Third night. Part 3.

Alexander heads to the University District, hoping to find Mateo's cache in the Philosophy Department Archives. Instead, he finds only frustration.

Monday, 9h30pm. University of Santa Maria (USM). University District.

Let's test the scene to see how it begins.

I rolled over the Chaos Factor, so it is the expected scene. Good.

Alexander wanders into the campus of the University of Santa Maria, still holding into his duffel bag with Mateo's belongings. From an opening in the bag his katana, wrapped in not-so-discreet black fabric, portrudes. It isn't obviously a sword... but it could very well be. His footsteps are determined and calculated as he moves through the campus, heading to the library - what he needs to find is in the Philosophy Department, hidden behind some archive... But he needs to see Isabelle first.

The University of Santa Maria is alive with the hum of nocturnal activity, students milling about under the bright lights of the central quad. The grand, modern architecture of the campus contrasts with the quiet, scholarly ambiance exuding from the Philosophy Department’s stone-and-glass facade. The evening air carries a crispness, tinged with the faint scent of ink and coffee wafting from nearby study halls.

Alexander Kane’s presence is a stark contrast to the bustling campus energy. His dark attire and deliberate movements lend him an aura of quiet authority, the faintly visible katana in his duffel bag drawing passing glances that quickly turn away. Students part unconsciously to make room as he strides toward the imposing library at the campus’s heart.

Inside, the library is a haven of subdued light and whispered conversations. Towering shelves filled with aged tomes and modern texts loom in the periphery, while study tables host clusters of students immersed in laptops and notes. Isabelle Grayson’s office is tucked away near the restricted archives, a place for both solitude and secrets.

As Alexander approaches, he notices the faint undercurrent of tension in the air—she is quietly arguing with a student, hushed voices discussing recent campus news.

"Isabelle." - says the somber Alexander Kane, as he approaches, interrupting her conversation with the student. "It's... been a while." - and it really has been. Kane hasn't stopped to see her in almost a month.

Isabelle turns to face Alexander, her calm demeanor softening the tension in the air. Her chestnut hair is tied back loosely, and her hazel eyes regard him with a mix of warmth and curiosity. “Alexander,” she greets, her voice measured, yet sincere. “It has been a while, hasn’t it? Too long, I’d say.” She waves the student off with a gentle, “We’ll continue this later,” before focusing entirely on him.

She steps forward, the faint scent of lavender tea lingering in the air between them. “You look burdened,” she observes, her tone carrying a hint of concern. “I assume this isn’t a social visit. What’s on your mind?” Her gaze briefly drops to the duffel bag at his side, her brow furrowing slightly.

"It has come to my attention that a certain peculiar artifact may have been ilegally stored in the philosophy department archives." - he says. "I'd like your help in retrieving it." - and Kane pauses, before adding, as if he was adding a reward: "And in studying it afterwards, of course."

Isabelle’s eyes narrow slightly, her curiosity visibly piqued. She crosses her arms loosely, leaning a little closer as if to read between the lines of Alexander’s words. “An artifact in the archives? That’s bold, even for this campus,” she remarks, her voice tinged with a trace of dry amusement.

She studies him for a moment, her gaze lingering on the duffel bag before returning to his face. “You know I don’t turn down a chance to explore something... peculiar,” she says, her tone light but deliberate. “But tell me, Alexander—what exactly am I getting into? Is this a quiet favor, or are we about to stir a hornet’s nest?”

"For now, it's quiet. I'll tell you if the hornet's start waking up."

Isabelle smirks faintly, the corners of her lips curling in amusement. “Fair enough,” she replies, her tone carrying a note of restrained confidence. “I’ll hold you to that. Let’s keep it quiet, then—at least until it can’t be.”

She steps toward her desk, collecting a small set of keys from a drawer and slipping them into her pocket. “Lead the way,” she says, tilting her head toward the exit. “I assume you’ve already mapped out where this artifact is stashed?” Her voice carries an undercurrent of trust, though her measured gaze suggests she’s ready for any surprises.

