Scene #4307:

Owner	Pose
Inga Freyjasdottir	Kingsmouth. Inga would have to try pretty hard in order to think of a more unpleasant place to spend her time. But it is HER world, and she has to protect it. Until they are ready to do something more permanent here, Inga returns periodically to check on her wards. They needed upkeep in order to remain working as well as they do. There are some safe spots around the Island where the Illuminati have worked their strange (and incredibly annoying) magic, but Inga has added a few of her own. Prime among them is the firestation, her old temporary residence and generally where everyone meets when working in the area. It used to be inhabited by zombies, but is now surrounded by a bone fence. That is, a fence composed of bones, carved with runes and infused with anima. A powerful ward that keeps the place safe. After doing a little maintenance on the bone fence, Inga was trying to make her way back to the agartha entrance. A long process for one who walks as slowly as Inga. Slower still with all the zombies in the way. Perhaps she'd needed to take out some frustrations? The zombies were easily dispatched by her now, but there are still things in Kingsmouth that give the witch pause. One of these being Revenants. Inga is not a melee combatant. She does her best, but she moves slow and for one of the Bee-Chosen, is fragile physically. She might just be going back to agartha entrance via short cut. That being DEATH. Gritting her teeth she wields her small knife in one and wooden staff in the other. She slices open her arm for maybe the dozenth time, flinging her blood outward around her in a mist that heals and protects her, but it is clear she is struggling. She wields her staff, calling lightning to zap the revanent, but its still coming for her.
John Rizzo	This place is like his world, but... worse, somehow. It's as if the creatures of darkness have the upper hand here. Car after car, truck after truck, lays dormant, waiting for owners that will never return. Rizzo occasionally peers into the windows, looking at forgotten mementos, half-eaten snacks, and other trinkets that paint incomplete pictures of those who once used the abandoned vehicles. The fog at the extreme edges of town is thick enough to cut with a knife, concealing all manner of emboldened things able to walk without fear of human retribution. That's the key, though, isn't it? Human retribution. This is a world that seems in dire need of a reckoning. The police station seemed something of a refuge, and he was glad to see that someplace, at least, offered respite for those who once made their homes here. Still, it is a refuge, not a true home--after speaking at length with a few of the survivors, he manages to piece together a story. A story about fog, lost family members, former lives wrenched away in an instant. Dead bodies walking in the streets--this he has seen--and other horrors which apparently lie waiting for him. Horrors like revenants. Obfuscate keeps him hidden from the living dead, so long as he makes his way calmly and doesn't bump into any of their number. The night is cold and unwelcoming, a damp kind of cold one only finds in the northeast. All of this fog couldn't have come from nowhere, and yet, there at the edges of the town, in the distance, it seems as if it comes from everywhere. Though it's clear enough to see within the town itself, the atmosphere seems as if something within the fog--the evil, the unknown, permeates the town in spite of the good visibility. The smell of blood is heady in the air, having been spilt so much. But amidst the dried blood there is something else. Something alive. "Oh, God." Someone is still alive, and bleeding. Emotions clash with his darker nature as Rizzo hurries towards the scent. The Beast tells him to seek it, to feed. But his humanity, much stronger than it ever was as a mortal, urges him to find and save this struggling soul. He picks up his pace, hands in his pocket, moving as quickly as he can without the sound of his footfalls alerting the living dead to his presence.
Inga Freyjasdottir	/Idiot/ she tells herself. She should have simply done as she usually did and use a spell to pass through town unnoticed. But now, she had something to prove. She wanted to know she was getting stronger. She wanted to know she'd done something. After seeing Kingsmouth like this for so long, knowing she was sent to protect this place...helplessness was a terrible feeling. The revant swung its weapon toward Inga, slicing into her and knocking her back. She gasped from the pain, nearly blacking out. Just because she healed easily, didn't mean she didn't feel pain. Pain is often inconvenient. Bleeding rapily now, Inga is feeling light-headed. Her heart is frantic in her ears. But blood she can use in retribution. The crimson fluid flowing out of her rises into the air, solidifying rapidly into three long anima-fueled projectiles that fly one after the other into the Revenant--buying Inga time to heal. She won't even try to stand yet. She can do magic from the ground. She could just let it kill her, she supposed, but now it was the principle of the thing. Stubborn woman.
