Alone, and with child she wandered, searching for a means of supporting herself and her unborn son. She found a position as a serving woman at the home of an eccentric noble. Harold was born in the manor of Lord Dwarkin, a recluse who had been excommunicated from the church some 15 years earlier.
There were no other children in the manor where Harold grew up. He spent his youth with the seemingly unaging servants of Lord Dwarkin. Harold's mother spent much of her free time teaching him to read and to write, both in English and in Latin, skills that she herself had learned from his not-so-holy father. She saw to it that we was educated in the Lord's words, and knew the true meaning of faith. Yet, when Harold was ten, his mother grew ill, and took to her bed.
Harold spent the next several months either at his mother's bedside, or searching through the books in Lord Dwarkin's library for any sort of herb or prayer that might aid her. As her condition grew worse he turned his attentions from the ineffectual religious texts, to the darker tomes lost in the library's recesses.
Finding nothing, Harold was forced to watch as his mother wasted away to nothing before his very eyes. The trauma of losing his mother at such a tender age caused Harold to turn his back upon God. The day after his mother's funeral he snuck into Lord Dwarkin's library and began to truly study the books that his mother had previously forbidden him from reading. He vowed that if God would not aid him, then he would find something that would. Harold devoted himself to plumbing the secrets of the netherworld.
From those musty tomes he learned of the Children, of how God had imprisoned them within the earth itself, and of how they slept only fitfully, dreaming of the day when they would be free to extinguish the hated light and unmake all that was.
During the day Harold served now as a servant to Lord Dwarkin, cleaning the stables and carrying things about at the direction of the manor's seneschal. Each night he would creep into the Lord's library and continue his forbidden studies.
Harold learned of the First tribe, and how they unearthed one of the Children while digging a well. He learned of the blasphemous wails of the creature, and of the fell names it shrieked in agony as the sunlight consumed it. He learned how the First Tribe had recorded those names, used them to rule over the other tribes, and then of how they had learned the terrible truth, that calling upon the slumbering children directly was causing them to come near to awakening. Harold discovered how the First Tribe had learned to distort the names of the Children, to draw only the minimum amount of power needed, to disturb their slumber as little as possible. He learned also of the awful sacrifices that they were forced to make; sacrifices to ensure that the Children stayed asleep and the world continued.
Harold heard a footfall behind him. He spun about, causing the candle's flame to dance madly, but saw no one. He turned around again, slower. He checked each shadow and hiding place, letting his eyes glide over each in turn. Certain that he was indeed alone he approached the shelves, and pulled forth a book.
He carried it to a desk, and set it upon the hard wood, relishing the sound of the leather gliding along the surface. He turned again to search the room with his eyes, making certain that no one hid within the dark corners. Satisfied that he was alone he sat down upon the stool before the desk, set down his candle, and flipped open the book, seeking the point where he had left off the night before.
Harold nearly leapt from his skin when a hand clasped his left shoulder. Harold tried to turn, but the hand held him with an unnatural strength.
A voice whispered in his ear, "Well, well. What have we here? A thief perhaps?"
Harold recognized the low rasp of the speaker, "No, Lord Dwarkin, I'm sorry, I just was just trying to read."
The voice laughed, "What would a scullery boy know of reading?"
"Mother taught me, before she passed on."
The hand's clasp relaxed slightly. "She did, did she? And what did she teach you to read? I doubt that your disgraced mother would approve of you reading my library."
"I doubt she would. She loved God until the day she died, but all he brought to her was pain."
The hand on his shoulder spun him around to face the pale lord, and then released his shoulder.
Lord Dwarkin looked the boy up and down, "You could, at least, clean the stench of the stables off of you before entering my library." Harold began to apologize, but Dwarkin held up a hand to silence him. Harold noted for the first time how long the lord's finger nails were, and how sharp. "So tell me, boy, what have you learned pawing over my books like a rabid fox?"
Harold allowed a light grin to play across his features, he examined his lord from head to toe.
Lord Dwarkin struck him across the face, his nails leaving deep tracks across Harold's cheek. "Answer me, fool, I have little patience for the dumb."
Harold spoke a word, a single word that never before had he dared to utter. He spoke an iteration of one of the Children's names. It was tiny, barely brighter than a candle's flame, but in his open palm danced a column of sickly green flame.
Lord Dwarkin smiled, "Well at least you've learned something of use."
Harold smiled.
