight. You quickly shuffle Wiktoria from your shadow into the shade of a particularly large and close boulder, to lessen the effects of the sun on her as much as possible. You’ll have to get her her hat and Sun Cream later, but you’re not going to worry about that now.

Not a moment after you finish stowing away your own vampire companion (though she still peaks around the rock), the moroi bursts from the mine. In the light of the sun at its height, it’s even more offensive to the eye than in the depths of the tunnel.

The instant the light makes contact with it, the skin under its fur scorches, bubbling into weeping boils and lesions. It screams, and you see that the spittle that covers its snaggled, crooked fangs is black and viscous, and that its hands and feet are misshapen and polydactyl.

“UCIGAS!” The moroi howls, apparently quickly stomaching the agony caused by the sun.

You can guess what it means, and you accept it. “Yeah, I murdered your… pa? Do something about it.”

With that, you fill your hand, and the moroi crouches down, growling like a bobcat caught in a wolftrap.

>Just unload into it, twenty-one silver bullets is just about enough to put down anything that doesn’t require a ritual or religious implements to make sure that it’s dead. You might need to cut off its head, but keeping your distance seems like the smart course of action here.

>Offhand your knife to keep it at bay and use your rifle to do the majority of damage. Even in the sun, just cutting it up and shooting it aren’t going to be enough to put it down, but by hurting the hell out of it, you’ll bring it down for long enough you can kill it.

>This thing looks pretty strong, but you’re pretty strong yourself, and you’re no doubt the better fighter. Keep your hands as free as possible by using your revolver and knife on the moroi, grappling it to stay too close for its claws to hurt you and away from its mouth if you can. You’ll hack through its neck while tangled in combat with it.

>>5364199
>>Just unload into it, twenty-one silver bullets is just about enough to put down anything that doesn’t require a ritual or religious implements to make sure that it’s dead. You might need to cut off its head, but keeping your distance seems like the smart course of action here.
Bullets are replaceable, even if they are silver.

>>5364199
>Just unload into it, twenty-one silver bullets is just about enough to put down anything that doesn’t require a ritual or religious implements to make sure that it’s dead. You might need to cut off its head, but keeping your distance seems like the smart course of action here.
We're the rifleman, and this boy's bigger than a beaver at a hundred yards. He just showed up to a gunfight with nothing but his hairy ass.

>>5364199
>Just unload into it, twenty-one silver bullets is just about enough to put down anything that doesn’t require a ritual or religious implements to make sure that it’s dead. You might need to cut off its head, but keeping your distance seems like the smart course of action here.

>>5364199
>>Offhand your knife to keep it at bay and use your rifle to do the majority of damage. Even in the sun, just cutting it up and shooting it aren’t going to be enough to put it down, but by hurting the hell out of it, you’ll bring it down for long enough you can kill it.

>>5364199
>Just unload into it
How much dakka? More!

>>5364333
>>5364744
>>5364914
Just shoot it, you have the bullets for it.

>>5364857
Go for the style points (and maybe save some ammo for sweeping the town, if you have to).

Revolver in your left hand and rifle in your right, you open fire on the moroi. Your rate of fire is somewhat hampered by the nature of the actions of both guns, but there aren’t many ways to make a gun shoot faster, even in these days of the self-contained cartridge.

You’re able to get off six shots in total before the moroi falls upon you, leaking blood and favoring one leg, but still very much alive and very, very angry. It falls upon you, lifting one arm to crush your head and the other to gut you. You kick off the lower hand, saving yourself from either fate at the cost of a bloody gash along your left arm. You’re going to need a new coat after all of this.

You put one into the neck of the hulking vampire at close range, which stuns it and allows you to back off. You empty your revolver into its legs as you continue back into the treeline, freeing one of your hands to allow you to shoot your rifle faster and fend off the moroi more easily when it closes.

The vampire shoulder checks a tree over as it enters the treeline, the trunk slams into the ground where you had been standing a split second before, only barely saved by a well-timed roll. Rising to one knee, you’re able to put two more into the moroi’s upper body, staggering it just long enough for you to get up and retreat further, this time doubling back towards the entrance to the mines.

Once you’re back in the sunlight, a snap-shot is able to cripple one of the vampire’s hands as it charges back at you. Your next shot goes high when the moroi lowers its head and charges you with preternatural speed it had not demonstrated before.

You attempt to move back and away from the monster, but its balled fist catches you in your injured ribs. This not only staggers you, but causes you to spin involuntarily, allowing the moroi to get its teeth around your raised calf, which it tears a chunk from. You manage to grit your teeth and stand, but the wound makes your stance shaky and uneven. Luckily, you can feel that it didn’t do any real damage, but you can also feel the thick, milky poison of the impure vampire beginning to circulate in your bloodstream.

Wiktoria will need to purge that once you’re done, and she’ll insist on healing you as well. Not good.

Your wince turns into a determined grimace as you manage to group several shots into not only the moroi’s head, but also its hips as it also spins to regain its bearings and target you. You’re about to put another shot into its neck to allow yourself to get close and take its head when the monster of a vampire howls.

Or rather, it roars. The low, pained howl turns into a tidal roar, a primal scream, as it rises in volume and bass, shaking the very rocks and trees around you, and causing dust to spew force from the entrance of the mine. You’re forced to clap your hands over your ears, but it appears the application of its powers means the moroi must also stand still. The venom in your leg resonates with the roar, sending shockwaves of pressure and pain through your entire body and nearly forcing you to the ground. At the same time, it’s almost like the light of the sun dims, as if clouds are accumulating over the cliffside clearing to shield the monster from its anathema, to save it from death and allow its other abilities to flourish.

Allowing yourself to glance up, you can see that there is, indeed, a circle of pitch black clouds hanging ominous and low over the clearing.

“Fuck,” the curse slips from your lips as the roar ceases, and the moroi glares at you. Its wounds haven’t healed or even closed, but the boils it rapidly developed have stopped weeping, and its posture is far less pained. As if to punctuate just how awful this development is, the clouds soon open up, letting down a black, tar-like rain.

The moroi once again charges you with enhanced speed, but this time you dodge better, having seen the attack coming. Strangely, despite feeling like it should be tacky, the unnatural rain doesn’t impede you. It also doesn’t seem to be producing miasma which would fill your lungs and drown you on dry land, so that’s nice. You’re able to aim your rifle into the vampire’s elbow, putting a bullet through the joint and visibly rendering it weakened. It still swipes at you with that arm, but the hand barely moves, and you’re easily able to dodge away, firing into its ankle.

Your opponent barks, saying some word in its own language, and the rain around you ceases. In the most literal sense, as the rain halts in midair, with each drop visibly hanging in the air. You swing the barrel of your rifle around, once again taking aim at the monstrous vampire, and all of the fat, viscous drops you hit burst and splatter to the ground as if they were mundane raindrops, even as the rest remain suspended.

You pull the trigger at the same time the moroi barks out another command, but your shot goes wide as the monster dives to the ground, rolling away.

The effects of the moroi’s second command are strange, and you don’t like them at all. The suspended drops of tar coalesce into the rough shapes of bats, two over the shoulders of the hulking vampire, and four more between it and you.

When you raise your rifle at the vampire’s head, one of the bat things drifts towards you. It bursts like a cannon going off, completely throwing your shot off and nearly throwing you off of your feet. You duck the second bat’s explosion and get back on your feet, while managing to squeeze off another shot, but it’s glancing and doesn’t do any real damage.