John Rizzo	Rizzo rounds the corner and spots the scene. A woman, lying upon the ground, covered in blood. He beats his darker urges away, packing them into the spot he always does, that little corner in the back of his mind. There's no time to talk, only to act. From his trench coat he pulls his Colt Detective Special, takes aim, and fires. He knows quite well that usually, bullets only piss the supernaturally imbued off. Hell, even vampires can just let bullets zip on through, as long as it's not aimed at their head. But now's a prime opportunity to piss this thing off--otherwise it might give that lady the axe. Three shots. The gun has a distinctive bark that shatters his illusion and makes his presence known to the Revenant (and the witch, provided she can take her eyes off the avatar of pestilence trying to kill her.) In the night stands John Rizzo, face set into a determined scowl, police training dictating his posture. The bullets zip toward the creature of darkness, the shots aimed at its center of mass. Don't get fancy, he remembers being taught. Malkavians are far from the most physical of Caine's childer, but more than anyone gives credit for, they know how to put on an act. Rizzo glowers at the beast after his warning shots have been fired. Slowly, he begins distributing his own, cursed blood throughout his body, bolstering his physical strength one beat of his undead heart at a time.
Inga Freyjasdottir	The sound of gunshots behind her is briefly startling but surprisingly welcome. She looks over her shoulder, a bright smile at the ready--only to find an unrecognizable figure standing there. Her smile slips, but she's still glad he's there. Guess she was expecting someone else? The distraction is welcome however. The Revanent isn't as harmed by normal bullets as it would be anima bullets, but it certainly does /something/ as does being speared with solidified blood. That's a bit much to handle at once. Inga grabs her staff and pulls herself to her feet, her healing kicking in, starting to heal her wounds, even the grievous one that has torn her dress and the flesh beneath. "Be wary, but he should be about finished!" she calls to the man, using a bit of the blood still flowing from her wounds to make a ward for her new ally. She flicks it toward him, an aura of shimmering crimson surrounding him, bolstering his defenses. It has the metallic smell of blood mixed with the sweetness of honey. Hey, she doesn't know he's a vampire. Growling something as she turns back to the Revanent, flames erupt, a fireball rushing to consume the creature. Now, it looks just about done. Another bullet or two wouldn't hurt though.
John Rizzo	Rizzo puts away the gun and whips out something Inga likely finds even more loathsome than the loud, newfangled device: a small, leatherbound Christian Bible. He recoils when he sees the flames erupt from her hands, fighting an internal battle between his resolve to save a life and his instilled fear of the flames. Falling to one knee for a moment, he steels himself and rises, bible gripped firmly in his hand. He opens it, extendting his free hand towards the flaming Revenant, and... something exudes from him. Something invisible, but somehow tangible. "Send a message to your friends, pal." The energy intensifies and wraps all around the Revenant, Rizzo constantly fighting the fear of fire for the sake of Inga. The energy continues to build up, until he grips the creature by the throat and squeezes. Then, the sound of searing flesh erupts, and he flips through to a bookmarked page in the bible with a flick of his wrist. He begins reading. "I will make you a desolation and a reproach among the nations which surround you, in the sight of all who pass by. So it will be a reproach, a reviling, a warning and an object of horror to the nations who surround you when I execute judgments against you in anger, wrath and raging rebukes. I, the LORD, have spoken. When I send against them the deadly arrows of famine which were for the destruction of those whom I will send to destroy you, then I will also intensify the famine upon you and break the staff of bread. Moreover, I will send on you famine and wild beasts, and they will bereave you of children; plague and bloodshed also will pass through you, and I will bring the sword on you." Rizzo's grip tightens to the point where there is an audible snap. "I, the LORD, have spoken."
Inga Freyjasdottir	You know, the strange part was, Inga was with him up until she caught sight of the cross on the book. Up until a point, it sounded like a good curse. A respectable curse. Seeing the cross ruins that. It triggers a reflex in her she has been actively trying to squash. Distaste, hate even, colored by the experiences of the past--a past that while it was a thousand years ago was only a few years to Inga. It does the trick though. The Revanent wails is rage, then disappears, leaving relative peace if you could block out of the sounds of zombie's eating flesh in the vacinity, and oddly enough, one did learn to sort of block that out after a while... "Odin's bones," she curses quietly. Why'd it have to be a bloody Christian? A priest maybe? Wasn't the priest from the church, she'd met him and sassed him already. Inga reached up to touch the hammer pendant at her throat, saying a quick prayer to her own gods before she turned toward Rizzo, pulling up her dress and repinning it so that she was decent. She was glad she had the forethought to wear an old one. "Thank you for your assistance," she says a bit stiffly, looking him over now with a scrutinizing eye. "You're not from here," she adds. She can't imagine why anyone would willingly come here unless they felt obligated to do so.
