Jisper's Tale, Part 1

By way of introduction, this is not my full history, rather it is the lead into it.  It explains my formation and character, but does not detail more pressing matters.  This is because there are other threads that need to be woven in before I continue. 

~Duke Jisper Darkfold

Asia, after 1600

Many times Amil's path over the centuries are unmarked by the records. While he remained “free” on the lands the Church could not recall him to service. So he wandered the world from place to place, leaving track of his passage only by the occasional strange happenstance of one of his victims rising again with ravenous hunger of their own. These individuals did not always last long, as some places where he had passed before were already familiar with his kind. Or he moved through the territories of others who had been changed by one like him but unrelated to him. Some places he found very difficult to hide, and these locations he did not stay long. Other places he knew well and would spend years. And yet, his path slowly took him to the Far East and somehow he found himself wandering the isles of Japan. Here it was impossible to hide, so he was forever on the move. He might have believed himself to be the only supernatural being. He might have become careless with his success. Or he simply might have lost his mind....

Once night be chanced upon a mist shrouded valley which was the home to a single old woodcutter. He might have intended to take this man as he was near the end of his life anyway. He might simply been mad with hunger. He failed to overlook that this man had a large long tailed black cat. This cat had been very well taken care of, and was something the old woodcutter was very attached to. He often wished that he had a family, well not a family per say, but a son, someone to leave his possessions to. As it was the woodcutter only had the cat.

The force of the old man's desires and the goodwill he had shown his beloved cat came together just as Amil moved in for the kill. And this would be his doom, for his bound soul would be recalled to the Church where the “Reaper” would once more find himself chained to the will of clergy.

This is about when I find myself becoming more of a narrator then I might have liked, but only because I am speaking from personal experience. One thing is certain, we are molded by our pasts, formed into what we are by the experiences we have endured. Jumping ahead of myself, I should state that I write this not as a continual process, or even in starts and fits, but rather looking back on it now that my life, or undeath, has become stable enough for me to feel that I have the time to devote to doing the work.

So here is my tale, and read it as you will. I know there is much I am unaware of.

'Your appearance reminds me of the possibility of your essence incorporating the characteristics and ... adaptation of the habits of several different creatures. This could also incorporate your thirst for blood. That is what I had thought when i saw your original rendition of what you would be as a vampire. I immediately thought of an accidental mesh of things that somewhat upset a balance of nature. Nature would do anything to right what came into the world by supernatural means. That explained your appearance, strengths, and weaknesses. A hunter, but one that is foreign to the world.' -- Yannyth Uriza, Baron of BellaMorte

The words of my Minion, formulated as he attempted to make sense of what his eyes were telling him... hits on one very important fact. I am a supernatural creature. Even when "alive" I was not human. I have never been. But this world hides things in its bosom that most mortals never see. Creatures of legend and fable. I began my existence is a Bakeneko. If you have no idea what that is let me tell you this – I have much cat in me, and this colors my existence.

Long before my own tale started, another's not only nearly ended, but took on a new life and a new direction that would be forever woven within my own. Half a world away and who knows how many mortal years preceding, a dark insane creature took the soul of a dying man and left his childe to burn in the sunlight. This creature, this darkness, would flee from the holy man ascending the mountain. Somehow this cursed being made his way on foot across the land, and eventually to his doom.

Let me explain.

The man who does feature so strongly in my tale believes his mortal life was ended in the middle of the sixteenth century. He knew that he left behind his old life totally, with a new name, in 1615. He roamed far and wide, following the pull of what he had lost, unaware that it was this thing that he was drawn by. His path may not have taken him a direct route, but it did steadily lead him closer and closer to the place where his sire, foul as he was, fell for the last time.

How did this happen, you might wonder? Well, Bakeneko usually appear to serve a human. If the cat they transform from was taken good care of then the spirit that arises from it seeks to provide benefits for its caretaker. They are considered Lucky Bakeneko.

If, on the other hand, the cat is neglected or treated poorly, the spirit will take revenge in horrible and horrifying ways. In some cases the evil spirit may bring ruin and death down upon the caretaker and the family that neglected it so.

