[ Anyone who missed the first round can feel free to post as if they've already arrived. ]
Rasmussen looks pleased at the arrival of Everett, returning the nod with his own and raising his fellow Brujah a smile before returning his attention to his guests.
Samit seems lost in the music his ebon fingers coax forth from ivory and ebony keys – whether he notices the separate approaches of the Nosferatu duo or not. He's intent on pounding out those notes, rocking into the piano and back with a poised nods of his head, eyes on the keys, though even they close now and then in a look of artistic revery.
Oliverio, though, turns toward Jack and gives the Nosferatu a nod. They've met (in passing) before, but perhaps Jack's recent exploits have finally put the Sewer Rat onto the radar of this particular vampire. It brings a passing acknowledgment of Donkey Teeth as well, and when he begins speaking, the wiry old Giovanni makes sure to include both satellites of Gotfred's clan into the conversation.
"Good evening," the necromancer begins, lips still thin, threatening a scowl, though eyes softened with interest. "It's not often we in the provinces get such visits. I wonder, would you have any idea what tonight’s program might include? Tragedy? Comedy? Horror? Or perhaps something with a more satirical flavor?"
It's Gotfred who steps away from the nest of vampiric vermin and toward Everett, Lux and the Ventrue, Samantha, who has recently joined them in their surveying of the art. The Rat King's skin has the look of fleshy and deeply fissured tree bark, as if his skin had been stretched like tanning leather, and released too early, left wrinkled in long striations. His mouth is a parsed thing, small and lined with six visible teeth, each sharper than the next. Two miniscule cainines and incisors set on the tip and bottom, and then three coming down like razor sharp stalactites from the upper hinge of the jaw, the lower a single broad blade that they clack against as he speaks.
This subterranean monster wears an ill-fitting suit that his willowy frame swims within, though without shoes, even his feet disfigured by the curse of his clan. The middle three toes are long as a bat's would be if the size were comparable, the two on the outside shriveled to ineffective lumps. At least there is a symmetry to the odd form, though.
He meets the three Kindred before Hopper's Conference at Night, making the intersection of undead a ghastly recreation of it. He looks most interested to talk to the Brujah Anarch, Everett, though, once he's through greeting the three of them. Somehow, with that twisted excuse for a face, the man seems able to speak easily enough:
"Tell me you've decided to shake off the dust of your retirement and will join us on the lines," Everett's reputation on the field against the Sabbat no secret, especially not to militant Kindred of Denver like Gotfred. "Even with their short memories – and lifespans – I'm sure the Sabbat still fear the childe of Greta Braun."
And there is Mercy, crouching (stalking) and scowling (snarling). Even she is unable to avoid interaction in this bloody watering hole for predators. Her positioning draws the attention of Narcisa, and with that attention comes proximity. A quiet approach, as preparations are settled, ghouls and fanged posse dispatched to their posts, and as she she finally begins to pay attention to the proceedings and arrivals it's near the Outlander that the Sheriff decides to set up as guard. Leaning against a wall, kicking one leg over the other and folding her arms over her chest against the entryway to the main hall, her Lunatic eyes circle the room, but always come back to the menacing Gangrel.
The Tremere filter in as one. Where they'd been seen before this point in trickles, popping up out of a hidden warren on hunts and errands (sometimes the two combined), the breadth of the clan's recent arrival into the city becomes evident.
Marguerite Hill, who some may know as their Regent and Primogen, is the first through the door. She is dressed in a black velvet dress and her hair is tied in a great braid of espresso locks, its tail tucked in and a red pillbox hat atop it that match leather high heels. She helms a motley gang. In her wake are Jeremy Cabot and the more infamous (and younger looking) Malcolm Redknapp, shoulder to shoulder in tuxedos, and behind them another woman, similarly tuxedoed, though hers is more form-fitting. This last woman wears her hair short chopped and is no less tattooed than Malcolm and Jeremy, ink marking the skin up her neck and down her knuckles as she joins the troop of grim penguins behind Marguerite.
They make their introductions short and to the point and stick tight together, and perhaps their late arrival is proof they'd wanted to cut down time for socializing (intrigue) and leave their attentions fresh for the main event, because only a handful of minutes later...
A few key members of the crowd – Rasmussen, the Ventrue emissaries, Marguerite and Jeremy – grow quiet and Lucille's back straightens as she composes herself. Flattens the front of her dress. If she still breathed, one might imagine the Toreador Primogen and Keeper of Elysium would take a deep inhalation at this time.
And through the front door comes a figure that can only be Lady Adelaide. Her visage is one of a stately and silver-haired older woman, crows feet framing a look that incises the Elysium laid out before her with an icy blue and sweeping gaze before relaxing to take in the autopsy of mechanisms and machinations unveiled in its wake. She meets a few faces directly. Lucille. Rasmussen. Lady Hill. Wenceslao. Her smile is assured to the point of elevation and radiates a calm sovereignty over whatever it's cast upon. She wears a black gown, cut conservatively except for an open back of alabaster skin visible through the sheer silk blouse worn open over it, some hair pinned to one side and its remainder flowing freely.
