Royal Albert Hall

There are many places in London designated as Elysium: one of the largest cities in the world could not function any other way. The greatest of the many, and the seat of the Court, is the Royal Albert Hall. The magnificent, opulent building leads a double life, in the day light hosting the best and brightest of London’s performers, and in the cover of the moon is home to the Prince of London and the court of the city. Due to the nature of the venue, the hours change, but by midnight every night the top and bottom of Kindred society gather in the Hall’s massive auditorium or surreptitious passageways to discuss the matters of the day, the whole building matching the Prince’s desire for luxury and prestige.

Every night, the Prince sits in his golden chair at center stage, hearing appeals and passing judgment. The Baron Maximilien d’Anjou, one of the many French Exiles rules here, his slowly decaying reach still holding the crown jewel of the Isles after 200 years. A, Invictus Venture of considerable power, he has the appearance of an older man and the gravitas of a true lord, rejecting the modern fashions in his successful attempts to appear regal. He wears no crown on his perpetually-greying, but other than this sacrifice wears all the emblems and statuses of peerage.

His seneschal is as different from the Baron as night from day. Descended from the original French Exiles, Pierre Bouchard is young, energetic, and entirely modern. While his lord stays regal and aloof, Pierre busies himself with the mundane aspects of governance, and does them excellently. A powerful  Invictus Ventrue in his own right, Pierre is less feared by his subordinates and peers and more well-loved, especially among the younger embraced, having made a particular effort to be fair and forgiving to the new members of the Requiem, especially native British kindred.

The Invictus Primogen of the court is another original French Exile and the most powerful advisor to the Prince, and like his Prince conforms to the standards expected of the peerage two hundred years ago. Viscount Guillome Lafayette is an able advisor, but as his Prince becomes older and older the ruler’s ego has only increased, and more and more frequently Guillome is finding himself irrelevant or ignored. He is an old Daeva, and with his influence in court waning he has taken to retreating into hedonism, slowly distancing himself with the power games of the court.

Wisely, Prince Maximilien appointed Englishmen as Sherrif and Hound. Alfred Hobbes and Geoffrey Lockwood hold these positions respectively, and are well known in the City. Alfred, a Mekhet with a powerful mind and a strong sense of duty, does his best to mediate between the subject Kindred and their still-foreign-seeming lords, and does a commendable job, winning hearts and minds of the common Kindred with his service. Geoffrey, a Gangrel with a short temper and wild sensibility, serves an opposite purpose, the terrifying hammer of the Prince and his Court, a hunter with a reputation for ruthless and almost sadistic completion of assignments.

These are only a few of the members of the court: in a city such as London hundreds of Kindred mill about the court on any given night, the numbers skyrocketing when important business needs to be discussed, members of every covenant and clan under the stars, each with their own story to tell and their own perspective on events both near and far. The court is a wellspring of supernatural information, collected power and devious schemes, and in its walls even kindred from outside courts are welcomed with the appropriate distrust and animosity.

After a short drive Harker and Cromwell arrive at the Royal Albert Hall. Hastily Oliver exits the car and opens the door for his master. "Thank you, Oliver.", Thomas says and nods as he gets out of the car. He aligns his suit with a swift gesture and turns around to find his servant, once again, lost in thoughts. "Come on, the night doesn't last forever." he adds, as he strides quickly towards the entrance.

Quickly I follow my master. He has given orders and he expects them to be obeyed. Still a part of me wishes that I could still enjoy the smile he flashed at me a little longer. But theese are thoughts for the daytime. In the night, especially in this place, everything has to be correct. I would always stay on his left side, always be half a step behind him; my head would always be slightly bowed, and lastly he would no longer call me Oliver.
It's still early in the night when we arrive. The great halls of the Royal Albert Hall are mostly vacant. But that would change rather quickly. Soon there will be people everywhere. The rich, the beautiful and the powerful of londons night will gather here.

The doorman sizes you up for a brief moment before letting you in. He doesn't look much, a scrawny, disfigured kindred a few inches shorter than you, but you figure anyone on door duty will have enough detection magic to choke a whale. The massive main door swings open with ease, and though the entry hall is almost dead silent, as you slip further and further into the massive building the sound of conversation and music becomes more and more clear.