"So tell me, what do you think of God?"
Harold replied without hesitation, "I hate it."
"Do you now?" Dwarkin grinned, "But how can one so young even know the meaning of the word hate?"
"Like I said before, it, and it's church, destroyed my mother's life."
"True, but it was I who took it."
Harold was surprised, and his dirt stained face betrayed it.
Dwarkin smiled, "Yes, boy, I drained her life from her. It was sweet and bitter all at once. Your mother had a unique flavor, not one that I've often encountered."
Harold forced himself to gain control over his emotions, "Why did you kill her?"
"Because I could."
"Why tell me?"
"I'm going to kill you soon. Though not so serenely as I did your mother."
Harold didn't even think, he spoke again the true name of the balefire, while flinging his hand towards the face of his lord. The green flames leapt from his palm, and licked Dwarkin's face.
Harold watched in satisfaction as the green flames singed his opponents face, but then again he felt the man's strong grip. It closed his flaming palm upon itself, forcing the hellish flames to turn upon their master, singing the flesh off of his own hand.
Harold watched as Dwarkin's other hand closed around his throat. Dwarkin leaned close, his face now singed to a skeletal state, motes of green flame dancing in his eyes. "You have much to learn yet, boy. Your education begins now." Dwarkin kicked a stone in the far wall, and a passage slid open with the grating of stone. Dwarkin carried Harold into the dark mouth of the passage, and Harold watched, helpless, as the passage closed behind them, plunging him into blackness.
Dwarkin appeared above him, a twisted dagger of black stone in hand.
Harold writhed in agony. The very air seemed heavy upon his destroyed flesh. Yet, despite his pain, Harold could not remove his eyes from Dwarkin. He was entranced by the man's aura of power, of command.
The skeletal face grinned, baring two long fangs. "The time is not quite yet, first the pit must be prepared." Dwarkin reached towards Harold's head, and lifted it, showing him a nearby pit. Upon the lip of the broad chasm stood the other servants of the household. Naked, each held a dagger like that wielded by Dwarkin.
Dwarkin's eyes looked over each of the servants in turn. "Well have you served me. Now you know what must be done. Give yourselves to It, ensure that the Child sleeps another century!"
As one, the servants plunged the daggers into their bellies; spilling first their guts, and then themselves into the black pit. From below Harold heard the sound of their disemboweled bodies striking a field of already broken bones.
Dwarkin turned his eyes then to meet Harold's. The green motes spun madly. "And now for the final sacrifice."
Dwarkin pushed Harold's head to the table, and bent, bringing his fangs to the boy's throat. Waves of ecstasy filled Harold. He could feel Dwarkin sucking the blood from him, yet the sheer pleasure of it was unlike anything he had ever felt before. It overwhelmed his senses, making him crave more, even as his life poured into the Lord.
Lord Dwarkin released him from the Kiss then, and waves of agony threatened to overwhelm him, even as the last light of life began to fade from his vision. Harold felt, rather than saw the blade plunge into his heart. He heard his sternum groan and then snap as Dwarkin forced the blade free.
Finally, when at last sweet oblivion, and an eternity in Hell, danced before his dying eyes a liquid flame poured itself into his soul. His broken body lurched into a sitting position, and then he felt a shove, followed by falling. Harold felt himself impact the field of bones.
Harold's eyes snapped open, a green haze filled his vision, and a thirst filled his throat. He crawled through the darkness of the bones, feeling blindly in the darkness until his hand reached a pool of warm liquid, the blood of one of the servants.
Driven only by thirst, not thinking of what he did, he bent low and lapped at the puddle on the floor, allowing the sweet taste to flow into him. The hunger took him, and he flung away the bones, searching madly for the body from which the puddle had spilled. Harold found a pile of intestines, and sucked hungrily upon them, licking the blood from them.
It wasn't long before he found one of their broken bodies. The woman had not yet fully passed from consciousness. He plunged his own fangs into her, relishing the sounds of her terrified screams.
The thirst fled from him as he sated himself upon her blood, and he felt for the wall to his prison. Finding it, Harold began to climb, clawing his way up the soft earthen sides of the pit.
In the chamber above a lone candle burned low as Harold crawled forth from the pit's dark womb. Blood dripping from his skinless body, broken bones, some perhaps decades old driven into his flesh.
