| A Fountain of Tears; Zoya & Coco - Closed-ish? | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Jan 6 2014, 03:43 AM (259 Views) | |
| Zoya Stomalkov | Jan 6 2014, 03:43 AM Post #1 |
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A steel grey Chrysler 300 pulls up to the curb in front of the Fox Theatre, one of Detroit's few crowning jewels. The marquee adds a resonant glow to the dark windows that line the building front, however many stories high. It's almost five minutes til close now, as the back passenger door opens and a pair of pale, slim legs donning black pointed toe heels meets the wet pavement. A lithe creature emerges from the luxury sedan, stepping gingerly through the mixture of slush and snow icing the sidewalks as she approaches the box office. A young woman gives the prospective patron a forced smile from the other side of the plated glass, pressing a button to speak through the intercom, "I'm sorry, ma'am but we're closing in five minutes. Can I interest you in a brochure of our upcoming events with our box office hours listed on the back?" The subtle sound of annoyance in her tone made it clear that she was ready to go home and did not appreciate last minute ticket buyers. The name printed on her name tag read 'Rachael'. "No, no Rachael, that won't be necessary," there was a soft Russian lilt to the well-dressed woman, smiling coldly to the other female and catching her gaze, refusing to let it go, "I was only hoping you could let me inside so I could speak with your supervisor," the effects of her Presence were subtle at first, not wanting to use more then necessary. Rachael cocked her head with a puzzled expression, "Did you have an appointment with her?" "No, but it's of the utmost importance that I speak with her. Would you be a doll and let me in now?" She lay it on a little thicker this time, her words sounding more and more convincing as they fell from her mouth. "Oh, I'm sorry to keep you waiting!" She sounded genuinely apologetic, disappearing from the box office and rounding to the closest door to the main lobby entrance, pushing it open and waving the elegant woman over, "Please come inside. She's in her office on the third floor. Would you like me to show you to her?" "No thank you, you've been most helpful." Stepping inside, Zoya shook the light dusting of snow from her head and shoulders and smiled to the girl again, "Oh, and Rachael?"The girl looked up to be met with the Sage's heavy stare, "Please don't tell anyone I'm here. Lock up as usual, hm?" Rachael simply nodded and meandered back to the box office to finish her closing tasks. Looking around, it seemed there wasn't another soul in the building. She knew this to be far from the truth, finding an empty corridor on the first floor near the bar advertising severely overpriced drinks, and enveloping herself in the shadows as she watched the last of the straggling cleaning convoy file out of the building over the span of thirty minutes. All that was left was the unfortunate soul doing security patrol rounds upstairs, and the supervisor Rachael had told her about on the third floor. Stalking on feather light foot through the entirety of the building for the next hour, she rid it of the remaining occupants, finding themselves staving off the bitter cold as they make their way to their cars with no clear memory of why they were heading home so early, only that they deserved the night off. Zoya sauntered through the empty halls and stairwells back down to the theatre, satin gloved hands pushing open the double doors into the auditorium and finding herself breathless at the dimly lit beauty that lay before her. Rows of plush, burgundy seats, molded columns and statues gilded gold, three stories of private booths lining the lower wings beneath the mezzanine. The intricately painted dome ceiling housed a regal stained glass sphere suspended overhead that cast a myriad of colors and designs across the walls up above. Another classic chandelier swayed gently above the stage. There was a gust blowing in from the left... Perhaps an open door from the receiving dock in the back? The young Elois gracefully seated herself, dressed for a night at the Kirov Ballet. She wore a simple black cocktail dress, the v-neck sharply plunging into the valley of her breasts. Black kid gloves swathed her slim arms and hands from the elbows down, a thin silver and sapphire bracelet hanging delicately from her wrist that complimented the diamond solitaires that adorned her ears. A silver fox fur cape cloaked her upper half, her silky raven tresses draped over the collar and down the back. Pulling her smartphone from her breast, she sifted through her music collection, setting it on the armrest as the sounds of a soft trumpet began to bleed from it's speakers. Her eyes fluttered shut, imagining the ballet she'd seen so many years ago playing before on the backdrop of her closed eyelids. For the first time in a long time, Zoya had found peace. If she could have burned blood to turn these passing moments into hours, she would have. |
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| Coco | Jan 6 2014, 05:23 PM Post #2 |
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Childe
