Behold, the Cursed Seed of Enoch (complete)

[Vahid Hesam]

Fie on you all! Your words are wind.
Burn and topple, shatter and rend.
See, the Sun sets, and Never rises again.

~ excerpt from 'The Delicate Maul of Bright Shadows', author unknown

***
Darkness fell. As the sun dipped beneath the horizon, a billion other stars bloomed, their brilliance no longer eclipsed. In the city, the man-made stars flickered to life, a string of lights hung across the skyline. There had been a time when night had signaled the end of the days business, but now it was only the beginning. London rose anew, an entire population waking to a twilight dawn.

At the edge of Kensington Gardens, on the bank of the Serpentine, a young woman knelt, seemingly in prayer. The words she spoke were heard by none other than the God's to whom she whispered; her presence was little more than a shadow in the soft ripples of the lake water. She clasped her hands together tightly, as if trapping the very essence of her faith in the space between her palms, so that he would not slip away into the ether before she had finished her solitary sermon. When at least she seemed content, she held her hands up to the moon above. From within her fingertips, a fine cloud of ash – only minutely visible to the naked eye - drifted down to the dark waters of the Serpentine, and sank beneath the surface.

From the opposite side of the lake, a lone silhouette watched, though cast no shadow. He muttered his own prayers, to the Old Man of the Mountain. He looked to the East, to far-off Alumut. Only in vengeance can peace exist, the scriptures said. He would have his peace and the blessing of Haqim would be upon him. Where once he stood, then there stood nothing – and so began the Fall of London.

[Thaddeus Post]

"Easy there, boy," Thaddeus Post edged around an apprentice as he made his way through the hall leading towards the Regent's office. Or rather, leading away from the Regent, as Post had just come from chatting with Roderick Alan. As one of the elder Tremere associated with the Chantry, he knew it was expected of him to keep the Regent appraised of his comings and goings, but he resented it. He would have avoided it, but even Thaddeus Post couldn't risk angering the powers that be.

As he made his way towards the stairs, he hummed a little ditty, the words springing into his head.

...He counted out his money and it made a pretty penny;
I put it in my pocket to take home to darlin' Jenny.
She sighed and swore she loved me and never would deceive me,
But the devil take the women, for they always lie so easy...

His eyes narrowed as a shadow crossed his path, and Thaddeus looked up to see William Brown-Turrel in front of him. "William!" He greeted the Primogen enthusastically, clapping him on the shoulders. "It has been ages."

"Too long," Brown-Turrel smiled thinly, adding, "I heard you were back in London."

"Ah, can't keep the Nosferatu out of my business no matter how hard I try." He grinned good-naturedly, and pulled at the lapels of his coat. "Just got in from Egypt. As you can see, I haven't even had time to shake the dust of travel off my feet."

William looked furtively up the hall, and took the other Kindred by the arm. "You've been to see Roderick?"

"Yes..." You didn't get to be over five hundred years old without picking up some intuition. Post raised a thick eyebrow, "What is it? I'm not going to like this am I."

The Primogen ushered Thaddeus into a private room, and the traveler closed the door behind them. Brown-Turrel was visibly agitated, but that wasn't in and of itself unusual. Post narrowed his eyes, but waited for the Primogen to speak.

"Alan appraised you of the Sabbat threat in the city?"

Thaddeus looked over his shoulder and then back to William. "Naturally. Just more posturing on their part, I assume. Spread a few bodies around and get the kine up in arms, and then bugger out of town before we can catch them."

"I have reason to believe it won't be that easy this time." The Primogen paused, "I have told Alan, but he thinks very little of my source."

"What is it you know?" Thaddeus found a bookcase to lean up against, and crossed his arms. Being back in London was already more interesting that Cairo had been.

"The Sabbat have sent an Archbishop to London. Katarina Gordislava." William rubbed his forehead, "I had a lead on where the main haven was, but by the time the Nosferatu agreed to move in on it the Sabbat had moved on."

Yes, much more interesting than Cairo. "Gordislava, you say? Means proud glory, in English." Thaddeus waved his hand, dismissing his tangent. "Has the Prince been informed? No, of course not yet. How about Salisbury? No?"

William shook his head, "I feel that something terrible is coming upon us."

It could have been just paranoia, but the expression on the Primogen's face said otherwise. Thaddeus Post stood up and took off his coat. "Then we will just have to figure out what it is before it happens."

[Vahid Hesam]

Four knocks struck the front door of the Tremere Chantry. On the steps to the entrance, a young fair-haired man in a heavy winter coat stood, his eyes fixed on the ornate door in front of him. Though it was not immediately obvious to the casual observer, the porch at the front of the building was monitored by a camera. Inside, a lone figure sat watching the feed, perking somewhat at the sight of some movement, besides the usual birds flying by. Leaning forwards in his seat, he squinted, straining to see who it was. The figure, clearly knowing he was being watched, turned his face up to the camera and offered a smile.

This was the face of Christopher Bell. Like so many others, Bell was under the employ of the Tremere without being consciously aware of the fact. Throughout the chantry's existence, there had been many lies – that the buildings were a private medical clinic; that they were the homes of a wealthy businessman who required a large domestic staff; they have even once passed the houses off as a brothel. In it's current incarnation, the chantry doubled as the base of operations for a historic restoration and preservation society. Staff were kept on hand twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, under the premise that a building whose structure and contents had such historic merit that they required constant supervision. Among those doing the supervising was Christopher Bell.

The security guard smiled to himself, and hit the buzzer, allowing Bell entrance. Moments later, he emerged into the main entrance hallway and pulled him aside. “Well?” he eyed Bell expectantly.

There was a moments pause, in which Bell cast a suspicious glance up and down the length of the corridor in which they were stood. “I got it.”

The security guards mouth formed a shocked 'O'. Quickly, he hurried Bell into the claustrophobic security office, the only modernized portion of the house. More paranoid glances were exchanged, before the guard locked the door behind Bell. Stepping forward, Christropher revealed that he had concealed a package beneath his jacket. It was rolled tightly in brown paper, and he removed it with care and ceremony. The guards eyes grew wide, and he looked to the door as if expecting some higher ranking employee to burst in and catch them in the act.

Slowly, Bell handed the package to the guard. For a moment, he weighed it in his hands. It felt soft and warm, just as he had expected. He ran his tongue over his dry lips and, rolling up the cuffs of his jacket, began to unwrap it. Carefully, oh so carefully, he peeled away the first layer of paper. Then next came off with equal dramatic pause. Bell watched with growing irritation, locked in the tiny room under the guard had confirmed his special delivery.

“Oh man... this is...”

Bell looked away, to the monitors showing the various areas of the rowhouse – the screens flashing between the dormitories of the staff, to the kitchens, and even the empty basement. “Well?”

“Do you know what they'd do if they saw this?”

“... I can't imagine.”

“Hoho, man. You do not want to know. This is some hot contraband. If they find out you smuggled this in here, they are going to kick your butt to the curb quicker than you can say National Trust. This stuff is strictly off limits.”

Bell turned away from the monitors, now a little clouded by steam. His eyes fell on the item in the guards hand – a foot long sandwich, oozing with cheese, which he was already in the process of shoveling into his mouth. “I heard some guy got sauce on the carpets, this one time... jeez, they went nuts. I can't thank you enough.”

“Don't mention it, Clive. Now can I get out of here?”

“Right, right... thanks again, man. I owe you one.”

The door clicked closed. The hallway was silent. Christopher Bell smiled.

