Character Sheet: Eyjolfr Hognisson
Appearance
Prelude

Journal Entries:

Friday, May 26th, 1995
Thursday, June 1st, 1995
Friday, June 2nd, 1995
Saturday, June 3rd, 1995
Sunday, June 4th, 1995
Thursday, June 8th, 1995
Saturday, June 10th, 1995
Sunday, June 11th, 1995
Friday, June 16th, 1995
Sunday, June 25th, 1995

Name: Eyjolfr Hognisson
Player: Jukka Rasanen
Status: Removed for Inaction
Chronicle: Santa Cruz/Immortal
Nature: Seeker
Demeanor: Rogue
Residence:
Age: 29
Sex: Male
Concept: Viking

ATTRIBUTES:
Physical: Strength-2, Dexterity-4, Stamina-3
Social: Charisma-4, Manipulation-3, Appearance-2
Mental: Perception-3, Intelligence-3, Wits-4

ABILITIES:
Talents: Acting-1, Alterness-3, Athletics-1, Brawl-3, Dodge-3, Empathy (Persuasion)-4, Leadership-1, Poetic Expression-3
Skills: Boat Handling (sail)-2, Etiquette (Medieval)-3, Firearms-1, Melee-4, Riding-1, Stealth-3, Survival-2
Knowledge: Enigmas (Riddles)-3, History-1, Law (Early Medieval)-1, Linguistics (Ancient Greek, Irish Gaelic, Medieval Anglo-Saxon, Ancient Norse, English)-5, Occult-1, Skaldic Lore-3

ADVANTAGES:
Other: Quickening-3
Backgrounds: Arcane-3, Contacts-1, Resources-3
Merits & Flaws: Acute Hearing (+1), Curiosity (-2), Luck (+3), Natural Linguist (+2), Phobia (mild)/Drowing (-1)

Faith-0
Humanity-?
Willpower-6

VIRTUES:
Conscience-0
Self-Control-0
Courage-0

Note: I have marked some Abilities with (S). These are Abilities the character would certainly have from his mortal days, but that are of limited use in modern days, ranging the completely useless (Early Medieval Danish Law) to the mostly useless (Horsemanship). I'm not sure what to do with these Abilities since there aren't enough points to pay for them (even if I spent all Freebie points in Abilities), but on the other hand it is ridiculous to assume the character wouldn't know (for example) anything about court etiquette or sailing. (As shown here, I have paid points for none of the Abilities marked with (S).)

Note: A Natural Linguist, Eyjolfr would probably also know languages such as Anglo-Saxon and Irish Gaelic, but due to a shortage of points, I have omitted these. The Phobia comes from being trapped in the bog for so long - even though he can breathe water (and is perfectly aware of this) Eyjolfr still has an irrational fear of drowning.

Appearance: Eyjolfr is about six feet tall (I don't know much about the archeological findings from Denmark at the turn of the millenium as regards body size, but have been led to believe that the average height was then approximately the same as nowadays.), with green eyes and blond-brown hair. He wears his slightly more than shoulder-length hair in a ponytail; he doesn't have a beard or a moustache. (I'd rather he had good teeth; one reason for having him die relatively young, but even then I admit it is very unrealistic. But for gaming purposes...) Eyjolfr would typically wear sneakers, blue jeans and one of those jackets with meaningless logos and emblems. He wears a scarf to cover the scar from being strangled. He looks his 29 years, but when weary or off-guard, his true age betrays him and, indeed, he seems older than he actually is. He has a tattoo of a silhouette of a boar, in ancient Scandinavian style, tattooed on his left shoulder blade (or whatever it's called - you know, the broad bone in the back directly attached to the shoulder) to show his dedication to Freyr. The tattoo is a recent one, made in 1968.

Prelude:

Eyjolfr ("Lucky Wolf"; I'm not exactly sure that the name was used as late as 800's-900's but...) son of Hogni was born in 892 in Egtved (a place in Denmark) to a respected family of the Carl class, his father Hogni Sigmundsson being a trader and a raider. Eyjolfr became a member or the local Jarl's (regional ruler's), Thorvald the Reverent's, court: a warrior and skald (poet; poetry was considered an honorable pursuit for warriors). He had always been interested in the universe: how the world had begun, how mankind had been created and so on. Poetry offered answers to these questions and his position as the court skald gave him a lot of chances to hear new poems and learn about the world. Eyjolfr participated in some raids on England, Ireland and the Baltic countries, and stayed at the court, enjoying a position as the Jarl's favourite poet, skilled at praising verses.

In 920 a famine struck the area: crops failed and people starved. The Jarl sacrificed a thrall to Freyr in an effort to restore the failing crops. This unfortunately did not work and at the beginning of next spring, in 921, the Jarl, desperate, opted to sacrifice a member of his court, decided by drawing lots. The lot fell upon Eyjolfr who -while not exactly ecstatic about being strangled to death- accepted the sacrifice as inevitable and as being for the best of his lord, family and friends - besides, messing about with sacrifices to the gods is bound to result in lots of trouble. Eyjolfr was feasted on grain and flower seeds and drugged (to help him accept death), his hands and feet were bound and then he was strangled to death and thrown to a peat bog alongside with his weapons, armor and assorted items of jewelry. (Eyjolfr has a very visible scar on his neck from the strangling.)

(Note: most bog-sacrifices are from a clearly earlier period and it seems unlikely that humans were sacrificed to Freyr as late as 920. [There _were_ human sacrifices in the 10th century, but -as far as I know- they were not connected with fertility.] Improbable though it may be, it is not impossible - let us simply say that the Jarl had a strong religious conviction and supported the old ways more than usual.)

Eyjolfr recovered in the bog, unable to get out with hands and feet bound, and after a while, entered torpor. (Would you supply details about the immortals' torpor? I'd like to know such things as what triggers it, what ends it etc.)

In 1935 the bog was drained and Eyjolfr awoke. (I set the revival date a decade back because I realized Eyjolfr must have had time to learn modern Danish...) The bonds broke easily after being exposed to air and sunlight (yes, ropes can survive for over a thousand years in peat bogs) and Eyjolfr set out to explore the world, naked and unaware what kind of a world he had awoken to, but convinced that he had been reborn through the grace of Freyr (who is, after all, associated with reincarnation and rebirth), probably for a specific reason.

Eyjolfr made his way to a nearby farmer's house and made acquaintance with him. The farmer didn't know quite what to make of Eyjolfr: whether the naked, dirty man speaking strange gibberish had escaped from an asylum or what. However, he took pity on Eyjolfr and took him to help at the farm. Eyjolfr in turn saw he had been reborn into a world much different from the one he'd known and decided to deign to work as a farmer while trying to learn as much as possible. He moved the weapons, armor and jewelry from the bog and hid them in a safe place, convinced that he could safely take them since he'd been sacrificed to Freyr just like them.

Eyjolfr learned to speak (and read) Danish and learned about the modern world - through the radio and a newspaper, mostly, and still having a poor grasp of modern society and technology. The farmer hadn't reported 'finding' Eyjolfr and the locals just knew him as a village idiot. He wanted to move on, to explore the world - and to get away from agricultural work.

War broke out in 1939 and Denmark was invaded. The German occupation didn't have a major effect on the rural comnunity where Eyjolfr lived, but to him it signalled a time to move on. Convincing the farmer's son to borrow him identity papers he left Egtved with the bog offerings in two sacks, thinking it best to head for the biggest city. Eyjolfr came to Copenhagen and found work at a Danish-German bakery, under the name of Simon Vesto, the farmer's son.

Spending his days (and mornings) working and nights in a storage room at the bakery, Eyjolfr read voraciously, less concerned with the historical events around him than the thousand years he had to catch up. He read history, geography -for the world surrounding him looked very different from the world he had known (for one, the Atlantic wasn't an inland sea...)-, tried some literature but found himseld unable to appreciate works in straight prose (though he was enthralled with some works of poetry), tried some law and recoiled in disgust, tried some natural sciences but couldn't make heads or tails of it, and in short, acquainted himself with the modern world while remaining unable to grasp its fundamental features. The manner in which people accepted the marvels of technology unreverently and as a matter of course perplexed him. And he could't understand how anyone could be called a 'soldier' without ever having been in battle or having killed a man. And even in battle, these 'soldiers' either fought inside war machines, killed enemies from the skies or -at best- shot them from a hundred meters away with firearms. Also, he found no clues to the reason of his rebirth - what did Freyr want of him? He tried talking to a Christian priest and was none the wiser for it.

He learned German quickly from the other bakery workers (and by reading books in German) and came to moderately friendly terms with German soldiers in Copenhagen, delivering bread to important officers. He felt no kinship with the Germans but nor did he hate them - any atrocities he was aware of were certainly no worse than any of the Egtved warriors he had known had committed, and though the Germans were invaders in Denmark, the Danes were so different in speech, culture and outlook to those he had known that he felt little kinship with them. (Also, Scandinavian national feelings were not well developed in the beginning of the 900's, so Eyjolfr felt his home to be Egtved -which had now changed beyond recognition- rather than the whole of Denmark.) Realizing he needed money for the day when he decided to leave Copenhagen, he sold most of the bog offerings to a German officer interested in antiques, exchanging the items for solid currency: gold and jewels - even in modern days, Eyjolfr is slightly sceptical of paper money. The only things he kept were a golden arm ring and a small spear pendant made of seal ivory (symbol of Odinn), both of which he still wears. Eyjolfr didn't like parting with the sword, but it was in too poor condition to fight with - and anyway he seemed not to need a sword here.

(It might be noted that the Germans hardly advertised their atrocities, Eyjolfr was too immersed his studies to actively think about the issue, and that most people he associated with were German sympathisers. He would probably have known about executions and such, but as noted, he and his companions had done worse things. This is not to say he wouldn't have cared about the systematic inhumanities taking place, had he known. I would add that the Viking imagery in SS propaganda posters left him entirely unmoved...)

In 1942, an immortal broke into the bakery at night with the intent of taking Eyjolfr's quickening. After a brief struggle Eyjolfr disarmed him, and the man -known among immortals as Indrek, then using the name Nikolas Rodenkirch, and being a citizen of Germany- explained basic rules about immortals at a swordpoint. Then Eyjolfr ran a sword through him to test the claim, and, finding Indrek immortal, hacked his head off. Knowing the pyrotechnic display would draw a patrol to the bakery and a headless German would get him executed, he fled south, taking gold and jewels as well as Indrek's sword with him.

Eyjolfr travelled the war-ridden, mad and chaotic Europe for three years, finding no answers. He stole identity papers from suitable individuals and, where necessary, bribed authorities, sometimes escaping execution as a foreign spy -as a German in France, as a Frenchman in Germany- by the slightest of margins. Eyjolfr saw the German death-camps (he could hardly have avoided them: Auschwitz alone covered 56 square kilometers) and could scarcely believe they were real: wartime can bring out the worst in men, but the camps had nothing to do with war and everything to do with insanity. Among all the cruelties he has witnessed the camps have branded themselves in his mind like no other.

Eyjolfr also, when the chaotic conditions permitted, stole jewelry and other valuable items, some of which he sold or traded, some of which he hid, intending to come and find them later on. In France, he fought with and killed another immortal: he never even knew the other's name, much less had a chance to learn from him. The meeting was characterised by the age: a dirty and violent affair, meaningless and ugly.

At the end of the war, Eyjolfr spent the last of his gold on a French passport and took a ship overseas to the United States, weary of ruins, lost children and dead men.

He settled down in the States, spending the next ten years or so in a quiet small town, happy to be away from crowds and to spend some time alone. His solitude was broken when he was sought out by another immortal, this time not for dueling but to share information. Eyjolfr learned more about immortals and other supernatural creatures and saw it was only a matter of time before a less friendly immortal would find him, and so began to wander once again.

He travelled in North America, working for a while as a museum assistant's aide. In Canada Eyjolfr met Werewolves and formed a kind of friendship with some of them, and listened to their stories and world-views. He returned to Europe, among other things seeking his lost treasures. Some he found where he'd left them, others had been taken long ago. He converted the items to much-needed money, selling them to unscrupulous collectors. Eyjolfr had at one point had himself, then having the name Jacques Gernet, declared lost and presumably dead in the forests of Sweden, and got himself a new identity as the Dane Klaus Janson. He heard about Tsunashige's return while visiting a Swiss immortal and immediately took a flight to Santa Cruz.

Eyjolfr has a strong sense of honor from his mortal days, even though he has adjusted to modern society a bit and so compromised a little. He will try to live up to his word. If he has given it to an immortal or other supernatural creature, to a friend or in the name of Odinn or Tyr he will try to do as promised, either from a sense of duty of fear (as in the case of supernatural creatures or gods). Promises to others, such as enemies ("I will not escape if you undo the bonds"), will be treated less strictly, even though he won't break any promise without a good reason. He is very loyal to his friends and would take treachery from that direction rather hard.

Eyjolfr's Demeanor might be labeled "Rogue". He is generally cheerful and appears to treat things less seriously than appropriate. Despite his carefree manner, he is not one to underestimate risks, even though his curiosity sometimes does make him ignore them. He has a habit of quoting things from old Scandinavian poetry (such as "small are shores, small are lakes, small the minds of men"), often in a humorous manner. The label "Rogue" might be misleading in that Eyjolfr does not love adventure or excitement for the sake of it, though he might (sometimes) appear to do so.

Eyjolfr respects the old faith. While he believes in most of the things he learned as mortal (though he has read modern works on popular physics and does wonder about the creation of the world and such), he is not especially fanatic in his beliefs. He does not swear on the names of gods. (This is to say he wouldn't say "Fenrir crack your bones!", not that he wouldn't take oaths by the names of gods.) He considers himself to still belong in some way to Freyr (he was, after all, a sacrifice to him); he respects Odinn as the patron of poets; and respects Tyr as the patron of warriors and also because Tyr was an important deity in the area where he grew up and he was taught to revere Tyr.

The pre-Christian religious practices were not very organized. Most religious ceremonies were communal, and so the only way -besides prayers- in which Eyjolfr's faith shows is that he observes the pagan holy days. (I believe these are Yule (Dec 17th), Summer's Eve (Mar 17th), Midsummer (June 17th), and Winter's Eve (Oct 17th), but am at the moment unfortunately do not know how they were 'observed'.) It might also be noted that it was thought better not to place too much trust in gods (fertility deities being an exception) and, indeed, Odinn himself advised it is better not to pray than to pray too much.

Perhaps more important than religion is superstition. Eyjolfr still has many superstitious practices, such as doing the last service for a dead person by closing his eyes, mouth and nostrils and taking care that his nails are cut when he is laid to the grave. Also, Eyjolfr will try to avoid mentioning his real name to enemies when conflict seems likely, for dying men can curse their killers if they know their name. Eyjolfr still believes that the world is teeming with spirits, that spirits of the dead also sometimes roam the world, and that there are Elfs that men are better off not meddling with. (Of course, in the World of Darkness, these superstitions are quite true...) He will likely see all supernatural creatures in the light of these superstitions and treats all spirits with a mixture of fear and curiosity. Werewolves he sees as powerful magicians.

