The First Council of Neonates

[Violet Clyntahn]

At Lilliana's touch Violet relaxes visibly, almost as if she's deflating slightly, everything will be fine. She shouldn't be here, but it will be fine, Lilliana is here. she shrugs in her cloak so the hood falls down so she can be seen properly, she gives the room a small smile.

When Samuel talks to Violet she makes eye contact with him, she tries to arrange her face into the borderline belittling look Zhaspar has taught her for such an occasion but it didn't seem to come. She has no need to impress anyone, she keeps her face relaxed. Before responding she takes a deep breath. "Zhaspar may decline to share many things with me, but he has made sure I am aware of the traditions". She shudders visibly, "He keeps me especially mindful of the first and the forth, I am his and as such I am to meet his expectations", she repeats this last part in a slightly robotic way as if its something she's heard many times before. "In any case if I did not know how best to behave I'm sure I would be kept locked away somewhere until I could act more respectable" She says this as if she's trying to joke but her voice took a strange high pitch tone and her face became completely impassive. She focuses her eyes forward again and concentrates on not trembling.

[George Williamson]

George was distracted by the memories of dancing on rooftops and hiding in forgotten places. The scene was still unfolding around him, and he still heard, yet to speak here would break the illusion of memory playing through his mind. Peaceful silence was enough for now.

That is until he hears something that makes his stomach turn. 'I would be kept locked away somewhere'. Hate boiled in his base. The hatred for what Elders did to their childe seemed to grow each time he met with his own kind. Everywhere it was inescapable. George's fingers had clenched on the table, muscles stiff, eyes fixed on Violet. A year ago he wouldn't have noticed it, that pitch. He had known the same feeling in himself for many years but was yet to see it in another. Maybe Caiaphas was right, maybe George was becoming something else.

"I'm certain us 'round here won't say anythin' to put ya behaviour to doubt."

[Dorian M. Black]

The south speaks in Spartan declaratives: a blast of raw wind; a sudden stink of dead fish; an abrupt downpour.

None of these utterances invite Dorian beyond himself. More familiar aristocratic landscapes would have persisted in evocation: God, spirits, purpose, meaning. He's done with all that. What's left is the contingent bones and meat and blood of himself, the paltry fact of his skull, the entropic drift of his inactive organs.

Inside, half the bare floorboards were rotting. George wasn't exaggerating the pub's dilapidation. Bracket fungus grew in every corner. Windowpanes were missing or flimsily boarded up. The fireplace was home to a pile of rubble it appeared to have vomited. The Respite's patrons smelt variously of cat piss, dog shit, mould, dust, drains, wet earth.

He considered leaving.

Dorian revisited social etiquette now as a ruined project he couldn't entirely give up on. He considered the labour of Obfuscating past the sea of prostitutes. He could see the terrible leftovers of their personalities.

Into the bowels of the pub. Up the rickety staircase. Through the open door - idly, an interlude of exasperation - before on the inside, Dorian stood a few feet behind the two Malkavians. He paused to gesture in contact to one, before returning to post and shedding his Obfuscate.

"Uncompromising security, as ever, Mr. Williamson."

Dorian Black was so unsuited to the context of the scene that his appearance bordered on the farcical; pale skin, black hair that falls near-shy of his shoulders in loose, well-groomed waves. Big dark eyes. The pristine tailcoat frames a high black collar and white cravat, its tumble of silk pinned in place by a violet sapphire. The grime makes him palpably uneasy, as if its presence was an edgy perversion.

Dorian has clearly never exercised non-sequiturol justification for his appearance. Factors flare around the core calculation: English aristocracy.

[rhiann90]

A glazed expression comes over the host's eyes as Violet's soft but true words cause pause amongst those present. Lilliana notices his hands clench as she too recalls the apathy of her sire. No. Not just her sire. Most of the Elders are like this.