Ten miles away, however, Christopher Bell was not smiling. He was, in fact, grimacing. His neck had been broken, and his skull fractured in a number of places. His body had been discarded without any really effort to disguise the fact that he had been murdered, though it had been hidden with enough care to ensure that the corpse would not be found for some time. At least enough time, that is, for someone posing as Bell – through means natural or supernatural - to enter his place of work.

Removing his heavy rain-coat, Vahid Hesam made his first steps towards the Tremere Primogen.

[Thaddeus Post]

"Well..." Thaddeus mused, "We would know immediately if the wards were threatened."

Brown-Turrel nodded, "I just had Clara re-check them yesterday. They are set against the usual suspects: ghouls, Garou, spirits..." His voice trailed off, and Post nodded, seeing what he was getting at.

"They would only alert us if the trouble you sense is coming from the usual suspects." He tapped a finger against his chin, sharp blue eyes looking at a spot on the far wall. "Has there been recent tension among the apprentices?"

The Primogen shrugged, "The apprentices are usually tense, but expermenting with blood magic will do that to you." He looked at the traveler, "What are you getting at, Thaddeus?"

Dr. Post said nothing for a few moments, appearing to study the shelves behind him for clues. The reassuring thing about Thaddeus Post, thought Brown-Turrel, was the man's ability to believe anything. Not that he was naive, in fact it was the opposite. He'd been around long enough to know that in the end, just about everything was possible.

If you needed help in a delicate situation, he was the man to talk to. If you could find him, of course.

"It is probably nothing." Post rearranged a few of the books on the bookshelf, and then added, "Methinks the trouble you sense may not be detected by the wards because it may come from within the Chantry itself."

[Vahid Hesam]

Though the lights were bright and all faces that greeted him cheerful, there was nothing welcoming about the house. Already Vahid could feel the presence of the Tremere kafir. There were no visual clues as to their ownership of the house and its inhabitants, at least not to the untrained eye, but Vahid marked them in every face and on every wall. He felt their treachery; it had become ingrained into the woodwork, and hung heavy in the air like foul, choking incense. It clouded the minds and eyes of the kine, blind to their enslavement. They had been deceived for so long, and so severely, that Hesam walked among them as if he were but a breath of wind.

Only a few among them were awake. The remains of a late evening meal were being cleared away. When the night hours were upon them, the kine retired to their bunks quickly. Their work was not so rigorous as to tire them out, but the oppressive hold of the kafir wore them down. Soon, they would be called upon to perform their true purpose – to spill blood for their craven masters. Watching how diligently they worked, the Assamite felt a growing disgust. With vitae so readily and plentifully at hand, there was no need to leave their hiding hole, no need to hunt, as was the want of the Beast. It made them weak, weaker than they already were as false get of Khayyin, a bloodline borne from treachery and mortal pride.

One of the vessels inquired whether Bell, sat in silent thought, was alright. It was as if the anger that burned in him did so with a visible light, one that had drawn attention from the kine. Bell shook his head and explained that he was merely tired, after such a long day, to which the kine nodded and replied that he was about to retire to bed himself. Vahid sensed some familiarity, perhaps friendship, existed between Bell and this man, and so took the opportunity to follow him to the second floor.

As they walked up the old, creaking stairs, he noted more signs of the kafir. There were paintings hung high on the wall that seemed normal on first glance, but with a second look seemed somehow wrong. The shrewd eyes, almost glaring in reprimand... there was something grotesque there, lurking beneath the surface. The kine looked to them in awe and wonder, as they would to their twisted masters. It was possible, probable even, that they had been charmed somehow with the heretic blood-magic; that they were portals through which the Tremere viewed their little blood bank. Christopher Bell appraised them with a loving eye, while Vahid could stand could not stand to look at them.

Soon, they had arrived at the door of one of the sleeping quarters. It opened, casting a narrow shaft of light through the darkness. A line of beds ran against each wall, each with a trunk its foot, each identical. At the furthest end of the room, two bookshelves stood, with another large painting between them. Vahid noted the design and, shaking his head, wondered whether the kafir had any shame at all: it was a Biblical scene, showing none other than the treacherous get of Adam and Eve. Khayyin.

“Good night, Christopher,” a loud whisper said. He turned to the source, and saw that his guide had slipped beneath the linen sheets of his modest best, just like the others. Only one bed remained empty, that of Bell himself. He sat down in the edge of the mattress, his eyes fixed on the smiling face of the father of all vampires.

“Good night,” he whispered in reply.

[Thaddeus Post]

"Within the chantry?" The Primogen looked at Post as though he had just said he was going to dig a hole to the Far East where people walk about on their heads. "Nothing can -"

"Not the usual suspects, mind you," noted Thaddeus. "I do not think that Katarina the Archbishop of Moscow would send a flock of Tzimisce ghouls to destroy the chantry." He reached for his coat which he had laid across the back of a chair. "Unless, of course, she is stupid, and one does not become an Archbishop of the Sabbat by being stupid."

William nodded in agreement, but added sourly, "Clara thinks my paranoia is just that - paranoia. She has convinced the Regent as such and I have been forbidden to go to the Prince with my concerns."

Clara Mandelbrot, the Secretary to the Regent, was a formiddable Tremere sorceress. Thaddeus pondered that for a moment, and replied, "I think you are in the right, William. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark." He folded his coat over his arm, "But I am just arrived. Give me a night to find out what I can."

"Certainly, Thaddeus." The Primogen nodded, "I look forward to hearing what you can uncover."

Thaddeus Post's eyes twinkled almost merrily, "If there is something inside the chantry to discover, I shall. And keep in mind, William, no one has forbidden me to speak with Rodermark."

[Vahid Hesam]

Time ticked away. Vahid lay pefectly stil, waiting for the last of the kine to succumbed to deep sleep. He listened to their breathing, the soft collective pulse of their heartbeats. At last, apparently satisfied with what he heard, he rose from the bed. The disguise in which he had wrapped himself was discarded, as he walked with soundless steps towards the painting hung on the wall. Drawing closer to it, he saw that it possessed the same implacable sense of foreboding as the portraits hung in the halls.

In the painting, the biblical Cain lead Abel by the hand, through the depths of a dark and winding forest. The light of the sun, filtered through the canopy of the forest, shone only upon Abel, while his brother was covered in shadow. Though Abel looked fearful, he followed his brother willingly. It was as if he knew what fate would soon befall him.

As he studied the picture, suspicion slowly began to creep into Vahid's mind. He wondered if there wasn't something more to the painting, beyond the Christianity myth and symbolism. He took another step forward and lifted one hand to the frame of the painting, and ran his fingertips over the old and ornate texture. Turning his wrist slightly, he traced the smooth edge perpendicular to the wall. He felt his nails slip just underneath the edge of the frame. Where else would the kafir have their passage between the two houses, he thought, than in the most obvious place? As he lifted the painting, the canvas swinging open on well-oiled hinges, he thought of how they must have laughed when they came up with the idea, thinking themselves so very clever.

The painting fell silently back into place behind Hesam. Turning, he found himself in a narrow corridor. There was no light, but his eyes made out the outlines of the walls around him. The space was only just big enough to stand in, with the top of his head almost grazing the stone work. At the opposite end of the corridor stood the entrance to the chantry proper – wooden door. Vahid hesitated and crouched before it. It was locked. The assassin smiled to himself, wondering precisely why. Such things were minor setback at best, and even those who did not have his skill in lock-picking would have been able to break through the door with relative ease. They were such a mortal thing – so flawed and illogical.

