The Black Pot

It is rumoured that Monçada, the Archbishop of Madrid, has entire palaces built in the realms of shadow and operates invisibly to even to the eyes of his own clan. It certainly accounts for his longevity, especially within the Sabbat factions. She has not his skills, but can easily slip into the shadows to move where she will. Is it the rustling of silks and silver, or the sounds that the shadows make when they are at play that whispers through the café? Who is to tell, for this once, both are true. Skills must always be honed, practised, and tested lest one lose them. To lose this discipline would be a near fatal mistake, for she relies upon the deception to hide her role as spy for the Family and to provide a skill that no one else in the Family has. Exclusivity has always been a superior survival skill.

Stepping from the shadows, Isabel brushes her hands down her blue and silver silk gown. Shoulders bare, they seem far too luminous to have been hidden from sight in the shadows that the fall of her hair calls to mind; or from the stark black silk masque that partially covers her face, complimenting perfectly the perfection of her complexion. It is still Carnevale, even here on these grey and damp shores.

"I have my own manner of invisibility, as you may see," her lips curl at the small play of words whilst her fingers adjust the lacing of her bodice until the fall of shadows from the laces across her white skin are to her liking: neither too tight, nor too loose, and allowing the drip of diamonds from her necklace to steal under them as she moves. It is only when she is satisfied that the gown gives the impression that it has been chosen and put on to ornament her body and not cover it for modesty's sake that she looks again at the assembly and continues, albeit, very briefly. "It is not perfect, but what is?"