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Telling Tales; Open to Anarchs
Topic Started: Jan 31 2018, 03:48 PM (285 Views)
Vincent Tadeu
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Shovelhead
[ *  * ]
Vinnie was sat in the private section of the bar; a separate bar altogether really, separated from the rest. The building in which he did most of his business was large and attached to a large warehouse at the back; it had originally been a factory but when the depression hit Detroit and business started to move elsewhere the property had been left vacant, available for purchase at a knockdown price. Vinnie had scooped up the whole complex and had completely refurbished it; the warehouse remained, officially it was used as a storage facility for the bar and the small vending machine company he ran as a front. The rest was divided into three parts, the main bar where anyone could walk in off the street at any hour and get a drink, the private bar which only kindred and others inducted into the Masquerade could enter, and Vinnie’s haven which occupied the sublevels below the building.

Vinnie always had been an early riser, ever since his embrace, so at this time there were never many people in. Even so as he sat in one of the rear booths, smoking one of his characteristic Montecristo cigarillos, he had collected a small group of fellow Anarchs and a few ghouls. For his part Vinnie sat with his arms outstretched along the top of the padded booth seating, the haze of smoke and shadows hiding his features; an attractive young woman sat on either side of him, more for show than anything else although they doubled as his own walking bloodbags at need. It was one of those nights, the kind that those granted the mixed blessing of the embrace found interminable. Nothing much of anything was happening. Mortals might call it a slow day, Vinnie called it hell.

For the past half hour his little group had been idly talking about their backgrounds, some were young and naïve enough to talk freely about it, not bothering to hide any of the details for the sake of security. It didn’t matter, Vinnie wasn’t the kind of person who took advantage of people unless he absolutely had to, but some of the older Kindred present might be. Still, it wasn’t his job to police them, just like it wasn’t his job to watch over the newly embraced of which there were many. The number of embraces had sharply risen in Detroit of late, a combination of poverty, politics, and war; the trouble was the sires of these newly undead weren’t around the kick their progeny into shape – either they were dead, or didn’t care, or simply knew no better themselves. The number of high generation kindred had exploded and the Caitiff were everywhere.

Taking a deep draw on his cigarillo Vinnie tapped off the ash into a nearby ashtray. A break in the general conversation gave him the chance to talk. On nights like this he preferred to sit back and let others talk while he listened, you could pick up useful information that way, or if you tuned out the hubbub it gave you time to think. But tonight Vinnie was feeling nostalgic, so he coughed softly, an unnecessary affection but one which got people’s attention. ”You all talk like you don’t realise what you are. Like you’re still human, mortal. You talk like I used to talk. Openly, freely, communicating as if you are part of some civilised society, but it simply isn’t so. This existence is war, you’ve seen the amount of bloodshed in this city over territory and power.”

”Call me jaded, maybe I am, but I’ve lost my appetite for civilisation. At least the kind of civilisation we’re propping up right now. You know how many spies I have to deal with? How many people I have do away with just to maintain my way of life and my basic existence?”

The group around him had gone quiet, they were looking at him with a mixture of fear and confusion. Damn he could be a real downer at time, but it was true, someone was very interested in what he was doing, or if Vinnie was honest with himself, not doing. He wasn’t some King, able to order about ‘his’ people at will, hell not even the London Anarchs were entirely ‘his’ anymore. Sure he represented them on the Council which kept the Anarch community from tearing itself apart from within, but outside his own little organisation he commanded no-one. The Anarchs were a growing force and they were going to expand and fight turf wars even if he tried to stop them. After he had pioneered the idea of Stronghold Outposts every Anarch in the city wanted one to call their own; it was a sign of prestige which, at the time, when the Anarchs had been united against Nash, had seemed like a very good idea. Now that they lacked that unity of purpose it was a free for all with everyone the king of their own little castle, holding court and aping the structures and pageantry of the Ivory Tower at its worst.

