Court of Blood: Shadow over Boston |IC|

[The Anarcho-Syndicalist Commune]

Court of Blood
Shadow over Boston

---

May 17th 1763 was an uneventful day by most standards. Peace had settled in the city of Boston after seven hard years of war, and the world seemed open to the colonists of Boston. New trade opportunities, fresh land out west, and a new era in the sun seemed all but inevitable in the colonies. The midday hours were filled with people milling around, going about their business. One man in particular rushed about urgent business. In his hand was red leather envelope, sealed with black wax. The man was tall and lanky, not unlike the character of Ichabod Crane who would begin to appear in the American Mythos a few decades from then. He glided through the crowd with the experience of one who had done this several times before.

The man approached a larger townhouse, stepping up to it's door before slipping the Envelope beneath it, as he had done at several houses that day. His task completed, the man decided it best he go for an ale at a tavern. He had found it the best way to relax his head after doing his employers bidding. Stepping away from the townhouse, the man strode back on to the street and made his way towards the nearest alehouse. Stepping into an alley to skip some of the busier sections of the colonial port, the man did not notice the shadowy figure hiding behind a stack of crates.

A leg extended, and the man found himself falling to the ground. Before he could catch himself, a powerful hand clamped down on his mouth, as a second set of hands tied his hands behind his back. The hand was removed and instead the delivery man found himself suddenly gagged. A carriage pulled in front of the alley on the other end. The shadowy man and his compatriot shoved the delivery man into carriage, nodding to the driver. The driver took off, leaving the two other men to disappear into the crowd...

---

Lev Vasyutin,
That Night

The false bookshelf that concealed Lev's sleeping alcove creaked open. He had always been a heavy sleeper, both in life and in death. The vampire stretched, prepared for a night of relaxed reading. He had recently obtained several books in his native russian that he was quite eager to pick up, and he had naught to do that evening but peruse them. Selecting two of them from another shelf, he carried them under his arm into his sitting room, placing them on an end table. Realizing that he was not alone in the room, Lev turned around to greet his intruder.

He instantly recognized the face behind him, and dropped to his knee in respect. Achille Genovese was a being who commanded respect. Though not quite as old or as powerful as other Governors throughout the world, the Red Mist of Siracuse had a unique air of majesty that allowed him to seemingly bend power to his will. He was an old ally of Lev, the pair having been put into contact by Lev's Domina when he first set out on his own. In typically confusing Vampiric genealogical fashion, Lev was technically Achille's uncle. It did not take a genius to figure out the lesser of the two beings however.

Lev said in his typical soft tones, speaking in English "My Governor, to what do I owe this honor? I had thought you were in Philadelphia."

Achille smiled and said "Ah, you just can't trust a letter to be delivered these days. I had sent one to you a few weeks ago but it must have gotten lost. I am beggining my selection of the Quaestor of Boston. I figured it's time some other cities besides my own had a semblance of civilization. We shall gather tonight so that I may officially begin my process."

"Where, might I ask?"

"Why here of course." Lev would have felt his blood run cold if it wasn't already ice. "Oh, don't worry mio zio. I have handled refreshments and invitations. You need not be so worried that I would stoop to such low levels to remove you. Grandmother would never forgive me. Now get dressed, Our guests will be arriving soon." Lev nodded and stood, before rushing off to his closet room to get dressed. Passing by the dining hall on his way, he saw it set in a particularly macabre fashoin. A group of nine or so mortals were tied to the chairs and gagged. Two servants of the Governor stood watch over the meals, ensuring none made a run for it. A few butchered limbs were set in the middle of the table for those among the coming guests who still liked to chew their food. Lev made note of it in his head before continuing to the closet, and selecting his finest clothes for the party. Though the outfit had not been in style for nearly 50 years, no one had told Lev, nor was it truely outside of style for his kind yet. Lev then went to the entry hall, preparing to greet his guests.

[Of the Quendi]

Geneviève Sandrine Marianne D'Agneau de Morangias Richecour,
The night of May 17th 1763 in Boston, British America

At 8 pm, precisely fifty seven minutes after the sun had set upon the city of Boston a carriage pulled up outside an elegant townhouse in one of Boston's nicer quartiers. The carriage was a luxury four-wheeled gala coach, large enough to seat half a dozen passengers made of exquisite materials in an innovative style and kept in black and red colors with a coat of arms decorating its doors. The coach was pulled by four black Andalusians so spectacular in appearance and behavior that they would have fetched two thousand Escudo's at the Royal Stables of Córdoba a pair, or ten thousand for them all. It was manned by a coachman and not one, nor two, but a full three footmen, all four of them dressed in very elegant livery and box coats that evoked the grandeur of Versailles and the late Louis XIV's splendid court in style and opulence. A carriage like that which would have not been out of place at Versailles, in Madrid or Vienna or London, was a grand spectacle in the colonial port of Boston. The honorable Sir Francis Bernard, Governor of the Province of Massachusetts Bay, or the estimable, and extraordinarily wealthy, Mr. Thomas Hancock, where they to depart the Governor's Mansion or Hancock Manor on Beacon Hill, would find that they had nothing in their stables to contend with the dark gala coach that pulled up outside the stately home of some prominent Bostonian.

For this reason the carriage was unsurprisingly the source of much curiosity amongst those Bostonians still out on the streets after the sunset. The curiosity only intensified when those townsfolk who had taken to gander at the carriage rather than be about their own business noticed something rather strange about the ostentatious vehicle. One would naturally expect the owner of such splendor would wish to be seen in it wearing their finest garbs. Was that not what the rich and powerful did, put themselves on show? Yet the carriage had only two rather small windows, one on each of its doors, and behind both windows two draperies of red velvet, blood red velvet some onlookers snickered in equal part jest and instinctive fright, was pulled over the glass, hiding the occupant of the carriage from public viewing.