Dripping the life's blood of the sacrifices he seized upon the candle, and plunged into the darkness beyond the altar, finding stairs, he climbed them. Seeking Lord Dwarkin he forced slid the door into the library open, and found the Lord sitting, placidly at the table, a black leather folio open before him.
Dwarkin glanced to a nearby candle, burned to the same height as the one clutched in Harold's hand. "Impressive, I'd expected you to take longer. I trust you no where the baths are?"
Harold thought to lunge for the still faceless creature, yet a nearly palpable aura of greatness seemed now to radiate from the beast. The aura held Harold's bloodied fingers, nearly reduced to claws by his rough ascent from the depths of Dwarkin's sacrificial pit.
Dwarkin turned, and smiled at him, tissue already regrowing across his singed skull. It was a horrible rictus grin. "Oh come now, you're dripping blood all across my floors, go clean yourself, and heal your skin, that's hardly an acceptable look."
Harold tried to look away, but he felt the force of the man's will holding his gaze. He felt as the man's words penetrated his mind. A bath did sound good come to think of it. Bowing, Harold walked, skinless, from the library and to the servants' quarters, where he drew himself a warm bath, heating the water himself over the now untended kitchen fire.
Frightened, Harold approached the basin, and within he saw that it was filled with bloody water. The smell at once repulsed him, and stirred a thirst within him. Harold leapt as a hand grasped his shoulder.
Spinning he faced Lord Dwarkin. The Lord wore his most regal robes. Harold wore nothing but a slick of bloody water, which was fast evaporating from his flesh.
The Lord's face seemed nearly whole, only a few tight places showed now where Harold's balefire had harmed him. "So this is where you spent your day?"
"Day? How long have I slept?"
"Through the whole day, as you will for the rest of your existence."
"I don't understand."
"Of course not, there is still much for you to learn."
"For me to learn? I thought last night was my punishment for having already learned too much?" Harold struggled to contain his thirst. Feeling as fangs filled his mouth, unbidden.
"And so it was. But come now, we must feed." Dwarkin took a moment to look over his childe, "But put some clothes on first. I think that some of my seneschal's clothes should fit you admirably."
Lost in a haze, yet eager to satisfy his thirst, Harold did as he was told. He found the seneschal's door unlocked, and opened the dead man's wardrobe. He dressed quickly, and found Lord Dwarkin waiting for him at the stables.
"Prepare my carriage, boy, we must get to the village." Harold nodded and did as commanded. He then held the door open, and climbed onto the deceased coachman's seat, reins in hand.
Silence greeted the two men as Harold helped Dwarkin from the carriage. Together they vanished into the ill reputed house. As they crossed the threshold, Harold witnessed a transformation in the Lord. He seemed suddenly more handsome, the scars upon his face were gone, and seduction seemed literally to ooze from him.
Harold felt the women in the room react Dwarkin's presence, he felt himself respond to it. Lord Dwarkin seemed suddenly appealing; in a way that Harold had never before seen the Lord. He no longer seemed old, so much as dignified. The women, and Harold noticed the men they had been servicing were also approaching, looks of rapture upon their faces.
The tide of flesh pressed around him, and Harold found himself become suddenly a part of it. The only thing that held him back was his thirst.
As Harold watched, Dwarkin bared his fangs, and lightly bit the palm of one of the ladies pressed against him. Her face filled with ecstasy.
Harold turned, and took up the hand of a naked man, who was rubbing up against him. He plunged his fangs into the fleshy part of the man's palm. The taste was sweet, and the fact that the man was screaming in anguish made the man's life blood taste all the sweeter. Harold glanced around; no one was paying attention to him, or the agonized man. The others all still clustered around Dwarkin, fighting to be the first to service him.
After only a few sips, Harold released the man, who fell to the ground whimpering. Ignoring the man's plight he approached the growing orgy. There was a pretty boy on the outskirts; he was perhaps 16, only a few years the younger of Harold himself. Harold stripped from his clothes, and forced himself upon the boy; slaking his thirst from the boy's neck, as he sought pleasure in the boy's nether-regions.
When he'd finished the boy's last drop, he stood, and exulted in his nakedness. He saw Lord Dwarkin naked, exultant in the center of the sinful orgy. His thirst quenched, Harold approached the orgy, and felt the waves of the Lord's seduction crash around him. Without even the thought of resistance, Harold joined in the revelry.
Harold opened the door for Dwarkin, and dropped the boys thin body onto the carriage's top, before taking up the reins.
