Monday, August 15th, 1197 AD
Founded by the great emperor Charlemagne on the banks of the Elbe River, Magdeburg is said to be one of the finest mortal cities to have ever been built in the heart of the Holy Roman Empire. From within its walls, princes, lords and bishops jockey for power in the absence of the Holy Roman Emperor, Henry VI, as he journeys southward on a personal crusade. By the light of day, life within the city and the surrounding countryside is hard, but some could call it fair.
By night, the more sinister face of Magdeburg reveals itself.
When the halls and churches of mortals fall silent at night, with hymns gone unsung and plots set to unfold, a much older--and perhaps more wicked--court is held. A court where schemes centuries in the making bear fruit, where alliances are rent asunder with honeyed words and pacts are forged with the coldest of hands. A court where the intrigues of past generations never truly end. A court where the betrayals and prevarications of mortals are but a pale, wretched shadow.
A court that will soon see five new guests in its arena...
At least, that would be the case to a mortal's ears. Your senses pick up the telltale squeaking of rats scurrying about in search of food, some of them even approaching the barge you left behind.
A softly-glowing yellow light peeks out from underneath the doorway of the squat wooden building at the end of the dock. The door opens, revealing a wiry older gentleman wearing what looks like a half-laundered brown tunic and white trousers that billow out from the calves of his leather boots. He runs a hand through his thinning, brown-grey hair as he starts to approach you with a lantern and ledger in hand.
At least the pier you landed on looks quieter. The blackness creeping at the edge of your vision is turning your vitae colder with each passing minute. How long has it been since you last fed? That will need to change, and soon.
The darkened streets of Magdeburg loom before you. Perhaps within them, you'll find a suitable meal...
You approach the northern gates of the mortal city before you, emerging from the surrounding forest like a wolf on the hunt. A faint red haze creeps at the corners of your vision and seeps underneath your skin to itch and roil about. The hunger in your gut is becoming harder and harder to ignore.
There's a man standing next to the gate--a pug-nosed and filthy man dressed in a half-maintained suit of chainmail and bearing what looks like a poorly-kept arming sword. He surveys the wilds beyond with little more than a bored eye, glancing at you briefly before suddenly snapping to attention.
"Hold!" He barks in a familiar tongue, his voice gravelly. "State your business!"
The forests of the Empire part to reveal the burgeoning city of Magdeburg before you. Your sire spoke long of the Empire's fondness for pomp and pretensions of piety, and it appears the city's southern walls bear your sire's words out; they're immaculately kept to an almost absurd degree.
Two guards stand at the gate, each of them dressed in little more than a leather jerkin and carrying a notched axe. One of them narrows his eyes at you and holds a hand up, saying something in a language you don't understand.
You lurk outside the southern gates of the city, keeping to the shadows and watching the guards. The Gifts of Haqim have served you well, not only in reaching this place but also in keeping out of sight of the kine.
And now may yet present an opportunity.
Someone else approaches the gates--a more well-dressed man than the two guards nearby. One of them holds up a hand and says "Hold and state your business!"
"Nu vorbesc Germana," Alexandru replies to the guards in Romanian. "Medicus sum," he continues in Latin. "Non sono pericoloso," he finally adds in Italian.
Poor form at best to feed before introducing myself to the Prince of this region, but even worse form to succumb to the beast for want of blood and do something untoward... his thoughts continue.
This is a large enough city, certainly there is someone worthy of punishment about, even this time of night. he thinks as begins to prowl the streets looking for a deserving target.
"Statum vestrum negotium?" He tentatively responds in broken Latin.
"I am a physician," Alexandru replies to the guard in perfect Latin. "I have traveled here to practice medicine. Certainly, there are those in this city who would appreciate the skilled hands and literate mind of a graduate of the Schola Medica Salernitana?" he adds, placing emphasis on the name of the prestigious school of medicine.
Ahh...this might be just what I need... thinks Lucian as he moves toward the sound of what is almost assuredly an unpleasant confrontation.
(no dots in stealth)
"Five shillings for entry." He replies in slightly more fluent Latin. He holds out his hand.
The source of the argument becomes clear as you round a corner. Underneath a lit torch is a pair of men, both of them dressed in filthy clothes. One of them--the less-shaven one of the two--is viciously beating the other beneath him with what looks like a cudgel. The man being beaten is flailing about, trying in vain to fend his assailant off.