Clumps of kindred line the halls, from what you can hear the talk being largely inconsequential. Very little serious talk goes on abutting the entry hall, most kindred preferring soundproof rooms safe from prying ears. Regardless, what you can hear is not useless: a feast is being arranged in south Kensington, the blood to be pilfered from a drive at a nearby school. Many kindred prefer taking it right from the source, but holding enough humans to serve a large gathering is a nightmare, and freshly extracted is usually almost indistinguishable. A rather attractive woman complains to a larger group about the rude behavior of someone named "Benedict", her words surprisingly harsh for an innocent looking character. Then again, one learns quickly kindred are rather far from innocent, at least in the traditional sense.

The main hall is accessible through dozens of doors, and is never far away. The noise is greater within, the usual sounds of debate and laughter mixing with particularly beautiful, live-sounding music. Outside the hall, conversations continue and in the larger-than-usual crowds many interesting kindred and surely many acquaintances mix, all enjoying the beginning-of-night calm, knowing full well as the moon traverses serious grievances and feuds will boil to the surface.

Harker enters the building, marvelling yet again about the impressive architecture that never ceases to excite him. He slowly walks past the crowds, exchanging greetings here and there. His servant Cromwell, walking behind him, is mostly disregarded. Though the few kindred that don't ignore him, dart glances of confusion or hunger at him. It is not usual, that someone of Harkers rank already walks around with his personal ghoul servant. Surely many kindred maintain one or two ghouls, but not as a servant which follows them on every step they take. After a while they stop near some kindred Harker feels comfortable with, mostly newer members of the First Estate and one or two of their mentors. Anyone know anything about that feast in South Kensington? What's the occasion? he asks, with a smirk upon his face.

One of the older-looking kindred turns to you, his dress fashionable and clearly expensive. The group with which he speaks is one of the larger collections in the outer halls, seven individuals all clustered loosely and clearly at least close acquaintances. The bunch quiets to hear what he has to say, and eyes turn to him, watching as he makes to speak. Clearly, he is near the top of their particular group. You recognize him as one Mr. Thomas Mayweather, a fellow invictus of some notable reputation.

"Mr. Harker, was it? It is good to see you here. May I introduce Misters Douglas, Harrison and Jones, and madams Peterson, Lintel and Cooper." He runs down the line, pointing to each individual in turn. The woman identified as Ms. Lintel shares the status Mayweather clearly holds, a rather beautiful specimen in the same well-tailored finery. Mayweather continues quickly from the introductions.

"I heard about that, though I was not lucky enough to warrant an invitation myself. Apparently, one Commissioner Lucius Carlisle makes the habit of celebrating each decade of his unlife rather grandly, and the date is a week from yesterday. I recall... Ms. Lintel, you attended the previous celebration, did you not?"

She nodded, and after it was apparent she would rather not elaborate, Mayweather continued smoothly, glossing over any possible offense.

"Indeed, she claimed it was a night worth remembering. A shame none of us will be in attendance, but I can not blame the Commissioner, I can't remember the last time I spoke with him"

After listening intently to Mayweather's introduction and explanation, Harker stays and listens for another 15 minutes or so. He waits for a moment to speak, so he doesn't cut off anyone in the middle of talking about something. "Very well, thank you for the introduction Mr. Mayweather. And I'm sure it will be a pleasure seeing one of you again.", he says looking at Mayweather first and then at the others. Afterwards he turns and heads for the next main hall entry. After a few steps he turns his head a bit to his left and asks his butler: "Cromwell, have you ever been to Paris?", continuing on his way. Upon entering the main hall, he is met with the wonderful music one could vaguely perceive outside and for a moment he just stops there and listens to it, enjoying the beautiful tunes.

Paris, the name alone is enough to wake the bittersweet memories of the past. I was there once, some years back. With one of my few friends. The last of my friends to be exact, but our relationship turned sour soon after this. Now she won't even respond to my messages anymore. Not that I would message her anyway. I have contacted nobody aside from my family since I met him...
"Only once for a brief stop sir, several years ago" I inform him quickly. My tone doesn't indicate anything of my feelings. Or so I think at least. But I am sure that he is able tell anyway, he always knows how I am feeling.
The music pulls me back to reality. It's otherworldy beautiful and the sight of him standing there just makes it that much sweeter. I am sure he stoped here just for me; just so that I would have a moment to regain my composure. Not that he would ever say that aloud. But I know and that's enough for now.

