Not the sugar-slick sweetness of a theme park, or the grease and ozone of rides running past their
prime—but something deeper beneath it. Copper. Old water. Rot masked under fresh paint.
Blizzard World was alive.

Not in the way mortals understood.

The road curled up toward 200 NJ-94, Vernon Township, cutting through forest that still
remembered what this place used to be—Action Park, where chaos had once been entertainment.
Talbot stood by his motorcycle as the rest of the Coterie drove away.

He straddled his Kawasaki, almost ready to ride. He didn’t ride closer. He didn’t need to.

The tall, long-haired Irish biker swung off the seat, boots crunching gravel, leather creaking as he
stretched. His frame was massive even in stillness—something feral just beneath the surface, like
muscle waiting for permission to become violence.

He lit a cigarette, took one drag, then crushed it beneath his heel.

“Alright…” he muttered, rolling his shoulders.

Time to listen.

Talbot crouched low at the tree line, fingers brushing damp earth.

His voice softened—less human now. Older. Rooted.

“Come ’ere, now… little ones.”

The night responded.

First, a rustle.

Then another.

A raccoon emerged, eyes bright. A rat followed. Then three more. A crow dropped from a
nearby branch, cocking its head.

Talbot smiled faintly.

“There we are…”

He let the Beast shift just enough—not enough to lose control, just enough to speak. He roused
his blood, and his Feral Whispers took hold.

“Big place ahead,” he murmured. “Too many lights. Too many guns. I need paths… tunnels…
where they keep the sleeping girl.”

The rat twitched.

Cold place.

Metal den.

No smell of sky.

The raccoon chittered, agitated.

Bad ones. Loud ones. Fast ones. Hurt things.

Talbot’s jaw tightened.

“Guards?”

The crow let out a harsh caw.

Walking dead eyes. And hungry ones that don’t eat.

Kindred.

He nodded slowly.

“Stormwind,” he muttered, glancing toward the towering centerpiece of the park visible through
the trees—the castle rising like a mockery of fantasy.

That’s where they were holding her.

“Keep watch,” he told them. “Watch where they move. Come find me if it changes.”

The animals scattered.

Talbot rose.

Time to get closer.

The park was in soft open—just enough guests to make it feel alive, not enough to hide
everything.

Talbot entered through a maintenance breach along the perimeter, slipping past a broken fence
panel with practiced ease.

Inside, it was surreal. He recalled the map Rustin had provided and got his bearings.

To his left: Darkmoon Faire, the Ferris wheel glowing against the night.
Farther in: Blackrock Mountain, jagged and ominous.
To the right: the golden spires of Stormwind Castle, dead center.

Everything looked vibrant.

Everything felt wrong.

Talbot moved like a shadow between structures—low, controlled, deliberate.

He spotted them quickly.

Security.

Not theme park security.

Military posture.

MP5s slung across their chests.

Two-man patrols. Sometimes three.

Rotating every eight minutes.

He counted them.

Tracked routes.

Then—

Movement.

Three figures near the castle gates.

One stepped into the light.

Talbot’s lip curled slightly.

Rico. Broad, aggressive stance. Typical Brujah.

Another leaned against the wall, smoking.

Jana.

Relaxed, but coiled. Watching everything.

And then—

Something slipped along the shadows of the wall.

Too thin. Too wrong.

Grimshaw. The Nosferatu.

Talbot didn’t look twice.

Didn’t need to.

His instincts screamed.

He backed off immediately.

“Yeah…” he whispered. “That’s your nest, then.”

Near the Heroes Arcade, Talbot heard laughter. Not joy—something off. Artificial.

He slipped closer.

There it was.

A Zoltar machine, dead center of the space.

Inside—

A man. Not a man anymore. A Kindred.

Eyes cold and dead, yet uncomfortably aware.

His hands hovered above a crystal ball. He looked like someone who knew he was
trapped—unable to cry out. Anxiety… desperation… frozen on his face.

Talbot froze.

“Alicard…”

The Malkavian’s lips moved.

But the voice came from the machine, mechanical with an unnatural stillness. He stared at the
machine.

“STEP RIGHT UP—KNOW YOUR FUTURE—KNOW YOUR FATE—”

His eyes locked onto Talbot.

Recognition – how!?

Terror.

Talbot’s fists clenched.

“Jesus…”

He leaned in slightly.

Alicard mouthed silently:

ZOLTAR KNOWS ALL.

The machine whirred.

Surprise.

A thin strip of paper printed.

“Some prisons are made of glass, some of gold—but the cruelest ones make you watch the door
you cannot open.”

Talbot stepped back, puzzled.

Them he understood.

But not yet.

“Soon,” he muttered, staring back at Alicard.

He circled wide, climbing a maintenance scaffold near The Nexus Experience to gain elevation.
From there, he saw it clearly.

Stormwind Castle wasn’t just a centerpiece. It was fortified.

Two main entry points
Reinforced interior access
Power generators behind the structure
Additional guards rotating inside

And below—
A hidden loading access.
That’s where shipments came through.
Blood.
People.
Amara, he guessed.

Talbot’s jaw tightened.

He stayed as long as he could. The moonlight was fading. Hunger crept in.
He would hunt tomorrow. He withdrew.

Back to the bike.

Gone before the night gave way.

He rode ten minutes down winding roads until neon cut through the trees.
The Irish Cottage Inn.

Warm light. Music. Laughter.

Humans.

Safe.

Talbot stepped inside, shedding just enough of the Beast to pass.
At the bar, he ordered a pint and listened.

“Park’s weird,” one man said.

“Too much security,” another muttered.

“Heard they’re running private events after hours.”

Talbot filed it away.

The auction.

Sylvie’s niece… and others.

Tomorrow night.

He drained his glass and signaled for another.
Then he noticed her.

Mid-thirties. Strong. Confident. Lightly curled strawberry hair.
She smiled as he sat beside her.

“You look like you’ve been out in the woods all night.”

“Aye,” he said softly. “Something like that.”

They talked.

Simple. Easy.

No lies that mattered.

When he leaned closer, it wasn’t force.

It was invitation.

“What would you say if I fancied a taste?” he murmured.

She nodded.

Consensual.

Always.

They drifted outside, into the dim overhang behind the building.

He fed gently.

Carefully.

Pulled back before the edge.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely.

She smiled, dazed but unharmed.

“Come back sometime.”

“I will.”

He called her a ride and watched it disappear into the night. 4 a.m. Too close to dawn.

The old Playboy Club Hotel waited.

Concrete bones.

Broken glass.

Memory of decay.

Talbot stepped inside.

“Joe,” he called quietly.

A shotgun cocked in the dark.

“Say your name,” came a gravelly voice.

“Talbot.”

Silence.

Then—
“You’re not dead yet.”

Joe Danforth stepped into view—older, wiry, eyes always moving.

“The others?” Joe asked.

“Gone. Back to the city.”

“You stirrin’ things up at the park?”

“Planning to.”

Joe snorted. “Bad place. Smells like war.”

Talbot nodded. “Yeah.”

Joe studied him. “You gonna need help?”

“Maybe.”

Joe grunted. “I’ll watch your back—from a distance. Don’t like that place.”

“Fair.”

Talbot found a corner, sank against the wall.

The first light of dawn crept in.

Before sleep took him, he sent one message.

Stormwind is the nest.
3 Kindred on-site. Heavy mortal security.
Amara inside—likely sublevel.
Alicard alive—contained, visible.
Auction tomorrow night.
We don’t have time.

He closed his eyes.

The Beast settled.

Not peacefully.

Tomorrow night—

They weren’t just breaking in.
They were walking into a market.
And they were going to burn it down.

Talbot Klann moved with the crowd, just another figure in the slow, human river flowing toward
the Woodstock Festival. His steps were steady, unhurried, as if he had already accepted that time
had loosened its grip out here on this rural road. Cars sat abandoned on both sides—doors open,
trunks lifted, engines silent—left behind like relics of a plan that no longer mattered.
He kept his eyes forward, though something was always pulling his attention sideways. A group
perched on the hood of a faded car, laughing like they’d known each other forever. A barefoot
girl weaving effortlessly between people. Someone strumming a guitar somewhere behind him,
the sound rising and falling with the movement of the crowd.

The strap of his bag pressed against his shoulder, damp with sweat, but he didn’t adjust it. He
seemed almost grounded by it, like it was the only thing that belonged solely to him in a moment
that felt shared by thousands. Around him, strangers brushed past without apology, yet there was
no tension—only a quiet understanding that they were all headed to the same place.
He glanced up the road. It stretched endlessly, a dense line of people and cars dissolving into the
distance. There was no clear destination in sight, —no stage, no music—just the promise of it
somewhere ahead.