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Coco had parked the black bugatti a few blocks over and now the heels of her Lucchese boots fall in muted sounds over the pavement. The Giovanni is dressed down in a pair of bootcut jeans, boots and an oversized taupe angora sweater, a leather satchel over her shoulder containing various ritualistic items. Well, to her it's dressed down anyway. She glances down to her phone a moment, eying the map and then looking up at the building. The Fox Theatre. She's done her homework on the place and some of the things she read are exactly the sort of thing she's looking for. Some say the building's stone lions tend to get up from their posts at night and move around the building. If that is true, then there are wraiths at work in the area with more advanced skills than most and they would need to be questioned.She tucks the phone into her back pocket, a hand running through long brown hair as she approaches the back, finding a door propped open. She enters and knocks the stop away, letting the door close with an ominous boom before she maneuvers along the darkened corridors, illuminated EXIT signs posted every few feet. She listens, senses tuned to those of the hunter. That's right bitches. Cosima Rosselini; Ghost Hunter. So often the spiriti can be heard whispering to themselves in hushed passion, in regret or fear or loss or affirmation. But for the moment she hears...wait. What is that? Trumpets? Eyes narrow. If the ghost of Louis Armstrong is in here she's going to freak out. The thought makes her almost laugh. What would Evangelos say when she shows up at the house with Louis Armstrong in tow? Knowing him he'd probably take him away and spend the next four years lost in the throes of music. Okay, if it's Louis Armstrong, leave him here. She advances along the dark hall, only to come into the theatre proper from the left and brown eyes land on the source of the music, the woman seated with eyes closed. Brows knit and she drops her shoulder, letting the item laden satchel drop to the floor with a quiet rattle. "Sorry, I thought the theatre was closed." Well that's a stupid thing to say, if you thought that, coco then why are you in here. "I am clearly breaking and entering. Well not so much breaking, but definitely entering." A pause, "Did you break anything?" She gives the woman a sideways grin, but her eyes move around the room, vision shifting towards the shadowlands [Ash Path 1 : Shroudsight] the harrowed overlay of the theatre much different than the one glittering in the skinlands, and it is literally crawling with wraiths. Could this be some sort of base for them? |
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| Zoya Stomalkov | Jan 6 2014, 07:24 PM Post #3 |
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Coco's soft footfalls against the carpet into the open expanse alerted Zoya of her presence long before she opened her eyes to regard the disruptor of her peace. The music that bounced deftly around the spacious auditorium helped drown out her incessant moving and rustling of fabric and things. A short thud and rattle against the floor forced Zoya's ghostly blue eyes open sharply, taking in the wiry, wafer thin brunette that was drowning in a sea of fuzzy angora. The only word that could describe the look Zoya gave her was approving. The girl had good taste, nor had she ever faced a foe that armed themselves in rabbit fur, so she had no issue closing her eyes and continuing to listen to the ballet's score dance in one ear and out the other. Then the girl insisted on speaking. Zoya's eyes remained closed, veiling the slight strains of irritation as Coco chattered on like a nervous student that'd just walked into the wrong class on the first day school. Minus the gaudy, ridiculous fashion trends that were taking public schools by storm. The one look she'd afforded the wispy girl was enough to know she wouldn't be caught dead in a retail department store. "No," She answers the question asked of her rather plainly, shrugging her shoulders and rolling her head, popping her neck, "But I have my own ways." A small, sly smile pulled lightly at the corners of her mouth before finally opening her eyes again, measuring up the limber young woman as she looked above in awe. What was she doing out past her bedtime? "Did you come so you could have the stage all to yourself?" She could have easily been mistaken for a misplaced ballerina had she not blown her own cover so quickly. She could imagine her dancing and prancing across the stage swathed in pale pink chiffon with ease. Yes, that innocent glow about her would fit the prima ballerina, Maria, perfectly. |
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| Angelo | Jan 6 2014, 07:54 PM Post #4 |
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The Barkeep
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The Theatre was not really his sort of place - but an informant had alerted him to some recent disturbances about four minutes ago, and the night had been otherwise peaceful. With no other plans and as of yet no Sheriff to send in his place, Angelo had opted to investigate in person. Wearing an older jacket of his, the New York chapter of a biker gang he'd briefly made use of splayed across the back with a crimson fist tightly gripping barbed wire, the Prince strode towards the entrance, applying presence with silence as he nodded to Rachael and winked, the young girl returned his nod with a blush. Bless her, she hadn't the faintest idea who he was - but then the longer a Kindred lasted, the easier the little things became. He slowed his stride, letting the carpet soften his footfalls until they barely registered. He heard faint music, and faint traces of conversation over it, but not much more. Continuing and heading into the upper stalls to avoid a confrontation before he felt it was necessary, Angelo leaned his elbows on the railing and watched, the two women unknown to him - and therefore interesting. Granted, he didn't know every kindred in the city - but he did know one thing for certain. Anybody worth knowing, he caught up with eventually. Calmly he listened, watchful and waiting - their discussion was largely a veil to conceal as much as they could from one another as possible - but Angelo knew the Russian accent of the seated woman, so at least one of their mortal origins was obvious from the get-go. Now, exactly who either of them were - that remained a question still in play. What to do, what to do? They seemed to be getting along just fine, and truth be told Angelo already had somebody who'd piqued his interest enough to get talking, and beyond that the business of keeping a lawless city like Detroit in check was more than enough for anyone to be dealing with. Yet, even with that knowledge, he couldn't help but feel like he wanted to know what brought these women to this place this late - and if his years as a thief or his conduct towards other kindred on his rise to power were anything to go by, the Prince had never let propr behaviour get in the way of what he wanted before. Slowly he moved from the railing of the upper stalls and paced his way downward, not hiding the footsteps this time - though the carpet still muffled every sound it could reach with impunity, like a hitman with a garotte. "Well, this is a pleasant surprise." He said, his voice warm and welcoming, but unyielding as it sprange from wall to wall in the near-vacant theatre. In response, his natural smirk returned and he added an aside, "Nice acoustics in here." Moving to the very back row of ground-floor seating, Angelo perched hismelf on the edge of one arm of a chair and lengthened his legs, both clad in torn denim and steel-toe boots as one swung across and over the other nonchalantly. Reaching for a pack of cigarettes, the Prince stuck one end over a lighter's flame and perched it at an angle from the side of his mouth. Calmly, he offered forward the pack and lighter both, "Am I the only guilty smoker or do either of you want a light?" There was something about these two that was very different compared to the rest of the Kindrd he'd met - for one, he didn't know them. For another, they didn't seem to know him - and that suited him fine. Honestly was rarely spoken to a Prince's face, and he liked the refreshing change on the few ocassions it greeted him. |
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| Coco | Jan 6 2014, 08:16 PM Post #5 |
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Childe
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She can hardly look away from the dome, because up there, the shadows move in a slow vortex. What -is- that? She wonders to herself and would make note to ask Evangelos when they study again. What keeps them all here like this? If there are wraiths moving stone around, that is edging into territory she needs knowledge of. Manipulation. Of pathos, of corpus, of everything. She draws herself out of the reverie and looks to the woman again, a wide grin spreading over her face before she looks to the stage, and wanders the few steps to it, and up. "I was ghost hunting actually, but I suppose having the stage is pretty interesting too." Sometimes the truth is best hidden in plain sight. Ghost hunting is a popular past time thanks to ridiculous reality television. "What about you? Have you come to watch me forget all the lessons I had as a child?" She asks with a charming tease to her tone, striking a pose with arms lifted, but as she spins, her eyes fall on the approaching man and all she can think is... BUSTED. She just stands there a moment, angora sweater slipping from a dusky shoulder, the small G pendant around her throat glittering. She looks to Zoya with a bit of worry in her eyes. The woman seems so perfect, so polished and in-control, surely she isn't worried about this guy. Right? Right. She looks to Angelo again and smiles. Well if he is some kid of owner he doesn't look the part and also, he's offering them to smoke in his theatre? What the- that doesn't even a little bit add up. "Oh, I don't smoke. I had one of those vaporizers but it seemed a little silly, so I just didn't. Not that I have a problem with anyone smoking. I mean it's cool if that's what you want to do." Rambling, good lord, shut UP, Coco. Brows lift, and she performs a sissonne en avant, graceful as can be but with obvious rusty execution. "So that makes three of us, entering without breaking.Unless of course YOU, broke something, Marlboro man? A ghost-hunter, a music-listener, and a smoker. If there's ever been a more unusual gathering, I can't think of it." |
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| Zoya Stomalkov | Jan 6 2014, 11:48 PM Post #6 |
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Ghost hunting? An interesting past time for this bella to be so taken with. Were there ghosts that haunted these halls? Did the paintings move and talk across the ceiling? "I wouldn't call them lessons if you don't remember them," the Sage rested her elbow on the armrest and watched the girl climb the stage, resting her chin in the palm of her hand, black satin cupping her pale cheek, "At least someone taught you to be beautiful." This much was true. The girl may have been a pitiful dancer, but where she lacked in her pliƩ, she definitely gained in style and grace. Heavy footsteps reverberated overhead and behind. Someone else was here. This trend was quickly beginning to grate her nerves into finely shredded dairy product. It was in the way that the girl spun on foot and suddenly stopped with widened eyes that alerted her of the newest interloper's 'official' arrival. Turning her head to take in the man's hulking frame, her eyes travelled from his head to toe, sizing him up with a fierce gaze before looking back to be met with Coco's nervous, doe brown eyes. "Yes, I would imagine it's designed