The music is lovely; smooth, if slightly generic, classical music played by a quintet barely visible in the orchestra pit. The prince's high-backed chair in unoccupied, but this is not extraordinary: Prince Maximilien rarely enters the main hall before 1am, sometimes later. His seneschal handles business from a lower chair, his voice occasionally piercing the din even to you in the rear of the room, apparently talking about a minor dispute about feeding grounds. The matter sounds dull, and will almost certainly in nothing more than a reprimand or apology, as these matter so frequently do.

More interesting is a group near the door, chatting conspiratorially. A particularly scarred Kindred, likely the part of the Ordo Dracul, speaks nervously to a small group of more human-seeming embraced, likely the same talk of experiment and dangerous knowledge so common among the Ordo.

Down the sloping hall to the main floor, whose chairs have been cleared in the center to make room for the necessary accouterments of vampire gatherings, a large group gather around a pair of vampires at a table, both looking particularly wizened and worthy of respect, both concentrating hard at the chess game in front of them. Each move, though slow coming, is met with 'oohs' and 'ahs', clearly garnering respect from the interested crowd

Two shadows on the sidewalk, walking hand in hand towards the Royal Albert Hall, determination in every step. That heathen got some nerve, defying the Dark Lord's home. Oh he will learn to respect Our Lord, they all will.

Harboring such thoughts, Caterina (and Beatrice) strode towards the entrance.

The looming edifice of the Hall only increases in impressiveness at night, and is certainly a sight to behold as it is approached. Only a few of the doors to the massive circular building are open, and those that are have large, imposing guards subtly posted to them. As Caterina and her companion approach one of the large glass doors, one of these sentinels, a very tall man not-so-subtly concealing a sizable pistol on under his jacket, walks towards you. In a deep bass, he speaks, his voice cutting through the faint hints of frenzy boiling up at the sighting.

"You two are unfamiliar. On order of the prince, state your names, sires, clans and covenants, please."

The posture of the man suggests what patience he has is limited, and the movement of the guard behind him suggests kindred unfamiliar to him are both rare and potentially threatening.

The guard looks mildly surprised: you doubt he's ever met a Sangiovanni, but his visage remains unimpressed. You notice his partner walk over with surprising grace, clearly curious what is causing the delay, and preparing to help his fellow guard if things turn awry.

The man's voice does not betray any emotion as he replies, clearly used to dealing with large egos with some tact.

"That may very well be, but the prince has commanded me to learn the names, sires, clans and covenants of any unfamiliar kindred come to Court. You may take any perceived slips up with the Prince once you tell us the rest of the information we desire."

His partner chimes in, a smooth tenor contrasting with the rumbling bass of the slightly larger man. "She named us heretics, Winston, she is clearly of the Lancea Sanctum. As for her sire, that information is less important."

The first guard nods slightly, and the second continues talking, turning towards you and bowing slightly while he steps out of the way to the door. "On behalf of Prince Maximilien, welcome to Court, Miss Sangiovanni."

Harker and his servant advance towards the obviously very gripping game of chess in front of them, trying to figure out which one of the players is currently ahead. Such a complicated game, only for trying to mimic warfare... "Cromwell, I don't think we own a chess set yet.", he whispers to his servant behind him. Afterwards he continues to take enjoyment from watching the two kindred plot as their miniature armies proceed to clash.

Cromwell nods his head slightly. The order he receives is perfectly clear. Tomorrow he would acquire a chess game. Perhaps the beautiful crystalline one he saw a while ago. Having his head bowed he notices something else. A whispering is spreading throughout the crowd, coming from one of the doors. Perhaps someone of importance has arrived; but no the sounds he picks up are not submissive. They sound rather condescending, and they are getting closer.
Turning his head diminutive to his left he manages to catch a glimpse. Two woman holding hands are coming to this side of the hall. The crowd parting like the red sea infront of them. One of them is young and small, dressed in a cute black dress, which makes here look like a doll. The other one is tall, with a skin as white as ivory and dressed in... Something...
He no longer wonders what the people murmur, such unsuitable clothings at this gathering are certainly a reason for some talk. But there are more important things to attend to. Without any further thoughts he focuses his attention back on the chess game his master is enjoying.

