[Sodium_noir] a snapshot in the evening

[Spikey]

Come up and see me, make me smile
Or do what you want, run on wild

Saturday 25th of October

Damien, outcast hero of the Silent Striders, slumbered for a few hours while Ra rode his boat through the brightest part of the day. His life on the road, his ronin status, his ever growing list of enemies, they had all conspired to prevent him sleeping deeply or for long and over time that had become normal for him. Now he survived on the minimum period of slumber and was renown for the ability to fall asleep even while leaning against a wall or sat up in a chair. This particular Saturday he has at least found a car to stretch out in. An old vehicle with no sophisticated alarms and a lock that his Gifts could bypass without the slightest effort. 

While he slept Damien dreamed of his youth. He Dreamed of the black sand and the Nile. Of merchant caravans and sand blasted tents. In the same dreams he flew, carried aloft by the wings of Owl, and Gotham was laid out beneath him. Perhaps Owl or the Sphinx sent the dreams, perhaps they were just his thoughts unravelling, but the city seemed to be giving up its worries to him as he slept. he saw the city like a pair of scales, with the Weaver and the Wyrm entwined in the centre and the Wyld desperately trying to balance them out on either end of a precarious set of arms. 

He'd slept too many times in the vardo of the Rom to dismiss such images and even in his dreams he recognised what his brain interpreted in such ways. The Weaver and the Wyrm in twisted congress was Melcom. The blight on the soul of Gotham. Poisoned technology and corrupted science in the hands of some beings even his race had trouble defining. The bastions of the Wyld on either side were the garou in the West and the Isles of crabs in the East. It was those two islands that drew his attention right now. The Funfair on the northern island and the small caern on the Southern Isle. 

He'd visited the Funfair early that morning and seen the remarkable progress they had made. In hardly any time at all the twisted wreckage had been returned to its previous glory. Just like the fairy tales of old when elves had laboured through the night to make countless pairs of shoes or to spin cloth into Gold, the Fey of Gotham, under the leadership of Lord Mordraine ap Ailil, had refurbished the fairground in no time at all. However, as he had thought more on the subject he had begun to wonder if perhaps the enigmatic Mordraine, Kurt Morgan to the mortal world, had simply thrown vast amounts of money and manpower at the project in order to hurry it along.

The second island, the smaller piece of land without the residential buildings of its larger sibling, he had yet to visit. Perhaps tomorrow he would take the ferry across with all the water sporting weekenders and take a stroll around the island. See what Chester and his pups had accomplished so far. His Dreams seemed to be behind that plan he thought as he struggled back to full wakefulness. 

Dragging himself from the back seat of the stolen car, the tall Garou scanned his surroundings carefully and then unlocked the door and extracted himself from the vehicle like a lanky insect leaving its cocoon. Rubbing the back of his neck he gathered his sense of direction and began walking towards uptown and club Harlequin.
_______________________________________

Leon Wolf, mortal agent of the Basarab Brujah and of Dusk industries sat back in the barbers chair. It had been a long tiring couple of days, he hadn't slept 8 hours in the past three days, and this was his way of winding down. a shave, a manicure, a cream soda. The hot towel across his face, opening his pores with steam and clearing his sinuses was a blessed relief. It also made him wish he had a decent line to snort.

As well as checking in on the weird old lady who rented to Officer Hope Zagorski, he had been staking out Mara Ravenclaw's haunts and the Basarab's insisted that all surveillance be done with no written notes or recording so he needed to keep a straight head. His problem was he was too damn good at this. The perfect middleman, organising deals and greasing wheels, watching mortals and making things happen. It hardly moved him at all these days and that's why the problem with the cocaine had started. 

The Basarab's, his ancestors in truth, had played this game for centuries. It was in his blood, in his DNA. But things moved quicker in this century and he wasn't entirely sure they grasped that yet. Or if they had, they simply found it amusing to leave him in the dark about it. 

The web of Dusk influence was spread wide. Lady Allesandra Gaspare had made a first contact with the magi. Perhaps allowing Dusk to join forces with those who already had a beef with Melcom. The Basarab's themselves had been cultivating a friendship with Mara Ravenclaw whom knew Melcom and its deviations from old. Now he had this mortal police woman to watch over, perhaps bring into the fold. So many irons in the fire. 

When this little appointment for pampering was over he would have to go back out into the city and shuffle those irons for his masters. The game's next moves had to be made, the pieces set in motion.
__________________________________

Kisses the Moon for Luck hardly moved at all. Today, as with every other day, she'd taken a cocktail of drugs that would kill a bull elephant and now she slept deeply and without pain. In the bed next to her was a body with even less movement and no signs of life what so ever. the Corpse of Columbine the Ravnos lay wrapped in a blanket, a smile on her full dark lips as she dreamed of her undead husband.

The only member of the trio who called themselves the Urmen who was awake was Babe. Keeper of the Dead. Nursemaid to the insane. Herald of doom. The petite Immortal sprawled on the end of the bed at the other girls feet and read her new book. A gift from Panic, a little peace offering perhaps? Last time she'd been in Gotham he'd gotten her drunk and when they made love he had kissed her. 

They had parted on bad terms and she'd been so angry with him for being him she had closed the bank account he set up for her and repaid all the money. between them two that was like slapping him in the face and spitting in his eye.

But he deserved it, she hadn't been that angry for millennia. 

The book was beautiful though, a recent comparison on the Dead sea Scrolls and other Coptic eschatological revelations by a noted Vatican scholar. It had been wrapped in a tie died skirt complete with twenty or so cassettes, compilations he'd made of dance tunes for her.

He was so hard to stay mad at she thought as she listened to the tapes and read the book for the second time that day. Making little corrections in pencil.
___________________________________________

In the Chaste Dragon, Panic slept fitfully while his little companion tried to avoid being squashed. Wrapped in his sweat soaked sheets that stuck to his naked body like a shroud, he kicked and tossed at imaginary foes. Tink eventually retreated to a pillow on the floor and struggled to find sleep for herself. 

His Dreams were plagued with the cities troubles, with the poison leaking into the bay from the Melcom fuel line in the river. From the Broken wheel of the Camarilla inner council. From the slowly healing wound of Chinatown. From the slowly cindering blue touch paper in the Sabbat manse. From the insanity festering and growing in Christopher Bennett's mansion and the return of the Blood Mages to the suburbs. Even the fall of the Snake Bitches gangs in Darktown and the Setites uncoiling left images and perceptions in his minds eye. 

But that was nothing new for Panic. He had grown used to the troubled heart of the city speaking to him as he slept. even begun to take comfort from its turmoil. But now his haven, his inner sanctum had been disturbed. The Chaste Dragon was full of creatures he didn't want there. Vampires, other mages, Demons and mortals not part of the plan. The Threshold was uncomfortable with so many new energies within its embrace and when the Threshold was disturbed, so was its master. 

For a Mage, he made a very good transmitter. His disturbed mind reached out and effected all the girls under his roof. None of them slept well and most took something to help them ward off the bad dreams or simply gave up and dragged themselves from their beds early. For the first time images there were spare people volunteering to cook.
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