In the event of my unfortunate death, I promise him the possession of my skull. Not that it will matter very much, at that time.

The blue haired lady. Once again I find myself at the table of esteemed Mr. Seltz. Our converstaion runs this way and that, always fascinating. He tells me things about the Kindred of this domain. I hold them true, for his eyes have insight that rivals the most deranged of my blood. I will not write them down, as no sensible information should be, but consign them to my memories. At least an attempt to control this knowledge, nein, Herr Schaeffer? Time and time we are interrupted by others, and again and again does he tell of the bluehaired lady.
The answers are still the same.
Suddenly there is commotion. Mortals entered the builiding, bent on a sinister purpose. Seltz starts to rise, and I follow, but only to give him an answer before it is too late. And so I tell him von der Bestie. Beast. He nods. We understand. What would I give for my childe's presence, for she would fear and adore this character. Then he is off, and so am I, cloaked in shadows. Yet the ruckus passed already, and whatever it is, it concerns me little.

More concerned are my friend Mercury and the Australian Toreador. Seemingly, Mercury touched Renoir, the elder, although in what intent I dare not say. Thus insulting an elder is nothing the Toreador takes lightly, and Mercury finally offers an reluctant apology. A woman's wickedness? The Toreador accepts the apology, but calls for a limb to back it up, ripped from the socket of the Brujahs shoulder. Now that is wicked, in a crude and bloody sort of way. I think of our own Lasalle, returning from a diplomatic mission from the Lykantrophos, one-handed at that time, smile, and move away. My shirt may be distasteful, but there is no need to dye it red...
And by the pricking of my thumbs, or rather by the headache announcing the commands of my Sire, I feel that it is time to move on and leave this place.

I make haste, yet then my eye is drawn to a beautiful stone in the hands of two beautiful ladies of the blood, if I may dare to say so. Toreador, no doubt. But, on second glance and the warning voice of a friendly Schaeffer in my mind, one of them looks like she prefers a different art entirely.

There is an air about her, quite in articulo mortis. I jest and tell her of la famiglia in Munich. She locks her eyes upon me, and a sudden cold sweeps through the room, although her companion does not seem to mind. Most entertaining, to feel fear. Quite strange too, a dead one fearing death. But then, Malekin knows what the Djovani are, nein? We know the Djovani. Dovidenja, gospoda Hudson, ne?
Still, it pains me to leave our conversation. It was fearfully entertaining for my humble person, and I hope I did not bore the ladies in return.

But an hour later I am on my way.
And there is just one question left to ask: left or right arm? And whose body was the arm attached to?
I will probably never know.