Lucille speaks first, "Lady Adelaide, it is an honor to welcome you to Denver and our Elysium," and at this, Wenceslao is already stepping forward to make formal introductions.
"My Lady Adelaide, please allow me to introduce you to Lucille de Dampierre, Primogen of the Toreador. Lady Lucille, please allow me to introduce Lady Adelaide of Geneva," he recites this as if the etiquette of such introductions are as much instinct as rote.
"A pleasure, Primogen Lucille," the Ventrue's response in what can most aptly be compared to a mix of Italian and French accents.
The interaction repeats itself, variations on a theme, the names of the recipients changing as she makes her way to greet each of the Primogen present, even the Nosferatu she avoided looking to upon her arrival, and as if unable to differentiate him from the other malformed monsters in his entourage without Wenceslao.
And by the time she is upon Rasmussen her smile has grown sharpened as the broad blade of a sickle moon. "A pleasure, Primogen Rasmussen," and more this time, "it is a beautiful estate your city's Kindred call Elysium. As a grieving dam who also suffered a terrible loss in this siege, I extend the whole of the Camarilla's deepest condolences on the loss of your childe," her accent, displayed more fully, illustrating she most likely learned English from time in the United Kingdom, or at least from a native English tutor.
And now, as her attention leaves Rasmussen, it will become evident that Adelaide has positioned herself at the center of the furthest wall of Elysium – the head of the table, as it were, and a position of unmistakable power. She turns to regard all the assembled Kindred.
"I am here to reaffirm our solidarity with Denver and its Kindred. I speak on behalf of the Inner Council and the Justicars of the Six Clans of the Camarilla. The Sabbat will find no permanent home here. Their days without rest, their nights numbered, each a trial they will fail, each moment under the threat of Final Death, I speak on behalf of the Ventrue," and at this, Jun and Jonas stand a bit taller, though Wenceslao had already set himself at her arrival and that straight back never wavered. "This city will not fall."
Wenceslao steps forward as Lady Adelaide falls silent, speaking next, "And to that end, with so many of the Blood assembled, we ask to know better what Kindred will be counted amongst the Camarilla or as its allies in this cause. What Independents wish to remain neutral. We ask for news of the Sabbat not already shared. Claims of domain so that we know what territories we fight for and who will hold what lines. And at the close, a Prince will be named, positions of governance filled, and a full Council of Primogen instated."
Rasmussen looks pleased at the arrival of Everett, returning the nod with his own and raising his fellow Brujah a smile before returning his attention to his guests.
Samit seems lost in the music his ebon fingers coax forth from ivory and ebony keys – whether he notices the separate approaches of the Nosferatu duo or not. He's intent on pounding out those notes, rocking into the piano and back with a poised nods of his head, eyes on the keys, though even they close now and then in a look of artistic revery.
Oliverio, though, turns toward Jack and gives the Nosferatu a nod. They've met (in passing) before, but perhaps Jack's recent exploits have finally put the Sewer Rat onto the radar of this particular vampire. It brings a passing acknowledgment of Donkey Teeth as well, and when he begins speaking, the wiry old Giovanni makes sure to include both satellites of Gotfred's clan into the conversation.
"Good evening," the necromancer begins, lips still thin, threatening a scowl, though eyes softened with interest. "It's not often we in the provinces get such visits. I wonder, would you have any idea what tonight’s program might include? Tragedy? Comedy? Horror? Or perhaps something with a more satirical flavor?"
It's Gotfred who steps away from the nest of vampiric vermin and toward Everett, Lux and the Ventrue, Samantha, who has recently joined them in their surveying of the art. The Rat King's skin has the look of fleshy and deeply fissured tree bark, as if his skin had been stretched like tanning leather, and released too early, left wrinkled in long striations. His mouth is a parsed thing, small and lined with six visible teeth, each sharper than the next. Two miniscule cainines and incisors set on the tip and bottom, and then three coming down like razor sharp stalactites from the upper hinge of the jaw, the lower a single broad blade that they clack against as he speaks.
This subterranean monster wears an ill-fitting suit that his willowy frame swims within, though without shoes, even his feet disfigured by the curse of his clan. The middle three toes are long as a bat's would be if the size were comparable, the two on the outside shriveled to ineffective lumps. At least there is a symmetry to the odd form, though.
He meets the three Kindred before Hopper's Conference at Night, making the intersection of undead a ghastly recreation of it. He looks most interested to talk to the Brujah Anarch, Everett, though, once he's through greeting the three of them. Somehow, with that twisted excuse for a face, the man seems able to speak easily enough:
"Tell me you've decided to shake off the dust of your retirement and will join us on the lines," Everett's reputation on the field against the Sabbat no secret, especially not to militant Kindred of Denver like Gotfred. "Even with their short memories – and lifespans – I'm sure the Sabbat still fear the childe of Greta Braun."
