Oskar
Oskar smiled. It was not often that he felt satisfied. There were always more battles to fight, mead to drink, beds to warm. For Oskar, one victory was never enough. Be it in war, finance, or other such pursuits. No, Oskar needed to keep winning his whole life.
Which is why Oskar's smile was perplexing. The smile even grew as he worked. Especially the last two notes. The ones that were going to be delivered to Otto Dietrich and Arthur Avalon. The only two to ever defeat him in battle. Ah yes, he remembered clearly. 8th Century, Otto and his whore had driven back the force of Magyar bandits Oskar had been commanding. It had taken him awhile to find the former Holy Roman Emperor. He had taken many different names over the years, it was just Oskar's luck that he happened to name himself Otto again. Arthur had been significantly easier. The damn fool had never changed his name.
The other notes were being delivered to other Immortals. Ones that he thought would make excellent allies.
A good king, he thought is never without his court.
Otto
Otto was tired. He looked in the mirror at his haggard face and bloodshot eyes.
He sighed.
There were days when he wished that he weren't an Immortal, that he died like normal humans. The days were few and far between, yet today was one of them. He dressed haphazardly and sat on his couch, flippin on the television.
Otto wasn't exactly sure what to do with himself. His friend, Ozmond, was the only reason that he had been staying with one identity for so long. Of course, Oz had succumbed to old age, as humans were wont to do. Otto had moved to Germany the day after the funeral. He flipped through the channels while sifting through his many, many memories. He finally settled on one he liked.
The year was, 1996, he believed. He and his fourth wife, and Ozmond were celebrating Oz's birthday in a pub. Ozmond and Aileen both looked the same age as him back then, and they were happy. He preferred to remember them like this, as opposed to Aileen in her 70's, on the losing side of a battle with Alzheimer's. Or Ozmond, as an 86 year old man who could barely keep his eyes open when he came to visit. He fell asleep with the pub memory in his mind and a sad smile on his face.
He was awoken by a knock on the door. He quickly dug through the pockets of his hanging coat for the small revolver he kept. The chances of the visitor being an IBI officer were slim, but you could never be too careful. He wrenched open the door to find nothing but a small white envelope on the floor. He opened it and read it in a manner of seconds. He dropped it to the floor and began to laugh.
"Oskar the Undying, eh?" He chuckled once more. "To Seattle it is!"
