[b:5df305f9a2]Eveshka[/b:5df305f9a2]

At 11:20 pm, the first alerts went off at the guard station of Chateau de Chenonceau. The gallery was onfire. Firemen raced to the scene only to report what looked like some sort of terrorist activity. The distinct chatter of automatic weapons fire echoed across the grounds. It took perhaps 5 minutes for the military response team to begin moving the thirty miles from Tours to Chenonceau. The local gendarmerie quarantined the Chateau. There was only one route into the place.
As Khemintiri fought like a whirling dervish across the roof of the blazing palace and Lucinde moved around to cut off her escape, the combatants heard sounds of the approaching helicopters, still several miles off.

[b:ea999a39cc]Michelle[/b:ea999a39cc]

From the prow of the lead Zodiac Kharsh watched the battle atop the roofs of Chateau Chenonceau. Kemintiri danced across the roof tops cutting a bloody swath through her Ventrue attackers. Kharsh had been a warrior for eight centuries and in that time the warlord had encountered few he would consider his peers in mortal combat; Xavier, once the Gangrel Justicar, Brunhilde, the Valkyrie and Euryon the beast, Fatima, the assamite assassin perhaps, and of course, his nemesis, Jalan-Aajav, Seraph of the Black Hand. Now, as he approached the Chateau he marveled at what he saw. Kemintiri moved with a speed he had never seen before, indeed, never thought existed. Even to his eyes, her blades were a blur of whirling steel. He watched carefully as she cut a Ventrue assaulter to pieces in a split second.

In all his centuries, Kharsh had never seen an opponent like this. His disciplined mind did not dwell on the revelation, however, but instead went to work looking for a weakness. It took him only a moment to see it. Her speed was incomparable, her strength likely the equal of his and her flesh as hard as stone – but her fighting skill was not of the same caliber. Certainly she had been trained, and trained well. She clearly had unparallel experience. And yet, she did not possess the same level of skill as he did, or even some of his warriors. She made up for the shortcoming with her physical attributes, but now, Kharsh could see, there was a weakness he could exploit.

Through the head set he wore Kharsh’s ghouls, who were stationed in a ring around Chenonceaux, informed him of the alarm and the approach of helicopters. Kharsh issued his orders without emotion. He knew this would happen and his troops were prepared for it. Some of his ghouls were dressed as French military and would shut down the roads. Others were in civilian clothes and would approximate ‘terrorists’. Several of those ‘terrorists’ lined the river, waiting with shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missiles for any incoming aircraft that would interfere with the battle raging at the Chateau. Kharsh did not want to kill any mortals, but he could not allow any interference with the assault – it would make it too easy for Kemintiri to escape. The lives of a few mortals were a small price to pay for bringing the Anathema to heel.

The Zodiac slowed and came to rest against the stone bulwark of the Chateau’s deck. Kharsh climbed out of the Zodiac and looked back on his men. They stood no chance at all against the demon who fought upon the roof. Their un-lives would be wasted here.

His voice flat, he issued a command, perhaps the last he ever expected to issue. “Return to the far shore, all of you.” His soldiers paused. All were kindred, some older than he. They were among the most accomplished warriors in the recorded history of human kind and they followed Kharsh without question. One of the soldiers simply shook his head no. The others began to do likewise and resumed their dismount from the boats.

Kharsh growled now, “I said return to the far shore.”

“Non” came an answer. The speaker was Guillaume de Poitiers, a crusader from the 12th century and a Ventrue for nearly a millennia. He was Kharsh’s second in command. He locked eyes with the Warlord and for a moment none of these deadly warriors moved. In that moment, Kharsh understood their loyalty, and they understood his concern. There was nothing left to say. The soldiers completed their dismount and joined Kharsh on the deck of the Chateau.

A body fell from the roof above them, crashing into the stone at their feet. It was a woman, a Ventrue. Dressed in a form fitting black garment and outfitted with a variety of weaponry, she had clearly been a part of the initial assault force. Blood streamed from a wound in her belly and her left side was crushed from the fall. She used what vitae she had to close the wounds. She stood as best she could and began to stagger towards the river. It was then that she first saw Kharsh. Terror lit her eyes. The Warlord was known to have no tolerance for cowardice. Indeed, he was rumored to slay those that tried to run with greater vehemence than he struck down his enemies.

Kharsh did not move. While everything the girl feared was true, Kharsh did not think her a coward. Up on that roof was a force the Ventrue girl had no hope of contending with. Why then would it be cowardly to avoid such a confrontation? Indeed, it was only prudent for her to run.

Kharsh raised a hand to the terrified woman and pointed to the Zodiac boats. The wounded Ventrue, still looking shocked, staggered past him to the awaiting boats and made her escape. Kharsh watched her go. At least someone would live to tell this tale. With a look of resignation, Kharsh gripped the scabbard of his sword in his left hand and entered the door of the Chateau. The tiger had been flushed out, and now it was time for the real hunt to begin. Battle would soon be joined…

[b:b5fc164c26]Eveshka[/b:b5fc164c26]

The lead helicopter circled the area only to be fired upon by a shoulder held surface-to-air missile. The pilot jinked to the left and nearly cleared the path of the missile. It clipped the tail rotor causing the helicopter to spin out of control and come to rest off in the wooded grounds someplace.
The pilot radioed his "May-day" and reported that he had recieved fire from a surface-to-air missile. The other helicopters set down well outside of the Chateau grounds and began to deploy.

Back at Usse, Madame Guil and Eveshka listened in to the guard channel frequency. Eveshka was in complete shock that her beloved chateau was being destroyed. Madame Guil was livid. In her opinion, Lucinde had way overstepped her charter. Or perhaps it was just an excuse for Madame Guil to torment her Ventrue Colleague. Either way, she had already spoken to Cock Robin, the Nosferatu Justicar and he was excited about the prospect of a little sport.

[b:8287eb4fb1]Michelle[/b:8287eb4fb1]

Kharsh held his sword, still sheathed in its black lacquered scabbard, in his left hand, and with his right, opened the doors to the grand ballroom of Chateau Chenonceau. The flames engulfing the gallery reflected off the water and flickered through the windows of the ball room. Kharsh stepped through the doors and began to make his way across the polished floor. He kept his sword sheathed.

That sword was a katana from the Sengoku period of Japan. It had been forged for Uesugi Kenshin, Daimyo of the Uesugi clan, and legend had it this was the blade Kenshin had wielded when he wounded his arch-nemesis Takeda Shingen at the Fourth Battle of Kawanakajima. Kenshin had taken the vows of a monk during his long struggles with the Takeda and it was said the folded steel blade of his sword had been blessed by Bishammon, the god of war, himself. Kharsh acquired the blade long after Uesugi Kenshin and Takeda Shingen had gone the way of their ancestors, but the blade lived on. Whether blessed by Bishammon or not, Kharsh knew it could wound even the fortified flesh of the undead. In his eight centuries of fighting, he had never wielded a finer weapon.

As Kharsh and his warriors strode confidently across the ball room, the ornate double doors at the far end of the hall opened. Angry orange light from the flames in the gallery beyond spilled across the ballroom silhouetting a female form in the doorway.

Kharsh stopped and took in the woman before him. Her arms were outstretched as she opened the two doors and stepped slowly into the room, her hips swaying sensuously. Her skin was purest white, her hair black and her eyes windows into the depths of hell. Kemintiri made no attempt to hide herself or what she was.

The sight moved Kharsh. He had never seen a more perfect female. Though tiny in stature, he guessed under five feet tall, she was beautiful beyond compare. The sight made him think of the legends of fey folk, faeries and elves, which the Europeans were so fond of. Indeed, she beautiful enough to be a Djinn of legend.

