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Let's Play VtM: Wild Nights - Chapter 10
- Thread starter grotsnik
- Start date
BB 
zool
Arcane
- Joined
- Oct 26, 2009
- Messages
- 897
That fact that so many people choose the same set of choices shows that there is a problem with how the different choices have been presented. Obviously, people will always want to do something instead of doing nothing (in this case, go see the Kine rather than not go see him). This is a problem that's also very present in cRPG and CYOA games.
As for the second choice to make, answer B is obviously a loaded i.e the way the three choices are presented, this one seems obviously better and smarter.
As for the second choice to make, answer B is obviously a loaded i.e the way the three choices are presented, this one seems obviously better and smarter.
Cassidy
Arcane
BC
We need to break the clan stereotypes. And besides I don't want this to end with the main character becoming another LaCroix pussy.
We need to break the clan stereotypes. And besides I don't want this to end with the main character becoming another LaCroix pussy.
BeeBee.
grotsnik
Arcane
- Joined
- Jul 11, 2010
- Messages
- 1,671
z o o l said:
Interesting point. I'd disagree, in that neither are a 'do nothing' option - I intended it as more of a choice between 'possibly gain power throughout the Kine in order to gain knowledge about sections of Kindred society' and 'show fealty to one's fellows amongst the Kindred'.
And as for the second answer...well, 'B' being the ideal choice depends. We'll have to make those rolls.
Cassidy
Arcane
root said:
How is that bad? If I were to start a VTM IF it'd probably start with a Malkavian embracing Kim Jong-Il and BEST KOREA having to remove the Kuei-Jin revisionists.
laclongquan
Arcane
iT'S nevER A mATteR OF PUnisHmENT. WE veNTrue WAiT uPOn NO one.
Rod Rodderson
Augur
It's not really a problem. It's often presented that older and more powerful vampires are lower-generation, true, but it's not necessary. There's nothing stopping a 12th-generation vampire from the Dark Ages (the default generation then) from Embracing someone 500 or so years later; if both survived to modern nights, they'd likely both be of considerable power despite their relatively high generation. That's just an extreme example, of course. Also, it's not like there's some visible mark that says 'oh hey he's 13th gen let's ignore him'. Nor are 13th-generation vampires thin-blooded (not in modern nights, anyway).root said:
Anyway, this whole thing seems pretty interesting. I vote B and B. Nice that Ventrue ended up getting picked--I'd have voted for that were I paying attention when it was relevant.
Rod Rodderson said:
Technically you're right, but the Prince, of all people, should know his subjects' lineages, and therefore generations.
Now, a question to the esteemed grotsnik: We're in London, but the Prince's name doesn't ring a bell. What happened to good old Mithras?
root said:
It's definitely 12th. But, to be fair, what you thought makes a great deal more sense than the official version does.
Rod Rodderson
Augur
Depends on the prince and the subject, really. But so do most things.Storyfag said:
Mithras was replaced as prince by 'Lady' Anne Bowesley around WWII. Mithras was later diablerized anyway. So a more pertinent question would be "whatever happened to Lady Anne". Which I, of course, cannot answer. Mighta died in some mess or another, though. Sacrificed by a Gehenna cult. Eaten by a grue. Something.Storyfag said:
Not much else to say about generations, though. I think that default generations are fine, and there's nothing wrong with prominent characters being 'high' generation, but that's perhaps just me.
desocupado
Magister
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- Nov 17, 2008
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- 1,802
B and C
Serious_Business
Best Poster on the Codex
B - C
grotsnik
Arcane
- Joined
- Jul 11, 2010
- Messages
- 1,671
(Storyfag - London's previous Prince was assassinated during the Gehenna panics, the so-called 'Final Nights'. Hence Kirkbeck's rise to power as a figure who could satisfy most of the vying Camarilla parties. Whether or not he's as impotent as he appears remains to be seen, of course...Basically, I wanted to start afresh for this 'version of events'.)
BB has it.
Chapter 2 - A Body In The Water
The Kine crouches in the corner of the bathroom. His jowly, alcohol-rimmed face quakes and spams, his eyes fixed on the floor, his body wrapped in an absurd flowery-yellow dressing-gown. He does not speak.
