The First Council of Neonates

[Rebeka]

'I'm no scholar on the Stalker, Mr Williamson. I am just relating what my sight has revealed to me, provided Miss Violet can secure a specific time period for me to look into, I should be able to narrow down my search.'

Rebeka had never heard of the Stalker. Wasn't that what they all did? Night stalk? It took a while for the Neonates to explain what the boogeyman did, and then longer for Rebeka to understand. He ate children. It sounded like a whacky fairytale. Like something not real. Eating children was just a story that you told to children to make them go to bed. Rebeka was struggling to make it real, to make something of its fact beyond her endless suspension of disbelief.

That was the way of things. One minute you're little Eevie, eight years old, sitting on the counter in the kitchen drinking milk tea under the watchful eye of Robert - the next you're in a bath with a man you don't know, the stink of liver under your fingernails and the water around you running red. You start at one end of the experience, go through it, come out the other side. The moon sets. The next night you wake up just the same. There is weather. There is your fake human face in the mirror. The world, you discover, is a place of appalling continuity. There's your horror, yes. But your horror's a tide going out: every wave stops just a little further away. Eventually the tide doesn't come in anymore. Eventually there's just the sighing delta, the new you, the nothing.

The Stalker ate children. She was remembering an artwork she saw once in the new gallery: a foetus made entirely of barbed wire. She and her sister had just stood there looking at it, silenced.

Was she a child? At what age did you stop being a child to a vampire? Early adolescence? And did they mean child or childe? The pronunciation was the same... So busy was Rebeka with the concept of eating children that she was not focussed sufficiently on the stairs. As such, she was taken quite by surprise when the barman rounded the corner.

Her thoughts scattered with a weird collective sound, part fear, part delight that something unexpected was happening. Richy's face came up not, as convention would have it, in a blur, but as a vivid snapshot. She had brief awareness of the corridor's cold darkness and the man's soft warmth before Rebeka made the decision to just stay put; there was enough room for him to pass. Her Obfuscate would hold.

Then the door above her crashed open.

Awareness zero to sixty - instantly. All her body's alarms went off at once.

Time did what it does at these moments, expanded and slowed, created a space within which to observe the details - the white of the woman's wild eyes and her flared nostrils; Rebeka's own sharp intake of breath; the world as it sharpened for clarity; a pair of clenched fists that were literally red hot; and the sudden flick of her internal switch - before brain caught up with body and Rebeka made a strange hiccuping sound, realising belatedly that she'd reacted as if this was training and not reality and that that was probably very stupid in this context and definitely not necessary -

but she'd already done it

- as with a resounding crack across the woman's nose, Rebeka's strike hit home. Hysteria bubbled up into her throat.

What's more, she had judged the Neonate's momentum badly, and was now falling backwards, with the stranger, tumbling at ridiculous freefall through the air. A moment of suspension, her feelings jammed like typewriter keys (and distantly, pride; she'd never landed a hit on Viktor!) before she collided hard with Richy.

[Storyteller]

Richy screamed as his poor arm broke.

[rhiann90]

The woods were safest for rage. There had been rumours of beasts causing chaos and Lilliana knew it would be a safe place for her to unleash herself. Breaking a tree into pieces is far less a risk of the First, especially since it was dark and no mortal travelled that deeply into the woods. Time. That's what she needed.

"Release your rage on trees Lilliana. I will not have you cause any more disruption to court. People think we are mindless beasts. Prove them wrong. Guide your emotions. Control them." Issac was right. I have to go. Speed is needed here. Open the door then I can ...

Hands still blazing, Lilliana bolts. Then suddenly, a fist changes her direction. Although the plan was to go down the stairs, there was no plan of slamming into anyone. The barman was probably on his way up to yell at her for destroying that poorly made table. That is easy enough to dodge. The girl however was not. A petite, blonde with eyes like the moon manoeuvrers her fist into Lilliana's face. Her motions were quick, but not hard. Thankfully Lilliana had built up some resistance to being hit. The unfortunate events that occurred next can only be best described as falling with style, but not grace.

Ricky ended upside down. His arm bent in the opposite direction of what it naturally should have. From his perspective, a gust of wind blew from the door and led to his demise. He never even saw the two young ladies that were now sprawled over the floor. The red-haired barmaid, which he was grateful was not his, forced her way up.

"Get off me you stupid girl! Grr... you English girls get in the way all the time!"