Luckily, the moroi blotting out the sun works in your favor as well, while the huge vampire is concentrated on you, your own, much smaller, vampire is subverting his powers against him. While the oily bats closer to you still bear down, forcing you to dodge, the two hovering above the moroi’s shoulders have seized up, caught in tangles of blood-red brambles.

You keep moving to keep the moroi’s attention solely on you and the bats in pursuit of you, which forces you to dodge continually. The third bat’s explosion you dodge completely, then bring your rifle up on the recovery. The fourth bat cuts you off from actually firing back, and you’re a fraction of a second too slow dodging that one, the concussion sending you to the ground.

Coming back up onto one knee, you’re just in time to see the moroi’s bats, now controlled by Wiktoria, explode into nails which impale the monstrous vampire through its neck and into its torso.

The moroi falls to its knees with an otherworldly scream. The clouds above the cliffside clearing disperse as well, now that the massive vampire’s concentration is broken. Not without effort, you haul yourself to your feet and approach the moroi. Casting a look towards Wiktoria in an attempt to find out what the legal procedure is here, you find that she’s once again squirreled herself under the boulder, out of sight.

“Any last words?” you ask the moroi, its skin again weeping and its wounds again open.

It mumbles something, in its low, guttural, animal voice, but you’ve got no way of parsing or understanding any of it.

“Fair enough,” you give it, before you plant the heel of a palm firmly on its forehead and bury your knife in its throat.

“You have lost more blood than I am comfortable with,” Wiktoria informs you sometime later, back beyond the reach of the sun, in the mine.

“Doesn’t seem like too much,” you respond. It doesn’t, truly, you feel a little tired, but you aren’t dizzy or anything. Your injuries and the moroi venom feel the worst, along with your aching bicep from having to saw the thing’s head off. “Nothing you should be wasting yours on, at the very least.”

“I must,” the vampire responds, puncturing her thin little wrist with her fangs. Once her blood begins flowing into your wounds, she continues, “Having you in top condition is more useful than myself being half-fed.” It’s a valid point, but you don’t give her the satisfaction of agreeing with her, “being able to travel without fear of attack during daylight is worth a bit of hunger.”

“What about the others?” You ask, referring to the rest of the vampires and werewolves.

“With the collapse of their line of sires, the nosferatu should be dead or scattered, I have little worry regarding them,” she sits next to you, appearing tired and drawn, “I would say the same of the kluddes. The one we encountered was the Prime, so his pack will have scattered, near powerless. It would be folly to chase them, as we would only fall upon one. Most likely they will be killed in the Indian territories, weak werewolves such as them will be slaughtered by the natives strains in this country. The same can be said of the padfoots, even if they should resort to banditry, they will not be a cause for concern.”

“That it then?” You scoot up against the wall and sit next to Wiktoria. Even though you know that as a vampire, she doesn’t get any comfort from body heat, you pull her close to you nonetheless. “We head back to camp, get our stuff together and tell your boss what happened here?”

“I suppose,” the vampire sighs, resting her head against the wall of the tunnel, “we shall rest here until nightfall, if that suits you.”

“Sure,” you agree, stretching your legs.

>Just return to camp and take off, you don’t need the town’s gratitude. Their problem is solved and your job is done, that’s all there is to it.

>Head back into town and inform the townsfolk that they’re free and they should get word out to reopen the mines, after cleaning up and all.

>Head back into town for the night. The inn might be crappy and the houses run-down, but you’ll get some sleep and head out in the morning, maybe you can even get a meal in you.

Less involved vote this time, but I wanted to have it here to both break things up and give you the option with the town. I hope the climax (which was like half the thread) was enjoyable.

>>5367120
>Just return to camp and take off, you don’t need the town’s gratitude. Their problem is solved and your job is done, that’s all there is to it.
Practically speaking, it's to keep from any vengeful sorts finding a trail. Besides, they probably don't have bordeaux or cognac here.
Romantically speaking, isn't it like a white hat desperado (relatively) to ride off without a word?

>>5367120
>>Head back into town and inform the townsfolk that they’re free and they should get word out to reopen the mines, after cleaning up and all.
Figure we owe them a status update.

>>5367120
>Head back into town for the night. The inn might be crappy and the houses run-down, but you’ll get some sleep and head out in the morning, maybe you can even get a meal in you.

>>5367120
>>>Head back into town and inform the townsfolk that they’re free and they should get word out to reopen the mines, after cleaning up and all.
It's ok to have chill votes sometimes OP. Don't be too hard on yourself.

>>5367416
>>5367568
>>5367652
Inform the townsfolk they are free, and you'll be heading on your way. No need to thank you.

>>5367146
You are the Man with No Name. Wiktoria was there too.

I'm not sure when I'll be able to update, the new windows update made it next to impossible to use my PC.

“All good?” You ask Wiktoria with a stretch before you light a cigar. The sun is dipping behind the hills behind your back, and you’re feeling good from the shuteye you were able to get after the long fight.

“Yes, I am fine,” your companion assures you, emerging from the cave behind you. Despite her assurance, you can hear the fatigue in her voice, and you can tell her movements are sluggish.

“Might wanna head to the campsite and get a change of clothes,” you suggest, making sure your smirk is hidden from her. “Grab another jacket for me too, if you don’t mind.”

The redhead nods, accepting the idea. “I shall do that, yes. As fond as I am of this outfit it is thoroughly ruined, and I do not wish to proceed north dressed improperly.”

“And the jacket?” You inhale the tobacco, savoring the taste and retrohaling the smoke into the cool evening air.

“I will retrieve another jacket for you,” Wiktoria responds with an indignant huff. Despite her age, she can be quite the teenager when she’s hungry and fatigued.

Sometime later, you’re sitting in the lobby of Almy’s inn, a number of the townsfolk around you. None of them are in a particularly good state, each one of them is somewhere on their way to being starved, and you’re the only person in the room whose ribs wouldn’t be showing if everyone’s shirt was off. Your hands are filled by bottle you’d gotten all the way back in Farson, and a rather nice cigar someone had handed you from the stash of loot hidden behind the little general store’s counter, and the chair you’d chosen was dusted off the best it could be.

“That’s right,” you tell what must be the fortieth person to ask the question, if that. All-in-all, there are only around forty people left in Almy, probably less. The ever-changing nature of the ‘crowd’ surrounding you has made it impossible to get an accurate headcount, but the population was in even more dire straits than Wiktoria had predicted. “You’re all safe now, we took care of everything,” it was only partially true, a couple of enterprising townsfolk fell upon the padfoot shopkeeper when he attempted to flee, and the innkeeper himself was mysteriously gone. “Now, you might have to be on the lookout for two or three of ‘em comin’ back into town as bandits, but if you get a marshal in here quick enough, you won’t have to worry at all.”

“Surely there’s somethin’ we can do for ya brotha,” the cajun old-timer you had spoken to before, currently acting as something of a spokesman for the town, asks.

You hold up a hand, “Just clean up the mines and get the town back on its feet. Shouldn’t be too hard, none of the tunnels were brought down and nothin’ blew up, to my recollection at least.”

“How’s ‘bout you take dat squirreled away stash d’old shopkeep had? He ain’t gon’ be using it,” you have to concede to the old timer’s point, so you nod.

