There is a room in the Terminal Tower, nestled away from all the corporate offices and executive boardrooms.  It was specially built, during the Tower's construction, by a certain secret fund of "private" investors, and has been reserved for their needs ever since.  It is a whispered rumor in the Tower's highest offices over who exactly claims this private chamber:  an elite social club, a behind-the-curtains political organization, a high stakes highly competitive business firm.  In some way, each of these rumors is a piece of the truth.  For indeed, the true proprietors of this chamber are in some ways all of these things.

The room, large and spacious while also quaintly comfortable, is the private bastion of Clan Ventrue, the inner sanctum of the Blue Bloods.  Specifically, it is the designated retreat of the Prince of Cleveland.  Paneled in rich wood, with high casement windows, it is quite richly furnished in antiques dating back to the Tower's original construction in the early part of the century.  It seems quite set apart from the gleaming, shining trappings of the modern business offices in the more public spaces of the skyscraper.  Warm globe lights cast a rich amber glow throughout the room, which is lined with book shelves, portraits and paintings, and the brickabrack of the Ventrue's collective gatherings over the decades and centuries.

These get-togethers, while not regularly scheduled, are a frequent occurrence between the Prince and his Regent.  Informal and casual, they are opportunities to discuss the goings-on of the Domain without all the stiff trappings of formal procedure.  Relaxed and laid-back, they are attempts by the Prince to get beneath the sometimes distant demeanor of his second hand.  An opportunity to get to know the personality behind the position, so to speak.  In these pleasant little meetings, the Prince is ever the generous host, the Regent ever the gracious guest.

Tonight, Prince and Regent sit in upholstered chairs, leaning over a small square table upon which sits a mahogany chess board.  The pieces are of solid marble, surprisingly heavy for their small sizes.  A bottle of bloodwine sits on the corner of the table, wine glasses at the elbow of the two players.

Prince Cawldor places his queen's rook at queen's rook five, threatening Regent Lockhart's bishop.  He leans back, crossing one leg over the other.  

"The Toreador are planning a citywide gathering," he says casually, the first real words spoken beyond the pleasantries, greetings, and generous smalltalk of the evening.  "It has been some while since we've had such a meeting.  I think it'll do the city well."  Cawldor is ever concerned with the welfare and well-being of his city.

Cawldor the bleeding heart, Cawldor the diplomat, Cawldor the fair and crowned. Cawldor is, in essence, just about everything I am not. The neonates would call me cold or a fossil from a forgotten era. I prefer to think I am logical, precise and experienced. This game of chess is a perfect example. I play long chess, the game is over by the third move, there are only so many ways one can move a piece and only so many ways one can win. By the third move your strategies should be limited to a point where you know the outcome of the game with atl east some certainty. The end justifies all means, as the line of sacrificed pawns along the edge of the board easily show. Cawldor is playing with me, switching strategies just to lengthen the game, or rather, turn the game back into just that; a game.

I take my time on deciding a move. One long finger rests on the head of the bishop in silent consideration. My free hand will gently lift my wine glass by its stem.

'Its been a long time coming.'

My tone would indicate that I dont agree on the merit of the situation. I have seen many, many social gatherings in my centuries and they all provide just one garaunteed thing; new grudges, new snubs and new twists to the already complicated intruige of the city. Of course, I will be there and hopefully with a cadre of neonates in tow. Being unrepresented would be worse than being officially non-invited.

'Will it be a formal Elysium or one of the less formal Rose Salons?'

My gossip mongers have been lacking lately. Its a troubling thing when the neonates of my clan avoid the chantry and their duties. In the old days I would have their fangs- and a new cabal for such disrespect. But as I am constantly reminded, times are beginning to, or have, changed.