Well... Have I?
My findings from Mateo's notes read: "Mateo, aware of its potential danger, had smuggled the pouch into the University of Santa Maria, hiding it within the archives of the philosophy department. He had chosen the spot carefully: a locked cabinet in an unused classroom, tucked beneath piles of dust-covered manuscripts.", but do I know what classroom is this? I think not, but let's roll:
Question: do I know where the is the classroom? Very unlikely. 8. Yes. Yes I do know.

Alexander smiled at her. It was... easy, smiling at her. It made him feel good to know that he would impress her, and feeling like that wasn't something that bothered him: his lingering humanity were like ancient leaves on a dead tree - it added beauty. "Of course" - he said. "An unused classroom, inside the archives of the philosophy department. Room 128."

"Guide the way, Ms. Grayson."

Isabelle studies Alexander carefully, her gaze sharp yet contemplative. “Room 128,” she says softly, almost to herself. “A relic hidden in plain sight. That room hasn’t been touched in ages; it’s practically part of the building’s forgotten skeleton. You always manage to find the trails others miss, Alexander.”

She tilts her head, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear as a thoughtful smile crosses her lips. “I’ll help you. But you know how these things go—secrets have a way of dragging the past into the present, and not always quietly.” Her tone grows more serious, the faintest hint of concern coloring her words. “If there’s trouble waiting behind that locked door, I trust you’re prepared for it.”

Fishing her keys from her pocket, she nods toward the hallway. “Let’s move. The longer we wait, the more likely we’ll attract attention. And Alexander,” she adds, pausing as she meets his eyes, “don’t make me regret this.”

I think we need to check the new scene. We'll roll against our Chaos Factor of 5. We rolled a 5, which means an altered scene.
Let's roll on the altered scene table. 1. "Remove a character". Something happened, and Isabelle won't be able to get to the room with Alexander - she'll have to just point him the way. But what happened? 52, 32. Imprison fame.
Turns out Isabelle is an academic star in her field - and as we approach the building, a group of students demand her attention about a lecture she recently gave... And they won't take no for an answer. Isabelle gives the keys to Alexander, points him in the right direction, and asks him to meet her later.
Now let's roll for indoor ambience... 42, 99. A flickering television broadcasts static-filled images; an old radio plays haunting melodies from another era.
Chat GPT, describe the scene for me!

Monday. 10h30pm. Philosophy Department. University of Santa Maria.
The Philosophy Department stood like a forgotten relic of its own teachings—weathered stone walls wrapped in ivy, illuminated only by dim security lights casting long, skeletal shadows across the entrance. The night air was thick with the distant hum of the campus, a symphony of murmurs and footsteps that seemed worlds away from the quiet unease clinging to this building.

As Alexander and Isabelle neared the heavy oak doors, a small crowd of students materialized as if from nowhere. Their faces glowed with intellectual fervor, their voices overlapping in an excited chorus. “Professor Grayson! Your lecture on the morality of preservation—absolutely groundbreaking!” one student exclaimed, clutching a leather-bound notebook filled with scrawled notes. Another brandished an article reprint, eyes wide with academic awe. “Could you elaborate on your point about bias in archival curation?”

Isabelle paused, visibly caught between her duty to her field and the pressing secrecy of the task at hand. She turned to Alexander, her expression unreadable but her hazel eyes steady. “They won’t let me go easily tonight,” she murmured, handing him a ring of keys. “Room 128—down the west corridor, third door on the left. Go. I’ll meet you when I can.”

The building greeted him like a mausoleum. Cold, stale air brushed past as the heavy door creaked shut behind him. The corridor stretched ahead, cloaked in a muted grayness that seemed to devour the weak fluorescent light struggling from above. Faint sounds—his footsteps, the creak of the floorboards—echoed endlessly, as though the building itself was breathing in quiet anticipation.

Near the end of the hallway, an eerie flicker caught his eye. Through the cracked-open door of a classroom, an old television cast ghostly static-filled images onto the walls, the sound of its distorted hiss mingling with a melody faintly emanating from a vintage radio perched on a forgotten desk. The song—haunting and crackling as though traveling through decades—was a mournful waltz, its disjointed rhythm filling the air with a peculiar sense of dread.