You step gently over the puddle of bathwater and gaze curiously down at the broken little body in the red-spotted dress. Bobbing up and down in the half-filled, soapy bath.
“I couldn’t stop myself.”
His voice is a croak of pure self-loathing. Self-loathing…but perhaps, even now, you detect a touch of satisfaction. Relief that a long-enduring hunger has been satisfied.
Gently, with the tip of your cane, you peel back the girl’s hair. A purple choker of bruises surrounds her throat.
“I’d waited so long...I, I fucking knew I mustn’t…her little bangle. Oh, God, the little bangle she wore…”
“If you want my help,” you say, calmly, gazing up at the dripping patch on the fleur-de-lils tiling on the wall, where a soapy hand has apparently clawed up and out, “you’ll have to stop that sort of talk.”
He spasms, frantic, driving his fists against his forehead, letting out a high-pitched keening sound.
You crouch down to him. He raises his head, slowly, to meet your gaze. His eyes are glassy and sleepless. A child, you think. A creature with no idea of how to control its own darkness, how to manipulate it…
“When was the last time anyone else saw the girl?” you ask. “Focus, please. Stop crying. Look at me. When was the last time anyone else saw your daughter?”
His eyes, wide and pink-veined, wilt beneath the sternness of your frown. His mind quails for a moment, protesting, and then it’s yours.
“The nanny,” he says. “Uh…Maria...Maria Ostanova, I think. East European. Russian? I don’t know. She’d have been here most of the day. My wife’s in Naples for the week, and I…I…”
“Does the nanny have a husband? A boyfriend?” you ask.
“What? I…I have no idea. Once…wait, once there was a man she brought back. Yes, yes – Lucy got on with him. He rode her on his shoulders."
“Then it’s very simple,” you tell him. “You came back tonight after work - early - late?"
"It...uh...well, late. Late. Nine. I'd been at party HQ, you see - and when I got back, Lucy said she wanted a bath, and when I saw her..."
You halt him with a quiet wave of your hand.
"Fine," you say. "I don't want to hear it. You returned home from work late, and being a stressed and - let's face it - self-absorbed man, you started watching the television, assuming that your daughter had been put to bed. You continued making business-related phone calls very late into the night, and now you'll go to bed. In the morning, you will awake and, like the good father that you are, you'll go into Lucy's room to get her ready for school. You will find her missing. You will be distraught. You will first attempt to call Maria, then the police. You will be utterly devastated, some time later, when the police break into Maria's dwelling-place to find Lucy's body hidden there. Maria will confess that she let her boyfriend murder your little girl in a horrific fit of sexual violence. He, too, will break down under questioning. There will undoubtedly be suspicion placed upon you as well, but so long as this apartment is clean - and habeas corpus, of course, will do wonders - and as long as nobody heard you wailing like a chimpanzee through the walls, the murderers will plead guilty and the doctors won't trouble to examine too closely the exact shape of the bruises on Lucy's neck. But whatever happens - look at me - even if you're arrested, even if you're condemned, you never spoke to me, and you never spoke to Humphrey. I'll need to take away your phone. Don't worry - you'll get an identical replacement."
He gapes.
"N-no," he says, "b-but I was the one who..."
You focus, applying the entire force of your will; his mind struggles for a second, and then gives in entirely. A shame, you think, to be so heavy-handed, but some people are simply too weak to maintain a lie of their own accord.
"You love your daughter," you tell him, firmly, and he nods, helpless to resist. "You love her wholeheartedly and healthily, as a father, and you'd never do anything to hurt her. She's in bed, and you're going to go to bed now too. You'll wake up at seven, and you'll make her breakfast in bed. You'll come into her room with the breakfast tray to wake her up. Won't that be a lovely surprise?"
"Yes," he says, and a look of pure, innocent pleasure spreads across his face. "Yes, that'll be nice for her. I've been too busy recently."
