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| A cup for two; Open to whoever enters first | |
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| Topic Started: Friday, 6. March 2009, 22:01 (246 Views) | |
| Klare | Friday, 6. March 2009, 22:01 Post #1 |
Tinkerer
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Sunsets don't end when the sun goes down. Flecks of sunlight clung to the clouds, filling their graying mist with orange sherbet. Burgundy shadows slowly spread across the mountains, filling the crevices with warm shadows. The big ball of fire had drifted out of view, but only half of the spectacle was over. It was fifteen minutes past sun down when Klare watched the last remnants of light drift lazily over the horizon. For a brief moment, the world was serene. She sat, as she had done dozens of time in mortality, watching the end of the sunset. It was easy to believe that she had watched the entire thing. That the past several decades had been an illusion. That her complexion was still healthy and she was not some warped monster hiding from the eyes of the general populace. It seemed like only yesterday that she had been driving her boat across Australia with the warmth of the sun across her face. The sharp click of a coffee being set down in front of her brought her back to reality. The moment evaporated with a disappointed sigh. A smirk played briefly across her thin lips. As far as the world in general was concerned, she was just a tomboy drinking bitter coffee at a cafe. She adjusted her faded jeans and stared into the coffee. Rust red skin and a pair of glowing yellow eyes stared back at her; her true reflection. Thanks to her bloodline, it was not a reflection most people ever caught a glimpse of. In reality, she was an accomplished smuggler, engineer, and information dealer for a several clients which wished to keep their business a secret. Most of her recent work had been in the black market; a cracked safe, a transport from Britain, and some juicy gossip about a recent murder. She adjusted her leather jacket and pulled out a clear pocket watch, numerous gears and springs plainly visible behind its face. It was five minutes until the meeting with her most recent client. She took a sip of black coffee and went back to staring out the window. She was in no hurry to do business. Edited by Klare, Wednesday, 25. March 2009, 09:23.
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| Harry Rosselini | Tuesday, 24. March 2009, 16:44 Post #2 |
Capo di tutti Capi
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The hands of the shiny, gold Rolex strapped around his wrist tell Harry he's late as he sinks into the luxurious leather seat of his 2006 Rolls-Royce Phantom Black. Ninety minutes late. Well, fuck it – when you're important, people will wait, and his contact is the one who chose the time anyway. Some romantic shit about watching the sunset. He just hopes they haven't decided to ditch – he doesn't feel like having anyone's legs broken this early in his stay in Paris. He turns the key, and the deathly silent 6.75L V12 engine purrs to life. As he pulls out of the driveway of the Giovanni's Parisian manor, he can't help wondering why the fuck he doesn't drive himself more often. Not that he takes any issue with the driving of his consigliere and Ghoul, Errol, but this is the first time he's driving the damn thing since he'd forked out for the modern luxury sedan. He'd given Errol and his other retainers the night off to get acquainted with their new stomping ground, being their first full night in Paris since they'd arrived early the previous morning and Harry was forced to retire to his pre-prepared room nigh immediately. Tonight he had dressed in a tailored dark grey three-piece suit, topped with a dark grey Stetson with a silver silk band to match his silver silk tie, over a plain white shirt, and a pair of polished brown leather loafers: Snappy enough to make an impression, but not enough to draw unwanted attention. Besides, he's saving his favourite black n' white pin-stripe and white Stetson for his meeting with the Prince... A Ventrue by the name of “Roman Malloy” - apparently a real ball-breaker. Well, big fucking shock. Ah, the Ventrue are so easy. And stupid. All those resources, and what are they doing with them? Not a fucking thing, except trying to cover everyone else's ass. Their highest priority is keeping up their delusions of grandeur, so all one really needs to do is hang their head, play the penitent and offer up some unwilling token gesture of humility to satisfy their superiority complex, and any “weak little Giovanni merchant” can work one like a puppet. Oh, how they'll scramble when the sudario comes down... Meanwhile, that reminds him: Harry deftly takes his cellphone out of his jacket pocket and dials “1”, placing it to the side of his face as the dial-tone picks up. “Boss?” Errol's Welsh accent starts through the receiver. “I need you to place a call to the office of the Seneschal, or whatever serf this “Malloy” uses as a glorified receptionist, and get me a meeting ASAFP. See if Celia has the number yet.” Harry knows time is essential here – every day that the Fifth Tradition goes unobserved is a strike against continued business in Paris. Nominally, he would have arranged all this “permission” crap before leaving the 'States, but the deadline to get here set by his Elders had been reached too quickly. “I'll see that it's done, boss. Was there anything else?” “Nope. Wait, yeah - for fucksake Errol, you need to get laid. You ain't turning bucaiolo on me, are you?" "No, boss--" "Good. I wanna hear stories when I get back." Harry jokes as he hangs up, returning his phone to his pocket. Of course he doesn't give a shit about his Ghoul's love life, but keeping up the rapport in dialogue he had with the members of his crew in life makes him feel more... Human. Not that he suffers any delusions or regrets about what he is – any vampire is painfully aware of their own nature, and the one thing his Clan shares with the Nosferatu and those weird fucking "Samedi" freaks is that unlike the other Clans their Lamia's Kiss makes it impossible to delude themselves otherwise. But his Sire and mentor, even the anziano present for his Embrace, Diego Giovanni, made sure he was aware of the dangers of losing touch with one's humanity in this undying state, and he has never been one to harbour a death wish. So paradoxically, it's because he likes what he has become that he keeps himself close to the kine he used to be. Suddenly, blue lights flash in his rear-view mirror and a siren sounds, snapping his attention back to Earth. That's all he fucking needs – some frog bacon trying to make their quota of tickets before their shift ends, had probably spotted the flash car and the cellphone by the ear of its driver. Pulling over with an irritated sneer, he needs to actively resist pulling his Berretta from its holster tailored into the inner left breast of his jacket and perforating the pig with 9mm rounds, as the cop cheesily saunters his way up to his window. "Something on your mind, chief? Relax, pull up a chez lounge – I got all night, after all." Harry mocks - rudely, as always. Well, at least he'd have the chance to practice his French before his meeting. He only learned it in preparation for coming to take up operations in Paris, although he could already speak a basic form from what he'd been taught at school as a boy. "Licence and registration, s'il vous plaît." . . Alright, that's enough practice. He locks his eyes with those of the French pig, potent vitae seeping into his own eyes and temporarily changing his whites a disturbing pale red, as he entraps the feeble-minded kine fuckwit with his gaze... "No, you've made a mistake. You didn't mean to stop me but your siren misfired, and you're sorry. Now apologize and fuck off." "Excusez-moi, monsieur. I did not mean to stop you... My siren went off on its own. Err... Bonsoir." It's only a short drive further before Harry's impressive diamond black car pulls up to the café where he's to meet with one "Klare" - just "Klare", no surname given – regarding shipping routes, Parisian customs, et cetera. That's right, when it comes to establishing his business he doesn't fuck around. Stepping out of his car, locking it and enabling his car alarm over his shoulder, the Giovanni strolls inside "Café Lutece", finding his senses instantly assaulted by the overpowered bitter-sweet tang of brewing coffee combined with the irresistible fragrance of the most delectable gourmet meal imaginable – kine. He's given pause as he must actively concentrate to keep his fangs from elongating past his lips, as he realizes he's yet to feed this evening, the simple pleasure of driving having distracted him from the gnashing of his Beast. His head tilts back and his brushed cobalt eyes roll upwards in their sockets as his head briefly swims with the desirable aroma, and he finds he needs to steady himself to keep from lunging at the first mortal to walk within biting-range... Reinforcing his resolve to keep his humanity in check. Regaining his composure, he scans the room, which bustles in the early evening. Fuck, which idiot picked this distracting place to meet again? And what kind of fruity fucking café is called "lettuce", anyway? Then he spots the table that had been designated, and oh, there's the idiot. You have gotta be shi-- that scrawny little Caucasian Marley-wannabe? He's going to trust a business deal with some pot-addled beatnik, pseudo-gendered Kerouac freak? Oh, this'll be a fucking riot. Well, appearances can be a little deceptive... Sometimes. Maybe it's a cover. Only one way to find out, so approaching "her" he helps himself to his seat, taking his hat off and setting it on the table with a barely concealed cruel smirk. "Klare?" He pauses, offering to shake her hand, "I'm Harry. Start talkin'." |
 Harry Rosselini g Capofamiglia, Clan Giovanni | |
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| Klare | Wednesday, 25. March 2009, 21:27 Post #3 |
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Tinkerer
