Act II. Part 8: Iron Thorn Garage & Bar.

Damian rises another night, trying to find a way to stay alive. His first stop? Primogen Lisette, his mawla.

Rouse check. 6. Sucess. Hunger remains at 1.
Also recovered all previous damage to Willpower.
Trouble & Grace scale is at (T08/G07)

Wednesday, 11th of September. 20h. Iron Thorn Garage & Bar. Suburbia District.
The address Lisette had given him was still technically in Suburbia, but right on the outskirts—just off the highway. Damian pulled into the parking lot, taking in the motorcycles, a couple of small trucks, and the worn-down facade of the place. This was the kind of roadside bar where no one stopped by accident. The faded sign above the entrance made him smirk—Iron Thorn was what some local kindred called Lisette, and now Damian wondered which had come first: the nickname or the bar.

Probably, he didn’t need to finish his cigarette outside, but he did anyway. A part of his mind was still at Velvet Veins. He had spent the night in the same room as Camille, sitting on the couch. They hadn’t spoken, but there had been an unspoken intimacy in the shared silence, in watching her get ready at the start of the night. Neither had mentioned anything about the night before, and that didn’t bother him. Nor did the memory of her scent or the taste of her cold lips. There had been so much humanity in it—and none at all. Unlife was weird.

The detective crushed the cigarette underfoot before stepping inside. The clientele consisted mostly of truckers, drifters, wanderers, and bikers. Damian wrinkled his nose—the place reeked of sweat, stale alcohol, blood… and piss? Maybe. He wasn’t sure.

A big guy started walking toward him, trying to look intimidating, but Damian ignored him as he scanned the room for his mawla. He found her seated in a corner at the back, talking to two heavily tattooed men in leather vests.

“Cops aren’t welcome here,” the big guy said. He was taller than Damian, broader, and completely at home in this place.

Damian noticed Lisette watching.

Great. Another test.

Rolling Charisma (2) + Intimidation (3): 8, 10, 1, 10, 3. 5 sucesses.
Rolling NPC's identity: 1. Human. Dif roll at -1.
Rolling NPC's dif: 7-1, 6. Dif 3. Higher than I expected, probably because he's in his territory. It's still a sucess, though. By two: (T08/G09)

"Get the fuck out of my way before I break your fingers. I'm here for Lisette." Damian fixed his eyes on the bouncer’s, his voice low, almost a whisper, but carrying the weight of something predatory behind his sunglasses. Maybe it was the tone, maybe it was the way Damian registered him more as an inconvenience than a real threat, but the man froze for a moment before stepping back—three paces, silent.

Without acknowledging the rest of the patrons, Damian crossed the bar toward Lisette’s table. She cut off whatever conversation she had been having before he could catch any details and waved the men off as he arrived. She gestured for him to sit. Damian took a seat and lit a cigarette.

"With all due respect, I didn’t expect to see you in a place like this."

"Did you think I spent the entire night running through the woods, cub?" she asked, though she didn’t seem offended. He gave a small nod, and she shook her head, as if disappointed. "What’s the news? You spoke with March?"

"Yeah. It went good. I'll go into details in a sec, but first, just letting you know Camille set me up with a room at Velvet Veins." If she was his reference, Damian figured he should treat her like a superior officer in the police force—keeping her informed of his whereabouts.

Lisette responded with a toothless smile. The kind of smile that said she knew something but wasn’t going to share it.

Damian took a drag from his cigarette, rolling his eyes slightly behind the lenses before moving on to the main subject. What followed was a long, detailed explanation—typical of a cop giving a report—laying out the events of the previous night, step by step.

When he finished, Lisette leaned back in her chair.

"Well, she's pissed, and you're fucked. But it looks like you'll live to bother me for a few more nights, cub. Congratulations."

Damian stayed silent, waiting for more.

"She's pissed because she was forced out of her domain by the Anarchs. Primogen March rules the Industrial District—that’s her territory. She’s staying at the Blue Grove because her own haven isn’t safe anymore. And I can’t think of another clan, except us, that would be more furious about being pushed out of their own land. And you’re fucked because you agreed to a _major boon without even knowing what that is."_

Damian closed his eyes behind his glasses and rubbed them for a moment.

"How fucked?"

"Money isn’t a problem for kindred, so our currency is favors. A _boon is a favor you owe, and a major boon is one of the biggest. The only thing bigger is a life boon, which would mean promising to die for her. In short, sooner or later, March is going to ask you for something, and you won’t have the option to say no."_

He took another drag from his cigarette, uneasy. It was bad, but not as bad as he had expected—probably because he had no idea what a Lasombra might ask for.

