"Nous Sommes Le Deluge!"
Posted: Thu Jun 17, 2021 9:50 am
June 5th, 2020 – 2:00 AM
The Kindred of New Orleans all reached in their own ways when Elysium fell. They all celebrated, to be sure, their unbeaten hearts comported with a certain joy watching Ella the Ripper shred Henry Mitchell limb-from-limb. But some chose to make that the end of their nights. Some chose to hunt down the Camarilla who hadn’t escaped, to kill them or drag them to the Grand Hall with Lord Champlaigne and Thaddeus Rucker. And some others trashed and looted the museum, making a mockery of the night’s preparations. But with the shrieks and cheers still faintly audible, Alain Jeannet led Andre La Voix to the traveling exhibit hall.
The traveling exhibit hall was small compared to the great wings of the museum, no bigger than a conference room. Most critically, it had a door that quieted the noise from the grand hall. The Camarilla had converted it into a memorial for Edward Fontaine, with pictures of the twice-dead Gangrel and flowers laid all about an urn that couldn’t have contained his ashes. Alain casually knocked it off its stand to the ground, causing a clatter as the container fell to the ground. It splattered sand out on the floor – how very Camarilla. Behind him, Andre snickered. But he had business to attend to. He set down the backpack he had brought and removed a laptop computer and a small microphone. It wasn’t as nice as the setup the Anarchs in New York had, but this wasn’t New York. It would better fit the ragtag rebels of the Free City of New Orleans.
Andre motioned for Alain to hold on while he finished setting things up. He didn’t care for the museum’s public Wi-Fi, but his VPN would be sufficient to keep him safe. He could have always recorded. But he felt like this needed to be live no matter how choppy it got. It just felt right. He waited for the light on his streaming program to turn green, and then he spoke.
“This is Andre La Voix, The Voice and Your Voice. La Voix and Ta Voix. And I interrupt our previous schedule to bring you a live announcement in the Vampiric war for the city.” He paused. Alain had heard his show a few times, but he had never seen Andre record. The boy was a bit simple, so Alain had never guessed he improvised as much as he did. “In my years on the air, I have kept you informed on the War for the Night between the undead Freedom Fighters, the vanguard of our liberty, and their struggles – first against the depraved Blood Cult and the Butcher of Baton Rouge, and then the treacherous Vampiric Elite who slayed the Baron under the flag of parlay. In the Baron’s absence, a new power has taken rise in the Free State. He is known to me only as Big Daddy.”
“In these dangerous nights, I have always communicated with the Freedom Fighters and supported them remotely. This night is different.” Andre paused for effect. Alain could imagine his audience of dozens staring at their radios with rapt attention. “Tonight, I am live and on location in the wake of a pitched battle between the Freedom Fighters and the Elite. And tonight, you will not hear from me. I will detail the battle and its maneuvers in the weeks to come, perhaps as a special event. Tonight, you will hear the voice of Big Daddy.”
And like in New York, a Brujah nodded to a Toreador. “We’re ready for you, Big Daddy,” Andre said. Alain allowed himself one roll of this eyes – a measured reaction to the number of times he had again been called Big Daddy in the last five minutes. But he let Andre have his moment. It was his as much as Alain’s own, after all. The deep, dangerous wounds on Andre’s neck were payment for it. Alain stood upright, rising to his full height, and spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Comrades, chers amis, tonight a great blow has been delivered to the tyrants that call themselves the Camarilla. Earlier this evening, brave and noble fighters of liberty stormed the unholy Bastille of the Camarilla, their Elysium, tearing down the officers of their tyranny in the halls they felt safest. Their so-called Prince, Henry Mitchell, is no more. His vassal parasites have themselves met final death or now flee back to the gates of hell from which they first emerged. Tonight, any and all attachments within the city of New Orleans to the Camarilla are rent asunder. Tonight, New Orleans is a FREE CITY!”
Cheers rang out in New York City. They would not hear the message for several nights, but the Rant in the heart of Central Park erupted in jubilation. They were not an outlier. The revolution had not stopped in the Big Apple. Several Brujah clapped Louis Chereau on the back as the Toreador allowed himself a rare decadence, weeping tears of Blood. Tears of pride. Clearly, revolution was in their line. And that meant they could not stop. They had waited long enough already, but for one more night they would celebrate. Tomorrow, they would plan. The next night, they would act.
“To the people of this city, some of whom I am sure are listening, I wish to thank you for any aid you have provided us in this storm. Know that regardless of what stories you hear, what horrors are claimed to be done in the name of my kind, that the true among us all wish to live with you in peace as brothers and sisters. There is a great deal more that unites us as simple souls striving to live free and happy, then any fangs can separate.”