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The table had turned into a graveyard of empty mugs while she had been waiting. Black coffees, mochas, lattes, cappachinos, and more black coffees had been drained. The bone white porcelain of the vacant mugs were stained with lines of brown from a dozen different dark beans. The longer Harry had kept Klare waiting, the more adventurous the drinks had become. By the time Harry arrived, the waitress was setting something frothy in front of her which contained more Brandy and Irish Creme than coffee. The spicy scent of nutmeg emanated from it, settling over the table as if it intended on staying for a while. Klare's warm blue eyes lingered on the drink before raising to peer at Harry's out stretched hand over her sunglasses. Dissatisfied with what she sees, she returns her attention to her drink. "You're late, Harry." The warm liquid poured down her throat, the sharp sting of alcohol, spice, and strong coffee relieving some of the tension in her shoulders. She was being rude. It was bad business to be rude to customers. Klare straightened out her shoulders and sat up to her full height, just a smidgen taller than Harry, before returning eye contact again. "...but you're here. Want a splash of something?" She swirled the mug around in her long, lithe fingers, relaxing as she considered Harry. He had only sat down a moment ago and had already managed to strike her as a bitter, arrogant man. The type that liked to be in control, but could be easily manipulated if you carefully choose when to yield. "A friend of yours said I might be able to help you with something." An easy smirk played across the left side of her face, making her strong features seem much too clever for her own good. Poker wasn't about playing your cards well. It was about playing your partner's cards. Edited by Klare, Wednesday, 25. March 2009, 21:34.
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| Harry Rosselini | Friday, 27. March 2009, 12:17 Post #4 |
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Capo di tutti Capi
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"You're late, Harry." Harry makes a slight spitting noise as he nods his head slightly to the right and winks while softly clucking his tongue against his cheek on that side, before withdrawing his unshaken hand and instead running his palm over his slick, shiny brown hair that lies flat against his scalp, and resting it on the table with his other on its way back down. It's better this way anyway, as he often forgets how cold his skin feels to the touch, but old habits like the etiquette he was raised with are sometimes difficult to break. Narrowing his eyes, he coldly watches Klare swig from her latest cup of yuppie foam for a moment, before cocking his head and lifting his brow. “Well, you're right. And when you're right, you're right. Forgive me?” He plays along. He knows her type, he was there in the 50's and 60's behind the scenes of every drug culture in modern American history – the hippies, the beat generation, and so on - and in recent years more and more of these new-age, bohemian yuppie-offspring with a Kerouac-twist are springing up, buying cannabis from his rivals while condemning his heroin. Her breed is nothing new: Wannabe-wise, poetic, flowery-prose assholes that are just too fucking smart for the rest of the world and had it all figured out before they could walk – or so they'd like to imagine. All he has to do is pretend like she's actually teaching him something new about the way of the world and she'll be too distracted by her own sense of self-satisfaction to care which way the wind is blowing. "...but you're here. Want a splash of something?" “No, thanks.” He declines. He certainly doesn't envy her what he sees as her human diet. Chewing and swallowing great lumps of food seems to him now an uncomfortable and inelegant way to sustain oneself when compared to the bliss of the red drug pouring down his throat in it's warm liquid from – in spite of the pained thrashing and wailing of those he feeds upon, except where dulled by other drugs which also serve to give the blood an effect not unlike laudanum and further heighten his ecstasy. "A friend of yours said I might be able to help you with something." And that would be Celia. Not just a pretty face, his little half-caste niece is a networking genius and a natural cypher, and so he trusts her when she sets up a meeting for him that the contact isn't going to turn into a rat. “We'll see about that. Let's cut to the chase, shall we? I have some things I want brought into this country without John Law sticking his nose in where it doesn't belong. We're talking a long-term gig here, and the pay'll set you up for life. But if you're in then you work for me from now on, which means you don't accept any other contracts with out my okay and I get a little piece of the action, because if you get pinched on someone else's run it could lead back to me, and I can't have that. I need to know I can trust you. Besides, with all the work you'll be doing for me you wont have time to pull shipments for anyone else anyway. Understand?” He speaks in hushed tones across the growing army of mugs scattered over the table keeping his eyes on Klare's, as he pulls a crumpled dark yellow envelope containing 10,000 Euros from the pocket of his jacket opposite the one containing his cellphone and slides it across the table through the plethora of cups. “That's just a taste, and I'll also provide the protection on every job you do for me. Now, last chance to walk away: Do you want to hear the rest?” |
