It had been a rainy evening, and the light scatter of drops bounced off the Maserati's windscreen as fast as they could land. Lord Valentine Alexander never liked waiting.

Especially when he had an idea that needed to get moving. It had come to Valentine that he needed to make a statement in this City of Angels, something that his Clan could appreciate. For the Toreador, there is no such thing as being out of the public eye; one is either famous, or dead. Except for the most reclusive artists, of course; there was, however, no way that Valentine could ever be described as shy or retiring.

His 'phone rang as he slowed the car to a stop in the parking spaces at the back of the Arts Centre, and he answered it tersely, unwilling to be delayed further.

When it proved to be Vanessa, the socialite and Clan-mate (perhaps more, one night ...) who had first given him the tip that the theatre would be ready to accept some well-funded patronage this side of the winter season, his tone softened and the seductive murmur of his final goodnight was only half because it was expected. One must keep to the form of things, after all, and egos were made to be soothed. He clicked on the alarm and went inside to meet the manager and take a tour around the theatre.

The well-designed building had benefitted from some excellent bequests in the past, so it was equipped for more than the standard off-Broadway and rep shows. He took his leave of the manager - who couldn't quite believe the offer he was getting, but hid it well - to look around the premises unaccompanied, the better to sample the ambience.

He was already half-disposed to accept the place as it was, and on checking the suitability of available stages the Artist could not fault Vanessa's good taste. From the boxes, he could both see the stage and be seen - just the thing for the more publicity-orientated Kindred - and from the stalls, the acoustics were right to carry the sound all the way to the last few rows, as clear as a bell. Valentine allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. He went to negotiate the final arrangements and compose the invitations for Elias to have printed in the morning.

[ ~ invitation to follow ~ ]

Any member of Clan Toreador in the city recieves a personal invitaton (unless they are completely out of contact with their Clan) to their most recent postal address, as do the Prince and other officers of the Camarilla Court.

Valentine was on the verge of a towering display of violent bad temper. Everything he had worked for - the precision, the detail, every perfect nuance - was about to be ruined, and all for the incompetence of one little mistake. He strode across the room. Papers scattered and flew like leaves in a storm. The Artist stopped in mid-step, hands clenched into fists at his sides, head thrown back as if by his imploring gaze the heavens might somehow provide an answer.

"One small thing. That is all I asked you to do. Just one, tiny, one small task that might, perhaps, have taken half an hour of your precious time.

And yet, this is beyond you. Perhaps I'm forgetting myself. Perhaps it is I whose opinion, shaped over only two and a half centuries, is of no consequence and I am the one at fault here. Who could have guessed that in all the time I have spent in making important sartorial decisions in all the years of my unlife I was the one to have wasted my time, when I had only to wait for you, and your three years at College. How absurd for me to presume that I could exercise sufficient judgement to choose my own outfit for the evening. I should have waited for you."

"Lord Valentine, I -"

"And I am still waiting."

An hour later, ego soothed, perfectly dressed, still warm with the glow of the vitae sipped from the enchanting Juliette, the decandent Artist parked the Maserati with careful precision and stood for a moment, taking in the warm night air as he prepared for his entrance to the theatre. Then he strode out, the slight nocturnal breeze barely disturbing the line of his classical, charcoal-grey suit or his immaculate hair.

The entrance to the Arts Centre was marked by green shrubbery and exotic flowering bushes, lush even in this heat. The shallow run of steps sweeping up to the double doors was framed on each side by a wide ramp, a nod to style in accessibility. Smoked and mirrored glass dominated much of the citscape, but not here: everything was crystal clear, affording him a view of the deep carpet that deadened sound in the foyer and the marble-fronted desk that was, for once in LA, not tenanted by a bored girl passing time between manicures.

It had been a difficult decision, but Valentine had decided to arrive early and his greetings and careful wishes were for the cast, a word of encouragement here, a little confidence-boosting there. Theatre folk were a notoriously superstitious lot. He'd made sure not to mention anything so crass as good luck and had just the right flowers delivered. All in all, he was confident of his selection. He'd decided to arrive before the audience so that he could see their reactions rather than shape them. In the interval, it would be proper as well as suitably modest to appear and mix with the crowd; rumour had it that the Prince would be here, and in any case Valentine wasn't about to shun the limelight entirely. But greeting all the patrons individually at the door as they arrived would only look like a lack of faith in the play.

He slipped away from the backstage dramas and after a word with the manager, took his seat in the box reserved for him, picking up the libretto and scanning it idly.

The set was elegant, Ionic columns framing the dark velvet curtains draped closed, keeping their secrets for now. The score for the play was minimal, as befitted a translation keeping true to the Classical Greek spirit, but he could hear the musicians tuning up a final time as the first of the guests arrived.

They'd always enjoyed the theater, though the opportunity to go was rare. Kathleen's schedule and his never seemed to coincide with the performances they'd wanted to see in Boston. Jason slipped the valet ticket into the pocket of his suit as they walked through the doors. He'd chosen a deep, rich navy as the overtone to his suit, the better to compliment the lilac dress Kathleen had chosen. He drew their tickets from another pocket, leaving an elbow crooked.

He smiled when Kathleen's hand slipped along his forearm. It was a charade, but a comfortable one, he thought as she came to his side. She moved with him as they approached the ticket taker. Even on such a relaxed occasion as this, he could feel the tension in her fingers as she took in their surroundings. Her constant watchfulness had saved them before, but he hoped she would have some chance to relax this evening.

They were granted admittance to the music center proper. An usher directed them towards the box that his department head had bought for the evenings entertainment. It was a bit of a shame that so few of his coworkers had taken the opportunity for some culture-he'd heard good things about this performance. The play had been one of the better study materials in his college literature classes. Still musing on the entertainment ahead, he guided Kathleen towards their seating.

Every encounter with some aspect of the city had taken a fresh new turn since the Lady of Angels had accepted Kathleen and her two fellow Garou as her pack. Each neighborhood had its own flavor and feel, each city building feeling like a home away from home. As she slipped her arm into Jason's, she found herself smiling, not only at her husband's companionship but at the lingering echoes of the spirit of the place. She'd opted for a simple look that evening, a lilac dress with a bolero jacket to keep the worst of her scars hidden. The one at her throat was obfuscated by the careful drape of her hair and a layer of makeup.

