The setting sun paints New Rome in rose and gold. The dome of the Hagia Sofia glitters in the fading light as the shadows beneath the long walls lengthen and deepen. As night falls many of the half million souls that call the greatest city in the world home begin to return to their domiciles and leave the streets. Taverns and eating houses continue to serve a varied clientele as did less savory establishments. Some of the faithful climb the steps to various churches to light candles and pray.
As darkness falls, others rise. In churches and palaces, in ruined cisterns and secluded glades, in darkened sewers and run down houses, the Kindred rise.
In a deserted villa in the Arcadia District of Region 1, an immortal with the body of a youth stirs and wakes.
Havoc awake with 9 Blood.
Outside the Walls of Theodosius, a great warrior emerges from the earth.
Hotfoot start 11 blood
In the prosperous District of Marius in Region 3 , a beautiful artist stirs within a large manse aping the barbarian styles of Western churches.
Marcao awaken with 7 blood.
In the Central Meses, where the city streets are still full and busy, a great lady wakes within the walls of her villa.
Tev, wake with 9 blood.
In the Latin Quarter, within the Genoese District, a deathless merchant and mage rises in squat, fortified manse.
Tortoise rises with 11 blood.
In a rundown and dilapitated house near the Church of St. Irene, a foreigner greets the night.
rhoenix start with 6 blood.
It's not that I'm unforgiving, it's that most of the people who wrong me are unrepentant assholes.
The wine was terrible, even by the admittedly low standards of Constantinopolis' Ninth district, and the bitter taste only put Stavros in a worse mood, as did the abominable sniffling noise Mary was making. She knew that drove him crazy, so why did she persist? It was as though she was daring him to do his worst. Putting the bottle back on the table, Stavros stood up, walked over to Mary in two paces, and struck her with the back of his hand, not hard, just enough to show her he wasn't kidding. The girl fell to one side, striking her shoulder and head on the wall of the hovel, and lay there in a heap, eyes red and streaming tears, though at least she had sense enough not to cry.
"I don't know how else to explain to you, Mary," said Stavros, walking back to the table and taking another swig of wine. "If you beg your living in Caenopolis, you pay me. All the others know it. What's wrong with you?"
She didn't answer. She was trying to not provoke him, he knew, and that just made him more angry. "Do you think I can make exceptions for you?" he asked. "Do you think you're special? Is that what it is? What applies to the others doesn't apply to you?" He turned back to face her, seeing her lying on the floor of the hovel, wide-eyed and shaking. "That's it, isn't it," he said. "You think you're important? Born to the Purple?"
Mary wet her lips, tried to steady herself enough not to shake. "I'm..." she stammered, "I'm not important, Stavros."
"That's right!" roared Stavros, letting the fire in his gut from the terrible wine burst out of him in a gout of flame and stench. "You're not important at all. I could hang your guts over the rafters and rent out your little cunt to all the gutter-trash what crossed my door. Make more money than you've ever been worth to me, Mary, and no-one would bat a eye at it. Not here. So I'll ask you again what made you think you could beg in Caenopolis and not pay me."
"I... I didn't have nothing to pay with," said the girl, her voice barely rising above the low din outside.
"Don't lie to me," said Stavros, teeth clenched together, as he knotted his hand into Mary's hair and pulled her to her feet. "Pretty thing like you don't have to ask hard even. And if the good folk've forgotten charity, there's always one who'll pay you for work on your back."
Mary squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. "I... I can't."
"Too proud are we?" asked Stavros. "You've got what? Twelve summers under you? Don't you think it's time to act your part? You've a brother to look for, Mary, and if you're not willing, I know some who'll pay for him."
"No!"
Mary's eyes flew open wide and she jerked uselessly, pathetically, to try and free herself. Stavros smiled and clenched his fingers all the tighter. "Now you'd best find the christian heart to tell me the truth, Mary, and pay what's owed to your betters, or I'll take it out from you in whatever way I think's best."
"I haven't got any coin!" she blurted out, and the tears started again, and the sniffling, and Stavros felt his temper fraying again. "They wouldn't come near me from the cough."
One word cut through the red haze already descending over Stavros' eyes. "Cough?" he asked, "what cough?"
"I..." her eyes flicked to him, glistening and full of fear. She hesitated visibly, and he shook her, hard, knocking her head against the wall.
"What cough?"
"I... I've had it for... for a week or so," she said. "It's just the dust from the streets. But they..."
Mary might have gone on or stopped there, for Stavros was no longer listening. Instead his eye was drawn to her watery eyes and nose, to the paleness of her skin, a bit too pronounced on second glance to be due only to fear. To her bare neck, where a pair of tiny lumps seemed to be showing just beneath her jawline - "
"Bitch!" roared Stavros, and he hurled her against the wall, hard as he could, and jumped back as though she'd just melted into the ground. "You brought plague into my house?!"
"No! It's..." she tried to continue, but her own lungs betrayed her, and she collapsed into coughing. Stavros stared down at her with clenched fists and teeth, anger and fear spinning together inside him into a single black mass. "It's... not plague," she managed to cough out, weakly.
"That's why you came out here," said Stavros, no longer speaking to her, or to anyone in particular. "You're trying to kill me, isn't you! You little bitch." He kicked her with the toe of his boot, hard enough to crush the air from her lungs, overturning her and sending her sliding into a corner. "You murderous little harlot," he spat, walking back to the table and drawing the pearling knife he kept strapped underneath it. "I'll cut your throat out and feed you to the pigs!"
Gasping for air, no longer trying to suppress her cough, Mary tried to crawl away from him, but Stavros seized her with one hand, yanking her back to her feet and hooking the tip of the knife over the collar of her dress before -
A resounding crash, and the splintering of wood. Stavros turned his head reflexively to see what had happened.
"Put her down."
Stavros' muscles obeyed before he even had a chance to realize that someone else had spoken. All of a sudden Mary was laying on the floor again at his feet, and he was staring at his empty hand and un-bloodied knife, trying to remember what had just happened. It was several seconds before Stavros even recalled that he had heard a voice, and when he turned his head, he saw that his front door was ajar, and a boy was standing in the doorway staring at him without blinking.
No, not one boy, two, the smaller standing behind the larger, watching the proceedings with eyes even wider than the first. The smaller one was Mary's brother, Alexios he thought the name might be. He'd seen the urchin before, running the streets like the rest of the orphaned guttersnipes of Caenopolis, but he hadn't even recognized the child was there, so totally had his attention been riveted on the one in front of him, the one he didn't recognize.
Why? There was nothing immediately distinctive about the first boy. A little older than Alexios, maybe nine or ten years, wearing a faded tunic and a rough cloak around his shoulders that came down to his knees. A touch lighter than the other, save for his eyes, but nothing to distinguish him from a hundred other children. No, it was the bearing of the child that demanded attention. The way he held his head, the directness of his stare, the utter lack of fear in his eyes, that was why Stavros was still staring at him, three whole seconds later, as Mary crawled away unhindered, and the knife in his hand suddenly felt like a child's toy instead of the instrument of fear it should have been.
"What in Christ's name do you think you're doing?" asked Stavros, but his voice somehow didn't have the roiling timbre he liked to put into it, the one that made those who offended him fall to their knees and beg for mercy. Instead it sounded hollow, as though the acoustics of the room had changed with the boy's advent, and he watched, dumbfounded as the child proceeded to ignore him completely, crouching down as the girl crawled over and taking her hand. Her brother was at her side in an instant, and the both of them helping her up, as Stavros stood there in the middle of his own house like a forgotten ornament. At great length, he contrived to shake off his lassitude and step forward, the fire burning back up in his belly. "Who are you?!" he roared, and he took heart from his own roar, for it was rich and angry and had recovered its volume.
"Be quiet, dog," said the child, his voice dripping with contempt. The boy's Greek had an accent to it, but not one Stavros could place, even had he not been drunk and angry in equal measure. Though the knife remained in his hand, he turned to his side, and snatched up a cudgel from the wall, spinning back around and swinging it at the boy's head, intending to make a point to these rats about what happened when one talked back to one's betters.
Drunkenness gave Stavros weight and power, and the blow shattered the already-weak end of the cudgel, toppling the boy like a puppet with its strings cut. No sound or cry did he make, and Stavros thought for a moment that he might have killed him outright, yet moments later he rose to his hands and knees and climbed back to his feet, shaking his head and rubbing his ear where the blow had landed, but neither turning around nor crying out. Before Stavros' eyes, before the astonished eyes of Alexios, the boy took Mary's arm once more and began helping her to the door, leaving Stavros standing dumbstruck, holding the sundered end of his cudgel like a truant child caught with a stolen sweetmeat.
Alexios looked as shocked as Stavros, and opened his mouth to ask a question, but the boy only shook his head in silence, and helped Mary out of the door, ignoring Stavros as though he were not even there. Carefully, shakily, Mary descended the steps, her arm draped over her brother's shoulders, and the other boy helped them out into the late evening air, though he did not step outside as they did. Slowly recovering his wits, Stavros dropped what was left of the cudgel and stepped forward, placing a meaty hand on the boy's right shoulder, intending to spin him round and demand, if nothing else, an explanation for what madness was transpiring here.
But no sooner did Stavros' hand touch the boy's shoulder than something clamped down on it like a vice of iron. Stavros felt a jolt of withering pain, strong enough to pierce the haze of drunkenness, and tried to pull his hand away, and found that he could not. And when his eyes refocused, he saw that the boy had reached across himself with his left hand and grabbed him, holding him in place as he stepped back from the threshold, reached across with his right hand, and gently closed the door.