that way for a reason," Zoya said pointedly in reply to Angelo's initial opening line. She waved a hand dismissively to his offer of a cigarette, the sparkle at the base of the sweet girl's throat catching her eyes as she anxiously prattled on. A G? For ghost? For Giselle? For... No, she couldn't be... But she could. She most certainly could. No heartbeats rang true in the theatre this night. No, there were more sinister creatures at play here. "You must not have been here on 'Devil's Night'," Zoya said to the sweet thing shuffling her feet on the stage, rising from seat fluidly, "In the nights prior to Halloween, all of Detroit's budding criminals band together and vandalize the streets. If you have a good view from Downtown, you can look out over the inner-city suburbs and see all the abandoned and inhabited housing alike," She turned around to face Angelo, her hands disappearing beneath the cape as she crossed her arms beneath her bust, "Burning." The expression that was painted on Zoya's face wasn't amused. Whoever this man was, he clearly had no place in a venue such as this, let alone respect for it. The way he carried himself was a good indicator that he most likely didn't care either. Pity he had to muss up such a perfectly good seat. She'd feel sorry for the next patron that had the unfortunate luck of sitting in that chair. Not really. She cocked her head, a small smirk quirking the left side of her mouth as she let another subtly challenging gaze sweep over his sprawled out frame. He'd be sorely mistaken if he thought she'd welcome him into the conversation he so carelessly interrupted with open arms, "I'm sure you've gathered there a time or two yourself, yes?" She looked at him expectantly, having carefully placed herself between him and the waifish ghost hunter lingering a ways behind her. |
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| Angelo | Jan 7 2014, 12:21 AM Post #7 |
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The Barkeep
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Angelo's eyebrow climbed his forehead in amusement - the way she looked at him made him think she sought to either unnerve him enough to leave, or to make him feel like he was wasting his time. Little did she know that the two Kindred ifnront of him were exactly the reason he was here in the first place - leaving without even discovering anythign was out of the question. However, another thign became obvious - she, and by extension the other lovely female kindred stood atop the stage, didn't actually know who he was. Oh, how he'd msised the times when people challenged him rather than bow without a fight. "You presume a lot, Miss. Judging ever person wearing a biker's jacket in Detroit is gonna make you more enemies than you can deal with, kindred or no - call it a fair heads up." Uncrossing his legs and hitting the floor with his heels as he stood from the chair and placed one hand casually into his pocket, the Prince kept up the unimportant, run-of-the-mill anarch impression he appeared to have started with - the better to pull information that otherwise might be kept from him. Early on, he had learned well that each rung on the Kindred societal ladder could find out something that would be kept hidden from all the others, "Though since it matters so much to you, no - I haven't. Oh, don't get me wrong, you're not completely off the mark - I was a pick-pocket, once. But I think I've grown entirely too large and noticable to pull of that brand of crime off now, no? Besides, I haven't dipped my hand into anothers pockets in many years now. No need - years ago I got together my starting capital and built my bar and club businesses up from scratch. I mean honestly - who scavenges from the streets with force when you don't need to, eh?" Taking a long drag from the cigarette in his hand, Angelo gestured towards the woman behind the russian with a smile - full faced it wasn't, but hopefully it gave her some degree of comfort, "Don't worry yourself about me, donnina - I didn't come here to make threats." His slow-burning umber gaze drew back to the more vocal of the two, "Though apparently I still gotta convince Momma Bear, huh? Alright, fine by me." Raking his free hand through his tousselled hair, he continued, his tone a challenge in its' own right, "Though I gotta say, for someone who claims so much knowledge of this city, you ain't much for current affairs. You even know who the current Prince is? Either of ya? Cuz I know he'll wanna know who you are if you're gonna go around insulting people like that. Makes messes most in power would rather not have to clean up. A city ain't so different to a bar in that regard - a cutomer causes more trouble than they're worth - pow, shoved just far enough for the door to slap their ass on the way out." He waited calmly, taking one final drag of the cigarette before stubbing it out in his palm - it wasn't like he'd never dealt with worse pain anyway - Angelo tossed the stub into one of the bins at the ends of the aisles and folded his arms, locking his golden brown eyes with a steel glare - and not for the first time this week at that. Unlike his earlier, practically civil sparring of words with Cutting, however, Angelo's eyes conveyed more than a flicker of fire tonight. He opened his mouth to speak, his words as pointed and riled as a chainsaw raked along gravel, "So being as I came in willing to meet an' greet - and, potentially, show you where to go and who to talk to that'd avoid you some trouble - where exactly does Mother Russia get off telling me who I am, where I go and what I do when she doesn't even know who runs this place yet?" Edited by Angelo, Jan 7 2014, 12:41 AM.