Paul and his friends weren’t at Treasure Trove tonight. But they gathered at Phineas’ home for their usual Friday night festivities. They were just about to finish up their third game of Faerie Quest and call it quits when the live broadcast came on. They learned to tell when Andre had put up pre-recorded content, not that they blamed him. He could never find the truth spending every night in a studio. But they erupted in cheers when the news came. New Orleans was a Free City. They Elites had been defeated. All four men celebrated the words of Big Daddy, a figure they imagined as a heavyset Cajun mobster instead of the handsome Frenchman he was. But Paul quickly picked out his phone. He didn’t remember all the details of the night he met Ella the Ripper and Black Vivian. Vivian’s Kiss saw to that. But he knew that the Houston Area Code number marked “ELLA” wasn’t in his phone before. He hadn’t contacted it yet, but he decided to chance it. He shot her a simple, one-word text. “Congratulations.
”
“Tonight we celebrate, but also we must remain vigilant for the war is not over. The Camarilla still makes its homes in the cities around us, it will seek to worm its foul tendrils back into our lives. One may hope that their defeats, numerous and grand as they are becoming would give them pause, but it will not for they are tyrants and tyrants cannot be appeased or worked with. It is a time for all those who still claim allegiance to that wretched cancer to evaluate where they wish to be when the wave finally crashes over them. The deluge is coming, and it will pour over you all with no mercy and no regard for your so called status. Ponder this, oui, for you have little precious time.”
In an abandoned mansion in Homestead, left as such since Hurricane Andrew, a man sat in a twisted throne on the top floor. Human corpses hung from meat hooks, themselves swinging from the ceiling. Two Packs of Cainites like Alexis, practically rotting on their feet, listened to the phone another man held. The singular man was short and bald. He might have been tan in life. He was shirtless, and his muscular body was covered in tattoos both mortal and Fleshcrafted after his death. He leaned back, listening to the pretty Toreador speak his pretty Toreador words. Normally he burned the tongues of pretty Toreador away – he found it was the best way to shut them up. But he liked these words. They made him smile. “Yeah, yeah,” the Archbishop of Miami said. “We ponderin’, hombre.”
“In mere hours the sun will rise for its first time on a Free City of New Orleans. May it be a glorious day, may joy fill the heart of every man, woman, and child who shares in the cause of liberty. May your loved ones be safe and your minds free to dream big things. NOUS SOMMES LE DELUGE!”
Magnus Alderidge, Robin St. Claire, and Oliver Klein all whipped their heads around at the sound of a door opening. Relief filled them when they saw its source. Not assassins Lady Courtenay hired to murder them, as she had promised in her rage. Not an Archon here for their heads. Just Chuck Wilcox, barely held together by his unnatural Blood. He had barely escaped Corinne Brown with his unlife, and his slog back to Houston had been a slow and treacherous one. He had returned to New Buckstone immediately to report to the Prince but had not quite expected the sight he found. Magnus in his paisley bathrobe, a lit cigar in his hand. Robin St. Claire, her eyes wide and unblinking and her face etched with terror. And Oliver Klein, perfectly composed but smelling faintly of the dump truck he had spent two nights in. Wilcox shambled in, nodding respectfully. “Your Grace,” he croaked. Magnus said nothing, not even chiding Chuck for approaching the Prince’s residence uninvited. Robin said nothing. Klein just looked at his Italian shoes.
Not a moment later, Chuck heard the only noise in New Buckstone hit him. The wailing. It was muffled and distant, but he could hear Lady Courtenay’s cries. While he had been fighting for his unlife to escape New Orleans, the Anarchs had slain Lord Champlaigne. The Blood Bond between he and his wife had snapped when his lady was in the thick of conversation in Elysium. Ventrue were not renowned for their combat prowess, but the Harpy that Lady Courtenay had very nearly torn in half would consider that cold comfort. As would the dozen Ghouls it took to bring her back to sanity. She had spent the day wailing in Elysium, and only stopped long enough the next night to drag herself to New Buckstone. By now covered in her own Blood, she had demanded answers from the Prince. She had threatened his position. She had promised to cut he and the whole Court down. They all knew what must have happened. But nobody had wanted to be the one to tell her.
All three were relieved when Chuck, stripped of title and with little Standing, arrived.
As he approached the Prince, Magnus looked at the other two Kindred. Chuck knew exactly what they were thinking. He weighed objecting, but bit his tongue. All three looked at him, and then rolled their eyes towards the source of the noise. Chuck just sighed.
“You’re gonna make me tell her, aren’t you?”
Magnus reached to his side, pulling an umbrella from a hook and handed it to Chuck. “Best of luck,” he said.