Jason hadn't been exactly clear on who they were going to be seated with, only that he and some of his coworkers had been given tickets by their boss. She hoped that Travis wouldn't be by. She knew he'd survived the night at Wild Things, but hadn't seen him since. If there was one thing she didn't want to spend her evening recounting, it was that horrible night. Tucking herself closer to Jason, playing up their 'coupleness', she surveyed those already present.

She let Jason lead, falling into the role of the dutiful wife with hardly a thought. Though she certainly looked forward to seeing the performance, this night was really for him. Though he certainly knew when she was catering to him and when she was being sincere, she knew that he appreciated her efforts. Still smiling in that vaguely Stepford manner, she allowed herself to be guided to their box seats, seating herself, then watching him get settled.

Sitting in front of the valet parking Richard Malcolm was beginning to feel the first traces of regret, nagging at the forefront of his brain. It was a risk, if a calculated one, bringing Deidre to the theatre with him. It wasn't as though there weren't already rumours at the bank, about his romantic... indiscretions, that wasn't primary among his concerns. It was making sure that everyone, and anyone that they met tonight bought the story that the redheaded object of his affections was almost blissfully willing to sell them.

All and all, she seemed to have taken the idea as a source of great amusement. Maybe she thought of it as a game. This might have been fine for her, however, if his wife ever got a sniff of the girl he'd be up to his neck in alimony payments. Richard somehow doubted it would do him any good to remind her of the ruse, for such a young woman Deidre was formidably self confidant and didn't seem to take well to direction. It may have been a side effect of his relative position of authority where work was concerned, it may have been that he somehow needed to be sure he was still in charge. In the end he couldn't help himself. "Now honey remember-"

"I know. If anyone asks, I'm your niece. 'Auntie Lydia' is in New York, visiting her sister, so you're seeing me around the town. How thoughtful of you..." Deitricha grinned impishly, "Uncle Dick."

The prompt rebuttal was followed by well placed hand on the older gentleman's chest, the ahroun's index finger tracing swirls on the lapel of his black shadow striped suit jacket. It served to soothe the slip of sarcasm that edged her voice. "Maybe you'll get lucky and we'll have the box to ourselves, and you can relax a little." The Spiral offered blithely, as was so often her attitude as of late. Slicking on a cherry red coat of colour to her already plump pout, she checked it in the car's rearview mirror. Perfect, just like the rest of her.

She'd done an awfully good job of spending the banker's money dolling herself up for the evening. This was no great surprise to her, but the look on Richard's face when he'd seen the bill had been worth the extra time she'd spent in the dressing room, behaving herself around shop girls. The dress was divinely fitted, a cherry red off the shoulder piece in fine satin. A likewise coloured underbust corset brought her out of generic theatre fare, with it's thick black boning and seams. Loose curls spilled from and around a line of several red roses fastened at her crown.

Giving her date a vague look of boredom, she waited for him to come and open the door for her. When the point was finally taken, she slid out of the vehicle and onto her black Ferragamo heels without the slightest traces of guilt. Slipping an arm easily into her "Uncle's" grasp, Deitricha led the unwary banker into the theater, to mingle with the crowd before the show.

After a week spent unpacking the latest delivery from his German supplier, Maxen Cantillion looked forward to a night at the theatre.

It wasn't so much that opening the crates themselves had been a long job, but to a Weirdling there is no such thing as a quick perusal through an order of books, especially when their number includes an early Latin edition of De Vermiis Mysteris . After the initial check to see that everything was present as it should be, the Kiasyd had quite forgotten the time. Luckily, black-letter print washes off with careful attention and good Castille soap.

After the fifth day, when he had to remind himself that as a Cainite, there were certain things that must be attended to, Max had made the effort of will to take a constitutional away from his collection. On the return journey, he had passed by the ticket office and came away with programmes for the season and a seat for the opera. As he was leaving, the advertisement for Oedipus Rex caught his eye, and he decided to make an effort to catch the performance. It would be just the thing to divert him from his cataloguing, and a new translation should not be missed.

Dressing formally for a night at the theatre was something he had not done since his last visit to Angélique, but he always kept suitable clothes in good order. As the theatre would - to the Nocturnae at least - still be considered a black tie event, he paid careful attention to each detail of his suit, though the style of the clothes was, to anyone but the Kiasyd, hopelessly Victorian and out-of-date. He had had to have them made, of course, but Cornelius had put him in touch with a good tailor. To the straight, slightly tapered black trousers and high-collared white shirt he added a new charcoal waistcoat - he'd lost the original in an incident in Montmartre - and his favourite tailcoat was, he decided, still smart enough for the ensemble. Max fastened his black silk tie with the dexterity of long practice. Decked out in polished boots and fine black gloves - the colour a daring departure from the prescribed detail, but an acceptable choice to the slightly avante-garde - he took down his hat from its hat-box and replaced his pocket-watch in his waistcoat pocket. Then he walked through the town, a hundred and twenty years too late.

Arriving at the theatre the Kiasyd showed his ticket and made his way to the seat reserved for him. In deference to the other patrons, he had made sure to get a seat at the back of the theatre, a necessary courtesy when one is well over six feet tall. He sat down, took off his hat and gloves and reached for the libretto. It was only after the second page that he realised that he had not been reading in Latin; the Scarlet had assumed a translation from the Greek, but his preoccupation with the Mysteries had distracted him. Making a conscious effort, he turned his attention to the play, scanning the audience as he waited for the curtain to rise.

As the curtain rose, Valentine sat back in his chair. His face a mask of concentration, he was both absorbed in the play, and intent on seeing how it would finally be received by this illustrious audience. It was second nature to the Artist not to breathe, now, when in the depths of concentration; but though he had faith in his cast, there was always an element of chance in any performance. And the Prince had sent word that he would attend.

The stage was prepared using a combination of painted backdrops and sets, the lighting rigs hidden using an artful screening of clouds. The effect was of a stylised realism, the distant mountains of Ancient Greece an atmospheric setting for the agora of the city of Thebes. To one side of the square was the precinct of a marble temple, columns and steps indicating one of the grandiose shrines of old.

At the back of the stage, serving at this time as both Chorus and a representation of the marketplace's crowds, a double half-circle of people stood in simple robes. Approaching in a state of some agitation, the regal and robed figure of Oedipus, the King, a man at the height of his power, was observed by an old, grey-haired Priest on the steps of the temple.

