[i:0bafa293c3]Chateau Chenonceau, Loire Valley, France[/i:0bafa293c3]

Khemintiri walked the peaked roof of the gallery that ran from the Chateau to the river's edge. Even as her eyes looked into dark night, her mind looked into the soul of Eveshka Shuvolov. There was no love for her there, but there was no hate either. Pity perhaps, even hopes for Khemintiri's escape if it did not mean danger for Eve. Clearly, the Toreador's motivation was survival. Part of the Firebird wanted Khemintiri to flee, to lose the hounds in the night, while part of her wanted the hounds to finally catch their quarry - if they did, Eveshka would never have to worry about her again.

Khemintiri knew that Eveshka had betrayed her to Lucinde. She also knew that Eveshka sought to warn her about Lucinde. Now, Khemintiri could feel Eve's mind reaching out to find her. Would she watch? Did she want to see Khemintiri make her stand? If she fell, would Eveshka rejoice or mourn? Did it matter? Many would dance upon Khem's ashes given the chance, what difference could it make if Eve were one of them? Still, to Khemintiri, it did make a difference. Khemintiri had actually tried not to hurt Eveshka, a rare thing in Khem's recent life. For Eve to rejoice at her destruction would prove that Khem really was the villain that many made her out to be.

Khemintiri's mind wandered away from Eveshka and sought out the mind of her hunter, Lucinde.

The Ventrue's Justicar's soul was as different from the Toreador Prince's as could be. Lucinde was the Ice Queen to Eveshka's Firebird. Lucinde was a true hunter. Once she had a goal, nothing could dissuade her from pursuing it. Khemintiri tried to probe Lucinde's mind but she was more disciplined and less distraught than Eveshka and consequently more difficult to read.

Khemintiri did know she had brought the host of the Ventrue with her. Khem lept from the gallery roof to the Chateau roof and peered into the dark across the river. They would come soon. Not tonight, for the hour was already late, but tomorrow, or the next night at the latest. Running now would be difficult as Lucinde would surely station sentries all around Chenonceaux. Still, it would not be as difficult as defending against the assualt.

But running left her with no options.

And Khemintiri still had one option left she wished to try. She smiled as she looked down into the river Cher. This was not her river, but at least it was [i:0bafa293c3]a[/i:0bafa293c3] river. If she were to perish, finally, after three millenia, she wanted to do it within sight of a river. For Khemintiri, every river held a promise; a promise of travel, of new places and distant lands where your troubles did not follow. The waters flowed past wherever you stood and on down the course of the waterway into lands you could not see. Khem had often wished to simply leap into a river and let it carry her away. Now, Khem had come to a cataract in the river of her own life. She could not see what lay beyond, if anything. Perhaps a friendly shore - perhaps the oceanic oblivion of final death. And from there, where? The afterlife? Khemintiri still believed in it, but she also believed that it likely held only torment for her. Had she not offended the gods themselves.

A crimon tear formed in her eye. She hoped that if she fell, her last sight would be the river, and her last thought would be of where it might take her, far away from here, from her former lovers, both old and new, from the past and the present. Perhaps to someplace where she would not be an anathema, a destroyer or a whore, to some place where she would just be a girl, a girl with beautiful green eyes and hope......

Eveshka sat in the plush chair before a roaring fire. [i:3c41aec51f] Rotschreck [/i:3c41aec51f] had long ceased to play any part in her existence. She reached out one last time to Keminitiri before recalling her soul. [i:3c41aec51f] "Please forgive me."[/i:3c41aec51f] For better or for worse the dye had been cast. Now she had to carry on. Her next trip was to Paris. She needed some answers that had been gnawing at her.

Gabriel sat motionless, a frigid, lifeless effigy doomed to wait out eternity an empty shell. Or that's how he felt currently at any rate. Still for nearly an hour now, or was it two? It could've been a day for all he would've noticed. There was a horrendous feeling of emptiness within him, and he had no idea why.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, how long had it been since he'd even uttered a sound? Seemed like hours ago that Julius and Eveshka had returned from whatever romp they had embarked on, whatever it was they smelled of bodily fluids and seawater. Their faces carried the expressions of those enraptured with one another.

It sort of reminded him of Kathy and himself, in a happier time. Certainly a more prosperous time for Gabriel, both spiritually and financially. He seemed to recall a conversation earlier in the night with Tyler, something about stocks dropping. His life long quest for power and money held little interest for him these nights, and searching for this blasted scroll and hanging around Eveshka and Julius was all he could do to stay busy.

He groaned slightly and felt his vocal chords reverberate, coarse and thickened from unuse. A brief wave of awakening nerves trickled through the skin on his neck and raised tiny follicles near the back.