So when the gala coach halted and one of the handsome young footmen jumped to open the door a lot of people on the street was eager to see who was about to step out. Yet when from the confines of the dark carriage a figure emerged the onlookers found the figure utterly uninteresting and soon remembered their nightly business and went on their way. The dramatic loose of interest could not be justified by the individual who stepped out of the carriage. It was an elfin looking woman with delicate androgynous features. She was dressed in a dramatic silk gown that combined the latest trends of women's haute couture at Versailles and other leading European courts with a scandalous, but very tasteful, adaptation of elements of men's clothing, most notably in the fact that the woman wore a pair of trousers, Turkish pantaloons in pale pink silk, underneath her skirt and had clearly eschewed a corset. As if to compensate for her androgynous dress the woman was bedecked in jewelry that in both quantity and quality could have aroused the jealousy of a Spanish infanta. No Spanish infanta, however noble and proud could have however borne such jewelry so comfortably.

The woman, Geneviève Sandrine Marianne D'Agneau de Morangias Richecour of the Dagnaeu de Richecour family, countess of Lozère and Saint-Malo in the French peerage, former Quaestor of Rennes, Quaestor of Versailles, acting governor of France and Propraetor and agent of the Senate in the Society of Night, courtesan, explorer, soldier, spy and so much else by trade, strolled up the steps towards the home of a certain Lev Vasyutin where one of her footmen where already knocking on the door. The comtesse de Richecour had arrived.

[Endem]

Joseph Titus
Boston, New England, Brisith American Colonies

The figure of a young man in civilian clothing moved along the street, he looked odd as his clothes projected an image of a worker, maybe a merchant, but not someone to be walking in the, "nicer" part of town, yet most of the scarce passerby ignored the young man and moved past him as if he was nothing more than part of the fog that surrounded everyone here, ah, the all-consuming fog, such a great thing if you knew how to use it properly, it would be so easy to disappear from everyone's view in such conditions.

From the fog then emerged the rather impressive carriage, pompous and luxurious, Joseph decided to ignore it and instead directed himself at the door to the home of the person who invited him here, even if he was a vampire, it must have been a mistake that someone such as the individual who resided in there would want to do anything with the young vampire, after all, Joseph was only a vampire for 22 or 21 years, maybe this was because of his commoner upbringing while most of the vampire's he heard of where of noble origin, maybe it is all to make a mockery out of Joseph's past life.

To his surprise, he found before the door a lady, by all looks a noble-looking woman, who did not seem to notice him, and he did not want to interrupt whatever she was doing, though by all means half of his life he lived as a noble and the unofficial adoptive son of Sir Titus, it all ended with his maker's death, oh, how he despised the night and wished he could be there when the killers arrived, so he could protect his loved ones or at least die by their side.

Joseph decided to wait until the woman, whoever she was, would be inside the residence before he would announce his arrival, thus he just stood on the road, anxiously waiting until that woman would enter the house, he wanted this whole thing to be done as soon as possible, the sun just set and he did not want to waste time, even a second of it, until his vengeance was to be satisfied, he found a lead, he knew at least one of the murderers was in America, and even though he did not know how he is called or even how he looks, Joseph knew where to find his servants and they would tell, where the murderer is, but all that for later.

[Cheye]

Nadia-Marie d’Maryvonne
Boston, New England, British American Colonies - May 17th 1763

“No…” Her voice was smooth and silky, yet there was a firm edge to it.

“No.” She repeated, grunting slightly. It wasn’t like she felt pain the same way mortals did, but the constriction was more than noticeable.

“No!” She growled as her torso tightened again suddenly. Flashing her fangs in the direction of the antique clock on the wall in front of her. She could feel the mortal dress-maker tense behind her, although fortunately the girl hadn’t noticed the supernatural display.

“Perfect.” She then said happily, relaxing as the girl finished tightening the corset.

Nadia-Marie turned to give the dress-maker a polite smile as everything was finally in place, running her fingertips down over her bust and sides to ensure it was all properly adjusted. She loved how the corset accentuated her petite figure, how the smooth black velvet rested against her porcelain skin. Nadia-Marie had always had a weak spot for fashion. The luxurious haute couture was one of the things that had made Versailles such a paradise for her, and their absence from the sandy slums of Nassau had made it a hell during her self-imposed exile.

Boston sat somewhere between the two extremes.

It wasn’t that fashion here was as dull as it had been in Nassau, far from it, there was a slow-growing aristocracy here and that brought with it all the latest trends, but even they had nothing on the beauty of Versailles. Her Louis had always cultivated greatness in mortals, from the battlefield to the bedroom, from science to the arts, and crucially, in fashion. She stroked the pendant that hung from a choker around her neck and bore the Sun King’s sigil instinctively as memories of her time at Versailles with Louis hit her again, with the same force they always did.

A century ago, she had been a naive young teenager in love with a King, the idea that she might outlive him, let alone be turned into an unliving creature of the night at his hand would have seemed quite preposterous. But at least she was happy then.

She twirled slightly as the dress-maker finished the adjustment she was making to the dress’s skirt. Velvet over satin, black over white. Darkness over light. With a subtle silver pattern woven in, just to give it a sparkle of glamour that the average Bostonian was probably too crude to appreciate. The white sleeves of the dress left her collar and upper arms exposed in a way that teased slightly without being provocative. It was the kind of dress Louis’ eyes would have drunk like wine. She liked it a lot.

“It’s perfect, I’ll wear it out tonight.” Nadia-Marie nodded to the dress-maker, before pacing over to a nearby table where her purse rested and withdrawing the previously agreed amount to give to the mortal tradeswoman.

She decided to also throw in a little extra. Goodness, her time in Nassau had taught her how hard it was trying to earn a living as a woman in this world, mortal or otherwise.

