Character Sheet: Dearbhail MacKenna Appearance Prelude Journal Entries:
Name: Dearbhail MacKenna Player: Beth Savage E-mail Address: bsavage@vax.clarku.edu Chronicle: Santa Cruz/Immortal Nature: Visionary Demeanor: Survivor Residence: House Age: 30 Sex: Female Concept: Celtic Princess ATTRIBUTES: Physical: Strength-2, Dexterity-5, Stamina-3 Social: Charisma-4, Manipulation-2, Appearance-2 Mental: Perception-3, Intelligence-3, Wits-3 ABILITIES: Talents: Brawl-2, Dodge-4, Intimidation-1, Scrounging-1, Subterfuge-1 Skills: Animal Ken-1, Bribery-1, Drive-1, Hunting-1, Melee-5, Music-4, Stealth-3, Survival-3 Knowledge: Computer-1, Finance-1, Investigation-3, Linguistics-2 (Gaelic & French), Occult-4 ADVANTAGES: Other: Quickening-2 Backgrounds: Allies (Alan MacKenna)-1, Arcane-1, Contacts (Robin)-1, Mentor (Mallpandita)-1, Resources-4 Merits & Flaws: Ambidexterous, Intolerance to British Faith-0 Humanity-? Willpower-5 VIRTUES: Conscience-1 Self-Control-1 Courage-1 Appearance: Dearbhail appears to be 30 years old. She is 5'10" with long black hair and blue eyes. She is average looking, but draws people to herself with her friendly demeanor. She usually dresses very casually- jeans, etc. As long as she is carrying Miriam's dagger, she wears shirts that can be worn without being tucked in (tunics, etc). Dearbhail has several tatoos that she received before she "died." Prelude: 30AD Dearbhail was born in 30AD in Ulster, Ireland, the oldest of five daughters. Her father, Laoghaire, was the lord of Truagh, a small tuath in County Monaghan, Ulster. Her mother, Aoife, was a fili of reknown, known for her skill at the harp and her divining ability. Dearbhail's four younger sisters were Niamh, Muireann, Flann, and Ceara. From the beginning, her parents hoped for Dearbhail to take Laoghaire's place as lord. She had all the traits that would make a good leader- she was strong-willed, but willing to listen to others; religous, but not overly-awed by the power of the gods; fierce in a fight, but not bloodthirsty. Her parents arranged for Dearbhail to be fostered to Fearghus Cearnach, the greatest battle leader in Ulster. Fearghus, it was said, had been taught to fight by a descendant of Skya, the great warrior woman who trained Cu Chulainn, Ulster's greatest hero. Since Dearbhail showed the necessary aptitude and was herself a distant relative of Cu Chulainn, he agreed to teach her. Fosterage was a great time in her life. Dearbhail learned not only to fight, but also all the other things a ruler should know: law, poetry, music, religion, astronomy, hunting, and diplomatic skills. She had several foster-brothers and sisters, the one she got along with best was Connal, a distant cousin. Connal was the best of the warriors that Fearghus trained- he never stopped practicing, even when the others snuck away to swim or hunt. No matter how hard Dearbhail tried to convince him to join them, he refused. One day he told her why: his mother told him that on the day he was born, a wise woman said that Connal was destined to fight in a great battle in a land across the sea. This battle would determine the fate of the world. Connal looked forward to this battle- and when it came, he needed to be ready. He would not let the world be destroyed because of him. After hearing this, Dearbhail swore that she would join him in this battle. 43AD At the age of 13, Dearbhail returned to her parents' home and continued to learn. She went on raids with her father, sat nearby as he conducted court, and traveled throughout the tuath. 46AD When she was 16, she married Connal's best friend, Cairbre. This was in many ways a political marriage, since an alliance with Cairbre's tuath was necessary, but they learned to get along. Cairbre was a warrior who had been brought up and taught by druids. He was a pleasant young man, who, although fierce in a battle, radiated calm and peace. It was this quality that most attracted Dearbhail; he was most often able to calm her when she was angry or upset. As a wedding present, Aoife gave Dearbhail a harp that had been passed down from mother to daughter for generations. It was a beautiful piece of workmanship, carved by a masterwoodworker and inset with small gems. The harp was named Siolgaeth (sheel-gwee), "the breath of the ancestors" and it was believed that a sufficiently talented musician could summon the songs, talents, and voices of the ancestors. Determined not to desecrate the harp with poor playing, Dearbhail practiced until she could play it properly. 49AD At the age of 19, after the death of her father, Dearbhail was elected lord of Truagh. She spent the next 11 years there, making her tuath powerful and respected. Her one sorrow was that she was unable to become pregnant. Neither prayers, rituals, herbs, nor tears changed that fact. 52AD When she was 22, Dearbhail's sister Flann died in childbirth. Since Flann had remained unmarried, Dearbhail formally adopted Flann's child as her own. Ruairi brought joy to Dearbhail and she doted on Rowan much as her father had on her. When it came time to send Ruairi to be fostered, Dearbhail arranged for her old foster-father to teach Ruairi as well. During this time, word kept coming about the Romans invading the tribes of Britain. At first, everyone just thought it was normal feuding, but it eventually became clear that this was different. There were fears that these Romans were unstoppable and would come over to enslave the people of this land. Dearbhail started negotiating with other lords to work together against this common enemy. 60AD In 60 AD, the year Dearbhail turned thirty, she received a message from Connal. The battle he had been preparing for all his life was about to arrive. The British tribes of the Iceni, Trinovantes and others were gathering to stop the Romans. Dearbhail left for Britain immediatey with several of her best warriors. Although there were others who wanted to accompany her, she refused since it would lessen the strength of the tuath. When she arrived in Britain, Connal met her and told her what had happened. Suetonius had led the Romans to Menai Straits, where the majority of druids in Britain had gathered. Amazingly enough, the spells of the druids did not hold back the Romans and every Briton there was murdered. Connal had joined Queen Boudica's army- they were going to drive the Romans out of Britain for good. Dearbhail and her warriors joined Queen Boudica's army, fighting aside of Connal and his retainers. The army sacked Colchester, destroyed the Ninth Legion, and sacked London. Finally, they met Suetonius at Verulamium. This would be the end of the Romans, Dearbhail thought, surely they could not stand against an army of this size and might. Much to her surprise, the battle began to turn. As the Romans began to push their attack, Dearbhail and Connal's groups found themselves cut off from the rest of the army. Although they fought with all their might- knowing that they were fighting to hold off the end of the world, they were cut down one by one. 1926 AD An excavation of Verulamium was taking place under the auspices of the University of Durham. Several small burial mounds were being examined; since the bodies of the dead Britons had been unceremoniously dumped into mass graves there were many interesting artifacts remaining. One of the mounds that was being worked on was the one that Dearbhail and her companions had been interred in. When the area near her body was disturbed, Dearbhail came out of her torpor and, in a fit of panic, dug her way out- terrifying the young grad student who was working nearby. Dearbhail had no idea what was happening, but recognized the English the student spoke as sounding something like the languages of the Romans. Since these were Roman civilians looting the battlefield (with no Britons in sight), Dearbhail assumed that she had been knocked out andd the Romans had won the battle. She ran off so she wouldn't be taken prisoner. It soon became apparent that a great deal of time had lapsed since the battle. Not knowing where else to go, Dearbhail stowed away on a boat to Ireland and headed home. She discovered that that her home was now known as Trough and was a great city. She only spent a short while living on the streets before she was "discovered" and recruited into the IRA Irregulars. Although she spoke a strange version of Gaelic and wouldn't speak about her past, she was a great find for the group. Dearbhail assumed the British were the decendants of the Romans and were trying to take over her homeland as well. Somewhat suicidal, she threw herself into the new battle- perhaps her destiny was to stop the Romans here. She got a reputation for bringing luck to her group- no matter what the odds, somehow Dearbhail would always survive. When de Valera started the new Fianna Fail, she gave her support to that group. For a short time, she served as a bodyguard to de Valera and learned more about the complexities of the situation. 1930 After several years of endless fighting, Dearbhail began getting disillusioned with the war. Who were they really fighting against? Dearbhail began looking for other ways of solving the problem. She started hearing about a man named Mahatma Gandhi who was fighting Britain in India by using passive resistance. Although she did not understand how this would work, she decided to travel there and see what was going on for herself. Dearbhail joined the march to the sea and was so impressed by his victory, that she stayed on, learning about these new ideas. While she was in India, she met her first immortal. Mallpandita Varma was traveling with Gandhi's group and once she realised that Dearbhail was a "new" immortal, took it upon herself to explain things. The two became friends and traveled together for ten years. Mallpandita was more of a scholar than Dearbhail was and took great delight in introducting her to the modern world. Another important thing that Mallpandita taught Dearbhail about was finances. Mallpandita expected to live a very long time and did not want to spend it scraping for money as she had in her "previous life" (which she would rarely talk about). Over the years she has become a financial wiz and has helped Dearbhail set up various trusts and funds so she would not have to worry about money and would be able to transfer money from her old persona to a new one. Dearbhail also began to research her family. She discovered that they came to be known as Mac Cionaoith, which eventually became MacKenna. To her great pride, bardic (literary) skills run strongly through her family line. She has a great sense of duty to her descendants/relatives and has gone to great lengths to track various branches down. Late 30's and 40's During these years, Dearbhail traveled a great deal, trying to learn about other "unusual" people- mystics, visionaries, magicians, etc. She believes that there is some reason for the existence of all these different types of people, but hasn't figured it out yet. [This space intentionally left vague.] 1950 In the early 50's, Dearbhail decided to move to the US, so she could keep an eye on her descendants. She tracked them down and kept a close eye on various family members- often showing up as a member of some distant branch. She finally tracked down the closet branch she could find, descendants of her foster-son, and stayed in touch with them. 1955 Ruairi's descendant, Anne was in trouble. She was pregnant at the age of 16- quite a scandal. Before anyone else could find out, she was sent "on vacation" to have the child and put it up for adoption. Dearbhail, who had been staying in touch with the family, posing as a distant cousin, offerred to go with her. Dearbhail and Anne decided that they would change the story and claim that it was Dearbhail who was pregnant. Since she wanted a child and couldn't have one and Anne was pregnant and didn't want to be, it would work out perfectly. An understanding midwife looked the other way as they lied about Anne's identity. 1960 Dearbhail travels to California to take a job at the newly formed Department of Celtic Studies at Berkely. Since she has first-hand knowledge, she makes a name for herself in the admittedly small field. She also continues her own research- discovering more about the other strange creatures who share the earth with humans. She raises her adopted son, Alan, and largely avoids immortal affairs. 1971 Alan finds out about Dearbhail's secret when he sees her behead another immortal. She explains everything to him, including the truth around his birth. Although he doesn't take it very well at first, eventually things are worked out. Alan contacts his birth mother. 1977 Alan at 22. He graduates from the police academy and joins the local police. 1978 Alan at 23. Dearbhail tells Alan that now she has to "die" in this identity- she's been around too long and is looking more his sister than his mother. Dearbhail is presumed dead when she goes out boating and gets caught in a storm. 1978-1982 Dearbhail travels to Ireland to see what changes have been made there, then travels through Europe. Her last stop is to visit Mallpandita; she convinces her to move to the States for a few years. 1983 Alan at 28. Alan announces he is getting married and wants Dearbhail to be there. She returns to the States with a new identity- that of her own grandaughter. Alan has since moved to someplace near the starting point of the campaign (whatever is appropriate). They decide they can stay close if they are careful. Alan puts away all pictures of his mother and cuts down on contact with people who might be able to identify Dearbhail. Over the years, she once again "ages", claiming at first to be in her early twenties. She stays in close contact with Alan and his family- his wife Eileen and kids Derval (now 16), Ryan (now 14) and Delaney (now 12). 1993 Her close immortal friend, Miriam, is killed by Eric LaFlechette. Eric shot and killed Miriam, then took her head. Dearbhail saw the whole thing, but was too far away to do anything about it. By the time she got there, he was gone. She is furious that he would kill her that way and is determined to find and kill him. She searched for him for half a year and came up totally empty. She knows that he will show up again sometime and when that happens, she will go after him. 1995 Dearbhail has only recently moved to this area. She is currently renting a small and rather rundown house, since she's not certain whether she will stay here or not. Her house is rather secluded (near the water would be nice) since prizes her privacy highly. In general, she lives well below her means- she knows that if she continues to manage the small fortune she has (with Ina's help), she'll never *have* to work again. Dearbhail is continuing her search for otherly beings. She has learned some information about vampires, werewolves, etc. and is interested in finding out more about them and hopefully contacting them. This place seems like a good place to search. Dearbhail works as a musician- playing in clubs, bars, etc. Her two specialties are blues and Irish/folk; she sings and plays the harp, lyre and guitar. [If lyre and harp are close enough to count as "one instrument", let me know and I'll add something else.] Her favorite place to hang out and work is Gilrein's, the Home of the Blues (called the Hovel of the Blues by some). It's in a not-so-good part of town, but it's got the best blues in the area. She is friends with Robin, the owner and spends a good deal of time hanging out there. If there are any folkie-type or blues coffeehouses, etc., she will occasionally work there as well. Appearance: Dearbhail appears to be 30 years old. She is 5'10" with long black hair and blue eyes. She is average looking, but draws people to herself with her friendly demeanor. She usually dresses very casually- jeans, etc. As long as she is carrying Miriam's dagger, she wears shirts that can be worn without being tucked in (tunics, etc). Dearbhail has several tatoos that she received before she died. (Actually, I'm not positive if they would disappear when she was reborn- the dyed areas being replaced with new cells.) Weapons: Her sword was given to her by Mallpandita and is the one that was used by her mentor, Giotto Lorreto. It is an Italian storta, made in 1490. A long thin sword which curves slightly at the end, it is similar to a saber or a falchion. It is a cut and thrust weapon, which can be used one or two handed. Dearbhail often fights using a parrying dagger. Right now, she is using Miriam's saxon dagger (made in Dresden in 1590). This is not the ideal parrying dagger, but she has sworn to use it until she has defeated Eric. This dagger is carried in a sheath in the small of her back. Dearbhail has several ways of making sure her sword is always with her. First, she often wears something that can conceal it- she has a number of long coats (yes, including a trenchcoat) and several styles of cloaks and shawls with sheaths. Second, her guitar case is actually two cases in one- so she can get to her sword from one side and her guitar from the other. She has a "music bag" that will hold her sword as well as her various musical supplies. Friday, June 2nd, 1995 8:02 p.m. Quentin nodded his head to the rhythm of the drum beat, while the flute pierced through air, pleasantly assaulting his ears. The mandolin player, striving to keep up, brushed her hands vigorously over the strings of her instrument. Then with no warning the music cut off. The musicians just sat there as if frozen, neither moving nor lifting a finger but no one in the audience dared even breath. Clipping the edge of the building anticipation, the harpist, dressed in a thick rich blue dress touched with flecks of gold, swept her hands across the string's of her instrument while her clear Celtic voice sailed sharply, cutting away all distraction. All ears were captured by the sad paean. And though it was spoken in soft syllables entirely unfathomable to Quentin, who knew no Gaelic, he couldn't help but feel the sadness and longing of words he did not know, but knew all the same. Separation, lament, longing. These were the words she was singing and he knew their sounds well enough. The harpist finished her piece and the crowd's applause was enthusiastic and exuberant. Though he only had five dollars left, Quentin dropped all of it into the hat as it was passed, accepting the surprised smile of the flautist. As the Irish musicians left the stage, relinquishing their place to J.B. Tandy and his mellow Southern Blues style, Quentin watched the Irish as they made their way, melting into the crowd, especially keeping his eye on a swirl of blue velvet touched with gold. Friday, June 2nd 8:34 p.m. Quentin had followed the harpist down to her van, watching the other musicians help her load her harp case into the vehicle. As they left, to rejoin the crowd back inside, the harpist drove off alone. Quentin started up his bike, regretting the macho roar of his Italian motor that he was usually so proud of. His ears and mind still captured by the musical memory of the harp, he followed it as both it and he were carried through the streets of Capitola and away toward the freeway. Following the van, Quentin chided himself for this obvious intrusion, but then comforted himself that his intentions were really harmless. He had always been plagued both by intense curiosity and a stubborn tendency towards fixation, neither a good companion for the other. Quentin lagged back in the heavy traffic flow, occasionally racing ahead between vehicles to keep pace with and in sight of the harpist's van as it travelled south. The van didn't stay on the freeway for long but got off at the Aptos exit at State Park Drive, but instead of turning toward Soquel Drive and Aptos, the van veered right, heading for Seacliff State Beach and the ocean. Kind of late for a swim, isn't it, Quentin thought. At the entrance to the Park, Quentin saw the ranger waving the van through. As he rode up, quieting his engine's roar to a disgruntled rumble, the ranger, looking him over like he was last weeks leftovers, casually informed him that all campsites were full. "I'm visiting a friend," Quentin lied, but the ranger wanted to know what street she was on, as there were roads that led out of the park. Quentin's blank stare answered for him but even as the ranger pointed back toward the unseen freeway, Quentin's bike roared again, savouring the gasoline born courage that Quentin fed into it and soon Quentin's lights were only an afterburn image in the ranger's eyes. That was really stupid, Quentin mentally slapped himself, imagining the ranger calling behind him, informing the Sheriff's Department