A Second century has passed since the War of Princes began and it has gone on for far too long. The great vampire kingdoms are crumbling and the war has created new complications for the damned of Europe and beyond.

The Court of Love splinters due to centuries of backbiting and shadowy alliances. The baronies of Avalon declare war on each other in the absence of the Prince of London. The Sea of shadows, once the largest and farthest reaching of the kingdoms is the first to fall prey to the rising mortal tide, leaving only the Black Cross and the Voivodate standing. But even that is not to last.

The Fifth crusade has evolved into the Inquisition, an arm of the church mandated to stomp out heresy wherever it is found, and it found one in Venice. The Cainite Heresy, once revealed, was a revelation to the mortals who very soon began hunting something far worse than mortal blasphemers. Since its inception the Inquisition has spread like holy wild fire, wiping out entire Princedoms as it cuts a swath through the east and west alike. Elders, fearing the end of their own Long Nights, have resorted to feeding their own childer to the fires in hopes of making their escape.

Meanwhile in England peasants have risen up against their masters, revolting against the status quo and inspiring an entire generation of the Undead to do the same. The fires of anarchy spread across Europe infecting the youngest and most power hungry of the Damned in equal numbers. The Voivodate is probably the greatest victim of these upstarts, as trusted generals and favorite childer turn on their elders, some of the oldest and most powerful waking vampires fall to their childer. By the coming of the Fifteenth century Names such as Koban, Noritz and Byelobog are nothing but memories.

High Lord Hardestadt, seeing the collapse of everything, calls a convocation of elders to find a solution. This camarilla, as they call it, extols the value of the Silence of the Blood to combat the dangers of the Inquisition while also demanding that the young bow down to and obey their elders. Wherever their influence spreads the very word Cainite becomes anathema.

But even The Black Cross, which, by the end of the Fourteenth century, is the last remaining power in Europe, is not immune to the rising tide sweeping over the continent. In 1395 a cell of English and German Anarchs infiltrate Hardestadt’s stronghold and slay the elder, their leader, Patricia of Bollingbroke, committing amaranth upon the elder himself. Word of the ancient’s demise sent ripples through the Anarchs of Europe and within a decade the already tenuous Sea of Shadows collapses with the destruction of the Eldest shadow at the hands of his childe Gratiano and a small cadre of Assamite and Lasombra Anarchs.

June 18, 1413, 12:11am
Dealul Cetatii
The Domain of Kyrillos Dimities
Mad Count of Timisoara

That Sanchez had been invited to this place at all made the Spaniard nervous. It had, after all, been nearly a century since he’d last stood in the tower’s shadow.

Time had not been kind to the so-called “Castle on the hill” of which only the tower survived. Kyrillos had, of course, rebuilt, but the new structure stood apart from the tower and was now a smaller, more fortified house than a castle.

Sanchez wondered who built it for him.

He thought back to the argument that had severed their ties. Sanchez had accused the Fiend Vykos of base treachery, declaring that he’d sent them on a suicide mission in having them travel with Goratrix to Alceditz. Kyrillos had defended his Patron vehemently to which Sanchez called the Count himself a traitor, having abandoned the Black Cross for the Obertus.

It had been the wrong thing to say, no matter the truth of it, but what was said could not be unsaid and now Sanchez stood awkwardly at the gate wondering what he should do.

He did not have to wonder for long. Only a moment later a guard appeared and asked the Master Mason his business.

“I am here to see the Master of this house, he has summoned me.” – Sanchez, with authority.

The guard, after asking to see his invitation quickly opened the gate and let the Spaniard in. He was then led into the house, which was kept dark but was well decorated. He was surprised to be greeted by Eloise, the woman that Kyrillos had saved in Acre so long ago.

They shared pleasantries and he was even more surprised when he realized that she still lived.

“The Count has not ushered you into the Long Night, Lady Eloise?”

“Heavens no, I am his seneschal during the day. Though I have picked up a fair few tricks throughout the years, I don’t think that I would ever want to walk in the night.” – Eloise, bluntly.

“I couldn’t agree with your sentiment more, milady.” – Sanchez, flatteringly.

The woman blushed as she opened a door for him.

“My master’s study, Master Sanchez, they are waiting for you within.” – Eloise, curtsying quickly before scurrying away.

“They?” – Sanchez, to himself.

The windowless room was even darker than the rest of the House, lit only by a smoldering log within the great fireplace. In a large chair sat Kyrillos who was speaking to someone sitting in one of the two large and plush sofas that had been placed in the room.

“Ah, if it isn’t the celebrated Prince of Sebeș, come please, make yourself comfortable.” – Kyrillos

“I don’t believe I follow you, count.” – Sanchez

“Of course you do, Master Sanchez, the upstarts, these Anarchs, as your masters in Bavaria call them, they all but worship you. Rumors of the destruction are lauded all across Transylvania and beyond. Ulrike even tells me that they consider your Domain safe refuge as long as they pay your tithe.” – Kyrillos, mockingly.

The other figure turned so that Kyrillos could see her familiar and welcome face.

“Teresa, it’s been too long, how goes Alba Iulia.” – Sanchez happily.

Teresa sighed forlornly.

“All is well save that I am, sadly, once again a widow.” – Teresa, her face the very image of a grieving widow save her eyes, which twinkled with dark humor.

“Did you at least know this one’s name?” – Sanchez

“I long ago learned to simply rename them all Pavel.” – Teresa laughed.

The Black Queen lifted something from her lap and sat it on the floor distastefully. It was a strange motion and Sanchez took a moment to figure out what he’d just seen. His keen ears and nose confirmed what his disbelieving eyes had already told him.

It was a rat, and it wasn’t alone. There were dozens of them, upon the hearth and the furniture and the book shelves. Kyrillos had two perched on his shoulders, and he was currently petting another that sat in his lap.

“It seems that you have a pest problem, Kyrillos.” – Sanchez, disdainfully.

“Nonsense, I am simply performing an experiment. I am on the verge of a breakthrough I believe, but if you cannot handle it.” – Kyrillos, holding the rat up to eye level.

“Go now, and take your family with you.” – Kyrillos, to the rat.

The rat squeaked once and then leapt from the vampire’s hands, running toward the back wall, the rest of the swarm soon followed.

“I hope I have not offended your Epicurean sensibilities.” – Kyrillos chided.

Sanchez sneered unconsciously, he hated that term being used to describe his clan as of late almost as much as he hated being lumped in with the rest of his Clan.

“Not at all, Count, may I take a seat.” – Sanchez

“Please do.”

“So tell me, Kyrillos, why have you invited us here to your ‘fabulous’ home.” – Sanchez

Kyrillos’ already strained smile faltered.

“Something is coming, Sanchez, and I felt it prudent that we rekindle our old friendship. The Night is too Long for the enmity of friends.” – Kyrillos

They sat in silence for a time before the door opened again.

The man who walked through was enormously tall, standing at least six feet. He wore a black doublet under a dark blue robe, a fantastically wrapped and bejeweled chaperon sat upon his head. Jewels flashed about his fingers and from around his neck.

Vendramino Giovanni looked every bit the part of a Venetian gentleman.

“I see that the years have been kind to you, Count, though I do wonder why it is that we all had to meet you here.” – Vendramino sneered.

“He’s kept that to himself thus far, Lord Vendramino.” – Sanchez

The old man turned to the Spaniard with a look of mild surprise.

“Look at you, Master Sanchez, the very image of civility. I dare say that I cannot even detect a speck of dirt upon your tabard.” – the Italian, condescendingly.

Sanchez smiled tightly.

“Nor do I detect even the faintest trace of the corpse on which you fed tonight, Lord Vendramino.” – Sanchez

Teresa cleared her throat.

“How goes Acre, my old friend?” – Teresa

“Well, I have opened trade with the Turks and Egyptians both, making myself and my family infamously wealthy. Though I must admit that your Clanmate and her brood do not make it easy for me, nor does the Prince’s childe, who demands a vast amount of money for her annual bribe. I swear that we backed the wrong whore in that exchange, dear Teresa, the girl runs the city as if it were her own private bank-roll and does it in her dimwitted sire’s name.” – Vendramino, his sneer fading.

“I am sure you have some plan to get her out of your hair, old man.” – Sanchez

“Indeed I do, Sanchez, It is simply a matter of weighting for the right moment and then she should be out of my hair, at least long enough for me to show the little sow her place” – Vendramino, his mouth twisted into a cruel grin.

Teresa laughed, Sanchez scowled and Kyrillos watched

“I have heard that the Continent has become besotted with rabble, tell me this is not true.” – Vendramino

“Yes, I am afraid so. Whelps demanding to be treated as alphas. Many if not all of them are feebly educated in our ways and believe that their blood gives them special stature.” – Teresa

“It is a strange madness to be sure, but not one that cannot be utilized.” – Kyrillos, thoughtfully

“Am I to assume, then, that you have parleyed with them?” – Ibrahim, from a dark corner where he’d gone unnoticed until now.

“Of course, why wouldn’t I involve myself with them? They are naïve and weak, this is true, but they have ambition on their side, why not take advantage of that?” – Kyrillos

“So, tell me, Lady Teresa, did you have any part in the destruction of your Clan’s founder?” – Vendramino, bluntly

Teresa was taken aback by the question.

“Absolutely not, that was the very worst night of my life. In the chaos that followed his destruction three of my children were destroyed!” – Teresa, furiously.

“But the act itself, do the actions of Gratiano please you?” – Vendramino, pushing the subject

“I think that the bastard should have learned his place! What does a fledgling neonate know of loyalty to the blood? If he wanted to ‘save us’ as he so claimed he would have gone the Amici and taken it to them instead of attacking like a coward.” – Teresa, her teeth extending into fangs.

“So you are not likely to back the power plays of these Anarchs?” – Vendramino.

“They are young and foolish and ill equipped to wield the power they are so resolute to take by force; though if one could find a way to redirect their energies, I believe they would make effective pawns.” – Teresa, thoughtfully, her fangs once again melting into teeth.

“But Gratiano did not work alone, yes? He had help from others of your own clan as well as mine and many others.’ – Ibrahim

“The fact that he was able to cloud the minds of his lesser does not make him right, Turk, I stand by my assertion that if he wanted to do this right he should have gone to the clan. As it is the Clan of Night has had its head cut off because Gratiano was incapable of finishing the job.” – Teresa

“While it does not change the events of that night, you may be happy to know that the Childe of Haqim who drank the last of the First shadow’s blood did not survive the act, his body was literally destroyed from the inside out by the power of your Ancestor’s blood.” – Ibrahim.

“That information does nothing for me. Gratiano still walks under his Long Night and we are left empty inside.

“Why have we not kept in touch, my old friend?” – Ibrahim

“I have been very busy since you returned to the holy land, Ibrahim.” – Sanchez

“I can understand that, I too find my time filled by our morbid friend. I have not even been home in nearly a decade. I am sure that my dog is long dead.”

As they laughed Eloise slipped into the room and appeared at her Regnant’s side, whispered something into his ear and then vanished again.

“I have not invited any others this evening, Eloise, turn them away.” – Kyrillos, whispered.

“They claim that they are expected and I don’t believe that –”

Eloise was unable to finish for she was interrupted by the door slamming open with enough force to crack it.

In the doorway stood a slight man with a great dirty beard and long filthy blond hair. In life he had been active and now in death his body had a nearly perfect physique, marred only by its filthy state and stark white skin.

The Conspiracy sprung to their feet at the sudden entrance, Ibrahim instinctively slipped into the shadows as the vampire threw himself onto his knees and face, prostrating himself before the gathered Cainites.

“Sanctuary for the Persecuted and driven! Blessed be they who shower forth their mercy upon the uprooted and the defenseless! Salvation surely comes for those who seek to save those who are lost!”

“Brother Anatole, Its been a lifetime!” – Kyrillos, stepping toward the prostrated vampire.

But before he could reach his fellow Malkavian, Anatole vanished only to reappear a few feet away grasping the shocked Ibrahim by his doublet.

“Turn not your backs on those whom god favors and man despises!” – Anatole roared at the Turk.

Ibrahim flailed for his dagger to defend himself from the shockingly powerful vampire.

“It is good to see you my frie…I don’t know you.” – Anatole, cocking his head to the side like a confused pup.

He released the Assamite and vanished again, this time reappearing by the door again where a beautiful young lady was waiting. She was dressed in the traveling clothes of a noblewoman but was no cleaner than her half-naked friend.

“Lucita!” – Teresa, rushing to her niece’s side.

“Aunt Teresa, my friends, if I may address you as such, Anatole and I have need of shelter and sustenance. Much transpires in the west, and little bodes good for any of our kind. We would be obligated to you if you, Count Kyrillos, if you would grant us hospitality for even a few nights, that we may recuperate and refresh ourselves. We have spent the uncounted weeks in flight, trying to reach you. Anatole’s visions have led us to you, and we are fortuitous that all of you have gathered here together. Please, do not turn us away in our time of need.” – The younger Lasombra’s collapsed against her aunt, who dutifully carried her to one of the couches.

“Yes, Lucita, I just said all of that.” – Anatole, tenderly, before turning to the others.

“She insists on repeating everything I say to the people we encounter.” – Anatole, rolling his eyes.

“Eloise, fetch them vessels with which they may feed, bring them quickly.” – Kyrillos commanded his steward.

“What happened to you, Lucita? I thought you were smarter than this. It’s madness to go so long without feeding.” – Teresa chided.

“I think Anatole’s rubbing off on me after so long, but we had to hurry. Something’s coming, Teresa, something which we cannot weather lest things change, the west burns, childer are hunting their sires. Our Clan has severed itself from our founder… and what Anatole has seen…” – Lucita, listlessly.

“Count Kyrillos, Childe of Byzantium, Know that ye need not fear me, for I have only done what God and our brethren ask of me; just as you relieved your Sire’s suffering so have I relieved the suffering of our cousins.” – Anatole, cryptically.

Kyrillos’ eyes narrowed and then he nodded. He and the mad monk had an understanding.

Teresa watched them for a moment and returned to Lucita.

“Where have you been, dear child? You have not visited the White City in some time.” – Teresa

“I know Teresa but Anatole and I have been on a pilgrimage of sorts, all across Italy, Iberia and France. We were even in the Lands of Hardestadt for a time before the High-Lord’s supposed demise.” – Lucita.

“Supposed?” – Teresa

“Oh yes, the Anarchs have been adamant that they drank the heart’s blood of Hardestadt but there have been rumors that he survived, though we did not believe them at first. Bavarian Cainites, Kindred they’ve taken to calling themselves, speak of speaking to him and the other conspirators that call themselves “Justicars”.” – Lucita

“Justicars?” – Teresa

“Yes, they believe that they can stem the tide of the Inquisition and the Anarchs by policing the entirety of our race. They think that the clans must fall under a single banner, it’s absurd, but many to the west, especially in those lands that once showed fealty to the Black Cross, have been swayed to believe in their cause.” – Lucita, she tried to sound cynical but it was clear that the argument was a persuasive one.

“I can see its allure, Lucita.” – Teresa

June 18, 1413, 2:54am
The Count’s Study
The Domain of Kyrillos Dimities
Mad Count of Timisoara

When Eloise finally arrived with a small herd of pliant mortals Anatole and Lucita were given a chance to feed and were soon joined by the others, save Vendramino, who had journeyed so far to be there that night. When they were done with their meal they returned to the study to continue their discussions.

“What, exactly, happened to the Elder of your clan, Lucita? There have been rumors but not even Teresa knows for sure.” – Kyrillos

Lucita glanced at Teresa before speaking. She’d already heard of the Queen’s losses on that night. Of how her youngest childer tore each other apart as the darkness within them overwhelmed them, of how Pavel was killed by his own childer, and Vanko was nearly destroyed by the sun when he found himself melting into darkness.

Lucita had heard similar stories all across the continent.

“It is perhaps the gravest news I bear this night. Seven years ago a handful of Lasombra Anarchs conspired to commit the ultimate horror. They wished to attack and perform the amaranth upon our Great Ancestor. It is said that, even while slumbering within his temple on the Isle of shadows he tried to defend himself from their concerted attack, but he was deceived by his own beloved childe, the much favored Gratiano, who was the secret architect of his destruction.

I have attempted to reconcile with my Clanmates. I cannot condone the actions of the Traitor and his ilk but I cannot deny what I am, I am of the same shadow as they. I’ve not been back to Italy since, I keep as much distance from the conspirators and their sympathizers but it grows harder with each passing night. I fear I’ve been marked a traitor for my refusal to join the Anarch Conspiracy.

She turned to Teresa who had been listening silently.

“I know that you cannot have had any connection with those who have commited this vile deed, dearest aunt, and so I prevail on your honor to allow me sanctuary until I have gained strength enough to leave Timisoara.” – Lucita pleaded, blood tears in her eyes.

“Of course, child, you are always welcome in Alba Iulia.” – Teresa, taken aback by the show of emotion.

“You must know, too, that you are both welcome to stay here for as long as you wish, no Lasombra, save Teresa’s childer, reside in my domain.

“I thank you, Count Kyrillos, but I fear that what has befallen my clan bodes ill for all Cainites, no matter their Clan. I plead with you that you mark well your own childer, for even you may have a viper in your midst.” – Lucita, warningly.

“We do, in fact have some Anarchs here in the East. In fact our old enemies, the Voivodate, seem rife with those who would supplant the old order. Vintila and Koban and even Noritz have all fallen to their childer. Even Master Sanchez’s domain is overwhelmed with those who claim the cause of the Anarchs, but you speak of them as though they are possessed of a more insidious nature, as if they are a conspiracy and threat against all of us who have weathered the centuries, surely your cannot believe them to be so dangerous.” – Kyrillos.

Lucita looked to Sanchez with a suspicious eye.

“You would do well to be careful whom you allow within your domain, Architect, there is no neck that these Cannibals would not tear out. In the west, many Cainites are rising up against their sires, claiming the same unfair treatment from them as they hear the mortal peasants make of their betters. I have heard stories of childer ordered to face the fires of the inquisition so that their sires might better make their escape, of Elders demanding that their progeny sacrifice the immortality they have been granted in the hopes that the old monsters might extend their Long Night a while more. The old values that once held our hidden society together, the hallowed bond between sire and childe, the hierarchy of Generation, the very embrace itself, are fraying like threads in a tapestry. I had hoped that the rebellion had not yet spread into these lands, particularly since the Inquisition has yet to threaten the safety of the Cainites that reside here.” – Lucita, revulsion tainting her every word.

“You say that the embrace has become denigrated?” – Kyrillos, nervously.

“Yes, some of the Anarchs have taken to a bastard’s embrace, creating servile monstrosities, more corpses than Cainites that they then set on elders as fodder against their more powerful prey to wear them out.” – Anatole, joining the conversation abruptly before again being distracted by the smoldering log in the hearth.

“This seems to be a largely European problem.” – Ibrahim gloated quietly.

Sanchez nudged the Turk to shut him up, motioning for him to pay attention to the quiet Malkavian by the fire place.

As if he knew they were watching him he turned to face them.

“God has not forgotten any of you. He has placed the mark of destiny upon all of you. Prepare your souls, for the time of testing and tribulation is at hand. Do you dare receive the terrible gift that the Lord has prepared for you?” – Anatole.

The room grew silent as his words sunk in and to Sanchez’s eternal horror; the Frenchman’s voice was filled with nothing but a terrible calm.

June 19, 1413, 11:53pm
Dealul Cetatii
The Domain of Kyrillos Dimities
Mad Count of Timisoara

Anatole had left shortly after making his oblique statement, declaring that his Lord had called him to Byzantium, but Lucita had chosen to stay for another night. It was now clear to Kyrillos why he had summoned his erstwhile companions to his home. It was the will of Anatole, who had, somehow, made his motivation known to Kyrillos in the same way that the Mad Count was oft forewarned about events.

Though this strange connection between he and others of his Clan had often interested him he now resolved himself to study the effect in earnest, perhaps gaining new insight into (and power over) its source.

The Venetian cur left even before Anatole had, and took the Turkish assassin with him. The Assamite liked to think that his movements went unseen and unchecked but the Count took pride in his ability to keep track of those he’d once called friends.

Sanchez left early the next night. His absence weighed heavily upon Kyrillos for reasons that the Count could not explain even to himself, much to his own consternation. He and the Toreador had had their falling out so long ago that Kyrillos oft wondered what it was that had separated them in the first place, but he would eventually remember his own actions, the ones that led to Sanchez marking him as a traitor.

The Toreador was better gone, off building the village that Hardestadt and his forsaken progeny had gifted him. Sebeș would never be a great city. Not without proper leadership.

The last to leave were Teresa and her niece, Lucita, whose carriage was only now leaving his sight… he cut off his own train of thought.

“There’s no time to regret, Kyrillos.” – The Count said to himself.

June 21, 1413, 9:24pm
Sighisoara Citadel
The Domain of Ignacio Rossellini
Steward of Sighisoara

When Vendramino and his Turkish spymaster arrived at the fortress that his ungrateful wretch of a childe had procured for him, Vendramino was furious to discover that he had not even come to welcome him home. Instead he found a footman who was there to unload his bags and a serving girl who brought with her a carafe of preserved blood on which he could sate his thirst.

“Where is Ignacio?” – Vendramino demanded.

“The Master is meeting with a herald of the Venetian Family who arrived only a few moments ago. He asks that you make yourself comfortable, and wants you to know that he will join you as soon as he is finished.” – the girl.

“Of course, child, thank you.” – Vendramino, petting her head gently.

With a flick of his wrist he shattered her skull and ruptured her spine. The tray and carafe clattered upon the floor, splattering the cold partially congealed contents across the stone floor. He buried his fangs into her neck as she died, drinking the still living blood as it spurted from her neck. When he was done he dropped her in the pool of dead blood and stepped over her cooling body.

Ibrahim followed silently.

“I do believe, Ibrahim, that the girl was one of Ignacio’s gets’ bastards. She tasted faintly of the same bitter envy that tainted his blood when I embraced him.” – Vendramino

They reached the door from which they could hear Ignacio’s voice and slammed them open.

“I am sorry to keep a vassal of Venice waiting. I am Count Vendramino, and this is my domain.” – Vendramino

Ignacio was livid. His honey colored hair and snow white skin oft gave him the appearance of youthful innocence, but now they only helped to accent the black eyes that betrayed his hate for his sire.

“Sire, my apologies, I assumed that you would wish for me to continue the management of your holdings while you were here to ensure that things continued to run smoothly.” – Ignacio, his voice seething.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, dear boy, save for the fact that his is an envoy from the family itself.” – Vendramino shot back.

The envoy, a youngish looking ghoul, by the looks of him, was clad in the finest venetian fashion and carried with him a letter.

“Indeed, I was sent to parley with the Steward of Sighisoara, Count Vendramino” – The Emissary.

The old man paled. The boy smiled.

“You see, Vendramino, I have been summoned to Venice by Lord Claudius himself. You’ll be okay watching after our holdings while I am gone won’t you?” – Ignacio taunted his sire unabashedly as he left the chamber with the emissary.

Vendramino felt the cold, dead thing that animated his body trying to take over and shut it down.

“One day, that bastard will slip from his pedestal and I’ll be there to catch him, Ibrahim, and when I do I will take back the precious blood that I was forced to grant him.”

June 22, 1413, 3:17am
Castrum Ramnic
The Domain of Symeon of Byzantium
Master of the Obertus

Had the Count of Timisoara still known what it was to be physically tired he would be exhausted. He’d been summoned to Ramnic by his Liege, Symeon the Byzantine, nearly a week before and had ridden like a madman to reach his destination as soon as he could. Now he was climbing the parapet of the ancient castrum where the Obertus Lord was supposed to be awaiting him.

The fortification was ancient, older even than Symeon himself, which was probably why the Ancient was drawn to it. the Count had been forced to carefully climb the uneven and loose stone steps to reach his master and was not amused in the slightest at his situation when he finally reached its summit.

“Lord Symeon, are you here?” – Kyrillos into the foggy darkness.

“I am, Kyrillos, join me, please.” – Symeon, his voice a mix of physical youth, ancient power and soul-crushing age.

He finally found the Tzimisce in a small room that had once been a place for soldiers to escape the rain or the cold. Now it was an aviary for the master’s small family of falcons.

Symeon was cooing to a particularly large specimen when Kyrillos arrived. He recognized it as the one that had brought him his summons.

The Elder released the bird, sending it out into the night, another bit of parchment wrapped around its leg.

“Where have you sent him this time?” – Kyrillos

“Myca has not been to see me in some time and I worry after him sometimes. I know that he is fine, but he is also particularly hard to keep track of.” – Symeon.

“You sound weary, master.” – Kyrillos.

“I have lived, perhaps, too long, Kyrillos, I have watched everything that I hold dear collapse to the fires of the Holy and find myself in an unfamiliar land that I do not call home. My city calls to me even now, and I am barred from her. So yes I am weary.” – Symeon, his voice far off.

Kyrillos could sympathize with his fellow Byzantine.

“To business, though. I had hoped you would arrive sooner.” – Symeon, abruptly.

“Yes, I find myself being more careful these nights, between upstart fledglings and Inquisitors, I am obliged to take care to hide my movements.” – Kyrillos.

“Of course, it was not a criticism old friend, simply an observation. I find myself in an unenviable predicament. The Shapers amongst the Obertus, especially those who remember your sire, Dimities, are fearful of my having allowed you to join our Order, even in a lay capacity. Though you have long ago proven yourself to me and to my childe, many would like assurances to your loyalty.” – Symeon.

“And how am I to prove myself to them, my master?” – Kyrillos suspiciously.

“To tell the truth, Kyrillos, They demand a Blood Oath.” – Symeon.

“They would have me bound by oath to them?”

“To me, as Master of the Order and I, of course, would not require you to drink thrice, lest you give me reason.” – Symeon.

Kyrillos thought that it might have been the ancient’s idea of a joke.

“I would be happy to put their minds at ease, Master Symeon, as long as you were to drink from me in equal measure.” – Kyrillos, his voice resonating with the power of his madness.

“Of course.” – Symeon, happily.

And together they drank.

June 22, 1413, 4:16am
Castrum Ramnic
The Domain of Symeon of Byzantium
Master of the Obertus

Kyrillos was in the room afforded him preparing for the coming dawn when the door was shattered behind him.

Symeon strode in, his flesh rolling and his eyes full of blood.

“You would dare ensorcell me? I, the Grandchilde of the Dracon? I who survived the fires of Constantinople and built around him a kingdom in this Godforsaken land?” – the old vampire seemed to grow as he roared at Kyrillos.

Before Kyrillos could even speak the elder grabbed him and through him against the far wall of the cell with such force that he thought he might fly through it into the oncoming sun. What happened was far worse, though, as his very flesh seemed to liquefy, seeping into the stonework of the ancient fortress.

The last thing that Kyrillos thought that he might ever see was the Ancient storming toward him. He felt the cold fingers upon his face and then all was black.

June 23, 1413, 7:53pm
Teresa’s Manse
The Domain of Teresa Balgrad
Black Queen of Alba Iulia

When Teresa and her niece reached the Black Queen’s home they were surprised to find a carriage, painted black and covered with a sable covering.

“Silvestre? Here?” – Lucita, nervously.

“Calm yourself, childe.” – Teresa, dismissing her niece’s unease.

She could not dismiss her own misgivings, though. Why would the Lord of Iberia, a being whose eminence was second only to Lord Montano in the Sea of Shadows, travel the leagues and brave the Transylvanian wilds to visit her so far from the safety of his domain in Madrid?

“Could it have become so dangerous in Madrid?” – Lucita

“Is your sire still loyal to Montano?” – Teresa

“Yes.” – Lucita, defensively

“Then I do not believe so.” – Teresa

She couldn’t even convince herself.

When they tried to enter her home they found a handful of men-at-arms, ghouls by the hungry looks in their eyes, blocking their path.

“Let me pass.” – Teresa demanded.

“Name yourself, Vampire.” – the captain of the guard.

“I beg your pardon? I am Lady Teresa Balgrad and this is my home and domain! Now, step aside!” – she felt her beast infuse her words as she glared into the ghouls eyes.

He did not move.

“Silvio, please desist, it is, after all, her home.” – a soft, if powerful voice said from somewhere deeper in the house.

The Captain stepped aside begrudgingly.

Teresa stormed into her Haven to find her sire sitting at her table.

The small, silvered haired man motioned for her to join him. The table was set as though he were expecting them to dine. An assortment of grapes, cheeses, breads and oils were arrayed upon a fogged silver plate.

Silvestre was toying with a bunch of grapes, as if he were trying to decide their purpose.

“I am sorry for this intrusion, Teresa, I had thought I would find you here when I arrived, I hadn’t realized that you were in the habit of trusting your domain to the natives.” – The Elder condescended.

“Erzebet has proven her loyalty to me more than once in the course of the last two centuries and I find it easier to trust one whose ambitions lie elsewhere.” – Teresa

Silvestre dropped the bunch as if they were a used handkerchief. His patronizingly passive eyes never left her face.

“I am here to discuss the tragedy of our clan, my Childe. You have not returned to Madrid since the Shadow’s demise and I was worried that, perhaps, you were unaware of tenuous our grasp was upon the lands within the Sea of Shadows. The Childer are tearing at our throats. The lesser Clans, too, are chomping at our throats. The Portuguese Brujah are defecting, the ones who aren’t actively hunting elders with their Anarch brothers are declaring themselves Autarkus, they “won’t take sides”.” – Silvestre

“The Portuguese Brujah you say.” – Teresa, bitterly.

Silvestre blinked.

“Don’t tell me that you are still sore about how we chose to handle the control of your ‘Kingdom’?” – Silvestre, his voice high in his frustration.

“Of course not, Sire.” – Teresa lied.

Silvestre stood, grabbing a fogged silver goblet as he did so.

“It would seem that we’ve come to the point of my visit, Teresa.” – The elder sighed.

He closed his fingers into a tight fist over the goblet, after a moment blood the color of the night itself began to run ever so slowly from between his fingers.

“It has occurred to me over the last decade that, perhaps, I have wronged you. I will admit that I haven’t been particularly… sympathetic to your plight over the last two centuries. I saw your early failures in Portugal as a sign of a poor embrace, and I have discounted your many… accomplishments. You’ve proven, my dear childe, to be a loyal and accomplished magister. Your domain is proof of that.” – Silvestre, his blood filling the goblet drop by drop.

“Is there something wrong, Silvestre?” – Teresa

“There are…rumors… that your brother, Ambrose, may have allied himself with Gratiano’s faction. While I highly doubt that such rumors are true, I must insure the interests of our Clan over our Kingdom, over even my blood. I don’t know who to trust anymore Teresa, I need at least I can trust you, my only daughter. I can trust you, can’t I?” – Silvestre, his voice hushed

“Of course you can, sire.” – Teresa

“I am glad to hear that. I happen to be here, in Transylvania, to fulfill a debt owed to a local Prince, the Royalist Nova Arpad. Do you know of her?” – Silvestre

“I do, she rules over the region surrounding Medias. She used to hold sway over all the siebenburgen, but that was centuries ago. What could the Lord of Iberia possibly owe a backwater Royalist like Arpad? Rumor has it that even her own brood won’t have anything to do with her anymore.” – Teresa.

“It’s of no matter to you, Teresa. I simply need to know if I can trust you to fulfill my debt in my stead.” – Silvestre, his potent blood had already stopped.

“Yes, sire.” – Teresa

“I’ll need more than words, Teresa, I need proof, you know I do.” – Silvestre, holding out the goblet.

Teresa stared at that cup for a long time. She’d drunk from her sire twice and his blood had proven potent enough to last for two centuries. To drink from him again would make her Blood Oath complete.

“Master, I…” – Teresa, nervous

“If I can trust you, you Will Drink!” – Silvestre demanded.

“With all due respect, Lord Silvestre, you claim that your trust in me is questionable and yet you have not, in nearly three centuries done anything to prove that my Loyalty is returned. If you want me to drink, fine, but I will not be the only one!” – Teresa

Teresa held her left hand over another goblet and sliced her palm open with a small silver blade. Her own dark blood poured into the cup, filling it nearly to the brim.

“If my loyalty means anything to you, my Sire, you will drink with me.” – Teresa

Silvestre’s pale eyes darkened as his Darkness attempted to overwhelm him but he kept it in check. After a long moment in which they stared each other down, he hastily grabbed the goblet and drank the blood down.

Teresa did the same with her own cup.

“Now that that business is out of the way we can move on to your business in Medias” – Silvestre, clapping his hands together, his face was practically split by a victorious grin.

June 24, 1413, 4:14am
the Citadel
The Domain of Vendramino Giovanni
Count of Sighisoara

It had been an eventful few nights since the loathed Ignacio had left for Venice. So eventful in fact that Ibrahim was sure that if nothing happened to stop it, Vendramino might perform some horrific ritual that would send the entirety of the city to hell.

Last night they’d arose to find themselves with a visitor from Acre. The Prince had sent his only begotten daughter to act as Vendramino’s aid-de-camp whilst upon the continent. The conniving but much sheltered Charlatan was weeping when she joined them in Vendramino’s den.

The girl blamed Maria D’Agostino, claiming that she’d turned the prince against her. Of course, she was only partly correct. It was in fact Vendramino who’d pulled the strings that led to this conclusion, though his absence for the end game did allow the Genoan vampire to catch the Prince’s ear.

The plan had been for Sabela to merely be censured, possibly scourged and banished from the city gates, he had not expected Maria to convince the Prince to send her on this ‘quest of character’ she found herself on.

Ibrahim couldn’t stop his lip from curling into a cruel grin.

Vendramino had comforted the girl then and his grandfatherly voice chilled Ibrahim to the bone.

Last night had been easy. Ibrahim watched his benefactor pace about his den in a rage. A messenger had arrived only moments before from Mediaș. The Prince, a Royalist called Nova Arpad, was calling in a favor owed her by Ignacio, who, it seemed, owed her a great deal. The handsome Cappadocian had gone to her to help hide his various indiscretions from his sire, something the Prince had been more than willing to do, for a price. Now that price was being called in.

“Ignacio will be made to pay for this, Ibrahim, I swear it. I shall tear him limb from limb for this. I will feed his very soul to the howling dead that haunt this place! I shall reveal his treachery to my beloved grandfather and show him for the sniveling wretch that he is!” – Vendramino raved.

“Count Vendramino, if I may, your childe, though you loathe him, holds great sway within the halls of the Venetian members of your…Clan. Wouldn’t it be better to keep this indiscretion hidden and, perhaps, use it to keep him in line? Remove him from stewardship, by all means, but make him cleave to you out of survival. After all he is another voice within Augustus’s inner circle is he not, if he starts to back you wouldn’t that further your own influence with your Patriarch?” – Ibrahim

Vendramino glared at Ibrahim and for a moment the Child of Haqim feared that he might have to flee.

“You are, as ever, wise council, Ibrahim al-Rashid. But if I am to use this against my wayward son, I would need to ensure that I alone had power over him. I will need you to go and deal with this Prince of Mediaș. See that she has no need to call upon him again.” – Vendramino.

Ibrahim smirked.

“And take Sabela with you. It would do her good to see the ways of the world outside of Acre.” – Vendramino.

“You must be joking, Vendramino. I am neither your childe nor your vassal and my services have a price, which in this instance would be very steep.” – Ibrahim, matter-of-factly.

Vendramino sneered at his friend.

“Name it, Turk.”

“I would learn the ways of the Giovanni.” – Ibrahim, directly.

“Of course, you have already been taught the basics of our insight, I do not see any reason why you could not also learn to command your flesh to ignore the banes of our existence.” – Vendramino, coyly.

“I speak of your powers as a Medium, Vendramino, I know that your power over the dead is no quirk of the blood. I have seen your experiments, my network would be much improved should I begin to employ the dead to gather information.” – Ibrahim.

Vendramino looked his spymaster over.

“That is not something that I can give freely. Should my Elders learn that I have given you the key to our Family’s power, I may find myself as dead as one of my charges. For me to give you that I would need something with which to hold over your head.” – Vendramino

“Name your price.” – Ibrahim

“You will drink from me, as a sign of loyalty.” – Vendramino

“Done.” – Ibrahim.

He appeared next to the Old Vampire and bit into the flesh of his neck, drinking deeply of the Old Vampire’s extraordinarily rich Vitae.

With a heave, Vendramino forced the Turk off of himself, the ragged wound of his neck healing over quickly.

“I am not amused, Ibrahim!” – Vendramino bellowed as the Assamite licked the cold vitae from his lips.

The old man took a moment to steady himself before leaving the room. Ibrahim knew that he was headed to the massive Library that Vendramino had long ago stocked and constantly sent new volumes too whenever he finished making copies in Acre. When he returned he held to his chest a smallish codex. It was covered in green leather and was stamped with the Giovanni seal.

“This is the Codex of Sepulchral Secrets, and it is my revision of Augustus’s own Grimoire, which, of course led to our family’s Long Night. It will teach you all you need to know of our Necromantic Arts.” – Vendramino, handing the book to his apprentice.

“And should any Giovanni see you with it, there will be nowhere you will be safe from our wrath.” – Vendramino cautioned.

“I am sure that my own brethren would look poorly upon me having this knowledge, I can assure you that I will guard its secrets with my life.”

June 28, 1413, 8:25pm
Castrum Ramnic
The Domain of Symeon of Byzantium
Master of the Obertus

The first thing Kyrillos felt was an exquisitely hot fluid splash against his tongue. Soon the blood was being poured down his throat in great gushing gouts. This was not the first time he’d been fed since his…imprisonment, but it was the first time he’d been fed such quantities.

The blood rushed into every limb, every cell and began to reshape them. Slowly, inch by inch, he felt himself rising out of the stonework until finally he fell out of the wall and onto his knees. After another minute he was able to stand again, five more and there was no sign that he’d ever been harmed.

His vision was the last thing to return, but when it did he found his footmen dead at his feet. Theirs was the blood used to revive and heal him.

Master Symeon stood in the doorway, his young face a mask of fury.

Kyrillos was ashamed that he would make his Master so angry.

“It would seem that my fellows were right, Kyrillos, and for your violation I have bound you fully to me by blood. What say you.” – Symeon

“Thank you, master, for your magnanimity. We are horrified by our own actions and pray that you will one day forgive us.” – Kyrillos, prostrating himself.

“The only reason I allowed your release is that I have need of your services, Lunatic.” – Symeon, walking away.

“Of course, my Master.” – Kyrillos, following.

“When Myca secured these lands for our brethren he was forced to make certain concessions to the Eastern lords. One of those Lords is a petty but dangerous Ventrue called Nova Arpad. You will go to her domain, a manor house in the heart of Mediaș, and you will do whatever needs be done for her. Can I count on you, son of Dimities?” – Symeon.

“Yes, my Master.” – Kyrillos groveled.

“So be it.”

June 29, 1413, 12:53am
Burghausen Castle
The Domain of Hardestadt
High-Lord of Bavaria

The Castle was as beautiful now as when Sanchez laid the last stone himself a century ago. It was easy for the mason to forget how more civilized Cainites took care of their homes after living for so long amongst the Tzimisce who rarely kept up their own castles. Every time he came here he had to appreciate his own work.

“Master Sanchez? The High-Lord would see you now.” – the voice of one of Hardestadt’s footmen pulled him from his nostalgia.

“Yes, thank you.” – Sanchez

The footman held the antechamber door for Sanchez as he entered, closing it behind him. The elder Toreador felt very aware of his surroundings, worrying that perhaps he was not properly dressed.

He hadn’t seen the High-Lord since his near destruction at the hands of the Anarch Patricia, no one had, rumors swirled across the continent about what could have happened to the ancient vampire, about treachery from within and of horrible magics taking their toll.

Sanchez didn’t know at all what to expect as he stepped into the dark chamber, but what he saw left him speechless.

When he’d previously met the High-Lord he’d been surprised by the stature and age of the elder, who stood no taller than Sanchez’s own shoulder. The elder vampire had been an elder in life as well, though the years had not been unkind to him. His hair was black but heavily streaked with gray, his piercing blue eyes were as clear as a hawks and his voice seemed at turns warm and hard depending on the subject at hand.

This was not that man.

The vampire standing before Sanchez was tall and strapping, having been taken in the prime of his life. His blond hair and dark eyes were as immediately recognizable as the immaculate raven cloak and gilded sword at his side.

The figure stood from his throne and smiled at Sanchez.

“Lord Jürgen?” – Sanchez, unbelieving

“Yes, Sanchez, It’s me.” – Jürgen

“… but how?” – Sanchez

“The Anarchs were as successful as was reported, my old friend. The Agitator-Bitch Patricia diablerized him and it is believed that they had help within this fortress. Though I had failed him in the Land Beyond the Forest, we were still close and he was grooming me to take his place once he was finally forced to go into the Death Sleep. So when he was destroyed I was able to quickly pick up the pieces, after contacting the ‘Founder’s conspiracy’, we agreed that it would be best to hide his destruction. I have ruled in his name ever since.” – Jürgen.

“That’s a lot to take in, Lord… Hardestadt.” – Sanchez

“I know, Master Sanchez. But now you’re the only one I can trust and I must ask a favor.” – “Hardestadt”, placing his hand on the Toreador’s shoulder.

“What of Lucretia, surely she would be delighted to hear of your survival.” – Sanchez, vehemently.

“I fear that even she has fallen to the influences of the revolution. She believed me destroyed, and without my guiding hand she has allowed her Pride to overwhelm her, now she is lost, believing that her Clan has abandoned her.” – Hardestadt the Younger

“I am sorry for her sedition, Hardestadt, I know that you two were close.” – Sanchez

“It’s no matter, all of my court has been overrun by traitors, usurpers and vipers. There have been three more attacks upon this glorious fortress that you made for me, but unlike my fool of a sire who believed that stone was enough to keep him safe, I was prepared. And in spite of his foolhardy faith, his dream that we, the children of Caine, should come together under one banner as Kindred must live on. Great things are coming Sanchez, and I want you to be by my side, building this better future. Our little conspiracy has banded together Elders from a majority of the Clans of Caine and we have only one more ‘foundation’ to lay, if you’ll pardon the metaphor. And that is with the Arpad Ventrue that rule the east.” – Hardestadt.

“What use could they possibly be to you, Milord?” – Sanchez

“They may be fools, cowards and vipers, Sanchez, but they are canny and powerful. Though you may not realize it, these Eastern Lords have influence in nearly every Eastern Court not directly tied to the Black Cross. If our grand experiment is to succeed we will need their support; which, of course, brings us to the favor that I must ask of you.” – Hardestadt

“Ask it, sir.” – Sanchez

“I have been promised their support for our “Camarilla” in exchange for a number of trivialities, money, favors, vessels and jewelry mostly, things that I have had no problem obtaining for them. However there is also a favor that they have asked of me that I cannot perform, personally and I must ask that you go in my stead.”

“If that is all, then of course I will do that for you.” – Sanchez

“Would that it was, my old friend, for now we come to the part of my favor that I am loath to ask of you: Two centuries ago you gave me your loyalty and then proved that loyalty by drinking of my blood. Now, in these times of anarchy and unrest I must ask you to do so again. It will be the last I ever ask of you, but it will bind the two of us together in a trust that I share with no other of our cursed breed.” – Hardestadt

“Jürgen, I will stand by you in whatever endeavor you undertake. I will follow you into hell itself if you tell me that our future is there, but I swore after drinking of your blood the last time that I would never be bound by Blood Oath again.” – Sanchez

“You never swore that to me.” – Hardestadt, uneasily

“No, I swore that to myself and my God, who is possibly the only being that I hold in higher esteem than I do you. That being said, these are indeed dangerous times and I do see your need for trust. So yes I will drink from you one last time, if only to put your mind at ease as to whom you can trust.” – Sanchez.

The young High-Lord smiled at his old friend.

“Let us celebrate, than, with a toast!” – Sanchez.

They drank a sweet bloodwine, a vintage that Hardestadt was fond of, laced ever so slightly with the heady tang of Vitae.

When they’d had their fill the High-Lord explained to him his mission.

June 18, 1413, 9:41pm
The Cities Edge
The Domain of Nova Arpad
Prince of Mediaș

When last Sanchez had come to this house it had stood upon a large walled estate outside the city. Now its walls had been absorbed by the city’s own. The lady Arpad even shared her view, looking out over city streets from all angles.

But, of course, it had been centuries since he’d last visited, and by all accounts the Prince of Ash was a talented and ruthless ruler, who had parleyed the loss of all Transylvania after the fall of the Council of Ashes into a network of favors and influences that spanned all of Eastern Europe. It was said that even some few Voivodes owed her favors.

The streets were muddy from the summer storm that began the night before, but people were out in droves, shopping and drinking and carrying on as if there were not a care in the world. Though the old Toreador couldn’t help but feel an undercurrent of unrest amongst them, as if they were waiting for something, something just around the corner…

Among the throng of the living, Sanchez had found his old friend Ibrahim who was surprised to see him, though not as much as Sanchez had been to see the beautiful girl at his side. It seemed that that they too had had been commissioned for the same purpose and from the looks of it they weren’t the only ones.

Wagons, marked by the crests of the Voivodate, Black Cross, Obertus Landhold, and the Sea of Shadows were there, along with the Venetian city-states and even the Courts of Love. It seemed that everyone who was anyone had owed something to the Prince of Ash.

“This favor, whatever it is, must be of vital importance for so many to have heeded the call.” – Ibrahim.

“Indeed, though I do believe that I see Teresa’s personal carriage.” – Sanchez, pointing to a particular wagon.

“Of course.” – Ibrahim smirked.

“How goes it, gentlemen?” – a voice, carrying forward from behind them.

They turned to find Thierry, whom neither had seen in over a century.

Sanchez embraced the Tremere as a comrade-in-arms.

“Never better, lad, and you?” – Sanchez.

“I’ve been sent here by Master Jervais, it seems that he owes the Arpad woman a favor and I am to collect for him to pay my own debts.” – Thierry.

“I am here for similar reasons, Master Thierry.” – Sabela, nervously

“Well, I’ll be damned twice more, if it isn’t the Lady Sabela of Acre.” – Thierry, kissing the girl’s hand.

“We’d best hurry though, for the hour approaches.” – Ibrahim.

As they hurried toward the great house Sanchez took time to note the architectural additions that had been made to it over the centuries, taking pride in the fact that many of them were influenced by his own works across the continent.

As they approached the fountain that stood in front of their host’s home, one that Sanchez recognized from two centuries prior as having once belonged exclusively to the Prince, they were startled to hear the shouting of men.

“This mockery of justice has gone on for far too long. The lords of these lands must cease their depredation! We break our backs and give our lifeblood for their pleasure! Our wives, sisters and daughters sacrifice their virtue on the altar of their insatiable and unholy lusts. It is time for us to stand together!” – A young agitator, shouting out to the odd passerby in the quiet streets around the Mansion.

“This cannot end well.” – Sanchez whispered to Thierry and Ibrahim.

The boy ducked low and scooped up a loose stone, but when he turned to throw it at the house he found himself being set upon by six men-at-arms bearing the crest of the Prince of Ash

“It is funny that I would go from the Court of the Prince of Dust to the Court of the Prince of Ash.” – Sabela whispered to herself.

The knights charged the boy, attempting to pin him down against one of the other houses. But the boy did something unexpected. He broke toward them.

“Help me, I’m being oppressed!” – He bellowed.

Thierry stepped back out of the boy’s way without thinking, while Ibrahim simply wasn’t there.

Sanchez quickly realized that the firebrand wanted to get past them and into the inn behind them but was shocked to see the man suddenly lose his footing. Without thinking about what he was doing Sanchez found himself standing in the boy’s path, keeping him from falling into the mud.

The soldiers were quickly upon them, their cudgels drawn.

“Hand the little shit over or you’ll be sorry.” – One of the guards.

“I’m claiming this man.” – Ibrahim, stepping from the shadows.

“And so I’ll have to make an example of you too.” – The guard.

The man tried to stare the smaller Turk down.

The man blinked.

“Fine, than you can explain it to our mistress.” – the guard, calling off his men.

The soldier kicked the kid.

“You’re lucky the foreigner speaks for you.”

The boy turned to Ibrahim

“Thank you sir, you’ve no idea the injustices that the woman who calls that house home has put us through, her and a hundred more like her-“ – The kid, cut off by the back of Ibrahim’s hand.

“It would behoove you to remain silent if you wish to live.” – The Turk, quietly.

The kid whimpered, holding his cheek.

“You dress like a pauper, but you speak like one of higher station, explain yourself.” – Ibrahim

“I was born here but was lucky enough to have been trained by scholars from the University. It was under their tutelage l realized the evils being perpetrated by the ruling class.” – the child revolutionary

“And these scholars of yours, did they not teach you to not speak out in public?” – Ibrahim chastised.

“I know that might does not make right!” – the boy rebel.

Ibrahim slapped him again.

“What do they call you, young philosopher?”

“R-Robi Bertok, sir.” – The boy had tears in his eyes.

More importantly, he didn’t cower. Ibrahim made a note of it.

“Robi Bertok, you belong to me, now.”

June 18, 1413, 10:01pm
Árpád-házi
The Domain of Nova Arpad
Prince of Mediaș

They were shown into a small, comfortable room just off the foyer, only to find that they were indeed, the last to arrive.

Ibrahim recognized them all, even if a few were only based on reputation. The first person he recognized was the Count of Timisoara, who sat in a high-back chair speaking to a tall, thin man dressed in enough finery that it must have weighed him down. By the large pendant he wore he knew Roland, a pathetic Ventrue slave-trader from Buda-Pest. The conversation wasn’t going well for either of them.

Teresa stood a short distance away, staying in the shadows, watching a beautiful but deadly young woman that he knew to be Kara Lupescu, the childe of Radu Bistritz and herald of Vladimir Rustovitch, who had taken a large portion of the room for herself. When Thierry entered she audibly snarled.

The final two vampires were well known and feared throughout Transylvania, each the supposed childer of Ancient monsters. The first was the Serbian Gangrel Zavid Kinslayer, a diablerist childe of Arnulf; the other was Marchettus, the supposed childe of some Carthaginian Warlord, he had sworn enmity upon all the Princes of the Land beyond the Forest. Ibrahim could not fathom why he would be here in service to one such as Nova Arpad. These two seemed to be regaling each other with war stories as they awaited the Prince.

Their reunion with the other members of their conspiracy was cut off abruptly by the appearance of their host’s manservant.

The tall wisp of a man was ancient and bald, his iron-gray beard hanging almost to his navel.

“The Lady Nova Arpad, Prince of the Realm of Mediaș and Mistress of western Transylvania.” – The old man, his sonorous voice echoing in the small chamber.

Nova Arpad was a vision, as beautiful as the night Ibrahim had met her two centuries prior. She peered at those who attended and when she smiled the room itself seemed to be brighter for it.

“As the Voivodes of the East are fond of saying, welcome to my home, come freely and of your own will.” – Nova chimed.

Lady Kara sneered at the Erroneousness of the woman saying such a thing to those who had already been invited into her home.

The Prince seemed to note the Fiend’s reaction but carried on anyway.

“Thank you all for coming as your patrons assured me you would. Know that you will be serving your elders in assisting me in the small endeavor I have in mind. A treasured piece of jewelry has been stolen from me and I wish to have it returned and the thief brought to me for retribution. Recently, a tribe of Egyptites – Gypsies, I believe the commoners call them – passed through my lands. I have reason to believe that one of their number gained access to my treasury and absconded with several valuable items. I have prepared a list of the missing jewels, but I expect some of them to have been sold or traded by now. One piece in particular concerns me, for it is an ancient relic and I am loath to see it disappear from my possession.

“The item is a gold pectoral, formed from linked tablets inscribed with intricate symbols. It was a gift to me from my sire who, in turn, was given it from his. I have no idea as to its origin but its antiquity is undeniable.” – Nova, her voice like a crystal bell.

The Fiend Kara stood and spat blood at the Prince’s feet.

“For this I am called across the whole of Transylvania? To act as a mouser for a petulant Royalist and her lost trinkets? I am the Childe of Radu and the favored vassal of Voivode Rustovitch, when my master hears of this he will be most displeased with the triviality with which you view his obligations.” – Kara Lupescu

With that the Fiend stormed from the room.

After a moment the Brujah joined her, though he ‘accidentally’ bumped the prince’s manservant as he passed him, the bones of the old man’s arm cracked audibly as he slammed into the wall behind him. The Gangrel followed quietly after.

Sanchez rushed to the man’s aid.

“Does anyone else feel as the Lady does?” – Nova snapped.

Thierry stood and bowed slightly to the prince.

“Though I am loathed to follow the fiend’s example, I must leave you. My master assured me that my mission would be of the utmost importance but I have many experiments in Ceoris that need my attention. Please, milady, understand that I mean no ill will to you.” – Thierry, bowing twice again as he passed her.

Roland, too, stood and left though he did so without a word.

The Ventrue’s eyes widened as nearly half of those who assembled abandoned their duty.

“So be it. I am glad to see that many of those who stood by their obligations are each my fellow princes, but I would remind you that we are not equals. Each of you have gained your cities through your patrons; while I have been the executor of the Siebenburgen since long before any of you were ushered into the Long Night.”

Sanchez snorted at her petty attempt to show dominance. She spun on him in an instant

“As for you and your foreign friends, I hope that your foolish indulgence with the rabble-rouser earlier does not betoken softness in your attitude toward justice being done.” – Nova.

“Adolph, my manservant, will give you any information you might need for your journey, as well as anything you might need. You may stay here in my home for the day, but I expect you gone by midnight, tomorrow.”

June 24, 1413, 8:35pm
The Olt Valley
The Domain of Josephus
Prince of Brasov

The Prince had been good to her word, providing fresh horses and a list of the items lost to her through her manservant, who also gave them what intelligence the Prince’s spy-network had been able to grant them.

The gypsies, members of the Torenu Clan, had fled southward toward Brasov. They had no doubt that they’d be able to find the band, as they had long made habit of stopping and making camp for days at a time.

The list of items had been the source of much of the conversation on the voyage.

“A pair of bracelets, a pair of earrings, and a brooch, we’re her equals whether she wants to admit it or not, and for this we have been called across the forest? It’s madness.” – Kyrillos, angrily

“How must our lieges feel, for lest we forget, she called upon them first.” – Teresa

“Which only proves my point, Teresa; we’ve all heard the stories of those who could not cope with the centuries, hell, we’ve known those who could not, they’ve gone mad and thrown away all that they’ve built. I believe that that is what the Lady Arpad has done.” – Kyrillos

“So you’re saying that she is not a threat.” – Sabela.

The two elders gave the girl a pitying look. It was hard for either of them to understand how one nearly as old as they could be so naïve to the ways of the Damned.

“You’ve not met many of my Clan, have you Lady Sabela?” – Kyrillos

“There have been others that visit Acre, but they never stayed long. You and your childer, though, Gauthier and Eloise, you don’t seem as mad as others say.” – Sabela

Kyrillos sad smile was well hidden by his beard.

“We are mad, dear girl, and nothing is more dangerous than a mad immortal.” – Kyrillos

“It looks like we are on the right track.” – Sanchez, interrupted.

They looked out of the wagon and saw the Torenu Caravan up ahead.

“It looks like you were wrong about them, Count.” – Sanchez derided.

“I don’t doubt that there are thieves among them, but I have heard that Silas was destroyed by mortal hunters centuries ago in France.” – Kyrillos

“Okay, but what of the others?” – Sanchez

“Neither Izydor or Delizbieta were ever known for their sticky fingers, Sanchez. Izydor had his… foibles but they all stemmed from his need to cause trouble, not take what wasn’t his. And if I heard of any crime perpetrated by the girl it was that her ‘fortunes’ often do more harm than good.” – Kyrillos chuckled fondly.

“You’re close?” – Sanchez

“We haven’t spoken in some time, but in our experience those who walk the night are unlikely to change overly much.” – Kyrillos.

Sanchez smirked. The madman wasn’t wrong.

Ordering the wagons to carry on to Sebeș, the conspiracy decided that it would be safer to approach the Gypsies on foot, just as the others who had come to see the travelers’ wares did.

When they arrived they found that the circle of wagons was well lit by a great fire in the center of their encampment and smaller campfires next to each wagon. A part of Kyrillos wanted to flee, but that part of him was weak and he had little trouble keeping it in check.

Ropes were hung between the wagons and the odd tree to help pen off the horses. Unfortunately the gypsies didn’t seem so worried about the various dogs, cats, chickens and goats that they allowed to roam freely amongst the villagers who’d arrived to trade and barter.

The smell of a still cooking stew wafted from a nearby wagon and caused the Malkavian to crinkle his nose. It smelled strongly of Paprika and some gamey meat that may have once smelled inviting to the old trader. Instead he was drawn to the heady aroma of the Gypsies and their patrons.

There were at least forty-five men, women and children within the Torenu tribe, a great deal fewer than had visited him in Timisoara a dozen years before. Their patrons were less numerous, though it was probable that had more to do with the hour than the wants of the people of Sebeș.

At the entrance was a barker announcing the various services afforded by the tribe, directing the newly arrived toward the horse traders and the tinsmiths and the glassworkers as well as a fortune teller and the various musicians that lived amongst the Torenu.

Near the bonfire a small band of gypsies played a persuasively boisterous melody that left many of the musicians laughing even as a small crowd had gathered around them to better hear and dance to their tune.

Kyrillos approached the barker and bade him come closer.

“I am looking for Izydor of the Torenu, does he still travel with this compania?” – Kyrillos, happily

The Barker, a man in his prime years with dark smoldering features, seemed startled by the old man’s question.

“I do not know who put you up to his little joke, my friend, but do not pretend that your wealth and station will protect you here.” – the Barker

“What did I say?” – Kyrillos

“That name is not spoken by the Torenu, and hasn’t been for many years.” – The Barker, spitting on the ground.

“What do you mean, sir?” – Kyrillos

“You do not know the tale? If you say you knew him then it must have been when you were just a child, for the one who was called by that name has been dead since my grandmother’s time.” – the barker hissed

“What happened?” – Kyrillos

“All you need know is that he is dead and all that is left of him is a legacy of pain and suffering. I will not speak any more on this subject. If you must know something you can speak to the fortuneteller, she can tell you more!” – The barker, returning to his duties.

“What of Delizbieta? Do you at least know of her?” – Kyrillos called after.

“Talk to the Fortuneteller, she’ll tell you all you need to know!” – the man shouted back. Kyrillos could have sworn that he was smiling.

---

Teresa and Sabela slipped away, as did the others, when Kyrillos approached the Barker. The two ladies found themselves among the jewelry makers and the clothiers. Sabela enjoyed looking at the multitude of baubles and Teresa knew that there was a fair chance that they might catch wind of the fate of the stolen objects.

“Milady, if it pleases you, I have wonderful garments, made of the finest oriental fabrics. Gowns that will stoke the fire of even the most distracted of men.” – a woman called out to Teresa.

Eying the gauzy robe she was being ‘seduced’ with she was impressed by the craftsmanship but thought that it was next to useless in terms of keeping one warm or modest. She was far more interested in the heavy gold bracelet that the woman wore.

Teresa took the tawdry bit of clothing and acted as if interested. After a moment of haggling she ‘suddenly’ saw the bracelet.

“What a beautiful bracelet, did one of your smiths craft that for you?” – Teresa, enviously. She hoped that the gypsy would want to sell it to an easy mark.

“Oh no, milady, this was a gift from Anasztaz.” – the seller cooed. She was fond of this ‘Anasztaz’ whoever he was.

“Do you suppose he could tell me where I might find something like that?” – Teresa

“I don’t see why not.” – the woman

“Do you know where I can find him?” – Teresa

The woman’s eyes glazed over slightly, as if she were trying to remember a childhood dream.

“I- I’m not sure.” – The woman, confused.

“May I buy it from you?” – Teresa.

“No, madam, I couldn’t do that.” – the woman, petting the bracelet.

Teresa was tired of being polite. She removed a small but heavy coin purse form the folds of her dress.

“Are you sure you cannot Give Me The Bracelet? I will pay good money.” – Teresa, compelling the woman to acquiesce.

The old woman slipped the heavy gold from her wrist without a second thought.

“Of course, it’s a fair trade, how could I refuse?” – the old woman.

Teresa paid very well. The old woman would think nothing of the transaction, save that the noblewoman offered her a deal that she regretted accepting.

June 24, 1413, 9:09pm
The Torenu Camp
The Domain of Josephus
Prince of Brasov

Sanchez heard the barker tell Kyrillos to speak to the fortuneteller and quickly found a small crowd of people waiting to do just that. He’d waited for some time before being admitted into the cunning-woman’s small tent.

He was surprised to find the inside so cozily decorated, even the ground on which it was raised was covered by an exquisitely embroidered rug. Large overstuffed pillows lined the room, which was lit by a single blue-paper lantern that sat upon a low table in the center of the tent. At the table sat a young woman, her hair was made up of black ringlets and coils, her eyes were as black as the night sky.

She was exotically beautiful and somehow familiar too.

“Hello, stranger, I believe that we are awaiting a few more, those that came with you.” – the Fortuneteller.

“What do you mean?” – Sanchez, curiously

The tent’s entrance billowed open and three more stepped in. Sanchez realized that she’d been referring to his fellows. When Sabela entered she growled and lunged forward, though Teresa was able to gently hold her back as she regained her composure.

“Welcome, all of you, to our camp. Please put yourselves at ease. Few are those who walk amongst the stars and we have no quarrel with you. You must have great need to risk traveling so close to Brasov this night. These good folk who braved the wilderness did so to find solace in knowing their future. Do you desire the same?” – The fortuneteller.

“You do not recognize us do you, Delizbieta?” – Sanchez

She smiled and raised her arms at her sides in thanks to them, revealing a golden pectoral that she wore around her neck.

Sanchez immediately made out the small symbols that were etched into it.

““I do indeed, Master Sanchez, I, and these people owe you all a great debt. You must forgive me for not recognizing you sooner; it’s been so many centuries that I am a bit befuddled. Please allow me to read your fortunes to make it up to you.” – Delizbieta
“I would like to hear the Gypsy woman’s divinations, perhaps she could take the Lady Teresa’s fortune.” – Ibrahim, appearing from the shadows.

“Yes, milady, please allow me to divine your future.” – Delizbieta

The Lasombra’s eyes seemed to shoot daggers at the Arab but took a seat directly across from the Gypsy.

Delizbieta placed a card in front of the Lady. It was the Queen of cups.

“For you, milady.” – Delizbieta, shuffling the rest of the cards before asking the Black Queen to cut them.

“Concentrate on the question you wish for them to address.” – Delizbieta, reverentially.

She placed the next card over the seven of cups.

“The Moon represents powerful forces outside of your control. You stand in the midst of these forces. This covers you”

She places another card across the moon.

“The Three of Swords denotes great sorrow. Your heart is pierced by the conflict that surrounds you, threatening that which means most to you. This crosses you.”

She places the next card from the deck just below the cross.

“The Eight of Cups indicates abandonment in your past. Those who supported you have already begun to withdraw their approval, perhaps seeing in you a threat to their own authority. This is the basis or foundation of your present dilemma.”

Delizbieta places the next card above the cross.

“The Hierophant or High Priest stands for tradition and faith. It is this force that holds the power to unlock and translate the secrets of the future. This crowns you, for it lies immediately ahead of you.”

She draws the next card and places it to the right of the cross.

“Death. Do not be alarmed, for we all know that death is but the beginning of new life. It is a renewal, and it lies in your immediate past. You are newly come from some renewal – no, for I can see this is not so – you recently experienced a transformation that greatly affects your future actions. This lies just behind you.”

Delizbieta seemed shaken by what the card showed her. She reached for the next card gingerly, placing it to the left of the cross.

“The Two of Pentacles or Coins. This card stands for balance. Its position indicates to me that your actions in the coming times will sway the delicate arrangement of forces in the world around you. What you do will affect more lives than your own. This determines your extended futures.”

Kyrillos noticed the sudden shift in tone, the Ravnos’ voice was shaking. And that she was now speaking to everyone in the room.

The seventh card was slipped into place just below and to the far right of the cross.

“The World represents fulfillment. It occupies the position of your innermost concerns. You have lived through difficult times, yet you long for your existence to have meaning and you fear that you will remain forever a pawn of someone greater than yourself.”

She placed the eighth card on top of the seventh.

“The Seven of Cups symbolizes temptation. Its place in your fortune represents the forces outside you who wish you to enact their will and who lure you with promises. Weigh carefully the value of their words against the reality of their actions. You face a time of great trial and tribulations.”

Sanchez glanced over at Kyrillos at those last words. They shared a nervous shrug as they thought back to their conversation with Anatole.

She placed the next card over the eighth.

“The Ten of Cups represents satiation. This is your goal, to satisfy your desires and fulfill your ambitions in whatever way you can. It is a deceptive card in this position, for you may achieve one thing only to find that you really desired something else.”

Delizbieta’s voice seemed strained, as if she were speaking under duress. She reached for the tenth card so carefully that Ibrahim thought that it appeared to burn her.

She placed it over the last card.

“The Wheel of Fortune is the card of Destiny. This is the culmination of what has gone before. Just as the wheel turns everything repeats itself in an unending cycle of activity. But here, in this time, you stand as the turners of that wheel. You are part of fate but in some sense, you are your own destiny.”

Delizbieta’s shoulders slumped forward and the vampire seemed to take a moment to compose herself before looking up at Teresa again.

“This… this has been a powerful experience for me, I could sense great forces gathering around you and the cards confirmed that for me.” – Delizbieta, looking in awe upon each of the vampires present.

“I’m sorry to ask this, Delizbieta, but I need to know where you got that Pectoral.” – Sanchez

The non sequitur surprised the fortuneteller.

“It was a gift. Why?” – Delizbieta

Before Sanchez could say another word though, a scream pierced through the sound of people outside. It was followed by the sound of heavy hooves hitting the ground.

Kyrillos turned and tore open the tent’s door to see men on horseback waving torches and swords above their head.

“What now?” – Teresa

“I don’t care.” – Kyrillos, looking for another way out of the camp.

“We have a job to finish here, Kyrillos.” – Teresa, elbowing the old man in the ribs.

The crowd exploded into screams as the mass of patrons and revelers became aware of the danger they were in.

“Help us and whatever you want is yours, I swear it!” – Delizbieta, before rushing out to help her people.

Kyrillos uttered a low, inhuman growl as he slipped from the tent. His fangs and eyes flashed in the fire light.

Teresa turned to Ibrahim and Sanchez but they were gone, though where they could have gone was beyond her.

“Sabela, we need to get as many people as possible safely from here. We also need to put out those fires. Do you think you can do that?” – Teresa

“I’ll do my best, Lady Teresa.” – Sabela, trying to be brave.

Teresa rushed out into the crowd, she felt dozens of bodies pressing futilely against her unmoving form as she took stock of the situation.

There were twenty men upon horseback. Most were armed with swords though a few carried crossbows or torches. They wore chainmail and the tabards with an unfamiliar mark emblazoned upon them, and they were smart enough to ride in packs of five.

Hunters, she thought, before praying that they did not know what it was that they were hunting.

“Heretics! Heathens! Witches! Diabolists! Prepare your souls to meet the fires of hell!” – Came a booming voice from within the ranks of the knights.

It was a lone man, a priest by the looks of him, dressed in simple robes, he carried with him a cross and a torch. His eyes burned with his faith and Teresa found herself unsure of her next action.

The priest flung his torch toward one of the many covered wagons and watched it go up in a flash. She could hear the sounds of screams coming from within.

Teresa wheeled around, hoping to see her compatriots and quickly found Sabela, pail in hand, throwing water on one of the smaller fires. The girl, though obviously afraid of the flames, came shockingly close to them time and again, showing no sign of them scorching her.

June 24, 1413, 9:52pm
The Egyptite Nest
A mile north east of Brasov

Father Giacomo strode forth ahead of his men, his cross in hand. The holy father may have decided that these wretches were beyond the reach of the church, but the priest knew better; if they would not convert and forsake their satanic ways than it would be up to him and his men to ensure their place in hell at their hellish master’s side.

Giacomo was furious to see a number of Christian faces among the throng of iniquitous vermin. He marked more than one face in the crowd to visit his ministrations upon in the future. They were not his concern now. He was here to clear the nest.

He watched with righteous glee as a whore and her pimp were trampled by one of his knights. It was a shame that her spawn was trampled too, but the chances of it ever being saved and brought into God’s grace was small.

A small cadre of the rats attempted to attack Giacomo’s paladins but were easily crushed under the weight of their divine might. Giacomo thanked God for their deaths and even laughed once as a small explosion destroyed one of the carts.

He hoped that it took a few of the heathens with it.

His enjoyment was cut short when he heard the sound of horses in distress. He turned to find that one of his five units, the one directly to his right, had broken ranks. Their leader, Brother Gabor, had been thrown from his horse and was at risk of being trampled. Though the knights quickly steadied their mounts it was too late, Gabor was indeed dead.

Giacomo looked to find a cause for the horse’s rebellion only to find a small old man who looked as affright as the horses; the priest was sure to remember his face so that he could show him what it was to be afraid.

Screams erupted behind the priest, cries of the gypsy whores as well as those of his own men. The priest spun around and saw an unearthly blackness wending its way through the knights and their horses like smoke, until all that remained was the dim light of their torches. The cries of those knights were muffled by the morass as if his men were underwater.

One by one the already dim torchlights began to go out. Three horses escaped the black cloud, though one of them did not possess a rider, the others fled.

As fast as it came the darkness faded, as if it were smoke caught by a breeze, but when it was gone it revealed a bloody massacre. Two of his knights had their throats torn out, a third had been crushed by his own headless horse. A forth sat as still as a corpse upon his unmoving steed. His face was pale and drawn, and fixed into a mask of terror.

The last knight rocked upon his restless horse, weeping incoherently as he looked in horror at the state of his unit.

Giacomo searched for the source of their horrific demise but did not find any sign.

“Our father… who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done. On earth as it is in heaven… thy will be done…” – The knight whimpered.

Giacomo watched a unit of knights draw on the tent of the witch that was said to travel with the filth. She was beautiful and pale and Giacomo knew in an instant that she owed much to the devil, but when they approached her she gestured with her hands and said something profane and with her words the ground heaved, thrusting up great earthen walls as a barrier between herself and the knights.

It was all for naught though. For the knight leapt from his horse and over the wall. The witch tried to flee but the knight ran her through as she rebounded off of her own wall. With a mighty heave he freed her head from her blaspheming shoulders.

“She’s escaped! Over there!” – another knight cried out.

“No, she’s over there, between the carts!” – cried another.

Giacomo turned and saw that they were both right.

“No she’s fled into the crowd!” – cried a third.

“Damn her to hell!” – Giacomo shouted

There were at least six at his last count, though the knights had run through, trampled, and killed half that many.

Giacomo watched as five of his best men scrambled about trying desperately to catch the witch and saw the folly of such an action.

“Shore up your ranks men!” – the Priest cried out.

Amidst the crowd of running men and fleeing women stood a lone matron of noble bearing and obvious wealth and beauty. A part of Giacomo awoke as he looked upon her pale skin and her slender body. He would enjoy interrogating her immensely, but why was she just standing there when she should be running?

She glared angrily at one of the hosts of knights that had trampled so many of the foul gypsies, and was utterly still as they approached her.

She was an island of nobility in a human sea of refuse.

She was saying something to the knights, something that Giacomo could not hear over the sound of the fighting and screams.

A knight, Brother Eustace, dismounted from his horse and approached the woman, sheathing his sword as he went.

He said something to her but pulled away at the last moment, falling to the ground as he did.

Something was drawing them toward the woman, something dark. It took Giacomo a moment to realize that it was a shadow, indeed it was more than one. It was as if the night itself was assaulting her.

But she wasn’t afraid. As the priest drew closer he saw the shadows drawing into her mouth, her nose, her eyes. And what was worse, he saw that she was welcoming them.

A shiver went through the priest as she turned to look at him with eyes blacker than the night itself.

Giacomo prayed as he looked into the eyes of the demon.

The blackness began to seep from the woman’s eyes, leaking out like tar as her skin grew as pallid as that of a corpse. She smiled and the darkness began to flow from it as well. As he watched the beautiful woman seemed to rot away, as if it had devoured her from the inside out.

He watched as the corpse of a woman rose from the ground as if it were a doll in the hand of a child. Great tentacles of blackness snaked out from the dead woman’s dress and wrapped themselves around the knight that approached her, tearing him in half.

The darkness continued to engulf the corpse, and more great snaking tentacles seemed to slither about it even as the woman’s face withered further, her lips parting to reveal great black fangs.

The Knights, the gypsies and the visitors all began to flee in terror. Only Giacomo and his lieutenants were able to hold their own.

“Hold your ground, knights of God!” – Giacomo cried out.

The knights seemed to shake of their fear at his powerful words. His faith bolstered their own and they turned to face the demon that stood amidst the heathens.

It roared at them as they attacked, great tendrils of blackness wrapping about them and pulling them down or apart. It struck one knight with claws so wicked that it clove his head, neck and right shoulder from his body. But they were able to strike back in turn.

All around Giacomo the battle was rejoined and heathen blood was again being spilt in the name of the Lord.

“ENOUGH!”

The voice was quiet and yet they all heard it, and it was as clear as any bell that the priest had ever heard.

Its tone was deep and powerful and Giacomo could not help but want to heed its command.