Oedipus: My children, latest brood of ancient Cadmus.
What purpose brings you here, a multitude
Bearing the boughs that mark the supplicant?

Why is our air so full of frankincense, so full of hymns and prayers, and lamentations?

The King told of the constant state of unease in the city, the flying rumours, the uncertainties of the people. He had come to consult the old Priest, who could advise him with the wisdom of his years.

The Priest had no words of comfort for the King. Not only was the air thick with prayers and the smoke of incense, it was full of omens: crops failed, women were cursed with barrenness, and last and most terrifying of all, the God Apollo had sent plague to stalk the city.

Across the clouds, the spectral figure of the Archer God flew, changing in silhouette to the gaunt monochrome figure of Death, a momentary, hallucinatory glimpse.

As children to the strong patriarch, the people of the city huddled together for reassurance and asked their King: What has angered the Gods so?

There was at the door to their box-seats, which Deitricha noted were actually quite good ones, the briefest of giggles. The Spiral's date was smoothing his hair back into place, and fussing over his suit, an act which only incriminated him further in the eyes of the attendant who was looking after them.

"You look fine, Uncle Richard, hurry up or we'll miss the beginning." Deita asserted impishly, delighting in the opportunity to further scandalize anyone close enough to notice. She spotted a minute trace of red stain on the collar of her partner's shirt, but hastened to mention it. There were supposedly going to be co-workers sharing their seats tonight. Try as she might (but not too hard) the girl wasn't any good at sharing. It would serve the man right for his lack of attention to this fact if anyone saw the scarlet smear of infidelity he was wearing at his neck.

Richard had lost the tickets for a few moments somewhere in a nearby coat check, who's attendant was no where to be found when the pair had snuck in for some fairly pedestrian pre-show fraternizing. Luckily for the older banker, he'd found them in enough time to allow the redheaded ahroun to reapply her lipstick and adjust her corset before the two made their way upstairs. She didn't take to being kept waiting.

The curtain was about to rise when they stepped in and Deitricha saw it, the blazing proof of the Wyrm's love of her. Sitting straight ahead of her was a mark the young ahroun would not have mistaken for anything else, here or otherwise. This was because she had been the one that had put it where it lay, and the memory of that night, the terror and pain she had inflicted on it's bearer were as fresh and delicious to Deita as it had been on that fateful evening. Kathleen's hairline may as well have been a burning brand.

The Spiral swallowed with an act of will, so as not to salivate over the gift sitting in front of her. Smiling, she moved to take her seat. Richard, a step behind and all but forgotten by his mistress, did the same.

"Sorry we're late, I misplaced the tickets. Jason," Richard nodded, making swift introductions, "Kathleen, this is my niece, Deidre." Her date smiled, covering any guilt or nervousness he might have been feeling.

The Silver Fang was out for a night out with her husband, how charming and fortuitous. He was kin no doubt. Soon to be the spoils of war, as Deitricha had few doubts on claiming him for herself when all was said and done, rakishly handsome as the man was. Nodding politely to the pair, she settled in comfortably to watch the play.

Richard Malcolm had been given a gift this night as well. He would get to live a bit longer than expected. Deitricha, and indeed the Wyrm, needed him.

Jason leaned forward slightly in his seat, all of his attention on the stage. Though he'd read the play in his classes, it was perhaps no surprise that his father and uncle had forbidden him from ever seeing it. The tale was one that spoke to the tribe in accusatory tones-there was no sugarcoating the hubristic nature of the plot. The fewer of their number exposed to it, the better, was the line of thinking. 'Stick your head in the sand' was a sadly common tactic among the elders, though they didn't normally bother as much with what the kinfolk were learning.

He looked up, irritated, as the door to the booth opened. One of the two figures that entered was familiar to him, the other less so. "Richard, hello," he murmured, trying to keep his attention on the play as much as the new arrivals. He'd already missed several lines, which prompted him to furrow his brow and frown. "Deirdre, a pleasure," he added, before turning to face the stage again.

Something tugged at the back of his mind, scrambling to be heard. Something about Richard. Onstage, Oedipus was making proclamations, but Jason wasn't quite hearing them. What was it that was bothering him about this? He blinked as he finally realized what it was. Richard was an only child...bringing a teenaged niece to the opera. He vaguely remembered a discussion Richard had once been required to have with the IT Department and the Vice President, and decided that for the time being, 'niece' probably was the best conclusion to come to.

The play held no special meaning to Kathleen. Most of her contemporaries would be surprised to learn that she hadn't graduated in the...usual fashion from the private school she was educated at. She had in fact finished her G.E.D. shortly after her Rite of Passage. Her truncated formal education hadn't covered the classics, and what reading she'd done in her small amounts of spare time had not included very many plays or epic poems. Like the obedient cub she had been, she'd taken no interest in the tales of fallen or unskilled kings-after all, the Silver Fangs were perfection itself, they had no lessons to learn from stupid mortal rulers.

It was still engrossing, however, and she watched intently. Unlike her husband, she was unbothered by the addition of others to the booth, until the hairs prickled at the back of her neck and her name was spoken quietly. She turned her head slightly, catching sight of Jason's coworker finding his seat behind them. She turned away for a moment, then back when she realized she was being introduced to someone.

The girl at her back was pretty in a unique sort of way, jailbait young. She supposed that was alright, since the man had claimed she was his niece. She had a strange intensity about her, a certain tension in her posture and her arms. She supposed she could chalk that up to the dress, and gave a thin smile before returning her attention to the stage. At least it wasn't Travis...

Being a multimillionaire had many advantages, private booths at the theater were only one of them. Tonight that booth proved to be a true savior of dignity as it permitted the young industrialist to slip in just after the curtain had risen. Normally he would never have been so late to a play, but minor 'work' related emergency a hour before the play had necessitated a change of clothes, and a redo of the Ragabash's entire grooming routine, vanity and the Veil demanded no less. Ashley had of course forged ahead on time in order to ensure that Rick would still be able to get in. As always were her Garou was forced to drop the ball she was there to pick it up.

For Rick, Ashley was in many ways the perfect kinfolk, and they had the perfect relationship, except for the lack of sex. Given that Rick was in fact a rather flaming homosexual, the idea of sex had been completely off the table, and the two of them had chosen not to bother to fake the usual romantic attachments. Instead like many a straight woman to her gay man, they'd formed a friendship who's depth of feeling left the paltry affections of mere romantic love in the dust.

