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The Abbey:

It is a beautiful morning at the end of November. During the night it had snowed, but only a little, and the earth was covered with a cool blanket no more than three fingers high. In the darkness, immediately after lauds, you hear Mass in a village in the valley. You then set off toward the mountain, as the sun begins its rise.

While you toil up the steep path that winds around the mountain, you see the abbey. You are amazed, not by the walls that girded it on every side, similar to others to be seen in all the Christian world, but by the bulk of what you later learn is the Aedificium. This is an octago¬nal construction that from a distance seems a tetragon (a perfect form, which expresses the sturdiness and impregnability of the City of God), whose southern sides stand on the plateau of the abbey, while the northern ones seem to grow from the steep side of the mountain, a sheer drop, to which they are bound. You might say that from below, at certain points, the cliff seems to extend, reaching up toward the heavens, with the rock’s same colors and material, which at a certain point becomes keep and tower (work of giants who had great familiarity with earth and sky).

As you come closer, you realize that the quadrangular form includes, at each of its corners, a heptagonal tower, five sides of which are visible on the outside—four of the eight sides, then, of the greater octagon producing four minor heptagons, which from the outside appear as pentagons. And thus anyone can see the admirable concord of so many holy numbers, each revealing a subtle spiritual significance. Eight, the number of per¬fection for every tetragon; four, the number of the Gospels; five, the number of the zones of the world; seven, the number of the gifts of the Holy Ghost. In its bulk and in its form, the Aedificium resembles Castel Ursino or Castel del Monte, which reside farther south on the Italian peninsula, but its inaccessible position makes it more awesome than those, and capable of inspiring fear in the traveler who approached it gradually.
And it is fortunate that, since it was a very clear winter pre-dawn, you do not first see the building as it appears on stormy nights.

The Abbey is located here. Part of the Ravenna Province, The Abbey is just a short boat ride from Venice...



Ravenna has a long history. It was once even the captial of the Roman Empire. The Bishop of the province has the rare privelge of being selected directly by the pope, though since Clement relocated the Papacy to Avignon, local elections are held. Once held by a coterie of four powerful elders, Livia diablerized her sire, Aristophokles, and assumed control. It is rumored that Livia negotiated with contacts in Constantinople to oust the Venetians, a rumor that Guilelmo Aliprando (Lasombra Prince of Venice) and Tommaso Brexiano (Prince of Venetian colony of Negroponte) Venice take quite seriously, as it greatly upset their powerbase and led to events forcing Tommaso back to Venice. Currently, both Ravenna and Venice lay claim to the territory in which The Abbey rests. While neither are currently exercising any real authority over the region, Venice has recently resumed it's expansion into nearby territories. The current Prince of Ravenna, Livia the Ventrue, seems to be at odds with the Venetians. The Abbey may need to choose a side.

========Mario's Story Part Next ========

(The above intro is all for you Cheyne, enjoy the glory that is The Abbey)

:: You stand in awe of the magnificent structure. In your experiences, abbeys have always been small, modest structures. This impressive fortification looks to have sttod here for some time. Maybe it served some other purpose?
Flevotomos works to unlock and open the gate leading into the abbey. The large wooden doors creak open, allowing access into the structure. You follow the procession through the heavy wooden doors.
After the gate (which is the only opening in the outer walls) a tree-lined avenue leads to the abbatial church. To the left of the avenue there stretches a vast area of vegetable gardens and a botanical garden, around the two buildings of the balneary and the in¬firmary and herbarium, following the curve of the walls. Behind, to the left of the church, rises the Aedificium, separated from the church by a yard scattered with graves. The north door of the church faces the south tower of the Aedificium, which offers, frontally, its west tower to the arriving visitor’s eyes.To the right of the church there are some buildings, sheltered from the elements , and others around the cloister: the dormitory, no doubt, the abbot’s house, and the pilgrims’ hospice. On the way to the hospice there rests a rather handsome flower garden. On the right side, beyond a broad lawn, along the south walls and continuing eastward behind the church, a series of peasants’ quarters, stables, mills, oil presses, granaries, and cellars, and the novices’ house. The regular terrain, only slightly rolling, allows the ancient builders of this holy place to respect the rules of orientation. Always concerned with such things, you noticed that the main church door opened perfectly westward, so choir and altar were facing east; and the good morning sun, in rising, could directly wake the monks in the dormitory and the animals in the stables, but turning to ash any poor Cainite caught in its glory. Precautions will no doubt need to be taken. Unlike the other great abbeys you have seen (all consequently located near civilization), this one is remarkable for the exceptional size of the Aedificium. You may not possess the experience of a master builder, but you immediately realized it was much older than the buildings surrounding it. Perhaps it had originated for some other purposes, and the abbey’s compound had been laid out around it at a later time, but in such a way that the orientation of the huge building should conform with that of the church, and the church’s with its. For architecture, among all the arts, is the one that most boldly tries to reproduce in its rhythm the order of the universe, which the ancients called “cosmos,” that is to say ornate, since it is like a great animal on whom there shine the perfection and the proportion of all its members. Alas, the children of Cain have not constructed such monumental and persevering structures. It seems that since and forevermore, the erecting of such constructions will reside only in the realm of man. Canities will be there to reside in their deepest corners, God be praised…

