RPGWW

London, a city big enough to mark itself out from the Old World's plethoria of villages, towns and cities. A capital of a empire, once rich in many ways, now decaying slowly, each day losing more of it's power... But there are some things that never change.

In a country where liberty, democracy and unity is as natural as the food on the plate, there exists a hidden society inside the society. A hierarchial organization ruled stricktly by age and power, and by blood...

There is much at stake when the members of this hidden society, this Masquerade, move their pawns. You, as well as the people around you, are worth no more than the peons of old, your life, or unlife, in the hands of creature so old that a mortal lifetime is to them but a flutter of a light.

These puppeteers in turn are controlled by something far older than themselves, and as above, so below. Enter the world of the Kindred, and pray that you live through the night.

(Right, here's the deal. I'm waaaaaaaaaaay after with this game, reasons = RPing for three days in a row with my friends. Lots of WoD, but unfortunantly nearly only victorian age... MORTALS! -_-' Anyway, make a quick intro with your characters, and we'll bind up the story... I have primogen, prince, scourge, etc. ALL PLANNED OUT. However, since it would be boring, I will not give descriptions of them too you guys until you meet them, although your reactions to them may wary, though.

As for everyone who wants to join this RP. Sucks to be you. No, seriously. I don't think I'm able to take any more players... But if you really want... Oh well. ;_; I must include you for I am sad? No, wait. Oh hell, right, play guys. You know who you are.)

A small flat in one of the quieter parts of London. Cheap, lacking in space and of little interest to most people. Perfect for the man who currently sat within, typing away, his face basked in the glow of the monitor before him.

Decided I should turn this into a journal of sorts. I'll probably forget to back this up come the next format, but it's not like this is exactly vital.

Well, it's only a few nights on from my first entry into this, and, as usual, not much has gone on. Been a while since I went to a gig, too many of the bloody things are across the channel. Eric hasn't visited for a little while. Maybe he's busy with something else, or the old "alpha wolf" has got a task for him. In any case, I'm here at home, and the monotony of unlife is getting to me again. Nothing to do whatsoever. Hopefully something to do will pop up. Until then, I think I'll listen to Oceanborn again. Good album.

London's streetlights shone starlike in the night. In a marginally classy theatre, people flocking away chatting about the night's performance, a woman sat in her dressing room wiping off stage makeup.

Eleanor Lesade blotted the last of her eyeshadow onto a cloth and tossed it aside. An unnaturally pale face stared back at her from out of the mirror. She smiled, after a moment, and her reflection smiled along with her.

It had been the closing night for the show. One of the actors had broken his leg, and the understudy hadn't been nearly as good, but overall it had been her best show yet. The director was auditioning for another play next week, but judging from the looks he gave his new girlfriend the female lead was already decided. She'd have to look for work elsewhere.

Well, someone always needed a redhead. And if not she could just dye her hair. Pulling on a shirt, she nodded and began applying a more moderate shade of lipstick.

'Kev, it's your turn to put out flyers, man.'

Kevin sighed and shook his head.

'Whatever. Stop the van, then.'

He picked up the stack of flyers and opened the van door. A thought struck him, and he paused before jumping out.

'We have permission to be here, right, Dan?'

'Relax, Kev, it's all above board.'

Kevin jumped out and slammed the door behind him, then began systematically shoving flyers under doors.

Whoever called this band "The Coldhearts" should be shot, he thought, as he paused to read one of the flyers. Ah well, it's not exactly a blatant breach of the Masquerade...

Coldhearts,
Tomorow at 10,
The Honeypot
Be there!

He shuddered at the typos...

I'm never letting Dan make the flyers ever again...

"TWO STELLA'S AND A VODKA 'N' REDBULL", a barely audible shout came from the seething mass of people trying to get served. Through the overly loud music, tonight provided by a live band, and the resulting raised voices there was no way any of the bar staff of the Honeypot could have heard his voice; the patron prepared to shout again.

Except by the time he had opened his mouth the two beers and cocktail were already sitting on the sordid fag burned bar top. A man of 6 foot with black hair and brown eyes leaned towards him and said (although it may as well have been mouthed) "that'll be £7.50".

"WHAT?"

---

Tom Cole, for that was the barman's name, beckoned his customer forward. He leaned close to the man and spoke into his ear. Tom could hear the blood pounding through the mans neck, smell the sweat mixed with CK1 like you would inhale the aroma from a roasted turkey, it would only take a quick bite and he would be hungry no more, fuck the Masquerade, he gritted his teeth.

The man was absorbed back into the crowd, Tom deposited the money into the till and searched for another customer.

---

---

(OCC : I can take out the "Honeypot" reference if you want, I just thought it may make character convergence easier).

*BUMP*

(OCC: Jeebus this thing dead already? Myabe VTM RPs are cursed forever on this board)

((It's not dead, I'm waiting for Dalin, and I've answered his question about stats and stuff, so don't say anything about GMing, Jak. Seriously, Dalin, if you don't post soon I'll be forced to kick you from the game and get this thing going!))

(I say start without Dalin. The scene has been set enough for them to join in later on. Give Dalin a few days after we get this think going to find a suitable opening.)

((OOC: yes go! I'm having problems with my computer, I have had to send all my files to school. It's gonna take me a few days to get my shit in order, Sorry for the delay, And hell, Im "out of town on Buisness", I'll get around to meeting them soon.))

The night wasn't fading away fast enough, and his new prized album occupied him for yet another 50 minutes. He grabbed his coat and headed out, taking care to lock the door behind him. Didn't want anyone wondering into his haven, after all.

He headed towards the stairs, descending them quickly. His unbreathing lungs were dying for a breath of fresh air, the young kindred hoping that the cool night air would relax him.

He stepped outside, or rather, he would have, if he hadn't noticed a piece of paper lying in front of him. Taking his hand off the door knob, he knelt down and scooped up the leaflet, reading it over quickly.

"Coldhearts?" he muttered to himself, the band not sounding familiar to him. All the same, the name suggested that they might play the sort of music he'd like, even if they didn't fit his taste in lyrics. And it wasn't like he was doing anything tomorrow night.

Pocketing the flyer, he stepped outside, and took a look around.

Seriously, sorry guys.

I've been brainstorming for OVER 2 DAYS!

I just can't think anything up to do with this. I know it's like, GHEY to do this, and don't think I don't feel bad about it, but simply I'm burned out about this... Sorry...


Seems you were correct about how quick Vampire games die here...

There's a curse on this board, damnit! *shakes fist*

Ah well, at least I have a character ready made in case another V:tM RP pops up.

*tempted to run an RP just to try and prove that there is no curse...almost*

Bah....

Ah well. ^_^;;

I say we stake the GM and leave him out for the rising sun.

Obviously....

Fools! You cannot kill a regenerator!!! *dies* Aw crap!