Still, he walked.

There was something unspoken guiding him forward, something bigger than curiosity or even
the music itself. It was in the way no one turned back, in the way the crowd breathes as one
organism, moving with purpose but without urgency.

And as he disappeared deeper into the mass of people, he was no longer just a man walking
down a road—he became part of the moment, part of the story that was unfolding step by step
around him.

Before the weekend of love and music ended, the child of God would become a Gangrel Childe
losing his mortal soul. Step by clumsy step Talbot became part of a new existence that would
take a long time to learn and understand.

This changed his life – or death – forever. Talbot could not recall her name but otherwise
remembered her well. Her fingers were long and looked as if they had an extra knuckle. Her nose
was short and blunt. He believes one of her ears was pointed and the other marred. And her
eyes—he is certain of this—caught the light wrong. Now and then, they flashed with a faint,
impossible red.

Don't go around tonight
Well it's bound to take your life
There's a bad moon on the rise

“C.C.R.?” she said in a soft tone, a cross between Midwestern and old New York City.

“Ah, grand so, Creedence Clearwater Revival.” Talbot raised his voice over the music. His Irish
accent slips through easily. It’s past midnight. The air is damp, cold enough to bite through his
rain-soaked clothes. He turns toward her and feels a chill that has nothing to do with the weather.
Her outfit is a patchwork—denim, cheap leather, worn T-shirts layered without care or pattern.

“Irish?” Her voice was almost commanding. “Where are you from there – laddie?”

“Washington Heights, upper Manhattan, ya know, New York . . .”

“Yes, yes, New York City.” She cuts him off, dismissive. Her voice doesn’t quite belong
anywhere.

“Aye.”

“Where, where in Ireland?” She challenged.

"Is as Contae an Chláir, Inis, Talbot answered.

“A Wise Acre, I see.” Her eyes shimmered red for a moment. “Now, in the Queen’s English.”
Talbot gave a stern hard glare in return.

Sarcastically, “Oh pardon me, good sir, in AMERICAN English.”

He relents, just slightly. “I am from County Clare, Ennis. And you?”

“Originally, New York City. Wandered a bit since.” She implied travels far beyond what her
apparent age would suggest.

She studies him openly now. “Irish . . . Catholic, I presume.” Talbot nodded.

Talbot’s new acquaintance began the small talk. She said she had observed him shielding some
female festivalgoers from overly aggressive men. In a complimentary manner, she spoke of his
imposing height and how he de-escalated a potentially unpleasant encounter. She continued with
flattering remarks. In the spirit of peace, love, and music consuming the event, Talbot soon
realized the depth of her flirtation.

“You stepped in.” Her tone carries approval, but something else beneath it—assessment. “Didn’t
hesitate. Most men do.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t seem right, is all.”

“No,” she says softly. “It didn’t.”

"I put a spell on you because you're mine. You better stop the things that you do
I ain't lyin, no, I ain't lyin"

The music continued. The banter continued. She asked him questions about his convictions and
temperament. In time, Talbot revealed he understood the fringes of society; his natural father was
a German who had married an Irishwoman before World War II. A man who chose sides that
didn’t belong to him. He aided the Irish Republican Army against the British. Talbot’s father
died shortly the war ended, under unclear circumstances.

She continued to press Talbot for personal details. He felt a pull to tell her things he normally
would not share with a one-night acquaintance. He told her he was willing to travel at night or
walk through danger, confident he could handle himself. He spoke of arguing with his mother
about attending Woodstock and leaving anyway, no clear of how he would get there. This
revealed he traveled alone, with no one at home knowing where he had gone. A perfect candidate
for the Gangrel Embrace of mortals who display immense, fierce survival instincts. Sires
prioritize grit, wanderlust, and courage over pedigree, creating a new vampire who is then often
left to fend for themselves to ensure they are tough enough for the unlife.

The music continued.

You know the nighttime (whoa-do-de), oh, is the right time (whoa-do-de)
To be (whoa-do-de), with the one you love (whoa-do-de)
I said the nighttime (whoa-do-de), oh, is the right time (whoa-do-de)

“Do you scare easily?” she asks.

Talbot lets out a quiet breath. “No.”

“Do you run?”

He meets her eyes. “No.”

Something in her expression settles. “Good.”

Deeper into the dark morning hours, Talbot’s new companion finally allowed him to call her
Jenny. He suspected it was not her real name, but he accepted it. If it helped her, that was
enough. Jenny easily convinces Talbot to follow her to a dry secluded place where they could get
to know one another better.

Didn't I make you feel like you were the only man? Yeah
And didn't I give you nearly everything that a woman possibly can?
Honey, you know I did
And each time I tell myself that I, well I think I've had enough
But I'm gonna show you, baby, that a woman can be tough

He set off to wherever it was Jenny was leading him. They walked long and far, the sounds of
the festival fading. Along the way Talbot thought he noticed a person – no, a creature of the
night – shadowing them. The figure was never too close, never too far. It did not seem like a
threat, almost like a companion, some kind of silent guardian. The walk was tough, he was tired,
she seemed unaffected.

Jenny turns, just slightly. “You coming?” Her eyes catch the faint light again. Red.
She led him to a farm’s storm cellar. As they descended Talbot heard his last song of the
Woodstock Music Festival on August 17, 1969.

You know something struck me, clamped on lord like a ball and chain
Oh baby, why you wanna do these mean things to me?
Oh baby, why you wanna do these mean things to me?
Because you know I love you honey and I am so sick and tired of bein in misery
I know you're gonna miss me baby, gonna miss all of those sweet things
I know you're gonna miss me baby, you're gonna miss all of those sweet things
And then you'll find that your whole life will be like mine, wrapped up like a ball and chain
Oh baby, why do everything have to just happen to me?

The music stopped. A crushing silence settled over the cellar. Talbot suddenly felt it - this was
wrong, unsafe. In the darkness he could no longer see Jenny. He thought he saw the faint glow of
red. Her eyes, a deeper red. She had gone deep into the cellar.

He mustered the courage to speak. “Ah, I . . . I think maybe I should go.”

Her voice cut through the darkness. “Afraid, are you?” But it was more of a confirmation than a
question.

“No.” False bravado.

“It’s the summer of free love, they say. Don’t you want to love me?”

Talbot somehow knew it was not free. There was some price to be paid. “Groovy idea,” he said
nervously. “Just not now.” He stepped back towards the cellar stairs.

“Come! Come my Childe.”

Talbot turned only to see the silent guardian at the upper threshold. He hesitated. Turning back
towards Jenny he was surprised to see she was suddenly so close to him. Without thought but for
survival, he swung his fist at her.

It landed hard. He felt her recoil—but she neither fell nor lost ground.

“Good instinct laddie.” He heard the grin on her face. “I have chosen well.”

“Sorry.” The fact he had struck a girl unsettled him.

“Don’t be.” She punched him hard. He collapsed to the floor.

Scrambling to his feet, he cried out, “You flakey skag!” and swung again. She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t even try to block it.

“Feel better boy?”

Fear surged through him—unlike anything he had ever known.

Her backhand sent him sprawling across the cellar.

He staggered up and charged her. For a moment, the grappled seemed successful - until he
realized it was her who had the better grip of him. He struggled, uselessly. This was
incomprehensible.

Her voice changed. Still authoritative, but now like a stern loving mother. “Relax. Calm down
my Childe. You’ll be alright.”

Talbot didn’t believe. He felt death was upon him. The manner of which he could not fathom.
Moonlight crept in from the open cellar door. He could barely make out the features. Her eyes
were deep red. Her face closed in. He saw her teeth – her fangs.

He was in a horror story. He tried desperately to break free. It was futile. Failure was clear when
her fangs pierced his skin. Her grip tightened as his life slackened. He felt the cold. Recognition
of his surroundings faded.

As he died in her arms, he vaguely remembered her feeding him something, like a mother
nourishing a starving newborn.

As he dropped to floor he believed he heard her say. “Survive the winter and maybe we shall
meet again.”

Timing unknown, darkness broke for Talbot. He awoke in the same cellar, though it did not feel
as damp or as cold as it should have. He was terribly hungry—and terribly ill. The cellar door
appeared closed, but he could still see most of his surroundings.
Perched near the steps was the silent guardian. He sat almost like a canine. Clearer in view now,
he appeared like a mangy wolf.

