The simplest way to classify the Kindred is by Clan. The blond youth with the turquoise jewelry commands that eagle, an art practiced by only a few clans. And since he's too pretty to be a Nosferatu, you guess he's Clan Gangrel. The Nosferatu with the skinless face is easy to identify, though Nosferatu tells you nothing of her loyalties or nature.
But those two are the only ones who are definitely Kindred. You feel undead eyes watching you from elsewhere, but you cannot be sure who here is like you, who is a ghoul—granted long life and cursed with addiction to vampire Blood—and who is a mere servitor, their will broken through repeated mental compulsion.
As you glance around, the eagle caws, beckoning you.
Next
Image Description: Prince Lettow
The man in the turquoise jewelry watches your approach with a slight smile. He's seated comfortably in a wicker chair next to a small zinc table with an old laptop, a white hat, and a heap of typed and handwritten correspondence. The Nosferatu, standing beside him, only scowls.
"Welcome to Tucson," he says. His accent is foreign, from somewhere in Europe despite the Native American jewelry and the wide-brimmed hat in front of him. "I am Prince Lettow. This is Dove. And you are Krarr," he says. "The courier. It looks like you had a difficult journey."
A clump of mud falls out of your hair and splats onto the flagstones.
"Give us the data, Blue Blood," the Nosferatu snaps. Dove is wearing a silk-screened jacket, kicked-around Converse All-Stars, and a snapback with a local minor league baseball team on it. Driving gloves are tucked into her pocket. Another courier?
Image Description: Dove, Nosferatu Enforcer
The Nosferatu glares down at you, but the Prince, seated beside her, only laughs, his tone warm and friendly.
"Dove has little interest in the creatures of the night. Her dark gifts maintain this Elysium," he says, "but she is most useful for what she knows. And right now she wants to know what those USBs hold. I imagine you do, too."
You've yanked her around enough, so you set the USBs on Prince Lettow's table.
"Thank you, Krarr," he says.
Lettow's laptop is an old Asus, probably intended to read information once before it's destroyed.
When the Prince inserts the USB, a folder appears with a video and a few .txt files.
"Feel free to watch, Krarr," Lettow says. He checks his Vacheron Constantin. It's 1:49 a.m. Then he looks east. He stares for a long time, as if with longing, then shakes his head. "I don't think this interests you directly, but I try not to keep secrets here in Tucson."
A warm, friendly smile, and eyes that watch you like a…where did that bird go?
The video opens awkwardly, with a hand holding a webcam. You see a man's face, and then you see the ritual chamber.
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Image Description: Jasper Knowles, Tremere Scholar
Tremere. The Warlocks, the Usurpers. Once the clan of sorcerers and blood magicians, their discipline and interclan loyalty admired even by their enemies, the Tremere are now scattered and leaderless after the destruction of their greatest chantry in Vienna.
You might have fallen low over the past few years, but not so low as the Warlocks.
You don't recognize this Tremere. He's white and apple-cheeked with a short gray beard, portly in a way vampires rarely are…like an avuncular college professor. He's wearing a Fair Isle sweater vest and pressed slacks, and holding a silver knife with one hand as he tries to adjust the webcam with the other.
"That's Jasper Knowles, Tremere magus," Lettow says conversationally. "Do you know him?"