Here now, before him, stood a vampire that had been ancient before Christ or Mohammed had been born. A vampire who, if myth was accurate, would be the grand daughter of Cain himself. A vampire who had slain untold thousands of her kindred over the last three millennia. A vampire he had to destroy.

His hand went to hilt of his weapon and as it did so she smiled. A flick of her eyes and the doors to his left, opposite the windows and the water, burst open. A horde of shambling forms surged forth at Kharsh and his warriors. The forms were dressed in colorful, modern clothes, now ripped and stained with blood. Kharsh realized that none of the tourists or tour guides who came to Chenonceau this afternoon had ever left. They were Kemintiri’s unwitting soldiers now. They rushed from the doorways into the ball room armed with swords, halberds, daggers and axes taken from the Chateau’s collection. Kharsh’s warriors flew into action, blades flashing in the flickering orange light. Guillaume’s broad sword cut through the bright blue windbreaker of one overweight tourist eviscerating the man in an instant. The man screamed and threw himself forward like an animal. Guillaume stepped back and cut him down.

The tourists may have been innocents once, but now they were ghouls, zombies or just mind controlled. It did not really matter to Kharsh. Kemintiri was controlling them and now they were the enemy. Their deaths were just part of the price the world would pay for Kemintiri’s existence.

Kharsh’s own deadly blade came forth as he drew and attacked in a single motion cutting down what he guessed had been a tour guide judging by his blazer. These were not worthy opponents. All around him his warriors were cutting down Kemintiri’s slaves. The slaves were not skilled, or strong, but they were numerous. As Kharsh cut his way through more of them he had to guess there were at least a hundred of the creatures, compared to his six warriors and himself. She was using the slaves Kharsh, Lucinde and Zagreb had used the Ventrue; she used the slaves to drain them of their blood. It would not work. He did not need to use much blood to kill these vermin. He parried a slow moving axe head, whipped his blade around and took off the wielder’s head. All around him surged a sea of Kemintiri’s mindless slaves with their tourist clothes and museum piece weapons. He had to get out of this madness, he had to reach her. Escape did not seem to be her game, but he needed to regain the initiative.

As Kharsh ripped his sword through another attacker, pain shot through his back. He had been stabbed. He spun away from the unexpected blow and accelerated. He turned to face his unseen attacker, raising the katana to striking position only to see one of his own men. Kharsh paused and his warrior came forward, weapon in hand, on the attack. Kharsh parried and back pedaled, using his strength and speed to force his way through the attacking mob. For a moment Kharsh locked eyes with the attacking warrior – and the eyes were empty. What ever there had been of the man was gone, now replaced by what ever commands Kemintiri had given him. Kharsh did not hesitate.

The katana flashed at a speed the attacking warrior could not match, cutting through armor, skin, undead flesh and bone. Kharsh whipped the sword back and brought it down upon the warrior again, ending his unlife. Looking up, Kharsh could see Guillaume fighting not only with the mob, but with Aziz, one of Kharsh’s other warriors. This was the plan then. The mob was to occupy them while Kemintiri used her mental powers to turn his own warriors on him.

An arm wrapped around his neck and others tried to grab hold of his arms. The mob was on the attack again. He was still too strong for them however and he threw them off, then slashed the ancient katana across his attackers again and again. Still, the mob came on. In his peripheral vision he saw one of his warriors get dragged down in the tide of mindless slaves. Guillaume had disposed of Aziz, and now called out to him “M’lord, break out, leave us and get the beast!” Kharsh had every intention of doing just that. The katana slashed again and again, tearing through the hapless slaves of the Anathema. And then Kharsh came face to face with Guillaume – but it was not Guillaume.

Broadsword clashed with Katana in the fire-lit hall of Chateau Chenonceau, with no quarter asked and non-given. The two swordsmen moved with a speed that mortals could not comprehend and with a strength mortals could not hope to achieve. Gradually, Kharsh forced Guillaume on the defensive, pushing him back, but the mob was not through. Even as Kharsh gained the advantage on Guillaume the crowd surged forth and tried to overwhelm him. They grabbed at his arms, pulled his hair and clawed at his skin. His sword slowed, Guilluame’s broadsword found his head. As many had noted before, Kharsh’s flesh was as hard as diamonds, but Guillaume was possessed of his own supernatural strength. The blow knocked Kharsh sideways and suddenly he was subsumed by the mob. Dozens of mindless slaves piled onto the wounded warlord, clawing at eyes, tearing at his flesh and biting at his skin.

There burns, in the heart of every Gangrel, the fire of the beast. It is a flame that most do not embrace, though they are unable to extinguish it. They fight its heat for all the centuries of their unlife, trying to resist its destructive power. The call of the beast beckons to their souls from within the flame, and they resist with all their might lest what little remains of their humanity gets consumed by the fire.

Now, at the bottom of a mass of mindless slaves bent on his destruction, Kharsh called out to that flame. As he felt the claws and teeth of his attackers upon him he fanned the fire of the beast within, and let the monster loose of its shackles. With a guttural growl born of eight centuries of killing Kharsh called out to his ancestors, to the beast and to Allah. The growl turned into a roar and as it did he rose from the pile of attackers, tearing them limb from limb with his claws. Though he was alone and they were legion they could not resist the beast. Feral claws driven by animal instinct and the strength of a monster tore through the hapless mob of slaves. Guillaume, sword in hand charged into the fray and Kharsh met him claw to blade. As the beast took over and Kharsh’s eyes turned to red he could not tell one enemy from the next and he tore through them all with equal abandon. Guillaume’s sword landed unopposed upon Kharsh’s flesh but the blow did not give the monster pause. Kharsh’s claws ripped through Guillaume’s armor and into the ancient Ventrue’s hardened flesh. More slaves piled onto the pair in a desperate attempt to contain the beast, but such fury, such rage, could not be tempered by all the slaves Kemintiri could muster. The monster within Kharsh would not be denied. With a howl that could be heard across the river Kharsh tore Guillaume apart and fed upon the dying Ventrue. In those last moment, Kemintiri’s grip upon the mind of the proud French knight slipped and he realized what was happening. In the midst of all this horror, all he could feel was pride as Kharsh drank his vitae – what could possibly stop Kharsh? Though Guillaume would not live to see it, he had seen this much and that was enough. The beast, the monster, had arrived, and none could stop it. As Guillaume passed into final death Kharsh threw the broken body aside and tore his way through the remaining slaves until he alone stood waist deep amidst a pile of bodies, limbs, blood and gore in the hall of the Chateau.

He howled, now, to the sky and moon outside, to Allah in heaven and to Kemintiri. It was a howl of anger, of lust, of the joy of battle and of rage and of revenge. The words of Hindu scripture came to him now as he waded out of the carnage towards the open doors where Kemintiri had stood only minutes before, words that had oft been quoted, but rarely understood – “I am become death, the destroyer of worlds…” and now he would destroy her world….

[b:2c0b643fb4]Michelle[/b:2c0b643fb4]

In a chamber above the ball room where Kharsh the Warlord now waded through the carnage he had wrought, Kemintiri completed her preparations. The first wave of Ventrue had been defeated, and she was now covered in their blood. She had heard Kharsh’s howl and she knew the Gangrel had grabbed hold of the beast and fought his way free of the mind-slaves. She had used them only to buy time. Kemintiri needed Kharsh to approach, but she also needed time when he arrived. The tourists had bought her that time with their lives, as had Kharsh’s own soldiers. Now he came for her, full of rage, flushed with the blood of the innocent and hell bent on revenge.

