Sasha allowed herself to be lead into the ornate gothic dining room. The Tremere do certainly know how to dine in style.
Walking into the grand and golden hall on the arm of the beautiful Izaak, Sasha nearly found herself overwhelmed with nostalgia for the life that they all had lost. Someday soon, we will dance again. We are the Kindred of NYC. We will not be so easily wiped from this Earth.
After seating Sasha, Izaak composed himself and sat down, arranging his clothes and smoothing down his hair. He glanced around the room, nodding at all the primogen present. He couldn't smooth over his sense of disquiet and worried anticipation for what was to come.
Skiouros whimsically strolls into the grandiose dining chamber, examining the richly adorned walls while conversing with himself in a barely audible fashion. He pauses to stare intently at a thick panel of the rick velvet curtain undulating rhythmically from a remarkable strong breeze before giggling to himself and gravitating toward one of the dining chairs.
Skiouros excitedly jumps in the air, fondling wayward pieces of his diaphanous tail fabric as they return toward the earth. Mesmerized by the reflections cast from the meticulously polished silverware, his gaze haphazardly bounces throughout the room while he sits in one of the chairs.
"From the mightiest Pharaoh to the lowliest peasant, everyone enjoys a good sit. Simple pleasures, plucked with piercing fingernails of justice, still grow fruitful from the tree, even if the roots wither and retreat toward the trunk."
Skiouros pauses for a moment and begins to grab at the space around him.
"The scourge is suffocating, the crimson waters recede. We must find the space in which to grow."
It's good to know some people have taste in the New World. Decorum is important. More so in such uncivilized times as these.
"Good day to all of you. I trust that we're here to restore power to our kine."
Fatima gives a polite smile to Sasha, Izaak, and Janus. She looks over to Skiouros and rolls her eyes as he does something crazy.
"I'm sure under the leadership of Janus, our endeavors will be successful."
And if not, it will be easier for me to assert control.
Ember scowled at the ornate conclave table.
Far too obsessed with apperance, all of them.
She slunk silently to stand by the chair closest to the corner of the room that she could get, better tactical advantage, and waited for the Prince to be seated and for the meeting to begin.
Trailing on the heels of Sasha and Izaak, Everette settled into his appointed chair without comment. Glancing briefly at the assembled kindred, he took stock of what he saw or sensed there: fear, anticipation, anger, resolve. The emotions of people ready for battle, not those prepared to consider withdrawal.
Gonna be a hard sell...
Janus glides into the room as the chamber doors shut behind him. AT the head of the table, he takes a seat atop his simple, yet elegant, throne. His eyes
sweeps across the members of the conclave, searching inside each primogen for a fleeting moment.
"Welcome, all. I have not seen you all gathered together for a very long while, though hopefully that situation will soon be rectified. Very Soon."
Janus took a sip from his wine goblet before continuing.
"This is what we know; the garou are being controlled by a greater force, likely a Sabbat rabblerouser. Their place of hiding appears to be within the sewers directly underneath the Forbes building in Manhattan. It is unlikely that they would expect a well-organized, large-scale attack at this time, as the werewolves currently have nearly free reign of the city. It has been suggested that our plan of action be such an attack, though i have not yet fully committed to that decision. Instead, I wanted to hear your voices on the matter, as a conclave, as is our way."
Skiouros, with a remarkably serene and focused concentration, watches Janus grasp his wine goblet as his alabaster fingers guide it along its cyclical journey toward his mouth and back toward the table. Skiouros redirects his gaze from the goblet down toward the palms of his hands, tracing the lines on his left palm with the index finger of his right hand before briefly releasing a brief bout of nervous giggling. His eyes rapidly dart between his hand the wine goblet before ultimately becoming transfixed on the goblet, which he appears to address.
"Wildly growing beyond their stakes toward the burning light penetrating through the sanctity of the shadowed crimson meadow, the tendrils have corrupted the land and suffocated the sacred. The fruits, carried forth into the once tranquil gardens by beasts of sulfur, spread like the floodwaters into the ravines and canyons."
Skiouros momentarily pauses as he places his hands in front of him and haphazardly moves them about before continuing.
"The vines and the fruits more corrupt than nightshade, yearn to be pruned. Alas, the network beneath must recede like the tides lest we not all drown beneath the sea of hairy fruit and tentacled creatures. If between the walls of our garden the roots still fit, then to its will we are doomed to submit."
"I think what Ski is trying to say is that we have been raped here. The Garou have torn apart our world and I agree, my Prince, there is someone directing this whole show. If we let them have NYC, they will only spread further. We know where those in charge are likely living. I say we strike hard, tactically, with our best and strongest of all clans, using all of our powers to dominate our enemies and hopefully stamp them out before they can call all the Garou to assist them. We may fall tonight but at least we will have been part of the final effort to stop this raid on our kind."