There was another person – body, in the room. A female, yes a female. She appeared to be in a
state. Maybe tripping on acid. She seemed awake but unaware of where she was.
Then the illness was abrupt. He suffered convulsions. Vomiting what appeared to be blood.
Uncontrolled spams moving him involuntarily around the room. The guardian seemed amused.
Talbot was not.

“Feed.” The guardian said. “Feed and you will feel better.”

“Feed?” Talbot thought. “Feed what?”

“It’s the hunger you feel.”

Talbot could barely understand the words or feelings in the moment. Hunger consumed
everything. A sickness that demanded action—now, violently. He looked toward the guardian
with aggression.

“No!” The guardian stood, pointing. “Her!”

Talbot turned and looked at the young hallucinating girl. Probably a festival goer. He did not
know. Nor did he care. With conflicting feelings, he charged at the girl. With ease, he lifted her
from the ground. Cradled in his arms he looked at her face. She was smiling, mind elsewhere.
He bit. Her eyes widened, though a strange smile remained. He satisfied his hunger completely.
He gently placed her to the floor.

“Now you are one of us.” The not so silent guardian said. “Complete your journey, survive the
winter. Maybe you’ll understand the gift you’ve been given.”

“Gift, journey, winter – it’s fucking August!”

“Yeap, good luck.” The guardian turned to leave.

“Wait. What do I do now? Who am I? What am I?”

“Now?” The guardian paused. “Now, you are nothing. Become something.” The cellar door
collapsed closed.

Talbot have heard of vampire stories. Was that what he was now? He couldn’t go home. That
much was certain.

“Can I go in the sun?” He thought.

“Crosses?!” Panic surged. He pulled a Catholic cross from beneath his shirt. No burn. No pain.
“No burn marks like the fairy tales.” Good.

He realized he could see fairly well in the dark. Also, good.

He wondered. “Are my eyes red?”

Then - his humanity.

He looked upon his victim. Wondered what he had done and why. What becomes of her, her
family, her friends. Unanswered, he stared.

At last, a single tear rolled slowly down his dirt- and blood-streaked face.

Born August 2, 1940 in the Republic of Ireland, County Clare, town of Ennis.
His biological father was a German who had married a young Irish woman before World War
II—a man who chose sides that didn’t belong to him. He aided the Irish Republican Army (IRA)
against the British. Talbot’s father died shortly after the war ended, under unclear circumstances.
In the early 1950s, Talbot would get ‘runner’ messenger jobs because of his father’s connections
with the IRA. His mother would not allow guns in the house. Talbot heard rumors of his father
suppling guns to the IRA during the war years. As a result, Talbot had to learn how to
bareknuckle brawl and use a blade or cudgel. By his mid-teens, his mother no longer felt
comfortable dealing with her deceased German husband’s legacy. She also feared for Talbot’s
involvement with the IRA and how the British were placing the Irish in internment without trial.
She relocated to New York, USA. They settled in Washington Heights, NYC. The area, at the
time, had a middle-class neighborhood with many Irish and Eastern European immigrants.
Talbot’s mother met an Irish-American and remarried. That relationship produced a step-sister,
Molly O'Connor, in 1960, 20 years to the day of his birth. Throughout the 1960s and 1970s,
many white residents left the neighborhood for nearby suburbs as the Latino populations
increased. Early in the 1960s, his Step-father moved the family to Rockaway Park, a
neighborhood in the New York City borough of Queens.

The age difference between Molly, Talbot, and his mother caused minor problems. Was Molly
really an ‘oops-baby’ or where they covering for Talbot and a bastard child. Both his Step-father
and mother worked. Talbot spent a lot of time caring for Molly, adding to the speculation.
Talbot’s evenings out would sometimes lead to physical altercations as he was bullied as a
bastard daddy. As a matter of course, he also would stick up for women being inappropriately
approached by intoxicated men. Talbot’s ability to hold his own in a fight got the attention of the
local Italian crime families. While Talbot would occasionally help out, he never really was
employed or indebted to anyone. He was never arrested or detained regarding either his fighting
or his associations.
With the attention Talbot gave Molly, she was almost his daughter. She looked up to him more
than her father. Molly and Talbot celebrated their last birthday together in August of 1969.
Less than two weeks later, Talbot would argue with his mother about attending the Woodstock
Music Festival. Talbot left the house with a small packed bag, boarded a local train, and
vanished from their lives.

After the Embrace of Talbot Klann
In some storm cellar in Mid-August 1969, Talbot Klann found himself undead and possibly a
Vampire. A strange woman told him to survive the winter – he did not truly understand what she
meant. A mangy, wolf-like figure told him, “. . . you are nothing. Become something.”

Yes, he had become something. Something he did not know what. The body of his first victim
was in the room with him. He was alone. He was sad.
He finally figured out how to conceal the body so that no one would discover it. He little original
cash, but found cash and a few valuables on the victim.
He had to learn his physical limits – staying out of the sun, the need to feed, the need for a safe
‘resting’ environment. He struggled with these things in the beginning. He felt guilty initially
feeding off unsuspecting females. Initial contacts not going well. Seemed he had to escape too
often.

He cleaned himself up and learned to persuade partners to share their blood. He became fairly
successful.
He had survived a winter. That first winter was a true struggle. Late that winter, in the lesser
traveled areas of the Catskill mountains he stumbled across a Vietnam veteran, Joseph Danforth.
Joe was a little crazy. Hated the system and wanted, above all, to stay undetected from the
government. Stay off the grid. Living in caves and abandoned rotting farm houses.
Joe helped Talbot do the same. Initially Talbot did not realize Joe was a Kindred, but Joe must
have known from the first meeting. Joe would guide Talbot, but not always help. Staying off the
grid meant minimizing your contact with others. But his guidance helped Talbot survive that first
winter.

Only working nights, Talbot was able to gain some cash and trust from the locals. He would help
by keeping watch for night predators on local farms. During these times he learned he could even
communicate with some of them. Sometimes even gaining enough trust for the animal to
‘appear’ on a farm, have the farmer get Talbot’s assistance, and Talbot reward the animal.
Eventually this routine left Talbot feeling isolated. Spring and summer in the New York Catskill
mountain area was still bringing in tourists. Many of them New York City Jews. Large resorts
embedded in the woodland. The area was known as the Borscht Belt.
Borscht is a sour soup, made with meat stock, vegetables and seasonings. Food! Vacationing
people = food.

Talbot began infiltrating the various resorts. Sometimes even gaining nighttime employment.
Especially jobs aimed at keeping wild animals away from the guests and buildings.
This was a rich environment for young Jewish females reaching out for a secret summer fling.
Especially an attractive, well build Irish Catholic boy. A secret they must keep from their very
conservative families. The occasional male, Jewish and others, needed to keep secrets too.
Talbot’s knowledge of the German language helped with some of the Yiddish.
Talbot would occasionally travel back to New York City. He would secretly check in on his step-
sister and mother. Winter was particularly convenient as most people were inside and the dark
hours were longer.

While the Borscht Belt was already declining in the 1960s, there were still plenty of resorts or
specialty locations to find consensual companions. By the 1980s it was the resort era was clearly
ending. Some of the hotels had been converted into rehab centers, meditation centers or
Orthodox Jewish hotels and resorts. These centers were now fenced in, gated communities.
Keeping to their own, there was very little demand for a handsome Irish Catholic boy.
By the 1980s, Talbot had to move on. He looked to relocate back to New York City, plenty of
people there. He aimed for Washington Heights, but it was severely affected by the crack-
cocaine epidemic, as was the rest of New York City. Washington Heights had become one of the
largest drug distribution centers in the Northeastern United States.

Name dropping old Irish locals, Talbot posed as a nephew, cousin, or former co-worker, etc.
After searching for a place he could blend in and find food, he found a place on West 153 rd
Street, just out of Washington Heights, one block into Hamilton Heights. A small framed house
was stood directly across from the Trinity Church Cemetery and Mausoleum. This Cemetery and
Mausoleum is the burial place of notable people including John James Audubon, John Jacob
Astor IV, Mayor Edward I. Koch, Governor John Adams Dix, Ralph Ellison, and Eliza Jumel.
Moving in and establishing a residence while only active at night proved difficult. Talbot spent
sometime establishing himself a ‘protector’ of the neighborhood. During the 1980s, this also
meant dealing with local gangs. There was an unspoken agreement: you don’t bother me, I don’t
bother you. It was difficult, but eventually an agreement that West 153 rd Street all along the
cemetery was a safe zone. Various Latino and Dominican gangs had names for the night
‘guardian’ but related it to some deal with the church.