Out in the hall she could see his shadow cast upon the stones by the fire below in the gallery. He was coming. The time had was at hand. She had one last detail to attend to before she revealed herself to the Camarilla’s hounds.

As Kharsh mounted the stairs, Kemintiri pressed the play button on a CD player attached to the Chateau’s speaker system. Slow, bittersweet music filled the air. Sarah MacLaughlin, an American was the artist. Kemintiri would have preferred something else, something older, much older in fact, but such music was not to be found on CDs. This would have to do. As the music began she smiled in the flickering light and dark the fires had brought on. The song was titled “Possession”, and really, was that not what this was all about?

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back as the singer’s voice joined the music.

[i:2c0b643fb4]Listen as the wind blows
from across the great divide,
Voices trapped in yearning,
memories trapped in time,[/i:2c0b643fb4]

As the music played Kemintiri thought of Lucinde and Eveshka. Both had been her lovers and both had been her betrayers. It was not their fault though. And they were not the first, not even close. Kemintiri slowly let the door to those hidden memories open. In her minds eye she saw the sands of the desert, the black mud of Khem and the river Nile, always the river. And across that river she saw the two men whose passion had defined her life – and her unlife; Set and Horus. Horus who denied her life, and Set who denied her death.

[i:2c0b643fb4]The night is my companion
and solitude my guide,
Would I spend forever here
and not be satisfied, [/i:2c0b643fb4]


Kharsh reached the top of the stairs. Through the open portal to this chamber he could see her. He did not pause. He came towards her, steadily but cautiously. The beast was still upon him but the beast possessed an animal cunning and it was wary. Outside, Zagreb and Lucinde could hear the music drift out of the Chateau. Kemintiri wondered if Lucinde would understand.

Kemintiri had been focusing her mind, preparing for this moment. She looked over her shoulder at the approaching monster that was Kharsh. His lion mane of hair was matted with blood and his long feral claws were still dripping gore. His body was distorted, hunched, and his muscles bulged to unnatural proportions. His eyes were a solid glowing red. To mortals, he would have been a picture from a nightmare, a monster or a demon sent straight from central casting. The sight of the beast would have torn a mortal’s sense of reality asunder were they to believe what they saw. Across the room, Kemintiri stood, her back to the beast. She smiled at him, not a wicked smile, or a pleading one, but a bittersweet smile; The smile of a lover taking her leave of her partner for the last time.

[i:2c0b643fb4]And I would be the one
to hold you down,
kiss you so hard,[/i:2c0b643fb4]

For three millennia Kemintiri had been keeping the memory, the true memory, of Horus and Set at bay. Now she allowed all those forbidden memories to rush back at once. If she were to perish this night, she would do it on a river, and with the knowledge of who she was, who she had been. The love, the betrayal, the punishment all came back in a flash of emotional and physical pain unlike any other. The bolt of anguish shot through her and she screamed into the night. Kharsh was not the only one with an inner pain – indeed, his was dwarfed by the horrors that she had experienced. Now she used that experience and tapped into that horror to become the stuff of nightmares.

[i:2c0b643fb4]I'll take your breath away
and after I'd wipe away the tears,
Just close your eyes dear [/i:2c0b643fb4]

The power she now used had not been invoked since before the birth of Christ. Even as Kharsh shot forward, bloody claws outstretched, fangs bared as a howl of rage and fury issued from his soul, Kemintiri’s body faded into a liquid darkness. Kharsh shot through the ethereal dark and crashed into the wall beyond. He turned in frustration and fury and faced the dark which hung where Kemintiri had been standing only a moment before. The darkness was more than black, it was a fluid glittering shadow. As he watched the shadow took form, and that form was of a great serpent.

[i:2c0b643fb4]Oh you speak to me in riddles and
you speak to me in rhymes
My body aches to breathe your breath,
your words keep me alive,[/i:2c0b643fb4]

Kharsh could not have known it, but the form Kemintiri had taken was the Serpent of Apep, Set’s defeated enemy. Only Set himself and his own childer could invoke this power, and for the first time in many millennia, Kemintiri tapped into her pain and called forth the serpent of darkness.

Kharsh fanned the flame of the beast and charged the serpent of glittering anti-light. His claws and fangs passed through it as if it was not there. The serpent’s tail whipped around him and coiled about his waist. Though only shadow, he could feel its grip and the serpent’s strength was like nothing he had ever felt before. He clawed at the dark coils that were now squeezing his torso, but his claws could find no purchase. The serpent could touch him, but he could not touch the serpent. The coils tightened and Kharsh could hear his bones breaking under the pressure.

[i:2c0b643fb4]And I would be the one
to hold you down,
kiss you so hard,
I'll take your breath away[/i:2c0b643fb4]

The serpent’s head came face to face with Kharsh, and in its eyes he could see three thousand years of pain and betrayal, failure and loss. Kharsh new then what it was to come before a mad god, for now, he was in the coils of a goddess as insane as she was beautiful. He clawed at those eyes with all of his might but the blows just passed through the shadow.

The serpent began to lift him off the floor, and it squeezed harder still. Kharsh could feel the immense pressure on his spine and could hear the vertebrae cracking. Its eyes bored into his soul as if imploring him to simply die quietly, but he would not. Still the Warlord fought. He fought to be free, he fought to kill, he fought to avenge, he fought because it was simply his nature to fight, to struggle, to rage against whatever might stand in his path.

[i:2c0b643fb4]and after I'd wipe away the tears,
Just close your eyes dear [/i:2c0b643fb4]

The serpent bared its own fangs and struck, not at the neck but at his chest, boring into his rock hard flesh. He poured his might into resisting the attack, and his flesh was old and hard, but the shadow serpent’s fangs were older and harder and would not be stopped. Kharsh fought as the serpent bit deeper and deeper into him. The serpent lifted him off the floor completely now, and began to rise faster and faster up through the chamber. Kharsh let loose a howl of defiance and rage and fury but the serpent did not relent. After more than eight centuries, Kharsh believed that this night his immortal soul would finally walk the paths of Paradise beside his lord and god Allah.

[i:2c0b643fb4]Into this night I wander,
it's morning that I dread, [/i:2c0b643fb4]

Outside of the Chateau, Lucinde and Zagreb heard the howl. Though far apart on the river, both sensed the significance of that anguished roar and both sensed what the other was thinking. It was now or never. Lucinde gave the signal and her boat sped forward towards the Chateau carrying her and her archons into the apocalyptic inferno a head of them. Zagreb’s boat likewise steered towards the embattled Chateau. He was much closer than Lucinde and would be there in seconds. He hoped it would be soon enough.

[i:2c0b643fb4]Another day of knowing of
the path I fear to tread, [/i:2c0b643fb4]

Zagreb began a spell as his boat approached the stone bulwarks. Zagreb was not given over to fits of great heroism, but he could sense that this night, this battle was bigger than any of them. He would fight - and die if need be.

[i:2c0b643fb4]Oh into the sea of waking dreams
I follow without pride, [/i:2c0b643fb4]

In her boat, Lucinde looked back at her cloaked companion. She wondered if she could trust this one. Despite knowing her for centuries, the two of them had never fought together. Still, outside of Kharsh, she was the oldest and most powerful vampire they had left on there side. They would have to take the chance.

[i:2c0b643fb4]Nothing stands between us here
and I won't be denied, [/i:2c0b643fb4]

A head of them, one of the peaked roofs of the Chateau exploded upwards sending tiles and beams scattering into the night. From the breach came forth a nightmare, a swirling serpent of darkness straight from the bowels of a hell older than Christianity. In its hellish grip writhed the broken body of the Warlord Kharsh, who still howled his defiance into the night even as the serpent’s coils broke his back and its fang’s ripped his heart out of his body.

