The Seven Days War, Night One
23:30 PM, Central European Time
Doyle shifted in his seat somewhat irritably as the plane touched down, the pouring rain outside testament to the growing storm in the city. He gently stroked Fiona's hair as she laid languidly against him like a sleeping cat, his arm around her as they started to rouse themselves. It had been about an hour since the sun had dipped under the horizon, preparations made to make sure they arrived past nightfall. It had been troublesome going through customs and security in New York, now, as everything started to turn real, as the thought "we're here, we're doing this" really hammered itself to the forefront of Doyle's brain, the casual frustration of wanting to get out of the plane's claustrophobic environs let him take in the enormity of what laid before them in smaller doses.
"We're here." Doyle said quietly, his finger idly tracing one of the rings that now graced Fiona's fingers.
"Hmm?" Fiona murmured, eyes blissfully closed as she yawned, still sluggish and comfortable. "Five more minutes..." She said with a sleepy smirk, hugging him.
"C'mon." He said with a soft smile, nudging her. "Didn't Crassus need you down there?"
"Aw, all right..." Fiona muttered, getting back up and stretching as the others onboard their plane started to file out.
"I'll take care of the bags, you go meet up with Crassus and take care of customs." Doyle said, getting up himself. "More time for everything else later."
Fiona smirked at him, and quickly got off the plane ahead of a few others. Doyle gathered up their things, waiting for the other kindred onboard to disembark before going himself.
Emerging into a massive hangar, Doyle paused only a moment to marvel at the preparations being made. Everyone, kindred and mortal alike, moved with enthusiastic professionalism, unloading and checking gear, posessions, weapons, supplies. Doyle had seen scenes like it in movies, such a flurry of activity, but never in person before now. He didn't even see Fiona in all the controlled chaos.
Closing his eyes a moment as he disembarked fully from the plane and started to walk towards the massed groups of Kindred by the offloading ramp of their flight, Doyle snatched up his duffel with his gear along with Fiona's, going over to one of the groups of Invictus and giving a brief high-five to Thomas Odd as the Carthian walked past. It didn't take long before he found the person he'd been meaning to speak with, however.
"Marquis - can I borrow a moment of your time?"
Hamilton looked up with a nod, his suit unrumpled and immaculate despite the long flight. Two swords, ornate, well-used and recently secured, hung at his sides. "Lord Calligan, of course. What can I do for you?"
Doyle shook his hand briefly, his expression turning concerned. "During the gathering in Indianapolis, an old friend of mine was killed - a Dracul named Spiral Legato. I was told you were present there, I'd been hoping to gain some perspective on what happened."
Hamilton nodded again. "I do apologize for your loss - I have been advised not to speak at length on the matter." He paused, smiling slightly. "However, I am sure answering your questions will not hurt. What do you wish to know?"
"I should explain." Doyle said with a slight sigh, hoping to put Hamilton at ease. "Spiral was the first Prince I met - among the first Elders I met, who I felt deserved their titles. I had a lot of respect for the man. Call me wanting to put some perspective on it all, know what happened in there. I was trying to get everything mustered at the time for the hit on the warehouse, I'm told it was Alder Talbot that went after him."
The two Invictus had a seat on a large plastic case that had been brought in loaded with munitions. "It is hard to lose those that we hold in high regard. I am not proud of what happened that day; however, the events were set into motion because the departed was accused of being an agent of VII." His expression turned annoyed. "Thanks to memories and accusations of the traitor."
Doyle nodded, thinking back to Strychnine's capture, interrogation and execution. Hamilton continued.
"As a result a large number of Invictus, including myself, were led by Baroness McGregor to determine the truth of these accusations."
"I have no doubt Strychnine was being used," Doyle said, eyes on the floor. "By VII potentially, or someone from Mount Pleasant - her home domain." he added with a glance to Hamilton. "Everyone accused of that rumor - I'd seen it debunked before, to be honest - was connected to the city I'd been prince of. I'm surprised I didn't show up on their list."
Hamilton considered a moment. "I am not certain what the result of the findings were as I was too far away to hear. However, his Grace recognized the departed as someone that was part of a group that attempted to kill him years ago. Consequently, he was presented with an opening and struck the first blow."
Doyle just nodded a bit sadly, remembering Jordan's words about Talbot needing to sleep those years ago. "Spiral had a lot of enemies and a lot of secrets, I figured they'd catch up with him eventually. Didn't think I'd outlive him though."