In theory Detroit had gone from having one Baron ruling a singular Anarch movements to a Council of the three major factions, which was meant to make things more stable. In practice the Council had only nominal power and none of the individual representatives had the clout to enforce its rule. That meant that any Anarch strong enough and with enough resources could do more or less what they liked and this situation was leading to a political landscape akin to the Dark Ages. Vinnie as an idealist believed that the Anarchs should live up to their name and their history and be a totally free society without a hierarchy; but Vinnie as a realist knew that this was suicide. The Camarilla would regroup sooner or later, the Sabbat were already mustering their forces, and while the Anarch stronghold system made individual kindred more secure it weakened the collective whole.
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Sullivan
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Shovelhead
[ *  * ]
"Hundreds." The answer came with a soft lilt, like the ice-cream you'd left a little too long to scoop but could quite slurp down like cold milk. Still too cold, like its' namesake - and so too was the voice. A little gravel and grit accompanied it as it piped up again from a darkened corner of the room, "Maybe more'n that - but I'd wager never quite a thousand. Or at least when ye lay down ta get some shut eye, ye hope not." The silhouette of a man swayed up out of the shadows, an empty pint glass in his hand, and steel-hard grey eyes stared at the fledglings in attendance with a hunger their owners didn't share.

"Who're you?"

Sullivan looked to the new voice, careful, measured. Intelligent. He pointed to him and then nodded to Vinnie, "Keep this one. Got a brain behind that skull. Night'll tell ye if tha rest do." He began to move, his strides brisk and direct like a stalking animal, slipping himself behind the bar and pouring another. He'd not officially taken a position as Vinnie's barman, but he liked to remember what it was like to have a normal job and simultaneously it showed he was here to support Vinnie's cause. The London Anarchs had been shattered by Nash and his ancient war made real. Even if he'd hated Vinnie, Sullivan would've never moved against him. He hadn't enough friends left that he could so easily toss them aside.

"Hey, hippie-hair - kid asked you a question."

Another voice. This one more the sort he'd expected. Sullivan glanced at Vinnie with a 'there's always one' sort of smile. Then he sipped his new pint, leveling a tense, silent glare at the new speaker over the rim of his glass. He let the moment draw itself out, watching the faces as slowly but surely they all felt the tension in the room draw tight in the air, like the room was suddenly filled with razor-edged tripwires and they daren't move. Sullivan set down his pint on the bar and breathed in deep, his chuckle only brief. "I'm old. Maybe not as old as we get, lad... But old. If ye needed me name I'd have given it to ye." He scooped up the glass and aggravated the too-smooth front of his shirt, trying to make it feel like his. He'd needed to change after his run-in with the wraith in his head. After that, he'd never really found the right outfit again. This was the third shirt in as many nights that he'd already decided he'd be throwing away.

Meandering out from behind the bar, he moved to his previous corner, scooping up his coat and moving to a seat closer to Vinnie, giving the Brujah a nod, this one more intentionally friendly. "Come a long way from runnin' down Sabbat in tha east End, Tadeu. Sorry if I've ruined tha mood ye were after - just figured I'd make tha rounds, see who ain't dusted."
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Vincent Tadeu
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Shovelhead
[ *  * ]
Vincent watched Sullivan as he moved behind the bar; his casual familiarity didn't irk him in the slightest, after all Sullivan was one of the reasons he had survived Nash. As much as he liked to think himself a power player Vinnie wasn't stupid enough to recognise the fact that he was still just a Neonate; when the fangs and claws were brought out he just wasn't potent enough to carry a war on his own, Sullivan on the other hand was. He'd never really asked how old Sullivan was, but he knew he was older than he was by at least half a century, and when two kindred were as young as they were comparatively speaking fifty years made one hell of a difference. In truth if anything Sullivan's absence after the fall of Nash annoyed Vinnie more than Sullivan acting like he owned the place, which wasn't hard since as far as Vinnie was concerned Sullivan may as well have been blood. This view meant Vinnie was prepared to forgive familiarity like this, but he knew well enough that even blood could stab you in the back if you weren't careful.

