Dublin City - 7th of May 2015

The dying echoes of screams bounce off the walls of the city buildings until there's naught but silence.

The pounding of footsteps on rooftops echoes through midnight Dublin.

Unlike other major cities, Dublin is very quiet at night. There's not a soul to see. It will remain so until partygoers flood the streets as clubs and bars close; but that won't be for a while yet, and so the quiet remains.

The buildings on either side of College Green are sperated by a wide road and many statues.

The hooting of an owl mirrors the pounding of footsteps. On the flat skyline of Dublin City a dark figure runs.

Streaked in blood, the dark figure leaps from one roof to the next and then stops, panting. He stands on the edge of a roof, facing the wide street. Across is where he needs to go, but he's wary of stepping into the light.

"Bloody level up," he pants, "not what I need right now." He dismisses the Leap notification and looks ahead. Standing at the edge of the building, he wipes blood from his mouth, blue eyes flashing in the moonlight as he stares over the city. He listens intently to the sounds of the city, straining his ears for the telltale signs that he's being followed. But only silence greets his ears, he sighs and flops down in exhaustion. He pulls his phone out, muttering "Better tell Lilith about this," to himself.

It's at this precise moment a faint scuffling scratches at his ears, his body stiffens and stills, craning for any sound.

Again, he hears the scuffling. As a frown begins to form he begins to hear a thrum of pounding footsteps on the stairwell leading to the roof.

"Fuck." He groans, pulling his weary body up, tendrils of shadows curl around his body. He steps out over the building as shadows envelop him and then unwind around him on the rooftop across the street, the almost corporeal black shadows disperse in the gentle breeze.

He gasps and stumbles as he lands on the roof, dropping to one knee as his vision blurs.

"Flit is an incredible skill," he mutters, "but two is the limit." He shivers in agony.

Across the street there's a bang on the roof as police, clad in black uniforms, storm onto the roof. Sirens erupt on the street below as four police cars race along the road into position.

"He's across the street!" One of the policemen yell, and everyone turns to where he's pointing. Barely making out the stark white figure clad in black.

"Fire at will." A solemn voice orders, and gunshots tear through the night.

On the other side of the street the blood streaked man starts moving as soon as the officers storm onto the roof, stumbling along and gasping in pain.

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Gasps turn to screams of agony as a bullet tears through his gut, but he keeps running. Shadows begin to gather, whirling around him.

"I'd rather die flitting, tearing apart my own body tha-" he mutters, before being cut short by a bullet ripping through his leg. Blood flicks out across the night sky, like an artist whipping their paint brush along a black canvas. His body crumples and falls sideways, off the roof of the building and down onto the street below. A sickening thud and spray of blood marking his landing.

He lies unmoving, as he's checked.

"He's alive," a voice shouts, "minimal injuries other than the bullet wounds." The voice adds.

"Fuck, who survives something like that.. like that," A younger officer comments, face blanched white.

A beefy man strolls up, blessing himself.

"Make room." He commands, his deep voice rolling out over the blaring sirens and jostle as people gather. A gentle breeze caries the scent of blood and the sound of the city waking, gathering to see what has happened.

He strolls to the man lying unconscious on the street, the surrounding officers fall silent.

He stands, examining the man. Leaning in he takes a good look at his face and turning to his right shouts, "Darren, get him to the station and patch him, we're questioning him. If he dies, he dies. I want to know what the fuck is going on in my city."

"Yes sir," Darren nods, "but Pat, sir, what will I have the lads tell the press, and the hospitals and the boys in the Dáil? They'll all lose it if they found out we took a shot man to the station before treatment."

"It's easy," Pat smiles while blessing himself again, "you don't tell them we've shot a man. Make sure everyone keeps quiet on this."

Darren nods, his hair crawling. Everyone always said Pat was a proper religious nut, a twisted person that backed up all he did as correct according to the bible; Darren had to agree he really was insane. He stuffed the bloodied man into his cruiser and drove off.

The police remained to assure people nothing major had transpired, and keep civilians clear of the crime scene until it could be cleaned of all the gore. The scent of blood heavy in the air, a feeling of uncertainty drifted over the city. Stranger and stranger occurances had been happening lately and it was leaving people unsettled.

Dublin City, Pearse Street - Central Garda Station, that same night

"Lilith!" a man screamed. Chains rattled. A young man, covered in blood, looked around. He was strapped to a chair. Skin pale white, glinting in the moonlight seeping through barred windows in the room.

Status screen, he thought.

Name: Aliard White  Age: 22  Level: 7 Race: Vampire Prince Class: Magician  Threat: E

Before he could note anything else he realises there's another person in the room.

"Hello," Pat smiles, rosary beads wrapped around his fist.

The chains jostle as Aliard looks around bewildered.

"My name is Pat, welcome to Jail. I'll be your personal entertainer, sorry I meant tormenter, for the evening." He grins manically as he steps forward toward Aliard, who tries to break through the layers of chain surrounding him.

Pat continues walking forward, "all I do, I do for God," he says to himself, as he slams his fist into Aliard's face.