Aristocracy of the Night
Chapter One
Disclaimer: This story started out as a Vampire: the Masquerade LARP, which I loved so much that I decided to take the time to write down the general idea of it. Dialogue, characters, and storylines have been omitted in order for the story to make sense. Most of the characters belong to me, but there are a few that are RPed by my friends that were too important to get rid of.
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As I gaze around the room from beneath long, dark lashes, I can't help but chuckle to myself. This is all that the Camarilla has to offer in our deepest time of need? We are so fucked, so fucking fucked.
Tristan Beck, my Sire, Regent and closest person to "friend" status in my book, stands up in front of his small audience. Automatically, he smoothes his dyed black hair, straightens his tie, and carries out other very vain, very human motions to keep his appearance professional and orderly. The room quickly grows quiet, and he takes a few moments to revel in the attention before introducing himself, speaking with a heavy Austrian accent that is not unpleasant.
Tristan is reasonably attractive, but I've never thought of him as any more than that. Our relationship was one of respect since the beginning, though I am aware he has always wanted more. However, since Tremere tend to look down upon in-Clan friendships, he had to fight fang-and-claw to even keep me as an Apprentice of his. It can be uncomfortable being alone with him at times, but there are always worse options.
My eyes follow the seats in front of the slightly raised stage. Loki Kokopelli is seated closest to the door, his blue eyes shadowed by a black cloak's hood. As I entered this Gathering with Tristan, he was the first person I saw. Though Tristan had acknowledged the Nosferatu as an old friend, I hadn't recognized Loki's face. Now, I took the time to commit him to memory for future reference; I particularly linger on the way his light skin glows against his dark hair. My eyes hesitate over him for a moment before moving to the female Nosferatu, Elizabeth, at his left. "Loki, aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?" she'd said not long after we'd entered. There was something about the way she'd said it that struck a nerve in me.
There are several seats between me and Elizabeth, but to my direct left is a Brujah named Damon Orso. Despite introducing himself as a scholar thousands of years old , he does not even slightly resemble the part. For a moment, this lack of traditionalism is a comfort, but then I see the Brujah is wearing sandals. I roll my eyes.
A few more Kindred populate the room, but none of them matter to me.
Tristan explains the situation, but I tune him out. I've heard the story a million times and have grown desensitized to it: Lodin, the old Prince of Chicago, is gone; Lodin's entire hierarchy is gone; the old Regent is gone. Supposedly, the Sabbat came in and terrorized them, but no one knows for certain. The vampires left in the room are all that remains of the Greater Chicago Realm. Again, I chuckle softly.
Finally, Tristan announces the point of this Gathering: Chicago must have a new Camarilla Prince.
I am in no position to be in charge of a city, so I let everyone else decide. I remember instead the look of vulturous vigor on Tristan's face when he received the phone call to come to Chicago; I remember my excitement at being able to start fresh, of finding new contacts and dragging up resources the Old Chicago left behind; I remember finding Ghouls that suit and compliment my interests better than anyone else; I remember—
"Kiara Nightshadow," Tristan begins frostily, though I am certain from his tone that his bitterness is not directed towards me, "do you agree with Mr. Cole's observation?"
I quickly replay the past few seconds in my head and choose my words carefully before speaking; it is always wise to watch your tongue around a Tremere Regent when you're only a lowly Third Circle Apprentice, even if his position is only temporary. There can only be one Regent of Chicago, and I have no doubt in my mind that, though both of them possess the title, the full glory of Regency would go to Mr. Beck. "Mr. Cole suggests Draven LaCrow as our next Prince because he is Lasombra, but I believe a Prince should be chosen based on his ability to lead others and measured based on how those others are lead, if at all."
"A Prince is nothing without loyal followers," a Toreador I never bothered to remember the name of agrees.
"Nonsense," someone else speaks up. "Princedom goes to the toughest asshole out there. If he can't hold his position, how can he stabilize a city?"