Rummaging in your pocket for your notebook, you write out the number of the Cathayan cargo container and tell him to see what information the office has on it, when he gets a chance, before helping him to his feet. He gives his water-stained dressing-gown a slightly odd look, and then wanders off absent-mindedly across the landing.
You spare a single glance in the direction of the little corpse, bobbing in the bubbles, and then call up Fellowes about having it removed to the nanny's house and hidden there. The domination, you decide, you'll leave to a young Ventrue fellow who's been trying to impress you for some time. It will be an interesting test of character.
*
The swans bark and cackle, flapping their ghostly wings, in the lake in St. James' Park. With a careful, insouciant ease, you vault the nearest fence and saunter across the darkened grass.
As you reach the path, figures step out from behind the elms. Not getting too close. Simply making their presence felt.
Someone snatches hold of your arm. In your ear, Erika Schiller whispers,
"You're fucking late, man-pig."
Delicately, you extricate yourself, and turn to gaze into a face that might once have been pretty were it not for the four parallel scars running from the jagged chin to the high, pale forehead, and the fogged white eye flickering beneath tortured lids. A neat grey bun and a long, weathered leather jacket and a gaze of utmost contempt.
"Evening, Sheriff," you respond, cheerfully.
The Sheriff glares at you.
"Have an excuse, do you?" she asks. "Or do you think the Prince's summons is just a fucking invitation to stroll in when you please?"
"I didn't get a summons from the Prince," you snap back, holding her stare. "I got a summons from that fool du Marchais. On a letter with a Penny Black stamp."
You've often wondered whether or not Schiller's loathing for du Marchais is greater than her intense dislike for you - and the faintest edge of a smile, distorting the largest of her scars, seems to give you an answer.
"Go on, then," she says, jerking her head irritably towards the centre of the park. "They've been scheming for the past hour. Probably talking about you, you know."
You turn disdainfully away from her, and stride on. As you approach, the two shapes standing alone out on the grass become distinct; the small figure of the Prince, wrapped up tightly in coat and scarf - looking, as ever, you think, with a slight sneer, more like a kine history professor with his lined face and small, trimmed beard, and the beefy, blonde-haired du Marchais, in dusty, out-dated clothes that might have been fashionable sixty years ago. Du Marchais, you cannot help but notice, is whispering something close to Kirkbeck's ear, but breaks off as he notices you. Damnation. Has he been using the time to butter up the old man against you?
As you open your mouth, Kirkbeck raises his head to acknowledge you. He looks weary.
"I have no desire," he says, in his familiar, monotone Scottish brogue, "to hear your excuses. You have cost me time and you have shown me disregard. I will now explain the matter to you as quickly as possible, and you will damn well listen to me. Esteban already understands the details, so perhaps the two of you will be glad to work on this together."
He takes a breath.
"Terence Rannigan was kidnapped on the street last night. We have every reason to suspect he is dead."
You have to try hard to maintain your poker face. Terence Rannigan. Baron of Wimbledon. One of Kirkbeck's last remaining allies in the low urban sprawl of the far south, overrun with Anarch communities and hives of Sabbat thugs. How is it that nobody's told you about this?
"Kidnapped," du Marchais says, loudly, "on Whitehall. A black Land Rover snatched him up. Two of the Prince's men saw it. But now nobody knows where he's been taken, and nobody's saying who might have been responsible. Anything to say for yourself?"
"I had thought," you respond, giving him a sweet smile, "that Whitehall was your domain, Baron."
He gives you a stare of utter hatred.
"Perhaps," he snaps, "I would have more effective control over my domain, were I not hounded by you at every turn, lied to by your puppets and partners-in-crime, thwarted by your insolence-"
"Enough," the Prince says, quietly. Du Marchais, with a little bow of acknowledgement, falls silent.
Kirkbeck turns. Beyond the treeline, the golden lights of the Palace burn.
"I sometimes wish," he murmurs, with a little sadness, "that I could get inside. Find the Monitors. Ask them what secrets their eyes have seen."
He scratches thoughtfully at the top of his balding pate.
