Portland, Oregon: April
2009
On where we were and
why we were there:
It was in memory of the late seneschal that we found
ourselves gathered in the dark halls of a mausoleum on the anniversary of his
death. There, a shrine had been built so
that those who knew him might remember and those who didn’t might understand
the sacrifice he made. This proud
Ventrue gave his life so that Portland might grow strong against the rebellious
sect. Perhaps it was a somber veil to
gather beneath, but the night served as an important reminder. The Camarilla is strong because there are
those willing to defend it.
On what people wore
and why they shouldn’t have:
It is hard to say whether it was ignorance of the solemnity
of the event or indifference that led to some of the choices for evening
wear. Neither is an acceptable excuse, and Prince Canaan was
understandably upset by the lack of respect.
Indeed, some clans are known for their proclivity of dressing down, but
there is still a level of effort to be made when attending such a service. Even Mannford—the self-proclaimed isolated,
demon-hunting, creature of the night—managed to come more or less appropriately
attired for the occasion!
I don’t think it’s a stretch to expect you to hang up your cringeworthy pants—plaid is never
acceptable—and ratty band t-shirt for one night. It’s just tacky. Surely there is something in that pile of clothes you keep on the floor that would
have suited better.
On the Tremere and
their unique fashion sense:
Mr. Malcolm Mayhew, famed Harpy of Seattle, was as far from tacky as one can get! Little did he know, however, that Mr. Salazar
would attempt to upstage his outstanding
sense of style. Except for the color of
their vests and ties the two Tremere could have been twins! Every detail, right down to their
jaunty bowler hats, was in perfect
synchronicity.
Undoubtedly, Mr. Mayhew would claim it as proof that great
minds think alike.
Elder Viktor Cantemir definitely
stood out in the crowd. He seems quite determined to bring ruffled shirts
and jacquard coats back into fashion.
The question remains: fashion forward or fashion faux pas?
Several Tremere sported an interesting accessory,
and it was one that did not go without notice.
Little crystal pins seemed to be everywhere! All those who sport the triangular accessory
claim membership to “The Glass Pyramid”.
I won’t go into
detail about what that means, but you should definitely ask your local
representative.
Hopefully, they won’t be as verbose as Mr. Mayhew in their explanation!
On the memorial and
the things we learned therein:
Legiea recited the Bard’s Fear No More in honor of the late seneschal. It was an eloquent and sad piece that
captured the evening’s mood beautifully.
It seems that our dear harpy has a way of capturing us with her words no
matter if she is speaking or singing them.
If only her performance could have saved us from Lady
Cassandra’s presentation!
I could not have conceived that by the end of the night I
would know that the deceased had a fondness for redheads or that Lady Cassandra
often disrespected his age often saying he was “covered in mummy dust”. While sharing amusing anecdotes is not an
uncommon funerary practice, I think this would count as bit of an overshare!
Were that all I might not have found her display so vulgar!
I don’t know what inspired the Toreador Primogen to speak so
crassly to those assembled. Perhaps in
her grief she experienced a crucial lapse in judgment. I would like to think that. Still, it’s hard to imagine anyone in any state thinking it appropriate to call a group of esteemed
elders and respected members of the tower a bunch of boring fools!
If only that had
been the last shock of the night.
On unknown party
guests and the implications of their presence:
Herr Wagner brought it to our attention that there was a Setite
in our midst. When we saw her
seated
near the Prince (in those chairs reserved for court officers) we
couldn’t help but wonder if he knew the true nature of the creature with whom
he was speaking!
Elder Preston had earlier found himself in the company of
the serpent and the Prince of Seattle, from where she hailed, and was none the wiser by the end of their rather
lengthy conversation.
One can only imagine
what sort of liberties she must be allowed in order to so confidently and
brazenly consort with civilized
individuals.
It’s hard to think that something even worse lurked among
us that night, but alas this was indeed the case. A Fiend had dressed himself up and mingled
among the party guests. Thankfully
he was discovered, but his apprehension would elude those who would apprehend
him as he turned into a pile of blood and
slithered away!
