Prologue: A City Born in Fire

Haze is a constant in Chicagoland most nights. When the fog rolls in off Lake Michigan it leaves downtown in a thick soup so heavy that your voice dies inches from your lips. It's the kind of haze that makes you wish for a warm body to hold through the night; the kind that makes you think of that certain somebody you used to hold. The kind that leaves you cold and hungry.

There's the haze of thousands of smokestacks churning and burning; doing the work of turning men's labor and work into other men's wealth. The flivvers chugging along, spitting their own flavor of smog into the night along with the hopes and dreams of a new middle class. It's a haze that plays tricks on the eyes. Makes you see things that aren't there and paints the sky in shades of blood when the sun sets.

Underneath the mist and smog there's another kind of haze. It fills the whore houses and opium dens where men spend their coin and themselves. It's in the lit cigarette hanging from a dead man's lips and in the sharp smell of spent Thompson shells. It's a nasty thing, dirty and acrid, but there's a clarity to it too. Something about it jolts the senses and makes you realize you're alive even if it's just for another heartbeat.

Haze of all kinds come together and mingle nightly in the city. Together with the light and sound and stink of a mass of humanity and all that goes with it there's an oppression that weighs on you most nights. It's inescapable. It's everywhere. No matter where you turn there's that feeling that there's something in the air that's just not quite right, not clean. It's not unwholesome, not in its self. No more than a sheen of sweat after a long day at work. But it's that haze that clues certain perceptive mortals in on a key aspect to city life. It's why when you look you see that after dark people move in herds: they are prey and there are predators just out of sight.

Downtown Chicago is full of lights and noise, even in the dead hours of the night. Dames in their furs and dandies in their suits flit from one speakeasy to the next casting laughter and caution to the winds while down in the alleys just out of the streetlight hobos and bums kill for scraps and space in a dumpster. But not down one alley. Oddly, though it's clean and mostly out of the weather there's no bums squatting here. It lies on the far end of the block across from the Berghoff. In contrast to the restaurant's huge flashing sign and well lit front this alley has only a single lightbulb illuminating a dark stained oak door set halfway down the dark alley. A group of revelers passes by and unconsciously steps into the street rather than touch the sidewalk leading to the door. If they'd come a little closer they might have noticed something their animal senses had picked up on. The noise of jazz, automobile engines and revelers living the good life seemed to die away at the mouth of the alley. Had any of them stepped into the alley they would have noticed that the city noise stops altogether a few paces in. Had they come closer than that they would have been ensnared.

There was music playing on the other side of the door. Smooth and silky like new bed sheets. It wove through the air, and any of the mortal flies that strayed too close to it would have been stuck in the spiders web. There's no sign marking the place, and no bouncer standing guard outside. But if you knock on the door and give the password through the eye slit the first thing to hit you after the door opens is the music. No longer muffled or distant it's a living thing. The voice is its soul, the strings and gently tapping drums its lifeblood. It has a breath and pulse all its own matching and harmonizing with that of the city. It all flows out of the woman center stage, though somehow her voice seems to be melting out of the very walls, smooth and warm and sweet. You can't quite see the singer through the haze of cigar and cigarette inside, but the sway of hips and the curve of long legs are teasing images hinting at maddening pleasures just beyond reach. The alto giving voice to the music lays out the purpose of this place more clearly than any sign ever could. This is a place for predators to meet, a safe place to lay aside your cares and for a time simply revel in the pleasures offered to you.

The patrons come from all walks of unlife. Here a posh debutante all in silk. There just inside the entryway a sour looking man in second hand clothes smoking a fag and watching the crowd like a hawk, the music seeming to wash over him like river water around a boulder. Both are different flavors of the same predator with dozens more in attendance. Waitresses and waiters flit here and there marked as prey in their black uniforms. They carry no drinks or food but offer themselves freely to the patrons indulgence. At a corner table a young waitress clears a white line off the table, straightening and laughing as she inhales the last bits with a wipe of her fingers. She shivers and melts back into her chair. The man next to her leans over as if to kiss her but his fangs sink into her neck. She arches her back and cries out as his fangs flash again and again until her perfect flesh is left an empty ruin.

