[WoD] The Council Convenes

[Gabriel Rodermark]

January 1st 2006, 10:36pm - an unknown location

It was a rare occasion that Saul Leavis felt the necessity to leave the sewers of London. Even as acting Primogen of Clan Nosferatu, there were scarce few times when his presence was required at any kind of gathering. Occasionally, he wondered whether or not his title was anything but superfluous. London had been a bastion of Camarilla decency for such a long time that the convening of the Primogen was generally reserved for exceptional occasions, outside of their usual and often brief annual meeting. The last of these particular meetings had taken place in late November, and yet... another was being called now, on the first night of a new year.

Of course, Saul knew why. This wasn't another of Rodermark's tea parties. There was business to discuss. There hadn't been real business since the kine had gotten themselves embroiled in the so-called World Wars. Like any self-respecting member of his clan Leavis knew of the ins and outs of the attack on the Barbican, perhaps better than some who had witnessed it first hand. His own clanmates had guarded the perimeters of the Prince's little soiree. Saul, as was expected, had received an invitation to the New Years party, but both he and the Prince knew that the Nosferatu Primogen would not be attending. Tonight's gathering, however, was an entirely different matter.

Leavis was the first to arrive. The room was dark and contained a large circular table, made from heavy wood. Eight seats ran the tables edge, each with plenty room at either side. No one seat was different from another, but Saul knew which was his intended and sat in it as he had done many times before. Soon, others began to arrive. First Roland Salisbury of the Ventrue, then Greta Willis of the Gangrel. Next William Brown-Turrel of the Tremere, and Marcus Thornby of the Brujah. The Malkavian Anna Starkley was next to arrive, with the Toreador Primogen Elizabeth Atkinson entering last – followed shortly by the Prince himself. Each took their position in silence.

“Thank you all for coming on such short notice. It is, of course, under unfortunate circumstances that we must gather tonight,” The Prince began, looking to each of those present as he spoke. Thornby, the Brujah, frowned slightly at the use of the word unfortunate but said nothing for the time being. Thus, the meeting of the Elders of London began.

[Gabriel Rodermark]

“There are a number of important matters to discuss pertaining to this mornings attack. Perhaps first we should ask how was it that the Sabbat were able to invade Elysium so easily, without so much as a warning of their arrival?”

It was typical that each meeting of the Primogen started as such. To begin with each Kindred maintained a composed demeanour. Questions were weighed in a lengthy silence as each formulated their own answer and series of questions to pose to one another and the Prince.

“I am at a loss,” Salisbury, the Ventrue, confessed. “It was my impression that ample ground support had been provided to guard the gallery against any intrusion.”

“Any intrusion?” Marcus' tone was incredulous.

“As I said, we provided ample support,” Salisbury continued, without a hint of agitation in his voice, “should the party be... intruded upon by any unwelcome guests.”

“Clearly, that's not true. If it were, the Sabbat wouldn't have got within twenty miles of the Barbican,” Marcus replied. It was not unusual for Thornby to provide much of the opposition to his peers in such discussions. While he was not a thug, his blood was the quickest to boil. The astute observer might have noticed that his portion of the table seemed to bear more wear and bruising than any other, due to his punctuating any particularly important points by striking a balled fist against the wood.

“Be that as it may, it would be unreasonable and indeed highly paranoid for us to think that any such intrusion by the Sabbat would be made,” Roland said, looking to the other Primogen for support.

“Paranoid?” Marcus sneered. “Don't make me laugh. Everyone knew that a big chunk of the city's Kindred would be stashed away in the Barbican all night. The Prince, the Sheriff, the Scourge, and a host of other key players. Are you suggesting that wouldn't be high on the Sabbat to-do list?”

“Such gatherings are not uncommon, Marcus. You would be aware if you yourself attended them,” Roland chided, not pausing to allow Marcus to rebuke. “That being said, the Sabbat presence in England – let alone London – is minute. No one could have predicted that our cousins in the east would suddenly and unexpectedly take such an interest in our fair city.”

