Every Waking Moment

[Giacomo Rossi]

Moscow, Russia

A shadowy figure hurries down a cobblestoned street, hunched down into its heavy overcoat. Hands in pockets, the man seems to be the only thing alive in Moscow as he walks through the late night mists that the lampposts barely penetrate.

And yet, he is not alone; a fact not lost on the man. He casts a glance behind him now, and then again, his steps quickening. Turning a corner to follow the banks of the river, he is away from the claustrophobic buildings and exposed to the night.

Pausing, he glances around, then apparently reassured he continues on his way. Alas, he relaxes for naught, as two shadows detatch from the buildings to his left and move to block his path. The man slows down, looking behind for escape, only to find that two more men have appeared behind him.

The footsteps are loud on the stones of the road, but they do not echo. The mists swallow up the sounds as they swirl around the five figures on the riverbank.

There are no words. The four newcomers converge on the first man, fists and clubs extended as they begin to beat a lesson into his skin. He cries out, and is silenced with a knife.

His warm hat and coat are stripped off, valuables taken. The four thieves mumble between themselves as they discard the bleeding body into the river, the water taking the lost soul with barely a ripple.

The currents take the body of the late night traveler, sending it to a final resting place in the garbage and silt of the bottom. He is not the only corpse the river has claimed in its long existence, nor will he be the last.

Beneath the newly dead, as its lifeblood dilutes into the dirty water around it, something stirs.

[Katarina Gordislava]

London, England

As night fell over London, Katarina Gordislava opened her eyes and sat up. She had lain all day on top of the covers of the four poster bed in her chambers, forgoing the vanity of pretending that she had laid down to sleep. She rose, fully clothed, but quickly discarded the slightly rumpled apparel for a new outfit, a mute ghoul assisting her with buttons.

The Archbishop felt vaugely uneasy, though she could not pin the feeling on anything in paticular. The Baali threat was gone. Rodermark was even gone, sending the local Cammies into cloisters and hidden chambers to appoint a new Prince. London was quiet.

She had intended to spend the evening, after breaking her fast, planning the London Sabbat's next move against the ridiculous Camarilla. Now was an ideal time to strike, before the new Prince was named and while everyone was still licking their wounds from Stonehenge. The pack had been decimated, however, a little more than a tenth of their number sent to their final Death on the plains of Salisbury.

And she was unsettled. The ghoul ran an ivory handled brush through her hair as the Archbishop sat at the vanity - the mirror draped with a dark red cloth. Katarina waved it away impatiently after the creature had pulled up her long hair in a twist and fastened it with two long ornamental chopsticks.

A fledgling Lasombra led in a Dominated kine, a young female mortal with red hair, clothed in a simple white shift. The kine knelt on the center of the rug, her skin all over with goosebumps at the coolness of the room. Katarina felt a surge of Hunger, felt the Beast stirring at the sight of the warmblooded mortal.

The fledgling backed out of the room, but Katarina stopped her with a wave of her hand. "Summon the Vizier to my chambers at his earliest convienience," she snapped, beginning to lose control as the urge to feed came over her. The young Keeper nodded, and fled the room, the doors closed up tightly behind her.

The Archbishop approached the kine, standing the girl on her feet before letting go of the Beast. She fell upon the mortal almost savagely, tearing into the kine with sharp fangs until the blood flowed freely from her neck. The mortal made no sound, her legs and arms relaxing until Katarina was the only thing holding her up, her limbs hanging in such a way that it appeared that the kine was embracing the Cainite.

The Archbishop sank to the floor, extracting as much as she could from the used shell of a mortal. The Beast cried out for more, but there was no more, and she was nearly uncomfortable she had ingested so much. Katarina crawled away from the dead kine, her clothing and hair mussed, and kept moving until she was in a corner of the room.

Huddled there, lips and cheek stained with the mortal's blood, she realized what emotion had overtaken her as she had slept. She was afraid.

[Sergei Vishnyakov]

Opening inward the door to the vizier's bed-chambers, the Keeper recoiled. Pale, trembling candle-light flickered in the darkness beyond the threshold. Chiding herself for the moment of panic, the Lasombra turned and saw that Vishnyakov appeared to have anticipated his mistress's summons. Sergei was dressed already and, illuminated by the wan light, his eyes seemed expectant, vexed almost.

“The Archbishop has need of you.”

