Fourth night. Part 3.
On his way to talk to Donovan "Crow" at the Blue Grove Hotel, Alexander receives an alarming call: the head of the Epitaph Order wants to meet him.
Tuesday. 8h30pm. Blue Grove Hotel. Downtown District.
Now let's go for another scene.
Question: is Donovan at the Blue Grove Hotel? Likely. Extreme yes. For some weird reason, the Crow has made the 5 star hotel in Downtown his new haven.
Alexander calls him and asks for a favor: he asks to meet Donovan, asks that his friend finds him some clean clothes and for a cleanup crew at the Opium Nightclub. Donovan laughs and teases him, but agrees.
Kane will close his coat, hiding most of the damage and blood, grab his sword and his duffel bag, and grab a cab to the Blue Grove, where he'll meet Donovan. During the travel, he'll think about chaos, order - about how violence imposes a certain kind of order amidst chaos, how chaos seem to build up everywhere and vampires, being dead, act as agents of stasis and control amid the ascending chaos of life.
Let's test the scene to see if anything is different than we expected: 2. It's a even number under the chaos rate. It means we have an interrupted scene. Let's see what happens. I'll have to roll an event focus and and event meaning.
Event Focus: 68. Close a thread.
Event Meaning: 36, 68. Distrust peace.
I'll consider that the random event is this: Evelyn March, Alexander's progenitor and sire, calls him and tells him that Hierophant Seraphina, from the Epitaph Order, has asked to meet him, alone, tonight, in the Santa Maria Hotel, in the Old Town District.
Alexander will go meet Donovan - but the rest of his night has certainly took a turn.
The cab rattled softly over the uneven streets of Santa Maria, its engine a low hum blending with the distant murmur of the city. Outside, the neon haze of the Waterfront gave way to the polished veneer of Downtown, where glass towers loomed like dark monoliths against the night sky. The rain, which had begun as a whisper, now streaked the cab windows in silver rivulets, turning the glow of passing streetlights into blurred halos of amber and white.
Inside the cab, Alexander Kane leaned back in the cracked vinyl seat, his coat pulled tightly around him. The fabric was stiff with dried blood, its smell faint but ever-present, mingling with the musty odor of the cab’s interior. His katana rested across his lap, its sheath pristine against the grime of his coat and the duffel bag slouched by his feet. Kane’s reflection stared back at him from the rain-speckled window, pale and sharp, his dark eyes distant and unfocused.
The city’s rhythm pulsed around him, alive and chaotic. Yet Kane’s thoughts drifted elsewhere, to the thin, fragile threads that held order and chaos together. Chaos was the natural state of life, a whirlwind of entropy and desire, building and breaking in relentless waves. Vampires—beings of death, stasis, and hunger—were agents of an unnatural order. They imposed control, not out of altruism but as predators marking territory, enforcing stillness amidst the rising tides of mortal chaos.
He thought of the bloodshed at the Opium Nightclub, the hunters’ lifeless bodies sprawled across the concrete floor. Violence, he mused, was its own kind of order. It silenced dissent, imposed rules, even in its destruction. And yet, chaos always returned, as inevitable as the rain streaking down the cab’s windows.
The cab jolted slightly as it passed over a pothole, pulling Kane from his reverie. He shifted, the movement making his chest ache faintly where the now-healed wound had been. His phone buzzed in his pocket, the vibration cutting through the soft hum of the engine. He pulled it out, the glow of the screen illuminating the sharp planes of his face.
Evelyn March.
The name on the screen sent a flicker of unease through him. He hesitated for a moment before answering, his voice low and measured. “Mother.”
Her voice was like silk over steel, cold and commanding, with an edge of restrained urgency. “Alexander. Seraphina has asked to see you. Tonight. Alone. The Santa Maria Hotel.”
Kane’s grip on the phone tightened. The mention of Seraphina, the Hierophant of the Epitaph Order, was enough to send a ripple of tension through him. “Why?” he asked, his tone carefully neutral.
“She didn’t explain,” Evelyn replied. “But you don’t refuse an invitation from the Hierophant. Be on your guard. Her interests are rarely as simple as they appear.”
Kane’s jaw tightened. “Noted.”
The call ended abruptly, leaving him staring at the screen for a moment before tucking the phone back into his coat. The rain outside had intensified, the streets slick and glistening like liquid obsidian. The cab slowed, turning onto a wide boulevard lined with pristine sidewalks and towering buildings. At the end of the street stood the Blue Grove Hotel, its façade a shimmering expanse of glass and steel. Even through the rain, it gleamed like a polished gem, a beacon of opulence and ambition.
The cab came to a stop under the arched awning of the hotel entrance. Warm light spilled out from the lobby’s glass doors, illuminating the sleek black carriages of wealth and power parked at the curb. Kane stepped out into the rain, the cold droplets mingling with the warmth of the cab’s interior still clinging to his skin. He adjusted his coat, hiding the worst of the bloodstains, and slung the duffel bag over his shoulder.
Inside, the Blue Grove Hotel was a different world. Polished marble floors gleamed under the glow of crystal chandeliers, and the hum of quiet conversations filled the air. Kane moved through the opulence with an ease born of centuries, his presence commanding yet understated. At the far end of the lobby, Donovan “Crow” Mercer stood waiting, a smirk playing on his lips as he spotted Kane.
“Well,” Donovan drawled, his dark eyes alight with amusement. “If it isn’t our favorite troublemaker. What the hell happened to you this time?”
Kane didn’t smile. “I need clean clothes,” he said, his tone dry. “And a cleanup crew.”
Donovan laughed, the sound echoing softly in the elegant space. “Of course you do. Come on, let’s get you sorted out. But I hope you’re ready to tell me a hell of a story.”
