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Sieg wasn't telling. He had already told Theo what he would have to do if he wanted to know. Frankly, Sieg didn't give two shits if the archon jumped ship, or came with. If the latter, odds were he'd wind up with a sound beating afterwards. As for Sieg...he had a plane to catch, and it wouldn't do to miss his plane. After all, it was out of his paycheck that the plane was fueled, maintained, requisitioned to begin with, even.

The plane was military, first off. It bore a unique emblem, as well...a striking scorpion design not on any national military unit known. Though, it DID have a resemblance to a long since deceased crime lord's private military, requisitioned for a Brujah's personal use...Second off, it was on an airfield out in the sticks. A small, local airport, not one of the megaports like Atlanta. Third and finally, as Sieg stepped onto the boarding ramp, he lifted his hand.

Shall I give her your regards, mein herr? Or do you not care about a Gangrel who ist nicht ein Gangrel any more?

It was ALMOST a taunt, ALMOST an invitation, and ALMOST a farewell. Regardless, Sieg had just dragged Theo across several hours of streets and brush, leaving him well removed from their starting location with not too sharply long before the sun rose.

I show mein true face here again, herr archon, and there won't be anyone fit to do the asking.

Standing in the hatch, Sieg was carefully watching the firearm. First aimed for his plane, then holstered. Had Theo fired, he would have died, plain and simple. If not in the blast, then in the aftermath as Sieg tore the man apart for the delay. But for all Sieg felt like he was on the verge of collage (it showed in hsi white knuckled grip on the edge of the hatch...he was unsteady on his feet even as he stared with utter conviction at the Brujah), his will was renewing itself with a shrill determination to make it to his destination. He could afford no less, despite the ravaging talons that scythed through his mind. It was a losing battle that he prayed he could fight long enough to be home again.

Und ******** you too, mate.

The words were mumbled as the hatch closed. It would be a long flight. Already it had been too many hours since he had been forced to move. Sharply, the Gangrel swore, on the knife's edge of despair. His one gambit to set things right had failed....and he suspected that the aftermath would be ugly. It was a greater burden on his shoulders, knowing he could not atone for his crimes before returning home. And now, he had a list of new ones to add to it, to boot.

Silently, stealthily, the lean figure was stalking the streets. His form had been restored, though in the process, more scars had been left. Not the visible kind, either. Those would be hardly missed, given the multitude he bore already. No, these were the more subtle scars upon the hunter's psyche.

He hungered. Worse still, he found he could not be satisfied by the usual stock of which he tasted. Mortal blood could only stem the hunger, not appease it. So he was forced to indulge the curse of his unusually begotten power by creeping along the roadways after the other nightly denizens of the city.

Then, oddly enough, a most unexpected scent had come to his notice.

From behind the two-toned mask that shrouded his face, the young DeSeer peered out. His eyes gleamed with a shrewd thought, as he began to question not the who, but the why.

Making a soft rustling sound of his light footsteps, the lean figure stalked forwards. Loose fit jeans and a formfitting top were a trademark of his old style, though his signature blue hair had fallen loosely about his head. Held in check by the cloth that was drawn over his head, it was perhaps the last vestige of the alternate ego he had attempted to adopt.

He came to a halt just around a corner from the abomination. Silently, he was waiting for the sorry old nazi to pass.

Leave this place and do not return? I doubt you will find welcome here, mein herr.

The voice spoke softly, a quiet whisper to the abomination as he kept his pace. The lean form of the hunter was still stalking silently nearby. With Obfuscate to make his stealthy movements far more skillful, he was a wraith in the night, stalking the nazi along the streets.

Your major cannot help you, not here.

YOUR spawn? Ich denke nicht, mein herr.

As much as he was fighting to maintain civilities, Korbinian had no opponent. Not so far as the eyes could see, at the least. Iden was not making his presence properly open.

I was perhaps your failed disciple, but I am not your spawn.

Shifting silently across the shaded sides of the street, Iden peered from behind his mask to scrutinize the form before him.

Not all death leads to damnation, mein herr. If I am all you came to see, then consider your goal achieved.

The eyes narrowed, now visible to the abomination. Masked a deep, almost glowing orange, the two orbs burned at the abomination.

Unless you have something more interesting in mind.

You? I've half a mind to give you your lovely little end right here, all over the street.

Now the mask was visible. Framed by the long steely blue locks, which draped over his shoulders loosely, Iden now was standing. His arms were folded across his chest, and his stance was neutral, if dominant.

Consider yourself forgiven, mein herr. It is the Wyrm that drew you to enthrall me, and it is the Wyrm alone which deserves the scorn. I've no wrath for an unwilling puppet.

Iden's right arm pivoted in his hand, and lifted a lazy few fingers skywards. With a slight wave of his hand, the metal band about his wrist made a soft jingling sound. THere was a pair of links of chain bound to it, which were the source of the noise.

Death and rebirth. The Wyrm's grasp is not so strong, when death is your weapon against it. The result, though, is a painful existence.

The arm dropped, until it rested back across his chest. Implacable behind the dual-toned mask, Iden's piercing gaze remained fixed on the abomination.

Do with yourself what you will. Your fate's not any of my business.

The Wyrm can try again all it damn well pleases. Consider it an open challenge. As for your own strength...You aren't totally broken. There's a chance. Come to me if you throw off your shackles. Before that...I can only do so much. I've no doubt that the lady would take particular offense to another abomination in her home.

Iden would not take anything Wyrm-tainted into his care and control. But he did pity Korbinian. So, Iden was willing to offer something, if only a prayer and good word. Past that, with the home so troubled, Iden could do little else.

So Iden stood. His arms were folded over his chest, and he was watching the abomination intently.