|
Post by Myra Coville on Mar 31, 2012 1:25:30 GMT -8
Myra had always been noteworthy for her odd eyeshadow and occasional streaks of colored hair. Tonight, for some reason, there was no such distinction. In fact, she looked nearly unrecognizable. The Malkavian was still every bit the paragon of alluring grace she was in Elysium, but typically well-tended locks fell loose and free about her pallid complexion. Her eyes were finely lined with color, lips offset from the pale features of her face with a soft pink coating. Glasses, usually unseen, were perched now on the edge of her nose, through which hazel eyes peered down at the one defining feature in her possession: her notebook. It was closed up for now, as unattended as the now cold glass of tea beside her. The Pierre Cardin pen was set upon the cover, and seemed to be the focal point of her contemplation. Her elegantly sculpted features held the same pensive expression that had claimed her for the last few hours of the gathering. So much unsaid. So much to do. So much you could reach out and touch, without being able to grasp. And where to start? No, her mind could not stay attached to one thought process. Not after that night. The lupine issue? The snake in the grass? Words left unspoken? The sorrow of the isolated? The cost of remorse? Playing political Jenga with matches? Perhaps Dr. Blakemore was right. Perhaps she needed a secretary. The thought brought a small smile to lift the corner of her cupid's bow lips, though it faded as her mind continued to wander. The cold tea itself was an indication of how long she'd merely sat outside the Cup. Thinking. Pondering. Beneath a pencil skirt, slender legs had crossed, toe tapping out an unheard rhythm to replicate the heartbeat that would calm her in days of breath with a steady pulse. She would pause and open the notebook once more, reviewing notes and lifting her pen with the adjustment of her sleeve to take note. As ink hovered above the page, however, she would pause. Reconsider. Again the pen would lower itself, and again the notebook was closed. A vicious cycle, this evening. I'm sure at some point, it would be possible to focus on one thing and get it done. At some point.
|
|
|
Post by Ghost on Mar 31, 2012 9:46:25 GMT -8
Always more work to do. Ghost moved with the speed and body language of someone who doesn't like to waste time meandering, yet doesn't necessarily have somewhere purposeful to be. He wore the image of his usual tired college student image tonight, which was his Botswain's Cup look. He entered the coffee shop, trademark backpack and ballcap in tow. He wandered over to the counter and ordered something aromatic and hot. He didn't enjoy the smell of food and drink the way he used to. It didn't excite his appetite with promises. But he found that with that aspect removed, there were some things that could be enjoyed entirely for their aesthetic pleasures. Tea was one of those things.
He glanced around looking for a place to work on his laptop, and instead saw a face he hadn't expected. Myra Coville. The first Malkavian he'd met in six months that he didn't absolutely loathe. She had, in fact, proved herself useful, even a little helpful. Well, his recent hatred for her clan over their shenanigans aside, she herself hadn't yet done anything to warrant his negative attention, so there was no reason not to keep playing nice. He sauntered over to her table and took up the chair opposite her. Once he made eye contact, he allowed his Mask to slip, just around his front face, for the briefest moment, so that she could see the real him. He knew she might be able to see through regardless, but better to just cut through the bullshit upfront. "Good evening to you, Ms. Coville. Sorry if I'm barging in on your private time. You just seem rather pensive, and so I am concerned." He unzipped his backpack and slid out a laptop. He plugged it in and popped it open, bringing up his data files on the kindred players in the City. He was nothing if not a multitasker. "What seems to be troubling you?"
|
|
|
Post by Myra Coville on Mar 31, 2012 11:09:13 GMT -8
At the approach of a stranger, Myra donned a mask of her own... one not backed by disciplines. Soft lips curved into the most courteous of smiles, hazel eyes wide and attentive as they rose to the student. She seemed prepared to receive a fan of some sort. Frankly, it was the only reason she expected to speak to others. Her pen even twisted gingerly between her fingers so the tip might emerge in preparation for an autograph, a motion stayed and reversed with the revelation of who truly approached. At that, her expression shifted somewhat, to a combination of reactions even she couldn't pin down. Among them: mild surprise, contentment, relief, disappointment, and the general smorgasbord of unreliably inconsistent emotions betraying the fickle nature of her sex. A slender eyebrow began to lift as he removed his laptop, face unreadable for a moment before adopting a warm smile.