"If anything you've improved the mood. All these Childer bring me right down, get me feeling melancholy thinking about why they're here and how I ended up keeping an eye on them." He took a long drag on the Montechristo in his hand and exhaled the smoke in a huge waft; such things were habitual now more than anything, having a haze of smoke around his head helped him think. "Also gets me to thinking about how many people we lost; killed or gone over to the 'other' side; speaking of lost people, you heard anything from our mutual friends lately? Her highness our former Baron of East End seems to have dropped off the proverbial radar and I've seen neither hide nor hair of my progeny in about as long."
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Sullivan
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Shovelhead
[ *  * ]
Sullivan softly barked a laugh, and shrugged, "Ye know Nora. She an' I, we're gettin' along well enough... But tha night calls her wherever it feels like. Me, I just do me best ta keep up." The mention of Frankie had his mind tracing back to Leslie - his exceptionally troublesome childe.

Visibly, his expression grew thoughtful, wondering how well she was doing. She sent him the occasional message from her new place in Chicago, keeping him in the loop, asking him questions. Staffy was treating her well, so ultimately he supposed that was all that mattered. It hung over him still, how heavily he had come down on her and tried to make her different to him. Better. The irishman couldn't tell any more now than he could back then whether that'd been the right thing to do. But even if it hadn't... He was no father-figure. Not really. He'd wanted to be one, and she'd wanted one... But his own inability combined with her actions against Nora in London - intentional or otherwise - had made it difficult for them both.

This way was better. She'd never feel Alasdair shanking her in the guts again. Never fear his face like the devil made flesh. He sipped his beer and glanced at the assembled neonates, all of them so very green. If he'd been this wet behind the ears when in Alasdair's brood, things would've turned out differently. His unlife would've been shorter, for one. "I hear Kaz is back in town, fer whatever that's worth to ye. Kid always seemed like tha dependable sort, but I won't pretend I know him yet. Other'n that... "He chuffed a harsh and throaty laugh, "Shit, we really don't have many friends do we?"

"So why're you still here?"

Sullivan's already ravenous eyes, hungry at the whims of frenzy, slowly turned on the same voice from earlier - the stupider of the two, specifically. He pointed at him, "You, young man, have a serious problem wit yer mouth doin' tha talkin' an' yer arse doin' tha thinkin'. Do ye know who I am? Take a long look." He stood up, leaving his pint at the bar, and fixed Vinnie with an 'I'm sorry, I swear I just wanted to be here quietly' look. Then he swaggered towards the speaker even as the younger vampire drew up to a good two inches taller than him.

The stood there a moment, taking each other's measure. "You just got freaky eyes and angry hair to me, old man." The fledgling eventually said. Sullivan wasn't ashamed to admit - silently, granted - that the disregard of his achievements stung his pride somewhat. After all, what was now his good name - well, his name at the very least, good was sort of debatable - hinged quite firmly on the feats he'd performed. But it was less about the kills or the stories from the Sullivan of Christmas past with his time in the Sabbat or surviving the East End bombing and crawling back out. To Sullivan, it was more about what achieving those things had cost him. His childe, his lover, his home - and more besides. All anybody else had to do was remember his damn name.

"My name, lick, is Sullivan O'Hanlon." He finally spat, dropping his unintentional anonymity with a degree of satisfaction, "An' as it goes? I betcha dollars ta donuts I've killed more kindred than you've met. Sit yer shit-spewer back down an' listen ta what tha man can tell ye about survivin'. He certainly knows how better'n you." He paced back to his drink and glanced apologetically at Vinnie, a quiet "Alright, drama's over, pick yer jaws up." uttered as his drink returned to his mouth.
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Vincent Tadeu
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Shovelhead
[ *  * ]
The news that Nora was still kicking was reassuring. Vinnie had very few fellow Kindred he could rely on and until Detroit this rare class of people had consisted entirely of Sully and Nora; now he had a few more here and there but they seemed to be missing in action. Sullivan was the only one he'd seen since they had ended Nash. After that crazed cult was dealt with and the Methuselah had been consumed by Deveaux everyone had needed time to sort their own shit out. In a way Vinnie missed the days when Nash's cult were running wild and Nash himself was terrorising the Kindred of Detroit with dark dreams and strange visions; the danger and the need for cooperation for mutual survival had pushed everyone together. There had been a purity to it all. You could rely and trust the people around you because ultimately they were as much at threat as you were. Of course in practice Vincent was glad the bastard was dead, or eaten, or whatever the fuck had happened.

