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Sanctum Aeternam::The Prince of Atlanta::I. Introduction
Siegfried Von Hauten
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Unsurprisingly, the night was swelteringly hot: Another uncomfortably warm July evening in Atlanta, Georgia. The sun, having already taken its toll on the day residents, finally decided to descend past the buildings. With a final angry glare, it disappeared completely, leaving the night open to the limitless possibilities of the Kindred of the South.
Atlanta is, at best, a turbulent place. To the north and south, the Sabbat hides in the shadows, more than eager and far too ready to dispatch a lone kindred who would be foolish enough to claim his ties to the prince and travel alone. To the west is perhaps a more horrid fate at the hands of the Garou in the seemingly limitless forests. Very few childer of Caine have traversed those woods and actually returned with any commentary, save the gibberish of pure and hopeless insanity. One would speculate, then, on how Atlanta maintains its powerbase as a Camarilla outpost, isolated from any possible assistance save the ocean to the east. They are hopelessly outnumbered, in dire peril, and are weakened from within... Save the Prince herself.
Being of noble stock does not lessen the Prince's ability to act decisively, and it is without any debate that the vast majority of kindred in the Camarilla owe their lives directly or indirectly to her political manuvering. Safety, however, does not come cheap, and often at the price of freedom. August Tremedor leads her city with little regard for the personal rights of various kindred: Immediately destroying Caitiff or those of too weak a blood lineage to provide support at the city borders, and dealing with traitors like the inquisitors of old would with their kind: With very little mercy, and even less proof.
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Siegfried quietly walked along the road, already anticipating his destination with silent and logical contemplation. He had already chosen his course of action, and all that was needed was the "cooperation" of the Ventrue Primogen. Not like it mattered, anyways, since cooperation could be attained in more ways than one.
Siegfried wore his suit and tie for this one, and had fleshcrafted himself into a suitable look to wander amoungst the mortals. True, he spent less time than he would have liked, but it was enough to pass, so long as the kine would not stare at every detail of him. Perhaps they would get a feeling of surrealism by his molded face. It wasn't particularly important, Siegfried cared little for the Masquerade, but he just could not be interupted now by a bold police officer or curious citizen of Atlanta. His work was too important...
The priest rounded the corner, spotting the doorman. Pedro, he mused... That was his name. He had met the man before, a stout, Mexican Ventrue ghoul, by the name of Pedro. Siegfried could not fathom the need for a ghoul with such a simplistic use, but he supposed that Pedro functioned under other parameters as well; It would not surprise him that, as doorman, he stopped an equal number of people from leaving as he did entering.
Siegfried paused for a moment as Pedro's gaze flitted over and touched his own. He squinted, his head cocked to one side. Pedro would make a good Szlatzca. He had large pockets of fat and sinue around his body, which, if properly administered, could make him a rather stalwart defender of Castle Von Hauten. And his jawline could easily be reset to clamp like an aligator. Siegfried smiled at this, and continued to walk towards Pedro. In return for his not oft gesture of mistaken friendliness, Pedro smiled back. His teeth were strong, too. They would function admirably. But it was not Siegfried's place to take another's unto his own. No, he would continue with why he was sent here in the first place, then, perhaps, come back for Pedro.
"Good evening, sir," Pedro spoke with a thick, Mexican Accent.
Like Siegfried expected any less.
He looked at Pedro and nodded, a wordless and whimsical smile touching his face again. Siegfried reproached himself for finding joy in this: Joy is the path to deevolution, not transcendence. Indeed, he mused, but it was definately troublesome not to find some sort of amusement in the irony of this situation. The metamorphosist pressed the elevator button, and waited patiently, without a movement. A satisfying ding, and then the doors opened.... And Siegfried stepped inside.
Immediately, he was accousted by the stench of deccadence. If he had any meal left in him, he would have thrown up at the mere thought of a life so stagnently lived. The elevator whirled upward, stopping at the 28th floor. Penthouse suite, Master Richards. Ventrue Primogen. And the cat himself had been invited right into the lair of the rat. How suiting.
Bach, he smiled. Siegfried often played Bach for his mortal sustinence to give them a false sense of security before he consumed their vitae. He found it to be distasteful, but it was often the only way to get close enough to them. He would "wow" them with his wealth, his impeccable taste, and then... It was not unlike the Ventrue, he mused. But the difference was, Ventrue unlived for that kind of thing. Whereas it was a pitstop for the Priest, the Ventrue set up to live out their worthless unlives upon that very thrill. It was this reason that Siegfried was evolved from them, and this reason that the Camarilla was not worth even bothering with. At least the Lasombra could admit they were monsters: The Ventrue were still stuck in their little game. So let them have it, Siegfried smiled.