Eyes tinged with red, a rage struggles to be contained, fangs are glistening. Someone may die tonight. Lilliana grabs the disoriented girl and throws her across the room, pelting her into the bar. No damage occurs to her. There's a beautiful siloutte of where she was before getting up again. Beer flows down her golden locks. Someone may indeed die tonight.

[Rebeka]

Tender and hungover from being so startled, Rebeka remained in danger of segueing into hysterical laughter or a crying jag. Even as she was sent flying - crashing into the thick of the drunken rabble - and noted that she became immediately soaked with beer, her hair plastered wetly against her cheek and reeking, it was with a sad fracture, a frail sense of the old world's injuries and might-have-beens. Closely followed by a feeling of deep fraud: beyond the mawkish moment she remained as upset by the ale in her hair as she would have been were she alive. She thought she'd gotten over this silly, girlish feeling to being grubby - certainly, she should have by now - but still the vulnerable wet splash that soaked her through was a little reminder of all her years when cleanliness meant something.

Trying to ignore her threadbare little self, Rebeka turned shaky muscles to the drunkard who first reached for her, the man's expression one of outrage, then surprise, then finally leering excitement as the visual puzzle of her pathetic frame resolved itself.

Heart in her throat, Rebeka's fist jab found his eye, her second and third his groin, Viktor's lessons still rockingly alive before she swirled desperately around to find her bigger opposition.

Stupid stupid stupid stupid, never take your eyes off it

She couldn't use Celerity or any of her Disciplines, which put her at quite the disadvantage. She wondered what was wrong with the Neonate, to be using her own; and her fangs! And fists! Everyone was sure to see! Rebeka couldn't decide whether she was excited by this rules-breaking novelty or terrified. Blindly, she groped around on her person for a weapon, came up with nothing, wondered why she bothered, and dodged out the way of the next angry patron, whose drink she had spilled with her unexpected air flight.

It's clear that the girl wasn't nearly as burdened by her own anger, and was even now searching the crowd warily for Lilliana, weaving in and out of the men to keep moving. One such patron grabbed her shoulder with perhaps poor intentions - Rebeka turned around and clocked him on the nose, before ducking - and his furious backhand went wide, hit the man next to him.

Then all hell broke loose.

[Dorian M. Black]

It cost Dorian some effort to hold back - after the briefest hesitation - his witty remark; certainly the hooded gaze had slid to George upon the Brujah's fierce exit, one dark eyebrow lifting sardonically. 'I told you so' was such poor taste. And besides - Dorian could do better. Much, much better.

"I find it amusing that-"

A blink. He turned briefly to stare at the door, and, after a second, audibly witness the confirming crash that heralded a tumble down the stairs.

For a long few seconds Dorian didn't know what to say.

Furious eyes found George. "If you blame me for that I will ablatively separate your colon from its rectal sphincter. I could not have pushed her from here."

[Viktor]

Tallow put the pint pot down on the bar with a resigned sigh at the sound of the door upstairs banging suddenly open again. He stood up at the sound that clattered down the stairs and ended in Richy’s scream and the angry shout that preceded the blonde’s appearance confirmed a decidedly black thought. He ignored the startled and shocked drunken responses from Mr. Fox and Mr .Froghil alike as he turned and put his back to the bar as the blonde haired girl careened into view and crashed into the table. He began to roll up his right sleeve as the petite girl ruined Davey Harris’ chances of pleasing Mrs. Harris in their bed for the next few nights. Mrs. Harris would no doubt be grateful though for the few days silence until his throat healed.

He’d managed to at least get a start upon the left sleeve before the blonde broke Joe Bankdon's nose for his attempt to help her. Good man Joe Bankdon. He probably didn't deserve that. Unfortunately it seemed her awareness wasn't quite as good as her reactions or her ability to make nearly an entire bar of men shout, wince, laugh and then shout again.

“Bloody children.” He muttered to himself as he crossed his arms and watched the room ignite.

[Samuel Taylor]

As the raw shriek of pain echoed up the stairway from Richy the Barman, Taylor winced in sympathy. His face settling into a mask to cover his fury, he snatched up his cane and stalked down the stairs. Barely remembering to put on the limping pace he adopted in public.

As he stood in the doorway he briefly turned to face the other Neonates in the room Taylor spoke in low tones

"We need to get her out of here. Anyone who thinks they can help, with me."

Passing Richie on the stairs Taylor stopped, his eyes roved over the injury and assessed the situation. Depending on how hard Lilliana impacted , the bone might have been shattered. If that was the case without medical attention, the Barman could lose the proper use of his left arm. His lips thinned as with some effort the Malkavian drew Richies arm over his shoulder and half walked, half dragged the human to a corner table.

