Ghost Woods, Vt/Nh border, early Sept 2006, 2:13am

The fall wind whipped past, flapping the Union long coat in the breeze. A coat these lands hadn't seen in well over a hundred years. Then again, Molotov didn't often wear the coat...period. He kept a sharp clamp on his age. The boyz liked to call him the "Old Man", but few knew how old he really was. Stepping out of the trees into the moonlit clearing, he saw another one who really had no idea.

Ollie - what passes for a Brujah Primogen on Vermont - stood tall, up to his full 6' 6" height. A nordic giant of Kindred, his skull was clean shaved and set with swastikas, hate slogans, and older, more mythical symbols. He wore his black leather jeans, boots, and full length black leather overcoat over a bare, pale, and strongly muscled frame. An iron eagle and SS pin desked out his leather lapels. And then there was the huge double handed ancient Germanic battle blade stuck point down into the soft earth.

The blade Ollie had promised would clean Molotov's head clear from his shoulders. It certainly had the weight and size, that was for sure. Death...the big final kind...waited for Molotov as he stepped into the grassy ring, soft pale-ish blades of grass bent to the winds ear. The grove was a pasty, washed out place - the main reason the native has long, long ago named it the Ghost Woods.

Molotov took another step, letting the moonlight cover him. The saber on his back rattled in the scabbard. Other than the long coat, his remaining attire of black t, jeans, and boots were modern. The unseen saber dated back...but Ollie didn't know that. /Probably thinks the coat's a Cainedamned fashion statement...hell, I guess it iz./

"Thanks fer meetin' me here, Ollie. S' better fer th Clan if we settle it outta th' ways like."

The giant laughed. "Of course, *Molotov*. I'm more than happy to bury your corpse here....after I send you head off to Pendragon to let him know you're finally, happily gone."

Molotov snickered. "Shure thing Ollie...see th' tough part fer you's gonna be removin' it." Molotov stepped forward...about twenty feet before they went at it. "Cause...it's kinda attached to m' n' all..."

"Not for long....fool." Ollie grinned as the trio of snipers opened up on the Manchester Prime. The loud staccato of M-16 fire chattered through the night wind. Molotov twisted, but was pinned. No crossfire, just a barrage of assualt rifle long rounds that opened him up, spun him around, and ripped him down.

Molotov's wasted form, coat bloody with Vitae and holed through, crumpled, falling to the grass with hardly a sound.

"What a fool he was." Ollie pulled the blade from the earth, and approached. "Now, *brother* we finish it..."

The three young Brujah at the southern ambush point quickly reloaded, their magazines clicking into place. Two dropped down to kneeling stances to shoot right into the high grass, the third remained high to cover. The assault rifles gave them assurances...assurances that they could support their leader, that they'd be safe from the Manchester Elder...that soon, they'd be rewarded for their sharpshooting. They'd cut that short guy down, right fine. Beautiful work, they all silently agreed. And they had more rounds for that bastard on the off chance he actually made it through three M-16s emptying their lethal contents all over him.

"Not a chance," the lead one smiled as Ollie sprinted the twenty foot divide. "Look alive now, boys...the Leaders gonna finished off the meat. One more down..."

Ollie raced across the distance, blackened steel sword over shoulder. Even if that creep was still kickin', he'd be in no shape to deal with what O llie had packing. The rush of vitae was heady...he couldn't believe how dumb this boy was. He would of never gotten so lucky with the one called Pandora. /Dumb Americans.../ He closed in on the blood speckled spot, slowing, bringing the sword to bear. "Come out, little one...time for your head."

The three pups in the southern point all felt the hair on the back of their necks stand suddenly as the wind echoed a distant, dry laugh, like the crackling of a distant funeral pyre. One looked back...

...the darkness swooped in around them, a heavy, cloying blanket of blackstained night. They tried to swing the rifles towards the unknown darkness folding out from behind them, but tendrils of night wrapped everywhere suddenly, slowing them as the grinning, disembodied fanged face, all white with dancing sparking eyes, appeared and then the were all gone, gone, gone, cloaked in darkness, death in black....

