The Grey Jackal

October 24th, 1813 AD

The dark figure slipped through the night, noiselessly and unseen, melting from shadow to shadow. It took cover in the darkness as it moved, and though its features were indistinct, it seemed to be constantly peering around, as if looking for followers, or perhaps for the one it was to meet. Far from its home among the structures of men, the dark figure finally came to a rest under a tree at a crossroad outside the city limits and seemed to merge with the shadows there, waiting, out of sight.
The night grew first darker, then, inevitably, lighter, but the shadowy form under the tree remained still, smothered in the blackness of the shadows. The moon traveled its arc high overhead, the animals and insects in the dark came together to create the low, humming drone that was the natural sound of the night. Finally, a foreign sound pierced the night air and disturbed the chattering calls of the wildlife; a horse approached from the east—no, a horse-drawn carriage. The tree under which the dark figure disappeared shivered a little to roughly for the gentle breeze that blew through the night sky, but otherwise, there was no sign of change in the moonlit scenery.
The two horses were moving briskly, but the carriage-driver still occasionally cracked the whip at them and called out rough, yet quiet, goads to keep them moving. The passenger in the small buggy either did not mind the additional jostling this caused, or they kept quiet for some other reason. As the horses approached the crossroad, the dark emerged from its place under the night-time shade of the tree and took a stance in the middle of the road, right in the carriage's path, before the driver could even react. The horses felt the same way, and reared up when he suddenly appeared in front of them, jerking the carriage and causing the driver to curse and grip the seat tightly so he was not thrown out by the sudden, ungraceful stop. The horses whinnied and huffed noisily in the quiet night, and the droning noises of the animals hushed as they paused to listen instead.
As the horses continued to buck and rear, growing increasingly terrified, the shadowy figure moved and it looked as if it held up a dark, black palm to the driver in a futile attempt to pacify him. As the driver fumbled for his revolver at his side he glanced once toward the door of the cabin beneath him. Meanwhile the dark figure seemed to lose interest and lowered its hand to move to the side of the road and away from the animals—but facing the carriage's door. The driver cursed again and finally drew aim on the attacker, firing three of his six shots into the heart of the shadowy form. It moved, as if turning its attention toward the driver again—though still, even it this close distance the dark figure's features were shadowed and indistinct, as if supernaturally so. The dark figure took a step toward the driver, who cocked back his pistol's hammer and fired another bullet into its chest. The driver already had the hammer cocked for fifth shot when the door popped open slightly, the sound of scraping wood and creaking hinges might as well have been a voice from on high ordering each of them to stop.
The door swung open and a foot emerged, followed by the rest of the carriage's passenger; the dark figure stopped and stood calmly with its attention on the emerging individual, the driver breathed heavily, nervously looking back and forth between his passenger and the assailant. The driver gasped when his mysterious passenger approached the dark figure, who then bowed its dark head in deference. The passenger, a man of average height and build, with features that would be described as either plain or ugly, was well-dressed—obviously a wealthy man—and wore a few pieces of expensive jewelry. Most would undoubtedly assume that such an individual would do well to avoid traveling at night, especially with so small a retinue, yet the carriage's passenger seemed perfectly fearless, even casual, as he looked up at the driver and spoke in a hard, unforgiving voice.
“Take the horses away,” the prosperous-looking man ordered, indicating a general area a bit away from them, around the corner of the crossroad, which they were not even twenty paces away from.
The driver spluttered for a moment trying to think of what to say—he obviously didn't understand what was happening—but he rightly figured he should say nothing and just obey promptly. The man directed the still skittish horses away, and they were more than eager to distance themselves from the frightening, shadowy figure. When they stopped near the spot the wealthy-looking man had specified, the latter began to walk toward the darkness of the tree-line with the dark figure dutifully following close behind.
The carriage driver sat there for what felt like hours, but was more likely less, shivering in the cold of the night, twitching his head left and right at seemingly random returning sounds of the night that felt too close. With plenty of time left to return to the city before sunrise—the driver remembered the passenger being considerably concerned over distance and travel-time (though he had know idea why such would be important)—his passenger returned. Of the dark figure that the driver had thought was a night-time assailant, there was no longer any sign. Instead the lone, wealthy-looking man angrily tossed a tied purse that rang with the unmistakable sound of over a hundred coins the driver's way—as per their agreement—and snatched the carriage door open roughly enough to rattle the entire cabin. The horses began to stir, sensitive to the unnatural chill that was now in the air, and the man in the driver's seat silently held out a calming hand to them as if they would understand.
“Return me,” he demanded without looking the other's way before stepping heavily inside and slamming the fragile carriage—door, causing the driver to unconsciously wince. He thought for a moment of asking his passenger if he had failed to meet his end of their arrangement somehow, but instantly thought better of it and decided to just get the job over with and return him to the city, “before the first rays of the sun”—and all that nonsense. He figured as he snapped the reins that if his passenger was displeased with his service in any way, he would have definitely said something. Better to continue on as planned and just get this whole strange affair over with.