My own birth was mixed. As a cat I'd been well cared for. But my first memories were that of destruction. Because if this I have a very loyal kind core with an extremely violent and sometimes insane ability to lose control when those I care for are threatened. I am yet touched by the madness of my birth, as my tale will reveal.

I came to be in a fog shrouded and mostly inaccessible valley, one of the sort of places that time tends to overlook in its march. It was rather the point of awareness for me, where I transformed from a mere cat into a supernatural creature. My tame as a cat, when I struggle to remember back that far, was simple, and while the woodcutter was not wealthy, he did provide for me – I had a dry warm place, plenty of food, and much affection.

That moment of awareness leaves me in a state of confusion. At the time I was unsure of what had happened. There was blood and flames. I recall catching a glimpse of the life fleeing from the eyes of the kind old woodcutter and feeling anger. The attacker had not gone far. Perhaps my awareness and the loss of this individual are entwined with that of my current existence as a Vampire. Perhaps not. I do not recall much about this original human. I believe, looking back, that he was a wood cutter, poor and alone. And I am fairly sure he wished for a son instead of a daughter or a wife. I sprung forth on the power of his dying wish, to fire. I awoke just in time to avenge the death of the old woodsman whom I would have called 'father'.

Bakeneko are not indestructible, if the attacker knows what he or she is doing. Simply put, we can be banished or forced back to the aether from which we spring. My drive to extract revenge and sudden appearance caused the stranger to mindlessly turn on me, and I suppose the insane growl made him believe he had every right to defend himself. He, however, had the disadvantage of not knowing what this newly formed creature confronting him was, and while I also did not know what he was, I was far more lucky then my opponent. My fury fueled a power and affinity for the flames licking around me that would have burnt out the entire valley in an inferno – had he not proven quite easy to eradicate in this manner. The horrible evil being went up like he was made of lamp oil... and in a fit of madness I consumed whatever did not burn...

And this action in a moment of insanity would shape me from that point on. I developed a sensitivity for otherworldly beings. While my nature by creation was one of domestic helpfulness it was shadowed by the need to stalk, hunt, and consume what I killed. I cared little if it was animal or human – perhaps I was a little mad still. The valley gained a reputation for being haunted by a spirit that struck without warning, bringing some great fortune and others total annihilation. In this state, many seasons passed – And then something changed.

Threads Intertwined: BellaMorte Beginnings

The figure who had commissioned the book for the life of the young scribe fled the city and region. He would travel far and wide, from the uplands of Appenzell to the depths of the Egyptian deserts, across the sandy wastes and through tropical jungles. He would flee from his own actions always picking the sickly or weak or elderly on which to feed, leaving behind a string of individuals who shared his unique curse. What follows it the recount of a Childe's Childe. She would stop her search for a time with the clan before being driven by her triple curses on her way to find the essence of her lost love...

South America, 1575-1586

“The year was 1575, Iwonka lived a priest’s life within her birth village of Ninho da Serpente ("Snake's Nest"). It was nestled a stone’s throw south of Pico da Neblina (Fog Peak), the highest mountain in Brazil, in the Serra do Imeri, a section of the Guiana Highlands on the Brazil-Venezuela border. At the age of 11 her village was destroyed by enraged earthen elements, and she was one of two survivors.

The mark of scarred earth set upon her to burn as a curse for her life that she will find no peace in nature because of her Village's desecration of ancient burial grounds. She took her curse with her as she did the name of her destroyed village and became Iwonka Serpente.”

Egypt, Late 1500's

Amil Urizai often returned to the lands of those he resembled, because there he could walk through the masses or hide in the wilds for a time and be left alone. But being alone never stilled his thirst. While the sun burned, he was unable to send himself to his final rest and after over five hundred years of trying he simply chose to stop. It was not a matter of living with himself. That was rather impossible. But he could move like a restless hungry shadow from victim to victim. He selected those who were already at death's door, and he never stayed to witness the horror that his actions brought. If his deeds as judge and executioner made him the spawn of Satan in the eyes of the Church, so much the better.

