The Arrival of The Damned

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::Power is said to attract power to itself. An inevitable tug of war that leads the forces of reality into a collision course. In the natural world, this is usually heralded by a hush, a metaphorical holding of breath for creatures attuned to such changes. Humanity, long used to questioning its instincts as evil or misleading, can only deny so much.
One by one the carriages, the trains of servants, the smaller masses of mankind find their way to London. Like the eye of a hurricane, each mass has true power within it, a single maggot of unspeakable potency wriggling its way into the city. That place seeped in blood and history, fire and strife. That world unto itself, where the boundaries of existence have names, a feel to them underfoot.
These powers have names as well, Veddartha, Petaniqua, Lazarus, Menele, and others. Those who know them well know that great things, mythic things are in store. Their steps, light and airy or heavy and dismissive of the ground they trod, all bear with them the weight of story. Their tales see the blood and suffering of London word for word, and find kinship in such similarity.
Mankind finds itself cowed, the streets clear, but for furtive gazes and hastily coughed prayers to a God that is said to be the impetus of these creatures eons back. The sons and daughters of Caine come to London, called by their brethren Mithras, a god in his own right.
The air is pregnant with potential. But what those of the fourth and fifth generations will give birth to, can only be conjectured.
Whatever it is, there is no doubt that it will be born in blood.::