"--do you see what happens when you sell me piss water?! DO YOU?!" The attacker rants, swinging his club again. This time, the victim barely manages to roll out of the way. "THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS!"
You tried to take a stealthy approach, but it appears the Beast is not in a mood for subtlety--especially not for one that has dominance in their vitae. You stride forward, your footfalls making enough noise to draw the attacker's attention. His eyes are shaking with rage.
"Back off, you! This is none of your affair!" He roars, pointing his club at you.
Alexandru looks at the man's expression, trying to determine if this is a standard fee, or if he is trying to bilk him for money.
"Would you accept a free appointment for my services for each of you, in lieu of the coins? Part of my reasoning for coming to Magdeburg is to earn the money you are now requesting."
But your words about medical services cause the Latin-speaking one to stop. He turns to his companion and they talk amongst themselves in their language.
He turns back to you once they're done. "Go through." He waves you in. "Leon Müller. Ben Weber." He points to himself first, then to the other.
She waits with her hands folded across her dress for the night-man to approach with his lantern and ledger, instead of making a move to enter the town proper... yet.
He starts to fish a quill and bottle of ink from his pockets as he waits.
"My thanks to you both, Herr Müller and Herr Huber. I am Dottore Alexandru Creangâ. Come find me if you are in need of my help."
He gives a respectful nod of his head to each of them, and walks through the gates into the streets of Magdeburg.
As he approached the gate, a meal popped out of the gatehouse. Alexander ran a practised eye over the man's poor posture, even worse maintained gear, and his apparently overlarge sense of self-importance, and the Gangrel smiled. This man was a meal of desperation, and Alexander simply wasn't that hungry. Yet. Not unless cause was given.
"Well, let's see. I'm here to meet some associates of an associate, as a favour. I think I'll get something to eat, too. My family has some business assets in this city, so I might go and see how they do, send word to my brother about what is happening." He looked to the gates. "Does that pass muster?" Unlike the guard, who looked unfit to pass gas.
Glancing quickly at the man being beaten, Lucian simply says "Ausführen." in practiced German, attempting to force his will on the man.
Turning his attention back to the man with the club, he says, "It would seem I have made it my affair regardless." as he prepares for the man to come at him with the club.
Altan stands for a brief time, watching the interaction between the well dressed man and the two guards. 'He speaks not the tongue of this land, though his command of Latin, I am most certain that is Latin, is impressive. His garb casts him as an outsider as well, perhaps from somewhere a bit warmer than here - south on the Mediterranean? I wonder.'
He continues to watch the interaction for some time before deciding to make his move. Watching the ebb and flow of the conversation, he notes the gesture of the outstretched hand of the guard, indicative of payment. He then follows the traveler's negotiation to try and rectify the cost. When the guard points to himself and the other, offering their names, he makes his move. Light on his feet in life, Altan moves like a leaf on the wind, staying to the shadows and dancing behind the guards and through the gate.
+ Obfuscate: Unseen Presence
"Pfeh. Toll for the gate's not gonna change for ya. Ten shillings."
You sidle up behind the outsider and follow him into the Holy Roman city. You move in a way that would make Haqim himself proud--no movement wasted, no errant twitches, no sudden changes in gait or even a sound. All that remains is to introduce yourself to whoever claims to rule this city...
...and a possible opportunity presents itself, as you hear the rattling of chainmail coming from a nearby alley. "Greetings, newcomers." A gravel-throated voice says in a hollow tone.
The surrounding streets of the city are well-traveled, but entirely new to your eyes. A cold wind blows past you as you walk, carrying with it an all-too-familiar odour of human bodies and filth. For a city that claims to be a paragon of faith, they don't seem to make an effort to be as truly splendorous as your home.
The rattling of chainmail from an alley catches your ear. "Greetings, newcomers." A gravel-throated voice says in a hollow tone.
"Any escorts to elsewhere in the city will cost more." He glances up at you from his ledger.
The angry, club-wielding man lets out a stream of curses. "Who the F+@! do you think you are?!" He shouts as he comes running at you with his club!
Elena goes through her pouch and produces a small handful of coins, which she hands over without comment. She's rich; small change isn't exactly a problem.
"No escort will be necessary, simply directions."
