Minsk, Russian Empire, February 22, 1916
Nemiga Street was grey and dark, the gaslights had not been lit for quite some time. All materials, fuel, metal, food, that were not completely necessary had been diverted to the military. The front lines of the German army were only twenty five miles from the city, and the it was teetering on the brink of societal collapse. Factories had closed up shop, and the owners had fled with whatever they could cram into a train car. Fifty thousand had migrated east. The police had, generally, been drafted to the reserves, so the streets were not safe, with whatever mentally unsound criminals not drafted wandered freely, sometimes mugging, other times looting the homes of those poor souls now wandering along the rail lines with anything they could carry.
Most people, at least, people with servants who could get things for them, were at home with the windows covered and the doors firmly barred. Any respectable looking sort of person was likely to be robbed at gunpoint by either a criminal, or one of the bored young reservists sent to control said criminals. This, however, did not seem to deter a certain gentleman walking down the centre of the street. Dressed as posh as any wealthy London businessman, one could almost smell the scent of money drifting off him. Several did. He was approached by some young lad, not really a career criminal perce, just a bored teenager looking to make some extra money.
Pulling a knife from his pocket, he stepped in front of the well-dressed man. "You're money, or your life, sir." Said the boy, doubting, unsure. The man stopped. Stared into the boys eyes. "Permit me a guess. You are a mid-class boy, perhaps the son of a businessman. You have left your home for days on the town and general mischief making in a time of war, when nobody cares enough to stop you." The boy hesitated. The man had guessed correctly, in fact, almost spot on. The man continued. "Now, I have no wish to waste my fragile humanity on the pathetic problem you represent. So, I shall give you a chance to leave me. Good day." The man switched his ring from his right to his left hand, then attempted to walk on. The boy had not been amazingly productive in his school, but he recognized the word pathetic, and the general disrespectful tone of his voice. He had had perhaps too much drink for himself, stolen from abandoned warehouses. He drew his arm back, and stabbed the man.
The man dissolved into smoke, starting from the knife, and moving over him from his black hat to his riding boots. The boy gasped in pain, as his weapon turns into molten mercury in his hand.
To the others on the street, who are watching the confrontation play out, it appears that the youth has had his hand broken by the gentleman, who then walked away slightly faster than is possible.
Cursing, Anatoli returned to a more solid form, looking hurriedly around him. Nobody seemed to be following him. Sunbeams moved slowly down the street, between the shadows of clouds. He stopped and gazed back from where he had come. Looking under the sunbeams. Waiting. There! A figure dressed in a traditional robe just recently out of fashion had moved specifically to avoid a sunbeam. Anatoli watched for a few more moments. A single vampire, only one. That, he could deal with. The Fair Folk, of course, would be far harder to spot, but they tend to avoid cold countries during winter. Anatoli continued down the street. Nobody approached him this time.
After several minutes of frenetically fast walking, Anatoli arrived at his home. A second and third story apartment located above a machine shop beside the old city train station. His apartment was spelled to block out noise, but on the walk up the narrow flight of stairs, it was not uncommon for the arrival of the latest passenger train from Moskva to shake the building.
He unlocked his door with a curious stone key, and stepped inside. The room felt small and large at the same time, with carpets and vast swathes of fabric covering the floors, walls, and ceilings, each haphazardly hung ream depicting a fantastical landscape or scene, depicted with deft and detailed needlework. Anatoli, placed his boots beside the door, hung his cloak and hat above them, and leaned his granite topped cane beside. He then walked under a narrow but ornate curving iron staircase into a well decorated drawing room with a coal fireplace.
Anatoli dropped into a luxurious and comfortable chair, and placed his feet on a convenient Ottoman. Fire sprung up in the fireplace, guttering whenever a train swept past it's chimney outside. The tapestries, for they could only be named as such, in this room were all reds, depicting fires, volcanoes, and a particularly large one over the fire of a sunrise. After simply soaking in the peace of his home, Anatoli raised his left hand to his face, twisting the ring on it around so the back faced him. The ring was in the shape of a watch, with a red ruby in the front covered in miniscule carvings suggesting the face of a timepiece. The back of the gold ring, resembling the clasp of a watch, was dark grey. Lead. The lead area had not grown larger, not discernibly, but when Anatoli switched the ring back to his right hand, the ruby glowed slightly less than it had last time he made the switch from left to right. He sighed. Thirty two percent, still, but inching closer and closer to thirty three. He sighed. The magic he used with the boy…
Anatoli had calculated, on a sheaf of papers spread about the adjacent study, that at this present rate he would have over a hundred and sixty five years. But, he would live on far longer than that, and he would become extremely powerful in magic, but weak in intelligence. A demon of the seventh degree. Nothing but a tool of those who have leaden rings, and are half human. Those who have been deformed. Sometimes Anatoli wished that he could just be a warlock, but, he knew, from much time spent arguing with himself, that there would be many disadvantages.
His freedom, for example, would be restricted, he would have to join the rest of the warlocks in their organization. At least Anatoli had his freedom, although he did not know how many people exactly were blatantly opposed to his existence. Very damned unfortunate, he thought, and chuckled at his wit. Then he stopped himself. Individual conversing, the first sign of insanity.
Plenty of reason to go insane, he supposed, what with daily exposure to copious amounts of stress, problems, and unfathomable sorrow and joy. And the war. Even if it was only the mundanes killing each other, that much death and destruction could not be without side effects.
Because, after all, if the city of Minsk were to be captured by an invader, Anatoli would be forced to hide his residence with a glamour. And, though he would then be safe from mundane bombs and destruction, he would be opening himself up for discovery by any supernatural creature. So, better if the Russians stay in control, for now at least. Anatoli was partial to the Russians. His parents, he though, would have been Russian if he actually had any human parent.
His name, indeed, Anatoli, was Russian, directly meaning "Sunrise." How ironic that he was almost an entire third devoted to the complete destruction of all light in the world. How ironic indeed. Anatoli sighed. More talking to himself. Be buying pet rats soon, he wittily thought.