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Old 08-13-2014, 07:55 AM   #1
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A History Of Violence: The Brujah Way (Closed)

Chicago was cold tonight. Oddly so, for all the sweltering heat that the city could provide in the summer. People thought of snow when they considered a windy city, but that was only a small part of its makeup. In summer, the closeness to lake Michigan made for hot, humid weather. Not tonight though, tonight it was cold. Locke didn't really give a damn, but it was something to think about, while he drove.

Locke was mostly indifferent to such concerns. Vampires, at least to his way of thinking, were not effected by such piddling concerns at the weather. It came and went, same as the seasons, same as the years. Some of his kin might have said that it was poetic, but poetry was also among the concerns which gave him no concern. Leave that to the smirking Toreador, or the laughing Malkavian. Brujah found poetry in acts and deeds, not in words. If Locke wanted to describe a sunset, he'd just have to go find a picture of one. Wordplay was just out.

Even among a clan such as his, brutal and barbaric, Locke's attitudes toward speech might be considered off the wall. He simply didn't. Didn't speak, didn't talk, didn't even really try to communicate, beyond what little he felt needed to be said. Some, notably his far more verbose sire Gunther, had said this was attributable to his time spent in Vietnam. Locke let them carry on believing that. The simple truth was he didn't speak, because he had nothing to say. When he had something to say, he would say it, and then be done. Words were like weapons to him, and he used them as such; Sparingly, but with great precision.

As Locke drove though, he pondered the nights work. There had been rumblings of Sabbath activity in the south end, and that was precisely what Locke was out looking for. His vehicle of choice for the caper was a beat up, torn to shit, ford Truck. Nothing fancy, but just what he needed to cruise the down and out neighborhoods with little chance of being shot.

Not that being shot was much a concern to the 6'6" vampire. Few mortals at all cared to deal with anyone of his stature, nonetheless as powerful and imposing a figure as he had. Even in life Locke had been intimidating, but the embrace had made him into nightmare fuel. His skull was completely bare, and seemed almost to gleam in the night. His jaw was strong, matching his heavy brow, and wide, once broken nose. Of his eyes, nothing could be seen, for even in the deepest areas of night, he concealed them behind an opaque set of ray-bans. God have mercy on the poor fool who made him take them off.

Thus far patrol had been largely a dud, and Locke was nearly ready to head back towards city center when he heard the all too familiar thunderclaps of rounds being fired. Not all that unusual for a violent city like this, but something told him this might be worth checking out. After all, Sabbat activity in an area would inevitably lead to more violent crime...and besides, He hadn't had a chance to crack some skulls this evening yet. Might even be time to feed.

Grinning at the thought, Locke pulled into a dilapidated gas station and made a slow turn by the gas pumps, coming out the other side, and then stepping on the gas, pushing the old rust bucket to its limit as he moved towards the sounds of the gunshot. Almost absently, he reached into his coat, pulling out the massive bear of a handgun he wielded, a Desert Eagle fifty cal, checking the load, and clicking the safety to off. Most mundane weapons wouldn't do shit to kindred, but Locke had found this was one circumstance where size did matter. Put a big enough hole in anything, and it'll give that thing reason to pause, followed shortly by reasons to die.Of course if that didn't do the trick...well he always had the piano case as a backup.

When he reached the scene of the gunshots, Locke didn't bother with slowing down or stopping, he drove straight towards it, aiming out the window at the shooter, and letting loose with three rounds from his hand cannon. After this, he stopped the truck, looking around to appraise the rest of the situation, and determine if it needed more direct action on his part. He was fine with the direct approach, it was his strong suit.
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Old 08-17-2014, 07:03 AM   #2
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People always said when one faced their inevitable death, there was time to look back on life, to see all the past choices, for good or bad. Life would flash before one's eyes, how many times had that been said? It was just an expression, a flowery poetic pose no doubt used by spoony bards that loved to hear themselves.

It was cold tonight, though Elin didn't realize just how cold till her back was pressed up against the mortar and brick of a crumbling old building, her hands drenched in her own blood trying futility to keep it from leaking between her fingers. She hadn't seen her life flash before her eyes, she hadn't even seen the bullet coming before the pain radiated up through her core. At first it was just a forceful pressure, if it hadn't been for the thunderous explosion of the gun going off she wouldn't even have realized she was shot.

Yet there she was, shot in the back by a cockless coward barely old enough to grow a cheesy mustache. It was a rather worthless ending to a so far worthless life, yet Elin didn't see flashes of her pitiful existence nor feel pangs of regret for all those moments in life she royally screwed up. The thing she felt most was anger. Anger at not being able to stop this fucker from shooting her, anger at being at the wrong place at the wrong time, anger for her boss Ronny for closing early forcing her to walk home. It bubbled up inside her, despite the blinding pain of getting shot through the back by a .22. And for a moment anger was all that kept her going. It surprised the little fuck, if only for a moment the look of shock on his face was worth it as Elin turned around and faced him. She wore an unbelieving look on her sharp, angular visage. Her lips were parted in disbelief, even as the blood welled up and soaked her gray tanktop, her hand instantly becoming warm and wet, even sticky as her lifeforce dribbled out.

“You fuckin' shot me...” She managed to say, her voice hoarse and more than a little shocked. Yet all too quickly the realization settled in and the anger steeled her nerves. “You fuckin' shot me! You little fuckin' punk!”

Her voice carried into the cold night air, sharp and crackling with righteous anger. Elin moved forward, a shaky step that felt like a ferocious leap to her. In her mind she had it all planned out, moving quick as lightning she snapped the gun from his grasp, give him a back hand or a boot to the groin, then perhaps a witty one-liner as she surveyed the damage.

Instead, she got two more rounded point-blank in the chest.

The punk fired off the rounds in more of a reflexive twitch of his finger than deliberately pulling the trigger. Elin felt each one go straight through, taking her breath and any remaining strength she had.

“Shit,” She coughed, tasting blood in the back of her throat. Her heavy boots scuffed against the ground as she stumbled back, the warmth of her split vitae in vivid contrast to the coldness of the world around her. Everything was wild and chaotic then, the world blurred, shifted and distorted. It took her a moment or two to realize it was because she fell, more or less straight back over the curb. Somehow she managed to scramble back till her back pressed against the nearby building, its bricks hard, rough, and cold even through her black denim jacket. The punk kid still held up the gun in Elin's direction, looking both terrified and angered at the same time. It was almost comical, Elin might have laughed if she hadn't had so many new holes. What was funnier still was how she ended up her in this situation, getting gunned down in the bad part of town like any other statistic on the evening news.

The day had started out crappy, just like they always did. Elin had an okay job at friend's dojo/gym. She was a trainer of sorts, though she had next to no professional training. Still, Elin was quick and strong, as evident with her lean, athletic figure. Fighting came natural to her, from a young age her fists were getting her into and out of trouble regularly. They had damned her early on and redeemed her in her adult life. She took up boxing, if only to keep in shape and vent anger though she was damn good at it. Elin made friends in the area of mixed martial arts, even landed herself a decent job. For once, her instinct drive to put her fist before her brain worked out. That was until tonight when she decided to stand up for a crack whore getting roughed up by a trio of street thugs. It was a dumb move, but nothing that Elin hadn't done dozens of times before. Standing up to little shits like this was common practice, show a little force and they would piss their pants and run.

