Collab with [@bloodrose]
[img] https://res.cloudinary.com/los-angeles-opera/image/upload/c_fill,f_auto,g_auto,h_499,q_auto:eco,w_890/v1/Uploads/GET-OUT-public/Theater-at-Ace_p.jpg [/img]

The auditorium was heaving. 

A sea of well-dressed dignitaries washed over rows upon rows of plush red seats, like waves crashing down upon crimson sands. 

Violetta sat motionlessly in a raised box, overlooking the rest of the audience, with a splendid view of the ancient Italian oratorio that was being performed. 

It was said that [i]Francesco of Taranto[/i] had composed [i]The False Prophet[/i] during his years as a man of the cloth, before he was accused of heresy, and condemned to a fiery death. 

The hymn was a cautionary arrangement, that fiercely warned of the seductive powers of the Antichrist, and how he would bewitch God-fearing Christians into commiting ineffable sins. 

Much of Francesco’s work had been purged from memory, but fragments of his legacy had survived, and [i]The False Prophet[/i] served as the magnum opus of the sacrilegious friars’ nefarious legacy. 

Vi found it funny that an alleged heretic’s pièce de résistance was being performed in the so-called “city of angels”. 


The ventrue scourge would not have picked the opera as her preferable location for discussing intricate kindred politics, but then again she lacked [i]Geneviève Pointe du Sandrine Dieudonné’s[/i] typically Toreador fondness of refined art. 

Whilst Geneviève was somewhat unique in the Camarilla because of her compassionate nature, Vi’s own status as an outsider stemmed from her indifference towards the gaudy trappings of high society. 

Violetta Kyborowski did not choose the Camarilla over the Anarch’s because of any childish fantasies of privilege and prosperity. She continued to serve the Ivory Tower because she believed in the unquestionable strength that was boasted by a system which had maintained order for over half a millennium. 

Without edicts or traditions, the Anarchs were no less senseless than the Sabbat, who pitifully played at being modern day Draculas, in their paltry slices of dominion. 

Vi was not some arrogant erudite, or rigid elder. She was a realist, whose religion was the steadfast divinity of the Masquerade. 

“Kyborowski, petite puce, you are far from home.” Genevieve’s honeyed tone flowed like treacle as the Toreador entered the box she had organised herself, easily within the parameters of fashionably late. She had a few vices, one of which was the enjoyment of making an entrance. She rarely failed to do so and tonight was no exception. The white, feather embellished dress she wore was hardly risque by the standards of the Californian city, yet still the weave of feathers about her did not overshadow the statuesque figure within, Even though the performance had already begun, eyes from the crowd were drawn to the shimmering blonde as she took her seat, the slight flush to her tanned skin a point of particular envy from many of her fellow kindred who never lost their deathly palour. While she addressed Vi in an overly familiar tone, not even trying to mask the French accent which turned her words to a flirtatious purr, it was reputation and business that connected their pasts, not friendship. Service to the same, now deposed, prince.

For the immediate intervening minutes, Genevieve did not speak again, leaning to press a kiss of greeting to each of Vi’s cheeks before allowing herself to be lost in the music. The temptation to shut her eyes and allow the sound of carry her away was powerful, but that would be an affront to the other sensory aspects of the performance. All of Opera was an art to be appreciated, nor would she rush to business when she could enjoy at least a few moments of her time in this far flung city.

“I take it you wished to meet me for more than my services as a tour guide.” It would not be the first time the Camarilla relied upon her well travelled reputation to save them from blundering into a new local scandal, but in this case, Genevieve was well aware these blunders had already been made. Her eyes did not drift from the performance, but her hushed tone was rather more serious as the matter of true business took the fore.

Violetta had clumsily gone along with Genevieve’s hello kisses, in the same cold and mechanical manner that she played along with the verbose performances of elysium, but she was quick to move past pleasantries, and sink her fangs into that evening’s topic of discussion. 

“I have a proposition that will tempt Vannevar,” Vi explained, “but I genuinely don’t know what he thinks happened after Sheriff Teach and I went to investigate Abrams’ murder, and I don’t want to risk final death, all over a misunderstanding.” 

She paused to give Genevieve a moment to contemplate what she had said, and also because she knew that Toreador had a tendency to lose themselves in the grasp of particularly impassioned musical performances. 

“Teach was part of a conspiracy to instigate a war between the Anarchs and the Camarilla,” the scourge continued, “I don’t know the intricate details, but it seemed to be at the behest of someone called “[i]Lubbock[/i]”, not that the name means anything to me.” 

Admitting ignorance was not something that Vi tended to do in the presence of other kindred, but Genevieve had a sort of unique benevolence to her, and genuinely seemed to have the best interests of the Ivory Tower in mind. Either that, or she was an expertly cunning deceiver, even by the lofty standards of the Toreador. 