Due to his sense of honor he will never use the pistol when properly challenged - whether this is by a fellow immortal or by street thugs announcing their intentions of depriving him of his possession makes little difference. However, when fighting someone with no honor, such as backstabbers or other people who attack unannounced or from ambush, he has no qualms about shooting them first and then, if necessary, cutting their heads off. (Eyjolfr first considered firearms the weapons of cowards, but his experiences in the second world war convinced him otherwise.)

He is not quick to take offense on trivial matters, or between friends, but being called a coward, or otherwise seriously questioning his honor, would definitely call for a duel -most likely not to the death but to first blood or somesuch. And once angered, Eyjolfr takes long to forget.

Note that while Eyjolfr has somewhat adjusted to the modern 'strong women', he is still bound by his code of honor. He will avoid fighting women as long as possible and will never kill a woman on purpose (an accidental killing may or may not bother him) - he would simply ignore a challenge from a female immortal. He would, however, defend himself to the best of his ability if the other persisted, trying to disarm or immobilize the opponent but not kill her.

Possessions:
- Semiautomatic pistol (Glock 22) and ammo. (Are manstopper bullets legal in the United States, or, more specifically, in Santa Cruz? Is one allowed to carry a loaded weapon, even hidden inside jacket, in Santa Cruz?)
- Sword (A Russian officer's sword from the 19th century, previously owned by the immortal Indrek. Eyjolfr has carved the futhark rune "T" (for Tyr) on the handle, for luck in battle. The blade is about two and a half feet long, straight and double-edged. I'd say the sword's Difficulty 6 and Damage Strength + 4.). Eyjolfr usually carries the sword on his back, hidden by his jacket which goes about half-way to his knees. (Arcane might also help in this - I'll have to check Mage for the rules.)
- A spear pendant made of seal ivory, a symbol of Odinn.
- A golden arm ring with serpentien patterns, worn under clothing on upper right arm. When the ring would be especially conspicious Eyjolfr may leave it at home.
- A small rented apartment somewhere in Santa Cruz. (Provided he has had time to rent an apartment before the beginning of the Chronicle.)
- A small flashlight, notebook and pen, and such.
- Eyjolfr also carries some amount of cash with him (say a couple hundred dollars), and does have a bank account with a sum of money yet to be determined, as I haven't chosen Backgrounds yet. However, most of his wealth is in the form of gold or jewels, some of which he sent, addressed to himself, to Poste Restante in Santa Cruz before leaving.

Friday, May 26th, 1995 1:57 p.m.

Eyjolfr sat back on his white plastic chair, enjoying basking in the strong glaring warmth of the sun. Below him the aromas of a plate of cheese ravioli with a pesto sauce just managed to peek some interest out of him as he watched the foot traffic ply its way around Pacific Avenue. The sunny weather had brought out the crowds and coupled with the lunchtime traffic from the nearby offices and businesses, the Mall was beginning to get crowded. There had been no morning fog so Eyjolfr expected the muggy heat that would arise soon would stifle much of this activity. It was as if sensing this, the people of Santa Cruz wanted to get out and enjoy as much as they could of the best time of the afternoon, before the heat began to suffocate and close in on them, driving them back to their fans, or if they were lucky, air conditioners.
"Mr Jensen?"
Covering his eyes from the sun, Eyjolfr tried to get a better look at the man, but as the stranger stood between him and the sun, all Eyjolfr could see was the outline of a man black as a shadow.
"Excuse me, but are you Klaus Jensen?"
Just as the two o'clock chimes from the recorded bell in the clock tower sounded, Eyjolfr stood up and greeted his afternoon appointment. The man was at least punctual.
"Mr Locatelli, I presume?" Eyjolfr indicated an empty seat opposite him but the man shook his head.
"Do you mind if we sit under one of the umbrellas? The sun's a bit too warm for me."
Eyjolfr nodded and the two of them got up and moved under the covered patio umbrella that gave shade to at least three of the tables. During hot days like this, such tables were popular and Eyjolfr just managed to snag the last one.
Sitting down, Eyjolfr looked for the first time on the short broad body of Joe Locatelli. Seeming in his grey suit like an overstuffed child's toy, a casual glance might have suggested that Joe was fat. But Eyjolfr's trained eye at once picked out the fact that Joe, though broad, was made up of pure muscle. His bulk was due to a regimen of physical exercise and not due to layers of fat. But, like many body builders, Joe had allowed himself to achieve a degree of excess that was not flattering and made him look more like a gorilla or adult chimpanzee.
"So, what have you found for me?" Eyjolfr asked, his English good enough to hear the slight touch of his own accent, but not adept enough to shake it off.
"Well, Mr. Jensen. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but to come right to the facts, I'm not going to take on your case," Joe told Eyjolfr.
"Oh," Eyjolfr's own voice remained calm. "I hope its not a matter of money," he inquired, trying to not seem angry or frustrated.
"No, the money's good enough. In fact, I've brought with me a cashier's check to refund your retainer," Joe reassured the Dane, who seemed inscrutable behind his dark sunglasses.
"Well, could you at least offer me an explanation about why you don't want my case," Eyjolfr pressed him. "I mean, when we talked about it on the phone, you didn't seem to show any concern."
"I'm sorry, Mister Jensen, but I'm just overcommitted right now. I have too many cases that need my attention right now, and my taking on your case was unfair to my other clients."
He was lying, but there was nothing Eyjolfr could do to call him on it.
"How about if I offered to triple the money that we've already agreed upon?" Eyjolfr offered, not willing to take no for an answer.
Locatelli, who had been about to get up, stopped midway. That got him, Eyjolfr thought. Locatelli paused a bit, obviously thinking. As his hand hesitated, drawing nearer to his black leather briefcase, Eyjolfr realized that the man had brought something with him. There was something inside his briefcase.
"Do you have something to show me?" Eyjolfr asked, his voice soothing and calm. "Please, sit down. I shall write you out a cheque and then you can show me what you've brought."
But instead of calming the man with the promise of a lot of money, Locatelli seemed to jump, as if startled.
"I'm sorry," was all he offered as he got up and started walking off, all before Eyjolfr could halfway rise from his chair. Though short and stocky, Locatelli's muscular legs carried him away quickly and he soon disappeared around the post office, heading down Water Street.

Thursday, June 1st, 1995 5:33 p.m.

Eyjolfr had just peeled off the foil from his T.V. dinner. Somehow, he didn't feel like going out and even the offer of better food couldn't budge him that evening. Instead, he had walked down Seabright and rented some videos from the local store. But before he watched them, he thought that he would eat his tasteless dinner and watch the local news. There was much he wanted to learn about the area and lacking contacts, the news was as good a place to start as any. Polly Gonzalez, typically bubbly and likewise emptyheaded, could be heard as her voice continued to drone on.
"And today, the Coast Guard announced the identity of the fisherman who disappeared last Saturday, after renting a boat from the Santa Cruz Pier. His name is Joseph Locatelli, of Santa Cruz. Mr. Locatelli was self employed as a private detective. When his boat failed to return by the three o-clock time specified by the rental company, the Coast Guard was notified and a search initiated. Mr. Locatelli's boat was not found until Monday, at least thirty miles from shore. Though his rented fishing tackle and lunch were found in the boat, there was no sign of Mr. Locatelli. His wife told reporters that her husband had never been an avid fisherman and she was stunned when she found out that he had gone fishing. Coast Guard spokesmen have stated that Mr. Locatelli, unused to local currents, had probably been pushed out to sea by high winds and had then fallen overboard. The Coast Guard has called off the search."
The male lead anchor's voice then cut in. "Well, in other news today, the A's managed to"
Eyjolfr turned the T.V. off and then dropped the T.V. dinner onto the floor. He had held onto it throughout the entire news report and it had burned his hand.

Thursday, June 1st, 1995 9:54 p.m.

Eyjolfr walked down the stairway leading from his two bedroom apartment. He had told the landlady, Mrs. Jacobi, who lived in the apartment below him, that he was a student from Denmark studying at U.C.S.C. As she usually rented to foreign exchange students, that explanation had suited the old woman just fine.
Eyjolfr, who never had much contact with her, was surprised to see her out at night, investigating her shrubs with a flashlight. Seeing him come down the stairs, she turned to explain,
"Oh, hello Klaus. I'm hunting for snails. They come out at night."
"Do you eat them?" Eyjolfr asked, genuinely curious.
"Oh no," she laughed. Eyjolfr could see that the yellow from the streetlight had tinged her hair. "No, they eat my plants. I'm just trying to keep them under control."
Eyjolfr wished her good luck and walked on down Clinton St. to where it joined Seabright. The Seabright Brewery might have some action, but then action wasn't what he was after. He wasn't sure what it was he wanted. When Eyjolfr had come to Santa Cruz, he had had a plan. Now it was as if any direction had been baked out of him by the hot summer days and now he didn't know where he was heading.
He decided to head down Seabright in the direction of the Brewery, but when he got to East Cliff, he just kept on going, walking the few blocks until he came to the small beach that lay at the ocean end of Seabright Ave. Somewhere to his right, the small Santa Cruz natural science museum lay. It had some formal name, but Eyjolfr couldn't remember what it was. He did remember the sculpture of the beached whale in front. Children played on it during the day, but now everything was quiet. He was alone, almost.
Someone had followed him down Seabright. Eyjolfr had noticed when he approached East Cliff, but the clincher was when the person crossed East Cliff and disappeared down a side street, only to reappear later, just a little father back. Now they were alone, Eyjolfr and the stranger and the only sound was the crashing of the waves on the beach. Eyjolfr waited to see what would happen.

Thursday, June 1st, 1995 23:12

"Mr. Jensen." Eyjolfr, half-expecting something from the past, felt a slight sense of disappointment because the man had not called for Hognisson.
"Yes, what is it?" Eyjolfr turned around, addressing the man casually, like a neighbour met in the supermarket queue. The man was perhaps forty years of age, but seemed much older. The man's appearance was carefully cultivated or perhaps he had a naturally theatrical look: either way, the face hinted at an experience-filled life not bereft of suffering, but the impression was diffused by its artificial air. He wore a long coat in dark colours that could easily be pictured on a private detective - on the man, it looked like a Gestapo issue.
The man took a few steps forward, remaining some meters from Eyjolfr. "I am Violante. We have common interests, Mr. Jensen." His voice was matter-of-factly, like he was reading his lines from secret notes invisible to others.
"Oh. Please, go on." Eyjolfr felt strangely inappropriate. The scene felt unnatural, rehearsed, like a mysterious ritual: the two men facing each other at an uncomfortable distance on the dark beach, with sleeping land on the other side and restless sea on the other.
The man cocked his head slightly. His voice took on a hint of mock curiosity. "Do you know what a Danish exchange student would need a detective for?" Dii-tek-tiv, the man said, as if performing semantic
dissection.
The words seemed a ritual question, to be answered according to arcane formula. Eyjolfr felt like a participant in an unknown ceremony, with answers to all questions close at hand, if only he could spell out the formula. "Well, do *you*?", he blurted out.
The man seemed disappointed. The spell broke. "Very well." It did not sound like an answer. "I will talk to you later, perhaps." It seemed as if the man had expected more. He turned around and began to walk briskly back.
"Wait! Do you know Locatelli! About what happened!" Eyjolfr called after the man who didn't react in any way. He considered walking after the man, perhaps shadowing him in turn. But somehow that didn't feel like the thing to do. Eyjolfr said aloud, to himself, almost defiantly "You followed me to ask things you knew already. You don't make sense, do you?"
Then Eyjolfr turned on his heels, walked on, and laughed for the unseen spectators because the world still had its mysteries.

Friday, June 2nd, 1995 12.07 p.m.

Eyjolfr pressed his finger to the doorbell for the third time just as a girl of about seven came to the door.
"Hello. I am Klaus Jensen, your father's friend. Is your mother home?" Eyjolfr flashed a warm smile.
"I shouldn't talk to strangers," the girl said timidly. It struck Eyjolfr as typically odd that someone not allowed to talk to visitors would come to the door.
"That's quite all right. I want to talk to your mother. Could you tell her I've come to see her? Please?"
"Are you from the insurance company?", the girl said with surprising keenness, looking at Eyjolfr inquisitively.
Laughing quietly, he replied "No, certainly not. I'm from Denmark."
The girl was about to reply when a delicate-looking woman came to the door, sloppily dressed and wearing a worried face. "Caroline, go inside. Go on!", the woman said as the girl continued to stare at Eyjolfr with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion -a healthy attitude, Eyjolfr thought- and then walked somewhere inside. "Yes, what is it? Are you from-"
"-the insurance company," Eyjolfr carried on. It seemed that wasn't what the woman had been about to say. "No. I am Klaus Jensen, an acquaintance of your late husband, Joe." A moment of silence. "You have my sympathy. I must come at an inconvenient time, but this won't take long. Or would you rather I came back later?", Eyjolfr added, thinking the woman would be polite enough to let her in, or at least timid enough not to refuse meeting at a later time. He had seen the same uncertainty in the eyes of Joe Locatelli, and wondered if that was the only thing the couple had in common. Somehow the muscular, secretive Mr. Locatelli belonged to a world completely different from that of frail Mrs. Locatelli; it seemed absurd to think of the two together.
"Well, all right, please. Come in." Eyjolfr entered, smiling to the woman. "Please, come in. Can I make you some coffee?" The woman's polite gestures and the offer of coffee felt somehow archetypal, more fit for the inane television shows than real life.
"No, thank you." Eyjolfr smiled disarmingly. "I'm not here to stay."

Friday, June 2nd, 1995 7:29 p.m.

There was a terrible flash in the sky. Thunder and lightening ripped down from a nearly cloudless sky, drawing all eyes to the north. Several bolts of lightening converged toward what looked like downtown Santa Cruz. It seemed as if all the bolts struck at or near the same spot. It was an impossibility that might have suggested many things to many people, but Eyjolfr knew it for what it truly was - Quickening!
He imagined himself tasting it on his tongue. Whoever had just died had been very very powerful. Perhaps someone had found Tsunashige and won, but then if that were true, that person would now become the new prize in town. It was a sad fact that many immortals had revealed themselves after Connor MacLeod had won The Prize of the First Cycle, back in New York over a decade ago. But, since he became mortal again, there had been new debate amongst the surviving immortals that there was a new prize to be had and so the battles of the Second Cycle had been launched. For all Eyjolfr knew, all of them were just tasting faeire fire and the only Prize ever to have been won had been taken by MacLeod and that they were all just killing themselves for nothing.
Eyjolfr was in no mood for battle and certainly, he didn't feel ready just yet to face the victor of the contest he had just witnessed. Instead, he turned to more mundane thoughts and began to watch the fading sunset, which colourful though it was, seemed a poor show to that which had just occured.

Friday, June 2nd, 1995 7:44 p.m.