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| Coco | Jan 7 2014, 12:58 AM Post #8 |
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Childe
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Coco listens as Zoya adresses the apparent biker guy. Luckily, she is young enough that she isn't out of her element with most modern 'scenes', then again, she is also young enough not to see real danger when it's well-spoken either. She listens, fascinated by the telling about Devil's Night. Could such a harrowing night have something to do with this place? With the..turbulence? There is a lot of anger here, enough to move stone it seems. Brown eyes move from Zoya to Angelo as the raven-haired beauty turns to face him. She is brave, but bravado is something coco also wears, along with angora, fur, and other luxuries. They match so nicely with torment, but what is unlife if not a series of contradictions? When the broad man stands up though, Coco moves, dropping down from the stage and prowling like a long, lean cat to Zoya's side, if instinctually just a pace behind her. Not enough to look cowardly, but enough to betray the fact she is little more than a fledgling and she is -aware- of the fact. Stupid does not a long-lived monster make. She studies him as he speaks, her expression neutral. She knew the Prince's name, or was, at least TOLD it during the flight here but it didn't stick. She's never met a prince before and honestly doesn't really expect to, ever. Why would she? She's a nobody, an /independent/ nobody. She decides to skip over the question instead of just being like hurrr derp, I forgot his name, and moves on to the next part he says. "But we aren't causing any trouble, are we?" She looks to Zoya. "I mean, She was just sitting there listening to music and having a lovely relaxing time and then I came in here and we were just talking." Why does she feel like a youth about to get in trouble, who is this guy, some kind of cammie dog sent out to harass people? She frowns when he puts the cigarette out on himself and by the time he is finished speaking, she is downright snarling, hackles raised, and the sudden surge of flared emotion rolling off the necromancer causes a shuffle and stir among the spiriti, drawing them like a beacon in an area already saturated with them. "She knows who runs this place!" She almost barks at him, beast riding high, anxious and wound up in the company of the older kindred. She looks to Zoya then. Well uh, hopefully she does know, if no then they are both screwed. What was his name? Peter? Micky? Michael? Davy? Wait, no those are the friggin Monkees. She stares at Zoya then, rather intently. |
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| Angelo | Jan 7 2014, 02:08 AM Post #9 |
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The Barkeep
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Angelo's burning, golden brown gaze glanced to the younger kindred with a quirked eyebrow arched atop it, "Oh? Tell me, little one, how do you know that if you only met tonight? Now I strongly suggest you cool your jets and come upon the realization - sooner, rather than later - that the instigator of this little spitting contest was not me. I strode in and offered a light, that's all - you said you didn't mind, fine. Ice-queen Killer-woman here decided I was a criminal and practically told me I was scum - how would you respond if I'd done the same to you?" Hearing his last word echo around them into the rafters, Angelo gripped his jacket and straightened it, cracking his neck from one side to the other with a certain degree of satisfaction. "Yeah." He said, acid lacing his syllables, "That's what I thought." To think, if he'd been like this when he'd been as young as her, Harriet would've torn out his throat before he'd even thought to scream. The young did little to keep themselves alive these days, it would seem. He pitied them, if anything - after all, despite the truth of his own age, the word on the street - well, on the right streets at least - was that there was some monstrously old kindred about to rise up and call everybody childe. Presence came to mind - more than once - but this wasn't something he really wanted to expose a young fledging to. Even in his position, there were figures of power - the Don, the Baron, or worse an Archbishop he'd not known about. Worse again, any one of them could have a dumb childe who didn't know any better, and that childe could be sat behidn the russian who thought she knew every god-damn thing about him. What he could use, was the thought that followed that - she thought she knew him. She thought him a thug - and God knew he'd spent enough time around them to act one when the need arose. So despite