The serpent’s demonic head snapped back with the bloody heart of the Gangrel in its mouth. For a moment, it did not move, it hung there, in the air, above the flaming chateau, the screaming warlord in its grip, his heart in its mouth. The serpent’s head turned then, and spit the heart out into the flames below. The dark coils undulated and sent the now flaming body of the great Gangrel in after it.

Lucinde and Zagreb watched the scene in abject horror from their respective boats, helpless to do naught but observe the emergence of the serpent and the fall of Kharsh. On the shore, another man also watched the scene. A man who was neither kindred nor mortal. A man not aligned with the Camarilla or Kemintiri. A man whose birth predated that of the dark serpent which now hung above flaming Chenonceaux.

With Kharsh destroyed the serpent of darkness now took shape again, this time as Kemintiri the destroyer. She floated there in the night sky, just above the ruined roof of Chenonceau, waiting for her would be attackers. The tide had turned. Lucinde realized now that it was Kemintiri who hunted them. Lucinde looked at her cloaked companion, who clutched a cross and rosary in one hand and prayed on the beads with the other. The woman looked back at Lucinde and smiled wanly. “We are committed” her cloaked companion said. Lucinde simply nodded as the boat continued forward. Across the river, the Egyptian goddess awaited them, her black eyes staring through the night straight at Lucinde. There would be a reckoning this night. After decades of cat and mouse pursuit, Kemintiri had finally made a stand, and Lucinde was determined to make sure it was her last.

As the boats closed the distance and destiny drew ever closer, Kemintiri beckoned Lucinde with her eyes and the music played on….

[i:2c0b643fb4]And I would be the one
to hold you down,
kiss you so hard,
I'll take your breath away[/i:2c0b643fb4]

[b:44aa3e0ede]Eveshka[/b:44aa3e0ede]

[i:44aa3e0ede]The translated Scroll of Shal Ka-Mense. As translated by Julius Darrant.[/i:44aa3e0ede]

I.
“The desert shall bring forth new beginnings.” So sayeth Caine, First-borne. From Eden, east went the Father. Unto the hills and plains searched the Father with Lillith at his side. For proclaimeth the Father to quench the seed of the Living God and maketh a new line, neither Quick, nor Dead. To this foundation which the Father caused to build, came Enoch. First of the line, First of the newly blessed Damned. In times [this section unintelligible and torn omitting an unknown length of text]…..


….and fled into the night bearing the Sacred Blood. After a time, Na’anna recoileth from her musings. Cush lay before her. She had moved against the Father’s fallen wishes. Yet would she fulfill the still Sacred Duty He was unworthy to realize. At her bosom was Caine’s Salvation. Thence didst Na’anna crosseth the waters into Cush.

IV.
The moon rose to shine down upon the land of Cush. Into the bosom of Cush didst Na’anna cleave Herself. Yet did She keep Caine’s Salvation at Her bosom. Loosed from Her Life came the daughter of Na’anna. Quickened yet not Quick, neither Dead, yet Damned as the Serpent. One with the Serpent was the Savior of Caine’s Line. Yet the Savior Sire was vexed in Her Sacred appointment. Haer’eus ensnared the Savior, leading the Savior towards folly and everlasting damnation. Under the Sun’s Evil Glare fled the Savior Sire. East and then North along the Great Sea. Unto Lamech She came and wept crimson tears for the Savior, imprisoned yet in Cush. At Lamech didst Na’anna pass Her years in harmony with the Get of Adam. In Harmony did she reign until the Creator, who casteth the Line of Caine into Darkness called forth the Waters of the Great Sea to cleanse the world of its iniquities. The earth Drank in the Waters after a time, yet where was Earth now was Water. Na’anna swimmeth up through the waters and unto the Shore. With the first Moonrays did Na’anna look upon the waters of Lamech. Lamech, the blessed Jewel of Her Crown, wiped clean by the Wrath of the Creator.

V.
Thus journeyed Na’anna again to cleave Herself to the land of the Cush and redeem her own Redeemer. Ages passed as again Na’anna was vexed. Sa’eh’tukh had ensnared the Redeemer bringing the Savior into Damnation. Yet Na’anna, whom the Cushites called D’Ju-ti, remained steadfast to Her Divine Charter. She became a Mentor to the Redeemer, and at her side did the Deliverer grow. In ……….. [another gap of unknown length occurs here].

……….. therein passed the last of them, far beyond the boundaries of Shal Ka-Mense. Unto the desert. Unto the Hill. Unto the Sea and thrice beyond the New Kingdom. Therein lay Caine, First Born Caine. Pierced of the Heart. Pierced of the Flesh. Pierced of the Soul. Therein passed Nanna, survivor of Shal Ka-Mense. Behold the Splinter of Splinters. Piercer of the First Born. Piercer of the All Father. Unto Lamech it has gone. Unto Lamech it shall remain, until Nanna, the survivor of Shal Ka-Mense, returns to claim the Birth Right. Returns to complete the passage. Returns to rejoin the Line of Man and rule in the Light.

After……….. [this is the final bit of text on the scroll.]

[b:6b1d14fde3]Michelle[/b:6b1d14fde3]

Anastasz Zagreb, the Tremere Justicar, was 136 years old. Young for a Justicar. As he stood upon the prow of his boat, just yards from the stone walls of Chateau Chenonceau, he realized he would likely never see his 137th birthday. The great Camarilla Warlord Kharsh, an 800 year old killing machine, had just had his heart ripped out and his body cast like kindling into the fire raging in Chenonceau’s gallery. Still, Zagreb would not flee. The destruction of the Anathema was too important, the risk to the world to great, to let this opportunity, however slim and dangerous, slip by.

Zagreb began casting a spell. From the corner of his eye he could see Lucinde’s boat speeding up river towards the chateau. Above him, above the roof of the chateau, Kemintiri hung, floating in the night sky; her eyes fixed on the rapidly approaching Ventrue Justicar. Zagreb had this one opportunity. As he cast his spell he prayed to a god he no longer worshipped for victory, even at the cost of his own existence. He felt the tingling power of the magic rush through him and like a drug its sensation was overwhelming – suddenly he was powerful – nay, he was power incarnate. He reached his hands up towards the Setite and opened his mouth as if to feed.

Above him, Kemintiri suddenly felt the pull of Zagreb’s sorcery. Her blood, freshly taken from Kharsh’s heart, which in turn had been taken from the many tourists below and his own soldiers, now swelled her long dead veins and arteries. Suddenly, the capillaries in her right arm opened and her blood began to flow through the air towards Zagreb’s waiting mouth. In the dark, Kemintiri just smiled.

Below, Zagreb kept at his spell. In a crimson flash, Kemintiri’s blood streamed into his mouth and it was liquid fire. Zagreb screamed as the ancient’s vitae burned him with an ecstasy he had never before experienced. It took all of Zagreb’s training, all of his discipline and all of his will power to maintain as Kemintiri’s blood burned him from the inside out. Shocked at the power of her vitae and at the apparent success of his sorcery, Zagreb poured everything he had into the spell. Visions of diablerizing the ancient Setite flashed through his mind. His blood would be stronger, his wizardry more powerful. He would become the greatest Justicar the Tremere had ever known. Indeed, he could become a Pontifex, his sorcery would surely surpass that of Julius Darrant’s, or even Meerlinda’s, or the renegade Goratrix. Indeed, with Kemintiri’s blood, he could rule the Tremere. He [i:6b1d14fde3]would[/i:6b1d14fde3] rule the Tremere. Indeed, he would rule the entire Camarilla – but why stop there – with blood such as this, he would be a god and he would rule the world as Cain had done so long ago.