Eyjolfr leaned back on the wet sand, watching the sun go down. He felt he had just passed through the doorway to the labyrinth, about to get lost in its serpentine innards, seeking the way out which all labyrinths were guaranteed to have. It was an exhilarating feeling.
The widow hadn't been able to tell much, but at least it seemed likely Joe Locatelli had been killed -or kidnapped- because of Eyjolfr, unless his other case had been something other than it seemed, too. So Locatelli had found something worth investigating. The leather briefcase, a tangible symbol of mystery, was gone from the house and had not been found with the boat. Even though it need not mean anything, Eyjolfr felt this detail was somehow significant - as if the briefcase itself was a key to the puzzle, the contents mere embellishment. Eyjolfr laughed at the notion, trying to shake such fancies from his mind. The rental company men were honest, that was certain. So either Joe had been forced to take his own life or he had gone to meet someone on the sea.
Eyjolfr supposed it was best to try and contact Joe's friends. If only there was a way to get hold of police documents relating to the beheadings - seeking other immortals was so difficult when they wanted to be unseen. Oh yes, and one thing that definitely must be done is contact Terri.
What must she be now, 52 years? And perhaps, if all else fails, the werewolves can help: they must know something about the matter. But dealing with magicians always has a price. Perhaps another detective?
Eyjolfr took a deep breath. In labyrinths, one always has to choose a path to follow; and only one path leads to the exit. But it is always possible to walk on, and with time, always find the way out.

Friday, June 2nd, 1995 8:07 p.m.

Eyjolfr watched as the sun, so much the same as when he was a child. It now slowly descended over the distant hills and with it's passing, light burned through the ever thickening layers of air until the sky itself seemed to be a canvas of flame. There was blank blueness awash with stabbing colour, deepening first with orange, now with reds and the first touches of deep purple. The sky burned with the passion of God. Unlike the cloudy home of his youth, California was blessed by such sights often. Sometimes the fog rolled in to steal away the night, but tonight would be clear. Were it not for the strong wash of city lights, Eyjolfr might have been able to see a few stars here and there.
It was Friday night and Santa Cruz was starting to revamp itself. People, freed from the weekly toils were making their first appearances, cars arriving at Seabright Brewery to fill the already swelling crowd. No doubt a big topic of conversation was the light show they had just witnessed. Though his bardic heart was tempted, drawn to the press of words and bodies to be found in such a gathering, he resisted, at least for the moment. He was determined to return home and wash up, thinking about a new strategy. His friend, Ramses, back in New York had been very enigmatic about why he had thought Tsunashige had come to Santa Cruz. The more he thought about it, Eyjolfr wondered if he had done the right thing in coming to California. Did he really want to confront the ancient Samurai, or whoever might have bested him? Was it really so bad just to exist and watch history unfold, to be treated to a spectacle no mortal could ever hope to witness? Wasn't he a bard, a watcher, a herald? Realizing he had some thinking to do, Eyjolfr decided to return home and make a phone call.

Friday, June 2nd 8:28 p.m.

Eyjolfr waved at Mrs. Jacobi who peeked her head out past her curtain when he walked up the stairs. She definitely had a nosy streak and always glanced out when she heard him coming or leaving. When he got to the top, Eyjolfr was surprised to say the least when he got home and discovered that his apartment had been ransacked. There was no subtlety about it. Money that he had left in his dresser had been untouched but all if his handwritten journals, and his files were missing. He would have copies of the important informaton, of course, but obviously someone was after information that he had, and they had made no bones about him knowing about it. Such impudence could only suggest that whoever did this didn't much care whether he knew they were after him or not. Perhaps it was a warning.
Going downstairs, he knocked on Mrs.Jacobi's door. He saw her peek past her curtains and after he heard the sounds of numerous locks being unbolted or chained, the door finally opened and Mrs. Jacobi could be seen, her living room behind her illuminated by the flicker of the television set.
"Oh, Mr. Jensen," she smiled. "What can I do for you?"
"Hello, I've just returned from my walk," Eyjolfr explained. "And I was wondering if you happened to hear anything while I was gone?"
A look of worry appeared on her face. Though it seemed unlikely given that she lived directly below him, it was obvious that she hadn't heard anything - or was a very good actress, which Eyjolfr doubted.
"Oh my, did something happen? Is everything alright?"
Eyjolfr smiled and shook his head to disarm her fears. "No, everything's fine. I was just expecting a friend and was wondering if you heard him come by."
"Oh," she clutched her chest in relief. "No, I'm sorry Mr. Jensen, I don't think you had any visitors while I was gone. At least I don't think so and I would have heard them going up the stairs."
Eyjolfr nodded. "Well, maybe I'll catch him later. Sorry to have bothered you."
She waved her hand to suggest his bothering her was a silly notion. "Oh don't be silly. It's no bother." She didn't answer but continued to look at him.
"Mr. Jensen, " she went on, "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"
Eyjolfr, wanting to get back and re-examine his apartment nodded quickly.
"Well," she tapped her chin with one finger, "You seem like such a nice man. My grandaughter is visiting next week. She's twenty and is on summer leave from her college in Massachusetts. I'm a little too old to be getting around but I was wondering, since you seem to be home days, is there any way that you could show her around town? I'd be very grateful and I'd be willing to take something off your rent."
"It's very nice of you to think of me, Mrs. Jacobi, but I'm not very familiar with Santa Cruz," he told her, trying to get out of her request graciously.
"Well, that's alright," she told him. "Kelly has been here often as a little girl and she knows the town. I'm just worried about her being out on her own. I mean she's a spirited girl and Santa Cruz is getting to be such a rough place these days. I'd feel better if I knew she was in good company. Do you think you could think about it?"
Eyjolfr sensed that this conversation would go on if he tried to say no, so he just said, "I'll think about it, Mrs. Jacobi. Now, I really should be going, so I can be ready if my friend shows up."
"Alright," she smiled, happy with at least some promise. "I'll talk to you later about it. I think you'd like her. She's such a lovely girl and very well behaved."
Eyjolfr gave her a polite nod and walked quickly up the stairway.

Saturday, June 3rd, 1995 5:59 a.m.

Terri got up at her usual time and started the water boiling for coffee. Birdsong usually greeted her from outside but this morning, everything seemed strangely quiet. Moving her easel aside so that she could open the door, she walked out onto her wooden deck, scanning the treeline for anything. She saw deer grazing in the distant meadow by the vines. Every now and then, one would raise a wary head to look over at her.
"Hello Terri?" a voice spoke to her from nearby.
She just about jumped out of her skin. She would have spilled her coffee, but a hand reached out and steadied hers. She yanked her hand back, leaving the coffee in his hands. Though startled, there was something definitely familiar in the voice, though she couldn't place it.
"I'm sorry Terri. I didn't mean to startle you."
"Mike?" She looked over at Eyjolfr, who she once knew as Mike. "Oh my God! Look at you!" She held her hands to her face, her blue eyes peeking out over her fingers. Her mouth, hidden by her hands, must have been locked open in disbelief. "Michael!" she whispered and, dreamily, held out her arms to give him a hug. "Look at you!" she said again, obviously not believing what she saw.
"It's been a long time, hasn't it?" he smiled, looking at her.
"Not for you," she said, softly stroking his face. Looking down at the hand that he held outstretched, she said, "What's that?"
Eyjolfr looked down at the bracelet and smiling, held it out to her, noting how her eyes lit up to see it.
"For me? You're always bringing me presents."
"Gift-givers' friendships are longest found/If fair their fates may be," Eyjolfr recited, in near-perfect ljodahattr rhyme. "This is the French
bracelet. Remember?"
She took the bracelet and turned it over in her hands, holding it like it would break at the slightest touch. "The one you told me about, from the Louvre?"
"You remember... The one I stole from Lieutenant Rauscher who had stolen it from the Louvre. Celtic. About two millenia old, perhaps a little more. Older than either of us... Go ahead, put it on. It won't bite!"

Saturday, June 3rd 10:38 a.m.

After having eaten a most delicious breakfast in which she boasted about her farm fresh eggs, the two of them relaxed by a wood burning stove. Though the fog had already begun to burn back from the Aptos hills, Terri's house sat next to some very large and ancient Redwood trees and they doomed the house to be always cast in cool shade, which in the mornings, even in summer, could be very cold.
Eyjolfr had been watching her, sadly noting the effects of time upon her which were obviously absent in his own body. Though her fine hair was mostly turning grey, there were still strands of the shining blond softness that had captivated him when they had first met, back in `66, while she was travelling in Italy. Then, she'd reminded him of someone he had known long long ago, but then after having been with Terri for a while, the vibrance of her lifeforce had banished all phantoms of the past. But then, after a few years together, it was obvious - especially to her, that he wasn't getting any older. And after the run in with Zeldovich in `73, he had been forced to tell her about the truth of his past. She had taken it well, and though she didn't want to, it had been obvious to him that they would have to separate.
"I see you're still doing your art," Eyjolfr commented, examining the watercolor landscape. Her work had improved he noted. She was actually quite good he thought.
"Never stopped," she told him smiling. "More Coffee?"
"Please," he said, pushing his cup toward her. "I was sorry to hear about your marriage," Eyjolfr told her.
"Well," she said, patting his hand, "All things, good and bad, must come to an end. It was good for what it was, but I have no regrets."
"What's he doing now?" Eyjolfr asked.
"Well he's remarried. He has the kids he always wanted and the housewife that I could never be. And you?"
Eyjolfr shook his head. There was an awkward silence.
"I'm sorry I startled you this morning. I got here early and thought I would just watch the sunrise."
She laughed. "Boy did you scare the shit out of me. Still, I'll forgive you. It is nice to see you again. I know you told me all about yourself, I just can't get over how you look. I'm trying hard not be jealous right now."
"Don't be. The years that you've known me have been very brief by Our standards. I could be dead any day now and given the way things are going, I think you could outlive me yet."
"Why don't you just leave?" she asked him.
"I just might. I'm not sure why I came here. When Ramses, he's the Egyptian I told you about, the art dealer in New York, - well, when he told me that he thought Tsunashige was here, I guess I just felt that at last here was my chance to meet someone like myself. Not just another immortal, but someone that I think is also tired of this cycle of duels. I mean, this samurai was one of the most powerful warriours of our kind, and he disappeared, electing to not have been involved in the battles for the Prize, even though he would have been a prime contender. And I don't think it was because he was afraid. I want to know why."
"But, would he talk to you?"
Eyjolfr shook his head. "I don't know why he would. Why should he think me any different than anyone else who has come here to claim his Quickening. That means our power," he said, noting the confused look in her eyes. "In fact, it seems enough immortals have been drawn here that it could be dangerous just to remain."
"Hey," Terri took Eyjolfr's chin into her hand and pulled his eyes up to look into her own. Though framed by thin wrinkled skin, she was still beautiful and not many alive or dead could have ever boasted having such eyes. "Hey, let it go. It's a nice day. Just be with that."
"I would if I could," he assured her. "But it's not just up to me. Still envy me?"
Pouting sadly, she shook her head and hugged him, allowing his head to rest on her shoulders. Not even realizing the loneliness that had been inside him, Eyjolfr clung to her tightly.

Saturday, June 3rd 4:45 p.m.

Having spent the morning with Terri up in Aptos, Eyjolfr returned to his home. He had thought that he had been merely paying a social call, but now he realized that even an immortal had to have someone out there who cared. His old Viking self would have thought it a weakness, but that Eyjolfr had been buried long ago.
Waving at Mrs. Jacobi as she peeked out of her curtains, Eyjolfr went into his apartment. Noting he had a message on his answering machine, he replayed it while he changed clothes. The answering machine told him that the call had come in at 1:55 that afternoon.
"Hello Mr. Jensen." Eyjolfr recognized the voice. It was Violante, the man who had approached him the night before. "I'm sorry about the way my compatriots had to leave your room, but we felt we had to know a little bit more about you first. We'd like to set up a meeting. In fact, we'll have to insist upon it. I think you'll find it mutually advantageous if you cooperate with us as my friends have ways of showing their gratitude that I think you'll appreciate. And certainly it's better to have allies than enemies, don't you think? Be at the cliffs above the ruined whaling wharf in Davenport. It's near the town. Be there at midnight tonight and come alone. As I've said, we have ways of rewarding our friends, but if you're not a friend, then you're an enemy. There is no middle ground here. And certainly, if you don't value your own existence, think about what could happen to poor Mrs. Adams." The answering machine beeped, indicating the message was over.
Eyjolfr gasped, his blood running cold. "Terri!" Whoever they were, they knew about her now. He had probably led them right to her.

Saturday, June 3rd 18.09

"Well, it doesn't matter anyway, sir." The on duty receptionist informed Eyjolfr in a casual, almost screw-you manner that might have bode ill for the man, had they been anywhere else but the most public place of a hospital reception room. The little wretch of a clerk went on to add, "You have to have police permission to visit the patient in question. Why don't you leave your name and address and I'll see that they'll get back to you."
I'll bet you would, Eyjolfr thought. "No, that won't be necessary. I was just thinking that he might be someone I knew, but if that's the case, I'm sure the police will be in touch soon enough. Thank you for your time."
Though polite, the words were said curtly as Eyjolfr rose up and left. Though at the time of their conversation, Eyjolfr's commanding presence has been intimidating and striking, the receptionist later found that he was hard pressed to describe Eyjolfr in any but the most general details. Having intended to comment on the inquiry to police, the clerk was embarrassed to admit that he had nothing to say, either about Eyjolfr's appearance or what questions had been asked. Shrugging off the incident, the receptionist found better sport in being rude to other arrivals and Eyjolfr was soon an all but forgotten shadow of a memory in the clerk's mind.
Walking down the ramp to the bus stop, Eyjolfr was intercepted by a man who'd he'd never seen before. The stranger could have been anyone, a white man in his thirties-forties, average build, average height, average brown hair, average bland face. (Edited out: Eyjolfr wondered whether the man could have been any more help awake; somehow it felt his answers would be no more informative than his looks or his name, George Rosing. With a nurse in the same room it was impossible to examine the body more closely, and it anyway felt like a waste of time. Still, Eyjolfr checked the man's arms, expecting to find nothing, and saw a tattoo, a circle surrounding a [whatever the symbol of the Watchers is]. After a quick sketch he left, feeling it wise to answer the nurse's question
"Will you be back later?" with a firm "I doubt it".)
"Hello Mr um, Jensen is it now? How does this evening find you, sir?"
"Fine, thank you," Eyjolfr replied. He could sense no Quickening about the man, but there was something unnatural in his sudden appearance and unsettling familiarity. It was as though this stranger was greeting an acquaintance, which was impossible as Eyjolfr was certain they'd never met before.
"You have me at a disadvantage, sir," Eyjolfr said, sizing the stranger up and watching keenly for any sign of attack or other blatant or subtle action. "You seem to know me. Would you mind telling me who you are and how you come to know me?"
"I'm sorry. My name is George Rosing." The stranger extended a hand which Eyjolfr warily shook, noting a tattoo on his exposed forearm. He couldn't make out all of the tattoo, but he saw that it was a circle surrounding another drawing. There was a vague feeling that he'd seen it before.
Rosing went on to add, "And no sir, though I know you, I don't think we've actually had the pleasure of meeting before."
"I suppose this meeting now then has some purpose?" Eyjolfr said, deciding to get to the point.
Rosing smiled. "Yes, it does. You came here to investigate the victim mentioned in last night's duel on Beach Hill, did you not?"
"I thought he might be someone I knew," Eyjolfr said, deciding to continue with the fiction he'd fabricated for the receptionist inside the hospital. At least the man was volunteering something. Apparently the man had been in a duel and was not some innocent bystander.
Rosing gave Eyjolfr a wry smile, like someone catching a child in an amusing lie. "I should tell you that his body was removed several hours ago."
"Oh, by whom?" Eyjolfr asked, wondering why this stranger was so forthcoming with information.
"That's what we would like to know," Rosing confessed. "Normally, murder victims aren't allowed to be taken away until an autopsy's been performed. Of course, the police fabrication that the victim was merely knocked unconscious - by the witnessed lightning, makes such a disappearance seem like an official cover-up. After all, with all of the Hacker slayings in the paper the last several months, another beheaded body would be just the thing to drive the tourists away. If it had been the police, I couldn't say that I would've blamed them. But I'm certain that all but one of the men who came here to remove the body were strangers. Foreigners I think."
"Maybe they were relatives," Eyjolfr suggested, hoping to scope out what Rosing was getting at.
"Oh, I don't think so. Any immediate relatives to - the victim, would be long dead now. Actually, I know that these men had no involvement with Mister Batchelder's death. What their interest is, I certainly would like to ascertain."
"What are you, some sort of detective?" Eyjolfr asked. The name Batchelder seemed familiar to him. It was a name he'd heard before.
Again, Rosing offered that enigmatic smile of his, his only distinguishing feature thus far. "Yes, I suppose you could call me that. It's a better description than most." Rosing glanced at his watch. "Well, I'd better be off, Mr - Jensen. I'm sorry to have bothered you. I just thought you might know something, but it appears you're more in the dark than we are."
"And who are the `we' you speak of?" Eyjolfr asked.
Rosing smiled, but didn't answer the question. "I'll be seeing you, sir. Good luck." With that, he turned and entered a waiting car, that immediately drove off.
Eyjolfr watched them go, his head buzzing with ideas as he tried to sort out what had just happened.

