Indarkestknight
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Sep 21, 2008
- Posts
- 245
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.
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.