human beings in a mob

Alistair Temple 410 VAMPIRE

[alistair-temple-blog]

 simar-gill:

“Well it should.”

“Maybe I’m not as popular as you are. Speaking of. Some old flame of yours was skulking around and looking for you. Fucking creepy too, not gonna lie.”

“Well, in that case... still no.”

“Creepy, huh? What’d she do?”

[alistair-temple-blog]

  simar-gill:

“Hey, you’re so brilliant you could probably pull it off.”

“Maybe I just want your company?”

“Flattery's not gonna get ya a raise.”

“Ya that hard up for friends?”

[alistair-temple-blog]

 chaney-farren:

Alistair didn’t give her any answers when she had asked. Of course, she shouldn’t have expected anything from him at all. But one question, he had said, would answer itself. Perhaps now it had, thanks to another citizen. Chaney storms into the pub, fury on her heels that might blacken the wood floor with fire. She doesn’t care about where her place is in the bar, she ducks under the counter gingerly to be beside Alistair as he serves a lonely patron. “You’re going to give me answers,” she hisses lowly, “And you’re going to give me them now.”

It’s pointless to think she couldn’t go far, because none of them really could. Including him, for all the years and the violence he carried on his shoulders. There’s still something smug in the curve of his lips when Chaney comes storming back in, that bond between them pulling tight once again until she’s back at his side. It’s always been that way, likely always will be, until one of them tries to sever it completely. “Or else what?” he asks with a smile. “Ya gonna beat ‘em out of me?”

[alistair-temple-blog]

 simar-gill:

“So why aren’t you out there?”

“Or are you actually gonna help me out with all this?”

“Watch it, son. Don’t forget who signs your paychecks. Can’t do that from a ditch.”

“What, tellin’ me ya can’t handle it by yourself?”

[alistair-temple-blog]

 simar-gill:

“Not even if I say please? C’mon, where the fuck’re your manners?”

“Probably dead in a ditch somewhere, where all the useless shit belongs.”

[danielprice-blog1]

⊱ come with knives.

[alistair-temple-blog]

 danielprice:

Alistair’s question throws him for a dizzy loop— one that he recovers from with a harsh laugh. It’s probably more plausible that someone would get from away two very experienced hunters without killing them both, all things considered. He would’ve been outnumbered (and shit out of luck, for that matter) if it weren’t for his unseemly company, but everything turned out well enough. Seventy or so hours of extensive ‘experimentation’ on his capacity to heal and tolerate pain is a lesson learned: know who the fuck you’re hanging out with, in case they wind up getting you followed by some seriously vengeful, sadistic hunters.

“Asking for?” Danny leans back another inch, rocking forward in his seat and trying to keep time. “Nah. Wouldn’t bring you this if they were still screwing around.” That’s a risk he isn’t willing to take, point blank. Putting someone else’s afterlife in jeopardy would be hypocritical, as he’s come to blame Dem a great deal for their exploits. Fond as he is of the idea that someone (or something) out there is crueler and worse off than the curse that’s fallen over him, and the decisions he’s made, it’s still true.

But he does have one thing to ask— it’s not quite a favor, but it is something close to a request. He knows enough of their differences to understand that it’s less of a courtesy warning and more of an attempt to reach out and get rid of any small, misplaced worries. Why should either of them waste their time sidestepping each other around this tiny town when he doesn’t care enough to interfere in Alistair’s business, and it seems to apply just as well to the other side. Why not make his story as clear as possible and eliminate any unnecessary conflicts before they happen?

It’s a good thing no one’s sober enough to listen. “Know things are running pretty smoothly for you here and that a heads up wouldn’t hurt.”

There’s never been a gift Alistair’s given or received that hasn’t had strings attached, and he doesn’t suspect this one is any different. Regardless of the boy’s claims, and it’s hard not to think of him as a child, regardless of his nature. Maybe in a few hundred years that view will change, but he’ll be a few more steps into godhood, immortality a mantle around his shoulders that he wears with pride.

