Winter in London never stops anyone. Those of the North are used to the rain and dark, the cold and treacherous. The rule of thumb remains to dress well, stay in layers, and move quickly inside. Taxis are overwhelmed during the winter months, seeing not only a large complement of holiday tourists, but also the locals, who refrain from walking.
     But beneath the fashionable black layers, hats, and scarves, there must remain glamour. Can Caine's childer do without it? For when they stream darkly into the lowest levels beneath the Tate Modern, they reveal their True Selves. The walk down one corridor leads only to another. And another. With each hall, the elevation deepens. A garment removed. Another hall. A series of doors. Scarf lost. An elevator. A coat tossed over an arm. Only then does the concrete scenery of a backstage theater begins to give way to something more substantive. A shift in the air. A carpet beneath the feet. Scant lighting and rough, exposed outlets replaced with flickering sconces mimicking flames. Kindred passed in a hallway with doors leading wherever. And soon enough, a doorway blocked by conversing vampires, in various states of elegant gowns, suits, or plain clean casual wear. It is a mix of persons, all staring at the arrivals, followed by whispers and turns of heads.
     Entering the main hall of the Toreador Court indicates that the walk is done. Beyond this room are rooms upon others, but this is the main conflagration, the area where things Begin. The room hearkens back to an older time, something of late baroque, of a Europe steeps in the sumptuousness that returned after the Revolution. Ornate lighting of curved candelabras evoke old as well as goth. For the youngest, it is a movie set come alive, with the carpets and chaises, the sofas and alcoves. A cavernous room with stairs at the edges, leading upwards to a large balcony. From there, the paths are myriad.
     At first look, the group seems all the same. But a keen eye left, right, and deeper, can see the distinctions. A few Brujah gather here. Toreador there. A mix of misspent youth stand together on a side, a distance away, dressed in leather and plastic. A group of distinguished Ventrue, seeming to plan for a night at the opera are seated in a near sofa (no need to hide in the shadowy room's other shadows). A set of Malkavian titter near something flashing with color. And a set dressed in black and red congregate near a fountain. Tremere. If there are Gangrel, they are the ones with brown hair, a few not so far from a dais with seating, one seat larger than the others. That one, remains empty.

     He was half tempted to stay above and wander the halls of art in a closed gallery. As Oscar Wilde might say, the only thing better than a gallery full of people is a gallery without people. There is something meditative about steps in an empty gallery, the reflection of sound that mixes with that of color. Rather like the patterned cacophony of Tibetan monks who ring and chant at odd intervals all the way to Seventh Heaven...
     But he did not do so, despite his better (?) reason. He has not paid a half-way formal visit to the Court since 1947. In the 50s, all things pointed to America and he followed Ian Dunross to the New World of post-War profiteering. William Plantagenet does not expect that there shall be a Face Familiar in the whole lot. Unless of course Thierry Guy-Lamont Tattinger du Niemes is actually here...
     A man walks down the corridors of the hidden Tate. A black suit covered by a black overcoat. And layers begin peeling in succession -- very orderly. He will be able to find his trail by coat, then scarf, then gloves. The lifting of the layers reveals a suit, scant illumination further revealing the black to have an indigo thread, further indicated by the passing of light across a tie. He is a visual painting this man. Features are perfect, not merely each piece in and of themselves but more in the symmetry that they create as a whole. Short dark hair. Who is he?
     Ask the Talking Heads. For if they do not know Now, they shall know in only a few minutes time. They work quickly, Those Who Whisper in Corridors Blocking Doorways. It is their function; it is why they are here at all...
     William enters the main hall of the Toreador court, dark eyes finding the Ventrue portions of the room quite easily. And suddenly, he needs a drink...

     "What?" comes Robert LeGrasse's voice as he taps Michelene Beleyev on the arm. They both turn from their Ventrue associates, and Robert is the first to step towards the well-dressed arrival. "This is London, yes?" Robert grins, dressed in business casual as he often does: slacks, slightly-worn sweater, and a jacket. "If it is, then that cannot be William," he smirks, extending his free hand towards William. Robert's other hand firmly holds a goblet, more than likely filled with the house's special.
     "I didn't fancy you an art aficionado," Robert grins, knowing full well otherwise. "Well, at least not this sort of art..."

     Stepping in through the crowds, Scarlet glances around, taking all of this in. Decor is made note of as much as Clan distinctions within the room. Everything is recorded and stored away for further analysis at a later time, perhaps.
     Smartly dressed in a midnight-black skirt-suit, the skirt ending just above the knees, she moves through the crowd with her coat folded neatly over her arm. Long black locks have been pulled back into a severe ponytail, gathering up the long stripe of bone-white hair that starts at the top of her forehead. The only piece of jewelry that she wears is a single, silver necklace with a stone of blood red dangling heavily in the v-neck of her suit jacket.
     Everything is so different than 'back home'. This is certainly not America, so the customs will no doubt be strange or different to her. But she will adapt, as she always does. When in Rome, afterall. Although in unfamiliar territory, she moves with purpose and confidence, seeking out the one she was told to find once here. She was given but a vague description of Keeling, so she heads directly for the black and red crowd...her House and Clan.

