((This is an old thread from RiB. Certain things might be coming to pass in the new Shal Ka-Mense thread, which this would put into context.

The Assamite Salah Al-Huddin has kidnapped Jerra, a dear friend of Mundug, the Sherriff. Near the start, when Mundug repeats "he has put it in Jerra's box" over and over he is referring to the Scroll of Shal Ka-Mense now being investigated by Julius and Eveshka.

I did my best to piece this whole thing back together, but there may be bits missing. Also, I've tried to attribute accurately the original authors. I apologize for any errors or omissions))

[b:a2d21476ce] By Eveshka [/b:a2d21476ce]
Damascus, Spring 1190
The man known in the west as Saladin, rode victoriously throughout the lands. Wherever he went... victory followed. Thousands flocked to his banner everyday. His popularity united the Muslim people of the Levant. His dash, his panache, his good looks.... all of these seduced the commoners and gave them a vision of glory, of honour, of victory. From distant and besieged Iskendrun, in the north east corner of the Mediterranean Sea, Hassan ibn-Sabbah watched the changing patterns of political power in the region. He did not like what he saw. His hegemony was being infringed upon by this mortal nuisance. From everywhere came the cries of "SALAH AL-HUDIN!!! SALAH AL-HUDIN!!!" His people believed that this mortal would save them in their time of need. HIS people. HIS!!! He would just have to do something about this to restore some sort of order to his realm.
Through the years of 1191 and 1192, King Richard of England's army washed like waves over the Levant. It rolled in, and crashed against the mighty rocks of Salah al-Hudin's forces.It then rolled back out to sea. To Cyprus and safety. Hassan knew that if he were to again exert his will over the land, Salah needed tp be vanquished. He sent ships off to Cyprus knowing full well that Richard was there. He offered up the fortress town of Darum and the death of the French Lord Conrad who was next in line to be coronated King of Jerusalem. Richard consented.... "The Old Man of the Mountains," as Hassan was called, swept down like a sand storm and swallowed up Conrad. His agents made sure that the guards of Darum were conveniently elsewhere and that by some stroke of luck, the gates were left open. Richard's knights gained the town and put all the inhabitants to the sword. Thus Richard now had a base of operations only thirty miles from Jerusalem.

Richard's mighty army set out up into the hills to Jerusalem. Clawing tooth and nail through the passes, against brilliant defences and Arthurian heroics on the part of the Muslims, Richard finally made it to within site of Jerusalem. He saw dawn break over the Dome of the Rock. Through this vision of beauty he saw heaven glinting in unparalleled majesty from the gold domes, towering minarets and spires. He could clearly see the olive groves in neat rows climbing the hills both before and after the city. It was a glorious day. He looked around him at his army drawn up. Weary, Lord how they were weary. Yet defiant, undefeated. Many were falling to their knees in thanksgiving, crossing themselves. Praying that they could survive long enough to secure Jerusalem from the hordes of the infidel. Richard smiled with pride at his men.

He returned his eyes to Jerusalem and the magnificent spectacle it provided. How lovely were its gates, its vaulted porticos. How gallant were the banners atop its ramparts. Banners not belonging to him. How defiant and numerous were the tents sprawled infront and all around the city. Tents of an enemy army. An army that outnumbered him. With a heavy heart he made camp.

For five days he sat and gazed with wonder upon Jerusalem... navel of the world. On the night of the 4th day, Hassan himself came into Richard's presence. Richard greeted him warmly but informed him that he had not made any decision yet as to the question of Jerusalem. With that Hassan was displeased, but had to be content. What could he do? Even a lion cannot roar against the gathering winds and hope to stop it. His only hope was that the legendary Richard Coeur de Lion, Roi d'Angleterre, de Normandie, d'Aquitaine, de Malta, et de Cyprus could inspire his men to bring down this Salah al-Hudin. For HE could not... Ali had forbid it. Ali had his eye upon Salah and thought him a worthy candidate for admittance into the Brotherhood. Ali, the oldest and most powerful Assamite not in Torpor.

As the sun rose on the 5th day, Richard ordered the retreat. It could not be done. Jerusalem would not be taken by him. With banners held low, Richard and his men climbed back down the mountains to the coast where they boarded their ships and headed back to Cyprus.

That night, Hassan stood on a precipice over looking the campsite of Richard's army. The land lay in ruins as happens to all territory being occupied by an invading army. Yet the army had moved on, leaving behind a continuous trail of mangled bodies, wounded soldiers, arms, discarded war booty, and general desecration. Hassan had lost. Salah had won. Thus began a centuries long rivalry between the two men.

On March 4,1193, Salah al-Hudin, leader of the Muslim armies, hero to the masses, demi-god to some, and defender of the faithful to all passed from this existence and into another in the city of Damascus. His grave rests there still. He visits it often.

Entebbe, June 27, 1976.

The dry winds blew over the savannah of Uganda as a plane came into view far out on the glide path to the Entebbe Airport. The plane's running lights came on, twinkling in the clear African night. Moments later it touched down onto the tarmac and taxied to a stop at well out from the main concourse. For all intents and purposes this Air France Airbus seemed completely normal. Yet inside were four terrorists. They were holding the passengers hostage.

Not long after, they allowed the French crew and the non-Jewish passengers off. A hours later, they marched the hostages into the Airport where they met 2 more men. Wearing all black fatigues with Balaklavas pulled up to reveal strinkingly handsome Arabic features, they stood with regal poise as the hostages were herded past them. They were Abdul ibn Malik and Salah al-Hudin. They were Assamite.