his position and the serious shit they were giving him, he opted not to spill the beans. He could make better use of these particular unknowns if he himself remained unknown to them. Sighing and throwing his hands up, he gestured towards them both as a singular, "Look, I'm not in the mood for a fight - believe me, if I was this wouldn't be where I'd pick." He glanced to the russian woman with a half-smile that seemed genuine if perhaps ill-educated on exactly why she idolized this place as she did, "You may not like me, but we both know that this is not the place for a brawl. If it's lasted this long, be a shame to wreck shop in here now. Do you know where you can find the Prince? If you don't, I can give you the address - go there, receptionist'll give you an appointment, all of the bad things that could happen to an un-announced kindred go away. In a city as politically unstable as Detroit, having the knowledge that at least one of the major powers won't stake you and drag you into a van is a good thing for a nice, long, boring - or at least profitable - unlife." He strode back towards his initial seat, glancing sideways at them as he took in the surrounding view - it wasn't his style, no, but he could see the appeal. "In the end, you may not want anythign to do with the guy - given Cape Prince's reputations, why wouldja? But, Camarilla's the ones who run Elysium. Sense would say it's better to have allies than enemies - somethin' I tried to say earlier, if you'd not gone and bitten my head off first." Edited by Angelo, Jan 7 2014, 02:11 AM.
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| Zoya Stomalkov | Jan 7 2014, 06:03 AM Post #10 |
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Zoya took a step back with an irritated sigh, widening the gap between them just a tad, needing the physical space to reel in her impulsive wish to lash out at the stranger standing before her. Coco's sudden flight to her side was as cute as it was aggravating. She'd only just put herself there to keep the youngest in the room out of harm's way from this potential predator, should he decided to charge at her like an angry bull. He definitely had the means to if he so wished, but the way he was handling himself, he wanted to try and make them feel bad for being guarded? At least the wispy little thing wavering behind her understood what she'd interrupted as well. Zoya's eyes veered in the ghost hunter's direction as she spoke, though her head never turned to look at her fully. A small smile played on her lips, she was liking the girl more and more, despite never taking her eyes off the brute looming just a few feet in front of her. When he addressed the girl, his tone taking a turn for venomous, she eyed him sharply, "If you don't want a fight, then don't dress like you're looking for one," She said simply, returning his smile coldly and lifting her chin, "I wouldn't make the baby fuss. She has the dead on her side." She spared a soft glance to the young necromancer before letting it swing back to the hulking mass of Mediterranean, collecting a cool and calm demeanor as her hands fell to her hips, "I won't apologize for being guarded. You said yourself this city is shaky at best. Why would I so blindly trust you? I don't even trust her, and I'm fond of her. You both could have easily already mapped out three different ways in your minds to drive the stake you so beautifully described into my back." She paused, her hand clasping together, her hard gaze softening, "However, I will apologize for the offences I have caused you. Regardless of good intentions, please understand our hesitation." Licking her lips, another sideways glance found Coco within safe proximity still, "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I was lead to believe the reigning Prince is one with the Rabble, yes? What makes you say he's not one to be fond of? I planned on venturing out to seek him once I'd gotten properly settled. Perhaps you could shed some light on his character." |
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| Coco | Jan 7 2014, 05:36 PM Post #11 |
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Childe