Opting not to burst into the chantry, splinters flying everywhere, Vahid set about picking the lock. From time to time he heard voices on the other side of the door, somewhere in the distance. He heard the footsteps of the warlocks, scurrying to and fro like rats. Whatever room lay beyond the door, it seemed of little interest to them at this time. Upon stepping into the room itself, he understood why. It looked to be a closet of some kind, pilled with old boxes. The dust that coated them also lined the floor, though was disturbed here and there by a footprint. As he walked forwards, Hesam was careful to retrace the steps. There was light ahead, creeping beneath another doorway. Vahid watched it carefully, as shadows passed by. They all moved quickly, except for one. It paused directly in front of the doorway, with the jangle of keys.

[Thaddeus Post]

Thaddeus Post parted ways from William Brown-Turrel, and despite his appearance the conversation weighed heavily on his mind. He walked briskly to the rooms he occupied while in London, opening the door slowly and peeking inside.

A hand appeared on the other side, one finger crooked to beckon him inwards. He chuckled, opening the door just wide enough to admit him, and then closed it. Behind the door was Jenny, his companion. He'd interrupted her in the middle of unpacking his suitcases into the wardrobe that was located on the wall adjacent to the outer door.

"And how is the Regent tonight?" She snapped a shirt free of wrinkles and procured a hanger for it. "He must have been in a rare mood to keep you so long." Jenny had a slight accent, and merry brown eyes that were as shrewd as a laywer's when they needed to be.

Thaddeus poked the queen-sized mattress on the bed and replied, "Oh, you know. He loves me."

She snorted in a very un-ladylike fashion, and zipped his suitcases up inside of each other to lay on the floor of the wardrobe. Her small case was still waiting to be unpacked. Jenny didn't hold back when she was alone with him, which was the only way he would have it, of course. Thaddeus had picked her up in the Carribean during the 1500s, saving her from the Spanish Inquisition.

And then, she'd been with him ever since, becoming an assistant he simply would not live without. She was a fair hand at blood magic herself, after all these years.

He could hear her heart thumping from across the room. Did it skip a beat just then, when she looked at him? Thaddeus patted the bedcovers beside him, and she walked over, sitting next him.

Two of his male ghouls had traveled with them, Petros and Daniel, but they were not at the chantry. He kept them around for witty banter, and to carry the heavy stuff when they traveled. They'd rented a room in a hotel that was near-ish. They were big, and strong, and could withstand meeting his damnable need for blood on an every other day basis. Jenny, on the other hand, was a delicious desert.

He nuzzled her neck, and she giggled, her long black hair coming undone from the pins she'd fastened it with. "I forgot how dreary London was in January." Cairo had been blisteringly hot, even during the night. It hadn't bothered him, but seeing Jenny glistening with sweat had been quite a treat.

Thaddeus was just about to gently pierce the skin when he stopped. The woman in his arms moaned softly in frustration, but he released her and got to his feet, stalking to the door. After a moment of nothing, he snapped his fingers at her, "Pull out my supplies. Something is amiss, I can feel it."

[Clara Mandelbrot]

The years weighed heavy on the Regent of London. Centuries ago, Roderick Alan had been a figure of charisma, a figure widely liked amongst the Kindred of his city – which was something of a feat for one of clan Tremere. Often he would attend the social gatherings of the city's Toreador and walk seamlessly among them. As a much of science, he had possessed an uncharacteristic sense of humor, as if he saw the absurdity of it all, in spite of his preoccupation with it.

Those times, however, had long since past. Since the dawn of the twentieth-century, his presence had been in steady decline. For an immortal being, time could become tiresome so easily. Many speculated that Alan's withdrawal from the Kindred community was symptomatic of his disenchantment with the world at large, that he sought to retreat further into his studies and the avenues they opened. He became fascinated with the idea of creating paths of his own, to father new more powerful magics than had ever been conceived before. There were rumors that he entertained the company of a Malkavian, with whom he would speculate ludicrously for hours on end. Others thought that he had, in fact, gone insane, but no one dared speak a word of it in public. The hierarchy of the Tremere was one which required strict obedience, and Roderick's position – and sanity – would likely not be challenged until he met his Final Death.

One of the few Kindred who could boast to having spent time with the old man was his Secretary and one time apprentice Clara Mandelbrot. A sorceress of French-Polish descent, she had come to London in the early nineteenth-century. She, along with a handful of others, had been invited by Prince Rodermark to become part of the growing London chantry, which was quickly becoming a melting pot of some of the most diverse and interesting sorcerers from all across the globe. She was a charming woman, and most alluring to Alan. She sought to impress him with her knowledge of divination, predicting the future with finite accuracy. It was this talent that had earned her the place as his Secretary. On many occasions, it had been her clairvoyance and foresight that had won the chantry their victories, or allowed Alan and the others some advantage over the rest of the Camarilla. It was also this power that had contributed to Alan's nomadic tendencies.

Anyone visiting the Regent's private study would have been forgiven for thinking that he had succumbed to torpor. Sat in a throne that would have seemed at home in the halls of the Teutonic knights, his eyes were glassy and his gaze vacant. A long plush carpet extended from his feet, at the end of which Clara sat, lounging. She turned a page in the book she was reading, or rather skimming over, her eyes not focusing on any one word. Roderick's lips parted, and something like a cracked groan passed between them.

“Post,” he sighed, his head rocking backwards wearily.

Clara gave an amused hmph. “I did not foresee his coming.”

“Why... is he here?”

“His true intentions are a mystery to me... but not for long. William will tell me everything.”

Pulling her eyes slowly away from her book, Clara turned to face Roderick. His skin was worn and cracked, leprosy white even under the glow of an electrical light. She stood slowly and walked towards him, that dusty old relic, buried beneath the streets of London. Boldly, she perched on one arm of his throne, and ran a soothing hand over his head. “You look so weak, Roderick...”

The Regent's eyes closed. He seemed to grimace at her touch, yet at the same time yearned for it.

“I have to speak with William now, but when I come back, we must feed you... alright?”

His eyes opened and he looked up at her, with that century-old gaze, eyes that had seen so much... so much of it unwillingly. Slowly, he nodded, and once again closed his eyes, his head hanging forward as if he had suddenly fallen asleep. Once more, Clara stroked one hand over his matted gray hair and pressed her lips into a thin, suspect smile. She sauntered to the door, lingering in the doorway just long enough to see Alan's head fall into his hands.

[Thaddeus Post]

Jenny laid out his instruments and ingredients on the table that took up one side of the room while Thaddeus paced back and forth on the carpets, muttering to himself. He hadn't been to London in... three years? but something was certainly different about the chantry. Different enough that it hadn't taken him long to pick up on it.

Or, perhaps he'd picked up a little of Brown-Turrel's paranoia while talking to him. Roderick had seemed much the same as usual, which is to say not very personable and lost in his studies. Though even that could be called unusual, because Roderick Alan had been quite an easy Tremere to talk to, once upon a time.

Agitated, Post whirled around and stomped to the table, "No, no, I know what I want now. Just a small bowl and some wine. Oh, just a cheap one, not your favorite." Jenny made a face, and went to her suitcase to unpack a bottle of pinot grigio, which she set about uncorking as her master threw himself into his chair to begin the ritual.

***

William Brown-Turrel had left the reassuring company of Mad Thaddeus Post to venture into the library underneath the rowhouses that comprised the visible part of the chantry. Surely here he would find some clue that would unlock the uneasy feeling of danger and lay open its mystery.

What good was clairvoyance anyway, if you couldn't find out what was coming? He browsed the rows of preserved books, pushing musty artifacts out of the way as he searched for something that could help him. A book of rituals, or a rarely used rite that -

He stood straight up suddenly, looking around, his hair in his face for a moment. What was that noise? Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but the Primogen's eyes narrowed. It was probably an apprentice, though that did not do much to relieve William's tension. He distrusted the fledglings, and disliked being around them.

