The Sacrifice

Read the Sacrifice, a story from the front of the War on Sabbat in Athens.

The Sacrifice featured image

Dive into the gripping tale of sacrifice and shattered bonds in our latest blog spot, recounting the harrowing joint mission by the Camarilla and the Anarchs deep into the Sabbat domain of Piraeus.

Enjoy the Sacrifice!

The Sacrifice

The acrid, metallic aftertaste of Kindred battle still clung to the Professor’s senses. It was the smell of vitae, his and theirs, soaked into the warehouse’s concrete, now mingled with the stench of cordite from the fight. There was precious little time. Dr. Er knelt amongst the wreckage, eyes impossibly wide, hands deftly working on the half-damaged C4 suitcases. It was a testament to Malkavian madness that Er, barely stable within his own mind, was the only one with the technical savvy for arming the explosives.

“It’s not…it won’t…” Er stuttered, voice tight with rising panic. Sweat ran down his brow, mixing with smudges of gunpowder. The voices – their companionship the only constant in his unlife – crackled with static urgency in his skull.

The detonator. Something had shorted in the blast mechanism. But instead of an instantaneous fiery oblivion, Er found himself woven into the trigger mechanism. Every heartbeat pushed him closer to a fiery annihilation that would take them all.

Erofili screamed from nearby, a howl against the night. Then the Professor gripped Er’s arm, eyes filled with despair, yet tempered with a philosophical resolve. “Er, tell me we can leave…”

Every muscle in Er’s body burned in protest. It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t he have one night without sacrifice? His gaze found Erofili, her rough and tumble exterior cracked, revealing anguish he’d never known was directed towards him. “Erofili,” he whispered, “I’m so, so sorry. I have to stay behind, or you all die too.”

Her answering wail sliced through him as she ran towards the explosives. “No! I’ll stay instead! Not you!”

“Erofili, stop!” The Professor grabbed her from behind, and for all his quiet demeanor, an unshakeable Brujah fury filled his eyes. Hermes acted next, not out of sympathy, but a cold realization of wasted resources. With a speed born of Spartan training, he wrapped iron-hard arms around Erofili, yanking her away as she thrashed like a wild animal.

Er’s hand tightened on the detonator. This was it. One heartbeat, two…then nothing. He opened his eyes.

“GO!” Er screamed, his voice harsh, filled with madness and sanity – all at once.

A safe distance from the warehouse, the Professor turned. Tears ran down his normally stoic face, carving clean paths through the dust. A trembling hand went up in a shaking, half-remembered leftist salute, “For a better world, my friend.”

Hermes Doukas was no philosopher, just a Ventrue cog in a larger machine. But somewhere inside, a sliver of his old police instinct recognized sacrifice when he saw it. An involuntary hand twitched at his brow – a military salute for a fallen officer.

But it was Erofili, held with bruising strength by Hermes, who brought true understanding into the moment. She collapsed to her knees as the warehouse detonated, a wall of flame surging outward. Her wail was one of absolute loss, echoing above the roar of the blaze. In those flickering ashes, something of what she’d called love died alongside Er.

There were battles to be won, a city to save, but for those gathered under the fiery pall, only emptiness lingered in the night. Even as the embers cooled, they’d know something fundamental had broken – that they had not emerged unscathed.

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