The city of death, nein?

Whatever, this night sees yet another corpse descend into the city.
Why, I muse, am I here?
Naturally by the command of my own sire and his sire all the way down to the one sleeping in the deeps of the Schwarzwald. Once again they send me to Kanada. I wonder. While I am here miles upon miles from Munich, there a meeting will take place. Is it my sires intent to keep me away from this very meeting? I should be there, should I not? Taking care of my malkavian sisters and brothers and especially little Anna Thot. It is a dangerous meeting after all, as Brujah and Gangrel from Bremen and Innsbruck will make their way to follow the call of Heinrich Schlayer. And, if my information is true, the Ventrue Prinz of Berlin, Herr von Habsburg will make an appearance. Quite a volatile mix, if I may say so myself. What an opportunity for witty remarks and daring jests, for the entertainment of all, nein?
And maybe the reason I shall not be there. After all, there are these rumours that I am one of the Sabbat. Or of the dreaded Setites. Sss. Well, who knows. I certainly do not.

But back to pressing matters. Due to the gracious help of my dear friend Heinrich Schaeffer I arrive in Vancouver. He even prepares for ground transportation, as a car awaits me. How considerate. A Mercedes. A letter informs me of the meeting point: The Hilton. The occasion: a soiree given by a Toreador elder by the name of Renoir. Blast! The shirt I wear is not nearly ugly enough for such a gathering.
Yet it seems I have some more time on my hands. I order the driver to take me on a little tour of the city. Quite daring, since I know almost nothing of Vancouver. But alas, a little danger so much spices the potential eternity of our prolonged life, nein? I opt not to visit Stanley Park, thinking of our own Panzerwiese and the unwanted attentions of the Lykantrophos. Downtown should be quite save. No Sabbat or others of their ilk.
Ah! The orderly grids of northamerican hamlets. Steel and concrete form youthful skeletons of towering abodes, fleshed by mortals and vampires alike. Most of them quite painful to the eye, but that is certainly a matter of taste.

Finally, Gastown. Memories stir within me, but they are not mine. Not really, anyway. Do the tunnels still exist? Do they still connect the water with the cellars of Hotel Europe? Do they still reek of rum and opium? Are these memories correct? I should ask a Nosferatu, and no doubt about it.

Yes, it is time. To the Hilton, James! I always wanted to say that.
The penthouse naturally. Quite a trap, nein? I extend my senses upon entering. No immedeate danger.
What a stupid thing to say, when one is about to enter a room full of svarcolaci.
Go, baby, go, go, oh we're right behind you. Who am I to argue with Garbage.

Well. Here I am, a Malkavian Ancilla, a diplomat and harpy of the domain of Munich. And? Nothing, really. Nobody comes to greet me, to introduce me. Clearly much too early. Our host is probably still busy contemplating famous paintings, enamoured by the daring stroke of a genius artist. So it is to the Brujah to greet me. Some greeting. A little less etiquette and they would probably mop the floor with this poor corpse of mine.
Finally a lady greets me, dressed quite in black. If I was to judge a book by the cover, the most probable title would be Assamite. However, she is the primogen of Clan Brujah, and well spoken at that. German by origin. Maybe it is a habit with Brujah primogen to entertain an air of hashashini. I should interview Faruk on that matter, after all, he dresses quite similarly. But then, he is an Arab, nein? I sit and listen. At a table, a strange fellow playing cards is doing business with a Brujah. The latter seems to think of humans as cattle, while the first displays quite a distaste at that comparison. Later I learn that his name is Carl Seltz, a Gangrel. I wish he was of my own blood. What an asset he would be to our clan!
This Seltz poses a little riddle. There is this old lady with blue hair, says he. She crosses the street, suprisingly appearing between to vans. The car, driven by the vampire thus riddled, nicks the old lady and sends her sprawling on the street. And now the question: What will you do?
This little ditty he will tell more than one time this evening, and the answers will be quite the usual.