There were of course other advantages to a young woman dating a wealthy gay man, the fact that her job came with a clothing allowance that would make most heiresses blink was one of them. Tonight she'd chosen a long deep brown, ankle-length, silk dress which hugged her long legs, and just brushed the Roman sandals she wore. The color matched her hair bringing its earthy tones to bear. This had been matched with a jade necklace the color of her gleaming eyes, and brown mink shale which gave the kinfolk a sophisticated, if a touch heathen, look.

The touch of heathen in her appearance was brought out further when finally paired with the more exotic look her boss was sporting. The style conscious Ragabash had chosen a midnight black tailored suit, underneath which he wore a fitted Chinese inspired dress shirt, and dress shoes of the finest Italian leather. The shirt was a dark shimmering emerald green, topped with a mandarin collar, which was flowingly trimmed in a silver thread. The shirt was the true focal point of the ensemble, with the black of the remainder of the outfit serving only to draw attention the colors underneath. Each color had been chosen to bring out another aspect of Rick's unusual appearance, with the green causing the his emerald eyes to sparkle, and the silver serving only to be outshone by the natural silver of the ex-Fang's hair.

Rick sat down in the comfortable chair, the little knot of stress he usually carried began to slowly unwind itself as he prepare for a relaxing night of entertainment. Out of paranoid curiosity he turned used his opera glasses to scan the crowd. Aside from a few of the finer specimens of the male species his initial search found little, he was about to turn his full attention the play when his eyes scanned the last booth. He let out a little shudder, as he gazed at the Silver Fang sitting across the theater from him. Perhaps others might not have noticed, she seemed to be making a effort at genealogical stealth, but after 13 years of being raised as a Silver Fang to be, the signs were clear as day. He immediately felt some relief at the environment, no Silver Fang would begin violence in such a place, so for now he was safe. At that realization his brain switched gears. This could be an opportunity to enhance his Garou career, or at least scout a potential enemy. He smiled with eager satisfaction and sat back to enjoy the play. A Silver Fang and Oedipus Rex in one night. I am a lucky man indeed.

Deitricha settled into her seat, willing her muscles into the semblance of ease. Primly she leaned forward, the better to hear the players currently onstage. The subject matter was evident to the young Spiral, despite having missed the first moments of the production. The king spoke of plague, pestilence, the ruination of crops, the slow death of a city taking its last ragged gasp. The death of hope.

At least the king seemed to know humanity was forsaken. If only the cattle watching him could say the same, the ahroun mused, self satisfied smile revealing a sliver of teeth from between her ruby lips. It was probably just as well that the other theater patrons were unaware of exactly how close death loomed. If a riot was to break out Deita wouldn't get to see the conclusion of the delightful story unfolding on stage. Quite against her will she swallowed a bitter rage at the brief mention of barrenness. She rummaged through her purse to let the drape of red tresses that fell to shield her face mask the building scowl that was threatening to overtake her features.

Once she'd coerced her traitorous expression to obey her again, settling down into the merest pout she could manage, she absently plucked 'what she had been looking for' out of her bag.

Breath mints? She certainly didn't require them, and as she was about to ask herself why she'd bothered to bring them along, the answer made itself odorously clear. The fostern's nose twitched imperceptibly, and she realized that she could smell Richard's breath, feel the reeking, moist vapors of it against her shoulder.

The idiot wasn't paying attention to the play. He was looking at her.

Normally this admittedly reckless behavior would have amused Deitricha to no end. But now with better prey in her sights than the lecherous banker, the act enraged her. She needed Mr. Malcolm to at least attempt some hackneyed job at pretending he was her uncle. Some act of persuasion was needed to dissuade him from blowing their cover entirely.

In garou terms this was always so much easier. The brutal correction she wanted to administer was considered commonplace. But not so here. Mortals were soft, so their rules were lax. She would have to settle for emasculation instead. She did not move to acknowledge him, as she had little to fear of him, and so kept watching the show face forward.

Wordlessly, with devastating precision, Deitricha snapped out her left arm and offered 'Uncle Dick' a mint.

The King's sense of duty was admirable. Attuned to the responsibility that true rulership brings, he was resolved to find an answer for his people. The sufferings of the city could not be allowed to bring them all to ruin, and Oedipus had despatched his old friend and ally Creon to discover what could have brought down such misfortune from the Gods.

Anxiously, the King awaited the news. In the background, che Chorus sang a muted melody, full of suspense and fear. Though Oedipus was keen to raise the morale of the populace, it was clear that the Archer God had shown only his displeasure. Creon was quick to reveal the stain on the city's reputation, yet he hung back from telling of its cause.

Creon: Good news! Our sufferings, if they are guided right,
Can even yet turn to a happy issue.

Oedipus: This only leaves my fear and confidence
In equal balance. What did Apollo say?

Creon: Is it your wish to hear it now, in public,
Or in the Palace? I am at your service.

Oedipus: Let them all hear! Their sufferings distress
Me more than if my own life were at stake.

Creon: Then I will tell you what Apollo said -
And it was very clear. There is pollution here in our midst, long-standing ...

Valentine could feel the sense of anticipation. He knew the story, of course; had known it ever since the later years of his Classical education, when such a thing was still in fashion among the sons of landed gentry. But the Artist always found the tension of the revelation had a power of its own.

Oedipus' own sense of hubristic pride in his achievements for the city and his almost cocksure security in his position might have been comical if they were not so doomed. Memory took him back to the reign of more than one Prince who had been equally certain of his rule. Yet which was the better way? Overconfidence, or paranoia? He wondered what the Prince would have taken from the performance. Perhaps it would have been all only a moment's diversion, a pause in the eternity of schemeing and politicking that mark most Camarilla reigns, but Valentine considered that the Elder Tremere was more canny than that. It was a pity he had not attended; it would have been interesting to see which of a dozen possible meanings he would have chosen.

Sometimes the medium is the message; sometimes a play is just a play. Valentine did not consider himself a King-maker. But like the white space in a composition, absence can convey just as much meaning as as attendance.