After a moment he turned back to the shelf he had been looking at, only to see a pair of eyes looking through from the other side. For a second or two they stared at each other, unblinking, and then he snapped, "Clara, what have I told you about sneaking up on me?" He pulled out a book and flipped it open, scanning the pages but not reading. "The wards are still untouched, I presume?"

[Clara Mandelbrot]

“Of course.”

Through the gap in the shelves, Clara noted the title of the book in William's hands – Les Propheties.

“I don't think you'll find anything of use in there,” she chuckled, turning away to the shelf behind her. The section of the library that they stood in had books on every kind of divination known to kine and kindred – astrology, ailuromancy, cartomancy, cheiromancy, geomancy, numerology, ouija, palmistry, runecasting, taromancy and many more besides. A large portion of the texts had been part of Clara's own private collection, which had merged with that of the chantry upon her arrival. The volume in William's hands had been one of the first books she had acquired; the cover was even initialed by the 'prophet' Nostradamus himself, with a personal note to Mandelbrot.

“You look even more frantic than before...” she continued, wandering out of sight. “Did Post say something to rattle you?”

[Thaddeus Post]

"Post?" He closed the book, finally reading its cover, and replaced it back on the shelf. "Thaddeus makes everyone uncomfortable. He's so... jolly." William forced a smile, turning to face Clara as she rounded the end of the bookshelves. "Its unnatural."

He picked out a book on palmistry, wondering if he could read his own palm or if it had to be done by someone else. Any Tremere would laugh at him if he asked. The Primogen flipped the small book over in his hands while he talked. "Is there something I can help you with, Clara?"

***

Jenny sat cross-legged on the bed, wine glass in hand, watching Thaddeus as he pierced his finger with a needle. She leaned forward as vitae was expressed from the tiny wound and dripped into the small bowl. Post poured a bit of wine into the blood, and mixed it together while chanting under his breath.

She sipped her wine, savoring the multitude of flavors. Thaddeus often said the one thing he missed about being a mortal was being able to enjoy food and drink. It didn't surprise her - he enjoyed taking his un-life by the horns and wrestling all he could from it. Jenny looked to the corner of the room, nose wrinkling at the sight of a familiar looking rat appearing from somewhere behind the wardrobe.

The rat scurried over to the table, and Post reached down to pick it up, placing it by the bowl of wine and vitae. The creature's nose wiggled enthusaistically as it sniffed the liquid, then it started to lap it up.

[Clara Mandelbrot]

If there was one thing about William's paranoia that Clara liked it was that he always shot straight to the heart of the matter, cutting out the usual Camarilla pleasantries that he could have so easily picked up.

“I was hoping you might be able to tell me why Thaddeus is here... his presence is unnerving Roderick. As if he wasn't bad enough, with you filling his head with your nonsense premonitions.” There was a sniping edge to her voice. She looked at the palmistry book, and smirked at the thought of giving him a purposefully damning reading.

[Thaddeus Post]

He followed her gaze to the book and stopped his nervous fiddling. "Tell you why he is here?" He was repeating her like an idiot, and by the smirk on her face she seemed to think so as well.

William rubbed his chin, "He has always been welcome at our chantry, Clara, you know that. He has not been under our roof for at least three years, but the man comes and goes as he pleases." Her line of questioning was doing little to quiet his growing nervousness. In an uncharacteristically bold move he added, "He mentioned presenting himself to Rodermark. I suppose that means he'll be staying for a while this time, whatever his purpose is."

***

Thaddeus picked up the rat, still muttering under his breath, and pressed its head against his forehead. Go watch the Primogen. William Brown-Turrel. Find him and watch, and then return. As an afterthought he added, And Roderick Alan - go to the Regent's quarters and show me what goes on behind closed doors.

The rat squeaked and wriggled in his hands, and the Tremere lowered the vermin, dropping it to the ground. It promptly scurried across the floor and then back behind the wardrobe. Jenny draped herself over the sorceror's shoulders, setting her wine glass on the table in front of him.

"Summoning the Watcher? Really, Thaddeus?" She yelped as he pulled her around and into his lap. "I'm sure that rat is still tired from the last time you used him."

Post licked at her neck, "It will satisfy my curiosity at the very least when it returns. But I believe we have some time before it comes back..." He bit down gently, and Jenny gasped with ecstacy.

[Clara Mandelbrot]

“Comes and goes as he pleases? The chantry is not some half-way house,” she snapped, frowning. “Rodermark has scores of havens at his disposal... I don't see why he can't use those, instead of unsettling the Regent and distracting the apprentices with his tall tales.”

Irritated, she brushed strands of cropped hair from her eyes and plucked a thin volume from the bookshelf. “I suppose he has heard of the trouble the Prince is having with the Sabbat and has come to save the day.”

[Thaddeus Post]

"I assumed as much, but he seemed to have heard about it for the first time from the Regent, tonight." Of course, it could have been an act. With effort, William repressed his natural paranoia before he lost his mind.

He frowned lightly, his handsome face creasing. "We have always kept a room for him in the chantry. He has delivered to us many useful artifacts in the past." And I'd like to see you try to tell him to leave. A faint smile at the thought of Clara trying to throw Post out on his ear flitted across his face but was quickly gone.

***

Behind the wardrobe there was a small hole in the floorboards. The rat pressed its body through and down under the floor. Living in the chantry was much like living anywhere else. The rat didn't really think about anything, except the eternal search for food. It also had a nice warm nest built between the walls of the two rowhouses, complete with a few enchanted rings and pendants that careless apprentices had lost.

The rat scurried under the floor, pulling itself into the walls and working its way through the maze-like 'between' spaces. Post's commands were still imprinted on its tiny brain, but in order to watch the Primogen it had to find him first.

Emerging into a scarely used room, the rat ran quietly across it, making its way towards another hole that led towards the Regent's rooms. The Regent was easier to find and the rat placed easiest at the top of its mental list.

[Clara Mandelbrot]

“Regardless of what he may or may not have gifted the chantry with, the Pontifeces of Europe frown upon him. Be mindful of that fact.” Clara spoke to William without the usual reverence afforded to the Clan Primogen. Her loyalties were with the Tremere, not the Camarilla, so his title was of little interest or importance to her. “If you'll excuse me, I have to see that the Regent receives his evening meal...”

With a swish of her robes, she turned and stalked away.

***

In his private chamber, Roderick Alan was statuesque. The catatonia that held him had crept upon him without any warning. He knew it's source, but he was powerless to stop it. Clara was strict when it came to who visited him and when, and even she left him alone for a moment, he felt her eyes upon him. Even when he had thought her to be his friend, there were a great many things she had kept from him, the secrets to rituals that she believed were not yet 'ready' for use. Now, he saw the error of his ways in allowing her such freedom. Alas, it was too late.

[Vahid Hesam]

A key screeched against the old lock. The door swung inwards. The apprentice, dressed in deep red robes, leaned left then right, examining the inside of the closet. He sniffed the stale area, and squinted at the darkness. Tonight, he had chosen the short straw, in that it was his turn to fetch food for the Regent. To begin with, apprentices viewed being sent on such a mission to be a sign that they were favored – but soon they learned that the task bore little significance and gained them no prestige. It was, in fact, the equivalent of being a pizza delivery boy. It would have been worth it, if they had earned an audience with the Regent, but everything went through his secretary. None the less, they all had to take their turn.

The apprentice in red slipped slowly into the closet, careful not to knock any boxes over – who knew what were locked away in those trucks, that had not been opened in decades. Some of the apprentices thought that perhaps the Regent kept dark, dangerous things there, and that was why they had not been opened in so long. Many contested this, asking why he would keep such things right under their noses. Perhaps it was a double-bluff, or perhaps they simply had too much time on their hands. Whatever the case, the apprentice did not take the time to stop and inspect them. He had rites of his own to prepare, so moved as quickly as he could.