Sometimes though his feedings would touch a soul and through fate or another cause his bite alone would not kill them. Once in a while one of these walking dead would figure out to bestow the curse on another. So his unknown and unmarked childer would spread and spawn from one to another, a loose web of hunters like himself. It was this way that an exotic, but once sickly, young man gained a new lease on “life” and was able to become the consort of someone very powerful. As with most things Amil touched, even those things he did not stay around to witness, the fate of that young man was to be tragic...

“It was at this time that (Iwonka), young and lost, followed the Mata Priest, the only other survivor, across the world to the deserts of Egypt and settled in Cairo where the Mata Priest found favor with the King and was given room and board within the walls of the palace. She studied there of the arts and of healing from the teachers of the palace. Her knowledge grew by leaps and bounds for she absorbed all and thirsted for more always.

The world was in a time of change and transition. Many travelers would stop in the palace and she was always the first to sit in the circles round the blazing fires to hear their stories and learn of their life’s path. It was through one of these fire side meetings that she met a young man named Arozal who, she found later, was the Queen's lover. Through no fault of theirs the two fell in love and soon after he trusted upon her the gift of bloodlust and eternal life in the form of vampirism. He kept her soul and the two made plans to leave the desert for Brazil. Through the Queen's wrath at discovering the two she banished Iwonka Serpente to the depths of the dungeons of the palace and killed Arozal by beheading, not the custom of the times but needed to tend to Arozal’s special condition.

This was the end of the thirteenth dynasty and soon Egypt was invaded by the Hyksos and Iwonka Serpente was released from her dungeons upon the lands. In her mourning she sought out Arozal’s spirit within the destroyed temple where he was murdered by the Queen’s authority. His spirit would not hear her through the deafness of injustice by which he died. She sought out and bartered for his life with a mystic necromancer offering her immortal life for the return of his love. She took part in the failed dark ritual witnessing the demise of the necromancer in the process. Arozal never came back to her, though his spirit was released from his confines to roam upon the earth. His anger with the Queen that ended him, dizzied him and he became lost on his way to his love, forced to walk the earth in his formless mist in frustration and fury. Iwonka’s immortality did not leave her. She was left cold, thrice cursed and incapable of love until she could find Arzol’s spirit upon the earth.

She traveled the seas, the lands, the mountains searching always for Arozal’s lost spirit and the return of emotion. Return of love. Growing ever sadder, ever sinking into the realization that the task befitted her was one that was near impossible to bring to fruition. She became hardened and chilled in her search, hiding her healing powers as she witnessed death and pain and never satisfaction from it to quench her. For hundreds of years she searched, never finding.”

Sometime past this tragic encounter Iwonka would meet up with another like her, Alonzo Ozsvar. While their paths were not destined to run parallel, they were destined to meet time and time again, as they both searched for something neither could find...

The Beginning of BellaMorte

Constantinople, Late Fall, 1148

He had heard a noise in the upper chambers where the master scribe often worked late into the night. There was no scream but the scent of moist iron raised goosebumps on his skin which was very unnatural in the warm night air. The apprentice picked up his quill sharpening knife, which was ridiculously unsuited to self defense, but better then a pointed feather, which was his other option. Swallowing his impulse to flee, he took to the round flight of stairs, silently climbing the stone flights in soft stocking covered feet.

The door was open on the room above, the moonlight and faint candle glow spilling onto the landing. He paused just outside of it, listening for the sound of a thief, or at least his master's scribbling in lieu of cursing over spilled ink. Instead his ears picked up the faintest rustle of fabric, as though someone was standing at the window, unmoving and looking out it. The moment extended with but a breath, before a raspy whisper said, “I have been expecting you to charge up here, sir. Or flee for the black of night.”