And then he turned around.
Stavros felt his hand leaving the boy's shoulder as the boy pried it off seemingly without effort, and then suddenly he was facing him, staring up at him with eyes that were wrong somehow, irises that gleamed as white as ivory and pupils that seemed to be undulating, like reservoirs of ink topping their wells and threatening to spill over. Something in that gaze un-nerved him, and Stavros tried to pull away, but could not, for the boy still held his hand in a grip like iron. And then suddenly the boy's grip tightened, enough that he heard the bones in his own hand cracking, and he fell on his knees and opened his mouth and cried out.
The knife was still in his hand, and he swung it, wildly, at the thing which he knew deep inside could not be a child. Perhaps his blow was slow, or perhaps the child faster than should have been possible, but the boy stepped inside the swipe and caught his arm with his free hand, before stepping forward and kicking Stavros in the chest with his sandaled foot like a bucking horse, hurling him across the room and into the far wall, scattering furniture as he flew. The knife landed at the boy's feet, and he stooped and picked it up, turning it over in one hand for a moment before tossing it aside and reaching inside his cloak. Moments later, the boy drew forth a sword from behind himself, a sword with the dun color of a well-used tool, and a blade two feet long and leaf-shaped. In the hands of this small child, it seemed almost ludicrous, save that the boy betrayed no fear or clumsiness as he clenched the hilt, staring at Stavros in petrifying silence.
"Who are you?" asked Stavros, eyes wide and voice stilled.
"I am Marcus Sertorius Postumus," said the boy, as though this answered everything. "And you are Stavros the Thief."
"I'm no thief," said Stavros, clambering back to his feet, eyes darting left and right as he sought for something to use against this... thing that had invaded his home. What it was, perhaps some freakish midget with un-natural strength, he did not presently dare to consider.
"You have a better name for one who steals the pennies of beggar-girls and beats them if they don't sell themselves for more?" asked the boy, his previously-cold voice taking on an edge that was, if anything, even worse.
Fear was overcoming sense, and Stavros tried to fight it off the only way he knew. Seizing the bottle of wine that had landed near his feet, he shattered it against the wall and held the jagged ceramic fragments forward. "I'll do worse'n that to you, catamite, if you don't - "
"KNEEL."
If the last command had been inarguable, this was as the voice of God. A single word, filled with all the contempt of a thousand ages that sent waves of nausea through his stomach and dropped him to his knees as though by main force. The bottle landed uselessly at his side, and before he could even think to retrieve it, the boy stepped forward and smashed the flat of his sword into the side of Stavros' head with all the power of a ballista.
The blow was such that Stavros did not feel himself crashing to the ground, did not hear the bottle shattering beneath him or feel the shards that stuck into his back. It was such that he could only dimly perceive, from where he lay on the ground, the boy slowly walking towards him, sliding his sword back into its hidden sheathe, and kneeling down before him.
"Wh... what... what are..." stammered Stavros weakly, even as the boy slowly removed his cloak and sword and set them carefully to one side, folding the former about the latter, sitting on his heels in his plain tunic and sandals like any other child as he looked down at Stavros.
"I'm something people such as you pray every night you will never encounter," said the boy as he gently leaned over Stavros, turning him onto his side as he lifted Stavros' arm. "Something you have feared for your entire life, even if you did not know that you did."
The child raised Stavros' wrist to his lips, and Stavros saw a pair of white fangs in the boy's mouth, sharp as razors, and glistening in the lamplight like tiny, perfect jewels.
"I'm a Roman," said the boy as Stavros felt a small prick in his wrist, and then nothing more.
Alexios wasn't sure when it was that the other showed up again. But that was no different than any other time. One moment he was helping Mary through the streets and alleys, and the next, someone else had taken most of the weight, and he turned and saw the boy from before hoisting his sister's arm over his shoulders. The boy looked no different than he had before, except perhaps that his gaze was less fierce, less direct than it had been. He said nothing to Alexios, simply watched, and Alexios reciprocated, leading them on through Caenopolis' labyrinthine byways until they finally arrived at a tiny tenament packed side-by-side with a brothel and a tavern. Climbing the stairs inside, Alexios and the other boy gently aided Mary up the stairs to the top floor and into the tiny room that served them as home.
By now, Mary was coughing uncontrollably, the swollen glands at her neck standing out like wine grapes, and she collapsed into the cot as they laid her down. She stared up at the smoke-stained ceiling, her eyes unfocused, mumbling to herself in tones too low to make out. Alexios glanced furtively at the other boy as he laid the back of his hand across Mary's forehead, his eyes running over her face.
"Is it the plague?" asked Alexios at last, when he could stand it no longer.
The other boy shook his head. "I don't know," he said, in unplaceable Greek. "I don't think so, but I can't tell."
"I asked her not to go today. But she said we had to get something or..."
"She got something," said the other one, reaching into his cloak and producing a small bundle made from a discarded rag. He tossed it lightly to Alexios, who caught it, and heard the clink of coin within it. "She dropped it when Stavros struck her," said the other boy by way of explanation.
Alexios stared at the bundle in confusion. "But he wanted money," he said. "Why didn't she just give it to him?"
The other boy shrugged. "For you, I'd guess. She didn't want you to go hungry today."
Something sharp and painful stuck in Alexios' stomach as he clutched the small bundle to his chest. "Is... she dying?"
The other boy didn't react to the question. "Maybe," he finally said. "I really don't know."
"But... but you can help her, can't you, Markos?" asked Alexios breathlessly. "I've seen you do it."
The boy named Marcus sighed and shook his head. "Alexius, I can't - "
"You did it to Sofia back when there was that fire last winter!" exclaimed Alexios breathlessly. "I saw you do it! You did something to her and she got better, even though Kyrillos said she was going to die!"
The other boy's head picked up and he turned to Alexios, dark eyes wide and expression dangerous. "How do you know what I did to Sofia?"
"Because I saw you," said Alexios, tears coming to his eyes as he struggled on. "You told us all to leave and closed the door but I saw you through a hole in the wall. Kyrillos said that I shouldn't look but I did look and I saw you do something to her." The stories that circulated about Marcus came flooding back to the fore, the whispered tales of sorcery and witchcraft, of un-natural power and inhuman wrath, but it was too late now, and Alexios had greater fears regardless. "I know I wasn't supposed to look and that you didn't want me to and that you're gonna beat me or kill me for it but... you just... you have to help Mary like you helped Sofia! Please. Then you can kill me."
Marcus said nothing, watching him with that un-nerving stare that caused older children, even full grown men, to hesitate in his presence, and moments later, Alexios could bear it no longer, and broke down in tears. Yet instead of the beating (or worse) he assumed would be coming from a child who seemed to think nothing of challenging armed men alone, after a moment he felt Marcus' arm around his shoulders, pulling him forward until he was leaning his head on Marcus' shoulder. It was some time before he was able to calm himself down enough to talk again.
"Please, Markos..." he said. He couldn't get any further without lapsing back into tears.
Slowly Marcus pushed him back upright. "I'm not Veiovis," he said.
"Who?"
"... Asclepius?" ventured Marcus, and when that produced no result, he simply shook his head. "Nevermind, Alexius, I can't just cure everyone of whatever's the matter with them. I'm not a God."
"I don't want you to cure everyone," insisted Alexios. "I just want you to help her!"
Marcus didn't answer immediately, turning away and seemingly staring through Mary at the cot or floor beyond for a while. Alexios didn't know whether to say something further or not, but after what seemed like a thousand years, Marcus spoke first.
"There's a price for everything," he said.
Alexios swallowed, and creeping back over to Marcus' side, gingerly pressed the bundle of cloth and coin back into his hands. Yet to his surprise, Marcus only shook his head and pushed it back.
"No," said Marcus. "Not that."
Slowly, Alexios took a deep breath. "You... you can take me, if you want," he said nervously, forcing himself not to cry again.
Marcus turned back, his brow furrowed. "Take you?" he asked. "Take you where?"
"I... I don't know," said Alexios. "They say..." he thought better of continuing, too late.
"What do they say?" asked Marcus.
"That... you're a sorcerer. That you pray to devils. And that they make you sacrifice people to them. And that's why you can... do... whatever you do."
"Then if I'm a sorcerer, why did you come to me?"
Alexios forced back his fear, biting his lower lip. "Because Mary said you could help us. She said you might be a demon, but... that you helped people like us sometimes. And I didn't know what else to do."
Marcus gave no sign if that answer pleased or displeased him. Instead, the strange boy seemed to sigh and turn away again, once more letting time pass before responding.
"I don't pray to devils," he said at length. "And I don't sacrifice people." He paused for a while, staring off into the darkness as though it held some sort of revelation. "But I am a demon."
Alexios didn't know how to answer that, and so did not. It might have been another minute before Marcus finally turned to him with a sigh of what sounded like resignation.
"Alexius," said Marcus, "if I help her, will you be willing to help me?"
Alexios nodded. "What do you want me to do?"
"Nothing right now," said Marcus. "But some day, maybe soon, I might need something from you. Maybe I'll need you to tell me something, or help me find someone. Or I might need you to help me, the same way I... might... be able to help her."
Alexios hung on the word. "Might?"
"All I can do is try, Alexius. But if I do..."
"I'll... I'll help you!" said Alexios. "I promise! I'll help you any way I can. Just... please..." He looked up at Marcus, trying to gauge if the appeal was having any effect. "Please?" he repeated.