It was a blessing that the apprentice was so slight of build. Had he been a larger man, he might have noticed that he was not alone. As it was, he stood but a few inches from Vahid Hesam, and passed the Assamite by with no knowledge of his presence. Hesam watched as the apprentice left his own footprints in the dust, and kept his eyes on him until he had entered the dark tunnel from which Vahid himself had emerged. Once or twice, the apprentice paused, as if sensing that he was being watched – but it was a feeling that he experienced often, a paranoia that threaded through the whole building, so he dismissed it quickly.

While the apprentice marched towards the painting of Cain and Abel, Vahid slipped out into the hallway of the chantry proper. In his mind, he had a crude map of the building. He tried to place himself upon it, imagining where he must be in relation to the entrance, and to the various key areas within. Unlike the kine domiciles, the second rowhouse had been heavily modified to suit the monastic tendencies of the Tremere. Extra rooms had been added, with more secret corridors and hiding holes. Besides all of this, their heretic blood magic would no doubt warp the building in the minds eye, confusing and entrapping those who did not know it or see through it.

Hesam would have liked to have spent some time within the kafir chantry, the sanctum of his peoples mortal enemy, yet he had no time to investigate. The contract he held demanded the destruction of the entire Primogen of London. William Brown-Turrel was his first and only target.

[Thaddeus Post]

The rat ran silently through the walls, tiny feet making barely a sound as it wormed its way into the Regent's chamber. A hole in the wall behind the bed served as an entrance, and the rat scurried to the far end of the piece of furniture, peeking out from underneath the bedskirt.

Its black beady eyes regarded Roderick Alan without the need for commentary. The Kindred did not move, but the rat could only sit still so long without changing its position. It dared to run out from under the bed to a dresser against the far wall, hiding again under the piece of heavy wooden furniture.

***

The Primogen resented being told off by Clara Mandelbrot, but wisely kept his opinion of her to himself as she walked away. He put the palmistry book on the shelf and moved to see if he could puzzle out which book the Secretary had taken with her.

The uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach seemed to grow with every passing moment, and he fiddled with a ring on his right hand as he gave up on the books. William turned to go, winding his way through the shelves and keeping his eyes open. Somehow the Prince would have to be informed of the Archbishop of Moscow's arrival back in London. She'd been in the city for over two weeks now!

Clara's words came back in his mind, "Surely the Prince has his Nosferatu to find out these things for him." William made fists with his hands, clenching them at his sides while he made his way to the front of the library. Hopefully Post would have better luck. He would, too, as long as Clara stayed away from him.

William stopped walking, and went over his last few thoughts. When had he gotten so resentful and wary of Clara? He rubbed his forehead, and pulled open the door of the library.

[Clara Mandelbrot]

Like so many of the rooms in the chantry, Roderick's wall bore a large painting – a portrait of Goratrix. His tired eyes looked upon it ruefully, though not because it bore the image of the charmingly nicknamed 'betrayer' of the Tremere. There was something about the painting, and indeed all of the paintings, that made the skin on the back of his neck prickle. It was as if, in the scarce moments when Clara was not stood before him in the flesh, the painting watched him. Staring into the eyes of one of his clan's founding fathers, he heard the door to his room open once again. Clara had returned.

She walked, barefoot, to Roderick's desk and set down the book she was carrying – it's spine read 'Conjuratio'. For a minute or so, it seemed as if she was ignoring Alan. When she did speak to him, it was in a tone betraying disinterest. “William wasn't very talkative,” she pouted.

“But you'll be pleased to know that your vessels are on their way. One of the apprentices is fetching them for you right now...”

[Vahid Hesam]

It was a given, the Assamite thought, that the real workings of the chantry were beneath the house proper. It was unfortunate, then, that he found himself on the top floor. He did not fear discovery, particularly not by any of the apprentices that flowed around him as a stream around a pebble, but rather wished for a quicker confrontation with the Primogen. The sight of the neonates in their extravagant robes, haughty and aloof, reminded him of one of the many reasons why he hated the kafir. He would take great pleasure in destroying their leader, and consuming his wicked spirit into the purifying light of his own soul.

As he moved through the hallways, he caught snippets of conversation from the rooms he passed. He heard voices engaged in debates on the alchemical nature of certain items; one conversation was preoccupied with trying to perfect a certain ritual, and another which conjuring a spell that sounded as if it was backfiring; he even heard a worried discussion about what affect that Sabbat presence in London could have on the chantry. What intrigued him most, however was the subdued chatter of two apprentices that seemed to be coming from within one of the walls. The other voices had their sources in clear rooms, yet these two were obviously sequestered within one of the chantry's many hidden nooks.

“...the fiends, rather than our patronizing patriarch...”

Allowing himself a moments pause, he pressed his ear against the plasterwork of the wall.

“Such hypocrisy, such mealy-mouthed absurdity. Our race is destined to tame our world, to bind nature to our bidding.”

Our race? The get of Khayyin had such arrogance. He had always known the Tremere to have aspirations of complete control. They had betrayed their superiors once before and would undoubtedly do it again, no doubt much to the surprise of the Camarilla. The second voice whispered something excitedly to the first and Vahid strained to hear it. He caught only four words.

Those Who Wait Beyond.

A frowned creased his olive brow. He left the two to their conversation and quickened his pace. They were only neonates after all. They were of no interest... or threat.

[Thaddeus Post]

The rat's nose twitched, but it remained under the dresser, watching the newcomer to the room. In a few minutes it would move on, to look for the Primogen.

***

Thaddeus left Jenny on the bed, mixing equal amounts vitae and wine in a goblet for her once she awoke. He left his rooms, closing and warding the door behind him out of habit. Just because his Watcher was in the walls didn't mean he couldn't do some old-fashioned snooping of his own.

As soon as he was in the hallway, an apprentice bumped right into him. "Excuse me," the fledgling muttered, then he realized who he'd run into and his eyes popped wide.

Thaddeus raised his eyebrows, "In a hurry?" He stared at the apprentice, who wasn't sure what to do in his presence.

"Yes...sir," the young Kindred replied, trying to avoid Post's gaze. "The Prince is holding a meeting about the Sabbat. I was going to tell the Regent and the Primogen - the Prince would like the Primogen to attend to him straight away."

"The Sabbat, eh? Raised their ugly heads again I see." Thaddeus looked up and down the hall, and added, "Where was this meeting?"

The apprentice named the place, but then excused himself, "I must get this information to the Regent." He hurried off, robes swishing in his wake. Thaddeus looked after him for a long moment, and then started down the hall once more, this time keeping his eyes open for errant apprentices, and using Auspex to its full advantage.

***

Walking, William found, kept his nervous energy under control. A bit, anyway. He headed for the rooms he kept in the basements of the chantry, knowing that if Post uncovered something he would look for him there.

[Clara Mandelbrot]

There was a knock at the door. Clara looked to Roderick, her eyes lighting up. She skipped to the door and found a young apprentice in red waiting outside, with two dazed mortals who looked as if they had been sleep-walking. The apprentice bowed his head to his superior, though inwardly cursed at the fact that he could see nothing of the Regent's chamber with Mandelbrot stood in the way. He offered to help her with the kine, and suggested that he might come in and wait while Roderick drunk, so that he could return the mortals immediately. At the latter suggest, Clara looked practically astounded, offended even.

“No, thank you. That will be all.” With that, the door slammed in his face.

