I killed my childe to protect you, Dante. You know that, don't you?

All that I've done to you, I've done for you.

I took your blood so that you would have room for mine.

I shadowed those who would destroy you, and let you sup from my wrist as you lay in the unkind darkness of your enemies to give you strength enough to confess your sins to my prince.

Even as your betrayer nailed you to the wall with a shaft of birch wood, I was there to burn away your past crimes against my Prince. After you baptismal anew, it was I who pricked his finger on your frozen fangs, forcing my blood into your still mouth and down your throat when the stake would not even allow you the dignity of swallowing.

I know you were confused by my not so tender affections; the hood and the restraints were designed not to break your spirit, but rather to focus it. I've always admired the swift and deadly reactions of your clan as well as their sudden insights of purpose and direction, but these moments of frenzy oft prove to be your clan mates' undoing.

You are different, I know for I have looked deeply inside you. Don't worry; I put everything back where it belongs. I have the diagrams to prove it.

I have been intimate with you in many ways. The healing touch of my kindred tongue along your giblets and gizzards has toughened them. I have pushed my blood within you, returning warmth to your limbs and stirring the desires of your manhood thought left behind in your mortal life; surely not even your sire showed you love such as this.

I hope to share my visions with you Dante, but this peace Jean-Paul claims for us all slides the forecoming center of the Camarilla further more surely into Venice. We have accomplished nothing here except to have discovered each other; significant, but hardly sufficient. The Congress of the Night, my dream, my vision for Nice and my Prince is horribly endangers, and there are so many forces in play.

Some have accepted the tale I tell them for they seek madness within me. Fools. So I give them madness, to all save the sheriff. Until your training with me is completed and a suitable disguise can be arranged, it is the only protection I can afford. They think I believe I am a Toreador, because I say I am a Toreador. I've told the sheriff, Harold, the same repeatedly once a day for four days now.

Earlier this week, he agreed with me, you know, and then I told him Jean-Paul was a Toreador, too. This, I could see, piqued his interest and I let go the façade of madness from my countenance. Then I asked him how he knew I was a Toreador. "You told me," he says.

And then I said, "How do you know Jean-Paul is a Toreador?" And then you could see the wheels turn inside his head...

And then... I'm sorry, Dante, my sweet engine of destruction... what word didn't you understand?

Oh! Well, the reason I just don't tell the sheriff I think the Seneschal is a Tzimisce is that I'm a Malkavian. He might believe I am not lying, but he may just think I've taken the blood from one too many drunken men. Also, and this is very important, I do not KNOW it for a fact. I am guessing. It feels right. No other reason, really.

Well, yes, his obsession with the human form is a clue, of course. As is his hand in the most base human interaction, the rutting for money that seems the greatest source of income, the man enjoys debasement of the soul. And his squashing of dance within the city of Nice; surely no other art inspires vice than the rhythmic movements to music that so closely resembles the writhing and rutting his own business feeds off of.

And lets not forget that word, treason.

Toreadors are not creatures of politics. We are above that sort of thing.

Oh, I'm sorry, Dante, I forgot I do not have to lie to you. Now where was I?

I must hide in riddles, for my Prince is the lynchpin of my hopes and dreams for Nice, and should I be seen as endangering her seat of power, well, then I will forced out of Nice on a rail. Or I shall have a rail piercing my heart, and you know how painful that can be.

Oh, don't bite your lip, dear Dante, I won't let that happen to you.

Again.

...unless, it's very, very necessary, of course.

I am not even sure you are real Anarchs. Were. You need to tell me everything, my adopted childe. Who was your true sire? How did you come to be in that Ruined City?

Who do you know within the city? Within the courts?

Mind you, I am not asking you to betray anyone. I am merely asking so you do not betray yourself. I must disguise you against all who might recognize you, including, --especially-- the Prince, Jean-Paul, and Harold.

That reminds me, too, you must tell me all you told them under interrogation. I know it must pain you to do recall that dreadful day, but I am here and I know you will be brave for me.

I find it dreadfully sloppy, unless there was a reason for their madness, to wait until after your interrogation to appoint Harold to Sheriff. So many little clues, and only the lord knows the red herrings from the... ummm.... plain herrings.

Stupid expression; it'll never catch on. I'm sorry I coined it.

I will teach you to obfuscate your appearance, that should help a bit, but against Jean-Paul, I might as well give you a wooden sword and a cheesecloth shield.

I also must take extra care with the Assamite now gone to ground.

Let me explain, for he is also a danger to you, as much as any of them that you left behind. He is my enemy. His kind have stolen the Holy Land, let me tell you. And he is a thief, along with the Gangrel (although the poor thing is nothing more than a trained monkey, I am sure, or perhaps a crow simply fascinated by the shiny things).

Most importantly, Sorrow lies about who he is.

I simply can not abide liars and people who pretend they are things they are not.

My "peace offering" chased him from Dolcea's home thus my "fellow" Toreador is protected from his corrupting influence. I do not know how he figured out my puzzle jar, but he escaped harm. Perhaps, it was simply happenstance, but perhaps not.

I need more refined chemicals, I think, for I am sure I did everything correctly. *snicker* Perhaps I am more Toreador than I thought for here I sit complaining about the lack of refinement about me while avoiding to mention the fault may lie with me.

Now, I must go and discuss things with my future protégé, Wolfgang. I wonder how he will take the additions of statuary as fittings for the chandelier chocks, although the raised viewing boxes for the elite was a stroke of brilliance. The opera house will hopefully prove to be a distraction to all involved...

While I am gone, I want you to tell your tale to Piers; he will jot down notes so that I may have something to read should the day be restless for me. Then I want you to learn all you can from him of what the kine know of him and his former master. You may very well have to pretend to be Karnak's brother or cousin or something. And do try to find a picture of him around the villa.

Of course there's a drawing or painting of him in this house somewhere. He was a Toreador.