Marcus sighed again, in the same tone as before, and then turned back to Alexios and took him by the shoulder, leading him towards the door.
"I'll see what I can do," he said.
"You... you will?" asked Alexios, scarcely able to credit it. "You really will?"
For the first time tonight. Maybe the first time since Alexios had ever seen Marcus, the strange boy smiled. "Yes, I will," he said, guiding the smaller boy out of the room and pausing at the threshold. "But please, Alexius, for your own sake, for mine, and for Mary's, please don't look this time. Not this time, whatever you do. We'll just be a moment."
There was a tone to Marcus' voice that brooked no argument, a tone well beyond the "serious" tones of what few adults Alexios knew, the one that made even the pickpockets and would-be bullies of Caenopolis alter their tacts around this boy. It was nothing magical or even forceful, simply a bearing and tone that did not belong on one such as him. Alexios could never have put the sensation into words, but it was there all the same, as visible to him as an early-morning star.
"I won't," he promised. And he meant it.
And maybe Marcus saw that in his eyes, for he said nothing more, simply turning around to let Alexios close the door behind him and walking back over to Mary's cot, where she lay in fevered torment, brow wet and eyes frightened. And though it took everything in Alexios' young soul to do so, he slowly slid the door closed, and the last sight he had of the boy named Marcus was of him drawing the sword from within his cloak and placing the edge of it on his outstretched palm, held above Mary's head, even as he whispered something in a language distant and alien, and yet sounded almost familiar.
Audire me, Iupiter. Ego sum Marcus Sertorius Postumus, et haec filii dignus vivere...
Gaze upon my works, ye mighty, and despair...
Havoc: "So basically if you side against him, he summons Cthulu."
Hotfoot: "Yes, which is reasonable."
Awakening in a new place, smelling of unwashed and desperate humanity - Gunnar had done these things before, though now it seemed especially rife, as it was in the Pisan Quarter. He rubbed his face, and felt his body's insistent reminder that he had done too much and fed too little, these past few nights. Even so, there were options available now, even as desperate as it felt here.
The Pisan Quarter was packed with too many desperate people in too small a place, where poor sanitation and bad living conditions made for a sort of humanity more base and feral than other, more "civilized" portions of the city. The thought made Gunnar smirk to himself, as he made sure of his few belongings, and set out to make contact with the few members of humanity here he was able to feed from.
Moving through the narrow, cramped streets with the equally claustrophobic buildings around him, Gunnar restrained his reactions to seeing so many desperate people moving around him, almost feral in their movements in places. The Latin community here had been compressed into too small a space in these three Quarters of the city Constantinople, the next great experiment of civilization - and a growing concern of his Clan for the patterns that suggested disquieting influences at work. This was not a surprise - snakes will slither through small holes to make their prey, and ruinous taint would spread where it was allowed to - but the specific sort of patterns at work here suggested poison of a particular virility at work.
His first destination was the small, morbid market from which he deftly purchased the makings of a full meal meant to feed a family well. He could have bargained down each component quite a bit more, he thought - but these people had it difficult as it was, and paid only slightly less than what they initially asked for. Besides - he would be able to make up the difference easily enough, especially given certain planned investments he'd look into soon.
Making his way through the uncomfortable streets, he soon came upon the small home of Daria Reggio, a woman who had caught his eye last night, and had been given the offer of becoming his supplier, as it were. He knocked politely on the door, and a moment later, saw a fearful eye looking through the cloth at him, before she swept it aside, and waved him inside. She looked nervous, clasping her hands as she darted her eyes quickly between his general direction and the door. "Can I help you, m'lord?" she asked quietly.
Gunnar stood calmly, his hands at his sides as he regarded her. "I am simply here to ask for your capacity as supplier, Daria. Of course, I also have recompense for it," he said, showing her the few coins in his palm, which he quietly set on the table next to him.
Her eyes went round at the sight, and then looked at him uncertainly. "What... what do I do?"
Gunnar gave her a quiet smile. "It would be easier on you if you are sitting. Do you have water and food? It would be easier on you afterwards."
She shook her head, giving him an odd look. He shrugged, and set the bag with the food inside on the table beside the coins. She gave him an especially odd look as she walked over, and examined the contents of the bag, gave him another odd look, but sat in the chair.
He was about to take his place beside her, when a large, unkempt-looking man angrily swept aside the curtain that served as her door, and glared at her before glaring at Gunnar. "Takin' side-jobs, eh? Tryin' to pocket some coin without giving proper tithing for protection, eh?"
The man reached over to grab the stack of coins, but his arm was stopped as Gunnar grasped the man's wrist with a firm grip, and try though he did, he was not able to move his arm any further. "That is not yours," Gunnar said firmly, before shoving the man's arm back to his side.
The man immediately threw a heavy punch aimed at Gunnar's face, though the man's fist was stopped halfway by Gunnar firmly holding the man's fist. Gunnar spoke directly to the man in a quiet voice. "That was your one free attack. You shall not get another. Do you understand?"
With that, Gunnar threw the man's arm back at him, and simply looked at him silently. The man snarled, and withdrew a knife from his boot, which he grasped firmly. "You're going to get a lesson in interfering with my business, stranger," he growled before lunging clumsily at him.
It was simple enough to twist the man's arm back painfully, remove the knife that was held in it, and then force the man to walk back out the door, the man gasping in pain the entire time. Gunnar marched the man toward a nearby wall, and used the knife to anchor the man by the nape of his coat three feet off the ground. That done, Gunnar regarded the futilely-struggling man. "My business with her does not involve you. Kindly remember that in future, for I will return to these quarters," Gunnar said flatly to him, before walking back once more into Daria's home.
"My apologies for the interruption, good lady," he said with a nod, as he swept the curtain back over her doorway. She looked at him, wide-eyed, but nodded uncertainly as she sat back down on the chair.
He didn't take much from her, and he made sure to do so gently, licking the wound once he was finished, to encourage faster healing. She looked at him with glassy eyes, but focused on him after a moment. He nodded to her once. "My thanks, good lady. Have you need of anything before I leave you to your evening?"
She looked at him oddly again, but shook her head. "No, m'lord - I... I believe I will be fine. Er... did you not want anything else of me?"
Gunnar smiled, and shook his head. "No, good lady - you have my gratitude," he said as he left.
Following the map in his mind of this district, he went next to another on his supply list, Ursula Arpeggio. She was slightly better off than Daria in terms of what she had, but Gunnar still brought her a dinner as well as her recompense. She appeared more familiar with certain vampiric inclinations of some in the city at night, and so the process was far simpler. Even so, he left her the dinner and her coins.
With one more stop to make, to the small residence of the Faccinello sisters, Cornelia and Cosima. Only one had agreed to his employ, and so he endured suspicious looks from Cosima, as he and Cornelia went into her bedroom. When the emerged less than three minutes later, the looks' intensity and incredulity only increased. Gunnar stoically bore this as his burden, hearing muttered comments about "painfully fast" even as he calmly walked out the door, suppressing a sigh.
After having made these three trips, Gunnar was now feeling substantially better, as his hunger had lessened. Constantinople was a place of the world in microcosm - beautiful and terrible in equal measure, and he had yet to properly measure its depths. Having already given his word to Shabbah to begin as soon as he was able with his appointed task, he began a slow patrol of the three quarters, deciding to start with the more destitute places first to espy any abnormal corruption.
(fed 2 blood from all three, totaling 6 blood received from Herd. Looking for anything peculiar in the people of the three Latin quarters)
Last edited by rhoenix on Wed May 23, 2012 6:11 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self-esteem, make sure that you are not, in fact, just surrounded by assholes."
- William Gibson
Josh wrote:What? There's nothing weird about having a pet housefly. He smuggles cigarettes for me.
Marcus headed toward the packed hovels of Caenopolus, the slum at the bottom of the Second Hill in Region IX. The journey is not long, but the darkness of true night has a firm grip by the time he has arrived. The night air is still warm and humid, retaining much of the heat of the summer day. The decrepit district houses a sea of humanity, packed tightly within crumbling buildings which form narrow streets and narrower alleyways. The smell of garbage, cook fires, and cheap wine fill the air. Few men are on the street, but taverns and wine shops are still open and prostitutes lean out of the windows of their cribs, calling to passers by.
Few men give the vampire boy much notice. As the Roman walks passed an alley at the side of a tavern, he hears the unmistakeable sound of a stream of liquid striking dirt. Inside a squat, swarthy man lifted his tunic to piss against a wall. He let out a loud, satisfied belch.
It's not that I'm unforgiving, it's that most of the people who wrong me are unrepentant assholes.
Adrianus awoke from his bed in one of the windowless interior rooms of his Manse as the sun dropped below the Horizon. He was dead, and did not need to stretch, but did so anyway. He looked like a man in his early thirties who had seen much. Worry lines cross his face and some of the hairs of his beard had gone grey years before his embrace. He rose in his chainse and braies, changed them from his wardrobe, and got himself dressed. He fussed over this for a few moments, before selecting red hose, his usual boots, and a red doublet over a green silk tunic that reached between his waste and knees. He fastened his arming sword and buckler to his waste with his belt.
In life, he would have had to shave and trim his beard, but he had done so immediately before his embrace, and as a result had a short beard and mustache combination that was always in good trim. He then exited the room.