“That sounds good, my partner should be through with the horses soon, so if someone can throw everything into a bag for me, I’d appreciate it,” with that you stand, and pass your bottle off to the old man. It’s not particularly good, so you’ll gamble that you’ll find something better in the loot. If you don’t, well, maybe a few weeks off of the bottle won’t do you any harm.

“Oh, I couldn’t afta all-”

You cut off his refusal, holding up a hand while tasting deep of the fine cigar you’d been offered. “Then give it to someone else, share it with everyone,” you tell him as a dusty, black haired woman in a sack dress shoves the bag into your hands. You can see that she has a black eye and missing teeth when she smiles at you, and offers her thanks. You tip your hat, and offer yours in return, the bag’s pretty hefty, must’ve been a chore for her to bring it to you.

When you step onto the porch, around ten of the townsfolk follow you, all offering their thanks. The old timer comes out a moment later, hands in his pockets and bottle unseen.

You hold up a hand to halt their advance when you approach Wiktoria, who stands in the middle of the street, leading both of your horses by hand. Even in the low light of the derelict mining town, you can see the bags under her eyes and the delicate way she holds the bridles. The glow of her eyes is even muted, more like embers than the morning stars they more typically shine like. Being bereft of her hat makes it all the more noticeable.

“Look what they gave us,” you show her the sack, drawn shut by a string, “dunno what’s in it yet, but that shopkeep was hiding some swag alright.”

“How generous, we did not even ask for any thanks,” Wiktoria inclines her head to the townsfolk, giving a small smile and nod. At that, she shifts her weary gaze to you. “Shall we go then? I wish to deliver my report within the week.”

“That’s pretty far to go in a week,” you let the vampire know, “even on horseback.” You’d seen where the new Diocese’s (like a church, you wanted to call it a territory or a province, but Wiktoria would correct you whenever you said it) Prelate, Wiktoria’s boss, was headquartered out of, and it was on the northern side of the Flatheads. Way on the north side of Montana, and you’re still in the south side of Wyoming.

“It is possible, and it will make both of us appreciate the amenities Carpathia,” she utters the name of the vampire town with a shudder, disgust creeping its way into her voice, “has to offer.”

You’re not sure you’ll ever get why Europeans are always at each other’s throats for every little thing. Your own grandaddy split a New Brunswicker’s head open during the Aroostook War, and you’ve never met one you didn’t like. People were fighting over that border for near fifty years and nobody has any hard feelings about it. You don’t even know where ‘carpathia’ is on a map, but you know it’s not in Russia. You’d get it if little Polish Wiktoria was mad over her boss being a Russian, but whatever her boss was, you knew it wasn’t that.

That statement seems to bring both you and Wiktoria into the same line of thought though, and you almost regret it when your eyes meet hers. Perhaps there is something the townsfolk can offer you, another imposition you can make on their gratitude.

>They are aware of the nature of their oppressors and likely their saviors as well. Request one or two townsfolk of unsullied blood you can bring along for… your own reasons. Perhaps if there were people who collaborated with the ruffians, or thieves of the limited food and drink the townsfolk had given.

>Request the lowest of the low, to take for your own reasons. Someone that the town won’t miss, or even someone who wishes to give themselves over to this fate. You’ll thank them profusely, but you can tell Wiktoria is already suffering.

>Ask for a blood tax. Draining a person is the only way for a vampire like Wiktoria to truly recover, but she can regain normal strength, vitality, and alertness by drinking some blood. Granted, she will need a good amount, but there are roughly two score townsfolk.

>You saved them, so you won’t ask them to give up one of their own, or any of their blood. You will, however, entreat Wiktoria onto imposing on a military patrol or Mormon missionary expedition. This will add a day or so to your journey, but she will be in a much better state afterwards.

>No, you saved these people. You will not ask for their flesh and blood just to make your journey easier. And Wiktoria has a deadline she wants to meet, you would rather not delay for any reason, even her own sake.

>>5370315

>You saved them, so you won’t ask them to give up one of their own, or any of their blood. You will, however, entreat Wiktoria onto imposing on a military patrol or Mormon missionary expedition. This will add a day or so to your journey, but she will be in a much better state afterwards.

Easier to travel hard on a full uhh stomach.

>>5370315
>They are aware of the nature of their oppressors and likely their saviors as well. Request one or two townsfolk of unsullied blood you can bring along for… your own reasons. Perhaps if there were people who collaborated with the ruffians, or thieves of the limited food and drink the townsfolk had given.

savior tax

>>5370315
>You saved them, so you won’t ask them to give up one of their own, or any of their blood. You will, however, entreat Wiktoria onto imposing on a military patrol or Mormon missionary expedition. This will add a day or so to your journey, but she will be in a much better state afterwards.
Much as I think it'd be fine to take a couple people so nobody gets any idea of thinking they can call for help whenever and expect it, frankly, they're thin on blood already. Meanwhile the wild wilderness is always able to provide.

Besides, if Wiktoria wants McDonalds, wouldn't it be best if she waited until we get to the one with the giga-sized playplace with a ballpit that hasn't been pissed in?

>>5370636
+1

>>5370328
>>5370636
>>5370644
Three-letter agents? Mormons? Those aren't people!

>>5370379
Something something NCR something something PAY TAXES something House always wins.

>>5370328
>support

“At least three days left, and we’ve got just over a day of Sun Cream,” you tell Wiktoria as the sun rises. It’s been three days since you left Almy with its living population intact, and the slight vampire is as tired as she was when you beat the moroi. “I saw the tracks of a wagon a mile or so back, they can’t be too far ahead of us. Based on how heavy it was, I’d wager we’re either lookin’ at missionaries, or the army.”

“Do you mind? Procuring a meal for me, that is. I should be able to accomplish it on my own,” Wiktoria offers.

You shake your head, “Nah, that won’t be necessary, I said I’d help and I will. I might need ya to sell the fact that I need salvation if they’re Mormons though, and maybe as bait for soldiers.”

She nods, affixing her hat atop her head, “I suppose that is the most sensible way of going about it, yes.”

Surprisingly, it takes almost an hour to find the wagon. Observing them from the top of a hill the trail snakes around, it turns out your initial suspicion was correct, the group ahead of you are indeed Mormons. That would also explain the lack of horses, as you can see that there are two men sitting on the front seat of the small covered wagon, and another walking by the side of the pair of horses driving it.

“Do you think that’s it? Just three of them?” You ask Wiktoria. Your senses might be enhanced, even by day, but you aren’t able to glean as much information from the world as your vampire companion is.

“Hm,” Wiktoria ponders for a moment, closing her eyes. A moment later, her eyes open and refocus, and she turns to you. “Yes, it’s just the three of them, they have nothing else besides supplies with them.”

“Let’s gain some ground on them then, make the act convincing,” you suggest, and the vampire agrees.

Sometime later, you’re doing your best to enjoy a hunk of corned beef while shutting out the sound of Wiktoria draining the third Mormon missionary. They weren’t that hard to trick (you just told them your horse had a rock stuck in its foot and that you were interested in salvation), which is part of the reason you don’t feel too bad about leading them into the jaws of death. That, along with the fact you’ve yet to run into one you could like and the fact that the symbols of the cult they all cling so strongly to has no effect on vampires at all.

“Ah, Bartholomew, may I have your assistance?” Wiktoria calls from the off road gully you’d stuck the Mormons’ wagon in.

“Ah, Bartholomew, may I have your assistance?” Wiktoria calls from the off road gully you’d stuck the Mormons’ wagon in.

