Priscus of Marseilles, The Lady of Marseilles, The Red Lady
Road: Road of the Devil
Concept: Lowlife (Prostitute)
Haven: The Villa
Physical: Strength: 2, Dexterity: 2, Stamina: 2
Social: Charisma: 5, Manipulation: 3, Appearance: 5
Mental: Perception: 2, Intelligence: 2, Wits: 4
Talents: Alertness: 2, Athletics: 1, Dodge: 1, Empathy: 4 (Truth), Expression: 4 (Acting), Intimidation: 4 (Staredowns), Subterfuge: 2
Skills: Etiquette: 3, Melee: 4 (Parry), Stealth: 3
Knowledges: Hearth Wisdom: 3, Occult: 2, Seneschal: 1
Disciplines: Auspex: 1, Presence: 5
Backgrounds: Generation: 3, Herd 4, Mentor: 3, Resources: 4, Status 4
Virtues: Conviction: 3, Instinct: 3, Courage: 5
Blood Pool: 14
April 9, 1172
The dream fades as soon as she wakes. Her skin is damp with perspiration. Out the window she can see the nearly full moon. A branch sways in the wind and the dirty pane rattles. There was a man in the dream, tall and fair. But there have been many men. They are all the same.
The shadow of the branch plays across the floor. In the next bed a woman moans in her sleep. She is close to death. It will come soon. The wind whistles, the cool draft chills her. A shadow moves in the corner of the room. A man, tall and fair, watches her. His eyes reflect the moonlight and he smiles.
“Are you in much pain?” he asks. She looks at the man. Dreaming still? No. She has seen him before but not in a dream. On the street. He never came to her, just watched her from across the square.
“No.” she replies. “The pain has gone.” A pause, “Breathing is hard.”
He moves from the corner and seats himself in a chair by the bed. He looks at the other women on the ward and shivers. The branch taps the window. The silver light reveals a handsome but deeply lined face. A scar runs down his neck and disappears under his collar. His hands appear strong like those of the brutish men on the street but are soft when he lays his hand on her head.
“The fever does not seem to be too bad.” he says. He brushes away a lock of hair that is matted along the side of her face.
“Who are you sir?” she asks. “And why have you come to this place? Surely you do not intend to inquire about my services.”
“No,” he says, “I am here to give you something that no one has before.” She looks at the man, the question plain on her face. He smiles and says, “A choice, my dear lady.”
He stands and crosses the room to where the basin stands. He pulls a fine silken cloth from his jacket, dips it in the water and wrings it out. He places the cloth across her forehead. The cool water feels good against her skin. The shadow and light play across his face. The pane rattles.
“A choice?” she asks. “What choice do I have? I am not long for this world and I have no choice in that.”
“But that is where you are mistaken my dear. You do have a choice.” he smiles at her. “You can die in this sad room, surrounded by these wretched souls or you can die in the garden, on a bed of clover, under the moon and stars.”
She wonders if he is mad. He does not appear so but appearances can be misleading. She wishes to call out to the nurse but her voice is weak and his eyes, his eyes tell her no. She cannot help but obey. Panic fills her, but there is nothing she can do. She is weak, she is dying. She is at peace.
“I offer you a beautiful death.” the man says. His hand caresses the side of her face, one long finger tracing along her neck. She meets his gaze. His eyes do not hold any malice.
“Take me to the garden.” she says.
The pane rattles.