Saturday, June 3rd 6.57 p.m.

[A fax from Klaus Jensen, Santa Cruz, US to Ulrich Haffden, Neuchatel, Switzerland. In German. Sent from Kinko's Copies (A Copy Center on Laurel St.)
Hi. No sign of Tsunashige or timeless wisdom so far, but you can add the following newsclip to your collection. The man struck by lightning was an immortal. The story was a cover-up by the city officials and/or police. Too many Hacker slayings are driving away the tourists. By the way, I met someone tonight who had a tattoo something like this [Eyjolfr had drawn his best rendition of the tattoo as he'd seen it] on his right wrist. Any clues? (Edited out: by the way had a tattoo something like this [a sketch of the tattoo] on his right wrist. Any clues?)
I have been threatened by a coward called Violante to co-operate. He stole my notes; I can't remember whether your address was in there, I don't think so but take care. And I don't want to hear a word about computers! I'm going to meet him tonight, at a secluded spot - you can search for the body at the Davenport cliffs. He's probably part of something bigger. They have been following me, it seems. "We have ways of rewarding our friends." He's stepped out from some old movie, I swear!
It may be a trap and I may die today, but well, in the words of Valf|dr ["Father of the dead", Odinn]:

Bravely and gladly a man shall go,
Till the day of his death is come.

Eyjolfr Quick-Mind

Sunday, June 4th 0.15

[Text marked _thus_ is Eyjolfr's thoughts.]

"You are late, Mr. Jensen."
"The loathed man knows not time," Eyjolfr recited, then smiled.
"Well, I am here. And so are you. What now?" The group before him was something of an anticlimax: after restless hours in the city and the nervous walk here, after anticipation of conflict and inadmissible fear, the only thing expecting him was these five men, all dark, brown tones and serious looks. Eyjolfr felt totally in control of the situation. The men were dwarfed by the scenery: the cliffs and the dark vast sea, while he felt very alive and far more vital than the men, who seemed somehow afraid despite their numbers.
"We are sorry to resort to such measures as we have, let me assure they have been very necessary. You will find our friendship profitable."
"Let us first ask what is your purpose here in Santa Cruz." Only the man called Violante spoke, the others seemed almost to be more subordinates - or perhaps observers - than co-conspirators.
"I do wish to be your friend. But I have little to go on. Before we share secrets, we at least should know little more about each other, right?", Eyjolfr sad in a friendly tone, wondering, not for the first time, whether he would be fast enough to kill these five men if it came to that. Gustr ["Gust" or "Gale"; the sword. Vikings usually named their weapons so it seems kind of appropriate...] waited in the scabbard and the pistol felt heavy against his breast.
"Who we are is not important to you. We have information you will find valuable, and you have information we want. Let us be friends so that we don't have to be enemies."
Although Eyjolfr did not doubt these men could carry out their threats, these still felt somehow completely irrelevant, said more because they were expected to be said than because they would mean anything.
"Very well, let us." Eyjolfr breathed deeply. "So. As you know, I have not come here to study. " Strange as it seems, Eyjolfr thought, this is the first lie. "I've come seeking an old Japanese sword, last seen in 1953, when it was stolen from an American who'd in turn stolen it from Japan during the occupation." Violante seemed to be about to say something, but Eyjolfr continued. "And who I represent will remain a secret: surely that's not so important to you? This thing must be handled as inconspicuously as possible and it has attracted too much attention as things are." The men eyed cast nervous glances at each other and Violante, perhaps waiting for some secret signal, perhaps simply nervous or uncertain how much truth there was in Eyjolfr's words. He wondered if they knew. The moment hung on an edge, and it seemed possible the meeting would suddenly turn from a matter of veiled threats and polite lies to an affair of metal and fire.
"Mr. Locatelli?" Violante asked testily.
"I thought you knew. I hired him to look for the sword. It's good to have someone else do the test run - now he's dead and I still live." _Not true, but close._
Violante seemed a little disappointed but Eyjolfr thought he could feel some relief among the men.
"That's about it. I really hope you're not looking for the sword." _And that seems as likely as anything in the world._ Violante didn't bother to hide his suspicion.
"You're looking for the sword?"
So they do know, Eyjolfr realized.
"Yes; that's all I want; I'm not interested in whatever plans you have. Do you have information on its whereabouts?"
"Why lie to us, Mr. Jensen?"
_Because if I knew you five were all there is to the matter, I would kill you cowards here and now, and because I don't._ "Lie? You have read my notes," _if you've found anyone who can read Danish, German, French *and* Old Norse_, "so you can see I've travelled around Europe looking for 'lost' treasures. In my line of work I've run across the mafia, paranoid officials and other types, but I'm not exactly sure I know where you guys are coming from. Or that I want to know."
"And where did you hear that the sword would be here?", Violante said, now more interested in any information Eyjolfr might have than suspicious of his story.
"Mysterious tip from a colleague." Eyjolfr smiled. _Now that's a truth if there ever was one._ "No, I can't give you his name. He probably didn't know much himself." _And I just hope that's true as well._ "But look, let me say this again: if Locatelli was killed because of something completely unrelated, I don't want to know. Okay? I want to avoid trouble. And you could have just asked for a meeting - no need for threats."
"What did your informant-"
"My colleague said he'd talked to someone who knew the sword had been brought to this area recently - for what purpose I don't know, maybe it's for sale."
"You would do well to steer clear of this affair, Mr. Jensen."
"No tips?", Eyjolfr asked, half-jokingly.
"You could try the Brookdale Lodge," Violante reluctantly said, apparently more wanting to fulfill his part of the pact than to actually help.
Violante nodded to one of the men who gave Eyjolfr a folder from inside his coat.
"If you come across anything...out of the ordinary, please contact us for your own safety. This is a dangerous affair."
_And if you harm Terri, I *will* kill you if it takes a hundred
years_, Eyjolfr wanted to say. "I hope that won't be necessary."

Sunday, June 4th 0.54

The men had gone to their van and driven away; Eyjolfr preferred walking back to the city, alone in the night. The folder held his notes and an ad for a pawn shop, torn from some local magazine. It is just a matter of time before our paths cross again, Eyjolfr thought. Shaking his head, he remembered what people would have thought of men threatening to kill women in order to get their way, in times long gone. Eyjolfr felt old and out of place in a world hopelessly complex and beyond his understanding, on his way towards some unknown fate.

Sunday, June 4th, 1995 2:58 a.m.

Eyjolfr managed to bring Gustr up just in time as the other immortal's sword sliced downward, intending to savage Eyjolfr's shoulder. Sparks sprayed outward, hissing as they fell into the rolling surf. Though blocked, the incredible strength of Eyjolfr's foe drove the Viking bard down to his knees, the foam of the Pacific soaking his clothing with its biting cold. Eyjolfr, outmatched by his opponent, wondered if this cold sensation would be the last thing that he ever felt. Part of him distanced himself from the combat, feeling the touch of death, and grasped every last vestige of life, every sensation as poignant and precious. He was going to die and he knew it. He prayed to the god, Father Odinn - make my death one worthy of you.
The stocky immortal, his identity still cloaked in darkness, continued to beat down at Eyjolfr with rapid strikes. There came a point where Eyjolfr's strength was so greatly taxed, that he had to lower his arm, feeling the burn of tired muscles that refused to work anymore. (Initiative/Thyestes - Action/Disarm: 7-4=3, success). Eyjolfr drew on his fatigued arm to ward off one last blow, but it was not enough as the sweep of the other immortal's sword tossed Gustr off into the surf.
(Initiative/Eyjolfr - Action/Brawl) The immortal leisurely prepared himself for the last blow. Eyjolfr, faining resignation, lolled his tired head down as he fell forward onto his hands. But before his attacker could swing, Eyjolfr, having grasped a handful of wet sand, flung it with all the strength he could muster at his opponent's face, aiming for the eyes {six successes - (botch) After soak, Thyestes is still hurt(-1)}. Eyjolfr's attacker cried out in pain as the wet sand stung his eyes. The attacker retreated, swinging his sword out blindly to ward off any counterattack. Quickly throwing water into his face, the attacker looked for Eyjolfr, angry and ready to finish what they'd started. But the viking had disappeared. There was nothing. Still, Thyestes could sense that his opponent was nearby, possibly hiding underwater. Splashing around, the Greek thrust his sword into the water, hoping to urge the viking to reappear. He had gauged the caliber of this immortal and sensed that he was young, and thus, an easy harvest of Quickening. (Thyestes/Ignore Wounds - heal 1, now bruised).
Thyestes didn't see Eyjolfr emerge from the water behind him, once again grasping Gustr firm in hand and his pistol in the other. There was a cold steely look in the viking's eyes, as if the cold water had revived him. He emerged, baptised by having felt the thrust of steel and the sting of salt on the nick that the immortal had laid on one arm. A thin line of blood entered the water, but Eyjolfr ignored it, focused on the fight at hand. (Thyestes/Perception - three successes, surprise thwarted.)
(Initiative/Eyjolfr). Thyestes, whirled around, his sword held ready. He was more than surprised to see Eyjolfr's pistol. Eyjolfr fired three times, hoping the water hadn't somehow prevented the gun from working (6-3=3, 8 damage dice) (4-1=3, 8 damage dice), 4-2+2, 7 damage dice) (Total - 23 damage, 15-3 soak=12).
Eyjolfr gazed down at his opponent, bobbing in the surf while the water darkened in the thin moonlight as inky blackness leaked out of the prone immortal. Eyjolfr, breathing heavily, held Gustr aloft, mouthing one quick prayer and then cut downward.
Having never taken such an old immortal life before, nothing could have prepared Eyjolfr for what was happening to him. Bright arcs of lightning danced off the sand, impacting with the rock cliffs surrounding the beach. Claps of thunder impacted the cliffs and rebounded double fold in sound while sheets of electric fire played across the rolling waves. Eyjolfr, helpless in the grasp of the Quickening jerked and convulsed as the dead immortal's power passed into him. Along with the power, there were fleeting visions of the dead man's life as bits of his knowledge also passed into Eyjolfr. Unfamiliar faces played themselves across the Eyjolfr's mind, burning themselves into his dreams.
There, on the narrow valley leading off of the small hemmed in sea plain, the Platean levy, one-thousand hoplites and fully every able man of Platea assembled themselves on one wing of the army. The five-thousand Athenians had marched eight hours to arrive at that point, having been warned by their coast watchers of the arrival of the Persian host and the traitor, Hippias. Though the Athenians had had a longer march, the Plateans had had to come through difficult terrain and, all the while set upon by bands of archers that the Persians had sent to delay the assembling Hellenes.
Thyestes and Pallans, along with their father Rizon were there along with many of their neighbors. Who knew which among them would return and for which the widow's keening wail would sound, while friends and relatives sat by their graves, hair shorn in lament.
After a quick meal of olive oil, bread and goat cheese, the hoplites assembled themselves, the richer older men who could afford armour standing in front while the poorer clad farmers, charcoal burners, fishermen and such formed the rearer ranks, armed with but a spear and perhaps some greaves of boiled leather, or a wooden shield.
Miltiades, the Athenian Archon, gave his order that all men should stand fast, no matter what the Persian did, until he himself gave the order to charge. How broad the plain seemed then, though it was indeed a small place. The drums sounded and the oracle was given. Some of the Athenians claimed that Theseus had visited them in their dreams, promising them victory. Rank by rank, the Hellenic host marched forward. The first line collided with the Persian host while towards the rear, archers continued to plague the Athenians and Plateans. Men in the Athenian center fell, eyes and breasts pierced with arrows fired from Lydian and Carrian bowmen of the Great King's army. Still, the Athenians and Plateans alongside them trod on. Thyestes own feet stamped painfully over sharp rocks, the thin leather of his sandals almost worn bare in the forced march from his home. They had never been too good anyway.
The Persian fell back, having little stomach for a fight. Step by step, the Hellenes advanced, each step of the host bringing death as sheets of arrows poured into the Hellenic host. The Persian preferred to fight from a distance, like the cowards they were. Still, their efforts brought ruin to many families that day. Thyestes saw Rizon fall, an arrow piercing his thigh.
"Get on with you boys!" his father urged them. "Go with God! Apollo and Zeus are watching you. Do not shame me before the Gods."
Fighting their own fear, Thyestes and his brother went on, resuming their place in the line. The Hellenes closed ranks, holding their shields aloft, to offer what shelter they could to themselves and the men behind them. Not having a shield of his own, Thyestes ducked behind Polyclides, hoping the young priest's strong arm could shield them both. Thyestes couldn't have said what it was that held them together. He supposed he and the other Plateans held their ground because the Athenians did, and they did not want to leave the field before their own allies, who had come to their aid in the past. As for the Athenians, their eyes followed Miltiades, who rode before them upon a white horse, invoking grey-eyed Athenae to bring them victory. All men's eyes were on Miltiades as he rode there, defying a Persian arrow to find him.
Finally the Persians seemed ready to make a stand. Before a small hill they marshalled their troops, hoplites in front shielding a host of archers. The famed Persian horse seemed absent, but they would have been much cramped in the small sea plain. The Hellenes too halted as Miltiades held his spear aloft. He waited until the broken ranks had reformed. Turning to the Hellenic host, he exhorted the men.
"Great men of Athens, and our brave brothers of Platea, now has come the moment to decide whether we shall live as free men should live. Our fathers and their fathers, and the gods and our ancient King, Theseus, all look upon us now. Who will doubt that the spear I wield shall be guided by the Goddess? Are we not men and is our cause anything but just and righteous. Do not doubt what the Persian has in mind for those we leave if we should fail here. Our young sons shall be cut down like green wheat and our mothers, wives and daughters shall know the rough hemp of bondage and will be forced to pollute their blood with that of barbarians and traitors. Shall this be their fate!?"
The great host shouted no.
"Then every man to his spear and axe, his sword and sling, let each stroke find a life. and spare none for they would not spare you. We are Hellenes! We are Athenians! Come, as the Gods themselves are our witness, let us show the world what it is to be Athenian! After this day, I swear to you, let each man do his duty and the name of Athens shall be a shadow to the heart of all Persians, and especially that dog, Darius!"
All men who has survived that terrible march shouted and banged their spears upon shields. The Persian host, not to be undone, shouted as well.
"Let us stand until I give the word!" Miltiades shouted to the men. "Until then, make ready until all are ready and then we shall visit them like thunder!" Miltiades then lowered his spear.
Thyestes watched as the Persian continued to launch more arrows into the Athenian host, again plaguing those in the center more than any other until their ranks seemed thin indeed. But still, the Athenians and Plateans on the left would not march, all watching for Miltiades to give the signal. Men fell, but other men marched forward to take their place. Thyestes tried to shut out the screams of the wounded and the dying. If a voice sounded too familiar, he shut it away, looking only to the Persian host, his anger and frustration growing. Apparently the Persians too were feeling frustrated by the lack of action. Several bands of them moved forward to taunt the Athenians and when that did not work, they came forward, leaving their archers behind them, beside the hill. That was when Miltiades raised his spear. As one, the Athenians and Plateans charged forward running almost a full stadia before their pent anger met the Persian with the voice of bronze thunder! The Persian fell back under the force of the charge but still, pushing his best troops forward, their was hard fighting, again harder for those in the center whose ranks were thinner. Thyestes soon lost all direction of order. A stone crushed the arm of Polyclides and Thyestes took up his friend's shield and with spear in hand, pinned an onrushing Persian, opening the barbarian's side and letting his life flow outward. Thyestes was like a madman, remembering his father, possibly dead on the ground behind him. He fought until no less than three Persians lay dead on the ground because of him. Pallans had also killed, his voice sounding in a victory paen. Thyestes heart raced tasting his own blood in his mouth. He must have bitten his tongue.
The Persians, though making way in the center, fell back on either flank as the Athenian right and the Plateans on the left broke though. Seeing their danger, the Persian foot broke and ran and the Hellenes ran after them. The archers, who could not fire for fear of hitting their own men, soon found the Hellenes among them. Not giving the archers the chance to fire again, Miltiades again ordered everyone forward at a run. Outracing the arrows, Thyestes and his brother, now part of the front rank, cut their way through the poorly armoured Persian archers like they were old goats for slaughter. The archers made a brave stand but it lasted only a moment and soon the entire Persian host was fleeing on foot, back toward their ships.
Men started to chase them, but Miltiades called everyone back. Only after the men had rested and reformed did Miltiades give the command to march forward, hoping to catch the Persians as they fled. Again, the Persian attempted to stand and again the Athenians and others charged, breaking the Persian line so that there was fighting, even at the water's edge as the Athenians and Plateans tried to seize the ships, which were even then rowing back out to sea.
Thyestes cut down a Persian knight, but before he could turn, a dagger was thrust into his kidney from behind. Made helpless by the pain, he could only manage to turn as the Mede raised his axe. Thyestes raised his arm to ward off the blow, only to have it chopped off at the elbow. Screaming, Pallans ran up and cut the Mede's throat with a sword he'd found, but Thyestes sank beneath the foam, his blood colouring the water all around him."
Eyjolfr looked down at the body below him, not so much a stranger as it had been before. Other images played themselves upon his mind be the one that haunted him the most was that battle on the plain of Marathon. He knew that Thyestes had not died that day, though thinking so strongly he would. How ironic that his death in the surf should come after all, only two and a half millennia later.
Too tired to deal with Thyestes body, Eyjolfr grasped the dead man's sword and walked back onto the sand. Then another wave of Quickening came through him and he convulsed again. When it was over, rejuvenated, he turned to deal with the body of his brave foe, hoping to offer it a decent rest. But it was gone, having been pulled out to deeper water. Something was churning there, having found an unexpected feast. Sickened, Eyjolfr turned away and made his way back to the road from which he'd been chased by the little Greek. He only looked back once. He supposed whatever it was had been a shark but he caught a glimpse of a man's head and shoulders rising from the water, staring back at him. Then it was gone, and a large triangle broke the water beyond the surf, before disappearing altogether.
{Eyjolfr gains 14 quickening x.p. and the following dots (one each), melee, athletics, leadership, alertness, stealth, brawl, linguistics (ancient Greek)}

