"...Nous gangnerons!"
Posted: Thu Jun 17, 2021 9:38 am
As the early summer nights of late May arrive, stories of conflict and tension sparked by the New York Revolt - called the Third Anarch Revolt by the most ambitious - begin to spread. You can assume your character has heard the broad strokes of these tales from across North America.
---
“Nous gangnerons!”
The cry came from a beat-up jalopy as shotgun fire from within it tore an elderly gentleman to pieces on the sidewalk, scattering his entourage. To mortals, it was another act of senseless violence in Detroit’s dangerous Milwaukee Junction. But they didn’t know that the older man was the neonate Deputy of the city’s Sheriff, assassinated in broad moonlight by what had a Sabbat Pack weeks before - now sworn to the Anarch Movement. They had swapped their Blood Feasts and their Vaulderies for Anarch rhetoric and Rants, and the Anarchs had taken a liking to Nines. Just weeks ago, Detroit had been lost. Now, they were sure beyond a doubt that the city would be free once more. One called his old war buddy - the Tzimisce - to tell her the news...
“Nous gangnerons!”
This time it was scrawled on the backdrop of a small theater stage in the city of Vancouver where the Camarilla Sheriff would find the Keeper of Elysium – a small, wiry woman who was of Chinese descent in life – decaying in Final Death and hanging in front of the curtains with a rope around her neck. She had died from blunt trauma – what must have been hours of beatings. At least as many hours as she had demanded the Anarchs suffer for every untucked shirt and hair out of place when they were forced to attend Elysium. When she was pulled down, the curtains would be pulled back and reveal the graffiti. They would know who did it.
“Nous gangnerons!”
Those were the last words a Tremere Primogen in San Diego heard before his progeny’s fangs cut into him. Hans Dietmar had embraced Christian Lockhart for his skills with technology – less to be his own Tremere one day, and more to manage Dietmar’s affairs in a mortal world quickly leaving him behind. But Christian had met some Anarchs – they managed to find him on his Facebook. They told him about Radio Free State. They were always kind to him, especially when the sire who had ripped his life away was not. His resentment had been brewing for months, and when he heard about New York and saw the terror it inspired in his Elders he knew he had to be a part of it. Christian Lockhart didn’t know if he would survive, but he knew death was better than eternal slavery. He never imagined that soon, every Anarch on the West Coast would know his name.
“Nous gangnerons!”
Now it was printed in big, red stencil letters on the interior of a wooden crate. That crate had another message on the outside, this one in white. RETURN TO SENDER. Andre liked it, but Austin thought it needed a bit more punch – something to scare the recipients. Thankfully, Alain had a solution. The Ventrue Primogen of St. Louis saw it when he pulled the staked, badly beaten, and naked body of his clanmate Burton Howe from the box. St. Louis had been nominally cooperating with Houston on dethroning the Anarchs who had taken New Orleans, and Burton Howe had been their first in the city. Fourth Way had sent him back, though. And Andre kept his crappy suit.
“Nous gangnerons!”
Not all stories of Anarch attacks come from the Anarchs themselves. Many thought the Anarchs of Houston had left to claim New Orleans from the Sabbat for themselves, but the Camarilla of Houston tells a different story. In Courts in Dallas and Kansas City and in Anarch circles with sympathizers on the inside, Kindred whisper of a daring attack in the midst of Formal Court in Houston. As the Camarilla grieved the loss of the scions of New York, Henry Mitchell's solemn oath to defend the Domain from Anarch depredation was interrupted by the howl of the damned. The childe of the Keeper Oliver Klein, known only as Ella the Ripper, launched herself at him shrieking the Anarchs' battlecry. She was joined by a rebellious Brujah, Black Vivian, who was inspired in turn to strike at her own Sire. Only the bravery of the Prince, who shielded the Domain's vulnerable with his own body, and Deputies Edward Fontaine and Chuck Wilcox prevented the Ripper from claiming her sire's soul in the middle of Elysium. The Scourge claims these these would-be diablerists have been sheltered by the Anarchs of New Orleans, and the Keeper has vowed to rectify his foolish Embrace by bringing them to justice. Meanwhile, Anarch Rants near Dallas bustle with shoutouts, namedrops, and toasts (for all those pretty Toreador among them) to the Movement's newest small-time folk heroes.
