8. War of the Magi (cont)

Game VIII – War of the Magi [continued]

28th June, 2019.

Act I

Scene i: St James Park/ London Dungeon.

With Alistair now imprisoned after his words had skirted too close to the crime of Diablerie, Logan and Johann had followed the Nosferatu Swithin from the Red Court to retire for the daylight hours.

The ‘lair’ that the albino offered was no more than a cellar under one of the garden sheds of St James Park, an earthen burrow that had been concealed under the flagstone flooring. The London Cainite joined them to sleep in the cramped space, all rising later at dusk to inhabit the sunless world after they had raised the stone trapdoor.

Having ruminated on the events of the previous night, Logan was determined to return to Westminster before the trial began, so that he could seek out Dietmar to answer for the troubles they had encountered since leaving the continent. He excused himself from the pair of Nosferatu, leaving the brick shed to traverse the open parkland and avenues of arboreal shadow.

Johann had hoped that their guide would be more forthcoming, but not even their shared clan heritage seemed to stir any empathy from Swithin, whom was seemingly more loyal to the London court. Giving little sympathy when Johann asked for an easy hunting ground or captive animals to feed upon, he simply leant by the door frame and waited for the other to exit as though watching over a child.

Through the screening rows of Plane trees came the scent of horses, pervading Johann’s olfactory nerves until the rising bloodtide of the beast consumed his restraints. It would be denied no longer. Unable to continue the conversation with Swithin, he launched out from the building and bounded over tree roots and fallen leaves that were kicked into the air in his wake, running toward the nearest street.

Harnessed together to draw along an enclosed carriage along the road, a pair of horses screamed in sudden shock as a mass of darkness flew out from the hedging like a lion that had attached itself to one of their flanks, raking out handfuls of flesh as it growled in frustration to suck up the wasted blood.

Fighting to break out of the harness, the companion equine frothed and kicked, frightened exclamations coming from the carriage occupants as they cried out for the nightwatchmen to save them from the madman that was bathing in the red gore of a horse’s innards.

Opening his eyes to the carnage he had committed as the remaining horse galloped away to a drumming echo, Johann stared at the slick crimson cooling on his hands, distant voices raising the alarm of a wild monster loose in West London.

Laying a hand on his stooped shoulder, Swithin offered some polite, cold empathy before asking Johann to accompany him as a prisoner. His crime? Letting slip the mask of the Camarilla’s Masquerade, by which the mortal and Cainite worlds were kept apart like the day and night.

* * *

That same evening, Alistair had woken in the underground cell he had been locked within since the upset the previous night. A large space that appeared to have been recently used as storage for furniture along one wall, it was brick like the other surfaces except for the fourth wall, which was a lattice of iron bars. Resting supine on a crude oak work table near the cell’s centre, a metal casket like an Egyptian sarcophagi waited.

Brooding over his treatment by the London Court, he did not stir from the shadows of the wall until approaching echoes warned him of company. It was Johann, whom was being led without restraints into the dungeon by the sheriff, Joseph-Maria. Obeying the London kindred’s gestures to enter the same cell that his Tremere companion occupied, the Nosferatu bowed to the other, remaining silent until their gaoler’s steps had diminished.

With the sympathetic grin of one rebellious child addressing another, Alistair asked what trespass he had committed to be found worthy company to share in his underground confinement. Speaking to the Tremere as he examined the rotting furniture and welded plates of the human shaped casket on the oak table, Johann admitted to killing the horse on a public street, excusing his behaviour as the cravings of the beast.

Curious as to why Alistair had not come to realize the casket was in truth an Iron Maiden, Johann traced his callused nails around an ornate face-plate that was shaped like a grinning goblin unfurling an arrowed tongue. The lock was no more than a thin metal bar, peened flat at both ends to prevent it slipping. Snapped apart by the Cainite’s blood-fuelled strength, he opened the grotesque mask to reveal the interior of the lid, lined with four-sided spikes to suppress any movement or speech of the Maiden’s victim.

Staring back at Johann was the serene countenance of another kindred, whom had evidently upset the London Court also. Before the man in the Iron Maiden could speak, Johann shut the hinged face plate and looked to Alistair for advice.

