The Land of the Rising Sun

The guards that stood just outside the front garden of the Manor home made no move to stop his entrance, nor did the busy-bee retainers seemed completely oblivious of the kind of individual that had just made his way into Nagasaki. A few greeted him with a smile and a nod, a few others with a verbal greeting, but not once did they pause in their task. Most were human, and even those that weren't did not see him as anything more than a new Kindred coming to greet the Prince, as the Camarilla Traditions dictated.

The bartender - the human that, more often than not, replaced Cho on the evenings the Harpy spent at the club - turned to face him with a wide grin across her face. The accent was enough to set her immediately at ease; she was so used to the strangers coming from different countries, and at times, the dialects confused her. As her nimble fingers grabbed the tokkuri, her free hand sliding the small porcelain cup to her customer, she spoke softly and kindly. "Warm acceptable, stranger?"

The general demeanor of the Manor was upbeat, everybody excitable despite the impending bloodshed that threatened them from all sides. Often, within the sanctuary of the Elysium, the battles were forgotten and people relaxed. It was rare indeed that anybody got out of hand, and when they did... Well, already there was a pair of green eyes peering from the shadows of the ceiling. Finn, as undetectable as he often was, stared hard at the stranger and tried to free himself of the discomfort that crept like a shiver up the length of his spine. His teeth meshed together and gloved hands balled into fists.

He knew that the Prince, Amy O'Connor, was outside in the comfort of her garden, where her plants thrived beneath a watchful eye. She had spent a peaceful evening with her husband before he had taken off, Alec in tow, to attend to his business for the evening. Her mood was as positive as it ever was, and something about this stranger assured him that was a temporary state. He took a single step back to try and get a better view, but the glamour of madness meant the maggots chomping peacefully at his flesh kept him mostly hidden. He didn't like it.

Simple masquerade or not, it was easy to see the ease it brought to the young Asian woman, her shoulders relaxing and smile brightening as he began to speak her native tongue. These foreigners made it such a chore; they came to her land and spoke their own language, and she was expected to have at least the most basic of grasps on it. She had communicated in at least four different dialects since coming under the O'Connor employ, and none - save her own - were comfortable to her in any capacity. This stranger, while claiming to be new to the region, was at least polite enough to speak the tongue of the land. When in Rome, and all that.

"A wise choice!" she squealed, her voice a bit higher in pitch once she was able to speak the Japanese that came so naturally to her. No matter what she said, she sounded chipper, happy, as if everything that passed her lips was a compliment. "Prince O'Connor has been known to be quite unforgiving! She is currently outside but is rarely out there for long periods of time. I'm sure she will come back in so she can greet her guest! She is not a rude woman!"

After pouring his sake, kept at the traditional room temperature and served in the porcelain that was so rarely used, the bartender offered him a simple cheers before returning to her work. To the perceptive eye, it was obvious that idle hands were a rare thing within the Manor. She began to wipe down the glasses she had rinsed before, though a small stack to one side showed there was more cleaning to be done once she finished.

Oblivious to the overly still giant perched, upside, on the ceiling, the little woman continued to rattle on in answer to his questions. "Well, it really depends what you want to know! I can tell you that the Clans here keep tight lines in their hunting grounds, but that's rarely a problem with guests since Prince O'Connor tries to make sure every guest is properly tended to. Her husband is away on business right now, but he usually helps in that, too! I'd just be careful around the Prince. Have you heard the rumors about her from before Nagasaki? I mean, most people have."

Some time passed in similar fashion as the stranger observed the artwork on the walls, his every move scrutinized by glassy green eyes. Employees of the O'Connor family passed by and paused in their tasks only long enough to ask, with a bow or a curtsy, if he needed anything, or to assure him that the Prince would come inside soon enough. All remained at ease, despite the strangeness of the man within their home, wandering about as if aimless. There were things to do, and not even a guest would distract them; most knew the consequences of incomplete tasks.

Minutes ticked by, the old grandfather clock's soft thhhhump back and forth was easy to lose among the sounds of life as it sat aside in its antique solitude, but the reliable, time-honored face showed as five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed from the moment the ancilla first rose from the bar stool. Two minutes and only a handful of seconds after that mark, and the temperature in the main foyer of the Manor began to chill noticeably.