With a sigh Vincent gave a slight wave of his hand; it was a gesture well known to all those who frequented his bar. It meant simply, clear the room, usually he only used it when trouble reared its ugly head, but he also used it when he needed to speak brass tacks with an old friend. Once the licks and panders had all shuffled out into the main bar (they'd have more fun there anyway) Vincent fixed Sully with an appraising look. "You're looking the same as ever; apart from the shirt, doesn't suit you. Try something with the Grateful Dead on it; fellow kindred would appreciate the irony, plus Grateful Dead shirts look just as good twenty years down the line as they did to begin with." He cracked a smile and offered Sully his pick of the free chairs with an expansive wave of his hand. For his part he kept his skinhead boots up on the tabletop and continued to watch Sullivan from behind them. "Its good to see you, truly. Don't know if as many people would have made it out of that fucking Cult den if you hadn't been there. Fuck that was a clusterfuck of mind dickery in there... dirty way to fight, but here we are."

"Not sure if you've kept up to date with events since but the Baron is no more... well he is still walking but... its complicated. After he and those two high-up Capes walked into Nash's 'Fortress of Solitude' everything changed. Only one of the Capes left, some big bad by the name of Cutting, and he only said that Deveaux had betrayed him. The leaders of the other Anarch gang's took that to mean Deveaux had betrayed -us- collectively; personally I don't know what to think. In any case Deveaux isn't the same man he was when he went in there and he isn't the Baron anymore."
Vinnie finished his cigarillo and stubbed it out on a nearby ashtray, twisting the tiny stub into powder with his fingers; judging from the number of similarly crushed Montechristos in there Vinnie had been smoking more and more heavily of late. "Anyway instead of having one Baron now we have a Council of three; the heads of the major Anarch gangs in Detroit. You have the Natives, basically your typical white power nutjobs - mortal habits die hard I suppose - and the Tribals, they're mostly Gangrel like you live up to their name. Most of the Tribals are your typical ex-slave and civil rights era types, I like them better, mainly because they treat me like a fellow black brother."

Vinnie sighed then shrugged, pulling a fresh Montechristo out of the inside pocket of his jacket and lighting it with his engraved silver Zippo he took a deep drag. He'd never viewed his ethnicity as important; back in London as a mortal it had singled him out, sure, but there weren't the same entrenched racial divides and identities there that existed in the US. While the Tribals, being mostly new world African-American Kindred, stuck together and believed in Black Power and Black Pride, Vincent preferred Anarch Power and Anarch Pride. Once you were among the walking dead the colour of your skin didn't matter one bit anyway.

"Third faction is -us-, the London Anarchs. I represent us on the Council purely because I was there at the time it was created, big achievement that, I happened to be in the room and so I end up with the burden of leadership. Fucking joke, but I suppose there's no-one else around to 'lead' us unless you or Nora want the job." Vinnie looked away for a few moments, thoughtful. Sure this business with the Council was important, but there was something -more- on his mind than simple politics. "Actually... let's go back a step. Talking about when Nash bought it... do you know any more than I do about it? I mean do you know what happened with Deveaux? I mean I don't get it. The man was universally accepted as the Baron of Detroit, the most powerful Anarch in the city, hell perhaps even in the US, at least politically speaking. He led one of the most unified Anarch States I know of and then poof... he walks into an old burial chamber with two other elders and when he walks out he steps into obscurity. It just doesn't gel with me you know? If I had that much power why step down willingly... especially after you just defeated a fucking Methuselah. I mean his reputation should be top dollar right?"
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Sullivan
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[ *  * ]
Sullivan smiled briefly, and tapped his temple, tracing a scar that marred his features from the eye-socket backward and up into his hairline, "This," he began, "Is just the most obvious evidence o' when I punched above me weight. Nora led me an' a small pack o' whelps down under the East End. Was some elder plot. Still dunno how old that elder was. But I saw this creepy feller. Pink tie worn about his neck like it was somethin' ta be proud of, one o' those weird half-arsed cowboy hats on. I found out he was an archon a little bit too late - he'd got me dander up, and ye know what my temper's like. Before the bomb blew and sent half o' tha East End down, he shot me through the eye. Lucky I didn't dust there an' then." He shrugged, and sipped his beer, "Story's mostly irrelevant, but tha point behind it matters. Got a Cape super-spook on my kill list an' I can tell ye I didn't feel like I'd won a damn thing when tha deed was done."