They saw their quarry finally, it was a man dressed in a tropical white business suit with a white straw hat. He wore sunglasses. His name was Daniel. He was a Tremere who had somehow kept his identity as a Cabbalistic Mage secret from his brothers for nearly 50 years. But now they knew, and they wanted him. These two men immediately spoke to the other terrorists and had Daniel placed in the back of the room in an area where no natural light reached. Something seemed to have gone wrong though. Salah was to escort the man onto another plane and take him to Vienna for some reason or other. If he resisted he was to be killed. Yet that plane never showed up. Government troops had closed the roads in and out of the area thus sealing them in.

Salah knew instinctively that only one had the power to thwart him in such a manner... Hassan ibn-Sabbah. His reach although not as powerful as it used to be, was still the longest yet, apart from the sleeping ones under Alamut. Salah knew that Hassan would send someone after them. But who? How? When? He got his answer soon enough.

Out of the sky and striking like lightning came a handful of Israeli commandos. Sweeping in like ghosts, they mopped up the Terrorists. Before they could free Daniel, Salah put him into Torpor and used his disciplines to turn he and Daniel invisible to Israeli eyes. Salah marvelled at the efficiency of these mortals and actually found it mildly amusing that Hassan would use Jews for his purposes. Yet, Hassan had won this round hadn't he. They watched from the shadows as the commandos lined up the hostages and loaded them onto a C-130 transport plane. As the plane took off taking the hostages to safety, Salah grew a bit apprehensive as to how he would get out of the country. Yet got out he did.

[b:84fb7f5fbb] By Mundug [/b:84fb7f5fbb]
It has been weeks ago now and still was it bothering Mundug and not only bothering, it was tearing him apart and he couldn't get those words out of his head. «he has put it in Jerra's box ? » «he has put it in Jerra's box ? » «he has put it in Jerra's box ? » That fake Eveshka knew about Jerra. She was probably in danger. Mundug wanted to warn her, but she has asked him not to come and not to write. Weeks have past now and all that time Mundug had had a hard time controlling his frustration, starting fights, drawing unnecessary attention to him and now people are frowning upon him and his actions and he has even been called for the senschal. DO THEY THINK THAT HE HASN'T GOT ANYTHING ELSE ON HIS MIND ??? Jerra had always helped him, when he was newly embraced, she had helped him freeing his tribe from slavery, she has rescued Bear Paw when he was being falsely accused and imprisoned by that disloyal tremere and she had rescued him, when he had been captured by the tremeres and given to the setites to be tortured. But above all, he loved her. He had loved her when they first met, in the outskirts of Fort Tacoma, in that winter of 1817 he had loved her when she came back to him in New York, knocking on his window and almost falling from the fireladder, in that summer of 2000 and he had loved her ever since and now, she was in danger. A bloodtear ran down his cheek and fell on his hairy arm, a souvenir of the setites and their hot glowing pokes. He had barely survived the torturing, but thinking of Jerra had kept him alive. and now he had to do nothing. Helpless Mundug hated that feeling. «he has put it in Jerra's box ? » This was even a worse torture «he has put it in Jerra's box ? » Mundug took a sheet of paper, a pen and started writing a short letter quote: Dearest Jerra, You have asked me not to write you, but you may be in serious danger. I don't know how it all started, but recently a mysterious scroll with ancient writings on it, that is now in the possesion of one of the kindred of York has drawn the attention of some assamites. I don't know how or why, but somehow they are aware of your existence and I fear that they want to harm you.. Be especially careful and don't trust anyone and if you feel threatened, promise me that you will ask my help. I miss you, Your Mundug
Eveshka
Prince Edward Stanley of London received word from one of his spies. FINALLY. They had located Jerra. That annoying bitch would be brought to justice. The problem was, she was not in his domain. Narrowing his eyes he rang up someone. "Yes... send her in." In walked a woman all clad in the black clothing of the devout Muslim. Only her blue eyes were visible. Edward wrote something down on a piece of paper, folded it and handed it to the woman. "Here, your usual fee and instructions" said Edward. The woman took the paper and bowed saying, "It shall be done Sadi." She walked out of the palatial chambers of the Ventrue Prince and strode down the corridor. Reaching the street, she went to an alleyway. She then flipped back the hood of her robes, made the face wrap into a stylish head wrap and opend the robe up to display her sensuous body. She strode right past a blond woman without taking notice. But the blond took note of her. This was Maryushka, a fledgling in the service of the Seneschal of York. She said one word as the woman in black passed,"Eveshka?" But it couldn't be. She was still in York, she'd dropped Maryuska off at the airfield for the helo trip down to Heathrow. Didn't she? The woman in black got into the back of a limo and opened the message. Barcelona. Hmmm, Barcelona.
Jerra
"Barcelona..." Once that name only held meaning as a song sung by a dead english Rock/Pop star named Freddie. Now it meant temporary sanctuary from certian death. She wasnt very fluent with the language either. Spain just wasn't a place she looked forward too. It reminded her of her Sire. She wasnt quite sure why, but it did. She remebered a tale or two he told her, of the night she was embraced, of that spainish man she whitnessed die by Swan's hand. Or so he told her back then of this "deceatful" Lasombra named Nicolas, who he said was after Jerra long before. What he didnt tell her, well that is, until a day before his grusome murder, a few months ago back in london; was that this Nicolas was a fellow Sabbat to...Swan, Jerra's sire. They argued that night about Jerra, who was Regina back then, debating if she was bad for the sabbat, and more likely to bretray with the likes of the Cammrilla. Ofcourse Jerra was not to flow with the Camrilla ever, and had to flee them from a sect in Prague a century and a half ago. It was last year that she had found her sire once more, and though she assumed and trusted his words for being more of an individual Toreador, with no alliances with either, the hints of the Sabbat were everywhere. But still she found out a bit too late, and before she knew it, after Swan's confession to her in London, she returned the following night only to find his place up in flames, and the bloodied headless corpse of her once beloved Swan. This tore wounds deeper within Jerra than she could bare, but what would follow would nearly drive her mad. Driven out of london, becoming the bounty for the London Cammrilla, and even her once home Vienna, she fled to the one place, the last place her sire mentioned. Of this toreador haven in Spain...where Swan had once spent most of his years, while Jerra was in America. Raven black hair sharply cut to her jaw line, deepest of blue eyes, and milky white skin, she seemed to dazel, despite her vengefull broken spirit that emitnated. She wanted revenge, but for now...she must hide. But for how long? And what of her one friend Mundug? She cant endanger him. No rest for the wicked....