Chuck slumped his shoulders and marched up the stairs.
The Kindred of New Orleans all reached in their own ways when Elysium fell. They all celebrated, to be sure, their unbeaten hearts comported with a certain joy watching Ella the Ripper shred Henry Mitchell limb-from-limb. But some chose to make that the end of their nights. Some chose to hunt down the Camarilla who hadn’t escaped, to kill them or drag them to the Grand Hall with Lord Champlaigne and Thaddeus Rucker. And some others trashed and looted the museum, making a mockery of the night’s preparations. But with the shrieks and cheers still faintly audible, Alain Jeannet led Andre La Voix to the traveling exhibit hall.
The traveling exhibit hall was small compared to the great wings of the museum, no bigger than a conference room. Most critically, it had a door that quieted the noise from the grand hall. The Camarilla had converted it into a memorial for Edward Fontaine, with pictures of the twice-dead Gangrel and flowers laid all about an urn that couldn’t have contained his ashes. Alain casually knocked it off its stand to the ground, causing a clatter as the container fell to the ground. It splattered sand out on the floor – how very Camarilla. Behind him, Andre snickered. But he had business to attend to. He set down the backpack he had brought and removed a laptop computer and a small microphone. It wasn’t as nice as the setup the Anarchs in New York had, but this wasn’t New York. It would better fit the ragtag rebels of the Free City of New Orleans.
Andre motioned for Alain to hold on while he finished setting things up. He didn’t care for the museum’s public Wi-Fi, but his VPN would be sufficient to keep him safe. He could have always recorded. But he felt like this needed to be live no matter how choppy it got. It just felt right. He waited for the light on his streaming program to turn green, and then he spoke.
“This is Andre La Voix, The Voice and Your Voice. La Voix and Ta Voix. And I interrupt our previous schedule to bring you a live announcement in the Vampiric war for the city.” He paused. Alain had heard his show a few times, but he had never seen Andre record. The boy was a bit simple, so Alain had never guessed he improvised as much as he did. “In my years on the air, I have kept you informed on the War for the Night between the undead Freedom Fighters, the vanguard of our liberty, and their struggles – first against the depraved Blood Cult and the Butcher of Baton Rouge, and then the treacherous Vampiric Elite who slayed the Baron under the flag of parlay. In the Baron’s absence, a new power has taken rise in the Free State. He is known to me only as Big Daddy.”
“In these dangerous nights, I have always communicated with the Freedom Fighters and supported them remotely. This night is different.” Andre paused for effect. Alain could imagine his audience of dozens staring at their radios with rapt attention. “Tonight, I am live and on location in the wake of a pitched battle between the Freedom Fighters and the Elite. And tonight, you will not hear from me. I will detail the battle and its maneuvers in the weeks to come, perhaps as a special event. Tonight, you will hear the voice of Big Daddy.”
And like in New York, a Brujah nodded to a Toreador. “We’re ready for you, Big Daddy,” Andre said. Alain allowed himself one roll of this eyes – a measured reaction to the number of times he had again been called Big Daddy in the last five minutes. But he let Andre have his moment. It was his as much as Alain’s own, after all. The deep, dangerous wounds on Andre’s neck were payment for it. Alain stood upright, rising to his full height, and spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Comrades, chers amis, tonight a great blow has been delivered to the tyrants that call themselves the Camarilla. Earlier this evening, brave and noble fighters of liberty stormed the unholy Bastille of the Camarilla, their Elysium, tearing down the officers of their tyranny in the halls they felt safest. Their so-called Prince, Henry Mitchell, is no more. His vassal parasites have themselves met final death or now flee back to the gates of hell from which they first emerged. Tonight, any and all attachments within the city of New Orleans to the Camarilla are rent asunder. Tonight, New Orleans is a FREE CITY!”
Cheers rang out in New York City. They would not hear the message for several nights, but the Rant in the heart of Central Park erupted in jubilation. They were not an outlier. The revolution had not stopped in the Big Apple. Several Brujah clapped Louis Chereau on the back as the Toreador allowed himself a rare decadence, weeping tears of Blood. Tears of pride. Clearly, revolution was in their line. And that meant they could not stop. They had waited long enough already, but for one more night they would celebrate. Tomorrow, they would plan. The next night, they would act.
“To the people of this city, some of whom I am sure are listening, I wish to thank you for any aid you have provided us in this storm. Know that regardless of what stories you hear, what horrors are claimed to be done in the name of my kind, that the true among us all wish to live with you in peace as brothers and sisters. There is a great deal more that unites us as simple souls striving to live free and happy, then any fangs can separate.”