     The smile is quick to light, warm when it spreads, and given a shot of life by the quiet laughter that follows it. "I must be lost," William's English comes precisely but little worn these days. While the accent is 'official', there are vowels that drag with a gait all too Loire. His smile slants. "Yes? That is the question?"
     The slant disappears and William is ready at Robert's hand, shake given but that's not Continental enough for him. He moves in it, a half embrace follows. "It's good to see you," William says, grin held in the eyes. "I thought on my way in: I'm not going to know anyone..."

     To be blessed by a smile from the Regent is something which only foolish Apprentices wish. Wise Apprentices wish never to be called to the Regent's direct attention; a smile may mean praise, but always, it is accompanied by a thoughtful gaze that seems to measure up the sum of one's parts and calculate precisely what their worth on the alchemical black market might be, before then moving on. And too often, a smile means something other than 'well done' - far too often for wise Apprentices who wish to rise through the ranks of Tremere's halls.
     As with any 'proper' gathering, the Tremere must congregate together. Later, perhaps there will be mingling, among those of lower caste to rub with higher, lower caste with lower caste of other Clans. But now? The party isn't even getting started. The Regent isn't even among the lesser ones yet - or is he?
     There, he appears, making his entrance after William, apparently having been delayed by some business of his own. The face is unlined and set in immobile, implacable lines, with just the faintest hint of a smile hovering with jaded perceptivity at the edges of his mouth - as though someone told him a not terribly funny joke six hours ago, and he forgot to turn off his reaction to it. His hair is iron-grey, in contrast with the relative youth of his skin, tied back in a short ponytail. Tailored black trousers are paired with a martial jacket that buttons to the left side of his chest, the high collar almost priest-like. He wears a gold band with a winking squarecut carnelian, and carries nothing with him.
     Walking calmly, as if expected, he makes his way down the center of the pathway, the pale eyes focused ahead and seeing to see nothing - aloof in dignity as he passes the various clans and their representatives. As he passes the Malkavians, however, he says mildly, "I see you, Milos." That's all he says - tone perfectly calm, cultured, even friendly. He continues on without pause, in the direction of the gathering Tremere.

     As youngest of the London primogen, Keeling Smart tends to attract the youth of the city. Situated around him are the bright, the shining, and the most vibrant of the dead. It is not only the fashion magazines and television stations that seem buy into the culture of youth, so to the not-so-dead nightlife of the 21st century. Keeling himself fails to seem any more aged or wizened by those around him. His suit, fresh from the designers shelf, must have been featured in this months GQ Italia. The style of his hair must have been worn by the same model who displayed the suit.
     Keeling is all tooth, fang, smile and gleam as he quietly makes conversations with his fellows. A pale eye is always cast towards the doorway, it is expected that tonight will bring at least a handful of people to meet and greet.

     There must be something special. Arrivals new. Several. Only that would bring out the larger number of Elders than usual. The Lord Regent of Tremere? Is that what he looks like? The Harpies - and those practicing for such title - will and do wag.
     And who is the one with LeGrasse?
     And who's the severe young woman?
     Her eyes must hurt.

     Robert returns William's embrace, nodding eagerly. "Of course you'd know some here," maybe, "...well at least me. I'm always here," Robert smiles cheesily. Some elders must spend the time. "I'm sure," Robert skims around a glance, pausing in the direction of the Tremere, "...that there are a few others you'll know. And who will remember you too." Maybe. Most of the older ones rarely visit the Tate Modern's underground.
     "Hmm," Robert grins at William, ceasing his staring in the Tremere's direction. "So, so! What brings you here? I mean...to Court..."

     Approaching the grouping of Tremere, Scarlet waits until her presence is noticed, or until there is a lull in conversation. Quietly, she asks someone on the outer part of the grouping a question. The name 'Keeling' stands out a little. The young Tremere nods to her and politely gestures in the direction of the man surrounded by the fashionable undead.
     Slipping further into the grouping, Scarlet comes to stand before the one pointed out to her and awaits patiently, not interrupting any conversation that might be in-progress. She does not stare at him, but waits patiently to be acknowledged when he has a moment. She fishes an envelope out of a pocket in the coat she carries.