Curious now, if only to relieve the boredom, Alistair joined the Nosferatu by the side of the table, knocking on the carapace as he asked whom was within. Due to the long nails inside the gargoyle mask, the mysterious man could not speak until it was unhinged, thanking his cellmates to desist their tapping. Known as Ambrose, the trapped Cainite confessed to have been caught reading some forbidden literature which he was ignorant of at the time, shouting his innocence down the drip-echo tunnels.

Closing the mask and bending the pin back into place to keep it fixed, the Tremere had become cautious to the further troubles this other prisoner could bring down on them, letting his muffled pleas tire before he returned to his place by the wall, waiting for the inevitable justice of the London Camarilla.

There had been something familiar about Ambrose’s face, but Alistair could not associate it with any waking memory in his life. To have eluded his lucid recall like that was a disturbing ‘blindspot’ for the aristocrat physician.

Scene ii: Westminster Palace.

Unaware of Johann’s imprisonment, Logan had moved faster than a mortal’s eye could register, leaving the parkland far behind as he accelerated toward the peaked medieval roofs and turrets of the old palace.

Arriving through the private ‘kindred’ door of St Stephen’s Hall, the Ventrue paced the cold corridors and avenues of light where it came through the lead-laced medieval windows, drawn to the vocal hum in the House of Lords.

As on the previous night, the vampire society of London had gathered to the Red Court of Mithras, waiting for his arrival and the subsequent trial of the Tremere neonate. Ornate candle-stands offered a pale glow in the recesses of the great hall, sending out long fingers of shadow when figures passed them, hinting at the anachronism of clothing and hairstyles kept by the elders.

Logan’s presence during the search for Dietmar was barely noticed, cliques gossiped and turned their backs to the him, each without a sign of the Tremere elder until he began to realize the slippery Magi could be elsewhere.

Inclining his head as a sign of friendly greeting, a well groomed aristocrat acknowledged Logan after his hopeless search, approaching him, as did the turning wave of attention from nearby groups trying to listen in. The gentleman had a trace of a Spaniard’s accent in his polished English, and soft eyes above a trimmed pepper goatee. Introducing himself as Gabriel, he asked of the Ventrue’s recent troubles, listening with sympathy as Logan summarized their reasons for digging up Alexander Pope’s grave in Twickenham to find Cecelia.

* * *

Meanwhile, Dietmar’s absence from the court was due to his concerns for Alistair and the threat of Clan Tremere’s final expulsion from the Isle of Avalon (UK) if Mithras was angered any further. Joseph-Maria unlocked the cell gate to allow the elder inside to confer with his childer, waiting against the opposite passage wall to lead them all back to the old palace once the discussion had ceased.

Johann too retired to the furthest wall inside the cell after a sharp look from Dietmar, whom now crouched to meet Alistair’s forlorn expression before asking him to listen carefully to the options he was about to present his wayward childer. It was imperative that Clan Tremere establish a chantry in England, and Mithras would only entertain the idea if they could remove the thorn of Cecelia Blackwood from his side.

The elder could no longer trust Alistair, and would excommunicate him from the Clan if he did not accept being blood-bound to himself immediately (and by extension of the Tremere ‘curse’, the generations above Dietmar also). Sensing a lie when his sire tried to downplay the wider implications of this blood communion, Alistair asked for what purpose he should continue if they were to control him.

Reminding the young vampire that he too had been blood bound for disobeying the Clan in the past, they still had their private research into reanimation through Civan’s help to finish, information the greater Clan was not fully aware of. Stirred by the ambition to revive his long dead sister from her glass coffin, Alistair relented to drink the vitae of his sire, suckling at the puncture wounds Dietmar had pricked to open the veins of his inner arm.

Before the cursed blood could hypnotize his reasoning, Alistair held in his mind the memory of that second, as a record he could always draw upon to remember what freedom had felt like...

* * *

Back in Westminster, Sir Logan had settled onto one of the back benches which were devoid of company, allowing him ample views of the proceedings down below. A low brass note resounded from the gong, its vibrations silencing the audience drone as the High Prince arrived. His trailing fur mantle was held off the floor by his immediate council, except for Gabriel, whom accompanied his left arm as the Seneschal and walked a single pace behind his presence.

As Logan leant in to piece these facts together, a small man no more than 4 ft and blue-black as though dipped in ink sat nearby. Glancing at the new company briefly, Logan turned back to watch the mantle of wolf skin being removed from the prince’s shoulders as he seated himself again in the high-arched gothic chair that dominated the scene. The dwarf payed him no heed either, dipping a quill into a bottle of ink to begin writing. Mr Daniels, whose tongue was as sharp as his title of ‘Whip’, called the Red Court to attention below, stating aloud the business for the evening.

