Post by Shah-Khohr of Ventrue on Feb 21, 2016 18:06:54 GMT -8
It was always the same when the sun set. There was a heavy blackness, and then nothing. Peaceful nothing. As the twilight came upon them, before the full darkness of night, that cool blackness receded.
He was where he had fallen to the daysleep. His study. Around him were the remains of the pristine cork boards. The intricate yarn connecting photos to pieces of information scattered about the room. Little cards with the compact, perfect writing littered the floor. There should be a crink in his neck or a bruise for laying amid the carnage. A benefit of lacking a heartbeat was the troubles of pooling blood; vitae didn't pool the same.
"Owen?" the voice wasn't groggy, it was dejected and annoyed. "I have some messages, I imagine."
The retainer was impeccably dressed as usual as he unlocked the door and stuck his head in.
"Yessir," he says, ruffling through some papers. "I've also taken the liberty of asking the twins and sisters to meet you upstairs. You seemed to be... out of sorts."
Owen knew that nothing soothed the nerves like a whimpering blonde.
"Thank you, Owen. Read off the messages, please," he says, straightening his suit. There was no doubt going to be a series of problems needing immediate attention, completely heedless of the decades of work that had been compromised by some corrupt irritant.
"I have a message from a Ms Lucinde stating that she regrets she had to leave early, but would take your 'request' under advisement," Owen says professionally.
A grunt followed by a muttered, "The privilege of power, the ability to view a debt as a request. What else?"
"I have a message from Mr. Oberon. It seems whatever information you provided was good. He states that tracking will begin tonight," the retainer says, flipping to a new page. "Mr. Strad says that the efforts to secure a boon out of Mr. Cross' death went poorly, as you expected. I have a note from Mr. Kellog reporting that the bird issue has receded somewhat, but isn't resolved. I have a message from Lord Vesuvius stating the whatever you wished him to look into he has details on. I have a note from 'Mr. A' stating that he would return the items for the investigation."
He flips to the final page, "And I have a message from the Prince stating that the war for Vancouver is still on. He seemed most upset, actually, sir. I believe the events of the last evening are weighing on him overmuch. It might be of benefit to speak with him on the matter personally."
That was odd. The war was still on? Without a charismatic fellow to send abroad to the world to find support, the war effort was almost surely doomed to failure. Retaking Vancouver was going to be a candle in the wind dream. Seattle would continue in prolonged border spats and disputes for the next century or two. The Sabbat would settle in. Eventually the wolves would forget their war (they had such short memories), and Vancouver was going to become just the latest Sabbat acquisition. Cross, for all intents and purposes, was the last hope for the recapture of Vancouver.
War was predictable. It came down to numbers and surprise. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred. Numbers and surprise. They'd just lost the ability to get the numbers. Surprise would be mostly irrelevant without them.
Still, the Prince had a desire, and the Prince's desire would be seen to. So, the venerated Ventrue General would formulate a plan. He would write a battle strategy. He would formulate a plan, and tell him how best to approach the situation. It wouldn't be a pleasant conversation.
"Get me a new suit, Owen. Sent a note back to Lucinde acknowledging the message, and another to Mr. A expressing my gratitude. I'll speak to the Prince directly," he says. "But arrange a meeting."
"Of course, sir," Owen says with a bow and turns away.
"I've made a mess. Pointless if the hunt will continue..." he says with a consideration, putting the first of the cork boards back a-right. "What a mess this whole thing has become."