Hamilton nodded. "Someone once said, 'you can tell the quality of a man by the quality of his enemies.'"
"An interesting thought." Doyle said with a grim smirk, thinking of how many kindred "of quality" seemed to consider him an enemy, or at least a nuisance. "Thank you, Marquis, I appreciate the information." He rose, giving a slight salute. "Was there anything about the whole episode that seemed out of place? I'm...well, call me a conspiracy theorist, there's a lot of bad things connected to that VII rumor."
Hamilton rose to meet him, returning the salute. "Not that I can think of off hand, it seemed the motives were fairly cut and dry. Though I did see a Nosferatu steal away with miss Barnes."
Doyle's beast roused at mention of Sofia, and he gave a dismissive shrug towards Hamilton. "The Barneses can take care of themselves. If anything this rumor's persistence is proof to how irritating they are to their enemies and everyone else." Trying to keep the bitterness out of his tone, he looked to Hamilton with a smile. "Thank you again though. I hate dealing with secrets and unknowns, this puts a lot more into perspective."
"My pleasure." Hamilton replied. "Was there anything else?"
"Lord Calligan?" A voice called out nearby. "Doyle Calligan?"
"Nothing comes to mind." Doyle said, glancing in the direction of the voice. "Good luck in the battle."
"You as well." Hamilton said, Doyle heading off towards the person now seeking him out.
"Here." Doyle said clearly, approaching a ghoul with a clipboard in-hand. One of the benefits of his voice was not needing to raise it much before it started to carry.
"You have been assigned to the second Battle Line." she said with a slightly haughty air about her. She pointed at a group of slightly bored-looking kindred. Doyle recognized Damien Hale out of them, but the rest were unknown. Doyle nodded to the ghoul.
"And Bishop Kelley?" he asked.
"Sir, I'm instructed that you are with the Second Battle Line. That's all. I have no listing of a 'Bishop Kelley' with them."
"You don't understand, she's with me on this - there's got to be a mistake here." They wouldn't have assigned them to separate teams, he thought. Would they?
"Sir, the units are organized for tactical flexibility and functionality, I am certain Bishop Kelley will be taken care of."
"Well, can you tell me where she's going to be?" He hefted one of the bags. "Half of this is hers."
"We'll take care of that, sir." She nodded to a pair of assistants, who took the luggage from Doyle's shoulders, taking Fiona's over to a cart with numerous others. "In the meantime, I suggest you join up with the remainder of your team. Alder Vincenzo is likely waiting for you."
"Whoa, hold up, you're not just gonna brush this off without me knowing even where she is. We're a team, I don't just-"
"Sir," the Ghoul interrupted sternly, Doyle biting back his beast as he had flashbacks to another arrogant ghoul, the one who'd become Coldfire's childe. "I am instructed to gather the members of the Second Battle Line and assemble them so they can be organized, we do not have time for indulgences and you do not have to make a scene. Bishop Kelley will be seen to, you will likely see her at the Prince's court this evening. Please join up with your team and leave this to us."
Doyle seethed a little. The whole point of her going was to keep him safe, to work together on something at last, and here was one testy ghoul having her moment of power and wrecking it all. "I plan on speaking to your regnant about this." He said with a quiet glare, snatching his duffel back from the nearest assistant and shouldering it again, storming back towards his assigned unit.
Some brief small talk broke out among the second battle line as people were introduced around. Besides Hale, who calmly toyed with a spare bowstring, Doyle was in the company of a decent number of Gangrel and Mekhet - Vorg Ostburg of the Crone, Paul Hadren, their lone Carthian, Amara Reynolds making up the Ordo contingent along with Hale and a Nosferatu named only "Frost," who checked over an ornate polearm of a type Doyle thought he'd once seen in Elias's collections. The unaligned O'Reilly brothers, Michael and Patrick, casually chattered and quipped at one another - sharing a name but not a clan, Doyle allowed himself to believe that family from before the Requiem still meant something to a few people. Everyone seemed on edge to an extent, the chatter served largely to keep them all distracted from the job at hand. Doyle took a little comfort in the thought that at the least, he wasn't the only one seeing his first war.
"Happy christmas." The words were from Alder Antonio Vincenzo, their erstwhile leader and the sole Ventrue among them, passing down the line throwing small satchels to everyone. Doyle caught his with a skeptical glance, opening it up to find a radio, headset, small tactical flashlight, utility tape, and a marker.
