And so Josephine Stirling and a Kindred of the Brood are ended.
Is the scene gratuitous? Yes.
Is it pain inducing to watch. Yes.
Is there gore? Kind of.
Thing is, Kindred don’t bleed. Not in the human sense. When Ale carves her claws into the Brood malleable head, neck and shoulders, there is a spurt of blood. Twice. Once from the initial impact and once when the Gangrel Reeve manages to rip the shattered skull from the trunk. When Robert Cross begins his grizzly carving, Josephine’s corpse spills nothing. When the Haunt is done, her body simply rolls away and stays, pale and perfect, for long minutes before it slowly crumbles and ablates away with a speed one might call... glacial.
It is the expectation of blood that is grotesque. It is the cognitive dissonance that is unnerving.
Vitae leaks from the shattered head of the brood. The feminine Kindred can’t be said to smile, even though she did, mockingly, as Alessandra bared her talons - can’t smile when your lower mandible has been torn apart in the fury of slashing and yanking. Ale is trying to draw the last of it from between her fingers.
Outside, Alice can make out the sound of a car as it draws up, surrounded by three motorbikes.
Seven pairs of feet scrape on concrete as they make their preparations. Bags are slung, unzipped. Weapons unsheathed. Guns checked.
“Eat.” A voice commands.
“Breathe.” Another says.
Someone is pacing, bounding, all whipped up fury and pent up rage. “I wanna kill!”
“The door’s over there. Harry - why did you bring that thing?”
“Um. Because its fun?” Some is fumbling with something heavy. Whatever it is, it coughs and splutters into life with a dull growl. Scent of petrol tints the air.
Someone chuckles, letting their laugh gain a maniacal edge.