“And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice.”
Mistress Thomas “Philosphus” stands revealed, bearing visions of DOOM. Mr. Wake, as he entitles himself, is currently applying my Childes abilities to magically telegraph you the grisly details, but “Londons Burning” seems to be the gist of it. He appears to be a man of parts, & of considerable status in our Camarilla; one can but endorse the awful importance of his warning by mine mundane epistletory.
The last thing I will be doing as Chantry Regent. I am ceding the title to my Childe & Mr. Wake, who will be a temporary Martial Co-Regency, until the Setite War is over.
They infest this place. The natives worship them as veritable gods. They have murdered & abducted Englishwomen, & assulted us with Assamites, & FIRE. Worst of all, that last extremity has made me out of sorts, & my Childe a murderess (“only” of what you so pleasantly term Kine, & I, a fellow bearer of an Immortal Soul). Strength, or alternatively, unpredictabillity of character is of the essence versus these traffickers in inquity; Mr. Wake fits that bill. One will instead concentrate on preserving ones Childes moral rectitude, &, at long last, on the pursuit of those studies that were ones initial reason for entering unto savagery.
We have discovered the source of the Troubles in London. Know this, even if you disregard all else as the ravings of a poltroon & a coward: it is The Devil Brahmin.
& he is a thaumaturgist.
It is our Blood, so reviled by my countrymen, that is the key to survival. This may well be the night to teach the spawn of Set the same lesson we taught by the Accursed Vitae of Haqim.
Prince Singh, & Mr. Pariah, send their regards. His Royal Highness retains his composure, in spite of his recent spiritual bondage in “Aegypt”(quite physical-he, unlike poor Mr. Pariah, is the first native one has met not a Setite cultist).
Bound to your service by Internal Chymestry,
“a small unleavened, undefiled Cake”