Zoheret made a small dismissing gesture as Charon bid her adieu for the night. As the ancient vampire left, she released her guard, exhaling in the effort. Dealing with this many undead was exhausting, the excitement of the evening almost too much. Standing alone, Zoheret looked out upon the party where groups of immortals gathered together like rats.
She couldn't care less who they put in charge of this stinking city. Sooner or later it would burn itself to the ground anyway, and then Zoheret would either raise it from the ashes or abandon it altogether - immortal life was too important to maintain a predictable habit. Of course, it would be better to stay, though the recent land grabs and sneaking that was being done in this city had her feeling quite distrustful of all of the other District Leaders. She had established her power here, her base on the Earthly plane now, her eyes on the city. She still had the old tattoo that marked her as an Oligarch of her people.
Stepping carefully, so as not to step on the delicate fabric, Zoheret glided down the rest of the stairs, heading for the refreshment table now. She requested a glass of sparkling pink wine, a blush Moscato, and sipped graciously, watching the monsters play for the time being.
--
"Somehow, Saint Sabrina, I have forgiven you already," Pierre said with a smirk, his reservations instantly wavering as she addressed him kindly. Unlike many of the District Leaders here, she didn't seem to Pierre like a politician. Refreshing, of course, but how long would all of that last before she was dragged into some political plot and double cross? Pierre rocked on his heels.
"Let's see... I've been here for just shy of... twenty years?" Pierre looked at his fledgling as if she had the answer - even though she did not. "I think that's right. I've only been on this continent for about sixty or so years, but much of that time I spent in Louisiana and Montreal.
"So not as long as many, but no short feat, either," Pierre finished. He should have known that a creature like the one standing before him existed in the city. Pierre had always been charged with knowing things and finding use for the information he had found, but this odd woman
--
"How very interesting, indeed, Ms. Reede," Damien replied politely with mild interest in what a young one could possibly teach other young ones. "And what area of expertise do you specialize in?" Genuine curiosity. She smelled of McCloud enough to make Damien watch his wording carefully - not that he wasn't already doing so. Truthfully, he had heard only bits and pieces about this Academy named for Kerr Galvin, known as it was to teach supernaturals supernatural behavior. It was something that Damien couldn't quite get his head around. Undead mannerisms, survival techniques, and treatment of humankind were all supposed to come from the Sire. After all the Sire was like a parent - responsible for bringing in a new life - or unlife - into existence and therefore like a parent, be responsible for raising said fledge properly. Certainly, he knew that there were fledges out there who had no Sire, no roots to vampire culture, but could it really be enough to fill an academy? Damien doubted the idea of it.
The angel came over just as he was waiting for the youngest vampire to respond. Damien couldn't place who or what he was - his face neither familiar or recognizable to him - and Damien's lack of experience with such creatures made him vaguely uncomfortable standing next to the new man. Obeying decorum, however, Damien extended his hand to the Dark Angel and shook his hand if it were appropriate.
"Ms. Reede here," he gestured to the young fledge, "was just telling us what subjects she was keen on teaching at the Academy for Supernatural."