Clara pressed a hand between the shoulder blades of each of the vessels, guiding them forwards.

“Look what I've brought you. Don't they look delicious?” she asked, as her hands guided the somnambulist mortal's to knee on the long carpet extending from Roderick's throne. They were both young, fresh-faced. They had not yet been taken from. She turned to the most youthful; a blond boy, who could have been no more than twenty years old. Clara ran her cold fingertips over his warm cheeks. Her hand lingered as she looked over her shoulder towards the Regent.

“Would you like a taste?” she asked, smiling daintily. Roderick did not move. Clara turned away, and tilted the head of the blond boy ever so gently. The Regent looked on as Mandelbrot began to drink. At first she sipped only lightly, with grace and manners, but soon the facade was cast aside. She shoved the boy down against the ground and sat atop his chest, as she stole away his life's blood. How quickly she could change from the most innocent of girls to such a vicious animal.

Roderick watched, feeling his own thirst grow. It had been so long since he had drunk so deeply, so long since he had known the full pleasures of vitae. Suddenly, Clara threw her head back. The boys head, which she had held up whilst drinking, hit the carpet with a soft thud. She left had left enough strength in him that he would only think himself fatigued, and so moved onto the second vessel, repeating the process. When she was done, she stood triumphant over their dreaming bodies, and looked down upon Roderick with a silver smile.

“Now it's your turn.”

[Vahid Hesam]

Those Who Wait Beyond. The words kept repeating in his mind. He had heard them before, and not in conjunction with anything pleasant. Of course, little that the Tremere did was pleasant – but these particular words were arguably above and beyond the atrocities, even, of the kafir. It was not the words themselves, of course, that held such power but what they stood for, and exactly who spoke them. The fact that he had heard them whispered by two kafir neonates... he was unsure what to make of it. It seemed him on edge, to a degree, and made him even more eager to find his target. Rounding another corner, Vahid pushed his concerns to the back of his mind – he felt a powerful presence nearby.

A long corridor extended to his left. At its center, he saw a set of stairs winding down to the first floor. The corridor was well lit, and although he could see no one, his intuition told him that the presence he had felt was nearby. Not willing to risk an encounter, he started round the corner at a sprint. The Quietus discipline ensured that his footfalls made no sound, whilst Celerity quickened his movements to unthinkable speed. He vanished down the stairway, taking two steps at a time, and temporarily forgot about Those Who Wait Beyond, as he found himself confronted with a much busier minefield to navigate.

[Thaddeus Post]

Anything hiding in the walls or in secret rooms would be ferreted out by Thaddeus' Auspex enhanced senses. At least, it should be. The Tremere sorceror paused, listening to a group of apprentices preparing a rite of some kind on the other side of the wall.

Satisfied it was nothing out of the ordinary, he moved on, only to get the distinct impression that something was in the passage he'd just passed by. Backing up, Thaddeus peered down the corridor at the stairs that led down to the first floor. There was nothing there.

Eyes narrowing, he turned into the hall, walking towards the stairs. Looking down its winding length, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Post chewed his lip in concentration, but kept walking down the corridor, occasionally letting his hand brush against the wall.

***

Brown-Turrel sat down heavily behind his desk, pulling a leather bound journal out of a warded drawer. Retrieving a fountain pen, he took a moment to compose his thoughts. Aura perception. That was it. Auspex was not a strong trait in his blood, but perhaps there was something about Clara's aura that was ...off.

Post would know. By Nod, he was already tired of hearing himself think about the Mad Traveler. His appearance at this paticular time was comforting and disturbing all at once. And it didn't matter about Clara's aura, because he distinctly felt that whatever it was that troubled him was nothing to do with her.

The Primogen put pen to paper, recording his thoughts as best he could. Sometimes laying everything out on paper made it seem clearer.

***

The Watcher felt impatient to move, but something made it stay put. There was much more to see in the Regent's rooms.

[Clara Mandelbrot]

It was, traditionally, now that the Regent would rejuvenate his own strength. His danced fixed on the weeping wounds of the kine vessels, but knew that he would not taste their blood. No... what little vitae he took, he took from his Secretary. It felt like so long ago, now, that it had all begun. As Kindred growing old and disenchanted tended to do, they played at private games of humanity and toyed in particular with the emotion of love. In drinking from one another, they could create sublimely euphoric feelings. It had been through this deception that Clara had first lead Alan into a blood bond, a cage from which he would never escape.

“Now it's your turn,” she had said, but for what. The sight of her advancing with a chalice of her own vitae in hand was so familiar, that it shocked him when he looked up to find no such cup in her hands. Instead, she was prowling towards him, like some deadly panther, her hips swaying. Roderick pressed back against his throne, in a pitiful attempt to set some distance between the two of them – but he could move no more. The blood bond, along with Clara's on strength in Domination, was enough to hold him steadfast.

“You've grown so old, Roderick... so old, frail and useless. A new dawn is coming, a time I fear you don't have the strength to weather,” she purred, perching on the edge of his throne as she always did. This time, however, her barefeet were in his lap and she upturned his chin with one finger. She could see, beneath the cloud of age, horror in his eyes.

“There is an ancient bargain that must be settled... and it must be paid in blood and souls,” she said, then leaning her face closer to his own, so that he could smell her sweet breath. “Blood and souls for my lord Nn'theraq'pss.”

[Vahid Hesam]

Traversing the first floor proved a challenge. The hallways were busy with apprentices, many of whom had their eyes and ears pried open with Auspex. The paranoia that had been drilled into them from their Embrace had left them wary of everything. Bickering and in-fighting was rife, as the apprentices competitive natures often drove them to think that they were being targeted by one another. Their were cliques amongst their ranks, and were none were present the anxious mind of the neonate could conjure one up.

Vahid moved slowly, his speed decreased so that he could focus his blood pool into staying invisible to the kafir. The herd of neonates were not likely to see him, but where the lambs wandered there was sure to be a shepherd nearby. Any conflict was sure to spook the Primogen into leaving, and then there was no telling how soon he could be found and caught, if at all. There was no need to rush things. Brown-Turrel had waited hundreds of years for his Final Death; he could wait a few hours more.

It would be the kafir Primogen's own apprentices who would pave the way to his end. Were it not for the procession of robed figures, all filing to one location, it might have taken Vahid longer to navigate the halls undetected. As it was, he crept on their heels, his hooded katar now drawn in anticipation.

[Thaddeus Post]

The rat ran back and forth under the dresser, agitated as the tension in the room grew. This was not the first thing that it had been instructed to watch, after all. As Clara drew near to the Regent, the urge to leave grew stronger for the Watcher, but it waited just a little longer.

***

Thaddeus thumped a wall as though he were checking a melon to see if it was ripe. There was a passage behind it, but it was empty. There was a strange resonance in the hallway, one that did not jive with the paranoia most commonly felt in a Tremere chantry.

Post turned slowly around, making his way back to the staircase. Perhaps on the first floor things would be clearer - there was nothing but apprentices on the second floor. At least, not anymore.

[Clara Mandelbrot]

Nn'theraq'pss... Roderick looked as though he had been struck. He flinched away from the word, his eyes growing wide and manic. Clara gave a sudden and sharp laugh, springing up from his chair so that she stood directly in front of him.

“Before I give to you your Final Death, Roderick, I want you to know what is going to become of this place once you are gone...”

She turned away from him, as if mocking his weakness, and placed her hands on her hips. Her eyes looked towards the window at the far end of the room, which looked out across Hyde Park. “The world is in the brink of destruction, trembling at the precipice of the void. Too long have the childer of Seth plagued this place, cowed by the childer of Caine. The barrier between this world and the next has grown tenuous – with each sin committed, it grows weaker. All of your paranoia, all of your bickering and squabbing... from the chantry to the Prince's parlor, from the highest skyscraper to the sewer warrens... all of it has paved the way for the coming change.”