“Roland is right,” said another voice, at last. It was Elizabeth Atkinson, one of the few present who had actually witnessed the chaos of the previous night. Slim, sexy and conniving, she was every bit the Toreador politician, her beauty belying her true talents. “The Sabbat are known for giving into their more... base desires, but more often than not there is a method to their madness. There have been no signs or suggestions that any of this was coming.”

“Oh, didn't you get the memo, Lizzie? 'Privyet, comrades! Just a quick note from Moscow to let you know that we were thinking of dropping by to see you soon. Would New Year be convenient? Do svidaniya, darlings. Kiss kiss.'”

All eyes turned to the Malkavian Primogen, who scrunched up her face in response. Starkley was, unsurprisingly, something of a wild card, but was afforded some leeway because of the cursed nature of her blood. She was neither as beautiful or as cunning as the Toreador whom she had mocked, but had talents of her own that the Prince prized just as highly.

“Thank you, Anna,” Gabriel intoned, continuing regardless of the interruption. “The point raised perhaps the most important of the evening. The attack may have been the first but it is unlikely to be the last. From now on, however, we will be prepared. I want increased security, I want to know exactly what is going on here and on the continent. Saul...?”

Leavis nodded and tapped one grotesque finger to his mishapen nose. “Nothing gets past my lot. Don't know if the network reaches as far as the old Soviet block, but we'll keep our eyes and ears open, as always.”

“Excellent. Keep a particularly tight vigil on airport traffic. The Archbishop Katarina-”

“Katarina?” It was then that the Tremere warlock spoke up, cutting Gabriel off mid-sentence.

[Gabriel Rodermark]

Katarina. The word seemed to strike a chord with Brown-Turrel. Saul, observing, arched a brow. It was rare that the Tremere warlock exhibited any sign of his anger, yet the very mention of this Archbishop seemed to have lit a fire behind his eyes. Beware the fury of a patient man, someone had once said. That someone was right. The wrath of a blood-wizard wasn't something to be goaded and tempted. The warlocks were the keepers of dark secrets that the rest of the Camarilla could only puzzle and speculate over. Their mastery over the occult was, Saul suspected, the only reason that they were permitted into the sects ranks – as it was better to have them as an ally than as an enemy.

“The Archbishop keeps company with a Tremere sorcerer,” Elizabeth explained. It became clear, then, why William had looked so vexed at the mention of Katarina. “He was there at the gallery, shooting lightning bolts out of his fingertips.”

“I thought your boys wiped out that lot out a long time ago?” Saul asked, looking to Brown-Turrel expectantly. The Tremere seemed to squirm under Leavis' gaze. The issue was clearly one of great discomfort.

“There are,” he began, “only a handful of... traitors left. We purged the majority of the antitribu line at the turn of the last century, but a handful of young, twentieth-century neonates have carried on the tradition.”

“The Sheriff reported that this particular sorcerer was of average build, with dark hair and an eastern-”

“Vishnyakov,” the Tremere interrupted. “His name is Sergei Vishnyakov.”

“You know who he is and you haven't offed him yet?” Marcus, once more, sounded disbelieving. His brow was tightly knitted into a frown.

“It's not that simple. The traitor is under the protection of the Archbishop of Moscow. To our knowledge, he has remained in Russia for many years now and as you well know, Russia is rife with both Sabbat and Lupine. It would be suicidal to attempt to pluck him from the heart of their territory. We had hoped he would venture forth into Europe sooner.”

“We are fortunate, then, in knowing the identities of two of the leaders of this attack,” Roland mused aloud, absently stroking his chin with thumb and forefinger. “Of course, they will merely be tools in the hands of some higher power, but whatever knowledge we have can be used to our benefit, surely.”

Saul looked between the Primogen. He could almost hear the wheels and cogs turning in their minds. Each of them had, of course, their own agenda. Words were chosen carefully, and evidently no more so than by Greta Willis, the Gangrel representative. Willis had yet to speak and while Saul didn't suppose that she had much to offer in the way of knowledge on these particular Sabbat, her silence was slightly unnerving. The Nosferatu looked instead to the Prince for direction.

[Gabriel Rodermark]

Before anyone else could speak, Thorny fired off another question.

“What about the Tzimisce? No one recognised it?”

