From: ses52823@uxa.cso.uiuc.edu (Marius)
Subject: Magyar's Tales (II)
Organization: University of Illinois at Urbana
Date: Sat, 19 Dec 1992 03:21:53 GMT

Well, back by popular demand...
Here is the second installment of Stefan Magyar's unlife.
This one is a move directly from the game -- yes, believe it
or not, all the players post via email in this fashion to depict
their characters' actions.
Thanks to Mithrandir (tkelly@unix2.tcd.ie) without whom very
little of this would be possible.
Now on into the darkness...

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"Magyar's Tales"
Installment Two
by Sven Skoog

Marius (ses52823@uxa.cso.uiuc.edu)
University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign

Please don't copy or transfer this material without the header.

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London

The limousine, black as the night to the very windows, slowly turned
the corner and slid through the inky blackness, filling in the void from
streetlight to dimly lit shops along the Picadilly Circus.  The vision
of those slightly more sensitive than those who walked the streets might
have picked from the tinted windows a pair of placid grey eyes, flecked
with deepest tones of emerald green, which neared the glass now and
again to gaze at particular individuals on the busy avenue.

The automobile finally turned into a desolate lot, its emptiness
surprising in the particular portion of London, near Hyde Park, and
came to a stop.  The driver disembarked and opened the door for the
passenger.

Magyar drew his cloak of ebon velvet -- what some might have called
a gentleman's cloak in earlier times -- closer about him to ward off
the night's chill.  He was tall, for his weight;  perhaps a bit gaunt, judging
by the sparsely distributed flawless alabaster skin which was molded
over his lanky frame.  The man could not have been less than six feet
two inches tall.  This night, his chosen garments included a ludicrously
expensive, sharply pleated black linen double-breasted suit which
smacked of the Giorgio Armani line.  The soft, dark brown kidskin
leather shoes he wore bore the unmistakable brand of Florsheim written
all over them.  His shirt, open at the collar, was made from some pearl-
toned silk weave, pressed and folded in the manner of a tuxedo or
smoking jacket;  doubtlessly tailor-made and perhaps several hundred
dollars off the hoof.  Perhaps.

His hair was dark blonde (some would say ash), and worn in the
impeccably trimmed style of the American 1950s media.  As he rose,
catlike and silent as the passing wind, his wiry frame betrayed some
hints of the sinewy strength that lay within.  He moved with a dancer's
grace - a gymnast who sought to catapault body and soul into the
abyss itself to maintain this level of flawless fluidity.

The only other inhabitant of the lot was a white Mercedes, whose
driver stepped forth nervously, bearing a leather briefcase.  This was
Ian Rothchilde, longtime attorney to the Magyar family, whose sixty-
year old frame quaked despite his attempts to fight off the suddenly
cold wind.

Ian noted that his client's eyes fixed briefly on the driver's, who
momentarily went slackjawed behind his spectacles.  He then nodded
his head almost imperceptibly, returned to his limo, and drove off into
the night without so much as a fare-thee-well.  Rothchilde, considerably
shaken by this turn of events, stelled himself and approached Stefan
Magyar.

"Mr. Magyar, sir," he began, "It is such an honor.  The Rothchilde &
Banks firm has handled your family's interests for over fifty years now,
and, may I be so bold, sir, your properties have certainly benefited from
both our expertises..."

Here Rothchilde stopped and blinked;  surely his eyes must have failed
him.  The stranger now stood not eight inches to his left, when he could
not have been less than twenty feet away but scant seconds ago.
These concerns became trivial, however, as the lawyer was dealt an iron
blow across the face which sent him sprawling across the broken
pavement.  In an instant, Ian was brought to his feet and collared
against the only remaining car in the lot.

The aged attorney, dazed and terrified, never even thought of
struggling.  In so doing, he avoided observing firsthand the folly of
contesting a Kindred's prowess -- the same lesson Stefan had learned
scant years ago at the hands of his own Sire.

Magyar's face was an icy mask of control.  Only a muscle along the line
of his jaw twitching to and fro revealed any hint of the fury flowing
through him.  The otherwise unblemished face, with its fine, aqualine
features and keen yet fiercely intelligent gaze, looked placidly down
upon his representative.  The next passage came as a carefully inflected
voice, channeled in dulcet tones scant degrees warmer than the air
about them.  The words seemed to whisper on the wind, heard not so
much with the ears as with the mind.

"No one was to disturb my seclusion in the Ural Mountains.  Such has
been the tradition of my family for decades."

It was all Rothchilde could do to stammer a bewildered reply.

"But... sir... Mr. Magyar, sir... I told no one..."

The next blow sent Ian full onto the hood of the Mercedes.  A small
yellow paper, indicative of the telegram, was pressed into his face.

"Two nights past," Magyar spat, "I received this... this summons..."
and here Ian had to cower in fear as the man's voice rumbled with
anger, "from a Mr. Gregory, requesting my presence in this city."

Rothchilde knew.  Of course he knew.  He had received word through
the appropriate channels that such a connunique had indeed been sent
to the village of Ronskaar, at the foot of the mountain range which
Stefan had been known to frequent, in the seclusion of his ancestral
home.  Why, it had been Ian himself who had supervised the insurance
matters culminating from the fire which had destroyed that very house,
a raging forest fire which took much of the timber line with it.  His
reaction at the telegram had been one of mild concern;  the Magyars'
concern for privacy was legendary among the client history of the firm.
He had never dreamed, however, of such repercussions as could happen
here.  And now, he could do nothing but sit in terror as the man above
him vented his rage.