The gypsies and those Christians that had decided to risk their souls for a night of frivolity continued to flee from the vipers’ nest even after the call went out, but the hostilities seem to end.

Soon Giacomo and the dozen or so surviving knights remained but the tensions seem to have ceased. The voice had come from that same old man that had been there at the beginning, frightening the horses.

But he was no man. Even now he was cursing at and storming towards the high inquisitor. His eyes lambent with madness, his teeth, half covered by his immense black beard, were long and sharp and his mouth was full of bloody foam.

“I know what you are, demon!” – Giacomo roared.

The demon continued his raving and then, inexplicably, Giacomo began to feel faint. His men had already come to his side to protect him from the monster but they too seemed befuddled.

‘We… must flee… father.” – Giacomo’s lieutenant whimpered.

The others began to break ranks, fleeing the demon that stood before him

Giacomo lifted his cross in front of him.

“I mark thee, Vampire!” – Giacomo, feeling his faith bolster him.

The creature took a step back as though he was trying to keep his balance.

Giacomo smiled at the pathetic thing standing before him, it didn’t matter to him that his men had fled, for the lord stood by him.

The vampire smiled.

Why was he smiling?

“I cast you back – ” – Giacomo’s words ended abruptly as something icy slid across the skin of his left hand.

He looked down to see a large black snake-like tendril had wrapped around it. He felt others crawling up his robe and wrapping around his legs and waist. He felt a deep and desperate coldness as one of the things twisting around his legs slid into his body.

Before he could do or say anything he felt the arm that had been holding the cross snap. He looked down at where his right arm had been and found an empty sleeve, the coarse fabric growing redder as he watched.

He screamed out in fear as much as pain as the he was lifted into the air and spun around to stare into the malevolent eyes of the dead woman. Her naked flesh undulated as if dozens of serpents slithered under her gray skin.

The thing was beyond smiling but its black eyes seemed to gleam with insidious glee as he felt the icy darkness of death overtake him.

June 24, 1413, 10:17pm
The Torenu Camp
The Domain of Josephus
Prince of Brasov

Teresa stepped from the wagon, one of the few that remained after the fire had been put out. She wore the colorful clothes of a gypsy woman who was evidently a bit larger than the Black Queen herself.

She was still tying a knot in some rope she found to hold the dress together when she stepped into the campfire-cum-pyre.

The others looked at her wearily. It was obvious that they had not expected the transformation that had occurred. She dared not tell them that she had not expected it either.

It seemed that the darkness that had once mystified and confused her was now very much a part of her.

She was still unsure of how she felt about this new development. She checked her wrist to ensure the bracelet was still there.

“Delizbieta!” – Kyrillos called out as he stepped over the dead.

“What?” – Delizbieta shouted after him. She was kneeling a short distance away, closing the eyes of a fallen gypsy that bore a striking resemblance to her. Blood streaked down her cheeks.

Kyrillos approached her.

“I believe that we have stood by our side of the agreement, my dear.” – Kyrillos, courteously.

“It’s yours; I never wanted it to begin with.” – Delizbieta, begrudgingly tearing the pectoral from her chest.

“I believe your people are safe now, Delizbieta. If you need somewhere to go, Timisoara is still a safe place for you.” – Kyrillos, compassion leaking into his voice.

“We were being watched.” – a voice came from behind them.

It was Ibrahim, slipping out of the trees like smoke.

“By who?” – Teresa.

“I do not know him, though he was familiar. He was dressed as a gypsy but watched the caravan burn. I tracked him into the trees for some time before losing him.” – Ibrahim.

He looked at the gypsy woman.

“Does this man sound familiar?” – Ibrahim

Kyrillos looked down at the pectoral in his hands.

He closed his eyes as he rubbed his fingers over the gold plates and breathed deeply through his nose. He heard a rushing sound and smelled smoke he saw the man that Ibrahim was speaking of. Tall and lithe with long dark hair and skin as pale as the Greek’s own. He didn’t know the man, but when he smiled his face seemed to change before erupting in flames. The flames shook themselves and stretched their wings.

It was a bird of fire. A phoenix.

Kyrillos blinked and found himself watching the gypsies traveling through the forest in the trees, an intense sense of longing coursing through him like blood itself.

He blinked again and found himself in a darkened stone chamber surrounded by other treasures. In the distance was a door which crept open, revealing a shadowy figure that reached down with cold hands and picked him up, kissing the gold plates of the tablet.

Then he was being looked over by nova… then he was alone.

Everything began to grow dim again.

Kyrillos found himself standing once again in the clearing surrounded by the dead.

“Who is the tall thin man with pale skin and brown hair, with the wicked smile?” – Kyrillos

“That’s Anasztaz, the man who gave me the Pectoral.” – Delizbieta

“He is nearby.” – Ibrahim.

“What is this all about, I don’t understand.” – Delizbieta, from the sound of her voice though it sounded as if she might regret already knowing.

“I tracked him into the woods to the east of here, before he vanished into the scenery.” – Ibrahim

“Are you sure that he is called Anasztaz?” – Kyrillos asked the seer.

“Who else would he be? He is a cousin of mine.” – Delizbieta

“He smiles an awful lot.” – Kyrillos

Delizbieta looked as if she wasn’t following his logic

“He does, yes.” – Delizbieta

“This pectoral, along with other valuables, was stolen from the Lady Arpad, the Vampire ruler of Mediaș.” – Kyrillos

Delizbieta sighed.

“Unbelievable. Take it as far from here as you can. I want nothing to do with it. Anasztaz is young to the Night and foolhardy. He told me he made a deal in Sebeș, I simply wanted to believe. If you can describe the other trinkets I will do everything in my power to see them returned to you.” – Delizbieta.

Sanchez approached them with something in his hand.

“I’ve searched all the wreckage that I dare approach and this is all I could find.” – Sanchez, holding up a golden brooch set with a massive egg shaped piece of amber.

Teresa took the bauble and studied it.

“It’s the one we’re looking for.” – Teresa

“I know. Hey, has anyone seen Sabela?” – Sanchez

“Of course, she was helping to put out fires with some of the mortals. She just left to fetch some water.” – Ibrahim

“How far away is the river from here?” – Sanchez asked

“Only a couple of minutes, it’s why we chose this spot.” – Delizbieta

“They went to fetch the water quite some time ago though, it was one of the old women who told me to borrow some clothes.” – Teresa nervously.

“But she came back, yes?” – Ibrahim

“Delizbieta, Delizbieta! They’ve taken mama!” – it was a child

“Who’s taken mama, Grigory?”

“The knights, they took mama and the others that went for water!” – the girl was crying.

Ibrahim exchanged looks with Delizbieta.

“What about the girl who was helping put out the fire?” – the Seer asked.

“Yeah, yeah, her too. They called her a witch when she made the water rise from the river. They took her too.” – the child, in spite of her fear she became excited while recounting the ‘witch’s’ magical feats.

“How do you suppose they were able to bind her?” – Sanchez whispered

“She’s canny, if she were weak enough she may have allowed them to take her so that she could have time to recuperate, but if we don’t get to her by dawn it won’t matter.” – Ibrahim.

June 24, 1413, 11:55pm
The Abbey of St. Mary
The Domain of Josephus
Prince of Brasov

Unwilling to leave the recovered jewelry behind, Teresa had brought it with them as they traveled toward the city and in so doing had time to study the Enochian text carved into the pectoral.

“I have found the key to power. It lies in surrender. Thus shall my name be forgotten or revered by my brethren. From within my own destruction, I shall fasten my gaze upon those who would seek my exalted destiny for themselves. Lo, let them be wary, for I have seen the unfolding of fate. I shall come again when my time is nigh.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” – Sanchez

“I’m not sure, there was obviously more at one time. But someone felt the need to break the tablet apart and shape it into this gaudy thing.” – Teresa

It was marked by the same symbol of the other tablets. A circle marked by three lines, the central line was drawn from the circle’s center down while the other two were much shorter and were drawn from the circle’s edge a short distance apart and at a diagonal to the left and right of the central stalk.

She’d been looking for the meaning of the symbol for centuries but it was not associated with any known language. The closest she ever came was with Noddist Scholars who found similar symbols attached to various supposed artifacts of the second city.

“I’ve heard tell that it belongs to a language that predates even Enochian.” – Teresa

“Then why didn’t the author write the whole thing in that language.” – Ibrahim

“It’s possible that he couldn’t, the earlier language may have been figurative and very basic. It allowed him to have a seal of sort to mark property or territory but not to express ideas. Enochian must have come later and granted him the ability to write complex thoughts down. Thoughts that he feared that he might one day forget.” – Sanchez

“Are we really suggesting these writings belong to some ancient vampire that might rise again to claim them?” – Kyrillos

“That’s unlikely, but whoever he was, if the Noddists are correct, he was from the time of the second city and from his writings he was more than a little crazy.” – Teresa

She and the others slowly turned to look at Kyrillos.

“You’re all ridiculous.” – Kyrillos, never looking at them.

“What are you doing, count?” – Sanchez

“I cannot be sure, but I believe that we’ve found the home of our would-be destroyers.” – Kyrillos.

They looked up at the edifice in front of them and immediately recognized it.

“This is the Abbey of St. Mary.” – Sanchez

“So it is.” – Kyrillos

“Isn’t this the place that Josephus calls home?” – Teresa

“Not in some time, from the looks of things. In fact I’ve found no evidence at all of our kind within the city’s walls.” – Kyrillos.

June 25, 1413, 12:02am
Beneath the Abbey of St. Mary
Brasov

Brother Gaspar had been ordered to check on the witch. It was not something he was happy to do, but he’d fled the battle in the gypsy camp and was being punished for it. Why the Abbey had these tunnels and cells was beyond him but the inquisitor had made good use of them.

The knight walked passed two other knights who had been guarding the gypsy scum. They mocked him for a coward as he passed.

They weren’t wrong.

Gaspar followed the tunnel a ways longer before he began to hear the sounds of skittering and scratching. The earthen tunnel was well lit but there was no source that he could see but the noise was growing louder the farther down the tunnel he stepped.

The knight drew his sword. Something was very, very wrong. He turned the corner into the corridor that led to the witch’s cell and what he saw terrified him.

“Dear god in heaven!” – Gaspar

Hundreds of rats were pouring from the dirt walls and floor and flooding into the witch’s cell. Gaspar would not fail his oath again. He would not allow the devil to claim his witch just yet.

The knight charged the cell, pulling a torch from the wall. He began swiping at the rats with his sword in one hand and the torch in the other. When he finally reached the cell door he saw the witch writhing, still bound by rope and a look of terror painted over what little of her face he could still see. The only sound he could here over the unholy shrieking of the rats was the muffled sound of her cries.

The rats were eating her alive.

With a heave, Gaspar released the wooden bar that held the door closed and forced his way into the room, crushing dozens of rats underfoot as there was no way to not step on them. He noted with some pride that the hell spawn seemed to fear him, fleeing through the door as he waded through the ocean that was their diseased bodies.

Gaspar pushed forward, swatting away the rats as they tried to eat at the witch’s face.

If he couldn’t free her he would end her earthly suffering. He raised the sword one last time but when he swung it he found his arm held by hers.

The witch stood before him, unbound and unharmed. The flood of rats mulled patiently around her as if awaiting her command.

“Flee, my pretties.” – the witch

The rats did just that, rushing from the room into the corridor. In the distance Gaspar could hear the sounds of men shouting and metal on stone.

“What have you done?”

The witch’s dark eyes seem to gleam by the light of the torch.

“It’s of no matter to you now, sir knight.” – the witch cooed

June 25, 1413, 12:10am
Outside the Abbey of St. Mary
The Domain of Josephus
Prince of Brasov

“There is no doubt that this is the place.” – Teresa, pointing toward the entrance

Dozens of rats were scrambling down the steps and into the street, followed quickly by three knights.

“Destroy the swarm!” – a knight cried out.

“the witch has cursed us! We must stop the plague.” – cried another

Kyrillos looked on with amusement.

“Maybe we’ll not have to save that one.” – the Malkavian mused.

“Lets not risk it.” – Sanchez

Sanchez slipped toward the church before Kyrillos lost track of him.

“It seems that it is just you and me, milady.” – Kyrillos to Teresa

The Lasombra nodded wordlessly.

Ibrahim slipped through the cloister unseen. Though Teresa had killed the priest that led the knights into the encampment, there had to be a commanding officer. Someone who led these paladins into battle and he didn’t have to search long to find him.

In the dining hall he found his target, an old gray haired man who looked as though he’d lived through more than one battle. The old man seemed tired and Ibrahim wished to ensure that he would never again have to risk his life in battle.

---

Teresa was surprised to find the chambers beneath the Abbey being used by the knights. They’d been built by Josephus to hide from the light of the sun and had been very well hidden which only made the Black Queen worry for her old ally all the more.

She’d slipped passed the knights by wrapping the shadows about herself, though it had been made all the more difficult by the fact that she was wearing the bright clothing of the gypsy woman.

Now that she was in the tunnels she was startled to discover that the knights had not only turned them into some sort of brig but also lit them with a dozen torches.

The black queen sneered and cast her shadows out to snuff out the light.

She rounded a curve to find two knights standing guard over the gypsies that had been captured.

“Who goes there!” – one of the knights.

“Who, me? I am called the Black Queen, and I was wondering where you were keeping the young girl you captured.” – Teresa

The darkness that had preceded her bled forward into the hall.

“The darkness… this is the woman who brought the darkness that killed Father Giacomo!” – the other knight.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk… one should never gossip about one’s betters.” – Teresa

Two tendrils whipped out of the darkness and wrapped themselves around the knights’ necks while two others snaked out to bind their sword arms to their bodies before pulling them toward the Black Queen.

One of the knights tried to speak but the tentacle around his neck squeezed even tighter before filling his open mouth.

The knight found himself staring into the blackness that took the place of the woman’s eyes.

“Go to sleep my pet.”

---

“And when I leave here what are you going to do?” – Sabela asked the knight.

“I will put a torch to your chair to ensure that it burns to cinders and then I will tell Commander Ferenc that I destroyed you and will never speak of any of this ever–” – Gaspar’s eyes grew wide suddenly.

Sabela reached out to shake him but felt his body go slack in her arms.

“Good plan.” – Ibrahim, appearing behind the dying knight.

“What did you do?” – Sabela screamed as she lowered the knight to the ground.

“We have no time for this, Sabela, we must flee this place now if we are to get you out of here.” – Ibrahim, patronizingly.

“No. He wasn’t supposed to die. No one was going to die.” – Sabela, blood tears streaking down her pail face.

“You are not a prattling neonate Sabela, so quit acting like it, leave him, we have to go.” – Ibrahim, pulling the weeping vampire off of the now dead knight.

“I’ll be outside when you wish to join me, but I suggest that you drink what little blood remains if you wish to be strong enough to make it through the night.” – Ibrahim, vanishing again into the darkness.

Sabela looked down at the brave knight and brushed the hair out of his eyes. The stone floor was growing wet with his blood but she couldn’t bring herself to drink the rest of it.

Without thinking she bent low and kissed the knight and, biting her tongue, she bled into his mouth. Her life flowed into his corpse and so too did her iniquity, infusing his dead flesh with the power of sin.

“A little help, please, Lady Teresa.” – Sabela’s soft voice startled the Lasombra

Teresa turned to see the desert princess dragging the body of a knight, and leaving a bloody trail in the process.

“I do believe that he is dead, Lady Sabela.” – Teresa quipped before turning back to her project.

“Now, where were we?”

“You were instructing us as to our duties mistress.” – one of the knights, absently.

“Ah, yes, thank you, Sir Paul.” – Teresa, patting the knight upon the chest, lovingly.

The sounds of shouting from above were growing louder.

“Perhaps we will continue this discussion later, dearie, for now, be a good boy and help the girl carry out your friend while you escort us off the premises.” – Teresa

“Yes, milady.” – Sir Paul.

The two knights were leading them out through a side door when they came to the attention of the commander.

“Halt!” – Commander Ferenc.

“Do not stop, Sir Paul, we have places to be.” – Teresa, calmly.

She spit a bit of her dark blood into the shadows that they passed through and, when they came to life, sent them rushing toward the closest source of light to snuff it out.

“I said, halt! Wait, that’s the witch! Close the gates, stop them!” – Commander Ferenc bellowed before charging them.

“It would seem that we are about to have to fight our way out, Sabela, I hope you have become a better fighter in the last two centuries.” – Teresa nervously.

“I am sorry to say that I have not, Lady Teresa.” – Sabela

Ferenc and his men hadn’t even cleared half the room when the knight collapsed suddenly, screaming as he hit the ground.

The knights at his side immediately turned to help him to his feet but when they reached down to pick him up they found their commanding officer clutching at his armor. His face was a deep purple as if he were being strangled.

“Let’s not waste this opportunity.” – Teresa whispered to a noticeably shocked Sabela.

As they escaped the abbey Sabela couldn’t help but to pray to a God she knew had forsaken her that the commander would not suffer for long.

When she looked over her shoulder what she saw almost made her wretch, for the now dead old knight had expired only after the flesh of his face had burst as if his blood had boiled within his veins.

As the small band of vampires and their mortal retainers reached the edge of the city in a stolen cart they were startled to hear the sound of coughing and the sharp intake of breath that followed.

Sabela spoke softly, soothing the knight who was obviously afraid. She was busy trying to explain his situation when Kyrillos sat down next to him.

“Welcome back, Gaspar, we have much to talk about.” – Kyrillos

July 1, 1413, 8:34pm
Árpád-házi
The Domain of Nova Arpad
Prince of Mediaș

When they arrived at the home of the Prince of Mediaș they were shown into her receiving room, where they presented her with their findings as she sat comfortably upon her throne.

“So you are the one who stole into my treasury and took my heirlooms.” – Nova, suspiciously.

Gaspar shook his head vigorously.

‘No, milady, these people are mistaken, I have no recollection of… no reco- FOUL SWINE! THEY ARE MY REIGNMENT AND I SHALL HAVE THEM RETURNED TO ME WHEN I SIT UPON THE THRONE OF TEARS IN MY KINGDOM OF BLOODY DEGRIDATION FOR I AM BELIAL, LORD OF INIQUITY AND YOU ARE BUT A TASTY MORSEL ON WHICH I SHALL FEAST! – Gaspar-cum-Belial.

“What is wrong with him?” – Nova

“I am sorry, milady, this has been his state since we discovered him in Brasov, he is young but whatever demon possesses him it has made him an outcast even amongst the gypsy scum with whom he traveled.” – Kyrillos.

“I am a knight of god! What have you done to me!” – Gaspar pleaded.

Teresa tried to interject but the knight began to roar again.

“BOW DOWN BEFORE ME! I AM BELIAL AND I AM YOUR LORD AND MASTER!”

“You will find that I am lord and master here, ‘Belial’.” – Nova

“Milady, we would beg you to please show him mercy. Whatever it is that afflicts him is punishment enough.” – Kyrillos

“He does not speak for the rest of us, milady.” – Teresa scoffed.

They debated and argued over the pathetic young vampire’s life for some time before the Prince silenced them.

“I have decided that I will grant the wretch his life, at least for a time. He shall exist in my dungeon until he bores me, now onto the matter of the pieces that he stole.” – Nova, motioning for her servant to come forth with the chest that they had brought with them.

Inside was all of the lost jewelry save a single earring. In addition they had taken from the gypsies a small fortune in jewels and gold as payment for their efforts in saving the camp.

“I see you have added many fine pieces for my collection, but where is the other earring, this was part of a set?” – Nova asked.

“We were unable to find it. It is believed that it was destroyed by the fires set by the Inquisition.” – Kyrillos

The Prince ran her fingers through the assorted jewels.

“While I am grateful for these baubles and I am truly amazed that you were able to find culprit and for everything else you have done, I am going to ask you to inform your sires that their debt to me is still unpaid.” – Nova, off handedly.

“I beg your pardon?” – Teresa

“After all, you did not return my earring to me, and I was very clear as to its sentimental value.” – Nova lied.

“What horseshit.” – Sanchez

The Prince’s lip curled into a feral sneer before the placid façade returned to it.

“Please, Master Sanchez, understand that this is not meant to reflect upon you and I shall pay you handsomely for your services.” – Nova Arpad, motioning to one of her servants.

The man she motioned to stepped forward and brought with him a chest, at his side stood four others with identical chests; with a flourish they opened the chests to reveal that each was filled with silver bars.

“It is five Librum, more than enough to cover your expenses and to compensate you for your time.” – Nova, graciously.

“Now if you would excuse me, I and “Lord Belial” have much to speak about.”

The sound of a loud clatter rang through the chamber and everyone turned to look at a seething Sabela.

“You, with your petty games, have banished me from my kingdom and you spit in my face with so much silver.” – Sabela raged.

Spitting at the prince and upon the money the Ravnos turned and stormed out of the chamber.

“I like her.” – Sanchez, quietly to Kyrillos.

“Please forgive the childe, she is young.” – Teresa pleaded.

The Prince’s serene continence twisted in rage as they turned to leave but before they even reached the door, Gaspar began to scream and to claw at his own flushed-red flesh. By the time they reached to doors his tormented cries had faded.

July 4, 1413, 11:24pm
Ibrahim’s Haven
The Domain of Sanchez
Master of Sebeș

Ibrahim had just finished the second of his nightly prayers when he found himself playing host to a spectral figure.

“I bring word from Vendramino Giovanni, Earl of Sighisoara and Childe of Markus Musa.” – the ghostly old man moaned.

“Yes, yes, Fodor, I know who you serve. What news do you bring me.” – Ibrahim, dressing himself.

“Your Master would have you know his displeasure in your failure in fulfilling the duties entrusted to you.” – Fodor groaned.

“I’m sure he’s very upset, old man, just tell him that I will make it up to him when I return to Acre. I’ll give him the money she granted me.” – Ibrahim, brushing the ghost off.

“He does not want your dowry, Ibrahim, nor do you owe him anything. He wants to know that as far as he’s concerned the ledgers are balanced, though he will no longer make use of your services.” – Fodor.

“What do you mean? We have worked together for two centuries, he relies upon my network to move his merchandise.” – Ibrahim, a creeping dread crawled over him as he thought on it.

“Yes, about your network. Lord Vendramino is aware of the advantage that it presents to whoever you choose to work for in the future and has decided that he does not wish to face such a challenge. As such, all ports have been informed that they are to burn any and all ships in your employ. Further those of your childer who act as your lieutenants have also been liquidated. Understand that Lord Vendramino wished for you to understand that there is no animosity here and that his actions are simply business, which is why he’s allowed you and those childer who have no bearing upon his business to live, though should you ever attempt to do business on the Mediterranean again his largesse in this matter may be retracted.” – the ghost said before flickering out of existence.

Ibrahim would stand there for some time, silent and unmoving, before finally giving into the rage that threatened to destroy him from within its cage.

July 5, 1413, 12:09am
Sebeș Citadel
The Domain of Sanchez
Master of Sebeș

It had been some time since the ‘Master of Sebeș’ had traveled for so long and he found himself grateful to be home again, questioning how it was that he used to live as a nomad. Wondering how it was that Ibrahim could continue to do so.

Sanchez approached his haven behind the citadel he had built. To anyone who didn’t know what to look for it appeared to be nothing more than a small out building, but once inside he could secure himself from sunlight, fire and even a coordinated attack.

It was really… where was it?

The small building that had once been his haven was gone, as if it had never been there, instead there stood a stone pavilion.

“I’ll be damned.”

Upon the pavilion was a letter sealed by the mark of his Patron, Hardestadt.

“Dear Sanchez,

Though it pains me, I have come to the realization that the trust I have put in you was misplaced. Your actions toward my ally, Nova Arpad, have caused the Black Cross a great blow from which it may never recover.

As such, though I have taken steps to ensure that you will never be a threat to me nor my kingdom again. I have divested you of your little cult of personality with which you’ve surrounded yourself. You will find that the name Sanchez means nothing to the masons and architects of Europe, nor will it be remembered by any of the great princes that once called upon you to construct their havens.

You are now as free as you always spoke of wanting to be, for you are no longer weighed down by the obligations that come with fame or status. Sadly, while your name as an engineer and architect has been struck from history it has not been struck from the minds of the Princes of Iberia.

On a final note, I am told that the effects are far reaching and that, should you go to either of your childer, you will find them incapable of remembering you as their sire.

Fear not, old friend, I have not severed your ties to those who truly loved you. Those Princes of Transylvania whom you’ve always been close will still know you as will Zelios, who seems to have a genuine fondness for you. I too shall always know you and will remember you well.

Until we meet again,

Hardestadt”

Sanchez stared at the letter for some time before looking up again at the night sky.

“Huh.”

July 6, 1413, 10:25pm
Teresa’s Personal Chambers
The Domain of Teresa Balgrad
Black Queen of Alba Iulia

Teresa sat upon her throne and shook with fury. In her left hand was a crumpled letter from her sire. In it he’d waxed philosophic about her failures as both a childe and a Lasombra. He explained in exquisite detail how she’d fallen short time and time again and thus she was to be considered caitiff by any and all Lasombra who owed any allegiance at all to the Clan. He called her an Anarch who was actively trying to undermine his authority within the Sea of Shadows and thus he had destroyed any and all contact she had once had with the royalty of Europe.

Finally he’d informed her of the horrible happenstance that took her family from her. About how there had been a coup in Portugal and all of her surviving descendants were now dead.

As the Queen of shadows sat upon her throne black tears streaked down her face and all she could think was about how it would feel to reclaim her sire’s blood.

July 10, 1413, 3:39am
Teresa’s Personal Chambers
The Domain of Teresa Balgrad
Black Queen of Alba Iulia

Kyrillos sat sullenly in Teresa’s salon. He’d been ousted from his domain by his own childer, a fact that he was loath to forgive, no matter Ulrike’s worth to him. Symeon and the entire Obertus Order had turned their backs on him, and his childer had sided with them and so it was that the Mad Count of Timisoara was cast out even by those amongst the Low Clans, forced to beg on hand and knee for sanctuary in the domain of his sometime ally.

“Did you hear about Thierry?” – Teresa asked him as she entered.

“No.” – Kyrillos, not caring one wit about the Tremere.

“He was destroyed by Jervais when he returned without Nova’s blessing.” – Teresa

Kyrillos nodded.

“I’d heard something similar about Kara Lupescu, she didn’t even reach the voivodate before the wolves got her.” – Kyrillos morosely.

“At least some good came of this then.” – Sanchez, joining the conversation.

Teresa smiled.

“It’s good to see you, Master Sanchez, I’m glad that you, at least, are in good spirits.” – Teresa

“I’ve never been smart enough to face reality. Why start now. The Bitch of Mediaș gave me more than enough to get started rebuilding and since my reputation as a iconoclast is secure I should have little trouble getting the local Anarchs on my side.” – Sanchez smiled.

Teresa found herself smiling in spite of herself as well.

“Despite your reputation I never saw you as an Anarch.” – Kyrillos

“I’m a Toreador, Kyrillos, we adapt.”

July 10, 1413, 9:31pm
Teresa’s Personal Chambers
The Domain of Teresa Balgrad
Black Queen of Alba Iulia

The weather had turned for the worst during the day, as though the sky itself had turned on them. For the first time in a century the Black Queen thought back to a time when the weather was always so horrific, so oppressive.

They’d all been forced to hunt in the storm and by the time she’d returned Teresa had been forced to change her clothes. To her surprise she found that they’d been joined by another.

It didn’t take the black queen long to recognize Octavio, though it had been a century since she’d last laid eyes on him.

“How goes it, Lord Octavio?” – Teresa, as she joined her guests in the Parlor.

“Lady Teresa, I thank you for taking in a poor pilgrim amidst the storm and resent that I must come to you in such a time but I knew that I must come at once when I saw the sign.” – Octavio, apologetically.

“What sign did you see, old friend?” – Sanchez, rising from his perch.

Octavio went to answer when his back suddenly straightened as if he’d been struck by lightning.

“Ave, Militates! hear now these words, for on them rests the balance of times to come. Lo, I beheld a great upheaval among the sons of the first born of Adam. Beneath their feet opened a great chasm. Upon its lips they stood, poised to fall. Opposite them stood the generations angry and resentful.

“Thus it is given to me to speak this warning unto you, O keepers of the balance and bearers of the signs of the last days! And the childer shall be divided; brother against brother, hands raised against one another, even Caine himself once slew his kin. The lesser shall become greater and the great shall fall in the whirlwind of blood. One of the eldest has gone down into the pit, never to return. Another awaits doom from the kiss of the ungrateful childer.

“Arise now, and go forth, all ye who hear my words.”

And with that he collapsed, convulsing as he had a century before, and as before they held him down so that he would do himself no harm.

After a moment the ancient Malkavian arose and apologized for his fit.

“It’s quite alright, Octavio, I know too well the weight you carry.” – Kyrillos, resting his hand upon the old vampire’s shoulder.

“Do you remember what you said, Octavio?” – Sanchez.

“Aye, I do. I cannot forget it.”

“Do you know what it means? Can you be more specific?” – Sanchez

“I know that the Lord of Fiends stands upon the edge of destruction and that whether or not he meets that end lies within your province. You possess the knowledge, hidden here in this house, of his resting place. One will come in supplication to you asking for what you have, Lady Teresa, you must be wary of his pleas for help. Be wise in your choices, for all of our sakes.” – Octavio.

The elder saluted the Black Queen before excusing himself and then, just as he arrived, he was gone.

July 13, 1413, 3:39am
Teresa’s Home
The Domain of Teresa Balgrad
Black Queen of Alba Iulia

Three nights. It took three nights for the prophet’s words to prove true. Three nights before her servant uttered the fateful words:

“Presenting the Lord Dragomir Basarab and his sister, Sherazhina.”

Everyone in the library rose, more out of nervous surprise than etiquette, as the siblings entered.

They were a study in beauty in contrasts: she darkly sultry he a vision of pale gentility, they were completely different and yet unquestionably similar, from their poise to their bearing, one could mistake them for nothing but siblings save, perhaps, lovers.

It took only a moment for Sherazhina’s mask of civil indifference to dissipate as she immediately charged and embraced her lover.

Sanchez, for his part, met her half way.

After she finally broke away from their seemingly interminable kiss she ran her hand over his cheek and the other through his hair.

“I am so sorry about what has happened. It was too cruel a sentence, but I promise you that not all of us have forgotten.” – Sherazhina

“It’s fine, Sheri, I have all the time in the world to turn my fortunes around, and Hardestadt underestimates my resolves… and my contacts.” – Sanchez, grinning at the last.

“Where will you go?” – Sherazhina

“If nothing else, I’ll return to Birkau Castle, it’s been too long since either of us have set foot in our citadel, from there I can regroup. But I promise you that before long I shall return to Sebeș triumphant.” – Sanchez, confidence oozing off of him in heavy waves.

No one doubted what he said was true.

Teresa called for refreshments and everyone spent some time questioning the unlikely twins about their time spent together. If it had been a generation since Sanchez and Sherazhina had spent time together, it had been longer for the others.

“While I wish that this was purely a social call, my sister and I came here to speak to the Lady Teresa specifically. You see, we represent a group of Cainites who like you grow weary of bearing the humiliating yoke of our sires’ capricious and intolerable tyranny. They wish for you to know that they sympathize with your current difficulties and would like to offer you the opportunity to increase your own power and, perhaps, restore your losses.” – Dragomir, a bit of the manic flare they witnessed in the castle a century prior appearing as he spoke. But we need your help in order to do so. There is a tome that purports to reveal the resting place of the Ancient Tzimisce whose blood flows in all the members of our Clan. My sister believes that this book, called the book of the land, is somewhere in your library, milady. I beg you to search for it so that we might find our cursed progenitor and, destroying him, strike a decisive blow against those who have treated us as little more than pieces upon a chess board.” – Dragomir pleaded.

“If I do this, would your… friends… aid me in destroying my sire?” – Teresa, speaking as if the very words poisoned her.

“We will indeed back any actions against that old Shade.” – Dragomir, excitedly

A weak smile played upon Teresa’s lips.

“We’ve been warned, Teresa” – Kyrillos, quietly.

The smile faded.

“Yes, Kyrillos, I remember your charming cousin’s words.” – Teresa, sullenly.

“Perhaps you misheard his warning, Lord Kyrillos, did he not say that the Lesser shall become greater?” – Sabela suggested.

“No, I don’t believe that he did, child.” – Kyrillos

Teresa pursed her hips. Sherazhina had yet to speak or even make eye contact, instead she seemed content in watching her brother speak.

“He did, in fact, say that old friend.” – Teresa.

“Yes, but think to the intent of those words. You do not need these… Fiends… to challenge your sire, I will go with you to Madrid, just don’t do this unspeakable thing.” – Kyrillos pleaded, possibly for the first time in centuries. He too never took his eyes off of the pale Tzimisce.

“Is the invitation open only to Teresa, or may I join your cause?” – Sabela, her voice wickedly deep.

“We would welcome any to our side in our war against the ancients.” – Dragomir, gliding toward the Ravnos.

“I don’t know.” – Sanchez, he too had noticed that Sherazhina had remained quiet.

“One cannot share the Hearts-Blood, only one would truly benefit from this treachery.” – Kyrillos

Dragomir pointed a finger toward Teresa

“Her Clan did just that. Was it not a cabal of like-minded Lasombra and Assamites that destroyed their founder?” – Dragomir, rhetorically.

“Yes but who took the bounty of the ancient’s heart’s blood? Who took his place at the apex of the Clan’s hierarchy.” – Kyrillos

“None, nor shall any of us. This is not a collusion of fiends out to replace the Eldest, but to destroy him. That is why we come to you now.” – Dragomir shot back.

“What say you, Sherazhina?” – Teresa.

“I have always despised what I have become, milady, and it seems to me that I am not alone in my resentment, I cannot say more than that.” – Sherazhina.

“I am sorry, dear Sherazhina, but I cannot endorse an act of protest so bloody as this.” – Sanchez, sadly.

Teresa couldn’t help but notice the tension leave the girl’s shoulders when the Toreador made his refusal.

“I need time to think on your request, Dragomir, I ask that you go to your fortress and return here in three nights. I shall have your answer by then.” – Teresa

And with that the Black Queen excused herself to retire to her chambers.

It did not escape the Malkavian’s notice that when Lord Dragomir left that Ibrahim and Sabela were nowhere to be found.

July 13, 1413, 4:34am
Sanchez’s chamber
The Domain of Teresa Balgrad
Black Queen of Alba Iulia

Sanchez sat upon a stool in the lightless stone chamber beneath Teresa’s home. Nearby stood a large heavy chest, too heavy for even four men to lift and too big by far to get through the small door, in which he would safely spend the daylight hours.

With a knife he whittled a small bit of wood. He was making a statue, an ornament really, to remind him of what he had lost, and what he’d refused to give up. It had already begun to take shape.

Specifically it had begun to take her shape.

Sanchez stood, slipping the wood and knife into his pocket as he went, and opened the door.

“Why do you insist on never letting anyone knock?” – Sherazhina

“I let people knock, just not you.” – Sanchez, barring the door before kissing each of her knuckles in turn.

“I am not some gentle waif that needs to be protected from every scratch or scrape, old man.” – Sherazhina, giggling at the tickle of his mustache.

“Yes you are.” – Sanchez, earnestly as he lifted his face to nuzzle her hair.

“We need to talk, Sanchez.” – – Sherazhina insisted as she pulled the Spaniard from her and held him at arm’s length.

The Spaniard let out a loud and obnoxious sigh to show his disappointment but he listened nonetheless.

“I’ve spent so much time to consider how we reached the point where this is the course of action that we must take, my love. I’ve tortured myself nightly, wishing I could undo my brother’s shameful deed, but I cannot and I fear that Dragomir is lost to me. There is something I can do, though, and you can help me, Even should the Black Queen choose not to help them they’ll find a way. I beg of you, give me the book, we will go together and we will undo their plot. I am willing to give up my own Long Night if it means protecting the ancient from these Anarchs and possibly save my brother’s soul. I would go to Teresa myself but I would be stronger if you stood by my side, dear Sanchez.” – Sherazhina.

“Of course, my love, come, dawn is not yet reached the mountains, we still have time to speak with her.” – Sanchez

July 13, 1413, 4:34am
Teresa’s chamber
The Domain of Teresa Balgrad
Black Queen of Alba Iulia

“Are you sure about this course of action, Master Sanchez?” – Teresa

“I am.” – Sanchez

“Even if we can convince Kyrillos to join us, what are four of us going to do against a small army of Tzimisce?” – Teresa.

“My brother’s coalition is not nearly as populous as he pretends. There are seven of them in total but only four of them will have any power, and you’ve faced most of them before. Along with my brother, there is Lugoj, who planned the coup and the Koldun Velya is with him, though so far from his own domain, I doubt he’ll be much of a threat.” – Sherazhina

“The Flayer you say?” – Sanchez.

“Wasn’t he the one who crafted the Vozhd used in the battle of Tuzfold?” – Teresa

The Spaniard nodded.

“And Lugoj was the commander of the small army that Ibrahim and I dismantled. He is very powerful considering his relative youth.” – Sanchez.

“Are there any more that we should worry about?” – Teresa

“Only one, and only because he is such an unknown, who is called Lambach Ruthven, all I know of him for sure is that he is a powerful seer, it was he who knew that you had the tome they were looking for.” – Sherazhina.

Teresa stood and opened the door.

“Go to your chamber, the sun is nearly upon us. We’ll speak again tomorrow night, but know this, if we are to succeed in stopping this, we will need Kyrillos.”

July 16, 1413, 9:48pm
Bihor Fortress
The Domain of Vintila Basarab
Voivode of Tara Crișana

From the outside the castle seemed to have become more dilapidated over the past century, another of the many spires had been taken by the great crevasse upon over which it had been built, but inside the place was as secure as ever, indeed it seemed that the Voivode had built deeper into the mountainside over the decades.

Ibrahim sat quietly and unnoticed in the war room as the Tzimisce schemed.

Lugoj was a surprisingly small man dressed as a warlord from two centuries prior. Despite his small stature, Lugoj possessed a powerful aura about him and obviously held the attention of the others.

Velya, a large, regal gentleman of advancing years, loomed over the monster he deferred to, was etching arcane symbols onto a bit of parchment as Lugoj spoke, as if he were devising some recipe that Ibrahim had no chance of understanding.

They were once again going over their plans should the Black Queen decide to not give them the book when they reached Alba Iulia.

Ibrahim, upon hearing the plan, hoped that Teresa would give them what they wanted.

The one called Lambach rushed into the room, he was tall, thin and handsome, but had a nervous energy about him that was off-putting. He rushed to Velya, practically tossing the letter that he held.

Ibrahim noted the black wax seal.

The letter was from Teresa and Ibrahim prepared for the worse.

Velya read the missive and then, folding it, handed it to Lugoj

“Lord Lugoj,

I thought it only polite to inform you that I do indeed have the book that you are looking for. Unfortunately, I cannot part with it, nor can I allow you to have the knowledge contained therein. I have with me Lords Kyrillos and Sanchez as well as the Lady Sherazhina, and we have all agreed that, should you wish to destroy your Elder, you will have to do it without our assistance, for we intend to ensure that your plot fails.

If you wish to find the Cathedral you will have to rely upon the insights of Lord Lambach alone.

Give Velya my best,
The Black Queen.”

Lugoj, crumpling up the letter and tossing it into the meager fire they had made in the hearth.

Ibrahim was prepared for the worst as Lugoj’s shoulder’s began to shutter.

And then he heard it.

The Oath-Breaker was laughing.

July 17, 1413, 12:56am
Bihor Fortress
The Domain of Vintila Basarab
Voivode of Tara Crișana

Lugoj, the Voivode of Tara Banat, dressed as he was in darkened leather and furs, his small but densely packed body reminded Sabela of the wolves she would see prowling outside Acre when she traveled from the city to the Caravansary.

Sabela couldn’t help but find the little monster seductive as he sat upon an ornate throne within the earthen chamber, staring at Ibrahim.

“So Hardestadt’s Turkish dog wishes to join our little conspiracy?” – Lugoj’s voice was the deep purr of a lion.

“Yes, I was nominally loyal to the High-Lord’s Transylvanian Delegation not out of ideological similarities but –”

“Yes, yes, you were a blade for hire, Master Turk, this is well known. What leaves me confounded is why you would join us? We are not offering you any payment.” – Lugoj, interrupting the spy.

“Ah, but we do have Ideological similarities, Voivode.” – Ibrahim.

The Voivode laughed.

“We shall see, Ibrahim.” – Lugoj, standing suddenly before snapping his fingers.

The ornate throne on which he had been sitting since Sabela had joined them suddenly shuddered and began to melt like wax. The tall back, which she had assumed had been carved from ash wood began to warble and undulate. Great splotches, not unlike bruises, began to warp and shift, flowing down into the seat creating two large lumps that soon filled out into legs that folded out as if they had simply been crossed beneath another unseen seat.

Now the once-seat-back was standing upon two thick legs, the bruises fading until they were the color of flesh. With a loud pop the once-chair’s ‘back’ formed a rib cage and an abdomen so thin that Sabela could make out the shape of the creature’s spine.

The thing shuddered as two shoulders seemed to produce themselves from behind it. Each shoulder was attached to long shockingly thin arms that ended in hands that were almost as long as the thing’s forearms.

More bruised flesh appeared atop the thing as its chest and shoulders slid loudly down its spine, shortening its abdomen as a head tore free of its shoulders, much the same way a newborn’s head pulls itself free of its mother.

If she could have, Sabela may have vomited as, with a wet tearing sound, the thing’s egg-like head produced a mouth and eyes.

Only after it had finished birthing itself did she notice that the chair’s arms had gone through a similar metamorphosis, revealing three nearly identically androgynous creatures, though the central…thing… was larger and more identifiably male.

Sabela realized that the one to the left was looking at her with all too human eyes.

The thing licked its lipless face with a bruise colored tongue as it stared at her hungrily.

“You heard them, Andrej, they wish to join us.” – Lugoj purred.

Andrej said something that Sabela didn’t understand and the right one bent over, grabbed its knees and with a sickening popping sound split its spine, stretching its back and flattening its rib cage. Its face, a mask of anguish, suddenly hardened and darkened taking on the appearance of mahogany as its body completed its transformation into a table.

The left one looked right at Sabela as it stood behind its brother and, taking hold of the other’s shoulders thrust violently into it, fusing with its brother as its own shoulders popped forward and its elbows bent backward loudly. The hungry thing looked up and opened its mouth wide as its torso warped and grew, its round shape snapping and reshaping itself until it seemed to swallow the head with a wet sucking sound.

With one last, extraordinarily loud POP a seam split the thing’s chest down the middle, an oval blood blister forming in the middle of its breastplate.

The two had transformed into some sort of macabre tabernacle.

Andrej stepped around his brothers and with a flourish split open the large bulge between his legs and removed a bone key before plunging it into the blood blister of a lock. Blood trickled down the cabinet and onto the table as he opened it, revealing a boney chalice shaped exactly like the Hungry One’s upturned head.

Andrej scooped the chalice from the tabernacle and craning his neck over it, used the key to slit his own throat.

Precious flowing vitae poured out of him and into the chalice before the wound closed.

“The Vessel, my Voivode.” – Andrej croaked.

Lugoj did not take the head-cup, but instead blessed it before it moved on to Lambach who held out his throat for Andrej who promptly slit it so that the fop might bleed into the chalice.

And so it went, from Lambach to Dragomir to another conspirator that Sabela didn’t recognize. It was then that she realized that the ‘war-room’ had grown more crowded as nearly a dozen new vampires had joined them. And each of them slit their throats and bled into the chalice.

Finally it came to her.

Andrej held out the cup and key, after a moment his serene expression was replaced by an anxious one.

After a very long moment the girl held out her throat.

With a flick of his wrist Andrej tore her flesh with his dull key-knife, she’d expected it to be painless and she was wrong. It took all of her will to force the blood that rushed to heal her to flow instead but she did it and before the wound was even healed the monster had moved on.

Finally, after slitting Ibrahim’s throat the monster-priest returned to Lugoj who was joined by the stately Velya.

Lugoj slit his own throat with a spur that had sprung from his thumb, bleeding into the nearly full cup and then handed the chalice to Velya.

Velya took the cup in his right hand before holding out his left for Lugoj to slit with his bone-spur.

As the nobleman added his blood to the chalice he whispered something incomprehensible before setting it upon the tabernacle and intoning some arcane ritual that Sabela couldn’t follow. From the look on the faces of those around her she wasn’t alone.

Stepping aside, Velya bowed and gestured for Lugoj to drink.

Lifting the brimming cup to his lip Lugoj drank and then, after taking a moment to center himself he passed the cup to Lambach who drank and passed it to Velya who drank and gave it to Dragomir before drinking and passing it to Andrej who, after drinking, moved from vampire to vampire granting them a single sip from the cup until everyone had drank but her and Ibrahim. After a moment of thought he approached Ibrahim who drank.

Ibrahim’s knees seemed to weaken in the moment between his drink and Andrej’s approaching her. A knowing chuckle slipped through the congregated Anarchs as Andrej raised the cup to her lips.

Sabela drank.

She drank and everything changed.

July 20, 1413, 1:13am
Somewhere
Deep within the Eastern Carpathians

The weather had grown steadily worse as the war party cut a swath through the mountain passes.

They’d started out shortly after they’d performed the “Rite of Vaulderie”. Ibrahim was amazed at how well these Tzimisce controlled their mounts and negotiated the trails as they cut across the Carpathian Alps.

They’d already begun moving east despite the fact that they weren’t entirely sure of where they were going, but two nights before they’d received word by crow that they were searching for Sernog Monastery.

Since then they’d hardly stopped save when the sun rose and even then a few of the monsters were able to carry on within their steeds.

According to their scouts they were two hours ahead of the Black Queen and her cohorts, unfortunately they’d yet to find the Monastery.

As they rode they came across a small farm. Voivode Lugoj approached the farmstead without dismounting from his monstrous warhorse.

The poor farmer didn’t stand a chance.

“Where is Sernog Monastery?” – Lugoj demanded

The old man fell to his knees before the Fiend, weeping and praying for salvation.

With a sneer Lugoj reached out and grabbed the man’s head, his arm stretching nearly to the ground to do so. Ibrahim found himself praying as well, though he wasn’t sure who, exactly, he was praying to.

The Voivode’s fingers sank bloodlessly into the farmer’s skull. The farmer seized once then again before Lugoj let him fall to the ground.

“Never mind.” – Lugoj returning to the party.

The man was dead, his body a dry husk.

“The Monastery is not far my friends, we are close to the end of this journey!” – Lugoj.

The war party cheered, and Ibrahim found himself joining them.

July 17, 1413, 12:56am
Sernog Monastery
Deep within the Carpathian Mountains
The Resting Place of the Eldest.

Sabela stood atop the winding staircase as she looked upon the black edifice of the ruins of an ancient citadel blackened by fire and worn by the centuries. The path had been narrow and twisting and long, 1,236 steps to be exact, and by the time she had reached its end her very blood screamed at her to leap from the mountain top and hope for the best in landing on the jagged rocks below.

There was something about this place, beyond the looming skeleton of the citadel long since destroyed and beyond the cathedral built further still from the cliff face. There was something here, something old and Evil and so very powerful.

Sabela wiped the blood tears from her eyes as she approached the empty doorway into the church.

Sabela found Ibrahim and together they entered the blackened cathedral. Like the doors the church’s roof had long ago fallen to disrepair and, evidently, fire. The windows, which had once been filled with stained glass were empty, the glass blown outward as if from some great blast.

Lugoj had been the first to enter the Cathedral and was now standing in the center of the barren sanctuary. And as Sabela passed through the arched gateway she found herself watched by carvings of beings that were as much devils as angels. The sanctuary itself smelled of the heady musk of some dead thing in some constant state of decay, as if the very stones themselves were but the remains of some great beast.

“And behold the Waiting Beast so entombed beneath the thrice blasted hall.” – Velya, quoting some blasphemous scripture.

“You are sure this is the place?” – Dragomir.

Velya sneered at the young Fiend.

“Do you hear it?” – Lambach, his voice weak.

Though he had been speaking with the Noble Fiend Sabela listened too and she did indeed hear the unholy sounds of people screaming as if trapped in a moment of utter torture.

“It is but the moaning of the damned and the devoured, Cousin.” – Velya, his voice oddly comforting as he patted the younger vampire’s shoulder.

Sabela shuddered at the Nobleman’s idea of comfort.

“Father! We are home!” – Lugoj roared.

Sabela was again reminded of a great beast.

It was Ibrahim who approached the altar first, even as Sabela clung to the oddly dewy walls.

“The wooden floor of the Dais has been eaten away just like everything else.” – The Turk noted aloud.

“Father, why do you hide from us? Are we not your beloved children? Are you not proud of what you have wrought? Come out, let us look upon the face of the father we so adore!” – Lugoj mocked.

Two of the triplets, still naked and still sexless, grabbed hold of the Tabernacle wall and began to heave, trying to unmoor it and bring it down around them. Their pale, pinkish skin began to ripple as they exerted themselves, growing thicker and darker even as they grew in height. Great horns pierced their brows and curled back over their bald scalps as great slabs of muscle formed over their ever stretching bones. Great talons tore through their skin and into the wall as they applied themselves fully to the task of its destruction.

Sabela watched in horror as one of the giants nearly crushed Ibrahim underfoot.

“Master! The Father, we smell him!” – The giant growled victoriously.

“Of course you smell the father, we are here in his nest, he is here too. We all smell the Father, you Moron.” – Velya his voice bored.

As the two monstrosities heaved and hoed Ibrahim vanished for a moment and then reappeared next to Lugoj.

“I think I’ve found it, Voivode.” – Ibrahim

Lugoj called off the creatures and followed the Assamite to his discovery, and there, beneath the rotten wooden planks of the altar was a clay slab. Ibrahim dug into it and produced two mettle rings held together by a chain.

“It is a strange trap door, no?” – Dragomir

“It’s more a cork than a trap door, dear cousin.” – Lambach, patiently.

Brushing the Assamite aside, one of the abominations took the chain in hand and with a moment of intense exertion tore it free from the stones surrounding it.

“Ha-ha! FOUND IT!” – The creature bellowed.

“You’ve done well, my friend.” – Velya, placing his hand on Ibrahim’s shoulder before stepping into the hole.

Ibrahim followed directly after the Nobleman and was soon followed in turn by others until only Sabela, Lugoj and the two monstrosities remained.

The two seemed to argue, pushing and shoving one another before one finally relented with a great sigh.

The creature slid one arm into the hole, and then his head, only to discover that his shoulder would not fit through the opening. With a grunt he began to push through anyway, the skin and muscle rolling up as he did so.

Sabela could hear the wet bursting sound of the soft tissue sloughing away from bone as it forced its way into the hole until finally the other arm slid through, causing the creature to fall head first, and land with a deep squelching sound.

Sabela did not enjoy being in these monsters’ presence.

The second followed immediately after, with similar results.

Lugoj looked down the dark hole before turning back and flashing Sabela a smile.

“Come, sister, we shall protect you.” – Lugoj, before leaping into the breach.

Taking a deep, unnecessary breath Sabela took the plunge.

July 17, 1413, 1:05am
Sernog Monastery
Deep within the Carpathian Mountains
The Resting Place of the Eldest.

Kyrillos and his cohorts had traveled with their full retinue to ensure that they were all fully prepared for whatever the conspirators had prepared for them but instead decided to leave them behind in the village of Șerud to better speed their travels.

Something had been eating at him since he’d left Șerud and now as he approached the ancient village on horseback he knew what it was.

“What’s troubling you, Kyrillos.” – Sanchez, riding up beside the Malkavian.

“Can’t you feel it, Sanchez?” – Kyrillos

The Toreador took stock of the ancient looking buildings.

His brow furrowed.

“They’re all dead, aren’t they?” – Sanchez, his voice low.

“Indeed, my old friend. It seems that our enemy was able to discover the Elder Fiend’s resting place without Teresa’s book after all… a pity that, more so that they reached the end point before us.” – Kyrillos, glancing over his shoulder as he spoke.

They were fast approaching the outskirts of the little village, which would lead them to the “1,236 perilous steps to the thrice blasted hall built upon the Waiting Beast’s tomb.”

The book had been oddly specific.

“Jesus!” – Sanchez called as his horsed bucked under his weight.

Kyrillos jumped at the Spaniard’s exclamation, looking up from whatever he’d been staring at as he’d become lost in thought. What he saw made his skin crawl.

When night fell on Sernog fifty people had called it home. Now, all fifty were piled high at the edge of town. Some of them bore horrible wounds from where their life’s blood had been stolen from them, others had been horribly mutilated by their killers.

Kyrillos heard the sound of stifled sobs from behind him and knew that Sherazhina was crying.

He almost joined her.

July 17, 1413, 1:26am
The Catacombs
Deep beneath Sernog Monastery
The Resting Place of the Eldest.

The fall had been devastating for many of the Anarchs, though the triplets, all seemed to be fine, Andrej growing and reshaping himself until he was once again the larger of the three. Ibrahim was setting his shoulder when Lugoj fell, landing hard on his neck, his body tumbling lifelessly down the small hill of bones that had ‘broken’ their fall.

One of the others approached the body only to step back when the General awoke suddenly, his head still sitting upon his shoulders at a horrific angle.

Sabela fell soon after, landing hard on her feet. Strangely she seemed to be the only one of them not to be harmed by the fall.

Once everyone had repaired themselves Lugoj told the triplets to stay behind in case the Black Queen and her cohorts arrived and then the war party, now down to eleven for the loss of the monstrosities, moved on.

They followed the path as it spiraled downward into the darkness. None of them required light by which to see so the going was easier than it might have been.

Finally they reached a great fissure in the mountain, causing them to take pause.

“This should not be here.” – Lambach, nervously.

“You are not wrong cousin.” – Velya, rubbing his fingers over the rough stone.

“Where does the mist come from, cousin?” – Lambach

“If I had to guess, I would say that it is Koldunic Magic, much like the fissure itself.” – Velya, dusting his hands off as he rose.

“At least the way grows wider here, we will not be so bottle-necked should an attack come.” – Lugoj.

“Well, not after we cross the bridge anyhow.” – Ibrahim, pointing out the rope bridge that spanned the misty chasm.

“You have a point, friend Turk.” – Lugoj, smacking the Assamite on the back as he approached the bridge.

They’d reached the other side of the chasm with relatively good speed. The rope bridge, despite its obvious age, had been well preserved.

“It seems we weren’t the first here, Lugoj.” – Lambach, pointing ahead through the now widened corridor.

“You don’t say, young Ruthven.” – Lugoj, flatly.

The General moved ahead of the others, his loping gate more animal than man.

“I bet it is our friends.” – Sabela, appearing next to Ibrahim.

“Friends?” – Ibrahim.

The Ravnos rolled her eyes before something caught her breath.

Ibrahim looked and immediately understood.

Once they reached the end of the corridor they found themselves in a natural cavern so unbelievably massive that a strange miasma hid its true size. The walls were heavily hewn into what looked like windows and doors; dozens of them.

Ibrahim instinctively drew his sword, willing the others to ignore its presence.

“What is this place?” – Sabela asked

No one answered.

“Do you smell that?” – One of the Anarchs she had not met asked

“I do, Igor.” – Another responded before slipping off toward the wall.

Sabela took a deep breath and her hackles rose.

She smelled it too.

From the shadowed doorways a dozen figures leapt. At first Sabela was unable to comprehend what it was that she was looking at.

They stood twelve feet tall and seemed to stoop, leaning heavily upon their massive arms. Their flesh was pale to the point of being translucent and bristly hair grew unevenly all over their horribly calloused bodies.

Great yellow tusks jutted from their great, malformed mouths and the flesh from their arms had been stripped away, revealing horrible barbed bone protrusions along their forearms and knuckles.

One of them drew very close to Sabela and as it sniffed her she saw that its eyes were small milky things.

The thing drew in a deep breath and then released it in a great roar, its breath hot and cloying.

And then the chaos began.

Sabela, reacting on instinct, grabbed the creature’s face and stared deeply into its withered and cataract enveloped eyes.

She remembered the lessons taught to her by the Lady Teresa and Pushed him, willing him to do as she said.

“Protect me and my compatriots, my pretty.” – Sabela whispered.

For just a moment she felt a spark of human intellect in the creature’s eyes and she gripped tightly to it.

The Creature reared back, tearing away from her hands and roared. Sabela, panicked that her trick did not work prepared for the worse but it did not come.

Instead the creature turned and hurled itself at another of the war-ghouls, biting and slashing at the monster’s back even as it tried to kill one of the conspirators.

The trick did not last for long but as the thing turned on her she had already mesmerized another of the creatures to defend her.

Unfortunately the other was faster and Sabela found herself slamming into the stone wall. She felt a sharp pain in her head and down her back and everything went black.

Ibrahim saw Sabela slam into the wall and, judging by the way her head hung loose upon her shoulders and her chest was caved in he assumed that she had died.

A pity.

Ibrahim had, up until now, gone completely unnoticed despite his position in the eye of the storm. He drew his blade across his palm, coating it in his own venomous vitae and waited.

---

Sabela opened her eyes and found that not only was the left not working, but that her head was resting within the bloody hole that had once been her chest. Luckily she didn’t feel much beyond that.

She watched as the creature under her command fought the one that had attacked her and she smiled… or she would have had she still possessed a mouth.

Ibrahim slipped through the carnage toward the creature that was squaring off to tear Lugoj limb from limb.

They did not notice him slide between them or at all until his sword was buried in the thing’s chest.

The thing knocked him aside as if he were a plaything, but the damage was done.

The thing’s veins thickened as the poison coating his blade did its work. The thing grunted and collapsed under its own weight.

By the time that Ibrahim stood up the damage done by the creature was already a memory and with a moment of concentration, so was he.

Sabela scrambled along the wall, willing her blood to heal the devastation done to her chest and face. As her head righted itself she looked up in time to see one of the creatures bearing down on her.

She once again braced herself for the worst, but then something slammed into the attacking beast, slamming it into the ground with an unhealthy snap.

It was the creature she’d mesmerized before being crushed. It was battered, bloodied and broken, but stood triumphant over the corpse of her attacker.

“Good boy.” – Sabela, exhausted.

Ibrahim was preparing his blade to attack another of the creatures when he found himself crushed beneath a great weight. His bones snapped, his flesh tore and when the dead thing rolled off of him he found himself barely able to stand let alone protect himself.

Turning to figure out exactly what happened he found one of the creatures, the dead one that landed on him, had been thrown by a massive gray creature that had once been Velya. It seemed that the Tzimisce had thrown the thing and hit Ibrahim by happenstance.

Damn his luck.

Unable to even take a step the Assassin sent blood to mend his legs and began looking for a viable vessel on which to feed.

Sabela looked upon the devastation that they had produced over the few short minutes that had passed since they’d entered the nest. Ibrahim reappeared feeding upon the corpse of one of the gargantuan beasts that were strewn about with the corpses of so many of their allies.

“Where are the others?”

Ibrahim looked up, his eyes wild and his face smeared with blood.

“I think they continued down the path.” – Ibrahim croaked as he stood.

Without another word Ibrahim began to shamble in the direction of the Tomb of the Elder and Sabela followed.

July 17, 1413, 1:34am
Sernog Monastery
Deep within the Carpathian Mountains
The Resting Place of the Eldest.

“They were still warm.” – Teresa, disgusted.

“I never imagined that they would do something so…” – Sherazhina didn’t finish the sentence.

Kyrillos’ original assessment had been wrong. There was a survivor, an old man who had been the community’s priest. When they found him he had been transformed into a sign for them to find, his bones had been crafted into two posts over which the canvas of his flesh and viscera had been stretched taught.

Sherazhina had found the wretch upon whom a message had been scrawled.

“Welcome to our Father’s home. The festivities will begin soon. Join us if you dare.”

“K-kill m-me.” – The tarp moaned.

Sherazhina reached out and touched it softly, almost caressing it. Where her hand touched the thing split in two, ending its suffering.

No one spoke as they walked the 1,236 steps up the mountain and now as they stood before the blackened stones of the monastery Sanchez stood beside his beloved before taking her hand in his.

“Sherazhina, I don’t think your brother can be saved.” – Sanchez, his words were more a warning than condolence.

Sherazhina didn’t say anything but instead squeezed his hand and stepped into the church.

The great church was long ago abandoned but the tabernacle wall’s shattered state seemed to be relatively new.

The count closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. When he opened his eyes they had a distant look as if he were watching something that she could not see.

“It’s empty, of course it’s empty, I smell the father, of course you smell the father… you’re safe with us.” – Kyrillos said, his voice shifting tones as he spoke.

Sherazhina shuddered before walking away from him.

Sanchez looked around for a moment and then walked purposefully to what was left of the altar.

“They came through here.” – Sanchez, kneeling over something that she couldn’t see.

Kyrillos began to walk toward the altar as well, though he seemed to be following someone that the others could not see.

Sanchez touched something as he squatted upon the altar. It was bloody and gelatinous and sprayed out over much of the dais.

“What is this stuff.”

“It looks like viscera.” – Sherazhina muttered.

Sanchez wiped the goo off on a bit of wood.

Kyrillos, still mumbling nonsense to himself stepped into the hatch and vanished.

Sanchez and Teresa looked at one another aghast.

“You should probably follow me if you want to stop them from destroying the ancient.” – Kyrillos called up to them from the darkness.
Teresa shrugged and with a wry grin dropped into the darkness below

Sherazhina stepped back.

“I’ll go no further.” – Blood tears flowed down her face.

“Sherazhina, we have to go, it’s why we are here.” – Sanchez implored

The woman hugged herself but after a moment acquiesced, following him down the hole.

“Well, well, well.”

Teresa was walking toward the rope bridge when she heard the voice from above. She leapt back in time to avoid being crushed by the Zulo shape crashing down from above, it landed on all fours, but still stood as tall as her chest at the shoulders.

When it stood to its full height it towered over her.

Two others joined him, though they had been hiding within the chasm itself, rolling with unnatural grace onto their feet.

“You must be the ones…Basarab spoke of” – one of them said, stretching as if awaking from a nap.

“And you must be the ones that left a bit of themselves above. That hatch was a tough fit, no?” – Teresa

“I left that for you, did you taste me? Was I delicious?” – The one to the right, a great multi-pronged tongue slipped out of its mouth and slithered over much of its face.

“You are in the presence of Count Kyrillos and I shall not be denied, grant us safe passage or be destroyed.” – Kyrillos, stepping forward as he spoke.

The one who had not yet spoken took a step back, but the other one, the hungry one, charged and Teresa drew her sword.

“You!” – Kyrillos bellowed at the creature that fell from the wall.

“Me?” – it responded.

“Yes, you. You must protect me and my allies at all cost.” – Kyrillos demanded.

“Of course.”

The quiet one turned to look at his brother.

“Andrej?” – its voice was an uncertain whimper

Andrej turned toward the quiet one and slammed his massive inhuman fist into its brother’s inhuman face.

Sanchez appeared before the Hungry One and slammed his fist into the charging vampire’s jaw with enough force to shatter stone.

The Hungry Tzimisce swung wildly at the Toreador but hit nothing but air.

The Quiet One’s eyes made only momentary contact with Teresa’s own, but that moment was all that the Black Queen required

“Kill the one who attacked me.” – She commanded.

The Quiet One sneered and flung himself at the Hungry Tzimisce even as he swiped at Sanchez. The other Tzimisce was so taken off guard that he didn’t even try to defend himself as his ally flayed the very flesh from his back, laying his skeleton and desiccated gut bare.

The sound of Kyrillos’ gloating laugh filled the cavern as the three monstrous Tzimisce squared off.

Sanchez kicked the thing in the back as it turned to face his brothers, forcing it forward into their waiting claws.

The quiet one slashed the thing’s neck before stopping dead.

“NO!” – It roared, as its sibling fell to the ground.

Teresa’s influence was broken. Realizing that he had shrugged off her compulsion to murder his brother the black queen acted quickly and, placing her hand on his massive stomach, pushed.

The creature didn’t know what hit him as he flew back twenty feet over the chasm, falling into the mists that obscured its bottom. Even if he survived the fall without succumbing to the second death it would be some time before he freed himself and came looking for her.

Her contemplation of the Quiet One’s fate was interrupted by the horrific wet shudder that came from the thing that lay at her feet as its gargantuan form withered and reset itself.

When the horror show had ended all that remained was a small, fat man in the middle years of life. His coarse features a testament to years of drinking and rough living.

If it weren’t for the large, bloodless gash across his face and his half opened deep green eyes, she would have assumed he was dreaming.

After a moment spent wondering what kind of man he had been before his Long Night began she nudged the corpulent body gently with her foot and sent it to meet its ‘brother’ at the bottom of the fissure.

Teresa looked up to find a burly and hirsute man wearing no clothes drinking from Kyrillos’ wrist.

“Good, Andrej, yes, drink deep my mutable friend, we have much to talk about.” – Kyrillos.

Sanchez and Sherazhina looked uncomfortably at Teresa.

---

By the time they reached the cavern home of the guardians all that remained was a single Zulo warrior standing over the body of a ghastly corpse.

The thing growled as it turned its eyes towards them.

“What do we do now, Sanchez?” – Teresa

“We make short work of him and move on.” – Sanchez

“It’s over, my friend! The battle is over and you are victorious, let us talk peacefully now.” – Kyrillos, approaching the massive vampire.

Red mist began to rise from the Tzimisce as its form shrank down, taking on more human proportions.

“Yes, now we can talk as the Lords of the Night that we are.” – Kyrillos said, wrapping his arm around the swarthy old woman that stood where the monster had been moments before.

“Yes, milord.” – the woman, deferring to the mad count even as he helped her step off of the small mound of bodies upon which she had roosted.

Sanchez shook his head in disbelief.

Go. Now. – Kyrillos’ voice echoed within Sanchez’s mind.

Seeing that his companions heard it as well the Toreador did not argue, leaving the Malkavian to his audience.

July 17, 1413, 1:36am
The Elder Fiend’s Tomb
Deep beneath Sernog Monastery
The Resting Place of the Eldest.

Ibrahim found himself in a long stairway leading deeper into the mountain’s core. Unlike the natural wall that made up the rest of the cave network the walls here had been intricately and delicately carved into a mural of pictograms and hieroglyphs.

The mural told the story of a powerful man, a chieftain or shaman, who was visited by a god and being cursed or blessed.

Though he was fascinated he knew that he had to reach the others as quickly as possible if he was to take part in the destruction, especially if he was going to secure a sampling of the ancient’s blood.

When he and Sabela reached the bottom they found a pair of heavy stone doors opened wide. Within the chamber that followed they found Lugoj surrounded by his lieutenants: Velya, Lambach and Dragomir.

When they drew even closer they saw that Lugoj was standing over a great smoothed-stone sarcophagus, holding a pale arm by the wrist.

The arm belonged to an ancient looking old man, his skin a pale yellow that had become translucent with age revealing the large blue veins from which Lugoj now fed.

Ibrahim, his curiosity overwhelming him, looked into the sarcophagus to see an ancient looking man so small that he could not have stood any taller than four and a half feet tall. His sparse hair was iron gray, his long scraggly gray bead hung low enough to mingle with the white hair of his chest.

Ibrahim drew closer still, his blackened skin tingling from his proximity to so much power. He felt his fangs pressing upon his bottom lip.

A gentle but strong hand upon his shoulder snapped him from his revelry.

“Wait, dear friend. What was promised shall be given, you shall soon possess the blood of an Antediluvian.” – Velya whispered, holding up a vial of black vitae.

Ibrahim could feel the power resonating from that small glass bottle. Without a word he took it and turned to leave.

Lugoj, moaning loudly, pulled away from the ancient vampire, his skin rippling as he did so.

“The Power.” – He moaned, his voice a full three octaves lower than it had been before.

When he looked up at the assembled Cainites his eyes were a startlingly vibrant yellow.

Sabela, looking in the coffin, noticed that the old man had not been naked when he went into the casket but instead had been wearing vestments that had long since faded with age. Lying upon his chest was his undisturbed left hand which seemed to cling to something that, from her point of view appeared to be a small doll.

Lugoj unceremoniously dropped the arm onto which he’d been holding, the thing shattering as it slammed into the stone coffin’s side. Small cracks followed from that initial point of destruction and soon the whole body was collapsing under its own weight like a dust filled husk.

Lugoj turned and, tearing the sleeves from his coat, held out his arms as if performing some rite.

“If you wish you may drink.” – Lugoj, the flesh of his arms splitting like overripe fruit as blood bubbled up and began to flow from his arms to the ground.

“Drink the blood of the Old Ones!”

Ibrahim couldn’t help but think about the potency of the blood being offered him.

Before he could stop himself though he found himself drinking deeply from the fountain of blood that had been offered to him; he felt the power flowing through him and into him, he felt it altering his skin, his flesh, his very bones as it coursed through him, waking his beast and empowering his senses.

Once he’d drank his fill he forced himself away from the young god from which he’d so readily supped and looked upon him with undying affection.

Ibrahim heard the whispered voices of his compatriot’s inner most thoughts, he felt the worms moving through the mountain. Looking at his hand he watched the flesh ripple of its own accord.

The Assamite watched as the Tzimisce took their turns in drinking from their leader and then, with a moment’s concentration, he vanished.

Sabela, for her part, refused to imbibe the vile ichor that the fiends called Vitae, and watched as the wounds on Lugoj’s arms closed.

Suddenly the vampire slumped and paled noticeably.

“I… I must rest… I am so… Velya please…” – The General seemed to faint.

Velya, lifting his friend, turned to the others.

“We must away from this place, we cannot risk Lugoj’s life in another altercation. The destruction of the eldest is still not entirely complete. Our brother must be allowed to finish the assimilation.” – Velya commanded. Lugoj’s body seemed to recede into itself.

And with that, they fled, even as the sleeping Lugoj withered.

July 17, 1413, 1:48am
The Elder Fiend’s Tomb
Deep beneath Sernog Monastery

Sanchez and Teresa discovered the staircase mural and were immediately fascinated by the story depicted. Though the Master Mason was desperate to study the beautifully etched figures and the tale that they depicted they had more important things to do.

Tearing himself away from the murals he reached the massive stone doors ahead of Teresa and, using all the power he possessed and calling upon all the strength that his beast could muster, he pushed.

The doors barely moved. Not only had they been crafted from a particularly dense stone, but they seemed to be barred.

“May I try?” – Teresa

“By all means.” – Sanchez, stepping aside.

She reached out and tested the doors, gently pushing and pulling on them, before stepping back and after a moment of contemplation, she kicked.

The door to the left cracked as it became unmoored from the wall, slammed down upon its end and then collapsed to the floor.

Dust filled the air as they entered the empty stone chamber, its walls seemingly made of the same stone as the mural.

They approached the sarcophagus, a massive, black, lidless thing, and found nothing in it but fine black ash.

“Look there.” – Sanchez, gesturing to something on the floor beside the sarcophagus.

Laying upon the floor was the coffin’s great stone lid but its material was not what fascinated the Toreador. Instead he knelt down to study the image engraved into its surface.

It was a man, a priest-king by the looks of him, resting peacefully, his mouth turned up into the barest hint of a soft smile, his hands clasping each other on his chest.

As Sanchez studied the exquisite stone work he noticed that it had been textured in such a way that it had taken on a softness very similar to skin. After a moment he started to notice other peculiarities in the engraving, though he couldn’t put his finger on any specific flaw, he simply felt a dread that he could not explain.

“We were too late.” – Sherazhina.

Even as she said it they heard the sound of a mad cackling from somewhere beyond the chamber.

Sanchez stood and spat in the direction of the maniacal Anarch.

“We should return and see that Kyrillos is safe.” – Teresa, defeated.

“Be sure to get some of the ash, I’m sure that Kyrillos would find use for it.” – Sherazhina.

Sanchez, dejected, smirked at the absurdity of the request even as he dutifully reached down to grab a handful of the surprisingly greasy substance, his fingers digging into surprisingly hot and wet material.

Before he could even lift his hand out he felt a peculiar sensation, as though his very vitae was pulling at him, and then the world around him swirled.

“Oh god, oh god no, this isn’t supposed to be happening, it wasn’t supposed to me. It wasn’t supposed to… it wasn’t su…” – a voice shrieked inside his head.

“FOOLS THESE CHILDER. I HAVE SEEN YOUR ACTIONS IN THIS AND YOU SHALL RECEIVE YOUR JUST REWARDS.”

Sanchez couldn’t respond. He watched as a sinister looking man in leathers bit into the near petrified arm of the one who inhabited the tomb and then, he saw… something… change, a ripple went through the dead thing’s arm and into the Warlord, who only gripped the arm tighter.

As the Vampire drank more deeply Sanchez saw another ripple, this time flowing from where the warlord was holding the ancient.

Sanchez shook off the vision, returning, forcefully, to the present

“Did you hear that?” – Teresa gasped, her hands pressing against her temples.

Sherazhina nodded.

“Hear what?” – Sanchez, confused.

A voice that seemed to come from the very walls themselves.

As they left the way they came they stopped to study the mural in depth, only to find Kyrillos there, heading toward the tomb.

“We were too late Kyrillos, there was no way to stop them.” – Teresa.

Kyrillos’ eyes flashed in his rage.

“Fret not, old man, we have found something and could use your expertise.” – Sanchez, patting the Malkavian on the back.