Finally the Ventrue shifted slightly, glancing over at the object that lay on the table some feet away. The sword had still revealed no clues to the coterie....but then again the Tremere had not even examined it. He seemed content to frolick and prance about with his Toreador "Goddess" while the forces that be more than likely edged closer and closer to the blood of Caine.

But in such a situation, Gabriel had little influence, he could not sway them. All he could do was hope he was on the winning team.

The room illuminated with harsh blue light for a moment and echoed with the sharp SNAP of a breaking light bulb fuse before the furnishings and a very moody Ventrue were doused in darkness.

[i:41af00d877]"...."[/i:41af00d877]

(( verry good.. all of you..))

Julius prepared the suite for his guests. First of all he replaced his skull upon the dressing table. Eveshka had made him move it, something about not caring to be grinned at whilst putting on her makeup. Julius smirked, "while the cat's away.." he thought to himself. By a strange quirk of coincidence, the exact spot just in front of the ornate mirror was the perfect place from which to operate a series of remote magical wards and Julius did not wish to be disturbed during this meeting.

By the time Gabriel and Morathi had arrived, Julius had laid out the various artifacts into groups. Gabriel's sword, with a neatly printed label "Proto-Scythian". The artifacts from Morathi's dig, in a pile with the label "Scythian". Eveshka's rubbing and a small statue of the moon goddess Nanna were labelled "Sumerian" and finally a Thoth sigil placed on top of the label "Egyptian".

"Thankyou both for coming." Began Julius politely. Morathi smiled and Gabriel gave him a sour look. Clearly he had been unimpressed with Julius and Eve taking off for a night. "The hell with you." Julius thought. "What are we fighting for anyway, if it's not a little joy in our existances. Miserable bloody Ventrue." Julius closed his eyes and activated the magical defences. Hotel staff would conveniently forget there was a suite in the Zorlu Grand. Any greater powers would meet stiffer resistance to entry.

Julius bade his guests to sit and served them drinks. "So, this is what we have so far. A scythian, or possibly pre-scythian" Julius pointed at the sword, "civilization, flooded out when the mediterranean hit the black sea. It's culture and presumably survivors spread to become the Sumerians and ultimately the Egyptians. Anthropological sources place them all from the same stock, which for now we'll assume are these proto-scythians."

Morathi listened and nodded knowledgably. Gabriel stifled a yawn. Julius grinned. "But of what interest is this fascinating archaeo-anthropological data to us?" Julius started to enter his stride, enjoying a little moment of theatrics. Morathi nodded again, but inwardly considered if there was such a word as archaeo-anthropological or if Julius had just made it up. Regardless of the etymology of Julius' vocabulary, Gabriel thought the question a valid one.

"Three things link these artifacts to our quest." Julius continued unabated. "The first is this map, detailing possible locations for Enoch, under the waters of the Black Sea. Morathi may or may not have found Enoch itself, but surely the settlement she has discovered is part of the same civilisation. Secondly the dream. If we take the dream as truth and I see no reason to doubt it at this time, then we are witness to ancient kindred living in this area prior to the great flood."

Julius stopped and fixed Gabriel with his piercing gaze. "Finally, the clue which led us onto this road, the ultimate cause of our quest. The greatest inspiration and a still unsolved mystery." Now Gabriel's interest was piqued, whilst Morathi stifled a yawn. "Behold, Gabriel," Continued Julius, as with a flourish he produced a scroll case from somewhere on his person, "The scroll of Shal-Ka Mense."

If Julius had expected to get a reaction from Gabriel he was sadly mistaken. Gabriel was way beyond being shocked to discover that Julius had been in possession of the scroll all along. Now he just grunted and nodded. "Well, let's have a look at it then." Julius handed it over.

Gabriel studied it for a moment, the elaborately written farsi characters blending with the almost hidden Thothian symbology on the faded parchment. "So what does it say, oh great Wizard?" He asked, somewhat testily. Julius grinned again. "Haven't the first clue, old boy." Gabriel slumped back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. "However," Julius continued. "I have got as far as rendering this somewhat cryptic farsi cypher into English. Trouble is, it is all nonsense. Doesn't make sense. I am hopeful though. I have a small fragment of a previous translation. Using that, I should be able to piece together the whole. Meantime, Morathi will be working on these artifacts."

"And what should I do?" Asked Gabriel pointedly. "Well, here's the thing." Said Julius, who had the good grace to look somewhat embarrassed. "I don't really know where your skills are. What do you think you should do?"