"Good evening. Please, join me." It seemed an invitation rather than a belatedly ironic observation. She straightened somewhat in her seat, legs uncrossed and dipping beneath her chair that they might cross once more at the ankle. "I value your concern, and I am flattered by it, but in truth, it's nothing to be worried about. I would not say I am troubled, but mourn the fact that pensive expressions and the application of thought are so rare in this borough as to induce concern." A playful glint caught her bright eyes as her lips curved into a wry, playful smile. "I'm merely going over everything I need to puzzle out to complete my current... projects." There was a tone of voice all kindred adopted when speaking of potentially Masquerade-breaching issues. That sort of clever 'oh ho, look how I'm dodging these actual words and still hinting at the matter!' Myra's voice was a variation of this. The pause before the final word was joined by the faint nudging open of her notebook to reveal the diagram she had shared earlier before slipping back to the palm of her hand so the book fell shut once more. "Nearly overwhelming. Nearly. It's... alien to be the newest arrival in the city and remain one of those most concerned with its affairs, to hear the constant laughter and cajoling of those with more cause than I."
|
|
|
Post by Ghost on Mar 31, 2012 22:05:39 GMT -8
Ghost shrugged his shoulders and offered a rueful grin, shaking his head. "You get used to it. Or at least, I have. Being a part of what we are is no different than being a part of anything else. There are a few ambitious types, a few hard workers, a few winners. And the rest are pretty much not worth the space they take up on the planet. You can't have the extraordinary without the ordinary, even amongst our... select cliques."
He leaned back and pretended to take a drink from his tea, soaking in the heat through his fingers, the aroma creeping into his oft-times unused nostrils. "As for being the new kid on the block, frankly, don't let that sweat you. As you saw last night, there are always more people moving in and out of Sunnydale. Some stay; most don't. If you end up being one of the ones sticking around, you'll see more of the same."
He typed on his laptop some more, digging through files and searching for more clues. That name that the lupine dropped. It bothered him. Bothered him way too much. He didn't see any real alternative. He was going to have to have a face-to-face with that furry murder machine Calvin. At least he wouldn't have to be stupid about it. There were ways of arranging a meeting without walking into the wolf's den, so to speak. "And so in the meantime, you sit here and ponder. It's as good a place as any, I suppose. Sometimes interesting things happen here, and not even necessarily to us."
|
|
|
Post by Myra Coville on Apr 10, 2012 8:32:40 GMT -8
The delicate Malkavian's shoulders rolled in a hapless shrug, downward lilt lingering upon her lips. Eyes drifted briefly between notebook and netbook in a moment of looking... as if she felt underdressed. Hazel eyes danced over the area behind him, making sure the subject matter of his screen wasn't catching anyone's attention. Even if he was browsing Amazon, it was a good way to pick people out in a crowd. And besides. If anyone was going to be publicly paranoid, no one would begrudge a kook.
"Indeed. Some of me yet wonders if my hurdles are borne of the reputation of my predecessors. I understand such to be the case in a few situations, anyway. I suppose I'm more disappointed there isn't suitable feedback from the departments actually charged with handling such issues. It makes me wonder how far I can go without overstepping myself. Unless, of course, this is standard operating procedure with suitable recompense at the conclusion of the affair. This is, at least, what I am hoping for. But hope springs eternal, they say." It was mildly peculiar how radically her diction changed when she was outside of Elysium. Vaguely noticeable during their initial investigation, true, but she was relatively mute throughout that affair. She watched her notebook with a calm silence, eyes trailing over the cover as if writing by sight onto the pages beneath. Her lips pursed, set off to the side in thought. It seemed he wasn't the only one plagued by unknowns.
|
|
|
Post by Ghost on Apr 10, 2012 10:52:07 GMT -8
Ghost's eyes danced in almost perverse merriment at this latest comment of Myra's. "Ah, yes! The Entrenched Management. While I freely admit that I'm not nearly old enough to confirm or deny the possibility of the City's leadership legitimately moving in slow, decades-long plans that are barely seen by those running around doing the nightly legwork," he made an offhand gesture suggesting they were both in the latter camp rather than the former. "I can say that in the 18 months or so since the death of Seneschal Clayfield, there has been no visible progress by the Sheriff, his deputies, or anyone else in any official position to investigate in uncovering the truth of the matter. This speaks of two likely possibilities. One, that the Sheriff and his people are grossly incompetant, or two, that there has been a coverup. With that in mind, certainly be concerned about overstepping yourself, so just make sure to look where you're stepping. What I have seen so far suggests is that it's impossible not to step on somebody's toes no matter what you do, so what you're looking for when you step is not if you step on toes, but on whose toes they are."