And it seemed that some of the very thoughts from Rothchilde's
terrified mind came forth to permeate Stefan's own, as he suddenly
drew back a step and murmured, "Katrina..."  Ian knew from his
infrequent communications with the Magyar house that Katrina had
been Stefan's wife, destroyed in the fire with all the house.

How could the aged British lawyer know of Magyar's darkest secrets?
That Katrina, his wife and Childe, had meant more to him than life
itself?  That Peter and Vaughn Magyar, previous heirs to the family
fortune, whom Ian had represented in his time, were none other than
the young man, Stefan, who stood before him?  Rothchilde, in his
ignorance, maintained the bliss which in turn maintained his sanity.

The memory of his beloved's face seemed to give Stefan control.  He
paused for a moment and half-smiled.  A distant look came into his eyes
as he sat back and put his hands to his brow.  Concentration furrowed
Magyar's features as he paused in thought, obviously intent on some
dark purpose.  His thoughts were betrayed by a harshly whispered
"Gregory..."

The familiar fury came back as Magyar broke off his attempts and put
his fist through the Mercedes' window.

"Not enough!  Damn you, Elders!  Is this your doing?  You taunt me
with powers unimaginable, and leave me without those sufficient to
guard myself!"

Stefan tried his mysterious talents again, and, after a shorter time,
sighed in resignation.

"It is useless.  This Gregory is hidden from me. I can do no more."

The now semi-conscious Rothchilde came to a horrid realization.  The
emotions coursing through Magyar's being were not only anger, but a
definitely palpable fear.  Ian had no time to wonder further, however,
as he was hoisted back onto his feet and met with Stefan's fierce gaze.
His sharply hissed syllables were answered by Rothchilde's sleep-
softened tones.

"I understand.  All is readied for you and is as you have said."

"You have served me well, my friend."

With this, Stefan passed a hand before the lawyer's face, noting as he
did so that the gashes from the broken glass of the window were
already all but healed.  Bits of window glass extricated themselves from
the previously grievous wounds, making small crystalline tinkling noises
as they fell onto the asphalt.

The gesture restored some semblance of reality to Rothchilde's limp face.

"... your properties have certainly benefited from both our expertises and..."

Stefan's polite smile introduced his gentle interruption.

"To be sure, Mr. Rothchilde... I grow tired from my trip.  If I could take 
my leave now..."

Rothchilde's glassy, eager grin showed none of the horrors he had
witnessed and fallen victim to not ten minutes earlier.

"Yes sir.  Of course, sir.  I have procured this Mercedes for you, as per
your instructions, and everything else you will be needing is here..."
Here Ian produced the leather briefcase, giving it into Stefan's keeping.
Inside were the pertinent documents regarding his present speculative
holdings, as well as some deeds, hotel reservations, and a goodly supply
of cash for whatever preparations might prove necessary.  Matters
being settled,  Rothchilde made his farewells and hailed a cab to take
him back to his offices.

Magyar paused, confused by the Mercedes' toggle transmission, and
then smiled to himself.  "Am I so old," he asked himself bemusedly,
"that I cannot remember the workings of the Fuhrer's 'soldier wagons?'"
Stefan flipped the switch into manual mode and made his way to the
Auberge, where he signed in into his previously arranged reservations
as 'Peter Vaughn,' gathered his few belongings from the car, and doffed
his untimely cloak, straightening the pleats of his suit coat as he did so.
He then proceeded to the elevator, and the penthouse suite.

He paused at his door.  Scents of cheap perfume and soft giggles
betrayed the 'other preparations' Rothchilde had seen fit to provide
Stefan with.  Of course, Rothchilde could not recall having made such
preparations, but that was of no matter.

The sumptuous suite's living room was filled with finery, the only
oddities being those few items which Stefan had had shipped over from
the Ural range;  a pair of crossed claymores adorned the south wall,
which Magyar was more than a little proficient in from his previous life;
other nonessentials littered the room in fashinable locations - here a
Chinese mandola meditation mat, there a silver candlestick holder,
crafted in the image of a crouched gargoyle - these serving to remind
him of his mountain home.

Stefan opened the door into the master bedroom, where he was greeted
by the slightly glazed, drunken stares of two heavily intoxicated blonde
women, obviously handpicked from the more prestigious clubs of
London where they typically bantered with the players for business.
They had been paid an extravagant amount and asked no questions
regarding their 'customer' or whereabouts.  To other mortals, the two
would have been regarded as exquisitely beautiful;  to Magyar, they
were simply adequate.  One of the pair hailed him in a thick Cockney
accent, made heavy and slurred by the bottle of Dom Perignon, mostly
emptied, reposing on its resting place of ice for the present.  The other
woman merely giggled at the entire scene and played with the silken
canopy surrounding the enormous bed.

Magyar only smiled invitingly and left his coat on the doorknob where
it would stay for hours to come.  His return celebration, then, was here,
in the feast he saw before him.

It was much later the following morning that Holly and Cindel awoke
in their respective flats, exhausted yet not so hung over as they
should have been from their celebration of the night before.  Both were
many pounds richer than they had been for as long as they could
remember.  When they strained to remember the john they had been
with the previous night, the memories eluded them.  Both women went
to go about their morning rituals, scratching in an annoyed manner at
the junction between neck and shoulder, where only faint traces of two
bruises (thanks to Magyar's own Vitae) lingered.

And, just before sunrise, Magyar spoke three words with all his
body and mind atop the roof of the Auberge before retiring into his
sun-shielded bedroom to rest out the day.

"Magyar is here."

______________________

Next installment(s) will have some flashbacks, I promise...

Comments/complaints/criticisms to ses52823@uxa.cso.uiuc.edu

Ciao!

______________________

Marius
ses52823@uxa.cso.uiuc.edu