The door that led to the garden outside was well fortified, as were most of the doors in and around the home, but swung open without unnecessary noise. In fact, the hinges themselves seemed to be well taken care of: the motion made only the barest of whispers, overpowered by the sudden chirping of a night bird. Her entrance and the closing of the door was crisp and quick, indicating just how private the back yard of her home was. Any hope to glimpse the thriving, organized beauty that was the Prince's garden was dashed as immediately and as irrevocably as she could manage while maintaining the fluidity that her archaic grace and femininity demanded.

Despite her rather abrupt entrance, Amy O'Connor looked as composed as she ever did: not a single silver hair out of place, and her dramatic make-up painted on perfectly. The layers and layers of ruffled fabric that cascaded from beneath the tied-tight corset hid her legs, and thus the only weapons she maintained while within the confides of Elysium, from any wandering eyes. As a show of her newly gained confidence, the kind of confidence only true love could bring, her neck and shoulders were exposed and bare; the sleeves of her shirt were thin, flimsy pieces of fabric she only really utilized to attach to the silken gloves that hid the twisted, ugly scars of her curse and her shame.

Of course, parts of her curse could never be hidden. The cold that permeated the air about her made the temperature easily uncomfortable, even for the undead; her skin was so pale, it was nearly translucent, with the faintest of spidery veins visible. Her face, including her lips and cheeks, seemed to have lost all color, aside from a delicate tint of alice blue, making her look to be only moments free from the icecaps and glaciers. As if in testament, broken chips of crystalline frost clinging to her blonde and silver lashes. Even her eyes seemed devoid of color, of emotion, so pale of a blue that they, too, resembled virgin, untouched ice. It was easy to understand why she had been labeled the Ice Queen, the Frost Prince, even without prior knowledge or awareness.

The grey of her Victorian dress, accented by the deep brown corset and the black of her gloves, contrasted dramatically with the colors of her skin, but in a way, seemed to fit; she was so far removed from humanity and the era in which the games were played, it only seemed right that her dress were archaic and her appearance, ethereal. It was easier, then, to remember that she was not, and had not for quite some time been, human. She was, after all, the woman (girl -- Embraced at an age that made her little more than a child, eternally) who set an entire city (country) ablaze with supposed ease.

Her gaze fell, without hesitation, on the individual that was not conventional in her night-to-night existence. Most of her retainers and those under her employ followed a predictable pattern, and most did not stir the madman on her ceiling - especially not in such a way as to have him contact her telepathically, discomfort evident in the tone of his very thoughts. This stranger, however, had managed to bring back the stutter Findero Lauden had long since done away with; Amy was able to feel her favorite lunatic's unease, despite the vastness of the room, and it set her slightly on edge. Not that the debutante royal would ever let even a modicum of that uncertainty show... Oh no.

A single hand raised in a flourishing gesture as she greeted the man, expressionless and unmovable. "My apologies, good sir," she cooed, her voice the soft-spoken feminine purr her father had forced her to perfect, lilted only by the long-forgotten accent of Lunaria. Her ersatz emotion fell short, however, and she did not bother to attempt any sort of expression to coincide. In fact, she allowed it to drop from her voice, opting for a more monotone approach despite the thickening of the Latin-based, European cadence. "I was otherwise occupied and unaware of visitors. I am Prince Amy O'Connor, and I assume you have been properly attended to..."

With the same raised hand, she gave an idle flick towards the tall double doors, both made of solid oak, that separated the foyer from the library and its plush seating. She knew the maps and war plans to be well-hidden, and should the stranger allow her to lead them both to the room, she knew that Finn was sure to follow. At least there, she would be allotted some semblance of privacy, should events go awry in even the slightest of fashions.

"Shall we, then, Monsiuer? My library offers comforts that this room does not, and should business need to be attended to, I am certain it provides a far more appropriate environment. So long as you are able to withstand the cold." Amy had no reason at all to assume this man, a stranger to her City, meant her any harm. In fact, she had her usual arrogant doubts that he could be a threat, even should he wish to be, but the fact that he set her Methusalah companion on edge was enough for her to air on the side of caution; paranoia was only inappropriate when they weren't actually out to get you, after all.

