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Immortal Desires Detritus's GURPS World of Darkness PbP game.

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  #11  
Old 07-19-2010, 03:07 AM
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How much Celerity would you like to activate, and how will you be paying for it?
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Old 07-19-2010, 03:08 AM
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((Hmmm, what are my options here, and does it seem likely will be wine blood for refills later?))
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Old 07-19-2010, 08:28 PM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Kalzazz View Post
((Hmmm, what are my options here, and does it seem likely will be wine blood for refills later?))
http://forum.criticalfumble.net/show...85&postcount=3

Rosalyn has 25 BP available to her right now. No blood wine in the immediate, foreseeable future.
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Old 08-01-2010, 11:55 PM
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BTW, you're still on for picking out how much Celerity activation you want for Rosalyn. The sooner we get that past, the sooner we get to this:

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Old 08-27-2010, 03:30 PM
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((You need to pick how much Celerity you want Rosalyn to turn on. I'll say you do that just before the flashback posted below.))

As you prepare yourself to enter a potentially hostile situation, another vision steals over you just before you grab your spear.

The scene is one of carnage and destruction. An entire village worth's of peasants have been brutally slaughtered, the psychic signatures of their hybrid man-wolf murderers thick in the Šther. A nearby cathedral and abbey have been destroyed, but the ruins have a sickening familiarity to them. You look around and find a tower standing atop a solitary hill, as you both fear and expect, and grief overcomes you.

A moment of blackness follows, after which you open your eyes. Your sire is at your bedside, seated on the floor to your right, and strokes your hair with one hand. You direct a hard, questioning look at her, and feel as if your eyes should be bulging further and further out of their sockets. Your sire lowers her hand and studies your gaze for a moment before giving a soft answer to your unspoken question.

"The villagers and monks, I have avenged them. I have slain the Garou."

"You've destroyed them all?"

At first a quirked eyebrow in response to your harsh tone is the only reply you receive. The hunger from your yearlong sleep rises within you, a sore trial of self-restraint that takes every ounce of your determination to pass. Betraying no hint of whether she's aware of your struggle, Gwen lowers her eyes, evidently weighing how much to tell you.

"All but one," she finally answers.

"Why did you return when you were so close to complete victory?" A tiny crease appears between Gwen's eyebrows, and her voice acquires a hard edge.

"I came back because I felt your need, Sidana. If you had slept but a few weeks more, I would have been able to finish the hunt. It grieves me to learn that slaying fifteen Garou in less than a year by myself does not meet your lofty standards, but I must say that you would have been nowhere near being equal to the task."

You lunge at your sire in reply, seeming only to be able to see red for a moment, and you hear her say something, but the meaning doesn't register. A pale wrist is thrust before you, and the hunger you'd managed thus far to suppress comes to the fore. You sink already-extended fangs into your sire's flesh and drink deeply. You hear a shuddering exhalation, and then a pressure on your forehead, one that becomes more insistent the more you drink. You retract your fangs once you've drunk your fill, and stumble backwards with the force of your sire's push to your head. You feel full, and with a sudden chill realize that you've likely come close to drinking Gwen dry.

"The next time you bare your fangs at me, you'd best finish the job," Gwen says with a reproachful look, "else you'll be bound to me through the ties of blood." Your sire gives a quick shake of her head as if trying to clear it, and sways on her feet before regaining her equilibrium.

"We should not quarrel over this," she says. "I have need to hunt. I assume you have drunk what you need?" You nod your head. "Very good. While I am away, I urge you to reconsider the importance of your combat training. For the one who got away will undoubtedly tell its friends, and there may be further need of violently engaging the Garou."

You nod your head again, and say, "Thank you," but the words have an odd reinforced quality to them. It takes you a couple of seconds to realize that someone else has spoken the words aloud. You turn your head to find your twin standing a few paces away from you, dressed in what you recognize to be a casual manner, with a little smirk on her face.

"Nice name tag, Rosalyn."
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Old 09-20-2010, 03:33 PM
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"Why thank you. And how do you like the dress?"
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Old 09-23-2010, 01:30 AM
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"Hmm, I don't know. You really aren't an olive," Sidana replies with a smirk. "But I didn't arrange for this little chat just to talk about clothes. How are you doing, Rosalyn?"
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Old 10-25-2010, 03:49 AM
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In an effort to move things along...

You exchange pleasantries, after which Sidana says:

"I should think that our illustrious sire is trying to re-integrate us in some fashion, is she not? What would you say if I told you there is a way for both of us to survive?"
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Old 10-25-2010, 11:42 PM
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"Like this? Remembering, being, nothing? Being only a walking memory of pain to those who know me when I know them not? And I know to that you are not the whole of Sidana, I have heard stories, seen memories. A fraction of her, us, yes, but a strong one"

"Integration is the best way"
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Old 10-26-2010, 05:37 AM
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"And what? Return to being her lap dog? I've had a taste of true freedom, to really understand the Beast, to acknowledge the superiority of its power to base mortal weaknesses. I've no intention of going back, and you shouldn't, either.

"Besides, I can give you your memory back."

Without warning, another flashback intrudes on your consciousness.