As suddenly as it started the blood stopped.

Zagreb brought himself back from his visions of grandeur and concentrated on his spell. It had been dispelled. For a moment he was confused. How could that be? The only way would be counter magic. She had counter-magic?

And then it hit him. Like a bolt of lightning out of the sky. She was 3000 years old. She was an ancient sorcerer before the Tremere clan ever even existed. The blood that he had tasted, that gave him such delusions of power was hers and so was the power – he had been a fool to think otherwise.

Looking up he saw that she was looking down upon him smiling. In his mind, he heard her voice.

[i:6b1d14fde3]Did you enjoy that wizard? Would you care to enjoy it again? Would you care to enjoy it for all eternity? Shall I make those dreams of yours a reality? [/i:6b1d14fde3]

Zagreb stared up at her, stunned and motionless. She was offering him a place at her side. Indeed, was she not really offering him god-hood? With her blood in him, and his sorcery, it would be as he had seen just a moment ago. But he would be her slave. Nay. With the power of that blood and the rituals he knew he could throw off her bond when he was done with her, diablerize her, steal her power and …..

Prayers are strange things. One never knows when or how they will be answered. For Anastasz Zagreb, his prayer to a god he no longer worshipped was answered with a moment of clarity in his most desperate moment of un-life. Even as Kemintiri worked her seduction upon the Tremere Justicar, a force more powerful gave Zagreb the ultimate gift – the gift of truth. For one split second, the impenetrable and all consuming cloud in Zagreb’s mind which Kemintiri and her blood had created was lifted. To follow her was damnation. He would be her slave and nothing more, like so many others had before him.

“No.” he said. He was not even aware he said it until after the words left his mouth. Then he said it again. “No.” And he said it again, this time his voice raising “NO” and again, even louder “NO!”

Anastasz Zagreb would not be Kemintiri’s slave. Her voice came to his mind again.

[i:6b1d14fde3]So be it wizard. [/i:6b1d14fde3]

And with that, Kemintiri cast her own spell and Zagreb’s boat exploded into flames, engulfing the Tremere wizard and his archons in the fireball. Zagreb screamed and leaped into the river, his burning arms flailing in the dark. Some of his archons followed, while others perished in the initial blast. Such was the power of Kemintiri’s wrath.

Kemintiri did not smile. The Tremere should have fallen to her tricks but he resisted her. She was not amused. With Kharsh destroyed and Zagreb burned and sinking in the river, she turned her attention now to the last remaining enemy, Lucinde, her old lover, who even now shot across the dark waters in her boat to meet her fate, whatever it might be…..

[b:698be78e39]Gabriel[/b:698be78e39]

Trabzon, Turkey - Julius Darrant's Penthouse Suite


At last, Gabriel stretched his now aching muscles. For nearly three straight nights he had sat motionless in front of the plasma screen television that made up the centerpiece of the penthouse's living area. Even the elegant down cushions of the couch could not avert the dull pains that crept into Gabriel's muscles as he stood from what had been nearly his 60th hour of watching war coverage.

The assault on Iraq was picking up now with a blinding pace. The dispatched correspondents could not move quickly enough to cover the entire campaign, and it was clear that most of them were a bit bewildered at the way things were sorting themselves out. They stood amidst the desert sands repeating the same scant facts they had and every so often offering their own pointless opinions. Basking in their role as "heroes", Gabriel supposed.

As he shuffled across the shag carpet, Gabriel shut off the television. The wide flat screen glowed slightly even as it crackled to rest, the images of the bright skies of Iraq temporarily burnt into it's screen. Julius had gone through considerable expense to have the spacious suite decorated as magnificently as possible. The authentic Italian furniture that served as the room's décor was in stark contrast to the relatively cheap imitation pieces Gabriel had made note of in the other areas of the hotel.

The various pillows and cushions that were strewn about the room in a distinctly middle-eastern style, were new and showed no sign of use before their visitors arrived. Unfortunately, the staff had fully stocked the refrigerator with an assortment of fruits, soft drinks, and imported alcohol, leaving little room for the group's precious cache of vitae. The fridge had been emptied however, and the trio had made themselves at home in a brief span of time.

Morathi was content to spend most of her nights (and a fair portion of her days, Gabriel noted) down at the docks, where the ship she had been conducting lay docked. She returned occasionally to feed to take a break from the countless hours of data analysis. But for the most part she was reserved and quiet around Gabriel, who on his part did very little effort to make further conversation, as intriguing as she may have been.

For all the money Julius had spent on their accommodations, he confined himself to a small study that sat off the main living room. For three nights now, he hid behind the ornate oak double doors studying the scroll fragment, struggling to decipher it's meaning. He emerged once every so often to feed, or to retrieve some random object from one of his suitcases.

Gabriel had already contact Tyler and set the ghoul about the task of phoning and writing his various associates in the area in the somewhat futile hope of digging up information on the shadowy "Ali" and "Saladin" Julius had mentioned in Cairo. With little to go on, the prospect of receiving any significant information was improbable.

Now bored even by Cainite standards, Gabriel crept carefully towards the double doors, where he could barely make out Julius' muffled voice. He opened the doors and slipped in, keeping one hand on the doorknob.

"Julius" he said delicately, not wanting to interrupt the Tremere any more than he had to. The room itself appeared to be in the shape of a small octagon, three of it's sides being consumed by massive bay windows overlooking downtown Trabzon. Scores of documents, folders, and books rose in shaky columns on all sides of him, regularly interspersed with countless sheets of computer paper. On the far side of the room, kneeling atop a simple fold-up chair, Julius hunched over his laptop, and pounded away laboriously at it's keys, apparently too engrossed in his research to note Gabriel's entrance.

Gabriel edged closer, moving to the very rim of the desk, where an eerie skull sat, it's eyes glowing luminously.

"Grah, Redeemer? There's no mention of the Redeemer in the... Um...eh?" Julius glanced up momentarily. Despite his state of perpetual youth, Gabriel could see the fatigue building behind his eyes. Apparently even Tremere grew tired of laborious research without rest. Gabriel was simply pleased to escape the non-stop barrage of military analysts and political pundits he had been subjected to for the past several days.

"How's the research going? Any new developments in the translation?" Gabriel offered.

"Well, I would surmise," Julius said, taking an unnecessary breath to implicate the gravity of what he was about deliver, "we are dealing with ancient versions of commonly known names, in fact I'm trying to get the scroll carbon dated, so that we can have some link to the author's nomenclature."

"Perhaps I can be of some assistance. My company has donated no trivial amount to several State Universities throughout the States. I'm sure I could put their laboratories to use with no small amount of discretion."

The skull brightened considerably and began to speak in a tinny, flat voice: Analysis Complete.

Julius took a moment to decrypt the results before looking back towards Gabriel.

"I don't want this scroll getting into the wrong hands." He registered the look of disappointment on Gabriel's face and nodded slightly. "But perhaps your contacts can be of a more general use. I get you some names of things you can get them to look up for us."

Gabriel nodded absently, now staring out the window at the nightlife unfolding in the streets below. With the scroll in the coterie's possession, they were fairly restricted in their activities as they were almost certainly on several groups most wanted lists.

"You're bored to death aren't you?" Julius observed. "I must offer my apologies as a host. This is awfully dry research. Not your cup of tea I would have thought."

"Well...to be honest I am somewhat of a history buff, I maintained the Cascadian archives in Kindred history and affairs for some time...but I'm afraid with your expertise in this area, I'd be little assistance." The Ventrue announced proudly, puffing out his chest a bit as he did so.