Talbot earned money and favors from the neighborhood to setup his house. Day-laborers
completed the work under the supervision of a women who would became a tenant in Talbot’s
house. In the beginning, Talbot befriended a South American woman by giving her a place to
live without questions as long as she asked no questions and kept visitors to a bare minimum.
The first floor became a apartment. The upper floors were Talbot’s. Over time, the first woman,
led to another, and then another. They all had something in common, mystic arts. Some practiced
Ayahuasca Shamanism from Peru/Amazonia. Current house keeper is an Ecuadorian female in
her 50s, Jeany Espinoza. (Game Concept: she is seen as a “crazy” mystic by the local Latino and
Dominican communities—someone not to be messed with. Sometimes they fear her more than
him.)
As NYC’s drug culture evolved, various types of clinics emerged in the city. Talbot learned the
skills needed and got a job as a Phlebotomist. Keeping jobs long enough at various locations
throughout the city to establish a source, pool, of candidates for a consensual encounter.
The 1970s-90s saw the rise of a distinct "vampire community" characterized by fashion, role-
playing, and, for some, the consensual, symbolic or, rarely, actual consumption of blood or
energy, often closely bonded with "blood donors". NYC had a highly rated vampire subculture.
Especially Madame X in Greenwich Village. It is known as a romantic, intimate, and moody
goth lounge with two floors and secret spots. NYC still has a strong vampire subculture.

During these years Talbot would occasionally return to the Catskill to catchup with Joe Danforth.
He continued to ‘police’ his neighborhood, maintaining ties with the local gangs, though they
were more sophisticated now. As always, he would randomly check on Molly O’Connor, now
Molly Gallagher of Bayside Queens. As the years progressed, Talbot also looked in on Molly’s
children, now adults themselves.

Equandy still sleeping soundly beside her. After a long day of studying lore, maps and leads the two of them believe they have found a route to Ohm. And with it a possible cure for An’ric and the others that have been cursed.

And while she should be happy she can’t shake the ghosts in her head tonight. Was it so long ago that she and the others were in the Esoterica? Where in a way they all saved each other. From the Professors, the bullies, the lonely nights they all shared being orphans.

But another voice scratched the inside of her brain tonight. One she honestly hadn’t thought of in awhile. One she took for granted nowadays. Her patron, The Celestial. The voice that came to her in the night while at the Esoterica and gave her the ability to fight magic with magic. She was already stronger then most of the other students. She was smarter than most. But the one thing she lacked is what made her stand out, and not in a good way. She lacked the ability to perform magic.

A ward of the school. With no magical abilities. The other students made fun of her. The parents of those students questioned why she should be allowed to stay. She heard it from everyone, and when she defended herself she was the one called bully. Because she was more physically fit. Because those other damn kids knew how to game the system better than her.

Then in one desperate night she prayed, no she begged for someone to find her. To listen to her. To grant her the ability to use magic. If even a cantrip.

Then that little girl saw a light. Not with her eyes but in her minds eye. And the voice spoke. Asking her what she would give to have the ability to use the arcane. And that little girl hesitated. Was this real? Was it a dream? It didn’t matter, she was asked again, “What do you promise in return for the power you seek?”

Evalise who once thought she would give anything to be able to use magic. Now confronted with the idea, real or imaginary didn’t know what to say.

She payed attention in class. She aced Monster Studies and her Mythological Studies. She knew if this was real it could cost her.

She asked the voice what was it offering? The voice said the ability to defend yourself as you asked. The ability to further your studies. And for the last time I ask, “What will you offer me?”

Evalise thinks for a moment.

“My Capacity For Peace!” Evalise blurts out.”

“Done.” Says the voice. “I take from you the ability to stand back while evil rises. You will not be able to standby as suffering and injustice surround you.”

Evalise shivers at the thought of that night. But from that moment on she became the bullies at the Esoterica’s enemy. She stood up for the students being bullied like her. And then she met them. She has some classes with them but she didn’t know them. Arabess, Calyxtris “Cal”, and An’ric. Others would join their little cliq, but they would all be inseparable now.

Evalise slipped from the bed and went back to work at the table with the maps, tales, fables and any lore they had scrounged up. She can’t let her friends down. And An’ric whether he admitted it or not needed her specific help. She can find a way. She can find out how. SHE WILL help her friend any way she can.

Evalise whispers thank you to her unknown patron. And goes back to work.

Somewhere in the High Heavens a Celestial watches on in pride. Glad they answered her pleas.

The night stretched long and thin across the jungle canopy of Chult, heavy with heat and the distant hum of insects—but around her, the air remained cold. It always did when her thoughts turned inward like this. Frost gathered in delicate veins along the edge of her bedroll, creeping over leather and cloth as if her magic itself refused rest.

Her eyes were open, staring into the darkness. Jataya’s voice would not leave her.

“You are not cold by nature… you choose to be.”

Her jaw tightened.

The undead priest’s hollow gaze had seen too much. That had unsettled her more than his power, more than the aura of his vampiric master looming behind him like a shadow over the jungle.

He had spoken with certainty. With understanding.

That was what made it unbearable.

Arabess exhaled slowly, and the breath curled in pale silver mist before her face.

Cold.

Always cold.

That was what people said about her. What they believed about her.

She leaned into it. Cultivated it. The distant, controlled tone. The measured expressions.The careful distance.It was easier that way. Safer. But Jataya had peeled it back with cruel precision.

“You push them away before they can leave you.”

Her fingers curled slightly against the blanket.

“…That’s not true,” she whispered into the dark.

But the words felt… weak.

Because part of her knew they weren’t entirely a lie.

The Esoterica Magica had been her whole world.

A place of arcane brilliance, yes—but also a place where children without families learned one very simple truth:

Nothing was permanent.

Students came and went. Patrons changed. Teachers died, vanished, or moved on to greater pursuits. Even friendships… shifted with time.

Except for them.

Cal. Evalise. An’ric.

The four of them had been constants in a place that offered none. And because of that… they mattered more than anything. Which was exactly why she could never afford to lose them.

Her eyes closed briefly.

That fear—the quiet, gnawing certainty that one day they might not be there—had shaped her more than any spell or divine gift ever had.

So she built walls. Not out of cruelty. Out of preservation.

Her fingers flexed, faint arcs of pale-blue energy dancing between them before fading.

Power had always come easily to her. Divine magic. Sorcery. The blessing—and burden—of something greater flowing through her veins.

And later… something else.

Her pact with Miirym had only deepened that connection. The ghostly silver dragon had seen into her as well—though where Jataya accused, Miirym had simply observed.

“You bind yourself tighter than any ward, child,” the dragon had once said.

Control was safety.

If she controlled her emotions, they could not betray her.
If she controlled her relationships, they could not surprise her.
If she never gave too much… she could never lose everything.

At least, that was what she told herself.

Until her thoughts drifted to Cal

Her breath hitched slightly at the thought.

Cal…Calixtus Firebrand.

He had always been there. Always. She had no memory of a time when he wasn't, almost as if they had been joined since birth. His laughing. Talking. Filling the silence she left behind.

He never seemed bothered by her distance—not truly. If anything, he leaned into it, dancing along the edges of her coldness with warmth and wit.

Their bickering.
Their shared meals.
The way he would casually steal food from her plate—and how she never stopped him. The sip from his cup she had snatched from his grasp that went unchallenged.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips.

Then faded.

Because Jataya’s words cut deepest there.

“You deny yourself what you already have.”

Her chest tightened.

She knew.

Gods, she knew.

Every glance. Every moment. Every quiet understanding between them—it was obvious to anyone with eyes.

Except they never said it.

Because saying it would make it real.

And real things could be taken away.

Her stomach twisted.

What if she lost him?

What if she let herself have that—and it was ripped from her like everything else? Leaving a gaping hole like the emptiness of never knowing who your parents were and why they had left you behind.

Her eyes flickered open again, glowing faintly with that icy blue light. The temperature dropped further, the air biting now.

But another thought followed, unbidden.

What if she lost him anyway… without ever knowing what could have been?

That possibility felt… worse.

She tried to clear her mind but more intrusive thoughts emerged.

Evalise had always seen through her.

Not completely—but enough.

Her fiery, stubborn friend never accepted the cold façade at face value. She challenged it. Pushed it. Stood beside Arabess regardless.

She didn’t have things as easy as her or Cal. Though orphans, She and Cal had always been taken care of. As if some quiet unseen benefactor had left money for their comfort. They weren’t rich but never felt need or the disappointment that accompanied financial struggle. Ev wasn’t so lucky. Yet she worked harder than most, certainly more than the “gifted Arabess” who had magic in her blood. And still she found time to be a friend. To listen when she complained about Cal, to join her in mocking An’ric

An’ric…

A faint huff of breath escaped her—almost a laugh.

