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A deep thunder rumbled over the land and angry waves whip against the cliffs of Raven Tor. High up on the rocks, overlooking Glen Domaire, lays the “Maison de Sans Souci”, primary residence of Benoit LaSalle and his flock. The mansion was usually shrouded in darkness due to the natural cliff formation but is highlighted this night, whenever another bolt of lightening illuminates the sky.

The grand foyer, with its 20 foot ceiling, was crackling with energy. Dozens of maids and servants were bustling about to put the finishing touches on the event that was to take place this evening. Balconies have been cut into the rough walls for those who preferred to watch the festivities in the comfort of privacy. An imposing spiral stair case, opposite of the entry, leads to the private chambers of the occupants. In the middle of the foyer, a huge table has been placed with room enough to sit at least thirty people. Ghouls of every height, race and age were waiting in the wings to be called upon if a guest desired their “company”.

Chloe and Claire de Lannurien were in charge to greet the guests and assure that they were made comfortable, while Benoit had a brief private discussion with one of this most trusted confident. “Felicitas, it’s good to have you back…for the moment,” Benoit says towards a barely lit niche as he seats himself in his armchair. “Please, do have a seat. There is no reason for you to hide in the shadows.” From said shadows, a cloaked figure emerges. “Call it a habit,” comes the raspy responds from within the folds of a wide hood. There is nothing that can distinguish this form to be either male or female, for the voice is nondescript and the body covered from head to toe. With an accompanied wheezing sound, Felicitas sits down across from Benoit.
“I do not mean to rush you but as you were most likely to see, I have guests awaiting my presence. So let’s get right to it, what do you have to report from Sanctus Irae?” the Ventrue Prince asks his informant. “You are never one to waste time,” Felicitas clucks and pulls a parchment from the woolen garment. “Here is my report,” the Nosferatu says and hands it over to the waiting hand of Benoit. “In it you will find the key players, I have come to notice.” LaSalle nods while reaching for his reading glasses which had been sitting atop his wavy hair. He unfolds the scroll and scans over the scribbling:

1. Lord Etienne d’Santorus, Keeper of the Elysium. Very charming but cunning. Do not underestimate.
2. Christian von Karlach, Lasombra. Returned to Irae after a supposed stay in Camden. Dangerous, many rumors swirl about this man. Will find out more soon.
3. Rasha Moncreiffe, Toreador. Actress who works very close to von Karlach. Both spend a fair amount of time with one another.
4. Sander van der Meer, Dominique Ardouvin (his childe) and Salome di Montalia just recently arrived in Irae. Toreadors. No immediate danger, will keep eyes on Salome though.
5. Leon di Giovanni, former Marquis of Irae. Runs the local hospice St. Sophia. His "cousin" Isadora recently came to Irae. Not certain of their plans yet.
6. Viktoria Nordstrom, Malkavian. Unpredictable, has been spouting about visions of impending danger and disruption to the seemingly quiet. Seems to have a problem sticking with one persona, lose trail of her more then I like to admit.
7. Alexi Klein, Prince of Camden, Toreador. Rumor has it that Herr von Karlach spent his time at this court. Are they planning anything? Will stay on top.

Benoit places his glasses back on his head and glances at the Nosferatu before him. “I expected more, my old friend,” he quietly says. The head beneath the hood moves in a fashion that suggests agreement. “I would like for your swift return to Irae since it will take you some time to get there. The weather has been dreadful; I do regret that you won’t be able to stay for the festivities. Another time perhaps, yes? Bon voyage.” The Ventrue Prince stands to his feet, re-arranges his impeccable evening suit, pats Felicitas on the shoulder and exits the room to see to his guests. Words, although mumbled into the fabric, can easily be identified as crude cursing. If it wasn’t for the _generous_ financial agreement and the esteemed place in Benoit’s court, Felicitas would have seen to another assignment. The Nosferatu would have to up the ante in order to gain information.

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