of an intruder in the park. The road curved down to the beach so Quentin had to go slow, especially around one hairpin. Nowhere could he see any sight of the van, but then no roads had led off either. Just as he neared the Park headquarters, he could see the lights of two Park four-runners cruising to a slow pace as they neared him, lights on their tops flashing. Quentin ignored them and nearly ran over a ranger as she tried to get out of her vehicle. Behind him, Quentin could hear tires screeching as the four-runners were brought rudely about, ready to pursue him. Quentin tapped his toe and brought the bike to accelerate as much as he dared. At the headquarters, Quentin paused to read the road sign, very much aware of the growing sound of sirens behind him. The road branched left and right. He chose right and since the road was straight, he really ripped up asphalt as he raced down something called Las Olas Drive. Campfires dotted the night vista but they were gone in an instant while the sound of the sirens faded behind him. Off to his left, he could see the blackness of the bay and his face tasted the salt spray of the ocean. Violating the peace of the Park, Quentin felt a bit sorry for the campers, but he wasn't about to be arrested by the rangers either, not with his outstanding warrants. Ahead of him, taillights came into view and Quentin was relieved to see that his evening's quest had taken the same path as his. Killing his lights, he raced ahead of the van and paced himself, using its headlights to illuminate the road for him as well. The van continued on past the park boundaries and as it turned off, heading for a rundown beachhouse, Quentin pretended to travel on for a bit. But when he thought it was safe, circled back and coasted to where the van had turned off onto a dirt and sand driveway. Turning off his motor, he pushed the bike quietly onto the dirt, passing through a couple of dunes he pushed the bike off into the sand. He could hear the sound of a siren and he ducked low as it passed slowly by the drive, a searchlight scanning the dunes. It passed but he laid low for a while, noting how after a few minutes it came back, this time with the searchlight off, and continued on back to the park. Friday, June 2nd 9:48 p.m. Quentin had walked around the house, gazing forlornly at the golden light that spilled past the curtains. Despite its wear, the house and its unseen insides cried comfort, especially to a vagabond biker like he was. Hoping to hear more harpistry, Quentin waited a long time for nothing and as the golden lights dimmed to darkness, he was left with the quandary of his actions. What was he to do? Feeling more than a little stupid, he decided he would wait a few hours and then, hopefully when the night was at its deadest point, he would brave the gauntlet of the park gate and burn his way as he had before, with rubber and nerve until he had escaped to the mountains and found some sanctuary he could hole up in for a while. Though the beach hamlet before him seemed tempting, thinking about it, he thought it would be rude to intrude upon a true artist like the harpist obviously was. Quentin respected artists. Drawing his leather jacket around him, Quentin shut out the sea breezes while he listened to the pounding surf, until like the drums, the cadence of the ocean worked its way into his heart, acting as the backdrop to his musical memory of plucked strings and a voice like clear water. Friday, June 2nd 10:36 p.m. It was all Quentin could do to keep from falling asleep, tucked comfortably between the dunes, lying on the sand. The fact that he was hungry helped him though and he mentally thought about all the meals he could have bought with his five dollars, though not begrudging having given it. He couldn't have not done it, he thought. Hearing a door open, Quentin peeked over the dune to look at the house. The harpist, he assumed it was she, stood illuminated in the low light of the doorway. Closing the door behind her, she walked very near to where he was hiding and travelled along a sandy path toward the ocean. Curious, Quentin followed her and watched her walk barefoot, her dress tied up around her waist. Mildly erotic thoughts passed through his head, but the more realistic urge of hunger tempted him into braving the hopefully quiet homestead, perhaps snagging a meal. Respect it seemed, had degraded through the night. Quentin hoped it would reappear with a meal. Dancing quietly back along the path, he just about shit his leather pants when a car came cruising quietly down the driveway, both its motor and lights turned off. Quentin spread himself down onto the ground, and rolled into the sand, his body crushing the ice plant that grew along the path's border. Two men quietly got out of the car. In the dim glow from a porch bracket on the house, Quentin could see one of them unsheathe what looked like a sword, long and shining dully, blackly, like tarnished silver. The other man scanned left and right. Quentin could see that he held onto a gun, probably an Uzi. He pointed off toward the beach and the sword bearer nodded and silently waved. Both men stopped as they heard the quick footfalls. The harpist came racing up the path as if she were running the Olympics, but she skidded to a halt when she saw the two men. "Bon Soir, Madame MacKenna. We meet again. It is what you have wanted, no?" The harpist didn't say anything but scanned back and forth, examining the two men. Shaking his head to an unanswered question, the man with the sword, in whose voice Quentin thought he detected a slight accent, said, "No, Madame MacKenna. I'm afraid I do not desire to let you have your sword. I know it is in the house. You have something that belongs to me as victor. It doesn't matter how I acquired it. If you think about it, you and Miriam can be together again, after a fashion." Quentin didn't know what was going on, but he decided that whoever these two were, they were no music lovers. Quietly and as quickly as he dared, he reached under his jacket and slid his .357 out, cocking it. The fellow with the sword must have heard the click because he turned and looked where Quentin lay hiding. The harpest and the man with the Uzi turned reacting to the swordsman, also scanning the dunes. "Who's there?" the swordsman yelled out. "Come out or we kill your friend here." Saying this, he advanced upon the harpist, brandishing his sword. She didn't give him the satisfaction of appearing afraid, though Quentin thought she must have been terrified. "LaFlechette, you fool, you're just jumping at shadows." "Good ploy," the swordsman complemented her. "You surprise me, MacKenna, hiring a bodyguard. Frankly, I didn't think you that sophisticated. You always approached me as singular and very much stuck in the heroic past. The sad thing about heroes, you see, is that most of you are dead." Only after he had gotten up did Quentin realize that it had been bad timing to reveal himself on top of such words. "Alright, I don't know who you guys are, but the first one of you to make a move I shoot on the spot. You with the gun! Get your hands where I can see them." The man with the uzi obligingly raised his hands, but the swordsman scanned Quentin as he might look at a cockroach and very much desirous of being able to squash it. "Really MacKenna, is this what you have in mind for a bodyguard? I don't know what you're paying him, but certainly you have wasted your money." MacKenna, the harpist, revealed none of the surprise that must have taken her. Rather, her eyes darted quickly about as if scanning the new tactical dimensions of her situation. Quentin thought she didn't seem to much resemble the harpist he had admired earlier. "I think you boys ought to get in your car and go back the way you came. I think you've bothered the lady enough now," Quentin summarized. There was a flash of dull silver as the swordsman arm reached out. Someone else might have been surprised enough to pause. No doubt, it was what the man had been expecting. Quentin however hardly even bothered to think as he fired his gun, hitting the swordsman right between the eyes, brains and skull fragments blowing out in back of the man's ruptured head to splatter gore all over the dusty hood of the car. The gunman behind took the moment to grab his gun and start firing, but even as Quentin ducked and rolled, the harpist, MacKenna glided forward, a large knife appearing suddenly in her hand. There was a quick chopping sound and Quentin looked up to see the man's head almost falling off backward, the arterial spray of blood adding to the sickening stain upon the top of the car. Dead before he hit the ground, his hand remained locked onto the uzi until MacKenna reached down to still it. Quentin, rolling back to a standing position had started to come forward to aid the harpist, but seeing that the assailants were dead he casually nodded and put his gun away. "You're quite handy with that," he complemented the woman, surprised beyond belief that hands that had created such musical beauty could kill so coldly as well. Her answer to his comment quite surprised him. "Look out! Behind you!" Quentin turned. The swordsman, missing a good half his head, had gotten up and even as Quentin stood there, sank his sword into Quentin's gut. There was a sharp pain as the sword sliced through his intestines and Quentin, his mouth open in unbelieving surprise, felt his knees give out below him. Blood, his blood, was flowing everywhere, but surprisingly, the pain seemed duller. Feeling the enormous amount of blood staining his tee shirt, Quentin realized that he was dying. The swordsman's arm had arced back to deliver the coup de grace when MacKenna's knife once again flashed out and caught the slicing blow before it could land. There was a flash of sparks and MacKenna's shorter blade slipped out under the sword and cutting upward, nearly cut off the swordsman's arm. Actually, as Quentin looked, seeing through the haze of his fading life, he saw that MacKenna had indeed cut off the swordsman's arm. Even now, the swordsman had retrieved his limb and quite impossibly, was ignoring his own blood and trying to get back into the car. Quentin looked up to see MacKenna glance from Quentin back to the helpless swordsman. She stood there, indecisive as if she should attend to one or the either. Just as Quentin started to black out, he saw her bend down toward him, a soft warm hand laid onto his wound as if trying to stop the blood. "You played nicely," Quentin told her as the car screeched off. Then there was blackness. Saturday, June 3rd, 1995 5:52 a.m. Alan drove quickly down the driveway. He had come straight from work, not even bothering to change out of his Capitola policeman's uniform. He looked around for any of the violence his mother's message had suggested to him. Under a tarp, he espied a waxy white hand peeking out, its arms just hinting at the white shirt and charcoal grey suit that covered the dead man. Alan ignored the covered corpse and quickly ran to the door and opened it up, scanning warily around the insides. His mother, Dearbhail, was attending her "guest," washing his wound and bandaging it up again. Not unused to battle wounds, especially sword wounds, Dearbhail had worked all night, doing her best to sew the stranger up, both inside and out, but her poultice, no matter how potent, could not cure his infection nor replace lost blood. Alan could see looking at him that he was only just on this side of life. Dearbhail offered Alan a tired smile when she saw him enter. "I don't know who he is," she told her son, "or where he came from, but he saved my life." What she didn't say, was that she had let LaFlechette escape in order to save her strange benefactor. Alan could see she was trying her best to save the stranger, but what the man needed, desperately in fact, was a doctor. But in calling an ambulance, questions would come. And, Alan realized while thinking about the dead man outside under the tarp, such questions could never have answers. Dearbhail looked at her son, her tired mind hoping he had the answer for her. In his eyes, she could see only questions. Saturday, June, 3rd 5:55 a.m. Dearbhail signed and turned her attention back to her patient. Although tired, her voice carried a lilt that she had never lost and had never tried to disguise. "There is not much more I can do. His spirit has all but begun its journey to the next world." Alan looked down at the young man bleeding his life away, "He might make it if we can get him to a hospital, but..." They both knew what his "but" referred to. How could they explain what had happened to the hospital staff? How could they keep the stranger from telling others what he had seen? And what could they do with the dead body? Alan wanted to ask Dearbhail about what happened, but there was no time for questions. For now, he assumed that if she had killed the man outside, she had a good reason to do so. He knew that eventually she would tell him the whole story. Dearbhail replied tiredly, "Then, we must take him. I will not allow him to die because of my battle. Where is the nearest hospital? "Dominican. But what are you going to tell them?" "As little as possible. Perhaps that I was stopped by someone who was trying to help this person? That I just drove him to hospital and didn't stay long enough to ask any questions?" Dearbhail took hold of one side of the blanket that the man was lying on and motioned for Alan to take the other. Taking his side, Alan helped his mother lift the young man as carefully as possible. They began their slow trip toward her van. "Tell them that the car was broken down- better yet, that it was a camper. And you should probably get out of there as soon as you can." Dearbhail was very grateful for her secluded home. She had chosen it as a way to escape the noise and hurry of modern life, but often missed having neighbors. In the old days, her neighbors would have been helpful in a situation like this, in these times they would have caused more harm than good. Moving carefully, Alan and Dearbhail moved the stranger out toward the van. Putting him down long enough to clear space for him in the back, Alan gestured over toward the body of the gunman. "What about him?" "It would not do for anyone to find him here, but I'm not sure where to bring him." Alan thought for a moment, "I think I know a place not far from here. It's secluded and, well, it wouldn't too unusual for a body to show up there." [Since I'm not that familiar with the local area, I have no idea where Alan is thinking of dumping the body.] Running back to her house, Dearbhail grabbed a long coat and put her sword into a large gymbag. With LaFletchette back and coming after her, she would have to be more careful. He probably wouldn't go to the hospital, but he might send someone to burgle her house while she was gone. By the time she got back outside, Alan had already cleared out his trunk and put a tarp inside. Dearbhail helped him move the body and the gun into his trunk and cover it with another tarp. Dearbhail knew that it was difficult for Alan to do something like this; but she was glad that his loyalty to her was this strong, especially since (in her opinion) family loyalty was so lacking these days. She looked at Alan sadly, "I'm sorry to ask you to do this, but I don't know what else to do." He gave her a quick hug and smile, "Be careful, we can talk about this later." They got into their cars and headed out to complete their respective tasks. Dearbhail put all of her concentration into driving the van as quickly and safely as possible, glancing back at the stranger every once in a while to make sure he was still alive. In what seemed like far too long, she pulled into the hospital. Spotting an ambulance near a hospital entrance, she quickly headed toward it. Dearbhail jumped out of the van, cutting off one of the paramedics who looked none too happy that she had chosen that particular place to park. "There's a man here who's been hurt badly, he needs help right away." Dearbhail pulled the side door to the van open and got out of the way as the paramedic and her partner took in the scene and quickly went to work. Grabbing a gurney, they moved the stranger onto it and sped into the hospital, calling out orders ahead of them. It would be easy, Dearbhail thought, to just turn around right now and leave. But that really wasn't an option. This stranger had been hurt because he tried to help her, not to mention that it would be best if he did not mention certain facts about the night's activities to others. After parking her van in a more acceptable location, Dearbhail retrieved her coat and positioned the hilt of her sword so that she could pull it from the bag with as little trouble as possible. She also took a minute to clean Miriam's dagger on the already bloody blanket. By the time she entered the emergency room, the paramedics and the stranger were well out sight. When she approached the desk and identified herself as the person who had brought the young man in, the nurse on duty started asking her questions about the man's identity and insurance. Dearbhail explained that she didn't know who he was and had been flagged down by someone who had asked her to bring him to the hospital. After finding out that he was in surgery, Dearbhail asked the nurse if she would inform her when it was finished. Dearbhail found a rather uncomfortable chair in the corner of the room and sat down to wait, her bag held on her lap. "I forgot about his gun", she realised "and he probably had a wallet with his name on it." That wouldn't matter- she decided, she wasn't expecting any visitors so no one would find the gun, and she would have helped the young man regardless of his name. As she started drifting off to sleep, she wondered "Why has LaFlechette come back now?" *Flashback* "Looks like it's time to go", Miriam glanced at her watch and gave Dearbhail a comforting smile. Dearbhail opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off before she had a chance to do. "I know, I know, we don't have to fight. But he's a bad one" Miriam shook her head and frowned. "He's caused far too much trouble. I'm just a little surprised he agreed to meet me." She shrugged, her smile returning to her face, "Maybe he's just gotten too cocky from getting away with things for so long." Dearbhail smiled back at her friend, watching as she checked her broadsword under her long winter coat. "I was only going to tell you to be careful. I'll meet you later." They embraced briefly and Miriam strode off toward her appointment. Dearbhail watched Miriam's slight figure as she turned the corner, giving Dearbhail a last quick wave. This was a good place for a fight, Dearbhail thought, these warehouses had been abandoned for some time and no one would be be casually strolling around here- especially in this weather. Dearbhail pulled her heavy coat a little closer as the cold wind whipped around her. "Snow", she thought, "probably tonight." Dearbhail turned and started back toward where her van was parked. It was strange how she and Miriam had gotten along so well. Miriam was the social butterfly of the immortal set while Dearbhail largely avoided immortal affairs. Suddenly, Dearbhail heard a slight noise behind her and immediately ducked into a nearby doorway, her hand on her sword. At first, she thought she had just imagined it- and was a little jumpy because of what was going on nearby. But after a moment, she made out the figure of a young woman making her way in the same direction as Miriam. Deabhail decided to follow her and see what she was doing there. Although the woman was careful and surprisingly quiet, Dearbhail was more used to this kind of skulking than she was. Dearbhail slowly got closer and got a better look at her. This woman certainly didn't belong here- she was in her mid-40's, blonde, and well dressed in a wool overcoat and low heeled shoes. Dearbhail was wondering if she should approach her, to get her out of the area, when the woman disappeared into a building, securing the door behind her. It took Dearbhail long moments to quietly open the door and enter the abandoned building- by that time, the woman was out of sight. Intrigued about what this woman could possibly be doing here, Dearbhail followed the slight sounds the woman made as she quickly headed up to the roof. As Dearbhail exited onto the roof, she saw no sign of the woman, who must be up here somewhere. She was about the check the fire escape, when she felt the presence of another immortal and at the same time heard the sound of gunfire. Dearbhail raced over the edge of the roof and