"Well great, what do you know about world geography in oh say....4000 BC?" Julius sat back in his chair and removed his laptop, placing on the desk next to the odd skull artifact. Gabriel was instantly deflated, his chest caving in as he gave way.

"Very little I'm afraid." He confessed. Julius did not seem to take victory in the reply. He more the two interacted, the more Gabriel began to realize Julius was not out to get him at every turn, but genuinely sought his assistance.

"Me neither," he admitted, turning back to his laptop, "That's the problem. We are dealing with events happening on that timescale. The only civilization was in Mesopotamia, or the only one of note. And as you can imagine, they don't have too many world maps of that era. But this is why I want to know when the scroll was written, that way I can place the names in a less ancient context."

From the next room, the television hummed back to life, and Morathi's familiar form could be seen strutting away towards the fridge. The now familiar dunes of Iraq were on display once more with a flock of tank and infantry traversing them at great speeds. Smoke sauntered up from craters in the distance, the pummeled occupants of the city nowhere to be seen.

"I hope Hassan is okay..." Julius pondered quietly, perhaps not having meant to state his thoughts out loud.

"Hassan?" Gabriel asked.

"Hassan Ibn Sabbah. An Assamite..." he let the word draw out a bit, smiling as he did so. "...friend of mine."

"An Assamite friend?" Gabriel said, a bit surprised that such an aristocratic character as Julius would interact with a murderer.

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend. He's unusual...perhaps."

A brief silence befell the room, as both Kindred seemed temporarily to be content but to watch the beautiful nightlife scurry about to a backdrop of explosions emitting from the television.

"I met him during my search for Salah Al-Hudin, or Saladin as he is more commonly known." Julius offered as an explanation at last. Gabriel merely nodded, having been acquainted with scant few Assamites, but having already deduced several similarities between those precious few he had known.

"If he's anything like the few Assamites I've had the pleas...oppurtunity to know, he's laying low." The name Saladin slowly began to eat away at Gabriel'mind. He recalled Julius' mention of him in Cairo. "Saladin, isn't that one of the names..."

Julius nodded.

"I must confess, I thought it might be sort of a red herring at the time." He paused. "I was trying to get rid of you."

"Well it might have worked, had immediate events not occurred, thus drawing our more imminent partnership."

"As it stands, I know there are Assamite factions interested in the scroll and what it pertains to. Salah could be one of them. I had hoped you would eliminate him from my enquiries, so to speak."

"Have you spoken to this Hassan on the matter?"

"Not recently. The last contact I had with Hassan's people was when he sent Faisal to help Morathi spring me from Abetorius' clutches." Julius seemed to lose himself in thought for a moment. "Then of course...there is Ali."

"Another red herring?" Gabriel asked off handedly.

"I have no idea...this was some time ago, when I was in charge of Great Britain. I had set up shop in York and was running Clan Tremere from there." He said, slowly plucking the events from his memory as if recounting them as they happened. "An Assamite snuck into my house, like he didn't trip the alarm..." the Tremere seemed to be genuinely enraged by this thought which he punctuated with, "thought quietus and obfuscate would get past me...IN MY OWN HOUSE!" he declared with a frightful slam on the desk that threatened to rattle the skull from it's resting place.

"I chained him up on a slab in the sun room and...interviewed him."

The images Gabriel had experienced in Julius' foyer in York began to make their way back into his mind. He could feel the slice of the knife, and the cold heartless touch of the stone table. Julius' twisted smile hovering over him.

"He wasn't in a talkative mood. I remember he said 'Ali will...'. As he said it, he seemed to become possessed with some greater power. The power mocked me, making all the usual stupid threats and finally as it left the body of this Assamite, fried his brain, beyond my ability to either fix, or to pull knowledge from."

"So we really know nothing about this Ali other than he associates with Assamites?" Gabriel deduced, eager to move on from the horrendous memory.

"Well, the Assamite was highly skilled, an Elder, and powerful. I suspect this Ali would be an Assamite as well and judging by my intruders apparent age, it would place Ali around the age of a Methusaleh." Julius shrugged off the memories and returned to his laptop. "Hassan might know."

"Why not contact him then?"

"He's not the type to keep a mobile phone... especially as there is no coverage in Iraq. I suppose a sat-phone would work, but he hasn't got one of those either. Someone would have to go there and talk to him personally."

"Perhaps you could send an apprentice?" Gabriel offered once more, intent on prodding Julius towards a conclusion.

"Whilst I did manage to negotiate a truce between Clan Tremere and Clan Assamite in Hassan's territory, I'll be damned if I'm sending an apprentice out there. Likely the apprentice would get killed, but more to the point, I'm not telling them about this stuff."

"What then?" Gabriel asked. Julius looked intently at him for a moment, his chilly collected eyes running over the Ventrue's face.

"Well I'm not sure, what do YOU suggest?" he asked, not saying what they both were obviously considering.

Gabriel glanced back for a moment at the 24 hour war coverage that played on the flat screen. The grainy image of Baghdad in night-vision was interrupted only by the frequent flash of explosions.

"Alright, I'll go." Gabriel said at last. Julius seemed a bit taken aback by his willingness.

"Are you sure? It's not entirely the safest place to be at this moment."

"Yes you're right Julius, I feel entirely safer cooped up here with that blasted scroll. Not to mention the fact that it's being sought by Assamite Methusalehs and God knows what else."

"Well, if you want to see him, fine. I would suggest avoiding chasing after Ali however. He's more than likely pretty powerful." Julius said.

"I've no intention on chasing after anyone." Gabriel retorted.

"And you might want to avoid mentioning anything about scrolls. Hassan is my friend, but that doesn't mean I trust him."

"You'd be a fool to trust any Assamite." Gabriel said at last. Julius shrugged.

"I take people as they find them Gabriel. It's served me well so far." He looked up at Gabriel with obvious point.

Now it was Gabriel's turn to shrug.

"Well that's a matter that's up to you Julius. If I'm to find this Hassan I'll need his last known whereabouts, as well as any haunts he generally inhabits."

"When I met him it was in the ruins of Persepolis...but I would imagine he's gone to ground."

Gabriel nodded and walked back towards the living room to begin preparation to leave, his mind swimming with the task ahead.

"Gabriel.." Julius called after him. The Ventrue turned to see the magician with a slightly disgusted look crossing his face. "Try not come back smelling of camels okay?"

Gabriel nearly laughed aloud at the odd request but managed to sputter out.

"You have a problem with camels?" The Ventrue unleashed his laughter at last, and it seemed to echo the room long after he had left.

When Julius Darrant was alone once more he sat contemplating the addition his situation. If Gabriel could be trusted and if Hassan would be willing to deal with the uncouth Ventrue, perhaps he might glean some useful information from this venture. Sighing, he sat back and summoned forth a bit of blood magic. The ritual, as trivial as it was, put his in contact with Eveshka, who sat thousands of miles away.

"Eveshka...I've translated the scroll."

[b:e647e80e4a]Eveshka[/b:e647e80e4a]

Eveshka sat in the back of a limousine as it rolled from Gare Montparnasse up towards St. Germain, and Prince Renee Delacroix' court. She looked down at a Bateau Mouche as she crossed over the Alexandre III Bridge. A voice whispered in her ear, "I've translated the scroll." A small smile curled the corners of her mouth upwards as she continued to gaze silently out the window.

[b:1f46b2a0f6]Julius[/b:1f46b2a0f6]

Julius had to admit he was out of his depth. With the help of his skull and his generally encyclopaedic knowledge he had managed to translate the scroll, but no amount of linguistic skill could provide him with the geography of a world lost in time and lost beneath the waters of the Black Sea.