Having grown up lost between two worlds, he often found himself wishing he could live as another. Now Altan enjoyed moving as the man's shadow, walking in his step, imagining each moment of the foreigner's life. Lost in the moment, he was caught off guard when the voice clearly addressed both himself and the outsider. 'How did a person see me, I was movin-...' The thought trailed off as he reached the inevitable conclusion - one of the Kindred had seen him. 'Yet he included me with this man. Is he one of us as well?'
As the thoughts race through his head, he re-examines the outsider while casting a wary eye into the alley, seeking the source of the raspy voice. Emerging from the deepest shadow he occupied, a low, smooth voice speaks in German, "Your eyes have seen us, I trust you will offer us the same courtesy. I am Altan, of the Bloodline of Haqim. Who do I have the pleasure of meeting?"
"Fine. Here's your 'toll'." He held out his fist with a grin, waiting to pop the money into the man's hand.
Alexandru turns toward the voice, looking to see who spoke, only to suddenly notice another man standing next to him.
The man beside him addresses the figure in the alley in German. He looks back and forth between the two, then says in Latin.
"Loquebatur mecum estis?"
Lucian calmly and coldly responds, "A reckoning." before rushing in and attempting to clinch the man in a grapple.
After a few paces, the shadows of the surrounding northern end of the city seem to deepen a bit.
"An admirable display of restraint. That guard would not have gone amiss." A rumbling bass voice says from a nearby shadow. It's followed by the scraping of something large and heavy approaching you.
Emerging from the nearby alley is a man dressed in a well-kept chainmail hauberk and carrying a polished arming sword. Tellingly, his pale skin and shaggy black hair are considerably filthy and ill-kept, and his pale blue eyes look... hollow and haunted. One of his hands scratches at his patchy, greying beard.
"...I was once Jacob." He says and repeats in Latin before looking at Altan. "Just another wretch who didn't die at Hattin when God turned His back."
"I imagine Lord Jürgen would like to meet you."
The Beast acts in accordance with your wishes, your interests and its at one. You seize the man and roughly ram him against the wall, causing him to drop his club. The wind gets knocked out of him, but he starts flailing and grunting with the effort of escaping.
Struggle as the man might, Lucian's iron grip is too much. Sliding his hand up to cover the unfortunate man's mouth, Lucian opens his mount to bite down on the thug's neck.
"You look tired, Sir" Alexandru replies in Latin to the man calling himself Jacob. "Perhaps you need to balance your humors. Too much bile and phlegm, and not enough blood?" He pauses a moment, then adds. "I often find myself with such a need as well. Fortunately, as a physician, I find myself well suited to the task."
He nods his head to both men in greeting. "Alexandru Creangâ. Dottore Alexandru Creangä. You both look familiar, are either of you my kindred?"
He lets out an agonized scream, muffled as it is by your hand, and thrashes about more.
"We have never met before, but we know what truly transpires in the night." The man's eyes stare right through the 'good' dottore. "Look too closely, and a broken mirror's shards may reflect too much."
Alexadru nods in acknowledgement. "Are you to be our guide and escort this evening, Herr Jacob? I, for one, certainly would wish to formally introduce myself to the Lord of this fine city, and make known the availability of my services."
Lucian drinks a bit more blood from the man, releases the bite, and licks the wound before forcefully shoving him into a wall.
"You will live to rethink the error of your ways. Do better."
Alexander took a look at the source of the noise, hoping to get a better look at the noise.
Walking--or rather, limping--into view from the shadows is a figure clad in a burnished breastplate and whose limbs are wrapped in several layers of bloodied bandages. A bronze mask in the shape of a hawk's head covers his face, and he drags a wicked-looking zweihander behind him before lifting it up across his shoulders.
"I suspect my own blood would be nigh-unpalatable to you, then." He says, raising a hand. One of the bandages on his arms slips, revealing a bit of skin covered in weeping sores.
As you turn onto the street leading to the grand cathedral, a large crow alights on a nearby fence and looks right at you. It blinks, and a familiar, commanding voice echoes through your mind.
<Good. You have arrived.> Your sire's voice speaks. <I trust your journey was a peaceful one?>
At the very least I should not frenzy due to hunger now... Lucian thinks. Now, how to find those in authority in this city?
She glances about to make sure that nobody is watching her talking to the crow. Last thing she needs is some local mortal assuming that she's a witch.