Sarcastic. Irritating. Loyal to the point of recklessness.

He masked his devotion in humor, but she knew. She always knew.

They all cared. They had stayed.

And now he was in trouble. Her magic had brought him back but something wasn’t quite right. Something was slowly siphoning the life force she had returned to him. She had to fix it. She couldn’t lose him. She knew they would.

So why did she still act like they might leave at any moment? She buried those thoughts as well but something else emerged as she churned the soil of her mind. Another name.

Tavril

That complicated things.

Arabess shifted slightly, staring up at the unseen sky.

Tavril’s presence was… different.

Earnest. Devoted. Intense in a way that felt both comforting and unsettling.

His interest in her was not subtle. Not to her at least.

And unlike with Cal, there was no long history to soften it—no shared childhood to anchor it in familiarity.

Just something new.

Something uncertain.

Something that asked her to respond.

And she… hadn’t.

Not really.

Because she didn’t know how.

Or perhaps because acknowledging it would force her to confront everything she had avoided with Cal.

That realization settled heavily in her chest.

Her breath slowed.

Jataya had been cruel—but not entirely wrong.

She wasn’t cold because she didn’t feel.

She was cold because she felt too much.

Fear of loss.
Fear of rejection.
Fear of being abandoned again.

And beneath all of that…

A desire for control.

If she never fully gave herself to anyone, then no one could take that from her.

But that came with a cost.

Distance.

Misunderstanding.

Loneliness—even among those she loved most.

Her eyes dimmed slightly, the glow fading.

“…Is it worth it?” she whispered.

The question lingered. 

Was she running out of time?

Adventurers did not live quiet, predictable lives. They fought monsters. Gods. Fate itself. Death was never far away. She had seen it. Felt it. How many chances would she have? How many moments had she already let slip past because she chose silence over vulnerability?

Her fingers tightened in the blanket.

Jataya’s final words echoed again:

“You will lose them… not because they leave you, but because you never let them truly reach you.”

A slow breath left her.

“…I don’t want that.”

The admission was quiet. Barely audible.

But it was real.

Arabess sat up slowly.

The frost around her receded just slightly, though the air remained cool.

She wasn’t going to change overnight. She knew that.

Walls built over years did not crumble in a single night.

But perhaps…

She could start with something small.

A word.
A gesture.
An honesty she had long avoided.

Her gaze drifted toward where Cal slept, somewhere beyond the darkness.

A faint, almost shy uncertainty flickered across her usually composed expression.

“…Maybe,” she murmured, “I can try.”

Not perfection.

Not complete openness.

Just… trying.

For them.

For him.

For herself.

And for the first time that night, the cold around her softened—not gone, but gentler.

Like ice beginning, at last, to thaw.

Then came the knocking. Sharp. Rapid. Insistent.

Kwalu, one of Equanday’s servants muttered under his breath as he crossed the polished tile floor. “If this is another fruit seller, I swear by Waukeen…” He pulled open the door.

Shago stood there; dust-covered, sweat-drenched, and smiling like a man who had successfully navigated chaos and come out ahead of it.

Kwalu blinked. “Yes?”

“Excellent,” Shago said. “You are exactly the person I hoped would open the door.”

Kwalu frowned slightly. “And who would that be?”

“The one who knows where the important people are.”

“If you’re here to sell something, we’re not interested.”

“I’m not selling anything,” Shago said. “I’m here to see—”

“I’m going to stop you there,” Kwalu cut in, already beginning to close the door. “Whatever this is, you’ll need to—”

Shago leaned slightly to the side, peering past him into the villa. And then his face lit up.

“There he is!”

The servant paused mid-motion.

Shago straightened and pointed past him with absolute certainty.

“The Legate! Tavril!”

From inside the villa, Tavril drifted closer to the door. “…Shago?”

Shago’s grin widened. “Yes! Good. This saves time.”

Before the servant could recover, Shago slipped past him into the villa.

“Sir—!” Kwalu protested, turning.

“I am expected,” Shago said over his shoulder.

“You are not—”

“I am now.”

By the time Kwalu found his voice again, Shago had reached the main room. His gaze swept once across the gathered party before settling squarely on An’ric. He studied him for a long, thoughtful moment, then nodded with complete certainty.

“Yes,” Shago announced. “You are definitely dying.”

Silence fell like a dropped plate.

An’ric rolled his eyes. “Greeeaaat.”

Evalise snorted despite herself. “Strong opening.”

Tavril closed his eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Shago. Explain. Slowly. Preferably without declaring anyone dead in the first sentence.”

Shago stood akimbo looking very proud of himself, then gestured broadly like a storyteller about to deliver a masterpiece.

“You are curious how I found you, yes? And how I know An’ric is… slowly turning into a sad, walking skeleton.”

A slight grin creased Arabess’ lips  “I can’t wait to hear this.”

“It begins with my cousin, Nalo.”

Evalise leaned back in her chair. “Of course it does.”

“My mother’s sister’s husband’s brother’s other wife’s son—Nalo—sells fish. Very bad fish. This is important because no one buys them, so he has time to listen.”

Tavril opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“Nalo hears from a sailor,” Shago continued, “that a priest—very serious, very intense—has been asking questions about a death curse.”

“I’m assuming that would be me,” Tavril muttered.

“Yes,” Shago said, nodding. “You have the face of a man who worries professionally and asks unpleasant questions.”

Cal grinned. “Accurate.”

Shago continued, pacing now. “So Nalo tells his wife. His wife tells her sister. Her sister tells a man who cuts hair for the soldiers at Fort Beluarian .”

Tavril sighed softly. “Naturally.”

“That man,” Shago said, “hears that the priest has a ward. A noble one. Slowly dying. Being eaten by something unseen.”

Shago lowered his voice, as though sharing a secret meant only for the room and gestured toward An’ric.

“So I think; who do I know that fits ‘noble, quiet, and currently losing a fight with undeath?’”

An’ric exhaled softly. “I preferred it when this was a private affliction.”

Shago resumed his story.

“So I go to the temple. I find High Priest Shilau M’wenye.”

Tavril straightened slightly. “And you told him?”

“Yes,” Shago said proudly. “I said: ‘Your Legate’s ward is dying in a dramatic and spiritually inconvenient way.’”

Tavril closed his eyes. “You did not.”

“I may have improved the wording.”

“You did not.” Arabess and Cal said in unison.

Shago ignored them and continued. “At first, he did not know how to answer. He becomes very concerned. Very focused. Then he agrees this is a problem,” Shago went on. “A very holy problem. So he prepares six scrolls to aid An’ric.”

At that, he tapped his satchel with a satisfied grin.

“Very official. Very blessed. They smell like incense.”

Arabess raised a brow. “You just… asked?”

“I explained,” Shago corrected. “Very convincingly.”

Cal leaned forward. “Define ‘convincingly.’”

“I told him it would reflect poorly on Helm if the Legate’s ward died.”

Tavril winced.

“…and that we could help fix it if he prepared the scrolls”

Arabess let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh.

“It worked.” Shago said. 

Tavril shook his head, but there was reluctant approval in it. “And the Governer, Commander Portyr?”

Shago straightened again, slipping into a rigid imitation. “Commander Portyr says, ‘Scout Shago, why should I allow this?’”

“And I say,” Because the High Priest has already approved it.’”

Evalise smirked faintly. “You went over her head.”

“I went around it,” Shago corrected. “More efficient.”

An’ric smiled, faintly amused “And that worked?”

“No,” Shago said.

Cal barked a laugh.

“Then I reminded her who sponsored me,” Shago added, pointing at Tavril and An’ric. “Rank. Responsibility. Authority.  I used all of these words.” He spread his hands. “Very cooperative after that.”

 That landed. Tavril and An’ric exchanged approving looks.

Then Shago reached into his satchel and carefully drew out one the scrolls, holding it with surprising reverence.

“I followed you,” he said, quieter now, “because word travels fast here. Faster than ships. Faster than runners.”

His eyes flicked briefly to An’ric.

“Faster than what is taking you.”

“Also,” Shago added, brightening again, “a parrot confirmed your direction. A very reliable parrot,” Shago said. “Better than Nalo.”

From the doorway, Kwalu, who had somehow endured all of this, cleared his throat.

“…Should I inform Master Equanday that the dying one has been found?”

An’ric closed his eyes briefly. “Please don’t phrase it like that.”

Shago nodded approvingly. “No, no. He is correct. Clarity is important.”

“No,” Tavril said quietly, already stepping toward An’ric. “We’ll speak with him shortly.”