looked down in time to see the man she assumed was LaFlechette fire twice more at Miriam. It looked like Miriam might reach him anyway, but she dropped to the ground unconscious mere feet away. From the roof, Dearbhail screamed her battle cry, her sword in her hand almost without thought. In her rage, she railed at him in Gaelic, daring him to face a standing opponent. Looking in her direction, LaFlechette waved smugly, then turned back to Miriam. In another instant, he had beheaded her and waited for Miriam's quickening to transfer to him. Forgetting all else, Dearbhail raced for the stairs as lighning flashed behind her. As quick as she was, by the time she reached the site of the battle, LaFlechette was gone and Dearbhail was left with Miriam's body. *End Flashback* Saturday, June 3rd, 1995 6:44 a.m. Dearbhail woke from her dream suddenly, her hand tightening on her bag. Saturday, June 3rd, 1995 6:46 a.m. "Mizz MacKenna? Sorry to disturb you." Dearbhail blinked her eyes. Two police officers were standing in front of her. "I'm Officer Carter of the Santa Cruz Police Department. This is Officer Moseley." The first officer nodded to his partner. The pair presented quite a contrast. Other than their short hair and height, both were strikingly opposite in appearance. The one speaking to Dearbhail was a tall black male, very slender almost to the point of being skinny. His eyes were sharp and piercing and coupled with his mustache, it seemed to give him a particularly intense and predatory gaze. His partner, Moseley, was a tall woman, with straight very blond hair and was broad shouldered and stocky, like some East European swimmer. Her listless light blue eyes glanced over Dearbhail and looked away as if Dearbhail had been too uninteresting to regard for long. Carter's gaze however had never left Dearbhail and his voice never seemed warm or did his face offer anything but a stoney serious visage. "I'm told that you are the woman who brought the man in with the stab wound." He paused, waiting for a replay. Dearbhail nodded. "I just have a few questions for you, if you don't mind." Carter opened his notebook and took a pen out of his shirt pocket. Dearbhail thought about what she was going to tell them and decided that she would stick to her plan about saying that she was flagged down by a stranger. "Your name is Dearbhail MacKenna and you live at 22 Las Olas Drive?" "Yes, that's correct." Carter scratched down some notes. "And according to the hospital attendant, you say you found Mr. Carter on a roadside when some unnamed individual flagged you down?" "Yes. Is that his name, Carter?" Dearbhail realized she didn't even know the name of the person who had saved her life. "Is he going to be alright?" "He's in surgery now," Officer Carter replied. Reviewing his notes, he added, "His name is Quentin Carter. Maybe he's a relative." The policeman offered a lame smirk that Dearbhail supposed was intended as a commentary smile on Carter's having the same name as Quentin. Moseley was the only one who smiled at the jest. "What road was it?" Carter asked. Dearbhail had already thought about this one. "McGregor Drive. I was flagged down by a young teenager riding a bike with a surfboard. I've never seen him there before." "So you don't know this teenager's name?" Dearbhail shook her head. "What did this teenager look like?" "Long, straggly blond hair, tan, about five foot ten." Dearbhail's reply probably fitted about three-fourths of the surfers in Santa Cruz. "What did his bike look like?" Dearbhail paused. "Uh don't know. I was rather distracted by the events. I think it was a grey mountain bike." "What did the surfboard look like?" Moseley asked. "Did it have any decals or logos that you would recognize?" Dearbhail shook her head. "White, or off-white, I think. Nothing stands out about details." The two policemen continued in this manner to ask Dearbhail questions. They wanted to know if she had ever known the victim, to which she replied no. What they really questioned her about was the man's stitches. They wanted to know if she had done it or knew who could have done it. Then they wanted to know if she had ever seen him before. Then they started asking Dearbhail questions about herself, whether she owned or rented, how long she had been in the area, where she had come from. They kept at this for some time and concluded by asking that she stay in the area for further questions. Carter handed her a business card with his name and number on it. "Call me if you can think of anything else." Dearbhail promised she would and watched the two of them leave. Checking on the other Carter's progress, Dearbhail was told that he was stable. Having nothing else to do, Dearbhail decided to head back home to finish cleaning up. Saturday, June 3rd, 1995 3:02 p.m. Dearbhail had spent most of the morning and early afternoon cleaning up any evidence of the night's fight. Alan had returned, volunteering no information about where he had dumped the body. He hugged her and then helped her to clean up. He had only been gone an hour when Dearbhail decided she had better rest. Though she could go without sleep, it would be better if she didn't push her Immortal powers and at least rested her muscles. Feeling her neck, she decided that she would need a massage. Alan had promised to keep tabs about Quentin Carter and let her know if he heard anything about the Santa Cruz P.D's investigation of the case. Since the incident had supposedly happened in a rural area, the Sheriffs Department would no doubt be called in as well. She rested lightly, listening for any sound of LaFlechette's return. When she heard two cars come down the driveway, she jumped up and grabbed her sword, ready for a fight. Looking outside, she saw that the two cars were both cop cars. One was a Santa Cruz P.D. street cruiser, the other belonged to the Sheriffs Department. Her heart began to race, wondering if she was going to be arrested. She thought about calling Alan, but there wasn't time and she didn't know if she really wanted him involved in this. "Hello again, Mizz MacKenna," Officer Carter nodded as Dearbhail opened the door to her house. "May we come in?" he asked. Dearbhail nodded and opened the door. Carter, followed by a Sheriffs deputy, a lanky dark haired man, balding with a thin moustache, and then Carter's partner, Moseley. "What's going on?" Dearbhail bluntly asked, trying to appear annoyed. She didn't ask them to sit down. "We had a few more questions for you," Carter told her. "It turns out the man you found is wanted for armed robberies in Stockton. He's supposedly gotten away with over twenty thousand dollars that hasn't been recovered from some liquor store robberies and he's wanted in connection with a murder. Did you happen to know that?" Dearbhail blinked, genuinely surprised. "Well, as I told you earlier, I don't know him. I was trying to do the right thing. He was hurt and I brought him to the hospital." Neither Moseley nor the Sheriffs deputy said anything, instead watching Dearbhail through their dark sunglasses. "Maam, in talking to the Park Rangers over at Seacliff, we found out that a man fitting Carter's description ran their gate last night. He was last seen heading down this road, Las Olas. Did you happen to see anything?" Dearbhail hated this subterfuge. But feeling trapped, she just shook her head. "That's strange," Carter went on, "because the Ranger at the gate at that time said that she remembers you coming through just before the biker. Were you aware of being followed?" Dearbhail thought about it, then she remembered seeing a biker ride in front of her van without any lights. She hadn't put the fact together with the stranger before. Nor had she found any bike on the property, but who knows where he might have hidden it. Her search outside had been rather cursory. "I, uh, don't remember seeing anything," Dearbhail lied. Carter and the other cops just stared at her silently. "Maam, do you own any large knives or maybe a sword, like an heirloom perhaps?" Dearbhail thought about her sword, lying just in the next room. Also, under her dress, she was still holding onto Miriam's long knife. "Yes, I do. It's an heirloom, like you said," she told them. "May we see it?" Carter asked. "I'll get it for you," Dearbhail told them and then left to go to the next room. She took it from the table but when she turned around, she saw that Moseley had followed her and was looking at her. The cop's eyes still seemed dull and listless but Dearbhail sincerely doubted that they were. Moseley had seen Dearbhail grab the sword. "You just keep that lying there?" Moseley asked. "I took it down for cleaning," Dearbhail replied. She felt tense but knew there was nothing she could do but to try and remain calm. "Where do you normally display it?" Moseley asked. "Upstairs," Dearbhail smiled, walking past her and presenting the sword to Carter and the deputy. Carter and Moseley exchanged a glance. "Maam, do you mind showing us where you normally display this sword?" Carter asked her. Of course, Dearbhail didn't display it, but she took them upstairs and indicated a corner of a window box, overlooking the beach. She could see a jogger outside, scattering gulls as he ran. "I'd like to run some tests on this sword," Carter said. "Do you mind if we take it with us? We can give you a receipt and I'll guarantee that we'll return it in good shape." "Excuse me!" Dearbhail finally allowed her anger to show, "But am I a suspect here? I'm sorry that I helped this poor man, but you are all making me feel that way. I will not let you have that sword. That is a very old and valuable piece, for which I paid top dollar. I don't intend to turn it over to you for some test." "It won't be harmed," the deputy added, his voice sounding rather southern. "I don't care," Dearbhail said, taking the sword and propping it up in the corner. The first time she tried this, it slid down and she had to catch it. She grimaced realizing how out of place it looked there. "Maam, you know it's alright to defend yourself. It's not a crime if you felt you were threatened to take action to defend yourself. Even if you kill someone, or hurt them badly, if they attacked you or robbed you with a gun, and you fought back and hurt them, you would not be in the wrong." Carter took out his notebook. "Is there anything you'd like to add?" "Nothing," Dearbhail insisted. "And you still maintain that you don't know Quentin Carter?" Officer Carter asked again. "You've had no past affiliation. He's not some ex-boyfriend who showed up here to stay unexpectedly. I'd really like to have some clarification if I may." "You have the truth," Dearbhail's voice took on some of her commanding lilt, and a little bit more accent as well. "Now, I'm tired of your imaginative wanderings. If you don't have anything else to say, I'm tired and I would like to rest. It's not been the best of days." She ushered them to the door. "Mizz MacKenna, you have my card" "I'll give you a call," Dearbhail agreed. The cops left and as Dearbhail watched them through the curtains, they took their time about leaving, looking down in the sand around their cars. The deputy found something after kicking the sand, which he picked up with his pen and deposited in his bag. Dearbhail thought it looked like a shell casing. The oath she swore had probably not been uttered for centuries. Sunday, June 4th, 1995 12:20 a.m. Dearbhail had insisted that Alan stay out of her current troubles. But she did promise that if she needed him, she would call. He had a family and it was important to her that his own life remain untainted by her doings. Moreso, she was worried that if LaFlechette learned of Alan's existence, that Alan and his family would be endangered. She only hoped that her son would listen to her wishes. Late at night, she decided to drive down to Dominican, rather than just call. She hoped that she might have time to talk to Quentin and hear what he intended to tell the police, assuming he ever regained consciousness. The only staff on duty that could receive her were in the Emergency room. Budget cuts had reduced the hospital's staff, it seemed. It was a fact that Dearbhail took note of in case she would ever have need of visiting the place more secretly. She half thought about sneaking into Carter's room then, but she had no way of knowing which in the maze of room's belonged her strange benefactor. Certainly, Dearbhail thought, Carter's arrival had been both a blessing and a curse. But there was nothing to do but deal with what was happening. Dominican was a Catholic Hospital, so the nurse on duty at the desk was a nun. She was a large somewhat overweight black woman with the incongruous name of Egberda on her name tag. When the nun spoke, she did so with a sort of French accent. "Doctors Lovelace and Lawrence are za ones zat are on duty," the sister informed Dearbhail. "Doctor Lovelace, he iz with a patient, but Doctor Lawrence, he iz over there." The nun used her pen to point down the hall with a flourish. "He can say if you can visit your friend, or no." Dearbhail looked down to see a young man of five foot ten, blond hair and of medium build walking down the corridor writing on a clipboard. He was of average looking appearance, but his green eyes, when they looked up to regard Dearbhail, seemed to be remarkably penetrating. "May I help you?" he asked Dearbhail, seeing Sister Egberda glance at Dearbhail as he walked up. "Hello Doctor," Dearbhail smiled, trying to seem at ease. "I'm here to ask about Quentin Carter, one of your patients. I was wondering if I could see him?" "Carter?" The doctor looked over to the nun, seeming to not recall the name. "He iz ze one with the deep stab wounds," she told him. "Za one who iz handcuffed to hiz bed." "Oh," Doctor Lawrence said, seeming to remember. He looked at Dearbhail. "And your name is?" "Dearbhail MacKenna," she nodded. Brandon rubbed his forehead wearily for a moment. "This isn't exactly normal visiting hours, you know. And there is Mr. Carter's um...legal status to deal with. Are you related to Mr. Carter?" Dearhail said, "I'm sorry if it's past visiting hours, but I didn't know when would be a good time to come. I'm not related to him; I'm the person who found him. I'd just like to see him for a few minutes... if that's all right." Dearbhail paused while the doctor considered her request. "Could you tell me how he's doing? Is he going to be all right?" Brandon looked over the charts. "Well....I can let you take a quick look at him, but I can't leave you alone with him. Police, security, that whole thing. His condition looks to be stable, at least for the moment. Barring complications, he should recover, given enough time." A thought struck him. "If you're the one who found him...did you apply the first aid? It's a nice little job of dressing the wounds." Without waiting for an answer, Brandon bent over and murmured something to Sister Egberda, then straightened back up, looking at her expectantly. As Dr. Brandon Lawrence bent down to say something to the nun, Dearbhail, though she couldn't hear what was being said, had the distinct impression that it had concerned her. Sunday, June 4th, 1995 12:32 a.m. Doctor Lawrence took Dearbhail to an elevator and she watched him push the button for the second floor. There, he took her past another desk, waving to the three nurses and one doctor on duty "I'm taking this visitor to 205," he announced. No one seemed concerned and Dearbhail merely followed the Doctor as he opened the door to the room. Inside, dim lights revealed a man kept in an oxygen tent, with tubes taped to his arms and nostrils. The man's right hand was handcuffed to the side of the bed. "His lungs took a nice little slice there," Dr. Lawrence explained. "He's got a remarkable will to live." That was saying it mildly, as Dearbhail remembered seeing Carter's wound. "So, you never answered my question that it might've been you who stitched him up," Dr. Lawrence went on to comment "So you think he'll make it?" Dearbhail asked, sidestepping the question. Dr. Lawrence shook his head. "He's got a good chance, but he's not out of the woodworks yet." Dearbhail went over to the tent and looked down at her strange benefactor. On the way up, Dr. Lawrence had told her that Carter was wanted for suspicion of robbery in Stockton and other Valley towns. It was so strange. She didn't want to know this man, but there he was, in front of her, a criminal - and her savior. Inside the tent, Carter shifted. He was awake. Dr. Lawrence moved closer, concerned. Carter should have been sedated. In checking the tube for Carter's I.V. sedative, he found that it had been disconnected. As he went to reinsert it, Carter's hand weakly touched him. "Please, no," he whispered. "I have to stay awake." "Why?" Dearbhail asked him. Carter motioned for her to come closer but Dr. Lawrence pulled her back. "I'm sorry," he told her. "I can't risk contamination from you. And there's that security concern." Dearbhail didn't look like she agreed, but she nodded, suggesting she would accept the doctor's authority on this. "Get well soon," she told Carter. "I'll be back to check up on you." Doctor Lawrence escorted Dearbhail back to the desk at the entry to the ward, asking one of the nurses to escort her back to the front door. "Thank you for letting me see him, Doctor," she said. "I hope he makes it." Doctor Lawrence just nodded and watched her go, seemingly curious about Dearbhail's strange relationship with the patient, Carter. Sunday 1am As she drove back from the hospital, Dearbhail's thoughts never left Quentin. He was quite an enigma- a thief (according to the police), but willing to risk his life for someone he didn't even know. She was also impressed with his strength; medicine had come a long way but surely he would not have survived if he had not had a strong will to live. She had seen warriors die of far less serious wounds. But why had he followed her? It was possible, she supposed, that he was merely a thief and had hoped to rob her. But why pick her? And why not just run when Eric showed up? Perhaps he was a friend of someone she knew? Regardless, she would have to go back to the hospital and talk to him. If she went during normal visiting hours, her presence would be less unusual. She would also have to make sure that she looked around for a way to sneak him out in case it came to that. Would her sword cut through the handcuffs? Probably, but she would have to take a closer look at them first. She hadn't fully decided to help Quentin escape, but... well, it was good to be prepared. Pulling onto her road, Dearbhail stopped the van and continued toward her house on foot. Although it wasn't likely that Eric would be back or the police would be watching her house, it was always better to be careful. Once everything was safe, Dearbhail brought her van up to the house. She went through the same routine upon entering her house, with the same result. Satisfied that all was well, Dearbhail resisted the urge to immediately go to bed. First, came caring for her sword and Miriam's dagger. As she carefully inspected and cleaned the already pristine blades, she reviewed the day's events, repeating the highlights using the memory aids she had learned as a child. It was strange, she thought, how easily she had gone from being a "dayperson" to one who preferred the night. Such a lifestyle was impossible back home- the darkness of the sky was such that hundreds of stars could be seen and a torch would barely cut through the night. Here, it was never truely dark and the ever-present electric lights pushed back the darkness until there were only shadows- and shadows hid far less than the full dark of the night. Even so, she had come to enjoy keeping these hours. The world was a different place at night. Her life as a musician required that she keep late hours and it was the best time to find the others who lived among humans. Sunday, 10am This was likely to be a busy day. Her first goal was to visit Quentin alone. Visiting hours started at 11am [wild guess here] and she planned to be at the hospital then. She wanted to talk to Alan, but was concerned that Eric might see them together. A quick call later would have to suffice. Dearbhail also had to stop by Robin's to finalize arrangements to play there on Monday. Finally, her band "Banish Misfortune" was playing another set tonight at the Irish pub. After a quick breakfast, Dearbhail made her way out to the hospital. As she drove, she thought about Santa Cruz. She had the feeling that it was one of those places that was inbetween this world and the unseen world- and that attracted the other beings