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From: Vasilli, wHo? and millie
The leaves whisper in the November night, a shrill cacophony compared to the Malkavians in their midst. The weeds in Joseph Tudor’s lawn are gleeful witnesses to the prank. Even could they warn him, they would remain in mirthful silence to their horrific keeper, who spilled more blood in his lab than ever he did water on the lawn. Superglue containers filling all three kindred’s pockets, various backpacks and even a duffle bag are soon emptied in sealing the only door to the Tremere’s estate. Un-openable, nigh unbreakable Plexiglas windows were of no concern, but still one could fathom that someone could pound through the door through to get either out or in. One could envision it, that is, past the already waist high brick wall being soundlessly constructed over said door by hands unseen. Like a film started and stopped on a construction site, the walk climbs quickly, if haphazardly and unevenly, up along the front of the door. The trees and weeds rustled with delight. A pitiful black cat watches the formation rise. Circling the house, he pitifully seeks a way in, starting to mewl with heart-wrenching need. Door completely encased in cinderblock and cement, wHo?, millie, and Vasilli nod to each other in satisfaction. Spatulas, empty bins, and kitty are scooped up, spirited away into the night.