     Indigoed attention shifts to Michelene Beleyev. There is a smile of greeting to her, though he doesn't know her. Or if he did once -- he may have to apologize for all sorts of things. Forgetting her just the tip of the iceberg. William half-pivots, a quick look given to the remainder of the room. And an eyebrow lifts to see Scarlet. "Yes... I do know someone else here. That makes two... at the very least," he murmurs.
     He is smiling, warmth in his features nearly incandescent. "I have not paid a visit to a formal European court since my return from America. I thought, I am here... I have to see Theirry tonight anyway...so...why not? I could not talk Ian into it," he chuckles. With all of the Tremere in the room, that's not surprising.
     "That woman there," William continues, voice quieting, though realizing such is an artifice in this room. "Her name is Scarlet... Tremere from America. From Oregon." Where he and Ian were? Can that be good?
     William turns his attention back to Michelene and Robert, a fair distribution of his attention, eyes glancing to Robert's drink. "Did I miss a bar? How can this be?'

     Well, that answers one question. Robert peers over at William's information, then nods. "Yes, mate, drink. The usual," Robert notes, tilting his goblet William's direction. The scent is unmistakable. Robert shrugs, then tips his goblet in the direction of a woman near a door. "Rapunzel will serve," she perhaps in charge of unfortunates on tap, "...if you want something."
     "If you want a scotch," Robert smirks, realizing that perhaps that was what was wanted, "over there," he motions, in the direction of a more traditional table of crystal decanters.

     While she waits, Scarlet is approached by another Tremere, a young man looking to be in his mid-20s with short, well-kept hair and earrings. "Ethan Winters, at your service." A hand is extended to her.
     Scarlet shakes it and replies cooly, "Scarlet. From New Port, Oregon." Her hand is then withdrawn as she examines the young man with the same expression as she would examining the rest of the room. Smooth and detached.
     "No last name?" Ethan asks, but receives a murmured, "No," from her. "First time at Court?" he ventures, obviously curious about the woman -- who merely nods her head once. "I see," comes his thoughtful replay, backing off a bit, though he continues to stand near her.

     There is a moment of Plantagenet Pondering. If Sebastian were here, he would recognize that expression. Normandy. England. To drink or not to drink. To conquer or not to conquer. But in the end, William simply nods, filing that information for later apparently. "No one in this room should want me to drink scotch, least of all you," eyes widen a touch. You know better. It'll be choruses of Waltzing Matilda culminating into a fist fight and a roaring stumble water-side.
     It's not pretty. No matter how he looks...
     "I'll get a drink to-go," he murmurs. Catch it on the run. It's better that way. "I will have to pop by Claridge's and put a breeze up DeRancey on my way home," Kensington, "...Though I've seen him once already this year," as if by that indicating that once is enough.
     "It will be interesting," William murmurs, his eyes on the Tremere again, "... to see how she adjusts to life on this side of the Atlantic. Though, for Tremere, location isn't really the predominant issue. Still... I was rather surprised to find her here." In my home. On my land. "She is here, so she said, about the recent rash of beheadings..."

     Keeling nods patiently, finally shaking the hand of the young man he is talking too. "I'll see what I can do Reggie, but I honestly would not get your hopes up when it comes to your petition. The prince has rarely approved of such ventures in the past." Keeling watches Reginald's reaction, carefully checking to see how much vested interest this man has in this request. Judging from Reginald's crestfallen look, it was quite a bit. It is to Keeling's credit that he has such a reputation amongst the post WWII generation. In reality, Keeling is a traditionalist at heart. A trait he lauds to the old, and carefully conceals from the young.
     He coughs and uncomfortably turns away from Reginald and gives Scarlet a good hard look over. This must be the American that they were expecting. Why on earth, they would actually bring someone from America to work here is beyond Keeling's imagination. Its sort of like bringing a puppy to an old folks home. Maybe they can get a few laughs and keep the senility at bay.
     Keeling smiles at Scarlet, "Good evening?" She looks the part well, what with the outfit. At least they haven't completely forgotten their clan back in the states.

     Keeling he most certainly is not, but Randall Tremont's eyebrows lift. Does he move to intercept the young (seeming) lady? That, he does not. Sometimes, it is better to observe from afar, and far be it for him to interfere with Keeling Smart and his entourage... for now.
     "Hm? Milos? Oh, yes, we've known each other for quite some little time now," Randall answers, attention drawn by a query from a passing Harpy, his bearing courteous, mien grave without solemnity. "Which reminds me, I really must put in a stock order of cockatrice blood for his ... ointment. His complexion hasn't cleared up since that little incident, I fear." He turns away, glancing to the gathered Tremere. Time for head count - see who's made it, and who has ... dropped out of sight.
     And then he spots William, all the way across and in foreign territory. Randall offers him the faintest of nods, smiling cordially to an anecdote offered up by a too brash and distinctly too hopeful neonate. Several of the other Tremere watch the neonate closely, while appearing disinterested, but all the Regent does is offer that faint, impersonal smile - and begin to ease towards the heart of Tremere company.