You find yourself dressed in an equestrian’s outfit, studying your reflection in a full-length mirror. Your braid reaches to the small of your back. Turning this way and that, you see Bonnie standing next to the mirror. You look back into an elegantly appointed penthouse. Your sire sits upon a curve-legged loveseat, a tall, handsome man whom you vaguely recognize but cannot identify next to her. Your own childe, Mag, is seated in a matching parlor chair.

“I don’t know if this really suits me, this English style,” you say, idly tapping your left leg with a crop.

“Natural light would flatter the outfit better,” Bonnie replies, “but it looks lovely on you.” You glimpse a fleeting look of uncertainty on her face, and realize that she doesn’t understand why this fitting session is happening at night. It suddenly occurs to you, Rosalyn, that is the evening of Bonnie’s Embrace.

“I’m still not sure,” you say, setting down the crop. You doff the rounded cap you’re wearing and look down at it, holding it in both hands. “I think I like the jersey ensembles better. Or what about something like they’re wearing.” You remove one hand from the cap to gesture towards the other women in the room, both of whom are wearing some variation of a glossy black cardigan jacket and matching slacks. Bonnie gives you an ingratiating smile, one that’s a trifle… indulgent?

“I’m sure we could come up with some lovely jersey suits.” Bonnie’s tone of voice and demeanor subtly but unmistakably communicate that she thinks the other outfits are a bit too grown-up for you.

“I’m older than I look,” you say, voice suddenly cool. “I’ll have you know, I already have one childe. And I may have a second soon.” The reflection looking back at you now is a bit sulky, which just irritates you more. You see Mag rise and come to you. She takes the cap from your hand and replaces it on your head, and you allow her to turn you back towards the mirror. Bonnie, obviously confused by what you've just said, retires a few steps while Mag speaks to your reflected images, childe just entering her middle years to the teenage sire.

“Sidana, darling, I thought we had already discussed this. You’re going to have another sister. It’s best that way.”

“I don’t want another sister. I already have one. Families that get too big can have difficulties getting along. I should have another daughter.” The man’s reflected gaze catches your own. “Or perhaps another cousin. What do you think of that, Charles?”

“That I have no interest in starting my own family. I have my own charges to take care of, and it will occupy my full attention.” Charles gets on his feet and joins you and Mag, then continues speaking in a quiet voice.

“The Germans will be coming, Sidana, it is only a matter of time. Paris will be no fit place for you to raise a family when that happens. England is where you belong, where duty dictates for you to go.”

“I know that, but the childe will be alone regardless of whether she is daughter or sister. And it is still my right.”

“Not alone, Sidana, I shall always be here to render such aid as I can to the scions of our grandsire’s house. She will have another protector, one who will be more powerful if you were to have a new sister instead of another daughter. And I thought it was understood, when you returned to Paris, that you would be given free reign in the city in exchange for not adding to your family.”

“Charles is quite right, Sidana,” Gwynnis says, finally leaving the loveseat to join everyone else by the mirror. “We’ve covered these matters in painstaking detail.” An aspect of long-suffering patience enters your sire’s voice and face, filling you with the desire to lash out.

“I’m not a little girl!” You remove the rounded cap again and hurl it to the floor before stomping it with a massive boot heel.

“Anyone witnessing this little scene would be hard-pressed to agree, childe.” You round on your sire, blood boiling. “I shall remind you once, your mother is still quite capable of turning you over her knee.”

“You’re her mother?” Bonnie asks, alternating a bewildered look between your childe and your sire. Her voice somehow quells your rage.

“I am her sire. I’m also older than I look,” Gwynnis says, smiling. Your sire catches your reflected gaze, and after a moment you drop your eyes in acquiescence, eliciting another smile. She’s still the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen when she smiles.

“Soon I will be your sire as well.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Granted. It can be quite confusing, I know. You’re about to be adopted. Charles, will you bring our other companion here?” Bonnie can only splutter as Charles does as he’s bidden.

“I believe I can supply you with one familiar face. Perhaps hearing it from Arthur, your Arthur, will help.”

“This way, Captain,” Charles says through the door to the other room in the penthouse. A tall, fit man with dark hair just beginning to gray emerges to Bonnie’s astonishment.

“Boy? But you’re dead! Is this your idea of a joke? It’s in very poor taste.”

“Coco, darling, it’s not a joke.” Bonnie starts, obviously recognizing the voice. The man called Boy manages a nervous grin. Despite being in each other’s presence for mere moments, the depth of feeling between them is obvious. You’d been to the shrine, the one that Bonnie had supposedly started, but you weren’t sure. Grudgingly you admit to yourself that your sire had judged well in this matter. In spite of feeding on your sire’s blood each month for two decades, the man called Boy only had eyes for Bonnie.

“But you haven’t aged at all,” Bonnie says faintly.

“It’s true, I haven’t. For 20 years I’ve partaken of my mistress’, that is to say Gwynnis’ blood. I am immortal, as you will soon be, in an even greater capacity than mine.”

Your sire gives Bonnie but a split-second to assimilate this information before extending her arms and her fangs, compelling your new sister to walk into the embrace of the angel of death.


"You had the right of it at first. We ruled Paris then, it was our absolute right to take Bonnie for our own. Our meddlesome sire took it upon herself to take our rightful childe from us. And this is what you'd return to?"
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Last edited by Detritus; 10-26-2010 at 03:28 PM.
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