It started with the ordinance that snuffed the open fires.
Then came the public works crews that sliced through the shanty town as they laid new cabled and erected signal towers.
Fortunately, the soup kitchens were on hand to offer shelter to the displaced, and took away busloads of the needy.
And when the fingers pulling the strings had blown out the fires, torn down the walls, and pulled away defenders and witnesses, it happened. The children of the night, with gleaming fangs and hateful hearts, descended upon what was left of the sprawl.
Without the illusion of strength, the warning perimeters, or holy flame, the Rev'ren and his followers fell like bloody sheafs of wheat before the Domain's scythe of killers. Cries of fear and anguish fell upon deaf ears, too used to cries of protest and outrage to listen any longer.
As the noose slowly tightened around the Rev'ren, he and his closest followers took flight in the gem of Squattaville.
Quickly realizing he must have the bodies with him, the chase begins.
Let's Roll