Haunting About (anyone)

After leaving the spectacle of the Grindhouse, Anton Flores wandered to the rack. It was time to feed at long last. Seemed like weeks since he's let his Sin drain that good samaritan. It was Saturday, so he waited outside Asylum, clearly an arena for degenerates and derelicts to cavort under the facade of 'being liberated'. He saw doughy civil servants, who'd stuffed themselves into latex and rubber; all dressed up with no place to go, spiritually speaking. The Haunt watches those leaving and idling about the mouth of Asylum, ticking off his criteria for sustenance. Too drunk. Plainly tweaking. Probably thirteen. Amongst friends. He lurks at a bus stop, selecting his prey, considering what religous context their fates might fall into.

He appears in the same dishevelled shortsleeves, slacks and tie from the Grindhouse, though the recent press of other Beasts leave his fingers unconsciously curling into bony hooks and a slack, smiling mouth twitching faintly.

Before too long, still dressed in the suit that he had worn to Court earlier in the evening. On anyone else, the suit would have looked nice, but Harry the Haunt managed to make it look uncomfortably tight. He's looking around mostly for food, but as he nears the Asylum, he sees a familiar sight. There's another Kindred there -- he doesn't know who, but the guy was sitting in the Sanctified's section, so Harry's opinion of the man was already higher than he held many others.

Approaching cautiously (not wishing to startle the more powerful Kindred), Harry says, "Evening Brother, what did you think of the evenings, shall we say, 'festivities?'"

With a jerky twist, Anton's attention snaps from the gallery of human offal congregating across the street onto Harry Walsh. The Haunt's Beast crackles like kindling under an atrophied heart, stoking a desire to cast down and defile. He ignores it, recognising the man, offering him a smiling nod. He speaks with a haggard yet oily voice.

"Brother Walsh, was it? Evening, there. Tonights happenings? Seemed a peacocks pageant, to this sinner before you. That was at first. Seemed, by the meat of the affair, that I'd blown on in during uncertain times, what with that reshuffle. The punchline? Well, ain't immolation just a 'blink and miss' brand of theatrics?"

Anton loosens his tie with an arm of tapestry flesh. His eyes are on Harry, glinting with hunger.

"How about you, Brother? What'd you make of it?"

"As you said, I found it rather theatrical, though I must say I am happy to see the Priest, Nicolo, take a position of power. Our church might yet become even more a force to be reckoned with in this fair city."

Harry is clearly pleased with what he has said, visions of the Spear rising and taking control of the city flitting behind his eyes, but for a moment his face becomes troubled. "That Dragon though," he says, not bothering to elaborate further. Even saying the words leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

"But enough of that, what brings you here tonight? Late night snack?" he asks, luridly eying the passing Kine in their fetish outfits.

Anton's eyes follow the assembly line of vessels as he nods, causing wound of his throat to contort like a milk-white Rorschach test. An arm comes up to present the nightlife of Sacramento. It's an amorphous enigma, riddled with cyphered messages of Damnation, old and exalted. Anton's voice drops to a low whisper.

"I strive to be uglier than these Roman times. To be the Sinner's mirror. Something Man can look upon and see something he don't want to see. Something that's been burning since this world's been turning. Something like where he's headed. Seems these nights he don't even want to look. So I find myself wanting to deliver him my own self. You ever feel like that, Brother?"

Harry is a bit taken aback by Anton's words; he had never been the smartest man, and here he was speaking with some Damned poet. He now felt the intimidation his Beast had whimpered about when he first saw the man -- it seemed that Anton might be his better in intellect and power. All he could do was try to equal the fervor with which his companion spoke.

"I can't say I've ever said it quite like that, Brother Flores, but I know the feeling exactly. They must be forced to see how dark the night can be before they can turn to the Light, and we must the deepest of shadows, the most dread of nightmares."

The slack smile stretched across Anton's nodding head spreads an iota, causing it to twitch slightly. His arm comes down and his brings his voice above the crackling whisper.

"That's right, Brother. Nightmare. Made flesh. That's exactly it. That face of torment. That..."