And there is Mercy, crouching (stalking) and scowling (snarling). Even she is unable to avoid interaction in this bloody watering hole for predators. Her positioning draws the attention of Narcisa, and with that attention comes proximity. A quiet approach, as preparations are settled, ghouls and fanged posse dispatched to their posts, and as she she finally begins to pay attention to the proceedings and arrivals it's near the Outlander that the Sheriff decides to set up as guard. Leaning against a wall, kicking one leg over the other and folding her arms over her chest against the entryway to the main hall, her Lunatic eyes circle the room, but always come back to the menacing Gangrel.
The Tremere filter in as one. Where they'd been seen before this point in trickles, popping up out of a hidden warren on hunts and errands (sometimes the two combined), the breadth of the clan's recent arrival into the city becomes evident.
Marguerite Hill, who some may know as their Regent and Primogen, is the first through the door. She is dressed in a black velvet dress and her hair is tied in a great braid of espresso locks, its tail tucked in and a red pillbox hat atop it that match leather high heels. She helms a motley gang. In her wake are Jeremy Cabot and the more infamous (and younger looking) Malcolm Redknapp, shoulder to shoulder in tuxedos, and behind them another woman, similarly tuxedoed, though hers is more form-fitting. This last woman wears her hair short chopped and is no less tattooed than Malcolm and Jeremy, ink marking the skin up her neck and down her knuckles as she joins the troop of grim penguins behind Marguerite.
They make their introductions short and to the point and stick tight together, and perhaps their late arrival is proof they'd wanted to cut down time for socializing (intrigue) and leave their attentions fresh for the main event, because only a handful of minutes later...
A few key members of the crowd – Rasmussen, the Ventrue emissaries, Marguerite and Jeremy – grow quiet and Lucille's back straightens as she composes herself. Flattens the front of her dress. If she still breathed, one might imagine the Toreador Primogen and Keeper of Elysium would take a deep inhalation at this time.
And through the front door comes a figure that can only be Lady Adelaide. Her visage is one of a stately and silver-haired older woman, crows feet framing a look that incises the Elysium laid out before her with an icy blue and sweeping gaze before relaxing to take in the autopsy of mechanisms and machinations unveiled in its wake. She meets a few faces directly. Lucille. Rasmussen. Lady Hill. Wenceslao. Her smile is assured to the point of elevation and radiates a calm sovereignty over whatever it's cast upon. She wears a black gown, cut conservatively except for an open back of alabaster skin visible through the sheer silk blouse worn open over it, some hair pinned to one side and its remainder flowing freely.
Lucille speaks first, "Lady Adelaide, it is an honor to welcome you to Denver and our Elysium," and at this, Wenceslao is already stepping forward to make formal introductions.
"My Lady Adelaide, please allow me to introduce you to Lucille de Dampierre, Primogen of the Toreador. Lady Lucille, please allow me to introduce Lady Adelaide of Geneva," he recites this as if the etiquette of such introductions are as much instinct as rote.
"A pleasure, Primogen Lucille," the Ventrue's response in what can most aptly be compared to a mix of Italian and French accents.
The interaction repeats itself, variations on a theme, the names of the recipients changing as she makes her way to greet each of the Primogen present, even the Nosferatu she avoided looking to upon her arrival, and as if unable to differentiate him from the other malformed monsters in his entourage without Wenceslao.
And by the time she is upon Rasmussen her smile has grown sharpened as the broad blade of a sickle moon. "A pleasure, Primogen Rasmussen," and more this time, "it is a beautiful estate your city's Kindred call Elysium. As a grieving dam who also suffered a terrible loss in this siege, I extend the whole of the Camarilla's deepest condolences on the loss of your childe," her accent, displayed more fully, illustrating she most likely learned English from time in the United Kingdom, or at least from a native English tutor.
And now, as her attention leaves Rasmussen, it will become evident that Adelaide has positioned herself at the center of the furthest wall of Elysium – the head of the table, as it were, and a position of unmistakable power. She turns to regard all the assembled Kindred.
"I am here to reaffirm our solidarity with Denver and its Kindred. I speak on behalf of the Inner Council and the Justicars of the Six Clans of the Camarilla. The Sabbat will find no permanent home here. Their days without rest, their nights numbered, each a trial they will fail, each moment under the threat of Final Death, I speak on behalf of the Ventrue," and at this, Jun and Jonas stand a bit taller, though Wenceslao had already set himself at her arrival and that straight back never wavered. "This city will not fall."
Wenceslao steps forward as Lady Adelaide falls silent, speaking next, "And to that end, with so many of the Blood assembled, we ask to know better what Kindred will be counted amongst the Camarilla or as its allies in this cause. What Independents wish to remain neutral. We ask for news of the Sabbat not already shared. Claims of domain so that we know what territories we fight for and who will hold what lines. And at the close, a Prince will be named, positions of governance filled, and a full Council of Primogen instated."