[b:9e2001dcbc] By Mundug [/b:9e2001dcbc]
Mundug opened the door of his apartment, and emptied the pockets of his coat on his desk: Nathanyel's notes, Annabel's video tapes and that assamite's spying devices... The assamite was back...and they had managed to capture her...hell, Annabel had even drained her to torpor...and then they had brought her to Eveshka's club. Mundug shook his head. They had the Assamite, had bound her on a rack, but still they had managed to let her escape... DON'T THEY KNOW YOU *ALWAYS* HAVE TO PUT A PIECE OF WOOD THROUGH THE HEART OF YOUR PRISONERS, WHEN YOU LEAVE THEM UNATTENDED? Mundug quelled the beast inside him... They had blown half the club to bits, with machineguns and autocannons. It's like they are laughing with us. They just walk in, free their companion, kidnap our Seneschal and just disappear, leaving all our city's kindreds behind with dropped jaws... Mundug slammed his fist on the desk... Where would they have taken her? She isn't in York anymore, but where would the assamites have gone with her then? Ankara?...Rome?......Barcelona??? Mundug swallowed. Still no word from Jerra... No...they had no clue where she was, they couldn't have gone to Barcelona... "I got to find them..." Mundug, put the tape in his VCR...

[b:3841ea45fd] By Eveshka [/b:3841ea45fd]
Eveshka was chained to a wall..... in a cell.... somewhere. Here usual immaculate appearance was marred. Her hair was bedraggled, her clothing hanging in ribbons from where the chaingun bullets nearly ripped in half. She was still injured but was healing rapidly. Her eyes looked up at the open grating 30 feet above her. Every once in a while she saw someone pass the opening. Peering up tryin to get a fix on just what the hell had happened she didn't notice her double suddenly materialize next to her. It was quite odd seeing herself perfectly mirrored but speaking with an arabic accent. This double walked up to her and ripped off the remains of her top. "You were quite difficult to duplicate you know.... appearance wise at anyrate," the clone said. "Never have I had to make myself so beautiful... I'm rather taken with myself. Happily your personality was somewhat easier to duplicate," she continued. "Nearly equal parts egotist, gutter whore, and child." Eveshka slowly turned her eyes to the Assamite and awed her. A voice from above in a thick Arabic accent called down. "Keep doing that and you'll not learn the end of the story my little Firebird." She looked up and saw the outline of a large man in long flowing black robes. She returned her attention to the clone who had shaken the awe and then proceeded to lick Eve's cheek. "I must say, you were interesting to learn. I enjoyed your feeding habits in particular. I never thought to do that," said the Assamite. "The endorphine rush is incredible, almost as mind numbing as that poison you are becoming addicted to. Now tell me, Eveshka... Ekaterina... Tatiana... Semenovna.... Pskovskoya... Shuvolov," with every pause the Assamite licked a different part of Eveshka's body. "What do you know of the cypher to the scroll of Shal-ka-mense? Just tell me and all of this annoyance will end. We don't want you... just the cypher. We rather enjoy the chaos you and your beloved Prince create in Western Europe. Makes things soooo much easier for us to operate amidst such destablization." The Assamite Eveshka had kissed and licked her way down Eve's body and had removed all of her clothes but her black silk thong and her boots. From the shadows materialzed three more ravishing women. One looked exactly like Ayane, one Michelle, and the third..... Rhiannon. Eveshka opened her eyes wide with surprise as they advanced with silent smiles on their radiant faces. Ayane took up her left leg and unfastened the metal boots, Rhiannon the right. Michelle knelt before her and ripped her thong off in one fluid motion.... and began to worship her. Eve rolled her eyes back up into her head trying to fight the sensations as the Clone whispered things in her ear, interspersing it with tender kisses, licks, and nibbles. "Just tell us my love... just tell us...." Over and over the three temptresses murmored this as they pleasured her: nibbling here and there. After a many hours of this... with Eveshka fading in and out of the arms of Eros, fighting her baser passions valiantly, Michelle bared her fangs, gently entered her sex, and began to drink. Eveshka moaned loudly and lost control. Turning to a softly smiling Rhiannon she closed her eyes and kissed her passionately. Ayane joined in as Eveshka's legs were lowered and her arms released somewhat so that she could touch and caress the succubi. The clone continued asking questions and planting suggestions. "Tell me ..... tell us.... where is..... what is..... How does Jerra fit into this?" Eve thought to herself... Jerra? Jerra.... what the fuck does Mundug's cat have to do with this? Eveshka jerked from the thought as she was kissing THE ASSAMITE. Jerra isn't a cat? Jerra isn't a cat? Wha... Jerry? Jerra is .... She started laughing. This stopped the Assamite in their tracks. Michelle stopped drinking and licked the wound closed. The three temptresses withdrew leaving Eveshka alone with a rather perplexed Clone. The clone looked up at the robed man who had been supervising all of this. He motioned for her to leave. Eveshka was left alone again. The top to the cell was closed and she was in darkness again. Then, from the gloom came the sound of something motorized... a small electric motor. The inside of the cell began to flash with the light of many bright strobe lights. At first it was not overly fast, but it slowly increased in speed. The lights began to flash different colors from every angle and in no sequence at all.... They flashed and flashed and flashed and flashed and flashed and flashed.....

