Post by Nessa on Mar 14, 2011 17:08:59 GMT -5
“It needs to be done tomorrow.” The phone line crackled, but the voice was cool, patient. It belonged to a man confident that his command would be followed without hesitation or question, and for good reason: Money talks.
“But mein herr, we're not ready!” Dietrich pleaded. “Workers would have to be pulled from other projects, and on such short notice-”
“They will be well compensated for their trouble. It needs to be done tomorrow, Dietrich, or we risk losing them all. We've already lost half the clan, and between the bombings and those other fools we may very well loose the rest in short order. Do we have your cooperation?”
The young architect ran his fingers through his hair anxiously. It could be done... There would be papers to forge, and he would have to move quickly, but it could be ready by morning. The Reich moved fast, and he had ample connections to have the work approved and have his crew at work well before noon. If he was caught, however, it would be the work camps for him, or worse.
“Do we have your cooperation?” the voice prompted again.
“Yeah. Yeah, I'll make it happen. But you realize they aren't going to be happy.”
“Better unhappy than dead. I'll leave you to it, and have sufficient funds wired into your account to cover the expenses, and yours will be paid upon delivery.”
“What of the others?” Dietrich asked, but he already suspected the answer.
“Already in progress. The Brits and Russians are already on their way here, and I believe we have a one or two survivors from Poland to look into. I have a few more calls to make, but I doubt there should be much resistance.”
“Very good sir. Have a good even-”
“One more thing, Dietrich! When you're removing them I want you to be certain that you do one thing. It's absolutely vital that it is carried out by a trusted man or two, and executed with the utmost care and delicacy.”
“And that is?”
“I want the eggs as well.”
***
It was by no small feat that the St. Paul's Clan was assembled. A small, dedicated team scoured war torn Europe for surviving clans that had taken up residence in major cities. It was called a rescue effort, an attempt to save a dying race from utter extinction at the hands of unwitting humans. They were removed from their perches by day, and shipped across the Atlantic to their new home in Montreal. They were haggard, they were uneasy, but they and their eggs were alive and they would form ninth and final gargoyle clan.
The clan thrived in their new home, safe from the bombings and raids, and settled in to a quiet existence. They were stragglers, survivors of sundered clans, and were more concerned with the safety of their eggs than with power struggles. A hierarchy formed gradually as the clan grew in size, and periodically new gargoyles arrived from places like Egypt, Japan, and South America. All were welcome, and a sense of gratitude towards their benefactors united the clan elders. The patriarch of the Cathedral was their immediate guardian, but he answered directly to the man who had organized their extraction, paid for their safe travels and arranged their new home. Even now he is spoken of in wonder, and the hatchlings wonder if the man ever existed: no one seems to know a name, where this man was from or what motivated him to begin with.
The reason, however, is irrelevant. Montreal is a glittering jewel of excitement for the clan, and within their protection. They watch the streets by night to deal with petty criminals, or attend any one of the shows or sporting venues within the city. They owe their lives to humans, and for that they try to repay what they feel is a heavy debt, but they are also mistrustful: it was humans who endangered them to begin with, and they watched anxiously at the mounting hysteria as the Wyvern Clan was sighted in Manhattan. The St. Paul's Clan remains hidden, and restricts their contact with humans very willingly to Father Michael, their current guardian, and to his subordinates who help to prepare and deliver their meals.
“But mein herr, we're not ready!” Dietrich pleaded. “Workers would have to be pulled from other projects, and on such short notice-”
“They will be well compensated for their trouble. It needs to be done tomorrow, Dietrich, or we risk losing them all. We've already lost half the clan, and between the bombings and those other fools we may very well loose the rest in short order. Do we have your cooperation?”
The young architect ran his fingers through his hair anxiously. It could be done... There would be papers to forge, and he would have to move quickly, but it could be ready by morning. The Reich moved fast, and he had ample connections to have the work approved and have his crew at work well before noon. If he was caught, however, it would be the work camps for him, or worse.
“Do we have your cooperation?” the voice prompted again.
“Yeah. Yeah, I'll make it happen. But you realize they aren't going to be happy.”
“Better unhappy than dead. I'll leave you to it, and have sufficient funds wired into your account to cover the expenses, and yours will be paid upon delivery.”
“What of the others?” Dietrich asked, but he already suspected the answer.
“Already in progress. The Brits and Russians are already on their way here, and I believe we have a one or two survivors from Poland to look into. I have a few more calls to make, but I doubt there should be much resistance.”
“Very good sir. Have a good even-”
“One more thing, Dietrich! When you're removing them I want you to be certain that you do one thing. It's absolutely vital that it is carried out by a trusted man or two, and executed with the utmost care and delicacy.”
“And that is?”
“I want the eggs as well.”
***
It was by no small feat that the St. Paul's Clan was assembled. A small, dedicated team scoured war torn Europe for surviving clans that had taken up residence in major cities. It was called a rescue effort, an attempt to save a dying race from utter extinction at the hands of unwitting humans. They were removed from their perches by day, and shipped across the Atlantic to their new home in Montreal. They were haggard, they were uneasy, but they and their eggs were alive and they would form ninth and final gargoyle clan.
The clan thrived in their new home, safe from the bombings and raids, and settled in to a quiet existence. They were stragglers, survivors of sundered clans, and were more concerned with the safety of their eggs than with power struggles. A hierarchy formed gradually as the clan grew in size, and periodically new gargoyles arrived from places like Egypt, Japan, and South America. All were welcome, and a sense of gratitude towards their benefactors united the clan elders. The patriarch of the Cathedral was their immediate guardian, but he answered directly to the man who had organized their extraction, paid for their safe travels and arranged their new home. Even now he is spoken of in wonder, and the hatchlings wonder if the man ever existed: no one seems to know a name, where this man was from or what motivated him to begin with.
The reason, however, is irrelevant. Montreal is a glittering jewel of excitement for the clan, and within their protection. They watch the streets by night to deal with petty criminals, or attend any one of the shows or sporting venues within the city. They owe their lives to humans, and for that they try to repay what they feel is a heavy debt, but they are also mistrustful: it was humans who endangered them to begin with, and they watched anxiously at the mounting hysteria as the Wyvern Clan was sighted in Manhattan. The St. Paul's Clan remains hidden, and restricts their contact with humans very willingly to Father Michael, their current guardian, and to his subordinates who help to prepare and deliver their meals.