Now, she turned, looking back to him with glee. “You see, you've brought this on yourselves, all of you. And you, and your traitorous clan... you shall be the first to perish. The diabelerie of Saulot has not been forgotten. Soon the minions of Shaitan shall rise and avenge him sevenfold.”

Alan was paralyzed. His mind could not comprehend what she was saying. Saulot? Shaitan? How had they failed to see the corruption within her? He was not strong enough now, but the others... William, Albert, Nikolai; were they so blind to her, or – more horrifyingly – were they in league with her? It was a thought that he pondered for only a moment, as he felt Clara climbing on top of him. Over her shoulder, he saw the dark skies of London, his home, their citadel of the Camarilla. He opened his mouth to cry out for help, but there was only silence, and the sound of feeding, of Clara's betrayal.

[Vahid Hesam]

The underbelly of the chantry was a vast, dark chamber, and yet it had a distinctly claustrophobic feel to it. There were bookcases that stretched up from the floor all the way to the ceiling. Here and there, a brazier casting flames on the floor, their light flickering back and forth, as if desperately trying to illuminate every dark corner. Barely visible in the shifting light, arcane symbols were scrawled onto the walls. Somewhere in the distance, as if far further away than the length of the basement, Vahid heard the sound of monastic chanting. A pungent mix of smells, the product of a handful of botched experiments, filled the stale air.

The various tiers of the kafir hierarchy were clear from the colors they wore. The apprentices were robed in red, senior apprentices in blue... anyone free from any robe, or wearing green, was most surely a superior member of the chantry. It was this method that Hesam was able to discern precisely who William Brown-Turrel was. For a short time, he watched the man wander seemingly aimlessly. He wanted to make sure that this was in fact the Primogen, and not merely some guest. There was only one way he would be able to find out for certain.

Casting aside his cloak of shadows for another mask, Vahid approached the Primogen as an apprentice.

“Sir William?”

[Thaddeus Post]

The Primogen had cast aside his journal in frustration after just a few moments, and was pacing the halls. Anxiously checking for anything out of the ordinary or peculiar, William turned towards the red cloaked apprentice who addressed him.

"What is it?" His handsome face was twisted with irritation at the interruption.

***

The rat scurried back across the floor to the saftey of the large bed, the wet noises of Clara's feeding threatening to distract it. Go watch the Primogen. William Brown-Turrel. Find him and watch, and then return. It squeaked in frustration, unable to deviate from its instructions even to seek a bit of food.

Hungry, it slipped into the crack and back into the wall. The trip to the Primogen's rooms was short enough from the Regent's quarters, but once it arrived it found the room was empty.

***

On the first floor Thaddeus Post was growing more and more concerned. Auspex gave him a certain degree of clairvoyance, and he hesitated in the corridor he was investigating. Jenny was still upstairs, and he felt the urge to run back upstairs and get her out of the chantry.

For another minute he stood still, and then he heard something interesting. Post cocked his head to the side, and then pressed his hand against the wall, opening up a hidden door into a secret passage. He checked it for unwelcoming wards, and then entered, the door sliding shut behind him.

[Clara Mandelbrot]

Completely drained of all vitae, Roderick Alan entered torpor, but his lifeless body did not have time to rest. Filled with the blood of the Regent, Clara was could barely stand to keep still – her whole body trembling with excitement. The Beast was awake and roared in triumph. Clara's lips were pressed to Roderick's, her mouth open. It felt as if there was still blood left in him, but it was something else. At first it felt no different, but then... it was as if she had injected liquid fire into her veins. It was a burning that spread outwards from within, so painful yet so pleasurable. Her body shook in orgasmic delight as the very soul of the Regent was sucked from its body by the succubus Mandelbrot.

The experience was so profound, so thrilling, that Clara could not help but throw her head back and let out a guttural cry of ecstasy. The powerful of Roderick's blood was phenomenal, indescribable. She felt every drop surging through her body, filling her with such strength. She felt herself on the brink of Frenzy and flung herself away from the Regent's corpse to the bodies of the kine, still lying on the floor. Unable to gain control, she tore into their throats and drunk them dry.

***

Elsewhere, Nikolai Werner opened his eyes. Around him, a ring of robed apprentices stood, their hands joined together, their eyes closed as they chanted in low tones. Their voices were growing in volume, and as they did a grin began to form on Nikolai's lips. At his feet, a circle was inscribed upon the floor, with six lines intersecting it, each pointing to one of the apprentices. The circle itself seemed to glow with a fiery light, tiny flames licking out of the earth.

There was a pause in the chanting, and Werner punched one hand into the air, holding aloft a curved blade. With deliberate, ceremonial care, he lowered it towards his other hand – outstretched and bare. Bringing the sharpened blade into his palm, he clenched his fist around the metal. Blood began to ooze from between his fingertips, quickly he sprinkled it upon the unnatural flames, who rose hungrily to meet it.

[Vahid Hesam]

The kafir looked practically disgusted that he had been uninterrupted, that such a lowly apprentice had distracted him. Such arrogance. It would be a pleasure to destroy this one. One moment the apprentice was stood in front of William, the next he was not. Behind the Primogen, Vahid cast to the wind all secrecy and unveiled his true form. Suddenly, there was an almighty bang and light seemed to fill the entire room. Not even this, however, was enough to stay the blade of the assassin – who hooked the katar across Brown-Turrels throat a second before a thunderous roar sounded.

nnnnnnnnNNNNNNNAAAAAAAARGH!!

A pillar of fire erupted from the ground. The apprentices surrounding Nikolai Werner stumbled backwards, agape and gasping in awe.

The Tremere Primogen's body fell forwards into ash, though his head dangled from Hesam's hands. There were screams in the air now, and the Assamite could smell vitae other than that which was dripping from the Primogen's gaping neck. He tucked the severed head beneath his arm and darted to the left, to the end of the bookcase behind which he had found his target. As he rounded the corner, two apprentices came crashing into him, and the head of the Primogen rolled to the floor. They shrieked in terror, tripping over themselves to run away. For a moment, Hesam entertained the arrogant thought that it was he who had instilled such fear, but the sound of another roar told him otherwise.

Gathering up the fallen head, he span around just in time to see a bookcase falling towards him. He dropped a roll, narrowly escaping being crushed, only to find himself in the path of more apprentices. He dove to avoid them, and seconds later saw their feet vanishing upwards. Books and all manner of magical paraphernalia fell from the sky, a spectre of some kind almost hitting Vahid on the head. He looked upwards and, when he saw what had carried the apprentices away, spat the foulest curse he knew and still did not feeling it was strong enough.

In an instant, he was up and running. Behind him, the basement seemed to be collapsing. More bookcases fell, and the ground beneath seemed to shake. Leaping over a fallen chest, he heard screeches over head. He vaulted on top of one of the toppled bookshelves, pushing its weigh harder down against an apprentice already half-crushed beneath it.

A searing pain hit his left side. Suddenly he was tumbling to the floor, Brown-Turrel's head knocked out of his head once more. Temporarily stunned, he rolled onto his back. Blood clouded his vision, yet as he looked up to the ceiling he saw clearly what had attacked him. Tiny winged imps swarmed overhead, whilst at the center of it all a giant winged beast hovered over head. Though his face bore passing resemblance to that of Nikolai Werner, his body had been warped beyond recognition. Two great leathery wings extended from his shoulder blades, his skin was charred black as coal, and a broad piercing horn curved out of his forehead.

