Post by Mr. Smythe on Mar 9, 2011 19:40:21 GMT -8
Smythe enters nectarine and looks at the pretty people at play. Handing his coat, hat, gloves, and cane to the attendant, he strides down the stairs to the kindred room. It is subdued he notes-there is less joy in the Torreadors, and every one else is sullen.
The blood plague, he thinks, is tearing this city apart in a way that even the death of Clayfield did not. So many questions and so few answers. He takes a small drink from a passing blood doll-a pretty girl in her twenties he imagines-a brunette in a striking red gown. He thanks Cindi in his head as he straightens his tuxedo: she has wonderful taste sometimes. It would never do to tell her, but she does run a hell of a club. Damned Good Show.
The blood plague, he thinks, is tearing this city apart in a way that even the death of Clayfield did not. So many questions and so few answers. He takes a small drink from a passing blood doll-a pretty girl in her twenties he imagines-a brunette in a striking red gown. He thanks Cindi in his head as he straightens his tuxedo: she has wonderful taste sometimes. It would never do to tell her, but she does run a hell of a club. Damned Good Show.
