Deep in the heart of the Ozark Mountains lay a bed of limestone, and into that rock formed numerous series of caverns. Most of these caverns lay unexplored by humans, and those became a sanctuary for creatures that could not bear to look at the light of the sun.

To the ancient Babylonians and Hebrew, they were known as the Lilitu, the greeks called them the Empusa, Lamia, and striges, but it would be in Albany where they would finally adopt a name for their whole race. As the society slowly developed and clans formed, an identity for who and what they were was important. The first council had decided that the name being circulated, as it was spoken in hushed reverence, in dark alleys, would do fine, the Shtriga.

One such older Shtriga walked at a slow, stately pace, one with the purpose and dignity expected of someone of his stature. Everything in a Shtriga's life came down to order in the Shtriga's life and loyalty to one's Bloodline. If you demanded respect and dealt harshly with those that were foolish enough to deny it to you, then your Bloodline's spot in society would be preserved. Those weak Bloodlines or those impures who lay unclaimed, those would always remain the edges of society and a problem.

As he made his way through the streets of the immense underground city of Maramures, he pondered the predicament he found himself in. The iridescent lights reflected lightly off of his greying hair that had turned almost a light blue in hue, and he stopped to stare into the lake where sightless fish swam in the cave's water, not much unlike his Dhampir and son out on the surface currently looking for that wretched traitor. Heath would die, preferably slowly, if Gerald had a chance to keep him at his estate in a cave just off the main auditorium, but first, his aging Dhampir had to find the young whelp. He also still had to deal with his rebellious son, who had caused it all. Taunted Heath until the young boy snapped, and he struck him in anger.

It mattered not why the young Dhampir hit him. No one, not Dhampir, not impure or otherwise known as Vetalas, nor human thralls struck a Shtriga. The penalty for striking a Maestru or Master was death. Heath had shown promise as a future guardian, but his impunity could not be left unpunished. There was enough division between the younger Shtriga who were siding with the Vetalas in lending them representation on the common's council and the elder council, the last of the old ways.

"Maestru Gerald!"

The voice carried quietly in the cavern, echoing lightly off the unseen walls in the dimly lit city. A younger Shtriga dressed in a gray robe, signifying a position on the elder council, the upper ruling house of the Shtriga society. It was unusual for one of his age to such an advanced position. Typically his father would sit in the elder council while he held the seat in the common's council.

"Maestru Robins, I hope your night is well?" Gerald greeted him cooly. Robin was known for being cunning and cold. It was rumored that he killed his own father since no known Shtriga had ever died from old age at two hundred and twenty-five years of age. He had coveted his father's position in the elder's council.

"My sources tell me that a Dhampir has escaped your custody. Is it true?" His colorless pupils stared intently at Gerald's face searching for an answer. Gerald held his face carefully emotionless, knowing anything that Robins gleaned from him would be stored away and used against him when an opportunity presented itself for Robins to advance his agenda, whatever that was.

"If that were so, I would have been obligated to convene the elder council to form a posse for retrieval. Did you get a notice to convene?" Gerald asked with a carefully raised eyebrow.

Robin's hopeful face fell a little, "No, but that does not mean you would not have ignored protocol to protect yourself."

"Boy, I have been on the council longer than you have been alive. I could have you sitting in a day cell, getting your pretty face singed for such accusations, so I would keep such things to yourself. If a problem in my house were to arise, unlike some people on this council, I would act with honor!" His face turned red with the indignation of the accusation as he turned on his heel and walked off.

Robin watched with interest and a sparkle in his eye. He motioned to the shadows, and a brute of a man, whose muscles coiled with each movement, eased towards the waiting Shtriga.

"Our friend has lost something, I think," he said thoughtfully, and then he broke out in an evil grin, "and I want you to find it first."