Not this time. They must have been on the junk or riding the high of beating hapless hookers into bloody heaps. The first one fell all too quickly though. That tends to happen when a bottle is shattered on their heads. It isn't like in the movies. Elin mostly regretted wasting her recently purchased bottle of booze on the asshat's head, but she didn't have time to think about it as the other two closed in. She dodged a few haphazard swings and returned them in kind, smashing in the face of the second punk before she turned on the third. He was ready for her though, the street light caught on the edge of his knife as he unfolded it. Elin was ready for that too, after all who doesn't carry at least a knife with them? Unfortunately, she didn't realize she was bring a knife to a gun fight.

Elin couldn't help but wonder where she dropped her knife now as her limbs started to go numb, her mouth felt dry and blood was everywhere. She could tasted it, smell it, feel it. For a moment it was all she knew, until the punk with the gun exploded in a gory spray of his own blood...and some bone and muscle and...she wasn't sure what else those pieces were. By this time she was watching it unfold through glazed over green eyes. The world was dimming and little existed but the few players in the last chapter of her life.

One dead, one unconscious, the remaining thug saw his friend explode and did what any good buddy would do, he fucking ran like a bitch. Elin didn't watch him go, by now she was aware of the blaring headlights of a shitty truck nearby, heard the rumble of its engine. It dawned on her then she had no idea what happened to the girl. Hopefully the dumb bitch ran...but Elin wasn't in a position to run.

All Elin could do was laugh, her hand still pressed against her lower abdomen and the initial gun wound. She looked a real hot mess at the moment, her lean, toned body clad in a pair of tight jeans, gray tanktop, combat boots and a black denim jacket. The tanktop was drenched in her blood now, her jeans splattered here and there with oddly shaped sprays of it. Despite it all she was still beautiful, the typical rough scowl she would wear replaced by a loopy mirth. Her hair was short and black, the left side almost shaved down to a burr while the bangs at the right side nearly reached her chin. Several hoops and studs caught the light of the nearby streetlamp, even the sheen of her grayish-green eyes shimmered lightly. All in all she might have been a decent looker if she hadn't been on Death's door.

“Ugh...fuck...I need a beer,” Elin groaned huskily, wincing as the pain in her chest and sides started to make her muscles spasm. At least they would be numb like her limbs soon enough. The thought crossed her mind to call out for help, someone was in the truck. It didn't matter that they had just blown away her attacker, Elin wasn't really thinking straight. But her voice wouldn't carry over the roar of the truck's engine and she wasn't exactly in the middle of the street either. Still, it wasn't hard to follow the blood trail. Nah, she thought glumly, I'll just sit here and die. Fuck begging for help with my last breath.
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Old 08-17-2014, 06:22 PM   #3
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What a mess.

Stepping out of his truck, Locke turned his attentions to the scene before him, gaging what had happened with a practiced eye. For one who had caused this sort of violence on more than one occasion it was an easy feat to manage.

He considered the woman sitting against the brickwork for a moment, his sharp ears and eyes observing what his mind could already articulate. She was dying. Multiple bullet wounds, at least one penetrating a lung. Her lungs would be filling with blood now. It was a wonder that the fucker with the gun hadn't shot out her heart, killed her instantly. Odd bit of luck for her, although not good luck as far as Locke could tell. This death would take some time.

He could smell the blood on the air too, that salty sticky flavor that put his fangs on edge. Just the scent was enough to remind him of his hunger. He considered the young woman to alleviate the problem for a moment, and then discarded such a notion. She was already on the way out. There wouldn't be any honor in taking her life, and she deserved better. He could tell she'd fought her heart out, and for what?

That was a good question. He doubted these dumbasses would have tried to mug her. Even crackheads were generally smarter than that. Must have been something else...Absently he wondered if she'd attacked them. That would seem to jive with what was laid out before him. That was a hell of a case of balls. They'd probably been doing something stupid, she'd interceded, and the fight had broken out. Bully for her not backing down, even if this was the result.

It also impressed him that she wasn't begging. Even now, with the pain she was in, she was still awake, still cognizant. What she wasn't though, was begging for her life. That was different. It reminded Locke of his own 'death' in some ways. Going out like a warrior.

He'd thought he was going to die in Nam. Lived with that idea every second of his three tours. The guys had called him 'Ape' for his size, suggested rightly that he'd be one giant target for the Viet Kong. Maybe, but the VC had never done more than piss him off. He'd made it through the whole war in one piece, made it back stateside. Not good job prospects for someone like him at that time. Colleges didn't want a 'babykiller' on campus, and there were alot of veterans looking for jobs. Size helped though, and that'd gotten him a job at a dive bar, in a part of town just like this one. He'd been busting up one of the usual roughnecks when his friends showed up.

It'd been a nice fight, five on one, good odds for Locke. They'd gotten in each others way. He hadn't. Would have fucked the lot up, if one hadn't pulled a knife, stabbed him in the back. Fucker probably still needed a straw to eat, but the damage had been done. He'd died then, in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. When he'd woken up, well that was a whole nother ball of wax.

Now he had a girl with a similar story to her, same kind of balls, same kind of shit luck. It was almost enough to make the Brujah believe in faith. After all, didn't Gunther used to say he'd know when he had someone worthy of the blood? It had been a heavy idea, and one Locke didn't particularly care for, but it had possibilites.

Maybe.

All of these thoughts whirled through Locke's mind in the space of a few seconds as he gave the girl a once over, checking her blood stained jeans for ID, finding what he needed to know. He knelt beside her, studying her driver's license, pondering the choice he faced.

"Elin huh? You need to learn to count Elin. These kind of shitheads will get lucky every so often. Then again, I'm guessing you already knew that. Here's the bottom line, you're going to die. No question. You've got more blood on the outside than the in, and there's not alot I can do about that. You get one choice, very simple. Stick with me, and I'll make sure the dying is a temporary thing. Or you can die, and that fucker you lost will get off scott free. Me personally, I'd like to see the fucker die, but you know his face. Take your pick, and don't think for a second I'm fucking with you."

Locke paused, almost winded by the length of his speech, surprised at his own loquaciousness. He then reached up, tilting down the pair of ray-bans that covered his eyes, letting her see what lay beneath.

Other Brujah called his eyes an obvious predator trait, but what it really meant, was his eyes stayed monstrous. They didn't look human, not even slightly. Dark with blood, blazing with predatory fury. Not even slightly normal. Locke loved them for some of the intimidation work he did, but they made social interaction difficult. In this case though, he felt they'd get the point across.

Now the decision would be up to her to decide, if she could embrace his choice blind. It was a decision Locke had never been given by his sire, and one she only had the briefest of time to consider. The embrace would take moments, but the cops would be hear almost as soon....Besides, they still had hunting to do.
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Old 08-18-2014, 05:04 AM   #4
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Elin lamented busting her cheap bottle of booze over one of the punk's heads, even as her core tensed and spasmed, her back arched and she half coughed, half retched up another mouthful of blood. Breathing was becoming a serious problem, Elin wasn't aware she had been shot through the lung, not exactly at least. All she knew was the metallic taste of her own blood, sharp and biting and the fact that she really wanted a drink. She wouldn't accept the fact that she wouldn't have another beer again, not in this life. The idea was too deep, too profound to comprehend for one in her condition. There were no lofty thoughts in her mind, only the dull awareness that she wasn't entirely alone. Elin missed the crunch of Locke's boots as he approached, it wasn't until the tall, imposing man was nearly on top of her that she even recognized him at all.

By now her face was an pale ashen gray, her lips flecked with blood and her eyes dull, near lifeless. Still, she managed a smirk, flashing her teeth that were stained in her own crimson lifeforce.