Though what he could hope to gain from the knowledge he offers up so willingly, he can’t begin to predict. Maybe something as simple as good will. Maybe a favor sometime down the road. It’s an overestimation of how much he truly sticks to his word.

The smile doesn’t fade, but this time it’s accompanied by a small shrug of his shoulders. “Shame. Could’ve been fun.” It’s preferable that hunters are dead, and no concern of his. And he’s just as capable of appreciating violence done at someone else’s hands, the closest he might come to respect. But there’s still some honesty to the thought. He hasn’t had a good fight in years, the brief altercation with Chaney the closest he’s come. And that had carried the uneasy implication that he’s getting slower, the sharpened blade he used to be left duller from inaction. It makes his veins itch, his fingers curling imperceptibly around the vial with the thought of violence.

Whatever goes on in his head never plays on his face, that practiced mask constantly in position as he eyes a monster that could either serve as opposition or an ally. History promises that he’s always had more of the first, but arrogance appreciates the implications, that unspoken acceptance that Alistair has established some kind of balance here, if not the empire he stood upon in New York. “Well, nice of ya to think of me, son. Lemme know if ya come across anymore friends, yeah?”

[alistair-temple-blog]

 simar-gill:

“Shut up.”

“When I feel like it.”

[alistair-temple-blog]

 cora-morgan:

“He’s most definitely gonna ralph on her shoes if he keeps drinking at that rate.”

“But like, okay—confidence is one thing, but…confidence and a fedora is kind of a deadly combo. Just saying.”

“Hope he waits ‘til he’s outside. Don’t feel like cleaning that shit up.”

“Yeah, maybe. Think you’re just jealous he’s not hitting on you.”

[alistair-temple-blog]

 cora-morgan:

“Oh, uh—nothing. I was kind of just talking to myself. That…drunk guy just said he could get with that girl.” She nods at an attractive blonde some ways down the bar.

“And I’m like…not unless you’re an illusionist, my guy.”

“Might surprise ya how far confidence can get a man.” His head tilts, eyeing the people in question. “’Course if he throws up on her shoes that’s right out the window.”

[alistair-temple-blog]

 cora-morgan:

“Yeah, okay. Because that would totally happen.”

“Hmm?” He glances up, only half paying attention. “What was that?”

[danielprice-blog1]

⊱ come with knives.

[alistair-temple-blog]

 danielprice:

Needless to say, Danny isn’t prideful. Not when it comes to someone like this— a creature who’s experienced enough in his being to own a bar and make a living alongside humans. A creature who had to have taken out his own share of hunters, if not handfuls by now, is more than he is. Far more, in several measures. It wouldn’t matter if his blood was black or red, and he doesn’t underestimate any of the other species’ desires for chaos or similarly destructive things. He doesn’t want to discredit the possibility of someone wanting that entropy to involve him.

Regardless, this is a risk he knows is better to take than to not bother. He just knows better than not to clarify what he’d meant by grouping them in the same place. “Nah, I know we’re pretty different. Know you’re old.” Despite the fact that his aging process has come to an abrupt halt, it hasn’t been a full year since the transition, and he hopes this much makes that clear.

“But they figure we’re all the same, that’s for damn sure.” Dropping the vial in Alistair’s open hand, Danny grips the edge of the counter with both hands and presses his lips into a line. Leans back in his seat with one foot propped up against the bar and tries not to grimace at the memories. There’s probably no point in trying to hide the exasperated response to being tortured over the course of three days, but he does. It might be his first show of pride in a long while.

“Two. They were tracking something else and I got caught up in it by accident. Was sort of a bonus target. Had a basement, needles, matches, holy water. All those plants that work— dunno if there’s one that doesn’t sit well with you, but if there is they fuckin’ had it. Took almost three days, but I got out. Made sure nobody else was coming.”

