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Renaissance of Darkness: Vixenburg Chronicle

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Briefly, Aleksandr considered buying a grilled chicken from the hot food counter - yet the stench there repelled him. Was something wrong with the meat, or was the grease recycled over and over, burned into a carcinogenic sludge?

Nope - it came from the drifter, and the stench was beyond dirty - it was unclean.

How come no Garou caught a whiff of this one? The Wyrm reeked from the derelict in thick, almost visible black strands.

Hells. He could use a little workout before taking on a dragon.

"You look hungry, friend" he approached. "Care to share? I feel like using their 'three chickens for the price of two' special, but cannot possibly eat them all."
While the girl clerk may have been intimidated by his bulk, black mane and beard, scars, Russian accent - anything, in fact - he gave her his most charming smile: "Girl, I would purchase some of your delicious poultry."

"Lure him out, the woods are close - the frost is close - he shan't be missed" Snegurochka whispered in his mind, and Aleksandr could only agree.

Ian pulled his old Nighthawk into the Ready’Roll, his stomach snarling almost as loudly as the exhaust of his old bike.  Training with StalksPeace had, as always, left him with at least a dozen bruises and gnawing hunger.  He hoped that the 3 for 2 chicken special was still available.

He relished the thought of the long ride back to Van Buren City.  Biking all the way out here for training was one of the few opportunities he’d gotten recently to just let his mind go.  Classes and training, his mentor’s increasingly odd behavior -- allowing himself to worry about it all while on the road would be sheer stupidity.  He was solidly built and could heal pretty d**n fast, but he would NOT like to explain to the insurance company how he had walked away from the twisted remains of his motorcycle without a scratch.  Again.  Twice already was enough; given his luck, they’d start investigating him for insurance fraud . . .

Parking his bike in the shade, Ian lashed his helmet to the seat and headed into the store, swinging his arms around to stretch out his camped muscles.  A shade over six feet tall, his athletic frame was somewhat obscured by the faded letterman jacket he wore.  A stained (but clean) commemorative shirt from a track meet several years back, natty blue jeans, and a pair of running shoes that had seen a lot of use completed the look.  Just another college jock.  Nothing to see here.

Only the slight bulge of his concealed glock said otherwise.

Whistling tunelessly, Ian headed into the store.

The girl behind the counter, rather than being intimidated by Alex's foreignness and build, seemed attracted by them. When he started talked, her weedy paramour was instantly forgotten, "Oh yeah, we still got the threefertwo chicken deal mister, where are you from man?"

The drifter didn't speak, but his eyes sparkled with malevolence and emptiness. A thin black gruel began to drip from the corner of his mouth and he started making a weird keening sound.

"Oh Jesus man," the weedy kid said, backing away from the drifter and into a rack of lotto tickets

At about that moment Terence felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and quickly brought it out to check who called.

Seeing what caused the call, he quickly muted the phone and watched the readout go by.  Not the time or place for speech recognition.

He moved closer the to window, for better reception for his call.
"Jim? .... Yep.... Some Quicky mart or the like...   Not too bad, though.....   Idiot drivers - out of staters I think..' Terence rambled on while invoking app after app on his phone. 

No doubt about it - there was trouble here, and it looked like he would need a lot of help here.  He needed a plan.

One of the various clicks triggered the phone's camera, centred on the Drifter. A robotic witness was added to the unfolding events.

The Fomor was slipping - whatever rotten thing was left of its brain would soon snap entirely, drowned in rage.

"If you can't mind your manners, out into the frost with you!"
Without further ado, Aleksandr grabbed the keening thing, and half pushed, half threw it out of the store... ringing the doorbell as they passed.

They traded a few punches - he needed to rile it up, mad enough to follow - then bounded for  the woods, the frothing bum in pursuit.
"You won't get any chicken, but what about a piece of a tiger?"


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