Halth

Qal'Deth wields Halth. When the Matron Mother sent a raiding party to the Duergar for pit slaves, they brought back a prize greater than they knew. The Druegar king was captured, and in exchange for his freedom, he forged Halth for Qar'tol, half minotaur, half drow champion and favorite slave of the House X'Larraz'et'soj. Halth was wielded by Qar'tol until his demise at the hand of Sarkoth, a minor noble of House Baenre. The sword was taken by House Baenre as spoils, and though those events led to the rise of X'Larraz'et'Soj, the loss of the champion's sword was keenly felt by the slaves raised from birth to be fighters in the pits. It had become an aspiration of many to one day earn the sword themselves. Together, the slaves conspired to return it to the house. The task was passed down from older fighters to younger for decades. The slaves learned much about the debts the other houses owed each other. The slaves who fought managed to manipulate the possessors of the blade through the decades. They did this most often by throwing fights, even lethal ones, but sometimes also by completing quests in unexpected ways, or by picking fights or instigating them between seemingly unrelated persons. The web of intrigue that led the sword back to X'Larraz'et'Soj touched every noble house. In the pits "to die for Halth" came to mean "To want something more than life". After manipulating the results of battles and betting, the pit slaves led the sword, which was infrequently used in fights, but also (though rarely) put up as huge betting stakes when the conclusion of a fight seemed foregone, and once to pay off a debt otherwise incurred in others, to a lethal battle in the pit of the House of Bastards between Drow settling a blood feud between Druu'giir, who now held the sword, and Baenre, who you remember once held it. The House Weapons Master turned a blind eye to the value of the sword when determining the entrance fee, thus allowing the Druu'giir noble Sharngarth to enter. Sharngarth had been mysteriously approached and told every weakness of his Baenre opponent, Paul'smiir, and had double and triple checked the information. Finding it good, he was confident of the outcome. Rumor spread, and odds were set well in favor of his winning. On the day of the battle, none of Sharngarth's attempts to exploit his opponent's weaknesses worked and the fully armored Baenre noble slew him, and took the sword, then, without collecting any favors disappeared, never to be heard from again. Only the slaves knew that Sharngarth's foe was not Paul'smiir, but their own champion, for just before the battle, they had captured, slain, and destroyed Paul'smiir and replaced him. The slaves keep this secret even from Matron Mother (but she knows, because the story is told in the fighting pits). Qal'Deth won the sword from the previous champion of the pits, Qot'shul, a half ogre, half drow who was only the champion for one fight, the one he lost to Qal'Deth, because his weapon proficiency only extended to a club.

Qal'Deth for all to see

Qal'Deth's Greatsword lay in a brightly colored scabbard.

"Half of the work of being a bodyguard is making sure you're noticed. It won't stop a dedicated assassin, but any opportunists will think twice."

His vest, his jacket, and his cloak hid a hundred pockets.

"The other half of the work is a surprise."

In each pocket was a pinch of this and that. Some twine, some cold iron, an eggshell, and a potion to darken the doorstep if an unwelcome Drow had crossed it. A book of verses describing the smells of various fungi. An empty silver stoppered flask. A dram of ale. A piece of dried meat. A ring of wood from the root of an old, old tree.

Most of them would never be useful. But one of them might, and so he carried them all.

Qhal'Deth who Bloodies

Qhal'Deth's fine shirt was torn and bloody, but his expression was satisfied. He walked at a measured pace across the pit towards his mother.
She shook her head.
A flicker of fear twitched at the corner of his eyes, but he turned towards the jagged cave that led under the stands.

He ignored the grunts and moans of a dozen fighting slaves with the practice of a dozen years in the pit. The guards barely glanced at him as he passed. He settled into his cell, decorated with wax sculptures and burnt herbs, and a near fortune's worth of individually worthless trinkets, trophies from each conquest.
Trying to think of nothing, Qhal'Deth stripped off his garments, and peered at the ring he had stripped from the mutilated body of his Orcish opponent. The ugly green of ill-tended copper, the ring was worth less that the hand that had worn it, had Qhal'Deth been given the right to a death fight. Today was Thirdday, though, and the stands were nearly empty. No sense wasting a death when so few were there to see it. It was a surprise even that mother had come. He'd hoped that meant she had an outing for him, but if she wouldn't speak to him in the stands, perhaps she was angry.
He bit his hand to drive away the fear.

MOTHER. He heard her swift footfalls before he saw her. When she came to the cells, no fighter didn't know it. The guards were silent and still always, but when she stepped in, even their breath was inaudible, even their hearts seemed to still. Qhal'Deth hid his bitten hand, folding it in the other on his lap, waiting like a noble overworld schoolboy politely expecting cake.

