The plane shudders as it sets down in Dublin. I don't even know why I'm here. Just decided to come. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was something else.
The Tremere needed me to search for the Kosak Icons, an ancient collection of Christ's last days depicted in gold and silver. Hidden in their intricacies were tiny etched runic symbols only visible by enhanced sight. Damn the Kosak for his ingenuity. Damn him as well for his wasted love for a god that forsook his own creations. Janislav Pritrivanitov, the Kosak Tremere sorcerer. Dead for almost ninety years now. Served him right for wanting to stay in Russia when the very walls around him were coming down, Destroyed as a sympathizer to the czar by the Bolsheviks. Damn him also for learning enough of the secrets of the true art to make a search for his iconic diaries a worthwhile pursuit.
Damn it all to hell, for making me come back to this godforsaken land. Ireland; Erie; whatever you want to call it.

It might have been his homeland in his mortal live, but all it meant to him now was pain. the deep regretful pain that comes only after years of guilt covered up. He might be an unfeeling beast, capable of unbelieveable acts of horror, but the memories of happiness and the warm touch of a beautiful woman drove home the grief he'd been suppressing for the last 155 years.