The dress-maker gave her goodbyes and departed, and as she showed the woman out, Nadia-Marie noted that the sun had now well and truly set. So she tied her purse about her waist and paced back through the mansion in the new dress towards her library, where atop her opened bureau, sat the mysterious letter.

She rolled it up and tied it tightly with a string of black lace that sat nearby for that exact purpose, before tucking it into the top of her corset. Best to keep such a thing hidden but close at hand, she reasoned. Before turning to depart.

“Will you be wanting the bedroom prepared should you return with company, ma’am?” Her trusted butler enquired as she prepared to leave.

“Not tonight.” She replied, stopping at a cabinet by the door and withdrawing a small and ornately decorated flintlock pistol and ammunition pouch, before tucking both into her purse. She might be a deadly vampire, but she would still have the appearance of a young woman unchaperoned at night on the streets of Boston. Public use of her fangs or her unnatural strength, even in self defense, was a risk she couldn’t take. Although her innate vampiric guile usually allowed her to avoid attention with ease, she always took the pistol as an added deterrent.

“Very good ma’am. Happy hunting.” The Butler replied in his stiff British accent that contrasted with her own smooth french tones.

She ignored the comment, she didn’t have the time or the patience to explain to the staff that she was not in fact hunting tonight, rather that she was responding to a most intriguing invitation.

She had had very little to do with her own kind since fleeing Paris, and though she still feared repercussions for what had happened to the society of French vampires in the wake of Louis’ fall, she had figured that if others out there wanted her dead, they would have made it happen by now, particularly now that the tale-tale signs of vampiric activity in Boston were growing larger. The invitation slipped under her door had therefore come as a slight disappointment to Nadia-Marie, but not a great surprise, and she knew better than to ignore it.

She stepped out into the night, her black skirt blowing gently in the cool breeze, the silver shimmering, and exposing the layer of white satin beneath along with the thin black stockings that hugged her legs.

The address she had been given was only a few streets away, slightly further into town. She walked quickly, easily blending into the shadows as a few horse drawn carriages and half-decently dressed Bostonians shuffled by.

She, or rather her corset-enhanced chest, received a curious look from a red-coat, who loitered against a garden fence on the street corner as she passed close by. Otherwise Nadia-Marie had an unremarkable journey to the townhouse.

In front of the house sat an impressive gala coach that was so opulent it seemed as if it had materialised straight from her memories of Versailles. A crowd of onlookers, who had obviously been drawn by the magnificent vehicle, were quickly dispersing disinterestedly nearby, and a scruffy young man loitered between the carriage and the house awkwardly.

She quirked a brow. Surely he wasn’t the occupant of the carriage? She could see from the way he eyed the doorway to the house that that was his intended destination, so he must be a vampire, but really?

Then, closer to the door she spotted the footman and the elfin figure in a silk gown and pantaloons that made it difficult from a distance to ascertain gender… As she approached, she spotted the skirt, then the jewellery. Then Nadia-Marie halted suddenly. She froze in place behind the scruffy man, as those tormenting memories of Versailles flooded back to her and she realised that she recognised the face of the other female vampire in the doorway...

[Of the Quendi]

Absent-mindedly admiring the house of her host, monsieur Vasyutin, with her thoughts preoccupied it took Geneviève a few seconds after stepping out of her carriage to take note of the fact that she was not alone. A faint scent, the strange mix of stale blood and an undecipherable rot that no amount of perfume or bathing could prevent a vampire from giving of, reached Geneviève's hyper developed vampiric senses. For a brief moment she feared a trap. She had few enemies that she knew of but there was always the risk, however slim, that someone in the Society figured her treachery out. But no, Geneviève decided. There were two scents. One that Geneviève surmised belonged to a quite recently turned vampire. It was at once stronger, yet also more palatable. More blood, less rot. If Geneviève felt poetic about it she would describe the smell of a recently turned vampire as "having still the taste of sunlight on the skin". The other scent was more muted and did not allow for immediate discernment of the age of the vampire to which it belonged. Yet it did not carry the notes of a blood magician of the Praetura. If someone in the Society had decided to attack Geneviève they would not have sent a freshly turned vampire and someone not versed in blood magic.

Despite having reached this conclusion Geneviève turned slowly and alertly away from Vasyutin's residence her eyes emitting a faint reddish glow as she glared up and down the street to locate the pair. After centuries of habit Geneviève had become suspicious and cautious by nature, something she could not easily shake. The young vampire she could not see from the staircase of Vasyutin's home. Was he hiding? That was very suspicious. The other, presumably older, vampire was coming down the street. A female.

Something told Geneviève that she knew the other woman and needed be on her guard with her. She looked at the handsome dark haired vampire in her fashionable, Boston fashionable at any rate, black velvet gown with her reddish glowing eyes, trying to discern why she needed to be on her guard. Then she remembered. The woman was Nadia-Marie d'Maryvonne, and though she did not know it she had much reason to hate Geneviève.

Back in France a half century ago Geneviève had hurt d'Maryvonne, hurt her badly. When Geneviève had engineered the downfall of Louis XIV his maîtresse-en-titre had fallen with him, deprived of all the pomp and circumstances to which she had grown accustomed and driven into exile to god only knew where. The red glow of Geneviève's eyes dimmed and her expression softened. Eight year the slave of Gilles de Rain, three centuries a vampire and countless human wars and massacres had not been able to completely erase Geneviève's humane nature.