she was so interested in. "The Hacker" was surely an Immortal- or a mage who had discovered how to take an Immortal's power to fuel their own magics. She did not believe in "The Game" but could at least understand why those Immortals that did would fight each other. A person... mage who would kill another just to increase their own power was no better than a common thief, but a lot more dangerous. Whoever the Hacker was, they might be intentionally luring Immortals to Santa Cruz- gaining an advantage by fighting on their own ground. Or perhaps the dead Immortals were all from one family, each trying to take revenge for the death of the others. Miriam could have found that last part out- surely she would have known at least one of the dead ones. The cougar attacks could be signs of a Garou presence. She had little experience with mountain lions, but rather expected that they weren't likely to just randomly attack people. Animals didn't do such things unless they were starving, sick, or had grown used to the easy prey that modern humans had become. A camping trip might be in order one day soon. Sunday, 11am Dearbhail pulled into the hospital parking lot and parked near the back. It was rather crowded- Sunday must be a popular visiting day. Remembering the location of Quentin's room, she headed up a side staircase and acting like she belonged there, made her way to the right floor. Dearbhail watched the room for a few moments, making sure she wouldn't surprise a nurse. When she felt the way was clear, she entered Quentin's room. Sunday June 4th, 1995 11:03 a.m. Quentin was sleeping soundly. Gently, Dearbhail jostled him just slightly, trying to get him to wake up. It didn't work. He was asleep and he was definately on something to keep him that way. Quickly, Dearbhail scoped out the various ways to get in and out. There weren't that many, but some possibilities. However, the chance of getting caught remained high. She paused, keeping an eye out for trouble, while thinking of what to do. Sunday June 4th, 1995 11:04 a.m. Hospital As a plan started to form in her mind, Dearbhail took a closer look at Quentin- none of this would work if he was still too injured to move. The sword wound was the only life-threatening injury, and, hoping no one would come in, she drew back the blankets and pulled aside his johnny to take a closer look at it. Carefully removing the dressing, she examined the wound, nodding with satisfaction at its appearance. It was still early to move him, but he should survive as long as she was careful. Quickly putting things back into place, she moved over to the bedside table. They would probably keep spare bandages and such nearby... yes, here they were along with some kind of antiseptic creme- which even had directions on it. She would have to remember to take those items with her later. The handcuffs were another problem. Dearbhail doubted that she could pick them and the keys were probably no where nearby. She was reluctant to use her sword on them, but a pair of boltcutters should do the trick. A nearby closet revealed Quentin's jacket, shoes, and what was probably the contents of his pockets- change, keys, pocketknife, wallet, etc. Apparently the rest of his clothes were too damaged to save. As Dearbhail made her way to the door, she stopped long enough to look at the medical chart on his bed. Unfortunately, the few words that she could make out made little sense to her. [Although perhaps there is a note about how often and when he gets his medication?] The next step was to find the quickest way to get Quentin out. Funny how she had gone so quickly from thinking about helping him escape to making the plans necessary to do so. The first thing to do was to find the fastest and most out-of-the-way route from Quentin's room to an exit. Dearbhail spent some time checking out elevators, hallways, and exits before she settled on an escape route. By taking a certain elevator down to the basement, she would end up near the laundry. Down the corridor and past Physical Therapy would bring her to a back entrance. The difficult part would be getting him off the floor, once she was down in the basement, it would likely be deserted- at least at the hour she intended to retrieve him. As Dearbhail passed the laundry room, she paused as she saw the carts of clean laundry. Making sure no one was around, Dearbhail went through them quickly, looking for the simple scrub shirt and pants that she had seen orderlies wearing earlier. She stuffed them into a laundry bag and continued on her way. It would be nice to find an ID as well, but she probably wouldn't be that lucky. She decided that she would take her escape route up to Quentin's room tonight. It would give her a chance to make sure her route was safe and she could grab a wheelchair or gurney from outside Physical Therapy. Satisfied with her plan, and hoping that Quentin wouldn't be moved before then, Dearbhail got in her van and headed for her appointment with Robin. Sunday June 4th, 1995 12:00 noon Henfling's Firehouse Tavern After a quick stop to pick up a pair of bolt-cutters, Dearbhail arrived at the Tavern. Its restful, quiet interior lent it a peace that would be missing once evening fell. Only Anna was in the main room of the bar, unloading boxes and setting the bar up for later. A small, dark-haired woman in her mid-40's, Anna had emigrated from Yugoslavia about five years ago with her ten year old daughter. Anna ran "her bar" with a quiet authority, able to quiet rowdy drunks and set up orders for a dozen at the same time. Anna waved Dearbhail over to the bar, "Robin said you'd probably be by. I'll get him for you." She returned a few moments later, "He'll be right out. By the way, Mike was in here looking for you a few minutes ago." Dearbhail looked at her watch quickly, "Am I that late? No, it's only noon. We're not supposed to get together until 2." She turned back to Anna a little concerned, "Did he say what he wanted?" "No, but he had his banjo with him." Dearbhail smiled, relieved. No doubt he had another great idea about how to incorporate his banjo into the band. "Banish Misfortune" had started off as a pretty traditional Irish band- but Mike kept trying to update them. Dearbhail had protested strongly at first, but Mike kept pushing until she finally agreed to listen to some of his ideas. His view of updating wasn't anything nearly as radical as she had feared- and although they argued back and forth on every little change (the rest of the band were wise enough to back off and wait for the smoke to clear), they always came to an agreement. There were some songs she refused to "update" on general principles, but she had to admit that some sounded much better with a new layer of complexity laid over the original tune. But a banjo....? Dearbhail was startled out of her reverie by the appearance of Robin. [Don't know if he's described or not, but if not...] She had taken an instant liking to the sixty year old man; although he sometimes played the role of what he called a "stodgy old coot", he was quick-witted and far more open to new ideas than many half his age. When she arrived in town, Robin had been the one to give her a gig- without references or even hearing her play. She played at the Tavern often- usually by herself doing a somewhat unusual combination of old Gaelic tunes, folk and blues. The atmosphere here was condusive to the mix; it was here she felt the commradery she missed from her home. "Plans" weren't that difficult to set up. Robin and Dearbhail quickly worked out the details, then went on to discuss more ordinary topics- who was playing where, local gossip, and the rising price of whiskey. At 1:00pm, as Dearbhail was getting ready to leave, Mike showed up. When he saw her, his eyes lit up and hurried over to the table, banjo in hand. As he reached the table and started to speak, Dearbhail held up one hand and in mock seriousness told him, "Before you say a single word about banjos, I'll only listen if you help me bring my harp back." "Deal..." "And", she cut in, "we stop for lunch." "Fine, I'll even buy." Dearbhail's face dropped and she stared at him, worried now. Mike laughed and offerred his arm to her, "Don't look so scared. You'll love it." Dearbhail shook her head, said her goodbye's to Robin and Anna, then accompanied him out the door. "You know the instrumental part in "Fosgail an Dorus"?" "Yes..", Dearbhail replied with a warning tone in her voice. "Well...." This particular "discussion" lasted through lunch and most of the ride back to Dearbhail's house. By the time they reached her house however, they had worked out if not a compromise, then at least a place to start from. They spent the next hour working out the new piece- going back and forth until they ended up with something they were both happy with. As he played the final arrangement, Dearbhail watched Mike with a sudden stab of affection. She had known him for about five years and had been happy when she found that he had settled (at least for the time being) in the area. Mike was a talented folk musician who played a wide variety of instruments and had spent most of his life on the road. At almost forty, Mike was still very attractive; his greying hair and "smile wrinkles" didn't detract from his looks in the least. And years of casual friendships had given him an easy manner which let him get along with almost anyone. He constantly flirted with Dearbhail, but she ignored it- after all, he flirted with any woman he met. He had once admitted to her that although it was easy to find someone to spend the night with, that it wasn't really it was cracked up to be. Being constantly on the road, he never had the chance to get close to any of these women- and, with someone you barely knew, sex was just sex. Sunday, June 4th, 1995 2:00 p.m. Henfling's Firehouse Tavern Dearbhail and Mike packed up her gear and drove back to the Tavern barely in time to meet the rest of the band for their rehersal. Robin often let them use his basement to practice in- Dearbhail liked the acoustics while Mike constantly complained about the enclosed, dark space. Rehersal went well, the rest of the band picking up on the new version of "Fosgal an Dorus" without problem. After several hours of practice, they stopped, planning to meet for dinner at around 8, then head for their evening job. Sunday, June 4th, 1995 5:30pm Dearbhail's house After a quick nap, Dearbhail got her gear ready for the evening ahead. Her musical equipment was already at Robin's, but she had other items she would need later on. Dearbhail gathered together a pair of sweatpants and shirt for Quentin, her first aid kit, and some non-perishable food to leave with him. Looking through the phone book and consulting her maps of the area, she looked for a cheap, out of the way motel a fair distance away from the hospital. She couldn't bring him home and certainly couldn't just leave him somewhere- hopefully a motel that didn't ask too many questions would be safe. On her way to dinner, she stopped at an ATM to get some extra cash. The gig started at 9pm and would run until 1 or so. Hanging around or bar-hopping for another hour would bring her to 2 or so- a good time, she hoped, to get Quentin out of the hospital. Monday June 5th, 1995 12:44 a.m. Having just finished a rousing rendition of "Waly Waly", in which Mike's banjo surprisingly seemed to well attuned that it was hard to imagine ever having played the song without it. Mike looked over at Dearbhail, a mischievous grin fixed upon his face, while dancing eyes seemed to say "See, I told you," to her and the rest of the group. The audience, packed despite the late hour on a night before the workweek, clung on, refusing to go home. The others relaxed. It was Dearbhail's turn to finish the evening. Pulling her harp to relax against her shoulder, Dearbhail looked at the large fire at the end of the hall. A momentary flicker of a bard holding his harp against the roaring late night fire in her father's home, ran quickly across her mind. Reaching down to feel the soft velvet dress she wore, Dearbhail tried to remember the worn coarse flax that had been her childhood's clothing. The audience watched her pause, respecting her silence but thinking it the focus of a musician before a song. Dearbhail, her mind brought back from the past, smiled at the collected audience. Her fingers danced lightly over the strings and plucked resonance radiated warmly from the harp. Wanting to give the audience another lively piece, she performed "Ushag Veg Ruy" (Little Red Bird). The audience clapped their hands, not understanding the words, but enjoying the pace and liveliness of the piece. Their applause was generous. Smiling, Dearbhail decided to forgo the usual practice of waiting for their request for an encore. "This will be the last piece," she told them, desiring to end the concert as she had other duties to perform that night. Once again, her hands rested on the harp's strings, a signal for silence. After the applause had died back down again to silence, Dearbhail plucked the harp, her clear voice sailing out once again. The piece was sad and quiet, with a slightly slumberous rhythm to it's lilt. This was appropriate as "Arrane Oie Vie" (The Goodnight Song) was a common finale piece. Those in the community who'd followed "Banish Misfortune" ever since they'd relocated from the City, knew the piece and smiled, as if welcoming an old friend. Short and slumberously haunting, the song was finished and Dearbhail smiled and bowed at the welcome applause. The crowd stood on their feet, giving her a standing ovation. Feeling the power of their warmth and affection, Dearbhail didn't wonder why the bards of her people forsake war for what they felt was a higher calling. Still, though a respected calling, blessed by the bards, Dearbhail was born a warriour and the touch of steel against her naked leg, deep inside her soft dress, stood as a constant reminder of the truth of her existence. Dearbhail started to pack up her things, not wanting to wait and count the tally from the tip jar. "Going so soon?" Mike asked, smiling at Dearbhail. You seem a little lost tonight, Dear," he commented. Leave to Mike to be the one person to tell that she was distracted. Anyone else would have thought her performance was flawless, as it nearly was. "Going home," she said, lying with a smile. "You should too." Mike shook his head regrettably. As Dearbhail left, she saw him talking to a group of young women who had lingered to meet some of the musicians. Mike turned to watch her go, and nodded goodnight, a sad smile fixed as he turned back the the women. Dearbhail sighed and started up the van. Monday June 5th, 1995 2:34 a.m. Dearbhail waited in her van, glancing occasionally at her wrist timepiece. She thought about her old days, when time was less jealously counted, and the waning of the day and passing of the night were things to be felt, not observed. Feeling the time had come, she got out and walked briskly toward a little used basement entrance she'd observed earlier. Her brisk walk and the clothing she wore gave her the appearance of someone who had a purpose at the Hospital. Of course she did, but not one that anyone would have guessed at, from looking at her. Dearbhail counted on the uniform and her meager talent in Arcane to guard her from prying eyes and hopefully, any undue attention. Entering through the service entrance, into what turned out to be a large laundry room washing the enormous amount of clothes and sheets. People working there saw her enter and glanced quickly up at her. She waved or nodded and quickly walked by, as if on a busy errand that wouldn't allow her to be stopped. They just nodded and went back to their work, little caring that her's was a face they'd never seen before. In a little while, she was forgotten altogether. Exiting the elevator, Dearbhail guided a laundry basket that she had snagged. She worked her way through the rooms. Doctors and nurses, either busy monitoring computer screens or engaged in disgruntled complaining about work, ignored her as she passed by them. It was so easy. Entering Quinton's room, she saw that he was shifting nervously. Checking his bedsheet, she saw that he'd been due for some sedatives at least a half an hour before. The prescription had been signed by Doctor Lawrence. It was a gross oversight that the staff was not fulfilling their duty, but not one that she was about to point out. Pulling back the sheet to expose the handcuff, Dearbhail tried her bolt cutters on them. She was shocked when, instead of cutting through the slender chain, the cutters simply stopped. Putting all her strength into the act, she merely managed to gouge the teeth of a very expensive tool. Frustrated, she ascertained the situation, wondering what to do now. Monday June 5th, 1995 2:40 a.m. This was not going as well as Dearbhail had hoped. She had assumed that the boltcutters wouldn't have any trouble cutting the thin-looking handcuffs. Well, she hadn't much experience with handcuffs before, it was time to think of something else. Dearbhail turned her attention to Quentin, he was past due for what was probably a sedative so perhaps she could wake him. If so, he might know of some way to get himself out of the handcuffs. At the very least she would be able to tell him that she was going to help him- and ask him to keep quiet about certain things he had seen. Leaning down close to his ear, Dearbhail spoke quietly but intently, "Quentin, wake up!" Monday June 5th, 1995 2:44 a.m. "Whaazsah?" Quentin groggily opened his eyes, trying to focus. Seeing Dearbhail's face, he instinctively reacted with panic and lashed out at her. She dodged his wild swing and held his free arm down. "Quentin? Calm down. I'm not going to hurt you," she hissed, looking anxiously at the door. Quentin blinked his eyes. "Do I know you?" he asked. Dearbhail shook her head. "I'm just a friend who wants to help you," she promised. Quentin continued to regard her suspiciously. Then a look of recognition crossed his face. "I know you! You're that musician with that Irish band. What were they called?" "Shhh," Dearbhail whispered. "`Banish Misfortune.' That's right. And do you remember what you did for me the other night?" "How could I forget," Quentin nodded. "I attacked that vampire who was attacking you and nearly got iced for my trouble. Say, why was he after you anyway?" Vampire? Dearbhail thought. She looked at Quentin, then shook her head. They could sort it out later. Right now, she owed him a life. "Hey!" he whispered, grabbing Dearbhail's arm, "Get me out of here! If one of Them comes for me while I'm out, I'm done for." "You read my mind," Dearbhail told him, displaying the boltcutters she'd brought. "But I didn't think I would be running into such problems." Quentin took one look at the nicked jaws then he whispered, "Can you find me some long thin bits of metal, like pins or maybe some small tools? I need them to be strong but not too strong so I can bend them." Dearbhail started opening drawers. She found a tray full of surgical tools and brought them to Quentin. "Perfect," he grinned. Ignoring the scalpels and forceps as too large for his purposes, he grabbed two curved picks and while Dearbhail held up a flashlight, he worked away at the small opening to the handcuffs. Dearbhail had to admire his focus and determination. After several failed attempts, and just when she'd thought about giving up, the handcuffs clicked open. "You're good," she commented. "Lucky," he replied. "I nearly lost it." Easing out of the cuffs, he rubbed his wrist then started putting on the clothes that Dearbhail tossed him. After he'd gotten out of bed, they found that he was still a little uneasy on his feet, perhaps from his long rest and partly from the medication still in his body. Dearbhail was helping him to the door when she heard footsteps approaching, even as her hand touched the knob. Monday June 5th, 1995 2:54 a.m. Dearbhail had plenty of questions for Quentin as she watched him pick the lock on the handcuffs. Unfortunately, they'd all have to wait until they were someplace safe. When Dearbhail heard the steps outside the door, she let go of the knob and flipped off the light switch [I'm not sure if it was on or not, but just in case...]