[center][url=https://imgbb.com/][img]https://image.ibb.co/kRiHzc/strom_sig.png[/img][/url][/center]
[hr]
Sometimes the most peaceful places on earth are those closest to the earth, or more specifically, [i]within[/i] the dirt, beneath the surface and all it's chaos. Away from the sights and sounds of the things once loved only to discover it was merely noise and interference to distract your mind from what was really needed. Peace. A time to reflect on things.

Nicolaus stood in front of the large tree -the “lone Cypress” as it was referred- dressed in his usual dark gray Armani two-piece and holding a solitary purple dahlia which he placed at the base. The light breeze off the Pacific was cool and crisp that evening, and calm enough to give a gentle push to each wave as it splashed against the rocky sea wall. The Cypress tree itself had remained for almost two hundred and fifty years along the coastline of Monterey County’s Pebble Beach, overlooking the ocean and enduring the harshest of conditions. Around the mid-twentieth century, a fire was started (some say by the newly formed Anarch movements) scarring much of the tree’s surface and killing off anything else around it, but its roots were deep and stubborn, allowing it to slowly regenerate and thrive once again. It was there that the ashes of his beloved companion remained, deep within the rich soil, granite, and embedded roots of the ancient Cypress. This was her spot, or more importantly, [i]theirs[/i], but the tree itself held a special place in her heart nonetheless, as it never ceased to survive all those many years on its own. Bowing but never breaking to the harsh changes, roaring crosswinds, storm surges, arsonist fires, toxic paints from graffiti, or anything else that could be thrown its direction. It stood the test of time, and its resolve only became stronger. Liz had, on many occasions, compared the tree’s life to that of the nearly four hundred years of Nicolaus Strom’s own, one where he’d endured the challenges that time brought with it only to come out of the forge hardened and refined. It was one of the many qualities that grew them both closer to one another over the years.

The Ventrue struggled during the infancy of their courtship, wanting very much to bring her into the fold of kindred society, not as a mortal, but as one who could live -or perhaps even outlive- him. But at the same time, it was his love for her humanity that kept the beast at bay, and the respect for her wishes, as she was in no hurry to become a monster.

[i]“I don’t want to be like your kind, Nico. Like any of you. And you know this.”[/i]

Elizabeth’s words echoed through his mind as they had several times in the past, knowing that her mortality was the only thing she had cherished in a world fallen to the most vile of creatures, and living in an eternal darkness was not her idea of “living” at all. Her Romany heritage, a proud line dating back countless centuries, were the more adamant-willed of mortals living through the threats of vampires, werewolves, wraiths, changelings, and any other supernatural entity thrown their way, holding onto humanity until their dying breath. They wanted nothing to do with the underground realms where nightmares thrived and erupted over the earth in waves of plague and pestilence. Her people were Hunters of his kind, choosing never to fall prey to the ravaging teeth of darkness and betrayal. Nicolaus knew of this, but he also knew that ever since the day he saved her from the raging apartment fire that consumed her family over fifteen years ago, she was indebted to him until her last days, and he would protect all that she was, even if from herself.

And yet life would have it’s last laugh on the elder vampire, the ironic twist of fate that he’d not expected as the same flames that destroyed the very foundations of the Sunset Lounge and its symbolism of Kindred neutrality,  had also consumed the one person he was unable to save that day. But it hadn’t been the fire that was to blame. Elizabeth’s body was found buried under the pile of rubble and ash, burned beyond recognition, her hands and feet appeared to be bound by whatever was left of the thin cable used. Nicolaus could scarcely believe it was true, however, it was the very jewelry she wore, albeit misshapen by the extreme heat, that was enough to convince him otherwise and the realization that he had lost her forever. Question after question swirled around in his mind for days, which then turned into weeks, and months, almost negating the mourning process he’d kept bottled up inside while he used the resources he could to uncover the truth as to just why the hell she had been there in the first place, and who was responsible? The answers were, for the most part, right under his nose the whole time but sometimes the most obvious place is the last one you’d even begin. While still attempting to maintain a decent level of anonymity, Nicolaus dug through layers of FBI files, which were then cross referenced with those that the Camarilla held as “bargaining chips”, only to find out that Elizabeth Salahari had been [b]blacklisted[/b] by both, as well as considered a “person of interest” due to her witch hunter ancestry, a stigma that was held over her head for many years within the kindred community. 