Geneviève stepped away from the door to Vasyutin's residence where her footman had already knocked. Geneviève slowly sauntered towards almost floating along the street. She gave the Nadia-Marie a kind yet slightly condescending smile as she detected recognition in the younger vampire's eyes. It suddenly occurred to Geneviève that Nadia-Marie was about the age she had been when she went into the employ of Praetor Naevius Sutorius Macro back in Spain. Back then vampires in the third century of their life had seemed terrifying and ancient to Geneviève, creatures to be feared and placated. It was a strange thought. Geneviève pondered if the younger vampire saw something similar in her now. Did the mild condescension and calm confidence that somehow slowly over the century crept into Geneviève's demeanor command respect and reverence; or was it just off-putting?

Geneviève came to a halt two steps from the other vampire. "Ma chère Nadia-Marie, quelle merveilleuse surprise." Geneviève greeted the younger woman with genuine if debonair warmth, almost as if they had simply run into one another by accident at the Salon de Paris or at a ball in Versailles, with no indication that a half century, pogroms and purges and Geneviève's secret betrayal separated them from their days at Versailles. Geneviève leaned in for a kiss of the cheeks, very briefly she thought of Judas and his kiss, before banishing that thought from her mind. "J'imagine que nous sommes invités à la même soirée."

[Britanania]

30 April 1763--Calais, Kingdom of France

The sun was just falling over the blue horizon of the English channel, casting the medieval city under the shroud first of twilight, and in a few minutes still, darkness. Antony, the Earl of Essex stopped his carriage by the great church of Église Notre-Dame de Calais.

"I would like to say a confession," he told the driver, "before we depart for the Colonies." He meant, of course, Boston. The King himself was sending him on official business to ascertain the grievances of some of the colonials. In reality, Antony was going to see how he could benefit from the situation, and with rumours that a new Questor would be appointed, it was too much of an opportunity to pass up.

In any event, the driver obliged his master. Antony insisted his ship stop at Calais before the journey to the New World. France and Britain were at peace, if only barely, but this was not the first time Antony lived through such an armistice. He mused as he jumped out of the carriage when he was in Calais just after Agincourt, and again when he was here leaving Versailles.

He put these thoughts out of mind as he opened the church doors and ventured into the house of God. A few priests were saying vespers as he walked towards the confessional.

"...mundi vespere, uti sponsus de thalamo, egressus honestissima..."

Antony entered the small room, darkened and with a screen separating him and the priest.

"Ignosce mihi, pater, quia peccavi..."

---

17 May--Boston, Province of Massachusetts Bay

It was not Antony's first time in the British American colonies, but it had been many years since he had been to Boston. The town had grown well in his absence, but it paled in comparison to the great cities of Europe. Not than Antony, minded, but with such a small he knew it wouldn't be hard for the Society and its members to know each other.

In fact, it did not take long upon his arrival to learn that an old acquaintance many believed long dead was in the city. When Antony learned that he was having a small gathering, the Earl knew it would include other members of the Society and he made a point to attend.

And that is how he found his carriage at the street of the town. From the window, he caught sight of two women he knew well enough, and as the carriage stopped, and as he footmen went to announce his presence, Antony stepped out, his three-piece court suit immaculate and his gilded cane in hand and approached the pair, but waited for one to initiate the bow as was customary.

[Cheye]

Nadia-Marie d’Maryvonne

"Ma chère Nadia-Marie, quelle merveilleuse surprise."

“Geneviève!” Nadia-Marie proclaimed, her voice trembling ever so slightly as the familiar figure approached...

She had expected to perhaps encounter one or two of the vampires she had come across during her time at Versailles at this little gathering. Perhaps even her maker’s maker, who she had heard had gone into the service of the King George sometime during her own self-imposed exile. She hadn’t expected Geneviève however, and she awkwardly leaned in to return the older vampire’s kisses, adding a polite and deferential nod as they both stepped back.

At Versailles, she had walked arm and arm with the King, and mortals had been the ones to show deference. Although the vampires had their own hierarchy, with Louis and Governor d’Arras shielding her, she had never felt afraid or out of place around older members of her own kind. That protection had long since disappeared, and she had spent too long in the wilderness now to remember how to behave appropriately around the putrid yet simultaneously beautiful unliving beings that she called kin.

She decided to focus on the positives though.

“C'est si bon de te voir, ma chère!” Her smile reappeared quickly as it had been a while since she’d been able to speak French, even with mortals. The Guerre de la Conquête had made life quite difficult for Nadia-Marie in her public persona as a widowed young Frenchwoman living among Boston high society. Acting as English as possible around the neighbours aided her supernatural ability to blend in.

On top of the familiarity of hearing a French voice, the warmth of Geneviève’s greeting gave her some reassurance that this was a happy coincidence and not some elaborate death-trap set up for the younger woman. She remembered Louis’ fall, and the ferocity the French vampires had directed towards her for her part in supposedly bringing it about all too well. Truthfully she did not know how Geneviève had survived that sorry saga, but she supposed there would be time for questions like that later...

"J'imagine que nous sommes invités à la même soirée." Geneviève stated.

“Oui en effet. Mais une soirée à Boston peut-elle être à la hauteur d'une soirée à Versailles?” She replied, her tone somehow both wistful and ever so slightly mischievous.

Before Geneviève could respond however, another carriage pulled up behind her and both women turned to see an immaculately dressed, and yet again familiar figure emerge from within. Her maker’s maker wore a sophisticated three-piece suit and carried a gilded cane as he glided towards them. She lowered her head respectfully as she had done with Geneviève.

Although she had suspected that one such as he might be in attendance, it had been so long since she had been around such an obviously long-lived and powerful vampire, that it did not do her confidence any favours now. She kept her eyes downturned as he glided forwards.

Anthony of Essex had been a mysterious figure during their time together at Louis’ court. He had been a power none of them dared to cross, but also someone who had kept a distance and degree of separation from the day-to-day running of the place that had only served to build up his aura of mystery to Nadia-Maria. He had had little to do with her for most of her time at court, after all for most of the early years her presence there had been solely as a comfort for Louis. Though later, both of them had held sway over the Sun King, yet the degree to which they had used their influence varied incredibly, and Nadia-Marie thought it likely that neither fully knew how far the other’s soft power had spread back then...