John Rizzo	Rizzo puts the book away. He shivers, the fear of her firebolt still lingering within him. It takes a moment before he realizes that she was talking to him. He turns to face her, a tall, haggard man clearly haunted by revenants of a different nature. He nods to her, attempting a smile. It looks weary; tired. "No," he admits. "I like to think I go where I'm needed. I wasn't about to let that thing give you the Harlem sunset." Rizzo wipes his hand on his shabby trench coat, offering it to Inga in greeting. With the other hand, he produces his Union I.D. card. "John Rizzo," says the vampire. "Private dick and Union enlisted personnel." If Inga's the type to indulge in handshakes, she'll find Rizzo's to be firm and... slightly cold to the touch. "No offense, miss, but this place is a dump. What's the rumble?"
Inga Freyjasdottir	Inga looks understandbly confused, and for a brief moment surprised and possibly offended!? There are a lot of words he has that she doesn't understand and one which she had an entirely different knowledge of. She looks to the ID card though. She has one of those /somewhere/ but she wasn't going to bother trying to find it. "Ah, we are allies then," she says, taking the offered hand. She might not be pleased by his religious affiliation, but she wouldn't be /rude/. "Pleasure to meet you, John Rizzo. I am Inga Freyjasdottir. I also work with the Union. I do not think I have ever heard your voice on the radio," she says, releasing his hand with a small frown. Its damp and cold here, but his hand was colder than would be expected. Inga sighs, looking around. "A dump. Yes, it is that, sadly. It is a fine mess. It's my world though--part of it. Theres a great deal going on here, and would take a lengthy explaination I don't care to give while in danger of being mauled by zombies. There's a safe place nearby," she said, motioning for him to follow her back toward the safety of the bone fence.
John Rizzo	John nods. "Glad to meet you too, Inga. I'm generally up in the evening and later. During the day, you've got a better chance of hearing my business partner, Marcus Borden." He puts the ID away, thinking for a moment. It's been a long time since he's flashed a badge. The man seems caught up in old memories for a moment, before he realizes Inga's trying to lead him some place. "Sure," he says. "Lead the way." He follows along behind her. "I'm not looking to get gashouse with the stiffs, either. Speaking of which," he says as he patiently walks alongside her. "If we get assigned to go someplace together, you mind taking it easy with the fire? Me and flames don't mix."
Inga Freyjasdottir	Inga leads him to the bone fence, opening the gate-which is wood and iron with some bones attached because making a gate exclusively from bones would be tricky--. The things that prowl the streets ignore the bone fence and the building it encompasses. They're safe once inside. Inga sighs. This one talks strangely. Even the incomprehensible translation magic of the universe isn't helping here. At this point, she just has to ask. "Gashouse with the stiffs...?" she raises a brow in his general direction, hoping for an explaination in plain whatever it was he spoke. "Oh, ah, I suppose. I don't think I've ever been /assigned/ to anything. Suggested, perhaps..." she shrugs, then gives him a look. It's the sort of look that makes one feel like she's about to read your entrails. "I will refrain from fire provided you do not try to.... convert me," she informs him. Inside the building, it is more pleasant. There's canned food, bottled water and a suspicious number of energy drinks. There's several pallets for sleeping, and even a few changes of clothes for any who happen to come here.
John Rizzo	And of course, Rizzo doesn't exactly offer an explanation. It's not that he doesn't want to, it's that Inga brings up a point he feels more strongly about than his choice of words. When she mentions conversion, he speaks his mind. "I don't believe conversion is Christ's way," he says. And it sounds like he means it, too. "If your ideas have merit, people should embrace them on their own. I hope that's not the experience you've had with other Christians." Once inside, Rizzo hangs his trench coat by the door and takes a look around, picking up an energy drink and peering at it curiously. Turning it around, he peers at the ingredients, and the drink's claim to give five hours of energy. A frown crosses his face, and he places it back down, evidently unimpressed with whatever's in it. "Nice hideout," he says. "Really got the hang of blood magic, haven't you? Noticed the wards coming in." His next remark is rather deadpan. "And the spear of congealed blood you stabbed that mug with."