Jason leaned forward slightly, anticipating what was to come. He couldn't resist the slight curve of a smile as the mention of prophecy drew his wife's attention. Theurges...at least some things about the Garou were predictable. He'd always taken more interest in the political side of things, the 'Sun Lodge' interpretation, to place it in Silver Fang terms. He was intrigued by what Kathleen's opinion might be of the 'Moon Lodge' perspective the play offered.

As the chorus and the players pressed on, King Morningkill came to mind. The elder who had ruled Wyrmfoe before Albrecht would certainly have benefited from a viewing (or at least a reading, or at minimum an explanation) of the play. From his father's opinion, Morningkill hadn't originally been a bad alpha or leader, but as time wore on and his confidence waned, tradition had made a paranoiac of him. Haagen, however, had been a Galliard, and those who understood stories to the extent most of that auspice did could normally see such downfall coming before the page turned. It was rare that they could prevent it-most gave up, instead deciding to plan their retelling of events.

Hubris was a bad habit of the entire tribe, of course. Tradition practically demanded it of Silver Fangs young and old. It was only natural-when, from the moment a cub was retrieved after their Change, adult Garou of other tribes react with instinctive submission and attentiveness regardless of rank, it tends to swell one's head. He'd even seen kinfolk fall to it. The idle thoughts drifted as he brought his attention back to the king, eager for the performance's continuation.

A tiny touch of paranoia began in Kathleen's gut. There was something tugging at the edge of her attention, some little detail that was bothering her. It wasn't anything about the play, though the addition of Apollo and his prophecies to the mix was certainly intriguing. She tried to pay more attention, listening as the god's words were interpreted for the mortals surrounding the king. She couldn't help a touch of cynicism at the prophecy's delivery. It was a theurge thing-being asked to interpret the will and words of the spirits was difficult at times, particularily when the spirits will wasn't clearly stated. She appreciated the pressure oracles were often under-she'd experienced it often enough herself.

She considered the role of the gods in the play. Were they really so concerned with affairs of state? Her own experiences with spirits had varied. Some, like Heron's brood, were keenly interested in the affairs of the other world, craving gossip and handing out advice and orders freely. Others seemed more aloof, bothering with more important things than politics and mortal deals. Who did humans really speak with on these matters? Did they actually have prophets and shamans once who could speak to the spirits, interpreting spirits of helios and others as gods rather than in their true forms? It was something never really discussed in the academies.

She supposed an adequately annoyed sun-spirit could cause the chaos that plagued Oedipus' people, though the reason was likely misinterpreted. Unless one of the wronged parties was favored by Helios... The play was suddenly more interesting as she tried to capture the subtext that would explain the spirits' motivations more thoroughly. She too leaned forward, frowning slightly in concentration.

Mr. Malcolm cleared his throat quietly, unsettled by the unspoken disgust he thought he saw in his mistresses's expression, and accepted the proffered mint. Chewing on the chalky candy Richard returned his gaze to the performance onstage, unsure of what to make of the short interaction with Deidre. He was almost certain she would have a perfectly reasonable explanation for her behaviour, she always did, and he supposed he should have been a bit more careful of his eyes and their wanderlust.

This was part of the redhead's nature, he knew it from experience. She shoved people away when they paid attention to her, and broke things when they didn't, but it didn't make him want her affections any less. Richard knew that while he was angry now, (and he had every right to be, he'd bought the pretty little dress the girl was wearing, and picked her up, taken her out, and all she had to give him in return was reproach, the least the petulant thing could do would be to smile a bit...) he also knew that the instant they were alone, no matter how mad he was Deidre would set those strange green eyes on him, and he'd feel like his heart was caught in some demonic clawed hand. She'd use words and touch to disarm him of any hurt feelings, and make everything seem alright.

Richard Malcolm knew in his secret heart that he'd drop Deidre off at home when the evening was done and she'd seem a dulcet angel, come to save him from his life, some wonderful gift that made him feel young and strong again. He would drive home with a lovesick grin smeared across his face, where it would stay until the girl's lovely eyes and soft comforting purr of a voice were chased from his mind by the accusations of the wedding photo sitting on this mantle at home. He would resent his wife of 18 years a little more, and remember why he'd ever loved her at all a little less. Before he went to bed, he would try to recall the girl's face for some sense of stability, and find only traces of either.

He didn't have to be watching the play to know how it felt to ride the rollercoaster of hope and despair, but it certainly helped. Oedipus had the banker's empathy.

Then as if by some act of clairvoyance, Deidre tilted her face just enough to grace Richard with her very best 'delighted' smile. Maybe she was having fun after all. The older man smiled in return and patted the back of the girl's hand in what he hoped looked like a doting uncle's way. He mentally reminded himself to get her a rose at intermission. Girl's always liked flowers.


Deitricha leaned forward without paying much attention to the fact that she was doing so, intently watching the tragedy unfold itself onstage. She could tell that Creon would shortly be delivering a coup de grace, whether he intended to do so or not, the young garou could sense it in the tone and pacing of the performance. Tiny hairs rose at the nape of her neck, tingling with anticipation. Human drama was always a favoured passtime, even if the Spiral was not exclusively the reason for such alarm.

For her own part, if a 'trusted friend' (in as much as she was capable of understanding that particular word's meaning) were to ask her so pointedly whether or not she would appreciate news in private or in public, the answer would always be the same. Privacy was of the utmost importance when you were a member of a society such as the minions of the Wyrm, where paranoia was simply an appropriate reaction to the world around you.

She glanced to her side only briefly, seeing the Gaian and her husband in rapt fascination at the stage. Their tragedy would be her comedy, and the two seemed fairly oblivious to their shared peril. As demanding as the need to tear into either was to the corrupt Garou's mind, for the moment Deitricha felt she could enjoy the evening without fear of losing the opportunity to undo them. Richard patted her hand amiably, he was doing a better job of the ruse now. Good. The players were assuming their places in the grotesque theater of reality. Gracing her servant with a deserved smile the fostern felt for all the world like a dark queen sitting atop a yeildingly comfortable throne.

It was good.

Oedipus: "What has defiled us, and how are we to purge it?"

The unknowing question hung in the air, bright with the terrible stark foreknowledge Valentine possessed. Few things made the Artist tense in empathy any more. Toreador are so often vultures around another's misfortune, and the decadent Ancilla had long been quite able to switch off any sense of pity for the fate of others. Most of the time. Tonight the tension of the revelation made him shift uncomfortably in his seat, wishing that it would come, wanting the hollow feeling in his stomach and the muscles of his back to ease.