Shouting into the melee of twisting bodies before him

"I need a strong drink over here!"

[Storyteller]

There came a guffaw of laughter as the contents of several drinks went flying, dousing a wet arc over Taylor.

Meanwhile, one of the three men at the bar (and seemingly of better stock than the typical punter) stood up with haste and rushed to the stranger's aid.

"My G-d! That looks broken - that does," he breathed helpfully. "Froghill, of Froghill clockworks, at your service. Sure you've heard of me." He completely ignored the ale coating his back. His hands fluttered ineffectually around Taylor. "You a doctor?"

At the same time Mr. Meadows, a portly man with a bloated face, sloshed his way over and handed the good doctor his drink.

"Best not-" pause for a hiccup-burp, "waste it lad. Richy's - good man - but his drinks a... bleedin priced." Another hiccup. He aimed a knowing look at Mr. Froghill, but the man completely missed it, so absorbed was he by Richy's pain.

"Damn me, that looks bad," chimed in Mr. Froghill. "Does this hurt?" He gently poked the wound.
"Oh! Apologies. Well best not do that then."

Richy made an unintelligent sound. "I'll kill that urchin when I find 'im. You hear that George!" he called out aimlessly. "If my table's been damaged-!" His growl turned into a yelp as his arm knocked into the chair.

Mr. Meadows squinted at Mr. Taylor, before stumbling forward to get a better look, joining Mr. Froghill in breathing down the doctor's neck. He released a wet, noisy and slightly rattling exhale.

"Think you'll need more, lad?" he slurred. "Mr. Fox'll have his own. Has money that one, the slime."

[Samuel Taylor]

Of all the people it could have been....I understand my Fair Lady's view of the Kine more now!

Taylor gritted his teeth as he replied quickly, his voice calm and practical.

"Mr Froghill would you be able to assist me by getting as much alcohol down this man's throat as possible. He isn't going to want to be fully conscious for what I'm going to have to do next."

Quickly shedding his coat and rolling his sleeves up to the elbow to reveal muscled arms, Taylor's eyes half close and his hands gently wrap around the Barman's arm. Probing and feeling the shift of bone and muscle beneath the skin. Hearing Mr Froghill gasp his eyes open to reveal small pieces of bone seeming to shift underneath the surface of the skin.

Gently Mr Meadows is pushed away into a nearby chair and Taylor cocks his head and listens to the slight hitching of Richie's breathing.

Possible breaking of the ribs, and if he keeps talking some bone could go into the lung. Need more supplies, shattered arm provides opportunity to solve a good puzzle.

Checking to see if Richy was as dozy as he needed him to be Taylor spoke.

"That's a shattered arm and a broken rib if I'm not mistaken. Stop shouting, you can do whatever you like when your not my patient, but for now I'm going to need you to hold as still as you can whilst I try to get your bone set Mr-"

[George Williamson]

Maybe Lilliana was right. Maybe Dorian was right. She had to leave and he couldn't keep them together any longer. Not that George had any great desire to leap in front of a Brujah to try and persuade her otherwise. She was gone almost as soon as shed finished. Those were actual burn marks on the table. Actual burning. Sometimes it's only once the stimulus is gone that you realise quite how important it was.

Then all the sounds happened at once. A cacophony of flesh and bone hit wood again and again as they fell down the stairs. The scream, God it sounded painful. Georges stomach twisted, not daring to move just yet. Then another crash. His mind and body were fighting for control. Stay and be safe or move and enquire. Well, maybe Dorian would fix it all. An answer for every occasion was in that mind, and it was his fault after all.

But no, Dorian wasn't having any of that. He'd answered before George had a chance to open his mouth. Without even looking over no less, an impressive skill. Violet bolted out the door, but no where near as fast as her guardian. Then Taylor made his ideas clear and headed downstairs. It was all quite the rush really. George was surprised how quickly it had descended into what seemed like chaos. The relatively calm sounds of the Respite has descended into brawl from the sounds of it. Oh, the pub. What was Richy going to say?

He snapped out of it, he was exhausted, "Dorian, right..." George then whispered under his voice, "well fuck me." George didn't quite know what to do, "any ideas?" Or what to do at all. "Draggin' her out sounds like a fiery death if her hands are still..." George flexed his fingers, "what even was that? Or scare 'er away, or lead 'er away, or knock 'er out? I'm assuming she's started a fight down there by fallin' down the stairs on someone n's gone feral." George got up to go towards the door. "Any ideas at all?"