"The primogen," he says, "will have to be told. I want this investigated. Rannigan was taken on your territory - no, I don't care which of you claims to be the true leader of your pathetic kine-ridden strip of land. You will report to Schiller when you have news. If Terence is alive, I want him found. If he's dead, I want the corpse retrieved. And should the Sabbat turn out to be responsible...well...a show of strength will be required. The Camarilla in this damned city will have to show unity for once. Start tomorrow night...it'll be dawn before long.
You nod. Kirkbeck glances at you, then across to du Marchais.
"The two of you want Whitehall for yourselves?" he says. "Then find Terence Rannigan."
The implications of this statement are left hanging in the air.
"And Esteban," Kirkbeck adds, turning to go, "remember what we spoke about, please. I'll be in touch."
The short figure shuffles away across the grass, and into darkness.
*
Du Marchais catches up with you at the edge of the park. His sullen face arranges itself into a welcoming smile.
"Listen," he says, "listen, I know what Kirkbeck said. But if we don't find Rannigan, we'll both be in for it."
"Perhaps," you murmur, with a little shrug, not giving anything away. 'In for it'? Does he really think you'd be held responsible?
"The point is," du Marchais continues, "we should help each other. I have information, I share it with you. You have information, you share it with me. Yes? Why don't you come over to my suite tomorrow night and, ah, we'll discuss our plan of attack?"
He pats you, in a manner which is presumably supposed to be amicable rather than condescending, on the arm.
"We've always had our differences," he adds, "but I do admire what you've done. Your work with the kine, the political kine...ingenious. Simply ingenious. Anyway...keep in touch, yes?"
"I don't suppose you know," you ask, "what Rannigan was doing in Whitehall last night?"
He meets your eye, a little too forcefully.
"No," he says. "No, I'm afraid I don't have a clue. I thought maybe you would. What a mess, eh?"
He gives you a quick nod - which appears to you almost worried - and scurries away, back into the depths of the park.
Hopping back over the fence, you take your cane back into your hand and stroll unhurriedly back down the pavement, considering your next move.
A) A word with these two men who saw Rannigan's kidnap is in order. I should track down the Sheriff and ask her to introduce them.
B) What's really required here is a subtle method of framing du Marchais as a suspect in the kidnapping. (Perhaps if I asked Oscar to help me track down the Land Rover? Or found someone in du Marchais' employ who'd be willing to lie?)
C) I'll visit du Marchais. Perhaps it's a trap, or perhaps he's simply deluded enough to think he can trick me into feeding him my information. Either way, with a little guile (and perhaps use of one of my contacts), I should be able to come out with the upper hand.
D) A damn good tracker is required - to find a single vampire in an enormous city. Perhaps a visit to the Gangrel in Hampstead Heath? Or a gifted Malkavian...if I feel I can decipher their ramblings.
E) Word on the street is important here. Karthik may know more about why Rannigan would have gone to Whitehall - or who he was seeing there.
F) Such trivial matters are below me. I think I'll delegate to Fellowes, and concentrate on the Cathayans. That might be a feather in my cap with the Prince - enough to make him forget about failure with Rannigan.
G) Perhaps it would be wise to try and investigate whether or not the Sabbat is responsible. Is there some way I can make use of the traitor Wilkinson?
BB has it.
Chapter 2 - A Body In The Water
The Kine crouches in the corner of the bathroom. His jowly, alcohol-rimmed face quakes and spams, his eyes fixed on the floor, his body wrapped in an absurd flowery-yellow dressing-gown. He does not speak.
You step gently over the puddle of bathwater and gaze curiously down at the broken little body in the red-spotted dress. Bobbing up and down in the half-filled, soapy bath.
“I couldn’t stop myself.”
His voice is a croak of pure self-loathing. Self-loathing…but perhaps, even now, you detect a touch of satisfaction. Relief that a long-enduring hunger has been satisfied.
Gently, with the tip of your cane, you peel back the girl’s hair. A purple choker of bruises surrounds her throat.
“I’d waited so long...I, I fucking knew I mustn’t…her little bangle. Oh, God, the little bangle she wore…”
“If you want my help,” you say, calmly, gazing up at the dripping patch on the fleur-de-lils tiling on the wall, where a soapy hand has apparently clawed up and out, “you’ll have to stop that sort of talk.”