“No,” Gabriel spoke a deliberate slowness. “None of the kindred present had any idea who it was. It took the form of a small girl, prepubescent I imagine, with delicate and almost doll-like features. Certainly not built for combat.”

“Hence the army of ghouls,” Roland added, at which point Anne Starkley began to laugh.

“The witch sent flying monkeys,” she sniggered. “But little Dorothy got away.”

Though none of the present assembly showed it, they were briefly perplexed, until Thornby took the liberty of translating the Malkavian's words into plain English. “Dorothy. Right. I hear that someone brought a mortal along to the party.”

At this, Gabriel nodded. “A local young woman, by the name of Sansa Martin. I found her on the fourth floor during the height of the ruckus and removed her to the safety of the purveyors office. From what I can tell, her mind is already adapting to the false-truths I put in place to blank on the evenings... indiscretions.”

“Who invited her?” It was Greta Willis at last. There was a slight sneer to her tone. Of Scottish decent, Willis had a head of tightly-coiled black curls and carried herself with a certain swagger in her step. She had the same confidence in her that was possessed by the alpha males of most pack animals. She was rough around the edges but Saul found her natural earthiness much more appealing than the lithe and willowy Toreador Primogen.

“Jude.”

“And he's going to be punished?” Marcus said, though his words sounded more like a statement than a question.

“Yes, of course, Marcus. I have already forbidden him from further contact with the mortal in question and further disciplinary action shall follow.”

“Were there any other Sabbat present?” Roland Salisbury spoke up, after a few moments of silence. “The three we have mentioned already seem to be the ring-leaders.”

“I saw a handful of Lasombra encircling the Tzimisce at some point,” Elizabeth offered, “though besides them I don't think they were any others. The bulk of the attack was ghouls.”

As the Primogen continued to discuss the various details of the attack, from the strategic movements of the Sabbat to who fought who, Gabriel eased back slightly in his chair. The topic of the Malkavian Jude had been broached and covered in a split second, and Saul found this slightly odd. It seemed always to be the case that the Prince would cover for the moony without any reasonable explanation, other than that he was 'a value asset to London's upkeep'. While Jude's error certainly wouldn't have warranted Final Death, putting the Masquerade at risk deserved more than the slapped wrist that the boy would certainly get.

“In summation, our key concerns are: to re-establish security by increasing border patrols and by performing regular searches of all potential havens of any unwelcome visitors; to find out whatever we can about the Archbishop Katarina, as well as her superiors and those in her command; to inform the surrounding cities of the attack and attempt to rally their support...” Roland ran down a list which he had compiled throughout the course of the meeting.

Saul listened for a moment and then found his mind drifting again. It would fall to him, largely, to dig up the dirt on the Sabbat wench. Leavis and his clan mates were the keystone in such operations. Salisbury and the Ventrue were often quite useful in this respect, too, but didn't get their ear close enough to the ground, for fear of getting it dirty.

“I want word put about,” the Nosferatu heard his Prince say, “that London is in a state of alert. It is, however, too much of a risk to bring the city's kindred together to deliver the message, so you all will be responsible for your clans awareness. We risk further attacks from the Sabbat. It is every vampires duty to upload the Masquerade and to protect this domain.”

[Gabriel Rodermark]

When at last the meeting had finished, the Primogen departed all in varying spirits. Saul Leavis faded into the night like a whisper, unsettling and silent in his movements. He watched the others as they went on their way and listened to their strained bickering. When at last he was satisfied by what he had heard, he slipped under the cover of a man-hole and beneath the streets of London. The sewers and the Underground were the domain of the Nosferatu and he moved quickly through them, informing ring-leaders of what had been decreed by the Prince.

Roland Salisbury remained as calm and composed as he had done on his entrance to the meeting room, the only difference being that the leather-bound notebook beneath his arm now had a few more pages covered in writing. He met with a small contingent of his clan mates shortly after departing and the group began the meticulous scheming and plotting that had gained clan Ventrue its seat of power within Kindred society. They dealt with crisis much the way they dealt with everything else – with a surgeons precision and efficiency.