The Mural told the story of a Priest-king, a great shaman and sorcerer who was able to bind the very land itself to him through his strange magics.

One night, when the Priest-King lay dying, a god appeared to him. The god was powerful and handsome and blessed the Priest-King.

The Priest-King became strong again and returned to ruling his people with an iron hand, lording over man and beast with his new powers. No one could hide their secrets from his all-seeing eye.

Soon though, it became apparent that the god’s blessing had come with a great curse.

The Priest-King was banished from the day and from the warmth of the fires of his people. More importantly, the Priest-King was made to crave those he was meant to rule.

The Priest-King had been tricked and in his rage he lashed out, destroying his tribe and then, unsure of what to do, he fled.

Soon he found a great city, a paradise, but that paradise was soon destroyed by the coming of the floods.

The god-kings, trapped by the endless storm, began to attack and devour each other, but soon the flood receded and only a few remained.

The Priest-King abandoned the other god-kings wandering the world until he found the mountains under which they now stood.

There high in the mountain passes the Priest-King faced a great evil and prevailed, binding it to his will, regaining his strange magics at the cost of being bound to the place where he made the pact.

The Mural’s story seemed to end there, as it began, with the Priest-King turned God blessing another man as he was blessed.

“Look here.” – Teresa, pointing at the strange symbol used to punctuate the legend.

“What is that?” – Kyrillos.

“It looks like the symbol we found on the pectoral.” – Sanchez.

“Yes, but it is different. You see here, the great circle and the line drawn from its center down so that it reaches beyond the circle itself? The other symbol was marked by two more stalks that were drawn to either side of the central stalk, kind of like rays, remember?”

She was right, this one instead had one additional stem that twisted around the first in an “s” from the right to the left and then terminated at the bottom of the stalk.

“What do you think it means?” – Kyrillos.

Sanchez remembered that the Malkavian had not known about the earlier discovery.

“My working theory is that they are signs adopted by the Antediluvians prior to the advent of the written word.” – Teresa

Kyrillos looked at the Lasombra like she was mad.

“Look at me all you want, but it’s the only thing that makes sense.” – Teresa

The coterie painstakingly transcribed the whole of the mural before finally fleeing the chamber before dawn.

None of them had been willing to risk spending the day-sleep within those unhallowed halls.

The War of Princes, which began with two Kingdoms of the Night clashing with fang, claw and steel and the deaths of thousands had, in the last ninety years ground into a bitterly cold war of treachery and recriminations.

Lord Jürgen, the Sword-Bearer, Lord-General of the Black Cross and childe of High-Lord Hardestadt has been recalled to Bohemia and has not been seen nor heard from in nearly fifty years. Rumors abound about his fate but while those closest to him swear that he hasn’t met final death few believe them.

Vladimir Rustovitch, the onetime Voivode of Voivodes has fled back to his home deep within the Carpathians, hounded at every turn by the Methuselah Noriz and his brood. For the first time in nearly five centuries the Voivode fears that his Long Night may be coming to a close.

The other Kingdoms of the Night, those who had once come to the aid of the Black Cross against their hated foe now turn their back on the High-Lord in favor of their own agendas, putting the bloody shadow of Transylvania behind them.

The last century has not been kind to those who remained. The troubles began in 1241, in the form of a wave of Mongol Barbarians flooding through the Birkau Pass. Though they took the fortress that stood guard with ease, they soon found out why it had been abandoned after a band of soldiers was found dead within the fortress’ tower; their bodies mutilated until they were almost unrecognizable.

They soon learned that the legend of the woman in white who was said to haunt the abandoned structure was more than simple superstition. They would take their tales with them when they left again less than a year later. When they came again a generation later they once again took the pass, but left the tower alone.

For those loyal to the Black Cross the year of 1262 turned out to be ruinous as the newly awakened Count of Timisoara declared his allegiance to the Obertus Tzimisce and their master, Symeon of Constantinople. His desertion left his allies at a loss, though his friends were less surprised. Timisoara was not a great city, however due to its master’s machinations it was a powerful nexus for trade between northern and southern Europe.

Even as the new century dawned tough, it brought new troubles with it. In 1307 King Phillip of France calls for the arrest of the Knights Templar on charges of Heresy and Infernalism. While most vampires in Transylvania couldn’t care less about the fall of some far off Brotherhood of Heretics, those loyal to the Black Cross knew that some among those burnt were members of the Black Cross, mortal no doubt, or ghouls perhaps, but they knew of the secret rights, they knew the secret oaths. And they knew names.

Old Names, Powerful Names.

Though stories spread that some Templars escaped (supposed numbers range from 8 to 33) the final Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, was executed by immolation in March of 1314 and in the end the Black Cross was made complicit.

On top of all that has transpired is the horrific Transylvanian weather, which has only grown worse in the last century, killing crops and livestock and destroying entire communities. Rumors abound of the old gods being offended by the coming of Christendom or of the Almighty lending his wrath as a warning to the Damned.

February 17, 1314, 9:44pm
Burghausen Castle District
The Domain of Hardestadt
High-Lord of the Black Cross

Sanchez sat in the Tavern amidst the rabble-rousers and the malcontents of the Burghausen as he worked. He’d barely touched his ale, as was his wont, as he studied the plans for the changes he was planning on making to the complex. He’d been the chief architect for the last period of construction as a favor to Lord Hardestadt, some fifty odd years prior and the High-Lord had asked for him to follow up his previous work to install a few more retreats for any Cainites who might take their rest here.

When Sanchez was finished the castle would be able to safely hold nearly one hundred vampires safely, with each being afforded a secure haven to protect them from both the sun and from any who might attempt to cut their Long Night short.

For the life of him he could not imagine why that many vampires would ever convene in one place at one time; especially one that did not possess a sustainable source of blood capable of sustaining that many of their accursed breed.

“How’d the day go?” – Sanchez asked his day foreman.

“It went how you would suppose, Master, the reconstruction of the eastern wall is going well, it should be finished in a week or so.” – Sigismund.

Sigismund was a talented mason in his own right. Sanchez had found him working in Berlin twenty years prior and granted him the little drink shortly after. Maybe one day he would earn his Embrace.

Sanchez hoped he wouldn’t.

The Architect looked up at his foreman to ask about something specific when he realized that the Ghoul was no longer paying him any attention. His eyes were locked on something standing behind him, something tall, something that frightened him to his core. He opened up his senses to get a better sense of his environment but he couldn’t sense anything.

Sanchez pictured himself standing next to the table, his hands up and balled into fists, his head bent low to make himself a smaller target, ready to fight whatever was waiting for him. In an instant his thought became reality. He didn’t feel himself move, nor could he remember standing. His thoughts and actions had long ago had become so intertwined that they simply were.

And that is how he found himself standing, ready to fight, as he looked upon the stony and misshapen face of the master Mason.

Sigismund stepped back again, a soft whimper escaping his throat.

Zelios turned his stony gaze toward the mortal.

“Go home and get your rest you’ll need it in the morning. When next we meet you’ll not fear me for I shall not look this way. Though I am tall and of rough feature, I will be in all other ways unremarkable, which is just how you’ll remember me.” – Zelios

The ghoul fled their company immediately.

“Master Zelios.” – Sanchez whispered in shock even as he bowed before his mentor.

“Master Sanchez, it has been far too long.” – The incredibly tall vampire said, nodding in return.

He wasn’t wrong, though Zelios had been by early in Sanchez’s career, asking questions about this or that project and even granting the Spaniard access to his own artisans when he’d been granted his own domain in Sebeș, he hadn’t seen the Nosferatu in nearly half a century.

“I’m sorry about Sigismund, he’s new to all of this and I had not told him of you.” – Sanchez

“Think nothing of it.” – Zelios said, his features becoming muted and forgetful as they spoke.

Zelios sat down at the table beside his protégé and no one else made a fuss the rest of the night, as onlookers simply saw the architect working with Sigismund or some other assistant over a cup of ale he would once again forget to drink.

After some talk about the castle that Sanchez was renovating and the City Infrastructure that he was building Zelios finally came to the reason of his visit.

“My studies into the more arcane aspects of our craft had led me to the darkest parts of Africa and eventually into the realm of the Followers of Set where I learned so much more than I had thought possible.” – Zelios

“This has something to do with Kupala, doesn’t it.” – Sanchez was beginning to worry about the elder vampire’s sanity.

“Don’t give me that, Sanchez, I always knew that my work was more than pretty piles of brick and stone. That there was some pattern that I didn’t understand in the placement of our castles. Those that I built in Alba Iulia and Sighisoara, those built by you in Brasov and Birkau pass. They are a part of a greater design; a web of geomantic power, as my sojourn to the land of serpents has taught me. Each of these fortresses set upon nexuses of Dragon Lines, flowing rivers of power that flow from the earth itself.”

Sanchez raised an eyebrow.

“Hear me out you Latin cur; I’ve learned certain arcane secrets, runes and hieroglyphs that will allow me to bind those currents into a web of power capable of binding the Old God in its grave.” – Zelios’ certainty gave Sanchez pause.

“I’ve always felt that our work brought Order to chaos.” – Sanchez, half serious hoping to get his Mentor to relax.

“I need your help and your permission to fulfill my plans, Master Sanchez. I know of your obligations to Hardestadt and I ask that you travel only as far as Sighisoara to imprint the fortress there and then come back to Alba Iulia to mark St. Michael’s Cathedral. It is there where we shall meet. I will travel farther east to Birkau and then South again into Brasov, while searching for the final pylons in the barrier’s design.” – Zelios

“There are others?” – Sanchez

“There are. I know that there is one in the mountains near Alba Iulia but I do not know anything of the location of the last fortress; that is the other reason I want to go south to Brasov.” – Zelios.

Sanchez sighed dramatically.

“Show me the runes.”

Zelios etched a series of runes into the table with his thumbnail.

“What’s wrong?” – Zelios, upon seeing his friend’s furrowed brow.

“I know that script.” – Sanchez.

“Can you read it?”

“No, but I have a friend who can, she is an accomplished Noddist.” – Sanchez

“Ugh, I will never understand you Westerners and your ‘Noddism’.” – Zelios admonished, his flinty voice as close to humor as Sanchez ever heard it.

“And what if you’re wrong? What if binding this… god or demon or whatever…simply makes things worse? What if the runes are applied wrong? What happens then?” – Sanchez, rubbing the wooden table with his thumb to smudge out the etched runes.

“That’s why I’ve come to you, Master Sanchez, of all my pupils you are the best. You do not make mistakes.” – Zelios, manically.

Sanchez laughed at the Nosferatu’s words. If only he never made mistakes.

“You don’t seem to understand me, Sanchez, if my calculations are correct, by this time next year, there will be no Siebenburgen, or Transylvania for that matter. These storms are worsening for a reason. Kupala is just turning in his slumber, but without the old rights he will soon be awake and should he rise he will wipe all of us from the face of the Land Beyond.” – Zelios, nearly shouting.

“And if I’m wrong?” – Sanchez, grimly

“Then nothing will happen. The storms will get better or worse as is their wont and won’t bother you with this again.” – Zelios

“Okay, you had better explain it to me again if you want to make sure nothing goes wrong.” – Sanchez

Zelios reached into his cloak and revealed a rolled map of Transylvania, far more detailed than anything the Toreador had ever seen before.

“You made this.”

“Yes, I’ve had a lot of time to perfect it over the decades.” – Zelios offhandedly and completely oblivious to his own artistry.

“You were found by the wrong Clan, old man.”

“Some would say the same of you.”

Sanchez studied the map. Each of the four castles that Zelios had mentioned were marked but so to was an empty space in the Bihor mountain range and another a day’s ride from Timisoara.

“What is this here?” – Sanchez, pointing to the marker in the Mountains beyond Alba Iulia

“I’m not sure, I only know that something is there.” – Zelios

“My ally, Teresa Balgrad, she has been at war with a Tzimisce Lord called Vintila. Do you know him?” – Sanchez

Zelios thought for a moment before shaking his head.

“His attacks used to come at a pretty swift interval, maybe once a year or so, until about six years ago. Teresa has never been able to find his fortress, the legions he sends all fight to the death and attempt retreat. Either way, as territorial as he is I cannot believe he’d allow anyone else to build a Castle within his “Terra”. I’m almost positive that this is his, here.

“And this; it is not far from the Domain of Count Kyrillos, no? Do you know this place?” – Zelios, brimming with enthusiasm.

Sanchez thought long and hard, but finally he shook his head.

“I’ve never seen a castle, fortress or any other large structure east of Timisoara, this here, this is the road that leads to Birkau, and all this land here is now under the protection and control of the Obertus, and has been for two generations, that’s more than enough time for a Fortress to have been built without my knowing it.” – Sanchez

Zelios agreed.

“Our only hope is that once the other markings are in place we’ll be able to follow the flow to the final Pylon.” – Zelios

March 24, 1314, 8:57pm
Teresa’s Mansion
The Domain of Lady Teresa
Black Queen of Alba Iulia

The Black Queen stood in her library leafing through the ancient tome that Vendramino had sent her by way of his vizier, Abdul-Malik, whom had been to visit the Levant to bring news to the old Cappadocian about his Childe Ignacio’s activity in Sighisoara, which was still technically his domain.

The book was called ‘Vivlio Tis Gis’ the Book of the Land, which spoke of Transylvania and its old gods. It seemed that Vendramino received word of Sanchez and his quest to rid them of this dreadful weather and this dusty old tome made mention to the Old God, Kupala, and Vendramino thought they might find it to be an interesting read.

The book itself was oddly heavy, its pages were chord-bound vellum, the cover hardened leather. It was written in Greek, which made it difficult but she was managing. Huge portions of the codex had become worn and a few passages seemed to have been vandalized to make them unreadable.

She couldn’t fathom why he felt she would want this. It was probably something one of his ghosts told him.

Currently Ibrahim was refreshing himself with a chalice of chilled Vitae that had been seasoned by feeding its…volunteer…nothing but food infused with honey-wine and cinnamon. It was a favorite vintage of Teresa’s and took a fortnight to…age.

She’d procured it especially for this occasion, three strong youths of unsurpassed beauty had been selected by her Seneschal, Erzibet, just for this occasion and she was the first to drink it, to ensure its perfection.

She licked her lips at the thought of it.

“What do you find so fascinating that you would not greet a beloved friend who appeared at your door.” – a familiar voice came from the door to her library.

Teresa looked up and smiled.

“Sanchez, I’m so glad you could make it, the others should be along very soon.” – Teresa, happily.

“The others?”

“Well, yes, when you told me of your pending arrival I decided to call other members of our little conspiracy. Your ‘childe’, Sherazhina should arrive shortly. Vendramino was caught up in very important business in Venice but he sent your Moor friend.” – Teresa

“And Kyrillos?” – Sanchez asked hopefully

Teresa shook her head, she had come to believe that their odd friend may be lost to them.

“Did you get word to Erasmus?” – Sanchez

“No, Sanchez, it has been nearly forty years since he last stirred. His childe Josephus has taken Praxis of Brasov. Though he watches over our friend diligently he does not believe that there is any hope of another awakening.” – Teresa, sadly

“Why not.” – Sanchez

“When last he woke, Erasmus believed himself to be the Patriarch completely. He had no memory of the Black Cross or what transpired in Constantinople all those years ago at all.” – Teresa

“And you do.” – Sanchez

“Mostly, I remember those nights better than when I was living to be sure.” – Teresa, annoyed at her Spanish friend’s inability to take the news with dignity.

After a moment of awkwardness Teresa decided to fill the void.

“I planned on us all going out together to watch you place the runes on St. Michael’s Cathedral.” – Teresa

“I’ve already done it.” – Sanchez

Teresa’s eyes darkened as she felt her Shadow stir.

“I figured I would be in and out, I had no idea you were going to throw a shindig.” – Sanchez, apologetically.

“It’s nothing.” – Teresa, graciously.

“I did however bring you a stone carving of the finished sigil, you could use it as a paperweight or a doorstop if you’d like.” – Sanchez, reaching under his tunic

He produced a disk of white alabaster as big as her hand; it had been polished and seemed to glow, even in the relatively low light of her home.

Embossed upon the stone were a series of sigils.

“Protection.” – Teresa, nonplussed

“What?” – Sanchez

“I mean, its stylized but yes, that’s what it says.” – Teresa, gently running her fingers over the stone

“That’s it? Nothing else?” – Sanchez

“Well, there are a few additional details, almost like coordinates on a map, but yes, that’s all it says.”

She continued to study the embossment. It had always amazed her how perfect and precise his work was. How such a coarse and crude man could make something so delicate, and beautiful.

“Thank you for this, Sanchez, it means the world, how did you craft it without leaving tool marks?” – Teresa asked as she studied it’s perfectly smooth face.

“I didn’t use any.”

March 24, 1314, 10:19pm
Teresa’s Mansion
The Domain of Lady Teresa
Black Queen of Alba Iulia

They’d been laughing and telling stories of their respective adventures for over an hour when Teresa realized that Sanchez was studying her.

“So, Dona Teresa, when are we going to find out what’s in that book you’ve been keeping so close?” – Sanchez, the blood had given him a new vitality.

The assembled beamed, though some of their good cheer was due to the semi-fermented Vitae they now drank, she knew that their curiosity must have been piqued by its presence at her side.

She sat it down heavily on the table before her.

“This is the Book of the Land.” – She announced with some fan-fare.

Sanchez and Sherazhina both ooo’d and ahh’d as she opened it. Teresa continued, making a point to ignore them:

“When Vendramino received word that Sanchez and Master Zelios believed that they could bind the Demon Kupala it sparked a memory for the Necromancer. He’d read that name before, in the Libraries of Acre. With Abdul-Malik’s help he made sure that we would have a chance to see it for ourselves.” – Teresa, turning to a page that had been marked by a ribbon of dusty black silk and began to read:

“…Svarog, Byelobog and chief among them, the demon-god Kupala, whose offspring infuse the very soil with madness. His dark heart ripped asunder, the demon is said to rest beneath the Carpathians, haunting the lands and spreading his corruption to all who touch upon his dread demesne. It is whispered that a demon sleeps, gaining strength to rise in terrible wrath when at last he awakens. His burning malice is seen in the creation of a legendary blood red bloom known as the sacred fire flower of Kupala. With it, sorcerers may bind or loose demons.

“The cult dedicated to this abhorrent spirit gifts the demon with sacrifices, slaying babes for their pure and innocent blood, which the demon consumes. Thus fortified Kupala’s corruption spreads ever farther, trailing lunacy in its wake. The quaking of the earth, the foul rains and lightning that destroy crops and homes, great windstorms that tear the fields and forests asunder, all these speak with the demon’s voice, May God grant that we discov…” – Teresa stopped, whatever had been written there had been destroyed.

“You’re telling us that this hellish weather is being caused by a cult trying to wake up a hell-god?” – Sherazhina

“This foulness does not happen in the holy-land.” – Ibrahim, half joking.

“Yes, but unfortunately you’re not there right now, we’re here in the black heart of Transylvania.” – Sherazhina shot back

“What’s wrong, lovely?” – Sanchez asked his muse

“I remember a cousin called Boris, he grew up faster than Dragomir and I, My aunt Maris was ashamed. She treated Boris awfully for a long time and then, one day, just before he turned three, Boris went away. A party was thrown in his honor, his father looked sick throughout the festivities but my mother and father were so happy. I remember so clearly that they had gushed for years afterwards about how that had been the very best Kupala’s Day; that Boris had brought us good fortune.” – Sherazhina.

“They were cultists?” – Ibrahim

Sherazhina didn’t respond. Sanchez patted the girl’s hand, quietly comforting her.

“I have been enacting a plan to stop this, but you may not like it.” – Sanchez

“Why wouldn’t they like it? I thought that your little ritual was all but done.” – Teresa

“What plan?” – Ibrahim asked

“Not quite, we have placed three of the six sigils needed to bind the Demon, and Zelios has gone south to place the last, but there are two more.” – Sanchez hesitantly.

“Well, where are they? Let’s get it over with.” – Sherazhina adamantly.

Sanchez pulled a rolled up copy of Zelios’ map from his satchel but before he could unfurl it there came a knocking at the door.

It was Teresa’s valet.

“Milady, I am sorry to interrupt your summit but there’s this man here who demands an audience–” – the valet was not allowed to finish his sentence before he found himself being thrown as the door flew open behind him.

The man now standing in the doorway was massively tall and well-muscled, his face half hidden behind a red nest of a beard. His eyes seemed to be nothing less than blue flames flashing out from beneath his mop of hair. His clothes were archaic, a burlap tunic and a pair of cross-gartered leggings underneath a poorly fitted and corroded roman breastplate. In his left hand he carried a spear, driving its long blunted spear-head into the floor.

Though their beasts did not stir, there was no doubt that this man was a vampire with his sharp little fangs and skin so white that it seemed to reflect the candle-light around them.

“I know you.” – Teresa declared, though she couldn’t quite place him.

“That son of a whore was the one who sent the mob after us.” – Sanchez, his own fangs sliding into place as his fury came to the fore.

Sanchez was, in less than an instant, standing before the giant madman.

“HEAR ME!” – The vampire roared into the Spaniard’s face.

The Spaniard found himself incapable of doing anything else.

“Though I long ago warned you, thou hast done nothing to quell the demon’s awakening! The first of the signs has seen fulfillment and yet you wait! Will you remain idle while the land’s heart is ripped from its bleeding chest?! Do you not see that eternal night is almost upon us?! He stirs, and with him, the Ancient ones groan upon their ancient Beds, their hunger shrieking for our life’s blood! The loss of a holy land, the breaking of a holy order and the downfall of a mighty Magus! The sign has come, the fist of those that lead to ever-blackness and death eternal! You stand within the whirlwind! Seven more remain; what cannot be stopped must be Transformed! On you rests our redemption or destruction! Do not fail me again!” – The Mad vampire bellowed, thrusting the blunted tip of his spear into the floor as he spoke, pointing at each Cainite he saw in turn.

Before any of them could react to his ravings though the vampire’s eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed, writhing upon the floor as bloody foam bubbled from his mouth. His spasms and contortions were enough to break a mortal spine and they could hear the telltale popping as his own broke and reformed over and over again.

Though he would later admit to having no idea why he would do so, Sanchez rushed to the vampire’s aid, trying to hold his thrashing body down. The vampire was powerful though and the Toreador could feel the vampire trying to tear his own arm off. Luckily Teresa appeared at his side as well. Her own strength had long ago outstripped his own and now she was forcing the unimaginably powerful man to the floor.

After his spine snapped one last time the vampire collapsed against the floor and lay still. He seemed almost peaceful as he lie there, his eyes closed.

When he opened them again they were ready for the worst, what they got was something else. The eyes that had before burned like blue fire were now clear and all too human.

They stepped back and allowed the vampire to sit up.

“Where am I?” – the vampire, his maniacal voice gone, replaced by a deep timbre, not unlike Sanchez’s own.

“Welcome back.” – Teresa

“Milady, If I may be so bold: Who are you?”

“I am Teresa Balgrad, the Black Queen of Alba Iulia, and you are in my home. You came here with dire news which you were unwavering in your demand to share, as my servant can attest once he wakes up.” – Teresa

“We are not in Hungary?”

Teresa shook her head.

“I am so ashamed.” – the vampire stood with surprising grace before helping her to her feet.

“I am Octavio, I hail from Aquincum, which is now called Obuda.” – Octavio

“You were roman?” – Ibrahim

“I was yes, many lifetimes ago.” – Octavio.

As she listened to his strangely familiar accent it dawned on Teresa that this man’s native tongue was Old Latin.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” – Sanchez asked.

“I was in Obuda and I was praying?” – Octavio

“Do you remember the date?” – Sanchez asked

“only that it was the Year of Our Lord 1314 and that Easter had just past.” – Octovio

“And what do you know of Kupala?” – Teresa interjected

The old vampire was taken aback.

“I have been fighting him since the time out of mind… I am bound to him and it is my duty to put his evil to rest.” – Octavio

“What do you mean you are ‘bound to him’?” – Sanchez, nervously.

“It is my curse to see his mind. I see visions of his coming, my sire was the Demon’s high priest but could not take the visions any longer and so he forced them upon me along with my embrace.”

“We are, as it happens, working toward a similar goal. However, we are not sure if we can trust you; though perhaps if you shared your visions with us…” – Teresa

“I know them better than my own name: And there shall come to pass the loss of a holy land, the breaking of the Holy Order and the downfall of a mighty magus.” – surely you must see that when Christendom lost the Holy Land in 1291 and then the French King murdered the Templars that the prophesy is being fulfilled even now.” – Octavio, obviously grateful to speak about the subject with someone that did not find him mad.

“But what about the magus?” – Teresa asked

“I admit that I don’t know who that might be, but for the other two keys to be in place, the Magus cannot be far behind.” – Octavio said, matter-of-factly.

Octavio continued:

“The passing of years and the fires of the righteous shall bring upon us a parting of kin, one of from the other. The children shall revile their parents, slaying them in their beds, and brother shall smite brother.”

Neither Teresa nor Sherazhina could not help but feel his eyes upon their skin though neither could be sure why.

“These are but the first two of eight. Eight signs that foretell the coming of Kupala. For eight Centuries I have foreseen these signs, and others but now for the first time they are becoming clear. The Holy order fell but seven years ago, sixteen years before that the holy land was barred to Christendom, it must be that the Mighty Magus shall fall soon.” – Octavio.

The assembled Cainites looked to one another with shame. They all suspected that Octavio did not know that the first of the signs had come and gone nearly a full century prior with the fall of Acre.

“I have inconvenienced all of you so much, and it appears that I am so far from home I must make haste if I am to make any headway in my journey by daybreak.” – Octavio said, bowing deeply to Teresa.

“I would be honored to have you stay here until you are rested.” – Teresa

“I thank you, Milady, but I must leave soon if I am to return to Obuda in time for the solstice.” – Octavio, kissing the Black Queens hand.

March 25, 1314, 1:07am
Teresa’s Mansion
The Domain of Lady Teresa
Black Queen of Alba Iulia

Sanchez watched Octavio from the top of Teresa’s roof as the giant soldier ‘communed with the rocks and the trees’ in the town square, he was nursing a goblet of chilled blood-wine, rolling the cup between flattened hands as he perched upon a weathervane to get a better view of their guest.

“What’s he doing?” – Teresa, slipping out of the shadows.

“He’s still communing, milady. He’s been at it for some time.” – Sanchez, ponderously.

“Hmm, well I’ve gotten him to agree to staying for at least a few nights. I don’t think he’s hunted since he left Budapest.” – Teresa

As cold as she could be, the moments of motherly concern always surprised.

“As powerful as he must be, I’d watch my reserves if I were you.” – Sanchez, he realized suddenly that they had been speaking Spanish the whole time.

“Don’t worry, I prepared for your coming, I’m sure I can handle him.” – Teresa smirked

Sanchez smiled.

“He’s listening to us you know.” – Sanchez, quietly

“There’s no way.” – Teresa, approaching the edge to look at the distant figure.

She could barely see him at this distance.

“He’s more powerful than any three of us, Teresa, and is almost definitely a cousin to our traitorous friend.” – Sanchez, his voice thick with more than the blood he was drinking.

“Don’t say that, he didn’t abandon us, just the Cross. What happened to the man who once spat in the face of his sire?” – Teresa

“He went to war.” – Sanchez, turning back to their subject

They grew unbearably quiet as only vampires could.

“You were about to show us something when he arrived. What was it?” – Teresa

Sanchez turned and smiled.

“Let me show you.”

March 25, 1314, 1:27am
Teresa’s Mansion
The Domain of Lady Teresa
Black Queen of Alba Iulia

This was the first time anyone else had ever stepped foot in Teresa’s study. There was no light there, nor was there any to be lit, any window through which a ray of sunlight could slip. This was where she spent her days, surrounded by her most precious possessions, safe from the sun. It was where she went to explore her inner darkness and the abyss from which it had been drawn.

“Are you sure he cannot hear us here?” – Teresa asked.

“There is no way to be sure of anything when dealing with a being that remembers Rome, but yes, I believe we’re safe here.

Sanchez unfurled the map he’d kept in his tunic.

“What are we looking at?” – Ibrahim asked, his voice almost reverent as he poured over its detail.

“Transylvania, as drawn by my Master, Zelios.” – Sanchez said, brimming with pride.

“How did he achieve such detail with the cities. I can see the boutique where I make my haven in Sighisoara.” – Ibrahim.

Teresa, too, was astonished by the level of detail but obviously lacked the powers of perception to properly appreciate its work.

She cleared her throat as Sanchez’s eyes glassed over.

“Sorry, yes, as you can see, each of these Castles, each designed, at least in part, by Master Zelios, acts as a point in a web. Our Tower in Birkau, Bran Castle in Brasov, the Castrum Sex in Sighisoara, St. Michaels Cathedral here in Alba Iulia…” – Sanchez, rhythmically.

He drew a line with his finger from point to point as he spoke until he reached a point past Alba Iulia, deep within the Bihor mountain range.

“What is this?” – Teresa, her voice shaking.

“There is a citadel there, hidden amongst the cliffs and spires.” – Sanchez, his voice, wistfully rhythmic, affirming that he was once again losing himself to the map.

“Where is it? Where is that castle. Do you know?” – Teresa’s voice was growing manic.

She grabbed his arm, pulling him from his reverie.

“No, no I don’t, Zelios hasn’t been able to pinpoint its location. We only know that it exists around near here.” – Sanchez, pointing to the mark.

Teresa studied that mark for what seemed like eternity.

“I need to know, Sanchez, I need to know where that bastard sleeps.” – Teresa.

“Who?” – Ibrahim

“That’s my grandfather’s Castle.” – Sherazhina

“Where is it?” – Teresa demanded as she took Sanchez by the shoulder, her eyes had grown into black pools as she struggled against the Darkness.

“I know.”

Everyone turned to Sherazhina

“I know where to find Vintila’s castle.”

March 27, 1314, 10:54pm
Teresa’s Mansion
The Domain of Lady Teresa
Black Queen of Alba Iulia

Sherazhina looked at the wagons that had been pulled out in front of Teresa’s manse. Each had been designed with additional fortifications against the light of the sun and the last one, which belonged to her and contained a heavily reinforced compartment filled with twice her own weight of living soil from her home in the Birkau Pass.

She thought it funny that she often worried more about the contents than about any of her other possessions as she slipped into the covered wagon and opened the well hidden compartment. She ran her fingers lovingly over the earth within.

It was a habit she’d developed over the course of the last century: whenever she needed comforting she turned, always, to the Earth. As her fingers dug into the dirt she felt the vital warmth play across her head skin, sending a comforting wave through her bones. She closed her eyes and smelled the snowy mountains of the Calimani Mountains; she felt the chilled wind in her hair and, in her mind’s eye, saw the stars that shown larger and brighter than anywhere else in the world.

“Is she still angry with you?” – Ibrahim’s voice pulled her from her revelry.

The hatch slammed shut.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Black Queen, is she still angry?” – Ibrahim

“I don’t know. I haven’t been inside in two nights.” – Sherazhina, honestly.

“Why have you never told her before? She’s been at war with that monster for more than a century.” – Ibrahim

“I never traveled to my grandfather’s lair and the last time I saw a map to it I was still a child walking under the sun. The only way I recognized it now was because of the detail, in which the map was made, besides, I do not know a safe passage there it, simply its location on the map.” – Sherazhina

“What do you think of your lover’s master?” – Ibrahim, changing tack.

Zelios had arrived the night before in mysterious fashion. She’d met him numerous times over the decades and had a good rapport with the elder Leper, though his bouts of mania could be overwhelming at times.

“I am happy to see him again, though I am less happy to learn that he was anywhere near Birkau Castle.” – Sherazhina, protectively

The Childe of Haqim only nodded sagely.

March 27, 1314, 10:56pm
Teresa’s Mansion
The Domain of Lady Teresa
Black Queen of Alba Iulia

Zelios paced back and forth within the library, studying the Book of the Land carefully, his eyes less than an inch from the page’s surface.

“Fascinating.” – he said to no one in particular

“Astounding.”

Sanchez was growing dizzy watching him.

“How’d you do it, Master Zelios?” – Sanchez, apropos of nothing

Zelios’ head lolled as his eyes darted toward his apprentice.

“Please be specific, Master Sanchez.” – Zelios, not happy that he was interrupted.

“You traveled from Bavaria, to Birkau Castle, to Bran Castle and back here in such a short amount of time. How can this be?” – Sanchez

The Nosferatu smiled a cold smile.

“I must be honest with you, Sanchez, I became distracted and then found my way here much by accident.”

Sanchez looked long at his mentor before nodding. Though he was sure it was a lie he was going to take Zelios at his word. If the Master-Builder wanted him to know, he would know.

Zelios went back to his reading but stopped after a moment. His shoulders slumped.

“I worry about you, my young friend. When I sent you on this errand I had not thought through the ramifications of my actions. I was reminded of our Host’s dealings with the Master in the Mountains only after I’d made some progress on my own journey.” – Zelios, quietly.

“I don’t think you have to worry about our demise, Zelios, we can take care of ourselves. Vintila is only one man.” – Sanchez, confidently.

The other shook his head sadly.

“Do you know why I do what I do, Sanchez? Why I while away the Long Night designing and perfecting fortresses all over civilization. Why I study the Occult underpinning of their designs? Why I sent you out on this errand?” – Zelios

“It is passion. It’s all either of us truly have.” – Sanchez

Zelios smiled sadly. It was true.

“But I have other reasons, too. This brand will bind the blight on this terrible land, not just for you and your cherished ‘Black Cross’ but for everyone. I do not want any part of this bloody War of Princes that you have all thrown yourselves into.” – Zelios

Zelios’ eyes darted to the door as it opened, ending his train of thought.

It was one of Teresa’s servants.

“Masters’, madam has asked for your presence in her receiving room as couriers have just arrived from the east.”

March 27, 1314, 11:01pm
Teresa’s Mansion
The Domain of Lady Teresa
Black Queen of Alba Iulia

Teresa watched the boys suspiciously. They had arrived only moments before on horseback wearing tabards of deep blue and marked with a stylized kappa, the seal of Count Kyrillos of Timisoara.

They were dead, that was obvious, and embraced at a very young age, neither showing any sign of having grown their first beards. More notably though was that they were identical twins, each marked by pale freckled skin and dark eyes and longish hair the color of rust.

Their sticklike bodies spoke of malnourishment and their manner spoke of poor breeding.

She would never understand what the Count’s obsession with identical twins was.

The only difference between the two was a subtle one. The boy to the left had a winning smile plastered over his thin face, while the dour one to the right, though quiet had a twinkle in his eyes that spoke volumes toward his character.

“Milady Queen Teresa Balgrad, I am Iózsef, Childe of Count Kyrillos and Herald of Timisoara and in the name of my sire I ask permission that my brother and I may make temporary haven within your domain.” – the smiling one said, bowing at the waist until his nose nearly touched the ground.

“I would know the name of your companion first, child.” – Teresa

“This, madam, is my brother, Iakov, Childe of the Count and Herald to his glory.” – Iózsef

Iakov bowed at the neck.

“And what brings you so far west, childer?” – Teresa

“We come with glad tidings from Count Kyrillos, madam, and would present you with this letter from him. We will await your response, Milady.” – Iózsef.

Iakov slipped a smallish cylinder of leather, capped in gold, the insignia of Kyrillos imbedded into the leather case. He fell to one knee, presenting the cylinder dramatically by raising his hands as if in supplication.

Teresa took the sealed cylinder and opened it, turning it over to remove its contents.

Inside was a single piece of tightly rolled parchment, it was held in shape by a single small band of jewel encrusted gold.

It was a golden dragon curled upon itself, its eyes glittering emeralds.

Teresa quietly slipped a ring from her left thumb. She lifted one ring and let it slide into the other, creating a single ring, two dragons coiled around one another.

Teresa read the words written on the scrolled letter, her dread growing with every word and when she finished she could do nothing but close her eyes, she felt a single drop of blood fall down her cheek.

“What is it Teresa?” – Sanchez, concerned.

“We must leave for Timisoara at once.”

She held out the letter to Sanchez.

“Greetings to you all,

You will remember this token, which you agreed to honor. I now request that you aid me as I once assisted you. It is my fervent hope that the duty I ask of you shall not prove too onerous.

It has been made known to me that an old acquaintance of mine, by the name of Goratrix, travels to Transylvania. He has been summoned to the Tremere chantry known as Ceoris, a fortress that rests among the Transylvanian Alps. He is alone in this hostile land, where so many of my own Clanmates would wish to do him ill.

Thus, I make my request of you. Go to Timisoara, to the crypt beneath the Chapel of the Holy Sepulcher, where my own agents shall make certain he awaits your coming. Though clever, they lack a Cainite’s powers and stamina. Guard him through these dangerous lands and escort him to the chantry. He knows the way to Ceoris and has been commanded to appear there. I would not like to see him fall before my Tzimisce kin: that would be far too lenient a punishment for one such as he. No, with your help, he shall not escape attending upon his Usurper brethren.

It is my Great hope that you understand me clearly. I offer you my thanks. Should you accept, your debt to me is paid.

With fondness,
Myca Vykos”

Sanchez crumpled the paper.

“This is wonderful news!” – Zelios

Sanchez looked at his old mentor skeptically.

“Ceoris, of course! Don’t you see? It’s the last pylon! The final point that I could not suss out. Oh, this is magnificent! The Usurpers use extraordinary powerful magic to hide their fortress, it must be powerful enough even to bend the Dragon Lines and hide their convergences. It is so obvious to me now!” – Zelios.

“I’m glad you think it’s obvious.” – Sanchez

“You should agree.” – Zelios demanded

“Why, in God’s name, would we do that?” – Teresa

“You can carve the runes into Ceoris! We can finish my web and bind the black heart of Kupala and end this infernal weather!” – Zelios shot back.

Teresa turned to respond but found herself speechless.

“He has a point, Teresa.” – Sanchez

“I promise you that I shall go to the Fiend’s lair and place the runes. We can beat the demon and no one has to die, isn’t that wonderful.” – The Architect

Teresa seemed like she was going to be sick.

“Yes, Master Zelios, just perfect.”

March 28, 1314, 12:20am
The Chapel of the Holy Sepulcher
The Domain of Kyrillos Dimities
Count of Timisoara

It took more than a week to reach the city. The weather had wracked the caravan throughout the journey, lightning struck a driver on the second night, a gale-force wind threw under a wagon, both required blood to survive and one would never walk again without a limp.

They took them to the Kicking Pig, a Tavern that catered to the Damned and where their men could rest without question. Simon, the owner of the establishment, was a ghoul bound to Kyrillos and Sanchez knew him well.

Now though, they stood in front of a church. In a city with no fewer than three great churches this one was smaller and older than the others, most likely tracing its way back to the third or fourth crusade and was built very close to the city’s eastern gate.

“I’m not going in there.” – Sanchez

“Don’t be a child. This is not hallowed ground” – Ibrahim

“You have not been with us long enough to remember my… experiences within houses of God, Ibrahim, nothing good has ever come from it.” – Sanchez, suddenly wishing that Sherazhina had come along.

“Calm yourself, Sanchez, this is the sanctuary that Kyrillos had built when he took the city. Do you see the Greek letter carved into the base of the Holy mother there?” – Teresa

Sanchez nodded, he recognized the stylized kappa that their odd friend used as a mark.

“I’ll be damned.” – Sanchez

“True.” – Ibrahim jested.

“No, there.” – Sanchez pointed to the shadows at the corner of the chapel.

There, trying not to draw attention to themselves stood a small group of armed soldiers dressed in tabards marked with the Ouroboros, the mark of the Obertus Tzimisce.

“It looks like this is the place after all.” – Sanchez scoffed.

The coterie slipped in the church, one of the guards, a captain by the looks of him, nodding as they passed. Once inside the chapel they found that it was completely dark and barren of any signs of life. The gate that led into the Crypts beneath the church had been left ajar a dim light flickered from deep within.

They slid into the crypt to what appeared to be a single chamber with the muted light being cast by an unseen source upon its back wall. Having seen this configuration of rooms before they followed the walls around until the small alcove hidden in the earthen wall where the torch was ensconced; that alcove led to a short corridor which led to a second chamber. This one made of stone and guarded by an iron gate that had been swung wide.

The stone chamber was nearly as dark as the one before, as it was also illuminated only by the torch behind them. Almost hidden within the shadows of the chamber stood two men, each with skin as dark as the shadows themselves.

Their clothes were distinctly Arabic in style, with sweeping black robes and sashes of indigo and gray that held curved blades that inexplicably caught the torchlight and gleamed with wicked lethalness. One was small and youthful, carrying himself with an effeminate grace and was marked by his lack of facial hair. The other was of smaller stature but seemed to somehow take up more space; his large black beard hid his mouth completely while his eyes gleamed with wicked intelligence.

They stood there silently for a moment without saying a word.

Ibrahim recognized the bearded man instantly: his name was Fariq and he’d been his minder in Transylvania since his arrival.

Abdul bowed to his handler.

“There’s no need for such formality you Saracen cur!” – Kyrillos’ voice seemed to echo in the small chamber.

Abdul looked up to see the two Saracens step aside to reveal Kyrillos standing behind them, a smile splitting his bearded face.

“It’s been too long, Count Kyrillos.” – Teresa lied.

“Yes it has, Lady Teresa. This is Fariq an old ally from Buda-Pest and his clan-mate Husayn.” – Kyrillos

The name flashed in the Lasombra’s mind.

“We have met, have we not, Husayn? In Serdica I believe, though it has been more than a century since I was last graced by your presence.” – Teresa

The Assamite’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptivity.

“Yes, I do believe you’re right. You are the childe of the Lord of the Sea of Shadows, yes?” – Husayn’s soft voice almost cooed.

Teresa curtsied. He was as polite as ever, and she wanted to divest him of his face for it.

“Indeed I am.”

“Enough of this, Teresa, you need not play nice with the heathens, they are hired men not honored guests, how have you been?” – Kyrillos laughed before slipping unbearably close to the Lasombra.

“Have you heard from Lucita?” – Kyrillos whispered conspiratorially, his face the very embodiment of concern.

“Not in many years. The last word I received from her was that she was worried for Anatole, whom, I’m sure you’ve heard, has become a bit of a diablerist. That was at the very turn of the century.” – Teresa, unsure of why she was whispering.

“Yes, we’d heard such rumors ourselves, it is why we asked you. I am sure that Lucita is safe with the Holy man. We have been told by our daughter, Ulrike, that Gauthier and his small brood follow the French nomad with something akin to religious fervor. They call him a prophet. We can ask after her if you’d like, it is rare that Gauthier spends too much time away from Brasov and we are still in contact with Josephus, of course, our Childe rarely speaks to us anymore, he sees our defection from the Black Cross as tantamount to Blasphemy.” – Kyrillos hissed.

“I would like that very much.” – Teresa.

The Malkavian stepped away from her again and was once again gregarious and confident.

---

“What brings you here, Fariq?” – Ibrahim asked quietly.

“One could ask you the same question, Ibrahim.” – Husayn interjected.

Fariq gestured for Husayn to be quiet.

“Our Ally and I were hired by Lord Vykos to make certain the Usurper, Goratrix, would not be capable of employing his sorceries against your allies or escape before your arrival, though I must agree with our Clanmate in saying that your presence was unexpected.” – Fariq

“Interesting, so then, if you have secured the prisoner, why was our presence requested?” – Ibrahim asked ignoring his mentor’s curiosity.

“Our contract simply called for his capture and detainment. This cohort in which you find yourself attached is to present it to the Tremere fortress.” – Fariq

“It seems strange that a contract would be stipulated so awkwardly.” – Ibrahim

“We were offered the full contract when we were hired but we agreed in our unwillingness to enter even the shadow of Ceoris.” – Fariq, bluntly.

“And my friends owed him a favor.” – Ibrahim, putting it together.

Fariq nodded.

“And it would behoove you to join them, should you be thinking of staying behind. If we were to find the Usurper stronghold it would be a victory for our clan.” – Fariq

“If there is anyone who needs refreshment the Kicking Pig’s proprietor is aware of our needs and can easily procure you with Vitae should you need it.” – Kyrillos, though he spoke to all those assembled his eyes only momentarily left Sanchez.

No one moved, though Sanchez sneered at his seditious friend.

The younger looking one stepped forward.

“If you are rested Fariq and I shall conduct you to the room in which your charge awaits you.” – Husayn

The Assamite led the vampires into the next chamber where a wooden coffin lay on the stone sarcophagus; its lid had been nailed shut.

“Regretfully, I must release him as I have been commanded to do so in my contract. I hope that his need for blood will occupy him long enough for you to explain why you are here. It would be most regrettable should he injure you before you can learn your mission.” – Husayn.

As he spoke Fariq appeared holding a woman by the arm. She was docile and compliant but her face was streaked with tears.

With a heave, Husayn tore the lid from the coffin. Inside was a large man with pale skin, his hair, cut short, was a reddish shade of blond. His nose was hooked and his thin mouth was twisted into a sneer even as it lay passive.

His pale blue eyes, half closed and unmoving, seemed to bore into whoever was in his line of sight with a hatred that was almost palpable.

His dress was that of a French nobleman, his hands and robes practically encrusted with jewels. The fine fabrics were marred by the bloody stains that had welled up around the stake that had been driven through his heart. Each of them felt their beasts clawing to get away from the staked monster lying before them.

“Here are those who guarantee your safe passage through the lands ahead. Our contract is now satisfied. Go in peace, Goratrix bani Tremere.” – Husayn, leaning in close to whisper into the vampire’s ear.

When he stood, Fariq tore the stake from the other vampire’s chest and thrust the girl into the coffin with him. Powerful hands entwined the mortal and held her close as the frenzied elder fed. By the time the woman was dead both Assamite elders had vanished.

The conspiracy decided to give the elder usurper some privacy as he drained the poor girl dry. Only a few minutes passed before he stepped into the room.

“So, you’re the ones that are going to escort me to Ceoris?” – Goratrix, with a wry half-smile.

April 8, 1314, 11:38pm
The Transylvanian Wilds
The Realm of the Obertus

It had been nearly a fortnight since they’d left the domain of Kyrillos, while they did take a few wagons they had decided to take the back roads and forest trails instead of taking the more traveled highways through the Transylvanian forests and while they’d taken to conserving their vitae they soon realized that without the Count they would not have survived so long.

It seemed that Kyrillos had a knack, not only for navigating the forest, a trait he shared with Sanchez and Ibrahim, but also for finding blood. It was animal blood to be sure, but they had not gone completely hungry on the journey.

The other positive result to traveling the less well known byways was that they had been able to dodge more than one Tzimisce ambush, again mostly because of the strange insights that came from Kyrillos.

When they drew near a small village called Alceditz they were all weary but not starved of blood. They were, however, exhausted by the Tremere Elder.

Goratrix had spent the entirety of their trip trying desperately to turn them away from their mission, to set him free, or help him break the pull he felt drawing him to Ceoris. As they approached Alceditz he became desperate and his confident demeanor completely collapsed.

“You know that if you bring me to the fortress none of you will ever see your homes again!” – Goratrix blurted as the villages’ wooden walls appeared on the horizon.

Sanchez hung his head, he’d been experimentally trying to hide himself from the others, mentally picturing himself as being ‘apart’ from them, as Master Zelios had suggested when Goratrix began to blather on, wrecking his concentration.

“No man, woman or child, living or dead, who is not of Tremere’s blood or at least loyal to him unto death, has ever seen the fortress and survived!” – Goratrix

“I’m sure that that is true, Lord Goratrix.” – Teresa, as if speaking to a mewling child.

Sanchez was listening, though. It only made sense that that was why Vykos had been so adamant that they should go, forsaking the debt they owed him for a simple escort for a man who seemed incapable of going anywhere else only made sense if the Fiend thought that they might be destroyed.

“How was I to know that the King would demand that the Templars would be destroyed? That wasn’t my fault, I was simply trying to cement my influence of the Court in Paris, to wrest a little control from Salianna and her Ventrue whore, Geoffrey. How was I to know that he would destroy an entire holy order?” – The Tremere pleaded

“What have you to fear in going back then, Goratrix? You’ll receive a slap on the wrist, lose your domain, perhaps have to begin from scratch? Your Long Night isn’t going to come to an end.” – Kyrillos, sympathetically.

“If you have any sympathy for me you must help me to free myself from the Usurper’s grasp! I am not willfully returning to them, it is their magic that calls me back!”

“I’ll not stop you should you attempt to run.” – Ibrahim

“I cannot run you damned Saracen, I have been hexed into returning.” – Goratrix, his fangs flashing as he turned to face Ibrahim

“I’m sorry Goratrix, but as we have explained, we are bound to escort you back to your kin. It is out of our hands.” – Kyrillos.

“While I am not bound by this oath that they made, my hands are tied lest I can find some way to profit from releasing you.” – Ibrahim, candidly

Sanchez rolled his eyes and smirked.

“I will pay anything if you can help me to break this spell. I shall even unlock, for you, the secrets of Tremere Art of Thaumaturgy.” – Goratrix

“Wouldn’t your brethren amongst the House destroy us for learning those arts?” – Kyrillos, plainly. The Usurper was no longer amusing him.

“Only if they found out, and I don’t plan to see them again, so how would they find out?”

“They would know, sooner or later, they would find out.” – Kyrillos.

By his body language it was clear that, at least for him the conversation was over.

“This has been a fantastic trip.” – Teresa to the Malkavian.

“Hasn’t it though, perhaps I shall take up horseback riding.” – Kyrillos responded.

April 9, 1314, 12:06am
The village gates
Alceditz

The men who had accompanied the conspiracy on the journey were near apoplectic by the time they’d reached the village gates. They had weathered the storms and the company of the damned poorly, having to camp out in the mud amidst the worst storms any of them could remember in their (for some, unnaturally long) lives. They’d lost another horse during the day when a lightning-struck tree fell upon it, crushing its hindquarters.

When they reached the inn (marked by the sign of a golden stag) they did not ask their masters that they should stop, but simply trudged in and paid for whatever shelter they could find.

When the Conspiracy joined them, though, they found that the inn was full. In fact it was too full. The place was filled with nearly two dozen ruggedly dressed young men. Even if this village had been on a regularly traveled thoroughfare they would only expect to see a small handful of men and women, almost all of which would have been drunken locals.

Sanchez nudged Ibrahim as Kyrillos nodded to him. They had all noticed it, a swatch of cloth here, a patch there and a tattoo over in the corner. Each of these men bore the mark of the black cross.

These men were Templars.

The Order of the Black Cross had been disbanded nearly two generations ago when Jürgen had been relieved of Magdeburg, though if rumors were true, Lucretia had stayed behind. But the Templars had survived, at least they had until their destruction a year before.

That made these men survivors and refugees. That made these men dangerous.

And they were watching the Conspiracy, too, since the moment that they’d entered the men had been surreptitiously been keeping an eye on the pale newcomers.

“Innkeeper, I would pay for a round of drinks for everyone in this room!” – Goratrix, cheerfully.

There are a modest number of shouts of thanks or good cheer, with a number of men coming to the bar with their cups to be filled.

Kyrillos fought past them.

“Keep, I would like a room.” – Kyrillos.

“I am sorry sir, but the inn is full, the good men you see before you have purchased almost all of them.” – The barkeep.

Ibrahim slid up next to their charge.

“If I were to escape, now would be the time, usurper.” – Ibrahim whispered.

“Watch.” – Goratrix whispered back, hushing the Assamite, he was studying the crowd.

The tension in the room was tangible and Kyrillos was fascinated as he watched the flickering colors of the knights’ auras.

Sanchez went to the bar and picked up as many flagons as he could, passing the ale out to the dower little mob.

Kyrillos had already taken a seat next to a grizzled old man who didn’t seem to belong with the rest of them.

“I’ll tell you this, friend, I’ve just come in from a hunt and there ain’t nothing out there. The entire forest has gone quiet the last week. Something ill comes this way I tell you, there ain’t nothing out there but deer carcasses and bugs.” – the old man said before taking one last pull from his now empty cup.

---

Sanchez sat down with a largish group of knights, setting down the ale he’d brought with him, passing them out until each of the men had one, seemingly keeping two for himself.

“Why so glum gentleman, you have your youth, your health, what more could you want?” – Sanchez laughed and held up one of his cups.

The knights shrugged and lifted their own in turn, a few even smiled begrudgingly, infected as they were by the Spaniard’s exuberance.

“This is no time for merriment brothers.” – said a man who did not raise his cup.

He was older than the others, his skin dark with sun, his thick dark hair dusted with gray.

“Yes, brother Kalas.” – the men mumbled.

“Why is that…Kalas? I say, it’s always time for merriment, the only question is ‘to what measure?’.” – Sanchez laughed.

A few of the knights chuckled quietly, in spite of themselves, but they quickly quieted down and all of the men turned back to their dire looks and sullen mutterings.

After a few minutes one of the knights stood up and walked back to his room and then another came and took his place. Sanchez wandered the crowded room and over and over he saw the same thing. A knight would stand abruptly and walk back towards his room and a moment later he would be replaced by another.

Sanchez smiled and began to watch in earnest.

April 9, 1314, 12:52am
The Sign of the Golden Stag
Alceditz

“If you will give me a moment of your time, Lady Teresa.” – Goratrix, his face split by a smile that, had she been alive, would have given him a fair chance of sharing her bed.

She was neither alive, nor was she particularly patient at the moment.

“What can I do for you, Lord Goratrix?” – Teresa, sternly

“Not here, I would speak to you in private. There is a room, the second one to the left. The man sleeping there is asleep and drunk. He will not awaken should we use his room as a meeting place.” – Goratrix suggested conspiratorially.

“Fine.” – Teresa said, following after him into the room.

When they reached the room Goratrix opened it easily, its lock had evidently never been latched. Sure enough there lay an old man with a swollen belly sleeping loudly upon the small bed.

The foppish Goratrix stood over the old drunk, his mouth quirked almost comically to the left in a caricature of a judgmental Parent.

“Hungry.” – Goratrix, flashing that smile again.

“No. What did you have to say that required privacy?” – Teresa, tersely.

“It can wait, I am hungry.” – Goratrix.

He bent down as he spoke, folding almost in half at the waste to do so. His hand never left his side as his lips curled back to reveal his long and ferociously sharp fangs. His mouth opened almost too wide as he inhaled sharply.

Teresa stepped back as she watched a cloud of red mist rise from the old man, staining his clothes as it wafted upward.

The cloud collected over the old man until he paled and then seemed to deflate ever so slightly. The cloud looked like nothing less than a bloody thunderhead over the old man’s corpse before it condensed further and then flowed upward in a stream of blood into the warlock’s mouth.

The vampire dabbed at his chin with a bit of bedding and then turned his gaze not upon Teresa but on the corner behind her.

“You can come out now, Assamite, You are fooling no one but your beautiful friend, here.” – Goratrix gloated.

“I don’t believe that I was fooling her either, Usurper, she signaled for me to follow.” – Ibrahim.

“yes, yes, you’re both very clever. Can we move on now?” – Goratrix held his hands up pleadingly before him, as if he were about to grab his own face.

Teresa and Ibrahim shared a quick glance and then nodded.

“I know what those Damned Templars have. Or at least I think I do, which is to say that I do. You, my shadow and beautiful friend, seem like an enterprising young vampire and I would like to give you a chance to help me achieve the power necessary to release me from my Bond and, Trust me, honey, it is worth all of your lives, and possibly my own to attain it.” – Goratrix

Teresa’s eyes narrowed as he spoke. She was deciding if she could kill him fast enough to keep his magic to bare against her.

“Surely, one so worldly as yourself have heard of the Tales of the fabulous treasure of the Knights Templar! It disappeared from their stronghold when their order was recently…annihilated…in France, (of which I only played the smallest of part in). You see some of the knights escaped into the night and I bet your Saracen’s black little soul that these are they! If we can get our hands on this treasure we will gain the greatest treasure ever seen in this world…You don’t look convinced… what would it mean to you to be immortal but be able to see the sun with your own eyes again? How would you like the power to command nations and lay waste to your enemies with but the wave of your supple hand? Help me, I beg you, and you will never regret it! Or I could be wrong and they will only have a few thousand libra with which we may enrich ourselves.” – Goratrix

“I’m in.” – Ibrahim, honestly.

“What would you get out of this deal?” – Teresa asked incredulously.

“You mean beyond my cut of any wealth and the power to break my Master’s bond and cripple my many enemies? Nothing, what can I say, I am the embodiment of Charity.” – Goratrix.

Teresa had to admit that the ancient man-child made a good offer.

Goratrix clapped his hands together, happily.

“Excellent, now, would either of your allies be willing to assist us in our little caper?” – Goratrix, rubbing his hands together.

There came an abrupt knock at the door and Goratrix’s smile grew wider.

“I do believe that Master Sanchez is in.”

April 9, 1314, 2:24am
The Sign of the Golden Stag
Alceditz

Goratrix’s plan was simple and to the point. Sanchez would work his way into the minds of the next shift of knights, leading them in one more drink while Teresa knocked on the door of the guarded room. When a knight opened the door she would mesmerize him and command him to let her in, where she would carefully make both guards forget that the treasure had ever been there. Whilst this was happening Ibrahim would slip in unnoticed and abscond with the Treasure itself, with which he would then slip out of the Inn unnoticed and hide it.

When all was said and done no one would even know that anyone had left the building.

It was a brilliant plan.

Unfortunately for them the knights were not the most reasonable of marks.

When it was discovered that the chest had vanished the Knights went into action. Not only did they lock down the Sign of the Golden Stag but also the houses and building that surrounded them, going so far as to roust a number of people from their beds.

Goratrix and Teresa had been prepared for this and when the knights stormed the room they were discovered in bed and thrown out into the common room with the rest, their room torn apart in searching for the chest.

Now they all stood in the common room while Brother Kalas and his knights ransacked every house, store, wagon and room.

“Nobody is leaving until we find it!” – Kalas, to the assembled people.

The assembled mortals looked bewildered and most of them were still half asleep.

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID! – Kyrillos roared inside Sanchez’s head.

Hearing another voice in his head startled the Toreador, who glanced around the room until he saw Kyrillos glaring angrily at him.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? – Kyrillos’ mind invaded his mind again, but this time Teresa reacted as well.

Four knights returned from ransacking the carriages. One of them was holding a case.

“What is that, Brother Vigo?” – Kalas.

“We found it in one of the wagons and could not open it.” – the Italian responded.

“That is my, sir knight, it is simply a case that holds some toys that I have been designing for a friend.” – Sanchez, nervously

“Open it.” – Kalas

“It is only trinkets, Sir, nothing to worry yourself over, some stone working that is all.” – Sanchez, bashfully.

“Open it now or we will kill you. I do not have patience for someone so unserious as yourself.” – Kalas, drawing his sword.

Sanchez looked nervously toward Teresa and then unlocked the chest, which sprang open instantly.

Inside were six beautifully crafted stone ships. Each a completely different design and marked by the flags of a different nation. Though each had been crafted from a single piece of stone they were meticulously shaped as if by hand, with details that should have been impossible, such as rippling flags and the grain of the wood used to build the boat.

Kalas held one of the ships and inspected it carefully.

“You worked this, mason?” – Kalas

“I did. Each one takes years of disciplined work.” – Sanchez

“They are beautiful.” – Kalas said, gently placing it back in the box.

“Was there anything else on the wagon?” – Kalas

“No, sir.” – Vigo confirmed

“Make sure that this crate is put back onto it than, and be careful with it.” – Kalas, carefully closing the lid.

“You have a God-given talent, mason.” – Kalas to Sanchez

“Thank you, sir.” – Sanchez.

April 9, 1314, 4:56am
The Sign of the Golden Stag
Alceditz

Things remained tense for the next two and a half hours before Kalas declared the search over, at least locally, the men had found a pair of horses and a wagon stolen two houses down and that, along with the missing man from the inn, it was believed that whoever absconded with the treasure had left the city. Kalas split his sixteen men into three forces, one would follow the road west and another east, with the third staying behind just in case.

The Conspiracy’s drivers and footmen were utterly exhausted by the time the Knights allowed them to sleep, but now there were rooms available and the men were given leave by Kyrillos to take the day and the next night to rest.

When Teresa and Goratrix returned to ‘their room’ they discovered Ibrahim waiting for them, sitting upon the crate.

“Do you want to see what is inside?” – Ibrahim asked.

“Absolutely.” – Sanchez said from the door way.

The chest was locked by five separate pad-locks, which none knew how to pick. However Teresa cut through the Gordian Knot by simply tearing the locks apart with her bare hands.

Goratrix smiled appreciatively at her strength and then opened the crate.

Inside was a smaller box carved form and sheathed in gold. Winged figures perched atop of it, facing one another, their wings stretched toward one another as if they were frozen while trying to take off.

“Oh, God!” – Teresa

“It is the Ark of the Testimony.” – Ibrahim, breathlessly.

“It’s the Ark of the Covenant.” – Sanchez, fell to his knees.

“We must open it.” – Goratrix.

“How are we going to open something that would kill holy men who dared to touch it?” – Sanchez

Goratrix lifted his arms with a flourish and intoned something in what sounded like archaic Latin. With a heavy rattling noise the Ark’s lid shook and then slowly lifted away.

Goratrix was the first to look into the holy vessel, though only by a single instant, the rest were there too, looking into the box.

Goratrix hung his head and stepped back dejectedly.

“It’s not real.”

It was true, this was not the Ark, but a simple chest worked to look like it. No faith infused its edifice and what was inside was surely not the tablets on which were carved the ten commandments.

What was there was two stacks of ivory tablets etched with cuneiform writing.

“Ah, hell.” – Sanchez, mystified.

“What are they?” – Ibrahim asked.

“Tablets inscribed in the tongue of Nod.” – Teresa, studying them.

“They are beyond worthless!” – Goratrix spat, he ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation.

“Do you have a way to read them?” – Ibrahim asked.

“Yes, there’s a key, but it is hidden far from here.” – Sanchez, frustrated by the entire situation.

“No, I learned the tongue decades ago. I use it for my own journals… it is less expressive but very hard to translate.” – Teresa, her eyes and fingers running over the tablet as she spoke.

“What does it say?” – Sanchez

“Its amazing, the letters are far better expressed here than in the golden tablets we saw before, some of the writer’s own ‘character’ has slipped in, but as far as I can tell its gibberish.” – Teresa.

“So you cannot translate it.” – Ibrahim, condescendingly.

“No I understand what the individual words and sentences mean, it just makes no sense. Like here, “Woe unto the fishmonger who boxes the Bear,” and here in the very next sentence “whosoever eats of the earth eats dirt.”.” – Teresa

“It’s a cypher.” – Sanchez, calmly.

Teresa looked up.

“That makes sense, but why?” – Teresa

“You can read this, Teresa? What does it say?” – Goratrix, suddenly bursting out of his fugue and into the conversation.

“It doesn’t say anything, at least not yet. It’s a cypher, it needs a key.” – Teresa, repeating herself was not helping her mood.

“You’re lying to me, damn you, TELL ME WHAT IT SAYS!” – Goratrix, grabbing the Lasombra and trying to force the information out of her, his eyes flicked with an eldritch light.

She felt his mind roll over hers as he commanded her, the way it seemed to choke her own thoughts with the ones he wanted her to have. It was similar enough to her own Voice that she knew what it was but it was still a new experience.

She didn’t like it.

She shrugged the elder off of herself and punched him in the face, his head rocked back hard enough to break a mortal’s neck and he landed hard on the floor a few feet away, scrambling into the corner of the room to try and escape her.

“Don’t you ever touch me.” – Teresa, her voice was cold, her Darkness had nearly taken control of her.

Goratrix stood, the left side of his face was sunken, the bones shattered and even piercing the skin in places. A large clot of blood seemed to be oozing out of his burst eye but even as they watched the clot slowed and then slithered back into place, the socket reforming around it as his discolored skin paled again.

By the time he was done straightening his clothes he was once again the handsome monster he’d always been, though there seemed to be a hungry cast to his eyes.

“I apologize, that was completely inappropriate, Lady Teresa.” – he voice was strained but clear, though his eyes flashed a lambent green as he kept his own inner beast in check.

They spoke for another few moments about how they would split the treasure. Teresa was adamant that all she wanted was the Ivory tablets and Goratrix, now contrite, vowed to forgo his share of the plunder, leaving it to the other two.

Just as they were beginning to decide how it would be divvied up a knock came at the door.

“There are men here who claim to represent House and Clan Tremere. They would like a word with us. Won’t you please bring the package with you?” – Kyrillos spoke through the door. He did not sound happy.

Goratrix took a step back, toward the window.

“I’m not ready, I need more time to fix this.” – he pleaded.

Teresa reached out to take his arm but found that she couldn’t, her hand refused to close on his arm, in fact she couldn’t even touch him.

Sanchez and Ibrahim both tried to trap him as well only to find that neither of them could seem to act against him either.

Goratrix smiled as it dawned on Teresa.

“When did you dominate our will? I was on guard all night.” – Teresa

“Ah but that’s just how I did it, milady, slowly and throughout the night I have been bending all of you to my will. Your mind is as powerful as your body, Lasombra, but compared to my will you’re nothing but a child.” – the Usurper gloated.

Goratrix turned to leave as the door opened, a young looking vampire with a scholarly manor stood there in riding leathers.

“Brother, wait.” – The bookish vampire called out.

“Goodbye, Etrius, thank you for coming to greet me, if you hadn’t I wouldn’t have been able to leave.” – Goratrix gloated as he turned to leap through the window.

A flash of black flame arose from the floor between him and the window causing him to step back abruptly. Standing before him was a man who looked no older than he, but carried with him a presence that nearly brought everyone, even Goratrix and Etrius, to their knees.

His hair was dark and straight and fell back away from his cold blue eyes. His skin was nearly bone white and almost had the appearance of stone. His sunken cheeks and aquiline nose gave him an air of royalty while his mouth, which must have been as capable of smiling as Goratrix’s own was twisted cruel.

The figure wore a deep green cloak that hid his slight form from view but he stood nearly eye to eye with Goratrix, who scuttled away from him faster than he had Teresa after she struck him.

“Milord, I had thought you asleep!” – Goratrix panted.

The figure did not answer immediately, or even acknowledge the sniveling warlock’s presence. Instead he looked about the room in which he stood, craning his neck predatorily as he did so, as if he could see every angle, nook and cranny from the spot on which he seemed to float.

Finally his gaze passed over the Conspiracy. He seemed to look into all of their eyes at once. Though the glance was only a moment and his face was the very image of passive disinterest those pale cruel eyes were windows into a realm of rage and hatred, this being that stood before them sent their inner monsters scrambling in fear as it looked on them, this man who stood before them seemed to seethe with eldritch power that flowed off of him in invisible waves.

Finally the figure’s eyes alighted upon Goratrix who was still on the floor after scrambling away from him, Sanchez could barely make out the word that Goratrix whimpered under his breath:

“Tremere”

The High-Usurper turned his gaze back to the Conspiracy, this time more intently. Sanchez could feel his blood burning, his skin seemed to be on the verge of splitting from the pressure growing within him.

Suddenly Ibrahim, whom Sanchez had completely forgotten was there against the wall, appeared and fled toward the doorway, ready to bowl over the one called Etrius and all the others assembled there.

He didn’t get far though, as his left leg shattered upon making contact with the floor, blood and fragmented bone sprayed everywhere as he fell to his knees. His already black skin darkened further, bubbling up as he screamed.

The Assamite attempted to lift his hands to crawl away only for the skin to tear away from his palm, leaving a trail of ichor and congealed blood from the floor to what was left of his hand. He crawled another two feet before he finally expired, his body congealing and bursting open before their eyes.

Kyrillos’ Madness tried to overtake him as he stood, eye to eye with the Grand Usurper but he kept it in check. Even as Ibrahim screamed and died he refused to allow the Madness to take hold of him and it was punishing him for it. Great wounds opened on the back of his arms and legs and head as the Madness that flowed through him like blood attempted to physically leave his body.

He told the blood to heel, forcing it back in line, but even that did not end his suffering. He could feel the Abomination standing before him tearing his mind apart, he could feel the thing’s spidery fingers sliding through his gray matter, shredding it to find his memories and thoughts and desires.

He felt blood dripping from his eyes and nose and ears as the thing did its work, he fell to his knees as he saw flashes of his childhood mash together with the smell of blood and carnage from the Battle of Toth. He saw his childer, Blain and Omar as they sailed the Mediterranean. And so many other memories and ideas getting torn asunder and discarded.

Teresa fell first, her body finally giving into the eldritch power of Tremere’s mind and simply fading into the shadows, leaving nothing but ash behind. Then Sanchez followed, almost immediately after. His body collapsing to the ground and shattering like porcelain upon stone.

A perverse sense of pride rushed through the old Malkavian as he realized that he would be the last of the Conspiracy to fall. It would be his last thought as his own body finally gave in and was torn apart by his own madness, the last thing that Kyrillos saw was his own body, his head having been disembodied and rolling on the floor, the pulped form convulsing as it tore itself apart.

The last thing he would ever hear was the familiar echo of a madman laughing in the distance.

April 9, 1314, 5:44am
The Sign of the Golden Stag
Alceditz

Lord Tremere looked back to Goratrix and Teresa found herself whole and on her feet where she had been standing before. She looked to the others to see that they too were alive and on their feet, a look of bewilderment stamped onto each of their faces.

Whatever just happened to her and her compatriots left nothing but a sense of the Antediluvian’s white hot contempt for them, as though he had shuffled though their entire existences, her wants and hopes and fears had been laid bare before him and he found her wanting.

“Follow.” – Tremere, his voice was low and husky, as if it had been a long time since he’d last spoke, but to Teresa’s horror it was the voice of a man.

Goratrix’s body lifted off the ground of its own accord, forcing him to watch his own body doing his master’s bidding in abject horror.

Tremere turned as if to go but stopped, glancing back as the one called Etrius before he left.

“Pay them.”

With that Tremere and Goratrix were no longer there, Teresa felt disorientated by the fact that they did not vanish so much as simply cease to be.

The young vampire stepped forward. His shoulders hunched beneath a dark gray hooded cloak, his dark hair curled naturally into ringlets. His eyes seemed to be a dark gray-blue that Teresa had never seen before.

“I hope you understand that I have been instructed by Lord Tremere, Founder and Grand Master of House and Clan Tremere to grant you anything you desire short of the secrets to our Thaumaturgical Arts. You may each make one request of us and it will be granted to the best of our ability.” – Etrius, his voice gentle if stilted.

No one spoke for a long time. It was as though they were all still reeling from whatever it was that Tremere had done to them, but it was Kyrillos that stepped forward first.

“We were here on a matter beyond that of bringing Goratrix home, Lord Etrius, for we find ourselves on a mission to bring an end to this Infernal weather, which we believe we have found a solution to. If you would please, place these runes upon the outer wall of Ceoris facing the Bihor mountains, I will consider your favor to me paid.”

Kyrillos held out a piece of parchment upon which the runes were drawn for Etrius to take.

For his part Etrius looked them over studiously, his eyebrow raised.

“I will have to check to insure that whatever this magic is will in no way affect our own binding charms and wards but if it is possible than it will be done.” – Etrius.

“I would like to have sure passage to Vintila Basarab’s fortress.” – Teresa.

Etrius nodded and looked to the others.

It was Sanchez’s turn.

“Can you help me lessen the Tzimisce Curse?” – Sanchez asked.

“I am sorry that is beyond our power, Master Sanchez.” – Etrius, though he did quirk an eyebrow at the request.

“Then I will simply ask that, should I ever be in need, that I may come to you.” – Sanchez.

Etrius nodded, looking to Ibrahim.

“I would ask for a like favor from your clan, Lord Etrius, but now the dawn approaches and we must find shelter.” – Ibrahim

With that he walked the Methuselah to his horse, discovering on the way that every mortal that had been present in the tavern was on the floor fast asleep.

As the hooded figure of Etrius passed through the city gate Ibrahim returned to the hidey-hole within his wagon, securing himself against the sun, and slipped into the day-sleep.

April 23, 1314, 9:37pm
The Castle on the Hill
The Domain of Kyrillos Dimities
Mad Count of Timisoara

The voyage home should have been swifter and more comfortable, without their ‘precious cargo’ they no longer had to worry about Tzimisce incursions and were able to take the main roads, their men resting each night in whatever town they’d reached while the Conspiracy fed sparingly upon the populous.

That was not the case.

The weather had turned worse in the nights since they had left Alceditz. They’d received word by way of a particularly intelligent raven that Etrius had agreed to apply the runes to the fortress’ defense but by the time they’d reached Timisoara the weather had become nearly insurmountable. More than once they became driven to ground by massive storm fronts that wouldn’t let up even by a forest fire caused by a bombardment of lightning strikes.

Kyrillos had, without question promised them lodging and hunting rights in his domain for as long as was needed to allow their men and horses to recuperate. His own home, which he called Dealul Cetatii, was more than large enough for them all to stay comfortably and stood only a mile from the city proper, which, even in this horrific weather, was only an hour’s ride by horseback.

When they finally arrived at the “Castle on the Hill” the downpour had become so great that it had turned the road into a river of mud. Kyrillos and the others had spent the last half an hour leading the horses and keeping them from slipping or losing their bearings.

As they walked up the wide staircase to the castle’s door they found a young boy waiting for them. He too was soaked to the bone, his unbearably thin legs knocking together in the cold. The skin of his arms and face was covered with patches of dry, cracked and flaky skin that was nearly raw in the cold humidity of the storm.

