“You’re sure about this?” He motions for Betty or Bonita.
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She has a sketchpad in front of her and a lap full of colored pencils. Black Betty? Black Bonita? Who can remember? She’s a frail slip of a girl with too-long arms and double-long legs. Sitting next to Tombs is a court-less girl I’ve only seen in passing. He has a corpse grin below a nose-less face and a pair of too-big sunglasses like you might see some drug-addled celebrity starlet wear (hobo chic, I’ve heard it called). Standing off to the side is Tombs Tuttle. Something about the room smells like… I dunno, maybe burning plastic. A balmy breeze blows in, growing hotter as it drifts over his shoulder. Inside his office, Thunder sits pensive at a glass-top desk. I can’t say what it is he offers in return: Ivan’s face is a curious thing, a cement block that could be smiling, could be sneering. I twist out of his grip and offer a shit-eating grin. His words are clumsy in that muddy Russian tongue of his. “Ramona Ringfinger,” Ivan says, putting his hand on my shoulder. My knives glint in the hot sun, leaving arcs of black blood in their flashing wake.
Back to back, we take down too many to count. I goosestep forward, and she pivots around me. The hand that cradles the rifle’s stock is little more than a busted claw. Her left eye is fused shut with a crust of blood. Sister Sunra is next to me suddenly bullets are barking from her AK, stitching holes in the onrushing ranks. One ends up dead atop the other, and the tide comes and takes them both away. A pair of goblins thinks they can flank me. With the sand castle walls towering above me, the crumbling parapets held together by coils of thorn and whisper-thin sedge, I push on. I can’t see Tombs, but I can see his blood running into the sucking tide.
Over his shoulder, I see Tombs Tuttle go down under a trio of the gibbering things. The wretched thing is confused, even more so when he finds me behind him, sticking one knife in his throat and another in the small of his back. His bone spur jaw slams shut on his tongue, biting it off. Hands backward in the sand, I kick forward: the flat top of my foot connects with the goblin’s head. The pistol spins from his grip and into a briny tidal pool. Behind me, the arrow finds a home in the chest of Papi Chulo. I see its dark shape, its razortip, its shaft kept aloft and swift by a graft of a dozen black hornets. An arrow slices through the air above me. Light on my feet, I’m buoyed by the heat coming off the sand, driven by the drum-hiss of crashing surf, and pushed forward by a sad and angry heart. The mantid face hisses and chitters before it disintegrates. The light leaps forward toward its destination. The dread light illuminates the third finger on my left hand and the red bruise that rings the flesh. All the blood and fire and anger and sorrow inside are now free in a single wave, as ineluctable as the tides. Something thrusts through the back of my calf, but I refuse to recognize the pain. One in a white sundress with red flowers, her mantid face staring out, the other in the black tuxedo with the red carnation boutonniere, his wolf head and spider eyes looking as hungry as ever. Then I see the Keepers marshaling this mad army. I dance over him, kicking the gross crustacean into another. I also see a goblin feasting on the body of Rooster Petukh, tearing away great hunks of his leg flesh. When my eyes stop watering, I see that I’ve killed two more. I roll forward, just out of the way, sand stinging my eyes. One of the parapets falls atop us - a crashing fist of sand and thorn. Ings and filling the air with acrid cordite (a smell that mixes with the potent brine). c o mīy Stephen DiPesa, Jes s Hartley, Malcolm Sheppard, John Snead and Chuck Wendig 16 new entitlements to spice up a chronicle or add an entirely new dimensionįor use with the World of Darkness Rulebook 52799.Detail on the four Great Courts, from magic and practices to political intrigues.An elaboration on freeholds, their traditions and advantages.Song of the Brazen’s Last Stand freehold By oath and Wyrd and honor, Your wicked ways are done. The noble lords are oathbound To wrath and flame and spear. The sun, it lights their lances, And golden crowns their pride. Un, Fool, run, The Knights are on the ride.
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