[b:ca0e257b5f]By Michelle[/b:ca0e257b5f]
Outside the service entrance of the Purgatory club in York two black Land Rovers with heavily tinted windows rolled to a stop followed by a delivery van. In the front passenger seat of the lead Landrover sat Maximillian Gerhard, Max to his friends. Max was the Elysium security team leader. As the Rover came to a halt Max could see that the police had already arrived. He looked about franticly for Michelle, Eveshka or dArcsun. The latter two he knew only by description. Michelle had called him moments before requesting they come and secure the club so the clean up team could do its job. Max looked at the police who were preparing to enter the building. Too late for any cleanup now. Judging by the number of emergency service vehicles outside the club, what ever happened was probably beyond cleaning up anyway. Now the question was where are the resident kindred? "Max" said the driver, "look down the alley." Max turned and peered down the darkened gap between the buildings. A female figure of surpassingly beautiful proportions was stepping out of the shadows towards the small convoy. She appeared to be naked. Something in her hands glinted in the dim light of the street and Max realized she was carrying a katana. A bloody katana. Max instinctively reached for his weapon and then he recognized the woman: it was his employer, Michelle. As she walked out of the dark alley into the street Max could see that she was not actually naked: her red dress was in tatters around her waist. Max wasn't sure but it appeared to have been shot to pieces. Her alabaster skin was streaked in blood from her head to her toes. Michelle stepped towards the lead landrover and with one motion tore the remains of her dress from her body. Her blood covered breasts bounced freely in the cool night air and the men in the convoy met this vision of beauty and blood with equal parts of lust and dread. Michelle, now naked except for stockings, heels and blood, stepped into the lead landrover as the men inside quickly made room for her. "Drive" was all she said. The landrover's driver put the truck in gear and began driving away from the club. The other land rover and the delivery van followed. In the lead Rover no one spoke. Michelle tried to reconstruct the events of the last few minutes. She had been torturing an assamite that was chained to a rack. She had heard a commotion, then gunshots. Within seconds she was in furious combat with gun-wielding kindred. Finishing off the ones at the back of the club, she had left dArcsun to watch the chained Assamite as she went searching for Eve. More attackers appeared and one by one Michelle sent them to hell until none were left. Eve was no where to be found. Returning to the back room of the club Michelle had found dArcsun lying on the ground horribly wounded...and the assamite gone. She had immedietly called Rhiannon and then the Elysium security team. While she was on the phone the club manager, Arty, showed her to a pool of blood with no body. Michelle tasted the vitae - it was Eveshka's. There was no doubt now, Eve had been taken. But at whose orders, where to, and for what purpose? Michelle would not rest until she had those answers, had rescued Eve....and had taken the heads of those responsable. In the lead Rover the security team watched in silence as the Michelle began to lick the blood off the curved blade of her sword.....

[b:c8c8e3e3f1]By Mundug[/b:c8c8e3e3f1]
Rome... Mundug lay down on the filthy floor of a cylindrical prisoncell in the assamites' headquarters, motionless...staked through the heart, staring at the ceiling. At least he had killed quite a lot of them before he had been taken out. Unfortunately, he had made things worse... The assamites had cloned him too now and the clone was going to Barcelona, to Jerra... Now she was in danger for sure. But Mundug was paralysed on the floor of a cell, unable to do anything... HELPLESS

[b:0b76efd168]By Michelle[/b:0b76efd168]
Michelle bathed in the warm waters of Eve's tub, washing away the blood, dirt and memory of her most recent trip to Rome. Mundug was free now, and more Assamites had died at her hands as well as those of Annabel. But all did not go according to plan. Nathanyel had been destroyed. Michelle closed her eyes and tried to block out the image of the Assamite leader cutting Nathanyel down as he heroicly tried to buy them enough time to escape. Michelle and the others had been helpless to save him...they ran. In the grand scheme of things she supposed the Kindred of York were winning this little exchange if one examined it life for life. Far more assamites and their ghouls had died than York kindred, but the Assamites did not seem to care where as every York kindred captured or lost was a genuine blow to the city. In total, the Assamites had kidnapped Eve, defiled her club, captured Mundug, killed Nathanyel and now held Gaberiel hostage. For her part, Michelle had now come face to face with the Assamite leader twice and now would likely have to face him a third time. Someone would have to take him the scroll cipher or Gabriel would be lost. She thought about that exchange. Should we really give up the cipher for Gabriel? In her mind the answer was yes..Gabriel was one of her own and had willingly put himself in harm's way to save Eveshka. He deserved to be rescued himself. Michelle sank back into the tub letting the water rise over her head. The scroll was not hers to give though, it was Eveshka's, and she would have to make the final call. Michelle dreaded meeting with that Assamite again...few kindred terrified her like he did..but she would do it. None of this answered the real question though: Who was behind the assamites...who was paying their tab...who ordered this shadow war on the kindred of York to retrieve this scroll cipher and for what purpose. In short...who was the real enemy? Did the Assamites act alone? Possibly..but that was not usually how it worked, usually the Assamites worked FOR someone, and the question was who...