“Why are you on our doorstep, child?” – Kyrillos

“I come with a missive for Master Sanchez, sir.” – the boy chattered.

The mason stepped forward and took the waxed envelope which bore the seal of Zelios.

He opened it and began to read:

“Greetings unto you,

I hope that you have successfully concluded your business with Lord Myca of the Obertus. Though I know you all look forward to resting after such an arduous journey I have a boon to ask of you all.

You will have noticed that the weather has become even more dangerous and foul each day, the ground here in Alba Iulia quakes and I fear the mountains themselves will tumble down if they do not soon cease. This phenomenon is surely caused by the lashing of the old-god Kupala as we come ever closer to binding him. One castle yet remains, however, that of Vintila Basarab, though I said that I would be able to journey there myself to place the runes upon his castle I realize now that if we are to be successful we must act more quickly and thus I have left for the southern edge of Transylvania to mark the castle there.

Sherazhina was indeed able to pinpoint the actual location of the Fiend’s bastion and a missive came here in the name of Etrius bani Tremere that has been most helpful in charting a course through that dangerous mountain range.

I must ask you to do this in my stead. Please go to the Voivode and convince him to let you set our web, once I have placed my mark in Brasov I must away immediately to the lands of our western cousins and it may be many years before we see each other again.

You will know you’ve succeeded when the rains have stopped.

For the Good of Us all,
Zelios,
Master Builder”

April 23, 1314, 8:37pm
The Castle on the Hill
The Domain of Kyrillos Dimities
Mad Count of Timisoara

“If we kill him we won’t have to do much convincing.” – Teresa once she had changed her clothes and joined the others in the study.

“The war has been cold so long, are we sure we want to fan the flames with the Tzimisce?” – Kyrillos

Sanchez scoffed.

“After this long winter, I could do with some heat.”

They couldn’t help but laugh.

They were still discussing the pros and cons of destroying the Fiend when a knock came to the door.

“Lord Kyrillos, there is a woman at the door who claims to know you.” – Eloise

“Send her in at once.” – Sanchez

Kyrillos nodded, giving the ghoul permission to do so.

Sherazhina entered still wearing her riding cloak, her face hidden by its broad hood. When she revealed herself her demeanor was filled with nervous energy.

Sanchez went to her and they embraced.

“Will we be travelling to Vintila’s citadel?” – She asked anxiously.

He nodded.

Her eyes flashed red as they filled with blood tears.

“What is wrong, lovely?” – Sanchez

“I am worried…” – Sherazhina, cutting herself off.

“About what, Sherazhina, this is the monster you fled from and who has gone out of his way to torment you for over a century. Why are you so unwilling to destroy him?” – Sanchez

“I worry that if we destroy the monster that we will doom my brother as well!” – Sherazhina.

“Your brother?” – Kyrillos, butting into the conversation

“When I left, when I foreswore Vintila’s Embrace, my brother, Dragomir, took my place. My Grandfather would not have embraced him right away; in fact he would have waited until he had proven himself worthy of the blood of Tzimisce. Dragomir was such a delicate soul, always sickly and so very pale and so sensitive to the suffering of others, I worry that should we destroy Vintila that my brother would be destroyed in kind.” – Sherazhina

“You believe your brother to be a ghoul? After a century?” – Teresa

Sherazhina shrugged.

“On my honor, Sherazhina, I will not destroy Vintila until we know the fate of your brother.” – Sanchez, looking to Teresa beseechingly.

The Queen’s eyes darkened.

“Would you be adverse to your brother’s embrace, Sherazhina?” – Kyrillos, watching Teresa.

“I fear that at this point it is the only way to keep him from dying, though I beg of you, don’t let him be cursed with my Tzimisce blood.” – Sherazhina.

“Fine.” – Teresa, her voice seething.

“I will be happy to invite your brother into my family.” – Kyrillos

“Thank you but no, Kyrillos, I do not believe my brother could handle the burden you carry.” – Sherazhina.

“I’ll do it.” – Sanchez, dutifully.

Sherazhina leapt toward him, embracing him tightly.

May 8, 1314, 1:24am
The Bihor Mountains
The Domain of Vintila Basarab
Voivode of Tara Crișana

Teresa’s frustration mounted with each step. She had spent decades searching ever eastward for Vintila’s fortress only to learn that his lair lay far to the north. So far north that there were vast canyons between mountain peaks that were so deep that their bottom was shrouded in mist. Even here the winds whipped hard enough to throw the least vigilant of travelers to their doom.

Though the moon was hidden behind mountains of purplish black clouds they weren’t left wanting for light because lightning arched across the night sky constantly flashing red, green and purple, the thunder that followed was almost loud enough to crack the very mountains themselves.

Here, they were so high that ice and snow fell and they had long ago abandoned their horses and wagons to walk the slick and frozen paths.

When they came to the natural land bridge between two cliffs Sanchez couldn’t help but laugh nervously but they were able to cross without too much trouble.

On the other side though, the weather grew even worse. Lightning struck within feet of them and blew away pieces of the mountain pass. Hail assaulted them, hurled like frozen arrows from the clouds with such force that it knocked Kyrillos off of his feet and broke Sanchez’s shoulder.

Finally they saw in the distance, clinging to the cliff face like a great skeletal hand, rose the Castle of Teresa’s foe.

The Fortress was built directly out of the stone and seemed to be crafted from seven stone spires and wrapped around the mountain. Each tower had a few small windows that wound around it. The base of the structure was itself thirty feet tall and constructed of smooth gray stone that jutted out only slightly from the mountain side, which meant that much of the structure must have been built within the mountain itself. A long balcony began some ninety feet from the end of the mountain pass, jutting out a full twelve feet.

“Master Zelios had no part in the construction of this monstrosity.” – Sanchez as the approached the largest door he had ever seen.

The door was crafted from black petrified wood and was guarded by two massive and grotesque gargoyles.

The wind blowing through the canyon sounded more like an angry wail than anything natural.

“Do you see that?” – Sanchez

He pointed at a window near the top of the first spire.

“Somebody’s home.” – Kyrillos

Red lightning arced across the sky again and Sanchez saw within the clouds a vast antlered figure standing over the mountain range, its arms raised to strike them down. When the thunder came he could here within it the Demon’s voice speaking in a guttural tongue he did not know.

“Ku…pala.” – Sanchez whispered dreamily.

“What?” – Sherazhina.

The mason blinked.

“What?” – the Mason, defensively.

“I thought you said something.” – Sherazhina looked at him with worry in her eyes.

He shrugged back.

“Be on your guard, we are not alone.” – Kyrillos too watched the figure in the sky.

“How are we going to place the runes on a wall that hangs over a crevice?” – Teresa, angrily.

“It is stone, Teresa, I will have no problem.” – Sanchez boasted.

With one more nervous glance skyward the Toreador leapt over the void and alighted upon the wall like a cat leaping to the ground from a great height.

The Toreador skittered slowly across the castle wall on his hands and feet keeping one eye skyward as he inched his way over the ice and frozen stone.

Sanchez was a third of the way across the wall when suddenly he heard the banging of metal on metal, tiny vibrations pulsed through the wall.

“I am Kyrillos Dimities, Count of Timisoara and Vassal to Symeon of Byzantium, I have come to parley to the master of this castle!” – Kyrillos bellowed at the door.

“Goddamned Lunatic!” – Sanchez hissed as he crawled toward the balcony.

After some time the great door opened, a single candle lighting the crack in the door.

Sherazhina stepped forward pulling the hood of her traveling cloak away and revealed herself, her natural regality and poise practically illuminating her face.

Only Teresa noticed the girl’s fingers had dug so deep into her hands that they began to press out from the other side. The queen shivered in horror, she had never seen the Tzimisce’s power to manipulate flesh in action before.

“Who goes there?” – came a weak rasp from the other side of the door.

“I am Sherazhina of the Basarab, Granddaughter and chosen Childe of Vintila.” – Sherazhina, confidently.

The door opened farther revealing a small man whose white hair was cut in the style of a page. He had eyes the prettiest shade of blue that Teresa had ever seen, though the one to the left was slightly larger and offset on his face, the gray flesh around it warped like melted wax. The man’s mouth was cleft, leaving his flat gray teeth visible.

If his face was malformed his body was grotesque. Though he wore a cloak to hide the bulk of his deformities it was apparent that his neck was abnormally long and twisted at a strange angle, almost as if it was jointed, this ‘jointed’ look became more horrible when he moved his head as if bending it like an elbow. His shoulders sat too low on the body, so low that his free hand reached the ground, only after a moment did Teresa realize that it wasn’t a hand so much as a cloven foot of a pig. The other arm, the one holding the candle, reached higher than it should, even though its shoulder was twisted upward sharply, adding to the man’s hunched stance.

As he turned his body to get a better look at the visitors they caught glimpse of his great undulating belly which hung almost to the ground.

As the horror looked closely at Sherazhina his larger eye focused as a cat’s might.

Teresa took a step back so that Kyrillos stood between her and the pathetic creature that stood before them.

“I would have an audience with my grandfather.” – Sherazhina

The creature’s human eye widened.

“Please, please, come out of the rain. It has been so long since we have received visitors.” – The figure rasped.

Once they were all inside the creature laboriously closed the great door and turned back to them.

“I shall see to my master. Please make yourselves at comfortable, I shall return momentarily.”

May 8, 1314, 1:53am
Outside Castle Basarab
The Domain of Vintila Basarab
Voivode of Tara Crișana

Sanchez had reached the balcony some fifteen minutes before and had been hurriedly carving, first through the snow and ice and finally into the stone itself. It was slow going but he was getting it done, three of the five symbols had already been etched into the stone when the wind suddenly died.

“Shit.” – Sanchez, working faster.

Crimson ice cycles had formed on his eyebrows, his nose and the back of his hands.

The frozen rain had dropped his temperature to freezing by now and he’d been forced to warm his body with what little Vitae he had left.

He was still carving the ice away to start on the forth rune when he smelled ozone. He called to his beast and found himself clinging to the wall nearly twenty feet higher than the balcony before a bolt of Purple lightning arced out of the sky and struck the ruins. The light flowed through the stone, superheating it and then the thunder came.

In the cold of the mountain chasm the wall of wind and sound shattered the balcony and some of the wall besides.

Sanchez turned, braced his feet against the masonry, and got back to work.

May 8, 1314, 2:10am
Castle Basarab
The Domain of Vintila Basarab
Voivode of Tara Crișana

The creature disappeared for quite some time, long enough that they began to wonder aloud that they might have been abandoned, or were being set up.

Just when they were about give up and leave they heard the rasping voice again, from atop the staircase.

“The Master will see you now.”

They climbed the staircase, a massive winding thing with shallow stairs. Halfway up they realized what had taken the crippled creature so long.

“What is your name, friend?” – Kyrillos asked

“The master took my name from me lifetimes ago, sir.” – The creature said dismissively.

They finally reached the landing that the creature was looking for and they followed him down a long windowless corridor. The walls of the corridor were covered in what appeared to be a series of frescos in the classical style of Rome. The newest was nearly a quarter of a century old and depicted the monster they all knew as Vintila, clad in his living armor and mounted upon a hellhound the size of a horse, a sword in one hand and the severed and bloody head of a fallen foe in the other.

The foe was easily recognizable as Teresa.

“This should go well, I think.” – Teresa, flatly.

The farther they walked the older the frescos became and as a result the more human their subject appeared.

One that was dated to the time of Teresa’s embrace showed a remarkably beautiful man with the familiar sneer and white hair of her foe, but he was dressed as a Magyar nobleman, all leather and fur, at his side were two children, a dark haired girl and a fair haired boy.

Further back still, next to the door of the chamber they were to enter, was the final fresco, depicting a regal Magyar prince, his skin paled but not inhumanly so, his hair a shock of blond, his left hand upon the neck of a black steed, a hound asleep at his feet. The look on the man’s face was not cruel but resolute, as if he carried a great burden upon his shoulders, the skies in this painting were the only that were not overcast, instead showing a sunset in the distance.

“When was this painted?” – Sherazhina

“Each of these frescos, save this one, was painted before the Master took to slumber. This one was commissioned by his Sire, Vladimir Rustovitch, upon the completion of this castle in 956, as the Christians count the years to commemorate his First Death.” – The creature wheezed professorially before opening a smaller door that led into the second tower.

“Your Master is in torpor?” – Teresa. It would have explained the sudden decrease in attacks.

“Oh no, not anymore.” – The Creature, bowing and motioning for them to enter.

Inside was what appeared to be a library, which seemed to have taken up one of the towers. Books lined each of the walls along with three staggeringly tall book shelves. Before that though, safely recessed into the mountain, stood a writing table and an ancient stone sarcophagus. Upon it was carved the familiar image of Vintila Basarab that seemed to have been hewn from the very mountain itself.

Sitting at the desk was a young man garbed in a familiar shade of red. His skin was as pale as snow and seemed to reflect too much of the meager candle light. His hair was a shade of blond so pale that it looked like spun sunlight, and curled slightly as it reached its terminus at his chin. When he looked up at his visitors his eyes were a brilliant shade of green, not unlike Sherazhina’s own.

“Dragomir!” – Sherazhina cried out as she rushes to her brother.

“I am sorry, you have caught me unaware?” – Dragomir, his voice high and detached.

The pale vampire held his sister at arm’s length and instantly the conspiracy was struck by the resemblance. The two looked nothing alike and yet somehow could be mistaken for nothing else but siblings.

“Have we met?”

“Dragomir, it’s me, Sherazhina!”

The boy’s eyes widened with recognition.

“Sherazhina! Is it really you?” – The boy came alive as he spoke.

They hugged each other tightly and then he stepped away from her suddenly.

“Where are my manners? Welcome to my home, I am unaccustomed to having visitors, I hope I have not offended you with my deplorable reception.” – Dragomir

“Dragomir, It’s me, Sheri, these are my friends.”

The boy furrowed his brow slightly.

“And what brings you to my castle?” – Dragomir, confused.

“We were under the impression that this was the castle of Vintila Basarab.” – Kyrillos, suspiciously

“Of course, of course, and yes this is the home of my Grandfather. It is our Castle, for I am his chosen heir.” – Dragomir, who looked longingly at his sister as he spoke.

“Is your Grandfather here?” – Teresa

“…Yes, he hasn’t left in some time.” – Dragomir, looking past them to the sarcophagus.

Teresa glanced back at the stone slab as well and smiled wickedly.

“He sleeps, then?” – Teresa, trying desperately to keep her composure.

“How long has he slept?” – Kyrillos

Dragomir’s shoulders slumped as if under the burden of his melancholy.

“Alas, you misunderstand me, my grandfather is no more, I am the master of Basarab Castle now.”

“How did this happen?” – Teresa, crushed that she would not kill the Fiend herself

“Yes, we must give our condolences to you, Dragomir.” – Kyrillos

“Yes, he truly was the best; I have not tasted his like since that night.” – Dragomir

Sherazhina stepped back as he looked at her with hungry eyes.

“Tonight’s Cainites have so little breeding. So little… Taste.” – Dragomir, his voice lower than before and they could now make out the telltale impressions of fangs against his upper lip.

The young vampire blinked twice and then smiled.

“But that is neither here nor there, how may I assist you this evening?” – His voice chipper.

“You killed grandfather?” – Sherazhina

The now manic vampire smiled at her.

“I know you must be devastated to hear of grandfather’s fate, his blood was pure, and so potent, but he was weak. Years of fighting the Black Queen from the White City took their toll and he was forced to sleep… Shall I show you?” – Dragomir, excitedly

Kyrillos couldn’t help but laugh.

“Yes let me show you how it happened, please, please, sit. Let me entertain my guests.” – Dragomir, motioning for his ghoul to bring chairs.

Teresa looked to Kyrillos with horror in her eyes and then to the ghoul who motioned for her to sit, his eyes beseeching her to relax and go with whatever the mad vampire asked.

Dragomir, for his part, swept over to the sarcophagus with all the flare of a showman and with a mighty heave pushed the lid aside to crash upon the stone floor.

“If you would assist me?” – Dragomir, to his servant.

The ghoul reached up with his massive left arm and hoisted himself up and into the sarcophagus.

“Please, as my guests you must judge the truth of the events that are about to unfold before you. I pray you be kind though, we so rarely have guests for which I may perform.” – Dragomir flamboyantly.

Dragomir sped toward the door and turned back toward the sarcophagus.

“Grandfather! Grandfather? It is the dinner hour and I grow hungry!” – Dragomir, his voice shrill.

The mad vampire crept dramatically toward the sarcophagus and pantomimed once again throwing open the lid before turning toward his audience as if imploring them to pay attention to the important part.

“Grandfather? I. Must. Feed!” Dragomir’s voice was urgent as he looked into the coffin.

Suddenly Dragomir shrieked as his fangs, two long barbed sickles, extended before he buried his face into the shoulder of his ghoul with enough force that they heard bones snap.

They watched, horrified, as he messily drained his servant of blood before unceremoniously dropping him, his barbed fangs tearing an even larger gash into his servant’s neck.

“Grandfather! Grandfather!” – Dragomir cried out before peeling out with a cackle that shook the walls before degenerating into a low weeping mumble.

With a sudden and inhuman roar the mad vampire leapt over the sarcophagus toward his audience.

Sherazhina knocked over her own chair while throwing herself back away from the monster that had once been her brother, great bloody tears stained her cheeks.

Kyrillos, too, was horrified by the performance but instead of trying to escape the seemingly frenzied Fiend stood up and bellowed.

“Enough, you must stop this, Dragomir!”

The blond vampire did indeed stop, his barbed fangs vanishing again into his mouth, as he stood up straight. He turned to the Malkavian.

“You did not like the performance? Was there no truth in it?” – Dragomir, his voice small, as if worried that he had performed poorly.

“I can honestly tell you, Dragomir, that it was the greatest and most horrifying performance I have ever witnessed.” – Kyrillos, patting the man-child on the shoulder.

Dragomir smiled wanly at the elder.

“How long ago did this occur?” – Teresa

“Not two years ago my grandfather sent out his hordes to destroy the Usurperous Black Queen of the White City, a city long lorded over by my grandfather. But he’d grown so weak from grafting his army that he fell asleep and would not wake come nightfall, nor did he rise the next night or any night thereafter for a fortnight.” – Dragomir

Kyrillos was drawn to the sound of chuckling, only to find Ibrahim sitting on the floor in the corner of the library his head in his hands trying desperately to staunch his laughter.

“I am so glad that you enjoy my performance, my black friend, you have made my night!” – Dragomir, his face brightening as he approached the still laughing Saracen.

After embracing Ibrahim in a great bear hug, Dragomir looked to the assembled Cainites.

“Now, why have you come here?” – Dragomir.

May 8, 1314, 2:32am
Outside Castle Basarab
The Domain of Dragomir Basarab
Voivode of Tara Crișana

The lightning had threatened him thrice since starting his work and thrice he’d been forced to start over. It hadn’t been all for not, however, because he’d deciphered a pattern in the strikes and realized that it took the demon time to focus his power enough to direct the eldritch lightning.

Even now he was carving into the stone like a madman, using up what blood he had to coax the beast into speeding his fingers along. Just as he felt the wind dye down he began the last figure belonging to the last rune.

He smelled the ozone and felt the static electricity in the air but didn’t stop, his senses fully exposed he could hear the buzz of the clouds parting, of the lightning bolt forming within them.

Just as the lightning began to arc toward him he finished the last etching and…

He felt the rush of warm air and saw the night sky brighten as the mountainous clouds seemed to dissolve into nothingness. He looked up to see stars like he’d never seen before, and a witch’s moon as bright as any full moon he’d ever seen.

“I’ll be damned, Zelios, I’ll be damned.” – Sanchez laughed.

---

Dragomir looked out the window as if distracted as the rain stopped. His manic eyes glossed over ever so slightly as he looked upon the moon and then, with a furrowed brow he looked back toward the conspiracy.

His eyes cleared as he looked from face to face and he seemed to stretch.

“Sherazhina? Sherazhina! My sister has returned to me!” – Dragomir, his voice no longer manic, but deep and rich.

He picked his sister up and spun around with her as if she were a child before crushing her to himself in a crushing bear hug.

He pushed her away again and looked at her as if for the first time.

“You were cursed too? But I had thought you escaped. It was the only reason I agreed to go along with it, so that he wouldn’t find you.” – Dragomir, his voice filled with concern.

He turned toward the sarcophagus.

“Servant, I have need of you! Go and fetch clean clothes for my sister and her friends, Grandmother’s dresses should do well enough for the ladies and be sure to make ready rooms for my guests! My apologies, I don’t know any of your names.” – Dragomir

Sherazhina immediately began introducing her friends as the deformed servant hurled himself out of the sarcophagus, and limped painfully from the room.

Teresa prepared for a fight that would not come.

“So the city of my birth is yours then.” – Dragomir, thoughtfully.

Teresa nodded.

“If I may ask a boon from you, Queen Teresa, may I have permission to feed within your domain?” – Dragomir

Teresa thought for a moment before speaking.

“While I thank you for your courtesy I must decline, there has been too much blood shed between our lines. I do not believe my childer would forgive me for granting you that right.” – Teresa

“Of course, the animosity between our people may indeed be too great an obstacle to overcome, but please allow me at least to open communications, perhaps we can make a settlement, I have no loyalty to the Voivodate or their war on your lands. That died with my Sire.”

“I can accept that, Lord Dragomir, and perhaps one night soon we could put all this behind us and call each other allies.” – Teresa

“I have no doubt, for not only have you come to this place in peace but you have brought to me the one thing I have wanted the most these long years. You’ve brought to me my sister!” – Dragomir, gleefully

Kyrillos marveled at the change that had overcome the Tzimisce since the rain had stopped. Watching him interact with the others was like watching someone else entirely. The change was so dramatic in fact that it brought the Malkavian a deep sense of dread that he could not shake.

“Why did you come here, Lady Teresa?” – Dragomir

“We came to carve a series of runes into the castle wall in hopes of…” – Teresa didn’t finish her sentence, Dragomir was no longer listening.

For just a moment the thoughtful Tzimisce’s green eyes flashed bloody red and then he rushed to open the window, looking out below at the carving not so far below it.

He turned on Teresa

“We were attempting to end the constant and unending storm, Count Dragomir.” – Teresa

“Why would you do this? What right did you have?” – Dragomir, furiously

“It had to be done.” – Sanchez, appearing in the doorway.

“How so!” – Dragomir, his fangs showing again.

“It was the only way to stop the Demon Kupala from rising.” – Sanchez again, holding out his hand as a sign of good faith.

The red-eyed Tzimisce looked from Sanchez to his outstretched hand and then to Sherazhina’s pleading face.

Taking a deep breath the Fiend calmed himself, his irises returned to their emerald hue, his fangs and claws vanished again into his flesh.

He took Sanchez’s hand.

“Knowing that, I thank you… I’m sorry I don’t know your name.” – Dragomir, tightly.

“I am Sanchez, Master Mason.”

“I am Dragomir Basarab, Voivode of Tara Crișana; I welcome you, Master Sanchez, to my home, come freely and of your own will.”

29th of June, 1263, 8:07pm
The Kicking Pig Tavern
Timisoara, Western Transylvania

Iakov sat outside the tavern eyeing the door. This was such a stupid plan he was sure that his brother, Iózsef, was going to be killed by that lunatic barkeep Simon was going to murder him.

A week ago Iózsef had fallen asleep while drinking with his friends and had stayed behind to help Simon clean up after he kicked everyone out to work off a debt. He was busy scrubbing the blood out of the hearth (a man called Dobrev brained himself while trying to prove he could perform a backflip) Iózsef found a loose stone.

Inside the hollow behind the stone he found a book (Iózsef called it a Journal but he was mostly illiterate so what did he know) that had to be as old as the tavern. Inside was a map of Timisoara (though it called the city Temeschburg) with an X marking an old farmhouse a mile from the gate.

When they were kids they heard a story, an old story that every kid in the city knew by heart:

“Once, Long ago before Timisoara existed there were just a few small families that farmed the land. And then one day, hundreds of years ago, a Nobleman came from the east. Now this Count was old when he came to build his home here, but he lived for a long time, long enough to build the city around him and to shower prosperity on those families that had helped him. But death comes for everyone even the Old Count and when he died he left his home to his children.

“Now this home was no lowly farm house but was the great castle upon the hill that could be seen throughout the city. His children died a long time ago and their children and their children besides, but his descendants still called that castle home.

“But according to legend when the old Count came to Timisoara he brought with him a great treasure, one that granted him both his vast wealth and his extraordinarily long life and he knew that his sons and daughters could not be trusted with that treasure and he made sure that the treasure would be hidden away forever, hiding it where no one would ever think to look.”

Of course Iózsef believed every word and this map of his bore the old noble family’s crest so why not, he argued, go and try and find unlimited wealth and the source of a long life.

Iakov thought his baby brother crazy, but the possibility of unlimited wealth was persuasive.

So now he waited, noting that it would be dark soon while his brother was still in the Tavern, supposedly bartering for Simon to allow him to borrow his cart.

After a half an hour Iakov would be offended if Iózsef came out sober.

“Come on, Brother!” – Iózsef voice, suddenly.

Iakov jumped in fright, he hadn’t seen his brother leave the Kicking Pig let alone heard him sidle up behind him with a cart.

“Damn you, Io, where’d you come from?”

“I had to go out back to get the cart so I thought I’d come around the long way and surprise you.” – Iózsef, his speech ever so slightly slurred.

“Well you did.” – Iakov

“I got ‘nother one too, Iakee.” – Iózsef

“What’s that?” – Iakov

His brother held up two clay pitchers, sloshing their dark contents as he did. A giant grin split his face.

Iakov returned the grin.

It was gonna be a good night.

29th of June, 1261, 10:18pm
Somewhere outside the gates
Timisoara, Western Transylvania

“Are you sure yer reading that map right, Iakee?” – Iózsef slurred as he stumbled forward with the cart

They’d been walking for more than two hours without any sign of the Farmhouse on the map and none of this was farmland anymore. The trees took it back years ago.

“How the hell should I know Io? I can’t read the damned thing any better than you can. We just gotta look for the hill and the tree and the house’ll be on the eastern side of it.” – Iakov

“Oh.” – Iózsef

His brow furrowed.

“Which way’s east, bro?”

Iakov stopped dead in his tracks and turned around, nearly losing his balance in the process.

“How the hell should I know.” – Iakov.

Minutes passed in silence.

“I wish we’d brought a mule.” – Iózsef

“Yeah. A mule would have been good, also ladies.” – Iakov added.

“Yeah, Ladies are so much better than a mule.” – Iózsef

“That’s not what you were saying last week.” – Iakov

“You go straight to hell you Damned Liar!” – Iózsef yelled.

“You first, Mule-Fucker!” – Iakov laughed.

He shoved his brother, sending him rolling down into a ditch

“Get back up here and move this cart!” – Iakov yelled.

His voice echoed off the hillside and the trees.

“Iózsef?”

“I think I found it!” – Iózsef called from below.

Iakov hefted the cart and jogged down the road until he found the path to the farmhouse. It wasn’t easy, as the path looked as though it had not been used in some time.

When he reached the bottom he saw a smallish barn that looked as though it might still be serviceable and what looked like a great ghost of a house.

“Maybe the legends were true brother. Look.” – Iózsef, pointing at the ground.

Though the way from the road had been overgrown the field on which a farmer might have grown something was completely barren and littered with stone.

“Shit.” – Iakov

He’d forgotten the part of the story that explained why the family never went looking for the treasure (it was so easy to remember the good stuff when you were young). According to some accounts of the legend the old man put a curse on the treasure; that should the unworthy try to take it as their own they would find their luck turn sour and their lives drained from them.

Maybe the curse was so strong that it killed the farmland just by being buried underneath it.

Iózsef shrugged.

“Probably just bad land.” – he slurred

“ha, yeah.” – Iakov didn’t sound so sure.

The house’s roof was caved in and there was no longer a door, just a gaping opening.

“Are we sure we want the treasure that badly?” – Iakov

“If the treasure’s real, we’ll never have to work again.” – Iózsef

“What if there’s no floor?” – Iakov

“Our house doesn’t have a floor.” – Iózsef

“No, you moron, What if it’s just a hole on the other side of the door.”

“Then at the bottom of that hole we’ll find Treasure!” – Iózsef excitedly

“So you’re going into the house?” – Iakov

“Oh no. You’re going in the house.” – Iózsef

“What!?” – Iakov

“I found the map, I found the house, now it’s your turn, also you’re older.” – Iózsef

“What, wait, no, no, no! I am older by three seconds!” – Iakov

“You’re still responsible for my safety as your younger brother!”

“That’s not fair!” – Iakov

“After fourteen years, its time you realized life ain’t fair!” – Iózsef

“I’ll flip you for it. Do you have a coin?” – Iakov, desperate

“Go in the house and we’ll have lots of coins, but if you insist I’ll race you for it. First one in the house wins.” – Iózsef

“Very we… No, I’m not falling for that again. This isn’t like last time!” – Iakov

“Okay, pick a number. You guess the right one and you go first” – Iózsef

Iakov smiled.

“Fifteen.”

“Damnit, how did you know? You win, go on in.” – Iózsef

“Ha! Wait, Dammit!”

Iakov inched his way up to the door, whimpering softly as he went.

“Come on, Lion-heart, any day now.” – Iózsef

“Shut up, I’m doing it.” – Iakov seemed to be on the verge of hyperventilating as he tried to psych himself up.

“You’re going to make some lady real proud one day, you know that.” – Iózsef, snickering.

Iakov took a deep breath and stepped into the doorway, and dropped, screaming all the way down.

“Wow, you were right, it was a giant hole. Did you break something on that fall?” – Iózsef laughed.

Iakov turned toward his brother and sneered, he stood a foot lower than the door way and he prayed that his brother couldn’t see the growing stain on his tunic.

“Come on, quit laughing.” – Iakov

Iózsef didn’t quit laughing but he did hop down onto the dirt floor.

The house was a single, surprisingly large, room with a few decrepit and weathered bits of furniture and a large hearth against the back wall.

“The cellar’s supposed to be at the back of the house.” – Iózsef, dragging a shovel behind him.

They had little trouble finding the hatch, which was far larger than a root-cellar door should be and it was chained shut.

“Who chains a root cellar shut?” – Iózsef

“Someone who buried treasure in it, lets get in there!” – Iakov

“But there’s a chain.” – Iózsef

Iakov slammed the head of the shovel down hard onto the rusted chain which clanged loudly as it broke.

“Shovel.” – Iakov, flatly.

Like the cellar door, the stairs down were surprisingly sturdy and probably of higher quality than the house itself.

The root cellar ceiling was low, forcing the brothers to stoop, and led back and away from the house.

“Who has a cellar this big?” – Iózsef

“Where’s the treasure?” – Iakov

Maybe it’s behind the curtain.” – Iózsef pointed to a tapestry hanging upon the far wall. It was the only thing in the cellar at all.

Its heraldry was simple, it was a black cross upon a white field.

The lantern flickered from a bit of wind coming from the cellar door making their shadows dance upon the wall, Iózsef laughed at how they seemed to flit around the third, shorter one that stood between them.

But that couldn’t be right, it was just the two of them. He looked again and found that he’d somehow miscounted. There were, in fact, two shadows dancing upon the wall.

“Spooky.” – Iózsef

“What?” – Iakov, looking over his shoulder.

“Nothing.”

“Oh, ‘cause I thought maybe you were reacting to the way the lantern made it look like there was a third shadow on the wall.” – Iakov, his voice cracking ever so slightly.

“Nope.” – Iózsef lied.

“Okay, good.”

“You’re drunk.” – Iózsef laughed

“So what.” – Iakov laughed back.

They turned back to the tapestry and stared at it for a moment.

“on three?” – Iakov

Iózsef agreed

“One…Two…Three… PULL!” – Iózsef counted

Iakov pulled the curtain back and jumped away as if he’d seen a spider.

“It’s a wall, Jakie.” – Iózsef

“Of course it is.” – Iakov

Iózsef reached out and touched the wall, running his fingers over the lines in its smooth face.

“It’s brick.”

“No kidding, and mom always called me the bright one.” – Iakov

While the section of the wall was indeed brick it contained a recessed panel of smooth stone the size and shape of a door.

“one, two, three not it” – Iakov

“one, two, ah dammit.” – Iózsef

Iakov laughed as his brother sized up the ‘door’

“What are you doing?” – Iakov asked.

Iózsef ignored his brother as he backed up.

“one, two, three…” – Iózsef, before running shoulder first into the stone slab

He bounced off and fell to the ground, clutching his shoulder.

Iakov looked expectantly at his brother.

“Did anything happen?” – Iózsef

“It’s stone.” – Iakov.

“But did I move it.” – Iózsef

“No, it’s stone.”

“The map said the Treasure was in the root-cellar, and there’s no treasure.” – Iakov

“Why would they put a curtain in the cellar unless they wanted to hide a treasure?” – Iózsef

“Look at the map! Do you see anything about a curtain?” – Iakov

Iózsef looked at the map. Sure enough there was not a curtain or a cross, but there was a rectangle.

“Look at this, it’s a rectangle next to a tiny square and a triangle.” – Iózsef, pointing at the bottom right corner of the map.

Iakov looked at the map and then at the door/slab. Sure enough a foot from the floor on the right was a single brick that was slightly out of place. With a shrug he reached out and pulled on it.

“It’s loose.” – Iakov, pulling it all the way out of the wall.

Iózsef looked into the hole and inside was a small iron triangle.

“It looks kind-a like a key.” – Iózsef, looking at Iakov expectantly.

With a heavy sigh Iakov reached in and turned the triangle; sure enough it turned just like a key.

With a loud thud the slab fell a half of an inch.

“I got it.” – Iakov said throwing himself at the slab with all of his might.

He hit the stone slab found himself falling when it gave away easily under his weight, landing hard (and loudly) on the stone floor beyond the door.

Iózsef, watching his brother land began to laugh but stopped short when he saw a figure standing in the darkness beyond.

Iózsef screamed.

“What!” – Iakov, sitting up abruptly and holding his head.

“The guy!” – Iózsef cried and pointed over his brother’s shoulder, but the man was gone.

“What guy?” – Iakov

“He was there, standing over you with his big beard and his weird robe and his black eyes.” – Iózsef whimpered.

Iakov spun around to find an empty (and really dark) corridor.

“Bring the Lamp.” – Iakov called back as he stood, rapping his head painfully on the roughhewn stone ceiling.

Iózsef laughed at his brother’s pain while reaching down to pick up the lamp only to stand up and crack his own head on the hard, earthen cellar ceiling.

“Shut up.” – Iózsef to a smirking Iakov as he rubbed his bruised scalp.

The corridor was long and low, so long that Iakov was sure that they now stood beneath the fallow field above. It was no wonder that the soil was barren.

They followed the tunnel until they reached a solid wooden door marked by the crest of the Noble family upon the hill.

“We’re gonna be SOOOO rich little brother!” – Iakov, slapping his brother on the chest

“I know, right!” – Iózsef, looking from the door to his brother expectantly.

“Seriously?” – Iakov said before pushing the door open.

What they found was a largish room of earth and stone filled stacks of rectangular lockboxes five boxes high, old murals and mosaics lined the wall, the largest of which depicted a number of figures: a very tall old man in black robes, a beautiful woman in white, an angry and rough looking man with a beautiful woman on his arm, a young knight with a sullen look upon his face, and a bearded man dressed in blue robes.

“That’s the man in the corridor!” – Iózsef cried out

“And this is the treasure of my dreams!” – Iakov, opening a chest that turned out to be full of silver.

Seeing what his brother found, Iózsef ran to another chest, this one was also filled mostly with silver but he found various other precious stones and even some gold.

“We’ve got to get this upstairs!” – Iózsef

29th of June, 1261, 11:46pm
The Tomb of the Old Count
Timisoara, Western Transylvania

“Should we take the statue?” – Iózsef asked as he looked at a marble bust of a jowly old man with a serious expression and thin hair. The bust was titled DIMITIES.

“Nah, I think we should leave the books too, it’s all old, look how old this stuff is. It’s all from when Grandpa was a kid. This guy must have died like a hundred years old.” – Iakov, flipping through a book.

“Okay.”

“Crap, I found another chest full of clothes.” – Iakov, heaving the lock box to the side, where it landed on the shriveled corpses of the idiots who heaved the door into place.

“Iakov you gotta see this!” – Iózsef called from the back of the room.

Iakov followed after his brother’s voice singing the song they’d written as they’d carried the boxes out:

“I’m gonna by me a wi-ife/ I’m gonna by me a wife/ I am-a gonna by me two wi-iii-ives!” – it had a catchy tune to be sure.”

It seemed that his brother found another room when he pulled down one of the tapestries.

“Hurry up Iakov.” – his brother called.

“What’d you find?”

“Come and see.”

Rolling his eyes Iakov slipped into the small chamber and screamed.

Lying on a slab and draped in silken robes was a body, better preserved than the others, but still heavily desiccated. A thick spidery gray beard enveloped the bottom of its shriveled face.

“You piece of shit!” – Iakov screamed while throwing a handful of silver at him.

After a moment he couldn’t help but join his brother in the laugh.

“Check out his hands.” – Iózsef said, lifting one.

“Is that gold?” – Iakov

“At least two pounds of it.” – Iózsef laughed.

“Leave it be, I’m not gonna be a grave robber.” – Iakov

“… You already are one.” – Iózsef countered

“It’s different.” – Iakov shot back

“In that case, I call ‘em.” – Iózsef as he gleefully began plucking the rings off the dead man’s hands.

“I’m taking another lockbox out.” – Iakov said over his shoulder.

Once he got all of the rings off the right hand he reached for the left only for the fingers to curl into a loose fist.

“Try not to be so creepy, old man.” – Iózsef, chuckling nervously.

With a rustling sound the corpse’s head rolled so that it almost looked like it was looking at him.

“Eyes forward, son.” – Iózsef laughed, his nervousness growing.

Iózsef got up, suddenly feeling the need to pace.

What was taking Iakov so long? He should have been back by now.

UNLESS HE LEFT YOU HERE.

“who said that?”

Who said what? Had he heard anything? Who could have said anything? No one else was here. No one but him and…

He looked back at the corpse. It hadn’t moved.

“What did you expect, Joe?” – he asked himself.

It was probably his guilt over taking the dead Count’s treasure. He was buried with this stuff, he must have been loved. Hell, those two dead fellows in the other room were willing to die for him, right? What kind of monster was he for taking them from the man?

He had to wonder what the guy was like while alive, was he a good man? Of course he was, what else could he be.

After thinking about it he realized that, yes, he should return the rings, it would be a little thing to slip them back onto the corpse’s fingers.

“I’ll do right by you, sir.” – Iózsef whispered into the corpse’s withered ear.

He patted the old count’s body on the chest and turned to go back in the other room when he heard something hit the ground behind him.

Iózsef looked over his shoulder to find the corpse standing a foot from him. The thing’s lips, already taut enough to reveal the count’s long teeth, curled back into a snarl revealing two razor sharp fangs.

“huh.” – was all Iózsef could say as his drunken mind processed what he saw.

The corpse lurched forward with a dry snarl, its hands reaching out with bone-thin fingers to grab Iózsef’s face.

For his own part Iózsef finally found his voice at the same moment he found his feet and ran from the creature, with all due haste, screaming all the way.

Iakov sat on the back of the cart running a silver piece through his fingers and drinking from one of the jugs of ale that they’d brought from the Kicking Pig when he heard the faint screams of his brother.

“What a baby. It’s just a spider ya girl!” – Iakov shouted into the house from the cart.

His brothers screams had grown louder, like he was coming closer, and doing so very quickly.

“What now?”

He was surprised to see his brother run out of the house and past the cart toward the tree line.

Iakov turned to laugh at his brother.

“Where are you going, Little brother.” – Iakov called to his brother.

He stood their chuckling and drinking when he felt the cart bounce a little bit. He was still chuckling when he turned around and found himself face to face with the corpse from the cellar.

Iakov never found his voice as the dead man bared his fangs.

12th of August, 1261, 10:18pm
Town Hall
Timisoara, Western Transylvania

Iózsef stood nervously before the hall’s door. He wasn’t sure why he was there or why the Sheriff had made him come. In truth he wasn’t sure of anything since that night in June when he left his brother to die.

He was living on the streets now, he hadn’t returned to the farm, nor had he gone home. He made do on stealing root vegetables and begging for alcohol and sleeping in the woods.

He’d been pacing for a while, now.

“Thank you for waiting, Iózsef.” – the Mayor’s noisy voice appeared before he did.

He was a tall man with thin hair and a long nose as he sat behind the small desk.

“Do you know why I’ve sent for you?” – the mayor, still not looking up from whatever he was wearing.

“No, sir.” – Iózsef’s voice was weak.

“It seems that you’ve been telling stories at the taverns for the price of a drink.” – The Mayor, he still hadn’t looked up from what he was doing.

“I am not doing it for money. They need to know what’s out there; they need to know what we woke up in that house.” – Iózsef voice gained some strength as he spoke.

“No they don’t.”

“What?” – Iózsef was taken aback.

“The people of Timisoara are happy not knowing what is out there, they’ve been happy with the arrangement since the Count came here sixty-four years ago. They’re happy not knowing what is out there in the night, Iózsef, and to be clear, you didn’t do anything. They’ve been here all along. You simply awoke their Master. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve somewhere to be and there is someone who wishes to speak with you.” – The mayor stood and strode out of the room, without looking up or acknowledging Iózsef again.

“You’ll forgive Sebestyan, he’s always been so nervous, even when he was a child.” – A deep voice said from behind Iózsef.

Iózsef braced himself and turned to face the thing that ruined his life.

It wasn’t what he expected. The man standing before him was short but broad of shoulder. His hands, clasped before him, seemed soft and inviting, even with the rings that he’d given back. The Count’s smile was bright even through his thick black beard. Most shocking, though, were his eyes, were so dark that they seemed to absorb what little light was in the room.

“Who are you?” – Iózsef

“I am called Count Kyrillos Dimities and I built this city so that my family could flourish.” – The Count

“Why?”

The count furrowed his brow for a moment at the question.

“Why did I kill your brother, you mean? You left me no choice, Iózsef. You and your brother caused me to awaken much earlier than expected and, more to the point, you ran faster than he did.” – Kyrillos, in a tone that might have been kindly hadn’t been a monster saying monstrous things.

The boy felt dizzy and suddenly became sure that he was going to be sick.

“Please, Iózsef, come home with me, I would like to show you something.” – The Count.

Suddenly he seemed utterly reasonable. Of course he’d go with the count, why wouldn’t he. He would explain everything.

12th of August, 1261, 11:00pm
The Count’s Castle
Timisoara, Western Transylvania

The monster that had talked him into coming with him into his home stood just inside the castle’s door.

“Please, Iózsef, do come in.” – the Count asked politely.

“No! I don’t know how you got me to come with you here but there is no way in Hell that I’ll follow you any further.” – Iózsef

“Please, brother, we really should talk.”

Standing in front of him, just inside the castle’s threshold stood his brother looking strong and clean and alive, his brilliant smile revealing a pair of wicked fangs.

The Teutonic Order had once been the most powerful knightly order in all of Hungary, but time it seemed ravaged all things. Eight years ago Baron Heinrich von Achern, the Ordensmarshall of the Black Cross, the elite vanguard of the Teutonic Order, was revealed to be nothing more than a demon in disguise. Since that time King Andras, who had counted the Baron as one of his closest allies, had grown to distrust the once indomitable order, weakening their influence within the king’s court.

Then came the Golden Bull. In 1222 the Hungarian Baronies, who already wielded unprecedented power, forced the King to sign over even more of his authority to them. Many of those same barons had ties to Vintila Basarab and Kara Lupescu, and thus were bound by the will of their Master: Rustovitch.

Though Jurgen had believed that he could count on the Arpad Ventrue to counter the Tzimisce’s cancerous influences the Transylvanian Patricians had been sluggish to use said influence to benefit the so-called Eastern Lords.

And though his agents were successful in stymieing the Tzimisce in the Levant it was of cold comfort to the ambitious Warlord, as now it seemed that the machinations of the Voivode’s Fiendish minions had finally come to a head. King Andras declared that the Teutonic Order had become too independent and thus a threat to the crown and therefore were to be expelled from Hungary and its territories.

Jurgen, though, had not given up completely and called for Lucretia and his other vassals within the Order to delay their withdrawal for as long as possible, as without the mortal Order the Black Cross would face certain ruin. Jurgen had planned to strike at the very heart of the Voivodate, calling on all those loyal to the Black Cross to join him in finally routing their most hated enemies from the Seibenburgen forever.

2nd of April, 1225, 8:53pm
Beyond the Gates of the City
The Domain of Marusca
Prince of Hermanstadt

The horse galloped with uncommon speed toward the city gates. It was infused with the power of its rider’s vitae and was commanded by her will as much as by her prompts. She was to meet with Lord Jurgen’s most trusted and effective agents

They had agreed to meet a quarter mile from the city gates where a post marked a fork in the main road, so as to avoid drawing the attention of any of the Voivode’s forces within the region. As she drew closer to her destination she saw that she was the first to arrive.

The rider dismounted from her horse even as it came to a stop. She wore the tunic and tights of a courier but refused to hide her gender. Her hair was long black and wavy. Her green eyes scanned the shadows, piercing them as if they were cast by the sun instead of the crescent moon.

“Sherezhina, it has been far too long.” – A familiar voice.

The girl turned and leapt upon its owner embracing him in a passionate kiss. He wore a black leather tunic over his wide shoulders, and his weathered face was a roadmap of the horrors he’d witnessed in the last decade.

Sanchez had never looked so old, nor so stern.

“Where have you been, old man?” – Sherazhina

“On assignment. Jurgen needs constant reconnaissance to stay ahead of the Tzimisce and their allies. Luckily I’ve had Abdul at my side.” – Sanchez

“Milady. I am glad that you are well.” – Abdul-Malik, as if on cue.

The Saracen wore clothes nearly identical to Sanchez’s own, a black leather tunic over leather breeches, though he also sported a brilliant white silk sash, a reminder of his role as an Imam that he was never without.

His hair was shoulder length and pulled back severely, his beard appeared far less refined. It was obvious that it had been some time since the holy man had had a chance to properly groom himself. His whole bearing was somehow more dangerous.

The sound of hoof-beats and wheels over stone became clear from the direction of the city; it was apparent that their fourth had finally arrived.

The black covered wagon was plain and nondescript but the lady who stepped down from it was not.

Though dressed as a peasant girl the Black Queen was still a creature of intense beauty and predatory grace. The shadows seemed to bow before her as she stepped lithely toward them.

“You seem…different Abdul.” – Teresa, her voice neutral.

“Wars such as this do things to a man…or a monster. How goes the effort on your front?” – Abdul, resolutely.

“We have much to speak about.” – Teresa, demurely.

“That is why we are here, we might as well get it over with.” – Sanchez.

Abdul looked sideways at his friend.

“I hear that the hated Basarab has fled his domain.” – Sherazhina

“He’s taken his army south to meet our own in Kronstadt. Has there been any sign of Rustovitch?” – Teresa

“No, Vintila seems to be his commander from within the camps. He’s built quite the reputation for himself since the death of the Baron.” – Abdul-Malik

“Yeah, and the worst part is he’s actually good at this whole war business. You should see him, he’s a good foot taller than he was in Acre. And he’s taken to looking like living armor, he’s actually fused plates into his flesh, Damned fiends! No offence.” – Sanchez

He smiled sheepishly at Sherazhina.

“None taken. It was your idea.” – Sherazhina, smiling devilishly.

The Toreador let go of a small laugh. It somehow made him seem more grim.

“He’s actually taken to wearing his own hair as a cape… its even weirder then the fact that he doesn’t have lips.” – Abdul.

Teresa got to business:

“We have nearly run out of time. King Andras has grown frustrated with our delays and has ordered the order’s immediate banishment. His forces have already routed a number of Teutonic Monasteries and while we’ve been successful in getting some of the soldiers to Kronstadt our forces have been vastly shortened.” – Teresa

“von Achern’s shame is something we must all bear, It is regrettable he had not been removed from play before he could do more damage.” – Abdul, ruefully.

Sanchez and Sherazhina both had become distracted by the strangest of birds flapping overhead. Though its size and dark shape suggested a hawk or some other bird of prey, its movement and the flapping sound of its wings suggested just as strongly that it was some sort of bat, though of truly uncommon size.

In either case there seemed to be something wrong with its head.

“What the hell is that?” – Sherazhina

They all looked up.

“It’s a hawk.” – Sanchez

“It has to be a bat” – Sherazhina

“If you’re so sure why did you ask?” – Sanchez

The thing swooped low and landed on a low hanging branch and immediately the answer was as plain as day.

It was a hawk, but one that had been dismembered and then had its wings replaced by those of a bat, great bloody sutures held them to the body as the thing’s malformed head reached out and grabbed a smaller branch, its warped beak opening into five stalks to do so, almost like fingers.

No wait, it was exactly like fingers. The thing’s head wasn’t malformed, it wasn’t a head at all, instead it was a hand stitched on in much the same way as the wings.

The flying nightmare flew from the branch to the wagon and stabbed itself in the chest. After a moment spent twisting on the branch it tore free and began to flutter in front of the wagon’s canvas top, making scratching noises as it went, before quite suddenly dropping to the ground dead.

“What the hell just happened?” – Sherazhina

“I think it wrote us a letter.” – Sanchez

The others looked up from the gruesome corpse to find that it had indeed written them a letter in its own blood on the side of the wagon.

My sometimes friends,
I have a message of some interest for your Lord Jurgen. Meet me under the new moon in the village of Milash, and I shall convey it to you.
With Regards,
-Jervais Bani Tremere

Sanchez reached down and touched the strange corpse. His fingers glided over its still frame; lovingly he rubbed the thing’s stitches and slid his fingers through its own before he snatched his hand back, as if stung.

“The thing is tainted by Tremere magic and the hand is Jervais’s own.” – Sanchez, wiping his hand with a handkerchief.

“We should go to Lord Jurgen at once.”

4th of April, 1225, 8:53pm
Bran Castle
The Domain of Michael Erasmus
Prince of Kronstadt

Jurgen had not been happy with the news of Teresa’s report, nor with the fact that she had joined them on the battlefront. The only bit of news that seemed to keep him from being overtaken by his beast was that Jervais had requested an audience.

“Go to Milash and meet with the Warlock. I would see what he has for us.” – Jurgen

“Are you sure he can be trusted?” – Sherazhina

The Warlord eyed his courier as if she were a particularly obnoxious breed of insect for a moment before he responded.

“We have reopened communication with the Usurpers since the one responsible for the fiasco in Magdeburg was so instrumental in the taking of Acre and, of course, the word of Lady Teresa and Count Kyrillos who swore on their honor that he could be trusted.” – Jurgen,

“Of course, milord.”

6th of April, 1225, 10:02pm
Milash
The Domain of the Black Cross

The sky was heavy with great clouds that were tinged red by the fires that raged throughout the countryside.

This had once been part of the domain of a horrific Tzimisce Lord called Lugoj, whose Bratovitch minions still fought against the knights of the Order, though to no avail. Their last sortie having occurred some months ago. Sadly for the locals, the coming Teutons did not come as liberators but as brutal slave masters who transformed the town into a fortress on the backs of the farmers and fishermen who called it home, slaughtering all who would oppose them so that the knights had a more secure way to cross the Olt.

The knights brought with them many German farmers and merchants to resettle the area, expecting to make it to further cement their ambitious claim of a Teutonic state. But now those same families were in mortal danger.

With the banishment of the order Milash was one of the many ‘German’ settlements that were under the threat of Rustovitch’s army. The local commander, Lugoj, was licking his lips at the chance to reclaim his lands. Evidence of the presence of his armies was everywhere as the small band of scouts passed through the countryside. War parties of Szlachta knights paraded through the dark forests, brandishing the heads of fallen Teutonic commanders and burning homes to the ground in ghoulish celebrations. Horrific beasts crafted in the carnal pits of the Tzimisce roamed the night, slaughtering lone knights or any other mortal they could catch who had not been tainted by Fiendish blood.

War chants could be heard in the distance and names such as Rustovitch, Vintila, Kara, Marelle, Lugoj, Koban, Noriz and Velya were on the lips of every man woman and child who called the cursed lands of the Carpathians home.

One night Sherazhina awoke exhausted from her day-sleep. She’d had visions of Koldunic monsters performing dark rituals and saw the faces of Koban and Velya, Rustovitch’s most powerful sorcerers, cursing the very earth.

When they’d finally reached the banks of the Olt and passed through the city’s gates, they were made aware of great fires snaking their way through the forested mountainside.

“The Fiends mean to burn us out. God and Caine know how long we can hold our ground.” – the watchman fatalistically, his voice familiar.

He stepped from the shadows wearing a tabard marked by a Black Cross, his armor some twenty years out of date. He was tall and broad shouldered. His hair was cut short, his face scruffy with a new beard, as it had been every night for the past eight years. His eyes were dark with misery but he had about him a certain presence that could not be denied.

“Gauthier, I didn’t know that you’d been stationed here.” – Sanchez

“Lord Jurgen felt that my skills would be best used here.” – he said, flatly.

“Do you think you could direct us to the Black Sheep, Gauthier?” – Abdul-Malik, hoping to avoid any awkward silences.

The knight could.

As Gauthier escorted them through the fortified village it became apparent that his fatalism had infected everyone and everything within the walled village. There were only a dozen or so houses and huts within the walls and the homes themselves were closed up, as they had been in Magdeburg twenty years prior. It seemed that Teutonic vampires liked their herd well quelled.

Only a handful of mortals were in the streets, each clearly marked as ghouls belonging to one vampire or another.

“Why are you here, Sanchez?” – Gauthier, as they neared their destination.

“We are to meet with a contact, that’s all I can say.” – Sanchez

“Of course.”

He led them eventually to the harbor. Near its edge was a small inn with the sign of a Black Sheep over its door.

“Thank you, sir Knight.” – Teresa, kindly.

“I shall await you here, milady. Should you need any assistance simply call out.” – Gauthier, nodding politely to her.

They entered the inn to find it empty save for a single obese figure dressed in indigo and red who sat slouched at the center most table. His pudgy hands lay flat upon it, his head hung forward and his eyes were closed, appearing for all the world to be dead.

Their beasts weren’t fooled and no sooner did they react to his presence than his eyes shot open. They were dark and inhuman, bringing to mind a particularly demonic breed of rat.

“Ah, as reliable as ever. Good eve, my friends!” – Jervais, his voice high and breathy as he spoke.

As he spoke another figure stepped out from the larder, his face in a book. He was tall and young, wearing clothes very similar to Sherazhina’s own riding leathers. His dusky blond hair and startling blue eyes were immediately recognizable.

“Master, I-” – Thierry looking up to see that they weren’t alone.

“Your friends have arrived, my boy.” – Jervais.

“We received your message. What is the nature of your business with Jurgen?” – Abdul-Malik, flatly, his eyes boring into the Usurper

“You cannot seriously be mad about what happened in Magdeburg? It was fifteen years ago.”

“Yes.” – Teresa

“Come now, we all make poor choices from time to time. In any case, your master has chosen to put his trust in me.” – Jervais

Teresa imagined that despite what he said, he was imagining flaying them as he spoke. His eyes were burning with hatred.

“As you say, everyone makes mistakes from time to time.” – Sanchez

The Usurper glared daggers at the Toreador.

“Thierry, bring me the object.” – Jervais commanded before continuing:

“Your liege has asked me to bring him something, but the prospect of making for Kronstadt and then returning to Ceoris was deemed unfavorable. Hence, this meeting halfway.” – Jervaise

The young warlock retrieved from his cloak a long cylinder of hardened leather, capped with
gilded gold. The leather was red and stained with arcane sigils.

“This is what he requested.” – Jervais

The coterie exchanged looks as he held the object for them to take. It was obvious that Jervais was expecting some reaction from them by the fanfare he put into the presentation; as it stood though none of them recognized it.

“Do you care to elaborate?” – Abdul-Malik

The Tremere wheezed a sigh, as if frustrated by their arrogance but it was plain that he was hoping to gloat.

Perhaps they were not the only ones bitter about the events of fifteen years ago.

“You may have heard that the Fiends have a close attachment to the soil of these lands, and that is indeed true. What few know is that all Tzimisce share a close bond with the soil in which they were buried upon their deaths. The grave dirt is bonded to them forever. Destroy some of it in the right way and you cause harm to the Fiend like he has never felt.”

The words sink in and Sanchez’s eyes dart to Sherazhina’s stricken face. The Tremere was only half correct, it was not necessarily the land of their grave, but the implications were still horrifying to them.

“That vial contains a mote of dirt from the grave of the Voivode of Voivodes: Vladimir Rustovitch!” – Jervais, as Sherazhina absentmindedly took it from him.

“How did you obtain such a thing?” – Sherazhina, holding it in her arms as if it were precious.

“That is none of your concern. All you need to know is that your master has requested it and it is ready for his use.” – Jervais

Sherazhina looked through the sorcerer as he spoke and saw the swirling browns blacks and violets that denoted his hatred for them for what they did, as well as the excitement he felt in the moment.

Sanchez’s brow was furrowed as took a long look at the vial and he reached out and touched it. His mind was filled with flashes of blackness and the smell of dirt and blood as well as the sound of swords clashing and the screams of a thousand men, women and children. It left his heart cold and his hand numb.

It was most definitely bound inextricably to the Voivode, but there was Tremere magic there too. He could tell by the strange buzzing he felt in his fingertips.

It was not an entirely bad sensation.

The others were talking of course. He was having trouble making out what they were saying but was very aware of the door to the tavern slamming open.

“The Bastards have catapults!” – Gauthier called to them.

As he spoke there was a great explosion from above and the entire building shook as the roof and outer walls erupted into flames.

“Greek Fire!” – Thierry, his teeth bared, his eyes flashing with fear.

The entire room was bathed in flickering orange light and there seemed to be nowhere to go.

Sherazhina in the chaos dropped the forgotten vial but it was quickly caught up by Sanchez, who slipped it into his own satchel.

Gauthier drew his sword and cut the door from its hinges, holding it over his head to block the falling flames.

“This way!” – he roared to the others, who quickly ran out into the relative safety of the streets.

But they weren’t safe. Every building and wall in the entire village was aflame. In some places even the road burned due to the properties of the Greek Fire.

As the fires encroached upon them, Sanchez was suddenly put to mind of the time he watched Vendramino reach into a bonfire and ignite. In spite of himself he imagined the same thing happen to him, his flesh blackening and bursting into cinders and ashes, his bones crumbling in the heat…

Suddenly Sanchez was underwater, his hot lungs full of liquid. He blinked and looked up. It was as if the very sky was ablaze. He checked his body and found no wounds, not even his clothes had been damaged.

He realized then what had happened: he’d lost control and his beast had taken over, spreading into his limbs and catapulting him out of the city with all the considerable speed he could muster.

Realizing that, he rushed toward the surface. He was outside the city, swimming in the Olt. And he was alone.

“Sherazhina!” – Sanchez called into the night.

Then over the wall he saw a figure leap, clearing it by a good two feet before landing on the other side. It moved with unnatural speed and was darting straight for him.

It was Teresa, and from her wide black eyes and bared fangs, she too had lost herself to the beast. She too dove into the water only to come up a moment later, once again in control of her faculties.

He still saw no sign of the others.

“SHERAZHINA!” – Sanchez called again as he trudged toward the burning wall and against the pleadings of his terrified beast.

A single small hand reached up and grabbed the top of the wall before its owner hoisted the rest of their frame over it and fell toward the ground.

Sanchez willed his beast to do his bidding and was there to catch her.

He hugged her so tightly that her ribs snapped and kissed her all over her face.

“Enough.” – Sherazhina laughed as she pushed him away.

“Don’t you ever! EVER! Do that to me again!” – Sanchez scolded her.

“No promises.” – Sherazhina smiled.

Together they stepped away from the wall and waited for the others.

Once they were sure that Abdul-Malik and Gauthier were free they swam across the river and scrambled up the hill and into the cover of the forest.

It had been only minutes since the first volley struck but it felt like it had been days.

Milash was burning. As were all of the farms that surrounded it. In the fire’s light they could make out great war machines of living flesh and bone. War ghouls that had been shaped into catapults and other siege engines.

Hundreds of warriors and monsters danced by the light of the burning city. The fires seem to burn with intent, fed by the winds that blew through the valley but not directed by it; they devoured everything in their path. Of the three hundred mortals who called Milash home only four would make it out alive.

There was no sign of Jervais or Thierry but the coterie waited another hour anyway before making their way south.

After all, they had a mission to complete.

8th of April, 1225, 8:53pm
The Abby of St. Mary
The Domain of Michael Erasmus
Prince of Kronstadt

The City of the Crown was a testament to the vision and skill of Master Sanchez. Since his ally Erasmus took the city as his own some thirty years prior, Sanchez had been given the Patronage of the Teutonic Knights to build up the city and it showed. Tall stone walls surrounded a city whose architecture and stonework was on par with the grandest cities in the west, and with the coming of the Teutons directly to the city Bran Castle had become a looming threat to any who dared to oppose those who called the city home.

Under the watchful eyes of Abbot Josephus, Steward of Kronstadt, mortals had been made to feel safe and secure within its walls. The city’s markets were kept open even past dusk allowing the few Cainites who called the city home a chance to feed with ease.

But that was over now. Much like Milash and Magdeburg, the windows were shuttered and the doors boarded. Vampires with black crosses emblazoned upon their tabards stalked the near empty streets with their ghouled entourages. It was clear to any who could see that there were far too many vampires for the city to maintain for long.

“This is too many.” – Teresa, aghast at the display.

“If this doesn’t end soon this city will be nothing but a grave.” – Sanchez, answering her listlessly.

“Abbot Josephus has been able to secure a promise from Jurgen that the knights honor the mortals’ homes at least. None may enter a home unbidden, nor harm those within without just cause on pain of the stake.” – Gauthier, his voice neutral.

Perhaps it was the lack of blood or the constant howls of the legion of hellions that dwelled in the forest beyond the gates, but as the coterie approached Bran Castle they saw that the knights were a broken and disillusioned lot.

“I’ve heard that the Fiends have transformed entire villages into their Szlachta warriors and even Vozhd war-machines.” – Sherazhina, her eyes glancing at the night sky as inhuman howling echoed through the night.

“It’s true. Sanchez and I have seen horrible things as we surveyed their encampments. Do you remember that pit in Dobrugea, my friend?” – Abdul, to Sanchez

The Spaniard nodded, his jaw set.

“How large could Rustovitch’s army be?” – Teresa, incredulously

“By our estimate there are between one hundred and fifty and two hundred Fiends, Nosferatu and Gangrel vampires, with thrice as many ghouls, Revenants, Szlachta and Vozhd. Not to mention Lupines and stranger things, milady.” – Gauthier, after the others failed to respond.
“That’s not possible.” – Teresa, her hand covering her mouth as she wrapped her mind around the sheer scope of the monstrosity that they faced.

“But no less true.” – Sherazhina

As they passed the castle walls Teresa saw that there were no mortals present, nor any ghouls that she could see. Among the mass of undead knights were faces she knew: Lanzo von Sachsen and his valet, whose name escaped her. Akuji and Rosamund, whom she’d met in Magdeburg, Tomasso Brexiano and a handful of others whom she’d met in Venice as well as Anatole, who would visit her with her niece in Balgrad on occasion.

Lucita was nowhere to be seen.

Lord Jurgen, as opposed to his de facto court, seemed filled with vigor and resolve, so much so that his very presence seemed to lighten their heavy hearts. He stood at a large table upon which was a map, and was speaking to a pair of advisors. One, a Ventrue from Hermanstadt Teresa knew to be called Otto, nodded as he spoke to him and then excused himself, slipping through a side door.

Teresa was surprised when she recognized the other.

Kyrillos Dimities was pointing at something on the map, their Patron nodding along with whatever strategy the Byzantine had suggested when he looked up at them.

“Do you have it?” – Jurgen, looking to Sanchez

Sanchez stepped forward as he reached into his satchel, revealing the vial.

“Excellent.” – Jurgen, holding it in both hands, his eyes gleaming.

He turned to Kyrillos.

“Find Lucretia and have her call a gathering of the troops. I would speak to them.” – Jurgen, to Kyrillos.

The Malkavian nodded and turned to go, waving to the band as a quick greeting even as he made his way out of another side door.

8th of April, 1225, 9:47pm
Beneath the Abbey of St Mary
The Domain of Michael Erasmus
Prince of Kronstadt

Kyrillos stood beside the open sarcophagus of his sleeping friend. It had been twenty years since Erasmus had slipped into the sleep of ages and though Josephus swore that he rose on occasion, he had yet to pull himself completely from it.

Now he lay in his tomb, he had not changed in all that time and yet somehow looked like someone else in his repose. His skin was a flawless white and seemed to shine in what little light graced his tomb.

Josephus, for his part, was also much changed since the they had last seen him. The once humble monk was dressed in all the finery of an abbot of noble birth. His young face had lost its innocence, something that Kyrillos knew the Long Night would ensure but that was no less regrettable. What the Malkavian had not expected to see was the playful light in the Ventrue’s eyes replaced by the same casual condescension worn by the rest of his clan.

Lucretia was there, kneeling before her childe’s tomb and running her fingers through his dark hair affectionately. The gesture was incredibly humanizing, and completely out of character for the Lady-Knight. But one came to expect that here within the Prince’s chambers.

The air was positively thick with the power that he seemed to radiate. It was similar in many ways to the effect produced by the Patriarch all those decades ago, though the aura was nowhere near as powerful as the one generated by Michael himself.

“Lady Lucretia, Jurgen has requested your presence.” – Kyrillos, politely

“Of course, I’ll be there shortly.” – Lucretia

As he left Kyrillos couldn’t help but get the feeling that his friend was aware of what was happening within his domain.

8th of April, 1225, 10:09pm
Bran Castle
The Domain of Michael Erasmus
Prince of Kronstadt

No fewer than fifty vampires, each armed and ready for war, stood within the castle’s curtain wall. They all looked up at Jurgen waiting expectantly for him to speak. At their side stood nearly two hundred ghouls simply awaiting their master’s orders.

“My God.” – Sherazhina, looking over the sheer multitude,

“It’s an army, milady-love.” – Sanchez, his hand on her shoulder.

“I know, but just look at them all.” – her voice filled with horrible wonder

Jurgen stood upon a tall platform and lifted his sword. Even all those years of battle had not tarnished its gleaming blade, the sigils of the Toreador and Ventrue clans along with the Black Cross and his own coat of arms were visible and unblemished as he held it over his head.

“For Years we have cut at the heart of the Fiends, my brothers! We have fought their thralls and monstrosities and cut down countless of their young and old alike. We have ridden through gardens of molded flesh and torn out the hearts of broods more horrific than anything Hell might have to offer and still our true foe refuses to show himself.” – Jurgen

The crowd nodded as he spoke, jeering at the mention of the Voivode.

Jurgen pointed beyond his troops with his gleaming sword.

“Deep in those dark hills sits a dark chieftain who thinks to send his brood against us without bloodying himself. Well, no more! I call him out! Let the terrible Vladimir Rustovitch enter the field of battle and we shall see who the greater warrior is!

The Sword Bearer held the vial in his free hand for all to see.

“I hold here two handfuls of earth that he holds dearer than blood. Through this, the Fiend feels my call. He feels it most terribly.” – Jurgen

The Ventrue dropped the vial into the fire lit on the other side of his podium and it erupted into a gout of wicked green flame that rose skyward even as lightning streaked across the black sky. Many Cainites and Ghouls flinched and whispered fearfully.

“Yes, Fiend! Feel the fire burn and come! We are the Order of the Black Cross and we are waiting!” – Jurgen

He thrust his sword into the air one last time and soon all those assembled began to chant his name.

Abdul was swept up in it along with all the rest.

Very soon there would be a proper war.

10th of April, 1225, 7:26pm
The Curtain Wall
The Domain of Michael Erasmus
Prince of Kronstadt

Teresa was surveying the work that Sanchez had been doing to the fortifications. He had been gone for some time and had been distressed by the condition of the castle walls. Currently he and Sherazhina were arguing over this or that specification. It was the first time in years that she’d seen the Spaniard act so much like himself.

“Have you heard?” – Kyrillos, from behind her.

She turned, half startled.

“Heard what.” – Teresa

“A traveler, clad in green and gold, has slipped through the northern gate and is currently in parley with our liege.” – Kyrillos

She furrowed her brow.

“Vykos, here? Would the fiend be that foolish?” – Teresa

“You forget, there is no love lost between the Voivodes of Transylvania and the Obertus Order of which Vykos belongs.” – Kyrillos, patronizingly

“I’m aware, Kyrillos, but it isn’t like our friend to put himself in harm’s way.” – Teresa

He nodded in agreement

“As you say. Does it make you curious as to what would bring him to such a perilous place as this?” – Kyrillos

Teresa smiled; he knew that he could appeal to her curiosity.

10th of April, 1225, 7:31pm
The Throne Room
The Domain of Michael Erasmus
Prince of Kronstadt

The Lord of Magdeburg sat brooding upon the throne. His body was tense, his arms poised as if to thrust him off the chair and into battle at a moment’s notice. He still wore the raven black cloak and the gleaming gift of Rosamund was still at his side to strike. His armor, though battle hardened, still flashed in the candlelight.

“What is it that you wish to report, Master Vykos?” – Jurgen, cagily.

The vampire who stood before the Lord of the Black Cross could not be more his opposite if he tried. Small and slight of frame, Vykos was the picture of androgynous beauty. His skin, which had once been so dark was now perfectly white and without mark or flaw, so that it appeared that he wore a mask as he stood before his host. His long straight black hair hung loose framing his face and adding to the mask-like effect. His eyes were the color of emeralds shot through with gold and gleamed unnaturally in the low candlelight.

The Tzimisce wore the clothes of a travelling messenger, though they appeared to be of the highest quality. The only ostentatious garment he wore was the deep green cloak, emblazoned with the mark of the Obertus Order and trimmed with golden thread.

“I bring news from the north, Lord Jurgen, The Voivode Rustovitch has heard your call and you should know that he and his army are charging toward Kronstadt even now.” – Vykos

“And how did you come about this information, Monk?” – Jurgen

“I have an extensive network of contacts and spies within the mortal families that are claimed by the Eastern Lords and their vassals, and those same spies tell me that they too are seeing additional mobilization all across the Carpathians.” – Vykos, his voice agitated.

The Fiend was not happy that his intelligence was being questioned.

The Sword-Bearer nodded curtly, dismissing the ostentatious Monk who slipped out of the throne room quickly.

Once the Monk was out of earshot though Jurgen’s demeanor changed drastically.

“This is what we’ve been waiting for!” – Jurgen

“I’m sorry, Milord, but how is Rustovitch drawing his entire army toward the Crowned City benefit us?” – Teresa asked meekly from amidst the small cohort of vampires that had gathered.

“It is true that the Voivode’s army far outstrips our own, but where he is possessed of a horde of violent and unstable beasts we have under our command the greatest fighting force ever assembled in all of Eastern Europe. By drawing him out we will curtail the advantage of numbers, allowing our superior soldiers to gain the advantage.” – Jurgen

With a nod the Sword-Bearer released his council to return to their duties as he and Lucretia made their plans.

10th of April, 1225, 8:08pm
The Courtyard
The Domain of Michael Erasmus
Prince of Kronstadt

Teresa and her mad friend had nearly reached the castle wall when Kyrillos raised a hand. The motion was clear. They were being followed.

Kyrillos turned and stepped into the shadows between two buildings as Teresa pulled the shadows across them. He’d never been on this side of her trick and was fascinated by the way the darkness seemed to fall over him like a frost.

Their stalker soon stood where they had been, his green robes sticking out like a sore thumb within the grounds of the fortress.

Vykos stood still for a moment and then took a deep breath. He was sniffing them out, his green eyes flashing like a cat as they settled on the alley that they stood in.

The vampire smiled at Kyrillos.

The air warmed as the shadows lifted.

“How is your Sire, Vykos?” – Kyrillos

“He is well. I need to have a word with you, privately.” – Vykos

Kyrillos excused himself from Teresa’s presence and escorted the Obertus to his own chambers.

“What is it, old friend?” – Kyrillos, his voice tired.

“This War is going to get worse Kyrillos.” – Vykos warned

“You don’t have to tell me that, Myca, I have been in the thick of it, and have seen the auguries-” – Kyrillos

“You’ve seen nothing! The things you’ve faced since this war began, the things we saw in Constantinople, they pale in comparison to the hell that is descending from those hills. The Voivode Rustovitch is no fool, Kyrillos, and your plans, whatever they are, cannot hope to create victory from defeat.” – the Obertus’ voice was strained.

Kyrillos’ Madness almost overwhelmed him as he listened to his fiendish ally’s lack of faith. But the fear in Vykos’ voice gave even the monster within him pause.

“I know it is likely that you will hold my words against me, but they are the truth, Kyrillos, this war is far from over lest something be done.” – Vykos.

The Tzimisce’s meaning was clear: Run, and don’t look back.

“Perhaps then, If you are so set on doing us a favor, you should not stand by and hope to merely survive.” – Kyrillos spat as the Fiend slipped out through the chamber door, leaving the Malkavian seething, alone in his chamber.