He stretched back, setting down his untasted drink and glancing back at his laptop again. That name would haunt him if he didn't uncover its meaning soon. Fortunately, he was an expert at uncovering meaning. And in the meantime, there were still other concerns that needed addressing. He let mis mind wander and fantasize for the briefest of moments, then turned his gaze back to Myra, awaiting her next response.
|
|
|
Post by Myra Coville on Apr 10, 2012 11:19:46 GMT -8
The naturally wide eyes of the waiflike woman widened further at the word 'Seneschal'. Again. Paranoia. Eyes flitted here and there with a flutter of lashes in hopes of spotting anyone interested enough to necessitate damage control. She hid her startled reaction behind a feigned sip of her tea. Possibly the first time she'd touched it all night. Clearing her throat ever so slightly, she straightened her pen on the notebook with meticulous attention to detail and angle. Her legs crossed at the ankle, ducking discretely under her chair.
"I'm quite sure they are doing all they can. The system has ever functioned on delegation. I am merely concerned that things have not been... sufficiently delegated to the point of efficiency. I'm also uncertain of the constancy of reward and punishment, but I sense an absence of diligence in applying these may be key to the general lack of motivation amidst the cogs that run our well-oiled machine. I have not seen enough to say... I have but my own peculiar clarity to rely on." The smile that followed was best described as 'dainty'. Volumes of subtext, hidden in the smallest of nuances. The kook's eyes were keen, pressing the boundary of Masquerade safety with her words, continuing to look for indications that a line had been crossed.
|
|
|
Post by Ghost on Apr 11, 2012 16:36:23 GMT -8
Ghost found he enjoyed Myra's response, even with the reference to her clan's bizarre insight into things. He had Dropped one or two nebulous buzzwords that just skirted the edge of the Masquerade in a semi-public place... and her quickly-covered-up scandalized look was almost charming. And it was refreshing to see someone who actually gave a damn about it. So many of the kindred he met were so damned blase about the First Tradition. Myra didn't seem all that bad for a Kook. Which, of course, made him wonder just how deep and hidden her madness ran. Maybe she was one of the lucky ones, whose particular brand of crazy was something she dealt with in her private time at home, away from the public and her fellow kindred. That would make her lucky, indeed, as Ghost had yet to meet any Malkavian so fortunate... or cunning. Then again, the truly cunning sometimes pretend to be foolish, so who knew?
"Your assessment thus far is more or less accurate," Ghost said. "There appears to have been no reward offered for uncovering the information, by Faina or anyone else. Not that this has stopped me or a few select others, mind you, but the issue remains officially unsolved, with the majority of the affected parties far more interested in who's going to step in to succeed him, with but one notable exception. Clayfield's... loyal supporters, for lack of a better term, continue to wreak havoc on Faina and her people in response. Or at least they are who some of the recent messes have been attributed to."
Ghost took another pretend sip of his hot drink, soaking in more of the scent, more of the warmth. Out of habit he continuously scanned the room for signs of the unusual, of people watching or listeningly to intently, or pretending not to. And also, to be fair, on the lookout for warping people hulking out, trying to kill people, and then dying in a gigantic mess of mutation. Because that happens, too. He watched for all these things, yet never fully took his eyes off of his companion. Friendly and demure or not, she was still a kindred, and more importantly still a Malkavian. If she didn't know how most of her clanmates in the City felt about him he would eat his backpack.
"So the next question is, if something valuable, something really relevant to the Clayfield thing ended up being discovered by you, or even just falling into your lap, what would you want from the Entrenched Management for it? What do you hope to gain for yourself in pursuing this big mystery?"
|
|
|
Post by Myra Coville on Apr 12, 2012 11:11:47 GMT -8
"Prestation." The response was so sudden and certain and matter-of-fact that it was almost disapppointing. Her expression didn't change, either. She maintained her calm and straightforward demeanor, fidgeting idly with her pen as she picked it up off of the notebook. Maybe ADD? She seemed to overwhelm herself consistently with stimuli or tasks. But part of it seemed to be the consideration that followed his words on the death of the Seneschal. She looked, if anything, disappointed herself. Pink lips were touched by a faint frown that didn't quite creep into the deliberation swimming in her stare.