In a way, he felt that he could claim more kinship with Deveaux now, after victory had half-slain the elder kindred, than before when he'd been the mighty, nigh-untouchable baron of Detroit. "Man took down tha biggest beast in tha jungle... An' he paid for it too, I'd wager. 'Specially with tha Samedi tendency ta involve the... Oh, whaddaya call 'em? Loa? Pfft. Fat lot o' good it did him."

He was quiet a moment, assessing their environs and considering sipping from his glass again, but he decided not to. American beer just didn't taste the same. he'd finish the glass over time, but he wasn't going to pour himself another. The world hadn't quite passed him by... He just saw it differently now. Alasdair's doing. The battle of wills remained, but Sullivan had improved his methods. Where before he'd just tried to keep his sire's wraith at bay, lately he melded into the earth at least once a week purely to spend all that night beating the writhing snake that remained of his sire back into its' cage. He'd distanced himself from Nora a little while he figured out how best to do it, but he'd kept calling. Not every night, but enough that she knew where he was and enough that she knew if she wanted to see him, he wasn't gone to her.

It had been odd to describe. Eventually, he'd settled on 'I'm not gonna die for him, not even by your hands. So I have to figure out what I am gonna do instead.' He felt he had a handle on it now. Enough that he wanted to contact her soon - face-to-face instead of just via the phone. The battle against Nash had brought back out a lot of who he'd been before the Anarchs. That was a Sullivan he'd not inflict on her. But... Between the sporadic meetings and him not running into the hills without so much as a by-your-leave, he'd not left her angry with him. he didn't think.

"So no." He finally uttered, draining the glass and wincing as he swallowed, "Can't say I know what Deveaux's dealin' with. I know I don't trust Cutting as far as I can throw him. But... Not a big fan o' Matachelli either. Man makes meat outta tha sword, so that's one thing in favour. But I don't buy that he can do what he wants to with the Capes. Twenty five bucks says sooner or later he brands his jacket with our banner and puts paid the pretense."
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Vincent Tadeu
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Shovelhead
[ *  * ]
Vincent wasn't convinced about Matachelli switching sides, the Prince had always been unconventional by Camarilla standard, and in his opinion it was unconventional in a good way but even so he doubted it was enough for him to break with the Capes altogether. Detroit was a unique locale and its very nature required a different kind of leadership for the Capes; perhaps it was the large number of kindred who claimed both Camarilla and Anarch membership, or perhaps it was stark contrast of extreme poverty and extreme wealth contained within a single city in a modernised western nation. Who could say, Vinnie wasn't an expert of socio-economics or political history; he barely understood the concepts let alone how they worked - all he knew was that things were the way they were; it wasn't essential to know why, only that it was. As for Cutting, well, Cutting was a problem too. He played the part of the dutiful and slightly complacent Camarilla middle manager and superficially at least he was the very picture of the stereotypical Ventrue; but Vinnie suspected there was more to it than that, and the number of spies working for the man who'd shown up indicated that he was planning something.

"Maybe, if he does turn coat then who knows what will happen. Not sure how the council will take it." Vincent drew on his Montechristo once more and replenished the haze of smoke which hung about his head and helped him to focus. Once he'd savoured the smell and taste of the fine tobacco for a few moments he turned back down to Sully. "So, what're your plans from here on out? I'll be honest could use your help. Got a lot of newly embraced childer pushing east into Sabbat territory; I want to halt the advance and convince them to dig in before they push too far into Sabbat turf."
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Sullivan
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Shovelhead
[ *  * ]
Sullivan felt Alasdair chuckle faintly, and unlike in nights before the Nash incident, he listened. The wraith itself didn't say anything exactly, it wasn't that simple. But provided he thought of it as separate to himself, Sullivan had found that turning Auspex onto himself could tell him what the wraith was plotting. It wasn't exactly a precise science so far, but it told him enough. His sire's remains suspected that word would get out he was dead. Sullivan had predicted that. But Alasdair was fairly sure it was getting down to nights numbered in double digits before the only kindred who mattered heard about it - the brood.