Paul and his friends weren’t at Treasure Trove tonight. But they gathered at Phineas’ home for their usual Friday night festivities. They were just about to finish up their third game of Faerie Quest and call it quits when the live broadcast came on. They learned to tell when Andre had put up pre-recorded content, not that they blamed him. He could never find the truth spending every night in a studio. But they erupted in cheers when the news came. New Orleans was a Free City. They Elites had been defeated. All four men celebrated the words of Big Daddy, a figure they imagined as a heavyset Cajun mobster instead of the handsome Frenchman he was. But Paul quickly picked out his phone. He didn’t remember all the details of the night he met Ella the Ripper and Black Vivian. Vivian’s Kiss saw to that. But he knew that the Houston Area Code number marked “ELLA” wasn’t in his phone before. He hadn’t contacted it yet, but he decided to chance it. He shot her a simple, one-word text. “Congratulations.
”“Tonight we celebrate, but also we must remain vigilant for the war is not over. The Camarilla still makes its homes in the cities around us, it will seek to worm its foul tendrils back into our lives. One may hope that their defeats, numerous and grand as they are becoming would give them pause, but it will not for they are tyrants and tyrants cannot be appeased or worked with. It is a time for all those who still claim allegiance to that wretched cancer to evaluate where they wish to be when the wave finally crashes over them. The deluge is coming, and it will pour over you all with no mercy and no regard for your so called status. Ponder this, oui, for you have little precious time.”
In an abandoned mansion in Homestead, left as such since Hurricane Andrew, a man sat in a twisted throne on the top floor. Human corpses hung from meat hooks, themselves swinging from the ceiling. Two Packs of Cainites like Alexis, practically rotting on their feet, listened to the phone another man held. The singular man was short and bald. He might have been tan in life. He was shirtless, and his muscular body was covered in tattoos both mortal and Fleshcrafted after his death. He leaned back, listening to the pretty Toreador speak his pretty Toreador words. Normally he burned the tongues of pretty Toreador away – he found it was the best way to shut them up. But he liked these words. They made him smile. “Yeah, yeah,” the Archbishop of Miami said. “We ponderin’, hombre.”
“In mere hours the sun will rise for its first time on a Free City of New Orleans. May it be a glorious day, may joy fill the heart of every man, woman, and child who shares in the cause of liberty. May your loved ones be safe and your minds free to dream big things. NOUS SOMMES LE DELUGE!”
Magnus Alderidge, Robin St. Claire, and Oliver Klein all whipped their heads around at the sound of a door opening. Relief filled them when they saw its source. Not assassins Lady Courtenay hired to murder them, as she had promised in her rage. Not an Archon here for their heads. Just Chuck Wilcox, barely held together by his unnatural Blood. He had barely escaped Corinne Brown with his unlife, and his slog back to Houston had been a slow and treacherous one. He had returned to New Buckstone immediately to report to the Prince but had not quite expected the sight he found. Magnus in his paisley bathrobe, a lit cigar in his hand. Robin St. Claire, her eyes wide and unblinking and her face etched with terror. And Oliver Klein, perfectly composed but smelling faintly of the dump truck he had spent two nights in. Wilcox shambled in, nodding respectfully. “Your Grace,” he croaked. Magnus said nothing, not even chiding Chuck for approaching the Prince’s residence uninvited. Robin said nothing. Klein just looked at his Italian shoes.
Not a moment later, Chuck heard the only noise in New Buckstone hit him. The wailing. It was muffled and distant, but he could hear Lady Courtenay’s cries. While he had been fighting for his unlife to escape New Orleans, the Anarchs had slain Lord Champlaigne. The Blood Bond between he and his wife had snapped when his lady was in the thick of conversation in Elysium. Ventrue were not renowned for their combat prowess, but the Harpy that Lady Courtenay had very nearly torn in half would consider that cold comfort. As would the dozen Ghouls it took to bring her back to sanity. She had spent the day wailing in Elysium, and only stopped long enough the next night to drag herself to New Buckstone. By now covered in her own Blood, she had demanded answers from the Prince. She had threatened his position. She had promised to cut he and the whole Court down. They all knew what must have happened. But nobody had wanted to be the one to tell her.
All three were relieved when Chuck, stripped of title and with little Standing, arrived.
As he approached the Prince, Magnus looked at the other two Kindred. Chuck knew exactly what they were thinking. He weighed objecting, but bit his tongue. All three looked at him, and then rolled their eyes towards the source of the noise. Chuck just sighed.
“You’re gonna make me tell her, aren’t you?”
Magnus reached to his side, pulling an umbrella from a hook and handed it to Chuck. “Best of luck,” he said.
Chuck slumped his shoulders and marched up the stairs.