written by Sil

"She is still sleeping," the old man said, beginning his tale, grasping his wrinkled hands around a richly carved wooden staff, as if the very thought of what he was telling caused him some hidden pain. But his old face was perfectly serene, and the only sign he was somehow emotionally involved were his knuckles turning white as he clutched his staff with unnatural strength. Those hands: old, lined, apparently frail hands, singed with a thousand of little scars Time decided to leave on them. Those were still strong hands; graceful, slender, they could obviously belong only to a man of noble origins. But the four men that were listening to his tale didn't notice any of those details. Fools they were, of course; those kind of fools that cannot see Strength and Power unless you plainly show them.
The moon was half concealed by heavy clouds pushed slowly by a cold breeze; and the clearing was filled with a silence broken only by the men's noisy breath.
"Still sleeping in their stony tomb, where Cirdan Arthad, the Tzimisce Voivode Elder placed her after admitting his mistake."
Something howled, far away in the forest. The old man's eyes shone briefly with a fierce light.
"Powerful he was; the most respected one of his kin. And Arthad was great, its name whispered with fear and anger. For power often brings hate within, the hate of weak ones who cannot stand against their Masters, but just obey."
One of the four men coughed softly. The old man went on, but he wasn't talking to the men anymore. He was talking to himself, smiling slightly, recalling ancient memories of lost ages.
"And that was what lost Cirdan: the hate of weak beings that needed just a reason to destroy him and his family. He felt in love with a beautiful young woman, with deep grey eyes and a wonderful shapely body."
He remained silent for long, lost in some hidden recess of his thoughts; none of the four men dared to disturb him.
"Those eyes. Like the pits of damnation. Like orbs of grey steel. He decided to Embrace her. To damn her forever, to make her his own. His childe, his lover. His blood was powerful, and she would have been like a princess among her kin."
"But envy and revenge raised soon; for a Tzimisce woman was something that could be hardly accepted. And Arthad fell, under the angered hits of its foes. Bloodhunt was called on them, and they were hunted and killed. One by one. Until Cirdan and Nivrim, for that was her name, remained alone."
"Blood tears cried Cirdan, cursing Nivrim for being what she was. For she made him lose his mind, his temper, his sanity. And his family and bloodline as well. But he couldn't destroy her."
"He put her into Torpor, hiding her body in a huge tomb in a secret valley before escaping from his foes. And there she lies, undisturbed, sleeping a dreamless sleep. Shadows are her only guardians, and silence her only companion. But she cannot know?"
The old man's voice faded into a soft whisper. The four men stood slowly, dusting their knees off.
"We thank you for your tale, Father," said the one who appeared to be their leader, "But we have one more question for you. Where is the tomb you spoke of?"
The old man shook his head, but a glisten of triumph lit his eyes.
"Do not awake a great evil. Her blood is powerful, for her Sire was five steps close to Cain himself."
"It's nothing of your concern," answered the other man.
"Follow the path until the end of the forest, then. You'll find a rock lit by the moonlight, just near the mountain feet. There's an A rune carved on the rock. Push it and a door will open for you on the side of the mountain. There's a passage which leads to a secret valley into the very heart of the mountain. You'll reach the tomb before next midnight."
The four men slightly nodded and walked away, following the way the old man taught them. The old man's face begun to change slowly, turning to a more young and handsome one, his eyes still glittering with triumph.
"Fools," he laughed. "Before next midnight, you'll be dead. And my blood will raise again?"