In the mountains of southern Jordan a jeep stands empty, next to a small cave mouth surrounded by recently-dynamited rubble.  Amidst the rocks lie a patrol of soldiers whose lieutenant has long since given them up for lost.  Just as well, for their bodies are dry and dessicated, all fluids gone even before the vultures reached their dead-white flesh, their faces locked in an eternity of mild surprise.

Deep within the cave complex is a huge, vaulted chamber.  Niches on the walls hold large jars labelled in a language long dead.  But some of the writing is recent.

At the back of the cave is a carved throne on which sits a scarred, burnt child.  A young god born from fire and violence, with flaking skin blackened to the point of obsidian and gouged, hollow sockets where there should be eyes.  The dusty air stirs as it projects its immortal will outward and listens to the world it has not seen for millennia.  And in the darkness it smiles, a terrible, fanged smile.

It is violence given a physical body, the vengeance of the old gods upon a world grown soft and weak.  It is Ur-Shulgi, the Dark Herald.

The guerrillas of the African veldt look in horror at another village turned into a charnel house.  They mutter prayers against evil spirits as they see corpses cast aside like rag dolls.  Men, women and children have all fallen prey to a destructive force the like of which they have never seen.  Even the fearsome helicopter gunships of the corrupt government do not cause such terrible wounds, such tearing of flesh, such spilling of blood.

They gather closer together, and hold their rifles a little tighter, and flash their torches into the brush, trembling as they try to understand.

And from the trees they are watched by eyes that have seen empires tumble and gods fall.  A tall, robed figure, with dark skin that has not seen the sun since the dawning of history and a cruel, feral beauty.  She is Annis, Childe of Ventru and Cainite of the Fourth Generation, and she has sated her awakening hunger.

For now.

Tokyo at midnight buzzes with life, a neon paradise of light and colour and bustling activity, where thousands of people brush past each other in search of the new and exciting.

A figure walks down one of the streets, and the mortals part around him.  They shiver without realising why, for none can perceive a god who wishes to remain unseen.  He is taller than most of those who share his Oriental appearance, and at his side hangs a great, curved sword.  Already he has seized control of this city from those lesser gods who thought they ruled the night, and his thought processes, all but incomprehensible to any not of his age and power stratum, have turned once more to battle.

His name has been a war-cry for centuries, but soon the world will see once more why all great warriors scream his name.  His children have contented themselves with sitting in their towers of glass and iron and extending their influence over what seems to him petty matters of trade, but this is only the beginning.  Gehenna is coming, and Hachiman will be ready.

The Kindred of Athens look over their shoulders in fear.  Their kind have been predators for centuries, and the few, fragmentary reports they hear from other cities suggest that some, at least, have apparently become prey.

But the elders know that they now have something else to fear.  They have felt the tug of blood calling to blood, and travelled to the ancient tomb outside their city, and bowed to the creature within.  For centuries they have unwittingly followed his whispered promptings as he lay in torpor, and carried out plans that they only thought were their own, but now he is awake.  And his grip on their souls grows ever tighter.

He stands in the moonlight, every square inch of his dead-white skin covered in runes and tattoos of mystic power.  He feels the earth tremble as the Ravening Ones practise their foul rites once more.  He was human once, a great sorceror-king, but for thousands of years he has been something greater still.  He is Dominus, and he is ruler of all he surveys.

They are not alone.  All across the world ancient sleepers begin to shake off the dust of millennia, hungry for blood.  In long-lost tombs, ornate sarcophagi and even deep within the earth itself they stir.

They have sensed the rising of their hated brothers and sisters and heard the whispers carried on the wind.  Plans that have been centuries in the making are nearing fruition, their Childer unwittingly carrying out the final elements of the great Jyhad while still thinking themselves the masters of their own destiny.  But no more.  It is time to show these ‘Kindred’ what they should truly fear.

It is the Endtimes.  The Final Nights.  Gehenna.

It is time to awaken.