December 21st, 2012

The Cainite called Kül Renkli Çakal stood before the table in his study, staring down with frustration at the multitude of maps and notes that seemed scattered across it. Useless, he thought, utterly pointless. It had been almost two centuries since he first lost control of his northern Persian—or what was once considered such—holdings, and in that time he had still been unable to track down any of his former, valuable possessions. When Persia and Russia signed the Treaty of Gulistan, the Persians felt taken advantage of, considering it officially one of the most humiliating treaties ever signed, and labeling Fath Ali Shah Qajar, one of their most incompetent shahs ever. Kül Renkli agreed passionately.
If the kine thought such had been for them, then they would surely never understand how utterly that one event had nearly shattered him. Around the time, when he was young and eager, not yet experienced in the art of persevering oneself and one's belongings against his peers, he had been making his haven in the lands north of what is now Persia—or, Iran, actually, according to the kine. At that time, however, he had been away on one of his semi-regular travels abroad, seeking the things he sought and learning the things he now knew. If only he could have known his country—at the time, at least—would have made such a damaging error, he would have postponed or even foregone his excursion that time, and instead make the obvious preparations to defend or maintain his haven under the change in leadership. The true leadership, being the kindred, of course, and not any shah or czar that thought power over mortals meant they wielded true power. With new mortal leaders came new vampires leaning over their shoulders and whispering in their ears—the blind leading the blind at night.
Yes, gone on a treasure-hunt that ultimately proved fruitless, and returned to find a barrier of undead enemies between himself and his lair—a lair full of precious or rare artifacts and texts he had had traded or risked much to obtain. By the time he had managed to make his way through and reach his former haven, his worst fears were realized. Russian Rabble—of all the bloodlines—that came with the czar's men had found his lair virtually unprotected for a raid of this sort and easily, and probably literally, walked away with his whole library and the contents of his laboratory. Kül Renkli remembered lapsing into a frenzy from his great rage and attacking a small group of—innocent, probably, but unimportantly—local kindred, and killing several of them before he drove his Beast away and returned to his senses enough to flee.
The loss had affected him deeply though, and the thought of it burned hot in his mind for many decades, where he sought a revenge that he eventually learned was nearly impossible to achieve. Upon that realization, he turned his attention toward rebuilding the collection he once had, only to realize how truly fortunate he had been to have ever even been exposed to such thing but once.
Kül Renkli straightened and slowly spun as he glared about his study angrily. Two-hundred years and I'm not even halfway toward having the same resources I once did, he thought angrily. He let a resigned sigh escape his undead lungs as he tried to rein in his emotions and focus himself once more upon the task at hand—letting his mind wander led invariably back to the same thing each time, eventually. Looking back down at his table, crossed his arms and then looked away, staring off into the space near the room's ceiling.
This time, however, he did remain on-task, and he felt that with enough juggling and finesse, he might be able to actually get his hands on at least some of the texts he once often referenced. Unfortunately, the one copy of the Leges Abyssi he could locate—which was an even later edition than his, but it was the only version he could find—would have have to be stolen, as the owner simply refused to discuss parting with it, and this was an idea Kül Renkli was actually starting to entertain.