She came to his cell, the guard swinging Qhal'Deth's cell door open so that she didn't miss a stride. MOTHER. Mother took Qhal'Deth's giant head in her hands and pressed it to her bosom. She sang

      Far away the light of wrong
     Far away their doubt
    For someplace She gusts
     Closer now the right of strong
    Closer now be stout
   For Mother of Lusts

Qhal'Deth, now inexplicably sleepy, laid his head in her lap.

Mother murmured, "Tomorrow everything changes, dear."

Garlic Is a Superfood by Brendan Weinhold

A little boy cries somewhere. His wails are muffled by apartment walls and obscured by the sounds of cars and sirens and general L.A. hubbub. But the sounds of little boys crying are especially designed to be heard at a great distance, and so, even in a damp dumpster with the summer stench of molding oranges, Marie can hear the sobs.

Her flashlight is dim. A peach and an orange are the same until she feels the smooth bumps of the orange. This dumpster has been picked through already for the good stuff. The expired milk and barely moldy bread is gone. There are no eggs. There is no cheese. But there is moldy fruit, and dumpster diving is safe.

Weenis went to the shelter a week ago. So did Becky. Marie had found a couch to crash on that day. Met a Carol in the library. She wanted to know the city. Marie made the night last until the only sensible thing was to crash on the same couch Carol was crashing on. Not a well she could go back to, but there was oatmeal in the morning, and the couch was better than a cot. Marie felt like a regular ol' young person for a night.

Weenis went to the shelter a week ago. So did Becky. Maybe they'd found a good thing and were enjoying themselves somewhere. But good things don't happen. Not for a whole week. Marie bit into the orange without peeling it. Moldy. Gross. And the skin was bitter. But full of vitamin C, she told herself. And... ugh. Someone had thrown away garlic, she guessed. Garlic orange was not delicious.

The crying of the little boy, the hubbub of the city, and the rumbling of her own belly was the music that accompanied her meal. She ate the orange. Then she ate a moldy peach. She ate a tomato and some cilantro. Everything reeked of garlic. "Garlic is a superfood," she told herself, as she forced herself to enjoy it all.

Marie climbed out of the dumpster. Something moldy in there hadn't agreed with her. Maybe all the moldy things were battling for the dominance of which mold would reign supreme. Marie leaned against the wall of a bakery and breathed in all the good smells of fresh, fresh baking dough. She closed her eyes and imagined the smells were solid. A stream of milky white spongy breads traipsed into her mouth. The lights from the halogen lamp that lit the street illuminated each loaf as it tumbled out the door and into her waiting mouth.

That lamplight went out and Marie opened her eyes. Her belly hurt, and there was no traipsing loaf to chew. Instead, a tall shadow leaned towards her. "Oof, you don't look so good," said the shadow with the gentle lilt of a mother's concern. "Let me take you to The Shelter."

"No!" Marie belched. It didn't sound like "no", though, as the contents of her belly came up with the word. Gooey, colorful vomit splashed on the lady's black overcoat. Marie barely had time to wonder why anyone would wear a coat on a hot summer night in Los Angeles, when the woman picked her up like she was as light as a bag of groceries. Lying cradled in the woman's arms, still in desperate pain, Marie fell asleep, cozy and comforted despite everything.

Childer, Regnants and Panda

The Red Dragon

Los Angeles is decadence. It's a city of sunshine and darkness. The most visible residents are outlandishly wealthy, and their mansions overlook the largest population of homeless in the world.

This is the World of Darkness, and L.A. is its poster child.

The Kindred have designed this city well. Every city is a volatile thing. Every creature in it adds an element of chaos. Sometimes they make unpredictable choices. Sometimes Kindred work against each other. But taken as a whole, this city feeds the lusts and satiates the unending hunger as best it can, freeing the Kindred for their Dance Macabre.

In this city is a cafe. A woman with wild hair and wiser eyes presides, unknowing, over Elysium. Something about Krista calms the raging beasts inside each Kindred who visits The Red Dragon. By order of the Prince, a special lover of coffee house cultures, no violence may arise in The Red Dragon.

It's something of a paradox, this cafe. An Invictus Prince declares Elysium in a cafe with seemingly Carthian politics, even if they don't know it. The name, an Ordo Dracul emblem, seems like a wink to the campus across the street, but it's just the Welsh heritage of Krista, she claims. Street pastors spit forth words of the coming apocalypse as if speaking with the mouths of the Lancea Sanctum. Circle of the Crone approves of the management.