"I often marvel at complaints of inaction from those perfectly able to take action themselves. Though, as you say, there may be more to the inaction than meets the eye. I'm surprised more... scandalous words haven't emerged regarding the absence of resolution on the issue. Makes me wonder how it is the officers of that department have let it slide as well, as one cannot hold employ there without diligence and attention to detail. I suppose that may be part of why my desires that way tend... I've not the standing with which I can investigate such matters. I aspire, then, to have the means by which to do so."
|
|
|
Post by Ghost on Apr 13, 2012 16:13:49 GMT -8
Myra's answer,the first part, was both pleasing and saddening to Ghost. He liked that she knew how to play the game and had no problem diving in head first, and also that she wasn't being an obnoxious bitch about it. He couldn't count the number of snobbish, annoying, cockhole Ventrue wannabe-elders that didn't have the first clue about manners or a business relationship. And they either were after something inane and abstract that was really worth nothing at all except to fulfill some private, idiotic fantasy, or if they did go for prestation, they were so crass that no one would deal with them.
He liked all of that, but he was a little sad that the reality was that you HAD to have that answer if you wanted to be taken seriously. There was no room for personal development in the public eye. You were either a shark, you you were the one spouting the blood that attracted them. Still, at least she had the presence of mind to realize her situation, to show just a smidgeon of distaste for the flavor this honesty engendered. He gave her credit for that much. And in the meantime the rest of her comments were heartening.
"I can appreciate that. I feel much the same way. Sometimes what the people in charge deign to tell you just doesn't add up and you have to figure things out for yourself, wherever that may lead. So where does all of that lead you to next?"
|
|
|
Post by Dr. Blakemore on Apr 13, 2012 23:49:18 GMT -8
I promise I wont sleep under my desk this dawn. I promise I wont run one more test. I promise I wont let another damned resident distract me from the fact that I have a tendency to burst into flames if the sun says hello. I used to enjoy the night shifts. Now its all I can do. Sure its easy enough to play the part of the DESPERATLY genius doctor; take a turn through rounds, correct the young interns, complement them when they have success, and of course, never commit to anything. Its amazing how few questions are asked if you make like you know what you’re doing… and stay consistently busy. It probably doesn’t hurt that nobody wants to question the man who paid for damned near half of this state of the art medical center. But there are some things you can’t fake your way through, namely Emergency Room medicine. Something about a busy ER never failed to stir a deep sense of satisfaction from inside the good doctors chest. Maybe it was the sureness of slipping into a comfortable role of command. Maybe it was the satisfaction of controlling the chaos. Maybe it was the knowledge that at any moment another bloody mess of some foolish Kine would be wheeled in, the air thick with the tasty tang of iron and fear…..maybe it was that fresh coat of wax on the flawlessly white linoleum floors. Just how did they get the floor so damned shiny? I suppose I’ll have to find out who hires the cleaning staff around here… I wonder if we could get them to do The Facility as well. Maybe this was the one place where his mind wouldn’t…. no…couldn’t wander. There isn’t any room for research or experiments here…nor for politics. Just life…and death. Blakemore drew himself together and threw himself whole heartedly into the nights work. Patients blurred past him one after another as the night dragged on promising more of the usual; broken bones, simple flu, chronic respiratory inflammation, and a couple of idiots who invented their own game involving beer and nail guns. It wasn’t until the annoying skinny red headed intern came waving his newest draft on “Additive Genetic Variance” that the doctor remembered his promise to himself. I won’t sleep under my desk this dawn. A short walk and fifteen minutes later Blakemore felt himself standing outside of the Boatswains’ Cup. To escape being cornered by the excitable skinny intern he had offered to pay for the night shifts coffee run, something he often did anyway as a way of remaining in good favor with the hospital staff, but tonight he found himself moving with the group of residents that typically made the run. Anything to escape the redheaded one. Something through the window caught his attention that made him hesitate even as the gaggle of young people in scrubs obliviously left him behind. …..Myra. She was frowning at the young man across from her, but clearly interested in the conversation. Blakemore couldn’t help but feel curious. This newcomer had proven herself infinitely useful her first night in Sunnydale and even more so in just the short month that followed. Blakemore couldn’t help but feel something close to pity for her forming inside of his chest. She seemed capable, but her bloodline betrayed any hopes for her usefulness in Blakemore’s mind. Working with a Malkavian is like playing with fire, it isn’t if you’ll get burned, but when…. Yet something…. She caught his eye through the glass and he knew there wasn’t any going back. He had been noticed and it wouldn’t be polite to not at least say hello. Throwing Myra a small smile as he straightened his tie in the reflection provided by the glass door to the Cup before entering and making his way to the table where Myra sat.