Not that any of it mattered now.

They had both been driven out when the fall came, but Nadia-Marie wondered if like others, he would blame her for it. This soirée might turn into a death sentence yet...

Still, as she glanced up it seemed he had landed on his feet, though she supposed the more worldly of her kind usually did. More than that though, from the appearance of his suit and the rumour she had heard, it seemed as though he had indeed gained an influential position in the court of the latest world hegemon, this time serving a British King, rather than a French one. In contrast she was little more than a refugee in this land, and if the elder vampire held any ill-will towards her for how things went in France, he may at least find her fate out here in the colonies somewhat amusing. And Geneviève at least hadn't held a grudge, maybe he would greet her the way she just had, without reference to the past.

Her red eyes rose to meet his own, her pale face hiding her nerves.

“Bonsoir, Monsieur d'Essex… It is a great pleasure to see you again.”

[Of the Quendi]

The younger vampire was nervous. She hid it well enough but Geneviève had spent far too much time of her life trying to cover up her own secrets while uncovering those of others not to pick up on such cues. The tremor in Nadia-Marie's voice. The less than graceful kiss from a woman famed for her grace. Yes the former maîtresse-en-titre was nervous, and that made Geneviève nervous. Could she know, Geneviève pondered. No, it was impossible. There was only one way the younger vampire could have even come to suspect it and if Nadia-Marie, a vampire for barely a century, had that sort of connections Geneviève would surely know of it. As the bat flies nearly seven hundred miles separated Versailles from Rome yet Geneviève did not lack for friends in the eternal city. Stepping away from Nadia-Marie as their kiss ended, Geneviève eyed the younger woman politely as she gave a deferential nod. Aye, the younger vampire was nervous, but she was so because she was a young vampire meeting a much older one without knowing its intent, not because she was part of some plan to bring down Geneviève for her crimes.

Having reached that conclusion Geneviève began to relax. It was quite a pleasure to have some civilized company and speak a civilized language again. The two months Geneviève had spent in New England thus far had given her a more generous view of the old one. If her motivations for visiting Boston had't been as strong as they where she might have simply commandeered the Good Intent and sailed right back to Portsmouth even if she would have had to personally dump its cargo of tea in Boston's harbor, when she saw the kind of weather New England. Unfortunately that was not an option for Geneviève. Charles counted on her, and Europe was getting a bit too rowdy for her tastes. Talking to Nadia-Marie was therefore a welcome distraction from Geneviève's private troubles and reservations about Boston, maybe the young woman and her local knowledge might even allow Geneviève to conclude her temporal affairs more speedily than might otherwise have been possible.

Geneviève chuckled as Nadia-Marie made her little jibe about Boston. The obviously rhetorical question comparing Versailles and Boston was grotesque. Versailles at its very worst still made Boston in its finest hour look like a pigsty, whether the Bostonians would admit that or not. Geneviève caught herself hoping Nadia-Marie had not spent the entirety of her exile from France in so unfortunate circumstances.

Before Geneviève had a chance to inquire about that, or reply to the jest, another carriage pulled up outside Monsieur Vasyutin's home. Four vampires (Geneviève did not for a moment doubt the carriage carried another vampire and out of the corner of her eyes she could now see the young vampire she had smelled; a somber looking fellow it seemed, and not very sociable) loitering at the doorstep of the home of a fifth was practically a Restraints violation. It seemed high time that some Society governance was imposed on the Americas. A glimmer of mirth appeared in Geneviève's grayish blue eyes at her humoring thoughts.

It died in an instant when the carriage revealed its passenger. The Earl of Essex had almost as much cause as Nadia-Marie to hate Geneviève but quite a lot more opportunities to figure that out. Even if he had fled France even faster than Nadia-Marie he likely knew that his ally Governor d'Arras had been engaged in a power struggle with Geneviève. As for the rest. Well Geneviève didn't think that the Earl even knew Locusta but she could not be sure. The earl was nearly three centuries older than Geneviève. He had entered the fourth century of his life before Geneviève became a prominent figure in the Society. Who knew what he might have shared with prominent Society leaders before Geneviève emerged on the scene. Yet even if he knew Locusta she surely would have had no reason to reveal anything. The Praetor had never given any indication that she was not as sceptic about Louis XIV's vampiric reign as Geneviève herself. She had approved everything. Well almost everything. But even Locusta didn't know about that so how could anyone else?

A red glow appeared in Geneviève's eyes as she watched the Earl of Essex exit his carriage. Flight or fight, Geneviève was observing every movement of the older vampire keenly ready to do one of the two. He was older and no doubt very strong. Though Geneviève practiced vigorously every day she knew she could not best a vampire of the earl's age in a physical fight. Blood magic? Geneviève knew far more of it than she should. Far, far more. Yet knowledge and ability was separate things and Geneviève was only a novice in that ancient art. That left only flight, for Geneviève did not think she could count on Nadia-Marie or the somber young vampire standing further down the street. They might even be agents of Essex. They could more easily be cast as his assassins than as those of the Consul or the Senate. The young man certainly seemed glum enough to be an assassin. No, best case scenario was that Nadia-Marie and the young man would stay out of a fight. That left flight as Geneviève's only option should Essex turn hostile. Fortunately she had an ace in her sleeve on that count.

As the earl approached Geneviève and Nadia-Marie he did however not appear hostile. Only arrogant. Geneviève had become so accustomed to life at the French court that she had come to regard the chivalry and manners of the French court as the only proper behavior. She did not much care to bow before another vampire because he was older. Nadia-Marie was less hostile to the notion. She greeted Essex politely as Geneviève looked on. When it became her turn Geneviève gave a slight curtsy and en even slighter nod of her head. "Seigneur d'Essex, quelle plaisir. Je ne savais pas que vous avez quitté l'Angleterre." Geneviève said politely but without much warmth. No "Cher Antoine" for the English earl.