The crisp edge with which Amy addressed and handled the stranger seemed completely lost on the majority of the Manor staff as they continued about their business, paying as little mind to the conversation as they could. Many knew the consequences of being anything more than oblivious and ignorant; the O'Connors were far from underhanded and made certain their employees understood exactly what job they were agreeing to far before the paperwork was signed. Only a single pair of eyes, set within an aging face, dared to follow the Prince as she glided across the foyer, leading the stranger to the thick double doors of her study.

There was obvious disapproval radiating from the retainer, a handsome woman nearing her fifties, as the magic within her blood made her fingers tingle. There was something afoot and she had a nasty feeling about it all. She managed to remain exactly where she was, where it seemed she had been the entire time: beside the front door of the Manor, near to one guard's side. He remained unmoving, even as she slipped behind him and out the door, as silently as she was able. She assumed the two would be too busy sizing each other up in that strange, uncomfortable way creatures of actual power managed, to notice a lowly member of the staff - for her status as a retainer was not widely recognized - slipping out into the front garden.

The moment she was free of the supernatural chill that her Prince brought with her mere existence, she freed her cellphone from the pocket sewn into the interior of her suit jacket, hurriedly unlocking it as she searched for Alec's number. She knew that Octavian was otherwise occupied and wouldn't be able to answer a call or text message anyways, but she was unwilling for the two to be caught unaware and unprepared. Should something less than harmonious occur, she wanted her fellow retainer to be prepared to move. "Yes, Alec? It's Margie. Mhmm. Things are okay, here. For now. But, listen..."

Amy, vaguely aware of her retainer's plans, continued on about her business as if she hadn't noticed the tension in the older woman. She simply led the strange Ancilla into the plush comfort of her library, allowing him tot gaze upon the spines of books as old as, and some even older than, she was herself. The center of the room had been mostly emptied out, leaving a few overstuffed chairs and a large tactical table, though any hint as to what she and her Court may have been plotting had long since been removed.

She made no move to sit in either of the available seats, choosing instead to stand near the back wall. It allowed the invisible form of Finn, still dangling from the high ceiling, to remain between her and the man that stood before her, easily shifting his accent to a European hodgepodge. The sound of that dialect set her very teeth on edge, though it was simple to keep it from showing across her features. No matter the severity of the irritation, centuries of training kept her from giving anything away, especially presented with an adversary she could not judge.

"I appreciate the respect for my Traditions," the silver haired Prince said, giving a very slight tilt of her chin in recognition. The chill in the air only intensified, however, as she continued to stare at him, unflinching even as he presented himself as harmless. She could hear the hissing across her mind as Finn warned her away from his little game, his deep baritone rambling nonsense where only she could hear. "However, I would prefer that you speak honestly, and with as much openness and transparency as you are able here... Within the walls of my home, you are protected by Elysium. Within the walls of my library, you are protected by my word."

She could hear her Malkavian Primogen's volatile protests, but she forced herself to ignore them, continuing her penetrating stare. Many assumed that an individual with literal eternity at their fingertips would have no concern with time wasted, but Amy found it frustrating and unfulfilling to play idle games when a point was waiting to be made. Of course, it helped when she felt certain she had the upper hand: a certain eggplant haired fellow that was one of the most powerful creatures to walk the plane of the Skinlands. Finn was, as he often was, her ace in the hole.

"So, if you'd kindly... What has brought you to my City, stranger?"

The stranger's willingness to immediately cast aside the pretenses he seemed so fond of gave the Frost Queen a sense of familiarity and comfort. At least he wasn't like the politicians in her father's circle; not once, in all her years as a Ventrue, had she witnessed a single member of Christian Sorel's company offer his intentions or information outright. Of course, that comfort was quick to diminish as he began to speak, to tell her the tragic tale that was Amy O'Connor as if he were summarizing some work of fiction. She was very well aware of the reputation that preceded her, but to know of the curse and how she had come to acquire it? That was privileged information.

Still, Amy remained unmovable and expressionless, so still she seemed to be sculpted of the northern icecaps themselves. Even as he began to recite her husband's personal information, she refused to admonish his statements with a response of any kind. However, once more, her curse was impossible to deny: slowly, steadily, the temperature of the room began its descent, and by the time the name of the Antitribu traitor was spoken, each word he spoke brought a cloud of condensation as the room quickly approached freezing.