"I'm afraid I must dissent. For months, we've put forth our finest efforts and been handed loss after loss. Why should it be any different now? Because we're fearlessly and stupidly charging directly into their seat of power? Nonsense. Withdraw, I say. The elders were right: New York is a lost cause. Let us regroup outside the city. Should the enemy try to expand beyond their boundaries, they will face the combined wrath of a united Camarilla!"
"Surely that is a preferably option to suicide?"
"But we have more information now, Everette. We know where those in charge are hiding and we can act to stop them. Next week, next year, who knows where they will be? Sure, running will guarantee we save ourselves, but at what cost? The chance that we may never have another opportunity to stop this onslaught on our kind? Let's not forget that our former Prince died to give us this information. He meant for us to know of their whereabouts and for us to be triumphant. I, for one, will not be letting him down."
Izaak closed his eyes painfully, stroking his forehead to try and ease his tension. Is it just me or are none of these options feasible?
Izaak nodded at Sasha. "I think we can all agree that this situation has been... unpleasant." His mouth quirked at the thought of them all being raped. Then he got serious again. He shifted his gaze to those others situated around the table. "Sasha suggests a full-on attack. However, even though we do know their location, their numbers are incalculable. Also, the likelihood of all of them being cornered in such a situation is low. They have the best understanding of that area, and it's highly likely they'll be prepared to defend it. They could just flank us and take us out in one swift move. It would not be a battle, but rather a slaughter."
Izaak's mind briefly moved to other unpleasant times, back in Europe, fleeting images of dead bodies and blood, so much blood, but none of it fit to drink... it made him shudder.
Izaak glanced at Everette. "However, many of us have spent a lot of time, and resources, into building the foundations of the society we currently enjoy here. It is not so easy to withdraw - allowing them to gain ground with little hope of regaining it seems a folly as well. Without the aid of other kindred, this course would be little more than beggaring ourselves on those who would not likely wish to help us."
He paused, and allowed himself to think for the barest of moments. "It seems to me that we should use ALL of our skills to our advantage. There are some among us," he nodded at Ember, "who have spent a considerable time in the sewers. There are those of us who are best equipped for battle," nodding at Sasha, "and those with a more subtle touch. I suggest that we use guerrilla tactics, pick them off in small groups, hacking away at them a piece at a time."
"Let us not commit suicide, let us not flee, let us instead protect what we have built here."
"I would like to agree with you, Izaak, but it seems we've been working in small teams for a while now and nothing good has come of it. If I felt there was a good way for us to divide into groups based on our skills and find a solution, I would be all for it. But I still feel we can most easily use our different talents to our benefit through attack. I'm not asking that we all just rush in with no plan. I'm saying, let's use our different strength to attack in such a variety of ways and from so many directions, that those we attack are over powered."
"Sasha is right. Continuing on our current path is as pointless as it is fatal. It seems, then, that there is a simple choice between two options: Fight or flee. As is our way, I leave it up to the conclave to decide. Give me a show of hands for those who wish to flee."
Curious. She is so determined to her own death.
Sasha looked around, curious to see who would join Everette, keeping her hand, of course, upon the table. She smiled inside at the determination in Pondor's unmoving massive figure. I knew I could count on the Gangrel.
"This is madness! Fight now and we shall die now. Flee now and we shall return with the Camarilla at our backs. There is no shame in retreat when the battle is already lost."
One sure, steady hand rose above the table.
Skiouros looks around the room, shifting his focus throughout random areas of the ornate chamber before becoming transfixed on his hands and his metallic wrist armor.
"Obscured by the haze of sulfuric deception, the sanctuary becomes less visible the further we travel. The gravity of the situation flows through the blood of the fingers, heavier than the world itself."
Skiouros mumbles to himself and bounces energetically in his seat, staring at his hands laying against the table.
Fatima raises her hand. Figures. I grow tired of all this pointless fighting. She pauses before addressing the table.
"It appears we are up against a powerful force. We need the power of the Camarilla behind us. I, for one, am not in the mood to die." She looks at the other primogen. Clearly, not everyone knows the power of appearance.
Ember flicked her eyes around the hands at the table. Her own stayed flat against the cool surface.
"Camarilla see New York as a lost cause. IF we flee there is no return. Better to fight than crawl away like a coward." There was no insult in her graveled tone, though her masked face swivled toward Everett and his whining. And that was probably the most words she'd ever said in a meeting, or outside of her clan for that matter, but it needed to be said.
Izaak looked around, noting how the others had voted. 4 for fighting, and 2 for fleeing. It seems that no matter which vote I cast, my opinion will not change the outcome. I don't like either of these choices, but another option has not presented itself.
Izaak smiled apologetically at Sasha. "Although I have a high respect for all here, and although I would prefer not to give more ground, I value life over certain death." He raised his hand in the air. "I say we flee."
2008-07-25 07:31 am (UTC)
pondoring the fight and flight
Pondor listened to the arguments without an apparent reaction or opinion. Upon Janus's request for a vote his hands remained firmly on the table. A vote matching his demeanor.