Martin Weinmayer hat sich noch eine schöne Geschichte dazu ausgedacht:
Gather in the digital darkness, test your mettle, and vie for glory beneath the watchful eyes of the new Prince. Finalists will earn the envy of the Kindred—and perhaps a whisper of favor from Osnabrück's iron-hearted ruler.
𝐀𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐛𝐨𝐧, 𝐄𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐎𝐬𝐧𝐚𝐛𝐫ü𝐜𝐤
The flames of the Lisbon tournament had long since died, but the embers still smoldered in Rodinei’s memory. The victory had not brought safety. The Camarilla’s vengeance was swift and relentless. Within nights of their triumph, Rodinei and Erica were forced to flee—Lisbon's alleys no longer echoed with capoeira beats, but with whispered threats and crimson trails.
The Hungarian Alastor Tamás, humiliated but far from defeated, had loosed a network of hunters to track them down. The pair barely escaped Portugal alive, helped by a handful of Sabbat sympathizers and their own cunning. For weeks they traveled through shadows and backstreets, always one step ahead of their pursuers—never resting, never separating.
It was in Germany that hope finally took root again.
Bochum. A city neither of them knew, yet one that would shelter them. Prince Hardy Range, a pragmatic and unconventional Ventrue with little love for Camarilla politics, offered them refuge. He asked no questions about their loyalties—only that they bring no chaos to his streets. For the first time in months, Erica and Rodinei slept without fear, curled into each other’s arms in an abandoned train depot turned haven, their bond deepening with every shared breath.
But safety never lasted long.
Weeks later, in nearby Herne, the trap was sprung. A false meeting. A sealed warehouse. Silver firebombs and blades dipped in consecrated vitae. It was Alastor Tamás’s vengeance, carefully orchestrated and ruthlessly executed. Rodinei fought like a possessed spirit, his capoeira a blur of defiance, while Erica pushed her psychic abilities to their limits—scattering illusions, scrambling minds.
Just as the walls began to close in, salvation came in the form of the ruling Prince of Herne, Steffen. A Nosferatu of impossible age and unpredictable motives, he shattered the trap with his army of rats and wordless wrath.
“The Camarilla plays a dangerous game,” he rasped. “But I enjoy seeing their chessboard flipped now and then.”
That night, Rodinei and Erica knew: they could not run forever. They would have to build something.
They no longer fled - they adapted. Over the course of several months, they became whispers in the German night, then rumors, then allies to the unaligned and forgotten. Erica—sharp-minded and eloquent—began to weave bonds among Kindred left behind by the Camarilla machine. Rodinei, protector and blade, became her shield and symbol. Together, they forged quiet alliances across Münster, Bielefeld, and finally Osnabrück.
Osnabrück. A fractured domain, neglected by its former ruler and weary of Camarilla dogma. Erica did not seize power. She was offered it—by those hungry for a new order. And when she stood at the altar of the ruined church where she was crowned Prince, Rodinei knelt—not as her servant, but as her partner, her equal. Their eyes met, and nothing more needed to be said.
But peace is never eternal.
Far to the east, in the halls of Budapest, Ferenc Vasadi stirred from torpor. An ancient master of Daimonion, once a scourge upon the Transylvanian frontier, he answered the Hungarian’s blood call. Tamas’s defeat had to be avenged, and Erica's ascension could not go unpunished. Ferenc’s power was not brute force—it was temptation, madness, damnation itself.
As whispers of his passage seeped into the dreams of Osnabrück’s neonate Kindred, Erica stood atop the city’s gothic townhall, the wind pulling at her dark hair. Rodinei joined her, silent as always.
“They’re sending someone,” she said.
“I know.”
“Will you stay with me?”
Rodinei took her hand, his eyes never leaving the horizon.
“Always.”
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