     There's more of a nod from Robert as he also looks over to the Tremere, though he continues on the current topic. "Sebastian. I wonder if he'll be here tonight. I heard, that something was afoot this evening. I guess it's true. Count one for the Harpies," Robert offers, hand slipping into his pocket. "Guess that also means that we'll see Thierry -- do you know the Lord Regent?" Robert shifts mid-thought, glancing to see if any younger Ventrue are around. Certain things they should not hear. "I'll guess you can figure which that is. I haven't seen Tremont in...well...a few years..."

     Turning her attentions away from Ethan, her new cling-on, she glances over at Keeling, realizing she's being addressed. Scarlet bows her head respectfully, then looks back up, clear gaze lighting upon the man before her. "I do not mean to interrupt anything," she begins, speaking lowly but clearly, "but I am Scarlet, from New Port. Senior Gabriel de la Cruz sends his warmest regards, mister Smart." Holding out a plain, white envelope, she adds, "He said I was to give this to you." A letter of reference, perhaps, or perhaps something more.
     She bows her head respectfully again and falls silent, having said what is needed to be said. Glancing back up, she awaits a response. She does not fidget, does not sway from foot to foot, nor does she glance about the room. Her gaze remains respectfully within a certain area around her and Keeling and her hands clasp before her, keeping her coat in place over her arm.

     Near the head of the room, close to the dais, one of the two doors in a large archway opens. Light streams in, along with a set of men and women, dressed in extreme finery. The seven of them alight near the dais, talking softly among themselves. Le Guilde Elegance, they are called, in attendance to the Toreador Prince. Chief Harpy, Prevot, Seneschal, and Toreador Primogen among the seven, they serve as the Prince's personal court, or so it's said, outside of the Council.

     Keeling takes the envelope from Scarlet's hand and secrets it in his inside breast pocket of his jacket. "Welcome to London Miss Scarlet. I have already made arrangements for your stay at our chantry in Westminster. Please extend my courtesies to Senior Gabriel when next you speak. He has given you quite high marks, enough for all of us to be impressed. I hope the work that brings you here is rewarding." For a puppy sent here to entertain, he would expect more tail wagging and cute drooling. His jests are internal however, according to what he has learned so far, Scarlet is not one to be the butt of any joke.
     Still, an American? Keeling coughs slightly into his hands, a gesture that seems to help guide one thought chain to another. "Please make yourself at home and enjoy our little excursion this evening." The isle is not the warmest place for Tremere. Keeling has heard rumors that the guest this evening, former Prince William, disapproves of Tremere. But then, what is new in that. He half turns to greet the approach of the court.

     "Yes," William says to a question, a smile to the Lord Regent, and then he is turning to face Robert. He doesn't elaborate, but he does smile. That smile. "And here I thought I came on a whim," he continues regarding the harpies. There is a glance, too, for the others nearby and gathered in their own conversations.
     All else is interrupted by the opening of the doors. Le Guilde Elegance. Among the most notable of coteries, in their number a handful of his former reckoning. But then, was he not the Ventrue raised by Toreador of Florence, now Venice, like the Romulus was raised by the she-wolf?
     It is hard to imagine that this kind of... pageantry, for lack of a better word, has survived, and stranger still the day it should never exist again. In America, there is nothing like this, even on the smallest of levels. There, it is far more pragmatic. And far more dangerous. All of Europe is much like a painted corpse, truth be told. An Old World struggling to raise itself from the tomb of its own grand histories. "It would appear that a prince is imminent." I see the harem. Now, where's the sultan?
     If Gabriel de la Cruz's report is to be believed -- and William has many reasons why it should not -- then, yes, William Plantagenet is not ... fond of Tremere. Of course, it's all in the bloodline, they say. If that is the case, then he is no doubt doomed to loathing all covens, for all time. Tremere does not need Gabriel de la Cruz to tell them that.

     Approaching from the side amidst the flock of crimson and black-clad vampires, Randall comes to a halt at the edge of Keeling's entourage, chin lifting as he smiles faintly at the Primogen for a moment, eyes lazily hooding. "Master Smart," he addresses Keeling, tone perfectly devoid of anything but polite interest, "good evening. I see that not all rare blossoms have fled our number to those who appreciate beauty more than we." Not by a hair does he even seem to glance in William's direction.
     His hands come together in front of him at roughly hip-height, the long fingers threaded to display the carnelian to its best advantage, by happy coincidence. "It is so pleasant that we are able to attend such gatherings," he observes, "in, of course, the spirit of de mortuis nil nisi bonum." He inclines his head downwards and slightly to the side, in both greeting and observation of Scarlet. "Miss."