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Harry Rosselini g Capofamiglia, Clan Giovanni | |
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| Klare | Friday, 27. March 2009, 23:30 Post #5 |
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Tinkerer
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A single shapely eyebrow arches curiously as Harry rattles through his business. This was certainly not his first time negotiating such a deal. But what he lacked in naivete, he made up for in arrogance. Amongst the demanding bravado, Klare found it hard to imagine anything that would make such a man happy. "No, no, no, you're doing it wrong." she waved a hand playfully. Her eyes wandered down to the small unopened envelope, then back at Harry. "The name of the game is mutually beneficial relationship." She set the empty mug softly on the table and let the term hang in the air. "I'm a pretty big girl and I can take care of myself, so your graceful offer of protection is as useful to me as an ashtray on a motorcycle." A private joke played across her eyes. If he only knew what she was capable of; but that wasn't part of the business. Underestimating her would only lend a bit of mystery to the job. "I help you by keeping John Law, and any of his friends, out of the picture." To illustrate her point, she moved the plethora of coffee mugs to one side of the table. "...and I get your beans across the pond." One finger dexterously lifts the salt shaker into the air and places it lightly in front of Harry without spilling a single grain. "I help you get your beans. Celia gets a new shiny necklace..." She removes her hand from the pepper shaker, revealing it to be accompanied by the salt shaker, two additional pepper shakers from neighboring tables, and a canister of cream. "...and you help me however you can." From beneath the table, Klare's second pair of arms slides unnoticed back onto her lap. The spice had been laid across the table, it was time for a little honey. Now was time to yield. "If you want to purchase all of my time and make sure I don't go looking for other beans, that is your business. Not mine. If you want to tag along, that's fine. But Klare McCoy works for Klare McCoy. If you can handle that, then my ears are wide open." Edited by Klare, Friday, 27. March 2009, 23:43.
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| Harry Rosselini | Saturday, 28. March 2009, 18:13 Post #6 |
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Capo di tutti Capi
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With his head tilted forwards, Harry slowly applauds as Klare concludes her little close-up magic routine, eying her before he responds. “Right, right, sure thing. How silly of me. Of course – you work for you,” He begins, throwing up his hands in mock surrender, an easy smile on his pale lips, “Have it however you want, miss 'Free Agent'...” He lowers his left hand, moving the right in front of him and closing his hand but for his extended index finger pointing in Klare's general direction, as his demeanor once more shifts to the more serious and becomes icy. “But whatever way you want it, I don't want to have to find out I'm suddenly in competition for your services. I ain't going to be bidding against some other schmuck. You take care of my shipments on schedule and we wont have a problem, capiche?” With that, he returns both hands to their relaxed place on the table's surface. “You also don't do any work for my rivals. How's it gonna look if the girl who handles my shipments is bringing in the same shit for someone else? If you stand to lose any money for declining an offer from one of my competitors, which you wont, I'll see that there's a bonus in your next pay-packet to compensate.” Harry's attention is momentarily distracted as a waitress saunters up to the table, menus tucked under her arm. “Bonsoir. Would either of you like to hear the specials for this evening?” For a moment the Giovanni is caught simply staring at the woman's neck, watching the blood moving under her skin and looking hungrily upon the tantalizing bulge of her carotid artery as it teases him with it's rhythmic pumping, and shutting his eyes tight Harry is once again forced to choke back the cravings of his Beast to keep his fangs from sprouting on their own. Quickly snapping out of it, he turns his head to look at the window. “No, we're good. Grazie.” He manages with a slight growl in his throat, before glancing back to Klare, “Let me guess: Something caffeinated, right? How 'bout I just get you a sack of beans to chew on?” He jokes, motioning to the stacks of mugs crowding the edge of the table. When the waitress turns and leaves them once again afforded their relative privacy, Harry continues as she gets out of earshot, leaning in slightly as he speaks, “Now, I'm sure you can look after yourself just fine. Celia wouldn't have referred you to me and we wouldn't be sitting here having this conversation if that weren't true. The protection is for my investment, and seeing that it gets loaded and unloaded properly and on time – we're not talking a couple of suitcases here.” He pauses, leaning back in his seat again, raising his arms and placing his hands behind his head with his fingers interlocked, “Which is why I'll be sending some muscle with you. Don't worry, they wont get in your way, because they'll know it'll mean their ass if they do.” He finishes in a matter-of-fact tone. “Was there anything else, or are you ready to hear the details? We'll need to take a walk for the rest.” |