Lowering his knife, the apprentice squared his shoulders, and mustering bravery he did not feel, he stepped into the doorway, “But good Sir, entering through a window into a master's tower is hardly a way to a kind greeting.” As he spoke the scene in the room registered to him that this was not a normal situation at all. A dark skinned figure of a form stood by the window, backlit by the moon and shadowed by the flickering glow of a dying candle. A foreigner, surely, garbed in clothes that marked a warrior of nearly half a century before. His arms supported the body of the elder scribe, head drooped to the side, a red stain turning brown across the pale linen tunic it was dressed in. Shaken, the younger scribe found himself struggling to swallow. He finally whispered, “What is it you want?”

“Deliver my tale, and you might yet live,” the figure raspped out. The apprentice gave a nod. “I'll tell you- you write it. Then take it far from here, outside the reach of the Church. Hide it well.” And with that the process began, nightly for many a moon the words flowed from the lips of the undead form, where he would say what he thought was the truth. The scribe wrote, blindly, every word, not reading his own work. One night when the book was near its end, the dark figure simply said “It is done. Flee now, as fast as you can, lest the Church catch wind of your deeds and drag you through town for consorting with the devil.” Then he was gone.

The Arian Countryside, 1558

The book made its way through many a journey, being copied several times by different scribes who were tasked with preserving it. The Knights Templar saw to it as much. One such copy ended up in the north of Europe, in the hands of Brother Ozsvar. Being a young man, and one with great curiosity, he read this book, under the guise of coping it. Unsure if it were real or not, he reserved judgment on the players, knowing that God would handle that. This morn would mark a day for gathering from the bounty around the monastery. He placed the secret tome back and turned to ready himself for the day.

With the predawn he and the other Brothers set off on their pilgrimage. They would gather what they could, and take a circular route through the valley. It was on the way back that his life would change course. Not in a bad way, for his faith allowed him to do good regardless of the situation. So when the travelers came across a man in the hills the second day out who appeared to be dying, his instinct won out and he covered the fellow, enlisting the aid of his brethren to carry the form back to the monastery. The Brothers believed that the body would be set to burial, and took it where he bid, down to the cellars proper where no sun would threaten. Here he prepared a small room out of a storage area, and set about tending to the unique needs of the new inhabitant.

It would take time, weeks even, for his acts of kindness to get the fellow to regain some guise of humanity. Brother Ozsvar did not let this bother him. He knew what it was he had found, thanks to the secret works he had read. He knew that to sate the hunger of this newly turned creature meant saving the blood from the slaughtered animals – an thankfully the brethren believed he was making blood sausage with it. In time the creature would gain slow acceptance within the society of the monastery, particularly as he helped with tasks in the darkness that others could not do.

As time passed the man, as he would be accepted as a man, learned from the priests to read and write. He was granted the name Alonzo and brought into the common life of the brethren. They turned a blind eye to how he fed, instead seeing his presence as a blessing upon them. His remembrance of this time is as follows:

“Early sixteenth century is my best guess. Somewhere in the Arian countryside. I had outlived my family and friends. I was old by the standards of the time, old and tired. I left the village for the first time in my life to find a quiet place to die. Walking 3 days took me up above the tree line but not above the grass. Finding a grassy knoll, I laid down to sleep…. 

I do not know the dates of my birth or death. Time was not measured that way for country folk. 

I do not know the land of my birth or death. My village was my world. 

Upon finding my near lifeless body, Brother Ozsvar, a strong young man about a third my age, carried me down to the monastery. The monks spoke of the death of the Christ 1550 years earlier. That is how I figure my age. 

I was told my clothes and manner of speech was from the region influenced by canton of Appenzell. That is how I place the land of my first birth. 

I stayed in that monastery for 57 years, learning to read, write, to broaden my world of thought. No one mentioned my strength, my age or the scars that never faded.”

How strange that it was, an old man who never changed would stay for fifty seven years in the monastery perfectly content to take what nourishment he was offered. But that was the way of things then. He had found a new group to be family and friends, but like all things, time did not stop. One day he would be summoned to the side of the friend who had dared to save him. The tale goes on:

“Speaking to me from his deathbed, a very old Brother Ozsvar told me it was time to leave and explore the world. Brother Ozsvar was young when he carried the frail old man down from that grassy hilltop. He was a very old man when I carried him down to the crypts. The next day I left the monastery with the lessons they taught and the name of my teacher. The year was 1615. 