“Pleasant to see you out and about at this ungodly hour Ms. Coville”
As he steps to the side of the table to get a better look at the laptop wielding young man that sits across from her.
“Friend of yours?”
|
|
|
Post by Myra Coville on Apr 14, 2012 12:43:36 GMT -8
There had been a conversation, yes. But as Myra's eyes drifted out the window, all remembrance of such seemed to slip the waif's mind. Luminous hazel eyes widened ever so slightly, touched with a softness of recognition. Her features turned somewhat demure, unspoken words passed through her gaze to the slightly nervous fellow standing in the willow. A faint breath escaped her at the smile she received, as if some weight had lifted off her chest, and she inclined her head in a nod to him. She straightened in her seat as he approached, eyes shining as her hands left the pen to fold gently in her lap.
"I had trouble sleeping. Work kept me tossing and turning. I'm sure many facets of life would be infinitely easier if one could merely stop thinking at will." At the mention of her guest, her eyes finally returned to her original companion, her smile for once showing a glimpse of white teeth as she chuckled, glancing back to Blakemore. "Isn't it just the thing? I hadn't expected to see this man. He happened upon my table, and I tell you it was like seeing a Ghost." The smile softened, lips meeting once more as the woman seemed to glow with life.
She adjusted her cup meticulously on the table, as if the glass being at the wrong angle would give all the wrong impressions or some such. "Would you care to join us?" Of course, after the warm invitation had been extended, hazel eyes turned back to Ghost to ensure she had not overstepped herself by inviting another to their conversation.
|
|
|
Post by Ghost on Apr 14, 2012 16:21:26 GMT -8
Ghost was waiting for Myra's response when her gaze drifted to the window next to them, to something or someone just behind his field of vision. He watched Myra's pupils dilate, as she seemed to be spotting something she wanted. It took infinite restraint on his part not to immediately turn his head and see what she was staring at. instead, he tried something more cunning. He clicked on his laptop to dispel the brightly-colored page and leave a nearly black background. The ambient light of the coffeeshop made it an excellent makeshift mirror, which he casually angled to catch a reflection. It was Blakemore.
Dr, Gage Blakemore was one of the few kindred in the city that Ghost had any real fondness for. The man had cured the damned Habiba Virus, and had made Ghost's illness of so long ago now somewhat more bearable. And they usually worked well together when their interests coincided. They were... firendly, if not quite close confidants. Recent conversations had strained that friendliness a little, but nowhere near the breaking point.
Blakemore stepped inside the shop, and he and Myra were now exchanging pleasantries. She then hinted to him in a rather droll fashion as to whom her young friend was. 'Seen a Ghost', indeed. Ghost arched an eyebrow at her and offered a wry smile, all the while wondering what it was about Blakemore that seemed to fascinate Myra. He had noticed an odd fixation with him in her on the night they had met. Ghost thought she was just a fan of his medical achievements and writings. He still hadn't ruled it out. It could easily be that. Or perhaps Blakemore had done that thing that Ventrue and Toreador and even the Brujah sometimes did where they made people like them, against all reason or logic. Maybe he was playing some sort of dangerous game with her. Or maybe she was just a Kook and there was no explanation. Fortunately this bit of information wasn't really a priority for Ghost. He wanted to know because he was a Nosferatu and knowing things was his job.
Without turning around, Ghost spoke up, pleased that this particular form had a voice nearly identical to his own, and hoping Myra's hint would be enough to clue the good doctor in. "Yes, Doctor, please. Join us. We've been discussing the affairs of the City, solving the world's problems from our armchairs, and enjoying a discussion of local politics in a place that doesn't hold the pressure of the rigorous demands of certain exotic citrus fruit. I am quite sure that we'll soon get to the sewing-circle part of things, where we share juicy gossip and talk smack about people behind their backs. And who doesn't love that?"
|
|