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Harry Rosselini g Capofamiglia, Clan Giovanni | |
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| Klare | Sunday, 29. March 2009, 14:35 Post #7 |
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Tinkerer
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The caffeine buzzed merrily through Klare's blood, forcing a lazy smile to cross behind her eyes. The meeting was going well. She would still get to work for herself and this was a great contact into a new market. Harry was sold. It was too easy. There had to be more to it. "Something caffeinated, right? How 'bout I just get you a sack of beans to chew on?" "No thanks, sir, beans never had quite the right taste." This was the second wanna-be Italian mobster which she had run into this week. This one was certainly the more competent of the two. Perhaps they were connected. "If I couldn't deliver on time, I wouldn't accept the shipment. Let's take a walk." If they talked any more, it was going to turn into another moment of distrust. The sooner Harry was done telling her the details of the work, the sooner she could find out more about Harry. Refusing to wait for a pulled chair and an open door, Klare plucked the envelope from the table, replacing it with enough cash to cover the mound of coffees. Anxious to remove Harry from his comfort zone, she offered a hand to help him up. Edited by Klare, Sunday, 29. March 2009, 14:36.
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| Harry Rosselini | Monday, 30. March 2009, 15:03 Post #8 |
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Capo di tutti Capi
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Harry's careful reiteration of their deal seems to have done the trick, as Klare shoots out of her seat and lays a wad of bills on the table to pay for having nearly consumed the whole of Brazil. It's all in the wording, as a deal she wouldn't take one moment ago becomes something she quite literally jumps at in the very next instant though in essence it has barely changed at all – all he has to do is let her believe she's calling her own shots. Almost too easy. But then, that's the benefit of having been in the same business since the late 1920's. He glances briefly at Klare's hand as it's offered to him to help him out of his seat, and for a split second he almost takes it before reminding himself of his own cold, undead flesh. For a moment he's about to make a snide remark about not being her fucking grandpa, but he stops himself and instead simply ignores her gesture as though he hadn't really noticed, standing on his own. He strides to the door just slightly ahead of Klare, determined to hold it open for her before she tries a similar trick. He sees what she's doing, whether she realizes or not, trying to throw him off-balance by reversing traditional gender roles, using the distinct sense of etiquette instilled in him by his strict upbringing in the time of the First World War against him. She may not know how old he really is, but she's clearly a competent judge of character – as you'd expect of anyone with half a brain in the industries of the black market. I tell you, chivalry ain't dead except when modern dames like this try to kill it. At least she demonstrates a basic understanding of how to work people – there's potential there, he'll give her that much. As they leave the café Harry takes a last look over his shoulder at the mortals milling around inside like a starving prisoner might observe a fresh, extravagant buffet, the hunger clawing at the back of his throat like a wild animal trying to dig its way out through his icy cold flesh. He'd be drooling if his mouth still produced saliva without burning up precious vitae in the process. He needs to feed soon, the last thing he wants to risk is Frenzy – as soon as they're done here he'll swing by the nearest nightclub, lure some chit to his car and offer her his favourite cocktail of drugs... Or maybe find some rube walking alone, and just knock his ass out with the cosh tucked into the jacket pocket formerly shared by an envelope full of bank notes... Gathering up his resolve, he turns and follows Klare outside. The fresh, cool air helps, as it diffuses the overwhelming scent of warm, fresh blood that fills the café, allowing him to better pin down the Beast and its insufferable craving. “Did you bring a car? I can drop you somewhere, and we'll talk on the way.” He offers, stuffing his left hand in his pocket and casually motioning to the sleek, luxurious and expensive diamond black Rolls-Royce parked across the street with the right, looking ominous with its toothy metal grill and windows tinted black. |