Tensions are high in East Hollywood. Each faction hoards and steals every advantage it can find, but at The Red Dragon, ghouls caffeinate and their regnants share the buzz from sundown to sun-up.

February Journal

From the private writings of Serenia

  Our meeting led us to the hospital, just as I presumably figured was our next course. Too much conversing happens within our comradery, not enough action. How I yearn to be guiding this "herd" of allies on this obscure task bestowed upon us. Yet I am not permitted to be too hasty, for I could very well forfeit ...[writing missing]... Alas, it was concluded: the hospital.

  Upon arriving, the atmosphere of the mortals employed was indeed chaotic. If only these mortal coils knew of the darkness that still walks this Earth; the predators that lurk the shadows of every street, no matter where one may roam. They believe vampires only to exist in folklore, in myth... They are fatally mistaken. Nonetheless, we were faced with the beginning of what seemed to be a catastrophe. A paramedical vehicle arriving every few moments only to unload the lifeless burden to haste away for the next.

  Again, we conversed. To my liking, it was swift and conclusive. At least someone in this band of comrades thinks logically like I do; yet I am still unsure of him and his true intentions. As a matter of fact, I confess I feel that way to all of these allies; yet him in particular. Perhaps it is the ruthless justice he sees in all that he does. It is familiar... Familiar in the way that makes me envious. Envious, for I am not that headstrong in the ways of black and white. I do see grey in whatever choice or path that lies before me. His steadfast justice forcibly reminds me of him... Curses! Of course I am to be plagued with yet another reminder of the likes of him--father, why must thou torture me so?! Is it best to work close and steady with this present image of him, or retract my dealings as much as this task will allow? I will have a better conclusion after this mishap here at this hospital.

  Peter has knowledge in the way of medicine, he informed. This proves to he a valid point of entry, masquerading as a doctor to arrives unannounced in the form of pale strangers to this world of over suspicious individuals. Peter suggested us all to enter under his lead. To that, I said "nay". For are my comrades blind to the concrete fact I am not that to which conversation is my forte? They may assume it is for the markings to my eye, but with a flip of my hair, that concern is no more. I am a hound, and forever will be. To delight in fool's talk to gather information; I leave those who know nothing of the wilderness beyond, or those who see no urgency in getting the job done.

  To my utter surprise, the calculated one akin to me, Alter, opted to follow Peter into the sickly madhouse. Again, there is still a mystery to this man that I may never know, or would I wish to. If he is anything like him, then damn him to hell for all I care. This world needs less of his kind-- the neutralized monster. Ugh, I have trailed again! He vexes me so! And this Alter does nothing short of trigger my hate for that... shell-- of a man-- or whatever he is! Only God knows his true form and fate, the beast to be so lucky... To continue my writings of last night's tasks, accept my mindless rants: Alter and Peter entered in, leaving me with Calliope to track the surroundings exterior to involvement with talking flesh.

  Sigh, the oddness this Daeva has. Upon finding fresh-- tire? Yes, tire--tracks, and the trampled grass about the entire hospital, new and to the looks of multiple persons' doing, she has become enraptured by a single bag of manufactured mortals' sustenance. To the extent she believed to have smelled its freshness, to even lure me into the investigation of it. As a brush of my shoulder, to try and illustrate my lack of caring, I suggested that the foolish assumptions she made of such object to be that of magic. This, unfortunately, only proved to deepen her infatuation with it. To this, I lost interest entirely, and even my level of reasoning with her I feel has, if not permanently, dropped. I let her be, and continued around the perimeter of the hospital.

  Yet, she continued to press upon me that this was the item to solve the mysteries at play here. I only spoke swiftly to get her free of my working environment, and to my relief, she was off. To find some semblance of a laboratory to get it in looked into. Again, the oddness. I am leery of this one.

  I further found what appeared to be an attempted break in, or at least to sound the alarms. A rock must have been thrown into a window and the glass broken. Yet no further exertion was made. Just the spider-webbed effect that allows occurs when effort meets glass. Yet at this time I received one of those-- forgive me... Yes, "text messages"-- from Alter. His findings therein, and to meet at the entrance of the E.R. To which I responded with an obedience to the doors. His messaged stated there had been 12 bodies, all exsanguinated and all puncture wounds 2 1/2 centimeters apart. Some with no defense marrings, some with. Yet no mention of possible vampiric vitae in the stomachs of the dead? That had me speculating. Indeed it is instant that one turns into a vampire once embraced; yet my knowledge of the occult leaves me to believe in such things as necromancy, and the tricks of the undead. Perhaps, if these were to be new vampires: what perfect feeding grown, and room for a possible epidemic, than that of a hospital?