. She took a step toward the bed and grabbed a blanket/sheet then gently pushed Quentin against the wall behind the door. It might just be someone walking down the corridor, but it could be a doctor or nurse with his late medication... or perhaps one of Them that he was so worried about. Well, at least she could rule out an Immortal. She stood next to the door listening to the footsteps and watching the light coming under the door for signs that this new person was about to enter the room. If someone did enter, Dearbhail's plan was to let them get a step or two in, then throw the blanket over their head and try to subdue them quickly and quietly. In any case, Dearbhail had no intention of saying anything- if a woman was identified as helping Quentin escape, they would suspect her immediately. Hell, they'd suspect her regardless, but it was best to leave as few reasons for the police to be interested in her as possible. Monday June 5th, 1995 2:55 a.m. Dearbhail saw the light from underneath the door darken with a shadow. She swore a silent Gaelic oath, realizing that someone was going to enter. No sooner had the nurse walked in, carrying a tray, that Dearbhail had thrown the sheet over her, and choked off her scream (Dex + Brawl = 1 success). However, the tray the nurse had been carrying fell from her frightened hands. Quinton, still groggy from his medication made an attempt to grab it and was barely able to catch the tray, but managed to spill it's contents of his medication onto the floor. Both Dearbhail and Quentin stared at each other, but no follow up to the nurse's visit seemed apparent. Rather, chattering voices continued from the nurse's station, as doctors and nurses, intent on their work gossip, had failed to note anything. Dearbhail breathed a sigh of relief. With Quinton's aid, she placed a chokehold on the frightened woman, who struggled back fiercely, managing to clip Dearbhail on the side of the head (-1/Bruised). However, Dearbhail and Quentin managed to subdue her long enough to raise her from the floor onto Quentin's bed, where they intended to tie her down with some other sheets while they made their escape. The woman went limp. "What did you do to her?" Quentin asked. Dearbhail shrugged, not knowing. Carefully checking under the sheet, Dearbhail saw that the poor frightened nun had fainted. Relieved, Dearbhail quickly gagged and bound the woman while Quinton monitored the door. Then, slipping through a side door into a common bathroom shared with another room, Dearbhail dumped Quentin into a landry basket. Soon, they were driving down Soquel. Dearbhail nervously glanced as a C.H.P. officer passed her car, only to watch it fade off in the vision of her rear view mirror. "Hey!" Quentin hissed from his place on the backseat floor. "What?" Dearbhail asked, her heart suddenly racing. Were they being followed. "Where did you learn to play like that?" Dearbhail just started to giggle then laugh. She couldn't help it. She even made Quentin laugh until he begged her to stop as it was hurting his chest. Wednesday June 7th, 1995 1:52 a.m. "So," Dearbhail eyed Quentin as he dressed, still being careful as his wounds hadn't healed. "You're just going to leave?" "I thought I was doing you a favor," Quentin replied. "I mean, accessory to my crimes ain't gonna do you any good, lady," he told her. "I told you, call me Dearbhail." Quentin looked over at her. "Funny kind of name. What is it, German or something?" "Irish," she smiled. "It's a very old Irish name, for a very old Irish lady." Quentin looked at her and smiled back. "Yeah right. You keep talkin like you're my grandma or sumthin. I got a few years on you, babe." "You think so?" Quentin just rolled his eyes. Dearbhail glanced quickly outside through the curtains. The motel parking lot was full. Brazenly, Dearbhail had rented a room under an assumed name at a motel on Beach Hill. The place was a pit and cash, her entire sum of tips for a month, had quieted any questions. The place was only blocks from Police Headquarters. Dearbhail figured it was as good as any. The police probably figured that Quentin was long gone, maybe out of state. "Sort of missed you," he admitted, while the razor she brought him tracked its way over his chin. "Sorry, but I think the police were keeping an eye on me. I slipped out tonight under disguise to bring you these things." Dearbhail eyed some spent condoms in an ashtray. "Are you sure you were lonely?" "Those came with the place," he told her. "Really classy joint this. I even found empty syringes in the shower. Nearly pricked my foot on one." "Well, it's not the Ritz Carlton, but in adversity" "Yeah," he agreed. Coming out of the bathroom, he presented himself. "Dadah!" The hair colouring and theatrical makeup she'd brought him worked fairly well, as long as one didn't get too close. Quentin was now a redhead, sporting a reddish brown beard. Along with the change of clothes from the thrift store, and he looked like a whole new man. "Well, I'm sorry the police confiscated your bike," Dearbhail said. The police had found the bike yesterday, while searching her house, with a warrant, to search for Quentin. He shrugged. "I stole it. It's about time it got back to its owner. I got some good use out of it." "That's very nice of you." "Hey, I'm a thief by necessity, not by choice." "Yeah, I know, you're a vampire hunter." Quentin looked over at her. "You say that like you believe me." "Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?" He grimaced. "Well, it would be a first." "So," Dearbhail said, handing Quentin an envelope. "I guess it's time for you to go. Here's your bus ticket and and airplane ticket. I picked Seattle. I don't know why." Quentin took the envelope and looked at her. "Thanks. I don't know what I would have done without you." It was Dearbhail's turn to shrug. "Well, I owed you." As he left, Dearbhail found that she was reluctant to see him go. He was somewhat crude, had a questionable lifestyle, but she couldn't fault that he was honest and unpretentious and she found that she liked that. "May the wind be at your back," she said, watching him disappear into the warm night. Wednesday June 7th, 1995 8:16 a.m. Dearbhail awoke to the aroma of frying bacon. Someone was cooking in her kitchen. At first, she thought it might be Alan, but then, why hadn't he called. It wasn't like him to just show up, and usually, he brought his family. Dearbhail pulled a cotton robe on and grabbed her sword. There was no quickening buzzing in her head. Who was it? "Hi! Feel up for breakfast?" "Quentin!" Dearbhail gasped, then covered her mouth, fearful for having spoken his name so loud, not that anyone could hear her - she hoped. "By the goddess herself! What are you doing HERE!" she whispered frantically. Quentin put down the frying pan after he'd scooped the eggs and bacon out onto a plate. Looking somewhat sheepish, he didn't answer right away. "Well, you know I told you that I was supposed to hook up with some other vampire hunters. It was why I came here in the first place. I just got waylaid meetin that vamp that hit up on you that night." Dearbhail sat down. Her head was spinning. If the police found him at her house, she would spend the rest of her life in jail. And all she could think of was what it would do to Alan's career. Quentin continued to drone on. "Anyway, I knew they were in bad sorts, having lost a fellow to a vampire, and there I was after I'd left you and I just thought that it didn't seem right. Besides" he concluded. "What? Besides what?" she asked, not believing that anything Quentin said now could make sense. "You never answered my question." "Question?" Dearbhail looked up. He put down a cup of coffee in front of her. "French roast" he said in a satisfied way. "Quentin? What question?" She had to know. "Where you learned to play so good? You never told me." Dearbhail bent back down, putting her head back into her folded arms. She didn't know this time if she should laugh or cry. Wednesday June 7th, 1995 8:20 am Dearbhail sat with her head in her hands for a minute, trying to deal with Quentin's presence. She had been careful to keep to her normal routine for the past two days- working, shopping, etc. just in case anyone was still suspicious of her. Now, just as she was thinking all was safe, Quentin was back... in her kitchen... making breakfast. Well, at least if the police showed up, they could have all have a nice meal before being carted off to jail... Putting her sword down within reach (not that she didn't trust Quentin, it was just habit), Dearbhail reached for the cup of coffee. "You do know that the police are looking for you, don't you? And that they were looking for you here once already?" Quentin continued to wait... for the answer to his question, she realised. She sighed and gave in, "My first teacher was my fos..." Dearbhail caught herself in time to change foster-mother to aunt, it wasn't worth having to go through the explanation of the role of foster-parents right now. "... my aunt then my mother, then my mother's cousin. I had hoped to go to a school up north..." Dearbhail recalled how disappointed she had been when she was told that she would not be allowed to attend the bardic school up north. Her second-cousin had been admitted and surely Dearbhail was as talented as she! She recalled how her foster-father had tried to console her. "A bard must leave her family and travel the roads to learn the songs and stories of this land. And she may not go armed. Do you wish to leave behind your family and home and put away your sword?" Of course she did not- she loved the harp and its music, but she loved her tuath more. Years later, when her cousin returned home, Dearbhail, now ri, welcomed her and gave her a place of honor at court. She had listened in joy to the skill of her kinswoman and learned many of the songs and stories she knew. Upon her return to this world, Dearbhail became even more grateful for paying such close attention, many of the tales had been lost over time- or fragmented or changed until they were no longer recognizable. "... but it wasn't to be. In fact, I put music aside for quite a while- too many other pressing demands. But I eventually returned to it and have learned from whomever would teach me." Music was a link- the only one left to her old life, her family, everything of her past. The old songs had helped her get over the loss of her world and face this new one. After her "death", she had decided to devote more time to her old friend. Dearbhail suddenly remember a question she had wanted to ask Quentin, "Now would you mind explaining why you were at my house that night? I appreciate your presence, but I don't quite understand it. Did you follow the man who attacked me?" "And are you sure he's a vampire?" Dearbhail's mind reeled at the possibility. Could an immortal become a vampire? It could be possible, immortals did die, they just returned to this world instead of going to the Otherworld. But wouldn't their immune systems fight off the vampiric infection? She had always assumed so, but... She watched as Quentin returned to the fridge for milk, he seemed to be doing pretty damn well for someone who had been run through with a sword two days ago. "How are you feeling?" Wednesday June 7th, 1995 8:23 am "I'm feeling O.K.," Quentin said "for what I've been through. Anyway, I don't want to hang you up. My world's a pretty bad place to be in and I don't doubt what will happen to me in the long run. I'd just hate to drag you down with me. But, given what happened to YOU the other night, maybe you could use someone like me as a friend. Obviously that vampire had some sort of grudge against you - given that it seems like he knew your name and all." "You keep saying that the man who attacked me and then you was a vampire. How do you know that?" "Hey! I don't miss with a gun. I hit him here," Quentin pointed at his own forehead, "and I know no bullet proof vest that would've helped him there. He healed and slice me so he was definitely one of the undead. There's no one else I know that could do that." Dearbhail remained quiet. Obviously, Quentin's knowledge of the world of the night was lacking in that he didn't know about immortals. "So how come he knew your name?" It was Quentin's turn to ask a question of Dearbhail. She sighed. "He killed a friend of mine. I vowed vengeance." "Good luck," Quentin said. "Do you know any more about this vampire - like where he lives?" Dearbhail shook her head. "Well, I'll see what I can find out for you. One thing in our favor is that vamps are helpless in the daytime. During the summer, that gives us more time than it does them. Before I go, I think I'd better help YOU out for a change, get you ready in case that guy comes back." "You want me to move," Dearbhail guessed. "It would be a start," Quentin agreed. "Right now, he knows where you are, but you don't know where he is." "Next time, I'll be ready," Dearbhail assured Quentin. "I didn't know LaFlechette was in town. He won't catch me like that again." "So you know his name too. You know, I don't want to be rude, but it seems like you're holding out on me." Quentin poured and handed her an Odwalla orange juice. "Anything you want to tell me?" Quentin bent his ear toward her like he was an old man, hard of hearing. His little boy grimace made her smile. "I'll think about it," she told him. Saturday, June 10th, 1995 5:09 p.m. Beth turned the van and cruised past the well tended old Victorians and pre-Victorian clapboards that lined Ocean View Avenue. To Santa Cruzans, it was the old part of town, as a couple of the houses pre-dated American California, having been built in the waning days of Mexican suzerainty. Dearbhail, from an ancient land born of mist filled dreams of Gods, had to chuckle at the American concept of "old." 425-7454. Quentin had made Dearbhail remember it, not wanting to write it down - was where Quentin was now staying. By doing a little research, she was able to trace the phone number to this address. She wondered what Quentin would think if he'd known her son was a cop. Quentin had hinted that he was staying with someone who had sympathies for what he was doing. He also hinted that there was an organization that existed that he was a part of, though he refused to say anything more. Dearbhail couldn't blame him. She was hardly forthcoming herself about her own past and current predicaments. Still, she couldn't just push Quentin aside. He was an able fighter, though a little too flagrant and direct, she suspected, given his wanted status as a criminal. There might come a time where she would need his help, and perhaps that of those who helped him. Alan had also found out for her that the owner of the house was a George Lucien Poincairé, PhD. Poincairé was a Professor of French at U.C.S.C. He also specialized and taught courses in Roman Palestine and could speak fluent French, Breton, Latin, Ancient Greek, Amaraic, Hebrew as well as English. He seemed an unlikely companion for someone like Quentin but then, necessity was a breeder of the strangest of bedfellows as someone once said. Dearbhail quietly noted the tended, but not too imaginative garden, viewing the brooding Victorian for what secrets it might have. Then she drove on. She was on the hunt. And her prey had a name - Eric LaFlechette. (Q: Beth, I assume you know "Fosgal an Dorus". Is there a particular recording on C.D. that you'd recommend? JK A: My favorite is Capercaille's version- now of course I can't remember if it's on Sidewaulk, I think so. That version is not really suitable for banjo; in fact it's meant to be sung a capella, but I put it in the story because it was the first Gaelic-language song I learned.) Friday, June 23rd, 1995 11:53 a.m. It had taken two weeks, but it looked like the end was nearly in sight. The piece of information that finally led Dearbhail to LaFlechette was the fact that over the past five years, LaFlechette had become quite an accomplished painter. Dearbhail couldn't help but assume that particular skill had come from the hard work of another- one who had fallen due to this ridiculous "game". Immediately after Miriam had been killed, Dearbhail had started looking for LaFlechette. She got lucky and found his apartment. He had slipped out just ahead of her, but had left behind most of his belongings. The most interesting was a series of paintings in progress- copies of several pieces of Rubens' work. Having very little knowledge of that era, Dearbhail took several of the nearly completed pieces to the university and was eventually directed to an expert who agreed to examine the pieces. His opinion was that one painting was a copy of Ruben's "The Judgement of Paris" by Anthony van Dyck, Ruben's student and later rival. Two others, he believed, were either by van Dyck or Rubens. Although the expert was very excited at the find, he warned Dearbhail that they were probably fakes- since he knew that the picture that looked most like Rubens' work was on special display at the Louve. He was very eager to know where Dearbhail had gotten these pieces- and very disappointed when she was not willing to tell him anything. Dearbhail could only think of one reason for LaFlechette to be making copies of other paintings- to sell them on the art black market. A smile came to her when Dearbhail imagined what black marketeers looked like- talking in dignified accents, smoking pipes, and shooting their rivals with impeccable manners. Still, as Dearbhail discovered, it was a large and lucrative market. Now that she knew LaFlechette was in town, she had an idea how to flush him out. Dearbhail began making quiet inquiries into sales of the works of any of the Flemish masters. She knew that word would get back to the right people eventually. She just had to survive until that happened. Normally watchful (paranoid was not a disadvantage among immortals), Dearbhail became ever more so. She knew that LaFlechette would happily send in a human assassin to knock her unconscious, then stroll in later to take her head. And several times she had the distinct feeling that she was being watched. Once during a break at a gig, she noticed a man in the audience watching her with unusual interest. At the break, she tried to get closer to him to see what he wanted, but he left the club quickly. When she mentioned it to Mike, his response was a sarcastic, "I can't imagine why he'd be looking at you- a beauty in a spotlight on stage singing like a lark. No, I think you should call the cops." Another time she was certain that someone had been in her house, even though nothing was missing or even moved. It might be nothing. Still, to be safe, she stayed away from her son and his family. Quentin called her twice since they had parted; both times he steered the conversation to talk of LaFlechette. The first time he tried to be more or less subtle in his questions- a lot less than more. The second, he abandoned what subtlety he had and just asked his questions straight out. Both methods were equally unsuccessful. Finally, the call came. A gentleman named Wilson contacted Dearbhail and after dancing around the issue for twenty minutes, admitted that he might be able to acquire certain paintings- for private display only. After a great deal of negotiations and a finder's fee, Wilson agreed to put Dearbhail in contact with an associate who had several paintings by Rubens. A meeting was set up for the following night. Saturday, June 24, 1995 9:34 p.m. Dearbhail prepared for her meeting carefully. She dressed the part: a long black skirt (which would hide her sword), a heavy embroidered silk shirt, silver earrings, and most importantly, comfortable shoes. The meeting was to be a currently closed art gallery. Dearbhail rented a sports car and left early. Before she walked in, she wanted to get a good idea of where she was and what or who was around. As she checked out the area, she mentally prepared herself for the battle she hoped was to come. Dearbhail didn't expect LaFlechette to actually show up himself. He was far more likely to send a flunky- a flunky who would either lead her back to LaFlechette or tell her about him. Suddenly she heard a stealthy noise behind her. Dearbhail continued on her way, not reacting to the sound. After a half block, she turned down an alley and stepped into the darkness of a nearby doorway. She drew Miriam's knife and waited for her pursuer to appear. A dark quiet figure crept around the corner and started down the alley, hugging the wall. Just as the figure reached her doorway, Dearbhail grabbed him, spun him around and threw him against the wall. With her knife at the back of his neck, she growled into his ear. "Who are you?" "PLEASE! Don't kill me!" the man gasped. Dearbhail responded by tightening her grip. "Not so loud," she hissed. "Who are you?" "My name is Wilhelm Scargill," the man gasped. "Please, I'm no danger to you." Dearbhail kept her grip on him, but drew her knife away from his neck. She kept her voice low, "Why are you following