     There is another bow of the head from Scarlet and a replied, "Thank you. Your generosity is more than appreciated." Short and sweet. No smile slips onto her lips, nor any emotion flickers across her face. That pale visage remains the same as when she first entered the room. It is not impressed nor disappointed. It just is. She just is.
     Rumours have flickered through the information lines of the House and Clan, surely, about this one. Hard-working. Serious. And dedicated to her existence as part of the Tremere. Right-hand 'man' to Gabriel de la Cruz, she was trusted with the running of the New Port Chantry while he was away. New Port's Tremere Whip would certainly not take well to being the butt of anyone's jokes, but she knows her place at the same time.
     Glancing over at the newcomer, she can only assume he is someone of import by the air about him. She bows her head politely and says, "Evening, sir." If she is to know this man, she will find out when it is time, she is certain. She assumes nothing, and watches everything.
     She glances to the entering court members, taking her cue from Keeling. She pointedly ignores the looks she gets from Ethan next to her, as it is obvious to her that Things Are About To Happen. If nothing else, this will be an experience, in her mind.

     "Good eve to you as well Master Tremont." Keeling's smile, in contrast, beams warmth not quite hot enough to burn. If Scarlet was once a right-hand man, the same can be said of Keeling. In matters Camarilla, Keeling has his say as primogen. Its accepted fact, however, that in all matters Tremere, and hence, Camarilla, it is Randall Tremont that has The say. No one has ever heard of Keeling funneling a fueled ambition. For all appearance, he seems comfortable to achieve promotion for 'time served'. One can't help but wonder, however, that when dealing with immortals, when does time change?
     "May I present to you Scarlet, from America. You may recall, Sir, her transfer to our isle. It is always good to see a colonist return home, is it not." Keeling chuckles softly, feeling comfortable to make such an antiquated jest.

     On the Ventrue side of the room, William Plantagenet continues to speak quietly with Robert LeGrasse and those nearby. There is the occasional sound of laughter. And finally, a drink. It is as William prefers it -- drinks materializing brought to him by the hands of the young and industrious.
     Thankfully, the young woman had the presence of mind to bring him brandy. Perhaps he is not so much a stranger after all...

     "Charming," Randall murmurs, straightening and closing the remaining distance to within 'polite' speaking range. He does not offer his hand, of course, but he does offer a small bow of his head as the pale eyes flicker over Scarlet measuringly. "The colonies? Oh, yes - indeed. I have heard that things have advanced there admirably, of late. Allow me to be among the first to bid you welcome, then, Miss Scarlet."
     He straightens, spreading his shoulders back, and turns his head slowly towards Keeling. "I imagine that Miss Scarlet will wish the opportunity to examine her surroundings," he murmurs. "We shall have to see to our guest's comforts. Tell me," he adds languidly, stepping back, "Miss Scarlet - do you play cribbage?"

     Following Keeling's example for the naming etiquette around here, Scarlet bows her head respectfully to Randall as she did to Keeling, and says clearly, "Pleased to meet you, Master Tremont. Thank you for the generous welcome." She knows that newcomers are usually viewed as an inconvenience, and so she pays props to those who show her patience.
     Her gaze flickers between Keeling and Randall, listening to the exchange, taking notice of expressions, body language, and any other cues there. Then she is asked about cribbage and this causes her to glance back up at Randall directly. "Cribbage... that is a game I have not played in years, but I am certain it would not take long to remember how it is played," she replies politely. She doesn't exactly look like the card-playing type, but then again, she has the perfect poker face, does she not? She keeps her cards held close to her chest, not just in a game, it seems.

     If only all the problems of the world, or at least the internecine differences of Clans, could be handled by a round of poker, cribbage, bridge or dominoes. It would be far more civilized. But is this not a kind of civilization, the Camarilla? One might say that it, as a governing body, is rather like a game of cribbage. Pegs on a board moved by negotiating hands...
     William turns, brandy cupped in the glass that is furthermore cupped in his hand, while his other extends outward, taking into its embrace some woman of his acquaintance. He smiles at something said, eyes returning to Robert and taking a brief survey around the room and to Le Guilde Elegance before nodding to her and dropping into an animated conversation in French.

     "Why that's a fabulous idea. You will find, Scarlet, that here on the isle being in our clan can be a bit of a lonely lot." Keeling's tone is appropriately sad when he makes that remark, as if the weight of the world's injustice has been unfairly placed upon Clan Tremere. Equally plucky in turn, he trods forth in steadfast British fashion, "But we find ways to keep ourselves entertained."
     Surely its been decades since anyone was staked at a cribbage game, they have become quite civilized in our new modern age. Keeling's eyes travel over Randall's shoulder to observer the rest of the room and the comings and goings of the London Flock.