Finishing off your own meal, you get up and push through the trees to get to your companion. “What’d you need?” The vampire has courteously stacked the two exsanguinated missionaries in a pile alongside some oil-soaked kindling that was formerly their wagon. The third missionary clearly has some blood left, even though he is decidedly dead.

“That one’s still got blood in ‘im,” you point out.

“Yes, I know that,” Wiktoria says with a huff, “but I cannot overfeed.”

“Definitely dead though?” You attempt to confirm.

“Yes, he is most certainly dead,” she proves by shaking the corpse. Said corpse, held firmly by the back of its neck, shakes in a very boneless manner. “But I require your assistance in… disposing of him.”

“I need to chop him up, don’t I?”

The vampire nods, “Yes, then we can burn them together. Should the smoke be spotted, it is likely the Indians will be suspected.”

You just nod, hoisting the missionaries’ splitting ax and getting to work.

On one hand, rain is good luck in that it means you have to be less cautious traveling during the day; on the other hand, it means you have to travel in the rain. It’s been just over three days since Wiktoria’s last meal, and you’re a few hours out from Carpathia in the Montana Territory. The rain has started to come down a bit too hard for travel, so you’ve taken shelter under a huge fallen log, Wiktoria huddled next to you.

“You didn’t forget, didja?” You ask her, something about the silence not quite sitting right with you.

“Of course I did not,” she says with some indignity. Her eyes narrow as she turns to you, her hat sits in her lap on account of your shelter. “But I wonder why you ask me about that now.”

“Just been thinkin,” you sigh, “that was probably our biggest job so far, even with how long we’ve been together.”

Wiktoria is lost in thought for a moment, apparent from her tongue being run along her teeth. “You do have a point, I suppose,” now it’s her turn to sigh, “Though I am in no rush to extend the gift to you. If I am to be frank, in fact,” the vampire glances away from you, “I would prefer it if I were not the one to sire you.”

Now your eyes narrow, and you look down at her, “Why’d that be? I met both of your ‘progeny’ and they both seem fine.”

“They are not like you, Nicholas is…” she seemingly can’t find the right word (or a polite one) to compare you to her first progeny, so she just doesn’t, “and Eloise is far more similar to me than you are. By which I mean no offense.”

“None taken. But what’s your plan? if you’re willin’ to say.”

“I know others, who would be capable of bestowing a more appropriate gift to you,” she then shakes her head, glancing up at you before looking back into the rain. “But I would not extend it yet, not for a few years at least.”

“I figure that part’s up to you, yeah,” you take your own hat off, staring off into the rain with her.

It doesn’t take long for the rain to lighten up and allow you on your way.

Carpathia is more a collection of buildings than a town. It sits at the base of a formidable foothill of the Lewis and Clark range, the outward-facing side is surrounded by a stockade wall, which has a single gate allowing entry and exit onto the thin trail leading south. The trail turns into a proper dirt road in town, leading to a handful of warehouses at the north end of town, stables, bunkhouses, and what seems to be a general store to the east, and an opulent three-story house behind its own wall to the west. After handing your horses off to a corpse-pale attendant who’s made a concerted effort to cover all of his skin, you and Wiktoria head into the manor house.

“Ah, Countess Ostorog Rydz-Nowici,” Wiktoria’s colleague pounces on her as you enter the second-floor drawing room. “It is illuminating to once again be in your presence, the Indian Territories are so dreary, and the Diocesan Court at Salt Lake so stuffy,” he comments, before kissing her hand twice and letting her go with a bow. “It is nice to see you as well, familiar,” he says with another bow to you, though he only dips his head.

Wiktoria’s colleague is a thin, black haired man of average height, as pale as all vampires with a pair of eyes the color of ice set in his face. He keeps himself well-groomed, even by vampire standards, his hair slicked back save for a meticulously-curled curl hanging over his face, plucked eyebrows, voluminous eyelashes, and color on his lips. Completing the dandy image are his delicate hands, which look as though they’ve never seen work despite the sword at his waist. You thought the sword was just a rapier the first time you saw him, like those you’d seen the other dandies duel with, but it’s some kind of fancy eastern saber from Japan. You only know Japan is one of those islands next to China, but this guy is practically obsessed with the place.

He is Gage Marlow-Kemble, Conspector of the Fourth Rank for the Indian Territories, and some kind of English nobleman. Not that you care to remember the exact title.

Wiktoria, for the sake of comparison is Diocesan Conspecta of the Third Rank at Large, giving her jurisdiction over areas of the Diocese not formally included in the constituent Vicariates and Deaconates. Which is quite a lot of territory is such a recently-created administrative division.

“Marlow, you can just call me by my first name. Or if that is too familiar to you, Rydz or Rydz-Nowici will do,” her eyes and mouths are set in hard lines, clearly displeased to see the other vampire. “What keeps you from delivering your report?” She quickly moves on, “I was not under the impression anyone else would be here, not even you.”

“My duties took less time than I expected,” he provides, removing his sword to sit in one of the luxuriously padded chairs. “As for why I am kept waiting, some incident occurred in Louisiana no more than a week ago, the messenger is up there with the prelate now.”

“Incident?” Wiktoria shakes her head, “Whatever it might have been aside, I must suspect that means her mood will not be a receptive one after their business is concluded.”

“No it will not,” Gage confirms, “which is a shame that your own, higher-priority assignment will mean that you see her first.” Wiktoria fixes him with a withering glare, so he amends the statement, “They will be a while though, as far as I can tell the messenger only just arrived. Two of the others are downstairs, the servants were given permission to give us food and drink, if that suits you.”

>Wiktoria decides that you will wait right here. You are, after all, the highest priority here. You’ll both do your best to ignore Gage, though it’s a hard task. He is quite persistent.

>Wiktoria takes you downstairs to meet with the Diocese’s other officials. You’d already met some of them, back when she was based out of St. Louis, and on other occasions, but they weren’t the type of vampires to gather often.

>Wiktoria decides to speak with her colleagues, while you decide to head outside and make sure everything is being resupplied right, and maybe you’ll get in some shooting practice to cool off too. Maybe you’ll even find another familiar away from their partner, though for some reason you doubt it.

>>5374487
>Wiktoria takes you downstairs to meet with the Diocese’s other officials. You’d already met some of them, back when she was based out of St. Louis, and on other occasions, but they weren’t the type of vampires to gather often.

>>5374487
>Wiktoria takes you downstairs to meet with the Diocese’s other officials. You’d already met some of them, back when she was based out of St. Louis, and on other occasions, but they weren’t the type of vampires to gather often.

>>5374486
Gomenasai, my name is Gage-sama. I'm a 270 year old English Otaku (Anime fan for you gaijins). I draw calligraphy on my tablet, and spend my days perfecting my art and playing superior Japanese games. (Go, Shogi, Oichu-Kabu). I train with my Katana every day, this superior weapon can cut clean through steel because it is folded over a thousand times, and is vastly superior to any other weapon on earth. I earned my sword license fifty years ago, and I have been getting better every day.

>Wiktoria decides to speak with her colleagues, while you decide to head outside and make sure everything is being resupplied right, and maybe you’ll get in some shooting practice to cool off too. Maybe you’ll even find another familiar away from their partner, though for some reason you doubt it.

>>5374487
>Wiktoria takes you downstairs to meet with the Diocese’s other officials. You’d already met some of them, back when she was based out of St. Louis, and on other occasions, but they weren’t the type of vampires to gather often.