It wasn't the direction of the play or the carefully-tailored casting. He'd chosen the perfect Jocasta, made her mature and attractive in the manner of one who had borne children, but who was still possessed of a youthful energy. A bright, vivacious woman, not at all frivolous or flighty. One cannot cast this single most influential of roles - along, perhaps, with Lady Macbeth - as LA cheescake.

No, without doubt, the aristocratic patron was in a state of high anxiety because he was involved, and would so remain, unless the unthinkable happened and one of the players forgot their lines. At least until the interval, where he'd arranged for some half-time refreshments more suitable to his own tastes, though he couldn't remember, just at the moment, who he'd had bring themselves along.

Creon had the answer. The ever-faithful courtier told in conscientious, halting detail, approaching the murder of Oedipus' own father Laius, the city's former King. Supposedly murdered by brigands, the unavenged death of Laius had angered the Archer God with its impiety, and now the slight had gone on long enough.

Pious Oedipus determined to punish the man responsible:

Oedipus: "I will find the truth.
The dead man's cause has found a true defender in Apollo, and in you, faithful Creon.
And I will join you
In seeking vengeance on behalf of Thebes, and Phoebus too; indeed, I must.

If I remove this taint, it is not for a stranger, but for myself; the man who murdered him
Might make the same attempt on me. Avenging him, I shall protect myself."

But there was a little flicker of self-interest too in the words, the actions of the righteous sovereign touched by the paranoia of a man under threat.

The Chorus petitioned Apollo and his sister Artemis for their mercy. Across the hall, scented incense wafted recalling the smoke of hecatombs and earnest prayers, but still the pollution lingered, and with it the sense of desperation increased.

Yet still, Oedipus stood unaware of the gravity of his unwitting sin, and the sheer weight of it made Valentine shiver.

Oedipus: "Here do I stand before you all, a stranger both to the deed, and to the story.

What could I have done, alone, all unknowing?"

By cajoling, and threats, and curses the doomed King harried the Chorus, desiring anyone who knew the circumstances of Laius' death to come forward. So many were the fearful imprecations heaped upon the murderer that shifting uncomfortably in the plush velvet of the box seat, Valentine realised he'd sunk the point of one white tooth into his bitten bottom lip. Hastily he licked the wound away before the scent of vitae could carry far, eyes on the stage.

There was a further realisation, too, fluttering away at the edge of consciousness. The absolute strength of belief and certainty, the murder, the rejection by the God of unacknowledged wrong - all these things were close to the Biblical hubris of Caine, the lesson that however one might act from conviction and good intention, when the Almighty cries sin, there is sin. The Toreador had listened to enough stories of some drunken Lord gambling with the Devil but in reality it was God who held all the cards, remorseless, judging, implacable. Apollo showed no pity for the unknowing perpetrator of the hidden crime.

No matter that you did not know, you overstepped what you should have done, my Lord, and that will see you Damned.

Valentine took a slight, shuddering breath, fighting against the tide of rising despair, the hand that clutched the libretto crushing the tell-tale pages. No-one could agree; no-one knew how to appease the wakened wrath of the Archer God; in the end there could be only one solution.

They would seek out Teiresias.

Teiresias, the old, blind Seer. Teiresias, who had lived both as a man and as a woman. Teiresias, who had been gifted with prophecy and blinded by Zeus for telling a truth the Heavenly Patriarch did not wish to hear.

What the Gods give with one hand, they take away with the other. As the Chorus' strophe and antistrophe of hope and optimisn was underlain and soured by a discordant, knowing note, the lights dimmed for the first interval. Valentine exhaled, and rose to go to greet and mingle with the patrons in the foyer.

As the lights rose the spell the play had caste on the young Ragabash seemed to dim, releasing him from it's thespian grip. He began his reanimation by providing his beautiful companion with a review. Thankfully for the veil the comforts of a private booth protected all but the poor kinswoman from her boss' rant.

“I love this play, but people are wrong that it should be shown to Silver Fangs. The point of the play is that Oedipus is undone by his hubris, because he refuses to bow to fate. You see the problem is that the First Tribe already knows this lesson, they fear the three bitches even more then Furies worship them.” he said tempting wrath with his every word, “They have internalized this fear to such a degree that it holds them back. They cower behind centuries old traditions because of the terror they feel at defying Fate, but what they will never comprehend is that sometimes Fate MUST be defied. The spinners are still the Weaver's daughters and they serve her aims, and every Glass Walker knows that sometimes you just have to cut the webs or be trapped by them forever. That's why they'll never be rid of us, even if all the humans were destroyed. They'll always need someone who's will to challenge the status quo and there Ragabash have been too neutered for too long to do it.” he said looking far to proud of his conclusions.

Meanwhile Ashley watched her Garou go on another one of his rants. It was a common event as Rick was still hung up on what he once was. He was a little too proud of being a Glass Walker. Too eager to show how much better he was then the tribe who'd abandoned him, but in the process he only proved how much he still wished to be Fang. That for her had always been the saddest part of this little tirades, because until he admitted he would never be a Fang, he could never really become a member of Cockroaches chosen. She understood the temptation having once been a Bone Gnawer, but years of working for Rick and his new tribe had shown her the errors of her old life and made it that much easier to give up. She was far more successful and valued by Rick then she had ever been by the Rats.
Not wanted the little scene to continue she took his hand and did her job.

“I can see that.” she humored, “But we both know they'll never understand that. It's too bad because it really is a lovely play. Especially with such a handsome Oedipus. Maybe he'll be out mingling with the audience. Let's just go get a drink and find out.” she suggested, dutifully switching her Mate's mind to a different track. Her tactic proved successful as he nodded his accent, while he rising from his chair. She knew it would, as much as he loved to criticize he liked the prospect of anonymous sex far more.

“Perhaps he will.” he said as they strolled to the lobby. “Besides I would love to speak with that couple across from us. I have a suspicion that they got a special meaning from the play.”

