Harvesting Before Season

-Narrated by Dieter, Brujah (originally antitribu) and former member of the defunct Vysehard Undertakers pack, late 1999.

They say whoever runs too fast ends up face-first on the ground. True enough.

After the last night we hit those Camarilla bastards in Old City, and despite the beating we took too, it was already clear we'd planted ourselves on Camarilla turf and nobody was moving us, at least until they came back hungry for more war... turns out we did not have to wait long. There was war, all right, but not against Camarilla. Against ourselves.

Lasombra and Tzimisce showed up like they owned the place, with that pompous hammer style of theirs, barking orders. They were furious because Bishop Stepan had been taken out, one of the Lasombra bishops with the longest tenure in Prague. Problem was, Stepan had spent a long time in a feud with one of those feudal Tzimisce who claim they do not belong to Sabbat because "this is their land."
So when Stepan died, that Tzimisce, one Drozd Vlaszy, wasted no time reclaiming what he claimed had been "stolen" from him for years. Bad news, because packs, Lasombra, and Tzimisce alike began scavenging Stepan's territory like vultures, and Drozd was not going to let that happen. He sent his thralls to drive Sabbat packs out. Last thing anyone wanted, while still trading blows with Camarilla, was to burn strength teaching some separatist Tzimisce a lesson, so bishops chose diplomacy. They sent Bishop Nezkha, also Tzimisce, to speak with her clan-brother and "clarify terms," though just in case, she would not go alone.
They picked two packs, mine and another called Petrov's Butchers, almost all antitribu, to "support" Bishop Nezkha and apply pressure by sheer presence. When we reached Drozd's haven, a small castle outside city, he greeted us with a murderous face. What stunned us was Nezkha's reaction: head lowered before him, apologizing over and over for protocol and etiquette nonsense, like kissing his ass, while he stood arms crossed, silent, staring at us over her shoulder.
Nezkha kept insisting city and territory belonged to Sabbat by right of conquest, and that if he cooperated he would get his share of spoils. Drozd answered with one word, again and again: no. He would neither listen nor negotiate under any proposal. Finally, someone got tired of the back-and-forth. Meeting ended all at once... in gunfire.
Scariest thing I have ever seen in this damned unlife, and if I were still human, I'd have nightmares every night.
A bullet whistled through air and shattered over Tzimisce and Bishop, missing both. For a second, time froze. I remember packmates with red knuckles from blood-pump, ready to go for jugulars. I remember Bishop Nezkha turning over her shoulder with pure terror, looking for the idiot who had condemned everyone present. And I remember Tzimisce saying only: "no one insults me in my haven." Then hell woke up.
The haven was one of those flesh-houses rich Tzimisce grow for themselves. Walls came alive, turning slick and organic like the inside of a giant stomach, membranes tearing open here and there to spill filthy, sticky flesh-tentacles five or six meters long. First victim was the Bishop. Drozd literally swallowed her in one bite, having melded with his huge grotesque brood and turned into a giant mouth, ribs flared like shark teeth.
The packs, at least those who got past panic, answered fire with fire. I froze while my pack and Petrov's Butchers leapt onto what passed for Tzimisce, clinging like ticks, biting, cutting, ripping that monster apart. Someone, no idea who, carried a backpack full of Molotovs. Lucky break: while fighting Tzimisce, he must have bitten the guy, and by luck or fate the whole load exploded like a torch inside his mouth.
Last thing I remember: everything burning. Those hanging from Tzimisce burned with him while he opened that monstrous mouth and spat fire like a dragon. Arteries burst as flames ran through him and spread everywhere.
Someone dragged me out of that inferno. When I finally regained control of my body, from the two packs that had accompanied Bishop Nezkha there were only three of us left: me and two Butchers. Bishop was gone, and we knew there would be questions, and scapegoats, because a high-ranking bishop had been killed on our watch... so we split up and ran for our unlives. I ended up here, caught by Camarilla with two choices: die or serve my new bosses. Since Sabbat was surely hunting me already for the Bishop affair, I did not need more enemies. So that night Dieter died, and from his ashes he was reborn with a second chance...

If you cannot beat them, join them.