Old might fall short of truly covering it, though every year beneath his belt leaves him more detached from the man he'd been born and closer to a god. If it’s arrogance to think as much than he’ll claim the title, because history and purpose has given him little reason to doubt it. He rests easy believing he’s the strongest thing in this town, and if there’s enough self-restraint in him not to try and prove that every time teeth are bared or voices raised, there will always be the desire. The creature in front of him is no exception to that, but his mood falls more towards amusement than destruction at the moment. He’ll claim it a benefit of age.

But they can only sound ominous, even if fear is nothing the vampire’s felt in centuries and it doesn’t inspire that in him now. He’s never been good at keeping his head down, but he’s intelligent enough to recognize the necessity of it. Hunters have existed for centuries, too much like rats just waiting in the woodwork. It’s always been more effort than he’s been willing to put forth to try and eradicate them, but it leaves a foul taste in his mouth at everything Danny’s implying.

“That mean they’re dead? Or is that what you’re asking for?” It doesn’t stop the smile on his lips, though it’s rarely a kind thing and today is no different. The gaze he settles on him is predatory, as though his eyes alone could pick out the cracks that might’ve been left in the monster across from him. If they are something stronger, too similar in nature and longevity of life not to set them almost parallel in his mind, the difference always sits in how close any of them cling to humanity. As though it’s something to be treasured instead of destroyed.

The only pieces of it he still has are the shards of a mask he plasters on his face, the illusion that he is less than he is. And there’s a vial of blood in his hands that might prove otherwise, the scent of it calling to him quietly.

[danielprice-blog1]

⊱ come with knives.

[alistair-temple-blog]

 danielprice:

It’s clear enough in the same instant that he’s approached Alistair that his almost invitation is received well. Surely he can smell it— this muddy, earned blood in a cheap, see-through cylinder with one purpose and one purpose alone: earn him an ally. Or at the very least, an emergency contact if not someone to warn when shit hits the fan again. Danny doubts he’ll ever be the sort to find it necessary to bring anyone else down with him (because he’s done enough of that for 23 years now, hasn’t he? Enough for two lifetimes, if not three), so that’s no concern either.

Fortunately, it’s not a full bar. There’s two, maybe three drunks a few stools down from where he’s sitting. People who read the newspaper and figured there was nothing better to do for the rest of the night, guaranteed. For them— for humans, it must be a cinch to give up and forget it all.

He’s starting to hate them for it.

That said, no one’s paying attention and he didn’t catch any scents that might have superhuman hearing who he doesn’t was involved. It’s important now, more than ever, to be aware of his surroundings and cautious about what he does with them. Handling this carefully is a necessity, not a choice.

“Didn’t know if you were keeping count of anyone who wants us out, but I had a run-in with a few and thought I should fill you in.” He rolls his proof between his thumb and index finger discreetly, hunched forward to keep anyone from listening in and voice kept low. “I’m guessing there’s a shit ton of us, but I can only pick out a few for sure.”

It truly doesn’t take much at this point to snag Alistair’s attention, though a lasting interest is nothing he can promise as easily. But little enough happens here that the scent of blood and a rugaru asking for a minute of his time serves as a welcome distraction to passing beers across the counter to familiar faces. Humans who simply want to drink their life away, and one of these days he’ll probably offer them a more permanent solution to how mundane and pointless their lives have become. Instead they can be sacrifices to a god. It’s a better end than some get.

Lidded eyes watch the kid’s face as he talks, amusement at how quickly he ties them together. And there is some camaraderie there, even if there’s not loyalty. They’re both killers by nature, and it doesn’t surprise him that he’s recognized that much. Perhaps only surprised that this has been brought to his counter, though he’d like to think his name still carries some weight.

“It’s us now, is it? Ya think we’re the same?" It’s a challenge, because most things are where Alistair Temple is concerned. Constantly weighing the strengths and weaknesses of everyone and everything around him, and often he thinks the only thing holding him back from full scale slaughter is that it simply wouldn’t be a challenge. In this case he’s not interested in ending the life of something so similar to him in nature, especially when he’s brought gifts.