"Master! Good morning,such as it is!" Adrianus rolled his eyes back in his head with a bit of a grin on his face as Mattheus, his somewhat high strung but immensely capable Seneschal came scurrying up to him. He was a likable man, in the sense that his general bearing was earnest. He had a trustworthy smile. It made him easy to do business with. The fact was, he only looked and acted the part. Mattheus could lie scheme and betray with the best of them--but never against his master. The only problem, one of necessity really and one that became amusing after a while, was that he went to bed just after sunset and arose before dawn. This meant that an entire day's business got handed to Adrianus at the beginning of each evening. Accounts, bids on contracts, counter-offers to his own bids. All of it when Adrianus was in varying states of hunger, and had the business of patrolling his territory to attend to. The vagabond vampires with no demesne of their own were out just after dark, and even regular ne'er-do-wells gave him a chance to feed without straining his own herd. He could put an end to it if he really wanted to, but it amused him, and he preferred even the most loyal of his ghouls to have as much autonomy as possible, as it kept them from becoming drones, in his estimation.
"These are the days accounts as well as the names of everyone in the city who imports..."
Adrianus took Mattheus by the shoulders very gently
"Mattheus, I thank you for your diligence, as always, but there are the usual matters to attend to. I know it is a lot, but I can deal with it later in the evening while you sleep. Besides, nothing actionable can be done until morning anyway. Go get some sleep."
Mattheus grinned sheepishly. This really did happen every night, it was routine by now. Almost to the point of an inside joke.
After a few minutes, Adrianus was walking across the courtyard when he spied an armored figure standing in the main gateway to the manse.
"Shall we depart my friend?" Adrianus asked
"I believe so, sire. The usual modus?"
"Yes Sir Guillaume. Follow closely until we are done with the visibility rounds, then at a discrete distance. No need to interfere if my only prey are cutthroats. You would only scare them. If kindred however, I would prefer not to take chances."
"Of course sire. Open the gate!"
With that, the two men at the door unbolted the porthole set into the larger gate and permitted them to exit before closing and bolting it behind them. The sun was down and most craftsmen were not working anymore. Those who did not work in their own homes and the taverns would stay open, but for now, the streets were relatively busy as far as a vampire might recon them. At this point, he was making his presence known to the people so that everyone would thus assume he was conducting business at some point or another. He would also check the rounds of the four of his guards outside on the evening shift and get reports from them. From there, he would begin his own evening skulk after the streets quieted down.
"Nothing in biology makes sense except in the light of evolution."
- Theodosius Dobzhansky
There is no word harsh enough for this. No verbal edge sharp and cold enough to set forth the flaying needed. English is to young and the elder languages of the earth beyond me. ~Frigid
The Holocaust was an Amazing Logistical Achievement~Havoc
August 4, 1196
Constantinople, District Of Marius
La Perla
The edifice that had been named "La Perla" stood apart from the overwhelming majority of its peers by virtue of its design. The building shared many of the features of the cathedrals it had been undoubtedly designed to mirror. The building also incorporate high ceilings, arches and a mix of Romanesque architectural styles with newer elements of what would in time become known as "Gothic" architecture. The pointed arches were prevalent, giving the entire building an unusual and somewhat alien visage when compared to the majority of the buildings in the district. In essence, La Perla stood out much akin to its owner.
La Perla was located in the center of a exquisitely manicured ground which included a series of two large fountains to the north and south of the La Perla proper. The runoff water from these two large fountains was collected and guided through special waterways to two smaller fountains to the east and west. It was rumored that La Perla had been built to tap directly into one of the waterways that fed the great city of Constantinople and that it even had its own reservoir beneath it. The rumors about the building were multitude considering that its chief architect appeared to have retired shortly after having finished its construction. The initial construction of La Perla had taken over fourteen years and had been truly completed four years after its owner had moved into the premises.
Aside from its manicured grounds and the four fountains immediately surrounding it, it was the focus of the building on vertical aspects and light. While many of the surroundings buildings revolved around limited windows, La Perla seemed dominated by windows which were massive in comparison. The windows in the first floor climbed nearly to the top of the second floor of comparable buildings. Although La Perla had only four floors of space according to its plan, its higher than usual ceilings and pointed arches made it in truth seem significantly bigger than those four floors would suggest. In the day time, light penetrated the many windows and seemed to bathe the inside of the edifice in a sea of light. The windows in the upper floors were all stained with a mixture of images ranging from the triumph of Michael over the Dragon, to complex patterns with no discernible meaning.
The lucky few that had been invited within its walls had spoken of marble floors and jade topped tables. They had whispered of an art collection composed of some of the greatest artists of the city, of glass imported from Venice and furs from the far East. Within La Perla, wealth was evident from the floor to the vaulted ceilings. La Perla was not protected by impenetrable walls and a host of armed guards. Its location within its district had not warranted such mundane steps. While La Perla was indeed home to a small cadre of well trained guards and highly motivated guards, its walls were predominantly ornamental designed to accentuate the overall beauty of the state more so than prevent insurmountable obstacles. What kept La Perla safe was the maneuvering and political power of its owner, in conjunction with the presence of the Varangian Guard.
La Perla, 4th Floor
Master Bedroom
As the sun fell from the heavens so did the master of La Perla stir. Within mere moments of the sun having had faded beneath the night sky, the Toreador stirred the silk sheets around his body and the firmness of the mattress beneath him no longer holding any comfort. His eyes opened and focused on the elaborately carved ceiling above him. His head tilted slightly, his eyes narrowing before his body moved in one singular motion as he sat up. His left arm moved, fingers sliding through his hair before he glanced towards his right. Sitting atop a chair that was close to a hundred years older than she was, his eyes settled on Helena Madrigal. The human female had not aged in over two decades a gift that his blood afforded her.
"Good evening Ignacio." The woman spoke softly. The reverence in her tone was impossible to miss. She had always spoken to him thus since the night when he had saved her and her brother from the promise of a life of hunger, pain and an early death. Now, she was the seneschal of one of the richest estates in the city. She dressed in a manner befitting the wealthiest merchants and some nobility and controlled her own destiny. He did not need to use his talents to know what she felt for him. It was an emotion that he had nurtured over the years. It had served him well at first, but he admitted that over time it had become something more. He did indulge the thought to its conclusion, offering his ghoul and confidant a brief smile.
"Good evening Helena." He said as his body shifted and he left his bed. Powerful muscles moved as he stretched for a moment before he spoke once more. "Has your brother returned?"
Helena shook her head. "Not as of yet."
"Pity." He said as he walked over to an Ivory carved dresser that he had secured over a decade ago. It stood nearly five feet tall. His left hand reached out, fingers tracing some of the carvings.
"You have a guest." Helena added a moment later.
"A guest?" He frowned as he glanced towards his seneschal. He had not been expecting anyone especially not this early in the evening.
"Yes, a young woman." When Ignacio arched a brow she continued. "She is affiliated with the Brujah whose portrait you finished last night."
"Did she indicate what she wanted to discuss with me?" He asked.
"She indicated that she wanted to talk to you about the portrait but as it was finished and she did not bring it with her, I cannot imagine that her master is unsatisfied with your work." She said teasingly. She could not recall the last time that anyone had complained about one Ignacio's pieces.
"Good. The Brujah proved exceedingly difficult to work with." He said out of hand. Part of his talent was to peer into the soul of his subjects and to impart some of what he saw into his painting. The process had proven to be more difficult than he had expected with the Brujah and he had expended a significant amount of effort and vitae over the course of their session together. The end result had been a success but had left him physically drained. "So you expect that this messenger has something else in mind?"
"Yes." Helena said.
"Good. I will listen to this woman but only after my bath." Ignacio said.
"Understood. I will let her know." Helena responded as she stood.
Ignacio watched her take three steps towards the large oaken door that separated his bedroom from the antechamber beyond and spoke once more. "How long has she been waiting?"
Helena paused in mid stride and looked over her shoulder towards Ignacio. "Three hours or so."
Ignacio shook his head. "Hmm, I have a better idea. Wait fifteen minutes and then send her up and tell Adele and Anais that I will be requiring their services."
Helena blinked, Adele and Anais were two of Ignacio's favorite bath attendants. If he was going to need their services then his bath was not going to be a quick one. "You want me to send the messenger up to your bath?" She asked certain that she knew to answer.
"Of course. It would be rude for me to keep her waiting much longer than she has. Politeness, requires that I act. I am prepared to entertain her proposal." He replied solemnly.
Helena sighed softly and curtsied. "As you wish." She turned on her heels and began to walk away when Ignacio called out after her.
"Helena! She is beautiful yes?" Ignacio asked.
Helena stopped by the door and glanced towards the Vampire that had saved her from a life without meaning and offered her most innocent smile. "Oh yes. She is stunning."
Ignacio blinked, the dryness in Helena's tone taken him momentarily aback. His lips parted and words began to tumble from his lips as he heard the door open and close behind his Seneschal. "Helena!"
Constantinople
La Perla
Helena chuckled softly cursing the elaborate dress around her as it prevented her from running down the hall and away from the man that she served. She heard Ignacio's calling after her but she ignored him. She did after all, have to deliver his message as politeness required.
It is a pity that the messenger is so beautiful. Ignacio deserves a shock from time to time.
It was with that thought in mind that Helena made her way to the third floor, informing Adele and Anais of Master Ignacio's need for them. The two French women smiled as if she had offered them both thrones and quickly gathered a mix of scented oils and candles before hurrying towards the bath that was attached to Ignacio's bedroom. The bath was a marvel of engineering, cold and hot water could be pumped upwards from the lower levels as needed. La Perla was in many respects a reflection of the desires and personality of its master. Helena reached and descended a spiral stair as she made her way towards the first floor. It did not take her long to reach the messenger, her eyes glancing at the slender ebon haired woman.
