VtM:B - a story. Cultural calculated callings.

I return to Copenhagen, only to find my love, my home and my city in disarray.

A note from my Sire, a note from Pälvi, and a note from the Prince. The first is a neat letter within the comfort of an envelope lying just inside the room, having been pushed through the mail slot of the apartment. I know it is from him, as I could recognize that handwriting everywhere. Pälvi, in true non-dramatic fashion, left her message on post-it note stuck to the refrigerator. So human of her. I roll my eyes at it for the lack of dramatic sense. The last one, from Prince Jean-Baptist, rests atop of my coffin. At last, that is a place of importance I would not be able to ignore.
I read them in importance of order - Pälvi, my Sire, and then the Prince.

Palvi's note is short and brief. She's soon to follow a crew to Scotland, as her Sire departs for reasons unknown - or reasons she would not reveal in a note. It includes her lips, bloodied, pressed against the paper. I hold it with both my hands and pushes it towards where my beating heart used to be. Somehow, this mere yellow piece of paper becomes dear to me.

The note from my Sire is equally short - it requests a meeting, in person, at the location of my embrace. Frowning, as our agreement was to return to this spot only on peril of death, I deduct that whatever is happening is beyond serious. Of course, I make a mental note of the elegant paper being used, as well as the red ink, in order to copy the style at a later date.

The last note merely confirms my dread - the Prince thanks me for my successful mission, and asks me to bolster my resolve and gather my allies - war is upon us, and much has changed in my absence. He leaves me with control of an extended domain - should I be able to keep it - and instructions to meet the new Prince as soon as I am able to.

I quickly re-read all the notes in succession, panic rising as I do. Then, without hesitation, I order Kira to go out, find someone beautiful, bring them back here here, and preform whatever sexual act she wishes with a mortal she'd find pleasing - this already narrows the mark down to specifications.

I need time to think, and time to adjust. And I need to not be here when Kira returns.

Instead, I head out, looking for easy prey. Finding it, I have my share of two beautiful young men, a couple, I think, before heading to the point of my embrace.

I do not find my Sire waiting there, nor did I expect him to. I activate the full use of my Auspex. In a corner at the very edge of my sight stands a figure. I use Celerity to spin around and draw a hidden hand gun, aiming at the figure, baring my teeth. With a chuckle, my Sire steps out of the shadows.

- Ravna, you mistrusting creature. It's good to see you.
- Jürgen. The pleasure would be mine, had I had fair warning.
- Time is short, and there is much to discuss. I wish I could have sheltered you more, but from now on, you must earn to stand alone. Come, my Childe. Walk with me.

We walk. We talk. We make due. After what can only be described as a mind altering experience, we depart. I know in my heart that I will not see my Sire ever again. But what he leaves me marks my destiny and changes my long term goals.

The next night, the night was young, and so felt I. Now an established player in the lower parts of the Camarilla, the increase in power and status was significant considering my previous role. Fresh blood - literary, in my case - being pumped into the organization. I felt it pounding in my veins. No wonder the rush of youth sweeping through my limbs made me giddy with anticipation: I was going to treat myself to a public book reading.

If you, like so many other uncultivated beings, have never been to a book reading before, then allow me to explain. A new book is published. A bookstore signals that someone, either the author or a professional, will be there at a singular or multiple dates, with the promise of reading parts of the new book. It is, of course, a way of getting people to buy said book. Tonight, at a small library in the Amager East district (not my home turf), the author Liana Dumornais would read from her most recent novel: Still Water Bridge Falling - or L'Eau Douce, Pont qui s'écroule, as the original French wording was. The title alone had entranced me, and for some reason I simply knew that I had to be there.

The locale was classy and proper traditional; lots of dark wood, lazy curtains of heavy fabric, and rows upon rows of books. A small plateau elevated the reader above the ranks of listeners, all bundled together in line and fine, the proper orderly fashion. The light, dimmed to provide atmosphere, except for a small lamp residing on a small wooden table next to a chair with a tall back, also made out of wood. Hushed voices buzzing with emotion, expectation and education - I felt right at home, taking a seat in the middle of the listeners. A more cautionary vampire would favor the back, or one of the edges for a potential hasted retreat, but the art of hiding within plain sight is lost on so many these nights.

Not wanting to impose my will or mood on the rest of my household, I had left Kira with permission of visiting Alexandra, the red wearing Tremere necromancer enthusiast, while Pälvi was establishing a secondary strike team - she had already requested Rhys. I knew that she was going away, and asked if she and I could have a night alone before she left. Smiling, she told me she already had made arrangements. Licking my lips involuntarily, I was brought back to the present. The audience was taking their seats. The ambient noises quiet down. It was time.

Then the author stepped up, and I was enthralled. Enthralled, before she even spoke. This was no ordinary mortal. This one was special.

I'm sad to say that I recall little of the reading itself - all too soon there was applause and everybody rising to their feet in either to head to the cashier with a signed copy of the book, or in order to approach the author with praise and congratulations. I, alas, remained seated, stunned. Never before had I felt the clan curse strike me so profoundly, nor with such impact. Slowly, I rose to my feet, absentmindedly brushing the wrinkles from my dress. With purpose and determination I too approached the small flock of humans obscuring my view of the author. Another vampire would have forcefully made way between the Kine, but I needed time to collect myself. Thankfully, I was able to pass it off as being starstruck. And then, at long last, it became my turn. Hastely grabbing her hand, I offered the proper French kissing (upon her cheek, of course), drawing on my Presence. I insist that we meet in private before she leaves the city. And in a daring, possible Masquerade breaking and potential stupid move, I reveal to her my name - the name of my mortal self, the successful writer. It stings not getting recognition, yet I know she'll do a background search on me. No matter what information she uncovers, and despite what theory she'll make concerning my death, I have answers at the ready...