Master Richards turned around as Siegfried stepped out of the elevator, his hands cupped together in back of him, his walk nonchalant yet carrying some sort of radiance... It was hard to tell what. Richards smiled politely, and gestured towards the table.
"Please, by all means."
Siegfried nodded, and sat down at the table across from the Ventrue Priomgen. A cup of vitae lie by his left hand, and he accepted the offering. He took a long draught from it, refilling his ill-gotten gains from a night of fleshcrafting.
"I'm glad you could get all dressed up for me. I consider it an honor."
Siegfried smiled, knowing what he meant. Though he had spent some time considering his clothes for the endevour, the Ventrue Primogen was referring to his facial structure. The last time they had crossed paths, Siegfried had, on a whim, decided to be monsterous and inhuman. It must have been a relief to see that the man could wear another face.
"So..." Siegfried said, his voice soft and weak, like a man uncertain of himself. It was not often that Siegfried liked to talk, and it always seemed to take awhile for him to warm up to the idea. But he supposed it neccessary.
"I believe we both know why we are here." Siegfried added. And it was true: They both knew eachothers motives and their own- Except that the Primogen only THOUGHT he knew Siegfried's motives.
"Indeed. I would have you tell me all you know of the Sabbat to the north. Your little stunt the other night may well have caused the Prince's wrath to fall upon you, if she would so choose. Yet in me you have the power for salvation. Side with me, and tell me of the Sabbat's endevours, or you will never make it out of here alive."
Siegfried nodded, slightly sidetracked on other matters than listening to the fool prattle on about whatever fate was in store for him. He cocked his head to the side, observing the Primogen with extensive curiousity.
"Do not consider this a betrayal: You knew that you were stepping in over your head the second you entered this building... You were..." The primogen trailed off. He looked at Siegfried's only detatched interest, and frowned, almost furious. "What?" he said with casual interest, trying to match the Sabbat Priest's own disposition.
The blood, by now, flowed through Siegfried's hand, and he knew he was ready. As in one fluid motion, the Metamorphesist lunged his hand forward, sinking into the Primogen's face as if it were a maleable clay. His hand half submerged in the goo, Siegfried stretched his arm back, and with a bit off effort, the face-mask tore off in one clean and neat sweep. Step One.
Siegfried sighed, dropping the Primogen's face to the ground, and as the Ventrue fell off his chair and scrambled around to find a voice or sight, Siegfried closed his eyes in peaceful meditation. He didn't particularly like this part, but it was necessary. He plunged his hand deep into his own face with considerably more care than he did for the primogen, and gingerly detatched it from the front of the skull. True, it stung, but it was not nearly as painful as what the Ventrue was going through right now. Step Two.
Siegfried felt the Primogen's face flownder on the ground, and gracefully picked it up, allowing its texture to return to the puddy-like gel from before. Allowing its edges to soder with his own, he began the slow walk over to the mirror in the dining room. He felt a painstricken hand land on his ankle, but ignored it; for the time being.
"Not bad... Not bad at all."
Primogen-now-Siegfried smiled pleasantly at his visage in the mirror. Step Three.
Faceless-Primogen stopped, and as Siegfried listened closely enough, he could almost hear his silent whimper of defeat. Siegfried walked over, and placed his own scattered remnants of a face upon the Primogen, returning sight, albeit Siegfried's own. Step Four.
The Siegfried-now-Primogen lunged forward with a new viciousness, almost crushing Primogen-now-Siegfried's windpipe with one blow. Siegfried had now counted on this, and the commotion attracted from the other room the Oh-So-Helpful childer of the Siegfried-now-Primogen. It was only a short time before, in all his grace, Siegfried-now-Primogen lay dead, and Primogen-now-Siegfried stood up, wiping the ash and blood from his suit.
"Thank God you're alright..." It was Sara. Siegfried had met Sara before, and had, to her chagrin, trounced her in a mental duel over the Prince's Banquet. Now she had saved his life. Primogen-now-Siegfried smiled, and bowed slightly, afraid that his vocal chords would give him away. He cocked his head, looking at Sara.. Her flesh was beautiful, and would make a soft...
"What?" Sara said, in that same, bemused yet irritated tone that her master had spouted before his death. Primogen-now-Siegfried shrugged it off, and with a smile, whispered, so that his voice would not be given away....
"Nothing. Yet."
ooc/ If you're interested in a bizzarre mystery of intrigue, betrayal, and insight into that which lies beyond the masquerade, shroud, and nether-world itself... sign ups are currently open for The Prince of Atlanta. Player tested, mother approved. /ooc
Edited by: NeuroMortis at: 8/14/01 4:45:36 pm
Theda
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"At LANta."
Sighs. Throwing clothes in duffel bag, mumbling:
"Big Brass Buckle of the Balmy Bible Belt..."
Each 'B' is mercilessly punched.
Edited by: NeuroMortis at: 8/14/01 4:46:05 pm
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