"Something informal, from my understanding."  The Prince sits comfortably in his chair, reaching for the wineglass and taking a sip.  "Something that can, hopefully, draw the interest of all quarters of the city."  The tone -- measured with just the slightest upturn of enthusiasm -- is a clear indicator that Cawldor likes this idea very much.  But Regent Lockhart wouldn't need the Prince's tone of voice to know that.  Cawldor is one of those social levelers, having come of age in that truly strange and conflicted postbellum age where society first sought to make ammends for its own ills, even as the country's greatest moguls climbed to their gilded thrones on the backs of the common people.  He believes, as has been made abundantly clear in his tenure as Prince and in his rise to that very position, that it is government's responsibility to care for and support the people, not the other way around.  Mortal or Kindred, it makes no difference.

"In all honesty, when was the last time we've tried to convene the entire city?  Most Elysium gatherings are attended by only those parties particularly interested in the subject of the proceedings, or those diehards who feel it their obligation to attend every function we offer."  Cawldor lets out a soft, bemused chuckle.  The Regent can only assume he is thinking of Emmerson and Thoreau, the two Nosferatu philosophes who never fail to attend every Elysium gathering, taking careful notes and asking voluminous questions of the speaker or presenter.  "I'm particularly afraid that the young bloods are especially removed and ill-informed."  That, at least, is a worry that the Prince and Regent can both share, though probably for differing reasons.  "I cannot remember the last time I went out and actually walked among the normal crowds.  It would be nice to step down for a night and just be one of the people."

There it is again:  "the people."  "The city."  Cawldor speaks of these things as living, breathing entities which must be nurtured and supported.  And, as has been more than abundantly seen, he sees it as his duty to provide that nurture and support.  To him, Cleveland is not a throne to sit on, the name of a position, but a call to a higher purpose.  

--Last edited by Benedict Cawldor on 2009-09-12 18:04:08 --

Sometimes Cawldor disgusts me. His desire to step down and walk amongst the people nearly has me curling my lips in disgust. Why, in gods name would anyone climb to the top of the tower just to go toil at its base once more? Its a concept I will never understand and will never forgive Cawldor for endorsing.

'You can remove your crown, but your face will still be the Princes face.'

I say gently, as if mentoring Cawldor from across the chess board. As much as he would like to walk among the Neonates like a common kindred he would always be looked at with suspicious respect. Treat an inferior like an equal and he will only suspect the worst from you. Cawldor undoubtably knows this, I imagine this is the source of my disdain for him even broaching the topic.

I will finally make a move. A strategic retreat and step backwards in my plan. It coincides with a concession in our conversation. No sooner does my bishop fall back next to my queen than do I suggest:

'Perhaps we should arrive late and unnanounced. See if we can slip in amongst the neonates without the usual fanfare and procedure.'

The idea is foreign to me, obviously, but to control the city you have to know what is on the minds of its most numerous. It would be a strange and uncomfortable, but potentially beneficial night for both of us.

The Prince taps his chin thoughtfully, whether pondering the game or the Regent's suggestion.  "Interesting."

Cawldor stares at the board for a few moments before leaning in, picking up his king's knight, and taking one of Hiram's pawns that had been threatening the further movement of one of his own pawns.

"I like the idea," the Prince says with a small smile.  "It's good to see that old head of yours can come up with novel ideas."  It is meant as a playful jest.  Hiram wouldn't be sitting as Seneschal if Cawldor didn't completely respect his abilities.  "While the assortment of younglings" -- Cawldor has never particularly liked the terms "fledgling" or "neonate" -- "may not immediately recognize us, my one worry is our older companions may pick us out of the crowd."  He smirks again.  "Perhaps we should get one of the Nosferatu to teach us their tricks."

I scoff and give a dismissive wave. In a rare moment of playful comraderie I say;

'There is nothing a Nosferatu can do that I cant do better.'

I let Cawldor consider the weight of that proposition while I busy my hands refilling our glasses before sliding my queens rook across the entire board in a tactically pointless manuever that required me to momentarily invade Cawldors personal space.