[i:50a99afd7a]The River Cher, Loire Valley, France[/i:50a99afd7a]

They appeared like phantoms in the hour following dusk. Throughout Chenonceaux, the kindred of the Camarilla host rose from there daytime resting places and began to gather. One group used their presence and intimidation to take control of the small boats which often traveled down river to Chateau Chenonceau in the evening. They would use the boats this night, but not in the way the usual tourists and lovers would.

Across the river Cher opposite the famous 16th century chateau, three kindred gathered. The dark woods ran thick with kindred soldiers and these three held the leash of the beast. One is a blond woman, more a girl really, perhaps in her late teens. She is wrapped in a dark cloak that she pulls tightly around herself. Her name is Lucinde, she is over three hundred years old and she is the Ventrue Justicar. The second kindred is a youth in comparison to Lucinde, being but 136 years old. He is a tall man, thin, with green eyes and straw colored hair. His name is Anastasz Di Zagreb and he is the Tremere Justicar. The final figure dwarfs both of the other two; in size, in age and in reputation. He is tall, broad shouldered and massive. His wild hair falls around his shoulders like a lion’s mane. His skin is dusky and crisscrossed with the scars of countless battles. Those who know of him believe him to be at least 800 years old. His blood is strong; 5th generation Gangrel. While his true name is a matter of speculation, the Camarilla knows him as Kharsh, and he is the one and only Warlord of the Camarilla.

In the dark, the three watch with heightened senses as their legion of shadows closes in upon the Chateau Chenonceau and their foe. There forces are tri-parte: the first wave is comprised of the host of the Ventrue, blue blood soldiers bequeathed to Lucinde for this one endeavor – to avenge their clan against the Anathema Kemintiri. Though it is not said aloud, the first wave is but fodder – they will be sacrificed to weaken the Anathema, force her to expend her blood. Lucinde and Anastasz have taken measures to ensure that this wave cannot be used by Kemintiri to replenish her vitae, though the Ventrue soldiers themselves know nothing of the plan.

The second wave belongs to Kharsh. They are his soldiers, ex-military of many eras, proficient with all known weapons. They are armed and armored as each sees fit. Some bear assault rifles with combat sights and grenade launchers, while others carry ancestral swords. This wave forms the true assault force and will be led by Kharsh himself.

The final wave of the legion is comprised of archons. These are the followers of Lucinde and Anastasz. They are their trio’s most potent but least numerous contingent. They will be used to contain Kemintiri once battle is engaged. Should Kharsh’s force fail, then the archons and the two Justicars shall fall upon the Egyptian goddess themselves.

Under cover of the trees, Anastasz begins one of the many rituals he will cast this fateful night. Nearby, Kharsh watches a computer screen showing him an image of the locale shot from a helicopter high above. As he watches, he mutters orders to his troops through a throat-mike. Kharsh may be 800 years old, but his grasp of modern weapons and tactics is as good as any mortal soldier’s.

At the river’s edge, Lucinde simply waits and watches. This night has been almost a century in the making, and soon, very soon, battle will be joined…..

Morathi, already entranced with the new additions to her growing list of artifacts, paid little attention to the offhanded comment. But to Gabriel, it certainly commanded his attention. Had he been in a lighter mood, he might've felt slightly embarrassed, but as it were, he was mired in a naive self-pity. He simply stared blankly at the Tremere for a moment before shrugging.

[i:d74080b7b1]"Well, I suppose it couldn't hurt for me to stretch my contacts and see if what we can find out about the other players. Salah Al-Hudin and Ali right? Perhaps I can dig something up."[/i:d74080b7b1] Compared to the rest of the loosely bound coterie, Gabriel found himself running short of skills that could compare to those they already possessed.

Whether or not Julius trusted Gabriel's research would reap any results, Gabriel could only guess. The smile on his face seemed to indicate that he was content with the decision, at least it would keep the troublesome Ventrue out of his hair. At the moment, Gabriel couldn't have agreed more with Julius' prognosis. While he was a powerful ally, the playboy seemed even more trouble proned than Gabriel himself.

[i:d74080b7b1]"Sounds good Gabriel,"[/i:d74080b7b1] Julius nodded, moving towards where Morathi's figure sat hunched over the glistening blade, [i:d74080b7b1]"just take care you don't get TOO close."[/i:d74080b7b1]

Gabriel grunted and made his way to the window and briefly wondered where Eveshka was...

((sorry it's short, but i'm short on time tonight :/

[i:f766dcfa62]Chateau Chenonceau[/i:f766dcfa62]

Kemintiri could sense the gathering host outside the stone walls of the Chateau. So many kindred, so much hate, all for her. Outside in the darkness, Lucinde lurked, watching and waiting for Kemintiri to appear. Kemintiri had been preparing for this battle for the last two days, alternately hoping it would come to pass and hoping she was wrong and Lucinde would not find her.

