The ruler of the city sits in his chair, as one of his subjects speaks from the chair across the table. His gaze lingers on the open space dividing the members of his court. Classical music fills the room, delicate lighting illuminates the exquisitely attired aristocrats while obscuring the brutes who lurk in the shadows. A delightful debate rumbles on as a packed table debates the finer points of one of the great speeches of the age.
A table of younger courtiers rises in respect as another vampire, by far their elder, strolls by where they sit. One of the ruler’s favourites crosses the floor to stand before him. Dismissing his previous supplicant, the ruler invites her to sit. She accepts the offer with grace, and addresses him with a smile: “Sire.”
His gaze wanders for a moment, drawn back by that voice and its more insistent attempts to gain his attention. “If I may Sire…Sire?” Suddenly reality crashes back around him. The ruler sees his court as it is; the filthy rabble taking centre stage, the squabbles over irrelevant nonsense, the few respectable members trying to maintain some order and decency in the face of it all.
And the bright young lady before him, who is in fact the gruff moron he detests. He sighs at his travails; “One can but dream…” before turning back to the confused fool before him.