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She might be a curious torturer in the basement of her family's home, but she immediately feels bad for her impassioned protectiveness and girl-code-two-against-potentially-rapacious-male reaction. He's probably a really nice guy and if she had a tail, it would be tucked by now. She also decides that maybe it's best if she stops talking, since she is nowhere as good as Zoya is at it. She does however, offer a "Sorry Signore..." Genuine if a bit humbled. Dark eyes go to Zoya, almost horrified when she calls her a baby but compared to the other two it's rather true and she does have the dead on her side, not that she'd really meant to have a side at all, she is just socially retarded. She gives her a smile, a fondly apologetic one at that. coco is the friend that talks too much, that doesn't always think before she speaks. The one that gets too loud when she drinks and the only saving grace is her sense of comedy that is honed to super mutant proportions. Like, if being funny was a body part, she'd have giant lobster claw size hands. Been a while since she had a drink though. She looks between the two of them as they talk, impressed with the way they sniff each other out, Zoya the image of dark perfection, Angelo broad, intimidating but holding good intentions. She stays where she is, a few steps behind Zoya and though she might be hot-blooded and Italian through and through, she does seem to know when to simmer down. When Zoya poses her question, she looks to Angelo, now curious to see what he would say of the prince who remains as much a mystery to her as every Camarilla prince has. |
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| Angelo | Jan 7 2014, 10:18 PM Post #12 |
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The Barkeep
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Angelo looked between the two - first deciding he was a criminal, then deciding they believed him now, then telling him what not to wear? He sighed in a manner mirroring the russian woman, but he did it with a smile, even if it was an exasperated one. His clan-bound temper still bubbled him its' cage, ready to overflow through the bars and hit anyone and everyone in the way like a wave of blood - but it wasn't worth it. He had this. "Maybe my sire wasn't as wrong about me an' talkin' to new arrivals as I'd like to think, huh? Don't sweat it, kiddo - this ain't the last argument you'll end up having in Detroit, better with me than someone else." He re-directed his attention to the main speaker for the two, assuming she'd understand why he was ensuring the youngest in the room wasn't under the impression she'd done all the bad behaviour - a, because she hadn't, a b, because there would be more than a few times where somebody would try to make her feel like she had. At least she already had the spine to stand up with - now she just needed practice. "I dress like I'm ready for a fight because it discourages others from starting one - it ain't a flawless solution, but short of getting in some obfuscate training, I make do with what I got." He raised a hand ever-so-slightly from where it hung in a bored manner at his side, "Anyway," he said, trying to keep them on track now that he knew he wasn't gonna have to hammer-hand somebody, "The Prince. Far as I can see, he may not even be interested in making the Capes the dominant sect. Detroit has two major powers - though if we got a shipment of Giovanni heading in, maybe that'll change the balance, I dunno - the Capes and the Anarchs. Neither controls the whole city. The Sabbat - well, y'know what they're like, every city has an infestation somewhere cuz they replenish numbers faster. Problem with trying to do it the nice way I guess. So far they ain't got a leader, so between the two factions and the peace treaty they both hold to, you got a fair swathe of Detroit that ain't a horror-show to pass through." Itching his hair, Angelo stroked his hand down his face and to his chin, suddenly looking like he had a lot of thinkign to do. "Been a while since I needed to present myself," he said, lying with the authority and confidence only a political player could achieve - even if he did it primarily by mimicking Harriet, "But you'll at least be on the right trail with The Prince Hotel. As for the man himself? He seems fair enough - which ain't a normal trait for any other Prince I ever met, an' I've moved city twice." That last part was true, in fairness, though when he moved the second time it was just back to Detroit - after eating a few of the oldest of the city's kindred, he had more than enough muscle to pull his reign together by will alone. "Ruthless in terms of punishment, but just in terms of dishin' 'em out. Main reason I didn't want either of ya findin' yourself in a Cape dungeon with a stake pokin' outta your chest. Beyond that, hey - look around. The Camarilla-run areas of the city are safe and well-guarded for Kindred, and the 'contested' areas of the city between the anarchs and the camarilla look more like two different groups of friends with a few crossovers. Granted, a sceptical person would say that can only last so long - but this guy seems more inclined to win the anarchs back rather than win against them in a brawl." Edited by Angelo, Jan 7 2014, 10:20 PM.