[b:8264ab5603]By Eveshka[/b:8264ab5603]
The figure walked up the narrow cobblestoned street. From her window on the third floor Jerra watched as he made his way up rise and around the bend in the street. It was unmistakeably Mundug, something must have gone DREADfully wrong. She had gotten his letter and had just written the reply when the phone rang and it was Mundug himself. Here. In Barcelona. She could see he was VERY apprehensive from his aura. The poor man, he really cared about her. Probably one of the only people he DID care about. A few moments later they were reunited. He told Jerra that they didn't have much time... that he had come directly from York when he got word from Lady Shuvolov that the Assamites were moving in on her. Without much in the way of ceremony the two old friends left and made their way down into the narrow streets of Barcelona's old section. After passing many darkened store fronts and shops, all the awnings rolled up tightly for the moonless night, they came to a piazza. Jerra looked at Mundug a moment as they waited in the shadows cast from a streetlight. Something just didn't feel right here to Jerra. She couldn't place it. Couldn't place it at all. Then she noticed... Mundug was holding her hand. He had never done THAT before. "Mundug," she asked. "What is it?" "We're waiting for someone to take us to the airport," he replied. A pair of headlights appeared on the far side of the piazza as a car rumbled up the cobblestones. Instinctively Jerra flinched from the light wanting to move. She didn't like this. Something was NOT right. Soon after, the car pulled up and the back door opened. A man got out with a very ANGRY aura... flecked with the unmistakeable veins of a diablerist. SABBAT!!! She tried to run but Mundug's iron grip clamped down harder and would not let up. Before she could do anything else she was thrown unceremoniously into the back seat of the car and driven away. Thirty minutes later they arrived on a hill overlooking the Mediterranean. An American made Bell-Hughs UH-1 was waiting for them. The small group boarded the helicopter and flew off over the dark Mediterranean Sea.
Eveshka
Eveshka walked in as Michelle was still reclining in the jacuzzi. Michelle smiled up at her as she sat on the edge of the tub and began caressing her hair. "You have no idea what it was like seeing your face appear over the rim of that cell my love. Your auburn hair flying wildly as you clawed your way through those demons," said Eve. "You knew I was coming chere," cooed Michelle. "But what are we going to do about Gabriel?" Eve shook her head briefly. "It's nothing to worry about, Salah will get his precious cipher and Gabriel will come home safe and sound," said Eve. "You mean, you would trade the cipher for him," Michelle asked somewhat surprised. Eve looked at her for a moment without much emotion on her face. She sighed and then said, "Well... no. But the cipher is already scanned and saved in my computer, so there is no need for him to be sacrificed." Eveshka sorta looked into the bubbling water. What was she becoming? So cold, so calculating. Michelle looked at her with compassion and slid her hand up on Eve's thigh. "I... understand," said Michelle. Eve looked down at her and said, "You don't have to go back to him you know. I'll send it out with a courier. In fact you SHOULDN'T go back there. Please don't." "We'll see, chere," said Michelle. "We'll see."

[b:81f8303781]By Mundug[/b:81f8303781]
Mundug was hiding somewhere in the castle... How could they have been so stupid... Always put a piece of wood through your prisoners when you are not questioning them. The assamites had made the same mistake and now, Mundug was hiding somewhere in the castle. He could hear search and the noise was coming closer. A small stroke of light entered the room when an assamite, armed with a submachine gun entered the place where Mundug was hiding...he would almost see him... Almost... Furiously, Mundug jumped on him both his hands changed to fearsome claws and he buried them both in the assamites chest, pinning the assamite to the wall. Eyes crossed for a second and then Mundug suddenly pulled both his paws out of his body, ripping out most of the vital organs in the process. The assamite turned to dust. Mundug dropped the organs and quickly stroke two bloodcovered fingers over both his cheeks. Time to leave... Mundug made his way out of the castle, bare handedly killing every assamite on his way out. Bullets didn't seem to penetrate his, hairy, muscled body and other weapons didn't seem to have much effect on him, like a berserker, full of rage... and then totally soaked in blood he finally found the entrance when Annabel Leeds came in, followed by Michelle St. Clair and the nosferatu Nathanyel... Then suddenly when Mundug was about to ask what they were doing in Rome, a voice shouted from behind him. MUNDUG! It was that assamite that had staked him, obviously their leader. Too late Mundug, we already have her! The man laughed, while seeing the expression on Mundug's face changing from rage to desperation and the he disappeared. Without wasting anymore time, Mundug ran out of the castle, wanting to take the first plane to Barcelona...but then he finally sunk on his knees and started howling, just like he had done in the mines of Tacoma in 1817. Annabel, Nathanyel and Michelle were still inside the castle. Mundug cursed and went back in again, but it was too late. The young Nathanyel had been killed, driven by his foolish curiosity he had found the leader of the Assamite, but Nathanyel was no match for him. Mundug shouted to leave the building and a few seconds later they were heading to the airport and Eveshka's airplane. "I need to go to Barcelona",Mundug simply stated.