me? What do you want?" "I don't suppose you'll accept an explanation of coincidence?" The man took a quick look at Dearbhail's face. "No, I suppose not." (Perception + Alertness = 1 success). Dearbhail caught a quick glimpse of a mark on the man's wrist. "I've been assigned to follow you. I know that might sound suspicious, but it's not meant to be anything. I've no intention in interfering - really. I'm just meant to observe and record, as a sort or chronicler." (Perception + Linguistics = 2 successes). Dearbhail realized that man had a slight accent. He was English. Roman bastard. Dearbhail put her knife away so she would have a free hand to search him. Keeping hold of him with one hand, she felt to see if he had a gun or knife in his jacket or if he was wearing a shoulder or waist holster. She might not be able to search him very well this way, but it was better than nothing. Perhaps the man wasn't intending on attacking her himself, but that made him no less dangerous since he was surely reporting back to someone. "Who hired you to follow me?", she demanded. LaFlechette seemed a likely employer. It would be just like him to send someone Dearbhail couldn't sense in order to find out where she was. If that was the case, it meant that tonight's meeting was a set-up. She also checked to see if he had a wallet in order to verify his name. It did. "Um, I, uh, can't tell you. Please don't kill me. I know what you're thinking. You think that LaFlechette hired me, but I assure you, that's the farthest from the truth. Look, I'm too much of a coward to want to die. I'm just filling in for someone who's too ill to work lately. My main function is as an academician - a chronicler. I'm just following you to learn about the hidden world around us. Really, I'm no threat and I won't tell anyone about you." Dearbhail made a mental note of the address on the license, then put the wallet back into Wilhelm's pocket. She looked at him carefully; he wasn't a warrior- that was for sure. She was about to let him go when she remembered the tatoo. She took his arm to get a better look at it. It was a dark wheeled emblem of some sort. Afterward, she released Wilhelm, staying close enough to talk quietly. If he tried to run, she'd have him again before he could take two steps. "I don't have time for games. What is going on?" Dearbhail demanded. "Who hired you to follow me? And why?" Her eyes narrowed in suspicion as she added, "And how did you know about LaFlechette?" The man sighed. His body seemed to shrink in its frame. Dearbhail had seen the stance before. It was that of a foe, beaten on the field - not in body but in spirit. Scargill was now resigned. "I really can't tell you," the man said. "It's against the rules. We can be allowed to affect the outcome of the game. I was hoping you'd already heard of us - but certainly I can't tell you. I can't complain. I've been witness to wondrous things and I suppose it's just my time. (Wits + Alertness = 1 success). Dearbhail saw that Scargill had something in his hand. Before she could react, he put it into his mouth. Game? Rules of the game? This guy knew about immortals and the stupid game some of them claimed was the reason for their existance. As soon as Dearbhail saw Scargill put the thing in his mouth, she realized that he was trying to kill himself. She immediately jumped at him and tried to get her fingers in his mouth to get what she assumed was a poison pill. "Spit it out. This is a stupid thing to die for," she hissed at him. (Dexterity + Alertness = 1 success) Dearbhail grabbed his throat and pushed her fingers into his mouth (Dearbhail is Hurt/-1). Scargill clamped down on her fingers, trying to chew up his pill. (Stamina + Alertness = 1 success). Dearbhail grimaced at the pain but managed to pull out only a tiny bit of what was in Scargill's mouth. Her enigmatic pursuer made a swallowing motion. Then he just looked at her, giving her a sad smile. Dearbhail looked at the bit of pill in her hand. It was chalky white and hard. They waited a bit but nothing happened. The sad smile vanished from Scargill's face and quickly he thrust his hand into his pocket, pulling out yet another pill - this one a capsule, moss green in colour. "Oh dear," he said, (Dexterity + Alertness = 4 successes) but it was too late as Dearbhail snatched the pill out of his hand. Scargill looked at the pill in Dearbhail's hand. His face was mildly flustered. "Oh dear, and I was hoping for at least one good evaluation in the field," he sighed. Dearbhail was about to say something when she felt a mild nausea accompanied by a small pain in her head - QUICKENING! Dearbhail shoved the pill in her pocket and drew her sword, looking around for any sign of another immortal (what's the range on the Q-sense?). She flattened against the wall, attempting to pull Scargill with her. She gave him an angry "shh!" Then she held still and watched. (Dearbhail is now healed from her minor would received from Scargill's bite.) "Well, I see I was right to 'convince' that other watcher to tell me who his replacement would be." LaFlechette turned to grin at his one flunky who stood beside him with a small machine pistol pointed toward the ground. "Mister Scargill, you are every bit as bungling and inept as your predecessor said you would be." "Marschner? What have you done with him?" Scargill blurted, giving his and Dearbhail's position away. "Ah, there you are," LaFlechette said, pointing the direction out to his man, who brought the gun to bear in the right direction. "Don't worry, my dear Scargill. I'm not known for being cruel when there's no purpose to it. Your companion died quickly, you can be sure of that." LaFlechette squinted, obviously trying to make Dearbhail out. "Come, ma chere. We have business to attend to. That pretty head of yours belongs to me this night." When Dearbhail didn't appear, he smiled - looking like a crocodile as his bad dentures revealed themselves. "Don't worry," he said. LaFlechette snapped his fingers and his companion put away the machine pistol. "You needn't fear Richard here. This is between us, trust me. Time has been kind to me and I'm fully aware of how much I outclass you. Last time we met, I just wished to spare you the humiliation of defeat. You would have died thinking you could have taken me if only it had been a fair fight." The words "fair fight" seemed to prod the Frenchman's memory. "Ah, that reminds me." LaFlechette dug into his pockets and produced a locket. "This was Miriam's. I don't why I kept it. Just thought it was pretty and might come in handy seducing some little bitch. Would you like it?" He dangled it in the air, waving it in Dearbhail's direction. "Come - come out and I promise to bury it with you." Dearbhail didn't trust LaFlechette at all, but she wanted him too badly to pass up an opportunity to fight. Besides, he knew where she was and could just gun her down if he wanted to. "Get out of here as soon as you have the chance", Dearbhail whispered to Wilhelm. She drew Miriam's knife and held it at her side, partially concealed. At the first sign that the gunman was going to shoot her or Wilhelm, she planned to try to take him out with it. The knife wasn't meant for throwing, but it was all she had availalble. She recognized Miriam's locket; it was the one thing Miriam always kept with her. It had been passed down from mother to daughter in her family for decades and had been Miriam's link with the past. Right now, thought, it wasn't important. She'd take it off LaFlechette's body soon enough. Dearbhail stepped out of the shadows, keeping an eye on the gunman, sword at the ready. "If you're done hiding from me, let's see your vaunted skills." (Perception + Empathy = 1 success). Dearbhail noticed that Wilhelm seemed antsy. Wilhelm? She momentarily reflected on her thinking of the man in the personal. Already, she had discounted him as a threat and was even concerned for his well-being. He seemed such a helpless sort of person. "Good luck," he finally whispered. "I hope you win." He darted off like a frightened rabbit. It shouldn't have surprised her that LaFlechette was a liar. Still, her heart skipped a beat when she saw him point out Wilhelm's flight. The gunman snickered and tracked Wilhelm with the machine pistol. Dearbhail, ready for such an event, threw Miriam's knife at LaFlechette's henchman, (Dexterity + Throwing = 1 success) managing to hit him in his chest. Round 1. (Richard is hit and takes 3 points of damage and is now Injured/-2). END COMBAT Plucking the knife from his chest, LaFlechette's goon's smirk instantly became a painful grimace. The goon ignored Wilhelm and turned his gun toward Dearbhail. But his switch in targets wasn't even complete when his head exploded in a mass of red and grey matter while hairy bits of skull flew up into the air, landing like rain all around LaFlechette. LaFlechette twirled around, scanning his rear while the goon's body fell over like dead wood. LaFlechette then reached to turn his dead goon over and grab the gun but Dearbhail's shadow told him it was too late. Retreating, LaFlechette drew his own sword. Shrugging, he added, "Well, I see you've finally learned to take a page out of my book. Nevertheless, I hope that you intend a fair fight after all?" Round 1: Initiative goes to LaFlechette. MacKenna decides to attack and empower weapon. LaFlechette will opt to parry while empowering self. a. MacKenna attacks with an empowered blade (Dexterity + Melee = 7 successes). b. LaFlechette empowers self, adding two to his Dexterity. c. LaFlechette parries (Dexterity + Melee = 6 successes). d. MacKenna hits and does (6 + 1 aggravated = 7 damage) e. LaFlechette soaks 1 aggravated and takes 6 damage and is now Crippled (-5). Dearbhail felt power surge through her sword arm as she charged at LaFlechette. Her high-pitched battle cry cut through the air as she slashed at him. Though he deflected her first thrusts, Dearbhail managed to slash LaFlechette across his stomach with a deep wound that made him gasp and stagger back. Round 2. Initiative goes to Dearbhail. LaFlechette will heal and parry. Dearbhail does a normal attack. a. LaFlechette heals self.for one. (Now mauled/-2) b. MacKenna attacks (7 successes.) c. LaFlechette parries (3 successes - 2/mauled = 1 success). d. MacKenna hits and does (6 damage and no aggravated = 6 damage). e. LaFlechette soaks 1 damage and takes 5 damage and is now dead. f. END COMBAT Dearbhail pressed her attack, not giving LaFlechette the chance to do anything more than defend himself. She let her anger drive her forward, determined to see him dead. Though he had healed some of the damage that Dearbhail had given him, she was able to quickly beat his sword back and with a but one slash and thrust, it was over, LaFlechette sagging to his knees while his eyes rolled upward. Dearbhail plucked her sword from his chest, letting him fall to the ground. Dearbhail plucked Eric LaFlechette's head up, making sure that he was indeed down. Though he had "died" in the mortal sense, he would soon be back due to the powers of his quickening. Dearbhail lifted LaFlechette's head by the hair, triumphant. After all this time and all the searching it was over. Without any regrets, she cut his head off in a single stroke. "You're free, Miriam. Go now and join your family." Saturday, June 24, 1995 9:45 p.m. Dearbhail felt a rumbling in the ground. At first, she thought it might be an earthquake but she actually saw that the ground began to ripple slightly, in waves of earth that buckled the asphalt - all centering around her. Strangely, though the ground cracked and swelled all around her, she was able to maintain her footing with no effort at all. Her feet began to tingle and then prick as if a thousand needles were being driven into her soles. Then the fires of earth surged up inside her, lighting her like a candle. She tried to scream but her voice erupted as fire, blasting the trees all around while the incoming fog became electrified and sparkled with iridescence. She was filled to bursting with the vast amount of Quickening that surged through and past her. There was only so much she could take in. France, 1898 Marie and little Jules were busy catching butterflies under the hot autumn sun while Michele and the others rested their feet beside the stream, large wet grape leaves covering their faces. The breeze was becoming a wind, shifting in its course; at times carrying bits of words and conversation, and sometimes his darling Marie's laughter to his ears - at other times carrying such far away so that Eric had the illusion that he was finally alone. Why had Marie insisted on bringing him here? Nothing he had said had been enough to release him from this trial and, affecting good spirits, he had allowed himself to be dragged here; conveyed by Michele's motor carriage - a strange toy so alien to him that Eric had to force himself not to stare at it like some ignorant peasant. Peasant? Certainly, that was not an epithet that he, Eric LaFlechette, could hurl with impunity, Eric realized, mentally chiding himself. Time had brought him grace and had smoothed some of his rougher edges; enough so to fool the bourgeoisie that he cavorted with now. Time had brought him so many things. Shielding his eyes from the Sun, Eric looked out over the hills dotted with vineyards, their smooth courses broken by stone walls and dotted by twisted ancient trees that his Marie would have been shocked to learn were younger than he by centuries. Looking at the hills, Eric tried to peel back ages and see with another eye. The land was vastly different but in its shape, in the underlying curves, stripped of man's ephemeral garment of county life, she was still the same as he'd known her - fertile and lovely and still kissed by the sun. Like memories of an old love, the lay of the land was coming back to him slowly. Guienne, France, 1355 Roman and Raimond rested in the darkness of the forest, trying to remain perfectly still and hear the spirits of the forest speak to them. It was remarkably blasphemous, one that only the young feeling the strength of their youth would allow themselves. It was the best time of the year; when after the harvest had been taken and winter had not yet come in full force - when days now allowed them a few hours to wander away from the farm, it's geese and pigs, goats and sheep - to get away, walking miles from home to see what might lay beyond the next hill. Invariably it was much the same, but the journey itself touched Roman's heart. But not his brother, Raimond's, it seemed. "Handn't we better be getting back?" Raimond asked, trying to sound serious for his seven years. Roman looked over at his young brother with a look of disappointment. At seven, he should have been much more adventurous. Yet, no sooner had they started on their hunting trips, Raimond was already eager to get back home. Never mind that the few acres around their cottage and the weekly walk to church constituted the sum of their world most of the year. Here was Roman's once chance to get away and Raimond wanted to spoil it. "You begged me to come, you know," Roman pointed out. "But if we're caught hunting, we'll be whipped. These lands belong to the Abbot!" Roman looked at the brace of pheasant at his side. In Raimond's pouch, he knew that the trout from his trap were still wriggling. "Don't worry, my brother. We'll see the kind Abbot receives his good food; but only after passing a few deniers our way. Old Jean is getting old," Eric said, meaning the plow ox. "How else do you propose we find another. You don't want our poor mother to starve, do you?" Raimond kept quiet. Roman noticed he was shivering. It was getting late and he hadn't noticed. It was none to eager to return home himself. But he would have to in the end. He was the responsible one. He had to be since there was no father. "Alright, you go home," Roman said. Here," he handed over the pheasants. "Tell mama to keep one of the trout and birds each. We've got enough. It's time we had a taste of life like they do at the abbotry." Raimond smiled, his eyes growing wide. "Do you mean it? We can keep one each?" Roman smiled. "Why not?" Laughing, he shooed Raimond away, who hardly needed urging. He was racing down the road as fast as his young legs could carry him. Later, as darkness had nearly come, Roman had allowed himself to be carried away from his quiet time. Feeling distant from his life, he often found himself wishing it away. What he wanted to be was a cleric, like those at the abbotry. He wanted to travel the world, see Rome and the Holy Land, read books and know what mysteries they told him. Instead, he was a farmer, raising pigs and geese for someone else's table; always turning the better wine over to the landlord; drinking only vinegar. No wonder he had a bad taste in his mouth. As darkness descended and Eric came over the hill, he saw torches from a long column of men winding through the valley. They were making camp just at it's head. Dotting the countryside behind them, fires burned marking every cottage of every farm. "The Godamns!" Roman hissed. Running himself, he came upon his own farm. The English and Gascons were too burdened with food to bother with taking anything but their best - what had been reserved for the landlord and then for sale. But, they had destroyed 'everything'. Every pig was dead, it's belly slashed. Geese had been hacked to pieces while Jean, mortally wounded, lay moaning just outside the burning barn. Running toward his house, Roman trampled over his mother's down mattress, her prize possession, now slashed and torn, it's feathers looking like snow on the ground in the firelight. "Oh no! Please, by the Holy Mother Virgin, NO!" Roman sobbed, sinking to his knees. The Godamns had had their way with his mother and sister, Isabeau before killing them. And Raimond, he had probably tried to stop them. They had hung him from the tree in the front yard, his pants torn where they had ripped the fish basket from them. He dangled there swinging in the wind. In countryside near Poitiers, France, 1356 "Roman, is that you?" the old man asked. Eric looked over at him, with a blank stare. He gripped his axe tighter, trying to remember this old face among the many he'd seen that year. He'd met more men in the past few months than he'd thought possible - not that most of them were worth meeting. The face started to look familiar. "Gaston?" "Roman! It is you! I'm glad to see you survived, boy." Gaston looked around at the assembly of peasants around them. Many of them were women or young boys - a mass levy hoping to glean whatever they could from the battle. As a whole, Eric realized, the group he was in ranked just above the dogs and crows who would come to feast after them. The nationality of the dead didn't matter to these. French, English or Gascon, they would feed their desperation just the same. But Eric, though he was tired and starving like the rest of them, he had a score to settle. And he counted on King Jean to bring him the chance. "Time to teach those Godams, eh?" Gaston smiled. Seeing Eric's look, he stopped smiling. He touched Eric with a filthy black hand, and nodded in sympathy. "How have the months been to you, boy?" Gaston asked. The gaunt look in Eric's eye spoke for itself. Like it had for so many peasants in the midst of war, it had been hard. Many had not survived. "I'm not a boy, dear Gaston. And I call myself, Eric, now, after my father." "People will think you're a Norman," Gaston said. "Why did you change your name? You were baptized, Roman. God will not know you if you are killed today." Eric smiled. "Then I shall have to make a new name for myself then, won't I?" Grimly, he tightened the grip on his axe. "Well, don't fool yourself, Roman," the man said, forgetting Eric's new name. "I've been through this before. At best, we'll just get to pick over the battlefield, after the nobles, and then the common soldiers have had their turn. You'll probably be more likely to use that axe defending your right to booty from one of those around us." Not liking the sound of the old man's babble, Eric grew silent. He hadn't come here for booty. He promised himself that he would find revenge. He hoped the Black Prince himself would come his way. "The Dauphin is leaving the field," someone cried. Mumbled whispers started to fly. It was a bad omen. Still, the Godamns were vastly outnumbered. Eric had heard that the French knights had ripped through their lines and now, everyone was waiting for the King to signal the advance. "Advance!" someone in front cried out and everyone in the crowd lurched forward. Shoving his way to the front, Eric could see the rear of