I can't believe I used to be one of these "high society" fools. That is why I brought her. She needs to know there is more than what he says is out there. I can't stand those types of people. The ones who feast while their people starve. The ones who dress in their fine clothes and jewels. The ones who look down with their noses pointed towards the skies so they cannot see the shit they drop below. The ones who...

"Uncompromising security, as ever, Mr. Williamson."

His eyes were the first thing to appear as he dropped his Obfuscate. Damn. The door. Piercing, intensely dark eyes. Contrasted by his moonlike skin, Lilliana can't help but slightly drop her jaw in awe. She recalls a time when she met a young man similar in appearance back in Paris when her mother insisted on forcing her to know the "right" people. Handsome yet arrogant. The two-sided face of all aristocracy.

Gently she leaves her ward for a moment, to stand. She grabs the sides of her dress almost to curtsey. Instead, she heads towards the back of the room. Although in her blood, beer and dirt stained barmaid's uniform, she moves like she had learned years ago. Poised, graceful, elegant, until she slams the attic door with crudeness. A sarcastic smirk smears across her face. As she returns to the seat she was previously in, Lilliana does indeed curtsey to the gentleman before contemptuously crashing back into her seat.

"Good evening, Monsieur. Care for a seat, or would you prefer I dust it first?"

[Dorian M. Black]

Dorian acknowledged Lilliana with a low incline of his head.

"I have no quarrel with absurdity should it bring you peace. Go ahead, girl. Be it laughably poor of me to deprive you of your best opportunity for work advancement."

[Samuel Taylor]

Samuel starts slightly as the other Vampire appears, quickly he re-asserts control over his facial expression.

Without looking around at him as Dorion speaks, Taylor snaps

"Dorion! That is enough. We came here in peace to meet and keeping a civil tongue in all our heads will aid that process greatly."

Turning his eyes back to Lilliana Samuel speaks again

"And Miss Lilliana, no matter where we came from before this night....here and now we are all Kindred. Let the past lie."

[George Williamson]

Being a Nosferatu made you more accustomed to figures appearing out of literal or figurative nowhere. Instead of the shock there was an overriding sense of confusion and concern.

'There's not a direct insult in there...' George frowned, either Dorian behaves distinctly different in front of groups or it was no Dorian at all. 'Dorian is being civil... fuck somethin's actually wrong.'

The thoughts were abruptly disrupted by the crash of the door. The old joints could only take so much, he just hoped that they were slammed open again or he'd have to find another door.

George was internally happy they'd managed to last three minutes without verbally stabbing each other. ' Nah, that's Dorian alright.' One problem solved, and another made. He was rather pleased with Dr Taylor's reaction to the whole thing. Years of working with patients rather than on them showed in the Doctors balanced dealings. Sounded like he held embarrassment of his peer's behaviour while trying to repair the bonds between. It was good to have someone else around the table who cared for internal relations. "Thank you, Dr Taylor."

"Now, as two 'ave mentioned, security. Doors 'n windows closed for a start. We've also got a lot 'round this table who can notice the hidden. If it ain't too much trouble can we all look 'round to make sure there ain't anymore loomers?"

George started with his focus behind him, good habit, and tapped his finger and foot a fraction of a second apart. It wasn't strictly necessary but at least if everyone was accustomed to this being his way of checking they wouldn't react quite so badly when his focus went to them.

[Becca]

"Fascinating, how do all of you get through the nights in such a heightened state of agitation? Does the state of being Kindred lead naturally to such? Heat of the Vitae, perhaps?"

The Spider leans forward, eyes flickering between the three. Lingering for a moment on Dorian, a slight tilt of his head as an unspoken chastisement.

"Security is an interesting conceit, don't you think? If our elders were interested in this meeting wouldn't they find a way to view it? How would we counter this? Are they not superior in skill to us by virtue of being Elders?"

He shrugs, an oddly clumsy movement considering he is writing almost at the same time as he is speaking.