“Hey, man. Got a smoke I can bum?” She managed to say, sputtering near the enough as more blood clogged her inner workings. She let out a raspy gargle, lost herself in the moment as the nameless stranger promptly rummaged around in her pockets for God knew what. It wasn't until he spoke her name again that she found some focus. She narrowed her attention on that low slung voice, her mind reeling from the blood loss. His words didn't help, the confirmation from an outside source that she was going to bite it sent a cold chill through her wracked body. It was one of those sensations that crept up quickly and lingered, Elin didn't know if she wanted to scream or cry. Anger and despair seemed in equal sharing at the moment, in the end it didn't really matter much anyway.

That was when things good interesting. He went on, saying things that didn't make sense, that roused her from whatever little pity party she might experience otherwise. He must have been on something, saying shit that death was only temporary and that she could find the fucker that ran off. Revenge. It was a familiar feeling, one that Elin focused on if only for the slight sensation of comfort that came with it.

“How 'bout you just get me a beer and we'll call it even?” Elin managed, though it was a great feat to get that much out. She could laugh off what he said, time was running short and at least she could go out with a smile. Of course, that was till the stranger tilted his glasses lower and showed Elin he was all business. She wasn't looking at some crazy guy, hell, it wasn't a guy at all. Nothing natural had those kind of eyes, at least nothing Elin had seen. It was like looking into the blood red eyes of a wolf, bright with a feral cunning and anger. Elin had no idea what he was, but in her last moments he was offering her a chance to keep going. Or she could just die here on the cold hard ground. She would be dead and there would be absolutely nothing to recall that she even existed. It was a cold, harsh way to go, but it seemed it didn't have to be this way.

“What the fuck are you? The Devil?” Elin asked, her brows knitting above her green gaze. She reached out, her hand limp at the wrist as she tried to grab at the man. Just to see if he was even real. It took Elin only a fraction of a second to come to a conclusion then, through all the emotions, the pain, the numbness, the ideal of revenge seemed to be the only one keeping her from letting go. This demon, or whatever he was offered her just that. But there was always a catch, wasn't there? It didn't matter, Elin didn't have much to give and at this point she was dead meat anyway.

“F-fine. You wanna go find that fucker? Let's go then, big boy. But...you gotta carry me...my leg fell asleep,” Elin spat out a blood flecked guffaw at that, even as her eyes started to roll into the back of her skull and her hand fell limp into her lap.
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Old 08-19-2014, 09:46 AM   #5
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Her agreement was almost hysterical from the blood loss, but Locke was not phased by that issue. What mattered most to him, was that she understood what she was undertaking, that she grasped what might have laid before her. Devil or vampire, they were just words that described his state of being, and one was as fitting as another. Were not all of his kind damned, as surely as a fallen angel in her?

Locke had to chuckle at that last thought. Such romantic nonsense was more a toreador flight of fancy, than anything he himself would seriously consider. He he may not have been alive, but he was certainly not death either. Maybe the term undead was a bit to tangled up with zombie bullshit these days, but it did do an adequate job of explaining his position in the world. Stuck between the two.

Still, there were more pressing concerns.

Reaching out, Lock picked Elin up, laying her down across the cool pavement, watching as her body began to spasm from the effects of the blood loss. Her bleeding was almost finished. Soon so would her heartbeat. Sooner if he had anything to say about it.

In the movies vampires always fed from the neck, but Locke had long ago realized the issues this presented. Mortals often wore coats and jackets that obscured that area, and made feeding, particularly for one of his size, a difficult task indeed. Usually then, her preferred the arm, and that is what he selected this time. Her jacket was in the way, but he dealt with that, with one strong, stiff pull, ripping her sleeve off as easily as tearing paper, exposing the pale flesh beneath. He found the brachial arterie, nestled in her elbow, and then raised her arm to his lips, sinking his fangs into her rapidly cooling flesh.

Usually when feeding, Locke had iron resolve not to overfeed from his prey. He very rarely killed his food, a task far harder than one might think. Tonight though, he had no reservations. Focusing upon her weakening heartbeat, he supped deeply, pulling the blood from her body like the predator he was, feeling himself becoming flush and warm from the transfer, even as she became still more pale. At the last possible moment, and with her last few heartbeats he stopped, pulling himself away with great difficulty from the feeding, to raise his wrist to his lips, tearing at the flesh there, and unleashing a slow trickle of vitae.

He then raised his wrist to her lips, forcing a small measure of this elixir past her lips, and into the body beyond. He then watched, listening closely for her heartbeat, and when he heard it come, he knew his job was complete. Dead or vampire, there was nothing more he could do for her, not right now. With her injuries, she would probably take the rest of the night to heal, which meant he had plenty of time to deal with other affairs.

Wrapping her body in his duster, and bemoaning the need to buy yet another coat from all the bloodstains she would leave on this one, he tucked her away in the passenger side of the truck, buckling her body in securely.

Then he came back. The second drug addict was only now starting to come around, his concussion worsened significantly when Locke struck him hard and fast on the forehead, leaving him unconscious once more. Locke then took a few rolls of duck tape, and securing him thus, threw the addict in the back of his truck, rolling a tarp over him. That would do to take care of the matter.

After a few moments of selective looting on the crime scene, Locke climbed into the truck himself, and the three of them; one vampire, one neonate, and one prey took off into the night, driving slowly to avoid the attention of the cops speeding the other way.

Some time later, and in the darkness of a shabby hotel room, Locke laid his first and only progeny down in the darkness of a shower, leaving her still wrapped in his coat. He could already start to see the beginnings of the changes, her skin turning alabaster, and her features hardening to the coldness of vampiric features.

Her friend, on the other hand, was stripped nude, and then retaped to the only desk chair in the small room. Locke, for his part, took the bed. He had no concerns about them being interrupted during the daylight hours. This particular motel was managed by one of Gunther's herd, and it was a save haven to those of Brujah blood. They would find rest here easily.

As the dawn approached, Locke sat and watched his captive, considering his next course of action. He had promised the girl revenge, and he had every intention of following through on that agreement. It only remained to determine what course that revenge would take, and how it might play into his role as her sire. There were a lot of factors to consider.
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Old 08-20-2014, 08:31 AM   #6
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She offered no resistance as she was picked up, indeed, Elin was nothing but dead weight in Locke's grasp. But it didn't matter, her frame weighted next to nothing compared to the threshold he could carry. Elin wasn't entirely aware she had moved, that was until she was laid flat on her back. Her frame started to spasm again, the blood in her lungs starting to choke her completely. She managed a gargled croak, a large glob of dark red blood rushed from her mouth and dribbled down her cheek. There was movement, something tugging at her arm or something to that effect. It didn't matter much now, she had already gotten the agreement, the cold grip of death was seeping into her core even as Locke lifted her arm and chomped down on her elbow like a dog on a bone. She felt that, if ever so brief, enough to cause her to inhale sharply and give a weak, liquidy cry.

For a brief moment she felt something pleasurable, despite the swimming, tingling sensation from the blood loss. It was brief, yet the last thing she could recall as her green eyes flickered open fully and the life slipped from them. Her lips were dry and slightly parted, perfect for the gash that Locke inflicted upon himself. His vitae fell past those lips, into her mouth and down her throat. And that was it. Nothing fancy or magical. If Elin was aware of anything she might have been down right disappointed. But she was, for all intents and purposes, dead to the world. Her body had been savagely ripped apart by those bullet wounds, it would take some time to come back from that. Still, she was dimly aware of things, of movement, of something heavy wrapped about it. It stunk of something she couldn't rightly recall, but it wasn't something she could focus on. It was more of something that lingered in the back of her mind, just like the vibration of the engine, the sense of another person nearby. Ultimately none of it truly registered, Elin simply hung there in between states, not fully there but not completely gone.