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Harry Rosselini g Capofamiglia, Clan Giovanni | |
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| Klare | Friday, 3. April 2009, 21:00 Post #9 |
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Tinkerer
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The great tango continued. There was some give and take on both ends, yet somehow Klare always found herself with the smaller share of the satisfaction. Harry refused to accept her hand and instead offered to open the door for her. Klare countered by playfully opening the second of the double doors to spite him. But when the clever grin graced her lips, it didn't feel as satisfying at it should. She wanted to feel like she had somehow proven something, but instead she just felt petty. Irritated at herself, she looks at Harry as if he had done something wrong and steps into the cool evening. A light breeze ruffles her heavy dreadlocks, stray bits of metal clinking from somewhere within the vine like tangles. Klare removes her glasses and rubs the bridge of her nose. "My bike's in the back. Just drop me by the the docks and I'll snag it in the morn'." It would be best if Harry didn't see the Bike anyway. Her heavily modified motorcycle looked like it was about to cough up mechanical parts and bite the dust at any moment. Judging by Harry's expensive taste in cars, her sputtering vehicle wouldn't make the best impression. Edited by Klare, Friday, 3. April 2009, 22:17.
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| Harry Rosselini | Sunday, 5. April 2009, 21:12 Post #10 |
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Capo di tutti Capi
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Harry removes his left hand from his pocket with his index finger hooked through the hoop of the keyring, and the sleek, black sedan tells them its alarm is disabled with a high-pitched squeak and a flash of its headlights, as he presses the button on the immobilizer and begins twirling the keys on his finger as he strides towards his car. There's a parking ticket flapping in the light zephyr running up and down the street, held in place pinned beneath one of his windscreen wipers, which he casually slides out and releases to fly away on the draft, before he proceeds to open the rear suicide door for Klare. “You'll have to give me directions – I ain't been in Paris long enough to know my way 'round just yet.” He states as he climbs into the plush black leather seat behind the wheel, shutting the door with a soft *thunk* as he turns the key and the V12 engine purrs silently to life like a living thing exhaling a muffled moan. Once he's pulled away from the curb, he begins to impart the details of their new arrangement. “Here's how it'll work: My dummy company will hire you as an independent freighter, contracted to transport shipments of... I dunno, all sorts of shit. Whatever wont raise suspicions in the places where my goods are being kept. So, coffee (assuming there's any left), textiles – you get the drift.” He pauses, turning the corner as he reaches the end of the street, “Of course, none of that shit is what you'll really be carrying. What you'll be carrying is a lot less... 'Socially acceptable' – but fuck 'em, right?” He smirks privately, glancing over his shoulder at Klare, “You'll be picking up shipments from Sicily, Vietnam and Turkey mostly, but there'll be some stops in Haiti, China, Columbia, Cuba and Afghanistan. A member of my organization will know to contact you with the details of each shipment. You already met my niece. “They'll also arrange for two or three buttons to go with you to look after my investment, make sure everything gets done on schedule, and if there's time, keep your ass out of harm's way. Forget about it. “Now, you wanna know about payment, right? Tell you what, for your first run I'll cut you in for about two percent of the projected gross – that's about eighty large. You do that well, I'll bump you up to four percent. Become a friend of mine, you may find your share improving. “The details of the first gig are already in the envelope you got there; so's my card, with a number where you can reach me if you need to.” He finishes, turning another corner as they begin to near Klare's destination. "Any questions?" His card is just your basic white with black text embossed, and a watermark that those whom know would find strikingly similar to the Giovanni Clan sigil if it were to occur to them to compare the two closely - only with a stylized "R" featured instead of a "G". As well as his name and cellphone number, it names his dummy company as "Rosselini Shipping & Imports, Ltd.". |
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Harry Rosselini g Capofamiglia, Clan Giovanni | |
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| Klare | Thursday, 9. April 2009, 14:02 Post #11 |
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Tinkerer