The cellarer closes the gates behind you and gives you another good pat ::

“Well now, me boy. Here we are! I’ll be taking our goods to Othon for his approval, the old lord must look over my shoulder to see that I’m still stayin straight these days. I’ll have hell to pay if he’s not pleased. I see Anthes is off the way there toiling his gardens. Might go make yourselves acquainted. He should be willin to show ya round. I should be catching up later to show you where you’ll be spending your days at rest.”

::momentarily taken by the architecture and size of the abbey, mario simply stares for a moment before realizing he is being spoken to. he goes in the direction he is told, looking at everything as he goes, and touching anything on display. the whole place feels odd, and that man sure is strong... what did he say, "spend your days"? suddenly remembering his thoughts and dreams from the night before, mario feels fearful, and something dark inside him stirs, though whether in anger or terror he isn't sure. he attempts to calm himself before he has to meet... whoever.::

(how long did that take you to write? that sounded like a difficult passage to construct. good job. too bad we and the gods are the only ones who care. )

(Lol. Wrote it like...in March. Tailored it a litle for you. I gotta get some sleep now. Uintah has surgery in the morning on her knee and I have to be up by 5am. So we'll have to wait to pretend to be vampires online.
Sure wish someone else was checkin in. Is anyone else at least reading all this??)

(I skim it, in the last week or so Exalted has started sucking up all my book-reading time. I need to just repost my stuff to you and jump in. I can post from work or something :P)

(please, please, please do.)

(Just finished catching up on the story as of yet. I like the dream sequences so far. Getting ready for work assuming I am not requested to sort mail in between calls I will have more time to get my character situated and Thursday is my day off.)

:: Mario, standing dumbfounded for what seems like days, finally approaches the old man tending to the gardens. Seems odd, an old man out working with plants during the night hours. Seems to be a chore naturally reserved for the day. You wonder just how much these people are like you, or that have/know about your curse. You have not met many of your kind and those that you have, well, it could have gone better. Shadow Man, in particular, stands out as both a sort of object to be revered and feared. Will you ever reach his level of power? How does one master their curse? Age? Wisdom? You come up embarrassingly short on both.

The gardener, Anthes he was called, notices your approach but keeps his eyes on his plants. Lighting is sparse, as only the occasional sconce and lantern lights the buys goings on around you. You see at least a half dozen robed men and an equal number plainly dressed workers unloading the cart and going about what must be their daily routine. You know a little about keeping plants alive and figure that this man before you is your best shot at staying useful and learning more about what exactly takes place here.

After clipping some dead shoots and plucking emerging weeds, Anthes devotes his attention to you. He’s an older man, but looks tough for his age. You imagine he’s been here since time can remember, tending these plants. His weathered face cocks an eyebrow as he regards you for a moment. ::

“Ah. You’re the new blood are you now? Well, no free rides here boy. Work or pray. No laying about, getting plastered off the sacramentals, you know. You’re thumb don’t look green but I betcha you know a little something about turnin a crop, eh?”

:: You hear footsteps approach from behind. You turn to see a monk very close to you. He moves like the wind, you think. It occurs to you later that given his portly frame and constant wheeze, you likely just were not paying a damn bit of attention (you roll poorly).:

Fat monk: Anthes, when you are done with this gentleman, please direct him to me in the church building. The abbot is waiting.

:: Fat monk leaves and Anthes spits, wiping the sweat from his brow and giving you a wicked grin ::

“Don’t even let a boy settle in. So you were sayin?”

