The date is October 31st, 1991, the night of the Palla Grande. The location is Montreal, the City of Black Miracles. And the events that ensued would forever change the unlife of one member of the Sabbat...
"What... are you, child?" the robed woman whispered softly.
"Huh? I'm Yoda!" the child replied, stepping backwards again, rejoining the perceived safety of his group of friends.
The robed woman seemed to be looking over the group of children before tilting her head to the side slightly. "Ah, it is Halloween. Of course. Enjoy your trick-or-treating, children, but be careful..." She turned away and continued her journey down the sidewalk. The children glanced at each other and shrugged, before continuing happily on in the opposite direction.
A few blocks down the road, the robed woman reached the gates of Markensen's Junkyard and paused. A wind gust scattered leaves and trash across the sidewalk and flattened out a wrinkled poster that had been tacked to the gate: "Party here 2-nite! Everyone's dyin' to be there!" The clouds above the junkyard were tinted slightly pink, and the smoke of a hundred burning torches contributed to the haze. As she pushed the gate open wide enough to walk through, an electric guitar began a raucous riff, almost as if on cue.
Within the confines of the junkyard, a large Halloween party was well underway. Masked revelers were drinking and dancing near the makeshift stage where a goth-metal band had just begun playing. A large man near the gate in leathers and a horned demon mask looked her up and down briefly before extending his hand. "Here for the big party, stranger?"
The woman extended her hand as well, joining his in a modified handshake. "Yes, I come for the Grand Ball."
"Grand ball... right. Go on in then," he said, gesturing to the partygoers who crowded the torch-lit junkyard.
"Thank you," she replied, stepping a bit closer and lowering her voice. "Might I ask where one might find His Excellency, the Archbishop?"
"Check the building marked 'Private.' He's prob'ly inside," he said, turning his attention back to the gate as a small group of scantily dressed women slipped through the gate. "Hey, sexy, glad you could make it..."
Weaving her way through the dense crowd, the robed woman could see a small shed-like structure in the distance, bearing a crudely painted sign: "Private. So don't come in, idiots!" As she walked towards the building, most of the revelers stepped aside, allowing her clear passage through the crowd.
The area immediately surrounding the shed was devoid of partygoers. The woman paused briefly before crossing the last ten feet to the shed entrance, glancing over her shoulder to be sure she was not followed. She approached the door slowly, extending a gloved hand to open and enter. Before she could make contact with the doorknob, however, a slender silver rod, about the size of a pencil, penetrated her wrist.
Glancing quickly to her left, from where the rod had come, she noticed a dark haired woman standing at the edge of the shadows, arms crossed over her chest. She was clad in purple ripped jeans and a matching tank top under a black leather trenchcoat, and holding a small pistol in her right hand. Covering her face was a simple mask, white with black lips which seemed to be half smiling.
"Where is your mask, sister?" the masked woman asked with a hint of sarcasm in her voice, casually strolling towards the robed woman.
"My mask?" the robed woman stammered. "I have no mask."
"No mask? And you wish to speak with the Archbishop?"
"Yes."
"I don't think that will be allowed. Who are you?"
"My name is Morgan. I come to Montreal from Detroit, and I have a message from the Bishop there that must be given to His Excellency, the Archbishop Sangris."
The two women now stood barely a step away from each other. The masked woman assumed a more formal posture and tone. "Well met, Morgan. I am Ariadne, Templar to His Excellency, the Archbishop Sangris. Let me see your face, sister."
Morgan stepped backwards slightly, lowering her head. "I... prefer not to, Lady Ariadne."
Ariadne shook her head and tilted it slightly upwards. Without a word, she gestured quickly towards Morgan, her eyes glowing briefly with a pale blue luminescence. A burst of cold wind lifted the hood of Morgan's robe for but a moment. Grasping at the edge of her hood as it returned to its customary position, Morgan turned her face away from Ariadne, feeling a twinge of pain in her pierced wrist.
"You are among friends here. And it is Halloween. You have nothing to fear. But if you prefer, you may have my mask to wear. The Archbishop will wish to see your eyes while you are speaking to him, and he is not one to take no for an answer." Ariadne held the flimsy plastic mask in her outstretched hand, just at the edge of Morgan's peripheral vision. Morgan reached for the mask slowly with her left hand, moving more quickly to catch it when Ariadne swiftly dropped the mask just above Morgan's drooping right hand.
As she tied the ribbons of the mask behind her head, Morgan looked at Ariadne calmly, trying to betray none of the pain her wrist gave her, even in such a simple motion as tying a bow. Morgan's expression turned quizzical as she noticed Ariadne's face, a precise replica of the mask, but in flesh tones.
"Oh, that would be unsettling," Ariadne murmured with an amused smile. She reached up to her face and began to rearrange the flesh and bones as she spoke. "I will ask another to take my place for a time, and introduce you to the Archbishop personally. Tell me, did you come to Montreal with your pack?"
"I have not yet found a pack," Morgan replied, adjusting the cowl of her robe so that the mask, and her eyes, would be visible to onlookers.
"Truly? That is... not going to be a problem for long, I would suspect. You are properly initiated into the Sabbat?"
"But of course. I have been for nearly a month now."
"All the better. The Archbishop plans to release me honorably from his service this very evening, and has given me permission to create a coven of my own. I will wish to speak to you later, but I believe I would enjoy having you in my pack." Ariadne removed her hands from her face and looked at Morgan. "How do I look?"
Again, a brief look of astonishment crossed Morgan's eyes, as Ariadne's features now resembled those of an attractive young Asian woman. "I... rather beautiful, I think."
Ariadne smiled briefly, but only amusement shone in her eyes. "Shall I remove the spike from your wrist, sister?" she asked, taking a step towards Morgan, so that they were nearly touching.
Morgan turned her gaze towards her wrist, still pierced with the silver rod. As she lifted her arm to examine it, she felt the metal restricting the movement of her ligaments and muscle, and a renewed pain, which had now become rather customary. "May I ask, why did you shoot me?"
"No one is to enter the chambers of the Archbishop without my permission. You have my permission, now. I will introduce you, as long as you promise you will come speak with me when you have finished your business with the Archbishop."
"Then may I return the spike to you when I speak with you later?"
"Certainly, my dear sister," Ariadne said as she opened the door to the shed. "We shall speak... and I have so much to say to you."
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