The Collector.
He was not a vampire.
And yet he was a vampire.
He was never one man.
Yet always was one.
An alias in business.
A name in trade.
A mark in history.
A timeless title. 

Amassing a fortune was of no small means. Through the centuries blood was split and money was earned. Old money, long and ancient hoarded from the great splendors of Rome. From the silken path to the wicked triangle, from the pillage of nations to the rise of steel. Wealth was certainly an object which the Collector preyed upon, like a vampire thirsts for blood. With wealth came the bounty of things afforded, the market was but a plaything for one so richly ancient. But men had their vices, all did, and those who longed to fill the role of the Collector would be granted such.

For The Collector was, a human unmistakably, in wanton lust after material goods in their short life. Each man claiming the several estates left by their aptly named predecessors. Men of money, they sought to win the title and the inheritance of the last, accumulating in the generational fortunes which rose through both above and below. Yet they all missed the truth behind the curtains as the real collection was neither located in any of the mansions and manors scattered throughout Britannia, nor in great caches anywhere else in the world. The greatest of these treasures were kept at Camelot where the one true collector slumbered submerged in the sacred halls. From this spot he moved the nation: the sleeping puppeteer.

The most current incarnation of the Collector however, was an older gentleman who was a placeholder for the genuine article, dressed crisply in a business suit not unlike the one Bedivere wore. He too was pale, and bore a head of white hair like wisps across his dome receding. This was the public figure of The Collector, a face of humanity to assume the guise of man. With the rotations of a few placated humans more than wiling to sell themselves out for a life of luxury, Bedivere had created himself a puppet and created himself a puppet. A faux effigy to contact, a conduit of business, and it was he who served as the associate-guised patron in the shadows. So perfect was the ruse that not even the Collector himself knew who the real man behind him was. The only rule was to never question the invisible man, especially at night.

By the time his coffee cooled, Mathew would have already had a call for him.

Information worked both ways, and as little Mathew knew, as too did Bedivere cared. Although certain this would change, and the human could become a potential threat. But did Mathew not think for a moment that the greatest collection of all was not of tangible objects? Surely a man of his intellect could surmise that a being called the Collector, if he assumed he was a long lived vampire surviving under multiple aliases, kept at least a few tabs on men such as himself? Or was he that naïve to believe himself untouchable? Humans were after all, easily controlled, just as he used his men, so too did the other chess masters at the table. It would almost be offending for Bedivere not to have at least note of the man's potential, as a corporate peer may on another. It was a path most interesting that the two would now meet on.

"Hello, dare I ask who is looking for me?" A voice on the other end of the line greeted Mathew, an accent clearly identifying though the registered number belonged to the Collector's London Estate to eliminate the need for confirmation. "Mathew Stone was it? Did we have business together? I'm afraid my memory is not quite what it used to be and my people hadn't the foggiest of the details, what was it you needed?"