Faction: The Haven | Neutral
Location: The Boneyard
Open to: All.
It’s eerie; there’s a howl in the distance, something a little louder than the wind and it’s easily picked up by the vampire’s ears. Tombs litter the rotted expanse of the Boneyard, a stench that lingers a little too uncomfortably for even Jack to ignore; it permeates the air; hangs there like an unwanted lover that refuses to leave even after being done with them. The Davenport can forgive it, knows that death has a scent that the undead are a little too familiar with. He’s standing in a graveyard and long after flesh has decayed under his feet and ivory bones stained with frozen droplets are swallowed by the hardened soil; Jakoris stays leaned up against a broken tombstone, cracked by some blunt force that leaves the stone jagged at its edges. The sound of a metal scratching on steel rings throughout the empty space; the flick of a Zippo’s lid that he’s thumbing up and down absently cutting through the silence. There’s a smoke trapped between his lips, cherry glowing bright every time the vampire takes a drag.
He’s waiting for someone; something really, there’s a shovel embedded in the dried ground beside him and for the first time in a while, Jessie’s asked him to partake in something relevant to his position in the hierarchy, to be expected really, he considers the lack of a matriarch hovering above his maker; the overlord of the vampire mutilated publicly is something of a statement. Jack knows it can’t go ignored and he’s chasing the so-called Khaos that swept into the Haven like a ghost, the one that played games with them all and then vanishes again as though their world is a mere Monopoly board that he owns all the parts for. Truly, he’s thankful it was only the Overlord. Had it been Jessie strung from chains; burned alive before him, then there’d have been something a little more than a patient man hanging around the Boneyard like a manifestation of its own. Oh there would be so much more blood.
But he’s not foolish enough to think that now that there’s no new vampire fighting for the position that his maker doesn’t has a newfound target on her head and if Khaos and his band of fucks return to continue knocking apart the factions for kicks, he dreads the idea that she’ll be next.
Smoke erupts from his lips when his free hand pulls the cigarette away and for a second it covers his vision with white; obscures the fog that’s already gathered around him; it’s always damn foggy in the Boneyard. His eyes glimpse the end of the cig and whilst that repetitive sound of metal comes in doses, he flicks the finished stub into the distance, catches movement in his peripheries; immediately senses it’s not who he’s waiting for and addresses the fact he’s discarded the butt in their direction. “Only trying to gift the dead with that, my bad – didn’t intend to try set you alight and add your ashes to the soil, scouts honour,” There’s a smirk that ticks up at the corner of his lips when he makes his jibe and it’s enough to probably note that there’s a sharpness of teeth visible behind lips. A hunger hidden behind hues that matches.
The finished cancer-stick’s glow dissipates and there’s a moment of silence – Jakoris ceases thumbing at the lighter, curls fingers around the square to hone his attention on the newcomer; stays vigilant to their intentions. There’s a lot of dead around him, afterall; always room for move, he’s even got a shovel at the ready if they’re anything other than friendly.
What a hardfound descriptor in the world of Crooked.
