Odd Swiss Hospitality

Basel was a decent change. Our group was welcomed well enough. No one was out to end our unlives for this short span of time.

What I did find odd, was that our hosts wanted our participation in discussions and sharing of ideas - but none of them really did so, at least with myself. I believe I was able to speak with two guests, a certain Lord Mendel of the Warlocks, and another one (his name escapes me) who seems to be of the blood.

Both gentlemen I engaged in conversation with, but for some reason, they felt uneasy as we talked further. I would like to think that I have changed enough in these past years leaning towards being more amiable and civilized, at least as a facade, yet they end our conversations abruptly and leave with such haste as if they had a glimpse of Hell in the course of our discussion.

I just shrug, smile, and move on. Odd kind of hospitality here in Switzerland. Perhaps it's the mountain air, or they see something that I do not.

Of Guests and Giovanni

I remain ecstatic over the events of the previous evening.

The visitors were a mix of Camarilla, Sabbat and Independents

who had come to our Black Monastery in search for information

and for the trail of a certain Giovanni.

For Vadislava and the others, the joy is in knowing that 

one among the group has considered an attempt

to embrace the new way of thinking that they had espoused.

For me, however, I see a greater joy

that all the others have remained blind to.

Allow me to repeat myself:

Camarilla.
Sabbat.
Independent.

United under one cause.
One banner.

Perhaps there is a use for the Giovanni after all.

Personal Journal of Lady Meridie  de Chancie

Secrets Among Friends

Hanz Braun Viecht is a strange fellow, but among my fellow Children I dare say I count him as a friend. Friendship seems like such an alien concept to me now - perhaps a consequence of this unholy life of the damned. One cannot fully appreciate the "value" of human company when one moment they appear like tempting bags of blood and the next they're gone.

Many stories have been told about the wonders of immortality and how so many have sought after this gift. But I doubt anyone who was actually immortal would ever share the sentiments that this is some sort of blessing. Instead it's a curse - an eternal struggle with boredom and despair as anyone you grow attached to eventually die, as mortals are fated to eventually.

You would think then that the natural instinct would be to turn to my kind to seek any form of companionship, but even that has proved difficult for me. Perhaps it is because of the nature of my blood as Tzimisce - our gift are quite...unique, to say the least. Even among fellow walkers of the night our powers are a bit repulsive to some.

But even among Tzimisce it is hard to find comfort. Friendship is a relationship between equals and clearly my clan does not see me as equal. Instead many revere me or are wary of me as they call me the "Chosen of the First". And yet I have not even met the Lady who has supposedly chosen me.

And so I return to Hanz, perhaps my only comfort on this unusual reunion with my fellow Children. What initially started as seeking comfort in finding a fellow countryman to speak to has developed into an odd degree of trust between him and I. But that trust is not easy to manage given the nature of his gifts as well. His lack of inhibitions when it comes to utilizing his powers to gain glimpses of others thoughts can be unsettling, but at the same time it has proven useful time and time again.

But at the same time, his recent behavior has me wondering more and more how stable he is. Constantly sifting through the minds of lesser beings as he does is taxing, to say the least. When one's thoughts are constantly intermixed with those of all those around you, how do you manage to keep your sense of self? How do you retain your own sanity?

And beyond this, I fear that Hanz has done some terrible things over the course of the past decades. We have all done things that our past selves would have been appalled at, I'm certain, but there is clearly more to things that what is apparent. It's surprising that Hanz can actually keep a secret given his personality, but his doing so makes it all the more frightening. And based on what he revealed tonight, well, it makes me wonder about what I truly know about this man - or whatever dark thing he has become.

So Hanz, my friend (for lack of a better term). What have you done that terrifies you so?

And do I really want to know?

To Serve As an Example...

Justicar,

No doubt you have already heard of the fire that raged in the merchant district of Rome. The conflagration was caused by one of the Conspirators of Isaac, Lord Mieczyzslav of the Fiends. He attacked my companion, Iakov Mysi, without provocation. But this is not the worst of it. The Tzimisce sought to violate the First Tradition and flaunt his powers!

Lord Mieczyzslav set fire to the merchant house to gain the attention of the masses, transformed into a monstrous creature and escaped into the night sky. Clearly, he wished to sow chaos and fear among the masses and break the Masquarade which we have worked long and hard to maintain.

I urge you to include his name in the Red List so that we, the Alastors, might bring him to justice. We cannot let this go unpunished as others may view it as a weakness and follow his lead. We should make him as an example to all those who would defy the Masquarade and flaunt their powers...