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| Zoya Stomalkov | Jan 10 2014, 11:27 PM Post #13 |
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Salt
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This was a dance she was too disinterested to partake in. This sparring with words, wit, and cunning nonsense was a waste of time in comparison to what she was trying to do before being so rudely interrupted. Gone are the days of morals and manners. Whilst it was good riddance for the former, the latter she was sad to see go. Sad in the sense that it was incredibly frustrating having to deal with half-wits that had no clue. His reasoning for dressing like a street rat was far from a viable excuse in her book, but she had to remind herself that not everyone held themselves to the same standards she did. She wavered before him for a few more moments, partially listening to his voice, as well as partially distracted by the nostalgic music that was drifting her phone, still laying precariously on the armrest where she'd been sitting. Slowly and wordlessly, she drifted back to it, still listening, but finding that it was much less annoying doing so from the comfort of her seat versus standing and staring each other down. Part of her wished he dared to cross her, but another part reassured her she was wise in choosing to stay vigilant and calm. Her eyes fluttered closed, her head swaying in satisfaction with the sound. "Well, isn't that something?" She asked with feigned interest, "The Prince resides at the Prince Hotel. How original." She didn't bother trying to hide the sarcasm in her voice. Beyond that tiny tidbit of information he'd dropped, nothing else he said particularly caught her interest, his words droning on and ruining the cadenza. His continued mention of the Anarchs could lead to something, but the last time she'd tried to follow it, she found herself at a dead end, yet again. Now she was here, in another dead end of sorts. She discreetly slips her hand into the clutch she'd carried in, pulling out a silver tin and opening it to reveal a line of ten black Nat Sherman cigarettes with gold filters. She held it out to Angelo from where she sat, offering him one as she swiftly lit the one poised between her lips and took in a slow drag, savoring the smooth nicotine that lightly coated her throat, "If you're going to smoke, smoke something that actually tastes good." Just the smell of those mass-produced, poor quality cigarettes he'd been smoking earlier made her want to vacate the building. Zoya stared off into empty space on the stage, idly smoking her cigarette and wondering where to go from here. Silence fell over them once more, perhaps the show was coming to an end, though she highly doubted it. She turned her head and regarded the two still standing in the wide aisle just a few feet from her, sighing as her eyes rested on the diamond pendant glittering in the hollow of the girl's throat. Suspicion was a curious thing. Was she of Giovanni descent? Did the ghosts that haunted this place bend to her will? Could she reanimate fresh corpses? Or was she a different kind of necromancer? "Who are you, anyways? His Sheriff? The glorified door greeter of the city?" Her tone could easily be mistaken for patronizing, but in reality, it was probably the closest to friendly he'd get from her. |
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| Angelo | Jan 11 2014, 12:40 AM Post #14 |
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The Barkeep
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Angelo held his tongue a moment, his gaze held on the offered cigarette with a mask of considering her offer while he wrestled his temper into its' cool-down box behind as neutral a mask as he could muster - not incosiderable, though being that his lineage was as it was, Angelo let the fact that his smirk seemed slightly put-out slide. It was better than coud be expected of most that hailed from his blood and clan, and that in turn was a fair response. A moment passed, then, before he finally shook his head respectfully, "If your tastes are more refined than mine, I'll politely decline - as odd as that sounds comin' from the thug-like figure, heh. My vice I'm happy to fuel with whatever's on sale - best you keep yours for yourself. Still, the offer's kind of ya." Fiddling with his jacket sleeve, the Prince continued, enjoyign the game of deception but not entirely sure where he'd go with his answer. Still, winging it had served him well thus far. "As for your question - no and no, I'm afraid. Who I am I tend to be wary about sayin' to folks I barely know - something we actually have in common, judgin' by how little I know of either of ya." He grinned for such a brief flash anyone watching could've sworn they only thought it'd happened, "You told me nothing about you, an' in that regard I'm as close to a social mirror as my current sate will allow. Might need to dust off and iron the suit before I can really live up to the description though. As fer my manners... Best I can do is apologize, bella donna. The way my unlife has gone, I've needed a tire iron more often than those." He shrugged, flowing from the nonchalant motion into the jerking wiggle that enabled his spine to work a sharp cracking sound out of its' vertebrae, "Ah-hah - that's the spot." He let the silence, the obvious mis-match of the three of them and the social awkwardness that had followed, wash aroudn him like saliva around a tooth, before sticking his hands in his pockets and returning to a casual smirk, "But, if I'm a no-name nobody to ya, I won't be so bold as to think you gotta tell me who you are. If ya get in good with the Prince, there'll be rumours, an' if ya don't, maybe we'll meet again somewhere equally unfit for a brawl. If we do, I'll try an' have my manners with me. Enjoy your night, milday." He punctuated the formal address with a bow - genuine and well-practised despite his claims of lacking any manners. More than anything else, Angelo wanted the russian - hell, both of them - to wonder who the hell he was and how much of what he'd said was true before either of them came before him in his true function. The nature of the game was in the small plays - the recon, the wordplay and the parry, feint and spin. for now, he turned and left them both to their own plans for the night - he had what he needed. The Nosferatu would have access to records that he ordinarily did not - if there was anythign to discover about these two, he could find it between tonight and their meeting, if they did arrange one. If not... Well, there wasn't a word of a lie in his speech about stakes and vans. Witht hat final thought on the matter, he strode out into the night air with a deep breath inward and a grin on his face so wide it would shock the city to the core. |
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7:15 PM Jul 11