Kane followed him toward the elevator, the tension of Mother’s call still coiling in the back of his mind. Tonight had taken a turn, and the Hierophant’s summons loomed like a storm on the horizon.
Alexander will tease Donovan back, telling him how he still can't understand with a Feral like him was hanging out in the Blue Grove, and asking him if he became docile, domestic or something of the sort. However, as he changed clothes - just a new black shirt, a new black coat, and a new pair of pratical black pants - he told Crow the "one hell of a story" that he had asked: about Mateo's cache, the empty pouch, the missing knife, the hunters associating with Epitaph, how he went to the Opium to talk with a contact and she allerted him to weird men asking questions about him, how he had to spend the night in the basement of the Opium, how he was ambushed by hunters... And he ended the story telling him about the "silverling" that he acquired a mannequinn by having to blood link Dusk, the performer. He will wait for Donovan to react, talk a bit with him, telling him how he'd like his company while investigating the hunter's warehouse in the waterfront... and finish up by thanking him for everything and asking that he take care of the duffel bag with Mateo's research, since he had a meeting with Seraphina that night. He tells him: "if I don't come back, burn everything. I don't want you more in this mess than you have to be. You are good friend, Crow."
Describe the scene being true to DOnovan's personality, Chat GPT.
The suite at the Blue Grove was every bit as lavish as Alexander Kane expected it to be, though its occupant seemed hilariously out of place. Donovan “Crow” Mercer lounged on a pristine leather couch, his boots propped on a glass coffee table that probably cost more than some people’s homes. The flickering light of a muted flatscreen TV cast uneven shadows across his sharp features, accentuating the wolfish grin that rarely left his face. His untamed black hair and the faint sheen of scruff on his jaw were at odds with the room’s clean, modern lines.
Kane stepped out of the bathroom, his newly borrowed clothes fitting him with understated precision: a crisp black shirt, a practical black coat, and trousers that allowed for both movement and subtle elegance. The faint scent of detergent and expensive cologne clung to the fabric, a stark contrast to the blood and grime he’d left in the bathroom sink.
“Well, well, Kane,” Donovan drawled, not bothering to hide the amusement in his voice. “You clean up nicely for a guy who crawled out of a bloodbath.”
Kane smirked as he rolled his shoulders, the stiffness in his muscles fading. “I’m still trying to figure out why a Feral like you is holed up in a place like this,” he retorted. “Docile, are we? Maybe even domesticated? Should I bring you a chew toy?”
Donovan’s laugh was a sharp bark, his amber eyes flashing with mock offense. “Domesticated? Please. This place is just convenient. I can smell the lies wafting off the rich assholes before they even step in the elevator.” He leaned forward, his grin turning predatory. “Keeps things... entertaining.”
Kane chuckled, sitting across from Donovan and resting his katana against the side of the chair. “Entertaining. Right. You’ve officially gone soft, Crow.”
Donovan shrugged, unbothered. “Soft enough to give you a place to hide your sorry ass, apparently.”
The banter faded as Kane’s expression turned serious. He leaned back, his fingers tracing the armrest absently as he began to speak. “You wanted a story? Here it is. It starts with Mateo’s cache.”
---
Kane recounted the tale with his usual measured calm, his voice a low, steady cadence that carried the weight of every twist and turn. He spoke of the empty pouch, the missing knife, and the unsettling discovery that hunters were working with the Epitaph Order. Donovan’s teasing smirk faded as he listened, his sharp eyes narrowing in thought.
Kane detailed his visit to the Opium Nightclub, how his contact had warned him of strange men asking dangerous questions. He described the ambush in the basement, the way the hunters had cornered him, and the bloody fight that followed.
“And then,” Kane said, his voice laced with dry humor, “there’s Dusk. The performer. Lina. I had to blood-link her to keep the façade intact.”
Donovan’s grin returned, this time wider than ever. “You? Blood-linking a nightclub singer? Never thought I’d see the day. Let me guess, she’s one of those bright-eyed, fiery types who won’t take no for an answer?”
Kane sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She asked for power, Crow. What was I supposed to do? It was either that or risk her running to the police—or worse.”
Donovan shook his head, chuckling. “You’ve got yourself a silverling, Kane. Congratulations. Just don’t come crying to me when she gets clingy.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Kane muttered.
---
The story wound down with Kane’s request: Donovan’s company in investigating the hunter’s warehouse in the Waterfront. Donovan leaned back, rubbing his chin as he considered. “You know me,” he said, flashing a toothy grin. “I can’t resist a good dive into trouble. Count me in.”
Kane nodded, but his next words were heavier, their weight filling the room like smoke. “There’s one more thing,” he said, leaning forward. “I need you to take care of this.” He gestured to the duffel bag sitting by the couch, its contents heavy with the weight of Mateo’s research.
“Take care of it? What’s that supposed to mean?” Donovan asked, his tone wary.
“I have a meeting tonight,” Kane said. “With Seraphina. If I don’t come back—”
“You’ll come back,” Donovan interrupted, his voice sharp.
“If I don’t,” Kane pressed, “burn everything. Mateo’s research, the notes, all of it. I don’t want you dragged into this mess more than you already are.”
Donovan’s grin faded, replaced by something quieter, harder. “You’re being dramatic,” he said, but the edge in his voice betrayed his concern.
Kane stood, gripping Donovan’s shoulder briefly before picking up his katana. “You’re a good friend, Crow. Don’t make me regret trusting you.”
Donovan leaned back, his grin returning faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Just don’t make me clean up your ashes, Kane.”
As Kane left the suite, the door clicking shut behind him, Donovan stared at the duffel bag for a long moment. The city’s neon glow filtered through the rain-streaked windows, casting fractured light over the room. “One hell of a story,” he muttered to himself, the weight of Kane’s words lingering like a ghost.