There were to be two trials now, the mention of which caused some animation and disguised whispers. Afterward, as Daniels continued, there would be a closed door meeting of the private council. Without delay he summoned the first prisoner, Alistair, to present himself before the macabre crowd.

Walking into the centre of the great hall, the neonate Tremere bowed toward Mithras and the Primogen councillors, answering any questions about his name and origins that the Brujah Whip directed toward him. As for his mention of using the elder’s blood? Alistair explained that it had all been a linguistic accident, as he had only recently begun to learn the English language. What he had meant to say, he explained, was that he would destroy her blood, not take it for the crime of Diablerie.

After some seconds of silence, Mithras contempt was veiled as a shallow smile, asking that the Doctor pay a fine to the court before he be released.

From the gallery, Logan caught a subtle signal between Gabriel, whom was standing near the prince, and Dietmar, whom had squirmed his way back into the House of Lords not long after Alistair was led out, a nod of accomplishment to some unseen bargaining. Agreeing to the fine, the young Tremere bowed again in thanks before retiring to his Sire’s side in the wings of the hall.

Calling out for the second prisoner to stand before the Prince, Logan was shocked to see that it was his other coterie mate, whom now limped into the candlelight to answer Mr Daniels’ inquiries before the cold amusement of London’s watching undead.

Asking for the Prince’s mercy, Johann asked who had not fallen to the temptation of the Beast? He had asked the albino Swithin to help him feed before the bloodlust had consumed him to act like a starving animal, but instead he had ignored his pleas with a grim satisfaction to see him suffer.

Continuing with his case, the Nosferatu admitted that vitae had also been harder to acquire in the city, as he only fed on animals, particularly the domestic beasts of the field.

Mocking laughter followed, with some taunts from the half-seen audience, tittering amongst themselves as to what kind of Cainite would sup on the blood of animals? From Logan’s vantage, he sensed an antagonism toward the Nosferatu clan from those seated on the benches, relishing the opportunity to see one of them caught out when it was often they (Nosferatu) whom instigated trouble with their whispers and spying.

Bringing the hall to a dead silence with a sweep of his unflinching gaze, Mithras spoke. He was not amused with the slaughter of the horse in St James, and the minor work it would take to keep it from spreading amongst a mortal population whom were already enamoured with the recent ‘Vampire’ craze from Eastern Europe. The punishment would be twelve lashes of the thorn-whip, to be administered immediately as a warning to those whom would break the laws of the Camarilla.

Great hinged panels folded outward from the floor, exposing a winding mechanism that raised a St Andrew’s cross until it clicked into place. Joseph-Maria led the Nosferatu toward the cross posts, adjusting the leather restraints low enough from the upper arms to reach Johann’s crooked height.

Waiving aside any need for assistance (or force), Johann unwound the bandages and tattered Dominican vestments from his upper body, securing his own wrists before pressing his body to the cross.

Taking up a modified bullwhip of abrasive rhino hide that was studded with cruel cat-claw barbs, the Ventrue Sheriff (Joseph) swung the grievous lash against the bound prisoner, stripping away the clotted leprous skin in chunks. The cacophony of applause spread about the hall, cheering on the spectacle of an ugly Nosferatu being duly rewarded for all their snitching and gossip-mongering.

Bleeding out, Johann slumped to his knees, the weight of his body hanging on the restraints at either wrist as the whip cracked like lightning through his remaining nerves. Then came peaceful oblivion, shrivelling into torpor from the haemorrhaging wounds on his back...

Scene iii: Private Clerical Office in Westminster.

An hour shy of midnight, Johann stirred from the floor of a secluded room, raising himself slowly as the murmur of distant voices became those of his coterie, in conversation with another he could not yet identify. The opaque eyes of dead fauna greeted him, a menagerie of beasts slumped on chairs and cabinets that included a deer, squirrels, cats, dogs, even a badger; all drained of their life to return the Nosferatu to consciousness as his hideous body had slowly healed.

The cadaverous harvest had been provided for by Gabriel, and his diminutive assistant Beetle the black dwarf, pausing in their conversation to welcome him back. The Seneschal apologized for Johann’s treatment, informing him that he had just met Logan and Alistair earlier that evening.

