5:27pm, 12 June 2007, Manchester, New Hampshire

Clayton set down his satchel next to the Go table and walked over to the polished wood cabinet. With a small golden key from his keychain, he opened up a small drawer to one side and removed a sheet of fine vellum, a bottle of ink, a blotter, a stick of wax, a matchbox, and a large black feather.

He spread the vellum out flat and removed the top from the bottle of ink. The lovingly whittled tip of the raven's feather accepted a fair amount of ink. With great patience, he began to write.

/On behalf of Fursa Hand-Seinn, Princeps Manchesterensis..../

That title flowed so naturally. It was only recently, when there was a danger of that title's falsehood, that Clayton had come to realize how comfortable he had grown with Fursa holding Praxis. And how uncomfortable he had been with the pompous /Albertus Fredricksonius/, as the Blowhard had insisted on being called in proclamations. And oh, how many proclamations there were.

/...her Seneschal does announce a Conclave..../

Service was coming easily to him. Service, in return for mostly being let alone to play his own games on other levels. With Patrice in town to manage the Currier, even that could be left in capable hands.

Which left him mostly to his own devices, in comfort. Lethargy had been creeping over him lately, a sort of ennui, which made even trips to Washington seem routine, if not annoying. But staying in Manchester did not lift the ennui. All of his projects were moving forward--the election was looming in the minds and warchests of many politicians--but none were capturing his interest.

/All Kindred are invited to attend and participate..../

Except for Sandra. She had taken him by surprise, on many different levels. The passionate companionship was a welcome dash of energy and light. True comfort--not merely that granted by secure material circumstances--came by her hands.

But part of him looked on coolly, knowing her secrets. This part of him watched with a small frown while the rest of him dove off the cliff. This part of him was mute, however, and did not raise a finger to stop him. And with no reason to stop....

/...for matters of importance are to be discussed and decided./

Indeed they were. There were sure to be surprises all around on this one. And he could imagine Fursa at the center of it, crouched as if expecting an attack, moving with clarity and grace through the clamor. Perhaps that was why he was so comfortable with her: stability went a long way to guaranteeing happiness.

Clayton blotted the wet ink from the vellum, blowing gently on the page to dry it. He leaned back and read through the proclamation. Then he leaned forward once more, lit a match, and set it to the red stick of wax. It dripped a few sanguine drops beneath his name. He quickly blew it out and pressed his ring into the wax.

The wax was warm against his finger, and its scent reminded Clayton of how many times he had pressed his ring into similar documents. He gently freed his ring from the wax and stood up to post the proclamation on the bulletin board in the cabinet.

In service to others that his own presence in his life had slowly ebbed. Like lightning illuminating a barren landscape, the thought retreated immediately, though the afterimage was burned in his mind.