Lamech, he surmised was likely the place Morathi had found. The dream they had all experienced was too coincidental. According to the biblical records, however, Lamech was a person, not a place. Haer'us... could that be Horus? If so, the Serpent was almost certainly Set himself. Who was the Redeemer and who the Deliverer?

The only thing that stood out to Julius was Cush. An ancient name for Nubia, now Sudan. Indeed, as Egypt had once been Khem, so had Sudan been Cush, or rather, Kush. Something was wrong though, "East and then North along the great Sea" Na'anna had travelled from Cush to Lamech. If Cush was indeed modern Sudan, the geography didn't match up. To further complicate matters, the end of the scroll spoke of the New Kingdom. That surely referred to Egypt.

The final riddle was the worst of all. The splinter itself. Unto Lamech it has gone. Lamech the person or Lamech the place? Furthermore, the text started speaking of Nanna, rather than Na'anna. The same person? Or two distinct individuals.

It seemed to Julius that this scroll, this fragment, was likely composed of copies of two earlier texts. The first part, speaking of Na'anna and Cush dating to an earlier time than the second part, which spoke of the New Kingdom and Nanna. Both parts encyphered by the same scribe and placed onto the single sheet.

The real dilemma then, was which scholars would be able to glean more understanding, than Julius' limited efforts and furthermore, which scholars could he trust?

[b:1918370265]Eveshka[/b:1918370265]

Eveshka waited in the cloistre for the priest. She wore a shapeless, floor length, cloak of shimmering black silk. The hood was pulled up so that the only bit of skin visible was a milky white jaw line, and lips painted black. The ancient priest came hobbling towards her. This was a very unusual thing for him: to be summoned from his bed by a troubled girl in this day and age. He saw the black draped figure standing in a beam of moonlight coming through the octagonal window in the Cloistre of the Cathedrale de Notre Dame, in Paris. Something about the figure troubled him, he sensed something amiss. But, being a seasoned man of the cloth, he continued on, his arthrititic bones rebelling the whole time.

"How may I help you, child," asked the Father Guillot, with his heavy Gascon accent.

"I need help, Father Guillot," said Eveshka in a soft voice dripping with the fears of a young mortal woman. Father Guillot's eyebrows raised slightly as if the voice were something from his past. And it was.

"Come, sit here, my child," said the Priest, hobbling over to a stone bench to take a seat. With a grunt, the priest settled himself down. Eveshka softly sat next to him, her face still enshrowded. "What is troubling you, child," asked the Priest.

"I need to know that my soul is saved," said Eveshka.

The priest looked at Eveshka, trying to get a glimpse of her face. Eve turned her head slightly so that he could not see her. "Well, my child," began the priest. "That is an important question, and quite worthy of being roused from sleep."

Eveshka said nothing, she merely looked down at her feet.

"Do you wish to confess your sins," asked the Priest.

"My sins," asked Eve as if the question made no sense.

"Yes my child, confess your sins and receive Absolution. I presume that you are Catholic, otherwise you would not have troubled yourself to come here," said the priest in a warm and tender voice.

"I don't think I remember them all. I don't think I possible could remember them all," said Eve, her voice far away.

The priest lay his hand on her thigh in a fatherly fashion and nearly recoiled at the sensation he got even though Eveshka consciously did nothing. He felt an odd sense of power, like the awe one would get being in the presence of a great celebrity, or a powerful political figure.

The priest shook these odd thoughts away as just the fanciful musings of a sleep deprived mind. He smiled and began again, "Surely one as young as you could not have committed so many sins."

"Young..." repeated Eveshka. "I am not so young Guillaume."

The priest blinked. "I see you know my Christian name. I am afraid I am at a loss for yours," he said with a smile. "Why not begin with just that, a name."

"A name? A harlot by any other name would be just as damned, Father Guillaume," Eve said with a voice beginning to sound horse.

"My child, it is late," said Father Guillot. "If you came here to waste our time, I shall bid you goodnight." With that the aged priest struggled to stand up. Eveshka reached out one hand and gently touched him, using healing abilities to give him strength to stand with relative ease. He smiled not suspecting it came from her. "I believe the stitch in my back has finally let up." He began to hobble back down the stone floor towards the rectory.

"Can the Scarlet Whore be redeemed," asked Eveshka with a voice of ice.

The priest stopped and slowly turned. He did not expect this line of inquiry.

"An interesting question," he said. "Why not come into a more comfortable accomodation?"

He reached out his arm to her and she took it, he again felt that odd surge of power.

"Why do you hide your face, my child," he asked.

"I will reveal it when it is time," she said crypticly.

They spoke not another word until they reached the door leading to the sanctuary. This was a place she had not set foot in in some time. Once she entered this room, she knew there was no turning back. The gentle priest sat down in one of the chairs and patted the one next to him.

She crossed the threshold and passed the point of no return.

"They used to stand here. There were no chairs." said Eve in a monotone voice.

"Yes," said the priest nodding. "But that was long ago. Now then, the Scarlet Whore. That is a very interesting question. Now there are those who believe that she is preordained for damnation because the Bible says it is so. There are those that believe that nobody is beyond salvation, that there is no such thing as predestination. That dilemma caused a rather great rift in the Church some time ago."

Eveshka nodded, "You speak of the 17th century wars between the Catholic League and the Huegenots, non?"

The priest nodded. "Among other things," he said. "Now, there are those, myself among them, that believe that Christ died for all of our sins. Yours, Mine, even the Scarlet Whore's. Everyone's. All we need do is accept the gift of Salvation he has given us, follow the principles of Holy Mother Church, believe on Christ, and do good works." The priest paused trying to get some sense of whether or not Eve was getting any understanding. He saw no such signs, so he continued.

"There are those who believe that it is possible to be beyond redemption if you have blasphemed the Holy Spirit. Flew in the face of God as it were. They say that that is the only unpardonable sin. These people say that the likes of Lucifer, the angels of hell, and his minions are those who have blasphemed the Holy Spirit. Do you understand?"

Eveshka turned her head slightly towards him as if to merely say, "I am listening," and nothing more. He tilted his head sideways thinking that he recognized that flawless jawline. And he did. But he continued speaking.

"To blaspheme the Holy Spirit is not to take the Lord's name in vain or any such thing as that. It is to know the truth, believe it whole heartedly, and to still bring it forth to public ridicule and scorn. It is to have the truth in your heart, but to reject it."

She turned her head sharply towards him and opened her mouth as if to speak but could not find the right words to say.

"What is it that is troubling you my child," asked Father Guillot.

“I think I am the Scarlet Whore,” said Eve with very little emotion to her voice.

Father Guillot blinked and then smiled patiently. “You may have done a few things in your short life, my child, but surely nothing could be as bad as that.”

“My life has not been short Guillaume,” said Eve.

“How do you know my Christian name, child,” asked the priest.

“I knew you as a young man with a passion for opera,” said Eve.

Father Guillot looked at her in anger, “Mademoiselle, I am an old man who needs his rest, wherever you heard these tidbits, I assure you I am unimpressed.”

Eveshka pulled back the hood of her cloak and looked at him with her icy blue eyes. It took a moment for the priest to register that he was looking at an opera star from the early 1930s named Ekatrina Fedorovna. A girl who was supposed to have been murdered over 70 years ago. He opened his mouth in shock and then fainted. Eveshka used her panacea to heal him. She suspected that he had had a heart attack. She scooped him up in her arms and using her superhuman speed, whisked him out to the cloister and jumped the low wall. She managed to not be seen until she could somewhat revive him and dominate him. Together, the two made their way around the corner to her penthouse apartment overlooking the Seine.

