By the time Sin realized that he had been captured, he was going through his mental rolodex of People Who Did Not Like Him. Currently at the top of the list was Gin, but his kidnapping lacked the sadism that seemed typical of her work: it came without ghouls, without fire, or fear. There were the Elves, of course, Vale and his gray-skinned kin, but Sin didn't taste gravedirt in the air, only thick moisture -- he was not Underground. There were the Setites too, but Sin doubted that they could recover that quickly from Sin's latest assault on Egypt.

And as the sinner further contemplated these things, feigning rest in whatever prison he was chained to, Sin caught a familiar scent.

More than familiar; it was teasing him.

Sin's chin snapped up from his chest and he opened his eyes, squinting them from the harsh natural light that surrounded him, engulfed him. Still bleary eyed, it took him several moments to realize all the green colors around him were not walls, but plants, and that light that was pouring at him from all angles -- he was in a greenhouse. Chained to a chaired, drugged, and weakened, but apparently alive and relatively unharmed.

However, all of this seemed irrelevant to the scent which was still taunting him, teasing as something which he could almost recognize, almost taste..

"Ah. Ambrose's surviving childe is not so dense as I expected." The voice was calm, quiet, and vaguely amused; it took more than a moment for Sin to realize the voice was speaking French, not common.

"Thankfully I didn't inherit those genes." Sin blinked back the light until his dull gray eyes found the figure of a tall man with silver-blond hair and eyes like the dawn. He was pruning the blood red leaves of a plant Sin had never seen, apparently unconcerned with his captive, though not entirely dismissive either; thoughtful perhaps, or distracted. All at once, the scent that had been so familiar suddenly registered. "Bastian. Bastian of Savo-- where am I?" He wondered aloud, looking around.

"You had it right, Sinjin Fai," Bastian laughed quietly, the name sounding forieng on his tongue. "I am Bastian, as you call me -- and you are here, in the region of Savoie. Welcome to my homeland.. or should I say, welcome back." Two storm gray eyes turned toward Sin for the first time; the Spaniard felt stunned in the presence and weight of them, like a runt cub before a lion.

Despite the fact that Sinjin was chained, a prisoner in his own rights, he felt oddly humbled; the sinner averted his eyes, though his tone didn't lose it's cocky pride. "Yes, well -- I suppose it's about time we met face to face. I intended to do it sooner, but Rhy'din called." Sin paused, peering up at his captor again. "So.. what can I do for you? You must've brought me here for a reason."

"Indeed I have." Setting aside the clippers he had been using, Bastian absently wiped his hands clean on a kerchief that had been hanging from his pocket. "News of Ambrose's death has reached as far as Russia and Japan; even in the shadow of Ishtar's Gate, Ambrose's name was known, whispered in the dark. I understand you are his heir." Gray eyes ticked aside to the sinner. "I'm sorry."

Sin wasn't sure if Bastian was apologizing for the loss, the weight of his new found responsibility, or it was simply pity; he accepted it all the same with the faintest of nods, waiting for the elder kindred to continue.

"As I think you expected -- I am Ambrose's sire," Bastian continued, watching Sin pointedly now. "And long before his death, he asked a single favor of me to repay an eight hundred year old debt to him."

A shiver tickled Sin's spine. "What did he tell you to do to me?"

Bastian's blond eyebrows lifted. "You? Nothing. He spoke not a word of you -- I wasn't even aware he had a living childe until the name of Sinjin Fai began cropping up here in France -- a kindred hunting for me."

Sin felt vaguely crushed at that admission. And here he thought Ambrose's final letter, the single name of Bastian which has been written there, held some great meaning -- some wonderful task of gratitude and a final understanding of the man who had emotionally evaded Sin for so long -- and Ambrose hasn't even spoke his name? Pushing back the curious tide of bitterness welling, Sin moved on. "If that's the case, then why capture me?"

The Frenchman stepped toward him. "Because I believe you hold the key to completing my task for Ambrose." Bastian paused before the chair which Sin was bound captive to, crouched before him until those storm eyes were level with Sin's. "Tell me everything you know about Salvador Delahada."

The shiver which hit Sin earlier became a chill grip of shock which curled tight around his spine. "No." The answer was automatic and boiled with an animalistic growl behind his quiet voice. Salvador was his. Nto Ambrose's, not Bastian's -- his.

Bastian gave a sympathetic smile. "I thought you might say that. Are you sure you won't reconsider?"

Sinjin snarled in Bastian's passive face, all respect lost. "F*ck off!"

The kindred gave a soft, troubled sigh. "I didn't want to do this, Sinjin Fai.." When Bastian drew toward him, it was with a subtle movement that returned the clippers from earlier, leaving it dancing across the skin of his wrist until it produced a thin line of blood. It was the very scent Sin felt haunting him earlier -- so much like Ambrose's, but stronger, more intoxicated. Unable to even think of mustering restraint, Sin lurched forward until his mouth felt the delightful chill of cold blood touching his lips as he fed.

Almost at once, Sin could feel the blood seem to move of its own accord inside him, icking its way through Sin -- as if the strength and will of Bastian himself guided it. With a sickening roll of his stomach, Sin felt a hand in his mind, ghost-fingers pushing through his memories, his thoughts, dreams, and fears -- an irristable power.

"Tell me," Bastian whispered gently in Sin's ear. "Tell me everything."