"What's wi' the marker?" one of the O'Reillys asked.
"Special." Vincenzo responded. "They'll glow in the dark, will write on just about anything, including red-hot steel." Doyle nodded, rolling the marker between a couple fingers and tossing it back into the bag. "Now, get yourselves together - I want to get to our accommodations and secure it before we go meet the Prince."
"What do you mean, meet the Prince?" the other O'Reilly, this time. "Aren't we to be fightin' a war here?"
"We need to present ourselves to the Prince like civilized kindred - that's the theory, anyway." Vincenzo glanced around the group. "Foxe says everyone is going, so everyone is going."
02:00 AM
Prague's streets were supposedly lovely at night - not that Doyle would know, crammed into the back end of an ancient Gaz van as the Second Battle Line trundled through the outskirts of town towards Elysium. Apparently the supply division had the idea of buying up some old soviet-era vehicles, the better to blend in. At the moment, Doyle had only been wondering what was going to happen if the police decided to stop a train of old, crappy soviet-era vans all going to the same white-collar location in town.
"God willing the cops are preoccupied." he muttered to himself, Frost and Hale nodding quietly in agreement. The van abruptly swerved. "Hey!"
"Sorry!" Hadren called from the driver's seat. "Burning cars every couple of streets out here, I don't wanna get us surrounded by pissy kids with baseball bats either."
Ostburg chuckled darkly. "We could use the snack."
Doyle rolled his eyes a little, but glanced to the Crone. "Business before pleasure, yeah?" he offered. "Mister Hadren, any sign of our destination?"
"We're almost there. What, you gotta take a piss?"
"Cram yerself in a van wi' four gangrel when it's standing room only and you tell me how much you wanna be there." Patrick O'Reilly's words sent a chuckle through the tight confines.
A few moments later, the vans pulled up in front of their erstwhile headquarters for the campaign. Strategically located outside the city center, a cheap two-story apartment building had been purchased for them through Foxe's connections and no small amount of Invictus coin. Gratefully offloading as the ghouls and support staff began bringing in equipment and dayproofing the area, Doyle picked out his bunk on the lower level, Hale setting up nearby him. Changing into somewhat more appropriate clothing for court, his armor hidden using the trick Gertrude had taught him, Doyle and the others secured their possessions and armed themselves.
"You really think the Pig's gonna attack their court again, the night we get here no less?" Hadren asked.
"Rather have it and not need it than need it and not have it." Doyle responded, slipping a long, thin knife into a sleeve holster. "Besides, the Pig hit their court once, killed most of them. I don't go into someplace without knowing I can get out of it."
03:00 AM
Arriving at the hotel court was being held at and checking in at the desk, Doyle and the Second Battle Line began to mingle as they could, staying within communication and briefly exchanging numbers to make sure they would know if something was up.
The hotel itself was lavish, plush carpets cover the floor of the still, silent lobby. Armed guards stood around the white paneled room by heavily curtained windows, the outside world seeming utterly cut out - probably their intention after the last court's incidents. A Viennese waltz played through the hotel, mingling with the sounds of the nearby Prague airport.
Ascending in the elevators to the marble floored ballroom, the group started to disseminate out, Doyle gravitated towards the Invictus groupings with Vincenzo. After scanning the crowd for Fiona and finding nothing however, Doyle started to get concerned. No one reported seeing her either. At last, Vincenzo pulled him aside. "Everyone's got their jobs to do. Concentrate on yours. Got it?"
Doyle nodded, trying to put the worried thoughts out of his mind. It wasn't like he could tear off ignoring orders to go look for her anyway, he didn't even speak the language. Goddamn correspondence course, he thought to himself irritably.
The murmurs of the crowd fell silent, a collective gag reflex starting to rise as a positively hideous example of a Nosferatu made her presence known. Her face and body coated with blemishes and horrendous scars of plague and disease, Doyle could practically feel the greasy, rancid scent of sour milk in the air. Crammed into a long and exquisitely designed black gown, Doyle took note of the usual Nos tendency for juxtaposition as she spoke.