As the intermission lowered the curtain on the catastrophe in waiting, Max realised how tense he had become. The Scarlet knew the story, of course; any Kiasyd worth the name was familiar with the elements of a sound Classical education no matter what their vintage. But the story of the doomed King had touched a chord of sympathy with the scholar, even though he had no experience of what it was to rule, and less of what it was to face the wrath of the Gods. Or so it had always seemed; perhaps the inherent contentment of an existence conducted so thoroughly at ease wth one's inner nature had insulated the Cainite from some of the dilemmas posed to one who did not believe he had been born to rule, and yet found the role his own. With an old-fashioned and peculiarly English mindfulness of his good fortune, Max was always careful not to presume too much on Fate's good graces.

Sitting so still was less trouble to him than to the mortal theatregoers, but he felt that a walk around at intermission would be a good idea in any case. Carefully leaving his gloves and hat to mark his seat, Max rose, and after waiting for the couple in the next seat - two elegant ladies in their middle years - to exit, he made his way out of the auditorium and into the foyer.

The initial few feet of the space were uncomfortably thronged, and he slipped between the crowds as discretely as he could. Taking the low steps to the mezzanine gallery, he found a space to stand away from the majority of the patrons. The majority: but the glass-fronted airy gallery was not empty. It only provided a little breathing space away from the crush of guests and those with more desire to see and be seen than the reclusive Kiasyd.

He rested his long white hands on the rail in front of him and pondered the nuances of the performance for a moment. Max had no knowledge that the play had been Kindred-sponsored, and no reason to think so; to the Weirdling, the Classical piece was a surprising but welcome change from the otherwise relentless parade of musicals, movie tie-ins and re-runs that characterised the less exacting end of the summer season. The clothing had been kept appropriate, too; one thing the usually mild Kindred could not abide was an old play in modern costume. The casting was well managed, especially Jocasta, with no obvious, glaring choices that spoke more of the power of the casting couch than the needs of the drama. These omens, at least, were good.

All in all, and despite the lightly-nagging temptation of his new German collection, the Kiasyd was looking forward to the second act.

Seven minutes. That was the proper length of time to allow the patrons to exit the auditorium, begin to mingle, get the obligatory greetings and feigned air-kisses out of the way and seek out those they really wanted to talk to. Valentine took a last look in the pocket mirror and opened the door of the box. It was time to hear the opionions of the other patrons on the real topic of interest.

Tonight - for one night only? - this topic wasn't Valentine himself but the marvellous play, Sophocles' masterwork as enchanting now as it was hundreds of years ago. He took the stairs two at a time, quickly waving aside the rising figures of the two Ghouls he'd required to attend in case of the need of a drink in the intermission. Right now they were as irrelevant as popcorn and ice-cream, and as engaging as the thought of either girl might be in usherette;s uniform and hat, now was not the time. He couldn't quite recall - ah yes. Warm-throated, voluptuous Melissa, and delightful Cassie. In a little while, perhaps. Some other time, most definitely.

For the present he wasn't thirsty in the slightest for blood. It was the need to know how the play was being recieved that made him hunger, gnawed at him with a heady cocktail of doubt and barely suppressed exhiliration.

Because the first few murmurs Lord Valentine Alexander could hear spoke of a very satisfied audience indeed. Conversations ranged over the costume, the cast, the direction, the faithfulness of the new translation. Valentine's quickening blood was warmed by a glow of euphoria. Used to hearing the formulaic platitudes so often offered in lieu of praise by his own Clan, the opinions of mortals - unsoured by centuries of ennnui and experience - were refreshing, undiluted. Making his way to the bar, it was all the Artist could do to keep more than a faint, pleasantly welcoming smile from his face.

Kings waited to fall. As the curtain fell to mark the intermission, Deitricha's mouth broke into a smile that was perhaps too wide to suit the occasion. The subject matter was too tender for the sensibilities of her mortal escort, and the ahroun could see the barest traces of discomfort on Richard's face as he watched her. It was irritating to have to contain her elation for a human's jangled nerves, but it was necessary to maintain their relationship, which in light of recent events, was more important than ever. He could probably use a break from the girl's Rage, if not from the Spiral herself.

Rising, she glanced briefly at the Silver Fang and her husband. They both looked intense, deep in thought. This was not unexpected. They were supposed to be kings, so the play was practically designed to discomfit them. The two were probably worrying themselves stupid in an effort to devise ways to avoid their own eventual fall from grace. Not that Deitricha thought it would do either of them any good whatsoever. She would in fact, see to it.

For the time being, a break from the garou and her kin would do her some good as well. It was too tempting to end it all now, kill the woman and abduct the husband back to her den, where she could teach him how to play house like an obedient possession. Fortunately for those concerned, there was more to gain from corrupting them than from killing them. Giving them a chance at the glories of her Father the Wyrm would prove more of a challenge, but it would be worth the effort to receive his praise. Such a well bred pair would be a godsend to the ranks. Tre would be pleased... in as much as he was pleased about anything an ahroun did.

Rising, the girl excused herself politely, asking Richard if he might snag her a flute of champagne. He agreed readily enough, thinking on the question only enough for decorum's sake. She might have been a teenager, but the older banker knew better than to treat her like one. It would not have been unkind to suggest that she might kill him for doing so. So he agreed, and rose himself, asking Jason if he too could use a rye and coke. Deitricha nodded minutely to the other couple and made good her escape.

Gliding down the stairs, the redhead stopped at a nearby mirror and examined her reflection. Finding no flaws to fret over she continued on through the crowd, hating the surge and bustle of the mortals around her, loathing their touch to the last. She was beginning to think that stepping out for a breath was a good idea only in theory... until she saw him, that was.

Slinking her way through the throng of people she snuck in beside Mr. Cantillion in the mezzanine, her hand slipping under his arm impishly to rest in the crook of the tall vampire's elbow. “You know, I'm not an expert on propriety, but I must say that a gentleman such as yourself is, in my opinion, far too handsome to be out at this sort of gathering unescorted.” She smiled at him, her date and her targets for the moment, were all but forgotten.

Declamations built on declamations as Oedipus's downfall became imminent. Kathleen was enraptured, leaning forward with her hands folded in her lap. She needed to take the time to study this story, she decided, slipping her hand into her purse to be certain she'd kept everything that had been distributed that evening. She was absolutely prepared for more, to sit through the whole play in one go, and so was a little disappointed when it came time for intermission.

Jason's hand brushed over hers, bringing her fully out of the moment, and she straightened her back, automatically smiling as he leaned in to suggest retrieving drinks before the next act. She agreed, accepting his hand and standing gracefully, then waiting for him to guide her from their seats. That smile remained in place, just a mask to hide the wolf from the masses of humanity all around them.