Greta Willis was fated to have a much more difficult job of informing her clan mates. The Gangrel were one of the least represented clans in the city and had managed to scatter themselves all across its boroughs. It was rare that a group of more than four were found together. Greta herself kept company with a small 'pack', who she informed first. It was a shame, she thought, that she could not simply give out an almighty howl and have her message echo throughout all London, but unfortunate it was not so. She would spend perhaps the longest of all the Primogen delivering the summons, in spite of having the fewest Kindred to speak with.

William Brown-Turrel returned to the Tremere chantry somewhat shaken. He had not dealt personally with Vishnyakov but had heard word of him from cells on the continent proper. There were rumours of Sabbat sorcerers dabbling into arts that their Camarilla cousins could not – who knew what dread arcane paths were open to those who abandoned their humanity almost entirely? At the mercy of the Beast, the blood magic would no doubt become all the more potent and ferocious.

Marcus Thornby travelled straight to one of his most well-known haunts, a bar that was frequented by a large number of Brujah. While he and other more respected members of the clan departed to the top floor for a game of poker and a little chat, the others let out their frustration in what amounted essentially to a riot set to music – the screams, snarls and pounding beat only whipping them into a stronger frenzy.

Anna Starkley seemed to vanish into whatever rift in normality she'd come from. The Malkavian Madness Network would soon be rife with rumour and intrigue, as the minds of many speculated over the fate of London. Already speculation had begun as to when the next blow would be delivered. Already speculation had begun, though whether there was any truth in such prophecies remained to be seen.

Elizabeth Atkinson was met by an elegant chauffeur driven car, which returned her post-haste to her haven. There, waiting, were a gathering of Toreador socialites with whom she spent the rest of the night discussing the details of the Primogen's meeting. Many of those who had been present at the Barbican had already begun to practice what the Prince would have had them preach to others. They understood the need for equilibrium, for security. The last thing they wanted were Sabbat beasts spoiling their party.

The Prince, however, still had one more matter to deal with before the sun rose. After seeing that the Primogen had departed safely, he returned to the darkened room to find another, new face sitting at the round table.

[Jude]

January 1st 2006, early morning (time unknown) – the Barbican Arts Centre

“You!” a voice yells. I look behind me. It's the Sheriff.

“Come on, get down here, we got clean-up to do.”

I steady myself. The world is swimming in all different directions. The blood in my veins is calling out for the blood on the ground. It's got a taste for the meat, after I gave it a bite of snow-white, and now the Beast wants more. One look at the broken body of Frankstein does a little to staunch its appetite, but it's not until the firm hand of the Sheriff yanks me down the stairs that feel clarity.

Clean-up is about as pretty as it sounds. We work at double-speed, draining the reserves of our already depleted energy to salvage the gallery. The Sheriff has other sheep to shepherd. He leaves me side, as he rallies the other scattered Kindred. All the while, though, I feel his eyes on me and a weight on my shoulders. I try to ask questions, but they've no ears for it. Not until the last monkey carcass is gone.

At last he speaks to me, but it's only two words. “Follow me.”

January 1st 2006, 11:58pm - an unknown location

Locked in a box. No windows, one door, no light. It's not the first or the last time. In fact, it's almost like being home. Almost like the good old days, back before blood became a necessity. I lie on the cold, hard floor and pick out patterns and shapes in the shadows. Just like home, I think. Only without the screams.

I sit up as I hear footsteps outside. The little party is over. Voices drift under the door, telling me that they expect their car immediately, that they're heading here and there. Some of them come closer to me, but in time they all become silent, until finally the Sheriff speaks again – the first time since he had in the gallery, but the same two words. The cell door opens.

“Follow me.” I trail behind in silence and find myself sat down at the Round Table, though the Knights are conspicuously absent. I'm not here to see them of course. I'm here for the King.

[Gabriel Rodermark]

I saw to it that the Primogen departed unhindered before returning to the buildings interior. The order had been given to bring our captive to the meeting room and to have him wait for my arrival When at last I came to him, I found him sitting in the very seat that I had previously occupied. Though matted dark hair hung over his eyes I could tell he was not looking directly at me, instead apparently transfixed by some small detail in the tabletop. The power of my blood was too strong for him to resist, however, and as I drew nearer his head turned upwards, his eyes widened.

