Intro
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Chapter 1

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Intro

This is the background to the city that Vampire-Noir is set in. It is the World of Darkness, but a period where the darkness was less defined and both Kindred and Kine would betray you if the price was right. Like the setting of any good Noir film, it rains in the Word of Darkness and the sky never quite manages day. That is not to say that day does not exist but when you are talking about vampires, day is not very exciting. People go off to 9-5 jobs and ghouls wander around the city making sure the vampires don't get a surprise visit from a member of the Van Helsing family. Even in the light of day, however, the darkness does not disappear. Every shadow, every dimly-lit corner is a darkness of sorts.

The main character, a private investigator named Laton, was not always a PI in a messy office with case-files decorating every flat surface. He was originally a police officer but fate did not smile on him. We all make mistakes, we are only human and his greatest crime was simply getting caught. In Film Noir there is only one tale, the tragic one.

Just one thing, this isn't Film-Noir. This is Vampire-Noir. The secrets are better hidden, the shadows deeper and the night darker. There may never have been a genre so suited to the World of Darkness, but I wouldn't count on it. This is a world where people drink hard to forget what they have seen and life is cheap, because you are just a meal to the creatures that stalked mankind before you were born. There is no escape except death, and even that isn't always the end when the Giovanni get involved...

We may talk of a time when Kindred ruled the earth but ultimately we must cut to the chase. To Laton, it all started a year ago but that is only because he does not know the whole story. He does not know of the age-old Kindred threat or the silent guiding hand that has gently shaped humanity to its own purpose. He knows that there has always been a Don Giovanni as long as anyone can remember, though the true source of the family's power is a mystery to him.

The blood is the life

Don Anthony Giovanni watched the corpse as it pushed its broom across the floor of the storeroom. In life he had been a promising young killer, introduced to him by one of his female relatives (wasn't it always the way that men would be drawn to them?). Patrick, that was his name, a young Irish boy with an unhealthy taste for corpses. It was almost ironic that he should end up a member of the walking dead, such a delicious twist of fate.

Patrick had seemed so full of potential, new to the city and so open to the ways of Necromancy. Even before they had been formally introduced, Anthony had known that there was something more to Patrick, the way he held himself and the way he had caught the eye of more than one young lady. Perhaps it was just the extra trade he had sent in the direction of the family undertakers. If he could just be tamed, there would be a place for him in the business. That was undoubtedly Anthony's mistake, he had trusted the young man. He invited him to the club, shown him the rewards for those loyal to the Giovanni. Such promise...
If he had just bided his time for a few more days, he would have known of the Kindred. Just a few more days and he may have been truly prepared. The young punk had just walked into his office one night and shot him, emptying his gun. He could still see the look on Patrick's face when he had got back up, the terror that never left. Anthony had told him that the office was sound-proofed, most likely why he had chosen it as the place of execution. While customers enjoyed the club's hospitality, he had taken his own gun and Patrick had simply stood there waiting for his death. For the attack, he had taken Patrick's blood. For the suit, he took Patrick's life and for the insult, he had taken Patrick's corpse.

The hollow-eyed form before him was still almost recognisable, the Irishman's glasses still sitting on his face as Anthony's joke to the world. The gunshot wound was also still there, now a dried pit in the creature's flesh. The cool winter air was keeping the rot from setting in but he knew that he would not be able to keep the corpse much longer. The ghouls on the bar were already complaining and he had made his point. He smiled as he left, remembering his final revenge. He had thought it rather amusing to trap Patrick in this room, forcing him to watch his corpse sweep the room endlessly. His spirit stared down at Anthony in impotent hatred, mutely haunting the domain of Necromancers.

'Ah, memories.' he said.

The spirit of his would-be assassin just continued to stare down, managing to radiate a bitter rage. Anthony just smiled back up at him, enjoying his handiwork. The silent barrage continued and he sipped his glass of vitae.

'You just stay there and think about what you have done.' joked the Don.

Patrick had been held in this place for little over 3 days but it had still seemed an eternity. Leaving was not even a consideration, the room was a prison of magics with only torment at each wall. Brought up a skeptical christian, he had never really considered what lay beyond death. Quite simply, he had been too busy trying not to find out. He had been paid to kill and that had been his life. Now he was forced to watch what had once been his body as it lurched across the room.

Anthony left the wraith to his torture and returned to his office. Even now it troubled him that such a man had come so close to ending a long unlife. As he sat, his mind fixed on the events of that night, he almost missed the figure who slipped through his door.

Almost...

'Anna, so good to see you. Was there something in particular you were after?'

'Just a night off.' replied the English blonde.

Anna stood just under 6ft in heels, making her one of his most popular singers. One of the other features that kept her at the club was her feline grace, a result of her Kindred blood. While most Kindred possessed the predatory beauty of a shark, those of Clan Toreador seemed altogether more human. Her accent also drew many men to her, the diction of Victorian aristocracy. After the stockmarket crash of 1929 and the war in Europe, he was not surprised that she had been eager to work for him. Despite having her in the palm of his hand, he could not ever deny her anything nor bring himself to take advantage of her.

'Okay, but don't make a habit of it.' he said with a smile, 'Is it anyone I know?'

'An old friend, from my days in London.'

She never spoke much about her past life. In unguarded moments she had spoken of theatres, of long-dead playwrights. Even then, it would be only a passing remark about someone who reminded her of Marlowe or of Wilde. Half of her attraction, he pondered, was the mystery surrounding her past. No matter what she divulged, it would always pose more questions than it answered. He had joked that she knew more about him than any man could ever know about her.