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Post by Myra Coville on Jul 9, 2012 20:11:26 GMT -8
After nearly three months of complete invisibility, the assistant harpy could be seen once more on the streets of Sunnydale as if nothing had ever been amiss. She was exceptionally dressed down compared to her usual attire, with her typically wavy or pinned hair back in a straight ponytail that fell well past her shoulders. Her eyes were dull, both in emotion and in comparison to the sheen of green on her eyelids that matched her sweater and choker. Her usual notebook was open on the table before her. She looked almost like a beat poet with a flair for metallic accents. The cupid's bow lips of the Malkavian were drawn together in thought, tongue dancing behind her lips as if seeking words that would escape through her fingertips instead. Her pen tapped the air to an unheard rhythm, and her entire expression was one drawn in thought. She had the focus of a master of strength considering a physical obstacle before her. Her obstacle, however, was mental. The paper before her held but a paragraph, and the rest of the page seemed to mock its presence. Irritation welled with each passing moment, only to subside back into her same eerily focused cool. With enough determination, after all, nothing could hold you back. Right? |
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Post by Ghost on Jul 10, 2012 17:22:28 GMT -8
Despite the warmth and sweet smells of the summer breezes that were so frequent this time of year, Ghost could smell the scent of rain. The normally clear skies were pregnant with dark clouds, just itching to soak the City in Heaven's tears. One of the damned irritating things about being a Nosferatu was that you spent a lot of your time in sewers and drainpipes. The smells were... pungent, to say the least. You got used to it, you really did. Until you came out from under the streets and saw the night sky and once again smelled what the air was supposed to smell like. That shattered your illusions like a rock through a boutique window. You could close your eyes and for a brief time forget that you lived with rats and feces and stagnant water.
That was why he found the smell of rain in the air so foreboding. Most people enjoyed the scent of fresh rain, but not Ghost. It took away the natural smells of the sky and replaced it with more water. Water he would later smell again as it poured into the raingutters, mixing with the filth of his clan's undisputed territory.
He refused to let all of this spoil his good mood, however. Prince Bellefleur's first City Court had proven to be of inestimable value to him. Politics in the City were soooo much more interesting and profitable than mere Burrough politics. It gave him a reason to fight harder to earn a higher position, if for no other reason than to play in the Big Kids' Sandbox more regularly. That would come with time, if he was careful and cunning enough.
Now, though, it was time to get back to the grind of nightly business. He had a ghoul to track, an oddly-placed projector to trace, and endless busywork to process. He turned a corner and headed toward the entrance to the Boatswain's Cup. His usual tired-college-kid image was already in place. He walked inside, ordered the hottest, most aromatic drink he could find on the menu, and scanned the room. There was always someone interesting about.
Speaking of which, there sat Myra. The City's newest harpy. She had taken to her position like a fish to water, and swam with the sharks rather efficiently thus far. Ghost had to give her respect for that, especially considering the handicap of her clan. She seemed to be the only person of interest right now, so that seemed as much incentive as any to strike up a conversation. He watched as she stared at a half-filled page on a notebook. He was half-tempted to read what was written before announcing himself, but Myra was perhaps the only Malkavian he knew that he could claim a working relationship with. No need to risk fucking that up over something so minute. She was a Malk, after all, so who knew what might set her off? Besides, heh, she already knew this face.
"That's a rather intense look to give to a piece of paper. Does it hold secrets of life? And if so, is your consternation because it is refusing to share said secrets with you?"
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Post by Aaron Stride on Jul 10, 2012 22:39:56 GMT -8
The Cup was not as crowded this night as Aaron originally thought it would be. His desire to see the simple tribulations of the common Sunnydale resident would remain partially unsatisfied, though nobody would be able to tell that. His hands were feverishly working as he stared off into the coffee house, one never seeming to leave the pad except when the other turned the page to give a fresh canvas. There was dried up paint on his sleeves, though he wasn't carrying his usual art supplies or courier bag. His face wore a blank expression, his eyes darting from person to person as page after page was turned.
Looking across the room, he noticed the college student walk towards the woman who seemed to be suffering from writer's block. After a brief moment of focus, a slight smile came across Aaron's face as he shook his head. The sketchbook he had brought with him called his attention again, and now he was actually looking at what he was drawing.
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Post by Myra Coville on Jul 11, 2012 6:15:00 GMT -8
Myra's eyes rose to the familiar student with the telltale arch of a slender eyebrow. Her regard of the familiar figure was surprisingly neutral, until a cool smile stirred upon her lips, eyes maintaining an even stare that would do well with a reminder to blink. "Life holds few secrets. Less of interest. It merely requires a trained eye to seek them out, and most are not something one would find haplessly scrawled in a notebook." She did, however, take the cue to quietly close the notebook, allowing the magnetic fasten to catch as she rested the pen gently on top of it, hands folded on the table's surface.
