zg_shadows | How the games look in my mind...

Three bits of tat prose - how I imagine the various venue gatherings would look if I were able to peek into the real world where they exist, the one we try to mimic when we come together to role play. Other people's characters are hideously appropriated and misused beneath. Feel free to add your own descriptions and wifflings about theme and mood and how you imagine a supernatural meeting, either in the comments, or elsewhere. I'm curious about what it is that people see in their minds eye...

The Sabbat Esbat

It was almost midnight before the Sabbat began to gather.

They met in an abandoned warehouse in Deptford, beneath rusted metal rafters, in a place that smelled of dampness and decay. There was no electricity in the warehouse - that had been switched off months ago - so they brought their own light, setting fire to a couple of dustbins outside. The firelight threw eerie shadows across the massive rooms, warping monstrous faces into something even worse.

They came in packs, loud, and unashamed.

Gossamer Blades stalked in like warriors, walking in a tight and controlled formation. Their leader made a sham of any Camarilla attempt at a Masquerade, with its body tanned like leather, and its face stretched and deformed into some kind of odd skull like mask. It made no attempt to hide what it was. Why should it?

Le Regain slid in to the warehouse from the shadows as if they were snakes. A couple of snakes apparently came in with them; one curled around the arm of the priest like a bracelet. She lifted her arm at one point to kiss the snake, her tongue flickering in an odd parody of sensuality. In the half light of the warehouse she could almost pass for human - the firelight softened the sharp angles of her wrist bones where they poked at her parchment like skin, and disguised the hollows underneath her eyes - but there was still something eerie about her, crouched by the doorway, whispering to her snakes in sibilant tones.

The Hand of Swords came in last, with their priest bristling with paranoia already. He crackled with barely contained malice as he looked at the horde of ill disciplined monsters who were already beginning to get rowdy as more and more of their number drew in.

From somewhere, the noise of screaming could be heard. One of the packs seemed to have found a tramp sleeping at the back of the warehouse, and were now dealing with the problem.

To any outsider, it would have looked as if hell were empty, and all the devils were here.

The Camarilla Court

The Camarilla was shrouded in whispers. Everything was muted. The Kindred, slipping through the great oak doors, spoke in whispers. The light inside was low lay over the pannelled rooms like a gauze curtain, softening vision to a whisper, and when the Kindred met, they brushed cheeks with each other like the ghost of a caress.

They clustered in corners, sharing their gossip in murmured voices, and cast careful eyes around the room, noting well where the lords and Elders gathered. The hulking cloaked figure of Duncan, Lord of the Court of Winter, backed by the eerie and corpse like figure of Ruth, his protege, attracted and repelled equal numbers. The carefully constructred figure of Jade Allen, as beautiful as a statue, gained similar attention. And all eyes occasionally flickered to Prince Matana bari Hadad, as he sat silent in the corner. He had made no moves yet, but sat watching his court with eyes like onyx.

He was watching his court.

Moving about the court, the harpy moved like a cat, noiseless on the thick carpet. She talked to a few people, and quietly flexed her fingers. A couple of observers noticed this, noticed the movement, akin to claws being extended. The Camarilla does not shed blood in these rooms of shade and innuendo. No, the Camarilla uses words like blades, and the harpy's tongue would be sharp tonight...

The Garou Moot

It was midnight on Hampstead Heath, and the moon shone brightly in the sky. Up at the very heart of the caern, it was brighter still, for the wall between the worlds was crumbling there, and Luna was very near. Her silver light was almost as bright as day, enhanced by the glorious glitter of the stars.

At the crest of the hill, a cheerfully rowdy mob was beginning to gather. The mob was largely male, but there were women there too, unbothered by the occasional outbreaks of mock fighting and excessive amounts of weaponry on display. Loping in between these two legged figures were others as well - slim, grey furred and sharp toothed.

Close to the very centre of the gathering, a tall and slightly gawky figure was holding court, chattering brightly to an assembled mass of responsive listeners.

"...and that," finished Tolly, "is how Jude Manyskins got his hat back. It's a true story, you know. I was there..."

A laconic figure in battered jeans tipped his even more battered cowboy hat in amused acknowledgement as the crowd turned towards him. The massive grey wolf at his feet cocked a curious eyebrow at him

"If those stories make 'em happy, Grey Fur..." he said, in explanation, grinning slightly as the cluster of listeners turned their attention back to Tolly.

From the shadows of the trees at the edge of this gather, another massive figure, half man and half wolf, with the curling horns of a ram on his head, leant upon a staff and watched the crowd gather. He counted them out, watching every member of his Sept arrive, and then looked up at the silver moon.

"Help me, Luna," he murmured. "Help me take them where you want us to be..."