The game is intense, at least as intense as non-timed chess can get. In the first few minutes of watching advantage trades hands several times, but after a score of moves white, played by a very old looking Nosferatu, cuts deep into black's defenses with a skillful combination of rook and knight, and from there the game is all but decided. Black puts up a strong defense, but a dozen moves later he is forced to surrender. The two kindred stand almost in unison, and bow politely, neither apparently holding a grudge with the other in a surprising display of sportsmanship. Large quantities of money change hands in the crowd, piles of bets apparently having been made on the outcome.

As for the the two ladies, they seek out their mark easily enough. The scarred kindred, apparently one of the less deformed members of the Nosferatu clan, turns to meet the approaching pair. The other kindred, their conversation apparently at least close to completion, go their own way, likely avoiding being seen with such an out of place couple. The three kindred make their way down to the center of the hall, seeking out new conversation, while the mark turns to you. His face is as scarred as the rest of his head, his greasy black hair falling in coils around a mashed face with pasty eyes and flaking skin. His voice, however, does not match his body, and he greets you as politely as he can manage, a slight bow of the head accompanying his welcoming gesture.

"Greetings, sister. Is there something you wish of me? I cannot say I have ever made your acquaintance, but I am sure I have seen you and your lovely companion before, somewhere".

How much of this greeting is sarcasm is unclear.

The response of the Dracul was to simply leave. He knew there was no proof in the matter, but such things were rarely considered during appeals to the crowd. Regardless of what he said, his guilt would be known by all assembled.

The response of the rest of the crowd was more subdued in their reaction. Most muttered, asking those around them and speculating wildly. With the chess game concluded, many kindred flocked to this new disturbance, and the news of the proclamation swept through them. A few kindred, their membership in the Lancea Sanctum, looked much more alarmed. Voices called out, presumably belonging to the other servants of christ, their identities hidden by the mass, in questioning, offended tones.

"Who are you to declare as such?"
"Has the prince authorized this?"
"What say Bishops Godfrey and Hector?"

A few kindred shouted derision.

"Heretic!"
"Presumptuous Leech!"
"Get out, pretender!"

A few more, distinctly in the minority, looked pleased, though no cheers were forthcoming.

The contrary members of the crowd wanted to dispute it, but until the Prince showed his face there was no profit in their opposition. They stewed in their small conferences, no doubt plotting for their later resistance.

Just as a new wave of insults and protests were about to be voiced by the assembled undead, one figure emerged, unfamiliar to you and bearing no insignia of office. An attractive kindred, clearly more potent than the rest of the rabble, though by no means extraordinary. He was dressed impeccably, his pale skin well maintained and his black hair combed stylishly. His eyes were a particularly seductive shade, and he radiated courtesy and self-confidence, though looks have been known to be deceiving. He walks into the circle made by the crowd, and at the edge of it bows respectfully.

"Dr. Sangiovanni, let me first welcome you to the City. I doubt many have shown you that courtesy here, to their discredit. In regards to your proclamation, may I take a look at that ring? I do not mean to doubt you, but forgeries of such things have been seen in court. A close inspection would remove a great deal of doubt, if you would be so kind."

The crowd murmured with disapproval, but waited attentively, most excited to see where their new drama would lead.

