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9

In Tucson's rooftop Elysium, as the thumping EDM reverberates through the stairs, stakes run high. The eagle's vigilant gaze cements Prince Lettow's dominion, his tie to the land and sky stark against the Gangrel leader's uncommon rule.

Alexander's words, dressed in thinly veiled threats, outline your constrained liberty in the city. Your survival hinges on heeding his veiled directives and securing transportation remains paramount—a car from Dove, perhaps. Alexander's connections to law enforcement through Carlos, the cop with his own brand of justice, could prove useful or dangerous.

Blood for sustenance is a delicate matter, and Alexander, once a man of healing, now stands as a sentinel for the Masquerade, holding the potential of friend or foe. His counsel on hunting grounds is clear: avoid the Viper, a locale with its own untold stories.

He reminds that vampiric powers must remain unseen, for Dove is sensitive to the use of Blood. Indeed, survival here is a dance on a blade—move correctly, and you thrive. Misstep, and you risk everything.

Darius remains attuned to the nuances of his interaction with Prince Lettow, aware that the elder's monologue might contain subtle cues or tests. He doesn't push further about the lost years, recognizing that prying could be ill-received. Instead, Darius shifts his focus to the present, considering how this new 'dark age' affects the Prince and, by extension, himself.

With tension brewing in the parking lot, an awareness of potential danger or distraction enters his thoughts. Darius's attention momentarily diverges towards the commotion, gauging if it's an immediate concern or simply another chapter in the nightly drama of Kindred politics and survival. He acknowledges Dove's action with a slight nod — the situation is being handled, allowing him to maintain his careful conversation with the Prince.

"Certainly, a tale for another time," he concurs with respectful curiosity. "In this night, however, what thread are we to pick up? You speak of a 'new dark age' with an air of foreboding, yet also opportunity."

Darius subtly steers towards the heart of his reason for being here — to discern the Prince's intentions and how he, as a 'Gravedigger,' might fit into them.

Darius watches the Priuses and Kias with a dispassionate gaze. "Capuchins," he responds dryly to Dove's unfinished comparison, subtly steering away from the car talk with a pivot to a more pressing matter. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves with the car shopping. There's work to do."

He glances briefly at the newcomers, reading the room—his survival often depends on it. Prince Lettow's silence is an unspoken command, a quiet disapproval resonating louder than any rebuke.

Darius maintains a careful balance—respectful to the Prince, cooperative with Dove, but not subservient. His focus shifts back to Dove, eyes steady. "As you said, I need to be able to move efficiently," he concedes. "I'll trust you to sort the details of transport. Meanwhile, there's the matter of our deal—the info. How do you wish to proceed?"

He poses the question casually yet firmly, ready to follow the night's choreography—one dictated by power, intrigue, and eternal hunger.

Darius approaches, his demeanor calm yet attentive. The savvy vampire knows Elysium's politicized air and danger in every word.

"Certainly, Prince," Darius responds. The gravitas of serving Lettow isn't lost on him. Darius is well-aware that this task is more than mere clerical work; it's a test of loyalty and competence.

Darius follows Lettow to his office, a space emanating old-world power. Navigating this nocturnal web, Darius prepares to execute the task with precision. His survival depends on it.

You were still a fledgling when the Second Inquisition burned through the centers of Camarilla power—places like the Vienna chantry, arcane fortress of Clan Tremere. You weren't important enough to draw the SI's attention. They've been quiet for years—quiet enough that some Kindred are starting to use phones and email to conduct their night work again, cutting into your business. But you know they're fools. The SI was never beaten. The Inquisition is just collecting information now, waiting for an opportunity to strike again.

Prince Lettow does not want to give them an opportunity.

"You come highly recommended," he says. "And I hate to see a proud member of Clan Hecata brought low by circumstances. I need you to run letters to a few cities near Tucson. Don't worry…nothing is more than a single night's trip."

Darius understands the gravity of his charge—this isn't merely postal work; it's espionage cloaked in mundanity. The Prince is trusting him with secrets written, though not enough trust is placed to use modern communications. Darius knows the Second Inquisition watches digital channels like predators.

"I am at your service," Darius affirms. His tone is respectful, his stance deferential. As a Hecata, his clan's history is intertwined with death, which makes him an apt courier for messages perhaps best hidden from the sunlit world.

"Your wisdom in sticking to the old ways is prudent," he continues. "The written word can be controlled, contained. I will ensure discretion and swift delivery. May I inquire if there are specific instructions for each recipient or any anticipated responses I should await?"

Darius' mind races, caution sharpening his senses. He plans routes and contingencies, knowing the weight of the undertaking—crossing domains can attract unwanted attention. Success could elevate his standing; failure, however, doesn't bear thinking about.

He prepares to depart, understanding this is not just a task from Lettow; it is a silent battle against an enemy always lurking in the shadows.

Darius Blackthorn conceals his discomfort under a facade of calm. He's acutely aware of the delicacy of his situation. With Lettow's twisted smile etching the truth of his words into the air, Darius knows his options are threadbare.

"I'm well aware of the... generosity... you've extended towards me, Prince Lettow," Darius says, the words like ash on his tongue. He frames his answer carefully, aware that his life hangs on the whims of this mercurial prince. "And I possess no illusions about the nature of our world and my place within it. My desire is to serve where I am most useful."

Darius's mind races. Even the life of a Kindred is one of weighing consequences against possible freedoms—and for all his undead life, true freedom might be little more than a mirage. Yet he also knows survival often depends not just on the battles one chooses to fight, but on the way one navigates the strictures of power imposed by others.

"I shall continue to put my abilities to good use here, under your patronage," he continues, giving no hint of his inner resignation. As a Hecata, dealing in the eternal silence of death, he's accustomed to masks—not the physical kind worn by the Nosferatu, but the emotional armor that guards against the perils of the night.

The mention of less patient princes elsewhere is a clear signpost—stay and make the best of a bad situation, or flee and risk worse. To survive in the vampire world one must often bend like a reed in the wind, grounded yet flexible. Darius knows this dance well. For now, he bends.

"My loyalty is yours, as is my service," Darius pledges, bowing his head slightly. With this, he seals his immediate fate, choosing the devil he knows over the uncertainty of the wider world.

Prince Lettow's laughter slices through the tension, yet Darius knows his journey continues along a road fraught with unseen danger. His path is clear for the moment, but he cannot forget that freedom is a precious thing—perhaps one day to be seized, but not today. Today, he is a pawn in Prince Lettow's game, and he must play his part with care.