2026-03-16 18:47 - X PST
For days, the hooded figures have been combing the city’s graveyards for an old friend, whose friendship with the clan has soured as the decades have passed. This old friend, the Anziani deems, has outlived his usefulness and could be a new liability in the days to come.
At last, a young, scrappy Kindred comes across the right place, a run down, ill tended chapel with a smattering of tombstones in its graveyard. Yet amongst the tombstones, a set of stairs leads down to an overgrown crypt. Anticipation rising, the Kindred walks down the stairs, breaks the rusty bolt with some well-applied Potence, and springs the doors open.
The Kindred steps into the damp, musty crypt, the air stifling and oppressive. Before him lies a lone coffin, imprinted with the symbol of a crowned skull. The Kindred finds it unbefitting, but questions it no further. That’s his first mistake.
His second mistake is opening the coffin, unaware to the faintly glowing eyes of the decorative skull print. The Kindred lays his eyes upon the body of a man who, by all appearances, presents as dead. And he is, just not in the way the young Kindred thinks. The body of the dead man is flaky, emaciated and shriveled, like a poorly preserved mummy. His hair is thin and curly, greying at the roots. He wears a simple clay-colored toga that stretches down to his sandaled feet
The Kindred’s eyes widen. He’s found who he’s looking for, and he’ll be the one to carry out the Anziani’s will. He will outshine his brothers, sisters, and cousins, all competiting for the attention he deserves. He draws a silver blade. With one fell strike, the Kindred stabs the blade into the chest of the dead man, as if to confirm he remains lifeless.
The blade shatters against the man’s chest.
The man abruptly sits up, his bones creaking and snapping from the sudden movement.
The third and last mistake the Kindred makes is not taking this chance to run. Holding the handle of his broken dagger, the Kindred is overtaken with a momentary fear. He’s can salvage this, though. Swiftly changing his strategy, the Kindred explains with a polite smile and a bow. “My name is George St. John. I come on behalf of the Giovanni family and our Anziani, Ernesto Giovanni, to invite you to our gala tomorrow evening. You are a longtime friend of the family who has not been forgotten.”
The man whispers, in a raspy voice: “Please help me out of my coffin.” At this, George seizes the opportunity, concealing the broken dagger in his robes. He extends a hand to the man. “Of course, sir. Please let me-” The man yanks George forward, bares his fangs, and plants them into George’s neck. George writhes and struggles, but it’s no use. He can’t seem to break the man’s ironclad grip with Potence, his Dominate-fueled sputterings fall on deaf ears, and George soon falls into torpor.
The man continues to drink, however, even when the blood runs dry. Waste not, want not. When the man is finished, George is nothing but a few specks of ash, staining the stone floor of the crypt.
Invigorated by this convenient, hearty meal, the man helps himself out of the coffin. He adjusts his toga, closes the lid, and looks at the door, mumbling to himself: “A gala. I hope I’m dressed for the occasion.”