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tenebrae_nostro
There was work to do. The simple long black silk shift she wore caressed her soft curves and spilled open on the left of her lithe body to reveal long shapely leg as she walked back into her ritual space-barefoot. The electric kettle plugged into an electrical socket whistled like a furious train on a forgotten track. There was no fire burning under a blackened cauldron in the middle of a forest somewhere, no incense and slow flute music playing under a canopy of trees and a fat moon. Nothing. Only boiling water and a small bowl. Oh, mais oui, the Tremere have their elaborate rituals, but Catherine was practical in such matters first.
"Are you really going to be so obliging?" Quipped Zamor, peeking his head through the door, eyeing the "ritual" items. Smirking back, Catherine's smile was pointed, the corners of her mouth set like daggers. "Malheureusement." Unfortunately. "I have been informed that Regent Valerious is quite set in the old ways. Not to do the rite of introduction would be a faux-pas that would not be quickly forgiven." Not she personally cared, but to be shun from your Regent's graces was something that wouldn't help make her stay here within LA's night society any more comfortable. Especially not the for the social persona that she was going to have to craft. "Now go. Let me be done with this." Sitting of the floor, she closed her eyes and began reciting the arcane ritual that required a string of Latin phrases to be muttered. It was simple, required only half an hour, but still annoyed her. She could almost feel each wasted second tick away. Wouldn't a phone call have been so much easier? It was a question she asked at least several times a month.
At the end of the incantation, she reached out and poured the water into the bowl, allowing the vapors to curl up from the bowl like incense smoke.
Regent Valerious, I hope that I am not interrupting you at an inconvenient time. My name is Catherine de Volanges of the Parisian Chantry and I have arrived in your city. You might recall that we met in London in the 1800's during the unfortunate event that claimed the unlife of Prince Mithras and nearly our own at the Crystal Palace. To the Tremere of Los Angeles, I greet you.
Catherine waited. Then waited some more. Seconds ticked away. This was absolutely ridiculous. For a moment she thought that Regent Valerious would not reply. That would be a faux-pas on his part.
Welcome to my city, Catherine de Volanges. You are welcome and protected here as long as you abide by the Masquerade. Do you understand?
Of course. He was gone nearly as fast as she answered. Then, the others spoke. Short introductions and polite welcomes. Invitations. It was so very annoying to someone who wished to remain anonymous, but at least she knew which of the Tremere, at least those who wanted to make themselves known, were in Los Angeles. It was after the introduction of a stuffy scholar, when the stream was only rolling lightly in the bowl, that the strength of a low hissing voice nearly knocked her back onto her elbows.
YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE!
Catherine yelped in surprise as she fell back, the booming voice twisting in her mind like the tendrils of steam rising through the bowl. It was like the vapors were alive, reaching through her nose to grasp at her brain. Every blood cell felt like it was being choked. It seized her so suddenly, with such force, that she hardly had time to react. Instead, relying on instinct, her hand lashed out, hitting the stone bowl and sending it flying across the room. The geode bowl wasn't likely to shatter. Instead the water, cooled by the tiles, merely spilled across the floor, lazily creating petite vein-like rivers across it. Springing to her feet, Catherine strode away from the water, its placidly reflected on her deceptively calm face.
This. This had been ritual power. Delicate pale fingers furled into clenched fists. A ritual that would take preparation. Catherine gazed at the bowl. Lengthy preparation and patience. Someone had known that she was arriving in Los Angeles before she even landed. One of her own. Someone talked. But how could that be? Aside from Frost, no one knew that she would eventually be here. And if Frost wanted to kill her, surely he had that opportunity in New York? No. Not him. This wasn't intended to kill, but to scare. Even there it had failed. Not only it did provide her with the knowledge that an internal enemey was present, but that they had just committed a grievous offense that she would use to her advantage. What was troubling, was that they didn't seem to care.
tenebrae_nostro There was work to do. The simple long black silk shift she wore caressed her soft curves and spilled open on the left of her lithe body to reveal long shapely leg as she walked back into her ritual space-barefoot. The electric kettle plugged into an electrical socket whistled like a furious train on a forgotten track. There was no fire burning under a blackened cauldron in the middle of a forest somewhere, no incense and slow flute music playing under a canopy of trees and a fat moon. Nothing. Only boiling water and a small bowl. Oh, mais oui, the Tremere have their elaborate rituals, but Catherine was practical in such matters first.
"Are you really going to be so obliging?" Quipped Zamor, peeking his head through the door, eyeing the "ritual" items. Smirking back, Catherine's smile was pointed, the corners of her mouth set like daggers. "Malheureusement." Unfortunately. "I have been informed that Regent Valerious is quite set in the old ways. Not to do the rite of introduction would be a faux-pas that would not be quickly forgiven." Not she personally cared, but to be shun from your Regent's graces was something that wouldn't help make her stay here within LA's night society any more comfortable. Especially not the for the social persona that she was going to have to craft. "Now go. Let me be done with this." Sitting of the floor, she closed her eyes and began reciting the arcane ritual that required a string of Latin phrases to be muttered. It was simple, required only half an hour, but still annoyed her. She could almost feel each wasted second tick away. Wouldn't a phone call have been so much easier? It was a question she asked at least several times a month.
At the end of the incantation, she reached out and poured the water into the bowl, allowing the vapors to curl up from the bowl like incense smoke.
Regent Valerious, I hope that I am not interrupting you at an inconvenient time. My name is Catherine de Volanges of the Parisian Chantry and I have arrived in your city. You might recall that we met in London in the 1800's during the unfortunate event that claimed the unlife of Prince Mithras and nearly our own at the Crystal Palace. To the Tremere of Los Angeles, I greet you.
Catherine waited. Then waited some more. Seconds ticked away. This was absolutely ridiculous. For a moment she thought that Regent Valerious would not reply. That would be a faux-pas on his part.
Welcome to my city, Catherine de Volanges. You are welcome and protected here as long as you abide by the Masquerade. Do you understand?
Of course. He was gone nearly as fast as she answered. Then, the others spoke. Short introductions and polite welcomes. Invitations. It was so very annoying to someone who wished to remain anonymous, but at least she knew which of the Tremere, at least those who wanted to make themselves known, were in Los Angeles. It was after the introduction of a stuffy scholar, when the stream was only rolling lightly in the bowl, that the strength of a low hissing voice nearly knocked her back onto her elbows.
YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE!
Catherine yelped in surprise as she fell back, the booming voice twisting in her mind like the tendrils of steam rising through the bowl. It was like the vapors were alive, reaching through her nose to grasp at her brain. Every blood cell felt like it was being choked. It seized her so suddenly, with such force, that she hardly had time to react. Instead, relying on instinct, her hand lashed out, hitting the stone bowl and sending it flying across the room. The geode bowl wasn't likely to shatter. Instead the water, cooled by the tiles, merely spilled across the floor, lazily creating petite vein-like rivers across it. Springing to her feet, Catherine strode away from the water, its placidly reflected on her deceptively calm face.
This. This had been ritual power. Delicate pale fingers furled into clenched fists. A ritual that would take preparation. Catherine gazed at the bowl. Lengthy preparation and patience. Someone had known that she was arriving in Los Angeles before she even landed. One of her own. Someone talked. But how could that be? Aside from Frost, no one knew that she would eventually be here. And if Frost wanted to kill her, surely he had that opportunity in New York? No. Not him. This wasn't intended to kill, but to scare. Even there it had failed. Not only it did provide her with the knowledge that an internal enemey was present, but that they had just committed a grievous offense that she would use to her advantage. What was troubling, was that they didn't seem to care.
