Old Ones
Background
Where does one begin the chronicle of a creature who has survived entire civilizations? Izhim was born seventh son of a Babylonian sorcererking — prince over a fertile province in a time when empires had neither names nor boundaries.
The monsters of that era still walked openly among men; the boy-prince was groomed for divinity from an early age by the Old Ones and kept alive well beyond any mortal span by nightly infusions of godhead.
Riches and finery of every sort imaginable, tutelage in the mundane and mystical disciplines, sovereignty over a people who venerated him as heir to an inviolate power — all these things and more contributed to the fulfillment of Izhim Thrice-Beloved’s every earthly desire. It was a tumultuous time, however, fraught with reminders of the savagery inherent to the fledgling world.
Without warning, barbarian hordes came from the north one night. Brutal and bloodthirsty, they swept over the plains CHAPTER ONE 13 like a merciless scourge, leaving only ashes to mark their passage.
Thrust into sudden eternity by his masters in the desperate hope that some part of their legacy might survive, Izhim heeded his father and fled into the night, the flames of his former paradise lighting the way. Izhim has since lived the lives of an Akkadian prophet, a Sufi poet, a Coptic blood-god, a Persian demonologist and a hundred others.
Ultimately, ceasing his worldly wanderings, he returned to his homeland, where he rejoined his distant brethren for a time at the black citadel of Alamut until the exodus of the Unfettered. He rode with the greatest of their companies to the forgotten city of Chorazin; in time, strengthened by forbidden tutelage and the passage of centuries, he rose to rule them.
Tonight, Izhim ur-Baal (“Izhim abd’Azrael” to all but a select few) presides over the Black Hand as shakari First Seraph from the shattered ruins of Enoch. He rarely voices an outright opinion, as he prefers to keep his own counsel; when he does speak, however, even mad Elimelech and boisterous Jalan-Aajav stop in mid-sentence to hear his words.
His exchange across the Table of Tyre with Hardestadt the Elder has become Assamite legend. Once goaded by the diplomat’s deliberate provocations, the then-castellan quietly proffered, “There comes a time, Ventrue, when the game plays its players.
” Recently, Izhim has ordered contingents of the Hand to action without consent or dispensation from the other Seraphim; this practice is fast proving cause for division (ranging from general distrust to overt preparations for civil war by his onetime-protégé Djuhah).
His motivations in this matter and others remain a mystery — common accusations range from simple lust for power to subversive agendas to otherworldly alliances forged in his youth. But Izhim wafi abd’Azrael ur-Baal pays his accusers no mind. He simply looks up into the night sky and lets his timeless gaze play upon the cold, lightless void separating the stars.
And he smiles — a subtle, fanged grimace that stops just short of his eyes.
Character Description
The seraph, a small man whose stocky build speaks not so much of bulk as solidity, has nearly every square inch of his body covered with tattoos (antiquated Arabic script, prehistoric Mesopotamian cuneiform, and numerous ritual hieroglyphs and sigils unfamiliar to all but the most erudite scholars). Although he favors ceremonial robes and loose, flowing clothes over the form-follows-function garb common to his clan, Izhim’s lineage is apparent to the practiced observer; his countenance is black as night (the mark of Haqim’s eldest childer) and, when he moves, he makes no sound. Scribes of Enoch who have witnessed his comings and goings over the centuries claim he sleeps only once every three days.
Roleplaying Hints
Leave your contemporaries to their carefully couched conspiracies and petty pursuits of power; blatancy and bravado are not what have maintained your existence throughout the millennia. Yours is an intricate game of studied supremacy. Any alliances you make are temporary at best, and they last no longer than necessary for you to obtain that which you seek. When you truly require something of importance, you do it yourself, entrusting only minor roles to your overzealous associates. The comforts of immortality are cold indeed, but you have proved colder still. Indeed, though you have never voiced your fears to anyone, you have begun to feel something stirring deep within yourself — a sinister suspicion that, piece by piece, through either the erosion of eons or otherworldly obligations long since overdue, you are changing somehow, ceding control, losing what you once were. To date, however, you have kept this struggle for control completely internalized. Neither anger nor any other emotion ever crosses your visage, only your customary thin-lipped smile.