Drive away, call the ambulance,
keep the Masquerade. No answer to his liking.
Of that, more later.
The Brujah, a professional
baseplayer, joins me. Talks to me. I answer. Moo.
And shortly after we are stricken in a discussion whether humans are cattle
or if vampires are cattle just as well and if yes, are they of a specific
gender? He humours me, calling me a Kook. I do believe that this term is derogatory
in nature. But what can you expect of a moo-moo-moosician. A wee bit insulting,
but just enough entertaining not to wake my ire.
I am saved by kind Heinrich Schaeffer, who intoduces me to the Primogen of our Clan, a happy fellow named Lucky. They inform me of the political situation. The breaches in the Masquerade. The incursions of the Sabbat. The threat of the Inqiusition and the Engelwerk, nein? The city of death, nein? In any case, a dangerous place.
Enter the prince. A Ventrue
by bearing and by blood. I bow and introduce myself. And extend the greetings
of my Prinz Vanderbilt. A little white lie, since good Cornelius does not
even know I'm here. But that is what diplomacy is all about, nein? I am accepted
in the city. However, the lady informs my primogen that he is responsible
of my conduct while I am here.
Why! This is interesting! The Primogen is responsible for the wrongdoings
of his clanmates? I will propose that policy in Munich. It would be most entertaining.
But now it is high time
to pay hommage to this evenings host! The Toreador elder is speaking to a
clansmate named Bebop. Maybe Billy Bob? I might be mistaken. Then it is my
turn to bow my head again.
Ah! I knew it! Not nearly ghastly enough is this shirt of mine! They need
but 2 minutes to ignore me and discuss my outfit. I have done better in the
past. Humbly, I introduce myself to the elder and his companion. The later
is Toreador as well, and no doubt about it. He is dressed in black, like any
good artist worth his spittle should, and just a bit outdated. He hails from
Australia.
But let's not dwell on
such dark thoughts. There is still many a thing to see, and many meetings.
For example, this tragic Tremere, whose hand is never shaken by those to whom
he offers it. This truly saddens me, but still I claim a phobia corncerning
bodily contact. Another lie, I have to admit. I rather have a phobia touching
the Tremeres many rings, nein?
And then there is the Brujah Mercury. He is described quite easily, or so
my clansmates tell me. He bears an uncanny resemblance to a vampire seen in
some television play, called Spike. I wouldn't know. We start a little discussion
and I tell him of Al Andalus and the euro-islamic middle age, when Moors and
Arabs cut an empire out of the folds of the spanish visigoth territory. I
tell him of the memories of Kalif Abd ar-Rahman, who built an entire palace
in the likeliness of his beloved slave az-Zarah. Green marble for her eyes,
rose marble for her skin, columns of ivory and ebony for teeth and hair, ah!
what a sight. I start to bore him, so I decide to shorten my story, although
much would have been to tell of beautiful Cordoba. Quick now. In the very
center of the palace, there was a pool in a grand hall, enlightend by the
moon itself through a hundred windows. The pool was filled with shining mercury,
moved by slaves with staves, reflecting the light and killing the poor serfs
with unseen poisonous fumes. What part, I ask Mercury, of az-Zarah is thus
portraied? The woman's wickedness, he cries, delighted, and merrily runs off
to tell his comrades of my tale.
In the meanwhile, Mr. Sin, the Harpy, has arrived. A clansmate, he is, wasting
no time but measuring my skull. Like a water melon, says he full of joy. Now,
I have been called a steamhead more then once, uttering no more then hot and
wasted air. But a water melon? I shall delve into the old tomes of phrenology
upon my return to Munich, looking up the reference of melon, water.