Upon returning to the manor Harold again took up the boy's corpse, and carried it through the library, down to the pit of his rebirth, into which he flung the corpse of his first true victim.
Dwarkin patted him on the back. "Not bad, for your first meal."
Harold stared into the depths of the black pit, examining the broken bones and rotting bodies. For the first time since his death he inhaled deeply, letting the smell of corrupted flesh fill his nose, his lungs, it seemed his very soul.
Without turning from the black depths Harold spoke, "What am I?"
"My childe."
"I don't understand."
"No, I imagine you don't. Let's see, how can I explain this."
Harold stood, transfixed by the refuse in the pit before him.
"You've been sneaking into my library, quite poorly I might add, for years now. You've read of the First Tribe, but you haven't read the whole story."
Movement in the pit, Harold's eyes focused on a lonely rat, gnawing away at the dried intestines of one the previous night's offerings.
"You've heard of Caine of course, the first murderer. He was cursed by god, cursed to flee the sun and feed on the blood of his fellows. He discovered that his curse, his immortality, could be passed on. Lonely, he made children for himself. And in turn they made children."
"What has this to do with the First Tribe?"
A harsh shove sent Harold again spinning into the pit. He landed hard, delighting in the sound as bones shattered upon his impact. Harold turned to see Dwarkin taking a seat upon the ledge above. "I'm getting to that, fool."
Harold smiled, exulting in the pain as he pulled the bones from his flesh.
"One of Caine's grandchildren stumbled upon a temple of the First Tribe, the only one left in fact. Long had the true names been forgotten, and the other tribes had made war upon them, but still they held a city. Still they were Lords, or Ba'ali, over the Children and the other tribes of men."
"Caine's grandchild was so taken with the evil of the priests that he decided to bestow God's own curse upon them. In a frenzy of blood and death he broke their bodies and hurled them into their own pit, as I just did with you, and then he cut himself and let his blood, the blood of Caine, cursed blood, flow into the pit. Then he left."
"Only three emerged from the pit. Moloch, Nergal, and a nameless third. What happened to the third none can say, but the other two; they brought the cursed blood of Caine to the rest of the first tribe. And so the Ba'ali transcended their humanity, becoming true Lords of the world."
Harold took two broken ribs in hand, and used them as pitons to begin his escalation of the pit's sharp wall.
"Still the sacrifices continued, for you know that if we were to cease the Children would awaken and devour all that is."
Harold only grunted in agreement.
"Ah yes, you're rather busy at the moment, aren't you? But that's neither here nor there, there is still more to the story of our blood, of that blood which is now yours. The other descendants of Caine, don't particularly like us much, particularly the Children of Haquim, they even seem to think that God has charged them with destroying us, the simple fools. There were many wars back then, between our city and the city of Caine's children and grandchildren. Sometime during the wars, Nergal went insane. He faked his own death, and returned years later, claiming the name Shaitan."
"Shaitan no longer sought to rule the Children, to use their names to keep them in their place and leave the entire world for our rule. Shaitan and his followers sought to find their True Names, and to use their power to awaken the Children. Unfortunately it is from Shaitan that most of your modern cousins trace their lineage. The fools have forgotten that we are not called Ba'ali because we worship the demon-god Baal, but because we are Lords, destined to rule this pathetic world."
Harold grasped the lip of the sacrificial pit, and began attempting to heave himself over. Lord Dwarkin stood, and approached. He offered the boy a hand. When Harold attempted to take it, however, Dwarkin withdrew it, and firmly kicked Harold back into the pit.
"I've just taught you a valuable lesson, boy. Never trust one of our blood, not even yourself."
Harold grunted again, relishing the sensation of the shattered bones ripping into his back, shredding the dead seneschal's finery.
"We trace our blood to Moloch, the sane. He knew that the only way for us to conquer the world, was for there to be a world to conquer. We must do awful things, but we do them to preserve the land, to keep the Children asleep for another century, to ensure that no one, but ourselves, learn their names of power, or God forbid," Dwarkin chuckled, "their True Names."
Harold more quickly scaled the walls this time; he was fast growing used to escaping the abyss. "It's a pretty speech, milord, but it sounds a little too rehearsed to my ears."
Dwarkin cast the boy a smirk, "When I hit upon something that works, I like to stick with it. Let's just say that I've had abundant opportunity to use it since before even Christ walked the lands, spreading his stupidity."