10th of April, 1225, 8:55pm
Sanchez’s Personal Chambers
The Domain of Michael Erasmus
Prince of Kronstadt

“And what did he ask for in return?” – Sanchez

“I beg your pardon?” – Kyrillos

Kyrillos had just told the others what Vykos had said to the others. Abdul and Gauthier stood silently, though Gauthier looked like he was going to track the Tzimisce down and kill him with his bare hands.

The question had taken them all by surprise.

“You’re telling me that Myca Vykos walked into this encampment, marched up to Jurgen, gave the Field General of the Black Cross intelligence vital to the coming war and asked for nothing in return?” – Sanchez

Kyrillos blinked. Gauthier exchanged a confused look.

“Is that not like him?” – Gauthier

“No, it is not.” – Teresa, her voice distant. She wasn’t happy at the thought of being played.

“We don’t know that he is the enemy. He has always been an ally to us.” – Kyrillos

“Be realistic, Kyrillos, Vykos has never done anything that did not in some way benefit himself.” – Sanchez

“That does not mean that his agenda does not align with our own.” – Kyrillos, but his voice wasn’t quite so sure.

Vykos had tried to get him to leave.

“What could he possibly want?” – Teresa

“His freedom.” – The Malkavian’s voice was too deep, his eyes reflecting more light than was in the room.

Teresa glared at the madman.

“Why do I even speak to you?” – Teresa, flabbergasted.

Kyrillos looked up at her, his face blank as she stormed out of the chamber.

“What did I say?” – Kyrillos.

10th of April 1225, 10:16pm
Teresa’s Chambers
The Domain of Michael Erasmus
Prince of Kronstadt

The Queen returned to her haven within the root cellar of a merchant’s house. She knew something was wrong, her room was a root cellar and she was growing accustomed to the scent of mildew and earth but those familiarly cloying scents had been overtaken by something… new. Whatever it was smelled of rotten flesh and feces.

The room was without light but that didn’t hinder Teresa who quickly scanned the room. It was empty but she was not alone.

She was about to whisper profane words when a voice croaked from the shadows.

“Milady, please, I must have a word with you.” – the voice was horrible, as if an old woman were being forced to vomit up gravel.

The creature stepped forward, stooped and fragile seeming. Her wart-stricken face was slack on its left side.

Teresa knew her, she had met her only a few years ago.

“You are Akuji, yes?” – Teresa

The hag’s face split into a crooked smile, her teeth, which seemed to be long with age and set into black gums, were laid bare.

“I am honored that you would remember me, milady. And I must apologize for the smell, but I was forced to make my haven in a horse’s stall for the last two nights.” – the Nosferatu curtseyed in her own hunched way.

“I hadn’t noticed, what can I do for an advisor to Lord Jurgen?” – Teresa lied.

“I am here because I was informed that the Fiend, Myca Vykos, has been in touch with you and your ally, the Count.” – Akuji

“That’s true.” – Teresa

“And the Viper, what did he want? What was his purpose here in Kronstadt? What is he up too?” – Akuji

“To be honest, we were wondering the same thing. It is not our experience that Vykos does anything for free.” – Teresa, still off her guard due to the Nosferatu’s abruptness.

“This is not the first time! Thrice now the snake has come through for my master and given us vital information and still he asks for nothing in return! What does he have planned?” – Akuji again, she practically barked at the Black Queen.

“Perhaps the intelligence is being leaked on purpose?” – Teresa, caught up by the string of questions.

“But the intelligence has never been faulty, nor has it been trifling things, we have used that Fiend’s knowledge to destroy one of Rustovitch’s Lieutenants! Something that the Voivode would not purposefully allow.” – Akuji, her voice becoming quiet, almost conspiratorial.

“Then I don’t know what to tell you. To be honest I have always found him to be inscrutable. If any of us understand him it would be Count Kyrillos.” – Teresa, wanting nothing more than for the little monster to leave.

“Here’s what we’re going to do: Tell my master that I shall be taking two of my scouts north to inspect the Obertus’ claims.” – Akuji said as she opened the door and vanished into the night.

Rattled by the manic Nosferatu, Teresa immediately set out to find Lord Jurgen and do as she was told.

10th of April, 1225, 10:42pm
Sanchez’s Personal Chambers
The Domain of Michael Erasmus
Prince of Kronstadt

Sanchez, Sherazhina and Abdul-Malik sat at the Spaniard’s worktable within their shared haven playing dice. Abdul-Malik, still dressed as a pilgrim, had been wiping the floor with his friend and had collected for himself a healthy amount of winnings.

He could see that Sanchez was trying to figure out a way to cheat when he looked into his friend’s eye.

“Careful, Friend, we Arabs have strict punishments for thieves.” – Abdul laughed.

“You call me a cheat? How dare you!” – Sanchez bellowed theatrically.

Sherazhina, for her part, sat quietly on a small stool laughing as she repaired one of her tunics that had been run through by a lucky swordsman three nights before. She did not realize it but her hair had straightened itself as she worked.

It was Sanchez who noticed their visitor first, though the other two noticed when their boisterous friend had grown suddenly quiet.

“I have a mission for you.” – Akuji said flatly as she appeared seated between the two men at the table.

“How can we be of service?” – Abdul-Malik

“I am going north to confirm some intelligence that has come to our attention through dubious channels and could use your talents.” – Akuji

“You mean the information volunteered by the Fiend Vykos?” – Sanchez

The Nosferatu raised her one mobile eyebrow.

“I am, Master Sanchez.”

“Will we be following the Fiend or will we make our own way?” – Abdul-Malik

“We shall travel north by our own route, to better ensure that Vykos never learns of our lack of faith. Should we be wrong it would bode ill to estrange an ally.” – Akuji

“When do we leave?”

16th of April, 1225, 3:00am
Somewhere in the Carpathians

It had been five nights since they’d left the relative safety of Kronstadt and the lands loyal to the Teutonic Order. Since that first night the sky had been overcast and ominous, there were no stars or moon, nor were there any signs that they had ever existed. The forested lands had taken on an alien feel to them as creatures that had once been natural fauna stalked the night searching for blood.

From the time they rose each evening until they closed their eyes at dawn, the sound of chanting invaded their ears. None recognized the words, but the fiends were making themselves clear nonetheless with their accursed rituals.

Sanchez had grown quiet on their second night of travel. Though he still spoke when necessary Abdul was sure that he’d never knew a time when the Toreador had been so laconic.

“Why did we agree to this, friend?” – Sanchez said, finally breaking his silence, though he seemed to travel alone.

“I do not know.” – a disembodied and creepily neutral voice whispered in response.

“Ahead” – Another voice, this one similarly without character.

Sanchez poked his head up and saw a sortie of seven soldiers, each marked with the livery of one of the dozens of Tzimisce who took up Rustovitch’s cause.

They were almost on top of him and would surely have seen him had he not called on his blood.

The war party slowed nearly to a halt, as had the sounds of the forests and the movement of the oppressive cloud cover. Even the chanting seemed to have ceased as his blood rushed through him. Sanchez walked past the men, skirting their formation carefully so as not to touch them or any leaves and then jogged on to a tree large enough for him to stand behind. When the world caught up with him the soldiers were talking.

“What was that?” – one soldier

“What was what?” – another

“I thought I saw somethin’.” – The first

“You’re always seeing something Drago.” – a third laughed

The others joined.

“Where are we headed again, sergeant?” – the second voice

“That Crown palace! Like the master said. The Imperials have held up there with the Overlords.” – the sergeant.

“You sure we can beat them? I hear them Ventrues got a big army of knights and things.” – the first voice.

“Of course we’re gonna beat ‘em. We’re bringing the whole army! We got fifteen garrisons of well oiled killing machines, not to mention the Master and his cousins!” – the Sergeant

“Or their creatures.” – one of the men interjected

“What he said.” – the Sergeant laughed as they moved away.

16th of April, 1225, 9:47pm
Deep in enemy Territory
Somewhere in the Carpathians

Abdul-Malik stood silently on a hill twenty yards from the wall of what was once a small village. It had been overtaken by the enemy sometime in the last fortnight. The more contact he had with the so called Vampires of Clan Tzimisce the more he was convinced of their wrongness.

The screams and chanting that could be heard throughout the countryside came from this forsaken place.

Most of the village had been raised, what few homes survived had been converted into barracks and officer quarters, the colors of no fewer than three different Voivodes hung upon various buildings. The mortal inhabitants had been herded like so many cattle into pens near the center of the encampment. The boundaries had been demarked with bloody pikes and the corpses of fallen enemies and conquered soldiers.

Within the fortifications there were scores of soldiers, both living and dead, but the actual source of the screaming and chanting couldn’t be seen.

There were other things too. Things that he could not explain, great horrible things, like moving mountains of flesh and bone and mouths and teeth.

Abdul-Malik was speechless, tears of blood rolled down his cheeks and for the first time in more than a quarter century he felt as though he couldn’t catch his breath.

The Vampire turned his back and returned to the rendezvous point.

“What did you see?” – Akuji asked

“Jahannam.” – Abdul replied.

The Nosferatu’s face darkened as the Saracen described the nightmare he had seen.

“Vozhd.” – Sanchez said, his voice hollow.

“They are a myth made to scare us.” – Akuji, incredulously

“No, I have seen two with my own eyes when we faced the Voivode Koban during the last Crusade.” – Sanchez

“How did you destroy them?” – Abdul asked

“We didn’t. the first fell only after decimating our army while the mortal Archers fired volley after volley of arrows into it and the second…” – Sanchez looked as if he might be ill.

“Yes, Sanchez?” – Akuji

Sanchez was obviously in some sort of distress, as if he were afraid that the memory itself might come after him.

“You will have to speak with Count Kyrillos on that matter.” – his voice cracked slightly.

“So what do we do?” – Abdul

“Burn it all down.” – Sanchez.

25th of April, 1225, 2:05am
Teresa’s Personal Chambers
The Domain of Michael Erasmus
Prince of Kronstadt

It had been a fortnight in hell for the people of Kronstadt. Four nights after Akuji’s expedition left the city the first wave arrived. Dozens of monstrous war-ghouls slammed into the fortifications, slaying what few mortals were unlucky enough to be caught outside. They were fierce but Jurgen’s forces were capable of pushing them back with little trouble.

The second wave came three nights later and was not as easy to turn away. There was a Cainite, a woman who called herself Kara Lupescu, and she’d brought pets. They were massive beasts, shaped like wolves but larger and able to fly on large bat-like wings and grasped at their victims with clawed human hands.

Though many mortals died that night, including woman and children along with those knights who fought for the Black Cross, no one of consequence had been lost.

Teresa was trying to be grateful for the little things but it wasn’t easy. They were going to need all the manpower they could find if they were going to survive the third wave, which according to scouting reports and the sound of drums was due sometime tonight.

Akuji, Sanchez and Abdul had returned with news that there was indeed an army amassing in the north, one that far outstripped the one that had gathered in Kronstadt to defend the city. It seemed that her old friends had taken to dismantling much of the enemy’s war-party.

“It was not enough.” – Abdul-Malik, his voice dire.

“How could that be so?” – Teresa asked

“We killed dozens, Teresa, hundreds even, we tore their Tzimisce masters limb from limb and left nothing but ash and still we could not even decimate the forces allied against us and our Liege.

“And what of Sanchez, where is he now? What does he think?” – Teresa

Surely the Spaniard would not have been infected by this heathen strain of cowardice.

“He feeds now. As for his thoughts I don’t know. He’s barely spoken since we began our raid.” – Abdul-Malik

25th of April, 1225, 9:03pm
The Curtain Wall
The Domain of Michael Erasmus
Prince of Kronstadt

A horn sounded and the gates were opened just enough to let a single man through before they were quickly barred again. That man, dressed as a scout and wearing the mark of Dmitri, a Hungarian Ventrue that Kyrillos had not met, stumbled in and then flickered, appearing again in front of Kyrillos and Lady Lucretia. Now that he was so close Kyrillos recognized the stink of old blood and death. This ghoul had been running for some time and had not taken the time to heal himself. In other words, he was dying.

In his side was a great wound that looked like some sort of bite mark, possibly human but of outrageous proportion, having taken away a full third of the man’s torso; Kyrillos could not help but wonder how this mortal had survived for so long, even gifted with the blood of one of the Damned.

“The- They’re coming, milady. They’re coming.” – The scout stammered before collapsing.

Lucretia kneeled beside the dying man, her very presence seemed to grant him new life.

“What happened, scout?” – she demanded

“Dmitri’s dead, milady, they killed him, they killed all of them. They’re coming.” – the scout, before losing consciousness

“It would seem that your friend’s intelligence was apt, Count.” – Jürgen, his voice booming with confidence even as he spoke softly.

Neither Vampire had heard him step out of the castle.

“I beg your pardon, milord, but perhaps he was correct in his conclusion as well, that we cede this battle to Rustovitch. His army is monstrous but mostly mortal and prone to infighting. We could simply outlast the majority of them. I do believe that it is your clan that prefers to outlive its rivals, after all.” – Kyrillos.

Both Ventrue eyed their advisor scrupulously, as if trying to decide if he was speaking strategically or out of fear.

Jürgen seemed to decide it was the former and smiled.

“I disagree, Count. As I see it: I can either strike now and take victory, or stay here within these walls and await defeat.” – Jürgen

It was the answer that Kyrillos had been hoping to hear and it was one that he could believe without reservation.

In that moment Kyrillos knew that he’d follow the Sword-Bearer to victory.

Jürgen called for his warhorse and mounted it at full gallop.

“Who shall follow me into the cold night? Who shall stand by my side and slay those who would trespass against the might of the Black Cross?” – Jürgen, holding up his glittering blade.

A dozen vampires, along with their mortal followers, raised their swords. Kyrillos stood to follow but the General bade him to stay and act as his steward while Sherazhina chose to stay and give comfort to the fearful mortals.

The others followed for a myriad of reasons. Though Sanchez seemed to be looking for little more than his own demise in the dark woods, he wasn’t showing it.

“Ibrahim, should things go bad, I want you to know that you’ve been a good companion through these hellish times and… I will use you as a shield should it come to that.”

“It wouldn’t matter if you did, they wouldn’t see me, you Spanish fop.” – Abdul-Malik

“It’s no matter my Heathen friend, I’ll ensure that you are always between me and a blade.” – Sanchez

“That would not save you from the hellhounds for if I die, you’ll die with me!” – Abdul – Malik

“Fah! I do not fear the Hellhounds for I am twice-safe from them, for not only can I outrun them, but you too.” – Sanchez

“But the hounds will not be interested in attacking that which they cannot perceive!” – Abdul-Malik.

“But they won’t attack what they cannot catch.” – Sanchez

“Say what you will but know that, should you die, I shall return to your homeland of Iberia and I shall find your sire, and then I shall claim the bounty on your head in his domain, and all those that surround it.” – Abdul-Malik

A hush settled over the marching knights as Sanchez walked without speaking.

“Well played, my Heathen friend!” – Sanchez Bellowed with laughter

The knights who marched with them, both living and dead alike, laughed with him in spite of themselves, their spirits lifted.

If they were to die tonight, they would do so in good company.

26th of April, 1225, 1:17am
Somewhere North of Bran Castle
The Domain of Michael Erasmus
Prince of Kronstadt

The Ventrue and other Cainites, be they Tremere, Lasombra or even the occasional Brujah, rode on horseback as their forces marched. The few Toreador that had joined the Sortie, including Sanchez and the invisible Moor, skittered forward with their incredible speed to act as scouts for the war party.

They were two miles from the castle when Sanchez felt…something. He wasn’t alone, one of the other Toreador, some French fop that Sanchez had never been introduced to, had gone rigid as if listening to something.

The Frenchman vanished in a spray of dirt and stone and blood and Sanchez was sure that he’d been destroyed until he realized that the Frenchman was now standing mere inches from himself.

Where he had been standing now stood a terrible creature of blood, scales and wicked barbs that had once been a man.

He was not alone. Nearly a dozen similar creatures had unearthed themselves violently somewhere in the darkness. To Sanchez’ left he heard the cries of someone being torn asunder amidst the thunderous roars of the Tzimisce Beast-things.

Szlachta they were called.

Sanchez’ Vitae burned in his skin and the creatures before him slowed nearly to a crawl.

He slipped effortlessly through the grip of the man before him, drew his sword and sheathed it again, this time between the creature’s ribs.

The beast’s back arched in pain, but even this panicked and pained motion was almost imperceptible as Sanchez twisted the sword and pulled up and out, shearing through bone, muscle, sinew and more vital things as he did so.

By the time the creature finally landed on the ground, its life pouring out of the gaping hole that had once been its rib cage, Sanchez was already gone.

26th of April, 1225, 1:26am
The Curtain Wall
The Domain of Michael Erasmus
Prince of Kronstadt

Sherazhina reached over the wall with her left hand quickly and carefully so as not to give the howling mass of Basarab archers too large a target.

“What do you see, Sherazhina.” – Kyrillos

“There are still at least three score men and I could not count all of the hellhounds that they had brought with them.” – Sherazhina said as she carefully reset her eye into its socket.

Kyrillos blinked involuntarily as he watched it slither and loll about the socket as if settling into a comfortable position.

“Did you see your grandfather?” – Kyrillos, his tone courteous, as if asking after a relative.

“How did you know?” – Sherazhina asked.

The old Malkavian gave her a patronizing look as he crawled down the ladder.

She had seen her grandfather, Vintila Basarab, though she’d barely recognized the monster. He stood nearly nine feet tall and wore bloody armor that seemed crafted from flesh and bone. His skin was gray and coarse and his eyes were black. The only way she’d known for sure that it had been him was the mane of white hair and the standard bearer that stood at his side waving his flag for all to see.

“We must see to the populous, young Basarab, and ensure that Sanchez’s fortifications are holding.” – Kyrillos

“They didn’t seem to be attacking the city, Kyrillos, it’s almost as if they’re waiting.” – Sherazhina, as she followed Kyrillos down.

“Yes, we thought as much, they’re not interested in Kronstadt, or at least not with those of us that remain within it. They are more interested in what is on the other side of the wall.” – Kyrillos

“They’re keeping Jürgen and the others out.” – Sherazhina.

“Along with the most martially capable Immortals allied with him against Rustovitch.” – Kyrillos

Sherazhina swore under her breath.

“We couldn’t agree more.” – Kyrillos

“There will be no way for them to return before dawn will there.” – Sherazhina

“I don’t believe so, no.” – Kyrillos

“Someone’s got to warn them.” – Sherazhina

“We were afraid you would say that.”

26th of April, 1225, 4:08am
Somewhere North of Bran Castle
The Domain of Michael Erasmus
Prince of Kronstadt

Teresa had cut a swath through the men and monsters who had been arrayed against her and her allies. Her dress, never one of her flashier ensembles, was crimson from the blood of her enemies. Her hair too was caked with their blood, though she found only a single scratch on her person.

“I am impressed, Lady Teresa.” – Abdul-Malik, his own clothing was nearly spotless, a bow hung in his right hand, a near-empty quiver slung over his shoulder.

“What did the battle cost us?” – She ignored his chauvinistic comment.

“We have lost two Toreador and a Brujah, no one you knew, I assure you, a few score soldiers.” – His voice was flat.

“Unacceptable. There wasn’t a single Vampire in the throng and we lost a quarter of the Undead that marched with us?” – Teresa, her question rhetorical.

The assassin reached down and pulled an arrow from a dead man’s chest.

“Did you see him?” – Abdul, whilst inspecting the arrow.

Teresa didn’t have to ask of whom the moor spoke.

Near the end of the melee there had been a figure upon a hill to the south of the battlefield. The man, mounted upon a hellish steed that stood no less then twelve feet at its shoulder. The man himself wore armor that seemed to have been fashioned from human bone.

“Do you suppose that that was Lord Jürgen’s foe?” – Teresa

“That is what they’re saying, yes.” – Abdul Malik said as he discarded the fractured arrow.

Their conversation was cut short by the sounds of shouting to the south.

Two figures had arrived on horseback carrying the standard of the Black Cross.

Everything had grown quiet as the two figures dismounted, the shouting falling to whispers. Most thought it was some sort of Fiendish ruse as Lady Lucretia and Master Sanchez approached the newcomers.

Teresa and Ibrahim slipped through the crowd as new whispers arose that they were from Kronstadt.

“We come with dire news, Lady Lucretia.” – the voice was deep and haggard.

It was one that Teresa knew well.

Kyrillos was pulling a pair of thick leather gloves from his hands as he spoke of the trap that had been sprung. The battle had been a diversion, something that would play to Lord Jürgen’s arrogance and cause him to leave the city, which was now completely cut off by the Tzimisce and their monstrosities.

While Kyrillos spoke of the enemy’s numbers Sherazhina had embraced Sanchez, and was running her hands over his face and arms as if to make sure that he had not been harmed.

The sea of soldiers parted suddenly as Jürgen approached the messengers and heard their account.

“Lucretia and I had already surmised that we would not be returning to Kronstadt by dawn. We fought for too long and we must prepare for the coming dawn.” – Jürgen

“We should find an advantage location and begin digging. We can bury ourselves and leave fortifications to the Ghouls in our ranks.” – Lucretia,

Everyone agreed. Sanchez had already begun ticking off the list of things that the ghouls would need to gather throughout the day.

“We have another plan, Lord Jürgen.” – Kyrillos said, a small smile playing on his face.

Jürgen turned to the old man expectantly.

“Not far from here, to the east, is a blasted place called Tuzfold. The mortals of the region fear it and give it a wide berth and their superstitions are shared by many within the Tzimisce ranks. Within the forest there lie the ruins of an old fortress and village. It has been but a few score years since we last saw it so the tower, at least, should still stand.” – Kyrillos

Jürgen nodded, it was a good plan.

“We cannot go that way. I have heard of Tuzfold and it is indeed a cursed place. Not even the lepers could stay there for long.” – Lucretia

“Do we have any other choice?” – Kyrillos

“I’d rather deal with ghosts than with the sun. Follow him!” – Jürgen

The edge of Tuzfold was only a half mile from where they had fought and they knew immediately that they had no trouble believing that they had passed into a cursed place.

The trees were far fewer and less robust, their branches jagged and bare even this far into spring. The air was thick with the smell of mildew.

Teresa drew too close to one of those sickly trees as she passed and felt a sudden pain in her shoulder. She found a branch sticking out of it. The brittle wood had splintered when she bumped it and its jagged edge easily pierced her skin. She removed it and allowed the wound to close. All around her she saw others afflicted similarly, Sherazhina’s face had a large gash across one cheek where she’d brushed up against a low hanging branch. A ghoul was clasping his hand where a branch he’d tried to steady himself upon had impaled him.

As they grew to understand the situation the ranks thinned out into lines so as to better pass between the trees unharmed.

The ground was soft underfoot, and looked as if it were covered in a thick layer of reddish snow. Out of curiosity Teresa had bent down and scooped up the strange matter and discovered that it was ash; blood red ash that covered the floor of the entire forest.

It was easy to see why talk of a curse had spread, even the sky let off a horrible red glow through the thick cloud cover.

Eventually though they reached a clearing, within the clearing stood the blackened skeleton of a farming community, with barns and houses and buildings that had all been burnt to the ground. Only a few structures still remained, the largest of which was a great stone tower.

The forest, which had until now been almost completely silent became filled with the sound of far off chanting. Word spread that it was the Tzimisce, giving some hellish peon to their pagan gods.

Jürgen turned to the assembled knights and soldiers and barked the last order of the night.

“I claim the tower as the command center of this outpost and as my personal haven. Lucretia, Kyrillos, Sanchez, you and your coterie with me, the rest of you should find shelter before the approaching dawn.”

Twenty vampires darted into the ghost town in search of havens with root cellars, wells and surviving crawl spaces. Their ghouls worked with them to shore up any imperfections in their shelters.

Sanchez called Jürgen’s personal guard to him and explained what he wanted them to do during the day to create defenses around their encampment while the others headed for the tower.

Jürgen strode forward with such confidence that one could be made to believe that all of this had been his plan from the very beginning. When they reached the small jut of stone that marked where the tower had once attached to a larger wooden structure they suddenly felt the presence of… something else.

Before them, where the ground gave way to a stairway leading down into the tower the ash and dust from the ground began to drift upward, carrying with it the rising sense of an approaching enemy.

Soon the rising cloud of dust was coalescing into the shape of a boy. His mouth full of fangs, his hands tipped with horrible black claws. His eyes flashed red as they shifted from vampire to vampire.

“Who trespasses in the lands of Codrin?” – the boy growled.

He wore nothing but a loin cloth made of deer skin and his soot stained body was crisscrossed with livid scars.

“Leave now, interlopers, or you shall face the wrath of Codrin!” – the boy roared.

The darkness within Teresa was unmoved. This boy could not have been long into his Long Night.

“I am sorry, you must be mistaken. This is my domain for my presence makes it so. Now, I ask you, kindly step away from my haven.” – Jürgen said calmly.

“What?” – Codrin’s voice was flat and childlike.

Jürgen’s personal Guard had insisted on escorting him to his new haven and ensuring that he would be sheltered. Now they were drawing their swords and spears again.

The child-vampire snarled, once again attempting to intimidate the elder and his coterie

Jürgen sighed.

“I wish to retire, would someone please kill him.” – Jürgen, offhandedly to his men.

The ghouls rushed forward as Codrin raised his claws to defend himself.

Kyrillos stepped forward and willed for everyone to be calm.

“Codrin! It is I, Cyril Kosmos! We fought together a score years ago against hellhounds of the Fiends and we humbly request sanctuary from a force of those same fiends who wish us ill!”

The knights lowered their swords and looked at the old Malkavian as he spoke. Codrin, too, grew more calm as he listened. Kyrillos stepped between the knights and their Quarry only to find Sanchez there with him. The Spaniard smiled supportively.

“This young vampire is called Codrin, he is an ally of mine and of Michael Erasmus, and this is indeed his domain, by right and by sword word of the Prince of Kronstadt.” – Kyrillos.

“This is a time of war, Kyrillos, and though I respect that he was an ally to you once, right now he stands in my way.”

Something in the Sword-Bearer’s demeanor changed. It was like a wave sweeping over the rest of the vampires present. He was old, he was powerful and they should respect him. Only Kyrillos seemed unfazed, but it was Codrin who acted most clearly. His eyes went wide in fear and then fled.

Ibrahim gave chase, appearing as if from nowhere in front of the frightened vampire.

“Let him go. We have what we want and enough to worry about. Let the Tzimisce take him.” – Jürgen.

But even as he ran Teresa got an uneasy feeling. On his shoulder was a particularly vivid bit of scarification.

She couldn’t place it at first but soon she realized why she felt so uneasy.

“He belonged to Marrow.” – Sanchez

Jürgen looked as if he’d never heard the name before recognition dawned in his eyes.

“That may be. But that is something we must deal with another night, for now we must guard against the sun.” – Jürgen

Teresa and the others followed Jürgen into the tower, while there were rooms above ground each would easily be awash with sunlight by noon, so instead they went down below ground, into what looked like a root cellar. Though their time was short Sanchez quickly dug out a small trench that led deeper into the earth at an angle away from the direction that sunlight might breach the cellar.

In ten minutes he had a smallish room carved out big enough for them to rest, albeit uncomfortably without fear of the sun.

Sherazhina looked skittish.

“Are you alright dear?” – Teresa asked.

“I’m fine, Teresa, it’s just that I left something back in the city and I fear that it shall weigh heavily upon me in my sleep.” – Sherazhina

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, Sherazhina. I doubt that you need to worry overly much about looters while we still do battle.” – Teresa

Sanchez wrapped his arms around Sherazhina as the sun rose, a single tear of blood running down Sherazhina’s cheek as the day sleep took Teresa.

26th of April, 1225, 8:37pm
The Black Cross Encampment
Tuzfold Forest

Sanchez looked over the work that the ghouls had done over the course of the day with some pride. They’d fortified the tower itself with stones and fallen shields from the battlefield to better lightproof the upper floors.

They’d also dug out a trench around the tower, lining the bottom of it with pikes crafted from Tuzfold’s deadly trees. They’d also torn down a few standing structures to build walls around that ditch both to better protect the tower and to hide the deadly trap.

Sanchez had been helping them shore up the last of the defenses and was beginning to feel the pull of his Beast. It was easy to get caught up in the work, after all.

As if she felt his hunger pains, Sherazhina appeared holding a goblet of blood.

“Where did you get it?” – Sanchez

“A few of the knights went hunting and saved the blood. It’s cold, and I think it belonged to some sort of rodent, but its blood nonetheless.” – Sherazhina smiled faintly as he took the cup.

“How are you feeling, lovely?” – Sanchez asked before gagging down the blood.

“I’ve been better.” – Sherazhina said weakly.

He could see it in her face. The spark was gone from her eyes and her hair seemed thinner and had lost its luster. Her face had, in the day, lost its softness and the now gray skin seemed to be growing more taut over her cheekbones. The hand that rested upon his arm was small and thin, the nails that tipped her delicate fingers had lengthened as the skin pulled away from them.

Her kind was forced to sleep on soil sacred to them and she had left what little dirt she had back in Kronstadt. As long as they were stranded here she would be continue to grow weaker and weaker until she was little more than the Larvae that Kyrillos kept as pets. It had happened once before, shortly after her Becoming. They had returned to Balgrad, where she was born, with Teresa expecting to find it to comfort her. It hadn’t. She dreamt each day of the tower they’d called home in Birkau Pass and each night she’d grown weaker and less able to withstand the Urges of her Flesh until he thought that he’d lost her to frenzy.

Sanchez hated seeing her this way.

The blood had left a bad taste in his mouth while only goading his Beast into thrashing against its cage.

“Go.” – Sherazhina said, as if anticipating what he was thinking.

“I can stay.”

“No, if we are to fight, you’ll need all your strength, Kyrillos can help you forage.” – Sherazhina

Sanchez snarled at the thought of drinking more animal blood.

“So be it, I’ll be back soon.” – Sanchez

He kissed her forehead. It was dry.

27th of April, 1225, 5:12am
The Tower
The Black Cross Encampment

The battle began in their favor. The traps set by the ghouls at Sanchez’s behest proved to be more than a match for the first wave of monstrosities that Rustovitch through at them. Three Vozhd Behemoths impaled themselves on the fallen trees and a dozen other, smaller, horrors fell to their deaths within the spiked pits.

Jürgen in response sent two sorties out to flank the Fiendish Host. It was a slaughter and when it was over the Knights of the Black Cross returned in good cheer.

Kyrillos had watched Jürgen as the Sword-bearer spoke to Lucretia near the top window of the tower. They did not share the exuberance of their men. They lost another three good men, and a half a dozen ghouls besides. They may have won the battle but it, most likely, cost them the war.

Kyrillos couldn’t have agreed more. They probably weren’t going to last the week.

He was wrong.

An hour before dawn they stormed the defenses again, but this time they side stepped the pits and the traps and used the corpses of those terrible dead titans to storm past the pikes guarding the first line. It was a slaughter and when it was over Kyrillos found himself frozen in place, hanging from a wickedly sharp tree.

Now he was being carried, like so much dead weight, back into the encampment. Gauthier carried him, grimly, into the cellar.

“What happened?” – Teresa’s voice echoed in Kyrillos’ head, but he couldn’t see her, his eyes were frozen so that he was looking at his feet.

“He was thrown into the trees by one of the fiends’ minions.” – Gauthier, his voice flat and heavy with grief and rage.

Teresa was bloody and her face was misshapen as she bent over him and placed her hands on his chest. Their touch was so delicate that he was amazed that they could tear a man apart as he’d seen earlier in the night.

She ran her cold, dead fingers over his chest, tearing away his leather armor like it was a flimsy shirt.

Cold hands over bare skin, he was shocked to see his own skin had begun to blacken.

“Move back!” – she said to someone on the other side of him.

With one swift and fluid motion she rolled him over and he found himself staring intently at the dirt floor.

He smelled root vegetables. Funny.

“What is that?” – Gauthier’s voice.

“It looks like a large piece of wood is still piercing his heart. I’m sorry old friend, this is going to hurt.” – Teresa

Before he could register her words he heard the sound of tearing leather and popping bone followed by what felt like something crawling through his chest.

He couldn’t scream. He’d never realized how important screaming was and now he found himself completely incapable of screaming.

He had to scream!

There was a sucking sound and then, suddenly, he could scream. His madness bubbled up and took hold.

The wound in his back closed almost instantly as his arms thrust him up onto his feet. He threw a surprised Gauthier back against the wall and roared at Teresa.

She grabbed him by the throat and slammed him back into the floor.

“Calm down.” – Teresa, calmly, coolly, as if she was speaking to a child mid tantrum.

The Madness calmed, it did not fully subside but it weakened enough for Kyrillos to try to get it back under control.

Kyrillos blinked.

“Thank you, Teresa.” – Kyrillos rasped, Teresa’s hand was still wrapped around his throat.

“You’re welcome, now get up.” – Teresa.

Her face was more regular now, the bones and torn flesh having already been rebuilt by her Shadowy Vitae.

“What’s happened?” – Kyrillos

Gauthier was trying to stand.

“We don’t have an exact count but it looks as though we’ve lost five more Cainites, and twice as many ghoul-knights.” – Gauthier

Kyrillos ran a hand through his beard.
Their numbers had been cut by nearly a third. He almost asked about the opposing force but knew that it was a farcical hope. There were so many following the Voivode that Rustovitch wouldn’t worry if he’d lost all of them.

He almost didn’t dare ask the next question on his mind but Teresa seemed to know his thought.

“No, none of our number have fallen. Sanchez took a beating but you got the worst of it. He’s already preparing the defenses for tomorrow.” – Teresa

“Good, Good.”

27th of April, 1225, 7:13pm
The Village Square
The Black Cross Encampment

Ibrahim had been helping Sanchez shore up a fence-line when the call came that Lord Jürgen wanted everyone to assemble in what remained of the village’s square.

He’d expected to hear another speech from the German nobleman to bolster his men’s morale. What he found disturbed him to his core.

In the center of the square he found a mass of women, children and elderly men herded together like cattle along with the bodies of a dozen animals; mostly deer and rabbits but also a wolf or two.

Not far from this was a heap of wounded men with no clothes. Ibrahim recognized a few of the men as ghoul-knights that he’d fought beside throughout the campaign.

“What in God’s name is this, Ibrahim?” – Sanchez, materializing next to Ibrahim.

“I think it is hell, Sanchez.” – Ibrahim

Lord Jürgen stood grimly upon what looked like a well surveying what could only be described as an abattoir in the making.

Twelve Vampire knights encircled the ‘feast’ hungrily and even Abdul-Malik had to admit that his Blood was calling out in hunger.

Sanchez spat on the ground but Ibrahim found himself slinking closer to the mass.

He was just so hungry, and if he fed his chances of survival grew, after all.

With a simple motion of his hand Jürgen let loose the vampire host upon the human cattle. Ibrahim kneeled next to one of the dying knights and apologized for what he was to do before drinking deep and killing him.

He looked up to find Gauthier burying his face into the arm of another knight. When he was done with his feed he said a simple prayer, one that Ibrahim had heard dozens of times on the battlefield.

He turned to see Sanchez as he turned his back on the slaughter.

“Sanchez!” – Lord Jürgen called out to the Spaniard.

When the architect turned, blood tears were flowing down his cheeks. Abdul turned to find that Lord Jürgen was standing not too far from where he was, holding a toddler in his arms, the child was silent and submissive but his face was a mask of horror.

“Feed! These mortals are sacrificing their lives so that we don’t have to! Don’t deny what you are!” – Jürgen

He buried his teeth in the child’s side.

27th of April, 1225, 8:24pm
The Tower
The Black Cross Encampment

It had been an hour since the blood bath and Sanchez found himself flush with vitae for the first time in what must have been months. Jürgen had been right, those that had been gathered had been sickly and not long for this world anyway, why should they die in vain when their deaths could be given purpose.

Abdul had just returned from an excursion into the no man’s land and there was still no sign of an attack coming. It seemed that Rustovitch’s forces were in some sort of holding pattern.

Kyrillos had been meditating since the debauchery, it was a part of his routine that he’d been unable to maintain since coming to Kronstadt and if tonight was going to be the last of his Long Night then he would see it with lucid eyes.

He opened his eyes to find that he and the others were not alone in the tower. The figure was paler than when they’d last met, though it had only been a few weeks and his clothes, though lined with gold and green thread, were far less ostentatious then he’d ever seen him dressed before but Kyrillos recognized him nonetheless.

“Vykos, my friend! You’ve come for us.” – Kyrillos, leaping to his feet to embrace his ally.

Vykos, as ever, stepped away from the Malkavian’s cordial embrace.

Sanchez and Abdul were both on their feet, Abdul having drawn a dagger.

“How did you get in here, Vykos.” – Sanchez, his hostility apparent.

“I have come, not with aid, but with warnings, friend Kyrillos, Morrow is fast approaching Tuzfold, and she brings with her a pack of allied Gangrel.” – Vykos

“Why are we conversing with this fiend?” – Abdul, his eyes flashing red as his Blood became stoked by his anger.

“She’s furious that Jürgen has broken his word to her and, if my intelligence is true, and I believe it is, than the pack she brings is just the first.”

“And how do you profit by bringing this information to us?” – Sanchez, warily.

“This may work to our favor, Morrow doesn’t care one wit about the politics of the dead, she just wants us to steer clear of her territory, which, if Codrin had been any indication, she sees this as her territory. She’s not just here for us, but for Rustovitch as well…” – Kyrillos, ignoring Sanchez’s barb.

“If they’re coming in packs than they’re more dangerous than lupines. We’d have to find a way to separate them.” – Sanchez, his mind already strategizing.

“It may be time for a strategic withdrawal out of Europe.” – Ibrahim, half seriously.

“I never did get to build my tunnel.” – Sanchez quipped.

Vykos furrowed his brow suddenly.

“Why are you two here? Has tonight’s battle already ended tonight?” – Vykos

“They have yet to attack.” – Kyrillos

“Rustovitch hasn’t assaulted you at all?”

“Try not to sound to disappointed, Fiend.” – Abdul-Malik

“I believe that Rustovitch plans on letting Morrow doing the dirty work for him.” – Vykos

“You’re saying he’s underestimating Morrow’s wrath.” – Sanchez

“Did you meet any resistance coming into the encampment?” – Kyrillos

“None, I didn’t see a single scout within a quarter mile of here.” – Vykos

“So he’s going to sit back and watch us be slaughtered.” – Sanchez, snorting in disbelief.

“Please, Kyrillos, bring your allies, and meet me at the farmhouse to the north of here as soon as you can, I have a plan but I do not wish to speak of it here.” – Vykos

“I take it you wouldn’t like us to tell Jürgen.” – Sanchez

“I would prefer you did not but if you must I understand. My plan may save all the lives in this encampment but I must know that you are behind it before Jürgen hears it, for your support could very well help him see its worth.” – Vykos

Without another word Vykos turned and slipped out of the tower, vanishing into the night.

27th of April, 1225, 8:50pm
Farmhouse Ruins
Tuzfold Forest

Sanchez was uncomfortable being so far from the tower, especially when it felt like their errand might be treasonous, but Kyrillos had been persuasive and he’d agree to join them when he learned that Sherazhina and Teresa were both joining their Malkavian ally.

They arrived to find Vykos waiting patiently for them.

When everyone had become comfortable Vykos began to speak. His voice was soft and oh so slightly condescending, as if he were speaking to children, but his words were persuasive none the less.

“Up until now the plan had been to either find a way to rout Rustovitch’s forces or to die in glorious battle against the forces of the eastern Voivodate.” – Vykos

“What about Retreat.” – Abdul-Malik

“I have a more viable third option.” – Vykos

“Of course you do.” – Sanchez

“There is hope. The only way out of this without meeting destruction, is peace.” – Vykos

All eight vampires scoffed.

Vykos held out his hand in as if gesturing for them to hear him out.

“Morrows assault will come and it will be fierce, but it will not be aimed squarely at your forces. Instead it will most likely hit the Voivodate just as hard as it hits the Black Cross. We can use the attack to foster a truce between the two warlords and break this siege. Unfortunately, from what I’ve heard from my esteemed allies, Count Kyrillos and Lady Teresa, Jürgen’s pride would not allow it.” – Vykos.

No one disagreed.

“Why don’t we simply broach the subject of peace on the sword-bearer’s behalf, I’m sure he’ll see the wisdom of it when his Long Night is no longer in danger. It is better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission, no?” – Gauthier, naively

Teresa patted the neonate on the back.

“I believe, however, due to the danger that Morrow presents to both factions we may be able to convince Jürgen and Rustovitch that the truce is a viable option to deal with their common foe, without impugning his honor or insinuating cowardice.” – Vykos.

“Instead of admitting defeat it’s simply a sound strategy.” – Sherazhina agreed weakly.

“If we can get them to agree to such a scenario then I can make my offer to them to allow Jürgen to wield some power here in Transylvania without risking annihilation.” – Vykos

“You speak as if Rustovitch has already agreed with this plan.” – Sanchez

“The threat he faces is one of division amongst the Voivodate, Noriz the Corrupter is looking for an excuse to flay the Voivode alive should this not be anything less than a total victory. Besides, he views me as a vassal and therefore my suggestion will allow him to save face, in spite of the fact that I owe neither him nor the Voivodate any allegiance.” – Vykos.

Sanchez looked from one member of the coterie to the next; each in turn quietly assented to hear the Obertus’ plot.

“You have our ear.”

27th of April, 1225, 9:43pm
The Black Cross Encampment

“I don’t trust that fiend as far as I can throw him.” – Sanchez

“To be fair, you can throw him quite far.” – Sherazhina jibed.

The craftsman shot his beloved a look. She smiled weakly back at him.

She had withered further throughout the day-sleep. She was now frail and small, with cracking dry skin and thinning gray hair. She looked like a corpse version of herself and it sickened him to think about her dead.

He smiled back.

“I think that it is a good plan, and one that we are likely to survive. I tell you this also, my untrusting friend, Should your Lord refuse the offer then I think we should walk away and leave him to his decision.” – Abdul-Malik

“Damn you, heathen.” – Sanchez, sullenly

“And you, Infidel.” – Ibrahim, softly.

Kyrillos was still wrapping his mind around the plan and how he would bring it to Lord Jürgen.

“We won’t need to take this to the Lady Lucretia first.” – Kyrillos, apropos of nothing.

Sanchez and Abdul both shrugged.

“Either way, you’re on your own in bringing this to Jürgen. I’ve already pissed him off by suggesting we might want to cut our losses and for me to bring the subject up again will only infuriate him further.” – Sanchez

“He’s worried that it’s a trap.” – Sherazhina said after he left.

“Seeing that Vykos wants us to lure Jürgen away I could understand his fear. But we will be by his side and together we make a very capable escort.” – Teresa, matter-of-factly.

“I still don’t understand why we need the Fiend’s plan at all; we are more than capable of forging our own path to salvation.” – Gauthier.

“We have no reason to doubt Myka’s worth as an ally, he’s always been a truthful and loyal friend to us these twenty-eight years and, moreover, it is a sound plan.” – Kyrillos

“I still think we could do better than that Eastern monster.” – Gauthier

“Quiet, Childe.” – Teresa, catching the young Malkavian’s eye.

Gauthier tried to rebut her but found himself incapable of speaking.

“Where’s Kyrillos?” – Abdul-Malik.

27th of April, 1225, 10:02pm
The Tower
The Black Cross Encampment

Teresa and the others reached Jürgen’s war-room just as Jürgen was standing over their Greek friend with his sword drawn and raised to strike.

“You speak treachery!” – Jürgen

“Sanchez called it.” – Abdul-Malik, absent-mindedly

“Jürgen wait, Kyrillos speaks sense. It is a good plan if he’s sure that it will work.” – Lucretia, eyeing Kyrillos as she placed her hand on Jürgen’s shoulder.

“I can, milady, as well as anything can be insured in times of war.” – Kyrillos

“If your ally is so sure that his plan would work why didn’t he come to me?” – Jürgen, his voice strained by his rage.

“He understands that he is still an outsider in your domain and that by convincing those loyal to you but friendly to him would be the best way to broach the subject with you Milord.” – Kyrillos

“Very well, I will meet with Myca Vykos but should this turn out to be a trap I will have your head along with that of each of your allies and your childer, is that understood.” – Jürgen

“Completely, milord, and to ensure that it is not a trap might I suggest that we accompany you along with Lucretia to act as a living shield should it turn out to be a trap.” – Kyrillos.

“So be it.” – Jürgen.

27th of April, 1225, 11:11pm
The Ruined Farm House
The Black Cross Encampment

Jürgen marched into the wreck of a farmhouse in full, shining armor, his raven cloak over his shoulder, his sword at his side. Lucretia stood to his right, also in full armor and armed with her own, less gilded, sword.

Abdul-Malik walked beside them unseen, his sword at the ready, Teresa stood at Jürgen’s flank, she wore simple leather armor and carried a sword with her. Sanchez held back, his eyes and ears open to everything.
For his part Kyrillos had already arrived and was standing near, but not beside, Myca Vykos, ready to keep the peace. He too was ready for any sign of attack.

“I see that I was unclear as to the idea of secrecy, my friend.” – Vykos

“I am not fool enough to try and fool my Lord, no matter how good a friend you are.” – Kyrillos

“Fair enough.” – Vykos.

The Ventrue strode toward the Obertus with purpose.

“Lord Jürgen, thank you for meeting me here. I respect that under the circumstances you’d rather be with your men preparing for battle but I have a way to mitigate this war outright.” – Vykos

“For understanding my circumstance you are laying it on a little thick, why don’t you explain to me why I’ve been summoned here.” – Jürgen, his voice calm.

“Then let me be concise. I need a domain of my own, a place for my Obertus brothers to call home. To facilitate this I will ensure that Hardestadt and your own esteemed personage will be able to have your way with western Hungary without having to fear intercession from the Voivodate.” – Vykos

“I am to believe that a small band of Byzantine monks will stand between our interests and the Eastern Lords?” – Jürgen

“While they do not fear me, nor my Sire, Symeon, they do fear the influence of our master, the Dracon.” – Vykos.

The name gave Jürgen pause. The Dracon was a name attached to stories told by Hardestadt of his own sire. Jürgen had never believed them.

Jürgen returned to the others.

“What you have us do, Lord Jürgen.” – Sanchez

The Sword-bearer looked exhausted suddenly, his majestic bearing simply gone.

“Return to the Encampment and prepare for the coming of Morrow and Rustovitch, even should they not be allies, they will still be against us. I must have time to think on what your friend, Vykos, has suggested.” – Jürgen

They did as they were told.

28th of April, 1225, 12:16am
The Tower
The Black Cross Encampment

Though they had much of the night to ready themselves for the battle that was sure to be at hand, their numbers were so small that when the attack finally came they were woefully unprepared.

It began at midnight when Abdul-Malik, Sanchez and another scout returned with word that Rustovitch’s army had advanced to within a quarter-mile of the clearing and were holding there.

Then the fog rolled in. Thick, heavy and low, it rolled through the trees almost deliberately and soon it covered the whole of Tuzfold. The assembled knights, both living and dead were convinced that it was some trick of the Pagan sorcerers within the Tzimisce ranks.

The vampires within the ranks felt their hackles go up as though some unknown vampire was amongst them but there was no one to be seen.

And then the screaming began. It was loud and inhuman and it didn’t come from within the encampment but from the forest.

In the next instant all hell broke loose. A flock of great black birds swooped in from the night sky followed by the flitting of hundreds of bats. An entire unit of ghoul-knights was taken down by packs of wolves that had slipped through the defenses under the cover of the fog.

Gauthier was there on the frontline using his unnatural sight to cut a swath through another pack of wolves when one of them stood up, becoming what looked like a peasant, his amber eyes gleamed as he came toward the Frenchman, his fingers tipped with great black claws.

The peasant ignored blow after blow of the Knight’s sword before disemboweling him, his plate armor counting for nothing.

The thing fell on him and tore out his throat, leaving his torpid husk to be trampled in the mud.

Kyrillos was able to keep many of the wolves that came for him at bay by sending them, over and over again, back to their once-masters but when Gauthier fell he rushed out to find him only to be assaulted by the one who slew his childe. The Animal didn’t get close enough to use those claws on him. First Kyrillos took his will to fight, then he took his mind.

Sanchez was becoming annoyed as a third wolf leapt at him. The beast’s body hit the ground hard, Sanchez having snapped its neck mid-air.

The fourth charged him and this time he caught it outright, burying his teeth into is filthy fur.

Abdul-Malik was well hidden in his perch, having wrapped the night itself around himself, he notched another blood-soaked arrow into his bow and let it fly, burying the third arrow in a row into a smallish monster that looked something like a woman. This one was the one that did the job, the monster suddenly collapsing up against a tree and then, unbelievingly, she seemed to become one with it, the three arrows were left imbedded in the tree. That one had already killed six knights when he finally put it down.

He smirked to himself when he saw something that took his breath away and made him wish he’d never come to this forsaken land.

A wave of hellhounds came through the trees, bloody and angry, and they were followed by more of Rustovitch’s forces. With them came even more Gangrel, cutting them down as they ran through the clearing toward the encampment.

Vladimir Rustovitch looked over the massacre of his army in horror. How could he have miscalculated so disastrously? Another Gangrel charged him only to be cut in twain by his sword and still he moved forward across the clearing.

If he was going to die tonight than he was damned if he wasn’t going to drag Jürgen kicking and screaming with him into hell.

“JÜRGEN!” – the Voivode roared

He reached the first wave of defenses: a set of extraordinarily deadly pikes carved from the local flora. Rustovitch leapt over them as easily as a child leaps over a mud-puddle.

There were no men to defend the tower, neither living nor dead could be found, they were all dying on the battlefield, falling to the claws of the damned Gangrel and their spoor.

“Show yourself you craven Leech and make ready for battle!” – Rustovitch bellowed as he kicked in the Tower door.

Within the tower he found himself surrounded by Vampires, but none of them were his quarry.

“Where are you hiding him?” – Rustovitch demanded

---

Teresa heard the Voivode’s call from atop the tower. She’d stayed behind to protect Sherazhina and to give support where she could from atop the spire. She wrapped a band of the Voivode’s men as they reached one of the many traps, leading them to what, she could only hope, was their death.

The sound of the flapping of great wings drew her eyes skyward just in time to leap out of the way as a massive creature seemed to swoop out of the sky. The thing was massive and when it landed before her the entire tower shook.

As it stood up she found herself nearly frozen in terror. It was a massive shape of chitin and gray flesh and white hair, its feet were massive and ended in wicked talons, in place of arms the thing had two massive leather wings tipped in great bloody spikes.

Just as Teresa got her wits back and was able to get her bearings back the thing fell forward, folding its wings and stood on four limbs, bringing its massive fanged snout of a head within reach of her.

She clenched her sword tighter as it brought its head lower using its long neck until its black eyes reflected the stones on which she stood. And then it did something she would never had expected.

It laughed.

“Yes, fear, good, I want you to be afraid, Bitch Queen, when I kill you!” – The monster’s voice was so familiar.

Rage flooded Teresa, drowning out the fear.

“Vintila!” – Teresa hissed.

“Prepare to die, Bitch Queen!” – Vintila snarled

“You first.” – Teresa, Raising her sword

It laughed again and then lunged at his prey.

The dragon didn’t expect her speed or agility as the Black Queen slipped sideways and buried her blade in its neck, slicing smoothly through his spine.

Her nemesis spun away in pain, its fanned wings slicing through her armor like butter and severing her left hand as she attempted to defend herself.

Inky black blood welled up from her stump of an arm, refusing to close the wound. In her rage Teresa spat out a curse in the black tongue of the abyss and the word took form roiling out of her mouth as a great black cloud of nothingness, enveloping herself and Vintila in darkness.

She watched as it flailed about blindly, incapable of hitting her as she buried her blade in his chest.

Realizing its impending doom Vintila flapped its great wings, trying desperately to disperse the darkness and finally to simply escape it. Even as it rose the darkness tried to weigh him down and keep him in place

Clutching what was left of her arm to her chest Teresa fled the roof for the safety of the tower’s lower floors.

By the time she’d reached the bottom of the Tower she found the others waiting within. They had come together to stand fast against Rustovitch, who was making his approach. They needed to be ready to keep him at bay long enough for Lord Jürgen and Myca to return.

Rustovitch tore into the keep with ferocious strength and just as they prepared to defend themselves they heard a feral growl from deeper in the tower. They turned and saw the stones themselves transfigure themselves, becoming a woman marked by a strange amalgam of various creatures.

Teresa and her friend were, quite literally, all that stood between the Voivode of Voivodes and an ancient and furious Gangrel.

As the two elders squared off the assembled Cainites slipped out from between them until only Kyrillos Remained.

“ENOUGH.” – Kyrillos, his voice calm and almost fatherly.

The elder Gangrel’s eyes flickered to him and suddenly the anger was gone, even Rustovich lowered his sword and looked to the Malkavian.

“We are glad that you could join us for this convocation. We believe that we can come to an arrangement that would benefit all those involved.” – Kyrillos

“Make it quick, Trespasser.” – Morrow.

“Why would I listen to anything that one of Jürgen’s sycophants would have to say?” – Rustovitch

“Because, Lord Rustovitch, you’re not a fool.” – Kyrillos

The Voivode glared at the old man but before he could act on his anger Kyrillos pressed on.

“As we speak, our master, Lord Jürgen of Magdeburg, Sword-Bearer and General of the Black Cross, is in talks with Myca Vykos of the Obertus, to broker peace between the Eastern and Western Kingdoms.” – Kyrillos

28th of April, 1225, 1:09am
The Tower
The Black Cross Encampment

“If what you say is true, than Jürgen hopes to broker peace by giving up his own territory to grant these Obertus land for their ‘Monasteries”, and we’re to believe this?” – Rustovitch scoffed.

Morrow wasn’t so skeptical, but no more convinced.

“Even if what you say is true, what would your petty treaties do for my people? If the Gangrel cannot have the territories surrounding Tuzfold than we will ensure that neither of you will.” – Morrow.

Sanchez, though he tried to listen to the standoff in front of him, continued to hear the massacre occurring outside the door.

“It doesn’t matter, ultimately, because no such arrangement is being brokered, they are simply stalling so that their cowardly master can make his escape. I shall scour this tower until I find him, and if I don’t I shall devour all of your blood.” – Rustovitch, good naturedly.

“You’ll do no such thing, Rustovitch.” – Jürgen, appearing as if from thin air, Myca Vykos at his side.

Rustovitch unsheathed his sword and charged the Ventrue roaring, his fangs bared.

“Sheath your sword, dog!” – Jürgen shouted.

Rustovitch did as he was told, but that did not stop him from circling the General, hissing slurs and threatening to destroy the German where he stood.

The renewed aggression between the old rivals put Morrow back on her guard as well and she showed it by transforming her hands into wicked claws.

Once again Vykos explained his plan to Rustovitch, clarifying that the Obertus Monasteries would be built upon the contested land so as not to directly impede upon the Voivodate’s own holdings.

When Morrow demanded the lands to the North of Kronstadt, specifically the forest that they now stood in, would belong to the Gangrel and the Gangrel alone, everyone agreed, as no one else really wanted them to begin with.

The truce was called and Morrow demanded that they be gone by daybreak or it would just as swiftly end and then she, and her remaining followers vanished into the fog.

Rustovitch too gathered up his forces and headed north, leaving the Conspiracy exhausted and alone within Tuzfold forest.

Of the small army that joined them in coming to the forest only four vampire-knights remained.

As Sanchez gathered up an ever-weakening Sherazhina into his arms he realized that Gauthier was not among those knights, nor could he find Kyrillos. He went out, searching for them and found Kyrillos weeping, holding in his arms the body of his beloved childe.

Great rivulets of blood ran down his cheeks and got caught up in his beard.

“What do I do, Sanchez?” – Kyrillos wept as he rubbed his cheek against the dead man’s forehead.

Sanchez stood there silently, he didn’t know what to say. The war had taken its toll on all of them but in that moment, as he watched his friend weep over the Torpid body of his own childe Sanchez came to a horrific realization:

The War of Princes had only begun.

16th of September, 1217, 6:56pm
The Bay of Haifa
Outside The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Teresa breathed deep the humid air of the sea. She could not explain its calming influence upon her black soul. She allowed the waves to rock her as she lay in her casket. The sun had only just come down and she wished to enjoy these few moments of peace before rising.

So much had changed for the Black Queen of Balgrad. Shortly after her exploits in Magdeburg reached the Sea of Shadows it became apparent that her sire no longer showed any confidence in her ability to represent his interests in the East. Though he did not dare try to take her city from her he had begun to once again expect reports on a weekly basis.

Then a year ago he demanded her presence at the Castel d’Ombro, She tried explaining that the region had grown unstable and that her nemesis Vintila Basarab had grown so bold as to begin attacking her in earnest.

But his words were heavy with the power of his ancient blood and she came just the same. Though she was able to secure the services of Master Sanchez and Sherazhina to watch over her domain, she had not expected to be gone for so long. Nor had she been expecting to return to her duties as his ambassador. To prove her loyalties Silvester demanded that she drink once again from him and having done so she was obligated by blood oath to do anything he demanded.

What he demanded was that she come here to the Second Kingdom of Jerusalem in the Forsaken city of Acre. A city so holy that it is said that no Cainite had stepped foot in it in over a millennium.

She was to meet with a Genoese Lasombra called Maria D’Agostino, one of his agents whom he wished would claim the city as it’s Prince. Its seemed that the current Prince, a Frenchman named Etienne, was losing the support of his Patron, some ancient Christian out of Jerusalem called Varsik, and was ripe for the picking.

Thankfully she knew someone who had taken up residence in the region some months ago. Vendramino Giovanni had followed King Andras into the Levant in search of spoils. When he heard of Teresa’s journey he sent word that he would meet her in Acre.

Unfortunately she had made him wait. Once she reached Venice she received word that their ally, Count Kyrillos of Temeschburgh was accompanying the Baron Heinrich von Achern to Acre. They were coming on Crusade, though Kyrillos was only joining because Vendramino had invited him to partake of the wealth of trading he had discovered within the Levant.

And so she waited, calming herself with the rocking of the boat.

The door to her apparently empty chamber opened and someone strode in.

“Teresa, I wish to inform you that we are making port now.”

It was Kyrillos but he was gone again.

She rose begrudgingly when she finally heard the sound of the ship coming into dock. As she disembarked she found her mad ally and his giant childe Istvan awaiting her along with a handful of other vampires. She recognized two of them as Ventrue ranked highly within the Black Cross. One of them was of course Baron Heinrich von Achern, favored childe of Jurgen of Magdeburg and the other was Count Lanzo von Sachsen, a favored vassal of Jurgen’s Sire Hardestadt.

They’d been at each other’s throats since they’d left Venice.

“What are our plans, Kyrillos?” – Teresa

“We were supposed to meet with the guide sent by Prince Etienne.” – Kyrillos

“I was sure that Vendramino would send someone specifically for us.” – Teresa

“He did.” – a voice whispered in her ear. It was strangely accented, in fact she wasn’t entirely sure what language it was speaking.

Teresa turned but found no one there.

“Careful, Lady Teresa, you may draw attention to my presence which, I can assure you, would be a poor choice considering our company.” – the voice

Kyrillos looked askance at his friend.

“Are you well?” – Kyrillos

“I am, though I believe we’re being haunted.” – Teresa

The Malkavian took a good long look at her and then he saw it. Like an emptiness being filled he saw a robed figure in white. Even as skilled as he was he couldn’t quite make the figure out.

“Careful, Count, you must not look at me overlong lest I be revealed.” – the voice, its arabic accent was subtle.

“It is no ghost, it is simply Vendramino’s Arab servant. Pay him no attention and do not feel bad for not seeing him, he has simply succeeded in becoming completely beneath our notice.” – Kyrillos

Tensions were tight on the docks. The Teutons that they’d arrived with were at odds with the Cyprians and it wasn’t long before the two camps were arguing and throwing rotten food at one another. Eventually a physical fight broke out between two knights and that cascaded into an all out brawl, though luckily no one seemed to be reaching for their sword.

A single elderly monk stood on a crate begging for peace between them.

“Brothers! Brothers! Brother-Knights hear me! We are not enemies but comrades, called by our Lord to holy combat to turn Satan’s tide away from these holy-”

Which side threw the punch was unseen and mattered less once the man fell from his perch and was trampled in the rumble.

Heinrich approached the pair with his back to the dog pile.

“Ignore them. Our guide is here and we must away if we are to reach Acre by dawn. We must present ourselves to the Prince.” – his disgust toward the undisciplined knights is evident

“We must pay homage in the glittering palace of the Prince of Dirt.” – he added, sarcastically

Their guide looked to be a young girl no older than seventeen and was strikingly beautiful, perhaps even as beautiful as Sherazhina, though with a more exotic cast to her features. Of course she was also a vampire, the childe of Prince Etienne to hear Lanzo speak of it. What was more Etienne, despite being French and Christian, was one of the Charlatans which was in and of itself scandalous.

She was called Sabela.

17th of September, 1217, 2:49am
The Caravansary
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

They had traveled for much of the night. Passing many an encampment, this one belonged to the Hospitallers, that one was Teutonic, that one was Cyprian, another was made up of Hungarians and Magyars together.

But still they pushed on until finally they saw the city gates in the distance.

“But if none of ours are within the city, than how is it that there is a Prince?” – Istvan

“The Prince of Dirt holds court in a caravansary nearly a mile away from the city.” – Lanzo

The caravansary was ancient, perhaps as old as the city itself but with the exception of some superficial wear it was well preserved.

As they passed into the courtyard they saw Vendramino standing near the gate. He was dressed in accordance with local customs, in such a way as Teresa suspected a local Merchant Prince might dress.

He seemed to be enjoying himself greatly. As she watched Abdul-Malik appeared next to him, almost as if he un-vanished. As if he’d always been standing there. He raised a hand in greetings.

They joined them as fast as they could.

“How goes it Count Kyrillos?” – Vendramino, in good cheer

“The journey was long and I was surrounded by ill tempered zealots.” – Kyrillos, smiling in spite of himself

Abdul-Malik watched those around him carefully, knowing full well that he was being watched with wary eyes.

“Have you had the chance to meet Maria d’Agostino?” – Teresa, furtively as she glanced from vampire to vampire

“Yes we have. She’s the youngish moorish looking woman thither, the one in blue, no the one with the jewels.” – Vendramino

Abdul-Malik cocked an annoyed eye towards his patron

“It’s said that she and Narses had some falling out and has been exiled here.” – Abdul-Malik

“Yes, and you should be careful of that one, she’s old and canny. She runs all trade out of the Genoan Quarter within the city from here.” – Vendramino added helpfully

“Thank you.” – Teresa

“Oh and you wouldn’t believe who’s just arrived on the caravan that arrived from the north.” – Vendramino

Kyrillos crooked an eye curiously.

“Our once friend, Killian Toth. The little usurper slipped off and into the shadows not an hour ago. My guess is that he’ll wait until just before dawn to present himself.” – Vendramino

Kyrillos smirked at the news.

“You had best introduce yourself to the prince while the sun is still some time off. The processions have grown long in recent weeks with all of the crusaders and unless you are acknowledged by dawn you’re not allowed to stay within the Caravansary. The earlier you ask the better your chances of having a secure haven.” – Abdul-Malik helpfully

And so they did. Excusing themselves they made their way into the small gathering of Cainites forming in front of an ancient roman fountain against the eastern wall of the Caravansary.

There, sitting upon a smallish wooden throne is the man who must be Prince Etienne. He was broad shouldered and his hair was a wavy brown. He was obviously not a local despite his pilgrim’s garb.

“Welcome, Wilhelmina, I grant you sanctuary and the right to hunt in my domain.” – Etienne, in French accented Latin

The Baron von Achern stepped forward to be recognized.

“Halt! I am Count Lanzo von Sachsen, vassal to Hardestadt, I will not follow a lowly Baron!” – Lanzo, angrily

The crowd grew quiet at the sight of the oft-regal Warlord baring his fangs in anger.

In the crowd Kyrillos could hear others whispering. Saying that Lanzo had fallen from grace out of his grudge with the Prince of Magdeburg, that the real reason he was here was to embarrass the childe of his enemy. That he’d made a pact with the Arpads of Transylvania.

Kyrillos could only wonder how the great man he’d followed into war could have fallen so far.

At that moment the Prince was having a discussion with his advisor, a heavy set Armenian in his middle years dressed in much the same way as Vendramino.

“Who is that?” – Teresa

“He is called Aram Hovannes, he is of the Prince’s blood.” – Thierry, appearing at her side

The Armenian stepped back and the Prince stood

“We shall greet the Baron first, as he has taken up Knightly Orders and it is our belief that such vows should count for something.” – Etienne, confident if a bit quiet

The knight shouldered past the Count, gloating as he did.

He bowed dramatically before the Prince.

“I am the Baron Heinrich von Achern, Childe of Jurgen of Magdeburg, Child of the High Lord of Black Cross. I humbly ask your permission to secure a place to weather the day sleep and the right to hunt.” – The Baron

The Prince granted his request and that of Count von Sachsen and of a Ventrue knight called Brother Altus and of Istvan, Kyrillos and Teresa.

Throughout Abdul couldn’t help but think that he could hear… something.

Like a heart beating or wings flapping.

Finally after everyone else had presented themselves Thierry stepped forward meekly, as if he were afraid that he’d be struck down.

“I will be acknowledged before the Usurper!” – a voice called from a nearby archway

Vendramino was sure that no one had been under the arch a moment before.

All eyes turned to see a giant of a man wearing heavy bone studded leather armor. He was larger than any of them remembered, though his face was the same chalk white mask of contempt and his blond hair had grown longer.

Vintila Basarab strutted through the parting crowd toward the Prince. Thierry flinched subtly as the monster passed him.

“I am Vintila Basarab, Childe of Koban and Warlord of the Knights Basarabi, I am here on crusade and would be granted permission to hunt.” – he announced proudly

Two knights who had come on the caravan flanked him as he stepped forward. He neither kneeled nor bowed before the prince.

Murmurs filled the night air.

“Silence! I recognize you, Vintila Basarab, and grant you permission to hunt in my domain. But I will not tolerate your disrespect for me or my guests. I know of your clans’ war in the land beyond the forest and I will not have it staining the sands of this holy place. That goes for all present. No violence comes to our own in my domain, and no mortal dies to slake our hunger! Is that understood?” – Etienne, showing the full force of his presence.

Vintila could not help but be cowed by the display, and he nodded in deference to the Prince of Dirt.

“As for you, what is your name?” – Etienne, to the Tremere

“I am called Thierry bani Tremere, milord.” – Thierry

“You too are welcome in this domain.” – the Prince

The Fiend sneered at what he perceived to be a personal slight against him.

With the final presentation fulfilled the Prince leapt to his feet upon the fountain, using it as an ad hoc pedestal.

“Due to the unsafe nature of these lands and the scarcity of reliable and secure havens above ground I have graciously decided to grant each of you a secure haven! Beneath this caravansary there lay catacombs hidden from the eyes of the living. These catacombs were crafted in the time of Diocletian. These catacombs once housed Nestorian Christians who were persecuted by the Byzantines five centuries ago. To this night they are still regarded as Heretics. Like us they were damned, though they adored God.” – Etienne

After giving the assembled dead a moment to fully take in his words he bowed his head and continued:

“I pray that God blesses this crusade and grants the lord’s holy knights strength and valor in the coming battles and that they are able to succeed before the coming end which Bashir has shown shall be coming soon.” – Etienne prayed

Once he finished praying he asked for a moment of silence and then spoke one last time.

“I invoke the Tradition of Domain and wish for all of you to understand that I recognize all of the laws of Caine, but I add one more stricture: None may do harm to any within a mile of the city for it would be a sin against God to lift a sword or bare a fang in anger in this land of peace. Those who break this commandment will be taken to the city where they will face our Lord God’s wrath with the coming of the night.” – Etienne finished

17th of September, 1217, 5:28am
The Catacombs
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre
Kyrillos and Teresa had found secured havens deep within the catacombs and had begun to unpack when they heard a commotion within the corridor. It seemed that the Prince was asking that they all join him in the courtyard.

When they reached the courtyard they found that they were not alone. Nearly every Cainite who claimed a haven within the Caravansary was present as Prince Etienne spoke in confidence to a stooped figure.

Kyrillos listened closely but their conversation was ending.

“And you are sure, Jerome?” – the Prince

The stooped figure nodded.

The Prince turned toward his audience, his face the very picture of reverential ecstasy.

“Tonight, Jerome has chosen to accept our Lord’s judgment: He shall approach the city and be healed of our curse. Or he shall be destroyed.” – Etienne

The robed figure stepped out of the Caravansary’s western gate and walked into the dark of the early morning. A mist blanketed the land, aglow in the wane moonlight as the hidden vampire shuffled toward the city’s gate.

Some, like Achern and his coterie or Basarab, turned and returned to their havens while others followed after Etienne and the other vampire.

As they made their way out of the gate Kyrillos felt a tingling in his skin. They walked a short distance farther he saw pinpoints of light flickering across his tingling hands and knew that they ran over his face as well.

Up ahead, Jerome began to steam as waves of heat distorted his cloaked form.

Teresa watched the light licking her skin with quiet terror.

“I would suggest we go no farther, Teresa de Balgrad.” – Maria d’Agostino

The Italian lady stood behind her, pinpoints of light streaked across her face as well.

The Black Queen stopped, Kyrillos and the others chose to move on further.

They came to a stop just as the tingling became a constant burn. Kyrillos’ hands reddened, white coronas arcing off his skin.

Ahead Jerome, now little more than a dark figure in the distance, fell to its knees silently and then erupted in a gout of white fire.

Etienne bowed his head, his hand hiding his eyes.

“Jerome was found wanting. Let us repair to our havens and pray for his immortal soul” – The Prince, sadly

The assembled Cainites, shaken by the display of faith, returned to their havens. The sun would rise in less than an hour.

Vendramino stayed behind.

He reached into his cloak and retrieved a small blackened leather pouch. Concentrating on his goal he trudged on.

The pain was extraordinary but it was nothing he hadn’t felt before. He’d made this trek many times throughout the last few months. There seemed to be an endless supply of zealous fools in this godforsaken place.

After nearly a quarter mile his skin began to darken and smoke. Further still, to where the fallen Leper’s remains lay and the air around him began to ripple.

It seemed that Jerome had gotten farther than most.

Vendramino removed a small spatula made of bone from the pouch and scooped up a small portion of the Nosferatu’s remains which had disintegrated into a fine white ash. He knew that if he waited much longer it would be indistinguishable from the sand on which he stood.

Vendramino pitied those sad creatures who lacked his infernal tenacity.

As he replaced the bone spatula he glanced toward the gates of Maupas and saw… something

“It can’t be.” – Vendramino to no one in particular

Standing at the gate was a shining figure. He was young and vital. His face was the very image of tranquility.

“Tommaso? My boy?” – Vendramino

The figure raised his hand in greeting.

Vendramino lurched forward despite the pain. His skin, already reddening, began to crack, small flames flared within.

As he drew closer the pain intensified, he could feel his hair burn, he could smell his flesh char.

Now his beloved son was inside the gleaming gate. Vendramino placed a hand on its molten frame ready to pull it open.

“Stop, Vendramino. If you enter the city you’ll be destroyed.” – Gabrielle, her spectral hand rested upon his shoulder

“I don’t care! Be gone.”

She didn’t go.

“That is not Tommaso, my love, that is not our son.” – She whispered

His son’s image was further along now. It beckoned to him.

“He’s not our son, Husband. Go, before you are destroyed!” – Gabriella, desperately

Vendramino turned his back on his wife’s ghost, blood tears searing to ash on his face.

“Be gone.” – Vendramino, banishing his wife back to her grave

By the time he reached the caravansary the burns that had covered his body had already been erased by the power of his blood.

The sun was rising as he slipped into the small haven he’d carved out of stone and bones, leaving the necromancer crumpled upon the floor.

10th of October, 1217, 10:52pm
Vendramino’s Chamber
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

The Cappadocian had made a cozy little vault for himself within the catacombs beneath Prince Etienne’s Caravansary. It was deeper than those of the Baron and his cronies, too deep for the sun to ever grace its shadowy threshold, which was obscured enough to ensure that trespassers were few. This was not to say that it was far removed from the surface, in fact there were three passages that led from his little nest of skulls and bones to the surface, one of which had been crafted by his (now dead) servants and was known only to him.

The antechamber was shadowy and contained only a single small wooden door that was invisible from the corridor, hidden as it was behind an earthen wall. That wooden door led into a smallish alcove attached to the vampire’s proper haven. Like the rest of the catacombs this room was filled with the skulls and bones of the dead, though they had been chosen and placed by Vendramino and his slaves upon taking up residence. He slept upon a large pile of pillows that were arranged in a recess within the deepest wall in front of which he had placed a massive writing table with an abacus and his most recent ledgers. To the left and right of the ledgers were two sconces crafted from the skulls of those whom had been buried here centuries ago.

Currently the candle to the left had reached its end and was beginning to gutter out, sending flickering shadows across the faces of those who had gathered there.

The old necromancer himself sat slumped in his chair, his brow darkened as he concentrated upon something that he was working in his hands. Though he grunted in agreement as the others spoke, his heart wasn’t in the conversation.