Inga Freyjasdottir	Inga watches him, that unnerving expression still planted, searching him--daring him to lie. Evidentally she is satisfied, for she looks away and picks up a bottle of water. "That is not what the Christians I knew believed. It is indeed the experience I have had. The practical...extinction of a religion, done forcefully. Convert or die. Those are the times I am from. They seem a long time ago to you, I assume," she replies, taking a seat. Even with all the healing, she looks tired. His comment about blood magic earns a smile. "I have at that, yes. It is all just magic to me--or was. The throwing blood around thing is actually a bit new," she confesses. She takes a sip of water, watching him with curiousity. He hasn't condemned her as a witch and a heathen yet. Tonight is full of surprises.
John Rizzo	What happens next is probably even more surprising. "I'm older than I look, but those times were before mine." He kneels before the seated witch, bowing his head. "I cut class in History as a kid, but with a name like yours, and with that hammer necklace, I'm gonna assume you were a viking. And I'm also gonna guess no one apologized to you. Even if someone did, let me say that what happened to you and your people was cruel, no matter what justification anyone gave at the time. I'm sorry for your loss from the bottom of my heart. I know that isn't gonna bring back your friends, but when you wrong someone, you apologize to them."
Inga Freyjasdottir	Yes, this frankly stuns her. She sits there, lips slightly parted, eyes wide. Indeed, no one has every apologized. No one has really needed to. To everyone else, it happened long ago. She could hardly blame people now. It is an incredibly strange moment for her. Inga clears her throat. "You...really do not need to apologize, though I appreciate the gesture...it is not as though you committed such acts yourself. I am ah, what is popularly called a viking though I must inform you it should really only apply to those who WENT viking. The...conversion of my people came later. After my time, it is the Saxons I saw this happening to. A people with similar religion," she explains. Because she's a witch and witches have to correct these things. Inga winces. "Please stop kneeling to me," she says. Assuming he does so, she cannot help but ask. "Older than you look? Well, how old is that may I ask?" she asks. "I am not a thousand years old, I must clarify! I was brought through time."
John Rizzo	"Maybe not," he says. "But I'd like to be the person who puts them right. If a thousand snakes came up to your front door, are you supposed to let all of them in just because 100 are good? Because you trust that those 100 are going to form a shield around you? It's true that the people who forcibly converted yours weren't like me. But if I don't do anything about it or try to make it better, I'm just as bad." When she asks him to stand, he does, reluctantly. And in response to her question, he chuckles dryly. "I was born December 18, 1925, so that'd make me 90 years old."
Inga Freyjasdottir	Inga shakes her head. If a hundred snakes showed up at her door, well, the goats would be very frightened. It's a metaphor of course, but she can't think of anything but the damn goats for some reason. Inga sighs. "I will accept your apology, if you insist, but do you expect I should apologize for my people sacking your monastaries? Killing Christians? I learned of all this in my history lessons, though it was not exactly surprising," she sighs. "Things were getting difficult even in my time. The year was 786," she explains. "90?" she asks, slightly surprised. She should be use to these things by now. "You are not human then," she concludes.
John Rizzo	"No," he says quite simply. "For one, because I didn't know anybody in the year 786. Those people are names in a book to me, but the people you lost might have been friends or family. There are a lot of other reasons why I wouldn't ask you to apologize, but mainly, it's because I know that if the Church had been focused on being Christlike instead of Christian, your people would never have had a reason to attack it. Most pagans are inherently open-minded." "I've read that a lot of polytheistic religions that get introduced to Christianity on their own terms integrate it into their own beliefs. And personally, I don't have a problem with it. I think that's something beautiful and something human. But if you try to force a belief on people, it backfires. I firmly believe that God used those priests as examples--just like He did with Jerusalem in the scripture I quoted to banish that thing." "The Church was hard headed. And it took them a long time to learn you can't force God on people with force of arms. But they did." He sighs. "Eventually."
