Marcus sat cross-legged in the armchair of his hotel suite. While it was true that he had intended to leave Las Vegas, and had in fact begun preparations to do so, he had only changed hotels, switching from Caesar’s Palace to the Red Rock, a location that was off the strip, but still had some luxury to it, a factor he’d come to enjoy over the years. In his left hand he held a brandy glass between his fingers, and occasionally he’d swirl it around, and watch the light filter through the liquor as it moved. He couldn’t drink it, of course, but it helped him think for the moment.
As promised, he’d left Jett alone – he hadn’t so much as secretly checked on him, like he had been wont to do in the past. As things stood now, he fully intended to let the blood bond deteriorate, if that was in the cards. While he doubted Jett would ever reciprocate the love he felt for him, he would at least like things to be amenable someday. The natural followup led to Nick, whom Jett had so succinctly indicated was a replacement ‘toyboy’. Which was hardly the case, of course, he told himself.
Marcus brought the glass closer to his face, and inhaled deeply. The scent reminded him of old libraries, and the times when men would retire to their studies post-meal to discuss whatever topic was at hand with their peers. Mostly, it made him think of books. He could easily see Nick in such a situation. Although he and Jett had a few things in common – stubbornness, love of and talent for music, to name one or two – Nick differed in that he had a love and respect for history and mythology, things Jett never took to. And Marcus liked that – he’d wanted to sit down for some time and just talk with the young man, but he’d been reluctant to let it happen. The one time he had let it happen, let himself enjoy his company and his music, Val had come and ruined it.
At the thought of Val, Marcus delicately, with an almost violent efficiency, set the glass down on the small table next to him. Val had ruined plenty of things over time, and he wasn’t ignorant of her having caused problems this time – no one was, though not everyone knew who she was. Since it had happened, he’d been using a combination of Temporis and Obfuscate to listen in on the goings-on, while debating with himself if it was worth it to show his face and offer his help.
On a sudden impulse, he stood, picking the glass up as he did so. Holding it up, and swirling it in the light, he took a swig, as if to steel his nerves – then promptly made use of the facilities in order to dispose of the ensuing ash. Inconvenient, he thought, splashing his face with father for a moment before toweling it off. An unreasonable thing to do, but he’d been caught up in a train of thought. It wasn’t the first time, and it would not be the last, either.
What was the Camarilla? He pondered this a while, introspecting on it. He’d just always been such since it’s inception, and now? Now was a time to warrant reflection on the matter. So he headed back into the main room of his suite, and thought.
So, what was the Camarilla, if not a strong knee-jerk reaction to a two-sided war, one that continued to dominate the Kindred world? An organization desperate to stay in power, it’s Elders clinging to former glories as their juniors bristled against being under their thumb, but knew not of anything better?
It bothered him that he had come to this conclusion. Why had he chosen to become Camarilla? He closed his eyes, and thought long and hard, piecing together the needed train of memories in order to get the correct events. Ah, he nodded to himself. He had been in torpor at the time, and when he’d awoken, he’d simply been told that was the way things were now, and had accepted it, never questioning, because he hadn’t been terribly interested.
What then, of the Sabbat? They’d been born out of resentment for the Camarilla, children yearning to be heard, but never listened to. They were too brazen, too zealous…and yet some ideas were to be admired, he felt, the more he thought on it. Independents were, in his experience, not often viewed well, little better than Caitiff, and Anarchs were seen as petulant children by many. And what of the Anarchs, anyway? They were the prevalent leaders in Las Vegas now, and yet their philosophy, their Status Perfects, as it was called, was a good ideal. He closed his eyes and thought harder.
Eventually, he heard the voice of his sire, telling him tales when he was still a fledgling, of Carthage and it’s dreams. Kass had an oratory gift, and when he spoke of Carthage, it was like painting a picture, and Marcus could understand what it must have been like. Like the rest of his clan, he felt ties to the ideals of Carthage…and perhaps some of those ideals lived on in the Anarchs. After all, couldn’t he have been considered an Anrach before torporing, waking only to find himself suddenly Camarilla?
He got up once more, this time heading for the door. Whether he considered himself Anarch now was left up for debate, but he knew two things for certain: Camarilla he was not any longer. Everyone deserved a voice, not just the elders; and whatever Val had done needed to be reckoned with, and he needed to help. She was only Baali, but stomping them out where they dwelt and bred was something he had promised Kass many centuries ago, and he should do what he could.
What now then?
Locate Avery, Brandon, or Smiling Jack, and see how he could be of help. He didn’t know who, exactly, was in charge, but if he had a preference, he would head to Brandon’s – he was an old friend of sorts, and might be able to shed a light on things.