Kyrillos was in a dower mood, as he had been since reaching the Prince of Ash’s court. He’d been promised the riches of the Levant but found his hands tied from so far outside the city. He’d made good contacts to be sure and had been in correspondence with an Egyptian trader for a fortnight but the work was slower than he’d anticipated.

Teresa stood in the deeper shadows of the alcove. She had become paranoid since her arrival in Acre as her Oath to Silvester weighed heavier on her each night as her loyalty to her allies challenged the power of his blood.

Abdul-Malik sat cross-legged not far from where Vendramino himself sat. He wore the white robes of a priest and sat upon a small silken mat. He had, since their arrival, been the very image of tranquility. His unshaven face positively serene as he watched his European allies converse.

They were currently gossiping, whispering to each other in the odd way they did, slipping effortlessly between three or more languages. It took some getting used to but Abdul-Malik had come to find the cadence almost melodic and extraordinarily soothing.

He kept this observation to himself.

“Sherazhina informs me that Sanchez has been keeping himself busy in Kronstadt. Josephus is furious with him, casting curses at him nightly.” – Teresa, from the shadows.

Vendramino smirked.

“I pity the young Patrician, for he is doomed.” – Kyrillos, chuckling

Though she did not laugh the shadows that surrounded Teresa lightened and seemed to dance almost whimsically.

Abdul-Malik was less amused with than the others, but he usually was when it came to the Spaniard’s antics.

“I’ve heard that the Prince is not happy.” – Vendramino, offhandedly.

“Why now? Has the Baron overstepped his bounds again?” – Kyrillos, his voice heavy with disgust for both the Baron and the Prince.

“I heard that there was a murder two nights ago.” – Vendramino, sipping from a chalice of brackish looking liquid.

“What matter is that of the Prince? I am sure that there are many murders in these barbaric lands.” – Kyrillos

Abdul-Malik raised an eyebrow.

“Please, my heathen friend, do not take offence.” – Kyrillos, his voice made it clear that his intent was the opposite of his words.

“Non taken, Infidel.” – Abdul-Malik, patiently, anyone who did not know them might assume that their barbs were affectionate.

“Rumor has it that the mortals were loyal to and under the protection of the Church.” – Teresa

“I too heard this, and that it appeared that they were murdered by Crusaders under orders from one of the Cainites who have come to rest in these catacombs.” – Abdul-Malik, fully joining the conversation

“I’m sure that the Fiend is to blame.” – Kyrillos

Teresa wasn’t so sure.

“Teresa you’ve become acquainted with the Prince’s issue, yes? Why don’t you ask her?” – Kyrillos

“Should I see her I might.” – Teresa did not take kindly to the presumption of her mad friend.

“I think you’ll see her sooner than you would expect.” – Kyrillos

The Queen furrowed her brow, not understanding the strange bit of divination before she noticed the others were looking expectantly at the entryway behind her.

She listened closely and then caught what they had already noticed: the sound of footsteps on the stones.

The shadows held no secret from her and she saw the girl before the others. She stood there in a violet gown, not unlike her own. The girl had taken to dressing herself in the European way and had attached herself to the Black Queen.

“Lady Sabela, what an honor. What brings you to my humble home?” – Vendramino, standing to his full height.

“I’ve come to ask the Lady Teresa and you, her allies, a great favor.” – Sabela

“What would that be?” – Vendramino, positively salivating at the thought of having the Prince’s own childe under his thumb. It was clear that the prospect was forefront in all of their minds.

“I am sure you heard about the family that was murdered not a mile from here two nights ago?” – Sabela

“In fact that was the subject of our conversation just now.” – Teresa

“The family in question was Muslim, though they hid themselves within the Christian fold.” – Sabela

“Then what is the problem, girl?” – Kyrillos, his tone grandfatherly

“By my sire, Prince Etienne’s decree, those who accept his hospitality have no right to do harm to any who fall under his protection, not just the Christians. The fools responsible didn’t just kill those poor souls. They had their way with them first. The women were raped before being killed. The children used for sport. This is a land in turmoil and these monsters have… enraged my sire as well as those Muslim vampires who make their havens in the lands beyond.” – Sabela, her outrage gave her words weight.

For his part Vendramino, though he was interested in what was being said, was still preoccupied by the project he held half hidden in his hands.

Abdul-Malik was angry, his mask of tranquility was gone.

“As my esteemed friend, Kyrillos, is so fond of pointing out, they were just mortals.” – Teresa

The girl looked upon the woman she’d looked up to with no small amount of horror.

“But, you must help me find the culprits. My Sire, your Prince, demands satisfaction in this.

“The girl is right of course, Crusaders were involved. I say we look into it for her.” – Kyrillos, his voice and demeanor were downright paternal.

“What business is it of ours if Mortals go about killing one another?” – Teresa, perplexed

“You heard but did not listen, Woman, Vampires did this!” – Kyrillos

“We must feed, mustn’t we?” – Teresa

It was Kyrillos’ turn to be perplexed, as he always was when it came to communicating with her matters concerning mortals. He decided to take a different approach.

“Teresa, surely you’d like to curry favor with her Sire.”

She considered his words.

“No, I do not wish to risk dirtying my hands with the blood of an immortal over the blood of a mortal. But I won’t stop you.” – Teresa

There came a knocking from the outer room and they all, save Vendramino, stood as one.

“May I intrude?”

It was the Prince’s Majordomo, Duqaq ibn-Jamil.

The Toreador was tall and lithe and wore the finest local fashion. Sanchez would have hated him. His features were vaguely Arab, though he came off as a European.

“Please do.” – Vendramino, looking up from his work

“I couldn’t help but notice that you were speaking of the latest scandal.” – Duqaq

“Yes, we were just trying to explain that killing a family, even a Muslim one, isn’t such a good idea in this climate.” – Kyrillos

“You heard that they were Muslim? There was no proof of that. It appears, at least to the prince, that Kuritz simply went mad.” -

“Kuritz?” – Abdul-Malik

“Yes, that’s the name of the Ventrue that is being accused of the crime. We cannot be sure but they were seen riding out toward the homestead the night before the massacre and haven’t been seen since.” – Duqaq

“I still don’t understand why you’re talking to us about this” – Teresa

“According to the Lady Sabela you are honorable creatures and, as outsiders who had no connection to the Accused, you may be trusted to locate him. You would need to leave tonight of course, and must not tell anyone but report to me when you find him. My master wishes that we keep this between us.” – Duqaq

Kyrillos and Abdul-Malik nodded in agreement, perhaps for the first time since they’d met so many years ago.

“I would like to go with them, Duqaq.” – Sabela

“You are your own woman, Sabela, and you are the Prince’s childe. I would not dare to presume to tell you that you could not go if it was your wish. But I must warn you to watch your words, as I do not believe your sire would forgive you this bit of gossip.” – Duqaq

The seneschal gave them directions as best he could and hurried them along before disappearing whence he came.

They did not hear him go.

“Will you go, Lady Teresa?” – Sabela

The Lasombra was torn between the prospect of a Prince’s boon and her own apathy over the crime.

“I do not know. What say you, Vendramino?” – Teresa

Vendramino stood for the first time since dusk and placed his new candelabra on the desk.

“I’m in.”

11th of October, 1217, 1:37am
Some miles east of the Caravansary
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

The starless sky hid nothing of the horror they discovered in the burnt out husk of a house. The smell of cooked flesh and blood was still on the wind even two nights later. The scent of blood was strong but not overwhelming, it was probably faint enough for mortals to miss entirely.

The skeleton of a house was black and gray. Almost nothing survived the fire.

They had seen this many times before but it wasn’t easy. Only Vendramino seemed unaffected by the carnage.

“Look here.” – Teresa, her voice small.

She pointed to the hand of a child, still clutching a charred doll, lying some distance from the house itself.

They searched the wreckage for nearly an hour before finding any evidence of what happened to the knights. Tracks led further east into a stony outcropping; they would have been completely hidden had it not been for Kyrillos’ keen senses.

They followed without speaking, the trail becoming nearly invisible while they crossed stone and then suddenly becoming clear again, leading directly into a small box canyon.

“Do you see that?” – Teresa

Kyrillos nodded
“see what?” – Sabela

Not far from where they stood was a pile of dismembered corpses, their bloodless and rotting carcasses already being scavenged upon. Nearby was a single suit of armor, its chest plate caved in by a wooden stake that seemed to pin it to the scorched earth, a greasy black stain marking the presence of what must have once been Kuritz.

“We should leave.” – Sabela, turning to leave

“You have nothing to fear, girl. You are unlikely to die in our presence.” – Vendramino, approaching the grease stain.

Kyrillos heard the sound of crumbling stones somewhere behind him. It was nearly imperceptible. The kind of thing one heard in a canyon.

“I like to think he screamed like that poor girl he hacked to pieces as the sun rose even though I know it couldn’t have been.” – The voice was lyrical but strong. Not unlike a stern mother.

They turned to see that the way they came had been filled by armed warriors. They were Muslim by their dress and Vampires by the way the Coterie’s skin crawled.

“I count eight.” – Teresa whispered.

“Eight?” – Vendramino

“The wall.” – Teresa

Sure enough, there were two men standing upon the walls of the canyon with a third crawling upon the stones themselves.

“You are brave, the four of you coming without an escort.” – the speaker, her face covered by a veil.

“Come Franj, tell us why we shouldn’t stake you and leave you for the sun as well?” – The woman

“We are here to find those responsible for murdering that family in cold blood.” – Kyrillos, who made his presence known.

In response someone spat blood at him. It was clear that they were unhappy, but despite the spittle he saw a few sheath their swords.

“They came here with me, Hanifa bint Nasir.”

The voice came from behind Vendramino, but it was a familiar one. Abdul-Malik stood in his shadow, his white robes seeming to glow in the night.

“I don’t know you.” – Hanifa bint Nasir

Her men weren’t so sure though, they seemed to fidget as they looked upon the undead imam.

“Of course you do, Hanifa. I am Abdul-Malik Ibrahim al-Rashid and you know who my Patron is. These Franj are off limits. They have come here for the same reason you brought this down upon the twice dead warlord that lay at our feet.” – Abdul-Malik

“You speak for the Infidels?” – Hanifa, suspiciously

“I cannot speak for the Prince’s childe but these Europeans have been my compatriots for some time and I can ensure you that they share your hunger for justice in these matters.” – Abdul-Malik

Sabela stared daggers at the Saracen. Teresa had ensured her that her identity would be kept safe should they encounter the Ashirra.

The Muslim woman nodded, acknowledging the truthfulness of Abdul-Malik’s words. None seem surprised by Sabela’s heritage.

“Tell the Prince that honorable war is one thing, but slaughter will not go unpunished. Remind him that we will respect the truce as long as he controls his domain.” – Hanifa

Just like that they were gone. No sign of their presence remained at all, even to the sharp senses of Kyrillos.

“We’ve got what we’ve come for.” – Abdul-Malik

“Should we take the armor as proof?” – Teresa

“Yes.” – Vendramino, who was in the process of collecting the ash remains.

Teresa reached down to pull the stake out of the armor only to find that it wasn’t a stake so much as a pike as long as a man.

“I think I’ll keep this.” – Teresa even as she hefted the armor and threw it onto the Venetian’s wagon.

11th of October, 1217, 4:23am
The chambers of Duqaq
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Dawn was approaching as they reached the Caravansary, but wasn’t so close that they were pressed to return to their own vaults.

Duqaq made his haven above ground, within the caravansary itself in a suite of rooms that were well appointed but overstuffed with all that he had acquired over the course of centuries. Vendramino noted that he was Christian despite his Arabic dress and customs and that he was far older than his prince.

The advisor was currently seated comfortably in an Arabic style chair as if it were his own personal throne, his handsome features stretched taught, his jaw clenched hard enough that his long fangs pressed into his lips as he listened to their recitation of the night’s events.

“The excesses of the Franj are angering the native Ashirra. I have no doubt that the Banu Haqim are already amongst us and have received word that mortals within the city have also begun to clash. I wonder if perhaps the Muslims do not need to make war as the Christians seem all too eager to destroy themselves.” – Duqaq, his eyes unfocused

With a gesture he dismissed them, thanking them as an afterthought.

11th of October, 1217, 4:50am
Somewhere beneath the Caravansary
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Blood marked the stones of the passage before Kyrillos, though there was precious little light in this particular branch of tunnels but the stench was tantalizing.

Along either side of the entrance to their territory were two human corpses, their heads drawn together into a macabre keystone, their bodies flayed open, ridged and fused to the stone of the tunnel walls. Four arms were eternally outstretched, each hand holding a dying ember in a dish that could only be bone. The light they cast wouldn’t have been enough for a mortal to see by but the message was clear: this was Basarab territory.

Kyrillos couldn’t help but shudder.

There was movement in the darkness beyond the grisly threshold and then a massively large figure dressed in Magyar armor emerged from it, gliding with a horrible and unnatural grace.

“What.”

“I have come with a proposition for your master.” – Kyrillos, quietly.

“Wait here.” – the guard, vanishing once again into the darkness with no discernable locomotion.

Kyrillos didn’t wait long before there was more movement.

The being that emerged was immediately recognizable as Vintila Basarab.

“What do you want?” – the Fiend

“I wish to open up trade negotiations between our domains.”

“And why would I ‘negotiate’ with one of Hardestadt’s ‘vassal-clowns’?” – Vintila

“War is hell, and merchants make particularly robust allies.” – Kyrillos

“Of course, because when I think of bloodshed and conquest I often wonder how much it would cost for my men to spice their supper. No, if I were to have need of spice I would slay a spice trader and take what I wanted.”

Kyrillos nodded, he had already redirected his shipments from the region and from those under the rule of Vintila, and sent word for others who wished to continue doing business with him to do the same. The Fiend had simply made sure that he would cement those rerouting.

Without a word he walked away, even as the fool laughed mirthfully at his own wit.

23rd of October, 1217, 6:08pm
Ruins to the south of the Caravansary
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

It had been nearly two weeks since the destruction of Kuritz and the assembled Cainites had become restless. To stave off the violence that was sure to ensue and to help quell any talk of some who wished to depose the Prince of Ash, Etienne announced that he would be holding a midnight tournament in grand European fashion.

When the prince announced that all duals would be to first blood or submission the Baron von Achern, Lanzo von Sachsen and a few others laughed derisively. The announced games included both armed and unarmed single combat, a javelin throwing competition, as well as a general melee. Since the games were announced and individuals signed up the betting had begun, with Kyrillos at the center of it.

He found it strange that so many played at being mildly offended by the prospects of violence while simultaneously placing bets on who they believed would be victorious. Any successful merchant could tell you, hypocrisy was lucrative.

Javelin throw, with many of the knights stepping forward to launch their volley for truly impressive distances, some hitting targets at distances that would terrify a mortal. Teresa stepped up and threw her javelin farther than most of the others, though hers wouldn’t be the best throw that night, it silenced many of the idiot knights who were insulting her lack of a prick. Though she was sadly out thrown by three others.

Vintila threw last, having joined the competition only after realizing that Teresa herself had already thrown. He sent one of his men off to retrieve his javelin, a heavy looking spear that looked vaguely bonelike, in its head was a jewel that looked much like a human eye, which swiveled to look upon each of its master’s opponents.

The Tzimisce surveyed the field.

“I will not throw this spear without a target!”

As if on cue one of his ghoul-knights ran out into the field, a heavy burlap bag thrown over his shoulder. When he reached the first of the javelins he up ended the bag, releasing the captive within.

The man stood naked, shaking and afraid.

“Run.” – the knight

After a moment of confusion the man’s eyes went wide when he saw Vintila charge him, spear raised over his head. He ran as far and as fast as his legs would take him even as the fiend let loose.

The spear caught the man between the shoulder blades, fastening him to the ground.

The crowd was mostly silent, save for Vintila’s own men who cheered raucously despite the fact that the man had not even reached the nearest cluster of flags. Vintila had come nearly dead last.

The crowd parted for the Prince as he stormed forward. Vintila bowed to the crowd and then turned to leave before Etienne could reach him.

The second game was a series of single combat exhibitions, the first being fought by Baron von Achern and Count von Sachsen who were both chomping at the bit to loose their fury upon one another. They lashed out with a fury that startled even the undead, landing blows that would demolish lesser monsters but neither seemed capable of landing a single decisive blow.

And then someone did. With a mighty heave the Baron launched von Sachsen back nearly twenty feet to the cheers of the crowd. Those cheers turned into gasps though, when Lanzo leapt back to his feet, his teeth bared, his eyes flashed with fury, his sword left behind as he charged his foe, lost completely to his beast.

Von Achern, for his part, was ready, bringing the pommel of his sword down upon the frenzied vampire’s head, crushing him into the ground instantly, the sound of cracking bone audible over the raucous crowd. Van Sachsen’s men came forward to drag their master away, his skull caved in but healing. He wouldn’t be able to walk again until sundown.

Vendramino’s bout began and quickly ended without the drama of the one between the two Warlords. He devastated his opponent in short order, leaving the Gangrel sprawled out and bleeding in the sand to the shock of all who did not know him. There was no applause, as no one was sure what had happened.

“He was a plant.” – Aram Hovannes said, furious.

“Are you accusing the Prince of Schaasburg or the German Baron of being a cheat, Lord Hovannes?” – Kyrillos asked incredulously

The Ravnos handed over his money purse and stormed off, disappearing again into the crowd.

---

Throughout all of this the crowd was alive like it hadn’t been since they had arrived. Sabela stuck close to her sire, who was under a great deal of scrutiny, his brood-mate Aram Hovannes was always so close, always watching. Tonight was no different, he had been pacing and mumbling angrily under his breath since the Tzimisce barbarian had murdered the Muslim in cold blood.

“The display disturbed me too, Sire.” – Sabela

“It’s not that, Sabela. If I do not succeed soon in finding the source of the aura that protects Acre my sire, Varsik, will install Aram as Prince and I will have left you an orphan too soon after your Becoming.” – Etienne

“That is… troubling, Sire.” – Sabela, understating her fear.

“You are comfortable with the Transylvanians, yes.” – Etienne could change subjects so quickly it hurt.

“I have made a sort of alliance with Teresa, yes, but I wouldn’t call them friends.” – Sabela

“Perhaps you would like to… suggest to them that… Lord Jurgen may find an ally in exchange for protection.” – Etienne.

“I will make the offer.” – Sabela, nodding as she slipped into the crowd.

“Nothing too blatant, my dear, I would hate…” – but she was already gone.

“To be accused of treason.” – Etienne, to no one in particular.

---

Maria D’Agostino watched the jousting from the crowd, her ghoul-cum-husband sitting at her side. Neither seemed particularly diverted.

“The Prince is a fool if he thinks that such activities will make any of us forget his obsolescence.” – Maria, her ghoul-husband nodding obediently.

“It’s a farce of the worst variety and yet these fools indulge the bumpkin Prince.” – she continued

“I couldn’t agree more, my love.” – her ghoul-husband cooed sycophantically.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Lady Teresa?” – Maria, turning to look at her companion.

Teresa knew that it was a calculated slight, as she, herself, had just participated in the Javelin throw.

“Yes, though I understand the drive behind the festival, poorly executed though it may be. The need to keep one’s subjects’ passions in check is no trivial thing.” – Teresa, still bitter that she lost the competition.

“So you believe the Frenchman a suitable Prince? I myself believe that the Second Kingdom of Jerusalem should be ruled by one of clearer pedigree. That such a place is in the hands of a Clan so low as the Ravnos makes me queasy.” – Maria

Teresa nodded. The thought had occurred to her.

“At the same time, though, I’ll be damned if I let the retched Magyars rule it. The very thought of the Ventrue holding sway over any part of the holy land…” – Maria, trailing off as darkness danced in her eyes.

Teresa nodded, while she was not as hostile to the clan of kings as a whole, the thought of von Achern being granted any more status or titles left her cold.

“Should there be a changing of hands here within Acre, can I count on you to stand at my side? Having the childe of the Leader of the Amici Noctis would lend a certain weight to my claim of Primacy.” – Maria

The question was rhetorical of course, she had already been given assurances by Teresa’s sire Silvester. Darkness coiled around the Black Queen’s heart as the Italian spoke.

“Of course, Lady Maria, you have the full support of the Friends of Night. In fact my sire believes that a changing of the guard in the Holy Land is long overdue. That the second kingdom should be brought into the Sea of Shadows and that you are uniquely suited to making that happen.” – Teresa assured her.

It was then that Teresa decided that Maria D’Agostino would never rule the second kingdom.

---

Abdul-Malik slipped through the crowd, not invisible but unnoticed to those around him. He had made a habit of following someone new each night, learning what he could about them. Tonight he’d been following the Tremere who had caused the ruckus in Magdeburg some years earlier.

The Usurper seemed to be watching Teresa, as if he were hoping to have a word with her. He didn’t notice when the Assamite approached him, jumping visibly when a hand was placed on his shoulder.

“What?! Where did you come from?” – Thierry, trying to calm himself.

“You seem very nervous, Kilian.” – Abdul-Malik

the young vampire’s eyes widened slightly.

“How do you know that name?” – Kilian/Thierry

“We met briefly in Magdeburg.” – Abdul-Malik

“You are a friend of the Lady Teresa.” – Kilian, Realization brightening his face.

“I am and I noticed that you seemed alone and might need someone to talk to.”

“It’s just nerves. That bastard Basarab has been tormenting me. It’s made me jumpy. It seems that our families have a history.” – Kilian.

“How could Teresa help you with this problem?” – Abdul-Malik, honestly curious.

“It is not so much Teresa as Lord Jurgen that I wish to make contact with. Though it requires some more study, I believe I have worked out a way to use the Aura that surrounds Acre against the foes of the black cross and if Teresa could inform her Lord that I would happily grant him that power in return for amnesty… but I must go now. I am not safe here.” – Kilian, his eyes fixed upon Vintila Basarab who was watching him hungrily.

“Say hello to Jervais should you see him, yes.” – Adbul-Malik

“I haven’t seen him since my banishment, but I’ll do what I can.” – Kilian’s final words were more bitter than the Saracen expected.

---

24th of October, 1217, 1:04am
Ruins to the south of the Caravansary
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Finally they came to the last of act this tournament; the grand finale if you will: In the center of the ruins a large pile of armor and shields had been assembled, standing as tall as a man and wide enough for a half a dozen warriors to stand upon. Around this makeshift hill stood 12 participants. The rules were simple. No one was to be destroyed and the last man standing upon the mountain of armor wins.

Once the trumpet sounded the battle began. Within moments two different vampires were staked and three were overwhelmed by their beasts. others were limping away, holding their guts or severed limbs.

It was down to only four when everything came to a screeching halt. Quite literally.

The roar was louder even then the mass battle taking place at the center of the crowd, over the sound of the roaring crowd and the manic betting. It was so loud that everything came to a stop as everyone turned to look.

The horrible shriek came from the Prince’s raised perch. The prince himself stood ramrod straight, staring north.

“It’s gone, it’s gone!” – the Prince shrieked over and over again.

It took the crowd a moment to comprehend. Vendramino was one of the first to piece it together before a whisper cut through the crowd.

“the aura was gone.”

24th of October, 1217, 8:14pm
The Chamber of the Baron von Achern
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Kyrillos and Abdul-Malik stood, waiting for the Baron to acknowledge them. Vendramino could not be reached, as he had fled for the city the night before, leaving many of his possessions, which were being collected even as they stood there waiting for the petulant man in knight’s armor standing before them pretending to be too busy to acknowledge their presence.

“Where is the Venetian?” – Baron von Achern asked as he looked over a map of the city.

“He is already within the city, he left within an hour of the aura’s vanishing.” – Kyrillos

“Good, that means that he’s had a head start. I wish for each of you to go into Acre and find your ally and with him I want you to lay claim to as much of the city as possible in the name of the Black Cross to better ensure my dominance over the city when I make a play for power when the fool Etienne falls.” – The Baron

“And the Relic?” – Abdul-Malik

It is of little consequence. You are only to attempt to obtain it should it appear that the fiend should take it as his own prize." – The Baron.

“But Thierry believes that he may be able…” – Kyrillos

“Yes, I know of the Usurper’s theories, but I have no time for sorcerous chicanery, Lord Kyrillos.” – The Baron, dismissively.

After a few moments of silence they meekly dismissed themselves from the Baron’s presence and silently vowed to themselves that they would find a way to bring him low.

24th of October, 1217, 9:36pm
The Gates of Acre
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Sabela stood at the gates of the city. They were earthen and plain, nothing like she expected them to be, after so many years of imagining those walls and what they must be made of, this stone façade was the greatest of letdowns. She placed her hand on the wall and felt the heat of those walls. Whatever magic had been here had left its mark but was gone.

“Do not go into the city, Sabela, let the Franj desecrate that holy place, no good can come from entering the city walls.” – Etienne had said

Steeling herself, Sabela stepped across the threshold and was still somewhat surprised when she didn’t erupt into flame. It was truly gone.

The city was a wonder. It had been so long since she’d seen so many people in one place wander the streets so openly.

The streets were well lit with great braziers and wall mounted sconces, so that night shoppers could peruse the wares of the night markets. Venders shouted out their bargains as the streets, crowded with shoppers and entertainers and so very many children playing. Windows in every building were left open, light pouring out of them to light the streets further.

It was a glorious thing to behold and it saddened her when the tears came, staining everything in red.

This place had never seen the torments visited by the Get of Caine. They were all so defenseless.

She wept again at the thought of it.

24th of October, 1217, 9:51pm
The Venetian Quarter
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Kyrillos found himself in the Venetian quarter in hopes of finding his old ally but found only a merchant’s square and a fine looking inn, with no sign of Vendramino in sight. After some time he came to realize that he saw no sign of any vampire within the quarter at all.

The idea of the virgin territory thrilled the old merchant. He spent money in each of the stalls, exorbitant money, letting everyone get a good look at him as if he were some visiting dignitary. By the time he’d entered the inn he had already made an indelible impression.

He walked around the tavern as if surveying a gallery. He feigned warming himself by the fire. He hovered over the patrons and finally made his way to the innkeeper.

“What do you want?” – the innkeeper, unhappily.

“Do you have a room?” – Kyrillos

“Best in the Quarter.” – the innkeeper, who didn’t seem so agitated once he actually spoke to Kyrillos.

“Then I am sure that it should be mine.” – Kyrillos, grandfatherly

“I would love for you to have it, sir, but it is currently being rented by a knight for his mistress.” – the innkeeper.

“What is your name, good sir?” – Kyrillos

“Joshua, sir.” – the innkeeper’s gruff demeanor had been utterly subverted by a more subservient one.

“Joshua, I am Kyrillos Dimities, and I would like to purchase a stake in your business.” – Kyrillos, dropping a coin purse onto the bar with a heavy clang.

The barkeeps eyes narrowed slightly, the Byzantine’s hold over him stretching almost to the breaking point.

“Why do you want this?” – Joshua

“I am…overseeing a project involving certain investments I’ve made and may need to put roots down for the foreseeable future and while I do not wish to purchase a home I am loath to rent.” – Kyrillos.

“I told you I do not have a room open upstairs.” – Joshua, absent mindedly pouring the man a drink.

“But you do have a cellar of some sort?” – Kyrillos, who took the cup but did not drink.

“Of course.”

“Is there a room there? Someplace that I may have privacy?” – Kyrillos, biting his knuckle ponderously, opening it in the process.

“Well, of course, but I can’t imagine why you would want to take it as your room.” – Joshua

“I have my reasons, good sir. If you would not mind my proposition, let us drink on it.” – Kyrillos, handing the barkeep back the red tinged cup of wine.

Joshua held the bag in his free hand, he felt the weight of it. It was worth a year’s wage. It was an easy choice.

He drank the wine. It made his head feel light and his blood rush like it did when he was a child. He giggled a bit as he licked his lips.

24th of October, 1217, 10:30pm
The Pisan Quarter
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Abdul-Malik walked unhappily with the Franj city in the heart of the Muslim world. He had made circles around the city, completely unnoticed, as was his like. Since he’d left his cohorts though he felt the presence of others of their kind, though he had not seen them. Of the source of the now gone Aura, he found no evidence. The buildings themselves though hummed with the power of the faithful. Certain streets were barred him due to the power of faith that radiated from the very cobblestones. He had never in the entirety of his long night felt such faith.

He comforted himself with the thought of the righteous fire that must leap upon any of the undead who come within sight of a truly holy site such as Ka’aba.

As he entered the harbor many of the sounds of the city fell away. The sea seemed to glow in the night, reflecting the moon and stars like a rippling mirror. It was truly a sight to behold.

Somewhere, he heard someone yelling obscenities in Latin and French.

He followed the voice to find a lowly beggar sitting upon a pile of rope pointing at an ancient tower at the end of the pier.

The madman was currently in a fit of laughter but soon was taken up with rage and throwing rocks at the tower.

“Sortir de ma tour, salauds! It is mine, by right, and I’ll not have you squatting in it!” – the beggar who was one again caught up in a fit of laughter.

Abdul-Malik stood there and watched the fool shout. It was fascinating the way a battlefield is fascinating after the battle was over. All the dead and dying lying there and one cannot bring oneself to look away.

Finally, in spite of himself, the vampire stepped forward.

“Why do you shout so, my friend, surely you have no quarrel with this tower?” – Abdul spoke as if to a child or to one who was feebleminded.

“What do you want Saracen?” – the madman asked, angrily

“I simply do not understand the need to throw stones at the tower, I am a stranger in this land and am unfamiliar with the custom.” – Abdul

“It seems our kind have been here all along, my friend, and they have been squatting in MY TOWER!” – the madman

It was then that Abdul noticed the flash of the moonlight glistening off his fangs.

The madman was undead, as surely as Abdul himself was.

“I bid you ado, Saracen, but now I must clear my home of the vermin!.” – the beggar, standing, his robes falling open as he did so.

Without another word he bowed dramatically to Abdul-Malik and then turned to trudge toward the Tower as dozens of rats seemed flood out from the tower, as if fleeing some coming catastrophe.

24th of October, 1217, 11:08pm
Not far from the palace of the Patriarch
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Vendramino waded hungrily through the mass of humanity that surrounded him. He’d taken up his haven the night before within the castle itself but found his sleep listless and filled with horrific visions. It seemed that in the holy land even those in power had Faith.

Preposterous.

He had, however, also heard of the Venetian Quarter and had already made the decision to make his haven amongst the Italians there. It may not be home. But it would be a close facsimile.

He smelled blood! Everywhere! He would need to feed soon but knew that should he kill he would not be allowed to stay. Where were the dead bodies? Where were the mass graves? He didn’t know and that frightened him. What if he did not find them?

As he neared the eastern wall, close to the compound of the Teutonic Order, he heard the scream of a young woman. The dark thing that nested in his dead heart stirred and he found himself running far more swiftly than any mortal toward the sound.

He found himself colliding with a woman, her clothing and hands were covered in shimmering crimson fluid, the flesh of her neck was torn leaving a beautiful topographic map of her pain and terror. His hunger leapt to the fore, the thing inside him shrieked for her blood, slamming on its cage of bone and flesh. He felt his hands wrap around her dainty little shoulders too tightly, his right hand becoming slick as it was splashed with her blood.

“The Cavalieri at the Monastery of the Apostles were right! There are monsters in the night! You must help me!” – she wept.

It had been so long since he’d tasted living blood. So long since he quenched that cold hunger with the burning Vitae of the living.

“The cow is mine!” – growled a voice from the shadows, in german.

Vendramino looked deeper into the alleyway and saw the source of the bark. It was Wilhelmina, the childe of the Gangrel Baron that he had cut down the night before. Her eyes were wild and alight like a cats and her posture was decidedly not human. She was currently perched upon the back wall of the alley, her long and wicked claws dug clearly into the stones.

He had never seen her in such a state.

“Do I look to stand in your way?” – Vendramino asked

The cow wept against the old monster’s chest, unable to comprehend his words or intentions.

He took her in his left hand and turned her toward the beast that crouched before him, using her to distract the Animal as he quietly drew his sword. Though he did not have any quarrel with Wilhelmina personally her actions were a threat to his plans.

The neonate charged the mortal her eyes wide and her clawed fingers spread wide. As she flew forward he threw the woman to the ground to his left. The gangrel followed its target, revealing her neck.

Vendramino unleashed a mighty swing, the sword biting deep into her neck, severing her spinal column before lodging in her larynx.

She fell limp upon the apoplectic woman.

Vendramino toed the Gangrel and found her to be nothing but a corpse, even as her blood worked to knit her neck back together he knew that she would not rise again, at least not on this night.

He kicked her over onto her back and dropped to his knee. A cursory glance told him that the mortal had fallen unconscious in the melee but the fluttering of her youthful heart told him that she would live. The wound, though it bled profusely, was superficial.

The Gangrel had already regenerated but her dead eyes, which remained those of a cat, stared blankly into the middle distance.

Blood! His beast called. Vitae! The dead girl was filled with it and as a corpse would make nary a sound as he dined.

He had not tasted the blood of another vampire since Constantinople and a part of him missed its sweetness…

He looked up to discover that their altercation had gone completely unnoticed by the mortals who walked not a dozen feet away. It seemed that Wilhelmina, even in her Frenzy, had chosen a place from which to pounce carefully.

As he thought on it he tasted blood. It took him a moment to realize that he had bitten the torpid vampire and he was gulping down her fury laden Vitae. He had lost control to the Specter that animated his dead flesh and felt empowered by that. He watched as the Specter broke her bones as he fed, as if to wring out every drop of her immortality.

And then it did. He saw her soul become unmoored from her corpse and dissolve into his own. That fury he felt as he drank infused him, empowering him even as her body withered. As he came back into himself and regained control of his limbs the Specter seemed unwilling to return fully to slumber and he thought that, perhaps that was the price to pay for giving into the thing.

He turned to the girl whom he had used for bait and for the first time noticed that she was dressed as a nun, her vestments marked by the sign of the Hospital of St. John.

Vendramino smiled at his good fortune, as he had at his feet his first agent in the city.

He reached down to cup her head so that he might give her a bit of blood and heal her wounds when there was a flash of white hot pain. He wrenched his hand back and saw the seared flesh and the trail left in his flesh from where her hair had touched him.

The Specter was there again, taking away control of his body and fleeing from the nun. He was over the wall before he was able to wrest control back from the enraged thing.

It seemed that he had been marked in more ways than one by his Actions.

24th of October, 1217, 11:23pm
Not far from the palace of the Patriarch
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Kyrillos and Abdul-Malik had met in the Market square at eleven o’clock as they had planned so as to find their mutual ally and hopefully find a way to press the advantage of their allegiance and relative power within the city walls.

Though they were loath to admit it, Vendramino was the most skilled when it came to such endeavors. They had wandered the older portion of the city for a few moments before being drawn by the scent of spilt blood.

Though both had fed this very night their curiosity had been piqued nonetheless.

What they found, deep in the shadows of the outer wall, was a young girl, dressed in the colors of the Hospitalers of St. John with a gaping wound in her neck. Next to her lay the withering and ashen corpse of one of their own kind.

“What did you do, Assamite?” – Kyrillos, only half joking

“Why must I have done this? This is messy and too in the open, and please, honored friend, refrain from calling me that vulgar epithet.” – Abdul-Malik, his voice measured as if speaking to an ailing old man.

Abdul stooped low and fanned the girl’s face with his robe until she began to come to her senses.

“My child what has happened here?” – he asked, in latin

“What? I don’t know.” – she responded faintly in Italian.

“We must take her somewhere.” – Adbul.

“Excuse me for a moment.” – Kyrillos said as he blew greasy ash from the corpse, his eyes narrowed as he looked upon the remains.

Her hair was blond but filthy, her features fine but weathered. He knew should she still have her eyes they would be an earthy brown. Her body, which even now was curling into itself had been lean and strong. a wound to the left side of her neck showed how she might have come to this state though he had never heard of any vampire, let alone a Gangrel, die directly from such a wound.

Her face, upon which he had tried desperately not to look, was serene in its final repose in a way that it had not been in the few months he had known her. It was the face of a girl just coming into her womanhood, a mortal’s face…

“It is Wilhelmina, Childe of the Baron that Vendramino faced last night.” – He said quietly, sadness coloring his voice.

Adbul-Malik did not like it when the old Lunatic spoke like that.

Kyrillos turned and without a word scooped up the mortal girl, who was once again losing consciousness, in his arms.

“You would make her a slave?” – Abdul-Malik asked judgmentally.

The Byzantine sneered unconsciously.

“You do not think highly of me, nor should you be one to judge, you who own at least one slave that I can think of.” – Kyrillos

“Only because you gave him to me last night as part of my winnings.” – Abdul-Malik

“It was only fair, as I offered your services to his master should Vendramino lose.” – Kyrillos

The Saracen clenched his jaw and pretended not to hear what the Malkavian had said.

“Take care of that won’t you?” – Kyrillos, motioning toward the still withering corpse, whatever sentimentality had infected him moments before apparently gone.

Abdul glared at the back of his head but acquiesced. Throwing the thing over his shoulder he ran toward the back wall and then leapt, catching hold of the ledge and then hoisted himself up, using the Blood to empower his strength and steady his grip.

The Saracen laid the girl to rest upon the wall to greet the sun. out of the corner of his eye he made out the shape of a cloaked figure huddling not far from where he knelt.

“You, there!” – Abdul-Malik said, before he recognized the hem of the cloak.

“Vendramino?” – he asked the figure.

The figure continued to shudder.

“Did you do this, friend?” – Abdul-Malik, toeing the remains.

He was immediately ashamed of his callous act and promised to make a special prayer for her Franj soul.

“Why would I do that?” – Vendramino, his lie obvious

“There is a dying nun and a corpse, are you responsible?” – Abdul-Malik

“I was trying to help?” – Vendramino, whimpering

“How does this help?” – Abdul, again kicking the corpse and again feeling awful for it.

“I don’t remember… there was a girl and screaming… and then fire…” – he muttered, growing quieter as he spoke

“Did you do this?” – Abdul pointing at the body and congratulating himself on not desecrating it further.

“No!” – Vendramino lied

Abdul shook his head as a father might when lied to by a child.

“We will speak of this later, friend.” – Abdul, disappointedly

Vendramino bowed his head guiltily. What had happened to him? What happened when he took that Animal’s soul into himself?

He felt like taking a bath suddenly.

“What’s with the hand?” – Abdul asked, changing the subject

Vendramino looked down at his scarred flesh. The wound had already healed but the flesh remained oddly blackened.

“I touched it and it burned me.” – Vendramino

“It? What it?” – Abdul

“The Mortal.” – Vendramino

“Curious, she did not burn either myself nor Kyrillos.” – Abdul

As Abdul looked down to check on Kyrillos and the girl Vendramino unceremoniously kicked the body off the wall.

Abdul’s gaze shifted between his friend and where the body had laid three or four times as if he were trying to process what he had just witnessed.

“Monster.” – Abdul, before stepping off the wall to join their friend.

Vendramino shrugged and joined him.

---

“Wh… where is he?” – the Nun

“Who, my dear?” – Kyrillos, setting the girl down to rest against the wall.

“The man who saved me? He protected me from that monster.” – the Girl

“I did not see him, my dear.” – Kyrillos, honestly.

“When the Knights had spoken of the Night Demons I dared not believe them, but now I know… they told us the truth. They tried to warn us. We must go, warn others.” – the nun

“What are you talking about, sister?” – Kyrillos

“What, no, I am not a nun, but a lay-sister of the Order of the Hospital of St. John. I am called Eloise. Please sir, you must protect yourself.” – Eloise was manic.

“Tell me about these knights, Eloise.” – Kyrillos

The girl suddenly relaxed when he spoke, his power over her undermining her natural emotions by making her want to please him.

“What? Oh, they are knights, and their leader is a Frenchman, I forget his name.” – Eloise

“Would you know it should you hear it again?” – Kyrillos

“I don’t know, why?” – Eloise

“Is he called Gauthier?” – Kyrillos, suddenly excited

“I… Yes, do you know him?” – Eloise

“I do know him, he is touched by the Lord Almighty! Do you know where he is now?” – the Byzantine’s eyes gleamed in the night.

“I… I don’t know. I think he said something about the Monastery of the Apostles, it’s in the shadow of St. Andras’s Church.” – Eloise

The old man smiled and Eloise was afraid.

25th of October, 1217, 1:34am
The Pisan Quarter
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Teresa found herself missing her friends. She had come to the city in the company of Maria D’Agostino, whom had excitedly taken up residence in her family’s home within the Genoese Quarter of the city. Teresa herself was treated like an honored guest and given a sumptuous suite below ground. It seemed as though the family had been planning this move for some time. And it was nice to be treated to such finery and with such distinction after so long in the dirt with corpses.

Now though, she was walking through a sea of mortals, something she had not seen since Constantinople. She had been ‘asked’ by Maria to find her own place in the city. Anywhere in the city outside the Genoese Quarter. The city was seemingly swarming with the undead. She could feel them everywhere as she walked the night. A gaunt man with no hair and no shoes spider-climbed his way up a shadowy wall in the Pisan Quarter, a woman with fiery red hair hidden beneath a veil flitted through a crowd that formed around a vender who was selling something full of spice and fragrance that made her stomach turn.

And then there was Sabela. She was standing not far from Church of St. Sabas watching a boy who was dancing for change. She seemed mesmerized by his movements. Or maybe she was just hungry.

The shadows clung to the queen as she slid through the crowd until she was directly behind the neonate.

“Sabela, I had thought you too prudent to follow us into the city.” – Teresa whispered.

The young vampire jumped.

“Lady Teresa, you… You startled me.” – Sabela, her hand upon her chest as if to still her dead heart.

“My apologies, skulking becomes a survival tool after some years within the long night.” – Teresa

“It’s nothing, milady. I’m glad you took my advice and came into the city. Did you come alone or with your companions?” – Sabela

“Neither, childe, I came with my patron, Maria D’Agostino, though I do not believe my presence in her home will be long endured. I am currently searching out a place to stay while I am in Acre, I’m sure you understand.” – Teresa

“Of course I do. One cannot expect a lady of your standing to sleep in a crypt for long.” – Sabela

“And you? I was under the impression from our previous conversation that your sire did not wish for you to venture into the city.” – Teresa, her tone motherly.

“What Etienne doesn’t know cannot hurt him.” – Sabela, with a wink, a smile and a giggle.

Teresa found herself smiling as well as the girl’s cheeriness was quite infectious.
The Dancing boy seemed to have finished his set and was collecting his change. Teresa and Sabela moved on with the crowd, though the Lasombra did note that the red headed vampire remained behind with the boy, her hand on his shoulder and her eyes upon his neck.

Good for her.

They wandered the streets, enjoying the ambiance and the people, though the living did seem to be growing more and more scarce as the hour drew later and later.

Eventually they found themselves, once again, not far from the Church of St. Sabas and once again they felt the presence of one of the undead. But this one they knew on sight.

“Hail, Lord Kyrillos!” – Sabela, cheerily waving toward the bearded little fat man.

The Malkavian stopped in his tracks and turned toward the voice, smiling once he saw the young vampire and her companion.

“Sabela, Lady Teresa, it has been too long.” – he said, honestly.

He and the Queen embraced politely, as family might. It was a gesture that Sabela found odd for those who were not of the same Blood.

“Who is the girl, Kyrillos?” – Teresa, looking at the dazed mortal.

“She was the unfortunate victim of Wilhelmina, I rescued her and am taking her under my wing. Now do not look at me like that, milady! She is no slave, on the contrary, I intend to make her my protégé, perhaps even my steward.” – Kyrillos, who was acting uncharacteristically energetic.

“And the others?” – Teresa, noting the absence of their companions.

“Ah, our heathen friend is creeping about here somewhere, as for the Venetian…he was feeling ill and retired until tomorrow night, though he did promise to track you down as soon as he could. I, on the other hand, am in search of our Crusader friend, whom I hear is in the city! I shall have him this time I think, Teresa!” – Kyrillos, his eyes glinting in the moonlight.

“Well that explains your liveliness. Shall we join you, Kyrillos?” – Teresa

“Please do! We are now heading to the Monastery of the Apostles, where it is said that the Frenchman lays his head while within the city!” – Kyrillos gestured wildly as he spoke.

And so they made their way to the monastery in the company of a Madman and his newfound companion. The Assassin they counted as an ally hidden from their sight but close at hand as they went.

When they reached the gates of the Monastery they found them closed and chained shut and, alarmingly, warm to the touch, as if they were still baking in the noonday sun. The Darkness within the Black Queen begged her not to enter those gates but she soldiered on in spite of it, pushing the gate open in spite of the heavy chain. Kyrillos applauded softly at the ease with which she displayed her unholy strength.

“Can we think about this for a moment, please?” – Sabela, her voice small but strong

“Think about what, childe?” – Kyrillos, patronizingly

“We are about to go into a monastery where Crusaders are known to be!” – Sabela

“Yes.” – Kyrillos, again.

“No! I won’t go!” – Sabela

“You Are Coming!” – Teresa, her eyes darkened as she commanded the young Ravnos.

“No, I’m not!” – Sabela, her brow furrowed resolutely.

“Please, Sabela, we could use your eyes and wits in there.” – Kyrillos, his voice confident but pleading, none of them would have said no to him in that moment.

“Fine, but only because I can hide amongst your corpses should things go bad.” – Sabela, petulantly.

The interior of the walls was a beautifully manicured courtyard, frescoes and statues of the Christ and his apostles decorated the walls and paths. The Monastery itself was a squat two story building that was also decorated with murals depicting the sainted friends of the Messiah.

At the center of the far wall, before a large statue of St. Paul upon his donkey was a gaping hole in the cobblestone path. The cobbles themselves were stacked haphazardly nearby. It seemed as though whoever looted the shrine did so with the intention of replacing them.

They approached the hole cautiously, unsure if they were alone. Even Kyrillos’ senses were hampered by the throbbing pain radiating from the very ground of the holy place.

“Halt!” – a voice from the shadows of the monastery.

They turned to see two Knights, marked as belonging to the Order of St. Thomas, striding across the courtyard, their swords drawn.

“What are you doing here?” – one of the knights

“We are here because of the girl, who was wandering lost and bloodied. We escorted her here post haste.” – Kyrillos

“Why are you really here?”

Kyrillos took an instinctive step back, the motion was one that Teresa had never seen the Byzantine make, it was one that reeked of fear.

---

Unseen, Abdul-Malik slipped behind the knights and toward the monastery proper only to find himself unable to go step upon its cobbled patio. No matter how he tried, the Blood itself seemed to be refusing to allow the action, recoiling from the very stones.

He turned back and saw that his friends were being corralled into the far corner.

“I don’t understand what you mean, we’ve come here on a pilgrimage, as Acre is the closest the Holy City that we are allowed until the Saracens are sent back to whatever hell they come from. We have not been here a night and we found this poor girl raving about monsters. We came to the gate and found it unlocked, we only wanted to help the child.” – Kyrillos, his words like honey.

The knights sheathed their swords.

“I apologize for our frightening you. I am Brother Duncan, this is my friend, Brother Karl, the gate was to be locked when the sun went down and we were unaware that it had not been. Please, of course you are welcome here, we only ask that, in honor of the sainted men for whom this monastery was built, that all visitors recite the Lord’s prayer at the shrine to St. Paul.

Duncan motioned over to the statue of Paul upon his Donkey.

Though his words and demeanor were gentle, the canniness of his request was evident. He was commanding them to kneel before the holiest place in the entire city. Something that the Damned were unlikely to comply to.

These men knew and from the look on his friends faces they too had figured it out.

Kyrillos stepped forward and fell to his knees in supplication. The ground beneath him burned him through his clothes, the others soon followed, Teresa steadied herself on her left hand and the faintest wisp of smoke floated up from her palm, but the three of them did as they were instructed.

Abdul-Malik watched as the one called Duncan drew his blade.

“Brother Karl, something is here.” – Duncan

Karl turned and his eyes widened. They could see him.

“Damn these accursed holy-men.” – Abdul-Malik cursed under his breath.

He searched about him for something that would allow him to protect himself and found nothing save a torch which he grabbed up and tossed it toward the knights.

They stepped back from the torch and the one called Karl swiped it from the air with his sword but in the instant they looked away the Saracen allowed his blood to carry him away like the wind, passing through the gates and out of the sight of the living.

---

Kyrillos covered Eloise with his own body as the knights turned back toward them.

“You Bow Before Your Master!” – Kyrillos

His voice resonated within the minds of all those present, but compounded and grew within those of the knights until they heard nothing else. In an instant their fiery passion and much vaunted faith were snuffed out.

Their arms fell to their sides as their intense stare faded into a dull gaze.

“Who do you serve?” – Kyrillos

“Our Lord and Savior.” – the two in unison

“What is his name?” – Kyrillos

“Lord Kyrillos.” – the two, their voices still dull

Sabela shuddered while Teresa was simply jealous of the power he wielded.

“How do they know his name?” – Sabela asked her

“I am all they know, my childe, they would remember my name before their very own.” – Kyrillos answered over his shoulder.

“ask them what happened here.” – Teresa

“Yes, what laid here before?” – Kyrillos

“The Cross of Our Lord, stained by his Blood, which has rested here since St. Paul gave it to Acre’s first Christians.” – the two, as if reciting a list to a vender.

Kyrillos was gob smacked, it was no wonder no vampire had set foot within the walls for a thousand years.

“Where is the Cross now?” – Kyrillos

“Sir Gauthier and his Fellows took it…” – Karl

“…We do not know where…” – Duncan

“…He will send his sign when it is safe.” – Karl finished

Kyrillos smiled devilishly.

“Then we shall wait.”

10th of October, 1217, 10:52pm
Vendramino’s Chamber
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

The Cappadocian had made a cozy little vault for himself within the catacombs beneath Prince Etienne’s Caravansary. It was deeper than those of the Baron and his cronies, too deep for the sun to ever grace its shadowy threshold, which was obscured enough to ensure that trespassers were few. This was not to say that it was far removed from the surface, in fact there were three passages that led from his little nest of skulls and bones to the surface, one of which had been crafted by his (now dead) servants and was known only to him.

The antechamber was shadowy and contained only a single small wooden door that was invisible from the corridor, hidden as it was behind an earthen wall. That wooden door led into a smallish alcove attached to the vampire’s proper haven. Like the rest of the catacombs this room was filled with the skulls and bones of the dead, though they had been chosen and placed by Vendramino and his slaves upon taking up residence. He slept upon a large pile of pillows that were arranged in a recess within the deepest wall in front of which he had placed a massive writing table with an abacus and his most recent ledgers. To the left and right of the ledgers were two sconces crafted from the skulls of those whom had been buried here centuries ago.

Currently the candle to the left had reached its end and was beginning to gutter out, sending flickering shadows across the faces of those who had gathered there.

The old necromancer himself sat slumped in his chair, his brow darkened as he concentrated upon something that he was working in his hands. Though he grunted in agreement as the others spoke, his heart wasn’t in the conversation.

Kyrillos was in a dower mood, as he had been since reaching the Prince of Ash’s court. He’d been promised the riches of the Levant but found his hands tied from so far outside the city. He’d made good contacts to be sure and had been in correspondence with an Egyptian trader for a fortnight but the work was slower than he’d anticipated.

Teresa stood in the deeper shadows of the alcove. She had become paranoid since her arrival in Acre as her Oath to Silvester weighed heavier on her each night as her loyalty to her allies challenged the power of his blood.

Abdul-Malik sat cross-legged not far from where Vendramino himself sat. He wore the white robes of a priest and sat upon a small silken mat. He had, since their arrival, been the very image of tranquility. His unshaven face positively serene as he watched his European allies converse.

They were currently gossiping, whispering to each other in the odd way they did, slipping effortlessly between three or more languages. It took some getting used to but Abdul-Malik had come to find the cadence almost melodic and extraordinarily soothing.

He kept this observation to himself.

“Sherazhina informs me that Sanchez has been keeping himself busy in Kronstadt. Josephus is furious with him, casting curses at him nightly.” – Teresa, from the shadows.

Vendramino smirked.

“I pity the young Patrician, for he is doomed.” – Kyrillos, chuckling

Though she did not laugh the shadows that surrounded Teresa lightened and seemed to dance almost whimsically.

Abdul-Malik was less amused with than the others, but he usually was when it came to the Spaniard’s antics.

“I’ve heard that the Prince is not happy.” – Vendramino, offhandedly.

“Why now? Has the Baron overstepped his bounds again?” – Kyrillos, his voice heavy with disgust for both the Baron and the Prince.

“I heard that there was a murder two nights ago.” – Vendramino, sipping from a chalice of brackish looking liquid.

“What matter is that of the Prince? I am sure that there are many murders in these barbaric lands.” – Kyrillos

Abdul-Malik raised an eyebrow.

“Please, my heathen friend, do not take offence.” – Kyrillos, his voice made it clear that his intent was the opposite of his words.

“Non taken, Infidel.” – Abdul-Malik, patiently, anyone who did not know them might assume that their barbs were affectionate.

“Rumor has it that the mortals were loyal to and under the protection of the Church.” – Teresa

“I too heard this, and that it appeared that they were murdered by Crusaders under orders from one of the Cainites who have come to rest in these catacombs.” – Abdul-Malik, fully joining the conversation

“I’m sure that the Fiend is to blame.” – Kyrillos

Teresa wasn’t so sure.

“Teresa you’ve become acquainted with the Prince’s issue, yes? Why don’t you ask her?” – Kyrillos

“Should I see her I might.” – Teresa did not take kindly to the presumption of her mad friend.

“I think you’ll see her sooner than you would expect.” – Kyrillos

The Queen furrowed her brow, not understanding the strange bit of divination before she noticed the others were looking expectantly at the entryway behind her.

She listened closely and then caught what they had already noticed: the sound of footsteps on the stones.

The shadows held no secret from her and she saw the girl before the others. She stood there in a violet gown, not unlike her own. The girl had taken to dressing herself in the European way and had attached herself to the Black Queen.

“Lady Sabela, what an honor. What brings you to my humble home?” – Vendramino, standing to his full height.

“I’ve come to ask the Lady Teresa and you, her allies, a great favor.” – Sabela

“What would that be?” – Vendramino, positively salivating at the thought of having the Prince’s own childe under his thumb. It was clear that the prospect was forefront in all of their minds.

“I am sure you heard about the family that was murdered not a mile from here two nights ago?” – Sabela

“In fact that was the subject of our conversation just now.” – Teresa

“The family in question was Muslim, though they hid themselves within the Christian fold.” – Sabela

“Then what is the problem, girl?” – Kyrillos, his tone grandfatherly

“By my sire, Prince Etienne’s decree, those who accept his hospitality have no right to do harm to any who fall under his protection, not just the Christians. The fools responsible didn’t just kill those poor souls. They had their way with them first. The women were raped before being killed. The children used for sport. This is a land in turmoil and these monsters have… enraged my sire as well as those Muslim vampires who make their havens in the lands beyond.” – Sabela, her outrage gave her words weight.

For his part Vendramino, though he was interested in what was being said, was still preoccupied by the project he held half hidden in his hands.

Abdul-Malik was angry, his mask of tranquility was gone.

“As my esteemed friend, Kyrillos, is so fond of pointing out, they were just mortals.” – Teresa

The girl looked upon the woman she’d looked up to with no small amount of horror.

“But, you must help me find the culprits. My Sire, your Prince, demands satisfaction in this.

“The girl is right of course, Crusaders were involved. I say we look into it for her.” – Kyrillos, his voice and demeanor were downright paternal.

“What business is it of ours if Mortals go about killing one another?” – Teresa, perplexed

“You heard but did not listen, Woman, Vampires did this!” – Kyrillos

“We must feed, mustn’t we?” – Teresa

It was Kyrillos’ turn to be perplexed, as he always was when it came to communicating with her matters concerning mortals. He decided to take a different approach.

“Teresa, surely you’d like to curry favor with her Sire.”

She considered his words.

“No, I do not wish to risk dirtying my hands with the blood of an immortal over the blood of a mortal. But I won’t stop you.” – Teresa

There came a knocking from the outer room and they all, save Vendramino, stood as one.

“May I intrude?”

It was the Prince’s Majordomo, Duqaq ibn-Jamil.

The Toreador was tall and lithe and wore the finest local fashion. Sanchez would have hated him. His features were vaguely Arab, though he came off as a European.

“Please do.” – Vendramino, looking up from his work

“I couldn’t help but notice that you were speaking of the latest scandal.” – Duqaq

“Yes, we were just trying to explain that killing a family, even a Muslim one, isn’t such a good idea in this climate.” – Kyrillos

“You heard that they were Muslim? There was no proof of that. It appears, at least to the prince, that Kuritz simply went mad.” -

“Kuritz?” – Abdul-Malik

“Yes, that’s the name of the Ventrue that is being accused of the crime. We cannot be sure but they were seen riding out toward the homestead the night before the massacre and haven’t been seen since.” – Duqaq

“I still don’t understand why you’re talking to us about this” – Teresa

“According to the Lady Sabela you are honorable creatures and, as outsiders who had no connection to the Accused, you may be trusted to locate him. You would need to leave tonight of course, and must not tell anyone but report to me when you find him. My master wishes that we keep this between us.” – Duqaq

Kyrillos and Abdul-Malik nodded in agreement, perhaps for the first time since they’d met so many years ago.

“I would like to go with them, Duqaq.” – Sabela

“You are your own woman, Sabela, and you are the Prince’s childe. I would not dare to presume to tell you that you could not go if it was your wish. But I must warn you to watch your words, as I do not believe your sire would forgive you this bit of gossip.” – Duqaq

The seneschal gave them directions as best he could and hurried them along before disappearing whence he came.

They did not hear him go.

“Will you go, Lady Teresa?” – Sabela

The Lasombra was torn between the prospect of a Prince’s boon and her own apathy over the crime.

“I do not know. What say you, Vendramino?” – Teresa

Vendramino stood for the first time since dusk and placed his new candelabra on the desk.

“I’m in.”

11th of October, 1217, 1:37am
Some miles east of the Caravansary
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

The starless sky hid nothing of the horror they discovered in the burnt out husk of a house. The smell of cooked flesh and blood was still on the wind even two nights later. The scent of blood was strong but not overwhelming, it was probably faint enough for mortals to miss entirely.

The skeleton of a house was black and gray. Almost nothing survived the fire.

They had seen this many times before but it wasn’t easy. Only Vendramino seemed unaffected by the carnage.

“Look here.” – Teresa, her voice small.

She pointed to the hand of a child, still clutching a charred doll, lying some distance from the house itself.

They searched the wreckage for nearly an hour before finding any evidence of what happened to the knights. Tracks led further east into a stony outcropping; they would have been completely hidden had it not been for Kyrillos’ keen senses.

They followed without speaking, the trail becoming nearly invisible while they crossed stone and then suddenly becoming clear again, leading directly into a small box canyon.

“Do you see that?” – Teresa

Kyrillos nodded
“see what?” – Sabela

Not far from where they stood was a pile of dismembered corpses, their bloodless and rotting carcasses already being scavenged upon. Nearby was a single suit of armor, its chest plate caved in by a wooden stake that seemed to pin it to the scorched earth, a greasy black stain marking the presence of what must have once been Kuritz.

“We should leave.” – Sabela, turning to leave

“You have nothing to fear, girl. You are unlikely to die in our presence.” – Vendramino, approaching the grease stain.

Kyrillos heard the sound of crumbling stones somewhere behind him. It was nearly imperceptible. The kind of thing one heard in a canyon.

“I like to think he screamed like that poor girl he hacked to pieces as the sun rose even though I know it couldn’t have been.” – The voice was lyrical but strong. Not unlike a stern mother.

They turned to see that the way they came had been filled by armed warriors. They were Muslim by their dress and Vampires by the way the Coterie’s skin crawled.

“I count eight.” – Teresa whispered.

“Eight?” – Vendramino

“The wall.” – Teresa

Sure enough, there were two men standing upon the walls of the canyon with a third crawling upon the stones themselves.

“You are brave, the four of you coming without an escort.” – the speaker, her face covered by a veil.

“Come Franj, tell us why we shouldn’t stake you and leave you for the sun as well?” – The woman

“We are here to find those responsible for murdering that family in cold blood.” – Kyrillos, who made his presence known.

In response someone spat blood at him. It was clear that they were unhappy, but despite the spittle he saw a few sheath their swords.

“They came here with me, Hanifa bint Nasir.”

The voice came from behind Vendramino, but it was a familiar one. Abdul-Malik stood in his shadow, his white robes seeming to glow in the night.

“I don’t know you.” – Hanifa bint Nasir

Her men weren’t so sure though, they seemed to fidget as they looked upon the undead imam.

“Of course you do, Hanifa. I am Abdul-Malik Ibrahim al-Rashid and you know who my Patron is. These Franj are off limits. They have come here for the same reason you brought this down upon the twice dead warlord that lay at our feet.” – Abdul-Malik

“You speak for the Infidels?” – Hanifa, suspiciously

“I cannot speak for the Prince’s childe but these Europeans have been my compatriots for some time and I can ensure you that they share your hunger for justice in these matters.” – Abdul-Malik

Sabela stared daggers at the Saracen. Teresa had ensured her that her identity would be kept safe should they encounter the Ashirra.

The Muslim woman nodded, acknowledging the truthfulness of Abdul-Malik’s words. None seem surprised by Sabela’s heritage.

“Tell the Prince that honorable war is one thing, but slaughter will not go unpunished. Remind him that we will respect the truce as long as he controls his domain.” – Hanifa

Just like that they were gone. No sign of their presence remained at all, even to the sharp senses of Kyrillos.

“We’ve got what we’ve come for.” – Abdul-Malik

“Should we take the armor as proof?” – Teresa

“Yes.” – Vendramino, who was in the process of collecting the ash remains.

Teresa reached down to pull the stake out of the armor only to find that it wasn’t a stake so much as a pike as long as a man.

“I think I’ll keep this.” – Teresa even as she hefted the armor and threw it onto the Venetian’s wagon.

11th of October, 1217, 4:23am
The chambers of Duqaq
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Dawn was approaching as they reached the Caravansary, but wasn’t so close that they were pressed to return to their own vaults.

Duqaq made his haven above ground, within the caravansary itself in a suite of rooms that were well appointed but overstuffed with all that he had acquired over the course of centuries. Vendramino noted that he was Christian despite his Arabic dress and customs and that he was far older than his prince.

The advisor was currently seated comfortably in an Arabic style chair as if it were his own personal throne, his handsome features stretched taught, his jaw clenched hard enough that his long fangs pressed into his lips as he listened to their recitation of the night’s events.

“The excesses of the Franj are angering the native Ashirra. I have no doubt that the Banu Haqim are already amongst us and have received word that mortals within the city have also begun to clash. I wonder if perhaps the Muslims do not need to make war as the Christians seem all too eager to destroy themselves.” – Duqaq, his eyes unfocused

With a gesture he dismissed them, thanking them as an afterthought.

11th of October, 1217, 4:50am
Somewhere beneath the Caravansary
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Blood marked the stones of the passage before Kyrillos, though there was precious little light in this particular branch of tunnels but the stench was tantalizing.

Along either side of the entrance to their territory were two human corpses, their heads drawn together into a macabre keystone, their bodies flayed open, ridged and fused to the stone of the tunnel walls. Four arms were eternally outstretched, each hand holding a dying ember in a dish that could only be bone. The light they cast wouldn’t have been enough for a mortal to see by but the message was clear: this was Basarab territory.

Kyrillos couldn’t help but shudder.

There was movement in the darkness beyond the grisly threshold and then a massively large figure dressed in Magyar armor emerged from it, gliding with a horrible and unnatural grace.

“What.”

“I have come with a proposition for your master.” – Kyrillos, quietly.

“Wait here.” – the guard, vanishing once again into the darkness with no discernable locomotion.

Kyrillos didn’t wait long before there was more movement.

The being that emerged was immediately recognizable as Vintila Basarab.

“What do you want?” – the Fiend

“I wish to open up trade negotiations between our domains.”

“And why would I ‘negotiate’ with one of Hardestadt’s ‘vassal-clowns’?” – Vintila

“War is hell, and merchants make particularly robust allies.” – Kyrillos

“Of course, because when I think of bloodshed and conquest I often wonder how much it would cost for my men to spice their supper. No, if I were to have need of spice I would slay a spice trader and take what I wanted.”

Kyrillos nodded, he had already redirected his shipments from the region and from those under the rule of Vintila, and sent word for others who wished to continue doing business with him to do the same. The Fiend had simply made sure that he would cement those rerouting.

Without a word he walked away, even as the fool laughed mirthfully at his own wit.

23rd of October, 1217, 6:08pm
Ruins to the south of the Caravansary
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

It had been nearly two weeks since the destruction of Kuritz and the assembled Cainites had become restless. To stave off the violence that was sure to ensue and to help quell any talk of some who wished to depose the Prince of Ash, Etienne announced that he would be holding a midnight tournament in grand European fashion.

When the prince announced that all duals would be to first blood or submission the Baron von Achern, Lanzo von Sachsen and a few others laughed derisively. The announced games included both armed and unarmed single combat, a javelin throwing competition, as well as a general melee. Since the games were announced and individuals signed up the betting had begun, with Kyrillos at the center of it.

He found it strange that so many played at being mildly offended by the prospects of violence while simultaneously placing bets on who they believed would be victorious. Any successful merchant could tell you, hypocrisy was lucrative.

Javelin throw, with many of the knights stepping forward to launch their volley for truly impressive distances, some hitting targets at distances that would terrify a mortal. Teresa stepped up and threw her javelin farther than most of the others, though hers wouldn’t be the best throw that night, it silenced many of the idiot knights who were insulting her lack of a prick. Though she was sadly out thrown by three others.

Vintila threw last, having joined the competition only after realizing that Teresa herself had already thrown. He sent one of his men off to retrieve his javelin, a heavy looking spear that looked vaguely bonelike, in its head was a jewel that looked much like a human eye, which swiveled to look upon each of its master’s opponents.

The Tzimisce surveyed the field.

“I will not throw this spear without a target!”

As if on cue one of his ghoul-knights ran out into the field, a heavy burlap bag thrown over his shoulder. When he reached the first of the javelins he up ended the bag, releasing the captive within.

The man stood naked, shaking and afraid.

“Run.” – the knight

After a moment of confusion the man’s eyes went wide when he saw Vintila charge him, spear raised over his head. He ran as far and as fast as his legs would take him even as the fiend let loose.

The spear caught the man between the shoulder blades, fastening him to the ground.

The crowd was mostly silent, save for Vintila’s own men who cheered raucously despite the fact that the man had not even reached the nearest cluster of flags. Vintila had come nearly dead last.

The crowd parted for the Prince as he stormed forward. Vintila bowed to the crowd and then turned to leave before Etienne could reach him.

The second game was a series of single combat exhibitions, the first being fought by Baron von Achern and Count von Sachsen who were both chomping at the bit to loose their fury upon one another. They lashed out with a fury that startled even the undead, landing blows that would demolish lesser monsters but neither seemed capable of landing a single decisive blow.

And then someone did. With a mighty heave the Baron launched von Sachsen back nearly twenty feet to the cheers of the crowd. Those cheers turned into gasps though, when Lanzo leapt back to his feet, his teeth bared, his eyes flashed with fury, his sword left behind as he charged his foe, lost completely to his beast.

Von Achern, for his part, was ready, bringing the pommel of his sword down upon the frenzied vampire’s head, crushing him into the ground instantly, the sound of cracking bone audible over the raucous crowd. Van Sachsen’s men came forward to drag their master away, his skull caved in but healing. He wouldn’t be able to walk again until sundown.

Vendramino’s bout began and quickly ended without the drama of the one between the two Warlords. He devastated his opponent in short order, leaving the Gangrel sprawled out and bleeding in the sand to the shock of all who did not know him. There was no applause, as no one was sure what had happened.

“He was a plant.” – Aram Hovannes said, furious.

“Are you accusing the Prince of Schaasburg or the German Baron of being a cheat, Lord Hovannes?” – Kyrillos asked incredulously

The Ravnos handed over his money purse and stormed off, disappearing again into the crowd.

---

Throughout all of this the crowd was alive like it hadn’t been since they had arrived. Sabela stuck close to her sire, who was under a great deal of scrutiny, his brood-mate Aram Hovannes was always so close, always watching. Tonight was no different, he had been pacing and mumbling angrily under his breath since the Tzimisce barbarian had murdered the Muslim in cold blood.

“The display disturbed me too, Sire.” – Sabela

“It’s not that, Sabela. If I do not succeed soon in finding the source of the aura that protects Acre my sire, Varsik, will install Aram as Prince and I will have left you an orphan too soon after your Becoming.” – Etienne

“That is… troubling, Sire.” – Sabela, understating her fear.

“You are comfortable with the Transylvanians, yes.” – Etienne could change subjects so quickly it hurt.

“I have made a sort of alliance with Teresa, yes, but I wouldn’t call them friends.” – Sabela

“Perhaps you would like to… suggest to them that… Lord Jurgen may find an ally in exchange for protection.” – Etienne.

“I will make the offer.” – Sabela, nodding as she slipped into the crowd.

“Nothing too blatant, my dear, I would hate…” – but she was already gone.

“To be accused of treason.” – Etienne, to no one in particular.

---

Maria D’Agostino watched the jousting from the crowd, her ghoul-cum-husband sitting at her side. Neither seemed particularly diverted.

“The Prince is a fool if he thinks that such activities will make any of us forget his obsolescence.” – Maria, her ghoul-husband nodding obediently.

“It’s a farce of the worst variety and yet these fools indulge the bumpkin Prince.” – she continued

“I couldn’t agree more, my love.” – her ghoul-husband cooed sycophantically.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Lady Teresa?” – Maria, turning to look at her companion.

Teresa knew that it was a calculated slight, as she, herself, had just participated in the Javelin throw.

“Yes, though I understand the drive behind the festival, poorly executed though it may be. The need to keep one’s subjects’ passions in check is no trivial thing.” – Teresa, still bitter that she lost the competition.

“So you believe the Frenchman a suitable Prince? I myself believe that the Second Kingdom of Jerusalem should be ruled by one of clearer pedigree. That such a place is in the hands of a Clan so low as the Ravnos makes me queasy.” – Maria

Teresa nodded. The thought had occurred to her.

“At the same time, though, I’ll be damned if I let the retched Magyars rule it. The very thought of the Ventrue holding sway over any part of the holy land…” – Maria, trailing off as darkness danced in her eyes.

Teresa nodded, while she was not as hostile to the clan of kings as a whole, the thought of von Achern being granted any more status or titles left her cold.

“Should there be a changing of hands here within Acre, can I count on you to stand at my side? Having the childe of the Leader of the Amici Noctis would lend a certain weight to my claim of Primacy.” – Maria

The question was rhetorical of course, she had already been given assurances by Teresa’s sire Silvester. Darkness coiled around the Black Queen’s heart as the Italian spoke.

“Of course, Lady Maria, you have the full support of the Friends of Night. In fact my sire believes that a changing of the guard in the Holy Land is long overdue. That the second kingdom should be brought into the Sea of Shadows and that you are uniquely suited to making that happen.” – Teresa assured her.

It was then that Teresa decided that Maria D’Agostino would never rule the second kingdom.

---

Abdul-Malik slipped through the crowd, not invisible but unnoticed to those around him. He had made a habit of following someone new each night, learning what he could about them. Tonight he’d been following the Tremere who had caused the ruckus in Magdeburg some years earlier.

The Usurper seemed to be watching Teresa, as if he were hoping to have a word with her. He didn’t notice when the Assamite approached him, jumping visibly when a hand was placed on his shoulder.

“What?! Where did you come from?” – Thierry, trying to calm himself.

“You seem very nervous, Kilian.” – Abdul-Malik

the young vampire’s eyes widened slightly.

“How do you know that name?” – Kilian/Thierry

“We met briefly in Magdeburg.” – Abdul-Malik

“You are a friend of the Lady Teresa.” – Kilian, Realization brightening his face.

“I am and I noticed that you seemed alone and might need someone to talk to.”

“It’s just nerves. That bastard Basarab has been tormenting me. It’s made me jumpy. It seems that our families have a history.” – Kilian.

“How could Teresa help you with this problem?” – Abdul-Malik, honestly curious.

“It is not so much Teresa as Lord Jurgen that I wish to make contact with. Though it requires some more study, I believe I have worked out a way to use the Aura that surrounds Acre against the foes of the black cross and if Teresa could inform her Lord that I would happily grant him that power in return for amnesty… but I must go now. I am not safe here.” – Kilian, his eyes fixed upon Vintila Basarab who was watching him hungrily.

“Say hello to Jervais should you see him, yes.” – Adbul-Malik

“I haven’t seen him since my banishment, but I’ll do what I can.” – Kilian’s final words were more bitter than the Saracen expected.

---

24th of October, 1217, 1:04am
Ruins to the south of the Caravansary
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Finally they came to the last of act this tournament; the grand finale if you will: In the center of the ruins a large pile of armor and shields had been assembled, standing as tall as a man and wide enough for a half a dozen warriors to stand upon. Around this makeshift hill stood 12 participants. The rules were simple. No one was to be destroyed and the last man standing upon the mountain of armor wins.

Once the trumpet sounded the battle began. Within moments two different vampires were staked and three were overwhelmed by their beasts. others were limping away, holding their guts or severed limbs.

It was down to only four when everything came to a screeching halt. Quite literally.