     "Excellent. I fear we have little else to do, with the doing away of bear baitings," Randall murmurs, adjusting his signet minutely and glancing around himself. "But surely we are remiss in our introductions, Master Smart. A lovely lady such as Miss Scarlet should not be monopolized by two old men such as we. I am sure that there are ... other faces ... which have her interest, mm?"

     The Guild seems to sigh, and one steps forth from the line. A man in a black suit with a vest embroidered in red. Valentine Rossini, Toreador formerly of Florence, now sits as the Grand Harpy of London, at the allowance of Thierry Tattinger. Accompanying Rossini --
     Ashleigh Pennington, Toreador of Windsor, now Primogen of London.
     Mara Nur, Toreador formerly of Manila, now Prevot of London.
     Devon Tarpin, formerly of Washington, DC, now Seneschal of London.
     With them are two others, perhaps visiting dignitaries.
     Suddenly, Valentine's voice lifts, "The Council, this Guild, and those Acknowledged call You All forth, into the presence of this assembled Court, so that you may lift your voice. Speak then, and have Your Brethren respond with open hands..."
     Rather genteel. Power from the people, so to speak.

     The side doors open again, both this time. From the opening, Thierry Tattinger steps within, walking the short distance to the dais and his chair there. He's dressed simply in a blue tailored suit that seems to gleam faintly, his shirt a tawny cream. The tie is of the same silken material as his suit, and he blurs by the Guild towards his seat, as if the seven were utterly invisible.
     Thierry sighs, then bites his bottom lip. Recalling something. A hand runs through his hair, and his secretary comes to stand at the back edge of his chair.
     With the Prince's arrival, the Guild parts, three to his left near the secretary, and four to his right, with the Primogen closest.

     Robert takes another drink from his glass, and nudges William's elbow at the proceedings at the head of the room.

     Cribbage. All that a Tremere can do. Right. Somehow she doubts all of this. She keeps her internal monologue just that, however; internal. She is, afterall, an Apprentice. She is not meant to know all that goes on in the Clan, and she accepts this.
     Outwardly, she bobs her head briefly, about the comment about cribbage and the absence of bear baiting. Then there is a comment... 'lovely lady'. This triggers a minute response from her... so minute, is it even noticed? Ethan's already been distracted by the elite of the Court's entrance, so would Randall and Keeling notice, or even care? She swallows and glances away slightly, then tries to mask it by glancing about the room. Flatly, she replies, "I would not wish to hold either of you up from any plans you may have. However, I have little interest in extra socializing." It is not an insult to those around her. She just isn't a socialite like most here. She prefers to be studying or making herself useful to the Clan. Socializing is not on her priority list.
     Her voice trails off, however, as the announcement is made... the Prince has arrived. Scarlet's gaze slips over to him as silence falls over her. -Now- things are happening. About time.

     When the commotion began anew, all conversation ended in a hush. Juliet duMontrachet smiled pleasantly but parted ways with Plantagenet, turning toward her companions Toreador. William's arm was lifting the brandy when the slight nudge came. The glass is thereafter lowered, held by the barest grasp of two great hands.
     There is nothing more said for now, but all attention given to the formal entrance. Faces marked -- aha, Valentine the Florentine. I shall have to speak with him after...

     "Good evening," Theirry Tattinger begins, eyes lifted as he finally scans the room.
     Everyone in attendance, raise your hand.
     "I acknowledge the Standing of this Court, the service of the Guild, and the faithful charter of the Primogen Council," no comment on those not present. "I also acknowledge and honor our visitors to this Court, Felix Camardo of Seville, Archon to His Excellency, Kalil Mahiarani of Tunis, Justicar, and Persephone of Naples, Archon to His Excellency, Christian Lausanne of Strasbourg, Justicar. This is in addition to the already-welcomed Dignitaries who continue to remain in Our Court, with our Courts esteemed Elders."
     "If there are others who must be Acknowledged, please present yourselves to this Court."

     Two archons. Does that make an even baker's dozen? As it were?
     The word 'must' in an interesting one. William is content in the knowledge that must doesn't really apply to him anymore. Were he Prince of This or That rather than former Prince of There and Then, there would be some need of etiquette to raise his hand and say: Over here, me too, me too. But there is no need and there is a crystallizing sense of joy that comes with it.
     William lifts his glass for a swallow of brandy, content to stand with the rest of the audience and unnamed dignitaries to the court. After all, he's only passing through. His is a visit that can be remarked upon after official business...

     Glancing back at Randall and Keeling, Scarlet murmurs softly, "Being from America, I am unsure of the protocol for presenting myself before the Prince..." Her voice trails off there, as she appears to hope that one of them might give her instruction or guidance of some sort. She takes a moment to set her coat on a nearby chair, so she is unhindered when walking up there.

