2009-01-18 21:41:54Sasha Moreu rolls 3 dice to Conscience (Diff 8) 8,5,2 (1 success) [No Humanity loss]

The night following her encounter with the Prince at the Giovanni’s quaint little carnival, Sasha will send Carter a message in the typical fashion she has grown accustomed to using with the technophobic Malkavian since the fifties. Immediately upon waking, she will order what is left of her retinue to begin cleaning up the mess before sequestering herself in the small eight by ten, soundproof room which is dedicated to this, and only this function. It is one of very few places on the three top floors of the building that belong to her where she does not smoke. The room contains but one antique table and one antique chair, and a wooden trunk. Upon the table rests a mint condition Victor Monarch , an inkwell, a fountain pen, and a large red candle which is the only illumination in this room.

Sasha calmly enters, lights the candle, seals the door, and goes to the trunk, removing one of the last dozen seven by seven inch paper sleeves. She makes a mental note to have Patricia have another gross of them manufactured. Sliding the vinyl blank from its envelope, she places it delicately upon the spindle and gives the arm ten cranks before settling into the chair and placing the needle to begin recording. She does not waste time introducing herself; the Prince will know exactly who the recording came from. Nor does she make small talk, but goes straight to business, as always, launching her message with what would seem to be a rhetorical question in a forcedly pleasant, almost saccharine tone.

“Have I ever told you about my sword?” She pauses, almost dramatically to let those words take hold. “It is one half of a matched set; forged by a master-smith in Japan centuries ago in the age of my Sire’s Sire, when such a weapon could still be counted upon. Both pieces once belonged to Prince Victor, or so I was told, when it was awarded to me for attaining Primogen in your fair city. Just as it was awarded to him when he attained the position, well before he came here to take on the mantle of Prince. I possess only the wakizashi; sadly, Prince Victor’s katana was never recovered, nor has it surfaced on the Black Market. I have my suspicions that it is still nearby, in the hands of a private collector. I know well enough that it is not to be found anywhere at his former Estate. I am told my colleagues checked it quite thoroughly before you gifted the land to Zaine.”

She is already craving a cigarette. Every time she saw or even thought of the Prince’s dog, she was sickened by the thought of him wearing Prince Victor’s clothes and enraged by what he had done to the once beautiful Plantation. The former Ventrue Prince was a stalwart man, but not quite so brawny as Zaine, she knew that the Sheriff had gone to no small amount of trouble to have those suits re-tailored so that he could traipse about in them, making a mockery of all that Victor stood for. Sometimes, when she was alone -as she is now- she entertained vivid daydreams of sliding up behind Zaine as he smugly dressed himself in Vic-tor’s fineries before a mirror, and lopping his head clean off.

“But I digress. This recording was not intended to be a treatise on antiques. I mention the sword only be-cause last night, for the first time in a very long time, it was put through its paces; along with about half of my security detail. You see, Mister Vandeweyden, not long after you and I parted ways last night, I began feeling –shall we say- out of sorts. I spent most of the evening seeing assassins meld in and out of the shadows of my haven, though none of the sensors I have so painstakingly installed to detect even our kind were ever triggered. I quickly came to suspect that one or more of my guardians had been compromised, someone with intimate knowledge of my systems. Four of them perished under my blade last night.”

She notes that the needle has almost reached the center of the small vinyl disc and pauses to flip it over, adding a few cranks to the mechanism for good measure.  

“This tragedy has had a silver lining however; it has assured me that not even here in my tower am I completely safe from those who would see the Camarilla broken. This in turn has renewed my interest in the Art of War and you may rest assured that I shall take up my long abandoned studies once again with renewed vigor. It has also made me realize that my former security was insufficient. I shall certainly be mindful of those shortcomings when selecting their replacements.”

“All of this being said, will add the necessary weight to the true purpose of this message, namely that I feel it is my solemn duty as an Elder and member of your city’s Primogen to warn you of what has transpired.” The uncharacteristic sweetness in her voice suddenly evaporates, and the closing remark before the second side of the disc gives way to naught but static and popping becomes very grave. “Keep an eye on your Retainers my Prince, for whatever illness it was that befell mine may well afflict yours next.”

Sasha rises, stopping the archaic machine and tenderly removing the freshly-cut disc. With the fountain pen she scrawls the date upon the blank center of the A-side and blows on the ink until it dries. She then slides the 7” record back into its paper sleeve, folding the retaining flap down and laying it on the table. She takes up the candle, turning it sidelong to pour a small pool of red wax upon the enclosure and presses her signet ring into the coagulating mass. Upon the outer envelope she writes simply ‘Thank you, for a lovely evening.’

When one considers the time it will take for Sasha’s courier to deliver this package to Screaming Willows, It will have taken nearly two hours to send a message that would easily have taken ten minutes if only Carter would keep up with the times. But for as long as Sasha has corresponded with Mr. Vanderwyden, this has always been their way. They could just as easily send letters, but even they pale in their ability to convey the subtle inflection required for such delicate communication. Yet, even she must admit that there is much to be said for the sophistication and style of the old ways, and the care and meticulousness they require, though she is almost certain that Carter pitches the fruits of these labors into his fireplace when he finishes with them. If he even bothers to listen to them at all. She wonders when the day will come that she will be unable to keep up with the world around her, and dreads it.  

--Last edited by Sasha Moreau on 2009-01-24 08:15:49 --