It had been a busy month. First, the Carthians, then the Daeva.

The meeting of the Movement had predictable, but disappointing. Mired in the mistrust of people meeting for the first time, and bedlam of clashing ideologies. A Prefect unsure of himself, overshadowed by other dominant personalities. A Myrmidon, who seemed to only be interested in the perceived prestige of the position. A paranoid who needed direction. A dilettante who merely 'dropped by'. An anarchist who's zeal might be dangerous. And himself.

The Daeva, who threw of party of little substance, without even bothering to introduce themselves to one another. Lost in their own hedonism, ineffectual by acclaim. Other than the Seneschal and Hound, who seemed content to watch their fellow Incubi and Succubi merely play with one another.

The City, full of history which he had studied, and lived through some, pulse keeping time with echoes of long dead personages still felt. Leonard had risen from the faceless Kindred to touch this pulse, and feel the spark of life within the City as one would a Kine. Like a phoenix rising from ashes, the City gave birth to itself anew in the wake of the Lost Nights.

A newly acclaimed Prince, Covenants in disarray, and neonates flocking to the voids created. Neonates, drawn to freshly spilled blood, but then overcome by hungers and confusions. Uncertain what to do with the opportunities, scrambling to drape themselves in titles made powerful by the fallen, or wallow and rage against the rule of the Prince they had not expected to find, or simply Danse the night away.

People made positions powerful. Nature abhors a vacuum. Idle hands are the devil's workshop.

He had always found it easy to forgive the Daeva. It was all to easy to lose himself in eyes beneath lashes, full of mixed intent. In the line of a arm, gesturing, closing a space with intimacy. The dance of words and looks as rules and boundaries were made, revised, and codified. Above all else, he found the human condition of social interaction breathtaking.

Leonard was not lost.

He walked the City, spoke to people under the blessing of the daystar's sister, the Moon. He probed, investigated, discovered. He would come to understand things hidden to others, turn the City like a precious gem, inspecting different facets. He would learn. So many wasted Requiems, lost in the moment, not bothering to push the limits of what they once were, clinging to the security of the familiar, of self.

He might have been a Dragon, but he was not. Instead, he would fulfill the commitment by words he had spoken to the Carthians, despite knowing the others were lost in the pursuit of their individual concepts of The Movement, rather than the rebuilding of a fallen Covenant.

Taking the notes he had made in his mind, he began organizing them, and focusing on the task at hand. The Rack. Who owned what? Where would the Carthians find haven, both figurative and literal? Phone calls were made. Financial reports were studied. Records were researched. Entities were disambiguated, and formed.

Leonard looked at the table he had covered in his efforts, decorated with paper, pens, and silent testimony of his efforts. He had found answers.

Carthian.

Then he closed his eyes and examined and relived his memories of a night at the Asylum. Eyes which looked. Skin that radiated. Words which engaged. Smiles that nuanced.

Daeva.


Dice Rolls