Balliol College

Balliol college has been on its present site since its inception by Balliol's scholars as their residence in 1263. The oldest parts of the college are the north and west ranges of the front quadrangle, with the medieval hall on the west side and the old library on the north side above the old Senior Common Room. Balliol's second library pre-dates the publication of printed books in Europe. The Master's chambers lie on the south-west side, adorned with a fine oriel window.

Balliol College rises out of the night like a slab of judgment carved in stone. Its façade is all pale limestone and sharp angles, lit from below by discreet pools of golden light that exaggerate every cornice and gargoyle. The quad beyond the gate is hushed, lawns clipped to mathematical precision, the damp autumn air carrying the faint scent of wet leaves and old masonry. Somewhere nearby, a clock ticks toward the next quarter hour, each second uncomfortably loud in the stillness. This is old ground for the Damned. Balliol has hosted Elysia before and the memory of nought week lingers like a stain that soap and time can’t quite scrub away. The echoes of laughter and polite menace wrapped in academic civility seem to cling to the stones. This is a place where predators smile beneath chandeliers and call it culture. It is also the place where Silas Mallock was last seen, immaculate and assured, another Ventrue among equals, before he vanished into silence. Tonight, the college feels watchful. Windows glow softly behind mullioned glass, but few silhouettes move within. Those that do linger too long at the edges, as though listening. The hush is deliberate and curated. The kind of quiet that's enforced, rather than earned.  A porter waits just inside the entrance, his posture stiff and his eyes already flicking towards the shadows, as though expecting trouble to step free of them. The path beyond leads towards the administrative heart of the college, where power wears tweed and titles instead of crowns. Somewhere within those walls, Deacon, Dean of Balliol and something far older than the office implies, has agreed to an audience with Ana-Maria Ardelian.

The woman who arrives at the college does nothing to ease the sense of watchfulness that permeates the college. If anything, everything about the way this woman moves justifies that careful watchfulness. Arriving five minutes early for her meeting time with the Dean of Balliol is Ana-Maria Ardelean, who is dressed conservatively, in a black turtleneck of some silky fabric, and a long skirt that flows around her ankles. A long black coat protects against anyone asking why she doesn't feel the autumn chill in the air. Her movements are fluid in a way that is faintly disturbing, a strong sense of the serpent invoked by each motion she makes, and her hair seems to move in a breeze that isn't blowing once she steps into the entrance of the college and smiles at the porter. Something about the angle of her head, tilted like a snake considering it's meal, and the way her hair continues to coil slowly around itself makes the hair on the back of the man's neck stand on end. For all that, however,  there's something alluring about her as well. She's difficult, if not impossible, to ignore or even really look away from, and not only because doing so would feel like turning one's back on a threat - but that's a part of it as well. Her entire manner speaks of a beautiful death, of the desire in the hearts of humanity to find a blissful end, or to wrap themselves up with a succubus even knowing it means their death. All of this seems to hang around her like an aura, each movement feeding into both impressions, without her seeming to consciously take a single action.  Ana-Maria stops at the porter's station and speaks softly, in a soft and slowly fading Transylvanian accent, as she says, "I have a meeting with the Dean this evening. Is it alright if I go right up to his office?" The words are polite, almost perfunctory save that she waits for an answer.

The porter stiffens, the practiced neutrality of his posture momentarily cracking. The man obviously recognises Ana-Maria for what she is without needing a name for it, but his pulse quickens nevertheless. F or a moment, the porter simply looks at her, his eyes catching on the slow, impossible movement of the Nosferatu's hair and the way that her stillness feels coiled rather than calm. The man's  Adam’s apple bobs as h e swallows. “Good evening,” the porter replies just a little too quickly, before reining his tone back into something smoother and more professional. “ Yes, of course.  The Dean is expecting you.” The man reaches for the ledger out of habit, his fingers hesitating just above the page before he realizes how unnecessary the gesture is. Of course she is expected. The porter sets the book aside without writing anything. “It's on the second floor, if you take the staircase on your right,” he continues. “Follow the corridor past the Senior Common Room and his office is at the end with an oak door and a brass nameplate. You won’t disturb anyone.”

Ana-Maria smiles, her canine teeth a little too sharp even with her fangs fully retracted so that the expression seems as predatory as it does warm, though there is a certain warmth there as well,  "You have my thanks,"  she says quietly, and then turns her back on the porter, relieving him of the need to respond to that while trying to control his instinctive reactions to her as she walks down the hallway as indicated. It isn't all that late, but there is no one in the hall - perhaps the Dean cleared it to avoid creating a stir for meeting with this woman. Or perhaps it is simply a quiet evening. Arriving at the indicated door, she knocks politely and waits to be invited in before opening the door. She hesitates on the threshold before crossing it, her stillness complete in that moment - no sign of breath or fidget - before she crosses into the room and closes the door behind her, nodding politely to the Dean rather than smiling - which might be taken as a threat.