He might claim little concern for his life, but there’s curiosity who interfered with it. Tried to end it, even, though he lacks the details to claim as much. He holds his hand out, palm open and some expectant expression on his face. “What happened?”

[danielprice-blog1]

⊱ come with knives.

[alistair-temple-blog]

It’s a burst of power that lingers in his middle and crawls up his throat.

Even when he knows he shouldn’t be running at the chance to creep in every other corner for some form of alliance between monsters he’s never met, Danny doesn’t stop himself. All the prominent figures he can think of stack up in the back of his mind, and he compiles a list. Some of which, he’ll visit… others, he’ll play it by ear. Counting on coincidence shouldn’t be hard when this place is so small — no doubt, he’ll run into something new tomorrow, if not within a few hours.

The Drowned Man is somewhere he’s met several supernaturals, and from what he can recall, the owner is at a similar distance from human. They’d only crossed paths once or twice before he was aware of how to identify a vampire, but the time seems apt as any to make a choice and put his pieces into play. A few pawns, a rook or two. He might be the bishop, but he’s certainly no king. And knight… as much as he’d like to fit into that category, it doesn’t suit people seeking bloodshed so well. 

His shoulders are back and he’s more at ease when the bar doors push open and he takes a seat up front, one glance over his shoulder before a vile’s pulled out of his jacket pocket. The hunter he killed had more blood to offer than he might expect from prey that he dove into. He’s full of surprises, as it seems. 

“Hey, gramps.” He starts, finding that the title hadn’t gotten him into trouble last time around and making a quick bargain. “Let me know when you’ve got a second. Brought you something.”

For the most part it’s pointless to mark the night as a slow night in the Drowned Man. Most of them are. It might possess a stronger intensity of small town drama than most, thanks to some of the violent beings contained within it’s limits, but it’ll never compare to city life. And while Alistair is not a creature who believes int hings like guilt or regret, nostalgia is more present every day. New York is put farther in the past with every passing day, and there’s a quiet tension in his bones at being trapped for so long, when he is nothing that should ever be caged.

Chaney’s arrival is at least some change. Likely a more violent, malevolent one, but if anything that’s more reason to smile. He suspects he’s more appreciative of her presence than she is of his continued existence, but that matters little to him until it ends with her teeth in his throat.

He catches the smell of blood before he can identify the source of it, by now his body attuned to that sharp metallic scent. Most of his four hundred some years have been spent as a monster, and blood is the cost of that immortal life. It seems a small one to pay for all the strength and powers of a god, teeth sharpened and always ready for the kill. Though blood in the air implies killing’s already done, or at least some violence that has little to do with him.

The words he’s offered by a baby-faced rugaru hint strongly at who’s responsible, and perhaps a grin shouldn’t be his response, but his lips still pull wide, teeth bared in a smile. The rag gets tossed over his shoulder, hands settling on the bar in front of him. “Got a second now, son. What can I do for ya?”

[alistair-temple-blog]

 chaney-farren:

Alistair takes the drink he poured for her, the pint glass completely untouched by her fingers, ale never touching her tongue. She had never been thirsty, not for beer. But she craves blood constantly and that’s a curse he bestowed upon her. God, how she hates him. How she wants to sink her teeth into his neck and drain him dry the way he had changed her. She wants to rip his charms from him and watch him bake in the sun. She wants to her him scream in torment, payment for the abandonment. And she’s still left without answer. Her anger is not to be capped and she takes the newly settled glass and hurls it at Alistair’s skull.

The reaction doesn’t surprise him, but it’s less harsh than he expects. He wouldn’t be surprised if she leaped across the counter after him, if she tried to tear his throat out with her teeth like she’s sworn a thousand times. Instead it’s a glass that he barely dodges, and it isn’t through any human speed. It’s because he’s something old and powerful, enough that he could shred her and everyone else in this bar if he wanted to. Instead he’s standing at the counter with a lazy grin as the glass shatters somewhere behind him. “You’re still gonna have to pay for that.”