Inga Freyjasdottir	Inga says, "+p I did one battle, lost pathetically cause somehow some people are already INSANELY powerful"
Inga Freyjasdottir	The wisewoman sits back, reaching up to idly toy with a strand of amber beads pinned to her dress between the two silver brooches, watching Rizzo curiously as he explains. "Heh...I do not think you would even find the names of anyone I knew in a book. We did not write, except in runes," she replies. Inga still doesn't read or write, though she's started to learn. Inga shakes her head. "You are right. I knew some had accepted your god, as just another god to worship. It was not strange to learn of another and choose to honor him. But does not your religion preach that all other gods are false? That you are only permitted to worship this one god? That always seemed so...off-putting. How pompus. Perhaps for the people who's god it was...but to insist all others worship the same? I would not say my gods are for all people, though welcome anyone who feels a connection with them--if only there were such..." she says, trailing off for a moment, her gaze growing distant. "But the worship of my gods has fallen out of favor. It was very...painful to learn. Yet I know they are still here," she says, her hand straying from the beads to the mjolnir around her neck. A small smile dawns. "I've met a being called Thor, almost exactly like the Thor of my world. I made him donuts. Very strange." Inga sighs and takes a sip of her water. "The Christians, they told us if we did not convert we would go to Hell. But we have a Hel as well and many people go there. It is not a bad place. It is just a place of rest, where some dead go...so what did we care?" she offers with a shrug. "So," she begins, looking up to pin him with her gaze, "if you are not human, what are you?"
John Rizzo	"Exodus 20:3," replies Rizzo with a nod. "Thou shalt have no other gods before Me. That makes it sounds like you're going to be punished for it, but the Catholic Church teaches that virtuous pagans wait in between Heaven and Hell to be brought to Heaven when Christ has His Harrowing. That place is called Limbo, and it's closer to your idea of Hel. There's nothing in the Bible that specifically says that--but then, there's a lot of stuff in the Bible that directly contradicts itself. Me, personally, I think that's on purpose. To confuse people that are just being good 'cause they want a handout from God." "Being a good Christian is less about trying to throw the book at people and more about living by the ideals of Christ Himself. Who am I to tell someone else how they should talk to the Almighty? It's His rules, not mine. If He has a problem with people incorporating Him into their own beliefs, He can tell them so when they go to meet Him." When Inga gazes so intently at him, he avoids her glance. "The answer to that's in the Bible, too," he says sullenly. "All wrapped up in a pretty little knot--jealousy, pettyness, and murder. Ever hear about Cain and Abel?"
Inga Freyjasdottir	Inga listens attentively. "Virtuous pagans...now, I would ask what you mean by virtuous. In my experience, our values differed some from the Christians," Inga reminds. Culture counts for much. "So, you do not believe all other gods are false gods?" she asks. She could live with a Christian that at least respected her gods, even if he didn't worship them. "So then, what does it mean to be Christ-like? What are these ideals?" she asks. Lots of questions. As for Cain and Abel...Inga shakes her head. "I have not heard the story. Do tell. But first--" Inga picks up her staff and uses it to help pull herself to her feet. "Tea or whiskey?" There's a little kitchen area with a microwave and oven range, a few dishes in a cabinet. "Talk like this needs a drink of some kind."
John Rizzo	"No," he says. "I think they might even be aspects of God, who realized that, having grown apart, all of His children were a little different and had to be reached differently. But that's a very unusual thing for a Catholic to believe. The Church'd probably think I'd gone off the reservation." The man shrugs and takes a seat in the nearest chair with a tellingly tired huff. Running a hand through his hair, hte looks now in Inga's general direction. "As far as virtuous pagans, it depends. All sins are sins, but not all sins are equal. As a Catholic I believe there's a difference between mortal and venial sins. If it's a grave matter, done with full knowledge of the fact it's a sin, with full consent, it's mortal and more severe. Anything else, including cultural differences, is venial. And considering it's the Almighty's playbook, it's His decision in the end. He can be... a lot more merciful than the Catholics of your day might've led you to believe." "What /I/ believe is that Christians should be an example to the rest of the world. We should be pious, respect the differences of others, and let others come to us because they want to, not because the sales pitch about the fire and brimstone hooked them. That's not faith, that's fear, and we're past the point as a race where that's the same thing. We should treat other people the way we wanna be treated. We should be educated, and not just blindly trust that the Bible has an answer for something when we haven't picked one up in years. We should stop trying to solve our differences with violence, and realize when we let anger get the better of us. We should be fair, kind, loving even of our most dangerous enemies. We should understand when we sin, and when our sins hurt someone, and we should do everything we can, no matter how much it inconveniences us, to make it right, no matter who they are. And we should stop hiding behind scripture to explain away our own flaws." "Even Christ was frustrated. He was angry, at times. He was the son of God, but He was also human. The thing is, He strived to be more because He and His Father loved the world. That's what I believe." He sighs at the offer of tea or whiskey. "You got any live animals?" he asks. "Without their blood in it that whiskey's just gonna turn to ash, and I'll barf it up all over your floor."