What do you want from him?
The Peddler of Half Truths.
"Not OP, therefore weakest." - Cynical Cat (May 2016)
"A dog doesn’t need to show his teeth as long as his growl’s deep enough, his food bowl is full and he knows where all the bones are buried." - Frank Underwood
Night fell upon the walls of Constantinople, and in the distance as the fire of day were replaced by the the torches of the onyx hall. As though a dragon’s tooth had been thrust into the ground, the victorious dead awoke, the goddess Gefjon relinquishing him from her gentle embrace. The air was that of a bastu, making Helgi wish that these Suðrmaðr were less concerned with such concepts of “decency” and “morality” and simply would let one strip down to be comfortable in this place. The smell of city, one of waste and grime, was enough to spoil milk by proximity alone. The sea air was the only saving grace of this land forsaken by the Aesir, and were it not for the would-be fjords, he would wash his face, perhaps even bathe properly. His hunger was not nipping at his heels, last night’s meal of goats was sufficient to slake his desire for the time. The Gate of Gold lay ahead, and once he rejoined the road, having slept far enough away from it to not attract attention from his return from slumber, it was not long until he reached it.
Upon reaching the gate, he gave a broad smile, his fangs retracted, and greeted the guard with his bellows stroking the coals of his voice. While the strikes of the hammer and anvil were rough and erratic, it was the way of the mouth arrows here, and what he lacked in craftsmanship, he made up for in showmanship. He stood tall and proud before the guardians of the gate, wearing his only possessions upon him, the great leathery hide of a bear, studded with the bits of rings and metal that once had itself been part of a noble set of chain, his weapons three, and his personal belongings.
“Hah, finally I can see the inside of your great stone hall, where fortunes might be made with the strength of blade, yes? Tell me, friend, for my arrival here is late, my taste for water has been replaced by one for mead and ale. I know many of my countrymen live here to defend this grand city, and I cannot imagine my brothers could survive in this wet heat without a taste of home to keep us from vanishing like snow in the long days. Do you know where the nearest, oh, how do you say salr, ah, mead halls?” Despite his smile, a small swelling of regret entered his heart, as his journey brought him far from the comforts and familiarities of his home. While the longer nights of the southern summers was a relief, spending time with his people in joyous revelry of the night and the old ways was something that had been becoming scarce even in Sweden.
There was something that always drew Marcus to Caenopolis. Part of it was practical of course, it was simply a good place to hunt, something never far from the mind of any vampire. But it was also the place he had found what few contacts he had in this so-called Second Rome. Runaways and urchins, pickpockets and sneak thieves, the sort that any city abounded in, and he had found them here. It was too densely populated, too rich a hunting ground, for it to have gone unclaimed, he knew that much. But so far he'd had no difficulties moving through it, and while it wasn't his, it had been good to him so far. Besides, most of the contacts he'd made here had been made because they had needed his help, and keeping an eye out for them was only proper. He wanted to check on Alexios and Mary tonight, but first he had to hunt, and more than usual. Stavros had given him a bounty of blood, but he'd used some in taking it, and gave much of the rest back to Mary that night. Something in the back of his mind still told him that he had made a mistake there, but as before, he pushed it aside. Whether or not he should have done what he'd done, there was enough suffering in Constantinopolis already. Blood spent removing a little bit of it could not be terribly awry.
He walked through the streets unremarked, gaze furtive and gait slow, letting the still-teeming streets flow around him. Nobody paid him any mind, something not always the case, but welcome whenever it was. Ahead loomed a tavern, one of many in these parts, and like so many other places in this and other cities, a place closed to him. No tavern welcomed a small child walking through the doors, particularly not one who could not partake of their wares.
But tonight, Fortune was kind. In an alley beside the tavern, a fat man had stopped to piss away some of the ale he had no-doubt just imbibed. Marcus didn't much care for the blood of drunks. The sensations that came with their blood lowered inhibition and dulled wits, two virtues that Marcus, like any Roman, disliked being without. But beggars could not always afford to be choosers.
Slipping into the alleyway, Marcus approached the man, waiting politely until he had finished his business. There was no need to humiliate him further than he was about to. Only when the man was done did he step up to him and draw attention to his presence by clearing his throat. Whatever reaction the man might have to being approached by a small child, whether he thought Marcus a beggar or catamite or merely a poor, lost child, was largely irrelevant. As the man turned, he would look at Marcus, and in that moment, Marcus would exert his vampiric will, and order the man to follow him to the darkest recesses of the alleyway, the better to feed on him.
It didn't always work, of course, but it was generally a fairly effective method.
Gaze upon my works, ye mighty, and despair...
Havoc: "So basically if you side against him, he summons Cthulu."
Hotfoot: "Yes, which is reasonable."
The guards wave the Norseman passed. The terrace between the inner and the outer doors is decorated with statues and sculptures. Emperors, a crowned woman, and four bronze elephants fill the courtyard and a Roman eagle looks down from the northern tower. The walls are thirty feet high and fifteen feet thick. The inner wall consists of three archways and each is flanked with a Roman columns that are sheathed with gold. The guards wave the Gangrel through to the eighty feet wide street known as the Meses and the Exokionion District beyond.
*****
The man shakes his penis, splattering the wall with the last few droplets. "Get along boy. You might like what you see, but I'm no bloody sodomite-" he stops in mid-sentence, having met Marcus's gaze and lost much of his volition.
It's not that I'm unforgiving, it's that most of the people who wrong me are unrepentant assholes.
She woke in comfort, a light sheet draped over her just as she'd left it at daybreak. Rising she laid it back on the mattress to await her the following dawn. Clad in a simple tunica, the undyed lightweight wool striped with woven vines, Lydia Nikolakis walked barefoot and knelt in front of a small shrine, the icon of the Virgin bracketed by San Sophia and San Theodoria. After a short prayer she moved to the oaken door that sealed her refuge.
It would take a strong man effort to open the door, yet it moved for her as easily as if it were a curtain. She closed it before pushing on the next impediment, a fully loaded shelf that was cunningly hinged. The crates upon it, filled with articles that would be used come winter, did not shake as the shelf twisted outwards. Lydia had planned it that way. Come winter, the shelf would fill with the trappings of summer, once again weighting the shelf and disguising the entry.
Softly she slipped up the staircase that led into this buried storage chamber, emerging into the servant's hall before she slipped up the back stair the second floor to her chambers. As always, her maid waited, bowing as she entered. Lydia, with her maid's help, removed the sleep-tunica she wore and donned another of blue silk. About the neck and wrists and down the front and back were wide multicolor tapestry bands of birds among flowers. Next was the brocade-woven dalmatica, wide-sleeved to the wrist, allowing the decoration of the tunica to be glimpsed. The brocade was of birds in flight, and large roundels sat on the shoulders and just above the knees. These clavii were heavily embroidered with pearls and metallic threads, detailing a lady out hawking. The clavii were cunningly placed, showing the lady releasing the bird on the shoulders, and the bird returning with a rabbit below. The rabbit's blood was of garnets, the hawk's eyes of amber, while the lady had hair of gilt thread and eyes of beryl.
Once clad, Lydia sat in front of a mirror for her maid to rebraid her hair, which had been left in long loose braids for her day-rest. As the maid began weaving a suitable adornment for the eve, Lydia looked at her face in the polished mirror. Her Grecan ancestry looked back at her -- dark haired and dark eyes, a fine aristocratic brow and the jawline to rival pagan statues. It was the face shared by her family, perhaps coming from the first of her line.
Jorge Nikolakos had marched with the army of Constantine when he come here to build New Rome. A second son, he had hoped to raise his fortunes in the new city, and he proceeded to secure himself well. Lydia had only family stories to go by, but as Constantinople rose, the House Nikolakis established itself as minor nobility and source of magistrates, administrators, scholars, and Court functionaries. Never too bold, never seeming to overstep themselves, the Nikolakis became pillar of New Rome; a pedestal that lifted others to heights but never broke when that one fell. After all, another glory-seeker could use a pedestal to stand upon.
At length her family was approached by the Brujah of Lexor, Lydia know knew. Scions of the ruling Trinity, the Brujah needed mortal allies to help them, and could appreciate the ubiquity House Nikolakis had cultivated over centuries. The alliance worked well for both, and the Brujah would occasionally chose a worthy family member as a servant. Lydia had spent seven years that way, before she was Embraced after the death of Iōannēs II Komnenos.
Odd that she was still considered a youth by her clan, when a mortal who reached fifty years was honored as an elder and sought out for wisdom. A weight on her head brought her out of her reflection as the maid fastened a net of gilt wire over the intricate crown of braids. The maid then lifted a collar, outlined in pearls, the gilt fabric stiffened by embroidery and gold-work, and fastened it about Lydia's neck. The humeral was the mark of the upper class, the size and decorations plainly marking status amongst the Houses. The largest were worn by the Imperial Family and covered their shoulders and down their chest, while Lydia's sat on her collar bone and rose a mere three fingers high.
Now modestly attired, Lydia could finally leave her chambers and greet the night. She did not yet need to feed, thus she did not need to slip to the docks and slums at the base of the hills. No, for the moment she would walk in the streets of the menes, where her fellow nobles were traveling to parties and visitations, escorted along the dimly lit streets by torch-bearers. Tonight, she would be yet another noble in the dance.
Her cloak thrown over her, the light wool blue overdyed green with saffron and crimson edging and clavii, she blended perfectly in with the cream of Byzantium. Let the men of Genoa and of Venice speak of riches when they wore plain-dyed tunica and hosen like the lowliest workers. Even New Rome's workers could save their coin and buy card-woven trim to decorate their tunica.
