27

The squat vampire gives you a nod of appreciation at your silence. He shuffles forward and you stand aside, watching him go in silence. His behavior seems odd to you, and you wonder if you should report this to Bouchard. Maybe you should wait outside? Then again, you're on official business and there should be no need to wait out in the cold.

Next

Bouchard's lair stands in stark contrast to the sewer system just outside its front doors. If you hadn't known it was below ground, adjacent to literal rivers of human filth, you would have laughed at the mere suggestion. Walls of richly carved mahogany span upward to an elaborate ceiling at least twenty-five feet high, lit by a dozen rows of tastefully recessed modern lighting fixtures. The smell of wood and oil permeates the room. The oil scent brings your attention to a rack of melee weapons of all kinds: swords, axes, and halberds gleam, each well-loved and polished, shining brightly along keen edges. You have little doubt that each and every one of these museum-quality pieces are as deadly as they are exquisite.

You clear your throat, unsure how to signify your arrival. Bouchard does not appear, but you think it best to wait here. Delving any deeper into the underground suite could be met with accusations of snooping.

You browse the room slowly, waiting for the elder to arrive. A stately wooden desk sits in the dead center of the room, a large map curled open along its length, held down on each end by leather-bound historical texts. A quick glance reveals it as a detailed map of sewers and tunnels beneath nearby Gatineau. You shake your head. It's an odd thing for the elder to be studying. After all, no Nosferatu is more familiar with the depths beneath Ottawa. Perhaps Bouchard seeks to expand his influence? It seems like something Prince Arundel would be hesitant to approve. You look up from the map and walk slowly to the far wall, hands clasped behind your back—it wouldn't do to be caught poring over the Primogen's papers. Paintings depicting historical scenes from the area hang on the rear wall; if you had to guess, you'd say they were originals, well over a hundred years old.

"Beautiful, are they not?" a gurgling voice calls out from the entry door as Bouchard slinks into the chamber. "That one's an original John Elliott Woolford," he says with a crooked grin, clearly expecting you to recognize the name. His pock-marked face crumbles into a frown as he settles into a luxurious office chair behind his desk. "Sometimes I forget you're not even a century old, Mekuztli. Regardless, welcome to my humble domain. It's been many nights since I've seen you in my office, though I suppose this is about Corliss's business, not about more personal affairs."