"I can stick around. Show 'em the ropes, get 'em thinkin' recon instead of both-feet-first. I mean, I'm no expert on tha matter o' not confrontin' shit, but that's the way tha dice fell. Fer diggin' in... Hmm. Ya want subtle take-over. Get us welcome - or at least 'welcome enough' in tha bars an' shit. Gives our people somewhere to run an' find back up if anythin' goes tits-up." He absent mindedly began to un-braid and re-braid a few strands of his mane, glancing up at the ceiling in thought, "We need a short-hand. Commonly understood code so they know where ta call turf border."

He glanced at Vinnie, "Tell ya what. Get me some of yer best fledglings and a few more'n them of yer worst. If we draw our border slightly inside Sword turf, ya give 'em a testin' ground an' an easy run back ta safety. Don't shut down their ambitions. Manage 'em. It's tha same in a boxin' ring - if ya wanna hit a feller in his temple, ya gotta test his defensive skills. They're young - they need ta know they can prove 'emselves an' show off to their coteries. But they gotta fight smart if they're gonna fight at all. So I'll take 'em out. Teach 'em ta sneak, ta find their exits."

He chuckled, grinning warmly at Vinnie, "Ya know, when I met ye in Camden? I thought ye were a right tit. Heh - shows what I know. But I do know this fer sure - if we try an' stop 'em dead, then we're the oppressors, an' they'll see it as us turnin' our backs on what tha Anarchs are meant ta be. Which is bullshit, but they don't know the Sword liked I do."
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Kaz
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Shovelhead
[ *  * ]
"All my friends are heathens, take it slow...~"

God, he hated this part.

"Wait for them to ask you who you know...~"

But it was time to set down roots, and that meant introductions to the local color, no matter how unpleasant.

"Please don't make any sudden moves...~" The young Gangrel Kaz sang to himself as he made his way down the blustery street and reflected--with few exceptions--just how much he hated Vampires. "You don't know the half of the abuse...~"

The number of Cainites Kaz actually liked he could count on one hand. The number he could trust on one fist. And even that was now in doubt. It seemed that no matter where he went, and no matter how kind and welcoming Cainites were around the world seemed to be, they were always just looking for the opportunity draw blood. Figuratively speaking... And literally, of course.

Even Nora... Things weren't what he expected. Four years ago she had saved his life for seemingly no reason at all and sent him off to explore the world and begin his new life. But when he had arrived back home, one of the first things she had done was drain some poor unfortunate who was just unlucky enough to be caught between a fight between her and Sullivan.

Sullivan... That was also a touchy subject. The mate of his Sire, Sullivan was there for his Embrace and seemed to be pretty upstanding as far as Kindred went, but for some reason he still attacked Nora. He seemed possessed at the time, but Kaz wasn't in a position to understand what was going on. And afterwards, the couple's attention was focused on each other, so he couldn't exactly play twenty questions.

And afterwards, Nora had simply said that she had "important business" to attend to, leaving Kaz with a head full of questions and only one direction to head to Vinnie's Bar.

He stood outside now, taking it in. It could be considered his Haven away from Haven, a place where the "London Anarchs" could kick up their feet and relax. He wasn't exactly a familiar face, but if he planned on staying in Detroit to start helping out Nora--and he did--he needed a family.

Of course, the moment he stepped through the door, the tension in the air told him that he wasn't going to find a family here.

"Come on, man, hippie-hair's not worth it," one fledgeling was saying to another at the bar. A conversation between two men was spoken muffled in the VIP room off to the side, but Kaz couldn't make it out. The moment the door behind him fell shut, two pairs of hostile eyes fell upon him. If there was one thing the man from Miami loved, it was coming into the middle of an argument.

