Brigid's full, crimson-painted lips pursed with disapproval as her cold azure eyes fell over the assemblage in this dank and altogether disgusting 'meeting hall.' And while such distaste might seem an odd reaction from a creature whose vast fortunes were currently made indulging the tastes of the obscenely wealthy, whose proclivities leaned toward the uncomfortable and discomfiting? The truth of the matter was that Brigid Teague's personal "tastes" did not run toward being put out of sorts [i]herself[/i] in any way.

Nor did she enjoy being underground. Stifling. [i] Suffocating.[/i] Far too similar to the grave she was [i]never[/i] destined to know.

And honestly, could the Archbishop [i]possibly[/i] have chosen a more stereotypically campy place for the "vile, malevolent" vampires to meet? Brigid snorted softly through her nose in disgust, despising this hackneyed venue to the bottom of her exquisitely sensitive and artistic Toreador soul. 

Even so, the loathing she had for the Archbishop's banal choice of setting was but a pale shadow to her abhorrence of the flea-bitten, tick-infested Garou, and the unleashed beast he kept to do his dirty work in particular. Yes, she supposed that attack dogs [i]did[/i] have a certain usefulness, but that did not mean she would [i]ever[/i] allow one in her home, to shed on the furniture or slobber on her clothing. No finesse, no artistry, no sense of the sublime depths that agony could inspire in their work. Not much more than [i]bite.[/i] Claw. Rip and rend and roar, she supposed.

Brigid yawned. How [i]insufferably[/i] dull.

The stacatto percussion of the four-inch heels of her charcoal grey Isabel Marant stiletto sandals still thrummed through the shapely muscle of her calves, ringing to powerful thighs and through a spine so perfectly poised she might have seemed to float across than merely stride the length of this great room. The preternatural grace of the body that beneath the curve-hugging slate-colored material of her Donna Karan dress was poetry for the eyes, supernatural or even the merely mortal. Her glacial blue gaze still drank in the motley assemblage, and though her more professional instincts were fully roused by the company, it was not until she caught sight of one uncommonly magnificent face that her crimson lips finally curled up into a genuine, almost playful smile.

[i]Vasile.[/i]

If it still had a beat, her heart might have leapt at the sight of the Sabbat priest. Now [i]here[/i] was a true artist, a vampire who whose vision transcended living flesh and bone, penetrating into the realm of the divine with the splendor of his darkly sublime vision. He was no mere creator of ghouls - oh no, not Vasile. This was a being who saw the true potential within the mortal confines of meat and marrow, just as a sculptor might see his creation in a block of marble long before he released it from those common confines. He was, in short, [i]magnificent[/i] to her eyes.

Spite and malice had twisted her already vicious soul, to revile all her oh-so-tragically and ill-fated Sire ever embraced. Her loathing for the Camarilla was a visceral thing now. But it was the breathtaking skills of those like Vasile who truly reminded her, these dark decisions she embraced had led her true, that she knew kindred souls among the Sabbat. A single wave of perfectly-coiffed platinum blonde hair fell coyly over one eye as Brigid nodded in his direction.