     Keeling nods patiently and puts forth one of his fabled smiles. "Stand by me Scarlet and I believe I can assist with this." He gently places his hand on her elbow and escorts her forward a bit. His voice lowers slightly, "Just be polite and speak when your spoken to, and tell him how gracious he and his city is. Flattery is always a friend in court." Keeling waits as other visitors and new comers are introduced before stepping forward with his young charge carefully in tow.
     "Good evening to you Honorable, May I introduce this childe to you for you to do with as you wish. This is Scarlet, of Clan Tremere, from the United States of America. She wishes the safety of your city and places herself under your care and guidance." Keeling makes a half bow and a generous sweep of his hands. Taking a half step behind he leaves Scarlet to answer for herself.

     Now that's a surprise.
     Tattinger steps forth slightly, looking at Scarlet appreciably. "Greetings, Scarlet of Clan Tremere. Your Primogen has done his part with his usual aplomb and perfection, and I trust that you will honor him accordingly. Be welcome in this Court." His hands slide behind his back, clasping gently.

     When he was in New Port, Oregon, preparing to leave for Europe, this would have been the very last thing he would have expected. Now, he is seeing it with his own eyes and is finding it... incredulous. There, Scarlet of the Chantry of the Broken Violin is standing before the eyes of one of Europe's foremost courts -- it's on a short list.
     The world is an interesting place. And now, William, it is true. You are old. You have just seen Everything...

     Letting herself be lead out in front of Tattinger, Scarlet listens to what Keeling says, then turns her attentions to the Prince himself. Her gaze remains unwavering as she looks to him, interrupted only as she takes a moment to bow to him. Yes, a bow. Not a curtsey. It is not a deep bow, as she is in a skirt, but it is done slightly from the waist.
     Straightening, she replies clearly, "Greetings, Honorable One. As already stated, I wish for the safety of you and your glorious city. I appreciate that you have more pressing matters than a childe such as myself, and do thank you for your generosity in seeing me." She pauses momentarily, then adds, "I understand there are no doubt many who have stood here in this very spot in the past who have asked the same, and many more who will come in the future. I can only hope that my wish could be granted by one as gracious as you."
     Then, she falls silent, awaiting the Response.

     Harpies raise invisible rating cards. They range from a non-committal four to a thoroughly obsequious eight.

      Thierry smiles, his smirk rather bemused. "There are few pressing matters than other Wanderers, arriving at new domains. And so, you are Acknowledged, Scarlet of America," some subtle humor in there, but where is difficult to place, "...in my Domain." There. That finished.
     More casually, if such in front of a full room is possible, Thierry asks, "I gather your arrival has caused some excitement," the Prince nodding in the direction of the gathered Tremere. He'll say what's obvious. "It has been some time since we have been so graced with the Primogen and Lord Regent." Thierry smiles at Scarlet, "Childe appears to be a...misnomer."

     Once more, the black and white-haired head nods in respect. Even as Thierry smiles, she does not... almost as if she doesn't quite know how to, perhaps. It is not something in her repertoire which is used that often. "Thank you," comes her response.
     Then, she casts a glance back at the gathering of Tremere. So, this is -not- usual? Interesting. Returning her attention before her, she says, "You are too kind. I am but a newcomer to the ways and customs here. I am certain this is nothing but..." there is a pause, "coincidence. I am not so special."

     Nice Tremere answer. Move along now, nothing to see here. William smirks at the rim of his lifted glass, the expression dissolving in the brandy.

     Keeling feels the weight of that letter in his pocket weigh down a bit more heavily. Of course he is dying to open it up and see what it may contain. Surely, it may be something as simple as a personal greeting, or a test from her old master to see if it would arrive safely. Bear this letter in my behalf to the King, dear Rosencrantz, gentle Gildenstern. But, just perhaps, it could be something even more interesting, something Keeling can use.
     Keeling nods gently at the Princes remark, acknowledging the wisdom of his observation, while denying it in turn. It seems the poor neonate wants to live, she answers better than the two fictional buffoons from Denmark.

     "I suspect Regent Smart and the Lord Regent would disagree," Thierry says, looking to Keeling. "I will leave the assessment of your ubiquity to them," the Prince concludes that line with a nod of his head. "I presume your understanding of the Traditions is clear, yes?" He'll not ask someone other than a neonate to recite them. "That much...I am sure both sides of the pond have in common," he teases gently.

     Soft laughter, polite and subdued, rises from around the room.