Intrigued by the elder’s sympathy, Johann listened as they returned to their discussion, led by Logan as he asked why the London court (or any other) hadn’t been able to find Cecelia, using blackmail instead to have neonates (themselves) hunt such a dangerous target. Gabriel confided to them that they had made many attempts to find her, coming no closer to her discovery than the evidence they themselves had found in the funeral urn. He had a hand in the plot, true, if only because he was curious to see if they would succeed where others had failed; Having been missing for decades now, it was feasible that she would not be aware of their coming, since neither party had ever met in the tangled politics of the Camarilla, a possible ‘blindspot’ in her defences.

Asking the three neonates to recount their journey from the beginning, Gabriel nodded in sympathy as he noted their struggles en route, even mouthing the word ‘Mithras’ when told of the demon’s riddle of four witches. Beetle also absorbed the verbal information, scribbling together a note that he passed up to the Seneschal by the end of the tale.

Laughing at the dwarf’s message, Gabriel asked the coterie if there was perhaps some word play here in the clue regarding Pope; might not a Poet’s ‘corpus’ truly be his literary legacy, rather than his mortal remains?

After this light hearted moment the Seneschal became serious as he directed his gaze at Logan. Too much time had already been wasted over the century in recovering the Court of York from its mutinous elders, and now with only two remaining he and the prince were very eager to see them destroyed quickly.

If he were willing, there would be titles waiting for him in the newly formed Court of York, taking his Sire’s place on the viper ladder of power within Camarilla society. Confessing no real attachment to Lord Christie, Logan agreed to think over the Seneschal’s offer.

Alistair and Johann had become aware of an inconsistent delay in Gabriel’s shadow as they observed him, which seemed to have a sentience of its own, catching up to the movement of his hands when he gestured suddenly, or the silhouette against the wall bending contrary to the lamplight’s shuddering flame.

Act II, scene i: Covent Gardens, London.

Made aware of the temporary Elysium that had been placed over the markets of Covent Gardens by their new friend Gabriel, they retired to its gin alleys and mixed crowds, where gentry and beggar stepped over horse dung on their way to escape their woes in drink and scarlet women.

Relaxing around an unlit table in the background pipe smoke and noise of boisterous sailors crooning to an ill tuned fiddle, Logan found easy company to draw vitae from, whilst Alistair hunted with his eyes through the crowd for those worthy of his scalpel. Under the table in the safety of shadow, Johann spoke with the others on how they should proceed next in their hunt.

Still focused on the movement of kine around the room, Alistair mentioned his own thoughts on Beetle’s interpretation: It had been fifteen years since Pope’s death, and if anyone in London knew what had become of his literary estate it would be either one of the auction houses or some well-educated collector who possibly was known for buying famous works and letters.

Interrupted from his thoughts, the Tremere turned to notice the presence of Civan, the Greek Merchant and agent from Clan Giovanni, joining them at their private table. Commenting on the good fortune of their both being in the gin house to take advantage of the Prince’s designated feeding grounds, he singled out a sleeping drunk at another unlit table for the hungry Doctor, asking what sorrowful fate his shivering children would suffer, a boy and girl beside the slovenly brute, hugging their threadbare rags to keep warm in the cold autumn night.

Excusing himself, Alistair left his seat to wake the drunkard, tempting him to leave the noisy tavern so they could talk ‘business’ in the alley outside. Eager to earn more coin to drown his cares in, the wretch was confused as to what the frock coated nobleman wanted as they stepped out into the seclusion of a narrow laneway.

Sometime later the Doctor returned, ordering a meal for the now orphaned children. In startled wonder at the stranger’s generosity, the pair of striplings devoured the sausage and crusts with enthusiasm as he asked them to forgot their ill fated papa, as he would now take charge of their wellbeing. Agreeing to the kind man’s offer, Olivia & Alexander returned to their long overdue meal.

Ever paranoid as to the Tremere’s intentions, Logan asked him to refrain from using them in one of his diabolical experiments. His mask of idle serenity fracturing into a visage of momentary anger, Alistair countered that they would be well cared for, safe in the eye of the storm. Like sleeping babes taken in by the wolf, they could wish for no more a savage and devoted a den-mother.