Harold blinked, surprised, wondering if he could believe Lord Dwarkin's words. As he pulled himself from the pit he sized up Dwarkin, wondering just how old he might be.
"So I am to be your serving boy now? The entire household is mine to scrub?" "For the moment, don't worry though. There should be some more Dhabi here within a few years to take the places of my dear, departed servants. They won't be longer than a decade at most."
Then the Dhabi came. They were a strange family, from distant lands. Darkness touched their skin, and great age seemed to taint their eyes with secrets that no living being should ever know.
They took over the upkeep of the manor, and Harold took private rooms, near to his sire. Dwarkin had the Dhabi prepare finery for Harold; handsome clothes that he ignored, or allowed to grow dusty as he spent days without end locked within the depths of the library.
Harold learned of sin. He learned how to see the mark of it upon a man's soul. Harold learned to embrace it as well, to revel in it, to let the beast that lurked within him sate itself upon the basest of desires. He learned to keep his beast drowsy and content.
A half of a century passed after his embrace, and Harold learned to call Dwarkin, "Father". Together they ruled over the town, delighting in rending the faith from those few visitors who would stumble upon the isolated hamlet. Harold remained ever in his sire's shadow, allowing him to speak and to rule, while Harold simply delighted in watching his tortures, and lending a hand whenever he could.
Then the other's came. A man, dressed all in black appeared at the gates just after sunset one evening. He demanded to be granted entrance, demanded to speak with Lord Dwarkin.
The two met privately, but Harold could hear their raised voices echoing the length of the hallway. Speaking a strange dialect, their incomprehensible words filled the manor.
In the end the man left. Harold asked his father what the man had wanted, but Dwarkin said that it didn't matter, for it was nothing that he would ever have. For another month unlife progressed at its normal rate; and then, late one night, within only a few short hours of dawn, the shadows themselves attacked.
Darkness came alive, and tentacled beasts of shadow stepped from it. When the first appeared before him, Harold hurled a ball of green fire at it, and laughed with satisfaction as a scream escaped from within the darkness.
Then darkness swallowed him, swathing his senses beneath a gauzy veil. Harold fled, seeking the safety of the library and his father. He found Dwarkin caught within a morass of tentacles. The shroud like appendages attacked his father from every shadow in the room.
Harold cried out, and again he called upon the fires of Hell, nursed with the cursed power of his own blood. One of the tendrils snapped, and even as Harold watched the tentacle begin to grow back, his father transformed. Dwarkin transformed into the very vision of a demon from Hell.
With a sweep of his wings, Lord Dwarkin broke free of the tentacles that enveloped him, and he spun about in midair, slashing at them with jagged claws that projected from his fingers. It seemed for a moment as though the powers of Hell might even emerge victorious.
Harold sensed another presence enter the room, followed by another, and then another. Darkness crowded the room, and dozens more tentacles struck outwards from the shadows.
Ignored by the unknown presences, Harold fell back. He opened the passageway to the sacrificial pit, and closed it again behind him. Through the concealed door, he could still hear the sounds of the battle raging. Part of him wanted to aid Father, but the rest, was too fearful.
Ashamed, Harold slunk down the stairs to the pit. In time the dawn came, and with it sleep. When at last the sun set, Harold awoke, and climbed the stairs to see who had won the night after he fled.
He climbed the stairs, taking a deep breath of the pit's charnel smell before taking the next. He'd made it perhaps thirty feet up the twisting stair, when he was forced to stop. Rubble blocked his path.
In vein he tried for hours to dig through it, forcing the curse within his blood to lend him strength, until at last, exhausted and starving, he was left with no choice but to accept his fate, as the last of the altar candles guttered out, plunging him into darkness.
Harold sat for a time upon the edge of the pit, contemplating his fate, entombed within the natural cavern; far below the only home he'd ever known, afraid that at any moment the darkness itself would attack him.
Standing tall, for what he knew in his heart would be the last time; he dove into the field of razor sharp bones below, allowing them to rend his flesh, forcing his blood to spill out upon the ground of his birth place. Harold cherished the pain, he rejoiced in it, until the dawn came, and with it he passed into a sleep from which he intended never to wake.
A flood of light filled his eyes, and he darted away from it. A beam of light shown down from the top of the pit.
An astonished voice cried out above, a young voice. Harold couldn't determine the gender; couldn't recognize the language. Thirst consumed him.