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A familiar sickly sweet smell assaulted Klare's nose as she entered the car. The sharp copper twang of blood. This was a trap, she thought. She was never getting out of this car. A twinge of paranoia tugged at her mind. She fumbled nervously through the envelope, distracting herself by glancing briefly at its contents. No no, he needed her. She wasn't a meal, she was a business partner. After a moment, she withdrew the the business card and settled her eyes on Harry as he rambled on about the details. The smell drifted back to her. There was no one else in the car. Either the smell was coming from him or the trunk. "Take a right.", she interrupted as Harry nearly made a wrong turn. She turned her head towards the back seat and directed her blood to the gaping hole where her nose used to be, inhaling deeply. The scent magnified. Each scent within the car increasing until the car was filled with a thousand normally insignificant smells. The seat leather, musky and solid. The bottle of flowery perfume Klare had purchased from a local corner store. The sharp sting of the dry cleaning chemicals inside of Harry's suit. But most of all, the blood. Klare's mind reeled, suddenly aware of how unsatisfying all that Coffee had been. She needed something more filling. Something with more life in it. Harry's rambling dissertation on shipping and receiving cover ups was entirely lost on her. Snippets of the conversation filtered through the red haze. Socially acceptable... Haiti, China, Columbia... She concentrated on the words, drawing herself slowly out of the red haze. The smell... the smell was not coming from the trunk. It wasn't until she glanced at the symbol on the business card that the pieces of the puzzle began to drift together. Harry was a kindred. It certainly explained his connections, his avoidance of the coffee, and his pushy attitude. The red haze subsided, leaving the nagging hunger in its place. "Seems pretty cut and dry." she licked her lips, suddenly very conscious of her canines. "Want to grab a bite?" She let her Obfuscate drop for a small moment, allowing him to see her real skin in the rear view mirror. Glowing yellow eyes peering out of rust red flesh wrapped around her emaciated form. Before he turned around, she wrapped her familiar powers of the blood around herself like a protective blanket. In an instant, she was just a tall hippie girl again. If she was wrong, it could just be a trick of the lights. Edited by Klare, Thursday, 9. April 2009, 14:11.
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| Harry Rosselini | Friday, 10. April 2009, 17:29 Post #12 |
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Capo di tutti Capi
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Harry can't help but scoff at Klare's choice of words as she nonchalantly acknowledges the details he has laid out sans question, and proceeds to ask if he wants to grab a “bite” - oh fuck, would he ever, as he's reminded of the gnawing pain in his gullet as his monstrous hunger aches to be fed. He glances at the figure in the rear-view mirror - “Jesus fucking Christ!” He curses, startled by the ghoulish reflection that stares back at him in the tiny mirror, the car swerving a little in his surprise. Straightening up the vehicle, he quickly looks over his shoulder and sees... Klare, again. Just Klare, in all her tall, gaunt, somewhat masculine, modern Bohemian hippie charm. He looks back to the mirror again, and she's still there too – no ghastly, freakish rust-coloured monstrosities. What the fuck? He calmly pulls the car over, pulling up to the curb on a fairly quiet street a few metres back from a narrow alley between buildings. He's not quite sure what the fuck just happened but there's something seriously weird going on here, and so it occurs to him to get a second opinion. “Wait here for a sec, would you? I just remembered I gotta make an important phonecall.” He explains as he turns off the vehicle, removes his keys and climbs out of the car, “Don't go anywhere, I'll be right back.” With speed in his stride, he paces to the slim crack between the two buildings just up ahead, and thanks fuck for his equally narrow ass as he slips between them and out of typical eye and ear-shot. He cracks his knuckles before raising his hands, tensing his fingers as he looks at his palms, and his vampiric vitae begins to crackle and surge through them, causing them to radiate with an eerie red mist which becomes black as reddish-black beads of energized blood seep from beneath his fingernails and fall to the ground, evaporating into nothingness before contacting the asphalt pavement at his feet. Unfortunately he doesn't have his deceased cousin's catene on him at present, which makes the summoning more strenuous, but the spirito should hear his call nonetheless... “James Eric Milliner.” He whispers loudly, working his black art to bring forth his wraith retainer, and waits as the air before him gradually takes on a faint shimmer like light reflected off water, only darker, that only he can see... “Jimmy! I need you.” He continues as the minutes pass, and eventually the ethereal form of his dead cousin takes