Tremere **of Note** “That’s where they put the keep.” As they passed between the houses, many of which bore holes and gouges in their walls, or black scorch-marks licking along their sides, the residents came out to gaze at them. “And what are these people? Your…stair guard?” “No, they raise the food for the mortal staff that live up in the chantry.” “They do, eh?” Hermann pointedly swept his gaze from left to right, surveying the war-pocked ground of the plateau, upon which precious little visibly grew or grazed at the moment. “Well, they did.” Jervais laid an easy hand on the little boy’s shoulder. One of the women in the crowd that was slowly gathering broke away from it and ran up to him, jabbering in a rapid pidgin of Magyar and Latin. “What’s she saying?” “Nothing important.” “Don’t give me that, warlock.” Hermann turned to the woman and repeated in slow Magyar. “What are you saying?” The woman stared at him. “Please…you must talk to the lords above. The evil magic, it doesn’t go away.” She seized the boy away from Jervais and bodily turned him around, peeling back his shirt to reveal an ugly, purplish boil partially scabbed over. “Look. He went to play in the stream and came back stricken.” “Then I wouldn’t let him play there again, if I were you,” Jervais said. “Those Tzimisce curses hang on.” “My niece is the same. And another boy…” “How long since the battle?” Hermann asked her. “The battle? When?” She took a moment to digest his accent, then nodded her head sharply. “Yes…summer.” “That stinking leviathan has been lying there since summer? Hellfire, that must have been a treat