“Nous gangnerons!”
“Nous gangnerons!”
“Nous gangnerons!”
---
“Nous gangnerons!”
The cry came from a beat-up jalopy as shotgun fire from within it tore an elderly gentleman to pieces on the sidewalk, scattering his entourage. To mortals, it was another act of senseless violence in Detroit’s dangerous Milwaukee Junction. But they didn’t know that the older man was the neonate Deputy of the city’s Sheriff, assassinated in broad moonlight by what had a Sabbat Pack weeks before - now sworn to the Anarch Movement. They had swapped their Blood Feasts and their Vaulderies for Anarch rhetoric and Rants, and the Anarchs had taken a liking to Nines. Just weeks ago, Detroit had been lost. Now, they were sure beyond a doubt that the city would be free once more. One called his old war buddy - the Tzimisce - to tell her the news...
“Nous gangnerons!”
This time it was scrawled on the backdrop of a small theater stage in the city of Vancouver where the Camarilla Sheriff would find the Keeper of Elysium – a small, wiry woman who was of Chinese descent in life – decaying in Final Death and hanging in front of the curtains with a rope around her neck. She had died from blunt trauma – what must have been hours of beatings. At least as many hours as she had demanded the Anarchs suffer for every untucked shirt and hair out of place when they were forced to attend Elysium. When she was pulled down, the curtains would be pulled back and reveal the graffiti. They would know who did it.
“Nous gangnerons!”
Those were the last words a Tremere Primogen in San Diego heard before his progeny’s fangs cut into him. Hans Dietmar had embraced Christian Lockhart for his skills with technology – less to be his own Tremere one day, and more to manage Dietmar’s affairs in a mortal world quickly leaving him behind. But Christian had met some Anarchs – they managed to find him on his Facebook. They told him about Radio Free State. They were always kind to him, especially when the sire who had ripped his life away was not. His resentment had been brewing for months, and when he heard about New York and saw the terror it inspired in his Elders he knew he had to be a part of it. Christian Lockhart didn’t know if he would survive, but he knew death was better than eternal slavery. He never imagined that soon, every Anarch on the West Coast would know his name.
“Nous gangnerons!”
Now it was printed in big, red stencil letters on the interior of a wooden crate. That crate had another message on the outside, this one in white. RETURN TO SENDER. Andre liked it, but Austin thought it needed a bit more punch – something to scare the recipients. Thankfully, Alain had a solution. The Ventrue Primogen of St. Louis saw it when he pulled the staked, badly beaten, and naked body of his clanmate Burton Howe from the box. St. Louis had been nominally cooperating with Houston on dethroning the Anarchs who had taken New Orleans, and Burton Howe had been their first in the city. Fourth Way had sent him back, though. And Andre kept his crappy suit.
“Nous gangnerons!”
Not all stories of Anarch attacks come from the Anarchs themselves. Many thought the Anarchs of Houston had left to claim New Orleans from the Sabbat for themselves, but the Camarilla of Houston tells a different story. In Courts in Dallas and Kansas City and in Anarch circles with sympathizers on the inside, Kindred whisper of a daring attack in the midst of Formal Court in Houston. As the Camarilla grieved the loss of the scions of New York, Henry Mitchell's solemn oath to defend the Domain from Anarch depredation was interrupted by the howl of the damned. The childe of the Keeper Oliver Klein, known only as Ella the Ripper, launched herself at him shrieking the Anarchs' battlecry. She was joined by a rebellious Brujah, Black Vivian, who was inspired in turn to strike at her own Sire. Only the bravery of the Prince, who shielded the Domain's vulnerable with his own body, and Deputies Edward Fontaine and Chuck Wilcox prevented the Ripper from claiming her sire's soul in the middle of Elysium. The Scourge claims these these would-be diablerists have been sheltered by the Anarchs of New Orleans, and the Keeper has vowed to rectify his foolish Embrace by bringing them to justice. Meanwhile, Anarch Rants near Dallas bustle with shoutouts, namedrops, and toasts (for all those pretty Toreador among them) to the Movement's newest small-time folk heroes.
“Nous gangnerons!”
“Nous gangnerons!”
“Nous gangnerons!”