Cardiff, Wales – Spring of 1551 A.D.

 As it stands in the world of Eventide of Albion, MET LARP – A City Between the Wild and the Crown

Once a jewel of Sabbat rule, veiled in blood rites and whispered sacraments of cruelty, Cardiff has awakened from its long nightmare into a tense and uncertain dawn. The thick mists of spring cling to the cobbled streets, reluctant to release the last breath of winter, but the city is changing, stirring with new powers, old ghosts, and wary eyes in every shadow.

In the days of the War of the Roses, Cardiff was a battleground not just for mortal dynasties, but for ancient Garou packs who once claimed the land as sacred ground. Crinos forms clashed beneath the moonlight in the forests that now edge the growing townships, and silver ran with blood through the River Taff. That era passed in fire and fang, only for the Sabbat to seize the city like a festering wound, making it a hidden cathedral of cruelty and monstrous ambition for over half a century.

Now, in 1551, with young King Edward Tudor seated firmly upon the throne—newly wed and vibrant—the spiritual winds have shifted. Wales, ever resistant to foreign rule, has quietly accepted the Tudor boy as one of their own. His blood, said to carry the fire of dragons and the favor of angels, has inspired a renewed devotion to the Church of England. Nowhere is this more evident than in Cardiff.

The Sabbat were purged not by Kindred blade or Camarilla decree, but by the slow and silent return of Gaia’s children. Packs of Garou—lean, scarred, and cautious—have reclaimed the shadows. These are not the great Septs of old, but small, feral bands, many born of the land and long-exiled kin returning from the wilderness. Among them, the Warders of Man, known in later centuries as the Glass Walkers, have taken root in what remains of Cardiff’s crumbling Sabbat infrastructure. Once desecrated temples of undeath now ring with the laughter of Kinfolk children, and the city’s ancient castle—Cardiff Keep—has become a symbol not of vampiric dominion, but of mortal and spiritual resilience.

To Kindred who seek to settle here, the signs are clear and discouraging. The old havens beneath the city are no longer silent crypts. They pulse with life, guarded not by superstition but by well-trained Kinfolk who know too well the scent of the undead. Cameras of glass and mirrors, wards etched into the bones of old stone, and the quiet, certain presence of spirits make Cardiff a city more watched than welcome.

And yet, there is no Prince here. No Baron. No Regent. No Primogen or Bishop. The city is vacant, in that raw and dangerous way that only a place recently exorcised can be. Rumors speak of a few Kindred testing the waters—brave fools or would-be pioneers—but they vanish into the woods or are found burnt in the daylight, left in offering before the Church steps.

The Church itself is thriving. Anglican sermons are packed, not just with nobles and merchants but also laborers, farmers, and sailors. There’s a strange blend of awe and fear among the people—a faith made stronger by something unspoken. Many believe miracles now come more frequently to Cardiff. Some say it’s the work of saints. Others whisper of hidden protectors, hallowed ground, or a pact with something older than the Church itself.

Cardiff in the spring is a city in tension, not of chaos, but of suspended choice. A single spark could return it to war, yet for now, the wind blows cold from the channel, and the birdsong carries over stone and slate rooftops. It is a city without a ruler, yet not without law.  A place not safe for Kindred, but not yet truly claimed by anyone.

To those who walk the night, Cardiff is a place where history bleeds, the Wyld listens, and faith sharpens like a sword.