[center][color=9e0b0f]
[h2]CURIA NOCTIS[/h2]
Court of the Night, Vampire Coven
Established 18th Century, within the Conciergerie, Île de la Cité, Paris[/color]
[img]https://www.parisontheway.com/components/com_rsmediagallery/assets/gallery/600x450/8784c058f1a60d37a7dae6c843184d28.jpg[/img]
[h3]9:33 PM

[color=#6FA3D1]Amelia, Vampire Elder & Coven Regent[/color][/h3][/center]
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	She had risen as the daylight died, just as she had for centuries. After feeding on the fruits of her coven’s labor—cloned human blood; patent pending—she dressed in a slim-fitting, elegantly minimal, sensual black gown threaded with gold. Around her throat gleamed a dangerous-looking gorget of solid gold, paired with a matching set of dangling earrings that caught the candlelight like gilded fangs. She swept back her long, raven-dark tresses into a sleek ponytail, bound with a golden cuff etched in sigils older than Paris itself.

	After clothing and adorning her form, the ancient entity expertly applied a thin veil of cosmetic coating to perfect the deathly fair skin of her face. Once her visage resembled a porcelain doll, she traced a sweep of deep crimson across her lips. Her eyes were then rimmed in black kohl and gilded shadow, sculpted to evoke both seduction and sovereignty. A final touch of unguent graced her cheekbones like moonlight on marble. She did not wear makeup for vanity alone—it was war paint, a mask of dominion, a ritual of readiness.

	Once she had completed her rituals of awakening, Amelia glided from her chamber deep within the catacombs to an old elevator. She rode it in silence, past the ground level, to the apex of her domain. She was greeted by a pair of Death Dealers, who saluted crisply before the doors had even fully opened. Their fists struck their uniformed chests with a resonant thud, echoing against the hidden armor beneath. The Elder gave each a glance and a nod of recognition as she regally sauntered past, ignoring the muffled, coded message one of them muttered into the underside of his wrist.

	Amelia followed the corridor to a pair of gloriously embellished doors—her formal seat of power within the city. They opened before she arrived, revealing a hall of marble, understatedly adorned with gold. At its center: her throne. A large, plush seat of deep crimson. She proceeded unhindered, cloaked in relative silence, her hips swaying seductively. Only her elegant heels rang out—a slow, echoing click with each sultry step she took across the long march to her throne.

	Her steward, Roland, was already awaiting her beside the chair. He gave a softer salute, and a slower, deeper bow of the head than the Death Dealers had, before returning to his own practiced, regal posture.

	[color=#6F4A8E]“Good evening, my Lady,”[/color] he greeted her in his mother tongue—the same spoken throughout these lands.

	Amelia held her silence as she eased herself onto the throne, settling into a languid pose. Only then did she turn her head toward the steward.

	[color=#6FA3D1]“Good evening indeed,”[/color] she replied in kind. She spoke the tongue just as well, for she had been using it long before the man was born—she had seen the language’s dawn, and watched it grow into what it was today.  
[color=#6FA3D1]“For this night, we will put the finishing touches on our plan. Tomorrow, we will finally be rid of the elusive thorn in our side. The black rose that threatens everything we have built—that threatens to expose us [i]all[/i].”[/color]

	[color=#6F4A8E]“How may I serve you tonight, my Lady?”[/color] Roland asked.

	[color=#6FA3D1]“You will go to Sabine and to Sven. Instruct them to meet us in the council chamber—we are to finalize our strategy. Sabine has been researching the location and the individuals in question. Sven has had the Death Dealers and our thralls staking out the venue. We shall convene at seven o’clock. That will grant us ample time before the sun breaches the horizon.”[/color]

	[color=#6F4A8E]“It will be done, my Lady.”[/color]

	Amelia watched him stride from the room. The pair of Death Dealers stationed at the doors began to open them as he approached, allowing Roland to exit the hall without breaking stride—just as she had entered. Once they were closed, she sighed softly to herself.

	[color=#6FA3D1]“Soon… [i]Claudia[/i],”[/color] the Elder seethed softly in the ancient tongue of her homeland. [color=#6FA3D1]“Soon, you will either stand beside me—or be wastefully destroyed, like so many before you.”[/color]

	[i]Állj mellém… vagy hullj el.[/i], she thought. 

	[i]Stand beside me… or fall.[/i]

[center][h3][color=#6F4A8E]Roland Duret, Coven Steward[/color][/h3][/center]
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	Roland strode briskly through the halls of the Conciergerie—Curia Noctis, rather. The steward made his way down below, rapidly descending an ancient stairwell into the sprawling catacombs beneath his city. He figured he would go to the furthest destination first before working his way back into the Court proper.

	Upon reaching the bottom, the posted guards saluted his arrival. He gave a cordial nod before addressing them.

	[color=#6F4A8E]“I require a word with the Captain,”[/color] Roland stated evenly. [color=#6F4A8E]“Where might I find him?”[/color]

	One of them pointed down the dim, subterranean corridor.

	[color=#6F4A8E]“He remains in his chambers.”[/color]

	Suppressing an eyeroll, Roland nodded and thanked the man as he pivoted on his heel and strode toward the chamber where the Death Dealer commander was often found.

	Roland slowly shook his head subtly as he walked. The Captain had his own quarters on the surface. The ancient warrior was so often found within a specific chamber of the catacombs that most simply assumed it was the man’s quarters.

	Upon arrival, Roland paused for a breath before entering.

	[color=#6F4A8E]“Good evening, Captain Sven,”[/color] he said in accented English. [color=#6F4A8E]“The regent requests your presence in the council chamber at 7 o’clock for a final strategy meeting for the undertaking tomorrow night.”[/color]

	The immortal Viking turned about slowly to address the intruder. His voice was low, deliberate—his English still touched by the accent of his ancient homeland, marked by harder consonants and rounder vowels.

	[color=#6B8FA3]“Then I will be in attendance,”[/color] Sven said calmly.

	Satisfied, Roland gave a slow nod and saw himself up and out of the grim lair of the coven’s soldiers.

[center][h3][color=#D14A5F]Sabine Lenoir, Coven Archivist & Liaison[/color][/h3][/center]
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	The tables were littered with scrolls, printouts, and blueprints strewn all about the space. The Archivist moved silently, making notes on a legal pad as she inspected various volumes and research.

	A knock at the door interrupted her rhythm. She huffed a sigh and set down her pad.

	[color=#D14A5F]“Entrez,”[/color] she called out, her tone tinged with annoyance.

	[color=#6F4A8E]“Pardon the intrusion, Madam Lenoir,”[/color] the Steward said upon entry. [color=#6F4A8E]“I have come to inform you of the will of our Lady. You are to meet in the council chamber at 7 o’clock. Lady Amelia wishes to finalize the plan for tomorrow.”[/color]

	[color=#D14A5F]“Thank you, Steward. I will be ready.”[/color]

	The man inclined his head and exited the room.