She dies in bliss.

The song rolls on.

Up above in an alcove somewhat recessed some dozen or so of the youngest Kindred of Chicago are gathered. A heavy curtain is drawn around their spot to dampen out the music but some of the less focused Kindred find their minds wandering anyways. Though they were all told to be here none of them had a clear idea why and some were starting to contemplate leaving to try and catch a glimpse of the singer. Just as one young man made to rise the curtain parted and in strode a man with jet black hair, a sharp clean jawline and a cocksure smirk. He tossed his hat and swagger stick to the young man who had been rising without breaking his stride. Taking a moment to look over each of the kindred before him his gaze lingers for a moment on some before he takes a courtly bow. He speaks with a slight curve to his words; posh and cultured without having a specific nation attached to the accent.

"Good evening my fine Kindred. I crave your pardon for my lateness. I'm afraid it's a condition I've come down with and it's quite incurable."

His lips stay straight but there's a smirk dancing in his eyes. A young woman sitting to his left lets out a small laugh and he returns a wink. All the others remain quiet. After a moment the man straightens himself up and clears his throat.

"I see the higher Generations fail to revive a sense of humor after their Embrace. Alas, such is our curse to bear in these nights. Nevertheless I'm sure you're all wondering why you're here. There are three reasons. Firstly, because I make it a point to meet all the new blood I can. I find it's beneficial to me to have allies in many places, and useful to those allies to be friends with me. My name is Alistair Shaverford, and if there's anything worth having in this city odds are it's been through my hands. So here's your chance to ingratiate yourselves."

He winks again at the young woman before continuing.

"Secondly, it is important that you know of this place, the Helicon Club. This is our Elysium. This is where Kindred of all Clans and walks of life can meet and talk and do the business of Jyhad without fear of violence or nefarious use of Disciplines. Prince Bianca has decreed it so, and if you decide to breech the peace for any reason you'll have a very brief... um... conversation with that surly man beside the door before he stakes you and ties you to a flagpole to meet the dawn. Prince Bianca has asked that I make it clear to all of  you that no violation of Elysium will be tolerated and the house's security will have final say in any disagreements. This is your only warning."

He meets the eye of everyone present, pressing the grave words in with the weight of his gaze before moving on.

"Thirdly and finally Prince Bianca believes it is critical for the survival of our society for the younger generations to understand where they come from and the origins of our realm here in beautiful Chicago. I find myself agreeing with her, and more importantly I'm somewhat of a storyteller, and so it has fallen on me to enlighten you all to the origins of our city so that you may learn from the past. Very few Kindred survived the early days, but I have gathered stories and interviewed veterans of the Red War, and it is for that reason that we are here tonight. So, without further ado, I welcome you all to take my words to heart and listen well. Tonight you will learn about what happens when Kindred stand united under a common cause..."

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Chicago wasn't always full of soaring skyscrapers and automobiles. It's a relatively new town back then, especially for one of its size, but some still remember a time when Michigan Avenue was paved with wooden slats that sank into the swampy earth a little more with every passing carriage. Not many buildings rose above four stories back then. The city was growing; it couldn't grow up so it grew out instead. Sprawling for miles and miles with more construction always on the edges of what's already there. Trains and steam ships bringing in a constant stream of settlers and immigrants, cattle and iron coming in by the ton every day and leaving as tons of beef and steel. You'd be forgiven for thinking it sounded like an ideal environment for Kindred. Indeed, it was, but for the lack of leadership.