Dust hovered in the air, thick and heavy in the dim light, settling on shelves laden with forgotten manuscripts. Ahead, Room 128 loomed, its door slightly ajar, as if waiting for him. The faint melody followed him, blending with the static, both a warning and a lure.

The archive did not feel empty. It felt alive, watching, waiting.

Alexander, frustrated for having lost Isabelle, took her keys and went into the building, filled with purpose. Used to working alone, having neither Isabelle nor Crow with him felt weird, given the circunstances - but he moved towards the room filled with intent and the feeling that, for some reason, things were... too easy.

To see if I can find the cache, I'll roll to conclude the Elegy, vs 9. Weak hit. "There is more to be done, or you realize the truth of your quest. Envision what you discover."
I'll ask the oracle.. Action: 92, 100. Transform wound; Descriptor: 89, 16. Rudely cute.
I think I've found the cache - Mateos poach, marked with runes - but it's not where he had written. The place was "gently trashed" - clear signs that someone went there before and searched the place, but was trying not to make noise. The manuscripts under which Mateo had hid the poach were on the floor, the poach was empty... and there was a few drops of blood on the page.
I'll spend 1 blood and activate Sixth Sense to better analyse my surroundings.
Action move vs Intellect + 1 (8). 2, 3. Strong sucess. +1 focus, +2 in the next related roll.
Question: is the blood fresh? Likely. 69. No.
Question: is there a trail to follow? Likely. No.
Question: are there any clues that I can see? Likely. 34. Yes.
Roll on the action table. "Invade mundane".
On one of the pieces of paper on the floor, Alexander sees a partial boot-print. Tactical boot. It's circunstancial at best... but it is enough worry him: tactical boots are usually used by military, not by the clergy - not even the enforcers of the clergy. Maybe it was one of the hunters the order were dealing with?

Alexander grabs the pouch and analyses it.
Gather Information + 2. 2, 9. Weak hit. The information provides new insight, but also complicates your quest. Envision what you discover.
Roll on the action table. Deceive weapon.
Alexander looks at the empty pouch with the silver runes.. and he can clearly see the markings left by what was there before. Not a "piece of fabric", as Mateo had written - a weapon. A knife of some sort. Mateo had lied in his writings - too clever for his own good... But someone had found it before Kane.

The door to Room 128 creaked on rusted hinges as Alexander stepped inside, the faint sound swallowed by the oppressive quiet of the archive. He clutched Isabelle’s keys tightly, his knuckles pale against the dark leather strap of his duffel bag. The faint metallic scent of old manuscripts mixed with mildew filled the air, a sharp reminder of how forgotten this space was.

The room looked… wrong. Alexander froze, his senses sharpening. The manuscripts Mateo described as the cache’s hiding spot weren’t stacked neatly under the cabinet as written. Instead, they sprawled across the floor in loose disarray. Not careless, but deliberate—someone had been here. They’d searched, their movements precise and cautious. Dust had been disturbed, faint streaks where a gloved hand might have brushed a surface.

At the center of the mess, he found Mateo’s pouch, just as described, its silver runes glinting faintly in the dim light. Relief barely settled before he turned it over and felt its weight—or lack thereof. Empty. His jaw clenched, a pang of betrayal rising in his chest. Mateo had lied about the cache. This wasn’t a harmless scrap of fabric—it was a weapon. Something sharp, deadly, and powerful. And now, someone else had it.

A faint smudge of dark red caught his eye on the edge of one of the scattered pages. Blood. Kneeling, Alexander studied the drops closely, his gut tightening with unease. It wasn’t fresh; its edges were cracked and dried, like flakes of rust against the pale paper. Whoever bled here wasn’t still lurking, but their presence lingered in the faint imprint of a tactical boot on a page. Not clergy footwear. Something colder. Military.

Hunters.

Alexander closed his eyes and reached for the deep well of his vampiric instincts, sacrificing a trickle of blood to sharpen his senses. The room shifted in his perception, the faint echoes of its recent history whispering to him. He felt the tension of the intruder’s movements: deliberate, invasive, mundane in their methodology but unnervingly effective. Whoever it was, they’d left no clear trail to follow—only faint impressions and this boot print, like a cruel taunt.