''i uh... I had some... what I mean to say is I... did some farming... before I joined the church.

everyone here seems... odd, father. I was.. that is... uhm...''

::mario trails off like an idiot, and stands there awkwardly, waiting for someone to tell him what to think or do.::

:: The old man observes you for a moment, seeing that you are not…a self-starter. He methodically prunes and plucks at a large bush full of an unusual bright crimson-colored flowers. He picks up a watering container and soaks the plants. You remember your mother doing something like this during the cold seasons. She said it protected the plants. You never really understood. You don’t understand most things in this world…

You trail off in thought, wondering just where you might fit in here. The deep redness of the flowers holds your attention, standing in stark contrast to the light powder on snow on the ground. The water continues to fall, washing away the deep red pigment of the plants, as though it were blood, spilling from an fresh wound. Blood covers the snow now, contaminating the purity of its white splendor. The blood pools at your feet as darkness descends around you. Suddenly, you snap out of it. Anthes, noticing you spaced out and standing somewhat confused in regards to your look of near panic, places his hand firmly on your shoulder. ::

“Son, they told me you’re a childe of Ventrue. I’m thinking maybe you’re a bit touched, like one of them damned Madmen. And I am no ‘father.’ Just a simply gardener. That fellow you just met, Marco, he’s a man of the cloth. Real respected and even admired round here, by most at least. Malachi’s prize pupil. He’s to be off soon. Going to Melk I hear to start his own abbey. Good thing about being a heretical bunch of misfits, we don’t answer much to those pompous asses in Avignon.

Now boy, I like you. Remind me in a way of our cellarer, good old Flevotomos. Honest, simple men of the earth. I’d seek out Salvatore for work. He thinks he’s the junior cellarer if you’d ask him. I hear Malachi pulled his breeches from the fires some time ago. He’s also got connections to the townsfolk. Marco can teach you the ways of the order. Franciscans have some funny ideas. Can you imagine? They argue that Our Lord Jesus Christ was just as simple and impoverished as yourself! As you can imagine, that idea does not go over well with those pompous bishops in Avignon, surrounding themselves in luxury while their flock frets over their failing crops and drying wells.
But nevermind all that right now. Here, I’ll show you around. After that, you can go check in with the abbot.”

:: Anthes puts his tools away in a nearby shed and walks you around (refer to the map).
In the stalls nearby, the grooms are securing the animals in the manger. You follow the path along which, toward the wall, the various stalls are located (animals do not seem to become uneasy); to the right, against the choir, are the dormitory of the monks and the latrines. Then, as the east wall turns northward, at the angle of the stone girdle, is the smithy. The last smiths were putting down their tools and extinguishing the fires, about to head for the holy office. Anthes moved with curiosity toward one part of the smithy, almost separated from the rest of the workshop, where one monk was putting away his things. On his table was a very beautiful collection of multicol¬ored pieces of glass, of tiny dimensions, but larger panes were set against the wall. In front of him there was a still-unfinished reliquary of which only the silver skeleton existed, but on it he had obviously been setting bits of glass and stones, which his instruments had reduced to the dimensions of gems. Anthes introduces the man as Michael, the master glazier.

Michael explains that in the rear part of the forge they also blew glass, whereas in this front part, where the smiths worked, the glass was fixed to the leads, to make windows. But, he adds, the great works of stained glass that adorned the church and the Aedificium had been completed at least two centuries before. Now he and the others confine themselves to minor tasks, and to repairing the damage of time. You wonder how long this abbey may stand.

Once the basic tour is complete, Anthes escorts you to the church building, offering to tutor you on the finer points of gardening, should you not find a taste for the priesthood. You approach a large wooden door and stand transfixed at the image before you.