[The Anarcho-Syndicalist Commune]

Lev

Lev paced back and forth, thinking through his own strategies. His involvement in London politics had kept him long deattached from the mostly french members of the society who now occupied Boston. It was ironic, an english city that was flourishing with France's defeat, and yet here they were, ruling over night. Then again, based off what he had heard about the court of the Sun King and it's fall, perhaps it made perfect sense. Regardless he would have to be on his edge tonight, with so many of the society gathered within his townhouse. Hearing a number of voices upon the doorstep, he moved to unlock the portal, before opening the large wooden door. Bowing deeply as he appeared to the three vampires on his door step, his deep melodic voice echoed "Welcome my esteemed guests."

Resuming a normal posture, he extended an arm inward, gesturing for them to enter. He smiled as he did so and said "Mme. D'Maryvonne, it is good to see you again. I had hoped you were coming tonight." As the three presumably entered when invited, he closed the door behind them. "I must apologize to our two friends here, I am unfamiliar with them, at least from recent times. I also must apologize that we must converse in English, unless either of you are familiar with Greek. My name is Leon Petra, though most in our society refer to me simply as Lev. The Governor is upstairs within the smoking room, you may go greet him there. Else, we have refreshments in the dining room directly in front of you. My townhouse is not the largest abode in the city, but I'm sure you'll find it quite accommodating. Please, refer any questions you may have about the city or the Governor to me."

[Miekzhemy]

Sun Zhihao
Boston, New England, British American Colonies
May 17th, 1763

He had almost forgotten the occasion.

Centuries of study had a habit of addling his memory. It was half the reason he was here. After all, he was looking for an excuse to travel overseas to the colonies. Or, as some of his fellow scholars called it, a backwater cesspool. With such controversial opinions, he had to see it for himself.

But by the time he had arrived from London roughly a month prior, it wasn't as much of a cesspool in the middle of nowhere as he expected it to be. In fact, the colonies were home to quite a few blossoming cities - beacons of civilization in an otherwise untamed wilderness. And by heaven, was it a perfect place for peace and quiet...

Within a second floor room of one of Boston's many taverns, a single window was left uncovered to let the moonlight shine in. This simple dwelling was furnished with little more than a tenant's bare necessities, and most of this furniture had been piled away in a corner to make room for more of the owner's already exorbitant piles of books and tomes. They lay in stacks almost waist-high, surrounding a cluttered desk dimly lit by a set of candles. The majority of these works of literature, however, were not written in English. In fact, most were not even of European origin, but of a land far, far away. It was certainly not something you would see in the home of a local resident.

But the owner of these books was not exactly a man of Europe.

A pale man, towering well above average height, stood dressing himself in the center of his room. He changed out of his evening gown and, for the first time since departing his homeland, began to don traditional attire. A extravagantly gilded dragon robe covered the comfortable satin boots and trousers underneath. This flashy robe, however, was then covered by a dark blue surcoat of silk - humble garments, masking the inner spiritual power underneath. He adjusted his collar, before taking hold of the long, jet black hair that flowed freely down his back. As he had done for countless years, he tied it up in topknot, and secured the small bun on top of his head with little more than a single pin - a style of a bygone age. Sun took a moment to inspect himself, and smirked.

Dashing as always.

Sun covered his window, blew out the candle on his desk, and promptly exited the room. He left the bustling tavern, and began his short walk to his meeting place. And with his clearly foreign garb and features, it seemed almost comical the way not a single soul even took notice of his presence. But still, Sun walked, very much used to using such subtlety. It wasn't born out of a habit of remaining hidden per se, but of his own reclusive nature. Even before becoming the monster he is now, he rarely spoke unless the situation commanded it.

As he walked, his mind turned to other matters. This was to be his first formal meeting with his fellow vampires in many, many years. He was honestly surprised the Russian even remembered his name. Perhaps his studies had earned him a reputation after all? Perhaps the young blood may come to him for advice or mentorship. The notion was intriguing, but Sun hardly had any care for the political affairs the vampiric hierarchy, or even of Britain and her colonies. If it weren't for the tyrannical dogs back home tightening their iron grip around the throat of his people...well, he would probably still be back home, nose deep in his studies within the tranquil libraries of Guangzhou.

Sun had almost zoned out in his thoughts when he realized that he was already at his destination, catching sight of several figures already being welcomed into the house. He stopped in his tracks, pursing his lips in minor frustration. It probably would have been improper to walk up on the lot of them without having announced his presence. He pondered his first impressions...perhaps a little too much.

Regardless, he deigned to wait until the lot of him had been welcomed inside. He then stepped up to the door, and...

Damn it, he thought to himself. Three years spent in Europe, and he still couldn't quite grasp the differences in etiquette. They simply knock, right?

Making a mental note to get outside more, Sun opted to knock, and softly rapped his knuckles against Lev's door.

[Endem]

Joseph Titus
Boston, New England, Brisith American Colonies

As more and more vampire's arrived Joseph still stood between the carriage and the door, the other vampires seemed to know each other, and conversed in a language he could not understand, oh well, there are many languages in the world and Joseph could only understand English, for him they might as well be speaking Spanish or Greek.

( don't be alarmed by this, I just need to establish Joseph has weapons on him ) Eventually he decided to inspect if he had everything, not by looking at it, but simply moving his hand over the places were his armaments for this night were hidden, and once this whole thing is over he will make full use of them on the murderer servants, there were two flinflock pistols, and his dagger/knife, silver encrusted and intricately sculpted with 'Titus' written on it, originally it belonged to his maker, however, after that night he took it for himself and since then it was destined to be feed the blood of those that wronged the Titus family, even if Joseph was not genetically related to his maker.