The roar was louder even then the mass battle taking place at the center of the crowd, over the sound of the roaring crowd and the manic betting. It was so loud that everything came to a stop as everyone turned to look.

The horrible shriek came from the Prince’s raised perch. The prince himself stood ramrod straight, staring north.

“It’s gone, it’s gone!” – the Prince shrieked over and over again.

It took the crowd a moment to comprehend. Vendramino was one of the first to piece it together before a whisper cut through the crowd.

“the aura was gone.”

24th of October, 1217, 8:14pm
The Chamber of the Baron von Achern
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Kyrillos and Abdul-Malik stood, waiting for the Baron to acknowledge them. Vendramino could not be reached, as he had fled for the city the night before, leaving many of his possessions, which were being collected even as they stood there waiting for the petulant man in knight’s armor standing before them pretending to be too busy to acknowledge their presence.

“Where is the Venetian?” – Baron von Achern asked as he looked over a map of the city.

“He is already within the city, he left within an hour of the aura’s vanishing.” – Kyrillos

“Good, that means that he’s had a head start. I wish for each of you to go into Acre and find your ally and with him I want you to lay claim to as much of the city as possible in the name of the Black Cross to better ensure my dominance over the city when I make a play for power when the fool Etienne falls.” – The Baron

“And the Relic?” – Abdul-Malik

It is of little consequence. You are only to attempt to obtain it should it appear that the fiend should take it as his own prize." – The Baron.

“But Thierry believes that he may be able…” – Kyrillos

“Yes, I know of the Usurper’s theories, but I have no time for sorcerous chicanery, Lord Kyrillos.” – The Baron, dismissively.

After a few moments of silence they meekly dismissed themselves from the Baron’s presence and silently vowed to themselves that they would find a way to bring him low.

24th of October, 1217, 9:36pm
The Gates of Acre
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Sabela stood at the gates of the city. They were earthen and plain, nothing like she expected them to be, after so many years of imagining those walls and what they must be made of, this stone façade was the greatest of letdowns. She placed her hand on the wall and felt the heat of those walls. Whatever magic had been here had left its mark but was gone.

“Do not go into the city, Sabela, let the Franj desecrate that holy place, no good can come from entering the city walls.” – Etienne had said

Steeling herself, Sabela stepped across the threshold and was still somewhat surprised when she didn’t erupt into flame. It was truly gone.

The city was a wonder. It had been so long since she’d seen so many people in one place wander the streets so openly.

The streets were well lit with great braziers and wall mounted sconces, so that night shoppers could peruse the wares of the night markets. Venders shouted out their bargains as the streets, crowded with shoppers and entertainers and so very many children playing. Windows in every building were left open, light pouring out of them to light the streets further.

It was a glorious thing to behold and it saddened her when the tears came, staining everything in red.

This place had never seen the torments visited by the Get of Caine. They were all so defenseless.

She wept again at the thought of it.

24th of October, 1217, 9:51pm
The Venetian Quarter
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Kyrillos found himself in the Venetian quarter in hopes of finding his old ally but found only a merchant’s square and a fine looking inn, with no sign of Vendramino in sight. After some time he came to realize that he saw no sign of any vampire within the quarter at all.

The idea of the virgin territory thrilled the old merchant. He spent money in each of the stalls, exorbitant money, letting everyone get a good look at him as if he were some visiting dignitary. By the time he’d entered the inn he had already made an indelible impression.

He walked around the tavern as if surveying a gallery. He feigned warming himself by the fire. He hovered over the patrons and finally made his way to the innkeeper.

“What do you want?” – the innkeeper, unhappily.

“Do you have a room?” – Kyrillos

“Best in the Quarter.” – the innkeeper, who didn’t seem so agitated once he actually spoke to Kyrillos.

“Then I am sure that it should be mine.” – Kyrillos, grandfatherly

“I would love for you to have it, sir, but it is currently being rented by a knight for his mistress.” – the innkeeper.

“What is your name, good sir?” – Kyrillos

“Joshua, sir.” – the innkeeper’s gruff demeanor had been utterly subverted by a more subservient one.

“Joshua, I am Kyrillos Dimities, and I would like to purchase a stake in your business.” – Kyrillos, dropping a coin purse onto the bar with a heavy clang.

The barkeeps eyes narrowed slightly, the Byzantine’s hold over him stretching almost to the breaking point.

“Why do you want this?” – Joshua

“I am…overseeing a project involving certain investments I’ve made and may need to put roots down for the foreseeable future and while I do not wish to purchase a home I am loath to rent.” – Kyrillos.

“I told you I do not have a room open upstairs.” – Joshua, absent mindedly pouring the man a drink.

“But you do have a cellar of some sort?” – Kyrillos, who took the cup but did not drink.

“Of course.”

“Is there a room there? Someplace that I may have privacy?” – Kyrillos, biting his knuckle ponderously, opening it in the process.

“Well, of course, but I can’t imagine why you would want to take it as your room.” – Joshua

“I have my reasons, good sir. If you would not mind my proposition, let us drink on it.” – Kyrillos, handing the barkeep back the red tinged cup of wine.

Joshua held the bag in his free hand, he felt the weight of it. It was worth a year’s wage. It was an easy choice.

He drank the wine. It made his head feel light and his blood rush like it did when he was a child. He giggled a bit as he licked his lips.

24th of October, 1217, 10:30pm
The Pisan Quarter
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Abdul-Malik walked unhappily with the Franj city in the heart of the Muslim world. He had made circles around the city, completely unnoticed, as was his like. Since he’d left his cohorts though he felt the presence of others of their kind, though he had not seen them. Of the source of the now gone Aura, he found no evidence. The buildings themselves though hummed with the power of the faithful. Certain streets were barred him due to the power of faith that radiated from the very cobblestones. He had never in the entirety of his long night felt such faith.

He comforted himself with the thought of the righteous fire that must leap upon any of the undead who come within sight of a truly holy site such as Ka’aba.

As he entered the harbor many of the sounds of the city fell away. The sea seemed to glow in the night, reflecting the moon and stars like a rippling mirror. It was truly a sight to behold.

Somewhere, he heard someone yelling obscenities in Latin and French.

He followed the voice to find a lowly beggar sitting upon a pile of rope pointing at an ancient tower at the end of the pier.

The madman was currently in a fit of laughter but soon was taken up with rage and throwing rocks at the tower.

“Sortir de ma tour, salauds! It is mine, by right, and I’ll not have you squatting in it!” – the beggar who was one again caught up in a fit of laughter.

Abdul-Malik stood there and watched the fool shout. It was fascinating the way a battlefield is fascinating after the battle was over. All the dead and dying lying there and one cannot bring oneself to look away.

Finally, in spite of himself, the vampire stepped forward.

“Why do you shout so, my friend, surely you have no quarrel with this tower?” – Abdul spoke as if to a child or to one who was feebleminded.

“What do you want Saracen?” – the madman asked, angrily

“I simply do not understand the need to throw stones at the tower, I am a stranger in this land and am unfamiliar with the custom.” – Abdul

“It seems our kind have been here all along, my friend, and they have been squatting in MY TOWER!” – the madman

It was then that Abdul noticed the flash of the moonlight glistening off his fangs.

The madman was undead, as surely as Abdul himself was.

“I bid you ado, Saracen, but now I must clear my home of the vermin!.” – the beggar, standing, his robes falling open as he did so.

Without another word he bowed dramatically to Abdul-Malik and then turned to trudge toward the Tower as dozens of rats seemed flood out from the tower, as if fleeing some coming catastrophe.

24th of October, 1217, 11:08pm
Not far from the palace of the Patriarch
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Vendramino waded hungrily through the mass of humanity that surrounded him. He’d taken up his haven the night before within the castle itself but found his sleep listless and filled with horrific visions. It seemed that in the holy land even those in power had Faith.

Preposterous.

He had, however, also heard of the Venetian Quarter and had already made the decision to make his haven amongst the Italians there. It may not be home. But it would be a close facsimile.

He smelled blood! Everywhere! He would need to feed soon but knew that should he kill he would not be allowed to stay. Where were the dead bodies? Where were the mass graves? He didn’t know and that frightened him. What if he did not find them?

As he neared the eastern wall, close to the compound of the Teutonic Order, he heard the scream of a young woman. The dark thing that nested in his dead heart stirred and he found himself running far more swiftly than any mortal toward the sound.

He found himself colliding with a woman, her clothing and hands were covered in shimmering crimson fluid, the flesh of her neck was torn leaving a beautiful topographic map of her pain and terror. His hunger leapt to the fore, the thing inside him shrieked for her blood, slamming on its cage of bone and flesh. He felt his hands wrap around her dainty little shoulders too tightly, his right hand becoming slick as it was splashed with her blood.

“The Cavalieri at the Monastery of the Apostles were right! There are monsters in the night! You must help me!” – she wept.

It had been so long since he’d tasted living blood. So long since he quenched that cold hunger with the burning Vitae of the living.

“The cow is mine!” – growled a voice from the shadows, in german.

Vendramino looked deeper into the alleyway and saw the source of the bark. It was Wilhelmina, the childe of the Gangrel Baron that he had cut down the night before. Her eyes were wild and alight like a cats and her posture was decidedly not human. She was currently perched upon the back wall of the alley, her long and wicked claws dug clearly into the stones.

He had never seen her in such a state.

“Do I look to stand in your way?” – Vendramino asked

The cow wept against the old monster’s chest, unable to comprehend his words or intentions.

He took her in his left hand and turned her toward the beast that crouched before him, using her to distract the Animal as he quietly drew his sword. Though he did not have any quarrel with Wilhelmina personally her actions were a threat to his plans.

The neonate charged the mortal her eyes wide and her clawed fingers spread wide. As she flew forward he threw the woman to the ground to his left. The gangrel followed its target, revealing her neck.

Vendramino unleashed a mighty swing, the sword biting deep into her neck, severing her spinal column before lodging in her larynx.

She fell limp upon the apoplectic woman.

Vendramino toed the Gangrel and found her to be nothing but a corpse, even as her blood worked to knit her neck back together he knew that she would not rise again, at least not on this night.

He kicked her over onto her back and dropped to his knee. A cursory glance told him that the mortal had fallen unconscious in the melee but the fluttering of her youthful heart told him that she would live. The wound, though it bled profusely, was superficial.

The Gangrel had already regenerated but her dead eyes, which remained those of a cat, stared blankly into the middle distance.

Blood! His beast called. Vitae! The dead girl was filled with it and as a corpse would make nary a sound as he dined.

He had not tasted the blood of another vampire since Constantinople and a part of him missed its sweetness…

He looked up to discover that their altercation had gone completely unnoticed by the mortals who walked not a dozen feet away. It seemed that Wilhelmina, even in her Frenzy, had chosen a place from which to pounce carefully.

As he thought on it he tasted blood. It took him a moment to realize that he had bitten the torpid vampire and he was gulping down her fury laden Vitae. He had lost control to the Specter that animated his dead flesh and felt empowered by that. He watched as the Specter broke her bones as he fed, as if to wring out every drop of her immortality.

And then it did. He saw her soul become unmoored from her corpse and dissolve into his own. That fury he felt as he drank infused him, empowering him even as her body withered. As he came back into himself and regained control of his limbs the Specter seemed unwilling to return fully to slumber and he thought that, perhaps that was the price to pay for giving into the thing.

He turned to the girl whom he had used for bait and for the first time noticed that she was dressed as a nun, her vestments marked by the sign of the Hospital of St. John.

Vendramino smiled at his good fortune, as he had at his feet his first agent in the city.

He reached down to cup her head so that he might give her a bit of blood and heal her wounds when there was a flash of white hot pain. He wrenched his hand back and saw the seared flesh and the trail left in his flesh from where her hair had touched him.

The Specter was there again, taking away control of his body and fleeing from the nun. He was over the wall before he was able to wrest control back from the enraged thing.

It seemed that he had been marked in more ways than one by his Actions.

24th of October, 1217, 11:23pm
Not far from the palace of the Patriarch
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Kyrillos and Abdul-Malik had met in the Market square at eleven o’clock as they had planned so as to find their mutual ally and hopefully find a way to press the advantage of their allegiance and relative power within the city walls.

Though they were loath to admit it, Vendramino was the most skilled when it came to such endeavors. They had wandered the older portion of the city for a few moments before being drawn by the scent of spilt blood.

Though both had fed this very night their curiosity had been piqued nonetheless.

What they found, deep in the shadows of the outer wall, was a young girl, dressed in the colors of the Hospitalers of St. John with a gaping wound in her neck. Next to her lay the withering and ashen corpse of one of their own kind.

“What did you do, Assamite?” – Kyrillos, only half joking

“Why must I have done this? This is messy and too in the open, and please, honored friend, refrain from calling me that vulgar epithet.” – Abdul-Malik, his voice measured as if speaking to an ailing old man.

Abdul stooped low and fanned the girl’s face with his robe until she began to come to her senses.

“My child what has happened here?” – he asked, in latin

“What? I don’t know.” – she responded faintly in Italian.

“We must take her somewhere.” – Adbul.

“Excuse me for a moment.” – Kyrillos said as he blew greasy ash from the corpse, his eyes narrowed as he looked upon the remains.

Her hair was blond but filthy, her features fine but weathered. He knew should she still have her eyes they would be an earthy brown. Her body, which even now was curling into itself had been lean and strong. a wound to the left side of her neck showed how she might have come to this state though he had never heard of any vampire, let alone a Gangrel, die directly from such a wound.

Her face, upon which he had tried desperately not to look, was serene in its final repose in a way that it had not been in the few months he had known her. It was the face of a girl just coming into her womanhood, a mortal’s face…

“It is Wilhelmina, Childe of the Baron that Vendramino faced last night.” – He said quietly, sadness coloring his voice.

Adbul-Malik did not like it when the old Lunatic spoke like that.

Kyrillos turned and without a word scooped up the mortal girl, who was once again losing consciousness, in his arms.

“You would make her a slave?” – Abdul-Malik asked judgmentally.

The Byzantine sneered unconsciously.

“You do not think highly of me, nor should you be one to judge, you who own at least one slave that I can think of.” – Kyrillos

“Only because you gave him to me last night as part of my winnings.” – Abdul-Malik

“It was only fair, as I offered your services to his master should Vendramino lose.” – Kyrillos

The Saracen clenched his jaw and pretended not to hear what the Malkavian had said.

“Take care of that won’t you?” – Kyrillos, motioning toward the still withering corpse, whatever sentimentality had infected him moments before apparently gone.

Abdul glared at the back of his head but acquiesced. Throwing the thing over his shoulder he ran toward the back wall and then leapt, catching hold of the ledge and then hoisted himself up, using the Blood to empower his strength and steady his grip.

The Saracen laid the girl to rest upon the wall to greet the sun. out of the corner of his eye he made out the shape of a cloaked figure huddling not far from where he knelt.

“You, there!” – Abdul-Malik said, before he recognized the hem of the cloak.

“Vendramino?” – he asked the figure.

The figure continued to shudder.

“Did you do this, friend?” – Abdul-Malik, toeing the remains.

He was immediately ashamed of his callous act and promised to make a special prayer for her Franj soul.

“Why would I do that?” – Vendramino, his lie obvious

“There is a dying nun and a corpse, are you responsible?” – Abdul-Malik

“I was trying to help?” – Vendramino, whimpering

“How does this help?” – Abdul, again kicking the corpse and again feeling awful for it.

“I don’t remember… there was a girl and screaming… and then fire…” – he muttered, growing quieter as he spoke

“Did you do this?” – Abdul pointing at the body and congratulating himself on not desecrating it further.

“No!” – Vendramino lied

Abdul shook his head as a father might when lied to by a child.

“We will speak of this later, friend.” – Abdul, disappointedly

Vendramino bowed his head guiltily. What had happened to him? What happened when he took that Animal’s soul into himself?

He felt like taking a bath suddenly.

“What’s with the hand?” – Abdul asked, changing the subject

Vendramino looked down at his scarred flesh. The wound had already healed but the flesh remained oddly blackened.

“I touched it and it burned me.” – Vendramino

“It? What it?” – Abdul

“The Mortal.” – Vendramino

“Curious, she did not burn either myself nor Kyrillos.” – Abdul

As Abdul looked down to check on Kyrillos and the girl Vendramino unceremoniously kicked the body off the wall.

Abdul’s gaze shifted between his friend and where the body had laid three or four times as if he were trying to process what he had just witnessed.

“Monster.” – Abdul, before stepping off the wall to join their friend.

Vendramino shrugged and joined him.

---

“Wh… where is he?” – the Nun

“Who, my dear?” – Kyrillos, setting the girl down to rest against the wall.

“The man who saved me? He protected me from that monster.” – the Girl

“I did not see him, my dear.” – Kyrillos, honestly.

“When the Knights had spoken of the Night Demons I dared not believe them, but now I know… they told us the truth. They tried to warn us. We must go, warn others.” – the nun

“What are you talking about, sister?” – Kyrillos

“What, no, I am not a nun, but a lay-sister of the Order of the Hospital of St. John. I am called Eloise. Please sir, you must protect yourself.” – Eloise was manic.

“Tell me about these knights, Eloise.” – Kyrillos

The girl suddenly relaxed when he spoke, his power over her undermining her natural emotions by making her want to please him.

“What? Oh, they are knights, and their leader is a Frenchman, I forget his name.” – Eloise

“Would you know it should you hear it again?” – Kyrillos

“I don’t know, why?” – Eloise

“Is he called Gauthier?” – Kyrillos, suddenly excited

“I… Yes, do you know him?” – Eloise

“I do know him, he is touched by the Lord Almighty! Do you know where he is now?” – the Byzantine’s eyes gleamed in the night.

“I… I don’t know. I think he said something about the Monastery of the Apostles, it’s in the shadow of St. Andras’s Church.” – Eloise

The old man smiled and Eloise was afraid.

25th of October, 1217, 1:34am
The Pisan Quarter
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Teresa found herself missing her friends. She had come to the city in the company of Maria D’Agostino, whom had excitedly taken up residence in her family’s home within the Genoese Quarter of the city. Teresa herself was treated like an honored guest and given a sumptuous suite below ground. It seemed as though the family had been planning this move for some time. And it was nice to be treated to such finery and with such distinction after so long in the dirt with corpses.

Now though, she was walking through a sea of mortals, something she had not seen since Constantinople. She had been ‘asked’ by Maria to find her own place in the city. Anywhere in the city outside the Genoese Quarter. The city was seemingly swarming with the undead. She could feel them everywhere as she walked the night. A gaunt man with no hair and no shoes spider-climbed his way up a shadowy wall in the Pisan Quarter, a woman with fiery red hair hidden beneath a veil flitted through a crowd that formed around a vender who was selling something full of spice and fragrance that made her stomach turn.

And then there was Sabela. She was standing not far from Church of St. Sabas watching a boy who was dancing for change. She seemed mesmerized by his movements. Or maybe she was just hungry.

The shadows clung to the queen as she slid through the crowd until she was directly behind the neonate.

“Sabela, I had thought you too prudent to follow us into the city.” – Teresa whispered.

The young vampire jumped.

“Lady Teresa, you… You startled me.” – Sabela, her hand upon her chest as if to still her dead heart.

“My apologies, skulking becomes a survival tool after some years within the long night.” – Teresa

“It’s nothing, milady. I’m glad you took my advice and came into the city. Did you come alone or with your companions?” – Sabela

“Neither, childe, I came with my patron, Maria D’Agostino, though I do not believe my presence in her home will be long endured. I am currently searching out a place to stay while I am in Acre, I’m sure you understand.” – Teresa

“Of course I do. One cannot expect a lady of your standing to sleep in a crypt for long.” – Sabela

“And you? I was under the impression from our previous conversation that your sire did not wish for you to venture into the city.” – Teresa, her tone motherly.

“What Etienne doesn’t know cannot hurt him.” – Sabela, with a wink, a smile and a giggle.

Teresa found herself smiling as well as the girl’s cheeriness was quite infectious.
The Dancing boy seemed to have finished his set and was collecting his change. Teresa and Sabela moved on with the crowd, though the Lasombra did note that the red headed vampire remained behind with the boy, her hand on his shoulder and her eyes upon his neck.

Good for her.

They wandered the streets, enjoying the ambiance and the people, though the living did seem to be growing more and more scarce as the hour drew later and later.

Eventually they found themselves, once again, not far from the Church of St. Sabas and once again they felt the presence of one of the undead. But this one they knew on sight.

“Hail, Lord Kyrillos!” – Sabela, cheerily waving toward the bearded little fat man.

The Malkavian stopped in his tracks and turned toward the voice, smiling once he saw the young vampire and her companion.

“Sabela, Lady Teresa, it has been too long.” – he said, honestly.

He and the Queen embraced politely, as family might. It was a gesture that Sabela found odd for those who were not of the same Blood.

“Who is the girl, Kyrillos?” – Teresa, looking at the dazed mortal.

“She was the unfortunate victim of Wilhelmina, I rescued her and am taking her under my wing. Now do not look at me like that, milady! She is no slave, on the contrary, I intend to make her my protégé, perhaps even my steward.” – Kyrillos, who was acting uncharacteristically energetic.

“And the others?” – Teresa, noting the absence of their companions.

“Ah, our heathen friend is creeping about here somewhere, as for the Venetian…he was feeling ill and retired until tomorrow night, though he did promise to track you down as soon as he could. I, on the other hand, am in search of our Crusader friend, whom I hear is in the city! I shall have him this time I think, Teresa!” – Kyrillos, his eyes glinting in the moonlight.

“Well that explains your liveliness. Shall we join you, Kyrillos?” – Teresa

“Please do! We are now heading to the Monastery of the Apostles, where it is said that the Frenchman lays his head while within the city!” – Kyrillos gestured wildly as he spoke.

And so they made their way to the monastery in the company of a Madman and his newfound companion. The Assassin they counted as an ally hidden from their sight but close at hand as they went.

When they reached the gates of the Monastery they found them closed and chained shut and, alarmingly, warm to the touch, as if they were still baking in the noonday sun. The Darkness within the Black Queen begged her not to enter those gates but she soldiered on in spite of it, pushing the gate open in spite of the heavy chain. Kyrillos applauded softly at the ease with which she displayed her unholy strength.

“Can we think about this for a moment, please?” – Sabela, her voice small but strong

“Think about what, childe?” – Kyrillos, patronizingly

“We are about to go into a monastery where Crusaders are known to be!” – Sabela

“Yes.” – Kyrillos, again.

“No! I won’t go!” – Sabela

“You Are Coming!” – Teresa, her eyes darkened as she commanded the young Ravnos.

“No, I’m not!” – Sabela, her brow furrowed resolutely.

“Please, Sabela, we could use your eyes and wits in there.” – Kyrillos, his voice confident but pleading, none of them would have said no to him in that moment.

“Fine, but only because I can hide amongst your corpses should things go bad.” – Sabela, petulantly.

The interior of the walls was a beautifully manicured courtyard, frescoes and statues of the Christ and his apostles decorated the walls and paths. The Monastery itself was a squat two story building that was also decorated with murals depicting the sainted friends of the Messiah.

At the center of the far wall, before a large statue of St. Paul upon his donkey was a gaping hole in the cobblestone path. The cobbles themselves were stacked haphazardly nearby. It seemed as though whoever looted the shrine did so with the intention of replacing them.

They approached the hole cautiously, unsure if they were alone. Even Kyrillos’ senses were hampered by the throbbing pain radiating from the very ground of the holy place.

“Halt!” – a voice from the shadows of the monastery.

They turned to see two Knights, marked as belonging to the Order of St. Thomas, striding across the courtyard, their swords drawn.

“What are you doing here?” – one of the knights

“We are here because of the girl, who was wandering lost and bloodied. We escorted her here post haste.” – Kyrillos

“Why are you really here?”

Kyrillos took an instinctive step back, the motion was one that Teresa had never seen the Byzantine make, it was one that reeked of fear.

---

Unseen, Abdul-Malik slipped behind the knights and toward the monastery proper only to find himself unable to go step upon its cobbled patio. No matter how he tried, the Blood itself seemed to be refusing to allow the action, recoiling from the very stones.

He turned back and saw that his friends were being corralled into the far corner.

“I don’t understand what you mean, we’ve come here on a pilgrimage, as Acre is the closest the Holy City that we are allowed until the Saracens are sent back to whatever hell they come from. We have not been here a night and we found this poor girl raving about monsters. We came to the gate and found it unlocked, we only wanted to help the child.” – Kyrillos, his words like honey.

The knights sheathed their swords.

“I apologize for our frightening you. I am Brother Duncan, this is my friend, Brother Karl, the gate was to be locked when the sun went down and we were unaware that it had not been. Please, of course you are welcome here, we only ask that, in honor of the sainted men for whom this monastery was built, that all visitors recite the Lord’s prayer at the shrine to St. Paul.

Duncan motioned over to the statue of Paul upon his Donkey.

Though his words and demeanor were gentle, the canniness of his request was evident. He was commanding them to kneel before the holiest place in the entire city. Something that the Damned were unlikely to comply to.

These men knew and from the look on his friends faces they too had figured it out.

Kyrillos stepped forward and fell to his knees in supplication. The ground beneath him burned him through his clothes, the others soon followed, Teresa steadied herself on her left hand and the faintest wisp of smoke floated up from her palm, but the three of them did as they were instructed.

Abdul-Malik watched as the one called Duncan drew his blade.

“Brother Karl, something is here.” – Duncan

Karl turned and his eyes widened. They could see him.

“Damn these accursed holy-men.” – Abdul-Malik cursed under his breath.

He searched about him for something that would allow him to protect himself and found nothing save a torch which he grabbed up and tossed it toward the knights.

They stepped back from the torch and the one called Karl swiped it from the air with his sword but in the instant they looked away the Saracen allowed his blood to carry him away like the wind, passing through the gates and out of the sight of the living.

---

Kyrillos covered Eloise with his own body as the knights turned back toward them.

“You Bow Before Your Master!” – Kyrillos

His voice resonated within the minds of all those present, but compounded and grew within those of the knights until they heard nothing else. In an instant their fiery passion and much vaunted faith were snuffed out.

Their arms fell to their sides as their intense stare faded into a dull gaze.

“Who do you serve?” – Kyrillos

“Our Lord and Savior.” – the two in unison

“What is his name?” – Kyrillos

“Lord Kyrillos.” – the two, their voices still dull

Sabela shuddered while Teresa was simply jealous of the power he wielded.

“How do they know his name?” – Sabela asked her

“I am all they know, my childe, they would remember my name before their very own.” – Kyrillos answered over his shoulder.

“ask them what happened here.” – Teresa

“Yes, what laid here before?” – Kyrillos

“The Cross of Our Lord, stained by his Blood, which has rested here since St. Paul gave it to Acre’s first Christians.” – the two, as if reciting a list to a vender.

Kyrillos was gob smacked, it was no wonder no vampire had set foot within the walls for a thousand years.

“Where is the Cross now?” – Kyrillos

“Sir Gauthier and his Fellows took it…” – Karl

“…We do not know where…” – Duncan

“…He will send his sign when it is safe.” – Karl finished

Kyrillos smiled devilishly.

“Then we shall wait.”

20th of November, 1217, 11:04pm
Etienne’s Chambers
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

It had been a tumultuous month since the fall of the Aura. In the first few nights the city was inundated by the damned and it seemed that chaos would reign without the direct of the Prince within the city.

It wasn’t long before factions began to form, of which there were three that came to the fore. The first was one that formed around Heinrich von Achern and despite the fact that many of the undead crusaders and pilgrims owed fealty to the Baron (or more specifically the Black Cross that he represented) the Baron’s own refusal to enter the city weakened his stance amongst the other elders vying for power.

The Second, far more dangerous faction was built around the Genovese Lasombra Maria D’Agostino, who as one of the European vampires who had been in Acre the longest was able to rally a great many around her. In fact rumor had it that certain elders amongst even the Black Cross were backing her.

The final faction was the smallest and weakest and was formed around the absent Prince by way of his childe. She had few supporters, and fewer who could do so openly.

Kyrillos was one of those supporters. He along with his cohorts within the Transylvanian Delegation had all agreed to back the Prince, mostly due to the Baron’s arrogance and the fact that Basarab had thrown in with Maria D’Agostino. Well, that and they’d taken a liking to the young Charlatan.

But that wasn’t the only thing happening in Acre.

The mark of the holy knight, Gauthier de Dampiere, had been felt by every vampire in the region even though most did not know the name. Sir Gauthier was the one responsible for the disappearance of the True Cross and the Aura it generated. In his fervor to protect the relic he had left the city open to the deprivation of the damned.

Kyrillos wished to thank the holy-man personally. Unfortunately he was nowhere to be found.

Kyrillos wasn’t so lost of course. He had his contacts within the Teutonic Order, of which the Black Cross belonged, the Order of St. Thomas, and the Hospital of St. John. Though none of them were aware of the knight’s location he had been made aware of the disappearance of many of the most devout and skilled warriors from all of the orders who had, it appeared, left no word except that they were following Gauthier on his holy quest.

A few weeks ago Duqaq had become aware of Kyrillos’s search and had informed him that he was not alone in his search, as both Thierry of Tremere and Vintila Basarab had also been looking for knight, or more specifically, the relic he carried with him. The seneschal did not do this out of good will of course, but to pay the debt he owed Kyrillos and the others, and he promised to pass on any other information he could when he learned it.

When he arose tonight he learned that he’d been summoned to the Prince’s chambers, something that had not occurred in the months that he’d been in Acre. He immediately contacted Vendramino and learned that too had been summoned.

Something wasn’t right.

They traveled together with Abdul-Malik to the caravansary where they were made to wait in the courtyard of the Caravansary. They found themselves once again in the presence of the Prince’s childe. They stood by patiently but not quietly, as they gossiped and talked of business in their own domains.

Vendramino in particular had been having an issue with his childe, Ignacio, who had been acting as Seneschal for the past year and seemed to believe that he had free reign over his sire’s city. The old Venetian was contemplating utilizing Abdul-Malik’s services in dealing with him.

Abdul-Malik, for his part, ensured the Necromancer that he could deal with the young vampire without resorting to murder.

Soon though their own conversations were overwhelmed by the shouting taking place in the next room. It seemed that they were not summoned by the Prince but by Aram Hovannes, the Prince’s broodmate and the Prince himself was pleading.

“I’ve done my best, brother, the relic-” – Etienne

“Enough! You have forgotten your place, Etienne, forsaken Varsik’s interests in favor of your own role as an information merchant! I know of your dealings with the Muslims, Etienne, as does Varsik and if you do not recover the cross Varsik has sworn to renounce you and your place on the throne of Acre!”

The door to the prince’s chamber swung open violently as the coterie returned to their conversation. Aram stood there, seething but attempting to regain his composure. He looked at each of the vampires present as if gauging what they had heard before his eyes turned to the newcomers in the caravanserie.

It seemed that the Transylvanians were not the only ones summoned here tonight. There stood Maria D’Agostino and Teresa de Balgrad, who acknowledged them with a curt nod and a small smile. Soon after others came as well. Both Ventrue lords, Lanzo and Heinrich were in attendance, as were Basarab, Thierry and Sabela. It seemed that every vampire with any power had been invited to this gathering.

Once everyone had arrived Aram took his place behind a small dais to the right of the Prince’s chamber door. Etienne de Fauberge stood meekly at his side, his eyes downcast, his presence diminished.

“I am Aram, Childe of Varsik of Jerusalem, who is the sire of Etienne de Fauberge, the current prince of Acre. My sire sends good tidings as well as the gift of a challenge: Whosoever should recover the city’s relic and presents it to Varsik shall earn the friendship of the most powerful Christian vampire in the Holy City. An honor that, I need not remind you, is not one to be sneered at.” – Aram, let his words sink in.

“Let us have something to Divert us!” – he added, his jocularity cold and sterile.

The envoy of Varsik turned and strode from the dais, leaving the prince to soak in his own misery.

The others began to mix and speak in hushed whispers as cups of warm blood were passed around and jugglers and dancers made their way through the crowds but, like Aram, any friendliness or warmth is a façade.

The Baron soon found Kyrillos and Vendramino in the small crowd.

“This is our chance, my friends. We shall take Acre in the name of Jurgen and the Black Cross, I want you to act as my whips in this, go forth and find out what it will take to see myself supported as the Prince of the second kingdom! This could be a great boon for the Transylvanian Delegates, as I can put in a good word with Jurgen should you help me become prince” – Von Achern.

They agreed, knowing full well that he would do no such thing, and that it was unlikely for anyone to agree to von Achern’s taking the city.

20th of November, 1217, 11:30pm
Outside Etienne’s Chambers
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

“This is not good for Etienne, you understand this.” – Duqaq

Sabela did know and she was terrified. Had she done this? Had her scheming set her sire up for this fall?

“Yes, I do.” – she said

“What would you be willing to do to save him?” – Duqaq

Sabela didn’t know how to respond.

“Your sire has made it clear to me, and I believe to others as well, that he is willing to break away from Varsik, if only he had a powerful enough patron to back his move. Do you think you could use your contacts amongst the Black Cross’s Transylvanian Delegates to open up the necessary communication with someone like Jurgen? Your sire would be most grateful.” – Duqaq

“How did you know?” – Sabela

“About your friends? Please, childe, I’ve been doing this for some time.” – Duqaq, smiling warmly.

He reminded her of her mortal brother when he did that.

“But isn’t Jurgen’s own childe attempting to take control of the city?” – Sabela

“I believe that the Sword-Bearer will understand the benefits of having one such as Etienne holding power so close to Jerusalem in his name.” – Duqaq

---

Vendramino and Abdul searched for Thierry, whom they wished to offer safe haven. They found him staring daggers at Vintila, whom it seemed was ignoring the others and was whispering commands to his Revenant retainers.

“Thierry, my friend!” – Abdul

“Yes, Thierry, it has been too long.” – Vendramino, reaching out to embrace the Tremere.

“What do you want?” – Thierry, suspiciously.

“We have something we wish to discuss with you.” – Vendramino

---

Teresa discovered Kyrillos and Sabela speaking quietly in the shadows and joined them.

“So you will help me, then.” – Sabela

“I will do what I can.” – Kyrillos

“Could I be of assistance?” – Teresa

They looked up and smiled.

“I wondered when we would see you again, old friend.” – Kyrillos

And they plotted.

21st of November, 1217, 1:23am
The Caravansary
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Over the last two hours Sabela and her foreign allies spoke to those present about backing the Baron in his bid for power. Their arguments were elegant and logical and when they were done not one of the assembled Cainites would ever trust the second kingdom to the him. Through their careful wording they ensured their own protection should the Baron ever become suspicious of their motives but the effect was the same nonetheless.

Teresa was speaking with the Lady D’Agostino when the massive doors of the Caravansary swung into the stone walls with a deafening clatter. There, in the center of the gateway and wrapped in a cloud of dust and backlit by a full moon, stood a robed figure.

Teresa had met this figure only once before, nearly two months prior but their was no mistaking her for anyone else.

She was called Hanifa bint Nasir, and she was not alone.

Surrounding her stood seven other vampires, each looked more dangerous than the last.

“Blessings on the House of the Prince of Acre! We have come to enjoy your Hospitality.” – Hanifa, in heavily accented Latin.

Her men stood beside her and though their weapons are sheathed it was clear from their body language that they were willing to fight.

Shouts and hisses arose from the mass of ‘civilized’ undead within the caravansary. Von Achern and Von Sachsen both strode forward with their hands upon their weapons, their fellow warriors at their sides. The Princes guard steps forward as well, their blades drawn but the prince stood, suddenly free of his ennui and demanded that they stay their swords.

“These Ashirra have come to this place in good faith and that is they shall will be treated appropriately!” – The Prince

And then he addressed the newcomers

“You have my protection as long as you keep to the laws that all here acknowledge, Hanifa bint Nasir. May the peace of God be with you, always. What has brought the blessing of your presence to my domain?” – Etienne

The Muslim vampire stepped forward and nodded her head respectfully before speaking:

“Just this, my Prince, Varsik is a Christian in a Muslim city, and he should be cautious of dictating terms. This is a time of war between faiths and placing a hateful lick=spittle or Franj warlord as sultan would be a provocation. After all, I am told that Varsik is a trader and should well know that roads can be closed and hospitality revoked.” – Hanifa.

She spoke to the Prince but it was Aram that she was truly addressing. A fact that was not lost upon the Persian Merchant who glared hatred in return.

There was another, deeper bow and a quick flourish of her robes her and her coterie were gone.

It seemed that the prince had more supporters than they had initially assumed…

18th of December, 1217, 9:36pm
The Caravansary
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

It had been weeks since Aram’s decree. A light snow fell from the cloud-choked sky, leaving a dusting of snow that made the Delegates homesick as they sat beneath a wide awning. Kyrillos and his allies were there to be the eyes and ears of the Baron but the truth was that in the process of covertly backing his authority they had become fond of the Prince of Dirt. They were the only vampires of any import within the city who bother to show up. It seemed as though the Prince was, in fact, doomed.

In the distance the sound of hoof beats seemed to be drawing ever closer. At first it was only Kyrillos who heard it but soon others were on their feet as well and Etienne was ordering his guards to open the gates.

Into the gates rode ten knights, some mortal, some damned, but all of them wore the heraldry of the Order of Bitter Ashes.

The lead knight dismounted and bowed deeply before the Prince.

“I am Sir Michael of Gangrel and these are my brethren within the Order of Bitter Ashes who, like me, are sworn to spend their Long Night in search of the Cup of Kings.” – Sir Michael

Etienne seemed almost beside himself. Though he had heard of the Order he never believe that they would come to his domain.

“Please, you may come and make haven here within my home and are granted the right to feed within the entirety of my domain, what brings you to the Second Kingdome?” – Etienne, calling for a servant to proffer the Brothers a cup of blood.

The knight politely declined.

“We have been charged with coming to Acre to secure a fragment of the True Cross, for this is too unsettled a land for it to remain in and we would see it safe.” – Sir Michael

The Prince’s face fell.

“Then you came too late, for the Relic is gone these two months, and no one knows where too.” – Etienne.

The knight raised his hands to the sky as if to ask beg God for something.

“Then we accept your offer of Hospitality until our mortal Brothers can gain their rest. We are grateful for your generosity.” – Sir Michael, slowly returning to his brothers to tell them the news.

18th of December, 1217, 10:32pm
The Haven of Baron von Achern
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Von Achern was furious, twelve nights prior a small army of Magyar knights had set of to procure their own holdings within the holy land, among them was a small cohort of Basarab knights. The Expedition never made it to their destination.

The Baron was thoroughly convinced that their loss was nothing more than a cover up so that Vintila’s own agents could establish a Tzimisce stronghold within the holy land.

“It’s sacrilege!” – He roared at Vendramino.

The Venetian did not disagree.

“To make matters worse, the coward King, Andras has become ‘disheartened’ in his crusade and threatens to return home!” – von Achern.

“But wouldn’t that mean that Vintila would be forced home again?” – Vendramino

The Ventrue glared at the Cappadocian and, feeling his free will becoming unmoored the necromancer averted his eyes.

“It would, but so would I!” – the Baron through his goblet at the aged vampire, who for his part stood there quietly, contemplating all the ways he could ruin the warlord.

He made a note to have one of his spectral servants torment the Baron when he had a moment alone.

“No, I shall return to the King and do what I can to persuade him to stay, but even I will not be able to hold him here long. You and your… cohort must find the Cross or, at the very least, find some leverage with which Lord Jurgen’s influence may be made permanent or we shall go home empty handed.” – von Achern, bitterly.

20th of December, 1217, 3:58am
The Genoese Quarter
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

They gathered here, beneath the D’Agostino counting house in the small hours of the night, not to plot against their prince. They did not think of Etienne much at all in fact. This was the Court of Maria D’Agostino, who had already begun to act as the Prince of the City of Acre, while leaving Etienne to his Caravansary.

Teresa, acting as the Genoese ’Prince’s’ Majordomo, was privy to those who had sworn their fealty to her. The most powerful of those vampires were Vintila Basarab, who glared daggers at Teresa but didn’t seem to worried, as he assumed she would choose to stay behind here in the ‘second kingdom’; and Count Lanzo von Sachsen, whom had truly surprised the Black Queen, who had assumed that he would back the Childe of the Sword-Bearer no matter his personal feelings.

Thierry, too, was found paying homage to the Prince of the Genoese Quarter. Though she dared not say anything to him, she knew that he had been asking her allies for their help in making restitution to Lord Jurgen.

And then others began to arrive, those whom the ‘prince’ wished to join her court and bolster her political might, Teresa recognized few of them until someone walked into the chamber that shocked her. It was her fellow princes, bearing gifts of historical tomes, gold, and living vessels, which they presented to their prince with great fanfare.

The message was clear.

Von Achern, and the Black Cross, were finished in the Second Kingdom.

Once everyone is settled and those who wished to have been well fed Maria stood to speak.

“I believe I should begin by stating that I attend to support Aram’s seizure of the prince’s title at the next full moon, four days hence. The Charlatan will think he rules, but I have the most important of the kingdom’s true masters behind me, as you can see, and my hand is strengthened by the recent agreement signed between House d’Agostino and Lord Basarab, for his master, Voivode Rustovitch. But it would be sealed if you join me, swear your fealty and become rulers of the Holy Land! Etienne cannot hold the throne, Aram is a heritic loyal to a heretic, and von Achern kisses the toes of the barbarian Magyars. None are true Leaders. Swear to me!” – Maria

Perhaps Teresa had spent too much time with Kyrillos, but she had become too good noticing the glint of madness in the eyes of those around her. Lady Maria, while canny and a master of mortal politics, seemed to have a hard time recognizing the differences between the living and the dead in that same arena and was completely oblivious to the fact that many of those who stood by her did not seem particularly steadfast as they did so.

As she scanned those that had come here tonight she saw by the twinkle in his eye that Kyrillos had noticed it too and in that moment realized what her companions were up too.

Slowly members of the court came forward to kiss her ring and swear fealty the Venetian and Saracen both choose to stay back while the Byzantine turned and strode out without a word.

“I apologize, Lady Maria, but I am unsure of my next action. I am old and set in my ways and will need a few nights for which to weight my options. I am sure you understand.” – Vendramino nodded politely and turned to leave. Abdul-Malik followed after him.

“We should kill them where they stand!” – Lanzo

“No, Lord von Sachsen, They are our guests and are free to go. We trust they will soon see the truth.” – Maria

20th of December, 1217, 4:41am
The Venetian Quarter
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

The Byzantine walked alone in the chilled night toward his haven a part of him hoping for some poor miscreant to dare to mug him. None did of course and he soon reached the Inn under which he rested.

And there, in the shadows, someone was waiting for him.

“Master Duqaq, what brings you into the city so close to dawn?” – Kyrillos

“I would speak with you where we may have some privacy, Master Dimities.” – Duqaq, conspiratorially.

“Well then, join me in my home.” – Kyrillos

Only once they had made their way beneath the inn and into the Slaver’s personal quarters did Duqaq begin to speak again.

“I thought that, perhaps you would like to know the location of the True Cross.” – the Seneschal

“Truly? You have found the…Relic? Is it still in the hands of the Knights?” – Kyrillos

“Yes but first you must promise me something.” – Duqaq

“Anything” – Kyrillos

“Under no circumstances is the holy army to move against Jerusalem. The Crusade must return home before setting foot in the holy land, and must instead make their assault on Egypt.” – Duqaq

Kyrillos narrowing his eyes.

“It seems coincidental, but I must tell you that I have heard this request before. In Venice, there was a man there, called Roland, who also wished for the Crusade to march on Egypt and you force me to ask: Why? But more importantly: what makes you think I have that kind of power?” – The Malkavian asked

“Kings are adviced by Barons and Dukes and priests and monks, who in turn are often too fond of the blood of Caine, you cannot tell me that one so powerful as yourself do not hold sway over at least a handful of such figures, or, if not you, then your friend Teresa, whom I know holds a great deal of power over the Hungarian Nobility.” – Duqaq

Kyrillos thought on the vampire’s statement, stroking his beard as he did so.

“The Lady d’Agostino has many such friends and whispers into their ears of taking the Holy City, should she usurp the throne it is a certainty that her rapacity would grow even stronger. Surely you would want to stand in her way?” – Duqaq

“Of that we agree, and I further agree to do everything in my power to turn the tide of the army, should your information bear out. But now I must demand an answer as to why we should attack Egypt.” – Kyrillos

“It is the weak link in the Saracen’s empire.” -Duqaq, unconvincingly.

“There was a Follower of Set in Venice who suggested the same strategem.” – Kyrillos, matter-of-factly

“I do not deny that our interests are the same, though surely, just because the serpents want does not make it inherently wrong? In either case, you will find the Knight who took the cross in the Tower of ’Atlit, where the Teutonic Order planned to build its fortress. There you will find the Hound of God.” – Duqaq

20th of December, 1217, 5:43am
The Genoese Quarter
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Vendramino was ecstatic by the results of the Lasombra’s little get together. Her future Primogen; Thierry and Teresa were already against her and Basarab was, at his core, a coward. True, Lanzo’s defection had surprised him, but that should not be a problem.

“It is strange, Abdul, we were with Lanzo von Sachsen in Venice thirteen years ago and we respected his honor and wisdom. It is strange to think that even a few years could change one of us so much.” – Vendramino, to his invisible friend.

“If you keep speaking to me I will be found out.” – Abdul-Malik

“Someone’s coming.” – Vendramino whispered

Around the corner strode the Count angrily, though he came up short when he saw Vendramino standing, propped against his cain in the moonlight.

“What are you doing here?” – Lanzo demanded

“We wanted to have a word with you, Count.” – Vendramino, menacingly.

From behind the Ventrue Abdul-Malik made his presence known.

“It has been awhile, no, we haven’t seen each other since Zara, I believe.” – Vendramino

The Ventrue paled slightly and bared his fangs. Zara it seemed was a sore subject for the warlord.

“We’ve been in Acre for months, Giovanni.” – Lanzo

“But we haven’t had a chance to speak.” – Vendramino

“We’ve spoken enough.” – Lanzo, his beast flashing in his eyes.

“But we were allies once.” – Vendramino

“You were a fool childe then and a fool now. What would a pawn of the Baron have to do with me?” – Lanzo, snarling.

Vendramino’s own specter strained against its bindings, he found himself bearing his own gnarled fangs.

“I would have you rescind your endorsement of Maria d’Agostino and I will allow you to continue to exist as you have.” – Vendramino, dropping all pretenses.

“You’d have me Endorse von Achern?” – Lanzo, incredulously

“No.” – Vendramino

Lanzo looked very confused.

“We would like you to endorse the Prince when it comes time to take sides. The Transylvanian delegate believes that it would behoove us to ensure the stability of the region, and in our mind Etienne is the only one who can ensure that.” – Vendramino

“And if I do this you would ‘continue living as I see fit’?” – Lanzo, now more annoyed than confused, but calming.

“Then how about this, If you back the prince I can assure you that any trade to your domain will go smoothly for as long as the Shadow of the Black Cross falls over Transylvania. That merchants and traders will flock to your domain and that bandits fear it. I will make you far richer than you are now, Count von Sachsen.” – Vendramino

Lanzo’s eyes grew wide. Despite his attempts to pretend otherwise, he’d heard of Vendramino Giovanni. Everyone Loyal to Black Cross had, as he was one of the wealthiest vampires East of the Holy Roman Empire.

“You are telling me, that you, a vassal of Jurgen of Magdeburg, Sire of the Baron von Achern, are offering me access to your secure trade routes and contacts across Gods Creation to back the sitting prince to further embarrass the Baron?” – Lanzo

Vendramino nodded.

“We have ourselves a deal.”

20th of December, 1217, 9:05pm
The Caravansary
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Sir Michael was deep in prayer when he became aware of the presence in his room. He opened his eyes and turned to see a young girl of beauty like he’d never seen before standing before him.

“Sir Michael, I apologize for interrupting your prayers. I am Sabela, Childe of Etienne, and though it pains me, I must beseech you a favor.” -

“What is it my childe?” – The Gangrel rose from his knees as he turned to look at her fully.

“My sire, who has been so gracious a host to you and your brothers, is in mortal peril, as forces from outside this holy city work against him. I beg you: Please give your support to him in the coming nights, even should he lose Praxis the backing of one of such distinction as your own could be the difference between his leaving the domain peacefully and being left for the sun.” – Sabela pleaded, blood tears in her eyes.

The Gangrel’s eyes darkened as he listened to the fledgling speak.

“I am sorry, Sabela, but I forswore the rigors of vampire politics many years ago. I am here to secure the Fragment and nothing more.” – his voice was flat but compassionate.

The young vampire wiped at her eyes and curtsied to leave. But as she reached to door of his chamber she turned.
“and should I help you find the fragment? Then would you be willing to weigh in on our fate?” – Sabela

He looked into her eyes and saw her fear and pain.

“I will.” – Michael, in spite of himself.

“Then I will tell you what I know.” – Sabela, wiping the blood from her face.

21st of December, 1217, 9:54pm
The Tower of ’Atlit
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

Sabela had informed the others of Sir Michael’s offer to help them in exchange for the True Cross just before dawn. Kyrillos demanded that they travel with the knights, obviously driven more by his obsession with the Frenchman than his want to help further the cause.

“I have heard that King Andras has decided to return home. It seems that our time here has nearly come to its end.” – Kyrillos

“No, the Baron has convinced him to go in search of Holy Relics. Of course the Baron is simply using the expedition to find those poor knights who vanished a month ago.” – Vendramino

“But surely the Baron won’t be able to travel by day.” -Teresa

“Ah, but that’s the rub. He’s convinced the king that travelling by night will allow them to pass through Saracen lands unharmed.” – Vendramino

“Ah, tricky that Baron.” – Kyrillos.

“Indeed.” – Vendramino

They shared a chuckle.

“Do you suppose he’ll find the Knights Basarabi?” – Abdul

“Who knows, but it’ll keep him busy while we finish our business.” – Kyrillos chuckled.

“Laugh now, for if this is the True Cross that we chase, it shall scour Curse of Caine from your dead flesh with fire and light!” – Michael

“We know what it can do, sir knight.” – Kyrillos, remembering the fireworks that occurred when they arrived so many months ago.

“Quiet, the tower is in view.” – one of Michael’s brothers.

They were miles south of Haifa and had travelled for hours to reach the tower. The structure itself had once been part of a larger fortification which now lay in ruins across the road.

“If we aren’t careful they will see us for sure.” – Kyrillos.
Though Vendramino was spotted while still seated upon his horse the others were able to slip into the castle due to the power of their blood. But it was all for naught.

The moment that Abdul-Malik stepped over the threshold he heard a voice shout.

“Evil is afoot! Protect the Cross!” – Gauthier

Arrows flew over out of the window toward Vendramino and the knights. Kyrillos felt the power of the cross and realized the danger they were all in.

“Stay your swords, we shouldn’t risk eternity for the cross.” – Kyrillos whispered to Teresa.

After the sound of many men stomping above them a barrel of oil slammed down the stairs where it exploded into a gout of flame that covered the floor and walls.

“RUN!” – Abdul, who appeared from nowhere and then rushed passed the Byzantine.

Teresa too turned to run but grabbed her friend first, throwing him over her shoulder as she went.

Once they were clear of the tower Kyrillos scanned the horizon and saw Gauthier watching the tower burn.

“Soon, sir knight.” – he whispered.

“Where are the Knights?” – Teresa

“There!” – Abdul, pointing toward Gauthier.

Sure enough there was Sir Michael and his band riding directly toward the vampire hunter. When they finally reached the holy man the Gangrel dismounted and strode forward.

“Can you hear them?” – Teresa

“Yes: Sir Michael is introducing himself to Gauthier and explaining his mission. Gauthier is refusing to give up the cross.” – Kyrillos translated

They watched as Michael drew his sword, a few of Gauthier’s men did as well. They had seen this before but couldn’t look away. And then something happened. Michael fell to his knees and offered his blade to the Vampire Hunter.

“He’s offered him his service until they leave the Holy Land.” – Kyrillos continued

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” – Vendramino

“I wish I were.” – Kyrillos, as they watched the knights leave together.

“What now?”

20th of December, 1217, 10:24pm
Not far from ’Atlit
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

They had chosen to follow the knights in hopes of finding an opening. What they came upon made them wonder if perhaps, they were cursed.

In the distance they saw a band of knights approaching Gauthier and his men. They flew the standards of the Black Cross, The Teutonic Order and the personal standard of King Andras himself.

Beside the king rode Baron von Achern and one of his childer, Brother Altus as well as their ghouls.

The four Cainites closed in so that they could better hear the coming confrontation.

As Gauthier approached the kings men the effects of the True Cross could be seen on the faces of the two vampires. Von Achern was able to keep his composure but in the face of his own damnation Brother Altus fell from his horse and skittered away. The ghouls too seem uncomfortable but stand fast by their lord.

“What is wrong with your man, Baron?” – the king

“I do not know, your majesty.” – von Achern lied, but sent out one of his knights to search for Altus none the less.

“Most Christian King, I beg your protection. I carry a relic most holy and flee from devils in crusader’s garb! They seek to take this thing from we, which I have pledged to protect with my life. Brothers of the German Hospital, the Temple and of St. Thomas have died to get me to you, milord!” – Gauthier called in breathless Latin as he bowed before the king.

The king did not seem to hear anything, deafened as he was by his own Avarice.

“This Relic, what is it, knight?” – King Andras asked, his smile wide

“A fragment of the Cross of the Passion, milord.” – Gauthier, uncertainly

“Truly?” – Andras

“Yes, sire, brought by the Apostle Paul to Acre and kept safe their until this very fall, when the devils came with…with the crusade.” – Gauthier was focusing upon the Baron now, his eyes narrowed.

The Baron’s eyes flashed as his own greed took hold of him.

“Our Order can protect the Relic, King Andras. This brave knight should relinquish into your care.” – The Baron stammered.

“DEVIL!” – Gauthier screamed as he rose and drew his sword.

He could see the Baron’s true form now.

“SHOW YOURSELF TO THINE KING!” – He commanded the vampire

Baron von Achern recoiled from the knights power as his features twisted under the weight of his beast. He fell and landed on his back as he hissed. His ghoul raised his own blade to slay the knight but is too slow as the Frenchman pivots and cleaved through the ghoul’s throat.

The blood flows out of the dying night in great gouts, splashing the frantic vampires face. The blood proves too much and his beast takes over. The Baron was gone, replaced by a ravenous monster who roared inhumanly.

The King recoils from the hellish display as von Achern hisses and charges the knight, but each time he gets close enough to actually attack Gauthier his fingers ignite in small white flames and he’s forced to retreat.

Gauthier for his part swung his blade wide and it flashes white as it made contact with the Baron’s throat. The Ventrue’s form fell to the earth, separate from its head which rolled into the brush before both erupted into white flame like Jerome so many months ago.

“We should have stepped in.” – Kyrillos

“Why? Isn’t this what we wanted.” – Teresa, hollowly.

“No, we wanted him ruined, not destroyed. Lord Jurgen will be furious.” – Vendramino.

They turned to leave and saw a curious sight. Not far away, even as the Tower burned in the distance, it backlit a figure in the night who was also watching the events below.

It was Vintila, his figure unmistakable in the firelight.

The Tzimisce smiled cruelly in the firelight before turning to go. As they lost sight of him there was rushing of air like the flapping of wings and they were alone.

In that instance Vendramino realized that for all their successes in Acre that Vintila Basarab had one.

24th of December, 1217, 12:00am
The Prince’s Chambers
The Domain of Etienne de Fauberge
Prince of Acre

The Prince was exhausted, spiritually speaking, his shoulders seemed to support the weight of the True Cross itself as he stood before those present.

They stood themselves. Duqaq, the prince’s seneschal ad Sabela, his adored childe, along with those who would speak in von Achern’s place, specifically Kyrillos of Temeschburgh and Vendramino of Schaasburg.

“It is long past time to let go of pretense, my Frankish friends. Toi rule this city one needs two things: knowledge of this blessed and cursed land, which I have, and the support of a great Lord, which I do not. My sire is nothing but a schemer in pilgrim’s dress, and his mouthpiece, Aram, is ready to feed me to the dogs. I know of your Liege’s ambitions, and my friend, Duqaq, has told me of yor own resourcefulness. His faith may be in the god Set, but I trust his Judgment.” – Etienne

The look on Duqaq’s face was one of shock and fright. But before the Serpent was able to respond the Prince placed his hand on his aid’s shoulder.

Neither of the Transylvanians were surprised by the ‘revelation’.

“Come now, my friend, I told you it was time to let go of pretense. Surely you didn’t hope to fool a Charlatan? You have no need to worry as I trust you more than any number of self righteous Christians, but we will speak on this another time, my friend. The matter at hand is whether Lord Jurgen will accept my vassalage.” – The prince, turning to look at Vendramino.

“Yes, Prince Etienne, we will ensure that Jurgen honors our agreement.” – Vendramino\

From outside the sounding of a horn could be heard.

“Well, my friends, it seems as though my brother has called for the convocation to commence. Let us go face my fate together, yes?” – Etienne.

The Courtyard had filled with the damned and their servants, as word had spread that Etienne would be deposed drawing vampires from all across the Levant.

Etienne stepped out into the crowd to the jeering of those present. As the Prince came to stand before Aram at the dais another horn sounded, though none could say for sure from where.

“Hear me! I speak for Varsik of Jerusalem, childe of Bashir! Etienne de Fauberge, childe of Varsik and former Prince of Acre, for your failures and betrayals, I declare you diposed and myself prince in your place. Furthermore, you are banished from this domain. I give you until dawn to leave the city.” – Aram declared.

“No.” – a voice, calm and quiet despite carrying over the entire crowd.

It was the prince.

“My sire cares not for God but rather for the treasures of Mammon. I renounce him, and I accept the title of Acre’s Prince under the Vassalage of Lord Jurgen, sword-bearer of Magdeburg!.” – He concluded.

The crowd parted as the prince spoke. Taking sides as he sparred with his blood brother. Many stood with Aram, but only three of any real status: Maria d’Agostino, Vintila Basarab and Teresa de Balgrad.

Where Etienne stood so too did Vendramino Giovanni, Kyrillos Dimities, Abdul-Malik Ibrahim al-Rashid, Duqaq ibn Jamil, Lanzo von Sachsen, Hanifa bint Nasir, Thierry of Tremere, Sabela, as well as Sir Michael, who kept his promise to be here on the full moon.

Realizing that she’d been outmatched Maria bowed her head and stepped across the line to lend her support to Etienne, glaring at Vendramino Giovanni as she did so.

Teresa followed, smiling subtly as she did.

Vintila realizing he’d been defeated stepped into the crowd and vanished, leaving Aram alone.

Aram glared at those who stood assembled against him and then at his bloodbrother.

“This is not over, brother!” – Aram, as he turned to storm out.

“Yes, Aram, It is.” – Etienne as the gates closed behind the Persian.

29th of March, 1219, 1:05am
The Slaughtered Lamb Inn
The Domain of Rudolph Brandl
Prince of Prague

For months Gauthier de Dampiere’s sleep had been plagued by vivid and horrific visions of the days to come.

He saw great mountains of flesh and blood rolling over the countryside. He saw men of the cloth burning in their beds and vampires dancing on the corpses of thousands.

He saw the Knight who rose from the field of battle as a blood sucking fiend rising again, a god amongst the damned. And throughout it all he saw his own doom.

It was not a place or a action that he saw in these visions but a man. It wasn’t a warrior but a merchant, a man in the twilight of his life, with a great black beard and eyes the color of the cloud covered sky, and his skin was as pale, marking him as a demon. He spoke kind words and was gentle with his touch but his eyes were cold and cruel and seemed to see right through Gauthier, as if the Knight were nothing more than a trinket to be bought or sold.

Tonight was no different. He’d tossed and turned as the moon reached for its zenith before awakening with a fright.

He sat up ramrod straight in his bed and peered into the darkness that surrounded his bed.

He was not alone.

“Show yourself!” – he demanded but there was no answer

He reached for his blade but grasped naught but air.

“Oh, you won’t be needing that, sir knight. I took the liberty of securing it so that we might speak without the threat of violence.” – came a voice from the shadows, deep and soothing.

He knew it well.

“You are my doom.” – Gauthier

“I don’t think that that is true at all. I like to think that I am your savior. Surely you know what awaits you? Old age and enfeeblement. Already your fellows whisper that you’ve gone mad. That your visions are not but the whisperings of a devil.” – the voice

“Quiet demon! I command you to show yourself!” – Gauthier

A figure stepped from the shadows and the knight recognized him in an instant.

“I am sorry, sir knight, where are my manners. I am Kyrillos Dimities, Count of Temeschburgh, and I have been following your exploits for many, many years.” – Kyrillos

The creature looked at the knight as if he were some prize that had been won.

“How long have you haunted me, Demon?” – Gauthier, climbing to his feet.

“Oh, I first learned of you in Venice, some fifteen years ago and stayed with you in Zara and saw you again in Constantinople. After that I lost track of you for many years but found you again in Acre. Without you, my allies would not have been able to secure the city as successfully as we had. Thank you for that.” – Kyrillos

The implications fell upon Gauthier like a great weight but he moved forward anyway. He would, if he had to, tear the Demon apart with his bare hands.

“Ah, ah, ah, Gauthier, we mustn’t fight.” – Kyrillos

The demon’s voice struck Gauthier, leaving his mind numb and his limbs heavy but Gauthier moved forward, begging God for strength and feeling the warmth of his savior’s love bolstering his strength.

“I will destroy you Hellspawn!” – Gauthier

“You must sleep, sir Knight!” – the Demon, his eyes flashing in fear.

It was then that Gauthier realized that the demon’s words were a spell, enchanting him to slumber. But though he was awakened to the reality of his situation it did not protect him from the demon’s effect and he felt his limbs once again grow heavy, too heavy to lift as his mind was flooded once again with visions and nightmares.

“I will… des…troy…you.”

The last thing Gauthier de Dampiere would hear before he died was the grandfatherly monster whisper tenderly into his ear:

“I’m sure you will. After all, you will have forever to try.”

8th of February, 1211, 8:02pm

The City Gates
The Domain of Jurgen von Verden
Warlord of the Black Cross

The city of Magdeburg was dark in more ways than one. The moon and stars were black in the sable clouded sky and while the streets were lit by great bronze bowls filled with burning wood and fat their guttering flames seemed to do little more than cast shadows. There were no mortals, none. Windows were shuttered, blocking any candlelight that might be cast out into the streets. Only the dead and their servants walked the streets that night, and the streets were positively lively with the activity of the dead.

Sherazhina could feel Sanchez’s discomfort in the black tunic she’d talked him into wearing. His long black hair was pulled back and tied off in a black ribbon. She thought he looked dashing. At his side was a sword, though she found herself forgetting about it and losing track of it if she didn’t concentrate on it. It was a trick she’d always found fascinating, though it didn’t work as well on her since she’d changed. She was wearing a gown he’d had made for her. The others were with them.

Count Dimities followed quietly, the bearded little man was more dour than usual in his purple tunic, his eyes searching the shadows feverishly. His childe, the severe urchin Ulrike, seemed to be searching the crowd for something that Sherazhina couldn’t possibly fathom. She’d grown up hearing stories of the Lunatics and despite all that Dimities had done for her over the last fourteen years she couldn’t quite get over the recent revelation of their lineage.

Teresa was there with them as well. She’d brought the oaf Vanko with her and he seemed as uncomfortable as Sanchez in his finery, though he was not as well dressed as the rest of them, being little more than the Black Queen’s page. The Queen herself wore a gown of gray; it was far more expensive then what Sherazhina was wearing, and only Teresa could pull it off so completely. She’d probably changed the most, though she was still graceful and elegant there was a hardness to her. Something beyond the unholy strength that she could display. Though Sherazhina couldn’t place it Teresa seemed all around more dangerous.

Don Vendramino was with them too. He was flush with blood and had long ago forsaken the stooped posture that he’d affected for so long. Tonight he wore a black tunic lined in green. His fingers were adorned in rings and jewels. For as long as she’d known him she never realized that he was so tall. With his back straight he stood at least six feet, taller even then Sanchez. The change was strangely unsettling, though that could be said about the Don in general. With him was his new apprentice, an Arab servant to a vampire merchant in Buda. Sanchez said he was some sort of holy man, that his white robes were a mark of distinction. He also said he was a vampire, but if that were true why couldn’t she feel him?

---

Abdul-Malik Ibrahim al-Rashid walked through the sea of walking corpses with his ‘allies’. His patron, Fariq, had bade him to follow the Venetian prince to Magdeburg to see how the Christians acted in court. He was to see that they were not so different from those who walked beneath the Black Crescent, so he could better act as an ambassador between the two cultures.

Fariq could well live amongst the westerners and try to blend in, but Abdul-Malik, despite his want for peace between the two cultures, was also a man of faith and could not in good conscience forgo the tenants of Islam. Not even for peace.

Don Vendramino, for his part, was a singularly peculiar individual. He was ignoble in his treatment of the mortals around him, dismissive at best, cruel at worst, and yet he refused to feed upon the living, going so far as to have his home, a large manse, built against the outer wall and abutting the city’s cemetery to feed upon the corpses there. Fariq had explained that the Prince was a member of the Qabilat al-Mawt, what the Christian vampires called a Cappadocian, a grave-robber, but if that were true he did not seem to possess their deathly pallor or their monastic trappings.

For his own part, Abdul-Malik had carefully crafted the façade of a human life. He used the blood to keep him warm around his Patron’s ally. The prince of Schaasburg believed him a vassal of Fariq, sent to him to better facilitate their business concerns and was honestly none the wiser to the fact that he was a Childe of Haqim.

Fariq wasn’t entirely wrong, though. The Europeans had customs that abraded upon his nerves, their allowing women to go about unveiled being the foremost amongst them. It was something that Fariq and the Imam’s own Master, Ahmed ibn Zayyat, both had told him time and again that he had to come to expect that in the world of the night.

Proof positive was the vampire approaching them now. She was tall for a woman, standing taller than all of them save Sanchez and the Don. She wore the gleaming armor of a crusader, the tabard depicting a black cross over a white field. The woman was beautiful if austere, her dark hair pulled back into a long braid behind her. At her side was a long sword, her hand resting comfortably on it. Abdul felt his own hand touch the pommel of the scimitar hidden beneath robes and illusion both.

---

“Lady von Hardtz.” – Teresa, bowing her head discreetly

It had been fourteen years since the last time any of them had seen her.

“Welcome, esteemed friends, to a momentous night. I volunteered to escort you all to Lord Jurgen’s celebration.” – Lucretia

Her voice was powerful and sure but her eyes were searching, pain flashed across her face for just a moment.

Teresa and Sanchez both assumed that it was due to the fact that Erasmus was missing. The others however realized the true horror of her situation. That she could feel her childe slipping in and out of torpor over and over again. That she could feel him dying, only to rise again.

Even Dimities shuddered at the thought.

Lady Lucretia led them down a series of alleys and footpaths through the tangled maze that was Magdeburg. Finally in an aqueduct beneath the streets, at the foot of the castle, they found themselves standing before a great door.

“I wonder what could be beyond a door as great as this?” – Sanchez

“Perhaps we shall find a Grand Hall?” – Sherazhina

The others looked to the two with one part annoyance and one part envy as the two laughed at what had to have been an inside joke.

The doors opened revealing the Grand Hall, which led to more snickering from Sanchez and Sherazhina, this time they somehow caught Vendramino as well. It seemed their childishness was infectious. The count, for his part seemed disturbed by the display.

The hall itself was massive, its ceiling receding into the darkness some twenty feet above their heads. The floors were covered in rugs and carpets of the finest quality. The walls were hung with tapestries and silk curtains, each marked with the coat of arms of the Ventrue or High Lord Hardestadt or that of Jurgen himself. At the far end, facing the great door directly, was a raised throne of exquisite design. Its oak form was intricately carved and draped with a great crimson silk blanket.

Lucretia excused herself and took her place at its left. Behind her was a table covered with gifts and behind that was a stage covered in crimson curtains.

The hall was cluttered with dozens of vampires and their servants, each clustered together in groups: delegations from various courts from around the world. There was a group of French Toreador, marked by the crest of Isouda de Blaise. There stood courtiers from the Sea of Shadows, their black and gray robes billowing with their every move. Over there were a trio dressed in emerald and crimson, wearing the mark of the usurpers. Beyond them in the shadows was a pack of Arabs, obviously a delegation from the midnight crescent here to broker peace or at least to watch their enemies. In the far corner of the hall stood a company of brightly dressed performers, their leaders a trio of vampires with flashing eyes and smiles. They bid their time entertaining those closest to them. Amongst those watching them was a single Nosferatu, no doubt he was simply the only one they could see, dressed in linen wrappings. Over there was a small pack of Eastern vampires wearing the mark of the Arpad Ventrue.

“I’ll be damned.” – Sanchez, gesturing toward a small crown

There was Vykos wearing a familiar shade of green and speaking uneasily to Lady Kara Lupescu, her blond hair pulled back so severely that one could imagine it tearing the scalp. Beside her were three large men.

Sanchez sneered subliminally.

A trumpeter stepped from behind the curtain and began to play.

All eyes turned toward the curtain as it opened revealing the man of the hour, Lord Jurgen von Verden, The Sword Bearer, dressed formally but modestly with the exception of a raven black silk wrap, so dark as to seem to devour the light around it.

The room filled with restrained applause as he entered. Behind him a woman of unparalleled beauty stepped lightly. Had the intense curiosity of the audience not been on Jurgen the woman’s beauty would have been enough to overwhelm the entirety of the attendees. As it was she came to stand on the Lord’s right as one of her servants came forward with a chair for her.

Lord Jurgen raised his hand and the audience grew quiet.

“My dear guests, I must thank you for traveling so far from your domains to join us in celebrating this momentous occasion, and I wish to thank Rosamund of Islington, without whom this celebration would be a more somber affair.” – Jurgen

He turned to the woman sitting on his right and everyone’s eyes followed suit before the crowd erupted into applause before Jurgen gestured for the entertainment to begin again.

8th of February, 1211, 9:53pm
The Great Hall
The Domain of Jurgen von Verden
Warlord of the Black Cross

After Jurgen’s words the attendees returned to chattering as the envoys stepped forward to present their gifts to the Lord of Magdeburg. The first to step forward was the envoy of the Sea of Shadows, they brought forth a series of scrolls. Their representative was an older man with a long gray-black beard dressed in the black robes of a Spanish nobleman. His long beard flowed and when he spoke it was in a sibilant and heavily accented whisper.

Though it took her a moment, Teresa recognized him as Basilio, the Prince of Serdica, whom had once taught her the secrets of Shadowmancy. She’d heard that he’d lost his Regnancy over the city when his ‘loyal’ advisor betrayed him.

Who knew an Assamite couldn’t be trusted.

The second gift was presented by an obese usurper and his entourage. A hush fell over the crowd as they made their presentation.

“Our most esteemed Lord Jurgen, I am Jervais bani Tremere and I come bearing a gift from Ceoris.”

From his cloak the warlock revealed a scepter of the purist silver, marked by the sigils of the Black Cross, Lord Hardestadt and Jurgen himself. Though the rod was fine and intricately etched, it bore no apparent enchantment, even to the piercing eyes of the dead.

The crowd returned to their ambivalent murmuring as Jurgen acknowledged the gift with a smile, a nod and a kind word.

Others stepped forward to give their presentations but none were as interesting as the Warlocks. At least not until Kara Lupescu stepped forward.

The lady was dressed in the best that western fashion had to offer. She was as beautiful as Sanchez remembered and the cast of her features was just as cruel.
The only outward sign of her nature as one of the Fiends was the mouthless guard at her side.

The Lady bowed as she stepped before the Sword-Bearer

“I am Lady Kara Lupescu, Daughter of Ezbeth of Vlaszy, Childe of Radu of Bistritz and envoy to Vladimir Rustovitch, voivode of voivodes. My lord asks that I convey his thanks for your invitation and recognizes your domain over this city and its hinterlands.”

The Prince nodded curtly, slighting the Tzimisce.

Kara continued, malevolently:

“The Voivode does wonder what concern of his are the claims of a petty German warlord?” – the Fiend

The entirety of the audience, which had once again grown quiet as she’d approached the throne, released an audible gasp.

“If you cannot tell him then I must wonder what your mother taught you. After all, I have heard that the Whore of Bistritz knew all the tricks to extract secrets from our Arpad kin. Regardless, I’m sure the truth will become clear soon enough.” – A voice from behind them.

All turned to see that the voice belonged to a knight who stepped forward, dressed just as Lucretia had been, in full armor with the tabard of the Black Cross over it. Though he was short, no taller than Dimities, he was powerfully built. His hair was cut short in the fashion of a knight and his face was that of one who’d seen a great deal of violence. Sanchez recognized him as Heinrich von Achern, childe of Jurgen.

Dimities was fascinated, Lucretia’s hand was upon the hilt of her sword, as were the three ghouls at the side of Lady Kara. Though Jurgen and Rosamund both feigned indifference, they were as aroused by the verbal jousting between the two as much as the crowd. He also noted that he and his allies had somehow gotten themselves between the ghouled crusaders and the Lady’s own men.

The lady’s carefully passive façade slipped slightly at the knight’s antagonism. The room grew ever quieter as the two powerful vampires glared at one another until Jurgen broke the silence.

“Have you something to add Sir Heinrich?” – Jurgen

The knight smiled cruelly.