Shago held out the scrolls.

An’ric looked at them for a long moment before taking one.

“So,” he said quietly, “this is what time looks like now.”

Shago grinned, “I told them I would find you.”

Tavril met his gaze. “And you did. “You’ve done well.”

Cal eyed the scrolls. “So all that… fish, cousins, and parrots… actually worked?”

Shago nodded. “Yes.”

An’ric let out a slow breath. “Let’s not waste the time Shago bought us.”

Arabess stood at the gate, a silhouette in midnight blue.

She pushed it open.

Inside, the villa glowed with low amber light. Music drifted through the courtyard—strings and reed-thin notes, winding like smoke through heavy, fragrant air. Night-blooming jasmine and damp stone filled the space. Two plates sat at the table: one cleared, one untouched. A half-empty decanter rested nearby.

She found Jataya in the garden, reclining beneath a jasmine-draped trellis, wine in hand.

“You’re late,” he said.

“I said if I had time.”

“I don’t sleep easily,” he replied. “Especially when waiting for someone whose eyes could freeze a heartbeat.”

She sat opposite him. “You dine with strangers. I don’t.”

“Then the question is… am I still a stranger?”

“I haven’t decided.”

Jataya lifted his glass. “Then let me remain uncertain. It suits the evening.”

Arabess took the second glass, tasted. “Expensive.”

“Everything worthwhile is.”

She studied him. “Is that what I am to you? Something to acquire?”

“No,” he said quietly. “You’re something I know better than to chase.”

“Then why invite me?”

“Because some people aren’t meant to be won. Only… observed, when they choose to walk through an open door.”

Arabess stood, draining the glass. “Don’t wait up next time.”

He didn’t rise. “I never do.”

She left without another word, her robes whispering across the stone. The gate creaked shut behind her.

In the garden, Jataya finished his wine and set the glass aside. The night air clung warm and heavy, but he didn’t move.

He only watched the dark and wondered.

The market had thinned, but not emptied. Tavril moved through the last of the lantern-lit stalls, the evening’s heat still clinging to the stones beneath his boots. Merchants packed away bright fabrics and carved trinkets, their voices lower now, softened by the hour. Somewhere behind him, a musician coaxed a slow, winding melody from a reed flute; something meant for the night, not the crowd.

He turned the scarf over in his hands as he walked. Lightweight. Breathable. Dyed a deep blue that caught the lanternlight like still water. Not extravagant. Not loud. Just… right.

Or so he hoped.

He adjusted the fold of it once more, then let it rest over his forearm as he turned onto the quieter street leading back toward the villa.

The Lantern District had settled into its evening hush. Warm air, the scent of jasmine, the soft flicker of green-glass lanterns.

And movement ahead.

A familiar silhouette.

Midnight blue. Unhurried. Alone.

Tavril slowed, just slightly; not out of caution, but recognition.

“Arabess.”

His voice carried just enough to reach her.

She stopped. Turned.

Even in the dim light, she was composed as ever, though there was something faintly distant in her eyes; as if part of her had not yet caught up with the rest.

“Tavril,” she said. “You’re out late.”

He approached at an easy pace, stopping a respectful distance away. No rush. No presumption.

“As are you,” he replied.

He closed the distance at an easy pace, stopping beside her rather than in front of her.

“I didn’t take you for someone who wanders alone at night,” he added, not accusing. Just… noting.

Arabess tilted her head slightly. “There are a great many things you don’t take me for.”

Tavri sensed a faint hint of something; amusement, perhaps.

He accepted that with a small nod. “Fair.”

He let the silence sit for a moment, not pressing.

“Heading back?” he asked. 

Arabess gave a slight nod.

Another small moment passed.

Then, without ceremony, he gestured lightly down the road with his chin.

“Walk with me?”

Not a command. Not even quite a question. An offering.

Arabess studied him for a moment; measuring, as she always did. Then gave a slight nod.

They fell into step together.

For a time, neither spoke.

Their footfalls echoed softly against the stone, the only rhythm beneath the distant murmur of the city. A warm breeze stirred the hanging lanterns, casting shifting light across the street. Tavril didn’t press the silence. Didn’t ask where she had been. Didn’t ask why she had gone alone. Instead, after a few moments, he held out the scarf.

“I saw this,” he said simply. “Thought of you.”

Arabess glanced down at it.

“I’m not particularly good at guessing what people need. But I’ve found it’s easier if I start with what they don’t say.”

Arabess regarded him more closely now.

“And what do you think I’m not saying?”

Tavril didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he stepped a little closer; not enough to crowd her, just enough to close the distance between strangers.

“I think,” he said carefully, “you don’t like being followed.”

“Is that what you were doing?” She said with a mixture of amusement and accusation. 

“No.” He said with confidence. “But I also think you don’t always give people the chance to stand beside you.”

His tone remained even. No judgment. No edge. Just truth, offered and left where it lay.

Arabess’s gaze sharpened slightly; not defensive, but attentive.

“And you intend to be one of those people?” she asked.

Tavril gave the faintest hint of a smile. “If you let me.”

He extended the scarf; not insistently, just offering.

“For when the nights pretend they’re cooler than they are.”

She looked at it for a moment longer this time.

Then, slowly, she took it.

Her fingers brushed his; brief, incidental, but not entirely unnoticed.

“It’s lighter than it looks,” she noted.

“Seemed appropriate,” Tavril replied. “For this place.”

There was a faint pause.

“And for you.”

She didn’t respond immediately, but she didn’t hand it back either. Instead, she draped it loosely over her shoulders, adjusting it with a practiced ease that suggested she was already accustomed to such things; even if she rarely accepted them.

“Thank you,” she said.

Tavril inclined his head, as if that were enough.

They continued on.

After a few more steps, Tavril spoke again; quietly, as if continuing a thought rather than starting one.

“You don’t have to explain where you’ve been.”

Arabess’s gaze shifted to him, just slightly.

“But,” he added, “if wherever you went leaves you walking back alone… I’d rather you didn’t have to.”

No weight. No accusation. Just presence.

They passed beneath a cluster of lanterns, their green glass casting soft, shifting light across Arabess’s face. For a moment, the usual stillness in her expression seemed thinner; like something just beneath the surface had almost risen, then settled again.

“I wasn’t in danger,” she said.

“I didn’t think you were,” Tavril replied. “Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t walk with you anyway.”

The villa came into view ahead; its familiar shape rising against the night, windows dimly lit, the gate slightly ajar.

Home.

Or close enough.

They slowed as they approached.

Arabess adjusted the scarf once more, her fingers lingering briefly at the edge of the fabric.

“Thank you,” she said; not just for the scarf.

Tavril gave a small nod, accepting it without comment.

“Any time.”

He reached the gate first and pushed it open, stepping aside to let her pass through before following.

Inside, the courtyard was quiet. Still. The faint scent of jasmine lingered in the air.

Safe.

For now.

Arabess didn’t move.

Her eyes tracked the field with cold precision, posture still, unreadable even as Zongo lagged behind the pack in the first stretch, heavy-footed and unimpressive.

A shadow slipped into the empty seat beside her just as the racers rounded the first bend. Boots on wood. A breath slightly quickened but steadying fast.

“Did I miss anything important?”

Arabess didn’t look at him.

“You missed the part where I had to find the betting cages alone,” she said.

Cal leaned back, one arm draping casually over the back of the bench as if he’d been there the entire time.

“Sounds like you managed.”

“I did,” she replied. “That wasn’t the point.”

Only then did she glance at him.

A brief, measuring look.

“You’re late.”

“Timing,” Cal said. “It’s an art.”

She studied him a moment longer, then asked, “Where were you?”

Cal tilted his head slightly. “Setting us up for later.”

Arabess’s eyes narrowed. “You’re very bad at explaining what that means.”

He flashed a quick grin. “If I explained it, it’d sound less impressive.”

Her gaze lingered a moment longer, then flicked back to the track.

“Zongo,” she said.

Cal’s grin was immediate. “Zongo.”

They watched in silence as the race unfolded. Zongo didn’t surge ahead. Didn’t impress.

But he didn’t break, either. One by one, the faster beasts faltered; bad turns, collisions, panic in the dust-choked chaos. Zongo endured. By the final stretch, endurance was enough.

The payout line was chaos. Voices raised, hands waving slips, accusations flying at the bookkeepers who suddenly found themselves very unpopular. Arabess stood at the counter, composed as ever, her winning slip already presented.

The bookkeeper scowled as he counted out the gold.

“Thirty-to-one,” the man muttered. “Should’ve known better than to doubt a fool’s luck.”