"Well, then." The Lasombra rubs his hands together. "If anyone so objects to me being Prince, speak now or forever resent your silence." No one contests, so he climbs onto the stage next to Tristan and continues, "Good. Tristan, you're my Seneschal and acting Harpy. I'll pick a Sheriff after I find someone suited for the position."
"Now that's more like it," Gunnar Svensson, a burly Gangrel, praises.
The room disperses as everyone attempts to grab the Prince's attention after a short, informal speech. Tristan soon after approaches me with a flare of irritation in his eyes. He lowers his voice so only I can hear. "Mr. Cole utterly disregarded my specific instructions. He was to remain silent while I privately interviewed potential candidates for Prince. Now we have this…Lasombra pirate who we know nothing about running the city."
"Why didn't you speak out while you had the chance?"
"That would result in both disrespecting the would-be Prince and the other Regent of Chicago. It would not have been wise."
I take a moment to think this over. "A Tremere Regent with as little Thaumaturgy as he has won't last long. How he ever managed to come to power is beyond me. Given time, he will die or be overthrown."
Tristan's anger gradually settles, but I know from experience that he will not completely relax until Mr. Cole is dead.
"If you want, I could Levinbolt him across the city for you," I tease, though half of me waits for his order to do just that. Of course, Tristan refuses the offer.
Once Tristan is calm enough, I leave him to Prince Draven before I join the thin crowd on the other side of the room. Mr. Cole is there, accompanied by Loki and a female Brujah who is not even slightly interested in their conversation.
"So you're Regent?" Loki asks, an amused look on his face.
Mr. Cole, not at all alarmed at a non-Tremere referencing a piece of the Tremere pyramid, nods smugly and launches into a story about how he was on the front lines fighting against the Sabbat and protecting the former Regent.
"Huh," Loki muses. "How'd that go?"
"He…" The arrogance is immediately wiped off his face. "He was killed."
"I see. Good job with that, then."
I hide a smirk as I sit in their circle. Mr. Cole quickly recovers from the insult and begins bragging about the amazing feats he has accomplished to get where he is while I mentally make a note of how many more slip-ups he makes. He reaches nine before we are joined by someone I've never seen, someone who Loki and Mr. Cole ignore. Carpenter is his name, he says, and I shake his hand politely.
His hand is warm.
"So why are you here?" I ask as nonchalantly as I can while the red flags go up in my head.
"I heard there was a party here and I thought it'd be fun enough for me to join," is his smooth reply. He kicks his feet up on the chair in front of him as he sits.
"And which family do you come from?" I ask, my wording careful in case he's…unwelcome.
He simply grins at me.
"Oh," I say, reading the look on his face. "You're a Ghoul."
"Yes." He isn't lying.
Prince Draven joins us then, his blindingly loyal puppies at his heels. I explain Carpenter's presence just as Loki and Mr. Cole step out, and the Prince reaches the same conclusion I did.
"Need your blood keg of the month?"
"Yes," he responds in a flat voice.
"Which Clan was your last Regnet from?" Prince Draven presses.
Carpenter's grin widens. "Lasombra."
"Well, you're in luck. Come with me." The Prince leads him to a side room.
"I don't trust that guy," I mutter to myself, trying to fill in the silence when I realize I'm alone.
"Are you suggesting for even a moment that anyone here is so much as slightly trustworthy?"
I swerve at the voice, my hands instinctively grasping the hilts of the twin katanas at my waist, but I check myself before I draw them. It's only Loki.
He sniggers at my reaction. "Ever get the feeling that someone's right behind you, eavesdropping on your one-sided conversations?"
"Only when you're around."
"I see." He smiles. "Kiara Nightshadow, was it? The only female Tremere in the city?"
"As far as you know. Loki Kokopelli, right? The other least trustworthy Kindred in Chicago?"
"Nope. No, that's not me. You must have me confused with someone else." With that, he abruptly vanishes.
I continue to stare at the space Loki occupied only a second ago and shake my head. "What a strange, strange man."