>>5374487
>Wiktoria decides to speak with her colleagues, while you decide to head outside and make sure everything is being resupplied right, and maybe you’ll get in some shooting practice to cool off too. Maybe you’ll even find another familiar away from their partner, though for some reason you doubt it.

>>5374537
>>5374561
>>5374659
Take the opportunity to network, it's been hard working from home (on the road) these past couple years.

>>5375940
>>5374579
Go out and get some alone time.

The Louisiana Incident:

June 3rd, 1884
Lafourche Parish, Louisiana

"You're in the wrong neighborhood bud, we don't want you or your God, we got our own faith already," a brutish, dark vampire standing guard at the door of a mansion utterly out of place in the middle of an inaccessible swamp growled at an intruder.

The intruder, who so far had only tipped his hat and inquired as to whether or not the lady of the house was in, looked up at the six and a half foot vampire with an innocent look. All-in-all, he was very much an innocent looking man, height just below average and sandy blond hair which, along with his baby-blue eyes, and his choice of a navy-blue suit with a wide-brimmed and shallow-capped hat and, most of all, a clerical collar peeking through the gap in his suit collar, marked him as something of a choir boy. “My friend, I was just asking a simple question, I truly don’t have anything to sell you,” his quiet, level tone presented no malice, “I just wish to be provided an answer is all.”

“Fuck you, how’s that for an answer?” The bloodsucker spat back. He’d kill this guy, but he was sure he smelled a witness, out there in the swamp.

“It’s simple,” the innocent man flashed an innocent smile, “yes or no.”

“Here’s simple for you,” the vampire threw caution to the wind, leaning in and baring his fangs in the man’s face, “you’re going to die, you fu—”

“I think,” the innocent man’s hand speared into the vampire’s mouth, shattering his teeth as it passed into his throat, “that you’ve informed me as well as you could hope to.”

A small, slimy thing that could have, perhaps, been called a man in life, wrung its hands nervously. The brick wall of a woman behind the desk he was nervously pacing in front of slammed her hand onto the mahogany, causing him to flinch. The man-turned-wretch licked his lips, thrice as nervous as before, and began. “Mistress, please, I humbly ask you to remain patient, there is no reason to think any misfortune befell Guillaume, he is merely enjoying the merriment of the French Quarter, I am sure. He is with his people.”

“His people, his people!” The woman- vampire -behind the desk, sitting completely upright on a chaise meant to be lounged upon spat at him, slamming her hand hard enough on the desk to crack it. “WE are his people, and I—” she threw a paperweight at the wretch, who took the punishment with a whimper, “—AM HIS MISTRESS! Do you understand me?” Instead of a verbal response, the wretch’s only response was bowing and scraping. “I know you do, dear, raise your head,” she finished the goblet of thick, red liquid and dashed it on the floor, “but I am upset. And understandably so, no?”

“Yes mistress, it is quite perplexing, even for one of your standing,” the wretch answered, nodding enthusiastically.

Part 1/3 tonight, Part 1/? overall

“Yes, yes indeed my servant,” hauling herself up, the woman made her scale known. Honey-haired and pale-skinned, she was draped in a dress of pure luxury, heavy layers of velvet and satin and lace looping and chasing and overlapping one another and betraying her resistance to the heat of the bayou. Standing easily above two yards, her breasts were large even for her frame, which was well filled-out otherwise, though her piercing red eyes, possessing pupils like those of a snake, would have been a turn-off for any polite company she would have encountered in the society of the living. “Guillaume is a reliable, trustworthy servant, one of my own blood. Yet he has made no attempt at contacting me, yet I cannot feel his death. It is strange, strange as anything.”

“Perhaps, Mistress Isidora, he has been found out,” the wretch responded, more confident in his interaction than before.

“What a fool you are!” This time, the aim of her thrown object was to injure. And it did, splitting the wretch’s scalp with contemptuous ease.

Before the wretch could offer his supplication, an entire tree found itself propelled through the window on the south-facing side of the office, the side that faced the front of the building. The log, freshly felled and still very green, was launched, splinter end first, as if it had been fired out of a cannon from very close range, and it crushed the wretch into a fine paste. The mansion's sturdy, brick construction saved it from being totally brought down by this assault, instead the tree merely lodged itself into the exterior wall and through the floor of the vampire’s office. Isidora, mistress of this slice of swamp, barely paused before erupting with anger.

“Who dares? I am entitled to a trial before the Collegium! What low-life, despicable—”

The last bit of the window was shattered, blown out by the arrival of the man who had so gently interrogated the man standing guard at her door only moments before. His suit remained immaculate, despite his journey through the window. That was, aside from his left sleeve being covered in blood and gore, clearly not blood and gore from him, as his body was completely fine, and he stood with no difficulty at all.

“Madame, I assure you, you are entitled to no such trial under the Rota,” the innocent man tipped his hat, before setting it down on an end table next to the window which had managed to remain upright.

The vampire scowled, drawing herself up to a greater height and girth, garments straining under her new scale. Her expression turned into a deep growl, and she demanded to know who the new arrival was. “How dare you, creature! What gives you the right? Who do YOU claim to be? And how do you expect to leave her alive?”

“The Lord gives me the right, dear monster,” the innocent man brushed broken glass from his shoulder, “I claim to be Sebastian, and I come from Rome. It is a pleasure, though I suspect you will soon regret our meeting.”

“Sebastian of Rome, you don’t smell like one of the night,” Mistress Isidora’s teeth sharpened to points as she eyed the smaller man with an unnatural hunger, “and you did not say how you think you will leave here alive.”

Sebastian ‘of Rome’ allowed himself a chuckle. “I do appreciate that, as I am not of the night,” he ducked under the tree which separated the two of them, a large bough snapping as he walked into it, “as my partner is making short work of your hive as we speak.”

Part 3/3 tonight, 3/? Overall

OP?

“I’ll make short work of you!” The vampire matron shrieked, and her lower arm shot across the room like a boneless snake. The hyperextended appendage wrapped around the man’s throat, massive mitt encircling his entire neck, and the matron flexed in an attempt to crush it.

“I see you don’t want to talk,” Sebastian stated plainly, as he continued to walk forward as if nothing was wrong. The arm picked up more and more slack, so the vampire retracted it. At this, the priestly man let himself be carried into the vampire’s embrace, where he was quickly slashed across the eyes. Isidora hissed in pain, retracting her hand halfway through the slash.

Her eyes went wide when she saw the blood was streaming from her nailbeds and not the tips of her claws. “Wha- What is this? Who in the world are you?”

“I told you, madam. They call me Sebastian, and I come here from Rome, under the authority of the Rota Egregia,” with some effort, he twisted her hand off of his neck. “But you may as well consider me as your executioner.”

“Boy, you—” the vampire snarled, facial features sharpening into something even more bestial “—you have only executed yourself by coming here tonight!” She bore her claws again, towering over the still-calm visitor.

Before she could strike him again, a whirlwind of destruction plowed through the office’s mahogany doors. At the forefront of this wave was a mountain of a man, perhaps even bigger than the vampiress his partner was facing, as impeccably dressed as the other; though his suit was covered in gore and debris, and his hair and beard long and wild. This new, suited man bull-rushed across the room, delivering a haymaker to the vampire’s solar plexus so hard that she was propelled through both the tree which had been launched into the room and the window behind it.

“That’s her, right?” The big man asked, cracking his neck and knuckles, before taking a moment to catch his breath.

