The time had finally come. The renowned sire-kings, ancients and oldbloods, lords and ladies alike were all coming here, to the castle on the Thames, and every one of them made an entrance with their arrival simply with the aura of their presence alone. So many of the vampires Mithias now had the privilege to lay eyes on were simply rumored to exist, yet here they were, with some physical being claiming their name. Not all of them were terribly archaic, and a few, Mithias recalled, he had nearly tracked down once or twice. He doubted any would have cared about his actions in the war however. A few slain grandchildren wasn't on their level. 

The magnitude of combined power in the room was mind blowing. Still, the assurance of mutual destruction was enough to keep the participants civil. This gathering would be legendary. 

Mithias had said nothing of the lengths Bedivere had gone to in preparation. The poor old chap had been very agitated lately. His focus kept him strict, demanding, and allowed no patience for frivolity. Mithias had wisely given Bedivere space. 

The human sacrifices did bother him, but he kept his silence and refused to look up on the burning, bleeding bodies above. This was not his domain. He was merely an observer here, as he tried to remind himself, however he was to have a say in the debates to follow in place of his sire. Perhaps this was fortunate, as he and his father had very different opinions, and Mithais could potentially stymie the pervasive anti-human sentiment. But until then, he would remain seated, silent and in the shadows of the shadows. 

The young stand-in sat at one of the tables, a wide brimmed black hat shielding him from the gaze-locking sights of the vampire lords. He had on a long, black cloak, trimmed and fit for a formal gathering. He also wore several pieces of knighty armor, polished, free of holy iconography, which included shoulder guards and breastplate. 
It was more symbolic than anything, really, Bedivere assuring him it was good form. His usual, modern vambraces and leather gloves covered his arms, and heavy locks of straight black hair rested on either side of his chest and down the back of his seat behind him. And of course he had his weapons. All vampires had some means of self defense, and unless they had some kind of telekinesis or irresistible charm ability, strength and claws were expected. It was no different for Mithias. He may have been the youngest vampire present, but he had to show pride. 

Unfortunately, Mithais was an idiot when it came to the verbal grace and sinister social tact of the oldbloods. Bedivere, his host and informal keeper, had basically commanded him to keep his fool mouth shut as much as possible, lest he would find other things for him to do with his tongue. And thus, Mithias accepted this suggestion. In truth, it had been his own plan all along. Fortunately, he had another distraction to fixate on, a quiet burning in the middle of his chest. For months now, he had worn it, at his host's recommendation, in an effort to develop a resistance to holiness. A small silver cross dangled from a necklace under his armor, ever singing its mark into his flesh.

Camelot, for a vampire kingdom, was ironically rampant with christian holy symbols. Mithias's discomfort around them had been a covert source of amusement to the old knight for the first several weeks. He had to chose his wanderings with caution. Bedivere had warned him that if he ever entered the chapel he would instantly vaporize, due to the artifacts within. Even Bedivere himself couldn't go inside. 

A mild weakness, a mild distraction. The task was to tolerate it. 

Mithias sighed quietly as he listened to Bedivere greet his guests. He himself hadn't managed to sire anyone before the meeting and would therefore have as much voice as a pantry mouse. He wondered where his father would be during all this. It had been a long time since their talk, yet such time was meaninglessly small to Gabriel. Perhaps the ancient trickster had taken off his wristwatch and completely lost track. Mithias failed to recall if Gabriel had been wearing one in Oklahoma. More than likely, Mithias had simply been forgotten again. Maybe nothing had changed. 

A stong woman's voice pierced through the room, and Mithias heard the pointed exchange about Castle Carfax. It had been claimed by Dracula once, Natasha's late father. Pale pink lips began to part dangerously beneath the brim of his hat. They closed. The situation appeared to resolve with her walking off. Mithias remained subdued, continuing to tolerate his secret distraction. 

Moments later, a nervous vampire servant entered from the back rooms and briskly approached Lord Bedivere. The elder vampire furrowed a brow dangerously at him as the latter implored him for his ear. A whisper... "My Lord... the best wine, has already been used. There is none left... !" He trembled anxiously.