“Fellow Kindred, you are most welcome, you are so very welcome to Prague, your heroism can never be fully appreciated for you are saving not only Prague but the Kindred everywhere from the chaos and anarchy of Viktor Trepan. If there is anything I may do to aid you, though I am no soldier, please inform me and I shall endavour to assist you.” Doyle blinked slightly, the juxtaposition of her voice and appearance even sharper than her dress. He was suddenly reminded of that singer the mortals talked about from England, Boyle or something, taken to extremes.
“I am Black Molly, Priscus of the Nosferatu, and I thank you with all my heart.” She quickly swept aside, a smartly dressed Daeva with the kind of looks that made tweens melt.
He spread his arms, bowing. “Jack Nasty, Harpy.” he said with a grin. “Forgive me if I do not immediately recognize you all but meeting in person is so very different from the impersonal communication of the Internet” Doyle wondered if there was someone he was looking for in particular, the Harpy's eyes scanning the room in totality.
“The Prince shall be here soon, please socialize, we have Kindred from all over the world here tonight who have come to Prague to fight the War Pig.” he quickly pulled a small black book from his back pocket, wandering over past Doyle. “Forgive me," he whispered in that comedic tone so common to harpies, that carried no intimacy whatsoever. "I must attend the French contingent. No offense, but several of them are as friendly as rabid porcupines.” his eyes glanced over to a shadowy alcove of individuals, a very short one perched on a chair the only distinct one among them. With that, Jack Nasty sauntered off to disappear into the crowd.
A soft voiced androgyne chimed in, a pretty blonde with a voice like a bell standing at the steps to the elevators read off a scroll in Czech. Doyle once again silently hoped for someone to drop a buick on the company responsible for his correspondence course, overhearing a few english conversations discussing the Laws of the City.
At last, the elevator doors opened. A stunning figure emerged, clear blue eyes and long black hair that swept up behind her head, a tailored white gown that hugged her body in all the right ways.
"Long while since I saw a Nos that looked that good." Thomas Odd's voice murmured from nearby, Doyle giving a quiet nod.
Four androgynous shapes, slender yet muscular in black suits and small white domino masks flanked her - Bodyguards and enforcers, Doyle wagered. Two of them twitched...and in a blur they had vanished in opposite directions.
Mari Brendan smiled a perfect smile and descended to the main gathering. Immediately the main diplomatic minds among the expeditionary force moved forward to greet her, Foxe to the fore. Tension was the rule, but like most of the major gathers Doyle had been to, civility kept a decent veneer. "What I'd give for a table with Marquise Essex and some lacrima..." Doyle muttered.
The Prince strode around the room, stopping to chat with every contingent for a moment at least, spending several minutes speaking with the French and then joined one of the groups from Ireland proper, then turned to move on.
“Don't worry love, we'll sort it out for ya” the accented voice of a man covered in religious tattoos chimed in after her, his voice loud and his laughter boisterous. A pretty irishwoman next to him cringed, a tall man in a duster by her putting his hand to his face. The room held its breath. Doyle's gaze was locked on Brendan.
Mari Brendan turned, facing the tattooed man again.
“Sure, we'll sort it for you.” he smirked, crossing his arms high on his chest and leaning back. “No problem."
The Prince raised her eyebrow...and the man let out a horrendous scream, high pitched and terrified. Not pausing, he turned and fled, crashing through caterers, slamming his shoulder off a pillar with a sickening crunch and not caring as he raced for the sanctuary of anywhere else. The Prince's eyes seemed to flicker and warp from a void-dark hue, and she casually turned to move on to the next group.
“Nice shoes” she flippantly commented to the Irishwoman as she bowed her head apologetically, Brendan's voice devoid of mirth, or really any other emotion.
It was an hour before Doyle spotted the tattooed man again, his shaking form ushered back in by the other Irish to the chuckles and smirks of the other vampires in the room. Immortality had a long shelf-life for public shame, as Doyle had come to be familiar with.
“I do hope he's okay.” Doyle heard Black Molly's angelic voice murmur amidst the crowd.
05:00 AM
Doyle laid in his bunk, frowning. It wasn't long until dawn now, they'd gotten back relatively early to allow time for getting back around the mobs. He hadn't seen Fiona the whole night. It made no sense, and it was starting to worry him. Getting out his Blackberry, Doyle pulled up a simple text message.
Have not seen you, stuck following orders with 2nd BL. Will try and stay in touch, be safe. Love you.
Doyle sent it with a sigh, putting the device away and rolling onto his side after a yawn. Daysleep overtook him as the sun rose outside, the city of Prague woke wearily into another day of conflict.
