It feels like Jessie spends the majority of her time within the walls of the Club and that the familiar faces are the same kind of comfort as the flute she’s carrying as she saunters across the floor. It’s noted that because she spends so much time here; has so many years on the mass of bodies that surround her, unknown faces stick out like red on yellow. The woman the Diplomat watches shroud herself behind a curtain, one of those few.
And if the Davenport doesn’t know them, then she suddenly wants to. They’re something more interesting than another recognisable body within Bite Club; another human that’s not owned by the walls of the building; yet not a regular partaker in the iconic bar that the Darklands is formidable for. A notch up from The Bank on the East side of the Faction. So there’s little hesitation when the redhead crosses the distance to the private booths to catch more than a glimpse of the red that stands out against the dead.
Don’t be red in the walls of the Club if you don’t intend to stay; if there’s a fear of death.
Gives eaten alive a whole other meaning.
Slender fingers trap the edge of the curtain the stranger had vanished behind, tugs it back enough that’s not entire exposure to the rest of the undead who might not be far behind Jessie, but with intention that shows Jess is not there to partake in the same things that perhaps most would be. Green eyes, darkened some by the lowlights of BC meet the new face, rake in the features that Jessie doesn’t know; truly an enigma; Jess likes to think she knows everyone who is someone.
And to not be someone, that’s even more dangerous than the woman knows.
Words escape the stranger whilst the Diplomat scours the mortal, listens to the worried thrum of nerves that match a fluctuating heartbeat with a growing smile; amusement to the revelation. Though, had she needed to guess, it certainly would have matched up. “Oh, it shows,” the Davenport replies, it’s matter-of-fact; a lost human looking for a monster to bury teeth; hasn’t even wandered without knowing intention. Because it’s clear she does. The Club owner’s fingers release the curtain, stands as a barricade between those at her rear and the woman in the booth as if she’s the reason the mortal gets to live a little longer. And Jessie is already wondering how the woman got even this far without injury. “You’re not the typical type,” she adds eventually, carefully deducts the wording chosen. Like this. “Not a place for beginners, mortale, and mine,” implies her personal patrons, “are not all that kind in their ways,”
And Jack springs to mind; his interest in woman that aren’t easy and have an innocence that mean they’re unpractised. “You should leave,” That’s a kindness, take it whilst you can girl.
While most would shy away from the sheer power the other, and for good reason, but Camden Archer was not most. Her wicked curiosity had her wanting the alluring woman to stay. She didn’t know who the vampire was or that she owned the establishment she currently occupied. Still, her heartbeat gave away her excitement over the entire thing. There was a danger in being human, still so fragile despite her advancements and her best efforts but ultimate failures. She couldn’t seem to break herself of the dangerous habit, now she was hooked. As a scientist hellbent on making the humans the superior species, she was damned to despise the very thing that often made her feel alive.
The redhead identified ownership of the club which only fueled the human to push her limits. “I’m not sure what you mean by the typical type.” Suspecting the words were chosen with intentions of possibly saving the curious genius’ life, she pressed ahead. If the gorgeous woman meant her harm, there was little she could do to fight her off, anyway. “Is that a suggestion or an order? Either way, I appreciate the sentiment, thank you.” She made no effort to get up or leave in the slightest.