the vast army of foot that the King intended to crush the English and Gascons. Soon, he could hear the cries of battle and he witnessed small flights of arrows winging into the sky. Through the distant dust, he could make out little. He longed to run forward and join the fray, but he didn't dare for fear of being mistaken for a Godamn that had gotten lost in the fracas. In his grubby clothes with no adornment, he probably more resembled one of them. Later, hours farther into the battle, Eric was finally rewarded with the sound of near battle when several screams sounded from behind him. Certainly, it hadn't come from the direction he thought it would have. "Run," Gaston said, siezing him by the arm. "The Gascons! They are behind us!" Gaston's head split, his face caving in. Eric looked up to see the rearing feet of a horse over his head, it's rider's bloody mace ascending to strike Eric this time. Eric started to lift his axe, but it was like he was made of stone, so slowly did his arms respond to his thoughts. The horse struck him in the head, knocking him down. Before he could collect his senses, he felt the sharp stabbing pain of the lance buried in his gut. The Gascon horsemen, having quickly dispersed the peasant rabble, went on to deal with the back of King Jean's army, unfurling a banner as they went as a signal to the English. Eric felt his life ebb from him. He was in terrible agony but all he could think of was how he had failed his mother, Isabeau and Raimond. He had meant to avenge them but only ended up being slaughtered like a pig on the field. France, 1898 "So, there you are!" Marie's breathless mirth was whispered past his ears. Noticing he was gone, she had left her butterfly collecting to follow him. It was obvious where he was. The hill he was standing on had a good view of the valley, and consequently, the valley of him. But Eric gaze was concentrating instead on the small farmhouse below him. Reaching the summit, she glanced intently at the farmhouse but getting no acknowledgement from her fiance, she told him, "Michele wants to leave. He wants to have dinner at that cafe we passed on the road from Plaisance. Eric spoke without looking back at her. "It would make sense. Another farmhouse there. It was a good spot, somewhat sheltered by the hill behind it, with a well and near a stream for washing. It would make sense that another house would be here." Quixotically, Marie looked down at the farmhouse. "You seemed very fascinated in that farm, my dear." Eric shook his head, awaking as if from a trance. "I'm sorry, ma cherie. It's just that I've imagined a farm in my dreams." "Did it look like that one?" she asked. "No, no it did not." Eric fell back into his silence. Marie distracted him by jumping into his arms. "After we're married, do you intend to take a city girl like me and put her up in such a place?" she teased. "I'd be no good to you, you know." "I would love to do that," Eric said, smiling back at her. "But Eric! With no parties! No opera! What would we do?" She laughed because she never thought that he might be seriously considering it. Eric put her down and took her face into his hands. The serious pained look in her face made her stop laughing. "If that place were mine, I would be content to live there with you and never venture beyond its walls for the end of time. I would tend the fields and come to you each day, watching the seasons go by in our own little world. I would stay and share eternity with you, I love you that much." Her eyes started to tear. Wiping them away quickly, she chided him by saying, "You're much to morose. What's gotten into you." He smiled. "Excuse me." He looked up at the blue sky, touched by just one wisp of white clouds, making the sky seem all that much bluer for the contrast. "I just wish I could make this day last forever." Smiling, he let her lead him off the hill, never looking back. Saturday, June 24, 1995 9:51 p.m. Dearbail clasped her head. The crush of memories flooding into her subsided as did the pain and finally, she was able to come back to her senses. Like a bitter taste, the LaFlechette's feelings wouldn't leave her and she was forced to relive them all; but mercifully in bits and pieces. Feeling Miriam's death was one of the worst. When she was ready, Dearbail got to her feet. Whoever had fired the shot at LaFlechette's henchman was gone or remained in hiding. As long as whoever it was didn't shoot her as well, Dearbhail was ready to let the mystery lie - for the moment. {Dearbhail gains 12 Quickening x.p. and one dot each in the following: French, Animal Ken, Intimidation, Subterfuge, Scrounging, Hunting, Bribery.} July 4, 8:55 Boardwalk Even as the sun set, the press of humanity at the Boardwalk was amazing. Long lines of people waiting for rides jutted out into the swarm attempting to travel along the Walk. The beach itself became a spillover, not only for the crowd, but for tempers as well as several fights continued to break out among those lounging and those cruising for action. Blood and broken glass mixed on the sand. Bikers, punks, and a host of young people from everywhere had come into town for the fireworks. Others had come too. There were cries for stolen purses or wallets and whatever police and guards that were present seemed dwarfed in number by the crowd of people, mostly from out of town. Around the bandstand, a succession of rock bands belted out tunes, gyrating and screaming; working the crowd around them into a furor. Above it all came the screams of those who dared their own fear by riding on numerous rides designed to illicit a safer form of terror. But some of the screams riding the air seemed too real. Before the distant fog had obscured it altogether, the sun turned the sky golden and then darkened to a shade of red that coloured the faces of everyone bloody as they turned to observe the death of yet another day. The woman stood near the railing, looking out across the beach to the ocean. Tall and graceful, she stood out among the more casually attired crowd: her billowing dark blue dress was of African design, but the elaborate silver embroidery traced the complex intertwined patterns of her Irish homeland. Her long black hair was bound up in braids, intertwined with silver strands. The only jewelry she wore was a pair of large silver hoop earrings. She was no great beauty; someone you might walk past without even noticing. Except for her attire. And the fact that she showed no sign of being the least bit embarrassed about being overdressed and the subject of numerous looks and comments. As she watched the crowd on the beach below, Dearbhail wondered where Mike was. She had had mixed feelings about agreeing to do this show. From what she had heard, this was not the sort of gig they usually did. But Mike had assured her that they would be performing in a different, quieter area. In fact, he said that he would personally set up everything with the booker for the event. Dearbhail had wandered all around the band area trying to find out about this "quieter performance area". No one knew what she was talking about- and when she had finally tracked down the woman who Mike had talked with- the very pretty young blonde - Dearbhail finally figured out what was going on. Now she was waiting for Mike to show up. Dearbhail noticed a flutist sitting on the edge of the dock and edged closer, curious as to what tune he might be playing. Unfortunately, his playing was so low as to be for his ears only. Disappointed, she turned her attention back to the beach. The vast crowd, huddled around the railings, or watching from the sky car ride, gazed out onto the water. Everyone was restless. The bands had stopped playing. The rides were going, but everyone was looking skyward, waiting. Though a curtain of heavy fog loomed off in the distance, it was a relief to everyone that it would come in too late to spoil the show. Out on the water, a fleet of small and large craft lay at anchor, hoping for the best view. Sloops, schooners, private yachts and fishing vessels lay alongside handsome masted giants. The ships and boats were all lighted so that they would stand out in the press. Watching their lights rising in the gentle swell was very hypnotic and one could hear the laughter and clink of champagne drifting towards the beach across the water. On the Boardwalk and Wharf, the clientele was less distinguished, less better dressed, less educated or just less monied. Beer bottles, empty and full were tossed along with curses and sometimes fists at the slightest provocation. Not having the distraction of music, drugged out men and women started began brainless macho banter and actions that often blossomed into something worse. Harsh words in many languages and harsher action were not uncommon as small fights again broke out; often involving innocent onlookers who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Private guards and police moved to break up such squabbles, often with equal brutality to those who were engaged. Someone announced a stabbing but it was forgotten as the fireworks began. The booming was terrible on the ears as several opening rounds exploded too low, showering those on the boats and the Walk with fiery embers. The pyrotechnicians soon found their mark however as fiery blossoms bloomed across the night. Golden shimmers and wild screaming white fireballs elicited "oohs" and "aahs" from the crowd. A fiery red explosion was followed by three smaller ones, coloured blue, golden and green; and leaving in their wake a scintillating dust that drifted downward. The ongoing succession lights and sounds played across vision and mind, hypnotizing everyone. It was impossible to look away. For a brief moment, a brief explosive life, the fireworks created their ephemeral dance, bringing wonder and beauty to all who watched them. Each explosive rhythm was followed by another, as the crowd lost itself in the pattern of light and sparkle. The fireworks had just begun when she felt someone push up next to her. She turned quickly to find Mike at her side. At nearly fourty, he was still very attractive with his greying hair and ready smile. "I'm afraid I have some bad news..." Mike began. The look Dearbhail gave him was enough to stop him in mid-sentance. She had to yell to be heard over the fireworks. "The show is cancelled, right?" "There was a little mix-up. Carol somehow got the impression that we were an industrial/retro-punk band. I don't know exactly how that happened, but..." "I met Carol. She told me how disappointed she was that I didn't bang on trashcans with my head. And she was wondering if you were going to be around tonight." Mike smiled at that, "She was?" He looked over in the direction of the bands. "Have you told the others?", Dearbhail asked, interrupting his thoughts. "Yeah." Mike turned back to Dearbhail apologetically, "We could probably still do the show if you want. We could do a lot of songs with wailing, but make it into more of a screaming sound. And I'm sure we could find some trashcans..." Dearbhail sighed, "Never mind. Go have fun." Mike flashed her a smile as he left, "You too." "I'll try," Dearbhail turned back to watch the fireworks. They were mesmerizing; beautiful to the eyes and violent to the ears. Almost immediately, she was caught up in the exhibition. Toward the end of the hour, even the most jaded expectation was overcome as the night itself was banished for a moment in a crescendo of noise and wonder. It was a symphony of light and in a moment it was gone, leaving only images burned into the eyes. The fog, as if sensing its cue, moved in, shrouding the boats offshore into an inky blackness that made it dangerous for them to move. Their lights showed only dimly in the distance, like will-o-wisps dancing on the water. July 4, 9:05 p.m. Boardwalk "Very flashy," a voice remarked at her shoulder, "but a bit smelly too, you know?" Dearbhail's attention was drawn away from the fireworks display to the person who was now at her side. For a moment, she thought it was Mike returning and she opened her mouth to ask him what had happened to his new ladylove. Then she realised it was someone else, in fact it was the flutist. The young man hunched his shoulders as a cold gust of wind blew by, tousling his reddish-brown bangs and breezing right through the thin cotton jacket he wore. He pushed his spectacles up into a safer perch on his thin, angular nose and waited for an answer. She considered his comment, then replied, "I'm not sure whether I like them or not. The display is beautiful, but the sounds and smells remind me of less happier times. Still, it is compelling." Dearbhail paused for a moment, "I heard you... well really only saw you playing earlier. I take it you're not with one of these bands?" The young man blinked, looking a bit surprised. "Me...? Oh, no, not at all. I don't play very well, hardly at all to tell you the truth." He twiddled his fingers across the smoothly carved holes of the flute. "I was only practicing just now, that's probably why you didn't hear me -- I try not to play out loud, in order to spare my listeners' ears." Leaning on the top rail, his back to the ocean, he smirked. "Besides, the bands performing here aren't exactly my style." As if to illustrate his point, a long-haired man in a leather suit bellowed loudly and threw himself off a nearby stage into the waiting crowd. "How about you, miss?" His gaze passed over her ornate skirts. "Are you... a performer?" "Yes, but not that kind." Dearbhail laughed, "Although if a certain person had his way, I'd be banging my head on trashcans and screaming at the crowd now." The expression on her face told the man that such a thing happening was all but impossible. She indicated her dress and continued, an Irish lilt to her voice, "And no, I don't usually dress this way. We were supposed to perform here tonight, but... there was obviously a misunderstanding." Dearbhail looked at the flute in his hands. "Wood. Good choice. Metal flutes sound so cold and..." she searched for the right word, "mechanical." "The best sound comes from the wood ones. The wood lends its life to the notes so they are full and warm." She indicated the flute, "May I see it?" The man stared at Dearbhail for a moment, speculatively. "As long as you promise to be careful." He smirked. "I'm only borrowing it, you see." A trifle hesitant still, he extended the short wooden flute towards Dearbhail. "Is the flute your instrument? I'd be honored to hear you play." Dearbhail noted his hesistancy and interpretted it as concern over a treasured belonging. "I will be careful," she promised. She took the flute carefully, treating it with the care she would for her own instruments. Turning it over, she looked at it closely. "I can play the tin whistle and recorder, but I don't have a great deal of experience with a flute. I'm sure I could fake my way through something." She smiled at him, "Of course with all the noise, I could claim to be playing as sweetly as Aeonghus himself." The man smiled faintly. "Aeonghus?" He repeated the unfamilar name fairly well. "An Irish bard, or something like that?" "God," Dearbhail correctly absently as she examined the flute. It was old and hand-crafted in an unusual fashion. "This was surely made by a master craftsman; I am not surprised you value it so highly." Dearbhail handed the flute back with care. "Where did it come from? Do you know who fashioned it?" He looked puzzled for a moment. "Now that I think about it, I really have no idea. It's on loan from a friend of mine; perhaps when I see him again I will ask him." "You know, it's too bad about the mix-up in performing. I was hoping to hear some folk music myself." The man paused for a moment, then continued, "On the other hand, I did see a flyer somewhere around here, announcing a smaller celebration at Coffeetopia. I haven't been there in quite a while, but compared to this place it's definitely less... well... just less. Perhaps they are looking for musicians to accompany their fireworks?" "The rest of the band has lost themselves in the night. I doubt they have any desire... or ability to perform now. However, that is an inspired idea." Dearbhail smiled, "While I recognize that musical forms change over the years- and that in time I may become enamored of this particular form, right now I am unable to appreciate its... pecularities." As an afterthought, she added, "I'm Dearbhail." The man blinked. "Oh, sorry. I'm Simon. A pleasure to meet you. And yes, music does change, but this stuff seems a lot like the loud, angry music of the last decade, or the one before. I can't say I've ever been into any of it, it's just not my style..." "I think I said that about blues music," Dearbhail smiled. "And now? Well, I'm willing to give this a decade." Dearbhail looked over at the band, uncertainly, "Or perhaps two." "I think that I'd like to see what's going on over at Coffeetopia. If nothing else, it will at least be quieter." She paused, then added, "Were you planning on going over there as well?" Simon cocked his head, then nodded. "Yes," he said, "I believe I was. They have a very large tree there that I like. And good coffee. I believe they were going to start the show around 10 or so..." Glancing down the railing, Simon smirked. "There are certainly quite a few interesting people out here tonight. I think I see an acquaintance of mine that fits the bill." He raised his head slightly, pointing with his chin towards where a tall, brown-haired man was standing, chatting with a cute little girl. Dearbhail was a bit surprised at the comment about the tree. Most people didn't seem to notice them as anything other than obstacles. She looked over at the man Simon indicated, then turned back to Simon. "I will probably see you there. Good bye, Simon." July 4, 9:20pm Boardwalk Dearhbail walked down the boardwalk toward the parking lot where she had left her van. She hoped it would still be there and in one piece. Suddenly, she felt the prickling at the back of her neck that told her another immortal was nearby. Immediately on alert, Dearbhail began to scan the crowd, finally catching sight of a tall man in a dark jumpsuit of some sort. He was looking around intently; seconds later he saw her. Dearbhail didn't know who the man was or what he wanted. He might have been looking for her or perhaps was just out to enjoy the fireworks. Dearbhail stood still for a moment, meeting his gaze, waiting to see what he would do. A second later, the man took a step backwards and disappeared into the crowd. Dearbhail felt the prickling feeling receed and vanish. She continued down the boardwalk, wondering if he would be waiting in a quieter place. However, she reached her van without incident and continued on her way. July 4, 10:30pm Coffeetopia After fighting traffic the whole way there, Dearbhail was relieved to finally reach Coffeetopia. Before she went inside, she planned to look around for the tree Simon had mentioned. The first thing she noticed was the giant sequoia tree with a coffeehouse built around it. Although lights burned inside, the real action was outside. A buffet laden with food has been set up outside; a young man sat at a register. Near the buffet table was a table, garlanded in red, white and blue, upon which rested several silver thermoses, presumably filled with varying flavors of coffee. A large banner suspended from the table proclaimed "BOTTOMLESS CUP." Around the coffeeshop was a ribbon, compelling people to enter through one opening. In this opening, there wasn't much of a line yet, and people were either sitting at small wooden tables or talking with each other. The band was playing a slow slong, just instrumental--no vocals, and some patrons were slow-dancing. Others, meanwhile, were sitting around various tables, some of them playing chess, and others talking, playing cards, or reading books from inside the coffeehouse. There appeared to be about 250 guests. Manning the entry point was a redhead dessed in a black midriff, top, and black leather pants. Running down the pants leg was a blue stripe stylized with white stars; and her black leather jacket sported a similar stripe. As each guest paid the $3.00 cover charge, she gave that guest a stylized mug and smiled sweetly. Dearbhail had to laugh when she saw Coffeetopia. It wasn't any surprise that Simon had taken special notice of a tree there- the shop was built around a giant sequoia. She wandered around the tree, examining how the shop had been constructed. After making a circuit of the area, Dearbhail made her way to the buffet. She hadn't had much for dinner and suspected that the coffee would definitely be worth