Doyle shifted in his seat somewhat irritably as the plane touched down, the pouring rain outside testament to the growing storm in the city. He gently stroked Fiona's hair as she laid languidly against him like a sleeping cat, his arm around her as they started to rouse themselves. It had been about an hour since the sun had dipped under the horizon, preparations made to make sure they arrived past nightfall. It had been troublesome going through customs and security in New York, now, as everything started to turn real, as the thought "we're here, we're doing this" really hammered itself to the forefront of Doyle's brain, the casual frustration of wanting to get out of the plane's claustrophobic environs let him take in the enormity of what laid before them in smaller doses.
"We're here." Doyle said quietly, his finger idly tracing one of the rings that now graced Fiona's fingers.
"Hmm?" Fiona murmured, eyes blissfully closed as she yawned, still sluggish and comfortable. "Five more minutes..." She said with a sleepy smirk, hugging him.
"C'mon." He said with a soft smile, nudging her. "Didn't Crassus need you down there?"
"Aw, all right..." Fiona muttered, getting back up and stretching as the others onboard their plane started to file out.
"I'll take care of the bags, you go meet up with Crassus and take care of customs." Doyle said, getting up himself. "More time for everything else later."
Fiona smirked at him, and quickly got off the plane ahead of a few others. Doyle gathered up their things, waiting for the other kindred onboard to disembark before going himself.
Emerging into a massive hangar, Doyle paused only a moment to marvel at the preparations being made. Everyone, kindred and mortal alike, moved with enthusiastic professionalism, unloading and checking gear, posessions, weapons, supplies. Doyle had seen scenes like it in movies, such a flurry of activity, but never in person before now. He didn't even see Fiona in all the controlled chaos.
Closing his eyes a moment as he disembarked fully from the plane and started to walk towards the massed groups of Kindred by the offloading ramp of their flight, Doyle snatched up his duffel with his gear along with Fiona's, going over to one of the groups of Invictus and giving a brief high-five to Thomas Odd as the Carthian walked past. It didn't take long before he found the person he'd been meaning to speak with, however.
"Marquis - can I borrow a moment of your time?"
Hamilton looked up with a nod, his suit unrumpled and immaculate despite the long flight. Two swords, ornate, well-used and recently secured, hung at his sides. "Lord Calligan, of course. What can I do for you?"
Doyle shook his hand briefly, his expression turning concerned. "During the gathering in Indianapolis, an old friend of mine was killed - a Dracul named Spiral Legato. I was told you were present there, I'd been hoping to gain some perspective on what happened."
Hamilton nodded again. "I do apologize for your loss - I have been advised not to speak at length on the matter." He paused, smiling slightly. "However, I am sure answering your questions will not hurt. What do you wish to know?"
"I should explain." Doyle said with a slight sigh, hoping to put Hamilton at ease. "Spiral was the first Prince I met - among the first Elders I met, who I felt deserved their titles. I had a lot of respect for the man. Call me wanting to put some perspective on it all, know what happened in there. I was trying to get everything mustered at the time for the hit on the warehouse, I'm told it was Alder Talbot that went after him."
The two Invictus had a seat on a large plastic case that had been brought in loaded with munitions. "It is hard to lose those that we hold in high regard. I am not proud of what happened that day; however, the events were set into motion because the departed was accused of being an agent of VII." His expression turned annoyed. "Thanks to memories and accusations of the traitor."
Doyle nodded, thinking back to Strychnine's capture, interrogation and execution. Hamilton continued.
"As a result a large number of Invictus, including myself, were led by Baroness McGregor to determine the truth of these accusations."
"I have no doubt Strychnine was being used," Doyle said, eyes on the floor. "By VII potentially, or someone from Mount Pleasant - her home domain." he added with a glance to Hamilton. "Everyone accused of that rumor - I'd seen it debunked before, to be honest - was connected to the city I'd been prince of. I'm surprised I didn't show up on their list."
Hamilton considered a moment. "I am not certain what the result of the findings were as I was too far away to hear. However, his Grace recognized the departed as someone that was part of a group that attempted to kill him years ago. Consequently, he was presented with an opening and struck the first blow."
Doyle just nodded a bit sadly, remembering Jordan's words about Talbot needing to sleep those years ago. "Spiral had a lot of enemies and a lot of secrets, I figured they'd catch up with him eventually. Didn't think I'd outlive him though."
