So much for being a Ninja ... (Friday Night in Providence, Part I)
Pawel pushes away from the brick building on his way down, hitting the cold concrete in a roll to divert the bulk of the impact.
Fuck
Gotten out of practice if you can't make 6 feet
Taking for granted the capabilities of form over the practice of skill
Time for more training
Well, after the job is done
Screw it. If God wanted Nosferatu to fly he'd have given them wings. It is time to go back to basics.
After glancing around to make sure he's not being watched, he produces a crowbar from the folds of his heavily-laden trenchcoat and pries up the manhole cover with practiced ease.
At which point a bat flies down into the sewer in front on him. Kaoniki appears on the ladder underneath.
At least there are no churchbells for her to ring this time.
The sewerway reeks of the most pungent and foul oders. Damp, greesy, and fetid, Pawel breaths in deeply before proceding. It brings him some odd sense of comfort - of belonging.
Sure enough, the building was built on an old foundation and there was small trap-door hatch. Listening carefully, the tell-tale tones of electical wiring betrays the alarms on the door. However, a close inspection also reveals the small wires running down to connect the system to a power source. Kaoniki's claws sever the connection nand a few drops of corrosive chemicals further muddle the scene.
Coast's clear, but there are cameras.
Basement storage
Radio Flier wagon? That brings back memories, but there is work to do.
He creeps up the stairs. The door to the first floor is unlocked and lacks an alarm.
Sipping tea with crossbow-wielding maniacs - that's Antonitus for you.
Traffic school? Whatever.
Pawel text messages the escape route to Antonitus as Kaoniki takes up a guard position as a bat. The Bishop of Hartford creeps away quitely, surveying the stronghold of the enemy.
"Buffy the Vampire Slayer?" "Angel?" "National Geographic - Legendary monsters?" Thought bumpkins were supposed to live in farm-country. This shit's all worthless.
Hm, what's this then? By the Lance, this is definitely politician-speak, but someone is taking these idiots seriously.
Pawel snaps a quick photograph from his camera of a document baring the seal of the Rhode Island Office of the Attorney General before heading upstairs.
The second floor is one large hall obstructed with training dummies and weapons. Watermelons are afixed to scarecrows with stake-marks in them. The remaining skins and seeds sit in garbage pails.
At least the good little hunters eat what they kill.
The third floor yields a more normal dojo. Human-hunting techniques and martial arts instructions are posted on the walls.
At the top of the next set of stairs, the investigator is barred by a locked door. His lockpicks make short work of the obstacle. Inside he finds an attic filled with piles of crap covered in blankets the the like. As he moves to peak under the throws, the whispers of hushed conversation below reaches his enhanced hearing.
"He must've gone up this way. You cover the left, I'll cover the right."
The slow, deliberate procession of two men walking up the stairway shoulder-to-shoulder echos faintly. Masked by the noise of a passing car, Pawel flips the door latch back the way it was before he'd picked the lock. Then he masks himself in the attic's darkness and the blood's powers of deception.
Under the rags, they've kept antiquated looking religious curiosities. Nothing is older than the Victorian era. Nothing carries any impression of true sanctity, and thankfully none of it carries any markings of the Damned.
"It's locked."
"Are you sure he came up here?"
"Shit, he must've doubled back. Hurry up!"
Just leaving anyway. Getting down is the easy part.
The Nosferatu slips out an aged window onto the fire-escape and disappears into the night.
The Archbishop will be able to get a hook into this politician, and that should be enough to keep these fools running in circles.
Fuck
Gotten out of practice if you can't make 6 feet
Taking for granted the capabilities of form over the practice of skill
Time for more training
Well, after the job is done
Screw it. If God wanted Nosferatu to fly he'd have given them wings. It is time to go back to basics.
After glancing around to make sure he's not being watched, he produces a crowbar from the folds of his heavily-laden trenchcoat and pries up the manhole cover with practiced ease.
At which point a bat flies down into the sewer in front on him. Kaoniki appears on the ladder underneath.
At least there are no churchbells for her to ring this time.
The sewerway reeks of the most pungent and foul oders. Damp, greesy, and fetid, Pawel breaths in deeply before proceding. It brings him some odd sense of comfort - of belonging.
Sure enough, the building was built on an old foundation and there was small trap-door hatch. Listening carefully, the tell-tale tones of electical wiring betrays the alarms on the door. However, a close inspection also reveals the small wires running down to connect the system to a power source. Kaoniki's claws sever the connection nand a few drops of corrosive chemicals further muddle the scene.
Coast's clear, but there are cameras.
Basement storage
Radio Flier wagon? That brings back memories, but there is work to do.
He creeps up the stairs. The door to the first floor is unlocked and lacks an alarm.
Sipping tea with crossbow-wielding maniacs - that's Antonitus for you.
Traffic school? Whatever.
Pawel text messages the escape route to Antonitus as Kaoniki takes up a guard position as a bat. The Bishop of Hartford creeps away quitely, surveying the stronghold of the enemy.
"Buffy the Vampire Slayer?" "Angel?" "National Geographic - Legendary monsters?" Thought bumpkins were supposed to live in farm-country. This shit's all worthless.
Hm, what's this then? By the Lance, this is definitely politician-speak, but someone is taking these idiots seriously.
Pawel snaps a quick photograph from his camera of a document baring the seal of the Rhode Island Office of the Attorney General before heading upstairs.
The second floor is one large hall obstructed with training dummies and weapons. Watermelons are afixed to scarecrows with stake-marks in them. The remaining skins and seeds sit in garbage pails.
At least the good little hunters eat what they kill.
The third floor yields a more normal dojo. Human-hunting techniques and martial arts instructions are posted on the walls.
At the top of the next set of stairs, the investigator is barred by a locked door. His lockpicks make short work of the obstacle. Inside he finds an attic filled with piles of crap covered in blankets the the like. As he moves to peak under the throws, the whispers of hushed conversation below reaches his enhanced hearing.
"He must've gone up this way. You cover the left, I'll cover the right."
The slow, deliberate procession of two men walking up the stairway shoulder-to-shoulder echos faintly. Masked by the noise of a passing car, Pawel flips the door latch back the way it was before he'd picked the lock. Then he masks himself in the attic's darkness and the blood's powers of deception.
Under the rags, they've kept antiquated looking religious curiosities. Nothing is older than the Victorian era. Nothing carries any impression of true sanctity, and thankfully none of it carries any markings of the Damned.
"It's locked."
"Are you sure he came up here?"
"Shit, he must've doubled back. Hurry up!"
Just leaving anyway. Getting down is the easy part.
The Nosferatu slips out an aged window onto the fire-escape and disappears into the night.
The Archbishop will be able to get a hook into this politician, and that should be enough to keep these fools running in circles.