[b:81f8303781]By Mundug[/b:81f8303781]
Barcelona... Eveshka's jet had landed a few hours ago and now Mundug was running through the nightly streets of the spanish university city until he stopped before a medium sized, yellow bricked house, the house with the address he had sent the letter to. The door wasn't locked and Mundug hurried inside. Jerra had been here, he could feel it but some other people had been there too. A door upstairs opened and figure with came out. It was a pale skinned guy with dark hair. As soon as he noticed Mundug he fled back through the door, but Mundug reacted almost immediately and ran after him. Mundug caught him hiding in a bedroom. The man's eyes widened when he saw the yellow flickering pupils of the native american. Mundug scanned his aura briefly. It was a ghoul, a toreador ghoul, not an assamite. "Who are you?", Mundug asked. "M..my..n..name is Xavier",the ghoul stuttered in fear,"please, sir Mundug, don't hurt me." "Whose ghoul are you?" Mundug asked, holding Xavier's neck between his claws. "I am...was Swan's ghoul, please let me go, Regina wanted to talk to me", the ghoul paused for a moment, "but then I noticed she left with...you." Mundug cursed, he had indeed come too late. "Where did they go to?", he shouted in Xavier's face, lifting him several inches from the floor. "I'll show you", Xavier replied in fear. Less than a minute later they were walking through the narrow streets of Barcelona. But there was no trace of Jerra or the assamites left and dawn was near. Mundug had left the same night as he had escaped from Rome and he hadn't had the time to rest yet. Mundug cursed again, this time so loudly that the ghoul, Xavier fled in panic. But then, Mundug eye fell on something on the street...it was a black onyx ring. The ring Mundug had bought in London and had given her, back in New York, after she had rescued him from the setites. For a moment, Mundug just stared blankly at the ring. He had told Jerra he had bought it for her in London after she had freed him, but in truth he had bought it long before. He just...never had had the courage to give it to her...especially not when her sire Swan had shown up again. "The will be so sorry for this", Mundug thought and his eyes started to glow red of hate. He picked up the ring, put it around his finger and left for the airport...

[b:ce192e9c1c]By Mundug[/b:ce192e9c1c]
York Mundug was back in York and the assamites had captured Jerra... He had come too late... Mundug walked along the Ouse and once again that feeling had filled him. HELPLESS... But this time it was worse than ever. There was no more lead, no more clue, Jerra could be anywhere now. Mundug stopped at the riverbank and stared blankly over the water. His hand reached for the onyx ring in his pocket. "Why, what had Jerra had to do with it?", a question that Mundug couldn't answer. He closed his hand around the ring in a fist while still staring at the water and tried to clear his mind that was filled by a mixture of emotions. A mixture that he had never experienced before. "Are you alright?" a voice asked from behind him. "No, I am not", Mundug replied and he looked over his shoulder, while quickly putting the ring back in his pocket. It was Eveshka, the real one, back from Rome. "Is it Jerra?", she asked. Mundug nodded, a bit surprised. He had never really told anyone about Jerra, yet Eveshka seemed to know about her. "I don't know where to look for her, the only thing I found in Barcelona is this,"Mundug told her and he showed her the ring, "the ring I gave her." "Maybe they took her back to Ankara, but don't rush into things, Mundug, they have captured you already once..." Eveshka told him. "They were lucky...", Mundug replied. "Just take your time, don't act too fast", Eveshka said, knowing that Mundug would probably not listen to her advice anyway. "Don't act too fast?" Mundug replied, losing control a bit,"Who knows what they are doing to her...I must go as fast as possible." "If you must..." Eveshka said. "I must", Mundug stated, and he shove the ring around one of his fingers. "Look after Jerry for me, while I am gone, will you?" Mundug asked her, before leaving. "Ofcourse I will", Eveshka replied. Mundug nodded thankfully and left...

[b:3fc5dc3fbf]By Eveshka[/b:3fc5dc3fbf]
Balearica, July 4, 2001. The full moon rose over the clear Mediterranean night. She stood on the patio, leaning up against the white washed stone railing atop a cliff overlooking the calm sea. The faintest whisper of wind would tug at her sheer covering. The finest Patchoulli scented hemp bands adorned her ankles. On these bands were scores of tiny bells. She wore a gold belt securing the sheer fabric that had small mirrors and bells on it. A black Egyptian style choker sat gracefully upon her collar while matching black earrings adorned her ears. From the back, as she looked out across the majestic moonrise, the blue light seemed eminate from her. It saturated the thin film of clothing that she wore, making it glow a ghostly white.... silhouetting her curvaceous body. Making it appear even more radiant, divine, and delicately feminine. She wore only this thin gauze of a skirt. The fabic fell to about her mid thigh but didn't really cover anything. All of her charms were visible through the material. This was Jerra. And she was smiling. A man walked up from behind her carrying a rare orchid. He was dressed in white baggy trousers and pointy toed boots, a white blouse, an open white robe, A long arabic head dress with black crown holding it in place. At his hip rode a bejeweled scimatar in a golden scabbard. He had a meticulously trimmed and sculpted beard and munstache beneath an aquiline nose. A noble brow framed his intense green eyes. By far he was one of the most striking and physically attractive men the world had seen in many many centuries. This was Salah al-Hudin, in life the leader of the Muslim Armies that valiantly held Jerusalem from the forces of the Western Armies of Kings Philip of France and Richard Coeur de Lion of England in the late 12th century. In death he was an Assamite Vizier and the Sabbat Regent of Ankara. He silently strode over to Jerra, kissed her neck and wrapped his left hand around her waist. She reclined lovingly into his arms laying her head back on his shoulder. He presented the flower to her. Squeeling with delight she accepted it and turned to face him. A radiant smile upon her face. "I fear the delicate tones of this orchid are but a crude offering to one such as you Jerra" said Salah. Jerra beamed proudly at his touching words and gently and ever so delicately pressed her lips to his. "Thank you Salah. This past week has been one of the most wonderful of my life. It is truly the most lovely and soul stirring prison I have ever been in." "Nonsense, Jerra, this is no prison. No more of a prison than Barcelona was. But here.... you are safe from the Camarilla hunters who seek your head for that idiot Stanley. This is a HAVEN Jerra. It has been for centuries. None but the invited ever grace these halls with their presence." She did indeed feel completely safe here. For the first time in ages it seemed. Safe. Yet deep down underneath the sense of security was a slight gnawing sensation. Why did they abduct her... and why are they now treating her like royalty? And more importantly.... why was she so taken with this Arab Prince?