Arabess said nothing. The coins hit the counter in heavy, satisfying stacks. Cal stepped in beside her, brushing dust from his sleeve as he glanced at the pile.

“Beautiful,” he said. “I always did like long odds.”

He reached forward and Arabess rested a hand lightly on the gold before he could.

“No,” she said.

Cal paused.

Then slowly looked up at her.

“…no?”

“You don’t take from my winnings,” Arabess said. “You earn yours.” A small smile touched the corner of her mouth; sharp, but not unkind. “You weren’t there when the bet was placed.”

“Wait a minute. Half of the bet was from my own stash. That makes us partners.”

Arabess’s eyes narrowed just slightly. Her fingers tapped once against the coin.

“As I recall you were a little short. Sixty-forty.”

“You wouldn’t have made the bet without me!” Cal protested.

“Sixty,” she said gazing into his eyes. Then smirked. “Forty.”

Cal considered pushing it. You could see it, the instinct, the impulse, the almost. Then he exhaled through his nose and nodded.

“Fine,” he said. “Sixty-forty.”

Then, with a flicker of that familiar grin, 

“But next time, I place the bet.”

Arabess allowed the faintest curve of a smile.

“Next time,” she said, “you show up on time.”

They divided the winnings there at the counter, efficient, unceremonious. Separate shares.

Shared understanding.

Evalise found them shortly after, already muttering under her breath as she adjusted her goggles, lenses clicking softly.

“That shouldn’t have worked,” she said. “Statistically, that should not have worked.”

An’ric arrived without sound, his presence settling beside them like still water.

Tavril lingered just behind, his gaze moving between the two piles of coin… then to the two who had earned them.

He said nothing.

But he noticed.

By the time they returned to the villa, the city had begun to settle.

The heat lingered, thick and unmoving, but the noise had softened; drawn inward behind walls and shuttered windows. Inside, the group dispersed naturally.

Evalise and Equandi  claimed a table, maps and notes spreading outward in careful disarray. Ink, parchment, and quiet obsession. The world narrowed to lines and possibilities only they could see.

An’ric moved to the courtyard. Breath. Step. Motion. His kata carved calm through the heavy air, each movement precise, deliberate; a ritual of control in a city that offered little of it.

The villa had gone quiet. But not silent. It was enough. Enough to slip through.

Cal moved first. Of course he did. He lingered just long enough to make it look like he wasn’t going anywhere at all; leaning back in his chair, one boot hooked over the other, a coin rolling lazily across his knuckles. Anyone watching would’ve sworn he was settling in for the night.

No one was watching. Evalise was buried in her maps, lenses clicking softly as she chased lines only she could see. An’ric’s focus never broke; each movement of his kata as precise as the last, eyes fixed inward.

Cal let the coin vanish into his palm. Rose without a sound. Crossed the room at an easy pace; not sneaking, not creeping. Just… leaving. At the door, he paused only long enough to listen. Nothing. A faint grin tugged at his mouth. Then he slipped out into the night. 

He returned the coin to his pouch and smiled to himself.

“Forty percent,” he murmured. “Let’s see what that turns into.”

Tavril waited. Not long. Just long enough. He stood near the edge of the courtyard, watching An’ric finish a sequence, the quiet discipline of it grounding in a way he respected. His hand rested briefly over the symbol of Helm on his tabard; an unconscious gesture, more habit than prayer. Then he turned. No announcement. A quiet purpose in his stride. He moved along the shadowed edge of the villa, steps measured, deliberate. Where Cal flowed through space, Tavril chose his path; avoiding loose stone, passing through darker pockets of the courtyard where lanternlight didn’t quite reach. At the gate, he stopped. Listened. The night answered back; soft wind, distant voices, nothing more. He opened it just enough to slip through, then eased it closed behind him without a sound.

Arabess was last. She adjusted the fall of her robes with practiced precision, ensuring nothing would catch or betray her movement, then crossed the room in a straight, unbroken line. At the door, she paused only long enough to let the outside air brush against her senses. Warm. Still. Waiting. Then she stepped out into the night.

The villa remained behind them. Quiet. Occupied. Unaware. Three different paths. Three different intentions. All vanishing into the same darkness.  Each certain they had left unnoticed. 

Each correct.

Arabess drifted through it all like a shadow, her silken robes untouched by the press of bodies, deep azure eyes scanning the crowd with quiet disinterest.

It wasn’t until she felt the tug on her belt pouch that her gaze snapped downward.

A boy, no older than ten, barefoot and quick-eyed froze in place, fingers hooked in the strings of her coin purse.

Arabess raised one hand lazily, frost already gathering along her fingertips and another hand caught the boy’s wrist.

“Little brother,” said the stranger, his voice like velvet, “if you want to keep both hands, don’t steal from women whose eyes promise a slow death.”

Arabess turned.

The man beside her was tall, dark-skinned, dressed in a deep crimson vest that shimmered like beetle shell in the sun. Gold traced the edges of the fabric in fine, foreign patterns. His smile was slow, self-assured. His eyes were ageless.

Jataya released the boy with a wink, and the child vanished into the crowd like a darting lizard.

“My apologies,” he said with a flourish. “Port Nyanzaru is beautiful; but even paradise has its rats.”

Arabess studied him, curiosity stirring despite herself. His presence suggested danger; not immediate, but inevitable.

“I am Kavunjataya,” he said, offering his hand. “I know my name can be difficult to pronounce. You may call me Jataya.”

She regarded it for a moment before placing her fingers lightly in his.

“Arabess,” she said. “And I don’t struggle with names.”

His smile deepened, amused rather than challenged.

“Then I’m honored.”

He held her hand just long enough for her to notice the unnatural coolness of his touch, then released it with effortless grace.

“What brings a woman like you to Port Nyanzaru?” he asked lightly, though his gaze searched her as if for something hidden beneath the surface.

Arabess tilted her head, expression unreadable.

“The dinosaur races.”

Jataya’s brows rose. “You’re here for the spectacle?”

“I’m here to wager,” she replied. “I’m looking for the betting cages. I don’t know the way. Can you help me?”

A low chuckle slipped from him, rich as aged palm wine. “I could point you there, but that would be dreadfully impersonal. Let me take you.”

She cast him a sidelong glance. “I didn’t ask for a guide.”

“No,” he said with a grin, “but I’m offering one.”

Arabess paused, then gave the faintest nod. “Very well, Jataya. Lead the way.”

The roar hit her before the gates even opened.

As they passed through the arched entrance to the racing pits, the sound of thousands, cheering, shouting, arguing, crashed over her like a wave. The air was thick with red dust turned tacky by humidity, laced with excitement and the guttural bellows of dinosaurs being led into their pens. Bright banners snapped overhead, painted with bold symbols and names like Banana Candy, Bone Crusher, and Queen’s Talon, each drawing a fervent crowd.

Arabess slowed at the edge of the chaos, eyes narrowing as she took it in. She had read of the races, heard the stories but none captured this living storm of sound and color.

Jataya leaned close, voice low beneath the din. “Impressive, isn’t it? Port Nyanzaru wears its heart openly during the races, passion, danger, greed.”

Arabess didn’t answer immediately. Her attention fixed on a sleek allosaurus with golden-painted claws, handlers circling it while murmuring rhythmic chants to keep it steady.

“Where are the betting cages?” she asked at last.

Jataya nodded toward a shaded alcove of carved stone and heavy iron bars, crowded with shouting gamblers. “There. But without knowing the odds or the stables you’ll be at their mercy.”

She looked up at him, lips curving faintly. “You assume I need your help.”

He smiled, flashing teeth just a shade too white. “Only offering. I’d hate to see a blue-eyed stranger wager on a dud.”

Arabess hummed softly, half amusement, half warning, and stepped past him into the press of bodies.

He followed a step behind, watching with quiet curiosity as she moved with the confidence of someone reading more than odds.

At the bars, the bookkeeper, a wiry man with a gold-ringed eye and a voice like gravel, barely glanced at her.

“Who and how much?”

“Zongo,” Arabess said.

The man blinked. “Trike? Thirty-to-one. Long shot. Most are backing Banana Candy or Bone Crusher.”

She lifted a pouch of gold, the drawstring looped around one elegant finger. “I’ll take the odds.”

A spectator barked a laugh. “Zongo? That beast hasn’t placed in months! Slow, stubborn and mean enough to gore his own handler.”

Arabess didn’t flinch. “I like his style.”

The bookkeeper shrugged, marked the bet, and handed her a slip stamped with obsidian. Jataya stood just behind her, hands clasped behind his back, smiling like a man watching a storm from shelter.