shape from the particles of dust in the chilled night air. “'Cuz... ?” The ghost mutters, squinting through the Shroud to see Harry with a slightly pained look on his face, taxed a little by the effort and already starving for blood, “Where are you?” The wraith queries, puzzlement written on the image of his face. “Some suburban backstreet in Paris. Listen, I need you to look in the back seat of my Rolls' parked just around the corner and tell me what you see.” He motions with his head to the street beyond the thin gap of the alley. “What do you mean?” “Long story. Just tell me what the chit sitting in there looks like from your end...” The Necromancer presses, becoming slightly agitated. “Fine.” Mumbles the wraith, as the thin veneer of dust that comprises his shape blurs, appearing to be blown on a non-existent wind in the direction Harry dictated. A moment later the ghostly shape of Jimmy reforms before the Giovanni, looking perplexed. “Fuck me, 'cuz – has your taste in tail gone downhill since you died, or what?” The spirit quips, smirking at his corporeal vampire cousin. “Yeah, she ain't no looker, but-” “You don't fucking say! Dead bitch doesn't even look human.” Jimmy laughs, causing Harry's brow to furrow in bemused curiosity, “She's dead?” “Undead – like you, only not so pretty. Red skin, glowing eyes, no nose – looks like some freakish corpse from Chernobyl.” “Nosferatu...” Harry hisses. Well, this certainly makes things a lot more interesting... But what the fuck was with all the coffee? She must be as bloated as a balloon filled with water, with all that indigestible liquid going cold and stale sloshing around in her dead, useless stomach. Harry can't even bring himself to hold down one sip of anything that's not straight from someone's artery, and she must have nearly swallowed all the fucken coffee in Paris. He's sure there's some schmuck out there sponsoring some starving Ethiopian brat that would call that a waste. “Thanks 'cuz. I owe you one.” Harry says over his shoulder as he glances back to the road and begins inching his way back out of the confined alleyway. “You owe me more than that, compadre.” Jimmy mutters as he's let to depart, the dust that comprises his form scattering back into obscurity as he fades back behind the Shroud to resume his dealing in the Shadowlands. Emerging from the crack in the brick, Harry swaggers back to his vehicle with a knowing smirk on his cold lips. He moves to the rear suicide door he had previously opened for Klare, stooping to look at her through the window. This time, he allows his fangs to fully elongate, unhindered by his force of will, allowing her to see the glint of their ivory length as he speaks with a predatory gleam in his eye, “Hey Sewer Rat, you said something about a 'bite'? You don't understand; I would love to.” |
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Harry Rosselini g Capofamiglia, Clan Giovanni | |
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| Klare | Thursday, 30. April 2009, 17:33 Post #13 |
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Tinkerer
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Klare pursed her lips innocently as Harry turned around to look at her. "Shouldn't you be watching the road?" She wanted to get his attention, not die in a car crash. When Harry pulled over and started to leave, he was assaulted by a slur of protests. Damnit, she had been too unsubtle. Instead of sparking his curiosity, Klare had scared the crap out of him, in the process losing not only a possible kindred contact but also a business partner. God damnit. She crossed her arms irately and watched him wiggle into a thin alley. What the hell kind of phone call could be so important that he would rather storm off into the middle of the night than wait until he dropped her off? More likely, Harry was trying to decide if he should come back and attack her. Or even worse, wasn't planning on coming back at all. Well.... perhaps that last possibility would not be so bad. What she had done was technically not a breach of the masquerade if Harry had not been kindred, and she would have just inherited a free car. There are worse things that can happen. Assuming the latter, she pressed her thin form against the glove compartment and began looking for an instruction manual. If she could find the car model and fuse box manual, she could start this thing off in a jiffy and drive off without Harry. She pushed aside several of the items of the glove compartment, but was barely able to locate the manual before Harry appeared at the window. In no mood to deal with his suspicions, she slammed the glove compartment shut. The door flung open suddenly, aiming to slam into Harry. Klare just was not in the mood to be teased today, particularly from a two timing Giovanni who could somehow mysteriously tell what she was. "That depends. Are you going to refrain from calling me a sewer rat?" She had always found the term degrading and could not fathom why other Nosferatu would gratefully accept such a terrible slur. Edited by Klare, Thursday, 30. April 2009, 17:36.
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1:33 AM Nov 28