The corridor swallows sound as completely as it does movement. Footsteps do not echo here, but are, instead, absorbed by centuries of stone and wood darkened with oil and age. Portraits of dead scholars, benefactors and men who learned how to rule by shaping minds rather than armies  line the walls . Their eyes seem to follow Ana-Maria's passage.  The oak door waits exactly where the porter said it would, its brass nameplate polished to a soft gleam.  The knock sounds louder than it should and, after a measured  pause, a voice answers from within. “Enter.” The office beyond is warm with lamplight and heavy with the smell of old books, leather and a faintly bitter incense. Floor-to-ceiling shelves bow slightly under the weight of academic journals and vellum-bound tomes, interspersed with objects that do not belong to any syllabus. A fragment of carved bone is mounted in a frame, a sealed glass vial is filled with something dark and viscous and a small astrolabe bears markings that are subtly wrong. The windows are securely shuttered. Deacon stands behind his desk when the door opens. He is tall, spare and immaculate in a way that has nothing to do with fashion. His suit is conservative to the point of austerity, with a perfectly knotted  tie and  silver hair that has been combed back from a face that looks carved rather than grown. The Daeva's cool, pale and unblinking  eyes  take Ana-Maria in with the same precision that one might apply to a complex equation.  He inclines his head, just enough to acknowledge respect without conceding ground. “Ms. Ardelian,” Deacon remarks in acknowledgement, his voice as smooth and dry as old parchment. “Thank you for coming promptly. Please—” he gestures towards one of the chairs opposite his desk. “Have a seat, if you wish.” The vampire folds his hands loosely behind his back and regards Ana-Maria with open appraisal. The faintest tightening at the corners of his eyes betrays interest, rather than discomfort. “You asked for this audience concerning a colleague,” Deacon continues in a mild, almost conversational tone. “Silas Mallock. Ordo Dracul. Recently arrived and recently… absent.  You will understand,” he adds, “that Balliol takes the disappearance of any faculty very seriously. Even more so, when that faculty belongs to our… extended community. Nevertheless, I am curious to hear what you believe I can clarify for you.”

Ana-Maria tilts her head to the side, eyes cold and distant as she considers but this doesn't seem so much a deliberate choice as a baseline. She steps up behind the chair offered, but does not take the seat, instead resting her hands on the back of the chair. And then motion leaves her once more, as if it were an unnatural state that requires conscious decision on her part. Her eyes dance across the objects in the room and a faint interest gleams there - though perhaps it's avarice, the strangeness of her makes it hard to determine the difference. And then her gaze returns to Deacon, and she nods, meeting his gaze for a moment if he will let her before she says quietly,  "The trail is cold - it was so before it was brought to my attention that Mallock vanished. I am hoping you might be able to tell me who he was seen with at the ball your college hosted, perhaps who he left with, presuming he left."  The soft Transylvanian accent that colors her words might sound like a cliche, save that it is lighter and more musical than any movie imitation can be. There is no accusation in the way she says the last words, rather the cold analytical refusal to eliminate a possibility before it has been disproven. As she speaks, the woman's expression and body language don't change so much as a millimeter, making her hard to read.

Deacon's  expression remains composed  as he listens and,  when Ava-Maria finishes, t he Daeva turns and moves to the sideboard, pouring a measure of something dark into a crystal tumbler. “Your instinct is sound,” he replies, “Dr Mallock’s trail was already cooling by the time his absence became noteworthy.” Deacon turns back towards the desk and leans against its edge. “At the conclusion of the ball, circumstances deteriorated,” he continues. “Howls were heard from the direction of Broad Street. Not close, but close enough to sour the mood and encourage discretion among those with reason to fear attention. Several guests departed conventionally, while others did not .  Dr Mallock left Balliol via the catacombs beneath the college, which h e entered in the company of Eve de la Fontaine, her progeny, Raziel Andrews, and her 'guest', a student mage named Akil Malshir. They were joined by Professor Liam McCarthy and his changeling aide, Mehdi Alvarez. All available evidence indicates that the six chose this route together and did so calmly. There was no pursuit, or visible coercion.” The vampire  raises his glass and takes a small sip, before setting it aside. “Unfortunately, I cannot tell you who emerged on the far side,” he tells Ava-Maria evenly. “The catacombs are old, irregular and not comprehensively monitored. In large part, by design. Nevertheless, I can assure you that Dr Mallock was intact, lucid and in full command of himself when he descended. If something befell him after that point, it did not begin here, nor did it begin as an obvious betrayal.  If you are seeking culpability,” Deacon concludes, “then you will not find an obvious perpetrator amongst that group. However, you will find proximity, which  is rarely meaningless  in our world.  Does that answer your question, or merely sharpen it?”