"Introducing Monsieur Kingsley of Daeva, and childe, to the presence of Seneschal Pierre Bouchard of Ventrue." Called an attentive, even servile ghoul, in a manner that was no less lethargy inducing.
White couldn't help but wonder what the purpose of shouting titles was in a small off-study under the stage. Nevertheless, he bowed with only the hint of sardonism, while his sire busied himself with introductions.
"My Lord," began the sycophant, "Greetings from the humble city of Bath. I trust I find you well? ...Excellent. Now, may I first..." and so on. White was only paying half attention during the introductions. His sire would grease his way into local society, then sit and gestate. Find the pulse of the city, and diablerise the undesirables.
Move on. Repeat.
Of course, in London, there were a lot more vampires, so a lot more undesirables. A lot more time before they moved on. Which meant there was a greater chance White would be used as the scapegoat he was embraced to be.
"Excellent," declared the Bouchard in flawless London dialect, "well then, Monsieur Kingsley, allow me to welcome you to the city. I'm sure you can make yourself comfortable with all haste and leisure. Now, if I may have a word with your childe..." White's sire's face faltered minutely.
"But surely, my lord, there are more pressing concerns to entertain you than interview of every single childe in London?" he asked, voice like oiled gears.
"Of course, but it will only take a minute. There are some innocent enough questions I want answered."
His sire opened his mouth to protest, but quickly shut it again. With a slight bow, he turned to leave, piercing White with a look that, while filled not with searing rage, was nevertheless a promise of a great deal of pain and suffering, and he left the tiny office.
"Now, my child, let us get down to business." Said the seneschal, and with his attention came the weight and age of centuries of power and hunger and decay. White felt his own beast, cowed into deeper parts of his being, nevertheless trying to lash out in anger and fear at the being who made him feel utterly inconsequential.

When his senses returned, White was standing over the body of the doorman, or butler, the ghoul who had announced their arrival. Blood covered his face, and had already started to turn a rust brown at his cuffs and collar. The floor was, by some miracle of décor, of precisely the right shade and pattern to render the streaks of blood invisible.
"Mon gars, are you finished?" Asked the seneschal mildly. "It'll take days to train anew. But look, he is still breathing."
White had backed into a corner, by the door, and was panting heavily. Eyes glued to the shuddering near-corpse before him, a nagging voice in his head was telling him to compose himself and face the elder. He closed his eyes, reminded himself that he had no adrenaline, no need for air, and a much greater urgency in saving face, and stood up.
"My... ah... sincerest apologies, my lord." He said calmly and with a slight inclination of his head, unable to ignore the absence of a heavily beating heart.
"Ma foi, you recovered quickly. I should be concerned, maybe? Does this happen often?" Bouchard asked, ringing a small bell. In no time, some more ghouls arrived to take their quivering associate elsewhere.
"No, no I don't think so. I think... I've lived a very sheltered unlife."
"Oh? How old are you?"
"Fourty-two, and ten of those dead."
"Then you are not a neonate."
"I have no idea."
The seneschal sat back in his chair. "Tell me about your sire."
"He's a sycophantic cunt."
"You aren't bound to him?" he asked incredulously.
"No. He started the process once, but then I started on him. He knows that if we end up at the second stage with each other, he'll have to kill me. And he knows I know that."
"He's afraid of you?"
"No, I'm just too useful to him at the moment. I'm exceedingly wealthy, and have a certain amount of independently influential mortal friends."
Silence reigned, then suddenly, Bouchard's eyes seemed to take on a pointed quality, that bored into White's mind, leaving his thoughts bare and undefended. "How are you wealthy?"
"I've invested in pirate operations in Somalia, as well as funding smuggler groups." White said, completely incapable of telling anything but the clear truth.
"And these would be your friends?"
"Yes."
Bouchard's eyes narrowed further. "Does your sire fear you?"
"No."
"Should he."
"Yes." White answered without hesitation.
"Should we?"
"Probably not."
The old vampire rapped his fingers slowly across the desk, and the intensity of the stare lessened, replaced by mirth. "Well, that is good enough for me. Tell me, where will you be staying in London? Your sire said nothing about your accommodation."
"I'll probably take up a hotel somewhere."
"You do not desire territory of your own?"
A ponderous look crossed White's face. "Well, I've always wanted to operate from a hospital."
Bouchard looked as though nothing White said could have pleased him more.
"Mon Gars, you are a saint. There has been a hospital uncontrolled on the South Banks for a few decades now, very hotly disputed. The two coteries claiming it are, alas, opponents, and to favour one would be political suicide, even for me. If it were to pass to a capable neonate, however, with the support of the city and the primogen, why, all would be at peace again. Mostly."
"I... really don't want to make political enemies already, my lord."
"Nonsense, we will declare it as yours, and promise swift retribution to those who attempt to take it from you. Of coruse, you'll have to busy yourself with the mundanities of ghouling and bonding the board, but I'm sure you'll manage."
The seneschal flipped out a large ledger and began writing. "Yes... we'll make the announcement soon. This should put the dissidents in their place. We'll show that if they can't work together for the good of the city, they'll find their dominion being portioned off to those who will." He muttered.

