Note for DST Players
You are more than welcome to read this story, but it is out-of-character information unless one of the Storytellers tells you otherwise. And if they do, believe that I will go to them for confirmation.
Mattie woke up, the morning sun streaming into her room and wondered for only a moment why her head hurt and her mouth tasted like an old rug. Oh yes, she remembered. I got drunk. Bloody brilliant, woman.
She gingerly shook her head, and realized that it didn't feel quite as bad as she expected. "Alright," she announced to the empty air, "Time to total the damages..."
Pulling on some clothes and thinking of breakfast - more like lunch - she rummaged through her memory of the previous evening and tried to put events in proper order.
I asked Marcus out for a drink, but he was too busy. Mattie chuckled at the memory of her slightly desperate ulterior motive. That was probably for the best, she decided. Fucking a mage probably violates the bloody Trinity.
In the kitchen, now, Mattie went about making tea and toasting a bagel. Then I ran into Devon Ashecroft, she remembered. Devon, the Toreador Harpy and - if gossip was to be believed - would-be Primogen, had been surprised by their happenstance meeting in a Walnut Creek bar after midnight, but he had gladly joined her in conversation.
Mattie winced at the memory. By that point in the evening, she had had plenty to drink and has also completely fail to attract the attention of any unmarried men in the hangout. She was drunk, frustrated and almost completely indiscreet.
"Oh God." She groaned. "Did I make a pass at him?" she wondered. I was certainly horny enough. Christ... she shuddered at the thought of what she considered - during her sober moments - to be necrophilia. Mattie ran a hand through her tangled hair. She remembered tapping her foot against something under the table they shared while they spoke, but for the life of her couldn't remember if it was his leg, or the table's - or even why she was fidgeting against it. What had they been talking about?
Rememberance, when it came, caused her to almost drop the teapot she held.
"Holy shit! He wants to be Prince!" That in itself wasn't terribly surprising. "And I suggested I'd support him!" That was.
"Fuck!" The teapot shattered against the far wall as she threw it across the room with an angry exclaimation. "Brilliant fucking way to stay out of politics, you silly bitch!" How could she have been so stupid?
She sat down and started thinking. Were there any witnesses? She asked herself. None that I could see. Fine, that was one hurdle passed. If there's going to be a fight for power, can I stay out of past this point? She nodded. Probably, I'll remind Devon that I'm an independent being and I respect the office if not the man. If he tries to quote anything I say, I can claim that I was too drunk too recall. And being legless certainly invalidates a lot of what I said...
Mattie reached for her coat, hanging over an adjacent chair. In the pocket, as always, was a miniature tape-recorder. She rewound it for a few seconds and listened. She could barely discern anything above the noise of a bar on Friday night, but she was used to retrieving information from bad recordings. Ignoring her tender head, Mattie turned the volume on the tape player to maximum and paid close attention.
A few minutes later, she was somewhat relieved, and a little embarrassed.
"There'll be no need for me to pretend I was legless." She observed. "I was legless." Still, the day she couldn't conduct an interview while intoxicated would be the day her fellow journalists - dipsomaniacs almost every one of them - would bear down on her and seize her credentials.
Still, Mattie frowned at the memory of her behavior. Very different rules applied to the kindred, and she had broken some of them last night. She would have had to have been very drunk before asking Devon such direct questions as she had. She was suprised that he hadn't taken offense, but perhaps, in classic Toreador fashion, he was hoping that she would spread gossip on his behalf.
But surely, if that was the case, he would have preferred a sober mouthpiece? Maybe Devon was hoping that Mattie would make a fool of herself, take comments that he had no intention of being taken seriously and see who she would try to peddle them to as genuine goods?
That struck Mattie as a more likely possibility. It wouldn't be the first time a vampire contrived for another to hoist themselves by their own petard - and it worked just as well for ghouls.
Mattie decided that discretion was definately the wisest course in this instance. Even if Devon's aspirations to seize the throne were genuine - and the sudden influx of Toreador into the court would suppport that - it would be foolish to talk of the matter too early. And if Devon was trying to bate her, it would be foolish to speak of the matter at all.
Sighing, Mattie finally noticed the shards of porcelain scattered across the kitchen floor and she turned to the sink to retrieve a dustpan. And to top it all off, she thought sourly, I still didn't get laid...
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