How long she sat there on the grimy tiles? It was one of the first things that she started to focus on. Her body was cold, despite being wrapped in something heavy and thick. Her fingers twitched and started to play against the material, finding it sticky in places. Slowly she started to move her whole body, shifting her weight and forcing her eyes to open fully. Even that took some effort, though Elin had nothing if he didn't have some willpower. What she found was truly confusing, the world materialized into a crappy bathroom, like that of a pay by the hour motel. What the fuck was she doing here? Then it came back to her, the street fight, the knife, the gun shot, the pain and the blood. And ultimately, him. Those burning red eyes. Elin jolted awake fully, throwing off the jacket and looking down at herself. She was covered in gore, the stains ranging from black to red and somewhere in between a nasty brown. The duster was covered in it too, she'd never seen so much blood, it didn't fully register that it was all hers. Her hands drifted out over her stomach and side, under her tanktop in search of the padding and tape that was keeping her insides from squirting out. Yet she found nothing, save for the dried gore over her alabaster flesh. Slowly she blinked, her mind starting to fracture under the weight of the realization. No wounds, but why did she hurt? Her mind somehow associated the pain with what she last remembered, getting capped by the shithead with the cheesy pornstache. But it was something more, something Elin was only dimly aware of. Yet it started to come into focus as she thought about it, a burning tingle in her joints, a bubbling roil in the pit of her stomach, something like hunger but so much worse. Slowly it dawned upon her that the scent of blood, although dried at this point, was somewhat intoxicating. The thought of smelling fresh baked bread or a pizza just out of the oven crossed her mind, somehow morbidly associating itself with it. Elin felt her stomach clench, a pang of hunger washing over her like she never felt. She openly cringed, grunting loudly and using the moment she shoved herself forward and to her feet. The duster fell away, leaving her in her denim jacket with one sleeve, but she barely noticed. Elin surged forward on uneasy legs, a zombie shuffle if she ever saw one. Her boots felt heavy and her mind started to swim as she looked around the dingy bathroom.

“Where the fuck am I?” She asked aloud, dumbly. The words felt thick and woolen in her mouth, her tongue flicked out over her teeth unconsciously. It took her several steps to rid herself of the funk, though it did nothing for the hunger. Images danced behind her eyes, confusing jumbles of what happened, a punk with a gun, the Devil offering her revenge, her booze broken over someones head. Elin let out another grunt as she emerged from the bathroom with a bewildered look. The embrace had taken what color Elin had (which wasn't much), leaving her skin deathly pale, even taking with it what scars she had previously. Her features had always been sharp, even angular; beautiful was rarely used to describe her since she never took the time to doll herself up. Now there was a savage beauty to her though, the green in her eyes faded and mixed with a steely gray. Those green-gray eyes flashed in the light as they scanned the small room, finding a scene she didn't fully expect.

There was the Devil himself, all eight feet of him (or so it seemed). Funny, she never thought the Devil would wear raybans. But it wasn't the Devil that Elin was drawn to but the naked guy duct taped to a chair. There was a flicker of recognition in her gaze, a furrow of her brow and a clenching of her jaw.

“The fuck...is going on?” She growled, a sudden rush of anger filling her all too quickly. It was exhilarating and terrifying, someone inside of her recoiled from the anger while another part relished it, encouraged it, screamed for it. Something in her mouth shifted, her teeth grated against one another as she unconsciously caused her already elongated canines to extend further.
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Old 08-20-2014, 10:28 AM   #7
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Waiting, for Locke, was a diligently held process. Patience, unusually among Brujah, was a strong suit of his. After he had put away his charge, Locke had taken care of the usual matters associated with siring; informing Gunther, and putting up with the other vampire's tireless griping.

For a Brujah, Gunther has always taken an oddly paternal tact with Locke, and never was that more evident than when he scolded his childe. Locke had endured a good thirty minute lecture about the evils of siring on a whim, and still more about the danger's of sentimentality, when he had explained his decision. Gunther was an old school Brujah, and for him, everything had to have a strategy behind it.

Locke sometimes wondered if the old bastard treated his other childer this way, but it was a pointless speculation. In 40 years of unlife he had never even met another of Gunther's line. Given the old man's almost Nosferatu penchant for secret keeping, that could mean anything. More, Locke knew the folly of questioning Gunther. He had learned that lesson the hard way.

In any case, Gunther had caved in the end, permitting the siring in the end, and agreeing with Locke that it would probably take some time before Lian would be ready to meet the prince. Locke had made all due assurances that her existence would be kept on the down low, and that he would keep Gunther appraised of the happenings with her. The Brujah Primogen had even been kind enough to off clean up on the crime scene, assuring no undue questions were asked about the murder victim, or the missing girl.

After this, there had come sleep, or whatever equivalent vampires had. Most vampires did not dream, but Locke was an exception. For him, the day was spent in a slog through the jungles of Vietnam, with the constant tumult of blood, death, and explosions to follow. He watched friends die again, and again, and saw himself mowing down enemies by the dozen, the hundred. Blood and death were everywhere, and by the time it ended, the sky itself wept red tears.

When he awoke with nightfall, it was with a start. A fast, brutal awakening, quite apart from the restful manner of most kindred. He took a few moment, flipping through the shitty television's channels, checking into last night's escapades. Gunther was as good as his word, not a peep about the violence. That would make things a bit easier.

Locke turned off the television then, hating it as he did most electronic, and turned his attentions to the paperback novel from his pocket. He didn't often have a lot of down time, and when some arose, it was usually spent reading. In this case, the book was Catcher In The Rye, a book which predated even Locke's age.

He was halfway through the scene with the prostitute, when Lian made her presence know, first with the sounds of a first awakening, and then as she herself moved out of the bathroom. She looked like a mess, to say the least. Blood splattered all over, pale as death itself, but Locke could see it in her eyes, that all too familiar coldness. It looked like the embrace had taken hold. Hell, under the caked blood she might even be a looker.

When she spoke, Locke put down his book, laying it aside as he gave her a long, almost sympathetic look. When he spoke, his voice was cold, but quaked with the same undercurrent of fury that hers did.

"It told you last night. You died, now you're back. This fucker here," at this he gestured to the tied up man, who struggled in vain, largely ignored by the pair,"Helped kill you. I brought him along, figured you might be hungry after turning. You're a vampire, he's food. Got it? Try not to bleed him out on the carpet."
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Old 08-21-2014, 09:09 AM   #8
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Dead. The word brought back memories instantly of being against that rough wall, bleeding out and feeling so cold and numb. She was dying, the Devil had said as much back then. Yet he claimed that it was also just temporary. The idea was ludicrous, some rational part of her mind proudly proclaimed that it simply wasn’t possible. But she remembered being shot, remember dying or at least shortly before it, and she vividly remembered waking up just moments before. Still, part of her didn’t or couldn’t accept it all and for a brief moment the fury in her countenance faltered.

Despite it all, there was still the gnawing turmoil in her gut, the constant pain of a hunger she couldn’t really comprehend. One hand brushed out over her side, as if to clutch at her stomach through her shirt. It was then she realized her jacket was missing a sleeve; the realization would have been comical if Elin had been in a better mood. The rush of emotions, confusion, hunger, anger, all raged inside her frame with a passion she couldn’t recall ever experiencing. It was all so intense and unfamiliar. Instead of trying to understand it, Elin found herself focusing on the one thing that did make sense. Her eyes closed briefly as she tried to regain her composure, yet as those steely green eyes flared open it was obvious the attempt had failed.
“You,” She spat the word as her gaze settled upon the bound man. Her rage bubbled to the surface, the hard lines of her sleek muscles in her exposed arm tensed and rippled under her alabaster flesh. “You fucking killed me? Me?!”