All of them were neatly disguised ( as previously mentioned ) in the simple grey coat he was wearing, if you didn't look specifically for weapons, you probably would not see them, besides, Joseph knew better to not brandish weapons in front of more powerful vampires unless asked for of course. Eventually the vampires conversing in the foreign language were invited into the house, Joseph now moved towards the door, however, before he could reach them yet another vampire got to it first.

This time Joseph decided to not wait and simply walked onto the doorstep, a little behind the other vampire, this time he was so close he could not avoid a conversation, thus, Joseph made a slight bow as customary and said to the elder vampire "Good night, sir" he said, his medium to long dark hair fallen onto his face a little as he quickly corrected it before standing upright again wishing that the door would quickly open.

[Cheye]

Nadia-Marie d’Maryvonne

"Welcome my esteemed guests."

Nadia-Marie turned away from the ancient and terrifying Earl of Essex somewhat relieved as she heard the voice. She stepped back and turned on her heel, with a slight twirl of her skirt to face the speaker in the open doorway, it was the owner of the townhouse no less.

Resuming a normal posture, he extended an arm inward, gesturing for them to enter. He smiled as he did so and said; "Mme. D'Maryvonne, it is good to see you again. I had hoped you were coming tonight."

She smiled falsely. Was this a power play? Did he expect her to know him? Sure, the two had clearly lived a few streets away from one another, possibly for decades. Perhaps they had even moved in similar mortal circles, but Nadia-Marie was not cued in to the vampiric comings and goings of Boston, nor any place really since Versailles. He could have been anybody to her. Just another competitor for blood in a city growing thick with it.

What she could tell straight away though was that he, like the other two present, was a far more powerful and experienced vampire than she was, and that meant she had to keep her guard up.

She decided to go along with the ruse for now, nodding her head in deference once again. “I wouldn’t have missed it. Indeed I was delighted to have been invited.” She lied.

As they entered, he closed the door behind them. "I must apologize to our two friends here, I am unfamiliar with them, at least from recent times. I also must apologize that we must converse in English, unless either of you are familiar with Greek. My name is Leon Petra, though most in our society refer to me simply as Lev. The Governor is upstairs within the smoking room, you may go greet him there. Else, we have refreshments in the dining room directly in front of you. My townhouse is not the largest abode in the city, but I'm sure you'll find it quite accommodating. Please, refer any questions you may have about the city or the Governor to me."

At least he had said his name.

Nadia-Marie waited for him to finish speaking before approaching him and speaking quietly in English, her words dancing with her unsubtle French accent; “Monsieur Petra, I am sorry that we have not been… closer neighbours… during our stay in Boston together. Since arriving in the new world I have spent hardly any time among our own kind...”

She hesitated, trying hard not to frown. She was unsure whether or not to go the full way and reveal that aside from being a fellow Boston-dwelling vampire she actually had no idea who he was. She ultimately decided against it, for risk of offending her host, he clearly knew who she was after all. So she just added; “...Please forgive the insult.”

[Kwadai]

Lorenzo Vicario
May 17th 1763

Lorenzo stepped out of his home and into the small cobbled streets of Boston feeling the cool early summer night air on his sallow Italian skin. Despite having been here for several months at this stage, the new world remained just that, a new world unlike anywhere he had experienced in Europe previously. That was to be expected of course, Boston was still a young city if one could even call it such, founded in territories colonised by the British empire. Even as a port the general feel could not be compared to Europe even with most of its inhabitants tracing their origins to the old continent. Initially perplexed by the peculiarities of North America, Lorenzo had since adjusted comfortably to his new surroundings, enjoying the quaint atmosphere and lifestyle in New England. It still fascinated the Venetian, how many vampires had made the decision to cross the Atlantic and make themselves at home here, so far from comfort and familiarity. Fortunately, as he resided in one of the nicer neighbourhood founded in the city, it meant passing through more undesirable locations to reach his destination was not a necessity. His destination, as marked on the letter he had received earlier, was a townhouse a short distance from where he was currently, no doubt a vampiric residence. The invitation itself, being explicitly the work of one of his own kind.

Due to the short duration of his journey, walking was the perfect way to get there, besides, the streets were quiet and the walk was peaceful. Nevertheless, Lorenzo did from time to time feel like the subject of a few stray stares and even comments amongst groups of passers by. He chuckled to himself a little, knowing choice of wardrobe was likely out of the ordinary to the people of Boston. He wore a longer black velvet coat, over a burgundy coloured silken shirt with lace trimmed sleeves and a black ribbon tie, his trousers were also silk, dark green. He was flamboyant, unashamedly so, and as much as he would normally have been inclined to wear something from his number of more luxurious Venetian design from an earlier century, this evening he opted out knowing there was only so much he could stand out before attracting unwanted attention.

That said, living through several centuries and anticipating many more had its perks, being able to amass a collection of dozens of styles, materials, and trends was definitely over of them. A sense of elegance and refinement typically existed among Lorenzo’s circles in Venice and possibly could even be reflective of many vampires across Europe, particularly those associated with or of noble background themselves. He was intrigued as to what the others living here would be like, from where they came and this night would be the perfect opportunity for Lorenzo to familiarise himself with the vampire community of Boston, which he was currently largely unacquainted with. Naturally, this left him with a mixed sense of excitement and mild apprehension.