Inga Freyjasdottir	Inga makes her way toward the small kitchen, turn the dial on the stove to boil water. She has the hang of at least some modern technology. It seems she at least wants tea. She continues to listen thoughtfull. "All aspects of one god...I see. I do not believe it as such, but I can understand the belief," she replies. "It makes more sense than some I have heard," she offers with a small shrug, removing a dented metal cannister from the cuppboard. The tea. "Sins..but from what I understand...almost everything is a sin. The monks I hear of told that we were /born/ with this sin...I am sorry, but it seemed silly to me. Merciful...well, it seems much has changed since my time. That is good. You are not the only Christian I have met, obviously, nor even the first I get along with...but you certainly seem to be the most...accepting," she replies quietly. It's a little strange. Even Sir Bedivere, who is the picture of courtesy is put off by her sometimes and she knows it. What would he think of the things she's done, she wonders? A common puzzle for Inga. Some of the people she's closest to are made uncomfortable knowing. They avoid the subject of human sacrifice. Inga turns to look to him as he explains what he believes a Christian should be. Her eyebrows inch up her forhead. "That is a great deal to live up to....it is to some of those last parts we will differ," she says, shaking her head. "I am often inclined to be merciful...but there are enemies I cannot, will not love. I can honor an enemy, admire an enemy if they are honorable and treat me with respect. If I am disrespected...there will be a reckoning. To do otherwise would be a disrespect to my gods," she explains. Inga turns back to get two cups down, about to reach for the kettle as it begins to boil. She hears his response to her offer and pauses before turning off the stove and reaching up in the cabinet for the whiskey. She's going to want that instead. "So it is like that then," she says softly. She takes a deep breath, then turns and brings her cup over, setting it down before going to get the empty cup. What is the hospitable thing to do in this situation? "I'm afraid I do not have any animals in my pocket," she says. Oddly, not out of the question though. Inga sits again, then draws the small knife from her belt. As casually as someone shaves, she drags the knife up her inner arm, reaching for the empty glass.
John Rizzo	"No! No..." John looks away from Inga. The smell of her blood is tempting. More tempting than earlier. His urges have the same animal intelligence they always have, always seeking to get him to indulge, just once. Just a taste. His grip on his knee tightens. "Inga, I can't let you do that. I don't drink from people. It's what keeps me from looking at you and other people as prey. Even if you give it to me openly, I... I don't... Just... just, uh... get something for yourself. Okay?" He forces himself to stand up and turn away from her. John takes a few steps towards the assortment of cots and kneels before the nearest one. He clasps his hands together and begins praying fervently in Latin, muttering the prayer under his breath and clasping his hands tightly together. "Domine Iesu, dimitte nobis debita nostra, salva nos ab igne inferiori, perduc in caelum omnes animas, praesertim eas, quae misericordiae tuae maxime indigent." The translation effect reveals its purpose; he is asking for forgiveness and salvation from Hell, for mercy.
Inga Freyjasdottir	Her eyes widen slightly, blood dripping onto her already soiled dress. This was not the reaction she anticipated. She had severely miscalculated. With a sigh, she wipes the blood on her dress, casting a quick spell to speed the healing. The wound is already reknitting, just as it always does. She listens to him pray, waiting. She may not read or write, but she can actually speak Latin. By the time he is finished praying, her wounds has healed completely. "I am sorry," she says quietly, sincerely. "I did not realize. I...only thought to be a good hostess. I have nothing else to offer you. If I were home...I have animals there. You would not want anything from this place. This place is....it is /infected/," she explains, disgust in her voice. "There are worse things here than you have seen." Inga downs the whiskey she poured for herself, then sighs before unpinning her blood soaked overdress and tossing it out an open window with a mumbled incantation. Remove the offending smell. She hopes that would help. "So you are a vampire," she comments, wishing she brought the bottle over. "Fetch the bottle, will you?" Vampire. Gods, she's like a never ending buffet. "I have not encountered a vampire like yourself. Killed several quite unlike you, however," she adds. Blunt. Why dance around it? So /that's/ why he looked to afraid of the fire.
