*Spelling error in the previous Chapter. Caininite should be spelled Cainite.
January, 4, 2010 2:30 PM
Somewhere in the air over the Southeast, the three Cainites sleep in the protection of a windowless puddle-jumper cargo aircraft. Joro managed to find a pilot on short notice that agreed to fly the three in exchange for $500 worth of petty drugs, which were stolen from a small time street gang that Joro left slain in their house in the ghetto of Atlanta.
As Joro slept, he relived the nightmare of the last days of the siege. He could smell the smoke belching forth from the ritual bonfire of the Fire Dance they had participated in the night his sire fell. The scent of gun smoke still burned his nostrils, as he remembered the 20 brash neonates that fell to his pack of seven. Indeed, the pack, The Still Shadow, had cut a bloody path across Atlanta that night. The pack had a kill count of 56 and were on a roll, as they did their part to dismantle the Camarilla's new reinforced assault.
A short rest was in order after the foolish neonates had been slaughtered. They were young, but they were by no means push-overs. The pack celebrated their most recent victory.
Time seemed to slow down as Joro caught sight of a figure darting out of the shadows. Too late to do anything, Joro watched as the man brought to bear an object that produced a horrifying gout of flame, engulfing his sire and three others. The three fell into a fear induced frenzy, and blinded by fear, burned into ash.
Joro's sire maintained his wits, and tore into the foolish man. The potent Ductus tore the man's arm from his body, flinging it and the flamethrower away like unwanted trash. The man screamed in agony as the flames engulfing his attacker seared his tender, living flesh.
The man struggled with his aggressor, finding he was far out matched. The angry Cainite proceeded to toss the bleeding man into an unstable wall, damaged by the previous conflict. The wall collapsed onto the man, burying him.
The still burning Cainite fell to the ground, rolling to put out the flames that consumed him with unquenchable fury. Successful in extinguishing the flames, he lie smoldering, his flesh charred, bone showing in places.
The man burst forth from the rubble with inhuman strength and speed. Joro, quick to act, drew his blade, and with one swing, severed the head from his body. The remaining two pack members stared in horror as Joro strode calmly to his sire, his Ductus, and plunged the still bloody katana into his sire's chest, twisting. His sire said but one word. "Why?" Joro responded simply, "You have failed." With one more twist, he sealed the charred Cainite to his fate, the corpse crumbling to ash.
Joro turned to his pack mates. "He maintained control of himself in the face of death. That is admirable. However, allowing himself to be ambushed by a lowly Ghoul was an amateur mistake. In that, he was weak. He failed us as a leader, and he failed himself as a Cainite. I am the new Ductus of The Still Shadow. Do any of you object?"
The two said nothing. They simply nodded and bowed down to their new leader. Later that night the pack met more resistance, and the two others fell, victims of the strengthened Camarilla resistance. Three weeks later, the retreat order was given.
7:15 PM West Memphis, Arkansas: Banks of the Mississippi River
The newly formed pack, The Graveborn Saints, strode into the camp nestled deep in the woods, shielded from prying eyes. Of the hundred or so Sabbat that lay siege to Atlanta, these three were the only to survive. Ezekiel, clad in black from head to toe, had named himself Ductus with the blessing of the pack's Priest, Asher, who now sported a brand new body.
The large clearing held a host of tents, from small pup tents to large pavilion tents. Various Cainites went about their night with reckless abandon. Some sparred, some planned, while others chased and tortured terrified Kine, indulging in the power granted them by the Blood of Caine.
The three strode to the center of the encampment, where a grand pavilion tent stood. The tent was made of flesh, seamlessly melded together. The entire thing writhed. Eyes were embedded at precise intervals, tracking the movements of any around the tent. The flap to the tent opened on its own, revealing a large, round table adorned with a map and figurines. At the back sat a lone figure, cloaked in red, sitting upon a throne of bone and flesh.
"Your Excellency, Archbishop Gabriel, we have arrived from Atlanta, and await your orders," Ezekiel growled.
The figure raised his head, revealing only a frail looking, withered grin filled with vicious teeth. The smell of decay flowed from his maw with each syllable. "I've been expecting you. You three have shown much worth. I have a special job for you. The Kindred of Memphis have erected some type of barrier. I want you to infiltrate Memphis as a splinter cell. Make them trust you. Find the source of the barrier and dismantle it. You and I are the only privy to your location and purpose. Ishmael and his pack are currently in Memphis and free to travel across the river. I believe that the Barrier does not affect them because they were present when the barrier was erected."
He paused for a short moment before continuing. "As I have said before. Whoever delivers the last nail in the coffin for Cam Memphis gets Bishop. I highly expect one of you to take that honor. Now, hurry along and may the Sword of Caine remain strong."
The three left the tent, the eyes of the entire camp upon them. Whispers circulated among the others.
Ezekiel led the group to a pavilion tent. The three settled in for the night. It was early, but securing safe haven could be difficult. Ezekiel's Ghouls would be arriving soon. They would secure a haven for the three. For tonight, The Saints would rest.