The beam of light turned, seeking him out.
Harold pressed tight against the side of the pit, until the beam had passed him by, and then, he turned, and again scaled the wall of the pit. At the top he found a pair of young boys, staring into the pit, oblivious to his presence because he willed it so.
He approached them from behind, the thirst filled him, demanded that he sup upon their young blood, and he had every intention of it; but first, he observed them. The muttered to each other with strange words, words that only made half sense to him. How long had he been down here?
If there words were strange, so was their clothing, and stranger still was the tube held by the taller, and presumably the elder, of the two. It emitted a beam of light, more bright and stable than any flame.
Harold caught again the smell of blood, and noted that the smaller boy had cut himself, and skinned his knee. It was the scent that had awakened him.
With a sudden kick, Harold sent the smaller boy into the pit, and then he grabbed hold of the taller, who dropped the strange tube, which clattered into the darkness of the pit and went out.
Harold drained the boy of his life, and flung his empty shell towards the far side of the pit. From below he could hear the other, crying in terror and pain, yet still conscious.
He descended the wall of the pit, and found the boy. Hungry now more for pain than blood he licked the boys wounds clean, and delighted in his squeals of agony as Harold would barely penetrate the his flesh with his fangs, and then lick the wounds shut.
At last the agony grew to be too much for the boy, and he fainted.
Delighted, Harold carried the boy from the pit, and chained him to the altar, feeling his way through the near perfect darkness by memory.
First Harold penetrated the unconscious child, and then he proceeded to slice away the boy's skin, as he carefully drained the child of fluids. Harold left the skinless body upon the altar, taking the skin with him as he turned to find the way by which the two had entered.
Feeling about he felt a breeze whisper past his cheek, climbing the stairs he found that much of the rubble had been unblocked, and he stepped into an edifice of strange grey stone, illuminated by flickering white lights.
Upon the ground were painted lines, mostly running perpendicular to the wall, although one line snaked around in the middle, parallel to the walls and oddly sloped floor.
Gathering his mental strength, Harold forced his will about himself, doing his best to make himself unnoticeable. He walked up the slope, hoping to find the surface. Turning he saw that he had emerged through a fissure, in the same strangely even stone.
He emerged onto the street, wondering what time it was, hoping that he'd have enough time to find shelter before the sun rose. He found himself unprepared for the street. Tall buildings surrounded him, and a strange black path was lined on both sides by the grey stone.
Harold crept between shadows, and had his heart been beating, he was certain that it would have stopped when he witnessed a strange lump of metal race past him upon the black path. Lights flashed about him, in colors not born of any flame, natural or Hellborn.
Dazed by the strangeness around him, he wondered again how long he had slept, a century? Two? More? Further down the street, he found an abandoned house. Well at least it looked like a house, he hoped. He approached it, and broke in. After determining that the building did indeed seem abandoned, he crept into the basement, and buried himself for the day beneath a pile of garbage.
"What year is it?"
The man's accent was thick, and difficult to place, but at least he seemed more intelligible than the boys Harold had eaten the night before. "What you say?"
Harold stood, shoveling aside the garbage. He tried his best to look imposing, a trick he'd never quite mastered. "I said, what year is it?"
"Thas what I thought you said."
"Well."
"Well what?"
"Are you going to answer me?"
"Why should I?"
Harold barred his fangs, "To keep me from eating you would seem a good answer."
"Heh, like you're the only one with a pair of those." The bum's face seemed to swim for a moment, and suddenly his face was far more, disgusting than it had been a moment before. Huge fangs, like tiny daggers, protruded from his lip, and into his gaping maw.
Harold was all at once terrified and curious. "So what are you then?"
"Well that's a rather rude question."
"So I'm rude."
"Dumb question too, I should think it's obvious."
"Not to me it isn't. Look here, I don't really care what you are anyways, can we get back to my original question?"
"Oh, that, nineteen-eighty-three."
Harold was astonished. "What?"
"You bloody well heard me; I said nineteen-eighty-three."
Harold's face must have betrayed his shock.
The man's face shimmered back to its more human countenance, a look of concern written upon the false features, "What year did you think it was?"
"I don't honestly know, but I didn't think so long could have passed. Although I don't know why, I'd hoped to sleep forever." Harold allowed himself to fall backwards into the pile of garbage.