“Do you understand why I have brought you here, Jude?” I asked. He looked started blankly. I noticed that he was trembling ever so slightly. He did not reply, but I had not expected him to.

“You have become a liability...”

Always clan Malkavian had possessed such a potential threat. While all of their blood were cursed more than most, some were plagued by a greater madness than others. They were unpredictable, uncontrollable. As Prince, it was my job to maintain the delicate order of the Kindred society, and to weed out any incongruous members. How could he expect me to overlook transgression after transgression? While Jude's crimes were not of the highest order, they were so numerable that it was becoming difficult to overlook his errors any longer.

“... and it is no longer safe for you here.”

The safety of London had been compromised. The Sabbat were sure to descend on England once their wounds had healed. Jude was far too erratic to be of any use as a soldier and while he had his worth as a tactician, given his occasional foresight, I could not gamble the safety of my city on him. Still, I had a duty to him – to ensure his safety.

“I want you to go to the Americas. I have colleagues there. Acquaintances who will protect you until this tide of darkness has receded. Do you understand?”

[Gabriel Rodermark]

There was no audible answer. Perhaps he understood, perhaps he did not. For all I had known him for longer than a century, I had still yet to come to understand Jude myself. Like many Malkavians, his mind was an intricate puzzle with numerous solutions, none of which revealed themselves to those of sound mental capacity. Whether or not he understood, however, was irrelevant. I had already made the pertinent calls. Chicago and London had long entertained a comfortable friendship, maintained by business contacts between the two cities, as well as numerous century-spanning friendships.

While I sat in the darkened room with Jude, already one such friend was already likely to be winging his way to London. I needed a pair of safe and capable hands in which to place Jude, hands which would ensure that he remained free of the cities own political strife whilst not condemning the poor boy to solitary isolation. It was a small risk letting him loose as such, knowing full-well the sin and depravity that painted the streets there, but it was one that was necessary. I could stomach the thought of him brushing shoulders with Blood Dolls in the Succubus Club far more than I could the thought of him going up against Sabbat thugs.

“Sir?” A voice broke the silence. Both Jude and I turned to the sound. A young Ventrue stood in the open doorway, a cellphone in his hands. He had covered the receiver with one finger. “Gatwick. ETA forty-five minutes.”

[Martin Le Roux]

At least it wasn’t Heathrow or de Gaulle. Gatwick was a decently designed airport, and, in either case, didn’t make much of a difference when you were flying into London and just London. Martin had changed terminals once to fly to Australia at Heathrow, which had been a complete nightmare and disaster.

In a fit of fancy, Martin had requested that his dark red Cadillac CTS-V be delivered from his London garage. After all, he was flying the stars and stripes again, may as well represent. The car was present in the hangar, again as requested. Rodermark normally didn’t bother with the frilly details, but apparently, he quite needed a favor. Given the events of recent nights, this was understandable. Martin popped the rear hatch and placed his purposely un-inspected briefcase inside. The V8 burbled to life, echoing somewhat as he idled the car out.

Part of the problem, Martin decided, was that he didn’t know exactly what this favor would be. Historically, the Prince of London and Martin had exchanged small favors like friends sharing tea randomly. It simply wasn’t a big deal. There wasn’t much of a mental running tally. At least Martin hadn’t bothered to think on it at all. It wasn’t especially important to him one way or the other. He did keep track of the big favors, though. Everyone does, regardless of how selfless one may claim to be. This would be the second Gabriel had requested in 50 years. It was good to have a favor available, just in case. It could be anything, given the situation with the Sabbat.

Martin arrived at the 32 minute mark. The Ventrue had forgotten, apparently, that it was after midnight, and that Martin had no fear of the local traffic enforcement, nor any particular tendency to obey the laws of the road.

He was waved through the gates by a guard. Rodermark didn’t normally bother with such pronounced security. The MP-5K submachineguns were a new wrinkle, too. So it had been that bad. Martin frowned a little.