John Rizzo	Rizzo rises, slowly. He wipes off his pants, and with a grunt, moves grab the bottle. "It's alright," he says simply. "I don't have any kinda connection with other Kindred. For me, being around one's actually pretty dangerous. You spend so much time resisting temptations only to see some lick practically bathing in it." Rizzo hands the bottle to Inga, then moves to take a seat. "You might guess my way of life isn't exactly popular with the other guys. They all try to gum up every play I make because they figure I'm gonna do the same." He sits, with a chuckle. "They're usually right. I'm surprised I lived this long without one of them bumping me off, but I guess I have somebody looking after me. That, and the fire and brimstone's aces for scaring off a would-be button man." "Anyway," he says. "I still think you're a great hostess. You know I'm a monster and you haven't kicked me out. I dunno from Thor, but I bet he'd figure you're a real right gal for that. /I/ sure appreciate it." He watches as her magic removes the smell. "Thanks," he says simply. It does help, and it is appreciated. "So," he says. "Vampirism. The mark of Caine. What do you wanna know?"
Inga Freyjasdottir	Inga takes the bottle and pours herself another glass. "Thank you," she says, then gulps down another. She does not look like the type who can hold her liquor, and yet... "You've lost me again. 'Gum up every play?'" she asks, raising a brow. "Would be button man? You have a very strange way of speaking." Inga laughs. "I honor Thor, yes...but I also honor Odin and he is a more subtle sort. And I have welcomed you into a place that is mine, so I must offer my hospitality. To not do so would be a grave offense," she informs him. "A monster that eats the blood of animals? Don't most people? I can only assume you didn't choose to be what you are. Nor did I. It is...difficult being chosen, instead. I...well. I do not think I am human either. Not anymore," she replies softly, looking into her glass. Which is full again. "You're welcome. Some zombie is getting a new dress," she says with a grin. Eh, it was old and stained anyway. She pulls a nearby blanket around her shoulders just to keep out the chill. "So who is Caine? What is the story?" she asks. She's a wisewoman, she's always eager for a new story.
John Rizzo	Rizzo smiles wanly at Inga. "Absolutely. But they can also run down to Kroger and grab a sub, and get on the bus without a little voice in their stomach telling them to make it into a buffet table. And that's just part of the curse. The /real/ curse is that people? Taste good. Better than sex, nose powder, and Christmas all rolled into one. Every time you do it. A man can lose himself that way. Especially when animals taste like someone filtered dime store vodka through a wino's sock by comparison. You see these guys that have been in the game for centuries, that look at you like a chess piece, that look at average Joes like cattle, and you think--this guy used to be human. That's what it does to you. And it's all because of Caine." "Caine the vampire was originally Cain, son of Adam and Eve, brother of Abel. He was a farmer, and his brother was a shepherd. They made sacrifices to God. Abel gave his sheep, and Cain his crops. But Cain was greedy. Maybe he saved the best for himself. Maybe he cooked the books or skimmed. Either way, God is all knowing, and He chose to show it by praising Abel's sacrifice over Cain's." "Cain was furious, so God asked why. To kind of teach him a lesson, y'know?" He clears his throat, leaning in and gesticulating with his hands. "God says, why are you upset? If you do right, I'll treat you right." He frowns. "That didn't sit well with Cain. Keep in mind, Cain and Abel are the third and fourth human beings /in existence/ at this point. Cain was jealous of his brother. So when he thought God wasn't looking..." He smashes one fist into the other. "Killed him. The first murderer."
Inga Freyjasdottir	Inga laughs gently. "They can /now/. Not in my time. But I see your point," she conceeded. Vodka through a dirty sock? Inga wrinkles her nose thinking about it, then wondered if some animal's blood tasted better than others. She imagined pig's blood had to taste better than say, a rat or a chicken. Inga shakes her head lightly, put her thought train back on the rails. Story time. "Ah, I see. To kill one's brother is...very unlucky to say the leaste," she offers, sipping the whiskey now. She might be /slightly/ tipsy now. "So let me guess, now. God punished him by making him a vampire? So that he should suffer eternally?" he asks.
