The silence was almost perfect, as a lone, slender shape turned yet another corner of the winding street, carving its way through the innards of Scharnhoost not without some hesitation. Aside from the timid moonlight that was desperately trying to dodge the heavy clouds still lingering in the midnight sky after a pestering rain, not one of the beautiful streetlights, sophisticated objects of brass and glass, was lit. Whoever hid below the thick red cloak, richly embroidered with golden motifs, appeared to not care at all about the sheer absence of any light. However, they were clearly not familiar with the claustrophobic maze of bricks and mortar that encircled the Citadel – an ambitious name for the old and just barely beating heart of the town.
“Where – is – he…” grunted the conspicuous foreigner in an undertone, as he finally met a dead end of the maze in the form of a cramped back street. No human heard the complaint – no one would have ever dared to defy the by then well-established curfew, the fragile mechanism that preserved the precarious equilibrium of Scharnhoost. The latter was a unique settlement even by the standard of Shyish, where vampires and humans had long tried to coexist without inflicting too much damage to each other – with very mixed results. A so-called Council, featuring representatives of both races, was presently in charge of maintaining what was left of the town, and according to their ruling, no human was to be found outside the walls of the Citadel – if they were, they would have been declared to be fair game for the undead.
And yet, it was not a human who silently greeted the foreigner after all. Half-hidden behind a broken crate that smelled heavily of some exotic spice – most likely the testament to the street market that took place a few hours earlier – the unsettling features of a black wolf waited, perfectly still, barely discernible against the dark background of the walls all around. The breath of the animal coalesced into thin grey curls, lazily unravelling in the cold, damp air. “You can’t be serious…” rasped the foreigner, stopping just a few feet away from the still immobile canine. Just then, a winged shape blotted out the moon for a moment. The foreigner took notice, and they would have probably investigated further, were it not for the unnatural patch of shadow that erupted from the wolf, whirling in perfect silence for an instant before leaving a young man in its place.
Still, he was not a man. “Ailestra…” simply noted the foreigner, disapproval and concern both featuring prominently in his voice. “Well met, Lord Barba”, returned the one who moments before was covered in black fur. “On behalf of the House of Traan, it is a privilege to finally meet you. I… trust no one dared to disturb your journey?” It was a stupid question, and he fully knew it. Barba the Bloody was nothing short of a legend in Shyish – one that was best left untroubled. As the second son of the Grand Duchess of Valaria, the relatively young vampire had quickly built a foul reputation, showing great talent for violence and necromancy alike. As a matter of fact, harnessing that magic cost him much – not least his aspect. As opposed to his brother Varag, Barba looked anything but human, by then. His skin was blackened and stretched onto a bony frame, his long beard a chalky white, his eyes burning red coals chiselled into a horrid, horned cranium. A pair of massive, leathery wings, neatly furled below the cloak, completed the picture of what looked like a puny old creature, warped by the effort of a lifetime. Indeed, many made the mistake of underestimating the Second Son, so thin and weak when he was compared to the might of his brother… none of them survived their arrogance.
Ailestra rightly interpreted the silence that met his question as a tacit assent. “Very well. I… brought what you have asked of my House, my Lord”, he went on, briefly hesitating before producing from his pocket a small ring. A simple object, apparently made of silver and… some sort of black material, the two metals intertwined. “Excellent. Now, give it to me!” demanded Barba, his eagerness only too evident, as he stepped forward, his right hand outstretched. “Of course, my Lord”, conceded Ailestra, obeying soon after. “We… we have done our part…” was it relief, that which transpired from the words of the oldest – yes, oldest… – member of Scharnhoost’s council? Perhaps. The House of Traan was ancient, rooted in the endless forest of Schwartwald, far north from Scharnhoost, where vampiric blood was no stranger to the taint of the wolf. Bullied into submission by Piotr Sokolov and the ruthless House that bore his name, only a few of the Traan survived – and even though Ailestra sat in the council, his voice was pointless, his House powerless.
That, however, was about to change. “I trust your excellency would honour his word soon enough?” dared to utter the Councilman. Barba, who was already about to leave the alleyway, sharply turned on his heels and grabbed the vampire by the throat, sharp talons carving bloody marks into Ailestra’s pale skin. “You would dare to question my word? Just because you and your House have been lingering around long enough to be forgotten?” To Ailestra’s credit, the answer came straight, with no hint of fear. “Forgotten, perhaps…” snarled the tainted wolf, “and yet still treasuring old powers that even your House cannot master alone. That ring…” he continued, as Barba’s grip lessened, “… is not the only one in my possession. Bring me the Secret, my Lord. Bring it to me, and once you are done with this campaign of yours, let us erase the Sokolov – together.”
Perched on the roof of a tall brick house towering above the narrow alleyway, a beautiful crow, his eyes apparently coated in liquid silver, silently watched the exchange and soon after, for the second time that night, flew high against the moon. Oblivious to winged creatures of any denominations, Barba stepped back, a trace of doubt insinuating into his voice. “If the ring truly awakes the Black, you will have your Secret. And yes, with the Black at my service I will wipe out the Sokolov as well – it shouldn’t be too hard by then…” he chuckled. Then, on a more serious note: “wish me luck, Ailestra – the journey to Schwartwald will not be an easy one, not even for me.” The Councilman nodded, slowly massaging his neck, still bleeding profusely. “I shall. Just remember – Korkhorahan is older than anything I know, and there must be a reason why he is still sleeping after all these centuries”. There was indeed a – very – valid reason, which Ailestra knew only too well. He allowed himself something similar to a smile, before turning into a black wolf once more and disappearing into the Citadel, as Barba traced his steps back toward the Gate.
Uncountable miles away, comfortably sat on a decadent composition of ancient sofas, Queen Neferata, the First of the Vampires, lifted yet another chalice, filled with a fine vintage from her prime stashes. Then, she looked down to her left hand, lazily caressing a simple ring, apparently made of silver and some sort of black material.