Hamilton nodded. "Someone once said, 'you can tell the quality of a man by the quality of his enemies.'"
"An interesting thought." Doyle said with a grim smirk, thinking of how many kindred "of quality" seemed to consider him an enemy, or at least a nuisance. "Thank you, Marquis, I appreciate the information." He rose, giving a slight salute. "Was there anything about the whole episode that seemed out of place? I'm...well, call me a conspiracy theorist, there's a lot of bad things connected to that VII rumor."
Hamilton rose to meet him, returning the salute. "Not that I can think of off hand, it seemed the motives were fairly cut and dry. Though I did see a Nosferatu steal away with miss Barnes."
Doyle's beast roused at mention of Sofia, and he gave a dismissive shrug towards Hamilton. "The Barneses can take care of themselves. If anything this rumor's persistence is proof to how irritating they are to their enemies and everyone else." Trying to keep the bitterness out of his tone, he looked to Hamilton with a smile. "Thank you again though. I hate dealing with secrets and unknowns, this puts a lot more into perspective."
"My pleasure." Hamilton replied. "Was there anything else?"
"Lord Calligan?" A voice called out nearby. "Doyle Calligan?"
"Nothing comes to mind." Doyle said, glancing in the direction of the voice. "Good luck in the battle."
"You as well." Hamilton said, Doyle heading off towards the person now seeking him out.
"Here." Doyle said clearly, approaching a ghoul with a clipboard in-hand. One of the benefits of his voice was not needing to raise it much before it started to carry.
"You have been assigned to the second Battle Line." she said with a slightly haughty air about her. She pointed at a group of slightly bored-looking kindred. Doyle recognized Damien Hale out of them, but the rest were unknown. Doyle nodded to the ghoul.
"And Bishop Kelley?" he asked.
"Sir, I'm instructed that you are with the Second Battle Line. That's all. I have no listing of a 'Bishop Kelley' with them."
"You don't understand, she's with me on this - there's got to be a mistake here." They wouldn't have assigned them to separate teams, he thought. Would they?
"Sir, the units are organized for tactical flexibility and functionality, I am certain Bishop Kelley will be taken care of."
"Well, can you tell me where she's going to be?" He hefted one of the bags. "Half of this is hers."
"We'll take care of that, sir." She nodded to a pair of assistants, who took the luggage from Doyle's shoulders, taking Fiona's over to a cart with numerous others. "In the meantime, I suggest you join up with the remainder of your team. Alder Vincenzo is likely waiting for you."
"Whoa, hold up, you're not just gonna brush this off without me knowing even where she is. We're a team, I don't just-"
"Sir," the Ghoul interrupted sternly, Doyle biting back his beast as he had flashbacks to another arrogant ghoul, the one who'd become Coldfire's childe. "I am instructed to gather the members of the Second Battle Line and assemble them so they can be organized, we do not have time for indulgences and you do not have to make a scene. Bishop Kelley will be seen to, you will likely see her at the Prince's court this evening. Please join up with your team and leave this to us."
Doyle seethed a little. The whole point of her going was to keep him safe, to work together on something at last, and here was one testy ghoul having her moment of power and wrecking it all. "I plan on speaking to your regnant about this." He said with a quiet glare, snatching his duffel back from the nearest assistant and shouldering it again, storming back towards his assigned unit.
Some brief small talk broke out among the second battle line as people were introduced around. Besides Hale, who calmly toyed with a spare bowstring, Doyle was in the company of a decent number of Gangrel and Mekhet - Vorg Ostburg of the Crone, Paul Hadren, their lone Carthian, Amara Reynolds making up the Ordo contingent along with Hale and a Nosferatu named only "Frost," who checked over an ornate polearm of a type Doyle thought he'd once seen in Elias's collections. The unaligned O'Reilly brothers, Michael and Patrick, casually chattered and quipped at one another - sharing a name but not a clan, Doyle allowed himself to believe that family from before the Requiem still meant something to a few people. Everyone seemed on edge to an extent, the chatter served largely to keep them all distracted from the job at hand. Doyle took a little comfort in the thought that at the least, he wasn't the only one seeing his first war.
"Happy christmas." The words were from Alder Antonio Vincenzo, their erstwhile leader and the sole Ventrue among them, passing down the line throwing small satchels to everyone. Doyle caught his with a skeptical glance, opening it up to find a radio, headset, small tactical flashlight, utility tape, and a marker.