As she followed after Jason, she took the opportunity to try to seek out a glimpse of his coworker and his companion. The odd young lady was nowhere to be seen, which was perhaps a good thing. Kathleen still couldn't quite shake that undefinable feeling of paranoia. though it wasn't so intense as to distract her completely. Another glance over the crowd with no luck yet again, and she turned to figure out exactly where her husband had gone.

Her eyes caught on a familiar looking face, as they were wont to do, but on second glance it was clear that it belonged to noone she knew. It took her a moment to realize why it had stood out to her. A familiar arch to the brow, a point to the nose. She'd spent some time studying the lineages of her tribe, and if she wasn't mistaken, that profile was the spitting image of one of House Gleaming Eye's lines. She was a little surprised to see that sort of breeding in Los Angeles, the last place the European parts of the tribe would consider worthy of their attention, but before she could angle towards him, he was lost in the crowd once more and Jason had returned with a glass of wine for her. She murmured a thank you, trying not to frown as she considered this new mystery atop all of the others she'd found over the course of the evening.

It wasn't that the Kiasyd wasn't paying attention. Max had one eye on the restlessly milling crowd, and the other on the clock so that he did not need to rush back to his seat when the intermission ended. This, however, left him no time to watch out for potential conversations or to watch his back. The young Ahroun took swift advantage of both opportunities.

The warm hand on his arm startled the Scarlet a little, bringing him out of his introspection. Deitricha was a memorable young lady; as soon as he heard the voice, he was sure of who it was that had come to disturb his reflective solitude. It took no more than that quick, affectionate twining of her arm in his to set the teeth of the Beast on edge - there was in all Garou the aura of a predator, and it recognised one of its own - but he quelled it. The girl was only pleased to see him. Probably the tall Cainite was just a friendly face in the crowd. He couldn't imagine that many of her peers in age would frequent such a play as this.

If you wanted to be alone the Beast snickered, you would have been better staying at home away from all these ... delightful patrons of the Arts. Tricked off by the sudden appearance, but balked of a display by the Scholar's calm demeanour, it was more an expression of petulance than anything else. Max felt that the advantage to having such a finely-tuned sense of self-preservation was worthwhile, but he wished still that it wasn't so closely tied to the animalistic side of his nature.

"Miss Deitricha. Good evening. I trust you are enjoying the play?" Though it was easy - certainly more comfortable - to dismiss far too handsome as a harmlessly flirtatious opening conversational gambit, it was only becoming in a gentleman to accept such a compliment gracefully. "How very kind of you to say so. And what a very striking ensemble." The Weirdling bowed very slightly, a gesture of politeness as always second nature to him. "But I am indeed here by myself; I only attended on the spur of the moment."

"What do you think of the interpretation? It does seem to be a very faithful translation, in spirit at any rate."

He hadn't shaken her prefectly manicured hand away; that would scarcely have been anything but rude. But he wasn't sure, given their last encounter (and he had been sure it was their last), how he felt about it remaining.

Rick strolled into the lobby, his beautiful kinswoman firmly attached to his arm. At first he really had been trying to find the man who played Oedipus, but he'd quickly learned that the other man was surrounded by women. In no mood to attempt a 7 minute conversion he sought out new sources to quench his every present need for amusement.

His roaming gaze fell upon a mane of hair so perfectly blonde it had to be the Fang. Further inspection revealed flawless skin, piercing eyes, and countless other traits which confirmed his diagnosis. Unfortunately he'd taken too long and the object of his investigation turned the tables letting her scrutinizing gaze travel along Rick's form. The style of look was too familiar, a gaze of the sorts he hadn't felt since he'd been cast out of his home. Feeling both emotionally and physically exposed the Ragabash ducked into the crowd for safety. He'd make his way to the silver lady on his own terms, and the first step was to protect Ashley from them. Silver Fangs had a nasty habit of claiming anything they saw and he would not expose the mate he loved so dearly to such dangers.

“Ashley could you get me a drink. I have some business to attend to so I'll meet you back at our seats. Thanks.” he said before slipping back into the crowd. Ashley had by now grown used to such spontaneous abandonments. When you were in love with a Ragabash it came with the territory.

Now certain that his kinswoman would be safe he moved back to the camouflage the mass of people provided. The coverage was useful when stalking any prey, especially one as weary and paranoid as the Silver Fangs tended to be. He preformed his little dance of stealth because it was always best to take whatever advantages one could when dealing with the First tribe. They so often held all the cards so it was best to slip in a joker whenever one could. He timed his emergence from the human savanna to capitalize on the lion's attentions being elsewhere. When her head turned away from the other distraction Rick was now occupying the previously empty space.

“Hello. I don't believe we've met. I'm Richard Jones.” he said extending a friendly hand shake. His face was a complete mask of polite interest, the better to hide the hatred and envy he felt boiling away in his gut.

Jason wove through the crowd, carrying two glasses of wine. He didn't watch his feet, or even his path, most of his attention on his wife, not so far away. From a distance, she looked as though she was separated from the crowd by choice. The set of her chin and the far-off-look in her eyes gave her a certain dreamy quality. He paused his progress, just watching her for a moment, appreciating her from afar. Men possessed of greater artistic ambitions than he had written odes to lesser beauties; his only way to express how he felt about her was service, a sacrifice he was glad to make.

He was shaken from his reverie by a jostling at his shoulder. Checking the wine to be sure none had spilled, he walked on through the crowd, reaching her a few moments later. Her eyes remained elsewhere as she thanked him for the wine and closer, where the makeup couldn't conceal everything, he could see the faint lines of concern on her forehead and at the corner of her lips. Her thoughts had stolen her for the moment. He brushed the back of his hand against her hip, sipping his wine as she blinked slowly and turned towards him. He was favored with a small, brief smile, then her gaze tripped past him and caught on someone just over his shoulder.

Jason folded his hands around his program, turning to see a hand being offered to his wife. An interesting decision. He followed that hand to an arm to a shoulder and then to a face that looked familiar. He did not have the education and instinct Kathleen had, so the wasted breeding of the Glass Walker didn't quite register as Silver Fang to the kinsman. He deferred nevertheless, refraining from comment and giving Kathleen the space to deal with the young man.