The pouch trembled in his hands as he examined it, his fingertips tracing the faint outlines of what had once been inside. A knife, its edge undoubtedly wicked, had rested here. The silver runes etched onto the leather hinted at its potency, a weapon of purpose that Mateo had seen fit to obscure in his writings. Too clever for his own good.

Alexander straightened, the pouch clutched tightly. The implications churned in his mind—Mateo’s lies, the hunters’ presence, the absence of the weapon—all threads weaving into a tapestry of danger. His pulse quickened, though not from fear, but from a sense of grim determination.

The hunters were here. They had what he came for. And Alexander Kane wasn’t leaving without answers.

Question: are there cameras in the hallways? 50/50. 15. Yes!
Question: is Isabelle still outside with her fans? Very likely. 10. Extreme yes. She's not only still there when Alexander leaves the archives, but there are more students than before around her. His little Isabelle Grayson, so young, was becoming an academic superstar. Alexander would love to be happy for her, but right then right there, he would love for those students to simply implode. However, that was out of his reach - anything he did would draw attention, and he could not afford that... So, briefly catching her eye, Alexander vanished into the shadows again. Checking the cameras was a long shot, anyway.

Before leaving the University of Santa Maria, he stopped by Isabelle's office and copied the symbols on the pouch on a piece of paper on her desk. "Someone got to it before I did. They left the bag it was into. Leather pouch. These symbols were on it. Can you translate? I'll be back tomorrow, same time". He wrote it in a cypher alphabet that she and him used for discreet communication.

The night had settled into a thick, oppressive quiet as Alexander slipped out of the Philosophy Department, his movements shadowed and purposeful. Across the courtyard, the library stood as a beacon of knowledge in the dark, its towering glass facade catching faint reflections of the moon. The students surrounding Isabelle had only grown in number, their voices carrying on the crisp air like a chorus of admiration. She stood at the center, her calm authority commanding their rapt attention.

Alexander lingered at the edge of the crowd, concealed in the shadows of a tall oak. His sharp gaze found Isabelle, her chestnut hair catching the light as she spoke. She had never been one for crowds, but here she was, an academic star rising before his eyes. His heart twisted—pride mingling with frustration. He needed her help, and her success was suddenly an obstacle, a wall he couldn’t climb without drawing unwanted eyes.

Catching her eye for a fleeting moment, he inclined his head just enough to signal his intent. Isabelle’s brow furrowed slightly, but before she could react, Alexander was gone, fading into the shadows like smoke.

The library doors parted with a soft hiss as he entered, the faint scent of aged paper and polished wood washing over him. The space was vast and quiet, its towering shelves casting long, angular shadows under the dimmed lights. Isabelle’s office was nestled in the restricted archives, where her domain of forgotten tomes and ancient scripts resided.

He moved quickly, slipping into her office and closing the door softly behind him. The desk, cluttered with organized chaos, was a familiar sight. Papers, pens, and notebooks lay in neat but abundant stacks, the tools of her endless inquiry. Alexander reached into his bag, pulling out the pouch and setting it on the desk. He traced the runes onto a blank page with the precision of a surgeon, the faint pressure of the pen scraping against the quiet.

Beneath the symbols, he wrote in their shared cipher:

“Someone got to it before I did. They left the bag it was in. Leather pouch. These symbols were on it. Can you translate? I’ll be back tomorrow, same time.”

He placed the note in the center of her desk, the paper weighted slightly with a stone as if to underline its importance. Stepping back, he glanced around once more, ensuring no trace of his presence lingered.

The library was silent as he left, its quiet reverence undisturbed. Outside, the night had thickened, and the shadows seemed to stretch longer than before. The pouch was empty, the weapon it once carried gone, and the hunter’s presence hung like a storm cloud on the horizon. For now, all he could do was wait for Isabelle’s sharp intellect to illuminate the darkness.

Alexander does not know where to go next, so he stops and thinks. He could go to see Donovan and pick his brain, but that was not Crow's area of expertise. And then it hit him: Lina Moreno, the performer at the Opium. If the meetings Mateo witness were at the docks, than perhaps one of the hunters wandered into the Opium - it was another long shot, but a long shot was all that he had.