Sunday, June 4th 3:31 a.m.

"Can I offer you a ride?" Rosing asked, having pulled up to Eyjolfr, driving an old Mercury badly in need of a new coat of paint. Eyjolfr had been walking for half an hour.. He hadn't found Thyestes vehicle, but then he wouldn't have used it either. Now, again coming into Santa Cruz, he realized how he must stand out.
"Please, Mister Jensen, you look a sight. I doubt that you'll get past any police patrols looking like that." The comment reflected Eyjolfr's own thoughts. Looking down at his clothes, still wet and caked with sand and what might be blood.
"Thank you, I think," Eyjolfr said nodding, and getting into the car on the passenger's side.
As they drove down Mission, back towards the eastside, Rosing turned to Eyjolfr and said, "Well, I must say, that I never thought I'd be offering YOU a ride this evening."
"Meaning?" Eyjolfr asked.
"Well, I don't want to take the edge off your victory, Mister Jensen, but I would have thought that you yourself would admit how much your opponent tonight outclassed you."
For the first time that night, Eyjolfr's skin grew cold. "I don't know what you're talking about," he lied.
"Come now, let's not enter into this game, eh?" Rosing actually smiled at Eyjolfr. "I saw what you did. It wasn't exactly the most honourable way to win a duel, but you are still here then, aren't you."
For some reason, Eyjolfr decided to abandon his usual caution and reply to Rosing's candor. "I value honour by all means. But honour as as an excuse to die in combat is stupid and borders on moral cowardice. I am a warriour. I fight with the weapons at hand and I fight to win. Now, before I give you a sample of what I mean by that, perhaps you'd first like to tell me what your game is and why you've been following me?"
Rosing chuckled, not appreciating the danger he was in. "Oh, I'm no concern to you, Mister Jensen," he said, with unconvincing reassurance. "I and those of my kind have always observed those of your kind."
"Why?"
Rosing shook his head. "Not tonight. I have other things to tell you."
"Is that why you offered me a ride?" Eyjolfr asked.
"No, I was telling you the truth. I didn't want the police to pick you up. It wouldn't have seemed fair, after all you've been through tonight."
"What then?" Eyjolfr asked, as Rosing turned his Mercury up onto East Cliff, approaching Ocean. Eyjolfr looked to his right, seeing beyond the dike, the Boardwalk, dead for the night, it's empty rides looming menacingly in the distance.
"Well, first I should warn you," Rosing started. "The man you killed tonight had quite a reputation. He'd fought in battles from Cannae to Stalingrad and now that you've killed him, that reputation is yours. There'll be others, you can be assured."
"And why are you telling me this, as if I don't know?"
"Because I don't think you do know," Rosing said curtly, turning up onto Seabright. Eyjolfr then realized that he'd never offered any directions. Rosing just seemed to know the way. "You seem very young for an immortal."
Eyjolfr ignored the comment. "And besides your advice, what else do want to tell me?"
"That man you were looking for, Mister Batchelder? One of my sister's saw him tonight, while you were in Davenport."
"So the body's been found?" Eyjolfr reconfirmed.
"Except he's not a body," Rosing said. "He was walking down the street. Other then looking a little glazed and groggy, he seemed very much alive."
"Then your people are mistaken. Either that, or Batchelder was not what you thought him to be," Eyjolfr surmised. Rosing turned onto Clinton and parked in front of Eyjolfr's apartment. Eyjolfr tuned, half expecting to see Mrs. Jacobi peek out, but it seemed, even she had to sleep sometimes.
"No, we are not mistaken. You see, Batchelder had a reputation almost as good as Thyestes, and his talent was better. Thyestes had had twenty-five centuries to get to where he was before you killed him. Batchelder made it in just over a hundred and thirty years. We've had our eye on him for some time."
"Who killed him?" Eyjolfr asked. It couldn't hurt, after all, since Rosing was being so forthcoming.
"Sorry," Rosing smiled. "That's privileged information."
"So, why are you telling me all this?" Eyjolfr again pressed.
"Well, let's just say that `All's not right in the State of Denmark.' I've never heard of an immortal resurrecting himself. Something very evil is afoot. I'm just offering a friendly warning."
Eyjolfr got out of the car, still carrying Gustr and Thyestes short sword. "Tell me," he said, leaning back into the car, "do you know who those men were that I met with tonight?"
Rosing looked at Eyjolfr as if sizing him up. "Well, again it's not our policy to interfere, but as a personal observation, I think those men you met were vampires. And I don't think they're locals. They hired Thyestes to ambush you, if you didn't give them what they wanted."
"I didn't have what they wanted," Eyjolfr protested.
"That's even worse," Rosing said. He started up the car and Eyjolfr watched him drive off before heading up to his apartment.

Sunday, June 4th 11:52 a.m.

Eyjolfr couldn't sleep. The Quickening kept him awake. Images of orange blossoms in Persia, dark hair and eyes, and the love of a life which he'd never lived kept him awake, in a dreamy state caught between contentment and bliss. Someone rang his doorbell, but when he didn't bother to answer it, a envelope was pushed underneath. Cautiously, Eyjolfr picked it up. It was a Western Union Telegram. Opening it, he saw that it was from Ulrich. It was brief and merely confirmed what he already knew, that Rosing was part of a secret organization who called themselves the Watchers.

[Undated]

...running down the road lined with perfect perfect white stones up the hill to the old house where she waited as he waited as he was thrown overboard on that sweaty and old and rusty and stupid machine as he sank into the storm like the child who'd drowned but that was the gods and gone all the way to Berlin and then he'd said it was too late always too late always dark hair and always nothing and crawling from the Christian temple with eyes still wet and legs broken against stone and he never knew the name never the name never the words in a strange language which he'd learned when back in Egypt where he'd never been and foreign suns and moons and faces like wildflowers spread on the Persian fields like dark hair and the twelve times twelve names of the father and still suffocating there down there upside down in the plane and laughing as for the first time like someone else again...

Thursday, 06.02, June 8th, 1995

The man extended his hand down, feeling for the floor with the tips of his fingers, searching for something solid. Reassured by the warm, hard floor he dared open his eyelids. His eyes met with the familiar white roof and brown door of the apartment, no longer fooled by the phantoms of a life he'd never lived. The memories were all there in his head, incomplete like an abridged novel, but each in their place, no longer an ensemble of cut-ups trying to resurrect him in the image of a dead man.
Eyjolfr. His name was Eyjolfr, called Quick-Mind, Eyjolfr son of Hogni. And this was Santa Cruz, and this was 1995.

Thursday, 07.12, June 8th, 1995

Eyjolfr had lain in bed for four days, from Sunday morning to Thursday morning, his mind trying in vain to recollect the events of twoscore lifetimes, his body burning with quickening, Frey's fire dancing through his nerves. But that is always the way, Eyjolfr thought: wisdom through ordeal, knowledge through suffering. The Frenchman and Indrek had been like matches, and Thyestes like the sacrificial pyres he had once prayed at, like that burning ship at which Eyjolfr had sung and would have liked to weep. Now the fury had been spent, and Eyjolfr had emerged unharmed, tempered by the fire. Quickening still danced in his body, but according to his tune.
Eyjolfr wondered why others had not come for him as the Watcher George had said they would; Eyjolfr thought his quickening would have shone like a guiding beacon. Also, evidently Violante had thought it best to leave Eyjolfr alone after Thyestes, or perhaps he'd been otherwise occupied. But it was perhaps best to leave this place while he could: a warrior does not run from the enemy, but these people were cowards, knowing no honor. Eyjolfr scrawled a note to Mrs. Jacobi, explaining he was all right now and would be back by the day after tomorrow. He had no idea what the woman had thought about his sickness or whether she'd tried to do something about it or if she had perhaps called a doctor, but it was easier simply to leave and ignore these questions in the midst of other mysteries.
[Eyjolfr took only his notes (those that survived the water...), the swords and some personal items with him, leaving clothes and such in the room, so it still looks inhabited. He has no intention whatsoever of returning there.]

Thursday, 9.07, June 8th, 1995

"Leave?" Terri looked at Eyjolfr with a hint of fear in her eyes.
"You're serious."
"Yes, quite so, Terri. These cowards have already threatened to kill you once" Eyjolfr smiled, almost laughing even though this was not a laughing matter, "and these kind of men do not threaten twice. Go to your relatives, to your brother, to..." Eyjolfr struggled to remember but the name he he recalled belonged to someone who'd died centuries past. "Jerry."
"Jerry, yes. Your brother. You're better off there. I said you might outlive me and believe me, I'd really like that. All right? So go." "And if I don't? You can't tell me what to do, remember?", Terri said, mock defiance in her voice, having obviously already decided to leave.
"I remember, oh I remember *that* very well. So do what you wish." He looked at Terri and grinned. "But what if I say please?"

Thursday, 16.46, June 8th, 1995

After seeing Terri safely to the coach Eyjolfr secured a room for a few nights and fed Ulrich's hunger for information with a short telegraph. Eyjolfr had decided he'd try the Brookdale Lodge tonight. While it was possible Violante and the others had set the thing up in case Thyestes failed, Eyjolfr felt, inexplicably, this was not so, that they'd been honest with their advice. The pawn shop, which surely had connections with Violante, could wait: better not to trifle with the dead if possible. And should the Lodge prove a disappointment, next Eyjolfr would get in touch with Mr. Locatelli's friends to try and follow that trail: it would not take him back to Violante, of that he was sure. The undead were not interested in the sword, that much seemed clear. So, as always,

Saturday, June 10th, 1995 4:37 p.m.