sampling. She paid the server and collected a small plate of food and a cup of coffee, then sat down to enjoy the evening. July 4, 10:50 Coffeetopia Dearbhail had been on alert ever since LeFlechette's attack on her, sensing that one of his henchmen might be back- and not alone. Although she was fairly certain that she had identified the immortal she had sensed earlier, she was extra watchful tonight. There was no way she could hide in the crowd dressed like this, so her best defense was to be alert. She casually watched the crowd as she sampled her plate. Spotting a man watching her out of the corner of her eye, Dearbhail gave no indication of having seen him. After all, there was no point worrying about someone who was just curious about her dress. Long moments passed and the man did not look away. Dearbhail felt that this was not the behaviour of a casual observer- he watched her too intently for too long. If it was one of LeFlechette's servants, he would find that she was no frail woman who would hide at the first sign of danger. She turned and met his gaze directly- a look of challenge and strength in her eyes. The man looked away quickly, but Dearbhail had enough time to note his face and eastern European features so she would recognize him again. Was he simply a man who had been too forward in his curiosity? Or was he sent to watch her? A moment later, she let her gaze move on. She would keep an eye on this man, just in case. A moment later, Simon pulled up a chair at Dearbhail's table. "Hello again." As Simon sat down, Dearbhail smiled, and without thinking about it, pushed her plate to the center of the small table. "Welcome." She noticed his furtive glance at the plate of food and heard the sound of his hunger. "Say, you see that guy over there in the funny-colored trenchcoat? The green one. Tall, with Slavic features... he was staring at you just now, and there's something rather odd about him. I can't quite put my finger on it, but it bothers me..." Dearbhail frowned, but did not look over at the man Simon indicated. "Yes, I saw him. I do not know him, but he may be following me. I'm afraid that I have not only friends in this city." Simon smiled, a bit sadly. "And I'm in more or less the same situation, actually." He glanced over at the Slav, "He could just be a harmless weirdo, but I wonder..." "Indeed? And here I thought that Santa Cruz was a quiet, pleasant town," Dearbhail smiled as she spoke. It wasn't clear if she was being sarcastic or not. Simon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and squinted at the man. Lifting his right hand, he rested his jaw on the base of his palm; all in all, an unremarkable pose, save perhaps for the fact that his long fingers had covered his right eye. The left one continued to squint. Dearbhail watched Simon with surprise- she recognized that posture. Although it was usually done while standing on one leg, it was a magical ritual pose- one that she hadn't seen for a very long time. She didn't think that he was doing it intentionally, but she couldn't resist making a comment. "So, does Balor's eye show you his true form?" Simon sat back up and gave Dearbhail a strange look. "Balor's eye? I'm not sure what you mean, but since you ask... I don't think he's dangerous, at least not in the way I had feared. But he's unstable somehow, uncontrolled, you know? Like a leaky battery. Perhaps we should both steer clear of him." Dearbhail considered what Simon said about the man, "I'm not sure I understand. What about him is unstable? Do you mean emotionally? Or perhaps in a spiritual sense?" Simon twisted his mouth around, thinking. "He has power, but perhaps not fully under his control. Like a kettle with a loose lid, the steam escaping outwards." He shrugged. "That is just my impression, I am not an expert in that sort of thing." He regarded Dearbhail, his mouth twisting into a half-smile. "Truth is though, I'm not sure if I should be more worried about him or you -- who are you, anyway?" She laughed, "You have nothing to fear from me. I am merely a musician who was left without an audience. And an old Irish lady who makes reference to stories of the past unaware that few others will recognize them." "That is what I meant by Balor's eye. Covering one eye is a magical gesture, although it is usually combined with standing on one foot. It's also called a Crane stance. I did not intend to make fun, just making connections to the past." "What of you? A silently playing piper. A unknowing user of magical gestures. One who likes, yet does not like the exuberance of a crowd. Surely there is more." "Oh, there is, yes. But I don't think this is the place to discuss it, and it's not a pleasant tale in any case. At least not the last few chapters." Simon regarded Dearbhail carefully. "You seem like a nice old Irish lady, even if you don't look all that old, so I'll tell you that not all is well in Santa Cruz. Dark things walking in the night, and so on... you'd be wise to steer clear of odd characters like that one, or like myself for that matter." Dearbhail smiled, "There are two characteristics I have that nearly all old Irish ladies possess. The first is that we like a good story- whether it be happy or sad is not as important as its quality. I hope that one day I will have a chance to hear yours." "The other is that we know that evil waits in the night- and sometimes in the clear light of day. But instead of hiding from it and pretending it doesn't exist, we seek to learn the nature of the evil in order to fight it and protect our families from it." She continued more seriously, "Santa Cruz has perhaps more than its share of darkness, but it also has more than its share of light. It is in my nature to seek out both- to learn how to defeat one and how to bolster the other." "If that man is who I suspect he is, I will have to deal with him sooner or later. And I would rather face him with knowledge of who he is and what he wants than be surprised unawares." The tall stranger cleared his throat as she finished her sentence. He had silently slipped up to their table, somehow unnoticed. His brown eyes met hers for a moment before gesturing her to wait a moment before reacting or saying anything. His attention became focused on Simon. Dearbhail rose to her feet as Igor suddenly appeared before her; she was not used to people sneaking up on her- especially those she was keeping an eye on. She stood still, watching Igor intently as he and Simon exchanged pleasantries. "Tell me which tradition you belong to, mage. Falsehood is not an option." A strange demand asked with a cool intensity. "Nor is it my intent." Simon smirked, looking rather less surprised than the situation might have warranted. "I didn't think I could notice you without noticing me back, and I was wondering if you'd come over." He glanced sidelong at Dearbhail, then continued. "Since you ask so nicely, I belong to a group that some call Dreamspeakers. And now I'll ask you the same in return: who are you, and what do you want?" He met the other man's gaze with a calm stare. The man simply nodded and visibly relaxed with a sigh. "Strange night. I am Euthanatos. Very interested in the cycle of the wheel of life and death. And surprises on top of surprises, I meet two different people that found different ways to slip out of it.", nodding to Dearbhail. "I was rude, but I am not a diplomat, even in my best days. Nor am I a danger. My staring was simply out of curiosity. No threat or spying." Once it became clear that Igor was not a threat, she sat down again. "If you are not an enemy, then please join us." She moved the plate of food a bit closer in his direction. A moment of silence, allowing him to gather his thoughts. "As for what I want... I am curious. About you,", looking at Dearbhail with a disturbing intensity, "and about the war that is raging in Santa Cruz, if you heard", the russian said, looking at Simon. Simon chuckled. "You could say I've heard, yes. Although I'm not the best person to ask about it." He craned his neck, scanning the crowd. "There are others, though I don't see any of them here. And you, sir? Were you worried I would answer Verbena just now, or are you with them?" Dearbhail listened carefully to what the two mages had to say. She did not seem to be having any trouble following the conversation. She had things she could add, but for the moment, it was wiser to listen. "If Verbena would have been your answer, I think only one of us would have walked out of here. They dragged me in a war I didn't want. Tried to bribe me, manipulate me, threaten me and finally kill me. Things I usually find unpleasant and quite unsettling. Anything you heard that you are willing to share? The choristers are under siege back at the temple." The Euthanatos looked at Simon's serene face with a frown. "I envy you your detachment. I'm here to escape it all. If only for a night." Simon laughed, and there was a grim, unpleasant tone in his laughter. "I seem detached, do I? If I give that impression, I'm afraid it's a sham." He smiled faintly. "Or a defense mechanism, if you believe in that kind of thing. To tell you the truth, perhaps more than any- but no, never mind. You say the Chorus is under siege? I will pass the news on, thank you." After a moment, Igor turned his attention toward Dearbhail. "I feel you managed to escape the cycle somehow. I find it extremely stimulating. I'm used to seeing a limited number of options, and tonight, I learn there are some I never even imagined. Seems my vision of life and death is not up to date and I would be curious to know more about you and your kind, my lady." He finished off his sentence with a small bow of the head and a discreet smile in his brown eyes. As Igor turned and addressed Dearbhail, Simon watched the beautiful young woman who called herself old, studying her closely and with a faint smirk on his lips. "Before I answer your question, I would like to know who I am sharing a table with. I am Dearbhail MacKenna." The Russian acknowledged the demand with one of his usual nods. "I am Igor." Dearbhail considered the grim man for a moment before responding. "No one can truely escape the cycle of life, death and rebirth- and indeed, why would one want to? To continue on while family and friends move onto the next world and are ultimately reborn in this one. Who would wish for such a fate?" "No, I have not escaped it, but am trapped in it. Unable to move on and continue my journey." The Russian frowned at that, taken aback. "Your condition is very peculiar then. My interest is increased tenfold then. How did you become trapped and you are willing to escape it? Maybe I could help you find an exit." The reply was straightforward, with no trace of irony... only a tint of compassion. At this, Simon grimaced a bit and shook his head very slightly, looking at Dearbhail. Dearbhail considered for a moment, "I have spent a great deal of time thinking about the reasons. I have heard many theories, but do not know which, if any, are true. I do not think that something like is accidental, there must be a reason for my continued existance. Therefore, I will not leave of my own choice until my purpose has ended." The Russian stared at her intensely for a few moments, a cold and distant mask hiding his feeling and thoughts. "There is sensible wisdom in your vision. I also think the world is richer by your presence and the time of your Death has not come yet, even if your life has been longer than most. Do you know anything about your kind and what made you what you are?" Dearbhail continued, "But it seems that my story has less urgency than does your own. I have some knowledge of your kind. Of the war you fight and the methods you use to do so. But I am not aware of any battle being fought in Santa Cruz. Perhaps you would be willing to enlighten me?" The Russian looked a bit uneasy, unsure if he should adopt a secrecy or not. "There is a war of mages, a war of reality. The Verbenas allied themselves with the lupines and brought into this world a demon of some kind. Immensely powerful. The other traditions oppose them, but the war is not going well for our side. Their summoning is an abomination and they are bound to loose control over it very soon. Their pride and overconfidence will be the death of many good people. Care to share some of your experience, Dearbhail?" Simon nodded. "Sadly, what he says is what I know to be true as well. Do you plan on fighting the Verbena, Igor? You should speak with Davies if you do, I think..." "I have no choice to fight. I have been dragged in this war, against my will. Who is Davies and where can I find?", the Euthanatos mage asked, his interest acute. Simon nodded seriously. "Colonel Davies is the War Leader, an Akashic. Although from what little I know of him he seems to be a hard man to find, I am sure he would be interested in speaking with you. Do you have a phone number where messages can reach you, or something like that?" Igor considered for a moment, before answering. "I tend to move around a lot. But I've been hanging around the Klub for the past few days now, so he could probably reach me there. If he asks around, someone might know where to find me. Just know that the place is being watched by the Verbenas and the wolves." Dearbhail added, "I am surprised to hear that the Garou would bring such a thing into existance without being able to control it. What do they hope to gain?" "They did not bring it into existence, I think. It is using them and the witches more than they are using it, using their sadness and rage. They are a great people, but they have been tortured and pushed into desperate measures to try and reclaim what belongs to them. That, at least, is my guess. I do not relish the thought of having to fight them, for more than one reason." Simon looked away, his face darkening. The Euthanatos nodded at this before adding his two cents. "Althought I am not well informed of all the details, Simon's comment coincides well with my own feeling of the situation. Desesperation for the wolves and hunger for power for the Verbenas were the cards that were played to bring us in this situation." At this point, the conversation stopped and it's participants seemed to drift apart. Wednesday, July 5th, 1995 12:30 p.m. The dreams and sudden flashes of memories were finally beginning to subside. The week after LaFlechette's death had found Dearbhail plagued with memories that weren't hers. Her dreams were full of foreign countrysides that she knew as home, unending months of starvation and fear as she tried to survive the warfare, her own ignominous death at the hands of a soldier, and the endless years that followed. She had retreated into the silence of her isolated home, trying to find a way to deal with these powerful images. Dearbhail had killed one immortal long ago, but it hadn't been nearly as bad as this. An image flashed past- her family... no, not her family, LaFlechette's family, dead. Not killed in battle, they were butchered like animals for no reason other than they were in the path of the army. He had sought to avenge his family, just as she had avenged Miriam. Dearbhail respected that and admired his attempt at vengeance. But somehow he had been changed by the experience until he had decided that the destination was the only important thing- that the journey didn't matter. Her one comfort was that Miriam was finally avenged, finally free of LaFlechette. Tonight she would honor Miriam's memory and acknowledge her passage into the next world. It was a time for both mourning and celebration, and had been a long time in coming. Dearbhail was in no hurry to rejoin the world. It took several weeks before she started to enter into it again. Monday, July 31st, 1995 1:35 p.m. William Scargill had occupied Dearbhail's thoughts more and more in the past few days. He knew things about her that he shouldn't, and had followed her on at least that one occasion. He had also implied that there was someone else who had been following her. Dearbhail thought that she had done a very good job of hiding her nature over the years. Now, she had to wonder how many others knew- and what they planned to do with that knowledge. Finding him shouldn't be too difficult; she remembered his address, 12 Walnut Ave., from his driver's license. One late afternoon, she went looking for him. Walnut Ave. was an old, small street, sheltered by lush trees whose roots fought their way past the sidewalk, making the footing uneven. Her destination was a small used bookstore called 'Guillotine Used Books & Literature', an unusual name for a bookstore. Dearbhail would have to ask about that name. Dearbhail carefully slipped into the store. The tiny bell connected to the door, meant to signal the arrival of a customer, was silent. She took the "Open" sign and flipped it to read "Closed". A little privacy would be necessary for this conversation. It was cold inside the store. Dearbhail wondered if the air conditioner was broken or perhaps set wrong. Or perhaps Scargill didn't like California's heat. She didn't have time to follow that particular line of thought; William Scargill stepped out of a back room and began walking in her direction. Scargill's tie, sweater, and glasses made him look like a modern scholar. His attention was on the stack of musty, old pamphlets he carried in his arms. Just as he was about to look up, Scargill tripped and dropped the pamphlets all over the floor. As he bent down to pick them up, he noticed Dearbhail, who was stooping down to give him a hand. "Oh no! It's not YOU, is it?" Scargill asked as his glasses slipped from his face. Dearbhail's hand darted out to grab his spectacles before they could hit the ground. She kept her attention on Scargill as she handed the glasses back to him. "Yes, it's me. Are you surprised to see me alive? Or just surprised to see me?" Dearbhail paused for a moment, then added, "There are several things I'd like to discuss with you, starting with what you were doing following me that night." Scargill reached inside his pocket. Every wary, Dearbhail at first thought he might be reaching for a weapon; but instead he pulled out a handkerchief and began mopping his face with it. "Oh dear, this will never do. Please, you must leave," he entreated Dearbhail. Dearbhail shook her head, surprised by his reaction. Anger at or fear of her would be understandable. But she didn't quite understand this reaction. A sort of warm tingling touched at the edge of Dearbhail's mental perceptions. Accompanying it was a mild nausea that heralded only one thing - an immortal. The belled door of the bookshop rang and inside walked a dark haired young man. He too was looking warily around; but when he saw Dearbhail, he smiled, as if seeing an old friend. There was something very old in his eyes - and Dearbhail knew this was the one she'd felt. Surprised again, Dearbhail resisted the urge to look over her shoulder for someone else. Although she had felt his presence before, she knew nothing more of him than that. She nodded politely to him, then watched the interaction between the immortal and Scargill. But when he spoke, it was to Scargill. His voice was deep and dulcet. "Mister Scargill, I just wanted you to know that you book about Late Roman History has arrived." "My book?" Scargill seemed to be drawing a blank. "Yes, sir - the one dealing with the German frontier…" (Perception + Alertness = 3 successes) Taking her eyes off the newcomer for just a second, Dearbhail saw Scargill's eyes grow wide with an almost fearful apprehension. "Oh, that book!" he said. "You mean it's HERE?!" "Yes sir," the young man replied. This time he looked at Dearbhail but still spoke, as if to Scargill. "If you don't need me any more sir, I take a walk down the street - to the Greek Orthodox Church - Prophet Elias." (Wits + Diplomacy = 1 success) Holy Ground. The immortal wished to meet her on holy ground. He nodded to Scargill and walked out the door. Scargill picked up some keys. "Please, I've got an important first edition I have to pick up. A customer is waiting for it." (Perception + Empathy = BOTCH) Scargill held the door open, urging Dearbhail outside, a pleading look on his face. "Very well, but we 'shall' speak later." This whole situation was very strange; she wanted to find out what was going on from Scargill, but she knew the immortal was waiting for her. She knew where Scargill lived, this other immortal she might never find again. Dearbhail left the shop and headed for the Greek Orthodox Church. She didn't think this man would attack her without warning, but it was best to be careful.
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