So I started this story quite a while ago as part of an adventure module I was working on, for a yet be announced game I was working on.
It is a dark fantasy setting that is a twist on some of our own history.
Its still a work in progress but would appreciate and C+C which may lead me to add more to it in the near future.
After the First Crusade recaptured Whiteburn in 0859MD, many pilgrims travelled to visit what they referred to as the Holy Places. However, though the city of Whiteburn was under relatively secure control, the rest of Outremer was not. Bandits were abundant, and pilgrims were routinely slaughtered, sometimes by the hundreds, as they attempted to make the journey from the coastline at Jaffe into the Holy Land.
The old man looked at his ring, thoughtfully. He was standing by a Portcullis, in the misty fog of Whiteburn streets rolling and wafting all around. It was winter. He wore suitable clothes, a long woollen coat and simple robes underneath. In his hand, he held a cane, leaning on it slightly, listening.
Occasionally a peasant would pass this small street, with its close Shanty Houses. He looked to be the timeless Aristocratical Lord, standing there, perhaps waiting to hail a coach, or maybe waiting for a lady to arrive. Patient, reserved, predestine, in a calm collected manner.
His eyes were a deep green, his hair, Auburn and slightly greying but neatly kept. Clean shaven and respectable in every department.
A long black coach pulled up beside him. One the horses began to rear, the old man gazed into its eyes and it came to rest. The structure made one of those annoying creaking sounds that irritated him. But he ignored it as face loomed out of the darkness.
At first, the gentleman forced a sharp intake of breath. The face of a woman, beautiful, like a marble statue is beautiful. And the colour of ivory.
“Mr Hanlon Lees?”, asked the very pale woman.
Beautiful, he thought, but dangerous. He regained his composure almost immediately,
“Forgive me dear “, he said quietly, ” I am indeed the same Hanlon Lees.”
“Please, Mr Lees, step into my car, we have a lot to talk about. The night is … young yet” she spoke softly, elegantly. an in an enthralling tone of voice.
The man opened the door quietly and looked around, making sure that he was not followed. All he saw was the mist.
He stepped into the cab and quietly it pulled away.
In the shadows above, a man stood on a nobles balcony, somehow cloaked in the shadow itself. He was tall, philistine, and possessed a look of dedication. Undoubtedly, he had seen battle, such was his build and his stance. Suggestive of a warrior.
He looked into the deep air for no more than a few moments.
He whispered something quiet to himself, clenching a fist. He too was pale like the woman, though not as white.
Quietly, he lowered himself down to the street and went over to a near boy dressed in bedraggled messenger clothing.
“Tell the Lord that she has taken one to speak with. They must be stopped, for the good of everyone. Gods be with you”
My Name is Vittorja Elanua, “I am Justicar of the order”. He gazed down at her eloquent flowing dress, crafted from the finest of silks in Scarlet Red, with simple flower petals embodied into the design She laid her hand upon her lap.
“We have been watching you for some time”, Hanlon did not seem surprised. “We have been fighting an invisible war, not just against the Sabbat but another threat to all Kindred kine, you have been charged to abrogate this menace”
“But what of my loyalty to my prince” He protested, motioning to stand up, but unable to in the confined space of the cabin. “Your Prince has come to an understanding” She reached to a wooden box below her seat and pulled out a large object wrapped in dirtied linen
“You will need this to complete your task”
He reached over and carefully placed the object on his knees, it seemed to hold no weight for something so large. He delicately began to unfurl the linin, it soon became apparent to him that this had not been seen by a man's eyes in generations.
He could feel a heat build up from inside the wrappings, although it did not burn he felt a warmth that he had not felt since his days as a mortal. He further unfurled the wrappings, a handle began to appear, crafted from fine leather and silk, in a crimson not unlike that of Vittorja’s dress, a pommel in the shape of an anque, with wings of a predatory bird inlaid with a fine jewel. It was of a metal he had not seen before but the craftsmanship was sublime and yet so precise. It reminded him of a time when he worked as a smith when he could take pride in his work. The angles and edges on this pommel were so precise it could not have been crafted by a mere man. Perhaps Eleven or Dwarven he thought, but immediately dismissed due to the unusual nature of the pommel.
He continued slowly unsheathing it revealing the hilt, mirroring the predatory wings on the pommel.
“Only those of true faith may gaze upon its blade” Vittorja recounted. Mesmerized by its beauty he continued revealing a long but perfectly balanced blade, The decisive killing tool” He Sibilated.
He traced a finger over the Runic writing that was inlaid with precious metals on the blade He did not recognize the script despite being a scholar of languages.
“With this, you will be a weapon of the order”