Before dawn they agreed to pursue the search for Pope’s literary estate, and also use Johann’s kindred talents to appear as the dead poet so they might stir up some attention around West London and draw Cecelia out if she were hidden close by the city. Content to follow these actions through in the nights to come, they retired into the approaching fog cloud of dawn.

Scene ii: Steven’s Auction House, Covent Gardens.

The next evening, Alistair arrived unannounced at the address of one of his protégés, a Mr Lawrence Reynolds. Being a member of the Royal Society in Fleet Street, Reynolds was greatly interested in Alistair’s knowledge about Monsieur de Lavoisier’s experiments in France, the information aiding the natural philosopher in his studies of the elementary composition of matter.

Surprised to see his mysterious mentor in the city, Reynolds welcomed Alistair and the pair of children he had in tow, taking them upstairs to his study. Having listened to the Doctor’s curious story of needing to smuggle the two ‘war’ orphans back to their family in France, the academic agreed to host them in his spare room during the necessary delay in organizing their safe passage, having adequate staff to care for them until the time came to collect them.

Skipping out from the door in their dapper new clothing, Olivia & Alexander appeared to be miniature royalty, clothed in expensive velveteen brocade and pearl buttons. Bidding adieu to them all, Alistair promised to see them soon in a foreign land across the sea, returning once he had finished his own affairs here in England.

* * *

Meeting with the Doctor some time later, Logan accompanied him back toward Covent Gardens to investigate any auction halls reputed to deal in deceased estates and collections. Alistair knew of a Steven’s auction house, having admired some of the exotic stuffed animals and butterfly cases brought back from the New World on previous nights in London when he had looked through the displays. It’s owner, Mr Steven’s, was an avid collector of maps and famous correspondents.

Waiting on the street, under the four-story brick facade of the building and its neighbouring tenements that faced the open market grounds, Logan remained on guard until the door latch scraped open, Alistair whispering for the Ventrue to join him in searching the many rooms.

Passing shelves of tagged armadillos, spotted hides, and mummified birds with the plumage of rainbows on their way through, the two Cainites found the proprietor’s account books in an upper study, flicking over pages of ruled ledgers as they sought for any mention of Pope.

There, in a hefty volume of the earliest sales records was a description of the Poet’s collected papers being bought from his half-sister some years after his death. In the later records, only months before their arrival in London, the estate had been won at auction for the new public collection being amassed at Montagu House.

Replacing any documents they had spread out over the moonlit room, they left the scene without further delay, vanishing into the miasma streets of the dense urban gloom.

Scene iii: Streets of West London.

Before pursuing the evidence toward Montagu House, the three neonates acted on their second plan of drawing out the hidden elder by using Johann as a decoy. Using the accuracy of his memory, based on copperplate portraits and a painting he had by chance seen in the home of an acquaintance, Alistair guided the Nosferatu’s transformation into the hunchbacked Poet. Adding a wig to the new man that stood before them, they were optimistic that the disguise would work.

Each night the ‘Ghost of the Poet’ would hobble onward through the midnight haunts of the city, wandering through Haymarket, The Strand, and Whitehall. Not far behind the figure, Logan and Alistair guarded Johann from any sudden conflict that might arise.

By the third night there had been no success in discovering Cecelia Blackwood. They had covered more ground by moving further west along the Thames toward Westminster, setting out after dusk to take advantage of the crowded streets.

Crossing paths with an elderly gentleman before the stone pillars of a wealthy merchant house along Parliament Rd, Johann was astonished when the other pedestrian called aloud for him to halt, reaching into his coat to withdraw and cock a flintlock pistol. Breaking their subterfuge, the Nosferatu’s companions closed around the septuagenarian, forcing the weapon from his hand before he could react.

Cursing at ‘Pope’ for coming back from the grave to harass him after the slanderous prosy he had used to destroy his political career decades earlier, the old whig parliamentarian shook his fist and promised to see him dead twice, marching off to call for the night watchman and any brave Englishmen. Laughing at the mistaken identity, the coterie’s mood was soon sombre as a small crowd returned to the scene. Avoiding the vigilante party as it began sweeping the area for the apparition, Alistair, Johann, and Logan continued toward the outskirts of London.

Scene iv: Montagu House, Bloomsbury.