"What's wi' the marker?" one of the O'Reillys asked.
"Special." Vincenzo responded. "They'll glow in the dark, will write on just about anything, including red-hot steel." Doyle nodded, rolling the marker between a couple fingers and tossing it back into the bag. "Now, get yourselves together - I want to get to our accommodations and secure it before we go meet the Prince."
"What do you mean, meet the Prince?" the other O'Reilly, this time. "Aren't we to be fightin' a war here?"
"We need to present ourselves to the Prince like civilized kindred - that's the theory, anyway." Vincenzo glanced around the group. "Foxe says everyone is going, so everyone is going."
02:00 AM
Prague's streets were supposedly lovely at night - not that Doyle would know, crammed into the back end of an ancient Gaz van as the Second Battle Line trundled through the outskirts of town towards Elysium. Apparently the supply division had the idea of buying up some old soviet-era vehicles, the better to blend in. At the moment, Doyle had only been wondering what was going to happen if the police decided to stop a train of old, crappy soviet-era vans all going to the same white-collar location in town.
"God willing the cops are preoccupied." he muttered to himself, Frost and Hale nodding quietly in agreement. The van abruptly swerved. "Hey!"
"Sorry!" Hadren called from the driver's seat. "Burning cars every couple of streets out here, I don't wanna get us surrounded by pissy kids with baseball bats either."
Ostburg chuckled darkly. "We could use the snack."
Doyle rolled his eyes a little, but glanced to the Crone. "Business before pleasure, yeah?" he offered. "Mister Hadren, any sign of our destination?"
"We're almost there. What, you gotta take a piss?"
"Cram yerself in a van wi' four gangrel when it's standing room only and you tell me how much you wanna be there." Patrick O'Reilly's words sent a chuckle through the tight confines.
A few moments later, the vans pulled up in front of their erstwhile headquarters for the campaign. Strategically located outside the city center, a cheap two-story apartment building had been purchased for them through Foxe's connections and no small amount of Invictus coin. Gratefully offloading as the ghouls and support staff began bringing in equipment and dayproofing the area, Doyle picked out his bunk on the lower level, Hale setting up nearby him. Changing into somewhat more appropriate clothing for court, his armor hidden using the trick Gertrude had taught him, Doyle and the others secured their possessions and armed themselves.
"You really think the Pig's gonna attack their court again, the night we get here no less?" Hadren asked.
"Rather have it and not need it than need it and not have it." Doyle responded, slipping a long, thin knife into a sleeve holster. "Besides, the Pig hit their court once, killed most of them. I don't go into someplace without knowing I can get out of it."
03:00 AM
Arriving at the hotel court was being held at and checking in at the desk, Doyle and the Second Battle Line began to mingle as they could, staying within communication and briefly exchanging numbers to make sure they would know if something was up.
The hotel itself was lavish, plush carpets cover the floor of the still, silent lobby. Armed guards stood around the white paneled room by heavily curtained windows, the outside world seeming utterly cut out - probably their intention after the last court's incidents. A Viennese waltz played through the hotel, mingling with the sounds of the nearby Prague airport.
Ascending in the elevators to the marble floored ballroom, the group started to disseminate out, Doyle gravitated towards the Invictus groupings with Vincenzo. After scanning the crowd for Fiona and finding nothing however, Doyle started to get concerned. No one reported seeing her either. At last, Vincenzo pulled him aside. "Everyone's got their jobs to do. Concentrate on yours. Got it?"
Doyle nodded, trying to put the worried thoughts out of his mind. It wasn't like he could tear off ignoring orders to go look for her anyway, he didn't even speak the language. Goddamn correspondence course, he thought to himself irritably.
The murmurs of the crowd fell silent, a collective gag reflex starting to rise as a positively hideous example of a Nosferatu made her presence known. Her face and body coated with blemishes and horrendous scars of plague and disease, Doyle could practically feel the greasy, rancid scent of sour milk in the air. Crammed into a long and exquisitely designed black gown, Doyle took note of the usual Nos tendency for juxtaposition as she spoke.
“Fellow Kindred, you are most welcome, you are so very welcome to Prague, your heroism can never be fully appreciated for you are saving not only Prague but the Kindred everywhere from the chaos and anarchy of Viktor Trepan. If there is anything I may do to aid you, though I am no soldier, please inform me and I shall endavour to assist you.” Doyle blinked slightly, the juxtaposition of her voice and appearance even sharper than her dress. He was suddenly reminded of that singer the mortals talked about from England, Boyle or something, taken to extremes.
