A Night in Novgorod

The year, 1515.

Russia was just making its entrance onto the world stage, and going through the growing pains of developing its own identity. Anyone wishing to visit Russia really only had one choice; the nation-state of Moscow. Novgorod was still its own independent duchy, and would remain so for several years to come. Its culture and society were geographically and ideologically separated from the burgeoning society of Moscow. The nobility of the small duchy were a proud sort. Strong, stubborn, formidable; they echoed the state of the land they chose to govern. The kindred in Russia, and specifically Novgorod were few, following the trend of the sparse and distant mortal populations. However, a small court met with some regularity in Moscow, and another in Novgorod. The insular and static Court of Novgorod was the one to which Morena owed allegiance.

The tilted rays of the sun dyed the afternoon sky. First the crystal grey-blue common to the northern hemisphere. The hours passed and the breeze became more acute with the sting of a chill; a pale pink bled onto the horizon was followed shortly with a brilliant hue of fuschia, then crimson, then purple. Finally, the deep blue of the twilight, and at last the light-speckled black of the chilly Autumn night.

One by one, the Kindred of the surrounding area woke from their day-sleep. Servants and ghouls hurried about the business of attending to short-tempered and fickle masters. Clothing was selected and discarded, quarters left in disarray at the whims of monsters plastering on their veneer of civility. Eventually, all predators made their way to the manse of the Family who held this land in their grasp. They’ve come to pay respects, honors, and as always, to take their next steps in the Danse.

Morena stood in one of the shadowed sides of the dining hall, grey eyes astutely surveying the other kindred in the room. Her frame was draped in a fairly simple black gown over a dark grey chemise that sported a tasteful, yet intricate embroidery trim in the same pale grey-blue of the Russian sky. A dark shawl secured around her hair completed the somber image. It would not be out of place to think she was in mourning, especially if one was not familiar with her nightly bearing. A careful observer would notice that Morena’s attention was near-constant to a male in the room. The demeanor of the object of her attention conveyed a strength that Morena did not yet possess, and it was clear from the focused expression on her countenance that the man was in some way her partner. He did not ignore her, exactly, but his night was busy, as he was in constant conversation with members of the court.

All predators are wary of strangers, this was especially true of the insular court of Novgorod. The court had received a message that they would have a visitor this gathering, and whispers and rumors were already circulating regarding her arrival. The doors of the gathering had been opened for a full hour when a stranger and her entourage entered the room. The new predator paused in the doorway and surveyed the room in one practiced glance, bringing in all of the details at once. The decor, the participants, the building, her eyes flickered for a moment on the more potent in the room, but she did not allow her gaze to linger. Seemingly satisfied with what she saw, the woman stepped into the room. Her gown was of the sort common to western European nobility at the time. The neckline fell from her ivory shoulders to her collarbone in a shape that resembled a gull on the horizon. The sleeves were long and tapered to the wrist. The bodice of the dress was a spotless white with a braid of red and gold cording around the waist and seams of the shoulder. The skirt was full and a deep crimson. Emblazoned on the left side of the skirt was a lion done in a classical greek style, rather than the English style. The embroidery shimmered as if made from gold threading and jewels. The skin of the creature inhabiting the dress was nearly as white as the bodice. If one of the locals were to follow the elegantly curving neckline to examine the features, they would likely stare. Caught somewhere between the strangeness of her features, as well as her innate beauty. Even the most astute of observers could only place that she must have been born somewhere along the mediterranean. Her raven hair was lovingly pulled back into an archaic style seen only in statues from times long past, there were white blossoms woven into the crown of twists, and a few placed at the beginning of the cascade. The ivory of the delicate blooms matched her porcelain skin. The dark, yet pale blue of her eyes seemed almost purple in hue. She would seem alien in this place, so far removed is her blood from eastern Europe. Her entourage seemed put on edge by something, and only a few are holding their poise as well as their mistress is managing. Finally, the stranger walks into the well-lit portion of the hall.

As this stranger entered, it was immediately obvious she was a long way from home. Her dress stood her apart from everyone else there, as a lioness among wolves. Morena immediately attuned her gaze to this newcomer, her curiosity piqued. Westerners aren't often seen this far north, especially not those with southerly features. Morena took a moment to glance around the room, reading the impressions those other members of the court show to this woman. She noticed the ventrue harpy's sharp gaze take in the visitor with a practiced ease, but the slightest sense of unease wrinkled at the edge of an eye belying her calm. The Daeva Seneschal also took notice, as was expected, but his gaze bespoke a satisfaction that troubled Morena. With that, Morena stood, her thick black skirts rustling around her boots as she strode purposefully into the main area of the room.

Morena crossed the room with a smooth presence, sidestepping conversations with a single glance of her darkened eyes. The members of the city obviously knew her patterns and knew when not to interfere with her. She approached the strong male she had been watching all evening, stepping behind him, a hand resting lightly on his shoulder. She knelt in close against him, reaching up to whisper close in his ear. As she pulled away slowly, the kindred turned just slightly to look into her eyes, his chin dipping in the barest hint of a nod. In that one small interaction, it is immediately obvious that these two Kindred share a partnership that few Kindred achieve. Morena steps back from the man, her fingernails scratching against the back of his neck as a last lingering touch. She turns at last, turning in the direction of this alien visitor to these halls.

The stranger takes her time absorbing the room. Her eyes move over the sturdy wood and stone construction, the graciously appointed tapestries that hang from the walls, the expensive candles that burn in extravagance known to few in these parts. The smell of incense in the air, the pointless fire in the hearth. No cloud of vapor rises from speech of any of these kindred. No hands turn red and thin to retain warmth, no muscles quiver behind layers of fabric. The strange visitor’s eyes take in every detail of every person. As Morena approaches, the visitor’s stare is unwavering and direct, a polite smile curves the edge of her mouth. There is a small gesture of her right hand, and a youth of around fourteen or fifteen steps forward, and lingers a few feet behind her. He waits, patiently as Morena approaches. As Morena closes to within conversational distance, the stranger gives her a warm, encouraging nod.

As Morena approaches the stranger, her features become more noticeable in the flickering firelight. Her eyes seem to burn with a cold light that steals the warmth from the air around her, the effect noticeable upon the stranger’s skin as she closes in. Morena’s skin seemed to radiate with a pallor that would compete with the drifts of snow just outside the door, the starkness of that skin against her dark garments an exercise in severe contrasts. The distance closed between them, and the stranger could almost feel the touch of death upon her skin, as if surrounding the alien kindred were the embrace of the final darkness. It is distinct enough to eclipse the presence of the other kindred in the room. The regal demeanor and strength of conviction of Morena are immediately evident to the stranger, though slightly tainted with the certainty she feels of death’s proximity.

Morena’s chilly smile stretched slowly across her lips as she finally stops a step or two in front of the stranger. “You have entered the domain of Prince Ivan Petrovich Vadislav, shared this night with his vassals and followers. Are you expected?” Morena’s welcome is as chilly as her gaze, as she takes in the odd visage of the visitor.