A tale of the Tremere:
The moon was the merest sliver as Ernst Lohm hopped the wall of the Stone Garden. The razor-fine crescent lay on its back, supine -- a witch's moon. Lohm picked himself up, brushing grass and mud from his hands onto the torn knees of faded and paint-speckled blue jeans. Reorienting himself, he raised one thumb critically at arm's length and sighted along it. Twenty-three degrees. The fickle moon's elevation above the horizon. Perfect.
Immediately, he set to work rearranging the carefully ordered tombstones.
His preparations were painstaking. He worked quickly and expertly. Lohm was a craftsman of the old school, a master of arrangement, balance, composition. He was acutely aware that if his efforts should fall one degree shy of perfection, he might fail utterly to coax forth one of his reluctant dark angels this night. Or worse still, he thought, he might fail to convince it to abandon the multiform wonders of moonlight on marble and return again to the darkling plain from whence it came.
A cruel wind sliced past, drawing a low shivering groan from his very bones – a bow drawn across cello strings. Lohm glanced distractedly at the shard of moon as if checking his watch. Yes, he thought, time enough.
A tale of the Tzimisce:
In the wake of the riots, the Mall in Washington, D.C., had assumed the aspect of an armed military encampment. A vast tent city, overflowing with refugees and emergency workers, stretched unbroken between the Capitol and the boarded-up windows of White House. For the second time in its history, the residence of Presidents had been subjected to the indignity of the torch.
The First Lady had taken the forced evacuation in stride, recalling the example of her predecessor, Dolly Madison, by making a photo op of rescuing a portrait of George Washington from the conflagration.
The Washington Monument jutted erect and defiant from the press of canvas and unwashed bodies -- a finger pointed accusingly at the heavens. Upon closer inspection, however, it was obvious that that the concerted efforts of innumerable vandals were taking their toll. As if sensing the prevailing wind, FEMA workers had at last overcome their awe and reluctance -- erecting a makeshift scaffolding in order to paint a bold red cross on each of the obelisk's four sides.
The Smithsonian Institute had shut its doors to the public. The lower level of the Air and Space Museum had been commandeered as the field headquarters of the Maryland State Militia as they tried in vain to restore some semblance of order to the nation's capital. The Natural History Museum had been condemned and cordoned off after the explosion – allegedly set off by would-be diamond thieves – that rocked the building, setting it back down unsteadily on its foundation. Rescue crews were forced to carve their way through the life-sized replica of a blue whale that, once suspended from the ceiling, had precipitated to the floor, blocking all hope of ingress.
Of all the buildings on the mall, however, the one that was most changed was the Castle. Something fundamental about the nostalgic old brick edifice had been altered. The press of teeming life instinctively edged away from its presence. The weeds of rope and canvas would not take root in its shadow.
A tale of the Gangrel:
With a screech of steel, the subway car lurched heavily to one side. Someone behind Ramona screamed as the lights flickered out. The oppressive darkness of the tunnel clamped down.
"This is not funny," she yelled at no one in particular. The human noises around her went suddenly silent. Ramona pushed her way towards the doors and felt for the crack between them. There.
Claws parted the rotted weather gasket. With a heave, she wrenched them apart and was rewarded with a faceful of foul stagnant air.
There was a crackling noise from the car speaker. "…will not be nezezzary Miz Zalvadore."
The sound of her name brought her up short. She turned, her already-keen senses going to full battle readiness. She pinpointed the source of the sound and edged cautiously towards it. She was surprised that she did not have to fight against a press of bodies stampeding towards the exit. There was no other human sound in the darkness.
"Pleaze ztep away from the doorz." The doors resealed behind her. There was the familiar rumble of a train starting up and pulling away. A flicker of receding lights shone through the grimed windows. The car Ramona was standing in did not budge.
Ramona carefully crossed to the intercom, half-expecting, hoping, to trip over a few bodies lying on the floor. Nada. Angrily, she mashed the button.
"I said this isn't funny. Now you knock this crap off right now and help me get these people out of here or I'll…"
The dim emergency lighting hummed and shuddered to life. The car was empty.