Eyjolfr watched as the swimmer made another pass by the window, seemingly at fluid ease in her blue water medium, so much so that the crowd at the bar didn't seem to exist for her - nor she for them. Most seemed to be unaware of her underwater ballet, slow and graceful, while she turned and danced, as if in a chlorinated womb, cut off from all. For all he could see, his were the only eyes there to follow her, strange given that her lovely figure so evident in her one-piece should have attracted more attention and comment he figured. When she disappeared once again from sight, his eyes waited with anticipation that, as the minutes rolled by, were to prove fruitless.
But then, he had sensed her quickening. How could she have not sensed his, he wondered. Cautiously, Eyjolfr made his way from the bar. Women in beehive hairdos stopped talking as he walked by, smiling at him with mouths painted in technicolor gloss. The maitre'd nodded at him slyly, as if sharing a mutal dirty secret. Eyjolfr passed from the heavy humid air of that room, back out into the stark brightness of a mountain summer. Hot cloying heat touched his exposed face as he wandered the grounds, apprehensive now that he had sensed another of his kind. Nearby, a small Asian man trimmed the grass with an old-fashioned sickle, eschewing any such modern contrivance as a mower.
Birds scolded each other in the trees, but Eyjolfr, though he could sense quickening near, could still not see anyone present. The pull of the Quickening sounded in his heart, which began to race as if he were already in battle. Inexperienced as he was, Eyjolfr realized that he didn't have the discipline of a veteran, nor the peace and composure that such experience would have brought him. He was afraid, but he tried to not make fear too much a part of him. Fear, he remembered, was a natural progression and in time, it would be but a shadow of a memory as the duals fell in place behind him, - or he fell himself. This fatalistic realization brought to Eyjolfr some sense of composure and he decided to embark on his next course. He walked toward the gardener, admiring the results of the little man's handiwork. The small Asian was probably not as old as his sun darkened skin made him look, Eyjolfr decided. It wasn't until Eyjolfr had passed the man, offering him a quick smile, that he realized what had just happened. Almost imperceptibly, unlike any other time Eyjolfr had encountered it, Eyjolfr felt the touch of Quickening emanating from the small Asian. Eyjolfr turned, his hand upon his sword. The man had vanished, but not the sense of the Quickening. Guessing more than sensing, Eyjolfr turned his head. The Gardener was there, holding his scythe up in a relaxed pose that could be made deadly with but one arm's movement. Eyes that had seen decades fall like leaves regarded Eyjolfr with a calm derision that brought the Viking back to the edge of fear.
Keep it in control, he told himself. Still, the gardener made no move toward him, though his eyes remained locked on Eyjolfr. This was perhaps why he didn't sense the other immortal, the woman from the pool, sneaking up on the gardener from behind. She saw Eyjolfr and smiled, holding her finger to her lips, telling him to remain silent while she stalked her prey. Though Eyjolfr was sure the Asian with the strange sense of Quickening would sense her as well, it appeared quite otherwise as he kept his back to her. As the woman immortal held up her small straight sword, preparing for the kill, her hair fell loose around her neck while her ice eyes laughed in triumph, uncaring that Eyjolfr's own presence might bring her ruin as well as success.

Saturday, June 10th, 1995 4.43 p.m.

Despite himself, Eyjolfr felt a strange sense of camaraderie with the woman. Her cowardly approach -or indeed, simply trying to follow the men's path of war- should have excited immediate dislike on his part, yet there was something in her carefree approach which he could not help liking, perhaps because it mirrored his own demeanor. In contrast, the gardener seemed an unsympathetic, almost sinister figure. In his eyes Eyjolfr saw the relaxed arrogance many young warriors tried to show but only those experienced enough not to fear defeat could really feel.
It was with some regret that Eyjolfr alerted the Asian to the woman's presence by raising his eyes from the gardener's to look directly at her. Eyjolfr tightened his grip on the sword's handle and said "Don't hurt her," hoping the casual tone covered the fear in his heart.
Even on a moment such as this, with death stalking close behind, Eyjolfr wondered about how odd the immortals must seem to any observer: a small Asian man posing with a scythe, feet hidden in grass, a harmless-looking tourist with his hand clutching something beneath at his back beneath the "Minnesota minotaurs" jacket, and a woman wearing a mischievous smile and a swimsuit, sword held high, her body still wet from the pool.

Saturday, June 10th, 1995 4.44 p.m.

A thin sly smile wormed its way across the gardener's lips. However, despite Eyjolfr's warning, the gardener refused to move, disregarding his peril. Eyjolfr, being schooled in the manner of Quickening, knew that with three immortals present in an the area of a duel, two would face potential loss in the event of an immortal's death. Not wanting to give up any of his own precious substance, Eyjolfr began to back up slightly, his eyes riveted on the Asian's impending surrender to finality.
However, moving quicker than Eyjolfr's eye could follow, the gardener blurred just as the woman's sword was descending. Instead of a neck, her naval saber lodged itself into the solid trunk of an old oak bordering the lawn. The gardener stepped into view just behind her. Eyjolfr called out, challenging the gardener to stand off, but it was too late! With a sweeping motion of his scythe, the gardener made a clean cut across the woman's white neck, blood trickling down her chest, staining the towel draped around her. Then the gardener disappeared.
Eyjolfr ran up to the woman immortal, who, with shaking hands, grasped her neck, feeling her "touch" of mortality. The gardener had only nicked her. Her neck would have quite a nice scar as a momento; but given how it could have gone, Eyjolfr figured the woman had gotten off lightly.
Seeing Eyjolfr approach, the woman recovered and held her sword aloft.
"Hardly a very private place for a duel," Eyjolfr commented, looking around him. "I doubt even our arcane powers would see us through this one. I know it's out of keeping for our natures, but have you ever considered just talking?"
The woman smiled and put her sword away.
"Elise," she said, holding out her hand. "You must be Klaus Jensen, though I think that perhaps that is not your true name."
"You know me?" Eyjolfr was surprised. "How?"
"The slayer of Thyestes, son of Rizon? Who doesn't know you?"
"And knowing that, it doesn't make you want to fight me?"
"Not today."
Elise laughed but Eyjolfr sensed that she meant what she said, quite literally, and the knowledge made him feel uneasy.

Sunday, June 11th, 1995 2.04 a.m.

Elise rolled off Eyjolfr, lighting a cigarette and offering him one. Eyjolfr shook his head. Having missed the discovery of the Americas, Eyjolfr had never developed as yet the native habit of smoking tobacco leaves.
Focusing on what had just happened between them, Eyjolfr pressed his fingers to his temples. He hadn't figured on going to bed with Elise. But nothing about Elise seemed predictable. She was mercurial and unpredictable, which is perhaps what Eyjolfr found so captivating about her. Looking over at her, he noted that her neck had healed, leaving a thin white line where the gardener had cut her.
"Your accent is Scandinavian," Elise announced not bothering to wait for confirmation, "but not modern Scandinavian! You sound rather Icelandic, but I suspect that just might be a surface similarity given the ancient roots of their language. Viking?!"
Eyjolfr laughed. "And you? What is your past?"
Elise looked at him, smiling. "I don't think I'll tell you if you can't figure it out. If you want to know, you'll have to cut my head off."
She was laughing, but her words had a chilling effect on Eyjolfr.
"That's not funny," Eyjofr told her.
Elise produced a long knife. It must have been hidden behind the headboard. Eyjolfr had searched the room when she went to use the toilette, but obviously she had hidden it well, expecting just such a maneuver.
Eyjolfr held his hands up. The long knife was razor sharp and he was at her mercy.
"I thought you said you wouldn't cut my head off," Eyjolfr said, trying to stall for time.
"That was yesterday," Elise told him. "It's past midnight."
Eyjolfr cursed himself for trusting her. Her whole personality had been revealed in that moment that she was sneaking up on the gardener. Her methods were anything but direct and yet he'd gone to bed with her. Stupid! Stupid!
"Before you kill me, do you mind answering one question first?" Eyjolfr asked.
Elise shrugged, meaning that Eyjolfr could proceed. She held the knife across Eyjolfr's throat, ready to throw her weight down on his neck if he made even the slightest move. Holding so still, trying to speak, was one of the hardest things Eyjolfr had ever tried to do.
"Why did you insist on attacking that man when you knew I was present. You might have given me his quickening and some of yours as well."
"I was gambling. I just as easily might have gotten some of yours in the bargain. And certainly, knowing we were both there should have put Tsunashige more at ease. It was the easiest chance I was going to have with someone of his caliber?"
"You believe that that little man was Tsunashige?" Eyjolfr scoffed.
"I know he was. That's what all this killing's been about. Everyone's been after his head and I intend to be the one who gets it."
She got off of Eyjolfr, removing the knife. Instinctively, his hand went to his neck. It was untouched.
"What was that for?" he yelled, throwing a pillow at her while she got dressed. "And where are you going?"
"Hunting."
Eyjolfr leaned back in her bed. "And why didn't you take me then, given that I'm the 'slayer of Thyestes, son of Rizon'?"
Elise smiled, not a friendly smile, but a thoughtful smile. "It just didn't seem right. I thought about it," she confessed. "It's kind of an interesting sensation, killing an immortal who've you've just made love to. You get to relive their lives, right up the point they felt like when they were feeling you - all of you. It's quite a head rush, as they say. But I just didn't feel like it. Tonight, I have bigger fish to fry. Maybe later, though."
"Not if I can help it," Eyjolfr said, still rubbing his neck.
"Wish me luck," she said, tossing back the pillow. "The bartender at the Brookdale gave me Tsunashige's address. You know, he goes by the name of Shig. How unoriginal."
"If that man was Tsunashige, you'll be dead before morning."
"Don't worry, I've been taking care of myself for centuries before you came along. I think I'll manage and as you've seen, I have quite a few tricks up my sleeve."
Eyjolfr had a thought. "Is Elise your real name?"
"Is Klaus yours?"
"Wait!" Eyjolfr said, struggling to get dressed while half out of bed. But before he'd even begun to put his pants on, she'd turned off the lights and shut the door.

Friday, June 16th, 1995, 12.35 p.m.

Eyjolfr sat at a small Boardwalk cafe, watching the crowd mill about the beach, seemingly aimlessly. Eyjolfr wondered if the fishers at the platform had better luck than he, and whether they caught anything. He had wasted almost a week searching for her. Elise had disappeared like a mirage. Eyjolfr knew that Arcane quickening lent him had saved him many times; it wasn't only the chaotic conditions that enabled him to move between Germany and France in the midst of the war, while being convicted to death as a foreign spy on both sides. Still, now Eyjolfr fervently hoped that such magic skills were out of the immortals' reach. It was frustrating: her apartment had held little but clothes, useless decoration, as well as weapons hid all over. Eyjolfr had been sure he'd find some firearms, but apparently Elise used only use honest weapons, strange as it seemed, given her utterly dishonorable fighting style - but how could a woman be expected to behave like a warrior? Eyjolfr tried not to think about his own folly in letting down his guard with Elise, or of his own pistol - after all, he only used it against cowards and men without honor.
The only real clue Eyjolfr had was the Lodge, but as Eyjolfr had thought, Elise's swordplay -and Eyjolfr's connection with her- had been remembered only too well, and he thought it best to leave quickly to avoid entanglements with the police. Though the idea of policemen coming to the Lodge to mix with hairs like beehives and lips like lollipops had seemed, and still did, strange enough to be worth witnessing, Eyjolfr had managed to fight the urge and leave quickly.
He turned the paper with Tsunashige's, "Shig's", address around in his fingers. He had been surprised that Elise had told the truth and the bartender had indeed known the address. He couldn't really explain why almost a week had passed and he still hadn't visited the ancient immortal, or why he had spent such effort on trying to find Elise. After all, his aim in coming here had been to find the ancient and learn from him. It was perhaps uncomfortable knowing that since Tsunashige's address (if it indeed was him) had been so easily obtained, he clearly wanted to be found out. But what of it? Could such a warrior be expected to play hide-and-seek with his lessers?
Perhaps this was because of Thyestes, now part of him. The man, despite being among the best of immortals, was no hero. Eyjolfr now knew he had come here seeking Tsunashige to do battle, though only after having strenghtened himself with the quickening of lesser men: Thyestes was more like a schemer and backstabber than an honest warrior. Yet Eyjolfr could see not only the actions but also the motives behind them: more than two millennia of experience and knowledge seemed nothing to shrug off - even if Eyjolfr had been able to do so. He had found himself begin speak in Ancient Greek, and then swiftly change back to his purposely-accented English. And some things seemed to evoke a half-forgotten memories from him: he had stopped at a Christian church, almost seeing it in ruins, almost hearing sounds of gunfire, feeling weak and forgotten.
Eyjolfr hoped such maladies be quickly left behind: a moment's indecision could cost one's life in battle, as Thyestes's memories could testify again and again. Cursing himself, he rose up, determined to be Eyjolfr son of Hogni, not a puppet to the ghost of some coward. He had come here seeking Tsunashige: to Tsunashige he would go. If the immortal had already left, then so be it. If the immortal would kill him, then so be it. All men must die: and to die at the hands of a master warrior in an honorable duel would be a better death than most.

(Not much happening, since I was about to get to the apartment, but wrote nothing about it, then... Eyjolfr is going to walk to the apartment (assuming it's not unreasonably far away, say, within ten miles) and announce himself, entering only if summoned inside (unless no-one is home, in which case the Thyestes in him will break inside). Eyjolfr'll simply want to talk to Tsunashige, to learn about immortals and about whether he's killed Elise and well, about everything really. If Tsunashige fights, Eyjolfr will defend himself, trying to kill the ancient immortal. I had figured Eyjolfr could arrive to an empty apartment or perhaps meet someone (not Tsunashige) there. I also still have the idea of having Eyjolfr go to find some local Garou (it would be nice to interact with some other PCs, btw), but this is also a bit difficult for me to write.)

Friday, June 16th, 1995 1.57 p.m.