Into the night Lydia walked, allowing one of the hireling torchbearers to fall in step with her where they waited for nobles in need of light. Perhaps later she might sip of him, but for now she joined the parade of nobles as they moved along the streets, yet another Lady of Byzantium.
Dogs are Man's Best Friend
Cats are Man's Adorable Little Serial Killers
There had been a time when the mere suggestion that Marcus was a catamite looking for trade would have sent him flying into a rage, a time back when he had breathed and eaten and been warmed by the light of the sun. But none of those things were the case anymore. Marcus still knew rage, bitter, seething rage, but it was more focused now, and he had learned not to let it out for slights as meaningless as this. Not from a fat man whom he purposed to make his breakfast.
"Follow me," said Marcus, ignoring the man's jibe, having decided that smashing his will and enslaving him to his every command would serve as rebuttal enough. Walking past the stunned man into the darkness of the deepest part of the alley, he waited until he was reasonably certain they would not be seen from the streets, and then took the man by the hand, drove his fangs into the arteries of his wrist, and began to feed.
He would not kill this man, of course. But if he took just a drop more blood than he might otherwise, perhaps he might be forgiven for it.
Gaze upon my works, ye mighty, and despair...
Havoc: "So basically if you side against him, he summons Cthulu."
Hotfoot: "Yes, which is reasonable."
Helgi raised an eyebrow at the clear lack of response he received from the guards, and with a rolling of his shoulders, he continued on through the gate into the city. Clearly these men were of ill favor from Odin, for any warrior worth the heft of his blade knew where the nearest mead hall was, for how else would one celebrate his victories with his fellows? Standing many heads taller than even the horses, he continued his way through the city streets, both keeping his eyes ready to signs of his prey, and for that of mead and his kinsmen. The friends he made along the trade route had mentioned where they might be found, but to make his way through this place was difficult at best, and their runes were difficult to read, though the notes he had made on one of his sticks to remember the way were of some help. Still, the greatest aid would likely be that of his own people, and finding the fair haired folk of the north would be little trouble even at night here. Something about this place set Helgi’s nerves on edge, for it felt unnatural, the sheer number of crosses occluding the night sky hardly helping matters. In his native tongue, he muttered to himself, “By the Halls of the Aesir, who builds such a place? What landmarks can one even use when everything is stone or flesh?”
Shaking his head, he continued on. If he had to search this entire city for hints of his friends or enemies, he would do just that, though he did dearly hope along the way to find a mead hall at least, if only to remember it as a place to celebrate his victory when he was done.
At this point, the desperation within the crush of humanity within the Latin Quarters in this city seemed nearly stifling. Too many people, pressed into too many desperate straits, he thought. Having done at least a precursory walk through the Pisan Quarter, and seeing all the sights it had to offer, he could either go to the Amalfitan Quarter, or along the Severan Wall.
For now, at least desiring a small change of scenery, Gunnar walked with long, confident, and quiet strides along the wall, to see what sort of humanity presented itself in a different locale. Gunnar hoped to himself that this was true - if places are to be judged by the state of their poor and desperate, then Constantinople offered suspicions of having festering wounds within.
"Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self-esteem, make sure that you are not, in fact, just surrounded by assholes."
- William Gibson
Josh wrote:What? There's nothing weird about having a pet housefly. He smuggles cigarettes for me.
As Marcus had his way with the unfortunate wretch, Helgi was walking through the valley of the Exokionon. On either side of the great road lay fields of tall grass dotted with trees and rocky outcroppings. Here and there were the villas of rich folk along with walled monasteries and churces with domed roofs topped by great crosses. The climb towards the Walls of Constantine was steep, but bearable. Ahead the Egnatian Way merged with the great Meses. At this time of night the district was deserted. If not for the presence of the great walls, which a mortal would have difficulty seeing in the dark if it was not for the fires upon them, the land would seem open and lightly settled.
*****
As Gunnar headed up hill, away from the crowded and hastily constructed Latin Quarter, little changed at first. The houses were older and better constructed, with brick replacing wood but the population continued to be members of the working poor. Few were on the streets, but lights blazed from tavernas, wine shops, brothels, and similar places were a few coins could be exchanged after the days labours were done. As he climbed the Second Hill, the crowding eased and the houses grew larger and grander. Ahead he could see the light coming from the Central Mese, where activity did not stop with the fall of the sun.
*****
From the Forum of Theodosius to the Forum of Augustaion the Central Mese blazed with life and light. The streets are lined with double tiered porticoes supported by columns. Statues of saints and emperors stand on the roofs and from within come the lights of still open shops. The streets aren't busy, but are active. Men and women were still on the street, some attended by servants, and laughed and joked as the traveled. Calls came from the porticoes, proclaiming the virtues of jewelry and spices, silks and charms, exotic goods and finely crafted craftworks from every corner of the globe. Here the great and powerful as well as the merely prosperous rubbed shoulders with the dead and the damned.
It's not that I'm unforgiving, it's that most of the people who wrong me are unrepentant assholes.
Mary was still sleeping, and Alexios gone, no doubt picking pockets or robbing market stalls somewhere in the vast expanse of Constantinopolis. Marcus did not attempt to seek for him, instead leaving Caenopolis and heading north, up the second hill to the Forum of Constantine, then ducking down the Mese through the Severan walls and turning left. Nobody so much as glanced at him of course, another poor child making his way from one poor district to another. Whether or not this was the way Marcus would normally have liked it was irrelevant. It was the way it was.
Ahead loomed the Latin Quarters, which meant in this city a place whose inhabitants' ancestors might once have spoken Latin. Marcus' own ancestors were Celtiberians from Spain and Samnites from the Apennines, but Rome had united both places under her shield long before Marcus had been born, as she had this place, and many others besides. To set aside a rotting section of the city as Latin because the people there were Italians only served to make further hash of the Byzantine pretense of being Roman. But that was hardly important now, if ever.
The Latin quarter was the dwelling place of a number of wealthy plutocrats, merchant lords from the cities of Italy who had become what passed for lords of the region in Rome's eclipse. But it was also the dwelling place of many others, refugees and poor souls from across the sea who had come here to seek what little wealth they could scrape together and found themselves sequestered in a slum, surrounded by a city that hated them. Periodically, the Latin Quarters were ravaged by riots, seemingly the only element of proper Roman society that the Greeks had seen fit to import. Whenever that happened, hundreds if not thousands of people died, but there seemed to be no end of replacements for them in the ships from the west.
He entered the quarter and wound his way down streets and alleys towards the outer areas of the Genoese District, intent on heading for another 'contact' he had made living nearby.
Gaze upon my works, ye mighty, and despair...
Havoc: "So basically if you side against him, he summons Cthulu."
Hotfoot: "Yes, which is reasonable."
Helena's eyes settled on the ebon haired woman as her eyes sought to discern what secrets the human hid and what threat if any she could be to her master. Ignacio was more than just a Vampire, he was a father figure that had saved her and her brother from an early grave. Her loyalty to Ignacio was absolute and yet she did not have the skills or talents to pierce into this creatures mind. She took a breath and held it before offering a small smile as she forced herself to speak.
"Master Ignacio will see you now." She stated.
The human female nodded and stood in one smooth motion from the comfortable chair which she had been momentarily residing in. "Excellent. Lead the way."
Helena nodded turned on her heels and began to lead the guest up towards the fourth floor. The splendor of the pearl was all around them but the human did a remarkable job of keeping her thoughts to herself. In two separate occasions she hesitated, slowing ever so slightly in order to allow her human senses to drink in a sight or scent. In the end, they arrived at their destination.
La Perla, 4th Floor
Master Bathroom
"Ignacio will see you past this door. He will not be alone. I will wait for you here." Helena said, her right hand reaching out and touching a finely crafted door of a crimson colored wood. The wooden door slid open leading to a long corridor which widened roughly fifty or so beyond. The sound of running water
was impossible to miss as was the faint sound of a stringed instrument.
The female messenger blinked for a moment glancing towards Helena in confusion before she sighed softly, took a deep breath and took a step and then another into the hallway.
Helena waited and watched and when the human female had gotten half way down the hallway she closed the door behind her. She smiled briefly and leaned against the wall behind her. He hoped that Ignacio did not decide to play with this one.
The female messenger jumped slightly when the door was closed behind her. She stopped, looked over her shoulder and sighed before pressing onwards. She had been in the service of her own master for well over three and half years and she had visited many locations in his service. She had been certain that she had seen it all in his service, but this home was an unusual palace of odd if stunning architecture and surprising tastes. She could only imagine what the edifice would look like in the day time with its large windows many of them stained with imagery depicting angels and demons. The marble floor beneath her feet had cost a fortune, the wood more often than not masterfully crafted this was the home of someone of refined tastes.
What sort of appetites does this Vampire have?
It was with that thought in mind that she reached the end of the hallway, her eyes widening slightly as the room past it widened into what seemed to be a perfect sphere. In the center of the sphere stood a pool which held within it the Vampire that she assumed was Ignacio. The Vampire fit the description given to her perfectly, he was sitting near the edge of a pool completely nude. Immediately behind him, a woman of remarkable beauty and golden hair stood her chest pressed to his back as her hands massaged the Vampire's hair. The blonde haired woman was also nude. To her left sitting roughly twenty or so feet from the edge of the pool sat another woman, this one with black hair her fingers deftly manipulating a large Harp with practiced ease. The harpist was topless but she was not nude, her hair cascading past her shoulders much akin darkness fell over the world during a cloudy night. A subtle scent akin to lilacs and sandalwood drifted over the room. She glanced upwards and was surprised to discover that the roof of the room was a dome made of what appeared to be stained glass.