Elin’s voice rose, quaked with the seething emotions that boiled over without restraint. She gave into that anger that had begged to be released, fuck it felt good to feel it coursed through her. Elin moved on instinct, closing the distance between herself and the bound man. He shook his head furiously, crying out his innocence against his bonds. Elin saw the fear in his eyes, literally smelled it in the air. She reacted like any predator would in the presence of fear: she attacked. Her exposed arm surged forth with a speed and strength she never knew, her fingers closed around the man’s throat and hoisted him into the air chair and all for a brief second. The human tensed and squealed pitifully as Elin’s fingers dug into his flesh. Her strength only lasted a brief moment before she let the chair hit the ground with a resounding thug, though the human barely had time to draw a breath before Elin’s booted foot slammed into his chest. Her form was well-placed, the strength gathered in her long leg that was brought up and snapped out perfectly. The power of the blow was enough to steal the breath from a full grown man’s lungs. The human tumbled back and landed on the floor with a crash, still bound to the chair. Elin’s lips twitched and opened as if she were going to speak. Indeed, she had intended to unleash a verbal assault upon him, crying out her frustration and anger in some kind of poetic fashion.

Instead, she leapt onto his prone frame, straddled his shoulders and pummeled his face into hamburger meat. She screamed her fury, a wordless howl of righteous fur as her fists landed blow after blow upon the man’s face. Bones shattered, skin tore and blood flowed; Elin lost herself in the moment, loved each punch, savored them like someone would watching the sun set. The metallic scent of blood wafted into the air, yet there was something different about it. Where before it was a scent Elin could do without, now it seemed to make the hunger all the more worse. Her stomach clenched and twisted painfully, she didn’t know why but it was from the blood. Only then did Elin pause her brutal assault, though it was only to change the pace and position. Elin leapt off the man’s shoulders, grasping his hair at the brow and gave his head a vicious slam against the floor. Elin gave into the beast without knowing it, the fury of her condition released upon the human’s face and now replaced by hunger. Elin held the man’s head in place and bared her fangs, which she didn’t even realize she had. Still, with a growl she snapped her head forward, gnashing down upon the side of his face in a most impractical spot. She instinctively went for the blood, lapping at it and taking it into her mouth for a taste. Ah, the taste! It was beyond description, a lustful moan escaped from her throat as she went in for another taste. After several vicious gashes inflicted upon his face Elin found his throat, her fangs sinking into the tender flesh and giving a feral tug, tearing the flesh in jagged lines to get at the fresh crimson blood. Her form was impractical and messy, fuck remembering about the carpet as Elin began to lustily drink in a noisy fashion.
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Old 08-22-2014, 10:28 PM   #9
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Locke was a cold bastard. That above all else could be said about the Brujah Sheriff. In his time, he had seen every conceivable act of violence or desecration that any being, living or dead, could commit upon another. Some, particularly the more lightweight toreador like his current boss, had even gone so far as call him a sociopath. It was not a title Locke felt particularly inaccurate. For him, death was just another form of barter that the kindred traded between one another. Blood being the chief coin of exchange.

It should say something then, that the exchange between the shithead in the chair, and his current childe gave him pause. Not fear, or anger, or even shock. He was beyond such petty emotions when it came to the lives of mortals; but certainly it did give him pause. For the first time, in perhaps this entire chain of events he considered his choice of her. Not with an eye towards himself making a mistake, but with a duly justified concern that she might be a bit too chaotic to properly raise, at least to his standards.

The brutality, at least to his mind, was justified. As she herself had said, this man was responsible for her death. Killing him then, was only just, and Locke could hardly fault her reasoning in that. Murder was just good sense when dealing with one's enemies.

No, for Locke his concerns were of a distinctly less humanitarian bent. He had promised the woman vengeance, and in turn she was happily murdering his only lead towards giving her it. Granted, with her current state of mind, it should not have been surprising, but Locke had hoped she would demonstrate a bit more restraint in her first feeding.

Guess she's just a natural.

Locke, pragmatist that he was, made no effort to stop her feeding. Even with his superior strength and abilities, he knew better than to try and stop a neonate in mid frenzy. Instead, he focused his mind on the night ahead, and the lessons she would learn from this mortal's death. In one clean, effective swoop, Locke had shown her their clan's greatest strength, and most terrible flaw.

For Brujah, the truly great ones, their was no better calling than their cause. They approached such a matter with fury and strength, and destroyed all that threatened it. Locke had given her such a cause in her death, and it had helped for forge her will. This was good.

Her failing then, was the beast, the oldest of vampire flaws, and the one which haunted the Brujah above all else. Frenzy, unchecked, was a cancer within their ranks, and one Locke sought to keep in check at all times. She would learn to do the same.

When she was done feeding, and he saw the haze begin to fade from her eyes, he gathered his thoughts, doing so as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his spare, jacket, tapping out a single Marlboro, and then lighting up with his trusty lighter.

Smoking, by and large, was a worthless endeavor for vampire. The dead do not enjoy nicotine any more than they enjoy caffeine, or heroin, or any number of other drugs. Most, after his 40 years of unlife, would have abandoned such a pointless habit, but Locke persevered. Smoking had gotten him through many a night patrol, calmed his nerve in fire fights, and against unknown odds, and it served this purpose now, giving his hands focus as his mind worked.

When at last he spoke, his voice was like a glacier, cold and deep, betraying not a trace of emotion.

"Feel better? That hunger you felt, that was the beast. Best feeling in the world to give into it, to go into a frenzy. Like being god himself, righteous in anger. Not a bad first kill either, a bit sloppy...but you'll learn. Always go for the weak points. Don't let sentiment cloud the issue. Pity you ripped out his throat though, could have used what he knew. Could have used him to track down his friends, that last guy, one who got away. Works going to be harder now, but thats fine, we'll deal with it."

At that last, Locke rose from the bed, standing at his full height, and gesturing to the neat pile of ragged ass, shitty looking clothes. They had belonged to the man on the floor. Now they were hers.

"We Brujah keep what we kill. Clean up, and see if any of this will fit okay. We're going out tonight. Hunting time."
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Old 08-26-2014, 06:49 AM   #10
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With each pull Eli let out another boisterous moan. Never before had anything fell past her lips that brought about such rapture, each taste of liquid ecstasy caused her to shiver and desire more. Each swallow brought with it a surge of strength, an undeniable warmth that filled the pit of her cold stomach and started to radiate outwards. She felt it rippled through every fiber of her being, from the tips of her toes to her fingers. The thought of stopping never once occurred to her, where she had lost herself to the Beast shortly before she gave into the bloodlust that was just as prevalent in those moments of frenzy. Elin didn't realize was she was doing, not entirely, though on hint of rational thought made her reel at her own actions, even as the Beast reveled in.

Finally, after long moments Elin couldn't begin to fathom, she pulled back with a lewd groan. Her head snapped back as she lurched back, the crimson fluid playing a heavy contrast on her deathly pale flesh. It covered her lips and trickled down from the corners, racing across the hard line of her jaw before dripping onto her tanktop from the sharp end of her chin. Her eyes flashed open and for a brief moment were filled with a crapulous satisfaction. She lingered there, took a needless breath and let it out as a sputtering cough that sent flecks of blood into the air.