“That she is Samson, that she is,” his partner confirmed with a nod and a small smile, before turning, picking up his hat, and dropping from the third story window.

A moment later, the other man joined him on the ground with a tremendous crash. “I sent her pretty far, huh?”

“I can’t see her,” Sebastian replied, squinting and shielding his eyes, “she did go quite far.”

“Jump,” the bigger man said, and the other complied, hopping into the air and tucking his knees to his chest. Like a barman ejecting a drunk, he hauled his partner up by the back of the neck and waistband, and threw him with fantastic force.

“Rota… Rota…” Isidora pondered what she had heard the smaller man say before she had been rudely ejected from her own office, after her home had been even more rudely torn apart. It took a few moments, but she remembered where she had heard of the organization. It had been a couple of decades ago, right after the Civil War at a gala in Bossier City, one of the Vicars had been telling a story about how several cadres in his jurisdiction had been utterly wiped out by some fraternal order whose authority came down from the Vatican. Now that she had heard it, she remembered that the name of that group was definitely the Rota Egregia. “Damn it, I’ll have to kill those two and abandon everything I built. Might even have to flee the country.”

The vampire exhaled and let her full powers out, the seams of her clothes splitting as she got even taller and broader, her skin growing thicker and teeth and claws extending and sharpening. Her now even more heightened senses alerted her to the fact that the first of the men who had ruined her life was careening through the air on a near-collision course with where she was. Quickly, the snapping of branches entered the range of human hearing, and the man-sized projectile soared over the vampiress’ head, splashing down nearby.

However, the vampire mistress turned the other way, and stalked back towards her home, taking care not to make noise. She had yet to figure out how to harm the first man after all, and wasn’t sure she could hurt him just by hitting harder, so she decided to approach his partner first. Said partner she could hear barrelling through the underbrush, knocking trees down in his path as he ran in her direction.

After only a few minutes of carefully trudging through the swamp, Isidora put her shoulder down and charged, moving to intercept Samson’s path.

The two juggernauts met in the middle of a damp clearing, ankle deep in swamp water and muck. To the vampire’s chagrin, the huge but seemingly normal man caught her punch with contemptuous ease and wound up a massive counter. The man’s ham-sized fist buried itself in her abdomen, and before he could launch her into the air again, he brought his other fist down with enough force to create a crater in the ground when she landed.

“Come back for more punishment? I like that,” the wild-haired man responded with a wild grin, “it’s just so boring—” when she stood by levitating, he sent a right hook into her jaw, shattering it, and kicked her through a nearby tree “—when they run away!”

The formerly composed vampire matron snarled, and her arms extended again, sweeping through the wet clearing at the well-muscled man. The target simply pivoted in place, wrapped his arms around the extended limbs, and spun.

With the torque of Samson's massive core strength and his not-inconsiderable mass behind the throw, he was able to pick his enemy off the ground completely, spin her in a complete circle, and toss her back towards where his partner was.

“The disrespect,” the vampire hissed as she stood, observing the path of destruction her body had carved in freefall, “I need to deal with them quickly, I feel hunger coming on.” Despite her being well-fed and previously rested, these two had been hurting her constantly, and lifting her Mien was taxing on her in the best of circumstances.

“I’m glad we agree that we must finish this quickly, madam,” Sebastian said calmly, stepping out from the undergrowth behind her.

Isidora’s only response was to tear across the swamp with supernatural speed and grab the innocent-looking man by the arms. “I’ve had enough of this, if you die your friend will surely retreat, and you look like just enough blood for me to get over the border.” With that, she sank her teeth into the smaller man’s neck.

Or, she would have sunk her teeth into Sebastian’s neck, had her fangs not broken or bent themselves out of her gums at the attempt. She whipped her head back, howling with her own blood, not her intended prey’s, streaming down her chin.

“Apologies, madam,” the man extracted himself from her grasp with surprising gentleness and stepped back. “But there’s no way I’ll die. In fact, you can’t even harm me.” The vampire fixed him with a shocked look, the men had clearly traveled by day and did not smell of Sun Cream, nor did they have any of the visual or scent cues vampires normally had. They did not even have the supposed scent of daywalkers, as shocking as the appearance of a pair of daywalkers traveling together would be. “Oh, don’t give me that look,” Sebastian chided, before socking her across the face with a hook right. “Mine is a blessing from above, not a curse as yours is.” He backhanded her with even more force than his previous punch, before pulling a rosary from one of his pockets.

With the beads and crucifix bared at her, the vampire shrunk back, but quickly regained her composure. “That may pain me, but you are a fool if you think it will stop me,” she hissed.

“It will not,” Sebastian answered wearily, “but that will.”

It so happened that ‘that’ was a forty foot long, three foot wide log with a hastily sharpened point traveling through the fetid swamp air at a not-insignificant fraction of the speed of sound.

Isidora’s eyes widened at seeing this, but at the moment she stepped out of the log’s way to flee, the cold polished wood of Sebastian’s rosary made contact with the back of her neck. The sudden contact of the holy implement was enough to freeze the vampire in place, making her gasp and arch her back.

When the oversized stake collided with the vampire’s chest, her body collapsed into it, folding her forward and causing even more of her dark blood to pour from her mouth. “Damn,” she coughed through the blood, before slumping, silently, for the final time.

Sebastian deftly recited an Our Father and an Apostle’s Creed before producing a handsaw and cutting through the vampire’s neck with little effort.

“Quite the stake, eh?” His partner chuckled as he pushed his way through the trees, “I think it’s appropriate, she was living pretty large after all. Everything else all set?”

“It is,” the shorter man said with a nod, before going to place his rosary back into his breast pocket, before discovering it had been torn away thanks to him being directly behind his opponent when she was impaled. “But it appears you owe me for tailoring.”

“Ah, no big deal!” The larger man said with a belly laugh, “we can go down to the Old Square and get new suits from the finest tailor with this payout.”

“That’s true,” his partner conceded with a nod and a small smile, “I trust you have the carpet bag, for the head?”

“I guess we have to go back to the mansion before we head north,” Samson answered, kicking himself.

Sebastian shook his head forgivingly, “That’s alright, I’d like to see if everything burned down with my own eyes.”

Aside from an addendum noting that the misplaced mansion had indeed burned to the ground, that was the end of the report delivered to the Rota Egregia. Naturally, the reports which trickled to the Collegium Barathrum contained far less information, mentioning only the utter slaughter of an entire community of vampires in what was once a stronghold in North America, the fact that there were only two attackers, and another, vague as always, mention of the mysterious Rota.

Wiktoria takes the lead in leaving Marlow to his own devices, heading downstairs with you in tow. “I swear,” the redhead began with a glance up the stairs as she turned to pass them. “That man just has no decorum whatsoever.”

“You have to give him credit,” you make sure to keep your voice low, matching hers in volume, “that lack of decora just made him warn us your boss’d be in a mood.”

“True,” Wiktoria acknowledges, though she doesn’t sound too happy about it, “though he could have gone about it in another way.” The halls on either side of the stairs to the second floor lead into another hallway that runs the length of the house, perpendicular to the entryway and stairs, the two innermost doors lead into the lavish dining room, though those two doors are further apart than the ones which lead into the back hallway. Naturally, you stay in front of the vampire and open the next door for her as well.