He offered two names, two people of great interest to the Prince herself, but he had yet to mention the eggplant haired Malkavian that backed her every action. Amy was many things but she was far from stupid; she understood where the power of the City truly was. The lunatic that remained perched on the ceiling had managed to get himself and those he deemed worthy and important out of nearly any situation unharmed. In fact, the Ventrue had personal doubts that there was a circumstance in which Finn would find himself truly powerless. He was a Methusalah, but more than that, he was one crafty son of a--

Before her thought could complete, a girlish squeal rang out through the frosty air, managing to startle the otherwise stoic Amy. She jumped as, suddenly, all shadow work was abandoned, and the seven foot tall frame of her trump card came crashing to the floor at her feet. By the time he collided with the floor, his appearance had completely altered. He became a she: a small girl of no more than six with hair so pastel pink, it could rival the obnoxious rainbow of Inuko Locke. She wore a black and white Lolita dress, but it did not constrict her movement as she curled in on herself.

Fear, then, gripped her. Amy refused to drop to her knee, even for Finn, but a shiver of uncertainty passed through her spine. She spared a glance down at his(her?) form as she shuddered and sobbed quietly, watching as he(she?) convulsed and spasmed wildly. "Mister Lauden?" she said, managing to keep her tone even, if only barely. Her question, however, was answered with only an agonized sob, and he began to scoot the body of the young child until he was half hidden by the cascade of his Prince's dress.

"Oh Malkav," he whimpered, reaching out one chubby hand to grasp at one of the layers of her outer skirt. He pulled it to cover the bottom half of the adolescent face, only his telltale emerald eyes peering over the fabric. "Oh, Malkav himself, he's got a Fae, Amy..." His baritone wavered and he spoke weakly. Completely unharmed, most of his behaviors would eventually be identified as histrionics, but the fear he felt of the True Fae ranked up there with his fear of The Duck. "He's got a TRUE FAE, Amy..."

No look of surprise crossed Valeri's features as the Malkavian crashed into the floor, quickly turning into the form of a small girl. "And of course Mister Lauren. Current Primogen of the Malkavians in Nagasaki. One of the most powerful Kindred on the planet." Those muddied eyes remained on Amy, wondering what the stoic Prince of the City would do or say now that all of her cards were on the table, and his little bird stood by his side.

The situation seemed to be well in hand, he hadn't raised a finger or leveled a threat of any kind. He'd in fact been nothing but polite while in her city. With a respectful bow he'd motion toward Sy. "Amy, this is my little bird Sy. Sy, of course you know of Amy O'Connor." He smiled kindly toward both Amy and Finn. "As I said, I come bearing no ill will towards you or yours. I do hope this doesn't jeopardize the possibility of positive relations. You did ask me to be frank, offering your protection to me while I am in your home."

The Cossack stepped back a bit, not quite touching his little bird, hoping to give both Amy and Finn some space to gather their thoughts and wits. "Is there some form of agreement or contact that you and I could form that would at least make you feel a bit more comfortable?" He asked, still completely polite.

~You never cease to amaze me little bird, always knowing, alway a acting. Thank you.~ His thoughts would echo out to Sy, gratitude was not something he lacked in regards to his Romani friend.

Syeira was content to allow the rest of the happenings occur between the Cossack and the Prince herself. Once the battlefield was even and no creature lay in wait, she had little to do with the conflict. As he stepped back, she maintained her position without flinching, their bodies mere hairs in separation. However, her expression - a bemused curiosity - remained, just as stubborn upon her features as Amy O'Connor's indifference.

She knew, of course, that she would be immediately ostracized from the Court of Nagasaki. However, she also knew there was little they could do to stop her from flitting about, as free as a bird, so long as her Keeper remained... and she had no intentions of allowing something lethal to befall Valeri.

Bowing her head at his back, she allowed herself the briefest moments of touch: the tip of her nose slid up along the muscles in his arm and her body mimicked the delicate shift of a belly dancer, allowing her feminine curves to faintly brush across his back. The action was far from sexual and passed in a second so short, most would struggle to perceive anything at all aside from, perhaps, the slightest of movements, as if Sy were adjusting to make herself more comfortable.

>>Of course. Kaski san.