The #Broken_Dagger Forum

Varian's return to Trae Kelsa, his return to power and the meticulous, yet eager method in which he planned to close his fist around the world he once regarded as his own; these things were, in themselves, reason for celebration. Even one so stoic and controlled could not be without some degree of noticeable happiness.

Now, as he sat within the hall of his grand manor and stared into an empty court, a completely different myriad of thoughts flooded his mind and brought a steady smile to his youthful face.

His gloved hands were cupped, lifted and suspended just below his mouth and nose. He inhaled and exhaled rhythmically, mimicking the method of those that he so resembled. The scent of tiger lilies permeated the leather that hid his flesh. It was enough to distract him from the curiosities of the details which were slowly unfolding beyond the valley which cradled the Storm.

Events had been set in to place and he sat now, oblivious to the conditions of their reception. Before now, his thoughts had been clear and decisive.

It was only now becoming apparent that everything he had left those years ago would return to him, without question. Whether or not they would do so without struggle was inconsequential.

It had been some five long years since Varian had stepped into the Broken Dagger, in Myrken Wood. Until tonight.

His arrival was unexpected and his departure was as swift as the conversation he held with Aloisius Treadwell and the councilman's guard dog. The young baron's intention was not to meet with the man he had, however. Though the desired result was not accomplished, he found himself both educated and mildly amused by Treadwell's boisterous manner in which he informed him that he owed back taxes on the estate he had owned for nearly nine years prior.

It was effective, nonetheless. A councilman of the region is aware that Varian duMonde has returned to Myrken Wood. Wheels were turning and the face of the baron had been seen and could be accounted for.

Poor Treadwell. Had he only known that he was but a rather rotund pawn in Varian's game.

C'est la vie, Councilman.

Varian found himself amused, his second visit to the Broken Dagger had been marked with milestones of entertainment, the evening prior. The baron sat and anticipated the rise of the sun, while he considered the events that had transpired not so many hours before.

His loss of respect for a councilman, drowned in the puddle the old, fat man had become under the scrutiny of one of Malkav's harlot-daughters. Sisters, apparently, both so adamant and obvious in their defiance of the one, true Prince. Mannerisms he chalked toward fear and apprehensions; transgressions he might forgive, should they find their way to kneel before him.

His moment with the Brujah, as sentimental as it might have seemed, had also stirred his thoughts. The young son of Troile had been so confident, when those loyal to him had already stepped foot on the ice, then assured him of its safety. Like the ice, in the face of a new, warmer season, Varian's patience was growing thinner.

It was a fair night, give or take. As he retired, the thoughts of it slipped away just as quickly as sleep took hold. After all, there was no cause to worry, no reason to lose rest.

Everything was perfect.