Ana-Maria considers in silence for a period that would be considered rude in a human, allowing the silence to stretch for a few minutes as she ponders this new information provided before she says with just a touch of amusement,  "Both. But I'm not seeking someone to blame - at least, not at this time. Dr. Mallock has limited ties within the Order here as he was new to our city, but his disappearance cannot be assumed to be unrelated to his affiliation. Again, not until such a distinction is proven. But it gives me a place to start, and I am grateful for that. Your willing assistance won't be forgotten in this matter. "I can't say I'm familiar with those particular individuals, would you know where they are most commonly to be found? I'd be pleased to find an alternative direction for my inquiries."  This last carries just a touch of wry amusement, as if she finds the desire to turn her attentions aside more entertaining than anything. But then, the one thing she no doubt would have a bit of a reputation for, at least among those in Oxford aware of her presence here, would be her sharp and unrelenting nature when she is seeking information - whether from her own studies or from other individuals. She tilts her head to the side in a method that is not, not quite, a human gesture, something that warns the instincts that this creature is a predator rather than the lovely twenty-something woman she appears to be,  "I would also appreciate any rumors you might have heard in relation to that particular group leaving together. I don't expect accuracy when sharing rumor, it would merely add options should my investigation hit a wall. I would prefer not to have to disturb you again in the course of this investigation. If such information leads me to what I seek, I would be willing to owe a trivial boon to either yourself or your college."

Deacon allows the silence to stand. If anything, he seems to approve of it, as though the pause confirms something that he already suspected. When Ana-Maria finally speaks, the Daeva listens with loosely steepled  fingers and  o ne eyebrow arches fractionally upon  her mention of a boon. “I would expect nothing less from the Ordo Dracul,”  he remarks coolly, “nor do I mistake your interest for vengeance. Investigation conducted properly rarely is.” The vampire shifts his weight, turning slightly to glance at the shuttered window, before returning his attention to Ana-Maria. It's the kind of habitual gesture made by somebody accustomed to walls having ears. “As to the individuals in question,” Deacon continues, “they are not without fixed points.” “ Eve de la Fontaine and Raziel Andrews are both affiliated with Keble College. Their interests differ, but their routines overlap enough that Keble’s periphery is where they can most often be encountered, formally or otherwise. If discretion is desired, then approach carefully. Keble tolerates scrutiny poorly. ” “ Liam McCarthy teaches at Somerville College. Publicly, his reputation is that of an engaged academic with extracurricular interests. Privately, he attracts... loyalty. Mehdi Alvarez is a part of that gravity. He's an assistant, aide, or retainer, depending on the lens one uses. You will not find one without the other for long. ” “ Akil Malshir,” the Daeva drawls, with the faintest tightening at the corner of his mouth, “studies at Christ Church. He keeps irregular hours and associates widely, but Christ Church is the axis around which his movements turn.” “As for rumours,”  the vampire adds, his tone shifting subtly into something more speculative, “there was quiet comment after the ball. Six leaving together raised eyebrows, particularly given the circumstances. Some suggested that the catacombs were merely expedient, while others wondered whether Dr Mallock sought counsel, or offered it. One or two darker voices speculated that the howls were not incidental, but a diversion.” “No consensus, ”   Deacon concludes, holding eye contact with Ana-Maria for a few moments,   “ no proof, just the usual academic sport of inference.”   He inclines his head.  “If your inquiries lead you away from Balliol, then I will consider that an efficient outcome. Should they lead you back...” a thin, knowing smile crosses the Daeva's lips as he says this, “then I trust that you will have compelling reasons.  As for the boon,” he finishes calmly, “should you find what you seek, then Balliol is always in need of small considerations . We value balance.”

