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....Vladijar Izstelle's great-grand daughter was born at midnight. There was a storm roiling on the Caspian Sea, and her cries sounded above the thunder. Vladijar marked the date in his records; the year was 1013. The woman would bear no more children, he was certain. The man had been waiting for years for his blood to produce a worthy child. He was growing lonely now, though. His other grandchildren were not worthy of the Kiss. He resolved to make this female babe worthy. He would nurture her and bring her to fruitation; she would become his as he had become his Sire's.
....Rising from his desk, Vladijar strode through the fortress's cavernous rooms until he reached the birthing bed. He watched quietly from the door for a few moments as the women cleaned the babe of birthing fluid, and then he spoke.
...."Her name is Larija."
....In 1030, Vladajir deemed Larija ready. He had instilled in her knowledge and grace, the desire to learn and seek. He summoned the girl at midnight of her name day, and she answered obediently. Vladajir gazed solemnly at Larija as she stood before his chair. Her head was lowered in deference to her grandfather. Soft brown hair hung loose about her face, almost concealing the tranquility of her delicate, angular features. Her youthful body was swathed in the warmth of a night robe, and her feet -- placed neatly side by side -- were bare. Vladajir drew Larija toward him, needlelike fangs extending as he brushed back the girl's hair and bared her throat.
....Larija went willingly into her grand father's grasp. She had always trusted him implicitly. When he lifted her chin with a single fingertip, her eyes fluttered shut and the ghost of a smile curved her mouth. The pierce of his fangs was a shock. Larija's eyes flew wide, and her hands shot up to curl around his nape. Vladajir held her secure with an arm around her slender waist, and despite her efforts, Larija could not escape. She screamed a silent scream, horror overriding any pleasure that may have been brought by the Kiss.
....The blood exited her veins like burning claws, and Larija dug her fingernails fiercely into Vladajir's flesh. It seemed a never-ending nightmare, and she sunk greatfully into cold oblivion while agony still wracked her body.
....Larija awoke cold and shivering. The nightmare had come again; she had been unable to escape the razor claws, the freezing wind. She pushed baby-fine strands away from her face and slid out of the bed. Barefoot, she padded to her grandfather's -- now, her Sire -- room. He was just finishing his toilette as she pushed through the door. He glanced up at her entrance, and beckoned her forth. The year was 1060 -- Larija had lived 30 years spent in careful study of her Sire's arts.
...."You will leave at the end of a fortnight, childe," Vladajir instructed.
....Larija's brow knit in confusion, but she merely nodded, patiently listening to her Sire.
...."In Turkey, the Ventrue are gathering. You will travel to their hold; from there, you will be given the means to further your study."
....Larija made the journey, with a letter sealed in the sigil of her House. Larija was provided with an escort, and letters of admittance to several of the Ventrue holdings throughout Europe and Eurasia. Through her life, she has ventured from country to country, pouring over libraries, conducting experiments, and reaching to fulfill the quest that is her birthright -- knowledge of death's limitless bounds.
....A slow, drizzling rain was blanketing the world when Larija's wagon broke a wheel. The nearest town bore the name Kievan Rus, and while Larija's entourage continued the journey in search of the next destination, she decided to make herself known in the small Transylvanian city...
Larija's picture by Darrell K. Sweet
