The Daeva’s steps were steady as she entered the halls of blood. The steel-grey eyes glanced long and carefully over the room before she moved again.

The soft creaking of leather accompanied her movements, a slight shimmer accentuated her long legs, where the light caught on the black leather of her pants and boots, polished smooth by frequent use. The equally quiet, subtle rustling of soft black silk accompanied the creaking. Her tunic, held at the waist by a leather bodice belt. At least visually, the black-haired woman seemed to have arrived in the city.

Confidently, she strode forward to the edge of the heart, bowed towards the elders on the stage, and then also towards her sire and the duke. Only after paying her respects to the elders, she moved next to Bron and took the place to his left.

The Daeva seemed to like the position she currently held among the chosen ones. Both Bron and Marcus, however, could sense the tension when Josiah came into the Elysium with the gifts, a tension that was only released when these gifts were received. While her face remained attentive and superficially friendly, the tension did not leave her.

After a seemingly endless moment, her gaze wandered back and forth between the Elders, Illmahgo and Malachi, once again glad that she had learned not to rush forward immediately. Things her past had taught her. She used the strength at her sides as an anchor, letting the painful breach of etiquette pass.

Quietly, she listened to the announcements of the court, carefully weighing the division of the city, as well as the appointments. The first. Others would probably follow later. Most of the titles given did not surprise her. She especially paid more attention to those who were not part of her own clan or the Invictus. Mustered. Weighed. Who would prove to be an ally, who an enemy? Who, apart from the two elders in front of her and the man to her right, was trustworthy here? Who was a useful tool? Who was to be ignored?

She shifted her weight minimally, as a mortal would, and turned her gaze forward again. This was not over yet, and this court seemed full of surprises.

When Illmahgo spoke, she did not smile, but there was a gleam in her eyes. Nothing easy to recognize, but her eyes lay on him.

A hint of anger slid across the black-haired girl’s pretty face, suggesting that Marcus and Malachi had honed more than just her manners over the course of the last century. Though she was practised in dealing with elders, understood that the needs of modern nights were often beyond them, the situation irked her.

A delicate frown from the Daeva was the only long-lasting expression she showed as she continued to follow the conversation and indulge her thoughts. This was going to go wrong if the elders didn’t get their act together quickly. Illmahgo was right. He was a warrior. A tested one at that. He was young. And it was at that point that a certain elder present forgot the point.

His youth was not, as it was back home, a flaw. It was a bonus. The biggest one they had. The same bonus that the Chosen brought with them. And yet the Elders insisted on rights they had earned by sheer existence. The weakness of age. Their adaptation was... slow, if it ever happened at all.

Tatjana tilted her head slightly to one side and continued to follow the conversation, continually reconsidering her assessment of who would stand where.

Again and again Tatjana clenched her hands into fists and let them go again. Her eyes darted back and forth between the Nosferatu elder and the Gangrel, her whole body tense as a bowstring. She hated it when the elders did something like that. It was... undignified.

Again and again she made an effort to step forward, to interrupt this undignified spectacle, but she knew only too well that she was not allowed to do so. She had to hold herself back. The fact that she liked the Gangrel as a clan did not help.

Her gaze darted back and forth again, then settled on her sire. Looking for support. His calmness would give her some of her own, she was sure of that. But the last thing they needed now were angry ancestors breaking the Elysium.

For a moment, her tension remained, then her shoulders dropped a shade. Relieved. She hated it when an argument between elders threatened to degenerate into open fighting. That could easily have cost her the unlife, at least here and now.

Once an elder lost his temper, hardly anything could stop him. And their rage was usually city shattering and would cost over one mortal their life. Which was why she would have intervened.

Tatjana knew that any of the men on the stage could tear her to pieces with little trouble. But she also knew that her blood would have satisfied the beast more thoroughly than the blood of an entire city district. Enough to protect them from discovery. Perhaps she would even have been strong enough to keep him occupied long enough for him to emerge from his frenzy.

Calmer than before, her gaze slid again over those present, paused on Illmahgo, slid on to Malachi. Then she looked again at the elders, the primogen. Here, too, she slowly developed likes and dislikes, and once again, her opinions seemed to be confirmed.

Another minor correction to her assessment. Such things had become second nature to her - thanks to Malachi. And she would be surprised if he didn’t know exactly how she had felt about it all.

Her gaze flitted briefly to her right, and she gave her husband a slight, gentle smile before refocusing. Just because the subject of fighting was apparently off the table didn’t mean she trusted the Nosferatu.

Rise of the Warmaster