"Changing the subject," he said, "I know you hate politics, but I need to understand at least _something about what I’m walking into. How does this work? Is it a trial? Informal? I barely remember what happened the night I died."_

She was quiet for a moment. Small, wiry, and intimidating, dressed in worn jeans, military boots, and a leather jacket over a dirt-stained white T-shirt, Lisette stretched like a lioness rousing before a hunt. She wasn’t making any effort to conceal her beastly traits here—her overly long fingers, black claws, the faint striping along the sides of her face. No one in the bar seemed to care. It confirmed Damian’s suspicion: this place belonged to her. It was her territory, her domain, and somehow, here, her appearance was not a violation of the Masquerade.

Lisette leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table.

"I’ll set everything up. The best way is probably an audience at the Elysium—a social territory full of scheming and gossip where Camarilla kindred gather. I’ll make sure the full Council of Primogens is there, and Prince Vivian is always present. I’ll take you, you approach her, bow, and say you’ve completed your investigation. The rest will play out on its own."

Damian listened, frustrated, and took off his sunglasses. Sitting with his back to the clientele, his eyes wouldn’t attract unwanted attention.

"You’re a _terrible mentor,"_ he said, testing the limits of their familiarity.

"I need details, Lisette. It’s bad enough I can’t use the internet and don’t have access to precinct resources to investigate people. Who’s who? What should I expect from them? What are the—_titles? I know about the Sheriff and the Prince, but what else?"_

Lisette almost laughed when he called her terrible but didn’t respond.

"Then fuck off and ask your Diva friend. You think I sent you to her so you could _learn to drink from a golden chalice? Camille is a Toreador. Clan of the Rose. She was sired by Madeleine Rousseau, who’s back in France now, but still pulls the strings at Velvet and controls nearly all the Toreadors in the city. Did you really think Primogen Velmont tolerates a neonate running a place like that in her territory out of sheer generosity?"_

Lisette paused, watching Damian’s confused expression, then continued.

"Toreadors are _social craftsmen, Damian. I don’t have the patience to teach you the city’s who's who. I still have plenty to teach you, and I will, but not that. Ask someone who actually enjoys the subject—it’ll be better for everyone."_

"I don’t even know who Velmont is, Lisette."

She nodded.

"My point, exactly."

His jaw tensed, annoyed, as he put out his cigarette in the ashtray. But he didn’t push the issue.

"And about what March said? The matter of a new name," he asked.

"What about it?" she replied.

"Well, it makes sense. My name has a death certificate. If I keep showing up and introducing myself as Damian Cross, it’ll be a problem sooner or later. Probably _sooner, knowing my luck."_

She nodded but said nothing.

"Lisette!" Damian pressed, frustrated.

"Oh. Now you _want my help, cub? I thought I was a terrible mentor."_

He ran both gloved hands over his face, beyond exasperated.

"I think I preferred when you were beating me up and throwing me in the dirt. This new humor of yours is _cruel,"_ he muttered.

He had never seen her like this before—half-teasing, almost playful. Something had put her in a good mood. Maybe the results of his meeting with March? He wasn’t sure.

"Look, I’ll handle it for you. I have contacts who can get you basic paperwork. But you’re not even a Camarilla citizen yet. You haven’t taken the oath. Pick a new name and start using it for now. I’ll get you the documents on the night of your _graduation."_

"Oath?" he asked.

"Of course," she said. "You’ve probably noticed the Camarilla runs in a pretty feudal way. If March upholds her end of the deal and you actually survive, you’ll be officially recognized as Kindred—and you’ll have to take the _Oath of the Tower, pledging to uphold the Traditions, protect them, and obey the Justicars. And you’ll also have to swear the Oath of Blood to me, since your real sire is likely getting executed, and I’ve already been doing that job anyway."_

Damian pulled out his detective’s notepad and started jotting down the things he didn’t understand, so he could look them up later. He had already figured out that badgering her with questions about names and titles would lead nowhere. The gesture seemed to amuse Lisette, which, deep down, made him a little pleased.

"Okay, Dam. Sink or swim. I get it. I’ll figure it out."

She paused, eyes gleaming for a brief second. "Dam" was a technical term for a she-wolf, a mother of cubs. Damian didn’t know where that had come from, but it felt right—especially since she called him cub.

"Anything else?" she asked.

He shook his head, and Lisette flicked a hand at him in dismissal.

"Then go!"

He did exactly that, putting on his sunglasses as he stood.

Just before he left, Lisette called his name. He turned.

She met his gaze deliberately.

"Good work so far. Keep it up. Handle your political mess with Camille, then come find me. I'll still make a decent Gangrel out of you."

Damian didn’t thank her before leaving. But he had to actively stop himself from smiling.