Octavia Grigore/Background/1720-1725
Octavia settled into the veranda’s deep shadow, the lanterns’ glow soft against her glass.
“By 1720,” she said, “I recognized that the real fortunes lay not just along the Bayou, but upriver—deep in the Ohio Country. The French had claimed this territory as part of La Louisiane, building scattered trading posts to supply Montreal’s fur trade. English traders from the southern colonies were already pressing into these same valleys by 1720, seeking beaver pelts and salt. I decided to follow the money. I chose a bluff above the confluence locals called ‘Three Rivers’, and established a modest depot there.”
She paused, swirling her glass. “I financed flatboats built in Philadelphia yards, captained by mixed crews of French voyageurs and colonial frontiersmen. They carried pelts, salted venison, and lead shot downstream; in return I supplied steel tools, blankets, and woven cloth to the Wyandot and Shawnee—binding them into my network with prompt coin and fair exchange. Colonial assemblies in Williamsburg and Philadelphia welcomed my letters requesting powder for militias; in gratitude, they shielded my warehouses from theft and trespass.”
Octavia’s tone grew restrained. “Yet one Sabbat Ductus, a Brujah named Marcellus Le Roux, found my methods… too prudent. In 1723, a strike party of his burned my Three Rivers depot and left my mortal ally—Takwa of the Wyandot—bleeding in the snow, half‑frozen. Takwa survived, but the depot lay in ruins. I felt the sting of that betrayal keenly—and I swore I would repay it in full.”
She set her glass down, eyes steady. “I extended him an invitation—‘a courtesy feast,’ I called it, to discuss peace. He came with his pack under a banner of truce, confident of hospitality, of course, because I am who I am. I arranged for a banquet of beautiful blood dolls, and my guests drank deeply, praising my generosity.”
Octavia allowed a measured smile. “While they reveled, my agents slipped out before moonrise to remove the mooring stakes and ferry their canoes to the far shore, block the riparian path, and trail their horses away. When Marcellus and his lieutenants stepped as dawn approached, they found only mist and locked gates.”
Her voice turned cold. “I invited them back into the hall, promising shelter. They entered willingly—and I ordered the shutters latched, plunging the room into darkness and candlelight. As they settled in for their day sleep, I slipped out unnoticed and took refuge in a spot I had prepared nearby.
She grinned. “That morning, Takwa and several warriors from his tribe, arrived by my arrangement, threw open the shutters and sunlight poured into the room. What members of Marcellus's pack didn't burn to death were quickly and brutally dispatched by my allies.”
Octavia paused, gaze drifting to the rows of vines. “When word reached the other Sabbat packs, they spoke my name in hushed whispers. I proved myself capable of vengeance; that I was not to be trifled with. By 1725, no pack dared raid my posts again, and even the fiercest in the Sabbat treated me with caution.”