John Rizzo	"It wasn't just for murder," he says. "Ask yourself. Is Odin all-seeing? All-knowing? Would you have the stones to lie to his face? The pride?" "God knew. He asked Cain, where is Abel thy brother? And he said, I know not. Am I my brother's keeper?" Rizzo chuckles bitterly. "Biblically, the story goes that God punished Cain with a curse for killing his brother and lying about it. Now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother's blood from thy hand. When thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto thee her strength; a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth." "But what the Bible doesn't say is that God visited Cain three times asking him to repent. Cain's jealousy had turned into pride, and each time he refused. He was Caine the first vampire then, no longer Cain the farmer. God's curse grew worse each time Caine spurned him. Sunlight'll kill us. And fire. And all of those little thoughts you have, about showing someone else who's boss? About running away from something that scares you? About stuffing your face? All of those thoughts get blended and stuffed inside you, and if you let them, they'll take you over and kill and maim until they're satisfied and leave you to clean up the mess. Friends. Family..." "So naturally he gets lonely. And he sires childer. And his childer sire childer. That generation, the Third Generation, are bad news. They're powerful. So powerful that their dreams can shape reality. Every vampire from my world is descended from them, and they call each line of descendents a clan. And when the Third Generation messed up the city of Enoch by siring more people than the city could sustain, Caine cursed /them./ So every vampire not only has the Mark of Caine to worry about, but also whatever he cursed their clan with. It's definitely a Curse with a capital C."
Inga Freyjasdottir	Inga shakes her head. "No, Odin is not all-seeing or all-knowing--but no I would not lie to him," she replies. All-seeing? Inga shudders. The Norns are plucking her wyrd like a harp string. About curses, Inga knows a thing or two. "Powerful curses, to endure so long," she remarks. "I have heard of very few to endure through a bloodline. So...what is your clan? Your curse?" she asks. Witches are nosy. It's better than touching his wyrd, though. She should warn him about that. And other things.
John Rizzo	"That's the thing," he says. "I'm tenth-generation Malkavian. I know /thin-bloods/ that have the curse. And every member of the Family I've met, definitely, definitely had it. I... don't. For whatever reason. I guess I should be thankful for that." He leans back in his chair. "Every Malk is incurably insane. Unfailingly, they say. But 'they' also say not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and I'm pretty wise to that." "Caine's still alive--whether he's awake I dunno. But rumor has it we'd all be cured if he'd apologize." He chuckles. "That's bunk if I ever heard it. Eternal life as a glorified predator must be doing wonders for the guy's humility."
Inga Freyjasdottir	Inga tilts her head slightly, tucking this knowledge away. Malkavian, a vampire clan. Cursed with insanity. Inga winces. He doesn't have the curse? That seems...unlikely. Not that he /seems/ mad, but madness takes many forms. "I see. Then you are lucky. Favored, perhaps," she responds, pouring another drink. She feels odd drinking while he cannot. "Eternal life...but that is only if you are not killed, yes?" she asks. "You said fire, sunlight can kill you. That is...a long life...but not an eternal one," she says, looking down into her whiskey. "I should warn you about many things. First, I use my blood a great deal. I used what many call blood magic. That might make it difficult for you to be near me. Secondly, I am a Seer. I get vision. I may get one about or of you without warning and often it is out of my control. Third....be careful in this world. There is an infection here, one worse than the zombies and whatever else. We call it The Filth. It can spread...by mere thought. You should not stay here," she cautions. It's a lot to dump on him at once, but she figured its her turn.
John Rizzo	"Appreciate the info," Rizzo says with a nod. "And the warning." Inga may get the feeling he means the bit about her magic more so than the infection. The mention of the Filth doesn't quite concern him as much as it should. Clearly he seems to understand, but does he care? A look at his disheveled clothes and haggard appearance might answer that question. This man seems to have stopped caring about his own safety long ago. Those tired eyes are the eyes of one who lives for others. "I've been resisting the Beast for a long time--but there's no need to tempt fate. If we end up fighting some bogeyman you need the mojo for, I'll lie dormy in the back with my roscoe." He, too, has visions--not as intense as hers, although one defining vision certainly qualifies. "You ever need a sympathetic ear or a sharp set of eyes, come give me the buzz and me or my guy Marcus'll be there on the swift. Union folks set us up with a radio and everything. For now, I gotta blow before daylight. You need anything?"
Inga Freyjasdottir	Inga sighs heavily. She can tell he doesn't take it seriously enough. Very few do. They haven't had to hunt it out of someone's mind. They haven't dealt with it in person. "Listen to me. It spreads so quickly and so easily. If you get it, you will spread it without knowing. So BE. CAREFUL," she reiterates, finishing her, what, 4th whiskey? before shakily getting to her feet. Then, she smiles and extends a hand. "I do not know what half those expressions mean, but I think I catch your meaning. The same applies. I am sure we will run into each other again. I live in a place called Dun Realtai. Or Chicago," she says. She'll have to ask who Marcus is another time. "I can get out of here, worry not," she says, reaching into her pouch and pulling out a small, glowing orb. It sorts of...buzzes. "Farewell, may your god protect you."