For the few minutes that the scribbling continued, White sat perfectly motionless. Eventually, Bouchard stood up and smiled.
"Well, that's that. I do hope you enjoy yourself in London, don't get into trouble, and if I were you, I'd get that hospital under control swiftly." He offered his hand, which was taken and gratefully shaken. "But before you go, if I could ask a final question..."
White inclined his head once more, and Bouchard pulled forth a sheet of lined paper, setting it down in front of the young vampire. "If you wanted to kill every kindred in this elysium, how would you do it?"
White thought. After a few seconds, he picked up his coat, pulled out a fountain pen, wrote a few bullet points down on the page, folded it, and handed it back.
"If that is everything, my Lord, I have an irate sire to return to."

Slowly Cromwell takes in a long deep breath. He needs to cool his nerves. Otherwise he would soon grin like a maniac. He hadn't been so excited for a long while. With a few sentences the female vampire had managed to change the atmosphere of the whole room. The air feels different now, it's as if there is a thunderstorm comming. But that's nonesense. It's just that several dozen kindred were watching a scene intently. Each of them deadlier than a thunderstorm. He exhales slowly and forces another breath in. He must not betray his feelings. Neither the ravaging excitement in his veins nor the cold fear in his bones are fitting for this place and time. A quick glance to his master shows him once more how lacking he is. Harker stands so utterly still that one could think he is made of stone. He betrays nothing but a slight, distant interest for the scene infront of him. But Cromwell knows it better. His master had most likely already thought of several ways, to take advantage of tonight. Cromwell allows himself a small smile. The next nights would surely be exciting.

A woman trailing close behind the advancing man emerges from the crowd. Where he is tall and handsome, she is short and mousey. Where his suit is tailored and obviously highly expensive, her dress looks like it was bought from a charity shop, not quite fitting correctly on her slim frame and looking several years past its prime.

Her voice resembles her posture: nervous, slouched and particularly unhappy to be in front of so many people. "May I introduce, Doctor, the Honorable Earl Winston Attenborough, of Clapham South, of clan Daeva.". The woman bows deeply, and Winston simply inclines his head.

As the woman retreats onto the very edge of the accumulated mass of undeath, Winston takes a brazen step forward. He speaks, in contrast to his companion's like fire to water, holding out a polite but expectant hand.

"I simply wish to ensure your vivacious debut is as truthful as it is bombastic. Obviously, my status is less than that of a Bishop, but I hope you will forgive this insult in the name of honest inquiry."

With the ring having been held out, the man, rather presumptuously takes a hold of Caterina's hand, turning it slightly as he leans in, inspecting it from all angles with a practiced and serious gaze. After a few seconds of close viewing, which was accompanied by the small crowd's impatient silence, he stands up and clears his throat with a smile.

"It is legitimate. It does seem you are full of surprises, doctor.". You notice he does not call you Bishop, but such reticence to commit to an uncertain political position is understandable in a higher-ranking member of city.

Earl Attenborough turns around, and you see that the richly-dressed seneschal has emerged from his office under the stage. Surprising the emerging man somewhat, Attenborough speaks loudly, clearly directing his attention to the official.

"Seneschal Bouchard, this woman comes to the city on the blessing of the Cardinal of Venice, declaring bishopdom south of the River."

The seneschal looks tired, then changes his countenance to simply frustrated, before returning to a neutral visage. He catches the meaning quick enough, and provides a meek smile. "Well then I should very much like to speak with her, Earl Attenborough. If you could bring her to my office"

The seneschal returns beneath the stage and presumably makes his way to his quarters. The Earl gestures for you to follow him as he sets off, and moments later you sit across from the much-less-amused looking seneschal, occupying one of two deep and comfortable chairs in front of a heavy rosewood desk. The other seat is filled by the Earl, his assistant waiting just outside.