"Ah, there you are." Ignacio said, his head tilting slightly to the side as he took a good look at his guest. "I apologize for the setting of this meeting but since I was told that you had been waiting for so long to see me, I felt compelled to allow you an opportunity to see me as quickly as possible. What is your name and how may I assist you?"
Her eyes left the dome overhead and focused on the Vampire she had come to negotiate with. Her instructions had been clear but given the informal nature of the meeting she allowed herself a few moments to look at the Vampire. She had expected someone to match La Perla's beauty but found herself somewhat disappointed. Oh, Ignacio was attractive enough there was little doubt about that from his face down to other places there were few things that left her wanting. However, she had seen Vampires whose mere presence had been almost painful. She had met Vampires whose mere presence had made her fill with longing. Compared to those handful of Suns, Ignacio himself was merely a star bright enough to be noticed but not so bright to overwhelm.
I did not come here for his beauty. I came here for his talent. I have a mission to accomplish. Out with it.
"Master Ignacio." She bowed her head. The hands of his bath attendant never once slowed and continued on their tasks leaving Ignacio's hair long enough to accumulate an ointment which was then skillfully applied to the Vampire's shoulders and neck. "My name is Kaethe, I am here to ask for a boon and to negotiate a price if you accept."
Ignacio watched the woman for a moment and nodded. "Speak."
Kaethe hesitated for a moment before she spoke. "My master was pleased by your work and would like to secure your time for a second piece."
Ignacio arched a brow and shrugged. "I would be willing to work on a second commission for your master. The payment will depend on the complexity of the piece in question. When will your master require this new piece?"
"He would like for the piece to be completed in three days time." Kaethe said.
Ignacio shook his head. "Impossible. I have prior obligations that have to be considered. The normal waiting time is two weeks for a consultation and then two more weeks for the finished product given that is to be a painting."
Kaethe frowned. "You worked with my master and delivered his painting in three days time."
"As a favor to a friend. I cannot afford to bend these rules too many times. My skills are too high in demand and there is only so much time for me to work." Ignacio commented.
Kaethe hesitated the harp music which had drifted over the room shifting slightly to a slower, more somber tune.
Did he train that woman to read his emotions or was she simply perceiving the mood in the room?
"So we are at an impasse." Kaethe said.
"So it seems. Is there anything else?" Ignacio asked.
"I do not think..." She paused for a moment considering a separate possibility but discarding it almost as quickly as the thought made its way to the surface of his mind. "No. There is nothing else."
"Helena will see you safely to your companions." He said and moved away from the human and out of the pool. He had barely made it a step out of the pool when his bath attendant placed a rich towel around his shoulders and began to dry him.
Kaethe waited for only a few moments longer before turning and walking into the tunnel that led towards the exit. When she reached the end of the hallway, she knocked on the door three times. The door opened.
"Did you find what you were hoping for?" Helena asked.
"Unfortunately your master and I could not reach an understanding in the matter." Kaethe answered.
"I see. Please, follow me." Helena responded and began to walk. Kaethe followed a step or two behind.
La Perla, 4th Floor
Study
Ignacio sat upon an elaborately carved chair that had over four hundred years of history and placed some paper atop a finely crafted if perfectly mundane desk and began to write.
The Peddler of Half Truths.
"Not OP, therefore weakest." - Cynical Cat (May 2016)
"A dog doesn’t need to show his teeth as long as his growl’s deep enough, his food bowl is full and he knows where all the bones are buried." - Frank Underwood
As Ignacio's pen dipped to touch the paper, something stirred in the back of his mind. His hand froze as a sent of unease and palpable dread gripped the vampire. Something was very wrong.
It's not that I'm unforgiving, it's that most of the people who wrong me are unrepentant assholes.
Adrianus made his way through the Genoese quarter. The streets were starting to die down by now, around an hour after sunset. Most people were already in bed and that point men's wives were starting to hunt for their husbands in the few local taverns, dragging them home. The seedier prostitutes were also starting to come out of the woodwork like cockroaches.
He finished checking up on his own guards and was now patrolling the area proper. As the streets continued to empty, it would soon be only those of ill-repute who would be out.
"So tell me my friend, what has been going on in the Living World? It has been some time since I asked." he asked Sir Guilliame, in French.
"Not much has changed I am afraid, though by 'some time', I assume you mean less than two days?" he said with a bit of a chuckle "The Swedes have a new king. I just got word today."
"Truly? Whom?"
"Sverker"
"Ah. That makes sense. Rival claimants?"
"Knut's sons, but they are children."
They continued to walk, talking about developments in politics for a while as the streets cleared, but remaining mindful of their surroundings.
After a little while, the darkness grew, as did the relative stillness of the streets
"Alright. It is time we parted ways." Adrianus said, lightly brushing his friend's shoulder. With that, the big man ducked into an alcove so that his master could walk on. He would follow, but from a distance. Sufficient to intervene should it be needed, but far enough to perhaps not be noticed by a third party observer. The merchant would be bait...like the wriggling tail of a young Viper.
"Nothing in biology makes sense except in the light of evolution."
- Theodosius Dobzhansky
There is no word harsh enough for this. No verbal edge sharp and cold enough to set forth the flaying needed. English is to young and the elder languages of the earth beyond me. ~Frigid
The Holocaust was an Amazing Logistical Achievement~Havoc
The man was dressed like a wealthy merchant from the west, which made perfect sense given the setting, but not the hour. This late, in a place as crowded with poverty and desperation as the outskirts of the Latin quarter, no thinking merchant would be about, alone, displaying his wealth for all to see. The contents of his purse or the rings off his fingers would feed families here for a month, and everyone would know it. Marcus saw another man following the merchant at a distance, his eyes focused with such intensity on the man's back that he could not have meant anything else. The second man looked out of place too, armored and armed sufficiently to empty the area around him as though by magic. Most sneak thieves had neither the coin nor the inclination to wear suits of chain, but then Marcus had seen stranger things in his time. Some people had predilections that made no sense at all. The armored man was trying not to draw attention to himself (as though that were possible), remaining back far enough from the merchant that he would not notice his advent. Maybe a local gangster with pretensions of some odd sort, or one particularly intent on not being harmed by the sword the merchant was carrying. Either way...
"Marco!"
Marcus almost jumped, and turning his head, saw a small blur racing towards him at waist-height. He barely had time to determine what was happening before something collided with him at such speed that, vampire or no, it knocked him off his feet onto his back, where he landed with something sitting on top of his chest, laughing in triumph and stumbling all over her words as she proceeded to try and tell him seven things at once. Yet despite having been upended most precipitously, Marcus merely smiled and let the ballistic missile chatter as he slowly picked himself up off the dirt and got back to his feet.
Noemi was somewhere between four and five, and in another age her mother would have spent a small fortune on Greek or Egyptian doctors to try and figure out why she seemed physically incapable of standing still or being quiet. But in this age, Noemi's mother was a seamstress of poor means and constant overwork, and had neither the time nor the money to consult doctors who would take both and tell her what everyone already knew, that the girl simply had more Fulvia than Cornelia in her, and that no quack medicines would ever change that.
Frankly, though, Marcus didn't mind, and when Noemi held her arms out to him and pre-emptively demanded to be picked up, he did so, his attention oscillating between the little girl chattering in his ear about the goings-on of a dozen imaginary figures and children's games, and the merchant still striding blissfully through the Latin Quarter, about to be robbed at swordpoint or worse. Evidently, Noemi noticed his distraction, and unwilling as always to be anything but the center of attention, she stopped to take a breath (at last) and frowned at him crossly, and when he did not respond to it, softened her gaze into a curious one.
"Marco?" she asked, still unable to pronounce his full name. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," said Marcus, refocusing on the little girl as a thought came to him. "What are you doing here at this hour?" he asked.
"Mama has to work," said Noemi, as though that answered everything. "Are you coming to see mama? Will you play with me?"
Something sounded vaguely wrong here, but he couldn't put his finger on what. "You should be asleep," said Marcus, knowing that it would make her pout, which it did.
"You don't sleep at night, and I don't want to either!" she said defiantly.
"Who says I don't?" asked Marcus with a smile, knowing full well the answer.
"Everyone," said the girl. "You only come to play at night. Mama says you sleep when the sun is out. I want to do that too!"
Marcus smiled, though not, perhaps, for the reason that might have been imagined. "You'd miss the sun, Noemi," he said, slowly setting the girl down. "Just wait here a moment, and I'll take you home." Though he could see further questions on the girl's face, to his relief she made no fuss, and instead occupied herself by examining an earthworm that had crawled up from the dirt and onto her foot. Marcus turned and quickly walked into the middle of the street, directly towards the hapless merchant. A single glance told him that the armored man had seen him, and was watching him approach. Let him. Marcus was not afraid of some cutthroat in armor, and if this man was beast enough to attack a child for spoiling his night's prey, then Marcus would be well rid of him. The blood of monsters always tasted better.
He did not introduce himself or make any attempt at dissimulation. What the merchant thought of being approached by a ragged child he would find out presently. Instead, walking up to the merchant, he looked up at the well-dressed man and got straight to the point.
"You're being followed," he said. "A man in armor means to rob you of the wealth you're flashing."
Gaze upon my works, ye mighty, and despair...