[b:34cf374bfd]By Mundug[/b:34cf374bfd]
Rome - Barcelona - York - Ankara... There didn't seem to come an end to Mundug's travels and this time, he arrived in Ankara, the middle of Turkey...the middle of nowhere. The small dusty streets were almost empty now, but the scent of spices, apple tea and leather hung still in the air. For the untrained eye, nothing would raise the suspicion that this area was one of the assamite's bases. Finding the haven of an Arab prince hadn't been exactly difficult, Mundug could see the courtyard of the palace from the roof he was standing on. His yellow flickering eyes were focused on the wooden gate that was guarded by a single black outfitted soldier that carried a machinegun over his shoulder, that was about to light a cigarette. Mundug, whose muscled torso was painted with the warpatterns of his native tribe, put an arrow on his bowstring, aimed carefully and pierced the head of the guard against the gate. Then he quickly jumped from the unstable roof of the small bazaar, he was standing on, and ran towards the gate, that wasn't even locked. With unseen speed he ran to the great entrance of the building, but when he reached the for the door, it was suddenly opened from the inside. The pointy fanged arab that was about to go for a snack yelled for help, but his cry got suddenly abrupted by the claw that went through his throat. But the alarm had sounded and soon two scimitar wielding assamites came down the stairs... A few seconds later, Mundug walked up the stairs, leaving two piles of the dust behind. ... The assamites were totally unprepared for an attack like this...but unfortunately, the reason why, was because there was no reason at all to attack the palace. Jerra wasn't there, nor was Salah. The only assamite of some importants was squeeling now against the wall, with Mundug's claw around his neck. It was Rashid Al-Basras, Salah's eunuch, the harem master. "WHERE IS JERRA?" shouted Mundug in his face, but the eunuch didn't seem to know the answer. "WHERE IS SALAH?" shouted Mundug again, but Rashid didn't know where he was either, the only thing that Mundug got out of him was that Salah had located his base in Syracuse, Sicilia. After that, Mundug ended Rashid's unlife. Calmly, Mundug left the palace complex and headed for the airport once again, without Jerra. He looked at the onyx ring and swore that he would not rest before he got that Salah killed...