I arrived to the entrance and witnessed more lifeless bodies being discarded and the paramedics racing off to collect more still. This was becoming absurd. And my concern growing. I entered in to find Peter trying to comfort a young mortal with what appeared to be an injured arm--why such sympathy with such lowly life? Perhaps this mortal had something to offer to this catastrophe at hand-- or he just has a sick fetish with practicing what used to be valuable to him as a human, making him believe he has some semblance of his human self still. Whatever the case may be, it seemed pointless. And there intercepting this young man was Alter, of whom I needed to see. As soon as Peter collected the young man back into his medical care, I had Alter lead me back to the room with those bodies.

Alter didn't seem so bemused to the idea that I seemed to be running in a fool's intuition-- then again I do not believe he thinks very highly or anyone, or anything, if they had thought of something first. He told me there was no such possibility that these could be potential new vampires. Yet I had to see with my own eyes. Of course someone not akin to bounty hunting would understand. Pft! City vampires. They know so little of the darkness beyond the comfort of easy prey and mass human life. 'Tis pathetic, really. Yet not every vampire has the privilege to do the line of work I trained so hard to obtain.

  And like he said, there was no vitae in the stomachs of these victims. Yet I am glad I saw this with my own eyes. 'Twas not a moment later that I received a text message from Peter, someone to which he needed the hound to follow. I willingly obliged. Approaching him, he gestured toward the exiting young man he had been dealing with. I roll to my eyes and a sigh, I obeyed. Really, Peter? To what good will this low life bring me? I am beginning to think Peter has been cooped up in a small hole and has never been on a task other than that of a child's game. I began to follow, despite my disappointment in his suspicion in such an unworthy target. Yes, it is safe to assume anyone at this point as being an accessory to the goings-on here-- yet this man? Infinitely doubtful.

  To my satisfaction, I overheard the tellings of approximately 50 victims and still more in counting. I "text messaged" back to the group of what I heard and asked if it were still my duty to follow something so pathetic. They insisted no, to my delight. And upon regrouping, Alter debriefed us of the rest he heard. The most recent attack being not too far. Curses, the conversing! Why can we not all be duty driven and think with a ticking clock? Damn city vampires!

  We finally came to the decision to go to the last crime scene. Yet Alter called upon the help of another, one of which we met three nights ago at the theatre. A Marcus Anton. And it was agrees we would meet him there. So we were off. Upon arriving, we were to wait for Marcus' arrival before we began. The mental configurations of these vampires! Ugh! How I wish I could throw them into the depths of the wild and watch them squirm in fear of their surroundings! And of course this mindless conversing! To which we spoke enough to allow time for Marcus to arrive. A shady one, he is. I already foresee misfortune with him. Too haughty for what he was asked to assist with. Nonetheless, we continued on toward the fear-stricken constable. To which Alter Dominated his mind and gave us full access to the scene, and even the whereabouts to the next. I, of course, was asked to follow the constable as soon as he left for the next scene. I, without question, followed, seeing that conversing was to become the next action among my comrades. And from what I could overhear, Marcus was becoming a problem.

The distanced I followed, as soon as I arrived at the scene the constable started to seal it off withe the cautionary tape. I approached the body, but before I could investigate it, a flash past me. To this, my reaction was to follow. And thus, with my Celerity, I dashed after, seeing it was a vampire running away. Luckily, Calliope had been following me, thus she could act as a barricade and stop this potential culprit. And as soon as she tackled, I, too, took hold. Shortly, it became a struggle to hold him down and injure him. I was able to pull his fangs from Calliope, as Peter came around and started hitting him. All the while, realizing this culprit was indeed the young vampire who went missing three nights ago: Joshua.

Then Alter arrived, and put his rapier through Joshua-- and mercilessly penetrating my own flesh. The bastard. Then again, I would have done the same-- expect in my case ...[writing missing]... And before I could think a dreaded thought more, Peter took one of the stakes at my belt and plunged it into Joshua's heart... And he became still. At last! We stopped the squirming parasite! Yet with all of our successes, we are met with untimely circumstances: Calliope's Carthian acquaintance Rayon arrived, just in time to see her friend to be staked in the heart. Well, at least it distracts my comrades from ...[writing missing]...

We are still not finished here. We carried the body into Alter's vehicle. From there, it appears we head straight for his sire... This could the the end ...[writing missing]... but dust...