The doorway itself, crowned by a great tympanum, supported on the sides by two imposts and in the center by a carved pillar, which divided the entrance into two aper¬tures protected by oak doors reinforced in metal. The silent speech of the carved stone, accessible as it immediately was to the gaze and the imagination of anyone (for images are the literature of the layman, you poor illiterate fool), dazzle your eyes and plunge you into a vision. You see a throne set in the sky and a figure seated on the throne. The face of the Seated One is stern and impassive, the eyes wide and glaring over a terrestrial humankind that had reached the end of its story; majestic hair and beard flows around the face and over the chest like the waters of a river, in streams all equal, symmetrically divided in two. The crown on his head is rich in enamels and jewels, the purple imperi¬al tunic was arranged in broad folds over the knees, woven with embroideries and laces of gold and silver thread. The left hand, resting on one knee, holds a sealed book, the right is uplifted in an attitude of blessing or—you can’t tell—of admonition? The face is illuminated by the tremendous beauty of a halo, containing a cross and decked out with flowers, while around the throne and above the face of the Seated One you see an emerald rainbow glittering. Before the throne, beneath the feet of the Seated One, a sea of crystal flows, and around the Seated One, beside and above the throne, you see four awful creatures—awful for you, as you look at them, transported, but docile and dear for the Seated One, whose praises they sing without cease.
Or, rather, not all could be called awful, because one seems handsome and kindly, the man to the left (and to the right of the Seated One), who held out a book. But on the other side there is an eagle you find horrifying, its beak agape, its thick feathers arranged like a cuirass, powerful talons, great wings outstretched. And at the feet of the Seated One, under the first two figures, there were the other two, a bull and a lion, each monster clutching a book between talons or hoofs, the body turns away from the throne, but the head toward the throne, as if shoulders and neck twisted in a fierce impulse, flanks tensed, the limbs those of a dying animal, maw open, serpentlike tails coiled and writhing, culminating, at the top, in tongues of flame. Both monsters are winged, both crowned by haloes; despite their formidable appearance, they are creatures not of hell, but of heaven, and if they seem fearsome it is because they are roaring in adoration of One Who Is to Come and who would judge the quick and the dead.

Around the throne, beside the four creatures and under the feet of the Seated One, as if seen through the transparent waters of the crystal sea, as if to fill the whole space of the vision, arranged according to the triangular frame of the tympanum, rising from a base of seven plus seven, then to three plus three and then to two plus two, at either side of the great throne, on twenty-four little thrones, there are 24 ancients, wearing white garments and crowned to gold. Some hold lutes in their hands, one a vase of perfumes, and only one is playing an instrument, all the others are in ecstasy, faces turned to the Seated One, whose praises they are singing, their limbs also twisted like the creatures’, so that all could see the Seated One, not in wild fashion, however, but with movements of ecstatic dance—as David must have danced before the Ark—so that wherever their pupils were, against the law governing the stature of bodies, they converged on the same radiant spot. Oh, what a harmony of abandonment and impulse, of unnatural and yet graceful postures, in that mystical language of limbs miraculously freed from the weight of corporeal matter, marked quantity infused with new substantial form, as if the holy band were struck by an impetuous wind, breath of life, frenzy of delight, rejoicing song of praise miraculously transformed, from the sound that it was, into image.
Bodies inhabited in every part by the Spirit, illuminat¬ed by revelation, faces overcome with amazement, eyes shining with enthusiasm, cheeks flushed with love, pu¬pils dilated with joy: this one thunderstruck by a pleas¬urable consternation, that one pierced by a consternated pleasure, some transfigured by wonder, some rejuvenat¬ed by bliss, there they all were, singing with the expres¬sion of their faces, the drapery of their tunics, the position and tension of their limbs, singing a new song, lips parted in a smile of perennial praise. And beneath the feet of the ancients, a company arrayed like the strings of the zither, a decoration and collage of creatures beyond reduction to vicissitude and to vicissitudes reduced, work of amorous connecting sustained by a law at once heavenly and worldly (bond and stable nexus of peace, love, virtue, regimen, power, order, origin, life, light, splendor, species, and figure), numerous and resplende¬nt equality through the shining of the form over the proportionate parts of the material—there, all the flow¬ers and leaves and vines and bushes and corymbs were entwined, of all the grasses that adorn the gardens of earth and heaven, violet, cystus, thyme, lily, privet, narcissus, taro, acanthus, mallow, myrrh, and Mecca balsam.