[Gabriel Rodermark]

I met Martin under the dull-yellow light of a antique lamp. Were it not for the presence of the armed guards and various other modern conveniences, one would be forgiven for mistaking the corridor in which we then stood to be the interior of some late Victorian manor. I smiled pleasantly, in spite of the circumstances, and we walked in silence for a while. It was in Martins nature to observe and it seemed to me that he was doing just that. There were subtleties in the décor and design of the place that only eyes such as ours would appreciate – yet sadly there was no time to discuss such things. “Thank you for arriving so promptly, Martin,” I said, as we entered a small parlour, adjacent to the darkened room that Jude waited in. “It is unfortunate that we must meet, again, in such troubling times...”

[Martin Le Roux]

Martin nodded quietly in agreement. The lighting seemed to agree with the overall mood too well. Something jovial would have been ironic, but it would have been nice if Gabriel had aimed for something of a middle ground. The whole thing was entirely too foreboding. The old, exquisitely crafted furniture added to the carefully cultivated atmosphere.

Martin’s gradually developed eccentricities showed through for a brief moment when he flicked a switch and added what he felt was some much needed light to the room. He shrugged in apology. With the favor Gabriel was sure to need, he would quickly dismiss such things.

“I take it there are some complications from the Sabbat’s ugly recent incursion?”

[Gabriel Rodermark]

“Indeed.”

Where the Sabbat were concerned, there were always complications. It was simply a matter of how large those complications were. In this case, London was subject to everything from minor annoyances to potentially major catastrophes. It was not within the capacity, however, for one man such as Martin – or even myself – to resolve the latter single handedly. Perhaps in time I would be forced to ask more of him than this already substantial favour. I had no doubts that he would oblige me, for he knew that I was a man of my word, and that any good deed would be returned. Regardless, I was reluctant to drag him down into the mire any more than necessary.

“Our business has a somewhat more personal edge to it, however. I have a... friend who is not safe here. I'd like you to take him to Chicago with you, to watch over him for a while.”

I paused for a moment, then adding: “He is a Malkavian.”

To many, such a thing would have been a curse, but I seemed to recall Martin having a curiously amicable relationship with the children of Malkav, and thought that the fact might sway his opinion somewhat.

[Martin Le Roux]

“Jude?” Martin guessed. Gabriel had a curious relationship with Jude that he doubted had been fully understood by anyone. The Malkavian had been given unusual leeway in the past.

Martin had met Jude once or twice, both during more lucid states. Malkavians were wonderfully unique. They were individuals to the last. If you could figure out what made that single one tick, even roughly, they weren’t impossible to guess at. To understand one, you had to be one. It was a line Martin was not willing to cross.

“What happened?” If he was going to have to learn about another child of Malkav, he wanted to know what prompted Gabriel to want him somewhere safer than London.

[Gabriel Rodermark]

“Our New Years Eve party was crashed. The Archbishop of Moscow and her pack, along with an unknown Tzimisce and her ghouls, and a Tremere sorcerer, attacked a little before midnight. The Barbican itself suffered substantial damage, though the Masquerade has been successfully maintained... thus far. We suspect, of course, that the Sabbat contingent are still in London, doubtlessly planning further attacks. The Primogen departed a short while ago and are beginning to put into place the necessary security measures.”

There was a pregnant pause, which could only be followed by one word: “However... it would be better for London and Jude if the two were temporarily separated. He has managed to tangle a young mortal in all of this, and I fear that he may have already grown attached to her... dangerously so.”

[Martin Le Roux]

Martin winced at the mention of the Barbican’s damage. He had not gone in a few years and surely many works of potential interest had been destroyed.

Jude’s attachment to a mortal. Ah. That made sense. Jude was something of an errant puppy regarding the Masquerade. It wasn’t that he tried to do wrong or right, but that his nature brought him close to the line. Jude had enough trouble keeping his wits about him on a normal basis, much less when the Sabbat was crashing about.

“I understand.” Martin said. He did, to a degree. The somewhat skittish Malkavian was not fully known to Martin, but he was sure he would learn, or Jude was likely to bring trouble to both of them.

Chicago had been quieter than the turbulent 90s, but it was not without its dangers.

“I wish we were meeting under better circumstances, but we do not wholly control the hand we are given, eh?” Martin said honestly.

[Gabriel Rodermark]

“Indeed... though I have no doubts that we will overcome this hurdle in due time.”