Stopping abruptly, Anton pulls himself from the brink of another tirade and straightens his tie again. He tilts his head downwards slightly, as though there's a lick of embarassment to him.

"But it's plain I'm preaching to the choir here and for that I apologise no end. Been away from that dark choir so long that the truth just up and decided to gush on out of me. How about you, Brother? What brings you out here?"

"I know that feeling, of which you speak."

His voice is heard before he can be seen, a hideous walking monolith coalescing from the shadows wearing a spattered green raincoat.

"Except I don't care what the Kine see when they look upon me. I know what I am, even if they do not. Superior. Greater by virtue of my preadatory nature. You may say it was God who gave me this power, and you may be right, but it makes no difference to me."

He regards the kindred, the beast roiling and pulling beneath the surface. He orders it silent. He smiles, revealing fangs that glint beneath the shadowed hood of the raincoat. "Good evening, to the both of you."

Harry is about to answer Anton when the newcomer steps from the shadows, and instead of giving his reply as intended, he turns to the voice, the last traces of his smile withering.

"And good evening to you, though I feel I should tell you that it matters not what you yourself believe. You are still doing God's work here. You may think you are greater than the Kine, but the Lord punishes those who go too far. Need I remind you of what happened to the former Gabriel Marcus?"

Great, now he was preaching. Harry doesn't even know this newcomer, and speaking like this certainly wouldn't win him many friends, but then again, he supposed that wasn't necessarily what he was going for.

Anton's brow furrows for a second. He doesn't balk at the enormous newcomer and the Beast doesn't tug at it's many hooks. It was difficult to recognise him under that hood and that raincoat, but Anton was reasonably sure he'd heard that voice among those fellow Nosferatu seeking acknowledgement.

"Was that his name? I'd echo what my peer here just spoke and remind you that power lent was the least of what God wrought upon you, but I just did that, so I'll introduce myself. Anton Flores. A good evening to you."

Arnold reaches up and flips back the hood of the coat.

"Whoever he was, he was a fool, but I mean no offense, sirs. I have only respect for the Second Estate and the teachings it embodies. I only happened upon two of my clansmen and decided to introduce myself. Arnold Culler is my name. Of Jackson. It's a pleasure, Anton." he looks to Harry "And Walsh, wasn't it? I made sure to take note of those of other Nosferatu new to the city."

"Yes, Walsh, that's right. Allow me to apologize, Mr. Culler; I'm afraid my zeal sometimes gets the better of me," Harry says, extending his hand. His anger subsiding, it only now hits him that when the man appeared, there had been no reaction from his Beast. There had been his anger, yes, but it was wholly distinct from the ranting and roaring of his predatory nature. Curious. He'd have to be careful around this one.

Anton begins to step towards a narrow alley. He beckons the other two Haunts to follow him to a slightly less public place than the bus stop opposite a fetish bar.

"Likewise, Arnold. Or is it Mr. Culler? Didn't expect to see so many of my own seeking to whittle out a place for themselves in Sacramento. Been waiting on acknowledgement long?"

Arnold moves back into the alley with Anton.

"Call me Arnold, we've no need for formalities here. I've been in the city for a few weeks. I'd planned on declaring myself, but when I heard about the court being called then I figured that would be my best opportunity. I had kept to the barrens until then. The better to avoid annoyances that come before acknowledgment. I was surprised, too, when so many of my clansmen stood for acknowledgment. How about yourselves? What do you hope to find in Sacramento?

"I grew up in Sacramento, and I will meet my final death in Sacramento. There are many lost souls in this city, and it would be foolish of me to move on with work still unfinished here," Harry says. "Besides, even if I were to feel done in this city, brutalizing and frightening is hard work, and I'd need a rest afterward."

"I wandered the South for many years before I settled in Jackson. I served as Hound there, frightening and brutalizing," a nod to Harry, "until I was forced out of the city after a violent coup. Some say I failed in my duties, so my reputation back east is a little sour. So I came to Sacramento hoping to make a new base for myself, and become re-established as a Kindred of good standing. Always wanted to visit California."