Times were hard for the Children of Caine though. There was no Prince ruling here. Nobody enforcing the Masquerade or the Traditions. Kindred at that time who deigned to submit to authority at all fell under the sway of a gypsy fool named Cassius McDonald. Sunk too deep in his whores and gambling dens, the charlatan failed take notice of the new power rising until it was too late. At some point, along with all the kine flowing in every day, an enclave of Masons set up a lodge in the city's very heart and started sinking their talons into everything they could. They were few at first, but quickly grew wealthy and brought in more of their kind. Before long, there were enough of them that legitimate business could no longer provide sufficient opportunity. Their eyes started wandering towards the larcenous, and hence towards McDonald's little kingdom. At first they struck only with the power of pocket books and credit lines, infusing McDonald's rival gangs with cash to apply pressure. Then, when they were ready, they struck. For weeks the fighting raged in the streets. By day their agents burned our Havens. By night the gypsies wove maddening illusions to entrap the careless. Anyone who's met one of the Ravnos will tell you that they are not ones to cross lightly. They command powerful Disciplines that can alter the very fabric of reality. But even their Chimerstry was no match for the might of the Magi and their foul magicks. Slowly at first, but inevitably, McDonald was losing his grip on the city until only he and a handful of sycophants remained.

Then one night the tide turned. While the war raged and another of McDonald's strongholds fell a ship came into harbor carrying a group of immigrants from the Old World. Nobody knows why they came; whether McDonald had requested help or Caine himself sent them, but on that night Bianca Tornabuoni had arrived. At her right hand, her sister Lara. Slim and dark, long of hair and limb our Ladies are a study in matching contrasts. Though they are identical twins, where Bianca embodies the grace and authority given to the Clan of Kings, Lara spits in the eye of tradition. She favors the blade and buckler to the whispers and gossip usually favored by we Toreador. They, along with their retainers, set foot on the shores of Lake Michigan even as McDonald was losing the city in earnest. The first night they came to McDonald's rescue; Lara herself pulled him out of the burning wreckage of his last haven and tore the stake from his chest.

The second night, the Red War began in earnest.

The sisters turned the tide. They had brought abundant resources with them. Not only money, but other Kindred. Some began to Embrace as much as they could, cranking out foot soldiers to serve as cannon fodder. Lara was always at the forefront of the fight, tearing down the Mages men with unmatched ferocity wherever they dared show their faces. Striking together with her Hounds, Arthur and his Knights at her side control of many city blocks was soon restored. Bianca, meanwhile, wrested control of the City Council and police force, turning the Mages own puppets against their masters. They ramped up the pressure on both ends. After a few weeks they'd retaken McDonald's old territory then started pushing into the monied neighborhoods where the Magi made their lairs. But the Mages gave away nothing without extracting a high price. Dozens, then hundreds of Kindred fell to their magic and fire. Indeed, even with Bianca's brilliance and Lara's ferocity the war would have been lost had it not been for the Warlocks.

They were there with the sisters every step of the way. Turning aside the enemy's magicks and employing their own to terrible effect. They were instrumental in the fight, and everyone knew it. Within only a few months the war was winding down. Bianca had consolidated her hold over the city's politics and finances while Lara had pushed the Magi to the brink of extinction. They had only one stronghold left; the very first lodge house where their infestation had begun. They were hemmed in and trapped. The end was here, and everyone knew it. Lara gave orders for the final assault, sending away the Warlocks with orders to shut down the Mages magicks from their Chantry believing she'd be unable to spare any hands to act as bodyguards.

Just before the final assault King Arthur, yes that King Arthur, begged of Lara leave to lead the first charge to avenge his Knights who had fallen at the hands of the Magi. Knowing him to be a man of honor, gave her blessing.

And so it began. Arthur and his Knights, empowered by blood magic and holy fervor threw themselves upon the marble walls of the lodge. Lights flashed, the earth cried out in pain, and blood flowed as a river where they broke through. The fighting was fierce, more terrible than any other fighting in that terrible war. But Arthur won through and tore the still beating heart from the Archmage.

But even in his moment of triumph disaster struck and cries of joy turned to screams of terror. Fire came down. Flames rose up. A twisting column of fire rose up screaming into the night starting at the lodge but quickly darting this way and that to ignite every building on the block. The earth broke and swallowed the lodge and with a sound like a dying beast the building sank into the abyss along with Arthur and all his knights. Even as she watched in horror, unable to render aide Lara beheld a second pillar of flame to the North, and she knew that her sister had been the target of the second strike. Torn between the love of a brother in arms and the love of a sister she dove into the pit and searched through the flaming wreckage for her friend while all her retainers fled in the grips of the Red Terror. But run as they might they could not escape the flames. Within hours the city was destroyed down to its foundations. that night cost more Kindred their lives than any week of the war before it, and untold thousands of Kine fell to the flames too.