The dining room which lies at the back of the house takes up almost half the building’s width, and is as extravagant as expected of the home of one of the higher-ups of vampire society. The far wall has windows running along its entire length, which would show an excellent view of the mountains in the distance had they not all been thoroughly covered by meticulously sashed cardinal purple drapes. To make up for the darkness, the room is dimly lit by wrought sconces and chandeliers covered in glit. A fireplace sits at either end of the room, both are unlit, though you can still make out that one’s mantel is occupied by a shield over crossed swords, and the other by a shield over crossed rifles. The centerpiece of the room is the massive, ornate table, its legs carved to look like beast’s paws, made of some kind of almost-violet wood. The table is covered in a woven tablecloth, colorful and ornate; it’s almost certainly older than you are, and more well traveled. In total, there are only ten chairs set up around the table, all of them well-cushioned and high-backed, made of the same wood as the table. Only three of them are filled, while another occupant of the room is standing. There are others in the room, but a glance tells you that they’re merely ghoul servants waiting to be called over to clear something from the table or bring more of something.

The actual food on the table actually looks appetizing, to your surprise. Usually vampires have forgotten how to eat like people or have tastes that are way too extravagant for just about anybody else. But no, there are racks of ribs, steaks of beef (at least it looks like beef) and pork, and soups that look appetizing despite appearing too rich for the summer. There are also salads, other greenery, and a bunch of weird stuff you’re sure appeals more to Wiktoria than you.

The other occupants of the dining room, who all looked up at you when you entered, are concentrated around one end of the table, chatting and eating at a leisurely pace. At a glance, you can tell they’re both vampire-familiar pairs, though neither resembles your and Wiktoria’s dynamic.

“Ah, Wiktoria Rydz-Nowici, please, join us!” The most nondescript of the group calls Wiktoria over with a wave. He’s just above average height, with a slim build and (naturally) pale skin, his black hair has grayed around the temples, and he wears small, round spectacles on the end of his smallish nose. He’s dressed in a smart, sheening, double-breasted suit of dark green, and sits at next to the head of the table with a pipe balanced between the fingers of his left hand. He would almost pass for a New York stockbroker, even with his slightly-pointed ears, if his eyes weren’t ringed green and gold, bereft of pupils.

“Matthias zu Jugel, I’m surprised to see you here,” Wiktoria greets back, sitting two seats over from the other vampire, his familiar between them.

Said familiar is the most well-dressed present, despite Wiktoria’s efforts. While your partner is in a short, light orange peacoat over a slim, darker orange dress, both with fine trim and finer buttons; the human woman is in a voluminous dark green dress with a lighter blue jacket over it, all topped with flashy jewelery and gold buttons, not to mention the makeup. All that aside, she is an attractive woman, a pretty face with heavily-lidded dark blue eyes and wavy black hair held up loosely, pale but not pallid skin, and delicate hands. You share a nod with her when you go to stand next to Wiktoria’s seat.

“As I said, I did not expect to see the the Diocesan Treasurer away from Court,” Wiktoria says to the other vampire, taking a piece of bread and splitting some off for you. “Do you have urgent business to attend to? I would give my appoint to you, if you need it.”

Matthias shakes his head, and takes a sip of his wine. “No, we are merely here to deliver a report to Prelate Szentgyorgyi-Dercsika es Bos, and deliver an emolument to her. Normally, it would be a job for my familiar alone, but Melissa insisted on dragging me along, claimed it was ‘too dangerous’.”

“It is too dangerous! You can’t send a woman with a chest full of cash through the wilderness between Utah and Montana all alone,” the familiar, Melissa, pipes up.

“Please, I could’ve sent you from Vienna to Paris with twice that amount, it is not my fault Americans are predisposed to violence,” Matthias finishes his glass of wine and pours himself a second. You can see Wiktoria deflate at the sight of the label, it’s Italian. “She does have French in the cellars, have a bottle brought up for yourself.”

Wiktoria lights up at that, and snaps twice at the ghouls in the corner, who shuffle off into one of the doors off to the side of the dining room.

“You have to understand, zu Jugel, America is not like Europe. This is a frontier,” the last vampire is standing as you are, his familiar sitting in the seat across from Melissa. He’s an absolute unit, 6’8 if you had to guess and wider than you are, you’d bet the man could’ve looked the Moroi in the eye and torn its arms off. He has thick neck and a wide face, though his blond hair is cut in such a way as to distract from his scale, like the others, he’s well-dressed, though his ruffled dress shirt is uncovered, and the cuffs of his pants are tucked into his boots. “Sending your familiar across rough country like this, especially one as fragile as ours—” he indicates his familiar, the youngest person in the room (though she’s physically older than Wiktoria) “—is quite cruel.”

“It is Melissa’s intent, and my own, that she be be given the gift soon. I thought that it would make a good test, though perhaps you are right, Isaac” the treasurer inclines his head.

“Do you intend to turn her yourself?” The larger vampire, Isaac’s companion speaks for the first time. She’s a slight woman, and you wouldn’t say she’s any older than her early twenties. Her outfit is also less expensive than either your partner’s, the Matthias-Melissa pair, or her own partner’s; consisting of a sturdy blue-gray jacket underneath a canvas smock, and a pair of loose pants matching her top. “I only ask, as I know some familiars do not make a good match their vampire’s strain.”

“I do, Melissa and I are quite compatible,” the treasurer confirms, while Wiktoria’s eyes widen at the sight of a good bottle of French wine. “I trust that is not Isaac’s plan for you?”

“It is not,” the taller vampire confirms, answering for his familiar. “Rose has a soft heart, and a softer touch. My blood has no part in her eternal life, save what she keeps me from spilling.”

The familiar blushes, but does nod, “You’re one to call me a softy, talking like that.”

“What of you, Wiktoria?” Isaac turns to your partner, who has greedily sipped of her glass, and is now pouring another.

‘Yes,’ you wonder internally, ‘what of her?’

“I find myself and Bartholomew compliment each other quite well, and he has a talent for what my assignments often require,” she praises, while taking a sip. “As such, I think it would not be for the best, were I to give him the gift.”

“Do you have anyone in mind? Perhaps a recommendation, I do not have anyone for Rose,” Isaac says, though Wiktoria holds up a hand.

“I will give you a recommendation later, perhaps we can talk in private, it would be more appropriate,” the much smaller vampire suggests, and the much larger one assents with a nod. “As for who I would ask, yes, I do know who it would be, though I do not think I will make the request for another three years, at the least.”

Matthias looks like he’s about to say something, but pushing further may be seen as a social faux pas, especially from an uninvolved party.

>Push Wiktoria farther, ask who she would have turn you, if not her. She does make a good point of the two of you complimenting each other, how her powers may not fit you as well as another’s might.

>Ask Matthias and Isaac about their abilities, perhaps Wiktoria is referring to one of them, if their powers make a better fit for you? The larger vampire certainly seems like a better fit for you than your own partner might be.

>Don’t push Wiktoria, she’ll tell you her plans when she’s ready. As much as it grates on you how much secrecy she has with those plans, especially from you.

>Leave the vampires to their own conversation, talk to their familiars some more, you must have had some similar experiences, and you rarely get the chance to speak to one another so freely. (What do you talk about? Write-in.)

>Write-in.

>>5383237
>Leave the vampires to their own conversation, talk to their familiars some more, you must have had some similar experiences, and you rarely get the chance to speak to one another so freely. (What do you talk about? Write-in.)

Swap stories, rumors and close calls, where they've been and if permitted where they're headed.

