The Passion and the Ashes: The Fall of Belit-Sheri and Niccolò Machiavelli

Constantinople, Winter 1546 – A Tale for the Chronicles of the Eventide of Albion

She was called the Near Goddess, the shadow-flamed prophetess of rage and revelation—Belit-Sheri, the Brujah Methuselah whose blood whispered with ancient tongues of Sumer and whose presence in Constantinople drew poets and monsters alike to her court of red marble and forgotten rites. With her stood Niccolò Machiavelli, the undead strategist, Embraced into the Clan Giovanni for his cruel brilliance and unyielding mind. Together, they ruled a haven beneath the ruined cisterns of the Great Palace, a sanctum of philosophy, necromancy, and forbidden diplomacy.

But in the frozen stillness of that dreadful winter, they fell.

It was not war that killed them. It was a betrayal.

The Betrayers

Marozia d’Oscura, once a dignified Kindred of Clan Lasombra, now a withered reflection of her former self, twisted by Sabbat rites and infernal whispers, had risen to power through treachery and sacrifice. Newly appointed Regent of the Sabbat in the East, she sought to bend Constantinople to her will—not with siegecraft or swords, but with a single devastating blow to its soul.

She was aided in her grim design by Vial, a Baali of indescribable vileness. Known only by title, never by true name, the creature bore the scent of Gehennan prophecies and smiled with teeth that had bitten into the hearts of angels.

Together, they walked past blood-bound sentinels, past enchanted glyphs and deadly specters, cloaked in the sorcery of damnation and betrayal. Ghouls were made to drink false memories. Allies were bribed or blackmailed. Even spirits fled from the darkness they brought.

They entered the sanctuary of Belit-Sheri as guests, offering parley and allegiance, and then struck.

The Unmaking of a Goddess

It is said that Belit-Sheri rose in wrath and split the table of obsidian in two with her voice alone. Her lover Niccolò summoned the very dead to his defense, calling ancestors of both the Medici and the Roman Empire to strike down the invaders. But the Sabbat had prepared. The Baali’s ritual choked the air with searing void, and the Lasombra’s shadows drank the light of both fire and soul.

When it was done, Belit-Sheri lay in ruin, her immortal heart ripped from her chest and swallowed by Marozia d’Oscura, who wept as she drank—for rage, or envy, or the unbearable echo of such ancient blood cannot be consumed without torment.

Machiavelli was made to watch, silenced by Abyssal chains, his body peeled away piece by piece until the last of his vitae was stolen by the Baali, who used it to bathe a dagger of bone and obsidian said to bear the name of a fallen Archon.

Their deaths were not quick. Nor were they quiet.

The Giovanni's Vow

When word reached "Momma", the matriarch of Clan Giovanni, there was no scream—only stillness. And then, a decree.

“The lovers have fallen. The goddess bleeds no more.But we are Giovanni. We do not forget. We do not forgive. We collect.”

In the months that followed, Constantinople shook. Spirits rose from the necropoli. Ships sank in the Golden Horn, manned by ghosts who strangled Sabbat in their sleep. Sabbat ghouls began aging rapidly, their blood curdling. One by one, allies of Marozia were collected. Entire bloodlines vanished from their havens. Even whispered Sabbat victories came to sound like funerals.

And in every necromantic feast, at every gathering of the Giovanni—from Venice to Edinburgh, from Lisbon to Alexandria—the chant is spoken before wine touches the lips or blood meets the tongue:

"Nemo a Ioanne auferet passionem quam erga amorem aut mortem habemus." "None shall take from the Giovanni the passion we bear for love… or for death."

Legacy

The haven of Belit-Sheri and Machiavelli lies sealed now, cursed by the Giovanni, guarded by bound shades who remember the moment of their masters’ fall. It is said that Marozia dreams of the moment she drank Belit's heart each time she slumbers… and wakes screaming, her soul burning with a love that was never hers to taste.

And the Baali?

Vial vanished.

But the dagger he forged with Machiavelli’s vitae has appeared once—in the hands of a Ravnos wanderer who sold it to a Tremere in Kraków for a single night’s protection. The dagger is called "Tactum Amantis"—the Touch of the Lover—and it has yet to fulfill its second strike.

The Giovanni wait.

They count the years, the pints, the debts.

They do not forget. They do not forgive. They collect.

Let all Kindred remember: to slay a goddess is to be haunted by her worshippers.