The next night it was made clear what had happened. Cassius McDonald had turned the Warlocks, offering them power and wealth in exchange for removing the sisters. And so they had taken their chance and delivered their stroke, knowing Bianca would wait out the battle in safety at City Hall and Lara would be in the thick of the fray. Together with the Warlocks McDonald made his case for Princedom. He claimed that the sisters had fallen in battle and so his claim of lordship should be honored. Silent and sure, the Warlocks stood behind him, lending their support to his claims.

Then the doors were thrown open with a boom and in strode three figures. First, Father Vincent, the Arbiter. Though a Kindred of great age, he never partakes of Vitae and even acts of True Faith have no affect on him. Never has there been a Kindred held in higher regard by Kine and Caineite alike, and rightly so. He had had a premonition the previous night and had begged Lady Bianca to take shelter with him within his church, and so it was that she was blocks away from the strike that would have killed her, and so she followed him now to seek justice. And behind her strode Lara with purpose and fury, eyes locked upon the treasonous Warlocks with nothing but the desire to do murder burning in her eyes.

The Father begged McDonald to stand aside and submit himself to justice, but the Gypsy would have none of it. Instead he pushed his case, flinging accusations of blasphemy and sacrilege at the sisters, and then at the Father in his fury and panic. Tensions rose, voices cried out in anger and the whole place was soon to devolve into a bloodbath. But then the Father cried for silence and spoke to all gathered there and through the power of his voice he quieted enough of the anger to allow some reason to step in, and the terms of a trial were agreed to. It would be trial by combat. Representing Lady Bianca was her sister Lara with her shield and buckler. And representing Cassius McDonald was the Premogen of the Warlocks. He was a tall, spare man with sharp features and a narrow face. Black of hair with a short cropped beard framing only his mouth and tapering down to a narrow point. He was a master of fire magic and it is said that Rotschrech held no power over him.

The fighting space was cleared out and the combatants faced each other. On the one side stood a tall master of dark arts cloaked in trechery with flames dancing upon his fingertips. Facing him from across the ring stood Lara. Short and springy compared to the Warlock, she carried the grace of lifetimes spent dancing on a blade's edge. With nothing but her blade and buckler she faced the chief of the Tremere. The Father gave the signal and the duel began. Steel flashed with fire. Blood arced through the air. Like a mighty mountain the Warlock stood fast, flinging his fire and power out in waves of rage to smite his foe. Like the wind Lara danced, darting here and there, weaving between strikes and flashing out with steel in hand. Then there was a sound of breaking metal and her blade fell to the ground in pieces. Sure of his victory against a now unarmed opponant the Warlock tilted his head back and laughed full of scorn. But before he could strike again, indeed before the laughter had yet died out, Lara struck. She took him by the throat and bore him down to the ground. Fangs flashing, blood flying, she rode out the death throes of a Warlock and ate his very soul.

And so it should have ended, the matter settled. But justice was done only in the smaller part that night for Cassius McDonald, seeing that his champion was doomed, had taken his last chance to escape and so eluded justice himself. The matter was declared settled and Bianca crowned Prince of Chicago. Her first act was to pardon her sister of the crime of Diablerie. Her second act was to appoint her to the office of Sheriff. And her third act was to declare a Blood Hunt upon Cassius McDonald. A Blood Hunt that continues to this very night, for the Gypsy is counted as sly and crafty even among his kind.

And so began the reign of Prince Bianca. Think well upon what you've heard here tonight, young ones. This is the legacy you are now a part of, and these are the people who keep us all safe from the various threats that assail us. The Prince and Sheriff have rebuilt this city according to their designs in the decades since the fire. This is their city. Here we are safe and prosperous. No mage dares set foot here since the Red War. The beasts that haunt the country shrink away in terror for miles around the city. Every day more and more boats and trains bring us fresh food and pleasures. We have a good thing going here.

Don't fuck it up.