Rather quickly, the three vampires become enmeshed in their own conversation, separate from their familiars. Both you and Melissa move around the table to take seats next to Rose, picking plates for yourself as you go.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” the bustier woman presents a hand, presumably for you to kiss, though you just look in her eyes and give it a shake. Awkwardly, she withdraws the limb, though the other girl laughs at the interaction. “Either way, the name’s Melissa Frémont, no relation. I am a secretary for the Diocesan Treasurer, as you know.”

“Bartholomew Sinclair, I’m a type of lawman, along with Wiktoria, been all over the West at this point,” you introduce yourself.

“Rose Maddigan,” the third familiar introduces herself with a bow of her head. Her soft blonde hair bounces as she does so, still wavy despite being held in a pair of ponytails, and her light green eyes, set in a pale, freckled face, soon rise to meet yours. “Isaac Moorehead is my partner, he’s a Bellator for the Primate, so we’ve traveled quite a lot as well.”

You’re surprised that a Primature-level official is here, as Wiktoria has told you how few and far between they are, considering the small sizes of the upper strata of vampire society. Granted, ‘Bellator’ is just a fancy word for soldier, so Isaac likely fills a similar purpose to Wiktoria, just with less investigation and more autonomy. The Primate is somewhere on the East Coast though, so it’s interesting one of their men would be all the way out here.

“We’re not both fighters, not like you two seem to be,” Rose continues, “I’m more of a nurse, actually.”

“Yeah, I tend to do a lot of the heavy liftin,” you confirm. “Wiktoria can handle herself pretty well in a fight, but she does like to hang back more. Fits her style better, I’m handy with a knife and especially a gun.”

Both women nod, though Melissa seems somewhat uncomfortable with this line of conversation. “Whereabouts are you headed after this?” She asks both Rose and yourself.

“Don’t know yet,” you inform her, “we’re actually here to see the Prelate, probably get our next assignment from ‘er.”

“Isaac and I are headed north, into Canada,” Rose tells you, her cheery tone faltering. “Somewhere up in the Northwest Territory, there’s been a lot of werewolf activity there, from the natives. Isaac says his orders are to remind them of the Compact.”

You nod, it makes sense they would stop in Carpathia on their way north, it’s probably the last bit of vampire civilization this far north and west.

“What about you, Melissa?” You turn the question back on the other familiar, considering she’s the only one who has what must be an office job.

“We’re returning to Salt Lake City,” she confirms your suspicions. “Then I will likely be traveling to California with a lower-ranked Conspector to collect for the Treasury.”

“You said you’d traveled a lot, Rose, any interesting stories you can share?” You prod the younger familiar.

“Ah, I’m not sure, honestly,” the blush turns her freckles even redder. “A lot of what we do is classified, at least, that’s what I’m told.”

You’d share some of your own war stories, but it doesn’t appear as if either of the ladies is interested.

Almost an hour of not much more than small talk later, Marlow enters the dining room, his eyes instantly focusing on Wiktoria. “You’d better go up,” he advises, “she just threw out the courier.”

The Prelate’s office and chambers occupy the entirety of the third floor, with only a small antechamber at the top of the staircase reserved for guests. Even though you’re expected, and there is nobody currently with the prelate, the heavy double doors to her office remain closed. After a minute or two of waiting, Wiktoria sucks in a deep breath and uses the heavy brass knocker to bang on the door thrice.

“Come in,” the soft voice of a young ghoul calls out, and you push open the door for your partner.

The office is huge, lavishly decorated with a rich old world carpet covering the floor, and old paintings of people you could’ve even begin to identify adorning the walls. The ceiling and walls are both covered in carved wooden paneling, and a suit of armor stands on either side of the giant mahogany desk against the back wall. The back wall, which is directly above that of the kitchen, features a window which takes up most of the wall. This window, strangely, is uncovered by drapes, those having been pulled back and sashed in such a way to hold them open. The sunlight streaming in doesn’t reach all the way to the doorway thanks to the angle of the sun, but it does reach almost halfway across the room, well past the pair of chairs which face the desk.

Behind the desk, utterly contrasted by the scale of her office, is the Prelate. Seemingly immune to the deleterious effects of the sun, she practically basks in it, though it’s stripped off the veneer of humanity she could usually project.

“Viscountess Cecília Sarolta Szentgyorgyi-Dercsika es Bos, Prelate of the Trans-Mississippi Diocese,” Wiktoria announces her boss, and you both bow to her. “My assignment has been completed.”

“Conspecta Wiktoria Ostorog Rydz-Nowici, have a seat,” Cecília extends a pallid hand, indicating the chairs on the other side of her desk. The Prelate would almost be a comedic sight, if she didn’t radiate malevolent power. Physically, she’s even younger than Wiktoria, slightness in her figure and limbs evident even under her dark canvas jacket and velvet dress. Her skin is paper white, though devoid of any vascularity, presenting a completely uniform color across her arms and face. Her fingernails are more normal than Wiktoria’s though still sharp, and painted in gold. Her features are delicate, but not gaunt, with a small nose and thin upper lip, with both her lips being slightly greyer than her skin, with almost a blue tint to them. Her long, straight platinum hair hangs almost to the floor, brushed over one of the arms of her high-backed, carved and cushioned chair. The most striking thing about the Prelate are her eyes, the irises, which seemingly take up too much space in her already big eyes, are the color and texture of molten gold, and you’re sure that while she’s looking at you you can see that molten gold flowing, her pupils are no less strange, being small, amorphous red dots in the middle of the pools of molten gold. “Come, tell me of your assignment, I wish to hear the specifics.”

Wiktoria eyes the seats, completely bathed in sunlight, warily, not yet moving.

This reaction makes her boss scoff, “Just sitting there and talking will not exhaust you, nor will it starve you.” She puts force behind her next request, something like a hiss underlying her tone, “Come. Sit.”

You both do, and as you do so, another ghoul servant comes forward and pours a glass of white wine from a strange looking bottle for each of you. “Have a drink as well,” the Prelate offers, and the servant slides them across the desk. Wiktoria looks at hers with a sneer, and you pick yours up, giving it a sniff.

It smells fruity, but not delicate, and somewhat sweet. Seeing Cecília take a drink, you do as well. It is fruity, with notes of citrus and sugar, but it isn’t overpowering, and has a nice minerality to it. You’re not a big wine drinker, but you take a second drink before setting it down.

“Go ahead,” the Prelate prods, clearly taking satisfaction in watching your partner squirm. “I would be quite offended if you did not partake. This wine is, after all, Hungarian.” She finishes her glass, and makes a show of having it refilled.

Wiktoria, nose curled, takes a sip.

“Now then, with the pleasantries out of the way, please inform me how your mission went. Either of you,” she leans forward, resting her chin on interlocked fingers, molten gold eyes boring into you.

>Let Wiktoria tell the whole story, she’s the Conspecta after all, you’re just her familiar. She’s been at this for a while, so she’ll know what details to include and leave out.

>Share the duty of retelling the story with Wiktoria, you were both involved, both of you investigated the goings-on in Almy, and both of you fought the Strigoi and Moroi.

>Tell the Prelate what happened by yourself. Wiktoria isn’t overly fond of her, so she’ll assent to that, and you can take any heat she dishes out, if she has any particularly strong criticism.

>>5385446
>>Share the duty of retelling the story with Wiktoria, you were both involved, both of you investigated the goings-on in Almy, and both of you fought the Strigoi and Moroi.
Teamwork makes the dream work