[alistair-temple-blog]

 chaney-farren:

Chaney would tear right through him now if people hadn’t been lingering inside the tavern. Or she’d try to, at least. She might’ve always known that her death would be her fury flaring on Alistair and him taking her outside, like a dog to be put down. Once she’s done serving a purpose. And maybe that was all he had done when he left New York City, abandoned her because she’s run her course for him and the act of leaving her behind had simply been a kindness. “Any answer,” she states coldly, “Instead of your bullshit ones.” Because all he’s done his given her questions in return. “Call it closure before I rip your head from your neck.”

For a moment he almost gives her something, not because she asked, but because she doesn’t mean nothing to him. They were together for decades, a single constant existing at his side. And if some days he thought she wanted him dead, it was her affection he doubted, never her loyalty. Maybe that did earn her something, maybe that should’ve earned her a goodbye at the very least. But she is what he created, and she snaps back at him with sharpened teeth. Until that sense of obligation is replaced with a lazy smile. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, sweetheart. ” He slaps a hand on the counter before straightening up. And he brings her glass with him, taking a swallow from the liquid that’s all but untouched before he places it back in front of her. “Never gonna get anywhere that way.”

[alistair-temple-blog]

 chaney-farren:

Answering her question with his own inquiry. How typical of him. She shouldn’t have expected any less. Chaney bares her teeth in a silent growl as she leans forward, palms pressing against the edge of the bar to keep a hold of the barrier between them. “You are my maker,” she hisses to him lowly, stare icy as she envisions every way she’d like to destroy him just by ripping his throat out with her teeth or nails. Her lips stay clamped upon the words of abandonment, a wound too fresh to heal properly. And his question only solidifies in her mind that he hadn’t thought of her well being at all when he left. In fact, she might have been so inconsequential to his life that he had spared her a moment in his plan. Straightening her spine, Chaney settles upon the bar stool to collect her usual calm composure, replacing words that still sting at the heart that never beats to brush his abandonment aside. “Were you not pleased with me then?”

“And I fuckin’ taught ya how to survive, didn’t I?” There’s a baring of his teeth in response to hers, palms gripping the bar as he leans forward to meet her. Most days her anger might only leave him laughing, proud of the creature he’s created. And he is, because that pride is the warmest thing in his chest right now. There’s no guilt, no shame, but he’s aware in this moment just how much he missed her. Even the venom she spits at him, the blackness of her gaze that promises more fury than hell could provide. It might be worth it to feel it that much more intimately as she tries to tear him open. But he’s never been much of a liar, not when the truth is usually more painful. “What answer are ya hopin’ for here?”

[alistair-temple-blog]

 chaney-farren:

The answer isn’t truly one. Not to sate her own curiosity. It only spikes it. She stares at him for a moment, never allowing a flicker of emotion across her face, because giving Alistair the satisfaction is something she always fights when it comes to verbal arguments. She only bends her neck for his commands. The ‘why’ of his location here means little to her however. Not when she wants so desperately to know something else and her gaze falls on her hands for a brief moment before she’s staring back up at him, hunting for the lie he’ll probably give. “Why didn’t you confide in me you were leaving?”

He doesn’t give her anything at first, nothing but silence and the sharpness of his gaze. As though he could cut her open with that alone, bleed her out across the bar’s counter like some sacrifice led to the slaughter. That’s what she was to him once, a victim chosen out of the crowd for his amusement. And when he cut away everything human he found something just as vicious as himself, and he’ll swear that’s what’s kept her alive all these years. Maybe the thing that’ll kill him in the end too. But what he looks for now is a sign of weakness, searching for just how deep he’d cut when he’d abandoned her in New York. “You think that’s somethin’ I owed you?"