Eyjolfr looked down at the address to make sure he had the correct house. The German-style gingerbread house was the last place he'd expected to find someone like Tsunashige. Somehow, Eyjolfr had pictured the old immortal in something more aesthetic, with a simple garden befitting his most recently seen employment. There was no garden; only an untended spread of sumac (poison oak) beneath the trees and dense bunches of ferns around the creek bed.
Eyjolfr had taken a taxi just a mile above where Trout Gulch Road joined up with Soquel and then had walked the rest of the way. It had taken him over an hour to get here. Tsunashige obviously enjoyed his privacy.
Eyjolfr crossed over the rickety bridge that crossed the nearly dry creek, now only a summer trickle. With every creak of the wood under his feet, Eyjolfr felt as if he were advertising his presence to anyone listening.
Passing a parked green Citroen, which Eyjolfr recognized from Elise's papers as belonging to her, he walked up under the triangular arch and knocked on the door, again somewhat surprised in Tsunashige taste in houses. There was no sense of quickening, so thinking that no one was at home, Eyjolfr tried the doorknob. It wasn't locked and even before Eyjolfr had even thought about entering, the doorknob slipped out of his hand and the door, severely unbalanced, opened wide - almost invitingly.
Eyjolfr gave it half a thought and then entered, having a quick look around first. A simple kitchen lay off to the right while the rest of the small house seemed taken up mostly by a large study filled with books, while simple wooden steps, arranged almost as a ladder, climbed up to a loft are where Eyjolfr presumed there was a bed.
As he stepped into the house, Eyjolfr at once felt a strong presence - not of a person - but a place. Holy Ground! Eyjolfr whirled, looking about him. Nothing of the simple dwelling held any suggestion that it had once been a church or graveyard. The house was too small and the land around it obviously wild. Perhaps, the Coastanoan Indians, whose land this once had been, had a burial site hidden away from all but those who could sense such things - like himself.
This fact of the place being holy ground made Tsunashige's choice seem more logical now. After all, while he was at home, no immortal would challenge him. But he had to leave sometime, as was obvious by his present absence.
Eyjolfr wondered what the old immortal might be up to now and his thoughts wondered to Elise, and how she might have fared and what had become of her.
Thinking that sneaking around a man's house when he was not at home and uninvited was less than honourable, Eyjolfr decided to leave for the moment and come back when Tsunashige was home. In one of those curious moments that sometimes decide men's fate, based only a bit of chance, Eyjolfr turned and heading for the door, happened to trip on a bit of Afghani carpet. Not normally a clumsy man, Eyjolfr turned to look at his foot. It had pulled back a bit of carpet, revealing a trap door hidden underneath. Eyjolfr looked at it, wondering why he didn't sense any hollowness under his feet when he'd first walked on the hidden door. And it's revelation, coming as it did on the very heels of his departing thoughts seemed almost by design. Still, the crafty curiosity that came about him now, for which Eyjolfr blamed Thyestes, couldn't resist at least peeking down into what the door might reveal.
Uncurling his boot from the carpet, Eyjolfr pulled up on a heavy recessed iron ring set into a crafted plate itself recessed into the heavy oak of the trap door. The oak was thick and heavy, speaking of an age greater than that of the house. And as Eyjolfr pulled the door up, he saw the dim outlines of granite steps, rough hewn as if by hand. The revelation of this place being holy - or unholy, Eyjolfr quickly thought - made more sense at this revelation. Perhaps it was a secret meeting place for an unknown or long dead sect. Espying a close by oil lamp and matches, Eyjolfr lit the lamp and headed down the steps. The air was thick, as in old places not often visited by the living. There was a sweet rotten sense to the air that Eyjolfr had smelled before; that of the charnel stench of blood and rotting meat.
Feeling more than a little ill at ease, Eyjolfr decided that he would press on, at least enough to learn more about this hidden corner of the man who he had come so far to meet. What kind of man was this Tsunashige?
The light of his lamp gave him an answer. Hung upside down like a game carcass left to age, Elise's headless body hung naked, dark runes gouged into it's bloated black flesh, an empty stone bowl beneath it to catch whatever blood happened to spill. He knew it was Elise since her head lay in a bowl, unlike her rotting body, still remarkably preserved - enough to register the shock and horrour that had been her last few moments of life.
Eyjolfr looked around. There was a broad but low stone counter, for what might have been an alter behind Elise's body. The wall to either side had large oaken doors in them, each barred as if preventing something from entering, and covered with runes. This was all that Eyjolfr had time to register before he sensed that the master of the house had returned.
He had left the trap door open. It was obvious where he was. He saw black pajamaed pants descending the steps, but instead of Tsunashige, a slender man, looking hardly older than a stripling, came down, his eyes full of curiosity about Eyjolfr.
"Well, this saves me some time. Thank you," he said to Eyjolfr.
Eyjolfr's hand strayed to his sword but then pulled back. - Holy Ground.
"You're not Tsunashige," Eyjolfr said. "Where is he? Is he responsible for this?"
The young man smiled. "I'm sorry, but I can't help enjoying this - no matter how many times I've said it." He grinned at Eyjolfr. "I am the one you call Tsunashige. My friend, I'm afraid you've come chasing a ghost who never existed, as have many of your kind."
"My kind?" Eyjolfr sensed something strange about the young man, something like the ephemeral sense of quickening he had felt when he first encountered what he had thought was Tsunashige.
"You're not an immortal, are you?" Eyjolfr asked him.
The young man shook his head. "No, I am not. But I am someone who admires your kind greatly - and I covet what you have."
Eyjolfr tried to think. What was this being? He sensed a power in him, like that of an immortal - but now, perhaps too late, he realized that it was vastly different.
"What are you then?" Eyjolfr asked, placing his hand upon his sword.
"Your worst nightmare," the young man grinned, transforming before Eyjolfr's eyes into the little gardener he had seen before - only this time resplendent in the bright lacquer and steel plate of a samurai. Almost as quickly, the image faded and the young man was left laughing.
"That's what you wanted to see, isn't it? What you came for? Too bad he doesn't exist. But then maybe he does. I've worked very hard to cultivate his image over the centuries. Going back in time to plant suggestions about his existence, taking myth and fabricating it into reality. I even fooled those idiots you know as Watchers. I've read it in their own texts about Tsunashige, about his movements, about victories that never happened."
"But why?" Eyjolfr asked him. "Explain this insanity." He pointed with anger to Elise, dead behind him. "Explain this!"
"It's a long story," the man explained. "When I came here and found this node, it was almost dead. Yes, places can be thought of as living also. A heretic sect of Spaniards, outcasts who practiced dark arts once worshiped here. But when they were found out, rooted out and burned at the stake, this place, left untended started to die, starving for the blood that had once graced it's foundations. Even worse, the Church performed rites here that shredded the darkness that had once called this place home, leaving what they thought was a dead place of darkness - but not quite all dead it turned out. It's not a part of local history that the Church here is very proud of. Suffice it to say that when I learned of this sect, I sought this place out, even going so far as to build a simple cottage, the one above us. But when I finally found this place, after years of searching, it's power was almost gone. It was dry and useless. Then I happened upon a way to recharge it." The man smiled, his pale skin forming dark lines around his mouth, making him look almost demonic.
"And to keep the 'sources' of this power coming, I 'invented' the one you call Tsunashige.
Even if it cost Eyjolfr some of his own quickening, he was determined at this point to kill the evil imp speaking to him. He'd heard enough and didn't want to hear any more. In one motion, he'd drawn his sword and swing it out, the blade meeting - air.
Laughter appeared behind him. Eyjolfr turned, scowling at the mocking face leering at him, cackling in glee. "Didn't I tell you I travelled BACK in time? You can't imagine what paradox that cost me. But don't doubt that I have time on MY side, immortal. You cannot blink faster than I can act. I can make it seem like your movements are glacial compared to mine. Believe me, it's no effort to kill you."
For a demonstration, the young man just disappeared, reappearing just to Eyjolfr's side. "Now, I've enjoyed our little chat, but I really have to be going. I was right in the middle of something when I felt you inside my house. Now, I do have people waiting and it would be rude to dally longer. So, if you don't mind, I'll be killing you now."

Friday, June 16th, 1995 2.13 p.m.

As the serpent in black smiled and hissed, Eyjolfr felt the pieces in his jigsaw puzzle of a life suddenly fall into their appointed places. He could now see the purpose behind it all: his dedication and sacrifice to Freyr, his first death, his resurrection, his adventures in Santa Cruz.
He had once saved his kinsmen and all the folk of Egtved by serving as a sacrifice to Freyr. Eyjolfr had long wondered why the son of Njord had seen fit to grant him a second life in the same body, and now the mystery fell. His journeys had led him to Santa Cruz to meet this killer of Immortals. It was clear that his traffick with the undead here had served purpose of letting him meet and triumph over Thyestes, to strengthen him for the second sacrifice of killing -and probably being killed by- this scourge of Immortals. After all, Immortals were Freyr's folk, and, despite their eternal war, in their own way as much Eyjolfr's kind as his long-dead kinsmen.
A shadow of doubt in Eyjolfr's mind asked what possible role could dead Elise play in this, but he ignored it: there world has no justice save what men make, and if he must think of Elise, let the thought of her body make his limbs steel in the coming battle.
"Now, I've enjoyed our little chat, but I really have to be going. I was right in the middle of something when I felt you inside my house. Now, I do have people waiting and it would be rude to dally longer. So, if you don't mind, I'll be killing you now," the black-clad trollfriend leered.
Eyjolfr looked at the pale apparition which could hardly be called a man. He shrugged off the last of his fear of this degraded creature with seemingly invincible gifts; for all can be killed. Eyjolfr resigned himself to his fate as best as he could replaced by a strangely serene sense of fulfilment replacing his earlier hate and rage. He shifted Gustr, sparkling with Frey's fire, into his left hand. Eyjolfr slowly reached for the pistol as he spoke, hoping the trollfriend would be too confident to attack yet. Eyjolfr answered the mocking query, both to give himself time to get the pistol and, more importantly, to announce his courage, to himself as well as to the fiend.
"A man lives not the space of one breath without the Norns' leave; all have a fate waiting. It seems mine is to die head held high and a sword at your throat; I will die a good death. And should I reach Valfodr's halls before you sink to the depths of Hel, know that there are others than my kind hunting you; and they will find you, as I have found you."
As he spoke, Eyjolfr wished he would have used Norse; the almost ritual words had no grace in English. For the brief moment before the first strike Eyjolfr found himself missing his true kinsmen, thinking he would meet them soon enough in Valholl.
Then Eyjolfr felt the Quickening rush through his body and fill his limbs with speed, washing such thoughts away. [Eyjolfr uses Empower Self, putting the successes into Dexterity.] Eyjolfr raised the pistol and fired, an image of a dark beach and someone firing at him flashing through his mind.
(Empower self - 2 successes)
The gun went off (2 successes). Eyjolfr wasn't a fantastic shot, but given the close quarters and his at least passing ability with guns, he knew he should have hit. But his target had vanished and worse, his bullet just managed to richochet off the stone walls of the cellar. Fortunately, the bullet just contined to bounce off the walls, creating a lot of stone powder and finally, in the instant after it was fired, flattening harmessly somewhere. Eyjolfr knew he wasn't hit, but his ears were ringing with terrible noise of the gun. He was deaf, at least for the moment.
Eyjolfr felt a terrible pain in his back, somewhere in the area of his right kidney. The pain was immense and Eyjolfr instinctively reached back and felt the area of numbness in his back. Looking at his hand, he saw that it was covered with blood (Eyjolfr is injured, -2).
(Inititative - Nephandi - The initiative is with your opponent, but you have the option of telling me if you have any defensive maneuvers to perform before I roll his attack. JK)
(If there's an obvious attack, Eyjolfr will dodge/parry (as appropriate, preferably parry, of course) with 6 dice, leaving him with only 1 die for his action.
Drawing his sword, Eyjolfr turned to try and parry the Nephandi's attack. Whirling around, Eyjolfr brought Gustr across just in time to deflect another blow. It seemed that Eyjolfr's opponent was no great swordsman, relying more on his magickal powers to offset the immortal's melee skills.
Eyjolfr's opponent moved in a jerky fashion. He was amazingly quick, seeming to almost disappear for a moment. However, it seemed he was in some difficulty. But whenever Eyjolfr tried to press this advantage, the stranger just seemed to "wink" out. It became obvious that it was not Eyjolfr but some external force that was plaguing his opponent, but not to the point where Eyjolfr could bring himself to hurt the slayer of immortals - quite the opposite.
One moment, Eyjolfr felt he had the magician and again, the magician just disappeared. Eyjolfr felt a point of pain jabbing near his spine.
"Enough of this tripe! It's time we finished."
Expecting the bite of the magician's sword into his neck any moment, Eyjolfr pivoted, Gustr held up in a warding mode, ready to fight an attack that never came. The magician was turning old - ancient rather- before Eyjolfr's eyes. His skin was wrinkling and turning yellow like old parchment while the man's lips withered and withdrew, exposing a skull like grin.
The floor began to glow and the man's body, absorbing a purplish red light that emanated from below, began to revert to his younger age. Eyjolfr could sense a terrible power like that of an ancient immortal. The unholy ground was feeding it's master, giving him the power he needed to fight the strange forces that ate away at him.
Eyjolfr struck out, taking advantage once again of the lull. The magician threw his sword into the air. Wondrously, unaided the blade took on a life of it's own, warding off Eyjolfr's attack while the magician absorbed the power from the floor.
Eyjolfr had two obvious options. He could take advantage of the situation and retreat while the magician was preoccupied. Or he could continue his attack, probably against a renewed opponent.
(Initiative - Eyjolfr)
(First Eyjolfr'll try to shoot the magician while he's drawing power from the ground, or at least try to, and see whether his sword can ward off bullets. If that fails, well, then, we'll see..)
Eyjolfr decided to continue the fight. Since he was thwarted in trying to bring Gustr to bear on the dark magician, Eyjolfr sheathed his sword. He brought out his pistol and fired several times. The sword tried and did manage to catch one of the bullets but the Magician was still hit three times, the bullets tearing into and passing through him. Eyjolfr was busy dodging ricochets, but when he next looked up, he could see that two of the bullets had torn bloody gashes in the magician's face, while one had ripped a hole in his shoulder. Something moved inside the wounds. Eyjolfr made out the writhing small bodies of maggots and the magician's body convulsed as if he were indeed full of them. The magician, sensing his wounds pressed his hands over them, squashing the maggots' bodies into a white paste that congealed and solidified into the magician's cadaverous flesh.
Not only did he seem unperturbed by the wounds, but his attention was focused more on the hole Eyjolfr's shot had made in his jacket.
"Oh dear, I'd only just acquired this. I'm afraid I'll have to change before going back to my party."
The magician held out his hand and the sword raced back to it.
"Excuse me for the interruption. Now, where were we? Oh yes! You, were about to die."
The magician advanced upon Eyjolfr and then disappeared in a wink of an eye.
(Initiative - magician.)
(Dodge (or parry if possible) with full dice pool. When Eyjolfr gains initiative, he'll try to a) grab the oil lamp and smash this into the magician (with the aim of igniting the oil and/or his clothes), again with full dice pool. (In general, it would seem pointless to use anything less than the full pool against an equal or superior opponent.) In the unlikely event of this seriously bothering him (or failing altogether), I'll think of something to do... If this only seems to annoy or temporarily distract him, Eyjolfr'll either a) make a fighting retreat outside the house (if the magician is still fighting) or b) run like hell (if the magician is temporarily distracted). (There's a fine line between being committed unto death and being suicidal.) (Of course, it's probably best to refer back to me with a description and let me figure out whether he's seriously distracted or not...)
Eyjolfr caught a glint out of the corner of his eye and, having drawn Gustr once more, just managed to catch the tip of the magician's blade on his own. It was apparent that the magician was no great swordsman, preferring to use his cowardly arcane manipulation of time to more than even the fighting odds. Catching sight once more of an old oil lamp, Eyjolfr grabbed it an flung it at the magician. It was hardly surprising to Eyjolfr when his opponent disappeared once more, reappearing to the side. However, the magician's insane mocking laughter chocked out suddenly as both he and Eyjolfr saw that the work table holding Elise's head was on fire. What's more, Eyjolfr's missed shot had landed and knocked down a stack of books, two of which were seriously on fire.
The magician gave Eyjolfr a seething look and then winked out once more. The flames around the books sputtered erratically, as if choking for air and the fire seemed in danger of being put out.

