[1808] A Couch in a Secluded Corner

[Lawrence Taft]

What services indeed? The corner of his mouth curls almost imperceptibly. "I believe you've asked the perfect question. Perhaps I would not need to offer service to one Covenant over the others. Particularly if one I choose to adhere to isn't concerned with... politics?" Taft evades one question and produces another.

"My craft is not one to be discussed at polite gatherings." he states, matter-of-factly. "While I could certainly hint at its nature, in efforts to garner your curiosity, I'm not inclined to do so. Such games are better suited to a different kind of Danse." One where wordplay itself is the goal. But Moretti is no Shadow.

[Lawrence Taft]

Taft nods, seemingly satisfied. "That seems appropriate. Are you able to arrange such a meeting? We will certainly have to exchange contact information before the evening is over."

Eventually his eyes, too, lock on to the pair of newcomers. Taft's face arranges in a stern frown as the Beast first lashes out and then retreats. It takes a moment, but the frown dissolves. His attention returns to Moretti.

"Not at all. Or at least... no more horrible than the business of all the present company." He makes a sweeping motion with one hand and indicates the surrounding Kindred.

"This city never ceases to amaze. Turn your head a quarter turn in any direction and you'll come across a beautiful woman. More often than not, one with potent blood." he muses. "The reasonable man in me says it's merely a coincidence. Yet I can't help wonder if there is a reason behind it." The smallest of things have proven significant in his (after)lifetime. Sacramento could be on the cusp of some monumental event, and it could just as easily be missed if Taft doesn't keep his eyes open.

"Do you believe in fate, Ms. Moretti?" ​turning his thoughts into words.

[Lawrence Taft]

He grins in amusement. "As you say."

His face becomes serious once more as she describes what she's seen and heard in the city. In her short time here. This woman, a match for the Spider in blood, has vision. And her question strikes a chord. He brings the meaty end of one fist to his open palm softly, but with purpose.

"At the very center; being the single grain that tips the scales."

[Lawrence Taft]

Not wanting to overstay his welcome - or ruin the moment - Taft stands. He reaches into his pocket and produces a small, very simple card with his phone number on it. Then, after offering it to Moretti, he gives her a polite nod of his head and turns his attention to the throngs once more.

Taft returns to the main thread.