Qui stands up by Corliss's right, face locked in a scowl. "Enough of this. For over a week our Prince has been missing, and now the last of us to see him has been attacked in her home. Staked. Driven to dementia. If this doesn't cause you to feel alarm then I suggest you pack your bags tonight and leave the city." The assembled Kindred murmur disapprovingly. "No one is above suspicion," Qui continues, undeterred. "I'll be speaking to each of you privately when this council is concluded."
"This is a farce, Sheriff," a deep voice calls out from the other side of the room. The speaker stands; he's dressed eccentrically in flowing blood-red ceremonial robes and his face is pinched like he just caught a whiff of a terrible smell.
Jordan leans close and whispers in your ear. "Someone likes to get dressed up. Leave it to the last Tremere in Ottawa to draw attention to himself for no good reason."
"A farce, Lang?" Qui raises an eyebrow. "Does something about this situation amuse you?"
"The fact that you'd suggest we blame members of our own esteemed council is the issue," Lang says. "Ottawa is newly besieged by a revived Anarch presence led by a renegade you know to have a history with our departed Prince, and yet you'd have us biting at each other's heels, fighting amongst ourselves while the clear enemy gathers strength from our weakness." His eyes wander the chamber, eventually lighting on you. "Agad the Imperishable had a close encounter with the Brujah, Robert Ward. I am informed that the Anarch took particular interest in him. Tell me—as one so recently assaulted by that rabid dog, where do you believe our good Sheriff should turn his gaze?"
You swallow your nerves as fourteen powerful Kindred turn to watch you intently. You try not to dwell on how many collected centuries they have existed and how any one of them could destroy you with relative ease.