Altan grimaces as the two men converse in Latin, the high tongue of the Roman Church. He had learned a couple words of it, and of Greek, the speech of Christians native to the Holy Land, but had never put much stock in either. 'Perhaps I should have made the effort to learn the 'Christian word', but it always felt so wrong to me...' Under his breath, he grumbles in Arabic. "I am in the West, and yet the tongues of the lands remain unused. Perhaps I should speak in my native verse, if I am to be left out of conversation."
But at the mailed figure's mention of Hattin, Altan's ears perk up. Switching back to German, he replies. "Hattin, eh? I was not there myself, but the battle claimed my liege lord and father. It also set me on the path that finds me here today, so perhaps there is some meaning in this after all. Well Jacob, you clearly know the family I belong to now. I am Altan Yilmaz, thank you for the welcome to your city. I understand it is the custom in your realms to introduce yourself to the ruler of the city upon arrival. Are you here to assist us with that matter?"
He pauses for a second, then looks to the robed physician, a pensive thought on his face. He had caught one word that stood out to him, Dottore. Turning back to Jacob, "Would you offer both my apologies and introduction to the Doctor. I regret that I speak not Latin."
”Ah, another familiar tongue!” Alexandru exclaims in Arabic at Altan’s muttered words. ”It appears an intermediary will not be necessary for the two of us to converse. I am the physician, Alexandru Creangâ. I hail from the lands of Moldavia.” He gives Altan a nod in greeting.
”My apologies,” he says to Jacob in Latin. ”I have just found a common tongue with our companion, here. It was not my intention to exclude you from the conversation.”
Altan is quite taken aback to hear his language spoken by the portly man. Looking from Jakob to him, "A physician, you say? One gifted with a peculiar taste, no doubt. I am Altan Yilmaz, a blade born of the East, bearing also blood of the West. How have you come to speak the tongue of my people? Even among those who have lived there since the first crusade there are few who have taken an interest in learning it."
Turning back toward Jakob, "Now that we are formally introduced to one another, shall we be on from this place? I prefer to remain unseen when possible. Many eyes would not take kindly to the tone of my skin in these parts."
"The Arabians have written many fine, exacting treatises on medicine, illness and physical anatomy. Part of my studies at the Schola involved reading these works in order to learn from them. As you well know, I am sure, words and sentiments do not always translate clearly from one tongue to another. I learned the Arabic tongue so as not to incorrectly understand the original authors intentions due to a poor translation."
He interrupts himself with a raised hand, and then says, "Of course, you have assessed our current situation, both in my dietary habits and in our mutual interest in not drawing undo attention to ourselves."
He looks to Jacob and switches seamlessly back to Latin. "Lead on, Sir, to wherever it is we are expected."
However, when he's finally addressed, he blinks and jolts himself out of his reverie. "...yes, I am here to bring you to the Cathedral, so I may no longer play Damocles to the Swordbearer."
"Follow me." The ex-crusader says as he turns to walk off into the alleys of Magdeburg.
"Have either of you a need for vitae before we arrive?"
"Bold of you to let that one live." A scratchy, young-sounding voice says from the shadows behind you. Leaning against the wall behind you is a young-looking man clad in filthy leathers and twirling a knife between his fingers with great dexterity. You definitely didn't see him standing there before.
"But you're well-fed now, I trust?"
”I am thirsty, though not urgently so,” Alexandru replies to Jacob. ”A drink would certainly be refreshing after my journey, if it is available without inconvenience to our host.”
Somewhat surprised to hear another voice, Lucian quickly turns to see the raggedly dressed man.
"Not as well as I should like, but well enough for now."
In regards to his victim, Lucian comments, "Bold perhaps, but it was already bold enough to feed prior to my introduction to your Prince, let alone slaying a mortal of his domain. I assume you are one of his agents?"
"So long as you are of proper blood, that is..."
A few rats scurry up to the masked one and start squeaking.
"And what pray tell does Lord Jürgen consider to be 'proper blood'?" Lucian asks.
"No matter, I suppose, I must introduce myself regardless." Lucian concedes. "Can you escort me, or at the very least direct me to where I may actually make that happen?"
"And getting you to the Swordswallower's doorstep's my job, more or less." The ragged Cainite gives a noncommittal shrug. "Cathedral's this way."
He starts to walk away from the alley, sticking to the main roads but moving with an almost unnatural quiet.