First Risings: An HMAS Marigold Story

Rourke rode the train as it stormed, puffing like a mad, mechanical, sulphrous hurricane across the countryside. It roared, finally, into Charing Cross, and out jumped Lieutenant Rourke -- to be grabbed by the upper arm by none othe rthan Marmont, Head of Her Nadir Majesty Wilhelmina Harker's Corps of Paladins.

"My Apologies, Sir Hannibal, but just this once we're traveling by miasmic phantasm," he apologiozed, none too apologetically.

As the black-and-grey mist, specially camouflaged to look like everyday steam and smoke, sprang up from the very pavers of the station platform around them, Rourke barely had time to blurt out "What, it's that urgent?" before they were deposited into Her Nadir Majesty's very Thronehall.

"Yes, Hannibal dear, I assure you that it truly is that urgent," 'Mina pronounced in her dulcet, sultry tones from the carved ebony-and-obsidian throne on its dais not far away across the polished basalt floor; they had been deposited close to the throne.

Despite the sweetness of her voice, however, it was apparent in her tone and posture, as well as the general feeling of the vampiric throng in the room in general that something very wrong had occurred. "You do remember dear Mircer, don't you?" Mina said with a dry wryness. "He, or rather his Last Essence, has escaped my clutches, and it seems to me that your friend and co-worker Doctor Cross is implicated to at least some degree..."