“The what?” Elin managed to get out, her mind fracturing as it went a thousand different ways. The name of the Beast caused images of blue furry comicbook characters in tights to mind, though that made little sense. Regardless, the big bald guy was talking, not that Elin fully comprehended it all. She couldn't fully remember how she got here, the moments of crawling out of the shower blurry and indistinct. The only real feeling she knew now was the resplendent warmth of the kill. Even that she wasn't fully aware of until Locke pointed out she had mangled the bastard pretty good, ruining any attempts of getting any information out of him. It was only then the idea of revenge came to mind, which brought about a scowl of discontent. That tiny little bit of rational thought was crying out again; the fact that she was covered in someone elses blood, the fact she had ripped his throat out with her teeth should bother Elin, terrify her to the point of retching.

Yet it didn't.

Elin felt only a tiny pang of regret that she hadn't gotten anything out of the punk before she bleed him. Not once did she regret tearing out his throat though, fuck he tasted so good. Unconsciously her tongue flicked out over her lips, her fangs as she tried to absorb more of it. She was a monster now, there was no denying that fact. But Elin wouldn't panic over it, perhaps at some later date she would lament the lost of her humanity. But not tonight.

“Wait a god damned minute, Kojack.” Elin snapped at Locke without another thought. She pushed up from her kill, moving with a feral grace she hadn't possessed before. Now that she had fed, Elin felt more alive than ever. An undefinable strength coursed through her limbs, slender digits flicked and curled slowly into fists, only to do it all over again. It was an unconscious move, Elin liked the way it felt. Her steely gaze leveled on the big brute without a hint of fear, anger, sure, but for all his intimidating girth and height his fledgling childe met him face to face.

“Slow your roll. What the hell is a broohaw? And what the fuck yah talkin' bout huntin'?” She spoke lowly, a husky tone that seethed with anger. Her heavy boots fell lightly with each step, barely disturbing the worn carpet or making a sound. “I'm not taking another step till you tell me what the fuck is goin' on! Who are you? What in fuckin' hell did you do to me? I ripped a motherfucker's throat out and enjoyed it! I bleed him like a pig...”

Elin's voice quivered for just a moment, a hint of disgust easily covered by a sick sense of satisfaction. She didn't have her Sire's cold, emotionless mask, those emotions raged so vividly on her face and in her steel-green eyes.
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Old 08-27-2014, 10:24 AM   #11
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Locke listened to her rant with half an ear, the scowl on his already dark features deepening by the moment. At a very fundamental level, Locke was still, after 40 years, still a soldier. You just don't drop that kind of training, that sort of lifestyle. In the war, it had kept him alive, when others hadn't. Now, even working for as individualistic of a clan as the Brujah, he still believed in that sort of discipline, that when a superior gave an order, you followed it. No questions, just obedience. Thats just how things were done.

Of course no one had explained that premise to his childe yet, and she apparently thought she was hot stuff to challenge him, right out of the ground. That would be an issue he'd just have to resolve. Hopefully without ringing the bitch's little neck in the process. Locke hated explaining things in any manner which did not involve violence. Speech, as a whole, was something he deemed unnecessary. Actions always spoke more loudly, and more clearly than words. If she paid attention, Elin might pick that up too...maybe.

Locke took that to heart with his next action. He didn't respond to her at once, instead moving over to the hotel phone and picking it up. He held the cheap plastic, antiquated thing in his hand for a moment, as he recalled the number which he needed. Once he had it in his mind, he dialed nine to get out, and then tapped in a ten phone number, listening as it began to ring. The area code was local, located in the slums. Why a vampire with this one's rep would choose to live in such a shithole, Locke would never know. Maybe it was because the landlord was a Nos.

After a moment's pause, the line picked up, and the sound of Eric Clapton's 'You May Be Right' began to play, in what Locke considered the oddest bit of call waiting he'd seen in some time. After about a minute a voice, raspy and sinister, came on the line, asking what he wanted. Locke spoke him, keeping his words low, and his voice level. With this guy, it was far too easy to be misinterpreted.

"Wade? Yeah, I need a clean up. The city, Motel 8 on Century Street. Room 21. One body, a bit of blood. Oh and Wade, this is Brujah turf. Leave the gasoline and explosives at home. Gunther will forward you the cash in the usual method."

After waiting for confirmation, Locke set the phone back on its cradle, and then turned to his new charge, cracking his neck as he spoke again, the slightest traces of anger starting to inflect on his words. When he spoke, he kept his statements short and choppy, not giving room for rebuttal, or giving any indication that he was interested in any. There would be time enough for answering questions later. Right now, he needed to feed, and she need to shut the fuck up and listen.

"You will find out everything you need to know, as needed. I'm not your fucking babysitter, I'm your sire. You don't know this yet, but I'm basically the one who decides if you live or die. I suggest you stop asking questions, and learn to fucking listen. Now, I've got a Malkavian coming to do cleanup service in twenty minutes. Guy named Wade, you don't know Malks yet, but I assure you, you don't want to deal with his kind of crazy on your first night."

There was almost the trace of a smile at those last words, as Locke visualized how Wade would have dealt with a Neonate in a similar situation. He'd heard stories about Wade's childe...There was a reason the Doc lived in a sanitarium. Still, as much fun as getting some help might be, Locke would prefer his childe remain sane, at least so much as a Brujah could do so. Rage held a madness all its own.

"Now, I suggest you get dressed, and then we can get out of here. You may be good on blood, but I haven't eaten since I drained the pint you had left in the tank when we met. I need to feed, and you need to learn. Best to manage those two at once."
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Old 08-29-2014, 08:14 AM   #12
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Elin was ready for a confrontation and she got it. Yet as the brute pushed on with his gravely, icy tone, something clicked in her mind. It was clear in those steely green eyes that it did, a quirk of a brow before her thin lips gave a twitch. The realization was evident; the comprehension of something that cowed her anger, though there was no telling just how long it would last.

“Shit, man. Why didn’t you just say that? You need to work on your communication skills,” Elin huffed the words with only a mild hint of disdain. If there was anything her fractured mind could comprehend at the moment it was the hunger. She could still recall the spasms; the cramping pain she hadn’t fully realized was hunger until it was too late. How he managed to stand there was beyond her, of course rock solid self control wasn’t exactly coming easy to her at this point. With a slow shake of her head Elin broke from the staring contest and turned towards the pile of clothes. She bent at the waist and snatched them up without another thought, though all the while she muttered under her breath. It was just mild, discontent mutterings, after all who liked being talked to like they should know what the hell was going on. There had better be a handbook or something later on, at least an orientation with donuts and coffee.

She made her way back into the bathroom, her eyes instantly drawn towards the stain of red gore and leather that had been her bed. A pity, she mused as she looked over the jacket, she really fucking ruined it. It looked nice enough. Without another thought on it Elin turned her gaze towards the sink and mirror. It was the first time she really had looked at herself, to say she was a little shocked was an understatement. The first thing she noticed was the gore covering her mouth and chin, though there was no denying the change to her eyes and the stark paleness of her skin. She really was dead, wasn’t she? Elin contemplated the fact for a moment then decided against it, for the moment she felt alive, the warmth of her meal giving her false assurances. There was a squeak of metal and then a rush of cold water, Elin cupped her hands, bent and splashed the frigid water over her face. She did her best to clean herself up, washing away the gore and watching the red water fill the basin.

After a few minutes and a few towels Elin emerged from the bathroom a new woman…or…whatever the fuck she was now. Her tanktop and pants were ruined with blood, even her jacket was beyond repair at this point. The only option she had was the punks attire, which obviously wasn’t made for her tall, lean frame. His black T-shirt hung limply on her proud shoulders, giving her the appearance of being far too skinny, she was swimming in the damn thing. His shorts weren’t any better, luckily Elin could use her own belt to keep them in place. Her boots were a little gore smeared, but nothing a good cleaning wouldn’t help later, they’d work for now.