"Perhaps we should proceed with the meeting? Surely the longer we tarry here the more likely we are to attract attention? Surely our best defense is by acting exactly as they expect, up until the point where we don't?"

[rhiann90]

The remark made by Dorian had slid by. She wouldn't forget it, but she remained silent. The words spoken by the doctor swirled in her head. Let the past lie.

Attention was again brought about security. Surely those with these abilities would have sensed them and done something about them? There is only so much one can do with mortal knowledge.

Lilliana was limited to one, sole memory. The reason she was "chosen". War.

She had fought in a war, pretending to be a man, and saved lives. She was reckless and destructive, like a missile that needed direction. "Direction" was provided on many occasions. The French military knew that if "he" was sent to an area the enemy would be obliterated and civilians would be rescued. "He" was tactical, tireless, and tough. Until the hospital collapse then something changed in "him". "He" was replaced by a soldier who wanted fame and fortune. Perfect for a wealthy aristocratic family.

"She" regained consciousness in a dark sewer by a "recruiter" of clan Brujah. He told her what to do, and for a while, it worked. Until the Cleansing. She saw how all those that had "guided her" had taught her for their own selfish gains. That is why she argued with all those around her. That is why she protected naive neonates like Violet.

All she knew was war. Lilliana had no skills in trickery. None. Or so she thought. If one with "sight" looked at her, she would appear mortal. In fact, she found it strange how different she was. Maybe it was the refusal of her birthright that made her slightly darker in skin tone. There are a lot of sunlight-phobic mortals whose skin never darkened from a hard day's work. There are also a lot of kindred with this same problem. Lots of high-class kindred, lots of pale skin, lots of Elders with the same issues.

A finger taps. A foot soon after. George's focus is lost.

Are all those with "sight" lunatics? Perhaps that is why they get along so well. What are we doing here?

Lilliana stretches causing a growl to echo from her abdomen. "Ugh... I forgot to eat at work again. Does anyone mind if I have a bite to eat?" The question is rhetorical as she pulls out a pouch from her side. Within the bag, she locates a small loaf, soaked in what appears to be blood. She breaks off a piece and offers it to Violet. A polite shaking of the head is replied and Lilliana remembers that not everyone eats food. "Oh well." she shrugs in response, "More for me." She tears a piece with her fangs and a droplet of blood? dribbles down her chin.

Through mouthfuls of bread, she poses the question, "Chaan 'e chalk aaut duan sum'n pro'ucive?" flakes of bread slur her speech "I's nu lake 'eve guh peas or tine." Lilliana clears her mouthful. "Besides, I have people to take care of and unlike you lot I have things that need to be done before sunrise." Another bite and Lilliana stares across the room.

[Dorian M. Black]

Meanwhile, Dorian was not ready to let the past lie.

"I think not," he hissed silkily, moving out from behind the Malkavians, standing somewhere in front of The Spider. "Recruiting from carnage, now, are we? Have you all forgotten what her Clan did to ours? I understand the difficulty many of you face for imagination, but it wasn't more than a year ago that her kind hunted ours. This is no extension of superstition; Brujah Neonates spent years dirtily ransacking hearth and slaughtering Childer of Clans Nosferatu and Malkavian."

"Manners befitting and an outfit to match, carting around a Ventrue Childe - an Unreleased Ventrue Childe - it's not difficult to tell who you are. Brujah have displayed, time and time again, a total lack of foresight and control, be it in temperament, or, apparently, in this new thrill they've developed for sequestering away the progeny of Architects to come gallivant in the south, drawing yet more attention to our quarters."

"All the untallied moments of Brujah anger, of overflow, are we are just to ignore it in favour of kind stereotype? Assume them capable of recognising the absurdity of their own excess but forgive it nonetheless? Claim them powerless in the face of their own outbursts? It's in Brujah nature to be vicious, above and beyond even a typical monster."

"The historian's truism is false; the only thing you can do with atrocity is not just chronicle it. This whore is nothing but a dangerous and unpredictable animal."