“Mark my words, kafir. Kadd shall be upon you, and the child of Haqim-AAHHH!”

In the maelstrom of chaos, another voice began to scream.

[Thaddeus Post]

The rat had ventured into the hallways, the urge to complete its mission overriding its natural sense of caution. In the library it found itself in the middle of a maelstrom of disaster, and quickly scurried to the nearest hole it could fine.

***

Thaddeus sprinted downstairs at the first sounds of trouble, glad for the moment that he was not wearing one of the long robes often favored by the Tremere. At the halfway point on the stairs towards the basement he was nearly bowled over by panicking neonates, but he struggled through them ...and then wished he hadn't.

Books were falling from the ceiling, and he caught one neatly in his hand before noticing the smell of sulphurous gas. Screams were overpowered by a thunderous roar, and Post stepped aside neatly as two more apprentices scrambled for the stairs. Auspex nearly deafened him with the sounds coming from the basement, and he saw that the floor seemed to be collapsing. Small flying demons, unlike anything he'd seen before, were gathering near the ceiling and tearing at an apprentice they'd caught up in their tiny hands. And a huge black skinned creature -

Thaddeus shouted into the maelstrom, fire issuing forth from a space between his palms, attempting to distract the demon from whoever it was it was hovering above. He was still a good distance away with the staircase at his back, but the fire licked at the charcoaled skin of the Beast and for a moment it was engulfed in unnatural greenish flames.

William was right... he thought, and then dove up the stairs to escape the imps that were coming for him.

[Clara Mandelbrot]

The bowels of the chantry spewed forth fire and madness. Lead by the demon Nikolai, a charge of infernal creatures set about destroying the building. The wards that had been set in place, to protect the Tremere against any attack, were of little use. At the moment of summoning, Werner had dissolved those wards surrounding the basement, whilst Mandelbrot had steadily 'disarmed' the chantry in the week prior to her betrayal. The preparations had begun months ago, their fruition a terrible sight to behold. Tremere acolytes fell left, right and center, unwillingly sacrificing their vitae to the voracious appetites of Those Who Wait Beyond.

The sounds of the insanity below were like music to Clara's ears. As the electric lights in the chantry began to flicker, the circuitry no doubt damaged by one of the fiends, she cackled with malice. Her eyes were alight with an unholy flame as she swayed towards the Regent's window. As she moved towards the pane, she caught up a chair in one hand and flung it effortlessly into the frame, sending a spray of glass into the street. Careless of any injuries she might sustain, she climbed through the jagged pane and stepped out onto the narrow roof below it.

In the distance, the moon reflected against the Serpentine lake...

[Vahid Hesam]

Emerald flames engulfed the fiend. It lurched backwards in anger, its hellish eyes fixing on a new foe. Though he was deeply lacerated by the creatures claws, Vahid moved quickly. There was no telling how long the Baa'li demon would be distracted by whichever Tremere had managed to survive long enough to attack it – though he suspected that the kafir would joined his fallen comrades soon. Not one to tempt fate, the Assamite dashed towards the staircase. The head of William Brown-Turrel was lost in the fire, but the assassin was far more concerned with conserving his own life than retrieving the Archbishop's proof of purchase.

With Celerity-quickened speed, he tumbled a man on the stairs. Though he did not pause, he caught a brief glimpse of the warlock and saw that he wore no robes. Perhaps he was strong enough to hold the demons at bay until Vahid had time to escape. He could only pray to Haqim that this was the ccase. For all the Assamites had an eternal jyhad with the demons, Vahid alone was no match for a newly spawned by of hellions. It was down to him to return to the desert fortress, to warn the others, so that they might prepare for the war that was surely coming.

[Thaddeus Post]

Post was flung down as something moved past him, and he scrambled to his feet as the staircase started to crumble underneath him. Grasping the railing, Thaddeus called down fire again, shouting the arcane words into the madness below. A curtain of fire covered the bottom of the stairs, flaming imps falling through it from the other side, popping and oozing as they still tried to climb up after him.

Not daring to stay to see if the flame would slow down the large demon, the Tremere flung himself upwards, gaining the first floor as the entire building shook. Jenny was coming down from the second floor, clothes in disarray, and a suitcase in hand. Wordlessly he grabbed her free hand and together they ran for the relative saftey of the outside.

[Clara Mandelbrot]

All across the country, similar scenes were unfolding. Secret cells of Baa'li, many nestled within chantry's, were unveiling their true nature to the world. As one, they had pulled the rug from beneath their peers. The sudden and simultaneous surge of conflict was enough to temporarily tear the fabric which separated the known world from the beyond. In one fell swoop, chantry's all across the laughably titled United Kingdom would fall under the control of the childer of Ba'al.

A giddy madness had set upon Clara, who looked out across London as if it was now the kingdom of hell, already conquered completely. In truth, there was much 'work' yet to be done, but in the glow of the burning chantry, she felt as if there was nothing they could not accomplish. Both the progeny of Caine and Seth would soon know the true meaning of the word suffering.

Swaggering forwards, she held her hands towards the sky, as forks of lightning patterned across the clouds. Her robes whipped at the air, as a wind began to gather. For the first time in ages, the water of the Serpentine lake was no longer still.

“Lo, let the night be solitary...”

Nearby, a roll of thunder, far louder than any naturally occurring, gave a tremendous boom, though Clara's words sounded loud and clear...

“Let no joyful cry be heard in it.”

...and as the flames licked upwards, she shouted in zealous fury:

“Come Tiamat! come Taninim! come Rahab! Let them curse it who curse the day who are ready to awake the Leviathan!“

And all at once, the Serpentine lake rushed upwards, as a length of gleaming scaley flesh whipped twenty-foot into the chill air, a piercing shriek issuing forth from its saw-toothed maw.

[Vahid Hesam]

Balls of fire, bolts of electricity, shards of ice – they all whirled past Vahid as he made his run for safety. Foolish Tremere, tenaciously loyal, were trying to stand their ground. The chantry had become their home, and many would rather see Final Death than see it razed. For those we were not so fanatical, or had some sense in them, the first floor entrance was where they were headed. Many were sweating blood, exhausted, but even with his substantial wound Hesam still exhibited keen acrobatic prowess, ducking and weaving through the seemingly endless crowd. Those he could not avoid he pushed aside with force, his katar clearing a path. While running, he was sure that he heard another monstrous cry, but could not be certain.

When freedom was finally in sight, he did not stand by to witness the final fall of the chantry – as much as he would have enjoyed it. On emerging into the street, his eyes were immediately arrested by the gargantuan serpent. From where he stood, it looked as if the thing was eclipsing the moon as it turned its pointed head towards the chantry. For a moment, it felt as if their eyes met. It was long enough. Hesam turned, ran, and did not look back.

[Thaddeus Post]

The doorway was nearly impassable, but an apprentice blasted a hole in the wall nearby in his haste to get to safety. Thaddeus yanked Jenny through it after the innovative neonate, only to throw her to the side as the Tremere in front of them disappeared into the maw of a gigantic serpent. Jenny tumbled to the ground as an explosion rocked the rowhouses behind them, and Thaddeus swore heavily in Greek as the scaley creature reared back above the Serpentine lake, an arm falling from its great mouth.

There was no time to prepare a ritual, but Post grabbed a phial of vitae that he kept around his neck, breaking the leather strap that held it. As the serpent of Hell shot towards him, striking with unbelievable speed, he threw the phial at it. It struck the creature between the eyes, exploding with enough force to raze a stone house to the ground. The serpent shrieked, falling backwards and thrashing in the lake.

This time it was Jenny who grabbed his hand, and they ran on into the night, as far from the chantry as possible.