[b:970e839f54]Morathi[/b:970e839f54]

"Useless... Little more than a collection of children's bedtime stories...."

Morathi slammed the book she was studying closed in frustration, the ancient tome producing a fine cloud of dust at the ill treatment. A small part of Morathi quietly winced at the damage to the book her mood had caused, but a more practical side observed that the contents although priceless to a historian of ancient history were valueless to the task before her, searching for references to the artifacts her dives had recovered...

The problem was the culture she was studying was a distant memory even before the book had been originally written, thus the 'History' it contained was little more than a collection of tales filtered through generations of verbal retelling and cultural bias, any truths that had survived were liable to have been distorted beyond all recognition...

"Oh well.... Time to try the more hands on approach...."

Calming her mind, Morathi carefully focussed on nothing but the artifacts she was studying, opening her mind to the glimpses of the original owner's past each item contained, from the time they were crafted up to their recovery from the dark watery depths, trying to piece together an understanding of the people that owned them, and perhaps if possible what they intended before the catacylsm that drowned their world struck them....

A part of Morathi was quietly advising caution, which was being seconded by the Wraith residing in the crystal that replaced her heart. The vision that her conversations with Julius and Gabriel indicated they had shared, had occured so soon after the artifacts had been recovered to be pure cooincidence.

Such detailed scrutiny with focussed auspex might trigger more visions, and Morathi had learnt the hard way with other artifacts in her one hundred and twenty three years of unlife that it was possible for the mind to become lost in the past if care was not taken...

[b:68f4c2a570]Eveshka[/b:68f4c2a570]

[i:68f4c2a570]The First Confession[/i:68f4c2a570]

Father Guillot sat down in one of the plush armchairs in Eve's drawing room. Eve sat down across from him, her hood pulled back up so that he could only see her lower lip and her chin. She released him from her domination. Instantly he started looking around in alarm.

"Relax, Father Guillot," she said. "No harm will come to you here."

"How can this be?," he asked, his voice thick with tension. "You, you are dead."

Eveshka looked away so that no flesh was visible at all. "I am. And yet not."

Father Guillot reached his artheritic hand out to the hood and pulled it down to reveal a radiant but very white Ekaterina. "How.... can... this be," he asked again. "Are you an Angel," he asked and then after a pause, "Or a demon?"

"It depends on who you ask I suppose," answered Eve without any attempts at deceit.

Father Guillot looked at this inhuman creature possessed of an unearthly beauty for a few silent moments. He could sense genuine fear in her, or at least a fear she wanted him to sense.

"I could explain it to you, but it would put you in incredible danger," she said. "Let's just say, I am not the only one out there."

Father Guillot nodded. "How," he began tentatively. "How old are you?"

"The girl you watched on stage so many years ago is not the real me," said Eve. "I was born Eveshka Semenovna Shuvolov in Russia, on the 26th of July, in the Year of Our Lord 1222."

Father Guillot merely cocked an eyebrow. "Had I not seen this with my own eyes I would have scoffed at the possibility."

"What proof would you have me offer," asked Eve.

"You are telling me that you are nearly 800 years old," asked Father Guillot. "And yet you are still alive...."

"Not alive, at least not in the sense you mean," Eve said. "I exist in a shadowy world between life and death."

"What is it you want with me," asked the Priest in what Eve thought was a reasonable line of inquiry.

"I want to know whether or not I am well and truly damned," she replied.

Thus she began weaving a tale about how she came to be.

[b:7e6a425783]Gabriel[/b:7e6a425783]

It was hard to believe, given the serenity and isolation of the ancient ruins, that only a night's ride seperated Gabriel and his small band of Iranian guides from open warfare. The long, mute journey from Iran's borders into the heart of Iraq had taken their tole on the mortal guides. Blood-bound as they were, even Gabriel's rich vitae could not overpower their desire for rest much longer.

The single canvassed truck grumbled as it approached the edge of the mountain chain they had followed for longer than he cared to remember. Procurrment of the guides themselves was not so difficult in itself, it was convincing them to use their personal truck equipped with a pitched tarp that would provide Gabriel safe haven during the scorching Iraqi days. Much to his reluctance, it had required a "courting" as such, which unfortunately had made use of the powers of vitae.

"Mester O'Brien! Bia bia!" came the call from the cab of the truck as it came to a halt, the inertia nearly throwing Gabriel from his crudely constructed sleeping quarters in the back. He leapt from the old Toyota's flatbad to a scene of majestic wonder.

The ruins of Perselopis, the ancient Achaemenid capital, sat amidst jutting mountain peaks that shrieked from the ground like pillars of fire. As the Ventrue moved cautiously towards the cliff face, where Darius the First's palace still stood, he became acutely aware of his own infancy in comparison. Thousands of years, and still they stood, unmoveable. He doubted as though he would hold the same record.

The scant crew descended into the gaping maw of the towering citadel that stretched high into the star drenched sky, for once thankful that the surrounding conflict had stripped all Iraqi government employees from guarding the site.

The natural light grew fainter and fainter still, until at last they were enveloped in the cold, tomb-like black. The musky, stale odor of dust permeated everything and Gabriel gladly ceased to breathe and he groped his way foward in the darkness.

Stopping short, he fell to one knee, searching through his backpack for a glowstick. Aside from the distant rush of the Pulvar River some miles off, certainly inaudible to his guides, the only sounds were their own rapid, heavy heartbeats. Abrubtly, the room illuminated with blue light as the Ventrue snapped the tiny glow stick and held it forth.

They stood in the entranceway of a large, spacious, and noticeably empty room. Depictions of faded gold and silver adjourned the walls, as well as time worn engravings of people and deities.

Standing in the very place Alexander the Great had stood eons ago as he ransacked the city's treasury, Gabriel eyes a series of shifting shadows that scurried across the far side of the room...

[b:ef7ab0f35f]Julius[/b:ef7ab0f35f]

Julius stared, horrified, at the letter he had just received.

He had forgotten something and the letter, from an old university tutor had brought home to him just how narrow minded he had become.

Perhaps when one becomes a vessel for so much power, one forgets the sources of ultimate power. The world of kindred houses beings ranging from the merely powerful to the almost godlike. Couple that with the sphere of magic and it's easy to lose sight of the wellsprings. The Alpha's, the Omega's, beginnings and ends.

Julius' had searched documents, pored over maps, ancient and modern, yet failed to see that which was present everywhere. The single most popular historical document on the planet. Believe or disbelieve, faith or no faith, the biblical references were the best documented records of those times. Inaccurate, perhaps, wildly wrong, quite possibly, but certainly a place to seek for clues.

And clues there were in abundance. Cush, was it ancient Nubia? Yes, and more. The bible made it clear that the Gihon River, one of the four rivers of Eden flowed throughout the land of Cush. In turn, many scholars equated the Gihon with the modern Nile. This could only mean that the land of Cush, as described in the scroll related to the entirety of the Nile Valley to include areas of Sudan and Egypt.

At once Julius was on more famliar ground. Ancient Egypt and the gods thereof. Hear'us could only be Horus. Sa’eh’tukh must be Setekh, or Set, whilst it appeared that Nanna had been known by the name of D’Ju-ti. This had to be Djehuti, the ancient name for the moon god Thoth.

Also, armed with the names of some of the protagonists, the scroll sounded much like the tale of the battles between Horus and Set. According to Egyptian legend, Thoth had sheltered and mentored Horus. Was Horus the redeemer? Was he also the deliverer? Idle speculation, which would wait for another day.

The important thing was that Julius had a foothold into the meaning of the scroll. Cush was a big place, but it was a start.