Deep within the bowels of the Chateau, where no tourist or tour guide ever came, Kemintiri sat in the room where she and Eveshka had slumbered away the last few years. Kemintiri stared at the bed. She had found so much there with Eveshka; love, companionship, a safe harbor from the storm. That safe harbor had been bought and purchased with a lie however. Kemintiri had adopted the persona of Michelle St. Clair, a Ventrue, and that was who Eve had grown attached to. When the lie was exposed, Eve mistook her attachment to Michelle for an attachment to Kemintiri. She had allowed herself to be bonded. It was not too last.

Like Lucinde herself, Eve had her bond to Kemintiri broken by a Tremere wizard. Now, Eveshka had led Lucinde and her hounds to Kemintiri.

Kemintiri sat at the dressing table. She turned to the mirror. Lucinde and the hounds were here for Kemintiri, the arch-Anathema. Kemintiri thought they should get what they came for. Casually, as the first wave of Ventrue soldiers took their positions outside the Chateau, Kemintiri searched through Michelle’s make up kit. As the blue-blood kindred pulled the bolts back on their automatic weapons and drew razor sharp blades from well used scabbards, Kemintiri found what she was looking for. Kohl. Three thousand years ago she had rimmed her eyes with Kohl on a daily basis. The style had become a part of the iconography the modern world attached to its idea of Egyptian queens. Kemintiri pulled the Kohl pencil out of the make up kit. It was a little different from the ones she had used; this modern Kohl came in a wood pencil with the label “Elizabeth Arden, Kohlberry 02”. Leaning into the mirror Kemintiri began to apply it to her eyes. The pencil’s line was as black as night. She smiled. Some things did not change, not really.

Outside, the Ventrue began their assault…….

The first six Ventrue to enter the Chateau did not see her. Their heightened senses were not enough to penetrate Kemintiri’s obfuscation. As they made their way through the gallery built by Catherine De Medici, Kemintiri approached, unseen, unheard. Though the Ventrue could not see them, her fingernails had elongated into claws, her flesh was as marble and her strength and speed were enhanced to a level they could not comprehend.

The lead blue-blood was simply torn asunder. The second followed in a spray of vitae before he could even pull the trigger on his weapon. The third did manage to squeeze off a burst into the dark at his unseen foe but to no avail. The feral claws of the beast that was their enemy made short work of the young Ventrue. Two of the remaining three assaulters laid down a withering blanket of automatic weapon fire while the third hosed the gallery down with a flame thrower. For a brief instant, they could see what appeared to be a female silhouette breach the wall of flaming napalm and then she was upon them. The Ventrue screamed in defiance as they struggled with their attacker. Invisible claws raked horrid wounds into undead flesh and one by one the remaining assaulters fell until only the blue-blood with the flame thrower remained. He released a steady stream of burning napalm across the gallery, never letting up on the trigger. He was dimly aware the fire was so out of control he would likely burn with it, but now he wished only to take Kemintiri with him into a fiery final death.

Suddenly he felt her. Clawed hands, small, but with a strength of grip he could not have imagined took hold of his arms. The sputtering flame thrower fell to the floor, the gallery interior in flames around the now imobilized Ventrue. Kemintiri appeared to him then, in the midst of the inferno. Beautiful, marble skinned with raven hair and eyes as black as the pits of hell. As he stared into those eyes a forked tongue as hard as steel and as sharp as a razor entered his neck and tasted his vitae. The Ventrue tried to scream, to be free, to fall into the flames, to do anything that would stop her from draining him and replenishing her blood. Her grip was too strong. He could do nothing.

The tongue left his neck. He still lived, well, such as kindred do. She had not drained him. For a moment he thought he might escape. A look of rage crossed Kemintiri’s angelic face and the Ventrue knew what it was to anger a goddess. Her grip tightened and he screamed. She pulled on his arms and one tore away in a spray of gore. Kemintiri tossed the limb into the fires, and then threw the maimed Ventrue in after it. The blue-blood’s fortitude only helped him live long enough in the inferno to appreciate the pain of burning to death.

Kemintiri spat out what blood she had drawn from the last Ventrue. The blood had tasted…familiar. She tried one of the other downed Ventrue and the blood also had the same taste. It was the taste of Lucinde.

