Marcel's vampires in the quarter. The ones he'd built up in the century in which Klaus believed him dead, in which he had taken over his city and ruled it as his own. He really probably should have felt sympathy, they were of his line and all. But he hadn't known them, hadn't cared for them. And any sympathy would have been false, Marcel would have known it too.
"It sounds like us. We fought, something else attacked, likely you, since werewolves would be beyond foolish to attack me. So they took it out on those you gathered around you? To a man I presume? And here, in this courtyard, the very seat of your power. I suppose it was sending a message. Its what I'd do. Only with more flair."
He felt he should say something. Cheer him up. Or commiserate in some fashion. The other vampire was a son to him, always had been since the day they met.
"It was a great loss to you. But if we go back I expect we will revenge ourselves on them. You and me, like old times"