It was a few hours after the gathering. Jason Shaw lurked in the shadows of the abandoned factory that had become his haven in the years he'd spent in the old city. He had seen many old buildings in his centuries of existence. They seemed to grow darker and more decrepit as his humanity faded further away. Perhaps, though, he was just growing more callous and cynical.
From outside, he could hear the rattling and creaking of the railway that ran behind the building. Shaw could feel the rumbling in the ground caused by the freight train as it screeched past. He brushed long, stringy, dark hair out of his deformed face. His green eyes were sunken in and surrounded by black, giving the illusion of a skull. This was made more dramatic by his cold, pale flesh that hung loosely from his bones. His nose was crumpled. Flat. Sunken into his face more than his eyes, which still worked (unlike the nose). Such was the curse of being embraced by a Nosferatu. He had become a walking corpse. "Living" in such a form for so many years had made him appreciate very much the power he had to change the way he looked. It made hunting much easier. It made fulfilling his duties as Seneschal much easier, although his true appearance was best for intimidation.Shaw approached the middle of the room. It was starting to lighten outside. He pulled up a manhole cover with one arm and stepped down to the ladder. Sliding the cover into place above him, he made his way through the labyrinth of the city sewers to the hidden room where he kept his coffin.
Kim was already there, curled up on the bed in the large crypt-like room. She was sound asleep. Jason managed a small smile. Good girl. He checked the other room. A coffin. Ken had come home as well. No need to check the others. He knew they were back already. He made his way through several doors and the security involved, and found himself in the safety of his tomb. He locked the door behind him, climbed into his coffin, and let sleep take him.------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He wasn't used to the sunlight. With a curse, Gregory Spencer put his "shades" back on and steered his car into the left turn lane. Green light. He stepped on the gas and headed towards the college. He wasn't sure why he'd been asked to do this. Imagine him--the fucking Praetor--running errands for some little Primogen bitch. Come to think of it...why had he agreed to it? Why was he in a ghoul-suit at nine in the morning going to the university when he could be sleeping and not spending useful energy that could be used on much more worthwhile tasks?Gregory sighed. Or his ghoul did. Either way, the sound was the same. He did owe Alice a favor. And fucking with Brujah influence was one of his favorite past-times. However, this particular rabble-rouser was a broodmate of the Prince. What came first again? Clan or Camarilla?
Then he remembered. Alice knew about his...indiscretions...with a certain Malkavian. Alice knew he was gay. He owed her a favor. He knew that she wouldn't hesitate to "accidentally" tell someone about his lifestyle should he fail to hold up his end of the deal. Bitch.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Yes...it is a lovely piece, isn't it? Early American. Colonial."
A painting, depicting an ocean sunset in vivid acrylics, hung on the wall in front of the pair. The sun was a reddish orange, surrounded by pinks and purples and the whites of clouds. The water was a deep blue, matching the customer's eyes almost exactly. She titled her head as she gazed at the painting, letting her brown curls fall over her shoulders. It was a good copy of the original. But she'd seen better.
Maureen raised an eyebrow at the art dealer. "Are you sure?"
"I've been told by several experts."
"Hmm...well, I don't think I'll decide just yet. What else can you show me?"
She knew the painting wasn't colonial. It wasn't even American. It wasn't even the original. She'd burned that years ago. It wasn't one of her better works, especially as a reprint. She'd get one of her ghouls to take care of it. Bad art tended to follow her around. The other Toreador got ahold of it and...well, one's reputation was everything.
Miss Fulton, as the dealer called her, listened partially as he showed her around the displays. Nothing caught her eye. Where had all the talent gotten to these days? Nobody could even make a good forgery!
Leaving the gallery, Maureen glanced at her watch. Just past nine. She glanced up at the sky and smiled, spotting her favorite constellation even through the dim street lights. No time to waste, though. The Primogen's new show was starting in twenty minutes, and she'd have to hurry to get there before the lights went down and the overture started!