I know, dearest
readers, I was as appalled and disgusted as you are.
It is unsettling to know that you might have rubbed elbows
with a creature as dark and disgusting as a Fiend. With all those of a more martial bent in hot
pursuit, we were left to continue the night’s festivities—if you could call them that—with the hope that there would be no
more unwelcome visitors.
On the brilliance of
Clé deMontes and the test of Mr. Mayhew’s virtue:
Before the night’s end we would come to learn of the history
between Clé deMontes and Malcolm Mayhew.
With no more detail than he “was acting under instructions”, Mr. Mayhew
explained that he had twice put the dear mademoiselle’s
life in danger…or at least allowed her to believe such!
I think it goes without saying that this left some fences to
be mended between the two of them!
After a failed attempt to talk the matter out—failed,
perhaps, because Mr. Mayhew did not stay for the whole conversation—Clé graciously offered a final opportunity to
make things right between them.
In order to win back into the side of her good graces Mr.
Mayhew would have to write a poem expressing his regret over his actions
however necessary he claims them to have been.
This poem would be judged by a group of individuals chosen my
Mademoiselle deMontes, and it would be up to them to decide if he deserved
clemency.
If they applauded then she would wipe the slate clean. If they did not then he would be at the mercy
of his own failure.
And so, we all awaited the second evening with great
anticipation.
On the words of Mr.
Mayhew and how they were received:
In his tardiness it was easy to think that Malcolm Mayhew
had perhaps decided to circumvent his task by simply not showing. But certainly he is a harpy, and what is a
harpy without his words? Our patience
would not go unrewarded.
We gathered around the table eagerly awaiting the words he
had composed. So that you might make
your own assessment, I have decided to record the poem here. Judge wisely.
Je suis désolé, Clé
Calm reflection grants
Still minds a sense
Of perspective lost
Sorrow makes full
Moons a tale writ
Of regret across the stars
This is an echo of
Pain once felt in
Beating heart
A gift without
Measure, a reminder
Of things thought long gone
Thank you, I am sorry
The silence that followed was filled with anticipation over who would be the first to clap, if
any. It was Herr Wagner who broke the
quiet and everyone soon followed his lead.
Mr. Mayhew had won his pardon.
Of course, the task of remaining in Clé deMontes’ favor is
still ahead of him.
On the matter of
flags and the trouble they caused:
To counterbalance the morbidity of the previous night we
were treated to a Toreador salon the next.
The space itself was grand, which should have been no surprise
considering it was held in the Keeper of Elysium’s personal domain.
What was
surprising were some of the choices in décor.
On one side of the room were a string of flags all boasting strange and
unknown symbols. Even the Tremere could make
neither heads nor tails of them.
But it was the flags on the other side of the room
that would lead to a bit of an uproar.
At first glance they were innocuous.
A display of clan symbols and nothing more.
Behind the Prince, appropriately, hung the rose of clan
Toreador. On either side flew flags of
pillar clans. Directly above them and centered
on the wall was the symbol for the clan of snakes, and it was bookended by two
other independent clans.
We hope that this
was a grievous oversight made by the interior decorators and not a choice made in good conscious. Or perhaps, there had been an intended game
of darts only someone forgot to bring the actual darts.
After extensive
inquiries—for when have you known me to be anything but thorough—we were left with no greater answer than that the ghoul
responsible for hanging the flags had been “dealt with”.
No one was willing to take responsibility for the outrageous error, though everyone seemed happy to point
fingers.
I only remind you that we were in the Keeper’s personal
domain.
On the rest of the
salon and the evening’s conclusion:
Despite the offending decorations and the garish
dress and behavior of a certain Setite, the night was an overall success.
Ligeia secured the performance of a young and talented
violinist by the name of Michael Harris.
He played well into the night fulfilling what requests he could. We were delighted but a display of
swordsmanship in which we learned never to underestimate a woman and her fan. And the matter of the fiend came to a
conclusion—whether it was satisfying or not depends on who you speak to.
I look forward to visiting Portland again, but only if it
promises to be as exciting.
Bisou, Bisou
Desi