The grubby man plopped down in the filth next to him, "It ain't all that bad a time to be alive mate. So, if you don't mind my asking, what year was it when you went to sleep?"
Harold thought back, precise dates hadn't mattered much to him in his studies. "Twelve-seventy-nine, I believe."
The man let out a long, low whistle; which left Harold wondering how we was able to whistle with the mouth he had. "Well we'd best bring you before the Prince before the Scourge finds you. What clan are you anyways? I'm guessing not Nosferatu."
A piece clicked in Harold's mind. Of course, the man was Nosferatu, he heard of how hideous they were supposed to be. He'd never really suspected that the books had been so accurate though.
"Come on, what clan are you? You ain't Sabbat are you?"
"What's a Sabbat?"
The Nosferatu nodded, "No, I suppose if you've been in torp for that long you wouldn't know about them, would you? But anyways, like I was asking, what clan are you?"
"I'm Harold of Descendant of Moloch."
The Nos scratched his head, "Never heard of him, sounds like a bloody barmy name to me though." He extended his hand, "Anyways, pleased to meet you. I'm Benny, of Clan Nosferatu." Harold shook the hand, not caring about the filth that coated it.
Although he knew little of this, 'Camarilla' of which Benny was babbling on about, saying it was the greatest thing since sliced bread, whatever that was; Harold knew plenty about how to fake proper etiquette with those above himself. The trick was simple, it involved only three things: 1) At least act like you plan to do what they say, 2) Only speak when spoken too, and 3) Never make eye contact.
Benny introduced Harold to the prince as being of the line of Malkav, Harold had no idea who Malkav was, but in keeping with rule number two felt it was a good idea to remain silent for the time being.
He was placed under something called 'the accounting' of the Malkavian Primogen. A rather ugly gentlemen, with disturbing habit of talking to himself. It took him only a few days before he confirmed his worst fears, the man was completely mad, and apparently Benny had assumed that Harold was of the same blood as this poor lunatic.
Acutely aware of what had happened to his sire, and of his own cowardice during the final battle, Harold decided that it would be safest were he to play along, it provided him with more leeway to make mistakes if everyone else in the city assumed that he had taken leave of his senses.
Harold was careful to learn only as much of the lunatics ways as was necessary, he noticed that they seemed uncomfortable around him, some of them would occasionally mumble some nonsense about him being 'disconnected'.
With the spare time he was given, which was significant if he asked each of the Primogen's personalities separately, he divided his attention between spending time in the library assimilating knowledge of the modern world, and resuming his previous studies. His studies into demons suffered though, as the modern libraries seemed to have little interest in the more occult aspects of the world.
Harold was particularly fascinated when he learned of the Americas, vast continents far across the sea, a place to which the First Tribe had never gone. The Children of the old world were quite cranky; one had to be careful when calling upon their power, for they had long ago been disturbed from their nightmarish slumber.
The Children of the New World though? Even had his clanmates, preceeded him there, they couldn't have done too much damage in a scant 700 years, there might even remain some unlocated names of power, lesser emanations upon which he could be the first to call.
Harold refocused his studies upon the myths of the new world, and it was while studying the legends of the southwest, plumbing the myths of the Navajo in hopes of finding a lead upon one of the Children, that he discovered something that chilled him to his very core.
In that place, called Arizona in the modern world, there had once been a people known as the Anasazi. They were an ancient culture who had built vast settlements and displayed an impressive knowledge of architecture, very advanced for the age. Then suddenly, the Anasazi had vanished. The modern world seemed to delight in blaming it upon beings from the stars, but there was only one answer that Harold could conceive of, they had disturbed the rest of a Child, possibly even worshipped it for a time, but in then end, it had destroyed them.
Here was the evidence he had been seeking. But it was not what he had hoped to hear. Harold had been seeking undisturbed Children, those not disturbed by his foolish cousins and other petty infernalists. If the child had been disturbed, if it had been roused to destroy the Anasazi, then it might now only sleep lightly, who could guess when next it may rouse itself to action.
Did any of his clanmates know of this? Did any descendants of Moloch yet live? Harold realized that there was only one way to ensure that the beast was properly bound. He would have to travel there, and see if any of his kin performed the necessary rites. If none of his kind remained to protect the world from a darkness it could never comprehend, then it would be essential that he learn the True Name of the Child of the Anasazi, and find for himself a way to bind it back into slumber. Essential that he do this before it could again awaken, and this time free its blasphemous siblings.