Izhim ur-Baal

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.