Ollie stopped, hearing a sudden, broken scream. Scanning south, he no longer saw his boys, only an inky, shadowy blot of night.

And then, filling the quiet, dead night air, the cracking of bones....one by one. "What in the name of the Furher...?" The inky blackness shifted at the edge of the perimeter, but moved no closer. Ollie turned to face it, hands gripped tight on the sword hilt.

"Gee...Ollie...I'm so glad to fight...fair..." A small cough and some rustling.

Ollie pivoted and saw the risen Molotov, shirt and coat lined with bullet holes, chest scarred and stained with red, a steam of smoke but intact. The grungy lad looked angry...no, past angry, his fangs bared and eyes echoing a dancing fire. A wavered a bit, then his stance firmed.

"You...you..." Ollie grimaced. "Damn you, Molotov...you should be dead..." He took a step forward, bringing the sword to bear.

"Yea, well...looks like *you* fucked up...*boy*" Molotov straightened, and stopped cloaking his age. The Presense unwrapped and eminated, no longer held back, and Ollie got a fearful taste of what Molotov usually keep hidden. A shiver crept down the Vermont "Elder's" spine. "And since you fight so fair Ollie...have one on me..." A sudden flash of something at him, Ollie let the sword intercept. The Nordic giant grinned as the vial was smashed, blocking Molotov's pitiful attempt at trickery.

The liquid splashed all over Ollie's face and chest. "You throw *water* on me now, *Molotov*..Come pup...let us...dan...." The giant blinked his eyes.

"No, Ollie. Not water..." A hand over his back and the Civil War saber was draw with the smooth sound of steel in scabbard. "You really are too dumb to let live..." The saber came forward at ready. "A small sodium n' kero-scene distillate...just fer you moron..."

Ollie blinked again, his eyes starting to burn. He stepped back, two handed sword at ready, straight up to fend. "Aaaaach...burns...you...coward..." His vision began to slip off to the night. Fear began to creep in.

Molotov slowly began to circle. "Oh yea..."*I'm* the coward 'round here. You f''in' waste o' blood...you prob' really think that too,, don't you?" He smiled. /Dumb, dumb, dumb.../ Another step to the left. "Oh, Ollie...that pain...that's your eyes burning away in their sockets...don't worry tho'...you won't be needing them where I'm sending you..."

Ollie grunted, and slashed at the air, taking his best, pained, frantic shots. His eyes were ruined now, empty black sockets sending steam into the air. His bare chest was pockmarked with acid, steaming also. Red vines of vitae began to leak downward. He charged and waved the sword like a berserker, praying for contact.

Molotov was behind him now, saber still at ready. He let his voice drop, "Ollie......" A grin, circling still, foot before careful, silent foot, here in the pale Ghost Woods. "...when the End arrives, they will *thank* me for the changes our Clan will see..." Circled again, sidestepping the bull charging Brujah. "Your head will go back to Pendragon, *boy*....and he will know that change is on the wind." The Nordic giant charged again.

"Power to the line o' Troile. Death the traitors." The saber came down, neatly severing the head from shoulders. The body fell and quickly caught its own inner fire and combusted. The ghostly grass didn't even singe, another rof nature's quiet mysteries.

Molotov sheathed the blade back, picking up the head in a bared, blackened hand. He concentrated, his anger fiercer for the pitiful end. The flesh of the fallen Primogen caught and burned, leaving a charred skull in Brujah's hand. He tossed it to his left...

...where the wild eyed, crazy haired Brujah boogieman known only as Tom Foul caught it neatly.

"Think you can drop that off with tha' blueblood faggot Pendragon, Tom?" Molotov's voice was harsh and grating. His anger was a tangible thing. "I hate Vermot Nazis..."

"I can n' will, brother. Like you say, change is on the wind..." The creepy wandered shifted his stance. "The little ones weren't even any fun...maybe one of Pennie's lads will try somethin'...give me a real workout..." He grinned a gruesome, bloody grin. "But hey, s' good to have a hand in with ya again, bro'. Too many years since Mean n' Foul made 'em quake...'member tha' bit back in 18-71?"

"...yea....San Francisco, wuzn't it....."