Cawldor frowns momentarily.  Whether at Hiram's statement or his move his unsure.  The Prince is not used to seeing his Seneschal make pointless gestures, so by habit he has taken to looking at every move as some potentially small, subtle, yet undeniably key point to a greater strategy.  He sits in thoughtful silence before moving his queen's bishop to threaten Hiram's rook.

"Well, I shall definitely take the idea under consideration," Cawldor says, returning to the notion of arriving unannounced to the soiree.  It's likely the closest he'll get to being one of the "regular," nameless members of society again.

"I dare say the Harpies will be scandalized.  Well, Conrad at least will.  Simone will likely think it a fabulous idea.  Or say she does.  Honestly, I never know what a harpy is thinking."

'If theres one thing Simone can be trusted to do, its to voice the opposite of Conrad. I dare say we could show up on fire and she would think it was fabulous as long as Conrad frowned...'

I pay more attention to the other clans than I usually let on. I have to; as Sensechal my opinion must be informed, or it is invalid. Take note that I never said I enjoy such involvements; just that they are neccessary. I watch the chessboard as if seeing the pieces give battle reports. I am three moves away from losing my king. I have not yet decided if I will revise my strategy and drag this game on for another few minutes.

'Let us arrive unannounced, no trickery needed. If things are indeed as informal as they sound perhaps you can find the regression you seek.'

I slide my rook halfway across the board, bumping an errant pawn from his place and setting up a defense for my king. As my hands settle back to my glass I will change the subject.

'There is going to be a restructuring in my chantry. You can expect a few new introductions in the near future.'

The Prince gives only a small nod.  Tremere business is Tremere business.  Their secrecy should not surprise him, but for a Prince as hands-on as Benedict Cawldor, the veil of mystery which they hide behind is a little...not unnerving necessarily.  Not upsetting.  Just...contradictory to the ideal vision of cooperation that Cawldor has tried to espouse.  He knows that there is an entire world outside his city that he cannot control, or even see into, and yet that world has eyes into his own doings and the goings-on of his domain.  He does not fear it, there is no self-serving paranoia about the stability of his seat here.  There is only the resigned disappointment of an individual who would care to see greater hopes for the world around him.

Cawldor takes his bishop and moves it into position, closing the noose on Hiram's king.

"I had been noticing..." Cawldor thinks for a few moments, trying to word things carefully.  "A certain...stagnation..." is finally the only word he can come up with "...within your ranks.  Greater problems, or merely personal issues within our own particular chantry?"

'Misfits and jokes, every last one.'

I dismiss my entire clan in this city with a wave of my hand. If theres one thing Cawldor is kept abreast of about the Tremere, it is my complaints.

'Beetween the fetishists and the bumbling idiot and the soft spoken wallflowers I am waist deep in incompetence. My chantry stands empty while my underlings play at being Toreador or... hmm, Perverts.'

Thus vented my poise returns. The details may elude him but no doubt Cawldor knows how my clan shuffles neonates from one city to the next. We are nothing if not organized.

'The best I can do is disperse them. One man cannot herd cats and solidarity is neccessary.'

The Prince only nods and waits for Hiram to make his move.  He is quite aware of Hiram's continual disappointment among the ranks of his own clan.  Among the Ventrue he knows competition can be fierce, and even fiercer can be the personal onus of making a name for oneself and outdoing one's peers.  That stress alone can cause failure.  He can only guess the situation when the mystical secrecy and arcane studies of the Warlocks is added on top of that.  Then again, he also has to wonder if there's something else to it.  Maybe that blood magic has a way of warping you -- not the magic itself necessarily, but that studying of it.  It can't be "healthy."  But that's the thing, he can only guess, as he's only been within the chantry a handful of times.

Cawldor steps away from the topic of the chantry and its Tremere residents.  Its a discussion that won't go much anywhere, one-sided as it is.  Instead, he moves to a topic he'd been intending to segue into before Hiram had brought up the failings of his clanmates:

"Speaking, as we were, of Ms. Martine, have you heard anymore from her on the search for the painting?"