Sincerely,

Stoyan
Alastor

A personal musing shared to the darkness of night

I have uncovered a missive that has been left behind in the dark catacombs of the Lord Hardestadt's estate in Rome.   The letter was intricately written, and its meaning carefully concealed in what I can only describe as a simple form of polyaphabetic substitution.  The letter seemed to be a mess of nonsensical letters at first, but it took precious little time for me to note the consistent placement and gaps between groups to see the substitution that the cipher relied upon.  What was harder what finding a way to break the code since the substituted letters did not seem to repeat themselves in a recognizable pattern.   This reminded me of the book  La cifra del Sig. Giovan Battista Bellasco in which the author described a cipher that made use of a series of different Caesar ciphers based on the letter of a keyword.

The nature of the note, with its precise handwriting (the letters were practically of the same height and width, and to hold the letter folded against the light had the letters match perfectly) and the justification of the hand-written text reminded me of one person among the many visitors the Lord Hardestadt had that day.  The similarity of the author's name to the events that were relevant to the writer was the final clue I needed to break the vigenère cipher .


The keyword clearly was giovanni.
And the author, the young Hanz Braun Viecht.


The contents are disturbing, to say the least.   I am uncertain if I should share this missive to the other Founders.  Or to the Children of the Conspiracy.

¿ǝʌıl llıʇs ı op ʎɥʍ

˙sɹɐǝʎ pǝɹpunɥ ɐ ɹǝʌo ɹoɟ pɐǝp uǝǝq ǝʌɐɥ noʎ ʇnq
˙ɹǝɥʇoɯ 'noʎ spuıɟ ɹǝʇʇǝl sıɥʇ ɥsıʍ ı

˙oʇ ʇuɐʍ ı ǝsnɐɔǝq ɹǝɥ ɹoɟ llıʞ llɐɥs ı 'sǝɯoɔ ǝɯıʇ ǝɥʇ uǝɥʍ ʇɐɥʇ puɐ  ˙ǝuolɐ ɹǝɥ puɐ ɹǝɥ ǝʌɹǝs ı ǝɯ spuıɯǝɹ ʇɐɥʇ ǝɔıoʌ ɐ   ˙pıp ɹǝʌǝ s,ɹǝɥʇoɯ ʎɯ uɐɥʇ ǝɹoɯ uǝʌǝ ǝɯ sʇɹoɟɯoɔ ʇɐɥʇ ǝɔıoʌ ʇɟos ɐ  ˙ɹǝɥ ɹɐǝɥ uɐɔ ı 'ƃuıʞool sı ǝuo ou uǝɥʍ puɐ

˙ǝnƃuoʇ s,uɐʎoʇs uı slnos ʎɹǝddoɔ ǝɥʇ ǝʇsɐʇ uɐɔ ı  ˙lnos s,uɐɟǝʇs uı ʎʇıuɐɯnɥuı ƃuıʍoɹƃ ǝɥʇ llǝɯs uɐɔ ı  ˙sdıl s,ʌoʞɐı uı ɹɐǝɟ pǝıɹɹoʍ ǝɥʇ ɹɐǝɥ uɐɔ ı  ˙ʇɹɐǝɥ ƃuıʇɐǝqun s,lǝɥɔıɯ uı ǝƃɐɹ pǝuıɐʇuoɔ ǝɥʇ ǝǝs uɐɔ ı  ˙sǝıpoq ɹıǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ ˙spuıɯ ɹıǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ  ˙ǝɯ oʇ ƃuıʞɐǝds ɯǝɥʇ ɹɐǝɥ uɐɔ ı 'sɹǝʇsuoɯ ʍollǝɟ 'spuǝıɹɟ ʎɯ ǝǝs ı uǝɥʍ puɐ

