Alistair's arm had been halfway up to block the [i]weird[/i] vampire's attack, even if the attempt would have sacrificed a perfectly good suit, but it seemed his family beat him to it. A perk of being the head of Clan Blackmoore – needing to act in self-defense was a thing of the ancient past.

Alexander became a name to remember, he thought to himself, as did Emilia. It seemed she [i]did[/i] know who he was. “Well said, my friends,” Alistair ended up saying, fiddling with the collar of his shirt nonchalantly, even as the two Blackmoore vampires were poised to attack. “And they call [i]me[/i] a barbarian. Perhaps it is your Kingston vampires who ought to learn self-restraint.”

“Mira, I suggest that you leave – peacefully – with those wild dogs, and maybe consider speaking a little louder, yes? They might not subvert your authority so much, then,” he smiled, all fangs. “Though if you're in the neighbourhood, feel free to drop in for a drink. I might even buy in some of that frozen pish for you.” Alistair ended with a cackle, drawing his sword lethargically. Maybe if he was a better person, he would have given Alexander and Emilia an order to stand down but... no harm in it, considering the Kingstons attacked first.

To the oldest vampire, he simply said, "What a hypocrite you are. It seems it was [i]your[/i] family who 'resorted to violence' before we ever did. No matter, though; if you misplace a single hair on any of my family's heads you [i]will[/i] see the strength that made me the head of Clan Blackmoore." He had taken on his grandmother, one of the most prolific sires in all of Iron Age Europe, in single combat and [i]won[/i]. Age meant nothing with both parties having centuries of war under their belt – it was down to luck and [i]skill[/i].