In The Beginning...

His city was loud and chaotic. He wore it as if it were His body, and the masses of humanity upon it the parasites and gnats and mites crawling all over His flesh. His reliquary had been buried in these sands long before the first foundations of the city were laid, and He had shaped how it had grown. Los Angeles, the city of Angels. A fitting name for this mockery, a sprawling wasteland of desperation and desire, predators and prey, the rare saint and the oh-so-common sinner. His agents moved through the masses as if they were His fingers, subtle touches directing the flow of fate through the massive steel, glass and concrete structures that had supplanted the natural wildlife. His slight touches gliding the city towards a destiny He had foreseen.

Upstart Cainites had dared to lay claim to His city, and He stirred from His musings to this new challenge. He had known they were coming, of course, but they were earlier than He had anticipated, and the local Cainite population were as children before them. He doubted he would be able to rally another figurehead to unite the disenfranchised against the lordly classes and let the streets run red with vampiric blood once again. No, this time He would need to make a slightly more direct approach, take matters into his own Hands.

Joriel had made contact with the pawn He had selected. While He did not need her in so many words, He could see uses for her within the twists and flows of fate, and it had been so long since a Cainite had been part of His collection. He was willing to see where this little dalliance would lead, and what it may cost Him in return. Joriel was as trusted a hand in this as the ancient monster had ever had. He knew Joriel during the War, faint memories of crossing each other on the battlefields as the War of the Heavens raged. More importantly, He knew Joriel's True Name, and the fallen angel was bound to Him in a manner more profound than any mortal could understand. Joriel was capable of managing His interests with this Emily Masters without direct supervision.

Mari-Mari was nearby. He could feel her. It would be a simple matter to reach out with his ancient will and power, to call to her, to stir her to action in His name. Where Joriel was his hand, deft and delicate, the dark spirit dwelling within Mari-Mari was his fist. If the god-like monster desired something destroyed, Mari-Mari would see His will made manifest. She was a strange creature, and it had given Him a brief, rare moment of stimulation to break her and bind her to His cause.

It took the barest touch of His immortal will to rise from his reverie. The chanting of His devoted filled Him. He could feel their faith wash over Him, fill Him, sustain Him. One of the faithful carved symbols of fealty to Him into its flesh, the screams brought by this self inflicted mutilation were as music to Him. This one had done well. Perhaps He would wear her, fill her flesh and walk out from his reliquary into the city, to feel the wonders of flesh once more. She was young and virile, her faith powerful. Her flesh should be able to contain him for many hours before succumbing.

He roused His high priest from watching the ceremony. There was work to be done. The chambers would be made ready to receive visitors. Some time soon, He would have Joriel bring this Emily Masters here, to see Him in all of His glory, to speak to Him without His voice coming through thralls and slaves. All would be made ready for her arrival.