He spasms, frantic, driving his fists against his forehead, letting out a high-pitched keening sound.
You crouch down to him. He raises his head, slowly, to meet your gaze. His eyes are glassy and sleepless. A child, you think. A creature with no idea of how to control its own darkness, how to manipulate it…
“When was the last time anyone else saw the girl?” you ask. “Focus, please. Stop crying. Look at me. When was the last time anyone else saw your daughter?”
His eyes, wide and pink-veined, wilt beneath the sternness of your frown. His mind quails for a moment, protesting, and then it’s yours.
“The nanny,” he says. “Uh…Maria...Maria Ostanova, I think. East European. Russian? I don’t know. She’d have been here most of the day. My wife’s in Naples for the week, and I…I…”
“Does the nanny have a husband? A boyfriend?” you ask.
“What? I…I have no idea. Once…wait, once there was a man she brought back. Yes, yes – Lucy got on with him. He rode her on his shoulders."
“Then it’s very simple,” you tell him. “You came back tonight after work - early - late?"
"It...uh...well, late. Late. Nine. I'd been at party HQ, you see - and when I got back, Lucy said she wanted a bath, and when I saw her..."
You halt him with a quiet wave of your hand.
"Fine," you say. "I don't want to hear it. You returned home from work late, and being a stressed and - let's face it - self-absorbed man, you started watching the television, assuming that your daughter had been put to bed. You continued making business-related phone calls very late into the night, and now you'll go to bed. In the morning, you will awake and, like the good father that you are, you'll go into Lucy's room to get her ready for school. You will find her missing. You will be distraught. You will first attempt to call Maria, then the police. You will be utterly devastated, some time later, when the police break into Maria's dwelling-place to find Lucy's body hidden there. Maria will confess that she let her boyfriend murder your little girl in a horrific fit of sexual violence. He, too, will break down under questioning. There will undoubtedly be suspicion placed upon you as well, but so long as this apartment is clean - and habeas corpus, of course, will do wonders - and as long as nobody heard you wailing like a chimpanzee through the walls, the murderers will plead guilty and the doctors won't trouble to examine too closely the exact shape of the bruises on Lucy's neck. But whatever happens - look at me - even if you're arrested, even if you're condemned, you never spoke to me, and you never spoke to Humphrey. I'll need to take away your phone. Don't worry - you'll get an identical replacement."
He gapes.
"N-no," he says, "b-but I was the one who..."
You focus, applying the entire force of your will; his mind struggles for a second, and then gives in entirely. A shame, you think, to be so heavy-handed, but some people are simply too weak to maintain a lie of their own accord.
"You love your daughter," you tell him, firmly, and he nods, helpless to resist. "You love her wholeheartedly and healthily, as a father, and you'd never do anything to hurt her. She's in bed, and you're going to go to bed now too. You'll wake up at seven, and you'll make her breakfast in bed. You'll come into her room with the breakfast tray to wake her up. Won't that be a lovely surprise?"
"Yes," he says, and a look of pure, innocent pleasure spreads across his face. "Yes, that'll be nice for her. I've been too busy recently."
Rummaging in your pocket for your notebook, you write out the number of the Cathayan cargo container and tell him to see what information the office has on it, when he gets a chance, before helping him to his feet. He gives his water-stained dressing-gown a slightly odd look, and then wanders off absent-mindedly across the landing.
You spare a single glance in the direction of the little corpse, bobbing in the bubbles, and then call up Fellowes about having it removed to the nanny's house and hidden there. The domination, you decide, you'll leave to a young Ventrue fellow who's been trying to impress you for some time. It will be an interesting test of character.
*
The swans bark and cackle, flapping their ghostly wings, in the lake in St. James' Park. With a careful, insouciant ease, you vault the nearest fence and saunter across the darkened grass.
As you reach the path, figures step out from behind the elms. Not getting too close. Simply making their presence felt.
Someone snatches hold of your arm. In your ear, Erika Schiller whispers,
"You're fucking late, man-pig."