˙uɐɯ ɐ ɹǝƃuol ou ɯɐ ı

˙sƃuıuɹɐǝ ɹnoʎ ɟo sɹɐǝʎ uǝǝʇɟıɟ uǝʞɐʇ pɐɥ ʇɐɥʇ ʎʇısɹǝʌıun ǝɥʇ oʇ ǝɯ ǝʞɐʇ oʇ sɐʍ ʇɐɥʇ ǝƃɐıɹɹɐɔ ǝɥʇ uo ʇɐs ı sɐ llǝʍǝɹɐɟ pıq noʎ ʇlnpɐ ǝɥʇ ɹǝƃuol ou ɯɐ ı  ˙ʇǝƃɹoɟ ɹǝʌǝu llıʍ ı sǝɔɐɟ ǝsoɥʍ uǝɯ ʎq pǝʎoɾuǝ ǝɹǝʍ sǝɔıʌɹǝs ɹnoʎ ǝlıɥʍ ǝʇıɹʍ puɐ pɐǝɹ oʇ ʇɥƃnɐʇ noʎ uɐɯ ƃunoʎ ǝɥʇ ɹǝƃuol ou ɯɐ ı  ˙ʎɐd oʇ ƃuıllıʍ ǝɹǝʍ oɥʍ ǝsoɥʇ ɹoɟ spooɥ puɐ sʞɐolɔ ƃuıuɹɐp ʇɥƃıu ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ pǝʞɹoʍ noʎ ǝlıɥʍ noʎ ǝpısǝq ʇdǝls ǝɔuo ʇɐɥʇ plıɥɔ ƃunoʎ ǝɥʇ ɹǝƃuol ou ɯɐ ı  ˙ǝɯ ɟo ǝɯoɔǝq sɐɥ ʇɐɥʍ ɟo pıɐɹɟɐ ɯɐ ı

'ɹǝɥʇoɯ

I Am Sabbat

Sabbat.

It's such a strange word, but it's what they've chosen to call people like me. And now I've been given some sort of strange pardon by the Camarilla in order to serve their purposes.

I'm not at all surprised - clearly the Founders can't ignore what we have learned to embrace. They throw the term "Sabbat" around as if it's dirty and vile and ultimately wrong but they're just denying their true natures. They struggle to turn their backs on their true powers and abilities and the true blessings this undead existence has granted us. We are cursed in so many ways but at the same time gifts with such amazing abilities.

I don't know why I continue to play along with this routine. Perhaps it's just idle curiosity of some sort. Maybe it's because that as loathe as I am to admit it, my fellow Children are the closest I can get to having some sort of a family anymore. After my embrace, there was no hope of truly returning home. I am no longer human after all. We're all more than just human. But the limited feelings of kinship and familiarity that I have left in this world are limited to the Children.

Especially after the Cathedral fell.

Vlad keeps returning to my thoughts. Is this some sort of a message? Should I return to my childe? Is he the family that I'm supposed to care for and keep safe? What a thought! Vlad was never one to need protection - he's much stronger than most give him credit for. The lengths he is willing to go for power, well, I cannot help but feel an odd sense of pride.

But the Children, well, they are still a confused little group who spend more time fearing their own abilities for the sake of The Masquerade.

And thus they call me Sabbat.

A message sent to a non-existent place

Swhcee,

V is itmavq wl evvt una hmqjmr bn sm.  W vm ab tuvuzr gum ewiig puqrl hcag bvim ggecg jkawye lbc cpwge lbc cwffeq gpxwibh gum tquct qnztqbb cybiqa oid ubwja tjr guwym kco jrzk ewglvao zw dvy.  V nu tw zjntrz zps tohao sib toh giaovo tb emgl oid jeqzm kciyr gucf neeiqimg reer mtrcteq og smb rhbfm liqzs V jqrt bzvre nuzuzt.  V nu tw zjntrz zps vdhyb ewi wiq sixmkzly na O aoo oa gpk komrvnok bvvt jna zw hvkr zm zw hce haqbmfnigl bnih caq giqmb aisgmkv mzaef wl gcpr rnztqbbs.

V nu tw zjntrz g uoi.

Aaq enmb D srr ue nfdeaqa, lmzgoj zwtahzrf, V kgv vzae gpku gkenxqto hj mr.  Gpxwibh gumoz adnqf. Bnzcpgu gpkqf woqvmy.  Q qvn frm zps xoagiovsy rntm ov Adcurt'y cbwengqto vzaeg.  Q iib cene bnm kjrevmj nsvr va Qgscq's yvxy.  Q qvn fzmrt hce tewcqbb iaucsibdtl vv Ybsaaa'f aucz.  D cna bgahz tur kuxdzrl fwatg dn Fgweib'n tbaoam.

Oid jumt vc jnr va rwcfiat, Q iib cene pkz.  O nosg duqqz tunb iwaaoega sm sqea zwxm hcaa zg swhcee'f mbmf yiq.   N duqqz tunb xmadnqf uk Q gzrir pkz oid urz gtcie.  Nal zpoo wurv zps oizr kuusn, I fuirt ydly swx psm brpiaas D wnab zw.

W rifu bnqg geggmx nwidf lwa, ucohre.
Jab mju undk jszn qrij ncm oirz g piiderl emoms.

Jug jw W ntvyt rqjz?