Need? Sergei took a moment to scrutinize the Cainite, noting how unfamiliar she seemed to him. Perhaps she was newly arrived to London. Certainly, that would explain her error in proclaiming that the Archbishop had need of anything. Had he been feeling more malicious, he might have taken greater offense at Katarina's behalf – but he hadn't the patience for any groveling, not yet. The past weeks had drained Sergei, both physically and mentally, forcing him into a semi-reclusive state as he found himself if not unable then at least unwilling to tolerate the presence of others. The Archbishop, of course, was an exception... a necessity.

He arrived and announced his presence with a single knock, entering without being called.

[Katarina Gordislava]

So withdrawn as she was in her thoughts, Katarina did not notice that the door to her chambers had opened for a few moments. Sergei closed it behind him, her location not immediately apparent to him. Taking a few steps into the room, he looked down at the body of the dead kine. The Vizier traced the stains on the carpets with his eyes, tracking the Archbishop to where she sat against the wall on the far side of the bed.

She met his gaze for one tortured moment, then closed her eyes, a trembling hand pressing against her forehead. "I am undone..."

[Sergei Vishnyakov]

Katarina was not as he had expected to find her, not as the Sabbat as a whole would expect to find her. In the wake of what was arguably a victory against both the Baa'li and the Camarilla, both having had their leaders banished to who-knows-where, it had been expected that the Archbishop would grasp firmly the reigns of war and topple London completely – and yet no such revolution had occurred. Katarina had locked herself away, scarcely permitting visitors save for those she was to dine upon. Though he masked it well, Sergei could not deny the confusion he felt, as he wondered what precisely could have caused such a sudden change in his mistresses demeanor.

“What troubles you, Archbishop?”

[Katarina Gordislava]

She didn't answer for a long moment, instead putting out her hand to him almost as though she were a child. Sergei hesitated slightly before taking her hand and allowing her to draw him down to the carpet next to her.

Taking a deep breath, Katarina released his hand and tried to smooth her mussed hair. "I feel him... calling me."

[Sergei Vishnyakov]

“Him?”

Sergei paused, uncertain how to receive this news. He watched Katarina as she fidgeted uncomfortably, fretted over her appearance. It was a rare sight, to be permitted to see her masks of control falling away.

“What does he want?”

[Katarina Gordislava]

She shuddered. "I do not know..."

After a moment of communal silence as she pondered the fear that gripped her, Katarina rose to her feet. "I feel him, here," she tapped her chest, "and I know it is him. Awake again." Noticing the blood on her clothing for perhaps the first time, the Archbishop seemed to wake up. She walked to her wardrobe and began stripping off the soiled items.

"He is too weak to influence me directly... for now." Never mind that just the thought of her sire being awakened from his long torpor had been enough to send the Archbishop spiraling out of control. Katarina buttoned up a fresh blouse and pulled on a smart jacket, squaring her shoulders with resolve. "But the bond he placed on me is irreversible."

[Sergei Vishnyakov]

The vizier nodded, slowly. There was no stronger bond, among kindred, than that of sire and childe; their blood was one.

“You are stronger now... you have overcome so much. You need not fear him.”

[Katarina Gordislava]

Katarina nodded, turning back towards her Vizier. "I do not think I can overcome him, Sergei." Her voice was soft. "Not alone."

[Sergei Vishnyakov]

“You are not alone.” It seemed obvious to him, but perhaps in this panic that had set upon her, she had forgotten just how many friends she had at her disposal. Sergei rose to his feet, walking to the foot of his mistresses bed.

“You have the Pack. Even the minions of Hell itself weren't enough to drive them away.”

What went unsaid, of course, was his own loyalty. For a vampire who had begun his kindred life with betrayal, Sergei's allegiance was surprisingly fixed. He would have thrown himself into the jaws of Saulot himself if Katarina had wished it.

[Katarina Gordislava]

Mind suddenly racing, free from the fear that had so incapacitated her, the Archbishop slowly nodded again. What a child she had been! If Sergei had not come to her, had not shaken her out of it, she might still be hiding in terror when her Master came to collect her.

"We must return to Moscow. Before he regains his strength." She reached for her cell phone where it lay on her dressing table. "I cannot remain in England and wait for him to come for me."

[Sergei Vishnyakov]

A frown, barely perceptible, creased Sergei's pale brow as his eyes followed her to the vanity table.

“What about London? There is no law here, no leader – Camarilla, Sabbat or otherwise.”

[Katarina Gordislava]

She paused with her cell in her hand.

