Dressing to Kill

Perhaps for purposes of secrecy, Maelduine never wears a sigil of either his liege-lady or his House.  Every layer of his clothing is uniformly black, from the innermost paddings to the dull, battle-beaten plate armor which looks as though it should clank and squeak, as though it should severely hamper his movement – but it doesn’t.  There are no frills, no decorations, no trim.  It is veined with rust and held together by monstrously large bolts.  There is no elegance to the armor, and it was never meant to be elegant.  It was meant to be intimidating in its size, its hard edges, its unreflectiveness and its imperfection – and it achieves its aims well.  Over the armor he sometimes wears a cloak, though this is almost always for the formal occasions in which he does not expect to draw his blade.  On the back of the cloak is his personal crest, which is also one of the two breaks from the black of his attire: a coiled silver dragon, stylized and sleek.  Well-read paranoids have noted on the disturbing similarity to evils such as the Tzimisce Uroboros, the Garou Wyrm Glyph, and even things as far-fetched as Nazi Germany’s swastika.  The truth is somewhat less exciting than the rumors.  He wears the symbol because he likes it.

The naked sword at his side is Arc’hantael.   It’s an impressive piece, nearly as long as he is tall, lean and vicious, subtly curved, balanced like a katana.  At the pommel, a lividly scarlet stone is set on either side, and when the blade draws blood, they glow.  The cross-piece flares wide; the ends angle toward the blade, ending in wickedly sharp points.  The blade itself, the crowning jewel of sword and man, is the other non-black object in all his attire.  Mist-silver and ever changing, as though it constantly swam and formed and reformed itself, it is always freezing cold to the touch, and the edge is honed so keenly that no matter how deep it cuts, there is never any pain.  Arc’hantael is a weapon of elegant, artistic death: men have died on its edge without ever knowing it.

Beside Arc’hantael hangs its scabbard, which is the same dull black as everything else.  Exceedingly plain, even ugly, forged of simple steel lined in velvet and wood, it does not seem a fitting sheath for the sword.  And yet in it lies the other great power of Arc’hantael: when the blade is sheathed, sword and scabbard together calls upon the power of the Dreaming (Chicanery 2) and hides Maelduine from sight.  Therefore, it is quite literally true that no one has ever seen him sheathe his sword.

Finally, the motorcycle that Maelduine owns is the mechanical steed Verschnekt in the chimerical world.  A stallion (sort of), he is made entirely of the same rusted steel plates that Maelduine's armor is composed of.  His eyes are uniformly silver, blind eyes, and yet he can see.  His mane is stiff and stylized, a crest running from the center of his forehead to his shoulders.  Between the plates, grease-coated pistons and gears can be glimpsed, lit in the same throbbing blood-red glow of his mechanical heart.  His legs, however, end at the knees in axles and bearings upon which two heavy wheels that raise a trail of sparks and flames are mounted, front and back.  Though highly intelligent as far as chargers go, Verschnekt tends to obey Maelduine - as long as Maelduine keeps him in good working order.