I wasn't putting on a brave face. I held the genuine belief that my Primogen would ensure the safety of London. The city had been a bastion of strength for too long to have it fall now to some errant Russian.

“Tell me, how is Chicago?”

[Martin Le Roux]

"Quiet.” Martin said and paused. For now. He almost added. Chicago had the calm before a storm, but it wasn’t a terrifying tempest that happened in the 90s. It was dangerous, but not wholesale destructive. At least that was what Martin hoped.

“Chicago is in a quiet time, and it should stay that was for the rest of the year.”

[Jude]

I hear voices... well, that's a given. These voices are familiar, though – real. Really real. Prince Charming and The Man From Chicago are talking as if I can't hear them, as if a couple of doorways is enough to block out their ill-ease and failed attempts at polite conversation. I catch words like flies, here and there, in the web of my mind – the web that's already, apparently, all tangled with a young mortal woman.

It's dull at the Round Table. Camelot is falling down, but I mustn't see. Dash that. I'm up on my feet and out past the blue-blood to the parlour... spiders? I can't stomach another web metaphor right now. Through the crack of the doorway I can see Lefty, but not The Man he's with. He catches my eye and I take this as a sign, a non-verbal welcome.

I step in and stand in the doorway. “...”

[Gabriel Rodermark]

I had not locked Jude in, so it was no surprise that he should appear to interrupt our conversation. He stood awkwardly in the threshold, looking expectantly between myself and Martin without saying a word. I hadn't planned some grand unveiling for him, so now was as good a time as any that they should meet. I stood and motioned back and forth, from Kindred to Kindred.

“Martin, this is Jude. Jude, this is Martin le Roux, a good friend of mine from Chicago.”

[Martin Le Roux]

Martin nodded, acknowledging the Malkavian politely. Handshakes were iffy sometimes.

Jude looked vaguely familiar to Martin outside of those two times. Background noise in his mind became somewhat focused. He had seen him in London before, but exactly when and where would not reveal themselves.

“How are you?” Unlike much of the previous conversation, which was mostly to get Gabriel to confirm how rotten things had gone and to figure out what he wanted exactly, the question to Jude was genuine. Martin wanted to know how Jude was doing on the whole. His temperament was important to discern.

[Jude]

“How am I what?” I ask, perplexed. The Man From Chicago looks familiar. Probably been to one of Lefty's tea parties before.

[Martin Le Roux]

"Doing?" Martin asked. The language semantics game was not one he prefered to play. He made a note to be more careful with his word choice around Jude.

[Jude]

Doing what? I swat away an invisible fly, the little voice in the back of my mind that wants to give The Man From Chicago the verbal run-around.

“Semantics,” I mutter to it, rubbing my eyes.

“I'm... tired. Feeling a little hungover, in fact. Lefty throws a mean party.”

I smile, stretched skin that looks unnatural.

“So, when are we going?”

[Martin Le Roux]

"As soon as you have whatever you need to take with you." Martin looked a Jude with a genuine, almost child-like curiousity. He half wondered if he would launch of into another game, or chase more half-imagined specters of various types, or something entirely different.

"If you want to take anything, that is." He looked between the Elder and the Malk, waiting for approval. If Jude didn't bring anything, Martin would be forced to clothe him. Extended bouts of dirty clothing wouldn't do.

[Gabriel Rodermark]

Jude was awkward, such was his nature. It was his way of testing others, evaluating whether they would make good sport. If they would play along with his games, they entertained him. If they would not, their frustration entertained him just as much. Fortunately I had chosen a guardian who had ample patience for the Malkavians.

“I've taken the liberty of packing a suitable wardrobe. That should be all you need.”

[Jude]

I frown. As if it isn't bad enough that Lefty is shipping me off to Chicago, now he's packing for me, can't wait to get me out of the door. I feel like a kid being carted off to Summer Camp. Maybe there'll be some ginger ale and cucumber sandwiches stuffed in the trunk too! I flop onto one of the couches, and I'm sure that I see Lefty wince out of the corner of my eye.

“Well, you heard the man, Martin. Sounds like we're peachy keen, good to go.”