"They have not offered this country to me, they only wished for me to subjugate it. The Camarilla are broken, their leaders scattered. I was always going to return to Moscow."

Yet, even as she said it she knew it was a lie. The Cardinal wanted her dead, and had hoped that by sending her to England that he would never see her again. She would never get her position back in Moscow, not while Niccoli was in charge.

Katarina narrowed her eyes. "Perhaps..." Sergei looked at her, patiently, waiting for her to finish her thoughts. "If we remain here..." she could become the cardinal of all of England! "The Camarilla are broken, as you say. We must stay and finish them off while they are still leaderless."

She set the phone down. "After we establish our power here, I will be ready to face him."

[Sergei Vishnyakov]

A treaty had been made, between Katarina and the foppish Prince of London, that they would not quarrel whilst the Baa'li threatened the country. They had remained true to that accord, but the Baa'li were gone now, and there was nothing to stop the Sabbat assuming control in the absence of Gabriel Rodermark. And yet...

Sergei found himself concerned. The Archbishop was acting out of sorts. He suspected that he was the only living being who had glimpsed the frailty that lay beneath her carefully composed exterior. She had let her guard down to him, in good faith, but now he found himself seeing beyond it even when she was assuming a position of control. The awakening of her sire was no small thing and it had clearly rattled her.

“Whatever course of action we take, we must act with discretion. Even with Rodermark gone, we are not without opposition.”

[Katarina Gordislava]

"Of course." She waved a hand as though brushing away his concerns. "The Camarilla leaders will all be scrambling to place one of their own in the throne."

She pursed her lips, "Roland Salisbury is the most likely candidate. His power base rivals that of any of the others. If we take him out... discretely... we will have a better chance of uniting the Sabbat of England behind me."

[Sergei Vishnyakov]

Roland Salisbury. Now there was a challenge.

The Ventrue Primogen was rumoured to be centuries older than his Prince, yet he had never sought the throne himself. What motivated Salisbury, Sergei could not say – the man clearly had the skills to lead London, and perhaps the whole of Britain, himself, yet he shied away from the limelight. In all likelihood, Rodermark would defer to him on any matter. Though not the Prince in name, Salisbury was certainly responsible for performing most of the duties that the title came with.

“There are others, of course... Marcus Thornby has been doing a lot of... barking since Gabriel vanished, and the rabble seem to approve of him. There are also rumours that the Nosferatu Primogen fancies himself a leader too, given the vast network he has influence over. It's difficult to say which way the pendulum will swing.”

[Katarina Gordislava]

"Hard to predict, yes," she agreed. "However, we can influence that pendulum. Give it a swing in a paticular direction, as it were."

Katarina narrowed her eyes. "The Assamite (http://sw-fans.net/forum/showthread.php?t=15275) may be useful to our ends once again. If he did not get killed during the Baa'li incursion." Vahid Hesam had assassinated the Tremere Primogen just before all hell had literally broken loose in London. He could be used to trim the fat further off of the Camarilla Primogen.

Elizabeth Atkinson, the highest ranking kindred of the remaining Toreador clan, would be clawing for more power as long as the vacuum remained at the top. Salisbury would fill it, temporarily, but if he were removed, or weakened... The Archbishop frowned. The Camarilla might very well tear themselves apart.

And if London fell, the rest of the United Kingdom might well follow. "We must keep our contacts with the Sabbat in Scotland and Wales open. Build on what we learned during the Baa'li attack."

She rubbed her temple, an uncharacteristic headache coming on. "I need to make some phone calls. Check on Alexi, back in Moscow. See what he hears about Niccoli..." Her sentences were becoming increasingly disjointed, but she rallied, steeling against the fluttery feeling that she felt in the pit of her stomach.

"See if you can locate Hesam. If he is not in London, then we will explore other options for removing the Primogen who are most likely to claim the title Prince of London."

[Sergei Vishnyakov]

“I will... attempt to contact the Assamites at Almut, to determine Hesam's location and the details of the continuation of our contract.”

The arrival of the Baa'li had turned everything on its head, and although it seemed that they had banished them for the time being, it was possible that the Assamite's would view the risks presented in Great Britain as being too great. Then again, it was also clear that Vahid Hesam saw the task of eliminating the cities Primogen as something of a challenge – as a way of proving himself.

Dismissing these thoughts with a blink, Sergei gave a small bow.

“Excuse me, Archbishop. I will return with the information you require, momentarily.”