“I am Black Molly, Priscus of the Nosferatu, and I thank you with all my heart.” She quickly swept aside, a smartly dressed Daeva with the kind of looks that made tweens melt.
He spread his arms, bowing. “Jack Nasty, Harpy.” he said with a grin. “Forgive me if I do not immediately recognize you all but meeting in person is so very different from the impersonal communication of the Internet” Doyle wondered if there was someone he was looking for in particular, the Harpy's eyes scanning the room in totality.
“The Prince shall be here soon, please socialize, we have Kindred from all over the world here tonight who have come to Prague to fight the War Pig.” he quickly pulled a small black book from his back pocket, wandering over past Doyle. “Forgive me," he whispered in that comedic tone so common to harpies, that carried no intimacy whatsoever. "I must attend the French contingent. No offense, but several of them are as friendly as rabid porcupines.” his eyes glanced over to a shadowy alcove of individuals, a very short one perched on a chair the only distinct one among them. With that, Jack Nasty sauntered off to disappear into the crowd.
A soft voiced androgyne chimed in, a pretty blonde with a voice like a bell standing at the steps to the elevators read off a scroll in Czech. Doyle once again silently hoped for someone to drop a buick on the company responsible for his correspondence course, overhearing a few english conversations discussing the Laws of the City.
At last, the elevator doors opened. A stunning figure emerged, clear blue eyes and long black hair that swept up behind her head, a tailored white gown that hugged her body in all the right ways.
"Long while since I saw a Nos that looked that good." Thomas Odd's voice murmured from nearby, Doyle giving a quiet nod.
Four androgynous shapes, slender yet muscular in black suits and small white domino masks flanked her - Bodyguards and enforcers, Doyle wagered. Two of them twitched...and in a blur they had vanished in opposite directions.
Mari Brendan smiled a perfect smile and descended to the main gathering. Immediately the main diplomatic minds among the expeditionary force moved forward to greet her, Foxe to the fore. Tension was the rule, but like most of the major gathers Doyle had been to, civility kept a decent veneer. "What I'd give for a table with Marquise Essex and some lacrima..." Doyle muttered.
The Prince strode around the room, stopping to chat with every contingent for a moment at least, spending several minutes speaking with the French and then joined one of the groups from Ireland proper, then turned to move on.
“Don't worry love, we'll sort it out for ya” the accented voice of a man covered in religious tattoos chimed in after her, his voice loud and his laughter boisterous. A pretty irishwoman next to him cringed, a tall man in a duster by her putting his hand to his face. The room held its breath. Doyle's gaze was locked on Brendan.
Mari Brendan turned, facing the tattooed man again.
“Sure, we'll sort it for you.” he smirked, crossing his arms high on his chest and leaning back. “No problem."
The Prince raised her eyebrow...and the man let out a horrendous scream, high pitched and terrified. Not pausing, he turned and fled, crashing through caterers, slamming his shoulder off a pillar with a sickening crunch and not caring as he raced for the sanctuary of anywhere else. The Prince's eyes seemed to flicker and warp from a void-dark hue, and she casually turned to move on to the next group.
“Nice shoes” she flippantly commented to the Irishwoman as she bowed her head apologetically, Brendan's voice devoid of mirth, or really any other emotion.
It was an hour before Doyle spotted the tattooed man again, his shaking form ushered back in by the other Irish to the chuckles and smirks of the other vampires in the room. Immortality had a long shelf-life for public shame, as Doyle had come to be familiar with.
“I do hope he's okay.” Doyle heard Black Molly's angelic voice murmur amidst the crowd.
05:00 AM
Doyle laid in his bunk, frowning. It wasn't long until dawn now, they'd gotten back relatively early to allow time for getting back around the mobs. He hadn't seen Fiona the whole night. It made no sense, and it was starting to worry him. Getting out his Blackberry, Doyle pulled up a simple text message.
Have not seen you, stuck following orders with 2nd BL. Will try and stay in touch, be safe. Love you.
Doyle sent it with a sigh, putting the device away and rolling onto his side after a yawn. Daysleep overtook him as the sun rose outside, the city of Prague woke wearily into another day of conflict.