Listening quietly, the Nosferatu considers, her blue eyes distant and the tilt of her head more reptilian than human. She doesn't move or breathe as the other speaks, she simply listens and studies his expression. Again, she is quiet for longer than is entirely normal for a human, but not so long as to imply threat or disinterest,  "I very much appreciate the cooperation. I cannot guarantee my search will not bring me back here - but I can state unequivocally that should it do so, unless the evidence leaves a plain trail to your door, I will bring whatever has led me here to you before disrupting your operations."  The words are quiet but there's a sincerity to her that is only marred by the impossibility of this strange, serpentine woman being entirely safe or trustworthy, and yet she does have a reputation for those who have dealt with her of being methodical and even-handed - to a fault, if you ask some of the younger members of the Ordo Dracul. After those words, the silence stretches. There is probably some social nicety that should be made or said here, but Ana-Maria seems to either be unaware or uninterested in it. Instead, she is studying the Dean intently, her gaze traveling the length of him and giving the impression that she has measured him - or perhaps that she's interested in him, it's a little difficult to tell as she is a stunningly beautiful woman - lacking in any of the expected guardrails that make such women safe to approach, let alone become involved with. And perhaps it's merely curiosity, as she herself functionally leads Worcester College which in many ways makes them colleagues, but ones who have had little contact to this point. And maybe she is simply leaving it to him to determine how to interpret that searching gaze.

Deacon settles comfortably into the silence, allowing Ana-Maria her scrutiny. His eyes remain anchored to hers and, w hen the Dean speaks, his voice is low, even and carefully unprovocative. “That is a courtesy that I acknowledge,” Deacon assures the Nosferatu, “and one that I will remember.”  He straightens, reclaiming a posture more befitting his office without quite turning it into a dismissal.  “You will understand that Balliol neither mistakes discretion for weakness,” the Dean continues, “nor do we confuse efficiency with hostility. If your investigation intersects with my interests, then I would much rather be informed than surprised. On that point, we are aligned.  The burdens of stewardship differ from college to college, but the parameters are the same: territory, reputation and continuity. Worcester and Balliol have managed a long coexistence precisely because we do not interfere without necessity.  I would prefer for that to continue.” “I wish you clarity in your search, Ms. Ardelian, ”  Deacon tells her with a respectful incline of his head.  “ Dr Mallock’s disappearance is one of many that have introduced variables into the city that I would rather see resolved than allowed to propagate.”   He steps back toward his desk, one hand resting lightly upon its edge.  “Should your path cross mine again,” the Dean says calmly, “I trust that it will be for reasons that we both find acceptable.”

Ana-Maria smiles and the expression both warms her face and makes it all the more unnerving - the slightly too pointy canines that aren't quite fangs in her mortal guise and the fact that her hair is  still  moving, coiling around itself in long, loose curls that should be still in the still air of the office make it impossible to find her entirely comfortable, but the smile makes her, if anything,  more  beautiful in a way that no one should be. She inclines her head,  "I am certain, given time, we will cross paths once more. Especially as it would appear that I am going to have to take a more hands-on part in the external relations, at least until I can trace down and resolve whatever flaws in my own college allowed this to slip through the cracks for as long as it did. I appreciate that such interactions will be on the best possible terms.  "I will not forget your assistance, Dean. Should the need arise, you can expect similar cooperation from my own people."  And then the strange, unnervingly beautiful woman takes a step backwards rather than turning around, clearly about to leave unless Deacon takes steps to prevent it.

Deacon meets Ana-Maria's smile with his own. It's cool and restrained, but there is no mistaking the respect beneath it. “I would expect nothing less from Worcester,”  the Dean replies, “nor from you.  Oxford is a city that survives by balance and, when that balance falters, those of us entrusted with its maintenance are obliged to respond. Your willingness to do so directly speaks well of your stewardship.  If your investigation exposes weaknesses, be they yours, mine, or anybody else’s, then it is better that they be identified and corrected, rather than allowed to metastasise. I trust that you will be precise.” Deacon steps back and folds his hands behind his back. “Safe travels through the night, Ms. Ardelian, and may your search conclude cleanly. Should circumstances require it, Balliol will remember tonight as the beginning of an understanding, rather than an inconvenience.  Until we meet again.”

The smile Ana-Maria gives Deacon at his last words is enough to boil blood - or freeze it. She nods and says simply,  "Indeed. Until we meet again, Deacon."  Something in how she says his name is almost a caress, something slightly husky to her tone, although it's difficult to say if its intentional, or simply the product of her nature. And then she turns and heads out of the office, her hair coiling sinuously down her back with every step she takes, the long waves seeming to weave around one another in a way even wind couldn't explain - all the more unnerving in the still air of the office. She rests her hand on the door handle for just a moment, a window in which he might interrupt her if he wishes to, before she opens it and leaves.