Blood of Rome
In the darkness of the necropolis, some places are darker than others. A millennium or more of inhabitation by the damned has left its mark on the stones and tunnels themselves. In these places, the darkness has grasping tendrils that cling to the minds of those who pass through. Even those few who pass through regularly find themselves turned around, unsure of which turns to take. Lamps may drive the darkness back momentarily but it lurks at the edge of the light, waiting in shadows that appear darker than they ought, knowing that all lights eventually fail.
In such a place, known to the kindred of Rome as the Labyrinth, beyond a series of twisting tunnels, lies a simple, wooden door, with the Greek letter Alpha burnt into it at eye height. Beyond the barred door lies a simple but spacious room with no light source. A stone sarcophagus, its lid carved with a reclining man, sits against one wall while a simple desk sits opposite, wax tablets and scrolls strewn about its surface and covered in scrawlings in… Greek? At the back of the room, a tall, wooden shelf is covered with jars, amphora and bunches of dried herbs. Amongst these, wrapped in a leather roll are the tools of a surgeon – scalpels, probes and saws.