Havoc: "So basically if you side against him, he summons Cthulu."
Hotfoot: "Yes, which is reasonable."
There was only one reason for so many nobles and would-be nobles walked the Meses this time of the evening: to be seen. It was a dance, a farce, a way to see who knew whom, who spoke to whom, and who was being shunned. Lydia's own position need little maintenance, merely nodding greeting to those she passed was enough to gain acknowledgement in turn. No words need spoken, one merely needed to be seen being greeted by the right people. This nightly dance had given Lydia some insight into dealing with the Vampire Court. Amusing how so many boasted of being above the mortals, and yet still wished to be seen by the Right People.
Her nightly dance done, she circled back to her house and paid her torchbearer, waving him away. As his protective circle of light moved off, Lydia reversed her cloak to reveal the black lining and slipped away. Perhaps she would hunt after all... the Severn wall would be a good place to start.
Dogs are Man's Best Friend
Cats are Man's Adorable Little Serial Killers
"You're being followed," he said. "A man in armor means to rob you of the wealth you're flashing."
Well, this was something one did not see every day. A child not much more then ten years, but with oddly accented greek. His first thought was that it might be Italian, but it was off even from that. There was also something odd about the child's anima. His bearing was not right for a simple street urchin who would present himself as deferential, pleading or hoping for favors. No, this child had simply walked up to him neutrally, as if he were addressing an equal, and informed him he was in danger. It was strange, even unsettling... and Adrianus' natural curiosity got the better of him and he decided a partial truth was the best course of action for gaining more information.
He spoke evenly, firmly, as one would to a child who's behavior had impressed you. So it was neither patronizing or treating him as an equal.
"You are the first person to ever warn me about him, boy. Though, that you did so speaks to a certain moral fortitude. I am being followed yes, but it is by design. The man you see behind me is my bodyguard." for his part, Adrianus also had a light accent in greek, but it was not Italian, odd for the Genoese quarter.
"There are wolves who prowl this district at night. I find it makes good business sense as landlord to protect the people here rather than despoil them. It is a long term investment in my own future, so to speak. I act as bait. What are you doing out with that little one after dark? Even with my efforts, it is almost never safe for a child after dark, and you look as if someone takes care of you." Of course, that they had just started to set up the trolling line when the child noticed them, and that anyone stupid enough to attack him or anyone else while near his presence would be food remained unspoken.
"Nothing in biology makes sense except in the light of evolution."
- Theodosius Dobzhansky
There is no word harsh enough for this. No verbal edge sharp and cold enough to set forth the flaying needed. English is to young and the elder languages of the earth beyond me. ~Frigid
The Holocaust was an Amazing Logistical Achievement~Havoc
Marcus might have been forgiven for being somewhat perplexed at this admission. He looked back at the man-at-arms, who true enough, was standing and watching them both, ready to intervene if necessary. What manner of criminals the man thought he would catch this way was entirely beyond Marcus. No shortage to playing bait for monsters himself, he knew that no thinking predators would attack a full-grown man armed with sword and buckler when there was easier prey to be had elsewhere. The exception was a vampire, of course, but he doubted seriously this man was prepared to deal with quite as literal a predator as that.
The man's questions brought him back around to where he was and what was happening, and he realized only too late that he had drawn undue attention to himself, and from someone relatively important, by the look of things. He glanced back at Noemi, still engrossed with her worms, and then turned back to the man, consciously adopting a slightly more withdrawn demeanor. Though not precisely deferential (he could only force himself to do so much), it was perhaps a bit more in keeping with what a merchant-prince might expect from a street-urchin.
"I take care of myself," he said, trying not to make it sound boastful, conscious of the fact that it probably would sound that way regardless. He gestured with his head back to Noemi. "I know her mother. I was going to take her home. It's not far from here."
He knew he should leave it at that, withdraw and let the man continue his evening constitutional, for that was all it would ever be, but the Roman in him compelled him to speak, despite his knowledge that whatever he said would be interpreted as the prattling of a precocious child.
"Anyone who would prey on them wouldn't attack you," he said, gesturing at the few peasants that still moved through the streets of the terribly poor district. "They don't have swords or armor or bodyguards. The people who hurt them won't challenge someone who does. If you're trying to bait the wolves, you can't do it like that."
He couldn't say as much, of course, but Marcus knew a thing or two about posing as bait. One didn't do it by strolling through the streets daring people to attack you while armed and confident. One did it by pretending to be helpless, and being nothing but.
Then again, he doubted seriously that a Latin merchant prince knew the first thing about helplessness.
Gaze upon my works, ye mighty, and despair...
Havoc: "So basically if you side against him, he summons Cthulu."
Hotfoot: "Yes, which is reasonable."
Walking parallel to the wall, Gunnar saw several unusual sights, especially for this time of night. Many taverns still had the drunk and discombobulated stumbling out of them, even at this late hour. The typical predators of such a scene were out, eyeing coinpurses and easy marks as they walked along, attempting to not be obvious about their hunting.
A small smile would have appeared on Gunnar's face, had he still been new to the ways of this life. This was one of the many blessings of knowledge bestowed upon him from the wily sorceress Azam within the last century - how to embrace predatory instincts, while tempering them with ethics and restraint. It was a fine line to walk, but when one had centuries or more to get all the nuances right, one could be less concerned about understanding everything right away.
A further oddity, as he walked - a merchant with the weight of continents on his shoulders, complete with entourage - a strange and somewhat unusual sight, given the time of night. More peculiar was that the merchant appeared to be conversing with a remarkably precocious young boy, who appeared to carry age beyond his youth.
Gunnar's eyes narrowed slightly at the sight, slowing to a stop in his pace to observe them from a distance, even as one of the merchant's defenders began giving him mistrustful looks.
Last edited by rhoenix on Thu May 31, 2012 7:07 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self-esteem, make sure that you are not, in fact, just surrounded by assholes."
- William Gibson
Josh wrote:What? There's nothing weird about having a pet housefly. He smuggles cigarettes for me.
His attention was fully upon his pen as it slid ever closer towards the paper that awaited it. The moment that its tip began to caress the paper atop the desk, he felt something claw itself to the surface of his mind. It was a curious if familiar sensation, an icy dread that blossomed in the pit of his stomach and spread icy tendrils in his spine. Fear was not a reaction that he was used to but it was not something that his body or mind had ever managed to forget. Regardless of his current state, he was well aware of the fact that he was not immortal in the true sense of the word. His hand froze all but instantly and he felt sweat manifest in his forehead.
This feeling...
He had a feeling this intense only a handful of times in his entire life. The last time it had happened had been shortly after his transition to a Vampire. It had been a lesson from the sire about the Sun. His head turned from side to side as he struggled to contain the urge to flee, to panic and to call out for aid from an invisible foe. As his head turned and his eyes sought the cause of the sensation that had manifested within him, he tapped into his reservoir of vitae. His reserves had been replenished to an extent from his two attendants during his bath prior to the arrival of Kaethe. Nonetheless, it was an exertion that he would generally avoid. The moment that had descended around him was anything but normal.
There was no ripple of power, there was no overt show of force as he harnessed the blood that sped through his veins and used an art that while he was practiced in. His eyes circled his study and arched upwards as they clawed and sought the secrets of the room around him. His eyes sought the aura of the source of his dread for surely, it had to be in the room with him. There was no other explanation and yet that realization did not give him any comfort. Anything that could slip into his home while avoiding the servants and guards within and without was far too formidable to be human. If that was the case, then he faced a kindred.
And here I thought that I had been so clever...
He struggled against a sense of hysteria. He could call out his guards. He could call out for aid. But what if there was nothing? He would be diminished in the eyes of his servants. He would be diminished in his own self of worth if he called out like a frightened child without proof or reason to believe that something was amiss. His sire had told him that in time, his talents would impart with them heightened sensitivities. Could he be sensing his future? The thought was considered for a moment and discarded as a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and down his nose before dripping onto the table beneath him.
Am I going to die sitting on this chair like some fat merchant?
It was with that thought in mind that he harnessed his inner strength and stood. Once he was standing, his left hand reached out and his fingers curled around the scabbard of a blade. His right hand reached for its hilt and he sought to pull the sword out. It was not his favored weapon. It was not the weapon that he trained with alongside his closest friend. The weapon he held in his hands had been meant to be an ornament, a historic piece meant to accentuate the room around it. It was time to test if it could be something else in his time of need.
The Peddler of Half Truths.
"Not OP, therefore weakest." - Cynical Cat (May 2016)
"A dog doesn’t need to show his teeth as long as his growl’s deep enough, his food bowl is full and he knows where all the bones are buried." - Frank Underwood
Gunnar saw that the boy's aura was a mix of pale dark blue and purple. The merchant, on the other hand, was a mix of pale vermillion, dark blue, and lavender.
*****
No unnatural presences were revealed in Ignacio's room, but his sense of unease mounted. He could feel danger closing in on him, a dread weight pressing down upon his shoulders and wrapped around him like a cloak. But peril did not materialize, leaving Ignacio alone in the room with naked steel in his hands. But the dread only increased.
Sandals slapped against the carpets and a hysterical cry came from the lips of Agathe, one his servants. "Lord," she cried out. "There is a mob at the door!"
*****
In a lushly appointed room in the Old Palace, secured behind a reinforced door and windows blocked by bronze shutters, Erik Grimrson stirred. His sleep had been uneasy and he rose late.
Charon wake with 8 Blood Points
It's not that I'm unforgiving, it's that most of the people who wrong me are unrepentant assholes.