“Seriously though…I look fuckin’ stupid in this shit. Can I get some real clothes from my place after you get a drink?” Elin was overly concerned with it, but at the moment she looked a little ridiculous (at least in her mind). Any threats about lunatic Malks and the like had gone over her head. It was pretty hard to focus on one thing over the other, especially with the constant rush from…hell…she didn’t even know his name.

“You are gonna tell me yer name sometime, right? Since yer the one that is gonna let me live or die…it’ll be nice to know what name I should be beggin’ to,” There it went again. That mouth. It was instinct, just as it was leaping into the fray to save a thankless whore. Things like that didn’t change.
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Old 09-03-2014, 12:29 PM   #13
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Locke is mildly satisfied as the girl does as she's told, cleaning herself, and dressing in the dead man's attire. Even engaged as he was, he took the time to admire her ass as she bent over, noting that it was very well formed, and fitting for someone of her athetlic disposition. It was really just a minor thought, and about as close as he got to a normal, hot blooded response to her showing of female flesh. Sex, by and large, had been absent from his life since the embrace. It was a pale shadow of what the kiss could bring, and Locke generally abstained from it. Leave that sort of preening to the Toreadors. He prefered to live in the honest moment, and that meant a fair share of acceptance as to his current conditions. Corpses, as Gunther was fond of saying, did not fuck.

That was good enough for Locke.

Locke was impressed with the matter of fact manner in which she dealt with the issue. There was none of the usual squeamishness about wearing a dead man's clothes. That kind of bullshit always set him off, and he was happy to see at least one vampire who wasn't shy about getting her hands dirty. When she finally got herself into presentable shape though, the first words from her mouth were a complain. That mouth was something she'd need to work on. Locke, generally speaking, couldn't give a fuck, but some vampires, well they'd take a less passive approach. Childer were supposed to be seen, and not heard.

She'd just have to learn that mistake the hard way.

Instead, Locke answered her second question first, recognizing that he had failed to give his name before, and seeing it as a fair question, albiet one he felt the need to couch in the terms of their clan.

"My name's Locke, but if you think begging will earn you another second of existence among Brujah, you've got another thing coming. Our clan doesn't do bowing and scraping. Vampires aren't meant to be slaves. I'm going to lean heavy on you while you're learning, but when its through, you're on your own. I ain't your daddy, and I ain't going to tuck you in and make you feel safe. World is fucked, always has been, always will be."

Crushing out his cigarette in the ash tray, Locke preceded her out the door, gesturing to the shitty 1980s ford out front. Thing looked like it had more rust than paint on the body, but it had a good engine, and an almost full tank. A loaner from Gunther, for services rendered.

"Get in, I'm driving."

The truck wasn't locked. It didn't need to be. Anyone stupid enough to steal a truck that looked like this, in this part of town, well they deserved what they got. Once he got in, Locke started up the motor, and backed out, taking to surface streets as he began to speaking, biting off words in short, terse statements.

"You can't go home again. You're dead. As far as family goes, they're better of thinking you're gone. Thats all there is to that. You want better clothes, you can work for them. Guy you killed had about fifty on him. Sure whoever I have for dinner will be worth something too."

The thought of vitae set Locke's jaw on edge, the hunger coming back full force, now that he thought about it. It was an effort, one long practiced, that kept the beast in check. It clawed at him from the inside though, egging him onward. Pushing him towards his next meal, and the first lesson of the night. Reaching into his pocket, Locke pulled out a small, dirt stained sticky note, emblazoned with an address.

"This was in your guy's pocket. Odds are its where he and his buddies bought their product. We're going to go ask them about their friends, but we're going to try to play this cool. Thats the second lesson. People don't know about vampires, and thats going to stay that way. Very simple. We call it the masquerade. Shitty name, but thats what you get for having a bunch of fucking Lestat wannabes name it."

With his piece spoken, Locke pulled the truck aside, parking it on the side of the road, across from the address listed. After this, he sat there for a few minutes, watching the comings and goings of junkies to the place, watching how they got in, and looking for signs of cops. Didn't seem to be any heat on the place. When Locke was sure, he got out, gesturing for his childe to take the lead.

"Show me what you've got."
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Old 09-07-2014, 07:25 AM   #14
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“Glad to know the world hadn't changed much,” Elin mumbled wryly as she found the punks hooded sweater shirt and shrugged it on. Her skin crawled at the feeling of it against her, who knew what kind of disease and vermin he and his clothes had been infested with. It didn't strike her that such things didn't matter anymore. Already she had more and more questions, every fucking time Locke opened his mouth to answer her he brought up more. Like it was some big fancy mystery she wasn't prvy too, how the thought made her blood burn and that familiar rage returned, seethed just under her skin. Elin clung to that familiarity, used it as a blanket to cloak herself, to keep some focus before her mind splintered and fractured as it tried to comprehend all that was going on.

Clans and trials. It sounded like he was grooming her, but for what? Not that it mattered, if she asked he would say something else annoyingly cryptic and get pissed. All the angst was already starting to wear her out, so she just drew inward for the time being.

The cold night air was refreshing and made the motel room feel all the more stifling, Elin was glad to be rid of it. Her steely gaze fell upon the clunker of a truck and she couldn't resist the slight huff of laughter at the sight. With a shake of her head she climbed inside, preparing herself to be the one to push it along after it broke down. Elin reclined back in the seat and kicked up her heavy boots, resting them against the worn and sun bleached dashboard. She half listened now, her gaze lingering out the window as the city rushed past them. Street lights flashed every now and then, along with a few passing head lights. Elin was keenly aware of them all, she even found herself catching the scurrying frame of an alley cat as the drove on. The part about home was moot, all she wanted was some clothes. There wasn't anything waiting for her there besides a cat she hated. No family, no significant other, barely any real friends to speak of. No one that would miss her, no one that would mourn her passing. The idea tore into her bitterly and for a moment Elin felt a grief so profound it almost brought her to tears. It was manic how quickly the emotions came, she really had no idea it was the passion of their curse. Still, she managed to choke it down, funnel it into the pit of her stomach where her rage roiled and burned. That felt right, that felt natural. That was the way to do it.

The truck finally came to a stop in a part of town Elin didn't recognize. She knew the general area, the bad part of town from the looks of it. Elin's gaze drifted towards the big bulk of a man, to the stained letter and finally she started to listen fully to his words. Drug dealers, or junkies at the very least. This was the place they scratched their itch. If there was a snow ball's chance in hell someone knew about the other guy it would be here. Elin was fully intent to shove out of the car and go in guns blazing. It seemed the natural thing to do, the fury inside her wanted more carnage, the Beast wanted more blood. Yet, to her dismay (but not her surprise) Locke continued with his mysterious ways. The masquerade? From the look on her face, scrunched up in disbelief, it was clear that Elin found the name, if not the idea, pure lunacy.

“Seriously? I'm going to have to deal with faggy dudes in puffy shirts? Fuck me...” She muttered under her breath. The question hadn't meant to be answered, already her eyes turned back to the building and she watched silently. Those keen, steely orbs took in the structure, what people she could see, anything and everything that could be relevant. Only after a few long moments did Elin react, her lean frame leaning up as she zipped up her hoodie, ran her hands through her short hair to ruffle it up haphazardly and then threw the hood over it.

“Fine. Then gimme a smoke,” Elin said flatly. She wanted this, wanted to find the next piece of the puzzle. She had the thought that finding him would bring an end to something, some kind of conclusion to it all. Elin waited as patiently as she could for the cigarette, simply taking the cancer stick and tucking it behind her left ear. She paused long enough to regard Locke once more before she shoved open the squeaky door and started to climb out.

