Every vampire is re-born into a bloodline that some scholars and cultists believe to be a direct lineage leading back to a progenitor of the biblical age: Caine himself. Clans have formed around these bloodlines, each possessed of certain gifts. These abilities are passed on from sire to childe, always marginally diluted the further their generation is removed from the clan's founder. You didn't choose the clan you were brought into, but you adapted well enough over the decades, mastering the disciplines of your clan to the best of your ability. Corliss has seemed pleased with your progress, and when Corliss is pleased, you slumber more soundly.
"Blue Bloods," the other clans call you and your own; at least when your backs are turned and they can be sure none of you are listening in. Eden Corliss has groomed you for a high-ranking position since the moment she drained the life from your mortal body, and she was as strict in her discipline as she was stoic when meting out punishments for failure. As her childe, your behavior reflects on her capabilities, and failure is simply not an option.
"Agad the Imperishable?" Jordan asks, watching you quizzically. Sheriff Qui has paused behind Bouchard to watch you in obvious impatience. Jordan was right of course; your sire surely did her homework before sending you out here, and she's put too much work into you to send you into a trap unawares. That can only mean something has changed and the Anarchs are on the move, perhaps making some kind of power play. It's up to your band to stop them before they can threaten your Prince's domain during his absence.
You shake your head and try to focus on the matters at hand. "We might not be able to take them head-on if they're guarding the entrance," you whisper, index finger tracing the curved trigger of your Desert Eagle—a gift from Corliss that you've only recently reacquainted yourself with. The gun feels alien in your grip, but you're certain that your training will kick in if it comes to that. "Our briefing said that Ward's quarters are in the back end of the factory. Maybe we could cut around?"
Qui motions for the rest of you to shrink as far back into the shadows as possible while a path forward is deliberated. He sets down a heavy gasoline can, and you can hear the liquid inside sloshing back and forth, yearning to be set alight. Long, black hair frames the eagerness on his face; Qui would be considered good-looking as Nosferatu go, but even then there's something unsettling about him by mortal standards. Something impossible to place a finger on.
"I'm not sure if I agree with your sentiment, Agad the Imperishable," he says. "There are a dozen of us plus our mercenaries and there should be less than six of them even in the worst-case scenario, sentries or no," he says, lips pursed thinly in thought, "but you're right that we might be better served taking an alternate route. Destroying Ward will be significantly more difficult without the element of surprise. You haven't met him before—trust me when I say that, like most of the Rabble, he's not to be trifled with. And don't forget the most important thing: once he's incapacitated, we'll need to let the fire do the rest. That way there's no coming back."
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