Outside, the blond Justicar could only smile. She had prepared long for this night. Each of the assaulters had been deprived of blood until the night of the assault when they were given specially prepared blood pearls to replenish themselves. Each of these blood pearls had been prepared by Lucinde from her own blood. It had taken her years to amass enough blood pearls to satiate such a host. The blood pearls themselves had been treated to a ritual by Anastasz. The ritual ensured that the vitae from the blood pearl would remain Lucinde’s once in the system of the kindred who consumed the pearl, at least for a while.

If Kemintiri drank from any of the assaulters, she was drinking from Lucinde. Kemintiri had tasted Lucinde’s blood once before, and if she drank tonight, it would be the second drink, well on her way to being bonded.

With the gallery interior in flames, Kemintiri made her way to the gallery roof. There, in the night, silhouetted by the fires raging out of the windows, she met the remaining Ventrue assaulters. There were many of them. Some had scaled the gallery walls from the river’s edge, while others had landed in tourist boats on the deck of the chateau and entered the gothic abode looking for the Egyptian. Now they found her atop the flaming gallery. They closed in on her from two sides, switching from guns to melee weapons. Kemintiri did not try to hide herself.

Across the river, Anastasz, Kharsh and Lucinde could see her. For Kharsh, this was the moment. They had flushed out the prey and it was time to move into striking position. He made his way down to a waiting boat with its crew of soldiers. Kharsh grabbed only one weapon on his way to the boat – his sword. This weapon had tasted the blood of countless enemies over the centuries, and now, it would taste the oldest blood it was ever likely too.

Anastasz also prepared to move across the river, though he would take a less direct approach. For the moment, his role was still containment. Lucinde would perform the same role from this opposite side of the Cher.

As the trio separated, they watched the roof of the Chateau Chenonceau. High atop its peaked roofs Kemintiri danced through her attackers. She was armed now, with two enchanted blades. As the Ventrue assaulters attacked she spun towards them, blades whirling faster than the young blue-bloods could see. Lucinde watched helplessly as Kemintiri cut a bloody swath through the first wave. Her assaulters were brave, but they were no match for Kemintiri. Lucinde knew it. She knew that dozens of promising young Ventrue were being sent to final death for no other gain than to deplete Kemintiri of blood.

Crossing the river, Anastasz also watched, horrified to some degree at the tactics and the carnage. His spells would also drain Kemintiri, but now was not the moment. The assaulters would weaken her first. Then Kharsh would attack, and, if that failed, Anastasz would try to fix the Anathema in a battle with his magic while Lucinde moved in for the kill.

On the roof, Kemintiri had no time to watch the approaching boats. She moved quickly across the roofs of the Chateau, her feet never losing purchase. Attackers approached and she went into a dance of death, her blades whirling through her attackers feeble defenses with a speed they could not hope to match. Kemintiri new she was wasting blood heightening her celerity, potence and fortitude. Her skin was as marble and these Ventrue could not likely harm her. Indeed, she could have killed them quite slowly with virtual impunity, but that might have caused the leaders of this attack to change their plans. Kemintiri could not have that. She needed them go forward with their assault, to keep coming, to get closer…….

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.

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…

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.

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….

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:a7b8a3ec01] Listen as the wind blows
from across the great divide,
Voices trapped in yearning,
memories trapped in time,[/i:a7b8a3ec01]

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:a7b8a3ec01] The night is my companion
and solitude my guide,
Would I spend forever here
and not be satisfied,[/i:a7b8a3ec01]


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:a7b8a3ec01] And I would be the one
to hold you down,
kiss you so hard,[/i:a7b8a3ec01]

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:a7b8a3ec01] I'll take your breath away
and after I'd wipe away the tears,
Just close your eyes dear[/i:a7b8a3ec01]

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:a7b8a3ec01] 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:a7b8a3ec01]

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:a7b8a3ec01]And I would be the one
to hold you down,
kiss you so hard,
I'll take your breath away[/i:a7b8a3ec01]

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:a7b8a3ec01]and after I'd wipe away the tears,
Just close your eyes dear[/i:a7b8a3ec01]

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:a7b8a3ec01]Into this night I wander,
it's morning that I dread,[/i:a7b8a3ec01]

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:a7b8a3ec01]Another day of knowing of
the path I fear to tread,[/i:a7b8a3ec01]

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:a7b8a3ec01] Oh into the sea of waking dreams
I follow without pride,[/i:a7b8a3ec01]

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:a7b8a3ec01] Nothing stands between us here
and I won't be denied,[/i:a7b8a3ec01]

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:a7b8a3ec01] And I would be the one
to hold you down,
kiss you so hard,
I'll take your breath away[/i:a7b8a3ec01]

[i:b8418df5ac] The translated Scroll of Shal Ka-Mense. As translated by Julius Darrant. [/i:b8418df5ac]

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.]