Tonight our documentary will carry us into a city that shelters the ideal of free life…Home of Mardi Gras. For the next four hours…” *click*
He rubbed his eyes once again, then took a glance at the digital clock. 10:30 PM read the huge glowing red numerals.
Damn…he was late…again. His friend might excuse the tardiness, but he still had to take time out to find some sustenance for the eve.
He hurried into his clothes and moved out of the small apartment over looking the famed Bourbon Street. The moist air of the summer night was clinging to him like a strange odor does to a skunk. That scent was able to clear his path through a crowd. He adored that simple fact.
A night like tonight was thick with humidity and tourists. A nasty thought to those of sane mind, but to this city, it was a way of life. It helped him blend in as best he could. His pale complexion barely noticeable in the waves of faces that are covered with make-up and sun screen from the day. His speed allowed him to push through the crowd to his favorite place.
After a few minutes of conversation, and a nice taste of the young Tulane student, he was back on track to his meeting in local night club called the Tear Garden Lounge. He hated the thought of being there too long. Not his kind of place and also his superstitious side pulled out a warning of the strange people that often came to the place. And those that lived in the apartments above it.
A sigh is released just after he stepped into the blues lounge, the sounds of a zydeco music drifting into his face. Such a bothersome rhythm it is to him. He feels that urge to tear the place apart to stop the noise. He ignores it, and moves through with little trouble…finding sustenance is not too far away.
As the door closes behind him for the fourth time, the ghouls vanish from his side. He is left to a cold, lonely library. How he really hated being in this room. At the thought, a shelf swings out. It allows a young looking man to step forth.
The new arrival sends his hazel eyes on search across the face of the other man. A soft laugh escapes from the usually firm lips.
“I find it suitable, my young Brujah friend. Please a seat and try not to make a stain on the furniture. The mistress of the house would be quite upset, and you know how she can get.”
This moves the Brujah to nearest chair, leather high back, and makes him sit. His eyes are on the master of the domain, waiting for further instruction. It is not long before the words come. “Speak, young one. Tell me of your findings.”
“Well…it begins like this, sir.” The young Kindred swallows, “I have searched as you wished. I have contacted the enigmatic ones that are called the Magi. I have gone to find the hideous ones called Shifters. I have found that they are not too open to bare questions. In fact, I was lucky to survive either conference…intact.”
The older Kindred, one that had seen several years and numerous people, merely paused in his thought to say, “Just tell me the information, monsieur. I know the dangers, so you are only wasting your breath…or words so it is with us.” The thin lips stay together as he finishes.
“Uh…yes, sir. I am sorry. Uhmm. Ok, the Shifters, they are in a bit of confusion. The Caern of the city has been closed in a way. It is no longer open to anyone, even their own. It is often said that they wait in the bayou for something to help them, but I found little, my master.”
His mind swirls at the words, a brutal struggle to speak again. He somehow finds the will to continue, “My contact, a mortal that is related to them in someway, told me that they was some recent struggle that has left them in a large disarray. I left a point to call me when something changed.”
A slow closing of the eyes as he checks on the response to his words. The elder keeps his face still, a patient waiting expression.
“Master, the Magi are not in much better shape. They are isolated and few. The one I spoke with was not too fond of my asking, but she spoke anyway because she was allowed. She told me of the older ones starting to fade into the past, and new ones slipping forward. She was excited about the new hope they represent, and how she was part of the cabal, as she called it.” He licked his dry lips once, “They fear another hidden group, a group she called the Technocracy. Magi who wish their ideas to be the only ones.”
The Brujah stopped thinking he had told all he had, the other man leaned forward with folded hands, “Please, monsieur, what of those mortals that would harm us?”
The older one only offered his bland stare as the Brujah attempted to answer, “I…uh…I found that there are none left. Well at least none showing face at this time.”
Satisfied, the Elder bowed his head and spoke, “You have done well, slave. Come take a drink of me, and you may leave.” He says the words without a single sign or hint of care.
The eager Brujah rises and does as commanded. The drink was just a custom that he was told was custom in the Old World when parting from the company of one’s elder. He knew not the effects or addiction he was developing. After the Draught, he left without a word…back into the night.
The door closes, the young one was gone. The elder Kindred came to his feet to walk to his study. He had plenty of thoughts to ponder over now. How would the Kindred benefit from the lack of organization of the other supernaturals of the city? He went forth to find the answers.
His arrival in the study was nothing unusual except his lady was not near. She was dealing with her own business tonight. He had the night to think. Had he found some key to the rise of the Camarilla to a complete power here in New Orleans? He thought so.
The report of the Brujah was not completely true, but it did fill in gaps that he had in the overview. It played over in his mind then…
The Prince was able to keep the Sabbat at bay by dealing with them in a peaceful, yet very un-Camarilla way. This was disturbing, but such was normal for the New World. The Primogen council was growing and learning. A steady group of Ancilla and neonates was what made him hope he could influence it.
The Magi were few in numbers and not all unorganized as his young slave had thought. They were gathering in small groups to hold their own against this Technocracy, and would soon come to the council for help. It would do the Camarilla good to take the chance and collect later. Always good to hold something over their heads.
The Shifters…or Garou as he knew them. He was ever glad to keep them in the Bayou, and leave them there. He hated the thought of them even near the city since they had such a way of tearing up Kindred for stepping wrong. Something about a monster called the Wyrm or something. He just avoided them if at all possible.
His thoughts condensed the information, his plan was forming slowly. A plan that would be very strong once he had the right people in place. A fact that he was very close to accomplishing.
The sound of steps, his lady was coming. He only smiled, then waited. He had years to turn the plan into something feasible, and he would make sure it would be far from alone….