"Evening boys," he droned merrily. To be non-threatening without appearing weak was a hard skill to master.

"Bar's closed to tourists. Find somewhere else, asshole."

Kaz shrugged amiably, before opening his mouth wide to show his fangs. "Not a tourist," he said. "I'm planting roots, so I'm here to meet the family, so to speak." He crossed his hands behind his head, leaning back against the wall, chest exposed, posture open. Non-threatening, but confident. A nice big sign that says "I am not prey."

It wasn't taking. "I don't feel like dealing with this shit tonight," said the larger, angrier of the two, who stood and bared down on the blond vampire. "Get out of here, or I'll rip off every limb you have and throw you out!"

Kaz didn't flinch, arms still behind his head. He carefully considered his next words. "... Look, I know I'm new and coming here uninvited, but--"

Some people are just looking to fight, and no amount of body language or careful words can dissuade them. As the pissed-off neonate picked up and threw a table, Kaz could only think of one thing: just how much he hated vampires.
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Sullivan
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Shovelhead
[ *  * ]
A solitary eyebrow crept up Sullivan's forehead - familiar voice, indistinct words. Fledglings from before - the dumb one - talking shit. Sharp scrape of wood-on-wood. He got to his feet without a word and swung his coat onto his shoulders.

Where the shirt didn't suit him, this particular item did - dark coal grey with a little red accenting, military cut. A Soviet officer's coat, 1940s wartime fashion worn with style. Sullivan supposed he was neither a soldier of that war nor of Slavic descent - but nonetheless, he was a warrior. He'd paid dues enough to wear it and he'd fight anybody who said otherwise to prove it. Something he was fairly certain he was about to do. "Speakin' of shapin' yer fledglings up a bit - looks like we're up." he quipped, striding to the door with purpose and opening it up.

He saw Kaz, a table, and the poor excuse for a neonate from before. Evidently his friend's consoling had not worked. Burning a little blood, Sullivan revved up to speed as the world around him dropped right down to a steady 0.0000-something miles per hour. He approached the 'speeding' table and caught hold of a leg, turning it back the right way up and slamming it down. He nodded to Kaz as he willed his blood to stop its' effects, but said nothing. The kid was good - fair, self confident, not yet so damaged that he couldn't fix his troubles. Sullivan envied him. But he remembered their last encounter. He didn't say a word - there wasn't much he could say, not right now.

He slowly turned his gaze on the table-thrower, and vaulted the table, closing the distance. "Why." He demanded, his voice even, calm, but firm like a police-hold around the arm. "Just... Why."

"You!" The fledgling barked, balling his fists, "I'm gonna-" Sullivan's fist collided with a meaty thud with the brute's nose, cartilage and bone crumpling a little and sending him reeling back. The Irishman shook his fist loose and shook his head, "No. Yer not gonna do shit. Tha boy's... " He looked to Kaz, something like regret in his eyes, "Important. Doubt he'd call me friend right this minute, but I swear to ye - lay a hand on him, meat-brain, an' ye'll be goin' through me."

Sullivan glanced to the barman and gestured to him, "This is your shift, big fella. What'd tha boss back there have ye do with this sorta shite?" The barman shrugged, nodding lazily towards the door. Sullivan nodded in understanding. He approached the neonate, barging past his commiserating friend to do so.

"Here's yer choice. In here, we both get barred fer however long tha big man says. But ye think ye can take me, fine. Outside. Right now. Try yer feckin' luck."

"Or what?"

Sullivan smiled, "Well, there's two ways that can go. One, we silently apologize whether we mean it or not, an' get ta nursin' our drinks. Two, well... Evidently this can't get outside tha bar or folk'll know what we are, right? But remember... " He gripped the guy's collarbone and pulled him down the last few inches so they were eye level, finally giving into a soft but menacing growl, "More. Kindred. Than. You've. Met." He released his grasp, backing away and glancing at Kaz, "Vinnie's in tha back, lad. He'll want ta see ya. An' I... " he chuckled hollow and shook his head, "Not really somethin' ta say infront o' this rabble. But s'good ta see ye."
Edited by Sullivan, Feb 15 2018, 06:53 PM.
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