"Working on a new book. Ideas are slow in coming. The story will soon enough write itself, but in the interem I'm afraid I shall have to remain... rather intense.". The truth was, with her unyielding stare and overly verbose inherent diction, Myra always had been rather intense. The status she now held didn't help, nor did the severity cast upon her elegant visage by the stark simplicity of her hair and attire. And yet she still remained oddly cherubic, in her own peculiar way.
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Post by Ghost on Jul 11, 2012 10:04:35 GMT -8
Ghost casually slid into the seat across from Myra, deciding not to pry into her new novel, if that was indeed what she was working on. There was more than enough to talk about, given the Prince's Court the other night. He leaned forward a bit, allowing the aroma of the hot drink waft up his dead nostrils, letting the heat from the cup soak into his clutching fingers.
"I must admit to a small amount of surprise to see you working on that, considering just how busy you were at Bellefleur's party," Ghost said offhandedly, deliberately leaving off the moniker of 'Prince' for the sake of any wandering ears. "I think the only time you were even able to say two words to me was when I first arrived. That's not a knock, though. Rather, a compliment. It's refreshing to see others beyond myself take the night's business with some seriousness."
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Post by Myra Coville on Jul 12, 2012 6:47:22 GMT -8
"A job is a job." Her words showed neither warmth, gratitude, nor flattery. She was certainly not condescending or rude, merely one who considered the remark equivocable to complimenting one for the color of their hair. A statement of the obvious, for which the recipient of the remark had little to no cause to actually take pride in it. "And humorously, it is instead my hobby for which I receive monetary compensation." The slender fingers of her right hand uncurled in a simple gesture to the notebook, almost affectionately, before her palm rested again to the table. The appearance given was, that for all her hard work and diligence, Myra strongly disliked the position placed upon her. As any good employee, of course, the dislike of her occupation was hardly enough to warrant any propensity to shirk her responsibilities.
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Post by dorianossangne on Jul 12, 2012 7:20:52 GMT -8
"A job IS a job, but isn't it what we do, and not who we are that defines us?" joked Dorian as he shot the sitting pair a grin and spun a chair around backwards. He was wearing his dreadfully sleezy black jacket, a pair of blue jeans, boots and a button up shirt. There was a slight sound of relief in his voice. "Boy oh Boy, am I glad to see you two."
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Post by Ghost on Jul 12, 2012 14:13:49 GMT -8
Ghost inclined his head to the new arrival. Dorian. One of the newcomers. Or was he merely new to Ghost? There were more burroughs than just Sunnydale in the City, after all. He made a mental note to check on that.
"Dorian, isn't it? I believe we met last friday at Bellefleur's party, albeit briefly." He made a gesture for Dorian to sit. "Glad to see us? Flattery will get you... actually pretty far in our circles. Pray tell, what's on your mind?"
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Post by Myra Coville on Jul 12, 2012 15:11:00 GMT -8
The assistant harpy fell oddly silent at the exchange, thin brow remaining arched as she regarded the two. It lowered with an oddly pleasant smile as inquisitive eyes turned to Dorian, watching him quietly. Ghost had seen fit to handle the dialogue so far, so Myra felt little need to contribute. Really, she never was one to speak without an obvious need. Silence was more comfortable.
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Post by dorianossangne on Jul 13, 2012 23:31:04 GMT -8
In a quiet voice, Dorian says "Did you hear the one about the deaf man?....Neither did he....okay bad joke, but seriously I am very concerned about something that was taken off of someone who is...."homeless". Basically there were a disturbing collection of fireworks found on this "homeless" person shortly before the issue in the parking lot that resulted in significant damage to many of the vehicles outside of the party."
He then folds his arms over the top of the reversed chair and looks back and forth between the two of them. Leaning very slowly towards the middle of the table and with a voice so soft you'd think it was dew falling on down,
I'd really like to know more about this person without a house. If either of you two can point me in the right direction I'll make no small secret of your assistance.
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Post by Ghost on Jul 14, 2012 0:21:16 GMT -8
Ghost was momentarily taken aback. The car explosions? It was just... he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He reminded himself that it was his ability to find out information that made him valuable, and that there were plenty of other things he couldn't do, which was what made other people valuable.
Sighing inwardly, Ghost pulled out a phone and began keying in information, all with his right hand. With his left he reached into another pocket and pulled out a dirty-looking, previously crumpled and stained business card. He plopped it on the table in front of the new arrival. "Sure, Dorian. I can help you out. Take that, it has my contact info. Send me a text, and then we can discuss terms. If we come to an agreement, I can have some information for you in rapid order."
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Post by dorianossangne on Jul 18, 2012 9:17:49 GMT -8
Dorian flipped the card around twice committing the information to memory. Once he was sure he had it memorized, he then placed the card into his coat pocket. His eyes back on Ghost,
"Well what sort of agreement did you have in mind?"
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