“I hope that my allegations will be easy enough to substantiate, upon investigation,” Violetta continued, “but if the prince will not grant me immunity until that time has come, then I will evoke the major boon that is owed to me by [i]Seneschal Rochelle[/i], and implore her to provide me with temporary amnistie.” 

“Vannevar thinks a lot of things.” The light dusting of her French accent lent well to the withering tone of Genevieve’s words. In these modern nights she was often mistaken for being of Southern French heritage, something that took her a little effort not to be offended by on behalf of her proud, but long gone, family. The fields and meadows of her youth had been just that little bit too close to the metropolitan centres of France and the rural, but Northern, heritage had all but disappeared. Something else to blame the Parisians for. For a moment the blonde woman took genuine pause at Vi’s ignorance of the ancient Camarilla politics her information delved into, but then she remembered who she was speaking with. They were close in age, and it was all before their time, but Genevieve had been more than an agent for their prince, she had been a confidant, much as she never wished to be.

“Lubbock is not a name I have heard for some time, if that is true, and it is the same being, that is ancient blood. He was a hostage for some time, a ‘valued guest’ in the Court of Mithras following the Treaty of the Rose, his games no doubt predate the Ivory Tower.”  Even by the standards of Kindred conversation her tones were hushed, before she added with a return to her more light hearted appearance, “That is, if it is not just some cover for yet another warlord in these sunbaked hills.” It was also possible, of course, that Vi knew this entirely and her story was a fabrication, a lure to get the Prince to meet her, but she doubted that, nor felt that particularly risked much to play along either.

“Unfortunately, you are a convenient face to blame. Your most loyal followers have already betrayed you, but you are prominent enough the Anarchs might accept your head as placation for a Baron.” She shrugged with a sad honesty, the white feathers of her gown ruffling as she did so, but the motion so perfect it almost seemed to make her shimmer more. “I can probably convince him to meet you all the same, you must come prepared to offer something more valuable to him than an easy political win.” She hardly had to explain why the Prince would want such a thing, they both knew him, knew how desperately he needed it. “It will not be in Elysium, not at his court, deniability and such things.”

In a dark world of facades and illusions, Vi appreciated Genevive’s bluntness. However brutal the truth may be, 

“I can do better than an [i]easy win[/i],” Violetta assured the Toreador, in her characteristically cold voice, “I wouldn’t waste both of our times if I didn’t have something substantial to offer, Genevive.” 

The flat cadence of Vi’s speech did not betray the tension that she felt grasping around her innards, even if there was little doubt that Genevive knew just how precarious Violetta’s footing was. 

To the Camarilla, one wrong step was the difference between unlife and final death. Even a kindred as comparatively kind as Gene would be able to sniff out weaknesses like a ravenous bloodhound. 

“Bruno Giovanni, and what's left of the LA Giovanni are interested in joining forces with Vannevar,” the Ventrue explained to her Toreador companion, whilst [i]The False Prophet[/i] swelled beneath them, “even with the blows that they’ve suffered recently, I’m sure I don’t need to articulate how beneficial the clan of death could be to strengthening our foothold here.” 

“A strength, or an anchor to drag the raft down.” Genevieve mused quietly, barely more than a whisper as the music raced through the air around them, not wishing to interrupt, even in such a subtle way, the beautiful cascade of harmony. Her eyes moved to Vi however, pointedly resting the accusation upon her. “They sound as desperate as you, cherie.” The Giovanni were duplicitous even for Kindred, and the thought of binding the Ivory Tower to them was a malignant thought. Still, Vi deserved some honesty in exchange for her own, even if it came more easily to the French kindred than her opposite. “But then, alas, so is the Prince, I will arrange a meeting place, I will try as I can to ensure it is somewhere secure for you both.” Of course, whether anywhere could truly be so for the Kindred these nights was another matter entirely.

Her eyes lingered, however, the intensity of her gaze entirely lacking in hostility. “Your loss bleeds into the air, you should not be alone, but I do not think the Beauty of this place is the kind you can appreciate. What does Violetta do to find herself when rushed out to storm?”

Vi let out a laugh that was both soft and dry, trying not to show the swell of relief that had risen up inside of her, like a rolling tidal wave. 

“I hunt,” the ventrue grunted back in response “alone.” 

Violetta quietly rose to her feet, casting a swift glance in Gene’s direction. 

“Not all of us need to pretend we’re still kine.” 

Moving in sharp, militaristic strides, Vi slipped swiftly out of the box, leaving Gene to enjoy the performance in solitude. 

“Give my regards to Charles!” Violetta called back over her shoulder, as she vanished from sight.