“You surprise me,” he said. “I expected caution.”

Arabess tucked the slip into her sash. “Only with people. Never with fate.”

The trumpets sounded, sharp and bright, cut from bone and brass.

The crowd surged forward, pressing against the rails, shouting names and curses. Zongo lumbered into view, a massive triceratops streaked with crude blue paint, his frill scarred from past defeats. At the starting line, he paused, lifted his head and released a bellow that was more gassy trumpet than roar. 

Some recoiled. Others burst into laughter. Arabess’s expression didn’t change. 

Jataya leaned closer, one brow arched. “It seems Zongo suffers from flatulence.”

“Apparently, so do my instincts,” she said coolly.

“Arabess!”

She turned.

Evalise pushed through the crowd in layered, lightweight silks suited to Chult’s oppressive heat, goggles perched on her brow; Tavril followed, Helm’s eye emblazoned on his tabard; and An’ric moved beside them in quiet discipline, his red gi stark against the riot of color.

Arabess lifted a hand in greeting.

Evalise’s gaze snapped immediately to Jataya. “And who’s this?”

Arabess gestured faintly. “Jataya. He helped me find the betting cages.”

“A pleasure,” Jataya said, bowing.

Evalise narrowed her eyes and adjusted the dials on her brass-rimmed goggles. Arcane lenses shimmered faintly as she focused on him.

Jataya raised a brow. “Is your friend measuring me for a hat?”

Arabess glanced over. “I’m not entirely sure.”

Evalise hesitated, then pushed the goggles back up. “Just checking for curses or glamour. Reflex.”

Jataya chuckled softly. “I assure you, I’m quite solid. Only slightly cursed, depending on who you ask.”

Tavril nodded politely, though his gaze lingered with quiet judgment. An’ric said nothing, but his stillness carried its own alertness.

Arabess ignored the tension.

Jataya gave a graceful half-step back, a gentleman's retreat. 

“Then I’ll leave you to your companions. But perhaps you’d do me the honor of dinner this evening. I owe you a better welcome.”

Arabess arched a brow. “I don’t dine with strangers.”

His grin came easily. “Then allow me to become less strange.”

She considered him, head tilted. “Tell me where you live. If I have time… I may visit.”

Jataya’s smile deepened. “Lantern District. Top of the hill, copper roof, green glass windows. Just follow the music.”

Arabess gave a small nod. Nothing more.

Jataya lingered a heartbeat longer, eyes resting on her with quiet interest, then disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by color and motion.

Arabess turned back to her companions.

Evalise was already studying the racing form. “Zongo, huh? Strange pick. You must know something.”

Arabess smiled faintly. “Just a feeling.”

Tavril glanced after Jataya. “And him? Should we be concerned?”

Arabess followed his gaze briefly. “Concerned? No. But I wouldn’t trust him to hold my drink.”

Evalise snorted. “Good. If he smiled any harder, he’d split in two.”

An’ric spoke softly. “He moves like someone used to not being seen, even in plain sight.”

Arabess’s voice was dry. “Yes. That’s what I like about him.”

Tavril didn’t react. “Then I’ll trust your judgment… and keep mine.”

This occurs shortly after Alec met with the Prince, post Cleansing….

Saenz and Sokolov Investments Tower Headquarters

The letter was folded with precision.

Not ornamental. Not emotional.

Functional.

Alec recognized the restraint immediately.

He read it once at his desk.  Then again more slowly.

Alec,
I wanted to clear something up before we move forward.
My disappearing during Sylvie’s call wasn’t me trying to be unserious or acting against anyone — it was a deliberate Nosferatu move to gather intel when something felt off. I wouldn’t act that way unless I believed the risk was real.
My great respect and loyalty to you were never in question.
I hope you understand that.
— Maia

He let the paper rest on the desk.

She hadn’t signed it with flourish.
Just her name.

He stood.

If Maia had chosen ink over text, it meant the matter weighed on her.

And if it weighed on her, it mattered.

................................................................................................................................................................................

Bowery Station

Maia preferred the older subway tunnels beneath Manhattan — long forgotten platforms swallowed by damp stone and graffiti.

Alec found her seated on the edge of an abandoned platform, boots dangling above the tracks. A portable lamp cast warm light against cracked tile.

She looked up when he approached.

“You got it.”

“I did.”

He held up the letter gently.

“You didn’t have to write this.”

She slid off the platform and stood straight.

“I did.”

Her voice was steady, but her hands clasped loosely in front of her — a rare tell.

“I won’t have you thinking I’m impulsive,” she said. “Or careless.”

“I don’t.”

“You might.”

“I don’t.”

Silence lingered between them — not hostile, just charged.

“You vanished mid-meeting,” he said calmly.

“Yes.”

“In front of a Scourge, the sword of the Prince.”

“Yes.”

“In a moment already tense.”

“I know.”

She inhaled slowly.

“I felt something wrong in the call as soon as Sylvie took it and stepped outside the room. The tone shift. Her body language. Nosferatu instincts. If I’d stayed seated for optics and ignored it, I’d have betrayed my clan and the coterie.”

He studied her for a moment.

“I know why you did it.”

“Then why the look?” she asked quietly. “That remark…”

He almost smiled.

“What look?”

“The one that said I’d disappointed you… and the words echoing it.”

Ah.

There it was.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly.

“It was never about trust.”

She held his gaze.

“Then what?”

“Optics.”

She frowned faintly.

“You are Nosferatu,” he continued. “You move when others hesitate. You vanish when something feels wrong. That is your strength.”

She didn’t soften.

“But,” he added gently, “we operate in court now. Under scrutiny. And after a rebuke from Prince Panhard...”

Her jaw tightened slightly at the memory.

“When we fracture visually,” he said, “even for good reasons, it feeds the narrative that we are disorderly.”

“I wasn’t trying to undermine you.”

“I know.”

He paused, choosing his words carefully.

“I was reinforcing that perception shapes power.”

She looked down briefly.

“I would never act in a way that makes you look weak.” She responded.

“I know.”

“I wouldn’t.” She repeated firmly.

Her voice carried more force now.

“My loyalty isn’t convenience. It’s not situational. You’ve treated me with respect since the first night we worked together. You listen. You don’t talk down to me because of what I am.”

“I value what you are,” he said evenly.

She looked up again.

“I need you to know that I would never intentionally make you question me.”

“I don’t question you.”

“Not even a little?”

He allowed himself a small, genuine smile.

“I question everyone a little.”

That earned the faintest huff of reluctant amusement.

“But not your loyalty,” he continued. “Never that.”

Her shoulders eased a fraction.

“When you disappeared,” he said, “my concern wasn’t betrayal. It was that the Prince would see disunity.”

She understood immediately.

“And if she sees disunity, she sees instability.” She replied.

“Yes.”

“And instability threatens your position.”

“Our position,” he corrected softly.

She went quiet at that.

“I can not rise alone,” he said. “If I ascend, it is because I am surrounded by competence.”

Her throat tightened slightly.

“You believe in me?”

“Yes.”

“Even after the reprimand?”

“Especially after.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice further.

“Prince Panhard did not single you out.”

“She didn’t have to.”

“No,” he admitted. “But she watches all of us.”

A beat passed.

“You trusted your instincts,” he continued. “And you were correct. That is not failure.”

“I just—” She stopped, recalibrated. “I don’t want you thinking I’m unpredictable.”

“You are predictable,” he said calmly.

She blinked.

“In that you will always prioritize information over comfort.”

A pause.

“That is an asset.”

Her voice softened.

“I respect you, Alec.”

“I know.”

“I’m loyal.”

“I know.”

“And I’d never do anything to make you think less of me.”

He reached out — not possessively, not commandingly — and rested a hand lightly against her shoulder.

“I do not think less of you.”

Silence settled around them, the distant rumble of unseen trains echoing like distant thunder.

“You acted as a Nosferatu,” he said. “Next time, give me a signal before you vanish.”

A faint grin tugged at her lips.

“Subtle cough? Eye twitch?”

“Something the Prince or her proxies won’t interpret as fracture.”

“Understood.”

He withdrew his hand.

“We move forward,” he said.

“Together,” she replied.

He inclined his head slightly.

“Together.”

As he turned to leave, she spoke once more.

“Alec?”

He paused.

“If it ever looks like I’m breaking formation… trust that there’s a reason.”

He met her gaze steadily.

“I do.”

The lamp hummed softly in the abandoned station.

For all the politics, for all the scrutiny, for all the pressure pressing down from Elysium—

Loyalty, when spoken plainly, was still the strongest currency in the dark.