     And she is no neonate, of course. Bowing again to Thierry, Scarlet says clearly, "They are very clear." Emphasis on 'very'. She remains composed, polite and calm. Her thoughts are her own, but she remains respectful. At this point, she allows something very small to pass over her expression... the very hint of a smile at the gentle tease. Was it a trick of the lighting? Once more her face is impassive as she adds, "They are upheld on the other side of the 'pond' as truly as they are here, I am sure." With that, she takes a small step back, indicating that her business with the Prince is concluded, but that she will not leave until given leave to do so.

     "As I figured," Thierry grins, nodding and looking away finally. A dismissal. "Welcome again, Scarlet of Clan Tremere and America." There's a last nod to the Tremere Primogen.
     Brows arch as Thierry Tattinger looks around again.
     "Any other Acknowledgments," the Prince offers, letting any step forth.

     Thankful to be out of the limelight, Scarlet takes another step back, pivots and steps back off to the side, where the other Tremere are. There's that hurdle done with.

     We do respect our traditions here in the 'Old Country' as those Americans like to say. Keeling has seen Thierry actually make people recite the traditions before, but the prudent prince usually saves it for the rowdy brujah or primitive gangrel. Those who need to know the traditions because they rarely follow them. The Tremere, on the other hand, are the staunchest supporters of the Camarilla these days. Some even whisper more than the toddering and enfeebled Ventrue.
     Then again, those who whisper that, tend to be Tremere. Keeling graces Scarlet with a winning smile, he leans in close to her while leading her away, "Very well done apprentice. Your master has obviously taught you well. As the Lord Regent states, the rest of the night is yours to do with as you see fit. Your clansman have been instructed to take you to the Chantry at your own convenience."

     Walking next to Keeling, Scarlet does not return the smile or even a wink. It is not her way. "Thank you, Master Smart," choosing the phrase used by Randall earlier. "Perhaps I should see to getting myself set up in the Chantry soon. I'll admit that here, I am much like a 'fish out of water'." It is the only indication of her discomfort, really.
     "I have much work to do in the coming months and I would like to get everything prepared," the serious young woman states. Does she never socialize? It's all work, work, work, it seems. Her dedication to the Clan's interests appear to be strong.

     "Pish, just learn to like beans and toast, and you will fit right in." Keeling laughs broadly, it is easy to see how this Tremere has managed to navigate usually cold and difficult waters. Tremere don't usually laugh. Cackle yes, laugh no. Sure there is that occasional maniacal super villain laugh, but that is usually reserved for special occasions, such as the capture of MI-5 agents. But it seems to come quite freely from Keeling. The smile and the laugh has become very useful tools for Keeling, both within the clan, and without.

     The differences are not to be found in the Traditions themselves, but how they are upheld. Rather like the differences between Parliament and the Senate. William lowers his glass, the glass now empty. His eyes are on Scarlet as she backs away. You have outgrown Gabriel. He can't have been pleased, Apprentice. Perhaps you did not belong in New Port either.
     "I am certain that Scarlet will continue to prove herself as an asset to the Camarilla," comes a voice from the back, "... as her Prince in America, I can speak for her past service and, yes," William smiles as he steps forward, "...her understanding of the Traditions. In fact," the smile slants as William pivots in her direction, "I was suddenly wondering what I had done to cause the right hand of the chantry to bump into me at a pub in London."
     William bows his head to Thierry, not that he needs such formality, but it seemed a good time, "This visitor to your Court is merely glad to be here and to see you. It has been too long, some ... sixty-six years, I think. I need no other Acknowledgment than... perhaps a drink after offices are done."

     "Beans and toast..." she comments, seeming at a loss for words at this comment. Was that a hint of confusion or despair? Certainly that can't be the case, for she comes back with, "Of course. When in Rome."
     Returning to where the Tremere are situated, she murmurs, "I am grateful for your aid and gracious welcome, Master Keeling, and will make myself available to answer any questions you might have for me based on the missive provided." Which now resides within your pocket.
     She appears ready to take her leave, then freezes in her tracks, hearing a familiar voice. Ah, so William decided to show up tonight. She turns, as she hears her name on his lips and stares. Did she just hear correctly? Did she just get a high recommendation from the former prince of New Port...a Ventrue? Astonishment creeps onto her face... perhaps the one true show of emotion she's had all night in front of others.

     Thierry Tattinger's attention turns to another part of the room. Hands clasping behind his back are released. "William Plantagenet," he says, the same smile given to Scarlet, "...another honor this evening. Welcome to London, prince of Clan Ventrue. And speaking of our other arrival. It is a small world," the prince observes.

     A few mumble around the room, but few words are distinguished.

     Ignoring the comments, Thierry turns about and whispers something to the secretary near him. Then, "It is always to Our benefit," the body politic, "...when one of our own returns. The island has missed you and your counsel."

Posted by rowan at February 14, 2004 08:18 PM