Rebuilt for the mortal Duke of Montagu during the early century, its immense scale of three wings spread across the wide lawns and tree avenues, Montagu House had been sold by a later heir to the trustees of a newly planned library and museum, whose collections they planned to display in the fashion of the continent’s public exhibitions.

Waiting for them at the North-West edges of the city, where the metropolis districts gave way to wild fields and the remnant forest, the coterie studied the features of its Ionic columns, stories of windows rising between them to the level mansard roof and dormer projections scaled in blue slate.

Slinking away from the others once they felt certain the building was vacant of any caretaker, Johann used the brickwork quoins like a ladder to quickly ascend and gain access to the interior through one of the dormer windows. Cringing at the discordant note of glass breaking from where they hid below, Logan cursed under his breath, watching the mansion for the Nosferatu’s signal to join him within its palatial halls.

Raising a window on the lowest story, Johann called for the Tremere and Ventrue to proceed, safe to explore the contents of the new museum now that he had ensured there was no one guarding the rooms.

Most of the art sculptures and curios were wrapped in linen or hessian, abstract forms that hinted in their pose as to what lay underneath the strictures of their rope bound shrouds as the three passed them all to find the library collections. Navigating through the hallways of storage crates and covered portraits, they arrived under the central dome to find a bibliophile’s paradise of stacked volumes and papers being compiled over two levels of the buildings immediate area.

In awe of the sea of information gathered round him, Alistair laughed to think he would have to leave it all to look for a single man’s legacy. Placards gave some order to the stockpiles, labelling certain rooms under the dome as “The Sloane Collection” or the “King G. I. Library Donations”. Soon he came to a hall of literature from the more recent decades, tracing his finger over the titles until he paused before a small framed painting.

Staring back at the him, the carefree smile of Alexander Pope teased him from the abyss of time, the portrait having been kept with the donation on its arrival and hung above it as a guide for the curator. Joined by Logan when he heard the Tremere’s exclamation, they began to skim the contents of old letters and draft essays, looking for any mention of the elusive Cecelia in the shelves of documents.

* * *

As Logan and Alistair dug into the privacy of a dead man’s memories, Johann had found another room that housed those books printed in other languages, some of which were centuries old. Perusing the stocked walls of for anything of value, the Nosferatu lifted away a pile of dusty volumes to reveal a thin edition in latin: Liber Nodum, or ‘The Book of Nod’.

Slapping his hand away from touching the volume, Beetle stared back at the other Nosferatu in warning to leave it undisturbed. He had been stalking them for many nights, something Johann had suspected for some time since their meeting with Gabriel. Snarling, he ignored the black dwarf’s puffed-up menace and lifted it from the shelf, turning back the leather cover to begin reading.

It was only a partial translation of the legendary work, mostly a commentary on the book’s history as akin to a missing record from the Old Testament, possibly drawing on an even earlier source that was lost before the Great Flood of Noah. Folding the paper back to the titlepage, Johann was puzzled to read that the edition he held had been published by a Lucius in 17th century Amsterdam (1644), the woodblocks by an artist known only as ‘Gabriel the Spaniard’.

Scanning the pages to find something of note, Johann found a quotation from Caine’s record of what had happened between his brother, himself, and God when they laid their finest on the altar to sacrifice.

The echo of Alistair’s voice broke him from his meditations on the meaning of it all, returning the book from where he had found it before leaving the room. With a small bow of appreciation, Beetle’s wide saucer eyes followed his movement before they settled like tranquil pools again on the Latin translation...

* * *

Having gone through the years of correspondence between Pope and his many admirers, the Doctor withdrew a letter from one of the folios and wondered if it might not have been written by the same hand as the note from the funeral urn. At the end of the letter, which was choked with her sentiments for Pope’s wit in making her laugh when no one else could, Cecelia Blackwood had signed her name in elaborate ribbons of ink. She had included an address, if the poet should ever have wanted to visit; Ayten House, in West Ayten, Scarborough.

Bringing the paper to his nose, he could detect a hint of ambergris perfume. Elated at the discovery, he summoned Logan to share his confirmation that the address was somewhere near Scarborough in the far north.

Once Johann arrived to be informed of Cecelia’s letter, Logan estimated how long it would take them all to return back to Yorkshire. The location was largely uninhabited, further west of Scarborough Bay in the moors. As he was speaking, the Nosferatu gazed upward into the dome ceiling, smiling as the Lilliputian figure of Beetle vanished through a hinged window...