The Funeral Taste: Hope
Her expression grim, Segura Maria Pomar approached the entrance to the funeral, the dark-eyed, body-armored kindred guarding the door pausing to inspect her. "Are you a member of the city, ma'am?" he asked politely. She shook her head, replying softly "I am a guest of Prince Essex." He peered at her a moment more. "Go right ahead." Faintly, she could here the voice of a speaker. "I will wait and not interrupt."
A rustle, and another man behind her, brushing past the guard. "Lord Elliot! You are an enemy of the city and..." he trailed off, following the other kindred in frustration, and she went behind him, sensing that she should perhaps be by the Prince of her new home.
She watched, silently, as the kindred confessed his sins and immolated himself. She made no judgment, she was a stranger here. When he was dead, a battle begin in earnest, one far more deadly than her own not inconsiderable skills. She stayed out of it, hidden, silent.
And afterwords, as they entered the Cradle and she drifted through the room, reminding herself of faces attached to familiar scents, familiar people, she found that the air of Chicago was perfumed with expectation. There was the perception of opportunity here, for many. Hands reached out to grab it.
They had missed the lesson of the man who burned, she thought. The air was scented with hope, and she knew that in shattering, it would be bitter.
A rustle, and another man behind her, brushing past the guard. "Lord Elliot! You are an enemy of the city and..." he trailed off, following the other kindred in frustration, and she went behind him, sensing that she should perhaps be by the Prince of her new home.
She watched, silently, as the kindred confessed his sins and immolated himself. She made no judgment, she was a stranger here. When he was dead, a battle begin in earnest, one far more deadly than her own not inconsiderable skills. She stayed out of it, hidden, silent.
And afterwords, as they entered the Cradle and she drifted through the room, reminding herself of faces attached to familiar scents, familiar people, she found that the air of Chicago was perfumed with expectation. There was the perception of opportunity here, for many. Hands reached out to grab it.
They had missed the lesson of the man who burned, she thought. The air was scented with hope, and she knew that in shattering, it would be bitter.