"Staked and left for the sunrise, you say?" Lord Farnsworth asked, staring into the fireplace. The figure in the other chair nodded.
"I see," Farnsworth said. "It would seem we are dealing with an adversary who finds particular relish in cruelty." His legs were crossed, one ankle on the other knee. His one hand stroked his light silver-gray beard. The other fished in the pockets of his red silken robe. "Best to wear this tonight." His hand came up with a silver medallion in it. "It was my late Sire's amulet, long ago. Made of silver stolen from the Notre Dame cathedral in Paris, soaked in the blood of a bishop for a fortnight, and re-forged with an ebony hammer. It should protect you from the humans' Divine powers, at least most of the time."
He tossed the amulet to the other, who caught it deftly and twirled the artifact before his eyes.
"But remain cautious," Farnsworth said sharply. "You are still vulnerable to the humans' weapons," he leaned in closer, "and their ruses. You are almost beyond being a Neonate, apprentice, but you are still reckless and you still have the nonchalance of the Fledgling in you."
The apprentice frowned.
"I fear your overconfidence will one day be your undoing. You see only your goals, and not the dangers in your way."
Farnsworth resumed staring at the dying fire. It was so typical for him to still light a fire. The warmth of it was useless to his dead body, but that wasn't why he had the fire going. It was all part of his constant and vain struggle to recapture the feelings of the lost joys of life.
At length he turned back to his apprentice. "Be on your guard this night, be sure to sleep in a well protected place, and wear the medallion! Hunters are not to be underestimated!"
Farnsworth rose from his red leather baroque chair. "Now, if there's nothing else?"
The apprentice didn't reply and Farnsworth only said, "I shall retire for the night," before exiting the room.
Alone now, the dying fire reflecting red on his eyes and the silver around his neck, the apprentice now sat staring at the fireplace.
Farnsworth was a font of great knowledge, but he was also completely without ambition, which was considerably rare for a Tremere, content to sit in his parlour, gaze into his fire and contemplate all manner of existential philosophies while mostly staying out of the Vampiric power struggles that had always attracted the apprentice so. There was power to be had, but Farnsworth was too afraid of the competition to actively seek it, only having the interests of the spice colony at heart – and even then. And so the apprentice was condemned to wait in the shadows until this mentor saw it fit to cut him loose.
And now Farnsworth's lack of influence had cost him dearly. One of the apprentices, his Tremere childe to make it worse, had already paid for it with her extinction. There were hunters around, and they weren't the typical incompetent and ignorant ghosthunters and self-proclaimed paranormals who protected themselves with garlic and who believed they were safe so long as they didn't invite the Vampires into their homes. No, these hunters weren't that kind. They knew. They knew Vampires were real, and they were trained in destroying them. Which meant that they probably had come all the way from Europe.
The apprentice that was destroyed had been Tremere, however, so the hunters had actually done the Kindred a service. The fewer scheming Tremere in the world, the better. Still, the death of a Vampire at the hands of a hunter was always bad news. It was the second already. Sören had been killed first. Worthless Malkavian. Still, there were three more apprentices left. Himself, Sévigny the Gangrel and Roland the Toreador.
The apprentice picked up his rifle and proceeded out, into the warm African air. A servant took of his hat and stepped forward to inquire about his needs, but the apprentice brushed him out of the way. Savage! He proceeded to the waiting coach. "To the villa, and be quick about it," he snapped at the driver as he got in. He held up the amulet to his eyes, as the coach rambled up the hill to his villa, a small cottage compared to Farnsworth's. And as he held up the medallion, a realization dawned on him.