[b:4330a5fcda]By Julius[/b:4330a5fcda]
Julius wandered the dusty streets of Istanbul, wondering what had possessed him to agree to assist Mundug in his search, ah yes.. his position as sheriff. Well, the Prince had turned the city on his head and nothing was secure anymore, but Julius did like to keep his promises. The city chose not to sleep, the smell of strong turkish coffee intermingled with the scent of tobacco and hashish; the smoke bubbling through the water of hookah pipes, before being released from satisfied lungs to carry the slightly sweet scent to Julius' nostrils. Julius proceeded toward one of the poorer parts of town, part of the old city, and bearing that arab charm found in so many similar places, Jerusalem, Baghdad. That feel of danger, the fading smell of a busy day of street trading, the streets still not clean but scarcely a soul to be seen outside after dark. Following the directions Julius had carefully memorized he came to an unnassuming door. He looked around, but still there was no-one on the abandonded street. He traced a symbol on the door, running his finger in quick motion about the wood. As he completed it, a small symbol glowed very briefly upon the door, as if in answer to an unspoken question. He knocked, 3 times as was the custom. The door opened to reveal a man wearing somewhat expensive looking clothes, although in an Arab style that would not look out of place in at the side of some medieval Sultan, sashes, turban and a rather large scimitar. An imposing figure, he took up the space in the doorway, looking down his nose at Julius as a blackbird might look at a worm. Unphased, Julius reached into his shirt and drew forth a silver medallion, wearing it openly for the first time since his arrival in Turkey. The Arab snorted, but moved aside to allow Julius entry, closing the door behind him. Once inside, the building was in contrast to the run down appearance of the streets in which it stood. Unassumingly opulent, decorated in a typical arab motif, with stylised quotes from the Qu'ran drawn in flowing lines. Thick, highly decorative carpets and drapes and plush furniture with deep cushions. This then was the chantry of Abertorius. Abertorius. Councillor Abetorius. Once considered amongst the greatest of Tremere, his crusade to establish chantries eastward through the then unknown continent of Asia had initially been successful. Sadly for his cause they were soon wiped out as the Assamites swept down from their mountain strongholds. In the end, his crusade was judged a failure, but the Assamites paid with the curse he laid upon them. "Tremere's Revenge" preventing them from drinking the vitae of kindred stopped their diablerous ways. Nonetheless it was strange how he had retained his position when he was generally known to have failed. Some believed that he knew secrets about other high ranking Tremere, Julius suspected no-one else would want his job. Either way, Abertorius was responsible for the Tremere of Asia and it was Abertorius Julius had come to see. Julius sat and waited, preparing his mind for what he expected would not be a pleasant confrontation. Abertorius was not known for his co-operative and helpful nature. Rather, he was considered to be somewhat bitter, the kind of bitterness that grows and festers over hundreds of years. He once again thanked God for his foresight in calling his old sponsor, Meerlinda, the secret head of the transitionalist order. A ghoul dressed in a dinner suit and wearing a red fez approached, the final straw, the chantry now beginning to look like some kind of nightmare creation of the minds of Hollywood. Elements of Aladdin, Casablanca and Lawrence of Arabia stirred together into something false and unreal, a facade that would fool no-one, someone's futile affectation. The ghoul bowed slightly to the Pontifex and indicated that he was to follow. Julius rose and accompanied the ghoul. He was shown into a room, again opulent, with a black and white inlaid marble floor, the same expensive carpets and furniture, but the same kind of increasingly obvious falseness to it's layout and design. Behind a marble topped desk sat a man, he was wearing clothes similar to those worn by Salah Al-Hudin as he courted Jerra in Balearica. The difference was that the man behind the desk was no more Arab than Julius and that the truth was that the entire chantry, from the guard at the door, to the clothes on his back were his affectation, for this was Abetorius himself. Julius bowed slightly and waited. One did not press members of the inner circle. "Please be seated Pontifex, may I offer you a drink?", inquired Abetorius, his tone making it clear that he would be insulted by a refusal, as he passed a goblet of some kind of vitae to Julius. Taking the vessel, Julius sat, "Thankyou Councillor." and sipped at it, using his thaumaturgy to identify the contents. Mostly human, but with enough 4th generation Tremere vitae in it to have had an effect. Julius had expected something like this, and taken precautions, however it was sad that Abetorius had sunk so low, something to be reported later. "Excellent.", smiled Julius, sipping again and allowing Abetorius the opportunity to play his charade of the gracious and hospitable arab host. Finally, after a few more minutes of such essential yet utterly false pleasantries, Abetorius got down to business, "What is the Pontifex of Great Britain doing in Istanbul?" "Searching, and seeking information.", replied Julius and began to explain his mission to locate Jerra, taking care to avoid any mention of a scroll. As he had assumed Abetorius was more then moderately unreceptive to the problems of a Gangrel sheriff in a Toreador City on the far side of Europe. Nevertheless, no-one in the world had paid more attention to the Assamites here, endlessly plotting his revenge against them, if anyone knew anything Abetorius did. It was time to up the stakes. Influence in "Your English enclave" might be meaningless to Abetorius, but not to Julius. Julius slid a piece of paper across the marble desk to the Councillor, who took it and read it, shadows crossing his face. When he finally looked back at Julius it was with a new level of respect. "You play a dangerous game, Pontifex." Julius nodded slowly, looking Abetorius directly in the eyes for the first time. "Very well then," continued Abetorius, "I will provide such assistance as I may. We have observed your friend operating in Ankara.", the councillors lips curled up a little in a kind of forced half smile, "Quite the mess he made, but he will not find what he seeks in Syracuse. My old friend Salah does not keep his haven there any longer, nor do I know where he does. However, there is one who may be able to help you more. I have an observer in Ankara, but he has recently vanished, I find myself at quite the disadvantage without his periodic reports." Abetorius smiled, quite evilly, and picked up the piece of paper, "To a man," the paper burst into flame and he dropped it into the empty ash tray on his desk, "of your quite obvious resources, finding him should be no trouble." Julius stared for a moment at the burning paper, before recovering his composure, "Indeed and no doubt it would be of great use to you to have your informant back, Councillor? We'll talk again when I return from Ankara, yes?". Abetorius scowled and nodded, then waved his hands in dismissal. Julius stood up and bowed, before turning to leave and head for the airport. Once securely airborne on his private jet, Julius studied the details of the informant, provided by the fez-ridden ghoul on his way out of the chantry. A Tremere of Arab descent, easily intermingling into the local kindred could have chosen to disappear or been disappeared. Either option had the potential for real difficulties. This trip was rapidly becoming more trouble than it was worth. Julius just hoped Mundug would appreciate his efforts.

[b:785b840bd2]By Eveshka[/b:785b840bd2]
July 8, 2001: 16 kms outside Tunis The near full moon shone brightly on the white sand like something out of a Scherherezad tale. Jerra sat in the "Humvee" and watched the live fire exercise with a rather large degree of trepidation. She simply could NOT figure out what the hell these ridiculous assamites were doing out here. She watched as a group of men all dressed in black fatigues, weilding MP-10s, and sporting skimasks and goggles sprinted across the sand and attacked a plywood structure losely resembling some sort of fortification. The muzzle flashes ruined her night vision momentarily as she saw the men enter into the structure and disappear from view. To her left.. about 30 meters away from the vehicle stood Salah and another man she had not met before. His aura was that of a diablerist, but apart from that she couldn't tell much. Beyond that, she felt a VERY odd presence about him. Something ancient... powerful. More powerful than Salah. Actually.... he exuded more power than she had ever felt in her existence. Rather like being beneath some great power transformer. She could FEEL his chi circulating in his body from where she sat. They seemed to be talking about something to do with the exercise she just witnessed. Salah seemed threatened about something this older man was saying. MOST unusual, She'd not known Salah to have ever shown any kind of weakness before. The older man was NOT pleased about something. What the hell were they doing? She looked back to the other side of the hill upon which the vehicle was parked and she saw the dim lights of Tunis not too far away. Beyond that she could clearly see some large ships moving out on the Mediterreanean. This was just perplexing.