Delicately, you extricate yourself, and turn to gaze into a face that might once have been pretty were it not for the four parallel scars running from the jagged chin to the high, pale forehead, and the fogged white eye flickering beneath tortured lids. A neat grey bun and a long, weathered leather jacket and a gaze of utmost contempt.
"Evening, Sheriff," you respond, cheerfully.
The Sheriff glares at you.
"Have an excuse, do you?" she asks. "Or do you think the Prince's summons is just a fucking invitation to stroll in when you please?"
"I didn't get a summons from the Prince," you snap back, holding her stare. "I got a summons from that fool du Marchais. On a letter with a Penny Black stamp."
You've often wondered whether or not Schiller's loathing for du Marchais is greater than her intense dislike for you - and the faintest edge of a smile, distorting the largest of her scars, seems to give you an answer.
"Go on, then," she says, jerking her head irritably towards the centre of the park. "They've been scheming for the past hour. Probably talking about you, you know."
You turn disdainfully away from her, and stride on. As you approach, the two shapes standing alone out on the grass become distinct; the small figure of the Prince, wrapped up tightly in coat and scarf - looking, as ever, you think, with a slight sneer, more like a kine history professor with his lined face and small, trimmed beard, and the beefy, blonde-haired du Marchais, in dusty, out-dated clothes that might have been fashionable sixty years ago. Du Marchais, you cannot help but notice, is whispering something close to Kirkbeck's ear, but breaks off as he notices you. Damnation. Has he been using the time to butter up the old man against you?
As you open your mouth, Kirkbeck raises his head to acknowledge you. He looks weary.
"I have no desire," he says, in his familiar, monotone Scottish brogue, "to hear your excuses. You have cost me time and you have shown me disregard. I will now explain the matter to you as quickly as possible, and you will damn well listen to me. Esteban already understands the details, so perhaps the two of you will be glad to work on this together."
He takes a breath.
"Terence Rannigan was kidnapped on the street last night. We have every reason to suspect he is dead."
You have to try hard to maintain your poker face. Terence Rannigan. Baron of Wimbledon. One of Kirkbeck's last remaining allies in the low urban sprawl of the far south, overrun with Anarch communities and hives of Sabbat thugs. How is it that nobody's told you about this?
"Kidnapped," du Marchais says, loudly, "on Whitehall. A black Land Rover snatched him up. Two of the Prince's men saw it. But now nobody knows where he's been taken, and nobody's saying who might have been responsible. Anything to say for yourself?"
"I had thought," you respond, giving him a sweet smile, "that Whitehall was your domain, Baron."
He gives you a stare of utter hatred.
"Perhaps," he snaps, "I would have more effective control over my domain, were I not hounded by you at every turn, lied to by your puppets and partners-in-crime, thwarted by your insolence-"
"Enough," the Prince says, quietly. Du Marchais, with a little bow of acknowledgement, falls silent.
Kirkbeck turns. Beyond the treeline, the golden lights of the Palace burn.
"I sometimes wish," he murmurs, with a little sadness, "that I could get inside. Find the Monitors. Ask them what secrets their eyes have seen."
He scratches thoughtfully at the top of his balding pate.
"The primogen," he says, "will have to be told. I want this investigated. Rannigan was taken on your territory - no, I don't care which of you claims to be the true leader of your pathetic kine-ridden strip of land. You will report to Schiller when you have news. If Terence is alive, I want him found. If he's dead, I want the corpse retrieved. And should the Sabbat turn out to be responsible...well...a show of strength will be required. The Camarilla in this damned city will have to show unity for once. Start tomorrow night...it'll be dawn before long.
You nod. Kirkbeck glances at you, then across to du Marchais.
"The two of you want Whitehall for yourselves?" he says. "Then find Terence Rannigan."
The implications of this statement are left hanging in the air.
"And Esteban," Kirkbeck adds, turning to go, "remember what we spoke about, please. I'll be in touch."
The short figure shuffles away across the grass, and into darkness.
*
Du Marchais catches up with you at the edge of the park. His sullen face arranges itself into a welcoming smile.