(Q: Books. Hmmm. Could you give a description of what the room is like and how it is furnished, other than what was mentioned in the move which preceded all these ONYXes?
(A: The room measures about 21 feet by 36, with a ceiling height of roughly nine feet. At one point, it room has a spiraling staircase leading upward, light being provided by a number of electric lamps set into what once must have been torch sconces. These came on after Eyjolfr threw the lamp. To either side of the room are two inset doors with strange runes carved upon them. They are both barred. At the farther end, the room ends in a low stone counter resembling an alter. A series of chains and pulleys are tied by iron rings into the ceiling, some of which are being used to hold up a headless cadaver. Beneath the cadaver is a stone bowl, in which blood has been dripping. The bowl has been upset in the fight and has spilled on the ground, revealing part of what must be a pentagram drawn upon the stone in a waxy substance. In the small narrow space beyond the alter is a storage are for what Eyjolfr quickly glimpses as books in a basket plus a number of coloured jars and odd bits of twine, a curved knife and other assorted items that he cannot quite make out.)

(Eyjolfr'll retreat outside the house, or to be more precise, outside the holy site from which the mage seems to be drawing power. Eyjolfr'll move quickly but not in blind panic, keeping sword in hand and trying to be ready in case the magician suddenly appears in front of or behind him (remember Eyjolfr has Acute Hearing).

Friday, June 16th, 1995 2.19 p.m.

Though it had missed the magician, Eyjolfr's tossed lantern did bring him a breathing space. While the dark mage was focused on keeping his precious tomes from burning, Eyjolfr cautiously retreated back up the stairs and, always making sure that he wasn't being followed, retreated back away from the unholy site. He paused by the bridge and took a look around.
(Perception - 1 success) Glancing quickly toward the road, which he could barely see through the trees, he could see that a car was parked about a hundred feet away. He didn't remember having seen a vehicle when he'd first come to the place and the car had a familiar look to it. He doubted that it was the magicians. More likely, the new jaguar in the driveway, also not there when Eyjolfr had come, was that of the dark magician.
Thinking of his nemesis, Eyjolfr turned to see if he'd been followed yet. Everything was quiet. The afternoon heat began to drape heavily on his shoulders and Eyjolfr felt isolated and alone, with evil only a few steps away.

Friday, June 16th, 1995 2.22 p.m.

Eyjolfr peered closer, to see if the distant car might not belong to the watcher, George Rosing. Certainly it looked the same, and Eyjolfr doubted that any two such cars could have nearly identical dents and splotches of rusted metal where paint should have been.
Eyjolfr quickly approached the other car. There was no traffic on the road and no one seemed to be around. Peering inside, he noted the pile of fast food containers and dirty laundry in the backseat. A scurry of branches and the snap of twigs signaled the approach of another. Eyjolfr readied Gustr, ready for the reappearance of the dark magician. Instead, George Rosing, very much out of shape, came huffing up the steep creekside. He slipped on some ferns and fell to the ground, trying to use his arm to catch his fall.
"Ah, Damn! Not Poison Oak!" he groaned.
"Are you alright?" Eyjolfr asked, taking a quick glance at the cottage. Thus far, there was no pursuit.
"I'm fine," Rosing said, looking at his hands. They were merely scraped a little. "That is at least until the poison oak kicks in."
"Could you wait a moment?" Eyjolfr asked him and then not waiting for an answer, headed back for the cottage.
Quickly turning to one of the other vehicles that were in the driveway, Eyjolfr rummaged through the empty jaguar. He found nothing but a pair of gloves made of some sort of skin. Eyjolfr smashed the windows, ripped the electrical wiring and made it a point to cut through the hosing and tires of the car, out of spite and angry frustration as for anything else. Quickly then, all the time making sure he wasn't pursued, he jogged back to Rosing.
"How about a lift?" Eyjolfr asked, not waiting for an answer before getting into the passenger side.
Sweating, Rosing stuck his head in. "I know I gave you a lift the other night, but really, it's against the rules. We're not supposed to interfere."
"Just get going," Eyjolfr told him. "We'll talk about it on the way."
An inhuman screech came through the woods, coming from the direction of the cottage.
"What was that?!" Rosing said, jerking his head up. Not waiting for a reply, he jumped into the driver's side and set the car in motion and u-turned it back downhill.
Eyjolfr just realized that he hadn't disabled Elise's Renault. The black magician could use it to pursue them.
"Can't you get anymore speed out of this thing?" he asked Rosing. "Why are you driving such a piece of dung anyway? Don't they pay you watchers?"
"I think you mean shit," Rosing said. Seeing Eyjolfr's puzzled look, he explained, "We say 'shit' here, not 'dung.' And yes, they do pay us enough to support ourselves but junior watchers aren't given much. We're the ones who watch the newer immortals."
"Well, I'll try to improve myself - for your sake." Eyjolfr said dryly.
"That has nothing to do with it. We don't pay by who watches whom. Otherwise, we would be tempted to try and interfere, so that our immortal would win and then we would get more money. It's simply a time in service scheme."
Eyjolfr smiled at the way Rosing had said, "our", in such a possessive manner. These watchers it seemed felt very possessive about their immortals.
"How many immortals did you watch before me?" Eyjolfr asked him.
"Two before you. Both died young. It's a shame really."
Eyjolfr paused. "Why are you telling me this?"
"What, you trying to say you don't know about us?" Rosing scoffed. "Look, we don't advertise, but it's obvious that some immortals will find us out over time. It's happened before. Andwell, maybe I overstepped bounds a little bit; but in the circumstances, it seemed justified. As long as we don't interfere"
"Not that I'm ungrateful for the ride," Eyjolfr interrupted, "but don't you think that this is interfering?"
"As I was about to say," Rosing said in a correcting voice, "as long as we don't interfere in the Game. That was no immortal you just left. And besides, there's a lot of strange stuff going on around here that my superiors don't even know about. And certainly it's stuff my watcher training never prepared me for."
"Well, thanks anyway," Eyjolfr said.
Rosing growled, "Ah, don't mention it. I should have parked farther away, but I was lazy. It's too much trouble having to hike all the way back and I was hoping you'd be too busy to notice."
Eyjolfr nodded. Looking at the speedometer, he asked, "Why are you slowing down?"
"I don't know," Rosing told him. "The car's not behaving right."
As if in confirmation, the car began to buck up and down. Then the roof started to cave in.
"There's something on the roof!" Eyjolfr yelled.
A black craggy claw punched through the sheet metal of the roof, groping for anyone. It grazed Rosing's shoulder and he screamed, nearly sending the car out of control.
Swearing an oath, Eyjolfr thrust Gustr up through the hole. There was the same unholy screech and steaming black liquid dripped through the hole, burning much of Rosing's upholstery and laundry, filling the car with a rotten stench. The car stopped bucking and a shadow passed in front of the windshield.
"Whatever it is, it can fly," Eyjolfr said, trying to get a glance at it.
A log smashed down on the windshield, shattering it.
"Shit!" Rosing said, sending the car into a spin. He was able to right it, but they'd stopped.
"Get going!" Eyjolfr told him.
Rosing quipped, "I think I know that!"
Tires screeching, the car got underway. Just in time as a speeding Renault came hurtling down the road. Eyjolfr could see the cadaverous figure behind the wheel, gazing at him with dark eyeless sockets. Time hadn't been very good to his opponent, but physical appearance aside, he didn't seem much otherwise worse for wear.
"Hold the wheel!" Rosing yelled.
Eyjolfr informed him in a loud voice, "I don't know how to drive!"
"Lesson one - Steer!" Rosing grabbed a flare gun from the glove box and leaned out the window.
Eyjolfr tried to steer the careening car, banking it around curves while it maintained the same wild speed, having been set on cruise control. (Drive + Dex = 1 success).
Rosing leaned out the window and fired, a wide miss. Sitting back down, he reloaded.
"That wasn't even close," Eyjolfr told him.
"It would help if you could keep the car steady. And I was right on. He must have used some power to make it seem like I missed. But that's all right."
"I wish I could share your confidence, "Eyjolfr said.
Rosing reloaded and reaching down, grabbed an old oily paper bag. He leaned out and fired again, and then followed this by dropping the bag. He then reloaded.
The flare missed wildly, but the sack of caltrops that Rosing had dropped, punctured the Renault's tires, sending it rolling. Before the dark magician could deal with the new crisis, Rosing sent another flare at the Renault. It shot into the cab, igniting whatever was inside. There was a screaming that could be heard, even as they sped away, Rosing taking the wheel once more.
Eyjolfr took an inventory. He shouted to be heard over the wind entering the car through the absent windshield. "One flare left." Looking back, he added, "I think you killed him."
"Hardly," Rosing said, mopping sweat from the folds of his face. "I just slowed him down. If we're lucky, it's enough for us to get away."

Friday, June 16th, 1995 2.37 p.m.

Until they were sure that they were actually out of danger, Rosing kept quiet, trying to speed fast enough to give them some distance, but not so fast as to bring the police down on them.
"So where can I drop you off?" Rosing asked Eyjolfr.
"Do you know anything about werewolves?"
Rosing looked at him. He shook his head. "Look, I can't help you out. I'm your watcher. I'm only supposed to watch. I've done more than I should and if my superiors found out, they'd have me killed."
"Great, so where did you say these werewolves were?" Eyjolfr asked. When Rosing looked over, he just smiled.
Rosing however remained quiet, squinting against the wind in his face. He pulled out some sunglasses to shield his eyes.
"O.K. Take me to Cowell Redwoods. I'll get out there."
Rosing looked at him, shaking his head, he got onto the Highway 1, until it linked up with Highway 9, on River Street.
"Just for you sake, I think I should tell you that there is no Tsunashige," Eyjolfr told Rosing. He felt that after all the watcher had done, he might as well give him something. "He's a myth. That magician made him up, going back in time to plant the stories about him. He never existed, except as bait to draw unwary immortals to feed unholy ground."
Rosing didn't say much until they'd gotten to Cowell Redwoods. He did ask Eyjolfr a few questions about what Eyjolfr had seen inside the cottage. Eyjolfr told him but didn't get anything in answer.
They drove up to the entrance. The ranger took the entrance fee, which Rosing made Eyjolfr pay, all the time eyeing the car.
"You were in some wreck," he commented.
"Style statement," Rosing replied, driving off.
At the park headquarters, Rosing let Eyjolfr out. Then Rosing made another u-turn and leaned out the window of his very smashed up vehicle. Eyjolfr could see what looked like furrows gouged into other parts of the car.
"That man you fought was a Nephandus," Rosing told him in a quiet voice. "They're evil magicians - very bad. We suspected something was up given the number of missing immortals in the area. You've only confirmed what we've suspected. But know this - no matter how powerful or how gifted at illusion that magician was, he never went back into time. The repercussions in magical backlash would destroy him if he were even to try. He maybe can play time tricks, like winking out, or maybe disappearing into the near future, but at no time did that 'thing' travel back into time."
(Intelligence + Wits = 4 successes) "So, you're saying that Tsunashige exists. That it would have been impossible for that magician to have created the myth. He was lying when he said that." Eyjolfr waited for a confirmation.
Rosing started to drive off.
"But how can you be sure?" Eyjolfr asked, jogging after him.
Rosing leaned out one last time before driving off. "Because I've seen him. He's in Santa Cruz. Now do me a favor, if you ever see me again - you don't know me! You're getting a new Watcher!"
Rosing sped off, leaving Eyjolfr behind.

Sunday, June 25th, 1995 11.53 p.m.

Though he had taken a through walk through the park, at no time was Eyjolfr able to find any hint of what might be taken as werewolf activity. He spent several days, both in training for taking out the Nephandus, and in hiking through Cowell's trails, trying to find some hint of lupine activity in the midst of the incredibly huge ancient redwood trees.
From his time in Canada, Eyjolfr knew that he could sense werewolf holy sites, which they called cairns, much as he would holy or unholy ground. But unlike magi, whose lifeforce contained a power not unlike quickening, he could not detect werewolves. Though they were spiritual beings of great power, he could not tell the difference between a human and a werewolf in human form, unless the latter chose to reveal itself.
In Canada, in the wild, the werewolves were in their domain. They were the rulers and he had come to know them as they did not make themselves strangers once they knew Eyjolfr for what he was. In fact, they had been rather fascinated and had insisted on "killing" him a few times to make Eyjolfr prove himself in a rather brutal fashion.
But in Santa Cruz, so close to the domains of mankind, the werewolves would obviously be more wary, afraid of being found out and destroyed - or perhaps fearing having to destroy to defend themselves. As the guardians of the Earth Mother, they had many enemies.
On a previous Tuesday, Eyjolfr had done a bit of off trail hiking. He had just gotten a sense of something when three rangers appeared out of nowhere. They had sent him packing back to the trail, telling him the area was off limits due to preservation of sensitive species. He didn't believe them, but didn't want to press the point, intending to come back later.
Now, with no moon to betray him, Eyjolfr had come back that day and had made it a point to stay past closing, hiding in a burned out yet still partially alive stump of one of the giant redwoods.
Warily, using all his powers of arcane, Eyjolfr slipped through the trees, sparingly making use of a lighted compass to try and find his way back.
Hearing the sound of voices, Eyjolfr ducked behind a bunch of ferns.
"No, you two go on. I'm going to bathe. I'm a bit tired." Eyjolfr thought he recognized the voice. It was one of the rangers who had stopped him the first time. He remembered he vaguely, thinking she seemed bright and attentive.
There was a growling sort of sound.
"No, it's too far to the caves. I'll just make use of one of the pools."
"Well then, you know we shall speak about you in our absence," a deep booming voice stated. There was a strange sound, like slurping.
"You tease! Don't you dare, or I might tell everyone some of your secrets, Klaivesmourn!"
There was a deep harmonious chuckling. "As you wish Dreamhowler. Baneshatter and I shall wait you. Try not to be too long as I don't know how long I can hold Baneshatter's appetite at bay. I wouldn't want to think of you going hungry tonight."
There was growling comment at this.
The woman called Dreamhowler laughed. "Until later. Go with Gaia."
"And you," replied the deep voice.
There was a yip as well. Sometime later, Eyjolfr presumed the others had left, though he'd heard nothing. He remembered how stealthy the werewolves in Canada had been. He wished he'd learned more about them.
There was a splashing sound of someone in water, followed by some singing on an Irish ballad, though in English. Suddenly the singing stopped.
Eyjolfr could hear someone, very quietly, sniffing the air.
"Well, I guess I'm not the only one in need of a bath," the woman stated aloud. Eyjolfr knew he'd been found out.
"Give me a moment to get dressed," the woman told him, in a very calm and business like voice. "You know the park is closed, don't you?"
Eyjolfr debated trying to lay low. Maybe she wouldn't be able to find him. But given that, if she were a werewolf, she could track his scent now that she had it, he decided to give up. It seemed unlikely that she was only a kinfolk, a human of werewolf blood, but without their powers - given her powers of smell.
Hoping he was doing the right thing, Eyjolfr called out, "I'm sorry. I got lost."
The woman appeared, shining a flashlight in Eyjolfr's face. He couldn't see her, but a glimpse of a ranger's uniform convinced him that it was the same person. He caught a glimpse of her name badge, which he hadn't paid any attention to before. It said, McTigue.
"I know you," she said to him. Her hand drifted down to her revolver, which she quietly unstrapped. "You were here before. You want to give me an explanation or should I just place you under arrest?"

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