But as your soul is carried away by that concert of terrestrial beauty and majestic supernatural signals, and is about to burst forth in a psalm of joy, your eye, accompanying the proportioned rhythm of the rose windows that bloomed at the ancients’ feet, lights on the interwoven figures of the central pillar, which supports the tympanum. What are they and what symbolic message do they communicate, those three crisscrossed pairs of lions rampant, like arches, each with hind paws planted on the ground, forepaws on the back of his companion, mane in serpentine curls, mouth taut in a threatening snarl, bound to the very body of the pillar by a paste, or a nest, of tendrils? To calm your spirit, as they had perhaps been meant also to tame the diabolical nature of The Beast and to transform it into a symbolic allusion to higher things, on the sides of the pillar there are two human figures, unnaturally tall as the column itself and twins to two others facing them on either side from the decorated imposts, where each of the oak doors had its jamb. These figures, then, are four old men, from whose paraphernalia you may recog¬nize Peter and Paul, Jeremiah and Isaiah, also twisted as if in a dance step, their long bony hands raised, the fingers splayed like wings, and like wings were their beards and hair stirred by a prophetic wind, the folds of the very long garments stirred by the long legs giving life to waves and scrolls, opposed to the lions but of the same stuff as the lions. And as you withdraw your fascinated eyes from that enigmatic polyphony of saint¬ed limbs and infernal sinews, you see beside the door, under the deep arches, and again on the thick foliage of the capital of each column, and from there ramifying toward the sylvan vault of the multiple arches, other visions horrible to contemplate, and justi¬fied in that place only by their allegorical power or by the moral lesson that they conveyed. You see a voluptuous woman, naked and fleshless, gnawed by foul toads, sucked by serpents, coupled with a fat¬-bellied man-wolf whose haunches are covered with wiry hairs, howling its own damnation from an obscene throat; and you see a miser, torpid in the stiffness of death on his sumptuously columned bed, now helpless prey of a cohort of demons, one of whom tore from the dying man’s mouth his soul in the form of an infant (alas, never to be again born to eternal life); and you see a proud man with a devil clinging to his shoulders and thrusting his claws into the man’s eyes, while two glut¬tons tore each other apart in a repulsive hand-to-hand struggle of fangs and nails, and other creatures as well, goat head and lion fur, panther’s jaws, all prisoners to a forest of flames whose searing breath you can almost feel. And around them, mingled with them, above their heads and below their feet, more faces and more limbs: a man and a woman clutching each other by the hair, two asps sucking the eyes of one of the damned, a grinning man whose hooked hands parted struggle entwined within vines full of thrones and roses, and all the animals of Satan’s bestiary, assembled in a consis¬tory and set as guard and crown of the throne that faced them, singing its glory in their defeat, fauns, beings of double sex, brutes with six-fingered hands, sirens, basilisks, fae, harpies, incubi, giant boar, minotaurs, vozhd, zephyr, dire weasels, chimeras who darted fire from their nostrils, crocodiles, hairy serpents, salamanders, horned vipers, tortoises, snakes, celestial fetuses, two-headed creatures whose backs were armed with teeth, hyenas, otters, crows, frogs, gryphons, monkeys, devilfish, vultures, owls, hobgoblins, 12 scorpions, imps, whales, green lizards, flying fish, octopi, morays, and sea turtles. The whole population of the nether world seems to have gathered to act as vestibule, dark forest, desperate wasteland of exclusion, at the apparition of the Seated One in the tympanum, at his face promising and threatening, they, the defeated of Armageddon, facing Him who will come at last to separate the quick from the dead.

And stunned (almost) by that sight, uncertain at this point whether you are in a friendly place or in the valley of the last judgment, you are terrified and can hardly restrain you tears, and you seem to hear (or did you really hear?) that voice and you see those visions that had accompanied your youth as nightmares and bumps in the night.

It is at this point that you realize the vision was speaking precisely of what was happening in the world, of what you had learned from your dreams and from the ramblings of your old (the first) drunken priest. No wonder these men of the cloth turn to the spirits! You think back to Shadow Man. Such things as you and he exist in the world. And what of that silent creature you battled? There seems to be a whole world, separate but within the one in which you have always considered yourself safe, or at least familiar. With great reluctance, you open the door before you. The inner chamber is darkly lit, with the fait smell of…of a cave. There is a dampness, almost a visceral darkness before you. This place is uncomfortable to you in a way not entirely physical. You suppress the desire to flee (subtract a Willpower point) and proceed down the rows of pews to meet the figure sitting at the far end, just past the altar upon a throne-like chair. You have made it this far, you think to yourself. The figure waves a hand, the appendage the only visible benath the robes. It raises its head toward you and beckons in a deep, eerily voice::

“To me, childe. I am the abbot, Malachi. I have been eagerly awaiting your arrival.”