“Milord, as you know, Andras, the mortal king of Hungary, has been convinced that the pagan Cumans on his eastern frontier pose a threat to his realm. In order to defend his lands, he has called up the aid of the Order of the German Hospital of Saint Mary.

“For my part, I bear with me letters of state from Lord Bulscu Arpad and his vassal, the Lady Nova Arpad as well as Prince Vencel of Buda and Pest, inviting you to claim domain in the region under the auspice of the Hospital. They agree that you can and should stand against the Fiends who infest those dark lands.” – Heinrich

Kara’s calm façade collapsed into a mask of stunned disbelief. Vendramino could understand the sensation, as the lands Heinrich had so gracefully procured belonged at least in part to him and those he called friend.

“Those lands are neither theirs to grant nor yours to claim, Patrician. The Founder made covenant with the very Earth there. No letters of state or mortal cat’s paw can come before that!” – Kara

“We shall see, whore’s-daughter.” – von Achern, smugly

Kara drew her hand back revealing long wickedly serrated claws and roared at the Ventrue, revealing a mouthful of horrible fangs and a horrible visage. Her men did the same, the sounds of metal being drawn filled the hall as the crusaders too drew their blades and surged forward through the crowd.

Abdul-Malik turned and saw that many of the vampires in attendance began to pull away from the altercation, many flitting out of the room altogether. He saw the delegation from the Midnight Crescent vanish as if they were nothing more than smoke. The Leper too seemed to vanish from his place in the crowd. The Lasombra didn’t move but their shadows darkened beyond what was natural, moving as if they possessed a kind of weight.

Others too prepared themselves for the conflict that was sure to follow.

Sanchez drew a blade from his side that the Imam hadn’t noticed while Teresa drew the sword that hung at her manservant’s side, wielding it with surprising proficiency. Taking the cue, Abdul-Malik also drew the weapon hidden within his robes.

Vendramino turned toward the standoff and demanded peace. Dimities simply watched sir Heinrich.

It was a crusader who broke ranks and charged the Tzimisce and her men.

Abdul-Malik was again surprised as Sanchez simply appeared in front of the mortal warrior, his free hand held out to block him while Teresa flickered behind him as if she was nothing more than a shadow, placing her hand gently on the knight’s shoulder. The knight moved no further, as if he was pinned down by some great weight.

“We won’t be having any of that, sir knight.” – Teresa

“You’re a Jackass, you know that.” – Sanchez, to the knight

After a very tense moment Kara closed her eyes and her features returned to the serene continence of a lady. Her teeth once again returning to their more human shape. She lowered her hand and her guards in turn sheathed their swords. A moment later Lucretia bade the Crusaders sheath their own.

Kara turned and without another word stormed out of the hall, her retinue following close on her heels.

Slowly those vampires who had vanished from the hall began to make their way back in as the Knight, who was called Brother Kurt, was being taken out of the room to be reprimanded by the guard-captain. It seemed that no one quite knew what to do. Murmurs of the night being ruined flowed through the crowd while Jurgen sat silently upon his throne, the look on his face as passive as it had been when he had first entered the hall.

Sanchez looked around the hall and made an executive decision, striding out before his Patron’s Throne.

“Lord Jurgen, I speak for myself and for the entirety of the Transylvanian Delegation when I say how honored they will be to host you and your court should you come into the Land Beyond the Forest. Further, I have spoken to them of your plans to build a fortress in Kronstadt, the domain of our dear friend, Prince Michael Erasmus, and they have agreed that it would be imprudent for them to allow their guest and patron to have to pay for such a project. With that being said, our gift to you on this momentous occasion is a fortress that shall stand as a symbol to your power against the Voivodate of the East.” – Sanchez with a flourish

The murmuring returned to the crowd. Sanchez was well known by all within and the subtle slight to Sir Heinrich, who claimed to be the Jurgen’s sole benefactor within the region, was not missed. After a moment the assemblage erupted into applause at the sheer magnitude of the gift.

The Transylvanian Delegation had left its mark.

Sanchez and Dimities sidled up to the Baron von Achern after Jurgen accepted the gift with a great show of gratitude.

“Lord Heinrich, I wanted to tell you that you shall never set foot upon the fortress that I am building for Jurgen. My allies were not impressed by your posturing and they are not forgiving for slights like these.” – Sanchez, menacingly

As he spoke Dimities watched the man, his own madness thrumming to life, roiling in the pit of his stomach. Once Sanchez had finished speaking and before the already angry Patrician could respond the Byzantine looked him in the eye, unleashing that madness upon him.

The Baron von Achern closed his mouth and then walked away, a haunted look upon his face.

Sanchez looked at his still seething friend as the baron left them.

“What did you do?” – Sanchez

the count looked at him bemusedly.

“I can’t imagine what you mean.” – Dimities

Before he could respond his attention was drawn by the Rosamund of Islington rising demurely from her seat beside the Lord and turning to curtsy before him.

It seemed that theirs was not to be the last gift presented this evening after all.

8th of February, 1211, 10:19pm
The Great Hall
The Domain of Jurgen von Verden
Warlord of the Black Cross

Sanchez and Dimities slipped back into the crowd as Lady Rosamund curtsied before Lord Jurgen with a flourish. All eyes were on her as her attendant stepped up behind her and removed the blue cloth, revealing a long ornate wooden box.

“My Lord, if it pleases you I have brought a gift, in the name of my sire, Isouda de Blaise, and my liege, the Matriarch Salianna!” – Rosamund

With a great deal of pomp the Toreador reached into the case and drew from it a broadsword of incredible workmanship. The hilt was shaped from platinum and gold and set with the most exquisite rubies and sapphires. The blade itself shined even in the dim light of the hall and was emblazoned with the crests the Kingship and Rose Clans as well as the Fief of the Black Cross and the Courts of Love. The personal crest of Jurgen himself was set into the pommel, marking the sword’s master.

With a dramatic flourish she presented the blade to Jurgen who took it and carefully held it before him.

“This is a most wonderful gift.” – Jurgen

The Lord of Magdeburg looked over the crowd and continued:

“I am heartened that so many have graced my city with their presence this night. And I greet the kind words of my Hungarian Kin and our Artisan peers with equal cheer. Baron von Achern, Master Sanchez, Lady Rosamund, you have given me the tools with which to right many wrongs.

“I have set my court upon the River Elbe for a reason. For too long, the Eastern Marches have been wild and untamed, ruled by a collection of terrifying lords of clan Tzimisce and other forces darker still. Our clan mates and allies in Hungary have suffered at their hands for too long. The Fiends’ twisted legions have plagued every just plan to defend our domains against pagan and Saracen, even going so far as to raid into Dalmatia during the crusade of 1202. It is time for this to end.”

Teresa was surprised at how good the Ventrue’s intelligence was and quietly worried that he might know of her own alliance with that particular raider.

Jurgen used his sword to punctuate his point. Thrusting it into the air as he spoke.

“We can no longer stand idly by and wait for the next, inevitable assault. With the accord of the Noble Arpads, Master Sanchez and my other allies undertake the construction of a stronghold in the Domain of Prince Michael Erasmus deep within the Transylvanian Region of Hungary. His domain and the domains of his cohorts shall act as a bulwark against the aggressive Fiends and I pledge myself and my sword to defending it!”

The room was quiet at the pronouncement. Sanchez nearly dropped the cup of blood that had been at his lips. Teresa eyed the Patrician warily. This entire gathering was little more than a display of power and it was no coincidence that he was making the speech with a sword that marked an alliance between himself and the Court of love.

War was being declared.

It was Dimities who began to cheer. He and his childe both seemed to approve of the state of affairs and they weren’t the only ones. The hall filled with applause as his most staunch allies realized the full extent that Jurgen’s gambit would reshape the political map.

The Lord of Magdeburg reached for the closest chalice of Blood and raised it high.

“Now, I thought this was a party.”

The Celebration began in earnest.

8th of February, 1211, 10:53pm
A small chamber off of the Hall
The Domain of Jurgen von Verden
Warlord of the Black Cross

Sanchez discovered his Mentor, the Master-Builder Zelios, hidden in plain sight amongst the crowd. The elder was dressed in the finest robes, which only enhanced his stony appearance. They had spent a few moments making small talk when suddenly the old Leper’s attitude darkened.

“I have a favor to ask of you my old friend. It is one that I would not usually ask of you but it is important nonetheless.” – Zelios

“Anything, Master.” – Sanchez

“As you know, I spend a great many of my nights studying not only the edifices we construct, but their effect on the world around them. I may have discovered something and I must make a great journey to try and make sense of it all. But first, with your permission, I would like to study the fortress you built in Tihuta Pass; I have to take measurements. Further, I would also like you to take over my contracts. This is too important to wait.” – Zelios

Sanchez wasn’t sure what to make of the request.

“Of course, Master. It would be an honor.” – Sanchez

“It seems as though I am not the only one who would like a word with you.” – Zelios, gesturing over the Spaniard’s shoulder.

Sanchez turned to see two men dressed in sable. They were a part of Basilio’s entourage. The one was fair haired and blue eyed as well as very pale, and he had a scar over his nose. The other was darker and more traditionally Mediterranean, with dark eyes and flowing black hair. This one had a face hidden by a large black beard.

“Good evening Master Sanchez. I am Ernesto, childe of Erasmo and this is Genovese childe of Ricardo. We would have words with you, if it would please you?” – Ernesto, in Spanish

Sanchez eyed them suspiciously. With a moment of concentration he saw that their auras, pale as they were, were a whirl of blues and darker shades. They were nervous but they didn’t seem to be angry or dangerous.

“Why would noble Cainites such as yourself have need of my services?” – Sanchez

The one called Ernesto drew close to the Mason and spoke softly.

“We are here to speak with you on the subject of Mane Henriques, with whom we are told you have a relation.” – Ernesto

8th of February, 1211, 10:58pm
The streets of Magdeburg
The Domain of Jurgen von Verden
Warlord of the Black Cross

Teresa had to get out of the hall. The situation had nearly overwhelmed her, but she couldn’t show that. So she walked the darkened, snow strewn streets trying to determine how to best proceed. She’d never seen city streets so devoid of life. Even the guards were keeping to their pitiful little fires in the bitter winter air.

It was just her and a lone mutt slinking through the shadows.

The darkness within her awoke suddenly as she watched the dog dash across the street and she realized quite suddenly that it was a wolf. A great big wolf. She thought about chasing after it but even as the thought crossed her mind there was a flurry of bitterly cold snow enveloping it, as if it had been swallowed up by the snow and air.

Theresa concentrated, trying desperately to find the wolf again inside the cloud of snow.

“Lady Teresa?” – a voice from behind her

Teresa spun, the darkness nearly overtook her at the shock.

The voice belonged to one of the Lasombra that had accompanied Basilio, a Spaniard dressed in sable. His hair was pale despite his Mediterranean features and he had the smallest of scars over the bridge of his nose.

“I am sorry to interrupt your meditations milady, I am Genovese. I have been sent by the Master Sanchez to find you.” – The Spanish messenger.

She, the feared Black Queen, was being sent for.

---

She was led into a room off of the great hall where her flippant friend was standing with another particularly hirsute and swarthy looking vampire whom she recalled from her time in her sire’s court.

He was called Ernesto and he was one of the Amici Nocti who was more vocal in his support of the Shadow Reconquista.

She was surprised that she had not recognized him when he’d stood before Jurgen.

“Senor Ernesto, what a pleasant surprise. What brings you so far north.” – Teresa

“We have come to speak with Master Sanchez and he has requested your presence before he would go forward.” – Ernesto

Teresa looked to the Architect who looked at her in such a way as to say ‘sorry…but not really’.

“well, I am here now.” – Teresa

“Quite. Master Sanchez, Genovese and I are here to speak with you about the chamber you built for your sire.” – Ernesto, bluntly.

Sanchez furrowed his brow.

“What do you mean?”

“To be blunt we are aware of the Sultan’s banishment of you from his domain and of the blood hunt called upon you throughout the entirety of the Midnight Crescent and we would like to help compensate you for information about him.” – Ernesto.

“You want to know how to bypass the defenses within his haven?” – Sanchez

“Exactamente!” – Ernesto, cautious yet excitedly

“It’s impossible. In fact that is one of the most notable features of that particular design.” – Sanchez, proudly

“Surely you know some way to circumvent…” – Ernesto

“Why would I let you circumvent the protection I created. Do you know what that would do to my business?” – Sanchez

The Lasombra looked to one another cautiously.

“Master Sanchez is not one for word play, Ernesto.” – Teresa

“Your sire, as Sultan of Jaen, has successfully subdued our efforts to reclaim the region for Christendom despite the fact that the Sultan is himself a Christian… or at least he was.” – Genovese, growing impatient with Ernesto’s reticence.

Sanchez took a long look at the two men as if for the first time.

“Are you saying that you are conspiring to destroy my sire?” – Sanchez

Genovese nodded gravely.

9th of February, 1211, 12:05am
The Great Hall
The Domain of Jurgen von Verden
Warlord of the Black Cross

Jurgen had called for dancing and many of the Toreador envoys present had spent the last few minutes haranguing members of the audience into joining in the festivities. Soon everyone was participating save a few of the most stayed members. Only a handful of Cainites, including Count Kyrillos and Abdul-Malik, abstained from the merriment. Dimities was watching Lady Teresa and Master Sanchez carefully. The two of had spoken in private with two of the of the Envoys from the Sea of Shadows and they did so in Spanish, which was curious, even if it was their native tongue.

Though he had not understood the words they spoke he did recognize a request when he heard one and the astonishment in Sanchez’ voice when he finally responded.

He also recognized the sound of the Artisan agreeing to whatever it was that was asked of him.

Now Sanchez was dancing and making merry but whatever he agreed to was weighing heavy upon him.

Dimities was thinking about bringing it up to the Spaniard when he felt a sudden and shocking gust of chilled February wind.

He turned toward the curtained stage to see the crimson drapes flinging wide as the gust carried a flurry of snow into the chamber.

The Malkavian’s hackles went up. Who would dare interrupt these festivities? The madness within him was whispering to him, fueling the sudden inexplicable rage he felt. His teeth were sharp and pressing into his lips, he could feel the madness creeping into his limbs to lend them strength.

Before he even understood what was happening the Count hushed it, forcing back down into the cage he’d built for it in his soul. As he did the snowy wind seemed to whirl upon itself behind the billowing curtains before dying down completely and inexplicably.

The flautists’ melody was disrupted as the curtains were swept aside revealing three figures.

Two of the figures were hulking men in furs but all eyes were on the woman. She was nude, her body covered in long fine quill-like hair. Her face was stretched into a snout, her ears were long and pointed, her eyes were amber and feral and her hands were nothing so much as claws.

Despite her companions’ sheer size, she was by far the most imposing of the three. The man to her left had mottled skin and a canine face, the one to her right was snake faced, with a mouth filled with long jagged tusks.

All eyes were on the three as a knight charged them from his place next to the stage, his sword drawn. The two men stepped forward to protect their mistress, reaching out as if they were going to take hold of him. They struck the knight with bare hands and sheered cleanly through the mortal’s armor and flesh alike.

He fell to the ground in a spray of blood, having had large chunks of his body, including the whole of his left arm and much of his abdomen removed by the two beasts.

His sword clanged upon the stone stage.

Dimities looked about the crowd and saw the same look on the face of every vampire present. A mixture of hunger, horror and fright. Only Vykos seemed nonplussed, though the Count had never actually seen the fiend react overtly to anything.

Jurgen stepped forward, his mirth gone, replaced with the same ironclad determination with which he’d given his speech not two hours before. The crowd parted for him unconsciously, as if heeding the unspoken command of his inherent sovereignty.

“How dare you disrupt this celebration?” – Jurgen

The three monsters turn toward the warlord as if seeing him for the first time.

“Speak your Mind, Animal!” – Jurgen

“I am Morrow of the Land beyond the forest and your ‘celebration’ is a farce. I am fully aware of your venture in Hungary! Those lands are claimed by Rustovitch only because of the Tributes paid me. I have no interest in drawing up a new agreement and demand you end this show of force lest I and mine accept your challenge.” – the Gangrel barked.

Vendramino found it unsettling that she seemed to take note of himself and each other member of his coterie as she spoke.

As her words settled over the crowd there was another blast of frigid wind and they were gone again in a cloud of snow, leaving only frost in their place.

The assemblage looked to Jurgen, hoping for some sort of response.

Jurgen turned to Lucretia.

“Secure my keep!” – Jurgen

He turned to everyone else, smiling.

“Weren’t we celebrating?!”

And once again, the music played but no one danced. Realizing that between the Fiend’s arrogant display and the Animal’s angry declaration that the party might have been wrecked, Jurgen declared that there should be entertainment.

The first artist was the thespian Kalvin, a reputedly brilliant orator, who regaled the audience with poetry and stories which culminated with a tale of a Mythical prince called Heimrich:

“Heimrich had fallen deeply in love with a beautiful lady of the realm called Anjyalka. Heimrich promised to make Anjyalka his bride.

“Alas, Anjyalka was raped and left bloodied upon his doorstep by a great demon. Enraged, Heimrich searched far and wide for this demon, murdering anyone who dared stand in his way. Finally he discovered his hated foe’s most prized treasure and set upon it, leaving it bloodied and ruined.

“The tragedy here is not that he had fallen to the demon’s own level but that there was no demon at all. The Prince had become entranced by his own reflection in a mirror and refused to see his own actions for what they were.

“Realizing this truth, Prince Heimrich went mad and threw himself into the deepest crevice in the kingdom, falling into the waiting jaws of the devil, where he was devoured whole by his own sin.”

The court was somber as the little madman bowed before the prince, kissed his hand in difference and then vanished into the crowd.

The Patrician watched him go with dark eyes and Sherazhina was left to wonder if maybe the Ventrue would assault the Actor on the spot.

Instead Jurgen clapped his hands, calling the next act to the stage.

That act was a company of jugglers and acrobats called the Travelling Torenus. Their Leader, a youngish lanky Vampire named Izydor Torenu introduced his assistants, the strapping Silas the Juggler and Izydor’s childe, the exotic Delizbieta of the Dark Eyes. A few voices in the crowd immediately began whispering that the three were Ravnos Charlatans, though in truth none seemed entirely sure what that meant.

The performers danced and whirled, performing great feats of alacrity that stunned the audience. Izydor tumbled and spun with unnatural skill, leaping fifteen feet into the air and hanging there for a two full breaths before landing gently upon the ground.

Next Delizbieta astounded the audience by performing a beguiling dance that reminded no few vampires that they were once men, before taking up a pair of torches and performing a whirling dance so swiftly it created rings of flames around herself.

Lastly it was Silas’s turn to amaze the crowd, juggling a pair of razor sharp circular blades as the others threw fruit and the odd rodent between the blades, slicing each clean through and spraying juice and blood over the captivated audience. Suddenly he threw one of the spinning blades directly at an audience member. The blade turned up at the last second, gracefully spinning up and back around to be caught by Silas before he spun the second at another vampire who released a panicked gasp even as it curved down and danced back to him across the floor. The third sped toward one of the walls, ricocheting off of it in the ceiling and then back into his waiting finger tips before he was once again juggling them, allowing the three blades to pick up speed before he launched them once again at the now terrified and cheering crowd. Each flew in a different direction, the second flying directly towards Sanchez’s face before suddenly stopping mid air, spinning in place and then suddenly returning to the juggler’s waiting hand.

Catching all three blades in a single smooth motion the vampire took a bow.

The entire hall erupted in cheers and each Vampire in turn stepped forward to present themselves to the Prince in turn, kissing the Lord’s sword in a very rehearsed show of fealty.

Jurgen thanked them and returned to the stage

“For our final act, Jervais and his Assistants have prepared us a demonstration of their Blood Arts.” – Jurgen, to the surprise of many in attendance.

Many of those present showed their disgust and turned to leave. The rest applauded, guardedly.

After the uneasy applause died down the candle light dimmed dramatically as three figures stepped forward dressed in crimson and black robes etched with arcane sigils. They chanted discordantly as they danced through the receding crowd. And then their chanting began to synchronize before ending abruptly as they stood side by side, each holding their hands in a peculiar configuration.

The chanting began again, much louder now, as the figures began to make strange motions with their hands. Suddenly the figure to the right held up a hand that burned with blue light. He turned and threw the flame into the air.

The crowd backed away; their instincts told them the fire was real, that they were in danger.

A half dozen more gouts of flame sparked from their fingertips to the floor, engulfing the sorcerers in a ring of flame. The room seemed to be on the verge of frenzy when the flames finally died down, leaving a perfect ring of ash on the floor.

The tallest figure left the circle as the two others seemed to square off, gesturing wildly as they turned and encircled one another ominously.

With a furious gesture the smaller of the two reached back, making a grasping motion towards one of the knights standing guard. With the sound of metal on metal the knight’s sword freed itself from its scabbard and flew through the air and toward the other Tremere.

Not to be outdone the other Tremere, who for all his enormity must be Jervais, made a grasping motion and seemed to wrench a sword from the very air itself. The blade was dark steel and had no luster to speak of.

With a sweeping motion Jervais deflected the blade, the sound of metal on metal filled the hall. The vampires drew in closer as they watched the duel. It was surprisingly fast, as Jervais released his hold on the summoned sword and allowed it to fight free of him, drawing the blade away from himself.

After some time the swordplay became more aggressive and some began whispering that maybe it wasn’t an act.

As if on cue, one of the swords was flung from its invisible grasp and sped toward the audience. The blade flew toward Sanchez who began to wonder if maybe someone had it out for him. Before it could make contact however it discorporated, returning from whence it came.

The crowd clapped excitedly even as the Spanish mason hurled a flurry of vulgarity at the usurpers.

The other sword was carefully returned to its owner, who warily took it from the air and resheathed it.

The tall Tremere returned to the circle and began to draw sigils into the floor with blood red chalk, the ring of ash acting as a ritual circle.

“Lords, Ladies, My Apprentices: Alexia, Thierry and I would like to ask for a volunteer. We are looking for personal items from which we can divine their secret origins!” – Jervais, removing his hood.

The attendees were surprisingly forthcoming with their own objects but before Jervais could choose Lord Jurgen stepped forward, presented the Toreador’s gift and demanded that the Sword’s origins be revealed.

Jervais looks nervously from the Patrician to the Sword and then to Rosamund, who nodded confidently, before carefully taking the sword. The Tremere gently placed the blade in the center of the circle of complex interlocking arcane sigils and then, drawing his own blood-chalk, made a series of markings over the blade’s surface.

Those expecting a dramatic show of mysticism were disappointed as the vampire spread his pudgy fingers over the weapon and, with his free hand, made a small cut across his fingers, allowing a single drop of blood to fall onto the blade where it promptly vanished in a tiny puff of crimson smoke.

The obese Usurper leaned over the smoking blade and breathed deep the fumes.

Jervais closed his eyes, smiling, but soon the smile faltered and the vampire looked to his assistants agitatedly.

The two rushed over and conferred with their master nervously.

“What is it, Magus?” – Jurgen, fully aware that something was amiss.

Jervais remained quiet, communicating with his cohorts silently. Soon the crowd was whispering that something was very wrong.

“I was promised profound truths, Usurper!” – Jurgen, angrily

Jervais turned, the blood sweat on his brow was visible.

“It just that… This is peculiar. This blade seems to be no more valuable than any other. Forgive me, but this is more a stage item than a true blade.” – Jervais Stuttered while wiping away the blood that sat atop his brow.

“What do you mean?” – Rosamund, her teeth clenched

“The spell worked, the blade’s truth was revealed and this blade is either a duplicate or it is not what the Toreador claimed. The gems are nothing more than clear colored glass, the blade is of the most common, no better than what a soldier might carry. It is a forgery of remarkable skill to be sure, but a forgery nonetheless.” – Jervais

Jurgen tore the blade from the Magus’s hands and spun upon Rosamund, holding the blade high over his head.

Dimities saw the rage pouring off of the Lord in blood red waves and suddenly feared for all of their lives.

The Patrician brought the sword down hard on the stone floor, the hollow twang of metal on stone reverberated throughout the hall. He raised it again to reveal the shattered baubles and the warped steel.

“Weak forging and false stones.” – the patrician, diagnosing the ruined blade

Teresa saw the Toreador’s face as she desperately kept her emotions in check, but she saw the Artisan’s needle-like fangs jutting through her lips.

“It must be some sort of Usurper Trickery.” – Dimities whispered quietly to Teresa

“This is going to be bad.” – Sherazhina

“You know we’re going to be blamed.” – Sanchez

“Who’s we?” – Vendramino, eyeing the Spaniard genially

Jurgen took Rosamund by the arm and was about to say something when he turned and commanded the music to recommence. With that he headed toward the curtained stage only to be intercepted by Jervais who whispered something and then, along with his apprentice Alexia, followed them through the curtain.

In the distance the Malkavian Thespian, Kalvin, could be heard singing a soft greek lullaby of a song. Abdul-Malik couldn’t make out all of it but he heard clearly:

“A counterfeit sword for a counterfeit Alliance.”

Thierry, the lone apprentice left on this side of the Curtain looked out at the crowd of confused and embittered Cainites with bold faced fear, his electric blue eyes like great saucers as he stood against the curtains as if pinned to it.

In all that had happened Teresa’s only thought as she looked at the young Tremere was simply

“Doesn’t that Tremere look familiar?”

9th of February, 1211, 12:49am
The Great Hall
The Domain of Jurgen von Verden
Warlord of the Black Cross

The crowd was growing restless as they awaited word from Jurgen. Between the music and the chatter few could hear the goings on behind the curtain. Shortly after they’d adjourned a quarrel had broken out between the assemblage as many of those present wished to clear themselves of any suspicion even before the accusations began to fly.

One of the vampires theorized that Rustovitch must have been responsible. That the conniving fiend could have manipulated the Gangrel to cause the distraction and steal the sword. Others argue that the Gangrel weren’t likely to act in such a duplicitous manner.

Others argued that the Usurpers, treacherous bastards that they were, were known for committing just this sort of duplicitous act. How could it be known whether or not that ritual was an actual divination and not some sort of deviant alchemy?

Whatever the theories, they looked upon the vampire Thierry with hungry, angry eyes.

Teresa peered at the vampire as subtly as she could. She knew she recognized those unnaturally blue eyes. They looked like the eyes of…

“Sherazhina, I do believe that those are the eyes of Killian Toth.” – Teresa

“It is him… but I thought that he was Erasmus’ Childe.” – Sherazhina, confused

Teresa shrugged in spite of herself and then stepped forward.

“Killian?” – Teresa

“Lady Teresa?” – ‘Thierry’

“What are you doing here?” – Teresa

“I am studying under Jervais, Josephus believes that I must connect with my heritage if I’m to succeed in my long night.” – Thierry

“The fact that the Tremere’s word would be trusted over that of a Toreador disgusts me.” – Ignatius

The Toreador Envoy glared at Thierry as he spoke. His companion was supposedly a native of Transylvania, an Artisan of Transylvania called Arianne. Sherazhina recognized her immediately as she was the Vampire that had joined Sanchez on his bender in Mediasch a few years before. Arianne was livid that anyone could have questioned the provenance of the blade itself and thought that the Ventrue’s destroying the blade was cause to end their agreement.

“Perhaps Jervais made a mistake?” – Killian

“You think that the sword wasn’t a fake?” – Vendramino

“No, of course not, the divination was correct. I just think that maybe, seeing the results, he should have found a different way to tell Lord Jurgen.” – Killian

9th of February, 1211, 1:27am
The Great Hall
The Domain of Jurgen von Verden
Warlord of the Black Cross

Sanchez watched as Vendramino reached into his sleeve and pulled out a thong of leather with a finger bone attached. He held the finger bone between his palms, rolling it back and forth. He muttered a low and blasphemous chant in Latin. Out of the corner of Sanchez’s eye he saw something… gossamer and dark with just a glimmer of silvery light deep inside it.

Vendramino whispered something in Italian to the shadow and it vanished

“What was that?” – Sanchez, noting that he wasn’t the only one to notice.

The Saracen noticed as well.

“What was what?” – Vendramino

The others looked at the Necromancer nervously. After some time his head quirked to the side like he was listening to something. Abdul-Malik concentrated on the vampire and though he didn’t see anything he did hear it. It was a rasping, wilting whisper, an undercurrent of the conversations filling the room.

“Hanno chiesto un gemmologo, il mio amore, la spada era falso … non ci sarà dolore ma per quello che non direi. Devo riposare, Marito?” – the shadow

“This is going to be bad…” – Vendramino

Jurgen Strode forth from behind the curtain, his face a mask of grim determination.

“Master Jervais was correct in his assessment of the sword presented by Rosamund of Islington. I thank him for his bravery in revealing a truth that could have simply been ignored. Unfortunately, I must ask that no one leave my city until I can unravel this mystery. But understand this, should you attempt to leave my Domain I shall take it as an admission of guilt and shall hunt you down and destroy you no matter how far you run. Thank you again.” – Jurgen, with those words he excused himself from the court.

Vendramino was surprised that the Lord of Magdeburg would allow anyone to leave the fortress, as was his right. It was an impressive act of magnanimity and it alone probably allowed him to salvage the situation at all.

After the Lord left many of the revelers followed after. If there was no reason to stay than they wanted as far away as Jurgen’s proclamation allowed.

Things were quiet for only a few moments before the Lady Rosamund of Islington stepped forward.

“I am disheartened by tonight’s events. That sword was a symbol of the future of two great Kingdoms in the Long Night. It was a sign of a possible peace between all of our peoples. I believe with all of my heart that that sword was stolen either to undermine that future or perhaps to profit from it.”

And with that she glided out of the chamber and it was a darker place for her absence.

The silence was broken suddenly by the voice of Kalvin

“The Toreador are the sword’s bearers, and as we all know, bearers are responsible for wielding their weapons.”

No one knew what it meant, but it didn’t matter. The bickering had returned in a rush of voices.

Von Achern believed that the Tzimisce were the cause of it all and the Gangrel were accomplice.

Ignatius continued to assert that it had to be Tremere trickery.

Others blamed the Ravnos who have a ancient reputation for deception.

Abdul-Malik shared with Teresa his theory that Jurgen himself may have set this all in motion as he was dead set to start a war with the Tzimisce and this act could be used to create momentum in that direction.

It wasn’t long before Sanchez realized that his name and the names of his friends were being added to the lists of those who could have stolen the sword.

He quickly found Kyrillos in the crowd and told him of the Lasombra with whom he’d met.

“I think they may in fact be working with Henriques.” – Sanchez, conspiratorially

The ramifications were clear to the Malkavian. Henriques promised grave retribution upon his childe some years prior.

“We need to get to your wagon immediately.” – Kyrillos

Once they left the chamber the mason wrapped his arm around the old man and lifted his feet off the ground. There was the rushing sound of wind and for a time everything seemed to merge into a gray slate and then everything was still.

Kyrillos blinked as if to clear his vision. His mind couldn’t seem to comprehend that they had somehow reached the wagons in a matter of seconds.

Sanchez charged into his wagon and began ransacking the place so thoroughly that he upended the cask of soil from the foundation of the Fortress they’d erected in Tihuta Pass.

By the time Kyrillos reached the wagon Sanchez was already coming out.

“Its clear. Lets check yours and then the others. Just in case.” – Sanchez

---

Adbul-Malik watched as Master Sanchez and Count Kyrillos vanished from outside the hall. He’d attempted to follow them but in truth had never seen anything like that, he couldn’t be sure where they were off to.

He turned to find Vendramino watching him.

“They are off to check their haven. Sanchez has a theory that this may be the result of Saracen Machinations. No offense. His sire is a threat… a very old threat. One must be careful. We should head off to check our wagons… to be on the safe side. Teresa has already headed to her own.” – Vendramino

---

Sanchez and the others leaving the hall couldn’t have happened at a worse time. After their departure many of the vampires began to convince themselves that their leaving was an admission of guilt and they were starting to turn on her as Sanchez’s childe.

Sherazhina stepped up onto the stage revealing her noble nature to the crowd the way that Mahmud showed her. She watched the crowd turn their eyes toward her, only a few at first but soon the mob mentality took over and all eyes were on her. Part of her wished she was as good at this as Lady Rosamund

“Here me! I am Sherazhina Basarab, Childe of Sanchez and I want to make it clear, here and now, that Neither I, my Sire, nor any of our allies here are culpable for this travesty. Sanchez, whom many of you slander out of ignorance is not new to this Court. He is Jurgen’s own vassal and loyal mason for this court. Those who are with us are his allies and loyal vassal princes of the Black Cross who are vital to our success in the East. To accuse them is folly.” – Sherazhina

Without another word she left the stage and the hall, intent on finding Sanchez and the others, confident that she’d gotten her point across.

Many a Cainite stepped aside, humbled by her speech.

“I am impressed, Sherazhina.”

The voice froze her in her tracks. It had been decades since she’d last heard it but she couldn’t forget it.

Before she could flee she felt a hard hand on her shoulder and was being spun around to face her great-grandfather.

He was tall and willowy and wore sturdy but elegantly polished fur lined leathers. His skin was the color of bone and he had a mane of long thick blond hair.

“Hello Grandfather.” – Sherazhina

“It is good to see you, little Sherazhina.” – Vintila

His hands felt impossibly heavy on her shoulders, as if they could bore through her were she not careful.

“Did you think I would not recognize my own flesh and blood, Sherazhina?” – Vintila

The young Fiend was completely incapable of responding as she felt his hands sinking into her flesh.

“I simply wish to inform you that I am happy that you are doing well.” – Vintila, releasing his once mortal descendant.

“Thank you.” – Sherazhina squeaked out before allowing her beast to lend the speed to escape the Elder’s company, blurring away from him and out of the Fortress as swiftly as she could.

9th of February, 1211, 2:04am
The Wagons
The Domain of Jurgen von Verden
Warlord of the Black Cross

When she arrived at the wagons she found Sanchez stepping out of Teresa’s.

The others were speaking as they were prone to do, in a hodgepodge of Latin and Romanian which seemed to be making it hard for the Saracen to keep up with the conversation.

“What’s going on?” – Sherazhina

“We’ve been discussing the theft.” – Teresa

“Yes, evidently Abdul-Malik remembers seeing the Juggler vanish when the Gangrel attacked. And Teresa remembers seeing the Lord’s vassal, Albin was it, vanish before they ever attacked.” – Vendramino

“And though I hadn’t thought about it at the time, Vykos did not seemed entirely surprised by the Gangrels’ appearance at the celebration.” – Kyrillos, adding to the conversation.

“What happened to your shoulders!?” – Sanchez

“What?” – Sherazhina

Everyone really looked at her and sure enough her shoulders had two very obvious and livid purple handprints engraved into them so deep that her collar bones were pushing against her skin.

“Oh, my god!”

9th of February, 1211, 2:25am
The Great Hall
The Domain of Jurgen von Verden
Warlord of the Black Cross

The Scribe, what the Infidels called a Toreador, had had an altercation with the creature who’d chosen to mark her. Leave it to the Franj to birth a race of creatures so horrid that their very touch could be anathema.

Master Sanchez tried to comfort his childe as she stood there shaking but she pushed him away. She was not upset so much as filled with rage at whatever had transpired between herself and the Fiend who’d disfigured her. Abdul followed the cue of the others and pretended not to see.

Though the conversation was initially halting they soon returned to speaking of their own theories of the crime. Though again, Abdul-Malik abstained, following the “Black Queen’s” advice to hold his theory to himself.

Despite the Fiend’s apparent prescience as to the presence of the Animals it seemed that the others had a history with the one called Vykos, it soon became apparent that there were two suspects that would best lead to the sword.

Silas the Juggler, who was seen slipping away in the ‘assault’. And Albin the Caitiff, slave to Jurgen who vanished into the shadows just as the Gangrel appeared.

As it was Queen Teresa, who saw the Caitiff vanish, volunteered to go in search of him. Her friend Don Vendramino chose to follow her while Count Kyrillos, Master Sanchez and his childe chose to search out the Juggler. Sanchez invited Abdul-Malik to search for the juggler alongside them, as he was the one who notice him vanish, but the thought of spending time with the Count unnerved the Saracen, as the Greek’s bigotry was overt and unnerving.

Abdul-Malik would prefer the company of the pretentious woman to that of the bigoted infidel any night.

The Saracen followed his cohorts back into the hall in search of Jurgen’s slave and soon found themselves unsure of how to proceed. It was Vendramino who discovered the Hunter…Nosferatu…that had been watching them as they entered the Hall. She too was attached to Jurgen, acting as his eyes, ears and Majordomo.

“Akuji!” – Vendramino, startled.

“Yes, Count Vendramino?” – the Nosferatu bowed, showing proper respect when speaking to one who held higher station then herself, and showing no sign of irony as she did so.

Abdul-Malik was impressed by her commitment.

“I would like to know if you’ve seen Albin?” – Vendramino

“He is seeing to security in the courtyard currently. Why do you ask milord?” – Akuji

“We are in need of blood and were told that he would be the one to see about procuring feeding rights within the city. What are your thoughts on the taking of the sword?” – Vendramino

The old Nosferatu gazed at him with weary eyes.

“Why do you ask these questions?” – Akuji

“There’s no reason. I was simply asking because these events seem to plague me and my allies.” – Vendramino

Teresa looked at the Cappadocian and for the briefest moment her eyes seemed to darken into black orbs as her lips curled back to show her fangs.

The Saracen recognized a vampire on the verge of Frenzy when he saw it.

For her part the Nosferatu had the look of someone who had just heard a piece of particularly good news. If not for her severely palsied face he was sure she’d had lifted one of her heavy, wart laden brows.

“You idiot!” -Teresa hissed at her ally.

She reached out and wrenched the Nosferatu’s face to look at her before the Leper could react.

“My fool of a friend did not make that last statement, we have spoke of nothing except for our need for blood. You want to tell us where your friend Albin is and you will remember us fondly, even if our Italian friend seems a little dim.” – Teresa, her eyes the color of pitch as she spoke

The Nosferatu’s eyes grew wide as a shadow seemed to pass over, darkening them. Teresa released her face and returned to her place behind Vendramino as if she’d never moved.

“Albin is in the Courtyard seeing to the Security of the Fortress and I assure you that he’d be happy to help you find sustenance.” – The Nosferatu said, genially.

“Thank you, Akuji.” – Teresa, her hand on the Italian’s arm reminding to keep quiet.

Abdul-Malik followed after them quietly making a note to be wary of the woman Teresa’s glance.

---

They found Albin just where Akuji said he’d be, in the courtyard inspecting knights and personal guards from the shadows. It was obvious that he was seeing more than just the way the armor hung off of them.

“Albin.” – Teresa

The vampire jumped.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you in your business but we were wondering if you could help us with something.” – Teresa

“It’s nothing. Of course I can help you find a vessel. My suggestion to you is to head to the eastern wall, there is a neighborhood there, with a large house. The families in that neighborhood are pliable and healthy.” – Albin whispered, distracted.

“Thank you, but you seem to have misunderstood. We hoped you would be able to tell us why you disappeared when the Gangrel arrived at the party.” – Vendramino

Abdul-Malik almost missed the manservant flinch as his eyes darted to the Gravedigger.

“The moment there was a breach I immediately rushed through the castle to make sure it was secure. They had gotten past the defenses and I needed to know if they were alone or not.” – Albin, his words rang true.

“Why do you ask?” – Albin

“We simply noticed your disappearance and it’s just one of many leads that we are following so that we might form a more complete picture of the events.” – Vendramino

Albin seemed less then surprised at the non-accusation

“I love my master and would never act against him or his interests.” – Albin

The Assamite couldn’t help but hear the bitter resentment in the servant’s voice.

“Thank you for your time, Albin, and for telling us where we can find a place to feed.” – Vendramino.

Once they were sure that Albin could no longer hear they began to discuss their next move.

“We have to follow him. He knows something.” – Abdul-Malik

“Agreed.” – Teresa

“I’m sorry but I cannot follow, I will be no good to you in a chase.” – Vendramino

“Then find the others, join them.” – Teresa

She and the Saracen turned back to follow Albin, only to find that he had vanished.

“We must hurry!” – Abdul-Malik

Once they were gone Vendramino reached for one of three trinkets beneath his tunic. This one was the finger bone of his beloved wife.

“Gabrielle, I have need of your services.” – Vendramino whispered in archaic Italian

His wife’s shadow shimmered into existence, an ethereal light backlit her face as she curtsied.

“How may I serve you, Master.” – Gabrielle, grimly

“Even in death you can be so frustrating. I need you to follow the one called Albin, do you remember him my love?” – Vendramino

The Spirito nodded.

“Thank you. I promise I will find a way to undo this atrocity, my love.” – Vendramino

“So you say, beloved.” – the ghost

As she vanished he swore to himself, to God and to Pater Familias that he would be reunited with her in flesh one day.

The holy man scanned the horizon only to see the Caitiff slipping out of the castle walls. He and Teresa rushed after him, Abdul revealing his inhuman speed in the process. They shadowed him across three city blocks, Teresa bit her wrist and allowed the blood to seep into the shadows pooling at her feet, granting them a bit of unnatural life. The shadows stretched as if waking up from a restful sleep and then rose of their own accord to wrap around her, allowing her to better slip through the shadows. Abdul relied on his own not inconsiderable skills to shadow the vampire, who turned out to be even more skilled than himself.

Neither knew they had a hidden ally following their every move.

A few blocks from the fortress Abdul-Malik noticed a cloaked figure darting over the rooftops. Whoever they were they were fast. They didn’t so much jump as blur from rooftop to rooftop. Abdul-Malik was so distracted by the figure that he didn’t notice when Teresa stopped dead in her tracks.

He was shocked when he slammed into her and twice over when it was him who was nearly knocked off his feet. It turned out that the little woman was built like a load of stones. Only his blood-born agility kept him from falling on his backside.

“Where’d he go?” – Teresa

“I… do not know… I became distracted.” – Abdul-Malik, shamed further

“By what.” – Teresa, Annoyed

“Look up.”

She did and there was a figure, small and willowy draped in a charcoal gray hooded cloak. The wind whipped at the figure, and she was sure that whoever it was, it was a woman.

“We’ve lost our quarry, we should at least catch the poacher, no?” – Abdul-Malik

“You’re right.” – Teresa

“If we keep track of her long enough she’ll eventually have to come to ground.” – Abdul-Malik

When Teresa didn’t respond he turned back to her in time to hear the sound of fluttering fabric. He looked up to see her landing on her toes on the roof. As if she we stepping down out of the darkness. The Saracen wouldn’t accept that and began to climb. He would not let an Infidel, let alone a woman, show him up.

Teresa found the sense of gliding through the air exhilarating as she landed a full two stories above the streets. The night air was deadly dark but not to Teresa and she had been quiet enough that when the woman noticed she was already on her.

The vampire tried so desperately to get away she actually blurred in Teresa’s arms. Her tiny frame became indistinct even as Teresa’s hands went inexplicably numb, as if she were vibrating. Her hood fell away revealing ringlets of black hair and pale smooth skin. Her eyes were like sapphires. She was unnaturally beautiful.

“Arrianne? What are you doing here?” – Teresa. She’d dealt with the Toreador before.

She was trouble. She’d almost caused a scene with Sanchez in Mediasch some years ago and had shown up in her domain at least twice. She should have known that she was going to be trouble when she saw her in the Lady Rosamund’s entourage.

“I… Lady Teresa? Why were you following me?

There was the sound of a exertion coming from behind them and Teresa turned to see the Muslim pulling himself up onto the ledge.

The distraction was enough for the Toreador to try and get away again but Teresa held tight.

“Quit that. You’re making my hands numb.” – Teresa

“Why were you here?” – Abdul-Malik, coming to stand next to the two women

I… was following you. Yes. I was looking into the missing sword I saw you and thought you were acting suspiciously so I followed you hoping that you might lead me to the sword." – Arianne lied, poorly.

“Why are you lying to us, Arianne? You weren’t following us, the surprise on your face bares the look of it” – Abdul-Malik, he had memories of the Toreador as well and they were all as bad as Teresa’s

“Why were you following Albin?” – Teresa

“I was only following him because I heard you asking about him and thought maybe you knew something I did not.” – Arianne

There didn’t seem to be any deception in her voice.

“Why are you here, Arianne.” – Teresa said, her darkness overwhelming the Toreador

“I was keeping an eye on the Caitiff, that’s all I swear.” – Arianne blurted out.

“Thank you.” – Teresa, releasing her

The vampire blurred at the edges and the in a streak blurred away out of their reach.

“Why did you let her go?” – Abdul-Malik, indignantly

Teresa looked at him confusedly and then her eyes widened as it dawned on her.

“I…she…that Artisan whore!” – Teresa looking off after Arianne.

9th of February, 1211, 2:27am
The Courtyard
The Domain of Jurgen von Verden
Warlord of the Black Cross

Sanchez was overwhelmed with rage at the thought of what that monster, Vintila, had done to his beloved. They’d expected to have trouble tracking the nomadic Juggler; that couldn’t have been farther from the truth. Silas was in the courtyard entertaining the guards when they came up upon him. They chose to hang back and watch him. His aura was calm and cool, he was relaxed and happy, doing simple tumbles and juggling tricks, nothing fancy.

They found that following him was just as easy as finding him as he was possibly the most unaware individual Sanchez had ever encountered. He worked his way around the castle talking and laughing with people and then he made his way back into the hall. They kept a safe distance but realized that it didn’t much matter.

As they turned one corner they noticed Vendramino standing in the shadows. It seemed as though he’d been waiting for them.

“Why are you not with the others?” – Kyrillos

“I was incapable of keeping up with them and thought maybe I might join you.” – Vendramino

“Absolutely. We’ve been following him, hoping to divine some idea of his actions during the interruptions.” – Kyrillos

“Do we have a plan?” – Vendramino

“I think we should just ask him.” – Sanchez

Before any of the others could react the Toreador reached out and touched Silas on the shoulder, despite having been across the room only a moment before.

“Dear sweet savior, where did you come from?” – Silas in Greek as he spun to look at Sanchez

“I’m sorry to frighten you, Master Torenu.” – Sanchez

Silas stepped back and Sanchez saw that he was hiding something underneath his cloak. Was he wearing a cloak?

“It is fine, Master Sanchez, though it should be known that I am not, strictly speaking, one of the Torenu, I have simply traveled with them for the last few years. What can I do for you?” – Silas

The others finally caught up with their energetic friend.

“We’d like to ask you about tonight.” – Kyrillos

“What do you need to know?” – Silas, confidently

“What did you do when the Gangrel made their assault?” – Kyrillos

Silas furrowed his brow as his eyes filled with blood tears

“wha…why do you…I was putting my take away, using the animals as a distraction. I had to stash it away until I could move it. You know. I’d spent the entire night pick-pocketing the party-goers…I have your medallion by the way…why am I telling you these things?” – Silas, his eyes wide as he realized he was under some sort of spell.

The Ravnos held out a bag that had to weigh thirty pounds by the looks of it. He opened it to reveal that it was filled with gold and gem encrusted trinkets and baubles.

“That’s a lot of-” – Sanchez was cut off when the Ravnos launched the bag of loot into the air, spreading gold all over the small corridor.

“That’s my Medallion.” – Kosmos, angrily reaching down to pick up a emerald stone set in silver

Sherazhina and Vendramino marveled at the mass of gold spread over the floor, bending down and scooping handfuls of the treasure into their pockets.

Only Sanchez kept his wits, chasing after the Ravnos who turned left at the end of the corridor. The vampire was fast but nowhere near as fast as Sanchez who was at the end of the corridor in an instant. Only to find that there was no left turn.

“What the…” -Sanchez

He backtracked to chase after the Juggler, wondering how he could have made that mistake.

“What are you doing?” – Kyrillos

“Where are the others?” – Sanchez

“They’re claiming the treasure for themselves, why aren’t you chasing after him?” – Kyrillos

“My eyes were playing tricks on me is all.” – Sanchez, slightly embarrassed

Without another word the two raced down the corridor and out of the fortress. In the distance they saw the Juggler’s wagon alongside three or four others.

“He’s inside, I can hear him.” – Kyrillos

Sanchez shot him a look.

“You don’t say. You go inside, talk to him, I’ll ensure he doesn’t go anywhere.” – Sanchez

From the wagon they heard Silas yelling.

‘Izydor, Delizbieta, we’ve got to go! Get up, get up, we’ve got to go." – Silas, panicked

“What? Why?” – Delizbieta who was getting up from her spot at the campfire, releasing the young girl that she’d been feeding from.

Izydor was stepping out of his own wagon, an unfinished wooden figurine in one hand, a whittling knife in the other.

“What did you do Silas?” – Izydor

The two vampires followed Silas into his own wagon.

Sanchez snuck into the campsite, slipping from shadow to shadow completely unnoticed.

Kyrillos stood at the wagon’s door waiting for the three Charlatans to notice him.

“What’s going on Silas, why do we need to leave so suddenly?” – Izydor, before his back straightened.

He turned to look at Kyrillos standing in the entrance.

“We need to talk.” – Kyrillos

“What’s going on?” Delizbieta, soundly confused and suddenly Kyrillos realized just how young she was.

“It’s not what it looks like. I didn’t take the sword… here you want some gold? Take it, take everything you want. We’ll leave, you’ll never hear from us again.” – Silas

“If you run then it will end badly for all of you.” – Kyrillos, recognizing that Silas wasn’t lying.

---

The wagon had five or more bags identical to the one that Silas had left behind.

Outside Sanchez was unpinning the wagons’ wheels to make sure there would be no escape.

“What are you doing?” – Sherazhina

Sanchez removed the last of the pins.

“Grounding them.” – Sanchez

“Have you found the sword?” – Sherazhina

“I was just getting to that actually. You should check one of the other wagons. I’ll scout the perimeter… oh, and walk softly, my love.” – Sanchez

Sanchez noticed something out of the corner of his eye.

Sanchez reached out and unclasped a hidden catch on the outside of the wagon revealing a hidden compartment. Inside the compartment was a great deal of hay and inside that hay was an extremely well crafted sword.

“Sherazhina wait.”

“What is it?” – Sherazhina

“You can stop looking.” – Sanchez

---

Kyrillos heard everything outside and realized that Silas was being set up.

“You’re not going to like this my friends.” – Kyrillos

Sanchez stepped up into the wagon with the sword in view.

“That’s not right… that’s not mine! It’s a trick, I swear it’s a trick, I swear! It’s a trick! It’s a trick, it’s got to be a trick, I swear it’s a trick!” – Silas, shrieking, a look of panic etched into his face.

It was obvious that the man had never seen the thing before.

Unfortunately for him his pleading was loud enough to be heard by others within the fortress’s curtain wall.

Sherazhina saw the Ventrue knight, Lucretia von Hardtz trudging forward toward the wagon flanked by four knights of the Black Cross. A larger crowd was forming behind them, around the wagons.

The Ravnos was so panicked that Sanchez feared he may be overtaken by his Beast as the soldiers dragged him out of the wagon.

Kyrillos wasn’t able to drown out the sound of his screams, even as they closed the gate and dragged him deep inside the stone walls.

9th of February, 1211, 2:56am
Beneath the Fortress
The Domain of Jurgen von Verden
Warlord of the Black Cross

After the thief and his compatriots had been dragged away, along with the three bags of treasure that were found within the wagon, Kyrillos and the others had been invited to join in their interrogation. Sanchez chose to return to his wagon to clean up the mess he’d made, though Sherazhina knew that he took with him two of the bags of gold that had been within the wagon.

She followed the others into the dungeon beneath the fortress. There they watched as Lucretia, Akuji and Jurgen put Silas through hell.

The Juggler tenaciously held to his conviction that he’d done nothing wrong, that the sword had been planted within his wagon, even when Jurgen attempted to brand him with a hot iron Silas remained adamant, and the wound healed in spite of Jurgen’s efforts.

Sherazhina turned away, walking out of the interrogation room and toward the cells in which the other entertainers awaited their own interrogations.

There, the others stood watch over the captives who were bickering.

“Maybe he did it, Izydor, you know how Silas can be.” – Delizbieta, in Greek

“Silas is a weak willed fool and a petty thief but his vice is not such as the Sword. He’s nothing more than a magpie after trinkets, the sword is beyond him.” – Izydor

The woman nodded sullenly, heeding her Sire’s words.

“Why don’t we just tell them about Rosamund, she’ll defend us, she knows us.”

The other vampire lashed out at her through the bars, striking his childe across the face.

“Hold your tongue! Ours are not the only ears here.”

Vendramino and Abdul-Malik exchanged a look before explaining what they had heard to Teresa.

---

Rosamund of Islington had beckoned for Sherazhina to join her outside the fortress and Kyrillos had followed cautiously.

“Is everything alright, Milady?” – Sherazhina

The Toreador seemed on the edge of tears as she looked at the two apparent Clan-mates.

“I suppose I could use the company of fellow Toreador.” – Rosamund

They walked then, through the halls of the fortress and into the night air. Rosamund, for her age, was still very much a girl it seemed, having failed to discard her human frailties, that she was, in fact, not an elder nor an ancilla. No, this vampire was fresh… fresher then he at the very least.

Kyrillos pitied her.

“It’s all my fault.” – Rosamund

The two imposters shared a look.

“What is that, milady?” – Sherazhina

“There was a party to celebrate my departure for Magdeburg not three months ago. We had many entertainers but I was most impressed by the Traveling Torenus. I had made mention of this on more than one occasion and I know that that is why they were invited…I’ve brought this all down upon us.” – Rosamund

Sherazhina comforted the Toreador as Kyrillos looked back to the doomed Ravnos, determined to find a way to prove the vampire’s innocence in spite of the evidence stacking up against them.

---

Teresa and the others were discussing the situation when Kyrillos returned. He was surprised to find that they’d already made the same connections to Rosamund and they all understood the implications. The Ravnos had seen the Sword before, they had time to construct a replacement, everything pointed to them.

Teresa didn’t seem too concerned. Neither she nor Vendramino understand why they would care if he were innocent or not, but she was willing to go through with their plan to absolve the acrobats if it meant growing status within the Black Cross.

“Do not worry, Delizbieta, we shall see you set free.” – Kyrillos, in Greek

“I would have words with the lot of you.” – Lucretia

The coterie shared a nervous glance. The Lady Knight had been their allies for more than a decade and with the capture of the Juggler they were seen as heroes, but in the Long Night there were few that could be truly trusted and they were, perhaps rightly, suspicious.

They followed nonetheless.

Lady Lucretia escorted them deeper into the fortress’s dungeons and into the tunnels beneath before rounding on them at a dead end, lit by a single deeply recessed torch. She took the torch and wrenched it to the side, activating some unseen mechanism. At the mouth of the corridor a large ancient looking wooden door slammed shut.

The Lady-knight, her eyes downcast, pleaded with the coterie.

“This is my doing. I heard the Lady Rosamund speaking of Silas and his fellows in such glowing terms that I invited them here personally. I am ruined!” – Lucretia

“Milady you should know that we have come to believe that Silas and his fellows are innocent of these crimes.” – Vendramino

The Patrician Lady glared at the Cappadocian.

“Of course they’re innocent of the crime, but it doesn’t matter, they have been charged and they have stolen from my lord’s guests. I’ll not be living this down for a very long time if I cannot find the true culprits.” – Lucretia

“We were of the same mind, milady.” – Teresa

“The question becomes, where do we start? We have questioned or investigated everyone involved and found no evidence that any of them had any reason to take the sword, nor have we seen any sort of suspicion.” – Kyrillos

“That’s not entirely true.” – Abdul-Malik, glancing toward the Black Queen.

The others turned to her as well.

“We were shadowing Albin when we noticed that we were not alone. He was being followed by another. A Hungarian Toreador in service to Rosamund called Arianne.” – Teresa explained

Sherazhina smirked mirthlessly.

“Let us go and speak with this Arianne.” – Lucretia, coolly.

9th of February, 1211, 3:28am
The Suite of Rosamund of Islington
The Domain of Jurgen von Verden
Warlord of the Black Cross

The Toreadors suite of rooms took up much of the western wing of the fortress’s second floor. Two of Jurgen’s personal guards stood at the door. They hurried to open the door when they saw the Lady Lucretia approaching, fearful of obstructing their lady.

Lucretia strode into the chambers and surveyed the environment, utterly unmoved by the elegance that enveloped her.

Ignatius, who had been reclining upon a nest of large pillows along with a pair of beautiful and naked young women, was on his feet so swiftly that he did not even disturb his guests, who simply fell into the empty space that he had occupied. the foppish nobleman stood with his fangs bared, his eyes seem to glow emerald in the dim light. His hands were hooked as if they were tipped with claws instead of well manicured nails.

And then the display of raw fury was gone, replaced by the gentility that had been seen at Lord Jurgen’s celebration, there was no transition between the two, the monster was simply gone.

“Lady Lucretia, my most humblest of apologies, I had not expected anyone and was startled by your sudden…” – the vampire trailed off

“How may I serve you, milady?” – Ignatius, saving face

“I would speak with your mistress.” – Lucretia

Ignatius bowed at the waste and then seemed to blur at the edges.

A door hidden behind silken drapes opened directly ahead of them and from it glided the Lady Rosamund.

“Thank you, Ignatius, for informing me of our guests. How may I serve you Lady Lucretia?” – Rosamund magnanimously

Her refinement was lost on the Knight

“I’ve come to speak of the sword, and new details revealed to me by those who have accompanied me.” – Lucretia

Rosamund’s beatific expression never so much as faltered, though both Kyrillos and Sherazhina could feel her rage as she eyed them.

“And what could that possibly be.” – Rosamund, her voice unchanged

“I would be remiss to speak without further investigation, and have in fact come to ask your leave to speak with your envoy.” – Lucretia

Ignatius peered toward his mistress quizzically.

“Not that one, the one called Arianne.” – Lucretia

The lady furrowed her brow, reminding Teresa of her daughter whenever she was told something she didn’t understand, or that went against her preconceptions.

“I… I haven’t seen her in some time. I believe that she’s off attending to her needs.” – Rosamund, more a question then a statement of fact.

Teresa wondered if perhaps this capable diplomat may be out of her depth.

Lucretia turned on her heel, ready to stomp back out into the night to hunt the young Toreador down.

“May we, perhaps, have the pleasure of enjoying your company while we await her return?” – Teresa

“Please, make yourself at home.” – Rosamund, smiling broadly at the thought of company.

Lucretia sullenly joined the others, darkening the room by force of her presence alone and it wasn’t long before the conversation turned to the matter that had been on everyone’s mind.

“Many are still convinced that the Gangrel are somehow to blame.” – Lucretia, giving voice to her own suspicions.

“That cannot be possible, I would have noticed.” – Rosamund, confidently

“What about the girl, Arianne? Could she be involved?” – Sherazhina

“No! Arianne, Ignatius and the rest of my entourage are beyond reproach and should be treated as such. They were scrutinized by the Lady Isouda herself, whose insight is infallible.” – Rosamund

None of them wanted to upset her further, even Lucretia seemed softer in regards to the Frenchwoman

“In any case, it must have been replaced before the gala.” – Rosamund

“You wouldn’t happen to know its whereabouts prior to the gala?” – Kyrillos

The Lady made her way over to a couch as she retraced her steps.

“I cannot imagine a time when I was apart from it. Ignatius and I travelled with it from the Courts of Love into Hungary where we were met by Arianne, who has thus far acted as our guide. From there we travelled to Magdeburg where we were met by Jurgen’s own man Albin, not two nights out. He apologized for his tardiness and kept us in high spirits throughout the final leg of the journey. From there we-” – Rosamund

Lucretia stood abruptly and bowed to the lady.

“Thank you for your invaluable time milady but I have just realized something and must leave. Thank you again.”

She turned on her heal and walked out of the room even as Teresa and Kyrillos both objected.

“we apologize for the abruptness with which we depart.” – Kyrillos said awkwardly before he bowed and followed after.

Once they were a safe distance from the Lady’s suite Lucretia spun on the coterie.

“I trust that I do not have to worry about your allegiance to your Clan outweighing your allegiance to Jurgen, nor that of your sire.” – Lucretia, frankly

It took Kyrillos a moment to realize she was referring to their supposed affiliation to the Artisans.

“Of course not, milady. While it is true that Master Sanchez has contacts within the Courts of Love he has never had the pleasure of meeting Rosamund or her sire, who is at odds with his once-patron Esclarmonde.” – Sherazhina

Lucretia seemed satisfied by the young vampire’s words.

“What the Lady does not know and must not yet discover is that Albin was given strict instructions not to approach the emissary’s caravan until after they had reached the walls of Magdeburg whence he was to meet with them and escort them through the city to the fortress unseen. There is no way that the little cur would dare disregard our master’s directions. I think that maybe he did, in fact, have some part in tonight’s debacle.” – Lucretia

Neither Teresa or Abdul-Malik regarded the revelation with any amount of astonishment.

“He surely had the means, motive and as we have learned, more than enough time to replace the offering.” – Abdul-Malik

Without another word Lucretia was off again, this time in search of the Traitor Albin!

9th of February, 1211, 3:57am
The Fortress Walls
The Domain of Jurgen von Verden
Warlord of the Black Cross

After some time searching, with the full weight of the Castle Guard and Lucretia’s ally Akuji scouring the fortress it soon became clear that Albin had not been seen within the fortress since Teresa and Abdul-Malik gave pursuit earlier in the evening. With every other avenue exhausted they turned to his haven, hoping to find him within.

His lair was hidden within the walls of a barracks kept within the outer walls of the fortress. Inside were bunks enough for sixteen guardsmen, beyond that room was the captain’s quarters and the armory and further still was a single small wooden door, a supply room. Along two of the three cramped walls where shelves of cleaning supplies and other forgettable things. The back wall was made up of wooden planks with knobs for hanging cloaks and the like upon. Only one such cloak remained, a dirty brown thing that had seen far better days.

“Behind the cloak, there is a catch.” – Lucretia

Teresa slipped the cloak to the side to reveal the catch. A stone slide bar. Teresa slid the bar to the left with ease, the sound of splintering wood could be heard beyond the door which must have been barred from within.

“Someone must be home.” – Teresa

The door creaked open, pushing broken bits of wood and stone to the side.

The room was dimly lit by a single guttering candle that lay upon its side on the floor not far from the moon lit window at the top of the stall. The smallish cot lay smashed on the floor against the wall beneath the window.

Abdul-Malik could smell the blood before he saw it. The Assamite focused on seeing through the shadows and the shadows seemed to lighten, revealing streaks of blood across one of the walls-

“What are you doing!?” – Teresa

Abdul-Malik turned to see the others looking at him, anger in their eyes. He looked around and saw that his robes had caught a fair bit of debris and he was in fact smearing blood and dirt across the floor.

“I must apologize!” – Abdul-Malik

He lifted his robe off the floor with a flourish, scattering more dirt and splinted wood across the floor.

“Get out, get out, get out!” – Teresa

The Saracen turned shamefully and removed himself from the room with a preternatural grace that had failed him only moments before.

Once he was gone the others entered and began their investigation. Though the blood was evident even to the naked eye, Teresa was able to find great gashes in the stone walls and floor that seemed to be long vicious marks, made by some ridiculously sharp blade or claws. She saw that they were laid out in a pattern two together on the left, then two to the right, then two again on the left.

“what could have made them?” – Teresa

“The Gangrel perhaps?” – Vendramino

“I doubt it.” – Kyrillos, who was bent nearly in half as he peered at something near the overturned table.

“Why is that?” – Vendramino

“Because whatever did this was not the product of the forests.” – Kyrillos

He turned to reveal his prize, held aloft between two fingers.

It was a rats head, though an uncommonly large one. Its hair seemed more like wire and it bloody teeth were horrible needle things that glinted in the moonlight. Its eyes too, not two but four small ruby red, seemed to glow in the darkened room.

“What is that?” – Vendramino

“If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say that our old friend Vintila might know.” – Teresa

“Perhaps…” – Kyrillos, more to himself

“So is the traitor destroyed?” – Lucretia

Vendramino didn’t think so. As he looked around he saw no sign of the vampire’s corpse, which at the very least would have left a greasy smear across the cold stone. He looked over the scene searching for some hint as to the Caitiffs egress.

The door had been locked when Teresa had opened it, and it could only be locked from the inside. So how did he get out? He looked up at the light cast by the moon upon the inner wall and it struck him.

“No, he’s alive. And he fled through this window.” – Vendramino

“But the windows are too small to pass through.” – Lucretia, finally entering the scene herself to better get a vantage point of the window

Though she was right, the windows were normally too thin for an adult to fit through, this window had been modified. Something had clawed its way in, tearing at the windows edges with the enough force to shear away great chunks of stone.

“I think that whatever that thing is, it came through the window and attacked Albin, taking his arm, which in turn made him small enough to fit through the expanded window.” – Vendramino

The old necromancer was standing precariously upon the heap of a bed looking out of the window.

“Why do you think the rat lost an arm?” – Lucretia

“The sleeve in the corner, it got caught in Abdul-Malik’s robes and tussled about, but it’s there, caked and dirty with ash, dust and vitae.” – Vendramino, still gazing out the window at the twenty or so foot drop on the other side.

“There, see where he landed, with that thing not far behind him.” – Vendramino

“Come, we must give chase!” – Lucretia ready to finally have her quarry’s sent

As the others fled the chamber and made their way out and around the wall Vendramino crawled up through the wrecked window, falling the twenty feet to the stony ground.

He landed on his feet with a muffled thud and surveyed his surroundings, turning the little bone filled glass vial that he kept around his wrist at all times.

“Gabriella” – Vendramino whispered to the relic

His wife’s spirit rose as smoke from the nights darkness.

“Did you do what I asked of you my love?” – Vendramino

“I have followed him yes.” – Gabriella

“And do you know where he is now?”

“He is not far, but he is also not long for your world. His death will soon find itself fulfilled.” – Gabriella moaned

“Did you jump?” – Teresa, incredulously

Vendramino turned to find the others on his tail. Kyrillos seemed a bit more reticent than the others and Vendramino realized that the Malkavian could sense his late wife.

“Go, lead the way my love.” – Vendramino whispered

The ghost flitted across the darkened city streets, her glimmering form lighting the way for him.

“He went this way.” – Vendramino

The others followed him through the streets, wondering how he could track the caitiff so well and so quickly. Teresa noticed the odd pattern in the street as they ran. A series of two holes followed by a long deep slash first to the left then the right over and over again, like tracks.

“There!” – Kyrillos cried and pointed to one of the roof tops.

The others looked up to see… something horrible crawling across the rooftop. It was as large as any two of them and shaped like a massive insect, its chitin glistening in the moonlight as it disappeared from view.

The vampires gave chase, losing sight of the monster, but at least Vendramino didn’t lose sight of his wife. Only a few minutes later they found themselves in a dead end ally.

“Where are we, Vendramino?” – Lucretia

“He’s here, he has to be.” – Vendramino

The shadows of the alleyway suddenly gave way, revealing the emaciated form of Albin, his thin blond hair matted against his face with his own dark blood.

Abdul-Malik breathed in deeply as the scent of the blood wafted toward him.

The one armed vampire hurled himself at Lucretia, mortified.

“It’s coming! It’s coming, you’ve got to save me! I’ll do anything!” – Albin, wrapping himself around the Vampire knight’s feet.

She couldn’t help but kick him off.

“What’s coming, Albin?” – Lucretia asked ruefully

With the inhuman keening of a half dozen rat voices the thing fell out of the sky and nearly crushed Lucretia and Kyrillos as it did so. The thing stood ten feet tall on its back legs, six heads, each with a different number of ruby red eyes looked down on its prey and hissed. It’s forelimbs were two mammoth scythes, slick with undead blood and black ichor.

With a single swipe it cut Albin in twain as he tried to flee. Kyrillos lunged forward after him, with Sherazhina coming up just behind him trying desperately to pull the vampire’s legs back toward his body. As the monster loomed over them hissing and raising its horrific scythes, Teresa reached out and wrapped her fingers around its legs and pulled. With a great wrenching and a crunch the legs came free at the joint.

The thing roared in pain but did not turn to look at her.

Lucretia raised her sword to the thing only to have it bring its blade down on her arm, cleaving through her armor but not her undead flesh. Her sword clanged to the ground hollowly.

Teresa reached out again and wrapped her arms around the thing and began to squeeze as the shell made a weak crunching noise

“Any time now, Abdul!” – Teresa

As if waiting for the signal, the Assamite leapt out of the shadows, picking up the severed legs of the creature and slammed them into the thing’s abdomen. He leapt up onto them and slammed down on the thing’s heads, crushing the teetering creature to the ground even as whatever animated the monster unwound leaving nothing but rat corpses and insect corpses in its wake.

“That went better than I thought it might.” – Kyrillos

he and the others pulled the caitiff together, the Malkavian went so far as to feed him his own blood to help him heal. After a short time the wounds closed and he was again able to stand, though his arm was lost.

Even as he stood though, Lucretia was on him.

“You are a dog!” – Lucretia, kicking him back to the ground, her fangs drawn, and her eyes wide with rage

The others moved to hold her back but she shrugged them off.

“I am in control!” – Lucretia, and it was so

She took the Caitiff’s foot and began to drag him back toward the fortress. When he began to scream she told him to stop and he did.

They barely recognized one of their oldest allies.

9th of February, 1211, 5:40am
The Great Hall
The Domain of Jurgen von Verden
Warlord of the Black Cross

Albin kneeled before Lord Jurgen’s throne, chained at his waist, wrists, neck and ankles, forced into a posture of supplication. All the Cainites who remained in the city had come when they heard that the crime had been uncovered.

Baron Heinrich stood to Jurgen’s Left, Rosamund to his Right, Lucretia stood behind Albin, sword in hand. Jurgen stood still as a corpse, his expression placid and passive. Silas and the other Performers stood in chains not far off, hands clasped before them as if praying.

“Albin of Magdeburg I have taken you into my home and given you purpose beyond what any Clanless vampire could ever expect. And this is how you repay my magnanimity.” – Jurgen

“Lord Jurgen von Verden, Prince of Magdeburg, Lord of Hungary and Childe of the High Lord Hardestadt has granted the Caitiff Traitor Albin of Magdeburg one chance to atone by revealing his co-conspirators and in doing so save his immortal existence.” – Lucretia announced to the crowd.

“Speak!” – Jurgen

And Albin spoke:

“My liege, I beg mercy! It was the Tremere, they came to me not three months ago. They told me that if I were to help them replace the sword that they would show me the secrets of their Blood Sorcery.” – Albin

Jurgen and the assemblage turned their gaze upon the corpulent Usurper Jervais who, for his part, looked utterly astonished

“And what use of this blood magic would you have?” – Jurgen, supplanting the caitiff’s will

“I would have used it to break your crippling grip over me and my city. I would have my revenge and send you home in disgrace.” – Albin spat angrily before recoiling from his own words

“Thierry came to me and promised me power in exchange for my ‘betrayal’ when you first began fortifying the city, but he betrayed me too, he sent that monster after me once my part was finished.” – Albin explained in a mewling tone

Jervais spun on Killian and grasped him with a hand wreathed in green flame.

“Albin of Magdeburg, for your crimes against the Black Cross I sentence you to internment within the deepest of my dungeons until such time I discover a use for you. You will dine on naught but the blood you can scavenge from rats and flies.” – Jurgen

He turned to Torenus.

“You are to be set free, but for your betraying the trust of this realm your are forever banished from these lands under pains of bloodhunt!” – Jurgen

The Guards released the Ravnos who bowed and thanked the prince profusely before scurrying off into the night.

Finally Jurgen turned on Jervais and his retinue.

“Jervais Bani Tremere, you have sought to use intrigue and guile to fool those who sit beyond your station in hopes to forge a closer bond between your ‘clan’ and the Black cross. In doing so you have sacrificed any chance of there ever being any such arrangement. Do you wish to salvage even a mote of honor I will grant you a chance to explain yourself.” – Jurgen

Jervais stepped forward, dragging Thierry behind him.

“Milord, I cannot begin to explain what we’ve heard here today. I had sent Thierry ahead to speak with your court but only to ease our passage and ask for protection through Tzimisce Territory. I assure you that when I examined your sword I was under the impression that it was of the purist provenance.” – Jervais

Jervais pulled Thierry forward bound by wisps of green flame.

“Explain yourself!” – Jervais, looking Thierry in the eye

The young Tremere’s eyes grew wide.

“I only wanted to help you Master Jervais. I thought that if it would favor an alliance should it were to appear that the alliance between the Court of Love were collapsing!” – Thierry, against his will.

9th of February, 1211, 7:32am
The City Gate
The Domain of Jurgen von Verden
Warlord of the Black Cross

The scream surprised Brother Duncan as he made his rounds near the City’s gate just after dawn. He knew the voice the moment he heard it as it was his best friend, Brother Karl.

Duncan ran to the Gate to find Karl holding what looked like some sort of blanket or cloak in his arms and screaming to heaven.

The Brother Knight rushed to his grief stricken ally and tore the thing from his arms.

“No, you can’t, you can’t take him, he needs to be given last rights!” – Karl, nonsensically

Duncan looked at his friend as if he were mad and then looked down at the blanket that he was holding. It felt like leather or…

He looked at the boneless body of Brother Kurt that he was now clutching in his hands and scrawled into his dead friend’s chest:

“Let it be known that we are at war. Bring your forces if you wish. Victory will be ours.”

Brother Duncan began to scream!