"Listen," he says, "listen, I know what Kirkbeck said. But if we don't find Rannigan, we'll both be in for it."
"Perhaps," you murmur, with a little shrug, not giving anything away. 'In for it'? Does he really think you'd be held responsible?
"The point is," du Marchais continues, "we should help each other. I have information, I share it with you. You have information, you share it with me. Yes? Why don't you come over to my suite tomorrow night and, ah, we'll discuss our plan of attack?"
He pats you, in a manner which is presumably supposed to be amicable rather than condescending, on the arm.
"We've always had our differences," he adds, "but I do admire what you've done. Your work with the kine, the political kine...ingenious. Simply ingenious. Anyway...keep in touch, yes?"
"I don't suppose you know," you ask, "what Rannigan was doing in Whitehall last night?"
He meets your eye, a little too forcefully.
"No," he says. "No, I'm afraid I don't have a clue. I thought maybe you would. What a mess, eh?"
He gives you a quick nod - which appears to you almost worried - and scurries away, back into the depths of the park.
Hopping back over the fence, you take your cane back into your hand and stroll unhurriedly back down the pavement, considering your next move.
A) A word with these two men who saw Rannigan's kidnap is in order. I should track down the Sheriff and ask her to introduce them.
B) What's really required here is a subtle method of framing du Marchais as a suspect in the kidnapping. (Perhaps if I asked Oscar to help me track down the Land Rover? Or found someone in du Marchais' employ who'd be willing to lie?)
C) I'll visit du Marchais. Perhaps it's a trap, or perhaps he's simply deluded enough to think he can trick me into feeding him my information. Either way, with a little guile (and perhaps use of one of my contacts), I should be able to come out with the upper hand.
D) A damn good tracker is required - to find a single vampire in an enormous city. Perhaps a visit to the Gangrel in Hampstead Heath? Or a gifted Malkavian...if I feel I can decipher their ramblings.
E) Word on the street is important here. Karthik may know more about why Rannigan would have gone to Whitehall - or who he was seeing there.
F) Such trivial matters are below me. I think I'll delegate to Fellowes, and concentrate on the Cathayans. That might be a feather in my cap with the Prince - enough to make him forget about failure with Rannigan.
G) Perhaps it would be wise to try and investigate whether or not the Sabbat is responsible. Is there some way I can make use of the traitor Wilkinson?
H) A mix of several of the above. That would include:
- Oscar is availible by phone, so we should call him and ask him to track the Land Rover. No need to pin it on du Marchais just yet, or at all. It may yield interesting information in and of itself. If it provides us with a way to frame du Marchais anyway, we can entertain the idea then.
- Fellowes is also availible by phone, so we might ask him to perform another task. Which task shall it be depends largely on how much can we trust him. The problem is, he seems to be only good for violent stuff, and none of the options requires any, for now. Maybe he could be our envoy to our potential Gangrel/Malkavian tracker? Or maybe to Karthik?
- Personally we should follow A) and question the men who saw Rannigan kidnapped. But that does not mean neglecting phonecalls!
- If possible, maybe we could consult du Marchais by phone? Or is such technology too much for him? Anyway, the intent would be to scam him for info without divulging too much of our own info.
- Oscar is availible by phone, so we should call him and ask him to track the Land Rover. No need to pin it on du Marchais just yet, or at all. It may yield interesting information in and of itself. If it provides us with a way to frame du Marchais anyway, we can entertain the idea then.
- Fellowes is also availible by phone, so we might ask him to perform another task. Which task shall it be depends largely on how much can we trust him. The problem is, he seems to be only good for violent stuff, and none of the options requires any, for now. Maybe he could be our envoy to our potential Gangrel/Malkavian tracker? Or maybe to Karthik?
- Personally we should follow A) and question the men who saw Rannigan kidnapped. But that does not mean neglecting phonecalls!
- If possible, maybe we could consult du Marchais by phone? Or is such technology too much for him? Anyway, the intent would be to scam him for info without divulging too much of our own info.
Azael
Magister
I like Storyfag's suggestion, multitasking is the modern way of doing things.
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