I have roamed ever since, not staying long in any one place. Exploring many lands and many cultures at various times in history. Meeting people who became figures of importance and people who faded into the annuls of time. Every one of them left their mark on me. I have made a point of never getting close to any one person. It is not the look of death that drives me away. It is the loss of friends. 

I never knew my sire. Probably a hapless traveler who stumbled upon a dying man no one would miss. Unconsciously I look for that beast, either to thank it or to kill it.”

But soon the pull of his sire's actions would lead him to One that would become his enduring companion....

Winds Of Change

Before I get started with the history proper, it is perhaps fitting that I include the early work from Iwonka Serpente.  Her poetics still apply as the root of the clan's founding, even though she and Christina Mixemup have left the clan for other things.  Such is the way of Second Life, and anyone who plays knows this.  People come and go, and we do our best to allow what ties are there to remain as long as possible.


Winds of Change came from the emotional time that BellaMorte was founded in. It is powerful and very relevant. It is on the clan Website, and because of this I am reposting it here.

Winds of Change

A fictitious account of the history of Bella Morte.
Written by Iwonka Serpente, BellaMorte Countess.

In the humble summer of year 2009, on the twenty first day of
the seventh month, five decided the winds of change had blown.
And so collaboration began amongst them to the building of a
new empire. The odds stacked against them but they had something
fate did not intend; burning determination and unwavering desire
for the better good. A mere vampire was worth his weight in
blood, as physics show, but here a fearless leader would be carved
and born. A fire in his eyes that blanched the souls of all within his
reach. These were no mere vampires. Always greatness befitted
them yet always the appointed fools of kind never noted them credit
nor chance.

They sat and negotiated on the future empire. The Lead from the
House of Ozsvar; a brave knight of loyalty and allegiance, wisdom
and the vision of victory drawn like the fine marble etchings of great
masters in his eyes. His thundering aura reigning above the others
with careful respect and adoration. His companions sat within their
own and spoke of the coming of a new age.

One of the House of Darkfold; a kind and strong willed hero. Master
of his intent and swift of mind and character. One of the House of
Mixemup; a raven haired beauty of the warrior clans of the north
continents; brave and cunning, relentless in her pursuit of justice and
honor. And another of the House of Bunjie; wisest and fairest in the
lands but hardened by the treachery which her life has faced. And the
last from the House of Serpente; agile and fierce and thrice cursed. Her
eyes dark, a mark of revenge in her heart for the immortal blood that
flooded her veins.

They sat, these five, well guided with pure hearts and undying loyalty
to their companions amidst. From their words the skies cried their
passions and the clouds gathered to witness. The pact was nearly
complete, the plans almost at their fill for of these five will unravel the
Lore of Bella Morte, Beautiful Death.

They Say the History of Any Group Starts with the Leader...

And so, in a very short while I'll be posting the first "chapter" so to speak.  This little post is but an introduction.


BellaMorte came about because five souls were unhappy with how the "society" they were part of was treating them.  Instead of wallowing in this unhappiness they chose to do something about it.

The Leader of this small core band was the Liege to the other four, one "Noble", by title, of the name Alonzo Ozsvar. He reluctantly took the title of King with his four minions becoming Count and Countesses.  Eventually two would be titled Duke and Duchess because of the faith and loyalty the placed in both the Clan and the Leadership they were granted over it. These five are the "Elders" and while only three remain now, they have been joined by two others who are Baron and Baroness. From them springs an extended family of Vampires, Lycans, Hybrids and Dolls, each of who holds a special place in the hearts of the rest. BellaMorte is more then "just a clan".  We are a family.

What follows below is the fictional history as composed by the members of the Clan, woven together as best as can be.

I hope you enjoy the ride.

Duke Jisper Darkfold, Blood Bonded of King Alonzo Ozsvar