Those kindred and kine closest to Nicolaus knew of the couple’s long-standing relationship, and in as many who did not approve with the Ventrue’s lifestyle and choice of company, they respected the vampire enough not to push the subject or cause strife within the ranks. The Elders, most set in their ways reaching back countless centuries, were more concerned of a conscientious mortal who had not yet gone through the ritualistic blood-bonding process to become a ghoul and allow her master to keep his retainer in line. However, over the years the young lady had given little reason for them to suspect anything that would otherwise be a breach of the Traditions, and had forgone any further probing.

But clearly it never truly ended, at least not under the many layers of lies and deceit. As it so happened, the very organization he served snuffed out the one glimmer of light within the vampire’s otherwise dim world. A most unforgivable act indeed, but one he’d simply had to live with regardless of the pain. For over a decade, Nicolaus had held the title of “Archon”, employed as one of several  agents of the Justicars, leaving very little room for personal attachments of any kind. How their relationship survived as long as it did was beyond even the Ventrue’s comprehension, but it was simply delaying the inevitable.

Even Elizabeth knew it to be true.

The subtle chime from his cell phone pulled him out the reverie he’d inevitably fallen into, allowing it to ring a few more times until it transferred to voicemail. If Nicolaus enjoyed anything about modern technology, it was that you needn’t be so quick to answer a call when the person on the other end could just as easily leave a recorded voice message. Or...a text message, which is exactly what followed, as he pulled the phone from his pocket and clicked the screen on, narrowing his eyes to adjust to it’s abrupt brightness as it then immediately dimmed, calibrating to compensate for the lack of surrounding light. 

[color=7ea7d8][b][ Sender: SRW ][/b]
[i]Cary Grant’s “Walk of Fame” star isn't looking so good.
A polishing perhaps? 
Good.
5am and not a millisecond later.
Toodles.
M.R.
[/i][/color]

Nicolaus shook his head as he switched the display off and returned the device to its resting place in his front pocket. If it hadn't been bad enough that he was subjected to bi-weekly polygraph tests as well as general psychological evaluations, the one appointed to handle such matters was an insane yet brilliant Malkavian named Doctor Samuel Roger Withers, also enjoying to refer to himself as “Mister Rogers” after the children's television show from the late 1960s. Why? No one really knows or cares. Needless to say, his brand of humor didn’t sit well with most of the Agents working under the Justicars, but thankfully his position was not absolute and it was maybe less than an hour every few weeks that one had to endure the vampire’s nonsense. The evals themselves seemed necessary to an extent, but it was also the Camarilla’s way of ensuring loyalty amongst their Archons and those who served them, drilling each agent with questions about their personal and professional lives, which may or may not be used against them in future hearings.

Leverage was always the name of game. Although, this time around, it was no coincidence that he was being called in for an [i]early[/i] evaluation.

Nicolaus headed back toward the black Maserati Quattroporte parked along the gravel road that lead toward his previous spot, and climbed into the driver's seat, realizing he had about a five hour drive ahead of him in order to make it back to Los Angeles in time. He revved up the engine, listening to the roar of the twin-turbo V8 as he sat idle for a few moments, his eyes staring directly at the black matte finish business card propped up on the dashboard, which was handed to him only days ago by a mere messenger boy of the Camarilla. The front of the card simply showed the name “Hardestadt” in a heavy gold foil lettering, with the subtext of “Consulting” in a lighter font type along with a phone number. On the back, hand-written in silver ink was pretty clear message from the owner of the card:

[i]Mr Strom. We need to meet soon. 

H.[/i]