As he approached the townhouse, his eyes skimmed the distance before focusing on the carriage stationed outside. Lorenzo blinked and couldn’t help himself from smirking. Impressive was only an understatement to describe it. No Bostonian, or perhaps more specifically, no living mortal Bostonian would own such a coach, he thought, paying attention to the distinctive and high skilled craftsmanship it would have taken to construct it. The owner, he assumed would already be inside and who it was, he would soon discover. Apparently the culture of European nobility was not as distant as it had appeared before. Next, he noticed the two standing at the doorstep of the building, one appeared European likely of English or Irish origin. The other was East Asian and dressed immaculately in traditional clothing. Lorenzo instantly admired the attire of the Chinese vampire from the near distance until he too arrived at the doorstep. Chinese silks and fabrics had been one of the key items he dealt with in Venice over the centuries, as it was the end of the trans continental Silk Road carrying goods from China to the heart of Europe. Knowing an attempt to use Italian would be futile, he instead acknowledged them both and wished them well in English. He then looked to the door of the house named in the letter of invitation, subsequently coming to the conclusion that they must be waiting to be ushered in. How long had they been waiting there though? He hoped the whole situation wouldn’t become too uncomfortable until their host arrived.

[Of the Quendi]

As the doors of the Vasyutin townhouse opened behind her, Geneviève curtseyed Antoine d'Essex politely and turned towards it. A vampire, monsieur Vasyutin presumably, appeared in the doorway. The vampire was unfamiliar to Geneviève. This in and of itself was quite strange. During her years as a propraetor Geneviève had travelled extensively and met many a powerful and old vampire, but if she had seen Vasyutin during her infrequent visits to the British Isles she recalled it not.

As the vampire bowed Geneviève curtseyed back at him. Having never met him, Geneviève knew of both him and his maker, whom she had met on a number of occasions. Politeness seemed the best policy, even if Geneviève had nothing but contempt for old dynastic vampire lines like his and their arrogant superiority. Vasyutin bid Geneviève, d'Essex and de Maryonne with a sweep of his hand and a sentence in English.

Geneviève walked in with the others. Vasyutin offered a personal greeting to Nadia-Marie whom he seemed to know. Hardly surprising as both had stayed longer in Boston than Geneviève's two months stay. The younger vampire returned the greeting, apparently more able to speak English than Geneviève, though Nadia-Marie after half a century still retained the accent of a civilized language. Having exchanged their greetings Vasyutin turned to Geneviève and d'Essex to greet them. Geneviève resisted the temptation to roll her eyes at her host's preference for English. Was she a merchant that he would think her able to communicate in that bastard tongue? Nadia-Marie said something to Vasyutin. She seemed uneasy. Perhaps she ad Vasyutin knew not each other as well as it had seemed? Or perhaps they did know each other well, but not for good?

Interesting as that question was to examine Geneviève was more interested in meeting the governor than conversing in Vasyutin's foyer. "Monsieur Petra." She greeted Vasyutin politely yet demonstrably in French. "Ma Grec est meilleur que ma Anglais. Mais comme nous ne parlons pas tous Grec, je vais risque Anglais." She declared. Then she paused for a moment. Her servants spoke French and during her stay in Boston she had thus far laid low and established herself quietly having had little occasion to converse with the locals who where shockingly monolingual, neither monsieur Adams nor monsieur Hancock spoke anything but English. She had had some practice in English during the Jacobite rising some twenty years ago but that was it. Well no way around it, it seemed.

"Monsieur." Geneviève chanced it. "Wou'dst thou be so good to bring thither to ce smoking room ce refreshements. Sithence I forseek gouvernor Genovese's presence erst ye hour grows early, whith him to take counsel, and offer mine douceur uppon his appointement. Twas a moste worthy honour." Geneviève spoke. She look around at her company for a moment, wondering if anyone had understood a word. Then she curtseyed the three vampires politely and turned to the staircase leading towards the smoking room. Vasyutin, or Petra, Nadia-Marie and d'Essex was all interesting company to keep but it was not for them that Geneviève had come, but for the governor of the Thirteen Colonies, and the appointment he could grant her. Boston was a dump but the Americas were vast and Geneviève intended to shape the organization of the Society on her distant shores. Making the New World better than was the Old.

But before Geneviève left the foyer she heard a noise. "Quelqu'un est à la porte." She said, and standing nearest to the entrance to Vasyutin's home she decided to open the door herself.

[Galnius]

Alice Wetcher made her way into town by way of the farm carriage. There were nights when she would just take a horse, but that was when she was doing human business. In her time here, she altered dress to masquerade as a man in order to get supplies and hire day workers, as it was simply easier than pretending to have a husband or dealing with the town's religious ways in the past. However, today she was the lady of the property, and conducting business as a vampire.

Alice had received a letter from the governor of the area with a most strange request. It seemed he was looking for a Quaestor of Boston. She thought that perhaps it was due to her aid in sheltering younger vampires, or perhaps simply because she was the oldest Boston born vampire to her knowledge. Still, it seemed most likely that he was introducing her to the one who she would be immediately answering to in the future. After all, in a place lot Boston, the oldest native vampire was still quite young.

In contrast, Alice thought of the vampire who owned the manor she was to be a guest at for this event. He had been there for quite some time, and was in her opinion the most likely candidate. He was older than her by quite a bit, and also seemed more politically involved. At least, that is what she had gathered from his time in Boston.

As she arrived, Alice was surprised at the other vampires who had shown. Stepping in to the manor were what appeared to be people accustomed to nobility, and the gaudy carriage parked nearby certainly told her one lived quite lavishly. In comparison to that, her own seemed like nothing more than a donkey pulling a cart. Still, it was to be expected when European blood came to the colonies.

Stepping out, Alice made her way to the door, curtsying to Lev Vasyutin, the master of the house. "Thank you for your hospitality. If there is any aid that you need tonight, do not be afraid to ask." Then, to the others gathered, she simply bowed and stepped in. Until proven otherwise, they were on equal ground tonight, so it did not bother her to greet them as the master of her farm as opposed to the missus. There was no need for illusions here.