(yets again, much good writing. i feel bad i don't have more to say.)

::Mario, for once too overcome by holy awe to be fearful of lesser creatures, moves into the room, looking seemingly past the abbot, and introduces himself in a clear but hazy voice::

"I am Mario. I was sent here from Venice by he who ruled there and was driven from there by a man of shadow... I would stay here and study if you will let me."

::the last of the vision fading despite his attempts to hold on to it, mario returns somewhat to his old self, and realizes the powerful individual he is now confronted by.::

"I... I don't know much about anything... I farmed and then worked with the town priest, and the one that made me this way didn't tell me anything except to stay out of the sun and i wouldn't be talking about any of this but the gardener seemed to know what I was so I thought you must and so I'm... uh... what was I saying?"

:: The hooded figure regards you silently for seconds, passing to minutes and stretching ever farther into the realm of fear, far past uncomfortability. The figure that is Malachi sits hunched over on a simple chair, a sort of throne really, resting comfortably in the shadows. Despite the candles on each side of the seat, no light seems able to penetrate the hood obscuring his face. Finally, though almost imperceptibly, the head raises and you assume his eyes are upon you. You feel his eyes upon you, though you cannot see them .His deep voice croaks from the darkness ::

“What you are, hmmm? What ARE you exactly? Cursed? Blessed? Forgotten? I suspect a little of each. You have been given an opportunity, thanks to your sire’s hubris. Will you make him proud or like most, fade into oblivion? I see much potential in you. Without ambition and without direction. But never without purpose. Here, you will find haven. My fellow Franciscans and I gladly welcome you into our order.

This is, in the sight of God and the Father, a pure and immaculate religion, which, coming down from the Father of lights, handed by example and word by his son to the Apostles, and at length breathed by the Holy Spirit into blessed Francis and his followers, contains in itself the testimony as it were of the whole Trinity. This is the religious order to which, by the testimony of the Apostle Paul in Galatians. 6:17, no one henceforth should be troublesome, which Christ confirmed by the stigmata of his passion, which our founder displayed by the marks of nails in Francis's hands, wishing its founder to be notably distinguished by the signs of his own passion. It is through our penitence and our poverty that our curse shall be forgiven.

Marco here :: the obese monk appears from the darkness behind the abbot :: will see to your indoctrination. We have forgone the vow of silence, s we spend the daylight hours at rest when our doctrine directs us to remain hushed. You have freedom of movement within our walls, save the Aedificium, which houses our Scriptorium and of course, the renowned Library. No one, save Ignatius, our head librarian, may enter the Library. Given time, you may gain access to the Scriptorium, provided you commit to the academic life. Naturally, one must read and write in order to work. Berro will supervise you in your duties. Anthes has expressed interest in you, as well as our cellarer and Salvatore. You have many roads before you, child.

We have another new arrival. I suggest you seek him out. For now, the two of you will share quarters. I bid you my leave, boy. Perhaps next we meet, we will have a more…enlightened conversation. Farewell.”

:: Marco steps forward and offers out a hand, inviting you to follow him out the door. You obediently follow, daring a look back. You see the form of Malachi, walking hunched over, with a severe limp as he proceeds out a side door of the church proper. He’s lame! You expected…some mighty figure. Someone powerful enough to threaten those in Venice, whose power you witnessed firsthand. Your attention returns to the fat monk. He is grotesquelt bloated, his skin flushed with blood. The longer you look at the blood-filled lump that is the back of his neck, you feel the hunger rise, The Beast rise. You suppress it consciously, but not easily. He leads you back to the grounds, showing you your dorm that you will share with a new recruit. You wonder what you have gotten yourself into. Marco grins, displaying a row of misshapen and rotting teeth ::

“Your new life begins tomorrow. The soon is not up for another few hours. I would be…happy to speak with you. Do you have wuestion? Oh, but of course you do. Where should I begin?”

::perhaps because he is the first person to offer answers, or perhaps because his hideousness makes him less threatening, mario jumps at the opportunity to ask questions.::

"well... i really just don't understand. what are we exactly? and how do we relate to normal people? are all the kings really like us? why was i thrown out of venice? why was i sent here? why did the leader of venice seem to have such a strange relationship with malachi? and what are we supposed to do with our powers? i always thought creatures like us were damned, but malachi is a christian!? and what should i do now that i'm here? i like the animals and plants, and that's all i really have training for..."