“If you hear screams and gun shots chances are it went south. Good luck with your next...whatever the fuck I am.” Elin slammed the door shut hard, if only to vent some of her frustration over it all. She let the anger settle again as she stuffed her hands into the baggy sweater and started to shuffle her boots towards the building. She did her best to walk like a junkie would, more of a stumble than a real walk. She was pale enough to come off as someone in need of a fix, she could only hope the look in her eyes portrayed helpless druggie chick and not blood thirsty monster. Her shuffling gait brought her to the front door, faded paint and graffiti greeting her. She knocked almost timidly on the door, stepped from side to side and gave her best worried look around. Her shoulders hunched the way one would against the cold, not that it bothered her. But it was part of the act, a skinny skank looking to score a fix.

And that was what she did, as the door opened she cast her glance up at the person, though before she could meet their eyes she let them drift downwards. “ 'ey man. I heard...uh...this was the place to have some fun. I'm really jonesing for some. ...I got cash.” She tried to sound pathetic and weak, even as instinct was telling her to punch the fucker square in the face and move on. Well, that would be plan B. Locke said to play it cool. Deep down inside Elin really hoped it would all go to shit though, fuck the high from the kill had been better than anything she had experienced previously.
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Old 09-12-2014, 11:13 AM   #15
Indarkestknight
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Locke watched from the truck as she approached the front of the building, his keen eyes taking in the way she had molded herself to the situation. In some ways it made him just a bit jealous. With his stature and looks, he would never have been able to blend into this setting as well. Everyone he met knew he was a predator from the moment they laid eyes on him. Even the sun glasses didn't do much to take away from that. That she was able to actually present herself as weak would make this small piece of recon all that easier.

Honestly, Locke couldn't give a fuck about the kid they were after. It wasn't his concern which mortals lived or died, but it did make a perfect object lesson in how to deal with mortals. Having her placed in such a situation meant that she would have to think on her feet, deal with the situation as it presented itself, and most importantly, exercise self control. Brujah who couldn't control the beast didn't last long, and Locke had no intention of unleashing another of that kind on the city. He'd had to execute too many in his work as it stood.

This pick seemed to be managing pretty well though, at least so far. A bit too much attitude, but he figured that was something she'd have to learn to curb on her own. He preferred it far and above some of the gutless wonders he'd dealt with. This one at least looked like she could hold her own in a fight.

Absently while he waited, Locke reached behind the bench seat, extracting his piano case from within. He clicked the latches, and then extracted from within his pride and joy. It was a shining claymore, unadorned with fine markings or decoration. It had been a gift from his sire, part of Gunther's love for the old ways. Crafted from silver and steel, its blade was a deadly weapon against mortals and vampire alike, and Locke had used it to such effect many times. Perhaps some day he would give his childe a similar gift, if she did well.

For now though, he contented himself with his whetstone, softly sharpening the sword's edge. He had plenty of time to work upon it, provided the young fool didn't get in over her head.

Away from Locke's gaze, the door before Elin opened, revealing within a raggedy young man of perhaps 25. He was tall and thin, with the odd jitteriness of one waiting for their next fix. His dark hair was long and greasy, and his skin was pale, and an ugly shade of yellow. His shirt declared loudly of his disdain for authority.

Despite his condition though, the young man maintained the usual cautious nature of those dealing in illicit substances, giving the young woman a suspicious look before yelling over his shoulder at someone out of earshot.

"Hey Joe, we got a new girl! She's got the green."

The voice was shaky as his build, and the eyes were more so, seeming to have trouble even focusing on her before him.

'Tell her to fuck off Jeremy. We're low, and I don't want a fuckin Narc in my house anyhow."

In contrast to the doorman's jitteriness, this voice was calm and low, with an undertone of ready violence. This one was clearly the man to see about she wanted, though his doorman currently barred the way.

Over Jeremy's shoulder could be seen the dilapidated furniture and ragged remains of a once nicely furnished apartment, circa the 1960s. The whole place stank of too many chemicals and bodies, and not nearly enough deodorant. Calling the place a slum would have seemed a high compliment. There were one or two other 'clients' slumped unconscious on the furniture, doubtless passed out from a sampling of the wares, or its unpleasant after effects..

Looking mildly irritated, Jeremy shook his head, and spoke to Elin, trying sound sympathetic, and not failing entirely. He'd dealt with far too many druggies over the years for their needs to be too much of a concern for him, but he did know an out for the chick, if she was up for that.

"Sorry babe, boss says no. We ain't taking new clients right now. Though ya know, he ain't above taking tail in trade...you seem like a decent enough looker to me."

The words weren't meant to be condescending, though they might be interpreted in that manner. For Jeremy, he was just letting her know the scoop. He wasn't trying to be a pig. That part came natural.
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Old 09-16-2014, 07:44 AM   #16
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What greeted Elin was not surprising, though she could barely contain the disgust that twitched and tugged her lips downward. She was accustomed to wearing a rather severe scowl, so looking innocent, weak, and desperate wasn't as easy as Elin made it look. Those green eyes flickered over the skinny frame before her, taking him and his mannerisms in as one would sizing up an opponent. The cool cunning of a predator shone in those steely green depths, luckily her hood and bangs kept him from getting a good look. No doubt he was looking at her in a more outward angle, taking in the hunched frame and nervous shifting, the desperation in her voice and perhaps even those soft lips. They were thin on a wide mouth, easily animated when need be. At the moment her bottom lip was drawn between her teeth and nibbled gingerly, a demure move that could make a man quiver with subconscious arousal.

Elin had never been a wholly sexual person. She wasn't the type to use her sexuality to get what she wanted. That subject was broad and confusing in its own right, just another skeleton in her deep, deep closet. Before she would have recoiled in disgust at the jaundice-ridden husk of a man before her. But now she stood and worried her lip, waiting for the junkie to take pity on her or at least jump at the chance for some quick cash. All too soon her hopes were dashed though as he called out over his shoulder, in the process giving Elin a chance to take in what she could of the crack den. It was shit, pure and simple. A Molotov cocktail seemed the only legitimate way to help the place.

Her eyes focused on the curious twitch and jittery nature of the man before her. Someone was fucking smiling on her at the moment, she could have probably worn her blood-stained clothes and this crackhead wouldn't have noticed it. Where was that luck when she was getting shot in the back? She couldn't help but let the idea roll around in her head as another voice carried off from within the building. Her brows furrowed in barely contained anger as the denial rolled over them. Her hands clenched into tight fists within the pockets of her hoodie as the instinct to shove past came to mind. She couldn't easily roll over this stick of a kid, hell, she could have laid him low with one punch as a mortal. But no, that tiny little voice of reason called out to her above the screaming desire of the beast. Locke had said keep it on the down low. She would do just that, if only to show the freaky eyed son of a bitch that she could.

A plethora of ideas came to mind as the junkie gave her an almost sympathetic look, or as close as he could. There was a glimmer of hope here, something that Elin could use to her advantage. She let go her bottom lip and let a knowing little smile drift across her wide mouth.

“I'd blow my own Dad for some smack right now,” She said in an all too earnest fashion. Yeah, that sounded probably desperate and completely, disgustingly slutty. As much as it made her ill to think about anything sexual happening, especially between this sallow skinned piece of meat it was honestly the only out she had left to play. Still, she made a mental note to pay this little fuck for his comment.

“Do I have to fuck you too? I really need to score.” Elin asked as she took a step closer, her heavy boots thumping against the steps. Her eyes locked intently upon Jeremy's, her lips parted and flashed a toothy smile. Only if the junkie knew that in the wild baring one's teeth was a sign of potential aggression and a clear threat.
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