Anton nods, wandering about shady sprawl of the alley, trying to find a spot where he can glimpse Downtown's revellers, identify a target, slipping in and out of the mouth of the gap with somebody to drink

"Called myself 'Hound' once up Michigan way. Cushy spot, while it lasts, but damn if they don't have themselves a ready scapegoats throat when you Hound of a city."

Harry paces the length of the alley as well; the company was nice, the conversation pleasant enough, but damn if he wasn't getting a little hungry.

"Never held a position. Not yet at least, though Inquisitor sounds like a title I'd enjoy. Might have to prove my use first though, the Spear hasn't exactly been clamoring for knees to be broken lately."

"Sounds to me as if we all have a similar aptitude for getting things done by means of force. Perhaps we can use this common ability to our advantage in this city. After all, birds of a feather and all that. He glances from Harry to Anton. "You both seem impatient. Am I keeping you from something? I've already seen to the night's feeding, and I don't mean to be inconsiderate."

Anton creeps along a wall, keeping an arm of scripture cocked as he watches, poised to pluck a straggler from the vile evenings being enjoyed beyond this enclave he'd made from a couple of Damned and an alley.

"Nothing pressing, Arnold. We got this night and this raging river of revellers, lapping below that sanctity. Makes it easy to forget sustenance can't come without no meaning. No banquet of scraps, this."

The Haunt's profile nearly melts into the side of the building he presses himself against as he twists his head to face out of the alley, ravenous zeal flashing from his eyes.

Harry nods in agreement. "It's nothing we can't handle. As Anton said, there is plenty of opportunity waiting just ahead. Better to talk and enjoy one's company than go out an glut one's self."

Harry leans against one brick wall, cracking his knuckles as he does so. "You have a point though. With our shared, shall we say, methodology, perhaps we might put ourselves to some use."

"Then I think we can be friends. I'm going to continue my walk, want to get a good feel for the city. I'll give you a number where you can call, or text, if you're so accustomed to today's technology. Until we meet again, gentlemen.

Arnold gives them his number. He draws his hood back over his head, and melts into the back of the alley.

Anton nods farewell, still pressed flat against the surface. As he relaxes dead, ropy muscle, the marks of obscure scripture seem to swim about his flesh at a glacial rate that leaves the viewer wondering whether it's moving at all or whether it's merely a trick of the light. He steps from the wall to see the back of Arnold Culler before turning to Harry.

"So you know much about this city's Sanctified? I seen that Primogen-Priest they got but precious little else apart from you and I."

Harry puts Arnold's number in his pocket, and gives a short wave goodbye. He grimaces at Anton's question as he asks it, but manages to wipe it from his face before turning to meet the Kindred's gaze.

"I'm afraid there's precious little else besides us. Used to be a Bishop, helluva tough woman, but she's not around. They replaced her from what I understand, though I haven't had the opportunity to meet the new Bishop yet."

"Well now, that vexes me a great deal. See, when a city's down to scraps of Sanctity, well, that's when they need be cosy as lice. You know a way I can get face time with this Primogen-Priest?"

Anton produces a tiny nub of a pencil and a stained scrap of paper from a pocket.

Harry nods repeatedly as he speaks. [color=red]"Yeah, in his capacity as Priest, he often gives the midnight mass at All Hallows Church of the Sanctified. Lovely how they include our name right in the title, right? Anyway, I think that's probably the best way to get a hold of him."

Anton folds the paper, scribbling the name of the place down. He slips it away, flexing the limited muscles in his face briefly changing his rigor grin into a pantomime of exasperation as he feels the hunger filling vacant eyes dance along bones and grey veins. He gestures towards the mouth of the alley with the sort of bony ruin of a hand deserving a collection of talons, but instead shows only glazed callouses where fingernails should be.

"Noted. Now what say we see if we can't pluck one of God's wayward fish from this Sinner's stream?"

Harry grins hungrily, revealing pointed yellow teeth. "I was hoping you might say that."